#WeekendWriter 1.4: Zombie Apocalypse

this is less a short story and more a points gathering exercise.  it’s all Aisling’s fault.  she said:

 

And now for something completely different 😉   I love these blocks.  They’s just soooo twisted.  I believe what I did before was challenge you to pick four and use them for your prompt.  Extra points if you use more!

Simple, right?  Here you go!

i can haz pointz nao…?

Zombie Apocalypse

u  r 2 silly – no such thng as zombies! 😛 stupid dream iz stupid. Bob XXX

I sigh into my waffles, looking around me again.  That man is my hero – I knew when I texted him my terrifying dream, he’d make me feel better.  Except…

Café B sparsely populated.  There is no conversation, just the chink of cutlery on crockery as the few patrons in this early push their food around their plates, eyes listless and glassy.  My hyperactive and contrary imagination is still – even in the light of day – still thinking up defences and what-if scenarios.  Dig a trench around my house and fill it with quicksand?  Fine until the buggers pile up so much that they just walk over each others’ heads to get to me.  And you can’t drown what’s already dead.  What if they find another way through?  Dig their way out?  Nah.  Or what about Harper’s soloution: outward-facing treadmills?  Nope.  No power during a zombie apocalypse….

A cinderblock is thrown in front of my train of thought as the waitress comes over and starts wiping the table, paying no attention to the cruet, sauces, and my half-finished breakfast .  An indignant shout of “Hey!” leaves my lips as the sauces and cruet fall to the floor with a clatter and smash, and only swift lifting of my plate and mug save my breakfast.  The rude bitch completely ignores me, moving on to the next table to perform the same nonsensical act.  I turn in my seat to watch her.

…is her skin…grey…?

Cursing myself, I turn my back on her, but not without considerable effort.  My hackles are rising.  It’s like the skin on my back is puffing up into some sort of lame shield.  I dart my eyes around again.  I think of my neighbour as I left the house this morning and, suddenly, I no longer have the stomach for breakfast.  Standing in the middle of his lawn, he stared at nothing as his lawnmower mowed the same patch of grass over and over again.  He didn’t respond to my greeting, but half-asleep and dopey, I just thought he had something on his mind.  Now I’ve had my coffee and carbs, though, I am more awake, more alert.  More questioning.

But it seems that no-one else is.

All six other people in this room are moving slower and slower.  It’s like their clockwork is winding down, or something.

I surprise myself.  Instead of freaking out, screaming, running, I become very still.  My back straightens, and a chill descends on my brain.  Survival mode kicks in as I realise that the grey-skinned, vacant-eyed patrons of this café could very well be the tip of the iceberg.  I may be the only human left alive in this town.  As such, I’d better get my shit together fast, before I become brains brunch.  And then I remember: there is at least one other person seemingly unaffected.

Grabbing my bag, I beat a hasty retreat from the café, and it doesn’t escape my notice that every grey-skinned, hollow-eyed head in the place turns to follow my progress out of the door.

I run through street after deserted street.  The world is quiet and beyond eerie as I make as much haste as I can to my best friend’s house.  Banging on his door brings no response, so I fumble the key he gave me into the lock and stumble through the house, breathless and calling him, my uvula feeling raw and ragged from the run as my calls get louder and more panicked when there is no response.  Out of the back door, I head for the outhouse, where he’s set up his studio.  If he’s in there mixing, the soundproofing will make damn sure he won’t have heard me.  Tripping over a bone left out by his dog, Bart, I wince as the bloody flesh clinging to it gets on my boots.  Only then does it occur to me that Bart’s nowhere to be seen, either.  Tearing open the outhouse door, I  finally lay eyes on Bob – draped across his mixing desk with his cranium scraped out and licked clean.

I begin to scream.

#WeekendWriter 1.3: A Sister’s Love

welcome to this week’s #WeekendWriter Challenge, courtesy of the ever lovely Aisling Weaver over at Swirling Currents.  this week’s challenge was a tough one, but i surprised myself with the amount of words that poured out of the prompt, which was:

instructions as follows:
Combine the cards on the left to make one character
Let the cards on the right lead you into a story
And the rules, are simple:
Your main character must change from the beginning of the story to the end of the story.
Do not kill your main character.

 

as you will see, i cocked up a bit, and ended up with two characters from the white card but…  well – the story’s the thing, right?  😉

A Sister’s Love

One long-ago day, I learned what it was to be a grownup.  I learned what it was to sacrifice, and to protect.  And I learned the true meaning sisterly love.

I had just moved school.  Well – I say school.  I had actually been transferred from one foundling facility to another – it just made it easier sometimes, to think of them as just another school.  My sister Evadne had been here for several years, and I was delighted to finally be attending the same “school” as her again.  I had missed her in the intervening years.  I had missed her comforting arms when I fell over and scraped my knee.  I had missed them, too, in the dark, when they would wrap around me and chase the monsters away.   Alas, the Foundling Institute did not take account of filial connections when placing its charges in its facilities, only their age.  So for three long years, Evadne and I had been separated, only connected by the papery words we exchanged on an almost daily basis.  Oh, happy day when we were reunited!  She was there to greet me at the gates as I dragged my small bag through.  I was shocked, when she hugged me, to see how small she had grown.  I said as much to her, and she laughed.

“Oh, Belle!  It’s not I who’s shrunk, it’s you who’s grown.  Look at you!”

I looked down at my body and, in a disconcerting flash, realised she had the truth of it.  I was still little more than a girl, yet already, here I was; growing into my long-limbed and modestly curved woman’s body without even noticing.  I flushed with embarrassment, then, and Evadne laughed with warmth and affection that I had so sorely missed.   Wrapping her arms around me once again, she whispered in my ear “All will be well, sister, now we are together again.”

Later that day, having been sent to and settled in our new dormitories (to my delight, this facility had a sympathetic matron who had allowed us to move into the same room), I bade my sister goodbye and joined the new intake thronging down the stairs to the gathering hall.  There, we were seated and spent some minutes shuffling, fidgeting, and whispering to our friends, whilst assessing the strangers that had been taken from other facilities than ours.  Eventually, finally, the Master appeared on the dais to address all of us new girls.  As he strode up onto the raised platform, there was a little gasp and ripple through the crowd.  Everyone sat very still and polite, as we had been taught, but the tension in the room rose.

Here was perfection made flesh.  The beautiful bright blue eyes shining out past long, sweeping lashes set in a perfect sun-kissed complexion, the broad shoulders, the neat suit and neater hair…  This man, this Master of the facility, immediately caught the schoolgirl dreams of almost every fluttering heart in the room.

I confess, I was no exception.  In the following days, my heart leaped a little every time I caught a glimpse of him in the corridors, or on the lawn.  My world brightened a little every time he appeared in a classroom.  On the day he actually spoke to me?  Well.  I could have died right there and know that I had reached the pinnacle of attainable joy in the world.

He approached me one morning whilst I was enjoying the unexpectedly warm sun on my face.  I only heard his footsteps approach when he was almost upon me, since my face was lifted to the sky, and my eyes closed.  They flew open, though, at the sound of his voice and there, eclipsing the sun with something infinitely brighter, was my Sun.

“It’s…  Belle, isn’t it?

I stammered a barely coherent reply, and his beautiful smile widened a little.  “Belle, every year, I single out a student for special tuition. I will take one girl on for special, daily tuition, supplementary to her lessons.  The student has to be very, very special. This year, I have narrowed the field of potential candidates down to two.  You and one other.  I would like you to attend me in my office at two o-clock this afternoon, so I can make my final selection.”

I could say nothing.  Much to my humiliation, could only gape like a fish.  To spend some time every day with the man who was beginning to dominate my dreams in a way that was almost disconcerting?  A man who clearly thought I –I!- was special.  My heart was doing a giddy dance of joy as he left me there, glued to the bench, still unable to speak a word.

Just before the Master had left, he warned me that I must keep our appointment a secret, for fear of jealousy should I be chosen, or ridicule should I not.  It was not a difficult thing to do.  I hugged the knowledge to myself all through morning lessons, all through lunch and the first part of the afternoon.

Finally, the dawdling clock dragged its lazy hands around its face to five minutes to two.  I scurried along corridors, dodging other girls standing in gossiping groups or carrying books and equipment, climbing stair after stair, until I reached the very top of the building.  Doing my best to compose myself and control my breathing, I knocked on his door.  The door was opened by a bulldog of a woman, and I recoiled slightly as she gave me the fiercest once-over I had ever experienced.  Snorting in derision, she jerked her head and opened the door wider.  I slunk past her into the antechamber.  Once there, I was unsure what to do, so stood in the middle of the rug fidgeting, until the Bulldog (I assume his secretary), true to her looks, barked at me to cease my mindless jigging and be seated.  Shortly afterward, there was another knock on the door.  A very unhappy and serious-looking Evadne was ushered in, and when she caught sight of me, her face filled with horror.  I was somewhat taken aback for several reasons.  Firstly, I had completely forgotten that I may have a rival for the Master’s special tuition.  Secondly, I never would have dreamed in a million years that said rival might be my own sister.  Neither had Evadne, by the looks of it.  And thirdly, I was hurt by the horror and dawning anger I saw in her face.  I was not old enough when we had been parted to know anything of sibling jealousy.  But I began to feel the first stirrings of that terrible slimy and insidious creature in my gut.  We barely had time for a whispered exchange of “What are you doing here?” before the door to the inner office was thrown open, and all thought fled from my mind for a while.  The sight of the man my girlish heart yearned for drove all from my mind.

The interview itself was short and to the point.  It was barely even an interview at all, really.  He had us both stand before him whilst he sat behind his broad desk and scrutinised us in minute detail.  I blushed furiously throughout the whole ordeal.  Once, I stole a glance at Evadne, to find her standing still and pale-faced, staring straight ahead.

“So, Belle,” his voice startled me from dreamy contemplation of the way his shirt collar caressed his neck just so.  “What kind of student would you be?”

I knew this was my one chance to shine and somehow managed to swallow my nerves and make myself speak.  “Sir, I would be the most diligent student you ever had.  I am so honoured to be given this chance, and I really, really want to get started!  I’d work so hard for you, sir – harder than I ever ever worked before, and…”  I babbled a few more sentences, and then beamed desperately, hoping I’d done enough to secure my daily place in his tutelage.

Face filled with amusement, he allowed me to trail off, and then turned his eyes on my sister.  “Well, Evadne, what do you have to say to that?  It sounds to me like I should pick your sister for my special lessons.   She sounds like a keen and enthusiastic learner.”

I nearly burst with pride, and almost failed to see the look of pure hatred that flashed in my sister’s eyes before she composed herself, cleared her throat, and stuck daggers in my heart with a dead voice.

“My sister, sir, is nothing but a liar and a lazy fool.  She won’t work for you.  She will not learn your lessons well, and you will be disappointed.  I know I am a little older than you normally like your…special students to be, but I assure you, I will be most diligent and…  discreet.”

That she had almost spat the word “special”, that she thought discretion was required?  These things were lost on me as my soul began to crumble under the weight of my beloved sister’s betrayal.

As his beautiful lips pronounced the phrase, “Well, Evadne, my dear – I think you may be right.  Please be aware, though, that should your diligence falter in any way, your sister will take your place.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Shortly after that, he dismissed us.  We walked through the outer office in silence, but when we reached the corridor, and the Bulldog had shut the door behind us, Evadne turned to me, starting, “Belle, I’m so sorry I had to do that to you.  I know what you think, and I…”

I didn’t let her get any further.  “How?  How can you know that?  All of these years, I thought you loved me, and now I find out you’re just a snake in the grass.  You’re a bitch, and I hate you!”  I took off at a run back to our dorm, there to sob out my broken heart.

In the following days I wouldn’t speak to Evadne.  I couldn’t even look at her.  She had taken my girlish dreams and stomped all over them.  She had betrayed me with her cruel words; I no longer had a sister.  I registered that she now went about the school white-faced, withdrawn, and mostly silent, but I could not find it in my heart to pity her, nor worry for her.  Indeed, I took it as a sign that she was struggling, and wished she would struggle more so that I may take my rightful place with my beloved.

I became obsessed.  Following them whenever I could – figuring out his schedule so I could watch him form some concealed space, eyes filled with burning hatred when they would disappear together into his office for those coveted special lessons.

Then, one day, the bulldog fell ill.  No-one could understand what it was that had laid her up in bed groaning, only to rush to the toilet every half-hour or so.  No-one but me, that is.  Determined to find out what delights I was missing out on thanks to my treacherous sister, I had spiked the bulldog’s evening cocoa with enough laxative to fell an elephant (which I had stolen from the school sick room in an opportune moment).  Uncaring of the consequences, I snuck through the deserted outer office, through the hallowed inner office (pausing only to take great lungfuls of his heavenly cologne), and concealed myself in his personal apartments.  I knew the hour of their lessons, and I intended to watch through the keyhole.

Before long, they entered together.  Evadne pale and silent as usual, the Master somewhat brusque.

“Now, Evadne – you remember yesterday’s lesson, do you not?”

A silent nod from my sister.

“Good girl.  We’re going to try that one again, but this time slower.  Remember, chin up, open the throat, and eyes.  I want to see your eyes as you perform.

A whispered “Yes, sir,” from Evadne, and I blinked.  Eyes?  Performance?  Was he giving her singing lessons?

Well.  I was puzzled, but prepared to be entertained.  Evadne had, after all, the voice of a frog.

What happened next, though, turned my whole world on its head, and taught me far more than I ever wanted to learn.  As Evadne fell to her knees and my hearthrob dropped the zipper on his trousers, I suddenly understood.  Through my pounding horror, during Evadne’s gross parody of worship, I heard my fallen idol utter with dark amusement, “Now, remember, Evadne – do your very best, or I will see to it that your sister replaces you.”

#WeekendWriter 1.2: plz xcus

Dear Ms Weaver,

Please excuse Squeaky from handing in her Weekend Writer homework today.  I have asked her why she has not done it as detailed in her homework diary, and I think she has given a very reasonable reason.  It is definitely not because she was too busy painting her nails.  Likewise, she tells me that she has definitely not been hanging out with her friends, picking redcurrants, or wandering around museums in university towns with a very unkempt young man (whom she assures me is just a very good friend), drinking Pimms in the sunshine or giving half-drunk-drinks to strangers and making them smile.

As I’m sure you know, Squeaky is a very organised and conscientious young lady (if you are not aware of this, it is simply because she is so adept at hiding her light under a bushel).  She has the greatest diligence when it comes to any task required of her and is never, ever, flaky.  She assures me that when she was given the homework on Saturday, she sat straight down and slaved over it for at least half an hour.  Having worked so long and hard on her opus, she was exhausted, and sorely in need of a nap. (incidentally, she tells me that in no way has she been encouraged in the habit of napping by her friend Rosie.  Not for one moment did she entertain the idea that such a champion napper might be on to something).  Fearful of losing her work before she had a chance to edit and hand it in, she very diligently locked it into the box at the end of her bed.  Before placing the sleep mask over her eyes (for napping in the middle of the day is so tricky with those dratted circadian rhythms insisting that one is not tired if the merest glow of light shines through one’s eyelids, as if this should prove a point), she placed the key on in the pot of ferns on her bedside table, lest she lose it.

Alas!  As she slept, out next-door neighbour’s pet sheep stuck its head through her open window, ate the ferns, and accidentally swallowed the key.  When Squeaky awoke, she found herself unable even to wait for nature to take its course and retrieve the key (which she surely would have, as she earns pocket money on the side by picking up the sheep’s leavings and selling them to a specialist paper manufacturer in Wales).  Our neighbours, you see, have moved to New Zealand, to be closer to sheep, and they took Spike (the sheep in question) with them.

However, she did not despair.  Though the box was stout enough to withstand fire, flood and glom of nit, she suspected it would not be able to stand the crushing jaws of the dragon she keeps at the end of the garden.  Now, I wish to be clear on this point, Ms Weaver, I have begged and pleaded with squeaky to let Plimsoll go, but she insists that he is perfectly happy in the garden shed.  This may have been the case when he was small and cute and only two feet long, but now i fear she is blinded by her affection for the great lumpen oaf, and unable to see that the only part of him that now lives in the shed is his head.  And that is only because he chewed the doorway twice as big.  I admit, he is useful when I can not find my cigarette lighter, but still – I think he would be better off in the wild.  Poor Plimsoll is a little hard of thinking, however, so when she had lugged the box down the garden and asked him to bite it open for her, he got a little over excited.  he possibly thought she had brought him an extra treat. Whatever it was, he obviously wasn’t keen.  He spat the box out (now chewed so hard and small it resembled less a strong box and more a soggy tennis ball), and has been sulking ever since.

Squeaky was, as I’m sure you can imagine, simply devastated at this occurrence.  however, rather than giving you a second-rate copy of such a profound piece of work, or making up ludicrous lies as to why she has not done as she knows she should, she asked me to write this note excusing her lack of participation.

Sincerely,

#WeekendWriter 1.0: Two attempts and sweet FA

the Weekend Writer is BACK, my dears!  and i….  it seems i am not.  my story brain has atrophied, so i’m afraid you get what you get, this week.

attempt the first:

“You did WHAT?!”  I shrieked.  I wanted to push Martin’s goofy grin through the back of his stupid skull.

“SSSHHH!!!”  hissed the librarian.

I lowered my voice.  “Martin, please, please tell me that you didn’t?”

“Yup.”

He was so proud!  How could he be so proud?

“How can you be so proud, Martin?  You have just ruined me.”

The stupid grin slipped a little at that – the wattage dimming to something less blinding, but still as irritating as hell and, I was a little worried to discover, increasingly hateful.

“But…  you like her, don’t you?”

“No, Martin.  I don’t like her.  She’s an arrogant, manipulative bitch.  I want to shag her.  There is a difference.  And just because I get a twinge every time she walks past does not mean that I want to join the ranks of sycophants that like to massage her already over-inflated ego.  Which you’ve just gone and done on my behalf anyway.  Thanks, mate.  Thanks for that.”

I stuck my nose back into the research papers I was trawling through and did my best to ignore my best mate’s wounded puppy eyes.

“But you….”

“Just go away, Martin.” I ground out through teeth gritted so hard I was surprised they didn’t shatter.

Still refusing to look at him, I heard his chair scrape as he slunk away.

Not long after, my head crashed to the desk with a thump.

I love martin to bits.  I really do.  But he’s such a dummy sometimes.    A simple soul that wants nothing but to help the entire world get along better and be happy.  But he still hasn’t learned not to sick his nose into stuff that really doesn’t concern him.  Case in point today.

Maxine Trent is the one everyone lusts after.  Thick black hair, olive skin, black eyes, lush hips that roll juuuust right when she walks…  all the guys want her.  As do I.  But there’s no point in telling her that.  She’s gorgeous but, by god, does she know it!  She just chews guys up and spits them out.  And that’s another thing.

I haven’t been out long.  When I came to uni, it was a breath of fresh air.  Even in the sixth form of my school, there was that potential for name-calling and sniggering that some had yet to grow out of.  So I continued to keep myself to myself until…  here I am.  Finally surrounded by adults.  Or so I thought.  I sighed.

Poor Martin.  I know he was only trying to help, but she’s clearly hetero, for Christ sake!  What possible good would it do to tell any hetero girl – let alone this particular one – that I wanted to get into her knickers?   A fresh wave of mortification hit me, and I groaned quietly.

attempt the second:

the question hangs in the air.  the hubbub of the meet-and-greet fades to almost nothing.   i feel like an ant in the midday glare of a child’s magnifying glass.  my breath short and ragged, i try to read the signs.  playing games, or deadly serious?  the smile gives nothing away.

my resolve snaps.

attempt the third:

*blows raspberry* i got nuthin’!  why don’t you follow the linky link and see if you can do better? (not hard, lets’ face it! XD )

#WeekendWriter challenge #18 – six haiku

i’m sorry, i’m just not feeling it this week.  this week’s challenge from Aisling Weaver, over at Swirling Currents, was this:

and whilst it put several images into my head, nothing really concrete presented itself.  certainly nothing even vaguely story-shaped.  so i decided to go with what i had and write in my favourite verse form: haiku.  i love these little guys – so relaxing to create.  sometimes they feel like raindrops, or clouds, or petals gently floating on the breeze…

*cough*

…er…anyway.  here’s my paltry offering for this week…

six haiku

Body refracting ,

Gelatinous wisp carries

Sunset to the deep

Darkness.  Flower blooms

Secret submarine flora

Beauty never seen

Sea creatures gaze

Wonder at light in their dark

Gather, draw nearer

Liquid circle dance

Tentacles twirl and sway

Cosmic spiralling

Sphere drawing tighter

Closing, squeezing, pressing close

Vortex sucking in

In the night-black deeps,

Supernova expanding

Sunset rising up

#WeekendWriter challenge #17: anticipation

bloody late again. 😦  however, at least i made it! 🙂

this (last) week’s weekend writer challenge looked like this:

and sounded like this:

Every week I’ll post a picture of your prompt. And the prompt will be posted no later than Friday at midnight(EST). I invite all writers, no matter your genre or your style, to try your hand at this challenge. Short, long, prose, poetry, I welcome all!

Your challenge…to write a piece that meets the prompt. Once completed, please link yourself in the comments and crow your success on twitter under the hashtag #WeekendWriter! If you don’t have a blog to post to, please feel free to post it in the comments!

here is my offering:

anticipation

As you sit on the bench with your eyes closed, you hear a distant roaring, rising and falling.  You smile slightly, as it reminds you of your home so long away.  Concentrating harder, you catch a faint whiff of fresh salt air and the iodine of the shore.  In your mind, you walk hand in hand with your beloved, gentle waves erasing your footprints from the strand, as though you were only spirit. A rhythmic ringing breaks through your reverie, and you frown, opening your eyes to observe the blacksmith swinging his hammer as he works to repair dented and broken implements.  Your situation comes back to you in a rush, pushing a tremor through your body.  You know why you are here, but you wished a little respite from thoughts of your immediate future.

However, no-one can escape their future for long, so you lift your chin a little, staring at the stones in the wall in front of you.  The sea you hear is not as calm as the one in your mind.  Without the intervention of your imagination moulding it to your wishes, the roar and crash of it pulls you to the northernmost waters you sailed in your youth.  White towers passing stealthy and stately as you hauled lines frigid with the water of the Northern Ocean.  An angry ocean, that.  You were glad when the skipper turned the bows south once more, each day bringing a little more warmth.  The roar builds as you listen, rising to the white heat of a tropical storm, the gods howling their madness as you and your hearties clung to the rigging lest you be blown from the haven of your vessel.

As the roar peaks to fever pitch, it is suddenly louder, as one of the doors at the far end of the corridor fly open, crashing against the walls.  Still you stare straight ahead, and your vision is obscured briefly.  Sandwiched between white-shrouded bodies, a thing of brown and red, decorated with stark white flecks, hurtles past.  Outwardly calm, you swallow hard, and refuse to look as your comrade is rushed to the infirmary.  Your other comrade was clearly not so lucky as the partially pulped one that has just passed, the only movement that which was caused by the jouncing of the stretcher.  You refuse to think if you will ever joke together over dinner again.

A featherlight touch on your shoulder draws your gaze from the wall to the figure beside you.  Rising, you follow as you are bid, towards the once again closed and barred doors.  You halt a few paces from them, and plant your feet firmly.  It will not be long, now.  You take a moment to check your equipment, and then you still.  You centre yourself.  And then you nod to the gate guardian.

As the gates swing wide, the wall of sound hits you.  Momentarily stunned, you rock back on your heels, and then you steady yourself, striding into the arena with a confidence you do not feel.

With an inhuman screech, the grotesque thing across the vast floor raises its gore-splattered head and cranes its sinuous neck around to regard its newest tormentor.  As you draw your sword, it wheels and attacks.

#WeekendWriter Challenge #16 ~ Pure Subjective

in the words of the challenge mistress herself:

Welcome to week sixteen of the Writer’s Weekend! Every week I’ll post a picture of your prompt. And the prompt will be posted no later than Friday at midnight(EST). I invite all writers, no matter your genre or your style, to try your hand at this challenge. Short, long, prose, poetry, I welcome all!

Your challenge…to write a piece that meets the prompt. Once completed, please link yourself in the comments and crow your success on twitter under the hashtag #WeekendWriter! If you don’t have a blog to post to, please feel free to post it in the comments!

So…without further due…here’s the challenge!

This week you get a photo of random objects. (actually, this is the corner of my desk).

Do with it what you will…this is a more free form exercise!

…freeform…?  *giggles a little hysterically*  you said it, Aisling!

pure subjective

I walked the boundaries of the room, smoking incessantly, conducting the orchestras that poured their music through my head.  Every now and again, the ash would fly from the end of my cigarette and puff an explosion against the white walls.  Small grey streaks here and there marred the pristine surface as I passed them again and again.  Lazy curls of smoke twisted through the rays of sunlight streaming in through the high, barred windows, creating roses and icosahedra, random words in mysterious ancient languages, scenes of the past and the future.

A growl from the middle of the room distracted me, and the orchestra ground to a discordant halt in a tuneless series of squeaks and farts.

Yes? I snapped, impatiently.

The small, winged pug scowled at me–quite a feat to tell that apart from his normal expression of sour and foul humour–and I noticed the small pile of ash that had landed on the end of his nose.

Oops.  Sorry about that, Malechio, I said.  I hurried from the path of my usual circuit, ignoring the discomfort of the break from my routine, and reached to brush the offending detritus away.

I swore as my fingers passed right through his face and I nearly overbalanced.  Looks like you’re on your own, my dear, I said, as I retreated to the well-worn path around the perimeter.

Grumbling, the dog put his nose to the floor and used his paw to wipe away the ash.

I raised my arms in preparation for restarting the symphony of the æther, when I was distracted again.  Frozen with my arms high in the air, I watched as the blank wall opposite me twitched, then bulged outwards, ever so slightly.  Shaking my head, I dismissed it as an optical illusion.  I heard a high pitched giggle from somewhere close by, and thought that yes, it was quite funny that someone who spent their entire day interacting with their own hallucinations should dismiss an optical illusion.  But there you have it.  Hallucinations are, after all real, are they not?  Dropping my arms for a moment–they were beginning to ache–I glanced to Malechio for confirmation, but he had rolled onto his side and was dozing peacefully, one white-feathered wing crushed underneath him at an awkward angle, the other flung out far behind him.  I sighed and cursed the pug, then thought better of my intended action of straightening his crooked wing.  After all, last time the ungrateful little shit had bitten me.  His teeth had passed right through my hand of course, and…oh, yes – of course, I couldn’t touch him, could I?  But anyway…  even so…  nevertheless.  Ungrateful little shit.  I smiled fondly.

That giggling was starting to get on my nerves–how in hell was I supposed to hear the orchestras with that nonsense drowning them out?  I ground my teeth in frustration and immediately the giggling stopped.

Oh.  I suppose that would be me, then?

With a sigh, I lifted my arms once more, and was again distracted by the optical illusion.  Keeping my jaw locked to stem the incipient giggling, I watched the wall to see what the optical illusion would do next.  It might, after all be a new and different hallucination, and would need to be dealt with in some manner or other.  Before I knew it, the wall had bulged yet again, forming itself into an endless tunnel, stretching so far away that the vertigo made me queasy.  I whimpered a little and then watched as something stirred in the depths of the tunnel far, far away.  It rapidly grew and soon I could hear the thunder of hooves coming closer and closer, and closer and closer and closerandcloserandcloser….

I fell to the floor screaming as the horse thundered out of the tunnel and ran directly over me, disappearing through the wall behind me.

Curled into a ball with my arms over my head, I gibbered and whimpered as Malechio snorted, soft and disdainful, in his sleep.

~~~

P.S. Aisling, my lovely,  i. want. your. desk!

~S~

XXX

#WeekendWriter Challenge #15 – Martha

not sure this week’s #weekendwriter quite went the way i intended it to, but…  oh, well…

Martha

“Do you want the truth or something beautiful…?

Sacred lies and telling tales…

I can be who you want me to be…”  ~ Paloma Faith

Leaning in close to the mirror, Martha fought the tears with her mascara wand.  Face achingly neutral, she watched, fascinated, as the slowly-growing jewel of moisture swelled on the rim of her lower eyelid.  The blurred forms of flowers festooning the darkened room behind her stopped just short of fracturing to rainbows as her mind overruled her heart and commanded that the salty droplet be reabsorbed by her weak flesh.  She took a deep, shaky breath.  And then another.  A moment later, it was as if her facade had never cracked.  Never leaked a little of her soul into the world, and then miraculously healed itself over.  When she was younger, these periodic leaks and resealings left no trace on her carefully constructed carapace.  No, none at all.  As she counted the days of her life, though, they were becoming visible.  Not to everyone.  Not even to her, most of the time.  But every now and again, if she tilted her head and caught the light from the bulbs around her mirror just right, she could see the faint, silvery shimmering of her breached defences. No fountain of youth, or golden apple of Asgard, would ever be able to erase these scars.  They ran far, far too deep.

This is what you get, she thought, for being an idealist.  This is what you get for wishing for peace and love.  If you are lucky enough, you get offered a deal.  You get what you wish for.

For a price.

Her thoughts were disturbed by Betsy, a backstage runner, bustling through the door and announcing, “Ten minutes, Martha, love.  Are you ready?”

Martha turned, a smile lighting her face, even unto her eyes.  “Yes, Betsy, dear.  Just about…”

“Oh, but look at your hair!” exclaimed the runner in horror, rushing over and fussing with Martha’s hair and headdress until it was to her satisfaction.

Martha continued to smile into the mirror as Betsy fussed and chattered on, finally stepping back with a satisfied, “There, now.  Perfect!”

Martha thanked the other woman, and then, “Thank you, Betsy.  Would you mind giving me a few moments?  The performance, you know.  I need to…”

“Oh, of course not, sweeting!  I’ll just be off, then, shall I?”

Martha looked into Betsy’s ordinary face, seeing all the world in her features, and still smiling warmly.  “Thanks, Bets – you’re a treasure.”

Betsy’s face was suffused with a pleased flush as she closed the door quietly behind her.

The smile slid off Martha’s face as the lock snicked back in its place, to be replaced by the neutral expression she always wore when alone.  These are the people you do it for, she reminded herself.  The Betsys of this world.  You entertain and astonish and soothe so that people like Betsy can have the peace and love they deserve.  You sing tales and tell tall stories so that others can have rest and ease.

Minutes later, Martha took to the stage to keep her part of the bargain.  Every night, she bared her soul.  Sung her heart.  Told sacred lies.  And all with that warm and radiant smile acting as a balm to the troubled, the greedy, the cruel.  To soothe and smooth their rough edges, to leech out their base natures and absorb and assimilate the essence of their evils.  To fill them with love and peace, so they would go forth and do the same for others in their sphere.

Spreading peace and love in the world, at the price of never having any of her own.

did i forget this one…?

did i ever get around to bloggin this for Weekend Writer #10 or not? i can’t remember, so please forgive the repetition if i did. and, if i didn’t, this is wot i wrote for #ww10:

Inevitable

Can you fire an arrow through a keyhole?

I roll the dice, a stranger

watching the world unfold around me

fire lighting the night

I worry where you are

Did you get burned?

So wrapped in that world

You can’t escape?

Alien and alienated

Locked into your flight

Crash and burn

inevitable

a bit pathetic, really, but, hell, this is my blog, so i can put what i want on here, right…? 😉

XXX

#weekend writer no. 14 (er… i think…)

ok, so this is something i’ve never done before.  here we have a chapter from my current WIP.  i’ve been working on this for over a year now, on and off, and i’m quite fond of it.  but, as you can see from the heading, i’ve not got very far.  no matter.  charley lives, and that’s enough for me.  i am posting this raw and unedited, so please forgive its generally ragged appearance.  the reason for the posting of this, rather than a stand-alone story, is that my muse is being a bit stingy, and the writing is not flowing as i would like it to .  but i really wanted to participate in #WW, and i really wanted to write this scene, which was inspired by a visit to Oxford a couple of weeks ago.  so here is my #WeekendWriter offering, combining the two.  please be kind.

Chapter 16

Bookended by Leela and Isla, Charley emerged through the portal into a dimly lit walkway, lined with glass and wood display cases.  On his left, they were floor to ceiling, filled with all sorts of exotic objects.  Mostly long, slender objects.

Isla chuckled.  “Now, why am I not at all surprised that we ended up in the weapons gallery, Leela?”

Leela, more relaxed than Charley had ever seen her, actually kept the customary grump in her voice to a minimum, and answered Isla in a very civilised manner.  “I like it here.  I find it soothing.  Besides, some of these are old friends, aren’t you?”  This last was practically cooed as she turned to one of the display cases and ran her eyes lovingly over what was there.  Charley was somehow unsurprised to see that it was a massive, six-foot long broadsword with a grip that was at least another foot and a half in length, and a crosspiece that curled out as far on either side.  Leela sighed, and her eyes went misty as she continued, “Oh, I remember this one so well.  So well-balanced.  So alive…”  She trailed off into a private reverie that, Charley had absolutely no doubt, involved large amounts of blood and screaming.  He shivered a bit and turned away to view the other side of the walkway.

The right hand side was also lined with display cases.  These, however, reached to only just above his waist.  Beyond, he was startled to discover, was a large open space that dropped away to several of stories’ depth.  Charley gasped in amazement as he found a gap between the display cases and pressed himself against the railings of the higher of the two gallery levels that encircled the space.  Across from him, reaching far above the second gallery level, was a fearsome totem pole, the large crack in it revealing that it had been carved from one vast tree trunk.  His eye drawn downwards by the two smaller totem poles flanking it, the floor of the vast room opened before him like some glass labyrinth.  Display cases were crammed higgledy-piggledy down there, full of all sorts of extraordinary-looking objects that Charley couldn’t quite fathom from his lofty vantage point.  One particularly large case held what he mistook for a shed, or possibly an outhouse until he squinted a little and his eyes adjusted a little better to the dim lighting, proving it to be a scale model of some pagoda-looking building.  Among the myriad objects, Charley saw were musical instruments, funeral goods, cloth and clothing, writing implements, religious objects, decorative objects, wigs, and all sorts of other things.  Charley was so busy staring at the cornucopia of artefacts spread before him that he barely noticed Leela and Isla appear either side of him, also leaning on the railings and staring down.

“I always love coming here,” said Isla, warmly.  And then her voice turned a little sad as she continued, “It’s just a damn shame we had to come here for this.”

Charley turned to look at her.  “Actually, Isla, why are we here?  You still haven’t told me.  Isn’t this a museum?”

To his surprise, it was Leela who answered.

“We’re here to observe, Charley.  Nothing more.  There are one or two things that you need to understand.”

Charley beamed.  “Explanations at last!” he exclaimed in delight.

“You’ve had explanations aplenty, Charley.  Whether or not you choose to believe them is your concern.”

“Explanations?  All you’ve told me so far is that there’s some big evil dude stalking around doing… stuff.  And I’m supposed to stop him somehow.  To be quite frank, despite everything, I still find that last bit just a tiny bit hard to swallow.  And the rest of it sounds far-fetched for even someone like me to take on board, though I’ve just about managed it.  And I’ve accepted the daily battering you ladies have been giving me as you at least seemed to believe in what you were doing, and it’s not really like you gave me a great deal of choice in the matter.  And then there’s Two.  I suppose I can’t remain quite so unaccepting of him, since I saw him being made with my own eyes.  Which was,” he interrupted himself, glancing briefly at Isla, “frankly, disgusting, by the way.”

She merely flashed her dimples at him before he turned back to Leela and concluded, “So…  being told stuff, yes, ok – I’ll give you that.  Explanations?  Not so much.”

 “Then you’d better watch, closely, hadn’t you, smartarse?” Leela snapped, before returning her attention to the floor below her.

Mildly shocked by the normally taciturn Leela’s outburst, Charley did as he was told.  “So what am I looking for?”

“See that guy walking around over by the totem pole?” asked Isla.

“Which one?”  There weren’t too many people left in the museum at this time of day, but enough to confuse Charley as to who he ought to be looking for.

“The one with the red hair.”

Charley looked harder.  “Yes?”

“OK, good.  Keep your eye on him.  He’s about to do something… unpleasant.”

“What…?”

“Just watch him, Charley.  Questions can wait until later.”

Charley subsided.

The man stood vey still, and closed his eyes.  Charley wasn’t sure, but he almost thought he could see ripples in the air emanating from the man as, still with his eyes closed, he slowly walked to the centre of the room.  Astonishing as the ripple phenomenon was, Charley was unsurprised to see the few people left in the building start to head for the exits as the almost imperceptible ripples reached and washed over them.  They did not appear to notice the distortions in the air around them, nor did they hurry.  They simply, each in turn, turned away from whatever exhibit they were observing and left.  Even the security staff.  Soon, the only person in the room other than the red-haired man, Charley, Leela and Isla, was a female security guard standing off to the side and staring towards the ceiling, a dreamy expression on her face as the waves in the air coalesced and, now entirely visible, crashed over her, one after the other.  The man in the centre of the room opened his eyes at last and, with a faint smile, made his way down the nearest aisle to her.  As he did so, the ripples in the air faded to nothing, and the dreamy expression left her face.  She glanced at her wrist, and then said something to the man.  Charley was too far away to hear, but he suspected it didn’t really matter what it was.  The red-haired man advanced, that faint and, Charley now thought, distinctly nasty smile plastered to his face.

“Quiet now, Charley – remember we’re only here to observe,” whispered Isla to his right.  He was about to hiss back that he wasn’t going to do anything when he saw the reason for her reminder.  The man had now reached the clearly terrified woman and, grabbing her, lunged forward, grabbed her, and planted a kiss square on her lips.  At least, it looked like a kiss, at the beginning.  The woman struggled, but their heads stayed locked together in the same place.  That is, until the red-headed man began to push.

The glass case behind the woman began to liquefy, and the man started to push the woman into the glass.  As their faces parted, Charley saw what had really been going on, and was nauseated.  The man’s mouth was stretched impossibly wide and from it emerged a grey, squamous tentacle-like appendage that disappeared into the woman’s still wide-open mouth.  This elongated as he pushed the squirming woman further into the gelatinous mass that was no longer glass, and she slowly disappeared.  That she didn’t reappear behind the glass should have tipped Charley off that this was some sort of portal, but he could no longer think straight.  His brain was on fire as, without thought, he began to leave the railings, preparatory to finding a stairway and running to the woman’s aid.  Leela and Isla had clearly anticipated this reaction, though, and there was a blur of movement either side of him as Leela grabbed his arms and held them behind his back, and Isla neatly slapped a short length of duct tape across his mouth.

Charley struggled and hurled muffled curses at them until Isla shushed him and said, “Charley, I’m sorry, but you had to see this.  There was no other way to get you to believe what’s really going on here.  But it’s not over.  You need to keep watching.”

He shot her a look of pure hatred, but obediently looked, if only to find out what could possibly be worse than what he had just witnessed.

The red-headed… creature… had, it seemed, just about finished doing what it was doing.  Its tentacle and forearms were still extended into the gelatinous mass of air that had closed around them, leaving him looking as if they had all been chopped off.  but as Charley watched, he pulled his arms from the air, and then, walked backwards, slowly drawing the tentacle with him.  When the tentacle popped back into full view, it had something attached.  A large grey blob enveloped the end and, as the man-creature turned and casually made his way back to the approximate centre of the room, it wobbled somewhat, like water in zero-gee.

The man-creature reached the centre of the room and, with his tentacle waving obscenely from his still unnaturally distended mouth, flicked the grey blob to the floor.  It landed with an audible splat.

Charley made an involuntary noise of revulsion behind the strip of duct tape which, whilst still muffled, carried through the still, quiet air of the museum.  The man-creature started, looked up to where the three regarded him from, and… smiled.

Isla groaned, closing her eyes and tilting her head back.  “Oh, Charley, you’ve really gone and done it now, haven’t you?  We were only supposed to be watching, and now there’s going to be a fight.”

Charley made an indignant noise through his gag and was drawing breath to make another when he smelled it.  His eyes widened in fear as he sniffed again, urgently, mumbling behind his gag and trying to get Isla and Leela to notice what he had.  The smell of drains.

Charley felt his arms released as Leela spun away, the crash of glass loud in the cavernous room.  He spun around, the ripping of the tape from his mouth and yell of pain almost drowning out the rattle and zing as Leela grabs a heavy and sharp looking sword from one of the display cabinets.  She rushed past him as the gallery began to shake and display cases at the far end began to shatter with the passage of one of the invisible monsters, heading at speed in their direction. 

Isla darted past him in the other direction, grabbing a sword as she went, heading for the exploding cases at the other end of the gallery.

Charley froze for a moment, trapped between the two women swinging wildly at the air, blocking both of his possible escpe routes.  Then his training came to the fore, and he grabbed a sword himself from the shatterd display case.  Ready now, poised, he looked left and right.  Even with the display cases demolished in the area of both fights, the quarters were still too narrow for hinm to be any use to the girls, so he decided they could probably handle it and he should continue to do what they had brought him here for.  Turning around, he looked down into the body of the room again.

The grey blob was still on the floor, but the man-creature had retracted his tentacle and was once again looking human.  He was standing over the blob, eyes closed, arms wide, with an expression of strain etched into his features.

At first, Charley thought that he was imagining it.  As he watched, though, he saw what he thought he had.  Small crackles of electricity were crawling over some of the exhibits in their glass cases.  It started at the edges of the hall, and as the edge crackles became brighter, the phenomenon continued a little further in.  The crawling crackles grew brighter, and then began to burst from the cases, bouncing from case to case, growing brighter as they moved towards the man-creature in the centre of the room, sucking up more crackles from other cases as they travelled on.  When they met in the middle, they headed streaight for the man-creature’s fingertips, pouring in to his body, filling him, until he threw his head back and screamed.  Blue-white light streamed from his eyes, his mouth, his nose, and all his hair stood on end, like some parody of an afro hairdo.  This went on for several seconds until, with a great deal of effort, he closed his eyes and mouth and threw his hands together on straight arms.  They met with a rumble that was completely disproportionate to the gesture, and began to make a squeezing motion.  A column of energy leapt downwards from his squeezing hands, pouring into the grey blob at his feet.

Abruptly, the stream of energy was cut off, and the man-creature sagged a little.  The blob, however, trembled, and began to expand a little.  Then all of a sudden, it cast off a great wave of energy, blasting the display cases around it to splinters, and rocking the man-creature on his heels.  Charley saw him back away hurriedly as the blob began to grow rapidly.  As it did so, it formed arms, legs, a head, a tail, a bulky body almost reptilian in form.  And it screamed.

By the time it stopped growing and screaming, Charley reckoned it to be about eight feet high, and realised that here was one of the invisible creatures he’d been running from since that day on the street in his hometown, since he’d first met Leela.  All bewildered, he could barely comprehend what he had witnessed, other than it was only the tip of the iceberg in this unfamiliar world in which he now found himself.

As the creature started forward and leapt on to the balcony below him, he felt a hand on his collar yank him backwards, and Isla’s voice yelling, “Come on, Charley – time to say goodbye.  We’ve overstayed our welcome.”  He felt the floor under him shudder as the newly-created monster made the second balcony, and Isla practically threw him through the portal, closing it behind Leela as the monster made a grab for her.