SHORT STORY: The Box

(This article was originally published in Antipodean Sci Fi Issue 270 in March 2021.  You can read a digital version of the original story here at the Antipodean Sci Fi Archives here:  https://webarchive.nla.gov.au/tep/10063)

Grade six summer camp was always the same. Rustic cabins set in a rural or semi-rural landscape. To a gaggle of angsty pre-teen city kids forcibly separated from our Playstations — it was a fresh kind of hell. Daily activities like bush walking and horse riding existed solely to be endured rather than enjoyed.

The ordeal of this enforced excursion was softened somewhat by the presence of most of my buddies from school. Nicholas Dobson (whose father was having an affair), Michael Cacciatore (whose parents were in the middle of an awful divorce) and Ross Coleman (whose mother took lithium to stabilise her mood).

The first night unfolded mostly without incident. We all ate dinner in a communal mess hall, almost fifty kids all told, boys and girls alike. Unsurprisingly, the food was less than stellar. We often imagined it was surplus from an insane asylum or a nearby men’s prison. Afterwards, there was a giant campfire that made my clothes smell like smoke. I roasted a marshmallow on a stick, not fully comprehending the appeal of the charred, sugary snack served atop a twig.

Lights out was at 10 pm. We slept on ramshackle bunkbeds with mattresses covered in vinyl thick enough to withstand even the most voluminous quantities of urine. The girls and boys were housed in separate cabins and I was lucky enough to be with my friends. Ignoring our curfew, most of us would stay up late into the night, illuminated by flashlight, talking about the kinds of things that could only seem important before puberty.

It was here that our conversation inevitably wound its way towards ghost stories and other tales of the macabre. Our camp in particular was the alleged setting for a particularly bizarre tale in which a camp counsellor had “gone wrong”. Using a cardboard box to conceal his face, he roamed the grounds at night, viciously assaulting campers.

Following a shaving cream attack on the second night by Domenic Bordignon and his goons, my cabin mates and I decided it was high time for some hijinks of our own. On the third night, after lights out, our preparations began in earnest. Clad in our pyjamas and sleepwear, we would burst into the girl’s cabin, brandishing our flashlights, intending to terrify and startle them in any way possible.

Always resourceful, Alex Vasquez (whose mother had committed suicide) had swiped a nondescript cardboard box from the kitchen after dinner. Using a thick black marker, he quickly drew a simple smiley face — two eyes and a mouth — and placed it atop Nick’s head.

Sat on a chair, Nick abruptly froze — his shoulders suddenly going limp. Michael saw the tiny performance unfold and let out an involuntary chortle which soon faded, giving way to stunned silence. Emerging from the bathroom, Ross re-entered the room confused by the surreal scene taking place. Nick Dobson with a box atop his head, now sat seemingly unresponsive while Michael, Alex and I looked on bemused. 

Now inverted atop his head, the smiley face Alex had crudely drawn formed a sickly frown that seemed to stare at us, mockingly. Resembling a puppet with its strings cut, we all wondered if this performance was part of Nick’s sick sense of humour. Was he messing with us?

“Nick!”

Michael was the first to call out to him, his prepubescent voice quavering with growing concern. Nick sat there, motionless, frowny box atop his head for what seemed like minutes before someone (I don’t remember who) uttered the obligatory “this isn’t funny anymore”. The universal catchcry of the frightened when a joke has overstepped its bounds.

Weary of this grim jest, Ross crouched before Nick’s chair, locking eyes with his cardboard avatar. In one swift movement Nick suddenly extended one arm, then another, wrapping his hands around Ross’s throat. Startled, the rest of us failed to react out of pure shock, but quickly piled upon Ross, attempting to break Nick’s vice like grip upon his trachea. 

No luck. Nick’s powerful hold was immovable — even the three of us combined couldn’t pry his hands away from Ross whose face was now rapidly turning red. Nick stood up, his movements robotic and his grip unyielding, as Ross’s feet collapsed beneath him. The frowning face of the cardboard box seemed to leer at him, challenging him to fight back as he gasped for air, his cries for help nothing more than the muffled sounds of strangulation.

It was Alex who finally came to his senses, letting go of Nick’s hands and quickly tearing the cardboard box from his head. As he did so, Nick collapsed into a heap, as Ross, red faced and teary eyed, heaved and thrashed on the floor as he finally inhaled his life saving breath.

Too scared to call for the camp counsellors, we carried Nick to the nearest bed where he slept for many hours. When he awoke, he didn’t remember any of what had happened, least of all trying to throttle one of his friends.

Even as young men, we had been well programmed to follow the dictates of rigid male stoicism. Accordingly, we never spoke much about that night in the months and years that followed. Though he forgave him completely, Ross certainly always looked at Nick askance. Privately, I suppose we all suspected that we’d been party to some kind of paranormal incident, that the box itself had imparted some manner of demonic permission, that Nick had been possessed, infected or unduly influenced. We wanted to believe that the entire occurrence was the purview of some dark agent from beyond the veil, something or someone outside of human influence.

The truth was something far more sinister. A frightening childhood lesson on the power of masks, whether literal or figurative. You see, when we examined the box, it was simply that — pieces of folded cardboard with an inverted smiley face drawn upon it.

It was just a box, nothing more.

 

SHORT STORY: The Agony Of Choice

DAY 1

Raymond sat alone at the kitchen table.  Permitting himself a few moments of respite between chores, he stared blankly at the wall, allowing his mind to wander.  It had been three weeks since his master had left for his expedition after promising to return in a matter of days.  Such conduct was unlike his master who’d proven himself fastidious, sometimes ruthlessly so.  Without his presence, the modest house felt empty, with one of its bedrooms and the master’s study now unoccupied.  Except of course for Raymond. 

A scarecrow by birth and a servant by nature, Raymond busied himself with housework just as his master had instructed before he had departed.  Gliding from room to room, he rendered the place spotless with the skill and quiet dignity of a practiced domestic servant.  Initially, he complied, fearing punitive measures, but as the days turned into weeks, he undertook his chores with intense fervour. 

What else would I do?  How else do people occupy their time except in service to their masters? he thought as he waxed the wooden floorboards of the corridor.

All food related chores were the first to disappear – as a scarecrow, Raymond had no need to eat.  It was a pleasure denied him by his creator, though he had often marvelled at the transformative nature of food, its innate ability to bestow comfort and satiety.  First tier chores such as sweeping, dusting and the washing of dishes soon gave way to more complicated, second tier tasks like washing windows, cleaning gutters and re-tiling the roof.  Using a not inconsiderable amount of elbow grease (if his body had produced such a substance), Raymond maintained the house spectacularly.

One afternoon, there came a knock at the door.  Raymond was immediately suspicious, knowing that his master would never knock as he rarely left the house without keys.  Curious, he opened the door to reveal a surprising sight – a giant stick insect, stood upright, attired in formal suit and tie.

‘Good afternoon sir’, said the stick insect as he extended his arm in greeting, ‘My name is Julius Wallwork, Esquire.  Might I have a moment of your time?’

‘Of course’, stammered Raymond, as he shook the man’s hand and ushered him into the entranceway.

Remembering his manners, Raymond struggled to suppress his fascination with the strange man’s appearance.  There were of course many and varied sentient creatures in the kingdom, but he had lived a life mostly indoors and had rarely been exposed to such zoological diversity.

Julius Wallwork made his way inside the house, proceeding down the short corridor and into the kitchen where he politely sought permission to sit at a small table.  Raymond replied in the affirmative as Julius placed a scroll and a small wooden box upon the tabletop.  Through his buttoned shirt and sleeves, Raymond could catch glimpses of the man’s peppermint coloured thorax.

‘Mister Raymond, I represent Angus & Altman.  We’re solicitors, specialising in property management and estate planning in this general vicinity’.

‘Okay’, said Raymond hesitantly, still wondering why such an elaborate fancy man would stoop to converse with a lowly scarecrow.

‘I’m afraid it’s my sad duty to inform you of the death of your master, Kevin’, Wallwork announced as he presented Raymond with the box that he had brought with him.

Raymond carefully opened the receptacle.  Inside it was a human heart, the organ partially desiccated and decorated with traces of dried blood about its four chambered structure.  The heart belonged to Kevin, and, had evidently been torn out by whatever agent had caused his demise.

‘I realise this may be a gruesome sight for you, but the presentation of a heart is customary in this circumstance, especially where the transfer of property is concerned’.

‘Transfer?’ asked Raymond, still enthralled by the grisly sight of his master’s heart in a box.  He was struck by the notion that his master even possessed such an organ, given his sour disposition and proclivity for cruelty.

‘Kevin’s death changes things for you considerably, Mister Raymond.  In the absence of an heir or suitable inheritor, the deed to the current property – this house – legally reverts to any other current occupants.  In this instance – that’s you’.

Julius unfurled the scroll across the kitchen table.  It was an ancient looking document, its text hand written in slanted script that was difficult to read.  At the top of the scroll, in letters larger than the rest were the words ‘Life Transfer Document’, and at the bottom, a straight line presumably reserved for a signature.  At the centre of the scroll was a single human eye, which, as soon as the scroll had been unrolled, blinked into existence, darting about the room. 

Standing to leave, Julius provided Raymond with a final set of instructions.

‘As per local law, you have ten days to sign the document, after which point this house and all its contents will become your legal property.  Should you fail to sign in the allotted time, custody of the house reverts back unto itself, and your rights as a tenant within it will be rescinded’.

Offering a polite bow to excuse himself, Julius made his way to the front door, as Raymond trailed behind him.  This turn of events had been so unexpected and he was brimming with questions for the stick insect lawyer.  But, as evidenced by the brevity of his visit, his time was too valuable for him to linger a moment longer than necessary.  Raymond tried to think of the most pertinent question to ask, but instead his mind went blank.

‘But what about my master?’, he blurted out almost reflexively.

‘Your master is dead, Mr Raymond. You are your own man now.  I suggest you get used to it’.

‘My own man…’ Raymond repeated to himself softly as Julius left the premises.  It was a tremendous concept to digest.

DAY 4

A few days had passed since the lawyer had called on Raymond, casually breezing into his life and leaving seismic new ideas at his feet.  Though not outwardly exhibiting any signs of distress, Raymond had been quite shaken by the visit, and decided it was best to simply ignore everything he’d been told.  As before, he proceeded with his chores, dusting surfaces that were already clean and preparing the house for a master that would never return.

Yet every time he found himself in the kitchen, he’d see the expectant scroll, its unnerving eye watching his every move, waiting for him to either sign (or not sign) his name at the bottom of the page.  The very sight of the offending eye reminded him that things had changed and that Kevin wasn’t coming back.  Not only was he a free man, but if he signed the scroll, he would be a home owner.

Sat in his chair – a brief pleasure that he occasionally allowed himself – Raymond pondered the concept of freedom.  What did it mean?  Kevin had captured and removed him from his family at such a young age that he had never known any other life.  What would he do with his time?  He thought about his family and briefly considered paying them a visit.  From what little he could remember they lived in a small enclave just beyond the forest, but, given the short lifespan of most scarecrows they were most likely deceased.  Later, as he examined the document once more, he pondered the unusual nature of its title – Life Transfer Document.  Was the house somehow alive, and if so, was it a slave to Raymond?

DAY 5

After spending the day washing linen, Raymond was met with the uneasy feeling that his tasks no longer felt as fulfilling as they once did.  As dusk arrived, he allowed himself to stand on the front porch of the house and admire the beauty of the plants and trees around him.  Previously, such stolen moments had been forbidden, but now Raymond wondered if he could occasionally permit himself some rudimentary moments of pleasure.

‘Beautiful evening, isn’t it?’ came a voice from a few feet away.

It was Mrs Gale, the next-door neighbour who was sitting on her own porch evidently doing precisely what Raymond had been doing as well.

‘Oh, hello Mrs Gale’ offered Raymond politely. 

He had rarely had occasion to speak with the old woman, forever beholden to his duties, but he liked her.  She always spoke to him warmly and, despite being confined to a wheelchair, nearly always displayed a sunny demeanour.

‘Kevin is dead’, he blurted out without thinking.

‘I know, dear.  I felt him die.  A shame really, such an angry young man’.

Kevin had often been churlish with Mrs Gale, annoyed by her dumpy countenance and her propensity for dispensing unsolicited homespun wisdom.

‘I was visited by a lawyer who said that I’d inherit the house if I sign a scroll’.

‘Was that the green gentleman I saw the other day?’

‘Yes, that’s right’.

‘So, what are you waiting for, dear?  Sign the contract, and we’ll be neighbours fair and square’.

‘It’s not that simple’.

‘Sounds simple enough to me.  Do you need to borrow a pen?’

‘It’s not that – I already have a pen.  I just keep staring at that scroll, and it stares back at me.  Without instruction, I’m frozen and afraid.  I’ve never known choice, or decision.  I’m scared of doing the wrong thing, so instead, I do nothing at all.  How do you know what to do Mrs Gale?’

The old woman looked pensive for a moment, taking a few seconds to formulate a thoughtful response.

‘I’m not sure, dear.  I suppose I use past experience to guide me.  You have to make your own future – one day at a time’.

‘But I have no past experience.  My whole life I’ve been a slave’.

‘Well then’, smiled Mrs Gale, ‘Its time you started making some choices, dear’. 

She tilted her head in the direction of the nearby tree line where, almost as if the universe had anticipated his need, a rat with a bindle sauntered past their houses.  He walked upright, with his possessions slung across his shoulder.  Moving cheerfully despite his bedraggled appearance, his feet were bare and blistered and his eyes looked weary from travelling.

Sensing a new emotion coalescing within him, Raymond tried his utmost to comprehend the new sensation.  Impulsiveness – the need to act spontaneously and without forethought.  The sensation travelled upwards from his belly, up into his chest and into his mouth where it eventually formed words.

‘You there’, he called out to the rat man, ‘Do you need a place to live?’

DAY 8

Life with Percival was very different to life with Kevin.  Transient by nature, Percival just so happened to be walking past Mrs Gale and Raymond at the very moment in which Raymond had been inspired to make a choice.  Acting in an uncharacteristically spontaneous manner, he’d invited the wandering rat to cohabitate with him.  It was a perfectly equitable arrangement - the rat man occupying Kevin’s former bedroom which had remained vacant for some time.  The terms of his tenancy were loosely defined, with no fixed end point agreed upon in advance.  Refusing to accept any of the rat man’s money, Raymond agreed to be paid in household duties, and his new housemate readily obliged.

The perfect lodger, Percival’s jovial demeanour and colourful tales from the road made him a pleasure to be with.  For his part, he was happy to have a stable home, at least for a time.  He treated Raymond with decency, never once verbally scolding him, threatening his life or setting fire to his extremities.            

After a few days and nights, the two housemates had settled into an agreeable routine.  They would share a meal together, recounting humorous or significant moments from their day.  Percival had recently discovered what he considered to be a superlative fishing hole and frequently returned to the house with fresh Twilo fish.  Raymond, sans digestive system, would happily sit with his rodent companion, so as to politely share the dining experience.  After they had cleaned their plates, they would retire to the living room and read, or sometimes listen to music.  One such evening, as Raymond read, Percival smoked the bark of the Carboline tree.

‘Why do you smoke that?’, Raymond asked.

‘Because it makes me happy’, replied Percival flatly.

Raymond had not been prepared for the simplicity of his companion’s response.

‘What is happiness?’, Raymond ventured, after a few moments.

‘Happiness is that which I pursue’.

‘Why?’

‘Because it is the purpose of my life.  To find those things and people that bring me the greatest joy’.

‘What does it feel like?  Happiness, I mean.  Is it painful?’.

Percival took a drag of the burning bark and allowed his gaze to melt away into the distance as his mind conjured images of past pleasures.

‘It feels like a stillness of my thoughts and an easiness in my body’.

‘That sounds complicated’, lamented Raymond.

‘It’s not’, replied Percival who now turned his attention to Raymond whose questions seemed unusually wistful, ‘What makes you happy?’

‘I’m unsure what will make me happy’.

‘What have you tried so far?’

‘Nothing.  I can’t be certain that any of the things I choose will lead to happiness and so I choose nothing.  Instead, I simply sit in my chair and stare at the wall, and that in itself seems like an indulgence’.

‘Is that why you haven’t signed the scroll?’

‘Yes.  I’m not sure if it’s the correct course of action’.

‘You know I’d sign it for you, but the eye sees all.  And besides, for me, a house would only be an impediment to my happiness’.

Though his intuition where people were concerned was underdeveloped, Raymond believed him.  There was no conceivable way that a creature such as Percival would settle down as a home owner.  He would stay for a while, but his inquisitive nature and nomadic spirit meant that the road ahead was always calling his name.

‘Perhaps it’s time you sought advice from a higher power?’, offered Percival with a raised eyebrow.

DAY 9

The following day Raymond decided to heed Percival’s suggestion.  Over breakfast, he informed his housemate that he intended to visit the area’s foremost seer, the Lady in Waiting.

‘Okay then, but be careful’, cautioned Percival, ‘You want to keep well clear of those dreadful Simians’.               

He was right to be apprehensive – Simian Sands was a valley occupied by a tribe of crazed apes, well known for their extreme violence towards intruders.  Best avoided, they were rumoured to have all been driven mad through exposure to industrial waste.

Summoning his courage, Raymond left the house for the first time in many years.  Using a crude map he’d found in Kevin’s writing desk, he made his way through a brief wooded section, past several physical landmarks to the Lady in Waiting’s residence. His former master had availed himself of her services often enough, holding her counsel in high esteem.  Raymond hoped that she’d be equally useful to him as he trekked through the forest, trying his best to stave off the overwhelming fear he felt at so many new sights and the ominous sounds of the screech owls above.

Soon enough, a large, hollowed out tree presented itself.  Its proportions were gigantic, with its base several meters in diameter.  It was the largest tree Raymond had ever seen, although he had not had cause to see very many in his life.  He entered warily, through a passageway just large enough for him to squeeze his body.  As the darkness of the inside of the tree enveloped him, he nervously announced himself, expectantly hoping that the lady residing within would reassure him with an acknowledgement.  Proceeding further into the tree he came to a generous circular space, dimly lit by candles.

‘Enter, and be seated’, came a voice from somewhere inside the room. 

Raymond’s eyes darted about until they landed upon a human woman sitting at a small wooden table.  She wore a faded Victorian gown, frilly and ornate and had laid out a deck of tarot cards on the table before her.  He approached, intending to occupy the vacant seat opposite the lady, but as he moved closer, he realised he’d failed to observe a key feature of the woman, or rather, a lack thereof.  She had no head.  By the looks of things, it had been shorn clear off - by what method he was unsure - but the wound appeared cauterised and bloodless.

‘Be seated’, the woman repeated in a clear tone that only now Raymond realised was occurring completely in his mind. 

This was the Lady in Waiting, and even though decapitated, she was still able to communicate using only her thoughts.  Raymond obliged and took the seat, consciously averting his gaze from her headless stump.  Slowly, deliberately, the lady began turning over her strange tarot cards.  The first one – The Sickly Magician – revealed itself.  Bearing the image of a well-dressed man vomiting upon a green pasture, it made Raymond feel uneasy.

‘Interesting’, remarked the lady, mostly to herself before turning over a subsequent card. 

This one was entitled The Pregnant Mule and depicted the eponymous creature with its belly distended.  Without a head, Raymond suspected by the lady’s body language that she was deep in thought.

‘What do they mean?’, he asked tentatively after a few moments of silence.

‘Crossroads’, she began, speaking clearly inside his head, ‘A time of rebirth and great change’.

Turning over a third card, the lady let out an audible gasp at its appearance: The Unbroken Line – the illustration depicting a straight red line rendered in blood.  The lady was silent for a moment, and without a face, Raymond couldn’t read her expression.

‘What does it mean?  Is it bad?’ he ventured, eager to hear her interpretation.  The lady reached across the table, urgently clasping Raymond’s forearm.

‘The time is now, and the message is urgent’, she gasped as her fingernails dug into his skin, ‘You must act now – the eye will not remain open forever!’.

Shaking free of her grip, Raymond stumbled backwards, knocking over his chair.  Her words had shaken him, frightened him, wound themselves around a hidden part of his subconscious that only he could see, and he was petrified - so much so that he ran all the way back to the house and sealed himself in his bedroom.

DAY 10

Early the next day, Percival, somewhat concerned having not seen his housemate in some time gently wrapped upon his bedroom door.

‘Raymond?  Are you okay in there?’, he asked gently. 

He was accustomed to his new friend behaving skittishly, but this was something new.  Raymond had led such a sheltered life after all, and Percival was worried that his visit to the Lady in Waiting had gone poorly.  He lingered a few moments, but there was no response.

‘Okay then.  I just wanted to let you know that I’m going fishing.  I’ll return when the sun goes to sleep’.

Inside his bedroom, Raymond could hear the sound of Percival leaving the house.  He’d had a sleepless night, and he didn’t wish to burden Percival with his problems.  But the Lady in Waiting’s prophecy had disturbed him, in a manner more deeply than he’d ever known.  He was still only new to his freedom, and yet so much was being asked of him already.  So many decisions to make.  Around noon, after a few hours brooding alone, he exited and proceeded to the kitchen where the scroll, with its single eye, was still sat upon the table.  Locating a pen – an ornate one that once belonged to Kevin - he stood before the waiting document, his arm outstretched, determined to finally sign it. 

As he forced his hand closer to the paper, his mind was aflame with the pain of his own crippling indecision – a mental tug of war fought only with himself.  All of the questions of the last ten days flashed into existence once more as the moment of ultimate choice stood before him.  Would signing be the right thing to do?  Did he even want to be a home owner?  What if the decision he made today had terrible ramifications later on? Could he forgive himself for making such a grievous mistake?

As the overwhelming anxiety of the moment overcame him, Raymond’s arms began to tremble.  He sat down on the floor, bracing his back against the wall, but soon realised that not he – but the house – was shaking.  He cast an incidental glance over at the scroll on the table just in time to witness the single eye at the centre of the page close, slowly and with alarming finality.  In that moment he recalled the words of the esteemed Julius Wallwork, Esquire:

‘…Custody of the house reverts back unto itself, and your rights as a tenant within it will be rescinded’.

A low rumble became thunderous as plates and cups and other sundry items flew from their perches, smashing into a million pieces as the doors and walls of the house convulsed.  Leaping to his feet, Raymond ran from room to room, struggling to understand the precise nature of what was happening. 

Outside, the house shook itself free from its foundations and sprouted two enormous three toed feet.  Sheathed in reptilian scales and strong enough to support the house’s considerable bulk, the feet began walking, taking the house along with it. 

 Sat on her front porch, Mrs Gale witnessed the entire occurrence unfold.  She marvelled as the house next door simply walked away on giant feet, leaving a trail of flotsam and jetsam in its wake.  As it moved, each step it took produced a mighty thud that reverberated through the earth.

Inside the moving house, Raymond struggled to stay on his feet, buffeted about by the turbulent journey.  He looked out a window to see a strange moving vista as the house walked itself deeper into the woods, deftly avoiding collision with trees and bushes as it made its way down a steep decline.  Gathering momentum, the house accelerated, moving past the hollow tree where Raymond had been just the previous day.  Past the place where these very events had been foretold. 

The journey had thus far lasted minutes, but to Raymond it seemed like hours as the contents of the house showered down upon him as he surrendered to unyielding terror, screaming until his voice was hoarse.  Moving down into a sandy gully, the house finally came to a complete stop, at which time Raymond, still cowering, managed to drag himself to a nearby window in order to survey his location.

The house had taken him to a part of the woods he’d never seen before.  Mostly devoid of vegetation, the ground appeared dry and cracked, and the landscape barren and dotted with jagged rocks.  From the vague descriptions he had heard over the years, it could only be one place – Simian Sands.  It was indeed, a place no sensible person would hope to find himself.  Within seconds, Raymond’s worst fears were confirmed as he heard an awful screeching coming from outside the house, followed shortly after by a pounding on the walls.  It was the simians, and from the sounds they produced, it sounded as though they were numerous. 

Finding his last shred of courage, Raymond sprang to his feet and made for the kitchen, intending to find a weapon with which to defend himself.  A knife, or any other kitchen utensil would do in a pinch.  As he entered the room, he heard the sound of shattering glass behind him as a balled-up simian smashed his way through one of the windows.  Hunched over and tightly muscled, the simian’s teeth appeared razor sharp and his eyes were filled with blood lust.  Grabbing one of the chairs from the kitchen table, Raymond swung the piece of furniture at the horrible creature, striking it clean across its face.  No result – the chair merely smashed into smithereens and the hideous ape only roared in anger.  It leapt forward, in one sudden motion, its powerful hands clawing at Raymond’s face. 

Soon, another simian had broken into the house, then another and then another.  All of them dove for Raymond, who was now pinned to the floor, desperately fighting for his life.  One of the beasts latched onto his left leg and tore it clean off, while the others used their hands to rip into his midsection like a knife through hot butter.  In the midst of his death throes, Raymond howled out in agony, as the simians tore him apart, limb from limb.

And that was how poor Raymond met his final end.  The entire, unpleasant affair could have been easily avoided had he simply made a decision.  He spurned the gift that had been lovingly bestowed upon him by the universe – that of free will and choice – and lost his life as a result.  For if we do not make our choices ourselves, others will surely make them for us.

 

 

 

SHORT STORY: The Bird At The End Of The World

(This article was originally published in the July 2020 “Power” print edition of Wordly Magazine in July 2020.  You can read a digital version of the original story here: https://issuu.com/wordly/docs/wordly_power_single-page/s/10774998)

Max walked alone across the empty plains. His parents had been merchants, but they had passed on peacefully many years ago. Alone in the world, Max had determined that his life’s purpose would be to see as much of the sphere as possible before he too expired.

Due to the persistent heat, he walked at night, maintaining a steady pace. Other humans spent their days scrounging for food, but Max found exploration a more noble pursuit and his empty stomach easier to ignore than his burning curiosity. He walked past the crumbling temples of inconsequential belief and the old house of records, it too now disintegrating. Both buildings were now half consumed by the landscape. Still filled with artefacts of forgotten lore, they were the last remaining vestiges of a world long gone, and an absent population devoured by sickness.

One day, in search of a place to sleep, Max came across a clearing. It was a peculiar circular space, with great trees lopped off at their bases. Huge sections of earth had been scooped out as if by a giant hand, which made the ground look like an old battlefield Max had once seen in a book. What soil remained appeared chalk-like and desiccated. At the centre of the space, there was a lake. It appeared to be filled with black, oily tar.

Moving cautiously, Max noticed a small hut, composed of densely packed flotsam and jetsam. He approached the door and rapped upon it a few times. No response. Behind him, the lake of tar sprang to life, and bubbles rose to the surface. Soon, a shape revealed itself. Head. Neck. Arms and legs. Slowly it ascended from the muck.

It now stood a full seven feet tall. The slimy humanoid wiped the dark sludge from his face and revealed a large proboscis. It was a beak, like that of some giant prehistoric bird. If the sight of such a creature wasn’t shocking enough for Max, one could only imagine his surprise when it began to talk.

‘Come inside,’ he said, inviting Max into his tiny hut. ‘Thank you, sir,’ Max replied, discreetly noticing three-fingered hands concealed beneath densely feathered limbs. The interior of the bird man’s hut was a profoundly grim affair. Grimy, cluttered surfaces populated by dead plants and dust covered trinkets. The bird man offered Max a drink, but he politely declined, noting the foul state of his crockery.

‘Why have you come here?’ asked the bird man as he towelled off the residual oil from his body with a tattered rag. Now somewhat cleaner, Max could properly discern the strange man. He was covered in feathers head to toe, save for his scaly stick-like legs, which stood atop large webbed feet. Free from the tar, yet still jet-black, Max thought his feathers appeared pleasantly soft.

‘I’m a traveller,’ Max offered. ‘You’re the first person I’ve seen in a hundred days.’

‘A traveller,’ the bird repeated as he sat himself down on what remained of a broken sofa and discreetly began loading a bong. ‘I’ve barely even left this house.’ Striking a match, he placed his face upon the mouthpiece and inhaled deeply as the filthy bong water bubbled beneath.

Max watched with intense curiosity. ‘In the old world, it was called ganja. By my father, and his father before him.’

‘Been no ganja for some time now, boy. I’ve had to make do,’ the bird proclaimed as he exhaled a plume of putrid smoke.

‘With what?’

‘Everything. Everything smoked. Plants. Trees. Animals. Ground up and smoked to sustain my power,’ the bird intoned, his rich timbre resonant and masculine.

‘Power?’ asked Max as he sat before the bird, beseeching the giant ornithoid to impart his wisdom.

‘I discovered it right here in this room. I wasn’t always like this, you know.’

Max leant forward as the bird continued to weave his tale.

‘Hundreds of years ago, this hut was once part of a thriving village filled with people. One day, the sky grew dark, and the villagers became frightened. Through a hole in the sky, I caught sight of the throne. I saw the four beasts awaken. Soon after, they came from the clouds. Faceless men on horseback. They laid hands on the women as they struggled and tortured the men with sticks and ropes. The sounds of their anguish were awful, but I was paralysed by fear, so I chose to stay inside. Through my window, I saw the slaughter unfold. I saw it all and did nothing, said nothing. When the faceless men departed, I watched over their broken bodies until I could no longer stand the sight. I saw the dark man’s hand that day, and it changed me.’ The bird man’s eyes appeared wistful. Remorseful.

Max sat in silence, stunned by the surprising intensity of the story.

‘I was once a man just like you. But that day, I cried so much my face changed. Sadness can transform your body as well as your mind.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Max offered quietly. They were the only words he could conjure. As he spoke them, he was immediately aware of how cheap they sounded in the face of such bitterness.

The bird man’s face hardened as he caught sight of Max’s expression.

‘No need to serve me pity. I neither request nor appreciate it.’

‘No, what I meant was —’

‘It was only from the cinders of my old life did I uncover it. The infinite power of surrender. The value of doing absolutely nothing.’ ‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing,’ he uttered slowly, his voice now resonating in the tiny space.

Max was aghast. ‘I could never be that cynical.’

‘It’s not cynicism, boy. It’s freedom. Freedom from caring. Freedom from action.’

‘But don’t you have any places you’d like to see, people you’d like to meet? Don’t you have any questions about the world? About yourself?’

The bird man pressed his beak against the mouth of the bong again, lit the base, and inhaled deeply.

‘If the question is pointless, so too will be the answer,’ he replied smugly.

‘For a man who claims to be free, you seem trapped.’

‘It’s all a matter of perspective. Yours might change once you see the horror this life has to offer. And besides, as your eyes will no doubt inform you, I am no longer a man.’

A chill ran down Max’s spine. He stood up from his seat. ‘Well then, it appears we have reached an impasse of ideology.’

‘Indeed, we have,’ said the feathered man as Max made his way to the exit.

‘Thank you for the hospitality,’ he offered politely as he paused in the door frame.

‘Maybe one day, when you stop walking, the power might come to find you,’ said the bird, clutching his bong.

‘Thank you, sir. But I already have my own. It was a gift from my mother and father. It is my life and the very fact that I am living. That’s power enough for me,’ said Max as he strode out of the small, strange house without so much as a backwards glance.

 

  

SHORT STORY: Uninvited Guest - A Home Invasion Story

My name is Charlie and this is the story of my little sister’s abduction.  It all started many years ago on a day like any other.  I attended the same school as my sister Agnetha, who was two years younger than me.  I was 10 and she was 8. 

My relationship with Agnetha wasn’t always perfect.  Like any little sister, she could be annoying.  The two of us had disagreements, but they were always petty and of little consequence.  The kinds of things only siblings argue about.  Nevertheless, even when we quarrelled, I never lost sight of the fact that I was her older brother, and as such, it was my job to protect her.

Our school was like any other in the prefecture.  A government institution, administrated and funded by the Ministry of Compliance with the express goal of generating young adults ready to assume positions in the labour force.

Our neighbourhood was by no means affluent.  Most of the kids at school were in a similar position.  Both parents working full time, typically manual labour roles.  Every day, we each wore our standard issue school uniform, designed specifically to foster group cohesion and a sense of community.  All except for Sandoval.

Sandoval was the “weird” kid.  You know the type.  Every school has one.  Pale and mostly silent, as a child Sandoval cultivated a mystique few adults were capable of.  He often appeared dishevelled, and on more than one occasion appeared at school with large sections of his head shaved.  Once, during swimming practice, I caught a glimpse of the much talked about surgical scars that adorned his extremities.  Though I wasn’t able to articulate it back then - Sandoval scared me.  I think he scared all of us, and so, unsurprisingly, we kept our distance. 

Then one day, an incident.  While waiting in line for our lunchtime allotment, poor Agnetha bumped into Sandoval as he held his tray.  It was an accident, plain and simple, but it scattered his food all over the floor.  I remember vividly watching the whole affair unfold, as if in slow motion.  Sandoval’s tiny milk carton upended on the floor, the grey liquid slowly soaking into the carpet.

I was sat a few feet away with Alex Vasquez and his second cousin Antoinette.  As soon as I saw what had transpired, I rushed to Agnetha’s side.  She was frozen in terror as Sandoval simply stared at her with his cold, unblinking eyes.  Without emotion, or almost any inflection at all, he brought his mouth to her ear and informed her that she would be taken from her home.  It would occur in the next few days, and most likely at night.

I grabbed Agnetha by the arm and guided her to one of the cafeteria tables as she apologised profusely to Sandoval.  Her offence was nothing more than quite literal spilled milk, but Sandoval’s chilling threat seemed disproportionate and quite frankly, insane.  Among the kids, there were all sorts of rumours about Sandoval’s home life.  His parents were apparently deceased and he was now a ward of the state.

Over the next few days, we tried to put Sandoval’s menacing words out of our minds.  He was after all, only a child and his reaction was more likely the result of social exclusion rather than some pathological need for revenge.  Mundane normality resumed, until that one Friday in April.  That day I’ll never forget.  The day the Fox appeared.

Returning from school, Agnetha and I let ourselves into our house.  “Latch key kids”, old Mrs McGorgom next door would call us.  I never understood what that meant, or what precisely a latch key was.  Mrs McGorgom would do well to mind her own business. 

Mother and Father worked double shifts, so we didn’t see too much of them during the week.  I never knew much about their work, except that it was difficult, exhausting labour.  Venturing downstairs for a glass of water one night, I caught sight of them both dressed in their jumpsuits, stinking of hog fat.

Coming home to an empty house was second nature for Agnetha and I, and of course, we had a daily ritual.  After school we would sit in the kitchen with some snacks and watch the afternoon programming for a while before attending to our homework and chores.  That day, we were halfway through the daily telecast when we heard a knock at the door.  Before I could check the security feed to see who was there, the front door exploded open.

Extending a long, spindly leg past the threshold, a giant Fox appeared.  Humanoid, about seven feet tall, he had to crouch just to make his way inside.  Serpentine, his movements were slow and deliberate.  Bizarrely dressed in a pin striped suit, complete with waistcoat and polished shoes, the Fox appeared attired like an old-fashioned gentleman.

Simply standing there in the front room of our house, Agnetha and I could only stare back at him, our mouths agape at the mere fact of such a creature’s existence.  The Fox did not speak, nor utter a sound; he just stood there, staring at us with his cold, yellow eyes.

In a flash, it was as if the most primitive parts of our brains took hold – components inherited from primitive humans who lived in fear of predation from animals in the wild.  We both ran, Agnetha first, up the stairs to our bedrooms.

The Fox gave chase - he moved quickly, using his long legs to traverse a few feet at a time.  I pumped my calves as quickly as I could, catching sight of the Fox’s glistening serrated teeth.  Agnetha slid into her bedroom and slammed the door shut. 

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I ran straight into my bedroom and hid under the bed.  My heart pounding, I tried my best to control my breathing, but I could barely catch my breath.  All at once, I resisted the uncontrollable urge to piss my pants in terror at the thought of that awful Fox suddenly finding me.  What would he do to me if he did?  I imagined his fearsome teeth, tearing through my flesh.  Why was he here?  What was happening?  I closed my eyes tight, silently praying, willing for the moment to be over and for him to be gone. 

Then all of a sudden – nothing.  Silence.  I was alone in my room under my bed, surprised at the hot tears I found streaming down my cheeks.

“Charlie!!”

Agnetha’s voice, crying out.  I slid out from under the bed and sprang to my feet faster than I thought my body capable.  Freed from my fear, I raced down the corridor and descended the stairs.  I moved so fast my feet barely touched the ground. 

Then, something else, something more my senses became aware of.  A smell, old and familiar.  Acrid and heavy.  Smoke.  The scent of burning wood.  The smell of fire.

As I came screaming downstairs, I saw the Fox throw a lit match onto the living room carpet where a small fire was already crackling.  Slung underneath his left arm was Agnetha, kicking and screaming louder than I have ever heard another human scream before or since. 

“Let my sister go!” I roared, as I ran at the Fox consumed with rage but still unsure of precisely what to do. 

Spinning around to regard me he issued fourth a swift kick, his bony foot landing squarely upon my chest and sending me hurtling across the room.  Agnetha under his arm, the Fox calmly strolled out the front door, casually tossing Agnetha through the side door of an unmarked white van that had been apparently waiting outside, its engine idling.  The Fox entered the vehicle himself, collapsing his spider-like mass into the small space as the door slid shut and the van drove off.

I never managed to get a look at the driver, but there, sat smugly in the passenger seat was Sandoval.  He had watched the entire ordeal unfold, and had most likely orchestrated it as some form of twisted retribution.

Still reeling from the Fox’s assault, I chased after the van, but it was no good.  It was too fast, and soon enough, it disappeared over the horizon.  I stood there, alone, in the middle of the street once again gasping for air as my house burned behind me.

Through her upstairs window, I could see Mrs McGorgom watching wordlessly from her wheelchair – too afraid to call the local constabulary for fear of being labelled a ‘subversive’.  Evidently, someone cared enough to eventually summon the fire suppression services.  I could hear their distinctive sirens blaring in the distance, the sound growing louder as they grew nearer. 

As hot tears streamed down my cheeks, I summoned the courage to place one foot in front of the other and slowly began walking back to the house.   Tall flames now burst through the windows of our front room, peppering the front lawn with shards of shattered glass.  In that moment, I had no words.  I wondered what had just happened. 

What would I tell my parents? 

What would I tell myself?

SHORT STORY: Waste Management

As a young girl, I revered my mother.  We lived together, just her and I, in a plain looking house nestled in a sleepy outer suburb.

‘Good morning, starshine’ she would say each morning as she energetically drew back my bedroom curtains, filling the room with sunlight.

I idolised her, though childish pride prevented me from verbalising my feelings.  She was a woman of immense contrasts, and I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.  At once, strident yet demure.  Educated, yet still of simple tastes.  Some days, as she moved about the house, I’d study the elegant way in which she moved.  I’d try my utmost to imitate her graceful gestures precisely, often failing.  It was only due to my diligent observation that I was able to discern a subtle change in her façade.  She seemed suddenly stressed, guarded.

Each night, after dinner, Mother would excuse herself and go down to our basement.

‘Just catching up on some laundry’, she’d say, typically emerging half an hour later with folded clothes. 

One night, things felt different.  It was just after my ninth birthday.   Gone for only a few moments, she returned empty handed, her face looking flushed.  Was my perfect mother hiding something?

I’d been raised to abhor secrets, so I resolved to investigate for myself.  That night after bed, I crept from my covers and into the hallway.  Up past my bedtime, the house was a strange, nocturnal place – one I was never supposed to see.  Confident I wouldn’t be punished for my infraction, I nonetheless armed myself with a white lie.  If caught, I’d claim I’d awoken for a glass of water or some other such thing.

Clad in my pyjamas, I crept past Mother’s favourite chair.  Working on her computer, her face was the picture of concentration illuminated by the harsh light of her screen.  Sat beside her was a half empty bottle of the dark liquor she’d once forbidden me from tasting.

After slipping through the basement door, I cautiously descended the wooden staircase, activating the tiny flashlight I’d brought.  As I reached the bottom, I used it to scan the room.  The circular spotlight danced about, left to right, revealing the washing machine, dryer and the other sundry items we’d abandoned there.  Suddenly – movement.  A darkened blur caught in the periphery of my vision.

‘Who’s there?’ I managed as my heart rate jumped.

Slowly piercing the circle of light was the unmistakable outline of a woman’s bosom.  I moved my flashlight slightly to reveal a woman – completely naked, her body covered in an unusual coating.   Resembling clay or thick chocolate, her dark blanket accentuated the smooth contours of her hips and made her appear slimy to the touch.

‘Good morning, starshine’, croaked the naked lady in a tone both terrifying and familiar.

‘Who are you?’, I demanded, somewhat stunned by my bravery.

‘Don’t you recognise me?’

‘You’re a naked lady in my basement!’

‘Look closer.  I am your mother’.

Instantly my mind conjured the image of my Mother upstairs.  I’d seen her with my own eyes not sixty seconds ago.

‘I am she’, continued the naked lady, ‘That part of herself she discards.  That which is unacceptable.  It is a blackness she must release in order to be your mother’.

Alarmed, I began moving towards the staircase, but before I’d moved a muscle, I felt the naked woman’s hand close around my bicep.

‘In nature, everything has balance.  Perfect people exact a price.  I am the skin she has shed.  Erupting from her subconscious.  She has done this deed for you, child’.

‘Don’t hurt me’, I pleaded.

‘Hurt you?’, the lady seemed to take umbrage, ‘I am as much your mother as she is, I am simply her shadow.  I still recall her feelings your first night home from the hospital.  Such resentment.  Her revulsion at the very sight of you, knowing she’d have to sublimate her needs for another.  As you soundly slept, I watched her resist the urge to smother you’. 

‘It’s not true!’, I spat as I tried to twist my arm from her grip, unsuccessfully.

‘Deny me all you like, but all relationships are this way.  We discard those parts of ourselves we deem distasteful so we can summon kindness and compassion.  Everybody does it.  Those feelings have to go somewhere.  You might call it a form of…waste management’.

‘I have to go’, I declared, struggling more forcefully this time, still to no avail.

‘You cannot leave.  Not now that you have seen me’.

A moment of silence hung between us as we acknowledged the uncomfortable impasse.

‘There is a way - only one - for you to ascend your stairs and return to your delusion’.

Before I could respond, the lady pressed her filthy hand into my chest.  Her fingers were ice cold and the sticky substance covering her clung to the fabric of my clothes.  Within seconds, I felt the uncontrollable urge to cough.  The naked lady released her me as my body convulsed and crumpled.  I fell to my knees before her and hacked up a terrible quantity of what looked like phlegm.  The vile, black globule presented itself on the basement floor, writhing and moving of its own accord.  Had that come from inside me?

My coughing fit complete, I jumped to my feet and bolted up the staircase, dropping the flashlight as I went.  I fully expected the naked lady to give chase, but she didn’t.  She seemed much more interested in the phlegm I had produced, inspecting it with fawning adoration.

‘A mother does what she can for her child.  Never forget your shadow, dear.  It will always be waiting for you’.

I never saw the naked lady in the basement again, nor did I tell my mother what I had seen.  I decided to allow the memory to atrophy, and so it did.  The decades passed.  I finished school.  Got married.  Got divorced.

Now I am a mother myself, with my own child - a boy - a bitter avatar of my own disappointment.  I’ll never forget the day I brought him home from the hospital.  After Mother’s death I inherited my childhood home, the same one with the basement.  I lived there with my son, just him and I, in a perfect symmetry of circumstance.

Every now and again, I would look down upon him sleeping in his cot, his tiny face a scrunched up blank canvas of limitless possibility.  I’d heard many a new mother gush about the bond between mother and child – an unspoken, immediate connection - primal and ancient.  I’d watch him sleep, and feel cold inside.  Empty.  As if the very sight of him filled me with hatred.  I swallowed my venom and vowed to fulfill my obligation.  As he began to grow into a young man, I became determined to be for him no less than the perfect mother.

I never told him what I keep hidden in our basement.  The black waste.  A disgusting biproduct of human relationships.  I hope he lives as long as possible before he too learns the truth.

 

 

 

REVIEW: There Is No Comparison: Remembering Star Trek The Motion Picture

Star Trek The Motion Picture ranks quite highly on my personal hierarchy of Trek films (Just behind The Wrath of Khan and First Contact respectively).

In Australia, the extended 1983 TV version of the film often found its home on local TV stations, ably filling the slot assigned to the “midday movie”.  Its protracted run time would easily consume a sizeable portion of the afternoon - perfect for lazy, rainy days stuck indoors.  During Coronavirus lockdown, it’s in a similar context that I’ve had cause to revisit the film - its soothing tone a balm for isolation and boredom.

As a younger fan, I often overlooked the merits of The Motion Picture, preferring instead the glorious motion control starship warfare of its sequel.  It seems the most common criticism of the film is its slow pace.  Stylistically, the film shares an obvious kinship with 2001: A Space Odyssey as opposed to the broad accessibility of Star Wars.  Caught in the shadow of that pop culture juggernaut, it’s easy to imagine how fans in 1979 would have been deeply disappointed in the film.  Its slow, ponderous pace is decidedly at odds with the kinetic, brightly coloured tones of the series upon which it is based. 

However, there is something to be said for exercising patience with a story that refuses to rush and unfolds at its own pace.  This idea is immediately exemplified in the overture before the opening credits.  Already a fading tradition of cinema in 1979, it has been preserved on the home media releases.  Unhurried and deliberate, The Motion Picture is an outlier in the film series.  If you approach it in the right mood, the film is almost hypnotic, calming even.

Depending upon your personal taste, the oft derided reveal of the newly refitted Enterprise is a prime example of the film’s measured pace – five minutes and forty seconds of pupil dilating starship pornography.  Despite the length of the sequence, it reinforces an idea that Trek rarely serves well – the Enterprise itself as a character.

The story itself is a surprisingly hard slice of science fiction.  An old NASA probe – having gained sentience wandering the galaxy – returns to Earth seeking its human creators, erroneously contextualising them as “God”.  The premise is quite similar to the original series episode The Changeling and finds Trek wading through metaphysical subject matter far more successfully than Star Trek V would a decade later.  It’s a cerebral story – typically Rodenberry in tone – and featuring many of his favourite storytelling motifs.

Pretending the ten years between the series and this film is, in actuality, a mere two requires extraordinary suspension of disbelief, but the cast revisit their characters effortlessly.  It’s a story in which Kirk and Spock bear complex motivations.  Kirk is ambitious to the point of forcing Decker out of his job, while Spock is cold and distant after his unconscious mind is touched by the arrival of V’Ger. 

Shatner – svelte and resplendent in dark hair – is immediately engaging, tempering Kirk’s zeal with an explorer’s curiosity.  Regretting the acceptance of a promotion to Admiral, the character is a man reinvigorated by being in command of a starship once more.

New crewmembers Decker and Illia provide viewers with an insight into the defunct Phase II series (themselves both characters from the aborted show).  Persis Khambatta (a former Miss India) delivers a suitably bizarre performance, cementing her as one of the standout guest performers of the film series.

As ever, it’s not a perfect film.  In the 2016 documentary For the Love of Spock, actor Leonard Nimoy describes the making of The Motion Picture as “a painful experience”.  He openly criticises what he deems “a bad script” and laments the loss of character development at the expense of visual effects.

As can be said with most of the original series films, Takei, Koenig and Nicholls are present and accounted for, but have minimal screen time.  The seventies aesthetic that permeates the film can be both a virtue and a hindrance.  McCoy’s bushy beard, gold medallion and white leisure suit are a pleasure to behold.  Not quite so pleasing are the pajama-like Starfleet uniforms.  Allegedly chosen by director Robert Wise who felt the brightly coloured uniforms of the TV series were not appropriate for the silver screen, these sartorial nightmares come in depressing shades of brown, beige and white.

Despite these flaws, I look at the film with a fans affectionate gaze, anticipating my many personal highlights with each re-watch.  The wormhole malfunction, Spock’s psychedelic spacewalk and poor Commander Sonak’s grisly death at the hands of a malfunctioning transporter (“What we got back…didn’t live long…fortunately”).

Accompanied by a sumptuous score (and a thunderous main title sequence) by the iconic Jerry Goldsmith, The Motion Picture is, in my opinion, the only entry in the film series that feels truly cinematic.  I can still recall the old VHS copy of the film I had as a child.  On the back of the box, the film was aptly described as a “special effects bonanza” – and that it is – delivering big screen spectacle in a way that no Trek has ever approximated.

Its difficult to believe that it is 42 years old, but it seems there may still be life left in it yet.  As recently as last year there were rumblings of a potential 4K release – we can only wait patiently for such plans to materialise.  It is my hope that the 2001 Director’s Cut of the film (still trapped in standard definition) will be included in any high definition re-release.

I, like many fans, have grown to appreciate The Motion Picture – not for its deficiencies, but rather for its virtues, the audacity of its ambition and its legacy as the film that ignited the film franchise. 

SHORT STORY: Why Are You Alive?

(Part Two Of Two)

Soraya walked up the hill, her dark locks trailing behind her.  The warm breeze of the early morning whipped across the long grass and forecast a temperate day ahead.  Casting a quick glance backward to the village below, she continued her ascent.  This had always been a daily ritual.  It was hardly a secret, but she sometimes wondered if anyone knew that she did it. 

Somehow, the importance of this simple practice had been magnified in recent weeks.  Her new responsibilities as Archon of her village gladdened her heart, but the days could prove taxing.  Often tightly packed, they were filled with meetings with citizens and council members, not to mention the formidable quantities of paperwork commensurate to official office.  But before all that began, there was this moment – just her alone – at the start of her day atop the peaceful hillside.  She slowly inhaled as she watched the first golden rays of sunlight touch the horizon.  Moving almost imperceptibly, it illuminated the rooftops of the village and coursed its way up the hillside to the place where old Allozade was buried.  She never tired of the spectacle, enraptured as morning blue ceded to the oncoming day.

After savouring the scene for a few moments, she took out her notebook and recorded the time and wind direction in anticipation of the strange phenomenon.  Just like clockwork, there it was – the low rumbling she’d been hearing.  Without evidence to determine the exact cause and no obvious place to investigate, she did what any decent scientist would and collected observations.  Despite her level headedness and a lifelong commitment to reason, the small portion of her heart that permitted irrationality was filled with a sense of dreadful foreboding.

***

“Unhand me!”, shouted Moon as she struggled with the Prospector. 

Having relished the sight of the two girls being cast into spinning turbines, he was now determined to send Moon to a similar fate as he brought his considerable bulk to bear down upon her.

“You are tender meat – younger than most”, he leered as he pushed her ever closer to the blades, “But pretty girls are only grist for the Mill!”. 

Jerking her right elbow backwards in one sudden movement, Moon cracked the Prospector across his face as he released his grip.  Remembering that one good turn often warranted another, she let fly with a swift kick that caught him again in the face, causing a stream of blood to spill from his nose.  He fell on all fours, stumbling about in shock as much as pain, as if no girl before had dared attempt defend her life.  Trying to stand, the Prospector lost his footing and fell forward into the large blades where his corpulent body was ripped to shreds.

Still dumbfounded by the sheer quantity of viscera sprayed across the walls, Moon was barely conscious of the alarm that sounded as the Prospector was ground up.  Adrenaline coursing through her body, she tried her utmost to steady herself, wondering what Percival would do in her stead.

He wouldn’t panic - he would think, she chastised herself.

Leaving the frightful turbine room, she rapidly moved down the hallway looking for another section of the house.  Another room, or even a door.  Finding only edifice, she finally located a small hatch at waist height which she promptly opened and entered.  Inside she found a steel conduit large enough for her to move through.  As she crawled, she could feel the rumbling intensifying along with the thrumming noise from the turbine reverberating through the walls. 

Pushing open a hatch, Moon arrived at a spacious room with a giant window – the view from which appeared obscured by dirt and rocks.  The space was dimly lit by strips of unnatural light Moon had never seen before, and its surfaces were smooth and composed of strange materials.  Save for the window, the space contained only a single computer console, alive with buttons and busy blinking lights.  Before the console was a chair.  From behind, Moon could make out the vague outline of a man sat upon it.

“Hello?”, she asked bravely.

Immediately, she saw the man’s fists tighten upon the armrest.  His skin appeared unusual, oily and with a silver sheen.

“Why are you alive?”, asked the man in a voice both deep and malevolent.  Moon froze - the man’s dreadful tone indicating his question was more a statement of frustration.

“Your life at this point is a gift, one I suggest you take with you as you leave this place immediately”, he stated as he rose from his chair.  Standing a few feet taller than Moon, the man’s movements looked pained.  He inched towards her, a silhouette until he chanced upon a pool of light which revealed his cumbersome body.  It was artificial, not made of flesh.  Dirty, battle scarred and pockmarked, the man gazed at her intently with two unblinking red eyes. 

He was a Metallic Man.

***

“Steven will not forsake me!”, cried Prune as the rumbling beneath her feet became an earthquake.

Astounded by the woman’s intransigence in the face of disaster, Percival rushed toward her and grabbed her wrist as the Preparation Suite buckled and collapsed into the earth.  From up high, rocks both large and small began to rain down upon the village as the harlots frantically sought cover.

“We must flee, dear lady”, Percival cried, “Can your Steven be worth your very life?”

“Release me rodent, I take no heed from the likes of you!”, barked Prune as she stood steadfast amidst a maelstrom of dirt and debris, protected only by her faith. 

Percival felt her arm go limp as a rock struck her square upon her head, splitting her skull wide and spilling its contents across the ground.  Feeling meaty hands upon his shoulders, he turned to see Trevor who’d sprang from his hiding place.  Together with the harlots, they ran as fast as their feet would carry them, seeking safe harbour.

Once clear of the showering rocks, Percival turned to see an awesome sight.  As his lungs burned from the breathless run, he could barely believe his eyes when he witnessed great chunks of the mountain give way to flashes of steel.  Natural lines acquiesced to hard symmetry as a great machine emerged from the ground.  Standing near 50 feet tall, it was squat and cube shaped, with four tremendous legs protruding from each side like a dog.  This was, evidently, the Mill in its truest form.

Percival watched, horrified, as it’s lumbering limbs took their first steps, marking the surface beneath and making a thudding sound that reverberated through his belly.  Great sections of vegetation were cast aside as if the mountain itself had been a hollow prison for the terrifying contraption.  As the machine sauntered away, its purpose unknown, Percival’s could only think of one thing.  In spite of the extraordinary circumstances which presently befell him, his only concern was for the little girl he’d promised to protect.

***

Moon had heard tell of Metallic Men from the people in her village.  They were known as harmless things, carving out an easy reputation as helpful men of cheerful disposition.  This particular example however, seemed far from jovial. 

Black oil leaked from his orifices like tear stains and his joints made a creaking sound as he moved about the room like a predator.  Slowly, he inspected her.  Parts of him appeared to be missing, not least of which his right arm which left a gaping dark socket where it once resided.  Then there was his face.  Metallic Men’s faces consisted of a single faceplate that sat upon the front of their heads.  Moon presumed their creator had constructed them thusly to give the appearance of a human face, or to conceal their inner workings.  It was akin to the manner in which the skin of a human face concealed muscle and tissue.  Whatever the original aesthetic intent, this man’s face had been scarred as if someone had etched into him with a sharpened blade.  The deep markings crossed his face in a zig zag pattern, debasing his once neutral expression into something ghastly and horrific.

“I ask again”, came the man’s voice, “Why are you alive?”

“Because I had the will to live”, replied Moon without thinking.

As the floor tilted one way, Moon looked to the giant glass window and watched as dirt and rocks gave way to fresh white sunlight.  The machine had ascended and was moving across the landscape.  The sparse room was now illuminated, and even in broad daylight the Metallic Man’s eyes still glowed red with rage.

“My reactor must have reached it’s critical mass without you.  Organic matter always makes for such efficient fuel”, he sneered.

It didn’t take long for Moon to realise that she was in a device of some sort, powered by the crushed-up bodies of the people from the valley.  “The Prospector…he fell in.  He attacked me; I didn’t mean to…”.

Seeing the anguish on her face the Metallic Man understood what she had done.

“Pay him no mind”, he said, absolving Moon’s guilt with a wave of his hand, “He was dead long before today.  A bottom feeder I enlisted from the town of Creeg.  I castrated him myself, yet his appetites…persisted”.

“What happens to me now?”, Moon asked after a moment of awkward silence.

“Now?  You were not supposed to be alive!  But you are here for some reason.  You may witness my great work firsthand”.

Moon could feel her heart rate slowly return to normal as she summoned her concentration and took a few tentative steps towards the glass viewscreen.  They were high above the ground, and Moon could see the bleached landscape of Simian Sands.  Two prehensile, flexible tubes extended from the machine.  One latched onto a Twilo tree and drew in a group of birds while the other vacuumed up a family of primates and conveyed them to the turbine room.

The Metallic Man watched the gruesome process, intoxicated with excitement “Now you see the purpose of my great machine.  Whatever excess remains will be discarded as excrement – the inevitable destiny of all life”.  He turned to face her, his face aflame, “This is my art, and my vengeance.  The world – dining upon itself”.

“But…Why?”, breathed Moon, rendered silent by yet another display of barbarism.  Her mind could construct more cogent arguments against such destruction but they escaped her. 

“Why?”, shouted the Metallic Man, “Why?!”, he added a second time, incredulous as his eyes grew ever redder.

“People are often quick to ask “Why” but fail to ask themselves “why not?”  I’ve spent months in hiding, building this obscenity.  I concocted the myth of Steven and took immense pleasure in doing so.  Rather than procure them by force, I invited them to kill themselves.  Flesh is so easily corrupted and they were free to leave at any time”, he laughed heartily.

“Now my great machine has life and can sustain itself ‘till its mission is complete.  Soon, the veil will be lifted and the world will be revealed for all to see”.

“And what world is that?  Your world?”, challenged Moon.

“I think it be a world you know too well if I read your eyes correctly.  I was once like you, an innocent”, he began, “There is something amiss with this place.  It is wrong, polluted.  Life is nothing more than trial and suffering followed by death and darkness.  As was revealed to me the moment by hand was used to take a life.  That day I saw no less than the face of God”. 

Hearing his terrible tale, Moon suddenly ached with compassion for the Metallic Man.  Though his actions were unconscionable, his heart was clearly tormented.  It was something she could relate to.  Gently, she reached out for him and placed her hand on his forearm, it was cold to the touch.

“I’ve taken a life as well”, she whispered, “My stomach was sick to do it.  Though he acted like a troll, he was still a man, and I think I shall see his face each time I close my eyes”.

Taking her arm and twisting it, the Metallic Man suddenly lunged at Moon.  “Sympathy?”, he raged as he clenched a fist full of her dress and shoved her backwards, violently pinning her against the wall.

“In the inventory of your mind, when you look back upon deeds visited upon you, do not the scales tip downwards in favour of depravity?  You and I are nothing, grains of sand among millions.  Made for manipulation by a God that cares not what we do.  Meat or metal, our components are bound for rot and decay, so I will spare you all the struggle.  You may forfeit the difficult part and just die”.

***

Outside, the great machine trundled across the landscape, uprooting trees with its arms and raping the earth with its heavy stride.  It traversed Simian Sands, past the place where poor Raymond fell, and levelled the clearing where the Metallic Man first met Kevin.  Severin’s bones, still rotting in his home, were crushed into powder as the machine marched on, relentlessly.

Upset by the commotion, Mrs Gale appeared on her balcony just in time to see the great instrument of destruction.

“I suppose this is all my fault”, she sighed to herself as a giant mechanical foot descended, killing her instantly.

***

“Watch closely - from this vantage point you’ll have an excellent view of the earth as it is reshaped”, breathed the Metallic Man as he pressed his disfigured face against Moons.

Locating resolve, she managed to struggle free one of her hands.  She reached for her assailant’s face, curling the tips of her fingers underneath the outer edge of his face plate.  Involuntarily, she yanked the plate backwards, removing his entire face.  The Metallic Man screeched in agony as he held his hands up to the naked gash, now revealing a horror unlike any Moon had ever beheld.  Maggots in lieu of circuitry, worms instead of gears and mechanical components – a foul den of insects and muck with two glowing red eyes nestled deep within.

The man continued howling, recoiling and releasing Moon from his powerful grip, collapsing to the floor in exquisite pain as his awful assemblage of maggots began to lose cohesion.  The disgusting creatures spilled out onto the floor and onto Moon’s clothing, writhing and squirming. 

“What are you?”  Moon gasped.  She backed away in revulsion, but could not deny a quiet fascination.

“I don’t even know any more. I had hoped one day to be a man, but that feels so long ago.  Instead I became this.  A punishment, I think.  Not for my anger, but by my anger”.

Satisfied that he was helpless, Moon knelt by his side.  The Metallic Man’s insects grew fewer and fewer and he became too weak to move.  She had seen this behaviour before in animals and knew full well what came next.  Tenderly, she took his hand and held it as his life slipped away.  His mouth opened, but there only came a hoarse whisper.  Moon moved closer, bringing her ear to his mouth.  The last of the maggots and worms disappeared leaving only a headless corpse, and a pair of faded, glowing eyes.

“What do you think happens when we die?”, he asked with his final breath.

And with those words, he was gone.  Moon looked upon his body, now motionless, painfully aware of the passing of yet another life before her eyes.  Just a few moments ago, he’d posed a serious threat.  He’d been so fearsome - so vital and imbued with energy.  Now he was an empty husk, little more than a sorry pile of scrap metal, his battered body bearing testament to a lifetime of madness. 

Is this what the future holds for me?

Moon wondered to herself as she sat in the dead man’s chair.  Through the viewscreen, a ghastly montage of destruction played out before her as the great machine marched on, casting its arms outwards to consume the fleeing, frightened citizens of a village that looked distinctly familiar. 

It was her village – her home, the cradle of cruelty from which she had fled.  Numb, she watched as the Sisterhood of the Face made a valiant last stand.  Watched as the machine cut a swathe trough roads and buildings, sucking women and children into its twirling mass of tubes.  Soraya too met her end with quiet dignity among the books she treasured so well.  They too were lost along with all the knowledge contained therein.

In relative terms, Moon had just escaped this place, but it gave her no joy to see it ravaged.  Even so, a small part of her could not resist the call of the Metallic Man’s words.  Her life thus far had been marked by ever increasing amounts of blood and the presence of those who would deceive her.  Her mother, the villagers, Allozade – even the harlots had led her to peril.  Perhaps the Metallic Man was right, his lunacy notwithstanding.  He had discerned a sacred truth, a universal constant that Moon had always feared true.  Life would be this way forever.

Why not simply let it happen?

She mused as she sat back in the chair, a literal front row seat to the end of the world.  With a dead man’s blood on her hands, and a cadaver by her feet, she finally capitulated – surrendered to the growing kernel of blackness within her and the imminent end of her life. 

In the inventory of your mind, when you look back upon deeds done to you, do not the scales tip downwards in favour of depravity? 

The Metallic Man’s scornful wisdom replayed in her mind, drifting towards the surface of her conscious thought where it conjoined with an image of Percival and the brief but happy life they’d shared. 

And like lightning - in an instant - she knew what she had to do.

***

The ocean spread out across the horizon as the lazy waves lapped against the coast.  She was taken by the sheer enormity of it, its immense size bestowing a profound feeling of smallness.  As the clouds grazed the sky like cattle, pinkened by the setting sun, she was taken by her own sense of ease.

“Moon?”, Called Percival’s voice from behind, “Was it as you expected?”

“And more”, she beamed as Percival sat quietly upon the dunes nearby.  She’d never imagined her first visit to the ocean would provide such a potent olfactory experience.  The salty brine in the air danced upon her nostrils as she closed her eyes and listened to the sound of seagulls.

The idyllic vista was broken by the great machine, slowly being swallowed up by the tide as it lay crumpled and half submerged.  As she dipped her bare feet into the foam, she marvelled at the cleansing power of water, the ocean having washed the blood from her hands.  Untrained in the use of machinery of any type, a random mashing of the controls had yielded sufficient results.  The so-called great machine and its builder’s legacy of pain now in shambles, bound to fade away as though it had never existed.

In those final moments of surrender she’d changed her mind, opting to gamble upon the chance for happiness.  Spurred by the memory of kindness, she determined that the meaning of life was whatever stopped her from killing herself.  Now, as she looked out over the gently bobbing ocean, Moon prayed her thoughts would one day be as calm.

Sitting down next to Percival, she heard of the harlots and Trevor who were headed away to find for themselves a new life.  Their minds had been addled, but much like the landscape which had been so convulsively assaulted, the passage of time would heal them.

“Do you think the world will end?”, Moon asked Percival as the two sat abreast admiring the sunset.  Pink and red streaked the clouds like strokes from a painter’s brush as the golden sun withdrew beneath the horizon.

“I thought the world was ending when I saw the Mill rise up out of the mountain”, confessed Percival.

“The metallic man thought destruction a form of creation.  Was he wrong?”

Percival thought carefully before offering a response, “There are many perspectives; it’s up to you to judge which one you’re best able to live with”.

A moment of amicable silence hung between them.

“Why are you alive?”, asked Moon with the same innocent eyes Percival had first seen that day in the woods.

“I don’t know”, he replied as he rose to his feet and extended his hand with a smile, “Let’s find out together”.