It's been a little while so I thought I'd update with something that I've been working on for a long while now (something that will *hopefully* **hopefully** turn into an actual novel at some point).
Unfortunately it slipped to the wayside for a while (sort of hit a wall), but in the last few weeks I've managed to get back into writing it and other related stories. I still think that the beginning has some problems (infodump again) so I'm not going to put that up just yet but some of the rest of it seems generally readable - so that's what you're going to get. An excerpt.
One last note, back in typical form, this is very definitely science fiction (soft - don't think I have the ability/background to write hard sci-fi) so reader beware. (Or don't, even if it's crap it might give you the idea that maybe you should read some and I have a rather long list of good novels that I can suggest).
Anyway, without further nonsense here is what (as I have yet to name the story itself) for the moment will simply be called Exile.
Exile
I wake early. I’m still in the cell and someone is unlocking the door. It slides open with a hiss. Presently a guard and two med-techs enter. I feign sleep. I’ve never really liked the faux-doctors that seem to gravitate towards the prison system and I always try to avoid having conversations with them. But that’s not what they had in mind. One of them, aided by the guard holds me down, while the other, moves in with the needle. I don’t struggle. No much point really. There is a quick jab in my right arm, then another sharper one in my lower neck. The second one lingers, eventually fading enough so that I can feel something cold pressed against my skin. I taste metal. Bio-monitor. Definitely Cryo then. I can feel them pulling me onto a stretcher, darkness takes me.
I’ve never liked Cryo, let’s just make that clear from the start. Never have, never will. Practice should have been abandoned as soon as the we broke the light barrier.
Sure I can understand the necessity aboard something like a prison ship, but that does not mean that I have to like it – and no, before you ask, my reasons aren’t the typical ones that people seem to bandy about all the time.
Sure before my first time I had the usual worries. Worries about the failure rates of the early days. Worries about the couple of sleeper ships that drifted into stars or things they shouldn’t have simply because someone somewhere made a mistake. Worries about the ships that simply disappeared. But like most of the rest I convinced myself that those were all issues that had been fixed for decade. That I had nothing to worry about. I didn’t even think about the actual freezing process, about how it might feel. That changed very quickly after the first time.
While your frozen you’re not supposed to feel anything as your supposed to be, exactly that, frozen. Not asleep, not unconscious. There is no thinking, no moving. You’re just frozen. Every cell in your body, every cell in your brain shuts down and remains shut down until they thaw you out at the other end. Or that’s how it’s supposed to be.
For me it’s different: I swear to god that each time I go under I dream. And they’re not your run of the mill dreams either. They’re vivid. I see people and places I haven’t seen in years. Old friends come and go, talking to me as if no time has passed at all. I can’t talk back, or even move, but that doesn’t seem to bother them. They just continue on their merry way, quickly replaced by some other familiar face. And this whole time, as if that wasn’t enough, I can feel the cold. The chill is shocking, almost unbearable. There’s no escaping it either, it’s in you, in every fibre of your body and there is nothing you can do to make it go away.
It’s much the same on the way to Fecund. I try to ignore as much as my half conscious mind can ignore anything, but like always it never works. After a while a single face keeps coming back to haunt me, and that hurts more than the cold. I try and run, but there’s nowhere to go. I’m stuck in my own head. Quite literally.
As far as I can tell this isn’t something that happens to other people. They go under. They wake up. No dreams. No visitations. Nothing. Simple. The only thing I can think of that makes me different is the implant. Makes sense in a weird sort of way. It’s part of me: it’s hooked into my brain but it’s not biological, so it reacts differently to the cold and the chemicals. While the rest of my brain is frozen, it still ticks away, and I think part of my consciousness bleeds into it. Not enough to be totally aware, but enough to remember. I hate the thing sometimes. Wish it had never been put in. Not that I had all that choice when it was. Not that there’s anyway now to take it out.
They bring us out in orbit. I come awake groggy and sick. Cold hands brush over me. I wretch as one tube is pulled from my throat, running on gag-reflex. I barely feel the one they yank from my arm. The chill left over from Cryo is everything. My bones feel like they are made of sloshed ice. The light is blinding and I want to vomit. But there’s nothing to bring up. Someone tries to get me to drink water, but their gone by the time I register that I’m actually thirsty. Stupidly I struggle, try to lean forward. For my trouble something cold brushes against my ribs and I collapses back onto the bed, writhing from the sudden electrical discharge. For a while all can do is lie there and pant, barely registering the alarm ringing in my head. Sometime later the pain subsides and my vision begins to clear. I’m no longer on board a ship. The ceiling is too clean - not enough grime or cables - and it’s much too big. Craning my neck I see dozens of other pods surrounding mine, most of them closed. Here and there are med techs, decked out in that sickly green that they seems to like so much. Every so often they crack another pod, bringing the occupant out of cold storage and checking to see if he’s still alive. A single tech stands back from the others, shock lance in hand, just in case a convict gets to lively.
It takes them a while to wake everyone and by then some of the other prisoners have managed to find their voices. A few shout insults, or call out for others they think might be nearby. To me it’s all a blur. A few stupid ones shout threats at the techs, and are swiftly shocked into submission. The guy next to me is one of those. It takes him a while to stop thrashing around and afterwards he just lies there, looking blankly in my direction. I try to catch his attention but he just looks through me. Face a mask of despair. I look away.
After what seems like an eternity the tech begin to finish and move away. Somewhere up above a red light begins to flash. One by one the pods begin to slide closed again, setting a few prisoners off again as claustrophobia kicks in. I lose the yelling behind the thick Perspex screen and my own nervousness is quickly washed away by the warm air pumping into my pod. It feels too good for me to be scared. There’s no smell to give away the knock out gas, but my implant chimes in with a hazard warning just the same. A wave of exhaustion washes over me as text scrolls in front of my vision, showing what exactly it is that I’m breathing. Fat lot of help to a man tied down. I find myself laughing at the repetition. The constant shift between awareness and oblivion, totally beyond my control. The text distorts and swims as my concentration dies and I slowly slip into unconsciousness.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Genre stories
Dear everyone (this is a potentially singular form of address), I've just finished uni for the year so I thought that now would be as good a time as any to update my reader/s with new tales of cowering heroes, dashing villains and other various examples of mashed genre and mutilated plot.
Hurrah!
In all seriousness, it occurred to me the other day that I had been neglecting the blog and that I should do something new to make up for my absence. Something unlike the stuff that I’ve done before. Something based on genres that I have never written on before.
So here are two new stories:
The first is a redo of a story that I wrote about a year ago after reading 'The Overcoat' by Nikolai Gogol entitled 'The Bookshop' and is a pretty straight forward attempt at literary realism (i.e. Gogol's 'The Overcoat' just with less fantastical stuff at the end).
The Bookshop
It was a certain day in the month of August that a young man by the name of Sergei Kozlovitch arrived for the first time in the city of Moscow and instantly decided that he did not like it.
Now Sergei’s disdain for the city stemmed not from an arrogance born of wealth (as indeed he carried most of his possessions with him in a rather pathetic looking suitcase held together with twine), but from the place of his birth. Sergei had been raised in Petersburg, and to him the fine stone construction of his home made Moscow look like a haphazard collection of wooden kindling.
Sergei would have preferred not to have left home at all, but when news had arrived a week previously that his mother’s brother, Andrei Borislav, had grown ill (and it seemed was soon to die), Sergei had been left with little choice. While he had never had any real affection for his uncle, who Sergei remembered from his visits to Petersburg as rather self-important (always having a little too much to say and lot too much to drink) it would have been considered terribly bad form if someone from the family did not come and pay their respects.
After all, his entire uncle had reached greater heights than Sergei and his mother ever would, having been a tutor to the children of one of the great noble houses before his retirement.
Sergei’s mother, a humble washer-woman, who had grown in weight over the past few years had been in no condition to make the journey and so had fussed and fretted from the moment the message arrived about how the arrival of at least one member of the family would be expected.
Of course these shrill statements had always been accompanied by not so subtle glances at Sergei, who (with his father away in the war) was the only immediate family she had available to her.
So it was that he found himself, days later, at the end of one of the city’s narrow streets, standing in front of the Borislav residence, almost in a stupor, staring at the muck that was clinging to his boots and trying to blink away the sting that the cold brought to his eyes.
Presently he realised that there were other people gathered outside the squat little wooden house, people Sergei had to presume were either friends of his uncles’ or fellow well wishers. They certainly did not appear to be family, being much too tall and thin to be related to his uncle who he remembered to be stocky, red nosed and boisterous. All three turned as Sergei approached; their eyes’ seeming to flicker with a vague recognition, though Sergei was unable to place any of their faces.
Regardless of whom they were the strangers had all seemed to glare at him with barely veiled hostility as he had approached and greeted them, looks which soon developed into angry muttering as Sergei was forced to push past so that he could enter the front door. Inside Sergei shed his coat and his confusion and the greeting he had received outside was instantly replaced by fear as he took his first breath.
There was a stale smell in the air, so thick that he was sure that if he stayed to long it would cut through his clothing and permanently sink into his skin. It was the smell of a dead man. The fact that he had not arrived in time to say goodbye to his uncle bothered him less than the feeling of uncleanness that washed over him.
Sighing he realised that he would still be expected to pay respects to the body and to his aunt, and so made his way up the stairs until he reached what he presumed was the master bedroom and knocked furtively at the door.
A small balding man in a smart coat and hat soon opened the door and looked Sergei up and down with a dispassionate stare “Yes. Yes. I am the doctor” he said extending a claw like hand for Sergei to shake, “who are you boy?” Sergei introduced himself just as he saw a figure behind the doctor leaving the room by another door which closed with a loud slam.
Returning his gaze to the doctor Sergei soon gathered that he had indeed arrived too late, and that his uncle’s condition had yesterday taken a sudden turn for worse leading to his death sometime during the night. All of which, the doctor reminded him, was a “terrible business” before clarifying that of course his aunt was thankful for Sergei’s trip, but was still in no state to receive visitors.
As if to punctuate the doctors last sentence, a great clatter arose somewhere down the hall which was quickly joined by a tremendously loud shrieking. “She’s been on like that for hours now” he muttered after a pause, before gesturing for Sergei to enter the room, “I guess you’ll want to see him before you leave.”
It struck Sergei that for all the calamity of his aunt; it had slipped his mind that his now dead uncle was most likely only a few feet away. The Doctor looked directly at Sergei for a moment before closing the door and said “If it’s not too much trouble young Sergei, could you meet me outside once your done. There is something we should discuss.” The door was then shut before he could even nod in response.
Paying his respects to his uncle was not a particularly pleasant experience. For his part, the old man just lay there, but Sergei could not help but squirm. Instead of feeling grief or sympathy he was filled with revulsion, something only tempered by the comforting thought that it was his uncle, not him, who was now lying cold and stiff in the narrow bed.
As this thought filled Sergei with a gnawing guilt he stayed only as long as seemed appropriate, before silently slipping away and joining the doctor outside in the cold. The air bit at him as he left the house, and the Doctor, who now introduced himself as a Dr. Nicholas Tarasov, offered him a drink from a flask which Sergei was more than happy to accept. “Now young Sergei, as you are no doubt aware, you were one of your uncles’ only remaining male relatives” Sergei nodded. “So you stand to inherit a portion of what he had left.”
This was not something that Sergei had considered, and so thinking of his empty purse, this new prospect caused his heart to leap, if only momentarily.
As if reading Sergei’s thoughts the doctor cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m afraid your share will not be what you expected. Most of the money your uncle had remaining will go to his wife and her family, who you no doubt met on the way in, while the remainder will pay for the treatment he underwent before his death”.
Sergei winced. “You my lad will instead inherit the last of your uncle’s property, except for this house of course”.
Strangely it would take a few minutes of probing before Sergei could get the doctor to admit just what the last of this property was and so in the end Dr. Tarasov simply looked at him before handing him the vodka again and said “well boy, it’s a bookshop”.
A bookshop.
Sergei, flask still in hand, watched the doctor depart and was sure that some horrendous joke had just been played on him. He knew little about books, an even less about how they should be sold. But, he sighed, as he gathered his meagre possessions, it was more than he had had an hour ago and anyhow people would begin to talk if he refused his inheritance simply because he disliked it.
It was this thought that remained with him until, after finding lodging for the night and sending a message to his mother (the cost of which ate up what little funds he had remaining and forced him to forgo a proper dinner), he found himself in one of the poorest areas of the city facing the small dilapidated building that the doctor had left him directions to.
It was a crooked little place, with the most solid part appearing to be the door. At least Sergei knew that he would get something back if it ever fell down, remembering the doctors statement that his uncle, having great affection for the shop, had made sure it was properly insured.
The key barely seemed to fit in the lock, and upon turning it Sergei was convinced it would snap off in his hand. Yet eventually he got the door open unable to remove the key again steeped inside and was greeted by the interior of a dirty little shop which seemed to have more cobwebs than books. Sergei stepped inside, confused.
If this was a book shop, where were all the books?
Counting them, there only seemed to be a few dozen of the things scattered amongst the shelves. There was nothing there that was worth anything. What good was a book shop without books Sergei thought? In frustration he began to pull the few books that there were off the shelves and throw them across the room. The act was strangely satisfying and he would have continued if it were not for the heavy metallic clunk the third made as it came into contact with the floor.
Gingerly Sergei picked it up from where it had come to rest and shook it. Something rattled around inside. He cracked open the cover and was greeted by the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
Jewellery fit for a prince.
Gold studded with diamonds and rubies, silver inlayed with pearl and half a dozen things he could not even name. All he knew was that they were worth more than he had ever thought he would see in his lifetime. Swiftly he ripped the other books off the shelves. At least three others had something inside.
The last however was different. Instead of only containing jewellery, there was also a note, which fluttered to the floor unnoticed as Sergei whooped and crowded, dancing around the room, praising his uncle he cunning nature of his uncle who he presumed had pilfered the jewels during his time as a tutor (even when drunk he had always had deft fingers).
Sergei, as if in a trance, spent the entire day examining and re examining his inheritance. So enraptured in playing with the jewels was Sergei that he did not notice the sun finally go down. Nor did he notice the door being closed from the outside, or the grinding click as the key was turned, locking him in.
He was so taken in fact by his new found wealth that it would take the sound of breaking glass (as a bottle exploded through the window, spilling liquid fire all over the room) to shake him from reverie.
By then it was much too late. Sergei would claw at the door as the wooden walls around him belched fire and smoke but he would not escape.
Sadly if he had not been so intent on studying the jewels might have caught sight of the little piece of paper that had fallen to the floor. If he had been quick enough he may even have had a chance to read it before both he and it turned to ash and learn of his uncle’s satisfaction that, if Sergei were reading this, he had ensured the continued existence of his shop and managed to hide the existence of the jewels from his wife’s family, who he stated were generally a jealous and conniving bunch.
The second, A Deadly Curiosity was supposed to be at the time of writing (and I guess still is) a re-interpretation of Gothic Fiction that aims to invert some of the genres typical conventions. Reading it again now I'm not entirely sure that I was successful (it is certainly macabre) but I figure I should put it up anyway.
A Deadly Curiosity
The first time I did I did it out a sense of curiosity.
So often had I looked at people passing by and wondered: how easy would it be? How much would it take? Surely not all that much? Just a squeeze or a knock in the right place surely... People can be fragile things after all...
I began to wonder. To wonder if I should try it for myself. Just to see.
Just to test.
Oh I certainly had my share of doubts. Of course I did. I wondered on my own abilities. On whether or not I would be successful. Would I tense up at the wrong moment? Would I re-discover fear or whatever passes for human morality these days. Would my hand slip? My breathing betray me? Would I make a mistake at some crucial moment and become a victim myself?
Such thoughts plagued me for longer than I care to admit, but in the end my curiosity, my obsession grew to be more than I could bear.
I decided that I would do it because I had to and once I this revelation was made my doubts were much reduced.
In preparation I abandoned my regular social (after all none of them would understand my motivations and it would be unlikely that they would still desire my company once the deed was done) and began to plan the when and the where in the most exacting detail possible – I did want to get this right after all.
Fate however, it seems, had other ideas and upon a night of particular bad weather (before I was able to bring my own plans to their ultimate fruition) I was presented with an opportunity so perfect that I would have been foolish to ignore it: Someone came to me.
He arrived upon my doorstep, rain drenched and shivering in the midnight cold. Through chattering teeth he made reference to some sort of car trouble (my memory on his exact words is now rather vague as I was, understandably excited at the time) and asked whether or not I could be persuaded to lend him the use of my telephone.
I, of course, ushered him in as quickly as possible (the plans racing through my head said nothing against the use of good manners) and placed him in front of the fire to dry, asserting that he must warm himself properly and partake in some tea before using the phone or he would catch chill (I did my best to put forward a motherly concern for his well being).
He, having no suspicions to my true motives, was more than happy to accept my loosely applied conditions and upon seating himself before the warmth of the fire attempt to engage me in jovial conversation. Very quickly he dismissed the ill-fortune of breaking down in such bad weather, instead claiming, with a sly smile, that considered himself to be quite lucky to have stumbled upon the home of such a friendly and hospitable woman, one who was more than happy to offer assistance in his time of need. With what he must have thought of as an expert subtlety he then asked after my husband, expressing concern that, if he were to arrive, he may not be overly pleased to find some unknown man sitting in his house and warming himself before his fire.
At this I laughed in an attempt to feign some form of nervous embarrassment (a timely tilting of the head and a blush greatly added to the illusion) before stating, somewhat shyly, that I did not in fact have a husband for him to offend and that I was very much alone in my little house upon the hill. He of course responded with a mock sincerity, stating that he had in no way meant act in anyway untoward and that as he was a gentleman, I had nothing at all to fear from him his presence.
Deftly I smiled at him, assuring him that I believed all that he had said, before exclaiming that I had forgotten to put the kettle on the stove and that he was welcome to move the chair in which he sat closer to the fire while I was in the kitchen preparing the hot drink I had earlier promised him (in truth I could feel the moment nearing and felt that I had to leave so he would not become aware of my excitement).
To ease his mind (and indeed my own) I did indeed prepare for him a cup of tea and then quickly composed myself in the mirror in the hall before returning to him drink in hand, apologising quite demurely for not remembering to ask him what his preference might be. He chuckled over my words, stating quite simply that he was more than happy with anything as long as it was not laced with poison. I froze at that. My heart suddenly beating a loud staccato in my ears. Should it be now? Or should I wait? Does he know? He began to laugh nervously and I stifled a sigh of relief with a nervous smile – obviously he had realised that his joke (and I now saw that it had been a joke and that I should wait) had not been received in the manner in which he had expected and he was trying deflect attention away from his blunder.
As a way of changing topic he turned to cosy nature of the room mumbling something about how he had always wanted to live in a place just like it. For my part I ignored him, instead trying to control the thrill that had begun to race up and down my spine.. The whole room seemed to close in around us. My mouth was dry. My hands sweaty. I marvelled that the young man could be so completely oblivious to my intentions.
Lost in his own voice he failed to hear the light scraping of the fire poker as I removed it from its place by the fire. Failed to notice as I raised it above my head. He asked me how I had come live all the way out here by myself to which I delivered a vague response through gritted teeth.
The man began to turn just as the heavy iron of the poker lashed out (the word ‘pardon’ no doubt forming upon his lips) and so the blow was a glancing one, loosely connecting just above the man’s ear. Still the crunching noise was a reassuring one and his eyes did indeed glaze over (as they so often do in the stories) as he collapsed (completely ungracefully I might add) to lie in a tangled heap at my feet, giving out little more by way of complaint than a short gurgling sigh.
As I listened to his breathing slow, I marvelled at the ease with which I had satisfied my earlier curiosity and how ill-founded my previous doubts had been. I had not hesitated. I had not been afraid (at least not of the deed itself). I stood waiting for a moment, almost expecting the whole thing to be ruined by the arrival of some misplaced sense of guilt. Nothing. I felt normal, though not as completely satisfied as I had first imagined that I would be. Instead there was this new gnawing of curiosity, stronger than it had been before. I began to wonder:
How much harder would two be than one? Surely not that much...
In my opinion both a little clunky (yes my paragraphing is still abysmal) and in need of editing*, but it still feels good to get them out there and to keep the blog updated.
*Should hopefully get to that over the next few days and weeks (uni is done and I have heaps of free time)
Let me know what you think in the comments (lurkers welcome!).
Thinking of doing more genre stuff for the next post if anyone has some recommendations (thinking something lighter).
M
Hurrah!
In all seriousness, it occurred to me the other day that I had been neglecting the blog and that I should do something new to make up for my absence. Something unlike the stuff that I’ve done before. Something based on genres that I have never written on before.
So here are two new stories:
The first is a redo of a story that I wrote about a year ago after reading 'The Overcoat' by Nikolai Gogol entitled 'The Bookshop' and is a pretty straight forward attempt at literary realism (i.e. Gogol's 'The Overcoat' just with less fantastical stuff at the end).
The Bookshop
It was a certain day in the month of August that a young man by the name of Sergei Kozlovitch arrived for the first time in the city of Moscow and instantly decided that he did not like it.
Now Sergei’s disdain for the city stemmed not from an arrogance born of wealth (as indeed he carried most of his possessions with him in a rather pathetic looking suitcase held together with twine), but from the place of his birth. Sergei had been raised in Petersburg, and to him the fine stone construction of his home made Moscow look like a haphazard collection of wooden kindling.
Sergei would have preferred not to have left home at all, but when news had arrived a week previously that his mother’s brother, Andrei Borislav, had grown ill (and it seemed was soon to die), Sergei had been left with little choice. While he had never had any real affection for his uncle, who Sergei remembered from his visits to Petersburg as rather self-important (always having a little too much to say and lot too much to drink) it would have been considered terribly bad form if someone from the family did not come and pay their respects.
After all, his entire uncle had reached greater heights than Sergei and his mother ever would, having been a tutor to the children of one of the great noble houses before his retirement.
Sergei’s mother, a humble washer-woman, who had grown in weight over the past few years had been in no condition to make the journey and so had fussed and fretted from the moment the message arrived about how the arrival of at least one member of the family would be expected.
Of course these shrill statements had always been accompanied by not so subtle glances at Sergei, who (with his father away in the war) was the only immediate family she had available to her.
So it was that he found himself, days later, at the end of one of the city’s narrow streets, standing in front of the Borislav residence, almost in a stupor, staring at the muck that was clinging to his boots and trying to blink away the sting that the cold brought to his eyes.
Presently he realised that there were other people gathered outside the squat little wooden house, people Sergei had to presume were either friends of his uncles’ or fellow well wishers. They certainly did not appear to be family, being much too tall and thin to be related to his uncle who he remembered to be stocky, red nosed and boisterous. All three turned as Sergei approached; their eyes’ seeming to flicker with a vague recognition, though Sergei was unable to place any of their faces.
Regardless of whom they were the strangers had all seemed to glare at him with barely veiled hostility as he had approached and greeted them, looks which soon developed into angry muttering as Sergei was forced to push past so that he could enter the front door. Inside Sergei shed his coat and his confusion and the greeting he had received outside was instantly replaced by fear as he took his first breath.
There was a stale smell in the air, so thick that he was sure that if he stayed to long it would cut through his clothing and permanently sink into his skin. It was the smell of a dead man. The fact that he had not arrived in time to say goodbye to his uncle bothered him less than the feeling of uncleanness that washed over him.
Sighing he realised that he would still be expected to pay respects to the body and to his aunt, and so made his way up the stairs until he reached what he presumed was the master bedroom and knocked furtively at the door.
A small balding man in a smart coat and hat soon opened the door and looked Sergei up and down with a dispassionate stare “Yes. Yes. I am the doctor” he said extending a claw like hand for Sergei to shake, “who are you boy?” Sergei introduced himself just as he saw a figure behind the doctor leaving the room by another door which closed with a loud slam.
Returning his gaze to the doctor Sergei soon gathered that he had indeed arrived too late, and that his uncle’s condition had yesterday taken a sudden turn for worse leading to his death sometime during the night. All of which, the doctor reminded him, was a “terrible business” before clarifying that of course his aunt was thankful for Sergei’s trip, but was still in no state to receive visitors.
As if to punctuate the doctors last sentence, a great clatter arose somewhere down the hall which was quickly joined by a tremendously loud shrieking. “She’s been on like that for hours now” he muttered after a pause, before gesturing for Sergei to enter the room, “I guess you’ll want to see him before you leave.”
It struck Sergei that for all the calamity of his aunt; it had slipped his mind that his now dead uncle was most likely only a few feet away. The Doctor looked directly at Sergei for a moment before closing the door and said “If it’s not too much trouble young Sergei, could you meet me outside once your done. There is something we should discuss.” The door was then shut before he could even nod in response.
Paying his respects to his uncle was not a particularly pleasant experience. For his part, the old man just lay there, but Sergei could not help but squirm. Instead of feeling grief or sympathy he was filled with revulsion, something only tempered by the comforting thought that it was his uncle, not him, who was now lying cold and stiff in the narrow bed.
As this thought filled Sergei with a gnawing guilt he stayed only as long as seemed appropriate, before silently slipping away and joining the doctor outside in the cold. The air bit at him as he left the house, and the Doctor, who now introduced himself as a Dr. Nicholas Tarasov, offered him a drink from a flask which Sergei was more than happy to accept. “Now young Sergei, as you are no doubt aware, you were one of your uncles’ only remaining male relatives” Sergei nodded. “So you stand to inherit a portion of what he had left.”
This was not something that Sergei had considered, and so thinking of his empty purse, this new prospect caused his heart to leap, if only momentarily.
As if reading Sergei’s thoughts the doctor cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m afraid your share will not be what you expected. Most of the money your uncle had remaining will go to his wife and her family, who you no doubt met on the way in, while the remainder will pay for the treatment he underwent before his death”.
Sergei winced. “You my lad will instead inherit the last of your uncle’s property, except for this house of course”.
Strangely it would take a few minutes of probing before Sergei could get the doctor to admit just what the last of this property was and so in the end Dr. Tarasov simply looked at him before handing him the vodka again and said “well boy, it’s a bookshop”.
A bookshop.
Sergei, flask still in hand, watched the doctor depart and was sure that some horrendous joke had just been played on him. He knew little about books, an even less about how they should be sold. But, he sighed, as he gathered his meagre possessions, it was more than he had had an hour ago and anyhow people would begin to talk if he refused his inheritance simply because he disliked it.
It was this thought that remained with him until, after finding lodging for the night and sending a message to his mother (the cost of which ate up what little funds he had remaining and forced him to forgo a proper dinner), he found himself in one of the poorest areas of the city facing the small dilapidated building that the doctor had left him directions to.
It was a crooked little place, with the most solid part appearing to be the door. At least Sergei knew that he would get something back if it ever fell down, remembering the doctors statement that his uncle, having great affection for the shop, had made sure it was properly insured.
The key barely seemed to fit in the lock, and upon turning it Sergei was convinced it would snap off in his hand. Yet eventually he got the door open unable to remove the key again steeped inside and was greeted by the interior of a dirty little shop which seemed to have more cobwebs than books. Sergei stepped inside, confused.
If this was a book shop, where were all the books?
Counting them, there only seemed to be a few dozen of the things scattered amongst the shelves. There was nothing there that was worth anything. What good was a book shop without books Sergei thought? In frustration he began to pull the few books that there were off the shelves and throw them across the room. The act was strangely satisfying and he would have continued if it were not for the heavy metallic clunk the third made as it came into contact with the floor.
Gingerly Sergei picked it up from where it had come to rest and shook it. Something rattled around inside. He cracked open the cover and was greeted by the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
Jewellery fit for a prince.
Gold studded with diamonds and rubies, silver inlayed with pearl and half a dozen things he could not even name. All he knew was that they were worth more than he had ever thought he would see in his lifetime. Swiftly he ripped the other books off the shelves. At least three others had something inside.
The last however was different. Instead of only containing jewellery, there was also a note, which fluttered to the floor unnoticed as Sergei whooped and crowded, dancing around the room, praising his uncle he cunning nature of his uncle who he presumed had pilfered the jewels during his time as a tutor (even when drunk he had always had deft fingers).
Sergei, as if in a trance, spent the entire day examining and re examining his inheritance. So enraptured in playing with the jewels was Sergei that he did not notice the sun finally go down. Nor did he notice the door being closed from the outside, or the grinding click as the key was turned, locking him in.
He was so taken in fact by his new found wealth that it would take the sound of breaking glass (as a bottle exploded through the window, spilling liquid fire all over the room) to shake him from reverie.
By then it was much too late. Sergei would claw at the door as the wooden walls around him belched fire and smoke but he would not escape.
Sadly if he had not been so intent on studying the jewels might have caught sight of the little piece of paper that had fallen to the floor. If he had been quick enough he may even have had a chance to read it before both he and it turned to ash and learn of his uncle’s satisfaction that, if Sergei were reading this, he had ensured the continued existence of his shop and managed to hide the existence of the jewels from his wife’s family, who he stated were generally a jealous and conniving bunch.
The second, A Deadly Curiosity was supposed to be at the time of writing (and I guess still is) a re-interpretation of Gothic Fiction that aims to invert some of the genres typical conventions. Reading it again now I'm not entirely sure that I was successful (it is certainly macabre) but I figure I should put it up anyway.
A Deadly Curiosity
The first time I did I did it out a sense of curiosity.
So often had I looked at people passing by and wondered: how easy would it be? How much would it take? Surely not all that much? Just a squeeze or a knock in the right place surely... People can be fragile things after all...
I began to wonder. To wonder if I should try it for myself. Just to see.
Just to test.
Oh I certainly had my share of doubts. Of course I did. I wondered on my own abilities. On whether or not I would be successful. Would I tense up at the wrong moment? Would I re-discover fear or whatever passes for human morality these days. Would my hand slip? My breathing betray me? Would I make a mistake at some crucial moment and become a victim myself?
Such thoughts plagued me for longer than I care to admit, but in the end my curiosity, my obsession grew to be more than I could bear.
I decided that I would do it because I had to and once I this revelation was made my doubts were much reduced.
In preparation I abandoned my regular social (after all none of them would understand my motivations and it would be unlikely that they would still desire my company once the deed was done) and began to plan the when and the where in the most exacting detail possible – I did want to get this right after all.
Fate however, it seems, had other ideas and upon a night of particular bad weather (before I was able to bring my own plans to their ultimate fruition) I was presented with an opportunity so perfect that I would have been foolish to ignore it: Someone came to me.
He arrived upon my doorstep, rain drenched and shivering in the midnight cold. Through chattering teeth he made reference to some sort of car trouble (my memory on his exact words is now rather vague as I was, understandably excited at the time) and asked whether or not I could be persuaded to lend him the use of my telephone.
I, of course, ushered him in as quickly as possible (the plans racing through my head said nothing against the use of good manners) and placed him in front of the fire to dry, asserting that he must warm himself properly and partake in some tea before using the phone or he would catch chill (I did my best to put forward a motherly concern for his well being).
He, having no suspicions to my true motives, was more than happy to accept my loosely applied conditions and upon seating himself before the warmth of the fire attempt to engage me in jovial conversation. Very quickly he dismissed the ill-fortune of breaking down in such bad weather, instead claiming, with a sly smile, that considered himself to be quite lucky to have stumbled upon the home of such a friendly and hospitable woman, one who was more than happy to offer assistance in his time of need. With what he must have thought of as an expert subtlety he then asked after my husband, expressing concern that, if he were to arrive, he may not be overly pleased to find some unknown man sitting in his house and warming himself before his fire.
At this I laughed in an attempt to feign some form of nervous embarrassment (a timely tilting of the head and a blush greatly added to the illusion) before stating, somewhat shyly, that I did not in fact have a husband for him to offend and that I was very much alone in my little house upon the hill. He of course responded with a mock sincerity, stating that he had in no way meant act in anyway untoward and that as he was a gentleman, I had nothing at all to fear from him his presence.
Deftly I smiled at him, assuring him that I believed all that he had said, before exclaiming that I had forgotten to put the kettle on the stove and that he was welcome to move the chair in which he sat closer to the fire while I was in the kitchen preparing the hot drink I had earlier promised him (in truth I could feel the moment nearing and felt that I had to leave so he would not become aware of my excitement).
To ease his mind (and indeed my own) I did indeed prepare for him a cup of tea and then quickly composed myself in the mirror in the hall before returning to him drink in hand, apologising quite demurely for not remembering to ask him what his preference might be. He chuckled over my words, stating quite simply that he was more than happy with anything as long as it was not laced with poison. I froze at that. My heart suddenly beating a loud staccato in my ears. Should it be now? Or should I wait? Does he know? He began to laugh nervously and I stifled a sigh of relief with a nervous smile – obviously he had realised that his joke (and I now saw that it had been a joke and that I should wait) had not been received in the manner in which he had expected and he was trying deflect attention away from his blunder.
As a way of changing topic he turned to cosy nature of the room mumbling something about how he had always wanted to live in a place just like it. For my part I ignored him, instead trying to control the thrill that had begun to race up and down my spine.. The whole room seemed to close in around us. My mouth was dry. My hands sweaty. I marvelled that the young man could be so completely oblivious to my intentions.
Lost in his own voice he failed to hear the light scraping of the fire poker as I removed it from its place by the fire. Failed to notice as I raised it above my head. He asked me how I had come live all the way out here by myself to which I delivered a vague response through gritted teeth.
The man began to turn just as the heavy iron of the poker lashed out (the word ‘pardon’ no doubt forming upon his lips) and so the blow was a glancing one, loosely connecting just above the man’s ear. Still the crunching noise was a reassuring one and his eyes did indeed glaze over (as they so often do in the stories) as he collapsed (completely ungracefully I might add) to lie in a tangled heap at my feet, giving out little more by way of complaint than a short gurgling sigh.
As I listened to his breathing slow, I marvelled at the ease with which I had satisfied my earlier curiosity and how ill-founded my previous doubts had been. I had not hesitated. I had not been afraid (at least not of the deed itself). I stood waiting for a moment, almost expecting the whole thing to be ruined by the arrival of some misplaced sense of guilt. Nothing. I felt normal, though not as completely satisfied as I had first imagined that I would be. Instead there was this new gnawing of curiosity, stronger than it had been before. I began to wonder:
How much harder would two be than one? Surely not that much...
In my opinion both a little clunky (yes my paragraphing is still abysmal) and in need of editing*, but it still feels good to get them out there and to keep the blog updated.
*Should hopefully get to that over the next few days and weeks (uni is done and I have heaps of free time)
Let me know what you think in the comments (lurkers welcome!).
Thinking of doing more genre stuff for the next post if anyone has some recommendations (thinking something lighter).
M
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
New & Complete
Oops.
Again it's been too long since I updated last. I said last time that I did not want to turn this into a habit and that I certainly didn't want to dwell on the ifs and the buts and the whys at the the start of every post.
So let's not and get straight onto the story yeah?
Human
A thousand faces blur in the busy streets. People moving up and down and between the towering buildings. All of them occupied. All with place to be or somewhere to go. Cars drift overhead with a distant whir, heading in predetermined directions down preselected routes. Above them a dull neon shell blots out the greyness of the sky, flicking away the endless drizzle; collecting and storing the rain for the late hours of the night when the crowds have gone home and the streets are empty.
Among all this a little boy walks with his mother. She moves with purpose, pulling him along with a nervous hand. He wants to stop and stare, to stand and marvel the sound and the colour, at the movement of so many people: For both it is their first time staying in a city so big.
After several words of caution, and whispers of “come on!” and “hurry up Joe!” the boy stops resisting and contents himself with staring at the many faces as they pass by.
There are so many.
It is more than his young mind can take in. He had not imagined that it was possible for people to look so differently from one another. Or, at least for some, for them to look almost exactly alike. He tries to catch their attention, to win a glance or a smile. The people just move on. He sighs and his mother pulls him ever onward.
Slowly he becomes aware that someone is calling out amongst the crowd. Their voice is low and distant. It sounds scared. No one around him seems to notice. He pulls on his mothers arm, ”Mum? Can you hear that mum? That man? Is he in trouble?” Her grip hand tightens on his. “I don’t know Joe. But it doesn’t matter. We have to go. We’re late.” She keeps walking, taking him with her. “But why is no-one helping? Can’t they hear it?”. His mother ignores him. Keeps walking. Pulls him round a corner. The voice grows quieter and more desperate.
He pulls his mother’s arm again. Begging her to stop. “We have to help them mum, his small face full of concern, “Someone is in trouble so we have to help.” She angry this time. “I said no Joe! Please! Now come on, we have somewhere to be!” She pulls at him, but his mind is set. He wriggles out from her grasp and into the crowd, heading back in the direction from which they had come.
Very quickly he is running. He can hear his mother yelling frantically from somewhere to the left and behind. People are noticing now, pointing at him and calling for him to stop. He ignores them. The voice is growing closer. It keeps repeating. Keeps asking for help. He keeps running and calls out in response. “Don’t worry sir. Help is coming!” People look at him oddly as if he has done something wrong. Some try to stop them. But he is small and they are large and their reach is clumsy.
He finds his way through the crowd and off the main walkway. He slows. The voice is closer. He moves further down the alleyway, pulling up the hood of his jumper: The rain gets through here.
Slowly he finds himself picking his way past piles of rubbish, stowed out of site of the clean streets of the city. The voice has gotten quieter, but it is close so he can still hear it. It isn’t long before he realises the voice is coming from under a heap of broken things.
He moves closer. “Sir? Are you okay?” The figure lies motionless, prone, but the voice has stopped. “Sir? Do you need an help.” He pulls at some of the garbage, uncovering a face so similar to many that he has seen today. The face smiles at him, dirty and battered. “Thank you. Something is wrong. I can’t move. Help me? Please? I’m scared.” He smiles sadly at the hurt man, “I’ll try. Though I’m not very big.” A hand shifts weakly through the garbage he takes it. He takes it in his own; it is cold. He begins to pull
It takes a while, but finally he is able to pull the man free. For a moment he sits back, exhausted. The man still is not moving. “Sir?” He takes his hand again. “Is that better? Are you okay now?” The man looks slowly towards him and then up and over his shoulder. He turns around.
A crowd has gathered at the entrance to the alleyway. His mother pushes through. “JOSEPH!” she is furious now “what on earth do you think you’re doing running off like that? Do you know how worried I was!?” He finds himself crying and angry. “He needed my help mum. No one else was going to so I had to help him.” She tries to pull him away. “You don’t understand Joe. Now come on. We need to get you washed up. You have no idea where that thing has been.” He is screaming through the tears now. “Why!? What is wrong with him!? Why would no one help him!?”
His mother sighs and gives him a look full of sadness. “Because Joe, he is not a he. He is an it and it is not a real person.” He looks at her frantic and confused. “Why? Why isn’t he real? He talked to me, asked me to help him.” His mother’s voice is quieter now. “It’s just pretending Joe.” She tries to brush his tears away. “Look at it Joe. Look at its face, at its hands.” He looks. The man still looks familiar. His face similar in almost every detail to those of several other people in the crowd. The hand is still cold and lifeless. The realises the skin is made of metal. “See Joe? It’s just a machine. It’s just supposed to look like it’s real.” She holds him close. “It called you because it is broken. It’s probably why it was thrown away. That’s all.” He looks at the figure on the ground. It's eyes look real. They look at him. He sobs. “But mum... He told me he was scared. That he was afraid” His mother looks at him in slight confusion. “No Joe. It can’t get scared.” She picks him up and moves back towards the crowd and the busy street.
“It doesn’t know how.”
Now as you may or may not be able to tell by my poor editing (I like to let stuff sit a bit before I edit) I wrote this story about an hour ago. So it's definitely new, but unlike my last new story it is complete and (hopefully, reasonably) clear and self contained.
All in all i'm pretty happy with the way it turned out. Yes it may need a little tweaking here and there and yes it is another sci-fi / spec fic piece, but i think that the idea behind it is pretty solid.
Anyway, that's pretty much all I'll say about Human until I get some feedback on it from one of the two or three people who actually read this at the moment (numbers are going up!).
As for the next post, I won't make any promises on time, but I will say that the next one will be of an entirely different genre than what has come before. It should also be up sooner rather than later as I have a few stories which I have either already finished or almost finished that I think might fit.
Until then,
M
Again it's been too long since I updated last. I said last time that I did not want to turn this into a habit and that I certainly didn't want to dwell on the ifs and the buts and the whys at the the start of every post.
So let's not and get straight onto the story yeah?
Human
A thousand faces blur in the busy streets. People moving up and down and between the towering buildings. All of them occupied. All with place to be or somewhere to go. Cars drift overhead with a distant whir, heading in predetermined directions down preselected routes. Above them a dull neon shell blots out the greyness of the sky, flicking away the endless drizzle; collecting and storing the rain for the late hours of the night when the crowds have gone home and the streets are empty.
Among all this a little boy walks with his mother. She moves with purpose, pulling him along with a nervous hand. He wants to stop and stare, to stand and marvel the sound and the colour, at the movement of so many people: For both it is their first time staying in a city so big.
After several words of caution, and whispers of “come on!” and “hurry up Joe!” the boy stops resisting and contents himself with staring at the many faces as they pass by.
There are so many.
It is more than his young mind can take in. He had not imagined that it was possible for people to look so differently from one another. Or, at least for some, for them to look almost exactly alike. He tries to catch their attention, to win a glance or a smile. The people just move on. He sighs and his mother pulls him ever onward.
Slowly he becomes aware that someone is calling out amongst the crowd. Their voice is low and distant. It sounds scared. No one around him seems to notice. He pulls on his mothers arm, ”Mum? Can you hear that mum? That man? Is he in trouble?” Her grip hand tightens on his. “I don’t know Joe. But it doesn’t matter. We have to go. We’re late.” She keeps walking, taking him with her. “But why is no-one helping? Can’t they hear it?”. His mother ignores him. Keeps walking. Pulls him round a corner. The voice grows quieter and more desperate.
He pulls his mother’s arm again. Begging her to stop. “We have to help them mum, his small face full of concern, “Someone is in trouble so we have to help.” She angry this time. “I said no Joe! Please! Now come on, we have somewhere to be!” She pulls at him, but his mind is set. He wriggles out from her grasp and into the crowd, heading back in the direction from which they had come.
Very quickly he is running. He can hear his mother yelling frantically from somewhere to the left and behind. People are noticing now, pointing at him and calling for him to stop. He ignores them. The voice is growing closer. It keeps repeating. Keeps asking for help. He keeps running and calls out in response. “Don’t worry sir. Help is coming!” People look at him oddly as if he has done something wrong. Some try to stop them. But he is small and they are large and their reach is clumsy.
He finds his way through the crowd and off the main walkway. He slows. The voice is closer. He moves further down the alleyway, pulling up the hood of his jumper: The rain gets through here.
Slowly he finds himself picking his way past piles of rubbish, stowed out of site of the clean streets of the city. The voice has gotten quieter, but it is close so he can still hear it. It isn’t long before he realises the voice is coming from under a heap of broken things.
He moves closer. “Sir? Are you okay?” The figure lies motionless, prone, but the voice has stopped. “Sir? Do you need an help.” He pulls at some of the garbage, uncovering a face so similar to many that he has seen today. The face smiles at him, dirty and battered. “Thank you. Something is wrong. I can’t move. Help me? Please? I’m scared.” He smiles sadly at the hurt man, “I’ll try. Though I’m not very big.” A hand shifts weakly through the garbage he takes it. He takes it in his own; it is cold. He begins to pull
It takes a while, but finally he is able to pull the man free. For a moment he sits back, exhausted. The man still is not moving. “Sir?” He takes his hand again. “Is that better? Are you okay now?” The man looks slowly towards him and then up and over his shoulder. He turns around.
A crowd has gathered at the entrance to the alleyway. His mother pushes through. “JOSEPH!” she is furious now “what on earth do you think you’re doing running off like that? Do you know how worried I was!?” He finds himself crying and angry. “He needed my help mum. No one else was going to so I had to help him.” She tries to pull him away. “You don’t understand Joe. Now come on. We need to get you washed up. You have no idea where that thing has been.” He is screaming through the tears now. “Why!? What is wrong with him!? Why would no one help him!?”
His mother sighs and gives him a look full of sadness. “Because Joe, he is not a he. He is an it and it is not a real person.” He looks at her frantic and confused. “Why? Why isn’t he real? He talked to me, asked me to help him.” His mother’s voice is quieter now. “It’s just pretending Joe.” She tries to brush his tears away. “Look at it Joe. Look at its face, at its hands.” He looks. The man still looks familiar. His face similar in almost every detail to those of several other people in the crowd. The hand is still cold and lifeless. The realises the skin is made of metal. “See Joe? It’s just a machine. It’s just supposed to look like it’s real.” She holds him close. “It called you because it is broken. It’s probably why it was thrown away. That’s all.” He looks at the figure on the ground. It's eyes look real. They look at him. He sobs. “But mum... He told me he was scared. That he was afraid” His mother looks at him in slight confusion. “No Joe. It can’t get scared.” She picks him up and moves back towards the crowd and the busy street.
“It doesn’t know how.”
Now as you may or may not be able to tell by my poor editing (I like to let stuff sit a bit before I edit) I wrote this story about an hour ago. So it's definitely new, but unlike my last new story it is complete and (hopefully, reasonably) clear and self contained.
All in all i'm pretty happy with the way it turned out. Yes it may need a little tweaking here and there and yes it is another sci-fi / spec fic piece, but i think that the idea behind it is pretty solid.
Anyway, that's pretty much all I'll say about Human until I get some feedback on it from one of the two or three people who actually read this at the moment (numbers are going up!).
As for the next post, I won't make any promises on time, but I will say that the next one will be of an entirely different genre than what has come before. It should also be up sooner rather than later as I have a few stories which I have either already finished or almost finished that I think might fit.
Until then,
M
Friday, October 1, 2010
Work in progress
Okay... Two weeks without a post is definitely too long.
I would give the usual spiel about being busy (which in part would be true) but I really don't want to make a habit of that being the opening to every post so I figure I'll just jump straight in.
So far (as I've said before) the only stuff that I have managed to get up is pre-written stuff – or stuff that I had finished and filed away before I started blogging.
Now there's nothing really wrong with putting up old stuff (I've written and read it but other people haven’t) but it seems like the blog would be better if I started to mix in some new stuff as well.
So without further ado (ado in this case being mostly padding and rambling) here is a story:
He runs. It has been hours since he left the city. Hours since he last had a chance to stop and catch breath. He knows he will have to soon.
It takes effort now to push past the man-high grass growing all around, and the dirt and muck fostering their roots seems to suck at every stride.
He keeps on.
A multitude of people move with him. Faceless. Nameless. Unknown and scared.
He can hear their heavy breathing mix with his own. Every so often one of them will drop off in exhaustion only to have their panting transform into calls of fear and frustration. He tries to ignore the screams that come as the men and dogs catch up with them. He keeps running knowing that he might be next.
Around him grass begins to thin, he finds himself running downwards as the soft earth gains water. He fights for his footing, falls, and plunges head first into a shallow pond and woody vegetation. He comes to his feet a second later, covered in mud and spiting away the brackish taste left in his mouth. The nearest embankment is steep and slippery but he climbs like a man possessed.
Here and there he hears yelps and grunts of frustration as a few others undergo the same experience.
He pays them no mind and begins to run again. Pushing his way past sickly tree branches and spindly green brushes of undergrowth. His muscles burn under their own weight. Low vines whip across his shoulders, thorns digging into clothes and flesh. He is panting now. After a few minutes he finds himself slowing. Stopping.
Something is different.
Others notice as well, voices whispering back and forth in confusion as they too slow to a stop. A low thud sounds out behind them. Then another. Another. Someone screams out a warning.
A dull whistle tears overhead. He throws himself to the ground as earth and sky explode. Chunks of white heat flicker out all directions, cutting through man and plant with indiscriminate violence.
A mist of dirt and blood floats down from the sky. He claws his way to his feet, checking himself, half deaf and gasping for air. Another impact falls behind and sprays water.
He stumbles onward. A lucky few go with him.
Vaguely he can hear those left behind, either screaming from their wounds or from dogs who rush in to finish them off. Or both. He wants to stop, to go back or be sick, to do anything but run, but his legs have a mind of their own.
Barely missing another stagnant pond he clambers up another embankment to find himself, finally, out of the muck of the mire. Out of the corner of his eye a cloud of ash chokes out the setting sun.
They are burning the city.
People sob silently until someone points towards the north-east. The waters of the Cambian River appear below through a gap in the trees. The riveted hulls of two Danmeer steamships move against the flow, turbine engines belching soot and churning water, they push through the normally hazardous currents with an arrogant ease.
One of the others, a woman, vaguely familiar, moves towards him questioningly. “So what do we do now? Are they still after us?” He looks at her dumbly, breathing hard. Her face is pale and smudged with ash. Her hair tangled and wet.
“Hey?” Her voice begins to shake. “Say Something!”
He looks to the others. They look away. She slaps him.
“Look at me! You brought us here! You brought us out” She shivers “...out of the city. Now tell us what the fuck we’re supposed to do!”
He comes back to his senses “Sorry...I don’t know...I don’t know any more than you do.” He is breathing normally now. “But I hope they’ll leave us alone now. Don’t see how we’re important. we're just a few who got out. Anyway they're going to be too busy looting and burning Rhys for them to care about anything else. At least for the moment.”
Another figure steps forward. A man. Large. He looks the others over, sweat beading on dark muscles. His voice is rich and low.
“But they have to come down the coast eventually. Need to eat. Need to be kept entertained. Not all of this is just swamp and grassland. There are farms and villages.”
Now as you can probably tell this is a work in progress, but as I originally started it as a way to toy with description and rhythm (and how this is affected by adding or omitting words that are not essentially necessary) it seemed worth putting up anyway - not withstanding the work I need to do on my paragraphing.
Still it seems that in the process of writing it I may have stumbled onto (at least in my head) an actual story and something which I would rather like to expand upon (and that potentially includes giving it a proper beginning) and upload the results.
That’s not to say that this will be the only new thing that I will be posting – I am working on one or two (or more like a half a dozen if I’m honest) other short stories which are intended to be more contained and I would like to put some of those up as well and on top of that there are still a number of pre-written stories left lying around as well.
But, for the moment, this should be enough.
Until next time
- I promise not to let it get to 2 weeks -
M
I would give the usual spiel about being busy (which in part would be true) but I really don't want to make a habit of that being the opening to every post so I figure I'll just jump straight in.
So far (as I've said before) the only stuff that I have managed to get up is pre-written stuff – or stuff that I had finished and filed away before I started blogging.
Now there's nothing really wrong with putting up old stuff (I've written and read it but other people haven’t) but it seems like the blog would be better if I started to mix in some new stuff as well.
So without further ado (ado in this case being mostly padding and rambling) here is a story:
He runs. It has been hours since he left the city. Hours since he last had a chance to stop and catch breath. He knows he will have to soon.
It takes effort now to push past the man-high grass growing all around, and the dirt and muck fostering their roots seems to suck at every stride.
He keeps on.
A multitude of people move with him. Faceless. Nameless. Unknown and scared.
He can hear their heavy breathing mix with his own. Every so often one of them will drop off in exhaustion only to have their panting transform into calls of fear and frustration. He tries to ignore the screams that come as the men and dogs catch up with them. He keeps running knowing that he might be next.
Around him grass begins to thin, he finds himself running downwards as the soft earth gains water. He fights for his footing, falls, and plunges head first into a shallow pond and woody vegetation. He comes to his feet a second later, covered in mud and spiting away the brackish taste left in his mouth. The nearest embankment is steep and slippery but he climbs like a man possessed.
Here and there he hears yelps and grunts of frustration as a few others undergo the same experience.
He pays them no mind and begins to run again. Pushing his way past sickly tree branches and spindly green brushes of undergrowth. His muscles burn under their own weight. Low vines whip across his shoulders, thorns digging into clothes and flesh. He is panting now. After a few minutes he finds himself slowing. Stopping.
Something is different.
Others notice as well, voices whispering back and forth in confusion as they too slow to a stop. A low thud sounds out behind them. Then another. Another. Someone screams out a warning.
A dull whistle tears overhead. He throws himself to the ground as earth and sky explode. Chunks of white heat flicker out all directions, cutting through man and plant with indiscriminate violence.
A mist of dirt and blood floats down from the sky. He claws his way to his feet, checking himself, half deaf and gasping for air. Another impact falls behind and sprays water.
He stumbles onward. A lucky few go with him.
Vaguely he can hear those left behind, either screaming from their wounds or from dogs who rush in to finish them off. Or both. He wants to stop, to go back or be sick, to do anything but run, but his legs have a mind of their own.
Barely missing another stagnant pond he clambers up another embankment to find himself, finally, out of the muck of the mire. Out of the corner of his eye a cloud of ash chokes out the setting sun.
They are burning the city.
People sob silently until someone points towards the north-east. The waters of the Cambian River appear below through a gap in the trees. The riveted hulls of two Danmeer steamships move against the flow, turbine engines belching soot and churning water, they push through the normally hazardous currents with an arrogant ease.
One of the others, a woman, vaguely familiar, moves towards him questioningly. “So what do we do now? Are they still after us?” He looks at her dumbly, breathing hard. Her face is pale and smudged with ash. Her hair tangled and wet.
“Hey?” Her voice begins to shake. “Say Something!”
He looks to the others. They look away. She slaps him.
“Look at me! You brought us here! You brought us out” She shivers “...out of the city. Now tell us what the fuck we’re supposed to do!”
He comes back to his senses “Sorry...I don’t know...I don’t know any more than you do.” He is breathing normally now. “But I hope they’ll leave us alone now. Don’t see how we’re important. we're just a few who got out. Anyway they're going to be too busy looting and burning Rhys for them to care about anything else. At least for the moment.”
Another figure steps forward. A man. Large. He looks the others over, sweat beading on dark muscles. His voice is rich and low.
“But they have to come down the coast eventually. Need to eat. Need to be kept entertained. Not all of this is just swamp and grassland. There are farms and villages.”
Now as you can probably tell this is a work in progress, but as I originally started it as a way to toy with description and rhythm (and how this is affected by adding or omitting words that are not essentially necessary) it seemed worth putting up anyway - not withstanding the work I need to do on my paragraphing.
Still it seems that in the process of writing it I may have stumbled onto (at least in my head) an actual story and something which I would rather like to expand upon (and that potentially includes giving it a proper beginning) and upload the results.
That’s not to say that this will be the only new thing that I will be posting – I am working on one or two (or more like a half a dozen if I’m honest) other short stories which are intended to be more contained and I would like to put some of those up as well and on top of that there are still a number of pre-written stories left lying around as well.
But, for the moment, this should be enough.
Until next time
- I promise not to let it get to 2 weeks -
M
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Jumping In
Well it's been more than a week now since my last post (uni assessments are coming
thick and fast at the moment) so I figure I should probably put something up so that Oblogotory doesn't end up disappearing before it gets off the ground.
So here we go. Blog post no. 3.
I've gotten a bit of feedback on Home since I put it up (not on the site as yet which at time of posting should be obvious) and the main issue that came up was the argument that takes place on the on the train. In short: too much exposition, not enough justification... It's a fair point and it is something that I wrestled with while I was writing the story.
In the end it was something I left in because of the word limit, simply because I didn't know how to convey the history that I wanted to convey without condensing it like I did.
Still it can be said that regardless of word limits the info dump is something I end up relying on a little too often(depending of course on what it is that I'm writing). In particular one of the major stories that I've been working on in the last little while (I'll leave out the plot details as I hope to put parts of it up in the future) uses the info dump pretty heavily in the opening pages. I have tried to justify it and it does seem to come across as interesting (at least to me) but at the same time it still ends up feeling a bit clumsy...
In the end I guess I do it because it’s easy. Once the story is all worked out in your head it the whole setting the scene part can seem rather tedious when all you want to do is get down to writing the story itself.
So lesson learnt really. Need to be more patient.
Anyway, this is a writing blog so I should probably couple my self examination with an actual story... Again this is something that I wrote before I started blogging (and indeed is quite a bit older than Home) as I have not had time to write anything new recently (wish that I did – so many ideas!).
In Transit
He closes his eyes and slowly slumps backwards, the brief prick of pain already distant and forgotten. One... He begins to count the seconds as they tick by. Two... He tells himself in a second it will all be okay. Three... A familiar warmth begins to creep into him. Four... It surrounds him, fills him. Five... His heart skips a beat. Six...
Time seems to slow to a crawl. Stops. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.
Seven... Sparks bloom in darkness.
Eight... Rise up above him. Nine... The light envelopes him. Smothers him. He sinks in it but he doesn’t fight. He wants to drown. Forever and ever.
Time passes. An imaginary sky churns overhead a make-believe sea. He submerges himself in both and everything blurs. Fire dances merrily between fingertips, kind and comforting, forgetting to burn. Each breath fills his lungs with molten gold. It gets into his blood. His veins pulse. His blood sings.
It keeps him alive.
From above he can hear a voice calling. A hand touches someone’s face. His? He tries to raise a hand to brush it away. Nothing happens. Somewhere a part of him starts to feel concern, to panic, but the warmth washes everything away and very soon he forgets.
By the time he notices them again the voices have become two instead of one. He tries to listen to them, but he does not hear. They grow in urgency and he feels another prick of pain, rougher than the first. Out of habit he tries to count away the seconds, but it hits him before he can muster the literate part of his mind. A wall of cold and pain. It pushes past the dizzying warm, and takes him for its own, ripping him from himself. He can feel his blood slowing to a trickle. Solidifying. Slowly it becomes as ice and he can feel his heart starting to flutter in his chest. In an instant he loses control.
Muscles spasm, heaving and contracting. He tries to breathe and finds his bones burning with a cold fire. A pressure builds behind his eyes. Why isn’t he breathing!? Someone wails as a stinging slap descends upon his cheek and he finally gulps down air. His eyes snap open to darkness, the world reduced to tiny pinpricks of light. Something moves in the distance. The world seems so very far away. The voices are there again, somehow clearer with the added distance. “Stay here son. Here with us. Keep your eyes on me. Stay with...”
The light begins to fade and the voices wash away. He begins to wonder if they are talking to him.
Cold metal punches him in the chest.
The wail becomes a sob. “Again” A second blow falls. His ears pop. “Again!!” Somewhere something beeps with a monotonous tone.
He comes awake with a jolt, gasping and spluttering in the dark. For a moment all he can do is sit there. His head feels two sizes too small. He reaches up to cradle it, only to find a piece of material covering his eyes. He pulls at with clumsy hands. A band of elastic snaps between his fingers and the material falls away.
The light is everywhere. It stabs at his eyes. A mess of colour sits before him. He shakes his head. A green curtain hangs in a window to his right. An empty chair sits to his left and there is a small aisle to the left of that, with more empty seats lining the other side. He reels forward as everything shakes again, taking his breath away. From up ahead he can hear the tinny buzz of an old radio. He rips open the curtain and is greeted by an empty desert. Red sand and blue sky slide past the glass. As far as the eye can see. He pulls back the curtain and rises to his feet, bracing himself on either side. Several passengers occupy seats further towards the front. All facing forward, all silent. They ignore him as he makes his way down the aisle. The radio buzzes in his ears.
As he reaches the driver’s seat he peers out the front windscreen. A single straight line of black road, unbroken and infinite, stretches out before him. Running from beneath his feet to horizon with two identical swathes of sand on either side. He turns towards the driver, a million questions burning in his brain.
A pudgy hand reaches out before he can speak, tapping at a sign above. Please stay seated while in transit.
“But...”
The driver taps again. “But why!? Where the fuck am I !!?” The driver just sits there and the other passengers do the same. He waves a hand in front of the drivers face. Nothing. No one does anything. He sighs and makes his way back to his seat.
Another jolt wakes him. His eyes snap open in shock and confusion. When had he fallen asleep? Absently he looks out the window again. The sky is gray and rain now pelts soundlessly against the glass. He realises for the first time how thirsty he is, but he knows the water is out of reach. Outside he watches as it leaches into the sand like a stain. Mixed together they look like blood. His stomach churns and he tastes bile. Suddenly he’s no longer quite as thirsty as he first thought. A white smudge appears in the distance and he watches, hypnotised, as it slowly grows in size. He remembers a sign in a supermarket parking lot. Its neon light burns in the sky as it approaches. Three figures detach themselves from the glow. A man, a woman and a child. The man hits the woman. The child looks away, towards him, and he recognises his own face. Then in a single moment the whole scene is swept away. He chokes back frustration, reaching toward the glass. The other passengers look on, silent and still. He feels sick. Another smudge appears on the horizon. Darker this time. He tries to look away but finds himself frozen. A single figure running in the rain. There then gone. Large buildings are the next thing to detach from the haze. Lecture halls. Classrooms. All familiar. Hundreds of figures go about their business, moving from building to building. His eyes seek out just one, sitting at a bus stop, apart from the others, head buried between his hands. The figure looks up in recognition as the image boils away. Next he sees himself standing alone, separated from the group so dominated by the large figure from before. He wants to cry but he feels he has no right. Again he watches himself running in the rain. Past the parking lot. Past the tall buildings.
Finally his figure comes to rest in the middle a street somewhere and immediately lies down and goes to sleep.
Someone holds something out to him to take; it glows so bright that it burns a hole in the world. He reaches for it longingly but just like the others the image quickly fades. Everything lurches forward again and for a second all colour disappears. He wants to be sick. That old radio starts up again, playing that same single note song.
He blacks out.
Everything is wrong. The floor shakes and buckles and the air is filled with the discontented whine of the engine, as if it is stuck in the wrong gear. He stumbles from his seat and almost falls to the ground. The aisle twists and turns in front of him. The windows have gone empty and black. The wall of cold returns rolls over
him, consuming everything. He flinches as icy hands brush under his clothes. Painstakingly he starts moving towards the front.
The passengers sit there like statues. The driver moves once more to tap the sign. He reaches up and pulls the thing down, flinging it to the side. The whine builds, to almost more than he can bear. The driver taps at the empty air. A pressure builds inside him. A need so strong he feels like he must surely burst. He takes one last look at the driver and then grabs onto the oversized steering wheel and heaves with everything he has left.
The world buckles and spins, turns upside down and inside out. Another jolt catches him in the chest and then there is a searing pain as if someone has put a hole in his heart. Finally the other passengers turn to look at him. Surprise glints in their eyes. His body goes limp.
Somewhere the radio breaks and the world shatters into a million pieces.
P.S. I know next to nothing about drugs or about addiction - at the time that I wrote this I was reading a blog written by a British herion addict - something which I found both rather confronting at times but also extremely moving.
Check it out if you're so inclined - http://gledwood.tripod.com/blog/ (this is part 1 of 2 as there is another blog on Blogger.com - but still I would recommend you read it from the start)
M
thick and fast at the moment) so I figure I should probably put something up so that Oblogotory doesn't end up disappearing before it gets off the ground.
So here we go. Blog post no. 3.
I've gotten a bit of feedback on Home since I put it up (not on the site as yet which at time of posting should be obvious) and the main issue that came up was the argument that takes place on the on the train. In short: too much exposition, not enough justification... It's a fair point and it is something that I wrestled with while I was writing the story.
In the end it was something I left in because of the word limit, simply because I didn't know how to convey the history that I wanted to convey without condensing it like I did.
Still it can be said that regardless of word limits the info dump is something I end up relying on a little too often(depending of course on what it is that I'm writing). In particular one of the major stories that I've been working on in the last little while (I'll leave out the plot details as I hope to put parts of it up in the future) uses the info dump pretty heavily in the opening pages. I have tried to justify it and it does seem to come across as interesting (at least to me) but at the same time it still ends up feeling a bit clumsy...
In the end I guess I do it because it’s easy. Once the story is all worked out in your head it the whole setting the scene part can seem rather tedious when all you want to do is get down to writing the story itself.
So lesson learnt really. Need to be more patient.
Anyway, this is a writing blog so I should probably couple my self examination with an actual story... Again this is something that I wrote before I started blogging (and indeed is quite a bit older than Home) as I have not had time to write anything new recently (wish that I did – so many ideas!).
In Transit
He closes his eyes and slowly slumps backwards, the brief prick of pain already distant and forgotten. One... He begins to count the seconds as they tick by. Two... He tells himself in a second it will all be okay. Three... A familiar warmth begins to creep into him. Four... It surrounds him, fills him. Five... His heart skips a beat. Six...
Time seems to slow to a crawl. Stops. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.
Seven... Sparks bloom in darkness.
Eight... Rise up above him. Nine... The light envelopes him. Smothers him. He sinks in it but he doesn’t fight. He wants to drown. Forever and ever.
Time passes. An imaginary sky churns overhead a make-believe sea. He submerges himself in both and everything blurs. Fire dances merrily between fingertips, kind and comforting, forgetting to burn. Each breath fills his lungs with molten gold. It gets into his blood. His veins pulse. His blood sings.
It keeps him alive.
From above he can hear a voice calling. A hand touches someone’s face. His? He tries to raise a hand to brush it away. Nothing happens. Somewhere a part of him starts to feel concern, to panic, but the warmth washes everything away and very soon he forgets.
By the time he notices them again the voices have become two instead of one. He tries to listen to them, but he does not hear. They grow in urgency and he feels another prick of pain, rougher than the first. Out of habit he tries to count away the seconds, but it hits him before he can muster the literate part of his mind. A wall of cold and pain. It pushes past the dizzying warm, and takes him for its own, ripping him from himself. He can feel his blood slowing to a trickle. Solidifying. Slowly it becomes as ice and he can feel his heart starting to flutter in his chest. In an instant he loses control.
Muscles spasm, heaving and contracting. He tries to breathe and finds his bones burning with a cold fire. A pressure builds behind his eyes. Why isn’t he breathing!? Someone wails as a stinging slap descends upon his cheek and he finally gulps down air. His eyes snap open to darkness, the world reduced to tiny pinpricks of light. Something moves in the distance. The world seems so very far away. The voices are there again, somehow clearer with the added distance. “Stay here son. Here with us. Keep your eyes on me. Stay with...”
The light begins to fade and the voices wash away. He begins to wonder if they are talking to him.
Cold metal punches him in the chest.
The wail becomes a sob. “Again” A second blow falls. His ears pop. “Again!!” Somewhere something beeps with a monotonous tone.
He comes awake with a jolt, gasping and spluttering in the dark. For a moment all he can do is sit there. His head feels two sizes too small. He reaches up to cradle it, only to find a piece of material covering his eyes. He pulls at with clumsy hands. A band of elastic snaps between his fingers and the material falls away.
The light is everywhere. It stabs at his eyes. A mess of colour sits before him. He shakes his head. A green curtain hangs in a window to his right. An empty chair sits to his left and there is a small aisle to the left of that, with more empty seats lining the other side. He reels forward as everything shakes again, taking his breath away. From up ahead he can hear the tinny buzz of an old radio. He rips open the curtain and is greeted by an empty desert. Red sand and blue sky slide past the glass. As far as the eye can see. He pulls back the curtain and rises to his feet, bracing himself on either side. Several passengers occupy seats further towards the front. All facing forward, all silent. They ignore him as he makes his way down the aisle. The radio buzzes in his ears.
As he reaches the driver’s seat he peers out the front windscreen. A single straight line of black road, unbroken and infinite, stretches out before him. Running from beneath his feet to horizon with two identical swathes of sand on either side. He turns towards the driver, a million questions burning in his brain.
A pudgy hand reaches out before he can speak, tapping at a sign above. Please stay seated while in transit.
“But...”
The driver taps again. “But why!? Where the fuck am I !!?” The driver just sits there and the other passengers do the same. He waves a hand in front of the drivers face. Nothing. No one does anything. He sighs and makes his way back to his seat.
Another jolt wakes him. His eyes snap open in shock and confusion. When had he fallen asleep? Absently he looks out the window again. The sky is gray and rain now pelts soundlessly against the glass. He realises for the first time how thirsty he is, but he knows the water is out of reach. Outside he watches as it leaches into the sand like a stain. Mixed together they look like blood. His stomach churns and he tastes bile. Suddenly he’s no longer quite as thirsty as he first thought. A white smudge appears in the distance and he watches, hypnotised, as it slowly grows in size. He remembers a sign in a supermarket parking lot. Its neon light burns in the sky as it approaches. Three figures detach themselves from the glow. A man, a woman and a child. The man hits the woman. The child looks away, towards him, and he recognises his own face. Then in a single moment the whole scene is swept away. He chokes back frustration, reaching toward the glass. The other passengers look on, silent and still. He feels sick. Another smudge appears on the horizon. Darker this time. He tries to look away but finds himself frozen. A single figure running in the rain. There then gone. Large buildings are the next thing to detach from the haze. Lecture halls. Classrooms. All familiar. Hundreds of figures go about their business, moving from building to building. His eyes seek out just one, sitting at a bus stop, apart from the others, head buried between his hands. The figure looks up in recognition as the image boils away. Next he sees himself standing alone, separated from the group so dominated by the large figure from before. He wants to cry but he feels he has no right. Again he watches himself running in the rain. Past the parking lot. Past the tall buildings.
Finally his figure comes to rest in the middle a street somewhere and immediately lies down and goes to sleep.
Someone holds something out to him to take; it glows so bright that it burns a hole in the world. He reaches for it longingly but just like the others the image quickly fades. Everything lurches forward again and for a second all colour disappears. He wants to be sick. That old radio starts up again, playing that same single note song.
He blacks out.
Everything is wrong. The floor shakes and buckles and the air is filled with the discontented whine of the engine, as if it is stuck in the wrong gear. He stumbles from his seat and almost falls to the ground. The aisle twists and turns in front of him. The windows have gone empty and black. The wall of cold returns rolls over
him, consuming everything. He flinches as icy hands brush under his clothes. Painstakingly he starts moving towards the front.
The passengers sit there like statues. The driver moves once more to tap the sign. He reaches up and pulls the thing down, flinging it to the side. The whine builds, to almost more than he can bear. The driver taps at the empty air. A pressure builds inside him. A need so strong he feels like he must surely burst. He takes one last look at the driver and then grabs onto the oversized steering wheel and heaves with everything he has left.
The world buckles and spins, turns upside down and inside out. Another jolt catches him in the chest and then there is a searing pain as if someone has put a hole in his heart. Finally the other passengers turn to look at him. Surprise glints in their eyes. His body goes limp.
Somewhere the radio breaks and the world shatters into a million pieces.
P.S. I know next to nothing about drugs or about addiction - at the time that I wrote this I was reading a blog written by a British herion addict - something which I found both rather confronting at times but also extremely moving.
Check it out if you're so inclined - http://gledwood.tripod.com/blog/ (this is part 1 of 2 as there is another blog on Blogger.com - but still I would recommend you read it from the start)
M
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Home
Okay I would have liked to put this up earlier as it seems somewhat silly to start a writing blog with no writing in it, but I've been busy, so yeah here is a story.
Home was originally for a assignment and so was written with a limit on how long it could be and how long I could spend on it before it was time to submit (the writers block that sprung up while I was writing it didn't help either as it meant that I sort of had to rush to get it in). With this in mind it has some flaws. There are bits that I would like to rewrite, bits that should be clearer, that should be expanded on. There also details that I think should be changed completely as they don't really fit in with what I was originally trying to say.
But yeah that can come later. For the moment it's just good to be getting this posted somewhere.
Here we go:
Home was originally for a assignment and so was written with a limit on how long it could be and how long I could spend on it before it was time to submit (the writers block that sprung up while I was writing it didn't help either as it meant that I sort of had to rush to get it in). With this in mind it has some flaws. There are bits that I would like to rewrite, bits that should be clearer, that should be expanded on. There also details that I think should be changed completely as they don't really fit in with what I was originally trying to say.
But yeah that can come later. For the moment it's just good to be getting this posted somewhere.
Here we go:
Home
The sea lay heavy upon the shore, rising higher and higher against the great wall as each new wave came in. From the top he could feel the water churning away in the darkness. It scared him. These days it probably scared most people. He could feel the water poking and probing at the stone below. It seemed to be searching for a way through. A way free. He could feel its hunger, feel it watching him. Beckoning to him. In the back of his mind a voice seemed to cry out in terror and for an instant he felt sure that he would fall; or that the sea, suddenly given form by his fear, would somehow reach up and then drag him down deep below and devour him.
He stood frozen for a long time. Watching. Waiting. His heart in his throat. Nothing happened. By the time he could move again he felt almost disappointed.
Behind him he felt the warmth of the sun as it pulled itself over the horizon. The light struck the water below and the glow dispelled the illusion. Off in the distance he could make out the large outline of a ship as it wallowed into the bay. Two smaller ships followed behind; sleek and sharp.
It was time to go.
From somewhere below and behind an unfamiliar voice barked up at him. Squinting, he turned to see a man standing in the street below, helmeted head poking out from the high collar of a blue stab-jacket. The figure cupped his hands and shouted again. “Sir? Did you hear what I said? I’m going to need you to come done from there now.” The man sighed with relief. “Thought you were a jumper” he says by way of explanation. The policeman took his arm as soon as his feet hit the ground, running a small scanner over the inside of his wrist. “Alan Rickman?”Alan nodded. The cop gave him smile. “Sorry if I scared you. It’s just we’ve been getting a lot of them up and down the coast lately. Something about the sea wall seems to attract them. Jumpers I mean.” Alan opened his mouth to respond but the officer had already moved on and was now thumbing the scanner’s small display. “Sir. According to this record, the current address that you are listed at is one no longer considered valid by the city authority. Would that be correct?” Alan nodded silently. The policeman coughed, giving him an inquisitive look. “Now it also states that you have been allocated a place in one of the new arcologies up north. Is that right?” Alan nodded again and then finally found his voice. “Yeah as far as I know. I’m supposed to leave tonight; they’ve got me on one of the last trains out of Southern Cross...” He trailed off as the officer relaxed his grip, letting go of his arm, “Good to hear. Good to hear.” The officer paused, thinking. “I think we can forget this whole trespassing on government property thing this time.” He clipped the scanner back onto his belt. “Just make sure you stay out of trouble for the remainder of your time in the city.” His laugh was short and humourless “Don’t want you missing it because some other officer isn’t so gracious.”
The trip back took longer than expected. The run in with the cop meant that even though the sun was still low in the sky, it was still late enough that the streets had already begun to crowd. His home, which was no longer really home, was exactly the same as he had left it. Empty. Open. Abandoned. There had been no point in locking the door. There was nothing left to steal, it had all been packed up the day the government rep had told him he was being evicted and it was unlikely that anyone would try and squat there. The ‘Notice of Intention to Demolish’ signs plastered to the front door of his building were a reasonably effective form of discouragement. He sighed, looking around for the last time. The walls and floor were bare, empty of all except dust and the shadows left by missing furniture. It looked so small and there was nothing left to say that he had lived there. But he had lived here. It had been his home. But now, almost in the blink of an eye, it was gone. He snorted in disgust and turned to go, throwing the keys over his shoulder as he went. They hit the floor with a clatter. He did not look back.
A mess of sound greeted him as he made his way back up the stairs and on to the street. He had been inside longer than he had planned and now the street was well and truly full to bursting. The press of people seethed all around him. Faces blurred together. Voices spoke in half a dozen languages he couldn’t even begin to understand. Slowly he began to pick his way through the crowd, letting his instincts take over. Peopled push by, he pushed back, following the flow. From somewhere up ahead a siren began to wail and the sound of yelling and breaking glass rose above the hum of the crowd. People clambered over each other in an effort to see what was going on. Slowly the throng ground to a halt. Alan swore under his breath. This was going to take forever; he began to look for a way out. From the other side of the road he could just make out the flickering lights of a tram stop.
People grunted in annoyance as he pushed his way to the side of the road. He ignored them, instead watching intently for a gap in the almost constant stream of bikes and Pedi-cabs. After several minutes one finally appeared and he made a quick dash across to the other side, carefully placing his feet so as not to trip on the old steel tracks that ran up and down the road. On the other side a tram whirred to a stop overhead and he was forced to dive through the crowd and then take the stairs two at a time to reach it before it swung away.
The tram moved unnoticed above the crowd. Somehow Alan had managed to get a seat by the window, but the smoke rising from below made it difficult to see anything apart from the jumping flames and small flashes of the rioting crowd. From further down the carriage a man began to chuckle. “That’ll show 'em” he said to no one in particular. Obviously though it was enough to annoy someone else as a young woman got to her feet, her face a cloud of rage. “What the fuck are you talking about? How can you laugh at that! People could be hurt down there!” The man smirked at his successful provocation. “So what? They have to learn that they’re not welcome here. That Australia is for Australians.” The woman seemed as if she was about to explode. “Where else are they supposed to go then!? There is no Europe anymore! Don’t you understand that!? It’s all gone. All under water. Australia is the only place they have left to go.” The man’s voice rose to meet hers. “And how is that our problem? We should push them back like we did with the Indonesians when their islands started to go under. Make them go somewhere else.” People were starting to cough nervously, but the woman refused to back down. “The Indonesians tried to invade you idiot. These people pay for the right to come here. Hell the Australian economy would have collapsed long ago if it wasn’t for the money they bring in with them. And NO there is nowhere else they can go. We’re all that’s left. America has collapsed. Russia and China won’t talk to anyone. Nothing grows in Africa anymore. ” On the fingers of her left hand she ticked off what was left of the world. The man crossed his arms defensively. “And that’s enough to justify kicking hard working Australians out of their homes, out of the cities, just to give these people a place to live?” She smiled at that. “You make it sound as if the government is just abandoning people. They only relocate people who are unable to support themselves financially and even then they have promised them all places in the new Arcologies” Alan never heard the man’s response, while they had argued the smoke had cleared and great metal waves of the station roof had appeared out the window. He waved his wrist past the scanner on door and then clambered down the stairs and out onto the platform below.
The station was crowded beyond capacity. Even more so than the streets if that was possible to imagine. Yet, unlike the streets, here the people milled around aimlessly, waiting for a number to be called on the loudspeaker above which, every so often, would crackle above the heavy drone of the air conditioning. “Passengers 500 through 800, please board now at platform 3 for the Western Arcology. Passengers 500 through....” Bit by bit the people around him were being divided up and told where to go. He looked down at the slip of paper that they had given at the station entrance. 2743. He sat down in a corner and tried to block out the noise, but instead found his attention diverted to one of the televisions hanging on a nearby wall. Smoke and fire from the riot flickered across the screen, followed by footage of a small crowd milling outside walls of the European Enclave. For the most part it looked like they were done breaking things and were instead trying to cough up the tear gas that the police had sprayed in among them. A reporter appeared in front of the still picture of a EU flag and for a time spoke sadly and silently, before the image switched to a cruise liner docked in the bay. Men and women in crumpled clothes disembarked wearily only to be swarmed by waiting reporters. Alan turned away and for the first time in a long while tried to get some sleep.
Although the trip lasted well into the night Alan was unable fall sleep again. He had been woken not so gently by a station guard an hour or so before his number was called and although he was still tired his body refused to cooperate. That and his ribs still hurt.
As the train began to slow the people around him started to come awake and soon the carriage was full of movement and excited whispers. Across the aisle a small child clawed at the curtain. “Look mum! I can see trees! Look! Look!” The mother laughed dismissively. “Those aren’t trees dear; there aren’t any left in Northern Australia anymore. It's all just bushes and shrub. Look closely and you’ll see.” Alan peeked through a gap in his own curtain to see a forest of glossy black panels pointed towards the rising sun. Unnoticed a man in a blue suit and nametag had entered from the carriage in front, he came to stand by the woman and her daughter. “I’m happy to say that that isn’t exactly true ma’am. We’ve managed to a few growing within the Arcology itself. Quite a bit cooler in there you see.” The little girl began to whoop with excitement. “You’ll be able to see them for yourself as soon as we pull into the station.” He pointed as the the train slowly began to turn and for the first they could see their new home. “Magnificant isn’t it?” A uniform tower of glass and steel jutted up from the emptiness of the red desert; kept company only by the maze of solar panels and a tall metal fence that encircled the whole complex. The train came to a stop.
The man in the suit smiled. “Welcome to your new home.”
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Foundation
It seems like forever since I decided that it might be a good idea to start a blog (or whatever this happens to turn into) so that I could have a place to put up some of the stuff I have been writing lately.
My first attempt, and there have been several, (go looking for them if you want but I imagine they would be as boring to read as they were to write) did not start or end fantastically.
Back then it occurred to me that I should probably build up from writing posts about everything and nothing to posting actual stories. Blogs became like diaries and a diaries can become pretty dull as soon as you start to string together uneventful days.
...Went to uni... Went to work... Thought of a story idea - didn't get round to writing anything about it.
You get the idea.
So this time I've decided to do something different. Because it seems to me that if taking things all slow and lazy like doesn't end up working you may as well just jump in at the deep end and see what happens.
So... Here we go.
It occurs to me that have a place where I can put my writing may force/encourage me to not only write more but to also actually go back and re-read what I have already written. To edit and re-edit. Which in theory should be good practice no?
Anyway, Oblogatory (blog titles should always be pun based) is now that place.
Stuff will be uploaded as I write it, or if I'm having a slow day/week I may put stuff up from the backlog of stuff that seems to be gathering dust on my hard drive so that I can edit and expand on existing ideas.
So welcome. Stay a while. Read some stuff. Add comments and criticism if you like.
I don't really mind.
P.S. Thank you for wading through what (hopefully) be the first of many rants.
P.P.S. Anything too nasty means I get to burn down at least part of your house.
M
My first attempt, and there have been several, (go looking for them if you want but I imagine they would be as boring to read as they were to write) did not start or end fantastically.
Back then it occurred to me that I should probably build up from writing posts about everything and nothing to posting actual stories. Blogs became like diaries and a diaries can become pretty dull as soon as you start to string together uneventful days.
...Went to uni... Went to work... Thought of a story idea - didn't get round to writing anything about it.
You get the idea.
So this time I've decided to do something different. Because it seems to me that if taking things all slow and lazy like doesn't end up working you may as well just jump in at the deep end and see what happens.
So... Here we go.
It occurs to me that have a place where I can put my writing may force/encourage me to not only write more but to also actually go back and re-read what I have already written. To edit and re-edit. Which in theory should be good practice no?
Anyway, Oblogatory (blog titles should always be pun based) is now that place.
Stuff will be uploaded as I write it, or if I'm having a slow day/week I may put stuff up from the backlog of stuff that seems to be gathering dust on my hard drive so that I can edit and expand on existing ideas.
So welcome. Stay a while. Read some stuff. Add comments and criticism if you like.
I don't really mind.
P.S. Thank you for wading through what (hopefully) be the first of many rants.
P.P.S. Anything too nasty means I get to burn down at least part of your house.
M
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