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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Science Fiction
- Subject: Mystery
- Published: 11/07/2014
I WOKE UP DEAD THIS MORNING
Born 1969, M, from Herten, NRW, Germany(The artwork on this page was painted by Charles E.J. Moulton.)
I woke up dead this morning. The alien that pointed at my feet smiled.
I gave him a questioning gaze, hoping that he would answer me why I found myself outside of my body on such a sunny day.
I saw nothing else but my old physical home laying on an antique bed that I had bought for myself in London when I was married, happy and potent.
A mosquito sat on my left foot, seemingly innocent in its movements, sweet almost. In that mosquito's hum lay the dread of death inside the flap of a silent wing. It flew off into the sunrise. I followed it with my worried gaze.
"Malaria? Tropic fever?" I inquired, looking out onto the lawn where the Porsche that I would never drive again was parked.
The alien shrugged, happily elusive.
I found myself walking and talking inside what seemed to be a spiritual replica of my own body. There was another word for it, but I couldn't think of it right now.
"Are you my guardian angel?" I asked him. The being shrugged once more, his five eyebrows wavering, his six mouths smiling.
I couldn't get any answer from him, so I resorted to inspecting why we were standing here waiting, looking at my deceased body. My eyes shifted to the idyllic landscape painting by William Turner that hung over the bed, reminding me of my youth in London. So far away from home was my Caribbean habitat. I had bought the painting where I had bought the bed and began to wonder if the furniture actually did encapsule a curse. I had divorced my wife after buying the artefacts.
"A poisonous mosquito killed me," I began, looking at my strange friend, "but where do you come in?"
Again, the alien pointed at my feet. I leaned over and saw that there was red wound with yellow spots on my foot. As an insectologist specializing on venom, I'd inspected a thousand insect bites. This was unlike anything I had ever seen.
I looked back at the alien angel with his large head and strange feet and gawked at him in horror. "An alien insect?"
The alien nodded.
"From where?"
The alien pointed at himself.
"Your planet?"
The alien nodded, raising his finger out toward the sky, through the open window in a way that made him look like E.T. wanting to phone home.
Swarms of insects were on their way, making the blue sky turn dark red. Soon enough, the whole world buzzed. Crowds of people dropped like flies outside on the street. My non corporeal spirit backed into a corner during what became a cataclysm of venom spread out upon the world.
The insects invaded everything left in this Carribean island, including my dead body on the bed. They devoured me, chewing on my eyes, stinging my carcass, leaving a whipped lump of rotting flesh behind.
My spirit felt abandoned when the insects left, my guardian angel gone. And the world had changed.
I was now no longer in my domestic bedroom somewhere on the Caribbean island of St. Vincent. I was inside the William Turner painting, standing on a grassy knoll, pounding on the canvas from the inside.
What I saw terrified me. Outside in the real world, alien beings danced around my rotting corpse.
The mosquitos slowly rose from the depths of hell, aiming for the painting I was now trapped in, ready to invade artistic creation.
I woke up dead this morning.
I WOKE UP DEAD THIS MORNING(Charles E.J. Moulton)
(The artwork on this page was painted by Charles E.J. Moulton.)
I woke up dead this morning. The alien that pointed at my feet smiled.
I gave him a questioning gaze, hoping that he would answer me why I found myself outside of my body on such a sunny day.
I saw nothing else but my old physical home laying on an antique bed that I had bought for myself in London when I was married, happy and potent.
A mosquito sat on my left foot, seemingly innocent in its movements, sweet almost. In that mosquito's hum lay the dread of death inside the flap of a silent wing. It flew off into the sunrise. I followed it with my worried gaze.
"Malaria? Tropic fever?" I inquired, looking out onto the lawn where the Porsche that I would never drive again was parked.
The alien shrugged, happily elusive.
I found myself walking and talking inside what seemed to be a spiritual replica of my own body. There was another word for it, but I couldn't think of it right now.
"Are you my guardian angel?" I asked him. The being shrugged once more, his five eyebrows wavering, his six mouths smiling.
I couldn't get any answer from him, so I resorted to inspecting why we were standing here waiting, looking at my deceased body. My eyes shifted to the idyllic landscape painting by William Turner that hung over the bed, reminding me of my youth in London. So far away from home was my Caribbean habitat. I had bought the painting where I had bought the bed and began to wonder if the furniture actually did encapsule a curse. I had divorced my wife after buying the artefacts.
"A poisonous mosquito killed me," I began, looking at my strange friend, "but where do you come in?"
Again, the alien pointed at my feet. I leaned over and saw that there was red wound with yellow spots on my foot. As an insectologist specializing on venom, I'd inspected a thousand insect bites. This was unlike anything I had ever seen.
I looked back at the alien angel with his large head and strange feet and gawked at him in horror. "An alien insect?"
The alien nodded.
"From where?"
The alien pointed at himself.
"Your planet?"
The alien nodded, raising his finger out toward the sky, through the open window in a way that made him look like E.T. wanting to phone home.
Swarms of insects were on their way, making the blue sky turn dark red. Soon enough, the whole world buzzed. Crowds of people dropped like flies outside on the street. My non corporeal spirit backed into a corner during what became a cataclysm of venom spread out upon the world.
The insects invaded everything left in this Carribean island, including my dead body on the bed. They devoured me, chewing on my eyes, stinging my carcass, leaving a whipped lump of rotting flesh behind.
My spirit felt abandoned when the insects left, my guardian angel gone. And the world had changed.
I was now no longer in my domestic bedroom somewhere on the Caribbean island of St. Vincent. I was inside the William Turner painting, standing on a grassy knoll, pounding on the canvas from the inside.
What I saw terrified me. Outside in the real world, alien beings danced around my rotting corpse.
The mosquitos slowly rose from the depths of hell, aiming for the painting I was now trapped in, ready to invade artistic creation.
I woke up dead this morning.
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