Weird Menace

It's that time of year again, and I hope you're having a stress-free Thanksgiving whether you celebrate it or not. And if you'd like to support my writing, check out my patreon or buy my poetry book.

        "Rise," you hear a muffled feminine voice order you. 

You struggle to follow the command. Your body is sluggish, and your eyes twitch under your eyelids. Your whole body shivers. You have to get up. You received an order. This feeling of needing to obey runs through your stiff blood.

"Hello...hello? I can see that you've heard me." Two pairs of feet shuffle around you.

"The body should be working fine? It is one of the freshest corpses I have on hand," the masculine voice pauses briefly, "Is it possible that you did the ritual wrong?"

"I shouldn't have, but this is the first time I've done something like this- the eyes just opened!"

Your vision adjusts as you stare above you. The black woman before you has her braids wrapped in a messy ponytail. Her pair of thin-rim glasses slide slowly off her nose as she stares at you. Her lips and white teeth grin in excitement.

The racially ambiguous man on your other side has olive-tan skin. His brown hair seems to have had fingers run through it repeatedly. The edge of a tattoo pokes out because of several undone buttons from his shirt.

Where the hell are you, and who are these people? You try to open your mouth but can't; panic takes over. Your limbs move awkwardly, leaving you to flail about pathetically. The man holds laughter in his eyes as the woman looks on pitifully. Then, with a sigh, she pushes her glasses up.

"Stop. You're going to ruin Remy's hard work. And I don't have the energy to do the ritual again."

Again, your body moves on command and halts in its flailing. You move your body to sit up properly, as lying down feels too vulnerable. Whatever is up with your body, this stranger is responsible and in control of you. You expect fear, but none comes. How could it be when the reason for your current awareness centers on this woman and Remy? You register that the two are talking, but their voices are nothing but a hum. As if the low electrical current running through the lights possesses feminine and masculine components. The fluid noise seeps through the sluggish sparks of brain activity: the world blurs, and focus leaves. You should worry about losing control, but the woman hasn't said you should. So, you won't fret.

"...Hey...hey, pay attention!" her voice breaks through.

Your eyes focus once more, and your head turns to her. Should you've been listening? You haven't been paying attention. But she doesn't seem angry. Remy has apparently been observing your body. However, none of his touches register. Even while looking at him flexing your foot, there's zero sensation. You should feel uncomfortable with a stranger touching you, but you can't.

Remy ends his analysis, "Everything is in order, Elise. The body should last three days, as long as it gets fridge for several hours."

"Thank you, love. It seems like I'll be able to keep my promise," Elise gives Remy a quick kiss, "Now that I got a zombie on my side, it's time to get you some clothes. So come along, undead, get off of the examination table."

Just like that, you're up and off the table. Following behind Elise, you notice that Remy is watching you closely. Despite the harsh stare, you feel nothing. Your brain goes cottony as you follow Elise outside the morgue operation room. In less than five minutes, Elise leads you into a locker room. She quietly hands you a  gray sweatshirt and pants. Ordering you to change out of the hospital gown, she turns around to give you privacy. Picking up the discarded hospital gown, Elise tosses it into a large laundry basket. She tells you to follow her again, and you leave the morgue. The above world bathed in the gentle orange light is different from the sterile white of the underworld. Despite the living going about their day, no one notices an undead among them.

You take notice of your body when you make your way to the parking lot. It's foreign and holds experiences you'll never know. If you could speak, you'd ask Elise who the former owner was. You doubt that the previous host donated their body for possible possession by an alien spirit. That is a type of "science" that isn't government-supported.

"Will you get in the car?" Elise looks amused.

You open the passenger side and duck in. Then you close the car door behind you and buckle up. You have some will over your new body in these small, mundane moments. But you can't be sure that is the case. Only your thoughts are your own, for now at least. Elise starts the car and drives down the less busy street of the city. The windows are cracked open, and the early evening city noise is pleasant. You zone out and allow yourself to be a part of the living again. However, were you ever a living person? You would ask, but you're unable to talk.

"I can tell you got questions. I'll answer some, and others I will be unable to." You feel Elise's eyes briefly flicker towards you.

"The body you're possessing is unclaimed. The departed spirit's body is in good condition. It made it easier for me to call on you to inhabit it. I don't know if you're someone else's spirit or the original owner. I know you're not violent and can only stay in the living world for three days. After your spirit departs from this body, I don't know where your soul goes."

Hearing all this, you don't know what you can do. You can't ask for more details. You don't get any choice of when you'll stop obeying Elise. You have three days back in the living world doing whatever someone else wants. Being undead, you realize, is unfair. To cheat the natural law of the world, you must give up your free will. The rest of the car ride remains silent. Elise focuses on driving to your destination, and you're left to simmer in your thoughts. END.

The Gathering at the Apple Orchard

 Surprise, you get two blog updates back-to-back. I hope you have a good Dia de los Muertos.

    In the chilled autumn air, a gathering commences in the center of an apple orchard. A half-moon hangs above at the 3:00 hour. The morning fog clings to the damp soil, increasing the late-night wet chill. Three masked figures stand apart at ease with each other despite it being their first meeting. It is the tallest masked figure to introduce themselves.

    "Greetings," says the Person in Red.

    "Hello," the Woman in Blue eyes them.

    "Salutations, new friends!" the Man in Yellow grins.

    The Woman in Blue, a native of the local village, questions the two strangers, "Are you both willing to reveal who you are to me?"

    With giddy energy for such a late hour, the Man in Yellow replies, "Why, of course, my dear lady, I am a poet of Vilhilrel. Allow me to familiarize you with my home." Thus, the Yellow Poet speaks of Vilhilrel.

An Ode to Vilhilrel

Nestle, between folds of honeyed wheat fields, is the golden city of Vilhilrel. 

Where regrets stalk doubt-infested wanderers, 

Immortal children swallow falling stars and thus become mortal gods. 

The twin moons compete for the affection of the black sun,

Raising zealous cults dedicated to one of the twin moons. 

The Red Moon Cult paints glittering roads with decapitated red tulips, 

While the Dark Moon Cult rains plucked petals of unstained gardenia. 

But the black sun bleeds the twin moons' affection into the populace of Vilhilrel, 

Guiding a frenzy of living dreams and unconscious daydreams, 

With the whispering winds enchanting a cycle of life and death.

    The Woman in Blue scoffs, "Vilhilrel sounds as believable as the ramblings of a nightmare-scared child."

    "Believable or not, my dear lady, now that you and our red soak friend know of Vilhilrel, you can never unknow it," the Poet in Yellow ends with a giggle. His companions are a part of the fabric of Vilhilrel. He looks to the Person in Red, "My beloved friend in red, could you enlighten us on who you are?"

    The Person in Red slightly bows their head in acknowledgment before answering, "I am the red illness."

    "What are your signs of sickness? I demand to know," the Woman in Blue steps closer to the Red Illness.

    The twinge of fear tickles the ear of the Red Illness. Wanting to divulge the symptoms their presence causes in their victims, they answer, "I start with giving the unfortunate soul hot red hives. Either ointment or ice can temper the unbearable itch. Only scratching themselves raw will do the trick—next, uncontrollable bleeding combined with red, runny eyes. Finally, the eyes crust over because of the eye residue blinding with a wall of red. While continuously bleeding with a low chance of surviving the blood loss." After briefly pausing, the Red Illness turns to the Woman in Blue, "Why did you call for us?"

    "Do you even know why you called us, my dear?" said the Poet in Yellow.

    "I know why I called you both, for I'm the Mourner of the Lost," says the Mourner.

    The Red Illness sneers at her as the Poet in Yellow laughs at her words. As the threat of the early morning comes, the Mourner finds no time to be insulted by the other two. The sickness spreading from village to village is set to doom her old home. Only the embodiment of the disease can answer her questions. The foolish Poet can wander in his nonsense for all she cares.

    The Mourner asks, "Red Illness, will you be plaguing the village this orchard belongs to?"

    "I cannot say," the Red Illness abruptly departs from the orchard.

    The Poet in Yellow spins in as he laughs, "Are you, my dear lady, going to mourn any villagers who die of our dear red disease?"

    Squeezing her hands tightly, "If they are forgotten dead because of sickness. Then I will."

    "Then the tears you shed for the poor forgotten souls will be penned for all of Vilhilrel! Rejoice, as not all newcomers receive such a privileged treatment."

    She huffs, "Tears that I may or may not shed can't be transcribed!"

    He waves her off, "Sorry, all who know of Vilhilrel are subjects for my poetry."

    Horrified by the Poet in Yellow's callous behavior towards her, the Mourner flees from the apple orchard. His taunting laugh chases her.

A Mourner's Tears

Your tears are precious.

Let yourself drown in your red sorrow,

Allow the red illness to take you and your village,

And trap you all in the city of Vilhilrel. END.

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