amazing photo credit, Student Body, to: namesjames
THE WORLD IN RED
The grunts are thick and guttural. They vibrate across my skin, raising goosebumps along with fear so strong I think I’ll pee on myself. It’s been four days since the first corpse reanimated and bit my mom. The virus spread through the research lab like cream cheese on a hot bagel. Okay, so this isn’t the time for jokes or crazy thoughts about food, but my stomach roars. My last meal was dry Cheerios yesterday morning. I think it’s been a whole day. Time has escaped us.
My younger sister, Chloe, and I are the only ones uninfected. Our goal is to make it to the front gates and into the world where we’ll find help and salvation. But getting there has been crazy hard and now Chloe and I are hiding in a metal cubby. I think the creatures’ sense of smell is masked by the steel. I cross my fingers. At least I hope.
Chloe fidgets beside me. It’s pitch black in here. I reach out and lay my hand on her…knee. It reminds her to be still. She’s probably remembering the dead look in Mom’s eyes when they reopened and no longer saw her daughters but food.
I haven’t had time to mourn. I’ve been part kid, part adult. It’s just as well. I’ve a feeling that once I start crying I’ll never stop. Besides making it out of here alive, my thoughts and instincts are solely on keeping Chloe safe. I’m all she has now.
Something thumps against the cabinet door. Grunts are loud and way to close.
I shut my eyes and pray, although I’ve been doing that for four days and nothing’s gone our way yet. One more time. What can it hurt?
They shuffle pass us.
Chloe squeaks like a damn mouse.
I squeeze her knee.
The moans grow closer again.
Shoot, they heard her.
She whimpers, pushing into me.
Anger swells up in my chest. I know she’s only eleven, but she’s not two. Can’t she just sit still and shut up for ten minutes? It was because of her whining that Mom didn’t notice the beast behind her. The reason Mom’s dead.
Banging resonates around us. This section of the lab is just a few feet from the front door. Only inches away from freedom and we’re trapped.
I kick the steel. What does it matter now? They already know we’re here.
Chloe’s sobs grow louder.
Despite my feelings of helplessness and blame, I wrap an arm around her shoulders and draw her closer.
“It’s okay,” I whisper against her hair but don’t believe my words.
Metal screeches and rips like paper right in front of us. Light seeps in and I can make out their mangled faces. They reach for us.
Chloe screams over and over until my ears want to bleed.
I want to punch her hard to make her stop. But she’s not the enemy, or so I keep reminding myself. I kick at them, the scientists, Mom and Dad’s colleagues, like a wild, caged animal. It’s what I’ve become.
It’s a blur as I react. I mentally pull back, trying to figure a way out of this death sentence. If only we could have five minutes to scramble outside.
I slide open the door to my side less than an inch. They’re surrounding us for sure, but they’re slow and stupid. If I could cause a distraction…
Chloe grabs my arm; her fingernails dig into my flesh.
I turn to swat her away and realize a woman in a red dress has her fingers wrapped around Chloe’s ankle, pulling her closer to her ravenous mouth.
The red dress freezes me.
It’s Mom.
My breath catches in my chest until spots blind me and everything spins.
“Emma,” Chloe screams.
I snap out of it and realize they have both her legs now. I grab her arms and pull her toward me. As long as none of them bite her or scratch too deeply, she’ll be fine. Mom called it a virus, but all the viruses I’ve had included a stuffy nose and scratchy throat. They never turned me into a monster.
We struggle back and forth with Chloe as the rope in our tug of war game. Then in a flash, she slips from my grip and stares at me. Tears fill her eyes. We both know the inevitable.
I squirm back into the corner. Numb.
Her screams curdle the air.
Then I realize she’s my distraction. I glance at her and whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I slide open the door more and jump out amidst their bulk. On hands and knees I crawl through their open legs and around their denseness. When I reach some free space, I spring to my feet and race toward the door.
“Chloe,” I whisper again, hoping she knows I love her, that she understands there was nothing I could do to help.
There it is. I lunge for the door, turn the locks and push it open. Rancid air greets me and it takes me a moment to adjust to the blazing sunlight. Then I see it. Not salvation but the end of our world. The front of the building is crawling with the same creatures I just lost my family to.
How can this be?
All hope seeps from me and I know what I must do.
I pull the door shut, turn the locks and make my way to the room Chloe and I shared this weekend, while Mom and Dad worked on their miracle cure.
Inside, I grab my iPod and sit at the desk, my back to the door. I take the photo of the four of us from just last month, all smiling and happy, and place it at the top of my desk. I crank up the music’s volume until I can barely stand it, open my book…and wait.
It won’t take long for them to find me. I’m the last one for them to feast on.
Please don’t let it hurt too much. But even as I ask my last prayer, I know it’s useless. The gut-wrenching screams from the past four days are embedded in my skull. This won’t end pretty. I just hope it doesn’t take long.
Someone brushes up against my left arm.
From the corner of my eye, I spot a red skirt.
© 2011, Jennifer Fischetto
***
photo credit: Ardefin from Morguefile.com
DRAWING 101
by Jennifer Fischetto
There was something about these three statues though. At first, they reminded me of Goldilocks. This statue is too big. This one is too small. But this one is just right. I giggled and didn’t miss a stroke.
A little girl in a red sweater entered my view, but I ignored her. The park was full today. I’d become good at tuning out the children’s wails and whines and the mothers’ chatter.
A gust of wind pushed my curls off my shoulders. It scattered fallen leaves, an empty snack-sized Dorito bag and sand. I blinked, rubbing dirt from my eyes.
“That’s decent, but they don’t look three-dimensional,” said a voice.
I flinched and glanced up. Behind my right shoulder stood a boy, staring at my picture. I held the sketchbook to my chest. “Dude. I didn’t give you permission to look.”
He smirked, walked around the bench and sat beside me. “If it was a secret, you wouldn’t doodle in public.” His smile illuminated, but there was something fake about it.
I scooted over and leaned into the armrest. How rude. I angled my book away from the intruder and looked back to the statues. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d move on to some other preoccupied person.
Wait. Where were the other people? Everyone had vanished. The cries and laughter, the ringing cell phones. It was all gone. How? Why?
He pointed to my page, his fat index finger smudging the medium statue’s head. “If you add some shadow here…”
“Hey!” I jumped up. “What’s your problem?”
He chuckled. “What? It’s not bad. It just needs some…”
“Dimension. Yeah I got it.” I deepened my frown. What was going on?
“Actually, I was going to say ‘emotion’.”
I glared at him from his light golden hair to the tips of his brown boots, peeking from beneath his dark jeans. He was my age, but I’d never seen him in the high school. Maybe he was in college? “That’s stupid. They don’t feel. They’re stone.”
He flashed an all-knowing smile. His light blue eyes sparkled. “Don’t artists use emotion to express themselves?”
I scoffed. “I’m not an artist. I’m in twelfth grade and just want to pass art class.” I tilted my chin toward the sky and got a better look of his chiseled features. Cocky, tall, arrogant, wicked smile, opinionated and muscular. Trouble.
“I disagree. But what do I know?” He winked and my pulse quickened.
One minute he was criticizing my drawing and the next praising? “Who are you?”
He jumped onto the bench and sat along the backrest. “Call me Michael.”
For some reason I felt compelled to say, “I’m Anne.”
“I know.”
Chills raced down my back, raising goose bumps. “Do you go to Piedmont High?” I couldn’t place him in any of my classes.
He jumped off the bench and splashed into the water at the base of the statues.
“I don’t think they want people in there.” I glanced around to see if anyone watched, but still no one was around. The ghost town should’ve bothered me more, but for some reason, I’d felt suddenly at peace.
He held out his hand. “Come on. From here you can get a feel for their dimensions.” Another brilliant smile.
I hesitated but curiosity about the statues as well as Michael won. I laid my fingers against his palm and allowed him to pull me over. Water sloshed around my ankles, soaking my Keds and socks. “So how is up close better?”
He leaned down as if to kiss me, and I gasped.
“Breathe,” he whispered. “It makes the journey less painful.”
I squinted. “What journey?”
“This one.” He placed his other hand, open palm, on the just right one and smirked.
The wind picked up again. This time I saw a black spiral shoot out from the statue’s hood, straight at me. I tried to turn and run but Michael held tight to my hand. “Let go,” I screamed, but it was too late.
The swirl picked me up by my feet, like a tornado and sucked me into the statue.
From inside, I watched the mothers and children return to the park.
© 2010, Jennifer Fischetto
***
Photo credit: The Room By: Trublueboy
Y?
by Jennifer Fischetto
The night’s humidity presses against my skin, thick and heavy. I kick off the sheet covering me. The movement uses all my energy. Too bad it’s not the weather that makes me so lethargic.
My parents have finally used the ‘D’ word. They’re fighting downstairs. Do they even notice I’ve been in bed all day?
Beth texted fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t responded. What’s there to say after your boyfriend dumps you and won’t return your calls?
My cell beeps.
It’s beside my pillow, so I only need to turn my head to read the display. A text from Chad Murray:
stop calling me. this has to end. we’re over.
Tears slip down my face. I manage to lift my hand to type:
y?
What did I do that’s so awful? Last night, we hung out on the beach, just the two of us. He was distant but said he had a lot on his mind. I assumed he was stressing about his history test tomorrow. We didn’t argue. Nothing happened. Then when he drops me off, he says, “We can’t see one another anymore.”
Just like that, with no explanation.
Mom screams, “I don’t care.” Then a door slams and it’s quiet. Complete, blessed silence.
I close my eyes and drift off…
Twenty minutes later, I awake with a strangled gasp. I check my phone.Chad still hasn’t replied. My chest is heavy. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Midnight. In less than eight hours, I’ll see him. Will he pretend nothing’s wrong between us? Just flash a polite smile and sit in the front of class.
On top of all of this, I didn’t study for the history test. I’m a straight A student in this class, and now I’m going to flunk mid-terms.
I roll over and sigh. What a way to start my day too. First period—American history with Mr. Murray.
© 2010, Jennifer Fischetto
***
Photo Credit: MorgueFile.com
RED SHACK
by Jennifer Fischetto
I hurry forward, eager to get out of the freezing temps. When I arrive at the door, it creaks open before I knock.
An old woman with hunched shoulders and a wooden cane widens her eyes. “May I help you, dear?” Her voice is frail and deep.
I push my hood down and try to smile, but my face feels frozen. “I’m sorry to bother you so early. I’m lost and it’s so cold,” I lie. “Can I please use your bathroom?”
Her features soften. Her mouth lifts at the corners, but she doesn’t open it, so the grin comes across as eerie. “Of course, dearie.” She steps back to allow me through.
I hesitate and glance back at the icy, deserted road. This is the first house I’ve seen for miles. It has to be safer inside, at least until I regain feeling in my toes, right?
“Well hurry, dear. You’re letting all the cold in.” She walks into the house, leaving me to shut the door.
The front room is dim but oh so warm, and I rush to the stone fireplace in the center of the far wall. The heat from the roaring flames tickles my fingertips.
“Would you like some soup, dear?” The woman is standing in a small kitchenette filling a bowl with steaming vegetables and broth.
For breakfast? I shrug and walk to the small round table. “I’d love some. Thank you.”
She sets them down, with a chunk of crusty bread. “So tell me, dear, why did you run away from home?”
I stop raising the spoon to my mouth midway and try to act nonchalant. “What do you mean?” How does she know?
She doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead she rips off a hunk of bread. “There’s no other reason a girl your age would be out alone, nearly frozen to death in these parts.”
I put a bite of tender carrots, corn and potato into my mouth. Maybe if I keep chewing I won’t have to answer her questions.
She leans across the table and pats my hand. Her flesh feels dry and scratchy. “It’s okay, dear. You don’t have to tell me why. You aren’t the first young girl to end up on my doorstep.”
I bite into a succulent chunk of chicken. “I’m not?”
“No, the last one is quite delicious, isn’t she? I’m sure you will be too.”
© 2010, Jennifer Fischetto
***
Photo Credit: Kozarevets Story 2 by Pstoev
DAD'S NEW GIRLFRIEND
by Jennifer Fischetto
“Shoot!”
I wipe away the sweat on my forehead with the back of one hand, while steering the rickety old bike with the other. We have to cook this dinner on the hottest day of the summer, right? Sherry couldn’t remember to buy the stinky cheese before she started so she could drive to the store in her air-conditioned car? No, my absentminded sister has to send me. Forget the fact that I’m only twelve and don’t yet drive or that the grocer is too far to walk, even in mild temperatures.
I blow the one strand of hair that isn’t plastered to my skin out of my eyes. The handle bars squeak, as I turn up the driveway, and mutter a silent thank you the rusted bolts didn’t turn to dust and leave me butt first on the pavement on my journey. I slip off the bike, lean it up against the house and examine my leg. The skin isn’t broken and it burns like heck. I grab the package tied to the metal brackets that once held a basket on the back then kick the rear tire.
“Stupid bike! Stupid sister!”
The wooden front steps of the cottage bow beneath my weight. I push open the door and a blast of cool air strikes me. “Blessed AC.”
“Molly? Did you find the Gorgonzola?” Sherry asks from the kitchenette. She’s standing over the stove, stirring in big pot. Her dark blonde hair is pulled back in a loose bun and an apron covers her baby blue sundress. Her skin appears dry, not saturated in sweat. Mixed in with the scent of tomatoes, basil and freshly baked bread is lavender and soap.
She glances at me, taking in my cut-off jean shorts and damp, yellow tank top. “You’re not wearing that, are you?”
I roll my eyes and toss the bag onto the counter. “I’m going to shower.” I head upstairs to the guest room she and I share whenever we spend the summer on the beach with Dad. Every weekend, Thanksgiving and summer since the divorce.
“Dad and his new girlfriend should be here in a bit, so hurry up,” she shouts up to me.
I mimic her words as I peel the clothes off my body and step into the cool shower. I scrub off the thick layer of grime and think about the evening. What if this new girlfriend’s a witch, like the last one that ignored us and trailed her dragon nails up and down Dad’s arm like a tiger in heat? That was the longest four hours of the entire vacation last summer.
The lather spirals down the drain, like the fate of our family, and I shut off the water and grab my towel. Maybe she’ll be sweet and laugh at Dad’s lame jokes, like Mom used to.
I slip the pink sundress Sherry purchased over my head. It fits snug across the bodice and flows smoothly over my hips and stomach. Perfect. She may be a PITA but she takes care of me just like Mom. But when I notice the white kitten heels on the wood floor outside the closet, I grimace. I hate shoes, and if I could run around barefoot all year round, I would. I kick the heels aside and shove my feet into my old but not completely worn pink flip-flops. At least they match!
Before I head back downstairs, I grab the silver framed photo of the four of us from seven Christmases ago off my bedside table. I run a finger over Mom’s rich brown hair and light green eyes. “Love you,” I whisper and put the picture down, facing my pillow.
As I reach the bottom step, Sherry looks up and smiles. “Pretty.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I say but smirk just the same. There’s no reason to get all mushy. “What do you think she’s like?”
Sherry pulls a cookie sheet from the oven and the aroma of garlic and oil waft through the first floor, reminding my stomach of the lone bagel I ate for breakfast. “Dad said she’s smart, pretty and we’ll love her.”
“Of course he said that. He wants us to like her.” I walk to the counter and snatch a slice of cucumber from the salad bowl.
She unwraps the aluminum foil from around the bread. A stream of smoke rises to the ceiling. “He seems to really like her.” She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “He deserves it, Mol. He and Mom divorced six years ago. Mom deserves it too. They’re old and lonely.”
I shudder at the idea of Mom dating. Eww! And what does Sherry know about lonely? She’s seventeen and has had a steady boyfriend since eighth grade. “What else did he say about her? What’s her name? Where’d they meet?”
“He didn’t say. He only mentioned her quick. We’ll find out any minute.” She tosses the garlic bread into a basket and covers it with a linen napkin. “Just give her a chance, okay?”
I suck my teeth. “Yeah, sure.” I’ll do it too, but I won’t like it.
As if on cue, Dad’s car pulls into the driveway and two doors slam shut—the second one like an echo of the first.
Sherry giggles, wipes her hands on a dishrag then pulls off the apron. She hurries toward the door, stands at attention and waves for me to come forward.
I roll my eyes and dutifully walk over. I suck in a breath as the front door opens.
Dad steps inside, his grin as wide as his face, and my heart sinks. He’s happy. I can’t begrudge him of that. What kind of daughter would I be?
“Girls,” he says. “I’d like you to meet my date, Anne.” He winks and steps aside.
Behind him stands a woman in a floral cotton dress. Her dark brown hair’s piled on top of her head, several curls dangling free. She smiles and her green eyes sparkle.
Mom!
© 2010, Jennifer Fischetto
***
Photo Credit: My Charm Luck by Evely Duis
NO MORE TEARS
by Jennifer Fischetto
I narrow my gaze and swallow the lump in my throat. The interior of his car suddenly feels hot and stifling, and I want to run from it screaming. But I can’t. Not until it’s time. “You were with Suzanna.” I don’t need to lean forward and sniff his shirt, her odor is everywhere, but I do anyway. “I can smell her nasty rose perfume. Are you sleeping with her?”
He frowns and shakes his head. “Nah, babe. I just gave her a ride to the mall. Her scent is still in the car.” He takes my hand in his, but I pull back, no longer wanting to feel his rough skin against mine.
I don’t smell her crap on the seat. It’s his shirt that reeks. And I no longer have doubts at what kind of ride he gave her. This isn’t the first time I’ve suspected his infidelity. In the past, I was eager to believe his denials, despite the twitch. Monday’s our one-year anniversary and I love him. Or I did. When he first asked me out, I wasn’t convinced he could give me what I value—a committed, honest relationship. But he proved me wrong with his constant attention and cleverly chosen words, or so I thought.
He agreed to sign a purity pledge with me and I believed he was serious. We exchanged matching necklaces—gold chains with white teardrop pendants, representing the vow we made to wait until we’re married, after high school and college graduations.
I was naïve to believe in him. Despite the constant nagging in the back of my mind, and the rumors that he and Suzanna were hooking up in his car last month, I pushed forward, giving us another chance. Now, third…more like eighth strike and he’s out.
He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and whispers, “I have a special date planned Monday night too. Dinner at the Mariott.”
A hotel? Is he serious?
“And then…”
I place a finger against his lips. I know where this is going and my soul chips—not at what I’m about to lose but at my idiocy. I deserve a guy who cherishes me and my choices, not one that thinks about getting laid all the time.
I lean close, as if I’m going to kiss his neck and place my lips against the chain of his necklace, the cool metal matching the temperature of my heart.
“Oh, baby.” He groans and tilts his head back to allow me better access. He adores when I feather kisses around his Adam’s apple. Little does he know all romantic notions died when he arrived drenched in another girl’s scent.
I lick the chain, tasting the salty sweat of his skin, and wrap my lips around the links. With my tongue, I push the chain to my back teeth, clench tight and close my eyes. A quick, hard yank and the necklace is free, dangling from my mouth. The pendant swings and hits me in the chin, knocking my decision into me with a resounding whack.
“Ow! Whadya do that for?” He rubs the back of his neck, where the chain likely dug into his delicate skin. I hope it hurt like a bitch.
Despite the ache along my jaw, I smile, still clutching the pendant like a rapid dog. “You don’t get any more of my tears.” I swing open the car door, jump out and stride home, each step another good-bye.
© 2010, Jennifer Fischetto
