Tornado

The thought tornado races across the plateau, obliterating the carefully constructed notions and ideas, erasing an eon of identity and slowly built personality. The tempest tears through all that they had once known, leaving behind little but angst and resentment, poisoning the once lush landscape into a barren wasteland, a graveyard of hopes and dreams, a bitter monument to the destructiveness of the one person they had trusted. 
The sun peeked over the mountains, slowly, as if afraid of what it would see.
But in the wreckage of all they had lost, the seeds of hope live. Small at first, the green shoots quickly grow to cover the demolished buildings, taking back its rightful property:
The desires and ideas, the dreams and the notions of reality. 
The plants of hope break down everything, from the largest slab of a dream to the smallest petty desire. 
Once it had engulfed the plateau, the carpet of green hope slept, resting. 
The sun of consciousness rose and fell, but the hope did not change. It did not grow, but neither did it recede. For a few days, it merely was. 
But one night, under the silver glow of the subconscious moon, the hope moved. For two days it had been storing its absorbed energy, and tonight it released it.
A flower bloomed. A small yellow one that has no name other than happiness. 
At first there was only one of these blossoms, but more opened their petals, releasing their pent up joy.
As this all happened under the glow of the moon, consciousness did not yet know of it.
But when the sun rose and saw the sea of yellow, it did not question how it came to be.
The sun rose, peaked, and fell. 
No sooner had the sun slipped past the horizon when the carpet of hope set to work once more. 
More flowers bloomed, of different colours: purples, blues, ideas, reds, dreams, thoughts.
Plants grew, shrubs and ferns and then saplings, maturing into trees. 
The sun rose again, and understood, for the newly founded forest was strong enough to continue to grow even under the close glare of consciousness. 
Some trees grew more than others, ideas that had more merit.
Eventually, after several cycles of sub and consciousness, one of the feelings reached the sky, sending ripples across the vast blue.
The point that the feeling touched the sky became an act.
As more acts appeared, they merged to form a habit.
The traits bounded together, a glorious tarpaulin of colour, and became a personality. 
The personality blinked, rubbed its eyes and rose. 
Out of the stars it fashioned a mirror and looked through at itself. It was neither pretty nor ugly, but it was spectacular. 
A smorgasbord of hopes, dreams and ideas, brought together by chance, borne of destruction.
The personality closed its eyes, inhaled deeply, and returned to the surface.

A Breath

A breath, exhale.
The blackened ash stirs, floating along the inky tarmac, dancing its song of despair.
A breath, inhale.
The sunken clouds, filled with the tears of the innocent, briefly part.
A breath, exhale.
The bloody sun glows with hate, surveyor of the hollow boneyard.
A breath, inhale.

The trampled dirt, soaked with the blood of the many, seeps its disappointment, unheard.
A breath, exhale.

Sophie

Sophie checked her arm again, the numbers sitting a muted blue just under the skin. 10:52. She sighed and dulled the display. She had to stay awake for another hour before Santa came. The faint hum of vertibirds filtered through her window, the gravs on the underside pulsing rhythmically.

Sophie shifted in her bed, reaching up to adjust the light from the pale silver to a more festive green. Not happy with it, she frowned and moved the slider to another setting. The ceiling appeared to open up, showing the navy sky above filled with a brilliant display of stars. It was, of course, only a projection; there was too much light from the city to see this many stars and Sophie lived in the middle of an apartment block anyway, but the thousands of small, glistening beacons were a comfort anyway. She rolled over, pulling the silky blankets in closer. They smelled like skin and sleep and glitter and smiles, but Sophie could have been imagining some of that. The top blanket was a little bit scratchy but it reminded her of her dad’s beard so she didn’t mind.

 One of the nearby apartments was playing carols loud enough to be heard through the walls but not loud enough to be distracting and the tunes mixed with the ambient grey noise of the world outside in a way that made Sophie smile, but not know why. At some point the music stops but she doesn’t notice, too tightly wrapped in her warm sheets and sweet dreams.

A little over an hour later, the door slides open with a barely audible pneumatic hiss. A wide figure creeps through, holding two boxes. He sets them on the floor silently, with a fluidity that could only be achieved through experience, particularly given the girth of his body. Whether through childish intuition or some other sense, despite the stealth with which he moved, Sophie began to move restlessly, slowly rising through the layers of her sleep. The man took that as his cue to leave, moving to leave the room. The pneumatic hiss was just enough to completely break sleep’s hold on Sophie and she looked blearily towards the door. She had to blink a few times before her eyes focused properly, so she only caught glimpses of the shape leaving her room. The glimpses were enough to get her out of her bed though, stumbling toward the door just as it closed.

Sophie brushed the sensor impatiently, the door not opening quickly enough for her. She squeezed through the gap as soon as she could fit and looked down the hall, but there was no one there. She stepped forward and let out an ‘eep’ as her foot touched something cold – a sprinkling of snow. There was none anywhere in the rest of the hall, so she checked in her room: nothing. She ran over to the window and pulled the curtains aside, but the night sky was clear of any clouds. A shape moved up above, too far away to see properly, but Sophie didn’t think it looked like a vertibird. A grin slowly spreading across her face, she picked up the two presents that lay at the foot of her bed and ran to her parent’s room, squealing and whooping as she went.

Her door closed behind her with the near-silent pneumatic hiss. If one listened closely, it could almost sound like a jingling of bells.

I liked the idea of having a futuristic Christmas, and at some point between that idea occurring and me actually beginning to write, it had resolved into this. This is the main festive post for today, with Coal being my sort of warm up to writing a proper piece.

Hope everyone has or had a fantastic day, whether you celebrate the holiday or not.

Coal

A man watches the clock as midnight approaches

Counting the seconds

Facing the fireplace

A loaded shotgun pointing at the hearth

"Come on, you big-sacked fatty", he murmurs

Ghostly, in the distance, the sound of bells

A faint "Ho, ho, ho"

Ho

Ho

Ho

The fireplace explodes in a storm of snow and soot

A red blur streaks out

The shotgun blares but misses

A voice from behind booms, "YOU'RE ON THE NAUGHTY LIST, SONNY"

The shotgun wheels around but before it can fire the barrel is jammed with coal

The fat man chuckles again, his too-white teeth lengthening, sharpening

"NAUGHTY CHILDREN GET COAL"

His arm whips forward, faster than humanly possible, clenched fist breaking through teeth and forcing its way down the throat

The hand pulls out but the throat is still blocked, a lump of coal cutting off all air

The shotgun falls to the ground, followed soon by a body gasping with broken and bloody teeth

The last thing he hears before darkness claims him is the sound, faintly, of bells.

Not a very long or polished piece, but I suppose that's sort of the point of a snippet. I wanted to write a Christmas piece that was a little different from the norm so I bashed this out in the space of about five minutes.

Grey

The sky was grey.
   That was the first thing Cobb noticed when he awoke. The sky was a bleak slate grey and it was very cold. It looked like someone had drawn a curtain over the sky, blocking the sun completely. As Cobb dragged himself to his feet, he noticed how unusually flat the ground was. Smooth concrete, as far as he could see, a distance getting progressively less due to a peculiar thick fog rolling towards him. It was at this stage that he realised something was wrong.
   The feeling of unease deepened as shadows flicked through the the mist, hinting at things best left unthought of. Within moments, the fog shrouded him completely, so thick that he could barely see his outstretched hand. A shadow whipped past his hand and he yanked it back, but not before he had felt the oily scales. Something behind him giggled like a small child, a sound so wrong in a place of such malignancy that it would have frozen him in terror, were he not already stock-still. Instead, the sound jolted him out of his paralysis and forward as fast as his legs could carry him. Heavy footfalls thundered behind him, and fear lent him speed even as the spirits of the damned sank their claws into his shoulder, dragging him down.
   He lashed out, trying to escape from the smothering dark, but amorphous limbs held him down and forced him to look up at the contorted black faces above him, mouths open to scream but letting only laughter out. He opened his mouth in a yell of terror and the shadows flowed in, filling him, becoming him.
   He awoke some time later to see the beautiful slate grey sky. Casting his gaze around, he saw a man picking himself up off the ground, so he floated through the air towards him and though he knew he shouldn't, he opened his black lips and giggled.

Obsession

I loved her.
From that very first moment, I loved her, She walked past, glanced my way, and I was instantly drowned in the depths of her eyes, my love for her swallowing me whole like the endless sea, the deep blue sea of her eyes. Her lips parted and a breath escaped, encompassing me like a cloud, a hallucinogenic gas rendering me inert and powerless to stop those wondrous red lips from closing around me. She brushed past and the contact was like a battery, frying all of my cells, burning me up from the inside, igniting a fire like nothing I've ever experienced. Her legs whispered as they swept her away, endless thin beings of elegance and poise, beckoning me closer and closer to this beauty, this goddess. And even as she vanished from sight, her scent lingered, a floral spiciness that drew me in, leaving me begging for more - a taste, a touch, anything - with a dash of musk thrown in as the most inspired of afterthoughts, a drug that captivated and aroused, needlessly sealing the wrought-iron cage of obsession that held me like a beast.
I needed her.

So basically, I wanted to write something that used all five senses, and this is what I came up with. It's not the best thing I've ever written, but I'm still pretty happy with it.

Putting up two snippets today, since they're both pretty short. Hope no one minds.

Mr Doldrum

   Have you ever killed a man, Mr. Doldrum? Have you ever looked into someone's eyes as they begged you for mercy, shot them as they pleaded to you?
   I didn't think so. You don't have the look about you. Someone's who's stared Death in the face, they get a certain... edge. A sharpness around their eyes.
   It's an incredible thing, Mr. Doldrum, really it is, to hold someone as their lifeblood bleeds out. It's richer in colour, lifeblood. Like it really contains their soul, giving it this beautiful crimson gleam. But that's not to say that Death is beautiful, oh no. It's generally fairly messy and violent in my line of work. But, it is my job, and it does pay well.
   Never thought I'd be a hitman, back in elementary. Always thought I'd be a fireman, But, hey, things change, right?
   You know, Frank - can I call you Frank? I feel like we've gotten close enough so as I can call you Frank - I think I like you. It's gonna be a shame to top you off. Still, you know it'll be quick and painless, which is something you couldn't have been promised by anyone else.
   Well, Mr. Doldrum, it's been a pleasure.

Pretty sure death by monologue is neither quick nor painless, but I can't imagine Frank's going to point this out. I kinda picture him frozen in terror at the start, and the longer it goes on the more he's like "...what?"

The Forgotten, Part 3

I crash through the bush, branches whipping my face, twigs tearing at my exposed legs like clawed hands, trying to hold me back. Every time I think I may be gaining ground, he ducks behind a tree, somehow always keeping the same distance from me. Everything in the bush seems to be conspiring against me, bushes and thorns and rabbit holes intent on ensnaring me and breaking my ankles, but I keep on running. There is no way I'm letting him escape. 
   After what feels like hours of running, I lose sight of him. I keep running, blindly hoping I'll see him again, but eventually I begin to accept that he has somehow eluded me. 
   He must've had a vehicle or something. How else could he have gotten here in the first place? I think, stubbornly ignoring the lack of tire tracks and the closeness of the brush. I stand in place for a second or two, then kick a tree stump in frustration and turn to walk home. Barely a step later, something catches my eye. A whirl, hoping in vain that it is the grey-blue man. What it actually is, is a house.
   Well, 'house' might be a bit generous, I think as I approach. More like a shack. Or a lean-to.
The building looks like it was hastily put together, made from branches and leaves. The door, I discover as I get closer, is nothing more than a sheet of corrugated aluminium, though only God knows how it managed to wind up out here. My heart starts to beat faster as I decide whether to enter or not. In the end, it's a pretty easy decision.
   I pull open the 'door', such as it is, and walk into the dank gloom of the shack. There's just the one room, and furnishing it is only a tree stump under a window and a vase holding four flowers: two daisies and two petunias. The window is to the right of the door, so I didn't see it when I approached from the outside. On the stump, I realise, is a small piece of paper.
   I walk slowly towards the paper, the ringing in my ears faintly reappearing. The paper is crinkled and looks like it's been there for a while. What interests me more than the paper, though, is the words written on it in a dark red ink that looks far too much like blood. My brain starts screaming at me to get out, to get away from this forsaken place, but I've come too far to turn back now.
   I begin to read.
   The flowers, the scrawling hand writes, the flowers make them stay, make them stay at bay, away, away. But only when I'm near. I won't listen. I won't let them whisper to me any longer. The eyes they see, the ears hear, but the mind it does not remember, does not remember until it is too late. Now it's too late for me, but I don't want to Remember anymore. I want to Forget so They leave me alone, so They leave and stop Tormenting me. I don't want to be Forgotten, I'll do Anything to not be Forgotten.
   My heart is well and truly in my throat now and I'm really wishing I'd listened to my brain when it was telling me to leave. The ringing in my ears has reached fever pitch, blotting out all other sounds. But there are still some sounds, I realise, just behind all the ringing. I close my eyes and stand up, trying to listen to the sounds, trying to ignore the sweat on my back, trying to ignore my shaking hands, my jerky breaths, the whistle of the wind, and most of all the ringing.
   Then, just behind the noise, a whisper, carried on the wind by a thousand tiny forgotten voices, a single word slips through.
   The smallest hint of a noise, of skinless lips parting, whispering, "Open."

   So I open my eyes.
   Directly in front of me is the single small window, and outside the window, a hundred metres back, is the man, standing perfectly still, as motionless as a photograph. My hands begin to shake uncontrollably, dropping the paper.
   His face.
   In the photo he had looked distraught, sadness etched into every line of his features. At the time it had terrified me, but this... this is even worse. His eyes show no emotion, not his mouth. His eyebrows do not cock this way or that and his nostrils do not flare, for he has none. No nose, eyes, mouth, ears, hair. His head is perfectly smooth all over, faintly sunken where his eyes once were but otherwise uniform, like his scalp has been pulled down past his chin, and yet somehow I know that he can see me. And I know that he brought me here, that this is his shack, his spidery scrawling hand... and I know the fear he felt. It's sunk deep into my bones, curling up in my marrow and laying seeds of despair and panic, already rearing their heads. 
   I can feel myself tipping towards the abyss, my feet teetering on the precipice. 
   I stare at the man -- no, not a man; maybe once, but no longer -- and he stared back with those horrible sunken holes, each breath of wind bringing a whisper from his sealed mouth. Gradually, I become aware of more people, half-hidden behind trees but moving forward, into the waning sunlight. My eyes seem to slip over them, unable to look straight at them but even with my peripheries I can see that they all wear the same ghastly mask of skin. My heart is racing, hands shaking, hair as on-end as it can get, and my brain is screaming, begging me to leave, to run, to escape. And for the first time in over a week, I listen to it.
   I wrench open the door, grabbing the vase of flowers on a whim I fly out the door. I run, heedless of my lack of direction. All I know is that I have to get as far from here as possible. The ringing is getting louder, and with it the whispers, hiding behind the noise. The people are everywhere, emerging from the woods in all directions but straight ahead, gliding ceaselessly towards me with no need for eyes or legs, just floating ever closer.
   I'm tipping over the edge, staring down the endless abyss.
   I leap over logs and brush despite their renewed attempts to claw at me and drag me down. On all sides the creatures approach, hundreds of them gliding slowly forward. The whispers get louder and I can almost hear what they are saying, over and over and over again...
   "Therefore rotten," I hear. No, that can't be right, that doesn't make-- 
   I glance behind me and all at once realise what I'm running from. Not tens of people, or even hundreds, but thousands of them, all floating towards me, their skin taut over featureless faces, all staring with their hollow eyes, thirsting for me. A log reaches up while I'm distracted and ensnares my ankle. I hear something crack, and then I'm falling.
   I fall over the edge of the precipice. The abyss beckons, calling out to me.
   The vase flies from my grasp as I put my hands out to break my fall. The daisies and petunias are flung from my reach, swallowed by the bushes. I land on an angle and fall onto my back, where I can see the moon directly overhead, surveying the scene with disinterest. I try to stand, but pain lances through my ankle and I fall back to the hard dirt. I look up, tears streaming from my eyes, and see the horde gliding ever closer, silent but for the ceaseless whispers that form from their faceless skulls as they surge closer, arms outstretched, reaching out to me. As they get closer, I begin to make out their whispered chant. 
   "Join us." They beckon.
   "It is time." The mass leans in.
   "Time to become one of us."
   Cold, clammy hands grasp my wrist, hair, legs, and everywhere they touch erupts into fire, pain searing through my body.
   "The Forgotten." They chorus, groping and molesting me. Blood soaks through my clothes as lacerations inflict themselves wherever one of them touch me. Their blank faces crowd over me, begging my attention, suffocating me.
   "The Forgotten."
   The blood slows, my skin growing colder as I slip into the abyss. The mass of bodies close in, aching to touch living flesh, devouring me.
   "The Forgotten."
   The abyss swallows my soul.
   "The Forgotten."
   "The Forgotten."

And that's the end of that. This snippet was based on a dream (read: nightmare) that a friend had. I was considering writing a proper short story/novella about it, which would take place after The Forgotten. I never got around to it though, so it's currently sitting in the back of my mind as another "on hold" project.

As always,  feedback and thoughts are more than welcome.

The Forgotten, Part 2

   I've only got one bar of reception, but I try anyway. The phone rings once, twice, five times... Just as I'm about to give up and hang up, she answers.

   "Hey, David, what's up? How's the vacation?"
   "Hey Mary. It's alright, I guess. I just needed to hear someone else's voice for a while."
   "Aww, getting a little lonely? I told you you should've brought Amy with you."
   "Mary. We broke up a month ago. I needed some alone time."
   "And yet now here you are, complaining of being lonely." I can hear the smirk in her voice. My sister is younger than me and revels in any victory over me, no matter how small. 
   "More like cabin fever. Did you get the picture I sent?" I ask, attempting to steer the conversation onto lighter topics. 
   "Of the daisies? Yeah, I did. I am so jealous of whoever owns that house, to be able to have that view whenever they want. If I owned it, I'd never rent it out, just live there." She sighs.
   "I'll tell the owners, but somehow I don't think they share your enthusiasm. Certainly not in regards to gardening." I smile. I was right, talking to her was making me feel better. 
   She laughs, then pauses for a moment, as if she's checking something. "Wait, didn't you say you were alone?"
   A small chill runs down my spine. "I am. Why?"
   "Do you have the TV on?"
   "No? Mary, what is it?" I glance around, the unease quelled by hearing her voice rising again. "Mary?"
   She pauses again before replying. "It's nothing." She says. "Must've just been hash on the line. I thought I heard someone saying 'therefore rotten' or something--"
   She cuts off just before a wave of static comes over the line. For a moment I fancy I can hear a voice whispering 'therefore rotten' before the line clears again. 
   "--gardener or something?" Mary finishes, sounding uncertain.
   "What? I missed all of that. Say again?"
   "Do you have a gardener or anything like that?" She repeats a little more strongly. 
   "No, I'm completely alone." I answer, exasperated and more than a little creeped out. "The nearest life is over four hours away. Why, Mary? What's wrong?"
   "In the picture, the garden--" A surge of static engulfs her words, cutting off whatever she was about to say, before the line abruptly goes dead. I can feel my pulse quickening, the palms of my hands sweating, making the phone slippery. I no longer have any reception. Frantically-quickly, I go into my photos and look through the six I took most recently.
   The garden, she said. What's wrong with the garden? My eyes flick back and forth, left-right-down-down-left-right-down, until I see it.

   A person, so obvious it's ridiculous I missed him until now. In all the photos, bottom-left of screen, looking directly at the camera, at the phone, no, past the phone, at ME, in all six exactly the same. His face looks sad. No, not sad; miserable. He has the look of someone who has lost everything. He looks scared. He looks terrifying.
The thing that scares me most, though, more than his grey-blue skin and clothes, more than the fact that he looks almost transparent, insubstantial, is the fact that I didn't see him. I looked through the photos multiple times, but I somehow managed to overlook him, and I can't help shake the feeling that if Mary hadn't pointed him out, I would never have seen him.
   A high-pitched ringing starts up in my ears. Years of habit reveal themselves when I open my mouth to pray for the newly lost soul, before reality reasserts itself. 
   I shove the unease from my mind and storm outside. If someone was in the garden then they were trespassing. 
   "Hello?" I call out. "I know you're out there. I saw you!"
   Silence is my only reply. The ringing gets imperceptibly louder, the hairs on the back of my neck raising a little. 
   "He has to be around here somewhere," I mutter to myself. "Come out! I'm not playing around! I'll call the police!"
   The ringing suddenly spikes, pressure and pain building in my ears until I'm forced onto my knees through sheer force of hurt. 
   Oh God, it hurts, why does it hurt so bad-- What have I done-- have my eardrums burst-- Oh God oh GOD OH GOD--
   Just when I think it can't possibly hurt any more, the pain disappears. The fog of agony lifts from my mind and I'm left kneeling on the dry grass, my heart racing, lungs pumping and mind whirring. A chill runs down my spine and something flickers on the outside of sight. I spin around and almost catch sight of him before he disappears into the bushland. Hauling myself to my feet, I stagger after him.
   "Hey, get back here!" I yell. I can't shake the feeling that the pain was somehow his fault. I'm not letting him get away from me.

The Forgotten, Part 1

A flicker, out of the corner of my eye.

   What was that? My eyes dart over to the bedroom wall, but whatever it was, if there was anything, is gone.
   I've gotta keep my head on. Things have gotten... weird, lately. Sometimes I'll think I hear a noise outside, or catch a glimpse of something just out of sight, but it's always just the wind or the waves or a tree, slowly swaying back and forth. 
   "The Beachside Bungalow!" The ad proclaimed. "Wash off the stress of the daily grind!"
   Well, whatever this place is, restful is not an appropriate adjective. There just seems to be something... off, about everything. The colours seem to sharp, saturating the air with a sort of ceaseless oppressive vibrancy that set my teeth on edge. I've half a mind to just leave, go home a few days early, but somehow that feels like letting the house win.
   No, damn it, you're being paranoid. I tell myself. It's just a house! You came here to get away from stress, and you're wasting the money by just sitting inside, jumping at shadows.
   I get up, walking over to the window and throwing open the shutters. For half a second, I imagine a grey-blue face looking over my shoulder in the reflection, but when I glance around there's nothing there. 
   Of course there's nothing there.
   The sun is hanging high over the sea, loftily surveying the small house and its overgrown garden, petunias and daisies mixing with the local brush. 
   Maybe some sun will do me good.
   I chuck on some boardies and head outside, not bothering with sun protection. The sun here is warm but harmless, a comforting glow of warmth that hangs around for ten hours a day and then leaves you to the sub-zero nights. It's the night that's the real killer here, not some half-baked melanoma. You don't rug up nice and warm by eight o'clock, you'd better get moving or risk freezing over. I almost did, the first night. I came to this self-proclaimed seaside paradise with not even a jumper, expecting temperatures of twenty above, but luckily there was enough wood to get the fireplace crackling and stave off the worst of the cold until the sun decided to peek out from behind the horizon, sullen and hungover. 
   "Oh, blimey, was it that cold last night? Sorry, I had a thing with some other stars, group poker thing, you know."
   I managed to get the Jeep to start after much kicking and swearing and drove into the nearest town to buy some clothes to help me survive the remaining nights. The round trip took just over nine hours, so the sun was already sinking beneath the waves when I got back, the moon reasserting its dominance over the heavens. It was that night, as I lay on the lumpy mattress in three layers of new clothes, that I first started thinking I saw things.

   I was just about to fall asleep, that precipice between having your feet planted in reality and being hurled over into your subconscious. Teetering on the edge, I'd just begun to tip over when my body jerked itself awake in that smug and depreciating way it has of reminding you that you can't fall asleep without its consent. So I jolted awake, and for half a second I felt it. I've never really understood the feeling of being watched, but in that moment it became crystal clear. I'm talking racing heart, gasping breaths, the hair on the back of my neck raising like hackles on a hound, the whole shebang. And after about half a second of lucidity and paralysing fear, something flitted from the corner of my eye and the feeling vanished. 
Since then I've been getting increasingly edgy, jumping at phantoms of my over-active imagination and having trouble falling asleep, my mind not letting me hurl myself over the precipice and into the sweet abyss. Sounds keep me awake when I close my eyes from the dark, whispers from the wind brushing past my ears so that I strain to hear them even while I dread what they might say. I've probably gotten about seven hours of sleep total since I got here; none on the first night; four the second, after the brief panic attack subsided; two the night after; and one last night, if that.
   That's probably all this is. Just a lack of sleep. I'm not used to the cold, and I'm not sleeping well, so my brain's a bit fuzzy. That's all it is.
   The beach is mainly stone, reminiscent of the shores of England, but the water's surprisingly warm in the late afternoon sun. The sun's beaming at me like a slightly unhinged uncle, glad he's made life that little bit easier before he goes on vacation and leaves me with Luna, the babysitter from hell. I float for a while before going in and towelling off. The unease is still slouching in the back of my mind, however, a thin film of greasy distrust that the salt couldn't quite wash off. 
   On the way back to the house I pick some daisies from the garden and put them in a small vase overlooking the ocean. I frame the image with my fingers, closing one eye like they do in movies, as if it'll make a difference. Struck by a moment of inspiration, I walk to my room and retrieve my mobile, going into the camera function as I head back to the kitchen. I take half a dozen photos from different angles and then select the best one, sending it to my sister. She always loved daisies. I go to put my phone away, but hesitate. Maybe what I need is to hear another human voice.

1: Lady in Gold

Pret Deavos looked down on the ballroom from his high balcony, watching the nobility below mix and mingle. From down there, on ground level, the throng of people looked random, disorganised, but from his vantage point Pret could see that the patrons all met and swivelled and parted in an elaborate social dance, different groups of important families and their orbiting attendants, those of lower status swinging past briefly before looping around to pass a different congregation. The women wore flowing gowns of all colours that stopped just short of the ankle, as was the current fashion. Some also had a high collar, a cole, that covered their right cheek and ear, but these were becoming less and less common. Their counterparts we bedecked in dark, tight-fitting vests with voluminous sleeves that proved useful for holding personal items. Pret preferred to have less fabric around his arms and so his sleeves extended only to his elbows; enough to hold and small personal effects, but short enough to still have a full range of movement of his arms, should he need it. He hoped he would not.

The patrons continued to dance and talk, presided over by the Duchess and her husband, who sat on a raised dais directly below the balcony. One of the large double doors opened, allowing the pooled light to spill out into the night, shadows dancing over the gardens and marble statues that surrounded the ballroom. Pret caught a glimpse of a man with a spear raised, frozen mid-step. It was a likeness of the Duchess’ husband, on the day he routed the Southern Lord. As if to balance the light escaping the doors, an ebony-haired woman stepped inside. Her golden gown rose from her toes to her nose, the cole covering the entire right side of her face and slanting down to obscure even part of her left cheek. The door closed behind her and Pret could see her inhale deeply, slowly, and then set off into the crowd. Something in his gut twinged and he felt at his belt unconsciously to make sure he still had his sword and pistol.

Turning to Marc, the uniformed man beside him, Pret murmured, “Have someone follow the Lady in gold who just arrived. Something doesn’t feel right.” Marc nodded and moved quickly down the stairs to floor level. Pret turned his focus back to the ballroom, trying to locate the woman… but couldn’t. He scanned back and forth, but saw only dresses of orange or lime or perhaps yellow, but none the burnished gold of the newest Lady. His eyes flicked down in alarm to the Duchess, his heart beating faster, but the High Lady seemed unperturbed, laughing to the Lady sitting to her right. His hand again moved to his pistol—to find the holster empty. He looked down, grabbing at his sword, but the scabbard was vacant of steel too. He heard a polite cough and spun around to see the golden-garbed Lady leaning against the wall, his sword resting lazily in her right hand and his pistol held steadily in her left, pointed towards him. He tensed to lunge at her but she cocked the pistol, shaking her head.

“I was expecting more from the Captain of the Guard.” She said, the words sliding from a mouth hidden behind the wide cole. Her one visible eye was a deep, dark purple that seemed to overlap itself, the colour looping and sinking beneath and around her pupil. She lifted the sword, letting it slice slowly through the air. The barrel of the pistol never wavered. “You men are all so brutish, so heavy-handed. You don’t even notice when a lighter touch is used.”

“How did you get past Marc?” Pret growled.

The Lady’s visible eyebrow creased in mock concern. “Oh dear, that wasn’t the man you sent to look after me, was it? I’m afraid he won’t be waking up tonight. Whether he wakes at all… well, that’s up to what you do now. You see, he somehow swallowed a lethal dose of the Taint. However, I happen to have a dose of the cure here.” She pulled a thin vial filled with a swirling translucent liquid from the back of her cole.

Pret froze. If what she said was true… No one would have any of the cure, not this far from the Rift. And if Marc was truly Tainted and left unattended to, the entire nobility in attendance would be in danger. “For all I know, you’re lying.” He said, hating his voice for cracking.

The Lady cocked her head, her long black hair sweeping past her shoulders, and asked, “Can you take that chance?”

Before Pret could respond, she lobbed the vial toward the stairwell and sprinted for the balcony railing. Letting out a roar born of indecision and regret, Pret leapt for the vial.

United We Stand

Puffs of red-brown dirt, kicked up by heavy boots. Drops of spittle flying from Peterson’s mouth, his chapped lips ejecting orders. The steady thumpthump thumpthump of my heartbeat, sending adrenaline pulsing through my body, heightening my senses, slowing down the world to a bare crawl. 

    The saliva hit the ground and I ducked through the mud brick entrance into the room behind Rogers, the dusty walls veined with cracks born of heat and age. I raised the gun to rest against my shoulder as I swept from in front to the right, the crosshairs passing over the ragged green couch, hunched in the corner of the room, over the hanging picture of a dark-skinned man wearing long pants and a woman wearing a dark blue burqa, reaching the small wooden oaken? table occupying the corner to my right. 
    Clear. Rogers echoes my call and the rest of the squad floods through the door as one creature. United We Stand, the mantra echoes in my mind. Heroes of War.
   My boot lifts from the ground and I swing back to face the door on the other side of the room. My foot reaches the apex of its step and begins its downward descent but is cut off by the muted crack of gunfire. Beside me, Rogers grunts and jerks and a hole explodes in the back of his shirt. I twist mid-stride, my sights crossing the room couchpicturetable in a blur to look at the rest of the squad, look behind the rest of my squad, in time to see Smith stumble and James spasm and Peterson’s head explode in a red mist, spewing grey matter across those closest to him. Stewart and Leigh and I are unscathed. My heart does a double-skip thumpthumpthump and sends more adrenaline to all corners of my body. I glimpse a hostile and squeeze the trigger, feeling the barrel kick back onetwothree and seeing the black-clad man start to fall, his own weapon spraying bullets as his muscles convulse. 
    United We Stand.
    I drop to one knee to make myself less of a target and Leigh does the same, ducking into the corner with the table. Stewart is still turning to see if there are any more hostiles when the rat-at-at sends three slugs into him, two to the chest and one to the face, tearing out his grey-green eyes.
    Heroes of War.
    I see the second man but and fire onetwothree again but Rogers has already nailed him from behind me. I glance over to him tablepicturecouch and see him clutching his side, rivulets of red running through his pale white fingers. I’m still looking his way when a boot kicks open the door behind him, shards of wood spiralling from the point of impact. I blink instinctively as a splinter floats past my face, bringing my gun around too late to save Rogers from the point-blank shot to the head. My finger squeezes onetwothree and the man jerks, sliding to the side to allow another black-clad man access who falls onetwo-click. 
    A moment passes, my brain frozen, before I catch up. One of the rounds is jammed between the firing chamber and the round still trying to load. 
    Gun jam:
1. Rip out mag
2. Rack slide
3. Lever with knife
4. Insert mag
5. Rack slide
6. Fire
    I thumb the release and pull hard, feeling the magazine grip and then slide out, then drop it. The mag falls as I reach up to the slide, pulling it back to try to engage the ejector and kick out the cartridge still lodged in the firing chamber. The mag strikes the dirt, kicking up dust, and gunfire rings out from Leigh’s corner. 
    United We Stand.
    The cartridge sticks in the chamber and I dive behind the door, seeing another man coming from the corridor beyond. He fires a shot that catches my thigh, sending white-hot flames of pain licking up and down my leg. I cry out even before I’ve hit the ground, rolling until I hit the clay wall and pulling out my knife to prise the cartridge out. Leigh faces away from me, rifle pointed outside, exchanging fire with someone out of my sight. I hear footsteps coming from the corridor and call to him and he turns my way in time to receive a face full of buckshot from a shotgun.
    Heroes of War.
    The cartridge flicks out, jumping through the red-brown dust that my leap disturbed. I reach down for another magazine but it catches in its pocket for a moment. The cartridge lands next to Rogers’ body, sinking into the sand that his blood now had soaked. The magazine finally pulls free and I slam it into my gun just as the man Leigh was firing at rounded the corner. I rack the slide and squeeze onetwothree at the same time as he fires, a line of fire burning through my stomach and up to my ribcage. 
    United We Stand.
    I cough up blood from my shredded lungs as the shotgunner rounds the door. I manage to squeeze off onetwothree another burst of fire, but my aim is off and the slugs punch through his kneecap, crimson filling the air. He cries out and I can see his finger whitening as it tightens on the trigger of his shotgun even as I squeeze again. The firing pin clicks and slides forward, striking the bullet in the chamber of my gun just after a burst of light explodes from the end of the shotgun, sending buckshot hurtling towards me. 
    Heroes of—

Façade

The late afternoon sun crawled in through the blinds, congealing in puddles of liquid gold on the wooden floor. These small slivers of light were the only form of illumination in the otherwise dark house. A loud clack echoed through the empty home, signalling the teenager’s return from school.  Tim stepped into the hall, the laughter of his friends following him until the heavy door thudded shut. The smile lingered on his face as he called out to the cloying emptiness, but there was no one to hear him.

He kicked off his shoes and padded through the drifting motes of dust to the blinds, closing them to shut out the harsh, judging light. The floorboards were cool underfoot as he reached up to his face, undoing the rough straps and clasps of thought and concentration that held his mask of confidence in place. The ceramic mask let out a pneumatic sigh as it came away from his head, cracked from the strain of a day’s use, the smile still frozen in place. He placed it gently, almost apprehensively, on the mahogany table, the shadow covering a whorl in the old wood. On contact with the dark tabletop it fractured, tiny crevices like spiderwebs dancing across its porcelain surface. The wastewater-grey thing inhabiting Tim’s body let out a tired breath as his features assumed a practiced neutrality. It was the expression of someone neither joyous nor tortured. The look of someone floating somewhere far away.

On the table, the mask groaned and collapsed in on itself. Fragments of false confidence and shards of rehearsed happiness slowly broke down, dripping from the table in teardrops of manufactured levity, colliding with the lacquered floorboards with a soft plink.

The greyness consumed a small, poorly prepared meal, the bitterness leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The inside of his stomach had become a cavernous hollow, hungering for something that could not be sated by any meal. It was a familiar feeling now, an unwanted companion. The constant ache of a phantom limb.

Plink.

The hollow roiled uneasily through his intestines, demanding some tribute but giving no indication as to what it desired. The greyness wandered into the living room and turned on the TV, watching without seeing the group of cartoon people as they discussed animals or houses or something equally trivial, the sounds ricocheting off his eardrums and back out into space. The drilling emptiness in his stomach churned, spurting needle-like ridges that grated at his innards. His tongue rubbed the inside of his cheeks, tasting blood and dirt.

Plink.

The greyness quickly grew restless and began to browse through a book from the squat coffee table, breathing it in. The smell of dust and mustiness. The slight roughness of the thin pages, familiar to him on an almost fundamental level.

Plink.

Within minutes his eyes had begun to slide over the words, his numbed brain reducing them to incomprehensible lines and shapes. The greyness no longer truly held any hope that these activities would enthral him or stall the hollowness, but he went through the motions regardless. It was the physical manifestation of the impatient, irritating feeling to go and do something. It could be getting some food or going for a run or yelling and screaming as loud as he could, just to tell the world hello, I am still here, and I am alive. But of course it was never any of these things. It was just an itch he couldn’t scratch. It had become something of a game; he would find menial activities to while away the time and in return the hollowness would continue to grow.

Eventually, the rest of his family got home. The greyness scooped up what remained of the mask and affixed it to his face, gluing together the ten thousand shards of glass and tears. He was tired, though, and the façade sometimes slipped, earning him worried looks that were quickly dismissed by the oft-rehearsed phrase, “I’m just a bit tired”. After dinner, the greyness retreated to his room, a safe haven from social expectations, a lair in which to lick his wounds. It smelled of books. Sleep. Three-day-old dirty laundry. Safe smells.

The lights began to go out in the house, signalling to the greyness that it was time to rest, to build up the energy required for tomorrow. The phantasmal cold came, seeping through the blankets that the greyness had piled around himself, coating his body in a sheet of acidic frost that complemented the empty pain in his stomach, wearing away his defences until all that remained was the bleached centre of loneliness and self-loathing. The core shivered from the imagined cold, pointlessly pulling the blankets closer and huddling beneath them until he fell asleep to visions of his own incompetency.

When morning came, the core regenerated its protective layer, no longer refuse grey but a thicker congealed ash colour. After a few minutes, the ceramic mask was back, the façade reconstructed, the cheery smile fixed in place once more amidst images of merriment etched in the brightest hues.

The mask that would keep the coldness away.

At least for one more day.

City

    The night air chilled the two people standing on top of the building, despite their long clothes. They stood in silence, overlooking the city they jointly despised. A gas mask hung from the neck of one of them, while the other wore a long, thin scabbard.
    “Look at this place.” The one with the mask around his neck spoke. “It’s beautiful. A beautiful fuckin’ cesspit of corruption. I can’t wait for it to burn.” He spat off the edge of the roof, counting the seconds until it hit the ground. He gave up after four, the droplet of saliva shrinking from sight as it fell to the earth far, far below. 
    “Reckon they’ll catch us?” It was her first time, unlike the other rebel. 
    He laughed, his lips peeling back like a wolf’s snarl. “Catch? Not a chance. They know it, too. If they get us, we’ll be dead on the ground before you can say a thing. These bastards’ll be shootin’ to kill.” He mimed firing a machine gun, the movement making the flamethrower by his side swing on its strap. “They sure as hell won’t be expecting you, though. I doubt you’ll have to worry about too much”
    The girl smiled, absentmindedly fingering the handle of her sword. The wind blew stronger, and they both hugged their coats tighter to combat the cold as they waited for the signal.
    “They don’t even know who I am. The only thing they have is the police sketch of my mask.” He took a swig from the flask on his belt. “They caught me once, right back at the start. Sat me down in a room, flooded the air and made me breathe. They didn’t know who I was, though. Didn’t have my mask back then, and they’ve never made the connection between me and him. Besides, I didn’t look half so pretty back then.” He smiled again, the muscles in his face pulling at the shiny scar tissue that covered half of his face. How he’d kept vision in his right eye, she had no idea. 
    “Yeah, they told me about that. They all thought you died in the explosion.”
    “Well, for four minutes I technically did.”
    They fell back into silence, looking over the glittering lights of the city. He was right. It was beautiful.
    As she watched, the upper stories of a building in the distance erupted into flame, spewing concrete and glass in all directions. Moments later, the sound of the explosion reached them and the man’s grin grew wider.
    “There’s our cue.” He turned to her, putting on the gas mask. “Remember, get in and out as fast as you can. We need you for the smarts. Leave the real fun stuff to me.” Somehow, she could still feel smiling through the mask.
    She nodded, adrenaline coursing through her veins, fastening the smile to her face and turning it slightly manic. 
    “Alright then. Let’s watch this city burn!” With a howl, the man hurled himself off the building, opening his arms and letting the air fill his wingsuit and carry him to the building opposite. The girl waited a moment longer before doing the same, her heart beating fast enough to explode when she leapt into the empty space, looking down at the ground, so far away, and feeling a laugh born of excitement and terror bubble up through her throat as the wingsuit finally caught the air and carried her across the divide. She crashed through a window, narrowly missing the concrete support strut inside as she rolled to absorb the impact on the floor, drawing her sword as she stood. As the sword left the scabbard, the flint engaged and spat fire onto the blade, engulfing it in moments. She ran from the room and saw the other rebel, who nodded to her, laughing raucously as his flamethrower spewed fire into a room she couldn’t see. She turned towards the stairwell, reaching the door just as a man in uniform burst through, pointing his gun at her. She didn’t hesitate as her flaming sword sliced through the air towards him.

    This piece was jointly inspired by the song "City", by Hollywood Undead, and by this picture: http://88grzes.deviantart.com/art/Fire-raiser-102469091 . Check out the rest of the art, they're awesome.

Blue

The eyes are blue, speckled with black. They shine eerily bright in the fading light, twin pools of arctic water in a face ice-white. The lips, slightly parted, are painted the same colour as the road, concealing the paleness underneath. The clothes are torn and scorched, gradually turning grey by the gently falling ash that dances and twirls like burnt snowflakes to the eagerly awaiting ground. The whisper of the wind sighing through the streets is barely audible over the ringing in their ears. Every step crunches and every crunch sounds like a slowly burning fire that crackled and consumed and spread instantly and effortlessly. Buildings once white are blackened, cars red and blue turned into hollow husks, burning carcasses of giant beasts, skeletons of what was. The air feels warm and the ground feels warmer, even through rubber-soled shoes. Everything tastes faintly of screaming and despair and breathing through your nose doesn’t help. There were clouds, but they have since fled, choosing to spend their vigil watching over someplace less dismal. In their absence the heavens are empty but for the ash, not even the sun to be seen. The sky is blue, speckled with black. 

Romulus

Romulus

The evening sun shone through the high windows, suffusing the room with a soft crimson glow. Lanterns hung on the wall, just now being lit by a short woman with eyes like sapphires and at least half a smile at all times. The sound of laughter and relaxed conversation mingled with the sunset, punctuated occasionally by a yell of excitement or the clinking of cups. Groups of men and women formed, merged and separated across the tables in the room in waves of conversation and cheer, the sounds breaking against Romulus’ ears gently and consistently.

Romulus and his companions rose another mug to their success and drank deeply, drops sometimes spilling free from the ceramic and falling to the stones below. Guffaws and giggles followed, usually accompanied by a solid clap on the back. Romulus laughed with them, his head beginning to spin from all the round before. He looked around at the grins of his friends, their bodies relaxed and carefree as they ordered more drinks. This, right here, was a room removed from time and troubles, where nothing could go wrong, nothing could be wrong. 

Romulus felt like crying.

For a moment, when Sander lifted his mug, Romulus could see the baton glinting in his hand. Aime shifted in her seat and he could see her twisting her body into the kick. If he looked down, he could still see the body on the floor, in the dirt, twisted and broken. He looked up, seeing Sander’s eyes on him and laughed, accepting the drink and throwing it back. His smile felt like a disease, something corrupt that had crawled onto his face while he slept and taken up residence without his permission. 

Someone yelled a few tables over and it sounded like a cry for help. The young duster had yelled like that, for what felt like hours. They’d always been told that dusters were savages with only two states: placid or angry. This duster had definitely been angry, but the tears that glinted in the torchlight had to have been from sadness, hadn’t they? Romulus didn’t know if anyone else had even seen them. Surely if they had, they wouldn’t be out drinking now, would they?

Romulus threw back another drink. A seeping dampness on his chest let him know that more had spilled than the mug before. He didn’t care, and laughed along with the others. Their grins looked predatory now, twisted grimaces that were all teeth and malice. Romulus shook the image out of his head and fished out his money to buy the next round. 

The sun had set a while ago, and the only light was from the flickering green lanterns. Someone walked past one and a looming shadow crossed the room, making everything just a little bit darker until they moved on. Romulus left the table before the drinks arrived, saying that he needed some air. The door kept moving to the left but he eventually made it outside, under the stars. Using the wall to prop himself up, Romulus walked around the side of the building, not feeling the chill of the night. The alley was unlit and he stumbled more than once before finally collapsing, sitting with his back to the wall. From inside he could still hear laughter, muffled by the bricks between them. 

Romulus leaned forward and retched. Cheers sounded from inside, as if congratulating him. His stomach heaved a few more times and then was still. He pressed his head back against the cold wall, feeling a bit of stone dig into his skull. He swallowed, trying fruitlessly to rid his mouth of the taste of bile. It was between his teeth now. His eyes stung and he felt tears run down his face. His body shook, the shaking not connected to the cold. 

He could hear the young duster shouting, yelling, pleading with them to stop, but they didn’t. The body crunched under his boot, snapped under his baton. The woman was dead but they kept going, just kept going to make sure and the duster was crying and screaming and Romulus might have been too, he couldn’t remember.

He leant forward again, feeling his stomach begin to rise once more. Inside, the crowd laughed and drank and celebrated their success.

Another little something from The Fifth Citadel.

These are really just to give me snapshots of different characters at different moments in time. Spoilers: this is a sad moment.

Cassidhe

Heave. Swing.
Heave. Swing.
The sun was hot.
Heave. Swing.
It hung low in the sky, crimson and scorching. The heat felt like a pressure pushing down on Cassidhe's back.
Heave. Swing.
The heat and pressure travelled through her body, congealing and sharpening into a blade that lodged itself right behind her left eye.
Heave. Swing.
Cass spat, trying to rid her mouth of the all-pervasive red dust that clung to her sweat like a second skin, coarse and gritty. She could feel grains grind between her teeth when she closed her mouth, taste the endless wastelands from whence the dust came.
Heave. Swing.
The manacles bit into her wrists,opening up scars that never had a chance to truly heal. On her fingers she could feel the unpleasant slipperiness of a blister not yet popped, the top layer of skin separated from and sliding across the one below. The blisters on her palms had already burst, sending blood and fluid down her forearms with every
Heave. Swing.
Behind her somewhere in the shade were two whiteshirts, mouths covered to protect them from the dust. Disciplinary batons lounged at their waists, ready for use at a moment's notice. Cass didn't have to look back to know they were there.
Heave. Swing.
The rock in front of her split cleanly down the middle, revealing a metallic gleam. She kicked it behind herself, towards the whiteys, then moved on to a new rock.
Heave. Swing.
The pickaxe smelled of blood and sweat. Actually, everything did. Blood and sweat and dust.
Heave. Swing.
Heave. Swing.
Heave. Swing.



Nothing special this time, just an excerpt from the universe of The Fifth Citadel. What is The Fifth Citadel, you ask? Well, wouldn't you like to know.

Kayleigh Tanner 3

7/11, Thursday

Sorry about last night. There are still times when this all just feels so…

Anyway, where was I? Right, the car.

The other people in the car were talking, but I couldn’t make out anything they said. All I was aware of was a pounding pressure in my skull and the urge to vomit, so most of my attention was focused on not throwing up over everyone in the car.

Vaguely, I heard someone that that I didn’t look so good and I had the ridiculous urge to point out that well, yeah, my family just tore each other to pieces, I’m not exactly feeling on top of the world. Instead, I gasped that I needed some air. The car stopped, hard enough to hurt my neck from the whiplash. I fumbled around until I got the door open, practically felling onto the road and then violently retching. Midway through my heaving, someone in the car asked if I’d been bit or scratched by anything. I shook my head as best I could with bile burning up my throat, but my mind shot back over the past half hour and I realised I didn’t actually know. Everything had happened so fast, I couldn’t properly remember much of it at all.

When my stomach had settled as much as it was going to, I spat the remaining bile out and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Gentle hands helped me back into the car and I noticed for the first time the people who’d saved me. Beside me, in the middle of the car, was a girl about my age, maybe a bit older, with shoulder-length purple hair and eyes that seemed to be every colour at once. On the far left of the car was the guy who had so accurately observed that I wasn’t looking fantastic and asked if I was bit, wearing a basketball shirt and, ridiculously, a backwards cap, even inside the car. In the passenger seat was a blue-eyed man, but all I could see of the driver was their brown hair because they were right in front of me and had their eyes on the road.

Almost before my door had closed, the car was moving again. There were bodies littering the streets, and the only ones that were moving were the ones tearing strips off of the dead people. Some raised their heads as we flew past, but most seemed intent on their meal. I tried not to look at them, the sight not helping my already queasy stomach. The driver managed to avoid most of them, but at the speed we were going it was impossible to miss them all, and to be perfectly honest I don’t think he was trying that hard. My right shoulder was already bruised by my collision with the doorframe back in my house, and every time we turned left I was slammed into the door, sending bolts of pain spearing down my arm. The car was filled with an oppressive silence, no one seeming to want to talk. I was practically aching to ask just what the hell was going on, but reason told me that chances are no one here  would know anything more than I did. A tear ran down my cheek.

After a few minutes, the girl beside me broke the silence, leaning forward and asking, “Where are we going?”

The blue eyed man turned around, brushing his brown hair out of his eyes. His fringe was just long enough to get in his eyes, as if he were overdue for a trim. “We,” he motioned to himself and the driver, “are going to check on our parents and see if they’re okay. Whether you all come or not is up to you. If you want to see your own family, you can, but you’ll have to find your own way there.”

With the silence broken, backwards-cap spoke up. “How did this happen, man? How did things get so fucked up so fast?” He didn’t seem to be asking anyone in particular, just musing. “I was just chilling at home, you know, and I look outside and there’s those things just chewing up people in the street.” He shook his head, then leant forward. “I really appreciate you guys picking me up out there. Not everyone would’ve stopped, y’know? And if you hadn’t come along…” I made a noise of agreement.

“I’m Jodie.” The purple-haired girl said.

The guy leant back, or at least as far as he could with the beak of his cap hitting the seat. “Jackson.”

“I’m Rob,” the blue-eyed man introduced. “And this is Steve.” He motioned to the driver, who didn’t take his eyes from the road. Jodie, Rob and Jackson turned to look at me.

“Kayleigh.” I said. “My name’s Kayleigh.”

Chronia

Stop.
A hundred thousand rainbows of light reflecting off the shattered glass in front of you as it falls forever to the bitumen below. The road is cool beneath your bare feet despite the sun overhead, your toes crossing the labyrinthine maze of cracks and fissures in the tarmac. Overhead, the sky glows grey-green, deep clouds boiling over over the horizon and sweeping away the stars.
Go.
You take a step down the road, the stench of burning wood and burning rubber and burning flesh clogging your nose. You look down and see dark blood the colour of fear and war dripping from your stomach. An explosion rocks the world somewhere to your right, but you don't see it. The building ahead of you grows larger and larger until it fills your vision and you find yourself on the front steps, a trail of black wetness marking your path. The revolving glass door is blocked with blood and bodies so you have to use your shoulder to ram your way through, each shove making you cough up a bit more black ichor, the blood of machines and monsters. The room beyond is charred and scarred and occupied by people in body armour pointing their guns at you, fingers squeezing the-
Stop.
Your legs buckle, but you keep your feet. The figure in the middle has their finger firmly pressed down on the trigger, the muzzle of gun flaring brightly as the first of three rounds exits. You walk up to the team of gunners and incapacitate them one by one, saving the middle for last.
Go.
The bullet smashes through the revolving door you were standing in front of five minutes ago, a moment ago. The bodies slump as gravity claims them and you walk on, up the grand staircase. You let your instincts guide you. Your body knows where to go.
A man in a white coat babbles incoherently against a shattered statue, tears streaming down his face. You ignore him, taking the next left. The room is large, but cramped with equipment you don't understand. Harsh metal panels and precisely coloured wires and distorted lenses of glass sit on tables, squat in corners, lounge in any free space. You walk through the room. The instruments are not your concern. The back door opens to a courtyard where formally-dressed men and women scamper frantically around like disturbed ants. One sees you and cries out, raising a handgun and firing-
Stop.
The bullet tears through your hamstring and you fall to the ground, tasting dust and blood and corruption. You stagger to your feet and set to work incapacitating the scientists and engineers, black tears burning a path down your cheeks and into your mouth.
Go.
Sound returns, deafening after the silence. You walk to the enormous metal cube in the middle of the courtyard. As you key in the code (SENTINEL), your fingers slick with blood and death, you catch a glimpse of your reflection, craggy and distorted, a product, a child born of conflict and ingenuity. A panel swings open to your right and you fall to your knees when you try to walk over to it.
Blood leaks from your ears while you retch violently. After a moment, a minute, a lifetime, you regain your feet and stagger over to the panel. You can hear the machine inside the cube whirring as it gradually heats up. The panel is inscribed with symbols and letters you don't understand, but your body does and quickly aligns them. A door opens and the whirring becomes much louder, deepening into a thrum. The machine inside is a beautiful amalgam of sleek design and perfect destruction.
You try to Stop, to give yourself more time, but you feel your insides wrench and twist and something breaks. The machine begins the final stage of firing, the thrum deepening to just below audible, leaving an uncomfortable pressure on your ears. You fall before you can reach the machine and this time you don't think you can rise again. You roll onto your back, looking up at the steadily reddening sky, black blood trickling from your mouth, stomach, leg. Distantly, you can hear shouts, but they are fading, as is the light. For a single moment, the machine cycles back to a high-pitched squeal, and then you
Stop.