Write or Die

WRITE OR DIE/THE BOOK THAT LOVED TRAGEDY

By Mordecai J Banda

The book somehow arrived at my doorstep at the end of the day, no address, no title. Just a green thick hardcover with pampered pages. The same one I had ditched only 2 hours ago. I took it in, and that was the greatest blunder I had ever in my entire life done.
But, I’ll go back a few hours, doesn’t matter, it won’t make a difference since I’m going to die.

Kirk, eagle boy Kirk is my name. And firstly I’ll admit it myself-
“Dude, you’re the ugliest guy in 9th grade you know?”
That’s a little too exaggerated. That was my friend Tiger. Chubby, eccentric in a unique way, and too smart, but not as much as me.
“Shut up...  what’s the paper say?” I asked, as I tightened the straps on my backpack. We were heading for our classes.
“Hm, so you ask at last...  well it says something about... “
That’s Tiger alright. He’s always the suspense builder.
I sighed, “About what?”
Tiger took his time and scanned the paper again. I tore it from his grasp, leaving a clam-shaped clump of papers in his hand.

The Mosey residence on 23 Broadside street burnt down yesterday on the 14th of March. The Moseys themselves, have gone missing and a search has ensued. The Moseys, A father, a mother and a boy...

That’s how much I remembered of the article. When I was done Tiger said,
“You know the Moseys were... “
“Archaeologists I know...  crap! Did you do your assignment?”
Tiger was disappointed that I had known the answer, but he reeled off anyway,
“Yep, yester night, you?”
It was a rhetorical question. Eagle-boy Kirk never did his own homework. He either hired someone or snatched it off people. I realized being smart didn’t count much if I was lazy. But heck, it didn’t mean I’d change.
“Catch you later, Tiger”
He waved me away, knowing I was going off in pursuit of any unfortunate with homework material. Our assignment was in English and we were supposed to look for old novels and then write a summarization. The library had plenty of those but it was much too far. If you guessed it I was too lazy to go there.

So I hunted. The class bells had already rang and I hadn’t seen anyone. But to my extremely bad luck, the boy found me. You would wonder why finding an unfortunate to nab was bad luck, but hang on till I get to the good part [the extremely bad]
I never did get a look at the boy. He was grubby and looked down the whole time during our brief encounter. He was begging to get snatched. With his open rucksack and the thick green old book sticking out like a flag. In no time I was heading for class. An A4 margined paper was stuffed in its mouth, so I presumed I had nailed both a book and the summary. Boy was I lucky that assignments were given to all classes simultaneously and that the snob had wandered past me. Without even a backward glance!

When I was in class, I was calm and ready for my name to be called. Needless to say some of the summaries were bad and most extremely boring. When the teacher called my name I strutted up to the front with a confident gait. Some people whooped slowly; “Woooooo” something like that. Jansen eyed me with loathing. My nemesis; if I ever seemed to even have a second of joy his was always in agony.
I stood in front, all those eyes hungry for the slightest blunder. But no; they wouldn’t have the satisfaction of a blunder...
“Okay, Kirk. State the title and read the summary”
I looked at the book.
They would have the satisfaction of a big blunder.
“Kirk?”

In truth. There was no title, so I said,
“Uh...  it doesn’t have a title...  a bit older than usual, sir.”
The class tensed. They wanted to laugh but were cautious, the teacher nodded and the class refocused their gazes.
I read,
         You are the chosen subject of The Book. Prepare for doom...  what?”
“Is what in the summary? And aren’t you reading the synopsis or something?
By the time Jansen had said ‘summary’ the whole class burst out laughing. The teacher eyed me with disdain and came up and snatched the paper. He read it through then tore it up. How I wish he hadn’t...

So that was what happened at school. I chucked the book in a dustbin and never saw the boy who had held onto such an odd item. I didn’t bother: by lunch time my name was clear and when I arrived at home I had forgotten of the book. Jansen taunted me throughout the day, though. Gosh I hate that kid.

I left off at where I picked up the book: I wanted to study it inside since it was getting eerily dark out. My parents were still at work but my little sister Am jumped around my legs.
“Hey, hey hey!” I said.
“Play! Play! Play!” With every shout of the word she bounded and dunked at my arms.
“No, Am. I’m busy.”
“Come oooooon. Play! Plaaaay!”
I barricaded myself in my room. On second thought I slid out the kid laptop and Am soon kept quiet. She wasn’t supposed to touch it at that time but I was desperate. I caught my breath before studying the book. I knew for sure that it was the same one and noticed an emerald green pen in the spine. I took it out before opening the book.
Just like the cover, it was also blank. Infact; all the pages were blank. Save for a few margins and a column of circles [the sort you fill in on those multiple choice exams]
Then the words appeared. Just like Harry Potter.

Pain awaits, Kirk...

I always wondered how I would handle a paranormal situation. Now I knew:  badly. I screamed my lungs and tossed it across the room. It landed in my bed. Shouting with fear [my dignified way of saying screaming] I ran out of the room and guess what? The book was on the table. Open, Infact and spelling the words now in red.

You tore the rules. This meant you understand your duty, Kirk. Write or Die.

The pen in my hand stung for a long agonizing moment. I was dizzy and tried to fling it away. Only to discover it had seared my fingers together in a writing pose. I almost wet myself. Am was nowhere to be seen, but I didn’t think of her. With a trembling lip, I approached the book and, being true to the Harry Potter I watched last month, I wrote on it:

What-

But words cut my flow.

I can listen to your speech...  and you can read my writing. WRITE tragedy now or suffer punishment.

“What... What do you mean?” I asked the book. Feeling stupid. If this was some joke brewed... I looked around. Hoping MTV had arrived at my door at last. Barging in to announce that...

Am is going to die

I understood the statement fully, “No! Wait!” I scribbled on the page the word “Tragedy” But it dissolved and the page glowed with a black diffuse. I was the first human to see black light.

HUMAN! Write of disaster in your neighbourhood. Am is now dead.

Am screamed, tumbled from the kitchen with a fork in her neck. Blood. So much blood. I fell on my back with shock. Tears started welling up unheeded...
“Oh G-”
I choked and scribbled on the page.

Thunderstorm cuts off all electricity in the district

Black glow, but this time more prolonged. I looked at Am. Dead. And grabbed at the book, but it felt like fiery ice, I kicked at it and it didn’t budge. Then I crawled over to Am, who was now dead. Bleeding up the entire floor.
I heard thunder, then a weird scream. I saw Am, in reverse motion, rise, face the kitchen, the fork flying back to its rack, and the blood flowing back into her neck, then the puncture sealing up. It was sickening. But I was relieved to a point of weakness.
“Am?”
“Kirk? What happened?” She asked. She didn’t wait for an answer; she just coughed and went over to me. For no reason she gave me a hug then headed upstairs to her room.
I watched her go then looked at the book. I soon stopped this when I heard the most tremendous explosion of sound. Lighting had struck. It was getting close to evening so the lights were on. They went out in a flash then I heard an explosion of something more solid than lightning or thunder. Electricity hadn’t gone off ever before in Broadside. Nor had there ever been storms in the middle of summer.
Whatever the book was, it meant business. And it still does.

It’s a week later, and I’m holding onto this death trap of a book still. Throughout the last days I’ve learnt some things. The book never lied, it never gave benefit, and it loved death and didn’t believe in second chances. I had asked it plenty of times what was on the A4 paper the teacher had torn, but the book simply threw me its famous words;

Write or Die

I had never had to be responsible for anything in my life. Definitely not the lives of others. People can fantasize to be a god of judgement. One that holds the destinies of someone else’s life [look at me...  the book is destroying my language] But they never considered a book commanding them about. Threatening the lives of their families. The truth is told our whole family lives like a bunch of aliens. Dad is always busy and Mom [after the cooking, the cleaning and the phoning] is also working on something to do with documents. I tried to tell one of them what was going on, but they always shrugged me off like an irksome fly. They were gradually getting more and more agitated. I wouldn’t blame them; last week there had been two thunderstorms. One twister that had knocked out our neighbours blocks, one sweep of the entire pet population [killing them all] and the death of all microscopic organisms in the entire block. At first I had thought germs meant nothing. But then I discovered that I had upset the balance of the neighbourhood so much that for some reason there was an infestation of wasps and bees swarming about [I really don’t know the science.]Broadside was also starting to stink.
The book has the circle columns shaded with every disaster and labels them in the margins across its pages. The margins have the title and then it writes down the disaster that occurred. I never question whether the book was alive or anything like that. I just see the three words and then I write a phrase. This is the deal. But this cannot go on. Especially when it wrote this:

Write down the death of a friend

There was no ways I could do that. I said that to the book. But the threat came on my own life this time.

Then you will die.

I grabbed up the book and went to the school.

After class I had wanted to ignore the book; act like I hadn’t seen the threat. But two spikes from out of nowhere and a ruler almost impaling me during both breaks convinced me otherwise. Feeling dizzily surreal, I walk up to Tiger and give him a summary of my situation. I tell him that I had written up the disasters from last week. I told him that-
Wrong move. Tiger looks up at me with sad derision. Then his face goes blank. He is lying up against a locker and had opened it halfway. He kept his CD’s in there. Those CD’s...
At first I think I had heard wrong when I heard a wet sound. Tiger seems to be looking right through me. His eyes are glazed. He glances at his torso.
“Tiger...  what?”
A thin red line appears along his shirt at his belly. Then three. I heard a loud wet suction sound “shwik!” and Three CD’s popped out of his stomach like a CD tray. One of them brings an intestine along.
“Oh my G-!” I vomit as the passer bys looked then screamed. Everything was in a rush. Suddenly the book is in my arms. Angrily writing:

The rules stated no telling or the subject DIES! Write the death of a friend NOW or I will kill you

I’m desperate. I mop my face clumsily and stumble backwards. The shock of Tiger dying so violently is still shaking my head. Who should die? I find myself asking. Not Mick, not Emma, not Jack...  Jansen pokes his head over a shrub. Our school has a centre place with a bench encircling a shrub. Jansen is sitting at the bench.
I take out the emerald pen and write.
The book replies:

Jansen is not a friend. Time to die...

Suddenly the mass of screaming and panicked people around Tiger’s body shout at a louder crescendo. I involuntarily duck as the three bloodstained CD’s zip over my head and shatter on an opposite wall. I swear. Jansen is looking around with angry surprise. His method of looking brave. Then it clicks to me and I think hard. I shout to Jansen. One of the CD’s seems to have survived and is spinning back like a boomerang. This time dodging wouldn’t work.
“Jansen!” I shouted at him. When he looks up at me I scream.
“I forgive you man! Let's be friends!” then he fixes me with a puzzled glance.
I can see the disk in slow motion. 10 feet. I scribble on the page.

Jansen’s

6 feet already. Everyone knows I’m in for it.

Head is lopped off!

It’s at my neck! Then it’s stopped and is still spinning, nicking my neck with a long, thin line. I freeze in place, my head pulled back as I look at the disk with silent dread.
It spins off in a new direction. The silent school shouts a warning to Jansen. Jansen who is screaming his lungs out and frozen in place. The disk stays true to my words but does it slowly. Spinning on his oesophagus and sawing his neck slowly.
The screams are of horror. And now my tears fall for real, I add to the glowing book,

Jansen dies instantly

The disk finishes the job in one go.

It didn’t take much time for the whole events to implicate me. I am suspected of witchcraft. There's no witch burning at least but it’s really bad. I’m in for a lot. Despite the efforts of the principal and the staff, I held on to the book and the emerald pen. I’m being interrogated by the whole circle of staff fearfully. They have the time to address the issue because their houses are in repair, my fault.
“Kirk, what are you doing?” The only question a teacher asked. The English teacher, in fact. I didn’t bother answering his answer and threw him a desperate question,
“Sir, do you remember what was on the paper you tore?” The whole group of teachers looked at him. The teacher growled,
“How could I know? I knew it was witchcraft when I first looked at it.” The accusation is just an escape move. But it sticks. The book is vibrating again.

The rules are: 1-you shall not tell
2-you shall obey
3-you are never free till you pass it on
4-the book has to be taken from you in secret to free yourself
5-Write or die

The circle of frightened teachers leans in to study the book but can’t read anything.
“You can read Hieroglyphics?”
I look up and realise the book is in hieroglyphics. The History teacher asks me, grabbing my shoulder.
“Where did you get this book? Do you know the Moseys?”
“What-?”
The other teachers are interested in what the teacher means. The History teacher speaks,
“The Moseys were archaeologists. I was a close friend. This book-” he pointed, “This book was at their residence. Mr Mosey never told and I saw it recently on the new student.”
The secretary asked, “The one who was here for one day?”
“Yes, the son of the Moseys...  I didn’t recognize until now. How idiotic I am... “This doesn’t make sense to the others. But it does to me.
The snob deliberately got me to take the book. Eagle boy Kirk was the perfect target... the Moseys had the book curse. Now it’s on me!
My thoughts are disturbed because the book writes:

Write or Die

I reach for the emerald green pen but the teacher tackles me, shouting, “No!” I struggle beneath the massive weight of the man. Two other teachers approach. The History teacher shouts to them. His hysterical.
“Get a knife! We need to kill this boy! His evil!” The teachers are shocked. So is the other staff. The principal rises,
“Take it easy Haddam.”
“I’m not Haddam! I’m Mr Mosey! You must listen to me...  this boy must die for the book to stop! It’s the only way! Please understand!”
The news rings in the room for a while and a flick knife slides over to Mr Haddam Mosey. I don’t know who kicked over the knife. It’s like some outrageous gang fight were the leader is given his knife to kill the-
It plunges, all too real. Cold silver then hot blood, in my side. Fatal.
I roar and the teachers come to their senses. They pull the crazy teacher off me and see the damage. The secretary and another woman teacher run out for help, I get to my feet, take the emerald pen and clutch the book. Mr Mosey is screaming against the two teachers struggling with him.
“He’ll kill us all! Take the pen away! Take it away!”
I know I’m dying. No weakness, just a massive haemorrhage in my side taking my senses with me, so being greedy, I write down.

Monsters...

“Get the boy! Get him!” Mr Mosey elbowed the two teachers and ran after me the same time as the principal, who also decided I could do without the book. In two long strides he has reached me, Mr Mosey tears the book from my grasp and I die. With the few seconds of consciousness I know Mr Mosey is reading a phrase. An evil one, I must admit, but no time. Knowing what I wrote down, I struggle to leave my body like a boy struggling to wake up from a nightmare. Better dead than alive at that particular moment.