Maggie Mantus

prometheus

At first, there was nothing. A brief burp, a smothered grumble.

She walked lazily around the ship, her suit unzippered to reveal her torso. The shiny white walls reflected her pale skin and her freckled arms. Her thick boots thumped on the metallic ground. She rubbed her stomach.

Then came the push.

She shrieked as she felt something press against the lining of her stomach. She fell, her back sliding down the wall.Short gasps wet her lips and she crushed her hands against her stomach.

As her mouth opened and closed with her breath it was suddenly stopped. A slimy tentacle moved across her tongue and out her mouth. Thick slime dripped down her chin.

In a mad rush, she pulled herself off the ground and started to run. The appendage fell back down her throat and into her stomach. It contorted and convulsed inside of her.

She made her way to the sick bay. It was an equally white and shiny room filled with medical instruments and pills of all kinds. First, she grabbed a tranquilizer, then a scalpel.

The tranquilizer was easy, the thin syringe sunk into her skin and popped out quickly after. The scalpel was the hard part. With shaky fingers, she attempted to make an incision.

But the creature jerked and the scalpel ran up from her belly button to in between her breasts. She screamed as blood began oozing from the shallow wound. Calming her breath, she tried again. This time the blade cut smoothly across her stomach. The slice was deep. She threw the scalpel down and used both hands to open the laceration.

After one big breath, she pushed both her hands into her abdomen. She could feel a slimy tentacle creature squirming within her stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut as she pulled. The small fleshy creature screamed with her as she tossed it aside. Blood slowly gushed out of her stomach.

She grasped her wound and stood up. Inside one of the cabinets, she found the medical stapler. She grimaced as she brought it to her body. Each staple snapped tightly around each edge of the cut as she closed the gaping hole.

Her sight blurred and her conscious wavered. A pain in her foot brought her back to reality. She looked down to see the creature, bloody and screaming, wrapping its thick tentacles around her ankle. As she struggled, its grip tightened. Eventually, a loud crack echoed through the room and she fell, this time on the wet, bloody surface of the sick bay floor. When she opened her eyes she found the scalpel, its blade still shiny, beside her cheek.

She smiled and slashed at the thing on her leg. The blade went deep and the creature let go. But it wasn’t over yet. The beast’s blood burned her skin, creating bubbles and boils on her shins. She crawled feverishly away, batting the red, oozing skin with her hand. Soon her hands began to burn as well. Huge boils grew and burst on her palms. She cried as pus and blood fell down her arms. Her stomach throbbed with pain and her feet were left unusable.

She closed her eyes and took one deep breath. And with that, she wrapped her burning hands around her neck and felt the acrid blood bite into the flesh of her throat. 

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the new age

Her eyes opened slowly and flickered like dying light bulbs. Their black surfaces flashed blue then settled on a pale yellow. Instead of pupils, black radiation symbols buzzed in the center of her eyes.

She sat up quickly and brushed the dust off her arms. Their metallic surfaces were painted the color of dried blood. She stood and stepped forward cautiously. Various wires and cords ripped easily from her back as she walked forward.

Her head swiveled curiously and her body gave out a mechanical hum. Around her, several figures lay, all exact replicas of herself. But she took no notice of them and stepped out of the metal dome she had been lying in.

Her metallic heels clicked on the broken concrete and the blistering sun reflected off her slim shoulders. Superficial eyes wandered the environment, internalizing every detail. She smiled.

The barren landscape was full of wonders for the painted girl. She stopped every few seconds to kneel down and marvel at pieces of trash that were scattered across the dust.

Suddenly, a red flashing box appeared in front of her view.

“Number 1459, you have now entered enemy territory, for your safety, please return to the terrapod.”

She watched the warning for a moment then blinked it away.

“This is your last warning Number 1459. Please return to the terrapod.”

The girl again blinked the message away and defiantly stepped over an invisible line.

First there was silence.

“Welcome to the New Age,” the voice said.

She nodded and watched all the sensors behind her eyelids disappear, leaving her an unadulterated view of the destruction. She walked quietly now; with no more programs identifying every object in her path, she was left alone.

After a few days of silent marching, the girl came upon a small encampment. A few people bustled around the tiny community, unaware of her arrival. She quickly searched her databases for answers but found only darkness.

“Hey you there!” someone called.

“Hey you there!” she called back, her voice mimicking his.

“Where did you come from?”

“Where did you come from?” she repeated.

“Stop that.”

“Stop that.”

He raised his gun and cocked it. She raised her arms as well.

He grimaced and fired. The bullets whistled through the air and ricocheted off of her strong metal body. She rubbed the slight dents that he had left in her side.

The man gasped and dropped the weapon.

“What the hell?”

“What the hell?” she asked back as she lifted the gun.

She pointed it at the man and cocked it just as he did. The bullets flew once again, ripping their way through the man’s torso. A woman screamed as he fell.

The girl cocked her head to the side and stared down at the gun. Soon, more bullets came at her, their force merely denting her exterior.

She smiled.

As she walked away from the small makeshift village, the girl giggled. Her body was covered in dents and blood and behind her, bodies burned.

“She’s a monster,” she whispered to herself. “Kill her! It hurts! Spare me! Let me live!”

The girl clenched her fingers around the grip of an empty gun.

“Welcome to the New Age,” she sang.

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future.

The world was ending. People were dying. There was only one way to save them. Or at least some of them. Millions upon millions were saved; all transferred to a small microchip. Their consciousnesses downloaded and saved within the tiny carbon veins of a small white and green chip. The thought was that eventually the world would live again and these consciousnesses could be revived. And they were. Millions upon millions of consciousnesses downloaded into millions upon millions of faceless robots. This was the earth’s new and permanent population.

At first there was only chaos. Millions upon millions of confused voices crying out, new and shiny among the rocks and debris. Each a screaming bundle of integrated syntax, separated from loved ones and born again in a world totally unlike their own. They saw through plastic eyes and touched with plastic hands. They spoke through speakers, awkwardly, unable to understand how to speak without teeth or tongue.

They were everything. Nothing else survived. They took shelter in decrepit buildings and the old frames of cars. They were everything and they sat. They could not sleep. They didn’t know what to do. Silence fell upon the millions upon millions of revived consciousnesses sitting in silence as they tried to understand how to live again.

Some looked fervently for answers, either through millions upon millions of memories or through the broken laboratories that had brought them back to life. The technology was advanced but not invincible. It had only lasted up until the download and had died with a quiet mechanical sigh. Some searched furiously through the wires and sheets of metal, ripping apart notebook after notebook of faded lab notes. But there was no explanation.

Forced to live on by immortal bodies and endless silence, they began to rebuild. In a past life, each had been an office worker or a nurse or a police officer. Unable to do anything else, they started to live once more. Families reconnected or were created and found simple pleasures in dilapidated homes and apartments. Immortal beings did not need food or water or rest.

It was only later that the truth was uncovered. A small notice was found attached to a small plastic bag. On it someone wrote a short list, “Download. Truth. I’m sorry.” Inside the bag was a small microchip. Of course this was received with uncertainty. Who wrote the note and who was brave enough to download it? Eventually they came to a decision.

Doug was an engineer, one of the many who worked on the enormous and last minute project. He happened to be nearby, silently grieving when they discovered the note. His colleague and friend, Richard, told him he had to be the one to do it. Doug nodded, his mind elsewhere.

He placed the small green chip between his thumb and his pointer and carefully inserted it into the back of his head. He sat down slowly and waited. Soon, data began spiraling inside his brain.

The download took three days to complete. A small group of people sat, eyes wide, and waited. As the long days wore on and the sun set and rose and set and rose, they waited. Millions upon millions of souls waited for the answer they sought. Children chattered, their shiny plastic faces moving rapidly without expression. Women gossiped, their dexterous hands and thin fingers sewing and cooking. Men spread word of the note, their tireless legs bringing them across countries.

Doug woke with a start after the three days ended. The data had stopped and his mind was clear. Around him, eager robots sat and stared with eyeless faces. Rather than speak, he stood. He moved slowly and deliberately to a desk. With unnatural precision, he grabbed a notebook and pen. And he wrote.

The writing took much longer than the download even with Doug’s hand moving at a ridiculously fast speed. Richard stood silently beside his friend, handing another notebook to Doug as he finished one. Soon, a search for paper began. Doug was very close to filling all the notebooks in the laboratory. Millions upon millions scoured homes and schools, searching feverishly for more paper. Doug had to finish writing.

Eventually, Doug finished. Inside the old science building, two rooms were filled only with paper, some still wet with ink. Once finished, Doug sat quietly in his chair, his hands folded on his lap. At that moment, he felt two things. One was that he wished to die and the other was that he knew, bitterly, that he couldn’t.

And this was the beginning of the future.  

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walker.

“The grass hides things, but I’ve never walked the fields so what do I know?” she said. I shrugged skeptically, staring off into the dark distance.

“Joseph was the Walker before.”

“Joseph?” I asked.

“Yeah, Joseph. He was the Walker.”

I picked up my pace and began walking backwards in front of her.

“So, Joseph,” I said, my voice implying something deeper than what was actually there.

“He was a boy from outside the village. One of the Fenner’s. Once he became the Walker, they stopped having kids. Too tough I guess.”

I stared at her, her freckled face glowing under the moonlight.

“He was nice enough. Quiet. Shy. But a Walker. I never actually spoke to him.”

I nodded. Nobody talks to Walkers. Nobody.

“He only lasted a week. Pretty long for a Walker, but not long for a young man.”

I thought about this. He lasted longer than the Walkers today usually last. But then again, no one lasts very long nowadays.

We turned the corner and continued down the dirt path that surrounds the field.

“How much longer?” I asked.

“Just after this turn. I wonder how long the next will last?”

“Two days, no, three days.”

She chuckled. Betting on people’s lives had become the norm. It was terrible but it was the norm.

“Four days,” she said. “I have faith in this next one.”

This time, I chuckled.

Those who are in charge of the fields are called Walkers. They walk through the fields in wait for the things that hide beneath the grass. As long as we have Walkers, we are safe. The things don’t leave the fields if they aren’t hungry.

“Time to see who’s next,” she said as we turned the corner and faced a ring of silent people.

We pushed our way into the crowd and found a woman sobbing in the center. No one dared console her.

“We missed it,” she whined.

“I know, they’ve already taken him away. This is all your fault.”

“How?”

“You were too afraid to cut past the Gunners’ fields.”

“Come one, you know I don’t like those fields.”

I grumbled and moved away from the crowd.

“So, who was she? I didn’t get a good look at her.”

“Mrs. Murphy,” I said. “Poor thing. How old is her son again?”

“Probably eight. Nine, maybe.”

I pondered this and watched my breath in the darkness.

“Damn,” she cursed. I looked to her, surprised.

“You won the bet.”

I laughed. She passed me ten dollars and I gave the money right back.

“We don’t know. He could last.”

She rolled her eyes and stuck the money in her pocket.

I imagined the boy’s small legs rushing through the grass, his faint breath and a mysterious beast biting at his heels. Then I imagined that beautiful yarn I had seen at the market the other day. I reached out my hand.

“You’re probably right, I won the bet.”

She groaned and handed me the money. I smiled and stuffed it in my jacket.

She locked her arm in mine and we began to walk back.

“Next time, we’ll have to leave earlier,” she said.

I smiled widely.

“Yeah.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

anorexia

the pain in her heart

was written on her ribs

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

animal

She was a hunter.

She stalked her prey, killed it with the utmost grace, and dined on its flesh.

Nothing was wasted.

The meat was eaten, raw and oozing, right off the bone.

The bones were gathered and packed for later use.

The pelt was washed and tied neatly around her neck.

The blood was bathed in. Its ephemeral warmth was enough to heat up cold toes.

The skull was all that was left. It was an offering.

A solemn grave marker for a burial that never happened.

She was an animal.

And she left with a silent prayer and blood stuck between her toes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

suffocate

Last night I had a nightmare.

I was stuck within a small light room.

But as I breathed, the room got darker.

With every breath, the light was sucked between my trembling lips.

But I could not stop.

I felt my heart grow tighter as the room grew darker.

Darker and darker.

And as the last of the light was drawn into my shivering body,

I choked.

There was nothing else for me to breath.

I collapsed on my knees and tried to suck in the darkness.

But it just sat and waited.

I clutched my throat and cried.

Finally I fell.

And on the cold ground I suffocated,

With nothing but the darkness to watch me die.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

life

A few days ago I asked myself,

"Have I been doing this all wrong?"

I thought about it for a moment

And said

"Probably."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

peppermint tea with absinthe      

When the devil knocks, I kindly let him in. We drink peppermint tea spiked with absinthe and sit in red velvet chairs. We talk about the weather, the politics, and the way my hair slips so perfectly into a bun. I notice how charming his suit looks and ask him what the occasion is. He sips his tea and simply nods.

Afterwards we retreat into the garden where we sniff the daffodils. He shows me the proper way to cut them and place them behind my ear. Then he places one in his breast pocket. Once again I ask what the occasion is. 

He smiles.

As the sun begins to fade we return to the house. I make meatloaf and we eat quietly at the dinner table. He puts an extraordinary amount of ketchup on his plate.

After the meal we drink wine and discuss the habits of horses in May. With a gentle bow, he exits.

And I await the day that the devil knocks on my door once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HELP.

I live in a place I like to call the Blind Spot. Just as its name suggests, it is a spot that you cannot see but are aware of. But because I live within the Blind Spot, I am even less noticeable.

I live in a plain white concrete building with the words "WE ARE HELP," inscribed above the front and only door. "Help" is a word often used here.

       "Stop struggling, we are only trying to help."

       "You were sent here to get help."

       "We are help."

        In fact, the word is used so many times that many of us believe it has lost its meaning.

        The people who work at "Help" look as if they were carved out of the walls themselves. They wear white shoes, white pants, white shirts, and white aprons with holes in the front where they occasionally hide "help."

        "Help" and the Blind Spot are forgotten places, where even those who have lived here for all their lives can leave and not remember. Therefore, the people of "Help" and the Blind Spot are forgettable as well. We are nothing but fires that once caused chaos and are now smoldering ashes.

        Those who live at "Help" like I do are peculiar. Rosie is still eight years old after all these years. Charles is the captain of his very own ship. I'm his first mate by the way. Theodore is a ghost who was murdered many many years ago.  His killer has yet to be found. Charlotte doesn't talk a lot, but you can blame that on the missing parts of her face.

         I am a pirate of sorts. I collect treasure whenever I can. "Help" says I'm a kleptomaniac, but this is untrue of course. Because I am a pirate.

        But of course, being a pirate can get boring; especially with the restrains on my hands. But being a pirate got a lot more interesting when Karl showed up. He was a new inhabitant of  "Help."

        Karl was logical and well dressed, his head shaved to hide his receding hairline. And for a moment, he made life seem a lot nicer than it was.

       "Do you have a dream?" he asked, his voice like gently flowing water.

       "I want to get out," I said. "I want to collect more treasure."

       Karl nodded as if he understood what I was going through.

       "I want to go out and buy new toys," clucked Rosie, an ancient Barbie in her hands. She had stroked it so much that it had almost no hair and the face had rubbed off.

       "I want to go to the sea," responded Charles. "You know, the real sea, where my boat is." Charles didn't have a boat.

       "I want to find who killed me," Theodore answered in a cooing voice. He waved his fat arms in the air as if he was transparent and liquid.

       Charlotte said nothing, whether it was because she couldn't or she wouldn't, I'll never know.

       "Did you know that all your dreams can come true?" Karl asked, the same mystical resonance in his voice.

       There was stillness in the room. It matched the white walls and the white chairs we were all sitting in. It matched the white employees who stood in front of the door. The silence even matched my restraints, which were white as well.

       "How can we do that?" Rosie muttered.

       "All you have to do is believe in yourself. I mean, you'll be getting out of here in no time if you just have hope!" sputtered the bald man. This took us by surprise. Never had we thought that we would be given the opportunity to leave. It was always a distant fading light.

       "Just close your eyes and think of it. Picture it Rosie, hundreds of Barbie dolls and thousands of ways to dress them. Charles, imagine the churning blue sea and the cry of the seagulls as you sail through the frothy water. Can't you just feel your killer's neck turn cold between your hands Theodore? And you, can't you hear all the shiny trinkets that could be filling your pockets?" Karl whispered with great enthusiasm.

       I opened my eyes to see the others trembling in excitement. Rosie was caressing the doll's head furiously as she thought.

       "That sounds wonderful," Theodore mumbled as he wrung his hands around an invisible victim.

       The white door that leads out of the white room clicked open. Everyone's eyes flickered as a man in all white came in.

       "I'm here to take Karl to his room," the man grumbled. "Please come with me." The man in white took Karl by the arm and led him out. A woman in white replaced him.

       "How did you like the new guy?" she asked sweetly.

       "He was inspiring!" Charles exclaimed. The woman smiled. Her white teeth matched her white outfit, which contrasted greatly with her dark skin.

       "Why is he here anyway?" I asked.

       "He's a compulsive liar."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

execution.

I can’t say she looked like a woman about to die. But then again, I’d never actually seen a woman on the brink of death before. She walked with such grace that anyone else would have assumed she was taking her seat on the throne. Her porcelain features gave off a subtle glow in the light of the pale morning sun. Her sleek body was wrapped in a thick red robe riddled with gold accents and silver thread. Each foot fell confidently on the carpet and her eyes never wavered. For a woman about to die, she walked with unusual confidence. There was no hesitation in her bow to the king and she even smiled warmly to him. Then, with the same grace as before, she knelt slowly and laid her thin throat on the wooden block. Its slight curvature fit snugly in the wood. The king, a man of dignity and fear, took her hair gently in one enormous palm and sawed it off with the other. The sound of the blade hacking through the fibers was all that was heard. Once the hair was cut and out of the way, a small nervous looking man handed the king his sword. The spindly coward disappeared into the shadows. She looked up as he swung, something that others may not have noticed, and looked kindly upon the crowd. But the glance was short and soon her head rolled across the red carpet. Had the sword been handled by any other man the cut would not have been so clean. Two armed guards collected the two segments of the woman and took them away while another pulled the bloody wooden block under his arm and trotted out of sight. The king sat down heavily in his throne and dismissed the audience with a swipe of his hand. Trembling girls and nervous men emptied into the cold front hall and then out the door. I followed out slowly and watched the king as the throne room doors shut behind me. He was slumped a bit against the back on the throne, a glass of mead in his hand and a slight frown upon his wrinkled face. As I walked home through the dark cobblestone streets, I witnessed the slaughter of a pig in the streets in front of a butcher shop. A crowd of loud and joyous people surrounded the red stained table and the pig squealed in terror. It was the voice of an animal afraid of the unknown, afraid of the hand at its throat, afraid of the cries that swelled in the air. The beast looked like it was about to die; and it did. Blood splattered the butcher and his nearby audience. The pig, his head still connected to his body by thin wires of nerve and muscle, screamed and screamed. The crowd laughed as the butcher took the final strike and as the head rolled off the bloody table to the ground. The street soon quieted and the people dispersed, their stockings soiled with blood and their baskets filled with fresh meat. The pig’s head was laid out proudly in the butcher’s window, its eyes still wet. I passed with little recognition for the dead animal and was glad that the king had not married a pig.