What are you Writing now?

Trollheart · 11-09-2017, 06:53 PM

Few people around here are bothered too much about music, and those that do either get their intake from whatever pap is playing on the radio these days, or they're jazz aficionados, rigidly fixed in their opinion that there is no other music than the one they listen to. Some of the kids on the street listen to death metal, but that's a little too loud for me. Keith and I are the only ones to share an interest in, and appreciation of, the music of New Jersey's favourite son.

“Still on for the gig?” I ask. I feel I should say something, and now that my memory has been jogged, I remember we have tickets. We've been looking forward to it for months, and it's been one of the main topics of conversation when we meet.

Keith sucks in his cheeks, shakes his head. “Not so sure that's a good idea, old pal,” he confides. “Not when He's coming, you know?”

I stare at him blankly. “Who?” I ask. He looks at me at first as if I am insane, and then his face splits in a wide grin and he winks.

“Ah, nearly had me there, Rob me old son!” he chortles. “Who indeed? No but seriously,” and here his face does take on a more serious aspect, “I know we spent a lot on the tickets, but you understand, don't you?”

I say I do, even though I don't. What the hell is he talking about? When who comes? His initial reaction when I showed incomprehension about who this is though, takes me a little aback and I'm loath to give him further excuse to suspect. Suspect what? Am I trying to conceal something from him? Here is some music… He nods, happy that we are in agreement. He yawns again. “I'll see if I can sell 'em on,” he promises, again with another knowing wink adding “though I doubt if anyone around here will want to miss it when He comes either.” Again I nod, not a clue.

“Sell 'em on ebay?” I venture. He shrugs.

“Disconnected the internet,” he tells me flatly, and before I can ask why, “Ain't gonna need it no more, not once He comes.”

He's been going on about this mysterious “he” at such length now, making it obvious that he expects me to know this mystery man, that I honestly can't raise any further doubts in him by asking who “he” is. So I return his shrug and say “Yeah, maybe it's for the best.” It's as non-committal as I can get without giving anything away.

He nods, knuckles his eyes and remarks “Man, these late nights are killing me! Think I'd better take a nap before I have to go on shift.” He grins self-deprecatingly. “Listen to me! Forty-three this year and I'm acting like I was ninety! A nap, huh?” But despite his levity, he again covers his face as a long yawn stretches it, shrugs and with a somewhat apologetic look disappears up his garden path, his door closing and leaving me somewhat nonplussed, standing in the street.

So confused am I that I actually take a step backwards, almost knocking over Fiona Hutchinson, who is, as usual, out on her bike. She has barely been off that thing since she got it as a surprise Christmas present last year, from parents who could hardly afford it; I'd heard she even kept it in her bedroom so that she could reach out at night and touch it while she slept. No doubt it was in her dreams too.

“Hey!” she exclaims, in exactly the same voice a woman would if you hit into her pram and she feared for the safety of her child. “Watch the bike, Mister Charles!”

“Sorry,” I mumble, only half aware of what I'm doing, or saying. Keith's enigmatic words, somehow imbued with a tone of cheerful menace and desperation, like the smile of a man as he goes to the gallows, trying to be brave, still ring inside my head. I don't see her do it, but I get the feeling Fiona smiles at me tolerantly.

“Never mind,” she tells me. “Everything will be all right once He comes. See ya, Mister Charles!”

And with that, she's gone, humming happily as she rides off down the path. My head hurts even worse, pounding like someone inside it is trying to break out using a sledgehammer. I watch her pass me, notice the bike suddenly wobble, the little hand coming up to her mouth as she too yawns, and for a moment I think she might fall, and I take a half-step in her direction. But then she rises up in the saddle, pushes her feet down on the pedals and quickly disappears down the street.

I remain where I am, almost frozen in place, my head beginning to feel hot. She had said the same thing as Keith. Who are they talking about? Have I missed something? Have I been so long cooped up inside my house with these odd men, these cockroaches, skittering through my home that I have been unaware that some major celebrity or important figure is due to visit our little town? But who would be bothered? I decide to buy a newspaper. If there is some portentous visit on the horizon, surely it will be in the papers?

“Morning Rob,” says Benny, the old newsagent. I almost point out to him that it's afternoon, but then remember that to Benny Summers, it's always morning. It isn't that he doesn't know the correct time of day, he just always uses “Good morning” as a salutation, and people have got used to it. “Bit chilly out there today, huh?” I nod, grunting, hardly acknowledging his presence. I'm pawing through the newspapers, looking for some evidence of this unnamed celebrity who is due to visit, when a cold chill runs down my back. Two cold chills. Three.

First, as I peruse the sheaf of papers on the stand I hear the unmistakable sound of a yawn, followed by a thump and then a loud snoring. Glancing up, I see that Benny has fallen asleep, his big head resting peacefully on the remains of the sandwich he had been eating as I entered, his eyes closed. For a moment I am torn between going to him to see if he is all right (I assume he hasn't suffered a heart attack or anything, as I can hear the gentle snoring) and trying to confirm what my eyes are telling me about the newspapers. My gaze is drawn back to them, as I try to work out what I'm seeing.

Every single headline, and every byline on every single paper says exactly the same.

On the Herald, the headline blares HE IS COMING!
The front of the Bugle screams HE IS COMING!
The entire first page of the Standard is given over to the proclamation HE IS COMING!

Even the less salubrious publications speak of the same thing. The News of the World displays a garish picture of a very well endowed young lady, alongside the words HE IS COMING, while the Mirror has a similarly endowed girl bending over and smiling. Printed directly below the curve of her buttocks are the words HE IS COMING.

And that's not all. Every other line on every paper I pick up has the same words, repeated over and over again, in a seemingly nonsensical repetition that covers the entire page:
He is coming. He is coming. He is coming. He is coming.

There are no photographs accompanying the text, only large square or rectangular shapes of black, as if someone has carefully cut out sections of the newspaper. But they aren't just blank shapes. As I look at them, my gaze drawn towards their innate weirdness, I feel a rush of fear. I know that if I were to allow my finger, which is incredulously tracing down the neat lines of script made up of those three words, armies of hostile letters that seem bent on destroying me, to touch the black un-photograph it would sink into it. I know that. I know it without knowing how I know. Pain screams in my temples, sears my eyes, constricts my neck. I think I may faint, but I don’t. Something will not let me. Like some vast, deep well or the pull of a neutron star that drags everything towards it by the force of its incalculable gravitational attraction, till not even light can escape its embrace and is trapped within its core forever, the dark spaces leech at me, pull at me, invite me in. I feel my face move closer to the page. Closer. Closer.

My nose is almost touching one now, along which lines of text march, battle-hardened troops wending their weary war to war, advising me that He is coming. I know that if my skin touches the black square I will be lost, sucked in, absorbed, trapped forever in whatever dark hell lies beyond. I must not touch it.

And yet I cannot resist the pull, the darkness like a beckoning finger you know you should not – must not follow, yet you do anyway because you have no free will of your own. The square of darkness is expanding now, filling my vision, blocking out all other sight and sound. Even the incessant repetitive lines of text have blurred into indistinct shapes now, and then faded away altogether as I stare at the black hole my world has suddenly become, unable to fight as I am inexorably dragged towards it, through it, into it...

“Harumph! Wussat?”

The sudden sound breaks the spell, and I drop the newspaper from nerveless fingers, gasping, fighting for breath as it falls facedown on the ground, the sports section now looking up at me, nothing running across its surface but those three words. There are no black photographs though, or if there are they are hidden by the fold of the paper as it had fallen, and I consciously avert my eyes from any of the others, forcing my head to snap up with such force it hurts, and turning my eyes in the direction of the sound, the sound that has broken the spell, the sound that has saved me.

“Wow! Sorry about that!” grins old Benny, smiling sheepishly as he deftly removes a slice of processed ham from his cheek and drops it fastidiously into the bin behind the counter. “Musta dozed off there for a minute.”

For a moment, I don't know where I am. The ground, which had seemed to be slipping out from beneath me a moment ago, reasserts its presence and suddenly my body feels very heavy. I almost crash to one knee, but force a thin smile as I shakily move away from the newspaper rack and towards the recently woken Benny. He frowns at me. “Not takin' your paper, Rob?”

Oriphiel · 11-09-2017, 06:54 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Trollheart

I couldn't enter it for Ori's competition as it was too long, thanks Hitler.

You totally could have entered it. You just decided to be an ornery weirdo instead.

Btw, it's very cool so far. But then again, I love weird shit with unreliable narrators. Kinda reminds me of a weird Sci-Fi thing I wrote awhile back.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Trollheart

Then I remember.

Bruce Springsteen.

Damn Springsteen! I knew that bastard must have been behind all of this.

Trollheart · 11-09-2017, 06:58 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Oriphiel

You totally could have entered it. You just decided to be an ornery weirdo instead.

Why change the habit of a lifetime? Anyway, to be fair, it wasn't quite right then (sorta like me): I've rewritten part of it and I think it works better now.
It's only getting started, by the way.

Quote:

Btw, it's very cool so far. But then again, I love weird shit with unreliable narrators. Kinda reminds me of a weird Sci-Fi thing I wrote awhile back.

Thanks.

Quote:

Damn Springsteen! I knew that bastard must have been behind all of this.

He crops up again later. Sort of. You never heard Born in the Depths of Hell?

rubber soul · 11-09-2017, 07:01 PM

I'll give it a better read tomorrow, but glancing over it, it looks pretty damned good. Do (or did) you belong to a writing forum by any chance?

Oriphiel · 11-09-2017, 07:02 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Trollheart

He crops up again later. Sort of. You never heard Born in the Depths of Hell?

I know how the main character of the story feels. It's the same way I felt after listening to that Springsteen album in The Torture Chamber. All this time later, I still feel like I've been jettisoned into some strange space outside of reality, desperately trying to maintain my sanity.

Trollheart · 11-09-2017, 08:33 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by rubber soul

I'll give it a better read tomorrow, but glancing over it, it looks pretty damned good. Do (or did) you belong to a writing forum by any chance?

Thanks. And no, I don't and never did.

Quote:

Originally Posted by Oriphiel

I know how the main character of the story feels. It's the same way I felt after listening to that Springsteen album in The Torture Chamber. All this time later, I still feel like I've been jettisoned into some strange space outside of reality, desperately trying to maintain my sanity.

Hey, you remember the lyric "Born down in a dead man's town"....

Trollheart · 11-09-2017, 08:45 PM

My mouth feels thick, my lips huge and rubbery and my tongue as rough as sandpaper as I force it to work. It's almost like I have forgotten how to talk, as if the time that has elapsed between my attention being captured by the weird black photograph and the time it had released me has been several centuries instead of, as it obviously was, mere seconds. My head is quite definitely going to split in two like a ripe melon. I have absolutely no doubt whatever about that. I hope Benny won’t scowl at me when I make a mess on his counter.

“No,” I rasp, then, feeling that is not really sufficient answer, I try to stretch my thin smile a little wider, an effort in which I fail entirely, deciding at the last moment to turn it into a grimace of distaste. It's rather appropriate, considering how I'm feeling. “Nothing in the papers these days,” I finish, doing my level best not to shudder at the accuracy of that statement. Benny nods sagely, picking up his pipe and carefully tapping the remains of the last smoke into the bin, following the discarded slice of ham, and the rest of his sandwich.

“I hear ya,” he says. “Still,” he observes, striking a match and touching it to the bowl, “not surprising really. After all, we won't need any news when He comes, now will we?” He winks at me. It is of course meant as a friendly gesture, but for some reason I take it as the most obscene, offensive thing I have ever seen, and my hands, trembling, bunch into fists. It's the same wink – the very exact same – that Keith favoured me with only – what? Minutes? ago. I have to fight to hold my hands by my sides. I want nothing more at that moment than to punch Benny Summers' face in. The blood is singing in my head, every nerve screaming with pain. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to dull it, but it only gets worse. I bite down so hard on my tongue that it bleeds, but I almost don't feel it. The taste of blood in my mouth distracts me from the raging headache, and I unbunch my hands, fishing in my wallet.

I mutter a non-committal grunt and Benny slides a pack of Major Extra Tar across the counter to me. I haven’t asked for them, given no indication of needing them, but they’re there on the shiny counter top before me. It's almost a telepathic understanding, but for once there is nothing ominous or scary about this: I have been coming to Benny's newsagent for most of my adult life, and never leave without a pack of my favourite cigarettes. Even if I go in there for something else, and don't ask for the smokes, Benny always puts them in front of me.

I grab the packet like a drowning man grasping a rope, and without a further word or even a look at Benny I nod my thanks, drop the money on the counter and walk out, without waiting for any change that I might be due. If Benny thinks anything about this he says nothing. After all, what shopkeeper calls his customer back to ensure he takes his change?

As I leave the shop I fight the urge not to look back at the newspaper stand, fearing that either I will see the rows of three-word text and the black photographs, and be pulled back there against my will, this time to be sucked into whatever torment awaits beyond their borders, or else I might see that the headlines all talk about trouble in the Middle East, presidential elections, old ladies being mugged and other mundane news items, and that the fetching girl offering her bottom on the Mirror's front page has words like BOTTOMS UP! and WHAT A BEAUTY! beneath her, and that all is as it should be.

I am not quite sure which would be worse.

As I leave the newsagents something which has been niggling at me begins to coalesce in my mind and assume a frightening legitimacy. Everyone I meet, from the sexy keep-fit-mad Dobson sisters to Harry the postman, from little Terry Smithson with his favourite teddy bear trailing after his aunt Penny, and even a bunch of ne'er-do-wells slouching on the corner and giving every impression of casing the local Hi-Fi store, share one unalterable and noticeable trait. Everyone seems tired. The toughs on the corner are barely able to keep their eyes open, one dropping his flick-knife and jumping as if the sudden noise it makes falling to the ground has awoken him, suddenly alert for enemies, his eyes wild, but taking a few seconds longer than he should to pick it up. Harry walks directly into a gatepost, shakes his head as if trying to clear it. Little Terry wails that he is tired, while his aunt, covering her own mouth and rubbing her eyes, points out to him that he has slept all day and has only just risen in the last hour.

All over town it's the same. People go about their business in a dazed, sleepwalking fashion. I pass commuters who wait for a bus which seems to be driven by a man asleep at the wheel; a salesman for something or other stumbles from house to house, knocking over milk bottles as he goes. The local parish priest, Father Liam, walks slowly down the high street with head bowed, turning into the local petrol station, where he uncharacteristically buys a can of petrol. I say uncharacteristically, because I know that not only does Father Liam not own a car, he has never learned to drive. Intrigued, I watch him from a distance as he opens the can, upends the contents over himself and then removes a lighter from his cassock.

My headache, which had subsided slightly as I left Benny’s, returns with pounding vengeance, as if affronted at having been dismissed, and I hold the sides of my head and grit my teeth. It’s going to be another bad one.

In another moment Father Liam is wreathed in flame, the meaty stench of burning flesh rising into the crisp autumn air. He does not scream. He does not utter a sound as the fire consumes his body, and though there are others present – garage staff and customers as well as a few people buying sweets and newspapers in the adjoining shop – nobody moves to help him, or even seems to notice what is happening. Stunned out of my frozen shock, I run forward, shrugging out of my jacket as I do, smothering him, trying to snuff out the flames. As everyone completely ignores me, I beat out the fire and look down at the cinder that once was a man. There's no way he's going to make it, but I thumb my mobile phone anyway and call an ambulance. The line connects, and I open my mouth to advise the emergency and urge a speedy despatch, but to my amazement all I hear is

He is coming.

I drop the phone from numb fingers, look down at the burnt remains of Father Liam. He is fading quickly, but smiling up at me. He winks, or he tries to: one scorched eye rolls out of its socket. “Don't worry, my son,” he tells me. “He is coming.” And those are the last words he speaks. Not knowing what else to do, unable to summon help or interest anyone around me in the fact that a man – a priest! - has just self-immolated himself for absolutely no reason, I allow my feet to carry me, automaton-like, back into the street.

As if nothing has happened, three teenage girls pass on the other side of the road, sharing a can of Red Bull, one of them losing her grip and allowing the can to fall to the ground, she looking at her hand stupidly as if trying to work out what has happened. A sharp, shrill sound cuts the air and I realise the school is letting out, but whereas usually the kids would come spilling out like an unstoppable wave at the bell, eager to be away from the seat of learning in which they have been imprisoned for the last five or six hours and get to playing, the children who emerge from the gates do so slowly, blinking in the weak light like insects suddenly exposed on the underside of a rock, and all wandering uncertainly, yawning, rubbing their eyes, some actually sitting down and falling asleep on the spot.

What the hell is going on? Is the entire town asleep?

I find my feet taking me up the hill away from the high street and towards the edge of town as the sullen clouds overhead which have been following me burst, and a thin shower of rain patters down on my unprotected head. I hardly notice it. My feelings of unease are growing, and I have the impression I am walking towards the source of that unease, but I can't stop heading in that direction. It's like something is controlling me, as if I am a puppet dancing to the commands and whims of its master. As I crest the top of the road which leads down into the valley just outside of town, I see it.

I have a feeling it sees me, too.

The Batlord · 11-09-2017, 08:48 PM

FREEBIRD!!!!!!!!! i

Trollheart · 11-10-2017, 05:45 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by The Batlord

FREEBIRD!!!!!!!!! i

I believe that's already been written. Sorry to have to break it to you.

rubber soul · 11-10-2017, 06:15 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Trollheart

For anyone who's interested, here's my attempt at a horror story. I couldn't enter it for Ori's competition as it was too long, thanks Hitler.

If anyone doesn't love this I'll personally come around to your home and kill you.

Waiting for that day

I: Foundations

As I was going up the stairs I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
I wish, I wish he’d go away.

I’ve been seeing men who aren't there for so long now, it's hard to figure out who’s real and who’s not. I meet people on the stairs, in the kitchen, in the garden- I have no idea if they're actually there or if I'm just dreaming them. Sometimes I even wonder if I'm the dream; maybe all I am is a phantasm, a ghost haunting a house that isn't mine. I see pictures on walls and tables and bureaux and I don't recognise the faces smiling out at me. Smiling. Always smiling. People in photographs always seem happy, or if they're not, they make out that they are. I suppose it makes sense; who’s going to want to look at pictures of people scowling, or crying? You want happy memories. Not real ones. I guess that’s when they always make you say “Cheese!” Not quite sure why, but photographers always seem to think cheese makes people happy, or smile at least. Not me: I hate the damn stuff. Curdled cow’s milk in solid form. Ugh!

But though these people are invariably smiling in the pictures I look at, I don't know any of the faces. I try - Lord knows, I try. Sometimes I give myself a headache just trying to recall their smiling faces and fit names to them. A woman in a hospital bed with a tiny baby cradled in her arms, smiling of course: is that me? Me with my mother? I don't remember ever having a mother, though I suppose I must have had, at one point. People don't just spring into the world from nowhere. Even if I am a ghost, as I fear more and more these days I am, I must have had a mother once. Ghosts are just dead people, and every person, even if they're dead now, once had a mother. But if this is mine, she is a stranger to me. As is the silent, solemn looking baby. If that's me, then I don't even recognise my own face.

A man stands in another of these unfamiliar yet familiar photographs. He is holding what appears to be a fishing rod and wearing angling gear. Beside him is a young boy, maybe thirteen, fourteen years of age. The older man’s arm is around the shoulder of the boy, and they are of course smiling towards the camera, seeming to display what I would consider rather too much pride in the few tiny silver fish that dangle from the older man’s hand. Father and son, surely. But my father? Am I the boy looking pleased as punch (who is punch, and why is he always so pleased?) Standing beside my father? The man’s face is kindly, but betrays lines which speak to me of suppressed anger. Is the photograph a sham; a moment frozen in time, a lie captured for eternity? Do darker currents run beneath the surface of that placid face?

And here, standing in pride of place in the centre of my writing bureau, where I am now sitting as I write this, yet another photo. This time it is a colour one, the colours bright and vibrant despite the obvious age of the picture. Two people, very clearly in love and having just expressed that love by agreeing to share the rest of their lives together. The woman is not beautiful in the normal way one would consider beauty, but something about her speaks to me, and tells me that I am the other figure in the picture, beaming and sliding my eyes to the left, in her direction, just as the shutter clicked, as if I (if indeed it is me in the picture) can't bear even to tear my eyes off her for the brief moment the photographer requires us to look into the camera.

If there truly is such a thing as the look of love, it's passing between these two people.

And then, like a tragic postscript to the left of the wedding day photo, another one. This time, it's her alone, enclosed as if trapped by a small oval at the top of a piece of card that, while white in colour somehow contrives to be dark. There are words upon it, her name, age, address, in lovely tasteful flowing script. A poem, some more words, culminating in a wish: May she rest in peace.

Looking at the picture causes me sadness I can't explain or understand. The woman in both photographs, and the man in the wedding one, mean nothing to me. I have a feeling both should, but no matter how hard I try, no memory will surface, if indeed there is anything there to uncover or reveal itself.

If this is not my house, then those pictures have nothing to do with me, which would explain why I cannot recognise the people in them. If I am an interloper in someone else's house, these are someone else's photographs, someone else's memories. And yet, such thoughts bring me no relief, no peace. Somehow I know this is my house, those are my photographs and I should know the faces smiling out at me, but I don’t.

As for the men on the stairs (and everywhere else) who are not there but are there, they seem to have been here for as long as I can remember. Or not here. There doesn't seem to have been a time when they weren't. Though I'm sure I once lived here alone. I can't point to a specific time or date when they arrived, I couldn't tell you how they gained entrance to my house, or why I let them in, but a tiny voice in my head, growing quieter and more distant every day, whispers that it was not always so.

I suppose it would be fair to say I used to live mostly in the dark. I tended to be frugal with my electricity, to the point where I would ensure that if I was leaving one room to go to another, I would switch off the light in the room I was leaving. Save the pennies, and the pounds will look after themselves. I was never a rich man - this much I know - and was constantly struggling to pay my bills. These days, I no longer let such things concern me. These days, lights burn in every room through the night, and voices mutter as I try to sleep. I once found myself worrying about my electricity bill, but oddly it never arrived. Nor did any others. Fearful that I would either be cut off, or that an even larger bill would drop onto the mat in the hallway, replete with warnings scrawled in red pen (though really, I know, printed out by a cold, unfeeling inkjet printer that does not even know what a red pen is, or any pen, come to think of it) about final payments and penalties, I rang the electricity company.

That is, I tried.

I remember distinctly punching out the number on the dialling pad on the landline, holding the receiver to my ear, hearing the chirruping ring sing its happy little tune like some imprisoned songbird trapped inside the phone's workings.

The next thing I remember, I was waking up the next morning, with (at the time) no recollection of having even made the call. Had I remembered, I could have checked the last-dialled number, to confirm if I had actually called the electricity company or had just dreamed it. Had I remembered. Which I did not. And so I didn't check. Because there was nothing to check.

But despite a lack of communication with – and more importantly, any payment to – the electric people, my supply was not discontinued, and though power continued to be expended and consumed throughout the night, every night, even at weekends, no bill ever arrived. And I don't just mean no electricity bill. No bills of any nature dropped through my letterbox. In fact, no post at all was delivered. No junk mail, no one-time-only special offers to join gyms, no cutprice sales at carpet and tile shops, no screaming adverts for holidays. No letters. No cards. No flyers. Even the ubiquitous agents of the local Indian takeaway seemed to give my house a wide berth. Look outside and you will see every single doorknob, letterbox, windowsill and gate festooned with menus from A Taste of Mumbai, but my house stands as a pariah among houses, like the kid not picked for the soccer team or the wallflower at the disco, alone, untouched, avoided.

Unclean?

My memory, which I know will soon degrade like badly-stored fruit in the summer heat, tells me that it was not always this way. In fact, it reminds me that on more than one occasion I had made irate phone calls to the manager of A Taste of Mumbai, the improbably-named Gerald Lynch (very Indian!) and had even visited their premises once, to complain about the practice of their little munchkins slapping a menu on anything that didn't move (and, I'm perhaps not too reliably informed, but I would not be surprised, some things that do). My efforts had been rebuffed, and when I had in impotent anger phoned their head office, I had been left on hold for so long that there was only so much bad Indian covers of fifties rock and roll songs (the Indian Elvis? Give me a break!) that I could take, and I had hung up irritably, my mission unfulfilled.

Nice read, Trollheart. I was going to ask how you would know you didn't remember making a phone call until I notice you said, 'at the time.' I'll read your next entry tomorrow but I'm surmising you're supposed to be a ghost (boy, I should be Sherlock Holmes, huh?). I'm curious to find out whether you're reviewing your life (before you became a ghost) or whether it is a new family that has taken over your house. But, I'll have to wait until tomorrow to find that out.

You're very good, Trollheart

11-09-2017, 06:53 PM	#341 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,992	Few people around here are bothered too much about music, and those that do either get their intake from whatever pap is playing on the radio these days, or they're jazz aficionados, rigidly fixed in their opinion that there is no other music than the one they listen to. Some of the kids on the street listen to death metal, but that's a little too loud for me. Keith and I are the only ones to share an interest in, and appreciation of, the music of New Jersey's favourite son. “Still on for the gig?” I ask. I feel I should say something, and now that my memory has been jogged, I remember we have tickets. We've been looking forward to it for months, and it's been one of the main topics of conversation when we meet. Keith sucks in his cheeks, shakes his head. “Not so sure that's a good idea, old pal,” he confides. “Not when He's coming, you know?” I stare at him blankly. “Who?” I ask. He looks at me at first as if I am insane, and then his face splits in a wide grin and he winks. “Ah, nearly had me there, Rob me old son!” he chortles. “Who indeed? No but seriously,” and here his face does take on a more serious aspect, “I know we spent a lot on the tickets, but you understand, don't you?” I say I do, even though I don't. What the hell is he talking about? When who comes? His initial reaction when I showed incomprehension about who this is though, takes me a little aback and I'm loath to give him further excuse to suspect. Suspect what? Am I trying to conceal something from him? Here is some music… He nods, happy that we are in agreement. He yawns again. “I'll see if I can sell 'em on,” he promises, again with another knowing wink adding “though I doubt if anyone around here will want to miss it when He comes either.” Again I nod, not a clue. “Sell 'em on ebay?” I venture. He shrugs. “Disconnected the internet,” he tells me flatly, and before I can ask why, “Ain't gonna need it no more, not once He comes.” He's been going on about this mysterious “he” at such length now, making it obvious that he expects me to know this mystery man, that I honestly can't raise any further doubts in him by asking who “he” is. So I return his shrug and say “Yeah, maybe it's for the best.” It's as non-committal as I can get without giving anything away. He nods, knuckles his eyes and remarks “Man, these late nights are killing me! Think I'd better take a nap before I have to go on shift.” He grins self-deprecatingly. “Listen to me! Forty-three this year and I'm acting like I was ninety! A nap, huh?” But despite his levity, he again covers his face as a long yawn stretches it, shrugs and with a somewhat apologetic look disappears up his garden path, his door closing and leaving me somewhat nonplussed, standing in the street. So confused am I that I actually take a step backwards, almost knocking over Fiona Hutchinson, who is, as usual, out on her bike. She has barely been off that thing since she got it as a surprise Christmas present last year, from parents who could hardly afford it; I'd heard she even kept it in her bedroom so that she could reach out at night and touch it while she slept. No doubt it was in her dreams too. “Hey!” she exclaims, in exactly the same voice a woman would if you hit into her pram and she feared for the safety of her child. “Watch the bike, Mister Charles!” “Sorry,” I mumble, only half aware of what I'm doing, or saying. Keith's enigmatic words, somehow imbued with a tone of cheerful menace and desperation, like the smile of a man as he goes to the gallows, trying to be brave, still ring inside my head. I don't see her do it, but I get the feeling Fiona smiles at me tolerantly. “Never mind,” she tells me. “Everything will be all right once He comes. See ya, Mister Charles!” And with that, she's gone, humming happily as she rides off down the path. My head hurts even worse, pounding like someone inside it is trying to break out using a sledgehammer. I watch her pass me, notice the bike suddenly wobble, the little hand coming up to her mouth as she too yawns, and for a moment I think she might fall, and I take a half-step in her direction. But then she rises up in the saddle, pushes her feet down on the pedals and quickly disappears down the street. I remain where I am, almost frozen in place, my head beginning to feel hot. She had said the same thing as Keith. Who are they talking about? Have I missed something? Have I been so long cooped up inside my house with these odd men, these cockroaches, skittering through my home that I have been unaware that some major celebrity or important figure is due to visit our little town? But who would be bothered? I decide to buy a newspaper. If there is some portentous visit on the horizon, surely it will be in the papers? “Morning Rob,” says Benny, the old newsagent. I almost point out to him that it's afternoon, but then remember that to Benny Summers, it's always morning. It isn't that he doesn't know the correct time of day, he just always uses “Good morning” as a salutation, and people have got used to it. “Bit chilly out there today, huh?” I nod, grunting, hardly acknowledging his presence. I'm pawing through the newspapers, looking for some evidence of this unnamed celebrity who is due to visit, when a cold chill runs down my back. Two cold chills. Three. First, as I peruse the sheaf of papers on the stand I hear the unmistakable sound of a yawn, followed by a thump and then a loud snoring. Glancing up, I see that Benny has fallen asleep, his big head resting peacefully on the remains of the sandwich he had been eating as I entered, his eyes closed. For a moment I am torn between going to him to see if he is all right (I assume he hasn't suffered a heart attack or anything, as I can hear the gentle snoring) and trying to confirm what my eyes are telling me about the newspapers. My gaze is drawn back to them, as I try to work out what I'm seeing. Every single headline, and every byline on every single paper says exactly the same. On the Herald, the headline blares HE IS COMING! The front of the Bugle screams HE IS COMING! The entire first page of the Standard is given over to the proclamation HE IS COMING! Even the less salubrious publications speak of the same thing. The News of the World displays a garish picture of a very well endowed young lady, alongside the words HE IS COMING, while the Mirror has a similarly endowed girl bending over and smiling. Printed directly below the curve of her buttocks are the words HE IS COMING. And that's not all. Every other line on every paper I pick up has the same words, repeated over and over again, in a seemingly nonsensical repetition that covers the entire page: He is coming. He is coming. He is coming. He is coming. There are no photographs accompanying the text, only large square or rectangular shapes of black, as if someone has carefully cut out sections of the newspaper. But they aren't just blank shapes. As I look at them, my gaze drawn towards their innate weirdness, I feel a rush of fear. I know that if I were to allow my finger, which is incredulously tracing down the neat lines of script made up of those three words, armies of hostile letters that seem bent on destroying me, to touch the black un-photograph it would sink into it. I know that. I know it without knowing how I know. Pain screams in my temples, sears my eyes, constricts my neck. I think I may faint, but I don’t. Something will not let me. Like some vast, deep well or the pull of a neutron star that drags everything towards it by the force of its incalculable gravitational attraction, till not even light can escape its embrace and is trapped within its core forever, the dark spaces leech at me, pull at me, invite me in. I feel my face move closer to the page. Closer. Closer. My nose is almost touching one now, along which lines of text march, battle-hardened troops wending their weary war to war, advising me that He is coming. I know that if my skin touches the black square I will be lost, sucked in, absorbed, trapped forever in whatever dark hell lies beyond. I must not touch it. And yet I cannot resist the pull, the darkness like a beckoning finger you know you should not – must not follow, yet you do anyway because you have no free will of your own. The square of darkness is expanding now, filling my vision, blocking out all other sight and sound. Even the incessant repetitive lines of text have blurred into indistinct shapes now, and then faded away altogether as I stare at the black hole my world has suddenly become, unable to fight as I am inexorably dragged towards it, through it, into it... “Harumph! Wussat?” The sudden sound breaks the spell, and I drop the newspaper from nerveless fingers, gasping, fighting for breath as it falls facedown on the ground, the sports section now looking up at me, nothing running across its surface but those three words. There are no black photographs though, or if there are they are hidden by the fold of the paper as it had fallen, and I consciously avert my eyes from any of the others, forcing my head to snap up with such force it hurts, and turning my eyes in the direction of the sound, the sound that has broken the spell, the sound that has saved me. “Wow! Sorry about that!” grins old Benny, smiling sheepishly as he deftly removes a slice of processed ham from his cheek and drops it fastidiously into the bin behind the counter. “Musta dozed off there for a minute.” For a moment, I don't know where I am. The ground, which had seemed to be slipping out from beneath me a moment ago, reasserts its presence and suddenly my body feels very heavy. I almost crash to one knee, but force a thin smile as I shakily move away from the newspaper rack and towards the recently woken Benny. He frowns at me. “Not takin' your paper, Rob?” __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

11-09-2017, 08:45 PM	#347 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,992	My mouth feels thick, my lips huge and rubbery and my tongue as rough as sandpaper as I force it to work. It's almost like I have forgotten how to talk, as if the time that has elapsed between my attention being captured by the weird black photograph and the time it had released me has been several centuries instead of, as it obviously was, mere seconds. My head is quite definitely going to split in two like a ripe melon. I have absolutely no doubt whatever about that. I hope Benny won’t scowl at me when I make a mess on his counter. “No,” I rasp, then, feeling that is not really sufficient answer, I try to stretch my thin smile a little wider, an effort in which I fail entirely, deciding at the last moment to turn it into a grimace of distaste. It's rather appropriate, considering how I'm feeling. “Nothing in the papers these days,” I finish, doing my level best not to shudder at the accuracy of that statement. Benny nods sagely, picking up his pipe and carefully tapping the remains of the last smoke into the bin, following the discarded slice of ham, and the rest of his sandwich. “I hear ya,” he says. “Still,” he observes, striking a match and touching it to the bowl, “not surprising really. After all, we won't need any news when He comes, now will we?” He winks at me. It is of course meant as a friendly gesture, but for some reason I take it as the most obscene, offensive thing I have ever seen, and my hands, trembling, bunch into fists. It's the same wink – the very exact same – that Keith favoured me with only – what? Minutes? ago. I have to fight to hold my hands by my sides. I want nothing more at that moment than to punch Benny Summers' face in. The blood is singing in my head, every nerve screaming with pain. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to dull it, but it only gets worse. I bite down so hard on my tongue that it bleeds, but I almost don't feel it. The taste of blood in my mouth distracts me from the raging headache, and I unbunch my hands, fishing in my wallet. I mutter a non-committal grunt and Benny slides a pack of Major Extra Tar across the counter to me. I haven’t asked for them, given no indication of needing them, but they’re there on the shiny counter top before me. It's almost a telepathic understanding, but for once there is nothing ominous or scary about this: I have been coming to Benny's newsagent for most of my adult life, and never leave without a pack of my favourite cigarettes. Even if I go in there for something else, and don't ask for the smokes, Benny always puts them in front of me. I grab the packet like a drowning man grasping a rope, and without a further word or even a look at Benny I nod my thanks, drop the money on the counter and walk out, without waiting for any change that I might be due. If Benny thinks anything about this he says nothing. After all, what shopkeeper calls his customer back to ensure he takes his change? As I leave the shop I fight the urge not to look back at the newspaper stand, fearing that either I will see the rows of three-word text and the black photographs, and be pulled back there against my will, this time to be sucked into whatever torment awaits beyond their borders, or else I might see that the headlines all talk about trouble in the Middle East, presidential elections, old ladies being mugged and other mundane news items, and that the fetching girl offering her bottom on the Mirror's front page has words like BOTTOMS UP! and WHAT A BEAUTY! beneath her, and that all is as it should be. I am not quite sure which would be worse. As I leave the newsagents something which has been niggling at me begins to coalesce in my mind and assume a frightening legitimacy. Everyone I meet, from the sexy keep-fit-mad Dobson sisters to Harry the postman, from little Terry Smithson with his favourite teddy bear trailing after his aunt Penny, and even a bunch of ne'er-do-wells slouching on the corner and giving every impression of casing the local Hi-Fi store, share one unalterable and noticeable trait. Everyone seems tired. The toughs on the corner are barely able to keep their eyes open, one dropping his flick-knife and jumping as if the sudden noise it makes falling to the ground has awoken him, suddenly alert for enemies, his eyes wild, but taking a few seconds longer than he should to pick it up. Harry walks directly into a gatepost, shakes his head as if trying to clear it. Little Terry wails that he is tired, while his aunt, covering her own mouth and rubbing her eyes, points out to him that he has slept all day and has only just risen in the last hour. All over town it's the same. People go about their business in a dazed, sleepwalking fashion. I pass commuters who wait for a bus which seems to be driven by a man asleep at the wheel; a salesman for something or other stumbles from house to house, knocking over milk bottles as he goes. The local parish priest, Father Liam, walks slowly down the high street with head bowed, turning into the local petrol station, where he uncharacteristically buys a can of petrol. I say uncharacteristically, because I know that not only does Father Liam not own a car, he has never learned to drive. Intrigued, I watch him from a distance as he opens the can, upends the contents over himself and then removes a lighter from his cassock. My headache, which had subsided slightly as I left Benny’s, returns with pounding vengeance, as if affronted at having been dismissed, and I hold the sides of my head and grit my teeth. It’s going to be another bad one. In another moment Father Liam is wreathed in flame, the meaty stench of burning flesh rising into the crisp autumn air. He does not scream. He does not utter a sound as the fire consumes his body, and though there are others present – garage staff and customers as well as a few people buying sweets and newspapers in the adjoining shop – nobody moves to help him, or even seems to notice what is happening. Stunned out of my frozen shock, I run forward, shrugging out of my jacket as I do, smothering him, trying to snuff out the flames. As everyone completely ignores me, I beat out the fire and look down at the cinder that once was a man. There's no way he's going to make it, but I thumb my mobile phone anyway and call an ambulance. The line connects, and I open my mouth to advise the emergency and urge a speedy despatch, but to my amazement all I hear is He is coming. I drop the phone from numb fingers, look down at the burnt remains of Father Liam. He is fading quickly, but smiling up at me. He winks, or he tries to: one scorched eye rolls out of its socket. “Don't worry, my son,” he tells me. “He is coming.” And those are the last words he speaks. Not knowing what else to do, unable to summon help or interest anyone around me in the fact that a man – a priest! - has just self-immolated himself for absolutely no reason, I allow my feet to carry me, automaton-like, back into the street. As if nothing has happened, three teenage girls pass on the other side of the road, sharing a can of Red Bull, one of them losing her grip and allowing the can to fall to the ground, she looking at her hand stupidly as if trying to work out what has happened. A sharp, shrill sound cuts the air and I realise the school is letting out, but whereas usually the kids would come spilling out like an unstoppable wave at the bell, eager to be away from the seat of learning in which they have been imprisoned for the last five or six hours and get to playing, the children who emerge from the gates do so slowly, blinking in the weak light like insects suddenly exposed on the underside of a rock, and all wandering uncertainly, yawning, rubbing their eyes, some actually sitting down and falling asleep on the spot. What the hell is going on? Is the entire town asleep? I find my feet taking me up the hill away from the high street and towards the edge of town as the sullen clouds overhead which have been following me burst, and a thin shower of rain patters down on my unprotected head. I hardly notice it. My feelings of unease are growing, and I have the impression I am walking towards the source of that unease, but I can't stop heading in that direction. It's like something is controlling me, as if I am a puppet dancing to the commands and whims of its master. As I crest the top of the road which leads down into the valley just outside of town, I see it. I have a feeling it sees me, too. __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018