La loterie nucléaire – Chapitre 4

Les nerfs souffraient dans les deux pays. L’alcoolisme gagnait les populations. Si ce n’était pas l’alcool, on se faisait prescrire des anxiolytiques, des antidépresseurs et le tour était joué. L’abrutissement psychique semblait un des remèdes les plus efficaces pour les civils pour supporter la guerre moderne.

L’ingénieur alcoolique savait qu’il partait pour travailler sur un chantier militaire. La lettre ne le précisait pas mais les conditions évoquées ne lui laissent guère de doute, la clause de non-disclosure et le « chantier » situé dans la zone ouest.

« – Qu’importe ce qu’ils veulent de moi, je ne ferai pas mon boulot, du moins, par correctement. Je vais salement saboter l’ouvrage, tirer au flanc, rien à foutre de leurs sbires, on sait comment tout cela va terminer… »

Mais cette affirmation, Thomas la regrettait d’emblée. Non, personne ne savait exactement comment cela finirait. Enfin si, ceux en costard cravate. Eux savaient, eux avaient planifié. Il n’était même pas étonnant que les deux côtés furent en fait de très bon amis derrière le théâtre de guerre. Il n’y avait peut-être même pas de côté, ils s’enrichissaient à souhait, sans vergogne ni regret, tout en étant portés aux nues par leur peuple respectif.

« – Et puis, si je crève dans ce train, personne ne me regrettera. »

En effet, Thomas n’avait pas de femme, ni de mari. Pas peine d’avoir essayé pourtant mais l’alcool faisant son effet, il évitait de trop creuser sur ce côté de sa vie. Un échec.

Pas d’enfant non plus. Grand Dieux ! Qui oserait mettre au monde un enfant dans ces conditions ?

Qui ? Beaucoup en fait. De n’importe quel branche de métier, de situations diverses et variées, d’âges également. On trouvait toujours à mettre au monde un enfant même si les conditions de vie étaient exécrables. Peut-être était-ce dû à l’instinct. Perpétuer l’existence (et la subsistance mais Thomas arrête sa pensée là) de la race humaine.

Au sommet de la chaîne alimentaire, au summum de la connerie vivante. Numéro un pour s’entretuer et entraîner les autres espèces dans leur chute. En fait, même sur une planète aux conditions de vie incroyables, réunissant tout ce qui était primordial (et plus ? Trop peut-être ?) pour la vie, l’Homme semblait exceller à entraîner cette immense sphère dans sa chute. Parce que l’être humain a un ego. S’il échoue, tout le monde doit échouer, c’est comme ça. La loi du plus fort. Ou du plus idiot, du plus égocentrique, voir tout ça à la fois.

Le train de Thomas arrivait en gare. L’ingénieur prenait souvent son temps avant d’entrer dans le train, pendant que des passagers descendaient que d’autres montaient, il attendait presque le moment du départ pour admirer la machine qui allait le transporter à une vitesse impressionnante. Le génie humain, quand il est dirigé pour le bien de tous, est une bonne chose. Enfin, tout est relatif…

« – Tout n’est pas à jeter chez l’être humain, il faut chercher, mais on trouve parfois les bons côtés de notre espèce, les bonnes personnes. »

Thomas pensait tout haut, il avait cette habitude depuis tout gamin de laisser s’exprimer sa pensée à haute voix. C’était pour cela que les passagers le regardaient curieusement, le temps d’un instant. Certains s’arrêtaient parfois parce qu’ils pensaient qu’il leur parlait directement. Mais souvent, ils accéléraient le pas quand ils sentaient l’alcool émanent des pores de la peau de l’ingénieur, quand ils voyaient sa démarche titubante. Comme si être saoul était contagieux, comme si, jamais de leur vie ils n’avaient vu quelqu’un alcoolisé. Certains semblaient presque outrés, mais l’ingénieur se fichait du regard des autres depuis longtemps.

Il monta dans le train.

Sabine vit arriver le sien, et elle se demandait si elle devait annoncer la grande nouvelle à son mari.

Non, pas tout de suite. Ce n’est pas le genre d’annonce que l’on fait à la veille d’un enterrement. Quoique…

Benjamin ne desserrait pas la mâchoire, elle était crispée. Son mari était tendu. Quel serait sa réaction ? Quand serait le bon moment pour l’annoncer ?

Jaskiers

Publicité

La loterie atomique – Chapitre 3

Les chaînes d’informations, avec leurs présentateurs vedettes, qui ressemblaient à des mannequins de publicité pour shampoing hors de prix, récitaient leur texte, les mêmes pour chacun à peu de mots prêts, fournis par le gouvernement, n’existaient que pour faire peur à la population, tout en les rassurants. Étrange dichotomie.

« – Tout va bien, on reçoit quelques bombes sur la gueule ? Et bien nous leur en envoyons le double ! L’ennemi cri famine ! L’adversaire demande pitié ! Ces salauds ont demandé des pourparlers de paix ! Ils faiblissent de minutes en minutes ! Leur air est irrespirable (peut-être faudrait-il leur dire que ‘l’air’ ne connaît pas les frontières, à moins que ce soit le même nuage toxique que Tchernobyl, lui, il avait le respect des frontières !) Nous sommes les meilleurs ! Nos soldats sont tous surentraînés et l’armée possède encore beaucoup d’armes secrètes qui pourraient mettre un terme définitif à ce conflit ! (Pourquoi ne l’utilisent-ils pas ? C’est sûrement secret ça aussi.) Nos dirigeants ont toujours un temps d’avance sur l’ennemi trop idiot ! Notre économie n’a jamais été si florissante ! L’ennemi n’a même plus de maison où aller se réfugier, ils mangent par terre, sucent des cailloux ! Sur le champ de bataille (il n’y en a pas, rappelez-vous), l’adversaire tremble et s’enfuit face à nos braves ! Le monde entier nous soutient, beaucoup nous admirent, nous demandent le secret de nos incroyables succès guerrier ! Voyez comme nous sommes grands, voyez comme ils sont petits ! Portez vos masques ! Réfugiez-vous dans un abris à chaque alerte ! »

Et de l’autre côté de la frontière de l’Est, la télévision émettait les mêmes propos sur le pays de l’ingénieur.

Thomas aurait aimé dire au gens que ce n’est que purs mensonges. d’ouvrir les yeux. Mais à quoi bon ? Dans la vie, souvent, il ne fait pas bon de dire la Vérité. Toute vérité n’est pas bonne à dire. Surtout que si l’on s’exprime trop ouvertement, le gouvernement à ses sbires, l’unité de protection de la population, ou plutôt l’unité « fermes ta gueule ou bien creuses ta tombe » comme aimait à l’appeler l’ingénieur.

Pour lui, ‘plus le mensonge est gros, plus il passe facilement’ n’était pas un poncif efficace. Thomas dirait plutôt que le mensonge devait être répété, encore et encore jusqu’à ce que les voix qui s’élèvent pour le démentir se fatiguent et abandonnent. Et des mensonges, matraqués tous les soirs à des millions de personnes rivés derrière leurs écrans de télévision, il y en a tous les jours et de toute sorte.

Peut-être qu’au final, boire est exactement ce que son gouvernement voulait qu’il fasse. Tellement plus facile d’endurer quand l’esprit est saoulé. Tellement plus malléable est le cerveau quand il est imbibé de poison. Mais les leaders du pays de Thomas, les mêmes que ceux de Benjamin et Sabine, ne s’inquiétaient pas des pessimistes, des nerveux, des érudits, des intellectuels ou des personnes qui comprenaient le manège qui se tramait derrière ce soit disant conflit.

Ils avaient leur machine à laver le cerveau et les agents pour détruire le corps si besoin.

Pour ces personnes clairvoyantes, ou plutôt avec un esprit critique et une intelligence légèrement supérieure à la moyenne, et à cette époque, il n’était pas difficile de l’être, la vie était un mauvais spectacle mis en scène par des régisseurs richissimes et joué par des acteurs invisible pour un public névrosé et aliéné à souhait.

Peut-être était-ce dû à la frustration, à voir les gens sourire, rigoler, s’aimer, se disputer, se chamailler, faire la fête. C’est peut-être ça la vraie raison de l’alcoolisme de l’ingénieur Thomas. Effet secondaire de l’ignorance : affecte l’entourage. Comme l’alcoolisme.

L’ingénieur faisait partie de ces gens qui réfléchissaient trop. Une mauvaise chose, une maladie psychique qui ne dit pas son nom où ne montre pas sa gravité. Donc Thomas buvait pour éteindre son cerveau, pour l’empoisonner pour devenir lui aussi, le temps que l’alcool se dissolve dans son sang, un ignorant.

Et puis, il était plus facile de prendre un train saoul. En tenant compte de la situation cependant : une fois dans le train en marche, si une bombe nucléaire décidait que c’est sur votre wagon qu’il décide de finir sa sale besogne, il n’y avait pas de fuite possible. Même en dehors d’un train cela dit. Non, en fait, Thomas buvait car à tout moment sa vie pouvait s’arrêter à cause d’un mini engin apocalyptique.

Jaskiers

La loterie nucléaire – Chapitre 2

Benjamin avait beau jouer le dur, faire mine de ne pas être inquiet, elle voyait dans ses traits l’inquiétude. Plus que les traits, l’attitude, les coups d’œil vifs vers le ciel d’un bleu azur vif, les crispations brèves des lèvres, les mains moites dévoilaient la tension nerveuse de son mari.

« – Benny, tout se passera bien, arrête de t’inquiéter.

  • Je peux pas m’en empêcher… désolé. Ça aurait été plus simple si j’avais pu t’accompagner.
  • Tu n’as jamais vu ma grand-mère et puis, ton boulot passe avant. C’est un peu rustre de la dire mais tu le sais, on ne peut pas se permettre un jour de congé tous les deux en même temps.
  • Oui, je sais. Mais c’est comme ça, tu serais sûrement pareil à ma place non ?
  • Oui, mais regarde, les risques sont minimes !
  • C’est toujours quand on s’y attend le moins que le malheur nous tombe sur la tronche.
  • J’ai marié un éternel pessimiste !
  • Et moi une éternelle optimiste !
  • Les opposés s’attirent… enfin je crois que c’est comme ça qu’on le dit.
  • Et un philosophe en plus !
  • Et une comique en plus ! »

Pendant ce temps-là, dans la même gare mais sur un autre quai, Thomas, ingénieur, célibataire et alcoolique invétéré attendait son train pour Bradpost. Une certaine mission de vérification des armements, ou quelque chose comme cela, il ne se rappelle plus vraiment ce que disait le courrier qu’il avait reçu du ministère de la guerre hier matin. Il avait ouvert l’enveloppe avec une gueule de bois terrible, qu’il atténua avec deux bons verres de whisky. Tout ce qu’il avait retenu, c’était qu’il était attendu à l’Ouest, dans une base arrière. Un militaire gradé l’attendrait sur le quai pour l’emmener au site en question.

Thomas n’était pas un militaire, juste un ingénieur civil dans l’aéronautique qui avait atteint doucement mais sûrement la cinquantaine. D’ailleurs, c’était peut-être pour cela qu’il buvait tant. Il regrettait cette jeunesse et cette vie passée trop vite, pourrie par la guerre mais remplie d’histoires de cuite et de soirées délirante dans la capitales. La même chose lui était arrivée à quarante ans. La fameuse crise de la quarantaine, celle qui vous fait regarder en arrière plutôt qu’en avant. Qui vous montre les choses que vous avez manqué et que vous avez raté. Le futur ? Dans le cas de Thomas, il le voyait sombre. Cette guerre stupide, dont tout le monde semblait avoir oublié la raison pour laquelle elle avait commencé, continuait, elle semblait sans fin.

La planète suffoquait, en temps de paix, elle était déjà très mal en point, mais, avec les retombées radioactives, il n’y avait maintenant plus de retour en arrière possible, aucune possibilité de minimiser les dégâts. Tout le monde suffoquait, la faune et la flore dépérissaient à un rythme terrifiant.

D’ailleurs, depuis quelques années, le gouvernement avait commencé à fournir gratuitement des masques à gaz à tous les citoyens. Aucune obligation de le porter, après tout, aux infos, on signalait que le pays de Thomas gagnait, c’est que les attaques ennemis étaient moins puissantes et moins destructives que celle de ses leaders. Mais Thomas avait beau avoir les idées embrouillées, il a compris là que c’était le début de la fin. Les masques à gaz pouvaient être fournis avec des petites bonbonnes d’oxygène. C’étaient aussi des masques à oxygen. Cela se passe de mot. Respirer l’air pur était devenu dangereux, mais tout le monde s’en fichaient. Si le gouvernement avait décrété que les masques et bonbonnes n’étaient pas obligatoires, c’était pour une raison, celle évoquée plus haut ; on gagnait.

Jaskiers

La loterie nucléaire – Chapitre 1

Benjamin, main dans la main avec sa femme sur le quai de la gare de Baptist ne peut s’empêcher de penser au danger, certes minimum mais bien présent, d’une catastrophe nucléaire.

Cette sensation n’est pas chose nouvelle, c’est la guerre et on se bat à coup de petites bombes nucléaires. Moins de dégâts que les grosses, mais balancées sur les civils autant que chez les militaires avec une précision insolente. Une guerre aussi psychologique que physique.

Je te balance une bombe sur un quartier résidentiel, tu me réponds avec une petite bien placée sur une caserne. C’est le jeu de cette nouvelle guerre.

Ce n’est pas une guerre comme nous en avons connu. Jamais nous ne voyons de soldats, ami ou ennemi, jamais de coups de feu, pas de civils mobilisés, pas de champs de bataille.

Si ce n’était que les minis bombes nucléaires, les masques à gaz et les agents de dénucléarisation habillés de leur parka jaunes, ce serait une guerre diplomatique, une guerre de gens en costard. Les gens en costards sont bien là, ils décident qui va être la prochaine victime. Tacticiens mais aussi businessmans, la guerre, la mort, les morts, la misère, ça rapporte… quand on sait où placer son argent et que votre répertoire comporte quelques personnes bien placées.

Sabrina ne s’inquiétait pas, ou du moins ne le montrait pas. Elle partait voir sa grand-mère mourante. Dans des cas comme cela, la mort d’un proche occupe plus votre esprit que la perspective de votre propre mort. Et puis, qu’elles étaient les chances qu’une bombe éclate sur son train à elle ? Sur des milliers qui traversent le pays tous les jours. Il était peu probable, selon elle, qu’un costard cravate trouve utile d’exploser un train d’une poignée de touristes allant en direction de l’ouest. L’ouest, le côté du pays le moins exposé au bombardement, c’était à l’est que le plus de bombe étaient lâchés. Peut-être parce que les deux pays y partageaient une frontière de ce côté-là.

Et ça n’arrive qu’au autre, de mourir dans ces conflits, pas à nous, pas à elle. Du moins, c’est comment l’esprit réfléchit pour éviter de vivre dans une peur perpétuelle. Exactement la même chose quand nous prenons la route. Si l’on pense à l’accident ou à la mort à chaque fois que l’on prend la route, ou dans le cas de Sabrina le train, nous ne vivrons plus. Ça n’arrive qu’aux autres la mort. Ce genre de mort en tout cas. Car sa grand-mère, dévorée par la vieillesse et une pneumonie tenace, elle, allait bien mourir. Ça arrive un proche qui meurt de maladie. Mais d’un accident ? Non !

Elle regarde du coin de l’œil son mari, ils se sont mariés il y a de cela trois mois après deux ans de vie commune. Deux ans de vie commune, c’est pas mal, la troisième sera une année charnière pour leur relation. Enfin, c’est ce qu’elle croit. Et on ne meurt pas qu’en on est jeune marié avec plein de projets d’avenir n’est-ce pas ?

Jaskiers

Once Upon A Time, There Was America

Have you ever heard that old saying, it was ‘better back in the good old days’?

How hypocrite and stupid is this saying! If you are reading this, if you are a white and straight male, trust me, today’s world is the same as it was before. Maybe a little (slightly?) ‘better’, for those who haven’t been born privileged.

There was a time, my friends, where being black was more difficult than today. And even as of today, it is still awfully difficult for them.

Being homosexual? Back in the ‘good ol’ days’? Let me give you a friendly reminder, it was illegal to be gay in America until 2003.

Being black, or gay, or both, life was about being outcasted. Wait, hold on, more than outcasted, they were lynched, insulted, threatened, and even killed. And you couldn’t ask the law to help. You had to pick up yourself and go on. If they didn’t kill you of course. It’s still going on today…

See, I’m an old, old man now. My job, all along my life, was reporter. Working with prestigious newspapers, doing real investigations. Of course there wasn’t any internet, everything was… slower. But we, reporters, on the ground, behind our typewriter, we were spreading informations, real ones. If you were fake my friend, no newspaper wanted you on board. The news rooms were battlefields.

Hunter S. Thompson, who breaked the codes and the boundaries, Woodward and Bernstein and their detective works pushing Nixon out of the fucking White House, you named it.

Those were the day when journalist, writer, poets were Rockstars along with Jim Morrison, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, The Rolling Stones. It was a revolution.

God, it was as violent as today. Maybe a little less, considering the amount of mass shootings skyrocketing right now.

But ‘back in those good ol’ days’, protest could turns into slaughter. For example, the four of may 1970, when the National Guard killed four students in Ohio while protesting against the war in Vietnam.

This was also the discovery of a new type of horror, serial killers. I won’t mention their names, you probably know some. But let me tell you, today, we do not have serial killers, well there is, but now, schools shootings seems to have taken the place of those monsters.

It’s terrifying. A bunch of people, mostly women, loved serial killers. Now, people admire school shooters. Those are mostly young men, white and with a simple access to gun. They kill as much as serial killer on a shorter period of time. And it’s spreading all over the country. Never ending.

Politics ask for thoughts and prayers, but no laws about restraining or even banning guns. And even if such laws pass, it barely does anything. Because, the NRA got some high profile politicians on theirs paycheck. In my opinion, this is legal bribing… Therefore, it will not end soon. Kids in America go to school like their in a war zone. All this for Freedom… kids pay that American Freedom by dying in classrooms…

Man, America is violence. It begun by the massacre of Native American. We live in a bloodstain soil, in violence in it’s purest form. Something got to change. We thought that a black president would change things drastically. It didn’t. A beautiful symbol of course, a powerful step forward but… nothing have changed.

We all needs a new Martin Luther King, a Robert Kennedy, a Malcom X before is assassination, someone need to help the black community and make the whites understand the tragic situation that the blacks and other minorities are facing. We need someone to gather us, to show us that we can live together and that we being divided and manipulated constantly for political gains… Why? Because a polarized and divided country is easier to govern. Divide and conquer. We should talk about sexism, the meetoo movement, women denouncing the sexual abuse and assault they face in their life. Powerful men who thought they were untouchable had to face justice. Femicids are on a all tome high. The fight need to go on. Equality is far from being reached.

Back in the ‘good ol’ days’c I was in the newsroom when Doctor King died. Same as for the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

I was at the scene of the murder of his younger brother, Bobby.

This was America sacrificing a potential peaceful and brighter future.

Today is better than the past. Come on, let’s not being grumpy, you, old folks dreaming of the past reading this. But it is far, far from being perfect. Because, like I’ve already said before, from the get go, things were already extremely bad. We need to care for each others, to stop being scared of our neighbors. Tolerance, respect, communicate, sharing! We need to be together so bad. Let’s not live in fear, this is not a life to live frightened. Neo-nazism is back in force, we need to face them, block them, and fight to keep our democracy.

I will live this earth soon, for a better place, I hope to at least. But I doubt this world is going in the right direction.

It was just the rambling of an old man. Sometimes, it’s good to hear what they have to say.

So, stand for what’s right, for your rights, for you life.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part. 4

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

« – Mister? Are you all right?

  • What the fuck happened?
  • A client called me saying she could hear screams coming from you room. I entered and…
  • The fire! Fuck! The fire? Is everyone all right ? Did you take my notebook out of this hellhole?
  • What? No, there is no fire!
  • What the…
  • You are in your room sir, everything all right here. Except you of course.
  • But the TV and the furnitures were on fire and…
  • Jack, the TV is on its stand, there is no fire!
  • I’ve tried to open the window but I couldn’t…
  • Yes, client complaint often about our windows. That why it’s smell like cigarette and shit like that, can’t open it so they… »

Jack T. stopped listening to the young man, because he saw the spot on the ceiling transforming into a picture perfect demoniac face, horns and all.

« – Fuck ! I want to change room right now!

  • Ho ho! Jack! You dull boy! All work and no play, hasn’t changed much it’s seems! »

The writer looked at the young man who’s face was metamorphosing into his wife head and using her voice.

« – You haven’t changed! Asshole!

  • What? Leave! What are you doing here!
  • But I’m your wife!
  • Was…
  • You son of a bitch »

He received a slap on the right cheek and some spit on his face.

« – What the Fuck Rosie! You know you’ve got a restraining order against me, I can’t be close to you!

  • See, I’m gonna call the cops! You will never see the kid again!
  • Bitch! »

Jack pulls up a gun, point it at his wife face and shoot.

The brain matter splatter everywhere and the dead body transform itself as the poor hotel clerk.

« – Shit shit shit! Sorry!

  • What the hell is going on here!
  • I’ve… shoot a man!
  • What?
  • Oh my God Please help me!
  • Hell no ! I’m calling the cops!
  • No! I’m sick!
  • God damn right you sick you son of a bitch! »

The hotel room door shatters and enters a giant snake.

« – What…

  • Sssssss shut up! »

The author points his gun at the snake.

« – No darling please!

  • Stop ! Stop using my wife voice! »

The reptile jump at him and wrap himself around Jack body and tighten his grip. The bones crack and Jack can’t breathe anymore.

And he woke up. The bedsheets are drenched. No dead body, no giant snake.

Feeling terrified, he decides to have a smoke. Maybe with this, he would be sure that he isn’t dreaming.

He doesn’t waste time, put the cigarette between his lips, take the lighter, light up the smoke and inhale.

He coughed. His lungs and throat weren’t used to the smoke anymore.

His heartbeat who was going haywire slowed dawn and the writer exhaled the poisonous vapor and sighted.

Everything was calm. He felt a sensation of appeasement, the nicotine doing their work.

He builds up some courage to take his notebook to write the strange and horrific dreams he had just experienced.

Just as he put the pencil’s lead on the paper, Jack hears a soft knock on the door.

The adrenaline immediately spread their powerful forces into every part of his body.

He waited a few seconds. Maybe he had confused a soft knock with a random noise from outside.

Silence.

And an another knock, more noisy this time.

« – Yeah? Said Jack in a very low voice.

  • Mister, it’s the hotel’s clerk.
  • Did… what do you want?
  • Is everything all right for you?
  • Yeah… why?
  • Just heard some… noise. You know…
  • Well… what kind of noise?
  • Like someone… like you weren’t alone…
  • Ha… no as far as I know I am alone.
  • It’s okay… if there someone with you… you know, one of those ladies of the night…
  • No! God no! No I promise you I’m all alone here.
  • You wouldn’t be the first customer doing that y’know.
  • No! No! I don’t have prostitutes in my room.
  • If you say so… Wouldn’t be surprised y’know. Fame and money get you some puss…
  • I said no God damn it!
  • Won’t you shut the hell up over there!
  • Sorry madame ! I’m just checking out with a client.
  • Well it’s the fucking middle of the night! Damn! You guys gonna have some bad rating on internet!
  • Oh! Well, we’re used to it there so, go on.
  • Jesus! I will get you fired!
  • Ok boomer whatever.
  • Little asshole!
  • What a distinguished vocabulary you have here!
  • Don’t mess with me boy!
  • It’s okay!
  • No it’s not!
  • Holy shit!
  • Boy you think you can fuck with me?
  • Sorry madame!
  • It’s America asshole! We carry guns for a reason!
  • Yes, right, I’m sorry!
  • Jack! I’ve told you I would found you! »

Gunshots erupt, door bust open. Jack’s ex-wife enters the room.

« – Is this a fucking dream?

  • You shit! It’s probably more of a nightmare.
  • Shit! What the fuck is going on!
  • I haven’t forgotten Jacky boy! »

The woman shoots right at the writer.

Jack woke up. In sweat, once again.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part 3

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

The need for a smoke came back stronger than ever before since he stopped smoking. He needed to blow off some steam.

Once again, he had to face this inner demon of temptation. After all, just one, to cool off. But this is the cliché excuse to get back to smoking.

He took a glass of water instead, risking drinking it from the sink, with those terrible drought that had been hitting California recently, there was a risk of infection drinking water from the tap. But, this was better to drink a potentially cancerous glass of liquid than to definitely inhale cancer right into his body.

He laid back in the bed, looking at the spot on the celling. He couldn’t see anymore animals in it. This was proof that his brain was tired.

Dosing off once again, he fell into a dream, a nightmare in fact.

He was back in the fancy hallway of the Monclar Hotel in Colorado. Alone, he could hear a scream, a women scream along with terrifying scritching noises.

The hallway was well lit by a big crystal chandelier hanging from the roof to a few inches above the floor. Jack T. was almost blinded by the flashing crystals lights marking his sight with purple spots on his retina.

He tried to yell his wife name, Clara, because the screams he could hear sounded like her voice. But the only sound coming out off his mouth was an animal like groaning. The more he tried to yell, the more the groaning was loud and disturbing. When he decided to put his hand in front of his eyes to stop the light from burning them, he realised that his hands had became those of a beast.

Long and thin fingers, with long and thick black nails, his skin was covered in dense black fur.

By reflex, he took a glance at his lower body part but nothing had changed.

He tried to move around, going up the set of stairs on his right, the one that leaded to his room. He moved pretty fast. Too fast even. He could not control his pace. When he finally managed to reach the top of the set of stairs, he took the direction of the corridor leading to his and his wife room. He ran so fast that he blew past the long corridor, pulverising the window of his bedroom, breaking the room’s window and ended up in the snow, outside of the hotel that suddenly exploded.

Jack woke up in sweat. Maybe because of the dream, but also because the TV was on fire. He got up of the bed, coughing from the poisonous fumes filling the room and ran to the door. Of course, it was locked. He remembered, for once, where he had put the hotel room key; on the TV stand. But the television and the stand where devoured by thick black and red flames. The key was definitely lost. He prompted himself to the window but he could not understand the mechanism for opening it. Why do hotel room as those complicated windows opening mechanism along with weird shower malfunctioning?

As he was thinking about this, he felt like writing it down on his notebook. His precious notebook! He didn’t really cared about his wallet and laptops nor his trousers. He didn’t want to have his precious notebook burn, with all these wisdom, thought and ideas going up in flames and destroyed forever, never to be recovered. Jack never trusted his memory, writers have a tendency to forget things pretty fast because they often think about the thousand of things they could write. Their brains are often on maximum overdrive, keeping them up at night, pushing them to daydream.

Even more interesting stuff that he had to write about on the pages of his beloved notebook that was just standing on the bedside table.

He quickly leaped next to the bed to pick it up. But the notebook was stuck, impossible to grab off the table, like it was glued to the wood.

The writer tried his best to lift it up, planting his nails on the woods, bleeding. The effort made him suffocate even more. He wouldn’t give up, nails were coming off the fingers, shards penetrating deeply in his fingertips.

He felt a hand on his shoulder yanking him.

He woke up, laying in his bed. The young hotel manager was seating next to him.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part 2

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

A childish fear, he thought to himself.

He opened the door of his room. A smell of cigarette hit him directly. He stopped smoking two months ago and this smell will not help him forget his longing for a good smoke after the stress of the traveling. Thankfully, he had no cigarette in his pockets to taunt him even more.

The room had that uniform pale brown color, a two persons wide bed, a night stand with a phone, a lamp and an ashtrey. Facing the front bed, a TV stand with a top notch television and multiple drawers. A wardrobe next to the bed et next to it, a bathroom with a toilet. A picture perfect basic motel room.

He let down his luggage on to the floor and laid in bed, looking at the roof stained by years of smoking.

One of these spots looked like a rabbit.

Smoke stains are likes clouds, perfect pareidolia materials. He took out his notebook to write that thought down. The writer learned to write down every thing that inspired him directly as to not forget a good idea that could help him in his futur writing. He never really used the notes he putted down in his journal, it was more of a little obsession, just in case the inspiration decided to take a leave from him creative mind.

Curiosity pushed Jack to open the bed side drawer, see if there was a bible. It’s a curious thing to put a bible in hotel rooms he thought to himself. It was not the case in Europe, it was something typically American. Forcing God into your life, guiding the lost sheep back to the Lord’s herd. He wrote those lines down on his notebook before opening the drawer and discovering a tiny black leathered bible and a full pack of Camel cigarettes along with a lighter.

Torrence heartbeat increased for a bit. There were, in this drawer, God wisdom and the Devil sweet temptation.

He took the bible and opened it where the little strip of tissue served as a bookmark.

He read the first line that caught his eyes :

(Luke 22:40)
When He arrived at the place, He said to them, “Pray that you may not enter into temptation.”

He sighted, looked at the pack of cigarettes, took it, turned and smelled the odor of tobacco before putting it down like it was burning his finger.

Sometime, life work in mysterious ways, like God, but it also have frightening coincidences that make you question existence in its whole. Jack was in deep meditating state, wondering if life was nothing but a simulation, a cruel game, lead by a disturbed man.

He got back looking at the roof to discover that the rabbit looked like a bird now. He moved his head to see if it was a change in his position that made this metamorphosis but it wasn’t.

How strange is the thing controlling us. Why does it seem that sometime, he takes a particular interest in you for a moment and giving you the hardest, cruelest and strangest time of your life ?

Sleep started to ask for its due. Jack took off his trouser and his old leather jacket, rested his head on a pillow and started to dose off.

He started having one of those strange and scary dreams where you wake because you felt like falling off a cliff.

Jack raised up from his bed immediately. He remembered reading something about those kinds of terrific dreams. The brain dropped some kind of adrenaline’s type chemical in the body, because for a moment, he was thinking that the body was about to die, or something along those lines.

It marked, once more, that room with a dreadful feeling. Something was wrong here. After what happened back at the Monclar hotel back in Colorado, the writer knew that there was some strange and powerful power out off our understanding lingering in there. Only peoples who face those strange power know that you shouldn’t mess with those entities.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part 1

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

Jack T. had landed in Los Angeles, California, at 3 AM from a red-eye flight from Seattle.

After renting a car, he drove south, toward San Diego, where he had a book signing session on the afternoon for his last work, « Travel With A King ». Not his proudest nor his masterpiece. It was a book with no soul, just for the money.

Since this incident in this fancy hotel in Colorado a couple of years ago, he didn’t felt that the writing mojo he used to have was still there. It disappeared in the fire, along with his favorite typewriter, that good old Adler, his loyal comrade since the beginning of his writing career had disappeared. He also lost his wife and little boy. They aren’t dead, they just don’t want to see him ever again since that dreadful day.

On the interstate 5, driving while Jim Morrison sang lyrics that matched the present moment about driving down a freeway after midnight, Jack felt the heavy weight of sleep affecting his eyelid, therefore his driving. He decided to not taunt the devil, and to stop at the first motel with available vacancy to catch a shower and sleep.

After passing the camp Peddleton, he arrived at Carlsbad where a motel with a view on the Pacific Ocean was available.

He parked his car and took a quick look at the hotel. It was a reflex of his job, he used to think, to take time to watch how things looked and made him feel.

This hotel had nothing really noticeable. It was a regular motel, on three level. The picture perfect of an American west coast hotel. No balcony, doors aligned on three levels directly accessible from the outside. You could stay and watch every tenant going in or out of their room.

At the desk, a young man raised his head from his phone as Jack approached.

« – Welcome to the Mo’Hotel. In need of room? He said in a atone voice.

  • Well… yes. It’s say on your billboard that their’s vacancy available. That’s why I’m here.
  • Yeah… so?
  • I’ll take a room buddy.
  • Alright. Sea side view?
  • Yeah, why not.
  • It coast more with a view on the sea.
  • Yeah, give me a room. I just want a good night of sleep.
  • Room 313, the third floor. Here’s the key.
  • Thanks.
  • It’s 35$.
  • Yeah, alright.
  • Also, it’s a weird room.
  • Sorry what?
  • It’s a room with… things.
  • What are you on about?
  • Previous clients complained of noise, knocking on the door. They found their clothes and stuff in a mess, things displaced and weird things like that.
  • Well, that’s sound fun. Do you have some creepy weirdos as client lately?
  • You want my opinion?
  • Yeah…
  • It’s a ghost! It’s been going on for a bit now. Every time I have to go in this room, I do a little prayer even thought I don’t believe in God.
  • Jesus! You surely know how to ease a client!
  • There’s a weird feeling to that room. You’ll probably feel it.
  • Alright. I just want to sleep, maybe a few hours of sleep will not disturb anything that linger here.
  • Well, I hope for you. I’ve seen your face somewhere but I can’t remember where I saw it. Are you famous or something?
  • No. I just write on papers for a living. Anyway, good night buddy.
  • Yeah, good luck… night mister.
  • Thanks! »

Jack started to think that hotels weren’t his things. Everytime, something weird happened when he rented a room, one time, it coasted him his mariage.

As he climbs the series of stairs, a feeling of dread took over his body. Every cells in his body was telling him to leave.

Jaskiers

Somewhere In The Middle Of Nowhere (A Short Story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

You know the saying : searching for a needle on a haystack?

Well, I am the needle, and the haystack is hundred and hundred of miles of snow, and I doubt someone will ever try to look for me, ever. They’re absolutely nothing except a gigantic blanket of thick white powder.

See, I’m an explorator, this isn’t my first time being all by myself, far, far away from civilisation.

But how the heck did I landed here you might ask.

Have you ever heard about the Dyatlov Pass mysterious incident?

If not, here the big lines for you : a bunch of experimented explorators take upon themselves to explore a deep, snowy and, of course, deserted area of the Oural in Russia in 1959.

Those guys never came back. When authorities finally decide to go search for them, they found a ripped tent, bloods, naked dead explorators, some badly injured, one near a tree with shredded feet, he probably tried to climb a pine tree, and the others are ether dead or missing.

They’ve investigated the area and they can’t explain what happened. A wild animal attack? No trace of bites nor lacerations. Lost? No! Like I said, those guys where experimented.

One of them going haywire? Probably.

Why naked? See, when you’re in serious hypothermia, something happens in your brain that make you loose your mind and confuse the coldness with hotness. And, in your tormented mind, you strip yourself from all of your clothes to try to cool yourself down. And you die. I’ve heard from survivors that hypothermia wasn’t the worse way to go. Once you lose your mind, the departing is painless. And, you know, the snow and the cold weather keep your body intact. So if you die in that way one day, your loved one will found your body preserved (if the snow hasn’t melted because wild animals and Mother Nature will feast on your body) and know that you departure was relatively peaceful.

Nah! Don’t thank me! I see the positive side of things whenever I can!

But wait, let’s go back to the dead explorators. What about this guy, found with atrocious injuries?

Well, this is not a normal thing. Did one of his comrade did this? Did he do that to himself ? Your guess is as good as mine.

During the investigation, some people living near the area said they saw a green light, a big one, flashing in the area where those poor dudes were supposed to be.

This wasn’t the first time they saw this flashing green light over there. And strange tales have been plaguing the area about what was behind this beam of light.

Military experiences? It’s Russia after all. they need to test their future death weapons somewhere! Every country as their own little testing ground for their weapons of mass destruction tries.

Those strange phenomena were occurring since a while back, from ways before the creation of weapons of mass destruction.

Those creepy tales where the reasons that this area was never explored.

What are those tales about? Strange creatures, strange noise… and like everything humanity can explain rationally, we blamed extraterrestrials beings.

And your truly narrator, respected mountain climber, explorator and all that jazz got caught in some stupid project.

Which was ; let’s try to understand once and for all the reasons of the death of these explorators.

We have gone, myself and five other adventurers, to fulfil this mission, sponsored by a big energy drink company, to solve these mystery.

At the beginning, all was fine. This isn’t mountain climbing. Just walking in deep snow for miles to a designated area, wich we reached.

While prepping for the night, we’ve heard this deep humming sound. It was resonating in our body.

And then the green light.

Screams. Of terror? Surprise? Excitment?

Well maybe, I remember swearing profusely until… I only remember being surrounded by green, a warm feeling and… nothing.

Until I woke up here, in the middle of nowhere. I have no clues about what happened to me or my pals nor where I am.

As I wrote those lines, I’m feeling very, very warm.

Too much warm !

I’ll take my cloths off, and go back to writing after cooling down.

I feel at peace.

Jaskiers