He surfaced with a deep breath and a torso in his arms. Kicking back to wet land he deposited it at the steps of the church. A second dive gave him the legs and a third yielded a head. Whether any of these matched to the body was a question for another time.
Finally when he could bear no more of his frail burdens, Stephen collapsed in the centre of the church under the weight of several skeletal limbs. He breathed hard and heavy and started shivering.
Sid came in, humming the tune from singing in the rain and peered down at him. “You look like shit man. I can barely tell you from the rest of your friends”
Stephen was about to reply but sneezed five times in a row instead, with a terrible cough following.
“I don’t reckon it’s too smart a thing to make the ultimate sacrifice for a bunch of dead guys” Sid told him. “You need to get warm again. Try huddling and sharing body heat. Maybe some fluids too.”
Stephen tried to crawl up. Sid picked up a miscellaneous arm and proffered it to him “Need a hand?” he asked.
Stephen batted it away and sat up. “Need fire” he wheezed.
“I’ll get wood” said Sid, sticking his hand down his crotch.
Eventually, with aid of some paraffin found at the back Stephen started a small fire in the centre of the church. Several spindly chairs provided kindling, which allowed him to eventually start burning the pews. He huddled and shivered around the blaze as close as he could, with his front burning and his back freezing. Occasionally he would get up and pull the bodies he had rescued further away as they began to smoulder from the heat. Cremations weren’t environmentally friendly anyway. Once the fire had settled and he was finally warm he wrapped himself in a cloth from the pulpit. His body and eyes closed in on themselves and he fell into a deep sleep.
It had been days since he had slept, maybe weeks. Time didn’t mean much anymore. Nothing meant much anymore. How did nihilists get up in the morning? This city was empty, just like all the other villages and towns were empty. Vacant in the day and hollow in the night. That wasn’t how the films all said it would be. Stephen would almost welcome the discovery that zombies or vampires were gathered round campfires telling the story of The Tanned One. Little fleshless children shivering in fear over his sinister ability to absorb vitamin D from the sun. Didn’t that make him a star vampire? Earth was just one big mosquito circling its prey.
Yep, the sun had baked him brown all right, what with all his travelling. He was pretty half baked himself, and took another drag as he drawed his ass up the stairs. The view from the top would be sweet and he could say goodbye to Mr Sun, maybe apologise for sucking so much.
He made it to the top and stood at the edge, staring into the abyss. Nothing started back. There was no way he could win a staring contest with Nothing. He sat down, legs dangling off the edge and took a bottle of Makers Mark out his bag. Then he lay still for a very long time, watching the sun set. His breathing grew harder and harsher as the sun sunk lower and lower. And was gone.
He thrust the bottles neck to his mouth, drank deeply then smashed it on the edge. And with this jagged edge he made his mark. Then he made it symmetrical. And lay back and waited.
He closed his eyes and then opened them
He closed his eyes
He opened them. And blinked
“Hey dude” said the face leaning over him.
“Hey” He croaked. It was the first word he had spoken in a week.
“You look like shit”
“Thanks” Blink “Who are you?”
“I am God”
“Really?”
“Nah, just screwing you about”
“Oh” Long slow pause and a long slow blink. “Who are you then?”
“A manifestation of your baser impulses. An externalisation of your oh so Suppressed ID. Call me Sid”
“I don’t understand…” Try to blink. Eyes stay closed.
“Ever seen Fight Club?”
“That’s your explanation?”
“Do you understand?”
“…Yes…”
“Then it’s a pretty damn good explanation. Now let’s stop you leaking away”
The newly named Sid took a lighter from Stephens pocket and took the joint from his mouth.
“You must be wasted man, only drama queens cut across. Onwards and upwards is where the action is.”
“How are you moving things?” Stephen whispered.
“Pretty active imagination you got there” Sid flaked the ash from the joint into the wounds and spat on it. Stephen didn’t feel it. Then Sid smashed the bottom of the lighter and poured some fluid into the mix. Stephen didn’t feel it. Then Sid lit it up. Stephen felt it.
Stephen awoke and found that he was too tired to open his eyes. If he waited long enough his lids would rot away and it wouldn’t be a problem. He listened to the murmur of the flames and realised with relief that the hammering of rain had ceased. How bad would the flooding be? He didn’t have the energy to worry about it. In fact it seemed he didn’t have the energy to feel anything right now. He certainly didn’t have the strength to answer Sid when he called out Stephens’s name.
“Stevey baby! Don’t go dying on me”
Stephen felt Sid lean over him and bend down
“Don’t worry man. I learned CPR by practising on that rather foxy lady’s head over there”
Stephen’s eyes shot open and he stuck his hands up to fend away whatever might be there.
“Thank god the devil and bob you’re alive dude” Sid said. “Figured you went for the big sleep there”
Stephen struggled to his feet and looked around. The fire had almost burned down to grey ashes and all the bodies he had saved had mainly dried out. A few had been too close, with burned hair and singed suits and dresses. The sight made him feel guilty. So did the jumble of body parts that he had carelessly thrown about. He walked over and spent some time trying to match them together, arranging them neatly.
“How bad was the flooding?” he asked while he worked.
“Got pretty wet and wild” Sid replied. “Water came creeping up right to the door and what with you sleeping dead I fought we were done for. But then it just all of a sudden stopped, like someone turned off the tap”
Stephen smiled “Maybe I haven’t been wasting my Sundays after all”
Sid rolled his eyes “Yeah yeah. And then a great beam of white light anointed you and you went to paradise to de-virginate forty young nubile women”
“Look around” Stephen replied “We’re in a church and we’re safe”
“Whatever you say Noah. But you gotta ask yourself, who sent the rains?”
Stephens smile fell.
“Plus you have been digging up a hell of a lot of dead folk. That’s gonna put you in the naughty book”
Stephen deflated in his entirety this time. “Can you blame me, for wanting to see reason in all the things that have happened to me?” he said quietly.
“Sure, same ways I can blame drunk girls in short skirts and easy slide aside thongs for getting raped. Plenty of blame to go around and you’re the only one here to take it”
When he had finished arranging everything and everyone as nicely as he could, Stephen looked outside. As far as the eye could see there was brownish muddy water, covering the city in its murky embrace. As Sid had said, it was right up to the doorstep of the church, and it lapped at his soles and kissed his toes. Stephen looked back and wondered if the water would go away anytime soon. As far as he knew, the city’s drainage system was working ok. Doing nothing felt wrong however, and he realised with a start that it was creative Wednesday. Years of habit made him suddenly feel very restless.
He looked around the Church, searching for some vague task that would distract his now buzzing mind. All that was really there however, was Sid, a pile of ashes and about thirty nameless bodies, along with Jenny and her father John. With a smile Stephen noticed that one of the arms he had saved seemed to be gripping something he recognised. It was his notebook, where he had been attempting to give these bodies faces. Now he actually felt up for doing so, and so walked over and gentry pried the cold fingers apart from it. He wasn’t gentle enough however, and broke off the middle one
“Oh Snap!” Sid exclaimed “That dude would be flipping you the bird right now if he could”
“Hmm” Said Stephen, and started writing; Joseph Coal was a typically withdrawn man, who often mused upon the nature of his own character. It was this inner musing that caused him to be withdrawn, hence he was perfectly suited in his employment as a night security guard for the nearby Shopping centre.
“Are you going to write about how he lost his finger, and how his arm became detached from his body? Not even in that order”
“Plenty of time to give him plenty of past” Stephen said, not looking up from his writing.
And that’s how he spent his day, writing and thinking up an imaginary community. Everyone would know each other, if not personally then through a friend of a friend. People had jobs and hobbies and hopes and fears and little personal ticks that helped to make them seem like people. Such as how Joseph was missing his middle finger from a bizarre mini-golf accident, yet constantly had the urge to place his wedding ring there. It took a long time of course, or lifetimes. But trapped as he was Stephen didn’t feel he had wasted his day, and by nightfall he could remember all the names and most of the histories that he had given to his new community.
“You’re a regular Mark Twain” Sid commented
“You mean I capture the quintessential turn of the centenary America through a rich and detailed portrayal of its inhabitants?” Stephen put his pen to rest and stared at the thick callus on his finger.
“Nah, I mean you’ve outlived everyone you care about”
“Thank you” Stephen yawned. “I think I will go to bed now”
“Try not to hang yourself dude”
That night Stephen dreamed. Usually he only dreamed when he was drinking, small fractures convalescing into some vague shape, but this was whole and perfect. He dreamed he was in a large theatre, sitting in a big red chair. All around him there were people, with blonde hair and blue eyes. They were naked, and out of their backs poked thin hollow bones. These bones twisted down, over their shoulders and to their wrists, where they wrapped around the arms of the chair. Thus they were tied and held there by their own bodies turning traitor. It looked as if they had been bound this way for some time, as thick layers of dust covered them from head to toe.
But how their eyes stared, so intent on what was going on in front. They were not even spared a blink, and through the grey dust gathered on their faces, shining white chalk lines were drawn by tears clinging to cheeks and falling from chins. But what was the object that had so fully captured their gaze?
Upon the stage, bathed in sickly yellow light stood a lone male figure. Strings from above ran down into him, and with slow ponderous movements pulled him about stage. Carefully he made his way from part of the stage to the other, looked around, and with a shake of his head walked to another spot.
This dull scene was repeated for some time until a trap door opened behind him and another figure rose up. This new actor grabbed the strings of the first and pulled them viciously and enthusiastically, making the first flail and dance. There was much energy and little thought behind the movements, and the first actors face was a picture of exhausted recognition.
A 3rd actor entered from the right, this one female. Delicately she moved towards the two. The puppeteer stopped his jig, smiled and made his charge bow impossibly low, so that his nose touched the ground. Then he pulled out a knife, with which he cut the strings. The captive man fell limply to the ground and his master leaped down the trap door, headfirst like a diver into water. The other man pitifully tried to reach up to his strings and pull himself to his feet, but no part of his body seemed to fully work, and he jerked about like a poisoned insect.
Standing over him, the woman held out her hand, and with great difficulty pulled him to his feet. There he rested heavily upon her, but she bore his weight, and started to slowly dance. He tried to mirror her, and though his movements were awkward at first, soon there was an ugly symmetry to them, that grew more and more beautiful and intricate to see. Unheard music swelled and they danced about the stage in perfect unity.
Suddenly there was a deep rumble. With a crashing crescendo from out of the ground there burst a great phallic worm. Higher and higher it rose, running parallel with the strings. Once past the curtains its unseen head let loose a terrible cry, which was joined by a scream that abruptly ended. The limp strings turned red as ruby jewels of blood ran down them and to the ground. It dripped onto the two dancers, who wiped it from their eyes and stared dumbly up. The great beast descended, and its bloody maw crashed into the two, engulfing them in their entirety.
The curtains came down upon this scene and a sign lit up. APPLAUSE it decreed, and seeing none of the captive audience could oblige, Stephen dutifully clapped his hands.
“Wake up, shit for brains”
Stephen opened his eyes and closed his hands in a single solitary clap. Sid joined him and started clapping loudly in his face.
“Come on man, no time to sand the morning wood”
“Why, what’s happening?” Stephen asked. But then he remember before he was told and let out a groan
“Today is my day bitch. It’s all about me. You had your fun trying to create a utopian society yesterday, and now its time for me to totally dis it”
Stephen sighed. He wanted to keep writing, but the fact was he needed to get some more supplies. He was hungry and in need of a shower.
“Ok” he said, once again rising up. “Maybe the water’s receded a bit”
“And if not,” Sid chipped in, “Then I have cunnilingus plan”
“Oooooh A pirate’s life is the life for me. Yo ho ho and a masturbating nun. To live in a coffin’s such an irony. Yo ho ho in a two holed bum”
“Could you sing quieter please? It’s fairly confined in here”
“Whatever you say, captain sensible”
The two of them sat in the large coffin that Stephen had figured was John Taylor. It had been floating a short distance away from the church in the muddy water that now covered much of the city. Stephen found himself oddly grateful for John’s large build. The casket must have been specially made and reinforced, and so was a great deal more spacious, sturdy and watertight than what normally would have been the case.
And so it was that they had turned it into a makeshift boat, which Sid had christened The Floater. He had even saw fit to give it a figurehead, or fingerhead as the case was, and Joe’s snapped digit proudly and rudely gestured the way forward. Stephen rowed with paddles made from pew parts and The Floater cruised serenely along the grey brown waters, its dark brown mahogany bobbing gently.
The flooding had been even worst than Stephen had feared, and many buildings were completely submerged. The city looked like a very dull Atlantis, with many banal mysteries sulking beneath. But that wasn’t his biggest concern. “Everyone will have been washed away” he said sadly, staring down into the water.
“Boo bloody hoo” said Sid “Let’s get going. I want to get back to the flat and collect some shit”
The flat had an interesting history, most of which was unknown to Stephen. Of course it wasn’t really a flat at all, Stephen had the entire building to himself, but he only really used one floor and thought of everything above as the attic and everything below as the basement.
When he had arrived in the city and decided to stay he had slept in various buildings-mainly hotels. Staying in a home which had once housed a family made him feel like an intruder, and seeing old pictures, framed and displayed on walls saddened him. On the other hand he didn’t like to stay in one place very long, it felt like he was stagnating. Then there had been the incident on the rooftop, where he had met Sid, who encouraged him to find somewhere to make home.
And so he roamed from building to building, until by sheer happenstance he came across the flat, on the north side of the city. It had stood out from other buildings, with its iron shutters in some windows and brightly coloured curtains in others, but what really grabbed Stephens’s attention was the light, faintly visible through some tasteful venetian blinds. And so he had decided to investigate.
“Dude, nice digs” Sid commented when they walked through the iron door. Further investigation revealed that the place really did have a light on, a single lamp in a room that was filled with books and an armchair. It was revealed that the place was off the gird, which of course had gone down years ago, and instead had its own separate generator.
In fact, evidently its previous occupant had been an apocalypse fearer, and the whole place had been furnished and stocked with this in mind. It had its own running water and plumping, using rain and a water purification system. It was stocked with a huge array of tinned foods and other such supplies, like medicine. In one of his more paranoid moments Stephen had gone on the pill for a few weeks, believing that it had something to do with the disappearance of everyone. Vicious mood swings had eventually made him stop though.
In short, the place had everything he could ever need, and it wasn’t long before he had settled in completely. And while he would never come to think of it, or indeed anywhere else as home, he could tolerate it, and it seemed tolerance was the only existence available to him.
And so he found it strange that when they arrived in the north end and at the flat, seeing it stood relatively undamaged brought a feeling of pride to him. What was to thank for this, was the wall, his wall. It had funnelled the worst of the water away and only the first floor lay underwater. Curiously the highest point of the wall was the perfect height to be used as a marina and The Floater was brought up next to it.
“First one to touch dry land claims the prize!” Sid shouted, and got ready to make the leap to it. Feeling oddly competitive for once, Stephen angled his vessel so that they approached backwards, giving him the chance to be first.
“Mutinous Bastard” Sid declared. He leaned forward and yanked off the Fingerhead which he then threw towards the wall.
“There,” he said as the coffin was brought up and they both disembarked. “Now neither of us will be emperor”
Stephen heaved the coffin out the water so it wouldn’t drift away, and walked along the side of the wall. At its corner it roughly aligned with an open window and he carefully pulled himself through. It was dark inside, and cautiously he flicked a nearby light switch to see if the power was on. Nothing happened
“Generator must be fried” he said
“Either that, or you’ve just set yourself up for a nasty shock, if you know what I mean” Sid commented. “Now come on, let’s get the shit”
“What’s the shit?” Stephen asked, though he already had a fair idea as to what it would be.
Sid went ahead into the lab and Stephen followed him. When he got there he was thrown a large empty bag.
“What?” he asked.
“Come on you primitive screw head. My name is Sid, and this is my Boomstick!” Sid happily waved the pipe bomb about and tossed it to Stephen, who fumbled desperately before catching it and placing it gently in the bag.
“Why do we need these?” he asked.
“It’s my day fool” Sid replied. “And what do we do on my day?”
“Blow shit up?”
“Damn straight!”
The Floater was a lot lower in the waterline on the return journey, weighed down as it was with Stephen’s tinned foods and Sid’s pipe bombs, but again John’s great mass allowed it to be. They journeyed deeper into the city, occasionally having to pick up the boat and scrabble over tall buildings when the way became impassable by water.
“Where are we going?” Stephen asked.
“Where we need to” was Sid’s reply.
Where they needed to be, was apparently in the middle of nowhere. Though there was no part of the city Stephen had never been to before, he wasn’t very familiar with this particular area. He scanned it quizzically. “And this place is?”
“Oh, nowhere special…except the answers to all of our problems ever!”
“Really?”
“Well yeah, kind of. Mainly it’s where we’ll be able to drain the water away. Tell me kiddo, do you know anything about SUDS?”
“What?”
“Sustainable urban drainage systems, shit for brains. If you did, then you’d know why the water hasn’t gone yet”
“Why?”
“Maybe if you paid more attention in drainage class, you’d know that this is the lowest sunk point of the city. Therefore it housed the central drainage canal, where all the run off water flows to from all the other drains and roads. If only those fools thought to utilise SEA projects, to provide drainage that more closely mimics the natural landscape prior to development than traditional piped systems. Those poor blind, short sighted monoculed fools” Sid shook his head sadly before continuing. “Anyhoo the point is, basically I think some large round object was rolled, or washed away down here, and it was big enough to block the whole master canal”
Stephen frowned. “Like what?”
“Stop asking questions and start making connections. What big ass round object do we know of that could have rolled all the way down”
“You don’t mean….”
“Bingo, the Lego death star!”
“Oh. That doesn’t seem likely” Stephen stared hard at the grey water, but it was too opaque to allow him to see any tiny interconnected plastic bricks poking out. He shook his head sceptically. “I know it was pretty big and I used super glue to help it all stay together, but I never actually finished it. The laser bit was never completed”
Sid’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly!” he said. “Look there”
Stephen looked at where Sid indicated in the water. Several bits of light floating debris gently circled and if he stared hard enough he fancied he could see a tiny whirlpool, like an aqueous tornado.
“That’s where the water is seeping in dude” Sid said. “Through its unfinished anus. “All we need to do is blow this thing good and proper and all of it should drain away”
“Is that why we have all the pipe bombs? You knew this from the start this was happening” Stephen felt quite angry “Why hide it from me? Why hide anything from me? What’s the point?”
“Dude, surely it be a case of you hiding things from yourself”
“Don’t say things like that” Stephen said irritably. It worried him greatly that Sid could know things that he couldn’t. It didn’t seem either right or real.
“Anyhooters” said Sid, ignoring Stephens sulking “Let me just switch on my targeting computer and then we’ll get this show on the road”
Sid tossed something small in the water. Stephen crouched down, fearing an explosion, but an eventual cautious peek over the coffin showed it to be Joe’s finger. Sid must have reclaimed it earlier. Another thing Stephen didn’t know about. It swirled around a bit before gradually settling right in the middle of the tiny whirlpool, and pointed straight down.
“See” said Sid. “It’s showing us the way. Now would you be so kind as to do the honours” He handed a pipe bomb to Stephen, who stared at it, before eventually twisting the top and throwing it at the finger.
They waited a bit, and then BLOOSH, the explosive went. Bits of Lego came sailing through the air and there was a great inrush of water. Stephen worried it would pull them in to the hollow core, but it seemed that it had been very near the surface indeed. As the laser part had been slightly concaved in on itself, it had the effect of trapping a small amount of water in it, like a pond. Now it was gone only that body of water had drained away, and Stephen saw the edges of the rest of the Death Star poke out of the surface. Between them lay a great black hole of air, an impossible void in the grey sea around them. Cautiously Stephen paddled up to its edge and peered down. Great and sinister echoes resonated from it. He had forgotten how big it was. Then again he had spent the better part of a year building it.
“Well how are we meant to get down there?” he mused out loud.
"We don’t. They do” Sid hefted the bag of pipe bombs to Stephen.
Stephen picked a stick out of the bag but Sid shook his head. “Come on dude, it’s the motherfuckin Death Star! No sense in going in all half assed. Throw the whole bag in”
“Won’t this be kind of dangerous?” Stephen said.
“And awesome” Sid countered
“What’s the time delay on the explosion though?”
“No idea. But we’re both still in one piece so it must be enough”
“Oh well. Here goes nothingness”
Stephen twisted the top of the stick, thrust it deep into the bag with the rest and threw the whole thing into the void. Then he grabbed the pew and rapidly paddled away as fast as he could to the nearby rooftop of an almost submerged building. Just as he leapt from his vessel and onto the dry ground floor of the penthouse, a great and terrible noise erupted behind him. He turned slowly.
The skeleton of the Death Star now circled in a huge spiral around the water, parts of it crumpling as they were smashed about in the torrent. Other objects too were revealed, chairs, tables, grandfather clocks. There a car, there a shed. They were all being mashed about and sucked down; as if the city’s silent mouth had finally opened its gargantuan jaws to consume itself.
It seemed insatiable however, and it foamed and lashed and roared as the chunky soup of the city rushed to fill it. Stephen looked down and saw that slowly, oh so slowly, the water level was going down.
“Reckon this’ll take a while” Sid said, and lay back to take a nap.
Stephen however, could not tear his eyes away. It seemed to him that the end of the world had come, and all would be devoured. But did this creature have a taste for flesh as well?
It was only at the very end, several hours later, that he saw the answer was an emphatic yes. The water wasn’t more than ten feet high then, and Stephen could just about make out the crater he had blown in the ground that all of everything was falling in to. At first he thought he had imagined the shape as it was sucked in, but it was followed by a multitude of others. Flailing arms and legs, like one in the act of drowning, all into oblivion they went. The bodies he had dug up but had failed to save, they were all going and gone, for now and ever more. Finally the water abated to a calm flow, and the maw of the abyss gave a great gurgle as the tiny shape of a cot death baby fell in, signalling the last of the human feast.
Sid awoke from his nap with a snort, and joined Stephen at the very edge of the building. They both sat down. Stephen turned to Sid with a haunted look, and Sid winked back.
“Déjà vu eh?” Sid said with a laugh
“So it seems”
“Ah well, buck up chuck” Sid patted Stephen on the back, causing him to almost fall off. “At least normality has resumed itself”
Stephen nodded solemnly. “Thanks to you”
He stared at Sid. “Tell me. How did you know about this? The central drain and flooding and everything” And how come I didn’t
Sid waved downwards, where the last of the water was trickling away. “What can I say” he said airily. “I know my holes”
Stephen went into the video store and greeted Derrick. “How’s your new job working out for you?” he asked politely. Derrick told him it was ok, but he wouldn’t get his staff discount until he finished his training. He also had to wear this stupid badge. He showed it to Stephen.
“That’s too bad” said Stephen sympathetically. “Still, you have to pay for those night school courses somehow”
Derrick conceded that this was true, but truth itself was like a blade, the tighter you held on to it the more it hurt to do so.
“It’s a bit early for philosophising” Stephen said. “Even if that is your study choice” He nodded to derrick and made his way around the store, looking for a suitable choice as tonight’s entertainment
Thursday, 23 September 2010
The Interloper
They had been flying for a long long time now, sometimes soaring, sometimes treacherously close to the ground but on the whole gliding along at a safe and easy altitude. Yet lately there had been a marked decline, of which there seemed to be little the two of them could do about.
In the past it would simply have been a case of unloading some unnecessary burden, or briefly and spontaneously turning the burner up. However both were too attached to what they had brought to the basket, and sadly the same old butane fuel just didn’t give them the lift they needed. It was as if their balloon had grown tired of the fare they’d been feeding it, and often times the canvas would hang slightly limp.
It had been a magical day when they had first launched. Friends and family had all been there at the take off site, and there had been plenty of feasting and champagne. He had looked very dashing in his aviator goggles, with her equally resplendent in her white latex jumpsuit. Once all goodbyes had been said they stepped into the basket. With bight eyes he lit the burner ring and they floated up together amid waves and cheers.
But that was then and this was now. And lately most of her time had been spent gazing off at other aerospace vehicles, many of which were manned alone, going where and when they pleased, without having to agree anything with anyone. She yearned for that kind of freedom, rather than trapped in this basket with him, their course plotted and unaltered since the day they took off.
THUDUMPH! She had been daydreaming. As a result she hadn’t noted the peeking peak of the mountain, thrusting up through the thick layer of clouds that they cruised just above. They had come crashing to a halt and now the basket lay on a narrow plateau on the side of the peak.
“What the hell was that!” he screamed, awakened from the slumber he had been in.
“We…we seemed to have hit a snag” she told him, and gave a slight laugh. It had been the first exciting thing to have happened in a while.
He didn’t join her. Instead he quickly checked over everything to make sure all was ok. It was a routine he regularly went through, and an examination that no longer figured her into it.
“You stupid woman!” he said, after seeing the extent of the damage. “It was your shift on look out. Are you trying to get us both killed!?”
“I’m sorry” she said. “It’s just easy to get bored up here…” she trailed off, realising her poor choice in words.
“You’re welcome to jump anytime you want” He said mirthlessly.
“No, I didn’t mean…”
“Well then, try and make yourself useful for once and help me do some repairs. Sewing up the canvas alone will take the best part of a day.
They went to work, but the damage had been extensive and it took longer than expected. The loss of time on their journey only made him more and more surely, and his bitterness at their slow progress seemed to hover over them like a dark cloud, not helped by the other’s that frequently rained on them.
On the 3rd night when she was working while he slept (he had decided this too should be done in shifts) a blimp passed by. It was a marvellous machine, with the bottom part designed to resemble a good sized yacht. Despite its bulk, the blimp made no noise at all, and glided silently towards her.
A figure on deck appeared, calling in a deep manful voice “Ahoy! Everything alright?”
She waved this new figure closer and dutifully he angled until the yachts deck and the basket were almost level. What great precision and control he has, she thought.
Her co-pilot still hadn’t woken, being an exceptionally heavy sleeper, coupled with the blimps silent manoeuvres. In fact, lying down and tucked in as he was the man on the blimp couldn’t even see him.
“Are you all right?” said the man with the deep voice. “Would you like to come aboard?”
“Umm”
“My goodness you’re soaked through and shivering, please come aboard and take a shower, or even a bath. The Interloper has all the amenities”
Finally and through much persuasion she consented, and once she had washed and dried up she joined him in the spacious cabin whereupon he began talking.
“It is very fortunate I found you, and not just for your sake. You see I’m in need of some help too, my main burner is on the fritz and I noticed yours seems in relatively good condition. I’d be quite happy to tow your balloon behind me, as my vessel has plenty of thrust and lift. So what do you say? Can we help each other?”
She thought about it for a long time. But not too long in case he woke up.
Eventually he did, with a start. They were flying again, but something was wrong. He couldn’t quite place it at first, but then it came to him. The reassuring hiss of the burner ring now failed to greet his ears. He clawed his way out the blankets he was buried beneath and saw that the whole thing was gone. The ring, the fire, the fuel. All that was left was the fast fading hot air that someone had filled the balloon with.
Slowly but surely he descended down through the clouds, thinking how simply stepping off would get him to his destination much quicker.
They had been flying for a long long time now, sometimes soaring, sometimes treacherously close to the ground but on the whole gliding along at a safe and easy altitude. Yet lately there had been a marked decline, of which there seemed to be little the two of them could do about.
In the past it would simply have been a case of unloading some unnecessary burden, or briefly and spontaneously turning the burner up. However both were too attached to what they had brought to the basket, and sadly the same old butane fuel just didn’t give them the lift they needed. It was as if their balloon had grown tired of the fare they’d been feeding it, and often times the canvas would hang slightly limp.
It had been a magical day when they had first launched. Friends and family had all been there at the take off site, and there had been plenty of feasting and champagne. He had looked very dashing in his aviator goggles, with her equally resplendent in her white latex jumpsuit. Once all goodbyes had been said they stepped into the basket. With bight eyes he lit the burner ring and they floated up together amid waves and cheers.
But that was then and this was now. And lately most of her time had been spent gazing off at other aerospace vehicles, many of which were manned alone, going where and when they pleased, without having to agree anything with anyone. She yearned for that kind of freedom, rather than trapped in this basket with him, their course plotted and unaltered since the day they took off.
THUDUMPH! She had been daydreaming. As a result she hadn’t noted the peeking peak of the mountain, thrusting up through the thick layer of clouds that they cruised just above. They had come crashing to a halt and now the basket lay on a narrow plateau on the side of the peak.
“What the hell was that!” he screamed, awakened from the slumber he had been in.
“We…we seemed to have hit a snag” she told him, and gave a slight laugh. It had been the first exciting thing to have happened in a while.
He didn’t join her. Instead he quickly checked over everything to make sure all was ok. It was a routine he regularly went through, and an examination that no longer figured her into it.
“You stupid woman!” he said, after seeing the extent of the damage. “It was your shift on look out. Are you trying to get us both killed!?”
“I’m sorry” she said. “It’s just easy to get bored up here…” she trailed off, realising her poor choice in words.
“You’re welcome to jump anytime you want” He said mirthlessly.
“No, I didn’t mean…”
“Well then, try and make yourself useful for once and help me do some repairs. Sewing up the canvas alone will take the best part of a day.
They went to work, but the damage had been extensive and it took longer than expected. The loss of time on their journey only made him more and more surely, and his bitterness at their slow progress seemed to hover over them like a dark cloud, not helped by the other’s that frequently rained on them.
On the 3rd night when she was working while he slept (he had decided this too should be done in shifts) a blimp passed by. It was a marvellous machine, with the bottom part designed to resemble a good sized yacht. Despite its bulk, the blimp made no noise at all, and glided silently towards her.
A figure on deck appeared, calling in a deep manful voice “Ahoy! Everything alright?”
She waved this new figure closer and dutifully he angled until the yachts deck and the basket were almost level. What great precision and control he has, she thought.
Her co-pilot still hadn’t woken, being an exceptionally heavy sleeper, coupled with the blimps silent manoeuvres. In fact, lying down and tucked in as he was the man on the blimp couldn’t even see him.
“Are you all right?” said the man with the deep voice. “Would you like to come aboard?”
“Umm”
“My goodness you’re soaked through and shivering, please come aboard and take a shower, or even a bath. The Interloper has all the amenities”
Finally and through much persuasion she consented, and once she had washed and dried up she joined him in the spacious cabin whereupon he began talking.
“It is very fortunate I found you, and not just for your sake. You see I’m in need of some help too, my main burner is on the fritz and I noticed yours seems in relatively good condition. I’d be quite happy to tow your balloon behind me, as my vessel has plenty of thrust and lift. So what do you say? Can we help each other?”
She thought about it for a long time. But not too long in case he woke up.
Eventually he did, with a start. They were flying again, but something was wrong. He couldn’t quite place it at first, but then it came to him. The reassuring hiss of the burner ring now failed to greet his ears. He clawed his way out the blankets he was buried beneath and saw that the whole thing was gone. The ring, the fire, the fuel. All that was left was the fast fading hot air that someone had filled the balloon with.
Slowly but surely he descended down through the clouds, thinking how simply stepping off would get him to his destination much quicker.
Matter over Mind
Father Hermes walked down the street, his mind at ease and his body the same. Though he knew it wasn’t so, it still seemed that at this moment all things in the world were as they should be, and while time might change this, he was certain such challenges could be comfortably met head on. He rounded the corner and stepped into the sunlight that bathed this street. Yes, this moment would stay with him, tucked away like a secret book in a library.
It was then that he felt pain in the back of his skull, and the sunbeams turned dark.
Delicately Father Hermes lifted the lid off the tea pot and pulled out the bag, squeezing the last strains of flavour that remained. While normally he would have simply left it in, liquid refused to exit the spout of this particular pot as long as the teabag remained inside.
“Milk?” he asked his guest.
“No thank you Father, I prefer it black.”
“Do you get Black tea?” Father Hermes muttered as he awoke. He blinked several times, each bringing his surroundings more into focus. It looked like some sort of hospital room, with medical supplies and instruments dotted around. It certainly had that clinical smell which he would associate with such places. He tried to raise his body for a better look, only to find he was bound to the bed on which he lay.
A voice came over, and with it the pain resurfaced.
“That wasn’t much of an ice breaker” it said.
Father Hermes tried to turn his head towards this voice, but it too was tied down.
“Hello?” he said. “Are you a doctor? Am I in hospital?”
“I’m a surgeon,” the man, yes the voice was definitely male, replied. “And this is my operating theatre.”
“Is anything wrong with me?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I’m going to fix you.”
Father Hermes thought about the pain in his head. “What happened? Did I fall?”
“Yes Father.” The steps came closer, and from the corner of his left eye Father Hermes saw a large syringe. “That’s exactly right.”
The surgeon inserted it into Father Hermes neck, who let out a cry of pain.
“You’re lying” he said, feeling things slip and drift.
“A man in your profession should be used to that,” said the surgeon, his words sinking away.
“Let’s swap hats!” shouted Hermes as he ran around, playing in the back garden with Julius, the child from next door.
“I dunno” said Julius. “My dad says the Kippah isn’t a toy.”
“Come on, don’t be dull. I’ve never worn one before.” Hermes took off his own flat cap and handed it to Julius, who took it grudgingly.
“That’s because you’re not Jewish” he said. Yet he handed over his skull cap willingly enough.
Promptly Hermes donned it. “Well now I am!” he declared happily. “Now I can celebrate Hanukah and Christmas.” And with that he danced a wild jig.
“Hermes!” an angry voice called “What on earth are you doing!?” Hermes’ Father strode down the lawn to him. “Take that off this instant!”
Not even pausing to allow his command to be obeyed, he tore the skull cap from Hermes head.
“I’m sorry father!” Hermes squealed as he was dragged inside. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m…”
“Sorry!” He awoke on the table. The pain in his head was gone now, along with something else, but what it was Hermes couldn’t think.
“Do you say something foolish every time you awake?” the surgeon asked. “No matter, just tell me how you feel right now.”
Confused as he was, Hermes obeyed. “I feel…” He struggled for words and picked the only one that seemed right. “Less.”
“Hmm, how about that” said the surgeon. He undid the braces which had held Hermes down, who immediately raised his hands to his temples, which felt fat and itchy. It was then that he touched the stitches.
“What have you done to me!?” Hermes asked, fear and anger rising, fighting each other for control.
“I’ve fixed you,” said the surgeon. “Just as I said I would.” He looked at Hermes uncomprehending face.
“Very well, I can see such succinct explanations aren’t to your liking, so I shall start at the very beginning.” The surgeon began pacing the room slowly, self satisfied eyes running over his instruments. He began to speak.
“The French Philosopher Voltaire once wrote that if God didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent him. I however take a very contrary view. I know that God exists, and as such I see it as absolutely necessary to kill him. But how to go about such an impossible task?”
He looked at Hermes with earnest eyes, and went on.
In the 1980’s a famous neurological experiment was carried out with electromagnetic energy. By use of a special helmet that sent out weak magnetic fields to the frontal lobes of the brain, scientists were able to induce states of religious euphoria upon anyone who wore it. Even the staunchest of atheist walked away thinking they had experienced the very will of God.”
Here he flashed Hermes a smile. “Wouldn’t that have been a handy thing for your sermons?”
“Desperate to find out the cause, more experiments were conducted with this so called “God Helmet” and it was later revealed that all such spiritual feelings are derived from a very particular, very small, area of the left hemisphere. This part of the brain, nicknamed “Heavens gate” has no other purpose but that of belief in a higher power. Which raises the question-what happens when you remove it?”
He stroked Hermes hair tenderly, tracing the stitches along his temples with a long delicate finger.
“Of course not any old person would do. You would need a man of deep spiritual convictions, one who studied and spoke to and with all his heart and mind believed in God. A man of faith. A man very much like you, Hermes.”
At this the Surgeon broke off and pulled a small test tube from his jacket. “Your parents must have had some sense of irony when they named you. Did you know that Hermes is the Patron Saint of mental illness?”
Hermes looked at the test tube held up before him. Inside was a small greyish lump.
“This is all that God is” the surgeon said. “One grain of flesh. No more. No less.”
He raised it up, and poured its contents into his mouth. Hermes watched in horror as the surgeon closed his eyes and worked the lump around his mouth. He swallowed.
“Ah, simply…divine.”
“Why? Said Hermes. “Why do this? What could have happened to you to make you so?”
“I am only what God has made me. You could never understand.”
“I understand that God will forgive you.”
“And I will forget him” the surgeon replied, drawing out his needle and again stabbing it into Hermes.
No dreams. Only Black.
Hermes awoke, saying nothing. He was exactly where he had been on the street, and it seemed that even those very same sunbeams still bore down on him, though they seemed a lot dimmer to his eyes. He wandered if the whole thing had been imagined, and with fear and doubt he raised his hands to his temples, searching for the stitches.
A young woman approached him and knelt down, her face concerned.
“Oh my God. Are you ok? Do you need an ambulance? Tell me how you feel?”
“I don’t know” said Hermes.
Father Hermes walked down the street, his mind at ease and his body the same. Though he knew it wasn’t so, it still seemed that at this moment all things in the world were as they should be, and while time might change this, he was certain such challenges could be comfortably met head on. He rounded the corner and stepped into the sunlight that bathed this street. Yes, this moment would stay with him, tucked away like a secret book in a library.
It was then that he felt pain in the back of his skull, and the sunbeams turned dark.
Delicately Father Hermes lifted the lid off the tea pot and pulled out the bag, squeezing the last strains of flavour that remained. While normally he would have simply left it in, liquid refused to exit the spout of this particular pot as long as the teabag remained inside.
“Milk?” he asked his guest.
“No thank you Father, I prefer it black.”
“Do you get Black tea?” Father Hermes muttered as he awoke. He blinked several times, each bringing his surroundings more into focus. It looked like some sort of hospital room, with medical supplies and instruments dotted around. It certainly had that clinical smell which he would associate with such places. He tried to raise his body for a better look, only to find he was bound to the bed on which he lay.
A voice came over, and with it the pain resurfaced.
“That wasn’t much of an ice breaker” it said.
Father Hermes tried to turn his head towards this voice, but it too was tied down.
“Hello?” he said. “Are you a doctor? Am I in hospital?”
“I’m a surgeon,” the man, yes the voice was definitely male, replied. “And this is my operating theatre.”
“Is anything wrong with me?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I’m going to fix you.”
Father Hermes thought about the pain in his head. “What happened? Did I fall?”
“Yes Father.” The steps came closer, and from the corner of his left eye Father Hermes saw a large syringe. “That’s exactly right.”
The surgeon inserted it into Father Hermes neck, who let out a cry of pain.
“You’re lying” he said, feeling things slip and drift.
“A man in your profession should be used to that,” said the surgeon, his words sinking away.
“Let’s swap hats!” shouted Hermes as he ran around, playing in the back garden with Julius, the child from next door.
“I dunno” said Julius. “My dad says the Kippah isn’t a toy.”
“Come on, don’t be dull. I’ve never worn one before.” Hermes took off his own flat cap and handed it to Julius, who took it grudgingly.
“That’s because you’re not Jewish” he said. Yet he handed over his skull cap willingly enough.
Promptly Hermes donned it. “Well now I am!” he declared happily. “Now I can celebrate Hanukah and Christmas.” And with that he danced a wild jig.
“Hermes!” an angry voice called “What on earth are you doing!?” Hermes’ Father strode down the lawn to him. “Take that off this instant!”
Not even pausing to allow his command to be obeyed, he tore the skull cap from Hermes head.
“I’m sorry father!” Hermes squealed as he was dragged inside. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m…”
“Sorry!” He awoke on the table. The pain in his head was gone now, along with something else, but what it was Hermes couldn’t think.
“Do you say something foolish every time you awake?” the surgeon asked. “No matter, just tell me how you feel right now.”
Confused as he was, Hermes obeyed. “I feel…” He struggled for words and picked the only one that seemed right. “Less.”
“Hmm, how about that” said the surgeon. He undid the braces which had held Hermes down, who immediately raised his hands to his temples, which felt fat and itchy. It was then that he touched the stitches.
“What have you done to me!?” Hermes asked, fear and anger rising, fighting each other for control.
“I’ve fixed you,” said the surgeon. “Just as I said I would.” He looked at Hermes uncomprehending face.
“Very well, I can see such succinct explanations aren’t to your liking, so I shall start at the very beginning.” The surgeon began pacing the room slowly, self satisfied eyes running over his instruments. He began to speak.
“The French Philosopher Voltaire once wrote that if God didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent him. I however take a very contrary view. I know that God exists, and as such I see it as absolutely necessary to kill him. But how to go about such an impossible task?”
He looked at Hermes with earnest eyes, and went on.
In the 1980’s a famous neurological experiment was carried out with electromagnetic energy. By use of a special helmet that sent out weak magnetic fields to the frontal lobes of the brain, scientists were able to induce states of religious euphoria upon anyone who wore it. Even the staunchest of atheist walked away thinking they had experienced the very will of God.”
Here he flashed Hermes a smile. “Wouldn’t that have been a handy thing for your sermons?”
“Desperate to find out the cause, more experiments were conducted with this so called “God Helmet” and it was later revealed that all such spiritual feelings are derived from a very particular, very small, area of the left hemisphere. This part of the brain, nicknamed “Heavens gate” has no other purpose but that of belief in a higher power. Which raises the question-what happens when you remove it?”
He stroked Hermes hair tenderly, tracing the stitches along his temples with a long delicate finger.
“Of course not any old person would do. You would need a man of deep spiritual convictions, one who studied and spoke to and with all his heart and mind believed in God. A man of faith. A man very much like you, Hermes.”
At this the Surgeon broke off and pulled a small test tube from his jacket. “Your parents must have had some sense of irony when they named you. Did you know that Hermes is the Patron Saint of mental illness?”
Hermes looked at the test tube held up before him. Inside was a small greyish lump.
“This is all that God is” the surgeon said. “One grain of flesh. No more. No less.”
He raised it up, and poured its contents into his mouth. Hermes watched in horror as the surgeon closed his eyes and worked the lump around his mouth. He swallowed.
“Ah, simply…divine.”
“Why? Said Hermes. “Why do this? What could have happened to you to make you so?”
“I am only what God has made me. You could never understand.”
“I understand that God will forgive you.”
“And I will forget him” the surgeon replied, drawing out his needle and again stabbing it into Hermes.
No dreams. Only Black.
Hermes awoke, saying nothing. He was exactly where he had been on the street, and it seemed that even those very same sunbeams still bore down on him, though they seemed a lot dimmer to his eyes. He wandered if the whole thing had been imagined, and with fear and doubt he raised his hands to his temples, searching for the stitches.
A young woman approached him and knelt down, her face concerned.
“Oh my God. Are you ok? Do you need an ambulance? Tell me how you feel?”
“I don’t know” said Hermes.
Growing Pains
Jack Snap was born with an unusual gift. Whenever he clicked his fingers or cracked his knuckles or creaked his knees, or in fact any part of his body, he caused explosions. The bigger the crack, the larger the bang.
No one noticed this disturbing trait when he was a baby, for it is well known that their bones have not fused together yet, and so are less prone to clicking. But once he reached maturity, things quickly fell apart.
As an adolescent, he was always accidently setting things alight. Every morning he had to be careful not to yawn or his bed would catch fire. His parents at first thought he was merely a very disturbed boy, but then they began to comprehend his gift, and like any loving mother and father, tried to make his life easier and more bearable. He was given a waterbed with fire proof blankets to sleep on. Special clothing made of Nomex, the type worn by stuntmen and racing drivers was ordered in, and every morning and every night he was given a deep bath for him to stretch out all the kinks and creaks he had.
Despite all this love and attention, disaster eventually struck. One day Jack was outside playing and climbing trees. He was very high up and was about to make it to the top, when all of a sudden a magpie flew out and startled him into falling.
Down down down he went, until CRACK, he fell hard on the ground and broke his arm.
And accidently blew up his house, along with his parents.
With no other family to speak of, he was all alone in the world.
Thus began his tour of legal guardians, interspaced with brief stays in juvenile delinquent centres due to his accidental pyrotechnic pursuits. Fire and sorrow travelled with him wherever he went, and no one wanted him around for long. By this time he had come to fully understand his gift, and spent much effort trying to refine and control it. He discovered that whatever object he focused on would be the thing that he combusted. It didn’t require a direct line of sight, just as long as he pictured it clearly in his minds eye. In addition to this, flexibility exercises such as yoga and tai chi helped him stretch smoothly, while cods liver oil and calcium tablets helped stop his joints from creaking.
A normal life was his for the taking, and Jack, who now washed dishes and lived in a modest bed sit, tried hard, yet carefully, to reach out and take it. He began dating a girl from work and the two of them were very happy. When they woke up in bed together Jack was very careful when hugging her, so much so that he earned the nick name “Slow spoon,” which he secretly liked to be called very much.
It wasn’t to last however. One night, after the two of them had drunk too much Midori, they returned to the bed sit where Jack promptly lowered himself onto the ground and fell asleep. His girlfriend, a lovely young woman by the name of Susan decided to show her affection by giving him a shiatsu massage. Sadly it was the last shiatsu massage she ever gave, and working out a particularly tough knot produced a loud crack, a lot of blood and the immediate loss of Susan’s hands.
Guilt and revulsion drove Jack away from the life he had made, and any other semblance of a normal existence. Given that his circumstances weren’t normal, Jack instead decided to use his gift to help fight crime. He was still very young when he made this decision, and guilt mixed with naivety can make for foolish results.
Donning a special Nomex suit, tight enough so it kept breaks in place, yet loose enough to allow dislocation, Jack began to prowl the streets at night under the alias “Arthrighteous”
Of course in order to fight crime effectively, Jack had to cause himself pain, either by breaking his nose, popping his fingers right out their sockets, or even breaking his arms and legs. Within a short space of time his body was a wreck of floating bone and calcium deposits. He could no longer write with his hands, and it was a challenge even to feed himself. And still there was more crime to fight.
Soon word began to spread like wildfire about Jacks gift. Reporters asked him for demonstrations which he painfully obliged, while masochistic would fight him for their own painful pleasure. All Jack wanted to do was to help people, yet most treated him like a freak.
One occasion, in order to defeat a three headed T rex, Jack had to pull three fingers right off his hand. Another time, an evil masked wrestler punched him in the face so hard his nose broke so badly it couldn’t be set right and Jack forever lost his sense of smell. By contrast the wrestler was unmasked, unfaced and unheaded. A giant robot built by the recently resurrected Thomas Edison succeeded in breaking Jacks leg, destroying itself and half the warehouse district. Though his suit protected him from the worst of the burns, from then on Jack could only walk with a slow painful limp.
As more of these events took their toll on him, Jack became increasingly bitter about his lot in life. With twisted humour he would drink a bottle of midori each night to help him cope with the pain he now constantly felt all over. He began to take less care in public with his joints, setting small businesses on fire and often combusting pigeons out of sheer malice. Wherever he walked people shunned and avoided him, thinking him too dangerous and unstable to be around.
Eventually he just stopped caring about anything. It was hard to pin point an exact moment when it happened, rather it was probably a collection of them, all scraping away at his heart, till it stopped beating for others. From then on he went and did as he pleased, which was very easy indeed. Because of his brief media exposure, everyone knew of his ability and so wherever Jack was, other people weren’t. He would walk into restaurants and eat food off the plates of couples who had just fled from him. And every night he would squat in a different house whilst the family there took up temporary residence in nearby hotels. No one was foolish enough to try and stop him. Any hand laid upon him was likely to be lost, as his ex girlfriend Susan well knew.
Being human requires being with humans, and Jack went two years existing like this, without speaking to anyone. He began to forget what other peoples faces looked like, as he only ever saw the back of their heads as they fled him. He couldn’t have followed them even if he wanted to, with his limp and his pain slowing him down. The rare times when he did see a person’s face it was with nostrils flared and eyes widened in fear. Just like stupid beasts he would think as they scurried off.
Then there was the graffiti. He thought it coincidence at first, perhaps aimed at immigrants. But the fact was that every morning, wherever he stayed, on fresh paint all across the walls outside would be messages for him. LEAVE! GO AWAY. WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE. KILL YOURSELF QUIETLY. Jack would smile sardonically at these messages as he read them. I’m not going anywhere he would think to himself.
As more time went on people began leaving the city that Jack haunted altogether. They had heard of Pompeii, and did not wish to meet a similar fate as the grey inhabitants of that buried city. Despite his attempts to make the city safer, to them Jack was just an unnatural disaster waiting to happen. And so, coupled with his pain he began to feel a desperate loneliness and isolation.
It was on one such lonely excursion to a café that Jack first heard the news. He hadn’t seen the point in keeping up with world affairs, so it quite late when he learned that there was a large comet heading strait for earth with every attempt to destroy it ending in failure. Jack had wandered why there seemed to be a second moon in the sky at night.
Deciding the time was right for him to rest his weary bones, Jack figured he’d try and find some form of redemption. And so it was with slow, heavy steps that he ascended the tallest building in the city and stood upon its rooftop, gazing up at the ever growing second moon. His gift having been perfected, Jack knew exactly what he should do. With tight shut eyelids and tight drawn breaths he tried to picture what the inner most core of the comet would look like. Holding on to nothing but this, he stepped forward once, twice and then fell.
Willing his eyes open through the rushing, stinging air, he looked up at the comet, wandering if the speed it was going was the same as his own. Would this plan work? Probably not. Failure had no consequences for him though. After all, he’d be dea….
This thought was interrupted by the ground, which was much softer and airier than he had expected. He sank down, down down into its fleshy embrace, the world going darker around him.
When Jack awoke, the first thing he saw was himself, reflected in glass. His reflection had a rebreather in its mouth. So did Jack. The reflection’s body seemed to be tied back in a standing position, like Jack. Yet only he was incased in warm water, trapped in some tank with glass windows. It reminded him of the baths his parents had given him when he was a child.
He looked through his reflection and out the window. It seemed to be some sort of military place. There were serious faced men in white coats milling about the place, while stone faced men with black guns stood still. And then, standing in front of him…was her. Jack reached out with his hand towards her, and she moved her smooth stump to him.
“Susan” he said, the word transforming into bubbles around him.
With tears in her eyes, Susan took her stump away from the glass and slowly gave a malformed waved to him. Then she turned away without looking back.
Encased in water as he was, Jack had no way of knowing if he too was crying. And somehow, that was the most upsetting thing of all. Blinking through the fluid, he saw that everyone else had left the room as well. Amber lights started flashing and far away he heard a voice count down. Looking down at cylindrical shape he was trapped in, the awful truth struck him.
10…9....
Hate was all he felt at that moment.
7…6…
Fire burned through him.
4…3…
Too bad for them. He had given all he was until he was…
1…0
Jack felt a low rumbling beneath him. His whole being shook. Crushing force pushed him down as he shot up in the rocket he was part of. Rushing through the sky, gaining altitude, Jack looked down, saw little men scurrying around like vermin, saw the ground begin to curve and the world turn swirly white and blue. He kept that world very close to mind as he shot towards the meteor he knew he was heading for.
Jack Snap was born with an unusual gift. Whenever he clicked his fingers or cracked his knuckles or creaked his knees, or in fact any part of his body, he caused explosions. The bigger the crack, the larger the bang.
No one noticed this disturbing trait when he was a baby, for it is well known that their bones have not fused together yet, and so are less prone to clicking. But once he reached maturity, things quickly fell apart.
As an adolescent, he was always accidently setting things alight. Every morning he had to be careful not to yawn or his bed would catch fire. His parents at first thought he was merely a very disturbed boy, but then they began to comprehend his gift, and like any loving mother and father, tried to make his life easier and more bearable. He was given a waterbed with fire proof blankets to sleep on. Special clothing made of Nomex, the type worn by stuntmen and racing drivers was ordered in, and every morning and every night he was given a deep bath for him to stretch out all the kinks and creaks he had.
Despite all this love and attention, disaster eventually struck. One day Jack was outside playing and climbing trees. He was very high up and was about to make it to the top, when all of a sudden a magpie flew out and startled him into falling.
Down down down he went, until CRACK, he fell hard on the ground and broke his arm.
And accidently blew up his house, along with his parents.
With no other family to speak of, he was all alone in the world.
Thus began his tour of legal guardians, interspaced with brief stays in juvenile delinquent centres due to his accidental pyrotechnic pursuits. Fire and sorrow travelled with him wherever he went, and no one wanted him around for long. By this time he had come to fully understand his gift, and spent much effort trying to refine and control it. He discovered that whatever object he focused on would be the thing that he combusted. It didn’t require a direct line of sight, just as long as he pictured it clearly in his minds eye. In addition to this, flexibility exercises such as yoga and tai chi helped him stretch smoothly, while cods liver oil and calcium tablets helped stop his joints from creaking.
A normal life was his for the taking, and Jack, who now washed dishes and lived in a modest bed sit, tried hard, yet carefully, to reach out and take it. He began dating a girl from work and the two of them were very happy. When they woke up in bed together Jack was very careful when hugging her, so much so that he earned the nick name “Slow spoon,” which he secretly liked to be called very much.
It wasn’t to last however. One night, after the two of them had drunk too much Midori, they returned to the bed sit where Jack promptly lowered himself onto the ground and fell asleep. His girlfriend, a lovely young woman by the name of Susan decided to show her affection by giving him a shiatsu massage. Sadly it was the last shiatsu massage she ever gave, and working out a particularly tough knot produced a loud crack, a lot of blood and the immediate loss of Susan’s hands.
Guilt and revulsion drove Jack away from the life he had made, and any other semblance of a normal existence. Given that his circumstances weren’t normal, Jack instead decided to use his gift to help fight crime. He was still very young when he made this decision, and guilt mixed with naivety can make for foolish results.
Donning a special Nomex suit, tight enough so it kept breaks in place, yet loose enough to allow dislocation, Jack began to prowl the streets at night under the alias “Arthrighteous”
Of course in order to fight crime effectively, Jack had to cause himself pain, either by breaking his nose, popping his fingers right out their sockets, or even breaking his arms and legs. Within a short space of time his body was a wreck of floating bone and calcium deposits. He could no longer write with his hands, and it was a challenge even to feed himself. And still there was more crime to fight.
Soon word began to spread like wildfire about Jacks gift. Reporters asked him for demonstrations which he painfully obliged, while masochistic would fight him for their own painful pleasure. All Jack wanted to do was to help people, yet most treated him like a freak.
One occasion, in order to defeat a three headed T rex, Jack had to pull three fingers right off his hand. Another time, an evil masked wrestler punched him in the face so hard his nose broke so badly it couldn’t be set right and Jack forever lost his sense of smell. By contrast the wrestler was unmasked, unfaced and unheaded. A giant robot built by the recently resurrected Thomas Edison succeeded in breaking Jacks leg, destroying itself and half the warehouse district. Though his suit protected him from the worst of the burns, from then on Jack could only walk with a slow painful limp.
As more of these events took their toll on him, Jack became increasingly bitter about his lot in life. With twisted humour he would drink a bottle of midori each night to help him cope with the pain he now constantly felt all over. He began to take less care in public with his joints, setting small businesses on fire and often combusting pigeons out of sheer malice. Wherever he walked people shunned and avoided him, thinking him too dangerous and unstable to be around.
Eventually he just stopped caring about anything. It was hard to pin point an exact moment when it happened, rather it was probably a collection of them, all scraping away at his heart, till it stopped beating for others. From then on he went and did as he pleased, which was very easy indeed. Because of his brief media exposure, everyone knew of his ability and so wherever Jack was, other people weren’t. He would walk into restaurants and eat food off the plates of couples who had just fled from him. And every night he would squat in a different house whilst the family there took up temporary residence in nearby hotels. No one was foolish enough to try and stop him. Any hand laid upon him was likely to be lost, as his ex girlfriend Susan well knew.
Being human requires being with humans, and Jack went two years existing like this, without speaking to anyone. He began to forget what other peoples faces looked like, as he only ever saw the back of their heads as they fled him. He couldn’t have followed them even if he wanted to, with his limp and his pain slowing him down. The rare times when he did see a person’s face it was with nostrils flared and eyes widened in fear. Just like stupid beasts he would think as they scurried off.
Then there was the graffiti. He thought it coincidence at first, perhaps aimed at immigrants. But the fact was that every morning, wherever he stayed, on fresh paint all across the walls outside would be messages for him. LEAVE! GO AWAY. WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE. KILL YOURSELF QUIETLY. Jack would smile sardonically at these messages as he read them. I’m not going anywhere he would think to himself.
As more time went on people began leaving the city that Jack haunted altogether. They had heard of Pompeii, and did not wish to meet a similar fate as the grey inhabitants of that buried city. Despite his attempts to make the city safer, to them Jack was just an unnatural disaster waiting to happen. And so, coupled with his pain he began to feel a desperate loneliness and isolation.
It was on one such lonely excursion to a café that Jack first heard the news. He hadn’t seen the point in keeping up with world affairs, so it quite late when he learned that there was a large comet heading strait for earth with every attempt to destroy it ending in failure. Jack had wandered why there seemed to be a second moon in the sky at night.
Deciding the time was right for him to rest his weary bones, Jack figured he’d try and find some form of redemption. And so it was with slow, heavy steps that he ascended the tallest building in the city and stood upon its rooftop, gazing up at the ever growing second moon. His gift having been perfected, Jack knew exactly what he should do. With tight shut eyelids and tight drawn breaths he tried to picture what the inner most core of the comet would look like. Holding on to nothing but this, he stepped forward once, twice and then fell.
Willing his eyes open through the rushing, stinging air, he looked up at the comet, wandering if the speed it was going was the same as his own. Would this plan work? Probably not. Failure had no consequences for him though. After all, he’d be dea….
This thought was interrupted by the ground, which was much softer and airier than he had expected. He sank down, down down into its fleshy embrace, the world going darker around him.
When Jack awoke, the first thing he saw was himself, reflected in glass. His reflection had a rebreather in its mouth. So did Jack. The reflection’s body seemed to be tied back in a standing position, like Jack. Yet only he was incased in warm water, trapped in some tank with glass windows. It reminded him of the baths his parents had given him when he was a child.
He looked through his reflection and out the window. It seemed to be some sort of military place. There were serious faced men in white coats milling about the place, while stone faced men with black guns stood still. And then, standing in front of him…was her. Jack reached out with his hand towards her, and she moved her smooth stump to him.
“Susan” he said, the word transforming into bubbles around him.
With tears in her eyes, Susan took her stump away from the glass and slowly gave a malformed waved to him. Then she turned away without looking back.
Encased in water as he was, Jack had no way of knowing if he too was crying. And somehow, that was the most upsetting thing of all. Blinking through the fluid, he saw that everyone else had left the room as well. Amber lights started flashing and far away he heard a voice count down. Looking down at cylindrical shape he was trapped in, the awful truth struck him.
10…9....
Hate was all he felt at that moment.
7…6…
Fire burned through him.
4…3…
Too bad for them. He had given all he was until he was…
1…0
Jack felt a low rumbling beneath him. His whole being shook. Crushing force pushed him down as he shot up in the rocket he was part of. Rushing through the sky, gaining altitude, Jack looked down, saw little men scurrying around like vermin, saw the ground begin to curve and the world turn swirly white and blue. He kept that world very close to mind as he shot towards the meteor he knew he was heading for.
Auburn Oceans
Captain Captin stood at the spout of his ship and savoured the smell of the savoury gravy air. They were making good time through the Bisto Baltics and would soon make it to the sweet corn colonies. And once there, a tidy profit was to be made in the trade of gold for green. He looked down with a feeling of pride, watching his steam powered prowler power through the thick brown sludge below. A fine ship she was, the Icarus 13, and a fine day it was as well.
“Captain Captin! That damn Crock has stolen me moustache again!”
“Did not did not! And my name is Lincoln!”
The Captain sighed. If only he had a fine crew as well. He rounded on the two crew members behind him and shouted “swab the deck with yer arses and sit down! I’ll have no feckless fools running amok on my boat!”
The two of them sat down, or in Lincolns case lay down immediately. They knew the punishment for disobeying orders. Captain Captin strode over, his bleached white breeches dazzling in the sun, and surveyed the two.
“Well, out with it! What happened?”
“Well Captin…” began Octoflague, whose moustache had apparently been stolen.
“That’s Captain Captin!” said Captain Captin
“Sorry Captain Captin sir. Well, as you can plainly see, this crafty caiman has done stolen me nose piece, which as you know I needs as part of me ‘umble trade of concealment and disguise.”
“I see” said the Captain “And what do you make of these charges levied against you Lincoln?”
“I never done such a thing in my life Captin…” cried Lincoln.
“Captain Captin!”
“I was just reading over some charts when all of a sudden I’m accused of theft!” The ships alligator navigator looked on the verge of tears.
“He’s talking twaddle sir” said Octoflague “Just look at ‘im and see”
“Hmm” said the Captain “He has a point Lincoln. You do appear to be wearing a false moustache. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, but it’s as plain as the nose on your face”
Lincoln tried to look innocent, and twiddle his tache nervously. “Oh this old thing?” he said “I grew it last week, as part of my new look”
“He’s lyin’ sir! The cold blooded critter’s a liar!”
Captain Captin frowned “Yes, I was under the impression that as an alligator, a member of the Alligatoridae family and a reptile, you were unable to grow stylish facial hair. Well, am I wrong?”
This time, Lincoln did burst into tears, and his moustache quivered as he sobbed and sniffed. “I just…wanted…to be…like you Captin” he said between great shudders.
“Captain Captin” said Captin gently, and stroked his own stylish facial hair with casual pride.
“Don’t listin to im sir!” said Octoflague. “Them tears be as fake as his hair, and twice as deadly”
“That’s…crocodile….tears” sniffed Lincoln. “Alligator…tears…cure…impotence”
“Really!?” said Captin. He pulled out a handkerchief and gently dabbed away at Lincolns eyes, crooning “there there” Lincoln smiled weakly, took the cloth and blew his nose so hard the moustache blew off into it. He handed it back to the Captain, who scowled and handed it to Octoflague.
“Besides,” said Lincoln, wiping away the last of his fertile tears. “He’s already got a moustache”
“That’s a good point. Why do you need a fake moustache when you already have a real one?” asked the Captain suspiciously
“Well sir, I’m glad you asked. See its all part of me double disguise idea. See, I wears a really good disguise, and on top of that, I wears me a bad one. So when I get discovered and they make me reveal myself, I’ll still be in disguise! It’s sheer genius, aint it sir?”
Captain Captin sighed once again. “Are we still on course, Lincoln?”
“Yessir!”
“And are all your disguises ready Octoflague?”
“Yessir”
“Then bugger off and leave me alone!” cried the captain, taking off his tin cap and waving it at them.
The two of them fled below deck and Captain Captin smiled. He still had it. Just then, his first mate and most trusted friend in the world approached him. At least there was one person on board he could rely on.
“Ahoy Judas Mutiny, you old scallywag!” he shouted in his first mates face
“Ahoy sir” muttered Judas, scowling.
“A fine day eh? It makes me feel so alive!”
“Not for long”
“Eh!?”
“I said I’m glad you’re not forlorn”
“Ah, Judas you know what your problem is?”
“Yes” came the emphatic reply.
“You don’t speak up for yourself!” Captain Captin turned and leaned over the prow.
Judas looked at him. It would be so easy just to creep up behind him, like so. Then quietly take out his dagger, like this, and…
“Wait a tick! We’ve not heard from Moley yet. I bet that lazy bum is asleep!” Captain Captin whirled around and bawled up into the crows nest and Judas’s ear. “Moley! Is it all clear on the horizon!?”
“As clear as day sir” came the eventual sleepy reply.
“Good man!” Captain Captin looked down and saw the dagger. “Nice blade!” he said and took his own sword out with a flourish. “Mines bigger, but we’re a bit young to be comparing sizes”
“Sir” said Judas, putting his weapon away. “I’m not sure having a one eyed hydrophobic mole as our look-out is entirely wise”
“It’s that kind of linear thinking that keeps you first mate, first mate” said Captain Captin “By the way; have you ever seen moleys mole collection? There’s one on his back that’s shaped just like a mole!”
“Fascinating sir” said Judas. “Now, would you care for a drink?” he pulled out a water skin that just so happened to be full of deadly crocodile tears.
“Good man!” said Captain Captin. He pulled it to his mouth and was about to take a deep draught, when a voice from deck called out frantically “Mashburg dead ahead!”
The Captain whirled around once again and stared into the great white behemoth in front of him. It reared high and ugly, a malformed cloud with flayed skin draped across its figure. Captain Captin thrust the water skin back to his first mate “That damned mole must have mistaken it for a mirage. Sorry old friend, but the time for cammaderie is over. All hands on deck! All hands on deck!”
Hans appeared at once in front of the Captain and looked at him expectantly. He was silent but his psy-parrot on his shoulder squawked in a thick German accent “Ja?”
“Damnit Hans! I said all hands on deck”
Hans dutifully bent down and put his hands on the ground. Captain Captin responded with a swift kick to the rear and Hans panicked parrot took flight, squawking loudly, “Ve are all going to die! Abandon das boot!”
Soon the whole crew was milling about in a panic, except for Judas who was trying to slink away in the small escape chip, and the captain, who stood stock still and bellowed random orders.
“Save the Cargo! Baton down the plank! Moley get down from there! Raise sail and drop anchor!” Crucially the one order he failed to give was a change in course, and the Icarus 13 ploughed onwards straight at the marshburg. Seeing that doom was inevitable and drawing ever nearer, Captain Captin ran below deck, pushing Moley out the way and over the side in the processes. Fortunately for Moley he fell into the recently launched Chip and even had a soft landing on top of Judas.
The Captain emerged from below with fire in his eyes and a massive harpoon in his hands. He strode forward swift and sure, accidently catching Lincoln with the butt of his spear, who stumbled overboard and again fell on to Judas. To the very spout his gravy boat he strode, and stared the great white monolith in its lifeless skin eyes. “To the last I grapple with thee!” he cried “From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last bit of spittle at thee!” He threw the spear with all his might and it flew swift and true towards its target, where it landed with a small flump.
Unfortunately, it seemed to have no effect, and the mashburg remained, impassive as ever. The captain cursed and seeing that the ship was about to make contact, leaped over the side, landing on the Chip and narrowly missing Judas. Judas breathed a sigh of relief, until both Octoflague and Hans followed the Captains example and both landed on him.
“Cast off me hearty’s!” cried the captain. “Before the engine goes and takes us with it!”
The crew grabbed the oars and began rowing as fast as they could away from the Icarus 13. The ship was slowly enveloped in the mashy mass until the steam funnel was blocked up. The whole thing began to shake violently.
“Faster! Faster!” cried the captain desperately. They paddled with all their might, but these Auburn Oceans are treacherous at the best of times, and the Chip was in a particularly congealed part of its brown abyss.
Finally, the Icarus’s engines could take no more. There was a noise, not unlike a fart. The captain told everyone to get down, and the fart erupted into a full blown explosion. Mash was fired at high velocity in every direction, and the Chip was violently thrown forwards into less viscous waters.
When everything had settled, Captain Captin raised his head cautiously. His ship was nowhere to be seen, and there was a huge hole in the mashburg.
“Damn and dash it all!” he declared. “Why does every vessel I command always end up at the bottom of the ocean plate?” He turned to survey his crew. “Everyone ok?” he asked. A terrible wail went up in answer
“My eye!” cried Moley.
“Mien hand!” squawked Hans (or at least his parrot did)
“My moustache!” complained Octoflague
“My goodness” said the Captain. “What a bunch of cry babies. Not one of you is as badly injured as my gallant first mate here” He patted Judas on the back, who winced painfully. “Why, with all those cuts and bruises, he looks like an entire crew fell on him! Yet there he was, thinking ahead and readying the escape Chip for the rest of us”
Captain Captin reached down and seized the water skin he had given back to Judas earlier. “I propose a toast” he said, holding the container aloft. “To Judas!” And with that he took a deep drink of the deadly draught.
A sinister smile appeared on Judas’s face, and gradually evolved into malevolent laughter. “Sorry my dear…Captin” he said.
“Captain Captin,” Captain Captin reminded him.
“But this time, it’s mutiny!”
The Captain shrugged and smiled. “Well if you prefer the toast to be in your surname…to Mutiny!” He took another drink, blinked sluggishly and fell to the ground.
“No!” said Lincoln
“Mine Fuhrer!” squawked Hans’s parrot
“What’s going on!” cried the now totally blind Moley
“Why?” said Octoflague, facing Judas angrily “Why’d you do it?”
“Why?” said Judas incredulously. “I’ll tell you why! Have you ever once made a safe voyage without some disaster striking? Have you ever even made it to shore with your cargo intact? Have you ever been paid?”
The crew was silent. The last question had struck a nerve.
“Face it” spat Judas, his voice full of contempt. “That man was a worthless Captain and we’re better off without him”
“But…but if Captin’s not Captain, then who will be?” Lincoln quavered.
“Well,” said Judas magnanimously. “I’m glad you brought that up. But before we make any decisions, let me give you all a gift. For you Moley, here is another eye patch, for your wounded eye” he took off the captains eye patch and gave it to Moley
“It matches my other one…maybe” said Moley, putting it on.
“For you Hans, a hook hand” he wrenched the article from the captains’ socket and handed it to Hans.
“Das ist Gut!” squawked Hans’s parrot appreciatively.
“Octoflague, take this moustache, made from real captain hair” Judas ripped out a large chunk of the captains thick black hair and presented it to him.
“Cor, it feels so soft against me skin” said Octoflague, stroking it gently.
“And dear Lincoln, how do you fancy being my first mate?”
“First mate?” Lincoln asked.
“A Captain needs a first mate” said Judas smoothly.
“You want to be Captain?”
“Only if the crew wants me to”
“Aye!” said Moely
“Ja!” squawked
“Yep” chipped in Octoflague
Lincoln started at his former Captain, whose face had gone a ghastly pale, as if all the blood had drained from it. He looked so small and sad, lying there without his hair or hook or patch. Lincoln started to cry gently. He turned to Judas and through thick fat tears said; “We might never have made much money or had much luck, but the captain took us all in when no one else would. He split everything he ever had with all of us, even if it was just an old boot he fished up. He cared about us. And you’ve killed him! You’ll have to kill me to”
“Fair enough” said Judas amiably, stealing the Captains’ sword and pointing it at Lincoln’s snout. He raised the blade above his head. “I always wanted a stuffed alligator”
A small whistling sound caused him to pause and Judas looked up and squinted. Some long thin object was hurtling towards….
“Urgh” he said, and died
The crew stared in amazement. It was the Captains harpoon. The amazement deepened when the Captain opened his eyes and chuckled weakly. “That first mate of mine spiked me with alligator tears again! All the blood ran to me plank and made me pass out. Don’t look too hard boys, I’m running at full mast. Now where is that old mucker of mine?!”
He sat up and caught sight of Judas.
“Oh” said Captain Captin.
Captain Captin stood at the spout of his ship and savoured the smell of the savoury gravy air. They were making good time through the Bisto Baltics and would soon make it to the sweet corn colonies. And once there, a tidy profit was to be made in the trade of gold for green. He looked down with a feeling of pride, watching his steam powered prowler power through the thick brown sludge below. A fine ship she was, the Icarus 13, and a fine day it was as well.
“Captain Captin! That damn Crock has stolen me moustache again!”
“Did not did not! And my name is Lincoln!”
The Captain sighed. If only he had a fine crew as well. He rounded on the two crew members behind him and shouted “swab the deck with yer arses and sit down! I’ll have no feckless fools running amok on my boat!”
The two of them sat down, or in Lincolns case lay down immediately. They knew the punishment for disobeying orders. Captain Captin strode over, his bleached white breeches dazzling in the sun, and surveyed the two.
“Well, out with it! What happened?”
“Well Captin…” began Octoflague, whose moustache had apparently been stolen.
“That’s Captain Captin!” said Captain Captin
“Sorry Captain Captin sir. Well, as you can plainly see, this crafty caiman has done stolen me nose piece, which as you know I needs as part of me ‘umble trade of concealment and disguise.”
“I see” said the Captain “And what do you make of these charges levied against you Lincoln?”
“I never done such a thing in my life Captin…” cried Lincoln.
“Captain Captin!”
“I was just reading over some charts when all of a sudden I’m accused of theft!” The ships alligator navigator looked on the verge of tears.
“He’s talking twaddle sir” said Octoflague “Just look at ‘im and see”
“Hmm” said the Captain “He has a point Lincoln. You do appear to be wearing a false moustache. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, but it’s as plain as the nose on your face”
Lincoln tried to look innocent, and twiddle his tache nervously. “Oh this old thing?” he said “I grew it last week, as part of my new look”
“He’s lyin’ sir! The cold blooded critter’s a liar!”
Captain Captin frowned “Yes, I was under the impression that as an alligator, a member of the Alligatoridae family and a reptile, you were unable to grow stylish facial hair. Well, am I wrong?”
This time, Lincoln did burst into tears, and his moustache quivered as he sobbed and sniffed. “I just…wanted…to be…like you Captin” he said between great shudders.
“Captain Captin” said Captin gently, and stroked his own stylish facial hair with casual pride.
“Don’t listin to im sir!” said Octoflague. “Them tears be as fake as his hair, and twice as deadly”
“That’s…crocodile….tears” sniffed Lincoln. “Alligator…tears…cure…impotence”
“Really!?” said Captin. He pulled out a handkerchief and gently dabbed away at Lincolns eyes, crooning “there there” Lincoln smiled weakly, took the cloth and blew his nose so hard the moustache blew off into it. He handed it back to the Captain, who scowled and handed it to Octoflague.
“Besides,” said Lincoln, wiping away the last of his fertile tears. “He’s already got a moustache”
“That’s a good point. Why do you need a fake moustache when you already have a real one?” asked the Captain suspiciously
“Well sir, I’m glad you asked. See its all part of me double disguise idea. See, I wears a really good disguise, and on top of that, I wears me a bad one. So when I get discovered and they make me reveal myself, I’ll still be in disguise! It’s sheer genius, aint it sir?”
Captain Captin sighed once again. “Are we still on course, Lincoln?”
“Yessir!”
“And are all your disguises ready Octoflague?”
“Yessir”
“Then bugger off and leave me alone!” cried the captain, taking off his tin cap and waving it at them.
The two of them fled below deck and Captain Captin smiled. He still had it. Just then, his first mate and most trusted friend in the world approached him. At least there was one person on board he could rely on.
“Ahoy Judas Mutiny, you old scallywag!” he shouted in his first mates face
“Ahoy sir” muttered Judas, scowling.
“A fine day eh? It makes me feel so alive!”
“Not for long”
“Eh!?”
“I said I’m glad you’re not forlorn”
“Ah, Judas you know what your problem is?”
“Yes” came the emphatic reply.
“You don’t speak up for yourself!” Captain Captin turned and leaned over the prow.
Judas looked at him. It would be so easy just to creep up behind him, like so. Then quietly take out his dagger, like this, and…
“Wait a tick! We’ve not heard from Moley yet. I bet that lazy bum is asleep!” Captain Captin whirled around and bawled up into the crows nest and Judas’s ear. “Moley! Is it all clear on the horizon!?”
“As clear as day sir” came the eventual sleepy reply.
“Good man!” Captain Captin looked down and saw the dagger. “Nice blade!” he said and took his own sword out with a flourish. “Mines bigger, but we’re a bit young to be comparing sizes”
“Sir” said Judas, putting his weapon away. “I’m not sure having a one eyed hydrophobic mole as our look-out is entirely wise”
“It’s that kind of linear thinking that keeps you first mate, first mate” said Captain Captin “By the way; have you ever seen moleys mole collection? There’s one on his back that’s shaped just like a mole!”
“Fascinating sir” said Judas. “Now, would you care for a drink?” he pulled out a water skin that just so happened to be full of deadly crocodile tears.
“Good man!” said Captain Captin. He pulled it to his mouth and was about to take a deep draught, when a voice from deck called out frantically “Mashburg dead ahead!”
The Captain whirled around once again and stared into the great white behemoth in front of him. It reared high and ugly, a malformed cloud with flayed skin draped across its figure. Captain Captin thrust the water skin back to his first mate “That damned mole must have mistaken it for a mirage. Sorry old friend, but the time for cammaderie is over. All hands on deck! All hands on deck!”
Hans appeared at once in front of the Captain and looked at him expectantly. He was silent but his psy-parrot on his shoulder squawked in a thick German accent “Ja?”
“Damnit Hans! I said all hands on deck”
Hans dutifully bent down and put his hands on the ground. Captain Captin responded with a swift kick to the rear and Hans panicked parrot took flight, squawking loudly, “Ve are all going to die! Abandon das boot!”
Soon the whole crew was milling about in a panic, except for Judas who was trying to slink away in the small escape chip, and the captain, who stood stock still and bellowed random orders.
“Save the Cargo! Baton down the plank! Moley get down from there! Raise sail and drop anchor!” Crucially the one order he failed to give was a change in course, and the Icarus 13 ploughed onwards straight at the marshburg. Seeing that doom was inevitable and drawing ever nearer, Captain Captin ran below deck, pushing Moley out the way and over the side in the processes. Fortunately for Moley he fell into the recently launched Chip and even had a soft landing on top of Judas.
The Captain emerged from below with fire in his eyes and a massive harpoon in his hands. He strode forward swift and sure, accidently catching Lincoln with the butt of his spear, who stumbled overboard and again fell on to Judas. To the very spout his gravy boat he strode, and stared the great white monolith in its lifeless skin eyes. “To the last I grapple with thee!” he cried “From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last bit of spittle at thee!” He threw the spear with all his might and it flew swift and true towards its target, where it landed with a small flump.
Unfortunately, it seemed to have no effect, and the mashburg remained, impassive as ever. The captain cursed and seeing that the ship was about to make contact, leaped over the side, landing on the Chip and narrowly missing Judas. Judas breathed a sigh of relief, until both Octoflague and Hans followed the Captains example and both landed on him.
“Cast off me hearty’s!” cried the captain. “Before the engine goes and takes us with it!”
The crew grabbed the oars and began rowing as fast as they could away from the Icarus 13. The ship was slowly enveloped in the mashy mass until the steam funnel was blocked up. The whole thing began to shake violently.
“Faster! Faster!” cried the captain desperately. They paddled with all their might, but these Auburn Oceans are treacherous at the best of times, and the Chip was in a particularly congealed part of its brown abyss.
Finally, the Icarus’s engines could take no more. There was a noise, not unlike a fart. The captain told everyone to get down, and the fart erupted into a full blown explosion. Mash was fired at high velocity in every direction, and the Chip was violently thrown forwards into less viscous waters.
When everything had settled, Captain Captin raised his head cautiously. His ship was nowhere to be seen, and there was a huge hole in the mashburg.
“Damn and dash it all!” he declared. “Why does every vessel I command always end up at the bottom of the ocean plate?” He turned to survey his crew. “Everyone ok?” he asked. A terrible wail went up in answer
“My eye!” cried Moley.
“Mien hand!” squawked Hans (or at least his parrot did)
“My moustache!” complained Octoflague
“My goodness” said the Captain. “What a bunch of cry babies. Not one of you is as badly injured as my gallant first mate here” He patted Judas on the back, who winced painfully. “Why, with all those cuts and bruises, he looks like an entire crew fell on him! Yet there he was, thinking ahead and readying the escape Chip for the rest of us”
Captain Captin reached down and seized the water skin he had given back to Judas earlier. “I propose a toast” he said, holding the container aloft. “To Judas!” And with that he took a deep drink of the deadly draught.
A sinister smile appeared on Judas’s face, and gradually evolved into malevolent laughter. “Sorry my dear…Captin” he said.
“Captain Captin,” Captain Captin reminded him.
“But this time, it’s mutiny!”
The Captain shrugged and smiled. “Well if you prefer the toast to be in your surname…to Mutiny!” He took another drink, blinked sluggishly and fell to the ground.
“No!” said Lincoln
“Mine Fuhrer!” squawked Hans’s parrot
“What’s going on!” cried the now totally blind Moley
“Why?” said Octoflague, facing Judas angrily “Why’d you do it?”
“Why?” said Judas incredulously. “I’ll tell you why! Have you ever once made a safe voyage without some disaster striking? Have you ever even made it to shore with your cargo intact? Have you ever been paid?”
The crew was silent. The last question had struck a nerve.
“Face it” spat Judas, his voice full of contempt. “That man was a worthless Captain and we’re better off without him”
“But…but if Captin’s not Captain, then who will be?” Lincoln quavered.
“Well,” said Judas magnanimously. “I’m glad you brought that up. But before we make any decisions, let me give you all a gift. For you Moley, here is another eye patch, for your wounded eye” he took off the captains eye patch and gave it to Moley
“It matches my other one…maybe” said Moley, putting it on.
“For you Hans, a hook hand” he wrenched the article from the captains’ socket and handed it to Hans.
“Das ist Gut!” squawked Hans’s parrot appreciatively.
“Octoflague, take this moustache, made from real captain hair” Judas ripped out a large chunk of the captains thick black hair and presented it to him.
“Cor, it feels so soft against me skin” said Octoflague, stroking it gently.
“And dear Lincoln, how do you fancy being my first mate?”
“First mate?” Lincoln asked.
“A Captain needs a first mate” said Judas smoothly.
“You want to be Captain?”
“Only if the crew wants me to”
“Aye!” said Moely
“Ja!” squawked
“Yep” chipped in Octoflague
Lincoln started at his former Captain, whose face had gone a ghastly pale, as if all the blood had drained from it. He looked so small and sad, lying there without his hair or hook or patch. Lincoln started to cry gently. He turned to Judas and through thick fat tears said; “We might never have made much money or had much luck, but the captain took us all in when no one else would. He split everything he ever had with all of us, even if it was just an old boot he fished up. He cared about us. And you’ve killed him! You’ll have to kill me to”
“Fair enough” said Judas amiably, stealing the Captains’ sword and pointing it at Lincoln’s snout. He raised the blade above his head. “I always wanted a stuffed alligator”
A small whistling sound caused him to pause and Judas looked up and squinted. Some long thin object was hurtling towards….
“Urgh” he said, and died
The crew stared in amazement. It was the Captains harpoon. The amazement deepened when the Captain opened his eyes and chuckled weakly. “That first mate of mine spiked me with alligator tears again! All the blood ran to me plank and made me pass out. Don’t look too hard boys, I’m running at full mast. Now where is that old mucker of mine?!”
He sat up and caught sight of Judas.
“Oh” said Captain Captin.
a firmer handshake
A Firmer Handshake
Douglas looked around the sterile room and felt an unwilling kinship with it. He too had been swabbed down and purged of as much bacterial presence as was physically possible. A gleaming man in a gleaming room. Blinking with stinging, fresh washed eye lids he observed all the spare parts that hung about the place, some of which observed him. No, not a gleaming room. A gluing room. These were old thoughts however, and did not trouble him greatly.
The air pressure door opened with a hiss and in came Dr Franklin, all brisk and business. He was after all, a busy man. Excelling at what he did, Dr Franklin was in high demand. Both his craft and the skill in which he practised it required one to be either very rich, or very powerful. Douglas was under no illusions as to which category he fell into.
“Well now Mr Peace glad to see you back so soon” Dr Franklin said as he strode up to Douglas and shook his hand. The courtesy was turned into task and the hand was lifted up to be studied. “Hmm, yes discolouration already. Only to be expected of such early work” He then lifted up Douglas’ other hand to compare. There was an unsettling lack of symmetry between the two.
“Only a 49 year difference as well” the Dr murmured, as if this was no time at all. “Still, it’s a wonderful example of how far we have come, don’t you think?”
Douglas flashed him an infant smile as he was guided to the bed. He knew the question was rhetorical and any attempt to begin conversation would be ignored. It seemed to him that even though people now had much more time on their…hand, they were a lot less inclined to spend it on such frivolous tasks as chit chat.
Yet it did amaze him how streamlined things here had all become. Previously there had been endless forms to fill and tests to take. And at the end of it all there was still no guarantee of success. Back in the beginning, some of the less skilled blood monkeys had reported failure rates of over 40%. Not that this had dissuaded people. And now here he was, only a few days within making his appointment, first being brought to the operating table, now lying down on the operating table, now having tubes inserted into him on the operating table, now breathing in the gas on the
Now waking up on the operating table. Then a few more tests, a small fortune to be handed over electronically (when was the last time he had actually seen money?) and that was that. He gave Dr Franklin another handshake, fresher and firmer this time, and went on home.
·
Douglas had lived in the same apartment for over 60 years now. It felt stale, even through it had the very best air recycling unit. Over time, he had owned enough possessions to fill it ten times over, but much had been given away. There was a whole library worth of books out there that used to be his. Current furnishings were much sparser.
He sat down on his thick, worn chair and retreated inwards, losing himself in the simple, difficult and lengthy process of remembering.
It had been thanks to his parents that he was able to have his first replacement. When he was born they had asked for the stem cells in his umbilical cord to be saved. This wasn’t an entirely altruistic action on their part. His father had thought it could be used to help cure his own testicular cancer, perhaps even grow a whole new ball. But they had both died in a car accident before this plan could be carried out.
And so he had been left alone to grow while his cell line did the same. It wasn't all that arduous. His parents had been exceedingly wealthy, leaving him a very well cared for orphan. And eventually, his fathers’ investment had paid off. An accident while clay pigeon shooting had resulted in his hand had been blasted to smithereens. Rather than accept a prosthetic, he decided to have a replacement.
That had been the first, but far from the last. The body was a very treacherous thing indeed. Most parts of it were only good for 40 years or so. His heart had been replaced twice and he had gone through 5 livers, heavy drinker that he was. In fact practically every part of his body was a replacement. The only law against such procedures was no growth of brain tissue, and even that was scheduled for review. Beyond that you could have as many spare parts for yourself as you wanted, speedily grown and ready to replace what ailed you. Today had marked his 56th trip to Dr Franklin.
Yes, the Hayflick limit had well and truly been defeated. The process by which cells could only divide a set number of times was a moot point. The elixir of life was nothing more than a gooey clump of undifferentiated mass, waiting to be fashioned to your needs. God’s putty, fashioned by mans sterile hand.
The reason he had so many replacements was simple. He didn't want to die. Douglas was no coward, but he saw no sense in letting death come to him if it could be avoided. Hence his many trips to the blood monkeys for refittings and tune ups.
Douglas stood up and stared deep into the mirror. He closed one lid and looked at himself through a teenager’s eye. He then swapped to the other and the world was viewed from a much older perspective. It had been a long and unhealthy life he had led. He had been to christenings and funerals of the same people. Friends passed like seasons, not being able to afford prolonging their stay. He might not look old, but he certainly felt it. He didn't like to think about his age, but when he did he tried to calculate an average from all the different parts. Given today's operation then he had actually lost a few years.
He looked at the offending article. A second hand second hand he thought wryly. Was he still the same person that he was when he was born? Practically no part remained that he had been born with. Perhaps he had had his soul replaced as well, without ever having noticed. It wouldn't surprise him. After all, didn’t the Egyptians say the soul was in the spleen or something strange like that? Perhaps this trip should be his last. If his cells never ceased to divide, then he would be no different than his father’s cancerous testicle.
There was a small noise. The mirror in front of him fell, the nail it hung from bent out of shape. Glass shattered on the ground. Douglas looked down at the pieces for a long time. Then he went out, came back with some glue, and patiently began to piece it back together in the wooden frame. When he was finished he looked at his new handiwork. A criss cross face looked back.
Douglas looked around the sterile room and felt an unwilling kinship with it. He too had been swabbed down and purged of as much bacterial presence as was physically possible. A gleaming man in a gleaming room. Blinking with stinging, fresh washed eye lids he observed all the spare parts that hung about the place, some of which observed him. No, not a gleaming room. A gluing room. These were old thoughts however, and did not trouble him greatly.
The air pressure door opened with a hiss and in came Dr Franklin, all brisk and business. He was after all, a busy man. Excelling at what he did, Dr Franklin was in high demand. Both his craft and the skill in which he practised it required one to be either very rich, or very powerful. Douglas was under no illusions as to which category he fell into.
“Well now Mr Peace glad to see you back so soon” Dr Franklin said as he strode up to Douglas and shook his hand. The courtesy was turned into task and the hand was lifted up to be studied. “Hmm, yes discolouration already. Only to be expected of such early work” He then lifted up Douglas’ other hand to compare. There was an unsettling lack of symmetry between the two.
“Only a 49 year difference as well” the Dr murmured, as if this was no time at all. “Still, it’s a wonderful example of how far we have come, don’t you think?”
Douglas flashed him an infant smile as he was guided to the bed. He knew the question was rhetorical and any attempt to begin conversation would be ignored. It seemed to him that even though people now had much more time on their…hand, they were a lot less inclined to spend it on such frivolous tasks as chit chat.
Yet it did amaze him how streamlined things here had all become. Previously there had been endless forms to fill and tests to take. And at the end of it all there was still no guarantee of success. Back in the beginning, some of the less skilled blood monkeys had reported failure rates of over 40%. Not that this had dissuaded people. And now here he was, only a few days within making his appointment, first being brought to the operating table, now lying down on the operating table, now having tubes inserted into him on the operating table, now breathing in the gas on the
Now waking up on the operating table. Then a few more tests, a small fortune to be handed over electronically (when was the last time he had actually seen money?) and that was that. He gave Dr Franklin another handshake, fresher and firmer this time, and went on home.
·
Douglas had lived in the same apartment for over 60 years now. It felt stale, even through it had the very best air recycling unit. Over time, he had owned enough possessions to fill it ten times over, but much had been given away. There was a whole library worth of books out there that used to be his. Current furnishings were much sparser.
He sat down on his thick, worn chair and retreated inwards, losing himself in the simple, difficult and lengthy process of remembering.
It had been thanks to his parents that he was able to have his first replacement. When he was born they had asked for the stem cells in his umbilical cord to be saved. This wasn’t an entirely altruistic action on their part. His father had thought it could be used to help cure his own testicular cancer, perhaps even grow a whole new ball. But they had both died in a car accident before this plan could be carried out.
And so he had been left alone to grow while his cell line did the same. It wasn't all that arduous. His parents had been exceedingly wealthy, leaving him a very well cared for orphan. And eventually, his fathers’ investment had paid off. An accident while clay pigeon shooting had resulted in his hand had been blasted to smithereens. Rather than accept a prosthetic, he decided to have a replacement.
That had been the first, but far from the last. The body was a very treacherous thing indeed. Most parts of it were only good for 40 years or so. His heart had been replaced twice and he had gone through 5 livers, heavy drinker that he was. In fact practically every part of his body was a replacement. The only law against such procedures was no growth of brain tissue, and even that was scheduled for review. Beyond that you could have as many spare parts for yourself as you wanted, speedily grown and ready to replace what ailed you. Today had marked his 56th trip to Dr Franklin.
Yes, the Hayflick limit had well and truly been defeated. The process by which cells could only divide a set number of times was a moot point. The elixir of life was nothing more than a gooey clump of undifferentiated mass, waiting to be fashioned to your needs. God’s putty, fashioned by mans sterile hand.
The reason he had so many replacements was simple. He didn't want to die. Douglas was no coward, but he saw no sense in letting death come to him if it could be avoided. Hence his many trips to the blood monkeys for refittings and tune ups.
Douglas stood up and stared deep into the mirror. He closed one lid and looked at himself through a teenager’s eye. He then swapped to the other and the world was viewed from a much older perspective. It had been a long and unhealthy life he had led. He had been to christenings and funerals of the same people. Friends passed like seasons, not being able to afford prolonging their stay. He might not look old, but he certainly felt it. He didn't like to think about his age, but when he did he tried to calculate an average from all the different parts. Given today's operation then he had actually lost a few years.
He looked at the offending article. A second hand second hand he thought wryly. Was he still the same person that he was when he was born? Practically no part remained that he had been born with. Perhaps he had had his soul replaced as well, without ever having noticed. It wouldn't surprise him. After all, didn’t the Egyptians say the soul was in the spleen or something strange like that? Perhaps this trip should be his last. If his cells never ceased to divide, then he would be no different than his father’s cancerous testicle.
There was a small noise. The mirror in front of him fell, the nail it hung from bent out of shape. Glass shattered on the ground. Douglas looked down at the pieces for a long time. Then he went out, came back with some glue, and patiently began to piece it back together in the wooden frame. When he was finished he looked at his new handiwork. A criss cross face looked back.
the island and the iceberg
The Island and the Iceberg.
Once, there was and island, far away from all else, excepting of course the sea that surrounded it. It was quite an empty island, with only a few trees in which no birds nested and a few flowers in which no bees buzzed. Because of this, it was also quite a lonely island, with the tides stroke of its thin craggy beaches being its only comfort.
One day across the blue deep sea came floating an enormous glittering diamond. As it drew closer and closer the water around the Island became colder and colder, until the diamond revealed itself to be an enormous iceberg. The little Island shivered as it glided past, narrowly missing it.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” it cried (for in point of fact it was a talking island.)
But the Iceberg just sailed past, oblivious. The Island watched it disappear into the distance, thinking what a fine thing it must be to travel past what you could see. For many days it fantasised about the places the iceberg would go and had been, and wondered if one day it would return.
Sure enough one cloudy night it did, looming large in the deep darkness. It drifted much the same as it had done before, though this time the island felt slightly less chill at its approach.
“Hello?” said the Island
“What?” muttered the Iceberg, whose thoughts had also been drifting.
“I said hello.”
“Oh. Hello little rock. What is it you want?”
The island was taken aback, both by what the Iceberg had called it and by the directness of the question.
“I was just hoping you could tell me about some of the things out in the world. Is there more to see than just sea?”
“Oh much more. I’ve seen lands that stretch to horizons. I’ve seen rocks rising out the ground, crowned with little suns that swivel around and around. Great fish rising and jumping from the water. I’ve seen things you never will, little rock, and I’m going to see more.”
The Iceberg sailed on, leaving the Island to dwell with bitter delight on the things it had spoken of.
Despite what it had said though, the Iceberg kept returning, growing warmer and friendlier with each trip, telling more tales about the world. This wasn’t the only change the Island had noticed in it though, and upon the Icebergs next visit it asked the question.
“Are you getting smaller?”
The Iceberg laughed, causing bits of it to fell off.
“Maybe you’re getting bigger, little rock.”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“I am. That’s what all my travelling and drifting has done to me.”
“What will happen when there’s none of you left?”
“Then I’ll be gone, part of the ocean. The same thing happens to us all.”
“Even me?”
“Haven’t you noticed you’re little beach getting bigger, as your rocks get worn away?”
“Oh. Will we see each other before? It’s a fearful thing to be gone alone.”
“I don’t know, but I’m not afraid and neither should you be. This is how things are. I have to go now, the tide is pulling.”
The Iceberg went away, leaving the Island alone, wondering if it would now be so forever.
The iceberg did return however, but while all other times the Island had felt it getting warmer, this time it felt colder than ever before. Smaller still, it also approached the Island much faster.
“Slow down!” cried the little Island. “You’re going to hit me!”
“I’m just like you,” said the Iceberg. “Just as small and pathetic and trapped. I thought I was seeing the whole world, but I’m stuck in the same stupid current that has brought me back to you and your foolish questions again and again.”
“Why are you trying to hit me?”
“If I smash off you hard enough, maybe it will knock me on to a new current. Maybe I’ll even go home, where I can grow again.”
But of course the Iceberg had done exactly as it had before, and missed the island, following the same current it always had. It drifted away, full of a cold hate that lingered with the Island for a long while. And for once, the Island wished that the Iceberg would never return.
For a long time the Island thought it had gotten its wish, and it not once saw the Iceberg glinting on the horizon. So focussed was it on the distance, that it missed the tiny little chunk of ice that slunk up until it was almost upon it.
“Hello?” said the Iceberg.
“What?” grumbled the Island, whose thoughts had been distant. “Oh. It’s you.”
“It is.”
Silence stretched to the horizon.
“I lied to you,” said the Iceberg finally.
“About what?”
“Lots of things. All those amazing stories, they were just things I heard from other Icebergs I met. The only things I saw were a few fish and a cliff in the distance. I also lied about not being afraid of being gone. I was, and I still am.”
“You look so small now” said the Island, looking down at this little sad lump of Ice.
“I think that you were always bigger than me, really”
The Island thought for a while.
“If you lied about these things, did you lie about me, and being worn away by the sea?”
“That’s the one truth I told. I’m sorry”
“Then tell me something else that’s true. I don’t think I like being lied to.”
“I’d rather show you,” said the Iceberg. Then, defying the currents of the sea (which at times could be very cruel) it gently hit the island, with enough force to lift it on top.
“There’s a lot more of you under the surface,” said the Island in surprise.
“Enough for my purpose, at least” replied the Iceberg.
And this was its purpose. It drifted along the current, taking the island with it and showing the meagre sights it had to offer. For the island, which had never seen anything beyond what it could see, all of it was incredible, and through the Islands fresh perspective the Iceberg had a renewed appreciation for these old familiar places. As the current took them back home, the island thought of a question that it had never asked the Iceberg.
“What is your home like?”
“My home?” said the Iceberg, as it gently deposited the island back on the costal shelf it had rested upon “At my home, the land and the sea are the same things.”
That was the last thing it said, and with its purpose complete it crumbled into a million pieces, and became part of the sea.
It was only then that the island realised that it had picked up a few travellers on its journey. Birds now nestled in its trees and insects trundled about its flowers. It felt them patter about its surface, living and vibrant, and no longer was it lonely.
The sea tugged at its craggy beaches, slowly but surely wearing it away, and the Island thought that it too would one day be gone, but it wasn’t afraid.
Once, there was and island, far away from all else, excepting of course the sea that surrounded it. It was quite an empty island, with only a few trees in which no birds nested and a few flowers in which no bees buzzed. Because of this, it was also quite a lonely island, with the tides stroke of its thin craggy beaches being its only comfort.
One day across the blue deep sea came floating an enormous glittering diamond. As it drew closer and closer the water around the Island became colder and colder, until the diamond revealed itself to be an enormous iceberg. The little Island shivered as it glided past, narrowly missing it.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” it cried (for in point of fact it was a talking island.)
But the Iceberg just sailed past, oblivious. The Island watched it disappear into the distance, thinking what a fine thing it must be to travel past what you could see. For many days it fantasised about the places the iceberg would go and had been, and wondered if one day it would return.
Sure enough one cloudy night it did, looming large in the deep darkness. It drifted much the same as it had done before, though this time the island felt slightly less chill at its approach.
“Hello?” said the Island
“What?” muttered the Iceberg, whose thoughts had also been drifting.
“I said hello.”
“Oh. Hello little rock. What is it you want?”
The island was taken aback, both by what the Iceberg had called it and by the directness of the question.
“I was just hoping you could tell me about some of the things out in the world. Is there more to see than just sea?”
“Oh much more. I’ve seen lands that stretch to horizons. I’ve seen rocks rising out the ground, crowned with little suns that swivel around and around. Great fish rising and jumping from the water. I’ve seen things you never will, little rock, and I’m going to see more.”
The Iceberg sailed on, leaving the Island to dwell with bitter delight on the things it had spoken of.
Despite what it had said though, the Iceberg kept returning, growing warmer and friendlier with each trip, telling more tales about the world. This wasn’t the only change the Island had noticed in it though, and upon the Icebergs next visit it asked the question.
“Are you getting smaller?”
The Iceberg laughed, causing bits of it to fell off.
“Maybe you’re getting bigger, little rock.”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“I am. That’s what all my travelling and drifting has done to me.”
“What will happen when there’s none of you left?”
“Then I’ll be gone, part of the ocean. The same thing happens to us all.”
“Even me?”
“Haven’t you noticed you’re little beach getting bigger, as your rocks get worn away?”
“Oh. Will we see each other before? It’s a fearful thing to be gone alone.”
“I don’t know, but I’m not afraid and neither should you be. This is how things are. I have to go now, the tide is pulling.”
The Iceberg went away, leaving the Island alone, wondering if it would now be so forever.
The iceberg did return however, but while all other times the Island had felt it getting warmer, this time it felt colder than ever before. Smaller still, it also approached the Island much faster.
“Slow down!” cried the little Island. “You’re going to hit me!”
“I’m just like you,” said the Iceberg. “Just as small and pathetic and trapped. I thought I was seeing the whole world, but I’m stuck in the same stupid current that has brought me back to you and your foolish questions again and again.”
“Why are you trying to hit me?”
“If I smash off you hard enough, maybe it will knock me on to a new current. Maybe I’ll even go home, where I can grow again.”
But of course the Iceberg had done exactly as it had before, and missed the island, following the same current it always had. It drifted away, full of a cold hate that lingered with the Island for a long while. And for once, the Island wished that the Iceberg would never return.
For a long time the Island thought it had gotten its wish, and it not once saw the Iceberg glinting on the horizon. So focussed was it on the distance, that it missed the tiny little chunk of ice that slunk up until it was almost upon it.
“Hello?” said the Iceberg.
“What?” grumbled the Island, whose thoughts had been distant. “Oh. It’s you.”
“It is.”
Silence stretched to the horizon.
“I lied to you,” said the Iceberg finally.
“About what?”
“Lots of things. All those amazing stories, they were just things I heard from other Icebergs I met. The only things I saw were a few fish and a cliff in the distance. I also lied about not being afraid of being gone. I was, and I still am.”
“You look so small now” said the Island, looking down at this little sad lump of Ice.
“I think that you were always bigger than me, really”
The Island thought for a while.
“If you lied about these things, did you lie about me, and being worn away by the sea?”
“That’s the one truth I told. I’m sorry”
“Then tell me something else that’s true. I don’t think I like being lied to.”
“I’d rather show you,” said the Iceberg. Then, defying the currents of the sea (which at times could be very cruel) it gently hit the island, with enough force to lift it on top.
“There’s a lot more of you under the surface,” said the Island in surprise.
“Enough for my purpose, at least” replied the Iceberg.
And this was its purpose. It drifted along the current, taking the island with it and showing the meagre sights it had to offer. For the island, which had never seen anything beyond what it could see, all of it was incredible, and through the Islands fresh perspective the Iceberg had a renewed appreciation for these old familiar places. As the current took them back home, the island thought of a question that it had never asked the Iceberg.
“What is your home like?”
“My home?” said the Iceberg, as it gently deposited the island back on the costal shelf it had rested upon “At my home, the land and the sea are the same things.”
That was the last thing it said, and with its purpose complete it crumbled into a million pieces, and became part of the sea.
It was only then that the island realised that it had picked up a few travellers on its journey. Birds now nestled in its trees and insects trundled about its flowers. It felt them patter about its surface, living and vibrant, and no longer was it lonely.
The sea tugged at its craggy beaches, slowly but surely wearing it away, and the Island thought that it too would one day be gone, but it wasn’t afraid.
Monday, 5 July 2010
Dissertation
University of Strathclyde
Department of English Studies
Honours Dissertation
Connection Failure
200628522
2010
Connection Failure
“Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die."
Howards End E.M Forster
Contents
A sheep in wolf’s clothing………………………………………………………………………………5
The Boy who Cried Wolves……………………………………………………………………………10
Insulation………………………………………………………………………………………………………15
Fickle Internet……………………………………………………………………………………………….18
Discomfort Food……………………………………………………………………………………………19
A Phallic Poem………………………………………………………………………………………………22
Eggs………………………………………………………………………………………………………………23
Wearing Thin…………………………………………………………………………………………………26
The Things I will do when I am an Old Man……………………………………………………32
Critical Commentary………………………………………………………………………………………34
A sheep in wolfs clothing
Let me tell you a story.
Once there was a lamb, not born white or black but a deep grey. His wool was short and wirey, and so rough that not even his own mother would nuzzle him, though she painfully endured his scratching and biting at her teat.
While other lambs played and frolicked in the vale, this lamb would venture far and wide, taking pleasure in his solitude.
One day he found a cave, with a flickering sun within. Drawn to it, the lamb ventured closer, savouring the warmth as he came nearer and nearer.
Until he saw the wolf.
There it lay, down in front of the flickering sun. Its ears twitched at the sound of the lambs approach, and slowly it raised its head, wide wild eyes staring.
“Hello little lamb,” it rumbled. “Come closer. Lie with me in front of the fire.”
“Fire?” the lamb asked. It had only heard of such a thing once before, when the old black ram of the herd would recount the tale of the splintered sky and the burning tree. The ram had spoken with fear, but the lamb looked on at the fire with a deep fascination. He slowly moved closer.
“Yes, that’s it” the wolf drawled. “So much braver than the rest of your kind.”
The lamb paused. Then he saw that the wolf was tied down, a thick vine running round its neck to a heavy stone. Had he come any closer, the vine could have reached him. He stopped, and returned the wolf’s hungry gaze impassively.
The wolf gave a low, hoarse laugh. “And smarter too. Not that it matters. The Skin Wearer will have scraps for me. He wants me starved, not dead.” The wolf lowered its head, looking sad and confused. “It has been so long since I have killed anyway, maybe I have forgotten how. The old things keep slipping. Too many of the new in my head.”
“What do you mean by that?” the lamb asked. He was still young after all, and loved new knowledge.
“Sit! Come! Heel!” The wolf spat out each word like a curse. “It makes me other than I am, whilst it wears my brothers fur as its own. Such a beast there never should be. Oh how I hate it!”
The lamb could not help but feel sorry for the wolf. “Then why not fight? Your claws are long and your teeth are sharp. Surely you are more terrible than it?”
The wolf’s eyes went dead and it cringed. “I must not bite the hand that feeds,” it said softly. Those awful nothing eyes met the lambs “You see, this is what it does. It makes you think things you never would, forces its ways onto and into. You slowly change. Already I am forgetting how to hate. Already I begin to love its petting’s and praises and beatings. What am I in the face of such things? A terrible wolf? HA!”
There was a stirring further back in the cave. The wolf cowered. “I have woken him. Quickly little lamb, flee from here, and unless you want to be remade, flee from all such beasts. Surely death is a better fate.”
“What will you do?”
“Having a new friend for dinner, with any luck. Now go!”
The lamb took heed and ran from the cave, but not before hearing the last growl of the wolf turn into a pitiful yelp.
Eight suns later curiosity had driven the lamb back. And there, lying on the ground in front of it was the skin of the wolf.
Slowly he crept up to the cave. Slowly he crept up to the wolf. Slowly he crept into its skin.
It was so lovely and warm. The lamb had never felt so safe. He moved his head to the front, and looked out through where the wolf’s eyes had been. Nothing had ever felt so right.
The lamb wore the skin out of the cave. Stepping clumsily due to its great size, he made its way back to the herd.
As he drew nearer he smelled death in the air. Upon reaching the vale he looked down at what had befallen.
Most of the herd had fled. Those that remained were dead or dying, with a pack of wolves tearing at them. The lamb watched unseen until they had eaten their fill and left. Even this sight fascinated him. Eventually he came down, and tried to find the trail of those sheep that had fled.
He searched five suns for his herd, all the while wearing the wolf’s skin. And the strange thing was that as time went on, it began to fit better and better, as if the lamb was growing into it.
Finally he found them in the one place he didn’t want to search, and the one place he knew they must be - the cave. And sure enough there they were, all penned up in a strange dead tree hedge that went all around them.
The grey lamb approached, and saw his mother.
“I found you!” he cried joyfully.
“Baaa!” said the mother, shying away in fear.
“Why are you like this? Run free with me.”
“Baaaaaaa!” cried another.
“Baaaaaaa.”
“Baaa!”
“But…” By now the whole herd was milling around in a dumb panic. Why were they so afraid?
“Baaaaaaa!”
“Baaaaaaaaa!”
A terrible truth hit the lamb. The sheep’s coats were all cut short. He didn’t need to think who had done this. His herd. His family of dumb beasts. They had all forgotten themselves.
The lamb turned and walked away. Not knowing where else to go he made his way back to the vale. The bodies were still there, as were the wolves. The lamb came down and approached them, waiting to be eaten.
Instead, the wolves greeted him.
“Welcome brother.”
“Come feast with us.”
“The meal is cold, but hasn’t yet spoiled.”
The lamb looked down at the bloody remains of the old black ram who had told him about fire.
“What’s the matter brother,” asked the biggest wolf with a knowing grin. “Stones in your stomach?”
Slowly the lambs lowered the wolf’s jaw down and open, and forced himself to eat.
Here’s a truth for you to keep
Better to run with wolves than live as sheep
The Boy who Cried Wolves
Once, long ago, there was a boy who told lies. He never did it to be cruel though. Every single lie he spoke was made to make the ears, and those attached to them, happy. This was the sole concern of the boy, for it seemed to him the only way to be, and the fact that making others happy caused him to feel the same held reason enough for this belief.
While walking through the village he did his best to say the things he thought his fellow villagers wanted to hear.
“Hello Farmer Blight, your crops are looking healthy and good this year.
“Why thank you my boy” replied the rake thin man.
“Your cream looks so fresh Miss Curdle, what’s your secret?”
“Sun, and plenty of it” she declared confidently.
“Mrs Wrinkles you get younger each day I see you, surely you don’t need that crutch.”
“What a kind child. You remind me of all the suitors that used to call at my door.”
“And I’m sure they still do.”
“Oh you” she said with a girlish giggle and a toss of her frail, chicken neck.
And so it was that the villagers loved the boy and his lying ways, often showering him with all manner of gifts and praise. Indeed it seemed clear to them all that he would grow up to be a great man one day, perhaps a barrister or even a judge. And if not, then a new mayor would one day be needed, so strongly did they all care for him.
Except for one. She was a bitter old lady, who took comfort in loneliness and delight in pointing out the fault in others. She hated the boy, while he was terrified of her. She appeared to look in him rather than at, and no matter what kind things he said to her she never once smiled. He would have never visited her at all if she hadn’t been his grandmother.
“It’s good to see you again grandmother” the boy would say every time he called, only for her to hit him promptly with her walking stick.
“You’re cottage is looking clean.”
Stick.
“That’s a fine collection of books you have.”
Stick.
“Father sends his love, and wishes he has time to see you. He misses you so much.”
Stick. Stick. Stick.
The boy would go home, covered in cuts and bruises, blinking back tears.
“What on earth happened to you?” his mother would ask.
“I offered to shoe grandmother’s donkey and he kicked out. It was my own fault.” Each time the boy told a different lie, wanting for his parents not to worry about him. For as we know, his lies were told only to make people happy.
His mother would shake her head at how accident prone he was and gently chide him to be more careful. The boy’s father would remain silent.
But this time, when once again the boy called on his grandmother, something very different happened. She had baked him a cake, and beseeched him to take a bite while it was still warm.
“It tastes wonderful grandmother.”
“That’s strange. All that is in it is dirt, hair and ditch water. Now run along boy, go tell your tales.”
The boy did as he was bidden, amazed that he hadn’t been beaten this time. As he walked home he met the woodsman.”
“A fine day is it not?” the boy asked, gesturing up to the overcast skies. His words were slightly mocked by the raindrop he felt pounce upon his face.
The woodsman smiled at this vague pleasantry, but then his expression turned quickly to fear. He pointed at the boy’s face, who confusedly made to brush away the raindrop. He felt a sudden pain in his finger and brought it away to examine. There were tiny droplets of blood welling up on it, shaped very much like teeth marks.
The boy looked up to see the woodsman roughly brush past him, making the sign to ward off evil as he went. Thinking it had been some sort of beetle, the boy went on.
He came across Mrs Wrinkles, who was now wearing heavy make up and no longer walked with her crutch.
“Looking lovely as ever” he said to her pouting face.
An even larger raindrop fell on his eye, and he blinked and rubbed his face to clear his blurry vision. While distracted with this he heard Mrs Wrinkle let out a high pitched scream. When finally able to look he saw her on the ground, weeping and bleeding.
“Get away from me!” she shrieked. “Get away you beast!”
Fearfully the boy ran home, slamming the door behind him.
“What’s wrong?” his mother asked, brought forth by all the commotion.
“Nothing mother, don’t worry.”
How could it rain indoors? More water blinded him and the boy felt something leap from his eye. His mother cried out and he heard his father’s heavy steps pound in. There was stamping and snarling and when he could once again see he saw his father standing in front of his mother, deep scratches and bites all down his arms. On the floor lay a broad puddle of water.
“Why is this happening? Why!?”
“Did you cross your grandmother?” his father asked. You must tell me the truth!”
Old habits are hard to be rid of, especially ones we have had our whole lives. “Of course not, I love her.”
The boy felt his eyes being squeezed dry, and desperately he shut tight his lids. But it was no use. Wet snouts forced their way under. Claws grabbed purchase under his lashes and pulled heaving bodies out. He would have wept at the pain if his eyes hadn’t already been swimming. Weeping and wiping, he wished would all stop.
And when it did there they were. Two great and terrible wolves, built from his shining tears.
“Go to her! NOW!” his father shouted, turning to face them.
The boy opened the door and fled, but one of the wolves gave chase. He could hear its wet footfalls splashing off the ground and as it drew closer and closer it gave off a gurgling howl.
He reached his grandmothers cottage and threw open the door, forcing it to close against the wolf’s wet scraping.
And there she sat in her old wicker chair, staring in rather than at.
“Why do this?” he asked. “I was nothing but kind to you.”
“You did nothing but lie to me.”
“But I just wanted to make you happy.”
“Who could be happy with a lie?”
“Please help me. Change back whatever it was you did”
“I can’t. Best weep what you sow.”
“I hate you! I hate you so much!”
There was a loud splashing sound outside. The boy peered cautiously out the window. Where the wolf had been was now a deep, wide puddle. He turned to his grandmother.
“I think you know what you need to do” she said.
He nodded, and made to leave. But before he did, he turned and stared in her rather than at.
“You’re a mean old woman”
She smiled.
“I am” she said.
From that day the boy told nothing but the truth, and as you might expect no one much cared for it. Farmer Blight would scowl as his harvest was scorned. Miss Curdle would glare as her plans for sun dried cheese were mocked. And Mrs Wrinkles would wince as her fashion sense was deplored. As time passed no one wished to even talk to or see the boy, except his grandmother, who had always secretly liked his visits.
Insulation
In a busy school canteen, near the back sat a boy. He was alone at his table and quietly making his way through a packed lunch. They say we are what we eat, and in his case it was corned beef. And what do we know about corned beef? Well it is a fairly unobtrusive food, usually held in reserve until other stocks have diminished before it is finally and reluctantly brought out. Obviously it is also tinned, surrounded by darkness and a cold metal shell.
That isn’t to say that this boy was socially inept or particularly boring. The contents of your sandwich do not mirror the contents of your soul. What does speak of this boy’s demeanour and sensibilities though, are his actions. The way he kept his eyes downcast. The fact he still wore his jacket, huddling into it. The total focus on the mundane task of eating. Each bite seemed carefully weighed and judged, and the more perceptive of us might note with casual amusement that he ate his bread in perfectly straight lines.
Despite this unobtrusive behaviour, the boy had attracted unwanted attention. Two other youths sat down to the table with him, impish grins on their faces. The boy briefly looked up and was greeted by a flicked pea to his eye.
“10 points if you get it up his nose.”
“50 if you can do that with a carrot.”
“Bet he’d like us to shove it somewhere else.”
“Big gay.”
Dutifully the boy ignored all this. Indeed he seemed oblivious to it, and the only effect the two had on him was that he shielded his face from further assaults. Apathy is a powerful weapon, and soon it drove the two tormentors away. One would perhaps grow up to become a successful business man, the other an unsuccessful council worker. Probably neither would recall this incident if you asked them. Despite what they say, History isn’t written by the winners, but by the writers. For the rest, it is just something that we sometimes remember.
I had been watching all this unfold from my vantage point in the canteen queue. Having now paid with a dinner ticket for my meagre repast I made my decision to join him. I myself had endured my own lonesome meals, and knew that even to have someone else, however noncommittal sit at the table with you made a powerful difference in your own mental standing.
Carefully making my way through the forest of wooden and real legs, both of which would try to trip you, I arrived at my destination and sat down with my new case. It should be noted that I saw myself as a sort of social Rockefeller, charitably dispensing my company and friendship to those that needed it. Perhaps there was a certain amount of selfishness to my actions as well. Kinship is a drug, and unusual hits like the boy in front of me could leave me feeling giddy and glowing. Also I have always been a bit of a collector of things uncommon, and acquaintances are no different. So it was with eager magpie eyes that I swooped down into the seat in front.
The boy’s eyes rose again, and then settled back down to a magazine he had pulled out. Feeling not the least bit bashful I took a long glance at it, perceiving it to be some sort of chess journal.
“Ah, the game of kings” I said.
The boy remained silent.
“And Queens as well” I went on, before realising that this could be contrived as an insult. “And bishops and pawns and horsies.”
“Knights” he replied.
“Eh?”
“They’re not horses, they’re knights. And you’re stupid.” The boy finished the last of his corned beef sandwich, packed up his things and left me sitting there alone. I felt hurt, but not entirely surprised. In my own experience, the meek had a tendency to lash out at those who would seek to help them. The world would be a very unfriendly place if they ever came to inherit it.
I ate my lunch there alone, pondering over what had just transpired and how best to deal with it. It seemed a cold day so I kept on my jacket and put up my hood. Throughout my meal, no one joined me.
Fickle Internet
Connection failure
The host ‘128.196.124.145’ is unreachable
The host may be
down, or there may be a problem
with the network con-
nection.
Sometimes such problems
can also be caused
by a misconfigured firewall.
OK Help
Discomfort food
My Dad was different from most. Took me a while to realise this though. Every person thinks their childhood was normal, and every one of them is wrong.
In most ways he was everything a father should be. Kept me fed, clothed, sheltered. Cared for me - probably even loved me, in his way. But all fathers have their failings. They embarrass, scold, hit. Small abuses inflicted with the best of intentions. My father had one failing that set him apart from all others. He made me eat everything I killed.
Wouldn’t have been so bad if we went hunting or fishing, but we never did. And it might have worked ok if home were in the countryside, but it wasn’t. We lived in the city, deep in its crawling heart. Home was a high rise, an ugly grey termite mound of a building with us trapped in its centre. And let me tell you something else. Far as I know, and I know a lot about it, nothing that lives in the city tastes good.
Not that I was much of a killer. Wasn’t one of those children that threw stones at birds or set fire to dogs. But we all end up killing something or other in the course of our lives. Dull, boring kills that weigh on no ones conscience.
Earliest memory I have is being no older than three, playing about home, when this big cockroach comes crawling up. I was bored and it was quick so I made a game of trying to squish it with my new dinosaur shoes.
Jump. Stomp. Crunch! Clean right in the middle so it squooshes out either side. Course just then my dad walks in, sees what I’ve done and quick as you like he picks up the front and back of the bug and pops them in my mouth. The tops of it are smooth against my tongue, tasting like floor and hair, but the bottoms scrape against my mouth’s roof. It jags and scratches and I try and spit the twitching bits out, but my mouth is clamped shut and I’m told to chew and swallow. Feels like I’m going to vomit. It’s either sick or swallow.
I swallow, legs scrabbling all the way down.
“Good boy.”
And a good boy I was.
Heard you’re meant to swallow nine spiders in your sleep through the course of your life. Made it to that by 12, without the sleep. They had plenty flies for company.
Sometimes I could see bits of the bugs I ate in what came out my other end. Once, when I wiped to get rid of a hanging bit that wouldn’t drop I found a whole Bluebottle, smeared onto the white paper. Guess by then it was more of a Brownbottle.
Another time I made the mistake of asking for a pet. I got three - three little fishies. Named them smart too. Dé, jà and vu. Good names for Goldfish. Then one day I get invited to a friend’s house for the weekend, so I fed my fishies up and left them plenty to chow on. Come back and find them, bloated, belly up and floating like round orange poo’s. And my dad’s standing there, waiting for me to chow on them.
I copied the toilet, flushed them down my mouth whole with a large glass of water. Next day I really did flush them down the toilet. My little fishies, deep fried in stomach juice till they went a rich golden yellow. They’re probably still out there, swimming with lots of friends.
After that I had a cat named Schrodinger. And it was the most cared for cat in the world.
That’s the bones of the story. Here’s the meat.
One day I came home from school angrier than usual. The teacher had asked us to talk about our parents and when I told them about my dad everyone laughed and she called me a liar.
“No father could be like that” she’d said.
I open the door and there’s the father that is like that, disappointment on his face and a dead cat in his arms.
“He got into some chocolate” My dad says. “Chocolate is poisonous to cats. I don’t eat chocolate.” Never a man to mince his words, he holds Schrodinger out for me to take.
Instead I turn and run up the stairwell and he follows, still holding the cat. Up four flights I flee. Finally at the top I twist around and face him. I am so angry and sad and all I can see is a limp long stretched out cat being thrust at my face. So I push it away.
I push hard.
Too hard.
My dad, off balance and with his hands full, goes tumbling backwards.
Looking isn’t hard. Listening is. Dry crunches and wet thuds echo in the hall forever, till finally there he lies, crumpled in an impossible position with a double jointed neck. Schrodinger is still clutched in his hands.
I looked for a long time. Nobody from the other apartments came out to see about the noise. Eventually and with great effort he carried the cat home, while I carried him.
Finally I had found something in the city that tasted good.
A Phallic Poem
Sometimes I
feel like our only
connection
Is between
your vagina
and my
erection.
Eggs
I am sitting here with my wife. We are in a hospital in a small room. Fluorescent lights illuminate it and through a thin break in the blinds daylight shines in. My wife is lying down on a hospital bed whilst I am sat in a too small chair. Its padding has been worn away from many others sitting on it before me. There is a young handsome doctor also in the room, tending to my wife and asking her many questions. He asks me questions as well and I put on a smile to answer them.
The young doctor tells my life to pull up her baggy t-shirt. She complies without hesitation. Her stomach is greatly swollen, with stretch marks running down it, and her tiny delicate belly button has been deformed into a curious squiggle of skin. I try to avoid looking at it.
The doctor applies some jelly-like substance to her stomach, squeezing it from a tube as if it were toothpaste. He tells us it is called Doppler gel, and will allow him to monitor the baby’s heartbeat for abnormalities. I say the words “Doppler gel”. They sound foreign and exotic, yet appropriate. Doppler gel for my doppelganger. It looks like it came from a slug, and I wonder briefly if you could milk a slug for its slime.
“It’s cold” says my wife as it touches her skin. I pull my chair forward and take her hand gently. She squeezes it and I apply an equal amount of pressure back. The doctor takes out another object, which he calls a transducer, and slowly caresses her shining belly with it. He looks to the machine that it is connected to and repeats this several times. Stroke. Stare. Stroke. Stare. Finally he informs us that the foetuses heartbeat is steady, like my own. The doctor then directs us to a monitor which is also part of the machine. He pushes a button and it lights up, at which point he begins with his transducer again. An unintelligible greyish image appears on the screen. I look at it, become entranced in its swirls and pulses. It is like staring at a bonfire. I look at the life I have made, thinking this is how God must have felt. I look and I remember.
It is sixteen years ago. I am in biology class. The teacher, a thin middle aged man in glasses and a white coat has us all gathered around him, where a series of white trays are laid out on the table. He has an egg box open in front of him, with six speckled eggs in it. Each egg has a different number written on it, starting from 0 and going up in threes so that the last one reads 18.
The teacher talks, but I don’t remember the words so they are heard as a dull murmur, mental static. Then, all at once he cracks an egg open on a tray. It looks like any other egg I have ever seen. Using a pen he points out the different parts. Why is it called the white when it is clearly see through?
He moves along to the next tray, and cracks open the egg with the 3 on it. The yolk seems darker and is no longer perfectly round. He points and talks and we look and listen. We then move on to egg number 6. Its contents are exactly the same as egg 3, but we are told they are not. Some of the boys shuffle and whisper out of boredom.
At egg number 9 things begin to change. The yolk has some proper shape to it, and it looks like a mashed up lizard, even though it is a chicken egg. The boys stop shuffling and start paying attention. One of them reaches towards it with a pencil, but the teacher tells him off. Only he may point and prod at dead things. While the boys edge closer, the girls in the class slowly move away. Perhaps they have a primal knowledge of what this really is.
The contents of number 12 are carefully poured out in front of us. We stare. Dead black eyes stare back at us. There is no white to the egg anymore, only a pinkish red. A few of the girls excuse themselves and sit at the back of the room, even though that’s not where their seats are. The teacher frowns, making his crows feet shuffle, but he doesn’t tell the girls off. Instead he points, and speaks to his silent audience. Normally he struggles to maintain order in class. I think I can see wings and feet if I look close enough.
Number 15 is lifted from its cardboard womb. There is a gravity about it, and you would think it were much heavier than an ordinary egg. The teacher slowly opens it with a knife. What’s inside falls onto the tray, making a small wet sound as it lands. The class gasp. The prettiest girl in the group runs to the bin to be sick, while the ugliest girl begins to cry. That’s how things are; pretty girls are sick, ugly girls cry. Vomit is easier cleaned than tears.
The teacher looks worried. Clearly this wasn’t meant to happen. He picks up the tray and quickly takes it out the room. One of the boys follows him and later tells us all he had gone to the staff toilet, where after a few flushes he emerged with an empty tray. He comes back to class, tells us to sit back down and open our text books.
From then on we always learned from books in that class. The teacher probably wanted us to forget what happened, but we didn’t. The boys talked about how cool it was, the girls how awful it had been. But I never talked about it, about how it moved and slipped in the bloody mess around it, about how it made an almost inaudible noise. Or about how I looked at it, with its heart visibly beating in its thinly formed flesh. It was because of my own father that I could stomach such things.
The doctor points at the monitor in front of me, and tells us that this bit here is a hand, this bit here the toes, and this bit here is the heart. We look, I and my wife, and she begins to smile and cry. Her eyes and cheeks shine, along with her stomach, and a thin trail of mucus slides from her nose. I smile back at her and squeeze her hand again. Then I look to the monitor.
I never told anyone about number 18. The teacher had just left it there in his panic. During class break I had snuck in and took it, hiding it somewhere safe and warm until I could bring it home. Once there I set up a makeshift nest, with straw and light, and waited and waited for it to hatch, whole and perfect like my child will be.
Wearing Thin
It was a terrible tragedy, but the sad fact of the matter was that Jacob Hollandaise was born without a face. Instead his features were composed of a single hole, fulfilling the various functions that were required of it. It could hear, eat, see and speak. It could even whistle, once Jacob had learned to do so.
While proving quite sufficient in the matter of prolonging his existence from birth, this multipurpose orifice made for disconcerting viewing. Feeling this way, his parents decided it would be best for him to be kept out of sight, fearing he would be mocked and ridiculed for his unorthodox appearance.
In his infant years this was adequate enough for young Jacob, but as he grew so to did his curiosity of the world outside the prison of good intentions his parents had imposed. He began asking questions, some of which proved very awkward indeed. Why did he look like this, when neither his mother nor father did? And what manner of creature was the postman? If television was in any way true, then was the world closer to being like a cartoon or a documentary?
It was his father, who was both eminently practical and exceedingly creative, that came up with a solution. They would make him masks to wear, showing various facial expressions. Then it would be simply a matter of Jacob donning the one he felt appropriate for the situation he found himself in. Excited at his own ingenuity, Jacobs’s father worked through the entire day and night with this aim in mind. Come the morning he presented the fruits of his labours to his son
One mask had a smile, while the other displayed its inverse.
So pleased was Jacob that he immediately donned the smiling mask, proud to be able to actually showcase his pleasure.
And so it was that with his parent’s cautious consent, he was allowed to open the front door to the next person who called at the house. With great anticipation, Jacob stood by the door and waited to greet whoever might come. He was soon rewarded for his patience when the milkman arrived.
Alas, losing a large amount of money on the racetracks last night had turned the milkman’s mood sour. Thus when he was greeted by this inane grinning visage he merely scowled in return, and wordlessly handed Jacob the receipt for their order.
Once the surly fellow had sulked away, Jacob slowly swapped his mask for its inverted brother.
His father, who had been watching what had transpired, did the same without such external aid. Sadly he approached Jacob, feeling that the fault had been much his own.
“I guess you’ll need far more masks than these,” he told Jacob, and immediately set to work.
Once again, the next day Jacob was given two more masks. One showed careful neutrality, a straight mouth and non committal eyes. The other, polite confusion with raised brows. Jacob put on the former, and from then on would wear all masks over this one.
A few more weeks and many newly made faces later, Jacob was allowed out into the world, where he would delight in engaging strangers in conversations, following what they said carefully and quickly opening his bag and turning his back so he could be wearing the right face. True there were many mistakes at first, and often he would misread the situation, perhaps assuming an air of incredulity when a more appropriate response would be wonderment. But through trial, error and patience, he soon became quite adept at looking how the speaker felt he should.
Best of all was the girl who worked in the bakery, two streets away from Jacob’s house. He would never have to worry what mask to wear for her, for she was always smiling, and her smile only grew when he wore his. As Jacob’s mother was very fond of the bread from there, he had ample reason to visit, and it wasn’t long before he and Mary (for that was her name) were great friends.
Unfortunately her father, the Baker himself, was a crusty sort of gentleman who never quite warmed to Jacob as Mary did. He had a way of staring right through people that made Jacob feel always the pretender, and nervously would he touch his face in case any slippage might betray what lay beneath. His masks felt like poor shields indeed to those blue piercing eyes, and Jacob endeavoured to avoid the man whenever he could. They made him feel like no expression would ever be good enough to suit, no matter how well intended.
One day, the Baker finally broke his silence and spoke to Jacob.
“Seems my Mary has taken a shine to you,” he said, all curt and crisp.
“I…I like her very much as well,” Jacob replied, his face, as per request to his father, a perfectly sculpted model of respect and politeness.
The Baker grunted and reached into the pantry to take out some dough. With large arms and strong hands he began to knead it. “How’s your father?” he asked as he worked.
“He is well.”
Satisfied with his folding, the Baker cut and shaped the dough and placed it on to a tray. He then turned to the immense oven behind him and, using a thick towel, took out another tray from within, replacing it with the new one. He laid the freshly baked buns out in front of Jacob.
“I thought for a time that he and I would be in the same profession,” the Baker said, his eyes on Jacob. “He was always one for making things. No matter what he tried he would mostly do well at it. Except some times the things he made came out wrong, though they didn’t always look so at first”
Here he picked up one of the buns, put it in a small paper bag, and handed it to Jacob. “A gift for your father,” he said, and then went on. “The town dance is soon. Mary’s looking to go with someone. It won’t be you. Is there an understanding between us?”
Jacob nodded and exited the shop, entirely forgetting the reason that he had come in the first place. To distract himself from thinking about what had just been said, he took out the bun that had been gifted to him. He looked at it, wishing he had his frowning face. For unlike every other that the baker had taken out the oven, this bun was clumpy and malformed.
He went home and gave the treat to his father, explaining its brief history to him. His father took the ugly thing out and looked at it the same way Jacob had wanted to. He stared for a long time until, unnerved by the silence Jacob said guiltily, “I’m sorry it doesn’t look nice.”
His father blinked rapidly and came back to himself. He smiled a strange smile at Jacob and took a bite. “It’s all right. Still tastes good. And I’m happier having it than I’d be if I didn’t.”
He took another bite, and choked slightly on a crumb.
·
Time passed, and the town dance grew ever closer. Jacob had more or less resigned himself to not going when, during one of his wanderings he came across Mary. She lay on the ground in the street, expelling great sobs and shudders. Jacob ran to her and tried to help her up.
“What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” he asked, unable to think of anything better.
Mary tried to speak, but tears choked her words back so instead she simply pointed. Jacob followed her finger towards the bakery. Cautiously he approached it, noting the door had been pushed open so hard it now hung off its hinges. He peered in.
There, lying on the floor, was the Baker. His hand was clutching his chest and his face was contorted in pain. Jacob stared for a long time. Then, without realising he was even doing it, he went into his mask bag and put on the biggest smile he had.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Mary had come in behind Jacob without him noticing. Desperately he clawed at his features, thinking that at least his blank underface would be better than this current apparel. But guilt and fear had made him too hasty, and in one wild gesture he tore off both.
Mary stared at the ugly hole, and the ugly hole stared back. Empty silence filled them both. Then the gentle tinkling of the bell above the door rang out and in walked Adam, a boy who Jacob knew as being exactly as old as he was to the day.
This unfroze Mary, who screamed louder than she ever had before, deafening Jacobs’s orifice. Adam stepped in front of her and with a grim expression of fear and hate began advancing on Jacob. Desperately his hole tried to explain the situation, but he was so afraid that he couldn’t speak clearly, and spluttered and drenched them both in mucussy saliva. Adam grabbed a nearby rolling pin and ran at Jacob with it raised. All that was left was to scrape up his face and flee home.
Once Jacob arrived he began searching his bag and then the entire house for a face that would fit. But no face felt like it would ever be enough. No face could possibly show how he felt right now. In an unexpressed rage Jacob smashed all the useless masks and when he was finished he let out a long terrible wail, gurgled through the single giant tear that fell from his hole.
·
The world did its cruel trick of going on for everyone else however, and some years later it was announced that Adam and Mary were to be married. The day came and in a way it was a double celebration, for it also happened to be Adam’s birthday. Nervously he waited alone in his dressing room, trying to think of anything that he may have forgotten or that may have gone wrong. His mother had arrived safely, the caterer and florist had both done a magnificent job and there were plenty of refreshments for now and for later. But something still felt off. He tapped his foot, trying to think and then, mainly due the vibrations it came to him. He needed the toilet. What a foolish thing to lose track of.
Adam rose and strode to the door. He opened it, felt a warm sensation trickling down him and looked with horror to see if he had actually urinated himself. His last thought was one of relief, upon seeing that what trickled from him wasn’t urine, but merely blood.
Jacob walked in and closed the door. Grabbing Adam’s heel he dragged him to the middle of the room. He then took the knife out Adam’s ribs and with delicate yet practised movements drew it towards his face.
Half and hour later Adam and Mary stood facing each other in front of the priest. The words were spoken and echoed.
“I do.”
“You may now kiss the bride.”
And as she did so, Mary wandered why Adams formerly delicate mouth now felt so cavernous to her own delicate lips, and why his thrusting tongue now felt so large and rough.
The Things I will do when I am an old man.
When I am an old man I will be cold all the time, as I am cold most times now. I will wear many layers and take an hour to dress myself each morning and fifty nine minutes to undress myself each night, as I will be wearing slippers instead of shoes.
When I am an old man I will walk everywhere, and never be in a hurry. I will use a cane that has an animal carved on the top, maybe an elephant if my memory starts to fail. I may have a dog, as old in its years as I am in mine. It will be smart enough to not need a leash, and will shit in hidden places so I do not have to pick up after it.
When I am an old man, I think I will be a widower. I don’t know why I think this, but it feels like it will be so. I will stare at old pictures and listen to old music and remember being young. I will smoke a pipe, the contents of which are not entirely tobacco and I will try and fail to blow smoke rings.
When I am an old man my family will seldom, if ever visit me as I in turn make so little effort to see them now. Probably the only time they will come is Christmas, with wife’s forcing husbands through guilt to do so. I will cook them bland meals that will taste of nicotine and we will sit in awkward silences until they feel they have stayed long enough to justify leaving.
When I am an old man, I will have more lines and wrinkles and creases and crinkles than a scrunched up paper bag. Every expression I make will transform the surface of my face, making new caverns and valleys. My nose will be huge, my ears even more so, and I will try and wiggle them both at inappropriate times.
When I am an old man, I will sit in the city square and feed the pigeons and myself mouldy bread. I will only throw bread to the ones that have deformed feet, as I do, and my dog will issue slow barks to the cruel faced gulls whom I have never liked. I will watch people go about their days and their nights. Women in suits and men with meticulously styled hair. Mixed race and mixed religion couples. Painted girls with short skirts and loud voices. But not children. I will never look at children.
When I am an old man I will know when my old friends die.
Critical commentary
This collection of short, short stories was build around the idea of how people often fail to connect with each other and find themselves both alienated and isolated. Both the title and the E.M Forster quote help to signal this, though the quote is used ironically, because none of the stories protagonists actually do connect, whether it be though chance, choice, or circumstances.
Many of the stories draw influence and are written to resemble classic fairy tales, which I studied as part of my children’s literature course. I really liked the other-worldly tone some of these tales had, and they aren’t bound by the constraints of realist short stories. Sometimes I feel that the realist short story has peaked and there is nowhere new ground left for it to cover. As a result, some of the stories written here are aimed to fall into some soft of gap between realism and surrealism, maintaining that their occurrences are normal even when they clearly aren’t
The first story A sheep in Wolves clothing (an obvious pun on the phrase wolf in sheep’s clothing) is heavily influenced by Angela Carter and her bloody chamber collection, which I studied in 3rd year. Silence of the Lambs as well contributed, in particular the scene at the woman skin suit the killer wears. I saw that movie when I was very young and the image has always stuck in my mind.
I feel the main strength of it is its ending, in which the young lamb eats the rotting remains of another sheep. Throughout there is the suggestion that the lamb is already quite wolf-like and only grows more so as it progresses. There is also the implication that wearing something makes you like it, as is the case with the lamb in the wolf’s skin, or how the other sheep suddenly become dumb and blank when their coats are sheared.
The idea for the rhyming couplet came from older versions of Red Riding Hood, which end similarly, with a moral lesson imposed on the reader. That is also why one of the wolves taunts the lamb by asking if he has stones in his stomach, which is how red riding hood kills the wolf in one of the versions.
The Boy who Cried Wolves is very similar to the previous story again with its title being another fairy tale reference. Here the story is reversed so that the villagers all love the boy’s lies, and begin to hate him as he tells the truth. It is this truth that leads to him being as lonely as his grandmother, and it is implied by the ending that the reason she is doing it is because she herself was secretly lonely.
There is a lot of visual imagery and references to sight, in keeping with the stories premise. In addition whenever the boy lies his tears (or the rain as he initially thinks) either “leaps” or “springs” from him, as I feel they are appropriate words for the wolf tears he sheds. I also have fun with character names, such as Farmer Blight and Miss Curdle. The ending can be seen as a kind of anti-moral, as the boys change to truth telling has no positive outcome.
The next story Insulation takes place in a school canteen from the viewpoint of a student there, though we are not immediately aware of this. The main idea of it is that the student is narrating in a very formal tone, juxtaposed by how the others speak. This is to emphasise his separation from the rest of them, and also how he uses it as a way to insulate himself from others, looking down from his intellectual vantage point. An example of this is where he remarks about the “forest of wooden and real legs” trying to trip him.
It was important that Chess was the game chosen, first of all for the line about it being the game of “horsies,” but also for the fact that it is a game for two players, yet the two boys in the story don’t play.
In addition to this the story is cyclical in nature, replacing one cold lonely person with another and so going back to this idea of wearing jackets to insulate yourself from loneliness. I think its strongest point is in the comparison of corned beef to the other child, and the way the metaphor expands itself. The story is largely based upon my own school experience and is something I think many people can relate to.
This lead to the ersatz poem fickle internet, which is simply taken from the connection failure message a computer gives when it is unable to connect online. Rather than just a gimmick, some of its lines lend themselves thematically, for example the part about a misconfigured firewall could represent the defensiveness of the child with the chess book in Insulate Yourself from Loneliness, while “the host is unable to connect” is essentially true of all the stories. In addition very few people actually click on the “help” button in such a scenario, just as very few people ask for help.
Discomfort food is probably the most intensively redrafted story. I keep finding problems and inconsistencies with the narrative tone, where it would slip into exposition or become to informal. Those problems are mainly solved now however, although I don’t think I’ll ever be 100% happy with it. Things that I think work well for it are its basic premise, and the names the narrator gives to his pets. dé jà and vu are named because of Goldfishes apparent short memory span, and so presumably would be in state of constant vague remembrance, while Schrödinger refers to the famous thought experiment about how a cat trapped in a box may or may not be alive. In this instance the answer is dead, and as such the naming acts as foreshadowing.
The protagonist also has a preoccupation with his own excrement, used to emphasise his youth, and again to give the reader a sense of disgust.
While the ending is somewhat predictable-with several friends having guessed it from a quick plot synopsis, it seems the only logical place for the story to go. The scenes about eating are also purposely written to make the reader as uncomfortable as possible, again reflecting the title of the story.
A phallic poem is intended to be both humorous and sad. The quick and unexpected rhyming makes for a smile but a second reading shows that the speaker of the poem may actually be quite depressed about this situation. While the lines have been in my head for some while (they simply came to me one day and stuck) I was dubious about how anybody could see they had literary merit. Then I read some Ogden Nash, who has many similar poems and this gave me the confidence to put it in my dissertation. As you might have guessed from the title, it is an example of emblematic verse in a fairly crude manner.
Eggs is one of those stories that more or less came fully formed, and asides from redrafts was written in one sitting. The story draws a parallel between a class experiment about the development of fertilised chicken eggs and the narrators’ wife’s obstetric examination. It is written in first person and attempts to display the narrator’s feelings of detachment from what should be an important moment of his life. In keeping with this theme, I tried to do this in an understated way, such as when the narrator says “he informs us that the foetuses heartbeat is steady, like my own” or when his wife squeezes his hand for reassurance and he applies “an equal amount of pressure back”
The idea from the story came from two places; the part about eggs is mainly lifted from when a lecturer told us about a similar experiment he had to do in school, while the detachment from the world was inspired by seeing Watchmen at the cinema and its effective portrayal of Dr Manhattan.
Something else that interested me when investigating things about obstetrics was the Doppler machine-the device used to measure the baby’s heartbeat. The name (found by some basic internet research) immediately made me think of “Doppelganger” and how someone’s child can in some sense be like their own doppelganger, ready to replace them as the centre of attention.
I also wanted there to be a subtle association between the wife and a slug, further emphasising her desexualisation in the eyes of her husband. That is why she has a swollen shining belly, and why trails of mucus run down her face when she cries.
Wearing Thin is the longest piece in the collection as well as my favourite, and spans the growth of adulthood of a child. It is a somewhat bizarre story, as its premise would dictate. Yet its origins are simple enough, coming from the idea that we all wear masks to cover our true faces in certain situations. Because of its unlikely nature, I tried to present it in a fairy tale manner similar to a Sheep in wolfs clothing, with the characters taking its unusual events in their stride.
It is written in 3rd person, utilised to give it some objectivity and distance for the reader, with points of focalization on Jacob himself and at the end Adam.
There are a few humorous descriptions of the characters that might be missed on a first reading. The milkman is described as being turned “sour” be losing a bet, while the baker is known as a crusty person.
What stands out for me is the scene with the Baker, who displays knowledge of Jacob’s condition. There is a play on the bun in the oven concept going on there, with the baker giving his malformed product to Jacob. The great irony is that while Jacobs’s father tries to explain that it is better having an ugly bun than none, his reasoning is greatly hampered when he chokes on a crumb from it.
All the biblical names in the story are purposefully chosen, though for the most part they only take importance at the end. Adam being stabbed in the ribs is obviously echoing the genesis story. The bibles Jacob is known as the heel grabber, as that’s how he came out the womb-clutching his brothers foot. He also steals his brother’s birth right, in a manner similar to how Jacob steals Adams face and wife.
There is an implied continuity between Discomfort food, Eggs and Faces, suggesting that the son in the first grows up to be the husband in the second, and in turn gives birth to a new son in the third. Obviously that is why they are in that particular order. This is done by throwaway phrases in Eggs like “It was because of my own father I could stomach such things” and at its end, with “Healthy and perfect like my child will be” This is obviously intended to be ironic given the Jacob in the next story is anything but this.
I wanted to avoid explicating stating this however; as I feel each piece can stand alone well enough on its own, and didn’t want to get bogged down in inserting various scenes, objects, characters and other “linkers” between them all.
The Things I will do when I am an Old Man again takes some of its inspiration from Ogden Nash, in particular his poem Old Men. It is probably the most autobiographical story in the collection (It be pretty worrying if this distinction went to Discomfort foods) and is based upon my own reluctance to visit any except my immediate family. Each line begins the same, like a mantra and the ending is essentially the equivalent as that of Old Men.
In terms of editing all the pieces (excepting the poetry due to its short length) have gone through vigorous cutting and rewritings. Indeed I usually edit a story every time I open it, to the point where I rarely consider anything truly finished. I think it’s also important to sometimes leave pieces a while, rather than continually assessing them, and then come back with fresh perspective.
Department of English Studies
Honours Dissertation
Connection Failure
200628522
2010
Connection Failure
“Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die."
Howards End E.M Forster
Contents
A sheep in wolf’s clothing………………………………………………………………………………5
The Boy who Cried Wolves……………………………………………………………………………10
Insulation………………………………………………………………………………………………………15
Fickle Internet……………………………………………………………………………………………….18
Discomfort Food……………………………………………………………………………………………19
A Phallic Poem………………………………………………………………………………………………22
Eggs………………………………………………………………………………………………………………23
Wearing Thin…………………………………………………………………………………………………26
The Things I will do when I am an Old Man……………………………………………………32
Critical Commentary………………………………………………………………………………………34
A sheep in wolfs clothing
Let me tell you a story.
Once there was a lamb, not born white or black but a deep grey. His wool was short and wirey, and so rough that not even his own mother would nuzzle him, though she painfully endured his scratching and biting at her teat.
While other lambs played and frolicked in the vale, this lamb would venture far and wide, taking pleasure in his solitude.
One day he found a cave, with a flickering sun within. Drawn to it, the lamb ventured closer, savouring the warmth as he came nearer and nearer.
Until he saw the wolf.
There it lay, down in front of the flickering sun. Its ears twitched at the sound of the lambs approach, and slowly it raised its head, wide wild eyes staring.
“Hello little lamb,” it rumbled. “Come closer. Lie with me in front of the fire.”
“Fire?” the lamb asked. It had only heard of such a thing once before, when the old black ram of the herd would recount the tale of the splintered sky and the burning tree. The ram had spoken with fear, but the lamb looked on at the fire with a deep fascination. He slowly moved closer.
“Yes, that’s it” the wolf drawled. “So much braver than the rest of your kind.”
The lamb paused. Then he saw that the wolf was tied down, a thick vine running round its neck to a heavy stone. Had he come any closer, the vine could have reached him. He stopped, and returned the wolf’s hungry gaze impassively.
The wolf gave a low, hoarse laugh. “And smarter too. Not that it matters. The Skin Wearer will have scraps for me. He wants me starved, not dead.” The wolf lowered its head, looking sad and confused. “It has been so long since I have killed anyway, maybe I have forgotten how. The old things keep slipping. Too many of the new in my head.”
“What do you mean by that?” the lamb asked. He was still young after all, and loved new knowledge.
“Sit! Come! Heel!” The wolf spat out each word like a curse. “It makes me other than I am, whilst it wears my brothers fur as its own. Such a beast there never should be. Oh how I hate it!”
The lamb could not help but feel sorry for the wolf. “Then why not fight? Your claws are long and your teeth are sharp. Surely you are more terrible than it?”
The wolf’s eyes went dead and it cringed. “I must not bite the hand that feeds,” it said softly. Those awful nothing eyes met the lambs “You see, this is what it does. It makes you think things you never would, forces its ways onto and into. You slowly change. Already I am forgetting how to hate. Already I begin to love its petting’s and praises and beatings. What am I in the face of such things? A terrible wolf? HA!”
There was a stirring further back in the cave. The wolf cowered. “I have woken him. Quickly little lamb, flee from here, and unless you want to be remade, flee from all such beasts. Surely death is a better fate.”
“What will you do?”
“Having a new friend for dinner, with any luck. Now go!”
The lamb took heed and ran from the cave, but not before hearing the last growl of the wolf turn into a pitiful yelp.
Eight suns later curiosity had driven the lamb back. And there, lying on the ground in front of it was the skin of the wolf.
Slowly he crept up to the cave. Slowly he crept up to the wolf. Slowly he crept into its skin.
It was so lovely and warm. The lamb had never felt so safe. He moved his head to the front, and looked out through where the wolf’s eyes had been. Nothing had ever felt so right.
The lamb wore the skin out of the cave. Stepping clumsily due to its great size, he made its way back to the herd.
As he drew nearer he smelled death in the air. Upon reaching the vale he looked down at what had befallen.
Most of the herd had fled. Those that remained were dead or dying, with a pack of wolves tearing at them. The lamb watched unseen until they had eaten their fill and left. Even this sight fascinated him. Eventually he came down, and tried to find the trail of those sheep that had fled.
He searched five suns for his herd, all the while wearing the wolf’s skin. And the strange thing was that as time went on, it began to fit better and better, as if the lamb was growing into it.
Finally he found them in the one place he didn’t want to search, and the one place he knew they must be - the cave. And sure enough there they were, all penned up in a strange dead tree hedge that went all around them.
The grey lamb approached, and saw his mother.
“I found you!” he cried joyfully.
“Baaa!” said the mother, shying away in fear.
“Why are you like this? Run free with me.”
“Baaaaaaa!” cried another.
“Baaaaaaa.”
“Baaa!”
“But…” By now the whole herd was milling around in a dumb panic. Why were they so afraid?
“Baaaaaaa!”
“Baaaaaaaaa!”
A terrible truth hit the lamb. The sheep’s coats were all cut short. He didn’t need to think who had done this. His herd. His family of dumb beasts. They had all forgotten themselves.
The lamb turned and walked away. Not knowing where else to go he made his way back to the vale. The bodies were still there, as were the wolves. The lamb came down and approached them, waiting to be eaten.
Instead, the wolves greeted him.
“Welcome brother.”
“Come feast with us.”
“The meal is cold, but hasn’t yet spoiled.”
The lamb looked down at the bloody remains of the old black ram who had told him about fire.
“What’s the matter brother,” asked the biggest wolf with a knowing grin. “Stones in your stomach?”
Slowly the lambs lowered the wolf’s jaw down and open, and forced himself to eat.
Here’s a truth for you to keep
Better to run with wolves than live as sheep
The Boy who Cried Wolves
Once, long ago, there was a boy who told lies. He never did it to be cruel though. Every single lie he spoke was made to make the ears, and those attached to them, happy. This was the sole concern of the boy, for it seemed to him the only way to be, and the fact that making others happy caused him to feel the same held reason enough for this belief.
While walking through the village he did his best to say the things he thought his fellow villagers wanted to hear.
“Hello Farmer Blight, your crops are looking healthy and good this year.
“Why thank you my boy” replied the rake thin man.
“Your cream looks so fresh Miss Curdle, what’s your secret?”
“Sun, and plenty of it” she declared confidently.
“Mrs Wrinkles you get younger each day I see you, surely you don’t need that crutch.”
“What a kind child. You remind me of all the suitors that used to call at my door.”
“And I’m sure they still do.”
“Oh you” she said with a girlish giggle and a toss of her frail, chicken neck.
And so it was that the villagers loved the boy and his lying ways, often showering him with all manner of gifts and praise. Indeed it seemed clear to them all that he would grow up to be a great man one day, perhaps a barrister or even a judge. And if not, then a new mayor would one day be needed, so strongly did they all care for him.
Except for one. She was a bitter old lady, who took comfort in loneliness and delight in pointing out the fault in others. She hated the boy, while he was terrified of her. She appeared to look in him rather than at, and no matter what kind things he said to her she never once smiled. He would have never visited her at all if she hadn’t been his grandmother.
“It’s good to see you again grandmother” the boy would say every time he called, only for her to hit him promptly with her walking stick.
“You’re cottage is looking clean.”
Stick.
“That’s a fine collection of books you have.”
Stick.
“Father sends his love, and wishes he has time to see you. He misses you so much.”
Stick. Stick. Stick.
The boy would go home, covered in cuts and bruises, blinking back tears.
“What on earth happened to you?” his mother would ask.
“I offered to shoe grandmother’s donkey and he kicked out. It was my own fault.” Each time the boy told a different lie, wanting for his parents not to worry about him. For as we know, his lies were told only to make people happy.
His mother would shake her head at how accident prone he was and gently chide him to be more careful. The boy’s father would remain silent.
But this time, when once again the boy called on his grandmother, something very different happened. She had baked him a cake, and beseeched him to take a bite while it was still warm.
“It tastes wonderful grandmother.”
“That’s strange. All that is in it is dirt, hair and ditch water. Now run along boy, go tell your tales.”
The boy did as he was bidden, amazed that he hadn’t been beaten this time. As he walked home he met the woodsman.”
“A fine day is it not?” the boy asked, gesturing up to the overcast skies. His words were slightly mocked by the raindrop he felt pounce upon his face.
The woodsman smiled at this vague pleasantry, but then his expression turned quickly to fear. He pointed at the boy’s face, who confusedly made to brush away the raindrop. He felt a sudden pain in his finger and brought it away to examine. There were tiny droplets of blood welling up on it, shaped very much like teeth marks.
The boy looked up to see the woodsman roughly brush past him, making the sign to ward off evil as he went. Thinking it had been some sort of beetle, the boy went on.
He came across Mrs Wrinkles, who was now wearing heavy make up and no longer walked with her crutch.
“Looking lovely as ever” he said to her pouting face.
An even larger raindrop fell on his eye, and he blinked and rubbed his face to clear his blurry vision. While distracted with this he heard Mrs Wrinkle let out a high pitched scream. When finally able to look he saw her on the ground, weeping and bleeding.
“Get away from me!” she shrieked. “Get away you beast!”
Fearfully the boy ran home, slamming the door behind him.
“What’s wrong?” his mother asked, brought forth by all the commotion.
“Nothing mother, don’t worry.”
How could it rain indoors? More water blinded him and the boy felt something leap from his eye. His mother cried out and he heard his father’s heavy steps pound in. There was stamping and snarling and when he could once again see he saw his father standing in front of his mother, deep scratches and bites all down his arms. On the floor lay a broad puddle of water.
“Why is this happening? Why!?”
“Did you cross your grandmother?” his father asked. You must tell me the truth!”
Old habits are hard to be rid of, especially ones we have had our whole lives. “Of course not, I love her.”
The boy felt his eyes being squeezed dry, and desperately he shut tight his lids. But it was no use. Wet snouts forced their way under. Claws grabbed purchase under his lashes and pulled heaving bodies out. He would have wept at the pain if his eyes hadn’t already been swimming. Weeping and wiping, he wished would all stop.
And when it did there they were. Two great and terrible wolves, built from his shining tears.
“Go to her! NOW!” his father shouted, turning to face them.
The boy opened the door and fled, but one of the wolves gave chase. He could hear its wet footfalls splashing off the ground and as it drew closer and closer it gave off a gurgling howl.
He reached his grandmothers cottage and threw open the door, forcing it to close against the wolf’s wet scraping.
And there she sat in her old wicker chair, staring in rather than at.
“Why do this?” he asked. “I was nothing but kind to you.”
“You did nothing but lie to me.”
“But I just wanted to make you happy.”
“Who could be happy with a lie?”
“Please help me. Change back whatever it was you did”
“I can’t. Best weep what you sow.”
“I hate you! I hate you so much!”
There was a loud splashing sound outside. The boy peered cautiously out the window. Where the wolf had been was now a deep, wide puddle. He turned to his grandmother.
“I think you know what you need to do” she said.
He nodded, and made to leave. But before he did, he turned and stared in her rather than at.
“You’re a mean old woman”
She smiled.
“I am” she said.
From that day the boy told nothing but the truth, and as you might expect no one much cared for it. Farmer Blight would scowl as his harvest was scorned. Miss Curdle would glare as her plans for sun dried cheese were mocked. And Mrs Wrinkles would wince as her fashion sense was deplored. As time passed no one wished to even talk to or see the boy, except his grandmother, who had always secretly liked his visits.
Insulation
In a busy school canteen, near the back sat a boy. He was alone at his table and quietly making his way through a packed lunch. They say we are what we eat, and in his case it was corned beef. And what do we know about corned beef? Well it is a fairly unobtrusive food, usually held in reserve until other stocks have diminished before it is finally and reluctantly brought out. Obviously it is also tinned, surrounded by darkness and a cold metal shell.
That isn’t to say that this boy was socially inept or particularly boring. The contents of your sandwich do not mirror the contents of your soul. What does speak of this boy’s demeanour and sensibilities though, are his actions. The way he kept his eyes downcast. The fact he still wore his jacket, huddling into it. The total focus on the mundane task of eating. Each bite seemed carefully weighed and judged, and the more perceptive of us might note with casual amusement that he ate his bread in perfectly straight lines.
Despite this unobtrusive behaviour, the boy had attracted unwanted attention. Two other youths sat down to the table with him, impish grins on their faces. The boy briefly looked up and was greeted by a flicked pea to his eye.
“10 points if you get it up his nose.”
“50 if you can do that with a carrot.”
“Bet he’d like us to shove it somewhere else.”
“Big gay.”
Dutifully the boy ignored all this. Indeed he seemed oblivious to it, and the only effect the two had on him was that he shielded his face from further assaults. Apathy is a powerful weapon, and soon it drove the two tormentors away. One would perhaps grow up to become a successful business man, the other an unsuccessful council worker. Probably neither would recall this incident if you asked them. Despite what they say, History isn’t written by the winners, but by the writers. For the rest, it is just something that we sometimes remember.
I had been watching all this unfold from my vantage point in the canteen queue. Having now paid with a dinner ticket for my meagre repast I made my decision to join him. I myself had endured my own lonesome meals, and knew that even to have someone else, however noncommittal sit at the table with you made a powerful difference in your own mental standing.
Carefully making my way through the forest of wooden and real legs, both of which would try to trip you, I arrived at my destination and sat down with my new case. It should be noted that I saw myself as a sort of social Rockefeller, charitably dispensing my company and friendship to those that needed it. Perhaps there was a certain amount of selfishness to my actions as well. Kinship is a drug, and unusual hits like the boy in front of me could leave me feeling giddy and glowing. Also I have always been a bit of a collector of things uncommon, and acquaintances are no different. So it was with eager magpie eyes that I swooped down into the seat in front.
The boy’s eyes rose again, and then settled back down to a magazine he had pulled out. Feeling not the least bit bashful I took a long glance at it, perceiving it to be some sort of chess journal.
“Ah, the game of kings” I said.
The boy remained silent.
“And Queens as well” I went on, before realising that this could be contrived as an insult. “And bishops and pawns and horsies.”
“Knights” he replied.
“Eh?”
“They’re not horses, they’re knights. And you’re stupid.” The boy finished the last of his corned beef sandwich, packed up his things and left me sitting there alone. I felt hurt, but not entirely surprised. In my own experience, the meek had a tendency to lash out at those who would seek to help them. The world would be a very unfriendly place if they ever came to inherit it.
I ate my lunch there alone, pondering over what had just transpired and how best to deal with it. It seemed a cold day so I kept on my jacket and put up my hood. Throughout my meal, no one joined me.
Fickle Internet
Connection failure
The host ‘128.196.124.145’ is unreachable
The host may be
down, or there may be a problem
with the network con-
nection.
Sometimes such problems
can also be caused
by a misconfigured firewall.
OK Help
Discomfort food
My Dad was different from most. Took me a while to realise this though. Every person thinks their childhood was normal, and every one of them is wrong.
In most ways he was everything a father should be. Kept me fed, clothed, sheltered. Cared for me - probably even loved me, in his way. But all fathers have their failings. They embarrass, scold, hit. Small abuses inflicted with the best of intentions. My father had one failing that set him apart from all others. He made me eat everything I killed.
Wouldn’t have been so bad if we went hunting or fishing, but we never did. And it might have worked ok if home were in the countryside, but it wasn’t. We lived in the city, deep in its crawling heart. Home was a high rise, an ugly grey termite mound of a building with us trapped in its centre. And let me tell you something else. Far as I know, and I know a lot about it, nothing that lives in the city tastes good.
Not that I was much of a killer. Wasn’t one of those children that threw stones at birds or set fire to dogs. But we all end up killing something or other in the course of our lives. Dull, boring kills that weigh on no ones conscience.
Earliest memory I have is being no older than three, playing about home, when this big cockroach comes crawling up. I was bored and it was quick so I made a game of trying to squish it with my new dinosaur shoes.
Jump. Stomp. Crunch! Clean right in the middle so it squooshes out either side. Course just then my dad walks in, sees what I’ve done and quick as you like he picks up the front and back of the bug and pops them in my mouth. The tops of it are smooth against my tongue, tasting like floor and hair, but the bottoms scrape against my mouth’s roof. It jags and scratches and I try and spit the twitching bits out, but my mouth is clamped shut and I’m told to chew and swallow. Feels like I’m going to vomit. It’s either sick or swallow.
I swallow, legs scrabbling all the way down.
“Good boy.”
And a good boy I was.
Heard you’re meant to swallow nine spiders in your sleep through the course of your life. Made it to that by 12, without the sleep. They had plenty flies for company.
Sometimes I could see bits of the bugs I ate in what came out my other end. Once, when I wiped to get rid of a hanging bit that wouldn’t drop I found a whole Bluebottle, smeared onto the white paper. Guess by then it was more of a Brownbottle.
Another time I made the mistake of asking for a pet. I got three - three little fishies. Named them smart too. Dé, jà and vu. Good names for Goldfish. Then one day I get invited to a friend’s house for the weekend, so I fed my fishies up and left them plenty to chow on. Come back and find them, bloated, belly up and floating like round orange poo’s. And my dad’s standing there, waiting for me to chow on them.
I copied the toilet, flushed them down my mouth whole with a large glass of water. Next day I really did flush them down the toilet. My little fishies, deep fried in stomach juice till they went a rich golden yellow. They’re probably still out there, swimming with lots of friends.
After that I had a cat named Schrodinger. And it was the most cared for cat in the world.
That’s the bones of the story. Here’s the meat.
One day I came home from school angrier than usual. The teacher had asked us to talk about our parents and when I told them about my dad everyone laughed and she called me a liar.
“No father could be like that” she’d said.
I open the door and there’s the father that is like that, disappointment on his face and a dead cat in his arms.
“He got into some chocolate” My dad says. “Chocolate is poisonous to cats. I don’t eat chocolate.” Never a man to mince his words, he holds Schrodinger out for me to take.
Instead I turn and run up the stairwell and he follows, still holding the cat. Up four flights I flee. Finally at the top I twist around and face him. I am so angry and sad and all I can see is a limp long stretched out cat being thrust at my face. So I push it away.
I push hard.
Too hard.
My dad, off balance and with his hands full, goes tumbling backwards.
Looking isn’t hard. Listening is. Dry crunches and wet thuds echo in the hall forever, till finally there he lies, crumpled in an impossible position with a double jointed neck. Schrodinger is still clutched in his hands.
I looked for a long time. Nobody from the other apartments came out to see about the noise. Eventually and with great effort he carried the cat home, while I carried him.
Finally I had found something in the city that tasted good.
A Phallic Poem
Sometimes I
feel like our only
connection
Is between
your vagina
and my
erection.
Eggs
I am sitting here with my wife. We are in a hospital in a small room. Fluorescent lights illuminate it and through a thin break in the blinds daylight shines in. My wife is lying down on a hospital bed whilst I am sat in a too small chair. Its padding has been worn away from many others sitting on it before me. There is a young handsome doctor also in the room, tending to my wife and asking her many questions. He asks me questions as well and I put on a smile to answer them.
The young doctor tells my life to pull up her baggy t-shirt. She complies without hesitation. Her stomach is greatly swollen, with stretch marks running down it, and her tiny delicate belly button has been deformed into a curious squiggle of skin. I try to avoid looking at it.
The doctor applies some jelly-like substance to her stomach, squeezing it from a tube as if it were toothpaste. He tells us it is called Doppler gel, and will allow him to monitor the baby’s heartbeat for abnormalities. I say the words “Doppler gel”. They sound foreign and exotic, yet appropriate. Doppler gel for my doppelganger. It looks like it came from a slug, and I wonder briefly if you could milk a slug for its slime.
“It’s cold” says my wife as it touches her skin. I pull my chair forward and take her hand gently. She squeezes it and I apply an equal amount of pressure back. The doctor takes out another object, which he calls a transducer, and slowly caresses her shining belly with it. He looks to the machine that it is connected to and repeats this several times. Stroke. Stare. Stroke. Stare. Finally he informs us that the foetuses heartbeat is steady, like my own. The doctor then directs us to a monitor which is also part of the machine. He pushes a button and it lights up, at which point he begins with his transducer again. An unintelligible greyish image appears on the screen. I look at it, become entranced in its swirls and pulses. It is like staring at a bonfire. I look at the life I have made, thinking this is how God must have felt. I look and I remember.
It is sixteen years ago. I am in biology class. The teacher, a thin middle aged man in glasses and a white coat has us all gathered around him, where a series of white trays are laid out on the table. He has an egg box open in front of him, with six speckled eggs in it. Each egg has a different number written on it, starting from 0 and going up in threes so that the last one reads 18.
The teacher talks, but I don’t remember the words so they are heard as a dull murmur, mental static. Then, all at once he cracks an egg open on a tray. It looks like any other egg I have ever seen. Using a pen he points out the different parts. Why is it called the white when it is clearly see through?
He moves along to the next tray, and cracks open the egg with the 3 on it. The yolk seems darker and is no longer perfectly round. He points and talks and we look and listen. We then move on to egg number 6. Its contents are exactly the same as egg 3, but we are told they are not. Some of the boys shuffle and whisper out of boredom.
At egg number 9 things begin to change. The yolk has some proper shape to it, and it looks like a mashed up lizard, even though it is a chicken egg. The boys stop shuffling and start paying attention. One of them reaches towards it with a pencil, but the teacher tells him off. Only he may point and prod at dead things. While the boys edge closer, the girls in the class slowly move away. Perhaps they have a primal knowledge of what this really is.
The contents of number 12 are carefully poured out in front of us. We stare. Dead black eyes stare back at us. There is no white to the egg anymore, only a pinkish red. A few of the girls excuse themselves and sit at the back of the room, even though that’s not where their seats are. The teacher frowns, making his crows feet shuffle, but he doesn’t tell the girls off. Instead he points, and speaks to his silent audience. Normally he struggles to maintain order in class. I think I can see wings and feet if I look close enough.
Number 15 is lifted from its cardboard womb. There is a gravity about it, and you would think it were much heavier than an ordinary egg. The teacher slowly opens it with a knife. What’s inside falls onto the tray, making a small wet sound as it lands. The class gasp. The prettiest girl in the group runs to the bin to be sick, while the ugliest girl begins to cry. That’s how things are; pretty girls are sick, ugly girls cry. Vomit is easier cleaned than tears.
The teacher looks worried. Clearly this wasn’t meant to happen. He picks up the tray and quickly takes it out the room. One of the boys follows him and later tells us all he had gone to the staff toilet, where after a few flushes he emerged with an empty tray. He comes back to class, tells us to sit back down and open our text books.
From then on we always learned from books in that class. The teacher probably wanted us to forget what happened, but we didn’t. The boys talked about how cool it was, the girls how awful it had been. But I never talked about it, about how it moved and slipped in the bloody mess around it, about how it made an almost inaudible noise. Or about how I looked at it, with its heart visibly beating in its thinly formed flesh. It was because of my own father that I could stomach such things.
The doctor points at the monitor in front of me, and tells us that this bit here is a hand, this bit here the toes, and this bit here is the heart. We look, I and my wife, and she begins to smile and cry. Her eyes and cheeks shine, along with her stomach, and a thin trail of mucus slides from her nose. I smile back at her and squeeze her hand again. Then I look to the monitor.
I never told anyone about number 18. The teacher had just left it there in his panic. During class break I had snuck in and took it, hiding it somewhere safe and warm until I could bring it home. Once there I set up a makeshift nest, with straw and light, and waited and waited for it to hatch, whole and perfect like my child will be.
Wearing Thin
It was a terrible tragedy, but the sad fact of the matter was that Jacob Hollandaise was born without a face. Instead his features were composed of a single hole, fulfilling the various functions that were required of it. It could hear, eat, see and speak. It could even whistle, once Jacob had learned to do so.
While proving quite sufficient in the matter of prolonging his existence from birth, this multipurpose orifice made for disconcerting viewing. Feeling this way, his parents decided it would be best for him to be kept out of sight, fearing he would be mocked and ridiculed for his unorthodox appearance.
In his infant years this was adequate enough for young Jacob, but as he grew so to did his curiosity of the world outside the prison of good intentions his parents had imposed. He began asking questions, some of which proved very awkward indeed. Why did he look like this, when neither his mother nor father did? And what manner of creature was the postman? If television was in any way true, then was the world closer to being like a cartoon or a documentary?
It was his father, who was both eminently practical and exceedingly creative, that came up with a solution. They would make him masks to wear, showing various facial expressions. Then it would be simply a matter of Jacob donning the one he felt appropriate for the situation he found himself in. Excited at his own ingenuity, Jacobs’s father worked through the entire day and night with this aim in mind. Come the morning he presented the fruits of his labours to his son
One mask had a smile, while the other displayed its inverse.
So pleased was Jacob that he immediately donned the smiling mask, proud to be able to actually showcase his pleasure.
And so it was that with his parent’s cautious consent, he was allowed to open the front door to the next person who called at the house. With great anticipation, Jacob stood by the door and waited to greet whoever might come. He was soon rewarded for his patience when the milkman arrived.
Alas, losing a large amount of money on the racetracks last night had turned the milkman’s mood sour. Thus when he was greeted by this inane grinning visage he merely scowled in return, and wordlessly handed Jacob the receipt for their order.
Once the surly fellow had sulked away, Jacob slowly swapped his mask for its inverted brother.
His father, who had been watching what had transpired, did the same without such external aid. Sadly he approached Jacob, feeling that the fault had been much his own.
“I guess you’ll need far more masks than these,” he told Jacob, and immediately set to work.
Once again, the next day Jacob was given two more masks. One showed careful neutrality, a straight mouth and non committal eyes. The other, polite confusion with raised brows. Jacob put on the former, and from then on would wear all masks over this one.
A few more weeks and many newly made faces later, Jacob was allowed out into the world, where he would delight in engaging strangers in conversations, following what they said carefully and quickly opening his bag and turning his back so he could be wearing the right face. True there were many mistakes at first, and often he would misread the situation, perhaps assuming an air of incredulity when a more appropriate response would be wonderment. But through trial, error and patience, he soon became quite adept at looking how the speaker felt he should.
Best of all was the girl who worked in the bakery, two streets away from Jacob’s house. He would never have to worry what mask to wear for her, for she was always smiling, and her smile only grew when he wore his. As Jacob’s mother was very fond of the bread from there, he had ample reason to visit, and it wasn’t long before he and Mary (for that was her name) were great friends.
Unfortunately her father, the Baker himself, was a crusty sort of gentleman who never quite warmed to Jacob as Mary did. He had a way of staring right through people that made Jacob feel always the pretender, and nervously would he touch his face in case any slippage might betray what lay beneath. His masks felt like poor shields indeed to those blue piercing eyes, and Jacob endeavoured to avoid the man whenever he could. They made him feel like no expression would ever be good enough to suit, no matter how well intended.
One day, the Baker finally broke his silence and spoke to Jacob.
“Seems my Mary has taken a shine to you,” he said, all curt and crisp.
“I…I like her very much as well,” Jacob replied, his face, as per request to his father, a perfectly sculpted model of respect and politeness.
The Baker grunted and reached into the pantry to take out some dough. With large arms and strong hands he began to knead it. “How’s your father?” he asked as he worked.
“He is well.”
Satisfied with his folding, the Baker cut and shaped the dough and placed it on to a tray. He then turned to the immense oven behind him and, using a thick towel, took out another tray from within, replacing it with the new one. He laid the freshly baked buns out in front of Jacob.
“I thought for a time that he and I would be in the same profession,” the Baker said, his eyes on Jacob. “He was always one for making things. No matter what he tried he would mostly do well at it. Except some times the things he made came out wrong, though they didn’t always look so at first”
Here he picked up one of the buns, put it in a small paper bag, and handed it to Jacob. “A gift for your father,” he said, and then went on. “The town dance is soon. Mary’s looking to go with someone. It won’t be you. Is there an understanding between us?”
Jacob nodded and exited the shop, entirely forgetting the reason that he had come in the first place. To distract himself from thinking about what had just been said, he took out the bun that had been gifted to him. He looked at it, wishing he had his frowning face. For unlike every other that the baker had taken out the oven, this bun was clumpy and malformed.
He went home and gave the treat to his father, explaining its brief history to him. His father took the ugly thing out and looked at it the same way Jacob had wanted to. He stared for a long time until, unnerved by the silence Jacob said guiltily, “I’m sorry it doesn’t look nice.”
His father blinked rapidly and came back to himself. He smiled a strange smile at Jacob and took a bite. “It’s all right. Still tastes good. And I’m happier having it than I’d be if I didn’t.”
He took another bite, and choked slightly on a crumb.
·
Time passed, and the town dance grew ever closer. Jacob had more or less resigned himself to not going when, during one of his wanderings he came across Mary. She lay on the ground in the street, expelling great sobs and shudders. Jacob ran to her and tried to help her up.
“What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” he asked, unable to think of anything better.
Mary tried to speak, but tears choked her words back so instead she simply pointed. Jacob followed her finger towards the bakery. Cautiously he approached it, noting the door had been pushed open so hard it now hung off its hinges. He peered in.
There, lying on the floor, was the Baker. His hand was clutching his chest and his face was contorted in pain. Jacob stared for a long time. Then, without realising he was even doing it, he went into his mask bag and put on the biggest smile he had.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Mary had come in behind Jacob without him noticing. Desperately he clawed at his features, thinking that at least his blank underface would be better than this current apparel. But guilt and fear had made him too hasty, and in one wild gesture he tore off both.
Mary stared at the ugly hole, and the ugly hole stared back. Empty silence filled them both. Then the gentle tinkling of the bell above the door rang out and in walked Adam, a boy who Jacob knew as being exactly as old as he was to the day.
This unfroze Mary, who screamed louder than she ever had before, deafening Jacobs’s orifice. Adam stepped in front of her and with a grim expression of fear and hate began advancing on Jacob. Desperately his hole tried to explain the situation, but he was so afraid that he couldn’t speak clearly, and spluttered and drenched them both in mucussy saliva. Adam grabbed a nearby rolling pin and ran at Jacob with it raised. All that was left was to scrape up his face and flee home.
Once Jacob arrived he began searching his bag and then the entire house for a face that would fit. But no face felt like it would ever be enough. No face could possibly show how he felt right now. In an unexpressed rage Jacob smashed all the useless masks and when he was finished he let out a long terrible wail, gurgled through the single giant tear that fell from his hole.
·
The world did its cruel trick of going on for everyone else however, and some years later it was announced that Adam and Mary were to be married. The day came and in a way it was a double celebration, for it also happened to be Adam’s birthday. Nervously he waited alone in his dressing room, trying to think of anything that he may have forgotten or that may have gone wrong. His mother had arrived safely, the caterer and florist had both done a magnificent job and there were plenty of refreshments for now and for later. But something still felt off. He tapped his foot, trying to think and then, mainly due the vibrations it came to him. He needed the toilet. What a foolish thing to lose track of.
Adam rose and strode to the door. He opened it, felt a warm sensation trickling down him and looked with horror to see if he had actually urinated himself. His last thought was one of relief, upon seeing that what trickled from him wasn’t urine, but merely blood.
Jacob walked in and closed the door. Grabbing Adam’s heel he dragged him to the middle of the room. He then took the knife out Adam’s ribs and with delicate yet practised movements drew it towards his face.
Half and hour later Adam and Mary stood facing each other in front of the priest. The words were spoken and echoed.
“I do.”
“You may now kiss the bride.”
And as she did so, Mary wandered why Adams formerly delicate mouth now felt so cavernous to her own delicate lips, and why his thrusting tongue now felt so large and rough.
The Things I will do when I am an old man.
When I am an old man I will be cold all the time, as I am cold most times now. I will wear many layers and take an hour to dress myself each morning and fifty nine minutes to undress myself each night, as I will be wearing slippers instead of shoes.
When I am an old man I will walk everywhere, and never be in a hurry. I will use a cane that has an animal carved on the top, maybe an elephant if my memory starts to fail. I may have a dog, as old in its years as I am in mine. It will be smart enough to not need a leash, and will shit in hidden places so I do not have to pick up after it.
When I am an old man, I think I will be a widower. I don’t know why I think this, but it feels like it will be so. I will stare at old pictures and listen to old music and remember being young. I will smoke a pipe, the contents of which are not entirely tobacco and I will try and fail to blow smoke rings.
When I am an old man my family will seldom, if ever visit me as I in turn make so little effort to see them now. Probably the only time they will come is Christmas, with wife’s forcing husbands through guilt to do so. I will cook them bland meals that will taste of nicotine and we will sit in awkward silences until they feel they have stayed long enough to justify leaving.
When I am an old man, I will have more lines and wrinkles and creases and crinkles than a scrunched up paper bag. Every expression I make will transform the surface of my face, making new caverns and valleys. My nose will be huge, my ears even more so, and I will try and wiggle them both at inappropriate times.
When I am an old man, I will sit in the city square and feed the pigeons and myself mouldy bread. I will only throw bread to the ones that have deformed feet, as I do, and my dog will issue slow barks to the cruel faced gulls whom I have never liked. I will watch people go about their days and their nights. Women in suits and men with meticulously styled hair. Mixed race and mixed religion couples. Painted girls with short skirts and loud voices. But not children. I will never look at children.
When I am an old man I will know when my old friends die.
Critical commentary
This collection of short, short stories was build around the idea of how people often fail to connect with each other and find themselves both alienated and isolated. Both the title and the E.M Forster quote help to signal this, though the quote is used ironically, because none of the stories protagonists actually do connect, whether it be though chance, choice, or circumstances.
Many of the stories draw influence and are written to resemble classic fairy tales, which I studied as part of my children’s literature course. I really liked the other-worldly tone some of these tales had, and they aren’t bound by the constraints of realist short stories. Sometimes I feel that the realist short story has peaked and there is nowhere new ground left for it to cover. As a result, some of the stories written here are aimed to fall into some soft of gap between realism and surrealism, maintaining that their occurrences are normal even when they clearly aren’t
The first story A sheep in Wolves clothing (an obvious pun on the phrase wolf in sheep’s clothing) is heavily influenced by Angela Carter and her bloody chamber collection, which I studied in 3rd year. Silence of the Lambs as well contributed, in particular the scene at the woman skin suit the killer wears. I saw that movie when I was very young and the image has always stuck in my mind.
I feel the main strength of it is its ending, in which the young lamb eats the rotting remains of another sheep. Throughout there is the suggestion that the lamb is already quite wolf-like and only grows more so as it progresses. There is also the implication that wearing something makes you like it, as is the case with the lamb in the wolf’s skin, or how the other sheep suddenly become dumb and blank when their coats are sheared.
The idea for the rhyming couplet came from older versions of Red Riding Hood, which end similarly, with a moral lesson imposed on the reader. That is also why one of the wolves taunts the lamb by asking if he has stones in his stomach, which is how red riding hood kills the wolf in one of the versions.
The Boy who Cried Wolves is very similar to the previous story again with its title being another fairy tale reference. Here the story is reversed so that the villagers all love the boy’s lies, and begin to hate him as he tells the truth. It is this truth that leads to him being as lonely as his grandmother, and it is implied by the ending that the reason she is doing it is because she herself was secretly lonely.
There is a lot of visual imagery and references to sight, in keeping with the stories premise. In addition whenever the boy lies his tears (or the rain as he initially thinks) either “leaps” or “springs” from him, as I feel they are appropriate words for the wolf tears he sheds. I also have fun with character names, such as Farmer Blight and Miss Curdle. The ending can be seen as a kind of anti-moral, as the boys change to truth telling has no positive outcome.
The next story Insulation takes place in a school canteen from the viewpoint of a student there, though we are not immediately aware of this. The main idea of it is that the student is narrating in a very formal tone, juxtaposed by how the others speak. This is to emphasise his separation from the rest of them, and also how he uses it as a way to insulate himself from others, looking down from his intellectual vantage point. An example of this is where he remarks about the “forest of wooden and real legs” trying to trip him.
It was important that Chess was the game chosen, first of all for the line about it being the game of “horsies,” but also for the fact that it is a game for two players, yet the two boys in the story don’t play.
In addition to this the story is cyclical in nature, replacing one cold lonely person with another and so going back to this idea of wearing jackets to insulate yourself from loneliness. I think its strongest point is in the comparison of corned beef to the other child, and the way the metaphor expands itself. The story is largely based upon my own school experience and is something I think many people can relate to.
This lead to the ersatz poem fickle internet, which is simply taken from the connection failure message a computer gives when it is unable to connect online. Rather than just a gimmick, some of its lines lend themselves thematically, for example the part about a misconfigured firewall could represent the defensiveness of the child with the chess book in Insulate Yourself from Loneliness, while “the host is unable to connect” is essentially true of all the stories. In addition very few people actually click on the “help” button in such a scenario, just as very few people ask for help.
Discomfort food is probably the most intensively redrafted story. I keep finding problems and inconsistencies with the narrative tone, where it would slip into exposition or become to informal. Those problems are mainly solved now however, although I don’t think I’ll ever be 100% happy with it. Things that I think work well for it are its basic premise, and the names the narrator gives to his pets. dé jà and vu are named because of Goldfishes apparent short memory span, and so presumably would be in state of constant vague remembrance, while Schrödinger refers to the famous thought experiment about how a cat trapped in a box may or may not be alive. In this instance the answer is dead, and as such the naming acts as foreshadowing.
The protagonist also has a preoccupation with his own excrement, used to emphasise his youth, and again to give the reader a sense of disgust.
While the ending is somewhat predictable-with several friends having guessed it from a quick plot synopsis, it seems the only logical place for the story to go. The scenes about eating are also purposely written to make the reader as uncomfortable as possible, again reflecting the title of the story.
A phallic poem is intended to be both humorous and sad. The quick and unexpected rhyming makes for a smile but a second reading shows that the speaker of the poem may actually be quite depressed about this situation. While the lines have been in my head for some while (they simply came to me one day and stuck) I was dubious about how anybody could see they had literary merit. Then I read some Ogden Nash, who has many similar poems and this gave me the confidence to put it in my dissertation. As you might have guessed from the title, it is an example of emblematic verse in a fairly crude manner.
Eggs is one of those stories that more or less came fully formed, and asides from redrafts was written in one sitting. The story draws a parallel between a class experiment about the development of fertilised chicken eggs and the narrators’ wife’s obstetric examination. It is written in first person and attempts to display the narrator’s feelings of detachment from what should be an important moment of his life. In keeping with this theme, I tried to do this in an understated way, such as when the narrator says “he informs us that the foetuses heartbeat is steady, like my own” or when his wife squeezes his hand for reassurance and he applies “an equal amount of pressure back”
The idea from the story came from two places; the part about eggs is mainly lifted from when a lecturer told us about a similar experiment he had to do in school, while the detachment from the world was inspired by seeing Watchmen at the cinema and its effective portrayal of Dr Manhattan.
Something else that interested me when investigating things about obstetrics was the Doppler machine-the device used to measure the baby’s heartbeat. The name (found by some basic internet research) immediately made me think of “Doppelganger” and how someone’s child can in some sense be like their own doppelganger, ready to replace them as the centre of attention.
I also wanted there to be a subtle association between the wife and a slug, further emphasising her desexualisation in the eyes of her husband. That is why she has a swollen shining belly, and why trails of mucus run down her face when she cries.
Wearing Thin is the longest piece in the collection as well as my favourite, and spans the growth of adulthood of a child. It is a somewhat bizarre story, as its premise would dictate. Yet its origins are simple enough, coming from the idea that we all wear masks to cover our true faces in certain situations. Because of its unlikely nature, I tried to present it in a fairy tale manner similar to a Sheep in wolfs clothing, with the characters taking its unusual events in their stride.
It is written in 3rd person, utilised to give it some objectivity and distance for the reader, with points of focalization on Jacob himself and at the end Adam.
There are a few humorous descriptions of the characters that might be missed on a first reading. The milkman is described as being turned “sour” be losing a bet, while the baker is known as a crusty person.
What stands out for me is the scene with the Baker, who displays knowledge of Jacob’s condition. There is a play on the bun in the oven concept going on there, with the baker giving his malformed product to Jacob. The great irony is that while Jacobs’s father tries to explain that it is better having an ugly bun than none, his reasoning is greatly hampered when he chokes on a crumb from it.
All the biblical names in the story are purposefully chosen, though for the most part they only take importance at the end. Adam being stabbed in the ribs is obviously echoing the genesis story. The bibles Jacob is known as the heel grabber, as that’s how he came out the womb-clutching his brothers foot. He also steals his brother’s birth right, in a manner similar to how Jacob steals Adams face and wife.
There is an implied continuity between Discomfort food, Eggs and Faces, suggesting that the son in the first grows up to be the husband in the second, and in turn gives birth to a new son in the third. Obviously that is why they are in that particular order. This is done by throwaway phrases in Eggs like “It was because of my own father I could stomach such things” and at its end, with “Healthy and perfect like my child will be” This is obviously intended to be ironic given the Jacob in the next story is anything but this.
I wanted to avoid explicating stating this however; as I feel each piece can stand alone well enough on its own, and didn’t want to get bogged down in inserting various scenes, objects, characters and other “linkers” between them all.
The Things I will do when I am an Old Man again takes some of its inspiration from Ogden Nash, in particular his poem Old Men. It is probably the most autobiographical story in the collection (It be pretty worrying if this distinction went to Discomfort foods) and is based upon my own reluctance to visit any except my immediate family. Each line begins the same, like a mantra and the ending is essentially the equivalent as that of Old Men.
In terms of editing all the pieces (excepting the poetry due to its short length) have gone through vigorous cutting and rewritings. Indeed I usually edit a story every time I open it, to the point where I rarely consider anything truly finished. I think it’s also important to sometimes leave pieces a while, rather than continually assessing them, and then come back with fresh perspective.
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