Veritas

We live in an age where science fiction is fast becoming science fact. Chimeras already are being created in labs, what might happen if these chimeras were allowed to live? What would the reaction be to something that was almost human? 

Technically she wasn’t supposed to exist. 14 days was supposed to be the limit, but curiosity had gotten the better of them – she was the first human-avian chimera to survive that long, and the research team, funded by certain individuals who didn’t care much about the law, had been more than eager to see how such a creature would mature and develop. Dubbed Veratas as a joke, she had exceeded their wildest expectations. But four years is a long time for an eight-man team to keep a secret, and public acceptance of the idea of chimeras hadn’t quite caught up to the reality of existing chimeras. For the public, chimera still equaled monster, and the public outcry had been for her death as soon as the secret had been leaked.

Dr. Cromwell stared through the two-way mirror into Veratas’s room. It wasn’t much, just a glorified holding pen for what amounted to a lab rat. Cromwell rested his hand on the syringe on the table – poison that would end this thing that was never supposed to exist.

Veritas herself was up against the left wall, her slight frame quivering with repressed energy. She was humanoid, four foot five, covered with fine mottled brown feathers from the neck down. Scraggly brown hair dangled to her shoulders and fell in her face – the face that would have looked human if not for the intense golden eyes that peered out from it. Her hands clenched and stretched, eager, over-eager. They were human, probably the most human thing about her, and the way she continually used them to push her hair behind her ear made some of the other researchers decidedly nervous. She wore a brown shift that fell to just above her knees – nobody had ever confessed to giving it to her, but no one had taken it from her either. Her tail dropped below that, nearly brushing the floor with dark feathers when she stood. That was the most avian thing about her, a vestige of flight which in her case did nothing but get in the way. Wings had been denied her by some twist of chromosome. Her toes curled against the floor – human in shape, but rough with bird scales.

Veritas pressed against the wall, her eyes locked onto the pole that bisected the room. Cromwell curled his fingers around the syringe. He should do this now and just get it over with. It was nothing more than killing a frog for dissection. Dissection actually was her final end – there was still debate over how exactly the two halves of her genetics were fitting together. Cromwell didn’t move though. He watched as Veritas pushed off from the wall and started running. Three strides, four, five, then a leap from the top of her upturned water bowl. Her hands grasped the pole and momentum aided by a kick flipped her around so she landed on top of the pole. She crouched like some avian nightmare, staring at the door.

Cromwell checked to see that his taser was within easy reach. She hadn’t done anything overtly violent, not yet, but it would be just his luck if today was the day she decided to go berserk.

Cromwell keyed in his code for the door and entered. The door hissed shut behind him. Veritas visibly cringed when she saw him. Cromwell hid the syringe behind his back. They hadn’t been kind. They hadn’t been kind, but it had been in the name of science. She was just an animal, an unnatural creature who had no purpose except to serve the science that had created her.

“Come down Veritas,” he called in a low voice. She fidgeted but didn’t leave her perch. Cromwell took a step further in. “Now Veritas,” he said, putting more command into his voice. Veritas ducked her head.

Her knuckles were white around the pole, her whole body was shivering, keyed up in what could have been a fight or flight response – one in which she couldn’t decide on an action.

“Why?” It was a small voice, inaudible except for the fact that the room was otherwise silent. Cromwell shook his head to clear it. He took a step forward, till he could almost reach up and grab her. She shifted as far away as she could on the pole. Her golden eyes watched him warily.

“What am I? Why do you hurt me?” the two questions came out in a rush, like something long rehearsed and long feared.

Cromwell grabbed her arm, yanked her off the pole, and plunged the syringe into her thigh. She screeched as the needle went in; she flew backwards as soon as she was released. Cromwell watched as she died, as the question ‘why’ died on her lips. Eventually she lay limp, dead. Then she was nothing but a pile of flesh to be dissected. She was never anything more. She had never spoken. Never.

Cromwell picked up the body and carried it into the lab. Others would do what they willed with it. The public was now satisfied.

C. Angelina

A Beginning in the End pt. 3

I love imagining what it would be like to possibly be the last survivor of a zombie apocalypse. What kind of psychological repercussions would that have? Could you survive without going mad, would the human need to survive override everything else?

Arabella                                                                                                         2020/1/3

My car has run out of fuel. There isn’t any of the stuff for miles out here and I can’t waste the daylight. It looks like I’m going on foot now. It worries me. The world seems so much bigger without even the metal shell of a vehicle between it and you. My feet are so small and inadequate now where they were strong and capable yesterday. 

I wish I could stay here another night but they are here and don’t look to be leaving. Their stench fills the air and pollutes the atmosphere. I know I must leave. Another herd is quickly approaching, well I say quickly but it only fells that way to my vulnerable self. 

I can outrun them but not forever despite how slow they are. I am mortal and they are not. 

2020/1/4

I haven’t seen another survivor in almost a year now. Am I all that is left? the very thought makes me tremble in fear and panic. It’s the perfect nightmare to be the only human left in a world of ravenous flesh-eating monsters. It paralyzes me just to consider it. All I want is to see another living human. 

I don’t think I can take the solitude anymore. I always talk to myself, making plans in furtive whispers to no one. There isn’t a soul to hear me anymore but the angels and God himself.

Sometimes it feels as though there is no one there to hear my prayers. All is empty and silent and the monsters outside are the only things in the universe besides me. Then there are times when I feel something more, that invisible presence at my side. The thing is, if He is there I don’t understand why He won’t let me die. 

I walked ten miles today through heavily infested land. I could smell and hear them all around me, a constant threat. The wretched moaning permeated the air and bombarded my ears. I felt as though I was walking down a road in hell with haunting demons wailing on every side. 

If I had not shed all my tears long ago I might have been wailing with them. As it stood I was saved by the fact that I don’t even think I can cry anymore. I wish I still lived in a world where I could, where I could have my heart broken and weep because I couldn’t afford a new car. 

My eyes were horridly dry as I traveled a long dreadful road with no prospect of any relief in the future. Will I ever have peace again?

Dymphna

A Beginning in the End pt.2

Here’s another part of the story and the introduction of the second character. Writing in first person can be such a pain sometimes but for some stories it’s honestly the best way to go.

Logan                                                                                               2020/1/2

There are more of them here. I can’t seem to find a place where they have dwindled. Their numbers only seem to grow, coinciding with the diminishing survivor count. It has been seven months since I encountered another living human and he is dead  now. I made sure he wouldn’t rise to walk among the animated dead.

I found a little bunker today in which to hole up for a spell. There are still a few supplied here and it is as secure as anywhere can be these days. 

I miss the days when you could sleep without fear of real monsters out there. And yet it isn’t really the monsters that are truly frightening anymore. It’s the thought of being one of them that utterly terrifies me. It’s that and the knowledge that if I die humanity has lost another chance to survive.

I believe that is the one thing that drives me on, the knowledge that maybe someday I can help to save humanity. 

Why else would I stay here? Everyday I see and smell and fight those things just for one more day alive in the sun. I fight when almost everyone has changed sides and hunts with them. 

I’ve almost died so many times that I’ve lost count completely. I am a survivor. That is all I seem to know anymore. It was only my silence that kept me from being found earlier today. There were a dozen or so of them out there wandering around. It was growing dark and I needed shelter. This bunker was the only place that I knew I could reach. 

I’ve learned to be more silent than the shadows themselves since all of this began. I didn’t want to risk a fight in the dying light and I hadn’t eaten in several days. I managed to sneak through them and into the bunker where I found some old but edible food. 

I assume I’m meant to survive for a little while longer. The thing is that sometimes I’m not sure I want to. I’m so alone here. 

Logan is a work in progress. I’m not entirely sure where the character is going and his back story is only partially formulated. I’m really looking forward to creating him and just letting things happen. His past especially is going to be so much fun to create.

Dymphna

Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum

Trans-Allegheny-Lunatic-Asylum (1)

I’m going to use a place like this, inspired by kirkbride asylums, as a setting for one of my stories. It will of course be a dark story, probably inhabited by ghosts and plenty of tense moments. There’s so much you can do with the right setting in a story.

I just love the kirkbride architecture if only most of the asylums hadn’t been left to rot. Several of them have already been torn down although thankfully the Trans-Allegheny seems like it’s being taken care of. Doesn’t it just look like the perfect place to set some form of gothic tale? I could probably get lost in there. I would totally live in an asylum like this too. It’s just perfect for a psychological story considering the architecture was specifically designed to work on the minds of the patients.

Trans-Allegheny-Lunatic-Asylum

 

One another note all of my writing friends have returned from spring break and hopefully will begin to contribute soon. They have some perfectly amazing stories to tell.

Dymphna

A Beginning in the End

This Christmas break I just began spontaneously writing a post apocalyptic story by hand. I think I wrote ninety-four pages in about two weeks. It felt amazing. It’s the story of the last three people on earth told in journal format from the viewpoints of two different characters. I begin the story with a young woman going about her daily business of just surviving in a hostile world. Here goes.

Arabella                                                                                2020/1/1

A whole herd of the things came through today. You can always tell when they come. You can smell them from a mile away when there are that many. The stench in the air is tangible, filling your nose and mind with rotting flesh. You come to associate the smell with death but not death as it would have been conceived in the past. Today it means death and then reanimation, living death. 

They aren’t really there anymore. They left when they died the first time and now all that’s left is a body and a brain full of the alien instinct to devour human flesh. There is no human inside that rotting body, not anymore.

I see their faces and I no longer see a human visage. All I see now is something that was human once. It’s not hard to look at them and shoot them right between the eyes anymore. the conflict of destroying something so very reminiscent of a human is gone. I don’t really feel anything these days. 

My senses have grown numb with time and experience. I hid from the herd today but I wasn’t afraid. If I die I will simply no longer have to survive. If I, or rather when, I reanimate I won’t be here. I, me myself, will be gone. I don’t know where exactly but I’m betting on Purgatory. I’m doing my best to stay out of hell and I’m not good enough for Heaven right away. 

I wish I was. I wish I had already moved on to something better. Life in this world is as close as you can get to hell on earth. 

 

Yeah the introductory part is a little boring, just setting out the atmosphere and stuff but it’s necessary. This story was really made up as I went, on the spot really. I’ll post more of it later hopefully.

Dymphna.

 

Young writers reaching out.