Eric V. Maanen
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Stories (3)
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Nineteen Eighty-Two
I don’t remember seeing Star Wars: A New Hope at the movies, though for years it was my go-to answer anytime the question of ‘what movie did you see in theaters first?’ would arise in conversation - and it’s not dishonest. That was my first attendance to the wonderful world of cinema, and I did see it in the strictest definition of the word, but I did not 'see' it, savvy? True, those frames danced across the screen and were reflected in what I can only assume were my ever-widening little peepers, but it was late May of 1977 and the guy typing this into a laptop keyboard was barely 3. I think my recollection of that event, an event whose details I would have sworn to even last week, has been wholly adopted from my mother’s own accounting.
By Eric V. Maanen4 years ago in Geeks
The Messenger
It's pieces of the Nevermore that are falling outside my window, fluttering down from the skies and tapping against the glass. It keeps me distracted, but in the most familiar way. The variety of distraction that eventually ends up focusing itself on the subject matter that wants to be addressed. The pitter patter of ice against the windows that is covering the ledge in frost, inviting me to get lost in between their soft layers of winter.
By Eric V. Maanen4 years ago in Fiction
I, Zombie
I can hear footsteps occasionally, their percussion traveling through the seemingly endless feet of dirt between here and there. Like the strange muted voices of people gathered around the edge of the swimming pool that you have sunk to the bottom of, holding your breath and ticking off the seconds inside your head. Trying to break your personal record as you look up at their distorted reflections as the ripples in the water make a mess of their faces. I’m not counting anymore; I stopped a long time ago. In fact I don’t really have any use for oxygen. I stopped breathing a long time ago, too. I have no idea how long I have been down here, trying to swim back to the surface through this rock and soil. The hands of the clock bloodied and bruised and ripped, the ribbons of the flesh they used to be are back there somewhere among the scrabble that ruined them. A strip or two may still be in the back of my throat curled around my vocal chords like a bow; I think I can feel a tattered end tickling me, though it may just be me laughing at myself out of sheer frustration.
By Eric V. Maanen4 years ago in Horror
