Tag: short story

Home Visit

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Susan found herself anxiously cleaning the loungeroom again.

Her fear of being discovered only slightly outweighed her fear of becoming a pathetic anecdote. She knew the appointment was a stupid idea, but in equal measure she did not believe that she was a stupid person. So, she cleaned the room until she was certain it would meet the standards of an operating theatre.

It was only a few injections, anyway. She did not think much could go wrong from something so small. Also, it was an early birthday present and she deserved it. Something about the looming spectre of turning 30 had made her brave enough to research Botox injections in her area, but not brave enough to risk being seen walking into one of the over-bright receptions. So she had made an appointment at 1pm, the week before her 30th birthday to get rid of some encroaching crows feet and to smooth away her smile-lines.

She was assured over the phone that the results would be subtle enough that no one at her upcoming birthday party would notice. They were, in fact, reassuring about everything except for her natural looks. The photo she sent them, of an objectively beautiful woman, was torn apart as they listed the sites that needed injections.

It was 12:40 when the doorbell rang. Susan was surprised that they were early, but hurried to the door. A woman stood before her, dark hair pulled back into a bun so tight that Susan could not tell if it or medical intervention were responsible for the tautness of the woman’s face. She wore a white smock, white gloves and a white mask over her mouth. She held a white briefcase by her side, with a large red cross on it.

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Impact

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The world is going to end today and most people are ready.

The announcement was made almost a year ago. News anchors who could not keep an even tone reported that the asteroid was on a direct course and would hit the planet. The impact would not be survivable. The world went mad within days.

There was not as much madcap crime as some would think. Some people definitely gave into baser urges, enjoying the immunity to long-term consequences, but this was culled by the lack of consequences for revenge.

The madness was much quieter. For the most part, apathy became the norm. To an onlooker, the population largely followed the same schedule they always had. Public transport still shepherded many to and from work. Most businesses stayed open and whatever hours a person could spend deep in work were a relief from the pressure of their own thoughts.

Churches flourished, including countless new ones, hastily built and manned. Any pre-existing doomsday cult that had posited a date around the projected arrival of the asteroid found sudden popularity. It was estimated that around 20 percent of the world’s population joined one of these, meaning that at least one fifth of the world eagerly awaited the asteroid’s arrival.

When the day finally arrived, most people stayed inside. It was better to drink, to listen to music, to sleep, to talk, to do anything other than wait.

Those who had eagerly awaited judgement day stood outside, watching as the asteroid became visible to the naked eye. They waited eagerly for hours as it approached. They continued staring as it did not quite match the projected angle. Unblinking, tear streaming, they saw the asteroid miss completely.

Around the world, one fifth of the population come to the unanimous and simultaneous decision, unknown to the terrified majority: the end of the world is today, and we are willing to put in the work.

A Select Audience

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Joseph had studied piano since he was old enough to reach the keys. He could read sheet music before he could read letters and spent more hours playing the piano than he had spent in the sun.

His father had been strict. He demanded perfection from his son, to make use of the opportunity he had been denied. His father often told him about his own dreams of playing music and of the unexpected pregnancy and marriage that required he turn to harsher work. Work that had ruined his hands through repetition and strain.

He had never managed to play to the level his father demanded. He endured the repercussions and tried to focus on playing well enough to avoid his father’s ire.

Joseph was almost a grown man when he spent his first night out with friends. His father was away for a funeral and his mother encouraged him to take one night for himself.

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A Midnight Stroll

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It had happened every night that week. George’s new pet would scratch at the bedroom door until it was opened, then jump up and run circles on the bed until he got up and fetched the leash. Fido’s wilfulness would always outlast his and he would eventually comply.

It never wanted to go for a walk in the daytime, it was always the middle of the night. George did not bother getting dressed, simply putting on slippers and a hoodie over his pyjamas in the dark. He knew none of his neighbours would see him. Fido always found a path devoid of other pedestrians.

The streetlights went out as Fido entered their radius, popping back on as they walked past their reach. George followed the shadow of his spoiled pet, enjoying the way its blurred form trotted. He could never quite make out the shape at the end of the leash, always meaning to put the light on at home to get a better look. He never remembered to do so.

Eventually, Fido led him back to his home. George did not turn the lights on, simply unhooking the leash and putting it beside the door. Fido trotted happily towards the bedroom, jumping up onto the bed expectantly. George crawled back under the covers, sliding his feet down so that Fido could curl up against them. He smiled as he rubbed what he thought was his pet’s back with his feet, feeling the contented noises reverberating through the mattress. There was no skin or bones to Fido, but he liked the attention all the same.

The next morning, George awoke well-rested. As he made his way out the front door, he wondered why he had a leash on the table beside his keys, then dismissed it. He wondered the same thing every morning that week.

A Writer’s Circle

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Feedback welcome!

He had thought it would help his writing to join a writer’s circle.

Alan had been sitting on his first draft for months, terrified that there would be more work in editing the thing than there had been in writing it. He had basked in the pride of having written an entire story and couldn’t bare having to cut away pieces or to reshape it. As he walked towards the apartment block with a printed copy of his first chapter, he hoped they would not have many notes for him. Surely they would at least go easy on him for the first week?

It had been difficult to find this group. They had actually advertised in the newspaper of all places. Even to someone who bragged to his barista (who knew his order by heart) about writing a crime novel, it seemed pretentious. However, he had needed to find the right audience for his work and the ad reading “crime writers meeting – serious interest only” had given him a good impression. After he sent the listed email address his first chapter, he had quickly received an invitation to the meeting.

It seemed odd to invite a stranger to an apartment, rather than vetting them in public first, but he assumed the group outnumbering him made them feel that there was no danger. He supposed the real risk was to him, but he carried a pocketknife just in case. Not that he thought it would come to that.

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An Idea

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I had an idea last night.

It was a terrible, dark idea. I woke in darkness and mumbled it to myself as a question before I had processed the actual words. Once said out loud, it had a presence, it was part of reality. It was in the room with me.

I had felt it bubbling at the edge of my mind for months, as though I were perpetually on the verge of some horrible realisation. It made my coworkers stop talking to me and it was the reason my bed was empty last night. I was thankful for that as I stumbled into the hallway, closing the door behind me.

I sat in the dark hallway, pressed against my door. I could feel something pressing back on the other side, seeking a way out into the world.

I must have fallen asleep, because it was morning when I finally opened the door to my empty bedroom. I had left my window cracked open and apparently that was all it had needed to escape.

I stare outside and think about how fast an idea can spread.

Growth

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Alan’s parents measured his height every week.

Standing against the doorframe he often tried to shrink down and away from the pencil. Despite one of his parents holding his shoulders and pulling him to his full height while the other marked the wood, he still tried his old trick. It had stopped working months ago, when they noticed his lack of progress towards the carved line in the wood.

The line was carved deeply into the wooden frame. Despite being covered in layers of paint, it was still visible when he was marched towards it. It was carved at the exact height of Alan’s parents. The two of them had the exact same height, the same weight, and there were days that Alan could have sworn that features and marks on one parent would be on the other hours later.

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Excursion

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It is protocol to send the food first, before the passenger.

The appropriate food is placed on the platform. After five seconds it will disappear and it is very, very important to wait for confirmation from the other side that it has arrived and a report as to its condition. If the food does not appear at the other end, you must send more.

It is only safe to have the passenger step onto the platform when the destination platform receives more an item of food that is more than 75% untouched. It means that they are full.

The passenger must be transported once the recipient facility reports this condition has been met.  The window of time thereafter is not very long, a lesson learned quickly, if punitively. The hunger will always return.

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A Shared History (Part 2)

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Part 2 is a lot longer than intended, but I didn’t want to split it into 3 parts

 

There was a shoe rack beside the front door and a table with keys on the other side. There were stairs directly ahead and two doors on either side of the hall.

He walked through the left door, confident with his knowledge of the house’s layout, into the loungeroom. Only the back wall showed damage, although the smoke would have not made this a safe place during the fire. He had analysed the information and come to the conclusion that there was no space that would have guaranteed safety in the house, anyone inside would have had to leave through the front door. Falling asleep in front of the television would not have save the woman who lived here.

He continued through the open doorway to the kitchen. It was much darker here, the back wall having largely collapsed. He peeked around, trying to find the source of the fire. The reports indicated that it had been an electrical fire, but he needed to know for himself so that he could accurately piece together the events.

The shelving on the right wall had been burned away. From the charring on the wall below, he deduced that the electrical socket on the wall beside the fridge had started the fire. He took only a few steps into the wall, staying under largely undamaged ceiling. He turned in a circle, his torch focusing on the highest point of the walls. He found what he was looking for above the doorway he had just come through. The smoke alarm.

He dragged a footstool from the loungeroom to the doorway and began to prise it from its holder.  With his feet sinking into the soft cushion, he could not quite get the height he needed. He leaned up onto his toes, the hand holding the torch pressed against the doorframe for balance. It was hard to twist the smoke alarm one handed, so he turned off the torch and put it on the footstool and blindly gripped it with both hands. The moment it clicked, he heard a noise from the entrance to the house and fell, the alarm thrown from his hands as he reached to catch himself. He landed on the charcoal smeared floor of the kitchen.  He quickly grabbed for the torch, pressing the lit end against his belly to smother it as he fumbled with the switch. The moment it was off, he froze and listened.

It would be so easy for someone to think that loud creaks were simply the house settling. He couldn’t have been that loud and he was sure that he had not screamed as he fell.

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A Shared History (Part 1)

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Ian considered himself an amateur historian. His area of interest was niche, but he spent many dark nights indulging his hobby.

He would find places of tragedy, whose last inhabitants had died in accidents there. He studied them as much as possible: blueprints, photographs, newspaper reports and even eyewitness interviews when he could. He would wait until night, then spend hours touring through the rotten interiors of once homely spaces. Once he was certain that the space lined up with his expectation, he would sit in silent judgement of the former inhabitants.

He would meditate in the most pertinent space with a torch, picturing the deaths and mistakes unfolding around him until the battery would die in his hand. It was calming to him, outwitting tragedy through his calm reasoning. He found it soothing in a way that nothing else in his life was.

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