Apocalypse at Harpers Lane

by Mackenzie Mazerolle

  ...”Me.”

  ..”Say again partner’?”

  “Me. A failed attempt to escape would most likely lead ME to a vegetable. You’re not real, just a voice in my head that seems to be quite distinct in this place.”

  “Easy now friend, you need me here. Do you really want to be left alone again?”

  A large cut out wall comes from the distance, leading to a large sphere like room.

  That’s it...

  “Listen here, Fuck! I’m in control, not you. Want to know why? Because you cannot take from me what is not mine to give!”

  ...Finally, the bastard is perplexed. Shit... This room does not look healthy...

  “Mr. Pig, the time has come. Sit in this chair and make no fuss.”

  “...He’s going to get us Joe, man, let me have a go at him. You don’t know what I’m capable of!”

  Probably just as much as him I imagine… I casually seat myself in the white leather chair. It seemed to have a placement cushion for every limb on my body. I applied each, accordingly.

  “Stare straight ahead, Mr. Pig.”

  While doing so, I feel no more uncomfortable than during an eye exam. A needle is then poked to my side, sneaky bastard… I feel nothing. Not woozy, groggy. I start to conclude that maybe it all isn’t so bad. A small hole than at the moment begins to unravel the steel circular door in front of me. A little more, my eyes secured tightly now, it becomes too late. A beam of light, so powerful, so familiar… It had to be the sun, the real sun…

  “Jack, what is this? Are you still there Jack?”

  Space widened. I can feel the solar flares make way into my eyes. I want to close them, squint. However a force grips me, not Mr. Dystopia, he knows at this point I could not stop looking.

  The energy, incredible! Imagine, the sun shines brighter today than it ever has. You stare at the engulfed sun, you stare straight to the core without break. The catch… Your eyes don’t burn, and you don’t go blind! That chemical... It feels amazing! What has he done! This, this truly is a miracle worker!

  Space widens yet again, I no longer can contain myself and I begin shouting. If it wasn’t going to be my eyes that burned out than perhaps my vocal chords as I cheer with delight. Again, no harm is done. The energy I already perceive as unsurpassable progress, yet again.

  My violent war cries now turn to laughter and then back again. No… wait, the laugh sounds so familiar.

  I can’t stop yelling, I can’t stop screaming, laughing, screaming laughing screaming laughingscreamingAHHHHHHHHHH!

  ...

  ...

  Blackness… Finally, the light is gone, the walls. No more white… No more sun…

  THREE

  I Told you... I told you ya should have let me… We’re doomed now you know. Mr. Dystopia will have everything he yearns for. You, your arrogance is like a parade for the damned. Why not just slice up your left brain and serve it on a silver platter...?

  “Damned fool you...”

  FOUR

  Damn... I see white again. .. It’s not the walls. A bandage? Perhaps… Something else though, something feels... Right.

  I slowly peel the soft cotton from my eyes. Something of a gentle touch for such a malevolent...

  The word escapes me. My contempt for the man or whatever he is dissolves as does a false version of my own identity. Joe Pig, that’s who I am; I feel no more the pain of wallowing over the misfortunes of others. Mr. Dystopia, his existence is his burden alone.

  Funny... I almost feel, compassionate… To him?

  What did he do to me... Should I not be, different?

  “No.”

  My voice, the fact it’s still there…

  “I’m still here!’ I say almost too loud... No reply. No sly or witty remarks, No orders barked from within my subconscious, or rather... Who was that?

  I Rise. I feel limber, awake. More than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  Still no sounds… I check the door, it opens. Walking down the halls, the white it seems has covered a shade. No sting from my eyes, no more snow blind.

  I make distance towards another hall to the left. I walk up slowly, but without the inclination of fear. It’s another cell.

  I look inside, to my surprise there’s someone in it... So dark, I focus for a moment than adapt to the shade beyond the cell door. I see a man, he looks cave-like. Must have been here a long time… His foot taps while he crouches in a restless position. My vision makes way to the top of the characters face. I do so, his glance comes into contact with mine and I am disturbed. Again, without fear, I see the unknown man, not broken, not something less within his presence. He is restless, far too restless for even our species nature. I sense the energy flowing rapidly through his veins. This seems to do nothing to his body, in fact seeming healthy considering. His mind, anyone could clearly see is what’s been torn.

  I do not recognize this man, but I know his story well. He was another victim of Mr. Dystopia, the philosopher who’s only rights to live by being the poetry of pain. A shame it was the wasting of this man’s mind, once something so infinite and now nothing at all. His body fixed on broken gears, responding only to and only violently so, to the sun.

  Anger attempts to rise in my system, animosity towards the abomination Mr. Dystopia has bestowed on the ever-resourceful giver of life, the center of our universe turned into just another treachery of space. Black holes, Sun Junkies, the darker half of man’s nature... I know not what to sympathize more, nor do I know what to do...

  “Well, it looks like someone’s got their thinking’ cap on.”

  “What happened to you, Charles? What could possibly have given you the motivation such as you have? Is there nothing beautiful in the world that can yet be poetic? Must it always be justice, for wrath or vengeance? Tell me then, what difference does your existence have on an already corrupt species?”

  “Naive to the death, it seems to you. Pity, you showed such promise.”

  “Promise for what! What are you trying to achieve!?”

  “Silence!”

  The thin man’s lanky arm reached out, as he did so the surroundings changed like the cutting of film. The transition into the following moment, I felt the weight of my body release from the ground as all the white within his realm changed to black. By the time I adjusted to what was happening it was too late. It seemed the righteous victory lay not in the cards for this creator, my body now suspended over a black fiery sun. No heat, cold emitted from below my feet as I hung within the tight grasp of Mr. Dystopia. He grinned, that awful grin. My time was up.

  “Why...” I muttered, finally to resolution. The strength of his worldly prowess was unflinching as he swung my body close to him and almost in a whisper replied;

  “You fool, you still don’t understand...”

  “I will unmask man’s righteous wield! The soul they will all see is only muddied by the ink we pour on it.”

  For a moment as I lay swinging helplessly above the fiery black sun, staring into the even darker so eyes of Mr. Dystopia I could almost see the truth...

  ‘NOT UNTIL I DELIVER THEM THEIR LONG WAITED for APOCOLYPSE, NOT UNTIL THEIR MINDS ARE QUESTIONED WILL MANS EVOLUTION INTO A NEW RENAISSANCE BE REALITY… THIS IS MY APOCOLYPSE, THIS IS MY RENAISSANCE!”

  Chapter Seven

  Out of Ink

  Nothing could describe the euphoria Joe felt as he pummeled deep within the dark flames of Mr. Dystopia’s ominous black sun. Cruelty surely will and now has provided its festival for the soul.

  Enjoy the sun as it now stands. No more mischief, no more decay, no sense of wonder like that of cruelties alter ego.

  BLACK DOOR

  Chapter One

  Jim

  They say it is healthy for any person to keep a journal, a diary or any sort of writing for that matter. However, it’s been years since I had put anything to paper. I tried my hand at
fiction once, when I was younger but to be quite frank I nearly lost my mind to it.

  Everything had been going fine; in fact, for the most of it, I was quite excited. I’m still not sure exactly what happened, I didn’t think it was possible for a writer to become too much involved with their story. I was near the tail end of my piece when it happened. I began feeling things, the loss of control. I thought it was just a matter of losing myself to the story, a good thing if anything. But it got worse, other than losing connection with my friends and surroundings as a whole, I began seeing things, seeing things that should not have been possible. I had been concluding my piece when the characters I had depicted showed up as I wrote. The more I created the more that came to life.

  Now, you can only imagine how fearful it would be to a person if a fragment of their imagination suddenly took form and not only began talking to you but making demands. Obviously, this does not happen unless you’re sick unless you need to be locked up until you’re lucky enough to be brought back to reality. I didn’t want to take that chance and so I stopped writing, I concluded my piece and gave it a happy ending as I was instructed. This may sound silly, but like I said what would you do. I wasn’t taking any chances; no way was I going to be sent to no funny farm dosed with god knows what chemicals... It just wasn’t happening.

  And so there I was; I hid away my typewriter never to see the light of day again. Things got better. Without words tormenting my mind I was able to focus myself on more realistic objectives. A friend had an uncle that worked at the bank, they got me a job and though I was answering phones for a while I eventually made my way up and was given some responsibilities. I even met a girl, she worked there and after two years we got married. No more did my mind torment me with fictional characters and fictional demands, I had successfully ordained myself a normal life. My friends, the crew at Harpers Lane eventually all made their way until it was just I who was last to reside. I felt no need to leave the place, and so I did not.

  It’s been now six gloriously mundane years which I will always value. But alas, here I am, and I suppose you would be wondering what has brought me out of the darkness so to speak. That is simply for my life itself has been quenched of any light. My wife, Claire, had made it all worth it, to abandon my wild dreams which were as imaginary as my stories. She had made it worth it, the sacrifice of the hours of my days, the days of my weeks and the years of my life spent behind a desk. But today, she has left me. And so with nothing to lose but my mind, all ships-haven sailed in whatever direction they please but mine. I’m left with no choice, no shoulder to lean on except that of my old typewriter.

  And so here we are... I am no longer worried about my characters coming to life, in fact, I very well may welcome them, welcome the company whether for good or worse.

  This was how it happened…

  At twenty-seven years old I found myself for the first time comfortable. It was almost five a clock to which point I would walk the brisk evening chill to meet my love who awaited me on this, the day of our two years.

  At last, time ticked no more, I bid farewell to my coworkers with a smile. My witty boss smirked in acknowledgment to my affairs. I repay in spiteful haste, overcompensating my glee. I was finally happy, and this marked the second year of such a foreign emotion. Cars, buses and pedestrians made their way completely oblivious to such an entity existing amongst their hopeless lives.

  My thoughts raced, and finally, I was home. Harpers Lane was a one-way street. It had only been six months since I had paid the house off. It wasn’t all that expensive considering the shape it was in, however, in regard to the sustainability of my life it seemed the right thing to do.

  I opened the door and it was quiet. The house was not well lit, to begin with, but even those lights were off. The heat too what little and what we had was nowhere to be found. A few cheap heaters from the neighboring supermarket, otherwise it was the wood stove that kept us warm. It held nothing but ash.

  I progressed further into the kitchen. I found one candle lit and it showed to its side a small piece of paper with small words neatly inscribed on it. It read to dear me;

  ‘I’m sorry.

  I know you’re not a bad person at heart, but you are worthless to the core. I thought things would be different; I thought you would get published and leave your desk job. I was wrong.

  I am not leaving you for a man, this isn’t because I haven’t found one but because I am that certain to find one with ease whom would provide more than you ever have.

  I know how you’ve been pawning your wedding ring at Sharkie’s on occasion. You can have it, as well as mine and this worthless house you call home. I need it all as much as I need you and I’m leaving it all behind.’

  -Claire.

  The anger was unbearable. I don’t believe there to be any words to describe the hopelessness I felt. Writing had been my life once, and I gave it up knowing it would lead me astray to false hope and wrongful indignation. I thought, just maybe something more real such as love would retain me to a more conventional source of life.

  I was wrong.

  No way in any dream does love become more real than words; Love is the only magic that exists in this damned planet of ours, more than gods or books and the imagination itself. They all hold more ground when written than any possibility that we as humans are meant to coexist rather than coproduce. How sadly we have been mistaken, and what a fool I had become.

  I take the ring, I have had enough. I take it outside; the night had already begun to shade the streets for my arrival. It just as soon became pitch black, no moon and even the crooked street lights to show the way. I walked fast and with a certain purpose. It was only a few blocks away from where Sharkies pawn shop resided. I would be damned if I did not profit somehow through that devil. Tonight I would begin my unearthly rampage into the bottle and whatever awaited me in the alleyways of our fair city.

  Thoughts raced no more. Approaching the shop I quickly hid any and all anxiety I had so inconceivably found. There was something about the anger I had since a child refused, something about lack of progress or pure embarrassment. Regardless, what I did know for certain was it most inefficient.

  The bells go off as I make way through the door, an old man behind the counter quickly darted his attention towards me.

  “Oh, you... What do you want here you?”

  “You can have the ring back, I want cash, whatever you’ll give for it.”

  Sharkie, or whatever his real name examined me up and down.

  “Trouble with the misses, ready to get out for a tear is that it?” A hoarse grumble of laughter followed his remark.

  “I’ll take my affairs elsewhere...” I began to make way back through the door, it was all bluff and he bought it. I knew he would bargain a better price for me than anywhere else. We made our transactions and I left the only place I knew would feel like home again; Downtown.

  Chapter Two

  Rock Bottom & Beyond

  Three hundred the bastard gave me. It was worth fourteen when I had bought it, at least four on separate occasions when I had brought it in. The low life knew exactly what was going on and like a leech, he preyed on my vulnerability. But what was I going to do; it was cold being the coming of the winter season. The beast had been right though, about the fact I was prey, prey to this flawed system in a society which dictates the only way a person is to survive is by shacking up, shutting up and showing up for work. We need a partner, so the world says. Well fuck them, fuck the world and most certainly fuck the wench and what she did to me. Money was all she cared about, expecting me to be one of those big-time writers with vast amounts of insight and recognition. Even respect would most likely have kept her around, but I didn’t even have that, not even for myself.

  So here I am, downtown in this strung out the city at the only bar I know I won’t be bothered. Here at the office, I find no lack of repose other for the whiskey that bu
rnt my intestines.

  My arrival took little notice. The only thing giving myself away was a sense of curiosity for how well off I looked in ratio to the others. What a tragedy that is. Funny how it all works, ones only solace and reprieve derived by being surrounded by those clearly less fortunate.

  I thought of my younger years as the lady brought over my next round. She was very thin and older than the years attached to her actual age. Polite in words, her tone was detached and defensive for she knew the bunch she called customers; low lives and hopeless homeless scrounging from other homeless in an attempt for that one more drink. Was I soon to be like so? I gander around the room in an attempt to better my own existence with comparison… Was it working? These people truly were either homeless or enclosed with misfortune by the grip of drugs not meant for man to consume. But then I thought to myself the temporary release they had. Continuing to search and profile these scums of society I realized that by their faces that they were indeed happier than I.

  The whiskey had failed its duty.

  “Another!” I yell out of character and out of turn. The bartender did not hear me or despite my whiskey rage did not care. I Still regarded my state as much more to lose than these people, and for that I was weak.

  “Whiskey goddammit, I need more whiskey!”

  The bartender finally took notice while cashing in a purchase at the far end of the bar. Along with her attention, I caught that of the individual to her side. All the description I had previously embarked upon meant nothing next to this man. His stare alone, though I did not even see his eyes from the dim glow of the bar was enough to put any person off their drink. I quickly returned my stare to the empty glass in front of me as the bartender made her way with a fresh drink. When I looked back up I could see the man smirking and laughing it up to himself for he knew his presence alone was enough to be off-putting to a ‘suit’ like me.