Howling, unintelligible, the man chasing was insane but he wouldn’t stop. I jumped a fence and still the man followed. He landed flat on the ground with a crunch but rose and chased on unperturbed, all the while howling away.
To my right, down another street, I could hear horses’ hooves pounding away, along with equine screams of terror. The fire that had started this whole thing was still spreading. Perhaps that was the source of the horses’ panic. But not even I was naïve enough to believe that. I looked back to see not one but three men chasing me. It was becoming clear that they were no longer really men.
Ahead a bus had overturned, blocking the entirety of the narrow street. The men were approaching fast, their howls more desperate than ever. A quick look around showed a small supermarket had its door open, even though the lights were off. If I’d had my time again I would never have gone in there. But I had no idea then how dangerous an enclosed space could be.
Showing posts with label Short Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Story. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The Broken Bottle
Joe lay on his dirty old couch on his back porch. He'd spent the night there, although he couldn't remember falling asleep.
His friends had come for a party to celebrate his escape from his vile marriage. That was the night before. Now there was just the usual devestation of the morning after.
Joe stared blankly at the unpolished deck. Tooheys cans and bundy cans everywhere. And the bottle of Smirnoff, smashed, broken shards all over the place.
It was not broken in clumsy drunkedness. It was in anger. All nights ended in anger for Joe. She was not the problem, he was. No wonder no friends had stayed to help clean up. Joe drove everyone away.
They had been so happy to begin with but the pressure of life had changed Joe. And after that he had changed her. Changed her into the witch she became, before she finally ended it with that piece of paper.
His friends had seen it all. They would support him but they also blamed him. All the jokes in the world didn't change their judging eys. He drove them away when he drove her away. Soon he would have nothing.
If only he could go back. To a time when he was not broken. But just like that bottle he could not go back.
His friends had come for a party to celebrate his escape from his vile marriage. That was the night before. Now there was just the usual devestation of the morning after.
Joe stared blankly at the unpolished deck. Tooheys cans and bundy cans everywhere. And the bottle of Smirnoff, smashed, broken shards all over the place.
It was not broken in clumsy drunkedness. It was in anger. All nights ended in anger for Joe. She was not the problem, he was. No wonder no friends had stayed to help clean up. Joe drove everyone away.
They had been so happy to begin with but the pressure of life had changed Joe. And after that he had changed her. Changed her into the witch she became, before she finally ended it with that piece of paper.
His friends had seen it all. They would support him but they also blamed him. All the jokes in the world didn't change their judging eys. He drove them away when he drove her away. Soon he would have nothing.
If only he could go back. To a time when he was not broken. But just like that bottle he could not go back.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Between the Shelves
Nebba scurried back to his hiding place as the dusty Dickens was taken. He felt a pang of regret, why choose that copy? The readers usually wanted the new editions with the shiny pages. But Nebba loved the smell of the old ones. There was work to do so Nebba slid down the back of the shelves to find his next vessel.
Books held amazing power, they could transfer a reader into another world for hours to safely return when they put the book down. Creatures like Nebba gave the books power.
Nebba did not like being in the open air, he dashed across the carpet and leaped into a new volume, Huxley this time, weaving through each page like deer through a forest. He delighted in every word, every syllable and every letter. The book was now ready for an eager reader to enjoy.
It broke Nebba's heart to see books taken that he had not prepared. The reader would struggle through lifeless pages and no doubt put the book down. With good fortune they may return and take another but many didn't. Readers lost for Nebba's shortcomings.
If it were possible Nebba would enchant every book, but he was only one and there was not enough time. Leaping out of Huxley and back to the carpet, skipping between the eager readers shoes and into an Eddings.
His life was always under threat. The books were powerful objects and became even more dangerous after he brought the pages to life. He could take join in their words but never their stories. For when one of his kind was drawn into the story they could not escape like the readers could. They would be trapped and become a part of the story.
So many had fallen in this way, becoming characters in narratives, slaves in paper and ink. It was the constant threat to Nebba's kind. So curious to know the world they sent readers to they needed a will of cast iron to resist.
Nebba knew that one day he too would succumb. He too would become a character in an amazing narrative, drawing readers into every scene. But for now he could still take joy in the simple things. Words, letters, suffixes and similes. And the smell of old books.
Books held amazing power, they could transfer a reader into another world for hours to safely return when they put the book down. Creatures like Nebba gave the books power.
Nebba did not like being in the open air, he dashed across the carpet and leaped into a new volume, Huxley this time, weaving through each page like deer through a forest. He delighted in every word, every syllable and every letter. The book was now ready for an eager reader to enjoy.
It broke Nebba's heart to see books taken that he had not prepared. The reader would struggle through lifeless pages and no doubt put the book down. With good fortune they may return and take another but many didn't. Readers lost for Nebba's shortcomings.
If it were possible Nebba would enchant every book, but he was only one and there was not enough time. Leaping out of Huxley and back to the carpet, skipping between the eager readers shoes and into an Eddings.
His life was always under threat. The books were powerful objects and became even more dangerous after he brought the pages to life. He could take join in their words but never their stories. For when one of his kind was drawn into the story they could not escape like the readers could. They would be trapped and become a part of the story.
So many had fallen in this way, becoming characters in narratives, slaves in paper and ink. It was the constant threat to Nebba's kind. So curious to know the world they sent readers to they needed a will of cast iron to resist.
Nebba knew that one day he too would succumb. He too would become a character in an amazing narrative, drawing readers into every scene. But for now he could still take joy in the simple things. Words, letters, suffixes and similes. And the smell of old books.
Monday, December 19, 2011
It started as a joke
Maurice sat in his basement. It was a strange place to sit, alone in his huge house. He could have been playing his viola in the music room or walking the dogs through hectares of perfectly manicured gardens, even roasting a duck in his brand newly renovated kitchen. But no. He was in the basement sitting on an upside down bucket, staring at a spider spinning its web in the doorway.
Twenty three years Maurice had lived in this house, in the first twenty two he barely came to this room, now he spent almost every minute here. It had started as a joke, a joke that grew into a project and spiralled into an obsession. Now his work was complete and he was afraid of how his life would change.
His life to this point had been one of luxury and success. He had been born into prestige, and built his empire so where he stood now made a mockery of his father’s pitiful fortune. But it had also been a life spent alone.
He looked at the spider, spinning its web, building its own empire, alone, just as he had. Would that spider be content with what it had, like he had never been able to be?
Maurice often felt like a spider, at once respected, feared, admired and abhorred by others. He had fed on their negative thoughts and words. When they scoffed at his wealth he built more, he made his life appear so great that no one could deny he had it better. He rubbed their face in the dirt then forced them to lick his boots clean. He had become the evil tyrant they accused him of being, even when he was an innocent boy.
But it was too much now, he’d retreated, like CFK to Xanadu. Hid away so he would no longer be hated, just scorned from afar. But even that had failed to content him.
He was an old man now. The absence of hate was a poor substitute for love. So he had retreated further, to his basement, just like the spider in the doorway, to build something just for him.
It had started as a joke, but as his work took shape he found himself ordering more and more expensive parts, had more and more accessories installed till his original design had grown out of control.
And now it was finished, ready to be turned on. If it worked as he planned he would never need to leave his house again. He could be content in his isolation, happy and no longer alone.
Maurice looked at the spider one last time. He knew why he was hesitant to flick the switch. He wasn’t ready to go down this path.
He stood up and left the basement as it was. Maybe one day he would finish what he started here, but first he would have one last try at life. Til then, Louisa could wait.
Twenty three years Maurice had lived in this house, in the first twenty two he barely came to this room, now he spent almost every minute here. It had started as a joke, a joke that grew into a project and spiralled into an obsession. Now his work was complete and he was afraid of how his life would change.
His life to this point had been one of luxury and success. He had been born into prestige, and built his empire so where he stood now made a mockery of his father’s pitiful fortune. But it had also been a life spent alone.
He looked at the spider, spinning its web, building its own empire, alone, just as he had. Would that spider be content with what it had, like he had never been able to be?
Maurice often felt like a spider, at once respected, feared, admired and abhorred by others. He had fed on their negative thoughts and words. When they scoffed at his wealth he built more, he made his life appear so great that no one could deny he had it better. He rubbed their face in the dirt then forced them to lick his boots clean. He had become the evil tyrant they accused him of being, even when he was an innocent boy.
But it was too much now, he’d retreated, like CFK to Xanadu. Hid away so he would no longer be hated, just scorned from afar. But even that had failed to content him.
He was an old man now. The absence of hate was a poor substitute for love. So he had retreated further, to his basement, just like the spider in the doorway, to build something just for him.
It had started as a joke, but as his work took shape he found himself ordering more and more expensive parts, had more and more accessories installed till his original design had grown out of control.
And now it was finished, ready to be turned on. If it worked as he planned he would never need to leave his house again. He could be content in his isolation, happy and no longer alone.
Maurice looked at the spider one last time. He knew why he was hesitant to flick the switch. He wasn’t ready to go down this path.
He stood up and left the basement as it was. Maybe one day he would finish what he started here, but first he would have one last try at life. Til then, Louisa could wait.
Fakers
I’ll apologise off the bat for this. I never meant for this to be a short story. It should have been a TV show I think. Not some primetime sitcom or anything, probably one of those obscure ones on SBS after Inspector Rex and Queer as folk. You know when you’re not sure whether you’re watching a porno or a work of art. Like any of those shows, this is neither. It’s a faker, just like me.
I met this girl at a party, Melinda. She was all exotic looking. I think I heard she’s Croatian, so hot. Her friend was talking to my friend and my friend was being all obnoxious and her friend was being a real bitch, se we started talking, mainly to apologise for the two losers we came with.
I was wearing a suit jacket over my David Bowie Tee shirt trying to fit in with all the indie kids. She was genuine though, not a faker like I was. She had an Ani Di Franco tattoo and fisherman pants and listened to The Smiths and Joy Division and all those other bands that I know like one song of. But I like The Strokes and old Greenday and so did she so we still got on well.
We mainly talked about music, or she talked and I listened, I was kind of out of my depth in the conversation. Then more people joined the group and I didn’t really get to talk to her again.
My night ended really shit because my mate Ray got real sick and I had to take him home, drunk bastard. The party wasn’t even really that good, and Melinda had lost interest in me but I still wanted to stay.
I went to facebook the next day and found her in the event guests. She accepted my add but I still wish I’d held off because I saw her two days later at uni and I couldn’t be all cool about not expecting to see her. She must think I’m a stalker by now. But at least she was friendly, even though I couldn’t tell if she was flirting with me or putting up with me. I even asked if she wanted to get a coffee later but she said she was busy. It’s Week 9 of semester, she probably was busy, or was she just blowing me off.
Where to go from here, the optimist in me says she likes me but I need to make a move, the pessimist obviously thinks otherwise. Dan’s having another party in a couple of weeks, I’ll probably hold off till then, I’m such a coward.
-------------------------------
I met him at Dan’s party, he was a friend of that arsehole that Jenny was fucking, I only talked to him to escape their bullshit.
He was actually one of the boys there, not just some extended friend like me. He was into Bowie and The Smiths and stuff. I was just glad I was showing off my tat so I had at least some credibility. The party was full of wankers, those wannabee hippies that think they’re too cool to smoke actual cigarettes so they have to roll their own. Ben didn’t even smoke, it was refreshing.
He didn’t talk much, I guess I was keeping him from enjoying the party, my friend third wheels me and he is stuck looking after me. I was glad he added me on facebook though. I even saw him at uni a few days later. He asked me for a coffee but I had to go to class for a group presentation.
Dan’s having another party soon. Jenny doesn’t want to go. Ben will be there but I can’t just go with him. He probably doesn’t even like me that much anyway. He could get way cooler girls than me.
-------------------------------
Dan’s party is two days away and Melinda is still on the awaiting reply list. I sent her a message asking her to come with me and then regretted it straight away. I should have just let it go, if she’s there and something happens then that’s all good but now I’ve been too eager I’ve ruined it.
I met this girl at a party, Melinda. She was all exotic looking. I think I heard she’s Croatian, so hot. Her friend was talking to my friend and my friend was being all obnoxious and her friend was being a real bitch, se we started talking, mainly to apologise for the two losers we came with.
I was wearing a suit jacket over my David Bowie Tee shirt trying to fit in with all the indie kids. She was genuine though, not a faker like I was. She had an Ani Di Franco tattoo and fisherman pants and listened to The Smiths and Joy Division and all those other bands that I know like one song of. But I like The Strokes and old Greenday and so did she so we still got on well.
We mainly talked about music, or she talked and I listened, I was kind of out of my depth in the conversation. Then more people joined the group and I didn’t really get to talk to her again.
My night ended really shit because my mate Ray got real sick and I had to take him home, drunk bastard. The party wasn’t even really that good, and Melinda had lost interest in me but I still wanted to stay.
I went to facebook the next day and found her in the event guests. She accepted my add but I still wish I’d held off because I saw her two days later at uni and I couldn’t be all cool about not expecting to see her. She must think I’m a stalker by now. But at least she was friendly, even though I couldn’t tell if she was flirting with me or putting up with me. I even asked if she wanted to get a coffee later but she said she was busy. It’s Week 9 of semester, she probably was busy, or was she just blowing me off.
Where to go from here, the optimist in me says she likes me but I need to make a move, the pessimist obviously thinks otherwise. Dan’s having another party in a couple of weeks, I’ll probably hold off till then, I’m such a coward.
-------------------------------
I met him at Dan’s party, he was a friend of that arsehole that Jenny was fucking, I only talked to him to escape their bullshit.
He was actually one of the boys there, not just some extended friend like me. He was into Bowie and The Smiths and stuff. I was just glad I was showing off my tat so I had at least some credibility. The party was full of wankers, those wannabee hippies that think they’re too cool to smoke actual cigarettes so they have to roll their own. Ben didn’t even smoke, it was refreshing.
He didn’t talk much, I guess I was keeping him from enjoying the party, my friend third wheels me and he is stuck looking after me. I was glad he added me on facebook though. I even saw him at uni a few days later. He asked me for a coffee but I had to go to class for a group presentation.
Dan’s having another party soon. Jenny doesn’t want to go. Ben will be there but I can’t just go with him. He probably doesn’t even like me that much anyway. He could get way cooler girls than me.
-------------------------------
Dan’s party is two days away and Melinda is still on the awaiting reply list. I sent her a message asking her to come with me and then regretted it straight away. I should have just let it go, if she’s there and something happens then that’s all good but now I’ve been too eager I’ve ruined it.
The Birthday Party
Scooter looked up at Max from the hospital bed. Max had finally been allowed to visit. He wasn't nearly as badly hurt as his friend.
Scooter wore a brace round his neck, he was too weak to speak. Max should have been reassuring him. But he wasn't.
Scooter looked helplessly back at Max. Max could see the liquid growing in his friends eyes. The pleading look asking why. Why was he in the hospital not safely home in his own bed? Why was he now in a world of morphine, blood doners, plaster and bandages. He should be back with his Star Wars posters and Simpsons DVDs. It wasn't fair, was it?
Max was trying not to think of the accident but looking at Scooter he couldn't avoid it. That rainy night, Scooter's birthday, stealing his dad's keys and taking the HSV for a ride. It was all Max's idea, Scooter's eyes were a reminder of that. It was Max behind the wheel, not used to the power of the V8.
The night had been dark, the roads around Scooter's house wet and windy. Max was in the middle of the road and had to swerve to miss the Volvo coming the other way. Max remembered the look on Scooter's face when they went off the road, it was the same one as now.
It asked why?
Why did we do it?
Max started sobbing uncontrollably. He'd nearly killed his best friend on his 11th birthday.
Scooter wore a brace round his neck, he was too weak to speak. Max should have been reassuring him. But he wasn't.
Scooter looked helplessly back at Max. Max could see the liquid growing in his friends eyes. The pleading look asking why. Why was he in the hospital not safely home in his own bed? Why was he now in a world of morphine, blood doners, plaster and bandages. He should be back with his Star Wars posters and Simpsons DVDs. It wasn't fair, was it?
Max was trying not to think of the accident but looking at Scooter he couldn't avoid it. That rainy night, Scooter's birthday, stealing his dad's keys and taking the HSV for a ride. It was all Max's idea, Scooter's eyes were a reminder of that. It was Max behind the wheel, not used to the power of the V8.
The night had been dark, the roads around Scooter's house wet and windy. Max was in the middle of the road and had to swerve to miss the Volvo coming the other way. Max remembered the look on Scooter's face when they went off the road, it was the same one as now.
It asked why?
Why did we do it?
Max started sobbing uncontrollably. He'd nearly killed his best friend on his 11th birthday.
Chocolate
You see it there, in its perfect place in the box, its surface flawless, shimmering, almost liquid, like the unbroken surface of a mountain lake in winter.
The smell, intoxicating, memories of easter morning. The hunt for hidden treasures, for the prizes held in coloured foil, the smell you could smell right now.
But fingerprints, like at the scene of any other crime, betray. The surface not so pure but the smell all the more inviting. The touch firm but slowly giving way. Slowly surrendering to your touch.
The first bite, small, barely scrapes the sides. The perfect shape almost intact. The rich taste overpowering all else, no part of the body fails to notice its presence.
A larger bite can not be discreet. A crunch and the loud chewing could be heard by any who came too close. But more powerful, the taste. No longer restricted to the tongue, it fills the mouth, covers the teeth and gums, makes the first taste, which seemed so important before, almost meaningless.
The surface now is broken and jagged. Beauty being overcome like a national park cruelly mined by a company only interested in profit and progress. More bites only enhance the feeling that something wonderful is being destroyed.
When it is gone it cannot be forgotten. The fingertips, once marking the surface has their role reversed. The last remains cling and even the licking of the tongue cannot clean them completely. The mouth remembers still. Craves a second helping that will not come. Craves that which can be felt going down to the belly.
And when all has gone one piece of evidence always remains. The empty space, staring hopelessly from the box.
The smell, intoxicating, memories of easter morning. The hunt for hidden treasures, for the prizes held in coloured foil, the smell you could smell right now.
But fingerprints, like at the scene of any other crime, betray. The surface not so pure but the smell all the more inviting. The touch firm but slowly giving way. Slowly surrendering to your touch.
The first bite, small, barely scrapes the sides. The perfect shape almost intact. The rich taste overpowering all else, no part of the body fails to notice its presence.
A larger bite can not be discreet. A crunch and the loud chewing could be heard by any who came too close. But more powerful, the taste. No longer restricted to the tongue, it fills the mouth, covers the teeth and gums, makes the first taste, which seemed so important before, almost meaningless.
The surface now is broken and jagged. Beauty being overcome like a national park cruelly mined by a company only interested in profit and progress. More bites only enhance the feeling that something wonderful is being destroyed.
When it is gone it cannot be forgotten. The fingertips, once marking the surface has their role reversed. The last remains cling and even the licking of the tongue cannot clean them completely. The mouth remembers still. Craves a second helping that will not come. Craves that which can be felt going down to the belly.
And when all has gone one piece of evidence always remains. The empty space, staring hopelessly from the box.
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