1k words Short Story: A note found on the roof of an apartment building

A note found on the roof of an apartment building

Stories bore me, but I didn’t say that, instead I said: “They never run out of ammo in movies.”

When she looked away to exhale from her cigarette I glanced down at my phone to confirm the following fact:

“Even though, did you know, an AK47 can fire at a rate of 700 rounds per minute.”

She would not look back so I just read off my lap:

“Explosions, like in movies, would tear your body apart because it’s like 15 millions pounds PER INCH.”

I fucked it all up again, went imperial instead of metric. I bet she thought how weird that was, since I’m not American, since my profile said British, but no, she was thinking: “You are boring me, I should have stayed home and watched the new episode of OBLACK.”

So I said OBLACK and she gasped ,

So I asked OBLACK?

And her eyes strained away from her face like I’d named some urban deity and I asked if she’d ever heard of OBLACK and she replied between breaths that Orange is the new black is a show and that was the last time I saw her and first time I suspected I was psychic.

You see I didn’t tell anyone about my delusions because it was fun to be psychic, more fun than real life or boring stories. Even video games all started to play the same. Hellforged was the last one I looked forward to coming out, my digital salvation- I paid for a taxi just to get to the store ten minutes quicker but of course there was traffic.

During a red light I felt eyes on me. Saw by my side Nikki Hodgeson, through the window on a bus looking down on me, Nikki Hodgeson but only if she’d aged, her cheeks had lines, her hair has been reduced to a comfortable bun- if I had married her or at least kissed her she’d look like this in twenty years, her old eyes slapped me back to the windshield and I moved on.

On the escalators up to the mall, a chinese lady, shrunken the way asians get after menopause glanced at me as she passed, decending. She had Leela’s face, but with mellower eyes, aged; bored. Maybe we all share the same genes, maybe we’re all connected even if it doesn’t feel that way.

The shopkeeper thought I was rude because I took too long paying with coins. He also thought something about the number fifty three, fifty three- if I asked him back then I could have proved I wasn’t crazy, if I’d had the balls to say: What number are you thinking of? But I was scared he would ignore or hate me.

Instead, at home where it used to be peaceful, past the cellophane wrap, inside the package, underneath the game there was a second disk. Gold rimmed with assymettrical red veins along the top like it was infected. I googled it, checked the first few pages, found nothing so I knew it was special.

I didn’t install the game then.

It got worse with every commute. I saw Sam on the subway if he’d put on 20kg, Marco was the bus driver on Thursday- a scar on his forehead he’d never had, the color gone from his hair, his twin grandfather who wouldn’t even look at me when I muttered thank you.

Maybe you think I had so few friends since highschool that I was fixated on them. Seeing patterns that weren’t there. Like in a story, with the same boring patterns, like in every repetitive day. I tracked my thoughts like that, over the course of months; heard so few depraved sexual fantasies from any women I glanced at- madness is so disappointing.

I continued to date via the app, or at least tried. Kept swiping left in the hopes of seeing someone else from my past. But they only popped up when I was going somewhere else. I finally got so bored that I inserted the red veined disk. My monitor blue screened, then went green. Red symbols formed, streamed from right to left, they danced like tiny sprites I couldn’t make out till I thrust my head so close I could see three eyes, blue, red, and green.

Those colors set me free.

From all the tiny human fears- a gift left behind, or in front, there is no word in English for that direction, it can only be expressed with mathematics I now understand, but lack the jargon to expain. See I still can’t speed read wikipedia, even after they found my body, pulsating with red light, pooling around it- an elementary particule that I helped them discover.

I couldn’t solve war without killing, or watching too closely. If I gave the poor too much money it broke the economy. Hunger was still an issue so in the end, I just showed you all how to have nearly infinite energy, hoping it would lead to space travel, and maybe to me, then I peeked- a century in the futue and still you hadn’t broken the lightspeed barrier, still groped each other on this tiny world.

So I guess we never made the disk ourselves. And the difference between an alien and your God and Me is just theoretical. So I told them, I called everyone up, showed them how much I had become. I am a God and anyone who knew me was now special by proximity. So I gave them a gift.

To slip back into time and watch my whole life, stare at it like a screen. They had to be quiet, only allowed to walk past and notice how I had no idea back then how special I was, and am, till I got bored again. So I spent most of the rest of my time making the past versions of myself happy. I baked strange, positive encounters, whilst I, who am beyond time as you can see, supped on my newfound memories.

I ate myself up.

Till I made the mistake or pushing my past self away from the disk and onto the pavement. I fell from a great height and now all that is left is this story, and I never was.

2k words Short Story: Chain of events, The World Walker

World Walker

“You remember how we never even said hi to each other? ” Beccy told me. “Even when Keith threw the eight-ball at us, and we all played pool for the first time since your friends started drinking there, you didn’t say anything to me. In fact you spoke the whole time to whatshername.”

“Carmen.” I corrected her.

“Sandiago” she finished. I didn’t laugh and she didn’t notice, so I added a: “Wow that was lame.” But she only giggled like I was trying to be funny and not tell her that I found her unbearably annoying.

If she hadn’t lost her contacts on the pool room floor and I hadn’t been the one to find them by the bar, then we wouldn’t have ever started going to the gym, together, and there shouldn’t have been much of a chance the gym’s showers were under repair, that we would live so close to one another, and that I had made a move when she only had a towel on.

She squeezed my nose with her fingers, like a clothes peg. I wrenched my head away.
Said: “I moved house for you.”

She laughed even though I wasn’t making a joke. “We lived nowhere near one another. I had to segue into a parallel world where I lived in a smaller, dirtier apartment, stepped right through and away from a low paying (but money’s never a problem), satisfying job in a bookstore and you know what? Even with all the possible books that have ever been written I still haven’t got enough time to read what’s out there.

She laughed again, so to make myself clear I said: “And I did it because you are the most beautiful girl I have literally ever seen, ever, in all the places I’ve been, your body is a fucking private jet, a mansion, front row seats to every show worth watching, a blowjob from the most enthusiastic porn-star blowing like she’s about to go broke.”

Her mouth dropped open, which was coincidental, but because I was distracted I said: “That’s ironic.” She wasn’t smart enough to correct me. “I disgust you don’t I?” I said. “You know I only shower like twice a week? I can’t be bothered. It’s all deo.” Her face scrunched up. “Why are you saying all this?” She asked.
“Because I’m done, I’m leaving.” And I got up and started to put on my clothes. She went dead quiet. “It’s 4 AM.”
“I’m not leaving this house, I’m leaving this world, this universe. GG Beccy: I have always had the ability to slip into a parallel world. Or maybe it’s a new world. Or maybe I’m batshit crazy, hard to say. But anyway, I’m thinking this time, I’m going to be single. I’ve spent so much energy walking into desperate women who fall for me that I think I’m ready to do the old fashioned thing and plain old delude them till they fuck me.” I stretched. It was always a good idea to stretch first.

She threw a pillow at me. I dodged. Big smile.

She went for my phone.

“NOT THE PHONE.”

It connected with my nose. She was really good at pool.

“JESHUS.”

“IF YOU CAN LEAVE THEN WHAT HAPPENS TO ME HUH?”

It was a good question. I have no idea what happens when I walk out. Maybe I just disappear, which would be mildly traumatizing but also mind expanding- think of the implications! For a normal person at least. Maybe the whole universe ceases to exist, which if the universe was infinite would make me the biggest mass murderer of all possible times and spaces. But I can’t be the only one, so it’s not like I’m alone in this regard. Maybe a copy of me remains. If so, I feel very sorry for him, especially the me who talked shit to that guy with the knife that time in the alley. Either way, fuck it, I’ll never know.

“SO RUN THEN SAM! RUN LIKE THE WIND!” Beccy said, with this very rare, intense look in her eyes that I’ve only seen her have during a real orgasm. She picked up the other pillow. I blinked, so did reality, and she wasn’t there anymore. I blinked again, and there was my new coffin: maybe ten foot by ten foot, a sofa that was probably also my bed, a bookcase that had a series of thick books on the top shelf, plates, cutlery, wallet and phone on the shoulder height shelf, and stacks of books on the lower, taken from the middle shelf to make space for my life. A folding table glistened with chip packets turned inside out and tinfoil microwave dinners scrunched up within each other like blood covered Russian dolls.

The memories came afterwards.

I’m a fucking paralegal this time. Godammit it all to hell. Then the loneliness comes down on me and I’m reaching for the middle shelf with it’s half dead bottle, don’t even need the new memories to know that’s there. And what’s this, taped to the lip? A joint? Amazing. Upsides.

I spend my thirty first year single, in the same universe. Jacky throws a drink in my face at Sherry’s birthday party, which I only get invited to because I overhear her talking about it at work. The girl of indeterminate age at the 7/11 drives me crazy for awhile, has me borderline walking into another world where we get to be married because I’m certain the way normal people might be, that if I was with her the rest wouldn’t stink so much. It’s like a retreat, a monastery where I pretend to be a desperate prole for 365 days.

The breaking point wasn’t a woman, it wasn’t some new shiny crap I saw in a movie that I just had to try (like a G fucking Six), it was Roger Mckay, my boss. It was when he chewed me out for being late, again. He had to do it by my cube, right before lunch, so not only did everyone hear, but they felt awkward about leaving. I’m not a bad guy, I’ve never raped, murdered, hell even assaulted someone despite the fact that I could do it with zero consequences. I mean that’s some darkside shit, I don’t want to go down that path. And it was a close thing, between using the scissor, shoving him into Lee’s wall, and what I actually did: which was to stand up, slowly, adjust my tie, not answer his enquiry as to why, and then hand back, all the way like I’m flagging a blind bus driver, then turn my weight like a tennis serve, and palm open, full on, bitch slap. Goddamn did the fat man go down. I said, after the shockwave: “You incorrigible asshole.” And then it was TA!, one more for the road, and he went to his knees.

“Alright guys, I’m out. Fuck you all very much. Also, Sherry, your boyfriend cheats on you. He doesn’t even play poker. I can walk between worlds and I am leaving this one.”

And just for funsies I decided to full on run at Mckay’s glass office wall, leap sideways and leave. As I did I think I felt something solid. Then nothing. Then a bed, a freaking soft bed. It only occurred to me right afterwards that maybe I do leave something behind, and in which case, previous me just bitch slapped his boss and threw himself through his office window. If he gets medicated, do I get medicated?

What if I suddenly rubber band back to my other paralegal self in that parallel universe? Fucking awful thought. Of course it makes me wonder, almost, about the implication of time. I tried to read about physics stuff once. Thought about having a hypothetical what if conversation with a physicist once. Hell, I even tried to be a scientist, but I never really seemed to concentrate enough to shift into that kind of life. It’s like trying to remember something you just can’t, you’re certain that if you focused enough, if you found the right stimuli, then you’d have it again. I gave up eventually, figured that in the back of my mind was the fear that understanding what I can do would change my ability to do it, or maybe I wouldn’t want to anymore. Ignorance is bliss. Arbitrary is better than horrible.

Jana.

Jana ended me.

A fucking taxi driver. Never saw that coming. Never saw the accident either, literally- was stuck dozens of cars behind it. Like God had reached down and froze the traffic for two hours. I could have left. I could have said stop the meter. Instead I paid, I stayed, we talked for hours and it was completely out of my control. When I told her what I could do, she took it like it was some kind of funny story.

The line that did it for me was when she asked: “What if every time someone, or you I guess, ah, jumps- they create the world they want? So like, you make it, from nothing, like you are God.” That’s when I knew, I had to make it so we were together. That was cool, I’d never even thought of that possibility. Why didn’t I just skip to the marriage? I could have, but I didn’t? Because I guess I didn’t want to leave, it was such a perfect moment. If I jumped I could arrive in another moment, but it’s not the same, the memories would drip in, it would be artificial, even if I was God.

So I stayed. We found a favorite bench, we prevented her bed from ever getting made, I wrote her inarticulate letters on scented paper, she dragged me by the arm to shit I’d never like till I loved it. I loved her, obviously. I’d tried marriage once, but never a wedding. It was glorious, and I didn’t care about my new family, or my new friends, just her, she was fun, the wedding was fun.

Happiness is a funny thing. It’s quiet. I think that in the end, it’s quiet. It’s the opposite of running. Time is the only thing that runs, when you’re happy.

The odds of a plane crash are incredibly low. You could fly your whole life, I mean spend it all up in the air, and it’s still against the odds you’re going to die.

And now, why can’t I find her anymore?

I keep jumping. I keep going from world to world, looking for my Jana. She’s not there. Nowhere I go. It’s like, I don’t know. I’ve wanted things before, I’ve wanted things way less badly than her. But I just can’t do it.

She once told me that the number one reason she’d never believe I could do the whole jumping thing isn’t because it was impossible. She said it was because she didn’t think I’d ever leave people behind like that. That I could be that selfish. And I believed her.

She said: “I think a lot of people would, but not you.”

So I’m still looking. And I’m still getting older.

And I’m starting to wonder if I ought to just stop, and skip all the way to the end. But I’ve never tried that either, all I know is I can’t go backwards. But I reckon I’m going to do it soon.

The Swimmer Part 3

Time to make up for the break Here is part 3 of The Swimmer. 

Link to part 1 and part 2.

This takes place in The Children of the Pantheon’s world. The first story, which is not directly connected to this, is Between Two Cities

The Swimmer (Part 3)

Jon floundered in mid-air, screaming. He tipped his feet forward, hunting for the ground with his toes. He scratched the soft soil with the tips of his toenails before rising farther. Like a swimmer slowly surfacing. He flung out his limbs. The trunk of the tree was a good two feet out of reach. He watched it sink. Jon rose belly down, felt the skin on his back being tugged upwards, the hairs on his spine tearing as if a God had grasped him with countless tiny fingers to pull him upwards, towards judgement. Jon stuttered “By…THE….hallowed names…thine kingdom come….WILL….Oh Gods…OH GODS!”  He climbed higher, mumbling a prayer, spittle raining out of his mouth. His sacrilegious writing stick and whittling stone eight feet below now.

A low branch bent against the small of his back. Jon felt it, uncomprehending, he thought the pressure on him was some kind of punishment. The wood began to crack and Jon finally threw his hands around his back, failing to grab hold of the branch. It bent farther upwards. He grazed his knuckles against it. The branch snapped and he continued to rise. As it fell he grabbed hold of it, waved it pointlessly.  Jon tried to turn his head, couldn’t enough to see if there were any more branches in reach.  He’d memorized the number of crenelations on the tower, the number of trees across the horizon, the shapes of the distant mountains but he’d not once tried to sketch the tree under which he took shade.  Jon had no idea how many branches he had left, passed another branch on the right, moaned “Noooo…” when it was out of reach. He was blinded by a flurry of leaves. Instinctively he brushed at his face. When the leaves finally stopped scratching at his cheeks it was too late. He had just about passed the peak of the tree. One final branch remained. His fingers clawed at empty air.

The Rock, The Shard, The Root. Jon dove. He flipped his legs upwards, head downwards, arms stroking the air. He kicked at the air, imagining water. For a moment he seemed to go lower, perhaps, perhaps not; it did not matter, he had successfully aligned himself feet up in the air, head down, closing the gap between him and the branch. He grabbed hold of it. Continued to rise, held onto the thick branch like a rope. It felt secure, as long as the Gods did not pull him any harder. Jon closed his eyes and started to pull himself down, hand over hand. He pretended he was climbing upwards. Three pulls and was nearly at the trunk. That was when he dropped.

His eyes shot open in that sickening moment. The branch between his hands tore a long graze down his palms, his his inner forearms. He grabbed hold and kicked at empty air, the sky and ground reasserting themselves. He mumbled “I’m so sorry.” towards the Gods who tossed him up and down as they pleased. They must have been watching, it did not matter that they were not overhead. They must have watched him scratching in the dirt for the last month, waiting with mounting apprehension for the moment to punish him. Jon dared to measure how far he was from the ground. A short fall if he prepared himself, but to risk it? He could try climbing down, had never climbed, not since Kulk did. No one climbed since Kulk did.

Jon let go.

Landed on his ankle sideways.

He stumbled, cursed: “Nononono…” Sat down on the ground and rubbed at his foot, pushing into his shin as if to squeeze the pain right out of it. He lay back. Underneath the changing, red-tinged sky the clouds blurred and broke as he allowed himself to sob. Then came the ragged breathing and the thundering panic in his chest. He got up and limped towards the river. He left the stick where it lay.

The swim back was the hardest he’d ever done. With one aching, twisted foot, he kicked, propelled not by the spark he’d felt only a few hours before, but by sheer unbridled desperation. He made it into the tunnel and almost opened his mouth to the water when the image of little Kulk’s empty sockets invaded that scrambling darkness. On the otherside Jon found The Shards in the river bed and scattered them with one careless, slapping hand. Finally he shoved off the bottom and emerged upwards. It was an effort just to tread water. He pulled himself along the wall till he reached a bank, dared not to look towards the fountain and past it to the others, back to the city and those plump childrens who slept in soft beds who had his friends whipped and his skin burned just because, just because of what- the Gods maybe. As if by not looking they would not be there. He noticed then that he had not cleaned his palms. The soil remained printed upon them. He looked and saw past the fountain. Two tiny islands of flesh floated on the water, impervious and oblivious.

Jon washed his hands thoroughly, eviscerating the dirt underneath his finger nails. Spotless, he limped back along the bank. When he was close enough to the others he slopped back into the water. The children finished playing. Their whoops and chortles faded into the late afternoon whilst Jon watched from the shore. When they had gone inside Marat came and demanded Jon change and follow, that there was work to be done by men and they needed boys to carry their tools. Jon lagged behind and Marat noticed immediately.

There were still two hours of sunlight left.

Jon did not scream until the seventh lash. With his hands tied above his head and the laughs of the children behind, Jon gritted his teeth against the stake he was tied to. His bound fingers scraped against the wood, tracing the same abominable pattern, over and over and over again, shuddering during a lash. He rubbed his thumb- one invisible, pointless act of defiance; he rubbed his thumb into the stake. It kept him from screaming. He had to focus. Each time the whip fell he’d sweep his thumb the way he swept that stick to make that sacrilegious, glowing rune. If the Gods were watching let them, they could not do to him anything worse than what men had. The final lash was held back my Marat, just long enough for Jon to loosen, for his mucles to relax. That suprise was the cruelest and drew a scream. Marat’s satisfaction could be heard then in his repetitive warning to the waiting slaves behind Jon.

He left Jon there till dusk. The slashes on his twelve-year old back wept. The red sun dispelled the drops of river water that clung to his exposed skin. Jon continued to trace that symbol invisibly in the air with his wiggling fingers, even after he could no longer feel them. He traced that symbol till it was as well known to him as the number of crenellations on that crumbling wall.

That night he slept on his stomach.

The next day he was assigned to the nave. Work fit for cripples, the sick, and women. Work that was out of the sun. When he walked into the temple the first thing he was told, by a crone behind a table at the far end was: “Gah, it’s too bright out there. Close the door slave.” He did and in that silence could only hear the sound of scratching, scratching, coming from the feather that danced above real paper. The priestess may or may not have smiled at Jon, but Jon did smile back. He limped forward till he was able to fix his eye on the purple liquid within the crystal by her side. She followed his gaze.

“It’s ink boy.”

Jon discarded his smile immediately, looking anywhere but at the ink bottle and the pile of paper beside it, focusing particularly on the old crone and her feeble movements. “It’s for writing boy. Symbols. Holy runes. Do you have any idea what I am talking about?”

“No.”

“Well. Let me teach you how to make my blasted tea then.”

Jon listened intently to the priestesses intricate instructions. He had never focused so hard on something then he had on making that tea. He summoned all he had learnt about being a scraping, pathetic, obsequious servant, watched her closely to anticipate the sundry needs she requested of him. When during the evening she said: “You will be here at dawn.” Jon had to hold back tears.

That night he slept on his stomach, tracing the symbol on the straw till he fell asleep.

SciFi story: Judas

I play and run role playing games. One of those games is Eclipse Phase. It’s a sci-fi setting. About 100 years or so in the future when we have just about begun to colonise the solar system. It’s transhumanism. It’s about the singularity. It’s great. 

Tomorrow I will be writing part 3 of The Swimmer but currently it is 3 am so this is all I wrote today for my 1k. It is the first party of my characters backstory. 

 
Judas
 

“This is Captain George C. Westmoreland of the USS Constellation, you have three-hundred seconds left to transmit your real ID, Manifesto, telemetry and actuate automated docking procedures or you will be fired upon. This is your final warning.”

 
“Sir, Please. As we said, our ID is linked to the Neptunian mesh. We are currently requesting a translation that is compatible with your system. We are a small transport vessel carrying geological samples from Proteus to the Argonaut research station in Paris, Earth, we did not know we had violated United States…”
 
“Your place of origin is Xiphos and you have three lifeforms on board your ship, not two. You have 250 seconds left to comply or we will destroy you.” 
 
Lara’s muse said: “SOB’s just cut seventeen seconds off the clock.”
 
Koheim’s muse retorted: “What do you expect, he’s already decided to blow us to hell.”
 
Koheim shouted out: “QUIET. Both of you. Find something, some kind of beaurocratic excuse to stall them, I don’t care what.” 
 
Lara continued to float over the creche, praying. She messaged Koheim as she repeated mantras:
 
<We have to tell them Ko. There are no more options.>
 
Koheim’s hands danced over the haptic controls whilst simultaneously subvocalising commands to the Solomon’s AI. 
 
Lara messaged: <We had a good run Ko.>
 
Koheim’s slammed his fist through the haptic controls, shattering the hologram, feeling the forcefeed back buzz along his wrist. His Remade’s emotional dampeners were straining to contain the swell of conflicting impulses that threatened to break his concentration. 
 
He whispered: “Prep Judas.”
 
Lara’s enhanced hearing easily picked out Koheim’s words. She flipped herself, threading her toes into a hanging net for balance. Head towards the floor she adminstered to the hardwired controls of the cot. Judas, oblivious, continued to paw with his tiny hands at the holographic solar system that revolved above his tiny head. Comets formed each time he touched a planet, eliciting squeels. 
 
When the solar system disappeared Judas began to cry.
 
Lara picked him up carefully, hands through the zero-g-harness. She lied to the baby in whispers, “It’s going to be okay, okay, it’s going to be okay.” 
 
“This is Captain George C. Westmoreland. You have 120 seconds remaining.”
 
<He has a thing for titles doesn’t he? I’m going to need more time than that Ko. Do something.>
 
Koheim activated the ship’s weapon systems. Three long range rail guns emerged from their hidden beds, swiveled in silence and aimed at the distant cruiser. Lara reached the escape pod. She started to arrange the harness. Koheim smoothed down his black uniform, fumbled in a drawer for the discarded medal, and affixed the Order of David to his chest. He grabbed his monofilmant sword and belted on its sheathe, then arranged his face into a snarl. Koheim’s muse said: “I haven’t seen that look in awhile. Reckon you’re about to give that yank a real good scare.” Koheim narrowed his eyes and hooked his feet into the straps on the ground, forcing himself to appear standing in zero-g.
 
“Hail him. Holo.” thin spears of multicolored light painted Koheim’s stick straight body, flickered, then held.
 
The Constellation accepted. George C. Westmoreland was bald as well, his head oddly symmetrical compared to Koheim’s high, pale peak. Westmoreland’s eyes were a stark, penetrating blue that almost wavered when greeted by Koheim’s white, almost pupiless eyes, his too pale skin and pointed teeth. George Westmoreland’s face remained blank, whilst his XO’s made a disgusted expression. “American.” Koheim began. “I am Koheim, of Xiphos. I am an Ultimate. You and your crew are pondscum. We have three railguns. When they fire the damage to your ship will be superficial at best…however…we are targeting your most populated decks. A Ticonderoga class cruiser such as yours carries families, yes? How old do your offspring get before you implant cortical stacks? Even if we die we will make sure to rid the future of some of your disgusting chldren.”
 
Westmoreland’s expression did not change.
 
Koheim continued. “We also have on board a human child. I am transmitting you proof now.”
 
Westmoreland’s eyes glazed over as he stared at something only he could see. It took him a good long minute to digest the information. In that minute Lara finished prepping the pod. She floated back to Koheim, staying just around the corner and out of the frame. Westmoreland spoke: “What are your terms?” 
 
Koheim waited.
 
Lara messaged him, vocal this time, her voice strained. “Ko, no, we can’t, if they take us they’ll know what we did, they’ll dissect him, please, I know it’s hard but…”
 
<It’s just a dramatic pause Lara. I agree with you.>
 
Koheim sneered, “American. You will let us continue unharmed to our destination or we are ejecting the child in an escape pod without life support. YOU have sixty seconds till we do.”
 
Westmoreland allowed one eyebrow to rise.
 
Koheim messaged both muses. He instructed them to weaken their own security measures, specifically in regards to weapon systems and the escape pods own network. <Already done Ko. Your muse crawls at a geological scale>
 
<Stop trying to make me laugh you lunatic>
 
<Might as well go out with a smile baby.>
 
Twenty seconds later the Solomon’s railguns were subverted by the Constellation’s hackers. A few seconds after that the hackers launched the escape pod remotely, with life support still functioning. 
 
Westmoreland nodded at someone off frame. He intoned “By the homestar-act of twenty…”
 
Ko cut the feed. He turned to Lara, shoved towards her and embraced her. He disabled the emotional dampeners. “I will see you in paradise Koheim.” Koheim could not speak, he only stayed, inhaling her, tangling her hair in his hands. Lara said: “Guardian angels will watch over Judas. Be at peace.”
 
The ship’s AI sounded klaxons. 
 
Koheim wept for the first time in his life.
 
“Inshallah.” Lara said.
 
From the Constellation’s bridge Westmoreland watched The Solomon burst like a metal ball, tiny flames dancing silently across it’s shattered hull. 
 
“Let bring that child home boys. Then scan for any stacks and toast ’em.” 
 
His crew cheered. By the time The Constellation returned to Ganymede Judas had been renamed John, and Westmoreland’s executive officer, Rebecca  Clarke, was legally his mother. 

The Swimmer (part 2)

It’s like 3 AM and I’m completely shattered. So sadly this bit is short but it does continue the story. The next part tomorrow.
 
The Swimmer part 2
 
He started by sketching the crenelations of the walls. He didn’t have to look up to know exactly how many there were. When he reached the wall’s collapsed section he began to outline the wooden replacement- one rectangle, streaked with diagonals to denote the woodgrain. As he slashed the last diagonal the crenelations unraveled at the same rate at which he drew them, disappearing like a tugged out thread. Jon stopped to watch his walls disappear. He blew on the soil whilst the lines disappeared, as if it were him, rather than the Gods that undid his work. Then he smoothed brown soil onto his hands, so he could wash them in the river later. He dirtied himself on purpose so that the pleasure he took at the end of the ritual would be heightened, crested with just a dab of fear; if they carefully examined his nails they might wonder how the dirt got under after swimming. 
 
Jon traced the crenelations again. He skipped the wooden addition this time, drawing the wall as it had once been, no missing teeth, he had to sweep his body around to make space for more of the wall. twenty, fifty, ninety crenelations before they began to disappear. He could see them disappearing in the corner of his eye. He continued, drawing faster than the Gods could erase, till he’d swept a circle around himself- decided it was a birds perspective, started adding the curve of the river, the island in the pool, the slab of the keep, dots for trees and the outline of a flower, carefully drawn where Lady Misha’s garden was. The wall disappeared, left the city undefended. Jon focused, had finished the careful details of the stigma when the rest was obliterated. He had a moment to observe the flower in full before the garden return to bare soil. Jon panted out of concentration. He smiled, chuckled to himself.
 
He started again.
 
A race against the Gods. A warmup. He spent the next quarter of an hour improving his speed, flexing his hands and arms. This was better than doing just simple shapes, this was so much more fun; to sketch what he saw, as quickly as he could- the trees, an imagined bird, sometimes the clouds though his neck hurt from nodding up and down and up as he tried to capture the moving sky.
 
Finally he was ready.
 
He sketched abstract symbols that looked lke nothing. A sweep here, a curve there, random lines in the middle. The only rule was that he had stop right before they began to disappear. Then he had to weight and start all over again. Once, when he was younger he could have sworn he saw, during the festival of the Warlord’s fall, a tender scribe a symbol upon a broken down fishing boat. He painted it by flinging shots of white frlom an iron-banded bucket onto the hull. He restarted several times until he got it right, and around the symbol the broken wood re-knitted together. Jon went into the hollow and found the small box. He withdrew from inside the shards of paper, the marks on them meaningless to him as he was illiterate. He placed it on the dirt and drew around it, trying out variations that seemed similar to that hold memory. He’d spent so much time going through the permutations. Had tried to remember more clearly, to sift and interrogate his memories hoping to discard the impostors.
 
As usual nothing happened. Till in his frustration Jon drew a new sign. When it finished it seemed to shine. Then Jon floated off the ground, terrified.

cont tomorrow

Fantasy story excerpt: The Swimmer (Part 1)

Also set in the same world as Between Two Cities. This takes place three generations later. Too sleepy to edit, will tomorrow.

The Swimmer

The foreman had been ill for so long that the lashes on Jon’s back hadn’t just scabbed over, they had fallen off. According to the chalk on the Jubal tree he’d grown an entire foot. He made harpoons of the sticks at the bottom of the pool, threw them at the other children under the water where they couldn’t see, watched them sink, useless. The red sun hovered almost directly overhead and it was a clear, blue day, no Gods above or anywhere above the walled off horizon. Jon moved farther away from the children with each of their splashes, a receding wave, he tried to laugh in time to the others jokes. “JON! WHERE YOU GOING?”

“I want to swim to the fountain and back, maybe thirty times. Anyone else want to come?”

The chubby scions of House Kobar shook water from their heads, frowned and made disgusting sounds. Hak turned to the others and put two fingers together, as if holding a pen, then rotated them near his cheek. The others laughed. “Have a good swim slave.” Hak called.

Jon smiled and waved back: “Thanks!” He said. Jon held his polite smile till his back was turned, let it deepen as he thrust forward. His gratitude always confused them and Jon loved to confuse them. Between strokes, each time his head emerged he examined his whipchord limbs, honed over the last year with these lengths, these exercises done purely to disguise the truth. It was worth it. Jon swam around the corner of the wall to where the fountain stood on it’s tiny island. He treaded water and imagined the moss retreating from the white marble, the figure above, long since crumbled, being rebuilt, and as Marca had claimed, water spouting from the top to pour like rain over the surrounding pool. Jon hadn’t believed him. “Can no one fix it?”

Marca had said: “Willar Wall-builder could have, but we went blind, then died, and taught no on how to.”

“That’s pretty stupid. So it’s gone then?”

“All things pass Jon. Nothing lasts but the stories we tell.”

“That’s not true Marca.” Marca who died, a week later, when he took little Sook up onto the walls and failed to catch her as she fell. Jon kept his head beneath the water that day, for as long as he could, so as to muffle Marca’s distant screams. Jon touched the edge of the island with his feet, grabbed a toeful of moss for luck, then pushed off towards the wall. The wall was patchwork at best now, potent stretches of stones with staggered parts of mish mashed wood, scaffolds and clumsily stacked rocks for where it had begun to crumble. He swam to the wall, behind which he could hear the sounds of the various water falls, where the water flowed under and through the grates and into the river. He touched the wall with his hand, treading water, feeling the rumble of the rivers flow. He closed his eyes and savored the quiet. He swam back to the fountain. From here he could just about see the heads of Teek and Pan, they lay back on their backs, hands on the mounds of their bellys, floating. If they weren’t getting splashed that menat Hak had gone home. They will go to the bank and play their strategy games for at least an hour and by then Jon could be back. He swam one more length to the fountain and back to the wall, then he dove.

He felt his way along the wall, upside down, trying not to panic, he found The Root, then lower down The Rock and finally The Shards in the sand and careful not to cut himself, angled forward, one broad stroke and then there, the grate, two hands on two bars, like in his cell, except he had shrunk, the space between the bars was wide enough, and he thrust through, clawed along the dirt tunnel, his lungs less strained this time, shoved through and then up towards the muted torch of the sun then air, and gasping, and sweetness. The river tugged him down stream. He let it.

Till he found himself at the bank. The familiar tree. In the hollow at it’s base he retrieved the stick he’d found, whittled with the sharp stone kept next to it. For the next few hours he drew in the soil, hoping for something to happen.

cont tomorrow.

Short Story: The Wave

The problem with doing this 1k thing is it’s a real bitch to edit it. I really ought to though. Not editing something that is potentially good is akin to wasting most of the time spent writing it. Also it is good practice, improves the skill in editing. I want to write more from Children Of The Pantheon because I got a lot of likes, which makes me so happy. But today I was feeling something and that something might be in this story.
 
The Wave
 
Jon played the Louisiana blues and once and awhile the percussion of construction drills matched the rhythm rather than interrupt it. That black man somewhere else, somewhere far away in space and time, got drowned by Jon’s neighbor’s redecorating.
 
They’d saved up for it. Made sacrifices, like holidays, potential visitations to other countries where great memories could have been formed for them, and their kids, instead of this, this permanence; entire decades maybe with a minimalist kitchen, a partition that separates that made the living room and bar seem roomier, like in that movie Heat that Julie once saw. 
 
Kara knew, it was obvious, why mum and dad hadn’t let her buy those concert tickets. She didn’t believe Mom’s insinuations about drugs and booze and boys like Jules; they trusted her or they wouldn’t have let her stay a week in Nigeria, before the killings started. She didn’t cry because she couldn’t go, no, that would be petty. She didn’t cry when the trading of shouts, between mum and her, got so loud that Dad intervened, and swung like a pendulum between the two sides, settled on making it three. She didn’t cry when he told Mum not to treat her like their step son, who was gone. She cried because she’d realized, immediately, the way she understood with stark, sudden clarity a mathematical concept, an economic lesson in school, that she’d been a fool, that if Jules really cared he’d have never asked her if she could afford it, if he really cared he’d have said to do something else, if it was going to have been a date instead of some random, late, confluence of events then it wouldn’t have mattered whether or not she could go and that truth fell across her fifteen year old heart, the first of several blows, a chiseling that would sculpt a cold, statuesque reservation that kept her from something another woman might call true love, twice in a row.
 
Sol first saw Kara on the subway, towering over the locals in her commanding heels, a small blonde head above a sea of bobbing scalps. She was a whole carriage away but he stared anyway, thankful for the distance, confident that she could not tell he was looking at her. He waited for the crowd to dissipate, to uncloak her body so he could see her in full, for her to leave maybe, to abandon him and his lofty fantasy. He missed his stop and berated himself, and at the next, where the best cinemas were, the crowd on the train dispersed like a flock of pigeons, leaving the space between them mostly empty, and her revealed, resplendent in a summer dress, her face sad. More than what he had hoped for, enough it hurt because he knew he would never talk to her. She left, dressed rarely like that, for another of her best friend’s weddings. Kara collected best friends like her step brother had collected types of crisp packets, never opened, never enjoyed. The variety and promise printed upon them the sum of it. She had crushed them, cruelly, one after another, when she found them in a moving box after the first time she left Malcolm, She crushed them just to see if she would feel anything and she didn’t, not till later when the guilt finally arrived. A tear crept down one eye, she let it, thinking that no one will see and if they do see then maybe that was okay. Sol didn’t, he was too far away. When she left the carriage Sol subtly took his fist, and smacked it in slow, point blank movements against his head. He had missed his stop, he had missed her, and by imperceptible degrees he was getting more sick.
 
Marcie was the only one at the party who knew the extent of Sol’s illness. Being married she was only allowed to care a certain amount, that past some wavering line it was inappropriate, despite how desperately afraid he could get when they went to the park, how he let him put his head on her shoulder, held his hand, how that felt warmer than the mostly cold bed. She hadn’t seen him barrel towards her like that before, spilling wine with mad abandon. He arrived and asked her how it was going, his habit, to always start with pleasentries before he conspiratorially asked who She was, pointing towards a tall woman, blonde, who slumped in a chair, head forward, posture broken, a pint of beer clasped in both hands. Marcie knew someone that knew Kara, pointed Sol towards her and reveled at the smile on his face. He went and she watched, watched Kara laugh, then texted Mike, and left. Went home and refused to let Sam sleep, kept him up all night with a desperate passion that he hadn’t seen for two years, It brought them back together, and when she cried at the end it did not matter.
 
On a beach in Indonesia Sam stood, watching his wife from a distance, measuring her against the other tanned bodies and nodding in satisfaction. He struck up a conversation with a bartender, the shadow of a net falling over them both, draping their features in cross-hatches. Eventually he got to say- that’s her, over there, in the pink bikini, and they shared a moment as he whistled and nodded appreciatively. Sam’s phone vibrated and he cursed, went up towards their sea view room to call his brother when with head down he staggered into someone behind a trolley, knocked him over, realized how old the man was and apologized profusely. Sam helped him up, brought him inside his room then noticed the cut. He cleaned it up, added a band aid to the old man’s face. The old man, his face and hands gnarled, dark and lined as treebark danced over the chess set Sam and Marcie kept on their bed. They said nothing to one another and afterwards Sam stared at the chess set and almost asked the old man for a game. The moment passed and they parted.
 
Tirto always smoked during the sunset, from the vantage point of the hotel roof. He saw the orang putih, along with his wife, could trace their tiny movements across the sand. He liked to think they were happy, invented a story about how he was a doctor, and she a nurse, that they met in a hospital when an old man died. Someone kind perhaps. He told himself the story in his head whilst the cigarette burned down, then afterwards considered lighting another. He held the cigarette between two fingers, heard the siren and did not believe. His eyes drifted towards a horizon that seemed to be speeding towards the beach. The tourists did not know what the siren meant. Too few of the locals stayed to explain. When the tsunami came it swallowed most of them. Tirto watched the entirety of it, for hours he watched. He never did not find his doctor and nurse. Prayed for them at home. Wept for them alone. The only solace he could take from that wave was that he did not lament he would die anymore. It was a better death than those short-lived others. Months later in the hospital he realized that wave had begun far off the coast, during an earthquake but also, far before the earthquake, that wave began underneath the earth, had traveled for years across the ground, underneath, had begun a billion years ago just to obliterate all those lives. Tirto counted the waves that led them to that beach to die. The wave was a story no one could tell. There was no God in that wave. That wave itself was a spirit, one of the spirits of his grandfather that Tirto never understood till now. Tirto wondered at the waves that allowed him to arrive all the way here, on this bed, and how far back in time that wave had begun. He wanted to write this all down, wanted to tell someone the story, to make it whole and spread out, all it’s constituent parts like the sand on that beach he had spent so many hours writing on. But his throat betrayed him, his hands were weak. He died draped in the tears of those who would miss him, his last words a gurgle. 
 
The others, they carried on.