Yusuf Adama
Stories (7/0)
Woody Johnson’s meat (Redux)
“Damned antifa bastards! Make sure he hits the pavement hard!” Woody was furious. Well, furious was probably an understatement. He had almost been killed, or at least very nearly been maimed, and for a man that couldn't even handle the inconvenience of buying his own coffee, the thought that he could have been subjected to a life of disfigurement, death, or the worse outcome: an early retirement, filled him with the kind of rage that he could feel all the way under his fingernails.
By Yusuf Adama3 years ago in Horror
Woody Johnson's meat
“Damn bleeding hearts!” Woody was furious. Well, furious was probably an understatement. He had almost been killed, or at least very nearly been maimed, and for a man that couldn't even handle the inconvenience of buying his own coffee, the thought that he could have been subjected to a life of disfigurement, death, or the worse outcome: an early retirement, filled him with the kind of rage that he could feel all the way under his fingernails.
By Yusuf Adama3 years ago in Fiction
Bruce
She had been staring at her image for minutes now, leering at her body in anger. She was so pale, her scales that had been a beautiful striking blue dimming from malnutrition, now almost completely gray. She glanced at her fins in disgust, ashamed at the state of her appendages. Atrophy had claimed a lot of her ability to twist and turn, had she possessed a full range of motion, she would’ve bitten off the hard plastic ring attached to her left rear fin, or maybe just the fin itself. The translucent nature of the strange wall she was viewing her reflection on caused her likeness to appear rippled and ethereal, like glowing troupes of shrimp that would gather together in attempts to look like larger predators. She would've thought her reflection’s ghost-like quality was an appropriate representation for how she felt, except ghosts looked like spectral versions of things that died, and she barely even recognized what she had become.
By Yusuf Adama3 years ago in Fiction
Hit a Lick
Carlos stared at it. He wanted to be sure that if it moved again, he would see, here in person, with his own bare eyes. He was skeptical at first, about whether something like this could actually happen; he wondered if he was legitimately going crazy. His head was swimming as he fully accepted details he realized that he had subconsciously ignored during the first few days of the box being in the house. He was sure now, not necessarily that he wasn't going insane, but that the events of the last week had indeed transpired. It had begun with minor changes; maybe a slightly different orientation, a small displacement that could’ve been caused by the wind, or heavy footsteps, or even him brushing up against it and not noticing. If nothing else had happened he would’ve been fine, but it hadn’t stopped there. Carlos patted around his thighs frantically trying to figure out which of the many cargo short pockets his phone was in. He reached into one and felt the familiar glass screen, nearly dropping the phone as he tried to remove it. He had promised not to call him while he was on vacation, but figured his roommate would rather have chosen to be annoyed for a couple minutes over reading a police report detailing why he had set their apartment on fire.
By Yusuf Adama3 years ago in Fiction
Willard
Willard felt like he had been in this reception area a long time. If you had asked him how long, he couldn’t have told you exactly, he just knew it had been a while. He was also having a hard time remembering why he was in the room. It felt almost like he had walked into the kitchen to grab something to eat, just to open up the refrigerator and forget what he had wanted in the first place. Or maybe it just seemed that way because of how devoid the plum colored reception area was of interesting things. The only items even remotely worth noting sat on a brown wooden table in the middle of the room.
By Yusuf Adama3 years ago in Fiction
Purpose and Hope
“Just a little further.” Nia grunted. She reached down and grabbed her daughter’s arm helping her up a loose pile of ruble. They had been traveling for almost a month now and had suffered. Their bodies were hurt, the daughter’s flesh ached and her blood seemed to cause friction within her own veins, the mother’s even more so. Nia had bruised several bones during their exodus, her ribs hurt everytime her diaphragm moved, her ankles wanted to buckle whenever she put weight on them, she’d broken and set and rebroken fingers and toes, her dark skin had begun to become thin and leather-like from the sun and the wind. All of this was to get her daughter back home. Before the event she would’ve flown home, or taken a train, or driven a car, but there were no more roads, no more comforts, no more plants, no people. Well not entirely no more, there was still “Them”.
By Yusuf Adama3 years ago in Fiction