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writing

snippet 8

He doesn’t talk with his hands. I notice that. His lips hardly move. He stands there with that look on his face with his hands at his sides and tells me that I am no longer needed. It looks like he is mumbling, but his words are crystal clear. His meaning is clear.
I’ve seen that look before, but never aimed my way. I’ve been standing next to him or behind him.

His eyes really are cold. Does he turn it on and off? Can he?

There’s a speck of blood on his cheek. My blood? It could be. I’ve lost enough.
All I can think of doing is trying to wipe it off. But if I make a move he will kill me. I’m drifting though, and I can feel my sanity sliding, like sweaty buttocks off a leather seat.
Why am I thinking about buttocks? At a time like this?

I try to open my mouth to say something witty and brave, but I just cough blood.
Was that a look of pity? From him?
We’ve been partners for so long, could this actually be difficult for him?
I’ve seen him kill children! I’ve seen him kill an elderly blind man! It must be disgust, not pity.
I manage to form words in the mangled mess that is my mouth. I ask him who he will find to watch his back when I am gone.

There! That was witty! That was brave! He looks down at me and I swear his eyes are getting teary.
He says my name. My real name. A tear slides down his cheek and the blood speck follows it down to his jaw. He is so beautiful.
I tell him this.
A sob makes his body shudder. I can’t believe it. He is actually crying. Over me. All these years and I thought it was all business. All the job. Nothing more.
I smile at him. As much as I can.

He sniffs loudly and raises the gun in his left hand. It is now pointing at my forehead.
He crinkles his eyes up and I know what’s coming.

I refuse to beg.

I’ve done some terrible things, but I refuse to beg.

“Forgive me.” he says and pulls the trigger.
“Forgive me.” I say.

writing

snippet 7

Her breath was coming in high pitched rasps between cracked bloody lips. She’d lost a heel at some point. A stitch of massive proportions was tearing its way up her side. She had to keep running, she could still hear them behind her. She kicked off both shoes and held the little straps in her left hand as she ran. Her right hand was charcoal black and it felt cold as ice. That was something to ponder when she was safe. Right now she had to keep running.
Where the hell could she go? She stopped for a moment to gasp a few breaths and to have a look at her surroundings. Pretty little townhouses and white picket fences. A dog started barking at her from behind a high wooden fence. She heaved violently as the stitch stuck its way into her stomach. She drew in a long whistling breath and carried on running. Her feet were stinging now from the pretty paved streets. She grimaced in pain as she stumbled and felt her right ankle click. She carried on running. She had no choice. If they caught up, she was deadmeat.
How dare they? She became angry. Furious. Her right hand clenched hard and her once fine nails dug into her palm. She squeaked in pain. She got her second wind. Her lungs heaved as she sucked in huge gasps of air and a burst of speed spread to her feet and she surged forward.
What have I done? What can I do to change this?
Nothing! Keep running! Find somewhere to hide!
She kept running, scanning the homes around her for a shed or a partially open garage. This was subburbia, people trusted each other. There had to be somewhere she could huddle until the mob passed her by.
She stumbled again, this time falling hands first into a hedge. The sharp sticks cut and tore and she had to muffle her shrieks. She extracted herself and saw she was in a small garden. Next to the large white double story house was a little wooden wendy house.
She stopped to listen for the pack behind her. There. In the far distance. At least they didn’t have dogs this time.
She slunk across the freshly mowed lawn towards the wendy house, listening carefully for any noise from the house.
It wasn’t locked. Thank heavens.
Her legs buckled as she closed the little wooden door behind her and she collapsed on a stack of compost bags. She was safe. For now.
Finally, the tears came.

writing

snippet 6

It was on a Wednesday that Jeff first noticed. His back began to ache as if he’d done a days hard labour. Terrible spasms began that night, as he lay in bed. On Thursday morning, he could hardly move. His eyes were gummed shut and they burned. Jeff thought perhaps he had the ‘flu.
He called in sick on Thursday and curled up in a miserable ball in bed, after dosing himself up with Corenza C and chewable vitamin C tablets.

Thursday passed in a blur. But the pain he felt on Thursday was nothing compared to the pain he felt on Friday morning.
His shoulderblades felt like they were grating against each other. His spine would twinge and sieze up. His entire body ached and his skin began to tingle and then became so dry it itched with maddening thoroughness.

Friday night was sheer misery. Saturday morning was pain beyond anything he had ever experienced in his entire 32 years of life. He sweated and shook and cried and moaned. Then he discovered that his hair was falling out in huge tufts. His tongue was swollen in his mouth and he could not swallow any water. His hands and feet were swollen and felt like they were being stretched on a rack. His knuckles felt like they were going to pop right off. But all this was nothing compared to the horrific pain in his back. His shoulders.
He begged for mercy in unintelligable grunts.
His skin flaked off in large snakelike pieces. What was revealed to Jeff was terror in itself. He was blue. Not a pale blue of being cold or of not being in the sun. No, this was real blue. Eggshell blue. Sky blue. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. At least his eyes no longer hurt.

Jeff could not move from his nest in the blankets on his bed and had thus been unable to pick up the telephone. He was sure someone had knocked on his door, but he couldn’t be sure. His eardrums thrummed constantly, like there was a breeze blowing permanently next to his ear. His jaw ached from clenching against the pain. At least he still had his teeth.

Saturday night he fell into oblivion. His mind floated above as his body writhed in agony. In a detached way he watched as the space between his shoulderblades ripped and tore and blood sprayed everywhere. He felt no pain at all. In fact, he felt awe as he watched two enormous pieces of bone wrench out of his back. Jeff was not good with blood, so he was not lucid for the rest of the experience.
If he had been, he could have watched as sinew and muscle spun onto these protruding bones like cloth being woven on a loom. Long strands of tissue and bloody veins coiled around the muscles. Nerves flittered across the surface and dug their way in. Then the skin began to form, wet and sticky at first, then drying like paint. Shimmering blue skin. Jeff missed the incredible sight of these bony limbs stretching out behind his blue body, bones cracking in his shoulders, muscles tearing on his back and sides. Then the soft lightening of the blue limbs, soft downy white. And then the feathering. Long white strong feathers, like an eagle. His muscles and skin healed while this happened.

On Sunday morning, Jeff woke up feeling like he was going to be alright. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Everything was crystal clear around him. His lungs filled with a huge breath. He glanced down at his stomach and saw rippling muscle. Rippling blue muscle. Blue skin. His mind spun and he rolled over to the side of his bed and dry vomited. The heaves nearly took him off the bed and as he flinched to avoid falling he felt the great weight on his back. Jeff looked over his shoulder and saw the gigantic white feathered wings.
Jeff curled up in a fetal ball and cried.
He heard music. Song. Heartbreakingly beautiful.
He heard someone saying his name and he opened his eyes.
There stood a woman. A blue woman. With wings slightly raised behind her. She said his name and he heard music when she spoke.
He sat on the edge of his bed as this winged blue woman told him what had happened to him and why.
She asked him if he understood and he just looked her.

“A great battle, you say?” said Jeff, eventually.
He heard music when he spoke.

writing

snippet 5

Grief.

The wind has calmed some. The tree outside my window is more at rest. The rain is coming down now, light and fresh.
Cozy is sprawled out in front of the fire. I don’t think one little cat could take up much more space than she is.
Badger and Doc are curled around to either side of her, their wet paws letting off a little steam as they dry. I might sleep here, in my chair. I am content.
Of course if I move, Badger and Doc will leap up and rush to the door barking. They’ve been doing that for a few days now. I don’t know why.
We’ve had no visitors for weeks. Not since.
Maybe they think you are coming back?
Oh wait, we have had one visitor. Alice came by. Two days ago I think. Maybe more. I can’t quite recall.
This is of course part of the problem. She looked at me like she was waiting for me to say something important. I really didn’t know what she wanted.
She brought me supplies. She told me that she was going away for a little bit. She said I must conserve my wood, unless I wanted to go out and cut my own.
I’m shaking again. Only Doc notices this time.
His little shaggy head lifts from the carpet and he eyes me for a moment, then he drops it back down and sighs gently.
What was I waiting for?
The kettle?
No. I can hear nothing from the kitchen.
I was waiting for something. I’m sure I was.
I’ve spilled ink on the blanket over my knees. Ink? When was I using ink? My right hand has ink stains as well. Was I writing?
Waiting for you. I am waiting for you. You said you would be back in an hour.
Was that today? No. That was a long time ago. Months.
The chair creaks as I change position. The fire snaps.
I’m still waiting.

writing

snippet 4

Kra’s claws slid from their sheathes and clicked against the glass. The detective’s back was turned. So easily she could just slice open that vein. The one she could see pounding under his jaw. Pathetic human. He sweats under his clothes. Disgusting smells. Kra’s delicate nostrils flared, misting the window for a moment.
Sometimes her loyalty faltered when she was forced to deal so closely with humans. Duty over all. Duty. Never forget your duty.

“Miss. Please. Sit down.” the detective said quietly.

“I prefer to stand.” she snapped.

She controlled the burst of colour to her pale skin and turned to face the table. She tried her best to put a face on that appeared interested in what the human had to say. In reality, what the human thought did not matter. He was wrong on all counts. They refused to see what was really going on here on earth. The ones who did see were called crazy and put away in padded rooms and drugged until they could hardly eat on their own. So scared of something that was foreign. Anything different was banned, taboo, science fiction, fantasy.

She hid a smile at the thought of the reaction this human would have if she revealed her true self to him.
Duty, Kra. Remember your duty.

Kra compromised by standing at the table with her hands on the back of the chair that had been offered. The detective took this as a good sign and began his questioning. Kra answered using the correctly vague answers she had been taught. Nothing to rouse suspicion, no loose ends.
Keep the humans oblivious to the battle raging above their heads and under their feet.

writing

snippet 3

The farmer watched from the porch. His wife washed the dishes and watched through the open kitchen window. The sun seared the fields that stretched away from the farmhouse. Heat shimmers made the woman disappear and reappear as she knelt in the middle of the north field. The Rainmaker they called her. The farmer, a good church-going man, would never have fallen so low in years past. Five years without rain could make any man break. His wife said he could blame her for his madness, if this didn’t work.

The soil crunched under her knees and made muddy patches on her jeans. The sweat slid down her back and under her arms and down her stomach. Damnit this was hot. The sun. Reach behind the sun. Reach up to above the heat. Drag down the cool. Bring it back with you. Concentrate. Like mamma told you. Like she showed you. Swim in the heat, use it to float up to where it is cool.
She felt a wave of nausea building up. Far away, like it wasn’t her. She vomited up what was left in her stomach after 2 days. Water mostly. Some apple. But that was down there on the ground. She was up here where it was so blissfully cool. She could see all around her. The brown fields stretching away into the distance. The stars started becoming bright above her as she soared up and up. So cool up here. She could stay here. Let her body die. Just rocket up into the blissfull blue black coolness.
No! Come back! They needed you. They asked for you. The land under you needs you. She is calling to you. Bring back the rain.

The farmer leapt up from the swing chair as he saw the girl collapse in the field. He roared to his wife to get some water from the basement. As he leapt over the fencing on the edge of the field he felt something large and warm smack him on the forehead. He swatted at what he thought was a bee. He carried on running to the girl. He reached her and had to stand with his hands on his knees while he got his breath back. The girl was lying on her back, eyes closed, a smile on her face. Then he felt the warm swatting on the back of his neck. On his shoulder. On his head. Splat. The farmer turned his gaze skyward. An enormous dark cloud was boiling up from the east. Overhead, the sky was darkening.
Rain! His wife was screaming in joy on the porch. Dancing around with the dishtowel.

writing

snippet 2

“Table manners, Rabbit!”  Carmella roared.

Little Rabbit startled and dropped her bowl, splashing soup all over Crumpet, who opened his mouth to cry but was thumped on the shoulder by Cricket before anything but a squeak escaped. Rabbit looked up the table at Carmella. Her huge brown eyes wide in terror. Her small mouth pinched in alarm.

Carmella threw back her head and guffawed loudly.
“Oh Rabbit, my sweet child, you have so much to learn. You poor gentle thing, I didn’t mean to frighten you! Go, get some more soup, honeychild.” she said in a gentler voice.
Rabbit quivered in her seat. Crumpet giggled and nudged her amiably with a jam covered hand. Rabbit glanced over at Harlen, who nodded, smiling.
Rabbits little hands trembled around her bowl as she pushed her chair back back with her knees. She crossed the wooden floor to the fire, her little bare feet making no noise, and timidly spooned another bowlful of soup for herself out of the huge iron pot hanging over the fire.

Carmella shifted her bulk in her chair and caught Harlen’s eye. She smiled at him and she felt at ease.

These were all their children. Even the ones that she had not given birth to herself, the ones she had rescued. They were all her children. Rabbit was number twelve to join the large family in their huge rambling farmhouse. Carmella never turned anyone away. She would protect them with her life. As would Harlen. Six years they had been together, and she still did not know where he came from. But it did not matter. He loved and watched over her children as if they were his own.
When her husband had died, Carmella was left in their enormous farmhouse with 4 children and a multitude of farm animals. She struggled for nearly 2 years alone. And then one morning, after a terrible storm which had ripped trees down and taken thatch from the roof, Harlen appeared. He smiled at her and took the thatching tools from her hands without a word.
Things had been so much better after that.

writing

snippet 1

She could not believe that the misshapen thing hobbling ahead of her along the path could once have been human. It hissed every breath it took as it stepped carefully over tree roots and lumps of grass on the way down the hill. It stank of sweat and mould and old blood and the layers of rags it wore were black with filth and a few patches of white dust and hair. But she felt no loathing for it, as she would have before. She could feel the warmth it gave out. The warmth of spirit, compassion. It had not even flinched at the sight of her: burnt and bloodied and beaten. It had already strapped her arm in a splint, using pieces of its own clothing. There was nothing of the cold metallic tinge she felt from the villagers in the small hamlet she had just passed through. No fear. No hatred. No judgement.

Perhaps its wits were as muddled as its appearance?

Right now, she did not care. She did not even care if she was being led to slaughter. She stumbled with exhaustion and the pain of her wounds and a small sound must have escaped her lips because the creature stopped and swung its body to face her. A frown of concern was clearly visible on its disfigured features.
“Not far. not far” it croaked in a high strained tone. As if to speak hurt it.
She nodded and regained her footing. The creature turned down the path again and began its careful tottering steps down the hill. She followed.

writing

snippet 17

Angie let out a short, harsh bark of laughter. Derisive and bitter. I’d forgotten who I was talking to for a moment there. She’d opened up to me in the last 30 minutes more than she had in our entire 20 years of friendship and I had kind of gotten a bit ahead of myself.

I apologised quietly. She shrugged and turned her gaze back to the window.

I could see the flashing neon sign reflected in the windows of the dilapidated building across the way. The rain made it difficult to see much else out there. Angie had good eyes.

 

My head ached and I gingerly touched my forehead, feeling the warmth of blood through the bandage.

Sometimes I thought I was more awesome, and way smarter than I really was. This time it had gotten me into major trouble and the most unlikely of my friends had stepped up to help me.

Angie. She’d remained the same since the first day I met her in middle school. She was a goth before goth was even a trend. All natural, of course – big violet eyes, thick black eyelashes, long, straight, raven black hair and skin so pale she was genuinely as white as snow.  Now of course, she had tattoos and piercings and wore black clothing and listened to dark music: pretty much how she’d been through high school, sans the piercings and tattoos. Angie didn’t change for anyone – I was always surprised that we remained friends all through school and then when we went out into the world. I can’t recall now what brought us, such an unlikely pair, together. My other friends in school had drifted away and we’d lost contact, but never Angie. She was always there when I needed her, and I made sure I was there if she needed me. It was not very often that she ever asked me for help, of course.

 

I had changed a great deal since school – I was a trend whore. I admit it. Whatever was in was what I was in to.

I sighed and shook my head. I felt it throb in time to my pulse. Ow.

 

Angie glanced briefly at me, her face without emotion, then she continued to peer out the corner of the window. She swapped the pistol from her left hand to her right, clenched and unclenched the fingers on her left hand for a few moments before swapping the pistol back.

I knew she was tense, frightened, by the look on her face. She brought up her walls (and they were mighty walls) when she felt threatened in any way, and while she was definitely all in for me, right now, she was also huddling down in her mental bunker. I knew her so well. She knew me even better though.

 

I saw her sit up slightly, back straight and my heart began to pound. She looked at me, this time her eyes were wide with fear, and she jerked her chin sharply toward the door across the empty room. I leapt up and scrambled over dusty, broken furniture and decaying cloth, to the door. I checked my gun. Switched the safety off.

It was time. They were coming.