A crack had been progressing in the plaster of the wall to his right. The line had almost completed its circuit, drawing an inverted “Y” shape halfway up the wall.
With a slow, brittle tearing noise the piece of plaster separated and fell to the floor. A crumbling crater was left in the wall.
The shape stood on flaking, uneven legs. It walked forwards trailing dust. On its head were two stained marks, curiously like an eye and a mouth.
The piece of plaster stopped and looked at the man. “What are you doing?” it asked.
“Sitting here,” answered the man.
“What for?”
The man shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
The wall appeared satisfied. It turned and slowly headed back to the crater it had left, retracing the trail of flakes across the floorboards. The thing stopped and examined the hole.
“Do you always do this?” it asked.
“No,” replied the man thoughtfully. “No. Sometimes I go outside.”
The wall turned. “Outside?” it echoed.
“Yes.” The man turned and looked at the door, the plaster followed his gaze. “Yes I’m sure I do,” he continued, sounding uncertain. “I walk and sit and do things like that, outside.”
“When?” the plaster asked, approaching again.
“When I’m not here.”
“Oh I see.” The plaster stopped. It seemed to have noticed the trail of flakes it was leaving on the floor. “I’d like to go outside,” it said.
“You?” The man smiled. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re part of the wall.”
He got up from his chair and looked around. Across from him was a large board displaying times and places, beneath that was a row of ticket booths with queues trailing. All around people were wandering, milling, running, standing. The floor was a dirty white; wet muddy footprints traced paths throughout the station. The ceiling was high and dark. There was a huge clock opposite the board.
But it was all fake, it had to be.
He left the café and stood in the bustling flow of people. They knocked him, barged past him, glared at him. Their voices melted into a general buzz, as insistent as the ache in his head.
Footsteps. Echoing, clearer than those around him. They were hurrying away from him he thought.
Then he saw her: she was making her way towards the other end of the station. She wore a long, expensive-looking coat that swayed wildly as she hurried along.
Someone banged into his arm, his stomach turned at the shock. He sought her out again. There. She seemed real, more real than the rest of them. They were a haze of faces, a haze of noise. She was solid. Her dark red hair swayed as she moved.
She’d been sitting next to him in the café, he remembered that now, she’d sat there and kept looking over at him, and now she was hurrying away. Maybe she knew how he’d got here, maybe she could explain how a minute ago he’d been somewhere else, in a room, a small room, drinking coffee, and now he was here.
Cover Design: secondmediauk@aol.com
I was supposed to do something today. I can’t recall what. My stomach is churning. I don’t think it’s the hairs’ movements doing it, I don’t mind that feeling now. I keep thinking of the girl next door. I can hear her moving around, I can feel it through the bed.
I can touch the mesh now, it’s up around my waist, it feels good. I thought it was going to be dry, brittle, I don’t know why I thought that. It’s actually quite soft and wet. It reacts when I press it. When I put my hand close to it a hair breaks off and waves in the air, looking for contact. Once I let one touch me. It curled around my little finger, gently at first, then it pulled. I snapped it easily.
There’s a rhythm to it. I can feel it now. It was too remote before, just an itch, but now I can feel it in my spine. A sort of relentless push and pull. And secretions; I feel damp, not unpleasantly so. My mind is wandering. Hard to concentrate. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. The phone went again. I nearly threw up.
I can hear her again, close, and getting closer with each pulse. I think there’s a war in my head, and instinct is winning.
My right hand is fused to my body now. I can only move it slightly so forgive my handwriting, whoever you are, if anyone ever reads this. Funny, I’ve only just thought of that: who’s going to read this, and what do I care? Still it occupies the time.
published stories and where to find em...
|
Weirdly 2 Anthology |
June 2008 |
|
|
Decimate Anthology |
Nov 2006 |
|
|
‘Baum’ |
Dec 2005 |
Stories
see published stuff for more details and links to reviews
these are little bits from long ago that will never end up anywhere and should probably never be read...
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
cover designs:
michael kay
composer/producer
artwork of
dave fairbrother-roe [isle of wight festivals, anne mccaffrey]
bonkers short films and stuff
Click below for more info on my titles