Please read and vote for your favorite to the left of this post!
Voting will remain open for 4 days. The winner will be announced on September 30th. The entries are superb; it will be a difficult choice folks.
Good Luck Everyone!
#1...
“The Rothko Room”.
This was no Art Gallery; it was a Tourist Attraction. No
purpose-built Temple of Athena but a converted power-station, an expedient, a
compromise; post-fucking-modern. He could feel the bile beginning to
scald his oesophagus as he negotiated the knots of people congealing around the
entrance. He looked around, expecting to see some sort of reinforced
glass ticket booth (no doubt employing some species of microphone and speaker
arrangement via which he would tell the lobotomised twat within that he had no
intention of donating a brass-farthing) and a queue snaking away from it.
But to Arthur’s astonishment, no-one, tacitly or otherwise suggested, as he
entered, that he donate. Why such a very small thing should have so
profound an effect struck Arthur quite forcibly, as it crossed his mind that he
may have been wrong.
As is often the case in such situations, one of the less ghastly memories
of that first visit now presented itself. In spite of the trauma of his Rothko
experience, Olafur Eliasson’s sun had amazed and overjoyed Arthur as he had
entered the Turbine Hall, a fact that he had quite forgotten until now.
The work was quite remarkable – unashamedly two dimensional (as all the best
art should be) yet touching the viewer in a truly physical manner – photons
bounced off him and were absorbed by him and he was delighted. The memory
lightened his step as he made his way there.
He cursed his naiveté as he emerged into the vast space.
No sun. Oh no. Not even close. He’d thought that the
squeals and shouts, which had grown louder as he’d approached, might have been
part some sort of installation. They weren’t. They were part of
children being happy. It took him some time to figure it all out.
He wondered for a moment if he’d wandered into the place (he understood such
things existed) where parents could leave their brats to play whilst they
themselves went off to do something more interesting. He was wrong.
This was art. But those things snaking away above him were exactly what
they appeared to be.
Slides. Bloody children’s slides; complete with queues like some
ghastly theme park. Not that he’d ever been to a theme park, of
course. And now, even had he felt the urge, it was far too late. A
middle aged man, alone? There would be C.C.T.V. and men with sunglasses
following him every step of the way. But no matter! What, he asked
himself in bewilderment, were these playground toys doing here? A helpful
leaflet told him that the installation was the work of Carsten Holler and went
on to contend that “a daily dose of sliding” could be beneficial in helping us
perceive the world and asked whether slides might not become part of our
“experiential and architectural vocabulary.” Arthur exasperated, said,
‘Fuck me…’
He forced himself to read on and then finally replacing the leaflet in
the rack from whence he’d taken it, turned to find a heavily-set young man,
small child in tow, peering menacingly at him. Arthur looked over his
shoulder, just in case. Satisfied that he must indeed the object of the
fellow’s attention, he turned to face him once more.
‘Erm…may I help you?’ Arthur asked.
‘My daughter says you just swore at her,’ said the man. Arthur,
understanding at once, relaxed, smiled and said,
‘Oh no, you see, I wasn’t swearing at her, I was merely swearing near
her, so to speak. That is, she must have been near me…when I swore.
Well, technically, it wasn’t swearing at all; no names being taken in vain, you
understand. It was more of a profanity.’
‘A what?’
A profanity. An obscenity.’
‘You used obscenities near my daughter?’
‘Well, I suppose I did. But in the circumstances…’ Arthur
gave a little laugh and gestured towards the slides.
‘People like you shouldn’t be allowed in places like this,’ said the man.
‘Oh?’ Arthur was nonplussed.
‘No; you shouldn’t be allowed anywhere where there are kids.’
‘Well, usually, I’m not.’ Immediately realising how the man was
already interpreting the comment, Arthur hurriedly continued, ‘where there are
kids, I mean… I mean, normally, I don’t go where there are children. I
didn’t expect there to be any here, as a matter of fact but I suppose that’s
what happens if you fill an art gallery with fucking slides.’
His training took over instantly and the man’s punch not only missed but
the momentum of it caused him to pitch forwards into Arthur’s arms. A
sharp, four-fingered jab to the sciatic nerve and the fellow was in spasm,
unable to move, speak, or breathe properly. He stared at Arthur in blank
astonishment.
‘Whoops-a-daisy!’ said Arthur, taking the man’s weight, as two or three
faces turned towards him. ‘They keep these floors rather shiny, don’t
they? Here, let me help you. Goodness, a chap could do himself a
mischief here couldn’t he? Now, sit yourself down. Will you look
after daddy? Good. I expect he’ll be fine in a minute or two.’
‘More like a day or two,’ mused Arthur, as he made for the
lifts. He’d gone in a bit hard; a fact that he put down to his rather
fragile condition – some sort of over-compensation thing, he imagined.
‘Ah well,’ he said to himself as the crowd swallowed him up.
#2...
Cold Grey…
Not the lucky day I was hopin’ for, but it’s a good day
nonetheless.
I got permission to hunt in the Darker Woods. Even let me
bring Mutt, Jock’s cross breed. He looks like a small horse mixed with a shaggy
sheep, but looks can be deceivin’, he’s got the nose of a mole. That mutt could
smell a hare from a mile away. Best investment of ten coins Jock ever made.
Day off an everythin’. Her Queenship musta liked the size of
the pink gem. She don’t often grant days off. But I’m not complainin’ and
neither are the others. Ginger kept rubbin’ his belly when I showed him the
orders. He looked a might disappointed he couldn’t come along. He gets a bit
bored workin’ in Gareth’s shop and bein’ bossed round all day. Not like he can
say anythin’. Because he literally can’t say anythin’. Never said a word since
the day we found him. He was only a wee one, wanderin’ alone fendin’ for himself
in the woods to the South. Just so happened that Hound had taken a supply trip
that day and came across him. He’s lived with us ever since.
Mutt nose to the ground comes meandering around me feet.
I’ve stopped. We’ve reached the opening. I need to wait for the guard. Wonder
what her Queenship would think if she knew he’d been slackin’ off and leavin’
her precious woods unguarded. Passed a Queen’s patrol a while back, they didn’t
see me, so I didn’t get asked me business. Advantage number two, bein’ of the
shorter variety.
I decide to call out. ‘Anyone there....’
Small I maybe but I have a booming voice. It echoes through
the trees. A bracken fern shuffles then a skinny lout, stringing up his pants,
appears. I avert me eyes for a moment in case sumit unseemly drops out.
‘Wotcha want? This here’s Queen’s property. Get orf,’ he
yells marching over to the wooden gate where I’m standin’.
‘I have orders,’ I say.
‘Orders. What orders? I don’t know of no orders.’
I don’t argue. I hand him the piece of parchment with the
castle symbol and the Queen’s signature.
‘How‘d you get these—little
man?’ his lopsided grin and clueless eyes rile me. I clench me hands behind
my back and cross me feet.
He seems to be takin’ pleasure in baitin’ me. But I’m not
playin’.
‘I work in the mine. Got me a beauty. The queen was right
pleased. So I’m allowed to hunt till dusk.’
‘Till dusk? I wouldn’t be staying in there till dusk,’ he
says pointin’ toward the humungous trees loomin’ in the background. ‘Lotsa nasty creatures lurk at dusk. Little
man like you wouldn’t stand a chance. What weapons ya got?”
Again with the, little
man. I clench my hands tighter. ‘I have a cross bow and this here dagger.’
I look down at me trusty dagger attached to me belt.
‘That all.’
‘Yep’
He scratches the small patch of stubble on his sharp chin.
‘Well, I’d wish ya luck. But I don’t think I’ll be seeing you again. So … won’t
bother.’
I nod and he lets me pass. Imbecile! He has no idea about me
huntin’ skills. I bet I could ground him in one or two moves. Wouldn’t take
much, his brain would only switch on after the first blow, and then it’d be too
late. Still, I’m a peaceful soul, not interested in fightin’. Although, if he’d
called me little man one more time I
might just be tempted.
Mutt moves in front, his head shufflin’ from side to side as
he picks up the scent of the forest.
I’ve only been here once. The last big diamond got me a
couple of deer and three pheasant. Fed us for a month. Baker was most pleased.
Tried every new herb and spice in the place to entertain our tastebuds. Hound,
as always, indulged the lump. Some of his flowery poetry got a bit much, I mean
what in heck does, violets on a summers day laid on a frosty breath of
peppermint leaves, smell like? Just smelled like burnt venison to me.
The Darker Woods. Apt name. There’s barely a glint of
sunlight passin’ through to the base of these big trees. The undergrowth so
thick there’s no room to manoeuvre. But I know some parts are clear, and I head
for these. I want to go deeper today, deeper than last time. That’s where the
best game is.
Takes me a good hour but I’m in the thick of it. Mutt stays
close. I hunker down next to a bramble hedge and tune it to the sounds buzzing
around me. The wet mossy grounds soaks though the knees of me wool trousers,
but I need to keep low to catch a goodun. I part the thorny hedge, the clearing
greets me eyes. I’d say beautiful, but as ye know I’m not one for the mush. So
its green, green as a new blade of grass, everywhere I look. I’m about to crawl
through to a large flat rock hanging over the trickle of a stream….when I stop
and grab Mutt by the fur on his rear end.
A figure stands loomin’ over a clump of purple daisies. It’s
hard to make out who it is. Doesn’t look like no guard. The cloak is grey and
the hands seem pale and youthful. Then they turn and look straight at me. Piercing sapphire eyes the brightest I’ve
ever seen. Rose coloured cheeks the rosiest I’ve ever seen and lips, deep ruby
red, the reddest I’ve ever seen. I
freeze unblinkin’. Then she turns away and scurries off in the other direction.
There’s only one
thing for it, I have to follow.
#3
Regret
The banging on the door woke him. Dragged him kicking and
screaming from a nightmare where fear was all he could recall. He fought the
tangled sheets, wiped perspiration from his brow and struggled to his feet. It
was still dark out, dawn at least an hour away.
The racket was relentless. He’d dropped the latch the night
before, done up all the locks and chains. Now, he couldn’t co-ordinate. His senses
confused, the noise, the back taste of fear and broken sleep, all interfering
in an essentially straightforward task. He slammed a hand at the door in an
effort to shut out the din. He tried to think. Four bolts, two locks- where was
the damned key?
“Okay, Jeez, I’m coming,” he cursed. “Give me a goddamn
minute!”
The banging stopped as suddenly as it had begun and in the
subsequent eerie silence he became aware of a different sound. A muted sob- the
whispered wail of someone so desperate, so bereft, that he felt his own throat
constrict. His nightmare paled as his fear grew exponentially.
“No - no! I’m coming. I’m here, babe, hang on.”
When he finally wrenched the door open, she was crouched on
the floor, hugging her knees, rocking on the balls of her feet. She looked up
through a curtain of wet curls, her cheeks streaked with mascara, her eyes
rubbed red. He pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms tight around her
slender frame. She trembled beneath his hands.
“What’s happened? Where are the kids?” He leaned away from
her, caught her face gently between his hands. “Honey, you’re scaring me.
You’ve gotta tell me what’s wrong?”
She swung her gaze and he was stung by the accusation in her
eyes.
“You promised me, we were safe.”
He felt it then, a churning, deep in his stomach. He dropped
his hands, felt the room sway and steadied himself against what he knew was to
come.
“What’s happened? Just tell me.”
“They came, after you left...” Her words fractured, forced
between desperate gasps for air and normality. “They took the children...I
tried to stop them. I pleaded with them.”
She took a breath, seemed to draw strength from somewhere deep
inside. “They said you’d gone too far
and now it was time to pay.”
He stared at her, looked through her, past her, and the
moment hung. The gulf between them widening in front of his eyes, as if he
stood at the edge of a precipice of his own making and the only way forward was
down. He re-focused and saw that her face was bruised, her lip swollen. When
she raised her hand to shield the bruises from him, he saw angry finger marks
on her pale wrist. She had fought to protect his son and a child she barely
knew and had failed. Her despair was overwhelming. His nightmare returned with
sudden clarity, the fear, the uncontrollable anger and regret. He could not
lose any of them, this couldn’t be the end.
#4
THE LAKE
The lake was flat and calm with barely a ripple. Its dark
waters glistened, reflecting the moonlight as though it were a mirror. A myriad
of stars shone brightly in a cloudless sky, their shimmering light dancing
across the surface of the water. Around the perimeter of the lake were tall
conifer trees. Slender, and majestic, they grew, stretching high into the air,
competing with each other for the available natural light. Surrounding the lake
were sandy, gravely, banks of earth, which extended down to the waters edge.
Beyond, the land gently rose up, the slope gradually growing steeper and
steeper, climbing up high along the limestone face to the side of the mountain.
In the moonlight the white limestone glowed eerily, contrasting with the
blackness of the shadows of the trees.
* * *
A young man sat by the waters edge. He was in his middle
twenties, tall, and slim, with light brown hair. Lying next to him was a
discarded oxygen tank, and a diving mask. He sat contemplating the stillness of
the lake. A stillness that was momentarily disturbed by a fish as it rose to
the surface for air, or to catch an insect. There was no sound, other than the
gentle rustle of the trees, and crickets chirping. Or perhaps the gentle
lapping of the water as it met the shore. Nearby, a frog croaked, and splashed
into the lake. Overhead an owl hooted and then settled down for the night.
The young man stared at the water, and thought of the series
of dives that he and his friend had made that day. Over the past few days they
had gradually worked their way across a section on the northern shore. Today
they had been concentrating on a section to the northeast. The area consisted
of a large clearing which gently sloped down to the edge of the water. It was
reasonably accessible, and looked promising, and they had just started to
investigate the area that day. They had achieved a depth of twenty metres, down
to one of the shallower shelves that lined the perimeter of the lake. Even at
that depth it was still quite dark. Visibility was made even more difficult by
the swirling undercurrents stirring the sediment in the lake.
Fritz Marschall knew that neither he, nor his friend, should
really have been there. They, like many others before them, had been attracted
to the lake by the many rumours that had been circulating. They had been drawn
to the area by tales of hidden treasure, and buried gold. They were only rumours, and there wasn’t an ounce of proof, or a shred
of evidence to back it up. But still the rumours persisted, and the
attraction was still irresistible.
The young man knew that the Austrian authorities frowned
upon unauthorised exploration of Lake Toplitzsee, especially after the death of
that young French diver just over a year previous. As much as possible was
being done to discourage such activities, and put an end to the rumours. The
authorities had instigated a number of measures including substantial fines if
you were caught, together with random patrols of the area.
Yes he knew they shouldn’t be there. He knew that the last
thing the authorities would want was some amateur explorers in the area. He
also knew that if they were discovered their equipment would be confiscated,
and that would be the end of their search.
* * *
It was late and already getting dark. There was an eerie
stillness. A light drizzle had just began to fall, and a gentle breeze stirred
the trees. Fritz sat at the edge of the lake, gazing at the reflection of the
moonlight dancing on the surface of the water. The moon appeared large and
full, and very bright. An Autumn Moon,
that’s what they called it, he remembered. The water was so calm and
peaceful. The moonlight breaking up into hundreds of shreds of light like
diamonds scattered on to a table. It was all so beautiful.
He rubbed his eyes, then closed them for a moment, and
became lost in his own thoughts. Thoughts of the endless stories there had been
of treasures sunken in, or buried around, Toplitzsee. He recalled the stories
of the lake being used to develop torpedoes and rockets during the war. He
wondered how true those stories were. He could hardly believe that there had
actually been a weapons testing site located on the lake. How could such a
beautiful area be used for such a deadly pursuit?
Looking out across the lake, he wondered where the site had
actually been located. How had it looked?
He wondered what secrets were hidden beneath the surface. He looked deep
into the water, staring, as though penetrating into the murky depths. Almost as
though he could actually see what was hidden quite clearly.
What was hidden in
there, he whispered. What treasures, if any, were lying just beneath him,
just out of reach, waiting to be discovered?
Over the years, there had been a number of searches made, mainly by
amateur explorers. A number of items had been found, including counterfeit
English and American money; some pieces of jewellery; documents relating to
research activities that had been carried out on the lake; and several weapons.
With more and more finds, there was talk that the lake
contained other treasures. The rumours began to grow and spread, rumours that
the lake contained hidden Third Reich gold, gold that had been taken from the
Holocaust victims. But so far, no gold had ever been discovered. Not a whisper
of it. Not a sign of it. Not the slightest hint of its existence.
#5
Tibetan
Timewarp
I sit
propped against my favourite pillar of the temple. All around me lie the hills I
love. Today they are as they were a thousand years ago, and would be for
another thousand if only I had the power to stop the new mining developers. But
today I have seen their invading vehicles advance towards the pristine slopes,
and I know what will happen. Dust will fly. Precious stones will issue
forth, oh yes they will. But the lambs will have nowhere to graze, the dew will
have nowhere to glisten, and there will be no birds to sing. Unni, I tell
myself, you must do something.
Slowly the
night sucks the blue from the sky and the green from the hills, just as the
developers will soon drain their beauty and their solitude. Behind me
Rukmini’s pipes pierce the silence. I turn my head. I see her silhouetted
against the darkening sky that like a dimming cyclorama still glows cerulean in
the twilight.
Rukmini had
seen the invaders too.
I run my
hand down the stone of the pillar as though I were smoothing oil into the
sleekness of her limbs. Around her neck the golden sapphires flash and glint,
as do the stones encircling her arms. At the pinnacle of her headdress is the
jewel in her crown. She is my queen.
I want to shout. I want to tell her I love her, but she is the music her
pipes are giving to the hills before they disappear to dust. Apart from the
lamb lying entranced beside her, she thinks she is alone, and I would not rob
her of this soon-to-vanish joy. Silently I watch and listen. Her golden pink
sari fades to grey. Her bare feet sink into the dew-laden grass. The silver
pathway of the moon cuts through the indigo of the lake, but still her song of
sadness fills the air.
All night I
toss and turn. To live I must eat. Even Unni and Rukmini must eat to
live. To eat I must work, so I too am indirectly guilty of raping the hills for
the jewels that bedeck Rukmini and her friends. Not my own hills that every
morning I tell myself how lucky I am to live beneath. But someone else’s,
far away, that I cannot see but are no less loved.
I have
always bought my rough stones from the dealer in the wooden shack in the
village beyond the mountains, walking there early in the morning and returning
late at night. If I did not buy the stones to grind and polish to perfection,
the miners would not dig them from the ground. Rukmini would be just as
beautiful if no jewels adorned her. I would love her just the same.
At daybreak
I stand in the courtyard of the temple, fanned by palm leaves that bend when
the lark alights for his melodic sojourn. I gaze at the crystals I have
heaped around the fountain, offcuts from my labours, their rainbow colours
illumined by the sun filtering through the filigree of bending branches.
I close my
eyes. I hear the tinkling of water cascading on the stones, a music that
is as constant as were the hills before their death sentence was proclaimed.
‘Unni,’ Rukmini says behind me, coming up so slowly in her bare feet that I do
not even hear the rustle of her sari. ‘You have long suspected there were
sapphires in our hills.’
‘Yes,’ I
reply. ‘I have known. But they are the hills from whence all life
began.’
‘What will
you do?’ she asks.
I turn my
head away.
‘Do not
grieve,’ she says. ‘One day, when all the stones are gone, the grass will grow
again, the dew will glisten, the birds will sing ─ and I will still have you.’
#6
The Beginning.
Night was
approaching for Paul Winters, for him it was the best time of the day. Soaked,
he charged through deep puddles created by the deluge. His mind concentrating,
he clutched in his right hand his proceeds from begging. He shuddered as
his body and mind cried out for that all important fix.
“Shit,” he screamed from cracked lips as he stumbled and fell headlong.
Tears ran across his grime-covered face as he grovelled to retrieve every coin
from the pavement and gutter. He started running again, more careful this time.
He checked left and right for the police before stopping outside a derelict
factory. Out of breath, he entered, his eyes attempting to seek out his
contact.
A shadowy figure detached himself from the gloom. "Who's there?"
Fifty metres away his dealer, dressed in a smart suit and wearing patent
leather shoes, waited.
"It's Paul, Paul Winters. I'm a regular."
The blade of a knife flashed in the dim light. Recognising the boy, the
thin-faced man returned it to the safety of its sheath and walked towards him
with no worry in his eyes. "How much have you got?"
“Twenty.”
“Not enough. It’s thirty this week.”
"I don’t have it. Please," begged Paul
"Money up front. I’m not a charity worker.”
From his inside jacket pocket Paul pulled a rusty table knife.
The dealer stepped back in surprise. He attempted to stay calm but it didn’t
come across. “You must be joking,” he said with a touch of panic in his voice.
Paul, his mind in chaos, leapt at the man. Out of control he plunged the blade
repeatedly into the dealer’s chest. Blood flowed across his hands.
The dealer’s eyes stared vacantly, his heart destroyed before he dropped
lifeless to the ground.
Paul mumbled, “Bastard.”
A search of the dead man produced a bundle of notes, small change, cigarettes
with lighter and an assortment of packets. This he shoved into his pockets.
Unconcerned, he made his way back to the squat.
Twenty minutes elapsed before he entered his room on the first floor at the
rear of the abandoned house. Without hesitating, he shifted the urine-sodden
mattress to one side. Wary, he inserted the blood-covered table knife
between two wooden boards until one lifted to expose his valued
possessions. These items he had for whatever reason kept since running
away from the home.
He withdrew the hypodermic. His tremors increased as he prepared the
mixture. In between two festering wounds on his left arm a small uninfected
patch existed. The blunt needle entered his young skin and he collapsed.
Ignored by his acquaintances for days, a social worker doing his rounds found
Paul’s corpse along with the wad of bank notes and unused drugs.
The post-mortem made known an overdose of heroin killed him.
Commander Jefferies read the list of twenty names, closed the folder and dumped
it in his priority tray. “That’s the twentieth this month. Charlie, the
boss wants the source of this poison behind bars. What’s the latest?”
“No one’s talking, Guv. I’ve a couple of leads but nothing much to go on.”
“Well you’d better get busy.”
#7
Avarice
High in a
nameless grey building in Amsterdam, James Scott paced his office. He held a
note in his right hand. Tall, middle-aged, he stood erect. His head bobbed in
rhythmic jerks as he walked, keeping time with his feet.
He paused by the window, glanced towards the street where people, plain
ordinary people, went about their business. Again, he read the unsigned
letter, its few words sending a shiver through his body. You have forgotten
the commandments. You shall not murder. You shall not commit adultery. You
shall not steal. God will find you. James shrugged, went to his
desk, ran a hand through his silver-grey hair and sat in his real leather
executive chair, tossing the letter in the bin.
Early the next morning, James left his apartment carrying his luggage. He
drove, listening to the weather report and a mile further turned onto the road
to the airport. His first stop the office where he filed his flight plan and
completed the necessary documentation. With his mechanic, he walked out across
the tarmac to his Cessna. With the checklist in his hand, he went round the
plane methodically checking flaps, elevators and other externals. Satisfied, he
signed the acceptance form and handed it back to the mechanic. Pleased, he
clambered on board, sat in the pilot’s seat and finished the checks. The engine
started and he contacted the control tower. Their reply gave him permission to
go ahead and he eased the craft to its waiting position. Three others
waited on the tarmac in front of him. On the co-pilot’s seat lay his black
briefcase and inside that, the dream.
Clearance came and he taxied the Cessna to the end of the runway, stopped and
opened the throttle. The little craft raced along the concrete runway and
lifted into the air. At one thousand metres, he levelled out and set a
course for the north. Twenty minutes later, he contacted Amsterdam Air
Traffic Control. “Mayday, Mayday, this is Alpha Charlie One Two Six en
route Amsterdam to Aberdeen. My engine has stopped.” He repeated this twice
and switched off the radio. James glanced at the grey sea beneath him as he
lowered the flaps and began his descent. In a few minutes the craft
skimmed across the surface at a height of twenty metres. His brow
wrinkled as the concentration required heightened. Too low he would hit the
water; gain height and the radar would find him.
His eyes scanned ahead for the hired fishing vessel drifting at their agreed
position. He banked, surveyed the surrounding sea, and noted the boat’s
position relative to the wind. Thankfully no other vessels were in the locale.
Christine stood on the aft deck waving a red flag, their signal. His mind
raced as he prepared to land in the sea. The wind remained light and the waves
moderate. To land into the wind he considered the best choice. Spray covered
the craft as it bounced across the waves, eventually coming to a stop. Calmly,
he opened the door, pulled the small life raft from behind him and tossed it
into the sea. It inflated automatically. With a firm grip on his briefcase,
he slithered from the cockpit into the raft. With one hand, he pushed
himself away, released the two paddles and started to row towards the small
boat that remained a safe distance away. His plane, its tail pointing skyward,
slipped beneath the surface.
The light wind made his rowing demanding and he cursed Christine for not
bringing the boat closer. On drawing alongside, a young, attractive, black
South African beamed a smile of welcome. He handed her the briefcase.
“Whatever you do, don’t drop that, it’s our future.”
She looked on as he punctured the raft with a knife. “James, is this
everything?”
The raft started to fold in on itself and sink as he placed both hands on the
boat’s gunwale, ready to pull himself inboard. “Of course.”
In one swift movement she removed a black Browning nine-millimetre pistol from
her jacket pocket.
“Bloody hell, Christine. Why?”
“Justice, you thieving bastard.” She squeezed the trigger twice.
With eyes filled with confusion, James sank.
#8
THIS IS NOT A DRILL!
The ear bleeding clanging of bells in the dark and still of
3.15 am grabbed the attention of everyone. Whether sleeping, awake or
inbetween, it jolted attentiveness to a hundred and ten percent and scared the
crap out of even the most experienced hand because it was the last sound anyone
wanted to hear.
The abandon rig alarm!
From the first strike of the clapper, the clock was ticking.
Fifteen minutes to get to the lifeboat or you get left behind. Move your
arse!!!
The fluorescent strip lights lining the corridors blinked on
automatically, as did every spotlight, fog light and nightlight, illuminating
the entire platform from derrick tip to waterline like a funfair ride.
To accompany the bell, red warning lights flashed and an
automated recorded voice played out over the public address
system. 'ATTENTION ALL HANDS! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! ATTENTION ALL HANDS,
THIS IS NOT A DRILL!'
The constant ringing of the bell bored into everyone's
brains, driving them into a kind of auto pilot. The only thing that mattered
was getting to the lifeboat by whatever means possible. The alternative was a
ducking in the North Sea, and out there, where time to death could be measured
in minutes, it was not an alternative anyone relished taking.
They exploded from their rooms, some still fully dressed,
Lummox in his underwear, and stampeded down the corridors towards the locker
room.
All six of the crew arrived simultaneously and stumbled
through the narrow doorway together, Cam and the Prof managing to wedge
themselves comically, like something out of a cartoon. A quick shove and they
separated and fell into the room to wrench open their lockers and take out
their suits.
To the untrained eye, it was a scene of organised chaos, but
the drill had been rehearsed so many times that each man was on automatic pilot
as he zipped himself into his suit and checked his seals. Life jackets and
boots followed. Nobody spoke. There was no need, they knew what to do and
concentrated hard on the task in hand.
'Everyone got their passports and wallets on them?' cried
Eddie, above the clamour.
Without interrupting the activity, a unified cry of; 'Yes
sir,' rose.
'Where's Lydia!' Eddie yelled over the commotion. 'Has
anyone seen Lydia?'
The men paused momentarily in their industry and looked at
each other, and then at Eddie, making it obvious that none of them had.
'Shit!' He turned to his deputy to give him his orders,
finding himself having to shout to make himself heard over the constant nerve
jangling clatter of the bell.
The recording interrupted him by calling out its instruction
once more.
'THIS IS NOT A DRILL!'
'Dipstick, get up to the control room and see what the hell
the alarm is all about,' he yelled. 'It might be a glitch, but we can't take
any chances. None of us set off the alarm, so it needs checking out. If it's
genuine, take ten seconds to make sure the automated distress signal has been
activated and then ten more to get on the radio to me. After that, get yourself
to number one lifeboat pronto. Don't do anything else, got it?'
'Got it.'
'I hope to God it is a fault, because I don't fancy
launching in this weather. On your way, mate.'
'Yes sir.'
When Shaw had gone on his way, Eddie turned to McAllister.
'Jock, you're in charge of the launch until I get there.
Make sure everyone is strapped in, set the ADS and keep your hand on that lever
ready to go. If I'm not there in ten minutes flat, you yank it and go without
me.'
'I'll wait for you, don't worry,' McAllister replied.
'The fuck you will. Ten minutes, you go, that's an order.
Got it?'
McAllister nodded reluctantly.
'What are you going to do?' he said.
'Find that bloody woman,' cursed Eddie, wriggling into his
own survival suit as quickly as humanly possible. 'It's going to bugger up our
safety record 'til Doomsday if we leave a woman behind.'
He ran along the corridor as fast as his heavy boots would
carry him, each step taking him further from the lifeboat and safety. As he
ran, he shrugged into the harness carrying his two way radio and slipped the
earpiece over his ear, pulling the attached hair thin microphone stalk close to
his mouth to pick up the sound of his voice over the racket. His finger felt
for the on/off switch and slid it into place. A bright green LED glowed showing
the device to be active.
Dipstick would be almost at the control room by now and he
would hear from him soon, one way or the other. His imperative now was to find
the errant medic and haul her sorry arse to the lifeboat, whether she wanted to
go or not.
He reached sickbay and burst through the door calling her
name. 'Lydia!' He could not see her in the main room. 'Lydia!' He headed
for the office. 'Lydia! You in here?'
'Here I am,' she said, and
stepped from behind the modesty screen, wearing nothing but plain white panties
and matching bra.
#9.
Demon Assassin
I sensed them before I heard them. Their presence gave off a
glow like a deep pink sunset across my eyes. The flash. Scudders. Too easy.
Moving with soft footed motion, I wove between the reedy trees. The glow of
moonlight guided the way but I could manoeuvre at night without its radiance.
The group of Scudrows were four and they sniffed the air like red pointers.
#10
Vestiges
I dreamed of Leda, long forgotten by the centuries.
Her open palms outstretched beneath her pleading eyes.
“Remember me - lost in
the forest by the sparkling seas.
And shed a tear at my unfortunate demise.
I wander endless paths
of cobbled stone from long ago,
And chase elusive
visions from my troubled past,
Through lonely
crumbling ruins of my belov’d ancestral home,
I long to be embraced
by those I love at last.
Pray for me! Pray for
me! Eternity is vast and grey,
My mind’s a pris’ner
in these empty haunted halls,
Oh, how I long to fly away on wings of joy
today.
My tortured soul would
be unchained from these bleak prison walls.”
She began to fade back to the empty hollow tomb,
As I awoke at midnight to the moonlight in my room.
I
shudder as I wake from that bombastic night terror, but the soft moonlight from
my window comforts me as it caresses familiar surroundings and settles
peacefully upon my sheets. Yet my heart drums blood and pounds in my ears. All
the while, one single thought reverberates. Leda was real, as real as that
branch undulating outside my window, waving at me, mocking my fear as if it
were Leda’s arm taunting me. Amidst the fear, I am exhausted as I slump as if an
old pillow mashed into place. I lie to myself. It was just a dream. However, the trickery does not work. Gaunt,
pallid Leda was real, dressed in her Italian renaissance garb. There were bloodstains
on the cloth and her hair was askance in mussed strings that hung below her
waist. Still, she was vaguely pretty and young- perhaps fifteen or sixteen. I’m
puzzled though. I don’t understand why she came for me, why she dragged me
through a reenactment of her life those many centuries ago in a place I’ve
never been, seen, or imagined. There were mountains and forests surrounding a
cobblestone courtyard in front of a stone house that stood like a great grey
ghost in the ether. Fog breathed in and around, shrouding the yard from the dim
light of early morning. To the west, flickering lamps illuminated the entrance
of the building where two massive doors yawned under a pair of dark hollow eye
socket windows with wrought iron terraces. A young woman stood on one, almost
blending into the darkness. It was Leda. Her frail fists clenched around the
cold iron rail as she cried. Bitter tears mixed with drops of icy rain and
trailed down her face as she watched the scene unfolding in the courtyard. She
squinted straight down at black funeral carriages pulled by anxious steeds that
paused near the front entrance. The black horses stamped in place and puffed pale
clouds from their nostrils into cold air. The hearse was there to take the body
of her beloved Grandfather away. The huge arms that hugged her, the gentle eyes
that shone love to her, and the calm deep voice that soothed her worries away
was leaving forever.
Men scrambled around the carriages
in the yard, shouting instructions to one another, stopping to gesture and
hurrying on. “Stay here!” An older man shouted to a boy as he waved him over to
one of the horses. “Hold this one!” The horse tossed his head and lifted the
boy off of his feet. Other horses neighed in nervous bursts as their hooves
clattered on the wet cobblestone. Pallbearers painstakingly carried the wooden
coffin from the house to the back of the hearse. The nervous horses lurched
forward as they felt the movement behind them and the coffin appeared as if it
might fall. Voices rose in distress. Leda watched in horror from her terrace. “Don’t
drop him,” she whispered with a wavering voice. She leaned over the rail with
ornamental spikes pressing into her bodice. The men doubled their efforts, pushing
the coffin safely into place. Leda’s head dropped forward in relief as she
sighed. She caught sight of Vitorre, Grandfather’s oldest friend in the group
of men below. He stepped back and moaned sadly while wiping the rain from his
face. Leda recognized his despair because it mirrored her own. He sensed her
presence and looked up with hopeless eyes. His as hand pressed over his heart
and cried, “Oh Leda, what shall we do?” He turned toward the hearse and looked
at the coffin within, patted the glass with his hand. “There now, Cirro, we
take care of you. We always take care of you, old friend.” He nodded and blew
his nose on the wet handkerchief, before walking away.
Since her grandfather had collapsed
on the stairs, every moment felt like a waking nightmare to Leda. Rain
saturated loose tendrils of hair around her face and dripped onto her dress as
she watched poor broken Vitorre shuffle away.
Only two days before, Grandfather’s
booming laughter echoed throughout the great house as brilliant sunshine filled
every room. Now, the silence was a sickening forecast of the future without
him. Leda closed her eyes to her pain and inhaled the comforting familiar scent
of rain before turning to go back into her room. Once in, she heard
Grandmother’s clipped steps at the base of the stairs as she quipped in a
shrill tone from the bottom of the stairwell, “Shall we leave without you?” The
old woman’s voice was a sharp rasp that invoked unsettled murmurings deep
within Leda’s soul. She was sure that her grandmother’s cold heart caused the
death of the dear old man. Grandmother’s shoes pivoted on the stone floor with
a scratching noise and stepped away toward the entry. Leda whirled toward the stairs
when she heard a muffled voice address Grandmother as the heavy front doors
creaked open. Leda lifted her floor length skirt and clasped the handrail at
the top of the stairs with the other as she descended into her version of the
depths of hell.
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