This topic was chosen as a tribute to Rosie Dubb's book, Gathering Storm. As I haven't read it, this story bears absolutely no relation to it.
Rain has not fallen on these plains for many years now. Where once there was grass and lush green gardens, dust and brittle twigs give evidence of the starvation of the land.
For, like a man deprived of food, the earth, without the sustenance given by water, withers and dies until only her bare bones are visible, bleached white by the harsh light of the sun.
A single man walks barefoot through this once-fertile desert, though he knows not that it was ever green. He has wandered this land for twenty-three years now, as did his father and grandfather before him, and even within three generations not one of them has seen rain fall on this parched soil.
His name is Nantill, and today he hunts a lizard.
He had seen its' footprints two days previously- huge, three toed marks bigger than his hand with a stride longer than his arm- and had been tracking it ever since.
After living on moths and sand-snake eggs for over three weeks, lizard will make a welcome change.
And now it is close. Very close.
Nantill pulls the spear from its' holder on his back, and takes one of the leather pouches from his belt. Opening the pouch, a strong scent of rotten meat wafts into the air, and he places it on the ground.
He crouches in the scrub, spear at the ready, and waits.
He does not know how long he sits there, but soon there is a crunching of dry twigs and a snorting of breath, and the lizard comes into view.
It is enormous, far bigger than anything he could possibly kill or eat on his own, and he is only too aware that he does not pose the same problem for it.
The lizards' scaled flanks heave as it sniffs at the bait, snorting in frustration when it finds nothing that would make a half-decent meal.
Then it turns it head, slowly, to where Nantill sits.
The lizard is a sandy color, its' back covered in large spikes that stick out at odd angles.
Though all creatures of its kind look slow and plodding, they are capable of bursts of speed that no human could ever hope to outrun.
Nantill knows this, as he slowly rises to his feet so that his head is now level with the lizards.
He knows it even as he points his spear at the things snout.
And he knows that he is going to die as it begins to charge.
He throws the spear as hard as he can, hoping to buy some time, though it could not possibly pass through the scaly hide, before turning and, without even checking to see if it hits or not, he runs.
He runs like he has never ran before, feet pounding against the dry dust, sweat pouring from his face, not looking where he's going, not caring where he's going, as long as it is far away.
And now he's falling, tumbling almost vertically downwards, sand entering his nose and mouth as he struggles for breath even as it is knocked from his body.
Finally it stops, and he lies face down in the sand, waiting for those crushing jaws to snatch his life away.
Nothing happens.
He staggers to his feet, and stares.
He fell from the top of a steep hill into a basin, of sorts, surrounded on all sides by similar sand-dunes.
The lizard is nowhere in sight.
It is like he's fallen into another world.
Before him is a gigantic structure rising out of the sand, of a material he has never seen before. It is not rock, nor is it bone, but something that glints in the sun like stars that have fallen from the sky. Scattered around it is debris of the same luster.
The place stinks of death.
Nantill walks cautiously over to the structure, and, when it makes no move to hurt him, he gingerly touches it. It is smooth, and so hot that he snatches his hand away with a yelp.
And he knows, suddenly and without doubt, that people lived here once, long ago. He can feel it. Though how they died, he does not know.
He hears a rumbling sound from somewhere far away, and glances up, startled. The hairs rise on the back of his neck as he gazes at the horizon.
Clouds, huge, swirling black clouds roll across the sky, swallowing up the light of day as they do so.
Nantill shivers as a cold wind strikes up, bringing with it an unfamiliar scent that no living creature has smelled for an age.
And while Nantill does not know what this means, I do. And I will tell you.
Just as the storm came to take away the lives and homes of the people who destroyed the land so many years ago, it comes again.
But this time, it gives life back.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Something Strange
This topic I was one I couldn't help but take as an order, rather than an actual subject
The door of the tavern swung open, letting in a gust of freezing air. A figure stood at the entrance, silhouetted against the bright neon lights from outside, and the warm firelight inside.
The tavern was the exact image of one of those cliched inns that you read about in every fantasy or historical novel. The wooden crudely painted sign hanging from the bar out the front creaked ominously, the stone walls were grimy and stained, and the thatched roof looked as if it would fall in at any moment. Inside, the firelight cast eerie shadows across the faces of shady looking men.
And these shady men were all watching the newcomer with hostility in their gaze. It was rare that anyone new came in, and even rarer that they came from the city.
The stranger stepped into the room, and shut the door to the modern sounds of the city outside. He glanced over to the bartender, a portly man in an apron, and spoke in a voice that carried throughout the room.
"They say that if a man looks hard enough, and long enough, he shall find whatsoever he searches for."
The bartender nodded to himself, and gestured for the man to come closer. The other men returned to their drinks and their pipes, some smirking slightly.
The stranger strode over to the bar, and the bartender leaned closer.
"They also say to be careful what you wish for," he said, "It might just come true. The same applies to looking for things that have nothing to do with you, Searcher."
The man addressed as Searcher shook his head.
"What I am searching for has everything to do with me, as it also has everything to do with everything. You cannot deny me, I know you cannot."
The barkeeper looked steadily into the determined eyes of the Searcher.
"How long have you been looking?" He asked.
"10 years, thirty days, and 12 hours." Came the prompt answer.
"How long have you known?"
"The same."
"They say that curiosity killed the cat, you know." The bartender warned.
The Searcher laughed.
"But I am not a cat."
"No-one has ever returned, what makes you think you are any different?"
"I don't."
The portly man bowed his head, whether in mourning or in acknowledgment that the other man had won it was unsure.
"Very well. Continue."
He swung open a gate in the side of the bar, allowing the searcher to step through and revealing a set of stairs that continued downwards into darkness.
The inhabitants of the tavern watched as one as the Searcher descended. When he had disappeared from view, the barkeeper returned to polishing a dirty glass with an equally dirty rag, and it was as if nothing had happened.
Meanwhile underneath the inn- though underneath was not perhaps the right word, as it was under the inn, and yet so far above the earth that it was incomprehensible- The Searcher strode steadily downward, or upward, if you prefer.
It was dark, pitch black, but this hardly impeded him, as he was traveling in an exact straight line. Eventually, perhaps a couple of seconds, a century, or forever, later, the darkness became light, and he knew.
He didn't know anything in particular, he just knew. He could see Them. The ones that say. The ones that Are.
They say You found us.
They say- for he can no longer tell where he begins and They end- Yes.
They say Why?
They say Because we had to.
They say We understand.
And then They are silent.
They are God, They are Allah, They are women, they are men.
They are demons, They are angels, they are us, and they are Them.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Resolution
Resolution.
You're dreaming. You know that from the blurriness of your surroundings, like a camera that just won't focus. You're in a park, deserted but for a man asleep on a wooden bench nearby. You try to walk, but realise that you aren't there. At least, not in a body. You are the park. You are the trees, the grass, the sky. The man awakens, and you see his eyes, the only things in focus, a glittering blue. You feel yourself being drawn into them, until they are all you can see, they fill your vision, so bright as to be unbearable.
And the dream ends. You awaken with a start, and try to recall what the dream had been about. But the images fade into the dark recesses of your mind before you can grasp them.
The golden light of early morning struggles to reach through the slit of your drawn curtains, the thin sliver that manages to pass crossing over your bed, a golden line through the centre of your room.
You get up, and draw the curtains apart, the light floods the room, the sheer strength of it sending flashes of colour across your eyes. The sun is rising over the tips of buildings, the cars on the street below glinting brightly from its radiance. Across the road your neighbours are getting ready for work, a car door slams, and they're gone.
You turn away from the window, and pull on the clothing you left on the floor last night.
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... Getting in the car, going to work, talking to your boss, blue eyes.
Now you're in the park. You come to it every night, after work. It helps you to relax. It is deserted, but for a man asleep on the park bench. Somehow it all seems familiar, but you can't figure out why. A plane roars overhead, and the man awakens...
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... Getting in the plane, flying out from Sydney, stopping at Fiji, Canton Island and Honolulu, blue eyes...
Now you're in the plane. Something is nagging at you, something not quite right. You're on flight 304, on the Douglas DC-6 aircraft called “Resolution.” You're headed for San Francisco, a work trip. A man sits beside you, bright blue eyes looking into yours with such intensity that you immediately look away.
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... The park, the man on the bench, a fortune teller, blue eyes...
You are back in the park. The man is awake, and calls you over. You step forwards, as if in a dream. He smiles gently at you.
“You will die soon. Your flight is doomed. Do not board the Resolution.”
You stagger back. You do not believe in the psychic. The man is mad, insane.
Then everything comes into focus... The crash, pain, darkness.
The blue-eyed man stands before you.
“I warned you.”
Then you are falling backwards, everything is rushing away from you. The blue-eyed man raises his hand in farewell.
You're dreaming. You know that from the blurriness of your surroundings, like a camera that just won't focus. You're in a park, deserted but for a man asleep on a wooden bench nearby. You try to walk, but realise that you aren't there. At least, not in a body. You are the park. You are the trees, the grass, the sky. The man awakens, and you see his eyes, the only things in focus, a glittering blue. You feel yourself being drawn into them, until they are all you can see, they fill your vision, so bright as to be unbearable.
And the dream ends. You awaken with a start, and try to recall what the dream had been about. But the images fade into the dark recesses of your mind before you can grasp them.
The golden light of early morning struggles to reach through the slit of your drawn curtains, the thin sliver that manages to pass crossing over your bed, a golden line through the centre of your room.
You get up, and draw the curtains apart, the light floods the room, the sheer strength of it sending flashes of colour across your eyes. The sun is rising over the tips of buildings, the cars on the street below glinting brightly from its radiance. Across the road your neighbours are getting ready for work, a car door slams, and they're gone.
You turn away from the window, and pull on the clothing you left on the floor last night.
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... Getting in the car, going to work, talking to your boss, blue eyes.
Now you're in the park. You come to it every night, after work. It helps you to relax. It is deserted, but for a man asleep on the park bench. Somehow it all seems familiar, but you can't figure out why. A plane roars overhead, and the man awakens...
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... Getting in the plane, flying out from Sydney, stopping at Fiji, Canton Island and Honolulu, blue eyes...
Now you're in the plane. Something is nagging at you, something not quite right. You're on flight 304, on the Douglas DC-6 aircraft called “Resolution.” You're headed for San Francisco, a work trip. A man sits beside you, bright blue eyes looking into yours with such intensity that you immediately look away.
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... The park, the man on the bench, a fortune teller, blue eyes...
You are back in the park. The man is awake, and calls you over. You step forwards, as if in a dream. He smiles gently at you.
“You will die soon. Your flight is doomed. Do not board the Resolution.”
You stagger back. You do not believe in the psychic. The man is mad, insane.
Then everything comes into focus... The crash, pain, darkness.
The blue-eyed man stands before you.
“I warned you.”
Then you are falling backwards, everything is rushing away from you. The blue-eyed man raises his hand in farewell.
Drifting
I observe the passing of the ages
I see you
I hear you
I smell you
I watch you from the shadowed places
I'm not dead
Not yet
Just drifting
I can feel your anger
Your hope
Your love
Your sorrow
I watch you from the shadowed places
I'm not dead
I gaze on as your life unfolds
Each beat of your heart
Each breath you take
I watch you from the shadowed places
Just drifting
Every time you dream I'm there
Calling
Pleading
Screaming
I'm not dead
Not yet
Just drifting
I loved you, you destroyed me
You hurt me
You shunned me
You tore me away
I watch you from the shadowed places
Just drifting
Just dreaming
Just waiting
I watch you
I see you
I hear you
I smell you
I watch you from the shadowed places
I'm not dead
Not yet
Just drifting
I can feel your anger
Your hope
Your love
Your sorrow
I watch you from the shadowed places
I'm not dead
I gaze on as your life unfolds
Each beat of your heart
Each breath you take
I watch you from the shadowed places
Just drifting
Every time you dream I'm there
Calling
Pleading
Screaming
I'm not dead
Not yet
Just drifting
I loved you, you destroyed me
You hurt me
You shunned me
You tore me away
I watch you from the shadowed places
Just drifting
Just dreaming
Just waiting
I watch you
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The day after tomorrow
It's called the Day After Tomorrow, DAT for short. And because of it, I know exactly what to do in order not to get killed in two days. So I can relax, and I won't have to worry about anything any more. Brilliant, eh?
Honestly, this machine has the best VR graphics yet, and that is saying something. Those scientists have really got onto something this time. Imagine it, a machine that calculates one possible path of your future, and then simulates the results. And it's never wrong. The military and Secret Services have got them, all the rich people too. It costs a fortune, so the closest most people ever come to them are the ads in the Arcade. But those people don't deserve them anyway. It was their choice to be poor, DAT taught me that. Every part of your life is based on the choices you make, and so every bad thing that happens to someone was their choice, and their choice alone. It wasn't any fault of mine.
Those blacks starving in Africa? I reckon they're just trying to get our food, money and sympathy. Bastards.
Yeah, it's their choice. Life has just felt so much better since I bought that beautiful machine. Now I know that everything that happens in the world was because of someone else's choices. And it's entirely up to them if they want to die from the BioPlague or not.
Yeah.
Anyway, it's been interesting talking to you. Look, no offence, but I think you should change your mind about being a beggar. I mean, seriously. Do you really want to live the rest of your short life wearing rags and begging for money? Think about it, OK?
What?
No, you cannot have ten dollars. Haven't you been listening to me? It's your choice if you want to be poor, but don't go trying to inflict it on anyone else.
Of course it's your choice!
Yeah, well, it's entirely up to you if you want to get evicted.
Well, if you didn't want it, then why did you choose it, huh? Answer that then.
What did you just call me? Speak up! Don't look at me like that! How dare you! You know who I am! I could have you slung in jail for verbal assault you know!
You don't care? Look, I am the richest man in America!
Yes, it was my choice to be rich.
Well, the fact that my father was a billionaire might have something to do with it... But I chose him, as well!
Of course you can choose your parents!
Well, its hardly my problem if you chose to have a drunken gambler for a father.
I...
I'd better be going. I've got an appointment to attend to.
For the last time, you cannot have any money!
Look, that's what soup kitchens are for!
Now GOODBYE!
Honestly, this machine has the best VR graphics yet, and that is saying something. Those scientists have really got onto something this time. Imagine it, a machine that calculates one possible path of your future, and then simulates the results. And it's never wrong. The military and Secret Services have got them, all the rich people too. It costs a fortune, so the closest most people ever come to them are the ads in the Arcade. But those people don't deserve them anyway. It was their choice to be poor, DAT taught me that. Every part of your life is based on the choices you make, and so every bad thing that happens to someone was their choice, and their choice alone. It wasn't any fault of mine.
Those blacks starving in Africa? I reckon they're just trying to get our food, money and sympathy. Bastards.
Yeah, it's their choice. Life has just felt so much better since I bought that beautiful machine. Now I know that everything that happens in the world was because of someone else's choices. And it's entirely up to them if they want to die from the BioPlague or not.
Yeah.
Anyway, it's been interesting talking to you. Look, no offence, but I think you should change your mind about being a beggar. I mean, seriously. Do you really want to live the rest of your short life wearing rags and begging for money? Think about it, OK?
What?
No, you cannot have ten dollars. Haven't you been listening to me? It's your choice if you want to be poor, but don't go trying to inflict it on anyone else.
Of course it's your choice!
Yeah, well, it's entirely up to you if you want to get evicted.
Well, if you didn't want it, then why did you choose it, huh? Answer that then.
What did you just call me? Speak up! Don't look at me like that! How dare you! You know who I am! I could have you slung in jail for verbal assault you know!
You don't care? Look, I am the richest man in America!
Yes, it was my choice to be rich.
Well, the fact that my father was a billionaire might have something to do with it... But I chose him, as well!
Of course you can choose your parents!
Well, its hardly my problem if you chose to have a drunken gambler for a father.
I...
I'd better be going. I've got an appointment to attend to.
For the last time, you cannot have any money!
Look, that's what soup kitchens are for!
Now GOODBYE!
A monologue/dialogue
Drowning cats. That's what it sounds like. Drowning cats on drugs.
What? How can you say that?
Just listen. He sounds like he's dying really slooooowly. He's not even making any sense! I mean, what the hell is he supposed to mean by “I'm worst at what I do best?” That's such a contradiction!
It's not supposed to make any sense! You derive whatever meaning you want from it!
The only meaning I can see is: I'm on drugs and I can't think of anything else to say so, hey, how about we put in something that sounds really deep but is in reality a load of crap? And lets put it to some heavy music and scream it out real loud so that no-one can understand us!
Look, the lyrics are an anthem to teenage rebellion.
“Load up on guns, bring your friends?” Come on. It sounds more like the anthem for “Serial Killers United”! And what the hell does the mosquito and the albino have to do with teenage rebellion? Admit it, you have no idea what you're talking about.
Well... I... The music is great, you've got to admit that.
Oh god, now he sounds really strange. What song is this one?
“Come as you are”.
Well, this doesn't make any sense either. What's with the “And I swear that I don't have a gun” business?
Well, obviously he hates this person, and he's trying to get them to come over, or whatever, and he's swearing that he doesn't have a gun, when actually he does. I think.
Guns again. This guy is seriously wrong in the head.
Was.
What?
Was wrong in the head. Not that he was.
Why, did he burst his lungs trying to rasp out those lyrics?
No, he killed himself.
Ha, that proves it. Wrong in the head. Insane. How did he kill himself?
He shot himself with a sawn off shotgun.
So I guess he did have a gun then, huh?
It's not funny. He was a good man.
Good? I had no idea. What the hell is this song about?
Tea.
What? Tea? How can you have a rock song about TEA?
Well... He obviously liked it.
Tea. He liked tea. And so naturally decides to write a song about it. Cherry flavoured, no less. How very creative.
Hey, I like this song.
I thought you would. Seems like it would be just your cup of tea. Excuse the pun. I think I'll change the track. What in the name of hell is this supposed to be? This sounds like the sound effects to some low budget science fiction movie about flying saucers!
Radio friendly Unit Shifter.
Radio Friendly unit shifter. Radio... What the hell was wrong with this guy?
Nothing was wrong with him! He was amazing!
Amazingly high, by the sound of his voice in this song.
Look, just because you don't have a voice like Kurt Cobain, doesn't mean you have to insult his music.
Yeah. You're right. Sorry.
It's OK.
I'll see you round.
Bye.
What? How can you say that?
Just listen. He sounds like he's dying really slooooowly. He's not even making any sense! I mean, what the hell is he supposed to mean by “I'm worst at what I do best?” That's such a contradiction!
It's not supposed to make any sense! You derive whatever meaning you want from it!
The only meaning I can see is: I'm on drugs and I can't think of anything else to say so, hey, how about we put in something that sounds really deep but is in reality a load of crap? And lets put it to some heavy music and scream it out real loud so that no-one can understand us!
Look, the lyrics are an anthem to teenage rebellion.
“Load up on guns, bring your friends?” Come on. It sounds more like the anthem for “Serial Killers United”! And what the hell does the mosquito and the albino have to do with teenage rebellion? Admit it, you have no idea what you're talking about.
Well... I... The music is great, you've got to admit that.
Oh god, now he sounds really strange. What song is this one?
“Come as you are”.
Well, this doesn't make any sense either. What's with the “And I swear that I don't have a gun” business?
Well, obviously he hates this person, and he's trying to get them to come over, or whatever, and he's swearing that he doesn't have a gun, when actually he does. I think.
Guns again. This guy is seriously wrong in the head.
Was.
What?
Was wrong in the head. Not that he was.
Why, did he burst his lungs trying to rasp out those lyrics?
No, he killed himself.
Ha, that proves it. Wrong in the head. Insane. How did he kill himself?
He shot himself with a sawn off shotgun.
So I guess he did have a gun then, huh?
It's not funny. He was a good man.
Good? I had no idea. What the hell is this song about?
Tea.
What? Tea? How can you have a rock song about TEA?
Well... He obviously liked it.
Tea. He liked tea. And so naturally decides to write a song about it. Cherry flavoured, no less. How very creative.
Hey, I like this song.
I thought you would. Seems like it would be just your cup of tea. Excuse the pun. I think I'll change the track. What in the name of hell is this supposed to be? This sounds like the sound effects to some low budget science fiction movie about flying saucers!
Radio friendly Unit Shifter.
Radio Friendly unit shifter. Radio... What the hell was wrong with this guy?
Nothing was wrong with him! He was amazing!
Amazingly high, by the sound of his voice in this song.
Look, just because you don't have a voice like Kurt Cobain, doesn't mean you have to insult his music.
Yeah. You're right. Sorry.
It's OK.
I'll see you round.
Bye.
Resilience
See this man, as he gazes out the window at rapidly passing scenery. The way his short blonde hair falls over dark blue eyes . He is one face of many on the train, but he is the one we will observe.
He is listening to music on his MP4 player, and tapping his fingers to the beat.
Lets hear what he hears...
“Well I think it's fine, building jumbo planes.
Or taking a ride on a cosmic train.
Switch on summer from a slot machine.
Yes, get what you want to if you want, 'cause you can get anything.”
Lets see what he sees...
The brick walls of buildings speed past, with the occasional blurred bit of greenery. The train stops as it reaches a station, and his attention is grasped by an old man sitting on the platform, his tanned, weather beaten face etched with an expression of sadness. His clothes are tattered, and he clutches his frayed and billowing jacket around him in a desperate attempt to ward off the winter chill.
The song changes...
“It doesn't matter to me
It doesn't matter to me
I'll sit home and watch you all on my colour TV”
The train roars on, the sound of its passing drowned out by the music. Into a tunnel now, lit by fluorescent lights. The walls are covered in graffiti, hastily scribbled tags that seem to blend into one another with the speed. The train slows at it rounds a bend, and his eyes widen as a huge artwork is revealed, the other more mundane graffiti leaving a reverent space around it.
Beautifully painted vines, covered with leaves and blood red flowers, seem to grow out of the wall itself. The word “Resilience”, entwined by the vines and painted in black and gold copperplate writing, glimmers in the dim lighting of the tunnel. He frantically pulls a camera from his bag, but it is too late. It's gone.
He slumps back and sighs, replacing the camera, as the train emerges into the bright light of day.
The song changes...
“Perfect by nature, icons of self indulgence,
just what we all need
more lies about the world.”
A billboard comes into view, a pouting female model advertising a product, saying,
“Life just gets better and better.”
Scrawled across her face in spray paint, are the words: “Sincere lie.”
And now the train stops again. He glances up at the sign on the station, and stands, taking his bag.
The doors open with a hiss, and he steps out into the open air.
He is listening to music on his MP4 player, and tapping his fingers to the beat.
Lets hear what he hears...
“Well I think it's fine, building jumbo planes.
Or taking a ride on a cosmic train.
Switch on summer from a slot machine.
Yes, get what you want to if you want, 'cause you can get anything.”
Lets see what he sees...
The brick walls of buildings speed past, with the occasional blurred bit of greenery. The train stops as it reaches a station, and his attention is grasped by an old man sitting on the platform, his tanned, weather beaten face etched with an expression of sadness. His clothes are tattered, and he clutches his frayed and billowing jacket around him in a desperate attempt to ward off the winter chill.
The song changes...
“It doesn't matter to me
It doesn't matter to me
I'll sit home and watch you all on my colour TV”
The train roars on, the sound of its passing drowned out by the music. Into a tunnel now, lit by fluorescent lights. The walls are covered in graffiti, hastily scribbled tags that seem to blend into one another with the speed. The train slows at it rounds a bend, and his eyes widen as a huge artwork is revealed, the other more mundane graffiti leaving a reverent space around it.
Beautifully painted vines, covered with leaves and blood red flowers, seem to grow out of the wall itself. The word “Resilience”, entwined by the vines and painted in black and gold copperplate writing, glimmers in the dim lighting of the tunnel. He frantically pulls a camera from his bag, but it is too late. It's gone.
He slumps back and sighs, replacing the camera, as the train emerges into the bright light of day.
The song changes...
“Perfect by nature, icons of self indulgence,
just what we all need
more lies about the world.”
A billboard comes into view, a pouting female model advertising a product, saying,
“Life just gets better and better.”
Scrawled across her face in spray paint, are the words: “Sincere lie.”
And now the train stops again. He glances up at the sign on the station, and stands, taking his bag.
The doors open with a hiss, and he steps out into the open air.
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