I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 35 - Chop Suey

Why are you doing this to yourself? She asks with a soft whisper in my ear, holding my head in her arms. Who cares? I raise my head. I care. It unsettles me to not know these things. I can’t function without knowing this. But why? She interrupts. Because I need to know, no, I need to feel that I am doing better, am being better. She takes a step back. What do you mean doing better? I need to know that I am doing and that I am doing it the right way. I don’t know how to explain the void that is in my heart when I have to think or do something that has no answer. I need to feel like I’ve done something right. Because I’ve done things… I’ve done many things. Whether they failed or not, it didn’t feel like they mattered if they were the right or wrong thing. And I hate it. I despise it. I want to do better. I want to leave some wisdom behind. Something of value to someone. My son or daughter, the reader that reads whatever I write, the love of my life that listens to what I have to say… To anyone that accepts to even hear me for that matter.

Stop it! Stop putting so much pressure on yourself. You’re not a super man. You are not a hero of all. You’re you. And you have to accept that it’s fine that you are you. She says whilst hugging me. I know, I say as I push her back. I know all that. But I can’t forgive myself if I won’t find out the answer. I know I can find the answer to this. Imagine if you could answer questions that irked humanity for thousands of years and solve frustrations, problems, wouldn’t you do it? Of course, you would. Any sane, decent person would. But most give up. Most surrender. They flee. Because there’s responsibility. Accountability from the future already judging them or worse, mocking them if they were wrong. Look at all these fallen greats, people we worshiped once now forgotten. Any wisdom they might have had thrown out the window because they once said something that was proven wrong by time and advancements. Each generation that comes after us will judge us. I already feel horrible for how I’ve been until now. I don’t need any more of that.

I get it. But why are you torturing yourself with answers that need not be? I take another step back. Because they are needed. People don’t have them. They must be needed. Think about it. All these things we are frustrated about, simply accepting them as a natural order or whatever, do us no good. When you hit yourself on unsatisfactory answer after unsatisfactory answer it is simply so UGH! I can’t fucking deal with it. What the fuck is the point of being if you can’t solve problems that have an answer, because it’s just there. You just have to look at it, work at it and then simply get it. Why can’t people simply be decent? Not good, decent. If people were decent, none of this wouldn’t be a problem. And yes, you can say that if I discover some answers, I might go down in history or something. But that’s simply being delusional or worse, an asshole. And that defeats the purpose of everything I just said. I’m exhausted. I am tired. I don’t know what the fuck to do anymore… Help me…

If you liked this chapter of the short story I Write Sins… don’t forget to like it, share it, comment with your opinion down in the comments. And if you want to help keep these short stories free, you can always help by donating at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 34 - Dream On

I’ve been having these vivid, almost realistic dreams where I couldn’t tell one apart from the other. She looks at me, waiting… I don’t know what you expect me to tell you. They are frightening. The sensations, I can feel everything in those dreams. The smell, the touch, the texture, the taste, I can describe everything to you in way too many details. And I don’t know why. I don’t know why the dreams feel like that. And the nightmares are worse… She pauses and looks at me once more. I don’t know what to make of it. They say that when you dream of strangers, it’s because you met them recently. She interrupts. I heard something like that too. Certain face imprint in your subconscious when you find them attractive or bizarre. I nod. Yeah, something like that. But what I don’t understand is what is wrong with me? Why am I having those dreams? She once more turns towards me. I have some ideas, but they’re insignificant or plain dumb to be real in some sense. Either that, or I believe myself to be better than what I think the problem is. Deny myself human flaws.

She starts laughing. Or, if I may suggest this, you are overthinking it. We each have desires and wants. But as long as we don’t act on them or we don’t take them too far, I think we’re okay, as humans, in general. I turn towards her. Sure, but what does it say about you? What does it say about how you feel? What you think? How you are as a human, if… They’re dreams, she quickly interjects. You can judge yourself by dreams. Yes you can, I say as I look at her with a disgruntled face. That’s stupid. No one will ever do that. People barely judge themselves by their conscious actions. You are being unreasonable for no reason. I don’t care about others, I say as I get up from the table. We are not people… I don’t care about people. I care about me and everything that is beyond whatever anyone thinks. And that’s why everyone thinks you’re an asshole, she shouts. I don’t care what they think. They are worse than I am! And I want to be better, way better than they are!

Dreams are the projection of our mind in some for, be it conscious or not. And it matters. It has to matter. She turns towards me. Only because you want it to matter. Not that it does. Yes it does, I interrupt her. Listen, if you are smoking one cigarette every single day, at one point you are going to start smoking more and more without knowing it. Why? Because you normalize it! The same thing goes with dreams. If you choose to normalize whatever shitty behavior you have in your mind, you are going to act on it at some point. It basically building courage to do the thing you want to, no matter how bad or immoral it may be. As long as you can justify it to yourself, then everything is okay. I believe it’s the same sort of bias, where if you do something good, you allow yourself to do something bad to balance things out. So, if you’re unhappy, let’s say in your relationship, and you justify cheating by saying you put up with me as being a good thing, then you will simply do it. Which is fucked… And I hate it… She stands up, stops me in my tracks…

If you liked this chapter of the short story I Write Sins… Not Tragedies, don’t forget to like it, share it and tell me your opinion about what dreams say about you in the comments. And if you want to help more and to keep these short stories free, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

Three Strings And A Lie - The Pilot Program 2020

Welcome to The Pilot Program 2020 once more for the short story of August. Every month I write a new short story which you can read, like, share, comment on. And in doing so, you cast your vote to choose what I will write as a short story series for the next year. Three Strings And A Lie is the 8th short story of this year. Hope you like it and don’t forget to check out previous entries in this series.

He died alone in a room in the basement of his mansion. No windows, one way out, and three people in the whole house. Quickly interrupted by a snarky voice. Yes, but you could argue that we are five. If you include the deceased. He turns whilst rubbing his beard. Yes, of course. And we will be a few more once the police arrive. But there were only the three of you and a dead body in a nasty smelling room by the time I got here… Lady or Miss… Now tell me, he starts walking up the stairs looking her in the eyes, how could Mister Deceased over there have died? With the same snarky tone she continues. Like how should I know? Isn’t it why you are here? He smiles as his hand leaves his beard. Indeed, he starts whistling as he goes up the stairs and into the hallway. Come on. What are you still doing there? Want to burn your nose hairs? Besides, he is not going to come back to life if you continue to stare at him. The three follow him into the hallway. Who found him? The snarky voice spoke once more… We three did. We smelled something horrid and came to the source. He starts scratching his beard once more. Where’s a place we can sit, ponder and mourn Mister Departed? A young man points him to the right. The living room is this way. He chuckles. Something rather funny? Some joke? The snarky voice asks once more. No. Pardon me.

Excuse my rashness, but do any of you know how the man died? They shake their heads. So, you found him simply lying there face down in that room. They all say yes calmly one after the other. Then might any of you know why he had no shirt on? They once more shake their heads. Lady… Miss… Beth. Where were you today? She turns red. I wasn’t at home, to put it bluntly. He chuckles. Anything funny? She asks. No. Please, continue. She takes a deep breath. I was on a date. He takes a closer look at her. Dressed like that? She rolls her eyes at him. Yes. Do we have a problem with trousers? They are comfortable. He takes a step back. No. Actually, I’d prefer it. Easier to commit the murder, wouldn’t you say? She scoffs. Yes, just as easy as him wearing slippers or him wearing those weird brown shoes. He turns curiously and looks closely at the slippers. What are you doing in those at this hour? Mister I-Don’t-Know. He scratches his head. Otto is my name. I just woke up. He starts playing with his beard again. Just now? What are you doing for a living? Otto takes a step back. Copywriting, and I don’t know. He nods and turns his attention towards the brown shoes. And you? He looks up at him. Andrew. I was… Working. Turning towards Beth and Otto as they shrug. What exactly are you working? He sighs. I can’t explain it properly. It’s a lot of things in one job. The title is meaningless, it’s there just for tax purposes. It’s an office job, simply put. Pepper scratches his head. Do you have a limp, Andrew? Confused by the questions he shakes his head, putting one leg over the other.

Now… That we have introduced ourselves and what we did today. The snarky voice once more interrupts him. But we didn’t. I still don’t know your name, mister… With a smile he takes a step back once more. My name is Pepper. I thought you’d know. Since Mister Deceased somehow, invited me here today with an open letter. Beth and Andrew stand up. What? We thought you were a detective with the police. He puts his hands out. Now, now. Calm down. There is a dead man in a suspiciously empty basement with no windows that sent me a letter knowing he would die today. How and why? Otto. He turns towards Pepper. We emptied the basement last week. We always wanted to do it, but never got around to it, so after two weeks of looking through stuff, we finally did it. But we couldn’t agree what to do with it, so we left it like that. He nods. Beth. She sits down. I don’t know what else you want me to tell you. We all have our reasons to hate him. Pepper looks up at Andrew. Mother died when we were little. Father couldn’t really cope with everything. So we were left to our own devices. Pepper once more turns towards Beth. He was a pathetic excuse of a man, simply pitiful. Pepper turns his gaze towards Otto. She’s right. Maybe… He raises his brow at what Otto was about to say. Maybe he finally found the courage to kill himself, interrupts again Beth. Well, isn’t that tragic? Pepper interjects. But, even so. How? There are no strangulation marks, no cuts, no blood, no anything to that former of a man, now corpse, to show that he has killed himself. So how could he have died face down and shirtless?

What was written in the letter you got? Pepper turns towards Beth and closes his eyes and says... On this day, I shall day as I came. breath in, breath out, with no one to blame. I want to forgive them as I’d like to forgive myself for my mistakes and weaknesses. I never wanted to create evil in this world, so take this letter and key to solve my murder. Take the money and hold whoever is responsible for my death accountable, I don’t want my mistakes to burden the world. She scoffs. What a dick. Andrew gets up once more with an angry expression, as Otto leans back on the wall. Pepper looks at them with pity and disgust. So. Three children, one’s daddy’s boy. One’s a parasite. And one’s simply immature. Yet surprisingly all good liars. And none the wiser to tell me who killed their pathetic father. One of you sent me this letter, since it was opened. All you three found him dead at the same time. Now that’s some marvelous coincidence. Since it seems that you two came home roughly at the same time as he woke up. I wonder for how many days he was left there to die in that empty room? Before the one that sent me this letter found the key to open the room. Beth tries to interject, but Pepper quickly shuts her down. One of you is the murderer and has a similar key to this one, since Otto seemed kind enough to provide it with the letter. Andrew and Beth turn towards Otto as they get up angrily from their seats. Now, now, show me your keys. They both refuse. It doesn’t matter, the police will be here in a minute or two, so either way, this is over. Reluctantly, both hand over their keys on Pepper’s handkerchief. Well, neither of you seem to have the key. Did you lose it? Or did you not have time to dispose of it because your sister came home early from her date? No need to answer, just let’s fix your walking problem. Take off your shoes. He takes them off, just as police sirens are heard outside the house. It was all their idea! They’re just as guilty as I am. Pepper quickly interjects. We all have an urge like that, we all have that worst thought ever. Yet the difference is that they did not act on it. You did. Otto found out too late to do anything but find the key, duplicate it and prove you’re guilty. And Beth couldn’t stand him, so she tried to avoid him as much as possible. So she couldn’t know of him or his situation, just as he finishes this sentence Beth starts crying. And that, was the day I met Pepper at my first crime scene…

Hope you enjoyed this murder mystery short story that is part of The Pilot Program 2020. If you want more, don’t forget that you choose what I write by liking, sharing, commenting and reading it over and over again. There might be one more short story for this year’s Pilot Program, but it also might not. So go back and read this year’s short story contenders for what might become the 2021 Short Story Series on Nobody The Blog. And if you want to help even more, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 33 - Paranoid

What are you talking about? She takes a step back. Don’t say that. You know what I’m talking about. I’m not in the mood for this… I don’t ever remember you being so forgetful. So, how about you tell me what shouldn’t I know? Frightened she looks at me. I have no clue what you are talking about. I slam my hand on the table. Yes you do. Don’t play dumb, of course you do. You know everything. There is no way you don’t know what I am talking about or referencing. So, what the fuck am I supposed to not know? My hands are shaking. I really have no clue what you are on about. Where did this… I stand up. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me now. You… She takes another step back and hits the door behind her. When did I say that? What are you talking about? I slam my hand on the table again. Yesterday! Not a week ago, not a few months ago, but yesterday! You told a dude, at your work, that I shouldn’t know about something.

Her eyes get teary. I don’t know. Bullshit! I scream. There is no fucking way that you don’t remember that. It was right during our call. But I didn’t talk to anyone during our call, she says. Yes, you did. What the fuck are you on about? You put your phone away for some reason and didn’t hang up thinking I will. And then you started fucking flirting and telling that guy about something that I shouldn’t know about! So tell me. What the fuck should I not know about? And since when? Since when should I not know about things? Seems to me… I sit down. It seems to me like you’re not happy, anymore. Like, I’m not happy anymore. Like, I don’t know why we are even doing this anymore. Do you ever ask yourself why we’re doing this? Or… What are we doing? Because I… Don’t know anymore. I don’t know what you are doing. I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t even want to know. Because I’m afraid whatever you might say, is… Worse than I imagined. And I don’t want that.

She stands there looking at me. Her eyes watering… I don’t know either. I just don’t want to fight or worse… And… The thing you shouldn’t know about was stupid. Because it wasn’t even anything. It was just an idea I had about something I thought to buy. But then, I looked for it and saw that it was dumb and gave up on it last night. This is why I told you not to hold onto things, because I already forgot about it and it wasn’t even anything important. Yes it was, I say, it very much was. And I didn’t, because it happened yesterday. Yes, she interrupts me, but you could have called me again and not wait a whole night to start a fight. I’m sorry, I say. She starts laughing. I can’t believe it. It took you this many years to admit you were wrong for one. At least I did, I tell her as I start laughing too. Please don’t make this a habit, she says as she hugs me. Please don’t do that anymore then… She nods as her tears hit the top of my head. Okay…

If you enjoyed this chapter of the short story I Write Sins… don’t forget to give it a like, share it and comment. And if you’d really like to help, you can always donate to keep the short stories free at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 32 - Laughing

My eyes open to a white ceiling and an empty bed. The covers tossed together by the edge, my pillow on the ground, the sounds of cars passing by jolts my brain into a long yawn and a stretch before I get up from the bed. I get up, open the door to our room, step outside as the acrid smell of coffee hits my nose and drags me to the kitchen. Tired, out of it, I sit down on the chiar, head in my hands in front of the espresso machine. The vivid images of that thing in my dream is still haunting me as I blink. Her disgusting sounds as she morphed into that thing give me goosebumps. Yet from it all, I still don’t understand my dream, not that I remember anything else from it, now that I had a minute to think. But in my gut, a sinking feelings sets as regret shows its ugly head for something I hadn’t done but dreamed off. I wish I could understand myself better… A familiar voice from my left speaks up… We all wish the same thing. As her hand goes into my hair and plays with it.

Are you okay? I shake my head. Want me to make you a coffee? I get up and nod. Want some breakfast too? I once more nod as I lay my head on the table. I don’t know what I am doing anymore. I feel so useless. As she opens the coffee jar she turns towards me with a smile and says… Aren’t you a bit of a hypocrite right now? You tell others that it is okay not to know or feel lost, yet… Here you are. Lamenting normalcy, like that’s a bad thing. I groan as I hit my head on the table. Let me suffer for once. Don’t come at me with logic when I just want to feel. Let me feel. She scoffs as she finishes preparing the coffee. What’s wrong, dear? You on your period? She pets my head in jest. Ha, ha. Very funny. She turns on the espresso machine. You’d think that after many years of having the luxury to think about things we plebs don’t have the time to think of, that you’d master the ‘there is nothing you can do attitude’. The machine stops. After last years’ panic attacks, I thought so to. But, I was wrong. I get up to go get milk for the coffee.

Wanna talk? As I pour the cold milk straight into the coffee, I shake my head. You sure? I put the cap back on and go back towards the fridge. Yeah, I’m sure. I’d like to tell you something, but I don’t even know what’s wrong with me or what I want or who I am anymore and… She puts her arms around me. Calm down. I hug her back. Even if I calm down. It’s not going to feel too great. I don’t know how to explain it. She puts her head on my shoulder. I know, I know. My mind goes blank for a second as we hug. Everything seems to have calmed down. Come, sit. Your coffee is going to get cold. As I sit there, smiling, nothing in mind I lose myself looking into nothingness. Her voice, mixes with the noise of the cars and the voice of the people walking and talking outside. I can’t hear anything anymore, nor see anything but the vague shape of my mug and hands as I sip on the coffee. Peaceful, ever so peaceful, as I turn my head to look outside the window at the blue sky. A car honks, I snap out of it with a question perturbing the calm mind. Without a filter, thought, or anything to stop it, I blurt out… So, what were you telling that guy that I shouldn’t know about while you were at work?

Hope you enjoyed today’s chapter of the short story I Write Sins… If you liked it, then please like it, share it and re-read it. And if you would like to help keep the short stories free you can always help with a donation at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 31 - Behind Blue Eyes

I remember looking outside my window every summer day and feeling nothing but emptiness. My room, dark, yet outside the sun was always bright in the clear sky. Not that I drew the curtains. It felt like I was always drowning in something. The weight of my thoughts, expectations, dreams, friends and family was taking me deeper into that hole, suffocating me at the thought that I need to be somebody. Yet every time I let go. They come back and chain me once more to drag me to the bottom. Which is why I grew up thinking love will save me. Will give me wings to fly, to rise above it all, to help me become something more to help me be… More than I am today. Like a breath of fresh air when you feel like a stone lies heavy on your chest…. Love was supposed to save me from it all. To push me forwards into the stratosphere so I can be out of breath but this time for a good reason… Because I’m in love. Because I am for the first time happy. Myself. Because I became myself for the first time… And was happy because of that.

Yet this darkness is soothing no more. The nights I spent awake thinking of who I want to be or become. The home I had found in that darkness, feels like it wants to spit me out into the light, yet I don’t want to. Yet. I don’t like who I am. Yet. Because I feel like those around me are simply bad. People with nothing but selfish desire, unwilling to put away their own egos to satisfy someone that asks for nothing but be left to be happy. And that’s too much to ask of them. And now… I don’t know what I want anymore. Writing, living, loving, hating, thinking, responsibilities, are all now meaningless to me as they don’t want to see me for me. They just want to see what they want, a whatever fucked up worse version of myself that is on par with their shitty behavior and thought pattern. And I always imagined myself that being engaged, in love to be married would be some of my happiest of times. Yet they feel as empty and as meaningless as everything until now. Just as empty as the Christmas eves, new year day, birthday and whatever else we choose to celebrate.

I think some might call this depression. Yet I can’t help to argue against that point of view as I bask in this darkness falling. As I believe it to be a stranger induced coma. Where outside forces forced themselves on you to be what they want. For you to stick to whatever twisted version of normalcy they think is alright. A toxic environment they relish in. A place where your dreams, aspirations, passion and love dies at the hands of those without mercy. Those that loathe excellency and anything that has some mental fortitude to fight the fight they were too afraid to tackle. As they look upon others as a silent majority that nod yet do nothing. They say that the world isn’t against you, they’re just for themselves. Yet I once more beg to disagree. If the world, no matter how small yours is, is against your happiness, then it is the world against you. And just as with freedom, anything selfish that impedes the happiness of someone is beyond selfishness, it’s something worse. Something that we shouldn’t tolerate or suffer by. As is as toxic as the rest of the behaviors we start to disagree with. Yet here I am… In darkness basking once more unwilling to come out and face the world. At least here, I have some silence and peace for once…

Hope you liked this chapter of I Write Sins… Not Tragedies the short story. This chapter is quite a powerful and of course, personal one. As I drain my 2020 frustration all into this chapter of this little story about dreams. If you want to support and help keep these short stories free, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 30 - The Unforgiven

She looks at him with intrigue and hope in her eyes. He starts laughing. Why are you laughing? He takes a step back. Because you are clearly crazy. Fuming she gets in his face. What do you mean crazy? He takes a few more steps back laughing. Well, excuse you, but you let some random guy in your apartment and drunkenly shouted that you want to get kissed. Confused she follows him. So? What’s so wrong with that? He continues to back off laughing as he hits a wall. It reeks of red flags and alcohol. She stares him down. That’s just the wine, it’s innocent, and don’t bring it into this discussion. So? What’s the problem, officer? He laughs nervously. Well, you don’t know anything about me, right? I don’t know anything about you. This is reckless. She puts her finger in his face. Listen here, I do what I want with who I want and when I want it. His tone turns a bit serious. That’s not the problem, nor is it what I said. She takes a step back and sighs. I think I’m gonna go, he says.

She pulls on his t-shirt. Wait. He stops. I’m sorry, she continues. It’s fine, he says. It isn’t. You were a really chill guy and listened to me rambling and I got… I don’t know… Delusional, I guess… And well… It’s been nice to have someone to talk to. Sorry I left you with such a bad first impression. He turns towards her. It wasn’t that bad, it was just… Different, I suppose. She looks down. You are just being nice, saying that. He starts laughing. Let me make it up to you. Come on. Please. He begrudgingly accepts. Good, thank you. Sit down. What can I get you? Want something to drink? Eat? He hesitates as she continues to ramble. Anything is fine. She quickly goes into the kitchen and starts to making noise. He looks around the living room. It’s clean, apart from her a pair of pants on a chair. A few minutes later she comes out of the kitchen with a beer and a plate of some food thrown together.

She starts asking him questions about love, life, purpose, happiness and sorrows. As they sit, they continue talking, bemoaning the struggles of living from hypocrisy to irony and the uncertainty of the future from decisions past and present. He sits up to go to the bathroom. With a smile on his face, a warm feeling in his chest, he slowly makes his way as he looks around the apartment to get a better picture of it. Walking past a window he notices that there is no reflection. He turns towards the clock on the wall in the hallway to see what time it is. As he tries to concentrate, his vision turns blurry. He rubs his eyes and looks again, as the insides of the clock are melting into a disgusting white puss. He runs to the window again to look outside. There is nothing. The voice in his head starts getting louder and LOUDER. As he runs, opens the door and once more takes a plunge into the darkness…

Hope you liked this new chapter of I Write Sins… And if you did, don’t forget to like it and share it, because it would help a lot. As you can tell by now, I am experimenting with the style. Trying new things, touching on the surreal and horror elements of the story. So, I thank you for reading and coming on this weird journey about dreams. And if you’d like you can always donate to keep these short stories free at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 29 - Born to be Wild

Allison. He shakes her hand, looking into her eyes. Uhm… Right. Nice to meet you. She looks at him confused. Well? What’s your name? He lets go of her hand and laughs nervously. Jack, my name is Jack. She starts laughing. Like which Jack? Sparrow? Napier? Or the one from Titanic? Taken aback by her question he sits down and looks at her with embarrassment. She starts laughing hysterically. Really? From Titanic? How hilarious. So, you’re twenty too? And I don’t mean the number, obviously. He nods. And what are you working? She asks. Articles for whatever website accepts submissions. She quickly interrupts him. Oh, so you want to be a journalist or just create stuff like shitty clickbait articles? He laughs at her question. Neither. I want to write. But, writing doesn’t pay. No, what I mean is that finding a normal job as a writer is basically fiction or just as probable as winning the lottery. She looks at him with a kind face.

Let’s dance, she says. What? You’re twenty, I’m twenty. What’s wrong? He looks away from her as he scratches his brow. Fine, she says. It feels like this whole adulting thing was a mistake. Do you ever wonder why you were born? What were you born to do? Ah, what am I talking about, of course you don’t. You already know why you were born. To be a writer. Silence slowly sets between them. As they both look anywhere but at each other. She takes another gulp from the wine bottle, then extends her arm with the bottle towards him. He pushes he hand gently back, she shrugs and drinks some more. I don’t. She turns towards him. I don’t know why I was born. I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do it. Or if what I am doing is right. She groans. Well, now I can’t think that you’re a cool guy, if you don’t know the answer to this. She starts laughing, as he sits there looking at her.

Well, Jack from Titanic, it was nice to meet you, but I’m getting sleepy and unless you want to bone, I suggest that you go back to your place and get some sleep, she says bemused. He looks at her wondering if what she said was for real. Uhm… She turns towards him, puts her hands on the armrests. Looks him in the eyes. What? She whispers with a breath of alcoholic grapes expelled right into his nose. I think I’m going to leave. It was nice to meet you, Allison. She gets up, and starts to scream. Why are you like this? Man, what’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with everyone? Doesn’t anyone know how to have fun anymore? What is even the fucking point of all of this if we can’t live properly? Love properly, fuck properly, live life to the fullest. She continues to ramble, as he sits there listening, unsure of when it is okay to actually leave. And here I am with a total stranger in my apartment, and he doesn’t have the balls to kiss me. As she says that, he gets up and…

If you liked this chapter of the short story series I Write Sins… And if you did, please like it, share it and if you’d like to keep these short stories free you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

Killing Hitler - The Pilot Program 2020

Welcome to The Pilot Program 2020. And this month we have another short story for you, aptly named Killing Hitler. So, remember, if you like this short story then like it, comment, share it, and read it. That way, you can choose what I write as a short story series for the next year. With that said, hope you enjoy it.

I did it! I killed Hitler! I DID IT! That’s how it all started, yet before all that…

Time to change history and the world as we know it. Electricity is coursing through my body, as it turns into heat. The smell of my flesh burning is nauseating as I can barely stand on my feet. The pain of my flesh being torn apart into light is terrifying me. My body elongating and being dragged of the surface of the Earth, thrown into space as I lose my sight and become pure burning energy. I can’t breath. I can’t move. The only thing I feel is a pulse, all throughout my body going TADUM TADUM. After what felt like a few minutes everything seemed to have stopped. Then I started to move again. Faster and faster. It felt so easy to simply fall and fall. Yet all the freedom of falling, started to turn once more into a torturous ride. As the darkness and it all started to burn again. My senses started to come back to me. It is all pain. Every fiber of my being hurts. It is all excruciating, as I touch the ground once more…

I fall on my hands ready to throw up all over my boots. I quickly catch myself, cover my face with my hands, pull down my gas mask and throw myself on my back. I hold my breath for one moment, look around. The my left, dirt, dead or wounded men. To my right, men shooting one shot at a time with their rifles towards the enemy tranches. My legs are shaky as I try to get up. One man shouts in French, telling me to lay low. Once he notices that I am unarmed, asks me where my rifle is. Seeing that I don’t answer, he drags me next to a dead soldier and gives me the rifle of that dead man. Allons-y, Allons-y, he shouts at me pointing me towards the rest of the troops. Did you eat? Asks me the same man. I tell him no, since the whole journey left me on an empty stomach. He hands me a stale piece of bread and a piece of bitter dark chocolate. Telling me to eat, as he turns and goes to help some other soldiers. I quickly down them both, as an explosive hits close to the trench.

I have a few chances of doing this, but I don’t want to spend more time than necessary here, especially not years, I say to myself. A soldier next to me heard what I said and starts laughing. Yes, my friend. That’s what I told myself too when I first got drafted. That I don’t want to spend too much time here, especially not if I want to get home by Christmas, as they promised. I was 15 back then, he laughs nervously. Don’t worry I am sure, we are not going to catch Christmas here, this year, I tell him. Hell, I don’t want to even catch Halloween here, I say while laughing. Planes fly above us, explosions from all sides throws dirt on us, as we take cover. One single voice screams to attack. Finally, the boy says. As everyone around gets up on their feet with a smile starts climbing out, rifle raised in one hand, they start screaming and running towards the enemy line. Time to kill Hitler and change the world for the better. Time to live the fantasy we all had when we were asked what we’d do with a time machine…

Hope you liked this short story. If you did, don’t forget that you can choose which of the short stories from The Pilot Program 2020 can become the short story series of 2021 with your likes, shares, comments and views.

Don’t forget to also check out the rest of The Pilot Program 2020 short stories:

January: The Horrorscope, February: Tomorrow Never Comes, March: Hereditary Epidemic, April: Don’t Sleep, May: The Falling Tower: The Bloody Anthologies of London, June: Men Eaters

And if you’d like to donate, you can always do so to keep these short stories free at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO

I Write Sins... Not Tragedies 28 - You Really Got Me

She flung open the door expecting to see the student again, only to be greeted by a rugged looking guy with little to no life behind his eyes. Hello. Could you please keep the music down? I am really having a hard time sleeping. She looks at him with the most disappointed look on her face. Not you too. What is it with you people? Where is your passion for life? Who ate your soul, man? He looks at her with his face almost falling off. It’s because… He gestures broadly at things around him. Oh, who cares? We’re the… She too gestures broadly at everything around her. Yes, but that’s exactly the problem. If… He once more opens his arms and with broad strokes points at everything. Don’t change, then what is even the point? She scoffs, puts her hand on his shoulder and screams. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? The student from before comes out from his apartment, looks at them with the most annoyed look on his face. She apologizes and without thinking drags the man inside.

You can’t think like that. It’s going to ruin you and your life, she says while holding his hand. That’s dangerous thinking. She pulls him further in the apartment, sits him down on the couch, grabs her wine and continues. Don’t look at me like that, it’s true. Stress, anxiety, unhappiness does kill you faster than if you were happier, more optimistic and more open to the world around you. And I’m not saying that you should love each and every person you encounter. No. Who knows what a dick they were or are. No. I’m just saying that you can only give a little and get a little back, and that’s enough to make your life a bit better. He makes himself a bit more comfortable, leaning back against the couch. Yes, but you can’t live life that way. It isn’t possible to be happy and open all the time. It’s not normal. She looks at him with pity. I know, I never said that you shouldn’t be sad, or anything like that. But if you don’t escape it, you will be in a perpetual state of sadness, loneliness, depression.

He gets up, annoyed looks at her and tries to speak. What? She asks. It’s not that simple and you know that it is not that simple to change your entire life because someone said simply don’t be depressed anymore. She frustrated by his comment shouts. HEY! Listen to me, please. Her town slowly coming down, she continues. I understand, that’s why people commit suicide, but that’s also why people rely on friends, on a specialist, on a support group. Because it’s not easy, but nor is it or was ever your entire life. It is just a small part of the rest of your life. He rolls his eyes at those words. That’s so cliche and soupy… She gasps. You say that like it’s a bad thing. Cliches are a good thing sometimes. Because you know what to expect and you can’t be let down by something you expect, can you? He scratches his head in frustration. I guess… She laughs and reaches her hand out. By the way, my name is…

If you liked this chapter of the short story series I Write Sins… Not Tragedies, don’t forget to like it, share it, and as always, if you are feeling generous and want to keep these short stories free stories, you can always donate at: https://www.paypal.me/RaulFO