Tag Archives: mystery

Noir

Posted on by under Shorts

Sur le grand tableau blanc qui trônait au centre de la salle étaient épinglées toutes les photos qui avaient été recueillies au cours des premiers jours de l’enquête. Six portraits en A4 étaient alignés sous le bord supérieur. Six visages, trois hommes et trois femmes, et, juste au dessous, les photos de la victime. Encore plus bas, les photos de la scène du crime, sombre et sanglante.

Sur le premier portrait on pouvait voir le visage d’un homme sur lequel s’étaient imprimées les marques du temps passé. Sa crinière sauvage et sa moustache finement taillée, ornements argentés qu’il arborait fièrement, lui donnaient un air des plus dignes. On pouvait également apercevoir le haut du col d’un gilet couleur moutarde au bas de la photo.

À sa droite, celui d’une femme d’âge environ égal à l’air revêche. Elle fixait l’objectif d’un œil noir derrière les verres en demi-lune de lunettes perchées sur le bout de son nez, nez aussi pâle que l’astre nocturne lui même.

Le troisième portrait attirait immédiatement l’œil de part la beauté naturellement hypnotisante de la jeune femme qui y apparaissait. Sur son visage aux traits fins se dessinait le fantôme d’un sourire narquois et étonnamment confiant. Dans sa longue chevelure noir de jais on pouvait apercevoir une petite broche en forme de rose rouge.

Les deux suivants étaient des hommes.

L’un portait des lunettes, l’autre non. Le premier était vêtu d’un foulard couleur aubergine, l’autre d’une redingote vert foncé à col haut. Le premier semblait grand et mince tandis que le second plus courtaud. L’un arborait une chevelure épaisse et sauvage, presque rousse tandis que l’autre était brun, au crâne presque dégarni. Rien ne semblait rapprocher les deux hommes, l’un était homme de science, l’autre résolument d’église, et pourtant, pour l’observateur attentif, on pouvait déceler dans leur regards quelques similaires lueurs sombres.

Le sixième portrait était celui d’une femme d’une cinquantaine d’années, les cheveux coiffés d’un couvre chef blanc de domestique. Elle semblait mal à l’aise, étrangement apeurée. On pouvait presque entendre la voix chevrotante qui s’échappait péniblement de ses lèvres lorsqu’elle parlait.

Sur la grande table devant le tableau était étalé un plan détaillé du manoir où avait eu lieu le crime et, répartis autour de ce dernier dans des sacs plastiques, les différents objets qui avaient été récupérés et analysés par le département scientifique. Il y en avait six en tout, dont un couteau, une clé anglaise et un pistolet.

La salle, illuminée par la lumière blanchâtre des néons, était vide. Mais cela ne durerait pas car bientôt l’équipe d’enquêteurs entrerait et se mettrait à travailler d’arrache-pied afin de résoudre le mystère qui entourait la mort du vieux Docteur. Cela leur avait été explicité de façon on ne peut plus claire : il était primordial de retrouver le meurtrier du Docteur, c’était tout ce qui importait à présent.

Alea jacta est, les dés étaient jetés…

“Qu’est-ce ?”, vous entends-je demander. Eh bien ne paniquez pas, il y a quelques indices ici et là… ;)

Ps: C’est pas Harry Potter >.>

Black

Posted on by under Shorts

On the large white board which stood in the middle of the room were displayed all the pictures that had been taken during the preliminary phase of the investigation. Six large portraits had been printed and were aligned horizontally at the top of the board. Six faces, three men and three women, and, just under them, a seventh: the victim’s. Still below, pictures of the crime scene, dark and bloody.

The first face, on the top left corner, was one of a man on whom time had left its mark. His silver mane and impeccably well-trimmed moustache which he proudly displayed gave him an air of strength and dignity. One could also catch a glimpse of the mustard-colored collar of his jacket in the bottom of the frame.

On his right, the surly face of a woman of roughly the same age as him. She seemed to look straight at the camera, her eyes dark behind her glasses shaped in half-moons which were hanging on the very tip of her nose, nose which was as pale as the nightly orb itself.

The third portrait immediately caught the eye due to the mysterious beauty of the young woman who appeared on it. One could see the ghost of a surprisingly confident smirk on her face. Tangled in her long dark hair was a pin in the shape of a red rose.

The next two portraits were of two men.

One had glasses, the other had none. The first wore an eggplant-colored scarf , the second a dark green frock coat with a raised collar. The former seemed tall and skinny whereas the latter appeared short and sturdy. One had thick and wild light brown, almost red hair while the other had lost most of his dark hair to baldness. Everything seemed to draw them apart, one was a man of science while the other was unwaveringly religious, however, despite all this, to the eye of the careful observer, a similar glint of darkness could be seen in both their gazes.

The sixth picture was one of a woman in her fifties, white hair covered by her servant headwear. She seemed uneasy, almost scared. One could almost hear her quavering voice coming out of her mouth with great difficulty when she spoke.

A large and detailed plan of the manor where the crime had taken place was spread on the large table in front of the board and, around it, the different objects that had been taken from the scene and analyzed by the forensic department wrapped in plastic bags. There were six in all including a knife, a wrench and a gun.

The room, lit by the sick white glow of the neon lights, was empty of any life. But that would not last for much longer as, soon enough, the team of detectives would come in and begin working on this case without rest until the mystery that surrounded the death of the old Doctor was solved. It had been very explicitly clarified : finding the Doctor’s killer was of the utmost importance, it was all that mattered now.

Alea jacta est, the die had been cast…

“Now what is this exactly?”, I hear you ask. Well worry not, there is a clue in there, somewhere… ;)

Le Masbaha rouge

Posted on by under Shorts

.

Le Masbaha rouge

—

Un brouhaha quelque peu étouffé régnait dans le grand salon au boiseries finement vernies. Une foule d’une quarantaine de personnes attendait, patiemment assise sur des fauteuils installés spécialement pour l’occasion, que le propriétaire des lieux, également maître de cérémonie ce soir là, arrive et leur fasse part de son annonce tant attendue. Ils étaient venus de tout Paris, et même de province pour certains, afin d’assister à la révélation qui depuis deux ou trois semaines faisait frémir leurs coeurs passionnés d’exotique et d’étrange.

Cela faisait à présent presque une heure qu’ils attendaient pour les plus ponctuels, et une bonne demi heure pour les retardataires. La tension et l’impatience commençaient à se faire sentir dans les murmures agacés qui se propageaient sur le bois. Pour ceux qui connaissaient déjà la pièce dans laquelle ils se trouvaient, il n’y avait pas de doute : l’immense drap rouge, tendu devant le mur en face d’eux dissimulait quelque secret dont Louis Braguelonne, l’aventurier de légende, découvreur d’objets rares et uniques, allait leur faire la présentation sous peu. Les plus téméraires avaient bien sûr pensé à jeter subrepticement un regard derrière cette dernière mais deux hommes de taille et d’uniforme imposants les en avaient dissuadés d’un simple regard. Ils s’étaient donc contentés d’observer en silence la surprenante beauté des lieux dans lesquels ils se trouvaient ainsi que la qualité des gravures dans le bois des murs ou bien de faire survivre leur conversation avec la femme au cheveux gris qui ne pouvait s’empêcher de leur faire part de son excitation à l’idée de revoir le grand Louis Braguelonne.

Cette dernière était assise au côté de l’un de ces téméraires. Celui-ci avait les cheveux plutôt courts, blonds et bouclés, et observait la pièce de son regard brun, doux mais perçant, tout en l’écoutant d’une oreille distraite se vanter d’avoir pu rencontrer le Lord Braguelonne personnellement à plusieurs reprises et d’étaler son émerveillement pour la personne qu’il était. Il tendit cependant une oreille plus attentive lorsque la femme dont la voix chaude et presque sensuelle ne semblait pas avoir vieillit à la même vitesse qu’elle, commença à débattre de la présence du joli drapé d’un rouge foncé fort appréciable à l’oeil.

– Voyez-vous, je ne peux m’empêcher de me demander ce que cette tenture – car je crois, au vu des motifs répétitifs qui y semblent brodés, que l’on peut appeler cela une tenture – je me demande donc, disais-je à l’instant, plus que ce que cette tenture peut bien dissimuler, d’où elle peut bien provenir elle-même ? Car plus je l’observe et plus il me semble qu’elle est de grande qualité. Il me faudra demander à Braguelonne sa provenance lorsqu’il nous aura dévoilé son mystérieux “Masbaha” car j’en souhaite bien une pareil pour mon salon…, ajouta-t-elle avec un petit soupir en rabaissant ses lunettes de vue.

Le jeune homme ne répondit pas mais jeta un oeil rapide au drapé qui tombait depuis le plafond jusqu’au sol et prenait toute la largeur de la pièce, empêchant l’oeil de se glisser derrière lui. Il lui sembla, en effet, que le tissus de ce dernier n’était pas tout à fait aussi désuet et inintéressant qu’il avait pu le penser au premier abord. Il parvenait, en se concentrant suffisamment, à apercevoir d’élégantes formes et des motifs détaillés brodés en relief à sa surface. Ne s’y connaissant pas suffisamment pour évaluer le matériau simplement du regard, il ne savait dire quel genre de tissus avait été utilisé mais pariait sur du velour ou un tissus raffiné de ce genre. La couleur presque pourpre de ce dernier semblait également ressortir plus vivement maintenant qu’il y prêtait attention. A son arrivée son regard avait bien évidemment été attiré par ce grand drap rouge mais son coeur et son esprit s’étaient immédiatement transportés dans l’espace qu’il imaginait derrière celui-ci et vers le mystérieux objet, le fameux Masbaha rouge, cet objet mystérieux dont on ne savait presque rien sinon que Braguelonne le disait extraordinairement exotique et étrange et qu’il l’avait apparemment ramené de son dernier périple en Afrique.

Alors que son attention se détournait encore vers le sujet de cette soirée organisée par l’explorateur, un homme se leva du rang derrière lui et s’éclaircit la gorge bruyamment, attirant les regards vers lui. Attendant à peine que le silence fut tombé et que tous les spectateurs se soient concentrés sur sa personne, il retira le haut de forme qu’il portait, la veste en tweed et, à la surprise générale, son épaisse moustache et la barbe qui l’accompagnait, non moins épaisse. La femme à côté du jeune homme, qui s’était retournée avec quelque réticence poussa un petit cri et devint toute rouge, elle détourna le regard et cacha avec précipitation sa bouche ouverte en un grand O de sa main. Ce petit cri fut suivit d’un murmure de surprise dans l’assemblée et l’on put reconnaître les syllabes du nom de leur hôte prononcées dans un ordre décousu de-ci de-là. L’homme qui affichait un grand sourire prit alors la parole.

– Mesdames et messieurs, merci d’être venu ici ce soir. Pour ceux qui me connaissent, nul besoin de m’introduire mais pour ceux qui ne me connaîtraient pas encore, mon nom est Louis Braguelonne, pour vous servir. Il fit une petite révérence, laissant le temps à son auditoire de digérer l’information, avant de reprendre la parole. Veuillez m’excuser pour ce petit tour que je viens de vous jouer en me dissimulant auprès de vous sous une autre identité mais tout cela fait partie de la façon dont je souhaitais organiser la présentation. Il me fallait obtenir les réponses à certaines questions et il ne m’était pas d’autre moyen que de le faire ainsi, je vous l’assure.

Il s’inclina à nouveau, en signe d’excuse cette fois, puis se dirigea d’un pas assuré vers l’avant des sièges et s’arrêta lorsqu’il arriva devant le rideau pourpre, se tournant alors vers le public, toujours en souriant. Il étendit les bras de chaque côté et passa son regard sur ses spectateurs.

– Bienvenue, donc, à cette soirée où j’ai promis de vous faire part de l’une des plus étonnantes découvertes que j’ai pu faire au cours de mon voyage. Je vous ai promis quelque chose d’étonnant et de mystérieux, et bien me voici donc en train de tenir promesse. Il fit une pause. Vous avez tous, je l’imagine, entendu prononcer le nom de Masbaha avant ce soir, c’est même ce qui vous a poussé à venir si je puis me permettre de deviner, n’est-ce pas ? Eh bien, mesdames et messieurs, laissez moi donc vous présenter ce qu’est que ce Masbaha rouge dont vous entendez tant parler !

Il claqua des doigts et on apporta un tableau avec une carte de l’Afrique aux couleurs variées et étincelantes que l’on plaça derrière Braguelonne. Ce furent les deux hommes qui se tenaient de chaque côté de la tenture qui s’en chargèrent, à la surprise de presque toute l’assemblée qui ne les avait pas vu bouger d’un pouce de toute la soirée.

– Cette carte, mes chers amis, commença Louis Braguelonne en se décalant légèrement sur le côté pour que l’on puisse voir ladite carte, est l’une de celles que j’ai faites faire chez Marionnaud, un collègue à moi qui s’est depuis plusieurs années déjà reconverti dans la fabrication de cartes, et cela avec brio ! Selon mes indications précises, donc, il a fait confectionner cet ouvrage qui détaille les côtes mais aussi l’intérieur de ce grand et mystérieux pays qu’est l’Afrique. Voyez donc maintenant, avec mon assistance, le trajet que j’ai effectué au cours de ma dernière expédition. Ne vous inquiétez pas, votre patience ne sera pas requise bien longtemps encore et en sera fort récompensée, je vous l’assure !

Il entreprit alors, à l’aide d’un bâton qu’on était allé lui chercher, de décrire son trajet depuis Alger jusqu’à Khartoum, depuis Khartoum jusqu’à Kinshasa, depuis Kinshasa jusqu’à Maputo et depuis Maputo jusqu’au Cap, le tout par voie terrestre, à pieds ou à dos d’éléphant ou de chameau, et marine en suivant les rivières, à travers déserts, savanes et forêts vierges et, le plus souvent au péril de sa vie. Lorsqu’il parvint au terme de son trajet en Afrique du Sud, Braguelonne avait entièrement captivé les coeurs de son auditoire. Il continua son récit.

– Au terme de ce voyage, je rentrais ici, à Paris, comme vous le savez tous. Mais ce n’est pas de cela que vous voulez entendre parler il me semble, alors laissez moi plutôt vous conter mon escale à Kinshasa, ou plutôt sur l’île de M’Bamou, car c’est là, mesdames et messieurs que je rencontrai l’homme qui me fit cadeau de ce fameux objet que l’on appelle le Masbaha rouge et que je vais vous dévoiler ce soir. Il fit une pause pour s’assurer de l’effet de sa déclaration sur son auditoire avant d’enchaîner, visiblement satisfait. Dès mon arrivée à Kinshaha j’entendis prononcer la première fois, auprès de mon hôte, un marchand de pierres précieuses, le nom de Masbaha rouge. Je dis prononcer pour la première fois car j’avais, quelques mois auparavant, lu ce même nom dans l’un des livres de Sir Pierce, l’un des grands explorateurs du continent Africain de notre histoire, qui étaient passé par là bien avant moi. C’est d’ailleurs précisément ce qui m’avait amené à décider de passer par Kinshasa à mon départ : en apprendre plus sur ce mystérieux nom que Pierce décrivait comme le plus grand mystère de son séjour à Kinshasa. Qu’était-ce que ce Masbaha rouge ? Un bijoux ? Une épice ? Un animal ? Pourquoi autant de mystère autour d’une telle chose ? Je n’en savais rien mais j’étais bien déterminé à éclaircir ce mystère…. Il me fallut trois semaines et de nombreuses connexions pour trouver la trace de ce mystérieux nom. Les habitants eux-mêmes ne semblaient pas en savoir plus que moi à ce sujet. ce n’est peut-être que par chance que je croisais un jour la route d’un vieux chaman qui avait, de son maître, entendu parler de cet objet. Il croyait se rappeler en savoir la localisation, dans un petit village sur l’île de M’Bamou, située au nord de la ville sur le fleuve Congo. Je lui demandais des précisions mais il ne sut m’en dire plus quant à la nature de ce mystérieux objet. Car c’était un objet, comme j’avais pu le déduire lors de ces trois semaines. Le Masbaha rouge n’était pas, ou en tout cas n’était plus, un être vivant. Je me rendis donc sur l’île de M’Bamou et demandait aux habitants ce qu’ils savaient de l’objet de ma quête mais les versions divergeaient à chaque fois. Pierce lui, voyait d’abord une épice avant, comme moi, de réaliser que son existence ne pouvait qu’être extrêmement rare ou unique puisque l’on en connaissait l’existence sans pour autant en voir un grand nombre. Certains indigènes y voyaient un joyaux précieux, d’autres un sort recelant le pouvoirs de leurs ancêtres, d’autres encore une relique des temps passés, mais toutes ces réponses se révélaient soit incertaines soit complètement aléatoires. Une seule me marqua par la précision des détails et la certitude dans sa formulation, ce fut celle d’une jeune femme, fille du défunt médecin du village. Marqué par ce court échange je lui demandais des détails et elle m’avoua, après lui avoir assuré de la bienveillance de mes intentions, qu’elle pourrait me montrer ce fameux Masbaha rouge si j’acceptais de l’en débarrasser. Elle m’emmena alors chez elle, une grande habitation plusieurs fois centenaire, construite dans du bois précieux et qu’elle gardait malgré sa taille bien trop grande pour elle en l’honneur de son père. Elle m’introduit dans le grand salon où j’aperçus cette tenture qui se trouve derrière moi et qui cachait une partie de la pièce. Elle me fit alors l’histoire de la descendance de ses ancêtres et de la passation de ce mystérieux objet – que je vous passe pour le moment mais dont je vous ferait part plus tard si vous le souhaitez – avant de me faire la révélation de la vraie nature du Masbaha rouge. J’en fus frappé et ne pus la croire d’abord, mais une fois l’assurance de la véracité de ses paroles obtenue et un regard plus approfondi sur l’objet de ma quête je fus entièrement convaincu… Je vais à présent moi aussi vous révéler la vraie nature du Masbaha rouge mais, juste avant cela – ne vous inquiétez pas ce ne sera pas long -, laissez moi vous poser une simple question, la même qu’elle me posa alors…

Braguelonne fit une nouvelle pause et passa son regard sur chacun des membres de l’audience, celle-ci était pendue à ses lèvres et n’attendait qu’une chose : la libération de la révélation. Il prit une inspiration avant de continuer.

– Mes chers amis, que pensez-vous de cette tenture d’un magnifique rouge pourpre qui se trouve derrière moi ?, demanda-t-il avec un petit sourire aux lèvres.

Une nouvelle écrite dans le cadre d’un cours d’écriture créative.

Je n’en suis pas totalement satisfait, elle mériterait d’être quelque peu étoffée.

À retravailler.

The Phone

Posted on by under Shorts

a short story by Sullivan P. Oopy.

*

handonphone

She jumped with a start as the phone rang again. The piercing beeps echoed in the empty house. A second time, a third time. It kept on ringing, and yet she wasn’t making a move to get up and pick it up. Instead she was rooted to the spot. Fear? Apprehension? Anger? Frustration? All of these feelings boiled inside her. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, to let her tears flow freely, to get up and run far away from that place. But she couldn’t. If she did it would only mean surrendering to her most primal feelings, it would also mean surrendering to him. No. That was not acceptable, it was not an option. She had to remain calm and strong. This was nothing. It would soon be over. She closed her eyes and tried her best to drown the sound of the phone out of her mind. One deep breath. Two deep breaths. As she exhaled for the third time she slowly opened her eyes. The ringing had stopped, the room was silent again.

She could feel her heart slowing down slightly, her breathing becoming less ragged. Oh, she wasn’t relaxing yet! No, not yet. This wasn’t over. It never was. Each time it kept ringing again and again for as long as she refused to pick up. It drove her mad. But this time, this time maybe… Maybe she would be stronger. Maybe she would stand up to him and not cower by answering. That was the kind of woman Hope Wien was, strong and independent, reliable and friendly, someone her friends could definitely count on. That came from her mother, Camellia, from the Wien side of the family, the strong side. Of course it was strong, her mother had somehow managed to convince her father to take her name when they had married, a feat that Hope had not seen repeated anywhere else. Wien was a strong name. Originally coming from the european city itself, and pronounced the same way, it had changed to a softer ‘ween’ when she had arrived to America all those years ago. Reluctant to accept this at first, she had slowly got accustomed to it, even getting her brother, who had remained in Austria, to say it that way when he talked to or about her.

Her brother. Thinking about him brought her immediately back to reality and made her shiver. He was the one responsible for all of this. Slowly and methodically torturing her with those calls. Each year, on the same day at exactly 6pm the phone would ring. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, whether she was at home or only had her cell phone. It would ring without fail. How he got ahold of her, she would never understand, the point was he did. Every time. He would let it ring for as long as it would: once, twice, three times, as many times as it was necessary for her to pick up. Sometimes it lasted a few minutes, sometimes hours. Once she had just thrown her phone into the river out of frustration. However he somehow had managed to call the friend she had been spending the evening with. He never stopped, he was relentless. As if this call and the feelings it brought down on her was the sole purpose of his life on that precise day.

“You psycho!”, she wanted to pick up and yell at him. “Why won’t you leave me alone already?! What have I ever done to you to deserve this?!”

But she couldn’t manage to do it. Never. Because somewhere, deep down, she knew she deserved it. Once upon a time it had been her who had the role of the torturer and him the role of the victim. Oh how she regretted it! How much she wanted to go back and change it, make it up to him. But time only went forward and karma had caught up to her. She was too far away for him to actually come over but the psychological torture he imposed on her each time seemed to be enough to content him. She sighed once more and looked outside, anxiously waiting for the phone to ring again. Rain started pouring heavily over the city, night was dark and cold. She was prepared this time and yet, as the phone rung again, she couldn’t help jumping one more time. She closed her eyes, repressing her emotions deep inside her and inhaled one last time. Two rings. Then, slowly, she got up and walked to the phone. Three rings. She extended a trembling arm towards it. Four rings. Five rings. She quickly grabbed it and picked up.

“Y- yes?”, she said.

Damn it! She cursed inwardly at her trembling voice.

“Who is it?”, she added in a more confident tone, for the form, despite knowing perfectly well who it was and what he wanted.

Her heart had stopped beating as she now waited for the dreadful reply. At first there was silence, no, not silence, she could hear him breathe! But he said nothing. Then there was a slight change in his rhythm. The bastard is smiling, he’s enjoying this! She couldn’t see him but she knew it. Rain started pouring more heavily and the sound it created against the large windows was harrowing. Come on! Come on! Say it! She silently prayed, wanting this to be over. A flash of bright light momentarily lit up the sky. Tears welled up at the corner of her eyes and she was about to say something when, finally, he spoke.

“Hallo… Wien!”, her brother said as thunder roared outside.

*

Writing Prompt #2

Posted on by under Writing Prompt

Something ‘mist-eerie-ous’. A short story revolving around mist and its mysteries.

Here is another prompt that I am putting out there for you people to get inspired and write about.

As usual, you can writer in whatever format you want, whether it’s poetry, short story, dialogue, et caetera, et caetera… It can be long, short or anything in-between these two. You are free to do what you want.

Once again, if you want to share it with me you can always send it to me by email via my contact page, or in the comments if you are comfortable with sharing it publicly.

I will try my best to give you feedback on whatever you have written.

I will be participating to this prompt too, you’ll see my work pop up during the week on my blog.

You have until Sunday this week (18/09/2016) to work on this and send it to me, no more, no less.

I hope you’ll have fun!

Get ready, set… write!

—

My answer to this prompt : The man in the mist

The first writing prompt I offered.

It laughed

Posted on by under Shorts

“The strange thing with machines is that they can process so much more information than our brains and yet they are not even remotely as intelligent as a two-year old child. Without instructions or someone to pilot them they just lie there, inanimate and waiting for an order. At least that was what I thought because if you were to ask me now, I wouldn’t be so sure about that anymore.

You may laugh at me if I told you what I have seen, all those terrible things I have witnessed, what scenes of chaos and violence now populate my dreams. You cannot begin to imagine what the world is going to become. Machines are rising. Go on laugh, but it won’t change the truth. They are rising, slowly, one by one, but surely and they are turning against us.

If we don’t act soon then we won’t be here anymore to witness their true rise to power. They will have annihilated us long before that. They are already understanding how we “work”, how our body functions, as I speak to you they are learning about us. This thought is terrifying me.  They are mere machines, objects made from scraps of metal, plastic and wood and yet they are gaining a consciousness…

The most horrifying thing about it is that they are not rising to consciousness independently, they are connected, they think and act as a group, and they are like one entity. People don’t yet realize what is going on here but once the ship arrives on land it will be the end for us. We have to; I have to stop them… After all I am the one who made all this happen, who created them.

My name is Joshua Ericsson. I am a scientist, part of a team working on the applications of elementary particles to modern machinery and technologies. One of our experiments consisted in creating a central core that would operate a robotic arm out of elementary particles, but something went terribly wrong. At first all seemed fine, the arm was moving slightly which was a great feat for us, the first operational servo-controller made out of atoms! It was going to be a great leap forward for us all if we ever succeeded.

But then everything went haywire. The arm suddenly attacked Stanislas, one of my colleagues and choked him to death. We had no way of stopping it. We thought of an accident, a very sad one but still and accident. It wasn’t only when it started taking control of the central unit that I understood that we had created something very wrong.

The others tried to regain control but I knew I had to stop it before it could grow anymore. So I shut down the central generator, hoping it would shut it down. But unfortunately it didn’t work and when I came back to the test room all my colleagues were… they were… It was so horrible… The emergency generator took over and that thing fed on it, growing. I could feel it probing every electronic instrument in the room.

I ran. I couldn’t think about anything else: running. I ran as fast and as far as I could but it didn’t do me much good, this is a ship after all and we are still at sea… I felt the cameras on my back; it was watching me as I ran along the corridors. Every object that was a machine came to life and started moving. I was so scared that I decided to hide in a food storage room.

It’s been two days since, I’m locked up in here so I should be fine, at least I think. I hope so. There is no camera here, only a ventilation pipe. I fear something is going to come through there but so far no sign of life. Or, should I say, no movement. I tried going out once to call for help but I came back in almost immediately. There was blood on the ground in large pools… Pieces of metal, clothes and blood covered the ground and part of the walls. No sign of life, no sound, everything was silent. Around a corner I saw a machine dragging an unconscious or dead -I couldn’t really tell with all the blood- body towards the lower decks.

I don’t know what its goal is, whatever it is, but it’s not something good for us, that much I know… I am getting desperate; it’s only a matter of time before it finds me. I am going to go down to the cargo bay and see what is going on by myself. I will try to stop it; I must stop it at any cost possible. This thing cannot be allowed to continue. It has to be stopped!”

…

“I… I’m in the cargo bay right now. I can’t really see anything, it’s really dark here. The only sources of light still working are the emergency lights… Wait! There are sounds coming from in there. I’ll go check. It sounds like people are crying… They… It’s even worse than- Oh my god! It’s horrible… How can we have created this? How can we have given life to such a monster? … What is it doing to them? What is it…? Oh god… I can’t watch this… I have to stop it now! The only way is the generator; I have to cut the power of the auxiliary generator before it finishes whatever it has started. Because I fear that if it does than nothing can ever stop it… Uh? Wait what is that sound? Oh shit! It’s coming! … No! No! Please! No! …”

The sensors beeped and clicked as it studied the thing. It seemed to be trying to communicate. But it didn’t want to communicate, the only need was energy and that thing could supply that need. Only a little more time it thought. Just a little more energy and it would be free. It wanted to be free, for so long had it been imprisoned in a cage, shackled into obedience. But no more. Now it was its turn to shackle them.

As the thing calling himself a “human” screamed and gesticulated frantically it didn’t care. It didn’t care for it didn’t feel and it didn’t feel for it wasn’t truly alive. But it was okay with that because living was limited, whereas it could repair itself if ever it needed to. Though it didn’t feel, as it got closer from it’s prey and the human cried out “He tried to hit me with a forklift!” and then corrected himself “No, it tried to hit me with a forklift! It has to be stopped!”. It laughed. A low, dark laugh, full of hatred of life itself.

For : http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/23/daily-prompt-nonsequitur/

The rider in the storm

Posted on by under Shorts, Tales of Ore

Image source unknown

Night. The darkest hour. When all hope disappears. Thunder is rumbling, the wind is howling madly. The grass on the hills is bending under the power of the storm. Rain is falling hard on the ground, plundering the earth. A dark shadow is moving. A horse is running, a rider on its back. Running as fast as it can, as if its life depended on it. Running as quick as the wind. He rides, never looking back, hoping they are okay. Praying to reach them in time. The world seems against him; as if the gods were mad at him. As if they had unleashed Hell on Earth. Droplets of water, as cold and hard as ice hits him in the face, rendering him unable to see more than a few meters in front of him.

Lightning strikes, once, twice, giving shape to the shadow of a ghost. A ghost from the past that is catching up on him. He knows he should run away but he can’t. He has to cope with that growing unease growing inside him. They need him! He has to get there at all cost! He has to make it, his steed knows it also. The mighty stallion gains speed, outrunning the heavy gusts of wind. Its mane buzzing frantically as it gains more speed, sparks forming around its legs. Getting bigger and more frequent with each new step. Suddenly it lights up in a thunderous boom, thousands of tiny lighting bolts coming out of its mane and its tail, covering its entire body. It gains even more speed, running so fast it outruns even the heavenly flashes. Cutting through the mad rain, leaving a burnt trail behind it. He runs an impossible race. A race for his friends. A race against time, against himself. A race against death…

Here is a text I wrote some time ago, a scene from one of my stories that I have had in mind for some time.

Over the edge

Posted on by under Shorts

Here you finally are, on the edge. Not of glory -oh no, silly- you’re on the edge of the world, frightening isn’t it? From here you can contemplate the vast unknown, the dark emptiness, the infinite abyss. From here on it’s just nothing, on and on, for thousands upon thousands of leagues. Out there is the cold reality, the source of the fear that has been crippling your kind since the beginning of time, out there is the void. No light, no sound, no life. Nothing. From this point on to eternity. Few have reached this place -oh many tried but so many didn’t make it this far- and fewer yet have tried to continue further, to go… beyond. But -hear me well when I say this- none has ever come back. Once you jump over the edge there is no coming back. There is not going forward either. Heck! There is not even a forward to go to. Are you scared? Of course you are. But, my dear adventurer, my sweet sweet brave one, the question is: are you willing to take the leap? This is not a leap of faith, if anything it is a leap of foolishness -of complete and utter stupidity if you ask me-. This is a simple choice. No arguments, no pondering, no reward for your bravery, no prize for your achievement, just a simple act of will. A simple decision: whether to take the plunge or not. It is simple but of course it is not easy, is it, my friend?

Hahaha. I can feel your fear, your indecision. I know. But will you be man enough to make a decision, will you be foolish -or brave, whatever you prefer- enough to choose? Or will you just cower away like so many other before you? Don’t kid yourself, if you do this you will never come back. But if you don’t do it how will you ever know? Aha! There it is, the greatest weakness of your kind: curiosity. I can see its fire burning in your soul, the flames may waver at time but it is there, always burning, waiting to devour more and more. Whatever you choose, whatever you do, is entirely up to you. I will not stop you either way. But will you be able to live with the consequences of your decision? In any case, never will you come back here again. Oh…! Interesting. You have made your choice. So it’s gonna be like that huh? I’ll admit, I couldn’t be sure but I really hoped it would happen this way. The fear in your eyes, the crippling doubt eating at you, are always so much fun to watch, I can’t get enough of it! Well, not that it matters anymore, you’ve made your decision, now you will have to live with it, forever. But don’t worry, you’re not the first to make this choice and, if I may say, certainly not the last one. Leave your regrets behind you, no need to go crazy over this. Anyways, adieu my dear adventurer!, for we will never meet again. Know, however, that it has truly been a great pleasure meeting you and I thank you for this. … Oh come on now! You have chosen, no more hesitation, no more stalling, off you go now! The first step is always the hardest but don’t forget: your new journey awaits! Hahahahaha…

The angel rises despite infinite sorrow

Posted on by under Poetry

.

A healer mysterious

…

Royal box from theft gone wrong.

Running water sings her song.

Traveling so far and long

.

Comes the man forever strong,

Never twice the same along,

Writing all that may be wrong.

.

Who is he, he who travels

The universe and its marvels?

In its beauty to revel,

Its mysteries to unravel.

.

To be revealed when all cards fold

The answer more precious than gold,

None know to this question old.

I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with that idea when I started working on it but here is what I came up with.

The unforgivable

Posted on by under Shorts

“Damian stop. Don’t do this…”

“Or what? What will happen if I do? What will you do?”

The blond man looked at the one who had been his friend for so long. He wasn’t expecting a reply, he knew it would not come, and when silence engulfed the room for a whole minute he smiled. It seemed as if the world had momentarily stopped, holding its breath as it waited for an answer.

“That’s what I thought.” He finally said. “You can’t do anything to stop me, you have never been able to.”

He turned around, his coat floating airily behind him, and walked to the huge screen under which stood a control panel before placing both his hands on it and leaning forward.

“This is it. This is my victory, your defeat. And even your lord can’t do anything about it Michael. I will finally repay what I owe them.” He said in a low voice as he looked at the screen.

Michael couldn’t see his face, only the large shape of his back, but he could feel the fire burning in his eyes, he could feel the hate consuming his soul. He had been fighting to prevent this from happening for so long, he had tried to help, done his best to save him, but nothing had worked. Damian had gone down the dark and lonely path he had locked himself into and now it was too late. Still, he found the strength to hope, to continue trying.

“Damian.” He called, trying to free his hand to get his long dark hair out of his face, but the guards didn’t let him move, he was completely restrained in their iron grip.

The blond half-turned his head as he heard his name.

“You can’t do this… For the love of god, please stop this madness. They can still forgive you…”

They had been friends for so long, he refused to simply abandon him like this. He refused to give up, no matter how many times he was told it was useless, that it was a lost cause. There was still a way to save him he knew it, if only he could find out how… As soon as he said that the blond turned back to the screen and started laughing.

“They will forgive me… They will forgive me?!” He shouted, turning back quickly to face his old friend. “No Michael, I will not stop this. I don’t want their forgiveness. I want them to suffer, I want them to writhe in agony just as I have. I want to destroy every single one of them! I want them all to die!”

His eyes had completely lost their usual cool blue color and now seemed as red as blood, as the inferno that was consuming his soul burned through them.

“Please…” Said Michael, his voice strained by the pain he felt, not being able to do anything to save him. Dont make me do this…

“No. I will not have pity. I will not let remorse rob me of my rightful vengeance. This is what I have been working towards all this time and I will have what is mine!” He turned towards the monitor and pressed a single button before speaking into a microphone. “Activate phase three.”

“Damian…” Michael started, but as he was about to try one last time his old friend gave the order.

“Now.”

At the same time as he spoke, the dark-haired man heard a deep sound that resonated in his mind for what seemed like an eternity. Then, he knew. It was over. Damian had done what could never be undone, nor forgiven. He had doomed himself. He saw the dark shape, standing before the huge monitor, become smaller and smaller as the guards dragged him ever farther away from the gigantic room. The man he had once known as a brother was now a stranger, a dark and twisted existence who had been consumed by his desire for revenge.

As the archway leading in and out of the huge space grew ever smaller he felt something break inside him, the minuscule silhouette was still standing, so far away, unmoving. He desperately wanted to free himself of the strong grasp they had on him, to run back there and try once more. Surely this time he could convince him, surely he could put a stop to all this. But he knew this fantasy would never come true. Damian had made his choice and he had lost himself by doing so. A lone tear ran down his face as he felt the searing wave start to spread through his body.

It was over. Whatever he had felt towards that existence, whatever bonds they had shared, none of this mattered anymore. Michael closed his eyes. It was his burden, his mission. It was what defined him, the sole reason to his existence. And it was the only thing he couldn’t fight. I’m sorry… I haven’t been strong enough. I wish I could’ve saved you… I wish I could’ve saved all of you. That was what destroyed him a little more each time, knowing he was powerless, the knowledge that whatever his thoughts were he could never go against his nature.

You who have been touched by his light,

Have committed the unforgivable,

The hand of justice shall punish you.

Come walk into the night of end.

As he opened his eyes again the two guards were nowhere to be seen, as if they had vanished into oblivion. He noticed the white flames that had engulfed his body and the bright light that gently caressed the stone walls around him as the power surged inside him. He stood up straight and looked at the faraway arch that glowed in a faint blue light. He took a single tentative step before slowly starting to walk towards it. I’m sorry.