“Fractal Hant” #30 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Day) #30Days

“Fractal Hant” #30

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Day)

#30Days
coppersulfate
You find a strange blue crystal on your driveway one evening while picking up the newspaper.  You take it inside and placed it in a glass of warm water, thinking it to be a nice stone to use in your endless collection of homemade jewelry sitting in your bedroom.  It sits on your window shelf over the kitchen sink for about five days, upon which you, after forgetting its existence, glance up at the glass while washing dishes.   You almost jump back at what you see.

Two crystals now occupy the glass, and two others are now sitting on the shelf.  You pick up the glass, and, using paper towels, scoop up the other crystals, panicking at what seems to be an impossibility.  Each crystal is equal in size and each one now seems to cast a reddish hue when close to each other.  You dump it all into a small plastic bag, including the glass of water.  You dump it all into the green garbage container you’ve already rolled out to the curb for the early morning garbage guys.  It takes four men to lift the garbage container into the truck to dump out the trash.

Kneeling on your couch cushions, you peek through your living room curtains to see them step back at the container’s contents mixing with the neighborhood’s trash:  dozens and dozens of crystals that seem to glow like fireflies.  You close the curtain and slowly stand up, as you turn around to see something you don’t want to see:  a single crystal sitting in the middle of your living room carpet, turning red, then black as it levitates up to the height of your face.

Turn around.

And run.

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“Guardians” #29 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days

“Guardians” #29

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30Days

angels_here
The elevator stood at the far end of the ticketing and refreshments area of Gideon Cinema, a movie theater housed on the seventh floor of Galleria Fantasia.  The room was filled with movie goers eager to depart into the night after being subjected to two hours of non-stop shooting, bombings, exploding body parts, as well as an endless stream of completely gratuitous and unnecessary use of expletives.  For Margo and Jack, the movie was background noise to the real purpose of their presence in the theater, which was discussing strategies for battling the Phorzhicoa and taking back their territory.  The sounds of the movie and the audience’s consumption of sweet and salty junk food masked the telepathic exchange.

Margo and Jack stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the Street Level.  The other moviegoers stood back from the elevator car, staring at Margo and Jack with more than a little trepidation.  The doors slammed shut, and the elevator quietly slipped down the shaft towards the Street Level.  Margo opened her mouth to ask Jack what just happened, but hesitated before closing it  and deciding to wait until leaving the building.

The doors of the elevator opened, and with that, Margo and Jack stepped out onto the marbled floors of the shopping center’s entrance.  A six-year-old boy who had walked a few steps up from his mother pointed to the space behind the couple and giggled, as he said, “Pretty!”  Margo and Jack smiled and waved as they walked past to the exit.

After seeing them walk through the revolving door, the boy turned to his mother and with a smile he said one sentence: “the people behind the boy and girl got wings, Mommy!”

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“Rehab” #27 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days

“Rehab” #27

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30Days
junk
So, I’m on a plane headed to Santa Fe, New Mexico.  Mind you, I’m in my traveler’s coffin, the one with the tacky sky-blue lining and extra pillow to help me sleep (I have neck and back issues).  I don’t want to go, but my vampire posse staged an intervention and threatened to kick me out of the group house and report me to my maker, something I fear more than being homeless in a city known to be hostile to derelict vamps.

My drug of choice is heroin, or more accurately, heroin addicts’ blood.  The first time I got high I was at a party and I ended up feeding on this frat boy who I thought was drunk.  I didn’t realize he’d snorted some heroin/oxy party powder in the kitchen earlier.  I almost puked the blood out the first time, but after a few minutes I felt like I was floating into space.  He didn’t even feel me biting him again, but I was careful not to drain him.  I wanted to keep my drug cow healthy enough to keep me high.

It worked for about two months.  He’d score the drugs, and I’d pay him to let me feed on him after he snorted or injected himself.  Then, after a two month run, the frat boy dropped dead from an overdose.  According to one of his frat mates at the frat house where they found him, he thought he could do more of the drug and not get sick because he believed I was sucking away his addiction.  Maybe I was, but if I did, I ended up with an itch that burned through my core stronger than my urge to drink blood all by itself.  It set my hunger on thermonuclear, and made me a danger to not just humans, but other vampires who smelled like they recently fed on addicts.
opium
When my friends found me I was staying at a motel with a recently deceased prostitute who, like my frat boy supplier, OD’ed after spending two weeks with me on a heroin binge.  He sat on the toilet with a glassy-eyed stare, the needle still stuck in his arm.  I’d already fed on him, but I guess he wanted to top off his waning high to augment what my feeding had done to him.  He looked disappointed, a corpse not happy to be a corpse.  The vamps quietly wrapped him in sheets and dumped him into the river.

Clearly, I am not the only one dealing with this issue:  human junkies have been showing up in ER with gaping bite wounds and severe loss of blood by the dozens over the last six months.  The human authorities still don’t know we exist, but it’s only a matter of time before that changes.  If that happens, the Vampire Council will put me down like a rabid dog for sure. That’s why right now I am packed away in the baggage area, waiting for the plane to land so I can be transported to the vampire rehab facility just outside of Santa Fe.

I hear detox feels like you’re being exposed to the sun.  So not looking forward to that.

No bloody sunscreen.

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“Girlfriend Experience: Part 3” #26 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30days

“Girlfriend Experience: Part 3” #26

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30days

[BREAKING NEWS] Health Alert Network (HAN) CDC EPA Taskforce Issue Public Alert on Genesynthetics’ Bio-Environmental Crisis”
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
by Chris Henner
Lunar Manhattan – Wednesday, 7 November, 2046
(Reuters): Officials with the (HAN) CDC-EPA Taskforce issued a public alert and recommended a complete recall of the Gen-3 through 5 versions of syns manufactured by Genesynthetics, Incorporated in the wake of the recent plant explosion in Greenland, Terra Corporate Republic.  The October accident left 300 plant workers dead or missing, and exposed thousands of Greenland citizens to biochemical toxins that could take well over decades to complete cleanup of the site.  The Taskforce also revealed a potentially devastating obstacle in the removal and detoxification of the soil and water, as well as repairing the now-closed manufacturing plant.

According to the released alert, scientific investigators inspecting the damage discovered poorly maintained storage tanks filled with discarded syn parts and sections which were, upon closer inspection, floating in a dark red, pus-smelling fluid later to be determined as partially biological.  Some of the legs and arms were moving in life-like fashion.  Water Pollution in the Huai River Basin

The investigators also noted several large syn “growths,” where the discarded parts were beginning to merge or grow skin connecting limbs and torsos to each other.  An anonymous source associated with Genesynthetics confirmed this finding, but would not confirm or deny reports of talking heads or mutated syns growing into partial sentience.

Genesynthetics’ popular product Gen-4, widely known as “the Girlfriend Experience” has not been determined to be a chemical or biological hazard.  However, in light of concerns regarding the possibility that these and other syn products may have been manufactured with mutative factors, the Taskforce has strongly recommended that all but two of the Gen syn lines be recalled until further notice. heads

Legal counsel representing Genesynthetics, Incorporated has stated that they will file an injunction to block the recall if it becomes compulsory or if it extends beyond a 60 day inspection of the lines.  The recent recall of 10,000 Gen-4 syns was not mentioned in the alert, but industry experts have suggested an overhaul of the process of the syn approval process at the U.S. Department of Science and Technology (USDST).

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Again Part 3 #25 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days

Again Part 3 #25

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30Days

Fire

The traffic on I-66E was unbearable. Suleena Davis could feel the sweat pooling underneath her in the leather seat she was confined to while sitting in a 2002 Ford Focus. The a/c was fried, and the night air was thick with a fine mist of water and summer bugs. She could feel her throat itch and her nose swell in the mix of humidity and pollen.

 

At 11:58 pm a fog had formed over the I-66/I-495 junction in Northern Virginia, just a few miles out from downtown Washington D.C. Nothing seemed to make sense, least of all the four lanes packed with late night drivers unfortunate enough to be caught in the traffic jam that locked down both sides of the highway. Eighteen-wheelers were lined up in the far right lanes like cattle cars on a railroad on a slow cruise. A steady swarm of fire trucks and police cars, along with black unmarked cars and vans save for a singular flashing blue light continued to make its way towards a yet to be seen accident scene.

 

After simmering in the heat, the traffic began to crawl again on I-66, and miles of cars were squeezed into two lanes, then a single lane. By the time Suleena drove past the incident point the line was in the breakdown lane. As she inched down the highway she noticed the site of the incident was below the piece of I-66 crossing over I-495. An oval-shaped object lay embedded across both lanes of the highway below, while dozens of cars were flipped, crushed or otherwise mangled by what seemed to be an emergency landing. Huge pieces of concrete and soil partially buried the still smoking object.

 

Suleena could see firefighters and police attempting to attend to the wounded who were pulled out of the endless wreckage. She kept looking over to see if anyone or anything had been pulled out of the object, almost running into the car in front of her. With shaky hands, she darted her eyes back to the road in front of her and took the next exit.

 

The news covering the incident made no mention of an object crashing on the highway, but noted an ongoing investigation by the FAA on single engine plane flight paths and safety.

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Follower #20 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days My bank is stalking me.

Follower #20

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30Days

My bank is stalking me.
shadow
I don’t have a credit card with them (though they’ve tried and tried to get me to take one from them), and I don’t overdraw my account.  I don’t owe them money.  They follow me everywhere, monitor my movements around town, listen to my phone calls.  I know my house is watched by them.

When I go to restaurants I see them sitting near my section, monitoring my menu selections and conversations like vultures ready to pounce on a perceived slight or miscalculation in the affordability of the bottle of wine I have selected for my table.  When I mention my plans to travel to my lover they stand over my table, waiting for me to mention an expenditure they have not yet anticipated.  When I hail a taxi, they watch me tell the driver of my destination, calculating the mileage of every trip I make around town.

I cannot shake them off, nor can I complain.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  I’ve even tried to close my account, only to discover to my horror that I cannot do that without restraining order from the court, and that will not happen unless I can verify that I have successfully connected with yet another banking monolith that is just as controlling and obsessive as the one who is now tormenting me with follows, phone calls with meaningless messages, phone calls with heavy breathing, inexplicable interruptions of transactions, and even worse, invasion of my home through virtual presence.  I threw a chair at the binary ghost the first time I saw it, thinking it was a thief or maniac.

From what I understand, most people do not experience such torment from their bank.  Even those human representatives I’ve spoken to say that something in their Supreme System may have taken a personal interest in me, something akin to an obsessive focus normally associated with a human pathology.  An investigator has been dispatched from human management to determine the origin of this “glitch.”  I am hopeful, but uncertain about the outcome of their efforts to contain the power of the machine that owns their bodies and souls.  A resolution cannot come soon enough.  They are escalating, no longer hiding.

A more drastic course of action may be necessary if this does not work.

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Squatter #19 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days

Squatter #19

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30Days

You are breaking the rules.
squatter
You find this squalid space while crawling your way through the remains of the old city not yet submerged into the seawater, desperate to escape the floating shantytown that surrounds the shiny new city like a rusty, filthy ring stuck on a finger too fat to let it slide off.  It’s a fair analogy:  the people who live in this shantytown come via ferry to work as cooks, servants, cleaners, and low-level office workers in New Manhattan, only to float by to makeshift squats, large floating structures made with scraps of metal, styrofoam, and melted plastic.

You are already aware that this building, formerly a factory turned into condos, has been condemned as a harbor for unsavory elements not seen by most humans.  The empty rooms of one of the corner units are mostly empty, save for a mattress crusty with blood and other dried fluids, a chair, a set of drawers, and a beautiful Persian rug that seemed out-of-place.  You find yourself wondering who would leave such a beautiful rug to rot away like that.

You hear whispering in one of the back rooms, telling you that you are not alone, and that if you want to squat here for more than just a night, you need to clean house.  You begin the ritual, a series of chants, smudging, then silent sitting within a circle to draw out and carefully banish each unholy spirit.  You have been told by the beggar-witch who sold you the ritual kit that under no circumstances are you to allow yourself to fall asleep while performing the Zari-koozhari banishing ritual.   The one ritual you have been carefully instructed to follow to the letter in order to fully rid your squat of wretched haunts, spirits, demons, and listener-familiars loyal to the Phorzhicoa is the very same one that you are now breaking as you nod off to sleep in front of the makeshift altar space you just drew.

Your impatience and unwillingness to wait through the night till morning has borne foul fruit.  The candles flicker as your sleeping body is surrounded by a merry band of evil-doers who see you as a gift of sorts, a gift of “food.”  And like so many predators who come upon a tasty meal only to find their competitors there at the same time, these merry entities soon turn on each other, prepared to tear each other apart.  You keep your eyes shut, waiting for the winner to emerge, waiting to banish the one strong enough to destroy the others, but not strong enough to defeat the Word.

You know by morning you are not meant to survive by following the rules.  You start cleaning up the remains of the destroyed, and begin settling into your new home.

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