Young Writers Society

[...] Howard could see his own breath [like frost] carving veins out of the dark.

He never wore a raincoat. It seemed an insult to nature. If nature wanted him soaked, then soaked he would be.

It wasn't long before Jekyll had plunged himself into a deep sleep to escape the ill feelings of being awake. Unfortunately for him, his dreams were as tumultuous as if he were standing on deck, if not more so. In his mind's eye, he stood face to face with... who was this monster? The cage, a solid iron structure, held it back, but the creature glared at him from the inside.

You... made... me... this... way...

Compelled by some unseen force, Jekyll moved slowly, woodenly, forward, like a puppet on strings. The animal stalked back and forth agitatedly in the moving shadows. Jekyll stared.

“Who are you? What are you?”

You... made.. me.. this... way...

He was nearly at the bars now. The monster was clearer now, not identifiable, but more easily seen. It was humanoid, but much larger. Bulky muscles the colour and texture of wax bulged from its arms and legs; its heavy torso broad, slick with sweat and covered with dark hair. It raised its head and Jekyll gasped. A pair of green eyes glittered maliciously back at him. He tried to run backwards, but he was glued to the spot in fear. The animal lunged at the bars, causing the cage to shake dangerously.

You... made... me... this... way...

“I... I thought you were dead! I can't feel you! This isn't you! You don't look like this! You never did! How could I have made you this way? Tell me!”
A book appeared at Henry's feet. A strange wind blew it open and ruffled the pages, until it stopped nearly a third of the way through it. He bent down to pick the tome up and began to read aloud.

“'In ancient cultures, it has been known that many toxic compounds that chemists use today in moderation or never were used to increase energy. A prime example of this horrific procedure is evident in the Incas' use of the element arsenic. It was included in recipes to increase the vigour of the consumer, something that took a great deal of trial and error.'”

Henry looked up from the book and stared in terror at the creature grinning evilly at him from behind the bars.

You... made... me.. this... way...

“This... this is what the arsenic did to you?” Jekyll cried, dropping the book and grasping the bars in shock. The caged animal roared in response and backed away. Henry looked at his left hand and gasped. The bars were corroding away under his touch, as if his hand were coated in concentrated acid. He pulled away and saw the imprint of his touch burnt into the bars. A cold shiver ran down his spine. One good rush and the monster could free itself from its prison...

“NO!”

The ship hit a large wave and turned Jekyll out of his hammock, slamming him to the water-logged timber floor.

13th June, 1885

I continue to document my health and well-being since I consumed the arsenic-laced formula HJ7. While in the two weeks that have followed since that fateful day my mind has been calm and untroubled, yesterday I experienced what can only be described as a vivid and horrifying nightmare.

I have deduced from this singular occurrence that Edward Hyde is not dead, as I previously imagined. Rather, the arsenic in the revised formula that should have had a toxic effect has served to increase his potency. While this is alarming, I believe that Hyde does not know his own strength yet. He seems to believe that the poison in the elixir has caged him inside my head, that I am the one holding him in... when I believe the real truth is that he has not fully realised his potential.

His physical form has altered, another effect of the formula. He is larger and his muscle structure is more pronounced. I believe he is not the evil-looking dwarf he once was, but now a monster of frightening proportions. What this means for the people of Paris, I shudder to think.

There are times when I think that perhaps I should simply consume the level of arsenic I added to the formula myself. But I fear death – something I know that is perfectly rational, yet extremely absurd in a medical doctor. If I cut off Hyde's murderous access to this world, I can end so much suffering. But I am sorely afraid of dying, simply because I do not have the faith to believe that there is life after death.

I have befriended a young Englishman, one Althabert Morgrim. It is a strange name for a young man born in the British Isles. I shall make a note to inquire its origins the next time we stop for a rest. I have taken him into my employ, as I have been friendless for quite a time now and do not wish to continue in that lonely existence. I fear for the boy's safety, but he is a strapping lad and at least stand a measure of a chance should Hyde be released and turn violent against him.

The following diagrams depict the way Hyde presented himself to me in the nightmare. Whether this will actually be his physical form, I cannot say. All I know now is that it isn't a question of if Hyde will return to wreak his particularly malevolent kind of chaos upon the world.

It is a question of when.

Timetables. One slip of paper outlining where you are legally required to be every minute of the day from eight-thirty in the morning Monday morning to three-o’clock Friday afternoon. With five classes, break, lunch, and homeroom the timetable clearly defines your classrooms, teachers, and ultimately how your year will be. You can be like me with every class ten miles apart on opposite ends of the school property with only deadline-Nazi’s as teachers, or you can be like Kassie with classes grouped so close together the longest distance is possibly a fifty second walk at most with only the kindest, slackest teachers exclusively reserved. Seventh to eleventh grade she’d floated through while I was left drowning. Not only do timetables either stir or deter the storm cloud that is your future, but they outline your friends, or lack of, your end of year grade, good or bad, and who’s parties you’re going to attend.

Streamers covered the wedding room, spanning their pink, purple and white fingers from the ceiling to the floor and confetti was spewed across the ivory carpet like an eruption of projectile vomit. Eric stepped gingerly through it, shaking his shiny, black shoes every now and then when too much clumped against the leather.

They both signed their names in the big, imposing book. They both posed for photos, Eric feeling a pang of anger as Laurence moved to stand by Briar and she made eyes at him, smiling coyly and swishing her dress between the snares of the camera's flash.

“I don’t think we’ve anything to eat, Kelly.”
“Do we ever?”
“Oh! Well.” . . . “If it had been better at Edwards, had we actually got anything, then—“
“I didn’t enjoy that, you know.” Kel thought it best to get it out there now.
“What didn’t you enjoy?”
. . . “I didn’t enjoy….what went on at Edward’s.”
“Oh! How we found nothing?”
“How I killed him.” Kel said it while staring at the floor. . . .
Agatha pushed her hair down in a meager attempt to improve herself. “I don’t see how it could have been so horrible for you – he fell on me.”
Kel bit his lip. “Yes, but – “
“But what? But you didn’t enjoy it?”
Kel could feel his fingers tingling, so he rubbed them against the underbelly of the table. The wood was prickly and scratched his palms, stinging them here and there. The slight pain made him settle, a little. “It was rather terrible.”
“And what should I say to that?” Agatha was brushing her hair with her fingers. She could have gotten up, and left, and gotten her brush, and then brushed her hair, Kel knew. He would have liked it if she left. Just for a while.
“I simply want to let you know,” he began, palms scraping harder against the wood, “that I would prefer not to do it again.”

“That man stole my handbag!” An elderly lady cried. She was crawling along the ground in evident agony, apparently against her will.

The storm blows high over the rolling hills; the hills, however, were drenched in blood. Blood from the meadows to the trees. Blood from the grassland to the—

The pain. Unbearable pain like a tsunami had slammed with a sickening thud into the side of—

My breathing. What’s wrong with my breathing? Why can’t I take in a full—

I’m dead. Is that what this place is? These hills soaked in blood? Is this heaven? Or is it—

I need to breathe. Oh, breathe! Try to take a deep lungful. Feel the oxygen in your lungs.
Doesn’t it feel wonderful? Take another one. Deep breath. Hold it! Don’t let it go. Don’t let it—

Stop it. Get a hold of yourself, Clarice! Stop making it harder than—

Breathe! Brea—

You’re can’t go on like this—

You need to breathe!

Bre—

...the water that formed her body flowing about, as if it was trapped in a vase.

As the taxi pulled up at her house and after she handed the taxi driver his money she decided to not see Juan again. She had been tempted by his different lifestyle, his handsome good looks. But could he possibly compare to the life that Isaac had given her? She was pretty sure that she was still in love with her husband, ten years of marriage had been difficult on them, but he loved her, she knew that. He held upon her every word, bought her expensive gifts and took her to amazing locations. At least he used to. She feared that perfect life she once possessed was seeping out of her fingers, the tiny grains of it too small for her to grasp. She opened her front door; the taxi had already pulled away, gratefully keeping her change.
“Isaac?” She called out as she shut the front door behind her. She was greeted with silence, her body standing rigidly in the hallway. She heard movement coming from above her, it could have been a maid, but at that time of the day they would have finished cleaning upstairs. She followed the sound up the stairs and into their bedroom. Isaac sat on a stool near the window, the shutters open, but his back was forbidding any light to enter. On the bed lay a naked woman, her features very far from Cecilia’s. Her hair was a golden yellow, short, cropped high above her ears; her skin was tanned, only lines from her underwear showed a paler shade of her skin. She was slim, but not thin like Cecilia, she was clearly more defined, more of a voluptuous body. Cecilia stood in the doorway, not sure how to take the situation. She knew that Isaac painted nude models, but he always told her about then, and never was the scene of the panting in their bedroom. Isaac looked at her, the hollow of his eyes dark, a curl of his dark hair loosely fallen across his face.
“What have I told you about interrupting my work Cecilia?” He muttered, standing up from the canvas.

Making love to him was like falling- a breathless, headlong plunge into ecstasy, into a heaven where all that mattered was him. The taste and feel and smell of him against her, inside her, got into her blood and made her drunk. Every delicate curve of his body molded against her like they had been designed to match. Every flex and push of muscle and bone washed through her and back into him, a wicked dance of tongues and teeth, of bodies rising and falling. He found his rhythm in the roll and grind of her slender hips, in the deep internal pulse of her that spun them through the stars and brought them drifting back safely in each other’s arms.

And then with all his strength and power, he took Elizabeth's face into his hands and brought it to his lips. Oh how the scent of her engulfed his senses. He could feel his heart accelerating and sweat forming on his forehead. Andrew did not know if she had felt the same way but he could not bare to see her lips untouched by his. Finally, she gave into him, her embrace more softer than his forceful one. He rolled back into the dirt, pulling her on top of him. The hunger grew stronger and stronger, fiercer and fiercer, but he could not control it. This was dangerous. He could see what would have happened if he had indulged himself. His beautiful Elizabeth would die underneath his hands and there'd be nothing to atone for it. Except death. He'd gladly take death for it was much deserved. But at what cost would he take it. Still in wolf form, he took one glance at Elizabeth, taking in all that could not be captured in paint, and bounded off in the opposite direction.

Also, sometime God play trick. They say God not like human, but I think maybe play trick sometime. Just to make people laugh, laugh, laugh, because they are so sad all of time.

"I've never been to Afghanny Stan," Sheila said. "But the people are so beautiful there. Wouldn't you say, Bill?"

"I'd say. Only met a few of them women without their Burker. You wear a Burker, Leila?"

"Hmm?"

"A burker. The big things that go over your head and take away all of your rights."

Leila frowned. "I do not know."

"Well," he said. "She's probably from a liberal area of Kabul. They keep all their women locked up so they don't have to undergo the shame of the Burker. It's a terrible thing, really. I feel so bad for all of them women over there, I really do."

"It's a shame," Sheila said. "A great big shame."

"Someday, I want to go back," Bill said, looking at her. "And I'm going to go with the Lord's endorsement, and I am going to make sure that none of you Afghannys ever need to wear them Burkers again."

Leila didn't feel like mentioning that she didn't know what a Burker was.

[...]Kaye handed her the golden teddy bear.
“You’ll be needing this,” she said and handed it to her as an offering. Iniko didn’t understand why she would need it, but took it anyway.
“I will now tattoo her symbol on her shoulder blade,” he said. Iniko turned around and looked at him.
“Tattoo?” she asked, “I though it was henna.” He pointed to the jerked his head to the tool box. And with his free hand he pushed her carefully back against the chair.
“Henna?” he said, “Oh no. That’s not henna baby.” And as the needle touched her back, Iniko finally understood why Kaye had given her the golden teddy bear.