The little girl blushed. “Noooo,” she said, as if trying to hide something from a teacher. “It was just on the ground. Dunno what it says. It’s all pictures.”
“Can I take a look?” The girl nodded slowly - not keen to share her treasure - and held the paper out to the man. He deciphered it instantly, but wasn’t planning on translating it for her. It was way too risky. She wasn’t even supposed to know this much. “Huh,” he said. “How weird.”
“I was thinkin’,” Sara said. “Maybe it’s a prophecy that new Prophet left here for someone t’ find. Maybe I should take it to God.”
The man smiled at the wonderful irony. “Tell you what,” he said. “You run along home and I’ll drop this in with the peacekeepers. They’ll just send away a little girl.”
The girl looked upset, but said, “OK.” She started to walk off, but an idea caught here. “But tell ‘em it was me, yeah? If there’s a reward or somethin’…well my name’s Sara.”
"OK Sara. I’ll tell them."
The girl smiled as wide as the moon. “Goodbye mister. Peace be with you.”
Lucas did not reply.
* * * * *
Part 2 - From Darkness
The Eyes
There was the Earth, and then there was the deep black sky.
He stared into it, like a fascinated child at a zoo, fixated on those small white lights. He’d heard rumours that they existed, but in Eaglepoint they were obscured by a dim yellowy purple, a force field from the great beyond.
They would be after him before long. He was not supposed to be here, breathing the cool night air – which felt so soft upon his lungs – and being tickled by lightly swaying grass. The sound of nothingness had scared him at first, but now he basked in it, letting emptiness wash over him.
He tracked shapes in the stars with his eyes, picking out birds and dogs and ploughs. He imagined them coming to life, fighting for their place amongst the black.
How far away were those lights? A mile? Ten? What did they look like up close? Were they cool like a winter’s snow or hot like a summer’s sun? Why were They hiding this?
It was only then he knew that he had been blind. He and all. There was more to existence than he had been told. There was beauty not just in the eyes of women, but in the eyes of the world, and now that those eyes were reflecting his life back at him, he finally understood. He felt as though he were drowning in reality.
Something changed, not just within him, but in this place. There was a faint whiff in the air, different to the natural grasses and barks that had filled his nostrils just seconds before. It smelt like smoke, harsh and bitter. It smelt like home.
This was it. They had found him, there was nothing he could do. So he just lay there. He swum amongst the stars as the heat built up around him.
He was at peace.
* * * * *
RPS
“I’ve never understood this game,” said Roderick with a sigh.
“Who cares? Just pick one,” said George, over his shoulder.
“I mean, sure. Rock blunts scissors. Fine. Scissors cut paper. Also fine. But paper covers rock? What’s the connection there? I guess if you rubbed a rock with a piece of paper for eternity it’d eventually wear down. But it’s still ridiculous.”
“Not relevant to our situation.”
“I know, George, but…I can’t help feeling that there’s something better whoever designed this stupid game could have chosen instead.”
This was an argument that would carry on for eons. Generations of children had had this conversation since the game was invented, God-knew-when. Quite why it seemed important to Roderick now of all times was a different matter entirely.
“Like what?” said George.
“Oh, I dunno. A hammer.”
“A hammer?”
“Yeah! A hammer would easily beat a rock.”
“But…what would beat the hammer? I don’t think scissors would be much good.”
“True…OK, well. Uh. Diamond? No, scissors couldn’t get through that either…Lava? Guess that’d destroy everything…wait, I’ve got it! Rope!”
“Rope?”
“Yeah! Scissors can cut through rope, and the rope could totally wrap itself around the rock and immobilise it.”
“…immobilise it? A rock?”
“Yeah! I…oh. Immobility’s not the problem really, is it?”
“No. Unless the rock in question is the wrestler. Roderick, we’ve wasted enough time. We agreed on this.”
“I…fine. Sorry. It’s just…I’m scared, George.”
“I know. I am too. But it’ll be fine. Might sting a little, but then we’ll be home.”
Roderick drew a deep breath. “I guess you’re right.” He looked down at his table. Three items were laid on it. A rock. A piece of paper. A pair of scissors. He knew his brother had the same before him. “Let’s go.”
“On my count?” This was George.
“Yeah.”
“OK. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Three. Two. One.”
The brothers reached down. George picked rock. Roderick picked scissors. They spun to their left. Putting all the force of that spin into his arm, George struck Roderick around the head with his stone. Roderick, at exactly the same time, shoved the blades of his scissors into his sibling’s neck.
Rock might beat scissors in a game, but human flesh was a match for neither. Both were killed instantly, and they fell to the ground clutching their weapon of choice.
It was a few days before anyone found the bodies. Word of their bizarre suicide pact caused a big stir. Nobody could stop talking about it, especially when the story was covered by the local paper.
* * * * *
The Egg
A lot of the time I feel like an egg, and not even a hard boiled one. I feel like an egg with a thin, cracking shell that’s gradually leaking out its innards.
I feel that every now and then someone or something comes and stands on me, ever so lightly, just enough to make new cracks and ripples and dents and dinks appear.
My yolk is slowly running out, and I’m terrified of what might happen when it spills completely.
There was a person, a million years ago, who took all this away. A person who made me feel like I was worth a damn and that all this wasn’t for nothing. A person who put a bandage on my shell, held me together, stopped me from leaking.
But then, of course, the inevitable happened.
I wish I could boil myself sometimes, make myself harder, stop myself from feeling all these things all at the same time. But I don’t think I ever will.
* * * * *
Cold Bones
It’s always cold at the cemetery.
It’s funny that we regularly correlate death with chilliness. When we get a shiver, it’s popular to say that ‘someone’s walked over my grave’. When we die, our bodies grow cold, no longer sustained by the pump-pump-pumping of gallons of crimson. Our bodies are put into freezers to stop them rotting too quickly. Ghosts are said to give rooms an eerie breeze.
And it’s always cold at the cemetery.
Ever wondered why? I know. Not many do.
Spirits aren’t something that everyone can see. Some people seem particularly fine-tuned to spotting them. I guess I must be one of them, because for as long as I can remember, I’ve secretly seen ghosts everywhere.
I can never hear them, thankfully. Many look to be in agony. Screaming their heads off. Besides, if I could hear them, I’d probably just want to talk and try to help them. But that’s not my job. I’d be a useless helper.
It should be pretty obvious to you by now, if you can link a few dots, that I’m suggesting the largest place for the congregation of spirits is in a cemetery. There are hundreds of them. Not at every grave, of course, but a lot of them. At least one in every five. The weirdest thing is what they do.
They just…sit there.
Staring.
Legs crossed at the foot of their final resting place. Eyes fixed straight ahead. Eternally reading their epitaph.
My grandmother is one of these souls. She’s been there since we buried her, ten years ago. We visit the grave on certain dates - Mother’s Day, Christmas, her birthday, her deathday. At first she recognised us. She smiled a lot whenever we came to visit. It was nice to see her happy after the hell of her last few living years.
But gradually, as the years roll on, she’s not smiling so much any more. It’s like she doesn’t know who we are. Or maybe she just doesn’t care. I guess there’s not a lot of fun to be had when you’re dead.
Sometimes my mum walks right into her and my nan will shiver a bit. Of course. Someone’s walked over her grave, after all. But that’s all the interaction I ever see. It’s sad. One day nobody will come here. A hundred years from now, we’ll all be gone, and everyone who could ever remember her will have vanished. The tombstone will erode with the seasons and the grass will grow long, but my grandmother will still sit there, staring on.
I wonder what will happen to those ghosts of tomorrow? Will they grow angry at being abandoned and unloved? Will they somehow regain their minds and move away from their resting places?
Or will they just sit there, as the cemetery around them itself dies, bringing an ice age to a legion of cold bones?
* * * * *
Sandman
“Dreams are weird and stupid and they scare me.”
I read that quote a while ago, in a comic book of all places. It sung to me. It was a Truth, a fact of life that was impossible to refute. Dreams are weird. And stupid. And scary.
I think that’s why I so often lay in bed at night, just staring at the dark and plaster-bumped ceiling, desperate for sleep to pass me by. For some, it’s a refuge. A chance to get away from everything. I mean, dreams are scary, but they’re not real, right? The monsters in your head at 3am can be vanquished; the monsters of tax bills and broken relationships are as tough to defeat as an idea.
But not for me. I want to avoid sleep. I hate it. Unfortunately, try as I might, my brain starts to slumber eventually. Sleep is for the weak, they say, but if that’s true then we’re all pathetic. It’s a natural state of being. We’d die without it. Sometimes I think that would be preferable.
When the weakness overcomes me, I am always transported to a theme park. A place of rollercoasters and log flumes and rides and attractions and arcades. But it’s abandoned.
Dead.
Old iron rusts in the harsh wind. Cuddly toys hang from stalls transformed into gallows. The machines do not flicker with light nor sound. Everything has ended.
As I walk, weeds are born from my footsteps, grow green and fresh, then turn brown and grey and crumble into ash. Life and death in ten seconds. Time is different here. A dream that feels six hours long could only be ten minutes in the waking real.
On my travels I see an old man. Always. He looks familiar, but I do not know him. Not yet, at least. He looks weird. A black and white villain made lucid. Bald and with rotten clothing and fingers as long as carrots and a snarl so vicious that it looks deep into the dark recesses of my soul and loves what it finds there.
I run. Through themed zones that once looked like castles and spaceships and pirate galleons. The weeds and ashes trace my footsteps, always revealing my position. It’s impossible to get away. I don’t know why I always try.
He catches me and pins me down. I get to look into those huge, grey, bloodshot eyes of his. Those horrible murky fishbowls. And then, every night, yet for the first time, I realise how I know him.
It’s me. I’m the monster. I’m going to turn into him some day. I can’t fight it. It’s inevitable. I guess time gets to the best of us. Just like sleep.
* * * * *
Destiny
I
The world rocks gently, like a baby in a cradle. Glimmering lights move back and forth, up and down. I don’t get seasick, but I do wish they’d just keep still. Wind - cold, wet, salty - splashes against my face as I look to shore. A storm is coming.
One light is different. It appears, vanishes into the darkness, then returns. The lighthouse. It’ll take some time to reach, but I can wait.
I hope the keeper’s enjoying his last night on Earth. I can’t wait to kill the bastard who stole my life.
I carry on, to Destiny.
II
A knock on the door. At this hour? It must be past midnight.
I straighten out my nightwear and head down the circling stairs. The wind is battering this old tower. But Destiny’s stood for decades. An appropriate name on a night like tonight. Nothing can break destiny. Not even a storm.
I get to the door. It’s rattling almost enough to knock it off its hinges. For a second, I think I’ve mistaken the knock for a large gust. But then there’s the unmistakeable pounding of a fist.
I open the door. And am greeted by my twin brother.
III
I push him while he’s taken aback. His legs collapse, but he finds his feet soon enough, and runs upstairs like a coward. I don’t know why he thinks that’ll protect him.
I walk. What’s the rush?
He’s cowering under his bed, like a child’s worst nightmare. But he’s not the monster.
I am.
I drag him out as a clap of thunder erupts outside. His clothes snag on the rough wooden floor. I let him stand. I am not a dishonourable man. “I’m sorry!” he screams, before running out the room.
Up again. Why do they always go up?
IV
I find myself next to the lamp. Nowhere to go. My brother is right behind me. How is this happening?
I turn and, in a flash of lightning, he’s atop the stairs. “Sorry?” he shouts above the storm. “Sorry?! Destiny was mine!”
“It was,” I say. “But then you died.”
There’s rage on his decomposing face. I know I’m about to fight for my life and will, most likely, lose. He charges before I can react. Forces me against the lamp.
“At your hand. And now you’ll die at mine.” He smashes my head against the light.
Everything goes black.
V
My hands are bloody. I can feel it. But it’s dark now. The bulb no longer lights the way; instead it’s shattered and stuck in my twin’s brain.
It’s quiet, but for the rain.
I look out to sea. Well, the darkness. I stand there for what feels like an hour, wondering why I don’t feel any better. More alive.
There’s a flash of lightning. And in that split second, I see a ship. A big one. A cargo vessel. Close enough that I can see its name. Moirai. Heading for Destiny.
I smile as my tower comes crumbling down.
* * * * *
Part 3 - Into Light
Bubbles
The bubbles were addictive. They climbed the side of his glass slowly at first, sticking occasionally, then raced to the top all at once, apparently desperate to be at one with the atmosphere.
They were the most interesting thing to him that night. Cola bubbles were comforting. Relaxing. The lava lamp of beverages. They let him tune out from the madness around him.
Some sort of ‘music’ was blaring from everywhere, as if the walls themselves were speakers and subwoofers. The room was rammed with people. Many were jumping up and down, completely out of time with the monotonous beat. Not him, though. He was just sat in the corner, happily watching his bubbles.
“You OK?” The girl’s voice was surprisingly soft. He was amazed he could hear her over the rhythmic throbbing.
“Um…” he said, without looking up. He didn’t really relish conversation. There was a reason he was alone, looking at pockets of carbon dioxide in his drink. “Yeah? I guess?”
“You guess? Well that doesn’t sound too confident. What’s up?”
“Oh uh. Not, no, just…nothing, it’s…yeah. I’m OK.”
He didn’t look OK. “You don’t look OK.”
??
?I am. Really. I am.”
“Hmm…well I used to do that, y’know. Just…sit. Not talk to anyone. It’s annoying when your friend leaves you, isn’t it? Makes you feel like a bit of a weirdo.”
He glanced up and looked towards the jumpers. His friend - one of only a small handful in his life - was blissfully ‘dancing’ and shouting and having a great time. “Yeah.”
“Well. I’ll be your friend for the evening. If you like.” He looked at her at last. She was beautiful. Long brown hair, tinged with red. Fierce, but soft, eyes hidden behind thin glasses. The cutest smile he’d ever seen. He felt himself blush and hoped that she wouldn’t see his redness in the dim light.
“You…don’t know me.”
“Isn’t that the point of talking?”
And so they talked. For what felt like months. For the first time in years, he was at ease in conversation. It flowed smoothly. There were no pregnant pauses or stumbles. He said nothing embarrassing. It was a great feeling.
But all good things come to an end. He’d learnt that long ago. Everyone stopped talking to him, eventually. That was just how it happened. They got bored. And so he was prepared for her to just walk out of his life without ever looking back, the material manic pixie dream girl.
But that’s not how it happened.
She leaned in for a kiss. His first in God knew how long.
And as she did, she forced a scrap of paper into his hand. “You’re alright for a weirdo,” she said, when she came up for air. “That’s my Facebook. I’d give you my number but you’d be too shy to use it, right?” He nodded. She stood up and walked off with a wave and a smile.
He stared at the paper. The bubbles weren’t so interesting any more.
* * * * *
Rainbow
I’ve never seen the world as stories would have us believe. There aren’t any maniacal, moustache-twirling villains; nor are there knights in shining armour. No dark, no light. Instead, everything is a blur of grey, the colour of static on a television screen.