Of Plots And Commas

Be warned, this one is…weird and gruesome (and short), even for me. I saw the words old apple tree somewhere and the story, literally and figuratively, took root.

There was no use in having an apple tree that only bears rotten fruit, but try cutting it down and see what happens. That’s what happened to Jane, my great aunt, thirty two years ago. 

The Killing Tree itself is a shriveled, decrepit thing, tall and thin and looking like it just might reach out and snatch you. You could smell the sickly sweet stench of it from a mile away, like rotting dessert set out for too many days too long—the bark soft as if it was damp earth, your fingernails sinking deep if you pressed too hard. 

Every year, fallen apples surround the tree in piles, along with poor little rodents lying with their swollen bellies turned up. If you ripped one of the fallen fruits open, you would see black skin and ruby red insides, the texture sticky and slick, making an odd crunching, slurping sound as you break the skin. 

The world feels uncomfortably quiet around this area, no birds, no flowers, not a thing with lungs and a heart. Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could almost hear it whisper. 

My grandmother once told me a story about a little boy who had eaten one of the Killing Tree’s apples; he bit into the cursed thing, lost his head, and went after the chickens in the shed. He died shortly after, and my grandmother still shudders at the sound of gunfire.  The boy had been her cousin. They say it tastes sweet, the sweetest thing you can imagine, your teeth sinking into the withered softness.

Grandma says that’s why the rodents eat it, even when they know they’ll die.

I watched the spiny limbs shiver in the breeze, the great thing like a tower in the grey sky. I could smell it’s sickly sweetness, the rotted taste, and I would run the other way if my uncle wasn’t on his hands and feet in front of it. 

Red ran down his chin in streams, mangled corpses of apples littering the ground in front of him—he ate the stem, the core, the flesh, the rotted bits, everything. I was running out of time, but I couldn’t raise the rifle just yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

His hands crammed every rotted-black apple they could find into his mouth, eyes wide, crazed with hunger. Soon, he’ll run out of apples. I gripped the rifle a little tighter. Grandma said it was my turn now, a test to see if I have what it takes to own this land, to protect it.

I took one step closer. I should do it now, while his back is turned.

Too late.

His head shot up, his stained fingers clawing at his mouth, his stomach. There were no apples left under the tree. His teeth were black and red when he bared them, maggots crawling in-between his teeth.

It almost looked like he was eating organs, like hearts and lungs and kidneys and livers throbbing  in his clawed hands. It helped to imagine he was in a zombie movie, and he was an actor eating life-like fakes for the camera and the black veins in his eyes were just prosthetics—he was secretly alive and well, and the juices running down his chin was just red syrup.

If he was the zombie, then I was the survivor. Maybe this is just make-believe too. 

The scene begins with a boy raising a gun at his infected uncle, haunting music playing in the background, the camera switching from the boy’s wide, tearful face to his uncle’s vacant, starved snarl. The zombie is suddenly hungry for fresher, more alive prey and staggers to his feet, his hands reaching out in bony claws, juices and drool bubbling at the corner of his mouth—the boy feels an instant of stone cold fear and then-

The gunshot echoes through the valley. My uncle goes down limp, like a marionette doll with it’s strings cut. The hole in his skull bleeds.

I sob while the roots take what is owed. You take from the Killing Tree, it takes you.

So there it is. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Though if you didn’t, I’m always happy to hear constructive criticism.

Sandra Diaz thought this was a very nice service, considering the circumstances.

A church with stained glass windows, pews decorated with plastic black roses, a young man with a blue afro—at least she thinks it’s blue, it could be purple from the awkward view she had—playing absolutely wonderful organ music. Everyone was dressed nice, with their shoelaces tied properly and about forty nine different shades of black fabric. 

Of course, there were downsides; the pastor was a scoundrel, her ex husband was here along with his dourly dressed beagle, and the entire room smelled of roadkill and cheap perfume.

Though, to be fair, the smell might be just her.

“Thank the lord the old biddy’s dead,”Dee, Sandra’s best friend, whispered to Don Diaz, who was currently not wearing the wedding ring Sandra had given him ten years ago. “That little house should be worth an arm and a leg now that the highway’s going through it.”

Don nodded, looking both miserable and noble as he said, “I’ve tried to get her to sell it for years. Wouldn’t budge for nothin’.”

Dee opened her mouth to say more, but Sandra had decided to stop listening. Her only grandchild was sobbing into her daddy’s brand new suit and she wanted nothing more in the world than to scoop her up and hold her. Just one last time. 

“Ma’am, you realize it is time for you to leave, don’t you?”A tall, dark-haired young man said, business-like and professional. 

“Give me a few more minutes,”Sandra sighed. 

“I have a schedule. If no one sticks to the schedule, nothing gets done,”he stood over her expectantly, offering a deeply tattooed arm.

“Young man, I will go when I’m ready and only then,”she sniffed, “And are those Maori tattoos you have? I went to New Zealand once, to document the Chatham Island Tãiko. A remarkable bird, the Tãiko, rarest seabird-”

“Ma’am, you are stalling,”the Maori gentleman said politely. “It is time.”

Sandra closed her mouth with a click. She looked out at the crowd one last time, seeing her Don’s hand on Dee’s knee, her children’s eyes welling with tears. “I love my home, young man. I love it still, and they are going to destroy it.”

She thought she saw sympathy in the man’s eyes. He placed a hand on her shoulder—she expected it to be chilled, but it was really quite warm. Good for her cold skin.

“All things are destroyed with time. Nature, stone, an old woman’s house filled with the wonders of the world,”he paused, looking her in the eye, “You.”

Sandra laughed, gesturing grandly at her wrinkled skin, busted veins, all of the lost youth that will never return. “You are full of truth, aren’t you?”Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “Well, then, since you are so honest, tell me where I am going.”

He shrugged. “That is up to you, ma’am. I am simply the escort.”

Sandra rolled his words over in her mind. She didn’t know where she was going either, so it will be a surprise. That was well and good—she liked surprises.

With a strength that surprised both of them, she hauled herself out of her deathbed of wood and reached, straining to cup her granddaughter’s cheek. For a moment, she thought she could feel the child’s still-warm skin, soft and round with unused years.

“Righty-o then, young man, I do believe I am ready.”She stood with the help of the man, who she patted fondly on the shoulder, “Thank you dear. Even in the grave my old bones pop.”

“You aren’t in the grave, ma’am,”he said, wrapping his arm securely around hers, “At least, not yet.”

A joke. Never had she thought she would hear a joke while standing over her own corpse. 

“Don’t be rude, dear, you are a businessman—a reputation is a delicate thing,”Sandra chided, fixing her good blue skirt (after all, you never know who you might run into and it is important to look your best during these sorts of happenings). 

“Ready?”He checked his watch, though somehow, he looked less impatient than he had a few moments ago.

Sandra patted away one last strand of hair. “Oh, yes. Quite.”

This one is short…and I haven’t published anything new in months. I have zero excuses, but enjoy anyway.

The statue was beautiful. Carved out of smooth white marble and standing well over ten feet tall, blank eyes staring fiercely at the dirty alleys with his face twisted into an eternal snarl.

It was the only lovely thing in this miserable city. And the only thing the thieves and pickpockets left alone.

It was a man  astride a wolf even larger than he was, their faces curled in the same expression of pride and aggression. A warrior, by the weapons carved against his back and the smooth flickers of fire at the wolf’s paws.

The statue was tucked away in a small square, alleys and the backs of building surrounding it. Most avoided it, insisting that the warrior’s eyes followed them even after they were out of sight.

Who this statue honored or even when it had been erected was still a mystery. It had to be decades old and the marble was as bright as if it had been freshly carved the day before, not a chip or detail missing.

I reached and traced the wolf’s snarling maw, standing on the tips of my toes to touch the cool stone.

There was one legend. One. A nearly lost story about forgotten Gods and brutal wars that shook the world.

The wolf-rider Gallor, astride a black-furred Frostwolf. It mentioned the God in passing, the legend focused on the more powerful deities.

If the city Guard knew that this statue might be in honor of a God that doesn’t belong to their religion, they would tear it down, stomping the fine craftsmanship to dust beneath their boots.

I rather like wolves. Perhaps this Gallor was the patronage of them.

I smiled and patted the snout of the wolf. The statue wasn’t harming anyone, God or no, and it has stood here for years without being bothered. It would be a crime to destroy something like this for the sake of an old legend.

 

***

They crushed it.

White crumbles of marble and dust settled in the cracks of the building surrounding the square, black tar splashed over the remaining chunks still attached to the pedestal.

It was a wonder it stood so long. Humans can never let something be.

I crouched, scooping a lump from the dirt.

Dust coated my fingertips as I turned the wedge of marble over in my hands. It was part of the man’s face, the glaring eye still fierce and proud.

I clenched the marble in my palm, a well of anger and sadness rising in my stomach. Tears stung my eyes.

There was nothing I could do. Someone had decided to destroy something sacred and beautiful and there was no going back. Soon this little corner will be just like the rest of the city, too dangerous to even walk through.

So I stood and slipped the marble in my pocket.

The only thing I can ever do is remember. So I will.

***

The entire city was in flames.

Black smoke rose in a thick cloud, swirling waves of red fire leaping from rooftop to rooftop. It looked as if Hell itself had split open.

Someone had poured cooking oil all along the main street, making the fire catch and spread quickly. Most of the buildings were built out of dry wood, so they went up in flame instantly. By the time I had realized what was going on, it was too late.

Now it was just a race of which will reach the outskirts of the city first; me or the hellfire roaring at my heels.

The smoke settled in my lungs, my throat feeling torn and raw from coughing. I flew through the streets like a madwoman, tongues of flame slowly roasting my skin.

The building closest to me collapsed, sending sparks and embers flurrying through the air. Flaming debris hit my chest, sending me sprawling into the dirt.

I pushed the burning wood off my chest, a hiss whistling through my teeth as my hands met the overwhelming heat.

The skirt of my dress caught fire. I tore away the fabric with a strangled screech and stomped on it until only wisps of smoke remained.

I lost precious time. The fire had spread farther than I could outrun now. If the heat doesn’t kill me, the smoke will.

I pushed myself to my feet, my breath rasping in my lungs. My eyes watered and tears spilled, the black fog of smoke the only thing I could see.

I am going to die like this. Cornered and alone.

Without realizing it, my hand slipped into my pocket. Cool marble soothed the burnt skin of my fingertips. I still keep the sliver of the old statue in my pocket, even though it had been destroyed years ago. I kept my promise of remembering, though the details were falling away slowly.

I fell to my knees. Maybe this raging inferno was revenge.

This city deserves to burn, perhaps something better will be built over the ashes.

The fire grew closer and closer, I didn’t move, staring blankly at the red and gold in the deadly flames.

It was rather beautiful, even if I couldn’t breathe anymore.

My limbs gave out and I curled up on the ground. The stars above were just visible through the clouds of smoke.

Black crept over my vision. The burning in my lungs built and built until…

***

The statue was beautiful.

The girl was curled up in the fetal position, one hand pressed to the earth, another slipped in the pocket of her dress. She was carved out of white marble, the purest I had ever seen.

Strange writing was scrawled on the pedestal beneath her, an old and forgotten language that is said to have belonged to an ancient race of wolf-riders that lived in the mountains above.

Some say that when the night sky is lit up with the full moon, and the howls of wolves echo from the mountains, you could see a translucent whisper of a massive man and wolf, heads bowed before her in silent vigil.

The city before had burnt down centuries ago. But my ancestors built a new one over the broken bones of the old. They had found the small statue in the ruins and decided to make her the center of our city, letting wildflowers grow around her in honor of the people that had died in the fire.

I smiled and turned away.

She will be remembered.

 

This is an all-time low.

I stared at the wriggling rodent trapped between my fingers. The wildly pumping heart was a song to my sensitive ears, calling for me to sink my teeth in.

So hungry. So, so hungry.

The rat bit down on my finger, not realizing I couldn’t feel it. Black blood dripped from the wound, I ignored it.

Saliva flooded my mouth as I moved closer. I opened my mouth, the rat squealing at the unpleasant sight of my teeth.

Those squeals were what saved the poor thing.

I snapped my mouth shut and set the rat back onto the ground, I watched it scamper into a dark hole mournfully, wiping my palms off onto my filthy shirt.

Pathetic. All the other Z’s are cracking skulls and I can’t bring myself to eat one skinny rat.

A scraping noise made my head snap to the side, towards the entrance of the alleyway I was crouched in. A dead-eyed woman limped by, bone shining from her twisted shin; she paused hopefully, yellow, pus-filled eyes training on me.

I bared my teeth, growling deep in my throat. Getting the hint, she looked away and hobbled on, sensing that I was just as sick as she was.

I sighed, the sound dry and whistling from my diseased lungs.

My body begged for relief, wishing I had the lack of heart and gag-relflex that would allow me to satisfy it.

I looked down at my finger. It seemed rotted now, with my black blood oozing. Physical pain was a distant memory. Makes me feel even less human.

My guess is that as long as my heart and brain aren’t damaged, I’ll just keep chugging along, eternally starved of both flesh and human contact.

Sounds like fun, yeah? I’ve been a starved, rotten shell of a human being for a year and sometimes, I forget that I used to be something else.

You see, I was Infected real early. In week two of the apocalypse, in fact.

To the best of my knowledge, it began in a Chicago airport and took down the city the next day. My memories are fuzzy, all blurred together. Another perk of being Infected.

The clearest memory I have was the day I died, figuratively and literally.

I think we were looking for supplies, my family and I. We stopped because my sister insisted she could hear a baby wailing from a crashed minivan.

My dad and I went to check it out, weapons held tightly in our hands. A thing I vividly remember was the smell, the horrible stench of death and rot.

When we opened the car door, I turned around and vomited. A baby was still strapped to his car seat, his half-eaten mother beside him. He was gone…well, not gone, Infected.

We were understandably distracted. It was a forested area. Neither of us saw it coming.

They swarmed out of the trees, mouths snapping, diseased fingers clawing. We bolted back to the truck.

I threw myself into the backseat just as Dad started the engine. But my door hadn’t been shut yet.

The truck roared forward. A large man in a filthy Longhorns shirt and a beard congealed with blood lunged forward just as I reached for the handle to shut the door.

His fingers caught my wrist. My sister’s cries echoed behind me as I tumbled out of the truck.

I didn’t stand a chance.

He sank his teeth into my neck, ripping into my flesh with rabid ferocity. I screamed for a long moment before I choked on my own blood.

The truck screeched to a stop, but the rest of the horde was coming for them. As horrible as it was, I was going to die. They knew it, I knew it, the man ripping out my throat knew it.

In my last moments, I watched my family battle the Z’s from inside the truck. They made the decision and began to drive away.

Over the sick crunching of my bones and the happy slurps above me, I heard my mother scream. A raw, wild howl of pure grief.

The man mauling my neck fell, a gaping hole through his brain.

My last thought as an Uninfected was that she should have aimed a little lower.

And then I died.

First thing I remember was hunger. A deep, aching, gnawing hunger that took complete control over me. For a while, I was just like every other mindless Z; chasing, killing, anything to be satisfied.

Eventually, something must have shaken loose in my brain, because one day, I woke up from Z mode. I don’t know what happened or what had triggered it, but me was back, the non-cannibalistic version anyway.

I’ve haven’t touched an Uninfected since. A feat only possible by staying far, far away from them.

It’s not hard, my pale skin is now nearly translucent, my lips are the deep, smeared red of the Infected. They actively avoid me when they’re not trying to kill me.

I never found out what happened to my family. I guess that’s why I haven’t let some Uninfected blow my brains out. I don’t remember where I used to live, or what my name was. But I do remember their faces, and I’ve been searching ever since.

I stood from my crouch, listening to my stiffened body crackle and pop.

Maybe I’ll find a running car in this miserable little town.

 

I’ll admit, this one was a little gory. The rat bit even disgusted me. I hope you liked it, because this is the third time I’ve rewrote this story. Please comment, critique, yell in all caps, whatever tickles your fancy.

Ciao, until the next one.

The black words were carefully spray-painted onto the cardboard. Instead of saying homeless or donations for a cause, it said: All Emotional Donations Are Welcome.
The man holding it was staring right back at her, eyes glass-like and features blank in a way that looked foreign on a human face.

Today had been a particularly good day. Nothing special, just good. Her favorite song came on the radio on the way to work, lunch had consisted of her favorite food, she was planning on seeing a movie later than night. Happiness and contentment abounded.

Without realizing it, she stepped closer. “What do you get?”
The man’s eyebrow arched, “What do you mean?”
“Emotions. Which ones do usually you get?”

He shrugged, “Disappointment, anger, unhappiness, regret. Whatever people want to give.”

“That sucks. You can only feel what others give to you?”She asked.
A nod.

Imagining life without emotions seemed…blank. Exactly the way his eyes looked. How could you remember things in life without first remembering how you felt?

“Have you ever been happy?”

“I wouldn’t know,”he responded flatly.

Not ever having a good day, or even a bad one. How selfish it suddenly seemed, keeping her happiness to herself.

“How do you donate?”

“You give me your hand and it happens,”he said, “It lasts for a day or two, depending on how strong the feeling was.”

Grinning, she held out a hand. “Go on man, I can always make more.”She let emotion fill  her chest like a balloon.

Unable to be surprised, he merely blinked and took her hand.

The change was immediate. His eyes no longer seemed to be made of glass, his features softened and shifted. A smile of his own lit up his face.

She felt a little something leave her, but then his happiness became her happiness and she couldn’t feel the difference.

He sighed, a ragged, breathy sound. “So this is what it feels like.”

“Yep.”

Moving suddenly, he pulled her into a hug. “You’re the only person I’ve met who thought to share their happiness. Thank you.”

“Would you like to see a movie with me?”She asked, “I don’t have anyone else to see it with.”

“I’ve never seen one with a full spectrum of emotion before.”

“You’ll love it.  Huge, parasitic aliens, bold action, and Tom Hardy for comedic relief.”

Tadaaa. Story number two is out! Is it a little sappy…maybe, but the brain insisted and I am literally a slave to the brain. I had to include the Venom bit, as I saw it for my birthday a week ago and despite what movie critics say, it was fantastic.

Ciao, until the next one.

Marcy Flick hated working in the creepy old shop.

Especially at night, when shadows bared imaginary fangs and the silence was thick and eerie.

Innocent-looking dolls leered at her from the shelves and animatronic corpses with wide life-like eyes seemed to follow her every movement as she settled new inventory on the intentionally dusty and cob-webbed shelves.

Working in the family Halloween store was something that she did only because she had college to pay for. Unlike her younger sister Hannah, she didn’t enjoy being thrilled by things that go bump in the night.
Which was odd, she was part of a family that took special pride in their spectacular and disturbing halloween display every year. And she lived in a town where everyone and their grandmothers believe that werewolves live in the forest and ghosts haunt every old house.

Not for long though, as soon as she got her Bachelors degree in engineering, she would be off. Where? She hadn’t a clue. How? Using the meager funds that she had saved up over eight years.

It wasn’t a good plan, but it was better than working late night shifts at the family Halloween store and being stared at by plastic things that were meant to frighten people.

One particular animatronic woman had been bugging her since she walked in. A customer had returned it, claiming that it had whispered grotesque things in one of her guest’s ears.

Marcy had rolled her eyes and set aside the doll for further inspection.

The doll—dubbed Psycho Leena—was admittedly life-like.

Her father, John Flick, had gotten the rights to sell it a few weeks back. It was from a line of leftover props from a famous horror movie. Supposedly, the people who had carved it had brought in a high dollar model so they could first make sure the woman would be unmistakably beautiful before they turned her into something that would give nightmares nightmares.

The painted green eyes seemed to follow her as she moved her cart to another shelf. Shuddering, Marcy could have sworn fingers tipped with manicured claws twitched as she shoved a gory gnome onto a shelf.

She turned her back on Psycho Leena and reprimanded herself for being so silly, only Hannah would be scared by a completely inanimate, electronically powered doll.

Unfortunately, turning her back meant that she completely missed Leena’s brilliant green eyes blink.

***

John Flick woke up with a start as his wife gave a gasping sob, her fingers clutching the phone so hard her hand had gone completely white.

 

So. First offical story. Boom, it’s out in the internet. Please comment how you liked it–or disliked it, I’m cool with either.

Hi. This is my blog. The name is Aspen and I do short stories and other types of stories. Give me your critisim, suggestions, ideas (ideas are, as always, welcome, my imagination is faulty at best) and hopefully, your approval. Every week there will be a new story, whether it be horror, fantasy, or whatever weird thing I can pull out of my brain in the span of a week. You can subscribe if you would like to be notified of each new story. Again, comments are encouraged and appreciated.

Enjoy, dear reader.