Writer, thinker, and perpetual mess-maker.
Prose
The following pieces demonstrate vital aspects of storytelling. Such elements include narrative, discourse, characterization, pacing, tone, form, dialogue and worldbuilding.
Magic
When Asher was eight years old, she caught a flying fish with her bare hands after chasing it through the mountaintops for over an hour. That was the only time he’d ever screamed at her. “You know that the legal flying age is twelve,” he said. “And that’s just for training brooms!”
“But I can’t wait,” she’d whined back. “Plus those training brooms look like dust-busters. It’s so embarrassing!”
“Who exactly are you wanting to impress?” Her father wore an impish grin. His child prattled on. “You can only fly this much-” hands parallel with her stubby thumbs pointing to the sky “-off the ground. It’s boring.”
“But you know there’re leprechauns…”
“Yes dad, I know.” She was already planning her next attempt. She’d steal the broom again and go out in the morning, before even the sun was awake, and fly out of the Ring – west to Cork or north to Limerick. All she needed to do was find a way to steal the broom without her dad getting suspicious…
But she didn’t need to worry about that, because both parents were called up to the front line. The war had gone south from Belfast – already, mermaids were leaping from the Liffey and snatching people off the streets of Dublin. Asher and her brothers were left with their grandfather; a loving man, though too old to parent the three naughty children. This was made worse when an owl carried the news of his son and daughter-in-law having been mortifyingly eaten alive by Cyclops.
This prompted Asher to reluctantly listen to her grandfather. Like her father, he told her not to leave the Ring. But she swore one day she’d fly away. That day came on her sixteenth birthday.
With her dad’s old broomstick in hand and her brother’s wand strapped to her ankle, she took to the hills. She flew close to the ground across acres of grass so green it seemed to be glowing – so engrossed that she lost focus. She was jolted back when a bullet flew past her ear. A terrified gasp escaped her mouth.
She dove to the ground and scurried to find cover beneath the concealment of a rock and a small bush, dirtying her jeans with mud and moss. Through gaps between leaves, she saw another bullet sail through the air and implant itself in a sheep not three metres away. The animal jerked to the ground.
Asher leapt forward and crouched beside the dead animal.
A brash, obnoxious voice screeched: “That’s moine!” over thumping footsteps on loose gravel. It was a girl – probably the same age as Asher – and she cradled the sheep’s head as if it were her pet. It was a bit barbaric, but at least she hadn’t been aiming at Asher.
“Whare’d you cohme frem?” The girl waved her shotgun in the air with a rattle while she spoke. She then tossed it into the dirt and snapped the sheep’s ankles to obtain its hooves. “Who are ewh?”
Asher was dumbfounded at the speed at which the girl spoke. “I... ah...”
“Whall? Don’ need to whispar, wha’re the ewnly ownes here.” The girl smiled. “Oi’m Kay.”
“What’s okay?”
“No, it’s joost Kay.”
“Why are you here alone?”
“Why are ewh here et all?”
Asher shrugged.
“Sheep joomped the fence.”
“So why did you follow it?”
“Nah noot my fence, the neighboir’s. Forth time this wehk, and it keeps sheitting aloing the leke. Why are ewh here?”
“I live in the Ring,” Asher pointed back the way she came. “I –”
“Canny believe it,” Kay said, awestruck and peering at the cobalt wand jutting out of Asher’s boot. “Yowh’re ohne of those fowlk.”
“Pardon?” Asher stepped backwards, chills dancing along her spine. She chanted a well-known defence spell over in her head in anticipation of an attack; “lily-fluoxetine, abilify symgen.”
The ground jerked forward and for a moment, Asher panicked that she’d uttered the words aloud. She hadn’t. A purple orb had appeared on the ground between them. It grew and swallowed the earth like a whirlpool. The sheep’s carcass slid into the growing chasm.
“What’s happening?” Asher could barely finish the sentence as she fell, splashing into icy water. She waited for her broom to follow, but it did not. After a mouthful of water, she coughed and tried to stay afloat while reaching for her wand.
Kay plopped into the water beside her. She frowned so hard Asher wondered if she could even see. She cursed, “Ewhs yewr bloody wand.”
Asher gripped it with both hands. Her fingers were so frozen she was afraid it’d slip away from her palm. “Luvoxx,” she said, and the wand produced a ball of light.
“There’s a few rocks down there,” said Kay, already paddling in that direction. Asher began to swim and a rope ladder plopped into the water. The girls looked up; the mouth of a cave was indented into the mountain nearby. “Go on!”
Confused, Asher grasped the lowest rung and place her wand between her teeth. She climbed with rigid movements. Her limbs were stiff from the cold, but Kay evidently did not have the same problem. She hurried up the ladder, frustrated at Asher for going so slowly.
They reached the ledge above. The cave, nestled amongst crags and stalagmites, was remarkably warm and well-lit. Asher’s teeth chattered and she hugged herself, sliding her wand back into her boot. “You trapped me!”
“I didn’t doh this,” said Kay. “Ewh think I can cohnjure a void?”
“Avoid what?”
“A powhrtal, what is wroing with ewh?”
“Calm down, both of you,” said a voice from the shadows. A man in a black cloak stepped forward, bearing his weight on a blue cane. “Sorry about the water. This thing doesn’t work as well as it used to.” He gestured to his cane.
“Hohw is it suppoosed to work?”
“It’s a wand.”
“Are we prisonerhs?”
“For now,” said the man.
“Why?” Kay screamed.
“This war is a massacre,” he said bitterly. “Those that can wield magic are killed! I must get retribution.”
“Hey,” Kay said calmly, taking a tentative step forwards. “I’m noot a wizarhd oor whatever, but I have lewhds of magic friends.”
“Rubbish,” the man spat.
“Noi, it’s true,” Kay gestured for Asher to step forwards. “She’s a…”
“…mage.”
Asher yanked her wand out again.
“Asher?” the man shook his head, but the closer he got the more certain he became. Her eyes were silver like his. There was a mark on her chin... “Surely not – I raised you to be smart enough not to ever leave the Ring.”
Asher folded her arms, wand sliding to her armpit, and turned away from him dramatically.
“I’m sixteen, I can do what I want.”
“Hey! Don’t give me that attitude…” a sigh got caught in his throat as he wildly gesticulated his exasperation. “It’s dangerous. Have I taught you nothing?”
“Literally!”
He wore an impish grin. He strode forward and pulled Asher into a tight hug.
“Soo… can I gowh?”
“Why did you need to kidnap a human kid? You’re so unreasonable.”
“I wasn’t going to kill her…”
“That’s so mean, why do you have to set such a bad example?”
“Hey! I’ve always told you to do as I say, not as I do.”
“Well you didn’t say so much these past few years.”
Kay cleared her throat. “Can I joost… is the exit…”
“I couldn’t bloody well walk, my back is just-”
“So why didn’t you conjure a portal into the Ring?”
“I tried that! How do you think my back got this way?”
“What does that even mean?”
“I tried leaving, but I’m not very good at doing portals – you saw that much when you got here. I zapped myself a little too high and hit the bloody ground here.”
“So you thought, lemme just stay here like this for two years?”
“Is thare an exit?” Kay said. Asher and the man looked at her.
“I can do it,” Asher rolled her eyes. She waved her wand, outlining a circle, counter clockwise three times. “Celebrex.”
The portal glowed, and the man walked through it.
“Thenk goohdness,” Kay sighed, stepping forward. She gestured for Asher to go ahead, which she did, and then all but leapt into the portal. She landed on her face, in the dirt, and skidded slightly.
“Oh no,” Asher muttered. She’d closed the portal too soon. Only Kay’s head and torso had made it through. One arm was there, too, but severed at the wrist. “What happened to the rest of her?”
“I donno.”
Asher’s dad squealed in delight when he saw the castle in the distance. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief and they hobbled home.
A Story in 15 Sentences
Part One: Linear
An old man had a pocket big enough for time to fit inside. He was called Timekeeper and lived in a tower made of glass. Timekeeper never took off his coat. Break-ins happened regularly. Everyone wanted more time. But Timekeeper was stingy. One day a small child climbed up his tower and snuck inside. He was so tiny that Timekeeper had not even seen him crawl in.
Timekeeper’s eyes always kept watch of the window and the glass floor below. Boy had climbed up the gutter, never fully in view. Timekeeper saw him twice but thought it was a bird. Boy tried to pickpocket Timekeeper, but he was spotted with his fingers on time’s edge. They both clasped time, playing tug-o-war over it.
Just when Boy thought he’d won, time slipped through his fingers. It crashed onto the floor. They scrambled to catch it. But time rolled through a crack and fell out of sight. Out of despair they screamed. They felt cheated. It was so easy to lose time.
Part Two: Nonlinear
Boy had lost time. It slipped through his fingers and he felt cheated. He stood, shocked and bereft. Attempting to reconcile the tragic event. Timekeeper, standing beside Boy, held a hand to his mouth in disbelief.
It was a reckless plan, trying to steal time. Boy had ventured to the glass tower beyond the forest where Timekeeper lived. He was small enough to scale the side of the building without being noticed. Despite Timekeeper’s vigilant watch. He hid in the corner of the room and waited for Timekeeper to pace away from the window. So that he could slide his hand in the pocket of his old cloak.
Just as he curled his fingers around the marble surface of time he was pushed back. He had been seen. And worse – he had held on just long enough for time to be tossed upwards. Though ever so slightly. In the confusion of being discovered the marble rolled beyond reach. Then it was gone.
Part Three: Circular
Timekeeper bent over, grabbed time and stuffed it into his pocket. He lived in a tower made of glass and never took off his coat. Break-ins happened regularly. Everyone wanted more time but Timekeeper was stingy. One day a small child climbed up his tower and snuck inside. A boy so tiny that Timekeeper hadn’t even seen him crawl in.
His eyes always kept watch of the window, and through the glass floor into the jungle below. Boy had climbed up the gutter. Never fully in view. Timekeeper saw him twice but thought it was just a bird. Boy tried to pickpocket Timekeeper, but he was spotted with his fingers on time’s edge. They both clasped time. Playing tug-o-war for its possession.
Just when Boy thought he’d won, time slipped through his fingers. And crashed onto the glass floor. He scrambled to catch it. But time rolled through the crack it had made. Boy left. Head bent low. Mourning. Timekeeper took the stairs and descended to the castle’s base. Amid bushes, he saw the glossy glow of time. He reached out, grabbed time and stuffed it in his pocket. Break-ins happened regularly.
Siblings
Yaakov sucked on the tip of his cigarette for too long. He pursed his bottom lip and breathed through the drag. His posture was crooked, bent like a candy cane, and so he could have just been inhaling heavily to fill his diaphragm before his ribs popped it. Both feet dangled limply from the swing, which hovered in place, and he ran a hand through his hair, which needed a wash, knocking off his Kippah in the process.
“Why are you doing that?” asked Tali as she plucked the skullcap off the ground. Yaakov snatched it back, bringing it to his lips before stuffing it in his pocket. Tali sat on the grass beside the swing and sipped from a mug of coffee, wearing her reading glasses even though the book on her lap remained shut. Her knees turned blue from the cold and she considered going inside to grab a pair of stockings. “You look like you’re posing for a photo.”
“Fuck off,” as Yaakov spoke, tendrils of smoke escaped from his nose and mouth. He choked and coughed violently into his forearm. Ash fell onto the sleeve of his coat and singed it lightly. Tali giggled. Her nose was red against the cold grey day, and it accentuated her cheeky delight. She blinked against a light drizzle while Yaakov’s swears and coughs conflated, sounding like a terrible attempt at acapella dubstep. He chucked the butt over the wall.
“Stop doing that!” Tali’s face contorted tightly. “How many times do I need to tell you that the neighbours’ dogs keep getting sick from those?”
“Maybe they should stop eating cigarettes,” Yaakov smirked. He was already lighting another smoke.
Tali muttered something inaudible. Yakov leapt off the swing and ashed his cigarette in her mug.
The Heretics
“There ain’t nobody benefitting from me slicing up wheat all day but for the folks up in Capital City,” Rat said as he stared out over the stretch of infertile[1] farmlands. Behind him, on the roof of the church, his group of mismatched hooligans lingered on the harsh whispers he spat into the night. They had made a fire pit between them.
“I could cut wheat all day and all night and still would not be as wealthy, nor could I ever be a guard, a monk, or even a goddamned lamplighter. I can sweat for hours and work until my fingers fall to the ground, and I still won’t have any food but for metal pasta and no place to go treat my bellyache. Ain’t nobody gonna care about a little farmer from Southcity.”
Southcity was not big enough to be called a city; it was barely a town. It was anyway, because this made its residents feel better about their living. Capital City, though, was like a raised mantelpiece. Made of steel and glass, like a trophy put on display so that those living in the sties of the outer cities could ogle with their mouths watering and agape.
Meters below, the town centre was quaint but coloured with lethargic excitement. Southsettlers streamed in and out of the church below, but not quite in celebration. It was like they were interacting with each other under water; slow, sluggish music wafted up from flutes near the plaza, and the smells of wine and dribble [2]were intoxicating.
Poverty spread like a disease for those serving their religion. No one, to the good fortune of some and the misfortune of many, owned enough authority to complain. Purple Pope ruled under religious rites, but the concept of virtue was cast to the dark and set alight. She preached from an alter surrounded by the fire of her hypocrisy. The residents of Southcity accepted this. It did not take many words to persuade the simple-minded who had no money with which they could buy common sense.
“We’re playing a game,” Rat told his heretics. The two other kids were too young to understand the significance of a religion that was just a work of fiction. He couldn’t ask any other locals to join in, because they’d know that vandalism and arson were crimes. “Just like when the folks from Capital City talk to their imaginary friend, the Writer[3].”
He, of course, knew that there was nothing playful about his games, and did not want his children-followers to grow bored and abandon him on his mission to take down the monarchy following The Writer.
As the suns [4]faded pinkly, the crackling blue-green bonfire sketched their silhouettes. The church overlooked the town, being in its exact centre with the red sea in the near-distance.
“Now watch,” Rat rasped, wearing a sharpened grin. He produced a tin of aerosol spray paint from his pocket that he had gotten from his friend from Northcity, and held it high, allowing the dimness to glint silver on its shiny surface.
He fed it to the flame. “I’m creating art.”
“This is art?” asked Kitty. She did not seem scared – her wide eyes caught the reflections of the flame and danced with intrigue. Her bottom lip protruded outward in an awe-filled pout.
“It’s art in its purest form,” Rat cackled. “It ain’t all colourless, and it ain’t devoid of all words except those that praise The Writer.”
The fire’s shadow licked Kitty’s face. She nodded and a triangle formed between her brows.
Rat continued, “Just remember to move. Get off here as quick as you can and run like you’re being chased by a beast[5]. First one to the fence wins.”
Bug, the third and final Heretic, stared into the flame which hissed and sizzled in reaction to the aerosol can’s intrusion. Rat thwacked him heavily upside the head and motioned towards the ladder with the coppery sky behind it.
Wanting desperately to win, Kitty pounced for the ladder and grappled on to it as though it would detach from the building and fly away. She flung herself off the roof and held the steel gutter, swinging less-than-swiftly to the ground with blisters burning on her sweaty palms. Bug followed, but his diminutive height and chubby rolls hindered him significantly; he was not as agile as the others.
The heat, worn like a heavy wet cloak, slowed them down. Kitty shook the sweat from her brow and pushed passed festival-folk. They roamed the streets like sleepwalkers while wearing purple and yellow. The Heretics desperately struggled out of the farming town’s labyrinth-like plantations and ran towards the fence that bordered Capital City and Southcity. Once there, they stopped and keeled over, grasping onto breaths as if they’d run out of air.
A sound of numbing blindness tore across Southcity. The church exploded, and it seemed like such a pity to wake the sleeping town.
Rat caught his breath. There was a rather convenient gash in the fence, but Bug was tentative to cross into Capital City.
"Won’t we be killed?" Bug asked while chewing on his thumb. “There’s monsters in the forest.”
“Maybe,” Rat shrugged.
Bug crouched on the floor beside the gate while Rat leapt up onto his shoulders and smashed his thick-toed boots into the fence to widen the gap. Rat then hoisted himself up to the top of the fence. He sat on the bar as though riding a horse and gave his Heretics a smile, whisteling through his teeth.
Bug crouched through the hole, too stocky to be able to climb. Kitty followed next and stood on the other side, ankle-deep in foul mud.
A sudden cry halted the Heretics. “Stop!”
It was a monk[6] wearing a gray robe. He approached the fence hastily.
Kitty and Bug immediately launched themselves away and disappeared from sight.
Rat, attempting to follow, lost his handling on his descent from the fence. With the toes of his boots jammed deep into the hole they’d made, he fell. He did not hit the ground – rather he flailed awkwardly as his boot got tangled in wire. His head spun as he smashed it against the fence.
He shook in an attempt at freeing himself. His Heretics did not turn back.
"C’mon!" His lungs ached as he yelled, and, upside down, his head felt heavier than it ever had before. "You’re not playing fair—"
But his heretics were too far away to hear him. He struggled again.
"Am I caught?" he whispered, trying to turn his head to the sound of a footstep.
"Only by me," said the monk with a chuckle. He calmly ducked through the hole in the fence. His eyes lingered on the crudely made gash. It was as though he was admiring their handiwork. “What are you doing?”
Rat wrestled loudly with the fence. “My doings ain’t none of your business.”
The monk leapt up to try and grab Rat’s ankles and pull him down.
"Go away…” Rat muttered while kicking at him. “We ain’t doing nothing wrong. Piss off outta here.”
“What’s the matter with your face?” asked the monk.
“What?”
“It’s upside down.”
The monk must have been insane. Rat swung his arms and his free leg. The monk gave up trying to help. He sat with his back against the fence and pulled a small flask from his belt. The bottom of his robe was drenched in sticky sludge.
“I don’t blame you,” he spoke with a lazy voice, ending each sentence with a stinted slur. It sounded like he was falling asleep. “Whatever twisted almighty Being Purple Pope has brainwashed people into deeming of The Writer is wrong.”
The monk took a swig from his flask. He swallowed, and then spat as if there was a spicy taste in his mouth.
“You’re a heretic?” Rat scoffed, folding his arms. His elbows were in line with the monk’s bald head.
The monk smirked with a belch. “Heretics do not exist because this is not religion. There is a God, but Purple Pope is not Her friend.”
He got up again to try and help, but Rat thrashed his arms about wildly.
“I can leave you here to get caught by the guards if you’d prefer,” he said. Rat was silent. The monk tentatively yanked him free. Rat almost banged his head on the floor but prevented any injuries with a clumsy roll onto his feet. The monk laughed like a toddler.
Rat ran again. He heard pattering feet squelching in the mud behind him.
"Go away…” Rat muttered, kicking up mud as he went. “Piss off outta here.”
The Heretics emerged from the bushes nearby. They knew that monks did not like to play games; Rat had told them so. They also knew that if they were caught, their game would be over.
Immediately, Bug had his fat arms around the monk and lifted him. He was stocky and large for his age, He flung the monk so far Rat thought he would land up across the river.
“Ow,” the monk pulled himself onto his feet and rubbed his bum – which had broken his fall. “I saved you, don’t you trust me?”
“You could still kill[7] us. City folk don’ like The Settlers. And we don’ like you either,” Rat pulled a wad of tobacco from his pants and began to chew it. “It’s not a big deal, or a secret really.”
“But you don’t even know me,” the monk flailed his arms. He was struggling to focus his eyes. “Why do you just assume I don’t like you based on one fact – that we live in different places?”
“It’s not just where we live, but how we live. We’re different species entirely,” said Rat. “We’re human.”
“So, what does that make me?”
“A brat,” Rat shrugged. “It’s true, and you’re too scared to say so. The only people who think it ain’t true live in Capital City.”
"I want to help!” The monk slurred.
“You can’t help us! All you can do is eat the food we grew off plates we made from your pretty little marble houses up there in pretty Capital City! You can’t do nothing to help yourself, and you can’t do nothing to help us!”
“I can,” the monk shone his icy eyes up at Rat. He struggled to form a sentence through a series of belches.
“See! You ain’t got no words, cause you ain’t got no brains cause everything you ever had was given to you by someone else.” Rat’s spoke with words flavoured sour from anger.
“Where are you going to now?" the monk asked. “I can help you get into the city.”
“No,” Rat smirked meanly. He turned to leave. “Go home. We don’t want your kind here.”
The monk grabbed a stone from the ground beneath his feet and chucked it. It flew past Rat’s head. He whipped around with fists ready to knock the guy out but realized instead that he was not the target of the attack. It was the sound that first alerted him to the presence of a beast[8]. A rumble like someone dropped a load of metal downstairs rolled up the hill and Rat froze with his heel buried in the mud. Rat turned to face a monster the size of him on Bug's back with Kitty on his shoulders, plus the monk.
Another stone sailed through the air and smacked the beast in its face. It bounced off his tin temple with a hollow clunk. The stone sunk deeply into the mud in front of Rat, and the beast roared because he did not see what had struck him. His eye sockets were empty.
Holding a rock in one hand, Rat sprung forwards in fear, and the hound's breath was hot on his face. He huffed like a dragon. It was not fire that came out his mouth, but mouldy. He tackled Rat and pinned him to the floor with his sharp claws.
“Help!” Rat yelled amid shallow breaths. He was sodden with sweat, and the beast’s sharp chin grazed his cheek. “He’s gonna bit me!”
The beast howled like he was the king of the jungle. It snapped forward, and Rat knew he was done for. “It’s killed me. I’m dead.”
He closed his eyes and prayed it would not hurt, but his breath was stuck in his nose.
Nothing happened.
Rat felt warm goo on his face, and the beast slumped forward, twitching and smoking, pinning him to the ground.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the monk had lodged a stone down the beast’s throat, and a ribbon of blood floated from his arm. Rat stared in awe for a moment. Then the corners of his mouth touched his ears, but his eyes shone with a cruel smirk. He hauled himself out from under the beast. “Take us to the city.”
[1] A devastating drought was brought upon the land. Townspeople assumed they were being punished for some sin they probably committed.
[2] A liquid opiod consumed on religious holidays by the poor, and used recreationally by the rich.
[3] (Origin 1: 1) There was nothing but a blank page, and then The Writer wrote the world into existence.
[4] (Origin 1: 3) With one word at a time, The Writer populated the world with signifiers. She wrote the words: “there will be two suns held in a red sky and floral fields confined by short nights and sweltering days.”
[5] A popular folktale suggests that there is a monster that roams the forest between Southcity and Capital City.
[6] Monks lived in Capital City with the wealthy and were notorious for being drunks.
[7] (Afterlife 1: 2) Humans are doomed to live in a heinous circle of reincarnated sequential physical lives
[8] (Origin 3: 2) [The Prophet Dionysus] adopted the form of a powerful beast, whose purpose as a mercenary was to spread the idea of personal salvation.
Outgoing Transmission
EX#18035 OUTGOING TRANSMISSION DRAFT #99 S.O.S
ERROR: NO CONNECTION
TWO WEEKS AGO THE EX#18035 (COMPRISING CABINS ONE AND TWO) BROKE AWAY FROM STATION THREE (S3) DUE TO A MALFUNCTION IN THE DOCKING BAY. THE EXTENT OF THE DAMAGE TO THE EAST WING OF CABIN ONE (C1) IS UNKNOWN, BUT OUR GRAVITY SIMULATOR WAS DECIMATED. WE HAVE SINCE DRIFTED APPROX. 12 LIGHTYEARS AWAY AND SEEM TO BE NEAR PLUTO.
THERE ARE TWELVE OF US STILL ALIVE ON BOARD THE SHIP. WE WERE TWENTY. OF THE LIVING: THREE CHILDREN (AGED 3-12); FOUR PENSIONERS (AGED 45-50); FIVE ADULTS, MYSELF INCLUDED (AGED 18-35). OF THE DEAD: FIVE PENSIONERS (AGED 47-53); ONE INFANT (AGED LESS THAN A YEAR). THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE OTHER TWO ADULTS REMAINS UNKNOWN.
OUR FOOD IS RUNNING OUT AND IT IS COLD. WE HAVE LIMITED OXYGEN REMAING.
SEND HELP.
ERROR: FAILED CONNECTION. MESSAGE NOT SENT.
WARNING: 98 TRANSMISSIONS NOT SENT
The Zombie Apocalypse
My brother hides his potions in a box under his bed. I wouldn't have found the box if not for the redness of his eyes that told a tale of sleeplessness and oblivion, and I wouldn't have looked into his eyes if not for the restless shakiness of his hands as he reached for a cigarette when we sat together on his bedroom floor.
We had attempted a puzzle but he preferred staring at the jigsaw pieces laying scattered on the hardened rug. Dog fur and dust settled upon them – removing the distinction between each piece – and it seemed impossible to solve. He said the overall picture was the colour red. "If it's all one ugly colour then what's the point of putting them together? They look better on their own."
I told him he was colour blind; it was a rainbow. "And you can't smoke inside."
His face stretched. Eyeballs spilled down his cheeks like melting blobs of ice-cream. When he stood up, his gaunt cheekbones caught the mess his eyes made and he looked towards his coat, which hung by the door. Incoherent mumbles ensued, clarified only by the shake of a matchbox as he took to the veranda.
I was missing a piece of the puzzle. Perhaps, I thought, he’d knocked it off the rug during his clumsy exit. Perhaps it sought refuge under the bed, I reasoned. I pressed my ear to the point at which the old rug met the floor, and amid dust and bug carcasses was a brown box. It was his Zombie world; a concoction of salt crystals and oregano, with a strong chemical smell.
Almost beckoning me; not to liberate it, but to lure me in. To engulf me in its cold, chemical coffin. Trap me. Separate me from my mind. But its attempt was futile as I instinctively tore at its plastic dermis, teeth and nails, and green bled from the wound; the substance of a synthetic world. Bubbling out, sizzling and turning brown upon contact with the rug. Likely having disintegrated the jigsaw piece with its odd composition. Plastic, but gaseous. Captivating, though only upon entrapment and consumption. Contagious.
My brother stomped into the room with a solid face and smiled wryly while squinting through ruddy eyes. He fidgeted with a box of matches in his right hand and smelt like dirty feet. He paced on the spot, lifting his right heel briefly then flattening his foot and stretching out his toes. He repeated this with his left foot and his arms joined in. He quaked each limb at a different tempo and shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ear. Terrified, perhaps, he took his coat off to show me his chest because his heart was beating so vigorously against his rib cage he thought that one might break and then there would be nothing to hold it down, nothing to keep it in his body, so it could easily escape and people can’t live without their hearts so he’d have to find a new one but where would he get one? What would he do with the rest of the cadaver? Eat it?
“What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?”
In response to my act of sabotage.
"What for?" I cried desperately, holding up the depleted Ziplock baggie, which now hung limp and dry like the moulted skin of an ugly reptile. "Can't you be happy in this world?"
He scrambled to find a stapler somewhere in the dusty mess. Jerking and fuming like a schizoid prisoner. Pressed it against the gash in sac. Four punctures.
The bleeding stopped.
The Hunt
They met online two days ago. He hunted on that app regularly. Scarcely would he be turned down, especially if he chose the right prospect; too many selfies, link to their Instagram, sends a message immediately after matching.
It was a Thursday and Will had run to the loo so he could snap a couple quick pics of his chest; a response to her having sent lewd images of a similar nature. The next day he received photographic documentation of her every curve, and she was delightful. Today, he had waited until dusk before asking for her home address.
“Why?” she asked. “I already have plans…” she texted with ten emojis. He replied with one – the winking face.
“Cancel them,” he responded. “I’m having you over for dinner. I’m cooking.”
The buzzer in his flat was broken, so he’d had to wait in the lobby of his building, avoiding awkward eye contact with the security guard. His name was Will, too.
The girl arrived half an hour late. She’d poured herself into a pair of leather leggings and a tight red shirt. Her hair was up, and she was probably wearing make up. Will didn’t look at her face, he preferred salivating at the sight of her explicitly visible breasts. Will acknowledged that she was slightly shorter and rounder than he was led to believe, and she refused to take the elevator. She wanted to preserve the environment, she’d said. Will was confused as to how the damage to the environment could, in any way, be perpetrated by a lift in an old apartment building.
She wore stilettos that were a slightly different shade than her shirt. As they climbed the stairs, she held Will’s forearm to avoid toppling over and rabbled about her veganism and the immorality of owning pets. Will ignored her.
“What a nice place!” she said while entering his apartment. The carpet in the corridor had muffled the sounds of her walking, but now her heel clinked against the linoleum tiles. “Very retro.”
Will had left a mess of his already decrepit flat. He kicked a pathway through the plastic bags and empty glass bottles towards the kitchen. It smelled like alcohol and burnt hair. On the stove, a large pot sizzled softly.
“Are you cooking –?” she whined. Will was salivating and hated the sound of her voice. He pulled her to his chest to lift her onto the island countertop. She was straddling his waist, but he pushed her back, pinning her down against the cold granite; she shuddered when her bare back met the surface.
Will pulled his shirt over his head and used it to mop the sweat at the back of his neck. He leapt atop her and she clutched handfuls of his hair, dragging his face towards hers. He was ravenous and tasted her tongue first. Her plump lips parted, and she inhaled sharply with a moan. He dragged his nails through the dimples in her thighs and tore at her sticky-sweet neck with bare teeth. Her skin tasted of sweat, but with a slight bitter tinge – her perfume.
He had been starving and she was delicious. After nibbling at her ear, he moved to her rump for the main course, bringing with him a knife that he’d left by the fridge. She screamed and he skinned her, exposing her fatty meat which made his mouth water. It took all he had not to devour her raw, and he severed off each toe individually before popping them all into the pot of boiling stew on the stove.
She was quiet now – no longer conscious. Will was relieved because her shrieking had pierced both his eardrums with the incessant drilling of a wayward sledgehammer. He exhaled slowly and sucked the juice from his fingers – finally relaxed – and grabbed a butcher’s knife from the overheard cupboard.
He would give his stew time to brew, but in the meantime, he’d give her bones to his dogs. Having been craving pie, Will lugged his meat grinder from the pantry. He desperately needed an automated mincer, but they were expensive. He’d have to do it himself.