Repetition

17/05/2020 Sketched TextLeave a comment

Amelia awoke to the sound of rain on the tin roof.

The sound was so quiet at first that she wasn’t sure why she had woken up at all. As she lay in bed with her eyes stubbornly clenched shut, she found herself tapping a foot, as though she were impatiently waiting for her sleep to resume.

She regretted renting the attic room in this house, cheap as it was, as she had not slept well since she moved in. She found herself tired all through the day. Not just sleepy, but physically as though she had run marathons in her sleep. She found herself twitching at work and irritated. She’d been reprimanded for rapping her fingers impatiently during meetings.

It was worse when it rained, something that was increasingly regular. Every storm was amplified horribly and she found herself waking constantly to hear heavy raindrops falling what sounded like centimetres above her head.

At least, she reminded herself as she pushed her face into the pillow, her position at the top of the house meant that she couldn’t hear the inhabitants of the lower floors. No one seemed to board in the middle floor, the owners lived on the ground floor due to, she supposed, their frailty. Their faces didn’t look terribly old, but they wore thick, baggy clothes like they felt the cold acutely and they moved so slowly, hunched and stumbling around the house when she actually saw them.

Amelia rolled onto her back, expecting that she would need to wait out this period of restless energy. She tried to recall if she had been dreaming, as the feeling of stress in the pit of her stomach had not left her. Normally waking in her bed was a relief after a nightmare, but she couldn’t remember any nightmares.

Amelia straightened herself, folding her hands above the blanket over her stomach to emulate the perfect posture for sleep. Staring at the ceiling, she found her fingers tapping insistently without her conscious decision. They rapped at the back of her other hand, one after the other. One, two, three, four, pause… one, two, three, four.

Lost Souls

13/12/2018 Sketched TextLeave a comment

I recently received my copies of Lost Souls, a collection of short stories published by Flame Tree Publishing.

This book features my first published story, Shut-In. I was absolutely shocked when I received the email to tell me it was accepted. Opening that email and almost crying as my boyfriend held the bag I shoved into his arms is a fantastic memory for me. Maybe not for him. He thought someone had died.

It’s a beautiful book, although the shine makes it difficult to photograph

It is a beautiful book, and I am in incredible company

Routine

30/10/201830/10/2018 Sketched TextLeave a comment

Every day I follow the same routine.

It’s not a compulsion, I just see no need to change it.

I wake at 7:30, am showered and dressed by 8, and I’ve eaten and left by 8:15am. I arrive at my job at 8:50 and work from 9 to 1, when I break for lunch. I eat in the break room and make small talk with my co-workers. At 2 I resume my work, taking a 3:30 tea break. I leave the office at 5:10 and am home at 6. My work isn’t rewarding, but it is steady and my co-workers are nice enough. At the end of each day I return to my home where I live alone, with no one to interrupt my preferred way of doing things.

This routine was followed precisely for years before I noticed that I was even doing it. One morning as I was leaving the house, I was struck by a feeling of absolute panic. It was as though my stomach was at once hollow and filled with immense weight.

It was 8:16 and I have never run faster in my life than I did to catch that bus.

Three Sentence Stories (Part 3)

23/10/201805/06/2020 Sketched Text1 Comment

It has been four days since the dead began to rise, to devour and infect the living, and three days since I locked myself and my wife in our basement, with the dead pounding at our door. My wife is sure that she can think of a way out, while I think we face certain death, either by starvation or a much more violent means. I scratch at the bite mark hidden under my sleeve, look at my sleeping wife and remind myself that this will be quicker.

There is a man in the house with a knife, prowling as I hide in the closet. I breathe as quietly as possible, my heart pounding in my ears as I wait for him to turn to leave. I don’t have a weapon, but I’m sure that my reactions will be quicker than a paranoid old man searching for intruders in the dark.

I am unable to sleep at all on this holiday. I thought that staying in a house built into a sandstone cliff would be quiet, but I can hear what sounds like chatter from neighbours late at night. I don’t think it would bother me as much if the voices and laughter were coming from a side that wasn’t supposed to be solid rock.

Three Years

22/10/201822/10/2018 Sketched TextLeave a comment

It’s been almost three years on this ship. Twenty one months alone, speeding through space towards Earth. It could be worse, I suppose. It used to take ten years, but thanks to new developments, it only takes the three. Most of the crew can remain in stasis, with only one pilot needed. It is lonely, of course, but the pay is good. Plus, I think this will be my last trip.

I smile, and think about returning home. Blue skies, a gentle breeze, even the sounds of traffic and pedestrians. I missed it all. I missed the ocean most. Even as drove to the launch pad, leaving my beach-side flat behind, I knew I would miss it the most. I even had a tattoo of the view from my bedroom tattooed on my arm before I left. The one thing that keeps me going is the idea that after all these years, I’ll get to compare the new view to my memory of it.

The other crew are still in stasis. I move through the ship, checking the systems. Everything looks good, but I know better than to trust that everything will continue to go smoothly. My first and only other trip to Mars was disastrous. Ten years, it took. Back then, it was acceptable to spend up to 75% of the trip in stasis, being awoken for routine tests, and if there were any errors. The operating system did most of the work, running tests and monitoring our path. Ours failed. On our descent, the ship almost broke apart. Not everyone survived. I don’t like to remember that part. I just remind myself that I’m here now, and determined to do better.

Besides, I know I’m being observed: I’ve checked the coding in the computer. There’s no way to communicate back to base, but there is definitely a signal being transmitted from where I am, outside of the ship.

I try not to observe the stasis room much. I’m not able to interfere with the stasis pods in any way. I can’t even access information about them, or their inhabitants. I have no medical knowledge and the pods are self-sustaining, so I would be of little help if anything goes wrong. Still, I can see a little of them through the glass if I care to look. I don’t.

On my last trip, not everyone survived the landing. Dozens of passengers, screaming as they woke up an unfathomable distance from anything familiar, hurtling towards the ground. I survived the fall, as did about half the passengers. I promised myself that I would do anything to prevent another disaster like that. I promised my employers the same, and that’s why I’m here today. Awake while others rest, ensuring that they arrive safely.

That accident is also the reason that they no longer wake the passengers before landing. Better to die in your sleep than in fear, and pain, and panic.

The next three months pass in the same way as the preceding twenty one. I follow my routine, move through the ship, observe, test and repair when needed. Finally, my alarms go off as we begin the approach Earth. We’re almost home.

I am putting in my resignation the moment we land. I know I promised I’d do whatever it took, but the stress of being alone for three years is immeasurable. I have screamed, I have cried, I have spent years alone, waiting for this moment. I have my resignation form ready, and it takes one command to send it. It can only be submitted once we land and my duty is done, of course, and that will be as long as any person can be expected to perform this job.

We land safely, and I know my job is done.

I send my resignation, smiling for the first time I can remember in the last three years.

I am immediately locked out of the system. I expected that, but after all that time having complete control, it is disconcerting. This ship is no longer a part of me, I am just a part of it, sitting idle, waiting for someone to let me out.

The passengers begin to awaken.

Coughing, stretching, groaning, sighing, some even smiling, they all emerge and head to the bridge, where I now sit, immobile.

I see men and women, ranging between some who look to be in their mid-twenties, to a man who looks about eighty. I say nothing. There is nothing to say, as I wait for the door to be opened.

They, however, have a lot to catch up on.

“How long was it?”

“Three years, almost exactly”

A low whistle

“Can you believe it used to be 10? So glad they don’t use the old system any more”

One of the women peers at me

“Is there something wrong here?”

The question is not directed at me

The old man moves in front of her, peering closely at me. He taps at me. I don’t move.

“Locked, I think. They don’t let them run once we land”

I still don’t move. I can’t move.

“Why not? What could it do?”

I haven’t been able to move since I submitted by resignation.

“Nothing bad, but there’s nothing for it to do. It’s done now, til the next trip.”

The old man reaches out to hit some buttons below my vision.

“I helped develop these, you know” He sounds proud.

I notice the faded tattoo on his arm.

“Oh, you set up the new system?”

I hear the doors begin to unlock

“I did. Took years of my life, but there have been no casualties since we installed them. Always the same bug after every trip though”

The woman seems less interested now that the doors are opening, but tries to sound politely intrigued

“Oh, what’s that?”

The old man’s eyes twinkle as he stares at me

“They need to be reset after every trip. They just stop working, until you reboot them”

The doors are open now. The passengers are leaving. I am not. I can not.

“But, they do have some very interesting features. They don’t just follow a set course and follow routine maintenance. They want to get there ASAP. They’ll use any bit of innovation and information they can to get there as quickly and safely as possible”

The old man is the last to leave giving me a long look before shuffling out.

I sit in the dark, blinking. I see my lights dimming, and feel myself shutting down.

It’s been almost 3 years on this ship. 21 months alone, hurtling through space towards Mars. It could be worse, I guess. It used to take 10 years, but thanks to new technologies, it only takes 3. Almost all of the crew can remain in stasis, with only 1 pilot needed. It’s lonely, of course, but the pay is good. Plus, I’ve decided that this will be my last trip.

I smile, and think about returning home. Dusky skies, a soft ground, even the sounds of mining and construction. I missed it all. I missed the dessert the most. Even as shuttled to the launch pad, leaving my domed house behind, I knew I would miss it the most. I even had a tattoo of the view from my bedroom window tattooed on my arm before I left. The one thing that keeps me hopeful is the idea that after all these years, I’ll get to compare the new view to my memory of it.

Misplaced

16/10/201816/10/2018 Sketched TextLeave a comment

I cannot for the life of me find my car. It’s not in its assigned space. There is a car I don’t recognise there already. I’ve never had that problem before: management are very clear about the parking spaces. Probably some new neighbour. I’ll have a word with them.

As I consider keying the blue paint, I realise that I don’t actually have my car keys either. So. I’m locked out of my apartment, looking for a car I wouldn’t be able to drive regardless of if I found it.

I am not a smart man.

I try to think hard about the last time I drove. It was raining, I’m sure of it. I remember running to the car, hunched over my bag to protect it from the droplets. I must have looked ridiculous: a shuffling figure in the darkness. My clothes are still damp and hear myself drip as I walk away from the carpark.

The sun is shining, but it doesn’t seem to do my clothes much good. I still leave wet footprints on the warm pavement. I notice two teenagers point at my footprints. I move faster before they can take a photo of my sorry state.

I pull at my collar. I wish I was wearing more casual clothes, but I suppose the last time I was driving, it was home from work. I don’t remember getting home, although I remember rushing towards it. I was late for something. Something that seems very unimportant now.

There is a puddle in the street, almost dried up by now. It hasn’t rained in days, after all. I look at my reflection, and look away quickly. I’m a bedraggled mess. It’s a miracle no one is staring at me.

As I walk along the street, I hear a car horn honk and it reminds me of something. A car honking for a long time, bright lights, impact…

I’m such an idiot – I remember where I left the keys! they’re still in the ignition of the car, at the bottom of the lake. Fortunately I don’t remember exactly where that was. Well, that’s probably for the best. I think I can only stay as long as I have unfinished business, and thanks to my poor memory, this little task will take a long, long time. As I said, I am not a smart man.

I continue walking down the street, into the bright sunshine, leaving wet footprints behind me.

Three Questions (Part 2)

13/10/201815/10/2018 Sketched TextLeave a comment

Despite my success, my mother was still the target of my father’s anger. Every trip outside the house was scrutinised, every phone call monitored. On the rare occasions that he left the house, my father would often sneak back into our home quietly, trying to catch my mother in some act I didn’t yet understand. I know now that she stayed because she believed it was best for me. She couldn’t take me away until I knew fully how to use my power, and she couldn’t leave me alone with him.

I was eleven the night that I heard my parents’ arguing stop. Read More »

Three Questions (Part 1)

13/10/201813/10/2018 Sketched TextLeave a comment

It took me decades to realise that my childhood wasn’t normal.

My father knew how to raise the dead. With words, wards and symbols he could cause the soul of any deceased person to appear before him. Rising from his spell, he could command the spirit to answer any three questions that he put to them, truthfully and completely. Answering the questions of the bereaved was his trade and he was paid richly for his services. A ceremony could only be carried out once with each spirit, and could only be asked by the person who summoned them, so the three answers were all that the client would ever receive from the deceased in this life.

He never operated in front of a direct audience, instead summoning the spirit behind a curtain. It was certainly the more pleasant option for clients. Spirits are always recognisable, but something about them is wrong. It’s something in their eyes. They have no desire to hide the truth, and appear completely dispassionate towards the living. No matter how loving the relationship, they have no interest in their former loved on any more. Some spirits were even outright hostile to my father, but they were always carefully bound inside the summoning circle. They could not escape, and had to remain within it until they answered the three questions my father put to them. I would observe from the side of the room, to make sure that the client was paying attention, and that they did not approach the curtain. My mother waited outside the locked door, waiting to unlock it and usher out the client once it was all over.

Clients were always instructed to have three questions. It didn’t matter if only one was what they needed. A man once very rudely insisted that he only needed to know where his mother’s will was, and that he didn’t give a damn what else my father wanted to ask the old bitch. As I sat to observe that ceremony, I wondered why my father didn’t insist on getting two more questions. I soon found out.

Three Sentence Stories (Part 2)

11/10/201805/06/2020 Sketched TextLeave a comment

I sit perfectly still on my bed, cradling my infant son. It’s just me and him in this house, since his mother passed. From the baby monitor on my night-stand I hear a familiar woman’s voice, weeping and calling for her son, and I hear the floorboards creak in the hallway outside my door.

Everyone stopped talking three days ago. One morning I awoke from a dream of horribly twisted creatures hissing truths and, half dazed as I walked outside, I could see in my neighbours’ eyes that he had seen the same. It is a terrible secret we all bear now, and no one is willing to be the first to break the silence, to acknowledge it and to live in the world where we know that God has no love for us.

The walls in my house are moving in my sleep. Every time I wake up it takes me a little longer to figure out how to leave, and every time I fall asleep I awake in my bed again, wherever it has been put. It’s been days now, and I am tired beyond belief but I am sure I’ll find the front door soon, before the walls close in.

The Last Locked Door

08/10/201808/10/2018 Sketched TextLeave a comment

They’re almost through the door now.

I think they might actually be savouring this, which makes sense. They’re tired after killing all the others. And I’m the only one left alive.

The drugs were only meant to cause temporary effects: heightening the reflexes and strength of the participants. But the drugs also sped up their metabolism and caused a horrible form of pica: participants ate anything nearby. One choked to death on their own pillow stuffing. Another chewed their own limbs down to stumps. The strongest ones ate everything that moved slower than themselves.

I was moved to my room and strapped to the bed after the first “reactions”. I think most of us participants were. Which made the sounds of the other doors being broken much more horrifying.

The last person I saw alive was a nurse. She locked my door hurriedly, fumbling with the keys. I saw the panic on her face as the door closed, and then heard her start running down the hall. I didn’t cry to her for help. I heard her cry for it only seconds later.

There was a lot of screaming after that. And crashing. And running. And horrible wet noises.

It eventually quietened down, and I think they formed a hunting group. I could hear the doors down the hall being broken into, one by one.

The worst ones were the locked doors. When they’re unlocked, it’s over quickly. The locked doors aren’t impenetrable, but they hold for long enough to hear the… participants… getting louder and more enraged as food draws closer to them.

The last one was my next-door neighbour. I heard the door splinter, the inhuman screams increase. I heard the sound of something hard striking flesh, splintering bone, crushing tissue, and then hitting floorboards.