#novellete

[biandlesbianliterature]

Julie Thompson reviews Ripped: A Rapunzel Retelling by M. Hollis Modern-day fairytale revisions let us see ourselves more broadly reflected. My favorite stories include rows upon rows of crowded bookshelves and women who happen to be in a pickle, but aren't afraid to ask for help in kicking down the tower’s front door.

[harrison-abbott]

THE UNCONVINCED EYES

I climbed the wall. Atop it was a gleaming bar of frost. My fingers made patterns in the crystals; the kinds of shapes I would’ve liked better if I was still a child. I perched on the wall’s top and analysed the building. There were no lights through the windows. In the garden there were little tricycles and balls scattered about, and on the building’s wall was the lettering STRAWBERRY HILL NURSERY. I jumped off the wall, landing softly on the grass. The strands were brilliantly silver and crunched under my boots; I’d long stopped shivering: had just gone accustomed to the temperature. The stars were amazed and mindlessly gaping in pixie dots in the sky. The gates had been locked from the front. I checked the front windows and it looked like nobody had gotten in from there. I went around the back of the garden. One of the back windows had been smashed out. Glass all over the floor. I panicked. And immediately sought to retreat. In case somebody was inside … But, I’d been silent thus far. I scanned the windows from this side and there was no illumination. At the back of the garden I waited, squatting in the growth. I gave it half an hour and there was no movement, nothing. So I approached the broken window and climbed through. The air didn’t change much when I did so, was only a little subdued. I turned the torch on. Vapours twirled about the beam’s blade. “Hello?” I called. The voice was ominous, hard, stark, in this big house. I was in a grand living room type space, also filled with toys and colourful stuff, kids’ stuff, and it made me queasy to be here. (I never even went to nursery myself.) “Anyone in here? I’m a civilian.” There was only the small dying and then dead echo of my voice. I moved over the toys on the floor towards a new door, bearing the torch forward. Came to this atrium, where there was a grand staircase and these other rooms. There was nothing else broken in the atmosphere; nothing like the crashed window. There was a reception desk and all of the keys were hung on nails on the board above it. A telephone and computer which weren’t blinking. There was one other room which had the title SLEEPING POD on it in rainbow lettering. And when I peeked inside there were these rays of tot beds in long rows. I shut the door. And went upstairs. It must’ve belonged to some upper-rich family, two centuries back: considering the style of the house. I wondered what they would’ve thought if they would’ve seen me, in here, right now … an intruder, a stranger. I got to this new room which was stuffed with further children’s stuff. All I needed was a place to sleep, for a few hours, before dawn. Which would be here soon. I couldn’t sleep anywhere near infantile items. So I thought I should just use the corridor floor instead. Where there were only carpets. I took my jacket off, and put it over me. Out of my bag I took the bottle of water, the handgun, and bottle of gin out. I took a swipe of the gin. The water bottle was running low for just now so I left it. Another few glugs of the gin. Then laid the handgun by them, close to my head. Then turned the torch off. Was fairly sure I was safe in this house, and I would be on my way in the morning. I did have food and that helps anybody sleep but I had to ration the cans I had as well. Plus, the instant I lay down I was too tired to get back up again. Clamped down. Was lucky to have a good coat. My brain slipped into that inter-land of consciousness and dreams. For weeks I would rather belong to the latter, and stay there forever, no matter how mad they became in content.

  BANG.

    CRACKLE.

    I woke up. Where was I? A house … It was still dark. I lay on a floor.

    There was another bang from downstairs. I flinched. Somebody was definitely in this house with me. Yes – that was it, I’d broken in.

    I got up and put my coat on. I took the bottles and put them in my bag and I equipped the handgun, and all the blood charged up my body and into my head. And listened.

    Watching the stairwell at the end of the corridor I listened for any other cues.

    A light appeared. An orange light, wavering, steadily making more brazen shadows on the walls.

    I took my torch out of the coat pocket. And, with that in one hand and the gun in the other, crept towards the edge of the stairwell.

    Shuffling, muffled, awkward noises. It was firelight. For sure. I edged to the banisters atop the well and looked down. And there was a person. Moving slow. Holding an opened lighter. I couldn’t tell whether they were male or female. But they were obviously weak. Despite that, I still had to be wary. I gulped. Gulping, and my heart yammered.

    The person started to walk up the stairs on the below floor, holding the flame out before his or her face.

    I stepped up. And pinged the torch light on. And ran a few steps down the stairs.

    I stung the torch on the person. It was a man. Old: older than I was. Who screamed. And dropped his lighter, and that item went spinning away and now it was only the nasty torchlight.

    He tried to flee. Back down the stairs. And tripped, and landed on his front. I ran down to the halfway point in the well and kept the torch on him. He sat upright and whimpered and held his hands up. I held the handgun on him.

    “Please, don’t,” he said.

    “Who are you?” I called.

    “Nobody.”

    “Why you here?”

    “Just looking for shelter, is all. I can go. I’m sorry.”

    “It’s all right. It’s fine. You a civilian?”

    “Yes!”

    “I am as well. It’s okay – I was just checking.”

    I took the torch off of him and shone it on me instead. And the light was horrible. And I felt bad for doing that to him. But then I couldn’t see anything so I aimed the torch downwards, and put the handgun in my inside pocket. And this man twitched there at the bottom of the stairs, me above him. I was ashamed.

    “Honestly,” I said, “I won’t hurt you. It’s just that we can’t trust strangers, right?”

    He nodded.

    “Where’d your lighter go?”

    “Huh?”

    “Your lighter – you dropped it.”

    I shone the torch on the floor around him so he could locate it. And at the same time I came down closer to him. He was still on the ground. There was this lighter, shining. He heaved across for it. Just by his movement I knew that he was injured in some way. He put the lighter in his pocket. Was still afraid of me.

    “Come on, man,” I said, holding down an open palm, “let me help you up.”

    He clasped my hand and he was featherweight to lift up. And I held him as he stood and swayed. He was maybe twenty five years older than me. I was 30. His forehead was grubby, sweaty, and his eyes were all dazed. He looked like he was going to fall over again, so I said,

    “Here – looks like you need some rest. There are some beds this way.”

    I helped him over to the kid’s tot-bed room. Where there were all these eerily dormant beds. The man wheezed; he was delirious and dusty to the touch. I lowered him onto the floor versus the wall. And then gathered some of the pillows from the beds. (There were no blankets but there were some pillows leftover.) And I put them out on the floor for the man. He lay on them. I put the torch against the wall, angling it in such a way as you would a lamp, so we had some overall light.

    “What’s your name?” I said to him.

    “Bill.”

    “Nice to meet you, Bill. I’m Louis.”

    “Good to meet you.”

    “Are you hurt? Injured, I mean.”

    “Yes.”

    “Where?”

    As an answer, he lifted a flab of his coat off, and then, with great strife, lifted his shirt up. There was a black-red bandage on his lower back, below his ribs and above his kidney. I swallowed.

    “Were you shot?” I said.

    “Stabbed.”

    “By which side?”

    “Neither. It was a random man. A crazy man. We were in a store. Fighting over food. He tried to grab a basket off of me. I wouldn’t let him. So he stabbed me. And then ran away with the basket.”

    “When did that happen?”

    “Day before yesterday.”

    “Who bandaged you up?”

    “Me. I got some bandages from another store. But I can’t reach it so well.”

    I didn’t know how to form a next sentence and then both of us were silent for some time.

    “Sorry for scaring you earlier, Bill.”

    “No problem.”

    He put his shirt and coat flaps back down.

    “I have some food,” I said. “You want some?”

    “You do?”

    “Yeah, hang on.”

    I went into my bag and fished one of the cans out. It was baked beans. I opened it.

    “I’m afraid I’ve got no cutlery,” I said.

    “Thanks a lot.”

    He opened it and wolfed into it. I opened one of the other cans too … the beans were mushy and glorious and heady and calorific.

    “You want a drink as well?” I said. Offering the gin. His eyes flashed at the sight.

    “I used to have a problem with all of that,” he said, and then he took the bottle. “But, what does it matter now?”

    He swigged and he winced.

    “I couldn’t get out of the city when the bombs hit,” Bill said, “and I had to hide in my apartment for days. What’s your story?”

    “I’m trying to get out, too. Have tried the north, to go that way. But the soldiers are too heavy there. So I turned to the east, and met the other side there. They shot at me. Now I’m here and I’m gonna try the south this time. You can come with me if you like?”

    “Thank you, Louis.”

    He passed me the gin and I drank some and gave it back to him.

    “How old are you, Louis?”

    “I’m 30. You?”

    “65. I gave up alcohol about twenty years back. Now that I think of it: I don’t think that ever helped me out much. The world just got worse all around me in those two decades. Who cares about a nobody like me?”

    “I care, man. I can help you out. You can come south with me.”

    “There aren’t many people like you, though. … What’s with your face, Louis?”

    “Sorry?”

    “There’s a mark on your forehead, above the eyebrow.”

    “Ah yeah. That incident with the soldiers. When I was running away. I fell. Banged my head. It was probably lucky … that I fell, when I did. Because this shower of fire went over me. Then I pretended I was hit and lay under the rubble. They stopped. I ran. They shot after me, but missed.”

    “I’m glad you’re still alive. World needs angels. Even if there are few angels. Maybe you aren’t one. A good man. But you seem like it.”

    “Thanks, Bill. You want something else to eat?”

    “No, thank you though. My stomach’s all filled up.”

    “You want to rest? We should move out by dawn. But, if you want to rest a bit longer then that’s fine with me too?”

    “Dawn sounds good, my man.”

    “Right. I will be sleeping out in the hall.”

    “Okay.”

    “Night night for now.”

    “Hey, Louis. Thanks again.”

    I left him in the kids’ room. And went out into the atrium and I lay on the floor. It was a long while trying to head to sleep and I kept taking nips of the gin to aid me off there. Nor could I enter that weird between-planet where dreams are suggested. I heard Bill’s snoring from the other room. It wasn’t really snoring – only the humble breathing of an older man’s sleeping head. In the outer dark I could sense the high ceiling above me, far away; this long credible hard surface which was my roof for the terminal night.

  I awoke to a whispery feeling on my face. I feared it might be a spider. When I wiped my cheeks nothing came off in my hands. I stood up. There was a stronger-than-hoped for light outside the nursery windows: I’d slept in past dawn. This was a bit risky. I drank some of the water, which really was running low. It’d been out all night and the chill ran down my gullet. Into Bill’s room with the tiny beds. He had his back to the wall and was still. “Hey, Bill?” I whispered. “We gotta get up now and get going south.” It was mean to wake him but needed being done. He didn’t stir. I moved closer to him, and bent to see if his shoulders were moving. His coat was sprawled over him and I could only see a slither of his face. “Bill? It’s me, Louis. We have to get up now and continue heading south. Want some breakfast?” His face was grey. Lips open. I touched his shoulder and shoogled it a bit. There was no break in him. I said his name three times and shook him a bit more. “I’m sorry, my friend,” I said. “That I couldn’t do more for you medically.” I lifted his coat up above his face; it was so babyish, pathetic. There was a raw, guttural anger in me for whomever stabbed this man. “You’re probably on your way to Heaven, at least,” I said to his body. “Somewhere better than here.” I closed the door behind me, leaving him in there. Then this immediate urge to get free of this nursery overwhelmed me. And within minutes I was all kitted up and climbing back through the open window at the back. Then back up the wall and into the street. It was all in blue and pink. And the sky comfortingly clear and bright. I took a slug of the gin. South was this way. I knew. So I continued … Unto an area of plush houses. Middle class district, I mean. Ghosttown suburbs. And along the way I could see that some of them had been looted. One had his front door hanging open. Another had its garage door all blackened out. But I always thought these suburbs were sterile and empty, even without a war on. When I was in school (a long, long time ago) there was a much-similar district which I’d walk through to get to the schoolbuilding on the mornings. It looked like this one. The only thing which was different was that there were no cars in the driveways. They’d all fled. … Within the air I smelled burning petrol. Only the hangovers of – not fresh. But I needed to be alert. I walked out of the neighbourhood without any movement save the bare rowan trees flickering in the wind. Past that, I came to a narrow path, and when out of it arrived on a small woodland. A woody trail. There was a four way arrow sign. I recognised one of the names. And headed that way. Along the trail. Nice woodland. Lots of amber leaves and birch boughs. The types of images to help you forget. The land arose steeply. And when I got to the top of the hill I heard the sound of water. The path dallied down the other side of the valley, and soon enough the path led me to a rolling brown river. There was a bridge over that. Before the bridge I stole down to the bankside and inspected the water. It was obviously an urban river. But if I boiled some of it up then I could kill off the toxins within and it would be drinkable? My bottle was almost done and I had another day ahead of me. It was worth a shot. I had a pot in my bag. … So I let by bag down. And fashioned a ring of rocks on the bankside. I already had some newspaper in my bag, too. (Papers from weeks ago, with these stark ominous headlines, all these warning words in capitals.) I scrunched up the papers and made fodder bobbles with them. Then went up the bank and pilfered some of the dead bracken and fallen birch twigs and brought them back to the rock halo. I had matches with me. And I lit one and held it under the paper bobbles. They curled and sparked and caught up with the dark twigs above them. And soon I had a fire on me. With me. I warmed the hands. The lush scent of woodsmoke was native and fond to me. The little pot in my bag – I took it over to the river and I scooped up a heft of water in it. Then looked at it, to check for bits … to see if it was clean. It just looked like water. Then I brought that back over to the fire. And arrested the pot by the rocks, over the flames. Got a decent slant on it. And I watched the water at the bottom of the metal, until it began to bubble. These spritely balls, forming and pinging up to the surface. And I watched the resurgence of the rest of the water coming up to the boil with relish … And then I saw this shape descend down the river towards me. From afar. This lurking shape. I stopped and stood up and I sensed the handgun in my inner pocket. The shape flowed down the current towards me. What was it? It was black and lumpy. Without quite realising it I took the handgun out and trained it on the object, and backed away on the bankside. It came closer and closer. Was no animate thing. It was a dead dog. A canine that no longer lived. Muzzle-up, it rampaged down the current, past me. How did it even get in the river? How did it die? Shouldn’t call it ‘it’: it was a he or she and somebody’s pet: it had a collar on it. Then the dog just disappeared around the bend in the river beyond the bridge. I put the gun away. … I went back to the fire and took the pot off of it. All the bubbly violent water. I threw the pot into the water. It sizzled briefly on the current and then turned into zilch. I touched the bottom of the pot against the river to cool it down. Then I sat on the bank and drank some more of the gin instead of the water that I really needed now to spare. I judged that it would take me another day to get to the southern border. If I really tried walking it. That was doable. I snuffed the fire out with my boots. Shame, because it was a nice little affair. I got back up from the bankside. And headed across the bridge.

  There were further suburban areas. Which thinned out as I ventured; the housing getting more spacious and fancy across the hours. And then I found the motorway. Which is what I was looking for. A motorway, rather. I looked on the roadway sign and found the M digit I was after: this road would lead me there. … And so then I was in a landscape of fields all around me. All in splendid wintery sunshine. And the cemented roads motionless as fair paintings, grey streaks versus the ginger squares of the land.

    It was worrying me that my gin was running out too. I glugged on that. Was quite dazed. It was around lunchtime, by my gathering: but what did Time matter anymore? What did Time honestly mean? Fuck it.

    There was a noise behind me. Racy switch-on echoes. I tied the bottle up and put it in my coat again and turned around. This volcanic thundercloud emerged from the end of the motorway. I stood there for way too long. Just watching. Because I’d forgotten that I was in a different world.

    A jeep raced towards me. An army jeep. In ultra green … it flushed down the road and I now no longer had the chance to bail to the side of the road. They’d already seen me. So what I did was simply continue walking. Turned my head, hoping that they wouldn’t stop and check me.

    The volume of the vehicle crescendoed. And then diminuendoed. And I knew they’d seen me … that they weren’t going to drive on. The coward that I was: I just kept walking, ears a-prickle. The handgun was heavy in my inner pocket. I’d never technically used it before. I didn’t know if this would be my last chapter in life. What the soldiers would do to me. But even with the gnarly glug of the army jeep behind me, I was too cowardly to turn around.

    Until they honked at me.

    I jumped, cartoonishly.

    And this was met with a manly laughter.

    I looked around and there were two men through the windshield; could see the white scapes of their teeth, hahaha. They turned the ignition off.

    This is bad. I thought. This is bad. And then I thought about making a belt for it. But I believed in a good nature of common men. Some crap like that.

    “How are you doing, sir?” one of the soldiers called, stepping out of his jeep. He was the driver. He had a prominent moustache.

    “I’m good, sir,” I said. “You?”

    “Just fine. Fine indeed.”

    “Where you off to?”

    “Just walking, is all.”

    “Where are you off to?”

    “I’m heading south. Just on my own. Not a threat to anybody.”

    “Ho. I see.”

    The other soldier was very small. He had an assault rifle carried across his waist. As he got out of the jeep I noticed that he stumbled. And his eyelids were depressed. He looked at me with boyish curiosity. Was proud of his gun. He went around the side of the bonnet and then sat on the edge of it.

    “What’s your name?” he called.

    “Louis,” I said.

    “Louis what?”

    “Louis Dykes. I’m just a civilian. Heading on my way. Not affiliated with any side.”

    “Ha ha ha!” the proud gunman called. “That will save you for sure.”

    This man then took his weapon off of his body and set it on the bonnet. Then he nipped over to the other side of the road. Unbuckled his trousers. And began pissing.

    The moustache man was drunk as well. I got that from his smell and his gait, as he waggled over to me, all confident with eye contact. Got up in my face.

    “Where are you from?” his breath made my nose peel. But I disguised the wince.

    “Here.”

    “Where is here?” he looked around the fields and the motorway. There was a pistol in his belt. His mate was still pissing in the ditch.

    “I’m just from the city, is all. I want to be on my way.”

    I moved on from him too soon. He made to block me with his arm. I clashed into his arm. And then he grabbed me by my arm.

    “I didn’t say you could go,” moustache man said.

    “I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t care about the war. No threat to anybody, I swear.”

    “Why do you say ‘threat’?”

    “That’s what I’m not saying.”

    “Are you a deserter?”

    “No.”

    “We’ve had whole dozens of men desert on us when they should be on the field. Men your age as well. How old are you?”

    “What does that matter? I was never in the army. The answer is no.”

    “I asked how old you are.”

    “46.”

    “Don’t be cheeky. If you’re cheeky I will muck you up.”

    “I’m 30.”

    “Really?”

    “Yes, really.”

    “How come you’ve got grey hair?”

    “Unlucky, I guess. I drink too much.”

    “You drink?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Got anything for us?”

    “I’m gonna reach into my pocket, okay? I have some gin. If I give you my gin, will you leave me alone?”

    “What you got?”

    I went into my pocket and brought out this warm sweaty quarter full bottle of gin. And handed it across to the soldier. The soldier was all puffed up in uniform, all this glitzy gear on his chest. Urban camouflage, blue and grey. Why did he make so much effort to tend to his moustache?

    He opened the bottle and sniffed at it.

    “Why,” he said, “thanks so much, chum.” And then he turned to his friend the other side of the road. Who was buttoning up his waist. “Our chum has give us some of his gin!”

    Moustache man then turned back to me. And he swung the bottle at my head. I ducked down, and he missed. And within the thrust, he lost hold of the bottle, and it went flying into the weeds by the roadside … I knelt. Moustache man saw me under him. And booted me in the head. Just kicked at me. It caught me in the cheek and I swerved to the side. Landed on my hip. Then tried to get up. He kicked me under in the stomach. Then I bashed into the bar at the roadside. Both sides of me were winded. Then he kicked me again just for fun.

    “I think you’re a deserter,” he said.

    “I am not.”

    He aimed a kick for the front of my face. So I ducked down. He kicked me in the back of the skull instead.

    His colleague laughed the other side of the road.

    There were further boots in my back.

    I began crying. Sobbing, in mock form. And I turned farther over to my left side. To let moustache man kick me further. He accepted the cue. As he pounded his colleague kept laughing.

    Amidst the pounding I reached into my left pocket. And caught the grip of the handgun. And then I rolled to the side. And sprang my hand up with the gun. Aimed it at Moustache man’s face. Shot. This puff puffed out of the back of his head. And he fell backwards.

    His colleague stopped guffawing. He was no longer drunk. He looked at his rifle on the bonnet. Then made a dash for it. I caught him in time and grabbed the rifle before he could get to it.

    “Just stop,” I said. “Just stop!”

    He kept running and so I shot him in the leg. He tripped over and collided with the floor.

    “You shot my friend,” he said.

    He was thin and birdlike, scrawny.

    “I did. You were both going to kill me.”

    “We were only playing.”

    “You would have murdered me and left me on the road.”

    I walked away from him.

    “You just gonna leave me like this?”

    “Why not?”

    “I’m bleeding!”

    “You were just about to murder me. Why should I help?”

    “I wasn’t.”

    “You were laughing. I hate that poisonous sound.”

    “You shot me in the artery. Look at the blood.”

    “Bye bye.”

    I yomped off. I emptied the cartridges from his assault rifle and tossed them off key unto the fields. Then, a mile down, and far past the view of the violent scene, I chucked the gun’s body into a river I passed.

  As I walked along the motorway I thought about my history. Realised how worthless I was. In dips and arrows of black ink the crows sped across the sky; as I walked along the fields, they burst out of the trees, in these fabulous frenetic non-patterns of glee. And I wondered what it would be like to be a crow, to have a bird’s mind. To be able to fly. I wondered how incredible it would be to fly, over the lands. And mind you that birds are the only species that have outlived humans. We were never able to conquer them completely. (I say ‘we’ but I always hated farming. The mass annihilation of animals; mass painful murder. I walked all day. And there were still sheep and pigs and even horses on the fields. Where they glad that their mass slaughter was postponed? I couldn’t tell from how they looked whether they would’ve been executed already despite the war. I suppose that I never thought it so bad to kill an animal for food. Murder it in order to eat it. But, to raise it and make it suffer its whole life and then murder it, painfully, seemed a bit too much. I thought that when I was a kid and still think that way as an adult. I’d just shot two humans and killed one of them. Soldiers. Stupid boys. … I thought about going off road and ending it all. Why not? Who would care? I didn’t care myself. And this idea took hold of me now. So I did, take off the motorway, and this time it was pine forest. All glossy in evergreen. I went down through the pine trunks and I settled under one of them. The trunks, and I raised the pistol to my head. But I couldn’t pull it. Cowardice. I smelled the snap of the pines even in the winter air. And I thought it was worth it just to stay alive for the scent of that. Just to be able to breathe that in, it was worth going on for. … I ate another of the cans. Soup this time. The factory gloop dribbled down my chin and it tasted glorious and as I ate or swallowed I thought I am a murderer I am a murderer and there was nothing to doubt or question that. I no longer deserved the salty can of soup. I’d crossed myself forever. Was no longer a moral man. I would be Judged. Nightmares would plague me. Let them, I thought. Let the plague commence.

  The motorway diverted and a new road popped up – the one I was after. It rose along a hillside filled with dense forest. A great flock of crows arched over the treetops and I heard their witchy cackling and whence at the top of the hill the road changed directions again. I looked down one way of the road, and there was nothing. The other way, when I look, I jumped. There were two people. In one of the bus shelters. This green bus shelter: two people huddled in there. I paused … One of them came out, of the shelter frame, and peered at me. By the build of the body I could tell it was a woman; and there was a smaller person inside, who she joined, which I guessed was a child. I had to go up to them because that was the way I was going. Had to meet them on the way, as it were. As I ventured I thought, I can’t think of them as mutual civilians, because I’m not one of those anymore. Both woman and child had gone silent on my approach. I stayed outside of the shelter when I greeted them. They had a fat load of bags with them. “Hello there,” I waved. Their skin colour was different from mine. “I’m a civilian as well. You’re all good?” Their eyes were big and the mother shieled what I assumed was her daughter behind her. “Are you just pausing here for a rest?” I said. “Or waiting on a ride?” … They didn’t respond. My face and my eyes have never quite been able to convince people. Other folks, whichever age, have always been dodgy with me. I have no trustworthy presence. “Are you hungry?” I said. I opened my bag and the woman rustled and I took out a can of peaches. And held it out to her. Her eyes (and the kid’s) instantly snapped on it. The unconvinced eyes: as if the offering were a trick, a threat. “I just want you to take it, if you’re needing to eat,” I said. By the reticence I kinda sussed what was up. “Oh, do you not speak English?” She shook her head. I guessed which language/creed she was and I said, in her tongue, from what I remembered, “Food, for you.” And she said, “Thanks,” back and took the can. She was squirming to eat it – the kid too – but didn’t want to eat it in front of me. “Be well, then,” both of you. I saluted them. And the child, to my amazement, saluted me back, a little flick from her forehead. Which was nice. … Off I went. The motorway descended, this time. I walked for a long time. I did think perhaps I should’ve persisted with that woman – in asking her if she was waiting on a bus. I’d heard of civilian volunteers who were running coaches, to take people out of the city. Snippets of stories like that. Perhaps it would’ve been worth it to try and see if she was waiting for one of those … and there were intermittent, other bus stops along the route too. But I walked for hours and no bus came by me, and, again, it was only me and the birds, the birds and I. … Until I came upon a petrol station. There were gulls around the bins: I watched it from afar. The leftover bins I mean: the gulls were tearing up the wreckage, and had even managed to knock one of them over, ripping into the contents inside. When I went up to the station, they sensed me irately. Mean, sadistic birds. They flapped six yards above my head and I wouldn’t be surprised if they divebombed me. They didn’t. … The store, of the station, was totally looted, ransacked. Looked like somebody had driven through the front windows, because all of this weedy glass yawned on the floor … hmm, and the front of the roof had buckled inwards. I went inside anyway, to the store, to see if there were any provisions worth scouting for. It smelled of chemicals inside. Deodorant-spray-esque chemicals. Most of the shelves were cleared of everything. There was one loaf of bread which had been crushed during the imagined scuffle, and when I looked closer, all of the slices had gone a turquoise colour. The alcohol and tobacco sections had both been stripped bare – but I did find one lighter on the floor under the shelves, which, when I tried the switch, still gave fire. So I pocketed that. And when I looked farther under the shelf, hopefully, I found a lone packet of cigarettes. I didn’t smoke. But maybe I could find somebody that did: might come in useful at a latter stage. Almost all of the food had been lifted. There was a bag of crisps, Salt and Vinegar flavour, with the packet burst and the chips strewn on the floor, and they were probably still edible. But I wasn’t that desperate. I did find, at the end of the rows, the newspaper/magazine section. Where there were quite a lot of magazines left. There were TV mags and celebrity mags and Golf mags, football, all of that shit. With these smiley pretty faces on the front covers. All these slogans from then when the world was still operational and not fucked up. I wondered if all of those faces were still alive. Whether they’d been attacked and killed like the rest of us. As if there were some automatic bunker for people that were famous. Meh. Maybe not. Why should I resent them? In the stationery part I found some gluesticks and paper and pens, scissors and post it notes. Was surprised that all of that had been left by the looters? I took a pair of scissors and a bundle of notepads. I wasn’t much of a hand writer – but maybe I could keep a diary. And, if I died, perhaps somebody would find it thirty years from now and it could turn into a glorious books. Silly thinking. But I put them in my bag anyway.

    And then I heard a noise from outside the store. I was in a dark corner, of the store. I looked around the edge of the aisle. And, in front of the dashed windows, was parked a new army jeep. Four soldiers got out of it. I heard their hard manly voices ricochet across the car park, and in here. I swore. They proceeded to walk towards the store. I put my bag on. I couldn’t go out the front entrance. There was no proper place to hide within the store. How else could I get out? I looked farther down into the dark corridor. In the other corner, and there I thought I saw a FIRE EXIT sign. So I got up and scurried along. Yes, it was a FIRE EXIT. The light was bust, obviously. But I saw the letters in the gloom, and the door had a bar on it. The soldiers were just entering the building. I made a dash for the door. And I couldn’t see what was under my feet. And something knocked my shoes; I slipped, tumbled, and crashed. And wacked my chest. Clanged my ribs. And of course I made this terrific crash when I landed. Which was followed by a brazen silence. Wherein I waited for the soldiers, stupidly, hopefully not to notice. The seconds pounded by, clunk clunk clunk. “Somebody in here?” I heard one of the men call. I yomped up and plunged towards the EXIT door, bashed through the bar. And this pang of daylight struck me clear on in the face. I slammed the door behind me. Back inside, I thought I heard the pandemonium of the men running towards me. I was now in a fenced off courtyard. Barrels and chubby wastebins. I ran up to one of the wastebins, and jumped up on it. It was choked with bin bags. And I caught a few mouthfuls of the reek from within and I gagged. Jesus. But it gave me a lever up to the fence. … The soldiers bashed through the FIRE EXIT door. Mean faced and bloodthirsty, gun nozzles trained. They saw me. I jumped up onto the fence. It staggered on my weight. One of the troops took aim at me and fired. The bullets spackled on the wire squares, ripping them out. I fell. And landed on my back. Then I took out my handgun. Swivelled, and fired back at them, BOOM BOOM BOOM. Three shots. And I don’t think I hit any of them but they whizzed away and took cover, and this gave me some time. I saw some woodland. And dove for it. By woodland I mean a ray of trees. There was this mushy grass all clogged up with litter, thrown from the commuters over the years. Lord, it was barbaric. … The soldiers shot again. And this flurry of polystyrene and rank foliage burst up and went all over the calves of my jeans. I jumped into the trees. With a bit too much gusto … because I didn’t know there was a drop straight after. Which I rolled down uncontrollably. Wrestling with the undergrowth. It beat me. I stopped on a fallen tree with a land on my side. It winded me. But I wasn’t shot or dying, any time soon. I got up. How many times had I fallen over today? I dove down the hill. Keeping concentration on the balance. The trees were wise and pretty. And the ivy under them hypnotic, magical, with their emerald triangles. Slippery, too, and I slipped a jumble of times. And kept looking back. But I heard nothing from the soldiers. Only my own panicked breath. I stopped for a while, between a circle of holly bushes. I stayed in there. And waited, watching the upside of where I’d just come from. To see if they were following. My heartrate eased. From my bag I took out the diary. And I wrote down what’d just happened. On the first page, I wrote, ‘Got chased by four soldiers. They shot at me. Ran into the woods, and I escaped. I think?’ I’d actually forgotten what date it was. And my writing was so poor that I thought about tossing it away right then. But, I kept it. … Then I ventured onwards.

    It began to rain. Quietly, then handsomely, then hard. And I put my hood up. Within a half hour I was drenched. This relentless, rampaging rain. I was stunned to be assailed by it. I stopped under a pine tree, and just sat there and let myself be drenched. The whole forest became this mirage of flashing vapour. I wasn’t Louis anymore. I was only a man under the rain. Under the Gods, the Orbit. Nothing else. And I checked the handgun chamber. To see how many bullets were still in it. Only two. Only needed one to kill me. What would I do with the other bullet? I held the gun out in my weak hand. And I aimed for a spot where there were no tree trunks in the direct line of vision, and I fired. The blast was mercurial, the sound dying quickly; the rain uncaring. I held the gun to my head and I wondered what it would do if I pulled. Would anybody even come looking for me, apart from maybe those goons? And, if they found me, they’d only be disappointed. … The rain stopped. There was this odd heat. Coupled with an emerging twilight. It was so cold that it was hot. I made my way through the woods. I was still going south. Even if I have few talents: one of them is a sense of direction. I was simply no master at making correct decisions. I thought that, if I’d had a different attitude throughout adolescence, if I’d cared more about other people in young adulthood, rather than only relying on myself, then I would not be in this situation right now. It was me versus nobody. I always saw it, in the past, as myself versus the planet – of people. And now I realised that people do not care. They focus on calories and lights, entertainment, chemicals, endorphins, the present day: what matters to them most within the now. Why was I any different? … There was a cut on my forehand. I didn’t notice it for a while. Must’ve happened when I was falling earlier. It bled quite feverishly. The blood was righteously crimson, mammalian, factual, complete. I had a sock in my bag. And I held the sock in it to stem the bleeding. It probably needed stitches. I thought about Bill, and how I wasn’t able to save him medically. I thought about my school days wherein I was bullied voraciously, primary and high school both. Thought about the jobs I’d gotten fired from. Of the girls I’d tried to date. I thought about the soldier I’d shot earlier – the image of that puff from the back of his head. Over and over. It’d been revolving in my mind. Some septic reel. … But what was the point in moaning? I regrouped; swapped my mentality back to blankness. Amongst the trees I saw a couple of squirrels, chasing each other. They bounded over the boughs with such majestic grace; ballet-like rather than gladiatorial. And I remember when I was in school the teacher was going around the kids asking what animal they would like to be. And all the other kids said cat and dog or lion or horse, and I said squirrel. And everybody laughed at me. I still remember the titanic gush of laughter, all of them. The teacher smirked as well. And I continued walking through the forest until the twilight lapsed unto dark. Until it got too dark to see ahead of me. So I took my torch out to avoid the tree trunks. Then my breath made these small clouds in the light, again. I played with them, blew them apart, made different contours. I was starting to giggle. Getting confident with the shapes. When the torch started to blink. Shuttering, the light blinking on and off. It went black and then came on again. And then it failed completely. I turned the button up and down. It didn’t work. I took the batteries out from the bottom of it. They were warm and fat in my palms. I put them back in the tube again, clucked it shut, and switched the ON button up again. It didn’t show.

    Had to look for some new batteries tomorrow.

[psycko-sans]

My new ‘Novellete’, starts today. New chapter MON-FRI @ 6 pm.   

[hendishhh]

TWASHY FLUFFY

CHAPTER 1

Everything, except for the snorts and snores of Mr. Jones—who lay flat on the porch by the corner—and the gurgling of the water by the creek, was quiet.

Steve and Bill sat on the porch with their legs crossed while Cody sat astride on the rail cap, dangling his meaty feet so that tons of fin would hump from the dingy sward.

Their face fresh with zits, and their eyes jutting out like the eyes of a reeling fisherman who’s rod jolly-bally-hooked a great socking trout.

“What about we go to Truckers, play Pacman—what is the new game that the whole town talks about? Ah, wha-tevah it is—an’ buy some juice from Dunning’s Jungle.” Cody said in a throaty voice and took the bowl of cookies from the table below him, put onto his shins, and ate scads of cookies like a giant.

“Gimmesome you Lard Ass! You just ate half of the bowl. God, why don’t you fucking ate the bowl itself and pour the crumbles at our guts?” Bill heaved a puff of saliva which lunged at Mr. Jones that the dog twitched its paw a bit.

Cody climbed down the cap and teased Bill, who had the face of a rat with fury at his mammalian eyebrows, in a hearty voice, “Oh, dear, pardon me. Next time I’ll bring the cookie monster.” He pinched Bill’s rooty cheeks that Bill snorted and sulked at Cody more than the face of a rat but a puckered trowel.

“You know, Pacman’s great. But Digdug was way better than Pacman.” Steve brushed his cookie-crumbled cuffs. “C’mon. Let’s go check out the new game before the cookie monster arrives.” He snickered. And their throats belched with tuna clumps, ha-ha-ha.

“You boys having an important discussion out there, huh.” Mrs. Sheldon stood at the doorway with a plate of cookies in her hand and the other hand on her hips.

“Yeah, mom. Cody just shat on his pants.” Steve grumbled a funky tnt out of his mouth and the boys chortled in a spasm of the fusty scent of cookies.

“Stephen! Langua—!”

Somewhere on the flanking yet swaying trees—like winoes returning from a strip joint—a cry—not more of a caterwaul—reverberated by the only silent Finchbow-cat's paw.

For a moment, the eyes of Mrs. Sheldon locked at Steve. Her other hand twitching the hem of her blouse, her graying hair brushed the whippy cookies as she shifted the plate at her chest, her mouth standing ajar that a fly almost went at it.

The faces of the boys were no longer animated but rather dissolved in a frantic rat expression. And Mr. Jones—hip to by the cry—stood on his hind legs, his hackles up, and began yapping.

Is it a loon? Maybe, O’ God. Maybe…O’God. Mrs. Sheldon thought. The Finchbow’s Creeper tale—some kids’ stuff. God help me.

[piyalijigsaws]

Chapter 4

Finally after a long spawn they came across a house at the end of the street. Seemed like candle light shining from inside. It must have been little more than a glorified shed even in its hay day. But now it looked for all the world like a giant had sat on the roof, for it sagged terribly. Guess we could call the war a giant. A giant of destruction. The windows were gaping holes for wind to rush in and out through and the door hung on its hinges at a jaunty angle. It outlasted all the others because it was made of concrete, except the roof.

“Think they would let us in?” Sean asked.

“The war has been cruel to them. I am not sure.” Clive answered. “We should at least try. I can’t dig up another hole.”

It was not considerably decent though. But they have been fighting for their cause. Whether they would be welcoming or not was up to their own beliefs. Which side they wanted to win.

Clive after a while walked up to the front door and knocked. He could hear noises inside which suddenly went quiet. They had to wait for a while and finally the door opened. A woman around her late thirties answered.

“Pouvons-nous vous aider?” She asked .

“Sorry do you speak English?” Clive asked.

 “Oui, can we help you” she asked again.

 “Sorry for the imposition Ma’am. We are soldiers from the Allied forces. We are on our way to Rouen. My friend, Sean here is wounded. Think you can let us stay the night here? We would be out of your way before sunrise.” Clive asked.

He could see the silence in her eyes. She was having trouble deciding whether or not she could trust them. Wasn’t her fault though. She looked puzzled but with a low pitched voice she asked them to come on in. Clive helped Sean in.

The view outside the house was quite dull. A garden filled with dead plants. Upon entering the house, simplicity and a balance of mesmerizing smell fills the living room contradictory to its outward appearance. Inside it was quite elegant and beautiful. She led them into the living room and offered them a seat. There was no electricity. A candle was lit at the center table. A brown table made of wood so old that you could see the rough edges.  “I am Elise.” She said. “Bonjour, I am Clive and this is Sean.” Clive said. “Do you live alone Elise?”“I have a son and a daughter.” Elise said. “They are five and seven.”“So why are you still here Elise? Isn’t it a bit dangerous?” Sean asked. Her face could be seen dimming. The question pinched her like a bullet. She went pale as if all the light from her face was taken away. Even though the candle was burning at its brightest. “We have nowhere else to go” She answered. “We have lived here all our life. This is our home.” Sean managed to be comfortable. It’s been a while but the wound was all dried up. He could move his arm around quite well. The fear of an infection was still prevalent. But there was no hospitals around. The medical staff were all recruited for the battleground. And those that didn’t qualify evacuated. There might still be some around helping out but it wasn’t easy to find them. “He doesn’t look good. Is he alright?” Elise asked. “He is fine. Can we have some water? We have been covering distance for a long time.” Clive added.  Elise left for the kitchen. She was a beautiful woman. But the war had got to her. You could see the wrinkles appearing for such a young woman. She didn’t have a husband. Or she did, he might be fighting in the war. They didn’t bother asking. Going down the memory lane would not help either her or them. When she returned she had her kids behind them. They were little.Matt and Marie. That’s what they were called. Matt handed the water to Sean. He seemed pretty interested with the wound. “How did you get that?” He asked.Sean didn’t know how to answer. He wasn’t sure if he should break it to the kid. The cruelty of a war. He looked up to Clive for an answer. Clive was about to answer when Elise said. “It’s from a bullet. They are old enough to learn about the war. If they are to survive.” She said. Marie on the other hand was terrified. There was nothing to be scared about their mom explained. They are our friends. They are fighting with your father for our Country.  “Have you met my father?” Marie asked. “He’s a hero”.“I have not met him. But I have heard about him.” Clive answered.“Can I get you something to eat?” Elise asked.“We would like that.” Sean answered.There’s not much they had for food the last two days. Last night’s supper was the only healthy thing they had in a while which. “Tasted like crap.” Sean would say. “We don’t want to put you through much Elise. Anything would be fine.” Clive said trying to be friendly.  He was famished. He could hear the thunderstorm in his gut. And water could not get rid of it. He did have to work harder. Carrying Sean all the way. All the training in the world doesn’t prepare anyone for the real stuff. Clive thought. But it did pay off. 

[toastedrabbit]

Legacies of Blood - A High Fantasy Novellete

Legacies of Blood – A High Fantasy Novellete

PROLOGUE

Two warriors faced each other across a vast expanse of heavy snow. One, clothed in a sheer robe of flowing white, stood poised atop a weather laden shrine. He held his hands out loosely for balance and the curved blade of his sword stayed secure at his side in its simple bamboo sheath. The other warrior’s dark armor glinted in the fading light. He gripped bare steel in both of his…

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[authornewliz]

(via "Miriam's Hex An Electric Eclectic Book" by Paul White) My review of a short story about a greedy wife and her underappreciated husband. Is this dark magic or just a set of unfortunate coincidences? Dark humor that delivers!

[reffi09]

Galeri terbit 2017, karya Reffi Dhinar. Sapaa yang mau punya salah satunya? 😘😘😍 #mybook #writtenbyme #novel #novellete #menulis #book #author