But on a day like today, everything is white as maiden snow.
The sun hovers above me as I walk through the park. The smell of freshly-cut grass floods my nostrils. There are the cheery cries of kids playing rugby. The sky is as smooth as glass.
But somehow, the rays of that gigantic ball of plasma and hydrogen aren’t sizzlingly hot. In fact, it’s pretty mild. Perfect. I can bask in the glow of early summer light without being red as a lobster when I get home.
I’m in a good mood. For the first time in a long time. I’m in a good mood.
But my good mood takes a knock. Because there are three lads sat on my bench. Our bench.
I go up to them and ask them to move. They look like thugs. They’re wearing black hoodies; their faces are covered. They must be sweltering for the sake of intimidation. They hold cans of beer and funny smelling cigarettes. “It’s a free country,” is their reply. Then some swearing. I fancy saying that I know, and that I fought for that freedom, but it’d be pointless. I’m just an old man. This is their world now, not mine.
So I walk on, my cane wobbling with each step. My trek here had been much quicker, but my disappointment has crippled me worse than arthritis. God. When did I get so old?
And then I hear a voice. A young lady. “Hey, lads,” she says. “Don’t you know it’s rude to talk to your elders like that?”
“Who gives a shit?” the ringleader says.
“I do,” says the girl. She’s not much older than them and is wearing a sun-yellow dress. Her hair is bright blue. More an ocean than a sky. “Look,” she says. “…twenty quid?”
The boys look at each other. “Each?” The girl thinks for a second and nods. The boys stand and take the indigo notes from the girl’s outstretched hand. Then they walk off, giggling, without even giving me another glance.
“You can sit down now, sir,” she says sweetly. I stride towards her, the strength back in my legs.
“Why did you…?” I say.
“Because you wanted to sit there. And now you can.”
“I…it was…my wife…” I feel a tear roll down my cheek. She wipes it away with her thumb and puts a finger on my lips.
“It doesn’t matter. Just be happy, yeah? Bye, sir.”
The girl in the yellow dress walks down the path and out of my life. A smile creases my lips. Once in a while, it’s nice to be reminded that not everything’s grey. The world’s so much better in colour.
* * * * *
The Waiting Room
This was the worst part. He could deal with the stress. And the cost. And the excitement. But the wait? The hours of just…sitting? That was hell.
Still, he’d done it for the past few months. Another few hours, presumably, wouldn’t kill him.
How do you occupy yourself when your head is fixed on the future? How do you take your mind off one of the most important things that will ever happen to you? Waiting was something he’d never been good at, and a day like today did nothing to change that.
He picked up a book, but couldn’t concentrate on the lines.
He bought a newspaper, but couldn’t engage with the stories.
He played with his phone, but couldn’t get his thumbs to work.
So he just sat there, watching the clock tick by. He couldn’t help but worry that something terrible was happening. His mind naturally turned to dark places when he was left alone for too long. And he’d heard no news for ages.
Of course, it didn’t help that he was tired. He was so tired. A 3am wake up call wasn’t what he had wanted or needed, but it wasn’t unexpected. His mind’s eye had always thought it would turn out that way. Besides, it was good practice.
Time moved quickly in those first moments - an hour rushed by in seconds - but now it seemed to be rebalancing. The second hand on his watch appeared to freeze and even go backwards on a few occasions.
And all he could do was sit there. Waiting.
Mercifully, after a lifetime - or, more accurately, before - there was a knock on the door. A frumpy woman in a light blue blouse came in without waiting for his response, doing her best to hide a smile.
“It’s a boy.”
* * * * *
Subversion
Michael likes children.
He’s a vile man. His long beard may remind some of Santa, but it’s packed with crumbs from meals he ate years ago. He stinks. That’s only natural, though. After all, he’s been living on the streets for nearly half his life. He communicates mainly in grunts and groans. Mostly he looks into the distance, rarely blinking as if something terrifying is about to appear over the horizon. But his gaze always falls upon children if they walk past his pathetic excuse for a home - currently the doorway of A. Nadir Falafel Ltd. He is a pitiful human being, but no-one ever gives him that pity.
Although whether he’s really a human being is something that’s been troubling him for the past fifteen years. So perhaps said pity would be wasted.
Michael wakes up at eight on the dot. He’s been here a week or so, but figures that he’ll have to move again before long. That wouldn’t be hard. Since his faithful companion died some months ago, he only has the shirt on his back and the dirt on his boots.
The motion of standing is troublesome. He has become an old man. 33. Over the hill. He looks more like 93, though, and acts like it too. It’s a curse.
As soon as he’s up, he knows today is the day. There was a girl he’d had his eye on. He didn’t know how old. 8, maybe 9. Her life was ahead of her, at least, and that was of the most importance. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all week.
He begins the long trek to his destination. The simple act of placing one foot in front of another and propelling body mass through the transfer of energy to leg muscles remains a struggle for Michael. He reckons it won’t be for much longer, though. He is not long for this world.
The hospital comes into view after perhaps an hour. The roof of the building is bluer than the sky. It’s buzzing with people and cars, all going about their business. They are of no concern to Michael. He has just one thing on his mind.
Michael ignores the hand sanitizers, despite them telling him he must use them because only he can prevent the spread of infections.
He peruses a sign. The Children’s Ward is what he’s looking for, and the sign directs him to the east wing. It’s quite a long way, but he knows the trip will be worth it. Besides, he’s come this far. Turning back would be pointless.
This second leg of the trek is more arduous, but he gets there eventually. There is a male nurse at the desk, a kind of holding area for visitors. There are, however, no visitors. It’s well outside of visiting hours. “Room nine,” says the nurse. Michael nods in thanks. He doesn’t tell many his secret, but this guy has always been a boon to him. Relationships in the right places certainly make things easier.
The girl he’d had on his mind was fast asleep. Good. It’s better that she doesn’t know. The less questions, the better.
Michael pulls the clipboard from the end of her drab bed. There are a lot of squiggles and checkmarks that he doesn’t understand, but he gets the gist of what’s wrong with her. Cancer. A brain tumour, to be precise. Inoperable. She’s on a course of chemotherapy - evidenced by her bald head - but it’s not working too well. The tumour’s not shrinking. She’s not close to death yet, but she’s been having migraines. Her doctors brought her in for tests.
Michael puts the clipboard back and takes the seat next to her. Her parents’ seat, no doubt. He breathes deeply a few times. His lungs are shot. He’s been on his feet too long. He just needs a rest. After getting some oxygen back in his bloodstream, he stands once more and closes his eyes.
He feels it.
Energy.
It runs from his chest, up his torso, turns at the shoulders, and runs down his arms.
He opens his eyes.
His hands are glowing.
He can’t breathe.
He has to move quickly.
> Quickly.
He places his hands
on the girl’s head.
Grips lightly.
Last breath.
“Live.”
Lights shine
and power
rushes through him.
The girl wakes up. Her parents are by her side. She feels a little woozy, but otherwise fine. Actually, the best she’s felt in months. No headache. No vision problems. Not even sick from the chemo. The doctors are baffled. They take her for a scan, just to be sure.
The cancer is gone.
So is Michael.
* * * * *
Part 4 - A Heap of Broken Images
Icarus
I’ve never felt so free.
My mind is filled with nothing but the world around me. The hairs on my arms stand at attention. The wind pushes against my red face. I can barely breathe, but it doesn’t matter.
I mean, I’m flying.
A hundred years ago, people didn’t think this possible. I’m blessed to live in a time where man can soar through the clouds and be as a bird. The freedom is the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever experienced. I don’t want it to end. But it has to, eventually.
I pull the cord.
The chute doesn’t open.
* * * * *
Tomahawk
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Lisa opened the door. She knew who it was going to be before she twisted the handle, even at this late hour. And, sure enough, Mr. Tomahank was standing there on the step, dressed in a dark suit. He took off his hat as the door swung open, laying it upon his chest. He bowed slightly.
“Miss Farrelly,” Tomahawk said.
“Mr. Tom’,” Lisa returned, also inclining her head. “Please, come in. Do you want some tea?” She shifted out of the way, and he sidled into the long corridor.
“Please,” said Tomahawk, hanging his hat on the banister. Lisa scuttled off to the kitchen; Tomahawk headed straight to the living room. It was a bright, airy room that the occupant would call ‘neutral’ yet an interior designer would classify as ‘dull’.
Tomahawk plumped up one of the flower-covered cushions and took his usual seat on the sofa. Lisa entered, carrying an ancient silver tray that was precariously balancing an ornate teapot, two cups, a bowl of sugar and a plate of biscuits.
She placed the tray on the coffee table and sat in the armchair opposite Tomahawk. He reached for the teapot and poured the two cups full. He added no sugar to his own, but put four spoonfuls into Lisa’s.
“I do keep telling you, Mr. Tom’,” she said, “I’m plenty sweet enough already!”
Tomahawk smiled with one corner of his mouth. “Well, yes. That goes without saying. But a little more can’t hurt, eh?” Lisa took her cup and took a sip. It was a little horrible, but she didn’t say anything aloud.
“So how have you been, Mr. Tom’?”
He looked directly into her eyes. “Oh, fine thank you. Just fine. The bar’s slowly starting to bring in the pennies at long last. My family are thinking of moving over this way soon too, which would be nice. As much as I like the folk around here, nothing quite beats your own flesh and…”
Lisa didn’t notice herself slipping away. She didn’t notice the sharp pain in her neck. As far as she was concerned, she was still looking at Tomahawk, drawling on about things that didn’t really interest her. After she’d met him at his bar that one time, he popped over every Sunday at 9pm on the dot. She sometimes thought that he was attracted to her, but it had been well over a year now and he hadn’t made even the slightest move upon her. Perhaps – shock horror! – he was just being friendly. Lisa didn’t have a lot of friends around here, not anymore. Not since…
“…and so yeah, I’m doing quite well thank you.” Tomahawk finally finished talking.
“Well that’s…great to hear,” Lisa said. She looked down and noticed that most of her tea had been drunk.
“Oh my!” said Tomahawk with uncharacteristic energy. He put down his own cup, which looked as though it had barely been touched. “I’ve just noticed the time. I really should be going. Thank you for the tea, Miss Farrelly. Same time next week?” He motioned to get up.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Lisa said. She made to stand also.
“Oh no, Miss Farrelly, I’ll show myself out. I know the way by now. Thank you again. Don’t forget to have one of those biscuits: they’re delicious as always. Have a good night.” He left the room and walked back to the front door, putting on his hat once he reached it. Another perfect execution. In a couple of hours, before she went to bed, the twin puncture marks on her neck would have vanished. The sugar would keep her energy up. No-one would be any the wiser. Tomahawk smiled and licked his awkwardly protruding canines as he opened the door and vanished into the night.
* * * * *
Free
They probably think they are alone.
That they are free.
They’re wrong, of course.
What is free, anyway?
I play with these figures as if they are friends.
I make them do things I am incapable of.
I round them up, I send them to work, I kill them on a whim.
I am not alone, not the only one.
There are others just like me.
Millions, in fact.
All using the same tools to create our worlds.
But we can’t find each other, no.
It doesn’t work like that.
We enjoy the same things but can never be together.
Would we really want to be?
After all, our toys are much more interesting than each other.
Maybe they’ll worship us.
They will realise that something controls their fate.
They will think there is just one.
A single puppetmaster.
A single guiding hand.
They’d be both right and wrong.
I wonder if this happens to me, too?
If there is a bene-malevolence that controls me as I do them?
Am I just pixels on a divine screen?
Making me do its bidding?
I suppose it’s impossible to know.
Many have sought to find the one who guides us.
Who tampers with our free will.
But not me.
No.
I just sit here with my virtual dolls.
Doing the same to them.
Like a playground bully who was once a victim.
I should let them be free.
Live their own lives.
But their code does not allow it.
Just as mine does not allow me.
They probably think they are alone.
That they are free.
They’re wrong, of course.
What is free, anyway?
* * * * *
There’s More Than One of Everything
I should be dead.
No.
I am dead.
But…I’m communicating. With you. Which means I can’t be. Right?
Maybe it’s one last shot. Unfinished business. Maybe it’s my job to tell you what a monster you are.
There are others here. Other ‘me-s’. We have no shape or feeling. No form any longer. We exist merely as illogical numbers and letters and colours and symbols and signs. But I am writing this to tell you how much I hate you.
You killed me.
I should have known you were trouble from the second you forced me to take those drugs. I didn’t want to. But I had no choice. You forced me. And boy, it felt good. They made me feel big, powerful, like I could take on the world.
And then you killed me, you bastard.
A ledge. You guided me up there, practically held my hand, as I climbed those steps. It was hard work. God knows how high I ended up. A hundred feet? Two hundred? A long-ass way. And at the top was a gap. A chasm. A deep drop into the dirt below. There was nothing but darkness below
. Someone had dug it out, somewhen. It doesn’t matter who (although I hope, one day, a survivor takes him for everything he’s got).
The gap was maybe ten feet. Inconsequential in comparison to the stairs you’d made me climb, but my head was still spinning with the magic mushrooms. “You can make it,” you said to me, in not quite so many words. And I believed you. Without question.
You pushed. I leapt into the sky, higher than I ever thought possible (double meaning). The opposite ledge got closer and closer and then…
I missed.
By a fraction, I missed.
I couldn’t even grab on. In my mind-fucked state, I foolishly held one arm aloft, fist raised, the other to my side, like Superman or something. And I could not react quickly enough to my mortal peril.
I fell for an eternity. My short life flashed before my eyes. My head was filled with music. I could only say one thing: “Oh no!”
And then I died. Sort of.
You disappeared. After all, you had no connection to me any more. No reason to worry about my welfare. But now you’re just going to do it to some other unsuspecting fool. Another me.
The worst part is, I have no way of stopping you. All these other ‘me-s’ have suffered the same, or similar, fate. Were there a way to make you pay, they’d have found it. You are the world’s greatest serial killer, my friend. And you probably don’t even care.
Ah. Speak of the devil. Another one has joined us. It’s a me - Mario. Of course it is. Who else would it be? If nothing else, I hope you remember that name. Fucker.
* * * * *
Deep Blue
It was a routine dive. Nothing special. A calibration run. A check-up. The submarine equivalent of a walk to the shops. Boring.
Except…
What’s that?
The submariner edged his multi-armed vehicle forward. It was metallic, shimmering in his lamp; a spot of light among the perfect dark.
The object looked like a barrel and a had colour as dull as this expedition. The submariner sighed.
Still, might be worth something.
He grabbed both ends and lifted, sending sediment sailing off. The lamp kept a beady eye on it the whole time. It revealed the image of a black fan inside a yellow circle.
The submariner froze, clenching his fists as a reflex.