Fear

This is the second story I've written for my Senior Project. I've had the idea since last year, and I wrote different versions of the first paragraph a few times, but I never finished it til now. I didn't really expect it to be this short until I actually started working, but I think the length is appropriate.

I may update this later if I proofread it again.
I'd greatly appreciate comments!

Written in May, 2006.
A little less than two pages, single-spaced, in Word.
Deviantart Mirror.

Fear

At that moment, I knew something was different. The pavement was hot on my back and the sun was burning through my eyelids. I could faintly hear sirens somewhere in the distance. But none of that really mattered. In fact, nothing mattered. I could do whatever I wanted now. There was nothing preventing me, no little voice in the back of my head telling me to be afraid or to worry. I smiled.

This wasn’t a transformation or an awakening.

There was nothing symbolic in what was happening.

There is nothing.

And when you know that, when you really know it, you can be free.

* * *

I collapsed onto the bed. The paper fell out of my hand and lay still on the sheet a few inches from my face. Finally, after several weeks, the fear had subsided – finals had been taken, grades had been assigned, semester reports had been printed – and I lay there with four A’s at my side. I sighed. What a relief.

For now, I guess.

After all, I only had a few days until my internship began, and then I’d have to worry about that. It would be a lot of work, too; of course I could handle it, but that had never been the problem. It was that underlying worry that I might fail; that feeling of impending doom. I also would worry about my coworkers. I would have to be nice, as I wouldn’t want to make them mad or hurt their feelings.

Damn it, I thought, I told myself not to think about that. But it was too late now. That serene feeling of relaxation was gone, and nothing could be done about it.

I pulled myself up and squinted through the brightly lit window at the crowded quad below. Students shouting and smiling, generally glad to be done. I turned back into my dim room. My roommate had already cleaned out most of his belongings, but the room was still cluttered with my junk; the school was kind enough to let me stay in the dorm for the duration of my internship.

I rubbed my eyes and slowly ran my hands back through my hair. I couldn’t rest now, not with the “impending doom” on my back. I needed coffee. I leaned forward onto my feet and headed out the door.

I jingled the keys as I made my way to the parking lot. I had work to do soon, work that I needed to do to the best of my ability, and that thought took a lot out of me.

I stopped. Why did it need to be to the best of my ability?

I reached my car, unlocked it, and sat down inside. Why did I need to work so hard? Well, I’d always worked hard. That’s just “what you do.” I’d missed out on a few things; being popular, going to parties, having a girlfriend… I’d never had time to do any of these things.

I snapped back into the real world. Coffee. I needed coffee. I was getting in one of my moods again, and I had to suppress it. I started the car and pulled out of the lot.

Was it worth it?

Shit, nice job suppressing it. But really, was it worth it? Was I happy? Had all this hard work gotten me what I’d wanted? I was successful, that was for sure. Straight A’s had accompanied me all through high school, along with a plethora of extracurricular activities. Every college I applied to had tried to win me over as my application made is sound as though I’d save the world. And being kind and respectful to everyone had always helped boost my image and make a few friends. No matter what I felt on the inside, it was always best to put up a façade of happiness to brighten others’ days.

But did this make me happy? The work had been a pain in the ass, and going to a prestigious college didn’t make me any happier; in fact, it meant more work.

I flew by the coffee shop. I hadn’t realized it, but I was speeding.

What was to come after college? More work. I’d work my ass off in college to get a good job, and work there to get a better one. I’d have to work up until I retired, and then there’d be nothing left to do but waste away my hard earned money while I waited to die.

I pulled onto the freeway. Where was I going?

Being kind to others hadn’t helped me either. I always had to bite my lip when someone said something that offended me, as I didn’t want to be mean. When I got depressed I would never let myself appear so, and so no one could ever help me. In fact, I hadn’t really made friends; I’d made associates. Nobody ever knew who I really was because I never revealed my true self. I was too afraid of hurting the feelings of others.

Fear. It was fear.

I was too afraid to fail, whether academically or socially. Or at life in general. But, because of my fear of failure, I had failed. I failed to be happy, I failed to do what I wanted, and I failed to live my life.

I was in the fast lane, zooming down the freeway.

What was so great about success? Why did it even matter? Why did anything matter? I’d spent so much time trying to plan out what would make me happy that I’d forgotten to be happy. I’d come up with so many factors that contributed to my well-being, but really, none of them mattered. I was a smart guy. I knew what would make me happy. Why worry about all the little things?

I sighed. I took my foot off the petal and the needle began to drop – 90, 80, 70…

Right now, the key to happiness was to lose all fear. Without fear, I’d be free to live my life however I wanted.

I took a deep breath, and swung the wheel to the left.

I couldn’t even hear myself scream.

The Statue Man

::Updated 5/31/06::

This is the first story that I've finished for my Senior Project. It's an idea I've had for a really long time but that I've never gotten around to writing down. I kinda liked how it came out... I don't really think I'm that great a writer, I've gotta say. I do think the ending came out pretty good though. Please let me know what you think.

This may be updated later if I decide to proofread it again.

Written in May, 2006.
Two and a half pages, single-spaced, in Word.
Deviantart Mirror.

The Statue Man

For as long as I could remember, the man had stood there. He stood completely still, at the center of the town square, with a look of awe on his face. He always wore the same brown pants, the same white shirt, and the same striped tie. He never got older, never got dirty or gathered dust, and never looked tired. I swear I never saw the square without him standing there, and he never once moved.

In a way, I always felt connected to him, the Statue Man.

I lived my whole life in the town. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and where some man arbitrarily standing somewhere really sticks out. In fact, the town spanned only a matter of a few square miles, and as a kid I would always walk from my house, through the square, to school.

In grade school I made quite a few friends, but I always valued learning new things over social activities, which prevented me from really being popular. After school I’d often hang out with my friends; most days we’d go to the park and play, though sometimes, especially as we got older, we’d ride our bikes around town and pull little jokes and pranks on people. On occasion, when it was hot, we’d go to the square, get ice cream, sit on the curb and throw pebbles at the Statue Man while we ate. Someone would always make a joke about how the Statue Man looked a little like me, and I’d throw my pebbles extra hard. But no matter what, he never moved or even flinched; the rocks simply bounced off him.

We tried talking to him, too. Sometimes we’d innocently try to start a conversation, but more often we’d think of crude things to yell at him to see how he’d react. It became a game – who could come up with the worst thing to say – but he never once acknowledged us. Most adults didn’t bother to talk to him; he’d never responded before and wasn’t going to any time soon. Occasionally someone new would move into town, and everyone would have a good laugh when he would try to introduce himself to the Statue Man.

By the time high school came around, my friends were getting into more and more extreme pranks and illicit activities. I worried too much when I was with them, so I began to hang out with them less and less. Although now I had fewer friends than ever before, I was provided with more time to study mathematics and science. I was quickly becoming obsessed; I wanted to learn everything there was to know about time, space and the universe.

Late in my high school career, I met my first girlfriend. She wasn’t interested in physics – she loved history instead – but, nonetheless, we got along well. We’d spend a lot of time wandering around the town, and we’d always see the Statue Man in the square. Sometimes I’d throw some pebbles for old time’s sake, but she’d always get mad and hit me.

Senior year left me with little free time and fun, but in the end I was accepted to one of the best science and technology schools around. I packed my bags and said goodbye to the little town where I’d lived my whole life. On one of the last days that I saw my friends, I had the nerve to, on a dare, give a goodbye hug to the Statue Man. He didn’t move.

In college, I got my first exposure to psychology and the study of the human brain. I continued my studies in physics and math, and stayed in school an extra year to triple major. A professor, in my fifth year, introduced me to the effect of human perception on space and time – a connection I’d been searching for the past four years. I had the opportunity to research the topic with him, and our results suggested that humans could potentially perceive time and space differently than we do now, with only minor changes to our mental wiring. It looked as though our brains could be changed so that we could see the world in four dimensions, and possibly control and warp space and time. However, our evidence was rather sparse. The research merely suggested the possibility; it was far off from proving that it could really happen.

I often look back on those five years as the best time in my life, and in many ways my life went downhill after graduation. I couldn’t afford to continue onto graduate school and get my doctorate in science, so I moved back to my home town and lived with my parents while I tried to find a suitable job and a place to live. As much as I would have loved to get a research position somewhere, I couldn’t without a doctorate, so I was forced into taking a job in management at a small business in town. I rented an apartment and began the long drudge through the rest of my life.

I woke up in my late twenties having not moved an inch. I still lived in the small town – it seemed tiny now – and I still had the same management position. I saw all the people I’d known since grade school, and some still made fun of me for looking like the Statue Man. Yes, he was still there; he still wore the same brown pants, white shirt and striped tie, and the same look of awe. It was a little frustrating, as he did look like me, and he had a look of optimism while I was growing more and more pessimistic.

Not everything was bad, though. I’d managed to buy a small house and I had a growing savings account. I also picked up where I’d left off with my high school girlfriend, and we were now living together. I’d often tell her about my plans for the future, how I’d save up enough to make it to graduate school, and then get a position teaching and doing research somewhere far off and exotic for us small town folk. I’d take her with me and we’d live a happy and well off life together.

I guess that always was just a fantasy…

One day I woke up groggy from a poor night’s sleep. It was raining out; I never did like the rain much. I put on my suit, had a short breakfast, and headed off for work. My boss greeted me at the door and invited me into his office. I sat down excitedly; maybe I was finally going to get the raise I’d been waiting for. My optimism was quickly struck down; I was being laid off. The economy was getting worse, he explained, and they just couldn’t afford to keep me. It had nothing to do with my recent performance, he assured me. And then he sent me out the door.

I stumbled through the rain and my vision began to blur. I somehow made it home, drenched, and walked in the door just as the rain began to taper off. I was greeted, unhappily, by my girlfriend; apparently she hadn’t slept well either. I told her the news, and for a while she simply returned my stare, stunned. Then she began shouting. Something about my incessant planning for the future, and how even that wasn’t going to work out now, and what the fuck was wrong with me anyways, and so on. I didn’t really hear her. She slammed the door on her way out.

I didn’t know what to do. I took of my sopping jacket, dropped it aimlessly on the floor and stumbled about the house in a daze. I’m not sure how long it took, but I eventually found my way outside, and began wandering, in a stupor, about town.

When I came to my senses, I was in the town square, crouched on the curb sobbing. Through the drying tears, I looked up at the Statue Man. He really did look like me. He even, I realized, was wearing the same brown pants, white shirt and striped tie as me. But where I had a look of pain and anguish, he wore and expression of optimism and awe. As I dwelled on this train of thought, my sadness began to turn sour. Years of anger and frustration built up in my chest, and my pulse began to race. Fuck him! Fuck this Statue Man! How dare he be my twin and yet be so happy at the moment of my deepest despair. I rose to my feet and started toward him, and it didn’t take long for my legs to lose control and break into a run. I raised my fist, ready to strike. And just as I reached him…

I slipped.

It must’ve been a puddle, left over from the rain. My heart sank even before I hit the floor. My head landed first, with a deafening thud, and I was out cold.

I came to, shortly after, in a daze.

I pulled myself to my feet. I couldn’t really see straight.

It all happened in an instant. First, I noticed the Statue Man was gone. I had never seen the square without him.

But, then again, I’d never seen the square as it was now.

I looked, in awe, as I saw the square at all times. I saw myself as a child, throwing pebbles, though I couldn’t feel them hit me. I saw my teenage self, very happy and content with my girlfriend. And I saw myself only a few moments ago, depressed and downtrodden, crying at the edge of the street.

I saw the square being built, right underneath my feet, and I saw when it finally disappeared from the ravages of time.

I saw the blackness of the beginning of time. I saw the emptiness of its end.

I saw my future.

I saw how I picked myself up after this catastrophic day, how I got a new job and a new girlfriend and eventual wife. I saw how I slowly became successful. And I saw when I suddenly stopped showing up in the square; I had moved on to a new and hopefully better home and life.

I also saw myself come back to visit the town, on occasion. Sometimes I’d throw pebbles, for old time’s sake.

It was only an instant, but it lasted forever.

I took a step forward, back into the present, and walked away.

Prologue/Sickness

This isn't really a short story, it's kind of, just, well, crap. I'm writing short stories as a senior project, and this was the first thing I wrote, to kind of get me in a working mode. It didn't really work out.

Written in May, 2006.
A little less than half a page, single-spaced, in Word.


Prologue/Sickness

You wake up on the fifth morning of being sick, and you know you have to work. Well, not yet. First, you have to go to the doctor’s office. Which takes two hours. Then the supermarket for some lunch. Then home, to procrastinate and check email.

Time’s up, though. Now you have to work. You’ve been looking forward to these two weeks for a while; a chance to “take a break!” while also “accomplishing things” you’ve “always wanted to do!” The cold’s been the excuse for the past few days, but now, with antibiotics cleaning out your insides, you have enough energy to work.

But you can’t.

Writer’s block? Laziness? Procrastination?

Maybe you’re just a bad writer?

Well, at least you’re getting something done here. Right? Maybe? No. You’re doing the work of so many not-so-talented authors before you, attempting to write about your attempts to write, not so cleverly covering up your complete lack of anything worthwhile to write about.

Shit. I better start doing some real work…

The End of the World, or, Another Day in the Life of Steve

I wrote this for my English class senior year. It was a science fiction class, so the assignment was to write a sci-fi story. Some of the jokes are inside jokes from our class, like Steve's full name and the comment about the movie Equilibrium.

Written in May, 2006.
About ten and a half pages, double-spaced, in Word.
Deviantart Mirror.

The End of the World

Or: Another Day in the Life of Steve

George Crake Hackworth, or Steve, as he liked to be called, awoke to the late morning sun. He tossed and turned, trying to fall back asleep; it was his day off! But once that sunlight trickled in through his window in the morning, he could never fall back asleep.

Finally he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked at his watch. 7:30 AM. That’s strange; the light usually didn’t hit his eyes till eleven or so. Even stranger was the red light his watch was bathed in. Much different from that whitish-yellow sunlight Steve was so used to. He stood up and walked to his window to investigate this curious red light, and was relatively surprised by what he saw. The sky was a mix of black and blood red, and meteors rocketed to ground. Many people were in disarray below his apartment, and some fires burned in the distance, spewing thick black smoke.

“Hm. It wasn’t like this when I went to sleep…”

Surprised isn’t really the right word. Steve was… mildly interested. The Apocalypse. Wow. He guessed he always expected it to come eventually; the hobo outside his apartment had to be right someday. How ironic too, the Aztec calendar had been off by only two days, though the difference between December 19^th and 21^st, 2012 probably didn’t seem too significant well over a thousand years ago. Someone had probably forgotten to carry the one.

Steve carried on with his morning normally, until a meteor vaporized his Insta-Meal machine. It probably was a poor investment anyways, as all he ever ate was cereal, and who needs a matter-compiler for that when you can pour it out of a box?

While he grabbed the box of cheerios, his mind wandered on the topic of the matter-compiler. Only a few years ago there hadn’t been such conveniences, but since the time travelers had arrived, society had progressed leaps and bounds. Planes, personal computers, cell phones… all these things had quickly become obsolete after that fateful week in early 2007.

Steve flicked on the plasma TV – an antique – and began munching on his cereal. He flipped through channel after channel of somber faces, fields of fire and frantic masses of people, every once in a while mixed with static. He finally settled on the weather channel; 110 degrees in Los Angeles, 112 in San Diego, 20% chance of rain, and so on. It always had that nice, serene music playing in the background.

He thought back to the time travelers, and noticed a discrepancy. A glaring one. They had arrived in 2007 and the world was ending now, in 2012. How could they have made such incredible leaps in science and technology in only five years?

This troubling problem stirred Steve out of his weather-channel trance. He got up, stretched, and began clothing himself for work. Wait, why go to work? It was his day off, after all! Well, there wasn’t much else to do, he thought, and it’d be a waste to spend the end of the world glued to the TV. If they had nothing for him to do at work, he could always go for a nice walk around the city. He carried on his routine. Black pants. Starched white shirt. Navy blue socks and shiny black shoes. Blue… no, red striped tie. Finally, his worn black jacket, and Steve was stepping out the door.

As he walked down the hall to the gravity beam (man, the classic names like elevator had been so much better!), he figured out the time traveler problem. They must have traveled back many times! Every time the world was about to end, they’d get all the technology they could and send it back to 2007. The world must have ended several times for them to accumulate the level of technological development the world had now.

Steve exited the building onto the street and began his walk to work. He had never trusted those teleporters, and it was a tad inconvenient today anyways what with the meteor storm destroying the teleporters near his building and trapping their travelers in deconstructed particle form in null-space. He walked with a bounce in his step as he was happy for having discovered and solved the Mystery of the Implausible Time Travelers. He loved finding and thinking about inconsistencies; he’d had a field day watching Equilibrium back in the early 2000’s.

Steve worked as a secretary at the box factory four blocks from his apartment. It was a tough job, especially nowadays with the development of anti-matter storage space in the imaginary dimension. It was hard to compete with the infinite space such creations offered, and boxes and other empty-space-utilizing-objects just couldn’t keep up. It didn’t help that his boss was a Taoist at heart who loved the concept that what made a box so useful were not its cardboard limits but rather the empty space inside, but that, without the cardboard, the space would be worthless. He’d had a mental breakdown when the imaginary space storage pockets had come out – no limits, all empty space, but it’s still useful! – and had since locked himself in his office, turning boxes inside out and back, trying to find the imaginary space that was missing.

A sudden explosion to his right brought Steve out of his thoughts and back into the real world. The street was in disarray; the blast to his right had been a car, and several people were running away screaming. There was a large group of Satanists to his left, standing around a painted pentagram on the ground. They were lighting candles and chanting, and the ceremony was only interrupted by meteors occasionally taking out some of the followers. Far of in the distance, Steve could see several winged figures picking people up from the ground and carrying them off. Angels, he guessed; after all, it was the Apocalypse. Through the red haze Steve could make out the outline of a giant scale resting on the top of a mountain, probably for the weighing of souls.

He rounded the corner onto the street of the factory, where there was even more going on. As he walked down the street, four guys on horses galloped past him. They all, except for one, looked like normal guys: a couple wore biker jackets and one had on an argyle sweater, and all three had gray beards and balding heads. One held a bow and wore a crown and another wielded a sword, but aside from that, they seemed like average, generic people. You know, the types of people that like to gallop horses down busy city streets in the middle of the end of the world. The fourth horseman was a bit different; he wore a black cloak that covered his face; in fact, the only visible parts of his body were his white, bony hands. Or, perhaps they were just bones. That would make sense, Steve thought. Death. He was Death.

After the four horsemen had passed, Steve noticed several people frantically running back and forth to his left. Behind them stood the machine he’d seen so many times on television; it was the time machine! The time travelers were loading everything they could into the machine and getting ready to jump back in time.

As Steve continued down the street, an onslaught of angels arrived to carry people away to have their souls weighed. People ran in all directions in valiant-yet-hopeless attempts to escape, occasionally being knocked down in their tracks by meteors.

Steve began to whistle The Entertainer.

A man ran straight towards him, tripped, and was picked up by an angel while screaming at the top of his lungs. A woman, across the street, pulled out a handgun and aimed for a nearby angel, but was knocked down by another angel before she could do anything.

Steve smiled. He just realized that, by seeing the time travelers leaving, his theory had been confirmed.

Suddenly, an explosion knocked Steve to the floor. After a few moments, he stood up, bewildered, and shook himself off. He looked up ahead… the box factory had blown up! His boss stumbled out onto the street, dazed and a little beat up, wearing his white boxers, blue socks, a dark five-o’clock shadow and a box around his neck. He was promptly picked up by an angel.

At this point there probably wasn’t much for Steve to do at work, so he decided to stroll around town for a little while. While he was thinking about where to go, a body hit the ground next to him and laid there for a few moments before the angel who had dropped it swooped down and picked it up again. Steve figured out his destination of choice – the public gardens – and headed off.

During his stroll through the bloody haze and angel attacks, a booming voice was suddenly emitted from the clouds. “Welcome to the Apocalypse,” it said, in the soft, feminine voice of an automated answering machine. “We are currently in the process of weighing all of your souls. If you have chosen a life of kindness and goodness, and have repented for your sins, you will be directed to Heaven. If you have chosen a live of anger, hated and evil, and you refuse to apologize, you will be led into the care of Satan. To speak to a customer service representative, please contact your nearest angelic servant.”

Steve didn’t really have any questions, so he simply continued on his walk, awaiting judgment. Wait, he really was going to be judged. That hadn’t really occurred to him before. He wasn’t sure why; it seemed to make sense…

Oh, that’s why! He had thought this was an Aztec Apocalypse; after all, the Aztecs had foreseen it. And he really had no idea if people were “judged” in Aztec belief. But, as it turned out, it was a Christian end-of-the-world; that explained all the angels and the four horsemen and this whole judgment thing.

Steve walked through the front gates of the public gardens just as another explosion to the west let out a huge stream of jet black smoke. A few people with torn, bloody clothing ran out through the gates, two holding rifles. They were immediately picked up by a squadron of angels, and Steve heard a few gunshots go off amid their screams of terror. His clothing was still intact; he tightened his tie and brushed some ash off of his shoulder.

How could the Aztecs have been so far off? They were spot on with their math; only a couple days off. Yet their religious beliefs were miles off target. Perhaps their theologians weren’t as talented as their mathematicians and scientists. Or maybe the religious leaders knew the true belief and hid it from everyone for their own selfish reasons. But then they’d go to hell for purposely not helping others. Damn, the whole matter was far too inconsistent. And Steve loved it.

The gardens were beautiful in the deep red afternoon light. Steve grabbed a hot dog from an abandon vendor stand and began a calm stroll around the park. Winter was usually not the best time for horticulture, but there were several in seasons plants to look at and the warm temperature was perfect. Steve stopped to gaze at a couple of slowly burning trees, and started ripples in the pond by poking the belly-up fish with a stick. He stood a few yards behind a painter, furiously painting wilting flowers growing through charred grass, and watched for a short while until the painter was picked up by an angel.

Once he’d finished his leisurely walk around the gardens, Steve decided to head home. He could catch a few TV shows, cook himself some pasta and await the end of time while listening to some Kenny G.

On his way home, Steve caught some people looting the Radio Shack, ironically sealing their fate a few moments before being carried away by angels. He also stopped and watched as a man, dressed as an angel and wearing a jet pack, tried to talk his way out of being taken by a real angel. Once it became clear that he wasn’t fooling anyone, he tried to fly away but was promptly crushed by four-foot meteor and was soon after taken away to be judged.

From outside his apartment building, Steve saw a spaceship plunging, out of control, right overhead. As it zoomed by him, he read the ships name off its hull – Mars Spacelines – right before it took out three blocks down the street. Steve sighed and walked in the door of the building.

He ascended the stairs slowly – the gravity beam had disintegrated – and walked down his hall. The rooms nearby his were all abandoned; several doors were open and Steve could see inside each one to the frantic clutter left over from people trying to quickly escape. Steve turned to his own door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. He put a pot of water in the Quick-Kelvin machine and the dumped some noodles in to cook. Finally, he kicked off his shoes and settled into his favorite chair to watch some TV.

After a good few minutes of the weather channel – 90 degrees and dark red clouds in Chicago, 92 and, what a surprise, raining in Seattle – he switched over to FOX news. And there was Jesus, with his white robe, brown beard, halo and everything, talking to Bill O’Reilly. The audience was cheering, but Bill cut them off. “Ok, ok, so down to the meat of the issue here. What is going to happen to the liberals that inhabit our fine nation?”

“Actually, Bill, you’d be surprised,” Jesus responded, “a good percentage of them are going to heaven, it seems. Let’s check the tally.” A blue and red screen appeared with white text and at least three animated American flags. Liberals and conservatives were about even in the rankings: liberals had 54.2% going to heaven, and conservatives had 53.8%.

“Ok, granted, I know plenty of good liberals. Some of them are fine, patriotic people. In fact, I have several good friends that are liberals. But what about the bad ones? What about the Clintons, John Kerry, Howard Dean, the liberal administration at Brown University, et cetera?” The timer on the pasta started ringing and Steve jumped up to get it quickly so he wouldn’t miss anything.

“Well, I really shouldn’t disclose the fates of particular individuals, but I will say that the Clintons are actually very nice people, and that Brown has a fine faculty and quite a few very intelligent and capable students.” Jesus paused to take a sip of water, which miraculously turned to wine right before it touched his lips. “I am willing to say, though, that you, Mr. O’Reilly, are not a good person. Your fate is sealed.”

At that moment, a legion of angels stormed in from offstage and grabbed Bill, the television crew and the audience members. Steve saw only a few moments of the scene before the cameraman was taken and the screen cut to static.

“So did you like that performance? I’m particularly fond of the ‘your fate is sealed’ line.”

Steve jumped at the sound of a voice behind him, and spilled a little pasta sauce on his nice white shirt. “Dammit,” he said, as he turned to see Jesus standing in the doorway.

“Oh shit, oh, um, no, um… I’m really sorry for swearing in your presence, sir!”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. So did you like the show? You’re the only one that got to see it, so obviously your opinion is important,” Jesus replied.

“I thought it was good… nice delivery on that last line… but wait, why am I the only one who saw it?”

“Because you’re the last person alive on Earth. Everyone else was frantic and scared and got themselves caught. You stayed calm and were not worried, and thus you went under the radar of all of the angels. But, of course, we have ways of finding everyone left, and we found you, the last person, sitting at home, watching TV and eating pasta.”

Steve fell back into his chair, a little stunned but getting back into his normal groove. “Does that me you can see what I’m doing all the time?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Even…”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Oh boy. This is awkward.”

“Don’t worry about it; it’s the same for everyone else,” Jesus replied. “Anyways, I’m here, making a personal appearance at your apartment – quite a privilege for you, let me tell you, this doesn’t happen to everyone – to tell you your fate. As I’m sure you know, good, repentant people go to heaven. The humanitarians, the pacifists, the guy down the hall who’ll always lend you his stuff; basically, the kind and caring people from around the world. And, of course, the evil, unrepentant people go to hell. People like Hitler, Stalin, Walt Disney, and Bill Gates. Lawyers too, and those authors who fill page after page with one-word dialogue and meaningless jabber.”

“Like ‘um’?” asked Steve.

“Yeah, and ‘oh’.”

“And ‘yes’.”

“‘No’ too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mhm.”

“Jeez.”

“Dude.”

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Yo.”

“Wow.”

“Whoa.”

“Ok, that’s enough of that,” said Jesus. “As you are the last person on Earth, we at Christianity Ltd. decided that you get to choose your fate. Here, let me get out the form.”

Jesus ruffled through his pockets for a moment and produced a slightly wrinkled piece of paper. He began to read aloud.

“‘Dear George Crake Hackworth’… wait, why do you go by Steve? Why not George orr Crake or Mr. Hackworth?”

“It’s a long story. Let me just say that I had a really awkward English class my senior year of high school. Anyways, continue?”

“Yes, of course:

‘Dear George Crake Hackworth,

As the last man on Earth (Last Man Standing, formally), you have the option to choose your own fate. You may go to Heaven if you so please, or to Hell. In fact, you may do whatever you wish; your choice is not limited to Heaven or Hell. Please notify us of your decision as soon as possible.

Sincerely,

The Christianity Ltd. Staff’.”

Steve sat for a few moments, pondering his options. He then looked up with a small, simple smile on his face. “You know, I don’t really need a change. I’d be happy to stay here for the rest of eternity. I mean, it’d be nice if you guys could fix my Insta-Meal machine and maybe get rid of the red sky and all the meteors, fires, blood and stuff.”

“Um… really?” Jesus replied. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice to me.”

“Alright then. You know, if you ever change your mind, just give us a call, 1-800-4-C-H-R-I-S-T. Seriously. If you ever reconsider. Even in, like, five minutes. It’s cool, ok?”

“Sure. Thanks a lot, Jesus. It’s been nice to talk to you. I’ll give you a call if I have any questions.”

“That’s cool,” Jesus replied, “See you later!”

Steve and Jesus then performed one of those hip hand shakes involving “pounding” each other’s fists, and Jesus walked out the door. Steve picked up his pasta again and flipped the TV back to the weather channel. The red glow outside faded to whitish-yellow just as the smooth jazz background music kicked in on the TV.

50 degrees and cloudy in San Francisco, 45 in Sacramento, with a 35% chance of rain…

The Mark of the Mansion

A story I wrote for my English class in eleventh grade. The assignment was to write a horror story.

Written in November, 2004.
A little over seven pages, double-spaced, in Word.
Deviantart Mirror.

Mark of the Mansion

The room was a dull white. A blank, dull white, that returned my empty stare. I could see someone looking in through the window. His appearance was disguised by the tint of the window, and all I could tell was that I knew him. From somewhere. But who he was, I could not tell. He was speaking to someone, one of the caretakers, I suppose. His presence gave me somewhat of a nostalgic feeling. As emotions did not often come in this dull white box, I indulged myself in it. I began to remember, remember how I had ended up in this place.

* * *

I arrived at the mansion on a clear, sunny day, about a week after the funeral. It was a large and foreboding mansion, one that I could clearly imagine as the setting for a scary story. I could merely picture the mansion on a dark and stormy night, with lightning reflecting off of the large, cracked windows that surrounded the house, and water flowing through the crevices in the stone, down the enormous pillars in front of the menacing wooden door. Even the manor’s size was frightening; it was at least three or four stories tall, and it extended beyond view into the forest surrounding it. I could hardly believe that I was to be living in such a large estate all by myself.

The house had come into my possession by somewhat strange circumstances. It had previously belonged to my great uncle, who had built it with his own two hands, and those of several hundred migrant laborers. He was a bit of a shut in, and no one in our family had actually seen him in several years. However, it somehow became apparent to the authorities that he had died, and the whole family was called in to discuss what was to be done with his estate and wealth. Nobody had any particular attachment to him, and they were, in fact, rather happy to be receiving his money. Not one person, however, was really interested in receiving his house, whether it was because they already had places to live or because of something else. I, having recently graduated and being in need of a home, was left with the entirety of his property, which was somewhat ironic, because I was the only person who had never met him.
I shoved open the front door and passed through the gateway into the house to find an enormous entrance room with a grand stairway ascending up two floors, and a butler, standing rigidly in the dark, far end of the room. He was wearing a black suit and a plain white shirt, with a black bow tie secured tightly around his neck. He had surprisingly long, black hair that was slicked backward, and wore a small smirk on his face. I expected him to quickly approach and introduce himself, but he did not, and so I slowly walked up to him.

“Hello, sir, my name is Mark. I was the servant of your great uncle, and I have been instructed to continue my stay here and work under you.”
“That’s great!” I exclaimed. “I was not told that there was going to be a butler here to work for me. I didn’t even know my uncle had had one while he was alive! But, of course, this is a great thing!”
“Yes, of course sir. Now, if I may introduce you to the house. You will find the dining hall to your right, and the kitchen beyond that. On your left, there is a lounge, followed by several guest rooms. Through the doorway directly to our right you’ll find the living room and the grand ballroom. Your room is on the second floor, to the right. There are many, many other rooms, but I’ll let you explore them for yourself.”

I was struck by his bluntness and his failure to actually show me through the rooms he described, and I found it even more disrespectful that he failed to grab my baggage and carry it to my room. However, I shrugged it off, picked up my bags, and climbed the stairs, leaving him standing there, alone.
As the first few weeks went by, I had plenty of time to explore the mansion. I could see why my uncle had rarely left the house; on some days I even found it difficult to find the front door! However, there was something slightly awry about the mansion that I assumed had kept my uncle’s attention and quickly gained my full interest. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was, but between the numerous rooms and the endless number of paintings and sculptures that lined the walls, I felt that something simply wasn’t quite right. However, that just spurred me on to continue my exploration of the building.

Those works of art, in particular, captured my attention. There were hundreds, literally hundreds, of portraits and sculptures of people throughout the house, each one completely unique. I could never figure out who each of the subjects was, much less how my uncle had come to posses so much art. However, what intrigued me the most was that the same odd feeling came from the paintings, too; each person seemed slightly off, as if there was something unrealistic about each one, or possibly something too realistic.

Exploration soon became my primary activity in the house. I wandered down hallways and arrive at doors that led to rooms I had never seen. I explored every floor, and each one seemed to expand on forever. I felt as if I would never see everything the house had in store, but I made it my mission to try. I found it interesting, though, that Mark seemed to pop up in the most random parts of the house. I would be in the north end of the second floor, investigating a new office I had just found, only to turn and find him standing stiffly in the corner. What bothered me more, though, was that I never saw him walking around the house – I only found him standing in one place or another. However, I slowly became at ease with him as the weeks went on, as I noticed that he began to move more when I did see him, rather than keep his rigid stance. I figured he had been merely nervous with having a new employer, and he was now, in fact, slowly becoming at ease with me, but I was never quite sure, as he didn’t really strike me as a nervous fellow.

After a few weeks in the house, I discovered that I was on the verge of obsession with the house and its secrets, and I decided to invite my friend, Charles, over, so that I might have a break. He arrived on yet another sunny afternoon, and I brought him inside to talk. However, when I called for Mark, he was nowhere to be found.

“Who are you calling for?” Charles asked. “Who is ‘Mark’?”

“Oh, he’s the butler of the house! Although he seems rather strange, it’s nice to have him around.”

“I was unaware that you had a butler!”
“So was I, when I first arrived!”
Despite my frustration with Mark, I had an enjoyable afternoon talking with Charles. I even briefly showed him around the mansion, but I dared not discuss the oddity of it that bothered me, for fear of being thought insane.

Shortly after his departure, as I was returning to my room, I found Mark. I approached him angrily and requested that he walk with me, so that we might be able to talk. I was surprised to find that he complied with my request, as he had never been very mobile, and this was the first time that he actually walked around in my presence.

“Where were you all of this evening?” I shouted. “I had a guest, and you were nowhere to be found! What do you think your job is around here?”
“Why sir,” he responded politely, while his smirk never left his face, “I merely had business to attend to. There is certainly much more involved with maintaining this house than just living in it, as you do!”
I was taken aback by how he spoke to me, but I continued. “I expect you to attend to me and especially to my guests before you deal with other things about the house!”
“But of course, sir. I am quite sorry. It completely slipped my mind that you had a guest, and I will certainly be around to serve you as well as your guests next time.”

It seemed as though he was ignoring my authority, and I was rather annoyed by and suspicious of his disrespect. However, I was tired, and so I cut him a break and went to sleep.
As the weeks went on, I became more and more obsessed with the house, and more afraid of it. I felt as if I was being watched. The strangeness in the paintings and the sculptures became more and more apparent. I often found things that had been moved around, such as a dining room chair in a hallway, or a potted plant on a couch. Mark would pop up in ever more obscure places, and I could often feel his eyes watching from a dark corner. And it wasn’t only Mark; I felt as if there were other people in the house, right around the next corner or lurking in the shadows. But I was always just one step behind them. The house even began to seem larger. I would enter doorways I thought I knew and end up in someplace I had never been. Some hallways seemed to extend endlessly, winding all throughout the house. In general, the house seemed to get darker, as did the conditions outside.

I addressed my fears with Mark, but he merely shrugged them off. “It is nothing, sir. You’re merely imagining such things,” he said, with a devious smile. This began to provoke me to even more suspicious of him. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt as though Mark was causing the things that I was experiencing, and that he was provoking my fear. I grew more and more fearful as the weeks and even months went by. I wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since I had last seen Charles when I called him for the second time. I was becoming afraid of Mark, and I needed someone I could trust - someone in whom I could confide my fears.

This time around, Charles arrived on a stormy, cold evening. I tried to mask my fear, but it was not long before Charles asked if I was alright. I explained that there was something wrong with the house. People were in the house that shouldn’t have been there. I was being watched. Things were being moved. Mark, I explained, must be the one behind these peoples’ presence.
“And you’ve seen these people? Why haven’t you called the police?” He asked.

“No, I haven’t actually seen them, but I know they’re there!”

“Well… may I possibly have a word with Mark then?”

A good idea, but, yet again, Mark was nowhere to be found. Charles suggested that I might want to see a doctor. But why would I need a doctor? Mark was the one causing all this!

After Charles had left, I went to sit in the lounge and have a drink. But, inside the lounge, I found numerous people. All dressed up, in expensive garments. They looked like models, or subjects for paintings. As I entered, they all turned and laughed at me. I screamed, and ran back through the doorway. This didn’t lead back in the entrance room, but instead to a long white hallway. There I found another person, a woman. I asked her why she was here, and she replied that she was invited by my Uncle. She then began to laugh, and asked if I wished to see him, while pointing to a doorway. I went through it, to find a bright white room, with dark red stains splattered on the walls and the furniture. I looked at my feet to find the corpse of my Uncle. Suddenly, the lights went out, and I heard a high pitched scream. The lights flickered back on, and I was in a long hall, with a black and white tiled floor. Along the walls were the well dressed people, all staring. I broke into a run, and opened the door at the other end of the corridor, to find myself in the hallway of a hospital. I walked down the hall, to the door at the end. I looked in. The room was a dull white, with pads covering the walls, and I was sitting in the corner, staring back at myself. I jumped back, and then rushed through the door, only to find myself back in the entrance room.

Here, I found Mark, with his characteristic smirk. I ran forward with tears I my eyes, and screamed, “Why are these people in my house? What have you done with the rooms?” He merely smiled, and told me that nothing was wrong, that it was all my imagination. He then began to laugh. I shouted that I was going to call the police! I picked up the phone, and dialed 911, and screamed that there was something wrong in my house. I then collapsed in front of the stairs. The last thing I remember was the door opening, and men in boots storming in.

* * *

“Well, what do you think, Charles?” the doctor asked as we both looked in on him in the cell. “What do you think happened to him?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “I saw him twice during his stay at the mansion, and he seemed quite unsettled. He thought there were people in his house, and that his butler, Mark, was conspiring against him.”
“Mark, you say? He has mentioned Mark often, though we didn’t know that he was the butler of the house.”
“He wasn’t. There never was a Mark. Both times I visited him, the butler was nowhere to be found. After I was told that he had been committed, I went back to the house to investigate. All I found were a bunch of paintings… perhaps those were the ‘people’ in his house. Either way, there was one painting that intrigued me, because there were copies of it in several different rooms. It was a painting of a man, in a black suit with a white shirt and a black bow tie, and somewhat long, black, slicked back hair. Below each of the copies, there was a plaque, inscribed with the name ‘MARK’.”

Introduction

Hey everyone. I'm Chas Crandon, I'm 17 years old, and I attend Oakwood School and will be attending Brown University in the fall. I'll be using this space to post short stories I have written, as well as record my thoughts on certain subjects, primarily philosophy, politics and how to live a happy life. Enjoy!