Rayne Lalonde
Bio
Stories (8/0)
A Deadly Dance
Lines get so blurry. Beauty or battering, discipline or destruction. They can go hand in hand. In high stakes, humans see another as meat, as a stone to be stepped on. Since the dawn of time, conquerors have wished to grind their foot on the throat of all who oppose and even the ones that don’t. It is such an innate desire to hold the throne, no matter how many bones you use to construct your triumphant cathedral. Wars are often fought with weapons, a means of cutting the feet off whatever rival stands ahead. Why do we fight? Power. We wish to own land, riches, and an economy prosperous enough for our survival and that of our loved ones. To ascertain a statement, plain and clear, day or night. I am the baddest man on the planet. Pressure, control. No space, no room to breathe. The goal is to clamp your lungs, clip your wings. Make you feel like every single turn you take you’re met with knuckles to the ribs, a shin to the jaw. On the ground, up against the cage, you’re met with suffocation. A steel blanket to wrap around your every inch.
By Rayne Lalonde3 years ago in Humans
Damned be the Walled in Grey
A portal is always open on every wall, leads here nor there. More so everywhere. You’ll make lots of new friends. Echoes, whispers, some pitter-patter here, a scatter there. It’s clear it’s in my head when it echoes, bouncing about the confines of the skull. Always unclear of the whispers. They’re outside but close, almost feel a light breath on the ear. The patter and scatters always cause a jump. They can be down the hall, a few feet away, or right beside. Crawling to a corner, back to a wall. They’re never consistent. Some days it sounds like fingers tapping, others it sounds like sprinted steps. Thumps in a row growing with a pounding thud as they sprint towards. Those grey walls, they talk. Twenty-six years here and you get to know them quite well, they get to know you better. All the things done, the things pondered. That’s where it hooks. Poor decisions end up in bad places. Thoughts of inhuman acts bring you here. We’ve all wanted to do some terrible things, pictured ourselves taking those actions and felt it. It’s as if that dead grey wall is a mirror. It’s hard to take pride in the reflection. Each and every crack and divot in that damned wall holds a tale, a memory, a lust. Haven’t left this room in twenty-four years. There are no books, no television. Aside from the tales told by the walls, the only entertainment is tunneled woes of fellow inmates bellowing from their cells. They’re ghastly, but nothing compared to the hushed voices beside, inside, and around. Feeling an attraction, they’re your voices aren’t they? Wanting to know what they say, but most days relishing in not. Then they whisper their sweet nonsense in the left ear, and the obscenities float and boomerang around to the right. The middle is always the hardest to make out. It’s as if you’re looking at a person lacking a body, but even their head and feet are smeared. Like a stubborn marker on a whiteboard that just won’t quite erase. In the morning they’re the calmest. At night they act far more erratic. It would be nice to know if it's day or night. The food served follows no structure, no routine. Some days to starve, others to not touch the food when it’s granted. In all the time spent in this wretched grey void, nothing has ever changed. That is until today.
By Rayne Lalonde3 years ago in Fiction
Barns Red Whisper
That faint red hue, like a mist over a bog. It calls out every night, like an instinct that tells someone’s watching. I try not to indulge, my grandfather says there is no light, it’s just another barn, unused for decades. It mystifies me he doesn’t see what I do, although the barn is miles away I see it as if it were on our own lot. Working the fields in the day it plays its siren song, like a mosquito buzzing past my ear but smoother. I can feel it play around my ankles, crawl up my shirt, whizz past my nose, these slight alluring tingles like a woman trying to seduce a potential mate with the caress of her finger. I feel it glide across my skin and it always lifts off in the direction of the barn.
By Rayne Lalonde3 years ago in Horror
PorkSmart
Right before the clash of man and bat in Wuhan, I was right beside the city opening an affiliated Jiu-jitsu academy. The locals were very kind, giving me an in-depth tour of the city and how they live their day-to-day lives. In China, being a white male, I was a spectacle. Children and adults alike would follow suit and ask me to flex my biceps or to feel my skin. I’ve always been rather outgoing, so I loved it, I was like a celebrity. As strange as a white man in China was, I had nothing on the food. There were fast-food chains prominent in North America littered throughout but I wanted the real deal. Give me the food you all eat on a daily basis, I requested. They smirked, ready to have a field day with all the cuisines I’d undoubtedly never fathomed. The first was fried scorpion on a stick. The crunch of the shell actually complimented the jerky-like muscles of the inside, quite tasty with the spices and such it was orchestrated with. The scorpion on a stick certainly surprised me but not nearly as much as them being brought out live. Stingers cut off, my friends dipped them in wine and chomped down. Possibly my favorite of the cultivating cultures food was the extra fluffy pancakes. They had this perfect golden sheen on their smooth dome-like structure. They are quite filling but still a great way to start the day. I was offered some bat, but something there just didn’t feel right...
By Rayne Lalonde3 years ago in Wander
The Atlantic Locket
I attempt to dig the balls of my feet into the core of the planet with every stride, knowing that each one could be my last. A quick blip of red on my right lets me know the blast is coming, dipping my head to the left, the flash of light whizzes past my head, almost greeting me as it passes by. The heart-shaped grooves of the locket fit snug in the divots of my hand. As my foot finds soil, a small contraption is released from my heel. For a moment it sits, waiting. My pursuers set off the sensor and a wall of spindling electricity erupts out of the tiny tri-starred device, subduing the lead three. More beams of light flash by my torso and helmet. If it weren’t for the uncertainty of the terrain’s dips and dances, I might’ve been hit by now. The ground’s playful movement makes it hard to be precise, like that of the effect of a zebra’s stripes it aids my dodges in the dash. Peeking behind, I land a shot on the furthest left, right below the shoulder. With another trick sparking from my heel, it scatters the particles of the ground below, leaving one of my assailants to fall into the cavernous underworld. The other noticed the discoloration in the nick of time, jumping over the slight blue tint. He’s gaining on me. A shot tears through my suit’s fabric and my ribs. With a hushed wail, I fall to the ground. He stands ten feet away, gun trained on my head, a smile on his face. The shot rings out, a static echo filling the air. I open my eyes, thanking God I made it to my ship. The charge from its blasters winds down as my attempted killer falls to the ground with a deep crevice in his chest. I catch a glimpse inside, willing myself to look away, I now know their insides are blue.
By Rayne Lalonde3 years ago in Fiction