Hanging Fish

She awoke in a dark room with greenish-grey walls. The rusty metal blinds were pulled down, blocking any small rays of light from creeping through and disturbing the dullness. That was the first thing she noticed as soon as her mind could function again. The young woman moaned quietly at the pain in her head. Did somebody drug her earlier? Was it in the juice? In the water? Yes? Earlier she had been at her sister's wedding. Or was it yesterday? Two hours ago? The blinds were too thick to allow her to know. If there had been some light at least, she could have figured out what time it was. It felt like ages had passed since the wedding. She'd been clapping and smiling at her sister and brother-in-law alongside the rest of the guests. They seemed like a happy couple, her sister and her husband. They looked like they'd be happy together. She suddenly heard a crash and her sister screaming. The brother-in-law yelled angrily and there was a slapping sound and a cry of pain. The young woman turned her head with a little gasp. She was in a chair. There were ropes cutting into the flesh of her wrists and ankles. She was still in her ball gown. She tried to move, but discovered there was a thick chain around her torso. She didn't even notice it until now. She honestly began to wonder what had happened. Was it a dream? The young woman turned her head to the ceiling. There were dead fish hanging above her head. Not one fish, no! But thousands and thousands. All gleaming silver with red circles around their tails and hung with wires by their fins. Their gaping eyes stared at her. Thousands of pairs of eyes. All staring, all sharp. The young woman screamed. She tried to struggle and get her wrists free. There were fishing spears leaning on the wall. Her chair shook with her motion and made her remember something. The children! She had adopted two infants her twentieth year. They were still waiting at the apartment for her! A boy and a girl. What would they say? Who would take care of them? A single mother who had gone to her sister's wedding one Sunday evening and never returned. What would the children think? Would they be worried? Will they starve? Would they miss her? She never thought to give them direction. She never thought she could be abducted. The young woman gritted her teeth and strained harder on the knots, which only succeeded in getting her wrists raw and red. They were tied in such a way that she couldn't even move them an inch away from the chair. She swore, something she hadn't done in a long time. Without her, without her work, her children would starve. She had to get free and find out who did this and bring them to justice. Why her? She wasn't important. She had a simple job. It wasn't like she was rich or anything.  She wasn't that pretty, if people still kidnapped for that sort of thing. She was just a woman. An average woman with dreams and ambitions she would never be able to chase. She lived in Apartment 101C, with two bedrooms and a full bathroom. It was in the heart of the city, where it was most crowded and dusty and unbearable and dirty. Her building was so high up in the sky because of the cramped spaces. Cardboard and scrap metal. Yes, her apartment hadn't been anything fancy. She'd like to think it was below average quality, but it wasn't alright to complain. She wondered, was it a fisherman? She looked up again at the wall of eyes above her head. Their mouths were all that same shape, that same wailing expression. She breathed heavily, trying again with the ropes on her ankles. Abruptly, there were footsteps just outside the door, which suddenly flunged open. The woman gasped and turned her head around as far back as it goes. There was a figure draped in black. From the build, she guessed it was a man. Short, bone thin. He wore a gas mask and held a sharp knife in his right hand. The woman froze. She didn't know what to do. Why hadn't the university taught her anything about what to do in this situation?! Why hadn't her mother taught her? Why hadn't anyone? Was it because they didn't expect it? Never expected it? "Give me back my children." He said in a broken voice, sprinting up to the chained woman and pointing his knife at her. The young woman didn't respond, just stared with widened eyes. "Give them back!" He cried again. "You stole my children!"
"T-that's not true." She said quietly. "I adopted them legally -- papers and everything. Are they your children?"
"Give them back, give them back!" The man exclaimed. He stuck the knife in the woman's knee, to which she howled out in agony. "I went to jail because of you," He hissed, the gas mask making his voice terrifying. "all I wanted was to have my children back and you stole them!" He worked with the knife, popping the woman's knee from the socket. She screamed again. "Please stop!" She sobbed. "I didn't--" she bit her lip and rocked in her chair, as much as the chain would let her. The pain was too fierce and she couldn't feel her knee. So this was about the children themselves. Who was this man? Yes. Now she remembered. There was a short man at the wedding too... he even sat at the same table as she did. The woman hadn't really paid attention, but she could feel the man watching her at times. Even though she did remember him passing her the jug of water with a smile. She hadn't even known him, and now she was sure her sister and brother-in-law also didn't. But if this was going to be an argument about her children... well. She wasn't going to give them up to this madman with a gas mask and she wasn't going to give them up to the staring wailing fish. With a wet face, she angrily lunged forward with the chair in all her might, toppling over the insane man and crushing him under her weight. It wasn't that she was heavy, but because that he was so scrawny. "I'm not giving up my world." She hissed, heaving up against the chains and slamming back down again, on his face. A quick fight commenced while the fish only stared, blubbering with unblinking eyes.

Liar

Small piece I wrote around half a year ago for a story idea.

Liar. Liar, liar, liar. They said. Their eyes sunken and low. Their fake voices deafening. Long ago. Before, they began by pounding his chest in frail protest. But somehow, now, they were beating him with sticks until he bled. Liar, liar! They never gave him a chance to speak. He owned a tongue, yet he was afraid to use it. Liar. He had a pen he couldn't grasp. Fingers intertwined together in an impossible knot. Liar. They took advantage, of course. With him silenced, they began roaring louder, chanting, repeating their lies over and over and over. Their dark words seeping through ears and embedding into skulls, cut and clean. And yet they still claim him the liar... Went on waving their sticks, went on swinging down. A river of blood and they were proud. Just look to the other side, he wanted to say, just look to the other side! Liar. Mind your own greediness. No. They didn't care about the other side. In an argument, there are two sides. In war, there are two sides. Here, there was only one side. Their side. What of the other? Bomb it and cleanse it. Shut it up. Repeat your lies until you believe them yourself. Your propaganda. Force them down the world's throat, steady and patient. Keep it up a decade at least. A century. He turned shriveled and weak, like a pale old fish. Liar. Support the strong side, crush the weaker one. The unfortunate lives didn't matter. Insects. No, but their side did. And they were willing to destroy and burn for their own lies. He couldn't move now, broken bones and broken heart. Liar. They offered him a chance, if he would only join them in their winning battle, if he would only join the stronger side. Under one condition, he still is the liar. He plays that game. Liar, liar. They announced afterwards he was the devil. Tore out his tongue after he died sprawled under their shotgun. And of course, still the liar, liar, liar. Liar to the grave, liar to hell, liar for forever and always. Liar stamped for eternity. Always was, always has been.

Flame-Thrower (sample)

"I'll be here if you need me." He said. He had said. She scoffed at it now whenever the statement played in her head. Was life all fun and games? Was it all comfort? Was it all solved by faith? Locked and loaded? Can anyone answer that? Anyone? He never told her the answer, and she wanted to know. But then he wasn't the type to comfort -- confront her - and he was a complicated one. He never cared for anyone, he seldom talked, he seldom blinked, dark eyes sunken. He never fell in love. Or if he did, he wouldn't care to remember it. Nor would he have mentioned it. "I'll be here if you need me." That was all. Leaning on the door-frame, smoking. That was all. And yet he wasn't there. Whenever she looked at that door-frame, with green chipped paint, she'd see nothing. But maybe if she tried hard enough, she could imagine him standing there in the afternoon, chewing tobacco under his teeth and arms folded over his chest, waiting for his turn. Waiting for his end. We were all waiting for our ends, weren't we? We just try to find something to do while waiting. That was it, a simple truth. So what was this sickness? This cancer in his bones? This plague that ate him inside out. She'd remember. he looked like a walking skeleton at the end of his days. Tell me, was this the fate of a killer? Was it the fate of he who fired at the innocent with not so much as a second glance? Couldn't care to remember their faces? Couldn't bear it? Even still, they all came around again, chasing him, screaming at him, it was as if she could hear it all in her head. All those young innocent souls he smothered, she could sometimes hear them. She didn't know why they were sputtering angry words at her, she hadn't done anything. No, but maybe... Maybe she had given comfort to him... was that why? Maybe she deserved it. Why would she be telling him it was okay when she should be pleading with him to stop? Yes, maybe she deserved it. Long before his condition worsened, she should have stopped him. Her brother. Sure she loved him, sure she didn't want to get in his way, but why didn't she do something?  Was life just a joke? Was it no coincidence that this was the type of death he had to have? He'd lay there on the stretcher, moaning and face sunken and dark, unshaven. She hadn't said a thing then. All the way, he just kept losing his health and losing it. Thinner and thinner. Darker and darker. And she was the only one at the funeral. Her, and all those little souls he burned. But of course, they followed him into the grave. Whether they tortured him there or not, she never knew. She had laughed then, in her black dress, and she never laughed since. And if he had one, may God have mercy on his soul. They later told me she disappeared and nobody ever saw her again.

Torches and Spooks (sample)

The setting sun fell below the mountains, casting eerie shadows on the entire village. Little torches had been mounted on the door-frames by the villagers, glowing but also creating quite an amount of smoke. Mud caked the floor and puddles had collected on the curb and on the dirt-paved roads. The little girl sat huddled on the lone bench, shivering in her brown blanket. She watched the Officer's white horse shift its weight on its back legs repeatedly, flicking its ears and snorting. Apparently the animal was nervous. The Officer held the reins. He was busy speaking to a woman, who was explaining something about seeing the criminal escape to the mountains. The little girl sniffled, cupping her cold nose in her hands and exhaling. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders tighter. The Officer scraped his pen across his notepad, thanked the woman, and led his uneasy horse back towards the girl. "Seems like he ran off."
The girl nodded, not looking up at him. A raindrop plopped on her head. The Officer looked to the heavens. A light drizzle began, and it was clear a storm would follow. Chilly wind started battering against the wooden huts of the villages. The white horse neighed and shook its head, trying to convince its master to flee before the weather got any worse.
The Officer only sent a sharp tug at the bit and sighed. "Doesn't look like there's much I can do. It's out of my hands now kid. Sorry."
The girl nodded again, her dark brown hair in a messy mop over her head. The Officer strapped on his hat and mounted his horse, who trotted immediately but stopped as the bit dug deep into its mouth. From the way the Officer handled the reins, it was clear he was just as nervous. "Y-you're staying here?"
It was then the girl looked up, an apathetic look on her face. She was about six or seven, with piercing brown eyes and a tear-streaked face. She was done crying over the murder of her family. She didn't say anything, only glared at the young officer, causing him to look away. The wind picked up and the sun's final glare completely disappeared. The torches were anything but warm, however. It wasn't uncommon - the senseless killing of the villagers. The Officer secretly wished for the people to move away and leave this village a ghost town. It was not safe to be out in the street so late, and the torches were meant to scare away any evil spirits. The little girl stood up solemnly, further startling the Officer's horse. "I will go sleep next to mom and dad's graves."
"God have mercy," The young man huffed under his breath, tipping the visor of his hat. This child was mad! "Be sure to get out of the rain, kid. You'd best get indoors quick. I have a long way to get back and much as I want to, I can't babysit you." He turned his horse around, about ready to spur it on. Usually hard, the animal was more than eager to leave today. Of course, it had to be the wind and the storm. The anxious neighbors peeking from behind their curtains. The empty village and the dull torches left the Officer shaky as well. He clucked his horse onward, just hoping that whatever was in the mountains wouldn't decide to come down tonight.
_________________
The girl stood in the rain, shivering. A smirk spread across her tender lips as she watched the Officer gallop away. The villagers say they never saw her again. The Officer was found dead in the middle of the road, a-ways from the carcass of his steed. As for the horse, well, they found it cut up and skinned several miles from the village, with a horrific expression on its mostly deformed face. It was said lightning struck and spooked the animal, which bucked off and accidentally stepped on its rider before being attacked by a local wolf pack. That was the easy way to explain it, at least.

Bland Color

Vesko was never left alone. Not for one second. Not ever since they found him crying in a dumpster as an infant. Not ever since they took him in. Not ever since they poisoned him. Not ever since they shoved all their lies down his throat, claiming it to be truth. Not ever since he was Colonel. Not ever since... He sat on a lone chair in a bare white room, clutching his head. The walls were high, and white, white, white. His black hair and sunken brown eyes seemed to be the only hints of color in the place. They were going to whisper again. They were going to shove empty words down his throat again. He'd always cough blood because of it. To be a Colonel, they said, you have to go through this. You have to be able to kill. You have to be able to lie. To keep your mouth shut. Security cameras hung from every corner, from every wall. Left, right, back, forth, under his feet, over his head, in front of his eyes, behind his head. He couldn't hide. He couldn't cry. He couldn't move. Twelve hours of torture until he returned on duty. Why? Because he had to keep his head. They had to monitor him. They had to cleanse him. Because they couldn't let the lies of the outside world get into the heart of their child. No, only their lies. A false child. A parent-less child. Vesko wasn't anybody special. Nobody cared about him. Why, he didn't even care about himself. Bone thin and cold. Pale and dark-eyed. The cameras zoomed in. They came from every direction, stealing his warmth. Vesko shivered uncontrollably. Here comes the spoon to feed him. Here comes the words, the lies. He would only be able to repeat what they told him. He had no voice of his own. Be grateful, child, be grateful. You were in a dumpster, trash. Nobody wanted you. Nobody wants you still. Why, you don't even want yourself. He couldn't hide. He couldn't cry. He couldn't move. Twelve hours. It would only be twelve hours... He could take it. He's been doing it for thirty years. He could take it.
~~
The room was white and bare. A single empty chair was in the center of the room. Security cameras were perched on every wall, every corner. They stared and listened. Listened and stared. A thick trail of smeared blood was the only hint of color in the place. Cause of death unknown. Oh well. Nothing major. Happens every week. Spoon simply must have gone too far down again.

Messenger

His feet were nimble and paced. A heavy canopy spread out for miles over his head as he took off under the trees. It seemed as if the thicket would never end. He had to hurry, despite that. He had to relay the dreadful news to his queen at once. The empty scabbard at his hip clinked with every impact and blood dripped along the leaves as he pushed on, ever deeper. The pain in his flank didn't hurt much. At least, he couldn't feel it. No, he made an effort not to feel it. To ignore it, even if it was bad for him. Treatment will be sought after he delivers the message. The Shaman will see to him. Still, it would've been easier to push the nag of the stinging away if it weren't for the strange creature right behind him, armed with a muzzle roar-stick thing. His sword hadn't stood a chance. And the creature wasn't even large, half his size actually. To be honest. But this weapon, this roar-stick thing, it was powerful. There was a hole of his flank now because of it. But he couldn't stop, the queen had to know! She had to prepare them all... he couldn't rest. Just a little more. If only he gave it more thought, maybe this wouldn't have happened. If he didn't lead the creature right to the tribe, maybe they'd been alive right now. But then, life works in strange ways, and hasty decisions can be disastrous. Maybe Her Majesty would have forgiven him. If she'd still lived. Maybe... The campfire was bright, and he pushed that thought away. No. He wasn't going to remember what happened then. If he was branded the traitor, so be it. So what if his tribe were dead? So what if it was his fault? Huh. Let them rot in hell for all he cared. Nobody had cared about him anyway. He rolled over under the covers, a tight frown on his slightly tanned face. Heh. The middle son of twenty three children. Yes, nobody cared. So what if those foreigners bought unworldly weapons into this land? He stared at the teenage female across the fire from him. So what if they spilt blood across this holy ground? He was on their side now. If he was the traitor, so be it, so be it! He'd learn to use those roar-stick things and fire them and kill. Swords didn't matter anymore. It was all muzzles and slaughter slaughter slaughter. For all he cared. As long as he was alive, it would be alright. Even if the foreigner creatures had him point out the other tribes and lead the raids and deceive everybody he once knew. But then those were burned years, years he chose to forget a long time ago. They came back every while to haunt his sleep. He was never able to be at peace for a one-shot. Every night was long, boring, and quiet. He'd wait it out. Voices would scream at him from the darkness: "Liar! Traitor! DEMON!!" He narrowed his eyes and stared at the fire. His fifteen brothers and seven sisters all sat there, in the flames, staring back at him with a blank gaze and bloody faces. Yes, it had been him. Their faces were skinned, they were melting. He rolled over again and turned to the dark forest. Shadows danced on the thickets from the flames like devils, beckoning him. Screaming at him oh God, the screaming! He could never shut it out. He envied anyone who could sleep soundly, including his female companion. He was to show her the depth of the forest, which he knew well. They had come looking for rare herbs, and he had been in the business the last ten years. Eleven actually, if not twelve. No, thirteen. Yes, that was how much it was, thirteen. They pay well. As long as he tried to blend in with them, nobody treated him differently. Or maybe they just didn't care. Or maybe they liked that he considered himself one of them and stripped himself of his previous title as the primitive tribe's messenger. Won't Majesty be tossing and turning in her grave now? She would be cursing him. The entire tribe would be cursing him. His family were always cursing him. Good. Now where to go? Where to hide? If he was killed, he'd head over to join the deceased, and he definitely wouldn't like that. They'll just kill him all over again. But maybe if he went to a different world... yes. Back with the strange foreigner creatures. He'd be spared this torture. He'd do it. He'd ask his companion in the morning if he could accompany her back to her motherland. She wouldn't understand if he told her the truth, but he sure as the sun can lie. They are the only ones who can set him free now. He can turn to them for salvation. He's already lost himself once, why not do it again? Anything to stop his dead tribe and his relatives from terrorizing him. After all, it wasn't intentional. He never meant to start the war, but he did. Nothing could be done. And he's joined the "enemy." Well good riddance. He was done here. With a sharp huff, he turned towards the fire again and shut his eyes to sleep.