[Unpublished]
"Trick or treat!" Paul yelled in his shrill pre-pubescent voice, the tone itself a mixture of nervousness and enthusiasm.
Mr Johnson stood before him in the doorway, a massive ogre-like figure in carpet slippers and braces, displaying a surprised expression upon his stubbled face.
"I suppose it'll have to be a treat," he muttered, "I don't want my windows put through, do I?"
Despite his tender age of eight years, Paul thought how absurd was the fellow's notion that someone as small and timid as himself would have the nerve and the bravado to hurl bricks at his windows. In his tiny hand he was holding the pumpkin that his father had carved into a face especially for Halloween. It bore a crooked smile and a hole instead of a nose, plus the eyes were of different sizes, but Paul was delighted with it. The most exciting thing for him was the candle that was perched firmly inside, which succeeded in giving his pumpkin a strange glow in the blackness of the evening. He was filled with glee, not only because of the pumpkin, for he knew only too well that Mr Johnson always had a large horde of sweets and goodies in his possession, as he had often been noticed in the local park at weekends and outside school sometimes, sitting on his usual wooden bench offering such confectionery to any children that cared to pass by. What a simply kind and generous man, thought Paul.
"Come inside, sonny," said Mr Johnson in his gruff voice, "I have lots of sweets and fizzy pop, you can have as much as you like."
Paul was thrilled -- this was going to be indeed a treat such as he had never experienced before, as he stepped out of the cold darkness and into the warmth of Mr Johnson's house. The man then peered furtively from left to right before closing the front door and ushering his young visitor into the welcoming light of the lounge.
Paul observed the room. Immediately he could smell cigarettes, and he saw that Mr Johnson was in the process of watching the news on the television, the boring old news that his parents tended to watch, but did not interest him in the slightest. He was glad at that point that he had chosen to go trick-or-treating alone -- his mates would be so envious when they found out what Mr Johnson had given him.
"Sit down, sonny," said the man in a cheerful manner. "What's your name?"
Paul sat on the settee, sinking into its softness, and placing the candle-lit pumpkin on to the coffee table nearby.
"Paul," he replied.
"You can call me Charlie. Stay there and I'll get some of those sweets."
He then vanished into the kitchen, and Paul was left on the rickety settee. He was wearing the Batman mask and cape that Auntie Alice had bought him for his birthday, and he wondered if Mr Johnson -- Charlie -- had been impressed by his outfit. It had taken all of his courage to knock at that particular front door. He had been warned about speaking to strangers, but it's Halloween, he thought -- it's different, isn't it?
Mr Johnson soon returned with a white paper bag and a bottle of lemonade and eased his large frame next to Paul on the settee.
"I like the pumpkin," he enthused with a smile.
"I call him Pumpkinhead."
Mr Johnson laughed. "Pumpkinhead! That's a good name."
He then handed Paul the paper bag and told him to help himself to as much as he liked. The boy proceeded to delve into the bag with an enormous relish, filling his pockets with all kinds of toffee. Then the fellow offered him the lemonade which he gladly accepted, and filled a glass to the brim with the gassy refreshment, placing it beside the empty beer bottles on the coffee table.
As Paul chewed on the toffee and guzzled the lemonade he began to regard Mr Johnson with the utmost affection. He studied him closely. He was quite large, and his dark eyebrows met in the middle, causing it to look as if he had a hairy worm-like insect perched above his eyes. A streamer of spittle seemed to be eternally suspended from his shiny lower lip, and his hair was gelled and swept back, revealing a forehead filled with lines and wrinkles aplenty. Paul could not be sure how old the chap was but he reckoned he was a lot older than his father.
"This pumpkin is really quite impressive," said Mr Johnson, lighting a cigarette as he leant forward to admire the shining object.
"It's Pumpkinhead," Paul corrected him.
The old fellow chuckled once more. "So it is." Then he produced a loud huff and blew out the candle, leaving the centre of the pumpkin in a solemn gloom.
Paul was aggrieved, but remained silent, as he did not know Mr Johnson well enough to challenge his actions, and indeed at that age he tended to be somewhat intimidated in the presence of an adult. Yet despite that he was enjoying himself -- what a tale he would have to tell those boys in his class at school the following day.
Mr Johnson produced a smoke-cloud and Paul coughed, choking on the sweet he was sucking. He watched the man take a drink from a bottle, then place it on the table, next to the cold lifeless Pumpkinhead. He then noticed that the carved face had changed from a smile to a weird frown -- but how could that be so?
Mr Johnson then took the television remote and increased the volume, and Paul wondered whether he was hard of hearing, for it had become incessantly loud. The fellow then turned to him with an insatiable grin and wild wicked eyes.
"I've given you your treat," he breathed closely into Paul's ear, "now it's your turn to give me mine."
Paul's tiny heart beat more quickly as he watched Mr Johnson begin to pull down his zipper.
His pillow wet with tears, Paul had been unable to sleep since retiring to bed. His parents had shown natural concern, for their child had returned home from his Halloween excursion in a rather subdued and quiet state as opposed to his normal exuberant self.
They dismissed it after a while, thinking that perhaps it was because he had been unsuccessful in his trick-or-treating.
In the darkness he lay on his side with an aching body, reluctantly recalling the horrific events which had occurred in Mr Johnson's lounge, the nicotine-stained hands on his boyish skin, the oppressive beer-breath on his neck, the monstrous thrusting movement which appeared to continue for ages and ages, much to his terrible dismay. The awful memory caused him to weep once more -- he was destined not to enjoy an iota of sleep that night.
He reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, observing the time displayed on the digital clock close by -- 11.57. In sombre silence he crept from the bedroom and across the landing, ending up in the bathroom where he helped himself to a glass of water in order to wet his parched throat. As he drank it reminded him of the lemonade -- and the horror, and the awful pain.
He returned swiftly to his room and clambered beneath the sheets, and just before he turned off the light he noticed the pumpkin -- Pumpkinhead -- which seemed to be staring at him in an inquisitive manner. The object stood, minus the light of the candle, on the dressing table opposite the bed, and at that precise moment it appeared to bear a certain attraction, with Paul unable to take his eyes off it. Then he did so, just for a second, to see the digital clock change to 12.00. And then something remarkably strange happened.
Pumpkinhead began to glow, apparently of its own accord, a dim light at first which gradually increased to an astounding brightness, and Paul was hardly able to look, as it was blinding him, it was like staring into the sun. Then the glow ceased abruptly, leaving the pumpkin in darkness once more. He could not comprehend the eerie sight that then faced him, as he looked again at the creation he had christened Pumpkinhead -- for instead of the innocent fruit with the improvised face there stood upon that dressing table a real head -- that of Mr Johnson, surrounded by an increasing bloodstain, and with those wicked eyes cold and frightened.
Paul then nonchalantly turned off the light and snuggled beneath the warm covers, with a sinister smile upon his face.
Wednesday 28 January 2009
Nebula Neurotica
[Unpublished]
It was hardly noticeable at first. The inhabitants continued their normal daily routines, going about their business, without even glancing upwards. It was a sleepy town by the coast, the kind of place where one could escape, perhaps to hide from something, or merely to find peace and quiet. There was a beach, small in size but filled with the required ingredients, such as sand, and the sea beside it. There was a lighthouse, the tiniest lighthouse there ever could be, watching over the beach and the oncoming ocean waters. It was a sleepy town indeed, but it was soon to be awakened.
No-one was sure who spotted it first. Maybe someone walking their dog along the sand, it could even have been the dog itself. Perhaps it was the policeman who strolled along the sea front every morning, partly through duty and partly through pleasure. It could have been the early morning milkman delivering fresh pints to the houses on the road that ran alongside the beach. No-one was sure. One thing was for certain though. Jamie saw it before Tasmin did.
It was one morning, about nine o'clock, just when Jamie pulled open the bedroom curtains, allowing the early sunshine through the window. Tasmin was still in bed, although she wasn't asleep, merely dozing in half-awakeness. They lived in the second
house on the coastal road, about thirty yards from the beach, overlooking the abandoned lighthouse. Jamie squinted as the rays invaded the room, then, focusing his eyes upon the sky, he noticed it.
"Look at that cloud," he said to Tasmin.
"What cloud?" his bleary-eyed girlfriend replied.
"That one there," Jamie said, pointing to the item in question, "it seems to be lying lower than the others. As if it's falling."
It was true. One of the clouds in the light blue sky was indeed lower than its brothers and sisters, as if it were trying to escape from something.
"It's your imagination, Jamie, you're still half asleep."
He didn't agree. He had a positive feeling about the situation with the cloud. If it was falling, the movement was barely noticeable to the human eye, so only time would tell
whether his supposition was correct. Jamie decided from that moment on to monitor the cloud concerned for further signs of sinking.
"Get up, sleepy-head," he told his partner, "or you won't get a lift to college."
The second day, and Jamie gingerly opened the curtains as he had done the previous morning. He was aghast. The cloud had travelled further towards the earth. The huge
nebula seemed so small from such a distance, but he realized how massive it really was. The movement was evident to him, having taken careful notice of its position twenty-four
hours earlier. There was no doubt about it, the cloud was definitely falling.
"Look, Tasmin," said Jamie, "it's still sinking."
There was no response from his girlfriend this time. Jamie gazed at the sky, at the mass of watery vapour that was dropping from the heavens. He wondered why it was happening, and why the other clouds weren't falling also. The cloud's colleagues were
holding their positions right up there in the sky, yet this one was intent on reaching the earth's surface. Jamie had never known such a mystery.
On the third day he saw it again, and it was still coming down. Its size was increasing all the time due to the fact that it was becoming more visible to the naked eye. Jamie watched through the bedroom window as he had done before. Other people were beginning to notice it too. Jamie spied them along the coastal road and on the beach, people in groups or alone, heads aloft, eyes glued to the drifting nebula. He was relieved in a way, for it proved to him that it wasn't his imagination. For whatever reason, the cloud was descending.
It wasn't long before the media got a hold of the story. The next day, Jamie read it in the local newspaper, a half-page feature on page three, complete with a photo of the plunging cloud. They gave no explanations, but plenty of theories, none of them believable to Jamie. He had no ideas of his own, he found it difficult to speculate, as the whole thing seemed so absurd. It was crashing from the sky at an alarming rate by that time, it was possible to see it actually moving downwards, not at any great speed, but the falling motion was evident. It was really large, that was becoming more obvious by the hour, and it was heading directly for the sea.
"My God, Tasmin!" Jamie cried. "Come and look at this."
Day five, and the nationals had latched on to it. The beach was absorbed with vehicles from different television stations and newspapers. Reporters were delivering live announcements concerning the cloud's movements, and there were countless cameras of all shapes and sizes, snapping and filming, getting in each other's way. There were crowds of people as well, some of them local, but not all of them. Curious inhabitants of nearby towns had flocked to the beach to witness the phenomenon, apparently disbelieving newspaper reports, wishing to see the spectacle for themselves. As for the cloud itself, it was still swooping earthwards, and how.
"That's amazing," said Tasmin.
Jamie was able to see the misty vapour descending, getting closer every minute. It was like an enormous white blob, something out of a horror movie. The remaining clouds watched from the safety of the heavens as their brother sank further towards the salty ocean waters. There was a hive of activity on the beach, media employees shouting and
running in all directions, each of them eager to produce the best report and the best pictures for their viewers or readers. Jamie had never seen the place so busy, this tiny sleepy seaside town that was normally so peaceful and placid. If only the cloud realised what a furore it had caused.
After a sleepless night, Jamie awoke as the morning light invaded the bedroom. He immediately heard the commotion outside, and he slowly arose from the bed and shuffled over to the window. When he drew the curtains this time he was dumbfounded. The cloud
practically filled the whole sky, it was so near, and so huge. It hovered about thirty feet from the icy-blue sea, and it was still falling. Its vapour was touching the top of the lighthouse, and it was obliterating everything for miles around. Jamie peered into the mist. He was certain he could make out two distinctive shapes in there, like a pair of eyes looking around, sad and lost.
"My word!" said Tasmin, having emerged from the cosiness of the bedclothes. "It's so close."
"Why do you think it's happening?" asked Jamie.
"I've no idea, I've never known anything like this before."
"Me neither. It's so weird. Can you see those two dark patches? It's like the cloud has eyes, as though it's alive."
"Don't be silly, Jamie. A cloud is just a mass of watery vapour. How can it be alive? You've been reading too much science fiction."
"I'm not saying it is alive, it just seems like it is. It's as if it's just given up on hanging there in the sky and it's decided to let itself go. Like it's depressed or something."
"A depressed cloud? Now I've heard everything."
They both watched through the window as the cloud fell further, until it was touching the watery waves. There were loud gasps and shouts from the crowds of onlookers, and cameras clicked from the safety of the beach. The sea appeared to hiss violently as the vapour began to sink into the water, the mass disappearing beneath the brine, becoming less and less visible as the seconds passed.
Jamie was astounded. He detected a sudden movement within the mist, and peering closely he saw the two eye-shapes. They appeared to move, at least one of them did, as though the cloud was actually winking at him. It wasn't long before they too sank into the salty sea, those two sad donkey cloud-eyes. Was it really depressed? Was it possible? Jamie wondered, as the cloud submerged itself beneath the ocean, inch by inch, second by
second, until it could no longer be seen.
It was hardly noticeable at first. The inhabitants continued their normal daily routines, going about their business, without even glancing upwards. It was a sleepy town by the coast, the kind of place where one could escape, perhaps to hide from something, or merely to find peace and quiet. There was a beach, small in size but filled with the required ingredients, such as sand, and the sea beside it. There was a lighthouse, the tiniest lighthouse there ever could be, watching over the beach and the oncoming ocean waters. It was a sleepy town indeed, but it was soon to be awakened.
No-one was sure who spotted it first. Maybe someone walking their dog along the sand, it could even have been the dog itself. Perhaps it was the policeman who strolled along the sea front every morning, partly through duty and partly through pleasure. It could have been the early morning milkman delivering fresh pints to the houses on the road that ran alongside the beach. No-one was sure. One thing was for certain though. Jamie saw it before Tasmin did.
It was one morning, about nine o'clock, just when Jamie pulled open the bedroom curtains, allowing the early sunshine through the window. Tasmin was still in bed, although she wasn't asleep, merely dozing in half-awakeness. They lived in the second
house on the coastal road, about thirty yards from the beach, overlooking the abandoned lighthouse. Jamie squinted as the rays invaded the room, then, focusing his eyes upon the sky, he noticed it.
"Look at that cloud," he said to Tasmin.
"What cloud?" his bleary-eyed girlfriend replied.
"That one there," Jamie said, pointing to the item in question, "it seems to be lying lower than the others. As if it's falling."
It was true. One of the clouds in the light blue sky was indeed lower than its brothers and sisters, as if it were trying to escape from something.
"It's your imagination, Jamie, you're still half asleep."
He didn't agree. He had a positive feeling about the situation with the cloud. If it was falling, the movement was barely noticeable to the human eye, so only time would tell
whether his supposition was correct. Jamie decided from that moment on to monitor the cloud concerned for further signs of sinking.
"Get up, sleepy-head," he told his partner, "or you won't get a lift to college."
The second day, and Jamie gingerly opened the curtains as he had done the previous morning. He was aghast. The cloud had travelled further towards the earth. The huge
nebula seemed so small from such a distance, but he realized how massive it really was. The movement was evident to him, having taken careful notice of its position twenty-four
hours earlier. There was no doubt about it, the cloud was definitely falling.
"Look, Tasmin," said Jamie, "it's still sinking."
There was no response from his girlfriend this time. Jamie gazed at the sky, at the mass of watery vapour that was dropping from the heavens. He wondered why it was happening, and why the other clouds weren't falling also. The cloud's colleagues were
holding their positions right up there in the sky, yet this one was intent on reaching the earth's surface. Jamie had never known such a mystery.
On the third day he saw it again, and it was still coming down. Its size was increasing all the time due to the fact that it was becoming more visible to the naked eye. Jamie watched through the bedroom window as he had done before. Other people were beginning to notice it too. Jamie spied them along the coastal road and on the beach, people in groups or alone, heads aloft, eyes glued to the drifting nebula. He was relieved in a way, for it proved to him that it wasn't his imagination. For whatever reason, the cloud was descending.
It wasn't long before the media got a hold of the story. The next day, Jamie read it in the local newspaper, a half-page feature on page three, complete with a photo of the plunging cloud. They gave no explanations, but plenty of theories, none of them believable to Jamie. He had no ideas of his own, he found it difficult to speculate, as the whole thing seemed so absurd. It was crashing from the sky at an alarming rate by that time, it was possible to see it actually moving downwards, not at any great speed, but the falling motion was evident. It was really large, that was becoming more obvious by the hour, and it was heading directly for the sea.
"My God, Tasmin!" Jamie cried. "Come and look at this."
Day five, and the nationals had latched on to it. The beach was absorbed with vehicles from different television stations and newspapers. Reporters were delivering live announcements concerning the cloud's movements, and there were countless cameras of all shapes and sizes, snapping and filming, getting in each other's way. There were crowds of people as well, some of them local, but not all of them. Curious inhabitants of nearby towns had flocked to the beach to witness the phenomenon, apparently disbelieving newspaper reports, wishing to see the spectacle for themselves. As for the cloud itself, it was still swooping earthwards, and how.
"That's amazing," said Tasmin.
Jamie was able to see the misty vapour descending, getting closer every minute. It was like an enormous white blob, something out of a horror movie. The remaining clouds watched from the safety of the heavens as their brother sank further towards the salty ocean waters. There was a hive of activity on the beach, media employees shouting and
running in all directions, each of them eager to produce the best report and the best pictures for their viewers or readers. Jamie had never seen the place so busy, this tiny sleepy seaside town that was normally so peaceful and placid. If only the cloud realised what a furore it had caused.
After a sleepless night, Jamie awoke as the morning light invaded the bedroom. He immediately heard the commotion outside, and he slowly arose from the bed and shuffled over to the window. When he drew the curtains this time he was dumbfounded. The cloud
practically filled the whole sky, it was so near, and so huge. It hovered about thirty feet from the icy-blue sea, and it was still falling. Its vapour was touching the top of the lighthouse, and it was obliterating everything for miles around. Jamie peered into the mist. He was certain he could make out two distinctive shapes in there, like a pair of eyes looking around, sad and lost.
"My word!" said Tasmin, having emerged from the cosiness of the bedclothes. "It's so close."
"Why do you think it's happening?" asked Jamie.
"I've no idea, I've never known anything like this before."
"Me neither. It's so weird. Can you see those two dark patches? It's like the cloud has eyes, as though it's alive."
"Don't be silly, Jamie. A cloud is just a mass of watery vapour. How can it be alive? You've been reading too much science fiction."
"I'm not saying it is alive, it just seems like it is. It's as if it's just given up on hanging there in the sky and it's decided to let itself go. Like it's depressed or something."
"A depressed cloud? Now I've heard everything."
They both watched through the window as the cloud fell further, until it was touching the watery waves. There were loud gasps and shouts from the crowds of onlookers, and cameras clicked from the safety of the beach. The sea appeared to hiss violently as the vapour began to sink into the water, the mass disappearing beneath the brine, becoming less and less visible as the seconds passed.
Jamie was astounded. He detected a sudden movement within the mist, and peering closely he saw the two eye-shapes. They appeared to move, at least one of them did, as though the cloud was actually winking at him. It wasn't long before they too sank into the salty sea, those two sad donkey cloud-eyes. Was it really depressed? Was it possible? Jamie wondered, as the cloud submerged itself beneath the ocean, inch by inch, second by
second, until it could no longer be seen.
Tuesday 27 January 2009
Machines
[Unpublished]
Stellenzicht was perched on the window ledge, standing erect with his hands pressed against the wall behind him. His eyes were staring straight ahead into the distance. He daren't look down. Instead he recollected what had occurred some minutes previously.
Hacking into the security system was simple enough for him. Stuff like that he could perform standing on his head. The picture he obtained on the terminal screen was high quality and in full colour. Those company executives couldn't keep secrets from him, he could always eavesdrop on their clandestine meetings. He wanted to know everything that was happening. At that moment he wished his curiosity hadn't got the better of him.
He could see the huge Fuji-Kodak logo at the top of the building opposite. He endeavoured to concentrate on its garish colours. Anything to prevent himself from looking down. He could hear the hustle and bustle of the morning traffic sixteen storeys below. He was determined to jump, to leap from the window to his death. He knew what the future held.
Three figures were standing at the front of the conference hall. Stellenzicht had peered into the screen. He recognized one of them as Baschendal, the head of personnel. He didn't know the other two. The female was attractive though. A large group of company executives was seated before Baschendal. There was something big going down, he was sure of it.
"Ladies and gents," Baschendal began, "welcome to the meeting. I have some important news for you all. But before I explain, I have some introductions to make." He turned to the two figures. "Say hello to Mitchell and Nederburg." Unenthusiastic applause followed. "A male and a female, right? At least you would think so, wouldn't you? Well, looks can be deceiving, people. Mitchell and Nederburg are not human, you see. They are living mechanical beings. In other words, machines!"
Stellenzicht frowned. The audience didn't seem too sure how to react. There were gasps, and comments, and chattering amongst themselves. Stellenzicht was astounded. Baschendal continued.
"Don't worry, they are completely harmless. No doubt you are wondering about their background and origins. You'll each be given a disk afterwards containing full details." He approached Mitchell, the female. "As you can see, Mitchell has all the features of a human female. We've had our top people working on this project for years now. And this is the result." He touched her cheek. "See the skin. It's been reproduced from DNA samples. It's entirely synthetic, but it appears real. Other parts of her anatomy have been created in a similar way. This is so that she, and Nederburg, can work for the company and appear as just another member of staff. But there is more to it than that." He stepped between the two figures. "Each of them has a computerised mind. We are able to download information into their minds, so that they know everything there is to know about our products. Stock levels, availability, prices, and so on. Essential information for receiving video calls and supplying product details to customers. Instant data. And it's priceless."
"That's incredible," Stellenzicht said aloud.
Just then Baschendal's attention was drawn to a member of the listening group. Stellenzicht couldn't see the perpetrator of the enquiry, but he heard what he had to say.
"I was wondering about Mitchell," said the voice, "can she do anything a human female can?" Infantile giggles ensued.
"Up to a point," said Baschendal.
"So can she fuck?"
Thunderous laughter followed, mainly from the male members of the gathering. Stellenzicht noticed that Mitchell herself was smiling.
"That's for you to find out," she called, "but it won't be from me."
There were catcalls and whistles then, and Baschendal was having difficulty in calming the executives down. He did so in the end.
"Okay, we've had our fun," he said, "now let's get serious. Some of you won't be laughing when I give you the news." There was deathly silence. "We've already had two of them working in the building for the last few months. Now we're going to introduce more of them to the work force. On a non-executive level, of course. If they progress well, then some of you here may be replaced. But for the time being, we plan to lay off all our shop floor staff and replace them with machines."
Stellenzicht heard sounds of commotion from the executive audience. He began to mumble to himself. "Machines? And they're taking over. We humans don't stand a chance."
"This will save the company a fortune in wages," said Baschendal. "The machines do not require a salary, you see. They belong to the company. At the end of the day we just close them down, and that's it. This is just the beginning. We have more of them, you see. Plenty more." "Stellenzicht!"
The voice startled him. He felt the cold air on his face, the breeze blowing around him. His memories of the meeting vanished. He glanced to his left, and saw his working partner Anderson leaning out of the window.
"What are you doing there? Come in here, we've got work to do."
Stellenzicht swayed slightly and almost lost his balance. He thought he was about to fall, but after a struggle he staggered into his previous position.
"I'm not coming in!" he shrieked, digging his fingernails into the brick wall. "I'm going to jump. It's no use, I'm going to jump!"
Stellenzicht sighed heavily, bit his lip and glanced downwards. A large crowd had gathered on the pavement below, several voices urging him not to jump. It seemed like an awfully long way to go, but he was intent on going through with it.
"Stellenzicht," Anderson said, softly this time. "Why are you doing this? Why do you want to jump?"
"It's bad news, Anderson," he said, "we're all being laid off. We're being replaced. By machines. Living mechanical beings. Can you believe it? Bloody machines!"
Stellenzicht's shoe slid a little, and a handful of pebbles fell from the ledge. There was a loud gasp from the group below. He began to panic, and scrambled to regain his footing. Within seconds he was settled again.
"They're taking over, I tell you," he raved on, his feet trembling dangerously on the narrow ledge, "the bloody machines. You can't tell whether they're human or not. They'll take over, that's for sure. The machines!"
At that moment his foot slipped from the ledge. The rest of him followed. The crowd screamed and dispersed in panic. Stellenzicht didn't utter a sound. He tried to grope at thin air with his hands. He strived to grab hold of anything he could, but it was hopeless. He plunged to the ground. His arms and legs were waving around like a rag doll in flight. Still no cry came from his lips. As his body descended the cold air hit his skin. His synthetic skin…
Stellenzicht was perched on the window ledge, standing erect with his hands pressed against the wall behind him. His eyes were staring straight ahead into the distance. He daren't look down. Instead he recollected what had occurred some minutes previously.
Hacking into the security system was simple enough for him. Stuff like that he could perform standing on his head. The picture he obtained on the terminal screen was high quality and in full colour. Those company executives couldn't keep secrets from him, he could always eavesdrop on their clandestine meetings. He wanted to know everything that was happening. At that moment he wished his curiosity hadn't got the better of him.
He could see the huge Fuji-Kodak logo at the top of the building opposite. He endeavoured to concentrate on its garish colours. Anything to prevent himself from looking down. He could hear the hustle and bustle of the morning traffic sixteen storeys below. He was determined to jump, to leap from the window to his death. He knew what the future held.
Three figures were standing at the front of the conference hall. Stellenzicht had peered into the screen. He recognized one of them as Baschendal, the head of personnel. He didn't know the other two. The female was attractive though. A large group of company executives was seated before Baschendal. There was something big going down, he was sure of it.
"Ladies and gents," Baschendal began, "welcome to the meeting. I have some important news for you all. But before I explain, I have some introductions to make." He turned to the two figures. "Say hello to Mitchell and Nederburg." Unenthusiastic applause followed. "A male and a female, right? At least you would think so, wouldn't you? Well, looks can be deceiving, people. Mitchell and Nederburg are not human, you see. They are living mechanical beings. In other words, machines!"
Stellenzicht frowned. The audience didn't seem too sure how to react. There were gasps, and comments, and chattering amongst themselves. Stellenzicht was astounded. Baschendal continued.
"Don't worry, they are completely harmless. No doubt you are wondering about their background and origins. You'll each be given a disk afterwards containing full details." He approached Mitchell, the female. "As you can see, Mitchell has all the features of a human female. We've had our top people working on this project for years now. And this is the result." He touched her cheek. "See the skin. It's been reproduced from DNA samples. It's entirely synthetic, but it appears real. Other parts of her anatomy have been created in a similar way. This is so that she, and Nederburg, can work for the company and appear as just another member of staff. But there is more to it than that." He stepped between the two figures. "Each of them has a computerised mind. We are able to download information into their minds, so that they know everything there is to know about our products. Stock levels, availability, prices, and so on. Essential information for receiving video calls and supplying product details to customers. Instant data. And it's priceless."
"That's incredible," Stellenzicht said aloud.
Just then Baschendal's attention was drawn to a member of the listening group. Stellenzicht couldn't see the perpetrator of the enquiry, but he heard what he had to say.
"I was wondering about Mitchell," said the voice, "can she do anything a human female can?" Infantile giggles ensued.
"Up to a point," said Baschendal.
"So can she fuck?"
Thunderous laughter followed, mainly from the male members of the gathering. Stellenzicht noticed that Mitchell herself was smiling.
"That's for you to find out," she called, "but it won't be from me."
There were catcalls and whistles then, and Baschendal was having difficulty in calming the executives down. He did so in the end.
"Okay, we've had our fun," he said, "now let's get serious. Some of you won't be laughing when I give you the news." There was deathly silence. "We've already had two of them working in the building for the last few months. Now we're going to introduce more of them to the work force. On a non-executive level, of course. If they progress well, then some of you here may be replaced. But for the time being, we plan to lay off all our shop floor staff and replace them with machines."
Stellenzicht heard sounds of commotion from the executive audience. He began to mumble to himself. "Machines? And they're taking over. We humans don't stand a chance."
"This will save the company a fortune in wages," said Baschendal. "The machines do not require a salary, you see. They belong to the company. At the end of the day we just close them down, and that's it. This is just the beginning. We have more of them, you see. Plenty more." "Stellenzicht!"
The voice startled him. He felt the cold air on his face, the breeze blowing around him. His memories of the meeting vanished. He glanced to his left, and saw his working partner Anderson leaning out of the window.
"What are you doing there? Come in here, we've got work to do."
Stellenzicht swayed slightly and almost lost his balance. He thought he was about to fall, but after a struggle he staggered into his previous position.
"I'm not coming in!" he shrieked, digging his fingernails into the brick wall. "I'm going to jump. It's no use, I'm going to jump!"
Stellenzicht sighed heavily, bit his lip and glanced downwards. A large crowd had gathered on the pavement below, several voices urging him not to jump. It seemed like an awfully long way to go, but he was intent on going through with it.
"Stellenzicht," Anderson said, softly this time. "Why are you doing this? Why do you want to jump?"
"It's bad news, Anderson," he said, "we're all being laid off. We're being replaced. By machines. Living mechanical beings. Can you believe it? Bloody machines!"
Stellenzicht's shoe slid a little, and a handful of pebbles fell from the ledge. There was a loud gasp from the group below. He began to panic, and scrambled to regain his footing. Within seconds he was settled again.
"They're taking over, I tell you," he raved on, his feet trembling dangerously on the narrow ledge, "the bloody machines. You can't tell whether they're human or not. They'll take over, that's for sure. The machines!"
At that moment his foot slipped from the ledge. The rest of him followed. The crowd screamed and dispersed in panic. Stellenzicht didn't utter a sound. He tried to grope at thin air with his hands. He strived to grab hold of anything he could, but it was hopeless. He plunged to the ground. His arms and legs were waving around like a rag doll in flight. Still no cry came from his lips. As his body descended the cold air hit his skin. His synthetic skin…
Living With The Dead
[Unpublished]
Darkness painted the sky a hideous black colour as I gazed through the window to observe that awful moment. I was not certain of what form it would take, whether it be a ghastly plague, or a huge explosion, or a long, slow and painful process. The warnings inside my head did not reveal such details. One thing was for sure though. I knew -- I just knew -- that on this day I would witness the end of the world.
It was a remarkable courage that compelled me to venture outdoors, and I stepped tentatively beyond the threshold of my home with my heart thumping with a severe dread. The silence was absurdly strange, and also frightening -- I could almost smell the evil quietness. My breathing was quick and hard, and I imagined that symptom to be a part of the wicked holocaust -- at least for the time being, I did.
A young girl in her early teenage years was walking on the opposite side of the road, the pale flesh of her legs evident in the street lights. Most likely she was returning home, and for the final time in her short life, I added. Returning home to face some kind of abuse, in one form or another. Yet she appeared quite normal, with no signs of distress at all. Vast torrents of no tears were streaming down her non-pallid cheeks, and her face was not twisted into a hideous contortion through an abundant physical pain. In fact, her face was as red as a rose, a perfect picture of health and innocence. I began to openly worry. Perhaps the results of the global catastrophe had not yet kicked in fully.
I wandered further, cruising the pavement and the horrid darkness, searching for glimpses of destruction and suffering. Heading my way was a man of similar age to myself, with the same bland expression upon his face, and I was horrified to discern that he was not screaming out in terror, his flesh not falling from his body like lumps of molten lava, his features not disappearing as those hot skin-cakes slipped on to the stoney ground around him. What manner of evil was I witnessing? The wretched messages I had received mentally, for all those years and years -- surely this had to be the end of civilisation -- it just had to be.
The coal-black sky was whispering to me, I was sure of it, telling me not to fret, telling me that the planet was being destroyed from within, from its very own heart and soul. I stared at the twinkling stars -- they seemed to be talking too, each sparkle a different word, each star a different voice. And at that point in time I was positive that my notion was correct. We were all dying -- all of us.
A thirtysomething woman was standing at the bus stop, erect and unmoving, gazing into space. She seemed distant, and not belonging to this world any longer -- she seemed taken. Then she spotted me, and smiled an artificial smile, her eyes clinging to mine, just for the briefest of moments. Did she know, too? Did she possess the same knowledge as I, the knowledge that some unbidden atrocity was approaching? Or was she merely another lost and lonely soul upon this earth? Her blue eyes were glazed, like tiny crystals, and were sparkling in similar fashion to those distant stars in the sky above. Yet she sported no apparent discomfort. Those eyes were not flopping loosely from their sockets, her delicate fingers were not hanging horribly like long streaks of burnt salami, detaching themselves from her hands and dropping to her feet to form ugly brown worms upon her shoes. These things were not visible -- they were not happening!
I strained my ears to listen out for more sounds, more messages inside my head, but they were not there. It was as if sound itself was a naked void, vanished completely from the earth. I observed my own hands, felt my own face, looked at my own reflection in the light of a store window. I was not affected either -- at least not yet. There was still time though. Or maybe I was immune? Maybe I would be one of the few survivors of this massive holocaust. I sincerely hoped that I would not be.
The last night of the century. Indeed, the last night of the millenium. People were already heading for celebrations and parties, for singing and drinking, long into the night, toasting the dawn of a new millennium -- or to be more precise, the end of the world! I shuddered at such a thought.
Disrespect has a lot to answer for. I believe this is the major cause of all today's evils. Lack of respect for people, for property, for emotions, for feelings, for life -- even for death. The planet has reached its final tether, its toleration has reached breaking point. Mankind is already being crushed and squeezed to a rotten pulp by -- well, by itself. A self-inflicted destruction, and no less. Yes, you'd better believe it.
Two youths were further down the road, drinking from bottles of beer or lager, noisy and boisterous. They finished their refreshment and, without an ounce of respect, tossed the empty bottles into someone's garden. Again I was puzzled, for they were laughing and shouting, instead of yelling and screaming in horror as their skin bubbled into lumps, before their bodies exploded in front of them, revealing their hissing, steaming innards in vivid colour, the blood and bile splashing on to the pavement before them, causing a stinking mess in the light of the moon. None of this happened. In fact, as I continued my travels, I detected not one single iota of a world ending. The blackness of the night bore no indication of doom or terror, and I was thunderstruck.
It was not meant to happen this way. The world was supposed to end.
Here I am, alone in my bed, naked and exposed. I reflect on the events of the evening, or to be more precise, the non-events. Those strange voices had been so sincere, I could not understand it. I was convinced that the planet would be destroyed by some cold, lurking evil, smashed into oblivion by an unseen force, the entire population reduced to gruesome blobs of awful-smelling flesh and blood and bone. It seems that life has triumphed -- it seems that the evil of life is far greater than the evil of death. What a world in which to live and die!
I glance sideways to the bedside clock, and discover that the time is now 00:06. Six minutes into the new millennium. Celebratory singing and shouting can be heard from outside in the street, intoxicated voices crying out in the darkness of night. They could have all been lying dead at this moment, silent and still forever. Life is certainly a weird yet chilling experience. The end of the world -- it ought to have occurred. However, as far as I'm concerned, it already has. Long, long ago. We are all dying, every one of us. Hell, we are already dead. Living, breathing zombies all. Didn't you know?
Darkness painted the sky a hideous black colour as I gazed through the window to observe that awful moment. I was not certain of what form it would take, whether it be a ghastly plague, or a huge explosion, or a long, slow and painful process. The warnings inside my head did not reveal such details. One thing was for sure though. I knew -- I just knew -- that on this day I would witness the end of the world.
It was a remarkable courage that compelled me to venture outdoors, and I stepped tentatively beyond the threshold of my home with my heart thumping with a severe dread. The silence was absurdly strange, and also frightening -- I could almost smell the evil quietness. My breathing was quick and hard, and I imagined that symptom to be a part of the wicked holocaust -- at least for the time being, I did.
A young girl in her early teenage years was walking on the opposite side of the road, the pale flesh of her legs evident in the street lights. Most likely she was returning home, and for the final time in her short life, I added. Returning home to face some kind of abuse, in one form or another. Yet she appeared quite normal, with no signs of distress at all. Vast torrents of no tears were streaming down her non-pallid cheeks, and her face was not twisted into a hideous contortion through an abundant physical pain. In fact, her face was as red as a rose, a perfect picture of health and innocence. I began to openly worry. Perhaps the results of the global catastrophe had not yet kicked in fully.
I wandered further, cruising the pavement and the horrid darkness, searching for glimpses of destruction and suffering. Heading my way was a man of similar age to myself, with the same bland expression upon his face, and I was horrified to discern that he was not screaming out in terror, his flesh not falling from his body like lumps of molten lava, his features not disappearing as those hot skin-cakes slipped on to the stoney ground around him. What manner of evil was I witnessing? The wretched messages I had received mentally, for all those years and years -- surely this had to be the end of civilisation -- it just had to be.
The coal-black sky was whispering to me, I was sure of it, telling me not to fret, telling me that the planet was being destroyed from within, from its very own heart and soul. I stared at the twinkling stars -- they seemed to be talking too, each sparkle a different word, each star a different voice. And at that point in time I was positive that my notion was correct. We were all dying -- all of us.
A thirtysomething woman was standing at the bus stop, erect and unmoving, gazing into space. She seemed distant, and not belonging to this world any longer -- she seemed taken. Then she spotted me, and smiled an artificial smile, her eyes clinging to mine, just for the briefest of moments. Did she know, too? Did she possess the same knowledge as I, the knowledge that some unbidden atrocity was approaching? Or was she merely another lost and lonely soul upon this earth? Her blue eyes were glazed, like tiny crystals, and were sparkling in similar fashion to those distant stars in the sky above. Yet she sported no apparent discomfort. Those eyes were not flopping loosely from their sockets, her delicate fingers were not hanging horribly like long streaks of burnt salami, detaching themselves from her hands and dropping to her feet to form ugly brown worms upon her shoes. These things were not visible -- they were not happening!
I strained my ears to listen out for more sounds, more messages inside my head, but they were not there. It was as if sound itself was a naked void, vanished completely from the earth. I observed my own hands, felt my own face, looked at my own reflection in the light of a store window. I was not affected either -- at least not yet. There was still time though. Or maybe I was immune? Maybe I would be one of the few survivors of this massive holocaust. I sincerely hoped that I would not be.
The last night of the century. Indeed, the last night of the millenium. People were already heading for celebrations and parties, for singing and drinking, long into the night, toasting the dawn of a new millennium -- or to be more precise, the end of the world! I shuddered at such a thought.
Disrespect has a lot to answer for. I believe this is the major cause of all today's evils. Lack of respect for people, for property, for emotions, for feelings, for life -- even for death. The planet has reached its final tether, its toleration has reached breaking point. Mankind is already being crushed and squeezed to a rotten pulp by -- well, by itself. A self-inflicted destruction, and no less. Yes, you'd better believe it.
Two youths were further down the road, drinking from bottles of beer or lager, noisy and boisterous. They finished their refreshment and, without an ounce of respect, tossed the empty bottles into someone's garden. Again I was puzzled, for they were laughing and shouting, instead of yelling and screaming in horror as their skin bubbled into lumps, before their bodies exploded in front of them, revealing their hissing, steaming innards in vivid colour, the blood and bile splashing on to the pavement before them, causing a stinking mess in the light of the moon. None of this happened. In fact, as I continued my travels, I detected not one single iota of a world ending. The blackness of the night bore no indication of doom or terror, and I was thunderstruck.
It was not meant to happen this way. The world was supposed to end.
Here I am, alone in my bed, naked and exposed. I reflect on the events of the evening, or to be more precise, the non-events. Those strange voices had been so sincere, I could not understand it. I was convinced that the planet would be destroyed by some cold, lurking evil, smashed into oblivion by an unseen force, the entire population reduced to gruesome blobs of awful-smelling flesh and blood and bone. It seems that life has triumphed -- it seems that the evil of life is far greater than the evil of death. What a world in which to live and die!
I glance sideways to the bedside clock, and discover that the time is now 00:06. Six minutes into the new millennium. Celebratory singing and shouting can be heard from outside in the street, intoxicated voices crying out in the darkness of night. They could have all been lying dead at this moment, silent and still forever. Life is certainly a weird yet chilling experience. The end of the world -- it ought to have occurred. However, as far as I'm concerned, it already has. Long, long ago. We are all dying, every one of us. Hell, we are already dead. Living, breathing zombies all. Didn't you know?
Sunday 25 January 2009
Holding Back The Years
[Published in Dark Eyes #3]
Mark knew that once he turned sixteen a new one would appear. He knew what it would look like too, he knew exactly.
It would be like facing a mirror, observing the perfect image of himself. Every feature would be identical. The same sad eyes, the same paleness of the skin, the same short brown hair. Yet inside, it would be different. He knew all of this. And true enough, he was right.
The others were there as well. As soon as he awoke and came to his senses, abandoning the peacefulness of sleep, they were in the bedroom, hovering around in the half-darkness. Intimidating him with their shifting shapes. He sort of expected it. He attempted to stifle a yawn but failed, closing his eyes for that long moment, his mouth a giant chasm, just for a few seconds. When it had passed they were still there. Staring at him.
"What do you want this time?" he said sleepily.
Until that moment they had been silent before him, simply content to linger in his close vicinity, endeavouring to frighten him, and succeeding, just a fraction. The new one was sitting at the foot of the bed, with the Fifteen-Year-Old beside him, haunting him with those awful glassy eyes. They were stone grey, and incredibly narrow, almost like a Japanese. Just like Mark's.
"Meet your new friend," said the Fifteen-Year-Old.
Mark noticed the bewildering aura of devilment that always appeared to surround the Fifteen-Year-Old, that strange cloak of invisible evil that he had discerned for the whole of the previous year, ever since their initial meeting. It was driving him insane, causing him to lose his mind, to succumb to a confusing madness. It was something he had never got used to, and now it was all to begin again with this Sixteen-Year-Old.
"You're not my friends," said Mark, attempting to sound defiant.
The One-Year-Old began to cry. He was lying on the carpet close to the window, and the Three-Year-Old was trying to take off his nappy. Mark recalled how mischievous he had been at that age, so his behaviour was no shock to him. He then turned his gaze to the newcomer. The resemblance was outstanding, perfect to every inch of flesh and bone. He wondered how long it would go on, how many years would pass before it all ended. He envisaged waking on his sixtieth birthday to find sixty of them swarming around his bedroom. This caused him to really freak.
"He's always quiet like this," the Fifteen-Year-Old explained to the new arrival, who still had not uttered a word, "he's become very withdrawn in the last year. I expect you'll be much the same."
The grey eyes of the Sixteen-Year-Old seemed even more frightful than those of the Fifteen-Year-Old. Mark knew he wasn't going to enjoy this year -- no way.
He was reluctant to leave the comfort of the bedclothes, mainly because he was sporting an erection beneath the sheets. The ghastly Fifteen-Year-Old would not let it drop if he spotted it, causing Mark the utmost embarrassment all day long. He wished they would go away. He wondered where they came from in the first place. This he had been asking for years, but had not yet received a satisfactory explanation, and it seemed as though he would not learn much from this new one considering his sullen silence. It was worth another try though, if only to stall them until his hard-on had disappeared.
"Are you ghosts?" he asked.
There was laughter from the Thirteen-Year-old. Mark kind of expected that reaction from him, because at that age, he remembered, he had been a complete arsehole. Not one of his better years. He put it down to the onset of puberty. His first erection had half-frightened him to death, as he knew absolutely nothing about the human body. He thought he had developed a weird new bone, and when he had tried to piss there appeared this unwholesome sticky white stuff, accompanied by a jelly-like feeling in his knees. He never left it alone after that.
"Ghosts?" mocked the Fifteen-Year-Old. "You should know better than that by now, Mark. Of course we aren't ghosts. Haven't we told you what we are? Don't you believe us?"
Mark didn't want all this. He just wished to be normal, to live his teenage years and beyond in the knowledge that there would be no strange reminders of his past years appearing at regular intervals. He seemed trapped, haunted by these ghosts, or whatever they were.
He slipped from beneath the sheets, adopting a sitting position on the soft bed. His hardness had vanished to some other world. He watched the Eight-Year-Old and the Six-Year-Old fighting beside the wardrobe, neither of them in a winning position. They were always like that, as if they each possessed a bizarre hatred for one another. Mark couldn't understand it. Surely he hadn't been that vicious during those years?
"There he sits," scoffed the Fifteen-Year-Old, nodding his head in Mark's direction and speaking to no-one in particular, "Mark, the wanker supreme. All goodness and no balls."
He then began to laugh loudly, causing Mark to shudder inside, as though some heinous entity was planting cold kisses on his soul.
"Why are you here?" Mark cried. "What do you want from me? Why don't you leave me alone?"
They were words tinged with despair and frustration, and were met with further chilling laughter from the Fifteen-Year-Old and his small army of cohorts. Even the newcomer joined in the mockery. Mark recalled the explanation given to him following his initial enquiry, when he had first sought an answer to their curious presence.
"We are figures formed from the badness in your soul," he had been told as a seven-year-old, although at that time the words he did not fully comprehend. "We dwell alongside you in the living world, to taunt you and the goodness you demonstrate."
"But what about the one and two year olds? Surely I was too young to have displayed any badness then?"
"There was badness all right. It's just that you don't remember it."
He was confounded, compelled to endure the constant presence of these beings, spawned from the evil side of his psyche. Or so they claimed. They followed him around from day to day, a hubbub of tiresome noise, reminders of each living year of his existence. It was no wonder he had begun to lose his sanity.
He was aching for a piss, and got up from the warm bed to leave the room. He knew that they would pursue him. Hell, they would most likely follow him to the ends of the earth if he chose to undertake such an arduous journey. His pyjamas clung to his body with the remains of the night perspiration he had acquired during his sleep. As well as occupying a large chunk of his waking existence, they sometimes appeared during his subconscious state, popping up like bad pennies, turning his dreams into unpleasant nightmares. He couldn't escape them. It seemed as if he was doomed to spend his life with these hellish figures frequently appearing to taunt and mock him.
He felt a coldness on his bare feet upon entering the bathroom, and he locked the door behind him, realising at once that this was futile, as the ghosts were able to pursue him through walls and doors alike. As he pissed copiously into the toilet bowl they jeered loudly.
"Aren't I allowed some privacy?" he yelled.
The badness had been squeezed out of him, and collected to form this brood of unholy creatures. He had given up trying to understand the situation long ago. The horror of the situation had escalated beyond the wildness of his most frightening nightmare, of anyone's most frightening nightmare. This was a part of his life. They demanded to be with him, to torture him at every opportune moment, and what they demanded, they got.
Suddenly he heard a female voice calling from beyond the locked door of the bathroom. The sound surprised him, causing him to jump as he started to run the hot water tap.
"Mark! I'm off to work now. Watch the baby, won't you?”
It was his sister Donna. The words awoke him from the terrible living nightmare he was experiencing, the neverending trauma he suffered almost every single day. She could not see them, this he knew. Only he was able to view these monsters, the ones he called the ghosts of his previous years.
"Go on then, babysitter," said the Fifteen-Year-Old, "go and see how the baby is. Is that all you're fit for, Mark? Watching someone's baby?"
The words were cruel and scornful, but then that was indicative of the Fifteen-Year-Old. Experience had taught Mark that these phantoms, or whatever they really were, were supposed to reflect the relevant stage of his development according to the age he had been at the time. Yet he couldn't help thinking that he hadn't been so evil just one year ago. The Fifteen-Year-Old possessed a demon streak that appeared to be an accumulation of all the badness of his previous years, all that dreadfulness rolled into one. Mark feared him. He actually feared that extension of his own being.
He left the bathroom and shuffled down the hall, passing the cacophony of noise coming from his bedroom. The One-Year-Old was still wailing, although he couldn't tell if it was him or Donna's child making such an awful din. He lived with his sister and her husband following the tragic death of their parents in a motor accident when he was twelve. The ghosts didn't help, laughing and taunting him during his grief. He recalled that time with great pain, the memories returning as vivid as the day they occurred. The solemn atmosphere of the funeral, horribly interrupted by the Eleven-Year-Old pissing into the open grave before the coffins were lowered, the Eight and Six-Year-Olds battling like opposing warriors during the reception, the Three-Year-Old attempting to peek up every female's skirt in the room. Mark hated every moment. He hated those sinister spirits with all the might contained within his soul.
The baby was sleeping. Mark knew they wouldn't disturb him, as only he could hear the noise they made, their voices and their churlish remarks. He looked so tiny in that small cot, almost like a child's doll. His cheeks were blubbery and red, and he reached out to gently stroke each one in turn. The Fifteen-Year-Old peered over his shoulder.
"You wimp!" he shouted. "You'll be breast feeding the little bastard next."
Mark turned in rage. His eyes met those of the Sixteen-Year-Old, who was standing alarmingly close, too close for Mark's liking. Mark could practically feel the badness, which seemed to be freezing the blood within his veins, making him shiver uncontrollably. His eyes were so unnatural, so inhuman, they appeared to send him into a weird trance, to hypnotise him, to overpower his thoughts and cause an unsettling turmoil in his mind.
"Feel it," said the Sixteen-Year-Old, the first words he had spoken, "feel the badness. Revel in it, Mark. It's yours -- take it!"
The only sound Mark could hear was a macabre chuckling as he bent over the prone form of Donna's sleeping child and pressed his thumbs against the warm flesh of its neck. He was unaware of doing this, as he started to squeeze, very slowly at first. The pressure increased by the second, until he was forcing his entire hands around the baby's neck, choking him. His mind was a dreamscape of blinding light and colour, interspersed with periods of utter darkness, like lightning flashing intermittently. Beyond this the chuckling continued, and seemed to become louder, as further voices joined in, as though the whole world was laughing at him, making fun of him for some oblivious reason.
Then suddenly something snapped inside him, and he regained control of his thoughts, and more importantly his actions. He released the grip on the child's neck, just in time it appeared, and there followed an ugly fit of coughing from that tiny mouth.
"What the hell...?"
He observed his hands, holding them in front of him, staring with horror at those lethal fingers which had threatened to terminate his nephew's very existence. Then he leapt from out of the trance, and noticed the dreadful laughter that surrounded him. A gruesome ocean of familiar faces greeted him, each of them creased in mirth. His fury then reached the heights of a crescendo.
"You evil bastards!" he cried. "What do you think you're doing?"
"You almost did it then, Mark," said the Fifteen-Year-Old, "your new friend almost tricked you."
Mark caught the subhuman gaze of the Sixteen-Year-Old yet again. There was something about him, something absurdly chilling. He wasn't like the others, he was more awesome, more evil.
He was silent once more, and Mark could almost feel the devilment that surrounded him. It seemed to be eating at his very spirit, chewing away his soul, and spitting out the good nature that remained within his brain.
"So what did it feel like, Mark?" the Fifteen-Year-Old asked. "What was it like to possess the badness once again? You enjoyed it, didn't you? Admit it -- you loved it!"
This was all too much for Mark. He fled from the room in panic, and dashed into his bedroom, before slamming the door closed and pressing himself against it. He was breathing heavily, and was literally shaking. The incident with the baby scared him. Had the Sixteen-Year-Old really succeeded in transmitting his badness on to him? Mark's mind was in such anguish he didn't know what to think. Would it happen again? Could it happen again? Was he capable of killing the child, throttling the very life out of him? These things preyed on his mind as he began to get dressed.
Kirsty arrived shortly before eleven o'clock. She was wearing blue jeans and a white sleeveless top with a buttoned front. Mark didn't notice the clothing, just the patches of exposed flesh. According to him, she was dressed head to toe in temptation. Fourteen years of hormone-inducing sensuality.
He slipped his hand around her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the thin material of the top, and after a long wet kiss he gazed into her eyes.
"Are you looking after the baby again?" she asked.
"Yeh. Let's go upstairs."
The Fifteen-Year-Old was there, attempting to paw Kirsty, but not succeeding. His hands just glided straight through her body, as though he really were an apparition. Mark considered how dangerous he would be -- indeed, how dangerous they would be -- if they were able to actually touch people and things.
As they climbed the stairs, with him admiring the shape of Kirsty's delicious behind, he wondered whether these monsters were merely instruments manufactured from his own fertile imagination. They could not feel or touch, only he could see them. To the rest of the world they were invisible, they did not exist to anyone else. Many times he had travelled along this identical pathway of thought, and every time he had arrived at the same inevitable destination. They were far too baleful to have appeared from his own mind.
"You're going to screw her, aren't you?" laughed the Fifteen-Year-Old, following them into Donna's bedroom. "You're going to screw the arse off her! Aren't you, Mark?"
Mark ignored him. He looked around, and spotted that the Fourteen-Year-Old was present, and was holding his engorged penis in his right hand, sliding his palm along its length with an insidious grin upon his face. Mark was disgusted, but then recalled how remarkably randy he had felt during the whole of that year, when puberty had reared its delightful head.
He and his girlfriend then lay across the bed and began to kiss once more. Mark realised that their relationship possessed a meagre amount of verbal communication. Kirsty was his release, his sole way of forgetting about the malevolent crowd that followed him during his sleeping and waking existence. She was also gorgeous and incredibly sexy.
However, he found it difficult to concentrate on the job in hand with the Fifteen and Fourteen-Year-Olds close by, watching and giggling. He was also thinking of earlier, the incident with the baby. With plugged lips he glanced across, and noticed that his nephew was attempting some form of babyspeak and shaking the bars of the cot with his tiny hands, reminiscent of an angry Death Row inmate who had not received that call from the governor.
"Come on, Mark," goaded the Fifteen-Year-Old, "get your dick out. Let's see what you've got, you wimp!"
Mark felt a familiar stirring in his trousers, and was certainly tempted to bring up the subject of intercourse. He and Kirsty had known each other for three months, and had done it just the once, during a period of cider intoxication. It had been hell. The ghosts had been there, shouting and screaming and laughing, the final embarrassment being the lewd countdown to his own ejaculation. He was reluctant to suggest a second coupling because of this.
In order to avoid the lurid gaze of the Fifteen-Year-Old he turned Kirsty on to her back and continued the kissing with his back to the sinful entity. He endeavoured to bestow his entire attention on her, and started to unbutton her top. She withdrew from his lips and cooed in his ear, breathing warmly on his neck. She appeared to be in another world, far removed from this one. The buttons now unfastened, he swept his hand over her exposed cleavage, attempting to hold those ripe breasts in his hand, squeezing each one delicately.
"It's a front fastener," she whispered in encouragement, and continued to nibble at his neck.
It was the invitation he needed, and proceeded to unclip the bra. The bleach-white skin of her breasts was such a joy to behold. He had observed them before, indeed he had done more than that, but he could not help admiring the delicious sight once again. In his ears rang the salacious comments of the Fifteen-Year-Old, as he cupped Kirsty's right breast. It was the size of a tennis ball, and exquisitely soft. He leant over and kissed the nipple, trailing his tongue along its brownness. Kirsty sighed. Then Mark noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and instantly froze. It was the Sixteen-Year-Old, and he was kneeling beside the bed, his stone-grey eyes frightening Mark half to death.
He then saw the knife.
"Cut her, Mark," said the Sixteen-Year-Old in a fearful hush, "cut those breasts. Slice her open. Let's see this flesh really exposed."
Mark shivered. His mind suddenly became filled with turmoil, a thousand quavering thoughts within his brain. This new arrival, this Sixteen-Year-Old. He seemed more malicious than the rest of them put together, he was positively evil, spawned from the Devil himself. A product of his own badness? Mark doubted if he possessed such a craving for sin, for destruction, for torture. He eyed the gleam of the blade before him. He could never do such things to Kirsty, nor to anyone. Or could he?
Then he realised that it was not he who was holding the knife -- it was Kirsty -- and as his flesh was torn apart he saw the strange beings gradually vanish from view, disintegrating into grey clouds of some weird vapour, until they were no more.
He was almost laughing in death.
Kirsty was still stabbing him long after he was dead. Blood was everywhere, all over his shirt, covering her exposed breasts, soaking the bedclothes. The baby was crying, but she hardly noticed that. At last she ceased the murderous motions, and placed the reddened knife on the bed, and tears started to fall from her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mark," she sobbed, ignoring the girlish laughter that filled the air around her, "they made me do it. These ghosts from my previous years. They made me do it.”
Mark knew that once he turned sixteen a new one would appear. He knew what it would look like too, he knew exactly.
It would be like facing a mirror, observing the perfect image of himself. Every feature would be identical. The same sad eyes, the same paleness of the skin, the same short brown hair. Yet inside, it would be different. He knew all of this. And true enough, he was right.
The others were there as well. As soon as he awoke and came to his senses, abandoning the peacefulness of sleep, they were in the bedroom, hovering around in the half-darkness. Intimidating him with their shifting shapes. He sort of expected it. He attempted to stifle a yawn but failed, closing his eyes for that long moment, his mouth a giant chasm, just for a few seconds. When it had passed they were still there. Staring at him.
"What do you want this time?" he said sleepily.
Until that moment they had been silent before him, simply content to linger in his close vicinity, endeavouring to frighten him, and succeeding, just a fraction. The new one was sitting at the foot of the bed, with the Fifteen-Year-Old beside him, haunting him with those awful glassy eyes. They were stone grey, and incredibly narrow, almost like a Japanese. Just like Mark's.
"Meet your new friend," said the Fifteen-Year-Old.
Mark noticed the bewildering aura of devilment that always appeared to surround the Fifteen-Year-Old, that strange cloak of invisible evil that he had discerned for the whole of the previous year, ever since their initial meeting. It was driving him insane, causing him to lose his mind, to succumb to a confusing madness. It was something he had never got used to, and now it was all to begin again with this Sixteen-Year-Old.
"You're not my friends," said Mark, attempting to sound defiant.
The One-Year-Old began to cry. He was lying on the carpet close to the window, and the Three-Year-Old was trying to take off his nappy. Mark recalled how mischievous he had been at that age, so his behaviour was no shock to him. He then turned his gaze to the newcomer. The resemblance was outstanding, perfect to every inch of flesh and bone. He wondered how long it would go on, how many years would pass before it all ended. He envisaged waking on his sixtieth birthday to find sixty of them swarming around his bedroom. This caused him to really freak.
"He's always quiet like this," the Fifteen-Year-Old explained to the new arrival, who still had not uttered a word, "he's become very withdrawn in the last year. I expect you'll be much the same."
The grey eyes of the Sixteen-Year-Old seemed even more frightful than those of the Fifteen-Year-Old. Mark knew he wasn't going to enjoy this year -- no way.
He was reluctant to leave the comfort of the bedclothes, mainly because he was sporting an erection beneath the sheets. The ghastly Fifteen-Year-Old would not let it drop if he spotted it, causing Mark the utmost embarrassment all day long. He wished they would go away. He wondered where they came from in the first place. This he had been asking for years, but had not yet received a satisfactory explanation, and it seemed as though he would not learn much from this new one considering his sullen silence. It was worth another try though, if only to stall them until his hard-on had disappeared.
"Are you ghosts?" he asked.
There was laughter from the Thirteen-Year-old. Mark kind of expected that reaction from him, because at that age, he remembered, he had been a complete arsehole. Not one of his better years. He put it down to the onset of puberty. His first erection had half-frightened him to death, as he knew absolutely nothing about the human body. He thought he had developed a weird new bone, and when he had tried to piss there appeared this unwholesome sticky white stuff, accompanied by a jelly-like feeling in his knees. He never left it alone after that.
"Ghosts?" mocked the Fifteen-Year-Old. "You should know better than that by now, Mark. Of course we aren't ghosts. Haven't we told you what we are? Don't you believe us?"
Mark didn't want all this. He just wished to be normal, to live his teenage years and beyond in the knowledge that there would be no strange reminders of his past years appearing at regular intervals. He seemed trapped, haunted by these ghosts, or whatever they were.
He slipped from beneath the sheets, adopting a sitting position on the soft bed. His hardness had vanished to some other world. He watched the Eight-Year-Old and the Six-Year-Old fighting beside the wardrobe, neither of them in a winning position. They were always like that, as if they each possessed a bizarre hatred for one another. Mark couldn't understand it. Surely he hadn't been that vicious during those years?
"There he sits," scoffed the Fifteen-Year-Old, nodding his head in Mark's direction and speaking to no-one in particular, "Mark, the wanker supreme. All goodness and no balls."
He then began to laugh loudly, causing Mark to shudder inside, as though some heinous entity was planting cold kisses on his soul.
"Why are you here?" Mark cried. "What do you want from me? Why don't you leave me alone?"
They were words tinged with despair and frustration, and were met with further chilling laughter from the Fifteen-Year-Old and his small army of cohorts. Even the newcomer joined in the mockery. Mark recalled the explanation given to him following his initial enquiry, when he had first sought an answer to their curious presence.
"We are figures formed from the badness in your soul," he had been told as a seven-year-old, although at that time the words he did not fully comprehend. "We dwell alongside you in the living world, to taunt you and the goodness you demonstrate."
"But what about the one and two year olds? Surely I was too young to have displayed any badness then?"
"There was badness all right. It's just that you don't remember it."
He was confounded, compelled to endure the constant presence of these beings, spawned from the evil side of his psyche. Or so they claimed. They followed him around from day to day, a hubbub of tiresome noise, reminders of each living year of his existence. It was no wonder he had begun to lose his sanity.
He was aching for a piss, and got up from the warm bed to leave the room. He knew that they would pursue him. Hell, they would most likely follow him to the ends of the earth if he chose to undertake such an arduous journey. His pyjamas clung to his body with the remains of the night perspiration he had acquired during his sleep. As well as occupying a large chunk of his waking existence, they sometimes appeared during his subconscious state, popping up like bad pennies, turning his dreams into unpleasant nightmares. He couldn't escape them. It seemed as if he was doomed to spend his life with these hellish figures frequently appearing to taunt and mock him.
He felt a coldness on his bare feet upon entering the bathroom, and he locked the door behind him, realising at once that this was futile, as the ghosts were able to pursue him through walls and doors alike. As he pissed copiously into the toilet bowl they jeered loudly.
"Aren't I allowed some privacy?" he yelled.
The badness had been squeezed out of him, and collected to form this brood of unholy creatures. He had given up trying to understand the situation long ago. The horror of the situation had escalated beyond the wildness of his most frightening nightmare, of anyone's most frightening nightmare. This was a part of his life. They demanded to be with him, to torture him at every opportune moment, and what they demanded, they got.
Suddenly he heard a female voice calling from beyond the locked door of the bathroom. The sound surprised him, causing him to jump as he started to run the hot water tap.
"Mark! I'm off to work now. Watch the baby, won't you?”
It was his sister Donna. The words awoke him from the terrible living nightmare he was experiencing, the neverending trauma he suffered almost every single day. She could not see them, this he knew. Only he was able to view these monsters, the ones he called the ghosts of his previous years.
"Go on then, babysitter," said the Fifteen-Year-Old, "go and see how the baby is. Is that all you're fit for, Mark? Watching someone's baby?"
The words were cruel and scornful, but then that was indicative of the Fifteen-Year-Old. Experience had taught Mark that these phantoms, or whatever they really were, were supposed to reflect the relevant stage of his development according to the age he had been at the time. Yet he couldn't help thinking that he hadn't been so evil just one year ago. The Fifteen-Year-Old possessed a demon streak that appeared to be an accumulation of all the badness of his previous years, all that dreadfulness rolled into one. Mark feared him. He actually feared that extension of his own being.
He left the bathroom and shuffled down the hall, passing the cacophony of noise coming from his bedroom. The One-Year-Old was still wailing, although he couldn't tell if it was him or Donna's child making such an awful din. He lived with his sister and her husband following the tragic death of their parents in a motor accident when he was twelve. The ghosts didn't help, laughing and taunting him during his grief. He recalled that time with great pain, the memories returning as vivid as the day they occurred. The solemn atmosphere of the funeral, horribly interrupted by the Eleven-Year-Old pissing into the open grave before the coffins were lowered, the Eight and Six-Year-Olds battling like opposing warriors during the reception, the Three-Year-Old attempting to peek up every female's skirt in the room. Mark hated every moment. He hated those sinister spirits with all the might contained within his soul.
The baby was sleeping. Mark knew they wouldn't disturb him, as only he could hear the noise they made, their voices and their churlish remarks. He looked so tiny in that small cot, almost like a child's doll. His cheeks were blubbery and red, and he reached out to gently stroke each one in turn. The Fifteen-Year-Old peered over his shoulder.
"You wimp!" he shouted. "You'll be breast feeding the little bastard next."
Mark turned in rage. His eyes met those of the Sixteen-Year-Old, who was standing alarmingly close, too close for Mark's liking. Mark could practically feel the badness, which seemed to be freezing the blood within his veins, making him shiver uncontrollably. His eyes were so unnatural, so inhuman, they appeared to send him into a weird trance, to hypnotise him, to overpower his thoughts and cause an unsettling turmoil in his mind.
"Feel it," said the Sixteen-Year-Old, the first words he had spoken, "feel the badness. Revel in it, Mark. It's yours -- take it!"
The only sound Mark could hear was a macabre chuckling as he bent over the prone form of Donna's sleeping child and pressed his thumbs against the warm flesh of its neck. He was unaware of doing this, as he started to squeeze, very slowly at first. The pressure increased by the second, until he was forcing his entire hands around the baby's neck, choking him. His mind was a dreamscape of blinding light and colour, interspersed with periods of utter darkness, like lightning flashing intermittently. Beyond this the chuckling continued, and seemed to become louder, as further voices joined in, as though the whole world was laughing at him, making fun of him for some oblivious reason.
Then suddenly something snapped inside him, and he regained control of his thoughts, and more importantly his actions. He released the grip on the child's neck, just in time it appeared, and there followed an ugly fit of coughing from that tiny mouth.
"What the hell...?"
He observed his hands, holding them in front of him, staring with horror at those lethal fingers which had threatened to terminate his nephew's very existence. Then he leapt from out of the trance, and noticed the dreadful laughter that surrounded him. A gruesome ocean of familiar faces greeted him, each of them creased in mirth. His fury then reached the heights of a crescendo.
"You evil bastards!" he cried. "What do you think you're doing?"
"You almost did it then, Mark," said the Fifteen-Year-Old, "your new friend almost tricked you."
Mark caught the subhuman gaze of the Sixteen-Year-Old yet again. There was something about him, something absurdly chilling. He wasn't like the others, he was more awesome, more evil.
He was silent once more, and Mark could almost feel the devilment that surrounded him. It seemed to be eating at his very spirit, chewing away his soul, and spitting out the good nature that remained within his brain.
"So what did it feel like, Mark?" the Fifteen-Year-Old asked. "What was it like to possess the badness once again? You enjoyed it, didn't you? Admit it -- you loved it!"
This was all too much for Mark. He fled from the room in panic, and dashed into his bedroom, before slamming the door closed and pressing himself against it. He was breathing heavily, and was literally shaking. The incident with the baby scared him. Had the Sixteen-Year-Old really succeeded in transmitting his badness on to him? Mark's mind was in such anguish he didn't know what to think. Would it happen again? Could it happen again? Was he capable of killing the child, throttling the very life out of him? These things preyed on his mind as he began to get dressed.
Kirsty arrived shortly before eleven o'clock. She was wearing blue jeans and a white sleeveless top with a buttoned front. Mark didn't notice the clothing, just the patches of exposed flesh. According to him, she was dressed head to toe in temptation. Fourteen years of hormone-inducing sensuality.
He slipped his hand around her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the thin material of the top, and after a long wet kiss he gazed into her eyes.
"Are you looking after the baby again?" she asked.
"Yeh. Let's go upstairs."
The Fifteen-Year-Old was there, attempting to paw Kirsty, but not succeeding. His hands just glided straight through her body, as though he really were an apparition. Mark considered how dangerous he would be -- indeed, how dangerous they would be -- if they were able to actually touch people and things.
As they climbed the stairs, with him admiring the shape of Kirsty's delicious behind, he wondered whether these monsters were merely instruments manufactured from his own fertile imagination. They could not feel or touch, only he could see them. To the rest of the world they were invisible, they did not exist to anyone else. Many times he had travelled along this identical pathway of thought, and every time he had arrived at the same inevitable destination. They were far too baleful to have appeared from his own mind.
"You're going to screw her, aren't you?" laughed the Fifteen-Year-Old, following them into Donna's bedroom. "You're going to screw the arse off her! Aren't you, Mark?"
Mark ignored him. He looked around, and spotted that the Fourteen-Year-Old was present, and was holding his engorged penis in his right hand, sliding his palm along its length with an insidious grin upon his face. Mark was disgusted, but then recalled how remarkably randy he had felt during the whole of that year, when puberty had reared its delightful head.
He and his girlfriend then lay across the bed and began to kiss once more. Mark realised that their relationship possessed a meagre amount of verbal communication. Kirsty was his release, his sole way of forgetting about the malevolent crowd that followed him during his sleeping and waking existence. She was also gorgeous and incredibly sexy.
However, he found it difficult to concentrate on the job in hand with the Fifteen and Fourteen-Year-Olds close by, watching and giggling. He was also thinking of earlier, the incident with the baby. With plugged lips he glanced across, and noticed that his nephew was attempting some form of babyspeak and shaking the bars of the cot with his tiny hands, reminiscent of an angry Death Row inmate who had not received that call from the governor.
"Come on, Mark," goaded the Fifteen-Year-Old, "get your dick out. Let's see what you've got, you wimp!"
Mark felt a familiar stirring in his trousers, and was certainly tempted to bring up the subject of intercourse. He and Kirsty had known each other for three months, and had done it just the once, during a period of cider intoxication. It had been hell. The ghosts had been there, shouting and screaming and laughing, the final embarrassment being the lewd countdown to his own ejaculation. He was reluctant to suggest a second coupling because of this.
In order to avoid the lurid gaze of the Fifteen-Year-Old he turned Kirsty on to her back and continued the kissing with his back to the sinful entity. He endeavoured to bestow his entire attention on her, and started to unbutton her top. She withdrew from his lips and cooed in his ear, breathing warmly on his neck. She appeared to be in another world, far removed from this one. The buttons now unfastened, he swept his hand over her exposed cleavage, attempting to hold those ripe breasts in his hand, squeezing each one delicately.
"It's a front fastener," she whispered in encouragement, and continued to nibble at his neck.
It was the invitation he needed, and proceeded to unclip the bra. The bleach-white skin of her breasts was such a joy to behold. He had observed them before, indeed he had done more than that, but he could not help admiring the delicious sight once again. In his ears rang the salacious comments of the Fifteen-Year-Old, as he cupped Kirsty's right breast. It was the size of a tennis ball, and exquisitely soft. He leant over and kissed the nipple, trailing his tongue along its brownness. Kirsty sighed. Then Mark noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and instantly froze. It was the Sixteen-Year-Old, and he was kneeling beside the bed, his stone-grey eyes frightening Mark half to death.
He then saw the knife.
"Cut her, Mark," said the Sixteen-Year-Old in a fearful hush, "cut those breasts. Slice her open. Let's see this flesh really exposed."
Mark shivered. His mind suddenly became filled with turmoil, a thousand quavering thoughts within his brain. This new arrival, this Sixteen-Year-Old. He seemed more malicious than the rest of them put together, he was positively evil, spawned from the Devil himself. A product of his own badness? Mark doubted if he possessed such a craving for sin, for destruction, for torture. He eyed the gleam of the blade before him. He could never do such things to Kirsty, nor to anyone. Or could he?
Then he realised that it was not he who was holding the knife -- it was Kirsty -- and as his flesh was torn apart he saw the strange beings gradually vanish from view, disintegrating into grey clouds of some weird vapour, until they were no more.
He was almost laughing in death.
Kirsty was still stabbing him long after he was dead. Blood was everywhere, all over his shirt, covering her exposed breasts, soaking the bedclothes. The baby was crying, but she hardly noticed that. At last she ceased the murderous motions, and placed the reddened knife on the bed, and tears started to fall from her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mark," she sobbed, ignoring the girlish laughter that filled the air around her, "they made me do it. These ghosts from my previous years. They made me do it.”
The Writer Picked Up His Pen
[Unpublished]
The writer picked up his pen and printed the following words on the top sheet of the pile of foolscap paper on his kitchen table.
CERN ZOO
by Peter Tennant
He put down the pen, removed the page and placed it face down on the right hand side of the pile. He then picked up the pen once more and prepared to write more words on the second sheet. However, he was interrupted by someone knocking at his front door.
The writer left the kitchen and trotted to his front door. He opened the door to find a stranger standing outside. The man was nondescript and was holding what the writer thought to be some kind of manuscript.
“Can I help you?” asked the writer.
“Possibly,” the stranger replied. “But I can help you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Oh yes.”
“Okay, come in then.”
The writer allowed the strange man to enter his home, after which he closed the front door and led the man into the kitchen. He gestured for him to take a seat at the table, which the man did.
“Tea?” the writer asked.
“Yes, please.”
The writer made tea in a china teapot, hot and strong, and joined the man at the table. He poured two cups and allowed the stranger to help himself to milk and sugar. The stranger thanked him as he did so.
“So how can you help me?” the writer enquired.
The stranger immediately handed over his manuscript to the writer, who took it and read the words on the top page.
CERN ZOO
by Rhys Hughes
The writer placed the manuscript on to the kitchen table, to the left of his pile of foolscap paper.
“Do you expect me to read this?” he asked the stranger.
“You can read it if you wish to,” said the man. “It makes no difference if you read it or not.”
“It makes no difference to what?”
“It makes no difference to life, death and the future.”
The writer took his teacup and sipped a small amount of the hot tea through his lips. He swallowed it silently and gently.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
The stranger lifted his teacup also and took a tiny sip into his mouth, relishing the taste for a few seconds before swallowing, also gently and silently.
“Nice tea,” he said.
“Thank you,” the writer responded.
The strange man then placed his elbows on the table and poked his head forward a little.
“I know who you are,” he said. “You are Peter Tennant.”
“You are right,” said the writer, “and you are Rhys Hughes.”
“You are right also. You are Peter Tennant, and I know that you are simply unable to resist a challenge, especially the challenge of a submission to a magazine, anthology or any publication that requires a short tale. Am I right?”
“You are right.”
“I have already noticed that you are in the process of producing a tale to submit.”
“That is correct. But you have beat me to it. You have already produced a tale for this particular anthology.”
The writer nodded at the manuscript to the left of his pile of foolscap paper.
“Yes I have,” the stranger said. “And let me tell you that I do not regret producing it. Not one bit. Even though it has rendered me exhausted and very, very jaded.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it has.”
The stranger then picked up his teacup once again and took more liquid into his mouth, smacking his lips as he savoured the taste and swallowed. He then addressed the writer once more.
“Have you ever wondered how many words you will produce in your lifetime? How many sentences you will construct? How many plots you will devise? How many works of fiction you will complete? Have you ever wondered about these things?”
“Not in so many words,” the writer said.
The stranger chuckled. He grabbed the teacup and finished off the contents in one go, before placing the cup back on to the table.
“More tea?” the writer asked.
“Yes, please.”
The writer took hold of the teapot and poured more tea for the stranger. He allowed him to help himself to milk and sugar, and the man did so. The writer then emptied the contents of his own cup into his mouth, and poured himself another cup.
“Why do you mention the amount of words I might produce in my lifetime?” the writer enquired.
The stranger paused before responding.
“I myself believe that there is a limit,” he told the writer, “and when one reaches that limit that is the end. The end of everything. And I believe that I have reached that limit.”
“How do you know?”
“Because producing this tale has rendered me exhausted and very, very jaded.”
He supped more tea before continuing.
“It is Cern Zoo,” he explained. “This is the tale to end all tales. It is the end of everything. You are Peter Tennant. You have written thousands upon thousands of words over the years. There must come a point where you can not write another word. It will come upon completion of this tale. Cern Zoo. It is the end. The end of everything.”
“Then I don’t think I will complete the tale,” said the writer with a slight chuckle.
“You will do. You are Peter Tennant. You are simply unable to resist a challenge, especially the challenge of a submission to a magazine, anthology or any publication that requires a short tale. You will complete the tale. And it will be the end.”
The writer sipped at his tea as he eyed the stranger across the table. He considered him to be quite eccentric, and questioned the words he was uttering.
“How am I supposed to believe all this?” he asked the man. “You might be incorrect. It might not be the end at all.”
“It is the end,” said the stranger. “I can prove it.”
“You can prove it? How?”
The man sat back in his chair, a grim expression taking over his features. He appeared to tense his body, as if in preparation for some cosmic event.
“I apologise for the mess,” he said, before his body crumbled and disintegrated in front of the writer’s eyes, and in less than ten seconds he became a small pile of grey-white ash upon the kitchen chair.
The writer stared in shock at the remains of the stranger for several minutes, not able to comprehend what had happened. When he regained his senses he cleaned up the ashes, and afterwards he resumed his place at the table, and proceeded to write the story he was about to begin beforehand. When he had finished, he picked up the stranger’s manuscript and read it, purely out of curiosity. The tale was identical to his own.
The writer picked up his pen and printed the following words on the top sheet of the pile of foolscap paper on his kitchen table.
CERN ZOO
by D F Lewis
He put down the pen, removed the page and placed it face down on the right hand side of the pile. He then picked up the pen once more and prepared to write more words on the second sheet. However, he was interrupted by someone knocking at his front door.
The writer left the kitchen and trotted to his front door. He opened the door to find a stranger standing outside. The man was nondescript and was holding what the writer thought to be some kind of manuscript.
“Can I help you?” asked the writer.
“Possibly,” the stranger replied. “But I can help you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Oh yes.”
With that the stranger handed the manuscript to the writer, who took it and studied the top page.
CERN ZOO
by Peter Tennant
“How can this help me?” asked the writer.
“Let me in and I’ll show you,” the stranger replied.
“Come in then,” said the writer, “I’ll make us some hot strong tea.”
“Thank you,” said the stranger as he stepped into the house. “I believe it will be the last I ever have…”
The writer picked up his pen and printed the following words on the top sheet of the pile of foolscap paper on his kitchen table.
CERN ZOO
by Peter Tennant
He put down the pen, removed the page and placed it face down on the right hand side of the pile. He then picked up the pen once more and prepared to write more words on the second sheet. However, he was interrupted by someone knocking at his front door.
The writer left the kitchen and trotted to his front door. He opened the door to find a stranger standing outside. The man was nondescript and was holding what the writer thought to be some kind of manuscript.
“Can I help you?” asked the writer.
“Possibly,” the stranger replied. “But I can help you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Oh yes.”
“Okay, come in then.”
The writer allowed the strange man to enter his home, after which he closed the front door and led the man into the kitchen. He gestured for him to take a seat at the table, which the man did.
“Tea?” the writer asked.
“Yes, please.”
The writer made tea in a china teapot, hot and strong, and joined the man at the table. He poured two cups and allowed the stranger to help himself to milk and sugar. The stranger thanked him as he did so.
“So how can you help me?” the writer enquired.
The stranger immediately handed over his manuscript to the writer, who took it and read the words on the top page.
CERN ZOO
by Rhys Hughes
The writer placed the manuscript on to the kitchen table, to the left of his pile of foolscap paper.
“Do you expect me to read this?” he asked the stranger.
“You can read it if you wish to,” said the man. “It makes no difference if you read it or not.”
“It makes no difference to what?”
“It makes no difference to life, death and the future.”
The writer took his teacup and sipped a small amount of the hot tea through his lips. He swallowed it silently and gently.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
The stranger lifted his teacup also and took a tiny sip into his mouth, relishing the taste for a few seconds before swallowing, also gently and silently.
“Nice tea,” he said.
“Thank you,” the writer responded.
The strange man then placed his elbows on the table and poked his head forward a little.
“I know who you are,” he said. “You are Peter Tennant.”
“You are right,” said the writer, “and you are Rhys Hughes.”
“You are right also. You are Peter Tennant, and I know that you are simply unable to resist a challenge, especially the challenge of a submission to a magazine, anthology or any publication that requires a short tale. Am I right?”
“You are right.”
“I have already noticed that you are in the process of producing a tale to submit.”
“That is correct. But you have beat me to it. You have already produced a tale for this particular anthology.”
The writer nodded at the manuscript to the left of his pile of foolscap paper.
“Yes I have,” the stranger said. “And let me tell you that I do not regret producing it. Not one bit. Even though it has rendered me exhausted and very, very jaded.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it has.”
The stranger then picked up his teacup once again and took more liquid into his mouth, smacking his lips as he savoured the taste and swallowed. He then addressed the writer once more.
“Have you ever wondered how many words you will produce in your lifetime? How many sentences you will construct? How many plots you will devise? How many works of fiction you will complete? Have you ever wondered about these things?”
“Not in so many words,” the writer said.
The stranger chuckled. He grabbed the teacup and finished off the contents in one go, before placing the cup back on to the table.
“More tea?” the writer asked.
“Yes, please.”
The writer took hold of the teapot and poured more tea for the stranger. He allowed him to help himself to milk and sugar, and the man did so. The writer then emptied the contents of his own cup into his mouth, and poured himself another cup.
“Why do you mention the amount of words I might produce in my lifetime?” the writer enquired.
The stranger paused before responding.
“I myself believe that there is a limit,” he told the writer, “and when one reaches that limit that is the end. The end of everything. And I believe that I have reached that limit.”
“How do you know?”
“Because producing this tale has rendered me exhausted and very, very jaded.”
He supped more tea before continuing.
“It is Cern Zoo,” he explained. “This is the tale to end all tales. It is the end of everything. You are Peter Tennant. You have written thousands upon thousands of words over the years. There must come a point where you can not write another word. It will come upon completion of this tale. Cern Zoo. It is the end. The end of everything.”
“Then I don’t think I will complete the tale,” said the writer with a slight chuckle.
“You will do. You are Peter Tennant. You are simply unable to resist a challenge, especially the challenge of a submission to a magazine, anthology or any publication that requires a short tale. You will complete the tale. And it will be the end.”
The writer sipped at his tea as he eyed the stranger across the table. He considered him to be quite eccentric, and questioned the words he was uttering.
“How am I supposed to believe all this?” he asked the man. “You might be incorrect. It might not be the end at all.”
“It is the end,” said the stranger. “I can prove it.”
“You can prove it? How?”
The man sat back in his chair, a grim expression taking over his features. He appeared to tense his body, as if in preparation for some cosmic event.
“I apologise for the mess,” he said, before his body crumbled and disintegrated in front of the writer’s eyes, and in less than ten seconds he became a small pile of grey-white ash upon the kitchen chair.
The writer stared in shock at the remains of the stranger for several minutes, not able to comprehend what had happened. When he regained his senses he cleaned up the ashes, and afterwards he resumed his place at the table, and proceeded to write the story he was about to begin beforehand. When he had finished, he picked up the stranger’s manuscript and read it, purely out of curiosity. The tale was identical to his own.
The writer picked up his pen and printed the following words on the top sheet of the pile of foolscap paper on his kitchen table.
CERN ZOO
by D F Lewis
He put down the pen, removed the page and placed it face down on the right hand side of the pile. He then picked up the pen once more and prepared to write more words on the second sheet. However, he was interrupted by someone knocking at his front door.
The writer left the kitchen and trotted to his front door. He opened the door to find a stranger standing outside. The man was nondescript and was holding what the writer thought to be some kind of manuscript.
“Can I help you?” asked the writer.
“Possibly,” the stranger replied. “But I can help you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Oh yes.”
With that the stranger handed the manuscript to the writer, who took it and studied the top page.
CERN ZOO
by Peter Tennant
“How can this help me?” asked the writer.
“Let me in and I’ll show you,” the stranger replied.
“Come in then,” said the writer, “I’ll make us some hot strong tea.”
“Thank you,” said the stranger as he stepped into the house. “I believe it will be the last I ever have…”
Z Isn't For Walrus
[Published in The Walri Project anthology as Clint Venezuela]
When I got home from the slaughterhouse I heard strange noises coming from the bedroom. I pushed the door open and was astounded to find my wife on the bed being screwed by a walrus.
“Hey!” I yelled. “What the fuck is going on in here?”
The walrus didn’t appear to hear me, and if he did he just took no notice. He merely continued pounding his giant frame against my wife’s insignificant body. I caught her eye, and she silently nodded in the direction of the bedside dresser, where I spotted two crispy ten dollar bills. My nerves relaxed at once.
“Well I guess that’s okay then,” I muttered in a much calmer tone.
I crept away and gently closed the door behind me, then, after a quick visit to the kitchen, I sauntered into the lounge and flopped on to the settee I don’t remember owning with a packet of crocodile toenail flavoured potato chips and a root beer. As I snacked I watched the blank television screen, absorbed in its murky aura.
In the bedroom I could hear the bedsprings taking a battering, and some minutes later a wolfish howl shattered the walls of the apartment. The walrus had had his fill of my wife. Presently the door was pulled open and the walrus stomped into the lounge. He was absolutely huge, around eight feet tall with hundreds of whiskers around his burly snout. He glanced at me before collapsing into the armchair with an almighty crash, destroying the chair in the process.
“You destroyed the fucking chair!” I cried out. I was obviously flipped out, not used to being in the presence of a walrus.
The giant creature took out a packet of Yeheyuans and lit one, arrogantly exhaling large plumes of smoke all around and into my eyes.
“Who said you could fucking smoke around here?” I yelled.
The walrus gazed at me for a few seconds, then sneaked out a cloud of smoke in the direction of the budgie’s cage.
“I find your overuse of the F word seriously distressing,” he said in a gruff voice.
I was taken aback. He was capable of human speech!
“You’re capable of human speech!” I exclaimed.
“So? Is that surprising?”
“Well yes it is.”
“How come?”
“Because you’re a fucking walrus!”
“Well what were you expecting? We’re not all growls, grunts and whistles, you know. Got any more root beer?”
I shook my head. I did have some more root beer to be truthful but I didn’t want to give the walrus any because he appeared to be a supercilious twat.
“Actually,” he continued, “I’m surprised to discover humans are capable of speech.”
“Why? That’s how we communicate.”
“And that’s how we communicate too.”
I watched as the walrus scratched his left tusk with his foreflipper. He truly was an ugly bastard.
“You’ll be telling me next that you all have names,” I mumbled sarcastically.
“Yes we do! Mine’s Reg. What’s yours? If indeed humans have names at all.”
“Of course we fucking do!”
The walrus tut-tutted and waved his flipper at me. “That F word thing is a real problem with you.”
I realized that he was getting the better of me and it was showing. I had to use my wits and relax. I gulped some root beer before answering him.
“Reg is an unusual name for a walrus,” I said.
“Have you ever been introduced to a walrus?”
“No.”
“So how can you say that?”
He had me. What a bastard!
“My name is Dumbfuck,” I told him.
“That’s an unusual name for a human.”
“Have you ever been introduced to a human?”
He grinned, showing me his collection of evil-looking teeth. “You got me there!”
I settled back on to the settee I don’t remember us having and crammed a palmful of potato chips into my maw. The walrus – Reg – finished his Yeheyuan and lit another.
“So, Reg,” I said, more confident now, “what brings you around here today then?”
Reg looked me straight in the eye and said, “I came around here to shag your wife.” Then he blew a wadful of cigarette smoke right up my nose.
“Cool,” I replied, trying to appear nonchalant about the fact that he’d been humping Mrs Dumbfuck. “How did you find out about her services?”
The walrus fumbled around beside him and after a few seconds produced a small card from within the folds of his thick skin. He handed it to me.
READY AND AVAILABLE AND SEXY AS HELL ITSELF
CALL FOR A GOOD TIME
044 777 808099
ASK FOR AMARYLLIS
Amaryllis! So that was her first name!
“I guess you found this lying around the bog somewhere, huh?” I asked.
“The bog? The bog? What do you think we are, neanderthals?”
“No, I just thought…”
“You just thought we were a bunch of uneducated heathens, didn’t you?”
“No! Well, yeah I did. Sorry.”
“Typical.”
“So where do you all live then?”
“Testicle Valley.”
“Testicle Valley? Wow! That place is so cool! Only rich dudes live around there, don’t they?”
“That’s right.”
“So you’re rich then?”
“Sure am. My father is the deputy governor of Tennessee.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Sorry, never heard of him.”
I finished my root beer and farted loudly. I started to wonder how long Reg was going to stick around, as I was desperate to masturbate, having spied the delectable Miss Bab hanging around the foyer when I entered the apartment block.
“So, er…” I said slowly, “is this your first time with a human female?”
“It is,” said Reg with a sly grin.
“Aren’t there any hot walrus chicks down in Testicle Valley for you to shag?”
Reg chuckled. “Testicle Valley is full of hot walrus chicks, but you know what it’s like, we all fancy a change now and then.”
“That’s so sexist,” I said.
“You think so? I bet if you got the chance you wouldn’t say no.”
At once I thought of Miss Bab and I knew exactly what he meant. “I guess so,” I murmured.
Reg began to scratch his tusk again, producing a grating noise that was as irritating as hell. “What about a walrus chick? Would you fancy it?”
I almost retched at the idea. All that horrible thick dirty skin, and the hundreds of whiskers, and the protruding tusks.
“You must be joking!” I yelled.
Reg laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Walri are very sexual creatures, you know.”
“No shit.”
“It’s true.”
The walrus reached behind the armchair and swung a holdall over his shoulder, and proceeded to unzip it. I gazed on, keen to learn what he had inside his bag. I spotted a copy of The Kafka Effekt by D Harlan Wilson, and next to it a small pocketsize paperback in lurid colors of pink and yellow. He handed it to me and I scrutinized the title.
HOT SEX TIPS
(WALRUS EDITION)
“I don’t believe it!” I gasped, but upon flicking through the book and glancing at the various graphic examples of sexual walrus antics I started to believe it alright.
“What do you think?” asked Reg.
“It’s sick!”
He guffawed in front of my face. “You wouldn’t say that if you were in the sack with a hot sexy steaming walrus babe!” He then glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Hey, I gotta go. I have an appointment with my chiropodist.”
I looked at the size of the claws on his inner flippers and groaned. If anyone required a chiropodist it was this dude. He climbed to his foreflippers and waddled down the hall and out of the door, without even a word. The apartment seemed so quiet without his presence. I pondered over this strange encounter, until I realized that I was still holding the Hot Sex Tips book in my hands. I opened it up and began to read. After the second page I had a burning erection.
In and out, in and out, in and out. Isn’t that the way? And it feels so lovely, doesn’t it? I slid my penis in and out of the hole and experienced a feeling so exquisite that I almost fainted with delight. My nude body was sweating heavily as I performed the deed. I could feel it coming on, the climax. Gallons of sperm creeping through my testicles. Well, a little bit at least, but it felt like gallons.
And then it arrived.
I can never describe that feeling. My white stuff pumped out as I still slid in and out, then it became so unbearable that I just held it inside. I left it there for maybe half a minute until the orgasm subsided and I got my breath back. Then I placed my arms around my lover and leant forward.
“How was it for you, Doris?” I whispered.
Doris replied with a growl, a grunt and a whistle, and when she kissed me her whiskers brushed all over my face.
Four days later and I was in the apartment searching for my copy of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson. I was just about to strangle the budgie when someone knocked at the door.
My journey to the front door was laden with hazards, but then so is life so I wasn’t too stressed about it, and besides I had plenty of prescribed tablets to assist me. I pulled the door open and came face to face to face with two cops. A shudder tingled through my bloodstream and caused my nostrils to quiver a tiny morsel. I was terrified that I had been branded a pervert after my trip down to the bog with Doris.
“Mr Dumbfuck?” snarled the first cop. He was wearing shades. So was the other cop. I wasn’t wearing shades.
“Just Dumbfuck. I’ve never been called Mr before.”
The second cop was humming a tune under his breath. I was certain that I recognized it, and after a few seconds I was pretty damned sure of the title.
“I’ll name that tune in three!” I screamed.
The cop seemed alarmed that I knew the tune. “Name that tune,” he said.
“The Blower’s Daughter by Damien Rice.”
“Correct!” said the second cop, and proceeded to exchange high fives and not-so-secret underground slaps and thumb-rubs with me. The first cop didn’t appear too pleased with all of this.
“What’s all this shit?” he blasted.
His partner seemed rather sheepish and became silent at once.
“Never mind all that game show shit,” continued the first cop. He then delved into his jacket pocket and produced a crumpled snapshot, which he thrust in front of my nose. “Have you seen this walrus?” he yelled.
I gazed at the photograph. It was an image of a walrus all right, and I immediately thought of Reg, although I couldn’t be sure it was him because walri all look the same to me.
“Walri all look the same to me so I can’t be sure it’s Reg,” I blurted.
“Reg?” said the first cop. “Who’s Reg?”
I was trapped, well and truly, so I was forced to tell them about the visit of Reg the walrus to my apartment, but I didn’t tell them about him having sex with Mrs Dumbfuck, no way.
“Did Reg have sex with your wife at all?” the cop enquired.
“What? Don’t be preposterous!” I lied.
“If you say so,” the cop said. He then hesitated for around 3.33333 seconds recurring. “Do you have a copy of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because we’ve received reports of a walrus visiting apartment blocks all over Beantown making off with copies of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson and having sex with the female of the house if the opportunity is there.”
I became speechless and in shock. What a bastard! I vowed never to trust a walrus ever again. I explained to the cops that my copy of the book was missing and that Reg must have been responsible. They didn’t write anything down, they didn’t even take out a notebook. Neither did I for that matter.
“I did notice that he had a copy of The Kafka Effekt by D Harlan Wilson in his bag,” I told them.
Immediately the two cops began to blubber. Streams of tears fell from behind their shades, so severe that they were gushing as if from a faucet, and in no time at all they were standing in a large puddle that was increasing by the tenth of a second.
“Thank you for your time,” said the first cop, and then they were off, marching down the hall as though they had left the oven on at home.
“Wait!” I cried. “Why does Reg want all these copies of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson? What’s going on?”
But they didn’t respond, instead they galloped down the stairway and out into the street. I slammed my door like a mad thing and reached for my jacket. I had to go down to Testicle Valley and find out what in the Devil’s name was going on with Reg and these books.
As I passed the window I glanced out and spotted the two cops approaching their car, which was parked across the street. They weren’t crying any more; in fact they were laughing, like two spectators at an Andy Kaufman concert. And then they reached up to a spot at the centre of their foreheads and pulled their skins down. They actually tore off their cop-skins and stepped out of them. They weren’t cops at all! They were uncops. I had been fooled, because they were both walri, nine feet tall with huge tusks and hundreds of vibrissae. And as they squeezed into the cop car and sped off I myself started to blubber like a sick hound.
I caught the next tram to Testicle Valley, my nerves awash with anguish. I gazed through the tram window as it cruised downhill into the valley. The place was swarming with walri, thousands of giant brown-furred frames lumbering around the streets. I reckoned there was no way in Hell that I was going to find Reg around this place.
When I stepped off the tram my feet sank into a pool of mucky brown water. I studied my surroundings and discovered that everywhere there was six inches or so of water, and the walri were sloshing around in it as they went about their daily business. My trousers were already soaking and it wasn’t very comfortable but I was determined to locate this conniving walrus.
As I trudged through the many streets I noticed that the whole of Testicle Valley was a working shrine to the irrealist writer D Harlan Wilson. I passed 4 Ellipses Street, Kafka Effekt Square, Irreality Corner, D Harlan Wilson Place, and several others. Placards, billboards, posters, flyers, and advertising boards provided information on D Harlan Wilson books like Kafka Breathing Sock Puppets, The Kafka Effekt and Stranger on the Loose. There was information on book signings and personal appearances and physical interviews and online chatrooms. And yet, as much as I respected and admired the writings of this particular author, I still had to discover the whereabouts of Reg the walrus.
I entered my umpteenth street, and noted that my ankles and lower legs were aching due to splashing along the six inches of grimy water. On every corner there were groups of male and female walri, lots of teeth clacking and bell clanging noises striking the air. It was no good; I had to make some enquiries. Glancing around, I spotted a walrus sitting on a bench by the roadside. I approached him, noticing he was cradling a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam in his right foreflipper.
“Good morning,” I said.
The walrus appeared startled. “Holy D Harlan, I didn’t know humans could talk!” He studied the Jim Beam bottle in his flipper, and then tossed it into a nearby trashcan. “I ain’t touching that shit again, that’s for certain.”
“Do you know where I can find Reg?” I asked him, ignoring his dilemma.
He glared at me, his tusks quivering and a sticky goo oozing from inside his large mouth. “Who is Reg?”
“He’s a walrus.”
My plea was ignored, instead the walrus tottered across the road. I wasn’t pleased at his total disrespect and seriously contemplated banging my head against the nearest wall. However before I could do this a voice called out to me.
“Hey, human,” said a tiny calf walrus who was maybe six feet from me, leaning against the window of a haberdashery store.
“What is it?” I said.
The calf came over to me. I guessed that this was a young female, although I couldn’t be sure.
“I know where Reg is,” she told me.
“Fantastic! Where can I find him?”
“Do you mean Reg the undertaker or Reg the underhand market trader?”
I thought for a couple of seconds. Upon deducing that Reg was in no way an undertaker I replied, “Reg the underhand market trader.”
“Well I guess he’ll be at the market then,” she said, pointing her foreflipper in the direction of a bright alleyway that was littered with incoming and outgoing walri.
“Cool, thanks a lot,” I said, and proceeded to spatter my way across the road.
“Wait!” yelled the calf. “What’s in it for me?”
I regretted my thoughtlessness. “What would you like?”
“Got any worms? Gastropods? Cephalopods? Crustaceans? Sea cucumbers? Or any other benthic invertebrates?”
I was confused. “Er, I guess not.”
The young walrus kicked up some water and toddled off along the sidewalk. I felt incredibly guilty at not being able to reward her for her assistance. Still I couldn’t do anything about it, so I made my way across the street and into the bright alleyway.
Upon reaching the other side I entered a busy market area, littered with stalls of many varieties. Walri were everywhere, in fact I hadn’t encountered any humans at all since arriving in Testicle Valley, apart from a scattering of Japanese tourists armed with digital cameras and handheld video recording devices.
As I walked through the market I observed that once again the main theme was D Harlan Wilson. I passed a stall devoted entirely to selling copies of Kafka Breathing Sock Puppets, another consisting of his works in audiobook format, a further one selling his short stories as mp3’s, files transferred directly into personal minidisk and mp3 players.
The hustle and bustle was overwhelming me, but I persevered, passing stall upon stall of D Harlan Wilson related material. Every walrus looked identical and so locating Reg was becoming increasingly difficult, and I had almost given up on finding him when I sniffed a smell that I recognized immediately, that of Yeheyuan cigarettes. I gazed at the source, a gigantic creature standing by a booth containing thousands and thousands of copies of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson. I marched up to him, an angry expression on my face and my trousers stinking of dirty water and walrus shit.
“Reg, you bastard!” I screamed at him.
He appeared taken aback and curled back in shock. It was definitely Reg, I knew it. He nervously took a huge drag of the Yeheyuan and belched out a massive plume of smoke into the air.
“Dumbfuck,” he said, “what brings you here?”
“You stole my copy of Stranger on the Loose!” I yelled. I was furious and it showed, as all the walri in the immediate vicinity stopped to observe what was happening.
“Stole your copy? Never! But if it’s a new copy you want I have plenty,” he said, gesturing at the thousands of books that surrounded him.
“Bullshit! I want my copy back now!”
“Wait,” he said quietly, noticing that everyone was witnessing this exchange of views. “What gives you the idea that I stole your copy of Stranger on the Loose?”
So I told him, the whole dang story, about the two uncops that visited my apartment and explained what a sad bastard Reg really was. He listened intently, and as I told him all I knew I began to hear whistling coming from behind me. I turned around, recognizing the tune that pervaded the air over the market.
“I Am The Walrus by the Beatles!” I cried.
I then spotted two walri standing next to the stall opposite Reg’s. They were selling copies of The Kafka Effekt in the same way that Reg was selling Stranger on the Loose, thousands of them stacked all over the place. One of them gave me a claw up sign, indicating that I had named that tune correctly.
“Who are they?” I asked Reg.
“Oh, that’s Ted and Bob. They are absolute bastards. They’d do anything to make life hard for me. Bitter rivals, you see.”
I understood everything now. They were the two uncops, it was obvious, and I told Reg this, after which he exploded in rage.
“I’m gonna kill those guys!” he yelled.
“No, don’t do it!” I said. “It’s not worth it. Don’t you know that killing a walri carries the death penalty here in Beantown?”
It was way too late. Reg had already grabbed a shotgun from under the counter and was splashing his way over to Ted and Bob. He proceeded to blast holes in them both until they lay dead in the bloody water. Bob’s final death-groan was to the tune of Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal, but under the circumstances I declined to name that tune.
Pretty soon the cops arrived, and when they did I ran around grabbing at their foreheads and faces in an attempt to strip away their skins and expose them as uncops, but they were genuine officers of the law and beat me off with their batons. They handcuffed Reg and before they bundled him into their van he managed to get close to me and whisper, “Hey, Dumbfuck, by the way. Doris is pregnant.” Then the cops zoomed off and I was left speechless and numb. In the confusion I managed to sneak a new copy of Stranger on the Loose into my jacket pocket and crept dolefully away.
When I got home from Testicle Valley I heard strange noises coming from the bedroom. I tugged open the door and was astounded to find my wife on the bed being screwed by a giant silverfish.
I wasn’t taking any shit this time over. I snatched my shotgun from under the bed and blew a multitude of holes in the creature until it fell off Mrs Dumbfuck as dead as Bob and Ted. My joy was shattered by my wife’s disturbing shrieks.
“You crazy man!” she screeched. “Don’t you know that killing a giant silverfish carries the death penalty here in Beantown?”
ONE YEAR LATER
Reg was sitting at the table with a dozen hot dogs and six cans of root beer in front of him. He was smoking a Yeheyuan and devouring the goodies at the same time. My knees were trembling and so were my nerves.
“How’s the calf?” he asked after a few seconds.
“Matthew? He’s fine. Doris is fantastic, she’s like a mother to him.”
“She is his mother, you dummy.”
I let out a tense chuckle. “Oh yeah she is.”
It was raining outside, the clouds as black as tarmacadam. I watched Reg gulp down another root beer and toss the can across the room.
“You never did tell me,” I said. “What is it with D Harlan Wilson? Why is he so popular among the walrus community?”
Reg licked ketchup from off his left tusk as he wolfed down a hot dog. “Well, it’s like this, Dumbfuck. It’s not just walri that are appreciative of the offbeat literary genius that is D Harlan Wilson, and it isn’t just humans either. Beavers, otters, termites, spiders, dragonflies, aardvarks, ducks, lemurs. In fact, every living creature is fanatical over his obvious writing talent. He’s like a god to us. You know, like David Beckham is.”
The door opened and I almost leapt off my chair in fright. Two prison guards entered, tall and ugly. They glared at me.
“Time’s up, Dumbfuck,” said the uglier of the pair.
I said nothing as I got up and approached the door. The guards grabbed me roughly by each arm and as they escorted me out of the room I turned back to Reg.
“Who’s David Beckham?” I asked.
Then I left him to his last meal of hot dogs and root beer.
We passed the gas chamber on the way back to my cell. It was a terrible haunting place and I hated it. Then I was shoved into a corner and the guards beat the shit out of me, and then pushed me into my cell. I was aching all over, but I managed to crawl across the floor and snatch a hold of the prison bars, poking my nose through the small gap between them. At the end of the corridor I spied the guards. I observed as they reached to a spot at the centre of their foreheads and unzipped their skins. They were unguards! And I yelped as loud as I was able when I discovered that underneath the skins they possessed the bodies of two giant silverfish.
When I got home from the slaughterhouse I heard strange noises coming from the bedroom. I pushed the door open and was astounded to find my wife on the bed being screwed by a walrus.
“Hey!” I yelled. “What the fuck is going on in here?”
The walrus didn’t appear to hear me, and if he did he just took no notice. He merely continued pounding his giant frame against my wife’s insignificant body. I caught her eye, and she silently nodded in the direction of the bedside dresser, where I spotted two crispy ten dollar bills. My nerves relaxed at once.
“Well I guess that’s okay then,” I muttered in a much calmer tone.
I crept away and gently closed the door behind me, then, after a quick visit to the kitchen, I sauntered into the lounge and flopped on to the settee I don’t remember owning with a packet of crocodile toenail flavoured potato chips and a root beer. As I snacked I watched the blank television screen, absorbed in its murky aura.
In the bedroom I could hear the bedsprings taking a battering, and some minutes later a wolfish howl shattered the walls of the apartment. The walrus had had his fill of my wife. Presently the door was pulled open and the walrus stomped into the lounge. He was absolutely huge, around eight feet tall with hundreds of whiskers around his burly snout. He glanced at me before collapsing into the armchair with an almighty crash, destroying the chair in the process.
“You destroyed the fucking chair!” I cried out. I was obviously flipped out, not used to being in the presence of a walrus.
The giant creature took out a packet of Yeheyuans and lit one, arrogantly exhaling large plumes of smoke all around and into my eyes.
“Who said you could fucking smoke around here?” I yelled.
The walrus gazed at me for a few seconds, then sneaked out a cloud of smoke in the direction of the budgie’s cage.
“I find your overuse of the F word seriously distressing,” he said in a gruff voice.
I was taken aback. He was capable of human speech!
“You’re capable of human speech!” I exclaimed.
“So? Is that surprising?”
“Well yes it is.”
“How come?”
“Because you’re a fucking walrus!”
“Well what were you expecting? We’re not all growls, grunts and whistles, you know. Got any more root beer?”
I shook my head. I did have some more root beer to be truthful but I didn’t want to give the walrus any because he appeared to be a supercilious twat.
“Actually,” he continued, “I’m surprised to discover humans are capable of speech.”
“Why? That’s how we communicate.”
“And that’s how we communicate too.”
I watched as the walrus scratched his left tusk with his foreflipper. He truly was an ugly bastard.
“You’ll be telling me next that you all have names,” I mumbled sarcastically.
“Yes we do! Mine’s Reg. What’s yours? If indeed humans have names at all.”
“Of course we fucking do!”
The walrus tut-tutted and waved his flipper at me. “That F word thing is a real problem with you.”
I realized that he was getting the better of me and it was showing. I had to use my wits and relax. I gulped some root beer before answering him.
“Reg is an unusual name for a walrus,” I said.
“Have you ever been introduced to a walrus?”
“No.”
“So how can you say that?”
He had me. What a bastard!
“My name is Dumbfuck,” I told him.
“That’s an unusual name for a human.”
“Have you ever been introduced to a human?”
He grinned, showing me his collection of evil-looking teeth. “You got me there!”
I settled back on to the settee I don’t remember us having and crammed a palmful of potato chips into my maw. The walrus – Reg – finished his Yeheyuan and lit another.
“So, Reg,” I said, more confident now, “what brings you around here today then?”
Reg looked me straight in the eye and said, “I came around here to shag your wife.” Then he blew a wadful of cigarette smoke right up my nose.
“Cool,” I replied, trying to appear nonchalant about the fact that he’d been humping Mrs Dumbfuck. “How did you find out about her services?”
The walrus fumbled around beside him and after a few seconds produced a small card from within the folds of his thick skin. He handed it to me.
READY AND AVAILABLE AND SEXY AS HELL ITSELF
CALL FOR A GOOD TIME
044 777 808099
ASK FOR AMARYLLIS
Amaryllis! So that was her first name!
“I guess you found this lying around the bog somewhere, huh?” I asked.
“The bog? The bog? What do you think we are, neanderthals?”
“No, I just thought…”
“You just thought we were a bunch of uneducated heathens, didn’t you?”
“No! Well, yeah I did. Sorry.”
“Typical.”
“So where do you all live then?”
“Testicle Valley.”
“Testicle Valley? Wow! That place is so cool! Only rich dudes live around there, don’t they?”
“That’s right.”
“So you’re rich then?”
“Sure am. My father is the deputy governor of Tennessee.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Sorry, never heard of him.”
I finished my root beer and farted loudly. I started to wonder how long Reg was going to stick around, as I was desperate to masturbate, having spied the delectable Miss Bab hanging around the foyer when I entered the apartment block.
“So, er…” I said slowly, “is this your first time with a human female?”
“It is,” said Reg with a sly grin.
“Aren’t there any hot walrus chicks down in Testicle Valley for you to shag?”
Reg chuckled. “Testicle Valley is full of hot walrus chicks, but you know what it’s like, we all fancy a change now and then.”
“That’s so sexist,” I said.
“You think so? I bet if you got the chance you wouldn’t say no.”
At once I thought of Miss Bab and I knew exactly what he meant. “I guess so,” I murmured.
Reg began to scratch his tusk again, producing a grating noise that was as irritating as hell. “What about a walrus chick? Would you fancy it?”
I almost retched at the idea. All that horrible thick dirty skin, and the hundreds of whiskers, and the protruding tusks.
“You must be joking!” I yelled.
Reg laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Walri are very sexual creatures, you know.”
“No shit.”
“It’s true.”
The walrus reached behind the armchair and swung a holdall over his shoulder, and proceeded to unzip it. I gazed on, keen to learn what he had inside his bag. I spotted a copy of The Kafka Effekt by D Harlan Wilson, and next to it a small pocketsize paperback in lurid colors of pink and yellow. He handed it to me and I scrutinized the title.
HOT SEX TIPS
(WALRUS EDITION)
“I don’t believe it!” I gasped, but upon flicking through the book and glancing at the various graphic examples of sexual walrus antics I started to believe it alright.
“What do you think?” asked Reg.
“It’s sick!”
He guffawed in front of my face. “You wouldn’t say that if you were in the sack with a hot sexy steaming walrus babe!” He then glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Hey, I gotta go. I have an appointment with my chiropodist.”
I looked at the size of the claws on his inner flippers and groaned. If anyone required a chiropodist it was this dude. He climbed to his foreflippers and waddled down the hall and out of the door, without even a word. The apartment seemed so quiet without his presence. I pondered over this strange encounter, until I realized that I was still holding the Hot Sex Tips book in my hands. I opened it up and began to read. After the second page I had a burning erection.
In and out, in and out, in and out. Isn’t that the way? And it feels so lovely, doesn’t it? I slid my penis in and out of the hole and experienced a feeling so exquisite that I almost fainted with delight. My nude body was sweating heavily as I performed the deed. I could feel it coming on, the climax. Gallons of sperm creeping through my testicles. Well, a little bit at least, but it felt like gallons.
And then it arrived.
I can never describe that feeling. My white stuff pumped out as I still slid in and out, then it became so unbearable that I just held it inside. I left it there for maybe half a minute until the orgasm subsided and I got my breath back. Then I placed my arms around my lover and leant forward.
“How was it for you, Doris?” I whispered.
Doris replied with a growl, a grunt and a whistle, and when she kissed me her whiskers brushed all over my face.
Four days later and I was in the apartment searching for my copy of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson. I was just about to strangle the budgie when someone knocked at the door.
My journey to the front door was laden with hazards, but then so is life so I wasn’t too stressed about it, and besides I had plenty of prescribed tablets to assist me. I pulled the door open and came face to face to face with two cops. A shudder tingled through my bloodstream and caused my nostrils to quiver a tiny morsel. I was terrified that I had been branded a pervert after my trip down to the bog with Doris.
“Mr Dumbfuck?” snarled the first cop. He was wearing shades. So was the other cop. I wasn’t wearing shades.
“Just Dumbfuck. I’ve never been called Mr before.”
The second cop was humming a tune under his breath. I was certain that I recognized it, and after a few seconds I was pretty damned sure of the title.
“I’ll name that tune in three!” I screamed.
The cop seemed alarmed that I knew the tune. “Name that tune,” he said.
“The Blower’s Daughter by Damien Rice.”
“Correct!” said the second cop, and proceeded to exchange high fives and not-so-secret underground slaps and thumb-rubs with me. The first cop didn’t appear too pleased with all of this.
“What’s all this shit?” he blasted.
His partner seemed rather sheepish and became silent at once.
“Never mind all that game show shit,” continued the first cop. He then delved into his jacket pocket and produced a crumpled snapshot, which he thrust in front of my nose. “Have you seen this walrus?” he yelled.
I gazed at the photograph. It was an image of a walrus all right, and I immediately thought of Reg, although I couldn’t be sure it was him because walri all look the same to me.
“Walri all look the same to me so I can’t be sure it’s Reg,” I blurted.
“Reg?” said the first cop. “Who’s Reg?”
I was trapped, well and truly, so I was forced to tell them about the visit of Reg the walrus to my apartment, but I didn’t tell them about him having sex with Mrs Dumbfuck, no way.
“Did Reg have sex with your wife at all?” the cop enquired.
“What? Don’t be preposterous!” I lied.
“If you say so,” the cop said. He then hesitated for around 3.33333 seconds recurring. “Do you have a copy of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because we’ve received reports of a walrus visiting apartment blocks all over Beantown making off with copies of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson and having sex with the female of the house if the opportunity is there.”
I became speechless and in shock. What a bastard! I vowed never to trust a walrus ever again. I explained to the cops that my copy of the book was missing and that Reg must have been responsible. They didn’t write anything down, they didn’t even take out a notebook. Neither did I for that matter.
“I did notice that he had a copy of The Kafka Effekt by D Harlan Wilson in his bag,” I told them.
Immediately the two cops began to blubber. Streams of tears fell from behind their shades, so severe that they were gushing as if from a faucet, and in no time at all they were standing in a large puddle that was increasing by the tenth of a second.
“Thank you for your time,” said the first cop, and then they were off, marching down the hall as though they had left the oven on at home.
“Wait!” I cried. “Why does Reg want all these copies of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson? What’s going on?”
But they didn’t respond, instead they galloped down the stairway and out into the street. I slammed my door like a mad thing and reached for my jacket. I had to go down to Testicle Valley and find out what in the Devil’s name was going on with Reg and these books.
As I passed the window I glanced out and spotted the two cops approaching their car, which was parked across the street. They weren’t crying any more; in fact they were laughing, like two spectators at an Andy Kaufman concert. And then they reached up to a spot at the centre of their foreheads and pulled their skins down. They actually tore off their cop-skins and stepped out of them. They weren’t cops at all! They were uncops. I had been fooled, because they were both walri, nine feet tall with huge tusks and hundreds of vibrissae. And as they squeezed into the cop car and sped off I myself started to blubber like a sick hound.
I caught the next tram to Testicle Valley, my nerves awash with anguish. I gazed through the tram window as it cruised downhill into the valley. The place was swarming with walri, thousands of giant brown-furred frames lumbering around the streets. I reckoned there was no way in Hell that I was going to find Reg around this place.
When I stepped off the tram my feet sank into a pool of mucky brown water. I studied my surroundings and discovered that everywhere there was six inches or so of water, and the walri were sloshing around in it as they went about their daily business. My trousers were already soaking and it wasn’t very comfortable but I was determined to locate this conniving walrus.
As I trudged through the many streets I noticed that the whole of Testicle Valley was a working shrine to the irrealist writer D Harlan Wilson. I passed 4 Ellipses Street, Kafka Effekt Square, Irreality Corner, D Harlan Wilson Place, and several others. Placards, billboards, posters, flyers, and advertising boards provided information on D Harlan Wilson books like Kafka Breathing Sock Puppets, The Kafka Effekt and Stranger on the Loose. There was information on book signings and personal appearances and physical interviews and online chatrooms. And yet, as much as I respected and admired the writings of this particular author, I still had to discover the whereabouts of Reg the walrus.
I entered my umpteenth street, and noted that my ankles and lower legs were aching due to splashing along the six inches of grimy water. On every corner there were groups of male and female walri, lots of teeth clacking and bell clanging noises striking the air. It was no good; I had to make some enquiries. Glancing around, I spotted a walrus sitting on a bench by the roadside. I approached him, noticing he was cradling a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam in his right foreflipper.
“Good morning,” I said.
The walrus appeared startled. “Holy D Harlan, I didn’t know humans could talk!” He studied the Jim Beam bottle in his flipper, and then tossed it into a nearby trashcan. “I ain’t touching that shit again, that’s for certain.”
“Do you know where I can find Reg?” I asked him, ignoring his dilemma.
He glared at me, his tusks quivering and a sticky goo oozing from inside his large mouth. “Who is Reg?”
“He’s a walrus.”
My plea was ignored, instead the walrus tottered across the road. I wasn’t pleased at his total disrespect and seriously contemplated banging my head against the nearest wall. However before I could do this a voice called out to me.
“Hey, human,” said a tiny calf walrus who was maybe six feet from me, leaning against the window of a haberdashery store.
“What is it?” I said.
The calf came over to me. I guessed that this was a young female, although I couldn’t be sure.
“I know where Reg is,” she told me.
“Fantastic! Where can I find him?”
“Do you mean Reg the undertaker or Reg the underhand market trader?”
I thought for a couple of seconds. Upon deducing that Reg was in no way an undertaker I replied, “Reg the underhand market trader.”
“Well I guess he’ll be at the market then,” she said, pointing her foreflipper in the direction of a bright alleyway that was littered with incoming and outgoing walri.
“Cool, thanks a lot,” I said, and proceeded to spatter my way across the road.
“Wait!” yelled the calf. “What’s in it for me?”
I regretted my thoughtlessness. “What would you like?”
“Got any worms? Gastropods? Cephalopods? Crustaceans? Sea cucumbers? Or any other benthic invertebrates?”
I was confused. “Er, I guess not.”
The young walrus kicked up some water and toddled off along the sidewalk. I felt incredibly guilty at not being able to reward her for her assistance. Still I couldn’t do anything about it, so I made my way across the street and into the bright alleyway.
Upon reaching the other side I entered a busy market area, littered with stalls of many varieties. Walri were everywhere, in fact I hadn’t encountered any humans at all since arriving in Testicle Valley, apart from a scattering of Japanese tourists armed with digital cameras and handheld video recording devices.
As I walked through the market I observed that once again the main theme was D Harlan Wilson. I passed a stall devoted entirely to selling copies of Kafka Breathing Sock Puppets, another consisting of his works in audiobook format, a further one selling his short stories as mp3’s, files transferred directly into personal minidisk and mp3 players.
The hustle and bustle was overwhelming me, but I persevered, passing stall upon stall of D Harlan Wilson related material. Every walrus looked identical and so locating Reg was becoming increasingly difficult, and I had almost given up on finding him when I sniffed a smell that I recognized immediately, that of Yeheyuan cigarettes. I gazed at the source, a gigantic creature standing by a booth containing thousands and thousands of copies of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson. I marched up to him, an angry expression on my face and my trousers stinking of dirty water and walrus shit.
“Reg, you bastard!” I screamed at him.
He appeared taken aback and curled back in shock. It was definitely Reg, I knew it. He nervously took a huge drag of the Yeheyuan and belched out a massive plume of smoke into the air.
“Dumbfuck,” he said, “what brings you here?”
“You stole my copy of Stranger on the Loose!” I yelled. I was furious and it showed, as all the walri in the immediate vicinity stopped to observe what was happening.
“Stole your copy? Never! But if it’s a new copy you want I have plenty,” he said, gesturing at the thousands of books that surrounded him.
“Bullshit! I want my copy back now!”
“Wait,” he said quietly, noticing that everyone was witnessing this exchange of views. “What gives you the idea that I stole your copy of Stranger on the Loose?”
So I told him, the whole dang story, about the two uncops that visited my apartment and explained what a sad bastard Reg really was. He listened intently, and as I told him all I knew I began to hear whistling coming from behind me. I turned around, recognizing the tune that pervaded the air over the market.
“I Am The Walrus by the Beatles!” I cried.
I then spotted two walri standing next to the stall opposite Reg’s. They were selling copies of The Kafka Effekt in the same way that Reg was selling Stranger on the Loose, thousands of them stacked all over the place. One of them gave me a claw up sign, indicating that I had named that tune correctly.
“Who are they?” I asked Reg.
“Oh, that’s Ted and Bob. They are absolute bastards. They’d do anything to make life hard for me. Bitter rivals, you see.”
I understood everything now. They were the two uncops, it was obvious, and I told Reg this, after which he exploded in rage.
“I’m gonna kill those guys!” he yelled.
“No, don’t do it!” I said. “It’s not worth it. Don’t you know that killing a walri carries the death penalty here in Beantown?”
It was way too late. Reg had already grabbed a shotgun from under the counter and was splashing his way over to Ted and Bob. He proceeded to blast holes in them both until they lay dead in the bloody water. Bob’s final death-groan was to the tune of Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal, but under the circumstances I declined to name that tune.
Pretty soon the cops arrived, and when they did I ran around grabbing at their foreheads and faces in an attempt to strip away their skins and expose them as uncops, but they were genuine officers of the law and beat me off with their batons. They handcuffed Reg and before they bundled him into their van he managed to get close to me and whisper, “Hey, Dumbfuck, by the way. Doris is pregnant.” Then the cops zoomed off and I was left speechless and numb. In the confusion I managed to sneak a new copy of Stranger on the Loose into my jacket pocket and crept dolefully away.
When I got home from Testicle Valley I heard strange noises coming from the bedroom. I tugged open the door and was astounded to find my wife on the bed being screwed by a giant silverfish.
I wasn’t taking any shit this time over. I snatched my shotgun from under the bed and blew a multitude of holes in the creature until it fell off Mrs Dumbfuck as dead as Bob and Ted. My joy was shattered by my wife’s disturbing shrieks.
“You crazy man!” she screeched. “Don’t you know that killing a giant silverfish carries the death penalty here in Beantown?”
ONE YEAR LATER
Reg was sitting at the table with a dozen hot dogs and six cans of root beer in front of him. He was smoking a Yeheyuan and devouring the goodies at the same time. My knees were trembling and so were my nerves.
“How’s the calf?” he asked after a few seconds.
“Matthew? He’s fine. Doris is fantastic, she’s like a mother to him.”
“She is his mother, you dummy.”
I let out a tense chuckle. “Oh yeah she is.”
It was raining outside, the clouds as black as tarmacadam. I watched Reg gulp down another root beer and toss the can across the room.
“You never did tell me,” I said. “What is it with D Harlan Wilson? Why is he so popular among the walrus community?”
Reg licked ketchup from off his left tusk as he wolfed down a hot dog. “Well, it’s like this, Dumbfuck. It’s not just walri that are appreciative of the offbeat literary genius that is D Harlan Wilson, and it isn’t just humans either. Beavers, otters, termites, spiders, dragonflies, aardvarks, ducks, lemurs. In fact, every living creature is fanatical over his obvious writing talent. He’s like a god to us. You know, like David Beckham is.”
The door opened and I almost leapt off my chair in fright. Two prison guards entered, tall and ugly. They glared at me.
“Time’s up, Dumbfuck,” said the uglier of the pair.
I said nothing as I got up and approached the door. The guards grabbed me roughly by each arm and as they escorted me out of the room I turned back to Reg.
“Who’s David Beckham?” I asked.
Then I left him to his last meal of hot dogs and root beer.
We passed the gas chamber on the way back to my cell. It was a terrible haunting place and I hated it. Then I was shoved into a corner and the guards beat the shit out of me, and then pushed me into my cell. I was aching all over, but I managed to crawl across the floor and snatch a hold of the prison bars, poking my nose through the small gap between them. At the end of the corridor I spied the guards. I observed as they reached to a spot at the centre of their foreheads and unzipped their skins. They were unguards! And I yelped as loud as I was able when I discovered that underneath the skins they possessed the bodies of two giant silverfish.
Monday 12 January 2009
The Four Chaps In The Library
[Published in Penny Dreadful (USA)]
In the process of recalling my college days, I am reminded of that momentous occasion during my first year at St Montague's, when, by some irksome and malign fate, I discovered myself sharing the confines of the school library with three well-read scholars of that time. These loathsome fellows I normally would avoid at all costs, but owing to the atrocious February weather I was compelled to gain a welcome warmth beside that roaring fire.
"What is your name, young chap?" I was asked by a large scholar wearing a three-piece suit of pin-stripes. His enquiry wore a ghastly cloak of supposed superiority and rank, which I kind of expected, as I was a mere first year student at that particular time.
"Grimshaw," I told him, and as I uttered my name I surveyed the three pairs of beady eyes which were fixed upon my being. I detected a vast amount of arrogance beyond those staring sockets.
"A common name," sneered the fellow, whose own name I knew to be Rhodes-Fotheringham. As I have mentioned, he was large, with a reddened, chubby face and whiskers that hid his stiff upper lip completely. It appeared as if he owned the bottom one only, and I reckoned this to be quite comical, although I dared not to chuckle in their presence.
"Well, Grimshaw," snarled the second chap, whose name was Blake, and who was exactly as tiresome as Rhodes-Fotheringham, "my chums and I were in the process of recounting horrific tales of ghosts and apparitions. If you wish to remain in our company, you must endure this."
"And not go fleeing from the room in fright!" added the third monster, a scoundrel by the name of Atkinson.
I endeavoured not to be afraid, which was not a simple task, as the trio themselves were sufficient to cause a shivering sensation inside me. We were all seated, with discreet distances between each, in huge Victorian armchairs facing the blazing flames of the log fire. The library itself was enormous, and must have contained thousands of books on all subjects. Including the topic of ghosts.
"I remember one chap," said Rhodes-Fotheringham, a cigar of eager proportions in his ample hand, "whose name I cannot recall. He regularly encountered the ghostly figure of an old man in a pale-coloured nightgown, who was prone to walking up and down the stairs of the chap's home, and with his head held under his arm!"
Excessive gasps left the mouths of Blake and Atkinson, whilst I myself remained silent and breathless. Rhodes-Fotheringham's features became hidden in the midst of an awful-smelling cloud of cigar smoke, providing an eerie vision of his face, and at that moment I wondered whether he himself was a dreadful phantom.
"Anyway," he continued, with the smoke drifting in the direction of the fireplace, "this chap could stand it no longer, and subsequently decided to take his own life by shooting himself in the head with a pistol. Now it is rumoured that he himself haunts that house."
His two companions seemed quite unsettled by this story, and as the flames crackled in the hearth they each took a copious mouthful of the brandy that was readily available nearby. Then Blake appeared to decide that he was not to be outdone by his friend.
"That is a pretty gruesome tale, old chap," he said in a quavering voice, "but allow me to relate the story of the man whose wife gave birth to an apparition."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Rhodes-Fotheringham, with peculiar puffed cheeks. He appeared to be somewhat perturbed by Blake's proclamation, and I noticed how agitated he became as his companion continued the tale.
"It is indeed true," said Blake, who, in contrast to Rhodes-Fotheringham, was of a thin shape, and was clutching his brandy glass tightly the whole time. "This apparition grew to a fine old age, until he reached a maturity he could not improve on, and now he haunts the church in which his parents had married."
Again, a strange air filled the room, and an odd nervousness prevailed in the three figures that flanked me. I remember thinking how chilling and sinister were those three fellows, to the point where I began to feel rather frightened myself. However, I attempted not to reveal this, as I sat with clenched fists upon that armchair, gazing into the leaping flames opposite my position in that library.
"That is an impressive story," said Atkinson. I had never seen a chap as tall and gangly as he was. His weird-looking legs protruded from that chair, stretched out before him like two huge clothes-props, and behind his gold-rimmed spectacles I observed the most evil pair of grey eyes.
"What about this then, chaps," he said, grasping the opportunity to tell his own grotesque tale. "A soldier in the Great War was lurking in the trenches, with bullets whizzing around his ears, when suddenly he noticed beside him his own ghost. It was identical in every detail, and he was naturally astonished. Seconds later this poor chap was struck in the head by an enemy shot, and was killed instantly. But strangely, he recalls then holding his own dying figure in his arms, for he had taken over the form of the apparition that was beside him!"
"My good God!" cried Rhodes-Fotheringham, with an obvious alarm.
I then looked at Blake, who appeared so petrified he was speechless. I found it quite odd that these three chaps knew so much about ghosts. They seemed to be more than mere students of the college, and indeed I morbidly started to fear what exactly they were. However, I quickly dismissed these thoughts, and seized the chance to reveal some ideas of my own.
"This is all preposterous!" I shouted above the blaze of the fire.
"What?" demanded Blake, who suddenly regained his powers of speech upon hearing my unwelcome exclamation.
"I have never heard such rubbish!“ said I in a bold manner.
“How dare you!“ stormed Rhodes-Fotheringham, his whiskers aquiver and an apparent fury in his words.
“These stories you relate,” they are all pure balderdash, complete poppycock. You have invented each gripping tale.”
“Explain yourself, man!“ cried Atkinson, who had at this point arisen from his chair and was standing before me in an intimidating fashion.
“With gladness I shall,“ I said, amazed at my own bravado. “The chap who saw the ghost on the stairs. How do you know this if he shot himself? The same with the soldier in the war. He was dead just seconds after supposedly seeing his own ghost, so how do you know this? And as for the fellow whose wife gave birth to a phantom. That is pure drivel of the finest water!"
Rhodes-Fotheringham was in such an intolerable rage that I thought he would explode before my eyes, and the other two were not far behind in their ire. Each of them was blazing more intensely than the fire was!
"Get out of here!" yelled Rhodes-Fotheringham in a tremendous, booming voice. "And do not return! You are far from worthy of our company!"
This request -- or rather, this command -- seemed quite popular amongst the three of them, and so it was with a trembling demeanour that I proceeded to leave the library. A chilling silence ensued as I slowly stepped away from them and the fireplace. However, I believe I succeeded in astounding my trio of companions, for I departed from that room without opening the door.
In the process of recalling my college days, I am reminded of that momentous occasion during my first year at St Montague's, when, by some irksome and malign fate, I discovered myself sharing the confines of the school library with three well-read scholars of that time. These loathsome fellows I normally would avoid at all costs, but owing to the atrocious February weather I was compelled to gain a welcome warmth beside that roaring fire.
"What is your name, young chap?" I was asked by a large scholar wearing a three-piece suit of pin-stripes. His enquiry wore a ghastly cloak of supposed superiority and rank, which I kind of expected, as I was a mere first year student at that particular time.
"Grimshaw," I told him, and as I uttered my name I surveyed the three pairs of beady eyes which were fixed upon my being. I detected a vast amount of arrogance beyond those staring sockets.
"A common name," sneered the fellow, whose own name I knew to be Rhodes-Fotheringham. As I have mentioned, he was large, with a reddened, chubby face and whiskers that hid his stiff upper lip completely. It appeared as if he owned the bottom one only, and I reckoned this to be quite comical, although I dared not to chuckle in their presence.
"Well, Grimshaw," snarled the second chap, whose name was Blake, and who was exactly as tiresome as Rhodes-Fotheringham, "my chums and I were in the process of recounting horrific tales of ghosts and apparitions. If you wish to remain in our company, you must endure this."
"And not go fleeing from the room in fright!" added the third monster, a scoundrel by the name of Atkinson.
I endeavoured not to be afraid, which was not a simple task, as the trio themselves were sufficient to cause a shivering sensation inside me. We were all seated, with discreet distances between each, in huge Victorian armchairs facing the blazing flames of the log fire. The library itself was enormous, and must have contained thousands of books on all subjects. Including the topic of ghosts.
"I remember one chap," said Rhodes-Fotheringham, a cigar of eager proportions in his ample hand, "whose name I cannot recall. He regularly encountered the ghostly figure of an old man in a pale-coloured nightgown, who was prone to walking up and down the stairs of the chap's home, and with his head held under his arm!"
Excessive gasps left the mouths of Blake and Atkinson, whilst I myself remained silent and breathless. Rhodes-Fotheringham's features became hidden in the midst of an awful-smelling cloud of cigar smoke, providing an eerie vision of his face, and at that moment I wondered whether he himself was a dreadful phantom.
"Anyway," he continued, with the smoke drifting in the direction of the fireplace, "this chap could stand it no longer, and subsequently decided to take his own life by shooting himself in the head with a pistol. Now it is rumoured that he himself haunts that house."
His two companions seemed quite unsettled by this story, and as the flames crackled in the hearth they each took a copious mouthful of the brandy that was readily available nearby. Then Blake appeared to decide that he was not to be outdone by his friend.
"That is a pretty gruesome tale, old chap," he said in a quavering voice, "but allow me to relate the story of the man whose wife gave birth to an apparition."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Rhodes-Fotheringham, with peculiar puffed cheeks. He appeared to be somewhat perturbed by Blake's proclamation, and I noticed how agitated he became as his companion continued the tale.
"It is indeed true," said Blake, who, in contrast to Rhodes-Fotheringham, was of a thin shape, and was clutching his brandy glass tightly the whole time. "This apparition grew to a fine old age, until he reached a maturity he could not improve on, and now he haunts the church in which his parents had married."
Again, a strange air filled the room, and an odd nervousness prevailed in the three figures that flanked me. I remember thinking how chilling and sinister were those three fellows, to the point where I began to feel rather frightened myself. However, I attempted not to reveal this, as I sat with clenched fists upon that armchair, gazing into the leaping flames opposite my position in that library.
"That is an impressive story," said Atkinson. I had never seen a chap as tall and gangly as he was. His weird-looking legs protruded from that chair, stretched out before him like two huge clothes-props, and behind his gold-rimmed spectacles I observed the most evil pair of grey eyes.
"What about this then, chaps," he said, grasping the opportunity to tell his own grotesque tale. "A soldier in the Great War was lurking in the trenches, with bullets whizzing around his ears, when suddenly he noticed beside him his own ghost. It was identical in every detail, and he was naturally astonished. Seconds later this poor chap was struck in the head by an enemy shot, and was killed instantly. But strangely, he recalls then holding his own dying figure in his arms, for he had taken over the form of the apparition that was beside him!"
"My good God!" cried Rhodes-Fotheringham, with an obvious alarm.
I then looked at Blake, who appeared so petrified he was speechless. I found it quite odd that these three chaps knew so much about ghosts. They seemed to be more than mere students of the college, and indeed I morbidly started to fear what exactly they were. However, I quickly dismissed these thoughts, and seized the chance to reveal some ideas of my own.
"This is all preposterous!" I shouted above the blaze of the fire.
"What?" demanded Blake, who suddenly regained his powers of speech upon hearing my unwelcome exclamation.
"I have never heard such rubbish!“ said I in a bold manner.
“How dare you!“ stormed Rhodes-Fotheringham, his whiskers aquiver and an apparent fury in his words.
“These stories you relate,” they are all pure balderdash, complete poppycock. You have invented each gripping tale.”
“Explain yourself, man!“ cried Atkinson, who had at this point arisen from his chair and was standing before me in an intimidating fashion.
“With gladness I shall,“ I said, amazed at my own bravado. “The chap who saw the ghost on the stairs. How do you know this if he shot himself? The same with the soldier in the war. He was dead just seconds after supposedly seeing his own ghost, so how do you know this? And as for the fellow whose wife gave birth to a phantom. That is pure drivel of the finest water!"
Rhodes-Fotheringham was in such an intolerable rage that I thought he would explode before my eyes, and the other two were not far behind in their ire. Each of them was blazing more intensely than the fire was!
"Get out of here!" yelled Rhodes-Fotheringham in a tremendous, booming voice. "And do not return! You are far from worthy of our company!"
This request -- or rather, this command -- seemed quite popular amongst the three of them, and so it was with a trembling demeanour that I proceeded to leave the library. A chilling silence ensued as I slowly stepped away from them and the fireplace. However, I believe I succeeded in astounding my trio of companions, for I departed from that room without opening the door.
The Exam
[Published in Roadworks]
"Write down three things that excite you," said Mr Jenkins, "and then elaborate." He consulted his watch. "You have two hours."
Expressions of terror were evident upon the students' faces as they nervously listened to their task. Mr Jenkins himself attempted to cast his mind back to his teenage days, to place himself in their position, but the sands of time formed a dune so large he was unable to penetrate it. Three things that excite you. He reflected on those words. Nothing excited him much any more -- nothing at all.
Young heads before him were bowed in concentration, some scribbling in earnest, others still contemplating, pens in mouths, or eyes cast outside gazing at the trees that appeared so still they could have been cardboard cut-outs. Some doodled, and some bore masks of horror, a trepidation inside them, with failure holding a dagger to their hearts, all of them threatened by the stigma of non-performance.
Except Sean. He was immobile, staring directly in front of him, staring into nothingness. Mr Jenkins always considered him an oddball, for reasons he could never quite fathom. There was a certain darkness about him, he was so weird and unpredictable. His eyes were vacant, like two globules of ice, cold and featureless.
Like a stranger to this world.
Blood seeped right through to the mattress, a horrid sanguineous percolation. It was hot and sticky in the room, almost tropical, the only respite being the chill of death. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the thin summer curtains. The drone of a milk float could be heard outside, followed by the clinking of bottles, then silence. An ugly stench pervaded the air, the stench of her final defecation. Her departing soul drifted away, dancing death's macabre tango as it joined its millions of companions in the ethereal cosmos.
Sean observed from the doorway, watching the slow striptease of death, a peaceful stillness before him. Her arms were held upwards in a defensive position at either side of her bludgeoned head, those welcoming arms which had embraced him at birth. Folds of unsightly flesh hung beneath her hirsute armpits. Her cold eyes were open, transfixed upon the ceiling as though something vastly disturbing were taking place up there. Her tangled hair was the colour of middle age, and resembled steel wool shot through with tomato juice. Her neck was freckled with blood spots, the thin bootlace straps of her white nightdress almost matching the unearthly pallor of her skin.
The lump hammer lay further down the bed, stained with congealing blood, as if it had been dipped in strawberry jam. Guilty fingerprints dotted the handle. Her cranial area was unrecognisable, like a huge dumpling smeared in scarlet gravy. The pillow beneath was saturated in a crimson slush. The material of her nightdress clung to her body, suffocating her flesh, drenched in acrid perspiration. Her pale dry lips were about half an inch ajar, as though she had been desperately pleading for mercy. Her dying breath was the only thing to break free, the only escapee from the jaws of death.
Sean imagined mundane thoughts, such as deciding what colour shirt he ought to wear to the exams, as if he were going on a date or something. The one he had on wouldn't do, as the bloodstained look wasn't yet in vogue. He encountered the further pungent smell of human decay as he descended the stairs. It seemed like ages before he reached the bottom, as if he were running in a dream, his legs as heavy as wet washing. His boots appeared to make no sound, like someone had pressed the mute button inside his head, his ears seemingly bunged up with cotton wool.
In some homes that morning there were housewives yawning lazily as they emerged from slumber, rubbing crusts of sleep from the corners of their eyes, before embarking on another day of domestic hell. In some homes there were children preparing for school, the best days of their lives, squabbling brothers and sisters tossing toast across the breakfast table and putting too much sugar on their corn flakes. In some homes the breadwinner opened his tiresome eyes to the world, hoping it wasn't still there, praying for the miracle of a migraine or some other excuse not to venture into that gruesome four letter word everyone detests so much.
In Sean's home there was the quietness of afterdeath.
He considered leaving a glass of Glenmorangie and a chunk of home-made parkin, rather like children leaving a mince pie and a tot of sherry for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. Then he thought, fuck it. He couldn't even see a scythe.
The soft covering of the armchair was smeared with clotted claret. Fingernails gripped the arms, tearing tiny holes in the upholstery, the strength and sharpness of a tiger's claws summoned from the shores of hell. The flesh of his arms was as cold as wet fish. His hair had been jet black at one time, much like his student son's, but now it was turning white in parts. It looked as if someone had drilled a dark red hole in his forehead, and isobars of blood paved a trail down on to his cheeks. His eyes were pleading, begging for forgiveness, lost in death, glazed as though the tears had refused to come out. He was half-smiling, an uncanny smile which couldn't decide whether to form or not.
Sean checked the steel in his jacket pocket before leaving the house. He was looking forward to the exam.
"Put your pens down, please," said Mr Jenkins. "Time's up."
An ocean of relief ebbed and flowed before him. Weary, worried faces flushed with youth. Students living on the knife edge of success or failure. Perspiration being mopped from clammy brows, adding more oily texture to their palms. Aching hearts tantalized by grades and percentages that didn't even exist yet. Anxious eyes peered his way, eyes belonging to lost souls tormented by the pressure of something they didn't realize was relatively unimportant, immaterial in a material world.
The classroom emptied silently, sullen figures escaping, like zombies emerging from a crypt. Mr Jenkins nodded to each fleeing soul. There were bladders to empty and sweating hands to be cleansed. The sunshine blazed into the room, casting film noir shadows in dark corners. Mr Jenkins was puzzled, because Sean chose not to move, remaining seated like a statue sculpted from flesh and bone.
Mr Jenkins approached him tentatively. "Come on, Sean, it's all over. Time to go."
The youth's eyes locked on to his. They were lost and unfeeling, lubricious and opaque. They looked hard enough to penetrate a block of ice. He reached into his pocket and produced a handgun. Mr Jenkins froze, his legs turning to blancmange, becoming as weak as a lame pigeon's.
"Now then, Sean, control yourself."
He wasn't aware of uttering those words, they just spilled from his lips in panic. Sean's ice-cold eyes were filled with a frightful menace, and Mr Jenkins perceived an unnatural threat from the boy's terrifying countenance. He was horror-stricken, convinced that this was to be the final untimely moment of his existence. He was annoyed that his life had led up to this instance, the sequence of events resulting in his forthcoming demise at the hands of a neurotic student with the personality of a rotting vegetable. Then Sean cocked the weapon, and Mr Jenkins felt his bladder burst.
"Calm down, Sean, for God's sake!"
He didn't realise gunshots were so loud. Blood splattered across his shirt and face, tainting his skin, showering his glasses. He sank to his knees with shock. His heart was thumping inside like rapid echoes in a vacant tomb. Sean had acquired a hole in his temple, and he slumped forwards, his head clunking on to the desk, the gun clattering to the floor.
As he attempted to regain his composure, Mr Jenkins glanced at the boy's exam sheet, just before an alarmed throng dashed into the classroom. Three words scratched in pencil. Death. Death. Death.
"Write down three things that excite you," said Mr Jenkins, "and then elaborate." He consulted his watch. "You have two hours."
Expressions of terror were evident upon the students' faces as they nervously listened to their task. Mr Jenkins himself attempted to cast his mind back to his teenage days, to place himself in their position, but the sands of time formed a dune so large he was unable to penetrate it. Three things that excite you. He reflected on those words. Nothing excited him much any more -- nothing at all.
Young heads before him were bowed in concentration, some scribbling in earnest, others still contemplating, pens in mouths, or eyes cast outside gazing at the trees that appeared so still they could have been cardboard cut-outs. Some doodled, and some bore masks of horror, a trepidation inside them, with failure holding a dagger to their hearts, all of them threatened by the stigma of non-performance.
Except Sean. He was immobile, staring directly in front of him, staring into nothingness. Mr Jenkins always considered him an oddball, for reasons he could never quite fathom. There was a certain darkness about him, he was so weird and unpredictable. His eyes were vacant, like two globules of ice, cold and featureless.
Like a stranger to this world.
Blood seeped right through to the mattress, a horrid sanguineous percolation. It was hot and sticky in the room, almost tropical, the only respite being the chill of death. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the thin summer curtains. The drone of a milk float could be heard outside, followed by the clinking of bottles, then silence. An ugly stench pervaded the air, the stench of her final defecation. Her departing soul drifted away, dancing death's macabre tango as it joined its millions of companions in the ethereal cosmos.
Sean observed from the doorway, watching the slow striptease of death, a peaceful stillness before him. Her arms were held upwards in a defensive position at either side of her bludgeoned head, those welcoming arms which had embraced him at birth. Folds of unsightly flesh hung beneath her hirsute armpits. Her cold eyes were open, transfixed upon the ceiling as though something vastly disturbing were taking place up there. Her tangled hair was the colour of middle age, and resembled steel wool shot through with tomato juice. Her neck was freckled with blood spots, the thin bootlace straps of her white nightdress almost matching the unearthly pallor of her skin.
The lump hammer lay further down the bed, stained with congealing blood, as if it had been dipped in strawberry jam. Guilty fingerprints dotted the handle. Her cranial area was unrecognisable, like a huge dumpling smeared in scarlet gravy. The pillow beneath was saturated in a crimson slush. The material of her nightdress clung to her body, suffocating her flesh, drenched in acrid perspiration. Her pale dry lips were about half an inch ajar, as though she had been desperately pleading for mercy. Her dying breath was the only thing to break free, the only escapee from the jaws of death.
Sean imagined mundane thoughts, such as deciding what colour shirt he ought to wear to the exams, as if he were going on a date or something. The one he had on wouldn't do, as the bloodstained look wasn't yet in vogue. He encountered the further pungent smell of human decay as he descended the stairs. It seemed like ages before he reached the bottom, as if he were running in a dream, his legs as heavy as wet washing. His boots appeared to make no sound, like someone had pressed the mute button inside his head, his ears seemingly bunged up with cotton wool.
In some homes that morning there were housewives yawning lazily as they emerged from slumber, rubbing crusts of sleep from the corners of their eyes, before embarking on another day of domestic hell. In some homes there were children preparing for school, the best days of their lives, squabbling brothers and sisters tossing toast across the breakfast table and putting too much sugar on their corn flakes. In some homes the breadwinner opened his tiresome eyes to the world, hoping it wasn't still there, praying for the miracle of a migraine or some other excuse not to venture into that gruesome four letter word everyone detests so much.
In Sean's home there was the quietness of afterdeath.
He considered leaving a glass of Glenmorangie and a chunk of home-made parkin, rather like children leaving a mince pie and a tot of sherry for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. Then he thought, fuck it. He couldn't even see a scythe.
The soft covering of the armchair was smeared with clotted claret. Fingernails gripped the arms, tearing tiny holes in the upholstery, the strength and sharpness of a tiger's claws summoned from the shores of hell. The flesh of his arms was as cold as wet fish. His hair had been jet black at one time, much like his student son's, but now it was turning white in parts. It looked as if someone had drilled a dark red hole in his forehead, and isobars of blood paved a trail down on to his cheeks. His eyes were pleading, begging for forgiveness, lost in death, glazed as though the tears had refused to come out. He was half-smiling, an uncanny smile which couldn't decide whether to form or not.
Sean checked the steel in his jacket pocket before leaving the house. He was looking forward to the exam.
"Put your pens down, please," said Mr Jenkins. "Time's up."
An ocean of relief ebbed and flowed before him. Weary, worried faces flushed with youth. Students living on the knife edge of success or failure. Perspiration being mopped from clammy brows, adding more oily texture to their palms. Aching hearts tantalized by grades and percentages that didn't even exist yet. Anxious eyes peered his way, eyes belonging to lost souls tormented by the pressure of something they didn't realize was relatively unimportant, immaterial in a material world.
The classroom emptied silently, sullen figures escaping, like zombies emerging from a crypt. Mr Jenkins nodded to each fleeing soul. There were bladders to empty and sweating hands to be cleansed. The sunshine blazed into the room, casting film noir shadows in dark corners. Mr Jenkins was puzzled, because Sean chose not to move, remaining seated like a statue sculpted from flesh and bone.
Mr Jenkins approached him tentatively. "Come on, Sean, it's all over. Time to go."
The youth's eyes locked on to his. They were lost and unfeeling, lubricious and opaque. They looked hard enough to penetrate a block of ice. He reached into his pocket and produced a handgun. Mr Jenkins froze, his legs turning to blancmange, becoming as weak as a lame pigeon's.
"Now then, Sean, control yourself."
He wasn't aware of uttering those words, they just spilled from his lips in panic. Sean's ice-cold eyes were filled with a frightful menace, and Mr Jenkins perceived an unnatural threat from the boy's terrifying countenance. He was horror-stricken, convinced that this was to be the final untimely moment of his existence. He was annoyed that his life had led up to this instance, the sequence of events resulting in his forthcoming demise at the hands of a neurotic student with the personality of a rotting vegetable. Then Sean cocked the weapon, and Mr Jenkins felt his bladder burst.
"Calm down, Sean, for God's sake!"
He didn't realise gunshots were so loud. Blood splattered across his shirt and face, tainting his skin, showering his glasses. He sank to his knees with shock. His heart was thumping inside like rapid echoes in a vacant tomb. Sean had acquired a hole in his temple, and he slumped forwards, his head clunking on to the desk, the gun clattering to the floor.
As he attempted to regain his composure, Mr Jenkins glanced at the boy's exam sheet, just before an alarmed throng dashed into the classroom. Three words scratched in pencil. Death. Death. Death.
Fishnet Fetish
[Unpublished]
"What do you fancy?" she asked.
I noticed her face for the first time. She had long blonde hair, and I saw that she was wearing a ghastly amount of make-up, it was as though it had been shovelled on with a spade. Underneath it all I detected a young teenager, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen. I didn't much care about the make-up though, as I had no interest in her face.
"I won't beat about the bush," I said. "How much for the night?"
Her zombie eyes widened. "All night? I don't think I've ever done that before."
"It's okay, we'll go to my house, there'll be food and drink, and we both get what we want."
She hesitated for a moment, straightening up and looking around the lane. After some thought she leant back into the window to face me.
"A hundred quid," she said.
"Done."
"I want it first though."
"Get into the car then."
Past experience had warned me about being extra cautious in circumstances like this, as one girl had legged it with the cash and another time I had nearly been attacked for more money. She got into the passenger seat and I gave her the cash, casting a long look at her legs. They were hideously bare, but they would look great in fishnets. I started up the engine and we were away.
"How far are we going?" she asked.
"Twenty miles."
"Twenty miles? How do I get back?"
"It's okay, I'll fetch you back in the car, don't worry about it."
We reached the outskirts of the town, and I pulled on to the motorway for a quick easy drive. No pretty way for this trip, I was eager to get home and indulge in my pleasures.
"My name's Trevor," I said. "What's yours?"
"Frankie."
"Frankie? Isn't that short for something? Francine perhaps? Or Francesca?"
"Could be."
"I've never met a Francine before."
"It's Frankie," she said sternly.
We spent the rest of the journey in silence. I didn't mind, as it wasn't conversation we wanted. She needed the money, and I needed to have my wicked way with her.
We reached the house, and I showed her inside. I offered her a drink which she accepted. I kept a bottle of dry white wine in the fridge for such occasions, they always seemed to enjoy a drop of that. She still wasn't saying much so I invited her into the bedroom, which seemed to be what she was used to. Placing her drink on the bedside table, she started to take her clothes off. Old habits die hard I suppose.
"I wonder if you would do me a favour," I said.
"What's that?"
"I'd like you to wear stockings."
"No problem. Have you got some?"
Have I got some? I opened the dresser drawer and looked inside. Scores of unopened packets of fishnet stockings greeted me, and I quivered at the sight of them. Different brand names, different colours. Which should I choose? I took out some black ones and showed them to Frankie.
"May I do the honours?" I asked.
"Why not?"
I opened the packet and began to put the stockings on to her legs, feeling the fine texture as I slid them up and on to her thighs. I had an erection already as I smoothed them out, running my hands from bottom to top, enjoying every moment. I stripped off, and lay on the bed next to Frankie, kissing her skin through the gaps, trailing my tongue along the silky material. Before I knew it my cock was pulsating and I shot my load on to her lower leg. The sensation was incredible, and when I recovered from it I began to lick my own sperm, my tongue darting into the squares of flesh, lapping up all traces of the cream, savouring the stickiness as it journeyed down my throat.
"So that's what you're into," said Frankie, "I thought there was something different about you."
"Don't worry, we'll have more fun later. Finish your wine."
I awoke the next morning lying halfway down the bed with my arms wrapped around Frankie's legs, which were still covered in fishnet stockings. My eyes adjusted to the early sunlight as I came to my senses. I glanced across the room to find the polaroids scattered all over the floor, various shots of Frankie's stocking-clad lower limbs staring me in the face. My hand wandered on to her legs as I rubbed my morning erection against the material. I parted her thighs and licked her flesh through the nets, taking square after square on my tongue, enjoying the feel of her milky skin. I masturbated furiously until I came, covering her knee area with my semen. I didn't lick it up this time. I just left the wet stain to mingle with the wispy texture of the stockings.
There was no comment from Frankie this time. As I mentioned before, I was lying next to Frankie's legs. Not the rest of her body, just her legs, covered in fishnet stockings.
"What do you fancy?" she asked.
I noticed her face for the first time. She had long blonde hair, and I saw that she was wearing a ghastly amount of make-up, it was as though it had been shovelled on with a spade. Underneath it all I detected a young teenager, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen. I didn't much care about the make-up though, as I had no interest in her face.
"I won't beat about the bush," I said. "How much for the night?"
Her zombie eyes widened. "All night? I don't think I've ever done that before."
"It's okay, we'll go to my house, there'll be food and drink, and we both get what we want."
She hesitated for a moment, straightening up and looking around the lane. After some thought she leant back into the window to face me.
"A hundred quid," she said.
"Done."
"I want it first though."
"Get into the car then."
Past experience had warned me about being extra cautious in circumstances like this, as one girl had legged it with the cash and another time I had nearly been attacked for more money. She got into the passenger seat and I gave her the cash, casting a long look at her legs. They were hideously bare, but they would look great in fishnets. I started up the engine and we were away.
"How far are we going?" she asked.
"Twenty miles."
"Twenty miles? How do I get back?"
"It's okay, I'll fetch you back in the car, don't worry about it."
We reached the outskirts of the town, and I pulled on to the motorway for a quick easy drive. No pretty way for this trip, I was eager to get home and indulge in my pleasures.
"My name's Trevor," I said. "What's yours?"
"Frankie."
"Frankie? Isn't that short for something? Francine perhaps? Or Francesca?"
"Could be."
"I've never met a Francine before."
"It's Frankie," she said sternly.
We spent the rest of the journey in silence. I didn't mind, as it wasn't conversation we wanted. She needed the money, and I needed to have my wicked way with her.
We reached the house, and I showed her inside. I offered her a drink which she accepted. I kept a bottle of dry white wine in the fridge for such occasions, they always seemed to enjoy a drop of that. She still wasn't saying much so I invited her into the bedroom, which seemed to be what she was used to. Placing her drink on the bedside table, she started to take her clothes off. Old habits die hard I suppose.
"I wonder if you would do me a favour," I said.
"What's that?"
"I'd like you to wear stockings."
"No problem. Have you got some?"
Have I got some? I opened the dresser drawer and looked inside. Scores of unopened packets of fishnet stockings greeted me, and I quivered at the sight of them. Different brand names, different colours. Which should I choose? I took out some black ones and showed them to Frankie.
"May I do the honours?" I asked.
"Why not?"
I opened the packet and began to put the stockings on to her legs, feeling the fine texture as I slid them up and on to her thighs. I had an erection already as I smoothed them out, running my hands from bottom to top, enjoying every moment. I stripped off, and lay on the bed next to Frankie, kissing her skin through the gaps, trailing my tongue along the silky material. Before I knew it my cock was pulsating and I shot my load on to her lower leg. The sensation was incredible, and when I recovered from it I began to lick my own sperm, my tongue darting into the squares of flesh, lapping up all traces of the cream, savouring the stickiness as it journeyed down my throat.
"So that's what you're into," said Frankie, "I thought there was something different about you."
"Don't worry, we'll have more fun later. Finish your wine."
I awoke the next morning lying halfway down the bed with my arms wrapped around Frankie's legs, which were still covered in fishnet stockings. My eyes adjusted to the early sunlight as I came to my senses. I glanced across the room to find the polaroids scattered all over the floor, various shots of Frankie's stocking-clad lower limbs staring me in the face. My hand wandered on to her legs as I rubbed my morning erection against the material. I parted her thighs and licked her flesh through the nets, taking square after square on my tongue, enjoying the feel of her milky skin. I masturbated furiously until I came, covering her knee area with my semen. I didn't lick it up this time. I just left the wet stain to mingle with the wispy texture of the stockings.
There was no comment from Frankie this time. As I mentioned before, I was lying next to Frankie's legs. Not the rest of her body, just her legs, covered in fishnet stockings.
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