Tag: short story

Heavy Storm

Tom’s feet drummed against the dusty ground, dodging the trails of ivy that peered out through the cracked pavement and attempted to ensnare his feet. The siren blared loudly, drowning out Tom’s breathless panting. He stopped, clutching his burning side and leaning against an eroded lamppost, its surface bleached and bubbled by nature’s cruel hand. All around him, people were racing towards their homes or the closest shelter they could find, and Tom knew that he had to follow their lead, or he would most likely be killed.

He broke into a sprint.

He didn’t join the others as they hurried towards the ancient underground transport tunnels that now provided shelter against the harsh elements. The tunnels often became overcrowded and he wasn’t going to risk being cast out into the open during a level three warning.

He dashed down an alleyway between two derelict, scorched buildings and into the next street. He had almost reached his goal when he remembered the girl. Tom cursed, stumbling to a halt. What should he do? If he went back for her now, he could miss the evacuation window and then they’d both be stuck. And for all he knew, she was already at a shelter. But, he considered, thinking about the catatonic wreck he had found a few days ago, he doubted it. She was probably waiting for him at the Box. Tom yelled in frustration and darted back the way he’d came.

Plumes of smoke rose across the horizon. Fights had already broken out. There was always chaos when a level three warning hit the city, as looters tried their luck and shelters couldn’t take on anymore people. Tom had to dive out of the path of an accelerating truck as it swerved into the steel cage protecting a shop front. Its occupants sprang out, armed. Tom watched them as they barged their way inside. It was a TV store. Each television was stuck on the emergency broadcast, with twenty flickering screens shouting STORM UPGRADED TO LEVEL 4 THREAT. Tom cursed again. He couldn’t do it, he wasn’t going to be able to save the girl. He might not even have time to save himself. But even as he glanced in the direction of the Sanctuary, he could picture her, scared and confused and spending her last moments wondering why Tom had left her to die.

He saw a wrecked car sticking out of another building. One of its doors had been ripped off and was lying on the ground. Tom grabbed it, heaving it up to cover his head, before he dashed away from the craziness of the city. It wouldn’t give him much protection, but it was better than nothing.

Usually, storms weren’t too bad. If you were wealthy enough to own a copper umbrella, you could even stay outside during a low-level storm. But a level four was almost unheard of, it was just one level away from catastrophe.

He was close. He could see the Box, the wooden, one-room house that he lived in. He was going to make it.

And then the rain started.

Eating through his clothes, his skin. Tom cried out, ripping off his contaminated jacket, red burns already visible on his arms. He hefted the car door back above his head, the metal already thinning. The frantic shrieks of those who couldn’t get under cover echoed from every direction and Tom’s legs propelled him towards the Box. He knew he didn’t have long. Even if his makeshift shelter held out, the soles of his shoes wouldn’t.

The girl looked up at him as he threw the door open. Her usual blank stare had been replaced with the wide eyes of a trapped animal. She was curled into an upright ball on the floor, her ivory hair trailing over her legs which were tucked up to her chest. Tom motioned for her to join him under the door (which was already turning translucent), but she wouldn’t or couldn’t move.

Sweat started to bead on his forehead. No, not now, he thought desperately. Surely, whatever she was hiding from couldn’t possibly be worse than the storm. He could hear the plastic interior of the door sizzling in his hands. They didn’t have time for this.

She wriggled, flailing like a beetle on its back, as he scooped her up with one arm, clutching the door handle with the other. The rain had already claimed the roof of the Box and was beginning to devour the walls, so they left it to the storm, speeding towards the Sanctuary and praying they would make it in time.

A World Away

The rolling grey water rolled forwards and swept across the sand, over Christopher’s feet and sank into his shoes. He shuddered. The icy wind cut into Christopher’s skin and blew his hood up against the back of his head. It hadn’t started raining yet, but he reckoned that it was only a matter of time before it did. Christopher didn’t mind. He actually quite liked the dull weather that had settled over the seaside town where he lived.

Another wave crashed into the beach, foam sizzling as it retreated. Christopher watched, his mind numb. He had been coming to the beach a lot lately, ever since that day.

He knew his mother wanted him around, but staying in that house just made him feel strange. There was nothing to do there now that Emma was gone. All of the toys in his room seemed so childish all a sudden, and there was no one to talk to. He tried talking to his parents (if he could find an interlude between their constant arguments), but they just wanted to talk about Emma. Christopher didn’t know how many times he could tell them that he didn’t know what they wanted.

Christopher sat on a mound of sand. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it was actually quite comfortable to lie down on. From there he could watch the clouds as they passed along each other, overlapping to look like snow on the sky.

His vision started to flicker. He was aware of his head tilting back, his breathing getting deeper. He pinched his forearm, trying to keep himself awake. The skin turned white to match the sky. He let go and winced at the angry pink crescents that remained.

Christopher woke to find that his lips tasted of salt. He sat upright. He was drenched. The sea had washed over his entire body. It was a miracle that he hadn’t drowned. He jumped to his feet and yelped. The entire beach was lost under water. His feet sloshed towards a grassy bank at the top of the slope, now the only place not submerged. He was almost there when movement caught his eye. A swished of a tail. Big enough to be a shark.

He froze.

The water rippled from where the tail had been, spreading in rings that reached out to him. Panic rushed through him and he sprinted towards the grass, sweat beaded at his forehead as the water slowed him down. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

Something brushed against his legs and he yelled.

And then a face broke the surface of the water.

Its skin was a pale green. Its hair looked like clumps of orange seaweed that framed the creature’s face like a lion’s mane. Yellow marble eyes blinked at him. The creature reached out a tentative hand, and very, very slowly, it reached out and brushed Christopher’s shoulder with wet fingertips before jolting away again.

Christopher stared, his eyes wide. He copied the creature’s gesture and reached out, eager to touch its scaly skin, its webbed fingers. His hand was just an inch from the creature when it suddenly grabbed his wrist and dragged him under the water.

Christopher was aware of the sound of blood thumping in his temples. He screamed as they descended, propelled by the creature’s tail (which must have been twice the length of its body), and realised too late that he had just wasted his oxygen. He struggled, trying to work his wrist free, but the creature held on. It looked at him with frantic eyes and for the briefest moment, Christopher saw something familiar about it. It seemed desperate, not spiteful. Christopher stopped fighting.

They moved faster and faster until they hit some kind of invisible barrier that pulsed as they passed through it. The darkness of the deep sea became sapphire, became turquoise. The slimy seaweed that got tangled with Christopher’s legs released him, and was replaced with technicolour corals and underwater flowers. He could see stone ruins that looked as if they could house many creatures like the one holding his arm. The creature stopped swimming now and released Christopher’s arm. The moment they had passed into the colourful place, Christopher had been able to catch his breath. He gasped for air, wondering how this was possible so far beneath the surface of the water.

He tried to speak, but his words came out as muffled nonsense. He frowned, wanting to ask the creature why it had brought him here. And, what was the creature? Why was it all alone down here?

The creature watched him with intelligent eyes. Christopher realised what the look he had seen before was; loneliness. It was eager to show its new guest around its home.

Christopher smiled. He moved his limbs until he was confident with moving around this strange place. The creature showed him around the houses, where beds, tables and chairs had been carved into the rock by the water. He was shown fields of algae, forests of coral, and when he looked up, he saw thousands of moon jellyfish, their luminous white patterns lighting up the dark water above them like the stars above the surface.

The creature was staring at Christopher.

It wants me to stay here with it, he realised.

He hesitated. While it was true, earlier all he had wanted was to be away from his family, he knew that he would miss them. His stomach grumbled. He wondered what the creature ate down here? Suddenly he thought of Dad’s amazing Sunday dinners, Mum singing as she worked at her laptop, and Emma. What if Emma came back? He had to be there for when she did.

Christopher winced as he remembered that day. The day Emma had crept down the stairs in the middle of the night. She had forgotten that the seventh one creaked and it had woken Christopher up.

‘Go back to bed, Chris,’ she had whispered. ‘I won’t be out for long.’

He should have asked her where she was going, if she was ever coming back. All that he knew is that she had gone to the train station and disappeared.

He looked back up at the creature, waiting patiently for an answer.

He shook his head.

The creature swam closer, taking his hand again. It’s scaly skin soft between Christopher’s fingers. With a lurch, the creature swam straight up and into the blackness.

Christopher woke on dry sand, a tall figure standing over him.

For a moment, he thought it was the creature but then saw that the figure was standing on two legs. She was wearing the same jeans and black jacket as the night she had left and instead of seaweed, her head was covered with straight brown hair.

She helped Christopher to his feet. She was chewing her lip, eyes cast down.

‘I know I shouldn’t have left,’ she began. She got as far as I know before Christopher threw his arms around his older sister.

‘I knew you’d come back.’

The clouds broke up enough so that the sun could peek through as Emma and Christopher walked across the beach, over the grassy bank and towards home.

Silent Journey

The huffing metal body emerged from the tunnel. Golden sunlight struck the carriages, momentarily blinding Stephanie and her companion.

Richard sat across from her, broad, belligerent man. He was stuffing a sandwich between yellow teeth, chunks of food trickling down from his plump lips and sweat stains spreading underneath his pale blue shirt. The overwhelming stench of his spicy food made her want to gag. He sniffed as he continued to cram the oozing wad of bread and curry into his face, spraying crumbs and debris into his own lap with every word that he obviously didn’t think could wait until he was finished with his lunch.

Stephanie watched him wipe his mouth, smearing grease onto the back of his hand and then rubbing it into the velvet seats. She cradled her stomach, wondering if she consumed as much food as Richard could, would it feel like before? Or would the reminder just make everything so much harder to bear? Stephanie thought back to when she was a teenager, that time when she took a swig from a bottle of vodka her parents had been keeping under the sink. She remembered the burning pain and spilling the vile liquid across the kitchen floor. She had filled the bottle up with water and put it back, hoping her parents wouldn’t notice. She could remember her father roaring at her. Not for the theft, but for ruining the rest of the bottle. She imagined that trying to fill this hole inside of her would be the same. What had happened, happened. She could only make things worse.

A baby’s mournful cry cut through the air, travelling from one carriage to the next. Stephanie’s head popped up, searching for the source of the sound, forgetting. Richard looked up too, watery eyes locking with hers. Something in his face changed. She could see a fragility in him that was usually hidden. The sounds of their fellow travellers faded away into nothing as they stared, seeing each other for the first time since it happened. A branch smacked against the window as the trees blurred past, jolting them both back to their senses.

He reached for his newspaper, building a barrier of rustling black and white lines against her inquisitive stare. She glared at it, wishing she could reach the other side with her anger. Just notice me. Just notice me. Talk to me, ask me how I really feel. The page flapped as he turned it. She hated the sounds of all his little distractions. For the past week, her life had been filled with rustling paper and the clattering of pots and pans. He kept hiding behind his papers and disappearing to the kitchen to cook comforting meals for her, as if somehow a Sheppard’s pie was going to fix everything; fix their marriage, fix the painful void inside of her. Stephanie wouldn’t eat a thing. Her ribs pushed against her skin and her cheeks were becoming concave. It wasn’t the same as before, no one was depending on her now. So, what was the point of filling herself up? She was damaged. Broken. She would only fall into pieces when someone tried to make use of her.

The baby was still wailing.

Stephanie could only see Richard’s hands, pale claws clutching at the edges of his paper as he tried to ignore the sound. A muffled voice spoke from above, echoing out of its little black box. We regret to inform you that we are running about ten minutes behind schedule. We’re sorry for any inconvenience this may cause. The words ran through her head. Sorry, so sorry, so sorry.

‘Sorry isn’t an explanation, it’s an excuse.’ 

She could remember Richard angrily shouting those words. She hadn’t been able to speak at first, but he had. Frantically roaring and demanding, before breaking down and crying. All she could remember was the Nurse’s confusion when Stephanie had finally found her voice.

‘Where did its life go?’

‘They removed him. The body has been moved downstairs.”

‘Yes’, she had said, ‘I know. But where did its life go?’ How could a heart beating in rhythm with hers stop so suddenly?

Everyone seemed so keen for her to get on and grieve, but all that remained was the confusion. Where did its life go? Why had everything become so quiet, so distant? When did the sound of excited chatter get replaced by papers and pots and pans?

The baby’s crying stopped.

Feast of Your Dreams

Kip smiled as she took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of hot chocolate and stale tears that wafted through open windows. She leaned against the single streetlamp on Cedar Drive, listening to the tired fixture’s incessant buzzing. The orange light flickered. If anyone were to look out of their window right now, they might catch a glimpse of her.

Small and eerily skinny. Her long dark hair braided back into plaits which trailed down to her uneven hips. Beneath her black denim outfit, light blue skin flecked with pastel markings stretched over her distorted body. Ribs of different shapes and sizes sewn together to form a zig-zagging ribcage, fused to a curved spine. This caused the scaly spikes that protruded through the skin of her right shoulder blade to stick out dramatically. Her left shoulder carried a single wing. Jagged and coated in black and green feathers to match her left eye. Heterochromia dictated that her right eye should be orange, a yellow halo swirled around the black slit of a pupil. Both eyes seemed slightly too big for the rest of her face, giving her a permanently curious expression. Her nose tilted up like a snout, her turquoise ears pointed like an elf’s. And upon her head, rested two horns. The longer one curled. A corkscrew made of bone. Parts of her were made of plants, her veins, her eyelashes. Although you could not see them, her lungs were spare pieces of a pufferfish. Instead of nails, her fingers sprouted extra teeth. Some parts of her were not natural at all. Bits of machine worked into the creature where nothing else would fit.

Mismatched feet stuffed into odd boots tapped a crack in the pavement. Kip listened carefully for the murmur, the pitiful cry of a discontent sleeper who wanted nothing more than to be set free from whatever cruel trap their mind had concocted that evening. And then she smiled, for someone was calling her name. The streetlight flickered again, momentarily plunging Cedar Drive into total blackness. And when the feeble orange bulb switched back on, there was no one there.

Kip was now stood inside a bedroom. Decorated with emerald wallpaper and stuffed bears. In the corner, amidst a cocoon of sheets and cushions, a little boy cried out. His limbs flailing. Inside his head, a nightmare weaved various images. A trip to the dentist. A bad day at school. Trivial things. Hardly worth Kip’s time or talents. Nevertheless, she couldn’t resist the lure of fresh prey.

She reached into the child’s mind. Causing no damage as she scooped the nightmare out. Fangs gleaming in the weak light of the moon, Kip opened her mouth. The nightmare, a dark creature – barely larger than a grape – squeaked and struggled in her grip. Tendrils made from shadows lashed out, trying to free itself from her grasp. Kip popped the nasty little nightmare into her mouth and swallowed it whole.

But such a petty morsel after having to use her powers wasn’t nearly enough. Kip leaned closer to the sleeping boy, who had settled down now that his dreams were no longer plagued by fear. Which would make them taste that much sweeter…

She gobbled and guzzled and gorged. Stuffing spicy ambitions, sugary hopes and zingy daydreams down her gullet. Kip feasted, enjoying the flavour of every emotion, every aspiration. And with each one she devoured, the sleeping boy grew a little duller. Until he was just a boring shell. A being with no aims, no ideals, no dreams of any kind.

Kip wiped her grinning mouth, patting her bloated belly with a blue hand before skipping back into the shadows, which opened up like a trapdoor. She followed the next voice that called out for her and followed it. Dancing through a tunnel of darkness. She dropped through space, landing in a crouch in a completely different bedroom, inside a completely different house.

The room she had been drawn to was a vision of pink. Large posters advertising boy bands and fantasy films lined the walls. A butterfly lampshade dangled from the ceiling. The girl who whimpered and tossed and turned in her bed was almost a woman. There were various pictures of herself in frames on her desk. All showed her looking heavily made up and standing with friends who dressed in a similar way. The centrepiece of the collection showed all of them, clutching dainty glasses of champagne in front of a shiny banner with the number eighteen scribbled across.

Kip peeked into the girl’s mind and laughed cruelly.

‘So,’ she hissed, swooping her head down so that she could whisper into the girl’s ear. Her voice came out as a throaty sing-song.

‘You dread being left out, is that it? You could never bear the idea of looking different, of being alone. Your worst nightmare is my reality. Pathetic. Pathetic.’

She dropped back into the shadows, leaving an empty shell behind for the second time that night.

People just didn’t know what fear was anymore. Kip snarled as she stormed through various rooms in various houses, flats, hotels. Each sleeper who cried out seemingly less interesting than the last. Kip was starting to get tired. No decent nightmares to fill her up, so she indulged in the good dreams instead. There was a cost to that bad habit, however. Once Kip started eating a good dream, she always found it so hard to stop. But that was the price, she reasoned, the punishment for wasting her time.

She emerged from the darkness into another room.

Kip shivered in a sudden rush of cold air. Goosebumps prickled along her periwinkle arms as she approached him. A boy. He couldn’t have been older than eight, but even sleeping he seemed… mature somehow. There was something different about this one. A moan escaped his lips, a plea for Kip’s help, and curiosity pulled her even closer.

He dreamed of playing with another boy on a dark day. A little older than him, but with the same coffee-colour skin and dark hair. They both laughed as they chased each other. They were at a park. The rain seemed to be keeping any other visitors away, but the boys were having far too much fun to go home just yet. Kip sighed. Poor things. They had no way of knowing what was going to happen.

The river was high and surging along with a wicked current. The older boy stepped on the edge of the riverbank, loosened by the wet weather. And then-

The sound of the rain vanished. Kip watched through the boy’s eyes as his big brother tilted away from him, losing his balance. He didn’t have time to scream before the water claimed him. And then the rain started to roar.

It spoke to the boy.

It was all your fault.

You could have saved him.

You should have done something.

You let him down.

You let him drown.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

The rain jabbed at him like a thousand accusing fingers and Kip gasped as she jerked back, leaving the boy’s mind. Leaving him to face the nightmare alone.

She had tumbled onto the carpet and lay there for a moment, breathless. She was irritated that it took her a moment to recover. She was used to nightmares. She didn’t need to fear them, they feared her! And, she giggled, navy lips curving up to revealed sharp white teeth, this one looked particularly tasty.

Kip ran her tongue along her lips, savouring the last flavours of her meal. She grinned, hunger satisfied, and turned to leave. But something caught in her chest and she took one last look at the sleeping child. The nightmare was gone but his mouth was still set in a firm line, eyebrows still furrowed in pain.

Kip scratched her head, confused. She had let him keep the good things; his hopes, his ambitions. Wasn’t that enough?

She hopped back by his side and leaned over so that she could kiss his creased forehead. Instantly, the lines smoothed out and the corners of his mouth twitched.

‘There,’ she whispered, ‘now you can dream of something sweeter.’

The Sleeping Man

I am often told many things. People come to me to confide their secrets, they ask me for help, they even come to thank me when all is well. I’ve never minded. People have always been welcome to come and see me and I like that I get many visitors. Apparently, I am seen as somewhat of a guardian. I suppose I do tend to watch over people, especially during the important moments in their life. Like this man, for example, the sleeping man.

He has been resting here with me for some time now, pale eyelids shutting out his gaze, body clad in a black suit. I don’t know his name but I’ve seen him before.

I remember watching him when he was an infant, having his little head washed. I remember him standing with a woman with red hair and blue eyes. They both said I do and then I played music as they skipped merrily under an archway of rice and confetti. Heading towards a car with cans attached to the rear and ribbons stretched over the bonnet.

I remember his eyes squeezed shut as he begged for help. One time he asked for a healthy child, another he asked for his money troubles to subside so that he could look after his growing family. Every time he graced me with his presence, I started to notice little details that were changed. He was accompanied by his wife, then one kid, then two, then three, then four. An odd grey hair, his back a little hunched. Some months he wore a woolly jumper and some months his shirt had shorter sleeves.

His wife changed too. Getting paler and pale, and thinner and thinner. Her movements slower and slower. Her hair dropping out strand by strand. She came here to rest too, eventually. I watched her sleeping dressed in a beautiful green lace dress. A dusting of makeup and a new wig so that she would look herself when she woke up. The man told me and the other guests a little about her. The whole time his brown eyes were wet.

I didn’t see him for a long time after that.

Then one day, he came back. His remaining hair almost entirely grey and white, his eyes and forehead etched with lots and lots of lines, but he was still recognisable as him. He approached me with four others who you might consider almost adults, but to my old eyes, they were still babies. They were getting to the age where one tends to fly the nest and explore the world alone. One week there were only three, then only two, one, then the man alone.

That was the last time I saw him before today. The eldest child came back once. They sat quite far at the back and kept their head down in silent prayer.

I suppose this means that later he’ll be taken to rest in my garden. Don’t worry children, I promise I’ll watch over him.