Ready

“Lay them here.” I said, gesturing to the ground at the edge of the clearing. She complied, swinging the bag from her shoulder and unbuckling the strap, rolling it out until it was a short rectangle of fabric, the tools shining dully in their black sheaths.

The moonlight was pale, broken once by the canopy we huddled at the edge of and again by the fog which was slowly building up, wrapping around our shins. The humidity had dampened our clothes, aided by the hard trek here. We would both have gladly removed our jackets, was visibility not such a risk. Even having our faces exposed was dangerous.

I watched my companion as she straightened the fabric, ensuring it had no creases. It was not needed, but it comforted her. When she was done she looked up at me and I noticed she was shaking.

“You don’t have to do this.” I said. “I’ll forgive you if you don’t.”

She looked away and stood up, brushing dirt from her pants. “I know.”

Neither of us said anything for a while. Our job was to wait. After a few minutes she sat at the base of one of the dark trees, leaning her head against the trunk. The fog swirled around her neck, occasionally thick enough to conceal her body and leaver her decapitated on the shifting mist.

The leaves were tousled by the breeze far above, the rustling tumbling down to us and collapsing into the soft fog, into silence. Time passed. Under the vast, endless stars, sitting in a forgotten forest, time passed around us, only our small cocoon left untouched.  Only once before have I felt so insignificant.

Something changed, out in beyond the forest, and then within the clearing. A glance at my companion confirmed that she had felt it too. She sat upright, no longer touching the tree, feeling the change creep over her skin and down her spine, just as it did mine. And then, after long, tense moments, it passed us by. We dared to breathe.

“Quickly.” I moved to the tools and she did the same, each of us taking from opposite sides. We stood and gripped each others’ left arm with our own.

“Last chance.”

In the middle of the clearing, the fog began to drift in a spiral, rising a little in the centre. She watched it for slightly longer than a second. Then she stopped shaking.

She nodded. “Ready.”

The blades slashed down swift and deep, mine opening her unmarked arm and hers reopening my scars. Blood flowed readily, eagerly, and I could see the fear in her eyes so I gripped her arm tighter and we both watched as crimson dripped from our skin and disappeared into the shifting fog that had risen to our waists now and completely obscured the ground below.

The mass of grey flowed into the clearing from every direction, feeding into the spiral, slowly getting faster and faster. Half-formed wisps brushed past our legs, tips breaking the surface for the merest moments, swimming irrevocably inward.

The spiral roiled, all calm now abandoned, the centre rising like an inverted funnel reaching up for the endless stars. Flashes like lightning with no thunder lit the towering mass, flickering fleeting shadows through the trees, and our blood flowed on and out and down. I could feel her shaking again and began to shake myself, fighting to stay afloat in the always-fear that maybe we were too late, maybe this time won’t work, maybe we’re not strong enough until finally the fog around our waists faded to pink, then red, the greedy spiral sucking up the stain. The blood poured from our increasingly pale arms, speeding through the blushing fog and twining around the pillar, absurdly reminding me of a barber. The weight of the blood sagged the fog slightly and I could feel the clear getting warmer, heat radiating from the writhing centre.

The flashes were casting shadows from within the fog now, showing snapshots of a shape gestating in the column. The crimson stripes pressed down on the shadows, crushing and distorting them, vainly attempting to contain the heat. Her hand slipped from my arm, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Slowly, for I could no longer move fast, I took her in my arms and kneeled down, only our heads remaining atop the sea.

A pressure was building in my skull, the colour of a scream. Something in the fog struck us nearly, making me drop her. I didn’t know what would happen if we went beneath the surface. I didn’t want to find out. Wind roared through the vacuous space behind my eyes and I blinked away tears lest they fall into the fog. There was too much of me in it already, swirling red through the centre of the clearing.

Memories burst unbidden to the forefront of my vision, memories of places I have never seen: buildings rotted and decomposing; the stench of scorched flowers; a howling desert and behind it all a great slumbering giant once sated but now rousing.

The heat in the clearing built until I could feel sweat prickling my skin, despite the steady numbness that was seeping over me. My vision blurred and darkened, lit spasmodically by the increasing lightning and the single full moon. My head thrummed with the increasing pressure, pulsing in time with the light, the tempo getting faster and stronger and louder and somewhere in the fog two enormous hands closed in to crush and conceal us from the explosion rending outwards from the colossal column of blooded fog that tore and dissolved the grass and plants and trees in a perfect circle all around, washing over us in a primordial roar of princely rage and blasting the hands that gripped us almost to obliteration. The expulsion seemed to go on for hours, but I know it must have only been a few seconds because I didn’t lose consciousness until after it had abated, leaving only a blackened clearing.

She awoke before I did. Her hands were on my arm, bandaging what was left of the wound. There was matching white cloth around her arm, concealing her first scar. She was shaking.

“We did it?” Her voice cracked as she forced the words from dry lips.

I nodded. We would not have survived if we had failed.

We didn’t speak until she had finished. I picked up the tools, still shining dully on the charred earth, and put them back in the bag.

“Ready?” I asked, motioning through the forest, back the way we came.

She stopped shaking. She nodded.

“Ready.”

Seamus

Seamus’ lips closed around the flesh, lips smacking as his teeth crunched down, severing fat from meat, his tongue probing and rolling, savouring the salty oil coating it.

The blunt metal knife screeched and scraped on the pristine white plate, drawing looks from around the café. Seamus ignored them, sawing away at the remainder of the bacon. Hey, when you only get one day out, you stop worrying about what everyone else thinks. The last of the bacon disappeared into Seamus’ mouth, leaking juice that trickled down his lips and dripped from his chin. He ignored it, instead drawing his forefinger to his mouth and slurping off some grease that had escaped.

“Stop it.” Will hissed. “People are staring.”

“This is my day out.” Seamus paused. “You gonna take my one chance to enjoy a little food away from me?”

“Just do it quietly. People are judging us.” Will whispered.

Seamus looked around, meeting each of the pairs of eyes in turn, then pulled a pack from his pocket and fished out a cigarette. His lighter scratched and clicked a few times before igniting, the flame weak and sputtering. He brought it to the end of the cigarette and then took a drag, pulling the smoke deep down into himself. He waited for a second. Two. Three. The he leant back, blowing a grey plume toward the fan above him. Disappointingly, it was not turned on.

“Where did you get that?” Will hissed.

Seamus held up a hand to silence him They say absence makes the heart grow fonder and while he may not have a whole lot of relationship experience, this was his first cig in a year and god damn did it feel good.

“Grabbed it while you were at the store yesterday.”

“You weren’t out then!” Will whispered through clenched teeth. “You have to obey the rules!”

“The rules that we ‘agreed’ on? Look, mate, I’m not hurting anyone. You were distracted, I nabbed myself a pack. No harm done, right?”

Will’s nostrils flared for a few seconds before he gave up. “Fine. Keep your voice down. People are staring.”

“Takes two to tango.” Seamus retorted, though quieter.

The café sat on the corner of two streets--lanes, really. There was a checkerboard strip of red and white tiles along the top of the walls, and each table had a red tablecloth. Simple colour scheme. It looked nice. One of the other patrons, a woman with a brown handbag, coughed pointedly. The old bag was leathery and wrinkled, matching her purse well. Seamus ignored her, and eventually she stopped, huffing to herself and waddling out of the café. Seamus smiled through the haze of smoke that was beginning to settle around him. It was astounding how many problems can be solved by simply ignoring them.

Seamus enjoyed a few more minutes of post-English Breakfast bliss before a pale congregation of acne in a red uniform shirt and black pants stuttered its way to the table. Seamus sighed, pulled hard on the smoke and looked up. The acne parted, revealing too-white teeth.

"Excuse me s-sir, I'm afraid you can't s-smoke inside."

The voice was as oily as its hair. Seamus glared at the acne for a few seconds before realising his hand had unconsciously clenched around the knife.

Will placed his hand gently over Seamus' and the fingers around the knife gently uncurled.

"So sorry." Seamus smiled. "I must've missed the signs."

He took the cigarette from his lips and pressed the end into the remains of his bacon, smearing ashes along the plate. He pushed the plate forward, slowly, the china screeching across the pristine tabletop until it sat in the centre.

"Give my compliments to the chef." He said, standing and turning to leave the café.

"Uh, s-sir, you haven't paid yet."

Seamus stopped, a stinging pain in his palms letting him know that his hands had clenched again, hard enough for his fingernails to break the skin. He studied the red and white tiles near the ceiling. He breathed deeply.

"Sir?" The acne breathed pubescent oil across Seamus' back.

Will felt him tense up, worriedly whispering, "Seamus..."

"P-pardon, sir?" Seamus could feel the acne gripping its finely-ironed uniform shift.

"I said," Seamus turned, "shame on us."

The acne had the briefest moment to look perplexed before its expression was covered by a fist. Seamus punched it as hard as he could--which, thanks to Will, was still nearly as hard as in his prime. The acne staggered backwards, holding its nose in disbelief as blood began to drench its already red shirt.

"Seamus! We had an agreement!" Will shouted, struggling desperately to restrain Seamus. But Seamus had one day, one day, and he was going to make it count.

He scanned the room, taking in the other patrons. No one under sixty. Easy.

"I don't recall ever actually agreeing." He said, picking the grease coated knife up from the plate. Two brown gaps in the acne that Seamus presumed were eyes widened, realising what was about to happen. Distantly, he heard screams, presumably from some of the other patrons, but his attention was elsewhere. He brought the knife up, easily brushing aside resistance from both the acne and Will, and stabbed at the acne's neck, spurting hot red blood all over his hand. The congregation of acne fell, clutching at the wound, and Seamus fell with him. He brought the knife down again and again, stabbing into the crisp red uniform shirt. Will kept on distracting him, trying to speak, trying to use Seamus' mouth to cry out, to stop him, but this was Seamus' day. He was in control.

He continued to puncture the uniform shirt until his arm tired, then sat back on his heels. Everyone else had fled the café. He was fairly sure the police had been called. Will had given up trying to control their limbs and had receded to some corner of their mind that Seamus usually occupied. He breathed deeply.

"What have you done?" Will murmured.

Seamus stood up, stretching out his back and arms. "Nabbed myself a free meal, for starters." He looked around the café and spotted a plate of uneaten sausages and eggs. "Two free meals, even."

"You've killed us."

Seamus smiled, sitting down and beginning to cut the sausages. "Probably. But you were torturing me anyway. Better to live out my short days in the sun than long days in the shade, eh?"

Will tried, weakly, to make Seamus move, then went quiet.

Seamus ate loudly, enjoying his last free meal; one man alone in a corner café, waiting for the police.

Got a friend to give me a couple of prompts: "Holiday" and "Prison". Thought this would make a neat little twist. Oh, and for anyone who's made the same mistake that I did as a child, 'Seamus' is pronounced "Shame us".

Lush

Lush, the grass under her feet sprang back almost as soon as her weight lifted, leaving no sign of her passing. The sun was warm on her tanned arms and face, the only skin exposed from the rough cloth dress. Her passage brushed branches, sending tiny droplets of water soaring through the air, each containing a hundred sparkling rainbows that arced downward to join the dewed dirt.

Her face was flushed like a lover’s, her breath coming in pants and gasps. Warbling cries followed her, each melodic and birdlike. Green blanketed her, the trees reaching around to caress her as she flew through the woodlands. A bird, white and gold, was startled from its perch by her passing, calling out as it flew out above the broad canopy.

The smell of woodsmoke suffused the area, deep and warming. It reminded her of winter nights by the hearth, sitting with her back to her father’s legs, laughing at something her mother said. Her feet pounded the ground, grass becoming dirt becoming sand. The cries changed from warbling to trilling. Splinters flicked from a tree to her right, abruptly separated from the trunk by a larger spike of wood. Another spear soon followed, its rough-hewn head slicing through the air like a fish through a stream. It plummeted short of its target, embedding itself in the sand, an angled monument to early man.

The trees thinned out, then stopped, and before the girl was only the vast expanse of the ocean. The low sun bounced light off of budding waves, each cresting in a swarm of gold before collapsing. The sand was cold beneath her feet, dirtying the front of the dress for brief moments before the collision with the water washed it clean. The chill of the water surprised her despite the early hour and she gasped, a sharp inhalation that shocked goosebumps down her arms. The dress collected water, immediately drooping and wallowing in the shallows. She grasped it as best she could and continued careening into the infinite blue.

A spear flew lazily from a man’s hand, loftily riding the air until it punctured the flesh on her back, slowing down, but not stopping until it jutted also from the front, now painted the red of fresh love. The girl stumbled and fell into the water, soaking the rest of the homespun dress. The trilling returned to warbling, muted as her head dipped beneath the surface. Crackles of seaweed brushed her face gently, welcoming her to its domain. Bubbles streamed from her mouth, each pocket of air carrying rainbows that parodied the dew on the trees and grass. Salt coursed over her tongue, the unmistakable taste that only seawater has, taking the place of the bubbles until the bubbles stopped coming.

The sun slowly ascended, warming the sand below. The sand had just one set of footprints, small marks made by feet excited to plunge into the water beyond. In the water, the waves swelled and collapsed onto the shore, blue in all the places except where they were a deep red. After a while, even the red receded, hiding somewhere out of sight, leaving no sign of her passing.

I've written a ton of depressing things lately, so I wanted to see if I could write something that was just describing happy things. I guess the answer is no?

And yes, dewed is a word. I checked.

Last Night

Last night I dreamt of a dark cave and an enormous eyeless beast. Last night I dreamt of an abyss wider than the country and deeper than the sea. Last night I dreamt of your hands on mine, and of your tears. Last night I dreamt of a world with no moon, and a moon with no sun. Last night I dreamt of words whispered and of words screamed, and heard no difference. Last night I dreamt no dreams. Tonight I will dream no more.


Blah blah depressing stuff. I had the image of a dark cave in my head, and then the abyss followed (probably because of the last piece I wrote), and then I sorta tied that into a few other images and boom here we go.

Abyss

There’s a place to the East that once was, but now never is. I go there, sometimes, when the weight of it all becomes too much to bear. That’s where you found me, teetering at the edge of the possibility of everything.

There is a place outside of town as endless as time. I had heard tales for as long as I remembered about why and when and what it was, but they were all just tales. I went there once, to see the abyss, and found a girl walking the precipice of nothingness.

You looked confused, as if I’d interrupted you and not the inverse. You stood by the trees, shadowed by their reaching arms. I didn’t mind though. I smiled. Company can be nice. Especially today.

I was somehow hurt, offended that someone could steal this moment from me. I hesitated at the edge of the clearing, feeling the canopy press down on me. She smiled, but I did not. I had not wanted company. Not today.

I shifted to the side with my arms raised for balance, making room for you at the edge. My silence was an invitation. We could look at impossibility together.

She wandered lazily along the border, not watching where she placed her feet, arms held aloft. I felt that I should do something, say something to stop her.

But you didn’t.

But I did not.

“I wonder how far down it is.”

“Farther than we can drop a stone.”

I sat down, swinging my feet through the cloudy darkness. The rock was rough beneath my palms. I brushed the sand off of them, watching it trickle away. It made a sound like coral when it slipped into the abyss.

She lowered her body until she sat with her legs over the edge. My breath caught. The nothingness called in a voice of midnight. I willed myself to leave, to go back to town and work and forget this place that never is.

You sat next to me.

I sat next to her.

“I don’t like staying at home.”

“I don’t know where home is anymore.”

I looked at your combed hair and fitted suit and clipped productivity and I smiled. Of course it was you. It could never have been anyone else. You embodied this place.

She looked at me with eyes as hollow as bone and smiled like the ocean. It no longer surprised me that you would be here when I was. You embodied this place.

“The world is filled with oozing grey. Maybe it had colours, once, but not for a long time now.”

“One day I woke up and realised that I no longer had fun. I do not know when. Perhaps this morning.”

I looked up at the bleeding moon and laughed, my legs slowly going numb. A rumble had started in the back of my skull, an aircraft or power tool.

I looked up at the cracked sky as she laughed, the colour leeching from my clothes. A crackle had started in the back of my skull, cellophane or lightning.

“Do you feel like letting go?”

“Do you?”

The rumble increased as I stood up, drawing my legs from the hungry pull of inevitability.

My clothes were white by the time I stood beside her, crackling with the static of the past.

You looked at me like you had known me your whole life, like waking next to your blood sister from a spontaneous nightmare of mundanity.

She looked at me like it was the millionth time, as familiar as her own skin laid out on the grey rock on which we stood.

“Walk with me to the end?”

We moved our feet, your left and her right, joined at the shin by the eternity that never was. For a single moment, we stood taller than all sentience.

There’s a place to the east of town that has never been. We had gone there for as long as we remembered, when the tales became too much to bear. That’s where we found each other, on the precipice of potential. We stared into the abyss, the void perfectly reflecting the world above, wondering how far down it was. Then we let go.

Bit of a weird one, this time. I haven't really played with the actual format of a snippet before, it's usually just the descriptions within it. I tried to use the spacing of the paragraphs to reflect the characters' relationship and it's not hugely clear but for a first attempt I'm pretty happy with it. 

Wallpaper

The peeling wallpaper is a dirty mustard, stained with a hundred silver lines and lives and loves and losses. Your eyes trace their erratic shapes in minutes that stretch for miles, slowly cracking under the immense pressure of unspoken wishes. A car door slams, somewhere beyond the wall. A glistening tear finds your lips and your tongue quests out, momentarily filling your mouth with the ocean.

You drove across the country once, a silver streak that cut through its core, to its core. You never knew the country until you had cut it down, split it into parts, its shattered pieces each a black mirror of the whole. She had been with you, then. She had filled the car with roses and earthy laughter, stripped you back beneath your skin and sailed silver across your soul.

The stained wallpaper is reflected in your shattered eyes. The dusty air is pushed from your lungs, then pulled back in. There are traces of her still, in the distant smell of woodsmoke, the creak of the motel bed, the light fleeing the room. The car's engine has stopped. Heavy boots are dragging your future toward your past. The boots are black and grey. You know this.

She had left before, but always returned, trailing emerald and sapphire through the hallway and scrubbing her boots clean of rubies. When she last left, you knew it would be different. Silver sliced across your body and you fell apart while she turned and disappeared.

The door opens easily and the boots drag the future inside, gemstones shattering on the tiles. You inhale, pulling in the dusty air, now tinged with roses. She says nothing, and you reply in kind. Your future meets your past, one long and one short, and then the boots turn and disappear.

Rubies cover the bed, soaking into the sheets. A car door slams. The wallpaper is a dirty mustard, stained with a hundred and one silver lines and lives and loves and losses.

Waterfall

The stars had long flung themselves around you, knucklebones forecasting the rest of the world, or perhaps just this night. Wood creaks as the wind tears the words formless from your lips, sending them tumbling down into the gorge below. The grass surrounding you is a rich verdant green, shadowed by the towering trees and the vast expanse of the dark. Every time you open your mouth you taste the wet earth, every breath inhales the frosted air, every sound that reaches your ears is met with confusion.

His lips move, as do yours, but if either of you are speaking words, you don’t understand them. The spray from the waterfall flecks your face with tears; the waterfall of your tears flecks the stream with salt. A heron cries out, perhaps answering you. Your knuckles are white and numb, clenching at vestiges of hope, his hands between yours. Droplets sit still on his eyelashes, like dew upon morning grass, wavering above dry eyes. A jaw chiselled from stone threatens to crush you beneath its weight.  He says two words, and though you can’t hear them you know what they must be, just as you know how hollow they are. Your hand stings almost as much as your eyes, red like blush swelling from under his stubble.

He does not move. Nor do you. You each stand, perfect in your isolation, fractured by your proximity, two halves of different wholes. The wood around you sways imperceptibly. An eternity passes, too quickly, and then you have moved, or perhaps everything else moved around you, hurled you toward the stream.

His hands reach for you, but your white knuckles have gripped their last. The river swallows you greedily, silver beneath the waxing moon, as it urges you to follow your wind-swept words. His granite face, breaking at last, splitting across the middle. Your throat hurts, torn from the screaming. You are weightless, unchained for the first time. You close your eyes, your mouth, your heart.

Overlooking the gorge there stands a perfect paradox, one fractured half of a whole that never was.