The heavy iron door clanged shut behind him. Felix was on his own for the first time in twenty-six years. He knew he was supposed to be walking away, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to move. Not yet. This close to the prison he could still smell it. Or was the smell merely lodged in his nostrils? How long would it take to clear out? He had no idea, but one look at the sky -- all that fresh air just there for the breathing -- told him that the reek of a life sentence behind bars would soon be gone.
A small shiver of incipient agoraphobia ran through him, finally urging him into a slow amble away from the prison gates. Too much out in the open would probably be bad for him, at least in the early stages. He should find a bolt hole for a spell. Sit, ponder, decide on his next steps.
It was a strange feeling, the concept of next steps. For twenty-six years his every step had been programmed for him by prison routine. Get up, slop out, breakfast, pool, lock-up, exercise yard, lock-up, dinner, lock-up, bed. Same every day. He'd never been any good at mental arithmetic, but that must have added up to thousands of days. All gone. Shut away behind the clang of that door, out of reach. An uncertain future stretched out ahead of him. He needed a jolt of familiarity to bring him some concrete reality.
He'd been walking for about an hour when he spotted the Starbucks sign. Just the kind of 'familiarity' he'd been seeking. With a pang of regret, he remembered that Starbucks had been Margaret's favourite. They'd always stopped off for a latte and a muffin on trips into town. That was before... well... just before. He wondered briefly where Margaret was now. If she was doing OK. Then he pinched his thigh hard, through his pocket, brought himself back to the moment. The barista was asking him what he wanted. He stopped, open-mouthed, on the point of ordering a latte. Surely there'd be something new on the menu after a quarter of a century? He scanned the board quickly.
"I'll have a venti caramel macchiato."
"Drink in or take out?"
"In. Thanks."
"That'll be £2.95 please."
Felix almost choked. Right enough, the price was on the board in front of his eyes. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. That was almost a quarter of the funds he'd left the slammer with. He handed over a five pound note and collected his change.
Seated in the window, Felix watched the pedestrian traffic while he sucked on his drink. Busy. It was a cold November day with a light breeze and a clear blue sky. The smell of Christmas in the air. Must be a street market somewhere close, he decided. Well, that was one thing he didn't need to worry about. No presents to buy. No cards. No-one to celebrate with. No money either. But at least there should be some seasonal work going. He was still physically strong, could do regular lifting and carrying, and he'd always been a hard worker. Just so long as he could keep his temper. So long as no-one crossed him. Twenty-six years was a long time to spend thinking about that. To learn the lesson that his sentence was designed to teach him. It had been hard, staying out of that kind of trouble inside. Screws winding him up all the time, and the inmates worse. Taking a pop at him almost every day for something or other. It was a fine line, staying away from a spell in solitary but still managing to stick up for himself so's he didn't get a rep as a soft touch. An easy target. He'd seen it so many times. Regular people who just couldn't cut it on the inside. The slightest show of weakness was all it took. Then the vultures would start circling and pretty soon your life wouldn't be worth living.
Took him a few years to learn to tread that path. It wasn't exactly the lesson he'd gone in for. No, that one was to stay out of trouble altogether. Inside he just had to avoid being seen defending himself.
"Hey!"
A man's voice from behind him gave him a jolt. He turned around, bristling, ready for trouble.
"What?"
"You done with that sugar?"
The innocuous question hung in the air for several seconds while Felix processed the fact that this wasn't an unexpected attack. He looked at the sugar dispenser on the table beside him; back at the man.
"Sure. Help yourself," he said, passing the container across.
"Thanks mate."
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
100TWC - Day 95: Acceptance
Roger had always loved moonlight. Legend had it that the light of a full moon could send a man mad. Howling at the moon, or baying at the moon, would be the result of too much exposure. So they said. That had never been more true than on this night. Yet perhaps because of his life-long love of Earth's only celestial partner, tonight Roger felt saner than he ever had. Looking around him at the dozen or so other occupants of Glastonbury Tor, none of whom he knew but all of whom apparently shared, if not his passion then at least his attitude, he also felt saner than the overwhelming mass of humanity.
When he'd left home to take up his position for what he assumed would be a lonely vigil, the television news bulletins had been full of mayhem. Rioting, looting, drunken naked folk running through the streets, fornication everywhere the cameras pointed. Like some crazy hyped-up carnival, the greatest show on Earth. Anything goes, roll up, roll up. Get your last fix before the final curtain. Fulfil your life's dreams. Act out your darkest fantasies. No police, no courts, no charges. In either sense. No criminal prosecutions and no fees. A free-for-all in the widest possible sense. All pretence at government or crowd control finally removed. Mankind at its most bestial. Faced with the ultimate peril, the end of all things, with no hope of survival, the very instinct for that survival was ripped from every soul on the planet. What else was left then, but to revel in the basest of pleasures? Take it while you could. Everything was on offer, no-one had anything left to lose. A few hours of sexual fulfilment, or culinary delight, or alcohol-fuelled mayhem, was all that remained.
Unless you were like Roger. He, and his handful of compatriots, sat quietly on the Tor, watching the moon. He could have chosen a higher spot. Some of the major roads were blocked by those making a desperate last-minute attempt to connect with distant family or friends. To see loved ones one last time, if only for a few brief moments. But he could have made it to Snowdonia, or Striding Edge or any one of a number of taller mountains he had visited in his 35 years on Earth. But Glastonbury, and the Tor, had always had a special place in his heart. Its quietness and spirituality brought a calmness to his soul like no other place he knew. And he needed that now. Needed to be close to what he always considered the centre of things. Whether it was ley lines or magnetic forces or plain Celtic magic was immaterial now. It felt good, that was what mattered. It felt better than swilling down a couple of pints of single malt and welcoming oblivion before the final impact. Better than fighting past hordes of looters to get his hands on long-cherished stuff that would be vapour scant minutes after the grasping. Better than the most experienced whore or the most beautiful virgin.
He grimaced at the thought that there probably weren't any virgins left, at least above a certain, previously illegal, age. No. None of that appealed to him. He wanted to be fully conscious at the end, with his spirit and his integrity intact.
Roger stared up at the moon. Already bigger than the biggest supermoon in history, its silver glow filled at least twice its normal space in the night sky. It had blotted out all but the brightest stars. A fresh October wind picked up some early autumn leaves from the trees at the base of the Tor and set them spinning up to reach him. Was this the start of the freak weather that had been predicted? He pushed his hair out of his eyes. He thought he could detect the moon growing even larger. Even now, with still several hours to go, its disc expanded noticeably by the minute. Scientists had predicted impact at 1:37am GMT. Somewhere south of Glastonbury, he couldn't remember exactly where. Not that it mattered. When the moon was finally reunited with the Earth after their countless millennia of separation, the exact place -- where a notional umbilicus of fatal gravity connected the two bodies -- would be just as terminal as any other spot on their world.
He had reached a state of calm acceptance of this fact surprisingly quickly, even for him. Where was there to run? Where could provide any protection or hiding place from the gargantuan impact. There was nowhere. All he could do was sit, and watch.
When he'd left home to take up his position for what he assumed would be a lonely vigil, the television news bulletins had been full of mayhem. Rioting, looting, drunken naked folk running through the streets, fornication everywhere the cameras pointed. Like some crazy hyped-up carnival, the greatest show on Earth. Anything goes, roll up, roll up. Get your last fix before the final curtain. Fulfil your life's dreams. Act out your darkest fantasies. No police, no courts, no charges. In either sense. No criminal prosecutions and no fees. A free-for-all in the widest possible sense. All pretence at government or crowd control finally removed. Mankind at its most bestial. Faced with the ultimate peril, the end of all things, with no hope of survival, the very instinct for that survival was ripped from every soul on the planet. What else was left then, but to revel in the basest of pleasures? Take it while you could. Everything was on offer, no-one had anything left to lose. A few hours of sexual fulfilment, or culinary delight, or alcohol-fuelled mayhem, was all that remained.
Unless you were like Roger. He, and his handful of compatriots, sat quietly on the Tor, watching the moon. He could have chosen a higher spot. Some of the major roads were blocked by those making a desperate last-minute attempt to connect with distant family or friends. To see loved ones one last time, if only for a few brief moments. But he could have made it to Snowdonia, or Striding Edge or any one of a number of taller mountains he had visited in his 35 years on Earth. But Glastonbury, and the Tor, had always had a special place in his heart. Its quietness and spirituality brought a calmness to his soul like no other place he knew. And he needed that now. Needed to be close to what he always considered the centre of things. Whether it was ley lines or magnetic forces or plain Celtic magic was immaterial now. It felt good, that was what mattered. It felt better than swilling down a couple of pints of single malt and welcoming oblivion before the final impact. Better than fighting past hordes of looters to get his hands on long-cherished stuff that would be vapour scant minutes after the grasping. Better than the most experienced whore or the most beautiful virgin.
He grimaced at the thought that there probably weren't any virgins left, at least above a certain, previously illegal, age. No. None of that appealed to him. He wanted to be fully conscious at the end, with his spirit and his integrity intact.
Roger stared up at the moon. Already bigger than the biggest supermoon in history, its silver glow filled at least twice its normal space in the night sky. It had blotted out all but the brightest stars. A fresh October wind picked up some early autumn leaves from the trees at the base of the Tor and set them spinning up to reach him. Was this the start of the freak weather that had been predicted? He pushed his hair out of his eyes. He thought he could detect the moon growing even larger. Even now, with still several hours to go, its disc expanded noticeably by the minute. Scientists had predicted impact at 1:37am GMT. Somewhere south of Glastonbury, he couldn't remember exactly where. Not that it mattered. When the moon was finally reunited with the Earth after their countless millennia of separation, the exact place -- where a notional umbilicus of fatal gravity connected the two bodies -- would be just as terminal as any other spot on their world.
He had reached a state of calm acceptance of this fact surprisingly quickly, even for him. Where was there to run? Where could provide any protection or hiding place from the gargantuan impact. There was nowhere. All he could do was sit, and watch.
Monday, October 29, 2012
100TWC - Day 94: Reality
The rain bucketed down like an impenetrable curtain, bouncing thigh-high off the saturated pavements. Jez had never seen rain like it. He stood under a railway arch and waited, without much hope that it would let up any time soon.
Any ordinary guy would never venture out in weather like this. A few inches further forward and he would be drenched to the skin in seconds. But Jez was no ordinary guy. He had a need.
He'd known it was coming, of course. He always knew. The first few hints of the gnawing had started in his gut earlier that afternoon. If he'd had more sense he would have come out then, when the last rays of afternoon sun glinted red and gold off the dust-grimed windows of the derelict warehouse district. The only time they ever really looked beautiful. At least, when he had his straight head on. With his smashed head, pretty much everything looked beautiful, even his dingy, rat-infested squat with its mould-stained mattress.
But as usual, he hadn't had more sense. He'd stayed in front of his blurry old portable TV until the red had bled out of the windows and the black had come. And with it, the rain. From inside the squat the rain had been welcome. It freshened the stale air, washed his window, and took away some of the heat. Its familiar sound against the sill was comforting. By the time it started beating a heavier rhythm on the roof, the complaints from his gut had also become louder, driving him out into the night in search of a fix.
Luckily his usual dealer Max was a man of habit. Tuesday was his railway arch day. Jez knew he might have to hang around for an hour or so, but Max would be there. Sooner or later. Jez didn't need to brave the weather. Max would do that part. Max the bringer of light. The seller of dreams. The owner of his soul.
He checked his pockets. His pitiful wad of cash was still there. A handful of greasy notes gleaned from begging, or borrowed from the few friends he had left. Well, the friend, singular. Everyone else had given up on him and left him to spin down the downward spiral they all believed he was on. Like rainwater gurgling down the drain beside him, only not as clean.
From the corner of his eye he caught a movement through the downpour. Collar turned up against the drenching rain and an old oilskin hat pulled down low over his eyes, Max crossed the road in front of him. It had to be Max, even though Jex could not make out the man's face. No-one else would be here in this and besides, no-one ran quite like Max, with that half-loping jog that he had to use on account of an old wound from Iraq.
"Max!" Jez called. "Over here!"
"I see you, you mad bastard," Max replied over the deafening clatter of the rain. "Wasn't sure if you'd be here today. You're lucky I decided you were worth a soaking."
"Yeah, thanks man. I really need it today."
"You really need it every day buddy," Max grinned, pulling off his hat once he attained the shelter of the arch. Raindrops covered his beard, standing out like jewels. They flashed with reflected colours from the few neon shop signs still working.
"Well? What have you got?" Jez asked, holding his arms folded across his aching guts. "Better be something good. I've got the aches real bad."
"Got the usual stuff," Max said flippantly. "But I got my hands on something new too. One or two of my regulars have tried it. Reckon it's the bomb."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
Max took a small brown drug bottle from the pocket of his raincoat and held it up in front of Jez's face. The contents remained anonymous behind the dark ochre plastic.
"They call it Reality," he said. "Wanna try some?"
"How much?"
"Well, you know, it's a bit steeper than your regular stuff. It's new, what can I say? Gotta cover my overheads?"
"How much!?"
"To you, seein' as you're a regular an' all... fifty bucks."
"Fifty? You have to be kidding. It would need to be a fuckin' big hit for fifty. And anyway," Jez went on, fingering the small wad in his pocket, "I ain't got fifty."
"How much you got?"
"Twenty. Twenty five maybe, in change."
"Look, this stuff is real good. I'll stand you the other twenty-five for now. Like I said, you're a regular. I know you're good for it."
He flipped the lid off the bottle and shook a red capsule into the palm of his hand.
"This little red pill will blow your mind," he said, smiling.
"Looks like something out of The Matrix," Jez joked nervously.
"Well buddy, they don't call it Reality for nothing."
Any ordinary guy would never venture out in weather like this. A few inches further forward and he would be drenched to the skin in seconds. But Jez was no ordinary guy. He had a need.
He'd known it was coming, of course. He always knew. The first few hints of the gnawing had started in his gut earlier that afternoon. If he'd had more sense he would have come out then, when the last rays of afternoon sun glinted red and gold off the dust-grimed windows of the derelict warehouse district. The only time they ever really looked beautiful. At least, when he had his straight head on. With his smashed head, pretty much everything looked beautiful, even his dingy, rat-infested squat with its mould-stained mattress.
But as usual, he hadn't had more sense. He'd stayed in front of his blurry old portable TV until the red had bled out of the windows and the black had come. And with it, the rain. From inside the squat the rain had been welcome. It freshened the stale air, washed his window, and took away some of the heat. Its familiar sound against the sill was comforting. By the time it started beating a heavier rhythm on the roof, the complaints from his gut had also become louder, driving him out into the night in search of a fix.
Luckily his usual dealer Max was a man of habit. Tuesday was his railway arch day. Jez knew he might have to hang around for an hour or so, but Max would be there. Sooner or later. Jez didn't need to brave the weather. Max would do that part. Max the bringer of light. The seller of dreams. The owner of his soul.
He checked his pockets. His pitiful wad of cash was still there. A handful of greasy notes gleaned from begging, or borrowed from the few friends he had left. Well, the friend, singular. Everyone else had given up on him and left him to spin down the downward spiral they all believed he was on. Like rainwater gurgling down the drain beside him, only not as clean.
From the corner of his eye he caught a movement through the downpour. Collar turned up against the drenching rain and an old oilskin hat pulled down low over his eyes, Max crossed the road in front of him. It had to be Max, even though Jex could not make out the man's face. No-one else would be here in this and besides, no-one ran quite like Max, with that half-loping jog that he had to use on account of an old wound from Iraq.
"Max!" Jez called. "Over here!"
"I see you, you mad bastard," Max replied over the deafening clatter of the rain. "Wasn't sure if you'd be here today. You're lucky I decided you were worth a soaking."
"Yeah, thanks man. I really need it today."
"You really need it every day buddy," Max grinned, pulling off his hat once he attained the shelter of the arch. Raindrops covered his beard, standing out like jewels. They flashed with reflected colours from the few neon shop signs still working.
"Well? What have you got?" Jez asked, holding his arms folded across his aching guts. "Better be something good. I've got the aches real bad."
"Got the usual stuff," Max said flippantly. "But I got my hands on something new too. One or two of my regulars have tried it. Reckon it's the bomb."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
Max took a small brown drug bottle from the pocket of his raincoat and held it up in front of Jez's face. The contents remained anonymous behind the dark ochre plastic.
"They call it Reality," he said. "Wanna try some?"
"How much?"
"Well, you know, it's a bit steeper than your regular stuff. It's new, what can I say? Gotta cover my overheads?"
"How much!?"
"To you, seein' as you're a regular an' all... fifty bucks."
"Fifty? You have to be kidding. It would need to be a fuckin' big hit for fifty. And anyway," Jez went on, fingering the small wad in his pocket, "I ain't got fifty."
"How much you got?"
"Twenty. Twenty five maybe, in change."
"Look, this stuff is real good. I'll stand you the other twenty-five for now. Like I said, you're a regular. I know you're good for it."
He flipped the lid off the bottle and shook a red capsule into the palm of his hand.
"This little red pill will blow your mind," he said, smiling.
"Looks like something out of The Matrix," Jez joked nervously.
"Well buddy, they don't call it Reality for nothing."
Sunday, October 28, 2012
100TWC - Day 93: Simplicity
The noise of a hundred different conversations struck me like a physical blow as I entered the ballroom. I had no idea Elaine had invited so many guests. There had been no dress code in the invitation, so most of the ladies had taken the opportunity to go to town on their outfits. I say 'go to town' but in the majority of cases they appeared to have chartered a private jet and flown it to Rio, rather than catching the bus to Oldham.
Lights from the two gargantuan chandeliers bounced and coruscated off half a ton of diamanté, sequins, paste and lamé in gold, silver and copper. Hair had been coiffed within an inch of its life, in such a variety of hues and shades as nature had never dreamt of. Short hair, long hair, tall hair, flat hair. Bobs, buns, curls, bangs, and a dozen other styles that I couldn't even begin to tell you the names of.
And flesh! Oh, God, the flesh on display was... well, it was distracting is what it was. And not always in a good way. I'm a firm believer in displaying a well-turned thigh as long as it's... well... firm. Before you get started I'm not being ageist. There's plenty of... older... meat that can be put on display without causing one to lose one's breakfast, but I think we can all agree that we don't need to see anything white and flabby, and blue veins should be restricted to the Stilton, thank you very much. The problem is you can't always avoid seeing it. Fair enough if it's one of those dresses that doesn't reach the shoulders, or something backless. But when it's a long flowing skirt that just happens to be gashed to the... waist, and you don't notice that until it opens up right in front of you revealing half a yard of cellulite. I don't know what they're thinking, some of them. Keep it covered up, for goodness' sake.
Although, having said that, even covering it up isn't all that. Not when the covering is... how shall I put it? A little scant in the yardage department. Somehow the word 'tight' doesn't quite cover it. And not quite covering it is also, by some strange coincidence, the effect of these wannabe corsets. Looking as if they are going to burst at any minute and spill out that which we have already all agreed should remain covered at all times. It's not surprising that their partners look as if they are on tenterhooks. Probably all poised with their capes, or hats, or napkins ready to cover up any offending split as soon as it happens. If it does.
And so, since we have mentioned them, let us turn our attention to these partners. While their lady-folk have quite clearly spent the majority of the weekend, if not the entirety of the preceding week, in their sartorial preparations for this evening, the men folk fall into one of two categories. Can't be arsed, and arseholes. Those that can't be arsed can be further subdivided into through a hedge backwards, through a hedge forwards, directly resembling of a hedge, and hedging their bets (by which last category I mean, of course, that they look as if they've dressed for every possibly eventuality both socially and meteorologically).
The arseholes, in contrast to those who can't be arsed, have made an effort. They have, visibly, tried to smarten themselves up. Unfortunately, none of them have a clue. Mismatched colours and styles abound. Dickie bows with tweed jackets. Cravats with... well, come to think of it, cravats at all. Either they don't have a mirror to their name, or they've never asked their wives' or partners' opinion, or both. Or perhaps they have asked for an opinion, and they're deaf. Because no-one in their senses would come out dressed like that, especially to an occasion such as this. Elaine's annual dinner-dance, the highlight of the Droitwich social calendar.
An expectant hush fell over the assembled throng, in all their sartorial confusion, as Elaine appeared on the balcony. Whether by accident or design, she appeared to have understood implicitly that her invitation would have led all her guests to compete for ascendancy of apparel. And in a single leap of intuition she had sought to outdo them by travelling the opposite path, and succeeded. Oh, my word, how she had succeeded!
She wore a simple, one-piece, flowing satin dress all in black. It shimmered and sparkled as she paraded down the wide staircase. Her hair was simply but beautifully cut, dyed black for the occasion to match her dress. She wore the barest touch of makeup and the lightest whiff of her perfume came to me across the still air of the room, utterly and compellingly different from any other.
She stepped onto the granite tiles and swept toward me with hardly a sound save the gentle swishing of that incredibly elegant dress. A playful smile lit her face and her eyes glittered, reflecting a dozen flashes from a dozen different cameras dotted around the hallway. She reached out to take my outstretched hand and looked up into my eyes. I could hardly breathe.
"You look stunning," I said.
Lights from the two gargantuan chandeliers bounced and coruscated off half a ton of diamanté, sequins, paste and lamé in gold, silver and copper. Hair had been coiffed within an inch of its life, in such a variety of hues and shades as nature had never dreamt of. Short hair, long hair, tall hair, flat hair. Bobs, buns, curls, bangs, and a dozen other styles that I couldn't even begin to tell you the names of.
And flesh! Oh, God, the flesh on display was... well, it was distracting is what it was. And not always in a good way. I'm a firm believer in displaying a well-turned thigh as long as it's... well... firm. Before you get started I'm not being ageist. There's plenty of... older... meat that can be put on display without causing one to lose one's breakfast, but I think we can all agree that we don't need to see anything white and flabby, and blue veins should be restricted to the Stilton, thank you very much. The problem is you can't always avoid seeing it. Fair enough if it's one of those dresses that doesn't reach the shoulders, or something backless. But when it's a long flowing skirt that just happens to be gashed to the... waist, and you don't notice that until it opens up right in front of you revealing half a yard of cellulite. I don't know what they're thinking, some of them. Keep it covered up, for goodness' sake.
Although, having said that, even covering it up isn't all that. Not when the covering is... how shall I put it? A little scant in the yardage department. Somehow the word 'tight' doesn't quite cover it. And not quite covering it is also, by some strange coincidence, the effect of these wannabe corsets. Looking as if they are going to burst at any minute and spill out that which we have already all agreed should remain covered at all times. It's not surprising that their partners look as if they are on tenterhooks. Probably all poised with their capes, or hats, or napkins ready to cover up any offending split as soon as it happens. If it does.
And so, since we have mentioned them, let us turn our attention to these partners. While their lady-folk have quite clearly spent the majority of the weekend, if not the entirety of the preceding week, in their sartorial preparations for this evening, the men folk fall into one of two categories. Can't be arsed, and arseholes. Those that can't be arsed can be further subdivided into through a hedge backwards, through a hedge forwards, directly resembling of a hedge, and hedging their bets (by which last category I mean, of course, that they look as if they've dressed for every possibly eventuality both socially and meteorologically).
The arseholes, in contrast to those who can't be arsed, have made an effort. They have, visibly, tried to smarten themselves up. Unfortunately, none of them have a clue. Mismatched colours and styles abound. Dickie bows with tweed jackets. Cravats with... well, come to think of it, cravats at all. Either they don't have a mirror to their name, or they've never asked their wives' or partners' opinion, or both. Or perhaps they have asked for an opinion, and they're deaf. Because no-one in their senses would come out dressed like that, especially to an occasion such as this. Elaine's annual dinner-dance, the highlight of the Droitwich social calendar.
An expectant hush fell over the assembled throng, in all their sartorial confusion, as Elaine appeared on the balcony. Whether by accident or design, she appeared to have understood implicitly that her invitation would have led all her guests to compete for ascendancy of apparel. And in a single leap of intuition she had sought to outdo them by travelling the opposite path, and succeeded. Oh, my word, how she had succeeded!
She wore a simple, one-piece, flowing satin dress all in black. It shimmered and sparkled as she paraded down the wide staircase. Her hair was simply but beautifully cut, dyed black for the occasion to match her dress. She wore the barest touch of makeup and the lightest whiff of her perfume came to me across the still air of the room, utterly and compellingly different from any other.
She stepped onto the granite tiles and swept toward me with hardly a sound save the gentle swishing of that incredibly elegant dress. A playful smile lit her face and her eyes glittered, reflecting a dozen flashes from a dozen different cameras dotted around the hallway. She reached out to take my outstretched hand and looked up into my eyes. I could hardly breathe.
"You look stunning," I said.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
100TWC - Day 92: Innocence
"There it is again, see?"
"This one? The one after AMG-1?"
"Yep."
"You're sure?"
"I think the evidence is pretty conclusive."
Gene Richards -- a man who regularly caused a great deal of mirth once people discovered what he did for a living -- sat back from the gel electrophoresis readout and smiled. Gene was a gene detective, and he had just hunted down his most important find yet. His colleague, Randy Martenson, scratched his head.
"It's going to need a name," he said.
"Yeah. I know. Ordinarily I'd agree with you, and the name would be obvious. But this is different."
"How so?"
"Think about it. If we publish this, and someone develops a test for it, as they certainly will, it could lead to massive exploitation of just about everyone on the planet."
"Why can't we just call it INN-1?"
"You haven't thought it through Randy. I've had this on my mind since we ran the first tests. What if I was right? What if we could track down this trait to a single gene? How would society at large -- and politicians and crooks in particular -- react? Look how much controversy there was when Daibell said he'd unearthed the gay gene. And that only affects around ten percent of the population. This is much more widespread."
"Any idea how much more?"
"Not at this stage. We'd have to perfect this test and then run a stat-sig trial. But I'd be willing to bet it'll be at least fifty percent. Maybe higher."
Randy whistled. "I had no idea it would be that much."
"Well, you know what they say," Gene took a swig of coffee. "You can fool all of the people some of the time. I'm guessing there's a nugget of truth behind that old saying. A hunk of genetic lore. We'll probably find there are some modifiers affecting INN-1 -- we might as well call it that for now, at least between the two of us -- so that it is expressed at some point in everyone's life. Maybe some of the other factors are environmental or developmental, things that turn INN-1 off, or suppress its worst effects, but every test we've done so far supports the results."
"I wouldn't have believed it if we hadn't demonstrated it in the Rhesus batch."
"I know. Those monkeys acted as if they were having a permanent blonde moment. Incredible. Incidentally we must look after them. They'll be ideal candidates to trial some of those environmental factors we should start looking for. But until we know more about how INN-1 expresses itself I think we should keep a lid on it."
"Shame. It's Nobel material this is, you know."
"I know. Hold that thought. We'll get there in the end. Both of us. But if the press get wind that we've discovered a genetic trigger for innocence, they'll make a mountain out of a molehill, and then we'll have hundreds of crooks looking to steal our research so they can MOVE that mountain for their own ends."
"I'm still not sure I--"
"You only have to think about it for a few minutes Rand! Adding a GM component to something as innocuous as cow's milk, or wheat flour -- one that causes INN-1 to express at its full potential? Well, we'd end up with a world full of sheeple."
"I hate that word."
"Well what else would you call them? You've seen what INN-1 did to the Rhesus monkeys. Imagine that, multiplied by a thousand, and distributed among the population in their daily bread. That would definitely be a case of 'give us our daily bread and we forgive those who trespass against us'. And what trespasses they would be. All the sales and marketing people would be able to sell anything to anyone. If they ever even noticed they were being sold crap they wouldn't be able to summon up the enthusiasm to do anything about it, even if they realised it was within their grasp to do anything at all! Con artists would be out there taking everyone's wallets in exchange for a 'wallet cleaning certificate'! Politicians would, well, they'd be even worse that they are now and they'd get away with it!"
"When you put it like that, it makes me think we should burn these notes altogether."
"On the one hand, I think you might be right. But on the other... If we can attack it the other way, before anyone else gets wind of it, we can find out how to turn INN-1 off for good."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Better than the alternative, I reckon. A world full of people who it's impossible to con. Who won't believe anything at all without rock solid proof, cast-iron guarantees and copper-bottomed promises."
"Won't there be side-effects?"
"That's got to be on our research list too. Baby's and bathwater and all that. What else does INN-1 influence? What were the evolutionary drivers to it coming into existence in the first place? What are the survival benefits of innocence? I must admit that from a standing start I can't think of any, but there must be some or INN-1 wouldn't exist."
"Procreation?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well -- look at ugly guys, to take a simple case. They, or should I say," Randy grinned, "we, have a lot going for us. Good genes in some respects even if they're not in the looks department. If we couldn't persuade a lady into bed, we'd never have a chance to pass those good genes on, would we? Maybe innocence gives us a head start in that respect?"
"You might have a point there Rand. That could be another research avenue. Find a bunch of fuglies and test their wives (and husbands). Find out if they've got unusually high levels of INN-1 activity. Nice one buddy! You just earned your October pay check!"
"This one? The one after AMG-1?"
"Yep."
"You're sure?"
"I think the evidence is pretty conclusive."
Gene Richards -- a man who regularly caused a great deal of mirth once people discovered what he did for a living -- sat back from the gel electrophoresis readout and smiled. Gene was a gene detective, and he had just hunted down his most important find yet. His colleague, Randy Martenson, scratched his head.
"It's going to need a name," he said.
"Yeah. I know. Ordinarily I'd agree with you, and the name would be obvious. But this is different."
"How so?"
"Think about it. If we publish this, and someone develops a test for it, as they certainly will, it could lead to massive exploitation of just about everyone on the planet."
"Why can't we just call it INN-1?"
"You haven't thought it through Randy. I've had this on my mind since we ran the first tests. What if I was right? What if we could track down this trait to a single gene? How would society at large -- and politicians and crooks in particular -- react? Look how much controversy there was when Daibell said he'd unearthed the gay gene. And that only affects around ten percent of the population. This is much more widespread."
"Any idea how much more?"
"Not at this stage. We'd have to perfect this test and then run a stat-sig trial. But I'd be willing to bet it'll be at least fifty percent. Maybe higher."
Randy whistled. "I had no idea it would be that much."
"Well, you know what they say," Gene took a swig of coffee. "You can fool all of the people some of the time. I'm guessing there's a nugget of truth behind that old saying. A hunk of genetic lore. We'll probably find there are some modifiers affecting INN-1 -- we might as well call it that for now, at least between the two of us -- so that it is expressed at some point in everyone's life. Maybe some of the other factors are environmental or developmental, things that turn INN-1 off, or suppress its worst effects, but every test we've done so far supports the results."
"I wouldn't have believed it if we hadn't demonstrated it in the Rhesus batch."
"I know. Those monkeys acted as if they were having a permanent blonde moment. Incredible. Incidentally we must look after them. They'll be ideal candidates to trial some of those environmental factors we should start looking for. But until we know more about how INN-1 expresses itself I think we should keep a lid on it."
"Shame. It's Nobel material this is, you know."
"I know. Hold that thought. We'll get there in the end. Both of us. But if the press get wind that we've discovered a genetic trigger for innocence, they'll make a mountain out of a molehill, and then we'll have hundreds of crooks looking to steal our research so they can MOVE that mountain for their own ends."
"I'm still not sure I--"
"You only have to think about it for a few minutes Rand! Adding a GM component to something as innocuous as cow's milk, or wheat flour -- one that causes INN-1 to express at its full potential? Well, we'd end up with a world full of sheeple."
"I hate that word."
"Well what else would you call them? You've seen what INN-1 did to the Rhesus monkeys. Imagine that, multiplied by a thousand, and distributed among the population in their daily bread. That would definitely be a case of 'give us our daily bread and we forgive those who trespass against us'. And what trespasses they would be. All the sales and marketing people would be able to sell anything to anyone. If they ever even noticed they were being sold crap they wouldn't be able to summon up the enthusiasm to do anything about it, even if they realised it was within their grasp to do anything at all! Con artists would be out there taking everyone's wallets in exchange for a 'wallet cleaning certificate'! Politicians would, well, they'd be even worse that they are now and they'd get away with it!"
"When you put it like that, it makes me think we should burn these notes altogether."
"On the one hand, I think you might be right. But on the other... If we can attack it the other way, before anyone else gets wind of it, we can find out how to turn INN-1 off for good."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Better than the alternative, I reckon. A world full of people who it's impossible to con. Who won't believe anything at all without rock solid proof, cast-iron guarantees and copper-bottomed promises."
"Won't there be side-effects?"
"That's got to be on our research list too. Baby's and bathwater and all that. What else does INN-1 influence? What were the evolutionary drivers to it coming into existence in the first place? What are the survival benefits of innocence? I must admit that from a standing start I can't think of any, but there must be some or INN-1 wouldn't exist."
"Procreation?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well -- look at ugly guys, to take a simple case. They, or should I say," Randy grinned, "we, have a lot going for us. Good genes in some respects even if they're not in the looks department. If we couldn't persuade a lady into bed, we'd never have a chance to pass those good genes on, would we? Maybe innocence gives us a head start in that respect?"
"You might have a point there Rand. That could be another research avenue. Find a bunch of fuglies and test their wives (and husbands). Find out if they've got unusually high levels of INN-1 activity. Nice one buddy! You just earned your October pay check!"
Friday, October 26, 2012
100TWC - Day 91: Answers
Will took a deep drag on his cigarette, squinting against the wisp of smoke that curled up into his eyes. He blew the lungful out over the city that stretched below him in a million points of glowing sodium and neon. There was no kick left in tobacco he decided, grinding the glowing nub into a misshapen remnant on the rock beside him.
Normally, he liked to come up here to the bluff to think. Years before -- how many? -- he had discovered this spot where the weather had worn the soft rock into a seat that looked out over the urban sprawl several hundred feet below. Protected by an overhang from the path above, the seat was his secret place. At least, in all the years he'd been coming here, he'd never found anyone else sitting in it, or any evidence that it had been occupied since his previous visit.
From this distance the clamour of the city was muted --a little, at least -- adding some clarity to his thinking. Or reducing the distraction of everyday life anyway. He came up here when he needed to search for answers, but tonight all he was finding were more questions. His mind kept reminding him how the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything had led the characters from one of his favourite novels to spend millennia in a further search for the real question. A quest for a question. It sounded mad. And of course, in the novel, that had been exactly the point.
But Will didn't need more questions. He needed answers. Specifically, he needed answers to questions like 'Are you sleeping with someone?' and 'Do you still love me?' At least, part of him did. Another part -- and which part was in the majority varied by the minute -- was scared to hear the answers. Didn't want resolution or clarity. Wasn't prepared for the possible -- probable? -- pain that answers might bring.
Below him, somewhere in the city hidden from view at this distance, an ambulance siren echoed around the wide streets. Someone, somewhere, would soon be asking the question 'Is he, or she, going to be OK doctor?' or perhaps, if the siren didn't quite perform well enough in the crowded streets and the ambulance was delayed for crucial seconds, they would be hearing the question 'Would you like some time alone?'
Will didn't want to be alone. That was a question he never needed to answer. It was built into him like his height, the colour of his eyes, his smoking habit. He didn't do alone. Never had. The prospect gave him the shivers, right through his gut, like he had a permanent attack of the shits. Up here, in the relative quiet, with every glimmer of starlight blotted out by heavy clouds, surrounded by darkness only relieved by the carpet of city lights under his feet, he could see that more clearly. Could see also that his fear of loneliness had driven him to stay where he was no longer wanted, or needed. Loneliness is a crowded room, said the old song. And with the new clarity that his secret seat granted him, Will could see that it was also a crowded house, or a crowded life. There was nothing lonelier than being surrounded by people you didn't know, didn't like, didn't want to be with. Endless hours and days spent in pointless, circular conversations about nothing important. Everyone trying to hide the fact that they'd rather be somewhere else, with someone else.
The craving for another cigarette surfaced in his chest. He reached unconsciously for the pack and then paused. What was the real answer to the question 'Do you want a light?' Only minutes before he had stubbed out his last smoke. He hadn't enjoyed it. Why didn't he make it, literally, his last smoke? There was another question. A question similar to the one about being alone that, with his new-found clarity, he discovered he already knew the answer to. The light he wanted to let into his life was not the light of a match. Not that of a lighter. He needed sunlight and warmth. He needed moonlight and romance. Not the hollow, cold, empty light that shone in the eyes of people who no longer cared about him. He threw the pack of cigarettes over the edge of the bluff and watched it bounce and spin down the rock face until it disappeared from view.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
100TWC - Day 90: Nowhere and Nothing
George had never known it this dark. A blackness so complete he couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed. Even the usual hint -- the occasional spark that would scintillate behind his closed eyelids at night before he fell asleep -- didn't work. With eyes open, and he knew they were open because he'd blinked hard and opened them wide, he still saw those phantom flashes.
Silent too. The only sounds he was aware of the rushing of blood in his ears, the pumping of his heart and the inevitable tinnitus. It now seemed even louder than usual, the harsh high-pitched screaming in his ears. But there was nothing else. No distant animal calls, no mechanical grinding, no traffic rumble reaching him from the nearby motorway, no planes overhead. An absence of sound that was almost tangible.
George moved his arms in front of his eyes. There was not even enough light to see them when he held his hands right up close. He couldn't feel their movement. No cool draft of air moving gently over the hairs on his arms as he waved them to and fro. No warmth emanating from any nearby heat source rendered invisible by the blackness. Wherever he was must be exactly the same temperature as his blood.
With no sensory input except what his own body provided, George's mind spun freely. At first his conscious thoughts were taken up entirely with the strangeness of his environment, but after a few minutes (or what felt like a few minutes to him -- there was no way to mark the passage of time externally, and he didn't want to spend all his time counting heartbeats) he slipped into a more philosophical frame of mind. The emptiness around him put him in mind of the vastness of the cosmos and he began to imagine his insignificance when compared to the galactic and universal whole. One man, riding in total darkness, on a speck of dust circling a tiny point of light that was one of billions of similar points in a galaxy of billions of other galaxies. Before today that kind of thinking boggled his mind. Somehow, here, now, he found it comforting. The neutral temperature and absence of stimulation made his infinitesimal smallness bearable in some visceral, inexplicable way.
He imagined himself hovering in space, gazing down at the Milky Way from a vantage point directly above its core. The spiral arms stretching out left and right and the whole turning majestically beneath him. Countless lives of untold creatures being lived out on worlds orbiting those billions of tiny lights, each lonely collection utterly unaware of every other lonely collection and separated from them by vast physical distances and even larger conceptual ones.
George began to imagine what those alien worlds might look like. Or sound like. With nothing to distract his senses, his mind started conjuring inputs to replace the usual frenetic melee of sensory evidence. Now acutely aware of the functioning of his body -- exactly how full his bladder was; whether or not he would be hungry any time soon; how fast his heart was pumping -- George experienced a sudden feeling of panic. If he was bleeding, or heading for an abyss, or about to be crushed under some huge falling weight, how would he know? His previous feelings of safety and calm were supplanted with nervousness and disquiet. All his natural defences, reactions and instincts were blinded along with his sight and hearing. If he couldn't see danger approaching, or hear it, how would he be able to react in time?
His heart rate increased. The blood rushed in his ears. All thoughts of universal serenity or galactic harmony were replaced by his worrying suspicion that he could be in mortal danger and would never know. His life was about to be snuffed out by something dangerous but trivial, and he was powerless to avoid it.
A blinding white knife edge of light scored across the velvety darkness to his right, like a scimitar slicing the heavens in half. This was it! He was doomed! The sky was falling! He was lying on his back directly beneath the cosmic blade that had cleaved his world in two!
With a metallic click the left-hand half of the sky peeled back to reveal a man standing next to what had become a hatchway to another world. A world of light, and warmth, and noise. The man smiled.
"Strange experience isn't it? Revealing. I like to use the Isolation Chamber two or three times a year. It's amazing what insight it can bring."
He fastened back the lid with a clip. "Well, get your bearings George, for a minute or two, and then when you're ready you can step out onto the platform here."
Silent too. The only sounds he was aware of the rushing of blood in his ears, the pumping of his heart and the inevitable tinnitus. It now seemed even louder than usual, the harsh high-pitched screaming in his ears. But there was nothing else. No distant animal calls, no mechanical grinding, no traffic rumble reaching him from the nearby motorway, no planes overhead. An absence of sound that was almost tangible.
George moved his arms in front of his eyes. There was not even enough light to see them when he held his hands right up close. He couldn't feel their movement. No cool draft of air moving gently over the hairs on his arms as he waved them to and fro. No warmth emanating from any nearby heat source rendered invisible by the blackness. Wherever he was must be exactly the same temperature as his blood.
With no sensory input except what his own body provided, George's mind spun freely. At first his conscious thoughts were taken up entirely with the strangeness of his environment, but after a few minutes (or what felt like a few minutes to him -- there was no way to mark the passage of time externally, and he didn't want to spend all his time counting heartbeats) he slipped into a more philosophical frame of mind. The emptiness around him put him in mind of the vastness of the cosmos and he began to imagine his insignificance when compared to the galactic and universal whole. One man, riding in total darkness, on a speck of dust circling a tiny point of light that was one of billions of similar points in a galaxy of billions of other galaxies. Before today that kind of thinking boggled his mind. Somehow, here, now, he found it comforting. The neutral temperature and absence of stimulation made his infinitesimal smallness bearable in some visceral, inexplicable way.
He imagined himself hovering in space, gazing down at the Milky Way from a vantage point directly above its core. The spiral arms stretching out left and right and the whole turning majestically beneath him. Countless lives of untold creatures being lived out on worlds orbiting those billions of tiny lights, each lonely collection utterly unaware of every other lonely collection and separated from them by vast physical distances and even larger conceptual ones.
George began to imagine what those alien worlds might look like. Or sound like. With nothing to distract his senses, his mind started conjuring inputs to replace the usual frenetic melee of sensory evidence. Now acutely aware of the functioning of his body -- exactly how full his bladder was; whether or not he would be hungry any time soon; how fast his heart was pumping -- George experienced a sudden feeling of panic. If he was bleeding, or heading for an abyss, or about to be crushed under some huge falling weight, how would he know? His previous feelings of safety and calm were supplanted with nervousness and disquiet. All his natural defences, reactions and instincts were blinded along with his sight and hearing. If he couldn't see danger approaching, or hear it, how would he be able to react in time?
His heart rate increased. The blood rushed in his ears. All thoughts of universal serenity or galactic harmony were replaced by his worrying suspicion that he could be in mortal danger and would never know. His life was about to be snuffed out by something dangerous but trivial, and he was powerless to avoid it.
A blinding white knife edge of light scored across the velvety darkness to his right, like a scimitar slicing the heavens in half. This was it! He was doomed! The sky was falling! He was lying on his back directly beneath the cosmic blade that had cleaved his world in two!
With a metallic click the left-hand half of the sky peeled back to reveal a man standing next to what had become a hatchway to another world. A world of light, and warmth, and noise. The man smiled.
"Strange experience isn't it? Revealing. I like to use the Isolation Chamber two or three times a year. It's amazing what insight it can bring."
He fastened back the lid with a clip. "Well, get your bearings George, for a minute or two, and then when you're ready you can step out onto the platform here."
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
100TWC - Day 89: Twilight
The honks of a late skein of geese overflying his garden echoed through the trees. A haunting sound, at once distant and immediate. Graham stood on the new deck, a fresh glass of whisky in his hand, and surveyed the newly completed garden. A short shower earlier in the evening had freshened the grass and released the deep smells of the dark brown loam and bark chippings which had been laid only the day before. Now, in the deepening evening, the first scents of jasmine and stock filled the still air.
This was his favourite time of day. Neither day nor night. A comfortable resting space between the two when the day's work was done and the night's not yet begun. Animals active in daylight hours were winding down. Those who were nocturnal had yet to get started. Being neither one thing nor the other suited Graham. Unusually among all his friends he was at ease with uncertainty and ambivalence.
He sat down in one of the new recliners, sipped his drink and let the smoky sharpness of the whisky roll around his mouth before slipping down his throat. The warmth of it spread through his belly. He set his glass on the arm of the chair and stared out into the grey gloom. Amusement at the thought of the greyness bubbled up in his chest. He sat there, in the grey, wearing a grey T-shirt and grey sweat pants with grey socks and, he laughed out loud at this point, most of his friends called him Gray. He loved greyness so much that if his parents hadn't called him Graham they would probably have chosen Ash.
A bird whickered in one of the old trees the landscapers had left at the bottom of his plot. Good windbreak, they had said. Protection from being overlooked. Graham had just been glad to keep them there for the dark shadows they cast at this time of day.
The evening was still warm. In that gentle way that late summer, or early autumn evenings had. Like they trusted themselves to be warm without really trying, or worrying about how cold it was going to get later. Even in his thin cotton shirt Graham wasn't cold. The whisky didn't hurt though. He took another mouthful, and thought about changes. Day changed into night, and summer into autumn. And what was Graham changing into? He was definitely in transition, he knew that much. Yet in a strange way, he felt as comfortable with it as he did with the twilight. No longer day but not quite night. He laughed again quietly, because he could just as easily say he was no longer Gray but not quite... what? What was he going to call himself? He shook his head at the thought that he might choose something to rhyme with night. And then his fertile mind went off down that rabbit hole, trying to think of things that did. Rhyme with night that is. The whisky had given his imagination wings but he wasn't sure of the direction of flight. That rhymed with night! And so did fright. Was he frightened? Not right now. Here at the start of everything it felt-- well-- daunting maybe, but not frightening. Exciting? Yes, that.
A toad croaked. It sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet of the evening. So the nature pond idea had worked. Marvellous. The old pond had been ripped out years before but Graham had still, occasionally, unearthed a sleeping frog when moving a large boulder or a length of rotting timber. Now with the new shallow pond and its animal-friendly landing area beside the water, both he and the garden designer had hoped to attract a new generation of assorted amphibians. And Mr Toad was his first new tenant. He reached to pick up the remote control, flicked on the path lights and the spikes, and was just in time to catch a flash of Mr Toad as he jumped for cover. "That's right," he thought, "head for cover. You don't like the bright lights either, do you fella?"
This was his favourite time of day. Neither day nor night. A comfortable resting space between the two when the day's work was done and the night's not yet begun. Animals active in daylight hours were winding down. Those who were nocturnal had yet to get started. Being neither one thing nor the other suited Graham. Unusually among all his friends he was at ease with uncertainty and ambivalence.
He sat down in one of the new recliners, sipped his drink and let the smoky sharpness of the whisky roll around his mouth before slipping down his throat. The warmth of it spread through his belly. He set his glass on the arm of the chair and stared out into the grey gloom. Amusement at the thought of the greyness bubbled up in his chest. He sat there, in the grey, wearing a grey T-shirt and grey sweat pants with grey socks and, he laughed out loud at this point, most of his friends called him Gray. He loved greyness so much that if his parents hadn't called him Graham they would probably have chosen Ash.
A bird whickered in one of the old trees the landscapers had left at the bottom of his plot. Good windbreak, they had said. Protection from being overlooked. Graham had just been glad to keep them there for the dark shadows they cast at this time of day.
The evening was still warm. In that gentle way that late summer, or early autumn evenings had. Like they trusted themselves to be warm without really trying, or worrying about how cold it was going to get later. Even in his thin cotton shirt Graham wasn't cold. The whisky didn't hurt though. He took another mouthful, and thought about changes. Day changed into night, and summer into autumn. And what was Graham changing into? He was definitely in transition, he knew that much. Yet in a strange way, he felt as comfortable with it as he did with the twilight. No longer day but not quite night. He laughed again quietly, because he could just as easily say he was no longer Gray but not quite... what? What was he going to call himself? He shook his head at the thought that he might choose something to rhyme with night. And then his fertile mind went off down that rabbit hole, trying to think of things that did. Rhyme with night that is. The whisky had given his imagination wings but he wasn't sure of the direction of flight. That rhymed with night! And so did fright. Was he frightened? Not right now. Here at the start of everything it felt-- well-- daunting maybe, but not frightening. Exciting? Yes, that.
A toad croaked. It sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet of the evening. So the nature pond idea had worked. Marvellous. The old pond had been ripped out years before but Graham had still, occasionally, unearthed a sleeping frog when moving a large boulder or a length of rotting timber. Now with the new shallow pond and its animal-friendly landing area beside the water, both he and the garden designer had hoped to attract a new generation of assorted amphibians. And Mr Toad was his first new tenant. He reached to pick up the remote control, flicked on the path lights and the spikes, and was just in time to catch a flash of Mr Toad as he jumped for cover. "That's right," he thought, "head for cover. You don't like the bright lights either, do you fella?"
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
100TWC - Day 88: Possession
"He is dying, my friend. He does not have long. But... in a moment of clarity... he asked me to show you this."
The rag-clothed old man pulled a stained oil cloth from inside his shirt. Unwrapped it. I couldn't believe my eyes. I had found it at last.
"He cannot tell me from whence he acquired it," the old man continued. His breath reeked of methylated spirit. I turned my head away. "He has not had it long, I know that. He showed it to me not a month before the sickness started in him."
"How much does he want for it?" I asked. It occurred to me that the man lying on his death bed would not see a penny of the price, whatever it was, but I didn't care. I had been looking for this prize for fourteen years. I wasn't about to give up on it now. He would be dead anyway inside the day.
The tramp looked furtive. "Five thousand," he said. Before I had chance to object, he went on, "but personally I think that is... shall we say... a little steep."
He gave no clue what he considered a more realistic price, but it was immaterial. I would gladly have paid ten times that amount.
"If it will make him comfortable in his final hours," I lied, "I will agree to five thousand."
"You are a good man my friend. Cash?"
"Of course."
I handed over an envelope. He handed over the amulet. It shone a deep red in the light from the brazier. From the filthy cot by the wall, the dying man coughed weakly. I took hold of the chain, avoiding any touch of the gem itself. Its legend was infamous in certain circles -- the circles I had sought out over the years -- and although naturally I was sceptical, I did not want to tempt fate. For a man less certain of how the world worked, the sight of the amulet's previous owner coughing up his lungs in a beggar's bolt hole might have given cause for concern.
I reached a velvet purse from my coat pocket and slipped the jewel into it. A shock of pleasure coursed through me as I drew the cords tight. It was mine!
"Is there anything I can do for him? Drink? Food?"
"Leave him to me, sir. I will tend to his final moments."
"Very well. Make sure he knows I am grateful to him."
The derelict smiled, exposing his rotted teeth. "That I will sir. That I will."
I left. There was no more to be done for the man, or his friend, and I was expected elsewhere. My excitement at the discovery of the precious stone had tightened my stomach. It almost felt as if I was going to vomit. Or perhaps I'd caught a chill in this fell place. For a moment I lost my bearings among the ruins and empty houses, but then I caught sight of a familiar neon sign and remembered I had parked close by. The familiar leather smell inside my car replaced the unpleasant odours of the last hour and as the door closed with a satisfying clunk, shutting out the memory of that awful place, I began to feel human again.
The freeway lights flashed past faster once I'd cleared the edge of town. It was unusually hot inside the car and I wondered for a second whether the heating had developed a fault. Even at its lowest setting the air was still stiflingly hot. I lowered a window to clear the air and my head. I needed to be on my best form for the meeting ahead. Sir Patrick had been waiting for this day even longer than I. Had worked his way through several finders before me. He had no notion that his life-long dream was about to be fulfilled.
I was wracked with a sudden fit of painful coughing. A trickle of saliva had found its way into my lungs, as occasionally happens to me. I pulled onto the verge until the attack passed. The dashboard clock shone its green nine-oh-five pm at me. Plenty of time. My client was not expecting me until ten. I pulled a bottle of water from the glove box and took a deep drink to ease the tightness in my throat. The pain in my chest subsided a little. I could feel the weight of the ruby amulet in my jacket pocket. It pressed against my ribs, held in place by the seatbelt. I adjusted my position and patted it. Mine. If only briefly. And soon I would be, once more, a very wealthy man.
The rag-clothed old man pulled a stained oil cloth from inside his shirt. Unwrapped it. I couldn't believe my eyes. I had found it at last.
"He cannot tell me from whence he acquired it," the old man continued. His breath reeked of methylated spirit. I turned my head away. "He has not had it long, I know that. He showed it to me not a month before the sickness started in him."
"How much does he want for it?" I asked. It occurred to me that the man lying on his death bed would not see a penny of the price, whatever it was, but I didn't care. I had been looking for this prize for fourteen years. I wasn't about to give up on it now. He would be dead anyway inside the day.
The tramp looked furtive. "Five thousand," he said. Before I had chance to object, he went on, "but personally I think that is... shall we say... a little steep."
He gave no clue what he considered a more realistic price, but it was immaterial. I would gladly have paid ten times that amount.
"If it will make him comfortable in his final hours," I lied, "I will agree to five thousand."
"You are a good man my friend. Cash?"
"Of course."
I handed over an envelope. He handed over the amulet. It shone a deep red in the light from the brazier. From the filthy cot by the wall, the dying man coughed weakly. I took hold of the chain, avoiding any touch of the gem itself. Its legend was infamous in certain circles -- the circles I had sought out over the years -- and although naturally I was sceptical, I did not want to tempt fate. For a man less certain of how the world worked, the sight of the amulet's previous owner coughing up his lungs in a beggar's bolt hole might have given cause for concern.
I reached a velvet purse from my coat pocket and slipped the jewel into it. A shock of pleasure coursed through me as I drew the cords tight. It was mine!
"Is there anything I can do for him? Drink? Food?"
"Leave him to me, sir. I will tend to his final moments."
"Very well. Make sure he knows I am grateful to him."
The derelict smiled, exposing his rotted teeth. "That I will sir. That I will."
I left. There was no more to be done for the man, or his friend, and I was expected elsewhere. My excitement at the discovery of the precious stone had tightened my stomach. It almost felt as if I was going to vomit. Or perhaps I'd caught a chill in this fell place. For a moment I lost my bearings among the ruins and empty houses, but then I caught sight of a familiar neon sign and remembered I had parked close by. The familiar leather smell inside my car replaced the unpleasant odours of the last hour and as the door closed with a satisfying clunk, shutting out the memory of that awful place, I began to feel human again.
The freeway lights flashed past faster once I'd cleared the edge of town. It was unusually hot inside the car and I wondered for a second whether the heating had developed a fault. Even at its lowest setting the air was still stiflingly hot. I lowered a window to clear the air and my head. I needed to be on my best form for the meeting ahead. Sir Patrick had been waiting for this day even longer than I. Had worked his way through several finders before me. He had no notion that his life-long dream was about to be fulfilled.
I was wracked with a sudden fit of painful coughing. A trickle of saliva had found its way into my lungs, as occasionally happens to me. I pulled onto the verge until the attack passed. The dashboard clock shone its green nine-oh-five pm at me. Plenty of time. My client was not expecting me until ten. I pulled a bottle of water from the glove box and took a deep drink to ease the tightness in my throat. The pain in my chest subsided a little. I could feel the weight of the ruby amulet in my jacket pocket. It pressed against my ribs, held in place by the seatbelt. I adjusted my position and patted it. Mine. If only briefly. And soon I would be, once more, a very wealthy man.
Monday, October 22, 2012
100TWC - Day 87: Gunshot
Nal refolded the jacket and pressed it again to the wound in Chang's side.
"Nearly there," he said. "How you doing?"
"How the hell do you think I'm doing?" Chang gasped. His pallor was turning an ash grey and his face and neck were slick with sweat. The autocab's air conditioning had kicked in to try and cope with the increased humidity.
"Can you speed it up any?" Nal said into the intercom.
"Maximum speed is regulated by statute," the cab intoned. "Arrival at Central Medical in 27 seconds."
GERSHWIN, NAL. : 07-27-2096 : BMI 27 : H 2.02m : BP 119/82 : A+ : ALC 0mg/100ml : NAD.
NG, CHANG : 03-03-2097 : BMI 21 : H 1.98m : BP 130/75 : O- : ALC 0mg/100ml : OPEN WOUND TO ABDOMEN - CAUSE UNKNOWN. CRITICAL BLOOD LOSS DETECTED.
Chang's entry was flashing red and a robot auxiliary was already approaching to administer a saline drip. Nal led him to a bench and sat beside him while the drip was attached. He had no idea what was going to happen next. He had never been to a hospital. At least, not since he was born in one.
Chang's condition appeared to have confused the hospital's system. Nal suspected that "cause unknown" was an extremely rare occurrence. He wondered if they would have called the police. A man in green scrubs rounded the corner in front of them.
"Which one is Mr. Ng?" he asked.
Nal thought the question a little superfluous in view of Chang's obvious discomfort but even so he kept his temper.
"This is Chang," he said. "I'm Nal."
The doctor tapped out a command on his wristcom. "Come with me please," he said, as a motorised wheelchair emerged from a set of double doors further down the corridor and sped across to position itself in front of Chang. Nal helped him in, and the chair took off after the doctor. Nal followed it into an examination room.
"Are you a relative?" asked the doctor as Nal entered.
"No, but he's my friend," Nal replied.
The doctor frowned. "Well, if Mr. Ng has no objections I suppose it'll be all right."
Chang nodded, his pain a beacon on his face.
The doctor pressed a button on the side of the chair and it morphed swiftly with a hydraulic sigh into an examination table. He selected a pair of surgical scissors from a receptacle in the side of the table and proceeded to cut away Chang's shirt.
"You've lost a lot of blood," he said, peeling back the tattered ends of cloth. He reached for a swab and cleaned away the clotted mass. His eyes widened.
"How did you do this?"
Chang turned his head away. The doctor looked at Nal.
"Do you know anything about this?"
"I didn't see it happen, if that's what you mean," Nal replied.
"This is a gunshot wound."
"A what?"
"I'm not surprised you've never heard of it. What are you - 21? 22?"
"I'm 24. He's 23."
"Well I haven't seen a wound like this in almost 40 years," said the doctor. "Almost 20 years before you were born. And that was the first one my registrar had seen since he took up his post. There haven't been any guns in this city for almost half a century."
"What do you mean? My dad has a gun."
"You mean a zapper? That won't cause damage like this. This is a bullet wound. From a projectile weapon. The bullet is still inside him. How the hell did he get shot?"
"Nearly there," he said. "How you doing?"
"How the hell do you think I'm doing?" Chang gasped. His pallor was turning an ash grey and his face and neck were slick with sweat. The autocab's air conditioning had kicked in to try and cope with the increased humidity.
"Can you speed it up any?" Nal said into the intercom.
"Maximum speed is regulated by statute," the cab intoned. "Arrival at Central Medical in 27 seconds."
*
They stood on the sidewalk outside Central Medical. Chang was breathing with difficulty and leaning heavily on Nal. They crabbed their way to the automatic doors. As they entered, blue sensor panels on either side of the corridor scanned them. Ahead, on a suspended monitor, their details were instantly displayed.GERSHWIN, NAL. : 07-27-2096 : BMI 27 : H 2.02m : BP 119/82 : A+ : ALC 0mg/100ml : NAD.
NG, CHANG : 03-03-2097 : BMI 21 : H 1.98m : BP 130/75 : O- : ALC 0mg/100ml : OPEN WOUND TO ABDOMEN - CAUSE UNKNOWN. CRITICAL BLOOD LOSS DETECTED.
Chang's entry was flashing red and a robot auxiliary was already approaching to administer a saline drip. Nal led him to a bench and sat beside him while the drip was attached. He had no idea what was going to happen next. He had never been to a hospital. At least, not since he was born in one.
Chang's condition appeared to have confused the hospital's system. Nal suspected that "cause unknown" was an extremely rare occurrence. He wondered if they would have called the police. A man in green scrubs rounded the corner in front of them.
"Which one is Mr. Ng?" he asked.
Nal thought the question a little superfluous in view of Chang's obvious discomfort but even so he kept his temper.
"This is Chang," he said. "I'm Nal."
The doctor tapped out a command on his wristcom. "Come with me please," he said, as a motorised wheelchair emerged from a set of double doors further down the corridor and sped across to position itself in front of Chang. Nal helped him in, and the chair took off after the doctor. Nal followed it into an examination room.
"Are you a relative?" asked the doctor as Nal entered.
"No, but he's my friend," Nal replied.
The doctor frowned. "Well, if Mr. Ng has no objections I suppose it'll be all right."
Chang nodded, his pain a beacon on his face.
The doctor pressed a button on the side of the chair and it morphed swiftly with a hydraulic sigh into an examination table. He selected a pair of surgical scissors from a receptacle in the side of the table and proceeded to cut away Chang's shirt.
"You've lost a lot of blood," he said, peeling back the tattered ends of cloth. He reached for a swab and cleaned away the clotted mass. His eyes widened.
"How did you do this?"
Chang turned his head away. The doctor looked at Nal.
"Do you know anything about this?"
"I didn't see it happen, if that's what you mean," Nal replied.
"This is a gunshot wound."
"A what?"
"I'm not surprised you've never heard of it. What are you - 21? 22?"
"I'm 24. He's 23."
"Well I haven't seen a wound like this in almost 40 years," said the doctor. "Almost 20 years before you were born. And that was the first one my registrar had seen since he took up his post. There haven't been any guns in this city for almost half a century."
"What do you mean? My dad has a gun."
"You mean a zapper? That won't cause damage like this. This is a bullet wound. From a projectile weapon. The bullet is still inside him. How the hell did he get shot?"
Sunday, October 21, 2012
100TWC - Day 86: Picking up the Pieces
"I'll be back in an hour."
"OK. Bye."
Josh took hold of his daughter's hand, balancing her awkwardly on his other arm. "Wave to Mummy! Bye Mummy!"
Jessica squirmed in her uncomfortable perch. "Down!" she instructed.
Josh let her down gently into the hall. She wobbled slightly, testing her balance, and began to toddle to the kitchen.
"Juice!"
"Juice time!" agreed Josh, removing her coat as she walked and then stepping gingerly around her. He dropped her coat on a chair and opened the fridge. "Orange or pineapple?" he asked.
Jessica thought about it for a moment. "JoJinge," she decided.
"OK. Good choice."
Josh poured half a beaker's worth. It was the smooth kind, but only because the bits got stuck in the mouthpiece. He figured there'd be time to educate his daughter in the finer points of orange juice connoisseurship when she was old enough to use a glass. He fitted the lid onto the beaker and returned the carton to the fridge.
"Take it through," he told her, handing over the beaker.
"Froo," agreed Jessica, grabbing the beaker, plugging it into her mouth, and tottering through to the living room.
The living room floor was littered with wooden blocks in primary colours. Jessica had already passed the "tower of two" milestone in block building, a full six months ahead of the average age. Josh wanted to see how far she'd come on in a couple of weeks. He kicked off his slippers and joined her on the carpet.
"Which block shall we put on the bottom?" he asked, picking up a green one and a yellow one.
"Yed one!" said Jessica, pointing.
"Just like your mother," Josh laughed. He selected the nearest red block and set it in front of Jessica. "Green next?" he offered.
She shooked her head. "Boo."
The nearest blue block was over by the skirting board. Josh leant left and rolled over to it. Jessica giggled.
He handed the block to her.
"You do it."
She took the block, dropping the beaker onto the floor where it started to drip juice slowly onto the carpet. Josh ignored it. What was StainGuard for? His attention was focussed on his daughter as she carefully set the blue block atop the red one. She sat back.
"Nuvver one," she said.
"Which colour?" Josh asked.
"Gyeen."
He handed over the green one he'd been holding. Jessica shook her head. "Nuvver gyeen."
He smiled. She was definitely her mother's daughter. He retrieved a different green block and passed it to her.
After ten minutes, Josh was satisfied that Jessica had advanced to tower of three, but a fourth block still eluded her even though she'd come close a couple of times. Her patience with building towers was now wearing thin, so he'd started to build a ziggurat with all of the blocks in the pack. Jessica watched as he placed the last block on the apex of the triangular structure. At the moment he sat back to admire his construction, she rolled forward and gave the pile a whack with her hand. It collapsed with a satisfying woody rumble.
She giggled again. "'gain," she demanded.
Josh built his pyramid three more times, each time it was reduced to rubble in seconds by his resident demolition expert. "Shall we tidy up now?" he asked, standing up and wheeling over the wooden walker that they used to store the blocks. He grabbed two handfuls and lobbed them into the walker. They clattered onto the base. Jessica put her hands over her ears and frowned.
Josh turned to retrieve more blocks. When he looked back, Jessica had thrown the first five blocks out of the trolley across the living room. One landed in the planter.
"Oi!" he said, smiling. "I thought we were tidying up?"
He dropped his blocks into the walker and fetched back the others. Jessica threw two more blocks after him, laughing. "I'd better hurry up," he said, grabbing the handle of the walker and wheeling it around the room.
A car horn sounded in the road outside. Josh's smile faded. "Sounds like Mummy's back," he said.
"Mummy!" shouted Jessica gleefully, running toward the front door.
Josh picked her coat up off the kitchen chair and followed.
"OK. Bye."
Josh took hold of his daughter's hand, balancing her awkwardly on his other arm. "Wave to Mummy! Bye Mummy!"
Jessica squirmed in her uncomfortable perch. "Down!" she instructed.
Josh let her down gently into the hall. She wobbled slightly, testing her balance, and began to toddle to the kitchen.
"Juice!"
"Juice time!" agreed Josh, removing her coat as she walked and then stepping gingerly around her. He dropped her coat on a chair and opened the fridge. "Orange or pineapple?" he asked.
Jessica thought about it for a moment. "JoJinge," she decided.
"OK. Good choice."
Josh poured half a beaker's worth. It was the smooth kind, but only because the bits got stuck in the mouthpiece. He figured there'd be time to educate his daughter in the finer points of orange juice connoisseurship when she was old enough to use a glass. He fitted the lid onto the beaker and returned the carton to the fridge.
"Take it through," he told her, handing over the beaker.
"Froo," agreed Jessica, grabbing the beaker, plugging it into her mouth, and tottering through to the living room.
The living room floor was littered with wooden blocks in primary colours. Jessica had already passed the "tower of two" milestone in block building, a full six months ahead of the average age. Josh wanted to see how far she'd come on in a couple of weeks. He kicked off his slippers and joined her on the carpet.
"Which block shall we put on the bottom?" he asked, picking up a green one and a yellow one.
"Yed one!" said Jessica, pointing.
"Just like your mother," Josh laughed. He selected the nearest red block and set it in front of Jessica. "Green next?" he offered.
She shooked her head. "Boo."
The nearest blue block was over by the skirting board. Josh leant left and rolled over to it. Jessica giggled.
He handed the block to her.
"You do it."
She took the block, dropping the beaker onto the floor where it started to drip juice slowly onto the carpet. Josh ignored it. What was StainGuard for? His attention was focussed on his daughter as she carefully set the blue block atop the red one. She sat back.
"Nuvver one," she said.
"Which colour?" Josh asked.
"Gyeen."
He handed over the green one he'd been holding. Jessica shook her head. "Nuvver gyeen."
He smiled. She was definitely her mother's daughter. He retrieved a different green block and passed it to her.
After ten minutes, Josh was satisfied that Jessica had advanced to tower of three, but a fourth block still eluded her even though she'd come close a couple of times. Her patience with building towers was now wearing thin, so he'd started to build a ziggurat with all of the blocks in the pack. Jessica watched as he placed the last block on the apex of the triangular structure. At the moment he sat back to admire his construction, she rolled forward and gave the pile a whack with her hand. It collapsed with a satisfying woody rumble.
She giggled again. "'gain," she demanded.
Josh built his pyramid three more times, each time it was reduced to rubble in seconds by his resident demolition expert. "Shall we tidy up now?" he asked, standing up and wheeling over the wooden walker that they used to store the blocks. He grabbed two handfuls and lobbed them into the walker. They clattered onto the base. Jessica put her hands over her ears and frowned.
Josh turned to retrieve more blocks. When he looked back, Jessica had thrown the first five blocks out of the trolley across the living room. One landed in the planter.
"Oi!" he said, smiling. "I thought we were tidying up?"
He dropped his blocks into the walker and fetched back the others. Jessica threw two more blocks after him, laughing. "I'd better hurry up," he said, grabbing the handle of the walker and wheeling it around the room.
A car horn sounded in the road outside. Josh's smile faded. "Sounds like Mummy's back," he said.
"Mummy!" shouted Jessica gleefully, running toward the front door.
Josh picked her coat up off the kitchen chair and followed.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
100TWC - Day 85: Falling
The party was already a-buzz with conversation when Connor arrived. It was an informal affair, but nevertheless the host -- Brian -- was his usual effusive self as he noticed Connor across the crowded hall.
"Connor! My dear fellow! SO lovely to see you again. Are you on your own? Oh my word, I did so hope you'd bring that precious little thing I saw you with last time. How is she? You've not parted company have you? I do hope not. What can I get you old chap? Nothing's too much trouble tonight, I'm the host with the most!"
He paused, for breath Connor thought, but it was only to turn and address the throng of guests.
"Everyone, this is Connor -- a very dear friend of mine from way back."
Connor made his way into the room. After that fulsome introduction, the crowd seemed to part in front of him without actually moving. The faces of the other guests gradually resolved and he began to recognise a few. Over by the immense gilt-framed mirror mounted under the stairs, Faith Miller was adjusting her hair, releasing it from its elaborate but severe style by the judicious removal of a few clips and ties. Her thick blonde locks cascaded onto her shoulders. There had been a time, Connor reflected ruefully, that he had fancied his chances with Faith. It didn't take long for her to let him know in very clear terms that he didn't come up to the mark as far as she was concerned. Far from it.
He had believed himself in love with her at the time, could distinctly remember the feeling of it overtaking him in their first few days together. Now she was just another might-have-been.
"Connor!"
He turned at the sound of his name. Bunny Hargreaves was making a beeline for him from out of the dining room.
"You'll never guess!"
"What's that Bunny?"
"Miles just proposed! Got on his knees and everything!"
"Wonderful. Happy for you."
"And with the new law we can have a proper wedding and everything!"
"Lovely. Make sure you invite me."
"Of course. I knew he would you know. Knew he couldn't resist me. Who could, be honest."
Connor turned away. Bunny's pride was renowned, but he happened to know Miles had also been seeing Brian -- their host -- on the quiet. He'd never say anything of course. What happened in people's private lives was their own business as far as Connor was concerned, but Brian was not out. If even the slightest whiff of scandal were to land at his feet there would be a very rapid thinning of the party crowd at Highton Place.
Another guest nudged his elbow as they squeezed past. Their eyes met. It was Trevor. Years before Trevor had found himself on the wrong side of the law. Trapped in a complicated scam that he had not seen coming, he had lost a lot of money after a sudden crash of the markets. A lot of the money he'd invested was his own, but he had also been tricked into investing others' funds and had been manoeuvred into taking all the blame for it by the organised criminals who had originally thought up the scheme.
"Trevor!" Connor exclaimed quickly, masking his mental turmoil at the still painful memories. "How are you?"
"Absolutely marvellous, thanks. Good to see you. It's been a long time."
"It has indeed. What ever happened with that investment thing?" Connor asked, deciding it was best to be up front about it.
"Oh that!" Trevor grinned. "Turned out to be the best thing I ever did."
Connor was non-plussed. Trevor laughed. "Yeah. Bet you never expected that. I managed to convince all the investors to hang on in there. Some even trusted me so much they put MORE money in, while the market was at its lowest. When the turnround came, I made seven million. Either through my own investment, or through grateful contributions from those who'd made even more money!"
He raised his glass. "Here's to the capitalist system!"
A gust of wind blew through the enormous hall, bringing a distinct chill to the air. Someone had opened the French windows. Slowly, the party moved out onto the patio. In the short time since Connor's arrival the weather had changed for the worse and there had been a brief but intense snow storm. The patio was white over and all the trees painted to match.
Trevor and Connor stepped out together onto the slick crazy paving.
"Whoop-- ow!" cried Trevor as he lost his footing on the slippery fresh snow and landed on his backside with a plosive exhalation. Connor noted with respect that he had managed to keep his glass intact and not spilled a drop.
Faith walked up to the slightly embarrassed Trevor and offered him her hand.
"If there's one thing that impresses me it's a man who can hold his drink," she smiled. "I think I should get to know you better."
"Connor! My dear fellow! SO lovely to see you again. Are you on your own? Oh my word, I did so hope you'd bring that precious little thing I saw you with last time. How is she? You've not parted company have you? I do hope not. What can I get you old chap? Nothing's too much trouble tonight, I'm the host with the most!"
He paused, for breath Connor thought, but it was only to turn and address the throng of guests.
"Everyone, this is Connor -- a very dear friend of mine from way back."
Connor made his way into the room. After that fulsome introduction, the crowd seemed to part in front of him without actually moving. The faces of the other guests gradually resolved and he began to recognise a few. Over by the immense gilt-framed mirror mounted under the stairs, Faith Miller was adjusting her hair, releasing it from its elaborate but severe style by the judicious removal of a few clips and ties. Her thick blonde locks cascaded onto her shoulders. There had been a time, Connor reflected ruefully, that he had fancied his chances with Faith. It didn't take long for her to let him know in very clear terms that he didn't come up to the mark as far as she was concerned. Far from it.
He had believed himself in love with her at the time, could distinctly remember the feeling of it overtaking him in their first few days together. Now she was just another might-have-been.
"Connor!"
He turned at the sound of his name. Bunny Hargreaves was making a beeline for him from out of the dining room.
"You'll never guess!"
"What's that Bunny?"
"Miles just proposed! Got on his knees and everything!"
"Wonderful. Happy for you."
"And with the new law we can have a proper wedding and everything!"
"Lovely. Make sure you invite me."
"Of course. I knew he would you know. Knew he couldn't resist me. Who could, be honest."
Connor turned away. Bunny's pride was renowned, but he happened to know Miles had also been seeing Brian -- their host -- on the quiet. He'd never say anything of course. What happened in people's private lives was their own business as far as Connor was concerned, but Brian was not out. If even the slightest whiff of scandal were to land at his feet there would be a very rapid thinning of the party crowd at Highton Place.
Another guest nudged his elbow as they squeezed past. Their eyes met. It was Trevor. Years before Trevor had found himself on the wrong side of the law. Trapped in a complicated scam that he had not seen coming, he had lost a lot of money after a sudden crash of the markets. A lot of the money he'd invested was his own, but he had also been tricked into investing others' funds and had been manoeuvred into taking all the blame for it by the organised criminals who had originally thought up the scheme.
"Trevor!" Connor exclaimed quickly, masking his mental turmoil at the still painful memories. "How are you?"
"Absolutely marvellous, thanks. Good to see you. It's been a long time."
"It has indeed. What ever happened with that investment thing?" Connor asked, deciding it was best to be up front about it.
"Oh that!" Trevor grinned. "Turned out to be the best thing I ever did."
Connor was non-plussed. Trevor laughed. "Yeah. Bet you never expected that. I managed to convince all the investors to hang on in there. Some even trusted me so much they put MORE money in, while the market was at its lowest. When the turnround came, I made seven million. Either through my own investment, or through grateful contributions from those who'd made even more money!"
He raised his glass. "Here's to the capitalist system!"
A gust of wind blew through the enormous hall, bringing a distinct chill to the air. Someone had opened the French windows. Slowly, the party moved out onto the patio. In the short time since Connor's arrival the weather had changed for the worse and there had been a brief but intense snow storm. The patio was white over and all the trees painted to match.
Trevor and Connor stepped out together onto the slick crazy paving.
"Whoop-- ow!" cried Trevor as he lost his footing on the slippery fresh snow and landed on his backside with a plosive exhalation. Connor noted with respect that he had managed to keep his glass intact and not spilled a drop.
Faith walked up to the slightly embarrassed Trevor and offered him her hand.
"If there's one thing that impresses me it's a man who can hold his drink," she smiled. "I think I should get to know you better."
Friday, October 19, 2012
100TWC - Day 84: Echoes
Emma, Phoebe and Danielle exited the bus down the steep steps. At the last moment, Danielle missed her footing and collided heavily with the two girls in front.
"Careful!"
"Sorry! These steps--"
"Use the handrail can't you? That's what it's there for."
Emma gave Phoebe a knowing look. They had been looking forward to this school trip for months. She didn't want to be stuck with the class dork. The other girls were already clustered around Miss James who stood on the kerb looking for them.
"Come on you three, hurry up!" she called. They joined the group. "Each of you will have enough time to visit two of the famous landmarks on your list," said their teacher loudly, fighting to be heard over the traffic noise. "You'll need to be back at the restaurant by SIX at the very latest if we're all to get served before the show, then we will all proceed to the theatre together. That's very important. Six o'clock. Don't be late! If you have anything you can set a reminder on - like your mobile phones - I suggest you do it now. We won't wait for stragglers."
Several of the girls began fishing in their bags, purses and pockets for their phones.
"Now do all of you know where you're going," Miss James continued, "or do any of you need any help?"
Three or four hands went up, but Emma knew exactly what she wanted to see. Her plans had been firmed up the day they got their lists of tourist places. She linked arms with Phoebe.
"Come on," she said, "we don't need any help."
As they walked away from the group, Miss James called after them. "Phoebe! Emma! Where are you going?"
"It's alright miss," said Emma, "we know where we're going."
"Yes, but there are only two of you," Miss James said, walking quickly towards them. "I was quite clear that everyone should stay in groups of three or more."
"I'll come with you," said Danielle.
Emma rolled her eyes, but it was too late. Miss James had heard.
"Very good, Danielle, thank you. Well, get along with you, since you're so certain you don't need anything more from me."
She shooed them away and turned back to the group.
The girls didn't move. Danielle blushed. "I know you don't really want me tagging along," she said quietly, "but you need a third, and everyone else is already in a group."
Phoebe sighed. "Come on, Emma. Looks like we don't have a choice."
The coach had pulled up at the other side of the square from Emma's first port of call. They set off across the tarmac, attracting annoyed honks from a couple of drivers.
"God," said Emma, "it's true what they told us about drivers here."
"Bit different from home," agreed Danielle.
"Well it is the capital, dummy," Emma replied.
"Emma," Phoebe said, holding her friend's arm, "calm down. If we have to spend the entire day with her let's at least try to keep it civil."
Emma didn't say another word until they entered the enormous, ancient, distinctive building.
"I want to go right to the top," she proclaimed, her voice echoing from the smooth stone walls.
They climbed the stairs in silence, needing all their breath for the long ascent. At the top, Danielle turned left. Emma pulled Phoebe to the right.
"We're supposed to stick together," Danielle reminded her.
"We can't possibly come to any harm in here," Emma retorted. "We're not chained together. You go that way, we'll go this way. We can meet in the middle on the other side."
Danielle shrugged and walked off.
"Thank God," said Emma, "I thought we were going to have to babysit her all day."
"She's not that bad."
"Yes she is. She's a mardy cow at the best of times, and always sucking up to the teachers. Especially Miss James. Wouldn't surprise me if she didn't have a thing for her."
"What do you mean, a thing?"
"You know. A dyke thing."
"Emma!"
"Well, she looks the type. All plain trousers and white shirts. And she's such a swot too. Always has her hand up."
"You a bit jealous, maybe?"
"Of her? You must be joking. Mousey little lezzer. She should think herself lucky to be around cool ladies like us. Let's hope our cool rubs off on her, and not the other way round."
By now they had walked almost half-way around the dome and Danielle appeared from the other direction. She was crying.
"What's up?" asked Phoebe. "What's happened."
"Thought you knew everything about this place," Danielle mumbled, sniffing back her tears and wiping her eyes.
"Only what I've read in the handout," said Emma defensively. "Why?"
"Doesn't it say that it's called the Whispering Gallery?" asked Danielle hotly.
"Careful!"
"Sorry! These steps--"
"Use the handrail can't you? That's what it's there for."
Emma gave Phoebe a knowing look. They had been looking forward to this school trip for months. She didn't want to be stuck with the class dork. The other girls were already clustered around Miss James who stood on the kerb looking for them.
"Come on you three, hurry up!" she called. They joined the group. "Each of you will have enough time to visit two of the famous landmarks on your list," said their teacher loudly, fighting to be heard over the traffic noise. "You'll need to be back at the restaurant by SIX at the very latest if we're all to get served before the show, then we will all proceed to the theatre together. That's very important. Six o'clock. Don't be late! If you have anything you can set a reminder on - like your mobile phones - I suggest you do it now. We won't wait for stragglers."
Several of the girls began fishing in their bags, purses and pockets for their phones.
"Now do all of you know where you're going," Miss James continued, "or do any of you need any help?"
Three or four hands went up, but Emma knew exactly what she wanted to see. Her plans had been firmed up the day they got their lists of tourist places. She linked arms with Phoebe.
"Come on," she said, "we don't need any help."
As they walked away from the group, Miss James called after them. "Phoebe! Emma! Where are you going?"
"It's alright miss," said Emma, "we know where we're going."
"Yes, but there are only two of you," Miss James said, walking quickly towards them. "I was quite clear that everyone should stay in groups of three or more."
"I'll come with you," said Danielle.
Emma rolled her eyes, but it was too late. Miss James had heard.
"Very good, Danielle, thank you. Well, get along with you, since you're so certain you don't need anything more from me."
She shooed them away and turned back to the group.
The girls didn't move. Danielle blushed. "I know you don't really want me tagging along," she said quietly, "but you need a third, and everyone else is already in a group."
Phoebe sighed. "Come on, Emma. Looks like we don't have a choice."
The coach had pulled up at the other side of the square from Emma's first port of call. They set off across the tarmac, attracting annoyed honks from a couple of drivers.
"God," said Emma, "it's true what they told us about drivers here."
"Bit different from home," agreed Danielle.
"Well it is the capital, dummy," Emma replied.
"Emma," Phoebe said, holding her friend's arm, "calm down. If we have to spend the entire day with her let's at least try to keep it civil."
Emma didn't say another word until they entered the enormous, ancient, distinctive building.
"I want to go right to the top," she proclaimed, her voice echoing from the smooth stone walls.
They climbed the stairs in silence, needing all their breath for the long ascent. At the top, Danielle turned left. Emma pulled Phoebe to the right.
"We're supposed to stick together," Danielle reminded her.
"We can't possibly come to any harm in here," Emma retorted. "We're not chained together. You go that way, we'll go this way. We can meet in the middle on the other side."
Danielle shrugged and walked off.
"Thank God," said Emma, "I thought we were going to have to babysit her all day."
"She's not that bad."
"Yes she is. She's a mardy cow at the best of times, and always sucking up to the teachers. Especially Miss James. Wouldn't surprise me if she didn't have a thing for her."
"What do you mean, a thing?"
"You know. A dyke thing."
"Emma!"
"Well, she looks the type. All plain trousers and white shirts. And she's such a swot too. Always has her hand up."
"You a bit jealous, maybe?"
"Of her? You must be joking. Mousey little lezzer. She should think herself lucky to be around cool ladies like us. Let's hope our cool rubs off on her, and not the other way round."
By now they had walked almost half-way around the dome and Danielle appeared from the other direction. She was crying.
"What's up?" asked Phoebe. "What's happened."
"Thought you knew everything about this place," Danielle mumbled, sniffing back her tears and wiping her eyes.
"Only what I've read in the handout," said Emma defensively. "Why?"
"Doesn't it say that it's called the Whispering Gallery?" asked Danielle hotly.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
100TWC - Day 83: Breakfast
John examined the invitation for the fifteenth time.
EXECUTIVE BRIEFING CENTER
START TIME: 07:30AM
BREAKFAST WILL BE SERVED
It was his first time at the EBC. The start time had been a surprise. He'd heard of breakfast meetings, of course, but had always assumed they were one of those things whose myth had grown in the telling and that in reality they were neither as early nor as intense as the legend would have it. In this case, at least, the early aspect seemed to have been proven.
He wasn't sure, either, what kind of "breakfast" to expect. His inner trencherman had been nagging him for days to preload with a bowl of cereal and some toast. Then at least he'd have guarded against mid-morning munchies, should the breakfast prove to be nothing more than a croissant and a cup of coffee.
In the end, he'd decided to go with it. Risk an attack of the shakes around 11am for the sake of appearances. The entire complex was a minefield of snack machines anyway, so if push came to shove he could always pop out during one of the smokers' breaks and grab a candy bar or a carton of drinking yoghurt.
Start time, breakfast spread. The third thing he had no hint about was the content of the briefing. His entire management team had been flown over with barely 24 hours' notice and no warning of what all the fuss was about. Even with the remainder of his travel day to acclimatise he still felt jet-lagged. He could only hope it wouldn't affect his appetite.
The early morning sun was already hot as he made his way to the squat anonymous building at the Northern edge of the campus. He still thought 'campus' was a bit bogus. There was no research undertaken here. No learning. The corporation was not connected with education in any way. Just because the three young entrepreneurs who'd started it five years before still thought of themselves as college students shouldn't mean the rest of the company had to behave as if they were 19. His approach triggered the automatic doors. He gave his name at the desk and followed the directions to the first of four double doors in a wide but featureless corridor. One of the doors had been propped open; the other read "EBC". It was all about the acronyms. Or, he mentally corrected himself, the TLAs. Acronyms was more rightly restricted to abbreviations that made a real word. The smell of hot coffee and warmed pastries drifted out into the corridor. The sympathetic rumbling of his stomach confirmed that jet-lag had not suppressed his appetite.
Three of his colleagues had arrived ahead of him and were already filling their plates from the breakfast buffet. John stopped just inside the door, surveying the scene, then reminded himself to act as though everything was "just normal." Don't be impressed; don't be intimidated. Act as if you expected everything to be just like this.
An entire wall - the long wall - of the rectangular briefing room was filled with tables, and the tables were filled with food. A wry smile briefly flickered around John's mouth as he noticed that there were indeed croissants present. And the coffee he had smelled outside in the corridor. But that's where the similarity with his pessimistic prediction ended. Croissants, yes. But eight different varieties. Chocolate, almond, plain, cheese, fruit, raisins, and a couple of others he didn't recognise. There was a toasting machine nestling among a pile of fresh breads. Pumpkin bread, crumpet bread, spicy bun loaf, pancakes, waffles, white and brown bloomer, cobs and tiger bread. There were jams and conserves, marmalades and syrups. An assortment of cold meats, chorizo, salami (peppered and plain), ham, braun, mortadella and, once again, at least half-a-dozen meats he didn't recognise. Large open tubs of cereal revealed their contents next to jugs of milk (1%, 2% and whole), cream, custard and plain yoghurt. Flakes of many shades, granola, bran, muesli, rice krispies, coco pops, oatmeal. Then came the cheeses. John had been led to believe Americans were not especially adventurous when it came to cheese. The impressive array in front of him put the lie to that. Blue cheeses, hard, soft, round, square, triangular, cheese in foil, cheese rolled in herbs, cheese with embedded fruit - and talking of fruit! The biggest bowl he had ever seen sat in the far corner. Bananas, apples (red, green and russet), oranges, grapes, kiwi, pineapple (peeled and sliced), melon (sliced), papaya, star fruit, passion fruit and -- yet again -- several kinds he was not familiar with.
He reached for a plate and walked up behind Ade Brundrett, who had only just started picking.
"Morning."
"Morning. Sleep alright?"
"At first yeah. Woke up around three. You?"
"Same."
"This is--"
"Don't. Not impressed. Not intimidated. Remember?"
"Umm... yeah. I am though."
"Which?"
"Both"
Ade laughed. "Yeah, me too."
John picked up a mug. "All this food, and only one kind of coffee?"
"I think it's a franchise thing."
"Oh. Don't suppose there's any tea?"
"Joking, right? And even if there was, you wouldn't want to drink it."
EXECUTIVE BRIEFING CENTER
START TIME: 07:30AM
BREAKFAST WILL BE SERVED
It was his first time at the EBC. The start time had been a surprise. He'd heard of breakfast meetings, of course, but had always assumed they were one of those things whose myth had grown in the telling and that in reality they were neither as early nor as intense as the legend would have it. In this case, at least, the early aspect seemed to have been proven.
He wasn't sure, either, what kind of "breakfast" to expect. His inner trencherman had been nagging him for days to preload with a bowl of cereal and some toast. Then at least he'd have guarded against mid-morning munchies, should the breakfast prove to be nothing more than a croissant and a cup of coffee.
In the end, he'd decided to go with it. Risk an attack of the shakes around 11am for the sake of appearances. The entire complex was a minefield of snack machines anyway, so if push came to shove he could always pop out during one of the smokers' breaks and grab a candy bar or a carton of drinking yoghurt.
Start time, breakfast spread. The third thing he had no hint about was the content of the briefing. His entire management team had been flown over with barely 24 hours' notice and no warning of what all the fuss was about. Even with the remainder of his travel day to acclimatise he still felt jet-lagged. He could only hope it wouldn't affect his appetite.
The early morning sun was already hot as he made his way to the squat anonymous building at the Northern edge of the campus. He still thought 'campus' was a bit bogus. There was no research undertaken here. No learning. The corporation was not connected with education in any way. Just because the three young entrepreneurs who'd started it five years before still thought of themselves as college students shouldn't mean the rest of the company had to behave as if they were 19. His approach triggered the automatic doors. He gave his name at the desk and followed the directions to the first of four double doors in a wide but featureless corridor. One of the doors had been propped open; the other read "EBC". It was all about the acronyms. Or, he mentally corrected himself, the TLAs. Acronyms was more rightly restricted to abbreviations that made a real word. The smell of hot coffee and warmed pastries drifted out into the corridor. The sympathetic rumbling of his stomach confirmed that jet-lag had not suppressed his appetite.
Three of his colleagues had arrived ahead of him and were already filling their plates from the breakfast buffet. John stopped just inside the door, surveying the scene, then reminded himself to act as though everything was "just normal." Don't be impressed; don't be intimidated. Act as if you expected everything to be just like this.
An entire wall - the long wall - of the rectangular briefing room was filled with tables, and the tables were filled with food. A wry smile briefly flickered around John's mouth as he noticed that there were indeed croissants present. And the coffee he had smelled outside in the corridor. But that's where the similarity with his pessimistic prediction ended. Croissants, yes. But eight different varieties. Chocolate, almond, plain, cheese, fruit, raisins, and a couple of others he didn't recognise. There was a toasting machine nestling among a pile of fresh breads. Pumpkin bread, crumpet bread, spicy bun loaf, pancakes, waffles, white and brown bloomer, cobs and tiger bread. There were jams and conserves, marmalades and syrups. An assortment of cold meats, chorizo, salami (peppered and plain), ham, braun, mortadella and, once again, at least half-a-dozen meats he didn't recognise. Large open tubs of cereal revealed their contents next to jugs of milk (1%, 2% and whole), cream, custard and plain yoghurt. Flakes of many shades, granola, bran, muesli, rice krispies, coco pops, oatmeal. Then came the cheeses. John had been led to believe Americans were not especially adventurous when it came to cheese. The impressive array in front of him put the lie to that. Blue cheeses, hard, soft, round, square, triangular, cheese in foil, cheese rolled in herbs, cheese with embedded fruit - and talking of fruit! The biggest bowl he had ever seen sat in the far corner. Bananas, apples (red, green and russet), oranges, grapes, kiwi, pineapple (peeled and sliced), melon (sliced), papaya, star fruit, passion fruit and -- yet again -- several kinds he was not familiar with.
He reached for a plate and walked up behind Ade Brundrett, who had only just started picking.
"Morning."
"Morning. Sleep alright?"
"At first yeah. Woke up around three. You?"
"Same."
"This is--"
"Don't. Not impressed. Not intimidated. Remember?"
"Umm... yeah. I am though."
"Which?"
"Both"
Ade laughed. "Yeah, me too."
John picked up a mug. "All this food, and only one kind of coffee?"
"I think it's a franchise thing."
"Oh. Don't suppose there's any tea?"
"Joking, right? And even if there was, you wouldn't want to drink it."
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
100TWC - Day 82: Advantage
[ this post is a continuation of "Heart Song" from earlier in the writing challenge ]
The little old man looked directly at Tani as she entered the clearing. His eyes were almost as bright green as his tunic, she noticed. She took another step. He stopped playing. Released from the spell of the music, Tani slumped to the ground, the soft carpet of leaf litter breaking her fall. She had not realised she was so tired, but now that the music was gone a terrible fatigue overwhelmed her. The old man stood up and slung his pipes around his shoulder.
"The effect will quickly pass," he reassured her. His voice too had a melodic quality. A faint reminder of the beautiful strain he had been playing. "Come," he continued, "sit."
Tani struggled to her feet. "The Hunt. I have to--"
"They will not find you here," the elf replied.
"How--?"
"This part of the forest is shielded from mortal eyes," he said. At her questioning glance he held up his hand. "Unless they have heard my heart song."
"Heart song?"
"Some call it soul music," he said with a wry smile. "But among my kind we call it heart song. The melody one plays with one's heart. The one no other can play."
"It was beautiful."
He smiled.
"But I can't stay here," Tani said, looking around the clearing nervously, unwilling to believe that it was somehow protected from the Pack. From The Hunt. "I must find my way out, without being caught."
The old man reached inside his tunic. "I have something here that will help you in that regard," he said enigmatically. He opened his hand. A fine gold chain fell from between his fingers, dangling almost to the forest floor. It held a pendant of some kind but in the dim light Tani could not make it out.
"What--?"
The elf wound the gold chain around his fingers and let the pendant drop. It was an amulet of clear amber, held in an intricate clasp of elder wood. He beckoned to Tani. She stepped closer and bent down to allow the elf to slip the chain over her head.
"We call it The Advantage," he murmured. "Only one of your kind has ever worn it before."
A shock of recognition tore through Tani's mind. "Riki!" she exclaimed.
The elf smiled his gentle smile again and nodded.
"What does it do?" Tani asked.
"Its function begins and ends with its name," said the elf, whose circumlocution was beginning to irritate Tani. "When you need an advantage, the amulet will provide one."
"So how do I work it? What do I need to do?"
"You must do what you must," the elf replied infuriatingly. Tani bit down on her anger. This was a gift beyond price. The object that had allowed Riki to defeat The Hunt! It wouldn't do to lose her temper with the giver. "Follow the path you have decided upon. Fear not. Behave as you always have, as you know you should. The Advantage is now yours. You will see."
Tani grasped the amulet, staring into its smoky depths. Unlike most of the amber pieces she had seen in the past it held no fossilised insect or creature of any kind. It absorbed what little light there was in the clearing and reflected only a dusky remnant.
"But--" Tani began, looking up. The old man was gone. She stood alone in the clearing. Through the darkness, back in the direction from which she had entered, several wolves howled. A shiver passed through her. It was time to leave. She looked around the clearing, intending to select the best exit. All but one of the gaps between the ancient oaks were now blocked with thick briars. Almost directly opposite her, a single path was her only option.
"Guess that's the way to go," Tani thought, wondering at the same time whether this was The Advantage's doing or the elf's. Or if there was any difference. She tucked the amulet inside her shirt, surprised at its sudden warmth against her skin, and left the clearing at a run.
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 98 in "Game" ]
The little old man looked directly at Tani as she entered the clearing. His eyes were almost as bright green as his tunic, she noticed. She took another step. He stopped playing. Released from the spell of the music, Tani slumped to the ground, the soft carpet of leaf litter breaking her fall. She had not realised she was so tired, but now that the music was gone a terrible fatigue overwhelmed her. The old man stood up and slung his pipes around his shoulder.
"The effect will quickly pass," he reassured her. His voice too had a melodic quality. A faint reminder of the beautiful strain he had been playing. "Come," he continued, "sit."
Tani struggled to her feet. "The Hunt. I have to--"
"They will not find you here," the elf replied.
"How--?"
"This part of the forest is shielded from mortal eyes," he said. At her questioning glance he held up his hand. "Unless they have heard my heart song."
"Heart song?"
"Some call it soul music," he said with a wry smile. "But among my kind we call it heart song. The melody one plays with one's heart. The one no other can play."
"It was beautiful."
He smiled.
"But I can't stay here," Tani said, looking around the clearing nervously, unwilling to believe that it was somehow protected from the Pack. From The Hunt. "I must find my way out, without being caught."
The old man reached inside his tunic. "I have something here that will help you in that regard," he said enigmatically. He opened his hand. A fine gold chain fell from between his fingers, dangling almost to the forest floor. It held a pendant of some kind but in the dim light Tani could not make it out.
"What--?"
The elf wound the gold chain around his fingers and let the pendant drop. It was an amulet of clear amber, held in an intricate clasp of elder wood. He beckoned to Tani. She stepped closer and bent down to allow the elf to slip the chain over her head.
"We call it The Advantage," he murmured. "Only one of your kind has ever worn it before."
A shock of recognition tore through Tani's mind. "Riki!" she exclaimed.
The elf smiled his gentle smile again and nodded.
"What does it do?" Tani asked.
"Its function begins and ends with its name," said the elf, whose circumlocution was beginning to irritate Tani. "When you need an advantage, the amulet will provide one."
"So how do I work it? What do I need to do?"
"You must do what you must," the elf replied infuriatingly. Tani bit down on her anger. This was a gift beyond price. The object that had allowed Riki to defeat The Hunt! It wouldn't do to lose her temper with the giver. "Follow the path you have decided upon. Fear not. Behave as you always have, as you know you should. The Advantage is now yours. You will see."
Tani grasped the amulet, staring into its smoky depths. Unlike most of the amber pieces she had seen in the past it held no fossilised insect or creature of any kind. It absorbed what little light there was in the clearing and reflected only a dusky remnant.
"But--" Tani began, looking up. The old man was gone. She stood alone in the clearing. Through the darkness, back in the direction from which she had entered, several wolves howled. A shiver passed through her. It was time to leave. She looked around the clearing, intending to select the best exit. All but one of the gaps between the ancient oaks were now blocked with thick briars. Almost directly opposite her, a single path was her only option.
"Guess that's the way to go," Tani thought, wondering at the same time whether this was The Advantage's doing or the elf's. Or if there was any difference. She tucked the amulet inside her shirt, surprised at its sudden warmth against her skin, and left the clearing at a run.
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 98 in "Game" ]
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
100TWC - Day 81: A Place to Belong
[ this post is a continuation of the story begun in "Lost and Found" earlier in the writing challenge ]
The expensive leather-upholstered 4x4 turned into a driveway and Carl suppressed a gasp. The snowstorm, which had begun as soon as Roger had fetched the SUV to the kerb, had highlighted the roof and sills of the house with crisp whiteness to match the bare branches of the enormous aspen tree that grew in a roundel in the centre of the driveway.
Vince, who had spent the entire journey on the back seat with his head in Carl's lap, seemed to sense that he'd arrived home. He lifted his head to stare through the window and gave a muted "Ruff!" that stayed in his throat in much the same way Carl's gasp had.
The house was enormous. 4,000 square feet at least, Carl guessed. His streetwise assessment of the couple's wealth had been, well, on the money. Roger twisted around from behind the wheel.
"Looks nice, huh?"
"It's beautiful," replied Carl. "Like a picture book home."
"Wait 'til you see the inside," Roger went on. "We've done quite a bit to it, haven't we Cyn?"
Cyn of the expensive jeans and lifesaver jacket turned around and gave Carl one of her megawatt smiles. "Please ignore my husband's bad manners Carl," she teased. "I'm sure you're more interested in a hot bath and a change of clothes, whaddaya say?"
Carl, who had been thinking that while he was absolutely not interested in rogering Roger, he wouldn't mind sinning with Cyn, was caught off-guard. "Umm, yeah. Yeah, that would be great, thanks."
Vince replaced his head in Carl's lap as Roger pulled up in front of the house.
"Come on," he urged. "Let's get out of this weather and into the warm."
Inside, the house was as impressive as Roger had implied. A carved oak staircase curled up to the first floor, carpeted with expensive white shag. The hall was floored with an intricate mosaic pattern that appeared to be Moroccan in origin, as far as Carl could tell. Massive panelled doors, also in oak, opened onto six rooms from the hallway. The house, though vast, was warm and smelt faintly of orange blossom.
"I'll show you to your room," Cyn offered.
"Thanks. Umm... should I take my shoes off?"
"If you like. It doesn't matter."
"Fancy some lunch?" Roger enquired as Carl made his way upstairs. "Soup? Got some fresh bread just out of the maker?"
Carl smiled, fighting back sudden tears of gratitude. "Yeah, I mean, yes, please, if you're having some," he replied past the lump in his throat.
Vince barked and ran past Carl up the stairs.
"Vince!" Cyn shouted after him, laughing. "Calm down boy!" She turned to Carl. "It's like he knows he might never have made it back here if it wasn't for you."
"Like I said, I didn't really do anything."
"In here," Cyn opened a bedroom door. The room beyond was painted a cornflower blue. Inside, a double bed was made up with a matching candlewick spread. Through a door in the opposite wall Carl could see an en-suite bathroom with a deep tub which Cyn was already filling.
"Make yourself at home," she said, smiling again, "I'll get you some fresh clothes. I think Roger has something that will fit you."
Carl took off his shoes, checking to see whether they had left a mark on the pristine carpet in the hall or bedroom. He was checking out the bewildering array of toiletries on the bathroom shelves when Cyn returned with an armful of clothes.
"Try some," she said, noticing his perusal of the assorted bath salts, crystals and pearls.
"Whose room is this?" he asked.
"No-one's," she replied airily. "We keep it up as a guest room, but you're our only guest at the moment. I'll leave you to it. When you're done, come down to the kitchen -- that's the door Roger was standing in -- and the soup should be ready by then."
"Thank you. I can't tell you--"
"Don't mention it. It's the least we can do after you rescued Vince from the madding crowd! Here," she added, reaching a couple of bath pearls from a blue crystal holder, "try these. I really like their smell on a man."
She dropped the pearls into the water and left, closing the bedroom door behind her. Within a few seconds, Carl had discarded his filthy tattered rags and immersed himself in the hot water.
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 97 in "Enthusiasm" ]
The expensive leather-upholstered 4x4 turned into a driveway and Carl suppressed a gasp. The snowstorm, which had begun as soon as Roger had fetched the SUV to the kerb, had highlighted the roof and sills of the house with crisp whiteness to match the bare branches of the enormous aspen tree that grew in a roundel in the centre of the driveway.
Vince, who had spent the entire journey on the back seat with his head in Carl's lap, seemed to sense that he'd arrived home. He lifted his head to stare through the window and gave a muted "Ruff!" that stayed in his throat in much the same way Carl's gasp had.
The house was enormous. 4,000 square feet at least, Carl guessed. His streetwise assessment of the couple's wealth had been, well, on the money. Roger twisted around from behind the wheel.
"Looks nice, huh?"
"It's beautiful," replied Carl. "Like a picture book home."
"Wait 'til you see the inside," Roger went on. "We've done quite a bit to it, haven't we Cyn?"
Cyn of the expensive jeans and lifesaver jacket turned around and gave Carl one of her megawatt smiles. "Please ignore my husband's bad manners Carl," she teased. "I'm sure you're more interested in a hot bath and a change of clothes, whaddaya say?"
Carl, who had been thinking that while he was absolutely not interested in rogering Roger, he wouldn't mind sinning with Cyn, was caught off-guard. "Umm, yeah. Yeah, that would be great, thanks."
Vince replaced his head in Carl's lap as Roger pulled up in front of the house.
"Come on," he urged. "Let's get out of this weather and into the warm."
Inside, the house was as impressive as Roger had implied. A carved oak staircase curled up to the first floor, carpeted with expensive white shag. The hall was floored with an intricate mosaic pattern that appeared to be Moroccan in origin, as far as Carl could tell. Massive panelled doors, also in oak, opened onto six rooms from the hallway. The house, though vast, was warm and smelt faintly of orange blossom.
"I'll show you to your room," Cyn offered.
"Thanks. Umm... should I take my shoes off?"
"If you like. It doesn't matter."
"Fancy some lunch?" Roger enquired as Carl made his way upstairs. "Soup? Got some fresh bread just out of the maker?"
Carl smiled, fighting back sudden tears of gratitude. "Yeah, I mean, yes, please, if you're having some," he replied past the lump in his throat.
Vince barked and ran past Carl up the stairs.
"Vince!" Cyn shouted after him, laughing. "Calm down boy!" She turned to Carl. "It's like he knows he might never have made it back here if it wasn't for you."
"Like I said, I didn't really do anything."
"In here," Cyn opened a bedroom door. The room beyond was painted a cornflower blue. Inside, a double bed was made up with a matching candlewick spread. Through a door in the opposite wall Carl could see an en-suite bathroom with a deep tub which Cyn was already filling.
"Make yourself at home," she said, smiling again, "I'll get you some fresh clothes. I think Roger has something that will fit you."
Carl took off his shoes, checking to see whether they had left a mark on the pristine carpet in the hall or bedroom. He was checking out the bewildering array of toiletries on the bathroom shelves when Cyn returned with an armful of clothes.
"Try some," she said, noticing his perusal of the assorted bath salts, crystals and pearls.
"Whose room is this?" he asked.
"No-one's," she replied airily. "We keep it up as a guest room, but you're our only guest at the moment. I'll leave you to it. When you're done, come down to the kitchen -- that's the door Roger was standing in -- and the soup should be ready by then."
"Thank you. I can't tell you--"
"Don't mention it. It's the least we can do after you rescued Vince from the madding crowd! Here," she added, reaching a couple of bath pearls from a blue crystal holder, "try these. I really like their smell on a man."
She dropped the pearls into the water and left, closing the bedroom door behind her. Within a few seconds, Carl had discarded his filthy tattered rags and immersed himself in the hot water.
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 97 in "Enthusiasm" ]
Monday, October 15, 2012
100TWC - Day 80: Only Human
[ this is a companion piece to "Illogical" which immediate precedes it in the writing challenge - on Day 79 ]
Ralf set his cutlery carefully down on his empty plate. It still irritated her, that way he had of being so precise with everything. So damned prissy all the time. First the knife, then the fork. Always in that order. Always in exactly the same position on the plate. He was more of a robot than--
"Well. I don't think that was 'ruined' at all. It was delicious darling."
She bristled again, remembering their quarrel earlier. These emotions were just too close to the surface, almost out of control. She let the turmoil subside. Avoided a snappy retort.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. I like cooking for you. Especially when it's--"
"Special. Yes, I know. And you know I would have been here earlier if I could have. Anyway, let's not start all that again. It was a lovely meal. Did you make a dessert?"
"Crème Caramel."
Ralf smiled a little boy smile. One, Zadi thought, that he must have assumed would melt her defences. It probably would have stood a good chance of working on an ordinary woman.
"My favourite," he said, smiling even wider.
"Why do you think I made it?" she asked coyly.
She fetched the chilled dessert through and set it in front of him.
"Are you not having any?"
She patted her stomach. "Watching my figure."
"Nonsense," he laughed. "You're exactly the same shape and size as you were when we first met. Exactly the same. You never look a day older, and you never put on a kilogram or a single centimetre."
"Flatterer."
"It's true. I don't know how you do it. You never normally miss dessert though. You sure you're alright?"
"Of course. Don't worry. It's not my favourite. Anyway don't complain. It means all the more for you!"
Ralf picked up his spoon and took a huge mouthful of the gelatinous mound.
"I'm sorry we had that little misunderstanding earlier Zee," he said, swallowing and spooning up another mouthful. "If I could tell you what was really going on with work you wouldn't believe it."
"Try me."
He paused, spoon poised halfway to his mouth, considering. Zadi didn't say anything. Didn't want to break the spell. She hoped the crème caramel would work its magic.
"Well, perhaps I could sketch out the basics. Give you enough to understand what I'm faced with."
"It would help me Ralf. Maybe avoid a repeat of earlier?"
"You know I don't like arguing."
"Me neither. But sometimes it all just gets on top of me."
"I know. It must be hard. After all, you're only human." He finished his dessert. Placed his spoon delicately and accurately down on the empty plate. "I think I'll have a nice hot bath before we get comfy in front of the fire," he said.
"Take a brandy up with you. It'll help you relax."
"What a wonderful idea. You do look after me." He paused. "Scrub my back?"
"You go up. I'll be up soon when I've tidied these dinner things away."
Zadi waited until she could hear Ralf's footsteps on the stairs. Confident she could no longer be overheard, she tongued on her bottom left wisdom tooth and sub-vocalised:
"Zee-Alpha-zero-one-five progress report. Subject about to begin reveal. Stand by for further report in approximately two days."
"Received," said a small, tinny voice in her ear. "What's your power status?"
Zadi called up her retina display, scrolled through the status information displayed invisibly inside her eyes.
"I have 57% power," she reported.
"Commander Quantrell suggests recharging before your next report," said the voice.
"Understood. Zee-Alpha-zero-one-five out."
Ralf set his cutlery carefully down on his empty plate. It still irritated her, that way he had of being so precise with everything. So damned prissy all the time. First the knife, then the fork. Always in that order. Always in exactly the same position on the plate. He was more of a robot than--
"Well. I don't think that was 'ruined' at all. It was delicious darling."
She bristled again, remembering their quarrel earlier. These emotions were just too close to the surface, almost out of control. She let the turmoil subside. Avoided a snappy retort.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. I like cooking for you. Especially when it's--"
"Special. Yes, I know. And you know I would have been here earlier if I could have. Anyway, let's not start all that again. It was a lovely meal. Did you make a dessert?"
"Crème Caramel."
Ralf smiled a little boy smile. One, Zadi thought, that he must have assumed would melt her defences. It probably would have stood a good chance of working on an ordinary woman.
"My favourite," he said, smiling even wider.
"Why do you think I made it?" she asked coyly.
She fetched the chilled dessert through and set it in front of him.
"Are you not having any?"
She patted her stomach. "Watching my figure."
"Nonsense," he laughed. "You're exactly the same shape and size as you were when we first met. Exactly the same. You never look a day older, and you never put on a kilogram or a single centimetre."
"Flatterer."
"It's true. I don't know how you do it. You never normally miss dessert though. You sure you're alright?"
"Of course. Don't worry. It's not my favourite. Anyway don't complain. It means all the more for you!"
Ralf picked up his spoon and took a huge mouthful of the gelatinous mound.
"I'm sorry we had that little misunderstanding earlier Zee," he said, swallowing and spooning up another mouthful. "If I could tell you what was really going on with work you wouldn't believe it."
"Try me."
He paused, spoon poised halfway to his mouth, considering. Zadi didn't say anything. Didn't want to break the spell. She hoped the crème caramel would work its magic.
"Well, perhaps I could sketch out the basics. Give you enough to understand what I'm faced with."
"It would help me Ralf. Maybe avoid a repeat of earlier?"
"You know I don't like arguing."
"Me neither. But sometimes it all just gets on top of me."
"I know. It must be hard. After all, you're only human." He finished his dessert. Placed his spoon delicately and accurately down on the empty plate. "I think I'll have a nice hot bath before we get comfy in front of the fire," he said.
"Take a brandy up with you. It'll help you relax."
"What a wonderful idea. You do look after me." He paused. "Scrub my back?"
"You go up. I'll be up soon when I've tidied these dinner things away."
Zadi waited until she could hear Ralf's footsteps on the stairs. Confident she could no longer be overheard, she tongued on her bottom left wisdom tooth and sub-vocalised:
"Zee-Alpha-zero-one-five progress report. Subject about to begin reveal. Stand by for further report in approximately two days."
"Received," said a small, tinny voice in her ear. "What's your power status?"
Zadi called up her retina display, scrolled through the status information displayed invisibly inside her eyes.
"I have 57% power," she reported.
"Commander Quantrell suggests recharging before your next report," said the voice.
"Understood. Zee-Alpha-zero-one-five out."
Sunday, October 14, 2012
100TWC - Day 79: Illogical
Zadi held a cut glass vase in her trembling hand.
"I mean it Ralf!"
"Calm down!"
"Calm down? Damn you!" She cocked her arm, ready to throw. Her cheeks glistened with new tears. "How can I be calm?"
"Just put the glass down. Please. It's your favourite. You don't want to smash it."
"I want to smash something!" she sobbed.
"That's just your emotions talking. Remember you said--"
"Oh God! It doesn't matter what I said! It's how I felt. How I still feel."
"Look, I'm sorry I was late, I couldn't help it."
"You never put me first. Never! You knew it was a special night."
"And I've said I'm sorry."
"What good's that? The dinner's ruined. It's all... so..."
"Can you just put the vase down Zee?"
Zadi looked at the glass, as if she couldn't remember picking it up. She turned it over in her hand, hardly recognising it. It was her favourite, Ralf had said. She wondered why.
"We'll only have to clean the mess up," Ralf prompted.
"There's a lot more mess to clean up than a bit of broken glass," Zadi replied, sniffing back more tears. She set the vase down and rounded on him again. "Don't think this means I've forgiven you! You still haven't explained why you were late."
"It was a work thing."
"Oh, yes. A work thing. Well then, that's all I need to know isn't it? A work thing. That'll keep her quiet. She knows I never say much about work."
"You know I can't."
"No! I don't know that! You say that, but I don't know it!"
"Why would I lie about it?"
"Ha! That's the question isn't it?"
"Zade. This doesn't make sense."
"For Christ's sake Ralf! None of it makes any sense! This isn't one of your puzzles. You can't tidily tick the boxes until it's solved. This is real life! Real feelings. It's about people, not things. Not logic."
"I--"
"Oh, don't bother. I know you don't really understand."
"No, I do--"
"No you don't! Have you ever really felt anything?"
"Don't get yourself all worked up again."
"Argh!" she screamed, moving back toward the vase and then thinking better of it. "No. I don't want to break anything. Except maybe your stupid stubborn neck."
"How can my neck be--"
"Tell me why you were late!"
"I told you, it was a--"
"The real reason. Not some vague work thing."
"You know I'm not allowed to talk about work."
"Who do you think I'm going to tell? You think I'm some kind of spy?"
"No of course not."
"Well then?"
"It doesn't matter whether you tell anyone or not."
"So you think I might?" she bristled again.
"No! That's not the point."
"I think it's exactly the point."
"Well the Government doesn't see it that way."
"Who's 'the Government'? You talk about them like it's one man. Watching every move you make."
"What I mean is, once you've signed the Official Secrets Act, then just telling anyone about anything, when they don't need to know, is an offence."
"I find that offensive, if you must know. If you can't trust your own wife, who can you trust?"
"It's not a question of trust."
"Yes it is. Because if you don't tell me what you were really doing that was so important you had to miss one of the most special nights of our year, how can I trust you?"
"No, you don't understand. I meant--"
"I know exactly what you meant."
"No, I don't think you do."
"Oh, so I'm stupid now too, am I? Stupid and untrustworthy. What the hell are you doing still married to me then? Thick and loose-lipped. Hardly much of a catch is it? You could do so much better for yourself."
"Zade, please. You know I don't want anyone else."
"You've a funny way of showing it."
"I can't win this can I?"
"Oh! So it IS about winning and losing then?"
"No! I meant--"
"Yes, please do explain what you meant. Because you're good at saying one thing and meaning another. You say 'a work thing' when you mean 'I can't be bothered to come home'. You say 'it's your favourite' when you mean 'I don't want to spend the next half an hour sweeping up broken glass'. I can't believe anything you say. It's all like something out of Orwell. Double-speak, or--"
"Double think."
"Why am I not surprised you knew that. You work in the fucking Ministry of Truth as it is."
"It's the Ministry of Defence."
"It was a JOKE Ralf! Christ have things got that bad you can't even recognise a joke now?"
[ this is a companion piece to "Only Human" which appears next in the writing challenge - on Day 80 ]
"I mean it Ralf!"
"Calm down!"
"Calm down? Damn you!" She cocked her arm, ready to throw. Her cheeks glistened with new tears. "How can I be calm?"
"Just put the glass down. Please. It's your favourite. You don't want to smash it."
"I want to smash something!" she sobbed.
"That's just your emotions talking. Remember you said--"
"Oh God! It doesn't matter what I said! It's how I felt. How I still feel."
"Look, I'm sorry I was late, I couldn't help it."
"You never put me first. Never! You knew it was a special night."
"And I've said I'm sorry."
"What good's that? The dinner's ruined. It's all... so..."
"Can you just put the vase down Zee?"
Zadi looked at the glass, as if she couldn't remember picking it up. She turned it over in her hand, hardly recognising it. It was her favourite, Ralf had said. She wondered why.
"We'll only have to clean the mess up," Ralf prompted.
"There's a lot more mess to clean up than a bit of broken glass," Zadi replied, sniffing back more tears. She set the vase down and rounded on him again. "Don't think this means I've forgiven you! You still haven't explained why you were late."
"It was a work thing."
"Oh, yes. A work thing. Well then, that's all I need to know isn't it? A work thing. That'll keep her quiet. She knows I never say much about work."
"You know I can't."
"No! I don't know that! You say that, but I don't know it!"
"Why would I lie about it?"
"Ha! That's the question isn't it?"
"Zade. This doesn't make sense."
"For Christ's sake Ralf! None of it makes any sense! This isn't one of your puzzles. You can't tidily tick the boxes until it's solved. This is real life! Real feelings. It's about people, not things. Not logic."
"I--"
"Oh, don't bother. I know you don't really understand."
"No, I do--"
"No you don't! Have you ever really felt anything?"
"Don't get yourself all worked up again."
"Argh!" she screamed, moving back toward the vase and then thinking better of it. "No. I don't want to break anything. Except maybe your stupid stubborn neck."
"How can my neck be--"
"Tell me why you were late!"
"I told you, it was a--"
"The real reason. Not some vague work thing."
"You know I'm not allowed to talk about work."
"Who do you think I'm going to tell? You think I'm some kind of spy?"
"No of course not."
"Well then?"
"It doesn't matter whether you tell anyone or not."
"So you think I might?" she bristled again.
"No! That's not the point."
"I think it's exactly the point."
"Well the Government doesn't see it that way."
"Who's 'the Government'? You talk about them like it's one man. Watching every move you make."
"What I mean is, once you've signed the Official Secrets Act, then just telling anyone about anything, when they don't need to know, is an offence."
"I find that offensive, if you must know. If you can't trust your own wife, who can you trust?"
"It's not a question of trust."
"Yes it is. Because if you don't tell me what you were really doing that was so important you had to miss one of the most special nights of our year, how can I trust you?"
"No, you don't understand. I meant--"
"I know exactly what you meant."
"No, I don't think you do."
"Oh, so I'm stupid now too, am I? Stupid and untrustworthy. What the hell are you doing still married to me then? Thick and loose-lipped. Hardly much of a catch is it? You could do so much better for yourself."
"Zade, please. You know I don't want anyone else."
"You've a funny way of showing it."
"I can't win this can I?"
"Oh! So it IS about winning and losing then?"
"No! I meant--"
"Yes, please do explain what you meant. Because you're good at saying one thing and meaning another. You say 'a work thing' when you mean 'I can't be bothered to come home'. You say 'it's your favourite' when you mean 'I don't want to spend the next half an hour sweeping up broken glass'. I can't believe anything you say. It's all like something out of Orwell. Double-speak, or--"
"Double think."
"Why am I not surprised you knew that. You work in the fucking Ministry of Truth as it is."
"It's the Ministry of Defence."
"It was a JOKE Ralf! Christ have things got that bad you can't even recognise a joke now?"
[ this is a companion piece to "Only Human" which appears next in the writing challenge - on Day 80 ]
Saturday, October 13, 2012
100TWC - Day 78: Change in the Weather
Ian stood on the balcony, a cold glass of sangria in his hand. The ice had already melted, in both glass and jug. Ice didn't stand a chance in this heat. They'd said it would be short-lived, but this was the end of the second week and still no end in sight. Thunderheads hung overhead a few miles distant, but there was no wind to move them. For now at least, they held their water.
Below him, Clara climbed out of the pool. Sunlight glinted on her lithe, dripping body as she walked over to the lounger where she'd left a towel. She wouldn't need it, Ian thought. A few minutes drip-drying in this heat and she'd need another dip. She didn't look up. He couldn't tell if she was deliberately ignoring him or simply hadn't spotted him. With the sun at his back, she had an excuse not to look in his direction. As if she needed one.
He stared out over the trees to the distant sea. How long had he hankered after a place like this? All his life, give or take. Be careful what you wish for, the old saying went. He should have been more careful. He sipped his drink, which had already begun to warm up. Of the many things in life that could be enjoyed warm, to Ian's mind sangria was not one of them.
"Ian."
Clara's voice surprised him. He hadn't heard her come in, or enter the room behind him. She stood at the balcony doorway, the bedroom dark behind her. She was naked. The last few drops of pool water stood out on her body, already being replaced with sweat. He could smell her perfume.
He walked toward the door. She backed away, lay down on the bed, her full, firm breasts falling onto her arms, her nipples standing up from her dark brown areolae.
"Ian," she said again, huskily, lifting her arms above her head and looking into his eyes. Challenging.
He entered the room and took off his shirt. As he neared the bed, Clara sat up and pulled down his shorts. His cock sprang up as they fell and she took it into her mouth in one fluid movement. Her mouth, surprisingly, excitingly hotter than the day, moved urgently over him.
They made love, but Ian could not think of it like that. It was sex. Beautiful sex, yes. Erotic in a way that only Clara, in his experience, could have it. But there was no love there. Only passion. Lust. Desire. As they fucked their sweat pooled on their bodies, slippery movements adding to the eroticism and the pools. Their flesh slid and rocked, their hands groped and kneaded, their mouths met in angry battle -- a battle in which their eyes did not engage.
Outside a thunderclap cracked. A sudden wind whipped the branches of the trees, sending leaves flying onto the deck. The sky flashed with another bolt of lightning and the roar of thunder followed immediately. Like a celestial faucet being turned on, the rain came. Lashing down in a grey curtain, flooding the deck within minutes, the drops bouncing up over the rail, carrying sand and grit onto the balcony windows.
Ian looked down at Clara. She was crying. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down the sides of her face into her ears.
"What...?" Ian began. She turned her face away from him, twisted out from under his body. "Clara!" he called, but she didn't hesitate. Picking up a robe from the chair she left the room. The door, blown by the wind or pulled by her hand he couldn't tell, slammed shut behind her.
Ian lay on the bed, on his back, staring at the ceiling. His still-hard member deflated slowly against his thigh. Rain lashed against the glass, drowning out any other sound. Dashing his conflicted thoughts. Then, as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped. The sun breached the thunderclouds and shone hotly down on the sodden scene. The balcony steamed.
He lifted himself up on his elbow and stared through the open balcony door. Autumn colours had already begun to tinge the leaves, many of which now littered the deck. Another gust of wind released a further handful, which fluttered down in front of him, their transient flaming beauty only a symbol of their death and the death of another year.
Below him, Clara climbed out of the pool. Sunlight glinted on her lithe, dripping body as she walked over to the lounger where she'd left a towel. She wouldn't need it, Ian thought. A few minutes drip-drying in this heat and she'd need another dip. She didn't look up. He couldn't tell if she was deliberately ignoring him or simply hadn't spotted him. With the sun at his back, she had an excuse not to look in his direction. As if she needed one.
He stared out over the trees to the distant sea. How long had he hankered after a place like this? All his life, give or take. Be careful what you wish for, the old saying went. He should have been more careful. He sipped his drink, which had already begun to warm up. Of the many things in life that could be enjoyed warm, to Ian's mind sangria was not one of them.
"Ian."
Clara's voice surprised him. He hadn't heard her come in, or enter the room behind him. She stood at the balcony doorway, the bedroom dark behind her. She was naked. The last few drops of pool water stood out on her body, already being replaced with sweat. He could smell her perfume.
He walked toward the door. She backed away, lay down on the bed, her full, firm breasts falling onto her arms, her nipples standing up from her dark brown areolae.
"Ian," she said again, huskily, lifting her arms above her head and looking into his eyes. Challenging.
He entered the room and took off his shirt. As he neared the bed, Clara sat up and pulled down his shorts. His cock sprang up as they fell and she took it into her mouth in one fluid movement. Her mouth, surprisingly, excitingly hotter than the day, moved urgently over him.
They made love, but Ian could not think of it like that. It was sex. Beautiful sex, yes. Erotic in a way that only Clara, in his experience, could have it. But there was no love there. Only passion. Lust. Desire. As they fucked their sweat pooled on their bodies, slippery movements adding to the eroticism and the pools. Their flesh slid and rocked, their hands groped and kneaded, their mouths met in angry battle -- a battle in which their eyes did not engage.
Outside a thunderclap cracked. A sudden wind whipped the branches of the trees, sending leaves flying onto the deck. The sky flashed with another bolt of lightning and the roar of thunder followed immediately. Like a celestial faucet being turned on, the rain came. Lashing down in a grey curtain, flooding the deck within minutes, the drops bouncing up over the rail, carrying sand and grit onto the balcony windows.
Ian looked down at Clara. She was crying. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down the sides of her face into her ears.
"What...?" Ian began. She turned her face away from him, twisted out from under his body. "Clara!" he called, but she didn't hesitate. Picking up a robe from the chair she left the room. The door, blown by the wind or pulled by her hand he couldn't tell, slammed shut behind her.
Ian lay on the bed, on his back, staring at the ceiling. His still-hard member deflated slowly against his thigh. Rain lashed against the glass, drowning out any other sound. Dashing his conflicted thoughts. Then, as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped. The sun breached the thunderclouds and shone hotly down on the sodden scene. The balcony steamed.
He lifted himself up on his elbow and stared through the open balcony door. Autumn colours had already begun to tinge the leaves, many of which now littered the deck. Another gust of wind released a further handful, which fluttered down in front of him, their transient flaming beauty only a symbol of their death and the death of another year.
Friday, October 12, 2012
100TWC - Day 77: Memories
The old woman stood bedside Rebecca as she waved goodbye to her parents. The child seemed cheery enough for now, but eight hours lay ahead of them before her daughter and son-in-law would return and she wondered how on Earth she could fill them for the girl. Lunch, certainly. Afternoon tea. Some crayoning. But then what?
"Will they be gone long?" Rebecca asked.
"All day I'm afraid my dear," she replied. "It takes at least two hours to get to where they're going, and they'll be there all afternoon. What would you like to do? I have some colouring books. Or we could watch some TV?"
The girl's face creased in deep thought. Then her eyes lit up.
"Can we look in the old chest?"
The old woman laughed in surprise. That was the last thing she expected.
"Why, yes. If you'd really like to."
"Oh yes, I really would."
"Come on then. Don't you want a drink before we start?"
"Maybe later. I'm OK for now."
They climbed the rickety old stairs with their threadbare carpet and their old dog smell, still lingering even though Jed had been gone almost a year. The door to the back bedroom creaked as she pushed it open.
"I really must oil that," she said, half to herself.
"Oh, no! Don't Granny," Rebecca said. "It makes it more creepy when the hinges creak like that."
The woman walked stiffly over to the wardrobe, her legs still complaining after the climb. She pulled an old tin strongbox from the bottom of the hanging space, carried it over to the bed and sat down beside it. Rebecca jumped onto the bed on the other side, threatening to tip the box onto the floor.
"Careful!" the old woman cried. "The things in here are precious!"
Rebecca looked aghast. "Sorry Grandma," she said, staring at the floor.
"Never mind," said the woman. "No harm done." She unlocked the box, the small silver key turning easily in the well-worn lock.
Inside, an eclectic mix of ancient and treasured possessions lay tidily. Some wrapped in old yellowed tissue paper, or pages of The Times from years gone by. Others were uncovered, but each had been placed with care so as not to rub against a neighbour or crush something more fragile beneath. Rebecca picked up a small, gold framed mirror from the top of the assortment.
"What's this?"
"Oh, that was my grandmother's!" the old woman exclaimed. "I used to call her Mammy, because that's what my mother called her and when I was young I didn't know any better. Later it kind of stuck. It's a dressing table mirror."
"What's a dressing table?"
"You call them lowboys," the woman replied, "and these days they usually have big mirrors standing up at the back. Like a little table with drawers in the front. You have them in bedrooms for keeping your toiletries and make-up, that kind of thing."
"I know. Mum's got one. But this is so small."
"Mirrors were expensive in those days. Only rich people could afford mirrors the size of tables."
Rebecca stared at herself in the mirror. "I'm going to be rich one day."
"Me too," said her grandmother.
"What's this?" asked Rebecca, setting down the mirror and retrieving a small green glass jug from the corner of the strongbox.
"It's a green glass jug," replied the woman, smiling.
"I know that, silly," Rebecca giggled. "I mean where's it from? Whose is it?"
"It's mine, and I've had it since my very first holiday in 1947."
"Wow! That's ages ago!"
"It doesn't seem so long ago to me," the old woman said, taking the jug from the girl and holding it up to the light. "It's hand-painted look, all these flowers and fronds. The war hadn't been over long and my Father had only been back from overseas for a little while. We all went to the sea-side. It was the first time I'd ever seen the sea. First time I'd ever been anywhere except our town."
"How old were you?"
"Eight."
"Wow. When I was eight I'd already been to France and Spain and Disneyland AND Mexico."
"Yes, well travel wasn't as common back then. Ordinary people didn't fly much. We were lucky to be able to take a train to the coast. Rationing was still going in 1947."
"What's rationing?"
"I'll tell you later."
Rebecca started rummaging in the box.
"Careful!" her grandmother reminded her.
"WOW!" Rebecca exclaimed as she unearthed a tooled brass and enamelled incense burner. "What's THIS?"
"That's something my Father brought back with him from the war," the woman said. "It's from Turkey."
"What's it for?"
"You use it to burn incense - special oils or blocks that give off a nice smell."
"Can we light it?"
"Will they be gone long?" Rebecca asked.
"All day I'm afraid my dear," she replied. "It takes at least two hours to get to where they're going, and they'll be there all afternoon. What would you like to do? I have some colouring books. Or we could watch some TV?"
The girl's face creased in deep thought. Then her eyes lit up.
"Can we look in the old chest?"
The old woman laughed in surprise. That was the last thing she expected.
"Why, yes. If you'd really like to."
"Oh yes, I really would."
"Come on then. Don't you want a drink before we start?"
"Maybe later. I'm OK for now."
They climbed the rickety old stairs with their threadbare carpet and their old dog smell, still lingering even though Jed had been gone almost a year. The door to the back bedroom creaked as she pushed it open.
"I really must oil that," she said, half to herself.
"Oh, no! Don't Granny," Rebecca said. "It makes it more creepy when the hinges creak like that."
The woman walked stiffly over to the wardrobe, her legs still complaining after the climb. She pulled an old tin strongbox from the bottom of the hanging space, carried it over to the bed and sat down beside it. Rebecca jumped onto the bed on the other side, threatening to tip the box onto the floor.
"Careful!" the old woman cried. "The things in here are precious!"
Rebecca looked aghast. "Sorry Grandma," she said, staring at the floor.
"Never mind," said the woman. "No harm done." She unlocked the box, the small silver key turning easily in the well-worn lock.
Inside, an eclectic mix of ancient and treasured possessions lay tidily. Some wrapped in old yellowed tissue paper, or pages of The Times from years gone by. Others were uncovered, but each had been placed with care so as not to rub against a neighbour or crush something more fragile beneath. Rebecca picked up a small, gold framed mirror from the top of the assortment.
"What's this?"
"Oh, that was my grandmother's!" the old woman exclaimed. "I used to call her Mammy, because that's what my mother called her and when I was young I didn't know any better. Later it kind of stuck. It's a dressing table mirror."
"What's a dressing table?"
"You call them lowboys," the woman replied, "and these days they usually have big mirrors standing up at the back. Like a little table with drawers in the front. You have them in bedrooms for keeping your toiletries and make-up, that kind of thing."
"I know. Mum's got one. But this is so small."
"Mirrors were expensive in those days. Only rich people could afford mirrors the size of tables."
Rebecca stared at herself in the mirror. "I'm going to be rich one day."
"Me too," said her grandmother.
"What's this?" asked Rebecca, setting down the mirror and retrieving a small green glass jug from the corner of the strongbox.
"It's a green glass jug," replied the woman, smiling.
"I know that, silly," Rebecca giggled. "I mean where's it from? Whose is it?"
"It's mine, and I've had it since my very first holiday in 1947."
"Wow! That's ages ago!"
"It doesn't seem so long ago to me," the old woman said, taking the jug from the girl and holding it up to the light. "It's hand-painted look, all these flowers and fronds. The war hadn't been over long and my Father had only been back from overseas for a little while. We all went to the sea-side. It was the first time I'd ever seen the sea. First time I'd ever been anywhere except our town."
"How old were you?"
"Eight."
"Wow. When I was eight I'd already been to France and Spain and Disneyland AND Mexico."
"Yes, well travel wasn't as common back then. Ordinary people didn't fly much. We were lucky to be able to take a train to the coast. Rationing was still going in 1947."
"What's rationing?"
"I'll tell you later."
Rebecca started rummaging in the box.
"Careful!" her grandmother reminded her.
"WOW!" Rebecca exclaimed as she unearthed a tooled brass and enamelled incense burner. "What's THIS?"
"That's something my Father brought back with him from the war," the woman said. "It's from Turkey."
"What's it for?"
"You use it to burn incense - special oils or blocks that give off a nice smell."
"Can we light it?"
Thursday, October 11, 2012
100TWC - Day 76: Summer Haze
Joe slapped his arm, squashing another midge. In a few hours he'd be forced to take cover inside the house. The annoying little black flies would begin to swarm as the day cooled towards evening and for some reason his blood smelled sweeter than most to them.
For now, it was just the odd one or two, and Joe wasn't about to let them spoil his enjoyment of this glorious day. The last summer that he would have as a free man. Or at least, that's how he saw it. Freedom from the college work he had left a few weeks behind him. Freedom from the working life he was about to begin, still at least a few weeks in front of him.
He reached for his glass and let out an small, involuntary moan on remembering that he'd finished it only a few minutes before. He leaned over to lay his book on the grass, picked up the empty, still-cold glass, and walked inside. The air in the kitchen was still. A pair of house flies circled the light in eccentric orbits, almost colliding, avoiding, spinning. Always keeping the bulb in the approximate centre of their gyrations; never quite landing on it.
He refilled his glass and dropped in the remaining three ice cubes, pausing to listen to their familiar cracks and schisms before refilling the tray and replacing it in his old freezer, which hissed and wheezed in its efforts to defeat the heat of the day.
Outside, a heavy haze hung over the distant fields. Joe stood, glass in hand, staring out at the open country. Only the nearest details were visible. The further away he looked, the more indistinct the trees and haystacks became, outlines only, hints of shapes, suggestions of possibilities, until finally they disappeared altogether under the weight of summer.
It was like looking through time, Joe thought suddenly. Like a life stretching out in front of him, instead of a simple pastoral scene. The nearest objects were the things he knew were coming. Interviews. A week's holiday with mates in the Algarve. Fiona's birthday. A little further away, the months were indistinct. Possibility of... developments... in his relationship with Fiona. A new job. Travel, maybe. He still hadn't really made up his mind whether to stay in the UK or work abroad. The scene was painted with a broad brush. An impressionist's rendition of things to come, unfinished and with details and highlights yet to be added. He couldn't even see the horizon. That far away the future was a foreign land. What had they called it in that film Brian loved so much? The Undiscovered Country, that was it.
He was seized by a sudden urge to run through the field. To grasp the future and make it reveal its hazy secrets. To blaze a path through the mysteries and know. If only it were that simple. That sylvan, vaporous future that lay before him was separated from the now by more than a briar hedge. There was nothing for it but to wait and see. He laughed at the phrase, one of his father's favourites. His Dad had loved a good mystery, and there was nothing more unknown than the future. He stood on the edge of the fields and on the brink of his life and at that moment, he didn't feel free any more. His hand ached from holding the ice-cold glass for so long. He took a long, head-splitting drink of juice. His freedom was an illusion. He couldn't remain here, in the garden, in the sun. The ice would melt in his drink. The sun would set. The garden would die into winter. And Joe would travel into that future, whatever it was, with no more choice than anyone else.
A cloud passed over the sun. The hazy scene dimmed. Joe turned back toward the house and left the garden.
For now, it was just the odd one or two, and Joe wasn't about to let them spoil his enjoyment of this glorious day. The last summer that he would have as a free man. Or at least, that's how he saw it. Freedom from the college work he had left a few weeks behind him. Freedom from the working life he was about to begin, still at least a few weeks in front of him.
He reached for his glass and let out an small, involuntary moan on remembering that he'd finished it only a few minutes before. He leaned over to lay his book on the grass, picked up the empty, still-cold glass, and walked inside. The air in the kitchen was still. A pair of house flies circled the light in eccentric orbits, almost colliding, avoiding, spinning. Always keeping the bulb in the approximate centre of their gyrations; never quite landing on it.
He refilled his glass and dropped in the remaining three ice cubes, pausing to listen to their familiar cracks and schisms before refilling the tray and replacing it in his old freezer, which hissed and wheezed in its efforts to defeat the heat of the day.
Outside, a heavy haze hung over the distant fields. Joe stood, glass in hand, staring out at the open country. Only the nearest details were visible. The further away he looked, the more indistinct the trees and haystacks became, outlines only, hints of shapes, suggestions of possibilities, until finally they disappeared altogether under the weight of summer.
It was like looking through time, Joe thought suddenly. Like a life stretching out in front of him, instead of a simple pastoral scene. The nearest objects were the things he knew were coming. Interviews. A week's holiday with mates in the Algarve. Fiona's birthday. A little further away, the months were indistinct. Possibility of... developments... in his relationship with Fiona. A new job. Travel, maybe. He still hadn't really made up his mind whether to stay in the UK or work abroad. The scene was painted with a broad brush. An impressionist's rendition of things to come, unfinished and with details and highlights yet to be added. He couldn't even see the horizon. That far away the future was a foreign land. What had they called it in that film Brian loved so much? The Undiscovered Country, that was it.
He was seized by a sudden urge to run through the field. To grasp the future and make it reveal its hazy secrets. To blaze a path through the mysteries and know. If only it were that simple. That sylvan, vaporous future that lay before him was separated from the now by more than a briar hedge. There was nothing for it but to wait and see. He laughed at the phrase, one of his father's favourites. His Dad had loved a good mystery, and there was nothing more unknown than the future. He stood on the edge of the fields and on the brink of his life and at that moment, he didn't feel free any more. His hand ached from holding the ice-cold glass for so long. He took a long, head-splitting drink of juice. His freedom was an illusion. He couldn't remain here, in the garden, in the sun. The ice would melt in his drink. The sun would set. The garden would die into winter. And Joe would travel into that future, whatever it was, with no more choice than anyone else.
A cloud passed over the sun. The hazy scene dimmed. Joe turned back toward the house and left the garden.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
100TWC - Day 75: Shadows
Geoff, Randolph and Narsi sat staring at each other through the blue fug that filled Nightowls Den. It was a garden shed really, but to them it was their den. A secret place for secret things. Geoff passed the spliff to Rand.
"Are we gonna wait all day?"
"They'll be here. Chill."
"Who are we waiting for?" asked Narsi, who had only moved to the street the week before and not yet experienced a full meeting of the Nightowls.
Rand exhaled, adding another plume to the thick atmosphere in the den. "Pete said he wouldn't be here for the tales. He's coming across later. But Ned should be here by now."
The shed door opened as Rand finished speaking and Ned entered.
"Sorry. Sorry. Mum had me putting ALL the groceries away before I could get a pass," he said. He fell into a corner of their broken down sofa and let out a sigh of total satisfaction and relaxation. "But I'm here now, and I need a pull."
He held out his hand, and Rand passed over the joint.
"Is it story time?" he said before taking a massive toke.
"Yeah. Let's make it a good one. It's Narsi's first time. This is Narsi, by the way.
Ned waved, still holding his breath. Narsi smiled and turned to Geoff. "You've not said much about these tales," he began.
Geoff interrupted him. "Telling tales about the tales is verboten," he wagged his finger. "You have to hear the tale to get the full effect. Anything else violates the 'Owls code."
"Whose turn is it?" asked Rand.
"Mine," gasped Ned, exhaling at last.
"That's why we were waiting," Geoff explained to Narsi. "We take it in turns."
Rand stood to draw the blackout blinds on the two small windows while Geoff lit a single tea-light and set it on the small table in the centre of the floor. Drafts from under the door set the light flickering. Shadows danced around the pine walls.
"Perfect lighting for the story I'm about to tell you," Ned began, lowering his voice and adopting a traditional Vincent Price graveyard tone, "because it is about shadows."
The others settled themselves into their seats. Rand extinguished the weed.
"Since a time before time," Ned went on, "our earliest forebears have known that shadows are not what they seem to be. It's true that demons and ghouls seek out dark places. They can often be found lurking in shadows and corners. But those shadows in which they hide are static. They are cast by buildings, or artefacts. Things that have never lived or walked the Earth. They are merely the absence of light. Umbra and penumbra are they, and they hold no terrors of themselves, only by association with the things that hide within them."
Another light breath of wind under the door made the tea light gutter once again. A tree branch scraped against the wall outside. Everyone jumped.
"What our forebears knew," said Ned, warming to his story, "but which has passed out of memory for all but the fewest scholars of the arcana, is that there exist a race of beings with souls blacker than the blackest night. In ancient times they were named the Umbrae, and it is only in relatively recent times that they have given their name to the ordinary shadows that we see around us today."
With a dramatic flourish, Ned swept his hand around the interior, indicating the quivering shadows from the tea light.
"The Umbrae, whose name used to strike dread at its very utterance, do not hide in shadows. They inhabit them. They take them over. These darkest of the spirits from the underworld can use the shadows of living creatures to wield unspeakable evil, wresting control of them from their owners to enter our world for their own ends. Once inside the shadow of a man, they can go wherever he goes, hear whatever he is listening to, influence his mind and those of his friends, with only one purpose in their stygian souls: to perform evil works. To maim and wound, kill and torture, fetch the horrors of the deep and visit them on our world, when we least expect it, and in ways it is impossible to defend against.
"Who would believe us? Children cower in their beds at the shadows in their rooms--"
The door of the shed burst open. Haloed by the bright orange light of the setting sun which streamed across the garden from the West, Pete stood in the doorway, his arms braced against the door posts, his baseball cap twisted sideways on his head.
"So, are we staying here or shall we go shoot some pool?"
The others didn't move. They were staring in transfixed terror at the floor. Pete was standing completely still, but on the smooth wooden boards of the shed floor, his shadow was moving.
"Are we gonna wait all day?"
"They'll be here. Chill."
"Who are we waiting for?" asked Narsi, who had only moved to the street the week before and not yet experienced a full meeting of the Nightowls.
Rand exhaled, adding another plume to the thick atmosphere in the den. "Pete said he wouldn't be here for the tales. He's coming across later. But Ned should be here by now."
The shed door opened as Rand finished speaking and Ned entered.
"Sorry. Sorry. Mum had me putting ALL the groceries away before I could get a pass," he said. He fell into a corner of their broken down sofa and let out a sigh of total satisfaction and relaxation. "But I'm here now, and I need a pull."
He held out his hand, and Rand passed over the joint.
"Is it story time?" he said before taking a massive toke.
"Yeah. Let's make it a good one. It's Narsi's first time. This is Narsi, by the way.
Ned waved, still holding his breath. Narsi smiled and turned to Geoff. "You've not said much about these tales," he began.
Geoff interrupted him. "Telling tales about the tales is verboten," he wagged his finger. "You have to hear the tale to get the full effect. Anything else violates the 'Owls code."
"Whose turn is it?" asked Rand.
"Mine," gasped Ned, exhaling at last.
"That's why we were waiting," Geoff explained to Narsi. "We take it in turns."
Rand stood to draw the blackout blinds on the two small windows while Geoff lit a single tea-light and set it on the small table in the centre of the floor. Drafts from under the door set the light flickering. Shadows danced around the pine walls.
"Perfect lighting for the story I'm about to tell you," Ned began, lowering his voice and adopting a traditional Vincent Price graveyard tone, "because it is about shadows."
The others settled themselves into their seats. Rand extinguished the weed.
"Since a time before time," Ned went on, "our earliest forebears have known that shadows are not what they seem to be. It's true that demons and ghouls seek out dark places. They can often be found lurking in shadows and corners. But those shadows in which they hide are static. They are cast by buildings, or artefacts. Things that have never lived or walked the Earth. They are merely the absence of light. Umbra and penumbra are they, and they hold no terrors of themselves, only by association with the things that hide within them."
Another light breath of wind under the door made the tea light gutter once again. A tree branch scraped against the wall outside. Everyone jumped.
"What our forebears knew," said Ned, warming to his story, "but which has passed out of memory for all but the fewest scholars of the arcana, is that there exist a race of beings with souls blacker than the blackest night. In ancient times they were named the Umbrae, and it is only in relatively recent times that they have given their name to the ordinary shadows that we see around us today."
With a dramatic flourish, Ned swept his hand around the interior, indicating the quivering shadows from the tea light.
"The Umbrae, whose name used to strike dread at its very utterance, do not hide in shadows. They inhabit them. They take them over. These darkest of the spirits from the underworld can use the shadows of living creatures to wield unspeakable evil, wresting control of them from their owners to enter our world for their own ends. Once inside the shadow of a man, they can go wherever he goes, hear whatever he is listening to, influence his mind and those of his friends, with only one purpose in their stygian souls: to perform evil works. To maim and wound, kill and torture, fetch the horrors of the deep and visit them on our world, when we least expect it, and in ways it is impossible to defend against.
"Who would believe us? Children cower in their beds at the shadows in their rooms--"
The door of the shed burst open. Haloed by the bright orange light of the setting sun which streamed across the garden from the West, Pete stood in the doorway, his arms braced against the door posts, his baseball cap twisted sideways on his head.
"So, are we staying here or shall we go shoot some pool?"
The others didn't move. They were staring in transfixed terror at the floor. Pete was standing completely still, but on the smooth wooden boards of the shed floor, his shadow was moving.
Tuesday, October 09, 2012
100TWC - Day 74: Midnight
Even at this hour the air was still warm. Not the blisteringly unbearable heat of the day, and still warmer than the summer days he'd spent at university in England, but a comfortable, blanket-soft, enveloping warmth. A warmth that was tangible on the skin if one was to wave one's hand in the air.
He waved his hand to test the thought. Yes, he was right. A camel grunted from across the oasis. He folded his hand back under his cloak. A wisp of smoke from the dying camp fire curled across his face, bringing the pungent odour of goat's meat and spices mixed in with the dark, dry, powdery smell of the charcoal. He stared into the fire, watching the embers flash and sparkle, the last flames chasing their lost companions across the glowing redness of the remaining wood into the grey ash beneath.
His belly was still full from the meal, still keeping him awake with its grumbling. He didn't mind. This was one of his favourite times, and one of his favourite places. The palm fronds above him cast a black-on-black shadow across the sky, though as a sometime artist he knew the sky wasn't absolutely black. Not the black of his bisht. It was more of an exceedingly deep purple. He stared at it now, through the palms. It was like an enormous soft billowing pincushion. Countless pins had been stuck in the cushion in random patterns and groups which men through the ages had tried to understand or interpret. Or tried to impose on them meanings that they couldn't possibly have. An educated man like himself knew that even stars that appeared to be close neighbours could be separated by huge distances in space and time, the light from one taking millions of years longer to reach his eyes than that from the very next.
Across this blackest of nights, across his poetically imagined pincushion, the great maker had spilled a jug of milk. The pale luminescence of its trail washed from one horizon to the other, a path of light for the gods to tread. There was no distracting moon to dim the beauty of the heavens with its flaring reflected sunlight tonight. All was calm, serene, dark and comforting. As he stared and his eyes completed their adaptation from the fiery glow of the camp fire, more stars and yet more seemed to appear out of nowhere. The canopy was ablaze with pinpoints. So many stars. So much time.
The vastness overwhelmed him. The billions of visible stars in the celestial path of his own galaxy, and the billions more points of light that were really other galaxies, each containing their own billions. On how many planets, circling how many stars, was a man lying on a desert floor staring back at him across the light years and the millennia, wondering if he existed?
A shooting star flashed across the dark above him, its brightness searing a white streak in his dark-adapted eyes. As soon as it appeared it was gone, a fleeting scintilla of conflagration. A beautiful destruction. A chaotic and inevitable death for a random piece of the universe trapped in the Earth's gravity well. Sometimes, he thought ruefully, a scientific education could be a barrier to an artist's appreciation of the world's glamour. Any other tribesman would simply have made a wish, or made the sign of the Hamsa to ward off any evil.
He waved his hand to test the thought. Yes, he was right. A camel grunted from across the oasis. He folded his hand back under his cloak. A wisp of smoke from the dying camp fire curled across his face, bringing the pungent odour of goat's meat and spices mixed in with the dark, dry, powdery smell of the charcoal. He stared into the fire, watching the embers flash and sparkle, the last flames chasing their lost companions across the glowing redness of the remaining wood into the grey ash beneath.
His belly was still full from the meal, still keeping him awake with its grumbling. He didn't mind. This was one of his favourite times, and one of his favourite places. The palm fronds above him cast a black-on-black shadow across the sky, though as a sometime artist he knew the sky wasn't absolutely black. Not the black of his bisht. It was more of an exceedingly deep purple. He stared at it now, through the palms. It was like an enormous soft billowing pincushion. Countless pins had been stuck in the cushion in random patterns and groups which men through the ages had tried to understand or interpret. Or tried to impose on them meanings that they couldn't possibly have. An educated man like himself knew that even stars that appeared to be close neighbours could be separated by huge distances in space and time, the light from one taking millions of years longer to reach his eyes than that from the very next.
Across this blackest of nights, across his poetically imagined pincushion, the great maker had spilled a jug of milk. The pale luminescence of its trail washed from one horizon to the other, a path of light for the gods to tread. There was no distracting moon to dim the beauty of the heavens with its flaring reflected sunlight tonight. All was calm, serene, dark and comforting. As he stared and his eyes completed their adaptation from the fiery glow of the camp fire, more stars and yet more seemed to appear out of nowhere. The canopy was ablaze with pinpoints. So many stars. So much time.
The vastness overwhelmed him. The billions of visible stars in the celestial path of his own galaxy, and the billions more points of light that were really other galaxies, each containing their own billions. On how many planets, circling how many stars, was a man lying on a desert floor staring back at him across the light years and the millennia, wondering if he existed?
A shooting star flashed across the dark above him, its brightness searing a white streak in his dark-adapted eyes. As soon as it appeared it was gone, a fleeting scintilla of conflagration. A beautiful destruction. A chaotic and inevitable death for a random piece of the universe trapped in the Earth's gravity well. Sometimes, he thought ruefully, a scientific education could be a barrier to an artist's appreciation of the world's glamour. Any other tribesman would simply have made a wish, or made the sign of the Hamsa to ward off any evil.
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