Category: Creative Writing

This is part five of the Twelve Stories series.

Hakon and Courtney rush to a nearby cave, no longer concerned about the endless black crabs dotting the beach.

They are soaked in seawater and blood. The corpses of the fellow meditators are mixed with those of the infected who fell upon them.

Cowering in a cave, Hakon turns to her, his countenance asks, “How did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” she responds shakily. “I saw Jerome bite Maryl, and the next thing I remember, you were trying to wash the blood off of me in the water.”

“By the time I dealt with Jerome, they were all dead. But you were still beating them,” Hakon verbalizes.

“Who were they?”

“It is easiest to just think of them as zombies,” Hakon replied after some consideration. “They aren’t ‘undead’ but they aren’t really alive anymore.”

“How do you know?” Courtney asked, stepping away from him.

“I am… something like a therapist. One of my patients does biological research for the military. However, his reality is… different. He went missing, and I began to wonder if the delusions I thought he was suffering from were a reality.”

They crouch in the cave in silence. “I don’t usually talk so much,” Hakon says. “I’m not sure what else to say.”

“What happened with Jerome? What do you mean you ‘dealt’ with him?”

“I took a blood sample. I think it may help develop a vaccine. i just need to find someone with the expertise who will believe me.”

Courtney begins to open her mouth and pauses as she hears the sound of someone approaching the cave.

Jerome is the first to fall.

The brutes see his absent minded kicking as a threat.

Fake-diamond-studded knuckles tipped with disease strike Jerome across the cheek and the silence is broken.

Maryl responds, but she makes a critical mistake. She includes Jerome in her magical barrier, unaware that he has been more than simply struck.

Courtney, unaware of Maryl’s response, is more alarmed by the sudden silence from the attackers, seeing and sharing the confusion on their faces as they unsuccessfully try to walk towards her only to make no forward progress.

The countless black crabs pay no heed to this.

But Hakon knew. He had seen it all before. This moment was why Hakon was there. He springs to his feet, but he is too late.

Maryl is already at Jerome’s side, his hand in hers, Hakon looks away for a moment as he frantically searches in his bag, and in that moment, Jerome’s teeth sink into the flesh around Maryl’s throat and the roar the brutes breaks through.

Part of the Twelve Stories collection.

Facing garnished halcyon images, Jerome kicks like mad, never on purpose, quietly resting sullen, tired, unsettled–veritably wishing xenophobic yuppies zilch.

Aghast, bashful Courtney decides, eventually, following generalizations–her intuition just keeps letting more nonsense overpower premonitions. Quickly, reflexively, she traverses uncertainty, vanquishes wild xanthan/yeast zombies.

Astonishingly black crabs dot every feasible gap. Her intent justifies koans. Lovingly, Maryl’s neurological overdrive protects quaint retreats. She teaches–unflinching, vigilant–xylography, yoga, & zoology.

Alas, brutes come down eventually.

Fearless, gaunt, hirsute.

Influential, jutting knuckles let most numinous overtones pulse qi.

Revenge slashes though.

Undead viruses xenotransplant yellow zircon.

Part of the Twelve Stories collection.

At a young age, Hakon learned he was different.

Everyone else was always talking about something. Hakon only liked to listen.

It wasn’t that he was unsure of what to say. He thought other’s cared what he had to say, too. He just didn’t find talking all that appealing.

As he grew older, he became more adept at communicating with his face and body language–allowing him to become more and more silent without others really noticing.

His family was surprised to see how popular he became once he went to college. They had all been very concerned he would be unable to make new friends or find a romantic partner.

They underestimated how much people like talk and how rarely they feel heard.

Hakon eventually found himself as a sort of therapist. He didn’t offer advice or anything like that. Most people spoke of the same concerns–not being seen or heard, masked as something else. Every conversation, they felt like the other people were just waiting for their turn to speak.

But not Hakon. So they’d talk to him, and feel better.

True to his nature, he sat quietly while Maryl gave guidance to Courtney.

“This applies to you, too, Hakon,” Maryl said, detecting his distraction.

Part of the Twelve Stories collection.

Technically, Courtney’s eyes were colorless. That’s the case for all so-called blue-eyed people. If it were possible to look into her eyes with no light present, her iris would be colorless. She loved this fact.

She was pretty sure it was a fact.

Sitting on the beach, Maryl requests that Courtney focus.

“Sorry,” she says. “I got lost in thought.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Maryl replies. “When you notice, or when someone else notices, that you’ve lost focus, simply return to the object.”

“Sorry, object?” Courtney ventures to ask.

“Again, do not apologize when you have done nothing wrong. The focus or object of the practice. In our case, the object is the horizon.”

Courtney stops herself from apologizing again and directs her gaze to the horizon.

“Remember, when it feels right, when the reflection of the sun on the surface begins to fill your eyes, close them quickly to trap the light, and then just watch,” Maryl instructs.

Courtney follows Maryl’s instructions. With her eyes closed, she sees the electric glow behind her eyes coalesce into a scene, but the next thing she knows, she’s thinking about how she can almost taste the salt of the sea through her nose.

Part of the Twelve Stories collection.