The story so far is: Marjorie throws exploding margarine. There is a plot to eat people's ideas. Writes is a person with very dangerous ideas. Marjorie wants to stop evil, ugly monsters from eating ideas -especially Writes's ideas. Yeah, so you get the idea.
He felt affronted and made it clear by saying so: “I am affronted that you would find my suggestion laughable.”
Marjorie sombered quickly, the ghosts of laughter gone as fast as it came. “It isn’t about deleting everything you’ve ever written. No matter how, they will still find traces of it in your brain.” She paused, scootched closer to him, and looked seriously into his eyes.
“Ideas take the form of wisps. Wisps that wrap themselves around your grey and white matter and look like little bits of blue candy floss. They linger, they float, they mess around and about until you physically put them down onto paper, or use them to build great things. This is the essence of ideas.”
She paused, picking at imaginary lint (this time really imaginary lint, not body part) off the strange and oddly familiar blue shirt he finally tossed her way. Then she looked up again, and smiled. A smile that said: ‘Trust me, I know what I am about.’
“So yeah. Eat. Brain. Ideas. Regurgitate and WHAM! End of the world.”
Writes was not convinced, but he was worried. He made that clear by biting his fingers so hard a drop of blood swelled like a ruby bead on his lips. It fell, ominous, on his lap.
Writes had never, not even in his wildest dreams (and they were wild dreams, make no mistake) expected this. His endlessly churning brain-cogs whirled and worked and made whirlpools as he considered the options before him.
One. Throw the madwoman out and continue to create vivid blood-soaked imagery based upon this particular crazy experience.
Two. Listen to her and go in for the ride, the story, and the possibility of having his brain consumed by pre-margarined bits of evil men.
Three. Do both at the same time, because it is, after all, a very real dream.
He simply could not imagine how each choice could possibly not result in something disastrous for himself.
He peered at her, noting her now messy hair, her odd-coloured eyes, possibly the blood pulsing beneath her pale skin. “You said you needed to inform me of three things before I can come to a decision on what to do. What are the other two?”
She frowned, puzzled. “I already did. Brains. Ideas. Eat. Regurgitate, WHAM! End of the – ”
“World, yes, that’s not three things. That is… five things.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Good lord woman you unsettle me.” A few curls dropped onto his shirt, and stayed there as Writes, better known as Bloodlust, paced around in circles and sucked his own blood just a little bit more.
Marjorie blinked, slowly, carefully, perhaps just a little afraid to set him off and have him actually bleed himself to near-death, pick up a goblet, and then drink from his own crimson springs of life. She gave herself an internal shake: Why on earth are you thinking of this when you’ve got minions chasing after you?
“I unsettle you. Sheesh. If you think I ‘un’ (she said this with a roll of her eyes) settle you, then (she glanced out a window, her ears pricked like a cats’) –oh well, then. Those guys outside your lawn will perhaps kill you.”
Writes leapt to his feet, alarmed, and rushed to the window. There, crawling like so many ants, were the same ugly men he had seen her blow up the day before. Only this time, they came dressed in shiny white suits, and walked on all fours.
“Holy –“ he checked himself, and without another word, he banged his way to his father’s room.
“DAD! –“
But there was no Dad there, sitting at his desk, typing away what next great speech for whom great politician.
Just a charred body, bereft of both its’ legs, and much of its’ face. And for the very first time in his bloodthirsty life, Writes screamed.
He screamed as the body started to sizzle, smoke, and go up in blue-ish tendrils. He fell to his knees when these same tendrils floated out the door, whooshing past him - and he smelt a strong, acrid scent, like burned paper – and flying down the stairs in an oddly zigzag manner.
Almost instantly, the main double-doors to his home slammed open, and a high-pitched screech pierced through his ears, followed by a distinctly female war cry.
Choking himself off with a garbled wail, he scrambled to his feet, tears streaming down his face, and descended the stairs two at a time.
The scene that greeted him was beyond even his wild imaginings.
Marjorie was caught halfway between a headless, white-suited body that crisped brown-ly at the neck, and a fully-headed creature whose mouth was unhinged and poised to swallow her face, except that she had both her hands on those jaws, fighting for her life. Behind her leered six more of such man-like creatures (except that if they were men at all, they’d be better off working for Industrial Light and Magic as extra orcs, monsters and beasties in Hollywood movies), all whom were eagerly feasting upon the blue-ish tendrils that was all that remained of Writes’s father.
This time Writes didn’t scream. He threw his head back and howled in rage (he fancied himself a wolf, and perhaps maybe he was a little: The wild eyes, the wild hair and the sharp teeth), and without thinking (this day was full of surprises, Writes never did not think) he crashed his thin frame into the Monster that was trying to eat Marjorie.
His surprise attack dislodged the creature from her, but did little else.
But without skipping a beat, Marjorie spat, hard, onto Writes’ face, blinding him completely. Shocked, Writes stumbled backwards, clawing at his face. “What the -?”
The vocabulary was knocked right out of him as all the creatures pounced on him at one go, squealing with frenzy and pulling his hair.
Writes curled up into a ball, blinded, frightened, feeling betrayed and thoroughly in a panic as he could feel his skin and scalp tear, blood oozing down his face. He was too scared to even scream.
“WRITES! CURL UP! NOW!” he heard Marjorie’s voice.
He wasn’t about to disobey anyway. He was already very much in foetal position.
Then somewhere very, very close to his ear, something exploded (not before he actually heard one of them mutter “Bitch she tricked us –DAMN”) and he was sprayed by wet, chunky somethings.
This is turning out to be the worst day of my life, he thought, as he felt an arm lift him up, and gentle fingers wipe the gunk off his eyes. Yeah. So he could see again, and he was about to yell very loudly at Marjorie before he saw that she too, had blood down her face and she suffered a deep gash on her arms. Her pinkish skin also looked a bit pale. Like white clothes that had gone into the wash with red clothes.
He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He surveyed the situation. Blood, bits and brains (he thinks) everywhere. Silence everywhere. Shit. Silence.
He rushed to the kitchen (getting lost around the pantry for a while) and found no one there. Nothing. No bustling maids, no eager cooks, no stiff butlers. No food either, and it was just near lunchtime. There should be tonnes of food on the table, but there was none. Only the leftovers of breakfast were scattered on the floor – a smushed banana here, a puddle of spilt milk there.
Nothing but sad little mini-wisps of faded blue, floating disconsolately in the air. No bodies. No blood.
And then, Writes, also for the first time in his young life, bawled. He bawled his eyes out. Not in the wailing, shrieking kind of way, but heartbroken sobs and gulps that he wanted to hold back but could not. He pressed his fists into his tightly shut eyes, his mouth twisted in a grimace, gasping out his tears.
“ITS ALL YOUR FAULT!” Marjorie’s head jerked upwards, surprised.
Writes was on the floor, holding himself tightly, but his eyes were on her. They were hurt and angry, but also fearful.
“This is your fault!” he repeated. “You brought them to me. You brought them here. And now everyone is dead.”
And as he said the word ‘dead’, he stopped. His eyes widened, and he whispered, more to himself than anything, “Dead.”
And for once in her life too, Marjorie was out of words.
Writes spent a whole ten minutes just staring blankly into space. He did nothing. He said nothing. He didn’t move. So much so Marjorie, who was beginning to worry that the creatures may return, gently nudged him.
“Writes --”
And then he said it. The words that killed everyone he knew, destroyed his house, and shattered his life as he knew it.
“I’ve got an idea.”
1 comment:
WHAT? WHAT IDEA? OMG DONT LEAVE ME HANGING LAH BOOOO RAWRR BRAAAINZ *kicks chairs, overturns tables*
Now you know, I read it. So come on, publish part 4 already! :D
And as Zenzei, I feel obliged to tell you that there's not enough zombies in this. They are such an overlooked lot in literature, which is a real waste because they can carry their part so convincingly. See to it, Pauline.
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