Three word Prompt - A Writer's Story

Andromeda – democracy – dentist. Writers block has a way of making you feel useless; hopeless even. Staring at a trio of imaginative and diverse prompts and still shooting blanks. Feeling like the plot-line is hiding just out of sight, like so many woodland creatures scurrying frustratingly in and out of the periphery of your vision as your camera hangs limply around your neck, hoping to serve, but not being able to. It feels like walking into your own kitchen, and happening upon a bowl, a microwave and a can of soup – and yet having no idea how to usefully combine the three. You’re in familiar territory: oh yes, you write often and fast, and you enjoy doing it. Some even say you write well, and deep down you agree. The thrill of creating worlds, of stretching language to fit your own designs and machinations. You can be a murderer, a nun, an inanimate object even – live countless lives exactly how you wish and over an infinite time-scale. And yet today: nothing. How can my mind by so cruel? How can I be denied my opiate?

Approaching a deadline can be like experiencing the dark world of the night, when I'm lying in bed unable to sleep because every noise is magnified: every creak represents some unknown, unknowable terror creeping closer to my bed one heavy, menacing step at a time. How different it is to that luxurious world of half sleep in the morning: when you've woken up earlier than you need, and so begin falling back into the dreamworld. The halfway house before you sleep, when every noise is a seed, germinating into a watery fantasy; no logical progression or tangible evidence here – just a realm of unbridled, but mostly happy, madness. It’s no democracy of logical thoughts, either: it’s a benevolent dictatorship run by the most strange and out-of-place ideas of which a person is capable.

In this magical realm, and to its only observer, a dentist can go anywhere, do anything, become; anything – but not to one with writers block. Nope. To him, the character is flat and wooden. He’s defined by his job title, not by those little habits, emotions, and flaws that make the rest of us. Not by monsters and glory and pain and suffering. He’s just a dentist. And how much fun can that be for a reader? How much fun can it be for a writer, for that matter?

It’s unsettling, in the same way it’s odd that ‘Andromeda’ is the label given to an unremarkable plant, but also an unimaginably vast swirling mass of stars and planets, that will one day collide with our own swirling mass. How can the same word adequately represent both extremes? How can a mind achieve sometimes so much, and sometimes so little? 

But then, as I look down after countless hours of frustration and mental self-flagellation, there it is: a piping hot bowl of soup. Andromeda – democracy – dentist.

The Visitor

An elongated version of my earlier Flash Fiction piece "I don't make enemies".

I don’t make enemies. That’s a punchy, but clichéd way to start.  It’s relevant though, because it explains why it is I’m so surprised to find myself hanging upside down above the dirty floor of what looks like an abandoned, single-room cabin; uncannily like the mining cabins in Wild West Cartoons.  Apparently having an enemy isn’t as glamorous as films make it out to be. I hope my use of the singular is accurate, and that I do only have one enemy.  Maybe if I use it consistently, life will adapt to the narrative?  It must be better to have one enemy than many.

But I don’t make enemies. I don’t remember having made one, at any rate.  Maybe I’ve found an enemy? Or, given the current balance of power, an enemy has found me. That could be it: this is someone else’s enemy, not mine. A comforting thought, but not one that’s of any immediate use.  First I need to work out where, and in what shape I am: I’ve seen enough spy films to know that much.

I can’t remember much from before I woke up.  And not just immediately before, either.  My head is buzzing but not with any memories, just the dull background ache that confirms I’ve been knocked out very deliberately by a determined someone.  I strain to remember something, anything, but I get nowhere.  And it’s clear that this isn’t helping.  The past is the past, and the future is what’s important.  It looks like it may not be very long if I don’t do something soon.

Concentrate. 

Silver rays of moonlight irradiate swirling dust motes before passing by them and painting a broken, skeletal pattern on the floor, one that scoots lazily around as the bare trees outside sway back and forth in the gentle breeze, tickling the cabin, as though trying to make it laugh. 

Concentrate! 

The thin walls betray all the sounds of the night air – up close, crickets.  In the middle distance, the scratching of various unseen creatures, sniffing their way through the undergrowth, disturbing the fallen leaves of the autumn just passed.  In other circumstances it would be peaceful, soulful, hypnotic.  But I can see my breath.  I can hear more, though, when I concentrate.  In the far, far distance is the rhythmic clanking of metal on metal, and the unmistakable thrumming sound of a large diesel engine.  Something designed, deliberate: it’s comforting.  And yet it’s somehow unfamiliar.  I can’t think why, but I’ll file that thought away for later.  It may mean help is within earshot; but I don’t know what else is also within earshot, so keeping quiet seems prudent for now.

So now I know.  I’m in a forest, but not far from people, or at least from their labours.  And where machines labour for us, do we not follow?  Supervise?  Shepherd?  That’s my objective then: reach the machines.

I’m still trussed up though, upside down like the murder victim in a corny horror movie.  I half expect the door to burst open ahead of a masked fiend in a rubber apron, brandishing a large, sharp blade.  But the door remains wonderfully inert. 

I have to get out.  Let’s start by stretching my wrists – not much slack there, but some.  Not enough though.  Next: ankles.  Same again.  Next step, and I’m pleasantly surprised by my logical train of thought, is to test the other end of the binding: I look up and a sharp pain stabs at my neck.  It’s like I’ve slept with my head at right angles to my body.  For at least a week.  I won’t be doing that again soon.  However, it looks like I’m tied to a half-rotten beam.  A piece of wood that’s genuinely past its prime: I’m excited now.  I can see...no.  I can feel a way out of this mess, whatever mess it may be.  Quickly, I find myself capitalising on the anticipation. Excited and nervous energy now pervades me. 

Time to start swinging and bouncing on the rope – I can see the floor winding across my vision, getting closer and further as I swing: back and forth, up and down.  I’m trying to tickle the floor just like the invading moonlight.  Each time I bounce I’m sure I can feel a bit more give.  Maybe it’s just me, or maybe...with a not inconsiderable effort I look up again – Ouch!  But yes!  It’s cracked! Just a bit more work and I’m sure I can break it.

Then a short, sharp crack, and then darkness. Then light and a loud ringing noise, which thankfully appears to be internal rather than any sort of alarm.  Ouch again.  The beam broke, but it looks like it brought part of the roof down with it, and one wall that didn’t want to stand idly by while its colleague died, so collapsed outwards in an act of solidarity.  I don’t think I’ve been out long.  My head’s bleeding, but that’s not the worst of it.  Looking down past my now loosely-bound legs I see a large sliver of rotten-looking wood sticking out of my side.  A hollow victory indeed, and so much for keeping quiet.  I woozily right myself and shuffle towards the now-gaping hole where the nearest wall had been – towards the machines, gasping for breath.  The ropes have fallen away, and for that much I’m grateful.  I’m pulling myself along: every motion, every inch of floor I manage to cover is being paid for in blood and in pain.  Every inch I move towards my goal takes a long minute that my body uses to convince me to give up.

Lying on the wooden-framed wall, which itself is lying in an unnatural horizontal position, I check myself over again.  I think the stake missed everything important.  I don’t want to pull it out though, in case the bleeding, which has stopped surprisingly quickly, starts anew when this spiky cork is dislodged.  Only now do I notice that the haunting silence of the forest is gone.  I hear something new; something heavy crashing through the undergrowth towards me.  It’s clearly hurrying; maybe even panicked.  Worse: it’s on two legs.  Is it help?  Did one of the machine shepherds hear the noise I made and come to investigate?  I don’t think so.  That noise wouldn’t panic someone unless they knew the cabin was occupied, which would be unlikely.  So it’s probably not good news.  I have...maybe...close to a minute, I think.

The realisation that I’m still in danger triggers an adrenaline rush, and so with a surprising burst of speed I scramble the short distance to the undergrowth on the hidden side of the cabin, for that’s about as far as it was possible to go before the man burst into the clearing.  Further movement would give me away.  When I’m settled into the undergrowth, panting and trying not to cry out, I think I may be about to pay for the exertion but feel no renewed trickle of wetness, and more importantly the pain has gone.

The man is obviously angry, and for several long minutes he searches around the cabin, looking for something – presumably me.  He calls for help on his...what’s the word? Phone! Yes, that fits.  I’m getting a bit confused by this time.  What a difference a few minutes make as the adrenaline begins to wear off.  Words aren’t coming as easily as they did earlier.  He summons help.  It comes, sounding just like the first one did: pounding through the undergrowth, closer and closer until I can hear each heavy breath, each crunch of his heavy boots. He comes, not it.  What’s wrong with me?

I hear the second man join the first and they speak to each other quietly.  I can’t hear them right now, but it’s obvious they’re both angry.  They begin kicking at the piles of debris and shouting things that are unintelligible to me in my current state.  I’m so scared.  I hope they don’t find my trail, or notice where I’m hiding.  Fortunately it’s not snowing, but the ground is still icy hard.  If I didn’t bleed, then they won’t see where I’ve gone.  I try not to shake, as shaking will give me away, I’m sure of it – and it risks making the bleeding start again, too.  I’m feeling more steady now, but my arms still feel useless and I’m not sure I could hold them off if they were to discover me. 

The adrenaline has run dry, and I realise I’m thirsty, cold and lonely, and the pain is returning.  But I know I have to stay completely still or they’ll find me.  Maybe it’s better if they do...maybe they’re only angry because they’re worried about me?

I have to stop these crazy thoughts!  I must evade capture - why did that phrase come to mind?  It’s very militaristic, and seemingly came out of the blue.  Like a lot of my recent thought processes, in fact.  Something to think about later, but not now.  I definitely can’t trust them though; that’s a strong feeling.  I get distracted again by thinking about my family and friends.  Where are they now?  I can’t feel them nearby, but what does that mean?  They must be far away, probably at home wondering when I’ll return from my visit to...I can’t remember.  I can’t even remember where I am.  It certainly looks unfamiliar, but that’s as far as I can get.  I remember planning this trip, but I don’t remember how long it should have been, let alone where it was.  Would they even know anything was wrong yet?

It’s hard, but I have to concentrate on the situation at hand.  I have to push the thoughts of my loved ones away for now: compartmentalise and focus my attention.  Even though I’m getting tired I manage to make sense of one snippet of conversation between the two men.  What I hear triggers a memory, and another adrenaline rush.  It brings me rudely to full attention like a sharp slap in the face.  Now I start to remember...and now my resolve is hardened.  I feel my eyes narrow as my memories are returned to me; as I awaken the cold logic that was integral to my training.  It’s coming back so naturally now.  Time to retreat and wait for the right moment to ensure my safety.  I lie in wait with their words playing over and over in my mind, like a child with his first puzzle toy I twist and turn them, and each permutation brings back a little more memory, a little more of me.  And I like it. It’s exhilarating.  It’s what I’m here for!

“Where the fuck has it gone?!  Fetch Mike and for Christ’s sake unholster your gun.  I want it alive, but protect yourself if it attacks.  Be careful, it’s dangerous.  And remember: it can think like us”.  

The Light

And so she was gone.  After seventeen happy years together, and the hope of at least as many again.  I missed her so much I could barely function.  A dull ache accompanied my every waking hour, and a vivid nightmare my every sleeping minute.  I was falling apart. This went beyond grief, into something inexplicable, un-nameable.  Perhaps I should have named it – names help us categorise things, and in so doing help us regain at least perfunctory control.  Alas, I couldn’t name my condition.  Maybe that was part of the condition.

The first sign I had that something was wrong was when the birds stopped singing.  It wasn’t that they were no longer making any noise.  Quite the opposite, in fact: they were noisier than ever.  It was more that my ears picked up none of the joyous melody of song.  Instead each twitter, chirp, or tweet grated at me; bored with shrill aggression deep into my ever-aching mind.

There was no respite. From the lazy pre-dawn half-light to the dusk extended by halogen artifice, those damned birds made their noise. Mocking me with their happy chatter...and yet still in that cacophony I could discern no song.

It was the same with colour. To my wretched eyes the world had been toned down, with greys accentuated at the cost of all other hues.  The sun was less bright, and the sky more overcast.  Everything of beauty was diminished to some greater or lesser extent.

Then there was the emptiness.  Meaning was ruthlessly sucked out of everything, like so many homes torn from their roots in the path of a tornado.  I existed, but I didn’t live.  I couldn’t live.  Not without her.  Christmas came and went, a mountain of pain rising from the lifeless grey desert in which I existed.  And the worst part was it wasn’t improving.  Nothing was changing, and I could see no changes coming. 

Time wasn’t healing this sickness, despite the well-intentioned advice coming from all quarters.  They didn’t know – they didn’t understand.  They could smell the perfume their spouses wear (wore) without bursting into tears.  They could hold a knife without thinking ‘what if?’.  Every breath isn’t a labour to them, and every conversation isn’t a slow grinding torture.  They didn’t understand. 

But now things are different: things are as they ought to be.  We sit together again, her and I; hand in hand.  We often turn to face each other and smile.  It’s always one of those truly warming smiles, just a brief moment away from a light-hearted giggle.  Watching the radiant sunset, contemplating its beauty; I reflect that it’s a beauty I thought I’d never again know.  Only this sunset is different: as the light hits us it both passes through us and becomes us; and we become it.  We’re happily reunited, and the cost was a mere few feet of rope.

Saved!

At first there was a rustling: a deliberate, heavy sound coming from the end of garden.  It was getting closer, but nobody in the house could have heard it.  Even if they could, it would be mistaken for the signs of a large animal settling itself down for the night, using the swiftly failing light of the winter solstice to prepare a warm bed.  A badger, perhaps.  Next though, there was a soft grating at the door leading from the old kitchen to the immaculately kept herb garden.  Certainly no badger this time.  Again, it was a deliberate noise, unmistakably being made by something with a plan.  The scratching gave way to a click as the lock surrendered at the hands of a master.  Nobody in the cottage heard it.  The side door swung gently outwards and two pairs of feet, decked in black rubber-soled boots, made their careful way over the threshold and onto the old stone floor of the kitchen.  And still nobody inside the isolated cottage noticed. 

“Okay, okay” Rachel caved to peer pressure “fill me a glass.  But only one.” The others chuckled: this was a scene they’d witnessed on many occasions.  It was almost a tradition by this stage.  Rachel never accepted a drink when first offered, but by the third time, always protesting loudly, she’d succumb to the group’s will.  It wasn’t like they got too drunk on these weekends away – but a couple of bottles of wine between the 6 of them certainly helped put them at ease. 

The seventh member of the group couldn’t drink – at a little under a month old it wouldn’t be right to even joke about the matter.  Instead, the baby lay placidly in its crib, seemingly unfazed by the excited group of friends sitting around the large oak dining table. 

And yet the excitement was tinged with something else; a shadow of something just out of sight under the surface of the evening. It was hardly noticeable, but there was definitely a subtle hint of nervousness. A laugh held too long, or a lull in the conversation being hastily filled with a rushed inanity. It would take something paying close attention to notice, but it was there alright. 

Someone was paying close attention.  The boots and their owners had made their way across the kitchen and up the single step that lead into the dingy back hallway, devoid of windows and with no lights on to help accentuate what little of the almost non-existent sunlight could be stolen from the open doors of adjoining rooms. They hid in the shadow just outside the dining room door and listened intently. They had to be sure. 

"So..." Another silence has blossomed, the longest yet. No hasty filler this time though: "we all know why we're here: this is something we've looked forward to for a long time". Sam held their absolute attention. Nobody has allowed themselves to get drunk.  That would be unthinkable after so much planning, so many lies told to spouses and colleagues to find time for this getaway, so much effort hiding their desires. 

But now they were on the brink of it.  It was nearly 6pm and they had final preparations to complete.  They all knew what to do - fetch this, light these candles, change those outfits - and the party disbanded without saying another word: despite their excited anticipation there was nothing new to be said. 

The strangers slipped backwards into the study opposite the dining room just in time for the 6 to sweep past, temporarily filling the hallway. Each pair - a man joined by a woman - heading towards a bedroom.  After a few minutes, the strangers crept out of their hiding place and into the dining room, still illuminated by the kitsch overhead lights that hung one at each end of the substantial table. There, on that table and sleeping peacefully in the new and heavy silence of the evening, was the baby. The strangers looked at each other, only their eyes visible from behind army-green balaclavas - eyes that expressed an odd mixture of triumph and a sort of resigned sadness. Not the eyes of crazy men, as the media would no doubt later portray them if they succeeded. 

They approached the baby, and the taller of the two picked it up - they had to be sure, so he gently pulled back its one-piece at the ankle.  Sure enough it bore the mark their boss had told them it would. That meant two things: that the baby was the one they'd been ordered to snatch, and that now all that needed to be done was to escape quickly and quietly and they would get paid. For the first time in months. They needed this job to work out so they could rebuild both their reputation as a team, and their severely depleted bank accounts.  The strangers were just hired mercenaries (more like thugs, really), and so didn't ask questions, but this job had them curious; at least in so far as either one had the intellect for it.  Still, they assumed this was a divorce issue or something.   Or maybe the rich guy was shooting blanks into a barren wife.  God gives with one hand and takes with the other, isn’t that how the saying goes?  Whatever.  They didn't much care at the end of the day: what they did care about was that their employer was fabulously wealthy and really wanted this baby.

The taller stranger got as far as the door before the baby woke up, and following one almighty inhalation started to bawl its eyes out, as babies are wont to do.  Being a mercenary, rather than a more typical parental-figure, he hadn’t foreseen just how difficult it would be to smuggle it out quietly without causing it any harm.  There was a panic-stricken second during which they froze, unsure as to how to proceed.  Then the strangers broke into a run, the short one reaching down to his hip to draw his weapon, and the taller one holding the baby tight against his chest.  Once in the hall, they turned left and sprinted back towards the kitchen, and their exit. 

It was too late though.  Sam, who had already reached the foot of the stairs when he had heard the baby start to cry, and had seen shadows moving in the dining room, had run ahead of them into the kitchen.  He had grabbed a knife from the block by the white ceramic sink.  As the strangers leaped down the single step, Sam jumped out from behind the wall with the knife held out in front of him, demonstrating publically a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt fully committed to.  He had planned to shout something heroic but practical, like “you can’t take our baby” in the vain hope that the strangers would be surprised or scared enough to comply.

However, commitment or not, luck was on his side and his timing was such that the taller man ran straight into the brandished knife, impaling himself and sending the two adults and the baby flying.  By this time, the sound of the baby, the heavy footsteps, and the utterance that Sam did manage to project (it sounded something like “YURGH” followed by the thumping noise of over six and a half feet of muscled intruder hitting him) had alerted the others to a potential issue, and they emerged from the still dark corridor into the brightly-lit kitchen.

The taller stranger was dead by the time he hit the floor, and his accomplice knew it.  This was a massive fuck up, and he didn’t want to hang around to face the consequences.  Wealth brought power, and the sort of people who generally hired him didn’t like to see fuck ups.  Things went right for them; that was their lot.  They worked hard, and sometimes (in his first hand experience) violently to ensure the trend continued.

As he was thinking this, and his mid started to calculate the fastest way out of there (kitchen door to garden – garden path to wall – jump wall – go home – pack – get the hell out of Gotham) he realised he was already outside, and making significant headway up the path.  He relaxed slightly knowing he was now bathed in glorious darkness. 

The mess left behind in the kitchen was beginning to sort itself out.  Sam got up, holding the baby that had fortunately flown his way, he winded but nothing worse, the baby seemingly none the worse for its short-lived adventure.  The others fussed around the pair of them, fighting for the opportunity to help him up; and almost knocking him over again in the process. 

Sam had almost composed himself, and he ushered everyone out and back into the dining room.

And so after a short while there they sat, glancing at each other from around the table just as they had at the start of the evening.  The baby was lying silently asleep again at the centre of them all, as if a member of royalty surrounded by a protective guard.  In some ways, Sam thought, it was more important than any royal on the planet. 

The other 5 appeared to be trying to face up to the shattered remains of their formerly predictable existences, to how badly wrong the plans for this night had gone.  They had expected some new experiences, oh yes, but not this.  They were supposed to be in control.  They called the shots. Or so they had thought.

Sam was the first to break the shocked silence: "I can't believe how close they got to taking him. I can't imagine anything worse" almost, but not quite shedding angry tears, he continued: "we'll have to do something about that", gesturing towards the kitchen that held the lifeless form of the tall stranger, "but first things first.  We must complete what we started. It's more important than ever that we thank Him." The others nodded slowly, shocked and barely able to contemplate what had almost been lost, but their drive to continue, their naked lust, drove them now.  As one they bowed their heads in prayer and Sam, his voice low and reverent, began: "We thank you Lord for allowing us to serve you, and for looking over us.  You have protected your humble servants, and this ceremony we now carry out in your name.  To you, the one True Lord, we make this humble offering." The others echoed his words in a unified, slow monotone, and the temperature in the room dropped palpably.  In Latin now, repeating again and again: "we beg of you Lord, present yourself into us that we may present our souls unto you, to embrace your Darkness as the only life we chose".  Sam’s voice was changing with each word, taking on a harsh rasping quality and losing any semblance of the jovial human persona that Sam presented in order to get by in a world with a different belief system.  A presence now loomed: they all felt it.  It was causing the room to feel somehow colder and hotter at the same time, as if laughing at physics, daring anyone to claim this was impossible.  On the sixth repetition Sam picked up the ceremonial blade that had so effectively dealt with their attackers, and pressed it to the baby's soft, fleshy throat.  It didn't cry.  He slowly drew the blade sideways and the blood-letting began. Nothing could stop them now: they had completed the ritual.  He would rise once more from the depths and finally claim the earth as His rightful domain, raining down His Darkness on all life, and raining down glory on his true followers.