A job for Life? (Halloween in the Graveyard)

The slab slid aside. Inside the crypt, it was dark and the air was like soup, motes of decomposed flesh and insects’ droppings filling it until it seemed impossible that it could sustain any form of life. There may have been a few cracks large enough to admit small rodents, but it was inconceivable that anything else could survive there.

A small figure emerged from the casket, its head and shoulders pushing up through the wedge-shaped opening. Its hands were roughly bandaged but its head was fully swathed, eyes being of little use in total darkness. It would have to find its way using memory and touch.

The moon was shining outside above the graveyard. It was a full moon and it was wreathed in clouds, shadows striping the graves as it pushed feebly through them, giving the illusion of motion. There were usually few people present here at this time but tonight there were two, the sexton and the gravedigger, the pair of them busy reopening a grave so the police could examine the remains within it, neither of them concerned about being where they were in the dark. They’d hoped they could save themselves time later when the officers were present, always feeling ill-at-ease when people were watching them at work, this never being a problem for them when they’d only the dead for company.

Horace was waist-deep in the grave, throwing soil to one side. He’d created a fair-sized pile already and was beginning to feel uncomfortable, the earth rising above him as though he was being buried himself. The sexton was smoking a cigar, using its odour to disguise the smell of decomposition that was always a problem when they had to exhume a corpse, Horace being blessed with an inability to smell anything at all.

A dull thud disturbed them, the marble cross topping one of the tombs falling away in slow-motion, the masonry carving hitting the grass on the opposite side of the hole. The sexton dropped his cigar, its glowing nub disappearing into the hole and Horace swore softly, dropping to his knees to avoid both items. This job was usually safe, the second person assigned to be a watcher, the soil sides of the graves rarely collapsing onto the digger. A third figure appeared, walking hesitantly, arms outstretched. It walked forward and then tripped, pitching head-first into the hole.

Horace reappeared from the grave first, spooked by the newcomer. The bandage-clad corpse emerged next, clutching the cigar. Its dressings had already begun to smoulder, and it thrust the smoking stub back at the sexton, holding it with one hand whilst beating out the hotter charred patches with the other. The sexton nodded, took the cigar, raised it to his mouth and then puffed it into life again. “You see that, Horace,” he said, wafting away the stench that had begun to rise. “Some people don’t even let death get in the way of them providing a service. You could learn a lot from this individual.”

The Mai Queen

I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve changed. I can remember the best of my life so clearly; the soaring thrills, the feeling I’d become what I’d always been destined to be; the knowledge my life had been leading to that one brief period of fulfilment.

~

It was hardly any time ago. The proctors had collected us all together; this season’s Queens, they called us. We were excited to be together; hundreds of us, all the same age. We were driven to the coast and then fed a delightful feast; the flat-backed proctors always watching, hardly eating anything themselves, their poor bodies deformed and twisted into parodies of nature. We all pitied them then, as we always did. We were young and they were aged; we were vital and they were staid and heavy and dour. It was almost that they were another species from us; their lives a travesty, their existences soured by what they’d missed, their bitterness directed toward us in revenge for the cruelties nature had exacted upon them.

We were then shipped to the island. There must have been hundreds of us. Thousands, maybe. Again, the proctors were with us, feeding us until we could swallow no more - the rocking of the boats and the strange juices they were giving us making us feel odd and uneasy. I can remember the proctors I had with me then; the one rowing and the other one urging me to eat and drink. I never really identified with the rower – she was just a back to me; never speaking, never doing anything but pull on the oars – but the other one was mercurial; trying to act as though she was a friend but still with a calculated edge to her. I’m sure she would have thrown me overboard if I hadn’t done as she demanded. And then we were ashore and it was dark and we were hustled on again, across the beach and then up to the castle.

There were more proctors on the island, each as silent and muscular as the rower, the original one with the boat returning to the mainland as soon as we were ashore. The cheery one that wasn’t, the feeder, stayed with me while we were taken up the cliff, the new one we’d been assigned following behind as I was led up the steps. There must have been hundreds of steps we had to climb, carved into the rock, with only our balance and sure footing stopping us from falling. And there were fallers – I know that because I saw one above me, her skirts opening and flashing red for a moment before she hit the rocks and the sand. My mainland proctor stopped above me then, looking down, and I had to stop too, becoming conscious again of the other one behind me, her breath now in my ear. We must have stayed like that for a minute, with me always looking forward and up.

And then we were at the top and I felt safe again, despite the company I had with me. The proctors led us to the castle, although there was nowhere else to go, its walls almost up to the cliff’s edge. We were taken to a great hall and then stripped; the slimmer of our attendants removing our clothes while the others stood aside in readiness. I can remember feeling silly – it must have been the excesses of the food and the strange drinks, I think – but I felt enervated by my nakedness and the sight of all the other Queens there. I slipped away from my entourage and we danced together, hundreds of us, each of us happy to be together and apart from the moderating influences of our proctors. We were young and we were free and we were reckless; our spirits heightened by the screams of the fallers we’d heard, feeling the relief of knowing that it hadn’t been us and the guilt of us still being alive. It was just good to be there and present and we took advantage of it, kissing and hugging and laying entwined with one another, taking delight from our youth and the excitement that bubbled through us all.

I wasn’t the first, but I was one of the early ones. I’d heard someone cry out and then the screams of the others near her before it happened to me. I already knew something was wrong when my back collapsed; the bulge between my shoulders breaking open to let the wings fall free. The attendants must have been watching us, waiting for it to happen, because they were with me almost immediately, primping the feathers and pulling at the muscles to warm them. My long-term proctor was there, forcing me to drink again, the other one doing the massaging. I saw others like me, their wings either trailing or still half-folded, all of us with our attendants; each of us being coaxed to straighten our wings or to make those first few flaps, exercising the muscles we’d discovered we’d had lying dormant. I know I felt dizzy and afraid and confused.

The next thing I remembered was the ledge. The door had been locked behind us and there was nothing but the pale light of the windows and the darkness in front of me like a wall. My proctors were with me then and there was none the fakeness I’d sensed before; the slimmer one now stony-faced and the more muscular one a barrier, preventing me from making my way back to the door.

“It’s up to you, now,” my proctor said, her eyes hooded and unreadable. “You can take the dive or be pushed – it’s all the same to me.” She craned her neck around and then smiled, pointing, feeling no fear of the height. “The men’s island is that way – second star to the right and keep straight on. If you’re lucky, you’ll get there before morning. If not…” She shrugged. “It’s all the same to me.”

I looked out toward where she was pointing and saw a dim light, low on the horizon. “It must be a long way,” I said, dread filtering through me. “How far is it to the mainland?”

The proctor smiled, hawkishly. Her nose was very narrow and her cheeks were concave, almost cadaverous. “’Bout twenty-five miles, I’d say. Your best bets going straight on, toward the men. At least you’ve a point to aim for – you could fly around in circles till you fall, otherwise.” She paused, then continued, delight suddenly animating her face, “The fishes eat well this time of year.”

The blockier proctor was closer now, clenching and unclenching her fingers – first a fist and then a clawed hand.

“And don’t think you can fly back here – we patrol the coastline and drown the ones that aren’t already dead. An inexpert flier’s noisy; we can hear you coming from miles away.” My proctor shrugged, mockingly, her face now as impassive as it had ever been.

“So, I just jump? From up here?” I could see the castle wall, rising dimly above me, and the few lights of the courtyard far below; the blocks of the wall in both directions large, smooth and fitted closely together.

There would be nothing to save me, if I fell. Or if I was pushed. I would just have to put trust in what my wings could do. They had to be there for a reason.

And there was no other choice.

I heard the noise behind me and I jumped, determined to make the decision for myself. At first, it felt like I was flying; the rush of air past my face heady and intoxicating.

And then I opened my eyes.

The first thing I saw was my feet. Then I saw the wall, rushing past me. And then I saw the slabs in the courtyard, growing larger, gaining detail. I began to thrash out with my wings; feeling them first being pulled up vertically so that they dragged uselessly through the air and then the pain as I drew them down again, shedding feathers and feeling my muscles knotting with spasms. I sensed my weight again, not realising the euphoria I’d felt had been my headlong plunge, my vision tunnelling and growing dark even though my eyes were open.

I would not give in, I vowed; knowing it meant nothing to my proctor. I would do this. I would defy her. I would do whatever it took.

And then I was in control.

I soared above the castle, not knowing how I’d made it up there. I could see other Mai Queens on the ledges, their own proctors implacable and brooding. I arced up and away from them, seeking the light I’d been promised. It seemed closer from up there, the dot brighter almost and knowing it offered me freedom, I turned instinctively toward it, aligning my face and my hopes in its direction.

The first few minutes of my flight were dreamlike, and I took pleasure from rising up and then diving again; the sea’s waves always there when I got low enough to distinguish them from the dark aquamarine wall they’d become when I was higher. The skies weren’t truly black either, of course, stars appearing when I became better dark-adapted, populations of bright sparks forming patterns when I studied them more intently; the brightest one always being the one low down toward the horizon. I played with my new-found ability of flight; swooping with first one wing down and then the other, trailing their tips through the waves, then circling and spiralling through the air, rising up into a stall and diving down again, knowing I could always recover my equilibrium and my heading. The beacon-light grew brighter and soon became an island; the dot now covered with trees but with also an inviting shingle beach that I corrected my course toward. It seemed too soon to end my flight but I also felt tired, only now realising the efforts I’d put my body through. What I needed now was to rest and then to eat something more after I’d slept. I would fly again tomorrow, I promised myself, but first I needed to recover.

I landed awkwardly, almost dropping out of the sky, clutching at the air to fall in a steep glide onto the sand, my knees bucking beneath me. A group of people were there to greet me – not Mai, like me, but not like the proctors either. They were broader shouldered and muscular and had hair on their faces, unlike anyone else I’d ever seen. They all seemed glad to see me and quickly crowded round.

~

And then I awoke in the dark and I was alone. I stretched my shoulders to flex my wings and felt nothing, backing clumsily to the wall so I could trace their lengths against it.

And still felt nothing.

Feeling nothing but the roughness of hewn logs against my shoulders.

I turned about and oriented myself with the doorway, its empty archway lighter than the rest of the room. As I moved toward its opening I felt something brush against my foot.

A feather. One of many on the ground,

~

I was weeping when the men came for me, crouched alone, clutching my useless wings to my chest. I’d tried to reattach them, but they’d fallen away again, refusing to re-join themselves to my back.

How can a life pass in a day? I wish I’d never been given my freedom. It only made my return to earth more painful when I fell.

~

As this is on a blog-hop, the other links to follow are:


https://www.siobhanmuir.com/siobhans-blog/flashfiction-dont-call-me-baby

https://gwencease.com/2018/04/16/april-song-flash-fiction/

http://www.bronwyngreen.com/flash-fiction-80-dive/

Fifty Shades of Cyber-sex

He unscrewed her foot and dropped it on the floor beside the bed.

“You’re staying the night,” he said. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Oh, I HATE it when you do that!” Eleanor pushed a chestful of air between her lips, looking down at the stump at the end of her leg. A threaded spigot protruded from the lower end of her calf, her ankle and everything beyond it out of sight and now out of reach. “You know you’ve only got to ask. I’m programmed to comply, whatever you ask.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Jacques clapped his hands and then threaded his fingers together, turning his palms outermost and then flexing them until his knuckles cracked. “Okay, remove the other one too. And your left hand.”

Eleanor sighed. This evening was not progressing as she’d anticipated.

But she still obeyed him. She had no choice.

“Right. My turn.” Jacques took hold of her remaining hand, pressed the opposing points on either side of her wrist to disengage it and then removed it too, holding it triumphantly above her. “Looky here,” he said, grinning. “How about that for underhand behaviour?”

Eleanor turned her face away. He was incorrigible enough without her encouraging him. She closed her fingers so her nails bit into her palm, forming a fist.

“Hey! You can still use that? Now, that gives me an idea!”

He dropped her hand onto the bed, his face suddenly close to hers.

“Memory purge time,” he said.

The Rise of the Reavers

Failure is not an option.

Those five words could be seen everywhere. They were stencilled onto the walls, etched onto their personal items, even tattooed onto their skins. Their credo was with them each moment of the day, from their first conscious breath in the morning right through to their last thought every night.

There is nothing but success.

That was another of their conditioning phrases, second only to the first. They had no alternatives; they had to fulfil their missions. The trainers gave them no options, raising their requirements daily until the meek and the weak had all been eliminated from the process. Some of the candidates speculated on how the unworthy ones were treated after they dropped out, but those few people soon disappeared too, their voices quickly forgotten. There could be no distractions. There was nothing but success.

Taryn was the first from her family to be chosen. There had been others in the village who’d vanished, never to be seen again, but there was no proof of their fate. They could just have fallen victim to the Collectors, the raiding parties of the occupying forces always keen to take the strongest and the fairest from each community for their purposes, none of those returning alive, although sometimes their corpses were found.

The Reavers were different.  They were things of legend, a resistance force that battled the oppressors, fighting to take back all that had been snatched away.

They had to succeed.

Failure was not an option.

Flight into the gloom

He brushed her antennae. She released a cloud of golden dust which rose into his eyes, making him blink. They both chittered for several minutes and then fell silent, knowing the sun was now below the horizon.

Draven flexed his shoulders, seeking warmth from the stone. It was already beginning to cool and he knew they would both need to move soon. They'd be easy prey if they stayed here much longer, their joints becoming immobile and their attention dimming.

"We should find shelter", he said. "Night's almost here."

Emanelle raised herself up, her head outlined against the darkening sky. She clicked her mandibles, irritated by the necessity to stir themselves. She was already feeling drowsy, swearing like a hive-drone as she fought to move, her legs already beginning to fuse into rigidity. She weaved drunkenly, her coordination slow to return. It had been so close. A few minutes more and they'd have been lost to the cold. The oblivion that took everyone could take them both now if they lingered here much longer.

A meeting

He was anxious, she knew that. He'd brushed his knees of crumbs half a dozen times since they'd been sat here together and his hair stood no chance of falling over his eyes. He was a pleasant-enough man though and he made good conversation. He was also attentive and had shown consideration to her, pulling the chair out so she could sit at the table.

"Tell me," she said. "What are your passions? She held his eyes, resisting her own urge to look coyly down toward the table. "What is it that fills your dreams each night?"

Russell leaned forward toward her, clasping his hands between his knees. He'd be brushing them free of crumbs again soon, she thought, wagering herself a second cup of coffee if she was correct. Then he smiled, laid both his hands on the table and then returned to his previous position, sitting upright but not leaning back, not wishing to appear too casual so soon. This was only their first 'meeting'. She imagined it'd be a while yet before they began to have dates.

"I'm a painter. I've no real talent, of course, but it gives me pleasure." He stopped then, as though waiting for her to comment.

Diane said nothing. She waited. He'd tell her much more if she gave him the stage and an audience to play for. Even if he said nothing, his words choking him into silence, that would tell her a lot about this man.

Garden Party

Denise flipped the switch and the bulbs began to glow, their filaments like fireflies against the darkening sky.

“You can make the announcement now,” she said.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, colleagues and acquaintances, dinner is served!” I unclipped the thick red rope from the eye on the second post and hooked it up against itself. I stood aside and beckoned through the people we loved, one by one, the parade twisting and clumping as they continued to chat, speculating on the seating arrangements they’d find.

We’d taken days on this, the decisions crucial to the success of this night. Denise had hired the best caterers in the town and we’d hesitated before choosing the most expensive table d’hôte menu options they’d offered. There was something for everyone, our friends able to pick anything that had been on the cards they’d been sent, the difference being that we’d also engaged a chef for the night, her duty to cook and plate anything they asked her to prepare, ensuring that everyone would be happy with their meal.

It had cost us a fortune but it was worth it. It would probably be the last time we’d see most of these people, so we wanted to leave them happy and give them something memorable to remember us by.

Denise stood with me now, her arm around my shoulder. She leaned against me and smiled, her lips brightly painted and her eyes filled with stars.

“It’s perfect. It’s come together so well. We couldn’t have hoped for a better night.”

I nodded, my eyes running along the queues forming at the serving-stations the caterers had wheeled out onto the lawn. The manor house had been an inspired choice from the event organiser, the grounds and the gardens usually closed to the public. The organiser had known the family who lived there, having arranged private functions for them in the past, her success and her popularity making this possible at short notice. There was nowhere in town that could handle this many people, that could provide such a rich and varied menu, and do it with so little notice. We’d both taken a deep breath when the organiser had told us how much it would cost but that was the old James and Denise reacting. We’d won so very much so we could spend that and hardly notice. And it would be the grand event everyone would remember us by.

“Is that a cloud, Hun?” Denise leaned across me, her hand pointing to the west. A line of dark smudges were massing, growing larger and heavier as they neared us. Threads of light joined them and an ominous rumble began.

Sample post June 18th 2017

The demon whittled himself a toothpick from a thigh-bone, using a molecular blade. He jabbed it into his mouth, removing a gobbet of a quivering grey matter that looked loathsome. Then he threw them both away.

"There's never any shortage of donors' brains to dine on when you've as many enemies as I have," he said, spitting as though hoping to loose another clot of meat from between his teeth. "I've a six-and-a-half billion to none record of wins so far. You'd think people would learn...but they don't. There's always another thinking he's found a way to beat the system. Even though they realise the Game's rigged. People...fools...they're one and the same. No exceptions."

I tugged at the manacles looped about the gas-pipe that ran overhead, hoping to either get free or to release enough Butane to explode, killing me within seconds. The demon looked uninterested. He knew he'd get my soul whichever way things played out. He always have the advantage if he chose to play the long game.

"You might be interested to know you've called for a house party," he dead-panned, raising a pointed ear toward the ceiling. "Or at least someone who can carry off a pitch-perfect copy of your voice. Everyone you've ever known is upstairs at the moment. Even your very first teacher from primary school, Miss Watkins. She's very old now but she's still in very good health. She's thirty-two doting grandchildren who'd be devastated if she were killed in a freak household explosion. So many of them with their little tear-streaked faces. It'd be a tragedy, wouldn't it?"

Things are beginning to move in my writerly life. It seems like I'm going to need to be more attentive to this blog. So keep watching... there'll be more to come soon and it'll be even better than it ever was!

Thank you for your visit. 

The Mark

The hands on the ruined clock remained still but time continued its flow. The church had been mostly demolished but one side of its tower remained intact, albeit at a lower level than before. The glass behind the dial was broken, of course, but the outer ring bearing the figures for the hours was still there, as were the hands, reaching out as though they needed rescuing. The main body of the building was wrecked though, its contents largely looted, with no sense of it once being revered.

A rat pushed its head up and out into the moonlight. It was hungry and although it felt safe in the ruins, there was little food to be found there. It would have to venture further away to find its supper. The man watching it raised his rifle to his eye and mouthed a single silent word.

Bang.

Of course, the rat remained unscathed. Although the rifle was loaded, the marksman had other targets in mind. He’d been in position since late the previous morning, his pocket flask providing for most of his needs, the occasional sip being all he’d permit himself. His quarry was yet unknown to him, his employer assigning him his mission along with details of the location and the time he’d expected the contact to be there, picking up the money he’d demanded. The designated time was long past now and only the shooter’s professionalism had kept him here. Someone would come, he knew. No-one demanded three million dollars and then left it for someone else to find.

The night was still quiet at three in the morning though and the watcher was beginning to lose confidence in both himself and the target. A fox had followed the trail half an hour ago, its nose to the ground and its tail in the air, but nothing else had shown itself, even to his night-scope. He’d heard an owl’s hooting and the small sounds of its prey but neither of them had broken cover. Perhaps he’d been seen himself. A successful terrorist was usually as skilled as those sent to hunt him, although the marksman preferred to think he still had the edge. He’d been working this trade since the eighties and had put away more than enough to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life. But there was always the call of the challenge; the sport of the kill. It was an addiction that would never loosen its grip.

The undergrowth and the trees suddenly quietened, the soft noises ceasing as something disturbed the creatures that made them. The disc of his sight panned the trail, hunting.

He heard the child before he saw it, its heavy feet cracking and breaking the finer wood stems that were everywhere. The balloon came first; silver-green in his scope, bobbing at the end of its cord. It would be one of the easiest shots he would ever have made. One to be remembered forever. He’d never killed an American child. Not yet.

The low cough came from directly behind him, the cold nose of the pistol firm against his temple. He began to turn away then stopped.

He would never outrun the bullet. He’d seen many try to but the target always lost the race.

“Okay,” he said. “You’ve got me. Now what?”

Caution... Writer at Work!

What's the difference between an ordinary mundane person and a writer? It's not immediately obvious. At first you might think there's little to choose between one and the other. It's true, a writer can often be found with a book in their hand, just like an ordinary person might. Indeed, a writer might also be reading the same book – writers read too, sometimes. But a writer might not be reading in the same way as the casual reader. A writer might be following the story in the same way but they could also be studying it; looking for examples within the narrative that impressed them or maybe making a mental note of the structure of the story. They might also be playing ride-along with the author; analysing the flow of each sentence and testing each word for suitability, for example. They could be wondering about the characters or considering the reasons why the writer chose the points of view they did, or debating as to why they developed them in that way and thinking how they might have written it if they'd been the one sitting behind the keyboard. There're a bewildering number of decisions to be made in each line and a writer never rests, not even when you think they're relaxing.

Of course, there are other aspects that aren't immediately obvious to a layman observer. A writer's never off duty. Not ever. Even when they've put the book you thought they were reading down they might still be at work. Because a writer is also the ultimate voyeur. They’ll watch people and they’ll listen and they’ll always take notes, storing their impressions for use in the future. Sometimes they'll wait and they'll mentally store the information but they'll always be paying attention to you. You could be innocently waiting for a bus, for example, and the writer could be taking you in; noting the clothes you're wearing, the scent you've put on, or the way that you spoke to that woman with the child. Everything that you do and their assessment of your reasoning behind it. They could transform you in a flash; you could so easily become an Edith or a Sue, or an athlete or a shop girl. You could even become an alien invader, preparing a campaign for an invasion from space. The journey you could be making could be taking you to China. Or to Kansas. Or to Scunthorpe. Or Proxima Centuri. You could be deciding to go home or just thinking of going for a coffee. Or you could be waiting for a stranger who might abduct you.

But a writer can do so very much more. They can strip you of your clothes or they can strip you apart; exchanging your fashion, your face or your mind. You could become be a role model for a character they're creating or feature as just a part of one, if there was only one point about you they noticed. Personally, I've written about the mouth of a woman I’ve seen; noting the shade of her lipstick and the shape of her lips. I've been inspired by the smallest and subtlest of details; transplanting each component and then directing the composite, my Frankenstein's Monster, willing it to do whatever I wished. Each word that you speak could be secreted away; the cadences or the tone of voice that you used, the colloquial terms, and the concepts and the content of the whole conversation. Even the gestures you made, the way that you walked, and the fit and the choices of the clothes you wore. Everything about you could be taken and used and could feature in the next novel that the writer might produce.

So, don’t be surprised if you notice someone watching you. We’re usually benign and will rarely confront you. In fact, for the most part, we’ll probably shy away and will redirect our attention to somebody else.  Someone who’ll act naturally - because what’s the point in watching someone who knows they’re being observed?

Underwood - a 500 word flash fiction

Deliberation. That was him all over. He was a man with a mind of his own, never swayed by another. He was a writer too; always tapping away at that relic of his. Underwood, it was called: a big block of metal and ink, like a cross between a squid and a centipede, all steam-punked up and with him busier than a dog sniffing round an ant-hill.

It meant a lot to him though, sitting there in that shed he used. He'd moved it there when the neighbours complained, saying it sounded like a carpenter doing piece-work. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tappity, tappity, tap, tap, tap, all night long. I had to take to drinking cause the Tylenol couldn't cope with it; battering away at it all the hours God sent us. Lord knows when he slept; he was there each night when I went to bed and still sat there when I crawled downstairs again next morning. Him and his paper and his rolls of inked tape, never using whitening, over-typing mistakes 'cause it was his 'way'; not using anything that might make his life a tad easier. He produced reams of it – his book, I mean – word after word after word he typed, never letting me read word one of it.

Of course, he could have been lying all that time. It could have been a tape recording he was playing all night long, if it wasn't for the paper he kept using. Course that could have been a lie too, what with me never seeing what he wrote next day. He could have been filing it away, still blank, in those office drawers he put in there, sitting alongside that Underwood on its table. He could have kept his reel-to-reel in there as well, tucked away in a drawer, waiting ready with his 'carpentry' tapes to be played all night. Just him in his shed, with the door padlocked, even when he was inside of it.

Not that I would ever have gone in.

He was obsessive about his privacy too. As I said, the door was always locked. It's the first time I've seen a door with a hasp fixed on it both inside and out. And with the biggest padlock I ever saw too, like the ones you see on bullion chests. Though, come to think, it might be that. Maybe it was drugs or something. He could have been mixing up whatever in there behind that door and that window with the blind that never opened. He could have been brewing up amphetamines or meth or speed and selling it on during the day, cause he was never a one for grafting. Not him with his hands with palms softer than mine, never used a hammer or shovel in his life.

Maybe I should have had a look in there one day when he was busy visiting that publisher he saw. Mind you, publisher and pusher sound much the same, don't they now?

Heels on Wheels

“You took your time!”

“Just making sure I was ready. Whitehaven doesn't like to be kept waiting.” Cinching the belt tighter, she secured the two sides of her coat together, inadvertently giving her driver a brief flash of black lace. Driver Carl was the one they always assigned to her and they'd quickly settled into an uneasy alliance; with him taking care of escorting her to Ben's more privileged clientèle and with her doing her best to have as little direct physical contact with him as possible. Fortunately, the car was a manual shift, but Carl drove erratically, keeping his right hand on the gear selector, making sure it was always close to her thigh.

“What time ya due there? Two thirty?” Driver Carl had a wad of gum in his mouth as usual, allegedly having kept the same piece going for over three years now, leaving it soaking in an undrunk shot-glass of espresso every night to refresh its flavour. He swore it worked better than any energy drink and never left him needing to visit one of the few local rest-rooms, but it left his breath reeking of stale coffee, making him even more repellent than he would have been otherwise.

“Two o'clock, sharp. And I'm finished after that. You can take me straight back to Ben's. I have my day-clothes and some other stuff to pick up and after that I'll be making my own way home. I need to do some shopping, so I'll not be wanting a ride. You can take someone else out if Ben needs you to.”

“'Sa pity. How is it you're always shopping, darling? I've never gotten to take ya home. Anyone would think...”

“...I'm a busy woman with a daughter at pre-school who needs to clothed and fed. Yes, that.”

The car bumped along the road a while longer, stopping at traffic signals every few hundred yards, causing Carl's hand to stray toward the folds of her coat she'd arranged to act as a barrier between them. She knew she could tell Ben about it later but Carl was his only driver. She'd still have to ride with him again and who knew how he'd act after 'Gentle' Ben had had another of his staff discipline him while he watched. She'd as little to do Carl as possible but the stories he'd told her between his masticating and his cursing left her with no illusions as to his character. He was a tough-for-hire, that was what his trade was, his driving just a way to ensure he was close to hand if ever a client got too rough with her. If she pissed him off – who knows if he'd ever respond to her call for help – maybe he'd even join in, saying he was too slow to get to her and making sure she wasn't able to contradict him.

She was never gonna let him take her home.

ALEX

Alex closed her eyes, deferring to her client, her inherent programming guiding her through a simplified decision tree. “I am yours to command,” she replied, her voice low and breathy. “I will do whatever you ask of me. Without question and with no hesitation whatsoever.”

Cameron stepped back to assess her more closely. The ALX 9000 was the most advanced model that Posidyne Systems had ever produced. Their ‘companions’ had been tweaked to behave exactly as their most demanding lessees asked; their First Law directives having been modified to permit the more advanced physical play the Company’s more ‘enthusiastic’ clients often required. Admittedly, there’d been a few casualties before the bugs had been sorted out, but that was why the lawyers had insisted every user sign a fully comprehensive disclaimer before taking possession of their escort. Accidents happened, even now, but it was never the rentals that came back dented.

The models in the earlier series had never looked and felt as good either. Cameron was awestruck. He’d expected a room-temperature-warm neoprene-fleshed mannequin. Nothing like this. Moving in closer again, he studied her in more detail. The way she stood; her musculature constantly readjusting her position, her chest rising and falling just like you’d expect of a genuine woman. Hesitantly, he reached out, his hand finding her cheek as soft and smooth as though it was real skin. And warm too. His other hand joined the first, the two of them turning her face toward his; her flesh softening and hardening beneath his palms as though she was consciously anticipating his touch. Responding to him.

She was perfect.

“Alex,” Cameron began. “Would you let me undress you?”

The companion nodded, the minute movements making her facial exo-skin slew and slide between his hands and the harder core beneath. Cameron released her, now intent on exploring further. Alex began to turn, offering her back to him so he could reach the zipper of the form-fitting dress more easily, the silken sheath banana-ing open as his fingers pulled the fastener down. She was nude beneath it, of course, her perfect physique not needing any additional support, although he guessed other clothing options could have been provided if anyone had thought of it. Not that he was going to be complaining, of course.

Savouring the smooth uniformity of the skin, he curled his fingers into an arc, parting her hair and then drawing his hand down from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, the zipper preventing him reaching any further. Her skin was to die for. Barely warmer than room temperature, her coolness enticing him. And the way she wriggled against his touch.

Divine. In a devilish way.

Reaching up to her shoulders, he eased the material free, pushing it first forward and then down, the fine cerulean blue of the dress rippling up against his palms as it slid smoothly down her arms. The silk against her silken skin, gliding freely. A sensual appetiser. A precursor of what would undoubtedly be his finest hours. He pressed closer; his cheek against hers, his arms curved around her, his breath stilled as he imagined how this would all play out.

“I would think that you’d find this experience more pleasurable if we interacted more,” Alex mused, looking back over her shoulder, totally non-plussed by his attention. “Just offering my opinion, of course.”

“You’re right, of course. Whatever was I thinking?” Cameron ceased his efforts, trailing the fingers of one hand lightly behind her from one shoulder to another as he rounded her. “You’ve a beautiful face. It would be a waste to not see it.”

Alex’s lips parted and then curved into a smile, framing her perfect ceramic-white teeth. “Agreed,” she said, canting her head to one side and then shrugging to ease the flow of her costume. “Continue, please.”

Cameron nodded, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he matched her smile. He took hold of the dress again, drawing it down until it caught against her elbows, Alex helpfully keeping her arms in close to assist him. Then, with only a few lithe movements that ended with her leaning in closer to him, she disentangled herself, the top of her dress falling between them to hang loosely from her waist.

“Oh, Mon Cher,” she said, her face moving forward so that their cheeks slid together, her voice like liquid. “This is always so hard for me.”

“And for me too,” Cameron mumbled, his mouth now close to the delicate perfection of her ear. “Knowing that this will be our only time together, it’s going to be hard to go on having enjoyed this. Never to be repeated.”

Alex pulled away slightly, her face pale and concerned. “I know. I’ll do everything I can to help. You know that.” She cupped her palms around his head, her fingers splaying to pull him close again, their lips almost touching.

And then she snapped his neck with a quick decisive twist, his body falling to hang limply from her hands.

“It’s done,” she said, suddenly business-like, turning to the official hidden behind the one-way glass screen. “Murderer #78542. Refused offered counselling and chemical behaviour modifications. Subsequently sentenced to death without appeal. Penalty paid.”

Witness Tyler scowled, wondering if her bionetic implants could see him through through the glass. “Thank you, Alex,” he said, shivering despite the warmth of his watch cubicle. 

Darkness

Just black.

Hughie turned his head to the left and then to the right, scanning the cellar. There was nothing to be seen. Nothing visible anyway.

But he knew he wasn't alone.

At first it was intuition. Or something unknown to him. All he knew was that he knew.

It took a few minutes for his vision to return, his eyes seeing despite the lack of light, his brain needing to see and finding things, even though they weren't there. Putting his hands out in front of him, the red and grey blotches lacked substance; hallucinations brought forth to fill the nothingness presented to him. His feet still moved though, his shuffling feet searching as he inched forward toward...

Toward what?

Something. Definitely something. Something sharing the space with him. He knew it was there even though he knew his eyes were tricking him. His ears too. He'd thought he could hear it, but when it turned when he did and stopped when he did, he realised it was only himself he could hear. His breath or the blood rushing through his veins. Or something else.

And then it fell on his head.

A meeting...

She moved down the aisle with a look of self-confidence. Either that or she was the ultimate introvert and nothing or no-one else existed for her. She was a little over five feet tall, dressed in blacks, greys and a dark floral print. Like camouflage; not wanting anyone else to notice her. A little soft goth not wanting interaction.

However, her subdued nature enthralled me. What was her story? Who was she? How did she live? I imagined her as an artist, painting illustrations of flowers for a publication with less than a hundred subscribers; her immaculate representations unseen by most of the world; being avidly viewed by only a couple of dozen appreciative botanists in studys as far apart as Helsinki and Honolulu. Or maybe she was a webpage designer; constantly developing page templates using HTML and rarely venturing out in the daylight. Her work'd be seen in thousands of places across the whole of the internet and no-one would ever be able to put a name to the one-woman studio creating them all.

I had to know more about her.

Waiting until she stopped to pick up a packet of pasta - who knew how many types there were - I judged my move perfectly, reaching out to take hold of the fettuccine at the same time as she did, delighting in the way her eyes turned to mine: looking puzzled behind the dark rims propped against her nose.

“I'm sorry,” I said, keeping hold of the other end of the wrapper. “I was just needing some pasta.”

“Me, too,” Miss Soft Goth, replied. “But,” she said, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow, “there are some more packets behind it.”

I sighed, not wanting to lose this opportunity. “Of course there are, ma'am. But...” I began, studying her feverishly to look for some reason to keep her attention a little longer. She'd got no rings on her fingers; just a friendship bracelet that looked hand-crafted and a stylishly simple dial-faced watch with a silver bracelet and a single gemstone at the twelve o'clock position. Her clothes were drab but well made, with a high-end quality that suggested they were either hideously expensive or vintage garments bought from an exclusive boutique shop. And her glasses; her glasses were dark-rimmed and framed with a minimum of decoration. A monogrammed letter, that's all, positioned discretely against the hinge; the letter and the hinge both finished in a dull lustre. Expensive again. She was classy.

Between Worlds

Just one stumble and everything began to unravel.

Paige had been hurrying home late from the office and it'd been a long day for her. Of course, she had her arms full of folders and her case jammed beneath her arm, and she'd just about managed to make it to the station in time to catch the last train home when she tripped over that case in the gangway. Then everything went flying. Papers and folders and her precious tablet computer and..

And then reality ripped apart.

She'd been flying through the air like a besuited super-hero with pearl necklace and bangs when things got strange. One moment she'd been trying to track the flight of her most important items and the next she was soaring just above the ground, her attention suddenly caught by a grimacing scaly creature stepping out from an open locker. Just as casual as you like.

And Scaly saw her looking too. In fact, he even gave her a nod as he placed himself under her tablet, clutching it to his chest and then to his side as he prepared to make his escape.

Of course, she was having none of that. She'd no idea where this creature had come from, but she knew there'd be hell to pay if she lost the work she had on her computer. Scaly may have been ugly enough to make yoghurt from milk at a glance but the real ogres worked in her office.  

Happy Birthday?

Angelina puffed her cheeks up large, like a food-carrying hamster. Nine candles this year. She was such a big girl now.

Lilly smiled as her girl blew out a huge breath, slobber and drool showering across the candles and the icing. Damn, if the puffing didn't put those candles out, the showering certainly would. She stepped back from the table as Angie's parents moved in closer again, flanking her on either side, wanting to make sure no-one got hurt when she got to wield the family heirloom cake-knife: solid silver and at least as heavy as a candlestick.

Lilly smiled again, her face now shadowed and her lips pressed tightly against each other. She looked blank for a moment, pulled in a long deep breath and then left, not to return until next year at this time.