Robert Wurth

Time Flies…

Published by Robert on January 17, 2020

Well, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve updated this page. Nearly 1.6 million minutes, in fact.

I could say that I’ve been busy. I could talk about the other projects I have going on that are not writing related. But really, it’s just me being pretty terrible about creating a blogging habit.

But I’m trying to work on ways to make myself not only more accountable for my writing, but also for updating this. I’ve started recording a podcast to document my struggles and successes in trying to rewrite my novel.

The podcast will be called In The Third Person. I have two episodes recorded and I’m working on setting up a Patreon page to coincide. Hopefully I’ll have more details for you guys soon…

Story Preview: Accelerate

Published by Robert on May 6, 2016

How about a preview of something I’m currently working on? Let me know what you think…

Accelerate

When I was 8 years old I nearly died.

The reason was because my bedroom door was locked.

It was probably my brother, Charles, who locked it. He was always harassing me like that. Playing pranks or just being the kind of jerk only an older brother can be.

He probably locked it after I went downstairs that morning to leave for school. Mom and dad would think it was my fault. That I did it by being careless and I’d probably get grounded or something.

I stood there in front of the closed door, pissed off and imagining my brother in his own room laughing his damn head off. I just wanted to get in my room. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I wanted to punch Charles in the nose.

But mostly I just wanted in my room.

And then I was.

Somehow I went right through the door. It was like in the movies when someone can turn into a ghost to go through a wall or something.

Only I didn’t exactly turn into a ghost.

Only somehow my right leg didn’t quite make it.

It didn’t hurt. You’d think it would, but it didn’t. I was laying on the floor, naked and surprised and staring at the space where my leg should have been with mild curiosity. When the blood started gushing, though, that’s when I screamed.

The screaming is what saved my life.

My brother and mother rushed to the door and pounded on it. I couldn’t talk I was so freaked out. All I could do was keep shrieking. Blood ran under the door into the hall and they started freaking out, too.

There was a loud thud, then a splintering sound, and the doorframe cracked and splintered as the door swung open. Mom rushed in, took one look and yelled at Charles to call 911. I guess what they say about a mother’s strength was true.

Mom grabbed the blanket off my bed and scrambled to stop the bleeding. She made soothing noises at me, but I could see her entire body shaking with fear.

While Charles spoke into the phone, delivering our address to the operator, his eyes locked onto mine. He looked scared, too, but somehow I could tell that it wasn’t fear of the blood, or that I might die.

It was fear of me.

It was like he knew what I had done. I wasn’t even sure what I had done, but it was like he knew.

That was the moment that everything changed.

My right leg was gone from about midway down my thigh. The rest of the leg couldn’t be saved. In fact, it couldn’t even be found. The paramedics, and later the police, searched my room and then the rest of the house, but turned up nothing. I somehow instinctively knew that they would never find it. It was gone in a way that I lacked the capacity to explain. Just like the clothes I had been wearing before I went through the door.

The next several weeks were hazy. I spent them in the hospital, undergoing surgeries and other procedures to close up the amputation. I existed in a state of semi-consciousness from the pain killers. I remember snippets of comments from the doctors. They couldn’t explain the loss of my leg any more than anyone else. Years later, when I read my medical reports, I learned that what they were most confused about was the complete lack of trauma. None of the tissue or bone was damaged. There were absolutely no signs at all that my leg had been cut off. That’s because it hadn’t been, but they didn’t know that.

While I was in the middle of recovering, our family was going through a crisis greater than just the loss of my leg. The police were investigating my parents. Social Services had stepped in and began legal proceedings to make Charles and I wards of the state. No one accepted the notion that my leg just vanished, because it was impossible. It had to be some kind of child abuse. The police really wanted to charge my parents with a crime. You can’t just have a kid lose a leg without some kind of explanation or accountability. Yet the only evidence was a stump where my right leg used to be.

I knew my parents didn’t do anything. I was responsible for the loss of my leg. Me. But I couldn’t tell anyone that. Who would take the word of an 8 year old kid laying in a hospital bed trying to cope with the loss of a limb?

My entire life was falling apart and all because of one simple fact that I was slowly coming to terms with.

I’m different.

And that moment when I passed through a solid door was the moment I discovered just how different. I was scared at first. Terrified, really. Eventually, though, I’d learn to embrace just how different I am. And get better at it, too.

Eventually I decided to call it “accelerating” myself. I don’t know if that’s the most scientifically accurate way to put it. Then again, I’m not sure science really applies.

The most basic way I can explain it is that I can willfully manipulate my body on a molecular level. By concentrating hard enough, I can cause all of my molecules to accelerate, or vibrate, or something. With a bit more concentration, I can make my molecules “phase” through other groups of molecules, allowing me to pass through solid objects like doors and walls. I also learned to extend my ability, to a limited extent, to other objects that I’m touching. This is how I can now accelerate my artificial leg, or, conveniently, my clothing. Something I couldn’t do back on that day when I was 8.

When I was 20, I learned to control the acceleration to such a degree that I gained the ability to fly. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Remember, guys, you can help support me and this site (and keep it possible for me to keep sharing free stories with you) by donating to the cause.

Don’t Cry War – Chapter 1

Published by Robert on April 14, 2016

Well, I’ve debated about whether or not to do this. Why the hell not?

So here’s the thing. I’ve written not just a short story, but a full novel. I still have a lot of work to do with it. For one thing, I originally wrote it in first person and decided the story wasn’t working. So I’m in the process of converting it to third person. This will allow me to better expand some of the characters and action.

So why am I posting the first chapter?

I’d like some feedback. Please leave comments. Is this something you’d want to read more of? Is something not working? Let me know.

And who knows? I may throw more chapters your way…

Oh, and the title is just a working one at the moment. Not sure I’m 100% sold on it, but I don’t have anything better.

So here goes…

Constant Acceleration

Published by Robert on April 12, 2016

Book_equation

Oh, you know. Just plugging some numbers in to work out some time and distance values when traveling at a constant acceleration of 1.5 times Earth gravity. Which may or may not be a detail of a book I’m working on.

What? This isn’t a typical 1am activity for you?

Test Drive – Part 2

Published by Robert on April 9, 2016

Here is the final installment of Test Drive. Read Part 1 here.

Test Drive

by Robert Wurth

Part 2

For Jonathan, it was love at first sight.

“You gotta be kidding me!” He said. “This has got to cost a fortune!”

“Actually, no.” Said Jack. “Though the technology is radically new, they found an easy way to mass-produce it. Costs a lot less. And they really want to push it here in the American market, so there are some discounts and rebates. You’ll find that the cost is not too far off from most of the other cars we’ve looked at today and that’s with all the options included.”

“What is it? I mean, what’s it called?”

“The name they gave me was Acturian Whiteflame.” Jack said. “But don’t ask, because I have no clue where they got that from. I’ve never heard of Acturian before.”

“Engine?”

Jack didn’t answer; he was staring at the car with an unreadable expression on his face. Jonathan asked again.

“Huh? Oh, engine.” Jack shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “I don’t know. It’s nothing I recognized. All I know is that it’s electric and unlike what you might think, it has lots of power. Lots of power.”

Jonathan leaned down and tried to peer into the driver’s side window, but couldn’t see much through the tinted glass. “Can I get in?”

“Oh, sure. Here, let me unlock it for you.” Jack got down on his knees and reached under the car. It was then that Jonathan noticed that the car lacked door handles. “There’s kind of a trick to it. They wanted to cut down on the wind resistance as much as possible. Every curve and every angle is engineered perfectly. But the handles had to go. The doors open by a pressure sensitive release. For now you have to unlock it from underneath. It’s a little inconvenient, but once you buy it, we’ll program the key fob and the car to your fingerprint and you’ll be able to open the doors automatically.” There was a click and then Jack stood up. He touched the door where a handle would normally be and there was another click, then the gull-wing doors arced gracefully upward. The interior lights came on and Jonathan looked inside, and then slowly lowered himself into the driver’s seat.

The car had only seats for the driver and a passenger. The interior was all black and done in what Jonathan suspected to be expensive leather. The dashboard had absolutely no gauges or buttons of any kind. It was just a flat panel. The steering wheel was small, like what Jonathan was used to seeing in race cars, and it also had a flat black panel in the middle. Air vents were so cleverly designed into dashboard that it took him a moment to recognize them. Even then, Jonathan thought that the way they came to thin points at the center of the dash and slowly flared out toward the edges of the dash made the vents resemble glaring eyes. The center column was barren save for a gear shift with a brushed steel knob.

Jonathan frowned when he saw there weren’t even cup holders. Then again, he thought, why would you want to risk spilling anything in an interior as gorgeous as this?

“Everything on the dash and steering wheel is a situation responsive touch screen. That is, it’ll show you what you need to know for any given situation. Any critical information, such as your speed, is rendered in a holographic display on the windshield. The image shows up right about there.” Jack pointed to a spot right above where the dashboard and windshield met. “This way you never have to take your eyes off the road.” He directed Jonathan’s attention to another area inside the car. “There are no rear-view mirrors inside or out. Instead, anything you need to see either behind or to the sides of the car will show up on the dash or the holographic display. There are zero blind spots. And hell, even if you forget to look before switching lanes, the car doesn’t. Something in your way? It overrides driver input to maintain your lane. It has collision avoidance programming so sophisticated that you couldn’t get into an accident in this thing even if you wanted to. Everything about this car is state of the art!” The sales pitch was over. Now it was up to the man sitting behind the wheel. “Here, start it up.” Jack tossed the keys to Jonathan.

Since first learning to drive, Jonathan figures he had turned the ignition switch on a vehicle thousands of times. The only time he thought much about it was if there was a problem. If the car didn’t start, or made an odd noise. However, this time was different. It was visceral. The car growled when the key was turned. It reminded Jonathan of how a lion might growl with the satisfaction that it alone was king. He giggled in spite of himself.

“Go ahead,” Jack advised. “Take it for a spin.”

“Where should I take her?” Jonathan was unaware he had called the car “her.” He was also unaware that on some level, he was already thinking of it as his.

Jack looked out of the garage and past the rows of cars to the horizon beyond. “Take it anywhere.” Jack shuddered visibly. “Just be back before closing.” This last statement was spoken so softly that Jonathan almost didn’t hear it, almost as if Jack wasn’t speaking to him at all.

Jonathan didn’t think twice when Jack didn’t get in the car with him. He just stepped on the gas and the car left a dual line of rubber on the concrete as it shot from the garage.

Jack left the garage, purposefully leaving the large door open. He walked slowly, dejectedly, back to his office. Once inside the office, he locked the door and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. He unplugged the phone. “I hope you’re happy.” He muttered to no one in particular, then he sat on the couch and buried his face in his hands.

Jonathan hollered, feeling the adrenaline rush through him as the car raced down the highway. The speed indicator hovering spectrally over the steering wheel read one hundred and fifty miles per hour and climbing. The car raced around corners and weaved in and out of traffic without ever slowing down, locked to the ground like a giant, invisible hand was pressing it to the asphalt. It was so responsive that Jonathan almost felt like the car knew when to turn even before he moved the wheel.

He glanced to the rear-view display floating next to his speed indicator and saw red and blue lights flickering insistently from somewhere behind. The rise and fall of a siren could barely be heard over the hum of the Whiteflame’s engine.

“Damn!” Jonathan said as he pounded the steering wheel. He started to raise his foot off the gas in order to slow the car down, but to his astonishment, the numbers on the speedometer continued to climb. Within seconds, the red and blue lights vanished in the distance. Jonathan yelled in excitement. “All right! I love this car!”

He failed to notice that he was sitting ever so slightly lower in the seat as the leather began to embrace him. Had he noticed, he could have easily dismissed the sensation as an effect of the acceleration pressing on him. Had he not been so filled with excitement, he might have also noticed that the car really was responding to the road just slightly ahead of him.

The sun dipped below the horizon and the fluorescent lights came on around the car lot. The harsh, artificial light gave everything a sickly ghost-white appearance. In the distance, two pinpricks of light rounded a bend in the road. A few seconds later, as the dual lights neared the car lot, the shape of the Whiteflame could be seen trailing the headlights. The car pulled into the lot and drove slowly toward the garage. It passed between the rows of parked cars, which seemed to stand like sentinels in the deathly silence.

Jack rose his head when he heard the soft purr of the Whiteflame’s engine. His bloodshot eyes strained to see out the window. “Finally, you’re back.” He rose from the couch and flipped a light switch on the nearby wall, then sat at his desk. The lights in the garage stuttered to life. The Whiteflame crawled toward the garage, but stopped in front of the office window.

Jack opened a drawer and pulled a revolver from within. Reaching in again, he pulled out a box of ammunition and set it on the desk. Looking at the gun, Jack noticed a blemish on the barrel. He untucked his shirt and carefully polished the metal, making it shine once again. He pulled a bullet from the box. He turned the shiny brass casing in his fingertips. It, too, had blemishes and he also polished it until it gleamed. A single tear dropped from his eye and splashed onto his tie, creating a dark spot of wetness.

The metallic click seemed ear-splitting as Jack released the revolver’s cylinder. More tears escaped his eyes as he loaded the single bullet into the gun and snapped the cylinder closed. He pressed the barrel under his chin and paused. He stared at the car outside.

The engine revved.

Defiantly, Jack set his jaw and locked the back the hammer of the gun. The barrel dug into the skin under his chin. His index finger found the trigger.

The engine revved again.

Jack’s hand began to shake. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and made small rivers running down his face. He tried to pull the trigger, but his finger wouldn’t respond. Slowly his hand started to move away from his face, shaking violently as he fought for control. His hand moved over the desk, to the edge, over the edge, and stopped. Jack watched helplessly as his fingers uncurled. The gun fell from his grasp and dropped into the waste basket beside the desk. Then Jack’s entire arm relaxed and fell limp to his side.

The car slowly moved forward to the garage. Lights from the car lot shown through the windows, revealing the empty interior. The car turned and backed into its spot in the garage. The large door rumbled closed.

Jack’s head collapsed onto his desk. His shoulders heaved as he sobbed uncontrollably. His soul felt battered and torn as his sobbing evolved to outright bawling. The car, whatever it really was and wherever it came from, was simply too strong and he was too weak.

It owned him.

At least until it was done with him.

The End.

When I originally wrote this story, back in 1988 or so, I wanted the car to feature other-worldly technology.

Cameras to aid in reversing or seeing blind spots weren’t unknown, but no cars in production at the time used the technology. Likewise, I borrowed the concept of the holographic Heads Up Display from fighter jets, which is a technology also since introduced. Touch screens? Yep. Common now. Touch identification and even accident avoidance are also around.

I’m not saying that I predicted these things. Not by a long shot. I simply used my obsession with technology and science fiction at the time to extrapolate. Terrain avoidance was already a part airplane technology. Why couldn’t that be adapted to cars? Touch screen interfaces were around then, if obscure.

The point being that I wanted the car to seem like something that couldn’t exist at the time. Yet was plausible. I wanted it to seem far more advanced than it should be.

And now? The technology I describe barely seems noteworthy.

This is the danger of science fiction. Ground it too much in the plausible and it quickly becomes outdated.

As for what the car really is… an alien? A Demon? I’ll leave that for you to decide.

If you’d like to read more of my stuff, check here. And if you’re really kind and enjoyed this story, please consider a donation:

Kill Characters, Not Trust With The Audience

Published by Robert on April 8, 2016

Want to know how to disappoint and enrage your audience? The Walking Dead just gave a master class in just how to accomplish this.

I’ll be talking about the latest season finale of show. Technically, this calls for spoiler alerts. But it also doesn’t. The reason for this is that the makers of the show have been flat out lying to the audience all season.

Here’s the thing. We were told that a new villain would be introduced. Negan (played by the always cool Jeffrey Dean Morgan).

To fans of just the show, this wasn’t much in the way of news. To fans of the comics, this was huge.

Negan’s introduction in the comics was brutal. He had the protagonists captured, and the very first thing he does is savagely beat Glenn to death with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. It’s sudden. It’s horrifying. And it solidifies Negan as a force to be reckoned with.

We were teased all season long that this is exactly the introduction Negan will get in the show. We were told that his arrival will result in the immediate death of a major character. Glenn? Not necessarily. The writers said they were taking a “hard turn” from the comics, heavily implying that ANY character was up for grabs on the chopping block.

As the season chugged along, it was apparent that they were planning to hold back this potentially iconic moment for the show until the very end. Hit the audience with a gut punch and then make them wait for season 7.

So the day finally arrives. The Last Day On Earth is the season finale, and the main characters are put through the ringer (in which each series of setbacks seems more implausible than the last the more you think on it, but that’s beside the point).

Test Drive – Part 1

Published by Robert on April 8, 2016

So what do you say I post another story?

This one is pretty old. The original draft was written back in high school (approximately 197 years ago, for those keeping score). I decided to submit it to the annual student magazine, where it was judged by a literary professor at the University of Nebraska – Lincoln.

I’m not certain how, but it took first place. This fact is even more strange when you consider that due to an unfortunate error in the editing process, a full three paragraphs of my story was accidentally omitted from the magazine. Maybe I should have taken this as a sign regarding how I should edit my stories? I don’t know.

I do know that I had always felt the writing was a bit clumsy, so I really was honestly shocked when it won.

It’s pretty much been sitting in my files, confined to a darker corner for punishment, banishment, or maybe just to keep some of my other weird ideas company. After firing up this blog, I had the notion to bring it into the light, polish up the prose a bit, update a few things here and there, and toss it at you guys to see what you think.

I might have more to say about it later. Things that shouldn’t be said before you read it. So see you on the other side…

Test Drive

by Robert Wurth

Part 1

“That one,” said the voice.

“No. That’ll be the third one this month. That’s too many, too soon.”

There was a pause. “I said that one.” The voice grumbled in anger. Then followed silence in the small office save for the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.

Jack Krander threw his hands up in defeat. “Whatever,” he said with a sigh. He turned and glanced out of his office window. He could see a man standing out there casually looking at the cars. “You know,” Jack said without turning from the window. “Missing persons reports are piling up.” The voice did not respond. “Won’t be long before the police make some kind of connection and start asking questions.” He turned and glared at the small intercom box on his desk. Still the voice did not respond. “All right,” Jack said at last. “But this is it! No more for awhile.”

Jack’s face contorted with expressions mirroring the anger and desperation wrestling for control in his mind. He stalked to his office door and grasped the doorknob. He hesitated before turning it, allowing himself a few seconds to compose himself. By the time Jack stepped out of his office, his professionalism took over and a large salesman’s grin, a grin that he certainly didn’t feel, spread across his face. As he walked between the rows of cars, he studied the man who had wandered onto his car lot.

The man looked to be in his mid-thirties. He seemed relatively fit, but signs of sitting at a desk all day long, or possibly a few too many beers after work, were showing in his gut. His haircut was stylish and expensive and was almost successful at hiding a slightly receding hairline. The man wore a tailored business suit, but looked uncomfortable in it, as though it were a new addition to his persona.

Jack had the man sized up almost instantly. That was his gift. He was very observant and could read people easily. It helped to make him a very successful salesman, and lately it made him a rather successful…he didn’t entertain that thought any further.

The man was alone. Jack’s sharp eyes noted that not only was there no ring on his left hand, but not even the tell-tale tan line he so often saw when potential customers were walking down the row of sportier models. He had a girlfriend perhaps, but no wife. That didn’t do much to help Jack’s mood, but at least it was something.

There was a quality to Jonathan Morris’s demeanor that was not unlike a sixteen year old waiting to receive his first driver’s license. However Jonathan’s day had managed to soar far beyond the adolescent milestone of legal driving. He had achieved what he considered his pinnacle. The Big One was his. The boss had just informed him this morning that the position of Executive Advertising Director was his if he wanted it. Hell yes, he wanted it. With this position, Jonathan finally became one of the Higher-Ups.

If the corner office and executive parking space weren’t enough to put a grin on his face, the six figure salary certainly was. But that 15 year old heap he drove, the one with the cracked windshield, the one that occasionally left a dark spot on the concrete after he pulled away, it just wouldn’t do for that new parking spot.

As he looked over a newer model sports coup, Jonathan noticed the salesman walking toward him. He felt a momentary twinge of revulsion and then a half grin formed on his lips. He decided with amusement that not even a car salesman could dampen his mood today.

Jonathan suddenly found himself confronted with an out-thrust hand and a large toothy smile. “Jack Krander,” said the owner of the smile. “You are…?”

“Jonathan. Jonathan Morris.” Jonathan gripped Jack’s hand and shook it firmly. He noticed that the salesman’s hand felt slightly clammy.

“Good to meet you, Jon,” said Jack. He nodded at the car Jonathan had been eying. “I see you’ve found one of my favorites. Are you looking to get into something new?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking about it. Something sporty, maybe.”

“You came to the right place.” Jack’s voice was shaky. He put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and ushered him away from the car. “This one is nice, but I think I want to show you a few other things first. Maybe we’ll get back to this one.”

Jonathan thought he noticed Jack looking over his shoulder a few times as they walked. Something was definitely strange about this salesman, but he tried to dismiss the thought. After all, he admittedly didn’t have a lot of experience with them. Maybe they were all a little odd like this.

“So Jon, let me guess,” Jack said. “You got a new promotion?” The statement was blunt and forced. Even Jack cringed as soon as the words had escaped him. He was pretty sure Jonathan didn’t see it.

Jonathan blinked several times. “Uh, yeah.” He felt more than a little bewildered at the man he was walking with. The salesman’s words were what he expected. His demeanor was not.

“Good for you!” Jack steered them down another aisle of cars, these slightly higher end than the row of cars they just came from. “I’m sure you’ll find something to catch your interests here. We’ve got many sporty models, including some hot, new foreign jobs.” They stopped at a small, red convertible. “Here is a good car, Jon…” Jack fell into a fairly routine sales pitch. His voice seemed to steady the more he talked and almost as if he realized this, he didn’t stop talking for many long minutes. He moved the two of them from one car to another.

Jonathan stifled a yawn and shuffled his feet. They were in front of the fifth car. “These are all nice cars, but none of them do anything for me,” he finally said, interrupting Jack. In point of fact, the second car had really appealed to him, but he hadn’t been able to get a word in to say so. Now he just wanted to find a way to gracefully exit the dealership.

Picking up finally on Jonathan’s boredom, Jack leaned close in mock secrecy. “I hate to say it, but I agree with you.” Jack looked around as if to make sure no one was listening in. “It’s my job to sell you one of these wrecks.” He said as he started them walking in a new direction. “But if you’ll just give me another few minutes, I do have something interesting over this way.” His voice became slightly unsteady again and Jonathan thought he noticed a few beads of sweat on the salesman’s forehead. “I didn’t really want to show this yet because we just got it in last week.” Jonathan saw that they were approaching a garage.

“You see,” Jack explained, “this thing just came in from Europe. It’s about as new as you can get. In fact, it’s the only one in this part of the country.” He paused while he fumbled with the keypad on the garage door. “In other words, it’ll provide plenty of bragging rights to whoever buys it.” He winked at Jonathan. The gesture seemed clumsy and staged.

The door squealed as the chain of the opener raised it. “Technology-wise, we don’t have anything like it here,” he continued. “But I guess they’ve already started selling them in France and some areas of Germany. Anyway, I don’t really know all of the tech-stuff, but it drives — well, you’ll just have to see that for yourself.” The two men stepped into darkness. “Just a sec…” Jack said as he reached for the light switch.

After the fluorescent lights flickered on, Jonathan got his first glimpse of it. To him, it looked as if someone had mixed the DNA of a Lamborghini and a stealth fighter. It was as if the designers had taken the fastest, meanest and sexiest elements of every exotic car Jonathan had ever seen and molded them in to one.

The body of it was a dark, metallic gray with teal accents that stood out in such stark contrast that they appeared to glow. The entire car gleamed wickedly in the artificial light. The front end appeared to sit slightly lower than the rear, making the car look like a predator about to lunge. The front end had both curves and sharp angles that made it look like a sneering beast baring fangs. Massive air scoops on the sides were ready to greedily suck oxygen to fuel what could only be a ridiculous amount of power and speed.

To be continued…

Hunger – Part 3

Published by Robert on April 2, 2016

Here is Part 3 (and the final intallment) of Hunger.

Read Part 1 here.

Read Part 2 here.

Hunger

by Robert Wurth

Part 3

Hunger.

All consuming hunger.

The hunger is pain like jagged metal being twisted in my gut. It is a continuous shriek in my brain.

Darkness lifts and I can see.

I’m alive. I have no idea how, but I am.

I’m in a tunnel, deep inside my mind. The world is so far away. My face is pressing against the floor but I can’t feel it. The gun is in front of me, still where it fell when I dropped it. The black hole of the barrel stares at me impassively, waiting.

Perhaps it’s not too late.

I reach for the gun, but nothing happens. My arm doesn’t move. I try harder to will the limb to do something, twitch, anything, but it does no good. Am I paralyzed? Did something break when I fell?

The hunger!

It is like a living thing inside of me, trying to claw and rip its way out. The only thing I can feel is the hunger. I still can’t even feel the hard floor under my body.

The world begins to shake and everything moves around me. I have no idea what’s going on, but then I realize that I am the one moving. My head lifts from the floor as my arms prop them up. I don’t recall making this happen. I try again to reach for the gun, putting every effort I can imagine into it. My right arm buckles. I think I did this, but it causes me to lose my balance and my shoulder slams into the dresser.

Undeterred, my body once more pulls itself up from the floor.

Something vaguely familiar tickles the edges of my senses. By the time my body is standing, I’ve recognized the sensation. It is a smell. Tammy. Oh, my dear Tammy. The hunger flairs angrily at the smell, drowning out coherent thought. My body starts walking toward the bedroom doorway.

I fight to reclaim my thoughts and suddenly a glimmer of understanding floods into my mind.

Oh, God no! This can’t be happening! How am I still here? The me that can think and reason? How can I be trapped inside this thing that used to be my body?

I try to scream, to yell out some kind of warning, but my vocal cords won’t work. I look feebly back at the gun on the floor, but it’s too late and I’m out of the bedroom and rapidly approaching the head of the stairs. I can hear clattering in the kitchen. Tammy is still cooking dinner.

I’m half way down the stairs. The smell is stronger, intoxicating and burning in my nostrils, exciting the hunger into a frenzy. It isn’t the scent of the cooking food. That doesn’t even register in my mind. It’s the scent of flesh. It’s overwhelming, as though not just my nose, but every pore in my body is taking it in. Saliva fills my mouth, overflowing and running down my chin. So badly do I want to eat.

NO!

I won’t do this!

I have to stop!

Somehow, I have to go back up the stairs and get that pistol. I have to find the strength to use it. I focus everything that’s left of me on turning myself around and going back up the stairs.

My leg fumbles on the next step, missing it. My body stumbles and I hit the wall, almost falling. Mentally, I gasp from the effort and lose my concentration. My body recovers faster than I do and resumes its march down the steps. I need to try harder.

I’m at the bottom of the stairs. The kitchen is only just down the hall, behind a swinging door. I bear down and force the smell and the hunger out of my mind and think only of my legs.

My body stumbles and lurches. It’s working! I’m fighting for control. I’m still moving toward the kitchen, but the progress has become laborious as I fight for control of my legs. Every footstep is an epic battle of my will against unbearable instinct. My arms swing lifelessly and the world tilts as my head falls limp.

My forehead smashes into the swinging door, pushing it open and I stumble into the kitchen.

Tammy’s scent assaults me like a psychic hand grenade exploding in my consciousness. All of my efforts to fight dissolve instantly against the glorious smell of flesh. Tammy looks up and she instantly knows. She screams and reaches for her gun on the counter, but she’s too late. Snapped from my struggle, my body rushes forward. I’m on her in a flash and helpless to stop myself. I hit her and my momentum carries us onto the kitchen table. It collapses under the weight of the both of us and we slam into the ground.

Tammy struggles to get away, but my body is too strong for her, the hunger giving it willpower that doesn’t care if muscles and bone are stressed to the breaking point. I hold her to the ground. I can hear noises and shouts from the basement. The commotion must have alerted the others.

It doesn’t matter.

Only the hunger matters.

I have Tammy pinned completely and I can see the terror in the whites of her eyes. I love her so much. My head lowers toward her neck. She looks like she is screaming, but the only thing I can hear is a pulsating rushing in my ears that I imagine is the sound of the delicious blood coursing through her body.

No! No! No! No! No!

Tammy!

NO!

I want to scream, I want to stop, but I can’t.

The hunger is in total control, and something deep inside of me craves the flesh more than anything in the world. I am so close that Tammy screams directly in my ear, and this time I hear it, but it can’t drown out the call of the hunger. Then suddenly Tammy’s scream is cut off and replaced by a rasping gurgle.

The flesh is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. Satisfaction so pure that I’ve never experienced anything like it. Complete ecstasy. My eyes roll back and close and the last thing I see is Tammy’s ruined throat.

I have become the hunger and I relish in the flesh. I crave it the way a flame craves oxygen. Warm blood and tissue slide down my throat and all I want is more.

There are noises behind me now. I hear shouts and screams, but I can no longer understand them. Eyes still closed, I bend down for more flesh. There is a metallic ka-chunk sound that seems vaguely familiar, then a shout that sounds something like “do it,” but I have no idea what that means.

I ignore the noises and sink my teeth once more into the glorious flesh.

There is a blinding flash and then the black hole finally, mercifully consumes me.

– The End –

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Hunger – Part 2

Published by Robert on April 1, 2016

Here is part 2 of my story, “Hunger.” You can read part 1 here.

Hunger

by Robert Wurth

Part 2

I sat on the edge of the bed, lightly sobbing and holding my spare pistol. I felt feverish and there was a burning sensation that had traveled up my bitten arm and into my chest.

The gun felt bigger in my hands than normal and much, much heavier. I knew what I needed to do, but that was so much easier said than done. The irony was that we were always filled with so much bravado about it all. Everyone says, “I ain’t going out like that, man. If I get infected, I’ll punch my own ticket!” But you know what? In the two years since all of this started, I’ve never seen anyone muster up the guts to do it themselves.

I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to.

There was no such thing as a cure. There was no such thing as hope. Sitting on the bed, holding my only salvation in the entire world in my hand, I felt helpless.

I could already feel the burning moving down into my legs and up to my neck.

Jesus! Two years! I had made it two years!

We had been steadily moving across the country and thought we had finally worked out a good system. It had been six months since we lost anyone and we figured that in another couple of months we’d be far enough up into Alaska that we could use the cold and altitude to keep them away.

Tammy had even begun to talk about a family and I was almost on board with the idea.

Funny how much things have changed and so quickly. Before all of this, I had a wife and a baby girl. We had dated for four years before getting married, and even then weren’t sure we wanted kids until it happened. If Jen had told me she wanted a baby three months into our relationship, I’d have left skid marks out the door.

Now? Three months together felt like years, and when Tammy brought it up my only concern was to tell her we should wait until Alaska.

It was all so close. So fucking close.

The gun taunted me. It started shaking excitedly, like it was coming to life and was going to fly into the air and shoot me itself. Then I realized it was really my hand that was shaking.

My thoughts were getting fuzzy and scrambled. If I turned my head quickly, the world struggled to catch up, not unlike the buzz of a few too many drinks.

I turned the barrel of the pistol to face me. The opening was like a black hole, offering to swallow me up and take me to freedom. I watched the black hole grow bigger and bigger as my hand brought the gun closer to my head.

I wondered if it would hurt.

It couldn’t possibly hurt more than the burning inside of me.

I thought I could see Tammy’s face waiting for me deep down inside that black hole. It wasn’t fair. I loved her so much. If I was being brutally honest, I still barely knew her. I didn’t even know her middle name for fuck’s sake. But I loved her. That much I knew. I wish I had known her before, when the world was real. Before it was a nightmare.

My finger slid onto the trigger like it had done a thousand times before. But this wasn’t like before. My senses felt strangely heightened. I imagined I could feel every peak and valley of the trigger’s textured steel. My thumb pulled the hammer back and the trigger moved slightly in response. All it required now was the slightest feather touch. Just a gentle squeeze, not even enough pressure to whiten my fingernail, and that black hole would explode and suck me inside forever.

The gun started to shake again. It wasn’t just my hand this time, but my whole body was trembling. The pain was getting worse. It seemed like I was suddenly in a tunnel and I squeezed my eyes shut several times to try to clear my vision. It didn’t help. There was a terrible ringing in my ears, getting louder every second.

I felt the gun slip from my hands. It seemed like the world was in slow motion and I watched my last hope for salvation tumble in the air as it fell further and further from me. “No!” I cried, but my voice sounded distant and drowned out by the ringing. I’m not even certain if I actually said it or just thought it.

The gun hit the hard wood floor and I had a fleeting hope that it would discharge anyway and manage to complete its mission. It merely skittered across the room and came to rest by the dresser.

I tried to reach for it, but my arm wouldn’t work the way I wanted it to. I felt like screaming, but I couldn’t breathe. I leaned forward. My balance faltered and I started to fall off the bed. With my arms no longer working, I couldn’t break the fall. I did manage to turn my head at the last instant and my left cheek cracked hard onto the floor. I knew it should have hurt like hell, but agony of the burning inside of me overruled any outside pain.

I opened my eyes and saw the black hole staring back at me. The gun was mere inches from my face, but it might as well have been a thousand miles. I couldn’t reach it. Maybe I no longer needed to. My vision was darkening. I didn’t need to go to the black hole. It was coming for me.

Everything went black.

To be continued…

On Characters

Published by Robert on April 1, 2016

Let’s talk about character development. Let’s do it by talking about Superman.

Superman is a divisive character. It seems like people either love him or hate him.

With the latest high profile incarnations of Superman in Superman Returns and more recently Man of Steel and Batman v Superman, I feel like the hate crowd is tipping the scale. I can’t say that I blame them.

The problem as I see it is that no one in charge of making those films really fully understands the character. And if they don’t understand who Superman is, how is the audience supposed to?

One thing any writer must do is KNOW the characters they are writing about. It’s vital to know what makes them tick, what makes them do what they do. This understanding helps to make the characters seem vivid and real. It helps to foster the illusion that these are living entities who have had full lives.

But it also keeps the characters consistent.

An audience might not really connect with an underdeveloped, flimsy character. They will actively revolt against a character that fundamentally shifts away from the very characteristics that they were built upon.

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