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

Publicité

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

People are strange (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.

Letter received and diffused by The New-York Pines after the gruesome discovery of a dead body in Greenwich Village :

Greetings New-Yorkers and to the whole wide world ;

I discovered that I must be a strange fellow since my art wasn’t recognized the way I thought it would be.

This is annoying to put your heart and soul into something and seeing it end up being a disaster.

Maybe because people are strange, or maybe this is all me. I’m confused…

I’ve carefully choosed my subject and the scenery. The message that I wanted to share with the world completely falled apart. Nobody seems to have really understood my work, my art. I have put a lot of heart and effort into it. But people don’t seems to appreciate this art of mine.

It was beautifull, at least from my point of view.

Carefully hanged on an old telegraphic wire linking two building, hanging in the air and crossing a busy and scenic commercial street, there was exposed my masterpiece, for you all to see.

A torso that I, the « misunderstood artist » sculpted and carved into the most noble components. A component that no artist ever use, or very rarely.

Just a torso a real human torso, suspended in the air in the same pose as the Christ on his cross.

It took some time to do this… finding the right materials, the place… It took some thinking to hang my art piece in the right place. I won’t really go into details, a magician keep is secret, and so does the artist.

What kind of message I wanted to vehiculate ? This is the kind of questions no artists should answer ! Let it to your audience to build their own opinion. Why does the artist always need to explain his work ? It’s too easy if we revealed the true meaning of our art ! Let the individual to make is own assumption. That’s why art exist : make up your own minds, find the meaning, your personnal one.

Does a piece of art always have to make sense ? Hell no ! It have a meaning for sure, unconsciously, we give it one when we’re creating it. Personally, I let my instincts take the wheel of my creativity. Can’t go wrong if it is from a feeling deep within my soul that my art come to life.

But, like I said before, people are strange. Jim Morrison used to sing about this. He probably knew how strange it was to be an artist, a successful one, and seeing all those peoples, fans, journalists, critics, others artists, criticizing your work and at the same time your life. Wich is stupid !

Let me give you and advice : you have to differentiate the personnal life of an artists from his work. Those are two completely different entities.

And as for the way an artist express himself, one should not judge them to harshly.

Of course I say that in my own defense because I know that I have traumatised peoples by hangin a real human torso in a middle of a busy street.

Lessen, it was an experience, yes a awfull one but I did get reactions !

Next time, I’ll kill the guy in front of your innocents and pathetic eyes !

What I did was art. And it’s a disrespectful to call me a narcissistic and perverted killer !

I have made New-York a trend Again ! I’m the new Andy Warhol !

I am a king maker ! That is the name that I want you all, fucking maggots, to call me : The King Maker !

Sincerely ;

The King Maker.

Jaskiers

They want blood John ! (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.

« Dear Thomas and all of the Espire’s redaction;

You’re maybe wondering why I did that to the Perish redaction.

Let me explain myself before being judge, rightfully so, by the public.

I was a writer for that paper for two decades.

The begining here was delightfull. I was able to write whatever I wanted to write about. My work was never disputed by the former boss, M. Anthelm.

I wrote story about everything I wanted to. This was also a great time to learn about story telling and the craft of creating shorts fictions for a wide audience.

My relations with the staff was ideal for a writer. They were open, respectful and dedicated to help me and my work evolve. Nothing was out of bundary, no subject was banished, I had the opportunity to broaden my horizon and my audience. And the pay was decent.

Those years passed by fast, as all the years happen to do when you have a lot of work.

M. Anthelm was a mentor, a friend, a confident. Always up to publish new things. As I said, they was no bundaries.

Freedom. That was the magazine was all about. That was what America was all about. That’s the way we all saw it back in those days. Freedom of speech. A real free press.

Old boss, like I loved to call him, had to retire, cancer. Fucking lung cancer. I told him many times : Anthelm, good ol’ boss, stop smoking, that’s not healthy, tobacco isn’t a medecine ! They have been lying to us, it destroy your lungs and all ». But of course, being a old man, and a boss of a successful newspaper/magazine, he told me, very politely, to focus on my work instead of focusing on him. Fair.

The next week of that conversation, I had writed a short story about a man dying of cancer because of the cigarette. He was dying, leaving his family not only with a painfull grieving to do but also with greats difficulties. The man died, and the family was torn apart because they faced problems they could not overcome. The used-to-be stable and perfect family ended up being splitted into clans and it finished with all members facing theirs demons.

A writer have to be a little bit of a prophet sometimes.

M. Anthelm died, we all grieved, we stayed united and strong until the new boss came around.

Here is the start of my demise.

M. Catheren took the place of my good ol’ boss. Right at the begining, things have gone down south with him.

To be honest, I didn’t liked his face, his nonchalant and arrogant attitude. I think he had the same feelings for me.

He hated the first story I gaved to him. And the second, and all the others. I wasn’t able to have a single story publish during three months !

I asked to talk with him, it wasn’t like with the good ol’ boss, I had to pass trought is assistant, who had to communicate to him my desire to have a meeting. It took three days to finaly have hold of him.

I took the opportunity to ask him what was is problem with my stories and what does he really wanted from me and my writing.

He started by telling me that the time had changed, and that, all of us, had to adapt to that new world.

The time didn’t changed since he became the boss, he was so vain that he thought that just by becoming the head of the magazine, everyone working for him had to change, change in his direction. For a boss, this could be seen as normal but he was far, far from being a man, a leader, like M. Anthelm.

That was something, being told that when I worked here for decades. But he finally told me, what he really wanted from my writing :

« They want blood John ! Make some cow-boy, outlaws, gangster, cops stories, those stories that’s spill blood at every words ! The people Johnny, they want to be entertained ! Bring out the guns ! Violence ! That’s what’s sell now ! And you better be good at it ! You have to prove your worth toward me ! This is America Johnny, we work hard, harder than our neighboor, and we work well ! We make sacrifices so we can all succeed in our collective project which is, like I’ve said the day I became the boss, to be the number one magazine in America ! Fuck the others ! Especially Espire ! Esquire is managed by M. Thomas, a prick, a coward, someone that call himself a intellectual ! Ah ! Fuck ‘em Johnny ! I don’t want my magazine to be a den of intelectuals ! I want it to be the fast food of the magazine industry ! You can do that John right ? You’re with me right ? Ah ! You old cunt, you better be if you don’t wanna finish unemployed. A unemployed writer life is a life heading for the gutter ! Johnny, you don’t want to finish like that. Now, write me some bloody stories. No more talk, we need content, and the content that our everchanging audience really want. Out now ! Let’s get to work will ya’! »

Yes, those where is words. This men, coming from nowhere, that nobody in the industry knew, had the nerves to gave me lessons about how our magazine worked.

I had to do something but he said one true thing : I would have ended up in the gutter if I didn’t followed his directions.

This is why a write this letter to you, M. Anthelm. You and your magazine have been our fierce rival. We can never be good without a great rival. And God know you were a great opponent.

Why do I wrote those last lines like it was over ?

This letter will be my testimony, explaining why I did this.

Hopefully, when you’ll receive this letter, my plan would have come to term, successfully.

Yes, I have killed M. Catheren. He wanted me to spill blood, he got served.

I ended my life after my killing. Didn’t wanted to finish in prison for a young arrogant piece of shit.

Publish that letter, or do whatever you want with it. Make some money from that tragedy, scrap it to the last dollar you could produce with it.

Hopefully you will resume your outstanding work. The work of a real litterature’s magazine !

Long live the free writers ! Long live freedom. Long live America !

Yours truly;

Johnny V. Covack.

Jaskiers

The old men and his old coat. (A short story in english)

[WARNING : I’M NOT FLUENT IN ENGLISH]


[Ceci est une petite histoire écrite en anglais, ou du moins, j’ai essayé]

He woke up, same things as always.

« Sadly » he would have told you.

He glance, like every morning, at his wedding picture placed on his bedside table. « Audrey was beautiful this summer day » you would have heard him muttered as he slowly get up from his bed.

Achille, his old labrador, come to lick his right hand. « He know my bones are failing me, he is very intelligent ».

He put the radio on, Bob Dylan just finished singing about his meeting with a tambourine man when he hear the unfamiliar voice of a news anchor. « I used to love listenning to this station because nobody speak ! Look like I’ll have to find a new one to listen to. »

While he struggle to pour his black coffee, he mumble again. « Looks like no one want to shut up nowadays, everyone have something to say and, worst of all, they wan’t to be heard ! We can’t live if we have to stop to listen to everyone griefs. »

He sat down at his kitchen table, his whole body shaking and let out a gasp of relieve when he is finaly seated.

If it would have been a regular morning, you would have seen Jim stiring his spoon in the coffee cup at the rythm of a random folksong. « The day Dylan put the electric on his shoudler, that’s the day the music ended, I tell you », He would have say. But no stiring today, the news anchor was speaking.

« This night, at 2 AM, the Goldiathy attacked his neighbour, Davolidy. The tension have been building for months between the two states. »

« Ah ! Hear that Achille ! War ! What mens are the best at ! Let’s hear some more Achille ! Let’s hear the reason for that war, you’ll see Achille, they always find a reason to start a war, but the real stupidity is the reason why they will continue to kill each other, listen ! »

« Poldummy, president of Goldiathy since 20 years, declared that they attacked Davolidy, stating a fear of aggression by the davolidien. The american intel warned the president of Davolidy of the bellicist project and probable aggression by the goldiathien since months. The multiple meetings between the two presidents seems to have not de-escalete the growing tension. »

« Hear that Achille my boy ! They attacked they’r neighbor by fear of being attacked first. That my boy, this is a very very normal and basic excuse to start a war ! Christ ! How stupid ! Ah ! But now, let’s listen how much damage have been done, listen, civilians, Achille, civilians, the ones who haven’t asked for nothing, listen, how much of them have been killed. What Achille ? Yes, you right, maybe some soldiers died but you see, the civilian often are the one dying first and, yes I tell you, they’re always civilians victims, most of the time, they’re is more dead civilians than dead soldiers. Listen ! »

« The first attack was by shelling on the davolydien capital, 10 civilians dead, 2 were kids, 100 hundred others injured. »

« See Achille see ! Hey you ! What ? Bing bang boum ! Why did you kill me ? I don’t know really, I just do what I’m told ! But am no soldier ! Can’t really control the bomb, my bad. »

« The davodylodiens president, Kelevenven, retaliated by ordering the bombing of the goldathien capital. 5 civilians dead. The world expressed they’re worries and stressed that both part should go back to diplomatie. But goldathien troups crossed the border and fierces fights are currently occuring at the… »

« You know sometimes Achille, I think history repeats itself like that… I don’t remember who said that but it’s true ! Yes, Achille we will go for our morning walk but do you know why I always wear that dirty ol’ coat ? No ? That’s the only things I’ve kept from my deployment in Vietnam. I threw away everything Achille, medals and all ! Useless ! That coat was usefull, still use it ! Audrey hated it ! She used to say that when I was wearing it, I didn’t looked like myself, that somehow, she probably felt this with that instinct womens have for seeing invisible things that affect mens, I acted differently when I was rocking it. Yeah I know let’s go ! Wait, one more thing Ulysse, do you know who won the Vietnam war ? Well, The deads ! Because they don’t have to endure life anymore ! And somehow, I’m sure, they ended up in heaven. Like Forgety used to sing, they were’nt fortunate sons. Anyway, enough rambling for today. Let’s walk ! »

The old man put on his old army jacket, who was laid on the chair next to him, and get up without difficulty, no more shaking, no more rambling about the pain.

He ties Ulysse on his leash, open the doors, the sun is bright, you could almost see his dark silhouette changing. His back straight up as he close the door with confidence.

Jaskiers

Humain avant tout | Brother In Arms

https://youtube.com/watch?v=9ykZc5E6UEE

These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be
Someday you’ll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And you’ll no longer burn to be
Brothers in arms

Through these fields of destruction
Baptisms of fire
I’ve witnessed your suffering
As the battle raged high
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms

There’s so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones

Now the sun’s gone to hell and
The moon’s riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But it’s written in the starlight
And every line in your palm
We’re fools to make war
On our brothers in arms

Source:lesoir.be

Jaskiers

Toujours les mêmes qui trinquent | Fortunate Son

https://youtube.com/watch?v=40JmEj0_aVM

Some folks are born made to wave the flag
They’re red, white and blue
And when the band plays « Hail to the Chief »
They point the cannon at you, Lord

It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no senator’s son, son
It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no fortunate one

Some folks are born silver spoon in hand
Lord, don’t they help themselves, yeah
But when the taxman comes to the door
The house look a like a rummage sale

It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no millionaire’s son, no, no
It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no fortunate one

Yeah, some folks inherit star-spangled eyes
They send you down to war
And when you ask ’em, « How much should we give? »
They only answer, « More, more, more »

It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no military son, son
It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no fortunate one, one

It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no fortunate one
It ain’t me, it ain’t me
I ain’t no fortunate one

Source:euronews

Jaskiers

Protestations | Bulls on Parade

https://youtube.com/watch?v=0W6WZK3AfKE

Come wit it now!
Come wit it now!

The microphone explodes, shattering the molds
Either drop tha hits like de la O or get tha fuck off tha commode
Wit tha sure shot, sure ta make tha bodies drop
Drop an don’t copy yo, don’t call this a co-op
Terror rains drenchin’, quenchin’ tha thirst of tha power dons
That five sided fist-a-gon
Tha rotten sore on tha face of mother earth gets bigger
Tha triggers cold empty ya purse

Rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells
They rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells
They rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells
They rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells

Weapons not food, not homes, not shoes
Not need, just feed the war cannibal animal
I walk tha corner to tha rubble that used to be a library
Line up to tha mind cemetery now
What we don’t know keeps tha contracts alive an movin’
They don’t gotta burn tha books they just remove ’em
While arms warehouses fill as quick as tha cells
Rally round tha family, pockets full of shells

Rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells
They rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells
They rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells
They rally round tha family! With a pocket full of shells

Bulls on parade

Come wit it now!
Come wit it now!
Bulls on parade!
Bulls on parade!
Bulls on parade!
Bulls on parade!
Bulls on parade!

Source:Reuters

Jaskiers

Qui de l’Homme ou de l’animal… | Zombie

https://youtube.com/watch?v=6Ejga4kJUts

Another head hangs lowly
Child is slowly taken
And the violence, caused such silence
Who are we mistaken?

But you see, it’s not me
It’s not my family
In your head, in your head, they are fighting
With their tanks, and their bombs
And their bombs, and their guns
In your head, in your head they are crying

In your head, in your head
Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie
What’s in your head, in your head
Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie, oh

Do, do, do, do
Do, do, do, do
Do, do, do, do
Do, do, do, do

Another mother’s breaking
Heart is taking over
When the violence causes silence
We must be mistaken

It’s the same old theme
Since nineteen-sixteen
In your head, in your head, they’re still fighting
With their tanks, and their bombs
And their bombs, and their guns
In your head, in your head, they are dying

In your head, in your head
Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie
What’s in your head, in your head
Zombie, zombie, zombie-ie-ie
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh, ay, oh, ya ya

Source:slate.fr

Jaskiers

Les Hommes, des Milliards et des Bombes | War Pig

Source:Pinterest

https://youtube.com/watch?v=LQUXuQ6Zd9w

Generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerer of death’s construction

In the fields, the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning
Death and hatred to mankind
Poisoning their brainwashed minds
Oh lord, yeah!

Politicians hide themselves away
They only started the war
Why should they go out to fight?
They leave that role to the poor, yeah

Time will tell on their power minds
Making war just for fun
Treating people just like pawns in chess
Wait till their judgement day comes, yeah!

Now in darkness, world stops turning
Ashes where their bodies burning
No more war pigs have the power
Hand of God has struck the hour

Day of judgement, God is calling
On their knees, the war pigs crawling
Begging mercy for their sins
Satan laughing, spreads his wings
Oh lord, yeah!

Source:euronews

Jaskiers