Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Writing: Still at it :)

Another story and now i have officially won the bet! Bwhahahaha!
In other news, apologies for any misspellings, random weirdness. It's so cold here my fingers are behaving oddly and so is my brain.

No title as of yet.

Replying to the advert in the paper may have not have been the smartest thing in my life.
Heck, when talking about life decisions NONE of them I’d made recently had exactly been what you’d call ‘employing full capacity of my brain’. Or, consulting my brain at all.
Which is why, when I saw the advert, even though I knew it was a bad idea, it was the only streetlight working on a long dark road – even if it was dodgy, flickering badly and right next door to a rundown cemetery. But even so, what choice did I have to run towards it full pelt?
Especially hearing the noises coming up behind me.
Although, I never would have imagined part of the job description would be trampling through the sewers chasing shadows.
Literally.
“Sensei.”
 My employer was neither Asian nor spoke any eastern languages. He did, however, own the largest collection of manga I had ever seen.
“Yes?”
“Just so I am completely clear. We’re currently wandering through the sewers because, and I quote, ‘the workers have seen some spooky shadows’.
“That’s right.”
“So, our job is to investigate…urban legends?”
“Oh no, that’s to be left to the professionals. We wouldn’t want to be messing around with things beyond our comprehension.”
“Sensei?”
“Just what the hell is this job?!”
“Didn’t I explain it in my ad?”
“No, it just said, ‘assistant needed, please apply if strongly gifted, phenomenally lucky or desperate.’”
“Oh. Which one were you again?”
“….desperate.”
“Well, I firmly believe in on the spot job training – helps sort out the weeds from the chaff you know?”
“I was the only one who applied wasn’t I?”
“Now now, don’t belittle yourself so – the fact that you could even see my ad means you must have some moderate talent of your own.”
“…moderate talent?”
Fortunately for sensei, a sharp clawed shadow pealed itself off of the wall at that moment and bit off the top of his torch, plunging us all into darkness and preventing me from doing GBH.
___________________________________________________________________________
To explain why, exactly, I was running around the sewers with an uncanny crazy man who, annoyingly enough, happened to be exactly right in this circumstance, I would need to trace back a few weeks.
I was walking home one night from the job centre, minding my own business, when this meteorite fell from space and knocked me flying several meters down the street.  Only it wasn’t a meteorite. When I came too it had cracked open and the most adorable little red haired, green eyed space toddler was looking back at me.
What else could I do but take him home?
_________________________________________________________________________________
A panic stricken wild dash later Sensei and I were huddled up in a well-lit service room.
“I’m guessing those were the shadows we’re after then.” I won’t lie, my voice wobbled like a jelly wielding toddler on a tightrope.
“That would be them. I was hoping that they might have calmed down after all these years – but perhaps not.”
“What are they?”
“Shadows, remnants – the remains of very unhappy people.” He paused again. “Did you know that this used to be called the ‘perfect city’?”
I snorted. “Lifetimes ago perhaps. Now it’s just a rundown city – we’re lucky it hasn’t turned into some sort of spaghetti western.”
“That may be – but there’s a lot of help out there right?”
I nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, our government might be poor but they do their best. There are shelters all over if you’re down on your luck.”
“Back when this was the perfect city there was nothing like that. The perfect was in name only. Those that had money could survive there quite happily – hence the name ‘perfect’. But if you didn’t have the cash, or the social standing, or the wrong idea you were soon labelled as a ‘rat’ and thus disposed of.  You’ve noticed how the sewer walls seem to be warped?”
I nodded. It was weird – it almost looked like there were waves running through them.
“Well, as there was nowhere to run to above the ‘rats’ usually ended up running to the sewers. Hidden away they should have been safe but even this wasn’t enough for the government of that era. One night, in a covert mission, they flooded the sewers with modified magma which they claimed was to ‘clean’ them.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face.
“They murdered them?”
“Trapped them and burned them alive.” Sensei nodded.
“But why?”
“Because their existence contradicted the lie they were spinning. If they wanted to stay on top they had to eliminate everything that could have rocked the boat.” He paused, “quite a few metaphors clashing there but you get the point.”
“How, how many?”
“Probably a few hundred.”
“That’s, that’s.”
“Monstrous, yes.  It proved their undoing however. There was a survivor, of sorts.”
“Did he go to the press and expose them?”
Sensei laughed out loud. “You are surprisingly naïve. The government owned the press – it would have got him instantly killed. Besides, I doubt in the condition it left him in he could have made it that far. Apparently he was only a survivor by a millimetre and hovering at death’s door.”
“Then what happened?”
Sensei tilted his head at me and went, “Ohhhhh, you want to know?”
I miraculously repressed the urge to hit my employer and simply said, “it’s seems to have something to do with the situation at hand so yes, I would like to know.”
“Please Sensei.”
I gritted my teeth.  “Please Sensei.”
He grinned at me. “Well then, and this is only urban legend mind you – no one knows for sure what happened. No one even knows the identity of the last survivor. My money is on the probability that he was someone who had fallen from grace – how else would he know exactly where to strike?”
“Couldn’t someone have asked him?”
“Ha! Not really. What came up from the sewers that night was no longer what you could call human. You know I said those shadows before were remnants?”
I nodded. Trying to ignore the scratching on the other side of the door. Sensei had yet to reveal his escape plan from this one-door underground room.
“Well, they’re pretty much what’s left of the burned rats – all their resentment and hopelessness and evil death smeared across the sewers. Rumour has it that they came across the broken and dying survivor and offered him a deal. He was dying but he still had corporeal form – the remnants were somewhat ‘alive’ but they were trapped by their very nature – their ‘shadowiness’ wouldn’t last long in the world above.  So they came to him and said that they would enter his body and the small pieces of their individual energy (remember there were hundreds of them) would be enough to, well, finish the job. After all, they both had the same goal in mind- vengeance.”
“Apparently so. After that night there was talk of an assassin who was ‘as black as night with burning eyes.’ This guy went after the mayor and all high ranking officials. Not only did he kill them but left evidence of their dirty dealings strewn all over the room. After a while, it got harder and harder to cover up – other outside investigative agencies began to get involved and from then the whole edifice began to crumble. Eventually, we were left with what we have now.”
I said nothing.
“Oh, you think it would have been better if he had done nothing and simply died in the sewers like a good rat?”
“No!” I retorted. “But you can hardly call this current state of affairs ‘perfect’. This city is filled with the homeless and criminals.”
“Which makes it no different than the time of the rats. Only now we are forced to see what is in front of us instead of having it hidden with pretty lies. ‘Perfection’ is an absolute, unchanging. Which makes it stagnant and eventually it will rot. Besides, what he wanted was revenge – which does not pay attention to what comes next. Was he wrong to seek vengeance for the crimes committed?”
“No, but, it hardly made anything easier for the rest of us.”
“perhaps if the ‘rest of us’ had been paying better attention, than the original situation wouldn’t have occurred in the first place and we could all now be living happily.”
I shot him a disbelieving look – even if I thought he had a point.
He simply smiled. “It’s something to aim for, no? I think he did do us a great service – but forcing us to confront our dirty laundry, perhaps he made us think of a way to get it clean? Or at least prevent the dirt from building up like that again.”
I sat in thought.
“So what do you think happened to him, the assassin?”
Sensei shrugged. “After everything was uncovered he simply vanished. Perhaps he went abroad, perhaps he moved on to another city that needed his help.”
“But what do you think happened?”
“I think he died.” Sensei said flatly. “I think once his vengeance was complete there was nothing holding him to this world anymore.”
“But what about the shadows – the people who cast them had already died.”
“As you can see, they are still here, in the sewers. After all this time.”
I blinked, trying to chase away the tears that had unexpectedly welled up. “But that’s so sad.”
“They are only shadows.”
“But to be trapped here, where they experienced so much suffering. Don’t they want to leave?”
Sensei smiled. “Why don’t you ask them yourself?”
As if in a dream I felt myself rise and move towards the door, which was vibrating on its hinges, the scratching reaching an almost unbearable crescendo. As I opened the door and watched the black wave crash over me, I asked;
“Don’t you want to see the sunlight?”
_________________________________________________________________________________
The last of the shadows dissolved like mist from my skin in the late afternoon sunlight, spiralling up into the wide blue sky.
My skin was my own again.
A gentle cough drew my attention and Sensei held out a clean white handkerchief to me.
Seriously, who uses handkerchiefs in this day and age? But I took it anyway and dabbed at the tears trickling down my face.
“So Sensei, are you finally going to tell me what this job is?” I was pleased that, although my voice was rough, it came out steady.
Sensei smiled at me and then, oddly, bowed.
“I,” he stated proudly, “am a funeral director. I deal with awkward burials.”
“Awkward burials?”
“Ah, those who won’t, or can’t, pass on in the normal way. Or have no one left to do their rites for them.”
I thought about it. “So you’re an exorcist?”
“No, no, no!” He looked appalled. “Exorcists deal with the living. I deal only with the dead. I create a bridge to the otherside for those that are lost here. Besides, exorcists are a crude and rough lot. All my funerals are performed with grace. A proper farewell.”
“And you need an assistant?”
“There is only me – and the dead are legion.” He paused. “Admittedly they can be a bit peculiar when it comes to payment but it’s more than enough to get by on. And as you performed your first funeral beautifully, I would be more than happy to hire you.”
I gave him a hard stare. “The job comes with lodgings and board?”
He blinked. “Ah, yes.”
“Then I’ll need to swing by my place to pick up some things and I’ll move in today – boss.”
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I lived in one of the roughest parts of town – rent was cheap and the gangs were too busy over turf wars to really hassle one woman alone. Ironically, I would have been at more risk in one of the more affluential areas – where the crime was more organised and thus had more time on its hand to be bored. The devil makes work for idle thumbs after all.
Sensei was following me, taking in the run down surroundings with great interest.
Had it just been me alone I might have been tempted to just commute – I knew my territory after all and I felt safe here.
But I was not alone. There were now other things to consider. Despite what sensei said about the dead being sporadic payers, he lived in a far posher part of town, where the sidewalks were clean, they had things like cafes and you could actually see policemen patrolling. It was a far healthier environment for a child.
Besides, had I been alone, I never would have applied for this job in the first place.
“Here we are.” I sung out, hoping my nervousness didn’t show.  I really hadn’t wanted Sensei to come back with me – I’d wanted to turn up on his doorstep as a fait accompli. But no such luck. He’d insisted on being a gentleman and helping me move my stuff.
Even when I said I didn’t have a lot of stuff.
“Do you want to wait down here? I’ll only be a minute.” Trying to put off the inevitable.
“No, no, I’ll come up and help.”
Damn.
We climbed the concrete stairs, the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the broken windows like golden syrup, transmuting the grey of the stairwell.
I undid the locks, took a deep breath and opened the door.
My darling little one was sitting in the middle of the otherwise immaculate floor, chewing on a dead rat. Half the body was already devoured and when he saw me he let out a big smile, perfectly showing off his blood-stained, razor-sharp teeth.
“Mama.” He said.
When in doubt, I always took my aunts advice.
Brazen it out.
“Oh sweetie, you’ve got blood on you again. Good thing I thought to put your bib on hey?” I bustled over, neatly plucking the dead rat off of him and swinging him into my arms.
“Again….?” I heard Sensei’s weak voice behind me but I decided to ignore the panic in it for now.
“Yes, I have no idea how he gets hold of the rats – I’m always so careful to keep the flat clean but in an area like this – well, it’s hard you know.”
I turned away and started fiercely folding and packing our clothes into a battered carrying bag. I hadn’t been lying when I said we didn’t have much. Once again Luke had gotten the rat out of my hands and was chewing on it. I decided to leave him to it this time.
I felt Sensei’s eyes rove round the small bedsit – noting the broken windows covered with polythene, the rickety furniture, what little there was of it, and lastly, little Luke, sitting on the floor eating a rat.
“I wouldn’t have thought you were old enough to have a child.” Sensei’s voice sounded mild.
“He’s adopted. He sort of – fell into my lap out of the blue and I couldn’t just abandon him.”
“I see. Do they not have daycares round here?”
I was surprised at the sudden question but understood the meaning. “No, nothing formal at least. Normally I’m here all the time – but today, I asked one of the other mums to drop by and look in on him from time to time. Trust me, it was far from my ideal situation but no one will take him in to babysit. It was hard enough to get them to do that.” My hands clenched in the cloth. “Just because he looks a little different.”
“I assume you mean the teeth.”
I nodded. “He’s far better behaved than any of the other children out there. Much better.” I felt my shoulders start to sag.
“But none of them will play with him. It’s not even like he bites.”
“Hmmm.” Sensei’s obviously thoughtful pause brought me back to the urgency of the situation. I spun to face him, my back straight.
“I’ll not leave him behind.”
“Good God no.” He said, startled. “I was just wondering if there is a more suitable employment for you as this one does have its risks…” he trailed off when he saw my expression. “Which I am sure you have already considered.”
I continued to stare at him.
He sighed.
“Fine, pack your stuff. We’ll all go – although God knows what the neighbours will think of me bringing home a young girl and child.”
“R-Really?”
“Really.”
“I’ll work hard enough for the two of us, I promise!”
“Yes, yes.” Sensei brushed away my comments away. “There’s no need for that – and you being so grateful is kind of creepy. Besides, I’m sure little, err.”
“Luke.”
“Little Luke will be a great help in keeping down the rats.”
I swung Luke back into my arms and started dancing round the room.
“You hear that sweetie – you’ll have a great and wonderful life ahead of you, just like mummy promised.” I hugged him.
“You do realise my mental image of you is getting totally destroyed.” Sensei remarked. “Anyway, are you ready?”
“Pretty much. I just need to throw these things in and – done!” I shut the bag with a satisfying clunk.
“Already? Then give it here.” Sensei plucked the bag from my grasp and headed towards the door. “Have you got hold of the little ratter?”
“In my arms.” I said. “And don’t call him a little ratter.”
“Now there’s my scary assistant.”
 “I am not scary.”
“You followed me into infested sewers without even batting an eyelid. Definitely scary.”
“I am not”
With Luke in my arms, I followed Sensei’s laughter out the door.

Monday, 6 February 2012

I wrote! I wrote something at last! Bwhahahahahahaha!

Dear Readers. As you may already be able to tell from the title I have been somewhat suffering from writers block. My lovely MB managed to solve this by betting that I couldn't write two short stories in under a week.
Here's number one :)
(This is why I only go to the races on very special occassions with someone elses money ;) )
Apologies for the rustiness of my writing.

Rats
The magma was pouring through the sewer drains thick and frightenly fast. The only thought in my head was the slightly hysterical one of ‘at least they’ll be sterilised now.’
Being homeless in this perfect city was not easy.
The magma was new though – I’d give them points on creativity for that one.
God it was hot. Didn’t they worry about the infra-structure weakening and making the buildings collapse above?
I guess not.
I’d managed to climb up into one of the air vents, pressing myself to the grill, as far from the magma as possible. I had air to breathe but I knew that my skin was turning red and blistering. I continued pushing and pushing against the grill, trying to make it give way and let me out. Unlike others who had tried to go out the manholes – and get shot by the soldiers waiting – I’d gone for the ‘chances of survival 1% route’.
It was better than the 0% chance all other options offered.
I kept shoving against the grill, my body getting weaker by the minute, my shoves getting more desperate as I realised I was getting more and more light headed. There is a limit to how much heat the human body could take.
Even as I began to pass out my fingers still clawed at the bolts, bloodying my nails.
‘Death by magma.’ I thought. ‘I never would have guessed this in primary school.’
And then there was darkness.
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Perhaps, while my body lies here dying, you would be interesting in how I ended up being exterminated like a rat in the sewers. Certainly my origins would never have given any hint to how I would eventually end up.
I grew up in the higher end of middle class suburbia. I had, if not everything I wanted, then quite a fair chunk of what a boy could dream of as long as it involved money and cars. I went to a decent school with people of my own status. I was well liked but not popular – a fact that suited me down to the ground – and I never suffered from bullying. That was reserved for the human rights activists – or ‘conspiracy theorists’ as we called him. After graduation I never heard of any of them again. I used to think that was odd. The important part being ‘used to’.
Everything was going well and easy, right up until my dad got caught doing something in business he shouldn’t have.
In our ‘perfect city’ there is no crime. Ever. Be it blue or white.
The Mayor cracks down hard on any crime. Very hard.
We never have to hire prison wardens as we have no prisons. A ‘waste of tax payer’s money.’
All we have is The Chair.
Now, I’m not saying what my dad did was in any way right. But, had he been in any other state or country, he would have done about five years max.
Here, he wasn’t so lucky.
Neither were my mum and I.
As traitors to the people, apparently for simply being related to my dad, everything we owned was repossessed by the council. We were lucky to get out with the clothes on our back.
And then we were abandoned.
Because there is no poverty in our perfect city, there are no need for homeless shelters, no need for charitable organisations offering aid or any form of support.
Using money I’d stashed away (when I stashed it, I had no reason to. I wonder now if some of the HR activists had even then made some sort of sense to my subconscious) I sent my mother, who was practically comatose with shock by this point, to a distant cousin in the country who swore that they would take care of her.
And I, well, I guess I stayed behind for revenge.
By this point I knew that our ‘perfect city’ was a complete and utter sham. For a distance it might look clean and pure but it was rotting in front of our eyes.
From research and information I had gleaned, I knew for a fact that the higher up officials had committed far worse crimes that my dad. In fact, what my dad had done seemed to be a common way of life in business here.
But to the others, he had committed the ultimate sin.
He had been ‘caught’.
That’s right, just like fashion magazines, reality TV and cupcakes – it was all about image, not substance.
Our city was full of the helpless, the desperate and the stricken – and everyone was too dazzled by the magic act put on by the council to see them.
And by now I was one of them.
My money had run out and being a pampered rich boy for most of my life had not prepared me for living rough. As I said the city not only refused to help, they actively sought to stamp out the ‘rats’. Someone up there must love me, as the fact that I hadn’t yet been ‘processed' by the exterminators was a pure miracle.
I was now emaciated, flea ridden and filthy – and I’m pretty sure half mad with it.
Powerless, helpless and crazy. I don’t know why I didn’t just throw myself into the magma and be done with it. I suspected others had.
But.
But.
The rage I felt when I watched my father put in that chair. The rage I felt when my mother held my hand and wept like a child as they tore our home apart.
The rage I felt when I knew everything they had ever told us was a lie.
The rage I felt when I understood that most people just swallowed all those contradictions down with a smile.
That rage was more than hot enough to equal the magma.
And I think that is how they found me.
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Amazingly I came to.
On regaining consciousness, I thought first, how much I wanted to be unconscious again and second, that this would be the last time and a brief one at that. I could hear my skin crackling and my lungs seemed to be making this awful wheezy sound – and I couldn’t get enough air in with them.
Also, I was pretty sure I was blind.
So, blind, trapped in a sewer with a load of corpses, magma and unable to move.
I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. It was sheer agony but that only made me laugh harder.
And then my blindness, undulated. I blinked and stared again. Yes, my sight appeared to be pitch black but it also seemed – layered. And moving. As if I was looking at the sea at night. I experimentally tried to move my eyes towards my body – seeing if I could see my hand. And I could – if extremely blurry and faded. As if I was looking at it from underwater.
If I hadn’t been so close to death’s door, if I had been whole and healthy and not spent the past year having everything I ever believed in destroyed, I might have been freaked out.
As it was, when the whispering started, I didn’t even bat an eyelid.
It was soft and rustling, like waves breaking or the sound of a small mammal in a bush. The contents however, were like razor blades in candyfloss.
“Murderers…thieves… I want to go home……liars... i want to go home…stole my mother…murdered… my home…life eaters…thieves thieves…death chasers…cold….i’m cold…I want to go home..I want to go home…I want to go home!!’
“Are you ghosts?” I called out, not expecting a reply.
“We are shadows, we are rats, we are remnants. We are the coffee dregs that they tried to flush away, we are the rats that they tried to exterminate, we are the drifters, we are the helpless, we are the homeless
They took our homes they took out lives thieves thieves liars killers
We will clog and destroy their plumbing; we will chew their ropes and despoil their food
We are injustice, we are ignored, we are murdered, we are killed
Murderers homewreckers despoilers liars greedy greedy thieves
Rats rats rats rats rats rats rats rats rats rats
“What do you want?”
The shadows seemed to pause a moment, and then with a concerted effort they spoke unanimously, as if they had reached a decision.
“We wanted warmth when we were alive, we wanted home, we wanted to live. Now we are shadows. We will never have warmth. We will always be cold.
We want vengeance.”
I laughed again. “The same thing I’ve been chasing huh? I hate to break it to you but it’s not so easy to get. I’d love to help but, as you can see, it won’t be long until I’ll be just another one of you guys.”
“You will help us.”
“I would if I could since our goals align. But like I said, my body is about to give up on me.”
It was already happening, I could feel it. My lungs were getting weaker and weaker and my head was getting lighter and lighter. I could feel myself drifting away.
“You will help us. We need a body to go into the world above, our shadows cannot go by ourselves. You will be our Pied Piper. We are dregs but we are many.”
And with that they poured themselves inside me.
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The mayor lives at the top of the fanciest high rise in town. It has those posh mirror windows that reflect the sky. So far it’s killed hundreds of birds.
I looked at my reflection. Well, I had tried to doll myself up for this important meeting – I’d had a wash in one of the park fountains so I was clean and didn’t smell.
At least, I thought I was clean.
It was hard to tell since my skin seemed to be nothing but a clear covering, holding pitch black shadows that surged and undulated underneath – like the sea at night.
It had been a long while since I’d looked in a mirror – so I wasn’t sure if the shape of the face that looked back of me was completely my own. It also seemed to change subtly from moment to moment. As did my voice.
Everything about me was now pitch black – face, body, hair, mouth.
The only thing not black about me were my eyes.
They were the deep glowing red yellow of magma.
Or perhaps rage.
I heard a stirring behind me from the bed – at last the cool breeze from the open window was waking him up.
I turned and gave him my biggest smile as he sat up, still groggy from sleep.
He froze, like a rabbit in headlights, like a convict before the executioner.
I walked towards him.
“Hello Mr Mayor. You can call me The Piper.”
And then he started to scream.




Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Writing: The Devil's Dance

The pole dancer looked over the burning city in triumph. She cared not that her skin was dyed blue from the cold wind howling across the top of the tower block, nor that her forearms were streaked with blood from her split palms. Her enemies were burning and that was all that mattered.
Besides, the devil himself was coming to collect her soul shortly – what point would there be to start whining about a little chill now?
For the sheer hell of it, she climbed back on her pole and sun round once more, thankful that she’d invested in a rotating one rather than settling for static. Some of the other girls at the club might consider it cheating but she loved the speed she could accomplish easily on a rotating one, it made her feel like she could spin fast enough to throw the spirits that haunted her from her mind.
She laughed again to feel her hair whipping against her face, if she went fast enough she could blur out the arcane symbols written in blood below. Her blood.
Down below in the city, the flames roared.
-----
She and her elder brother had arrived here several years ago, fleeing something she did not understand. Her only knowledge of it her brothers urgency in the middle of the night, begging her to come with him, fleeing their parent’s house. His obvious terror.
She had loved her brother more than anyone back then. She surprised herself with how long that love had lasted.
Even now, she had no truth, no certain why he had left home, nor why he had taken her with him. Although now, after these years spent with him, she could hazard a guess.
It wasn’t long before her brother got himself into all kinds of trouble. Money trouble, drug trouble, women trouble. They had arrived here with little money, knowing no one, with scant resources to be able to protect themselves from the consequences of her brother’s actions.
It wasn’t long before she knew it was up to her to keep them safe, to provide for them. She had always been on the acrobatics team at school – pole dancing was simply another form of that she told herself. To her surprise, she actually enjoyed it – not the men leering at her but she found out that once she was on stage with the music pounding through her bones the rest of the world seemed to drain away, leaving nothing behind but her body and the music.
Her skills became so good she was recruited by one of the top clubs, and actually seemed to be able to keep one step ahead of the debt collectors her brother seemed to accrue like used condoms.
But, like all things so precariously balanced, you cannot hold such poise forever.
Her brother angered one mobster too many. She came home one day to find pieces of him scattered around the kitchen floor. She had slipped on his spilled and discarded guts, right into the arms of the awaiting debt collectors.
They had taken her to their boss, who calmly informed her that her brother’s debt now passed to her. Her brother’s blood drying and sticking to her skin through her socks, they had not given her time to change or out on shoes, she explained that she already was paying off his debt and that, given her current rate of pay, it should be cleared in a few months.
She believed it was shock that allowed her to speak to calmly to him. Also shock that prevented her from seeing – until he told that she was to work in one of his clubs and his alone, only that would satisfy the debt – that he was one of her regulars at the club.
From one of the top clubs in town she fell to a skeevy little bar right at the outskirts of it. The countertops were sticky and foul, the sound system of static and the poles stiff and unloved. The bouncers had little pride in keeping the girls safe and she learnt to be even quicker at dodging out of the way of the clienteles greasy, grasping fingers. She knew that she’d never earn enough to escape from here.
She also knew that was the point.
She would have considered killing herself, had she not wanted to grant the boss the opportunity to defile her corpse.

She had existed in a state of resigned despair, right up until a dreary Wednesday afternoon when the devil himself had come up to her and asked for a dance.
Or, to be more correct, he had asked for seven.
Back when she was first learning, back when she took a sort of pride in her dancing, maybe even when she still had a sense of humour she had come up with a long and complex dance routine entitled ‘The Seven Deadly Sins’. Few could afford to pay for it – the routine itself was too long, so she mainly danced it for herself, for her own amusement and perhaps salvation. It was this dance that had gotten her noticed by the top clubs.
She did not want to dance it anymore. The devil, sensing her hesitation, said
‘I can pay for it.’
And held out enough money to pay off a third of her debt.
Her mind made up she took him to one of the private rooms. He did nothing but sit there quietly, with a small smile, watching her dance. When she was done, he laid the money on the table and left equally quietly.

For soliciting a private dance, she received ten lashes of the whip from the boss. His face incoherent with rage. She was laid up in bed for two weeks from the pain, the pus seeping from her wounds to the sheets, staining them.

When she returned to work, the devil was there.
He asked for a dance. She accepted.
When the dance was over, instead of leaving immediately, as before, he asked her,
‘What do you want, more than anything?’
She felt the pull of breath in her lungs, choking on the fetid air of the club. The feel of blood mingling with her sweat as the exertion had reopened her whip wounds. She felt herself stand, in this dingy little room, in cheap and tawdry underwear in front of a man she didn’t know and said:
‘To see this city burn.’

She received 20 lashes this time.
After a week in bed, the postman delivered a parcel. A book, handwritten, full of strange symbols and dance routines. She looked at the illustrations.
She looked out the window of her tiny bedsit apartment. At a city that had never once loved or cared for her.
She stared again at the illustrations.
---
The gravel was almost comforting against her cheek. Why was there gravel against her cheek? Ah, she must have slipped and fallen from the pole; her limbs did feel suspiciously light.
She blinked, her vision blurred, there was a figure before her. The devil. So he had come for her soul after all. Very well, it was a fair bargain and he had held up his end admirably – even now, when everything was fading round the edges, she could still hear the city being devoured, as it had devoured her.
She smiled up at him, her devil, her saviour. His dark figure reaching down towards her the last thing she saw before her eyes eased shut.

Monday, 14 November 2011

Writing: Chopper

The tattered lace that hung down of the edge of the bed had faded to a hue of milky weak tea. The edges had started to come unravelled so what was once a delicate snowflake pattern had warped into a toddler's scribblings.
Lottie knew that entire toddler's scrawl in great detail. This is due to the fact that she had been hiding under the bed for at least an hour, desperately trying to blend into the dust and shadows, whilst around her she could hear the sounds of her home being chewed to pieces by the sharp fang of the axe.
She clamped her hands over her ears as once again the thing howled – an eerie unearthly noise.
It no longer sounded anything like her twin brother.

They had been playing out in the back garden. The warden had come by to see them with fresh food and some cast off clothes. They had been orphaned for a year now, their caravan having been set upon by bandits, their parents killed. The village they had fled to, arriving battered, bloodied and traumatised, had taken them in. They weren’t compassionate enough to take them into their own homes, but they were kind enough to give them use of an unoccupied cottage on the edge of town – and often sent them food and clothing. The cottage was run down but with no major damage and if this was not the life they had hoped for, then they comforted themselves with the fact that they were at least still alive, still had each other and their parents would be proud of them for carrying on.
The cottage was a little run down, a little shabby but it had everything they needed – a bedroom, a working kitchen, a roof. It even had an overgrown garden out the back with a tool shed. They had thought it was a little peculiar that the cottage was completed furnished but the villagers had told them that this was because the old lady who lived there before had died without any relatives to claim her belongings. So the villagers had left it as it was.
Lottie thought this to be rather wasteful – after all, there was a plethora of interesting books and herbs and ornaments scattered about the cottage, not to mention the basic linen and cooking equipment that she was sure someone would have found use for. But their loss was her gain; she had no issue about using a dead woman’s things.
The most peculiar thing was the tool shed. Unlike everything else in the cottage, this was sealed shut with shiny new chains and a padlock. They had asked their warden about this and he had shrugged, embarrassed. He had explained that the woman who lived here before knew she was going to die, so she requested from the elders that the tool shed was sealed shut after her death in exchange for the property and anything within it. Upon her death, the elders had complied with her wishes.
Lottie had looked back at the house.
“But nothing’s been taken.” She said
The man shrugged again. “She was a very influential woman. She needn’t have offered anything to get us to do it.” He grinned broadly. “But a stroke of luck for you two huh? Just don’t go near that shed, I’m sure she had her reasons for sealing it.”
“You mean you don’t even know why she wanted you to seal it?!” Her brother had interrupted a look of disbelief on his face.
“No. We all trusted her; she was a wise woman and knew what she was talking about. Plus, I don’t think any of us really wanted to know. I say again, do not go near that shed”
From that day forth Lottie’s brother had become obsessed with the shed.
It had started off innocently enough. A young boys desire to go somewhere he was forbidden. For a few days he kept fiddling with the lock – trying different things to try and smash it open. Lottie saw the exact moment it started to change into something darker. She was organising the kitchen when she happened to glance out through the window to her brother, leaning close to the door, trying to get a better look at the lock. She saw him tilt his head, as if he’d heard something and then something, some shadow of an expression, slide across his face.
It made her blood run cold.
From that day forth it was like the boy her brother was no longer existed. He wouldn’t eat, would barely sleep and even then she would wake in the night to see him standing by the window, bloodied fingers pressed against the glass from where he’d tried to claw his way in. He snarled at her whenever she asked a question, shoved her away whenever she tried to beg him to eat. And always, always he would have his head tilted towards the direction of the shed, as if listening to music only he could hear.
Lottie didn’t know what frightened her the most; that he would die from starvation and exhaustion or that he would manage to open the shed.
She daren’t speak to any of the villagers about it, she didn’t know what they would do to them if they found out her brother was trying to open the shed. The villager’s mercy would only stretch so far. Would they be driven out? There’s no way they’d survive in the surrounding wilderness for long. Would her brother even go? No, she knew there was no way he would ever now leave that shed; he would struggle against anyone trying to drag him away, perhaps be hurt or killed before he surrendered.
So Lottie, trapped in the cottage with an increasingly deranged brother, with no one to turn to, did the only thing she could think of. She started turning the cottage upside down in an attempt to find something, some diary or will, which would tell her what the thing in the shed was and how she might destroy it. She knew it was becoming a desperate race between her and her brother, perhaps she now looked just as crazy, but it was the only thing she could think of to save him. She tore through books and letter containing incantations, spells and enchantments, only now coming to the realisation that the women who lived her previously was a witch (how she cursed herself for her stupidity!).
She was just going through the pantry – there were various potions on the upper shelves. Probably well past their use by date but, having found no incantation or clue in the books, she was hoping one said ‘to use against thing in shed if your brother is dumb enough to try and open it.’ When there was a metallic clink against the pavestone floor. She looked down, she had knocked a key onto the floor.
The key, she knew beyond a doubt, that fitted the lock on the shed.
She reached down from the step stool when a sound from the doorway made her look up. Her brother was standing there, watching her.
She licked her suddenly dry lips, “brother…”
Too quick to follow he darted in and snatched the key, running out and slamming the pantry door shut behind him. It cost Lottie precious seconds to drag it back open and when she did she saw he was already by the shed. She ran to the garden door, knowing already that she was too late, but couldn’t stop herself from screaming, “brother no!”
He unlocked the padlock. There was an especially anticlimactic thump as the chains fell off and nothing happened. With a blissful smile her brother walked into the shed and came out cradling a shiny axe. He closed his eyes, gave a peaceful sigh and then the bones from his arms exploded through his skin.
Lottie’s knees gave way as she watched her twin brother, with much accompaniment of the sounds of cracking bones and sliding flesh, as he warped into a deformed shape. His limbs lengthened, his nails grew into wicked claws and his face – here was the worst for it bore no resemblance to her brother anymore, it looked more like the face of monstrous beast!
Finally the noises stopped – and then the thing that had been her brother looked at her.
Sobbing, Lottie fled into the house, barring the door behind her, knowing that if he caught her, she would be dead, torn to pieces with those claws. She ran upstairs, trying desperately to think, to hide. She heard him behind her, beneath her, destroying the house, chanting in a hideous voice
‘I was the wolf in the forest, I was the eater of little girl red, and I was the teeth in the dark of the night,
Now I am the shadow in men’s hearts, I am their glory in the strong hunting the weak,
 I am the wolf in the axeman’s blade!’
Hands clapped over her ears she caught sight of the bed. Ridiculousy draped with throws and old lace, the base of it was completely hidden. With no other idea, as quietly as possible, she crawled underneath. Trying to blend in with the dust in the space underneath.
And she waited, listening to the thing that had been her brother destroy their home.

After a nightmare age she heard him start to come up the stairs, banging his axe against the wall to mark each deliberate step.
“Lottie, Looooottie.” He called. Then he laughed. “Remember this game?”
"Here comes a Candle to light you to Bed
Here comes a Chopper to Chop off your Head
Chip chop chip chop - the Last Man's Dead."
Faster and faster, closer and closer until on ‘dead’ he threw the bed off of her. And Lottie, knowing now that she had no choice, had braced herself for this and had pulled from her petticoat the only thing she had found that might stop her brother.
So when the monster was framed before her, his hands occupied by throwing the bed. She shot him six times in the chest with her pistol.
Her father had trained her to be a crack shot. In the circus her family had owned, the twins had been the dare-devil knives and gun act.
The beast before her crumpled to the ground, the axe slipping from its lifeless grasp.
And finally, finally she heard what her brother had, all these weeks. The axe singing. It was beautiful and eerie and sung of blood spilt in vengeance, of righting wrongs and of protecting the future with strength.
She could see how it had appealed so much to her brother.
She stood, as if in a trance and walked over to it. It shone in the setting sun, smugly she thought, as if it knew it had already won. She calmly reloaded her pistol and emptied it out into the axe.
Oddly, for metal, it bled. Thick viscous blood that oozed out over the floor.
It also screamed.
When it was done, she went back to the pantry and soaked the whole building in paraffin. The shed too.
She watched the flames for a while.
Then she turned and walked down to the path to the village.

Friday, 11 November 2011

Writing: Rough Draft

My writing has gotten extremely rusty so I do apologise. I've had the following vignette in my head for some time - it was over staying its welcome so I put it down on paper before it walked out in a huff. I haven't done it justice at all but I hope to revamp it in the future. Enjoy

The unicorn-mermaid automaton shifted his grip on the Kalashnikov held in his hooves.
“I mean they tell you your hooves can lock into them” he grumbled to himself as his slithered along the interior corridor, nodding acknowledgment to the other sentries floating in the perimeter outside the dome. “, but they never fit right and who do you think they blame when it misfires huh? Never the manufacturers, oh no.”
The guard paused and looked into the first holding cell. He nodded to himself. All the virgins were there and accounted for.
A brief flash of light caught his eye from outside. The outer perimeter sentries were shooting at a merman. They had a colony nearby and in the beginning had often swum by to spy on the girls inside. The automatons had generally ignored them or shooed them off – seeing them as irritating voyeurs but as not a particular threat. Until one of the virgins had fallen for one. They never did figure out how he managed to defile her – and they could hardly ask her. The unicorn automatons had been chosen particularly for their ability to detect the virtue, or lack of, in women. As soon as a virgin became defiled in their presence they immediately switched to ‘purification mode.’
The ground meat had penetrated so far into the carpet it was impossible to clean – they had had to dispose of it in the end.
Since then they had kept close eye on the mermen and driven them off if they ever came near. Other than that the job itself was pretty dull. The girls were brought in, sometimes the collectors arrived to take samples, inspect the girls and perhaps choose one to take with them to the surface. But usually it was just the virgins and the automatons, miles and miles beneath the ocean waves.
“At least we can go outside.” Mused the sentry. “I’m not sure how the girls haven’t gone stir..”
He never did get to finish his almost charitable thought. Being shocked by several thousand volts of electricity had a tendency to shut down your hardware for good.
The slight, mousy girl behind him look down at his lifeless form impassively. She raised a radio to her lips “sector one clear”
The radio emitted a hiss. “All sectors clear – release holding cell one and head back to central command. Take off imminent.”
“Affirmative”
The girl hurried over to the holding cell and unlocked the door. The girls inside filed out calmly and started heading towards the central core.
The original mousy girl waited until the last one was out and then followed behind, glancing out the window to check on the sentries outside. The mermen were still keeping them busy – good.
She permitted herself a small smile. It had taken years of planning, of learning, of skulduggery and politics. The fact that they had bought the aid of the mermen with advice of how to woo women still made her shake her head but, she shrugged, whatever worked. Thanks to the mermen they had been able to be hooked up to an unlimited, unmonitored internet connection. Through that they had been able to indulge in a variety of long distance learning courses and access to all sorts of useful information – including the original schematics to their prison.
They learnt that their owners, being right cheapskates, had bought a disused spaceship and simply sunk it.
The girl felt the engines rumble and come online – long unused perhaps, but newly refurbished. Amazing what a little hacking on the supply orders can accomplish over a period of years.
She took one last long at the endless blue ocean outside the windows and then closed the blast door behind her.
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Thursday, 6 October 2011

Writing: How I came to have a Troll chained up in my back yard (oddly, doesn’t involve goats)

(For my Muttley Bear)

Really, it’s all Phyllis’s fault.

Or rather, perhaps, her quite naive view of men. Which has always struck me as rather peculiar, what with her originally being a man and all but who am I to question the tricksome and winding ways of the heart?

Anyway, long story short, she fell head over heels for this weedy little accountant who used to frequent her club.

It wasn’t till they were walking halfway over the flyover, on the way to his house, that he confessed that the only reason he had come on to her was that the flyover was the only was to reach his house.

And a troll lived under the flyover.

The weedy accountant had been to cheap to buy a car, so every time he walked across the bridge the troll had leapt out and threatened to eat him unless the accountant did his tax returns. The accountant had been spending the last month trapped until dawn going through a millennia of old receipts and things scribbled on the backs of envelopes.

In desperation he had asked around to find out who was the strongest man was and had been directed to the Foo Foo Kitty Club where Phyllis worked.

You can probably guess that, after having been told that the man you were passionately in love with only saw you as hired muscle, Phyllis was not in the best of moods.

So when the troll came clambering up over the sides of the bridge, yelling ‘Who’s that trip trapping over my bridge?’ Phyllis, heartbrokenly, knocked him about quite a bit with the crowbar she kept in her handbag. Then, while sobbing loudly, she dragged his unconscious form back to the club with her.

When the troll regained consciousness, he found himself within the hallowed pink walls of the Foo Foo Kitty Club, his fur neatly washed and trimmed, his claws painted a pastel pink and at the end of a long pink leash.

Phyllis was holding the other end.

For a while, trolls became the new Chihuahuas – there was such a craze for them that there was a temporary mass exodus of trolls from the area until it was deemed safe to walk in the woods again without coming across a huntress, dressed in tweed, holding a butterfly net and a crowbar.

After six months Phyllis called me into the club to ask me to have a look at her troll.

“I’m a writer.” I told her over the phone. “What do I know about creatures?”

“You’re a fantasy writer honey.” She said airily, “he’s a fantastical creature – I’m sure it’ll work out.”

When I got to the club, the troll was hiding in the closet. He looked about six times smaller than I had last seen him and his voice had become so quiet that I couldn’t even hear him. All in all, he looked completely miserable.

Everyone has their weak spots. I, for one, am only allowed to drive past the animal rescue place once a month.

“He’s coming home with me Phyllis.” I said firmly.

He’s now chained up in my back yard, doing quite happily amongst the fresh air and rather over grown weeds (I’m not a gardener). The chain wasn’t my idea but his. I think he sees it as some sort of security blanket – proof that Phyllis can’t suddenly turn up and snatch him back.

So yes, that’s how I came to have a troll chained up in my back yard.

And no, it didn’t involve goats in the slightest.

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

Writing: Winter Stores

The small village hidden away in the mountains had always had it tough. Food was hard to grow in the summer months, the stores were small and the lottery a necessary evil during the winter years.
It had grown harder still, a few decades prior, when the fallen gentry of the nearest town had fallen foul of their neighbours and fled to the mountains. Weakened but desperate, they were still enough to overpower the simple folk of the mountain and had soon established themselves as rulers over the small community.
And they had done the unthinkable, committed the heaviest sin – they had interfered with the lottery. To the mountain folk, the lottery was the fairest and most even way to survive the winter – and more than that, it was a vital founding stone of their community.
At first when they had found out about it, the nobles had tried to abolish the practice, saying it was evil. But when they had reached the half-way point of winter, when the wind was howling down the mountain side and the stores were low enough that licking the moss from the walls sounded like an appealing idea – then they came around to it.
And then they corrupted it for their own use.
Previously the lottery existed to give everyone a fair chance. Everyone’s name was entered, except those exempt due to age or necessity, and the names were picked under everyone’s watchful eyes. Those who were chosen accepted their fate and were honoured by everyone leading up to the feast. They were revered as life givers and treated as such. Lotteries were only held at times of great desperation and everything was used – from the hair down to the marrow in their bones. Their names were written on the Wall of Remembrance and every year they had a holiday to commemorate their sacrifice.
The nobles treated them like food.
They created a special section of women called ‘Breeders’, from the children born from them, each noble chose a child for himself. The child would shadow the noble from birth, waiting on them as manservants, obeying their every whim. When the winter hunger struck, they would be sacrificed for the lords’ dinner table.
These children were known as ‘Stocks’.
Typically the lords chose for themselves young girl babies, as they believed their meat would be tenderer. You would think that having a young lady follow them night and day would tempt them to give into other desires, but the very idea of this turned the noble’s stomach. The stocks were food, nothing more, nothing less.
But then again, exceptional beauty does have a way of altering the rules…..


The young heir was, as these things were judged, handsome, impetuous and a brilliant hunter. He was much sought after by the young ladies of the nobility and his dancing was considered top rate.
The mountain labourers thought him cruel and arrogant but when did their opinion count for much?
As all nobles, the young heir r had his own personal Stock, picked for him when he himself was a mere babe. You may think that growing up together would have caused him to feel a fondness for her, even if just out of habit, a fellowship for her as another human his own age.
This was not the case.
He saw her as nothing more than his property, to do with as he wished. He routinely ordered her around, kicked her when she didn’t do something fast enough and more often than not took out his foul temper on her when things didn’t go his way.
And then they both hit puberty.
Stocks had their tongues cut out and birth, so their crying did not disrupt their masters. They were given the most sufficient care, but only so that they grew strength and healthy, the better to feast on. They were kept clean only so that their masters didn’t catch infection from them. They were only given the most rudimentary of education – enough so that they could understand their master’s orders. Their clothes were hand me downs and were for the purpose of shielding their bodies from the elements. They didn’t have names – they were identified by who owned them.
But the Heir’s Stock was beautiful.
Her hair was the colour of sun ripened corn (or what people assumed was the colour of sun ripened corn, theirs not being ta farming community. Actually it was more the shade of rich honey stored in a warm larder), her eyes were the deep grey of the mountain deeps, almost purple in shade. Even the nobles were heard to remark in whispers that the Overlord had made a mistake in choosing the babe for stock.
And of course, the heir in his 17th year could not help but notice this.
Any noble caught whispering that she was too good for stock was whipped to within an inch of his life. Any who dared look too long at her or even glanced her way was punished.  He started keeping her within arm’s reach at all times, even taking to locking her away within his suite for hours or days at a time.
And no one was more punished than she. Her body was constantly covered with the dark marks of his hands, her frame grew frailer by the day as he denied her food and once, she appeared with a large chunk of her hair seared off, the heat still staining her cheeks.
And yet it was not this that worried the Overlord.
The Heir’s Stock clothes were clearly if high quality than what was normally issued. Her chores seem to have dwindled to nothing but sitting quietly within sight of the heir. After her hair had been burnt the servants had whispered of how they had been ordered to attend to her to repair the damage, cleaning and cutting her hair – and of the expensive comb that graced it.
The Overlord was severely frightened that for the first time on decades a noble had committed the ultimate taboo.
He had fallen for his Stock.
The Overlord knew he had to take drastic measures before it got out of hand.
He summoned his son and informed him that his stock was to be slaughtered the next day and he would be granted another. Surprisingly, his son seemed to accept it with good grace.
As he and his court lay dying from the poison laced stew later that evening, he realised he may have jumped to conclusions somewhat. Alas, it was too late to change fate.
The Heir stood in the middle of the courtroom, surrounded by the bodies of the dead. To ensure that he father died and there were no repercussions, he had poisoned and sentenced to death the entire court. He felt no regret.
He turned to his stock, mute in the corner. Her face had not changed once from its usual serene expression.
“Now then darling, nothing can separate us ever again.” He embraced her, and she returned it.
She lifted her face to his and for the first time in her life smiled.
And then she plunged a dagger into him.
He fell from her grasp, blood dripping from her lips. “why.” He gasped. “I love you.”
“Because that is her purpose for existing sweetie.” An old woman’s voice sounded behind him, one of the mountain labourers.
“You nobles are such the romantic sort.” She sniffed. “We knew that sooner or later, if we bred for beauty, one of you wouldn’t be able to resist. And then we would have our chance.”
She turned to him, sprawled out on the floor, but he was already beyond hearing.
“Ah well, never mind.” She turned to the Stock. “Well done girl, we’ll have food enough for generations with this lot.”