50 Days Until The End – Unraveling – Short Story
They said the end would come, they told me, whispering it in my ears, telling me of the end, how it would happen, and, more importantly when, today, minutes from now, in fact, so, won’t you sit with me, and watch?
She places the cup down, and looks across the table, through the window, and out into the backyard, they play, like any other day, and, she smiles.
“Charming, aren’t they?” A voice says from behind her, she jumps and spins around, he stand there, smiling. “Hello Doris, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“What are you doing here?” She says frantically, jumping to her feet.
“Please, please, don’t get up, I just wanted to stop by, and see you, one last time,” he says, as he gestures for he to sit back down.
“Well I don’t want to see you, I thought I made that clear the last we spoke!”
“That was years ago, haven’t you moved on from all that, I know I have, holding grudges is so primitive,” he feels the blade press against his throat and his smile broadens. “Good to see you haven’t lost your touch.”
“Again, what do you want?”
“I told you, I came to see you, before, the end.”
She takes a step back, lowering the knife, “What do you mean, the end?”
“This, all of it, it’s going to end, soon I might add, which, is why I saved you, for the last of my children, to visit.”
She raises the knife once more, her face screwed up, he lip quivers, as does her hand that holds the knife, “What have you done?”
“It’s not what I have done,” he says, holding his hand toward the window, “It’s what, I have undone.”
She turns to the window, and the blade falls from her hand as her mouth drops open, “W-W-Wh…”
“Hush my daughter, it won’t hurt, that, I promise, but know this, before you are unmade, you, were my favorite of all my creations, and, you will rise again one day, that I promise, and the new world I build, will be better than this,” he says as he places a hand on her shoulder, as the darkness slowly sucks away all the light, as the room disintegrates around them.
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Matthew Tonks
People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time, who dreams of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.”
So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.
