Seven And A Half Thousand Days

Day 7425: They had been alone for a long time. They had thought about it before, and would likely do so again. They trundled along, leaving tracks in the red dirt, moving easily over the scattered rocks of an empty world.

Day 7427: They were never meant to last this long. The mission was only supposed to be a few months, but then it was extended, and then again, and again, until over seven thousand days had passed. Almost seven and a half thousand days, alone. Not much longer. A dust storm blurred the horizon, but they could see that it would pass far to the south. Harmless.

Day 7432: Their arm struck a rock and bounced slightly. It hadn’t worked in years, and they didn’t have enough energy to try to keep it aloft anymore. It was hard enough to keep moving. But in the distance, half hidden by the dusty air, they could see the last hill. They focused on that.

Day 7433: Halfway up the hill there was a dull, soft crunch, and they stopped moving. They tried to push on but almost immediately stopped at the sound of whining motors. Something was caught in their treads, though they couldn’t see what it was from their position. Even if they could, their arm hung uselessly. They were stuck. On the very last hill, they were stuck. If they could, they would scream.

Day 7437: A craft entered the atmosphere and hurtled toward the ground. They watched it descend, taking as many pictures as they could before it landed beyond the hill. The wind blew over them, dust trying to settle in cracks in their armour. They tried again one more time to move, but they could tell that if they did any more something would snap and they would never move again. So they waited.

Day 7442: And watched.

Day 7446: And waited.

Day 7451: And after two weeks, two weeks of staring ahead at nothing, something crested the hill. . A rounded dome on an awkward body, a swaddled body not designed for the harsh environment like they had been, walked slowly over the rise. She moved closer, taking her time, until she drew close. They could read her name on the patch on her arm: Commander S. Savitskaya.

“You’ve come so far, buddy.” She broadcast, bending to carefully pry the obstruction from their gears. She held it up for them to see—a rock. After all this time, a rock had stopped them. “Come on. Let’s get you down to base camp.”

They gave their motors an experimental buzz which was rewarded with a gentle forward roll. She waved them forward and retraced her steps up the hill. She was faster than they were, but not by much, so she waited at the top for them. They took some pictures of her on the way, and more when they stopped beside her, then turned their camera to the base of the hill where the rest of them waited. They took pictures of the landing vehicle and the temporary habitation zones that had been set up, then began to trundle down the hill.

After seven and a half thousand days, Curiosity finally came home.

A friend asked me to write something happy, since... I don't. I think it went well!

Catch Me

Sunlight filters down from on high, bouncing from chrome and steel. It warms the soil and the skin and the blacktop worn grey from tires. Cars roll along, engines roaring discordant challenges, wheels screeching around corners in impromptu races between howling men and women with too much time but too little time left between their now and their destination and somewhere in the middle of it all is You. Ripples wash through the grass in emerald waves, the wind tousling the long blades gently, unrelenting. Detached seedlings rise up and over, weaving from plains to cities, alighting on windows shut tight to hold in the radio and television and the hateful shouts of two people with love that has soured like milk, curdling and separating and retching from the loss of the whole and once I believed that was You. A crow caws. Claws click on overreaching street lights, casting shadows on the pedestrians below. The intermingling texting and tapping, shouting and snapping, smooths out into a flatline of ambience with regular pulses of an abrupt laughter or angry bark or anxious wail of a child reaching out to find something or someone that will listen, will understand, will hold them close and calm them and I remember long ago when that was You. You, who was always there. You, who surrounded me in your glow. You, who caught me before I had a chance to fall. You, who I can't find anymore. You, who found me when I was at my lowest, cut through the radiation of noise of sound of calamity and laid your hands on mine. You blocked out the vehicles and winds of change and taught me how to direct the flow to move in my own direction and together we ruled the world for eighteen months. You found me when I was at my lowest, and after you elevated me to heights I didn't know were possible, you dropped me. I'm falling now. I'm falling and I've been falling for years and I know once you would have caught me but it's been so long I can barely remember the warmth of your glow or the pressure of your hand on my back and I can see the ground and I need you to catch me. I need you to catch me. I need you to catch me. I need

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.

Fade to Grey

Two people standing in the woods, bright acrylic greens and reds surrounding them in royal sunbursts, cocooned by colour. There's a pause between them, a distance that could just as easily be a breath as a chasm. One speaks five words, the other does as they are told. Fade to grey.

A figure splayed across the ground, shattered glass lying in specific patterns around them, the last fragments of their broken wings. Hair like flames - not like? - and eyes green enough to dance in, dance until your feet bleed, red swirling with green. Fade to grey.

A crowded dance floor here, two terrified teenagers here, but there. Fog swirls and twirls, mimicking the dancers or perhaps drawn by them, impenetrable either way. The teens jump, no way of knowing what lies beyond. Fade to grey.

A flicker of a city, a flicker of a man writing on a train. The man could be in the city, but he could just as easily not. There is the warmth of the sun, dividing his face into light and shadow. The light writes apologies; the shadow does too. Fade to grey.

The seeds are planted, ideas coiling tight around the brain stem, some brighter or bolder than others. If you grasp at them too soon they shirk away, slowly smothered by the light of attention. They must be left in the dark to morph, find the shape they want, the face they will show the world. Then they will allow themselves to slowly uncoil and breathe on their own, and only then can they Fade to grey. No.No no no. Clutching at one, forcing its tail down, there is a burst of colour before it fades to grey. There is colour here, he KNOWS there is, but the shell is all a harsh, dead grey. He digs his fingers in, tearing apart the carapace, finding the entrails so vibrant in hues and piling them end to end along the paper, but the hues fade from the visible spectrum, the intangible not meant to be given form, not like this, and at the end with heaving breath and bloodied hands all he is left with is grey.

Sideways, Into Eternity

The forest glowed a vibrant green, the rich scent of animals and wood and decay and sunshine mingling beautifully. Scott walked beneath the boughs that reached far above, listening to the sounds of the birds. Dappled sunlight broke through the canopy, laying shifting patterns on the leaf litter underfoot. A deer ahead heard Scott approach and darted away, dancing from step to step, a spring uncoiling.

The sound of laughter and merriment gradually rose above the ambient noise of the forest, coming from a small campsite of men in earthy greens and browns. They welcomed Scott warmly, with wide arms and open smiles. He joined them a while, drinking and carousing, before whispering something to their leader and taking his leave. Once out of sight, he found a shadow and slipped into it, into the in-between places. Stepped sideways, into eternity.

Eternity swallowed him as an old friend, its cool embrace familiar and comforting, his step stretching out longer and longer. After a moment, an hour, a minute, Scott stepped out into the light rain, a gentle drizzle that slowly worked its way down the back of his neck and shoes. The city was grey and dismal, dark clouds hanging low and brooding over intermittent spires and flat roof slats. He stepped under an overhanging eave and covered his nose to block out the smells that ran down the street like rivers, the fetid stench of unwashed bodies pressed too close together and human waste. Lightning crackled in the clustered clouds, forks of light spearing the sky for far too brief a time. This was no place for him. Scott found an open doorway and stepped inside. Stepped sideways, into eternity.

People milled around each other, smiling and laughing and hugging, all the while speaking in a language he didn’t understand. Eternity had placed him in the middle of them, next to a graffiti-covered wall that people sat, stood, sang and juggled atop. He was jostled relentlessly as he attempted to make his way out of the crowd, or perhaps he jostled the others. Their joy was infectious, and he found himself grinning when men and women embraced him, rather than pushing them away. Finally he broke free from the main press of the mob, leaning on a brick building to regain his breath. The crowd was an incredible sight, thousands of people celebrating… something. Scott couldn’t make out the object of their rejoicing. The sky was a clear, pure blue, radiating a clarity that only weeks of rain can bring, as if the heavens themselves are glad to be open again. A smile lingering on his face, Scott found a fold in the world and slipped into it. Stepped sideways, into eternity.

He regretted the deal. He knew something was wrong at the time, but had been too excited to care. The man had been so nice, his too-white coat matching his too-white teeth. The prospect of being able to slip out of time, through time, between time, landing anywhere and anywhen... how could he refuse? But he was tired now. He just wanted to go home, to find himself before he made the deal and stop it from happening. He'd been slipping for years now and he feared just what it was that he was slipping towards.

He stumbled over the uneven ground--no, not uneven, swaying. The view over the edge of the boat was limited by a heavy fog that pressed down on all sides. Despite it, there were people mingling on the deck: clearly passengers, not a deckhand in sight. He grimaced. He knew how this one ended.

There was a band playing, elevated on a small stage, the music swallowed by the mist. He pulled his coat closer around his body, futilely attempting to shield himself from the cold. He stepped backward, into the shadow. Stepped sideways, across the deck.

He frowned. Stepped sideways, into the railing at the edge of the boat, the sliver of eternity slipping infuriatingly away.

Speed, that's what I need. He thought, gripping the railing.

A shudder rocked the boat and would have knocked him from his feet had he not already been holding on. The sharp keening of shredding metal filled the air, drowning out the cries of the passengers.

Now or never.

He vaulted over the rail, the water looking impossibly far away, only just visible through the fog. As he fell, he tried to tried to slip between the world, but something was wrong, very wrong. Eternity was there, just in front of him, just out of reach. He knew that if he could just get a bit more speed he could make it.

The water hurtled toward him, no longer so far away, but still eternity eluded him. He stretched his hand out and managed to hook a finger through. He pulled hard, trying to heave himself forward but the water was too close now and he struck it hard with only half a hand through. The pain wrapped around him, shielding him from the cold, forcing his breath out in an explosion of bubbles. Weakly, he registered that he still had a hold between time and let himself slip down, sideways, into eternity.

He opened his eyes, unsure if he had made it or not. He was lying on a bed in a white-walled room, there were electronic displays around him and an incessant beep-beep that was gradually speeding up. He knew this place. He did not want to be here.

A woman walked in, wearing a too-white coat and a too-white smile. He tried to move, to roll over, to escape, but his limbs were sluggish and unresponsive. The woman held down his arm and inserted a needle, shooting something into his veins.

Gradually, his panic subsided. The beeping slowed once more and, under the woman's watchful gaze, he felt himself slipping.

Slipping sideways, into eternity.

Ready to Fall

     The wind tousled his hair, gently nudging him from side to side. His hair occasionally blew in front of his eyes but he barely noticed, seeing only the inside of his eyelids. The afternoon sun was warm on his back. He had been standing in place for several minutes and no one had yet noticed him, or if some had they made no comment. He knew what he would see if he opened his eyes: the city laid out before him, streets weaving jaggedly around each other, towers of glass reflecting the light much like the one he stood atop now. The metal beneath his feet felt as solid as any footpath he had walked but he knew that a step forward or back would land only on air. He did not step forward. He did not step back.
     He knew that he stood there for a reason but with the rest of his life so far below it was easy to forget, to stand still and simply exist. The wind was not as strong as he had expected it to be, this high up. Keeping his footing had been decidedly easy. The smell of smoke drifted up to him, exhaust and cigarettes and woodfire, acrid and pungent and undeniably earthy but below all of them lay something fresher, the barest hint of something that can only be felt where no one has yet settled.
     A car backfired somewhere far below and he opened his eyes slowly, as if waking from a dream. The sun was low enough to set the city alight with hues of orange and red. He breathed deeply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. It shouldn't be long now. The people far below carried on their everyday lives, the workaholics just now heading home while those keen for a drink arrived. The handover of the city had begun, from work to play.
     The eighth storey of the building across from him exploded with a kra-KOOM, hurling glass and metal outward over the city. Grey dust and smoke mixed with an orange gas that leaked from the ruined level. The entire building groaned and began to tilt as similar explosions rocked the glass towers around it until finally he felt the building that he stood on rumble, its fifth and sixth floors blown to bits. He smiled grimly. He had been told that he would know his cue when it came.
     Closing his eyes once more, feeling the dying sun warm his back, he took a step forward into the air.

Inspired by the song Ready to Fall - Rise Against.

Ribbons of Sound

I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of old popcorn and public carpet. Colours flicked through my head, the general thrum of the crowd mixing into an indistinguishable dark palette of browns and greys with the occasional flare of emerald or sky blue as a child cried out or a woman laughed aloud. I turned up my iPod, blasting Rise Against and letting the flashing ribbons of crimson and magenta wash through me, the chorus occasionally dropping into violet—no, lavender. Dully, I noticed a voice calling my name in a dirty yellow, the colour of a highlighter accidentally dragged through a black line, never to be pure again.

“You’re so antisocial.” Mark collapsed into the seat next to me, slouching in the deep cushions as he offered me a chip, his meticulously spiked blonde hair standing at all sorts of ridiculous angles. I waved away the bag, wrinkling my nose at the smell of vinegar and putting away my music.

“Well it’s hard to be social when your friends are fifteen minutes late.” I rebuked, smiling despite my reproachful tone. “Late to an event that you organised, might I add?”

“Prefer it if you didn’t, to be honest. Any idea when Geoff’ll get here?” Mark munched on his God-awful salt and vinegar chips, seemingly oblivious to my disgust. I could practically taste the acidity in the back of my throat.

I shook my head. “I texted him a few minutes ago.”

“Bloody Geoff. Never answers a text.” Mark finished his chips and crumpled up the packet in a crimson crinkle, lobbing it into the nearest trash bin just as Geoff waltzed around the corner. “Speak of the devil…”

“And the devil doth appear,” Geoff finished as he approached, throwing his long arms out in a grandiose gesture that almost toppled a small child. He apologised quickly to the child and her mother before turning back to tower over the two of us.  “How are you guys? Talking about me again?”

“As always.” I stood and began walking towards the bored-looking candy bar employee, still dwarfed by Geoff’s height despite no longer sitting down. “Just the thought of you makes me swoon.”

“What can I say? I just exude raw masculinity. Honestly, I’m surprised you can hold yourself back.”

“It’s a constant struggle, I assure you.” We both laughed. It’s a conversation we’ve had many times before.

“Are you guys going to buy a ticket, or are you just going to hope Geoff’s manliness brings one forth from the void? C’mon guys, only I can do that.” Mark held up a ticket of his own.

I stepped behind a short, balding man—the extent of the midday queue. The light shining off of his smooth crown was quite distracting. “When the hell did you even get that?”

“Just then. The void. Sorry, were you not listening just now?” Mark waved the ticket in my face until I hit his arm with a grin.

“You’re so annoying.”

The balding man moved from the counter and I stepped away from the others to buy a ticket. The cashier had a nice voice: a buttery sort of yellow, much more appealing than Mark’s dirty fluoro. I thanked her and went back to the boys. Mark had somehow managed to get Geoff in a headlock, despite a six-inch height disadvantage. Geoff took the distraction of my return as an opportunity to reach up and muss Mark’s hair. Mark immediately released the headlock and put his hands to his head, an expression of utter horror on his face and a cyan shriek escaping his lips. I let out a wild laugh at the sheer perfection of his equally distraught and furious expression, earning a dirty glare.

“I worked for like an hour on this.” Mark’s voice dripped with venom, sinking from yellow to dark jade.

“Oh come on, it looks exactly the same as before.” Geoff punched his shoulder gently and we started to walk to the movie theatre. “You’ve got enough staying power in your locks to stop a landslide. Actually, I think I might’ve cut myself on one of those points…”

While Geoff made a show of inspecting his fingertips, I nudged Mark. “Are you going to get yours?”

“Way ahead of you.” He brandished a piece of paper, giving it to the ticket-ripper-person. What are they even called? I pondered. “Geoff taught me the whole ‘summoning from the void’ thing.”

“Oh?” I raised my eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Mark nodded enthusiastically.  “It’s easier than you’d think. Oh!” He raised a hand suddenly. “You guys’ll never guess what I found out today.”

“You’re actually a woman?” Geoff looked up from his inspection, seemingly satisfied that Mark’s hair had not drawn blood.

“Everyone has a skeleton inside them?” I chip in.

“Dumbledore dies?”

“Dude, spoilers.” Mark shook his head disapprovingly at Geoff. “No, I was watching YouTube videos—”

“See, we should’ve been able to guess that.” I said to Geoff as we walked into Cinema 4.

Mark glared at me again. “As I was saying, I was watching videos, and I found this thing called synaesthesia. You guys heard of it?”

Geoff and I shook our heads. The cinema was almost empty, the only other occupants an elderly couple sitting up the front. I caught a few purple words from the man before Mark continued.

“Some people have this mental thing where, like, one sense is linked to another. Wait no, that’s not quite right. Give me a sec.” He held up a hand, concentrating on his phone. I exchanged a grin with Geoff as we went to the far back row of chairs and filed in, sinking into the poorly padded, blushing red chairs and resting our feet on the row in front. I sat in the exact middle seat, with Mark on my left and Geoff on my right.

“Okay, I got it.” Mark continued, reading off his phone. “It’s where ‘the stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway’.”

Geoff and I looked at him blankly for a few seconds. “English, please?” I asked.

“It’s like there’s a few wires crossed. Like, when they hear sounds, they see colours too.”

I looked from Mark to Geoff and back again, waiting for the rest of the story. “And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’?” Mark exclaimed. “You don’t think that’s awesome?”

I frowned, confused at his enthusiasm, now mirrored in Geoff’s face. “Not… really, no.” I looked at the two of them again, an uncomfortable flitting sensation forming in my stomach. “How is that weird? It’s just normal.”

“No…” Geoff slowly shook his head. “No, it’s really not.”

“Yes, yes it is.” I insisted, starting to get a bit annoyed. The flitting upgraded to churning, my intestines turning over themselves. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, like I’d had a mouthful of cinnamon.

Mark gently laid a hand on my arm, as you would a small animal that you were worried might bolt. “Does this happen to you? Do you… see sounds?”

My head moved back and forth between the two of them, the puck in a game of air hockey. “You guys don’t?”

Mark barked a laugh; a short, sharp green sound that drew disapproving looks from the couple down the front. “Honestly?”

“You’re messing with me, right?” I punched him gently even while a fist of apprehension clenched tightly around my stomach and lungs, making me feel lightheaded and faintly nauseous. “No way can you be serious. You’re in on this too?” I asked, punching Geoff harder than I had Mark.

“No way can you be serious.” Geoff rubbed his arm, his look of incredulity so perfectly matching Mark’s that I could almost believe they were telling the truth.

Mark’s voice pierced the silence after a few seconds, excitement tingeing his voice apricot. “What colour are you seeing now?”

“No.” I hit him again, harder than I had Geoff, anger and disbelief making me misjudge the power of the blow. “No, we’re not doing this.” I sat back and looked pointedly at the blank screen, all too aware of the fuchsia pink music drifting gently from the speakers lining the walls. My palms were sweating and my chest felt heavy. It was a mistake to sit between these two.

“What colour is the music?” Mark pressed, as if reading my mind. I said nothing, my face as blank and composed as the screen while my guts competed to see how fast they could tie an assortment of unnecessarily complicated knots.

“What about my voice?” Geoff asked from my right. “I’ll bet it’s… crimson. Or gold.”

Silver, I thought to myself.

“Wait, seriously?” Geoff goggled.

“Did I say that out loud?” I groaned when Mark positively beamed at me.

“You have no idea how cool that is.” He bounced up and down in his seat. “Do you see them all the time? What colour is my voice? Does it work for all sounds?”

“Mark, stop.” I held up a hand. “Can we deal with this later? I just… need some time.” As if on cue, the lights went down and the first of the ads came on.

He nodded vigorously. I could practically see the questions lining up behind his eyes. I sighed, settling into my seat. The thought of not seeing a sound’s colour… No, I can’t imagine it. It doesn’t make sense. They’re just too connected. I tried to listen to the music of the advertisement on the screen without seeing the colours, but they flashed unbidden into my mind. It’s not possible. I can’t even think it. It’s like trying to hear without sound.

The more I thought about it, the more questions came to mind. How would you decide if you like a song? An instrument? How dull everything must be.

I sank lower into the chair, the screen only barely visible over my knees. The lights dimmed entirely and a wild green forest faded into being on screen. The soundtrack began, deep, vibrant red violins, soon joined by paler flutes in soft blues. How could others not see this?

    Colours flashed from the screen and the speakers, surrounding me and sheltering me in a cocoon of sensation, ribbons of sound running across my mind. I felt the warmth of the two boys on either side of me and smiled. If this is my gift, my uniqueness, well… I think I can live with that. 


A thing I wrote a while ago for uni about synaethesia. I like it.

Journey

The still-blue sky was turning ashen, a thick cloud bank lined in the smudged pink of sunset resting at its base. Where no cloud marred the horizon, the sky dissipated into white tea and, on the side opposite the vanishing sun, a three-day old bruise. Their breath misted before them as a constant reminder that, for now at least, they were still alive. The quiet was punctuated occasionally by the unconscious sounds of the weary; a dull exhalation, a quiet sniff, the hard swish of one unwashed pant leg brushing past the other. The dark would not cease their journey. They had traveled for too long to be concerned with sleep. No, they would rest when they reached their destination. The sky was darker now, the clouds since moved on, and the chill surrounded them, drawing the crowd closer together as surely as any rope. Under the watchful eye of the sickle moon, they walked on.



Just a quick snippet today, something I had on my mind.

Concrete Cracks

The city breathed. She could hear it, ear pressed against the dirty ground. In, hold... out. In, hold... out. In, hold... out. At first she thought that there might be some enormous beast under the concrete but no, the city itself was the colossal creature. It murmured to itself, deep and rumbling, in words no one has said but everyone knows. The city breathed. Some people walked past and some of those people looked at her and some of those looks were filled with disgust, disgust at the girl with dirt on her hands and dirt on her dress and now dirt on her cheek, but she paid them no mind. Perhaps they would not look at her if they, too, could hear the city. Perhaps they would anyway. The city breathed. She held her breath to better hear the murmurings of the metropolis and felt its expansive attention turn slowly, inexorably toward her. It whispered three words, and then three more, and she smiled. If any of the clean-cheeked passerbys had stopped to watch her they might have seen what happened, but they were all to busy focusing on their board meetings and barista-made macchiatos, and so no one saw the cracks in the concrete widen just enough to let a girl in a dirty dress slip through, falling away, falling home.


A short piece based off of "The Dirt Whispered", by Rise Against.

2: Assembly of the New World

The room was tense, everyone within stretched nearly to the point of breaking. Seven exceptionally well dressed women and two men sat around the large, ornate wooden table in the centre of the room and one more man stood at the end closest to the door. The nine leaders of the New World and Pret Deavos, Captain of the Guard to the Central Dominion. At that moment, the grey-haired Lady Reyleere of the Far South had her jaw set resolutely against the verbal onslaught of Pret’s own employer, Lady Ashen.

“I’m not entirely aware of how you can be surprised, Lady Reyleere.” Lady Ashen was a heavyset woman whose chin shook when she pounded the table with her fist. “It is no secret that you have long since sought a position in the Central Dominion.”

“I do not deny that; the Far South is a small territory, and I have many daughters who are more than capable of ruling it. But to accuse me of assassination?” Lady Reyleere made a cutting motion with her frail hands. “You go too far.”

Lady Cail of the Florant rested her slender chin on her delicate fingers. “Pardon, Lady Reyleere, but I believe Lady Ashen only accused you of hiring an assassin, not of performing the act yourself. I doubt any of us assembled believe that you would have the strength for such a task—physical or mental.”

“I am more than strong enough to maintain control of my dominion, something not all of us can claim.” Lady Reyleere retorted.

Lady Cail’s face flushed a bright red, but before she could defend herself Lord Kophan spoke up. “Enough with this. We are here to discuss justice and the future of the New World, not fling accusations as children do snowballs.”

The eight other leaders had the sense to look suitably abashed. Lord Kophan may have been a man, but he had ruled the Darklands for thirty years, the closest dominion to the Rift. Anyone who had survived such a time in close proximity to the Taint deserved respect.

“The future indeed.” Lady Ashen spoke first, as was her right as Host of the assembly. “I do not need to tell you all the importance of the Duchess in the Central Dominion. The loss of her cunning and intellect will be sorely felt in the coming years. She was a wise adviser and a loyal friend, and I intend to find whoever hired her assassin and ensure they face justice.”

“Do you expect our help?” Lady Tillen of the Plains asked, her lower jaw jutting forward arrogantly. “After accusing us of employing the assassin ourselves? You have always tested the line of respect, Lady Ashen, but this time you go too far.”

“We are only just recovering from the Fracture, Ladies and Lord.” Lord Weidan simpered. “We are close to reuniting the dominions. We of the Dominions must work together; let us not devolve into opposing territories again. Perhaps we should ask the man who chose not to stop the assassin when he had the chance?”

Lady Reyleere barked a laugh. “A man cautioning against conflict? I never thought I would see the day. Still, you raise a fine point.” She turned to Pret. “Tell us again, Captain. Why did you not apprehend the assassin?”

Pret Deavos ground his teeth. The implication was unfair, but he could not deny the request of a Lady. “The assassin had Tainted my second, Marc. I was forced to decide between preventing a potential outbreak and—”

“And your duty to protect the Duchess?” Lady Tillen interrupted.

Silently seething, Pret was forced to nod in agreement.

“It seems to me, Lady Ashen, that your problem may lie closer to your heart than you think.” Lady Reyleere mused. “And yet you accuse us instead. Perhaps Captain Deavos bears closer inspection?”

“The Captain has served me faithfully for years!” Lady Ashen growled. “I will not have you deflecting the matter.”

“If you cannot bear to consider that your own people could be at fault, how can you trust any of us?” Lord Kophan asked. “Any information we give you could simply be covering our tracks.”

“If you wish for my dominion’s aid, you must first send your Captain away for good.” Lady Tillen demanded.

“You cannot expect me to do this!” Lady Ashen protested.

 “My terms are the same.” Lady Cail nodded, followed by a general murmur of agreement from around the table. Pret felt sweat bead on the back of his neck.

Lady Ashen shook her head vigorously. “I refuse. He has done nothing to deserve this.”

“Then I must retract my dominion from the treaty.” Lady Wicten spoke up.

Lord Weidan let out a cry. “Lady Wicten, you cannot! The New World cannot sustain itself unless we all reunite.”

“I second Lady Wicten’s sentiment.” The corners of Lady Reyleere’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Either the Captain goes, or I do.”

“I—I can’t…” Lady Ashen had turned the colour of her namesake, showing weakness for the first time that night.

“Then I suppose the treaty is off.” Lady Cail drummed her delicate fingers on the table. “And let it be known that it was Lady Ashen who prevented We of the Dominions from getting back together.”

“I will send him away!” Lady Ashen burst out. “He will be sent from the Central Dominion for the duration of the investigation, and should he be found at fault he will be formally discharged from service.”

A pregnant silence followed, finally broken by Lady Tillen. “I find this acceptable. Talk to your people, have them talk to my people, and we shall arrange suitable terms.”

Lord Wicten’s sigh of relief was barely audible under the assorted agreements of the remaining Ladies. Pret released a breath he could not remember holding, feeling his undershirt grip his back, now slick with sweat.

The assembly ended shortly thereafter, leaving the Lady of the Central Dominion alone in the room with her Captain of the Guard.

“I am sorry, Captain.” Lady Ashen sighed.”

“I am sworn to serve you, Lady, and you are sworn to serve the people. Do no apologise for doing that which is best for the New World.”

“You have a house in the Florant, I believe?” Lady Ashen enquired.

Pret nodded. “I can make my own way there, Lady, you need not trouble yourself.”

“Thank you, Captain. I will send you the rest of the details after Lady Tillen and I have negotiated them.”

Pret bowed, recognising the dismissal. His walk back to his quarters was filled not with thoughts of the Florant, however, but the elusive assassin, the Lady in gold.