My writer's circle and I started this story, and I need your help to finish it.
Essentially we took a rather amazing story prompt and ran with it, each developing characters and story ideas following the last post. We've got a good set up, lots of tasty, tangible threads to play with....and almost no rules.
Its speculative fiction. Don't hem yourself in, explore, be brave, be creative.
Be diverse.
Keep posts to a roughly same length. I'm not going to give you a word length, write what you need to write but consider flow and others contributions.
The story needs meat, needs a hefty middle.
This is about sparking off one anothers creativity, reveling in constraint and twisting the truths that already lie.
Have fun!
***
It was cold, though that wasn't the worst thing. It was also cramped,
wet, foetid, claustrophobic and dark, but none of these were the worst
things either. To Richard Sinclair, the worst part of the whole damn
trip was the waiting. He'd been aboard the USS Penitence for nearly a
fortnight, en route from the base at McMurdo, and before that the Antarctic wastes. When he was selected to be part of
the mission he'd been excited, but after unearthing the resting place
of expedition 42A7, and the secrets they had been pursuing, he became driven,
desperate to return home and report on the nature of their discoveries.
They couldn't trust anyone, certainly not even the most secure of
communications, not in that hemisphere at least.
Now, only a few hours out of Naval base at Kings Bay, he was nervous. Would his superiors believe him? He had scant evidence, barely making out of that hell-hole alive with more than half the team buried under the infinite white of the Antarctic tundra, but the fragment was everything. Secured in his footlocker he hadn't dared examine it 'til they were at full depth, and well under way,just in case his resolve had failed him. The little he had translated was... He couldn't even consider the enormity of it all.
And in four hours he had to tell a board of the highest ranking members of the military and some of the most powerful members of US government that everything they had based their lives on, the tenets of their religions and the fundamentals of their science... Was wrong.
He'd been wrong too, Richard realised. The very worst part of this trip would be to finish it.
Now, only a few hours out of Naval base at Kings Bay, he was nervous. Would his superiors believe him? He had scant evidence, barely making out of that hell-hole alive with more than half the team buried under the infinite white of the Antarctic tundra, but the fragment was everything. Secured in his footlocker he hadn't dared examine it 'til they were at full depth, and well under way,just in case his resolve had failed him. The little he had translated was... He couldn't even consider the enormity of it all.
And in four hours he had to tell a board of the highest ranking members of the military and some of the most powerful members of US government that everything they had based their lives on, the tenets of their religions and the fundamentals of their science... Was wrong.
He'd been wrong too, Richard realised. The very worst part of this trip would be to finish it.
Simothy Quayle
*
The old man wheezed out stiff plumes of laughter. He had long
abandoned the narrowed vision of his hood in favour of the sight that
so delighted him.
The women sleek and predatory glided about their victim. Soft snow
muffled over hard ice, the dimming white glared at the vibrant hue of
spilt blood, tracked inwards of time whilst the struggle continued
outwards. The women’s speckled leathers form fitting and stark, puffs
of white hair like angry clouds mounting their heads. Their dark creased and crinkled faces puffing, breath matching dying breath of the fat snow leopard.
of white hair like angry clouds mounting their heads. Their dark creased and crinkled faces puffing, breath matching dying breath of the fat snow leopard.
A mournful bellow marked her passing. The old man, and the women too, listened gravely, as was fitting. The wind was rising. Shrieking over ocean and land, and ice that blurred the two, it bore stolen snow. The women swiftly swarmed the felled beast. His women. His people. People those soft skinned northerners didn’t know existed. Despite their poking, and digging, and measuring, and dying. Despite their houses built above the ice, despite their terrible iron hulls, despite their fouling of the frozen purity.
That would change soon.
The women left him the heart, still luxuriously warm, and strips of
fatty flesh already freezing. They rubbed their round heads over him
and he could see the signs glycopeptides rising in them too. The rest they took.
The old man burrowed into his little place, subterranean light
rippling, the blizzard would overtake him soon. He sucked the life
blood from the heart whilst he still could. His eyes rested on the gift. He grinned a bloody grin. Old Ernest left whiskey in his wake as
penguins left shit.
When they passed through the convergence his people knew it was nearly
time.
The old man waited.
Ashley Fox
*
The sun was rising. The only indication she had of this was from the
gap of light pouring through her bedroom curtain. She stretched, tried
to swallow and choked. Her throat was beyond dry. She knew she needed
a drink. The ropes around her wrists had started to itch and she
desperately wanted to scratch at them. The ones around her ankles had
long become sore and had started to bleed. How long had she been here?
Well, by the look of the untouched food rotting on the plate on her
bedside table she'd say six maybe seven days? She'd lost count. Time
seemed to weave itself into her nightmares. After the second day
she'd stop screaming, after the fourteenth she'll stop caring.
The door creaks open and she quickly shuts her eyes feigning sleep. Her heart beats so hard she swears he can hear it through the dirty sheets. She feels a weight on her side of the bed and refuses to open her eyes, fear beating at her nerves. The hair on her face is gently brushed back and it takes all she has left in her not to scream. A tear escapes it's hiding place and it's over. He knows. She has to open her eyes now, otherwise...
“Good morning Amy”
“Urgh” she croaked, her eyes darting quickly at the covered face and back towards her door.
He was wearing a different mask today. One she hadn't seen before and one that was by far the creepiest. She tried not to memorise it's lines like she had done with all the others. She'd seen so many they all blurred into one and made a distorted face every time she closed her eyes.
The door creaks open and she quickly shuts her eyes feigning sleep. Her heart beats so hard she swears he can hear it through the dirty sheets. She feels a weight on her side of the bed and refuses to open her eyes, fear beating at her nerves. The hair on her face is gently brushed back and it takes all she has left in her not to scream. A tear escapes it's hiding place and it's over. He knows. She has to open her eyes now, otherwise...
“Good morning Amy”
“Urgh” she croaked, her eyes darting quickly at the covered face and back towards her door.
He was wearing a different mask today. One she hadn't seen before and one that was by far the creepiest. She tried not to memorise it's lines like she had done with all the others. She'd seen so many they all blurred into one and made a distorted face every time she closed her eyes.
Rachel McKensie
*
The markings were what frightened him the most.
Of course they were letters, Richard could see that now. But when he pulled the fragment of tarnished metal from the corpse of a frozen naval officer - the icy flesh unyielding at first, as if it had enclosed around the object - Richard had dismissed the words as scratches. Nothing more. Scratches rent into the material as it tore through the ship's hull and ripped into the abdomen of the corporal. But as Richard held the fragment in frost-bitten fingers, the symbols became brighter, more vivid, and warmer beneath his grasp.
The symbols swam and danced under his gaze, undulating like waves lapping at the ship. Richard felt a throbbing deep within the core of his being. It felt like a the pulse of distant drums.
In the quiet solitude of his quarters, with the door bolted to deter unwanted intruders, Richard opened his footlocker and unwrapped the metal shard from an old jumper. It was cool to the touch, and as he
held it, it warmed like skin beneath his fingers. The metal itself was unfamiliar to him, light and strong. More akin to bone than iron. The object was shaped like a paddle, or a wide, flat blade. The edges were
smooth. No tool marks on its surface; it was almost entirely unblemished, as if the strange markings had grown organically. Like mushrooms. Or bacteria.
Richard brought a handkerchief to his mouth and coughed into it. He shuddered with effort of it and felt a sharp, coppery taste against his tongue. The hieroglyphs glowed under the harsh, yellow light of
the halogen lamps, but Richard was afraid to extinguish the light in case the symbols remained illuminated.
It made no sense. How could such an object exist? There had never been any settlements on this continent. No indigenous populations. Not so much as a hot dog stand. And yet...
The symbols seemed to be grouped into words, though the language was inconsistent. There were certain elements which resembled classical Latin, while other letters appeared to derive from Cyrillic Script. Others emulated the calligraphy of ancient Persian. Richard knew little of languages, though certain symbols felt warmer than others as he passed his fingertips over them, feeling the grooves they made in
the metal.
For three days now, Richard had been studying at the fragment, willing it to disgorge its secrets. After hours of careful study, five of the runes had formed a pattern that chilled Richard beyond expression. DEATH, it read.
It seemed, they were not alone.
Of course they were letters, Richard could see that now. But when he pulled the fragment of tarnished metal from the corpse of a frozen naval officer - the icy flesh unyielding at first, as if it had enclosed around the object - Richard had dismissed the words as scratches. Nothing more. Scratches rent into the material as it tore through the ship's hull and ripped into the abdomen of the corporal. But as Richard held the fragment in frost-bitten fingers, the symbols became brighter, more vivid, and warmer beneath his grasp.
The symbols swam and danced under his gaze, undulating like waves lapping at the ship. Richard felt a throbbing deep within the core of his being. It felt like a the pulse of distant drums.
In the quiet solitude of his quarters, with the door bolted to deter unwanted intruders, Richard opened his footlocker and unwrapped the metal shard from an old jumper. It was cool to the touch, and as he
held it, it warmed like skin beneath his fingers. The metal itself was unfamiliar to him, light and strong. More akin to bone than iron. The object was shaped like a paddle, or a wide, flat blade. The edges were
smooth. No tool marks on its surface; it was almost entirely unblemished, as if the strange markings had grown organically. Like mushrooms. Or bacteria.
Richard brought a handkerchief to his mouth and coughed into it. He shuddered with effort of it and felt a sharp, coppery taste against his tongue. The hieroglyphs glowed under the harsh, yellow light of
the halogen lamps, but Richard was afraid to extinguish the light in case the symbols remained illuminated.
It made no sense. How could such an object exist? There had never been any settlements on this continent. No indigenous populations. Not so much as a hot dog stand. And yet...
The symbols seemed to be grouped into words, though the language was inconsistent. There were certain elements which resembled classical Latin, while other letters appeared to derive from Cyrillic Script. Others emulated the calligraphy of ancient Persian. Richard knew little of languages, though certain symbols felt warmer than others as he passed his fingertips over them, feeling the grooves they made in
the metal.
For three days now, Richard had been studying at the fragment, willing it to disgorge its secrets. After hours of careful study, five of the runes had formed a pattern that chilled Richard beyond expression. DEATH, it read.
It seemed, they were not alone.
*
'Is there anything else I can get you?' asked Tamara on her way
out.
'How are you for time machines?' replied Richard his eyes not leaving
the screens above the dashboard.
Closing the hatch behind her, Tamara Coil straightened up and gave a quick nod to the sentry outside. His cheeks were rosy but Tamara reasoned that it had everything to do with her being the only plain- clothed female aboard. Besides, as Mansons' understudy she would of course be spending unruly hours alone with him. And what discoveries they had made. Death, the end being misunderstood by science as closure when really mortalities final stasis is in actual fact a barrier.
Her inner voice was in barely controlled hysterics, shooting out the social ramifications of the recently gathered the evidence not to mention....well... As she attempted to squeeze away the violence pulsating across her frontal lobe, Tamara had found herself once again confused by the labyrinthine nature of
Penitences' winding lime causeway's. Her breath was noticeably short.
Closing the hatch behind her, Tamara Coil straightened up and gave a quick nod to the sentry outside. His cheeks were rosy but Tamara reasoned that it had everything to do with her being the only plain- clothed female aboard. Besides, as Mansons' understudy she would of course be spending unruly hours alone with him. And what discoveries they had made. Death, the end being misunderstood by science as closure when really mortalities final stasis is in actual fact a barrier.
Her inner voice was in barely controlled hysterics, shooting out the social ramifications of the recently gathered the evidence not to mention....well... As she attempted to squeeze away the violence pulsating across her frontal lobe, Tamara had found herself once again confused by the labyrinthine nature of
Penitences' winding lime causeway's. Her breath was noticeably short.
'You O.K mam?' said Oppenheimer.
'Oh, you know, this place. I'm all good thank you.' replied Tamara
doing her damnedest to talk to Oppenheimer's face and not his chefs hat.
doing her damnedest to talk to Oppenheimer's face and not his chefs hat.
'How is tonight's special going?'
'Oh you know,' he said with a humble but playful smile,
'This place...if you saw who I had to work with'
Tamara returned the friendly expression. The chef continued, 'I'm not saying that this is a five star restaurant but Toby should be
flipping burgers. Mark my words, that boy will start another
fire.'
fire.'
Tamara wanted to chuckle but she kept it in settling for a grin
saying, 'Last nights lasagne was good.'
'Merely Good?,' retorted Oppenheimer, 'I aim for special. Don't tell me your taste-buds are not the delicate receptors I
imagine
Fräulein?'
'Your imagination is doing overtime O.' replied Tamara with a
slight wave
heading back the way she'd come.
'How is your special going?' shouted Oppenheimer.
Tamara felt her headache swell, 'I'd rather be cooking lasagne.' She said without returning his gaze.
'You scientists. You don't really mean that.' laughed the cook on
his merry way.
And he was right thought Tamara envisioning the runes on Richards
fragment.
They looked more like scars.
'Shit!' voiced Tamara a little too loudly. One of her buttons were
undone.
The rose coloured cheeks of the sentry outside Sci Ob deck A
filled her with
a desperate gnawing pang.
*
“Fishy, fishy, fishy! Blop, blop, blop. Fish-wishy-in-a-dishy, splish,
splash….SPLOSH!”
She let her laughter bubble out as loud as she could, giving a really, really good shrieeeeeeeek at the end.Her Nana pulled her squashy face (the one where she is unhappy but still thinks it’s a bit funny) and turned the dial in her ear. Her mash was mounded up like an iceberg with her chip fish swimming round it, and her fish finger boat had just set sail through her sea of peas. She giggled. Chips that pretended to be fish, and fish that pretended to be fingers. Nana was right, this world was a fucked up world. She darted a guilty glance at her Nana, who was just sitting there not seeing anything, before she remembered she couldn’t hear inside her.But you could never be sure with grown ups.
“Has mummy caught her baby yet? I cant wait to meet my sister! Letita
has a sister, but her sister is just normal, my sister is special.”
Her Nana twiddled the dial again and her hands crabbed across the table in search of her glasses. She always did this so Mia choose that moment to stuff a whole fish finger in her mouth. And she HAD to eat with her mouth open so she could breathe.
“Mia bee, your mother isn’t catching babies. Remember? She is a
special scientist, she’s been visiting the penguins, and they have
been showing her secrets.”
Mia looked at Nana, they both knew she was right but sometimes Nana
got too sad to talk properly.
“I know that Nana! Silly. You told me, I remember. Because I’m going
to be special too, and Mummy is finding the truth. And making a baby.”
“I think you will see your Mummy very soon, my love. Would you like that?”
“Yes…but…I love you too, Nana. As long as I don’t have to go to the
ice, my legs will fall off and my hair will turn into ice cream!”
“Ice cream! But then all the seals will chase you trying to lick you!”
“I know! And I cant run if I got no legs. Then they will like my head
right off! Then who’s gonna look after my sister?”
“Oh you are a silly billy, Mia bee. Give me a kiss.”
Coz Nana had that sad, tired look again Mia abandoned her dinner and
climbed up Nana like a mountain. Then she wrapped her arms tight
around her, squeezing as hard as she could so Nana would feel how much
she loved her and gave her an extra long kiss.
It was almost light when she got up. Her belly woke her, growling like a beastie. She was careful walking down the corridor, mustn’t walk through the dark stripes. Like a stretched out tiger, so stretched out all the good colour had faded away just leaving the boring bits. And the scary bits that felt like her yucky dream. She had an accident when the toast went POP and dropped the jam. When Nana did that she did this big whoosh breath, huff huff huff. So Mia went huff huff huff as she tried to push it back in the jar. Most of it went in and coz her hands were all jammy she just wiped them on the toast. Knives were not for little girls, only grown ups. She got out the milk and poured an extra big glass, after she put it back in the fridge she forgot about her hands and pushed her snarly hair out of her eyes. Ooops.
It was almost light when she got up. Her belly woke her, growling like a beastie. She was careful walking down the corridor, mustn’t walk through the dark stripes. Like a stretched out tiger, so stretched out all the good colour had faded away just leaving the boring bits. And the scary bits that felt like her yucky dream. She had an accident when the toast went POP and dropped the jam. When Nana did that she did this big whoosh breath, huff huff huff. So Mia went huff huff huff as she tried to push it back in the jar. Most of it went in and coz her hands were all jammy she just wiped them on the toast. Knives were not for little girls, only grown ups. She got out the milk and poured an extra big glass, after she put it back in the fridge she forgot about her hands and pushed her snarly hair out of her eyes. Ooops.
Getting down from the chair was hard, but she only dropped the toast
once. Then tip toe down the corridor, the milk kept jumping out the
glass. Stupid milk.
Nana was still in bed, so she put the plate and glass on the little
table. There was only a little milk left but she didn’t think Nana
would mind.
“Nananananananananananaaaaaaaaa! Wake up! Rise and Shine! Mia’s here!”
She took a running jump onto the bed, the cover slipped a bit and she
nearly fell, but she grabbed Nana’s arm and finally, finally got up.
“Nan! Nan! Nan!”
Nana dint move. Not one little bit. She was cold and a funny colour…
sort of dull, faded like the tiger.
“Nana?” Mia’s voice whispered. She crawled up to Nana’s face and
stroked it. Her skin was still so soft and wrinkly like an old balloon. But she didn’t move, or open her eyesor go Boo! She just lay there.
stroked it. Her skin was still so soft and wrinkly like an old balloon. But she didn’t move, or open her eyesor go Boo! She just lay there.
Nana was gone. Mia knew. She couldn’t feel her. Mia hadn’t thought
she’d leave so soon.
She moved Nana’s arm and got under the blanket. They did this
sometimes if Mia was being a grumpy bum in the morning. They’d get
back in bed and cuddle. It didn’t feel as nice now, but Mia was crying
and her heart felt like it had burst.
Lots later when the sun had his hat on the fat lady who helped Nana
came round.She always just walked in. She found Nana and Mia still in
bed. The fat lady started screaming and hollering and crying. Then
everything went crazy and Mia decided to ignore them all. All the
people coming in her house, poking at her Nana, telling her what to
do. Stupid people in their stupid uniforms. Till the calm man came.
He was different. He ignored the others too and just watched her
quietly for awhile.
“Hello Mia. My name is Lewis. Do you understand what has happened?”
“Yeah.” Mia had stopped crying ages ago.
“I’m sorry for your loss little one. You are being very brave. I work
for the same people as your Mummy. I’m going to take you to a place
where your Mummy will come and get you in a few days. Is that ok?”
“No. She wont come. Don’t you know about the secret yet? You are going
to take me to her.”
“No Mia. Your Mummy will leave her work, after…this.”
“No, Lewis. She can't. You will take me. But we’ll have to get Amy
first.”
“Is Amy your pet?”
“No! Amy is…never mind. Shhhh.”
“Ok Mia. But first I think we need to give you a bath, hey? You’re all
sticky!”
sticky!”
“I’m not sticky anymore. I’m crusty and tangled and got fluff stuck on
me. Nana would call me a scraggle head.”
Lewis was smiling at her, to show he was her friend. But Mia knew, he
had a shark smile. She had seen him in her yucky dream with blood on
his hands. Mia took his hand, and when he stood up she saw the banger
under his black jacket. Mia smiled, she needed a bad man, she knew he
would get her to her Mummy.
Ashley Fox
*
Richard was back in his study. Reassured by the comfortable surrounds of
his Boston home he allowed a pent up sigh to rise from his chest and
surge past his teeth. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and
began to sort through the clutter that had arisen in his absence.
Flicking through the letters placed in his in tray, one with familiar
handwriting caught his eye. Opening the envelope in one swift movement
he withdrew the letter from the ragged seam. He smiled as his suspicions
were confirmed. It was from his sister, Marcy.
It reported, in painstaking handwriting, that she, her husband Brian and their children were well. Whilst Richard had never married, nor did he really entertain the idea, he enjoyed being the favourite (if only) uncle to little Thomas and Sarah. The letter continued on to say that Brian's job was going well, a few successful tenders resulting a bonus, which in turn gave them funds to plan a trip for them all to Disneyland, of which he was not to speak to the children as it was a surprise. Marcy had also apparently taken up her painting again, after a hiatus of nearly a decade, the results of which she bemoaned, derided and critiqued, but admitted to perhaps having a small showing in a few months to which he was cordially invited. There were the usual polite enquiries into his work and health, and more pointed ones regarding, as she put it, him romancing a suitable 'lady brain' to which she ascribed his future happiness. He laughed at her continued determination in the face of his recalcitrant bachelorhood. She signed off with the suggestion that he should, when convenient, arrange to come stay with them for a few days as she so rarely so her favourite (if only) younger brother.
Still smiling he placed the letter to one side and made a mental note to call her in the evening to catch up. He opened and digested the remaining correspondence until he came across a small packet, previously buried under mail at the bottom of the tray. In plain brown parcel paper it was stamped with a US Navy postmark, but bore no return address. The label had been typed hurriedly on a typewriter, the ink smudged and letters double stamped as mistakes were corrected. He had a terrible sense of deja vu as he pulled open the paper, even though he could not recall anything from memory. Contained within was a small, battered journal and a sheet of folded notepaper, which was blank except for the headed print declaring it to be from McMurdo Antarctic US Naval Research base. Before he even opened the journal he knew it's contents. It contained the last recorded notes of Regis Morley, Professor of Esoteric Histories at Harvard, who had been Richard's own teacher once upon a time. He realised the source of the deja vu.
This was all nought but a memory. A dream. In actuality he was aboard a submarine, a scant few hours out of Kings Bay. He looked up in sadness at the now sunset filled study, dust dancing in the shafts of golden light arcing in the windows. He didn't want to leave this moment of solace and return to the cruel truths of reality. Shadows moved as the sun faded. One in particular detached from the wall and leapt at it him, tentacles and teeth and venomous hatred. He barely had chance to scream.
Gasping and coughing, Richard awoke. He hacked and heaved onto his hand, blood wetting his knuckles as his lungs spasmed. The fog of sleep cleared, taking with it detail, but leaving the sense of horror and fear. Looking down he realised he had slumped asleep across the artefact, only partially masked by the torn sheets he had swaddled it in. Desperately he covered it up, not wanting to see it's alien surface.
A siren sounded and a call came over the tannoy. They were surfacing. Richard began stuffing his notes and belongings into his pack, the object dropped smartly into a satchel. In doing so he caught sight of himself in the quarters sole mirror. Pale skin highlighted the unshaven stubble on his cheeks, cherry red blood smeared across his face. Rubbing his face clean with his sleeve he wondered what fresh hells the next 24 hours would bring.
It reported, in painstaking handwriting, that she, her husband Brian and their children were well. Whilst Richard had never married, nor did he really entertain the idea, he enjoyed being the favourite (if only) uncle to little Thomas and Sarah. The letter continued on to say that Brian's job was going well, a few successful tenders resulting a bonus, which in turn gave them funds to plan a trip for them all to Disneyland, of which he was not to speak to the children as it was a surprise. Marcy had also apparently taken up her painting again, after a hiatus of nearly a decade, the results of which she bemoaned, derided and critiqued, but admitted to perhaps having a small showing in a few months to which he was cordially invited. There were the usual polite enquiries into his work and health, and more pointed ones regarding, as she put it, him romancing a suitable 'lady brain' to which she ascribed his future happiness. He laughed at her continued determination in the face of his recalcitrant bachelorhood. She signed off with the suggestion that he should, when convenient, arrange to come stay with them for a few days as she so rarely so her favourite (if only) younger brother.
Still smiling he placed the letter to one side and made a mental note to call her in the evening to catch up. He opened and digested the remaining correspondence until he came across a small packet, previously buried under mail at the bottom of the tray. In plain brown parcel paper it was stamped with a US Navy postmark, but bore no return address. The label had been typed hurriedly on a typewriter, the ink smudged and letters double stamped as mistakes were corrected. He had a terrible sense of deja vu as he pulled open the paper, even though he could not recall anything from memory. Contained within was a small, battered journal and a sheet of folded notepaper, which was blank except for the headed print declaring it to be from McMurdo Antarctic US Naval Research base. Before he even opened the journal he knew it's contents. It contained the last recorded notes of Regis Morley, Professor of Esoteric Histories at Harvard, who had been Richard's own teacher once upon a time. He realised the source of the deja vu.
This was all nought but a memory. A dream. In actuality he was aboard a submarine, a scant few hours out of Kings Bay. He looked up in sadness at the now sunset filled study, dust dancing in the shafts of golden light arcing in the windows. He didn't want to leave this moment of solace and return to the cruel truths of reality. Shadows moved as the sun faded. One in particular detached from the wall and leapt at it him, tentacles and teeth and venomous hatred. He barely had chance to scream.
Gasping and coughing, Richard awoke. He hacked and heaved onto his hand, blood wetting his knuckles as his lungs spasmed. The fog of sleep cleared, taking with it detail, but leaving the sense of horror and fear. Looking down he realised he had slumped asleep across the artefact, only partially masked by the torn sheets he had swaddled it in. Desperately he covered it up, not wanting to see it's alien surface.
A siren sounded and a call came over the tannoy. They were surfacing. Richard began stuffing his notes and belongings into his pack, the object dropped smartly into a satchel. In doing so he caught sight of himself in the quarters sole mirror. Pale skin highlighted the unshaven stubble on his cheeks, cherry red blood smeared across his face. Rubbing his face clean with his sleeve he wondered what fresh hells the next 24 hours would bring.
Simothy Quayle
*
Mia pressed her face against the little circle of plastic. It was cool
and thin. She pushed it a bit, but it didn’t fall through. She giggled
at this, it sounded all flat in her ears. The seat belt was digging
into her tummy, but she didn’t care, kneeling higher and twisting her
head so she could see everything.
Blue, blue, blue! Sparkling gold on the white wings, chopping through
big, fluffy clouds.
If she twisted enough she could just see the ground so far, far below.
She felt like the giant up his bean stalk. Except there was no green
here. Nana had got her a rug that looked like that, with little twisty
rivers and roads.
She used to talk about God with Nana. She remembered her Nana always
looked so sad, she used to say “I don’t recognise God anymore”. People
said that God was the boss of heaven. Mia thought that the sky was
really pretty, and it was fun to see everything like a bird, but she
thought it was empty. There wasn’t a big juicy green vine to climb
down on, and the gold was just sunshine. It was like her Nana gone in
her bed. If dead people went to heaven, why did it feel the same as
the bodies when they were gone?
Mia wiped her cry’s away sucking her salty finger after.
“What do you want to be when you grow-up, Mia bee?” Her Nana had asked
her that on the last bedtime.
“Lightning or maybe a Transformer.”
It was nice remembering her Nana now.
Lewis was taking on the fone again, all grumpy and jittery. He told
her that they had to go see her Mummy’s boss before they could take
her too her Mummy. She knew that something was wrong, Lewis tried to
hide it from her. But she knew that this was the only way she would
get to her Mummy in time. Lewis was a bad man, but her was her bad
man, with his gun. Gun. He would protect her.
Mia smiled at him, feeling sad. Lewis looked at her, not talking for
moment, his eyes like glass.
She looked back out of the window at just clouds and blue and
sunshine. Heaven. Nah. Maybe people thought God was good and in heaven
coz he was like her Nana. A memory. She was like her Nana too, they
had the same black eyes. So was she like God as well? Was heaven the
nice feeling?
had the same black eyes. So was she like God as well? Was heaven the
nice feeling?
“When I’m grown up, Nana, I’m gonna be God.”.
Ashley Fox
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