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coeurdastronaute · 6 years ago

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Titan Ch. 1

It took planning. It took years and years of planning. It took planning before planning, but that was just the type of person Lex Luthor was. He didn’t do anything haphazardly or without any kind of premeditation. Everything was accounted for, in his mind, and everything was documented and categorized at an alarming speed, one that would make the average human astounded and a self-aware computer jealous.

In the crowded courtroom, voices all murmured and drifted here and there, creating this rumble that was pure white noise. The team of lawyers for the State whispered to themselves, the occasional one glancing over at the solitary man at the defense’s desk.

“We were unable to reach any family or friends for character witness, but your psychiatrist and rehabilitation specialist are here,” the leader of the panel finally cleared their throat and began while another shuffled through some papers.

“My sister?”

“Lena Luthor could not be located in a reasonable amount of time, and when she was, provided valid documentation of her departure from the area and inability to obtain reasonable transportation here.”

“She’s not in National City?” Lex asked, puzzled.

“We will now begin the parole hearing for Lex Luthor as required by the state and his sentencing. Mr. Luthor, as you are acting as your own counsel and representation, we will allow you to begin when you are ready.”

Though the news took him by surprise, he composed himself quickly, suave and charming all at once. He came to life as a reformed man in light of the death of his father. He saw the signs and he changed his wicked ways. That was what he told the counsel, and that was what he brought to the table when reporters came to interview him. By all accounts he was reformed and rehabilitated.

With a wicked grin that melted the rest of the audience, Lex finally began his fight for freedom and to redeem what he had lost.

A soft rain fell on the balcony. It was just the start of a storm rolling in from the water, and though it was not late in the evening, the heavy clouds turned street lights on a little earlier than normal, while inside, safe from the weather that was brewing, two bodies sat at the table for dinner.

The penthouse apartment was much smaller than the last, though that was not necessarily a bad thing, nor did it subtract from the home’s charm and splendor. It sat in a small, but close-knit community in a boro a dozen blocks from the city center. It was its own microcosm, and it was a slice of reality outside of the chaos of the city that surrounded it.

The rooms were almost sparse, as decorating came slowly, filling needs as they arose. The large windows were open, welcoming in the breeze and the smell of rain and the bakery a few buildings down, while the trees with the pale white and pink blossoms gently bounced and bopped to the noises of the city.

The hammock hung on the covered part of the patio, swaying in the wind, while a stack of books and cold mug of half-drank coffee acted as a paper weight to the papers shoved inside. It was a favorite spot of a former reporter turned travel writer slash poet slash teacher slash catch all, to spend hours reading and relaxing and finally adjusting back to life, a life she never knew she could have.

Meanwhile, a certain chair was well-worn and housed a black notebook full of sketches and ideas with a laptop beside it, all left alone on the patio in favor of food and the music that played quietly from someone’s phone on the kitchen counter.

When we last left our intrepid lovers, they were very much exhausted and fleeing, though perhaps fleeing isn't a fair verb in this situation, because it seems almost impossible to flee toward something. But nevertheless, they were certainly choosing to finally have a duty unto themselves. They were running toward an idea, and a stupid, stupid, impossible dream for two people of considerable power, perhaps the last great delusion, that they could be anything but .

Nothing has changed at all.

Not really, of course. While the location has shifted for the moment, and time has naturally passed, as it is known to do despite all of the best intentions, Lena still likes to drink her coffee black, while Kara sticks to orange juice. One hogs the covers while the other kicks in her sleep. Sometimes, Kara purposely annoys Lena, and sometimes she pushes far enough for a fight. Still, she makes it up to her with that smile and those eyes that the former CEO couldn’t stay angry at, even if she really tried. Lena still tried to force healthy foods on her girlfriend, who had gotten better at pretending, though not by much.

And while they both remained similar to themselves and locked in the false security that they put their ghosts to rest, they seemed to have forgotten that ghosts are not good sleepers.

Wrapped up in the storm and the height of the penthouse and the feeling of finally escaping, no one in the house took notice of the world outside. Save, of course, possibly, for the cat, who hopped up on his favorite window ledge and gazed unto the rain and chirped slightly to himself, all that he could really muster for a warning.

There were still things that Lena learned about Kara that she loved. There were things she forgot and came back to and enjoyed. There was mostly just having her best friend near her that drove her wild, still. She turned into a seventeen year old again, even a decade later.

“Your phone is ringing,” Kara whispered, pushing herself deeper into the mattress.

Nothing deterred Lena’s hands from digging into her girlfriend’s tired muscles. Outside, the rain came down in a steady shower. The window was open and the world dripped away with the noise of the raindrops on leaves and against the window ledge, forming a puddle there, not minded by the ones in the bed.

The sheets fell almost away, settling near their hips as Lena straddled the hero’s waist. She ran her nails down her back after rubbing, alternating between the feeling of both. She was still in love with her back. She was still in love with the muscles there, and loved to adore them and make Kara purr. Lena learned that Kara loved the feeling of being massaged one night when she found herself doing it. It’d never been a thing she thought about because rarely did she have any effect on Kara’s skin. But once she found out she could make her melt like butter, Lena was eager to please.

“Do you want me to go and answer it?” Lena murmured, leaning over so she was pressed against Kara’s back, where she kissed while her hips pushed and sought some kind of friction.

Slow, deliberate girations earned a moan from the girl beneath her and a small whimper from herself, though Lena would deny it.

“Not particularly.”

It was already early afternoon and they hadn’t left bed. The remnants of a lunch of some fruit and crackers and leftovers remained scattered beside the bed. Lena started reading a book, fully planning on enjoying a rainy Sunday. Of course, Kara, the always active and often bored girl she loved, decided to spend the day giving Lena slow, lazy orgasms. Which was not a terrible way to spend a Sunday. The book was tossed to the ground at some point, pushed as they rolled around and Lena dug her hands into Kara’s hair, tugging right at the roots.

“I love you.”

“I know,” Kara smiled, earning a kiss on her cheek and a nibble on her ear. The hips didn’t stop moving against her though, slow and deliberate and driving her absolutely insane.

“Good. I’m always afraid you’ll forg--”

Before the words could come out of her mouth, Lena felt Kara turnover below her, though she remained straddling her hips. Now she had a lot more skin to touch and play with. Instantly, her hands moved to Kara’s chest.

“This is much better,” Kara nodded to herself as she held her girlfriend’s hips still before sliding her hands up her ribs and back down to palm her ass. “My CEO’s favorite position.”

“A Luthor always comes on top.”

“Comes out on top,” she corrected.

“Well, close enough.”

Lena leaned down, kissing Kara’s smile. Her hands cupped her cheeks and her neck and her chin and her ears. She felt her mattress shift and mid-kiss she gasped as fingers slid inside her. The moan reverberated in the rain, deep down in Kara’s chest as well. Hands gripped at her chest and she watched Lena sit up straighter and start moving her hips. Kara swallowed as she watched her girlfriend close her eyes and tilt her head back with the feeling of it all.

They were in no rush. The rain wasn’t in a hurry to leave. The cat was asleep in the living room. The phone was vibrating so that its noise was a staccato bassline to the noise of the bed and the world. There was no rush and Kara drew out every hitch and plea and savored them.

Even when it was over, it wasn’t over. Kara took her time, She had nowhere else to go and nothing more important could exist in the universe than bringing Lena back down to earth as gently as a feather falling through the air. She waited until Lena was huddled atop her and the jolting died down to remove her fingers.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asked as Lena dug her head into her chest, collapsed over and exhausted again. Another mumble came. “Because I needed my hand back.”

“I was going to give you a massage and seduce you.”

“Consider me seduced.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Kara smiled and wrapped up the girl in her arms. “Remember when we were kids and we sat on the beach and dreamt of this?”

“Dirty sex wasn’t really what I was dreaming of,” Lena snorted. “Well, not entirely. I certainly don’t think I had the imagination for some of the things we’ve done today.”

“Not that,” Kara rolled her eyes as she adjusted when Lena stretched out and relaxed, massaging her shoulder, playing with a tiny scar there. “I just forgot what it was like to be me. I let something take over my life and define me. I thought about that day on the beach a lot, when I felt myself getting overwhelmed.”

“Me too.”

“I think my parents would be happy with how I turned out.”

“Good, kind, honest, loyal, fierce, passionate, intelligent, selfless, adoring, great in the sack,” Lena listed, kissing her girlfriend’s chest and skating her fingertip around her nipple. “I hope our kids are just like you. Any parent would be proud.”

“Our kids, huh?”

“If you ever make an honest woman of me, yeah,” Lena yawned.

“We got this, do you think we’ll get the house with the open windows and you make me dinner?”

“The only thing I know how to cook is lasagna.”

“And it’s amazing. You should make that tonight.”

“If we ever get out of bed,” she nodded, shifting slightly.

Kara couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes and let fingertips trace her face. They moved along her jaw and her cheeks, worshiped her nose and smoothed her eyebrows. With a smile on her face, she let Lena search her every way she knew how.

“Do you ever miss it?” Lena murmured, kissing Kara’s neck.

“I don’t miss anything at the moment.”

“I’m being serious. Do you miss being Supergirl? Do you miss National City?”

To her credit, Kara thought about it. It was a question she’d been too afraid to ask herself, and probably too afraid to answer, though she knew she had to for Lena.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I feel like I’m wasting some potential, but the truth is, after everything… I think my legacy will be what we do together, the people we are, not stopping a bank robber or tossing an alien into the sky.”

“I didn’t mean to take it from you.”

“You didn’t,” she promised. “I was more than ready. It took a long time to figure out that not being Supergirl didn’t mean that I was Kara Zor-El. The two were always connected in my head, but that was never the truth.”

“And home?”

“This is home.”

“Kara,” Lena sighed and shook her head.

“Sometimes I miss Alex, and definitely Mr. Ong’s potstickers. But no. I kind of like us here. What about you?”

With a slight shift, Kara was on her side, tucking herself close to her girlfriend. They were pressed close and she slid her leg around Lena’s hip.

“I didn’t think I’d miss anything, but sometimes I do.”

“Like what?”

The question came with fingertips tucking messy hair behind her ear, with fingertips moving along her eyebrow and down the bridge of her nose, earning a smile and a wiggle.

“I miss the bench we’d have lunch dates on. I miss Jess. I miss soccer with some of the girls. I miss the feeling of August at the Waterside pier where we got those ice creams. I miss our place. The one you filled with Christmas lights. Sometimes I even miss LCorp.”

“You still own it.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“No, no,” Lena shook her head, finally opening her eyes, the color still distracting Kara from words. “This is home. I was just curious if you did.”

“Not at the moment.”

“Good,” she smirked, pushing forward and nipping at Kara’s lips. “Because I have plans for you.”

Even when she was distracted, Kara could hear the vibration in the kitchen. It made her sigh and crave being normal.

“Your phone is ringing.”

“Should I go answer it?” Lena taunted, sucking on neck.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Alex, I’m ready to do it,” Kara decided, blurting it out as soon as her sister answered the phone.

With purpose, the former hero walked down the familiar block of their neighborhood. She juggled a bag on her arm as she paused and perused some flowers from the corner bodega. Her face was all business though, which was so very different from the normal demeanor that the neighbors were accustomed to seeing.

When they first moved into the neighborhood, they were the talk of the town. Everyone knew who Lena Luthor was, and everyone, therefore, knew about her girlfriend. They, too, had a memorial for a dead Supergirl. They, too, followed the news of the clean up of National City because of a deranged, madman.

But the couple came in quietly, and stayed there. The first few months were met with stares, but then, they were just there. In a large city, neighborhoods are nothing more than microcosms-- self-contained worlds within a larger organism. And theirs was no different.

It didn’t hurt that Lena started a small little robotics and coding lab, hiring locals. Or that Kara spent her time volunteering and winning over everyone she met with a huge smile and heart that knew no bounds. Just as with National City, they existed to themselves and they were adored soon enough by the rest.

What no one seemed to put together with the arrival of the pair, however, was the infrequent sightings of an angel in all black. The angel who stopped the mugging of the old lady who went to church every night. The angel who stopped a bus from hitting a little girl by ripping its bumper clean off. The angel who stopped the robbery of the bank six blocks over. The angel who broke a would-be rapists legs (and it was rumored some other anatomy).

It was a myth, though it was whispered about from time to time.

But Kara had a persistent look as she smelled the flowers, and though that made her relax somewhat, she was still much more serious than the owner remembered seeing.

“Good morning, sister. How are you? I’m fine. Thanks for asking,” Alex had their conversation for her, though Kara didn’t notice the snark. “Great. Hey. I haven’t talked to you in awhile, just wanted to catch up. Tell you I missed you. You know, just normal stuff.”

“You already know I miss you.”

“Still.”

“This is serious though, Alex,” Kara decided, squaring herself slightly. “I’m going to propose.”

The line was quiet for a long beat. Even without super hearing, Kara could have heard the gulp her sister took as she sputtered slightly on her coffee. Kara could picture her sister at her desk, sipping and quickly being surprised. It made her smile and ache.

“It’s about damn time.”

“Yeah?” she relaxed, for some reason needing to know that they were a good couple.

“I never thought there’d be a day when I said this, but yes, Kara. You need to marry that girl. She loves you and you’re perfect together. It’s kind of gross actually.”

Just like that, she relaxed and was smiling. For some reason, telling Alex felt daunting. This reaction was exactly what she needed. With a sigh and a happy greeting, she paid for her flowers and the rest of her stuff for dinner before heading out into the street.

They talked planning as Kara made her way through the crowded streets towrd the building that was now home. Kara smiled and winked at the doorman, nodding her greeting as she moved toward the elevator.

“But I don’t think I can get her to go there,” Kara lamented as they planned. She dug in her pocket for the keys. “I have to do it there, but I-- Lena, hi, honey you’re home? Yeah. Okay. Hi.”

Nearly jumping out of her skin, Kara dropped her keys as she tugged them from the lock. From her spot at the table, Lena looked up from her laptop and cocked her head, always amused by the reactions she could get from an alien.

“I got done early, and it’s the weekend, so no one was focused. Figured I’d close up shop early. Hi, Alex,” she called toward the phone in her girlfriend’s hand.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Kara hurried. “Tell Maggie hello and to keep you out of trouble. Love you. Bye.” The phone was shoved in her pocket and Kara tried not to blush. “Hi. I got dinner supplies. And these. For you.”

“They’re beautiful, love.”

Kara liked making Lena blush. She liked making her smile. She liked that something so simple as cheap flowers from the shop down the block was like giving her a huge diamond necklace. Still slightly frazzled, she was relieved when Lena tugged her shirt and kissed her, humming to herself as she was known to do when given the chance.

“How’s your sister?”

“Not bad. Busy I guess. New alien legislation is coming. And Maggie and her are fighting, I think,” Kara shrugged as she began to unpack her bag of groceries. “She was curious if we’d make a visit anytime soon.”

“I don’t think National City needs any Luthors anytime soon. But you can go up. You know this.”

Kara frowned to herself but kept helping with the groceries. It was a losing battle, and she knew it, she waited.

“I love you,” Lena mumbled and kissed Kara’s shoulder through her shirt. “I just don’t know if I can ever go back there.”

“I know,” Kara nodded and relaxed, pent up frustration suddenly heavy like lead in her muscles and all at once released.

From his perch, Albert watched them in the kitchen, not moving at all from his spot on the ledge by the window. Instead, he yawned and Lena squeezed her girlfriend. Their apartment was finally becoming their home after nearly a year, and sometimes it was enough for Lena to forget. She was always someone who could compartmentalize, locking away National City in a little box and keeping it stowed under the bed, behind old sweaters and discarded socks.

Kara wasn’t someone to manage such things. Instead, she opted for living everything, and working through her problems. Both were effective methods.

“I was going to surprise you with dinner,” Kara smiled, remembering everything. “But you’ve ruined it.”

“That’s what I’m best at,” Lena chuckled. “Still want to make food?”

“I guess someone has to feed you.”

“You’re too good to me.”

“It’s easy. You’re my favorite person,” she shrugged, twisting in the arms that clung.

“And you’re charming.”

“That’s on accident.”

“And delectable,” Lena hummed, pushing her body against Supergirl’s, kissing her neck and earning a small hum that spurred her forward. “And tasty. And beautiful. And so damn sexy.”

Each word was accented with a kiss, each one slower than the last. Weak in the knees, Kara gripped the counter and shifted her hips, looking for an impossible kind of friction.

“You’re really good at this.”

“At what?”

“Seducing me, Ms. Luthor,” Kara gulped, earning another chuckle as hands slid up her chest and into her hair while a body slithered against her own. Eyes rolled back, the former hero tried to swallow but failed.

“You are awfully good at being seduced, Ms. Danvers.”

With a mischievous smirk, Lena kissed her girlfriend, and dinner was forgotten until much, much later.

When she was just seventeen years old, Lena Luthor won the state championship in soccer. Her best friend hugged her so tightly she thought she was going to pop, but still, all sweaty and exhausted from a good bit of playing and her goal and assist, Lena let herself be squeezed. Her father and mother were there, cheering eagerly and buying the team a much too expensive dinner to celebrate.

That was the kind of memory that Lena kept when she thought about her parents. Those were thing little bits of her past that she remembered most on certain days, and she absolutely hated it. As much as she was able to file things away, to let facts subvert the stupid feelings of grief and loss, sometimes, she inevitably failed.

Despite the growing pile of work she now had to do because she wanted to be part of the actual research and not just a check-signing entity, Lena couldn’t focus on the charts that covered her desktop. Instead, she clicked her ben and sunk a bit deeper into her chair while the rest of the company functioned well enough in the labs.

On her nearly empty desk, a picture of herself and Kara on the beach stared back at her. It was a throw away moment, those kind of seconds that never matter, but that life is inevitably composed of entirely. It was every moment to her, and she smiled despite herself.

Hidden beneath the charts and graphs from the last round of tests was a news article forwarded to her by her dear friend and former secretary. The article told of the parole hearing of a brother of her’s, and how they were actually deliberating.

Lena felt her fist clench around the pen only after her knuckles were white and she let out a heavy sigh, though didn’t move to sit up or adjust. It was her father’s birthday and she didn’t know how to exist with that knowledge.

The moments came back to her, sometimes, despite herself. She pulled the trigger, and she killed a man-- a bad, bad, terrible monster of a man, but a man nonetheless.

“You look very deep in thought,” a soft voice greeted her from the doorway.

Leaning against the wall and six feet of perfect, beautiful, calm, Kara crossed her arms after adjusting her glasses, tilting her head to the side to appraise the woman behind the monitor. And just like that, Lena was happy. It was the most peculiar thing, to feel flipped and better in an instant.

“I was just thinking about you,” the former CEO sighed and smiled.

“Well I hope that’s not true, because you look absolutely miserable.”

“I was just thinking that we should get out of here tonight. Fire up the jet and head to the mountains. We bought that cabin, but don’t use it enough.”

“You bought a cabin.”

“I am we,” Lena smiled, teasing and finally dropping her pen. “What do you say? A little escape for a few days.”

“Is this about--”

“Yes.”

Guilty and knowing it, Lena looked through her lashes at her girlfriend and flexed her jaw, a clear sign that she couldn’t admit any more than that. Her foot tapped against her calf nervously as she watched Kara think about it.

“I was just going to ask you for coffee, but the cabin sounds perfect,” she smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you, love.”

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adaanwhititaker · 6 years ago

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DARK HOUSE

Chapter One

The car breaks. Its engine makes a loud bang, then sputters as metal rips into metal. The noise reminds me of my father’s deathbed cough. I let off the gas and the motor shuts down. I coast in neutral, ease the car onto the narrow dirt shoulder and stop.

“Damn it to hell.”

I’d been speeding, pushing my old car through the shadows by Becker Lake, the place where the rich hide their weekend houses. The road is always smooth, each crack and pothole immediately patched and filled. A dark, burnt oil smell emanates from the car’s hood, poisoning the clean scent of woods. My running shoes crunch through gravel as I walk. A glow of house lights shines through the trees and, when I find a driveway, I head toward the light.

It’s a big white colonial; no curtains or security bars. I see her clearly through the kitchen window, a slender woman with dark blonde hair. She’s pulling a tray of cookies from the oven. She senses me, I guess, because she turns and peers through the glass. A quizzical look crosses her features. I wave and offer a smile. She meets me at the door.

“You’re the guy who drives the Mustang, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It just broke down on me, too.”

She holds the door open. The smell of baked cookies wafts out to welcome me. My stomach churns for one as I step inside. Cookies are everywhere; plates of them cover the counters and the kitchen table. I glance through the doorway and see a huge mound piled on top the dinning room table.

“I like to bake,” she says and her hand slips to my arm, touches me above my elbow. All at once I see my life with this girl, laughing in this kitchen, long strolls through the trees together, holding hands and kissing at the water’s edge… It’s a lifetime in of one feminine touch. She smiles. It radiates. My knees buckle a little.

“So what do you do, Mustang guy?”

“I’m a writer,” I say. “I’m finishing my next novel now.” I like the smooth tone of my voice. I sound sure of myself, even cocky. I catch the look of my arms then, firm and muscular. My stomach, I see, has no bulge. I run one hand through my hair and find it long and, most likely, a boyish mess.

I’m dreaming. My mind seizes that thought; I am dreaming.

Then a man’s yell tears through the stillness outside. “Ou taah aaaah merr,” he says. “Ou et aahh aaaa merr ow!”

The woman just smiles at me, unalarmed.

“My ex,” she says. “He lost one leg in the war and every bit of his common sense went with it. Don’t worry about him. ”

Immediately, I envision a one-legged man, limping through the woods on a robotic prosthetic, spying on her from behind an oak tree. The image of a crazy-eyed stalker angered me. Someone had to protect a girl like her from a man like that.

“Pay no attention to him.”

The room begins to ripple, as if the walls are turning to liquid. Two children enter from the dinning room; a boy in shorts, dark haired like me, and a girl in a summer dress, a child version of the mother.

“My babies,” she says. “Do you have kids?”

“Someday I will,” I say.

The whole room shudders.

“Next time plan to stay awhile.”

I woke up in my clothes, long sleeves still buttoned tight around my wrists. The oppressive darkness of my apartment surrounded me. I slid off my couch, limped stiff-legged to the balcony and smoked a cigarette. September’s wet air sent shivers crawling down my spine. The dream’s images, shards of my past stacked into nonsense, stuck in my head.

The Mustang – the first car I’d ever owned. I’d worked two jobs to buy that relic; ticket ripper at the Marion Theater and burger flipper at Hardee’s. My dad made me earn every dollar. “A boy’s first car should be all his own,” he’d said. We’d called it, “Ryan’s Red Wreck.”

Becker Lake – the last place I’d spent quality time with my dad. We hadn’t owned a house there. Poor people only rented. I remembered the boat oars in his meaty hands as he propelled us across the water’s flat surface. I saw the permanent engine oil under his nails as he uncoiled the anchor. By then I’d hated the constant grime on him. “I sure would love to own a house on a lake like this,” he’d said and coughed into one fist, the lung cancer already bristling in his chest.

It was a good dream, I decided, especially the girl. The doctor told me that the medication could trigger vivid dreaming. I’d been expecting nightmares, though. If this was all it could do to me I didn’t mind at all. I slammed the balcony door, stripped to my boxers and left the clothes on the floor. My stomach sagged over my drawers, a growing ball of soft fat. The girl from my dream wouldn’t look twice at me in this life. I pictured her, the curves of her hips, her luxurious hair…

A lone candle’s tiny flame sends lightning around her bedroom. We claw at each other, two bodies merging under white sheets. The flashes of light blind me. In the total darkness I hear her moan. Then, in a low and breathless whisper, she adds, “Ah, baby.” It almost makes me cry, the way she calls me baby.

She slides off of me. My vision returns. I eye her alabaster body, then roll onto my side and pull her close so I can keep her a little longer.

“I’m falling for you hard,” I say.

The words sound loud, like thunder.

She turns to me and smiles. Again, it radiates.

Then I hear him screaming again, the man in the woods. His guttural yells penetrate the walls like a sudden blast of winter. “Ou taah aaaah merr. Ou et aahh aaaa merr ow!”

“He’s really nuts-o tonight,” she says and chuckles.

“We have to do something about him,” I tell her.

Her soft lips fall to mine and in that kiss a single moment stretches to what feels like decades.

Chapter Two

“Nice kicks.” Larry entered my cube with a customer’s file, stepping over my gym bag and running shoes. “Are they new?”

“I bought them last year,” I said.

“I read somewhere that they pack more technology into a pair of modern running shoes than they did the first astronaut suits. It’s the same synthetic materials.” He picked up one of the red-and-black shoes. “That’s why they’re so lightweight.”

I took my phone headset off my head and fiddled with it. “Interesting.”

“These are new. You put any miles on them at all?”

“Did you need something?”

“Yeah, actually, I have to talk to you about this quote because you completely screwed it up. It’s a mess.”

The whole time he lectured me I thought about fishing with my dad, the way the boat rocked underneath us, the feel of wet air on my arms, the cold against my seat and my father’s peaceful gaze between coughing jags. When Larry shut up I nodded. “Okay.”

“…So you really have to double-check your work before you click submit.”

“Got it.”

By the end of the day my head throbbed and I skipped running. I drove home in the dark, glad it was Friday. Inside my apartment, I dropped the shoes next to my front door. Their soles were black as roofing tar. Not one speck of street dust or mud had tainted them since I bought them with a credit card. How pathetic.

I washed my face in the bathroom. Then I opened a small brown bottle, shook out one pale blue pill and swallowed it with tap water. I hoped it sent me back to Becker Lake. Then I huddled upon my couch.

My writing room is small and crammed with books. I spend the morning at my desk, drinking green tea and writing. Framed covers of my previous works adorn the walls, seven novels, all of them have a gold bestseller seal in the lower right corner.

I’m dreaming again.

And in this dream I’m a bestselling novelist – awesome.

I think about having a cigarette, but dream-me doesn’t have any ashtrays around. This life holds too much to live for, I guess. I leave the office, pad through the old house in my socks, admiring old wood molding and paneling. The house fits me like a broken-in pair of jeans. I find the master bedroom. A picture of me and the girl lays on the nightstand. It must be her handwriting on the back, Ryan and Miranda, it says.

I don a sweatshirt, cinch up my red and black shoes and head outside. The screen door bangs shut behind me and I break into a jog. I start breathing deep, but I keep my wind. My chest expands; my lungs feel plump and full of oxygen. I run along the waters edge, then cut through a patch of forest and onto the asphalt road. I walk to cool down, then stroll to her house. She’s sitting on the porch below the street address numbers, 667.

“I was hoping you’d come by today.”

I hurry up the steps. Her playful grin makes my heart accelerate more than the run did. She stands up and I wrap my arms around her.

I woke up numb. A haze of morning light filled the living room. For a moment I thought I’d slept through the alarm, then I realized it was Saturday. I got off the couch, stiff muscles resisting movement. I headed for the bathroom and something caught my eye. It was not movement, but the realization that something had changed. My running shoes; they were exactly where I’d left them, but they were no longer new. The red-and-black material had faded. The soles had worn down and turned grey. I poked at one with my foot, felt cold against my toes. Then I knelt down. A slow current of electricity vibrated inside me. I snatched them off the floor. The shoes were damp. The waffle shaped tread was heavy with brown sand.

Chapter Three

On Saturday afternoon, I take the little girl fishing. Our wooden rowboat creaks and sways on gentle waves. She sits across from me, her clever fingers baiting a hook. “Good job.” She beams back at me, eyes bright. She’s my favorite, I know, but I remind myself that I mustn’t neglect the boy. He loves baseball and, on Sunday, we toss a sweat-stained ball back and forth in the backyard. I throw it high, making him run to get under it. Each throw pops into his glove, the sound of a good catch. He hurls it back, laughing, pleased with himself. I’m delighted with his laugh. He’s my favorite, too, I guess. Miranda joins me.

“Thanks for spending time with them,” she says. “They really think you’re something.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, I guess they’re right,” she says.

That evening, after dinner, the four of us pile onto the couch and watch a kid-movie, something with animated creatures I’d never heard of. The girl likes it. The boy makes fun of it. A plate of Snickerdoodle cookies two feet high sits on the coffee table. We stuff ourselves with them, devouring the uneven circles and licking cinnamon sugar off our fingers. My mouth goes dry. Then, as the kids are dozing off on the floor, the screaming begins.

“Ou taah aaaah merr.”

The kids – my kids – lift their heads and look at us, teary eyed. Miranda scoops them up, one on each knee. I stand. Then I pace back and forth.

“Ou taah aaaah merr. Ou et aahh aaaa merr ow!”

“He’s close to the house.”

“No,” she says. “He never comes out of the trees.”

The window shatters. The crash of breaking glass makes us duck. Miranda clutches the kids close to her as shards hurl past her. Sharp pieces land on the couch, her shoulders, in her hair. I start moving.

“Don’t.”

It’s too late. I’m already at the door, pushing through it, charging into the woods. The air is colder than it should be this time of year. I see my breath and start to shake. The forest is still, quiet. I hear branches break and I trot toward the sound.

“Hey,” I yell. “Come out. Now. I want a word with you.”

I find him, a shadow figure, taller than me, broad shouldered, hobbling away from the house.

“Come here.” I chase after him. “I want to talk to you.”

He dodges through trees, lumbering on his good leg, leading me in a zigzag pattern. He’s trying to get me lost, get me turned around so he can conk me on the head. I burst onto the shore. The lake is in front of me, a vast shadow of black water. On the beach is a message. He’d carved it in the sand.

L E A V E

A tall wave rises up and crests about ten feet out. It crashes over the letters. The surprise wave washes over the word and rushes all the way to my feet, splashing over my shoes and soaking me up to my ankles. When it pulls back the message is gone. The cold settles into my flesh and, all at once, the whole word shudders. The trees shake so hard they blur and the water rises into tidal waves.

“No, I don’t want to wake up… I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to leave this life…”

“Are you coming to work?”

I stood in my living room, the phone in one hand and a filthy, worn out running shoe in the other. It was heavy with lake water, like it’d been drenched.

“Of course I am – on Monday.”

A foul, locker-room odor had filled the room.

“It’s Wednesday,” Larry said.

“What?”

“It’s Wednesday afternoon,” he said. “Look, if you miss four days in a row it’s considered job abandonment.”

“I’m sick,” I said. “I got really sick.”

“Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said. “I will definitely be in tomorrow.”

After a long silence he said, “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, but he’d already hung up.

I held the shoe for a long time. The odor, I realized, was my own. It was days and nights of boiling sleep. I went to the bathroom, turned on the tap water, and popped the lid off the pill bottle. I shook three capsules into my palm and gulped them down with lukewarm water. The pills took hold with a deadening sensation, an anesthetic against my soul. Everything went heavy. Still, I trembled myself to sleep.

Chapter Four

“Wish you’d tell me what’s on your mind.”

We’re in her bed; the now familiar shadows pulsing with warmth. She’s resting her head on my chest. Her hair smells clean as the first day of summer.

“If I sleep forever I’ll die.”

The bed squeaks as she shifts positions.

“You ain’t sleeping, baby.”

If I’m not asleep than both of me exist and here at Becker Lake I’m as real as the sand and mud stuck to my shoes. I am not an image in my own longing, but flesh and bone. I live – happy.

I shake my head, clearing the sudden sensation of waking up off of me.

“Stay forever, okay? It won’t hurt for very long.”

“What won’t?”

After a silence she tells me. “The poison.”

I can sense her biting her lower lip, a look of pleading straining her features.

“The kids adore you.”

I never wanted children, but now that I’ve taught a tomboy girl how to fish and played catch with an exuberant boy I do. I don’t care that they’re not my own. I don’t care that their biological father stalks the woods outside the lake house. I will deal with him. I just love these children and – .

“And I love you.”

I will protect them; each of them. Nothing bad will happen to us, not to my family.

I woke up groggy, my bed empty, and closed my eyes to –

Slide close to Miranda and inhale the warm smell of her –

And eventually relented, blinking against the first rays of morning piercing my bedroom window.

I was starving.

Later, at work, I opened a browser and searched for “667 Becker Lake, Becker Lake, Minnesota.” The search came back with three-and-a-half million sites. I clicked on the first – fishing tips.

“Whoa, what happened to you?”

Larry stood at my cubicle, eyebrows raised with suspicion. He stared at my arms. They were cut from the branches I’d run through when I sprinted through the woods. Each arm was a tangle of deep red lines edged with white infection.

“Do you need something?” A fever burned in my head, pushing a sweat as thick as oil out of my pores. I felt it dripping through my hair.

“The forms for your sick days.”

“I’ll leave them on your desk.”

“And I have to write you up for not calling in.”

“No problem.”

He left. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb, sending every call to voicemail. I kept clicking links and that afternoon I found it: Becker Lake Man Charged with Wife’s Murder. I read the article twice. It gave no gruesome details, only short facts; woman found dead, man arrested. It said nothing about her sweet nature or that she was a good mom. It didn’t say she loved to bake, only that she was found dead in the early evening hours.

“He kills her. If I’m not there, he murders her.”

More sweat poured out of me. My skin went cold. Nausea rose inside me. A thumping dizziness made me rest my head into my palms, exhausted. I closed my eyes.

She meets me at the door. No girl’s ever been so happy to see me before. She is so beautiful it’s hard to inhale, like my lungs are too busy looking at her to do their job. The woods are quiet this afternoon. No birds, no cars on the nearby two-lane, not one sound. She hugs me tight. I lean down, kiss her head.

“Come inside,” she says and leads me into the kitchen. Cookies, great mounds of them, are piled everywhere.

She’s set one aside for me. It’s a large circle on a red napkin and silver tray. She hands it to me. “Snickerdoodle’s your favorite, ain’t it?”

“Should I eat it now?”

“Plenty of time for that later,” she says. “Right now you should come upstairs with me because the little ones are at school.”

Chapter Five

I scanned my apartment, my small, dark house. The cookie waited on my kitchen counter, between a coffee stain and the sink. I took it to the couch. For a time, I thought about my mom and wished I had more memories of her. I had so many of my father. I hoped I still had them in the next life. I got a glass of tap water and swallowed the rest of the blue pills. I felt a slow, creeping paralysis infecting my muscles as the chemicals took hold. I inhaled long and slow, steadying myself. Then I bit into the cookie.

My tongue tingled. I chewed fast and swallowed. The inside of my mouth began burning. I fought back a retch and stuffed more Snicker Doodle into my mouth. I chewed. I swallowed. Chewed and swallowed and the pain erupted below my heart, a long piercing like being stabbed from the inside. It emerged hard and definite as the woods near Becker Lake come into focus.

The smell of trees and black earth, of water in the air and wild things with matted fur and sharp teeth. I’d never noticed that dangerous scent before. I sat on a grey boulder, the clearing in front of me illuminated by moonlight. A man stands in front of me and his presence startles me. I stand up too fast, lose my balance and crash to the ground. Dead pine needles dig into my palms. I try to cry out and cannot. Blinking, dazed, I turn to peer up at the man. He looks down at me. His eyes are full of sadness. I don’t understand. He points to his mouth then feigns eating a cookie. I nod. Yes, yes. I ate her cookie. He opens his mouth. He has no tongue. A stump of tissue, fish belly white, raises near the back of his mouth.

“Ah old uu taah aaaah merr.”

I know what he’s saying; I told you stay away from her.

I’m not dreaming now.

My mind seizes this realization, this time with dread.

I am not dreaming.

I get to my feet and I run. I’ve spent so many hours running through these woods that I get my sense of direction right away, but this time I’m easily winded. I’m panting by the time I find the road. I pass my red Mustang, still sitting on the shoulder, emanating that thick, burnt oil smell. Miranda’s house lights must be off because no glow guides me. I find the road, though and I charge to it.

The white colonial is a decrepit shell of weathered wood. The remnants of white paint curl off in long peels. All the grass has died and the dirt surrounding the house is as grey as concrete. I hear my children’s laughter, but there is no longer joy in it. Now, it’s high pitched, malicious. The front door opens a few inches. I sense someone – something – peering out. It’s not my beautiful girl…

“You came.” Its voice was full of mud. “Welcome home.

0 notes

zitseng · 6 years ago

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New Post has been published on https://zitseng.com/archives/16461

ThinkPad X380 Yoga Review

ThinkPad notebooks are legendary. The 360º flip feature of the Lenovo Yoga brand may also be familiar to many people. Put the two together, you’d pretty much already know what the new ThinkPad X380 Yoga is. Still, I continue to be impressed by the X380 Yoga when I saw it and started to use it the first time.

Lenovo’s latest two-in-one ThinkPad hybrid device is not entirely unfamiliar. There are other similar ThinkPad models, like the X270 Yoga that precedes it, as well as another X1 Yoga released this year. They take the standard ThinkPad business notebook design, give it a touchscreen, make it flip 360º backward into a tablet, and then you have a ThinkPad Yoga. The X380 Yoga is all that, updated with specs you’d expect in 2018, save for a display resolution better Full HD, yet remains (surprisingly) affordably priced.

The ThinkPad X380 Yoga retains the timeless ThinkPad design that is instantly recognisable everywhere. Its black carbon-fibre body has a premium soft-touch finish, ThinkPad logo in the top-left of the lid with a lighted red dot, and arguably the best keyboard you’d ever find on a notebook. The X380 Yoga looks every bit like a serious business workhorse, though one with a few extra tricks up its sleeves.

With dimensions of 313.5 x 222.2 x 18.2 mm and weighing 1.4 kg, the X380 Yoga is quite portable and easy to bring around. The chassis feels very solid and rigid. There’s no give for flimsiness anywhere, and while you shouldn’t ill-treat your hardware, the X380 Yoga feels like it doesn’t need extra careful handling like some other more fragile notebooks.

Good to know too that the X380 Yoga is MIL-STD-810G tested against humidity, extreme temperatures, vibration and high altitude.

There’s quite a bit of bezel space all around the 13.3-inch screen. Less bezel is better, of course, but being a business notebook, this isn’t too much to raise any objections. All that space allows Lenovo to put the 720p webcam there, along with an optional IR camera for Windows Hello logins. Business users probably need to video-conference, and a nose-cam isn’t going to look professional at all.

I am a little disappointed that the X380 Yoga has no option for a higher-resolution display than Full-HD. However, when I saw this display, I was totally wowed. In fact, I almost thought for a while that perhaps I didn’t need QHD and upward resolution after all. The X380 Yoga uses an IPS panel that is very sharp and crisp. Its colours are very vivid, and in fact covers 113% of sRGB colour gamut. Add to that the anti-reflective coating on the glossy screen, this display is very clear, with very deep backs and excellent contrast, and while you can’t expect reflections to be totally eliminated, they are clearly reduced.

The X380 Yoga’s keyboard and TrackPoint is exactly everything that you’d expect of a ThinkPad. I am not a TrackPoint fan, so let me just quickly mention that the nub you get on the X380 Yoga is as good as on any other ThinkPad.

The keyboard, similarly, is pretty much the gold standard, at least in my books. They have superb 2.0 mm travel, excellent tactile feedback, responsive, and very comfortable. The soft-touch material on the key caps feel very good too. The typing experience is simply amazing. The keyboard also has a soft backlight which is handy when you need to work in dimmer-than-normal conditions.

Below the keyboard, you’ll find the usual mouse buttons that are mostly meant to be used with the TrackPoint. The Windows Precision touchpad below that is excellent, but like most ThinkPads, its size is limited by the need to incorporate the buttons above for TrackPoint users.

There’s also a Windows Hello compatible fingerprint reader below the keyboard on the right side. This is a match-on-chip fingerprint reader, which means improved security because your fingerprint data doesn’t leave the chip. Fingerprint recognition speed is fast, and I never had any trouble logging in using my fingers.

While we’re on the topic of security, the ThinkPad X380 Yoga has a dTPM security chip, i.e. a discrete Trusted Platform Module hardware separate from the main Intel processor. A TPM security chip stores encryption keys and other security information. Apart from dTPM 2.0, the X380 Yoga also supports FIDO, important features for business users.

The port selection on the ThinkPad X380 Yoga is reasonably good. On the left side, you’ll find a proprietary power connector (which is the same used in some other ThinkPad models), a USB 3.0 Type-C port with Thunderbolt 3, a proprietary mini Ethernet port which requires a dongle to use with a regular RJ45 Ethernet cable, and an always-on USB 3.0 Type-A port,

I hate having to deal with proprietary power supply bricks, and fortunately, you don’t have to with the Yoga X380. That USB Type-C port can be used to power up the notebook, and indeed, depending on configuration, the X380 Yoga can be supplied with a USB Type-C power brick.

Along the right side, you’ll find the power button, a really convenient storage slot for the ThinkPad Pen Pro, 3.5 mm audio connector, MicroSD card slot, another USB 3.0 Type-A port, an HDMI port, and a Kensington security slot.

I would really like to have an extra USB Type-C port. In 2018 now, USB Type-C has really gotten quite common and having just one of it right available on the X380 Yoga may be a little limiting.

The ThinkPad X380 Yoga’s display isn’t just touch-enabled, it also supports pen input. The ThinkPad Pen Pro is included and as mentioned earlier, there’s a convenient slot to keep the pen when it’s not being used. That pen slot also charges the pen automatically, so you’ll never have to worry about replacing some obscure battery at the most inopportune moment.

The ThinkPad Pen Pro supports 2048 levels of pressure and has two buttons on its barrel. It is a little too skinny for my liking. The pen works fine, but may not be comfortable if you need to use it extensively. I suppose some trade-off was needed here: too big a pen means it won’t have a slot in the notebook, or the notebook would have to be necessarily clunkier.

Speakers on the X380 Yoga is typical of what you’d expect of notebooks. It gets loud enough for use in a largish meeting room, which is perhaps all that most business users will ask for.

The Thinkpad X380 Yoga is a two-in-one convertible, and when you start to fold the screen over, you’ll see a neat trick it does with its keyboard. Compare the photo above and below, and notice how the keys retreat back to become flush with the body?

Most notebooks will automatically disable the keyboard once the screen is flipped over, so pressing the keys don’t send anymore inputs. But it still feels weird to feel the keys being pressed. The disappearing keyboard trick makes the X380 Yoga so much more comfortable to hold in tablet mode.

Tent mode and stand modes work well. It’s cool to have a business notebook transform into other modes when you’re not having to hammer away at Excel spreadsheets. Stand mode may make a good impression at your next small table meeting presentation too.

In fact, I find that in small meetings, when you don’t have or don’t want to use a projector for presentation, the ability to open the display to extreme angles is particularly useful. In this regard, I consider two-in-one hybrid devices as a valuable feature even for business users.

My review unit of the X380 Yoga is configured with an 8th generation Intel Core i5-8250U processor, 8 GB of DDR4 2400 MHz RAM, 256 GB Solid State Drive PCIe with OPAL 2.0, and Windows Hello IR camera. Lenovo offers many configuration options with the X380 Yoga, with processor options up to Core i7-8650U (with vPro) and a 16 GB memory option. Storage options can go up to 1 TB PCIe with OPAL 2.0, or down to 128 GB SATA3 Solid State Drive.

You also have option to add a smartcard reader, NFC, and WWAN card. The Windows Hello IR camera in my review unit is also a configurable option, which you can omit.

Standard wireless connectivity includes Intel Dual Band 802.11a/b/g/n/ac 2×2 Wi-Fi, and Bluetooth 4.1.

The ThinkPad X380 Yoga performs respectably in benchmarks. The ASUS VivoBook S14 in these benchmarks have the same Core i5-8250U processor configured in my X380 Yoga review unit, so these two can be meaningfully compared. As you can see, the PCMark 10 Extended scores for both notebooks are closely matched.

I’ve included the ThinkPad T470s (7th generation Core i7) and Yoga 920 Core i7-8550U) just to show where the X380 Yoga stands in comparison with other notebook configurations.

The Geekbench 4 benchmarks test processor performance specifically. For some reason the multi-core tests of the X380 Yoga lag slightly behind the ASUS VivoBook S14, though they are closely matched in both the single-core and graphic compute tests.

With a Core i5-8205U processor, this X380 Yoga is not a powerhouse. If you need more power, I recommend upgrading to the i7-8550U processor, or i7-8650U processor. The latter, with Intel vPro technology, builds in security and remote management capabilities which may be particularly useful in business organisations.

Battery runtime on the X380 Yoga is also quite respectable. The PCMark 8 battery runtime test continuously loads the CPU, so you should not consider the results to be representative of real-world battery time, but it is useful for comparison with other notebooks.

In my own usage, the X380 Yoga can last for about 7 hours of casual use, which for me means web browsing and email. I would love to get at least 8 hours in my notebooks, and I find 7 hours just a tad short, though I don’t feel this is something significant to worry about.

Overall, the ThinkPad X380 Yoga is an admirable two-in-one hybrid device for business users. It doesn’t carry a premium price tag, but meets pretty much all the expectations one would have of ThinkPad notebooks. Its keyboard is best-in-class, and while I would have loved QHD resolution, the anti-reflective display is otherwise really superb.

The X380 Yoga is also packed with security features that will be appreciated by business organisations. With Intel vPro technology, match-on-chip fingerprint reader, dTPM 2.0, and OPAL 2.0 solid state drive, the X380 Yoga should tick all checkboxes on enterprise IT’s wish list.

As configured, this ThinkPad X380 Yoga review unit retails for S$2436 at the Lenovo online store. Online store prices for the basic configuration begins from S$2056.60.

Conclusion

The ThinkPad X380 Yoga is an admirable two-in-one hybrid device that will tick most checkboxes on business users’ wish list, without a premium price tag.

Pros:

Excellent build quality

Best-in-class keyboard

Superb display

Convenient pen storage/charging slot

Cons:

Single USB Type-C port is not enough

Battery life is a tad short

#Lenovo #notebook #ThinkPad #X380 #Yoga

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andya-j · 6 years ago

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DARK HOUSE Chapter One The car breaks. Its engine makes a loud bang, then sputters as metal rips into metal. The noise reminds me of my father’s deathbed cough. I let off the gas and the motor shuts down. I coast in neutral, ease the car onto the narrow dirt shoulder and stop. “Damn it to hell.” I’d been speeding, pushing my old car through the shadows by Becker Lake, the place where the rich hide their weekend houses. The road is always smooth, each crack and pothole immediately patched and filled. A dark, burnt oil smell emanates from the car’s hood, poisoning the clean scent of woods. My running shoes crunch through gravel as I walk. A glow of house lights shines through the trees and, when I find a driveway, I head toward the light. It’s a big white colonial; no curtains or security bars. I see her clearly through the kitchen window, a slender woman with dark blonde hair. She’s pulling a tray of cookies from the oven. She senses me, I guess, because she turns and peers through the glass. A quizzical look crosses her features. I wave and offer a smile. She meets me at the door. “You’re the guy who drives the Mustang, right?” “Yeah,” I say. “It just broke down on me, too.” She holds the door open. The smell of baked cookies wafts out to welcome me. My stomach churns for one as I step inside. Cookies are everywhere; plates of them cover the counters and the kitchen table. I glance through the doorway and see a huge mound piled on top the dinning room table. “I like to bake,” she says and her hand slips to my arm, touches me above my elbow. All at once I see my life with this girl, laughing in this kitchen, long strolls through the trees together, holding hands and kissing at the water’s edge… It’s a lifetime in of one feminine touch. She smiles. It radiates. My knees buckle a little. “So what do you do, Mustang guy?” “I’m a writer,” I say. “I’m finishing my next novel now.” I like the smooth tone of my voice. I sound sure of myself, even cocky. I catch the look of my arms then, firm and muscular. My stomach, I see, has no bulge. I run one hand through my hair and find it long and, most likely, a boyish mess. I’m dreaming. My mind seizes that thought; I am dreaming. Then a man’s yell tears through the stillness outside. “Ou taah aaaah merr,” he says. “Ou et aahh aaaa merr ow!” The woman just smiles at me, unalarmed. “My ex,” she says. “He lost one leg in the war and every bit of his common sense went with it. Don’t worry about him. ” Immediately, I envision a one-legged man, limping through the woods on a robotic prosthetic, spying on her from behind an oak tree. The image of a crazy-eyed stalker angered me. Someone had to protect a girl like her from a man like that. “Pay no attention to him.” The room begins to ripple, as if the walls are turning to liquid. Two children enter from the dinning room; a boy in shorts, dark haired like me, and a girl in a summer dress, a child version of the mother. “My babies,” she says. “Do you have kids?” “Someday I will,” I say. The whole room shudders. “Next time plan to stay awhile.” I woke up in my clothes, long sleeves still buttoned tight around my wrists. The oppressive darkness of my apartment surrounded me. I slid off my couch, limped stiff-legged to the balcony and smoked a cigarette. September’s wet air sent shivers crawling down my spine. The dream’s images, shards of my past stacked into nonsense, stuck in my head. The Mustang – the first car I’d ever owned. I’d worked two jobs to buy that relic; ticket ripper at the Marion Theater and burger flipper at Hardee’s. My dad made me earn every dollar. “A boy’s first car should be all his own,” he’d said. We’d called it, “Ryan’s Red Wreck.” Becker Lake – the last place I’d spent quality time with my dad. We hadn’t owned a house there. Poor people only rented. I remembered the boat oars in his meaty hands as he propelled us across the water’s flat surface. I saw the permanent engine oil under his nails as he uncoiled the anchor. By then I’d hated the constant grime on him. “I sure would love to own a house on a lake like this,” he’d said and coughed into one fist, the lung cancer already bristling in his chest. It was a good dream, I decided, especially the girl. The doctor told me that the medication could trigger vivid dreaming. I’d been expecting nightmares, though. If this was all it could do to me I didn’t mind at all. I slammed the balcony door, stripped to my boxers and left the clothes on the floor. My stomach sagged over my drawers, a growing ball of soft fat. The girl from my dream wouldn’t look twice at me in this life. I pictured her, the curves of her hips, her luxurious hair… A lone candle’s tiny flame sends lightning around her bedroom. We claw at each other, two bodies merging under white sheets. The flashes of light blind me. In the total darkness I hear her moan. Then, in a low and breathless whisper, she adds, “Ah, baby.” It almost makes me cry, the way she calls me baby. She slides off of me. My vision returns. I eye her alabaster body, then roll onto my side and pull her close so I can keep her a little longer. “I’m falling for you hard,” I say. The words sound loud, like thunder. She turns to me and smiles. Again, it radiates. Then I hear him screaming again, the man in the woods. His guttural yells penetrate the walls like a sudden blast of winter. “Ou taah aaaah merr. Ou et aahh aaaa merr ow!” “He’s really nuts-o tonight,” she says and chuckles. “We have to do something about him,” I tell her. Her soft lips fall to mine and in that kiss a single moment stretches to what feels like decades. Chapter Two “Nice kicks.” Larry entered my cube with a customer’s file, stepping over my gym bag and running shoes. “Are they new?” “I bought them last year,” I said. “I read somewhere that they pack more technology into a pair of modern running shoes than they did the first astronaut suits. It’s the same synthetic materials.” He picked up one of the red-and-black shoes. “That’s why they’re so lightweight.” I took my phone headset off my head and fiddled with it. “Interesting.” “These are new. You put any miles on them at all?” “Did you need something?” “Yeah, actually, I have to talk to you about this quote because you completely screwed it up. It’s a mess.” The whole time he lectured me I thought about fishing with my dad, the way the boat rocked underneath us, the feel of wet air on my arms, the cold against my seat and my father’s peaceful gaze between coughing jags. When Larry shut up I nodded. “Okay.” “…So you really have to double-check your work before you click submit.” “Got it.” By the end of the day my head throbbed and I skipped running. I drove home in the dark, glad it was Friday. Inside my apartment, I dropped the shoes next to my front door. Their soles were black as roofing tar. Not one speck of street dust or mud had tainted them since I bought them with a credit card. How pathetic. I washed my face in the bathroom. Then I opened a small brown bottle, shook out one pale blue pill and swallowed it with tap water. I hoped it sent me back to Becker Lake. Then I huddled upon my couch. My writing room is small and crammed with books. I spend the morning at my desk, drinking green tea and writing. Framed covers of my previous works adorn the walls, seven novels, all of them have a gold bestseller seal in the lower right corner. I’m dreaming again. And in this dream I’m a bestselling novelist – awesome. I think about having a cigarette, but dream-me doesn’t have any ashtrays around. This life holds too much to live for, I guess. I leave the office, pad through the old house in my socks, admiring old wood molding and paneling. The house fits me like a broken-in pair of jeans. I find the master bedroom. A picture of me and the girl lays on the nightstand. It must be her handwriting on the back, Ryan and Miranda, it says. I don a sweatshirt, cinch up my red and black shoes and head outside. The screen door bangs shut behind me and I break into a jog. I start breathing deep, but I keep my wind. My chest expands; my lungs feel plump and full of oxygen. I run along the waters edge, then cut through a patch of forest and onto the asphalt road. I walk to cool down, then stroll to her house. She’s sitting on the porch below the street address numbers, 667. “I was hoping you’d come by today.” I hurry up the steps. Her playful grin makes my heart accelerate more than the run did. She stands up and I wrap my arms around her. I woke up numb. A haze of morning light filled the living room. For a moment I thought I’d slept through the alarm, then I realized it was Saturday. I got off the couch, stiff muscles resisting movement. I headed for the bathroom and something caught my eye. It was not movement, but the realization that something had changed. My running shoes; they were exactly where I’d left them, but they were no longer new. The red-and-black material had faded. The soles had worn down and turned grey. I poked at one with my foot, felt cold against my toes. Then I knelt down. A slow current of electricity vibrated inside me. I snatched them off the floor. The shoes were damp. The waffle shaped tread was heavy with brown sand. Chapter Three On Saturday afternoon, I take the little girl fishing. Our wooden rowboat creaks and sways on gentle waves. She sits across from me, her clever fingers baiting a hook. “Good job.” She beams back at me, eyes bright. She’s my favorite, I know, but I remind myself that I mustn’t neglect the boy. He loves baseball and, on Sunday, we toss a sweat-stained ball back and forth in the backyard. I throw it high, making him run to get under it. Each throw pops into his glove, the sound of a good catch. He hurls it back, laughing, pleased with himself. I’m delighted with his laugh. He’s my favorite, too, I guess. Miranda joins me. “Thanks for spending time with them,” she says. “They really think you’re something.” “What about you?” “Oh, I guess they’re right,” she says. That evening, after dinner, the four of us pile onto the couch and watch a kid-movie, something with animated creatures I’d never heard of. The girl likes it. The boy makes fun of it. A plate of Snickerdoodle cookies two feet high sits on the coffee table. We stuff ourselves with them, devouring the uneven circles and licking cinnamon sugar off our fingers. My mouth goes dry. Then, as the kids are dozing off on the floor, the screaming begins. “Ou taah aaaah merr.” The kids – my kids – lift their heads and look at us, teary eyed. Miranda scoops them up, one on each knee. I stand. Then I pace back and forth. “Ou taah aaaah merr. Ou et aahh aaaa merr ow!” “He’s close to the house.” “No,” she says. “He never comes out of the trees.” The window shatters. The crash of breaking glass makes us duck. Miranda clutches the kids close to her as shards hurl past her. Sharp pieces land on the couch, her shoulders, in her hair. I start moving. “Don’t.” It’s too late. I’m already at the door, pushing through it, charging into the woods. The air is colder than it should be this time of year. I see my breath and start to shake. The forest is still, quiet. I hear branches break and I trot toward the sound. “Hey,” I yell. “Come out. Now. I want a word with you.” I find him, a shadow figure, taller than me, broad shouldered, hobbling away from the house. “Come here.” I chase after him. “I want to talk to you.” He dodges through trees, lumbering on his good leg, leading me in a zigzag pattern. He’s trying to get me lost, get me turned around so he can conk me on the head. I burst onto the shore. The lake is in front of me, a vast shadow of black water. On the beach is a message. He’d carved it in the sand. L E A V E A tall wave rises up and crests about ten feet out. It crashes over the letters. The surprise wave washes over the word and rushes all the way to my feet, splashing over my shoes and soaking me up to my ankles. When it pulls back the message is gone. The cold settles into my flesh and, all at once, the whole word shudders. The trees shake so hard they blur and the water rises into tidal waves. “No, I don’t want to wake up… I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to leave this life…” “Are you coming to work?” I stood in my living room, the phone in one hand and a filthy, worn out running shoe in the other. It was heavy with lake water, like it’d been drenched. “Of course I am – on Monday.” A foul, locker-room odor had filled the room. “It’s Wednesday,” Larry said. “What?” “It’s Wednesday afternoon,” he said. “Look, if you miss four days in a row it’s considered job abandonment.” “I’m sick,” I said. “I got really sick.” “Will you be in tomorrow?” “Yes,” I said. “I will definitely be in tomorrow.” After a long silence he said, “Okay.” “I’m sorry,” I said, but he’d already hung up. I held the shoe for a long time. The odor, I realized, was my own. It was days and nights of boiling sleep. I went to the bathroom, turned on the tap water, and popped the lid off the pill bottle. I shook three capsules into my palm and gulped them down with lukewarm water. The pills took hold with a deadening sensation, an anesthetic against my soul. Everything went heavy. Still, I trembled myself to sleep. Chapter Four “Wish you’d tell me what’s on your mind.” We’re in her bed; the now familiar shadows pulsing with warmth. She’s resting her head on my chest. Her hair smells clean as the first day of summer. “If I sleep forever I’ll die.” The bed squeaks as she shifts positions. “You ain’t sleeping, baby.” If I’m not asleep than both of me exist and here at Becker Lake I’m as real as the sand and mud stuck to my shoes. I am not an image in my own longing, but flesh and bone. I live – happy. I shake my head, clearing the sudden sensation of waking up off of me. “Stay forever, okay? It won’t hurt for very long.” “What won’t?” After a silence she tells me. “The poison.” I can sense her biting her lower lip, a look of pleading straining her features. “The kids adore you.” I never wanted children, but now that I’ve taught a tomboy girl how to fish and played catch with an exuberant boy I do. I don’t care that they’re not my own. I don’t care that their biological father stalks the woods outside the lake house. I will deal with him. I just love these children and – . “And I love you.” I will protect them; each of them. Nothing bad will happen to us, not to my family. I woke up groggy, my bed empty, and closed my eyes to – Slide close to Miranda and inhale the warm smell of her – And eventually relented, blinking against the first rays of morning piercing my bedroom window. I was starving. Later, at work, I opened a browser and searched for “667 Becker Lake, Becker Lake, Minnesota.” The search came back with three-and-a-half million sites. I clicked on the first – fishing tips. “Whoa, what happened to you?” Larry stood at my cubicle, eyebrows raised with suspicion. He stared at my arms. They were cut from the branches I’d run through when I sprinted through the woods. Each arm was a tangle of deep red lines edged with white infection. “Do you need something?” A fever burned in my head, pushing a sweat as thick as oil out of my pores. I felt it dripping through my hair. “The forms for your sick days.” “I’ll leave them on your desk.” “And I have to write you up for not calling in.” “No problem.” He left. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb, sending every call to voicemail. I kept clicking links and that afternoon I found it: Becker Lake Man Charged with Wife’s Murder. I read the article twice. It gave no gruesome details, only short facts; woman found dead, man arrested. It said nothing about her sweet nature or that she was a good mom. It didn’t say she loved to bake, only that she was found dead in the early evening hours. “He kills her. If I’m not there, he murders her.” More sweat poured out of me. My skin went cold. Nausea rose inside me. A thumping dizziness made me rest my head into my palms, exhausted. I closed my eyes. She meets me at the door. No girl’s ever been so happy to see me before. She is so beautiful it’s hard to inhale, like my lungs are too busy looking at her to do their job. The woods are quiet this afternoon. No birds, no cars on the nearby two-lane, not one sound. She hugs me tight. I lean down, kiss her head. “Come inside,” she says and leads me into the kitchen. Cookies, great mounds of them, are piled everywhere. She’s set one aside for me. It’s a large circle on a red napkin and silver tray. She hands it to me. “Snickerdoodle’s your favorite, ain’t it?” “Should I eat it now?” “Plenty of time for that later,” she says. “Right now you should come upstairs with me because the little ones are at school.” Chapter Five I scanned my apartment, my small, dark house. The cookie waited on my kitchen counter, between a coffee stain and the sink. I took it to the couch. For a time, I thought about my mom and wished I had more memories of her. I had so many of my father. I hoped I still had them in the next life. I got a glass of tap water and swallowed the rest of the blue pills. I felt a slow, creeping paralysis infecting my muscles as the chemicals took hold. I inhaled long and slow, steadying myself. Then I bit into the cookie. My tongue tingled. I chewed fast and swallowed. The inside of my mouth began burning. I fought back a retch and stuffed more Snicker Doodle into my mouth. I chewed. I swallowed. Chewed and swallowed and the pain erupted below my heart, a long piercing like being stabbed from the inside. It emerged hard and definite as the woods near Becker Lake come into focus. The smell of trees and black earth, of water in the air and wild things with matted fur and sharp teeth. I’d never noticed that dangerous scent before. I sat on a grey boulder, the clearing in front of me illuminated by moonlight. A man stands in front of me and his presence startles me. I stand up too fast, lose my balance and crash to the ground. Dead pine needles dig into my palms. I try to cry out and cannot. Blinking, dazed, I turn to peer up at the man. He looks down at me. His eyes are full of sadness. I don’t understand. He points to his mouth then feigns eating a cookie. I nod. Yes, yes. I ate her cookie. He opens his mouth. He has no tongue. A stump of tissue, fish belly white, raises near the back of his mouth. “Ah old uu taah aaaah merr.” I know what he’s saying; I told you stay away from her. I’m not dreaming now. My mind seizes this realization, this time with dread. I am not dreaming. I get to my feet and I run. I’ve spent so many hours running through these woods that I get my sense of direction right away, but this time I’m easily winded. I’m panting by the time I find the road. I pass my red Mustang, still sitting on the shoulder, emanating that thick, burnt oil smell. Miranda’s house lights must be off because no glow guides me. I find the road, though and I charge to it. The white colonial is a decrepit shell of weathered wood. The remnants of white paint curl off in long peels. All the grass has died and the dirt surrounding the house is as grey as concrete. I hear my children’s laughter, but there is no longer joy in it. Now, it’s high pitched, malicious. The front door opens a few inches. I sense someone – something – peering out. It’s not my beautiful girl… “You came.” Its voice was full of mud. “Welcome home.”

From Horror photos & videos June 08, 2018 at 08:00PM

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