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This page is a collection of free material for you to get a flavour of some of my work.  Here you’ll find a collection of short stories, poems, and videos – some new, and some old.  I also give a brief explanation as where the ideas come from.  Feel free to comment by getting in touch on the contacts page, or find me on Facebook/Twitter/LinkedIn.
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[/one-third] June’20
Time Zone
July’20
The Clean Up
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

July’20:

June saw the release of the long awaited Blackout novel.  Off the back of this I took a few weeks break from writing and made a few videos of me performing some of my material, one of which I’ve included here as this month’s piece.  Do go to my YouTube channel to check out some of the other videos: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC5Y4AnKa9290dQOnxu-mc_A
The video included is called The Clean Up and is adapted from one of the stories in POV1.
Over the last few days I have begun on a new POV story which begins the work on Volume 4.
CPC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June’20:

I haven’t written any new material this month, with the exception of a couple of short poems. Instead this month I’ve been working on some art (check out the Idle Hands tab), put the final touches on Time Locked and published it, and have been working towards getting Blackout ready for release in June/July (keep an eye on the home page for details) – and I’ve been reading loads, because you can’t be a writer if you’re not a reader! Among my recent reads have been six Lee Child books and three Stephen King novels.
In many ways my busy state during lockdown has been a bit of an excuse to put off beginning my new novel, mainly because I know it has the potential to be the longest one yet and is likely to keep my head buried for some time to come – after Blackout don’t expect anything new for a while.
As a result of all this I’ve delved back into my archive for this month’s story: Time Zone.  It’s a simple idea set amongst the confusion of one man in one setting.  Even reading through it I was struck by how dated bits of it were: the rewinding of the tape on the answer machine showing that it was written in the late 90’s.
Once I’ve finished tinkering with old projects I hope to turn out some new material.
CPC

 

 

 

 

TIME ZONE

“No, I can’t really. I’m too tired. Julie, I’ll call you later okay.” Tim said goodbye and then put the phone down. He hadn’t been lying, he really was tired, jet lagged more like. The flight from Los Angeles had been a long and uncomfortable one. The airline had screwed up his ticket and had put him in Economy instead of Business class and despite his complaints had refused to upgrade him. The company could take it up with the airline; he’d had enough, all he wanted to do was sleep.
He’d waited for ages for his baggage to come round on the belt, he was sure his was the last one put on, it was as though the baggage handlers had been watching his frustration with eager amusement and had been holding his case back as they spied on him from their own secret place, waiting for his impatient fluster to cause him self afflicted embarrassment. He could have done without the traffic too which had built up along the M4 out of Heathrow into London.
Getting home was bliss. Then Julie had phoned.
Sure, he wanted to see her, but not within five minutes of arriving home. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off or unpacked anything from his case. He wasn’t entirely sure what time zone he was operating in as his body was still ticking along to the west coast of the USA.
Tim carried his case through to the bedroom of his first floor flat and heaved it onto the bed. He threw back the bedroom curtains and surveyed the small section of Hammersmith that could be seen from his window.
“Messages,” he said to himself as he wondered as to whether the office had tried to reach him this morning to see how the meeting had gone. He wandered back into the living room and pressed play on the answer machine placed next to the phone on a shelf beneath the window. As he waited for the tape to rewind he looked briefly around the room. As the tape began to play his eyes closed curiously around the case he was sure he had just carried through to the bedroom.
“Tim, it’s Derek here. I hope the trip went well and you had a good journey back. If you could bring the report in with you tomorrow that would be great. See you then.” Tim made a mental note to get the report written and typed up by the morning.
“Hi Tim, just calling to see if you’re back yet. (Long pause) Obviously not. Call me and we’ll get together.” Tim smiled at the sound of the purposely raunchy female voice. Meeting up with Ann only ever meant one thing, and he was happy to oblige no matter how tired he was. That was one of the advantages of being single.
“Tim, you’re obviously asleep. I have to pass by your place in the morning so I’ll pick you up for work, say about eight. Love you, bye.” Tim frowned confused. When did she leave that message? He’d spoken to her only a few minutes ago and she hadn’t mentioned it.
He walked back through the flat and into the bathroom, his bladder awakening as he realised he hadn’t been to the toilet since being on the plane. Relieved he turned around to wash his hands. As he did so he noticed that the bath was full. He put his hand in, noticing as he did so that the water was steaming. The water was hot to the touch yet he couldn’t remember running a bath. He wondered whether anyone had been in before him but dismissed the thought; neither Julie nor Ann had a key to the flat.
Confused he made his way back to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed exhausted. No sooner had his head touched the pillow than he had sprung back up again. Where was the suitcase? He remembered putting it on the bed, but he also remembered seeing it on the floor in the living room when he was listening to the phone messages. He climbed off the bed and walked to the living room. There was his suitcase as he had left it when he entered the flat.
He crossed the room, the hairs on his flesh jumping to life momentarily as though he’d just walked across some kind of dimensional barrier.
His mail was on the dining table, lying open despite having no recollection of opening it. He felt uneasy; unsure of himself; uncertain of his surroundings; unfamiliar with the track of time.
He walked towards the kitchen, the one room in the flat he hadn’t yet been into. Everything looked fine. Everything looked in place. He flicked on the radio and poured some water into the kettle and began to make himself a cup of coffee. Traffic was building up around the Talgarth Roundabout due to an accident, according to the radio DJ. He was saying how it was likely to be backed up along the A4 into town and back up along the M4; “rush hour madness” the DJ called it.
Tim stood still as the kettle reached its boiling point and clicked itself off. What did he say?
“That’s not right,” he said aloud. It wasn’t rush hour, it was mid-day. That traffic build-up was the same traffic build-up that he’d got caught in earlier coming from the airport.
Tim looked at the watch on his left wrist. It had stopped at 10:42, roughly the same time he had entered the flat.
The clock on the microwave read 8:15am.
Tim raced back to the bedroom, peering into the bathroom on the way; water was still steaming from the bath. The bedroom clock by his bedside read 13:12. The sun shone outside the window and he could see a plane flying past in the distance.
“I’m jet-lagged, that’s all it is. Just jet-lag.” He put his hands to his face and stretched his cheeks downwards as though the action would wake him up. He then slipped off his suit blazer and sat on the bed contemplating taking off his shoes. He stared intently at the wardrobe door in front of him, a vague thought playing on his mind. He stood and opened the door. “I didn’t put them there,” he said to himself as he eyed the neatly hung contents of his unpacked suitcase. He closed the door so that he could crouch down and peer beneath the bed, just enough to glimpse the edge of the suitcase neatly placed out of the way. Still holding onto his blazer, he marched into the living room. His suitcase still sat on the floor unopened.
Tim looked to the digital clock on the video player behind where the suitcase sat, it read 10:50, the time shortly after he’d entered the flat.
Across the room was another clock, this one was on the wall. He could see it from where he stood; 11:24 its hands read. He scanned that side of the room: the opened mail, the telephone and answer machine. There was also something else sat by the mail. Tim crossed the room to get a better look, again the hairs stood to attention for a brief moment as he crossed the unidentified time zone. He picked up what he’d seen from across the room, it was his typed report on the meeting in LA, but he hadn’t written it yet. He hadn’t been home long enough to write it. He flung open the curtains to the window in front of him, darkness reigned.
How could it be night from one room and day from another? He looked at his different clocks all reading different times, his confusion growing. He thought of the messages on the answer machine; he thought of Ann. He smiled to himself at the thought of wasting a couple of hours in the comfort of Ann’s bed. He picked up the report, figuring that he’d read it in the car, then reached for the front door, eager to release his mind from the confusion of what time zone he was operating in.
He practically ran down the stairs to the ground floor entrance to the building and out into the driveway, the cloud of day neither bright nor dark as from his flat windows.
“You’re eager. I’ve only just pulled up.”
Tim stopped dead, disappointment showing on his face. Julie’s car was parked in the driveway next to his and she was getting out and walking towards him.
“Did you oversleep? You haven’t shaved.”
He felt his jawline, a convenient excuse to hide his confusion and disappointment. He felt the rough grating of bristle on the palm of his hand, she was right he hadn’t shaved, but then he hadn’t slept either, nor run a bath, nor opened his mail, nor unpacked his case. He lifted his left arm to see the time. His watch was now working, 7:55 it read. In his hand he waved his report as though it were an extension of his left arm.
He gave Julie a hug and a kiss, resigning himself to a new day and trying not to acknowledge that he’d somehow lost track of yesterday.
“Sorry Julie, I’m a bit vague. I guess I’m still a bit jet-lagged.

©C.P. Clarke 1998

 

 

 

 

May’20:
You might think I’m cashing in on the current pandemic with this month’s story, but actually Self-isolation is an off-shoot of my novel Blackout, to be released later this summer, which I’d been working on way before coronavirus became a household name.
I had originally intended it this short to be a much longer piece but when I sat down to write it it occurred to me that very little of its content needed describing considering the lockdown everyone has been going through lately. As a result it almost wrote itself as bullet points and drew away from the novel it’s linked to. I purposely give no indication to the source nor the symptoms of the contagion as the story is about the fear it creates. The setting is based on where I am currently living, as Blackout was loosely based on a previous area I lived in.
Although I cannot see into the windows of my neighbours opposite, I imagine in this predicament we would all be looking for a friendly face in the distance.
CPC

 

 

 

 

 

SELF-ISOLATION

The days have slow strolled into weeks and then months. It started as a government lockdown. Pretty soon we didn’t need the enforcement. We were all too scared to leave our homes.
A few braved it. Heading to the shops for vital supplies. Then the shops closed. Even the keyworkers were advised to stay home. No one was safe.
The military did community food drops. Dispensing essential supplies from HGV’s with an armed escort. The lines controlled by men and women in battle fatigues and raised assault rifles.
Then the government aid ceased. Suddenly and without warning. No one knew why. There was plenty of speculation. Plenty of rumour.
The supermarkets and independent stores that hadn’t already been looted found themselves target to grand scale theft. Brawls. Full on fights. Pitch battles. There was blood in the car parks. No mercy. No negotiating. No compromise. The shelves and stockrooms where cleaned out. What was taken wasn’t necessarily going to the people that needed it.
There are pros and cons to every home. House. Flat. Maisonette. Barge. Mansion. Every home environment has its issues. Not one guarantees safety.
There’s a killer on the streets. Only this killer can’t be stopped. Contact with anyone could be an instant death sentence.
To begin with we kept up contact with the outside world. Radio. TV news. The internet. Family and friends online. One by one information stopped coming. Services were shut down. What was happening was maybe too bad to broadcast. Most likely just lack of staff. Again, we were speculating. Then the connections with those we knew became fewer and fewer. The infected stopped calling. Stopped answering. Soon there was no one to talk to.
I look out of the window for entertainment and information. I have no garden to step out into. I live on the second floor. End of the corridor. Furthest away from the stairs. No lift. My windows don’t face the street. I overlook the still carpark. Opposite is another block similar to mine.
I live alone.
The carpark is full. Everyone is home. Not everyone is alive. Screams. Cries of pain. Helpless, panicked shouts of fear have echoed across time and space of our housing estate.
There is a girl across the way. She is on her own too. I can tell. She is the only one who ever comes to the window. She waves. I wave back. We are of a similar age. I used to see her about before we became housebound. She’s not unattractive.
Her neighbours are sick. Like mine. Whether they are still alive or not is hard to tell. Like mine. They don’t show themselves at the window anymore. They don’t move about inside that I can see.
There is no emergency service to call anymore. The lines are dead. No one is brave enough to be on the streets. Not the police. Not the army. Not anymore.
No planes fly. No cars move. Occasionally I hear an engine. Far off. Moving fast. Making a courageous mad dash. Or a stupid one.
The power is intermittent. It will fail soon. No one is maintaining the service. No one is working.
Hand signals of communication pass through glass. Across the open space of air above the car park. We smile. We wave. We talk. We blow a kiss. A new relationship is struck. I have butterflies in my stomach with excitement and nerves. But mainly hunger.
I want to get to her. I want to touch her. Embrace her. She says she wants the same. We starve for contact as well as food.
I go to my front door. Open it. Look out. See the closed door of my immediate neighbour. See the closed door at the end of the corridor leading to the stairs. Close my door again.
I look out the window. Shake my head. She does the same. We are trapped by our own fear. Starved. Lonely. Lovers in our imagination. Friends at a distance. Partners in death.

©C.P. Clarke 2020

 

 

 

 

 

April’20:
March has been the strangest period for most with lockdowns and social distancing forcing most to stay home and finding a new pattern to life.  For people like me, it’s a chance to catch up on unfinished projects and edit stories sitting on the virtual shelf.  Over the last couple of weeks I’ve managed to polish off the final drafts of War Child 3 and the VR novel Time Locked, and have finished the cover designs for both ready for publishing, and I’m now working on POV 4 – Samuel before starting the next draft of Blackout.  Frustratingly, I had just finished Blackout (a post apocalyptic novel about a virus) just as Covid 19 took a grip on the UK.  So, I now have to go back and make some key rewrites in light of current events.
This month’s story is the final part of Black Knight.  I say final part, but as I mentioned last month, I will expand on this into my next novel, which I’m keen to start writing soon.
Stay safe, and if you get bored you can order all my books by clicking on the links on the home page.
CPC

 

 

BLACK KNIGHT
Part Three – Smugglers

We pull out of hyperspace with the most horrendous headaches. I look across to Shumi and Dias, they are holding their heads in an equally agonised manner as myself. Yadul on the console appears unaffected.
“What the hell was that?” I bellow at our pilot.
“An anomaly,” is all he replies.
“Dio. Dasgh. Report in,” I grumble over the intercom. No answer. “Shumi, go find out what those two reprobates are up to.”
“Seriously? I feel like I’m gonna throw up!”
“Well do it out in the hallway. This heap of junk smells bad enough as it is without the aroma of your guts decorating the floor of my bridge.”
The one eyed Uronian shakes his head in protest but does as he’s told anyway.
“What do you mean ‘an anomaly’?” I bark at the legless android fixed to the control console, its chest wired into the desk and its one arm twitching as it calculates.
“We appear to have hit a snag.”
“A snag is a loose thread. A snag is a mild trip hazard. A snag is taking a piss and forgetting to lift the lid! A snag doesn’t knock me on my arse and nearly knock me out when we hyperjump!”
“On the positive side, Kadji, we have managed to evade the GA destroyer, and I believe the Dominion altogether.”
“What does that mean?” I move over to the viewer mounted into the desk in front of the twitching robot and scan the star system. “Where the hell is Gadari Prime?”
“We appear to have been caught in a temporal wave as we jumped and have been catapulted a little farther than I’d calculated for.”
“How far?”
“We appear to be on the other side of the galaxy, and out of the known reaches of the Dominion.”
Dias chirps from behind me in that agonised squeak of hers. “I’m reading about eight or nine planets, a few big moons amongst them. There’s a couple of gas giants, asteroid belts, and a few dead rocks. Not reading any signs of intelligent life anywhere in the system,”
I look at the Matolian, her short tentacled face poised waiting for my rebuke. “Gee, well thanks for that. So, tell me, oh tentacled one, where the hell are we supposed to refuel and carry out repairs on this rust bucket?”
She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. The emotion of the tiny suction arms on her cheeks are uncontrollable and blush for her.
“The Calmec’s are fine,” echoes Shumi’s voice over the comm system as he reports back in on the siblings. “They got hit with the dose as well. At least it stopped them from banging for five minutes.”
“While you three are down there I want a full visual of the state of the ship.”
“Can’t Yadul do that, boss?” It was Dasgh complaining.
“No. That useless navigator just landed us in the middle of nowhere with no way of refuelling. I want a full system check. I want to know what we can still put this heap of junk through. Get that damn useless one eared muppet out of stasis to help if you have to. Just get it done!”
“You want them to wake Deacon up, are you sure? You know since he lost his ear he just keeps bumping into things and causing more trouble than he’s worth.”
“Dias, if I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. We’re dead in the water, so to speak, I need all hands on deck, even if one of them does have a dent in his head big enough to rest my coffee mug in. Do something useful and find me something we can use within short travelling distance.”
“I can do that if you like?”
“Yadul, no. I want all your precious processing power focused on getting us the hell back to where we’re supposed to be! Do you know how much money we’re all going to lose out on if we don’t make that next pick up. Not to mention paying back Drundal. You can bet your arse he’ll send his goons after us, even out here, wherever here is!”
“I think I’d rather face a GA cruiser,” mumbles Dias.
“Thank you,” I say, slamming my arm out in her direction in appreciation of her understanding, “my point exactly!”
“Third rock from the sun. I’m picking up latent radiation and a host of artificial debris in orbit. It’s in the habitable zone, but going by the readings I’d say whoever was once down there blew themselves to smithereens.”
“Great!”
“Boss?”
“What do you want Shumi?”
“We woke Deacon up. He’s hungry, wants a sandwich.”
“Do I look like a friggin chef to you? What am I?”
“You’re the boss, boss.”
“I’m the damn captain of this no good for nothing, leaking, bug infested, rattling bag of bolts. I do not make sandwiches!”
“That’s ok boss, he said he can make his own way to the galley and make his own.”
“Dias, change of plan. Find me a rock I can maroon those idiots on will you.”
“Yes sir,” she replies with a smirk. “On a serious note.” She lifted the cans from one ear. “That blue planet is still sending out signals. Nothing coherent. Random automated bite sized chunks. Probably stuff left on when the place went to hell, and it’s somehow still powering. Getting snippets of entertainment. Some news. There was an attempt to flee a war following a disease that ravished the planet. I don’t think the survivors got very far.”
“If it’s anything like in the Dominion then they were probably too busy arguing over who got to board the lifeboats. They were probably killing each other over the price of the tickets. Is there anything salvageable over there?”
“Hard to tell from this distance. Could be stuff in orbit or even on the planet surface we could use. They had spaceflight technology by the looks of things so it’s definitely worth checking out.”
“And you’re sure there’s no Galactic Authority vessels in this quadrant of space?”
“Kadji, I still am not one hundred percent sure of which quadrant of space we are in.”
“Yadul, you’re a useless piece of junk that deserves to go down with the ship.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“A friggin robot with sarcasm.” I shake my still aching head and move my short frame towards the door intending to make myself useful by doing a visual check of the upper deck. “Call me when we get close,” I yell back into the bridge as I leave.

We’re all back on the bridge, with the exception of Deacon who is still down in the galley. I don’t know what he’s down there and I always find it best not to ask. I don’t count him in the number of the crew. There are six of us, and that’s including the droid, or the half a droid that’s mounted to the dashboard. Deacon was a useless waste of space before his collision with the door that took his ear and half his brain. I only took him on board as a favour to my uncle. I say favour, it was actually payment for a debt. My uncle wanted shot of him, even he’d had enough of the gormless layabout. He was probably an embarrassment. And what better way to dispense of him than to off-load him onto his cousin’s freight hauler, and that was back in the day when you could rely on this tin can getting from A to B and it didn’t look like someone had tried to tear it open with a crowbar before sticking it through a crusher.
Dio and Dasgh are holding hands at the back of the room. At least this time that’s all they’re doing. It might be acceptable to them, but to the rest of us it’s a bit much. If I could find a way to separate them I would, and believe me I’ve tried.
Dias is manning the scanner to the side and the Cyclops, Shumi, is prepping the grappling arms which are remotely controlled from a series of joysticks to the right of the bridge.
“So, Dias, Yadul, between you two who wants to give me the good news?”
“I’ll let the Matolian. I have no desire for giving arse licking appeasement, nor the fear of unruly and uncalled for chastisement from an egotistical dictator.”
Walking up to the console I stand on tiptoes and stare Yadul straight in the face. “When I scrap this boat, I’m going to make damn sure you’re still on it.”
“Oh, please don’t spare me any mercies sir, it would be such a relief to be out of your service.”
“There’s a heap of junk, busted satellites, smashed space station fragments, what looks like the remains of a ship building yard, and general debris,” squeaks the suction cup.
“Keep us clear of it Yadul. I don’t want us adding to it. I’d say if they had ship building then there’s a chance some escaped the system to rebuild elsewhere. So there might be more technology to salvage in this sector of space. Just a case of looking for it,” I think aloud to myself, always working the angle and the next payload; I’ve still got debts to pay off and pirates on my back. “Carry on Dias.”
“On the surface there are destroyed cities everywhere. The land is desolate, and pock marked with unchecked meteor strikes. We could restock our water as there’s still a large amount of oceans that haven’t succumbed to the radiation breaking through the thinning atmosphere, however the storms above those are quite violent and unpredictable by the looks of it. Also, due to the high levels of rampant bacteria I’m picking up, I can’t guarantee the water sources aren’t affected by whatever disease plagued the inhabitants.”
“So, steer clear of the surface is basically what you’re telling me.”
“It’s a planet of billions of rotting corpses, so yeah. There is an unusually large moon in orbit. There is some sort of lunar base there which appears abandoned, or else the occupants died when their supplies from the mainland weren’t replenished.”
“Anything we can raid there?”
“Possibly. I think we should make a grab for one of the communications satellites. It might help boost our radio signals and give us new frequencies to try out here. Plus, there might be more we can gleam from it about what the natives were like.”
“Shumi, you heard the lady.”
“Yes boss, I’m on it.”
As Shumi begins moving the arms to reach for the satellite, Yadul moving us in closer to the debris field, Deacon’s voice suddenly comes over the comms.
“Anyone seeing this?”
“What, the salvage yard? Deacon, this is what we do remember,” says Dasgh back into the relay by the back wall.
“No, not that. The other thing.”
Dio’s forehead ripples as she says, “The galley windows face the other way, at the back of the ship.”
“Dias, scan behind us.”
“There’s nothing back there, sir.”
I nod to Dio. “Ask him what he sees.”
“A big black starry shape,” he replies to her.
“Idiot,” she mutters to herself before speaking into the relay again. “That’ll be that big expanse we call space.”
“Does space have a shiny edge to it?” he says innocently enough.
And that’s the point everyone on the bridge suddenly momentarily freezes.
“Turn us around!” I start barking.
The debris field we’re facing starts spinning slowly as Yadul turns us on the spot using minimum thrusters.
At first none of us see anything.
“Hey, where’d it go?” complains Deacon from the galley, not realising we’ve turned the ship around.
“There!” shouts Shumi suddenly, staring intently with that one good eye of his.
I still can’t see what he’s looking at, but as he describes the outline of stars it slowly comes into focus. Camouflaged above and behind us is a ship maybe ten times our size.
“It’s cloaked,” says Dias looking at her instruments, “but I’m not reading any major power source. The engines are inactive. There is power emanating from two points on the ship: one is high up, most likely the bridge running on reserve power; and the other is lower down near the hanger deck. Going from the shape and size of it I’d say it’s probably a Zeclan freighter, but we’d have to get closer to be sure.”
I know my freighters. I’ve been running cargo most of my life, mostly illegally. Zeclan ships are never used for short runs, only long haul, but they never stray out of Dominion territory. I wonder whether this thing got caught in the same sort of rift that threw us here.
“Are you sure the engines are shut down?” Dias nods. “What about weapon’s systems? The Zeclan’s carry a damn heavy arsenal on those things.”
“Impossible to say for sure, but she looks quiet, almost as though she’s been drifting here a while.”
“What’s a while?”
No answer comes, and we all just look at each other dumbly, wondering about the impact that silence has on our predicament.
Yadul takes us up slowly. If the Zeclan ship fires on us then we’re dead in the water. Our shields are depleted from our last tussle with the GA just before we jumped. We can’t take another hit.
We glide up through the outer barrier of the cloaking shield and hold our position as we look up at the under belly of the ship.
“Confirmed. Definitely a Zeclan freighter. I’m scanning ship’s systems. It’s on a rudimentary evasive orbit around the planet. It probably arrived here and sent a scout vessel out to the planet surface. I can see meteor damage to the upper deck, and there’s evidence of a reactor meltdown.”
“Can she fly?” I ask concerned.
Dias nods. “I think so. It looks like it was contained enough to not cause an explosion, but it contaminated most of the ship by the looks of it. Some time ago too, as the radiation traces are minimal. If we transfer the coil from our reactor we could get it functional.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say rubbing my hands. “Time for a long overdue upgrade.”
“Is this where you abandon me then?”
“We can dock this old girl to the port side and plug you in if you really want to stay Yadul.”
“No thanks.”
“Hey Yadul,” calls over Dio, “maybe they have some spare parts over there to rebuild you, give you some new legs.”
“That would be nice. To be mobile again. To be able to walk away from the insults of our illustrious captain.”
Ignoring their remarks, I cock an ear to Dias as I encourage her to continue her report.
“The fuel tanks are half full. That’s enough to get us halfway across the galaxy. There are three shuttles docked, one of which is in containment in the forward bay. All the crew are dead with the exception of six life pods. Four are by the bridge. Two are in the shuttle containment but look to have passed decontamination as they are no longer in the shuttle. Interestingly, there appears to be a broken airlock hatch leading to the containment bay. It would have vented any atmosphere in that section of the ship.”
“Cause?” I ask.
“Impossible to say. Maybe another ship tried to dock unsuccessfully. Easy to imagine with the power out on board.”
“Assuming the shuttle in containment is the scout ship that went to the surface, it will have all the data we need on both the Zeclan ship and the ground report.”
“Should do, yes.”
“Ok Calmec’s, you’re up. EVA time! Go suit up!”

“Boss, the shuttle’s containment compartment is docked at the airlock.” It is Dasgh giving the commentary as the couple walked around assessing the situation. The cameras on their suits are out thanks to moisture having seeped into the lens on both from where the EVA suits were stored next to the faulty coolant system. “We’ve got a dead guy on the floor. Looks like he got a face full of exploding circuitry. I don’t think this tanker went down due to a faulty reactor. I think it caught a cold.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” I say turning to the only one of my crew with any brains. I like her the most out of all of them. She’s pretty much the backbone of the operation, even though she repulses me to look at and her voice irritates the hell out of me.
Without skipping a beat Dias turns to me with her tentacles flapping and a beaming great smile of assured cockiness. “The Helios virus that corrupted the Dargonian fleet of the Second Age of Carrillion. It wiped out over four million ships before some hackers in the outer belts of Basru worked a patch to bypass the virus.”
“You’re telling me a computer virus took down this ship?”
“It would make sense. It could have corrupted the reactor and prevented the fail-safes from protecting the crew. The scout shuttle was probably already corrupted before it left the for the surface, hence why one of the panels blew.”
“So how come the stasis chambers are still active?” Shumi asks confused.
I know the answer to this one and am not prepared to let Dias have all the answers. I’m the bloody captain after all!
“Certain systems are isolated, kept on a separate loop in case of corruption of the main servers. Stasis chambers, escape pods, automated distress beacons, and essential defensive systems.”
“But they didn’t fire on us,” the confusion still riding his face.
“Weapons systems aren’t essential, evasive detection and cloaking fall into that category. Weapons and life support only kick in if the ship’s commander has time to activate it. What happened here happened quick.” As I’m reflecting on this, I consider the shuttle, and that its crew probably realised what was happening as they were on the surface of the planet, yet for whatever reason they still returned. They must have found the state of the planet really grim to return to almost certain death.
“We’ve found the pods,” cuts in Dasgh across my thoughts. “A Zeclan and a small humanoid, possibly a native of the planet. His clothes are pretty much rags and he’s not wearing any uniform that I recognise.”
“Describe him, for the record please.” It was Yadul making the request.
“Pale skin. Darkish hair. Taller than the captain but shorter than me. Facial hair. Flabby round the gut. Dark nose and fingers. Looks like he’s got dried blood on his face.”
“Ok, grab the data unit and get back here.”
“We will as soon as Dio quits playing.”
I look about the bridge confused, expecting those sat around me to answer the obvious unasked question. Eventually I realise I’m looking to the wrong people. “What do you mean ‘playing’?” I snap into the microphone.
“She has the data unit. Now she’s fiddling with the stasis pod.”
I slap a hand to my head in disbelief. I should shout for her to stop. That would be the sensible thing to do, but instead I sit there letting my stubby fingers drool down my dwarfish face astounded at their stupidity.
“You hearing this?” Dasgh, I can picture, is leaning in as close to the pod as possible, having given into the temptation of his sister stood beside him. Then I hear, ever so faintly, as though through glass, what they are amazed at. “Marie, Luc, Camille, Rex Mundi, Chevalier Noir.” Over and over it repeats. Muffled. Agonised. Mournful. Whoever is saying it is clearly delirious and dipping in and out of consciousness.
“Dasgh. Dio. Whatever you do, do not open those caskets. That’s an order!”
Silence.
In my head I’ve already planned out how I’m going to claim the Zeclan vessel as my new command, and how I’m going to section off those two idiots where they are until I’m convinced they’re not infected or until they’ve rotted enough for me to flush them from the system like emptying my bowels into the suction of an open airlock.
“I’ve put him back to sleep. The chamber didn’t open.”
There is an almost audible sigh from the bridge.
“Get your backsides back here with that data unit. I want you both in quarantine until I’m satisfied you’re not going to kill us all!” I bark across the intercom.
They don’t reply. They know they don’t need to.
“Kadji. May I assume that your intention is to commandeer the Zeclan vessel as a replacement to this one. It would certainly allow you to travel farther and faster, and more importantly it would have more of a smuggler’s hold, would it not?”
“Is there a question in there Yadul?”
“I think he wants to know whether we’ll all be going aboard the new ship, boss,” offers up Shumi who has been sat quietly at his station.
“All of us?” I ponder, looking at the twitching circuitry embedded in the desk that is Yadul. “Yes, I suppose so. Why not.”
And then on cue the voice of Deacon comes over the relay, “I’m tired, can I go back in the tank now please?”

©C.P. Clarke 2020

 

 

 

 

March’20:
This month sees the continuation of last month’s story.  For most of February I’ve been finishing off the first draft of my apocalyptic novel Blackout, a novel I’ve found quite hard to get in the can.  It’s during the last few weeks of working on this that my mind has been drifting to the next story I want to work on, a few chapters of which I jotted down last year.  I get a constant stream of story ideas flood my head, some I think will make shorts, some too lengthy to be given priority and are filed for a future date with some notes.  However, it’s become quite clear to me that two novel ideas could easily be merged along with a number of short stories already written to create an epic sci-fi story.  The reason I write about this here is because Black Knight will eventually become part of that epic, so in reading Black Knight you are getting a preview of a future novel before the idea is fully formed in my head and written down.
CPC

 

 

 

BLACK KNIGHT
Part Two – Black Death Satellite

“Voyager Expulsion we read you as having cleared the satellite net. You’ll be drifting on the edge of high orbit. Target should be somewhere to your three o’clock in about twenty minutes if you maintain current velocity.”
“SpaceX Control, roger that. The net looks full by the way, you might want to send up a hoover and stop filling the sky with crap. It’s beginning to look like Saturn up here.”
“We hear you. There’s a haulage ship due to depart in two days. Just to reiterate, the decommissioned sats tend to interfere with communications, so be prepared for intermittent comms beyond the net.”
“Roger that. So far so good. Comms A1. Still hearing you loud and clear. Expulsion out.”
Roderic switched the broadcast to ship-wide with the push of a button. An amber light shone on the control panel telling him he was live.
“Guys, we’re twenty minutes on starboard side. First one to see it gets to breach first.”
“Is that a reward or a punishment?” came the reply from Adonkwe.
Roderic looked to the screen for the service corridor between the galley and engineering. The muscle bound African looked to be leaning at an angle into the wall as he looked up and smirked his chiselled jaw at the camera, his finger still depressed on the button as though he wanted to pass another quip. He shook his head and pushed away from the wall.
“What’s wrong, you don’t want to be first on?” asked Roderic with genuine surprise. “Seriously, if it was me, I’d be chumping at the bit.”
“Gladly swap places with you, skip,” said Adonkwe leaning in again.
On the camera the French captain could see the slender and athletic figure of his science officer, Manuela Cortez, swinging out of her bunk in the private quarters. She didn’t have her anti-grav boots on and looked like she was dropping down from an over ambitious pull-up against the door frame. She swung down into the corridor and hit the intercom.
“Seriously guys,” she said, her S’s cut short sounding more like Z’s, “this thing has been out here god knows how long and we’re the first to get a chance to board it. Are you not in awe of this?”
“I’m in awe, Mani, I just have no wish to die just yet,” replied Adonkwe.
“You’re a damned astronaut, man, you signed up to die.”
“You tell him, cap!” laughed back the only female on the crew.
The was a nervous anticipation with them all. The Black Knight Satellite had been an elusive myth for decades. Appearing and disappearing from scanners as though it had some on-board system that tuned in and then blocked each knew signal bounced in its direction. In the same way, its orbit seemed to change, never a regular altitude, presumably to avoid detection. In the early days the major space agencies that were government controlled like NASA, Roscosmos, EPA, and CNSA, all steered clear of it, each assuming it was the property of another. A secret research facility, or a spy probe, or worse still, the first of a fleet for a new military space force. Each country denied knowledge of it. Each agency insisted it wasn’t theirs. The more they protested, the more the suspicion fell on them. It didn’t help that it was difficult to track, and clear images were as reliable as Lock Ness or Bigfoot. Even the ISS failed to get it in its sights. It was as if the damn thing knew the space station was there and was trying to avoid it.
Once the private sectors started cashing in on the space race the government agencies lost control of what had originally been confidential and controlled airspace. Anyone who had the money suddenly bought up a stake in space flight technology. The new money was in the stars. New industries: tourism, terraforming, bioresearch, shipbuilding, you name it, once the flights were deemed safe and manageable for your everyday bum willing to buy a seat, or earn it through expertise, everyone jumped on board. It was amazing how many were eager to escape the tension created by the multitude of terrors that ravaged the planet and caused so much heartache and distress. In space there was none of that. Not yet anyway. Everyone just wanted to explore, and for those with the experience and expertise to make it happen there was big money to be made.
Roderic and the others on board didn’t know who was bankrolling this mission. Whoever it was had enough money to charter a SpaceX cruiser and pay off the other corporations to steer clear. The NDA’s were signed and sealed. The mission was a tight-lipped affair, and no one outside of mission control and the-powers-that-be were to ever know the details. Not in this lifetime at any rate.
There had been huge speculation as to what would be found on the Black Knight, aptly named for its darkened hull and its shadowy stalking of the planet. It showed no signs of life, other than an automated evasive nature. Many speculated that it had been here silently watching our development for decades, ever since we had become technologically advanced as a race. Others thought it much older. Some had even suggested that it had been there since the dawn of mankind and had even been complicit in the manipulation of our DNA.
Not that Roderic thought they were about to meet their maker. He suspected the ship was empty, remotely manned, the crew and pilots no longer living. It was the easiest way to explain the prolonged inactivity of the vessel. What had happened to them he couldn’t guess, but he was more concerned about bringing contaminants back on board his ship. But for that they were ready. There was a high-grade system of precautions in place of decontamination before he would allow anyone back on board his ship.
“Chow, you awake?”
“Huh,” came the disgruntled reply.
Chow sat in engineering, a games console in hand. He was neither doing his job maintaining the ship’s systems, a role to which he was superbly qualified, nor was he playing on the console which rested under his hand on his rotund torso. A slither of drool hung from his chin, threatening to uplift into his nostrils if the trail got any longer. He slapped at his mouth at the mention of his name and smeared the sludge across the palm of his hand.
“Twenty minutes Chow. Suit up. You’ll be manning the airlock. I don’t want any balls-ups. We’re not taking any chances with this.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” replied the slothful South Korean.
Ten minutes later and all four of the crew were staring out of the starboard windows trying to get a peek at the elusive ship that was the first definitive contact with something of extra-terrestrial origin. Or at least that is what the governments and corporations would have the world believe.
There were few who made the journey beyond the Earth’s atmosphere who doubted that the great starry abyss held something, some form of life other than our own. It was just another of those boundaries of the mind to be broken. Yet so many were in denial: the religious, the obstinate, the cowardly. Hell, there were even Flat Earth enthusiasts still sitting down there denying the evidence of their own eyes.
It came into view, only visible by the slither of moonlight catching its upper edge and allowing a very brief silhouette to impress its size upon the crew. Its orbit was high, dogging both the elliptical curve of the moon and the penetrating light of the sun. It hid as far on the horizon as it could out of the light of the Earth and any other probing eyes that could reflect in upon its soul. The rare glimpses of its presence over the years had been by chance. Looking at it now, it was both obvious, and yet not, as to why it hadn’t been found.
Obvious due to it blend, that it reflected nothing but stars as though transparent, absorbing all else. To say it had a shield or projected screen capable of mimicking what lay beyond it would be too simplistic, but surely it was wrapped up, shrouded, cloaked in a blanket of camouflage.
Yet it was astounding that after so many years of human space flight and telescopic eyes mapping every dot of light and movement of the heavens that something this big had evaded capture for so long. It was enormous. So gigantic was it that the Voyager Expulsion could have fitted within it fifty to sixty times.
“Damn, that thing’s as big as a shipyard!” muttered Adonkwe as he bent down to stare through one of the viewing platforms on the outer walkway to the service ports.
“Hope you know where you’re parking this thing boss, ‘cause I can’t plug a docking chamber into a black hole.”
“I hear you Chow. Scanning now for any obvious detail. Help me out if you see anything.”
“Cap, I see nothing but smooth black silk out here,” replied Manuela, her eyes wide out the window as they began to pass beneath the alien vessel. “I can’t believe they ever thought this thing was built on Earth.”
“Yeah, well someone obviously got an early view of it to be able to name it appropriately.” Roderic had yet to see it first-hand, he was too busy scanning the monitors trying to identify a pattern in the alien ship’s topography. “Black Knight Satellite – damn!”
Minutes went by as they tentatively cruised beneath their target. No indication of an entry point presented itself. With relief they each wiped their sweaty palms on the thighs of their flight suits that, their hearts pumping canon fire through their ears as they anticipated a sign of aggression at their approach.
“Well, she aint shooting,” echoed Adonkwe aloud.
“I can’t see where she begins and ends. Trying to lock on laser placers so I can map her dimensions and give me a flight path around her. If we can circle round her there might be more detail top side.”
Roderic pushed the necessary buttons before engaging the thrusters to push the Expulsion a little closer. Not only was he Captain of the vessel, he was also the pilot. Adonkwe could take the helm and fly the ship if needed, but he was nowhere near as experienced. This was why he was here. This was his arena. This was what would emblazon him in the annals of human history, as the mission commander who flew the ship and instigated first contact with a technologically advanced and highly intelligent extra-terrestrial lifeform. If he couldn’t find a way in, then the mission was a bust.
As they ascended, the three crew members staring through the blast proof clear panels that served as windows witnessed what could only be described as a blue haze, or a mist dropping below their eye level.
At the same point Roderic registered a flicker of all ship’s systems, including his monitors, which failed to see what the others could.
“Cap, you picking this up?” asked Manuela.
“No. What are you seeing?”
“I think we just passed through some sort of force field providing the ship’s camouflage.”
“She aint no chameleon no more,” agreed Adonkwe.
As they spoke Roderic was using a joystick to train the cameras on what they could see. There was an array of heavy-duty grey trunking and piping lining the outer hull of the alien ship. At points, large box shapes jutted from its undercarriage, appearing detachable like shipping containers. A multitude of curved bulbous narwhals leaned out with their sharp horned antenna needle marking arrows in the direction of flight, hugging tightly and robustly to the main body of the hull, leaving Roderic to wonder at their purpose.
“I’ve got no signs of life, inside or out,” he confirmed. “No lights. No one home. Looks like she’s totally automated.”
“Fuel tanks,” offered up Chow through a half held in silent belch.
Roderic checked the fuel gage. They were A-ok, expected reserves were where they should be. Then he realised he wasn’t talking about their own.
“You mean those unicorns?”
“Yeah. Syphon tubes, like we use for refilling fighter jets in mid-air, or long-distance ships that can’t dock at the space station. Those big tanks carry fuel. I think this thing is a freight hauler.”
“A cargo ship?” the captain asked, not waiting for a reply before asking a question of his own. “Threat assessment?”
It was Adonkwe who answered. “Assuming it is as you say, then it could be a long-distance hauler, a planet or even a system hopper that’s somehow got stranded. Or potentially it could be a refuelling port for a military fleet. Troop carrier. It’s big enough to carry a payload of hardware for a ground assault. That aside, the length of time that it’s been here and the fact that it hasn’t fired on us yet would suggest otherwise, or simply that it was abandoned for reasons unknown.”
“I agree,” said Manuela as she moved from her position in the corridor to the forward airlock where Chow was prepping the chamber, having seen what they were aiming for. She carried her helmet and was checking the fastenings on her suit as she checked her radio was transmitting. “In any scenario, it would be prudent to assume she has a highly sophisticated self-defence system and is armed to the teeth. I can’t imagine even a cargo ship of this size not being able to defend itself.”
“Agreed,” responded Roderic. “I’m bringing us in line with what looks like an airlock.”
“I see it.” Chow was wiping his mouth and nose, rubbing his face energetically for the last time before putting on his helmet. He saw Manuela approach and raised a hand to stop her. She wasn’t entering his airlock until he gave her permission, and certainly not without her helmet on. Moments later Adonkwe joined her, his helmet in place, but he stood his ground behind her as he checked and double checked the weapons he had carried across from the armoury.
“Lining her up. You should have visual on the door.”
“Looks like a door to me,” Chow confirmed. “It’s got some hieroglyph type writing on it that’ll send the linguists and cryptographers back home into an orgasm.”
“Recording. You all suited up?”
“Yes,” confirmed Manuela as she locked in her helmet.
“Expanding port bridge.” Chow’s concentration was intense. He was half expecting for them to be repelled on physical contact with the alien ship. “Contact. Magnetic claps engaged. So far so good,” he said with a sigh. Then turning to his two colleagues he waved an arm of invitation to the door. “So, who’s first?”
“That’ll be the big boy with the guns,” said Manuela stepping aside and turning to close the inner door of the airlock behind them.
“De-pressurising.” Chow was pressing buttons on a panel and then pulling a locking lever before turning the door’s wheel. There was a process to getting the door open. A layer of fail safes that ensured the airlock couldn’t be accessed accidentally. He pulled on the door and stepped back to allow the big African to pass. Once they were both through he closed and locked the door behind them. There was nothing he could do now but stand and wait until they returned. It was up to them now; they were on their own.
The walkway was a light, retractable, and transparent plastic tube all around them. They felt safe as they flew themselves along its fifty metre shaft, neither horizontal nor vertical. They were in space with no up or down, only the alignment of the ships to give any designation of direction.
There was no handle on the door, Adonkwe noted, only the strange markings Chow had commented on. He tried pushing on it, but nothing happened. He tried sliding it, but again nothing happened.
“What have we got?” Manuela asked him from behind.
“Eight foot door, with no window and no handle. I could try knocking?”
“Step aside, big boy. This is why you brought me along. Let me take a look.”
Adonkwe did as he was told and stood back with his large rapid-fire battery powered laser blaster pointed at the door. He had a second weapon strapped to his back, a sonic pulse emitter which he held in reserve, unsure of whether it would have any effect on anything inside.
Manuela studied the door for a few moments before deciding that the writing was in itself the door code to get in. There were nineteen hieroglyphs in total, all slightly bigger than her hand. “This might take a while,” she commented. “I don’t even want to run the calculations as to how many combinations there could be to open this thing. I don’t even know how many characters we need to hit.”
“Passwords for everything! Don’t you just love it.” quipped Chow from back at the airlock.
She started hitting configurations of characters, trying in her mind to remember which ones as she did them in sequence.
Twenty minutes later and Roderic was getting concerned about the amount of oxygen they were using up. If they got in they wouldn’t have much time on board before having to return. Just as he was thinking this Manuela gave a gleeful chirp over her radio.
One of the figures she had struck lit up red as she brushed her hand over it and she realised that was the key, swiping not pushing. Five minutes later she had five characters shining on the door and she instinctively saw the pattern and swiped a further two. The door clicked. A heavy thud and a rush of air escaped towards them in a loud hiss as a darkness beyond their lights shone into the gaps as the metal pulled inwards and then slid to the left out of sight flush to the frame.
“We’re in!” she exclaimed excitedly, trying to peer into the darkness beyond.
Adonkwe grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back behind him. As much as he didn’t want to be the first one in, and they had jested about who would board when, he had always known it was his duty to be the cannon fodder. He was the soldier. He was the one responsible for the safety of the boarding party. The Captain no longer had command once they stepped inside the alien vessel, that burden fell on him.
“Securing grappling hooks to inner door,” he said as he grabbed at the hooks attached to the end of the docking bridge. He reached inside the open doorway and hooked them onto the hinges of the retracted door. It was a simple safeguard to ensure the door didn’t slam shut behind them. They were attached to the airlock via a cable so that if something hit the tunnel or it had to be retracted for any reason, they could still hold onto the cable to get back to the Expulsion.
“Roger that,” responded Roderic. “You’re good to go whenever you’re ready. Handing over control of the Black Knight to the black knight. She’s all yours.”
“Thanking you kindly, skip!” Adonkwe looked to Manuela, took a deep breath, raised his weapon and stepped into the darkness of the ship.
As they entered a thin rim of pale blue light lit up what appeared to be a corridor leading deep into the dark belly of the ship.
“Any idea where that goes?” asked Adonkwe.
“Up,” was all she replied. Despite it looking like it led horizontally, she was right. They were docked beneath, so moving forward was actually moving upwards.
Taking the first few tentative steps with their boots turned on, their passage was lit by yet another thin rim of light circling the corridor. The further in they moved the more their path was illuminated.
“Seems it’s aware of your presence,” commented Roderic monitoring their progress from the bridge of the Expulsion. “I’m reading a new power source activated in an upper chamber. I can’t get a definitive fix on it through the hull, but something seems to have turned on.”
“Only one route of travel from here anyhow,” Adonkwe informed as no other avenue presented itself along the tunnel.
They switched off their anti-grav boots, as they were commonly called, despite serving the opposite purpose, and propelled themselves up in good time, using the small thrusters built into the packs that fitted onto their airtight EVA flight suits as standard equipment. Within five minutes they came to a junction where the left side corridor automatically lit up, guiding their path for only a short journey until it ended at a door similar to the coded one by which they had entered.
“Wait!” commanded Manuela, and they both froze in position, she studying the door. “We don’t have time to crack another code. We’ll be out of oxygen by the time we get in. Let’s hope these guys use the same password for everything.”
“What do you think’s behind there?”
“Honestly, I doubt it’s the bridge of the ship; we’re too low down. Could be another airlock, or cargo hold. I’d hold onto something just in case.”
“It’s not a cargo hold,” informed Roderic. “You’re too close to the power source. I’ve identified an opening a little lower down and west of your position. It’s quite large. Possibly a flight deck for shuttles or fighters.”
“Roger that, skip. Mani’s going to try and get it open.” He gave her a nod and stepped back with his weapon raised as before.
She swiped her gloved hand over the same combination as before as smiled cockily as the symbols lit up and the door hissed, clunked, and then slid back and to the side.
They stepped forward and found themselves in a small chamber, not dissimilar to their own airlock where Chow stood waiting for them to return. A window was on the far door, and beyond they could see that it was in fact a hangar deck. Only one small vessel lay dormant, clamped to the middle of the bay by large arms that pressed on it from both the bottom and the top, making it difficult to visualise the exact design of the shuttle. It was too far away for them to traverse the distance without some form of bridge across.
“What do you think this does?” he asked pointing to a lever to the side of the door.
She shrugged, as much as you can from within a space suit, and said, “You know what I said about holding onto something?”
He nodded and pulled the lever down as they both reached for a handhold. Not that it was necessary. The door didn’t open. Instead, one of the clamps holding the shuttle detached and began moving on a rail towards them, turning as it did so to reveal a compartment of the shuttle in its grasp.
“I get it,” she said. “It’s a decontamination chamber, or a lifeboat. Isolate it from the rest of the ship and bring your crew over to a secured airlock away from the command centre of the main vessel. Probably got a similar system for off-loading cargo shipments.”
“Are you saying that thing coming toward us is contaminated?”
“Not necessarily.” There was enough uncertainty in her voice for Adonkwe to raise his weapon once more.
The pod connected with the airlock door and a locking sequence was deactivated allowing the door to open and for them to step across to what was, they assumed, essentially a life raft from the shuttle.
Inside they found a bank of control panels beneath a large external window. One of the panels looked to have short circuited and blown outwards. Lying on the floor not too far away was the frozen and mummified corpse of a large humanoid. He was at least a foot taller than Adonkwe, who at six five could easily pass as a pro basketball player. He was clad in a tight-fitting black suit that looked like it served well for battle. It was hard to make out the facial features due to the distortion of death, the cause of which left them pondering multiple scenarios.
“You seeing this, skip? We got a dead alien here.”
“Yeah, just look down again so I can get a clean capture on camera. We still don’t have a feed back to control, might be the Black Knight blocking our signal out as well as the interference from the net. I’ll keep trying to transmit the pictures back.”
“There’s another room back here.” It was Manuela. She had followed a trail of lights to a separate chamber and stood in the doorway mouth agape.
“What the…” said Adonkwe as he joined her.
Before them were two cryostasis suspension chambers. Even with current Earth technology, these types of chambers were still in their infancy.
In one stood an alien donned in the same attire as the dead one in the other room. This one having a large skull. His features gauntly chiselled. His eyes dark and slanted. His nose sharp. His skin deeply tanned. His teeth hidden beneath thin lips, but with a jawline that spoke of a great many with which to snap with.
In the other was a human of normal size. His hair was light brown. He had a stubby nose, and cabbage ears. There were long wiry strands of growth matted about his cheeks and chin, and he was dressed in dirty dishevelled clothes that looked like they dated back to the middle ages. One of the most concerning things about what they could see was not the fact that they are looking at a possible alien abduction, or the fact that it looked like this thing may have been up here for hundreds of years, but the evidence of disease upon the man’s extremities. His fingers and his nose had turned black, showing signs that the tissue had decayed, probably before he was put in the chamber going by the dried blood lying under his nose and on his chin.
“What is that, plague?” asked Roderic.
“Don’t bring that shit back this way!” snapped Chow blindly, unable to see what Roderic could.
“Is it an Earth disease or is it something he could have contracted from contact with the alien?” enquired Adonkwe quietly.
“Could be either,” Manuela said thoughtfully. “Some of our great plagues have begun mysteriously. Maybe they are the result of alien contact. Or maybe we just killed off a whole advanced civilization with our disgusting Earth germs. What I don’t get is if they made it back up here, why they didn’t they reconnect to the main ship.”
“Maybe they were too contagious.”
“The alien doesn’t present with any visible symptoms. He might not even have been aware the other one was sick. I’m just wondering what he was doing on the surface of the planet in the first place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what if he was already stuck here? What if he couldn’t fly this thing away and needed another pilot, or some spare parts? The middle ages probably wasn’t the best time period to get stuck in.”
“You think we should wake him up?”
“Hell no!”
“I’d like to second that,” chipped in Roderic. “We don’t know if they’re both contaminated. We don’t know whether the alien is aggressive. We don’t even know if we can communicate with him.”
“Besides that, boss, I don’t think we have enough in the tanks to stand around figuring out the complexities of alien stasis chambers and then going through the pleasantries of introductions.”
“I hear that!” said Adonkwe looking at his wrist readout of his oxygen supply.
“Plus, if that other dead alien is lying in the open, your suits may already be contaminated, so you’re coming back in slow spray time in the airlock.” That part of re-entry was Chow’s domain. When it came to re-boarding, he had the last word. “Cold shower time people!” he chuckled cruelly.
The scientific mind of Manuela drew her closer to look at the alien figure stood in suspended animation. “Gonna come back for you, big fella,” she said placing a hand on the clear fronted tube.
Without warning a red light above the stasis capsule came to life and began scanning the room with a wide beam laser.
“What the…” was the response of the African as he rose his weapon instinctively at the source of the light.
“Proximity sensor. Damn, I triggered it.”
The laser worked down the room rapidly and fixed on Adonkwe, or rather on what he was holding, scanning it numerous times before suddenly switching off. He wanted to swear, but there was no time.
They were both blasted backwards. He, being the bigger and sturdier on his feet, and farther away, had flown back into a wall. When he righted himself, shaking the pain from his head, he saw that Manuela had not been so fortunate. Her close proximity to the blast had blown in her face shield, and jagged pieces of glass were embedded in her cheeks and eyes. With great despair and fear he watched her body roll lifelessly through the air away from him.
Then the lights went out. Only the dim glow from the stasis chambers remained.
He wasted no time in bolting for the open airlock door. He had that instinctive feeling that this was only the start of their troubles, and he had a sudden urgency to be back on the Expulsion and flying back to the safety of home.
The lights were out in the tunnel beyond the airlock, but he managed to fumble his way along, searching for the junction. He tried calling on his comms but there was no response. In fact, there were no readings on his wrist keypad at all. He found the junction and aimed his head down and swam like a deep-sea diver.
“Cap, don’t know whether you can hear me, but Mani’s gone. Some sort of sonic defence system. Not sure whether it’s that or a separate EMP, but my suit is dead. I can’t hold my breath the whole journey so I’m not even gonna try, but I’m guessing the regulator is out on my oxygen.”

Chow ran onto the bridge in a panic, a number of sweat beads building up on his brow beneath his helmet.
“What the hell happened?” he bellowed at Roderic.
“Don’t know. We got hit by an EMP. All systems are down. I can’t hold her in position.”
“We’ll lose the bridge.”
“I know. Get back down there. Do what you can to get them back across.”
“But without power they’ll asphyxiate before they reach the airlock.”
“Just do what you can! They’re not the only ones with life-support problems.”
Chow did as he was commanded, running as fast as his short fat legs would carrying him. By the time he got back to the airlock a full five minutes had passed since they had lost contact with the boarding party. He looked out of the airlock window and was amazed to see the tall figure of Adonkwe trying to clamber across the bridge.
Just then, and without warning the Expulsion jolted and tore away from its docked position. Chow knew the mechanics of it too well. Without power the magnetic docking clamps wouldn’t hold, and there was nothing to hold them in position. Once they started drifting away they would be at the mercy of the nearest large gravity pull. As he worked this out in his head the plastic tunnel buckled and tore away, and he felt the Expulsion tug at an angle. She should have broke clean away, but something had yanked her back.
He, staring back out the window could see that Adonkwe was holding on for dear life to the grappling cable, the only part of the tunnel to still be intact and connected to the alien ship. How the big man was still breathing he didn’t know.
With incredible speed and agility that only comes from sheer panic, he was pulling himself along the cable.
Chow clipped himself on to an anchor an opened the airlock door and started to retract the cable, pulling the two ships closer together. Doing this would most likely buckle the door of the alien ship and prevent it from closing, but that was the least of his worries. He just wanted to get his shipmate on board and free the Expulsion from its anchor. He didn’t give Manuela any thought; if she wasn’t with Adonkwe, then the Spaniard was dead.
He reached out a hand as the cable reeled in, gripped the stretching glove just as the grappling hook twisted under the pull of the cable and ripped at the door it hand been clung to.
The Expulsion pulled away in another sudden jerk. The loose cable whipping suddenly at Adonkwe’s back as Chow pulled him into the airlock and sealed the door manually.
As the Voyager Expulsion drifted away from the Black Knight Satellite, all the remaining crew could do was watch as the mysterious cloaked ship once more blended into the eternal night. They had no way of contacting SpaceX Control. They had no way of restoring life-support. They had no way of preventing the decaying orbit back to Earth.

©C.P. Clarke 2020

 

 

 

 

February’20:

I’ve had a number of titles and stories floating about in my head for a while.  Occasionally a theme or a thread of a tale swoops in and encapsulates that lingering note at the back of my head, and suddenly it all makes sense and falls onto the page.  This has been the case with this month’s story, Black Knight.  For those familiar with the Black Knight Satellite theory, you’ll appreciate where this story is going.  The title and what it was about has long been floating about in the grey matter, but it wasn’t until after I’d written last month’s Space Poo that I found the link and realised I could re-engage with those characters.  However, that isn’t where the story begins, for that we have to go back in time.

CPC

 

 

 

 

BLACK KNIGHT

Part One – Ambush

With the exception of the fire that lit the sky the night before last, roaring an arrow through the woods in the distance, it has been a tiresome and uneventful few days roaming lost on my own. Marie will be fretting; I wasn’t supposed to be gone this long.
The sprawling forest of the Languedoc can be a nightmare to navigate if you don’t know the region. Rarely have I wandered through it alone, and never before in a time of war. I left Castres twelve days ago in a hunting party seeking wild deer to feed the village. The king has been starving the smaller towns and villages, sending all the supplies to feed the men in the campaign against the Cathars. The people are going hungry, not yet starving, but if things continue the way they are then they’ll start to get desperate. Enough of us men have been home on a short reprieve from fighting our county neighbours to hunt out some venison for the women. King Philip II, and the Count of Toulouse, Raymond VI, expect us back (although the Count is more sympathetic to our cause); they will both be disappointed in our desertion of duty.
This isn’t a crusade against the Moors, but one against our own kin. Neighbour fights against neighbour, village against village, town against town. No one knows who to trust. The great noble knights with the bright red crosses emblazoned across their tabards ride through the country lanes as though they own them already, claiming them for the king and for Rome, dictating to the lords of Toulouse to ensure the country is rid of the heretic faith that challenges the beliefs of the Catholic Church. But they are losing. We are gaining ground. The air is on fire with rumour of a new incentive to quash us. They are desperate. In response more of us seek ways of taking down Rome’s private army.
Pope Innocent III and the might of Rome want the sect eliminated from the map of Europe, and their aggression has sent us into a civil war across the whole of southern France. In the ten years since the crusade began in 1209, we have fallen at the hand of the king’s men. Many of us have been drafted into the ranks, hiding in fear among their numbers. But now we are rising up and revolting. Turncoats many of us are, luring our comrades into the thickets of the woods on a wild goose chase, into the lair of a trap. In this way we have been regaining much of the lost territory in a move that is encouraging more support among the locals opposed to the overbearing rule of Rome and its dictator Pope. Philip is his puppet. He is weak, the throne having already suffered defeat at the hands of the English. Innocent, to ensure victory, has promised our lands to any noble who can take them. The Templars, already too lofty in their power and wealth roam our paths thirsty to seek us out and run us through, if they can discover who we are.
Eight of us, armed as hunters seeking food for our village, wearing the colours of the realm, had lured the knights in under the suspicion of knowing of a Cathar hideout in the woods. It wasn’t a lie. There is a hideout deep within the forest, thick with its coniferous oaks, but it’s our own, and no one knows it better than us.
Just four knights, riding high and aloof behind us as we wound a way through the trees on a marked path that only we could follow. Deer ran across us, and we stopped to hunt them, keeping up the pretence that we don’t abstain from meat like the Cathar’s we’re pretending not to be. We scored two and saddled them to our horses, the knights not once decamping from their mounts to assist, it being beneath them and not of their concern. Impatiently they urged us to move on.
Deeper into the wood we went, the day growing tired. The long shadows making the unfamiliar ground more treacherous and disagreeable to the rear carriage of our train. And then we fanned out into a circle, using the trees hiding our swords and shields as cover as the knights rode in between us unawares.
It was a well thought out and executed plan. The knights stood no chance, or so we thought. It is a hard lesson to learn, to not underestimate the strength, agility, and expertise of these noble warriors who wear the tabard of the Pope’s private army – although whether he owns them, or they own him is a matter for debate.
We fought swift and hard, having the element of surprise. I can’t help but think now that maybe we were too predictable, that we had somehow shown our hand. No matter, we, though greater in number, were of no match for these well-trained soldiers. One by one we fell.
I survived despite the would-be fatal slash to my chest. The blade didn’t go deep, saved mainly by the thin chainmail I had hidden beneath my cloak. The strike that swept me off my feet span me to the ground where I smashed my head against a log. I don’t know how long I was out, but when I came too the knights were gone, leaving behind the fallen corpses of those they’d been despatched to eradicate. There was enough blood from my head and chest for them to have assumed me dead. I would say I was fortunate to have survived, had I not been left to wander the forest on my own in the dark of night, lost and wounded.
Concussed, I must have wandered in the wrong direction, farther away from Castres at the edge of the forest, instead roaming deeper, seeking a stream to follow that might lead to the lake at Saints-Peyres. Finally, knowing my direction, I hoped to stroll across La Jasse or L’Acapte where I knew I would find Cathar sympathisers who could provide me with food and shelter.
Marie would be beside herself with worry, and with good reason. I didn’t relish the job of returning home to tell the other families of their loss. I have seen others receive this news before, collapsing to the ground and praying that they were not lost to the god of this world. We have all tried to stay strong in our faith. We have all tried to stay strong and model the faith to our children. Luc and Camille are too young to understand, but they will learn.
Under the thick canopy of the trees, it has been hard to see the direction of the sun during the day and impossible to chart the stars at night. A thick cloud has obscured the view for most of the time ensuring a pitch of night and blindness I have never experienced before. The rains that have fallen also haven’t helped. Such a downpour that forced me to shelter within the hollow of a tree for many hours, scaring the natural inhabitants of such a sanctuary to seek another hovel. And so, my pace has been slow. Supping on rainwater drained from the dripping leaves. I was not even left with the kill of our deer to feast on as the knights stole our kill along with our horses and our weapons.
But today has been dry, and I can smell the running water. I can hear it faintly beyond the thicket. I sludge through the undergrowth, my feet sodden and sore, yet that elusive water evades me.
Once again, the light dims and the night owls cry out. My stomach is sore with the pangs of hunger and my body is weak to fainting. At least that’s all I hope it is. The cramps have been getting worse, and my head has been thumping drumbeats in the silence. The forest is alive with food, yet I have been unable to catch and kill any. There is little fruit growing from the trees, and what is within reach has been gnawed at by animals unable to climb to the heights for the riches only the birds can reach.
I am desperate to wash. My mud-covered blackened fingers are sore, my feet too. The giddiness of exhaustion is riding my back, but I know I need to keep moving.
I walk, keen to make distance whilst my legs will carry me, frustrated that in all this time I have failed to stumble upon any signs of human life. My eyes adjust to the gloom. The ranks of soldiers stood to attention bulk out with surprising definition, their arms outstretching above my head and linking arms to crest above me in a crown, ordaining me as the lost prince of the Languedoc.
And then in the depts of the deepest nocturnal abyss, I see it. The black knight.
His face shines, no glows, an evanescent blue, no purple, or a violet that seems to flicker as it radiates, providing the dimmest of an outline of the manly armoured figure. Seeing me, or at least sensing my presence, he turns to flame. His face glowing a violent red conflagration, only without the flicker. I think at first it is a torch he is holding, but as he steps out from the trees towards me I realise it is a mask of colour across his face. I can make out his dark furnished armour, finely crafted and snug fitting to his enormous frame as he towers above me. He holds a muted grey sword in one hand, but to me it appears blunt as I can see no sharp blade but only a long barrel which ends at his gloved hand. I assume his weapon is still sheathed within, where his index finger is poised ready to pull out and defend himself. There is no emblem across his chest and no shield denoting his allegiance.
I hold my hands up in defence, in surrender, and in cowardice. I have been head to head with mighty noble knights already, I have no wish to battle another, and certainly not one so tall and nimble looking. I am unarmed and his armour looks solid and impenetrable, and his weapon looks, well, strange.
He steps forward. I step back.
I say something. He stops moving. He seems to be assessing my words. Words of reassurance that I mean no harm, that I am simply lost and looking for refuge.
He cocks his head, the flame flashing, speeding up and swirling hypnotically. Suddenly I’m beginning to wonder whether he is no knight at all but a demon sent to admonish me for my beliefs. Has Rome invoked such creatures to vanquish us from the land, I wonder. Innocent by name but not by nature, we all know the church will stoop to all lows to achieve their goal, whether that aligns with their faith or not.
The demon steps forward once more. Now I am sure he is not human, not in the sense that you and I are. Gone are my thoughts of this being a simple caliginously draped knight, equally lost in the woods; this I am sure is Rex Mundi himself, or the embodiment of his worldly power.
I step back. Fear is gripping me now. A cold chill is shrinking my skin as my throat swells and warm fluid trickles down my breeches. Then I feel the trunk of a tree at my back and realise I can go back no further.
And then it rushes at me.

I awake in a strange temple. The floor is of a strange smooth metallic surface, shinier than any blade I have ever seen; I can almost see my reflection in it, to the point that for a moment I think it a pool of water and that I am drowning in the lake I had long sought after.
I look around and see that there are magical lights scattered around the temple. They blink. They flash. Each one a dancing fairy or a spirit of its own. How many souls are trapped in this place? Is this what happens to us when we ascend the evil physical world?
I look for the demon. He is here, standing over me, pressing living jewels next to some of the lost souls I had originally laid eyes on. He doesn’t seem to be paying me any attention at the moment.
I have a headache but no worse than it had been before. I have no further wounds on my body that I can ascertain. The dried blood on my head and chest has not been visited by any fresh injury. How it had knocked me out and brought me here is in itself a mysterious work of demonic force. I begin to pray beneath my breath, but in all truthfulness, I am worried my god won’t hear me, that he isn’t listening, and that maybe I am praying to something that isn’t there at all. And then I see the darkness.
There is a window, and beyond it is the night. Clearer than I have ever seen it. Bigger than I have ever seen it. And coming into view is a smoky globe, blue and white in colour. A strange ball in the heavens I can’t identify. It is too big to be the moon. Too close. Too bright.
The demon speaks. It is a language I don’t understand, have never heard before. It is guttural.
The demon unclips its lantern of a mask and I see for the first time that there is a possessed man beneath the armour. His features are gauntly chiselled. His eyes dark and slanted. His nose sharp. His skin deeply tanned. His teeth hidden beneath thin lips, but with a jawline that tells me he has a great many with which to chew me with.
He points to the far side of the temple floor and I see for the first time that there is another demon lying there dead. So, they can die, I think to myself, as I look for the brave knight who has slain the demon, but it appears we are alone. He then points to an altar where the souls have been freed from their chamber, having been let loose to rise to the heavenly realm. With his fingers he makes a gesture of flicking outwards from the palm. I don’t fully understand but I think he is trying to tell me that the souls sudden and violent escape was the result of the other demon’s demise.
He crouches. With a great strength that I am fearful to challenge, he picks me up harshly and thrusts me toward another set of lights. There is a lever there in the upright position. He indicates for me to pull it down, then holds his hand up in a gesture that I read as ‘wait for my signal’. I nod, unbelievably agreeing with this soldier from beyond, this god of the material world. In consenting to do its bidding I am expectant of my meeting own death at the command of its action.
He walks heavily over to another section of lights to where I see another lever. He looks to me and I realise he wants me to pull it at the same time as him. Again, I nod.
He gives the signal. We both pull down on our respective levers. I close my eyes and brace my body, prepared to be struck down. Nothing happens. Not at first.
I hear a hum, and sense rather than see a room out of view coming to life in white hot bolt of lightning. He stomps toward me, pulling at my arm as he ushers me to that other room where I see the ceiling magically illuminated above me. There are two coffins stood upright with glass lids. They seem to open automatically as we approach, and the demon knight pushes me into one of them. I don’t resist, to do so would be futile. I stand in the coffin, more souls trapped in here with me. Am I to become one of them? I am certain this is my fate. Then the lid closes me in, and I feel the claustrophobia of death as I’m buried alive, never to see Marie again, never to embrace my children once more. Maybe this is it, my deliverance from the mortal and material world. Maybe this is the realisation of my faith. To be immortalised in a standing coffin. To become a blinking light for all eternity.
As these thoughts cloud me, I see the demon knight step into the other coffin, and suddenly I’m reminded of a priest sidling up beside me on his confessional bench ready to absolve me of my sins before I depart. The echo of my life’s crimes fly to the fore and gallop upon my brow in a tumultuous confusion, but before I can pin them down and send them to my tongue to confess and beg forgiveness my eyes close and my mind swoons, and all that I have ever known goes black.

©C.P. Clarke 2020

 

 

 

 

 

January’20:

The idea for this story came from watching a sci-fi series called Dark Matter at the end of last year. In one episode the crew of the ship go back in time and the ship’s android sets them off with a shopping list to buy supplies in the small American town they have landed in. On that shopping list is toilet paper, and the android is quite specific as to what she wants. It was that one line in the programme that gave birth to this story as it got me thinking about how you never see a toilet on a spaceship, or at least I don’t recall reference to one. What happens to space poo? A simple idea that gave me an opportunity to create a handful of characters I could bring to life in other tales.
Also this month, a whole host of book deals, so keep an eye on my Amazon page, and a couple of new drawing on the artwork tab.
CPC

 

 

 

 

SPACE POO

Ten years in this old space bucket. Ten years floating around in this pile of crap. The nuts and bolts holding it together spinning loose where they’re not rusted and busted. The outer hull is holding – just! It’s taken more of a battering than your average salvage hauler, but that’s mainly due to its smuggler’s hold and the regular skirmishes in trying to evade the Galactic Authority that tries its best to blast us into space dust.
Water drips from the ceiling struts where the air filtration system fails to draw out the moisture from the artificial oxygen pumped through the ship. The excess is supposed to be recycled through to our fresh water supply, for our washing and drinking water, but the fault means we may as well shower in the corridor for the flow has more pressure there than in our quarters.
The damp atmosphere on board affects all the ship’s systems, sparking electric fires at irregular and often inconvenient moments. We’ve learnt not to walk too close to the walls in case of a sudden spray of sparks should jet out. The steel wall panels are hot to touch, and too often have we scolded ourselves with burns that give us the appearance of battle hardened criminals with the scars to frighten off the odd not so innocent passenger seeking transport to some far flung sector of the Dominion, escaping who knows what, and who cares so long as they pay their passage.
Deacon has lost an ear to a faulty bulkhead door that shut suddenly as he was walking through the corridor. It was one of those doors that only gets used in an emergency to seal off a section of the ship in case of an outer hull breach. They can, and do, slam closed pretty quickly. Fortunately, Deacon’s head was turning at the sound of the door releasing so that it only caught the side of his head, knocking him clear. Had it been a moment earlier he would have been sandwiched in between the two ten-inch-thick metal doors. The indent in his temple did nothing to improve his brain function or competence on board the ship.
Yadul’s sounding an alarm. The aft shield had gone down. We can’t take another strike to the rear. I give the order to turn us around to aim at the GA ship on our tail. I’ve used this tactic before to good effect. The enemy is bigger and better armed, but even they don’t want a head on collision if they can avoid it; their shields might absorb most of the impact but there will still be extensive damage and loss of life.
There are six of us on board.
Dias, a Matolian female who fled her home world after defrauding the central bank of ten million denari. Had she not been caught she would have been able to buy herself a lavish life on an off-world colony somewhere, but alas her short tentacled face made it onto the Galactic Authority’s most wanted page, broadcast all over the Dominion.
Shumi is a one-eyed Cyclops from Uronia. He’s a petty thief who made the mistake of stealing a bag belonging to a government official. It was an opportunist steal, and he had no way of knowing who his mark was nor that the contents of the bag contained a blueprint to a new planetary defence system. Of course, he off-loaded it at the earliest opportunity, but by then he was already a highly sought-after individual and ended up fleeing for his life.
Then there are the Calmec’s, Dio and Dasgh. Brother and sister, they are almost inseparable. They have been on the run for most of their life, having fled their family due to their incestuous relationship. Sexually they have no inhibitions, and even to this day their behaviour on board the ship is hard to get used to.
I include in the six, Yadul, our ship’s computer. At one point it had a fully functional physical form; an android capable of walking this old rust bucket and effecting repairs, but alas it got caught in an airlock and triggered the doors accidentally and spaced itself. That should have been the end of Yadul, but somehow it managed to hook an arm onto the rim of the outer door and held on until help came. Of course, bringing Yadul back inside meant having to close the door on its lower half that was floating in the vented atmosphere outside the ship. We were able to recover the upper torso and head and the one good arm that still clung to the inner section of the airlock. What remained we mounted to the control console of the bridge.
And then there is me, Kadji. I am a dwarf of the Kanukad clan of Hejbar. I was a simple cargo driver to begin with, but I soon got fed up of all the red tape and hoops that I had to jump through in transporting goods between worlds, all of which have their own trade deals and operating systems and procedures, the complexity of it all used to drive me insane. Too often was I held up in containment whilst every item in my hold was checked, and often confiscated. Many times I was turned back to where I’d come from due to the documentation not being dotted in the right place. It didn’t take long before I had joined the ranks of illegal smugglers just trying to make an honest living. And so, we spend our eternal nights dodging the authorities as we dart from one score to another across the stars.
The Galactic Authority has been trying to clamp down on the likes of us lately. Apparently, we’re a scourge amongst the legitimate traders and transporters, and we’re causing panic among the corporate delegates vying for position within the ruling council of the wider Dominion. Truth be told, we are too often used by rebel resistance forces to transport arms and intelligence to the independent worlds, and to the disgruntled moon and asteroid belt mining communities demanding greater rights and working conditions.
Dias is on the bridge manning the guns manually. We lost automatic control some time ago and it is on the list of things needing urgent repair.
The Calmec’s are in the lower half of the ship trying to secure the bilge well which has sprung a leak, the sealant having split after a direct hit to that section. If they can’t get it fixed we’ll be drowning in a stinking pool of our own waste, and the ship smells bad enough as it is.
Shumi is singularly focused on trying to divert power from the private quarters and the cargo hold into order to restore the failing shields.
As for me, I’m trying to think of a way out of our predicament.
We take another direct hit and Yadul announces that life support is down to sixty percent and falling.
I give the order to dive beneath the looming, and much bigger, GA ship and risk flying close to the fighter bays. The hyper-drive needs two more minutes to reach full charge before we can jump to another sector and hide amongst the rebel moons and outposts of Gadari Prime.
We skip beneath the destroyer before us, and as predicted two small manned fighters drop out from the open flight deck. They won’t send more than two after us; they can tell the state of our ship, our heap of junk that has so had its day; how the hell it’s still flying is anyone’s guess.
Yadul pilots a manoeuvring pattern whilst Dias provides cover fire. If we can evade them for another minute we can jump.
The comms bursts to life with Dio’s panicked voice informing that the bilge tank has burst and has flooded the lower corridors. Dasgh is trying to close the section manually.
The fighters take out our guns and Dias throws her arms up in frustration and thrusts her chair back helplessly.
To add to the misery Shumi informs me of what we all already know, that our exposed rear only needs one direct hit from the ships behind to ignite our fuel reactor.
Thirty seconds to a fully charged hyper-drive. We’re not going to make it.
In the throws of battle no one ever has time to think about the need to go to the toilet. The need maybe there, but no one ever stops to raise their hand to ask to be excused at the vital moment. In fact, little thought is ever given to waste products produced and discarded by vessels large and small on continuous space voyages. Usually such waste is broken down chemically in the bilge tanks and deposited in recycling centres or the raw sewage sold to the farming colonies on barren moons to be used as fertilizer. Rarely is it disposed of the old-fashioned way by letting it drift in a frozen globule of excrement into space, but at times needs must.
I check that the Calmec’s are clear of the section I intend to vent and then command Yadul to open the airlock.
With ten seconds to spare the quickly solidifying flying turd hits the fan, smashing into the windscreens and blocking the forward viewers of the two fighters as they close in for the kill with no time to pull away. It won’t do any lasting damage, but it buys us the valuable time we need.
Yadul has already made the calculations. I give the instruction and we jump to hyper-drive, hoping and praying that this old faithful heap of crap will hold together long enough to make it through to the other side.

©C.P. Clarke 2019

 

 

 

 

December’19:

This month’s story, was written a few years ago just before I left my job working for the Metropolitan Police. I remember being sat at my desk and having this tale of a thief changing identities pop into my head, and so I wrote it down there and then when admittedly I probably should have been doing something more productive.
I’ve spent a fair bit of time over the past month working on some of my artwork, and I’m going to start loading up some to the site so watch out for the new page coming soon.
CPC

 

 

 

 

A HEAD FOR CRIME

I have decided that the only way I can get ahead is to change my head.
It’s a different world with different rules. Crime no longer pays for the jobbing thief like me. I know some would call me a thug but that’s just a matter of opinion. Sure, if you’re a whizz at a keyboard and up with the tech then there’s a multitude of ways you can scam, but I can’t keep up with all that new-fangled wizardry.
Still, life is complicated thanks to the eyes everywhere. Used to be that you only had to watch for old bill, and on occasion the nosey well-meaning nuisance of an onlooker who should have known better and stayed well out of it. Usually a good hard stare was enough to put them to bed, but if not a forceful hand of pressure would allay any concerns. Rarely did you have to draw blood.
But now those damn cameras are everywhere, and everyone has one. The streets are full of them: mounted on posts, on walls, in every shop, on phones, in cars, in houses, and even on people’s heads as they ride about with them looking like the prototype Dalek.
Too recognisable is my old mug. Yet I’ve no desire to be unemployed, not yet. So back to old school tactics, and if old bill can’t keep up then tough. Disguise is the way to go. Change of face, change of clothes, change of prints, and even contacts so that no one knows. My own mother wouldn’t recognise me, bless her soul. As for my sis, she’d probably be grateful for the separation. Not that she acknowledges me even now. She’d be quite happy for me to disappear off the radar. And as for the old lady, well, there’s plenty more where she came from.
Who would I be and where would I go? Who knows? I just don’t want to do anything too serious that causes me more than an overnight lockup. Get bail, get home. Swap things around a bit. Disappear for a while and then re-emerge as someone else.
Let them take their pics and their prints. They’re not mine! By the time they figure it out I’m long gone. Gone on a song. Never the same face twice and no one knows whether the real me is naughty or nice.
The best thieves of course are magicians. It’s an art form. Some do it on a grand scale: politicians for example, they’re the biggest crooks of all. Sleight of hand. Now you see it, now you don’t. Even those with the stop and pause function can’t even see it as they edge it frame by still frame. Did he put it back? I can’t see, I’m not sure. It looks like he did but is it there? Gotta be quick, gotta be sure!
I’m no one stealing nothing. I ain’t here and I have nothing of worth.
I’m the thief that no one knows. I’m the thief that doesn’t exist.
You gotta be careful with what you lift. Only steal something you either want yourself or know you can shift for a good price. It always amazes me how many would-be thieves take stuff they can’t sell or sell too cheap because they don’t know it’s true worth or haven’t got the contacts to sell it on. Muppets!
Switching identities has gone way beyond the lifting of someone’s bank card, swiping the codes, accessing the data and cloning the entire digital identity. That’s old school. None of that changes the face you walk around with. Hi tech laser scanners, that’s the thing now. It feels realistic, just a second layer of skin moulded to your fingers and face. Sweet. Lasts for days, weeks if you’re careful. You could get away with murder wearing someone else’s face. But like I say, it’s not worth sitting on remand for something big, no dandy fake face is gonna help you there.
But I’m not aiming at what’s here now. I want to stay ahead of the game. It’s the next best thing. A full swap. The surgery takes a little while, and is costly, but I know a guy who knows a guy. I’m assured it’s doable.
Old bill can always question the familiar face, but check the prints, check my height, my girth, the facts don’t lie. Reasonable doubt, the courts will say.
My head, my brain, some other chump’s body. I’ll keep mine in cold storage in case I ever want it back. Who knows, maybe I could keep it going forever, just swapping bodies when they get worn out.
Who cares what the cameras see then. I’ll be someone else you can’t trace.
I’m no super villain, just your jobbing thief. Granted I’ve got ambition and a desire not to do time. Enemies, I’ve got a few. You can’t be in this business and not rattle some cages. All the more reason to duck and dive. There’s a good meat market out there with plenty of digital paperwork to keep me supplied with aliases indefinitely.
Note my gait, my swagger, my limp and the droop of my arm and tilt of my head. And when all’s said I sounded French, or Italian, Russian or South African. Who knows? Who cares? I ask you who it was, and you reply in all innocence and deceived, “I know him not. I saw him never before, but he looked as I described, officer.”
But keep all this to yourself, yeah. I’m not some dumb criminal who’s going to go blabbing it to the world. That’s the easiest way of getting caught.

©C.P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

November’19:

This month’s fresh new story, written in the last week, came from two sources, firstly the opening line which came to me one day and I scribbled it down before it was lost to the haze of memory, and secondly the title which was one of two stored in my notes as possible short stories to be written. As I started writing the story, without a plan of what it was about or where it was going, I still had no idea which of the two titles belonged to the story. It was only after writing the first page that I began to get an idea of where the story was going and how the title led the story’s direction. The ending is ambiguous on purpose; decide for yourself where the truth lies. In my head I know who the real culprit is, but I didn’t want to commit it to paper as the story felt it had a natural end.
CPC

 

 

 

 

Dead Man’s Boots

He’d been running so far, so fast, that he couldn’t help but throw up. He spilled his guts up on the sidewalk, crouching low, almost in a prostrate position, bowing up and down in jerking motions of prayer as he wretched painfully, his breath caught on the inhale and almost choking him. If he’d had time to stop for breakfast it would have caught in his throat and killed him, but fortunately all he could muster was bile.
The cold clammy sweats of nausea merged with the hot layer of moisture that had been pouring from his pores for the last hour since he’d stirred from his slumber in the farmhouse. It had been quiet there – too quiet.
He hadn’t slept soundly back at the house; he’d been too frightened to close his eyes to begin with. His ear had been pricked and attentive to every call of nature circling the plot of land for a distance he hadn’t been able to judge in the dark.
Mud trodden and soaked through from the rain he had slumped to a halt under the canopy of one of the large barns set back from the gravel driveway. There were lights on in the main house which he was keen to avoid. It wasn’t the most comfortable of resting places but there was enough loose straw scattered about for him to scoop up into a bundle to lie on. Open to the elements he slept with one eye open, wind scraped cheeks feeling the slap of night’s current as the atmospheric’s personality swept by him.
In the morning he awoke to the sound of horses neighing at the rise of dawn’s chill. The barn was a stable. The loose hay he lay on was from the large bales leaning against the side that he’d failed to notice in the dark, and which would have made a much more comfortable bed than the wooden boards of the stable entrance. His clothes, not quite dried out, were strewn in mud from the numerous times he’d fallen in the chase across the fields in the unlit hours as the storm passed overhead. But the most noticeable thing to grab his attention, even more than his desire to flee before the landowners cracked the door of their abode, was the ache in his feet.
The boots he wore were too big by at least two sizes, causing his feet to slip and slide as he ran, squashing his toes and cutting into his ankles and blistering his heels. They would have been a snug fit on their original owner, but that particular resident had given them up without a fuss. They knew each other well, had worked together night after night flittering away the small hours on idle chatter as they put the world to rights and bitched about the conditions of the workplace. He undid the laces and tugged at the boots to free his feet, tossing them aside and massaging his bare arches and toes. His feet were red, the skin flailing at the heel and instep. He took some of the hay and stuffed it inside both boots to pad his toes and cushion his heels before putting them back on and tying the laces as tight as possible. No sooner had he done this than he heard the cluttering about in the kitchen of the main house and murky shadows moving beyond the window. He was too visible and knew it.
He ran through the fields until he found a backroad, racing through like an early morning jogger, only his attire and panic gave away his true intent. He needed to get to town, find the authorities and alert them, or at the very least find a mass of rush hour crowd in which to disappear, not that he would blend in, not until he cleaned off at least. He was counting on a McDonalds or Starbucks or a supermarket where he could slip into the toilets and smarten himself up. He had no money to buy food but was sure he could lift something from somewhere. Finding replacement footwear would be more difficult, but he knew he wouldn’t get far in these boots as he limped along trying to push through the pain.
On and on he sprinted until he no longer felt the pain. With the exception of the blanket of sweat, his clothes had dried out from the last night’s downpour, but his perspiration now clung his t-shirt and combats to him like a second skin. The puddles, deep and murky, blocked his path at every turn, the muddy splashes welling up into his boots and weighing him down, squelching his approach along the deserted lanes. Deserted that was until he saw the black Land Rover with its darkened windows parked up behind a hedge. He thought to edge closer for a better look, cautiously wanting to know whether the owner was present behind the wheel, but then he heard the motor of another vehicle trundling along behind him from the direction of the asylum behind him.
Throwing himself into a hedge for cover he crouched silently as the police car passed by. He poked his head out slightly, wondering what action he should take, wanting to rush forward to his salvation away from his pursuers, but his mind was made up for him as the engine of the Land Rover came to life and edged forward and he realised he’d been seen.
Knowing vaguely the layout of the farmland surrounding the town he had idea of which direction to run, cutting though yet more fields where he knew no cars could follow. Eventually he found the road again and began to sprint. Past the country cottages and the quaint post box set back by a flower bed and a bench. Past the numerous metal gates to empty fields and kissing gates. Past the night time roadkill and the drainage ditches that eventually gave way to paving as the sleepy town crawled towards him with its hope of safety. Past all this he sprinted until his legs felt they would give way, his muscles swelling and turning to mush as the lactic acid burned through his system until he could run no more.
Looking over his shoulder, paranoid at every turn, skipping and leaping at every dog bark, diving for cover at every car until the traffic built up too much to shy away from. Then in the shadow of the country town High Street he gave homage to the concrete god of pavements. But he didn’t stop there. He rose and ran on.
His chest was heaving madly, his rib cage feeling like an Alien was about to burst forth and tear off down the street without him. He willed his legs to move, dragging them along behind him. His eyes blurry with the haze of desperation not seeing the raised paving spray marked by the local council for repair. His trailing feet, in their oversized boots, not lifting high enough and catching to throw his already overbalanced frame forward to spread-eagle on the floor. He felt the skin on his cheek scrape against the coarse paving and turned his head to see the black Land Rover slowly edging toward him.
Cursing himself he sprang to his feet and aimed for the next bend, thinking that if he could just reach it he would be free, or at least out of view.
The police car was stationary beyond the bend. He almost ploughed straight into it. The officer behind the wheel looked shocked and bemused as he snapped his head up at the still figure staring at him through the windscreen.
“Help me!” he shouted at the car, the officer inside undoing his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. “Help me! They’re after me!”
“Calm down sir,” demanded the officer putting his hands out defensively and looking him up and down. “Tell me, what’s wrong and who is after you?”
“My name is Justin Wilkes. I’m the night warden at the Mardel Institute.” There was a slight hint of recognition from the officer as he reached for his radio. Yeah, that place, that nut house out of town where all the criminally insane are sent.”
“This is PC281 on the corner of Market and High Street, I’ve eyes on the night warden from Mardel.”
“Received 281, we have units on the way to you now,” came the crackled response over the radio.
Officer you have to listen to me. I’ve been on the run all night. Shortly after I started my shift last night a handful of the patients orchestrated an escape. They killed one of the guards and knocked me unconscious. When I woke up they had stripped me of my trousers, shirt, and shoes, and the rest of the patients had taken control of the main wing. I took the dead man’s boots and trousers and rushed to reception to raise the alarm and saw some of the patients running through the car park towards my car. I yelled out to them and they started chasing me.”
“I understand,” said the officer as he raised one hand to calm him down and reached with his other for his handcuffs.
“No, you don’t,” Wilkes insisted, “they’ve been chasing me all night!”
The officer looked over the man’s shoulder as the black Land Rover slowly rolled to a stop and a smartly dressed man with a crew cut and a jagged scar on his chin stepped out of the driver’s seat. It’s all right officer,” he said as he stepped closer, “My name is Justin Wilkes, I’m the Night Warden from the Mardel Institute, I can take it from here. I’ll make sure the patient gets back to where he belongs.”

©C.P. Clarke 2019

 

 

 

 

October’19:
So this month has seen the release of my latest book, which is available for download only.  This is very different from all my other works as it is primarily a war story with elements of the paranormal in.  Based in Africa, it is about a village that gets attacked and one man’s struggle to find his kidnapped child and rescue him from the clutches of rebel soldiers.  This was originally written a couple of years ago as the idea for a computer game, and as such is purposely written in three parts.  If you like this excerpt below of War Child, then go to the home page and click the link to download the book from Amazon.
CPC

 

 

 

 

War Child – Attack on the Village

The sounds of cicadas, birds, and even the odd monkey high up in the trees are enough to keep me on edge. I shy away from the roadside where I suspect heavy vehicles will come rumbling along at any moment, but treading this thin narrow trail of natural cover created by the wildlife, which hides the potential hidden enemy beyond in the trees, jitters my nerves more than facing a full on assault of soldiers out in the open.
I know the guerillas are all well adept at hiding deep in the forest and have perfected the mimicking calls of nature. For this reason the long walk back in silence, unarmed, listening to the tread of my own feet as the humidity rises with the sun, haunts me. I crave an open warrior to challenge me and channel the adrenalin racing through my veins pounding from my over excited and fearful heart. Fear is a great energiser. Fear is a keen observer. Fear keeps me focused.
I carry the AK47 I had requisitioned at the camp; it is the common weapon of both the regular army and just about every other rebel group to rise up in the African nations. The Russian rifle is cheap and easy to acquire, and the ammunition is plentiful, and few military arms have the resources to afford anything else. Unfortunately, like the weapon Joshua had wielded, I too am out of bullets. I carry it for show. If I am lucky I can use it to bluff for a greater position, or at the very least have a momentary standoff.
I’m a pretty good judge of distances so I know I am fairly close to the camp when I hear the truck rumbling down the track behind me. I conceal myself behind a bush that allows me a safe view of the dusty road yet provides the secure trunk of a tree to my back.
I have been crouched low for less than a minute when the growing thunder of the engine, a cattle hauler similar to the one I’d driven earlier from the sound of it, becomes the least curious noise around me. Behind me I can hear a rustling, a slow stamping of footfall squelching the mud and crunching the downed twigs in a meandering path around the trees towards the road. Within moments a villager comes into view.
I assume he is from a nearby settlement, his clothes ragged, his feet donned in poorly fitting but well-worn leather slip-ons. Two things give him away as being aligned with the rebels: the low hanging AK47 with its brown butt reaching up into his armpit as he walks, and the curious egg whites of his eyes that glaze over his vision.
I’ve seen eyes like that only once before, back in our village before I’d been clobbered and knocked unconscious. I didn’t understand it then, and still don’t even now. But at least this time I can observe it a bit closer without the fear of being struck.
He has no idea I am here. He can’t see me. In fact, I am surprised he can see anything at all as the milky white glaze covers his pupils.
He reaches the verge just before the truck comes into view and stands waiting. The driver slows on his approach just enough for the villager, for he isn’t a trained soldier nor part of the regular rebel group, to latch onto the outside wooden slats, get a foot up and hold on. He isn’t the only one, four others are clinging to the outside of the truck, and there are at least another ten sat uncomfortably inside. Of those I can see clearly, at least three have eyes similar to the one that has blindly walked past me.
I don’t concern myself too much with the apparent deformity in the eyes. There are many strange diseases and unclassified genetic markers that breed within the local inhabitants, many caused by malnutrition, although none like this have ever drawn our attention at the medical centre we’d set up. Jenny had dealt with plenty of cataracts in some of the older folk, assessing them, advising on them, but unfortunately unable to cure them – they needed surgical intervention and a simple procedure we simply weren’t set up to perform. But this isn’t cataracts – I know the difference.
My mind is focused more on trying to calculate what I am walking into. One truck with up to twenty armed men. It would possibly pick up one or two more en route. There were maybe a dozen or more that could have already made their way into the camp on foot from nearby settlements or outposts. How many of them were trained rebels and how many were coerced villagers remains to be seen. I don’t want to take on the locals unless I have to; they too are victims in all this.
I figure I am less than ten minutes out. I don’t want to approach the camp from the roadside. I need to drift east, swing in from the rear of the camp, the ground rises steadily there giving me a slightly elevated view from which to assess the challenge. I want to drop in, raid the huts for anything useful and slip out unnoticed if possible. I know it is a big ask and the odds of it going down that way are slim, which is why I also have Plan B mapped out in the back of my mind.
Circling the camp takes me an extra half hour, which is risking more men in the fight if it comes to it, but approaching from the road would be too risky. I doubt they will be expecting any of us to double back, we were making a break for freedom after all, but the road would be watched nonetheless. I couldn’t risk taking on an armed platoon at the camp entrance with possible re-enforcements driving in at my six.
Looking down now at the camp from my viewpoint I know immediately Plan A is a no go and Plan B would be in full effect. I will have to prioritise my actions:
Objective 1: acquire either ammunition for the weapon I carried or someone else’s firearm; whichever is easier.
Objective 2: take out the four guards outside the first hut that contains the radio and disable transmissions and gather intel.
Objective 3: take out the two guards outside hut number two and retrieve as much intel and weapons from within as possible.
Objective 4: acquire transport (there are two trucks: the one I’d seen bringing in troops and the one we’d left behind) and get the hell out of there in one piece.
Of course, by the time I’ve achieved Objective 1 I am certain to be in a rush to reach Objective 4 as the whole camp will have been alerted to my presence, which leaves me with the unstated objective of taking out as many rebels as possible.
It is while I am mulling this over that the cold barrel of a rifle is pushed against the back of my neck.
I freeze. Whoever it is behind me is stealthier than I’d have given any of the soldier’s credit for. Clearly I’ve been underestimating their skills.
Holding my hands wide, slowly I rise to my feet, aware that I am still hidden from view of the camp by dense foliage. I turn cautiously hoping there is only one of them. There is. A lone soldier wearing half fatigues, a loose fitting camouflaged waistcoat that isn’t done up and khaki combat trousers with a gun belt and dagger hanging from his waist. His eyes are clear, normal, but glazed with the sickness I’ve seen in many a rebel soldier in the past. With some it is alcohol or drugs, many chew khatt which renders them 90% zombie dead weight when posted remotely away from their commanders. Either this one is recovering from a bender or he has a disease I don’t want to catch.
He gestures for me to drop my rifle, something I am happy to do. I want both hands free. I am counting on him being slow to react. His finger isn’t on the trigger but both hands are on the trunk of his weapon. Gracefully I sidestep him, grab his left hand on top of the rifle and pull him forward off balance, reaching in with my other hand and tugging his blade free of his belt. His rifle is attached via a strap which is hung over his head and arm. Before he has a chance to react I pulled on his rifle so hard that the strap pulls him low so that anything he attempts to yell is swallowed by his inability to suck in a breath. Taking advantage of his low posture I thrust down with his own knife into the back of his neck.
The whole motion takes less than a couple of seconds. The soldier falls, slowly eased down by my hand. He is dead and I am now in possession of his rifle, his knife, and his sidearm. Objective 1 achieved.
There are fresh drum barrels stacked by the tree line. All are empty bar one containing dirty drinking water which one of the four guarding the radio hut saunters over to, cups his hand in and splashes his face. He gives his face an extra rub as if to wake himself up. I wait until he turns back around before making a break from my vantage point, sliding down to the tree line, crouching low in a diagonal from the hut to the drums knowing that most of my route will be covered. So long as they all hold their positions for the next couple of minutes I will stay out of direct line of sight and approach the central hut from the rear by the drums.
I scurry like a fast moving jungle tarantula, feeling the footfall of prey and seeking shelter behind the nearest object that provides shadow. I linger behind the metal drum, catching my breath and listening for any change in pattern of the soldiers. There is none. So far so good.
I dare to raise my head above the rim of the barrels. The four men on guard duty are chatting over a smoke. They don’t appear to be highly trained or disciplined but do appear to be part of the regular militia and not local villagers coerced into the fight.
I figure I need a distraction and am wondering how I can divert their attention to the woods on the left when just at that moment a heavy crunch of leaves and snapping branches trails a path from that very direction.
I tip my head briefly to see four men, three with glazed over moonbeam eyes, and one without bringing up the rear as if having railroaded the others.
The four at the hut look across also, two breaking away to welcome the new arrivals. I take my chance.
I leave the rifle on the ground, I won’t need it, I am still aiming for a stealthy approach.
I gorilla stomp towards the hut, my knuckles scraping the dirt floor, the odd bunches of grass tickling the back of my hand holding the hunting knife poised to strike. I leap up like a small child reaching for a piggyback from his father, only as my hand wraps around the neck of the tall dark-skinned parental figure does it slice at the throat of the wannabe baby-father. I spin quickly with the same blade, using the first man as cover as I hide my movement between him and the hut wall, and drive the blade up into the chin of the second man.
I now have six men approaching me in single file, none of whom have yet spotted what I’ve just done. I grab the rifle of the second man as I prop him up in a standing position with my knife, my left hand taking his weight as blood drips down my arm. Relieving him of his weapon I let him fall. I fall with him onto one knee and then line up my shots.
Six shots ring out in succession. Six men fall in a line. By the time anyone can react to the gunfire I am already inside the hut hoping all outside are looking out to the trees in confusion of the direction of the assailant they can’t see. I doubt any of them are bright enough to do the math on the number of shots and the number of bodies.
Inside I am relieved to hear the gunfire ripping apart the trees to the left. If I am lucky they will take some of their own out in the crossfire. I guess I have about 90 seconds before they realise the radio shack is compromised.
Unfortunately, I am not alone inside. Two men sit at a desk. The one with his hand on the radio transmitter I disposed of quickly with a couple of shots disguised from outside. But the other one is on me too quickly and I have no room to close the distance with the rifle. He kicks out with a front snap kick which sends me flying against the far wall. This one has hand to hand combat training, a common asset in the jungle squads, but few have actual martial arts skills as this one appears to have; a lame kick is easy to tell apart from someone who knows what he is doing. I don’t have time to tussle with this guy.
I push off from the wall and thrust forward with my elbow. I miss. He sidesteps and counters to my chin. He catches me, not full on but a clip enough to cause me to wobble. I go down, but only halfway. He falls for the dummy drop and commits his weight into following up with an elbow to my back as I drop. At the last moment I yank my body back at an impossible angle to avoid his elbow, raising my knee at the same time so that my whole body weight pulls back to meet his exposed face. We both fall to the floor, but only one of us is conscious.
With the rifle I put two bullets in the radio.
A small stack of papers, charts, coded messages and maps lays on the desk. I grab what I can and shove it inside my shirt. I leave the week-old newspaper with the picture of Gerard Rubekki on the front page on the table, push open the door and slip out and around the back of the hut.
Less than 40 seconds it has taken to complete objective 2, but I have not escaped unnoticed.
“Mzungu!” is the repeated shout throughout the camp as fingers point and gunfire is redirected to my pale frame firing back searching for cover.
Objective 3 has now become a little more difficult. The second hut is no longer guarded by two soldiers, instead five or six are firing from its corners and using it as cover as I fall back into spider mode again trying to avoid the stamping foot and swat of bullets.
Disoriented I fall into a shallow ditch used by some of the men as a latrine. I recognise the damp squelch and smell too late as I slide into the low trench, knowing it is the least of my worries. I can’t afford to get pinned down here. I raise the rifle and take out as many of their bravest front men as I can. I kill only one but manage to clip three more before my ammo runs out.
My only weapon left is the sidearm. I haven’t had time enough to examine it closely to know the model nor the number in the clip. Time isn’t on my side. Seeing some of the soldiers have cowered back I make a dash for the flat wall of the second hut, random gunfire flies passed me. I wait for someone to be brave enough to stick his head around the corner then clump him with my fist, take his weapon and shoot him dead.
Armed again I look for those I’ve already shot, but to my surprise they are already back on their feet and advancing, I note each one has that glazed over look. Three are closing in, firing haphazardly with appalling coordination. I take aim at their chests. They go down. Then they start getting back up again.
I unload the remaining bullets of the AK47 into the three men. Soundlessly they flinch back, fall, then appear to get back up again.
I pull the handgun free of my belt and take aim at their heads. They drop and stay down. A fourth man turns the corner. He too has a milky glaze and is dressed like a villager. I figure they are sending them in like pawns, willing to sacrifice them. Reluctantly I shoot him in the head. It was my last bullet.
My only way into the hut is through the wall. It is my only option; to stay outside is to face a firing squad.
Frantically I kick and pull at the planks that form the side wall. It isn’t designed by any chief architect nor was it constructed by a master builder. Fortunately the panels come away easily and I force myself inside, hoping that anyone who had been inside has already come out for the fight. They had, but that meant more men now firing at me outside. I feel a sharp pain in my left arm as I push through the slats: I’ve been hit. Then the firing stops.
Looking around the inside of the hut I realise why the sudden deathly silence. In the back of my mind I had known it, I’d seen them loading the delivery in here earlier. This is their temporary armory.
I waste no time in arming myself to the teeth.
Through the open broken slats I can see a handful of dark skinned men with pale eyes filling the ditch I had slid into. If they are abhorred by the stench then they make no reaction to it. For my part I can still smell it as it burns my taste buds and singes the hairs in my nostrils.
One soldier seems to be organising the others, no doubt ensuring the hut is surrounded. With enough men they can storm my hideout and shred me with enough bullets to tear me in two. Their only hesitation is in deciding whether I am worth the loss of troops and how many would fall in the process.
Looking around I can see a couple of long wooden caskets filled with AK47’s which stick out from where they have been haphazardly thrown in. A couple of smaller boxes lay with the lids off. I recognise the square shape; these don’t contain guns but grenades. A third type of box lays on the floor, there are four of them stacked against the side. I take a guess at what is inside as I prize one open with the knife. My guess proves correct: each one contains an RPG-7 and four-pointed cylinder-shaped anti-tank grenades lying in a grey foam casing. I have more than enough to take out every man outside the room – if I can avoid dying first.
A flak jacket with multiple pockets and straps lays on a desk. I put it on. I consider picking up the machete sat next to it but decide I only have hands for one blade. I load the pockets with fully stocked magazines for the assault rifles and pick up two Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic handguns, checking the clips are fully loaded with thirteen bullets per clip, I pick up a few extras to fill any remaining pockets.
Having strapped two fully loaded AK47’s across my shoulders – they hurt like hell as they rub against my bleeding arm – I block out the pain as best I can as I wonder whether the hand grenades I’ve clipped to the hanging rings of the vest are overkill. Catching a glimpse of more movement outside I figure not and lift the RPG from the box, load it, lift out another, and load that one too. I position myself in the centre of the room, satisfied there is no intel to be obtained here but assured that this outfit was well and truly resourced and well financed – I doubt the hut will survive the battle.
I wonder briefly whether sandwiching myself between the two grenade launchers is such a good idea. I would have to time the recoil from both carefully, firing one quickly and then the other, not caring too much for aim. If I judge it wrong I’ll rip myself apart as they fire, not to mention risking bursting my own eardrums. It is little compromise to the alternative, which is certain death.
I hope, even if I don’t manage to hit anyone, that it will be enough of a distraction to allow me a chance to flee the hut.
I lean back, fire one of the RPG’s through the broken slats I’d entered by, slap a hand to my ear in pain, then reach down and fire the other through the door.
Deaf, I run through the busted door before the hot casing of the second launcher has even hit the ground. As I’d hoped, the soldiers on that side have ducked for cover leaving me to open fire as the grenade explodes around them. The grenade takes out a couple. I take out a couple more. Bullets rain at the hut from all directions as most fail to notice I am no longer in there.
Objective 3 achieved.
I run towards the vehicles firing indiscriminately. Being momentarily deaf I am unable to judge the direction of enemy fire or any shouts screamed at me. I take out the men by the trucks easily enough and then use the trucks for cover as I turn and start aiming at any target that moves.
I feel sorry for the villagers, somehow they have been coerced into this, but it is them or me – I have no choice but to gun them down.
Looking back, I am stunned to see one or two wounded men climbing out of a ditch with limbs hanging off like zombies, showing no emotion but still trying to shoot in my direction. The sight almost stops me from pulling the trigger – almost.
I keep shooting until I sense the last of the regular rebels have pulled back and their cannon fodder have fallen permanently. Only then do I climb to the second truck hidden behind the first, which now has too many holes in it to be reliably roadworthy. The keys for the second truck are in the ignition. I turn them. It starts first time. It has more than half a tank, enough to get me to the town Joshua had spoken of. I gun the pedal and tear onto the dirt track hoping not to have to stop for anyone or anything.

©C.P. Clarke 2017

 

 

 

 

September’19:

Had a bit of a crazy delay in getting this month’s story posted, all due to my laptop dying and losing vital work I’ve been working on.  As a result I abandoned what I was going to post in favour of the story below.  Over the last month I’ve managed to complete Samuel and have written my autobiography (although not sure it’s something I will ever publish).  Just this morning 9th September I got up and wrote the following story which popped into my head as I was trying to sleep last night, so this one is really fresh.  As always you can let me know what you think by contacting me on the contact tab on the homepage.

CPC

 

 

 

 

KRYO

Before I even take a breath, I’m aware my hands are resting against something curved. It’s dark but there’s a glow, then I realise my eyes are shut. I open them and am blinded by the burning light of the room. I suck in a breath. It gets caught. I can’t let it out again. I can’t breathe. I try to pull my head forward, but it’s clamped tight to whatever I’m lying on. The movement reflects in the glass before my face and panic sets in as I visualise an airless Perspex coffin. I attempt to raise my hands, but the covering is too close to my body, there is no room to lift them from their position at my thighs. I don’t know where I am, nor how long I’ve been here, but one thing is certain, if I can’t break free within the next minute then I’m going to suffocate.
I twist and wriggle but nothing around me is breaking loose. My muscles feel weak, telling me I’ve been lying here a while. I can feel two prongs against my temples. I don’t know what they are but they feel sharp, and shifting my head too close to either causes a numbing sensation to the side of my brain encouraging me not to move. My throat is swelling. My eyes are bulging. My chest feels like it’s about to explode. There are elements of the room forming through the blur as my eyes adjust to the light, but loss of oxygen reaching my brain ensures the focus remains vague. And then my hands are gripping, not intentionally but out of panic. The curvature of the handles they had been resting upon are suddenly a lifeline of strength as I squeeze them hard to concentrate my energy, both physical and mental. I need to stay awake just a few seconds more to think this through. There must be a way out of this. My thumbs curl around the ends of the handles which protrude slightly toward my thighs and I feel a slight indentation as my grip absentmindedly pushes on the buttons. A microsecond later and the visor before my face is sliding downwards towards my feet and cool fresh oxygen is blasting my cheeks. I suck in heavily, my chest painfully trying to cope with the sudden intake, my swollen throat confused as to how to deliver it to my lungs. I begin to cough, hard and excruciating. My head flops down, suddenly free of its confines. My hands let go of the release buttons as I topple forward from my vertical state and drop to my knees on the metallic floor before me.
I look back at my coffin, my tube, my cryochamber. Its panel beeping green. I’ve had a lucky escape, but it would seem I’m the only one. Mine is in a line of about a dozen others. Even from my collapsed position on the floor I can see the shrivelled flesh of those in the adjacent tubes, and the indicator lights on all are flashing red, the word ‘deceased’ blinking in the panels below.
I find my feet. My head is still a fog, as is my vision of the room. My body feels weak, only through stiffness and lack of movement. A quick stroke of my muscles tells me I haven’t lost any body mass, if anything I have put on weight. I don’t remember being this toned in the past. My mouth is dry, and I slap my lips and brush my teeth over my tongue trying to build up some saliva as my mind tries to reconcile my surroundings.
Do I know this place? I don’t think so. What about the tubes? I examine mine curiously, but I have no recollection of ever seeing this sort of tech before. There is a name and a number alongside the control panel. Elias Pembroke 2819. Is that me? Is that how many of us there are? I try to remember who I am. My name, my life; my memory is lost. I assume it is an effect of whatever cryosleep I’ve been subjected to. There is nothing on the panel to indicate how long I was under.
I step across to the tube to my right and look at the dead man stood there. There is a light on inside the tube. There are the same prongs protruding to his temples and his hands are resting on the same release handles, but the exposed flesh I can see is all shrivelled and grey. He’s been dead a long time. Something within the process has gone wrong I suspect; a leak in the tube, a software malfunction, who knows? I glance down the line and realise all the others are the same. I am lucky to be alive.
I step into the middle of what appears to be a corridor in front of the tubes and look up and around. I am in a bank of hundreds. One corridor amongst many, above and below. There is a railing which I peer over and see that the height and depth is beyond my vision. I am 2819, but I suspect I am in the low numbers from what I can see. What happened to us? Are we the survivors of the human race? Did we survive some sort of holocaust? I clamp my palms to my eyes desperate to remember.
“Hello?” I bellow into the darkness of the void. The lights of the corridors only reach so far into what appears to be some sort of silo. My voice rasps horribly like sandpaper on the mechanics of my throat as the swelling there still attempts to settle from its near explosion of panic. What I wouldn’t do for a glass of water right now!
“Hello?” I try again. I hear nothing in response, not even the ping of an electrical circuit. I listen intently for a minute or so. There is a bass thrumming continuously so that it is almost absent from my ears. I take it to be some sort of generator, maybe powering the tubes, or even a cooling system for the warehouse, or capsule, or whatever this storage facility could be described as.
The clothes I’m wearing are skin-tight, pale grey, with only one identifying logo on it, ‘Kryo’. The name of the company or organisation responsible for all this I assume. Everyone in the tubes is wearing the same I note as I guide myself along the rail looking for a door or a way out. We seem to have been stored in groups of twelve, each section separated by a wall with an electrical panel and a display screen embedded in it. Each screen shows the bio readouts for each tube in its section. As I pass each bank of bodies it is clear that none have survived. They are all corpses, the vitals of each tube reading a fatal failure as the outline of each body is drawn in red on the screen.
I walk for about five minutes. My legs are getting stronger, waking up with the rest of my body. My mind follows as flashes of who I am start bouncing to the foreground of my vision. I was a New York police officer. Images of walking the beat around Tribeca in Lower Manhattan fill my senses, the smell of coffee and pancakes, the haze of steam rising from manhole covers on the sidewalk, sirens and traffic noise pummelling my ears. I see a blonde woman reaching forward for a kiss. She pretty, in her thirties. I know her but I can’t remember her name. A child is hugging me, calling me daddy. “Can I ride in a police car today?” she is asking as she wraps her arms around my neck. If this was my life, then it is far removed from where I am now.
The walkway eventually comes to an end at a sturdy metal door. There is a keypad lock system to the side of it. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders in frustration, then wave my hand helplessly. How am I supposed to know what the code is? I try a set of random numbers, but nothing opens it. And then it occurs to me that maybe it’s linked to the tubes and automated to open for those coming out of cryosleep. I tap in 2819 and the panel turns green and I hear the hiss of pressure of a door that hasn’t opened in a long while.
Outside is dark and cold, bitterly so. I try to take in the view, but I can’t see far beyond what is hovering outside the door. It appears to be a humanoid robot. It is tall and cumbersome, it’s eyes spectral yet dim as though its power circuits are fading. It looks weathered as if it has been standing sentinel in the same position for a long time, just waiting. I look past it and see the dark towers of buildings I don’t recognise. We are on an outdoor platform scaling the side of the silo. Looking up I can see similar platforms on each level, curving around what appears to be a circular building. All the other buildings are angular and rise to elaborately designed pinnacles, but all look dormant, not a light in sight. The silo appears to be placed in the centre of a one-time bustling city, but one I don’t recognise, nor one that looks even vaguely familiar. I note that there are no clouds in the sky and that the stars are crystal clear.
“2819, welcome to Kryo. Congratulation on being the first to awake.”
I stare back down at the monotone electronic voice coming from the robot. The first! That also means the last, surely? I don’t dare voice my concern, my panic.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“Kryo facility 182, New Nevada.”
“What? Where? What happened?”
“Based on the tone of your questions my programming informs me that you are experiencing confusion. You were selected as a Kry Systems subject following a fatal gunshot wound and were brought to this facility for enhancement.”
“Enhancement?”
“You have been injected with a biological product designed to increased body strength and mental agility in the human race, to ensure future generations would be superior to those that went before you.”
“You’ve turned me into a superhuman?”
“Enhanced.”
I step passed the robot to the rail to look out at the city of New Nevada. It looks deserted. I lean out to look down but as I do so I am repelled violently backwards against the wall of the silo.
“What the hell?”
“This facility is protected by an electromagnetic field. It was installed to ensure the future of the human race was not affected by the onslaught of weather patterns and destruction of our failing orbit.”
I stand up and check myself. I’m not hurt but my skin is tingling from the buzz of the forcefield. I look out again at the city and now notice in the gloom that many of the buildings are missing windows, and what I thought were elaborate building designs are in fact damaged shells and twisted metal and crumpled concrete.
“What about my family?”
“I have no record of your family. You were selected for the program before there was a worldwide priority order from the International Emergency Council. You were one of the original enhancement candidates when the Kryo Corporation was still part of a secret military arm of the Unites States government.”
A million thoughts are spinning in my head. I’m only just remembering who I am and an emotional attachment to my family is yet to form, for which I am thankful. A forcefield surrounds the building which I cannot penetrate. All those within the building behind me are dead. I am confronted with a robot whose own power supply seems to be fading as the lights in its eyes are less than bright and blinking out of sequence. And to top it off this robot is telling me the planet is no longer circling our sun.
“How long?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer but knowing it needs to be asked.
“I do not understand the question. Do you require information on how long since the catastrophe that ripped the Earth from its orbit around the sun? Or do you require information as to when the last living human expired on the surface of the planet? Or do you require information as to how long you can sustain yourself in this environment? I can assure you that your body has been modified to not require the regular sustenance it was once used to but can receive its nutrition from the electro-stimulus of the cryopods. There are underground facilities at the base of this building, however I have not detected any life signs, nor activity there, mechanical or otherwise for some time now.”
I shake my head. Nothing this droid is saying is helping my mindset. I know it is trying to be helpful, its programming most likely designed to be a reassuring aid upon waking. If it were human I would have been met with an emotional and emphatic response. However, all this machine is doing is confirming that I have stepped out of one coffin into another, only bigger.
“I meant how long have I been asleep?”
“By my records you have been in cryosleep for five hundred and nineteen days three hours and thirty-six minutes.”
I slump back against the wall. In any other time period I’d have been a super soldier, who knows maybe ever a superhero. But here and now I am nothing but a dead cop assigned to an eternal hell.
“Are you able to reactivate my cryochamber and put me back to sleep?”
“Yes. But you are awake. Why would you want to be put back to sleep?”
“I’m going back inside now,” I say as I turn towards the door. “When I reach my pod put me back to sleep for another five hundred years. Can you do that?”
“Yes of course. But please be aware that my systems are failing and the command power supply for this facility is not designed to last for that long.”
I nod. “That’s what I’m counting on,” I say as I let the door slam shut behind me.

©C.P. Clarke 2019

 

 

 

 

August’19:

For those eagle eyed among you you’ll notice that I’ve had a break from posting for a while.  Due to personal issues my writing had to take a back.  Slowly I’m getting back into it and am currently trying to complete POV 4 – Samuel before I resume on my apocalyptic novel Blackout.
This month’s story is what I had planned to post on here back in May.  Unfortunately I haven’t written any new shorts since then.  Remote Viewer was writen in April and got the approval of my number one fan JJ.  The idea came when I stumbled upon a piece of video footage describing research decades ago about the attempted application of using psychic projections in crime solving.  Some people, it would seem, take the practise of remote viewing quite seriously, as they do a lot of the subjects I write about.  But just for clairty, for me it’s all great ideas of fiction for me to draw on.
Let me know what you think of it, or if you have story suggestions you’d like to challenge me with, by dropping me on the contact page.

CPC

 

 

 

 

REMOTE VIEWER

“Who have we got in today?”
“Turner.”
Dexter closed his eyes for elongated second, let out a heavy breath, and then looked back at McIver.
“Hey, don’t blame me, I don’t book these guys.  Blame admin who send out the invites.”  Then looking to the one way glass nodded in its direction.  “He’s been in there for half an hour spinning a beer bottle around the table singing racist chants.  He thinks you’ve been in here the whole time.
“Don’t make me use profanity this early in the morning.”
“Why not?  That’s pretty much all that’s come out of his mouth since he got here, you may as well join in and feel at home.”
Dexter pulled a chair away from the table and sat down next to McIver, placing his half- drunk coffee cup down away from the keyboard.   The Starbucks logo was worn from use, begging to be replaced on his next journey in, but he was always running late and the task never seemed to be a priority.
“What was it this time?” McIver asked with a glance to his watch.
“Black Awareness Week, they were arguing over what to take in.”
“Do black kids really need to take in something for Black Awareness Week?  Really?”
“Tell me about it.  I thought Jody would have sorted it out with them last night, but no, she leaves it for me.  Just like the costumes for Book Week.”
“What did they take in the end?  Actually no, don’t tell me, I’m really not that interested.  I can’t handle another long winded description of them wrestling over the same thing.  I have enough trouble with just one kid, screw having twins.”
“Thanks for the sympathy.”
“You’re welcome.”
McIver handed over a file folder and then flicked a switch on the console to his left.  A barrage of foul language suddenly blurted through the speakers into the observation room.  He flicked the switch again to silence the noise.
“Charming,” Dexter noted as he scoured the contents of the file.  “Is he wired up?”
McIver pressed a few buttons on the console.  The computer monitors lit up: two showed graphs, brain patterns and audio waves; the thirds was a split screen of CCTV images from inside the room on the other side of the glass.
Turner was sat in a reclined leather chair, his feet up on the table in front of him.  There were cables attached to anodes on his temples linked to very sophisticated and expensive machine behind him.  His boots, brown and muddy, the laces untied and frayed, scuffed up the closest pages of blank paper that lay on the table.  Also on the table sat pens, and pencils of varying colours along with modelling clay and a blindfold.
Turner wiped his nose with the back of his hand, a pale glistening trail of snot catching in his week old ginger stubble.  He wiped the back of his hand on his trousers and then slid his hand beneath his belt to scratch at his groin.
“The guy’s an animal,” commented McIver as he double checked the inputs coming through from the other room.
“Yeah well it’s not our job to judge, I guess.  It is what it is and we have to roll with it.”
“Why do we always get the jerks?  We seem to get this A-hole far more than we get Carolyn Jones.”
“Pleasing on the eye, I agree, but we’re both married men remember.”
“Young, pretty, intelligent, pleasant personality…”
“Nice to know you’re keeping your objective professionalism through to the end.”
They both laughed as Dexter closed the file.
“Toss a coin for who gets to see Turner out afterwards?”
“No, I’ll do it.  It will make up for me being late.  Besides, he hates a black dude showing him the door.”
McIver nodded to the file.  “Clock’s ticking, do you want me to start the record?”
“Yeah, let’s get on with it.”
McIver angled the microphone attached to the console next to the computer screen and spoke into it, changing his tone to sound more official.  “Remote Viewer file 262.  Case of Andrea Cassi, missing, reported abducted two days ago, Detroit, Michigan State.  Remote Viewing facility: San Francisco.  Remote Viewer: Michael Turner.  Interviewer: Terrance Dexter.  Control Monitor: David McIver.  Date: February 12^th 2019.  Time: 0940 hours.  I can confirm system has been calibrated and that a full record is being recorded.  The subject has no prior knowledge of the case and is a willing participant in the programme.”  He flicked a switch to open up two way conversation between the rooms.  “Mr Turner, this is McIver, we are now starting the interview.”
“About bloody time!  You tossers don’t pay me enough to sit here twiddling my thumbs.  The least you could do was bring me in another beer.”
“Mr Turner, you know the rules, please refrain from swearing.”
Dexter reached over and covered the microphone with his hand.  “How much has he had to drink?”
McIver shrugged.  “Nothing since he’s been here.  The bottle on the floor he brought in with him, but it was empty.”
Dexter withdrew his hand and sat back with a nod to continue.
“Mr Turner, I would like you to put on the blindfold now please.”  Turner kicked his legs off the table and leaned forward to retrieve the black material.  He placed it over his eyes and velcroed the fastening behind his head then reclined back in the chair.
“You know one day you boys should send in a hooker to make this interesting, give me something to fondle rather than that Plastercine crap.  That would get me in the mood for some action, if you know what I mean.”
McIver ignored him.  “Mr Turner, the next voice you hear will be Mr Dexter’s…”
“Oh not that black wan…”
“He will be conducting this interview,” said McIver trying to cut across him.
There was a second microphone attached to Dexter’s side of the table which had a push button system on its base.  He depressed the button and then in a calm voice said, “Good morning Mr Turner.  I would like you to focus now on the darkness before you.  Please empty your mind and focus on nothing but the darkness and my voice.”
“Shouldn’t be hard,” sniped McIver under his breath.
Dexter waited a moment and then looked to his colleague.  McIver shook his head.
“Mr Turner, our readings show your mind is still actively thinking about something, can you please try to focus on the darkness.”
“Angel is the centrefold… na nah, nah, na na nah, na nah…”
“Turner!”
“”Hookers and a playboy magazine on the table, not too much to ask.  I know why you don’t have women behind that glass, ‘cause they can’t handle my charismatic charm, personality, and good looks.”
Dexter was supping at his coffee, which was twenty minutes too cold, and almost spat it out in a splutter of choking suppressed laughter.
“What, am I right, or are they just too dumb for the job?”
Composing himself, the last comment snapping the amusement from his cheeks, he depressed the button again.  “Mr Turner, need I remind you of the importance of what we are doing here?”
“Focus, yeah yeah, I know.”
Turner sat still in the chair and his facial features softened behind the mask.  Twenty seconds went passed before McIver slowly started nodding to himself.  Dexter waited a little longer and then spoke again into the microphone.
“You’re in a dark void.  There is no wind.  There is no smell.  The only sound is my voice, calm, soothing.”  McIver nodded firmly.  The machine said Turner was complying.  “I am looking for someone.  You know where that person is.  I need you to tell me where that person is.”
“I don’t know where they are.”
“Listen to my voice.  I know who I am looking for.  In front of me I have a picture and a name.”
“I don’t know who you’re looking for.”
“That’s right.  You are in the dark.  You are in the void.  You smell nothing.  You see nothing.  You taste nothing.  You touch nothing.  All you hear is my voice.  Can you sense who I am looking for.”
“Could be your whole family in here Dexter for all I know, it’s so black in here.  Get them to smile.”
“What a dick!” snapped McIver.  Dexter’s jaw was clenched.  “Don’t rise to it Dex, he’s a moron.  He’s doing it on purpose.”
Dexter closed his eyes and hit the button.  “Is there anything you sense in the dark?”
“No one here but me and Salma.”
“Salma?”
“She be on the table in my basement, snake wrapped around her skimpies.”
The two men in the control room gave each other a confused look as they sat back from the equipment.
“Wait a minute,” McIver eventually said, “he’s mentioned this before in a previous interview.  He’s talking about Salma Hayek, he’s got a poster of her from the movie From Dusk Till Dawn.”
Dexter hit the button angrily.  “Turner.  There’s a lot at stake here.  Cut it out.”
“I’d love to drive my stake into her.”
“Turner!”
“Calm down man.  Dark empty room, yada yada yada.”
Moments went by and McIver confirmed he was once again focused.
Dexter began his scripted patter again, relaxing his subject, drawing him into his frame of reference.
“You are five year old girl.  You are scared.”
“Yes,” Turner said drowsily.
“Who are you?”
“A five year old girl.”
“Very good.  I’d like you to take off you blindfold now.  There is a monitor above the window.  I’m going to show you a picture.  You have five seconds to look at it before the screen goes blank again.”
Dexter nodded to McIver as they both watched through the glass as Turner took off the blindfold and looked up above them.  McIver flashed the picture of five year old Andrea Cassi for the relevant period of time.
Turner looked down at the one way glass, looking at himself in the reflection, only his mind seemed elsewhere, not in the room.
“Who are you?” asked Dexter.
“I’m a five year old girl,” Turner replied picking up a pencil and scribbling something down on a piece of paper.
The two men looked to the screen showing the camera feed, the one pointing directly down at the table being the one of interest.  They watched his scrawl spell out ‘Andicas’.
“Andrea Cassi.  Andicas,” smiled McIver.
“Good enough for me,” agreed Dexter.
“Where are you Andicas?”
Turner started drawing a picture of a boat.  It was a crude depiction of a houseboat, too big to be a rower or a speedboat, too small to be a yacht.  He drew it with curtains across windows and a hatch to the rear, with a patriotic flag rising up and above the flying bridge.  For all his pitfalls, Turner wasn’t a bad drawer.  He was no artist for sure, but he was good enough to make his creations recognisable and detailed.
“Are you on a boat Andicas?”
“Yes, I’m on a boat.”
“What else can you see?”
Turner said nothing.  He picked up the modelling clay and formed it into a rough shape of a fish.
“Fish,” said Dexter and McIver to each other.
“The fish, are they in the river?”
“No.”
Turner began drawing again, this time it was a wide dome sat on a low square with lines crossing each side.
McIver imported a still of the footage into the computer and ran an image analysis for a comparison with known landmarks and structures in the Detroit area.
“What colour is the boat?”
Turner picked up a blue pencil and started shading in his picture of the boat.  He added a squiggle in red to the stern end of his drawing.  It was clearly meant to be the name of the boat but when Dexter pressed him on it Turner said he couldn’t read it.
A few minutes went by.  Dexter kept probing with questions and each time Turner replied with variations of the same drawings.  In some there were birds, especially around the dome structure.
“Got a hit!” McIver exclaimed excitedly.
Dexter snapped his back around to the computer screen.
“The Anna Scripps Whitcomb Conservatory,” McIver read off the screen.  “It’s a domed greenhouse in a botanical garden on Belle Isle, Detroit.  It on the river.”
“Mr Turner, you can relax back in your chair for the moment.”  Turner did as he was told and within a minute he was humming The J. Geils Band again, his feet back up on the table, and his finger rooting up his nose for some lost treasure.
Dexter reached for the phone, dialled the number on the inside of the Cassi file.  “Hello, this is Special Agent Dexter at the Bureau, we’ve been passed some information regarding a missing person’s case you local boys are looking into, Andrea Cassi?  Yes, that’s the one.  No it doesn’t matter where the intel has come from but we may have a possible location for your search…

“Late again Dex!”
“Sorry, Judy’s sick so I had to take the twins in, then I got stuck in school snarl up trying to cross town.  What we got today?”  He put his faded Starbucks cup on the side next to the computer screen and took the file from McIver as he dropped into the chair.
“It a local case for a change.  Missing hooker from across the bay in Oakland.  No one’s seen her for about ten days.  She’s not the first so the local police department are beginning to suspect a serial attacker.”
“Who we got in the chair?”
“Carolyn Jones,” he said with a gleeful smile and a lingering look through the glass.
Dexter looked in the same direction at the pretty young woman sat smartly at the desk waiting patiently.  “Just you stay focused buddy.  She may be pretty…”
“And smart.”
“And smart, but she’s nothing to us if she can’t tune in and get us the results.”
“Well, we’re on a roll recently.”
“We’ll see.  Ready to record?”
McIver nodded.
Ten minutes later they were deep into the session.  Carolyn Jones had moulded a coiled rope with the modelling clay and had drawn a picture of a TV with bottles on it.  So far they had nothing to indicate a location.  Then suddenly she went into a flurry of activity as she drew stairs down into the room with the TV, showing in her picture a front door upstairs onto the street.
Like in all of these experiments the results were crude and rudimentary.  They were unofficial fingers probing in the dark, delving into untapped areas of the mind that few understood, or even believed in.  They didn’t always achieve positive results, but they had enough of a hit rate to justify the existence of the programme.
Carolyn Jones picked up a brown pencil and drew a square.  Within it she drew a table and then a curvy woman on top of it.  She began shading in the woman in lightly.  The two men looking to each other in disbelief.
“You don’t think…” started McIver.
“The clay, do you think that could be a snake and not a rope?” asked Dexter.  As if confirming his thoughts she drew a curved shape around the woman in the picture.
“Salma Hayek dancing on a table with a snake around her neck,” muttered McIver to himself.
Dexter reached for the phone.  “Hi, this is Special Agent Dexter from the Bureau, I think we know who has your missing girls.”

©C. P. Clarke 2019

 

 

 

 

April’19:

I was conflicted this month as to what to include here.  There are any number of things I could upload but in the end I’ve decided to add a couple of short snippets from The Killing.  I’ve spent the last month revising this novel as I realised that it wasn’t as polished as I had thought.  I’ve taken out a couple of chapters and tidied up the narrative so hopefully it’s now a better read.  I also plan on dropping the online price for this so if you miss the initial free download keep an eye open for the regular price drop.

CPC

 

 

 

 

The Killing

Extract 1

Rooney was pissed as usual and didn’t have a clue what they were doing as the four of them strolled out of the snooker hall next to the fly pit cinema in Queenswood.  It was just as well, had he been sober he’d never have consented to what their ringleader was planning.
“Where’d you park the car?” he murmured to Frosty.
“Just down there by the church,” Frosty replied pointing along the poorly lit street with the car key.
“Go get this fat paddy in and start the car.”
Tom Frost looked back at the sixteen year old with a snarl.  He didn’t like it when this upstart tried ordering him about, but he had the sense in him to see the lay of things.  The boy was going places and everyone knew it.  Even Foley was giving him space to flourish as he carved out more chunks of responsibility, letting the youth take command of a garrison, soon on his way to being a general.  The kid was smart, at times impulsive, but mostly dangerous.  Tom Frost had seen him at work and wasn’t intending to argue the toss no matter how much he disliked the order.  He grabbed Rooney by the arm and led him staggering into the darkness like a blundering Laurel and Hardy routine trying desperately to keep to the path.
“What are we doing?” asked Jack of his friend who had casually slid over to the edge of the main road in front of the cinema and was checking the flow of traffic.  At this time of night there wasn’t much but there would be soon, the cinema would be kicking out in fifteen minutes so they’d have to be quick with whatever they were about to do.
“Ever nicked a car?” came the reply as he walked back into the shadows.
Jack looked around at the cars parked about and spied the only one he thought his friend might take a fancy to.  It was a black Ford Escort Mark III XR3i with all the trimmings.  Someone had spent a lot of money on it and it looked mint.
Jack shook his head.  He was a little afraid of what they were about to do but didn’t show it.  So far he hadn’t backed down from anything he’d been lured into and found that the more he did the more they gave him to do and the more respect he gained.
“You game?”
Jack took a breath and swallowed deeply before nodding his head.  He wanted to ask what they should do if they were caught, or if the owner suddenly appeared, or if an alarm sounded, but he didn’t, he kept his mouth shut and trusted his friend to take the lead.
They both sauntered over to the car.  A merry shout rang out farther up the road, followed briefly by a car door slamming.  A second later it was followed by the sound of the Cortina’s engine springing into life.
“Keep an eye,” came the order as the two boys circled the Escort.
Jack did as he was told, watching the street with a keen nervousness while the driver’s door was played with from the roadside.  He heard a click and then the door opened and closed again as a head bobbed beneath the steering wheel.  There was no alarm sounding.  That was good.  Although he couldn’t understand why the owner would spend so much on the car and not install an alarm, unless it had been disabled already, and if it had been then his friend was better than he thought.
The window of the passenger side was wound down and the command to get in was given.  He wasted no time in yanking open the door and jumping onto the leather seat within and pulling the door to behind him.  The engine started up, it purred wonderfully, then growled as the accelerator pedal was depressed lovingly.  Both boys laughed at the sound as the stereo blew into life with Survivor’s ‘Eye of the Tiger’ blaring out through the open window.
The headlights came on giving the signal to Frosty to get going.
The car was parked in tightly so it took a few moments to edge back and forth until it was at a place where he could swerve it out into the road.  He turned the wheel hard and hammered on the pedal just as a hand reached through the open passenger window and grabbed Jack by the collar.
The car swung out into the road but at too sharp an angle so that it pointed too far across the street in a position that meant he would have to reverse again to get the car underway.  Meanwhile the vice-like grip tightened on Jack with no sign of letting go.
Jack calmly and silently tried to hit out at the arm, feeling the bulging muscles of an unseen brute who was shouting something Jack couldn’t make out under the blaring music but could understand the meaning clear enough.  He half turned his body in his seat to try and pull away but couldn’t – then the hand released suddenly, the result of a carpenter hammering down on a stubborn nail embedded in a plank of wood on the floor below, the weapon-less hand rising and falling with unrelenting speed and power.  Jack turned to the driver’s seat to see it was empty and the door was open.  He turned back and looked out of the open window to see the face that owned the bloody fist.  The fist had stopped moving and posed threateningly towards the open doorway of the snooker club where a couple of familiar faced patrons stood aghast.
“Got a problem?” came the voice from outside of the car.
The two figures turned and went back inside.  They weren’t going to be a problem.  They knew better.
Within seconds he was back in the car and reversing it, almost running over the dented and bleeding figure lying by the edge of the road.  He thrust the gear stick into first and screeched forward into the street ahead where Frosty sat parked in the middle of the road, staring back through the red tail lights at the thrashing that had just been handed out, knowing full well he wouldn’t be needed.  The job was done and they were off.
Rooney lay sprawled across the back seat blissfully unaware as his head grew heavy to the gentle rumbling of rubber on tarmac.

 

 

 

 

Extract 2

Jack rapped on the door of the pub and was let in by Rick who grunted in his usual cheerless fashion.  He was a mountain born on the side of a volcano, ugly as sin with bulging black moles dotting his face and hands, and when he blew, fire erupted in pounds of flesh as streaks of lava flew from his shoulders into the villages below.
Rick had once been a boxing champion, which was how he had found favour as Foley’s chief henchman.  Not the kind of boxing that played out in a roped off ring with gloves and a mouth guard, no it was more the ‘no holds barred – no rules apply’ bare knuckle fights that drew big money in the deserted warehouses and side alleys of the underworld gamblers.  The same cliental who bet on a dog fight expecting blood and gore would have watched Rick expecting the same.  As a result the moles that lined his face were dotted like a child’s sketch with haphazard scars in an untidy map of his face.
“If you’ve come for the mail the boss has it upstairs.  He wants a word.”
Rick was holding the aging terrier back by the collar, being well used to the way it went for Jack and knowing that Jack would love an excuse to snap its neck if given half an opportunity.  He clearly had no love for animals, something the dog had picked up on long ago.
Jack took in a deep breath as he pushed passed Rick and headed for the stairs.  It wasn’t often that he got an audience as a one to one with the boss; most of his instructions came down the chain of command to the bedsit.  He wondered whether he should speak his mind about leaving, after all, he was all paid up and owed Foley nothing.  If he explained the circumstances then maybe Foley would understand.  His only hesitation was that he would be leaving them short and that the strong and effective team they had built up over the last couple of years would in all likeliness collapse under Frost’s impetuous leadership.  As he ascended the steps he quickly decided to hold his tongue unless an apt opportunity should arise.
He knocked on the door firmly and heard the strong raspy command to enter from behind the desk.  He walked into the perpetual cloud of smoke that hung in the room, a Milky Way hovering above the god that had created it.
“Come in, sit down,” Foley said gesturing to the leather armchair on Jack’s side of the desk and tossing the mail so that he could reach it near the seat.  Jack did as bade, resting back in the chair but not reaching for the mail in front of him, seeing that it would be a distraction from whatever Foley had to say.  “I know things are a little, well let’s say fractious at the moment, and I don’t blame you if you’re feeling a little restless, but I have a problem, and I think you might be the man to solve it for me.”

 

 

 

 

March’19:

As well as continuing to work on my novels, I have written some fresh shorts this month, but I’ll hold off posting them for a while, so keep checking in for new uploads.
This month’s story is another old one, this time dating back to 1995.  I remember being intrigued as to how in our space exploration we always land on a barren landscape, prompting the thought that maybe we’re just overshooting the local inhabitants and landing in a desert in the middle of nowhere.  Of course the reality is we would have far more sophisticated research than just landing on a random spot, but it was enough to make me question what primitive native inhabitants would make of an alien contact, and that even in our own past we could have misinterpreted a visitation.  The character’s name was born out of the first few words of the story; I remembered watching Logan’s Run as a kid so the name seemed to flow naturally onto the page.
For those waiting for my new novels – I do have two sitting on the shelf ready to go, just looking for a publisher to take them on!

 CPC

 

 

 

 

FOR FEAR OF THE GODS

Logan ran.  Swift was his ascent to the top.  The thin mountain breeze brushed wispy gulps across his face as he caught another glimpse of the sparkling light as it descended beyond the peak.
He stumbled in the dark.  The dull fiery rocks crumbling and scattering beneath his feet as they gave way under the pressure.  He stopped and looked down and back, ensuring his footing was stable, glancing at the cowering valley diminishing in the darkness behind him.  He thought of those others who had seen the light falling almost gracefully from the sky, those of his community who hid out of fear of the descending gods and their unknown intentions.  The meek folk of the valley were not deemed great nor important enough to be worthy of the knowledge of the heavenly beings.
Logan sighed.  They would be cross with him when he returned.  They would most likely blame him for any and every accident or catastrophe, big or small, which occurred for years to come as a reeking of the god’s anger over his foolish, childish, insolence.  That was, of course, if the god did not deal with him directly there and then.  There was a slight hesitation of fear at this thought, but he let it quickly pass as his child-like curiosity thrust him forward.  He turned and raced up farther, his mind arguing that not even a god could punish a child too severely.
He reached the point of the mountain where it stepped out to a narrow ledge before dropping in a rush to a wide flat plain of rusty red sands.  Logan hesitated.  He peered up at the sky; the stars twinkling, winking back at him, daring him to take a sneak peek at that which none other would dare to seek.
Never, not since the strange lights had first begun to appear all those years ago, had his people ventured out to greet the gods from the sky.  All were too afraid.  Suddenly, as he crouched behind a crumbling boulder in the dark, frost tugging at his flesh, for the first time in his short life he felt very alone.
He could still see the other light hovering amongst the stars, overlooking the arrival of the gods.  So high up he supposed it to be an angel, or possibly another god, maybe one superior to the one that had descended.  It didn’t look as big as the one he’d seen gliding through the grey mist, but he knew up there in the wide expanse things were bigger than they appeared from the ground.  The one up above hung silent, unlike the one that had announced its arrival with a ferocious roar as it passed beyond the mountain and out of sight of their hidden village.
The people thought the god to be angry.  It always seemed to be when it came down upon the land as it growled tempestuously.  Logan, in his youth, had yet to be taught the reverent fear that was accustomed with those heavenly beings which were held in such high regard, and were now so entrenched in their religious worship practices.
He listened but could hear no roar.  He waited as patiently as his young mind would allow.  Only when he thought it safe, and when his courage allowed him, did he dare to peek over the ledge to the desert plane below.  What he saw left him in a trance, his mind absorbed in what met his eyes.
At some distance away from the mountain walked an angel, dressed in bright silver clothing, with its face shielded dark within a large white bulbous head.  It walked slowly, bounding with grace toward its master.
A bright four legged beast glimmered in the moonlight, dwarfing the angel, whose sizeable head showed intelligence, but in its stride bore none of the majesty of the god whose strong solid figure stood motionless.
As Logan watched, the angel became one with the god, disappearing from view and hiding in the shelter and protection of its lord.  Logan thought that maybe the god had sensed his watching presence and had summoned the angel from view.  What if it was angry? he wondered.
No sooner had the thought occurred to him than the ground began to vibrate erratically, groaning with the pains of intolerance, the earth cracking and splitting on the dry plane and causing small boulders to slide from the mountaintop beside where he hid.  Fear held deep in his throat as the cold breeze wept a tear from his eye.  He turned to look back to his village, now hidden in the night, and wished he was there in his mother’s arms.
A screech and a roar unlike any he had ever heard in his life bellowed out from the desert behind him.  He turned to look, spying the angry fire that burned in the wake of the god as it commanded the laws of gravity to release its hold.
Fearing it was coming for him he turned and ran, stumbling, almost falling all the way to the bottom of the mountain.  Battered and bruised by the rocks, his skin torn and his flesh weeping he looked up to see if it had followed him.  It hadn’t, not that his fear was quenched, or ever would be.
The god rose up to meet the higher deity hovering above, watching all.  Logan dared to stare after it for a brief moment as the god’s course cut between the twin moons, and then was gone.  As eager as he had been to climb to meet the gods, now his fear of them propelled him home. In haste Logan ran.

©C. P. Clarke 1995

 

 

 

 

February’19:

No new stories this month as I’ve been busy with the beginnings of two new books.  Instead, this month’s story is an old one, To View The Evidence.  Written in 1999 it’s hard to think this is 20 yrs old already.  I remember writing it off the back of watching something about ways to fool a polygraph, my mind flitting to the evolution of such a test.  No new stories this month as I’ve been busy with the beginnings of two new books.  Instead, this month’s story is an old one, To View The Evidence.  Written in 1999 it’s hard to think this is 20 yrs old already.  I remember writing it off the back of watching something about ways to fool a polygraph, my mind flitting to the evolution of such a test.  I had at one point, back in the days when I was running a production company, toyed with the idea of turning this story into a short film, writing a screenplay version which sadly never saw the light of day.  I dug this out recently when I was looking for ideas to submit for a competition, and uncovered a whole host of stories I’d forgotten about, which no doubt will end up on here in the coming months.

CPC

 

 

 

 

To View The Evidence

The smell of varnished wood kept tweaking at her nose.  Not that she could actually smell it, more an impression, an assumption of the mind: the view and feel of thick set mahogany dock around her, the judge’s bench, the courtroom pews.  The mind can sometimes play tricks on itself allowing misguided senses.
Teri could feel the nervous sweat on her palms and finger tips, and the lonesome trickle from her armpit as it trotted between her bare skin and her light blue blouse before soaking into the rugged edge of her bra strap.
The jury looked at her nonchalantly.  Unpleasing.  Unmerciful.  Uncaring.
She looked ahead at the prosecution solicitor, a slight grin ruffling his jaw line.  He looked up towards the judge sat to Teri’s right with a smug smirk of attack; ready, brutally poised with his case papers in hand.  He looked to the judge for approval to proceed and got it.
Teri turned her head to her right just in time to see the antique figure at her side raise an eyebrow and nod with a tune of ‘oh just get on with it, I want this wrapped up before lunch’.
She turned her head back to face the court as the prosecution rose to his feet.  She glimpsed from the corner of her eye her own defense solicitor slumped half across his desk, a bored expression of resignation creasing his brow as he twiddled his pen between his fingers.
She tugged at the hem of her skirt as she sat with her legs hidden out of view, a conscious nervous reaction to maintain her dignity as she sat in her lady-like pose: back straight, chin up.  She could feel the blood pumping beneath the electrodes attached to her temples.  Her mouth was dry, her tongue a dirt track in a desert.  The microphone before her seemed too far away.
The clerk assessed the computer registering her reactions: body heat, pulse, etc.  It was placed in the center of the courtroom next to the projection stand.  Satisfied, the clerk gave a nod to both the judge and the prosecution.
“Miss Brooks,” began the greying prosecutor, his smile broadening as if already assured of a win.  “This court has already heard the evidence against you.  Witnesses who have taken the stand have testified truthfully and under oath how it is conceivable that you, and only you, could have committed the crimes for which you are charged.  We have heard and read from both the police and coroner’s reports as to the circumstances, theories, and facts regarding this case.
“Now I put it to you that you had motive and opportunity, and the circumstantial evidence heard so far in this court portrays you as a cold hearted killer.”  He paused to glance at the jury, a firm look to emphasize his statement.  “The proof we shall now bring forth from the only eye-witness to the murder.  You, Miss Teri Brooks, shall show this court what actually happened on the night of Marian Hartnell’s death.”
Teri could feel the feather beneath her nose tickling.  Her nose appearing to twitch nervously.  She resisted the temptation to rub or scratch the irritation but instead clung tightly to the hem of her skirt with her sweaty fingers, palms pressed firmly to her thighs.
The projector came on throwing a beam of brilliant white light across the blank wall to Teri’s left.  She didn’t turn to look – she needed to concentrate.  The computer began assessing data, its whirring audible above its resident hum.  Colour began to filter through the bright white creating an image on the wall and so the prosecutor began to speak again.
“What you see here ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as I’m sure you are aware, are images projected from the mind of the defendant.”
Teri slowly scanned the room, taking in every little detail as though it were to be the last thing she’d ever see.  She focused on the jury, each one in turn, pity and mercy pleading through her eyes.
The jury saw themselves in bold on the wall, their grained image interspersed with the flickering image of a little girl pleading with her mother for justice after being wrongly accused of misbehaving.
“The computer in this court is registering signals from Miss Brooks’ brain, in particular the part of her brain which registers her… imagery… well, what we would call the third eye.  The image we see when we look at a memory, or visualise a thought.”
The lights dimmed slightly to allow a better view of the image on the wall.  As they did so the prosecutor stole a glance at the judge.  ‘Get on with it!’ scowled the judge.
“In a moment you shall see, as we have heard from the witnesses accounts, how Teri Brooks on the night of March 13^th at 3am forced her way into the home of her former boyfriend’s lover, Marian Hartnell, and in a fit of jealousy stabbed Miss Hartnell no less than five times as she slept in her bed.  This act was a callous and calculated evil act.
“You have heard that a kitchen knife found in Miss Brooks’ home matches the wounds in the victim.  You have heard that the shoe prints taken from the scene of the crime match perfectly to shoes recovered from the home of Miss Brooks.  You have also heard from the coroner’s report that, from the location and entry wounds and from where the attacker would have had to stand in order to commit such an atrocious crime, the attacker matches Miss Brooks in both height and arm length.
“Now see for yourselves and let there be no doubt in your minds as to the gruelling and shocking truth of this crime.”
Teri’s eyes were still on the jury.  They were looking uncomfortable, but then they were all preparing themselves to witness a brutal murder.  Teri shot a quick glance to her solicitor.  He was sat back now, still twiddling his pen in his hands.  He shrugged his shoulders and half shook his head at her as if to say there was nothing else he could do.  After all, the memory viewer had never been beaten.
Teri twitched her nose as she returned her gaze to the prosecution solicitor as he began to address her.
“Miss Brooks, the jury is now ready to view your evidence, so can you please begin by telling us what you were doing on the night of March 13^th.”
Teri leaned forward slightly, her hair dragging across the collar of her blouse.  She cleared her throat and felt gunky saliva moisten her tongue.
“I was at home watching a video.”  Her answer was brief but the image on the wall to her left said more.  Meg Ryan was looking adoringly into the courtroom.  The image of a video rental box lay on a coffee table.  A cat sat in front of a fire.  Tom Hanks smiling at Meg.
“At what time did you get this video?”
The image of a street through a car windscreen.  The outside of a video shop in view then moulding to the interior of the shop, a selection of titles on a wall display, only the Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan film clearly visible.  Money exchanging at a counter and the video being handed over.  In the car again, the steering wheel with the dashboard behind.  The clock reading seven twenty.
“About quarter past seven, I think.”
Satisfied the solicitor moved on.  “At what time did you finish watching the film?”
“I’m not sure, it was late.  I got interrupted.”
The phone by the sofa.  The cat shifting from in front of the fire.  Teri’s reflection in the TV screen with Tom’s puffed cheeks held on pause.  An empty coffee cup.
“My sister phoned.”  She released her grip of her skirt to wipe off the sweat onto it.”  We were on the phone for about half an hour, forty minutes.”
The prosecutor nodded.  He already knew these to be the facts.  He moved on.
“Once you had finished watching the film what did you do?”
End credits.  Stop.  Tape rewinding.  A low budget, badly scripted TV thriller was showing, she didn’t recall the channel.  Brushing her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror.  Red toothbrush.  Nightdress.  Kettle.  Hot water bottle.  Cat on the bed.
“I went to bed.”  Her voice was hoarse.  She cleared her throat again.
“Then what did you do?”
Legs swinging into bed.  Setting alarm clock.  Big duvet.  Coat.  Shoes.  Feather.  Pillow.  Bedside digital clock reading quarter to midnight in bright red.
The prosecution solicitor looked perplexed.  He shied away from the jury, concealing himself in the darkness.  He looked towards the defendant, her nose was twitching wildly.
“What is the last thing you remember of that night?”
Arms hugging a pillow.  The clock still reading brightly quarter to midnight.
Teri remained quiet, unsure of how to verbalise her answer.  She glanced at her defense solicitor.  He was sitting up, a new fire of excitement in his eyes.  The pen held still in his hands.
The prosecution repeated the question.  This time the cockiness had faded from his voice and had been replaced by a slight worrying edge.
The clock.
“Sleep, I guess,” she whispered convincingly.
Quickly he retorted, attempting to catch her out with the swiftness of the question.  “What is the next thing you remember?”
She was ready for the question, the images flowing before he’d finished speaking.
Bedside alarm clock – 07.15.  Hand hitting the alarm clock’s off button.  Toast.  An empty coffee cup in the kitchen sink.  TV weather report – cloudy, lots of rain.  Feather.
He didn’t wait for her to speak.  “Do you remember going over to Marion Hart….”
“Objection your Honour!  I think Miss Brooks has answered for her whereabouts on the night in question and the evidence we have seen confirms the allaby she has maintained since her arrest.”  It was the first time her solicitor had risen to his feet in true character animation, and she was glad of it, she doubted her itching for concentration would stay any really direct questions.
“Sustained,” said the judge as he raised his eyes to take in his court.  “I quite agree.  Can we have the lights up and can we turn the machine off please.”
The court clerks did as they were directed.  As soon as the projection light went off Teri’s hands left her skirt to rub at the itch on her nose that never was.  She exchanged a look with her solicitor, a sly smile that read ‘reasonable doubt’.
She looked at the computer and the projector in the middle of the room and then at the deflated prosecutor who sat scowling with confusion at his case notes.  She smiled.  The system was fallible.

©C. P. Clarke 1999

 

 

 

 

January’19:

I’m kicking off the New Year with a short I wrote in Christmas week (there is a nod to the festive season within the story if you can spot it).  The story is a potential prelude to a novel I’ve already started (working title ‘Krys’), a novel I’m planning to shelve for a little while so that I can begin the long awaited post-apocalyptic zombie saga ‘Blackout’ – having almost 30,000 words in notes since 2014 it’s about time I stopped writing notes and started writing the story.
This year I’m also planning to start on POV 4 as well as getting the completed War Child and Time Locked novels released at some point.
Genomics came off the back of a news item I saw on TV which I was quick to pick up on as fitting in with the character I’d already placed in the novel.  Regular readers may recognise a familiar theme which will give an idea of the direction the novel will go.  My number one fan (JJ, who is picking up a flare for writing his own material) loved this as a short story, saying it was his favourite of all my stuff he’s read so far – see whether you agree with him and let me know by sending me a comment via the contact page or via social media.

CPC

 

 

 

 

Genomics

Maybe if you understood me better you would not be so frightened of me, not so sceptical of why I’ve taken such a keen interest in your work, and in you.  You must believe me when I say that I permit very few to get this close to me.
So yes, maybe it would be a good idea for you to know a little about myself.
My history?  Yes, maybe it would be helpful to tell you a little.  But do I dare?  And which parts?  There is so much.  So much that would have me hunted down.  So much that would have me cornered, boxed in, tortured, and dissected.
Where do I start?
If I tell you, you mustn’t repeat it to a soul.  Promise me.  Do not record it.  Do not retell it.  If at all possible, do not even dare to recall it.
As you journey home you will ponder my words and be distracted from observing the path ahead.  You will see but not comprehend.  You will lay awake at night wondering whether what I say is true, visualising an imagined past, an horrific trial of humanity, flightful and frightful scenes wasping in and out of your dreams.  Vivid.  Both your conscious and subconscious fighting to keep them out, but the curiosity of your own desires too temped to engage.
Yes, you can choose not to believe.  That’s your prerogative.  I would prefer it if it were so.  But I know you.  You will weigh the evidence.  You know where, and how, I live.  You know that I am far from the normality of the world you live in.
Do I trust you?  Yes, and no.  I trust you in as much as I would any person I have ever drawn close to.  That said, I am the last of my kind for a reason.  I have learnt the hard way that no one can truly be relied upon.
So what should I tell you?
I’ll omit the finer details.  I will give you a broad summary, glossing over places and names, and any personal details pertaining to myself.  This, you understand, is for my own safety, and yours!
In any and every generation there is a moment of technological clarity, of advancement.  Something that promotes the progress of civilization.  For the primitive it may be the fashioning of basic tools to hunt, or to farm, or it might be the creation of the wheel.  What comes next: clothing and fashion and self-awareness, mechanics and the impulse to improve, to make things more efficient, quicker, more effective.  What then: travel; a desire to explore, farther and higher and deeper.  Beyond that the emerging civilization seeks understanding, wanting to know how everything works, mimicking, copying the world around them, tearing it apart in order to replicate it to improve upon it for their own selfish ambition of procurement, self-promotion, power, and profit.  Society becomes corrupted, yet technologically advanced.
Look around your own world and you’ll see it’s true.  You don’t have to look far.  Go.  Look out the window.  You can see the transportation systems, the desire for speed and travel; the construction of buildings, great towers reaching for the heavens; the communication of wealth and power and oppressive control.  You can feel it, can’t you?
What advancements have happened in your lifetime, in such short a count of years?  Just think of where those advancements will be decades from now.  Centuries even.
This was the state of where I came from.  We had built ourselves up to be gods.  Only false gods are always unveiled eventually for the frauds they are.  The deceivers are always corruptible.
It all began with genomics.  It was simple enough to begin with.  The innocent medical appliances were obvious.  Experimental trials were approved.  Wide scale use amongst the population was implemented for various natural complaints until the human condition was alieved of all its physical combatants.  Splicing and dicing, and overall medalling of the genome became so prolific that no one stopped to contemplate the future path we were on, nor the implications of what would later be proposed.  Of course there were small voices of dissent, as there usually are, but those with the will to make it happen were also the ones with the power and the finance to push it through.  Very rarely does the little voice get heard.
The aging gene had been identified, published in the medical journals, and publicised for the world to see.  The pressure was on to do something about it.  Within a few short years we had a population of immortals.  Our physical lifespan capped by science, encoded into our genes that we would grow to a certain age and then plateau.  The aged and decrepit were allowed to live out their natural days, making way for a younger generation to grow and live on to an unnaturally long length.
Of course this had an impact on finances and laws.  Everything became far more complicated.  How does an ever growing population of immortals become financially viable?  There grew a class divide like never before.  Crime grew at an intolerable rate.  Life sentences without end were an abomination to be feared.
Suddenly immortality in an overpopulated, violent, and untrustworthy world, became not so desirable.  The corporations that ruled our governments ordered a culling.  The imprisoned and impoverished were the first to go.  The dissenters were next.  Eventually all that was left was the ruling class, the elite, the wealthy.
New laws were implemented.  It was deemed prudent to restrict reproduction to limit over population.  No one wanted to have to undergo another painful genocide.  The thing is that with power and wealth, the more you have, the more you want to cling onto.  The master race that they had become still wanted to procreate, but they didn’t want to share what they had.  So they reengineered once more the genome.
I was one of the last to be born a true blood, an immortal by birth.
All those who came after me were classed as inferior second class citizens, mortals forced to deify the greater race of immortals that held council over them.
After many years the number of mortals exceeded our capacity once more.  Our scientists worked on a way of making the mortal population infertile without altering the long term genomics.  The perfected serum was introduced into the water supply to create a sudden halt in the birth rate.  Unfortunately the effect was far too drastic than expected.  Instead of biologically altering the mortals, it instead affected only the elite.  We were barren, sterile.
We tried to undo what had been done, but only too late did we uncover the conspiracy birthed among the mortals who had infiltrated our scientific research and sabotaged the experiments and the data.  There was retribution – many people died that day.
We were angry.  We had been robbed of the right to offspring, and despite our best efforts the process was irreversible.
For centuries we reigned.  First as superior in every sense.  We were older, wiser, richer, more technologically advanced.  But after so long our numbers had dwindled.  Infighting, accidents, assassinations by our mortal subjects; we weren’t immune to death.  The fewer our number, the more esteemed we became.  We controlled the knowledge and the history of the mortals, so we manipulated them into building a faith around us.  We became their gods.
You know it’s funny what some people will build a faith around.  I have come across many bizarre faith systems.  I once encountered a whole race who deified an imagined obese biped creature with red fur upon its body and a long draping white main around its head which pulled down towards its belly from its chin.  They bestowed magical powers upon this figure, built great temples to him in the belief that he would visit them each year on a particular day, watching them from a flying chariot, judging them as to whether they had been good or bad during the year, marking each person’s score card to be judged on the day of their death.
Like I said, there are many wild beliefs out there.  Some have their basis in truth, but mostly that truth is hidden and unrecognisable from what people revere.
The faith of our subjects was no different, and we each controlled our own province with the responsibility of ensuring the honour and respect was duly paid.
You see it was essential to cement their understanding to ensure we wouldn’t fall foul of a major uprising.  There had been a few.  Minor ones.  They were swiftly contained and repelled with the harshness needed to ensure their ever expanding population was decreased to manageable numbers.
Yet fear of our own death was still a great concern.
After many setbacks it was thought we were close to a self-replicating gene.  This had become the golden chalice, the holy grail of our scientific endeavours.  We knew how to replicate certain cells within the body for regrowth, but certain organs were not compatible with the technology.  It is virtually impossible to find a test subject among a race of ancients whose sole aim is to live forever.  Therefore it was necessary to subject healthy mortals to testing on various formulations of a nanite compound injected directly into the chosen organs.  If it failed they died.  If it worked they died.  No mortal test subject was ever allowed to leave the nanorobotics facility unless they were in a body bag heading for the furnace.
The oldest of us, those who had held the most authority from the beginning, were understandably reluctant to concede to being the first to try out an experimental drug, especially following what had happened with the infertility saga, coupled with the reports of painful and explosive organ failures along the route to what was hoped to be the breakthrough to truly immortalise us all.
Lots were taken amongst the last born of the ageless and the true bloods.  I was chosen as one of those to receive the first batch of the self-replicating nanites that would be injected into the blood stream to interact with the grafted genome.
As I’m sure you realise by now, it worked.  No, I can’t tell you how long ago.  Time has blurred.  The history of it is shrouded in myth and legend.  We dispersed across the stars.  Fleeing our own tyrannical rule.
Why?  Isn’t it obvious?  No, maybe not.
At last we had a race of true immortals: not aging, and not able to be scarred physically.  But there were hundreds of us, not thousands or millions.  The most ancient of us missed out.  Their own fear and selfishness deprived them of the opportunity.  They had grown weary, risk averse.  They waited to see if there were any side effects before sending in a second set of guinea pigs.
Whilst the second batch were undergoing the procedure the facility was attacked.  Of course rumour had broken amongst the mortals, unsurprisingly; we had been using them as rats in a laboratory.  In secret they had been arming themselves, stockpiling weapons to use against us.  It was a coordinated attack.  We had hugely underestimated them.  The children turned on their parents, seeking to slay their gods whilst they still could.
Biological weapons were employed as well as ballistic.  Bombs were dropped, but in the confusion no one seemed to know which side had fired them.  Those of us that could took to the skies and watched helplessly as our world devoured itself in flame.
It was never known how many immortals survived, but of the mortals there were more, far more.  They had been organised.  They had orchestrated and executed a grand assault against their oppressors, sacrificing the masses with a contingency for as many of their kind as they could harbour.  The rest, those who fell, were deemed as acceptable collateral damage.  In this they were no better than us.
And in this way they have hunted us across the universe.  Tormenting us.  Capturing us and torturing us.  Experimenting with creative ways of making us bleed and feel pain.  Seeking ways to kill us.  And in this they found a way.
How do I know I’m the last one?  Many of us travelled together in the early days.  We kept in contact.  We protected each other.  But as the mortals expanded in technology and diversity they found new ways of seeking us out, of identifying us and chasing after us.  Their faith now driven by a holy desire to rid the universe of the evil that had destroyed their home world.  They became obsessed religious fanatics.  A priesthood.
Once deified, we are now devils.  Gods turned demons, immortals fleeing for our very lives.
Are these the answers you seek?  Is this the technology you thought I harboured?  Is this what you sought to steal?  I have seen the research you are working on, are you sure you what to continue after what I have told you?
You’ve come to me seeking to advance what you are doing, but you have mistaken my interest, for I am not here to help.  You see that now, don’t you?  I am only here to stop the progress of your work, before you make the same mistakes.  This is a technology that shouldn’t be meddled with.  We must all die.  None of us should live forever.
What about me?  Don’t worry, my day is coming.  The Priesthood will find me soon.

©C. P. Clarke 2018

December’18:

This month sees the conclusion of my space version of Shakespearian tale Two Noble Kinsman.  I hope you enjoy it.  Currently I’m busy with the launch of POV Volume 3 whilst also tightening up on the virtual game epic Time Locked.   I’m looking forward to writing some new material in the new year.

CPC

 

 

 

 

WORLDS APART (Two Noble Kinsmen) 

Battle day.  The amphitheatre was packed solid – wall to wall.  Standing room only.  The cameras were poised in all angles and the government controlled network was prepped to broadcast on every channel.  The favoured celebrity commentators, the old sweats of the games, were there in force to read off events as they saw it and to render their professional opinions.  The royal box was full with every dignitary from the local ruling court as well as foreign leaders from states across the seas.  As a good will gesture there was even a small contingent of opposition party electorates from Múndar present, just in case anyone had any doubts of the intentions of the king.  As was typical of any games where convicts were forced to fight and a royal was present there was a justifiable, necessary, and very obvious security detail in force, notably more so than usual.
A number of minor events took place to precede the main event and to give the people a sense that they were getting their money’s worth. These events were filled with interludes sponsored by various companies who had paid through the nose for the marketing slots, knowing that Dionites the world over, and also off world, would be tuning in for the fight.
It was the big game, the big battle, and both men knew only one of them was likely to till be breathing at the end of the day.
They stood in the dark recesses of the team tunnels at opposite ends of the arena.  They were too far apart to see each other’s faces but they knew each other well and could read each other’s body language and posture.  They both stood tall and proud and defiant, but also with both there seemed a sadness and a tilt of the head which read of regret.  They were best friends who had grown up together and marched together into battle with one mind and goal.  They knew each other intimately; their thoughts were unspoken but not unknown to the other.  In the distance they saluted each other with a respectful nod of love and appreciation.  It was lost on the crowd but not to the two men, or their team who knew the hearts of their commanders well.
With great pomp and fanfare the two teams were led out from the tunnels and out to the centre of each side so that The Pyramid itself stood before them.  It was colossal.  It stood thirty feet high and was adorned in golden stepped bricks that formed raised platforms on every side.  In width it was nearer fifty feet at its base, climbing gradually to its starred pinnacle stone at the top from which protruded spikes like needles.  This was the sensor stone.  It monitored movement around the pyramid and adjusted the responses of the traps as the fighters drew near so that each stone of the pyramid could open its own nasty surprise.  The pinnacle stone was also capable of striking down a burst of magnified heat in a lethal ray should any opponent breach the rules.
The teams were allowed to fight each other hand to hand, using any weapons at their disposal.  Clubs, swords, daggers, chains, and spears, were all at hand lying about the arena, but no death blows could be inflicted upon another team member directly, on purpose or by accident; the only official death blows to count came from the pyramid itself.  If you killed someone in the arena then the pyramid would automatically terminate your part in the game and disqualify you – permanently.
On two sides of the pyramid near the top was a black block of stone.  To win the game this stone had to be accessed by the team captain on the opposing side, and the team captain only, his hand having to hold onto whatever mystery was hidden deep inside the stone for at least thirty seconds to win the game.
Neither team knew what was in each of the huge stones that made up the pyramid, and neither team knew how they opened, just that they did, and that when they did it was advisable to not be too close.  It seemed like an impossible task.
The gong sounded and all in the arena fell silent.  Normally it was the Games Master’s duty to strike the gong for the second time to commence the battle, but when a royal was present it fell to the most senior, in this case King Theseus himself.  He stood slowly, the princess sat by his side standing courteously with him.  He smiled and nodded at the two opponents and their teams and then passed the baton to his sister.  She took it gratefully acknowledging with an unspoken glance that this was her games in truth, and that on the face of it she would be the one claiming the prize at the end of the day.  She too took her time to look each competitor in the eye, a slight look of pity welling, knowing one or both of these great men was about to die.
Both men bowed to her gracefully, unable to see the actions of each other as they directed themselves to the royal box placed in the centre of the main stand.  The audience watched both men’s reactions on the giant screens placed about the auditorium and gasped approval at their courage and honour; they had both won the hearts of the people.  The king nodded too his approval as his sister struck the gong.
Both teams raced to pick up weapons.  There were seven men to each team but many more weapons to hand than were needed, so each man ran for what he felt comfortable and skilled to wield.
Running gingerly towards the edge of the base of the pyramid, neither team was able to see the other as all fourteen men tentatively tried to assess the reactions of the stones.
How to attack?  Climb up one’s own side and climb round to the opposing black stone, or skirt the edge to climb only your opponent’s side and face battling your friends in the process?  There was no easy decision to be made.  They had trained for fitness and fighting skill, but tactics for the unknown of the pyramid was something they couldn’t plan for.
A man from each team ran wide of the pyramid along the ground to try and get a view of what the other team was doing whilst another tried to edge slowly towards the base.  Instantaneously a number of things happened which set the games in motion with much speed, fear, and adrenalin for both the competitors and the audience.
The men who ran wide suddenly had the ground pulled out from beneath them as the sand of the floor gave way to a grinding axle of spikes in a narrow gap in the floor.  One of the men teetered on the edge, overbalanced purposely so that he fell forward and leapt over the gap into a forward roll to safety.  The other wasn’t so fortunate: his right foot slipped and caught in the downward spiral of the axle and dragged his leg down, he speared his axe into the ground for leverage as he screamed out in pain, his leg pulling free from his body as he began to bleed out in agony on the sand.
Upon the stones it was no better.  The stone nearest each of the two men edging inwards fired out spikes, which they both managed to react to, one by falling backwards onto the sand so that the spikes flew over him, and the other stepped sideways in front of another stone, which unfortunately was electrified so that as he put his hand out for balance it jolted him through the air back towards his team on the ground.
Both captains took stock of the gauntlet presenting itself and readied themselves for the test of learning from their mistakes and the likely tools employed by the stones.
Pushing forward and upwards a man was swiftly lost to each side by a net of lasers which burned through their skin.  It would have been avoidable had they been able to cut the net before its heat intensified, but both were carrying the wrong weapon for the job and their teammates couldn’t get to them in time to help.
In trying to get round to the far side three men were caught in hand to hand battle, two against one.  It was unfortunate and neither side wanted the fight, but the one was forced to defend himself strongly against the two.  He caught one of his two opponents with a slicing blow with his sword before raising it again to defend against the second man’s blade, but his first cut had been too severe as the first man fell holding his intestines in his hands.  It had been an unintentional blow, struck in an adrenalin fuelled haste, but the pyramid was unfeeling and unrelenting as the star at its peak fired out from one of its rods a dart of blue beam, hitting him in the chest in a declaration of disqualification.  Two were down from the encounter and the third man progressed to the far side.
Yet another was lost whilst climbing the third level of stone.  It was a brave and daring attempt at skipping up the stones, trying for minimum contact and a speedy elevation, but as his foot came to rest upon that third stone it became clear that there was no stone in place but only the holographic image of one.  His foot fell through into an open space and his head splashed off an all too solid one above it as he fell bodily into the gaping mouth of the pyramid itself.
Backwards and forwards.  Sideways and upwards.  Onwards the men jostled and skipped, aiding each other and working as teams to achieve their goal.  Gallantly playing by the rules.  Time ate away at them until they were lost in the moment, unaware of its passing as they clambered the rocks.
Swords clashed around the upper echelons of the pyramid as the two commanders sliced air as they gripped the edges of the stones and tried to defend their team from the other.  Eventually one lost his footing and toppled back down to the bottom, allowing the other to cautiously creep round to the other side.  There was clamour and screams all around as well as cheering and shouts from the crowd.
It was impossible to tell who was where, who lived and who died, and what the state of either team was.  All Arc knew was that he was on the right level and Pal had just fallen to the bottom.  He reached his opponents black stone and pressed quickly on its exterior, knowing all too well that Pal would have already begun his ascent to the now undefended black stone on the other side.  His hand fell blindly into the stone.  Dark and unseeing was its interior.  He grappled around for whatever it was he knew he had to hold onto.  At that moment the surrounding stones, including the one above opened up and released a cocktail of alien bugs and insects which surrounded him and filled his clothes and attempted to enter him through every orifice of his body.  He paused, held his breath, not knowing whether they were poisonous.  Clamping his eyes shut he knew there was no time to think about it.  He found what he needed to hold onto: a metal rod, an electrified bar that shot through him with a shock, but he didn’t let go.  The current bolting through his body shook many of the creatures off him, which he was glad for, but still they came at him.  Daring to open his eyes a crack he could see some split down the steps away from him, but then others seemed to come towards him from around the corner, and it was then he realised that Pal must have activated his stone.  He closed his eyes and held on tight.  His body jolting.  His mouth foaming.  The veins in his temples bulging.  His fingers flexing momentarily in a spasm of reflex.  All the while holding on to the thought that he had the head start.
Suddenly the high bank of lights above the pyramid lit up and the crowd simmered down in anticipation.  Jets of spray wisped out from the rods of the star above killing the bugs that crawled about wildly.  They began to twitch and fall and kick the air with their backs to the stones.  Fallen soldiers lay either dead or bleeding, wailing in pain internally, but outwardly being brave for their captains.  Neither side knew who had one.  Both commanders still gripped their metal poles, afraid to let go unsure of whether they had held it firmly enough through the pain.  They watched in the distance the adjudicators move from their seats where they monitored the controls of the pyramid, saw them proceed to bow before the royal box, passing silently a computerised record of the final result.  Only then did they let go and simultaneously slump to the carpet of bugs at their feet.

There was a deliberate delayed response as the victor’s name was held back and there was a pause in the ceremony.  Like all good businesses no opportunity was missed, either by the gaming consortium who owned the arena and the broadcasting rights of the battles held within, nor by the those companies who had bid for advertising space to promote their name and banner across the stars for those vital few seconds of interlude in the climatic build up to, during, and after the event.
The most costly slot was this one, the one everybody was guaranteed to be watching as every subject who cared across the domain waited with bated breath for the winning name to be drawn by the king himself.  The trailer began, a familiar jingle to those of both worlds, an apt and politically provocative piece that would strike a sour taste with those back on Múndar.
The first images faded in on the big screen, an image mirrored on monitors across the land: on remote terraforming colonies, on satellite space stations, and all the travelling ships in between.  Bright stars bursting forth from nothing in the fiery cold of space as planetoid rocks collided and melded together in a crashing impact, shining metals glinting from within the burning intestines of the magma as one solid form began to spin and take shape in a fanfare of triumphant orchestral music that echoed achievement and ownership.  From a close up image of the precious materials that made up the forming planet the shot pulled back to reveal the fully formed and recognisable moon of Tiros with its parent planet, Dion, edging the right of frame.  ‘The Tiros Mining Company – A Proud Product of Dion’, the caption held in freeze frame across the image to a rapturous applause and a standing ovation.
The king was on his feet, the princess too.  If anyone thought not to stand then they would likely face an angry reaction from the crowd.  Arc and Pal knelt in the dust at the edge of the royal arena with their surviving men, five in total, all of whom now stood with the crowd and faced the king.  Theseus tipped his head in recognition of their gesture and waved his hand high in the air to silence the crowd.  There was obedience within seconds.  Then the king gestured for the two men to stand before him proudly before looking down to the small computer screen he had been handed by the official.
“This was one of the closest contests we have ever seen in this arena,” said the king, the microphone before him picking up every word.  “These men, these Múndarian’s, fought gallantly.  They did not steer away from the challenge.  They did now cower from each other or from the machinations of death – putting honour before life itself.  These men fought with the heart of Dionites!”
A cheer went up and suddenly the fighters knew that no matter what happened after this they would both be free men, one way or another.
“There are no losers in this battle,” resumed the king when the noise began to peter out, “for one has won his life and the prize of my dear sister, the Princess Emilé, and the other has won an honourable death and will not be remembered as a captive of war from a foreign land but as a fallen knight among our people.”
Another cheer went up.  The political words were being affirmed with exaggerated nods from the politicians in the rows behind the royal box.  The people knew the game too but few cared; this was the closest they were going to get to the beginning of a peace treaty, and that meant lives saved in the long run and their men returning from the front lines, not to mention the financial implications it would have on the economy.  It was all good.
The king silenced the crowd once more with his hand.
“Arc and Pal,” the two men dropped to one knee at the mention of their names, “you have fought well in battle, and though I know it is a fight that in your hearts neither wished, nor a fate either wished upon the other, unfortunately there can be only one to take the prize.  The pyramid is calibrated to perfection so there is no error in the results recorded by the officials, which I have here in front of me.
“Arc, stand to your feet.”
Arc stood, still uncertain of whether he was the victor or the condemned.
Pal still knelt with his eyes to the ground but he whispered softly so that only Arc could hear him.  “I forgive you, cousin.  I bear no ill will towards you.  Take your prize and live well.”
Arc was stunned to tears by the words of his friend but said nothing in return.
“Come Arc,” spoke the king softly, “come claim your prize.”  Then louder for the audience, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Arc, Champion of the Arena!”
The crowd went wild and the cameras followed Arc’s every step up from the sandy floor and up the stone steps to the front of the royal box.  The close up images showed the tears in his flesh, his muscles oozing blood where he had been slashed by Pal’s blade.  He bowed before the king, who half-turned to address his prize and bring her forward.
Arc fell to his knees before the princess, visibly trembling, eyes not daring to peer up at the woman who set his heart alight and who had ultimately condemned his lifelong friend by her beauty.  He had served in her court, but now he was free to stand before her he failed to know what to do in her presence.
She seemed to recognise his coyness and reluctance to force his winning hand upon her.  She reached forward, placed her hands upon his shoulders and drew him to his feet.  She looked deep into his eyes and smiled, but it was not a full smile but a resigned smile of being satisfied with the outcome but not truly happy.  She leant forward and kissed Arc.  It was a full and lingering kiss and was responded to in earnest by Arc with the world watching.
They parted and Arc drew a breath.  He had learnt much in the few moments it had taken to walk to the podium to claim his love.  He had learnt that in her expression and in her kiss she had made up her mind which one of the two champions she favoured more, and he had learned that his friend was more honourable that he.
“Your Majesty,” Arc said turning to the king, barely aware that his voice was echoing around the arena, “this prize I have won justly in battle and I thank you, and to you Princess my heart is yours and I thank you for bestowing the one thing I desired: your gentle touch in a kiss.  But in truth I have been dishonourable to the true champion of your heart, my dear friend Pal, who it is truly loved you first, and if it is within your power to do so King Theseus, I beg you to reverse the order of the result so that I may die in his place.”
There was a moment’s pause of shocked silence and then a gasp and murmuring among the crowd.  A single solitary shout of protest from far below at the edge of the arena echoed up towards the royal box.
The king looked kindly into Arc’s eyes and the two men smiled inwardly with utter respect for the other.
“I beg you do it quickly, my Lord, before I change my mind.”
The king nodded and drew his ceremonial sword and held it forward, uncertain as to whether he wanted to strike such a noble character from his realm, but Arc left him no choice as he seized the moment and fell bodily upon the blade so that it pierced through to his back.
“Forgive me Pal,” he was seen to whisper through a mouth filling with blood.

What else is there to say of the war between the worlds?   Créon Trebellefar The Third was overthrown and a new interim government formed while the people themselves decided, for the first time, whether they wanted to elect a new king or do away with the monarchy altogether.  Either way, Múndar managed to avoid another civil war, and its new leaders opened up a dialogue with the ruling class of Dion.
Múndar’s mining operations shifted focus to a distant uninhabited moon that appeared to have no prior claim upon it, and began developing a trade agreement with the Trios Mining Company to cover training and equipment in a deal which made economic sense to both sides.
For the first time since venturing out into space the people of Dion felt at peace and without threat from a foreign nation.  A deal to reclaim the moon of Tiros was brokered by the new ambassador from Múndar, Prince Pal, who now resided in the royal court at Dion with his wife Emilé.  A statue of Arc was placed in the royal gardens overlooked by the prison where the two men had first set eyes on Emilé. The king had thought this a fitting gesture and often spoke of how his subjects needed to be like those two noble kinsmen.

Thanks to Will for the plot and inspiration!

©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

November’18:

Ok, I’m getting ahead of myself by posting November’s stories early.  I wrote Cloud Cover a couple of weeks ago, then a few days later spotted a strange cloud in the sky which I posted to my YouTube channel www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-WZecVCwTw.  Pure coincidence me writing the story and seeing the cloud within days.  The idea came from some of the YouTube videos I’ve seen online discussing strange weather patterns and cloud formations.  I’m not a totall conspiracy theory geek (no offense intended if you are) but I do find inspiration from sites such as Secureteam, etc.
Also added this month is the next installment of World’s Apart.

CPC

 

 

 

 

CLOUD COVER

“We’re at 20%.  Gaining swirl over the ocean.  We’ve got a westerly wind gaining momentum ready to push it inland,” informed Diego plainly.
Marc Coho nodded his acknowledgment and then looked across the room assessing the other controllers before turning his gaze to the vacuumous screen sucking up the wall at the head of the room.
“Have the WMO picked it up yet?” he asked turning to a different controller at the far corner of the room.
“Monitoring their systems; the UK Met Office are looking at it, so are NCAR and the Norwegian Meteorological Institute.  Everyone else is turning a blind eye at the moment, including the Canadians.”
“Good,” Coho mumbled to himself with a nod to Graham, the controller monitoring the World Meteorological Organisations.
“We’ve got clear skies over Delaware.  There’s a warm front pushing up from Virginia and a natural cold front dropping down and round from Connecticut.  We should have optimum justification by the time the storm rolls in,” said Diego.
“Good, let’s make this look normal.  By the numbers people.  Once we’re at 40% from the ocean swell raise her out of the water into the cloud cover and get that teacup stirring.”
“Yes boss,” affirmed Diego, who was accompanied by mumbles and grunts of agreement from the dozen other specialists sat attentive at their stations in the room.  Each was assigned a specific duty, a duty they never spoke of outside of this room.  They were sworn to secrecy, and paid handsomely for their silence.  To their families and friends they simply worked for a government weather research facility, but only they and a handful of other need to know people outside the room knew what they really got up to in secret.
arc Coho was the boss.  He ran the facility and reported to someone he’d never laid eyes on.  His instruction came over the phone.  A familiar voice patched in directly to his earpiece from an unknown location.  Those higher up were government, or an offshoot of the government, or a conglomerate made up of world governmental figures.  He didn’t know exactly; it was need to know, and he didn’t need to know.  More importantly, he didn’t want to know.
There were things happening around the world on a regular basis that the general population were oblivious to, and would be horrified by and terrified of should they be made aware of it.  Part of Marc Coho’s job was to ensure part of that blanket of deceit was kept in place.
“We’re at 30%,” informed Diego.
“Prepping thrusters on the underwater platform,” spoke up Corin, a waif of a girl in her late thirties but looking fifteen years younger with a boyish innocence thanks to her shaved head, marble skin and thin lips.  “Still submerged, awaiting radar confirmation.”
“Clear on radar.  You have clear skies and nothing in the shipping lane,” confirmed Agré, a blue eyed African with a soul patch beneath his bottom lip.  No one knew whether his eyes were natural or contacts; no one had ever asked.  Idle chit chat wasn’t encouraged in the work place and they were instructed to leave their personal lives at the door when they entered.  As a result all they knew of each other were their names and their roles within the facility.
“Swirl intensifying.  We’re at 35% cover,” reported Diego.
“At 50 fathoms and rising.  Platform should clear the surface in 60 seconds.”
Coho nodded to Corin.
“Sir, I have satellite confirmation.”
Coho turned his attention to Cyrus, a southern state hillbilly with a handlebar moustache and a mullet, but someone who had an understanding of the stars like no one else in the room.  “It’s early,” Coho commented.
“It’s holding a distance, sir.”
“Very well.”
“We have breach at surface level.  Permission to engage lift?” enquired Corin.
“Diego?”
“38.  39.”  He paused as he watched his monitor.  “We are at 40% coverage.”
“Engage thrusters,” Coho instructed Corin before motioning to someone else to punch up the visual on the main screen.
An array of live images broadcast from a variety of remote mobile positions: a high altitude drone, a satellite, a recommissioned naval vessel, and from the machine itself, all showing the ascent as the ocean waves parted, washing over and away from the leviathan rising from the sea.
The machine weighed heavily as gravity tried to pull it back down to the water, but its spinning gears and funnels flung the water wide in a spray of cloud that disguised its breach as it battled to attain altitude.  And then the thrusters fired and the demon from the sea was unleashed, powering into the sky with its giant cogs turning and churning up the atmosphere around it.
“15,” bellowed Corin.  “10,” she said again after a short pause.  “5,4,3,2.  Disengaging upward thrusters.”
“I can confirm, she is in the cloud,” relayed Diego.
“Fire her up, Corin.  Let’s get this storm brewing.”
“Yes, sir.”
They watched over the next few minutes as the machine within the cloud did its magic, intensifying the atmospherics so that a thick and violent swirl began to form in what had once been a small and insignificant cloud formation.  Wind speeds were picking up and the contrived westerly wind was being monitored and primed to push the storm inland where it needed to be.
After thirty minutes of intense scrutiny Coho decided the machine had achieved its goal.  A hurricane had been created.
“Ok, Corin, drop the bird.  Let’s get her back underwater and out of sight.”
“Powering down rotors and prepping thrusters.”
“Prepping sub base to receive and retrieve,” spoke Daniel from the back of the room.  It was his job to secure the machine away from prying eyes underwater.
“Most weather stations are now registering the onset of the storm and are putting out warnings.”  It was Graham who monitored the meteorological organisations who had piped up.  He was usually a quiet personality, unconfident in all things unrelated to his specialist area, an introvert who felt at home in a world where secrets meant that few people were required to talk aloud.  “New York, Philadelphia, Washington news outlets are broadcasting the sudden appearance of the hurricane.  They’re expecting it to hit New Jersey and Delaware in two to three hours.”
“She’s dead and buried,” signalled Corin as she pushed her chair back from her desk.
“Taking over control,” confirmed Daniel as he pulled the machine down to its submersible hiding place.
“Where are we at with our press cover?” asked Coho, having been prompted by Graham’s mention of news outlets.
“All good!” spoke up Iveta, a Russian brunette in her late twenties who wouldn’t have been out of place on a catwalk.  She had a pleasant, if not teasing personality which she used to her advantage when steering the various press agencies off the scent of a story.  “A few of the usual conspiracy theorist channels and sites are already raising questions but I’m not too worried about them at the moment.  None of the main channels are commenting on anything suspicious.”
“Second visual confirmed,” spoke up Cyrus.
“She holding?”
“No, she’s blazing in like a beyatch!”
Coho looked across at Cyrus concerned.
Cyrus looked up with an apologetic grin.  “Just pulling your piece boss, she’s holding.”
Coho shook his head, feigning annoyance but in truth relieved for the light-hearted banter which was too often a rare occurrence.  He put his hand to his ear and nodded to the instruction and then turned to address Agré.
“How’s radar looking over Delaware?”
“Busy,” came the reply.  They’re trying to pull in all traffic before the storm hits.  Those too far out are being diverted.  We should have a clear sky over Williamsburg and Hurlock by the time the storm rolls in.”
“And on the ground?”
“Got it covered,” spoke up Sayed, an Egyptian whose yellow fingers and rotund frame told of the poor lifestyle he led.  “Local law enforcement have closed off the main road in to the national park to the south due to a fallen tree.  With a storm coming in they’re not going to try and clear it.  And the road in from the north has to cross the river, I’ve had a maintenance crew repairing the bridge for two days so everyone’s having a long detour round.  The flatlands and the forest should be as clear as we can get it.”
“Perfect.  Entry team, with the exception of Cyrus, you have thirty minutes to get a cup of coffee and use the toilet.  The rest of you can switch out when they come back.  Diego, I’ll cover your station.  Agré cover for Cyrus when you return.”
There were responses of affirmation as seats shifted and a waft of air moved in the room with the rapid shuffling of bodies eager to stretch out their limbs.
Coho settled into Diego’s chair studying the progress of the storm and the cloud cover it would create.  He knew he was being watched.  There were cameras all over the room monitoring the progress of all from a distant and secretive location.  As always, he maintained the appearance of control and calmness.  Everything was going to schedule, there was no need for concern from above.
Two and a half hours later and the tension from the concentration in the room could almost be cut with a knife.  The storm was hitting land.  All air traffic was grounded.  Everyone was being advised to stay indoors.  Everyone in the immediate vicinity was looking down to their own safety rather than looking up to the turmoil in the skies as the storm struck the coastal towns.  Those off in the distance watching the approaching hurricane stared at the thick cloud in awe as they secured their premises any way they could before taking cover.
“Cloud thickness at an optimum.  We have a ninety minute window.”
Marc Coho looked from Diego to Graham.  “Weather satellites?”
“There’s half a dozen trying to stare down at the storm.”  The answer was curt but informative.
Coho nodded, but not in response to Graham as his eyes hit the white of the blank wall at the side.  “Yep, uh ha, yep,” he mumbled to himself, then to the room, “Satellite overlay in five minutes.”
Graham set a timer on his desk for the switchover he would be required to monitor along with the weather station reports.  A computer generated graphic of the storm had been created elsewhere to mimic it in real time and be overlaid the outgoing satellite image.  For all the world knew, they would be looking at the real thing instead of a projection, a fabrication of the real thing.
“I’ve got a special forces ground unit approaching the landing site from the northern perimeter.  They’re clearing the bridge works.”
Coho put his hand to ear and then nodded back at Sayed.  “They’re clear to go.  They’re part of the operation.”
No one in the room knew the bigger picture, not even Marc Coho.  None of them knew the end goal, nor the full logistics being played out.  All they knew was that they were a cog in a very complex and well-oiled machine, the design of which was beyond them.
“I’ve got a chinook on radar, flying low from Baltimore,” piped up Agré calmly.
Again Coho received instructions only he was privy to.  “Likewise, part of the operation.”
Thirty minutes went by before Cyrus announced the descent of object one from the heavens.  Satellite imagery was blurred out at the vital points so that all the room could see was position without an actual visual of what they were guiding in and covering for.  They were reliant on radar, the combined voices rising as they started coordinating their observations of the descent.  Coordinates and projected flight paths were plotted taking into account of the weather system they had created.  The craft, of unknown origin was to be guided above the storm and down through the eye as it reached a particular point above the national park.  The team, being used to such manoeuvres weren’t concerned about the vessel being damaged by the storm as they were assured by experience that it would have the necessary equipment and protection to withstand such a battering.
“Second object on descent,” confirmed Cyrus.
“Guide ‘em in,” instructed Coho, watching the telemetry from the holding orbit around the Earth to the landing coordinates carefully and looking out for any predictable dangers.
“Object one in a holding pattern above the storm,” stated Cyrus.
“Storm is stable and their clear to descend,” responded Diego.
Coho tapped his ear to speak directly to the person on the other end.  “Please inform our guests they are clear to land.”
A minute passed and object one still hadn’t moved into the storm.  Object two was now approaching the drop point.  Concerned looks were now being aimed at Coho, who had his hand to his ear.
“There’s a problem.  Something about communication.  Something’s got lost in translation,” Coho was trying to relay by way of explanation to the room.
“Damn!” blurted out Cyrus.  All eyes turned to him, despite everyone being able to see the same information he was seeing on the big screen.  “Object one just pulled up sharply.  I think they collided.”
“Confirm!” shouted Coho.
Agré stared at his terminal studying the flight paths.  “Confirmed.  We have a collision.  Both objects are in the storm.”
“Ah crap!  Any visuals?”
“Negative.  Not from satellite.  I don’t know what happened but they must have clipped each other when object one pulled up.  They’ve both spun off into the cloud,” Cyrus reported.
“Diego, any chance they can hold their own in that swell?”
“Not likely boss.”
“Iveta, time to earn your pay check.  If those birds have fallen we’re on damage control.”
“On it boss!”
“Ok everyone, we wait, we see.  If they come up for air we guide them up and out.  But if those birds don’t reappear on radar soon then we’re as blind as the rest of the world until that storm clears.  We’ve done our part.  There’s another contingency team in place to handle the rest.”
Coho pressed his hand to his ear and nodded.  “Iveta, in the locked draw beneath your desk,” he watched the red light on the door turn green as they both looked to it, “there’s an earpiece.  Put it on.  If the clouds break and we’re in worst case scenario then you’re coordinating the next stage.”
Iveta took a deep breath as she picked up the earpiece and placed it to her ear, nodded to Marc Coho, then placed her hand to her ear and nodded again to the unseen voice on the other end.

©C. P. Clarke 2018

 

 

 

 

WORLDS APART (Two Noble Kinsmen)

“Let them fight it out, dear sister.  We could use the sport.  We could set a wager.  Which one do you fancy?”
“In what manner do you ask, brother?”
“Why in a fight was my meaning, but if you have a fancy in a romantic capacity you had better speak up before I set them upon each other and they throttle each other to death.”
“You are so barbaric!  Must you?”
“We could place them in the pits of the arena if you prefer,” he mocked.
“Don’t be so crass.  You would make sport of them in the arena just to make an example of them?  Are we not greater in our humanity than the Múndarian’s?”
“You wish to stand up for them?”
“I see in them nobility.  I see two friends divided, a family split.  I see honour in them, unlike Créon Trebellefar.  Think of the possibilities of having an ambassador to the new age of negotiation with Múndar.  Think of what we could learn from them.  Think of the image it would portray of your lordship in the new age if you can show trust in one of them and one of them can show as honourable and true, in loyalty and submission to the common good of both Dion and Múndar.”
“I can see your logic, sister, however there can be only a place for one, I must make an example of the other.  Can you choose between the two?”
“No, they are both noble kinsman, handsome and good of heart from what I have observed, and hopelessly in love.  I cannot choose.”
“Then they must be pitted against each other.  One will die and the other will still seek your favour.”
“So be it.  Theseus, make it humane and honourable.  Men like that deserve nothing less.  We would do it for our own.”
“Very well, my sister, let it be as you request.”

The lilac clouds hung low and heavy over the royal court within Dion’s capital city of Diar.  The two prisoners were bound to a low post in the courtyard before the main steps to the covered awning of the judgement seats.  There were spectators in the stands but not in huge numbers for the skies threatened to pour forth and the public galleries were open to the elements.  The two prisoners, Pal and Arc, looked uncomfortable, chained awkwardly in a crouched position and stripped to the waist with only prison issued skin tight shorts to protect their dignity (more for the honour of the court than respect for the prisoner), their bare feet digging toes in the dust to relieve the cramp in their muscles.
The details of their crimes were publicly heard over the sound system which also relayed images onto a big screen as well as across the city on a live feed broadcast.  If people didn’t know of the plight of Pal and Arc by now then by mid-day the whole world would be wagging tongues about their exploits and their trial, and wages would be placed across the globe and beyond on the fate of the two men.  Even news of the challenge would reach the ears of Múndar as events unravelled as though the fate of two star systems were held in the balance of what happened to the two men.
Their crimes as enemy soldiers against the realm of Dion were laid out in great detail with a blow by blow account of their failed ground assault on the weapons facility.  To this the two men pleaded guilty but begged for the release of their men still held in captivity.  Their men, they argued, were mere soldiers following orders and had no choice in the actions undertaken, whereas the two accused were commanders and instigators in the plot to cripple Dion’s defences for the good of Múndar, and for this they wished to claim sole responsibility and win the freedom of their men.  It was a gallant and honourable defence, one in which Theseus saw an opportunity as showing himself fair and just, not to mention equally as honourable as any Múndarian.  He agreed to the release of the men, assuring that they would be treated with respect and placed on a delegation ship to the space station Kitiro where they could be retrieved by their own people.  The two prisoners thanked the king greatly for his kindness.
A second charge was brought, but this one was for Pal alone.  He was stood accused of escaping from prison.  However, this charge was brought by the governments Minister of Homeland Security, the man ultimately responsible for the running of the prison service.  To this charge Pal was not given opportunity to plead as the charge was challenged and then upon hearing the challenge, summarily dismissed by Theseus himself.  The objection to the charge had been brought by the princess, Emilé, who having discovered the details of the escape took pity on the jailer’s daughter and attributed no fault in the jailer himself who knew nothing of the event, either prior or during.  Princess Emilé argued that the prisoner Pal, had not sought escape but had been enticed to it by the jailer’s daughter who had fallen in love with the prisoner and had foolishly in her infatuation sought to keep him for herself.  Pal, it was said, was following instructions as though commanded by any prison official and would not have been totally aware of it being a planned escape until he exited the confines of the prison building, at which point and in his position, could anybody truly put him at blame of his movements that followed?  So too did he surrender himself upon the court at the first sighting of an official in the woods to where he had been led.  This part was not entirely correct but Theseus knew his sister well enough to know her eye favoured him equally among the two and was keen to see them both on an even keel in what was to follow.  As for the jailer’s daughter, it was thought she had suffered enough in the loss of her love and of her reputation, trust, and sanity.  The Minister for Homeland Security was ordered to instigate an inquest into the running of the prisons and ensure adequate procedures were put in place regarding the communication between prisoners and their guards.
The third and final charge to be placed on the two men was that of publically humiliating a member of the royal court.  They were accused of brawling in dispute over their imagined feelings for the Princess Emilé and were begged to answer to the charge.  Both men readily admitted guilt at their love for the princess and answered to the dispute over who had seen her first.  The princess was clearly flattered by the chivalry of the two knights knelt before her pleading for her hand and her favour.  Clearly it was agreed that Pal had loved her first, but Arc declared he loved her more.  To this there was to be no resolution, but for this Theseus was prepared.
The king, it appeared to the nation, was prepared to release one prisoner and sentence the other to death at the request of mercy from the princess, however she could not choose between them and was reluctant to sentence one over the other.   So the king commanded they be pitted against one another in the arena.  An audible cheer went up around the stands of the public gallery of the coliseum.  The king then announced that the challenge would be The Pyramid.  A louder cry of glee rose beyond the walls of the court as the city erupted in joyful anticipation of the games.
The two prisoners stared at one another uncertainly.  They had heard of the games played in the Arena of Death, mostly rumour, but neither had witnessed the brutality that went on there.  The princess, it was deemed, would claim ownership of the winner, to do with as she pleased.  That was all the two men needed to know.  They gave each other a gentlemanly nod.  It would be decided with honour in battle, and this pleased them both.

Due to Pal’s malnourished state they were given a month to prepare for the games in order to make it a fair and equal competition, this was in contrast to the customary three days of preparation usually provided for the prize fighters.
The king was clearly playing a political game of chess, fully aware that his every move and decision was being televised across the known galaxy as he scored points against Créon Trebellefar in the popularity stakes.  It was rumoured that a Múndarian ship had found a second source of minerals to mine in a far off system which would surely give them the advantage in the war, however Múndar was falling rapidly into civil unrest and the bricks beneath the throne of Trebellefar’s reign were beginning to crumble.  If Theseus played it right he could negotiate a peace deal with a new government having portrayed himself as a fair and accommodating leader, maintain the majority mining rights of Tiros with a view to reclaiming the moon entirely once Múndar’s mining focus was shifted elsewhere.  It was a plan he hoped to broker with the aid of whoever proved the victor of The Pyramid battle.
The rules of the game had been explained publically to the two men.  The competition was set in an open arena with a pyramid at its centre.  A stone was set at the centre of the enemy’s side and had to be retrieved, having bypassed the traps contained in all the other stones of the pyramid.  The two men could choose to battle on their own or fight in a team.  It was normal for such a challenge for the fighters not to go it alone as the slightest wrong move would strongly diminish the chances of surviving to the end.  Unfortunately as both men were enemy combatants with no friends on Dion it was unlikely they would be able to raise a team, there were not even mercenaries willing to fight for payment for fear of being seen to fight against the crown state.  They could use prisoners from the jail who could fight for their freedom (if they survived) but they were not permitted to train to any healthy combative state during their captivity, being prisoners as they were,  so if they were used they would be weak and disorientated in the field and untrained in the commands of their leaders.  As a result it was expected the two would fight alone, but if not, all warriors in the field of the arena could be killed during the game and it would still continue, with the exception of the captains, if one of them died then all warriors on that team would be sentenced to death.  If the loser still lived at the end of the game then he would be publically executed by beheading at the end of the game by his opponent.
The gambling syndicates had already opened the books before the rules were announced and the images and specifics of each combatant were lined up and assessed.  Even their military history and education had somehow been accessed by those who operated on the black market level of trade that owed no allegiance to either planet.  They were running an evens draw and it was soon becoming apparent why the princess had failed to choose between the two.
Two days after the announcement of the games and the trial at the royal court the tables turned on the expectation of the match at the arena.  A communicae was received from Kitiro, the space station that was in orbit around an outer planet of the Horek system.  A ship had docked there and its passengers were apprised of the situation unfolding on the surface of Dion involving two former military commanders of Múndar.  The twelve passengers had not known of the reason for their release from prison, nor had they been informed of the whereabouts of their commanding officers, but upon hearing the news and the mention of the names of Pal and Arc they immediately, as one, resolved to stand by their captains, the two men whom they respected as honourable and just and whom had surrendered their honour in battle to save the lives of their remaining men and then bargained for their freedom.  Two men like that didn’t deserve to fight alone in the arena.  The twelve men drew lots as to which side they would fight for and then requested transport back to Dion to train with their commanders for the battle.

©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

October’18:

As well as the next installment of Worlds Apart, I have also included a fairly lengthy piece this month, which is one of the first short stories I remember writing way back before laptops and tablets when I used to write everything out by hand and then transfer it onto an old Amstrad machine, only years later having to retype it when I couldn’t transfer the data from the floppy discs.
I have written a number of different versions of The Prodigal Son over the years, including scripts and screenplays.  This was probably the earliest version dating back to 1991 when I first became a Christian and wasn’t consciously written to parallel the parable, only in a later reading of it did I recognise what I’d written.  The original version of this story had Marion dying at the foot of the cross, but upon reviewing the story I was struck at how much the story reflected the parable, and so I altered the ending slightly to give hope to Marion returning home and being accepted by her father as well as by her heavenly Father.
The reason this has never made it into any POV volumes is due to its violent content and gang rape – so there, you’re warned!
Also, the character name of the main antagonist has been changed slightly.  Originally the name was Jay J. (Jason Jones), which considering this was written 15 years before my son J.J was born, is purely coincidental.

CPC

 

 

 

 

WORLDS APART (Two Noble Kinsmen)

Weeks past and the two noble commanders spent their time between pining after the royal princess and flattering their jailer with their high spirited anecdotes, telling of the war and of their distant travels through space, such as the mere likes of a humble prison jailer was never likely to see.  The jailer would bring friends to show off his two prized possessions, all the while his daughter drawing in infatuation with Pal.  Not that he noticed, too besotted were he and Arc with Emilé that the attentions of any other were blind to them.  It grew so that even the war was escaping their minds and, though the turnkey would inform them of the condition of their men in the other cells and appraise them of the losses and gains of the opposing armies in the war, they grew to care little for the plight of their own nation and any hope of ever seeing their home of Múndar ever again.
News of the two prisoners reached the royal palace and the turnkey was sent for to make account of himself.  Whether it was out of fear of the two together or out of a genuine perceived usefulness at having an alien in servitude none were ever sure, but upon return of the guard the two men were drawn aside and one was taken and the other left.
Pal sat in his cell awaiting the every step of the guard or his daughter for word of his friend, Arc, but no word came.  The turnkey knew nothing of what had become of his cousin upon being taken to the palace, but Pal assumed in his heart that sport was made of him in the arena and that a similar fate awaited him also.  He looked down upon the princess as the days passed, not knowing how many he had left to gaze upon her as he dreamt of ways of getting her to look up at him and fancy her upon his cell, on occasion he thought she did, but, blind though he was to it, it wasn’t her whose lingering looks fell upon him from the shadows.

“Stand alert, someone approaches!” he said to himself, standing back into an imagined shadow by the edge of his friend’s empty bed.
The soft padding of the jailer’s daughter was unmistakeable.  Often she had approached the doorway to his cell and stared at him through the monitor, silently eyeing his naked frame up and down.  This time her approach sounded with a sense of urgency with a rapid tapping of soft shoes raised up on her toes as she scuttled along the stone hallway trying not to be noticed.  It was the depths of night and only a dim emergency light and green glow of the force field echoed the nest of cells along the wall.
“Are you awake, my love?” she called in a hushed whisper through the heavy metal doorway.
Pal stood alert but didn’t answer.  He knew she would be able to see him through the security monitor that measured his every move.
“Stand close to the door but face the roadway.  That’s it.  Now stand very still.”  She was watching him follow her commands unquestioningly, placing his trust in her.
He heard a digital scanner set in motion behind the door.  He recognised the sound; they used such devices on long journeys as recreational activities to create avatars of themselves.  He guessed at its use now and was thankful for her friendship.  Often she had whispered to him that she didn’t think he belonged here and that he was too good to remain captive, and that if the time came he should make his escape.  It had been folly talk; at least he had thought so at the time.
The full body scanner paused at the end of its cycle and the door electronically opened upon her coding.
“Don’t turn.  Step back two paces without moving your head or torso,” she commanded.
He obeyed, stepping through the illusion, the hologram of himself stood solitary in his cell as he exited into the dark coolness of the old building behind him.  The door closed and he let out his breath, only then aware that he’d been holding it.
He turned to look at her.  She was holding a set of clothes in her arms but she didn’t offer them straight away, instead she coyly eyed him up and down as though wrestling with her own emotions of wanting to embrace him.  She resisted the urge and thrust forward the clothes.  He dressed quickly and followed her as she turned through the labyrinth of passageways.  The cameras were disconnected, he could tell from their blank lights which should have blinked red at him as he passed.  She would be in a lot of trouble for this, was maybe even risking her life, her father’s probably too, but he didn’t think too much of it for the moment; the thrill of escape was rushing through his veins so that he didn’t feel the bitter cold night air as she led him outside and across the field of the royal park and away to the woodland beyond.
They walked for an hour, if not more, deep into the dark dense wood to a crag of rocks by a stream that provided a temporary hiding space from the elements and from prying eyes.  It was clearly a familiar retreat of hers that she had led him to.
“You can hide here a while, but do not go far.  The metals in the rocks will disguise the sensors and distort the feed from the tracer implanted in the back of your neck.  I cannot remove it I’m afraid for I don’t have the skill nor the tools, but if you stay here I can bring you supplies and food.”
“It is admirable what you have done for me, lady.  You have risked much to free an enemy of your people who truly means neither you nor your kind any harm.”
“Noble Pal, you do not deserve to be locked away and treated like the rest.  I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, but for you I would gladly die to know you were free.  No one will know of your escape till late tomorrow, maybe even not until the day after if no one inspects your cell too closely.  My father will understand, I hope, and the blame will be mine not his.  At least I hope he will not be judged and condemned for my actions.”
“You will come back?”
“Certainly, but not until late tomorrow.  I must go back now in case it is noticed I am missing.  Wait for me.”
“I will, as though my life depends upon it.”
She turned and left with many a backwards glance, her heart warmed by his words.
He watched her go, happy with his freedom as he took stock of his surroundings as the bitter chill of the water began to edge towards his skin.  As the sound of her footsteps crunched the leaves and twigs in the distance, moving away from the stream and back towards the royal courtyard, he dreamt of how he could make good the promise he had made to himself of finding the love of his heart and making good of the love he felt for her.

He huddled back in the recess of the rock, fearful at first of being discovered by the signal from the implant, but after an hour or two (the time was hard to judge as the foreign stars and cycle of the planet confused his senses) the damp soaked into his bones and the constant tickle of unseen creatures crawling across his skin finally thrust him from his hiding place with a jolt, as though he’d been bitten on the behind by a vicious Kedayeric bear from the eastern hills of his homeland.  He had hunted them for sport as a child when his father had taught him to hunt and shoot in training for his future life in the war.
The pink of the stream, dyed by the drooping leaves of the red willow that hung down above it, was lit by Tiros, its moonlight sparkling beautifully off the trickling water, but too soon did his senses feel the cold of the cloudless night and his bladder boiled and overflowed to the flow of the stream.
By dawn, at the fall of the breaking day’s temperature, he was frozen and shivering, and hungry and tired.  He wanted to run and find somewhere warmer to hide, somewhere he could forage for his own sustenance, but he was fearful of her words of being discovered too soon and how that would affect her and her father.  Also on his mind was her promise to return with food and other supplies.  He decided to wait for her, but was eager to be off to find a way into the palace and gain favour of his lady, maybe plead for her mercy.
Mid-morning brought the sounds in the distance of the traffic against the horizon of buildings and escarpments that clashed against the woodland.  It was then that he realised his mid-morning was earlier in the day than he thought.  Time was moving slowly for him as he counted down the minutes of the day that was only just beginning for the general populace.  His only comfort was that the alarm had yet to sound of his escape.
At mid-day the turnkey’s daughter still hadn’t returned and his patience was growing thin to the point that he was missing the warm comfort of his cell and the food he was guaranteed, even the clothes he wore were uncomfortable compared to his nakedness before as they held in the damp that hung in the air about the stream.  He longed to break away from his hiding place and face the consequences of his recapture.  He wondered how far he could get before discovery; after all he was yet to be noticed as missing.
He couldn’t wait for her, he decided.  He had no way of telling when she would return, or even if she would return.  Surely if she was discovered as guilty in his escape she would be detained, or followed, or maybe she would be forced to lead a contingent of soldiers directly to him.  Reluctant though she would no doubt be, the threat of her father’s execution would be a persuasive tool against her.
He couldn’t risk it, he had to move.
He stepped out into a path leading deeper into the woods hoping it would lead to a greater sanctuary than she had left him with.

It was a hunt, though not one of great spirit and intent, for the lady loved to glide through the woods rather than thrash around in the brambles and leap over logs chasing down a poor defenceless elk.  They were common in the rural marshes that lead out to mountains of Caracis, before the sea circled the main mountain range of the mainland of the northern hemisphere, but down here so close to the city they were rare, so news of one set a buzz around the palace and a challenge went out among the dignitaries that it must be sought and hunted down, with promise of a prize bestowed by Theseus for the winner, who should mount the game to the trophy wall of the kings palace.
For the lady there was little incentive except for her cashing in on an as yet unspecified request of her own choosing to be granted by her brother the king.  For all others there was the additional prize, being the courtesy of a kiss from the lady herself, something to which she consented readily, for she knew the power her beauty held over men and was happy to wield it as a weapon of sport to aid her brother’s popularity.
So through the forest they ambled with little taste for the animal they sought.  They were a small party of half a dozen trusted servants who had won favour with the lady Emilé and who sought earnestly the prize on her behalf without taxing her with the challenge and barbarity of the kill.  Her main escort rode horses of old, keeping to the ways of the hunt passed down by the royal ancestral line; she however sat upon a chariot hovering above the foliage, encased within a canopy of warm air powered in from jets within its frame.  Her carriage was fitted with the latest technology: an infra-red search system and life-signs detector and guidance system, should she choose to use it; also a weather mapping system linked into the satellite array warned her of when to retreat back to the mansion and cut their loses, as well as informing them when the beast was finally tracked and killed, and by whom.  The canopy, heated as it was, came with the dual capability of being open to the elements or being protected by a domed force field, similar in design to those used in the prisons or around their battleships at war – she preferred not to use it but Theseus, her brother, insisted she have it, for there were plenty who were jealous of her or would seek to use her against him; popular though he was as a ruler every king had his enemies, especially of late with the Múndarian’s being so bold as to launch a ground offensive, not that she feared them.
Of late she had found the Múndarian’s not so disgusting in their manner as she had been led to believe they were, and had actually been enchanted enough by one to employ him in her personal ensemble of staff when she needed extra skilled manpower, such as she did today.  A skilled hunter and tracker was worth his weight in gold as many of the best Dionites had been slain in battle or were serving in the military trying to bring an end to their troubles abroad.  To have a Múndarian who would readily serve, willingly bow down, and was fully aware that any treachery or attempts to escape would result in his immediate tracking and capture and execution in the sports arena, was frowned upon by some, but she saw in her Múndarian warrior a noble heart, a truthful gaze, and a doting breath upon his tongue.
“Arc,” she called ahead.  He turned back from his forward position scouting along the path ahead and faced her.  He was tall and broad and held his head proud despite his fall from grace from commander to slave.  He was dressed in clothes of the court and carried a blunted axe as the only weapon Theseus would allow such an alien in a hunt to hold; a major disadvantage compared to the high powered plasma rifles carried by the trackers of Dion.  “There is a life-sign just off the path ahead; it is too small to be our elk.  We will wait here.”
Arc nodded his understanding and compliance, climbed down from his horse and stepped forward along the path alone.  She watched him walk off courageously without fear, and she tracked his movements on her pixelated screen before her as he disappeared from sight beyond a line of slim crimson leafed trees as the path wound round to the right.
She waited five minutes.  She could see he had reached the position of the other life-sign and that the two stood stationary next to one another.  They were of similar size so she assumed he had met with another man, a local maybe strolling in the woods, or a straggler from another of the hunting parties.  She waited another five minutes, patiently trusting he was passing pleasantries on her behalf.
She was unaccustomed to having to wait, it was not in the manner of royalty; royalty were to be waited on.  Even her entourage felt discomfort at the delay and their edging unease at her irritation was fuelling back at her.  She punched a couple of virtual buttons in the air ahead of her and stared at the screen as two identification markers lit up besides the two life-signs.
“Men to arms!  Forward!”  She engaged the force field and guided her chariot forward with the rapid pace of her entourage who had raised and powered up their side arms and rifles and were moving their horses along the path in the direction Arc had taken.
As they drew closer she could hear two men fighting.  The path opened up into a small clearing where the two men were scraping and rolling about on the rust coloured grass, each trying to grab for a hold on the other as they palmed and fisted each other, swapping blow for blow with angry exchanges.  As weapons were drawn on the two and they were separated from each other it was clear both were injured and bloody from their nose and bruised about the face.  They stood with chests heaving and exchanging angry glances.
“What is the meaning of this?” the lady demanded.  At the tone of her voice both men stopped and stared in her direction, one with a bowed head of humble submission and shame, the other with wonder and awe as though he were a staring at a god and not a woman.
“Forgive me, your majesty,” spoke up Arc, “I came across this stranger and he insulted my honour and so we got into dispute.”
She eyed up the stranger.  He was as tall and as handsome as Arc and of a similar age, and she could tell by the hold of his chin that he was of noble birth and schooling.
“What was your dispute?  In what way were you dishonoured?”  The question was addressed to Arc and the stranger seemed wise enough to recognise it and remain silent, bowing his head in submission and embarrassment it appeared to her.
“It was the matter of honour concerning a lady,” replied Arc.  “In conversation of which at first was a pleasant exchange and in a welcome tone, I laid claim to a lady whom I had seen previously at which this gentleman also laid claim to her, stating she were his, having laid eyes on her first and I second.”
“Is this true?”
Pal looked dumbstruck at being addressed by the object of his desire.  He stammered his response like a nervous child being accosted by his tutor for failing to achieve the required grade.  “Yes, my lady.  I was glad upon seeing this stranger in the woods for I was lost and sought guidance out of the forest, and we were both engaged in pleasantries of where we had come from when our talk turned to a lady we had both observed and fallen in love with.  I would do anything for the favour of my love, but this man claimed it was not my place but his, and that he held claim to her even though I saw her first.”
“I hope this lady of yours is worth the trouble you have caused.”
“Indeed she is,” they both replied together with a likeness of each other.
“Strangers you both say?”
“Indeed,” replied Pal.  Arc stayed silent for he was familiar with the technology at her disposal and wasn’t fool enough to try to lie further to her face.
“Your name is Pal, is it not?”
Once more Pal struggled to force the words over his tongue.  She held up her hand to save him the trouble.  She could read the situation clearly, what troubled her was what to do about it.
She motioned to her private guard at her side.  “Restrain them both.  They are both Múndarian’s.  One has, up till now, earned a certain amount of liberty in my presence.  The other is an escapee from the prison.  They will both stand and give account before Theseus and beg for his mercy at the arena.  If for nothing else it gets me out of this blasted hunt!”

©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

THE BURNING BIN
(Luke 15:11-32)

She could feel it coming.  He thrust himself forward, a pained expression of ecstasy on his face.  He shuddered, thrust once more and then slumped forward.
She felt helpless underneath him.  He could do anything to her, any amount or type of abuse he wished and she would be powerless to stop him, but that was the risk she took.
She eased out from underneath him and gestured for him to get up.  He did so immediately, accepting her role of authority in her place of work.  She put on a brave face as he slid the condom off.  She had only been beaten up twice by a customer, not badly in either case, but enough to cost her a few bruises and the day’s takings, not to mention the ordeal of being raped.  Ironic that a prostitute should be raped whilst on the job, but rape is rape.  When they pay she consents, when they don’t and she says no then it’s rape, and the shame and hurt is still felt; the fact that she allows herself to be used for sex for a living makes no difference.
She knew from her two previous experiences that now, after they had gotten what they’d paid for, was the time that they decided whether they wanted more, and if so whether they were going to pay for it.
As always, she took the gamble of trying to maneuvre him out of the flat.
“Get dressed,” she said calmly and convincingly.
Her client hurriedly pulled up his trousers to meet his over-flabby waist band.  He wasted no time in climbing into his clothes, throwing them on and practically kicking on his shoes in his urgency to be away from this place of sin, knowing that he shouldn’t be here and that if he was discovered his life: family, friends, job, would all be destroyed.
Marion White meanwhile, had elegantly put on her knickers and slid into the overly short dress that only just managed to cover her luscious curves.
She saw her unnamed client to the door and told him to come again.  She closed the door behind him and sighed a sigh of relief and anger.
She hated herself for what she was, who she was.  She wished things could be different, that she wasn’t here now, forced to sell her body, to degrade herself.  She hated it, but could see no way out.  She dreaded each new knock on the door as the men continued to seek her out, and even then it wasn’t her that they wanted, for she wasn’t always on shift, the flat being owned by her pimp, with different girls working around the clock.  No, it wasn’t her, Marion White, that they wanted, any girl would do.
The money never lasted, there were always things to pay: food, clothes, her pimp, and the drugs.  Crack wasn’t cheap but she was dependent on it and her pimp knew it too, so he charged her ridiculous prices for it, and she, of course, paid because he always had it when she needed a fix.  The money wasn’t all wasted on drugs.  Living in a squat with numerous people (some familiar, some not) coming and going, some were other prostitutes like herself, some were just homeless, but mainly they were junkies – the money just seemed to go – stolen.
A key rattled in the door and a tall brunette walked in.
Marion took off the dress and then collected her money before pulling on a pair of jeans and a jumper, thick boots and a heavy coat.  Her shift was over.  Angela had come to relieve her.

***

“The black bastard can’t get away with that,” Kieran said, reiterating the comments already offered up by the other two.
“He’s not going to,” stated Jay  “Back me up.”
Kieran and Brian nodded their understanding and followed close behind as Jay made his way across the dance floor.
The three of them shoved and pushed their way through the dancing crowd, ignoring the half-heard shouts of anger above the music.
The ‘black bastard’ in question was one of the twenty or so black youths who stood out as a minority scattered around the club.  He was innocently attempting his luck with a very attractive blonde girl in a rather revealing dress.  This, it seemed, was his only crime.  The evil combination of jealousy and racial hatred was about to win him the sympathy of the girl.
“The damn coon should stick to his own kind!” shouted Brian over the roar of mismatched rhythm.
Walking forward, Jay J’s eyes burned holes into his yet unaware target.
From up above on the balcony a thick pillar of experienced muscle was watching the progress of the three.  The tall, heavily built man in the clip-on bow tie nodded the instruction to a colleague across the room.  The instruction was passed on to yet another so that dark figures began to move out from the shadows at the sides of the club.
Jay, backed up by his two accomplices, stood no more than two feet from his target.  Innocently, his victim looked up, curious to see who had strolled into his line of vision.
Jay brought his fist up heavily onto the chin of the black youth, knocking him back against the dancing crowd.  The girl jumped in surprise and took a step back out of harm’s way as the three white youths converged on the fallen black youth she had just been speaking to.
Jay lunged forward with his fist yet again, preventing his target from getting to his feet.  Kieran and Brian came around either side of Jay and lashed out at the fallen figure with their feet.  All three were shouting obscenities, cursing the colour of his skin.
Before they could do too much damage huge black hands were gripping the collars of the three young men and yanking them backwards away from their target.
“What the hell…” Jay managed to get out as one of the Afro-Caribbean bouncers executed his role with the pummelling of savage enjoyment.
Wounded, out-numbered, and unable to fight back or escape the ridged vice-like hands which held them, they were marched to the entrance of the club.  A man at the door opened it and then stood aside as the bouncers, in a combined effort, lifted the young men one at a time and slung them through the open doorway to fall heavily on the snow caked pavement outside the club, the doors closing firmly behind them.

***

Eighteen year old Marion White stepped out of the warm flat into a cold wind with thick snow spraying into her face and attaching itself to her mousey coloured hair.  The frost bit hard on the extremities of her fingers, nose and ears.  She removed a long thick scarf from one of the coat pockets and began to wrap it around her neck and the lower portion of her face.
There was a sudden burst of loud music as the door to the bar on the other side of the street opened and then closed.  A lone man had stepped out and was looking directly at her.  His clothing was well suited against the weather; his thick jacket collar pulled up around his ears as he ducked his head down for protection from the cold.  As Marion watched he put his hands in his pockets and made his way over towards her.
Marion looked up and down the street – it was deserted.  The usual gatherings of prostitutes and drunks had been driven into shelter by the snow; finding a punter in this weather wasn’t going to be easy anyway.  The couple of late night bars that lined the street were only half full; each held their own warm atmosphere inside, but that warmth seemed miles away from her now.
Marion suddenly felt extremely exposed and vulnerable as she spied the man slushing towards her through the snow.  She dared not move.  If he was going to be trouble, then to move along the street would not help her, at least from here she could yell back for Angela’s help.  She stepped back into the doorway that was the entrance to the flat.
The man stopped under the street light which stood sentinel outside the flat.  She could just make out his dark hair and broody eyes.  He started towards her again.
As he got closer he nodded a greeting, took his hands out of his pockets and then squeezed through the gap between Marion and the wall, brushing past her as he did so.  He pushed open the unlocked door and climbed the short flight of steps to the flat.
Marion, who had unwittingly been holding her breath, gave out a loud sigh of relief.
“Well, there’s your first one for tonight Angie,” she said aloud before beginning her one mile trudge through the snow to get home.

“Nice going Jonesey!” exclaimed Kieran.
“We got the black bastard, didn’t we,” retaliated Jay angrily as he got to his feet.
“We gave him a good pounding, alright,” commented Brian brushing snow from his clothes and spitting blood from his mouth.
“Yeah, but we got kicked out of the club, and by a bunch of coons too,” complained Kieran.
“Quit whining, we’ll come back and get them some other time.  We’ll torch the place or something,” Jay said trying to justify their actions with an empty threat they all wished in their hate fuelled stupor that they could carry out.
“Let’s torch the place now,” Brian offered, removing a cigarette lighter from his jeans pocket.
“Yeah, sure.  What are you going to light?  The whole place is soaked from the snow.  Unless you’re gonna firebomb the place it aint gonna light, and if it does it’ll be too easy for ‘em to put out.  We’ll do it some other time.”
“So what do we do now?  I’m cold,” groaned Kieran.
“Will you quit complaining,” retorted Jay.
“He’s right Jay  It’s freezing out here and we’re not going to be able to get in anywhere else at this time of night.”
“We’ll find something.”
“Like what?” asked Kieran.
“I don’t know.  Something will turn up.  It always does, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, find ourselves a Paki to bash or some snob to mug.”  Brian was getting excited at the prospect of causing mayhem someplace else.  It was clear that the beating they had received hadn’t penetrated far through the cocktail of alcohol and drugs the trio had consumed before entering the club.  After getting stopped in their tracks on the dancefloor all three still felt the need to satisfy their appetites for mindless destruction elsewhere.  The only problem was that it was so cold, but that in itself was an added bonus – it just meant that there were less people around to stop them and the police would have a job traipsing around in the snow after them.
“So, where to now, Jay?” asked Kieran as both he and Brian turned to the dominant figure before them.
“You’re cold, right,” said the biggest of the three, “so let’s go and get us some new coats.”
Jay started to head off down the street, his two lapdog disciples close behind.

***

When is it going to end? she cried to herself.  She couldn’t help it, it was all that occupied her thoughts lately (apart from the drugs of course).  All the depressing thoughts just seemed to want her to climb onto that high all the time, where she could zone out, fall numb to it, and forget it all.  She wanted it badly, needed it.  She knew where to find it.  He never denied her a fix when she needed it (so long as she was paying, one way or another).  She tried so hard to come off the stuff but found that the desire was too strong, it was in her system.  Knowing the truth of her desperate and lonesome life was so hard to deal with, but not being able to see a way out was even worse.
Despite the cold she decided that the squat was not her destination for the moment, a stronger warmth called to her, a greater need which was in her blood but not her heart.
She recalled, as she always did when she slipped into this familiar state of depression, her happy home life before she joined life’s great helter-skelter to slide into this cesspit of humiliation and poverty.  This made her feel worse, as did the appalling weather that chilled her heart as well as her flesh as she stomped across freshly fallen, and as yet undisturbed, snow as she made her way through the back streets to Marshall Beck’s nightclub a short distance away.
She stepped onto the deserted High Street, its yellow street lights glowing ominously.  She looked for the familiar neon sign that jutted out from the bland shop logos on her side of the street, the flashing lettering like a lighthouse guiding her home, or in her case more like a junkie moth to the white line of cocaine.  The flashing sign spelt simply ‘Beck’s Nightclub’ in scrawled red letters.  She walked hastily toward it.
She stood before the black doors, feeling the vibrations from the music inside.  She rapped heavily on the door and waited for a reply; it was way past the last entry time but she knew there was always a bouncer stood near the door.  The door opened and the warmth inside flooded out to greet her.  A tall, muscular, Jamaican in his mid-twenties, and dressed in a black full length coat eyed her suspiciously.
“Hi Leroy, is Marshall around?”
Leroy stepped back inside and closed the door behind him, leaving Marion to stand out in the cold.  She wasn’t surprised, she was used to such treatment.  Marshall didn’t mind selling her gear on the premises so long as the buyers fitted in with the club scene and didn’t give the game away; regulars like Marion were always seen in private, especially if they had other monies to hand over – like her day’s takings.  Apart from that, the bouncers took a disliking to Marion’s kind: prostitutes who were weak and dependent on the leeches like Beck, who sucked everybody dry of everything they could.  The bouncers were always reluctant to permit them entrance to the club and only did so when told to by Beck himself.
So Marion stood and waited.
Waiting for Beck, she thought again of her home life and her parents worry over her when she had first started dating Darren.  They told her back then that he was a bad influence but she wouldn’t listen, and then refused to admit it when she realised that they were right.  She had met Darren at a nightclub, much like the one she now frequented (only now it was for different reasons), and had been attracted by his dominance there; he walked around with an air of authority and his many friends there seemed to follow his every move.  After a month of being captivated by his popularity and suave appearance, she had discovered from where his apparent wealth derived, only by that time it was too late, as she was hooked.
Her parents tried to be sympathetic and caring towards her, but had failed in keeping her from seeing Darren, their attempts causing a surge of anger to run through the family.  When Darren eventually decided that he’d had enough of Marion she was devastated; not only had she lost her boyfriend but her supplier as well.  She went on a rapid downhill spiral.  She dropped out of college, and drifted through numerous jobs before finally begging dad for the trust fund she knew he’d been paying into her whole life.  Reluctantly he transferred the money into her account in a desperate plea to keep his daughter close and on side.  But eventually she left home after the angry tempest blew through and pitted her against her parents, ripping her away from that loving relationship as the raging winds of her own misguided thoughts carried her away.
Little did she know that eight months later she would be standing outside a nightclub in the freezing cold waiting for her pimp to supply her with drugs.  What she wouldn’t give to be back with her family; to spend the evenings in front of the television with her dad, or drinking with her friends at the pub, or to spend Saturday afternoons shopping with her mum, or even Sunday morning at church (which she used to hate) with the whole family, and coming home to a well-cooked Sunday roast.  But she couldn’t go back, she couldn’t face them, no matter how much she tried she couldn’t drag herself away from the life she had fallen into.  How was she supposed to tell her dad that she’d spent every penny he’d transferred into her account, money way beyond what she thought he had in savings making her think that he must have remortgaged the house.  If he knew what she had become he would be horrified.  She couldn’t face him, not now, not like this.
Music rumbled out from the club as the doors were pulled open.  A slender white man, slightly shorter than the preceding black bouncer, stepped out onto the street.  He was smartly dressed in a tailored grey blazer over a black polar neck and grey trousers.  He appeared not to notice the cold as he peered condescendingly down at the waif thin, but once good looking, girl before him.
Marion stood with a smile of anticipation on her face as the doors were slammed shut behind Marshall Beck.
“What did you take today?” asked Beck.
“Not much, it’s been real quiet,” she replied timidly.
“That’s not what I asked.  How much did you take?” he repeated.
“A hundred and seventy,” she answered honestly, not daring to take up the temptation of lying to him.  He had a temper, she knew, but as yet she had avoided its wrath.  She sensed he was in no mood to be cheerful.
“Give it to me,” he demanded flatly.
She handed over the money obediently.  There was no one on the street and the only cameras that covered the doorway he had control over, so neither were worried about anybody seeing the money changing hands.
“Right, now get out of here.”  Beck turned to walk back to the club without a care for his employee.
“What about my share?”
“What did you come here for Marion?” he asked turning back.  “No, don’t answer, I’ll tell you.  You came here for a fix.  I’m out of gear for the moment so you can’t have it.  The way I see it is that your money is going to end up in my pocket anyway, so I’ll take it now.”
“But what do I live on?”
“That’s your problem.”
“But I’ve gotta buy food.  Please Marshall.”
“The shops are shut.  Tomorrow you’ll come back here for the gear, only you’ll want a double fix which this money will cover.  If you need more money for food then work more.”
“Maybe I’ll go to somebody else for the gear.”
Beck reached forward sharply and grabbed Marion by the hair, pulling her close.
“You do and you’ll regret it!” threatened Beck.
Marion gave a short cry of pain and then conceded, knowing that she had said the wrong thing.
Beck let go of her hair.  He was growing impatient with her so he counted out five ten pound notes and handed it to her.
“Go on, get the hell out of here before I change my mind, and remember, I’m doing you a favour – you owe me!”
Beck turned his back to her and banged heavily on the door.  Immediately the door was opened by Leroy, who no doubt had been watching through the spy hole.  Beck stepped inside, careful not to let too much heat escape to warm the air outside.
Marion found herself again staring at the black door that was the entrance to the club.  Well, what a waste of time that was, she thought to herself.  She felt even more deserted and alone now than ever before.

***

“Kick it!  What are you waiting for?”  Jay was getting impatient with their hesitancy.
Brain took one last look around, satisfied that there wasn’t anyone around to see, he kicked the pane of glass that served as the shop window.
The glass shook and fractured but didn’t shatter the way they had hoped.
Brian kicked the glass again as the other two stood back and watched, marvelling that he hadn’t shred the fabric and flesh of his leg as he snapped it through the pane.
There was a loud crack as the glass broke and then shattered into a tinkling of fine splinters as the shop window caved in.  Brian tried to retrieve his leg from within the shop’s mannequined display window without cutting it on the jagged pieces of glass that jutted out from the window frame, only now realising that his friends were waiting expectantly of just that.  He gave a look to express his drunken annoyance at the ill will they wished upon him, then laughed it off as he reached for balance.  Once his leg was free Kieran stepped forward and used his elbow to dislodge the remaining glass, leaving it to fall noisily to the floor within the shop.
Jay stood gleefully listening to the piecing sound of breaking glass as it echoed along the empty street.  He knew that they could take their time, the snow was too thick for anybody to come rushing out to stop them, and he’d already snowballed the council run CCTV cameras mounted on a nearby lamppost.
“Help yourselves lads,” Jay said, and they all laughed manically, their faces flushed hot with adrenalin.
One by one the three climbed in through the shop window.  They took a short time to admire the range of clothes on display before grabbing coats and jumpers, scarves and gloves, and anything else that they could wear or carry.  They disregarded anything that they had no immediate need for and then scampered out back into the snow.
As they left the shop they noticed that lights had gone on in the flats above the other shops in the street, and windows were opening and inquisitive and concerned heads were emerging to see what was happening.
“Heads down lads.  Let’s get the hell out of here!” cried Kieran as the three ran off laughing.

***

White.  The world around her seemed white.  It wasn’t just that the streets were illuminated with snow, it was everything.  Where she looked lately people seemed to be happy: her punters, the other prostitutes, the people in the squat, everybody.  They all seemed to have something that she didn’t – a friend.  Oh she had people she liked and who she could chat to, but no one she could really talk to about what was really on her mind; no one ever seemed to know about her troubles, her fears, nor her dreams.
She often sat down and prayed to God.  All her life she had been told that he was someone you could count on for help, someone who would never desert you no matter how low you sank.  She was always told that you could tell everything to God and that he would listen with understanding and compassion.  She wished it was true.  She prayed that it was and that God was hearing her prayers and that one day he would answer them.  All she asked for was a better life.  She had never asked God for anything before, not in the life before, in those days when she made the appearance of being closer to him, dutifully going to church in obedience to her parents’ wishes; her father being the staunch God-fearing and respectable member of the congregation, she had no real reason to want him to lose face.  She had never really believed that that distant and invisible figure ever existed, but now she turned to him in desperation, a last resort, and possibly, even in her maddening solitude, an only friend.
As the dark clouds of depression covered her she prayed that God’s light would shine in her heart and show her a new direction, and a better life.
The sound of breaking glass pierced the silence and penetrated Marion’s deep prayer as she trudged through the snow.  What was that? she wondered as the sound of angry shouts and laughing echoed along the empty streets to rest on her cold and painfully numb ears.
“What the hell?” she said aloud, alarmed at the disturbance.  She marched on quickly with a sudden urge to get home.

***

“Come on, we’ll stick to the back streets, there’s too much snow for the police to catch up with us,” commanded Jay.
“Ere, Jonesy, what now?”   Kieran enquired of their leader as they ducked into an alleyway to consult, having made a fair distance from the crime scene.
Jay looked at his two companions and shrugged his shoulders, for the first time this evening he was out of ideas for entertainment.
They stood idle, cowering in the alley while they pondered the question of what to do next.  They were silently in agreement that they didn’t want to go home.
Jay began to think aloud, “If we follow this road down to the crossroads we’ll end up…”
“Shush!” commanded Brian suddenly.
“What?” queried Jay.
“Listen,” replied Brian.
All three were momentarily still of both words and action.
“I hear it,” whispered Kieran.
Jay was the last to pick up on the sound but when he did he became excited.  He peered his head cautiously out of the alley but saw nothing out of the ordinary.  He watched as both Kieran and Brian followed his example, looking for the direction of the sound which seemed to echo off the walls.  The soft slush of footsteps were close by but unseen and muted by the snow.  Jay J’s deranged mind started doing overtime as he conceived his evil plans and spouted his orders.

***

Marion was aware that she wasn’t alone, just as the wind carried the sound of her footsteps it also carried theirs.  She also heard their excited whispers, which were distorted just enough to prevent her from distinguishing the individual words.  She had no idea of what they were saying or where they were, nor exactly how many there were.
In fear she walked on, eyes wide with anticipation, praying that they would leave her alone.  She was in no doubt that they were the same ones that had caused the disturbance on the High Street, the one which she thought that she was avoiding.
She turned a corner onto another street.  A number of street lights weren’t working, casting a gloomy shadow over the street despite the snow.  She walked on a few steps before realising that there was someone in the distance behind her, not close but near enough for her to hear the clear, taunting sound of snow being crushed under foot.
She sped up her pace, stepping carefully, being sure not to slip and lose balance.  She saw the inevitable but could see no way out of it.
“Dear God, help me,” she whimpered.

***

Jay stood half way down the street, waiting in a doorway.  He could see Brian proudly following the girl as she turned into the street, hugging the pavement on the other side of the road, knowing that Brian was enjoying taunting her.  They were both waiting for the girl to reach the unlit sector of the street where Kieran lay in wait, both of them having cut through the alleyway in time to lay in wait under cover of the shadows.
Jay took his hands from his pockets and raised them to his mouth and blew into them in a vain attempt at warming them up.  Standing around doing nothing, waiting for the action to get started, did nothing for the circulation.  He was growing impatient.
He could see the girl begin to speed up, heading straight into his trap.  He looked toward the parked cars where he knew Kieran to be crouched ready to pounce.

***

Marion dared a glance behind her, not slowing down her pace to do so.  Behind her she could make out through the snow the smiling face of a young white male.  She guessed that he was around twenty years old but she found it hard to estimate his size as he appeared drowned in thick clothing.  If there was any doubt in her mind that he was following her and not simply walking in the same direction, it had now fled her mind.  The broad smile on his face spoke many words and none of them were kind.
As she watched he sped up, trying to close the distance.  He was now only about a hundred yards away.
She turned her head sharply, not caring to look at him anymore.  As she faced the direction she was headed she caught sight of a figure emerging from the shadows at the end of the street ahead of her.  She saw no features to the sight before her but could tell that he was bigger than the guy behind her.
Frightened, she stopped to think, but the sound of footsteps behind her denied her the courtesy of clear thought.  She quickly regained a forward motion as her mind began to act on instinct.
The figure in front began to move toward her, slowly at first, speeding up as Marion was cast under the shadow of the far end of the street where the buildings seemed to squeeze in on her.
She ran.
Having her path blocked, both in front and behind, she hurried across to the other side of the street.  She sensed the two men were running in pursuit, each of them trudging haphazardly as their feet slipped and slid on the frosty ground beneath them.
She screamed for help.
Her scream was cut short as the shadows came alive before her.  She was thrown to the ground, her breath being thrust from her.  A third figure had bolted from his hiding place, ramming into her with enough force for the two of them to lose balance to fall heavily on the snow covered road.  How he had managed to get alongside her without her noticing she couldn’t tell, but then she was panicked and flustered, an elephant could have been sat between the parked cars and she wouldn’t have noticed; her focus had been so fixed upon her two pursuers.
Before Marion could regain her breath the fallen figure beside her was making a grab for her arm.  She pulled away sharply and tried to raise her body from the ground but was met by one of the two skating figures making their way towards her.
The first one to meet her took advantage of her crouched position by bringing his knee up to meet her rib cage.  In agony, she fell back clutching her side with frozen hands.
The three men gathered around her, grabbing and pulling at her.  She could no longer distinguish between the three, she wasn’t even sure that there were only three.  Everything flashed before her rapidly and her confused and frightened mind refused to accept the details.
She felt her arms yanked apart, away from her ribs, and dragged from the road.  She could feel the snow soaking into her back as she was pulled into the shaded snow lit corridor between two buildings.
None of the men said a word.  None of the men laughed.  None of the men seemed to have a conscience about what they were doing.  None of them seemed to care about her, Marion White.
Marion herself was silent.  Fear was giving way to shock as her mind whispered to her to be still and compliant as a means of self-preservation.  Her body went numb.  Her mind feeling disgust and pain as she sensed that she was being pinned down and stripped of her clothing.  She felt only the emotional pain as they took turns in laying themselves upon her.  She wanted desperately to tell her body to struggle against those that firmly held her arms and spread her legs, but her mind couldn’t take control of her emotions.
Each man had their use of her as Marion struggled to take control.
She closed her eyes.  Opened them.  She felt a tear streak across her face as anger and a need to escape came upon her.  A sudden urge of aggression and strength rose up within her, something she wished had been there a few minutes earlier.  She knew her attackers would get away with this scot free; no one would ever believe the word of a common prostitute.
Held down by her arms and legs, she was unable to strike out, but that didn’t discourage her.  The man thrusting into her was leaning close, trying to lick at her exposed breasts.  She waited.  He brought his head up to try to kiss her.  She opened her mouth allowing his tongue to enter, she then bit down as hard as she could, closing his upper lip and his tongue between her teeth.  He howled in pain and pulled away from her.  At the sudden outburst the other two loosened their grip enough to allow Marion to bring her left knee up to meet the face of the one who crouched there.  He immediately let go his hold of her.  With her now free hand she swung across punching the third man awkwardly in the face, the force causing him to slip and lose balance on the floor.
Marion saw her opportunity and took it.  Half dressed in torn clothing, she scrambled to her feet, hoisting up her ripped jeans as she ran out of the alleyway to the end of the street.  They had stripped her of her shoes and this, she found, made it easier to grip the mushy surface beneath her.  She ran faster than she ever thought possible.  When she reached the end of the street she turned to look behind her, surprised that they hadn’t caught up with her already.
The three were just gathering themselves together, fastening their trousers whilst nursing their unexpected wounds that stung from the cold slap they’d been dealt.  There was no real need to chase the girl; they were spent and they’d had their fun, but their desensitised and irrational anger towards their prey that had escaped got them moving like greyhounds out of the trap chasing the rabbit.
Seeing them tearing from the alleyway like ravaged zombies chasing a last meal, Marion turned and ran along the adjoining street, this time not daring to look back.

They ran along the street cursing; they cursed the snow, the cold, and the girl, but mainly they cursed each other.
“You stupid bastard!  What the hell did you let her go for?” demanded Brian.
“It wasn’t my fault,” complained Kieran, “she kneed me in the face.”
“You should have held onto her, you prat.  She wouldn’t have been able to knee me one and we…”
“Shut up!” spat Jay angrily through bloody teeth.  He could taste the sweet blood sliding down his throat and could feel its warmth in and around his mouth.  He tried to breathe through his nose but the cold air was scented with the sweet smell of his blood.  As he ran, each step vibrated painfully through his torn lip and tongue causing his anger to swell.
They reached the end of the street and turned in the direction that they had seen the girl run.  They saw another empty street – no girl.
“I’m gonna kill that bitch!” hissed Jay  His eyes scoured the street, eager to lock onto his desired target.
“Where did she go?” asked Kieran.
“Look, here… come on let’s go.”
They all followed Brian as he pointed out the footprints in the snow.  The footprints led into an alleyway between two houses.  There was no lighting down the narrow corridor, which had an overhang so that even the little snow that had fallen through to dust the ground failed to illuminate it, but that didn’t hinder their urgency to catch the girl.
They stormed along the alleyway meeting no one.  Reaching the end, the passage split into three as it joined the network of rat runs that linked the various buildings that lined the main town centre to the residential district behind it.  Each passageway threw its shadow across white leaf and bark of garden trees and brambles of overgrown fences, the lack of lighting failing to give them any indication of which direction the girl had taken.  Jay, without speaking, motioned for them to split up.  Kieran took one path while the other two took the other.  None of them intended on letting her get away.

***

The alleyway brought her out into a narrow lane with numerous residential streets sprouting from it.  She hurried towards one of the streets and out of view of the alley.
She didn’t know these streets very well and so wasn’t sure where to run.  She knew that wherever she went they would be able to find her by following her footprints.  Despite her unanswered pleas for help, her earlier prayers having fallen on deaf ears, she still found herself crying out to God to show her mercy and to guide her to a sanctuary, somewhere where there were people or where she could hide.  She knew if she couldn’t escape her attackers she was unlikely to live to see the sun rise.
She was freezing.  Her feet had frozen and turned numb already.  The bare patches of her legs where the damaged denim flapped as she ran, were only warmed by the rapid flow of blood within her as her heart beat faster with the fear of having to keep on the move.  She pulled her torn jumper, which fortunately they hadn’t seen fit to remove, down as far as she could over her mostly naked thighs; the zip and button had been yanked apart to tear through the crotch so that the trousers no longer hugged her thin frame but danced loosely around her ivory pins.  She could feel the frostbite on her fingers and the roughness of her face as the icy wind blew against it.
She came to a crossroads in the street and stopped.  She listened intently for the men she knew would never let her get away so easily.  They were talking, she could hear their muffled voices back on the lane behind her.  All three of them were commenting on the footprints that she had left in the snow.  She looked around nervously, knowing she had to move and soon, but not knowing where.
Half way down the street to her left she caught a glimpse of what appeared to be an orange light reflecting off the snow.  Not knowing what else to do she headed towards it.
As she got closer she realised that it wasn’t a light but a fire.  She stopped at it momentarily bewildered.  The fire was burning in a council rubbish bin sitting on the pavement.  It was the type of bin that had a lift off lid with two holes on either side to allow disposal of rubbish.  The flames licked out with a welcoming warmth but the plastic top of the bin seemed impervious and unaffected by the heat. What further confused her was that there was no one around who could have lit the fire in the first place, and other than her own there were no tracks around the bin to suggest that anyone had been near it in at least a couple of hours.
She stood by its warmth for a few seconds before moving on.  Its heat made her realise that if she stayed out in the open and didn’t get to a safe place soon that she was going to freeze to death.
She moved on.  She considered calling out to the dormant occupants of the houses but feared that if no one answered her plea for help she would have given away her position needlessly.  She knew that they could find her by following her footprints, being barefooted they couldn’t mistake them for anybody else’s, but hearing her as well would make it a lot easier for them.

***

They stopped at the crossroads.
“She went this way,” said Brian leading them off to the left.
They followed the footprints up to the middle of the street to where a council rubbish bin sat collecting snow.
“She stopped here,” stated Brian confused, looking at the heavy imprints around the bin and then looking around.  “Where the hell is she hiding, in the frigging bin?”  It was a flippant remark but he dipped his head and peered into the small opening in its lid anyway.
Jay nudged him and tipped his head away in the direction they had been walking.  It wasn’t that he knew where she had gone, but maybe a hunch, either way the look in his eyes told Brian that his gesture wasn’t a suggestion to move but rather an order.  Jay was mad and he was going to stop at nothing to get the girl, and they were all now in far too deep to back out.

***

She saw the bin to her right, it was the third one she had come across.  Its warmth attracted her like a moth to a flame.  Each one had taken her in a new direction, confusing her mind as to her location even more.
She kept on moving, now more through fear of the cold rather than for fear of her pursuers.  She knew that they would still be following her but she thought that she had gained enough distance to slow down a little.  Her body was numb through the cold and she was finding it extremely hard to move with speed.  She knew that if she didn’t find shelter soon she would lapse into hyperthermia.
She had considered yelling for help again but found that she had no voice with which to do so, and she feared knocking on somebody’s door and waiting for an answer might take too long, and the slightest sound in the stillness of the night seemed to float and glide along the snow as the rest of nature stopped to listen.
Marion reached the bin and held her hands forward.  Through tear filled eyes she could see that her hands had turned blue.  She held them up to her face, feeling her swollen and dried lips.  She could barely make out the shape of her own features so numb were her senses.
She huddled down close to the bin, devouring its warmth.
Their shouts in the distance startled her.  She had to move on.

***

“Where are you bitch!” Jay yelled.  The cold had helped stop the flow of blood from his mouth and his anger forced him to ignore the pain and the swelling that threatened to trip up his words.
“Stop shouting.  You’ll get the police on to us,” cautioned Brian.
Jay turned and glared at him.  Brian lowered his eyes in submission and fell silent obediently.
All three of them were confused as to why the footprints had led to the bins and then disappeared.  Although they had been able to find the prints again it had slowed them down immensely.
They approached a third snow covered bin.  Again the footprints disappeared, as if she had climbed inside the rubbish filled trash can.
“Damn it!  What’s going on here?” asked Kieran as Jay stormed off down the street as though channelling a dark force of his own to hone in on his prey.  Kieran and Brian quickly caught up with him sensing his impatience.
“There she is, over there.”  Brian pointed to the girl hovering by a burning bin for warmth, just past the next crossroads.  “She’s set fire to the bin.”
“I’m going to break your damn neck, bitch!” shouted Jay with total disregard to the sleeping residents he maybe disturbing and alerting to his presence and activity.
They all took chase as the girl looked up and ran off in a panic.
As they reached the crossroads they saw her turn another corner out of view.  With an urgent need to keep up with her they bolted across the road.
None of them noticed the bin extinguish itself as Brian screamed at them to stop.  The warning coming too late.
As Kieran bounded across the road in front of the other two he was blasted by a dazzling white light.  The car, silent in its approach, its tyres uncannily stealthy as they weighed down and flattened the fresh fallen snow, skidded to avoid Kieran but lost their grip and traction on the underlying ice, sliding helplessly into the figure running behind him.  There was a thump and a crunch of breaking bone as Jay was rammed into a lamppost on the corner of the road.
He stood pinned to the spot by the car.  Tears were welling in his eyes as he realised that his back was broken, and the numbness already seeping down to his legs having nothing to do with the cold.  He stared helplessly as Kieran to his left, and Brian to his right, stood dumbstruck as the two policemen stepped from the car.

***

Marion heard the crash but didn’t acknowledge what it meant.  She stumbled forward, still praying for her sanctuary and her deliverance, which she had begun to have hope in.  It was all she could do now, and she saw no sense in anything else.
Another bin up ahead was glowing its invitation.  She slowly made her way towards it.  As she reached it the flame died down and then went out.  She looked into the bin and could see scraps of discarded rubbish but no signs of there ever being a fire in there.
She looked around her and wasn’t surprised to find that she stood outside an old church building.  She couldn’t make out any of the details of its structure for her vision was blurred by her distress.  Its big iron gate blocked her path and a chunky chain wrapped around its centre linking the two sides together.  Without hesitation she uncoiled the chain, not surprised to find the heavy padlock unlocked.  She pushed open the gate and made her way up the steps, past the wooden notice board whose welcome sign was disguised in a festive decoration of white undisturbed fluff, and found herself stood before two huge oak doors.  She turned the ring handle mounted on the door on the right and was relieved to find that it too was unlocked.  She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
With the door shut, the snow and cold was left outside, along with the three men who had raped her, the drugs and the prostitution.  The inside of the church was warm and peacefully silent.  No wind slapped across her face or bare and exposed flesh which her damaged clothes failed to cover.  She made her way to the front of the church and knelt down on one of the pews.  She stared up at the huge cross which hung dominantly over the altar and smiled, the first genuine smile she had felt in a long time.
Rising to the forefront of her mind was the idea of returning home to her parents and the question of whether she would be accepted back after all she had done and had been through.  As she considered it a story rose to her mind, one she remembered from the days she sat in church beside her father, that of the Prodigal Son, and at that she knew.
Still smiling, she whispered, “Thank you,” as her eyes fixed on the cross before her.

©C. P. Clarke 1991

 

 

 

 

 

 

September’18:

This month we’re kicking off with part two of my Shakespeare adaptation of Two Noble Kinsmen.  Picking up with our two hero’s having been captured and incarcerated in an alien prison.
The second story is brand new, written upon my return from Uganda a couple of weeks ago and inspired by actual events whilst travelling through one of the national parks.  The real life victims of the tale were fortunate enough to have been able to hitch a ride with us to the hospital.  What is written in the story is what could have been a likely outcome.

 

 

 

 

WORLDS APART (Two Noble Kinsmen)

The prison cells of Dion were designed with humiliation in mind, a conceivable deterrent and attraction to draw the heads of the innocent and guilty alike as the prisoners are paraded and gawped at like animals in a zoo, and to some that is exactly what they are, the outlanders at any rate, those from the other world, the barbarian monsters who had invaded and stolen what was rightfully theirs; the fact that they too were of a distant race of human and in their own likeness meant little to the way they were perceived as animals.  For this reason the walls of their cages were made of transparent force fields stacked one upon another in rows upon a level.
The lower street level criminals were treated to the ridicule of the pedestrian foot traffic that marched along to the palaces and the gardens that expanded from the chambers of the king.
Due to it being a prerogative of royalty to be able to scoff at their captured subjects within their own grounds, the prison had been built within the parliamentary capital, along with the execution stalls and the warrior battlements used for the games of judgement.  The footfall before these cells, however, was infrequent due to the nature of the pathways that led to the palaces of old, which once upon a time would have been teeming with gallantry busily seeking urgent business of government and lordship.  Now however, new and remote methods of communication meant fewer people had need to travel, and those that did mostly created traffic that flowed to the upper levels of the prison as recent technological advancement had brought faster means of travelling and at greater heights.
Elevated highways had been built to accommodate the new modes of transport that hovered and glided effortless through the atmosphere reaching up to the dizzying heights of the tower high-rises that pierced the purple clouds and housed the growing population of Dion.  These new machines of transport were capable of great speeds but were provided with layby sections to pull out from the flowing traffic to allow the drivers and their passengers a brief respite from their journey.  One such layby was purposely drawn across the old city compound to allow for tourists to get a glimpse of the palaces of King Theseus and the grand designs of his parliament buildings, and of course it lined up nicely with the upper levels of the prison cells where scorn and abuse could be hurled without fear or comeback from the encapsulated convicts who stood naked in their chambers, robbed of their clothes, their freedom, and their dignity.
There were two to a cell, a bunk on either side with a toilet between facing out to the world.  The beds had no covers to hide beneath nor to keep warm within.  The temperature was regulated throughout the building and held in by the force field, but if your body failed to acclimatise to the new world of confinement then you would suffer the chills and the sweats without compassion.
The far inner wall was the only solid structure of the cells, not even the floor or roofs were tiled to protect the privacy of neighbouring inmates.  Should the power fail catastrophe would fall in upon those housed in a structure that had no solid point other than the ancient old prison wall it was attached to.  Through this wall the solitary guard served them meals with the aid of his daughter, and if the prisoners were of a charming disposition they were often cheered by news of the outside and pleasant conversation with the not so unreasonable host and turnkey.
If however the prisoners were proved to be unremorseful by their words and actions and deserving of their confinement in the eyes of their host in so much as the tolerance of the law permitted, he would entice his daughter to tease them and provoke them, getting them aroused and frustrated, much to the further humiliation of their audience beyond.  Or, if he was in a cruel mind or under persuasion of the courts as part of their sentence, he would purposely mix the cells with those incarcerated as sexual deviants or with those from the female block whom were known to be unclean and disease ridden (of which most were, not being privy to regular sanitary conditions); it was one thing to give in to sexual temptation or be abused in full public view, but to then suffer the discomfort of the after effects of the action: to itch and scratch and writhe about in agony and distraction in full view of a taunting laughing crowd who knew all too well the sentence of dose that had befallen them.  There was no retreat and no escape from the humiliation and no way to block it out other than to sink into the unseen world of insanity and denial.  It was no wonder that many, once their sentence was at its end, refused to leave their cells, unable to face the outside world or break from their own mental captivity they had sunken to.
For the turnkey and his daughter there were fewer and fewer prisoners thanks to the new technology of cells, so his time was spent less servicing the prisoners but more talking with them, the pleasant ones at least.  Two recent patrons of his establishment had proved themselves quite courteous and cheerful in their captivity and both seemed resolved to not be downhearted at their plight but to make every opportunity to live well under their circumstances.  In this way they had spoken much with the turnkey and his daughter about religion and politics and life and love, loyalty and war.  Arc and Pal their names were and they shared a cell on an upper floor overlooking the palace gardens.  The turnkey had found it intriguing to learn of the outlander world and their alien ways, their disturbed and fractured history, their struggles for survival, their honour, and most surprisingly their quest for peace.  He found them engaging, noble, and gentlemanly.  His daughter too found them pleasing company, both to the eye and to the ear.

“Did you note the turnkey’s surprise that we should agree with Theseus’ anger?”
“You would have thought as jailer he would have seen enough political prisoners and captives of war to know that a king’s subjects don’t all agree on the course of action of their leader.”
“Pal, do we really come across that barbaric to their eyes that we all would justify the slaying of the three Dionite lords?”
“What Créon does we all do, my dear Arc!”
“Look down here beyond the traffic.  Do you see the party walking, what do you think they would make of us?”
“They would make of us nothing but dogs.”
“Dogs indeed!”
“Of course, they are royalty from the palace, or at least I figure the lady to be, her entourage follows her daily upon her walk.”
“You have seen her before?”
“She is too beautiful not to miss.  I am surprised you have not seen her yourself, but then you hold back there in shame too often.  My heart is lost in her I tell you, she is all that I live for at the moment  Just to be able to look down upon her each day is a blessing.”
“Step aside Pal and let me look more clearly.  Ah yes I see what you mean, but her heart is not yours to keep.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning her eyes could fall favourably on me as easily as mine do on her.”
“But Arc, you jest surely, for I saw her first.”
“But even from this distance I fancy she stares up at me.”
“Don’t be so foolish!  This place has driven you mad already.  I pray our fellow men are holding their own in better fare than you.  Cousin do you show honour in all things other than this?  Tell me you are joking.”
“What, you think she takes a fancy to all men stood naked before her?”
“You are mad!  Did I not just tell you I have adored her these past days and that my heart had gone out to her?  Why would you dishonour me in such a way?”
“Cousin, we are like-minded in too many ways to not take a fancy to the same woman.  We can argue this back and forth, and no doubt we will, but neither of us is due to be free of this place and so neither of us can do naught about it but admire her from a distance.  If anything, the longing of our hearts will quicken our blood and keep us sane with the temptation.”
“Or insane with the fury and frustration!”
“Which royal do you take her for?”
“At a guest I would say Emilé, Theseus’ sister.  I have heard her beauty spoken of before.”
“In which case we can both be assured that we would sooner lose our heads before we could be in a position to draw her attention.”
“Ah, she is stepping out of view.”
“Come Pal, step away from the wall, you are drawing too much attention and the tourists are hungry for a pantomime.  Don’t give them the pleasure.  We have our honour even in captivity.”

©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

Stranded

I awoke to silence, unsure of whether my hearing was damaged or whether all life around me had simply stopped.  I didn’t know how long I’d been out, minutes, maybe only seconds, either way it couldn’t have been long as the blood trickling down my cheek had yet to dry.
I was disorientated, confused.  Somehow I was upside down, the jeep upturned on its head.  I tried to move but the belt restricted me.  I tried to loosen it but pain shot through me like a jolt of electricity.  I didn’t know what part of me was injured as the pain seemed to radiate throughout my body and threatened to send me into a dizzy spiral back to unconsciousness.  I fought it, widened my eyes and slapped my lips together.  My mouth was dry, a copper taste on my tongue.
I tried to visually assess my predicament.  It didn’t look like I had anything protruding from my body, that was good, but my legs were sandwiched beneath the steering wheel, my short hairy pins clamped tightly where the dash had buckled inwards.
Ahead of me the windscreen was a spider’s web of splintered glass allowing me a fractured view of the forest beyond, the dense woodland, abundant with life, waiting in a pregnant pause for a sign of life from where I sat as it recoiled from the shock of the crash.
To my right the driver’s door was wedged against the side of the ditch, there was no way that door was going to open unless the jeep shifted position, which wasn’t going to happen; it was still and settled, and going nowhere.
To my left sat Carolyn.  She was sleeping, only I couldn’t make out the rise and fall of her chest.  I sat staring, hoping, praying, trying to ignore the smashed glass to her side with a generous spearing of blood on it, knowing the impact had struck the side of her face that I couldn’t see.  Suddenly I let out an uncontrollable anguished cry of pain and loss, tears welling up in my eyes as my hands gripped in agony at the steering wheel as I tried to focus my anger and frustrations.
In echo of my screams birds fluttered in the echelons of the trees and creatures that had unseen crept forward now scuttled backwards.  I gave no thought as to what they were, I could worry about that later.
They weren’t the only things to stir at my outburst.  Behind me there was a shuffling and a moan.  I tried to turn around but the collection of broken ribs I was now becoming aware of wouldn’t let my body twist.  Instead I reached up and tried to angle the rear-view mirror.  I could make out James holding himself in a contorted state as though he were wearing an invisible straight jacket.  He was slumped against one of the back seats with his eyes closed.  Blood was oozing from his head, his t-shirt, and his shorts.  How many times had we rolled?  Once, twice?  He wasn’t wearing a seat belt in the back and would have been shaken like a dice in a cup.
I looked passed him to the back window, it had been shattered clean out.  I could see the dirt road beyond and the bend where I’d lost control. Going too fast on the empty track the turn had caught me by surprise and I’d fishtailed the jeep as I hit the brakes and then rolled the jeep into the ditch.
Looking at that dusty track now I could see the first of the inquisitive baboons gingerly stepping into the road in the distance.  The one I could see was small, just a young one, but I knew there were bigger more aggressive ones out there.
My phone was in my shorts pocket, pushing through the pain I managed to retrieve it and turn it on, but there was no signal.  I was hardly surprised, we were in the depths of a national game park in the heartlands of Africa, cell phone towers were hardly a priority out here.  This was the second park we’d driven through on our month long adventure before returning to university after the summer break.  We had been invincible so far.  We had drawn up close to lions and leopards, had driven alongside a herd of elephants, and had played chicken in the road with water buffalo.  Nothing could touch us, nothing could stop us, except for my overzealous and cocky driving.
I tried to think of how long it had been since we’d seen another car.  Hours.  There had been quite a few by the lodge where we had been staying, but they had all left via the usual routes, the standard tourist drives.  We were bored of those and sought out an alternative track, a little used road that crossed the river and drew a circle around to the bottom end of the park where it was harder to get to.  We weren’t stupid, we had told a ranger where we were going.  If we didn’t return he would send someone out to find us, but bearing in mind it took hours to get to where we were, the chances they would find us anytime soon were slim.
I looked to Carolyn and then through the mirror to James, and the three baboons slowly walking the path towards us in the distance and knew help wouldn’t get to us in time.
I knew the smell of blood would attract animals from miles around.  Predators were most likely already circling.  If I didn’t get out of the jeep to scare them off the baboons were most likely to be the first to climb in and rip us to pieces.
Pain or no pain, I knew I had to climb out through the back of the jeep and scare off the animals and find some way of signalling for help.  I figured if I could recline my seat and slide it back I might be able to free my rapidly numbing legs from beneath the steering wheel.  The control to slide it back was below the front of the seat, I couldn’t reach it without undoing the belt that pinned me back.  I pressed the button on the seatbelt release.  Nothing happened.  I pressed again.  Still nothing.  Repeatedly in a panic I tried to pull it free, but it was jammed.
James groaned behind me.  I imagined the screams I would have to endure as they ripped him apart before reaching in for me.
I took a fearful look in the mirror again.  There were more of them, bigger, bolder, and closer.

©C. P. Clarke 2018

 

 

 

 

August’18:

Two Noble Kinsman with a difference.  This is my take on a Shakespeare classic – a sci-fi rewrite.  It’s a bit on the long side so my intention is to serialise it here on my website over the next few months rather than putting it all up in one go.  I love reading the classics and find many really inspiring, and normally I wouldnt try to adapt them, but this one just shouted out at me, and I so I wrote it immediately after reading the play, seeing that I could put a different spin on it.

 

 

 

 

WORLDS APART  (Two Noble Kinsmen)

It is the year 482 Lémas Ce’arn in the reign of Trebellefar the Third of the United Lands of the planet of Múndar, in the outer regions of the Desar system.
The war has been raging now for five generations, ever since the unification of Múndar and its resolve to claim back the mining rights of Tiros, the moon of Dion in the neighbouring Horek system, a resolve undertaken during the reign of Ptomiec the Great.  The rights had fallen back to the Dionites following their technological advancement into the farther reaches of space and the strength of their growing military might.  Now able to reclaim what lay in their own locality and muster enough forces to hold it securely, they had laid out the challenge to the superior race of Múndar, the fiendish horde who had stolen and used the precious metals of the large lunar surface and its deep excavated core to build their superior fleet of ships in the early years of their ventures into space, robbing the, as then, under developed kingdom of Dion of their local inheritance.
In the early years of the Lémas Re’arn dynasty the people of Múndar had viewed the moon of Dion as their own territory, but their own infighting had led to their defeat against the Dionites as they pitted their armies against one another instead of uniting against the common foe of the alien race.  The ensuing civil war, the reasons and origins of which are recorded in the annals of the kings of Múndar, lasted right through until the first of the Ptomiecs sought to unify the land once more.  It took until the fifth of the Ptomiecs until the war was dissolved and peace reigned within the new United Lands.  The Great King Ptomiec the Fifth then united the people once more by embedding a common goal of rebuilding their once great military might across the stars, and in order to do this they needed to reclaim the distant moon of Tiros.
So in the years that have passed since Ptomiec The Great until now in the reign of Múndar’s current ruler, Créon Trebellefar the Third, both nations of Múndar and Dion have been at war over the possession of Tiros, and as a result the mining on the moon (officially at any rate) has ceased due to its proximity to the fighting and the dangers it imposes.  Both nations are close to depletion in resources for the war.  The lack of mining has meant that few new ships can be built and no new weapons can be developed, and the financial incentive is now being spent on searching the heavens for a new source of materials far away from Dion and far beyond the systems of Desar and Horek.  This has left both sides with split reserves as civilian ships have been commissioned at great cost to scour the distant stars, each side knowing they need to be the first to find a new source to tip the balance, and so a fraction of each military has been assigned a duty to thwart the other’s attempts using any means necessary.  It has been a messy war, and a bitter one which has led to resentment among the disheartened soldiers carrying out their commands obediently, and wondering why the two proud leaders can’t simply come to a sharing trade agreement over the resources of the moon instead of being hell bent on destroying each other.  Certainly Créon Trebellefar the Third has been on the verge of sending his kingdom back into the throes of civil war and undoing the good work of his predecessors by his stubbornness not to negotiate with Theseus, the equally tyrant lord of Dion.
The United Lands of Múndar are no longer unified.
So in the present year of 482 Lémas Ce’arn, in the reign of Créon Trebellefar the Third of the United Lands of the planet of Múndar, in the outer regions of the Desar system, the war has raged on, and nothing is likely to stop it in the immediate future.  So was the discussion between two friends, two noblemen and commanders in battle, who by chance of their commission were also related by birth by the brotherhood of their fathers, who too had been noble warriors in the war and had instilled to their sons the privileged position of being firm and yet humble, vicious and yet gentlemanly, honourable even in retreat.  Through these lessons passed down they had learned their command within the united army of Múndar, but it was an army they saw fracturing, and the leadership of Créon Trebellefar was being questioned by the rank and file soldiers on the ground.
“To Créon I will stay,” spoke up Pal to his cousin, “I will admit it is tempting to break away with the others, but until Créon is officially deposed I am sworn to him.”
“I agree,” whispered Arc as he knelt down low in the trench of the enemy land which they had invaded, “but the war will soon be over one way or another, for if our forces split we will lose the war to civil unrest once again, but if there is a coup then the only hope is to open up a trade negotiation.”
“A trade negotiation?  A surrender in effect.  It’s not our way.  We don’t learn the lessons of our own history, though I agree and we are like minded in this.”
Their small fleet of ships lay back against the field partially destroyed in a tangle of twisted metal and bone and bloody flesh where many of their men lay slaughtered.  It had been a poor assault, a desperate attempt to take out the ground weapons facility on Dion to allow their orbiting ships to get closer to the surface for a more direct assault upon the central cities and military compounds.  There were maybe a dozen or so of their men left hunkered down behind a natural wall of a gully in the field.  The enemy was approaching on foot from the far treeline and they had the advantage in every way.
Pal and Arc were outnumbered and outgunned and they knew there was to be no rescue for them.  They were in command and they had a decision to make: fight to the death, or surrender.
“So if it came to it,” Pal spoke, checking the ammunition in his weapon for the umpteenth time, “should we join a legal coup if Créon be usurped?”
“Will it matter for us if we are captured?  On whose side will we speak from a prison cell?”
“Good may still come of it if war changes to negotiation.”
“True, and for our men also,” Arc agreed.
“So it is settled then?”
Arc nodded his head.  They both gave the order to their remaining men and made ready for the approach of the enemy.

©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

July’18:

It’s been an unusual month for me in the sense that I’ve written no new material.  Instead I’ve spend the last month working through POV Volume 3 with JJ and editing the Stalking the Daylight follow up, Time Locked.  So, following on from last month’s theme, I’ve decided to upload another story based around that empty room that acts as a portal to another place.  This time we examine the rules of time tourism and the protocols set in place as an employee puts a client through the orientation process in the room.  You may spot some references to actual mysteries I stumbled upon which inspired in part the story.

 

 

 

 

TIME TOURISTS

You don’t believe.  Why should you?  Things happen all the time that people can’t explain.  Religion is full of the inexplicable yet the majority of the world’s population adhere to one or another.  Just because you can’t prove God does not mean he doesn’t exist.  When people see you they won’t believe you exist either, not because you’re not here, or that you’re supernatural in any way, but because you are outside of what is deemed normal, what is accepted, and what is believable.
There are endless accounts of lights in the sky and alien abductions that stretch beyond the simplistic explanations of weather balloons and Air Force test flights.  You know there’s well documented evidence of alien vessels dogging the planet for centuries.  Not only is NASA sitting on a hoard, satellite and radar tracking objects, even footage of missiles from the planet surface firing at them.  What, you don’t believe me?  Look it up for yourself; nothing I’m telling you here is new news. “The Madonna with Saint Giovannino” is a painting that was painted in the 15th century.  There’s an object in the sky in the background, a man and his dog appear to be stood on the hill behind the main portrait in the foreground, staring up and pointing at what looks a lot like a UFO.  There are countless others dating back to tribal cave drawings.  Don’t take my word for it.
You look unsteady.  Don’t worry, that unsettled feeling will shake itself off soon.  It’s weird, I know, that feeling of being; your unconscious body somewhere else and this life just being a dream monitored by someone else waiting for you to wake up.  It’s not quite as simple as that.  You are here and you are there.  Solid.  Your mortality linked across the void.  They are watching over you, observing, like God waiting to welcome you into the eternal and more solid life he has prepared ahead of time.  But time is the trick.
Who are they?  Marshals.  Selecting, conditioning and controlling the streams, the flows, ensuring the lines don’t cross.
The mind always struggles to comprehend the first time.  We forget our application, our selection, our initiation and basic training.  That’s why I’m here.  Like jumping out of a plane for the first time, you do it in tandem, strapped to an experienced jumper to guide you down and open the chute.  That’s my role here.  To realign, to navigate your senses through the rush of cloud that have shut down your senses temporarily.
The mind, at first, refuses to believe those things that seem unbelievable, and inexplicable.  Then we rationalise them and dismiss them with reason.  Like the ghosts.  Mankind has always believed in them, yet we can’t explain them.  They appear in ancient plays and religious scriptures, folk tales and horror stories passed down through the centuries.  Modern day society has a new way of capturing them on film.  Again, they can be explained away in part, but others are not so easy to dismiss.   How about the real life account of Freddy Jackson, a Royal Air Force mechanic, appearing in the background of a group photo taken two days after his death.  Or the picture of the sweet and innocent old couple taken in the back yard of their home by another family member, only at the time the photo was taken only the wife was in the picture as the husband had died three years earlier.  Again, countless tales of similar stories told around the globe.  Yet we reason them away.  We dismiss them and reduce them to fairy tales and spooky stories to be told at Halloween.
All things that make the mind boggle.  Yet still you don’t believe.  Still you don’t comprehend.
How do you think I got here?  How do you think you got here?  You can’t explain it, can you?  Of course not.
Yes, I’m saving the best till last.  Maybe this will help you to see, to understand.
Are you still with me?   Focus!
I ponder too much on the ghosts and UFO’s, it’s a minefield with plenty of truth hidden in amongst all the fabrication.  Not that I’m saying ghosts or aliens are real; there are always other explanations for what we don’t understand.  It’s a big complicated world out there.  Science, what you know and what is to come, can explain some of it away.  Dimensional realms of the life beyond we can only speculate about and put our faith and hope in.
Always look for the alternative answer!  Don’t just take things on face value, that’s when mistakes are made and assumptions lead us down the wrong path.  How many times have you heard of objects just appearing in the sky briefly to then vanish just as quickly; people always assume them to be alien spaceships.   Then there are those people long dead who just appear; why must they be ghosts?  What if those things in the sky were from another time, skipping through the vortex between timelines?  What if those spectres were no more the lingering dead but rather ascended beings seeking to understand or reconnect with what has gone before, or a visual representation of a means of communication with another dimension or multi-verse?
Still you are skeptical.  I have given you too many questions, too many suppositions.  It is irrelevant to my point, maybe.  What I mean to focus on is what I know, what I can show, what I can prove.   You and I are here.  You raise your hands to ask where, but what you should be asking is when.
This room is a holding room in the future.  It was set up as part of the adjustment scenario for new recruits shortly after the first field trips were navigated.  Of course, back then it was just government employees, trained agents, who were privileged enough to circumvent the timelines.  It wasn’t until much later on that it was opened up to the wealthy elite such as yourself.  By then we had worked out the kinks in the system and implemented the rules of travel.  There were teething problems to begin with, which was why this room was developed to adjust the candidates before their own solo voyage.  This room is fixed in time, an endless spacial capsule that can be used to an infinite level.  Right now there are thousands, if not millions, of people sitting in this very spot discussing this very same scenario.  We exist in the same space but at different times frozen to the milli-second in a quantum loop.
Don’t worry, your memory will return in a few minutes.  It’s one of the draw backs of traversing the timelines: momentary memory loss.  Each time you step across the threshold the lapse will be shorter.  If you can afford it you may eventually skip through without any adjustment at all.
Like me, yes.  Only proficient trainers are allowed to use this room.  Most of us are ex-government agents who now work in the private sector.  Tourism pays handsomely.  We generally are the only ones who are experienced enough to step through without any lingering effects from crossing the spheres.  Of course we are a dying breed these days, having lingered for years in the no-man’s-land between times.  Tourists can’t afford more than a couple of trips; a few would be excessive even for the wealthiest.  Both the government and the tourism board have scaled back the training of new agents for the programme amidst rumours that travel has become too dangerous with too many trying to alter timelines.  Of course it’s policed.  Sometimes things need amending.  Sometimes alternative timelines get created and need adjusting or eradicating.  It’s a brutal role, and I’m glad rectifying the fate of humanity, or destroying it in some cases, is not part of my job role.
Here, I have some photos to show you to help you adjust to what you have signed up to.  They are also as a warning of what you should not do.  Remember, backwards only, never forward.  We cannot change our fate and should not tamper with those who know our future and of our ability to cross time.   The past we can monitor.  The past we can police.  In the past we can watch you.  That is the job of the marshals.
This is a science, an exact and precise calculation.
Now, before I show you these photos, I must ask you a question.  Many wealthy and powerful travellers have enemies they wish to hide from and think this is a fair way of escaping the troubles of this world, or have financial losses they wish to make amends with by altering the past with knowledge gained from the future, or have a vendetta they wish to exact on families of foe.  Do any of these scenarios apply to you?  Remember you are under oath of a binding contract and any attempts to alter timelines may result in punishment of death.  Time tourism is purely for observation only.  Any interference can result in altered states and paradoxes.
You cannot remember yet.  I will ask again in a moment.  For now look at these photos.
What is wrong with this first one?  Take your time and look at it properly.  This photo was taken in 1941 at a political rally in Pennsylvania.  You can see it, can’t you?  It stands out quite clearly.  The man in the foreground is wearing dark glasses and a printed T-shirt and a hoody more suitable to the early 21st century.  His hairstyle is also untimely.  He may have been able to get away with that look in a side street, but in a very public crowd he stands out.  We were never sure whether the photo was taken as a general record of the event or because of the oddity of the character in it but we did have agents ready to whisk him away as soon as the photo was taken.
We let these things happen to an extent, you understand.  We have to let the clue filter through so that we can identify them and act upon them in the past.  Only if they pose a potential threat to the timeline do we take any drastic action.
Here is another one.  What can you tell me about what you see here?  You don’t see it?  What about this one?  See it now?
Both pictures show the same basic mistakes made by tourists.  We discovered that matter, both organic and synthetic can journey, and also, with the right devices, certain wave patterns can be trapped and relayed.  A means of communication with our agents was the first and primary use of such technology, however it has been abused by black-market tech used to communicate across the void.  Those wishing to manipulate the markets, or find particular people, or selfishly abuse the trust of the system are clamped down on quite severely, and generally all travellers are searched for illegal tech prior to disembarkation.
This first picture was pulled from a newsreel filmed in 1938 outside a factory in Massachusetts.  See the woman walking along in the centre of the frame with her hand up to her face?
This second shot is from the movie premiere of Charlie Chaplin’s ‘The Circus’ in 1928, the guy walking past the theatre looks the part in his well-dressed suit, but like the girl in the other picture he too appears to be on a mobile phone.
You getting the idea?   Good.  Try this one.  Look familiar?
Yeah, that’s right, Dallas, 22nd November 1963.  Everyone knows the story, and before you ask, no I’m not going to elaborate on any conspiracy theories surrounding John F. Kennedy’s assassination.  When all the footage was examined this woman was seen to be stood in the foreground of the action filming the whole thing.  The FBI never identified her and she was never traced.  Obviously we know she came home and we confiscated the footage and she was cordially advised.  The point being, don’t make yourself standout in any way.
Weren’t you listening?  Of course they’re all tourists.  There one minute, gone the next.  So many mysteries of our past are explained in our present.  Even the fantasies of immortality, those enigmatic figures reappearing through history with the perception of having an extra-long lifespan.  I know of one ex-government official, who was on the committee instrumental in the development of regulating the original programme once the all the technological hurdles had been overcome.  This particular individual maintains a remote estate in France, which he periodically visits and refreshes his authority over his stewards.  He’s created his own myth, and knows when to go back and visit by checking the history books.
It’s crazy I know.  There are a few abuses of the system by those in power.  Some are laughable.  Most have a blind eye turned to their activities.  Occasionally marshals are sent to track down and deal with what cannot be overlooked.
You’re nodding with that recognition of previous knowledge.  It’s coming back to you.  You remember who you are, and where you’re from?  Good.  Do you remember signing up for the programme?  Very well.  Hold on to those memories, they will fade again when you slide through to your selected time zone.  The designated time and place has been set based on your preferences, and marshals will be monitoring any changes in the timeline.  This is to protect you as well as to ensure you don’t break any of the rules.  We have had in the past enemies of candidates trying to exact time crimes; you rich folk do tend to have a multitude that wish to do you harm.
When you first arrive you will be in a temporal bubble, a holding pattern if you will.  It lasts but a minute before it releases you into the new time zone.  For that minute both this room and the past will exist simultaneously.  That gives you a minute of adjustment before this timeline vanishes and you are on your own.  When you cross try to remember this room, my face, my voice, my words.  If you can recall this room you will remember more quickly your identity and your purpose, and the fact that you have paid and opted to do this.  If you can’t recall this room immediately you will be disorientated and struggle to find composure.  The longer you are in this state the more dangerous a position you will be in.  You must seek seclusion and settlement immediately so that you can adjust for the duration of your trip.
You have paid for twenty four hours.  You must return to the point of origin by that time or marshals will be sent to re-acquire you.
Like now, you will have that feeling of being an unconscious body somewhere else and your current state, your life just being a dream monitored by someone else waiting for you to wake up.  In reality this is accurate, except it’s not a dream, and what happens to you there is reality.
You think we’ve met before.  Why, do I look familiar to you?
Your past is catching up with you.  This is a good thing.  You will want to recall me when you get to your destination.  It is important to remember your life, those who have made an impression upon you, and those whom you have impacted.
I remind you of someone?  Can you recall who?  No.  Maybe it will come to you later.  Sometimes our clients report that they merge faces from their lives into those they meet in their travels.  We don’t understand it fully but somehow the brain gets confused through the process and memory and the visual cortex splinter perceptions.  Do not get too concerned by this.  It is merely a side effect that subsides.  I am familiar to you now as someone you once knew, maybe a friend, maybe an enemy, maybe a disgruntled client or ex-employee.  Maybe you will see me again in the past you travel too and I will take on the guise of someone else.  Don’t let it confuse you.
Emotions too will conflict.  Fear and regret often override rational thought.  But again it is temporary.  Remember to breathe and focus and within a few minutes you will be able to take charge of your faculties and conduct yourself as you adapt to your new environment.
It is almost time for you to go.  In a moment you will feel a sharp tug on your senses, a sudden pull and a tingling just before the process engages with the placement capsule that will encase your person.  You will feel giddy but do not worry or be concerned.  It is programmed to your chosen parameters and you are already wearing the attire of the day.
You didn’t notice.  Don’t worry, few do when we go through the assimilation programme.
My name?  You think you remember it?
Don’t get worked up now.  You need to relax.  Anxiety can affect the instrumentation and throw the predictability off balance.  Breathe deeply.  Calm yourself.
Look at me.  Focus on me.  Relax.  You must calm yours…

It is unfortunate you didn’t listen and follow my instruction.  You needed to remain calm.  How is your balance?  I doubt you can perch here for long.  This high up there is no one to reach out and save you and nothing far below that could catch your fall.  Can you feel the wind?  It may be the only thing to catch you and slow your descent.
Why?  Weren’t you listening?
You see that building below?   It doesn’t exist in the future.  In our time it has been replaced by something bigger and far grander.  The Department of Temporal Technologies, where we started, stands in this very spot.  The tourism sector is seven floors below where the capsule has landed.  That’s ninety floors above ground level.
I’d advise you to grab a rail to prevent the wind from pulling you off the edge, but there isn’t one.
Me.  Yes.  You remember me now.  You rich and powerful men care not for the little people you trample upon on the way up.
Turn and look down.  You see your fate?  It’s unlikely you’ll feel the impact.  The force from this height will render you unidentifiable.  I know, I checked.
Forget the room.  The assimilation.  Forget who you were told I am.  Remember who you think I am, who your mind needs me to be.
You’ll have plenty of time to think about it on your journey.  By the time you hit the ground you’ll know the truth.
Can you feel the wind?  Do you want to travel?  Do you want to fly?
Then fly.

©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

June’18:

This month, as promised, I have uploaded a sci-fi story.  The Room was just one of a number of stories I wrote a couple of years ago along the theme of characters interacting out of the normal time frame within the confines of a room.  Often when I write I try to work out the science and plausibility of a scenario.  The danger is that in doing so you can sometimes get bogged down with the practicalities, losing part of the mystery in the process.  With this story I haven’t bothered with the science; so far as Cas is concerned it could be real, but equally it could simply be a dream where nothing makes sense.

 

 

 

 

THE ROOM

Cas arrived.
Sucked through the wormhole into the darkened room she appeared, unexpectedly for her, but not unexpected.
The old woman opposite her was ancient, her tired wrinkled skin looking older than her weary bones should have been able to carry.  Her breathing was wispy and shallow, as though it hurt to draw breath.  A blue velvet hood covered the thin grey strands of hair that could just be seen straggling out and drawing a line to merge with the wiry contours of her cheek.  Her eyes spoke of power, knowledge, wisdom, and a defiant self-preservation.  She blinked slowly and held out a hand for Cas to sit down at the small square table that separated them.
The room was small, Cas observed.  Save for the table and two chairs, one on either side of the desk, there was no furniture, no decor, no door.  The walls, ceiling, and floor were a brilliant white, so that the only colour in the room came from the two women themselves, their radiance a stark contrast to what otherwise felt like a fabricated environment.  As if in echo of the truth she realised the room itself flickered and shimmied in a shudder of her thoughts.
Cas pulled the chair back and maneuvered into it without saying a word.  She had a million questions, not least of all how she had been sucked from her home, her family, her life, to be in this place.  She had yet to dismiss the idea that she was dreaming.
Despite the second chair, the old woman didn’t sit.  Cas supposed to lower herself down might be painful, maybe even impossible; it was probably an effort to be just standing there.  She wondered at the extent of mental will that the old woman had conjured just to keep breathing.  If she were to hazard a guess at her age she would have to point the dial toward the two hundred mark at least.
My age doesn’t matter.
The old woman had spoken but her lips hadn’t moved.
The room echoes our thoughts.  It acts as a speaker, reverberating the unspoken from one to another.
Cas was amazed but dared not say it aloud for fear of how her voice would be distorted in such a chamber.
In here you can access multiple futures, where time-lines have split where decisions have been made that alter the course of history.  Few are able to step out of the natural and observe, stepping in and taking part at will.  Often their interference worsens the condition and fractures things further.  But usually their dalliance ends in a shortened lifespan.  Foolishly they think themselves smarter than they should, and their own stupidity or carelessness brings harm to themselves and others. 
Cas wondered how the old woman’s voice could be so tuneful, but then answered her own question, in that the body may be broken but the mind was very much alert.
Cas looked down in response to the tipping eyes of the old woman.  The desk lit up with a thousand moving images.  Real life merged with news stories and television broadcasts throughout history, but not just one history, many.  Timelines intertwined in a map she instinctively knew she could follow, leaping from one strand to another, clinging onto the different threads woven through history.
Laid out before her were matters of controversy and destruction, sadness and joy, science and miracles as achievements spanned the known and expanding universe.
Where are you in all this? Cas heard herself ask, and waited for the unspoken words to reverberate around the room.
The old woman, her gleaming cloak creasing as she moved, gestured once more with her hand, only this time to the desk and the stories within it.
Cas looked down once more and tried to pick out some of the stories.  With each one she focused on it rose from the pile as if begging her to delve deeper, to fall right into it.  The ordination of the first openly gay female Archbishop of Canterbury leaped up, followed by a post war anti-gay march through a devastated western city by an Islamic women’s fundamentalist group.  This gave way to a privatised army and police force building flood defences around the cosmopolitan tower blocks of Nairobi.  Another story to rise up was the rise in suicide rates among children and teachers as a new drug that altered the users perception of time was found to be dealt widely through government sources as a social experiment.  In one thread rape figures and pedophilia had been reduced to almost zero, but on closer scrutiny further down the line it was the result of lax laws where, in order to reduce said crime figures, the age of consent had been lowered and the legal rights over one’s own body were changed to make some laws permissive.  There were wars between countries she never thought possible, and the collapse of economies she expected to be rock solid for centuries to come.  Some medical achievements breached the confines of her imagination, whilst the advancement of space travel on one strand was constricted no further than what she already knew of, and yet in another strand excelled beyond our solar system and that of first contact with beings more technologically advanced.  Indeed the advancement of human technology seemed impeded by the moral decisions taken by any one people group: technology advanced both morally and immorally depending on the culture, having been sparked by one or two significant events, and equally being stunted by a similar process.  She wondered how much of this had led to her being in this room here and now.
There was much more, but she didn’t want to look.  What she saw horrified her.  Part of her wanted to dive in and try to change much of what was wrong with the worlds she observed, but she knew only wise decisions and a thought out strategy could reduce the poor choices and the number of split timelines that had been created.
Who started this?
The old woman just blinked.
You want me to change this?
The old woman shook her head.
There is a great adventure ahead.  If you could change it all it wouldn’t be there now.
Cas knew what she meant.  The stories were the old woman’s contribution of her past as well as her own future.
What do I do?
The wise thing would be to go home and leave it all alone and never return to this room.
I don’t even know how to.
It is part of you now.  When life takes its turns you may want to change it.  You will be tempted to come back here and find an alternative route.  Don’t.
I won’t.
The old woman blinked and then gave a weak half smile.
That’s exactly what I remember telling myself.
Cas felt herself being pulled back from the room, her timeline, her reality trying to recapture her.  As she gave way to it she swore to herself that she would never become like the old woman.  She would never return to the room.

©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

May’18:

Over the last month I’ve been busy working on the new volume of POV, compiling and editing, and writing new stories where there have been obvious gaps.  As a result I’m saving most of the new material for the final book and won’t publish it on here.
The story Upgrade I wrote on the plane coming back from holiday in April.  My original notes on it were to make it more humerous than it has turned out to be (probably the result of my not so jovial mood at a very long flight delay).  Nevertheless the story still has a point, even if it took on a life of its own and deviated from my original intentions.  The angel in the story was due to have a bit more adventure, something that might yet happen in a further episode.
Next month I’ll post some sci-fi so watch this space.

 

 

 

 

UPGRADE

Another day, another job done. I’m pretty proud of my labour, and I think the boss would be pleased too.
Some would say they’re just menial tasks, but I know that in the grand scheme of things they all work toward a greater purpose. I don’t know what that bigger picture is, someone higher up the food chain does, certainly the big boss man, but I satisfy myself that I don’t really need to know so long as I’m being faithful to the tasks I’m set.
I’ve made a difference in people’s lives, not that they would know it. They don’t see what I do for them. They never recognise me stood alongside them, watching, waiting. They rarely acknowledge the divine hand, the intervention, the guiding gesture that so often comes across as coincidence. But that’s ok. I don’t do it for the glory; if it’s given it goes to Him, the boss upstairs. I just play my part happy that I’m serving His will.
Take today, there I am just sitting with this little old lady, listening to her muttering about things that have happened in her life. I’ve sat with her most days in the care home over the last month. I’m pretty sure the others don’t see me and think she has lost it as I sit letting her ramble about how she met Dennis, her late husband, and how her eldest doesn’t visit anymore as she’s living in Spain with her second husband and his children, and how her youngest son visits once a month with her grandchildren. Graham, the middle child is faithful in his weekly, sometimes two or three weekly visits, spending time with her and bringing her shopping. She is thankful for the little things and attributes much to the boss, whom she considers as the rock that has let her live a mostly blessed life.
Sure, Agnes has had some tough times in her long years, and she’s no fool to not recognise the curtain is closing on her days as her frail body gives way to this world, but what’s ahead she sees as a journey and the next great adventure. I think that’s maybe why my line manager sent me here, to affirm her, to let her tell her story to someone before she moves on.
I see the looks of the others, including the nursing staff and care workers as they eye her suspiciously, thinking she is talking to herself, but we have a nod and a knowing wink between us as we giggle at their disbelief.
It’s not just me she talks to. Not all her conversation is to me. A lot of it is to the boss directly. She seems to have a hotline to him that we winged ones don’t have. If I was a creature of jealousy I might resent her for that, but I’m not, or at least I take heed of the warnings not to be.
It’s one of the first things they teach you in training for active service with the living: don’t fall foul of the same trappings of the Dark One. He used to be one of us, apparently, and a whole score of us followed him to rebel against the boss. It was a dumb move which ended with the world being corrupted and us faithful ones having to stand guard, ever watchful, ever serving, ever fighting.
It’s a war. Fortunately the living don’t see it going on around them, although some perceive it, sense it, even speak into it.
I’ve not progressed that far, not yet. When Agnes is sleeping I stand guard, watching. If the enemy comes I blow my horn and wait for backup. My horn is my weapon. Not that I’ve had to blow it of late.
There was a day I was posted outside a drug rehab clinic. That was one of the toughest days yet; it seemed to last for years. I lost count of the times I was forced to call for backup, blowing my horn to call in the soldiers with their swords blazing. It was a vicious warzone, but again those on the ground were oblivious of what was happening in the spiritual realm about them.
The lights are out in the corridor. Agnes is asleep as I watch over her. She’s snoring, loudly. She lets out a fart and rolls over, the snoring stops, briefly. She’d be horrified to know she was being observed, but I’m sure she’ll have a laugh about it when her time comes.
There’s a chime along the corridor and I hear the swish of wind that passes through the closed door as though it were not there. The heavy footsteps boldly pound along the tiled floor that leads from the bedrooms to the communal dining room. I can picture the golden boots before I see them. The breast plate shines. The helmet gleams as he takes it off, telling me he is not here for battle. To be sure I glance to his belt as he approaches the door to Agnes’ room; his sword is firmly fasted, not drawn.
I stand and greet my supervisor with a nod of respect. He nods back and unclips something from behind his back. It’s a second sword, sheathed and smaller than his own, but a battle sword nonetheless. He holds it forward. Gingerly I take it.
“Attach this to your belt next to your horn. You have been promoted. Upgraded to the next level.”
“I have?” I ask, choking back the words.
“Your service in the small things has been noticed from above. Are you ready for the extra responsibility?”
I gulp. “What do I need to do?”
“Just keep doing what you are doing. When the time comes you’ll know what to do. If you’re unsure, just call for help; you won’t need to stand alone.”
I look up at him. He’s smiling. I want to crack a joke. I think he knows it. He gives me a gentle punch on the shoulder, winks, and turns to walk away.
“Well done,” he says walking off, “see you on the frontline.”
As he disappears I look down at my new sword and fasten it to my belt and stand to attention at my post. I have been upgraded, but deep down I know this is no game.

©C. P. Clarke 2018

 

 

 

 

April’18:

This month I’ve decided to put a couple of new POV stories in.  Freshly written over the last week as I’ve been reading through the book of Matthew, ending timely as we reach Easter.  So the first story is about Jesus over turning the tables in the temple and the second is the point of view of one of the onlookers to the crucifixion.
I’ll get back to the sci-fi next month, but for now I hope these two stories give you something to think about.

 

 

 

 

THUGS AT THE GATE

Matthew 21:12-17

The officer was quite persistent but I stuck to my guns.  I know my rights, and I had no intention of telling him anything.  He kept asking my name and where I lived and how I came into possession of what I was holding, but I kept looking to the muddy ground churned up by the carts, or to the stone wall of the outside of the temple, or to the crowds milling about gawping at the spectacle as the guards tried to secure what remain of the crime scene inside.  They demanded my attention, but I was reluctant to give it.
Yes I’d seen what had happened, but I had no intention of putting myself forward as a witness, partly because I agreed with the action taken, and partly because I had no love for the temple guards who helped enforce the corruption inside the gates.
Now I’d queued up along with everyone else.  Waited my turn.  Those of us paupers who couldn’t afford to spend much on the annual Passover sacrifice were first in line to try and get the best of what was on offer in the market place.  I’d been there since the early hours stood in line, knowing I needed to make a bee-line for one of the many dove stalls.  When I got through I was shocked at the prices.  As usual they’d gone up since last year.  I checked the few coins in my pouch, mum hadn’t given me enough.  I went from stall to stall checking the prices and trying to haggle, but there were plenty of others stood around ready to outbid me.  Distraught I walked away and stood by the side of the outer court where the market was set up at the temple, figuring I would wait until the crowds died down and I could barter for a better price for a bird that was likely spotted and mottled and not so worthy a sacrifice.  I was disappointed, but it wasn’t my fault.
The birds should have been set at a discount for the poor, or free.  But no, too many traders were turning a profit by taking advantage of the demand of providing a sacrifice for the festival.  What made it worse is that all the temple officials and rabbi’s seemed to condone it, turning a blind eye and most likely taking a cut for themselves.
So there I was stood around watching the crowds, waiting for my opportunity, a young teenager being ignored and thrust aside by the masses.  My mother was too sick to come herself and my little sister was forced to stay home to nurse her.  Life had been hard since dad had died but I worked as hard as I could to keep us afloat.
I saw a few of my friends loitering by the steps up to the gate.  I sauntered over to them to waste the time and chew the fat.  We were used to congregating as a group as we killed time trying to make a quick buck on the side streets, or bullishly trying to blag our way into a public meeting or tavern where we were clearly not old enough to be permitted entry.  Our little gang was fairly well known by the regular guards and temple officials, as well as some of the Roman garrison posted on our streets.  Teenage louts some people called us, but in truth we weren’t that bad.  None of us ever got into any real trouble as we spent most of our time trying to earn a living for our families or studying religiously the faith we were expected to learn and live out as we followed the example of the temple rulers.
So there we were stood on the steps, me with one eye on the stalls and the other on the crowds climbing up towards where we stood by the gateway.  That was the first time I laid eyes on him and his entourage.
I’d heard the whispers of the traders and their patrons in the market place within the temple as they muttered conversations about a triumphal entrance of a new king of the Jews into the city with people lining the streets and cloaks and palms spread before the man on a donkey.  I didn’t quite know what it was all about but I heard the whispers of voices as heads turned saying to those around them, ‘that’s him!’
I’ve seen the parades of kings and governors before; surrounded by yes men and lifted high above the heads of the crowd bolstering their pompous inflated egos, but if this was ‘him’ then he was different from the rest.
Now I’ve also seen plenty of gangs entering premises before: Pharisees with their entourage stepping through the street with an aloof air of self-importance; a Roman centurion with his soldiers fanned out behind him as he marches in to command authority over a disturbance; the scam artists and protection racketeers who saunter in with their muscle bound heavies demanding attention through fear, expecting respect but receiving distain and loathing.  Even our little gang of bolshy teenagers tended to bowl through the streets with an expectation of recognition as we tried to rise above our station and be known as men.  There was none of this as these men entered the temple.
At a first brief glimpse you may have thought something was amiss at this group rising the steps to the temple’s outer courtyard.  They swooned in from the street with the preacher I had heard of in front and his disciples trailing behind.  The preacher seemed to have a purpose as he walked; he knew where he wanted to be, but that didn’t stop him from stopping to greet and talk to those who approached him.  He smiled and embraced people with a calm and friendly manner.  His entourage looked more nervous stood behind, as if unsure of what was about to happen.  Remaining peaceable to the crowd they kept a close eye on their master as they followed his lead.
As he climbed the steps to the gate and his disciples fanned out behind him I watched the expression on his face change.  Slowly his smile faltered into a frown and then into a smoldering anger.  I didn’t know what the problem was but I was quick to get out of the way as what seemed like a friendly group now looked to be more of a threat to all who stood in their way.  There were temple guards stood at the gate, and even they stepped aside cowardly at seeing the group approach.  Not that they were aggressive or an impassible mob,  but they carried with them a presence that demanded attention, mainly due to the enigmatic figure that led them, and I have to say that I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  Watching him was like spotting a famous rich ruler enter the city, or a famed war hero known for slaying hundreds, and keeping an eye on him knowing, or hoping something exciting is about to happen, something that you can tell your friends about afterwards.
He walked passed me and my friends, not so much ignoring us, I got the impression he was aware of us stood there, but he was focused on what was beyond the great doorway to the courtyard and the market stalls within.  His face was reddening.  There was a fury building, but it was controlled and tempered.  And then he stepped through.
As he circled the stalls, an exasperated expression of disgust and outrage contorting his face and his body, his followers seemed to sense the change in his behaviour and try to steer the crowds away from him, unsure themselves as to what he was about to do.  Suddenly they had become his bouncers, his personal bodyguards entrusted with the charge of an unpredictable celebrity they had no control over.
I watched fascinated, but also fearful.  I could see my opportunity of getting the birds I needed beginning to slip through my hands and this man began to turn over the tables of the sellers.
Money rolled across the floor sending the merchants diving to the ground to pick up their profits.  Caskets of captures birds clattered to the floor, breaking open so that there was a sudden flutter of wings as birds took to flight and swooned above heads as they made their mad dash for escape.  Lambs tied up bleated and cowered, not knowing where to turn as their owners tried to corral them together away from harm’s way.
Everybody stopped what they were doing and stood aghast.  Some tried arguing with the man, but he wasn’t having any of it as he ranted about them turning the temple into a den of thieves, that it was a holy place and that they were stealing from the poor and from God by forcing the people to buy sacrifices that should have been given freely to those that couldn’t afford it.  By setting up a market in the temple itself they were profiteering from the sacrifice that should be given to God.
I had to smile, what he said made sense.  He was standing up for people like my family who struggled to bring the required offering to the temple at Passover.
The guards made a move to step in and stop him but I spotted one of the temple officials shake his head ever so subtly.  Most people would have missed the gesture as they were focused on the disturbance, but I was watching everyone.  The guards held off under instruction.  Of course they did, the temple officials were as guilty as the traders.  They took a cut of the profits in allowing the stalls to be set up.  If they reacted to what the man was saying and ranting about he was likely to turn his attention on them and they would have no standing, no argument with which to debate with, for it was obvious to everyone that the temple was being abused.
The preacher stopped.  He had made his point.  His anger was justified.  He had said what should have been said a long time ago.  He alone seemed to be standing up for the heart of God and the offence caused to Him.  Satisfied, he stepped back towards his companions and moved back the way he had entered, back towards me.  As he walked a couple of escaped doves flew ahead of him in the direction of me and my friends.  The pretty much flew into my arms and seemed content in resting with me.  I quickly grabbed their feet, sure not to miss the opportunity but at the same time feeling guilty that I hadn’t paid the market price for them.  My friends tried to stand in front of me to cover the evidence from the watchful guards and to give me a chance to walk away with them, but before I had a chance to turn the preacher locked eyes with me.
Now I was done for, I thought, and looked to the ground quickly.  When I looked up the preacher and his posse had passed and they were sauntering back down the steps.  As I turned to follow them, unsure whether that was my best escape route with the doves, the preacher turned back and smiled at me and gave a slight nod before turning away again.
I looked back to the courtyard and the market stalls, then down to the sacrifice cooing in my hands, a certainty in my heart that the price had been paid on my behalf.
As I moved away from the temple I had a real urge to know more about this preacher that had caused such a stir.  I secured my purchase with some string the feet of the doves and then, like any other curious teenager, I hung about with my mates waiting to see what would happen next.

©C. P. Clarke 2018

 

 

 

 

The Mocker

Matthew 27:39-61

I am ashamed.  I am not a nice man.  I always used to think I was a pious and righteous member of the community.  I obeyed the laws – all of them, including the extra ones we teachers of the law liked to add and impose on the people to keep them on the holy path.  I have always been someone who has been recognised and respected amongst the people; they know me and listen to me.  I am an old man who carries a certain gravitas of authority when it comes to teaching about our faith and the requirements God expects of us in our everyday living.  But I fear my words are empty.  I do not live the way I should, nor the way I expect others to.  I quote scripture yet have little understanding of what it all means.  It took for a man to die and the world beneath my feet to be shaken, quite literally, before I would question the way I had been living and before I would wonder whether I needed to wake up from the daze of religiosity I’d been drifting in.
As old as I am I have seen many a man die, and for many years I have been expectant of the day the cold grip of death would catch up with me and bring me to my knees.  I thought I would be ready for it.  Ready to meet my maker.  Now I’m not so sure.  Now I’m uncertain of the life I’ve led.
For years I have come out to the place where they execute the criminals.  I follow the procession, jeering and condemning the convicted with the rest of the crowd.  I watch as they are hoisted up on their device of death bestowed upon us by our Roman occupiers, and I observe to ensure they receive their right and proper justice.  I scrutinise the proceedings to ensure that there is no interference.  I make myself seen so that the people can know that the priests and teachers of the law, such as I, condemn the activity that has led these men to their deaths.  And I am not the only one.  We stand around as a group, nodding and mumbling to each other, passing our own judgment as though we were the ones passing sentence.  I guess in this way we gave permission for the common folk around us to voice their own disgust as they threw up jibes amidst the mourning of the grieving family members.
Like I say I am used to seeing the victims of this tortuous and barbaric form of capital punishment.  I know the agonising contortions of the death throes, the tears and exhausted attempts at screams of pain as the most hardened of men beg for mercy to be let down, or for their end to be sped up to avoid the inevitable drawn out searing burning that floods through their entire being as the hours slowly tick by.  All the while I watch with an almost self-gratifying smirk on my face, knowing that I will never face such an ordeal.
I know the routine of the soldiers, the checks they do to ensure the last breath has expired before they take the empty carcasses that were life filled bodies down from the cross upon which they have been nailed.
For some the pain begins before they arrive here at Golgotha, ‘the place of the skull’ as it is known, this gruesome theatre on a hill outside the city walls.  These poor men are often whipped first and forced to carry the wooden beam through the streets whilst the people shout at spit at them.  I cannot comprehend the mental anguish they must go through, being condemned, tortured, and then having to face your accusers on the route, knowing your life is about to end and that you are going to endure immense drawn out pain before you can close your eyes and face the further judgment of the Supreme God.
But as I say, this was something I used to revel in.  A large part of me enjoyed the parade, because I was one that would never be condemned.  I was above it all.  The commoners, the sinners, were beneath me.
Or so I thought.
Yes, I was part of the group who had condemned the rogue preacher, the one who seemed to revel in painting us religious leaders in a bad light, telling the people not to act as we do.  He taught them that our words were empty and our hearts cold, or something like that.  To be fair I never really stopped to listen to his message to take it in, but what he said was enough to upset the establishment and so we as a group were up in arms about it and demanded action be taken against him.  So yes, I was one of the ones who joined in the campaign to have him betrayed and arrested and sent for trail.  I was one of the ones who rallied the crowd and paid them to petition for the murderer Barabbas to be released in order that Pilate, the Roman Governor, would be forced to execute this heretic in his place.  That would teach him to blaspheme.  That would teach him to go round proclaiming himself to be God, and it would send a message out to anyone else who tried to falsely claim they were fulfilling the prophesy of the Messiah.
Yes, I jeered when he was whipped and beaten.  I cheered when the soldiers placed a crown of thorns on his head.  I egged the crowd on when they laughed and threw things at him as he walked out of the city with the patibulum crossbeam weighing down on his shoulders.  And when he hung there on his cross, I too mocked him.  I laughed and told him to prove himself by getting himself down.  I joked at who he thought he was: an old time prophet reborn, the Messiah, the son of God – such foolish claims.  Any sane man would have denounced such notions as it was obvious that any such talk could only lead to one place.  Surely this man Jesus knew that when he held insistent in his identity.  And so we crucified him.  I crucified him.  I may not have nailed him to the cross but my words and actions and my mind-set may as well have been swinging the hammer down upon his wrists and feet.
I watched to the very end, loitering in the eerie darkness that fell upon the land, which in itself left everyone on edge.  It was an unusual cloud that obliterated the sun and left a bitter chill on the hill where we stood.  The three convicted men hanging must have been frozen as they had been stripped of their outer clothing.
I heard him, Jesus, begging God to forgive us, interceding for us, saying that we didn’t know what we were doing.  We scoffed at that too.  Even in at his death this madman was being condescending.
I heard his claims of it being finished.  About time.  I was eager to be back in the city.  The whole event was beginning to unnerve me.  I felt uncomfortable as a great oppression swam around me.  I wasn’t the only one to feel it.  Many fled.  Many others stayed, curious.  I stayed out of dutiful habit.  I had to see it through.  We had started this, therefore we had to see it right through to the end.
I saw the last heave of his chest and the last breath escape his lips.  I would have turned away quickly then, but as his head drooped to its final resting place the ground beneath my feet began to shake.   The beams of the wood began to rock to the point that I was scared the crosses themselves would toppled with the men still attached.  Cracks opened up in the hilltop, and as I looked across to the city I could see lightning cracks splintering the stone outer walls and rooftops beginning to crumble.  It got so violent that my legs gave way as my body was flung to the side.  Even the sturdy legs of the Roman soldiers struggled to stay upright.  It was one of these, the centurion that was posted there, that made the link to what was happening and made me realise just how blind and foolish an old man I had been.  It was his comment that made me question the way I had lived my long life and made me question all that I had witnessed and the part I had played in bringing it about.
“Surely he was the Son of God!” this pagan soldier had said.  A man of no faith seeing what I was blind to.  I had heard the exchange between Jesus and the other two condemned men and how Jesus seemed to imply that there was hope for one of them, the one had who accepted him for who he was.
Staring up at the dead men as I struggled to find my feet, I wondered whether it was too late for me.  An old fool at the end of his days suddenly questioning whether I had got it wrong.  I don’t know what my contemporaries thought at that moment, most of them had drifted off by this point.  If I knew them as well as I thought then I suspected they would remain to their stubborn views and blindly not link the events with the timely death outside the city.  They would refuse change their mind-set and be reluctant to bend their views, at least publicly – power and position was a hard thing to let go of.
I wondered as I walked back whether I was prepared to put my faith in this man’s claims; he was dead now after all.  Walking back I was conflicted.  I considered all the evidence of what I had witnessed, weighing it against the idea of whether I was betraying a lifetime of religious study and achievement.  I had campaigned so hard against this man, and my entire way of life was embedded in a doctrine that denounced him.  It was a hard choice to make, and as I said at the beginning, I’m not a nice man.

©C. P. Clarke 2018

 

 

 

 

March’18:

The last couple of months I’ve been busy revising all my novels, making promo videos for them, finishing off a new novel called ‘War Child’ as well as writing a few shorts.  Check out and subscribe to my YouTube channel to stay updated with all my videos: www.youtube.com/C.P.Clarke
As a taster here is the trailer to my favourite of all my novels I’ve written so far, Furi’on.  If you like the trailer then have a read of the novel’s opening chapter which I have included below.
The second story this month is from the POV series.  I wrote it quickly one morning when a friend said he was preaching on the story of Jesus meeting the woman at the well and asked me if I had anything written on the passage.  I didn’t, but as the idea was fresh in my mind I figured why waste the opportunity so opened up my laptop and started writing.

 

 

 

 

https://youtu.be/BaCalRgun2Y

 

 

 

 

Furi’on (Prologue)

Thinking this could work – that was my first mistake.  Committing my men – that was the second.  I should have seen it all coming.  It all happened way too quickly.
The landing pods were taking off.  The excavation pad we had yet to assemble was being abandoned.  I led a few circuit boards to the ridge of the crater on the far side of the river, more a stream, and climbed knowing that our only hope was to get high enough off the rock for a pod to hover over and dangle a Pa’as rope for our aid.
Looking back I could see some of my men fallen and being consumed by the very ground we had walked upon only moments before.  It was alive, shape shifting and hungry, tearing and ripping apart flesh with ease to blend into the natural colour of the organic rocks that still didn’t register on our scanners.  Our weapons were hopeless.  Even the circuit boards failed to make a dent in this strange new life-form we’d stumbled upon.  The rocks would break well enough under a continued pounding of the androids but the broken pieces fell to a collective which simply merged to become a new beast as it fell to the ground.
I was glad to see some of my men reach safety and clear the ground.  A few others were with me following my lead, mistakenly expecting the safest place to be with their leader, their undefeatable hero.
It was my duty to keep them safe.  I didn’t mind sacrificing the circuit boards, but my men were my family.  I needn’t have worried, the circuit boards were as loyal to my men as I was: they formed a perimeter as we ran uphill and took the fall in defence as they battled off the enemy.
The pods that had managed to take off saw our thinking and hovered near the ridge high enough from the surface not to be mounted by the living rocks.  I wondered briefly what they would call those granite-like creatures and how they would categorise them on board the ship, but then dismissed the thought as nonsensical – I knew the odds of making it back, and anyone on board the ship monitoring my helmet display would be able to see my mind making the calculations.
“Apolly’on!  Fire into the crater!” I bellowed.
Moments later the centre of the crater behind us erupted into chaos as it rained down a tumult of torpedoes from the ship.  It was a welcome distraction; not only did the rocks falter in hesitation but it boosted my men as their courage energised their legs believing they had a chance to reach the pods.
The readout of our survival still held in the negative on my visor, but I remained composed, unyielding.
“Continue the bombardment Apolly’on, we need more time!”
I didn’t need to turn now to know that the base camp we had descended with was now obliterated and that debris was rising from the surface to fall to the gaseous giant that harboured the moon we rode upon.
I felt rather than sensed the circuit boards fall from around us, our blanket of protection gone.
We were but steps away but the ground behind us was rising up steadily, drawing strength from the river we had crossed.
I read the readout on my visor, it was wrong.  I knew the odds without relying on the calculations of a machine.  This was what I did.  I was the commander.  I was the warrior.  Battles were my domain!
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to face my enemy, drawing both my swords from behind my back and screaming a deep roar of defiance that had terrified so many others in so many other battles.  I swung wildly at any shape that dared to try to pass me, glimpsing momentarily as I span the climbing boots as they grappled for the ropes lowered to them.  They called back to me but still I battled on, back stepping towards the lip of the ridge as I did so, but all was too late for me.  As big a man as I was I couldn’t hold the weight of barbaric rock determined to feed off the nutrient rich fluid they desperately craved.  With sword in hand I fell.  It was a good death.

©C. P. Clarke 2015

 

 

 

 

Drawing Water

It was a hot day, I remember it well.  I’d gone to the well about noon to draw water.  A few of the other girls would usually go at this time, generally those like me who didn’t want to be seen by a crowd.  Midday was the quiet period as most people were smart enough to draw water at either end of the day when it was cooler.  I avoided the busy rush hours.  I didn’t like the crowds.  I didn’t care for the scowling faces and sideways snipes of aloof judgement.  I didn’t care for the condescending comments and sneers and the way they all seemed to look down their noses at me.
There was a Jew sat by the well when I arrived with my jars.  He looked pretty ordinary and unassuming as he sat there taking in the view of the land.  I assumed he was waiting for someone as often people would use the landmark of the well as a meeting point.  I skirted around him, keeping my head low and trying not to make eye contact, stepping to the opposite side of the well to avoid him.
I tied my jug to the rope and lowered it quickly, keeping my eyes staring down into the darkness below.  I could feel the Jew staring at me and for once I wished one of the other younger girls was there to distract the attention off me.
Carefully I raised the jar from the deep pit it had dropped to, eager to be away heading back to town.  The sound of the water slopped back up at me from the darkness below as I pulled hard on the rope.  As my jar swung up, water dripping off it to fall back down the hole, I lifted it off to place on the ground and readied myself to lower another.  Just then the man spoke.  “Will you give me a drink?” he asked.
I was taken aback by the request.  He was a Jew.  I was a Samaritan.  Surely he knew that.  Surely he knew that asking me for water would make him unclean; these Jews saw all us Samaritans as detestable and misguided.  I pointed out the fact that this would not be proper, more for his sake than for mine.  I didn’t know him and didn’t want to encourage any impropriety, or for him to think that simply because we were alone that I would act inappropriately.  I may have a reputation but that doesn’t mean I’ll turn my head for any and every man.
This was Sychar in Samaria.  He could not have been mistaken as to me being a Samaritan.
He spoke again.  My eyes were still lowered avoiding his gaze as I kept my distance.
“If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”
What he said made no sense to me.  I stood confused for a moment trying to work out what he was trying to say.  Gifts from God and living water had me stumped.  I had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed to be implying that he was a Jew of some importance.  Maybe he was famous where he came from, but I didn’t have a clue who he was.  If offering me a drink was some sort of chat up line then he was going to be sorely disappointed.  I certainly wasn’t going to accept a drink from him if he drew it from the well for me, that would be totally improper.
I tipped my head up and noted that he had nothing with him with which to draw water, and the water was too low down for him to reach in.  Seeing this I relaxed a little and pondered further this living water he spoke of.  If he knew where he was, which I assumed he did, even people from out of town knew that this was Jacob’s well, which Jacob himself had given to us and had used for his family and animals, then what was he claiming?  Did he think he was greater than Jacob and could provide water fresher than what our well gave up?  I made my thoughts loud, trying to tame the scoffing tone in my voice as I reacted to his pretentious superiority over me.
The man responded with a gentle tone in contrast to the air of distain that had expelled from my mouth, and what he said was intriguing and, dare I say it, attractive.
“Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst.  Indeed, the water I give him will become to him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”
I raised my eyes to look at him.  He didn’t look away as I had hoped; he met my challenge with a piercing gaze that was captivating.  I don’t know whether it was his eyes searching my soul or the words that he spoke, but something deep within me lit up in a way that I just couldn’t quite explain.  Suddenly I was eager for this living water he spoke of.  A drink that would satisfy.  I’d never had anything which had fully satisfied me and I lived with a constant whole in my heart waiting to be filled.  Maybe that was why I tried to fill my life with the comfort of a man as I never felt totally complete on my own.
“Give me this living water so that I don’t have to keep coming back here looking to be refreshed,” I begged, daring to step around the well to get closer to him.
“Go, call your husband and come back.”
At his words I stopped in my tracks and sunk both my head and shoulders.  I didn’t want to go back to get the man in my life.  He was the reason I avoided the crowds.  He was the reason the people looked down on me.  Well, not him specifically, but my track record in the community left me unworthy.  This living water was to be bestowed on my husband, and I could receive it through him.  Suddenly I realised that what was being offered I would be excluded from.
Downcast, staring at the dust on my feet I said, “I have no husband.”
“You are right when you say you have no husband,” he said, and as he spoke I knew he was condemning me, seeing through me and speaking God’s judgement upon me as one of his prophets.  “The fact is, you have had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband.  What you have said is quite true.”
My mouth dropped open in awe.  There was no way he could know that unless God had told him.  I had never seen him before.  He had never met me.  We were strangers to each other.  Yet somehow this man knew all the things that had happened in my life and I knew there was no hiding anything from him.  He knew me intimately without me ever having said a word about the life I’d lived.
My mind span.  Guilt and shame flushing my face with embarrassment.  I wanted desperately to change the course of the conversation.  I didn’t want my life laid bare in front of this prophet.  I didn’t want all my sin and shame dredged up and spread out on the ground before me.  His people, the Jews, always disputed with us Samaritans where we should worship and it was a great cause of hostility between us.  We worshiped on the mountain and they worshiped in Jerusalem.  I thought if I could sway the conversation to that argument it would deflect his attention from the rot in my life.
I rattled off my dispute quickly, to which he replied, “Believe me, woman, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem.  You Samaritans worship what you do not know; we worship what we do know, for salvation is from the Jews.  Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks.  God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth.”
I could have screamed my frustration then.  I had come to the well to draw water not attention to myself.  The last thing I wanted was to get into a theological debate with some stranger.  I tried thinking of a way out of the conversation and backing away from the well as my mind tripped over the words he’d spewed out at me.  What he said played very much on the differences between what our two peoples believed and I had to admit that I was ignorant of much of what the Jews claimed to know about scripture.  I didn’t want to seem dumb before this stranger but there were gaps in my knowledge, so I piped up by saying that I knew a messiah was coming.  “When he comes,” I said, “he will explain everything to us.”
My legs gave way with what he said next as I slumped to the edge of the well and sat down.
“I who speak to you am he,” he said.
He was a prophet, I had ascertained as much already.  I was undeniably and inexplicably drawn to him, despite of, or maybe because of, my desperate attempts to back away.  I knew what I sensed was true and his claim to be the messiah just rocked my world.  Why was the prophesied Messiah taking the time to talk with me, an outcast of society, a sinner who couldn’t bear to face those in her own community, and a Samaritan at that?  Why was he was taking the time to explain the mysteries of God to me?  He had asked me, a woman, with all my failings and imperfections, for water.  It wasn’t something he had to do, no one was watching.  He could have ignored me.
Just then a group of men strode up to the well and appeared behind me.  The prophet had seen them coming and seemed unperturbed by their presence, clearly knowing who they were.  There was surprise on the faces of the men that the prophet was talking with me, but none of them questioned him about it, nor held me in judgement as the man himself seemed to accept me, even in their presence.
As the men began to talk with their master I slipped away, not out of fear or shame as I had wanted to do earlier, as in the way I had approached the well.  I had come with one outlook and left with another.  I’d had an encounter with someone who could see right through me and knew my inner soul, and as a result I felt a change in my heart.  I walked back to town as quickly as I could, having left my water jars behind.  Gathering water from the well didn’t seem that important anymore.
I found some friends in the town and urged them to come back to the well with me, telling them that I had met a man who told me everything I ever did and, though already knowing it in my heart, I asked them whether this man could possibly be the Messiah.
Rallied up by my excitement a crowd gathered behind me as I returned to the well.  He and his companions were still there, and so we stood and listened to all the man had to say to us.  I learned then that his name was Jesus, and many of the townspeople believed his words.  They even invited him to stay in the town, and he and his friends did just that, teaching us about the ways of God for two days.
It’s hard to think that before Jesus arrived in our town I felt little more than an outcast, a sinner looked down upon by my peers because of my past.  Now those same people have said to me that they believe in Jesus, initially out of curiosity over what I had said about him, but now because they had heard him for themselves.  He really is the Saviour of the world, they say to me excitedly, talking to me as an equal and no longer as someone soiled history and carrying dirty baggage.

©C. P. Clarke 2018

 

 

 

 

February’18:

The beginning of the year has gone quickly as I’ve had my head buried in rewrites of previously published work.  I have written a new POV story but won’t publish it on here just yet.  Instead, I’m going to attach a very small snippet of the newly revised novel Life in Shadows, along with a short story I wrote at the end of last year called Notes in Time.  Yes another one!  Sorry to anyone getting bored with my time travel stories.  This one came about from an idea bubbling about in my head for a while and is a variation on a series of short stories I wrote about 15 years ago where a guy that disappears writes a series of letters home.  In Notes in Time the letters are sent in a series of cryptic notes left over a period of years, which in themselves direct the course of the principal character’s life.  I remember laying in bed one night picturing the notes and where they were found, imagining the places and time periods from my own life, inserting those memories into the story.

 

 

 

 

Life in Shadows (extract)

He crouched down and peered over the edge of what at first he thought to be a long dried up gorge, but as his eyes adjusted to the failing light he saw that he teetered on the edge of what appeared to be a plateau stretching out into the distance behind him.
Before him the ground sloped gently and then disappeared sharply into darkness.  It rose again, lower than his eye line but high enough to create a valley in the gap as jagged hills rolled off to the horizon, dotted sporadically with arid seas of desert crying out for streams that no longer flowed from the cratered cliffs that surrounded them.  The sun dipped, glinting an orange hue as a wisp of fiery cloud sparked off the peaks like the lightning of an alien world spun in turmoil through the heavens and captured in freeze frame.
And below the hue and the yellowing mist of the acrid mountainous landscape, sounds rose up, faint murmurs; a clattering cacophony of life crying out to the lifeless heavens, where the dimming light made way for the twinkling seats of the gods above in a constellation rearranged before his eyes and indistinguishable from any he knew.  This was no Kansas, not even Oz, and he suspected it would take a lot more than a pair of magic shoes to get him home again.
He heard a cackle far below and wondered what witches lay in wait for him.

©C. P. Clarke 2017
Life in Shadows is available to purchase online: https://www.amazon.co.uk/C.-P.-Clarke/e/B0034P3GHW

 

 

 

 

Notes In Time

He sat staring at the notes.  They were lined up on the breakfast bar, each one wearing the crumpled lines and discolouration of age.  He studied the words scribbled on each carefully as his eyes cast from one to another.
Marcus would be here soon.  He knew why.  It wasn’t a sympathy visit.  It wasn’t entirely professional either.  Marcus Philby was as curious as he was, but not so brave and daring as Alisha had been.
Another tear welled up in his eyes at the thought of her.  He tried to suppress it but failed as his bottom lip quivered and his chin shook once again.
He didn’t want to face Marcus in this state, not again.  He could do without the pathetic sympathetic looks of pity.  The looks that told of sadness at the loss but also of an urgency to get back on the saddle and get over it.  The looks that said ‘we know you’re mourning but…’.
He wiped the tear that trickled down one side of his face and dried his fingers on the thigh of his trousers.  He could feel his nose clogging with the grief and so snorted up a breath of bravado and determination.
The notes were lined up in age order, not that you could tell from the writing.  It was the paper you needed to examine, the yellowy brown of time having worn the edges and engraved the wrinkles of the oldest, the paper it was written on being whatever had been on hand at the time.  For the first it was the gridded paper of a child’s maths book; the book had been discarded decades ago so that only this portion of the page remained.  His mind swam back to the first time he laid eyes on it.
He was just a boy.  He was in his last year of primary school when the first note appeared, yet he still remembered it clearly as if it was just yesterday.
He was sat in his bedroom having been sent to finish the small of amount of homework that had been set over the weekend.  He’d heard the thumps of someone walking about upstairs, they all had as they’d eaten the evening meal, but dad had dismissed it as noise carried from the neighbours as we knew there was no one else in the house.
In his room he complained loudly and incessantly, slamming his door to block out the rapture of noise bellowing from Julie’s room down the hall.  Their mother had yelled up a couple of times but the music had drowned her out, as it had done Vas.  It had taken his father to stomp up the stairs and pound on the thirteen year old’s door and instil some firm but fair words of admonishment before Vas felt he could retrieve his schoolwork from his bag and deal with the required assignment.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like completing schoolwork; he quite enjoyed the challenge of it even back in primary school.  As a mere ten year old he excelled above his peers to the point that his teachers gave him extra assignments to keep his mind occupied so that he didn’t get bored in class and become disruptive as the rest of his peers failed to keep up with him.  As a result he often had more to do at home than others his age.  Even Julie on occasion would come to his room for help with maths equations she didn’t understand.
He remembered vividly opening up the maths exercise book with its green gridded pages, flicking to his last completed work with one hand whilst opening the text book with the other and looking for the Pythagoras problem he knew he would need to copy down.  He turned the page over from the last triangle he remembered drawing and then stopped and looked blankly at the exercise book confused.  Written in a hurried scrawl was a sentence that meant no sense to him.  He thought back to where his book had been laying when he entered the room.  It had been on the bed, not in his bag as the text book had been, but he hadn’t really thought anything of it until he saw the note.  There was a pen on the bed also, his pen, one that usually lived in his pencil case.  This was what had been used to write the note.
The writing had the concentrated lilt of one used to jotting down notes in a hurry but was a far cry from his own underdeveloped unjoined lettering.
“I didn’t write that,” he remembered saying aloud to himself as he read the words:
When the time comes remember this note.
Beware the he who offers you the world and beyond.
It made no sense to him yet there was something eerie about it that perturbed him and left him sitting there in silence for a few minutes, accompanied by the now dulled musical distraction from his sister’s room.  He couldn’t remember the tracks she was listening to except that he was, for a change, quite appreciative of the echo that prevented him from dwelling too much on who or how it had got into his book.
The writing wasn’t that of either of his parents, or the precise practised hand of his sister’s, nor was it the usual ineligible marking of his teacher.  He wondered briefly what his teacher would make of it before deciding that he needed to remove the page from the book so that he could complete the homework and maintain the consistent neatness of his work.
The page removed, he folded it and placed it within the pages of the thick copy of Lord of the Rings he was half way through reading, where it would remain forgotten for years.
It hadn’t been until he received the second note, now sat on the bar in front of him, that Vas recalled his confusion over the first.
“Vassel Ortega,” the teacher had called.  Vas raised his hand and moved to the solo desk the teacher had indicated and slid into the seat and waited patiently, facing the front in the same nervous fashion as his schoolmates in the line next to him.
The room had been empty before they entered, the teacher and observers of the exam having stepped outside for the few minutes to organise the line of pupils.  There was only one way into the room and only the teacher knew the seating plan.  Something his mind would ponder later as he tried to crack the conundrum that span in his head more taxing than any academic test laid before him.
His mind drew away from the memory momentarily as the kettle signalled that it had reached boiling point.  He stepped back behind him and made the cup of coffee he’d been yearning for.  Alisha’s picture sat on a shelf above the sink.  He stopped to study her face, as he did regularly every time he passed any of the numerous reminders of her he had placed around the house.
“What are you trying to tell me Al?” he asked of his wife.  When she didn’t respond he stirred his coffee, picked it up and turned around to face the breakfast bar.
The exam paper was made up of four parts.  Upon a quick glance they were all easy enough.  Some of his friends would struggle, probably most, but not Vas; academia came too easy to him and already he had more qualifications under his belt than was required under the curriculum.
With the paper turned over he began by writing his name on the front cover, and his form number before scanning the printed question sheets.  He gave himself a quick nod of assurance knowing the next forty minutes would be a breeze and then reached for the lined paper to write his workings out on.  That was when he saw it.
It threw him at first, the oddity of it, but his recall was good and it only to a moment to connect it to the previous note he had seen back when he was still wearing shorts to school.  He recognised the writing, the same form of address, and the subtle way it had been left for him.
Recognise my handwriting and take note.
He’ll give you a choice but don’t trust it.
He shook his head, confused once more.  It made no sense to him.  He folded the paper and put it in his pocket and continued with the exam, his hand scribbling words and symbols across the page as his mind juggled the multiple complex issues troubling him.
He remembered how the paranoia that had been bubbling beneath the surface of his childhood soon began to fester as he spent his waking hours looking over his shoulder.  He would walk down the street constantly peering behind to see if anyone was following him.  He would check reflections.  He would kick open toilet cubicles to ensure he was alone.  He would open wardrobe doors and crawl on hands and knees to check under the bed every night before sleep.  But even after all that he could never really shake the feeling of being watched.
He recognised the writing before him on the notes.  He hadn’t back then, despite the warning of the second note.  It was only when the third note came that he saw the regular highs and lows, the swirls of lettering similar in them all.
Life had moved on by the third note.  He was more grown up, more aware, more precise, more purposeful in his actions.
Alisha was in his life and he spent his energies getting to know her every kink and nuance, soaking up as much about her as he could possibly drown in.  She was his world now.  Where she went he went.
They had met at university.  Both too advanced for the astrophysics course they were studying.  Doctorates followed in combined sciences and they went onto jointly project manage ground breaking research, attracting funding and renown as a dynamic duo, a team to be reckoned with.
Children never featured in their lives.  Having married young but maintaining a highly demanding and dedicated passion for their work, their research had become their baby, something he was sadly regretting, especially now that she was gone.
It had been on one of their funding pitches that he had received the third note.  They had parked the car in the visitors bay of the corporate offices and then gone to try and drain a further hundred grand to take the project to the next step.  The lab needed refitting.  New equipment was needed.  A new power core needed to be devised to cope with the acceleration needed. Their reputation, their figures, but above all their expected results were what secured them the money, almost double what they were asking for.  It had been a good day.  They left the meeting ecstatic.  That was until they got back to the car and Vas unfolded the piece of paper folded over and tucked under the windscreen wipers.
Vas recognised it immediately.  Alisha recognised the writing but not the meaning.  It had taken Vas a moment to bring her up to speed.  It hadn’t unnerved her as it had him.  Instead it excited her.  She saw in it something he didn’t.  She saw it as confirmation that they were on the right track, and that the end goal of their project was in sight.
Still Vas was uncertain.  The notes felt more like warnings rather than assuring guidance.  Maybe if this hadn’t been the first time she’d seen them she’d have been more cautious.  If she’d taken his concern more seriously then maybe she would still be here now.
He read the note aloud, hearing her voice as he did so as she had read it all those years ago: “V.  I accepted and it took me to another realm, an alternate reality and time.”
A thousand questions had been asked since that note appeared, and a thousand more had followed with her death.  In the drunken stupor that had followed over the last six months he couldn’t help but wonder whether it was to this alternate realm that she had travelled.  He longed to find her.  He couldn’t move on if there was even a hint that she was still out there somewhere.
The doorbell rang.  He looked to his watch.  Marcus was on time as usual.  He gathered up the four notes, wondering whether there would be a fifth at any time.  His eyes lingered on the fourth as he placed them in the plastic folder he now stored them in.  He took his time putting them in the draw as he recited the words in his head.
The doorbell rang and impatiently.  He closed the drawer and walked to the front door to let Marcus in.
“Coffee?”  he offered as he circled the breakfast bar with Marcus trailing behind.  “I’ve just made myself one.”
“No thanks, I’m good,” said his friend putting down his satchel on the sofa and looking at Vas.  “You’re looking better than when I was last round.”
“I’m getting there,” he admitted.
“You need to come back to work.  We need you.  The whole project was reliant on the both of you.  We’re failing without you.”
Vas shook his head.  “It’s too soon.  I can’t.  She died in that lab.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“Don’t Marcus.  I buried her body.”
“Vas, we’re still reading brain signature in the vortex.”
“It doesn’t mean it’s her.  She’s gone.”
“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself as you’ve been drowning in those bottles?  You’re a scientist.  Are you telling me you haven’t considered it?”
“Of course I’ve considered it.  And FYI, I haven’t had a drink for almost a month.”
“That’s good.  So why don’t you take a look at her final notes.  She recorded possible side effects, experiential and extra dimensional anomalies.  You would know her thinking better than anyone else.  We could recreate those parts of the experiment.”
“It’s too risky.  One person has already been killed.  They’ll never fund further research.”
“You’re right, they won’t.  We have one last chance at this before they shut us down and close the lab.  We have once chance of securing a future for the lab.  One chance to see yours and Alisha’s dream materialise, to see your baby breathe once more.  One last chance to connect with her.  If she’s still out there then this is the only way of finding out.”
“You can’t control the temporal shift.”
“We can’t, but you can.  You’re the only one that can calculate it.  It’s your baby.”
Vas was shaking his head vehemently, but deep down his heart was caving in.
“I need you to leave now,” he said, a tear beginning to trickle down his cheek.
Marcus sighed heavily, undid his satchel and retrieved a small bundle of files.  “Her final notes,” he said, placing the files on the breakfast bar before seeing himself out.
Left alone by the breakfast bar once again he stared across the room at a portrait of his wife that hung on the far wall.  She was so beautiful.  Below, on the sideboard, was a framed picture from their wedding.  They both had broad smiles.  Marcus, he recalled, was just out of shot of the picture when it had been taken, organising the next line-up of Mum and Dad and Julie for the next family shot as he played his role of Best Man admirably.
Without even thinking about it he opened the drawer beneath the breakfast bar and withdrew the plastic folder and laid out the four notes again.  Marcus would have recognised the handwriting, but he doubted he would have appreciated the sentiment of the warning they carried.
The experiment was a risk.  It always had been.  Alisha knew the risks just as he had.
He read off the beginning of the last note:
He threatened my family if I tried to tamper with the past.
The words of the fourth message we’re still cryptic.  The notes were incomplete.  He wondered whether he had missed one, maybe more than one.  Together they still didn’t make sense.
Who was threatening his family?  Marcus?  And what family?  Alisha was gone.  Only the project remained.  And what did it mean by tampering with the past?  He wondered whether the calculations of the temporal shift could be used to change events, to maybe prevent the accident in the lab.  Suddenly he had two options of reuniting with Alisha, if only he could clear his head to think straight.
The notes had driven him since he was a child.  Their enigmatic esoteric cypher propelling him along a course at various junctures in his life.  As a child they meant little, except maybe to embed in his subconscious an idea, an acceptance of the unknown, to allow for the plausibility of things we can’t explain or understand.  They had driven him to look over his shoulder at the invisible, to try and delve into the darkness of a world beyond the obvious here and now.
The first three notes were hard to explain, but the forth had been impossible.  The note itself driving the two of them on further in their investigation of the unknown.
They bought the house for its proximity to the lab.  The journey into work was now only five minutes by car.  It was a quiet street and the neighbours seemed nice enough.  It had three bedrooms, one of which had become a large office and the third a small guest room for whenever either of their parents decided to come for a visit, which fortunately was rarely.
The bare shell they moved into unveiled an old wall safe no bigger than six inches square.  The key for it was amongst the bunch the agent had handed them the day they took possession of the property, and out of curiosity they had both unlocked the metal door of the safe expecting it to be empty.  The note inside had exhilarated them both, fear and trepidation shadowing his feeling more closely than hers.
Don’t follow my path.  The end of the note read.  Don’t follow her.
Like the others, the writing was his own, not the youthful scrawl and splurge he once had but the mature professional annotation he now commanded.
To ignore his own warnings would be folly, but in his grief he knew he was destined to just that and follow her.

©C. P. Clarke 2017

 

 

 

 

January’18:

Kicking off the new year with a story I wrote at the end of last year.  This idea was sparked by a conversation I had with a workman who, whilst fixing something in the house, expressed his enthusiasm for planes and began talking about test flights into the upper atmosphere.  The seed for the story planted I quickly drew a circular picture as he continued to speak to remind me to write what was in my head.  The result is a test flight circling the planet wanting to traverse time rather than space.  As with all test flights in these sorts of stories there is bound to be a glitch.

The second piece this month, in the form of a video, is a live performance recorded last week.  It is one of the stories that I hope to feature in the next volume of POV.  Do check out the POV series of books on Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/C.-P.-Clarke/e/B0034P3GHW

 

 

 

 

Vertical Velocity

“Control, we have reached maximum thrust on the vertical vector.  Exiting the mesosphere.  Plotting horizontal path, course heading three two nine degrees.”
“Horizon Three you have a go on your approach.”
“Control we have a clear view of the blue below and the air looks clear in the Thermosphere.”
“Thank you for your poetic commentary Horizon.  We concur you have a clean path.  Continue thrust burn to satellite marker.”
“Roger that Control.”
“That’s farther than the previous two missions.”
Blake covered his mouth piece to reply to Akai sat beside him.  “Don’t jinx it.”
“Just taking a deep breath of relief is all, Commander.”
Blake looked back and nodded.
The satellite marker beeped on the panel and the two men flicked the necessary switches to instigate the next protocol.
“Control, we are approaching satellite marker.  Cutting thrusters in five, four, three, two…”  Blake pulled back the lever and pressed the cut off.  The engines died down to a low hum as the silence of the upper atmosphere closed in around the vessel.
Akai was adjusting the course using the computer guidance system.  They had to navigate the satellite band that hung in low orbit before they could reengage the boosters to achieve the cruising speed they needed to reach their destination.  Once high enough and the orbitals were out of the way they could get a clear run up.
“Horizon Three you are on new ground so far as the Horizon Project goes, so firstly congratulations, and secondly watch your panel and report back the slightest abnormality.”
“Roger that Control.  At current speed Mr Akai estimates we will be cleared for acceleration in,” he looked across to the gloved hand of his co-pilot who was making gestures beside him, “six minutes.  Clock is ticking.”
“Roger that Horizon, we have your countdown timer on our panel.”
“You still crapping your pants back there?”
“Yes, sir.  Five years after the last attempt I didn’t think we’d get this far.”  Jameson sat in the back sweating under his flight suit.  He was in charge of maintenance should any instruments start playing up.  Essentially he was hoping he was just along for the ride, to observe and take notes as the official recorder of the mission whilst the other two charted the course and flew the plane.  So far so good.
“Med stats,” requested the commander in an abrupt change of conversation.  It was something they were all used to, being cut off for the demands of procedure.
Jameson didn’t batter an eyelid as he shifted his attention to the monitors in the rear compartment.  “Reading a crew of four.  Three heartbeats: steady 56, 64, 72.  Temperatures at a level.  All within expected parameters.”
“I take it the 72 is yours?” joked Akai with a nod to the back.
“So I’m a little excited.  I’m not the experienced astronaut like you boys.”
“Hell of a journey to earn your wings,” chipped in Blake.  “Control, we have a green light on med stats prior to burn.”
“Acknowledged Horizon.”
“Diagnostics on TIM complete,” said Jameson.  “Running at one hundred percent efficiency.”
“Control, AI systems in the green.  We’re set to leave your time zone.”
“Roger that Commander.”
“Power core is stable.  Fuel consumption in the green.  We’ll get three minutes of burn.  Momentum should take us the rest of the way.”  Jameson tapped a panel as if unsure he was getting the correct reading.  Blake gave him a stern questioning look which he returned with a wink and a thumbs up.  Blake shook his head and turned to face the front, unamused at the timing of the jest.
“Thirty seconds to boost,” informed Akai as he flicked multiple switches on the display in front of him.
“Buckle up people.  This speed’s never been attempted over a prolonged period before.”
“Thanks for the assurance, boss!” quipped Jameson.
Akai gave the countdown.
“God speed Horizon Three.”
“Roger that Control.”
“Three.  Two…”
Akai didn’t dare get the last count out as he braced himself.  All three were pinned back in their seats, their skin pulled taut and stretched painfully in a sensation that felt like it would rip free completely from their skulls.  Their organs sucked in, their chests feeling like they were about to implode with the pressure as they held their breath, not through wanting but through inability.  The Earth below them span clockwise as they skimmed the outer atmosphere in the opposite direction.  They each tried to look out of the reinforced window to see the planet spin below them or to trace their course on the instrument panels, but none of the three could keep focus as they teetered on the brink of passing out.
Three minutes of burn felt like a lifetime, despite them acclimatising to the impact of the initial acceleration almost a minute in.  Dazed and giddy they each tried to refocus.  Jameson’s nose was bleeding and he had a thumping headache to go with it.  Akai had one too but he was never going to admit it in front of Blake.
Two minutes in and Blake hurled all over his instrument panel and then passed out.
“Control, switching to coded frequency on the downward vector.  Mirror cloaking system engaged for descent.”
No reply came over the comm system.  TIM repeated his message.
It was Jameson who awoke first.  The ship was eerily quiet now that the boosters had cut out and the ship was flying in the wake of its own Jetstream.  He checked his instruments first before checking on his crewmates.  Slowly they responded to his nudging as he unbuckled himself from his seat.
“What happened?” asked Blake as he wiped the vomit from the dashboard in front of him with his sleeve.
“I think we all passed out and TIM took over.”
Blake and Akai both looked back to the android strapped into a seat in the rear cabin.  He faced out towards them so that the back of his neural processor could be plugged directly into the ship’s computer.  Essentially he could fly the whole mission alone, but problems with AI technology in recent years and their tendency to bypass protocols had led to mistrust and unreliability; it seemed you couldn’t totally replace the human factor.  The Time Instrument Management system was relegated to a backup protocol.
TIM’s face was a series of lights echoing the mode he was operating in.  Green eyes showed he was operating and fully functional.  An amber blink on his cheek told that he was interfacing with the ship, and a blue pulse of lights at its neck told that it was running a constant diagnostic of its own systems.
“TIM, are we good?” asked Blake.
“Yes Commander.  All systems are functioning to expected parameters.  We are currently twenty eight days into the mission directive.”
Blake smiled and shook his head.  Akai and Jameson also had big beaming smiles on their faces.  They had done it.  Mission achieved.
“Prep for descent.”
“Are we not going to take a breather before going back?”  Akai was rubbing his temples.
“Of course.  Thirty minutes.  But I want us prepped and ready to descend.  I don’t want any surprises forcing us into a premature drop.”
“Roger that.”  Assured, Akai began taking control from TIM.
Jameson mopped up his nose and broke out the paracetamol from the med kit and passed them round, along with a cloth for Blake.  “Shame no one thought to bring air freshener, this boat’s gonna hum by the time we get home.”
Blake didn’t reply but accepted both the tablets and the cloth and began cleaning up the vomit.
“Thirty minutes, where will that take us to TIM?” asked Akai.
“When, I think is the question you intended to ask Mr Akai.  Unfortunately I cannot give a definitive answer to that question at this precise moment in time.”
All three of the men looked to one another concerned.  There was no reason why TIM shouldn’t be able to calculate their destination.
“Explain,” demanded Blake.
“We are circling the Earth at a rapidly stable rate.  Our orbit is fixed and there are no foreign obstacles blocking our path.  However, in our multiple revolutions of the planet there would appear to be an anomaly forming.”
Jameson checked his instruments.  The circular pattern which showed the multiple circuits Horizon had taken around the planet should have been a smooth contour, yet a bulge was forming.
“He’s right boss.  I’m seeing a bulge at our ascent point.  I’m guessing somehow we’ve left an echo from the time zone we’ve left.  It’s some sort of funnel in a line from our burn point approximately thirty thousand feet above the Cape, spouting into the thermosphere.”
“An echo, is that possible?”
Akai nodded his head.  “Theoretically, I guess.”
“What does that mean for the mission?  Options?”
“It’s an unknown.  Considering the fate of the last two missions I think I’d rather play it safe,” cautioned Akai.
“I concur,” agreed Jameson.
“TIM make sure you’re collecting all data on the anomaly.  Crew prepare for return descent.  Control this is Horizon Three, we are preparing for dive and rebound.  We have observed an anomaly at point of origin, some kind of echo.  We are preparing to…”
The ship bounded forward of its own accord, increasing speed.
“What’s happening?” barked Blake.
“It would appear we have hit a bump,” responded Jameson strapping himself back into his chair.
“What does that mean?”
“He means we hit the anomaly and it’s acted like a jump ramp.  It’s boosted our velocity.”
Slowly the three felt their heads pulled back into their seats.  A red light flashed in the roof of the flight control pod and the eyes of all three strained with horror in its direction with full knowledge of what it meant.  Blake tried to lift his hand to hit the cancellation button but the weight of his own hand was too much.  He swore under the little breath he could muster, his last conscious action before the three of them passed out for the second time.
Blake awoke with thought of hitting the button still on his mind.  His hand moved freely as he reached for it, but as it did so he realised the warning light was no longer flashing.  He angled his head up at it then down at Akai who was also beginning to stir.
Opening his eyes and looking at his commander Akai found his voice.  “We’re still alive.”
Blake nodded then yelled back behind him.  “Jameson?”
“Yep, still here, could do without the headache though.  What happened?”
“I depressurised the cabin,” stated TIM mechanically.
“Why?” asked Blake.
“The anticipated velocity was too great for the human body to take inside the pressurised cabin, so I took the decision to vent it momentarily as the quickest route to inducing unconsciousness to spare you the pain.  I then recalibrated the oxygen supply to keep you under until I was able to slow the ship down.  We are currently stationary over Africa at an undetermined point in time.”
“Undetermined?”
“Affirmative.  Due to the anomaly causing the Horizon Three to skip out of the cycle of our determined path and then fall back into the planned orbit, albeit at a faster rate, it has been impossible for me to calculate how much time has elapsed.
There was silence whilst they processed the new information.  Akai was first to speak.  “Commander, this has a serious implication.”
Blake nodded at the same time as Jameson echoed what they were all thinking.  “Let me get this right, just so that we’re all on the same page.  No backward time calculation means no forward point to jump to.  How are we supposed to plot a course home?”
“Damn!  TIM, are we still running silent?”
“Yes, Commander Blake.”
“If we dropped our shielding to pick up signals from the surface could you calculate a date from outgoing satellite transmissions and plot a course based on that information?”
“Affirmative.  I could adjust dates and fuel economy precisely based on an accurate timeframe.”  There was an audible sigh of relief from both Jameson and Akai.  “However, I would recommend descending first and unshielding on the upward vector prior to core burn.”
“Would you have time to make the relevant calculations?”
“Yes, Commander Blake.”
Akai set the navigational computer manually, adjusting for the descent to the control base at the Cape.
“I got a bad feeling about this boss.”
“Noted Jameson.”
Akai read off the checklist, all three positively answering to their dedicated areas.  The ship was intact and operational.  There was not one instrument that showed cause for concern.  Blake was taking no chances, he requested TIM do a final check, if not to reassure himself but to reassure Jameson sat in the back.  Blake turned his head back and winked, “We don’t want to cause an alternative timeline by being spotted now, eh!”
“You know if we pull this off it’s gonna open a whole can of worms,” stated Akai.
“You don’t really think it’s ever going to see the light of day, do ya?”
Akai shook his head.  “No boss, I guess not.”
“What no hero’s welcome!  Damn, I wanted my face on the cover of Time Magazine,” joked Jameson.
“All for the adventure and none of the glory,” asserted Blake.  They all knew what they were signing up for.  The crews of the previous two Horizon missions did too, not that the press ever got wind of their fate as they exploded in empty sky, part of a top secret project the world never knew nothing about.  “We ready?”  There were nods all round.  “Let’s dive.”
“Tipping the nose on the downward vector.  Cruising in at an angle to align with Cape Control.”  Akai piloted the Horizon Three, feeling every jolt on the steering as they re-entered the atmosphere.
“Shields holding.  Mirror cloak holding,” reported Jameson.
“Control, this is Commander Blake, if you’re receiving this, for the record we are on our descent before commencing our rebound.  We are a visual wisp and invisible to radar.  Telemetry following the equator from the African continent easterly to Cape Control.  Confirmation of dateline to be confirmed.”
“You really think they’re hearing that?” asked Jameson.
“Let’s hope it’s just them that are hearing it,” commented Akai.  “ETA ten minutes.”
“Enjoy the view while you can,” suggested Blake.
For most of the remaining minutes of the downward flight they travelled in darkness, racing away from the sun towards the dawn of yesterday.  Lights blinked beneath clouds signalling land and life sleeping below unknowing of what passed invisibly overhead.  As they crossed the Pacific the sun blinded them, lighting up the morning they raced to meet.
They could have ascended anywhere but the powers that be insisted the ascension point be the control centre; only there could any irregularities or occurrences be quantified, examined, and explained away.  Only at Cape Control was there a record of the time-lapse project.
Nine minutes in and Akai handed over flight controls to the commander so that he could run the checklist for the ascent.  TIM stated the obvious as Akai completed his task.  “There will be a slight delay in thrusters as we turn into the vertical.  We must be at a minimum height of fifteen thousand feet before we engage in primary thrusters and thirty thousand feet before core burn.”
“Thank you Tim,” said Blake.  “Cutting rear thrusters.  Mr Akai, give me left side thrust for ten on my mark.  Now.  Right side thrust for three.  Push the nose thrust.  We are at a vertical sixteen thousand feet.  Concur?”
“Concur,” stated both Akai and Jameson at the same time as they checked the dials.
“Position?”
“We are over the Cape, commander,” confirmed Akai.
“Engaging rear thrust on the vertical.”
The three once again slammed into the back of their seats as the G-force pulled them back.
“Twenty thousand feet.”  Akai read off their altitude of the altimeter as they climbed.  “Twenty five thousand feet.  Twenty six…”
Jameson sat staring at TIM whose facial features were twitching with a random flashing of lights.  “TIM, is there a problem?”
“Twenty eight thousand feet”
“Running self-diagnostic.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Twenty nine thousand feet.  Prepping for core burn.”
“If there’s a problem back there you’d better say it quick,” demanded Blake.
“I am reading an anomaly on the vertical vector,” stated TIM.
“What sort of anomaly?  The same as last time?”
“No Commander Blake, I am registering an echo of two vessels directly in our path.  Their signal transponders are transmitting on the same coded loop as our own.”
“What’s he mean?” asked Jameson worried.
“Abort!” shouted Akai, too late as he recalled that Horizon Two had blown up as it reached core burn velocity.
“Oh crap!” cried Blake upon seeing what was coming rapidly into view ahead.  He let go of the controls and closed his eyes.

“Control, we have reached maximum thrust on the vertical vector.  Exiting the mesosphere.  Plotting horizontal path, course heading three two nine degrees.”
“Horizon Four you have a go on your approach.”
“Control we have a clear view all round.”
“We concur, you have a clean path.  Continue thrust burn to satellite marker.”
“Roger that Control.”

©C. P. Clarke 2017

 

 

 

 

Simeon:

 

 

 

 

December’17:

This month I’ve uploaded a short story and a video.  The video is a Christmas poem.  For years now I have been repeatedly asked to write Christmas and Easter pieces for church creative services.  Peace at Christmas was written in November 2016, and I performed it at St Saviours Church in Sunbury.  I put this video together knowing it was likely to be used at St Paul’s, Hounslow West this year but not knowing whether I’d be available to perform it.
Years ago I shot a number of videos for some of my poems but unfortunately I don’t have digital copies to upload, and making this one has made me wonder whether I should make some more.   I remember putting in a lot of time and energy into shooting one for the poem Hopeless World about 16 years ago, but not having a platform to show it on other than in church it only ever got one or two showings.  Follow my YouTube channel just in case I manage to digitise it.
https://www.youtube.com/edit?o=U&video_id=UB2PPDFMDzs

Another theme I often write about is immortality.  There are elements of it in Life In Shadows, Vicky Rivers and Furi’on, and also in the forthcoming Time Locked and War Child novels.  It’s an easy theme to weave in with sci-fi and time travel.  The idea of living forever and experiencing multiple lives, being able to do over the mistakes as we gain experience in life not attainable in one solitary lifespan.  It’s as attractive in a similar way as being able to do over by jumping back and forth through time.  The thing with immortality is that we often think of it as a benefit in being able to evade death, but there are obvious downsides to immortality when we view it with an Earthly view and not a Heavenly one.
Here Graham gets to live out his dream, but his dream has a cost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE IMMORTALS

The bunker door creaked.  A grinding of dust had blown in and clogged up the hinge again.  Graham shouldered it hard.  At first it wouldn’t budge, but slowly, with a bit of effort, it began to shift.  Eventually it gave and he swung out into the grey hue of the morning.
It was cold outside, the wind swirling fine metallic dust to erode the rock wall of his abode.  The horizon was beginning to rise a purple tinge as the world rotated to greet the dying sun as the Earth’s orbit drifted further into the recesses of space.
The days were getting harder to calculate.  Hours and days were no longer consistent as they failed to keep track of the mental clock he kept as a record of the good old days when order reigned.
He lifted the riot shield against the scouring of the wind and pushed forward.  The distance he had to travel grew each day.  The crack widened as the Earth yawned, threatening to split apart to create a vacuous void beneath his feet.  He didn’t care to think what would happen once it finally broke apart.  He would be plummeted into a hell of his own doing.
His heavy boots dug in deep to the sludge of mud that constantly shifted beneath him.  It swam in places as it swirled down to sink beneath the crust into the void that had swallowed the continents.  There were only a few big land masses left.  The oceans were gone, either seeped through to the mantle or frozen over as the atmosphere dissipated with the failing heat of the sun.  At first it had been hard to breathe.  The dry grating of his lungs fired pain into his chest that was unbearable, yet he had no choice but to endure it.  Eventually acknowledging that his body no longer needed to maintain many of the essential functions that it once required, he had given in to his fate.
The chasm was still crossable.  The bridge he’d constructed still stood, but it teetered on the edge of the new cliff that formed around the island that was now his home.  He stepped across, gripping onto the remains of the old world steel strut as the wind rose up from beneath and threatened to throw him off.  His hands and arms hurt with the effort, the muscles bulging with the tension.  He allowed his mind to wonder at the stiffness he would endure when the temperatures froze the blood within his veins.  He shook the thought off as he gripped firmly to hold himself against the buffeting wind.  A slight reprieve allowed him a moments rest as the wind changed direction, this time forcing him down and then to the side, swiping at his shield, but it failed to throw him off.
He wondered where the fall would take him and how far he would dive in free-fall until he hit something solid, or liquid, or molten below.  He closed his eyes trying to still his mind, sensing the scraping of dust against his face visor and the dulled sound battering his ear defenders beneath his helmet.  He waited for the gust to abate before moving off again, resisting the temptation to clip himself to the girding and linger longer than he needed to.  At last the wind sunk to the depths and he moved on.
There were few remnants of the old world buildings.  What did remain was heaped in piles of torn and broken shards of materials they no longer had the ability to construct.  The knowledge had endured but the technology, like the rest of the world, was broken.  Time had worn away civilisation.  The unravelling of nature had outsmarted the human race and drawn their proud egotistical advancements to a premature end.  The guilt of his part weighed heavily on his conscience.
It was a quarter mile trek to the compound.  It was a solid construct built with the ingenuity of a team effort.  It was bigger and more robust, yet not impervious to the elements, and the strain of cracks were beginning to show at its foundations.  The roof of the east wing had caved in over a week ago.  There had been injuries.  Half a dozen had been crushed under the collapsing rubble.  It took them two days to dig them out and move them to the west wing where they had been lying ever since in agony as their wounds slowly healed.  They had cursed him then, more so than they had done the day before, but not as much as he expected in the future.
Drawing up to the reinforced metal grate that was the front door to the enclosure that housed the last of humanity, the last survivors of life on Earth, he pounded heavily on the door.  They would take their time in answering as usual.  If he fell into the Earth as he waited they would breathe a sigh of relief.  He knew eventually someone would open up as his fist struck repeatedly for attention, if not for pity and a pricked conscience of humanity but for his annoying persistence in knocking.
Slowly the door opened.  He stood back, blinking through his visor.  The face that peered back blinked without emotion, blocking his way, reluctant to move.  With a sigh his best friend stood aside and allowed him to enter.
The wind cut out behind him as the door closed and he began to unwrap his scarf covering beneath his helmet before lifting it off.
“She’s over there,” came the muffled voice behind him.  Graham turned to see where he was pointing and then turned in the direction of the west wing.  “Don’t expect a warm welcome.”
Clara sat on a concrete slab.  She looked tired and hungry as she cradled her arm, nursing the last of her wounds.  Her face was still battered, caved in at the cheek.  It would take a while longer before the bones restructured themselves and the flesh knitted together smoothly to refresh her good looks.  She raised her head.  He nodded to her a greeting with a half-smile.  She nodded back and then turned away.
Surely she wouldn’t keep this up for eternity.  One day she would forgive him.
They had been partners in work and in life.  She had followed his dreams as they served the corporate giants that financed their research.  The keys to immortality were within reach and the select few were lined up to claim its power.  No one knew the energy required would be cataclysmic.  No one knew the catastrophe that would ensue.  All the calculations said it shouldn’t have happened.  He had promised that it wouldn’t happen.  It was safe he had insisted.  His wife, his best friend, his valued colleagues had all put their trust in him.  They could all claim the prize first.  They could keep it for themselves.  It was their creation after all.  If only he hadn’t ignored the warnings.  In his arrogance, his pride, he had refused to admit there was a miscalculation, and as a result they all had paid the price.
Humanity had died and they had lived.  The experiment had achieved its goal but at a cost none of them were prepared to pay.  He looked at his old colleagues huddled around a fire for warmth.  It burned a green flame as it burned an unidentified gas that had replaced the oxygen they had once breathed.  They all turned their backs to him.  He had seen enough.  Just a glimpse of her, his wife, was enough for today.
He turned back to his friend still waiting behind him by the door ready to let him out again.  Graham nodded his thanks as the door was pushed open for him.  He stepped out into the world he had created, the door closing shut firmly behind him.
He was hungry; they all were.  They all wished they had perished with the rest of the world but the bodies they had unnaturally altered in the lab wouldn’t die.  They couldn’t take their own lives.  They couldn’t hide from the cold or the heat, the thirst, or the loneliness, or the torment of their emotions and a mind that dreamt of things they could never have.  The only thing to outlast them was time itself.  He hoped that once the pain of dying a million painful deaths had passed that they would somehow ceased to exist.  It was the only hope they had.
Crossing the bridge back to his bunker the earth shook beneath him.  He gripped the strut wondering whether today would be the day he fell into the Earth’s core, just one day closer to drifting helplessly in the rock field of space.  The bridge held allowing him to crawl across once more.  Maybe tomorrow.

©C. P. Clarke 2017

 

 

 

 

November’17:

This month’s story is brand new – written at the end of October, but not intentionally for Halloween.  I’ve been reading (and watching) a lot of post-apocalytic material recently in preparation for a novel I plan to write at some point in the (hopefully) not too distant future.  There’s some good stuff out there, but also some not so good!  Despite the usual zombie blood and guts fare there is surprisingly a wide range of fresh ideas on the whole genre.  I’m not into penning horror, although some of my stuff can be quite gruesome, but what intrigues me about the whole zombie scene is not the gore but rather the survival aspect as people are forced to seek ways of managing in unbelievable and desperate situations.
So here we have a story of one girl, Rachel, who knows what to expect and gets to witness the beginning of the end as she goes about a typical day.  I hope you don’t make the same mistakes she does!

 

 

 

 

Apocalypse Now!

The new album was released yesterday but Rachel couldn’t convince Tony to let her out early go get it.  He was a stickler for the rules and a pain in the arse when it came to asking for time off.  She was pretty sure he didn’t like her anyway.  Sexist pig.  He’d tried hitting on her once when she first started at the firm but she put him in his place pretty sharpish with a bark that showed she bit as well.  He backtracked of course, trying to claim he was just being friendly and wanted her to feel welcome.  Yeah right, just like all the other blokes that can’t keep it in their trousers whenever a half decent girl is in the room.
Turning in late this morning she was greeted by the usual grunts and a roll of the eyes.  She couldn’t help it, if she left it till lunch time the queues at the counter would be massive.  She waited the half hour for the doors to unlock and then rushed for the CD and took it to the sales girl who was slowly still setting up her till.  She looked rough.  Someone had clearly had a long night out on the town, even though it was midweek; some people just like to party.  She coughed and spluttered her apologies as she processed the sale, her sunken bloodshot eyes barely alive behind the deep shadowy pits that hid them.
Sat at her desk Rachel adjusted her piercings.  One in the line on her left ear was irritating but she couldn’t figure out which one as she tweaked each in turn.  For good measure she brushed a hand over her brow and nose rings and ran a metallic stud on her tongue to kiss the edge of her lip ring.  Tony would be over soon to chastise her, no doubt, about her timekeeping.  She was forty five minutes late, which in the grand scheme of things was no real biggy; the work wasn’t going anywhere; anyone could process numbers on to a data system.
She plugged in her headphones and reached for the first of the forms to be input into the computer.  The grunge metal sprang to life with a piercing shriek as she resisted the urge to hammer away with her fingers on the edge of the desk.  She already had the album on download so she knew all the tracks having played it repeatedly yesterday through her phone, as she did now, but having the CD meant she could take it to the gig on Friday and get it signed.
Tony sauntered over and dumped a file on her desk.  She whipped out one earpiece so that she could at least pretend to be interested in the ear bashing he was about to give her.
“Late again,” he said with disinterest.
“I had something to d…”
“Whatever!”  He made a sign with his finger to say she shouldn’t have her headphones on at her desk, but he seemed to lack the energy to raise his arm properly and let it hang loose without finishing the motion.  He looked awful.  His skin was pale, his shoulders sagged, and his hair looked unkempt where he’d been running his fingers through it.  As he stepped away from her desk he lifted a tissue he held in his hand and wiped at his nose.
Rachel smiled, shrugged, and then gave a death stare to the two girls sat at the desk opposite her.  Smartly dressed with their Barbie doll hairdos and make-up they were always staring down their noses at her.  What made them so superior?  They were all employed to do the same job.  Just because they listened to ‘popular’ music and used push up bras to get the men to look at them didn’t mean they were a class above.  Flick your hair and pout as much as you like darling, I wouldn’t go to bed with you!  That’s what she wanted to say but bit her tongue.
Cindy and Barbie (those weren’t their real names but in her mind that was how Rachel always referred to them) began commenting on how bad Tony looked this morning.  Usually they were all over him like a rash.  She wouldn’t put it past them if they had both taken turns with him, even though he was married and his little daughter often came into the office with him.  Maybe it was that virus, Cindy suggested.  It was all over the news apparently.  Rachel never watched the news.  It was depressing and manipulative.  She didn’t believe we had a freedom of press in this country and argued that the press only ever reported a twisted governmental viewpoint pushed with an agenda to keep the little guy down and the wealthy on top.  Still the report of a virus peaked her interest.
She kept her earpiece out as Cindy relayed the news that the virus had spread quickly from Eastern Europe.  No one knew what it was; a flu of some sort, but not Bird Flu or Swine Flu, this was something different.  People were dying as efforts were made to find a vaccine.  The first reported cases in the UK had been announced last night with people being advised not to panic as a contaminated flight landing at Heathrow had been contained and doctors and specialists from the WHO were on the scene treating those affected.
This was it, Rachel thought, damned World War Z, bring out your dead.  She was a fan of the genre and had seen and read almost everything out there relating to zombies.  If the zombie apocalypse were to happen now she would be prepared.  She’d studied every zombie survival guide there was and was mentally trained, even if her body wasn’t.  It was only a matter of time before the fantasy became real and some dumb scientist unleashed something the government was cooking up in some biological warfare lab in some remote country complex.
Poor Tony, the girls cooed as their fingers tapped rapidly without looking down.  Poor Tony my arse, Rachel thought, as she plugged in her earpiece again and tapped her one finger across the keyboard.  If Tony were one of the first to go she’d be happy; all middle management were about as much use as the walking dead in her opinion.
Lunchtime rolled around and Rachel decided to quit her desk five minutes early.  Tony was sick so what did he care.  She would probably be able to get away with returning late today as well.  There was a stall at the market on the High Street that she wanted to check out.  It had some old jackets hanging at the back and some rustic bangles on the table at the front.  There had been a gun metal oversized jacket she’d liked the look of hanging there last week which she’d taken a shine to and she wanted to see if it was still there.
She walked the ten minutes to the centre of town, headphones in, music loud, lost in her own world of thought and wonder as her heavy boots clobbered the pavement beneath her.  Despite the onset of winter it was a mild day.  Sure the previous week had been a washout and the temperatures had plummeted but now, as the light wind brushed her cheeks, she noted it was unseasonably warm.  She hoped it stayed like this for the weekend; it would be great for the gig of Friday.
She weaved in and out of the people traffic, ignoring the stares and odd looks she was used to.  So she didn’t dress like everyone else, was that any reason to gawp?  She passed a homeless man lying on the floor, he looked dead, his eyes were rolled back, his purple tongue lolled from his mouth, and he’d pissed his pants.  As she watched him he shook violently and twitched.  She kept moving.
Someone shouldered her to the edge of the pavement and she struggled to maintain her step on the kerb.  “Bitch!” she shouted back at the woman who was sneezing into a tissue as she walked away.  Someone else coughed next to her and she raised her arm to protect herself from the spreading disease and half-stepped into the road.
There was little traffic on the street, much less than normal.  Big white vans sat parked up farther down the road and she wondered whether the road traffic had been sealed off because of them.  She thought about the distance from Heathrow; they were in close enough proximity for it to be a concern.
She turned onto the High Street looking for the stall she wanted but she couldn’t see it.  There were less stalls than normal, less people, less activity in general.  Something didn’t feel right.  Maybe she should have watched the news, she thought, just this once.  She wondered about not returning to the office but going straight home instead, locking herself in, grabbing a weapon, and waiting for the inevitable.  But then common sense kicked in and she shook her head.  “Get real, Rachel!” she said to herself as she stepped forward once more.
Ahead of her people were backing away.  Some started running.  Some were screaming.  Suddenly there was pandemonium ahead of her.  She ran forward against the grain, dodging the flow of runners, careful not to make physical contact with any of them in case they were infected.
In the centre of the pedestrianised area of the street, in a wide break between market stalls, stood one man, tall and wiry, his hair short, his clothes ripped, his eyes wide and bugling as blood from a head wound trickled down his face.  He lumbered along snapping his teeth and moaning, slowly reaching for people as they ran past him.  She squinted her eyes in disbelief trying to get a clearer view of the wound on his head that looked too deep to be anything other than a chunk of ripped out flesh and bone that should have ensured his finality.
He clamped his eyes on her and his mouth curled as his lips bared back and his arm outstretched and a finger pointed in her direction.  She wasted no time.  She knew what to do.  If this was the initial outbreak and this was one of the first victims then he needed taking down straight away before it could spread further.  She noted he didn’t have blood around his mouth, that was a good sign.  She ran in time to the metallic thrash that assaulted her eardrums as she reached for the heavy metal pole that held the fabric barrier keeping the line to one of the most popular stalls.  She unclipped the black fabric and it recoiled into the pole so fast she had to quickly move her fingers to stop them being whipped.  She lifted the pole to her shoulder and ran at the zombie in front of her.  There were screams and cries all around her but she didn’t stop to listen, didn’t stop to look round to see if other infected where running toward her.  She was totally focused on the one, the obvious.  Kill this one then turn on the next.  Take as many out as possible and then reassess and find shelter and better weapons.
Someone, a man far back behind her, was yelling, screaming.  He sounded in pain, something was cutting in to him.  Damn this was real, she thought, this is really happening.
Lifting the pole as high above her tiny frame as she could she swung it down as she sprinted with all her strength at the zombie, his arms raising in defence as the metal base of the pole buried deep in his skull.  He collapsed to the ground instantly as though struck by a heavy piano falling rather than a girl wielding a makeshift weapon.  She guessed his legs were already weaken by the virus.
She turned, seeking out her next target, ready to dispatch the next living dead that reared its ugly head toward her.  Ready to save the world.  Ready to survive.
The crowd stood around watching her with disbelief and horror on their faces.  One man stood ahead of the rest, his hands up over his ears, the thick black cans he’d thrown off his ears draped around his neck as the wire looped into the heavy black puffer jacket he wore.  He was shaking his head, whispering to himself the words he had been shouting only moments earlier.  Rachel looked past him, past the crowd which had inexplicably run toward her, maybe away from more zombies farther back, maybe away from the homeless guy, she thought.
She let the pole drop from her hand, it clanged to the floor and reverberated around the silent street about her as her eyes rested on the metal tracks of the dolly and the camera mounted on it as the desperate words of the director reached her ears: “I said ‘cut’!”

©C. P. Clarke 2017

 

 

 

 

October’17:

This month I have added a very short piece, written way back in 1996.  It’s a scene replicated in a hundred sci-fi movies, so the idea isn’t original, however it does play once again on time travel, which if you read a lot of my stuff you will find to be a recurring theme.  It’s a survivors tale recounting that nameless and faceless enemy generally known as ‘they’ or ‘them’, the threat that could stand for any authority threatening our way of life or dictating our existance and how we should live.

 

 

 

 

The Butchers of the Past

I remember the day they arrived.  They appeared out of a fiery circle in the sky, a circle which swallowed the clouds and sent them to rain down on a land far distant.  They fell through what appeared to be a hole between this world and another, conflicting sparks of tension electrifying the apparition.
I remember sitting in my office, in the days when I had an office to sit in, staring out of my window, mouth agape as their hovering chariots floated through the air to cast almighty judgment upon us.  Each one carried three heavily armoured, and at the time indistinguishable and unfathomable, men who sped down with unrelenting speed to open fire and quell any thoughts of rebellion.  We had no time to react, no time to fight back, no time to defend ourselves; all we could do was run for cover.
I remember seeing a figure on one of the black winged war bikes, like a hawk spying its prey, silhouetted against the sun in a spoiled blue sky, and turning towards the office blocks as it dived for the kill, pointing some sort of cannon in my direction.  I saw a crimson jet of light as I ran from the window and into the corridor, my office window shattering into a thousand pieces and the office and corridor splintering into sudden rubble, with those who hadn’t seen them coming painting the scene a grotesque shade of red.
Somehow I survived; falling down into the stairwell to avoid the main blast, then making my way to the basement car park as the building above, and those around it, were repeatedly fired upon.  A few of us cowered underground, finding sewer tunnels to map our way across town, building up our numbers, desperately trying to find ways to survive.
They rained down heavily with their high powered weapons, killing all they came across.  The circle in the sky from which they had arrived through we termed ‘The Gate’.  It stayed open for two days from when they first appeared, and during those two days there was a continuous flow of warriors.  As time went by we started to fight back, to gather weapons and to strike them as they landed their crafts.  We led the revolt from the depths of the cities where they couldn’t track us and where they dared not enter. 
I remember I had a family once.  None of us saw our families again, they were presumed dead, or fighting in the war elsewhere.  Nothing seemed important anymore, except for survival and staying alive long enough to see the hated enemy defeated.
The war reigned for two and a half years, and millions died.  When the enemy’s number began to dwindle no reinforcements came – ‘The Gate’ never re-opened.  They all fought to the death, although it was suspected that some had discarded their armour and their battle cry and had sought refuge in the camouflage of the rebel fighters, deserting their own failing cause.  Some, it was rumoured, were discovered and promptly executed.
I remember the day we emerged from our hiding places to reclaim our world.  The sun shone brightly, blindingly sparkling off the broken glass and twisted metal which lay heaped across the surface of the globe, a sweet souring smell of disease and decay seeping from the carnage.
We never discovered the truth about where they came from, although it was thought that they were from our dying future and had returned to the past to somehow change the course of history.  We still don’t know, but if it is true, did they succeed in their task, or are we one day to become the butchers of the past?
So now we move on.  Much of the knowledge and technology we once held is gone, destroyed in the war; the books and computers and the great intellectual minds lying trashed in the wreckage.  The only technology to build on is that which came through ‘The Gate’: the war bikes and the weapons.  All we are left with is the disease and madness which has already spread through our people, and a severe hatred for an enemy which no longer exists; and so now it seems that we are left with a population of hardened warriors.  I can see our past beginning to take shape already.

©C. P. Clarke 1996

 

 

 

 

September’17:

Regular readers may have noticed that I skipped a month – sorry!  I took a month off to move house, but during that time I was inspired to write the following two shorts.
The first (Cabin in the Woods) came to me whilst staying alone at night in a cabin in my sister-in-laws garden.  Disclaimer – there are no similarities between myself and the character in the story and his feelings to his inlaws!  Got to make that clear before I get in trouble with the family!
The second story came to me whilst listening to a speak at the Hillsong Conference in London.  It was just a short comment about the blind mute in the story not being able to communicate with the outside world that made me want to tell his story.

 

 

 

 

Cabin in the Woods

I knew it was going to be a bad night the moment we arrived.  I had that sixth sense, or is it sick sense, either way the thought of bedding down at my in-laws for more than a couple of hours was nauseating.  ‘It’s only once a year’ she insisted.  She knew my distaste of any prolonged period with her family.  I could hold up the pretense of politeness for a few hours, stomach the insults, bite my tongue and suck it up as they used me as their emotional punch bag, but two nights?
Her family had always been close, too close some would argue, and they resented the fact that I had moved her two hundred miles north when we got married.  Work is work and you have to go where the money is; she understood that at least.  Her two numbskull brothers had moved no more than five miles from the nest and only one of them had ventured anywhere long-haul.  Neither had high flying jobs, nor an income big enough to get them comfortably on the property market.  In that they’d been bettered by the youngest sister, the baby of the family, who had married young, using her youthful good looks to bag her an older and much richer husband who quickly ensured his wife wasn’t about to flee the coup by getting her in the family way, not once, not twice, but three times within five years.  Yet despite her obvious lack of judgement (her sugar daddy, though rich, was dim, humourless, devoid of any respectable character, and a cheat – it was an open secret that he paid for sex and flirted with his employees to the point that we were all awaiting the day he was held up in court over it) she was still the innocent and appeasable baby daughter (even though I knew she was anything but innocent!).
In fact everyone in the family could do no wrong in the eyes of mummy and daddy dearest, except for me.  I alone bore the brunt of the sharpened tongues, the whips lashing out their snide remarks and bitter challenges.  She, in the privacy of our own home, accepted it was true.  She saw it.  Acknowledged it.  Accepted that it wasn’t all a fabrication of my own insecurity.  Even her father on one occasion had the audacity to front me out on it, accusing me of being cowardly for never standing up for myself.  But she had grabbed my hand and held me back; some fights just aren’t worth running into.
So pulling into the driveway I already had a headache at the anticipation of what was to come.  Two nights.  Nine adults.  Six kids.  Four bedrooms.
Baby sister got the biggest of the bedrooms (after her parents of course) on the basis that she and her husband squeezed in their three toddling and screeching cherubs.  The eldest brother got the next bedroom with his girlfriend, their eight year old son crashing in with them as he apparently refused to share a room with my two, who, being boys of seven and nine, got the box room, which on an average day was a study but had been cleared to fit in two single airbeds on the floor.  The youngest of her brothers maybe got the shortest straw, he was on the sofa in the living room, which gave him little privacy should we need to creep in during the night to use the loo.  Because yes, we were relegated to the wood cabin at the very end of the garden.
In a way it was a blessing.  I was as far away from my in-laws as I could possibly get, and had quickly devised a plan in my head that included the persistence and increase of my headache so that I would have to retire early and rise late, not to mention the amount of time I could waste in going back and forth getting things or putting things away in my little hideout.  My guess was the arrangement was an amicable compromise between my wife and her parents, one designed to keep all sides happy.
Only once a year I kept reminding myself.  Most families would do it at Christmas or Easter, or Thanksgiving, or during the school summer holidays when everyone could get together for their family reunion/celebration, but no, we did it every year on my father-in-law’s birthday.  I think he fancied himself some sort of Mafia Don, demanding respect and for everyone to bow down and kiss his ring.  I couldn’t wait for him to bite the bullet so that we no longer had to put up with this charade of playing happy families.
Then there was the prospect of us being outside of the house where no one could intrude.  My mind automatically going to the children that couldn’t interrupt with their whining about wanting mum or dad, bursting into the room unannounced demanding attention.  Maybe tonight was the night to test the robustness of the cabin’s woodwork.  Certainly the house was far enough away for sound not to travel.  I checked out the bed, a sofa pull-out; it seemed sturdy enough.  I just hoped she was in the mood!
The cabin itself was to the left of the rear of the house, half-way down the lawn before the trees started to encroach from the open field behind.  The field was open parkland between two suburban residential streets.  Generally it was a serene dog walking, kids kicking ball, jogging route, cut through for the community.  Occasionally, and far too often, the travelling community had set up their caravans on the site and brought a lawless tirade of scaremongering to the neighbourhood, whilst the council and the police did their best to evict the menace that disrupted the usual peace and quiet.
Made of treated pine tongue and groove slats, with a double felt roof, a glass double panelled door at the front with a pull down blind, and electricity wired in, it stood proudly on its concrete base.  Daddy, I’m sure, was pleased with his relatively new addition to his garden.  It was supposed to be an external office space for him in the summer, which clearly he didn’t need, leaving one only to assume that it was his way of escaping the whip of his wife’s tongue.  Some would call it a man-cave, others might call it a hide-out from her indoors.  Either way I was thankful for it, although my original suggestion of spending the two nights in a nearby hotel, even a low budget one, would have been preferable.
Of course I knew my headache had only been the pre-curser of my torment.  Our youngest had already begun to complain on route to the house of not wanting to spend the nights in a strange bedroom with his older brother.  Normally they didn’t share a room, and the elder of the two had a mean streak towards his brother that at times could be cruel.  I told them both to suck it up and man up.  Neither appreciated the advice.  It was only as they were getting ready for bed that my troubles really began.
We had our stuff neatly packed into the cabin and had arrived suitably late enough to have missed the evening meal.  It was already dark and so needed to use our phone lights as torches to guide our way to the cabin and back.  I busied myself for as long as possible getting our things sorted whilst she made pleasantries with the family and tried to get the kids settled ready for bed.  We could play happy families tomorrow.
My wife took longer than expected to return to the cabin, to the point that I was forced to go off in search of her.  I meandered my way through the house, careful to avoid the areas of dense population.  I got a nod of acknowledgment from the younger brother already camped out on the sofa, and a brief hug from the sister as I passed her on the stairs; that hug lingered too long and too close, as always.
I found the box room and found the three of them playing hunt and kill the spider.  Only there was more than one.  Every corner of the room had been filled with them, showing the room’s lack of use and cleanliness.  She had managed to dispose of the majority prior to my arrival but the kids were already freaked out and refusing the sleep in the room.  It took a further fifteen minutes, and a thorough tipping up of every piece of furniture and searching beneath with the aid of my phone light, to convince them to stay where they were, but there was a compromise: one of us had to stay in the room with them.  She volunteered.  I didn’t like it but eventually relented.  So maybe I didn’t get to have my wife all to myself for the two nights, but at least I got to have a room to myself away from the entire family.  You might call that selfish, but I call it self-preservation.
Then the rain began to fall before I had a chance to make it back to the cabin.  I don’t mean a trickle, I mean a heavy just short of hail downpour that soaked me through to the skin.  Mud caked my shoes, which of course I then walked slippery into the cabin where, despite all the other furnishings, had no floor mat.  I slid as I entered and skidded over towards the sofa bed, twisting as I went as I tried to stay upright.  I felt something in my back twang and I winced in pain.  I could have cried out, no one would have heard, but I didn’t want to appear a wimp, even if it was only to myself.
Soaking, dripping, and in pain, now with both my head and my back, I pulled closed the door and lowered the blind, cursing under my breath how I had ever married into such a family and the circumstances that had brought me here.
Here I lay listening as the rain trailed off, having satisfied itself at my soaking.  It had taken me a good five minutes to peel myself free of my clothes and place them far enough away from my bed (not such an easy task in the small confines of what was a glorified shed).  The bed at least was warm and dry.  As for everything else in the room, I couldn’t see it once I’d turned my phone torch off.  There was no light spilling from the house thanks to the angle of the cabin entrance, and the blind was thankfully thick.  I hoped this meant that I could have a good lie in without being awakened by the dawn light.
I breathed in the sweet smell of pine and felt relieved that it smelt dry and not damp.  Then in the gloom I had a vague recollection of having seen a lamp on the desk to the side of the sofa bed.  I switched on the phone torch again and scoured the desk.  There it was, its white skull hung on a metal spine, its nose of a bulb protruding dryly.  I threw off the cover and stepped out of the bed, immediately regretting not having put on fresh socks as my feet landed in the still drying mud pool I’d left at the foot of the bed when I’d entered.  I cursed and tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling after a couple of hard rubs of my feet on the floor.  Stepping over to the desk I turned on the lamp, traced the cable, and ascertained the lead was long enough to move it closer to the head of the bed.  I put my phone down on the edge of the sofa without thinking and then climbed back into bed with the lamp on.
I sat still, listening.  Blood pounding to the points of pain in my head and back.  The pummelling thud was almost audible.  My mind started running away with what was being said about me in the house.  Were they all gathered around passing their comments about me behind my back?  Were they all concocting ideas on how to make my stay even more uncomfortable?  It was nonsense I knew, but when alone with nothing but the sound of emptiness to fill the void the mind tends to fill in the gaps with absurd imagination.
Eventually I turned the lamp off.  The darkness was deeper than I had expected and fueled my thoughts of isolation as my ears picked up on every sound.  The light bulb clicked intermittently as it cooled down next to my head.  Traffic drifted by on roads far away.  A car along the street some distance off parked, two, maybe three, doors opened and closed.  I couldn’t hear the footsteps move away, almost as though the owners were tiptoeing stealthily.  Then there was the clock I hadn’t realised was on the wall in the cabin, its tick was deafening as each second announced its passing.
All sounds you couldn’t normally hear during the business of the day.
I must have drifted off.  I awoke to the tapping of rain on the roof.  It was a comforting sound, not at all unpleasant as it helped to shield me from the thoughts of anyone from the house disturbing my slumber.  So far I didn’t need to pee, and I hoped that would be the case throughout the night; I really didn’t want to have to get dressed and traipse out in the rain.
I closed my eyes and quickly drifted off again.
I awoke with a start, unsure of what had shaken me.  I wondered what the time was as I reached for my phone.  I pressed the power button to wake it up to show me its readout but it didn’t respond.  Confused I pressed it again.  Still nothing.  Then it dawned on me that I hadn’t turned the torch off and had laid it down flat with the light facing the sofa.  The battery was most likely dead, and the charger was in with her and the kids.
I reached for the lamp and flicked it on and searched the wall for the clock.  It was surprisingly small for the volume it emitted.  It was just past 1am.  I shook my head with that dreaded feeling that it was going to be a long night.  I reached back to turn off the lamp just as a loud clap of thunder cracked overhead.  It made me jump, my flinching hand swinging back and knocking the lamp off the desk.  I heard the bulb break as it hit the ground.
I swore to myself.  No light, and now glass on the floor.
I lay back and listened to the storm.  With each thunder clap I was sure I was hearing other sounds: breaking glass, thumps, bangs, and shouts.  But when it was just the rain I heard nothing untoward.  I surmised it was my imagination.  I’d heard of people suffering cabin fever, but I was certain it shouldn’t set in only after just a few hours.
The rain was hypnotic.  I began to drift off once more as the storm seemed to blow away to terrorise another neighbourhood.
The next time I awoke it was to a scream, or at least that’s what I thought.  I didn’t think it was in a dream.  I snapped awake, sitting up in bed, listening.
I heard nothing.  So certain was I of what I’d heard my mind began concocting scenarios of what was happening inside the house, none of which were pleasant.  I tried to cast them from my mind.  Too many gruesome films had imprinted too many images to allow for rational thought.
Once again I was struck by the immense depth of the darkness.  I couldn’t see the door.  At night in the comforts of my own home I was used to walking about without the lights on, guided by the shimmer of streetlights coming through the gaps in the curtains, and maneuvering around the familiar objects I was so used to traversing during the day as the dim light reflected off them.  I put my hand up to try and see it, trying to focus on what was immediately in front of me.  As I did so something slammed into the door of the cabin – hard.
I recoiled back.  Something hit the glass of the door, turned the handle.  I’d had the foresight to lock it from the inside.  I took a dry gulp and suddenly wished I had some water – and a light.
I waited.  And I waited.
I didn’t dare get up to look.  I was sure the family would call it cowardice.  In fact I was certain it was one of the brothers playing a prank trying to get a rise out of me.  I wasn’t going to play their game.
I lay back into the comfort of the bed.  It was surprisingly snug under the duvet, and warm, and dry.
I closed my eyes and tried my hardest to get back to sleep.  The wife and kids were fine, I assured myself.  Why wouldn’t they be?  If something had happened inside the house I was sure I would have heard it or someone would have come to get me.  I squinted my eyes shut and put the cover over my head.
The next time I awoke the sun was up, had been up a while.  The wall clock read 8.30.  Breakfast was set for 8.00.  No one had come to get me.  I now desperately needed to pee as the chill of the cabin nudged on my bladder.  I sat up in the bed and pulled my knees up to my chest and listened.  I could hear nothing from the house.  No children screaming or complaining.  No cluttering of crockery from the kitchen, not that I expected to hear any of it clearly from here, but the morning was still and there was no longer any rain to distort and disguise the sound.
I looked at the door of the cabin and thought back to what had shook me during the night.  I didn’t want to get up and unlock the door.  I didn’t want to roller up the blind.  I didn’t want to find out what had happened in the house during the night without me.  So instead I figured I would wait until someone came to get me.  And so I waited.

©C. P. Clarke 2017

 

 

 

 

Out of the Darkness (Matthew 12:22-23)

I was minding my own business.  As usual.  That’s how I spend most of my days, sitting around keeping to myself.  When I say keeping to myself what I really mean is that I don’t go very far, I stay stationary, fixed to my spot, cap in hand, silently pleading with my eyes to those who get close enough.  Most people steer clear of me.  Most people are used to my presence and know to ignore me.  Others regularly have pity; I don’t know their names, nor their faces.  I keep my head down and hand raised.  I think those that give are split into two camps: there are those that do it out of duty and out of proud boasting, wanting to look good and pious; the other camp (you can tell the difference) they talk with kindness and give me what I need, sometimes food, sometimes clothes, occasionally even some shelter for the night.  That’s all I need, to be provided with the things I can’t earn for myself.  Not that I’m totally incapable.  I am physically able, I just can’t experience things the way others can.  I guess this makes me a bit of an outcast.  People look down on me as rejected, diseased, cursed even.  Some even go as far as to call me demon possessed.
As I say, there I am sitting around minding my own business.  I had a few bits of tat scattered around my feet, things I’ve made with my hands that I keep in a bag I carry with me.  I can make things by feel, but I don’t know what they look like, nor whether they resemble the things I picture in my mind.  My mind is full of imagination.  My mind is my world.  Sometimes people pay me for the things I make, not much, but sometimes enough to buy a meal.  But the ones that grabbed me, they broke my things and forced me to leave all my possessions behind, and I never thought I’d get to see them again.
Hopefully you’re getting the picture of my predicament by now, if not then I’ll spell it out for you – I’m blind, I cannot see a thing.  But that is only the half of it.  If I could have yelled for help when I was dragged off the street then I would have, but that line of communication is lost to me also.  I have no voice.  I cannot speak.
Before I tell more about the ones that grabbed me let me give you a brief insight into my life.  Not my background, as to where I live or my family or how I lost my sight and my voice, nothing like that, but let me give you a glimpse into the darkness of my world.
Sound is my friend.  Smell is my friend.  Touch is my friend.  All else hates me.
My world is dark.  My world in insular.  My world is disconnected.  I see everything with an uncertain and fearful lack of confidence as I am forced to constantly look in upon myself.  No one truly cares for me.  I am a burden to anyone who has ever drawn close to me, so guiltily I shun them all.  I don’t want to be a charity case, or one of those drains on society that pulls everyone else down, but I am what I am, and that, in the society I live in, is gutter trash.
That’s where I live, in the gutters, on the outskirts, on the fringes where no one knows my name nor wants to know my name.
Sorry, I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.  My life isn’t that bad – not anymore.
I’m used to bad smells.  The street sewage runs close to where I regularly sit.  I tend to sit in one location so as to stay on familiar ground where I know my surroundings, and by staying seated there is little chance of me tripping over or bumping into things.  My sense of smell is heightened more than most.  I can pick out spices and perfumes as they pass the town gate.  I can tell who has washed recently and who hasn’t.  I can smell those who are ill, their bodies giving off the odour of sickness that oozes from the complaints of the human condition.  I can smell the dirt of the ground and the scents carried by the wind.  Even the moisture in the air carries its own familiar dampness that signals for me to take cover.  I’ve lost count of the times people have commented on how I know when to find shelter before the rain starts to fall.
Then there is my sense of hearing.  I hear the whispers, the rumours, the snide comments.  I hear the animals and the wheels of the carts turning.  I hear the creaking of doors, the howl of the wind, the laughter of children, and the chirp of the cricket.  And too often the grumble of my own stomach.
For all the things I can do society still classes me as unemployable, as something to be feared, as something God has rejected.  Therefore I can’t work.  I can’t see.  I can’t write.  I can’t communicate in any way.  I couldn’t even tell you my name or how old I am.  I can’t identify in the same way others can, and so I am unidentifiable and without identity.
Of all the things I hear on the street, of late the word has been a buzz about one thing in particular.  Beneath the wails of the Pharisees and Sadducees praying through the streets acting all holy and encouraging people to do likewise.  Beneath the stamping feet of the Roman patrols that try to maintain order for the Empire.  Beneath the disgruntled murmurs of the everyday hardworking family trying to make an existence in our small corner of the world.  Beneath it all has been the echoing name of one man.
I know a little of religion, despite not being allowed into the temple.  I know a little of politics, despite not being a taxpayer.  Both spectrums have been standing to attention at the command, or rather the influence of this one man.
He has caused a stir.  He is making radical claims that are upsetting some and inspiring others.  He has been performing so called miracles that have confused and dumbfounded the most skeptical of his opponents.
As for my opinion, well I’d never met him, but if his claims were true, if what they said about him was true, then there was no way I was about to turn down the opportunity of crossing paths with him.
Of course my problem was that I had no way of seeking him out.  It wasn’t as though I could go and join the crowds following him from town to town.  I couldn’t chase after him on the street, not that I’d be able to pick him out from the faces in the crowd anyway.  I couldn’t even call out his name to get his attention.
I’d heard he was nearby, moving closer.  The rumour was he was coming this way.  My only hope was that he would pass by the gate where I sat and he would see me when he passed by.  If I was lucky he would catch a glimpse of me and take pity.
Now I know I said I didn’t want people to pity me, but this was different.  This guy healed people!  I was blind but not stupid.  If I could get my sight back then I wouldn’t have to sit on the street begging.  I would be able to get a proper job.  If I had a voice I could tell people that I wasn’t mad, or possessed, or hopeless.  People would stop looking down on me as diseased and sinful because of my condition.  People might respect me for who I am and what I can do.  People might know me as more than just the blind guy who begs on the street.
If Jesus was who he said he was then I hoped he would be able to see what others couldn’t, the true me beneath the dirt and grime of my reputation.  That’s how I hoped God saw me.  I hoped he looked deeper and saw the inner me, and saw the potential of who I could be.
As it happens I never got the chance to stumble across his path as he passed the gate.  Either he crept in quietly or he entered town by a different route.  I was gutted that I’d missed my opportunity.  I wondered about trying to get someone to lead me to him, but I couldn’t work out how to communicate my desire to anyone, and as it happened it was one of those days when no one seemed to want to acknowledge me anyway, and so I thought God clearly didn’t care about me, that I wasn’t on his priority list, that I was insignificant even to him.
Then something happened that I wasn’t expecting.  A mob came and collected me, manhandled me down the street.  I kicked and thrashed thinking I was about to get a beating (that has happened before; I’m the dog on the street everyone thinks they can kick and be justified in doing so).  I’d like to say that I landed a few good punches, but sadly it’s hard to find your target when you can’t see them.  I must have looked like a wild animal, struggling and growling as I tried to break free of their hold.
I didn’t know where they were taking me and nothing in their speech gave me a clue as to their intentions.
Eventually I was thrown to the ground and I sensed everyone move back away from me.  All that was bar one man.  I don’t know how but I immediately knew who it was.  I fell before him on my knees, head bowed and hands outstretched ahead of me pleading for his help.
The crowd went quiet, a buzz of electric anticipation hanging in the air.  I could taste it, the excitement and the fear.  I could almost hear their thoughts as they all watched.  Suddenly I was the centre of attention.  Suddenly everyone wanted to see me.
I felt the tips of his fingers touch mine and then his warm comforting hands wrap themselves around my grubby little curved fingers.
And then I saw his face.  Not clearly at first, but as I lifted my head and squinted my eyes I could see his bearded features and scruffy hair slowly coming into focus.  It was a beautiful sight.  Colour filled my senses.  Shapes and images more beautiful than I had imagined leaped out at me.
My throat was dry but I felt a bubbling of air force its way up and roll over and off my tongue as a gurgling sound parted my lips.  It was barely audible, but Jesus heard it.  He smiled and nodded.  I spoke again, this time trying to express my thanks, wonder, and praise, but the syllables were lost amongst the gasps of astonishment from all around.
I don’t know how long the stunned pause lasted, it felt like a lifetime, but eventually there was a loud and rapid-fire torrent of voices arguing over what had happened.  They were trying to explain away what Jesus had done.  Some claimed it a miracle, others claimed it the devil’s work.  In the heat of the argument I seemed to get lost in the crowd as I stood back watching the townspeople, and watching Jesus as he revealed to everyone the error in their thinking.

©C. P. Clarke 2017

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July’17:

I’ve always been fascinated by and love reading (or watching) stories based around time travel.  I think writing a good tale involving time travel is quite difficult as it is so easy to make mistakes in the time lines,  and I am probably the first one to point out the holes when I spot a glaring error.  I have used alternative time lines in many of my stories as the scope of playing with history and alternative realities opens up so many avenues for being creative and breaking the standard rules of storytelling.  Trying to get the details right is a challenge and it makes me put more thought into the circular pattern of looping the stories.  I wrote The Time Traveller’s Assassin a few years ago when I was writing some lengthier material about assassins.

 

 

 

 

 

THE TIME TRAVELLER’S ASSASSIN

The buzz was still wearing off.  He hated the buzz.  The hypertension of electricity sparked pins and needles off the walls and back to his extremities.  He clenched his buttocks, teeth and fists against the clawing of the magnetised web that invisibly attached itself as he appeared from out of nowhere into this predestined empty space, occupying and encapsulating the vacant air he’d displaced into a void a world apart, transposing time and space so that he could fulfil his mission – so that he could kill whoever lay bare and unassuming beyond the door before him.
Time travel itself was outlawed, yet a shrinking handful possessed its secrets and the wealth it brought; speculators mainly, playing the market, pushing up or down the price of shares invested in an age gone by.  Manipulating the flow of cash using dubious means as they identified and acted upon those whose past impact showed for little, except maybe to the computations of the backward thinking who had worked out a bearing on the future economy as competitors vied for the instability of an ever changing market.  A market that reflected the gently massaged timeline since the revelation of time travel had altered the general view of reality and certainty that had so threatened to buckle the fabric and foundations of the ground beneath our feet.  The government had been forced to implement ‘The Paradox Contingency’ which prevented all travel outside of the present time zone.  Of course all this needed to be regulated and enforced and so, the world being greedily corrupt, those that continued to abuse the system (and therefore put all others at risk of being decimated through a cataclysmic clash of paradoxical events) were none other than the reckless politians and the senseless robotic butchers employed to police the law, both of whom secretly operated behind a mask of nobility and high social upstanding.  In the meantime the public remained blissfully ignorant.
He checked his piece, the buzzing sensation having slowly worn off and feeling having returned to his momentarily numb fingers.  It was cocked and loaded and fully charged, its battery pack weighing heavily next to the pressurised bullet clip that pumped the rounds silently through the chamber with a pulse of lightning speed, but its crude design made the weapon bulge at its brow so that to the untrained it would appear clunky and difficult to handle.  Not that anyone but he would be able to fire this piece as it was coded to his DNA alone; something a more cautious mercenary might avoid in fear of capture and an admission of guilt, but foolishly or not he felt no need for such caution.
He gave himself a moment to steady his mind and feel through the tendrils of his body to ensure he was all present and correct and in full working order, not that he’d ever doubted the technology, but it didn’t stop the urban myths from circulating as the whispers of the unnamed hotshot who’d arrived at his location missing a limb and his trigger finger echoed through his mind.  All was present and correct.  All he had to do was walk through the door and shoot dead whoever it was that stood on the other side, then activate the control module in his trouser pocket to return back to his own time in the far reaches of the future.
He didn’t know the name of the person he was to kill, nor the reason, nor did he care; his conscience thought little for someone that history had already killed, and he had no intention of staying long enough in this time zone to become attached to it.  All he cared about was getting paid, and in that respect he was rewarded handsomely, both for his unquestionable expertise and reliability to accomplish the job at hand, and also for his unswervingly professional discretion.  He had a reputation and his employer paid well to protect that reputation, ensuring that his high price was unequalled on the market to maintain an amiable contract with his sole employer.  The two as a pair, both employee and employer, were questionably the most powerful men on the planet; greed drove one and the lust for murder the other.  Not that he saw it as murder; to him they were already dead anyway.
He took a breath and readied himself to raise the gun, placing his shoulder to the brown wooden door, his ear listening for voices knowing there shouldn’t be any.  There weren’t – his target was alone.  He gripped the chrome door handle and pulled down, leaning forward with his weight on his shoulder, his other arm ready to come up and fire on sight as the door swung open and he set sights on his target.  As the door opened and his arm rose and his eyes began to take in the room seeking his target he felt the glare of a dozen eyes all trained on him and each pair had a high calibre firearm pointing at his head.
They were expecting him.
With one hand raised with his gun held high and the other trailing behind still holding the door handle he knew he had little chance of reaching for the mechanism secreted in his trouser pocket.  As if to confirm his thoughts the gun was snatched from his hand and he was butt whipped on the back of the head by someone hidden behind the door.
When he came to he was cuffed, both hands and feet, to a metal desk welded to the floor in a bright room, bare excepted for the wide rectangular blacked out glass before him, where no doubt observed the authors of his fate, and to its side a singular door with no handle signalling that it could only be opened from the outside.  His gun was gone, his jacket too, and he assumed the contents of his pockets, indeed the slight bulge of his homeward pass was absent from his thigh.  What would they make of it he wondered?  It was a golden rule even before the practise had been outlawed – never let the technology be lost in time; it could alter the development of the timeline, even propel or ignite the promulgation of thought inspiring the concept of what they’d now deemed too dangerous to be used at any expense.  Of course that was before they all started screwing with history for their own gain by capitalising on the deaths of corporate moguls and the like in order to build their own futuristic empires.  It just seemed easier to get away with than committing a fraud or a murder or any such crime in your own linear timeline, as though you didn’t need a conscience to eliminate or tamper with what was long past.
The door opened and in walked a tall male in his forties with a chiselled jaw and crew cut that spoke of military but in a cheap grey suit and tie that spoke of intelligence services or special ops, or some other randomly acquired corporately funded outfit that deemed themselves powerful enough to have orchestrated his capture.  He said nothing but simply approached the desk and spaced out on the metal table top the pile of photos he held clumped in his hand.  The photos were security snaps taken from CCTV cameras from various places around the world.  Some of the crimes he didn’t recognise from the angle and grain from which they were drawn, some he recalled instantly, but with all the tall thin figure in clothes that hung shaggily from the wire thin frame within them was undeniably clear, the protruding and slightly twisted nose and dark bushy eyebrows and the shine of a  slightly balding patch at the crown of his head being the same in the mostly black and white grainy images.
“This is you is it not,” commanded the brash American accent, Texan by the drawl, his eyes piercing as he pointed to a picture randomly.  He understood the language perfectly but spoke it little himself, not that he intended on giving them the pleasure of a response.
“Here too!” He demanded pointing to another but yet again not getting an answer.  To each picture he pointed and then directed back at his prisoner eventually holding one up to the side of his face for comparison and standing aside to allow the silent and unseen gallery beyond view for themselves as they judged and pronounced sentence.
There were victims in the pictures too, blood soaked deathly images of fear and surprise and painful shock as in each he’d intruded on their timeline and drew it to an abrupt end, his gun and bullet drawing an exclamation mark of finality, with the whole scene caught on camera without a care of who would see, knowing that no police from this timeline could catch him so far in the future.  How wrong had he been!  So consumed about detection at home he had given little thought to detection in the past, and in his arrogance assumed he would be untraceable and untrackable.
He sat there manacled to the chair pondering not the crimes before him nor those that paraded themselves within the room with such apparent hate and disgust, instead his mind was questioning whom that he knew would have and could have set him up.  Few were active in the time slots, and of them only he was smart enough to keep his employment quiet within the bureau.  The others were blabber mouths who were already under investigation and would shortly be closed down, leaving him as sole contractor able to demand whatever he pleased for his services.  None of the competition would have the nounce to track him down and set him up.
His mind turned to his employer: he had the knowledge and the opportunity – but why bite the hand that feeds you?  Greed with men like him ensured that enough was never enough and the hunger for more made him an unlikely candidate to be rid of one so reliable an employee.  The employer of course could travel, he did after all own the technology that made it possible, but he wouldn’t dare take the risk; detestable and powerful men like him were cowards who found it easier to employ someone else to do all their dirty work.  However the odds were stacked against him and so was the evidence of his crimes.  For it was obvious and it had probably taken a mathematician to work out the probabilities of the pattern he’d left them.  In the same way that his employer had calculated his profit margin by loading the stock market based on who he needed to kill, they had simply concluded the same sums, only in reverse order, recognising a pattern over linear time as markets were influenced and a pattern emerged and a probable target was assessed and deemed correct, ensuring that their hypothesis were true would have meant that they’d been watching him on his last hit in this present time, not yet ready to strike but watching none the less before hatching their plan and setting their trap.
He laughed, not a bellowing out loud laugh, not even an audible chuckle, but merely a gentle shrug of the shoulders and a tilt and shake of the head as he huffed out a frustrated, unbelievable internal snort of his predicament at being caught out by the same means that served his master’s purpose.  He had only a little time to reflect on how it all fell full circle as his mind glimpsed the implications of the technology and the immense funds built up so far in this timeline and how the pattern they predicted pointed to an obvious future game plan, the same pattern that had financed his life these last few years and would finance his own past endeavours; not that time was on his side now.
The interrogation had gone on long enough, too long, and for most of it he had drifted his mind to another place, another age.  He heard questions asked, and the Texan’s voice raised as his fist had clamped down on the desk in frustration of the vacant eyes that looked right through him and those ears that appeared deaf to a reaction and the mouth that save for the breath exhaled were dead of sound.
The chiselled suit was communicating with the gallery via an earpiece, silently receiving direction as he side stepped so that they had a clear view of the proceedings.  He looked up from his restrained seated position and stared at his executioner, who on command withdrew an archaic looking pistol from its holster beneath his jacket and aimed it at his head – his last thoughts being of how to his assassin it probably wasn’t murder, as how could he kill someone who hadn’t yet been born.

©C. P. Clarke 2013

 

 

 

 

So if you want a real laugh check out this video of a fresh faced twenty something me performing my own material on live TV in my very first TV appearance.  You can check out the full video on my C. P. Clarke youtube channel – see if you recognise any other familiar faces!

 

 

 

 

June’17:

This month’s main story was written in May this year and is based off a dream I had back in December 2016.  I often use dreams in my stories as they tend to be quite wild and out there.  I’ve written the story down pretty much as it was in the dream so it will give you an insight into my warped subconscious mind.  The Winged in the story relates not only to the creature but also to the three muties as they rise to the challenge and  begin the first of their adventures together.  I haven’t decided yet whether to pen any further stories for them so let know if you thnk I should!

 

 

 

 

THE WINGED

It had been raining.  That should have been enough of a sign that things were awry.  The dismal events in the town always occurred on the dreary days when everyone was feeling down enough about the world as it was.
Harcourt was one of the last truly seaside towns on the west coast.  Most had given way to the masses of hydroelectric power plants that lined the bays and alcoves where once thriving tourist driven communities resided.  We had a small port that serviced the outer islands which kept us safe for the time being from further development, but who knew how long that would last.  With the rapid expansion of new technology (or re-imagined old technology) came the consumer demand for power, but no one wanted to return to the old ways of nuclear plants which had proved so unpredictable and unstable.  The doomsayers, it is said, had foretold of the chain reactions of building so many so close together, but the governments in their greed didn’t listen.  The rumours were that it was the activists that set the charges that triggered it all, but no one knew for sure, too few had survived those early days.
When it rained here the aftermath was always a fine coating of red dust that dried in the ever present sun.  The fine particles of radiation hung in the air, magnifying the sun’s rays giving a sparkling purple hue to the sky as we blistered beneath it.  The heaviness of the baked sea to our backs eventually raising enough moisture to rise up over the land and thunder down upon our irrigated crops and destroying them.  Our world was a colourful one, but our colours were different from the world that went before.  Gone were the greens of the fields, the blues of the sky and sea, and the yellow of the sand.  Everything now had a tint of poison.
We had our water supplies.  Giant filtration systems were set up on a massive scale to rival the power plants.  Water and electricity were our greatest assets as a nation.  Many others hadn’t recovered substantially enough to have climbed to the dizzying heights of our economic state.  We had at the very least a varying sense of normality so far as old world standards went, or so the lecturers at the schools would have us believe.  We have an education system and medical facilities, commerce and law enforcement, politics and industry, all of which we trade with those distant lands less well off as us, as those that govern try to expand our territories and keep us strong.  We don’t yet have an army, nor any military defences, but that is the next step, and it’s an essential one as the threats from without and within are so much more varied from the old world history books.
I hadn’t seen the incident this morning.  I first heard about it when I met up with Cherie on the promenade.  I had been slow to rise today.  My legs are always sore on damp days.  I slid them out of bed and massaged them for half an hour before getting dressed.  Cherie was already waiting for me by the time I waddled down to meet her.
There was a crew down at the club, according to Cherie.  They were shooting a public service announcement production about the positives of drug use.  We have all grown up on these broadcasts by the government telling us what to do and what not to do.  No one really pays any attention to them yet they still churn them out, I guess they must feel a sense of duty to keep the population informed and warned of the potential dangers in life, as if we don’t know them by living it.
The club is an old cinema from back in the day.  It’s one of the few high rises to survive the blasts, probably due to its girth as well as height.  It stands with its back to the sea protecting the High Street from the blistering sparkles that light up the faces too long exposed to the brilliance of the crashing waves.  The upper section of the building is abandoned, it’s unsteady eaves and brickwork just waiting the next high wind to buffer a cave in.  The lower chamber that was once the auditorium was a long time ago cleared of seating and turned into an empty rave space for party goers who, despite the potential threat of the ceiling falling in (or because of it), eventually turned it into a regular club.  Like any club of its sort prostitution, drugs, and alcohol were openly available to any wanting to escape the restrictions of our mutated lives.  As for the government film, no doubt it was to promote the corporate distribution of prescribed medication as opposed to the readily available, and more widely accepted, recreational drugs one could get their hands on at such an establishment.
Ninety percent of the population in town had used the club at one point or another over the years, which made the government’s stance unpopular and the only thing preventing them from outlawing such places and practices.  They could give us guidance and advice but they didn’t dare make it illegal, not yet anyway.
No one cared much for the film crews that periodically turned up in town, but even we felt sorry for them when something like this happened.
Cherie said that she thought the crew were high on the drugs they were supposed to be reporting against.  She was probably right.  I knew a guy from school who went on to work for one of those production companies and he was one of the biggest wasters I knew.  They were just ordinary guys making a buck like the rest of us.  So what if they indulged a little whilst on the job.
Anyway, Cherie said that she saw the whole thing.  She felt the terror as he ran.  The guy came running out, freaked as though he’d seen something inside that had spooked him.  She thought it was a bad trip to begin with.  He was shouting and screaming and looking back over his shoulder as he ran down the middle of the High Street.  No one else came out and no one else has gone back in since.  That’s why we’re all hanging about waiting.  So far no one’s been brave enough to check on the rest of the crew and the other revellers inside.
“They’re coming,” she whispered beside me, drawing me out of my thoughts.  I’d been scratching at the join in my legs, which was itching like mad.  I hated this phase and was really hoping it would be over soon.  I looked to Cherie who was looking down the street past the crowds.  I followed her gaze but saw nothing but other onlookers, but I knew better that to trust my eyes where Cherie’s senses were concerned.
A few seconds later a blue squad van turned the corner, it’s heavily shielded blacken windows hiding the number of occupants within.  The van parked up in the middle of the road at an angle so no other traffic could get through, not that many here could afford a car big enough.  Mostly we rode self-fashioned pedal powered contraptions with protective hoods and side bars to protect us from bashes and from the sun.  Some were comical looking but every year we held a festival celebrating all things new and old, during which we held a competition for the best designed pedal carrier.  It wasn’t always the most efficient vehicle that won of course, sometimes the most outlandish and most decorative, or inventive captured the eyes of the judges.  It wasn’t a serious contest but did give us an opportunity, for those risky enough to partake, to race our contraptions through the streets and down the hill towards the old bridge over the river.  It was mostly us teenagers that indulged in the races, but there were a few older muties that ran the gauntlet every year as though they had a death wish, which I guess some of them probably did.  Some mutations were easier to live with than others, and we were all different.
Old man MacIntyre was the first out of the van.  He had a paunch on him and his rosy cheeks were dripping with sweat as he tried to push his helmet on over his head.  He flipped the visor up and then directed Danny Cosgrove over to where we were stood.
Danny sauntered over.  He’d had the hots for Cherie since junior school, something everyone, even MacIntyre, was aware of.  Cherie never took him up on his offer, but that didn’t deter Danny, to the point where it had become a common point of teasing which Danny and Cherie happily played along with.
“Hi beautiful, fancy meeting you here.”
“Hello officer.  Where else would you expect me to be?  Aren’t you gonna put on that helmet so the rest of us don’t have to suffer looking at your face?” replied Cherie as they both sunk into their usual patter.  I often wondered how long it would be before Cherie actually gave in and took him home to her bed, but it was probably the domestic chaos back there that held her off all along anyway.  I ignored them both.  I was watching MacIntyre as he checked out the front door, posted another man to stand guard at the unlocked entrance and then walked down the side alley to the rear.
I was only half listening to Cherie explaining to Danny about the creature in the loft of the club.  We all knew the tales.  We’d all heard them as school kids, scaring each other about the monster that lived in the roof.  It was one of the things that made getting high in the club such a buzz.  Of course loads of people over the years had climbed up as a dare looking for it but no creature had ever been found.  Yet the whispers of sightings had persisted over the years and a folklore had grown up around it.
It only came out at night to hunt, unless of course you threatened it by intruding when it was sheltering from the rain.  The stories told of how it had nested there years ago like a bat in a belfry of old, coming and going in the darkness of night.  Some say that it came from across the sea, from the lands beyond the islands, the only man to fly since the world lit up.  The local council helped keep the story alive by encouraging its spread to enforce the night curfew.  The wild dogs and cats, once household pets of the old world, were now vicious blood thirsty muties.  They also hunted in the dark, afraid of our machines that could injure and kill them during the day.  The electricity, though an asset, was limited.  Sometimes it ran out if too many people used the lights at night.  Sometimes the council just turned it off at the switch.  Either way people tended to stay home and off the streets once the sun went to sleep.
I didn’t know the name of the officer posted outside the entrance to the club.  I’d seen him around town but had never had occasion to speak to him.  He was one of those guys who showed no physical abnormalities but whose defects were in his mental capabilities.  Police work wasn’t discriminative against such people, though many thought it should be, especially where a lack of common sense was concerned, but with the growing crime rate the authorities just wanted uniforms on the street as a deterrent.  As I watched him pull open the door and peer inside I was pretty sure MacIntyre would have told him not to go inside.  He did just that.
I reasoned that maybe he heard a noise, a shout for help maybe, and that was why he went in.  Surely his curiosity wasn’t that dumb.
MacIntyre was hitching a leg up over the chainmail fence at the side, trying to get access to the old disused car park that led down onto the promenade.  He clambered over and I shuffled wide with my sticks to get a better view of him as he took a number of steps back to crane his neck up to the roof.
“So what did you see darling?”  I heard Danny ask.
“It was black, a kinda distorted giant birdlike guy, just swooped down hooked him up, talons right through the throat, almost ripped his head off.”  She was savouring the description, loving every moment of it.  I couldn’t tell how much she was embellishing her account.
“And it flew up through the broken shutters in the roof with him?”
Cherie didn’t answer.  Her mind was elsewhere.  I could sense her shift in concentration as her sixth sense kicked in.
I caught a shifting of shadows up on the roof.  Had I not been looking that way I’d have missed it.  Then the sound of clattering about and shouting from within.  It was the officer inside, shouting in horror, or fear, or warning.  I couldn’t tell.
Then Danny was running.  He always had a nose for the ‘about to’ things in life.  He was always ahead of the game, not enough to place a bet, but just enough to save his own arse or that of someone else.  That was why he made a good cop.
Sprinting down the alleyway he had bounded over the fence in ways I could only dream of.  Maybe when my legs separated I would be able to jump and climb like that, but for the moment they still had a way to go before I had two and not one.
There was a screech and a scream all at once.  MacIntyre was trying to look in all directions, confused at the sounds within and above and the pounding feet of Danny Cosgrove racing towards him.  Danny dove on top of MacIntyre, knocking him off his feet and landing heavily on him, just as a black figure swooped down and dug its claws into Danny’s back and hoisted him up into the air.
I pogoed into the middle of the road, my hand dipping to my pocket as the creature swept sideways with its enormous wingspan trying to maneuver around so that it could swoop back up to the roof.  It flapped hard with the weight of Danny beneath him.  Yes, a him.  I could see him now, a distorted figure of a man that fitted into all the horrible tales of our nightmares.  It, he, had an awkward grip of Danny’s back.  His armoured uniform meant that the winged beast was struggling to hold on and fly.
Cherie knew my intentions.  Make it a good one, I heard her speak into my mind.  I felt the smooth edge in my pocket and nodded without turning to her.  Being teased at school for having scaly fish legs and not being able to walk had one advantage: I had learned to throw.  I had a collection of specially picked stones, knowing their weight, and shape and how far they would fly through the air.  I had perfected my throw with deadly accuracy to the point that the teasing had stopped abruptly the moment I dared to silence a teacher with the wit of a pebble each time he labeled me with a derogatory term.  With the teacher eventually on my side no peer dared take up the challenge, and when my scales started to shed to show two legs and not one they all realised that one day I might just be able to chase them all down.
I pulled the one stone I knew I needed, and calculated the arc the bird had to fly through to get to the roof.  Estimating that the angle of the sun would blind it enough to not see me throw it, I pulled my arm back, gave a two count in my head and let rip.
The skin of the beast was a leathery charcoal as though the sun had over ripened and scorched it.  I saw its eyes clearly: sapphire blue, sad but alive, and human.  I saw its teeth, sharp incisors, every one of them.  My stone struck its chin causing its head to flinch and its eyes to dart down at me as it flopped and shook, both searching for its assailant and trying to hold onto its prize.  It succeeding in the prior but failed in the latter.  As Danny fell face first, hard to the dusty ground in the middle of the street, the beast shrieked at me, flapping hard before turning tail back to the darkness of the roof above.
We ran then.  I think maybe Danny was concerned about deserting his post, but considering he’d just saved MacIntyre’s life I figured he might cut him some slack for a short while.  The overweight old sweat would have his hands full trying to sort out the mess inside as the incident grew.  As we jogged along the High Street in the direction of the Harcourt New Town suburbs I looked back to see MacIntyre poking his head through the open doorway where his dumbass subordinate had disappeared and hoped he wasn’t going to follow suit.  I was glad to see him step back into the road and get on his radio.
“Where are we going?” Danny asked as Cherie led the way.
“My place,” she replied curtly.
Danny gave me an uncertain look.  I raised my eyebrows in agreement with him as I hopped along with my sticks a couple of paces behind them.
It took eight minutes ten seconds to reach her house.  I knew this because, as well as developing a keen and accurate throwing arm, years of sitting around waiting to be transported places had instilled in me a precise counting of the seconds, to the point where it now came naturally.  Call it freakish behaviour in line with my mutation if you will, or just call me nerdy; I accepted long ago that this is who I am, scales and all.
Cherie burst through the door to find both sisters at home.  Cherie’s mother had died in childbirth, just one of the regrets of her family life she carried with her on a daily basis.  She was the youngest of four and the only white child born to a black family.  I’m sure when she was born her father would have raised doubts about her parentage, but now that she was older it was plain to see her negroid roots.  Her pale pigment darkened in blotches at various points on her body, places she kept hidden from all but those closest to her.  Her mutation, like mine, was obvious, but she was more special and intuitive than should have been naturally possible.  Of course, being the glaringly odd one out in the family left her the focus of racist bullying within her own home, something that sadly most of us muties have had to endure in one form or another.
Cherie’s dad and brother were out at the car wash.  It wasn’t really a car wash but a decontamination warehouse where the hauliers would drag stuff from the old cities to the cleanup site out of town.  There they’d be washed up and sprayed, and if possible recycled and rebuilt.  Anyone who worked in the reclaim business was paid well, hauliers most of all, with traders and cleaners next in line consecutively.  Cherie’s dad and brother were cleaners, but her dad had been showing signs of sickness and hair loss for a while now and had lately developed a nasty lingering cough.  The high pay was for the short life expectancy, something that hadn’t seemed to deter her brother, but then we all thought the family were a bunch of dumbasses, Cherie being the exception.
In absence of their father the two older girls always took it upon themselves to rule the roost, with no favour placed upon anything their discoloured baby sister desired.  No sooner had the front door been opened than it was slammed shut again.  Cherie had managed to get in, with me in tow behind.  Danny had hung back, probably already sensing where it would all lead.  The yelling started immediately.
Cherie was emotionally disturbed on the best of days, but add in flying demon muties spearing people in front of your eyes and carrying them off for dinner, plus two older spoilt sisters trying their darndest to make your life hell, then all you got was a furious goth looking fireball ready to rake out the eyes of her nearest and dearest.
The sisters wouldn’t believe the tale of the suburban myth come true.  Instead they pushed and shoved at us both as one stood in front blocking the way into the house and the other stood behind at the door blocking our way out.  They were twenty-somethings that had never grown up.  Pampered by their doting father they had never really been in want and still acted with an immature playground mentality when it came to how a grownup should treat others.  Cherie was furious.  I was furious on her behalf, and I was furious in my own right when steadying for balance after a particularly hard shove against the wall I felt the premature tearing of skin across my conjoined thighs.
To them it must have looked like I’d pissed my pants.  A wet patch of dark fluid seeped across my trouser leg, not urine but a gloopy mix of blood and water.
They laughed, and I lost it.  I launched myself at the sister by the door.  The door rattled with her weight as I bounced off to the wall.  My head had collided with hers and she lay there dazed and crying.  But the rage was still in me.
“Leave it Tai, they’re not worth it.”  I looked back to Cherie and looked her deep in the eyes to see if that was really what she wanted.  She always had a way of communicating her deepest thoughts to me, and was always able to calm the rising anger within.  I nodded, grabbed the door handle with one hand and Cherie’s wrist with the other, my sticks hanging from the straps around my wrists.  Pulling her out of the house and slamming the door behind us we were confronted by Danny sat calmly on the border wall.  I gave him the look that said ‘don’t say it’.
He nodded in response, adding, “We need to go to the police compound, it’s the only place we’ll be safe.”

Nineteen minutes and thirty four seconds later we had arrived at the compound.  It was mostly empty.  A skeleton crew held watch over the shell of the building as the bulk of the main officers on duty had been drafted in to the incident on the High Street.  Five minutes and fourteen seconds later and we were seated in an upstairs room awaiting the return of MacIntyre.
He arrived one hundred and sixteen minutes and two seconds later, and at last I felt I could stop my obsessive counting.  He asked if we were ok and whether there was anyone else we wanted to inform of our whereabouts.  Cherie thought for a moment and then shook her head.  Danny answered for me with a look to his superior.  I was the abandoned fish legs boy who lived alone in a flat above the bakery.  Everyone knew me by my wheeled chair or by my twin sticks I used to propel me along the street.  No one seemed to have noticed that I hadn’t used the chair for almost six months now.  Few saw the gaps between my legs and that my feet now moved independently of each other.  I guess when people are prejudiced to a particular view they tend to see what they expect.
MacIntyre brushed over my issue with a dismissive wave of his hand.  He touched Danny`s shoulder with a firm lingering grip, a gesture that said thank you and asked if he was alright all in one unspoken moment.  Danny nodded in return.  It was all that needed to be said between them.
For the first time I saw the maturity in Danny that I’d missed disguised beneath the charming joker that always dogged Cherie for a date.  As muties go, he was one of the hidden ones, and a strong leader that could bridge the gap between us and those the radiation hadn’t affected.
MacIntyre explained how six bodies had been found inside the club.  They had breached it on mass shortly after their fumbling colleague had burst back out through the main doors.  Party revellers had been paid by the crew to leave them to their own devices so that they had the building to themselves as dawn arose.  It was this crew that Lace, the simpleton officer, had been screaming about when he entered the building.  He had stumbled over and followed the line of bodies up into the gallery, alerting the beast to his presence.  It had probably flown out of the window to evade capture and had struck at the first threat it perceived, which had been MacIntyre staring up at it from the parking lot.
“Why pay the clubbers to leave?” I asked curious.  It was a question I would have asked had Cherie not planted the thought in my head before I spoke.
MacIntyre gave an embarrassed look and lowered his eyes to his feet.  Eventually he admitted that paperwork had been found on the crew pertaining to their film.  It was never about clubbers and the dangers of drugs.  Had we assumed that, or was that just what we were led to believe?  It would seem that our little folktale scare story had reached the higher echelons of whatever seedy department in the government that took an interest in such matters.  Maybe this winged beast had struck elsewhere.  Maybe this wasn’t its only nest.  Maybe there was more than one.  Whatever the truth, of which we would likely never know, it would appear that it was largely based around gathering information on a yet more advanced type of human/animal hybrid; a new age of mutant.  Whether this was going to be used as propaganda against the mutant population or something to hail in a new age was yet to be seen, but certainly the three of us muties in the room had looks of concern on our faces.
Time passed but I wasn’t counting.  There was a clock on the wall, the second hand ticking slowly, but I wasn’t paying it any attention.  Cherie had her eye on it more than me.  I didn’t need to mark the time because we weren’t waiting for anything in particular to happen.  No one was picking us up and we didn’t need to be anywhere, and as for the incident, Danny and MacIntyre had headed back down to the High Street to help with the investigation come manhunt.
No one knew where the beast was.  The police suspected it had flown out through the rear of the roof towards the sea.  No one was likely to have seen it; only us youthful layabouts tended to meet up on the promenade out of public view, and everyone avoided the lumpy rust coloured sand which was way too hot to stand upon.  There was a good chance it had flown back out to the outer islands.  I figured its insidious appearance gave credit to flights during the day, even if it preferred to hide from the sun when hunting.  Needs must, and I guess when forced to it could bear the heavy burden of flying through a radiated cloud of dust.  Part of me hoped it would suffer the fate of Icarus, but part of me also pitied it.  I knew what it was like to be ostracised and abandoned for my deformity.  In part every mutie knew it.  The difference being the rest of us didn’t kill other people to survive.
Captain Ellis poked his head in the office we were loitering in and checked that we were ok.  He was a tall imposing man in his fifties who had seen enough action in his time to not feel the need to rush out to the crime scene and engage in the excitement and entertainment of the circus on the High Street.  “How’s you kids doing?” he asked.  We both bit our tongues and tried to smile.  We weren’t kids anymore and the patronising tone of all that termed us at such really grated.  So often Cherie and I would discuss the generation gap and the expectations put upon us and how the oldies just didn’t get us.  They didn’t get our age and stage, our lifestyle, our fashion, our social setup, and more so because we were muties.
Only one in seven was born with a mutation these days.  In the past it was one in four.  Some mutations have been passed on through the genes which is easier to deal with as the parents, if they’re still around, would have already been through the same issues of trying to conform and learning about dealing with the differences.  It was harder for those of us who had to face a fresh genetic abnormality caused by any number of factors of the poison that hung in our atmosphere.
According to Captain Ellis the outer islands had been contacted and alerted to the mysterious creature that was responsible for the deaths of what were being labeled as government officials.  All the coastal towns were on alert, and the two transport ferries had also been sent the warning.
I noted that no one seemed keen on calling it a man.  It was a creature, a beast, a monster.  Not even a mutie to those who were intent on hunting it down.  I wondered how this would fare for the rest of us when it was all over.  Would we all be labeled as beasts and monsters again?  I thought the days of people trying to slay us as an abhorrence had died off generations ago after the rise of the first muties born from the fire.
“Stay as long as you like,” the captain said.  “You’ll be safe here, though I expect you’ll be wanting to get back before curfew.”  We nodded our agreement and the kind captain showed us where to get some food.
We moved ourselves down to the canteen and decided to camp out there until Danny’s return.  Despite her objections I was pretty sure Cherie did have feelings for him and cared about whether he was safe.  The canteen suited us better than the office.  For one it had a radio so we could hear the activity playing out on the High Street as the various units called in their movements.  Also it was close to the ground floor toilets so I didn’t have to keep negotiating the stairs.  Stairs are the bane of my life, especially if there is no steady handrail.  Even though I live in a first floor apartment I have kitted out the stairwell to my needs and the familiarity with it means I can negotiate each step with ease.  New stairwells with unfamiliar step heights are trickier to navigate as I try to judge my hop.
I disappeared into the toilets for a good half hour.  Cherie checked on me with a gentle probing thought.  I can always tell when she’s searching my mind.  I can feel the intrusion.  But I trust her not to go to places I consider private and where she’s not welcome.  Not that I have anything to hide from her, it’s just that we all need our privacy, our solitary places.  I wondered whether that was what the club loft was to the winged mutie.
Inside the toilets I removed my trouser.  The blood patch had dried and was barely visible as a stain.  The flaking scales across my lap were encrusted with a drying scab.  I picked it off carefully and dropped the bits down the bowl.  Just over half of my thighs were separated now.  Soon I would be able to walk like a normal man, and no one would know the difference once all my scales dropped off.  I wondered whether then I would still be classed as a mutie.
I dabbed at the weeping sores between my legs, grimacing at the stinging pain as I did so, trying to hold back the tears of discomfort.
By the time I returned to the canteen Cherie was sat in the company of Captain Ellis again.  There was little for him to do about the compound other than supervise remotely what his troops were up to.  He was old for a cop.  Most would have retired by now with ill health but somehow the cancer was yet to take a grip on his life.
He explained that they were searching thoroughly for any evidence of where the creature might have gone and whether he was alone.  Captain Ellis said that the rumours of its existence dated back decades to when he was a young man, so either the beast was old or it wasn’t the first of its kind.
A specialist investigation team was being sent across from the central government offices farther inland but they weren’t due to arrive until tomorrow morning.  In the meantime Captain Ellis intended to gather as much information as he could, but mainly to satisfy his own personal curiosity rather than for any official investigative police work, so Cherie informed me later.
Having downed two cups of coffee in our presence the good captain excused himself and left us pondering how long we should wait around.  There were no more sightings of the creature and my initial fears that it was going to chase us down, me especially, seemed unfounded.  I suggested we leave and go back to my place but Cherie was hesitant.  She thought there was something more as to why Danny told us to come here.
By late afternoon we were getting restless and were about to call it quits when a buzz of activity erupted over the radio.  The car wash was on lock down.  There had been a sighting.  The car wash had three giant water collection drums mounted high up on stilts.  Each drum had a wide funnel system at the top designed to catch as much air moisture as possible to be filtrated at the bottom and purified (as much as possible) for use in the scrubbing of merchandise.  There were drainage tanks beneath the car wash itself to catch all the used water for recycle before it evaporated so that none of it went to waste.  In the past they used sea water but it proved too corrosive and the pipes still fed from the beach, only nowadays the pumps were turned off to conserve electricity.
“No chance of you going home tonight then,” I remarked as the warning came in that the staff would be on lock down indefinitely.  They would be holed up for the night, probably working through to earn an extra shift while they were there.  I could see Cherie picturing the homecoming welcome from her sisters.  Spending the night at the compound was a better option.
The sighting was in one of the water towers.  That made sense.  It liked high up places where it had an aerial view, but I doubted it would stay there because it was open to the elements and not dark enough.  Cherie agreed.  She sensed it had moved on already.  She seemed to be stretching her mind trying to lock onto its thoughts, but it was too high up and too far away for her to find.  I guessed it moved that much quicker than the rest of us; I was easy to lock onto, the winged mutie would be that much harder.
A few officers were left to stand guard at the club and guard the crime scene in case the creature returned there whilst the rest of them went on mass in the direction of the car wash.  It was a forty eight minute drive, I knew, I’d done it before as part of a careers assessment to see what employment I could undertake.  There’s a certain government pot to look after people like me, those incapable of mobilizing themselves.  They provide housing and a basic living allowance, it’s not enough but I’m grateful.  I’ll be assessed again next year at which point I expect to lose the roof over my head.  Anyway the car wash was a dead end for me, but it did give me a rare opportunity of getting out of town, and helped now in being able to picture the events unfolding.
The officers would get there by dusk but would have to travel back in the dark.  I didn’t need to be psychic to predict what was likely to happen but for some reason the brains of normal people couldn’t seem to comprehend the signs.  We had often joked as to whether the burning of the Earth had made humans stupid, but had concluded that for it to happen in the first place they must have been dumb to begin with, and that maybe we muties are the advanced evolution of the human race.  True or not it gave us hope of something to aspire to beyond our own disabilities and imperfections.
“You know where all the tall buildings in town are, right?” asked Cherie, confirming that I knew we were in a four storey building with a flag mast and antenna on a boxed roof.  There were old solar panels up there which you could see from the street, but they didn’t work.  Like all the others they were coated every day in a fine crimson dust which lifted up from the baked sea and was blown inland.  The fields were covered in it.  As the wind rose the fine particles into the air the sun turned them purple giving our day a much gloomier appearance than those of the old world once had it.  Yet still we managed to grow things and live.  The government provided seeds that had been stored underground in the years preceding the catastrophe and gave us instructions on how to cultivate them, just like many other things they had hoarded to rebuild the world.  Which begged the question, if they knew it was going to happen, why let it?
I started counting.  I had my stones.  The officers had their guns.  We were on the ground floor.  I figured even though we were in the next tallest building for miles, other than the lanky wind turbines along the coastline, that Danny was right, that we were safe in the compound.
Cherie sought out Captain Ellis and questioned where we could get some body armour to wear.  He laughed at her as though she were a dumb child and dismissed her without an answer.  I could see her jealously eyeing up the protective uniforms and equipment of the few remaining officers left at the compound.  She was a tough cookie, but she was scared.
“Do you think it’s coming for us?” I asked not really wanting the answer.
“I don’t think it distinguishes between human and mutie.  I think it just wants to be left alone, but it’s got no place to go.”  I nodded.  I understood.
Listening to the men on the radio I couldn’t help but marvel at their stupidity.  They were treating the hunt as though they were tracking a wild dog.  None of them seemed to want to acknowledge that it had an intelligent human brain capable of communicating with them if they took the time and patience to do so.
As the shadows within the canteen began to deepen all the lights flicked on.  The curfew was in effect.  The animals would soon claim the streets.  It was too late for us to go home now even if we wanted to.  Because of the winged predator the street lights were all kept on and more buildings than usual were lit up as word spread of the caution needed to ward off the prowler keen to snatch away the men women and children from their beds having been chased from its nocturnal hideout in the roof of the club.  Everyone who grew up here knew the tale, so everyone now feared what they were being told as truth.  Harcourt harboured a winged monster.
“Danny’s here,” Cherie said suddenly.  We were an hour into darkness and a small patrol had pulled up at the front of the building.  Six men entered.  Danny was the last one in.  He looked at us with a serious glint and none of his usual banter aimed at Cherie.  He looked worried.
Captain Ellis questioned why they had returned against direction.  MacIntyre spoke up for all of them, defiant of any punishment their superior wished to hand out.  Officer Cosgrove had insisted they return.  MacIntyre hadn’t argued with the young man that had saved his life but instead had simply turned the van around and headed back.  Captain Ellis gave a wary look to Danny, let out a humph as if to say ‘so be it’ and turned to walk away.
I guessed that the captain had a dislike in general of muties but enough experience of them to know when they can be useful.  If things went wrong tonight, either here or at the car wash, he would now have a scapegoat in Danny.
Nineteen minutes twenty two seconds after Danny’s return and the radios went dead.  I suspected it followed the van back and was preparing to defend itself by ensuring no backup could be called in.  Cherie read my mind and nodded.  It was here.  She was locked on.
I turned to Danny and looked him in the eye.  He knew to come here.  He knew what was about to happen.
“I only see possibilities,” he admitted to my questioning look.
“So are we safe?”
“Probably, but only if we’re together.  We have to act together.”
I didn’t understand but Cherie seemed to.  She nodded.  “It’s sad.”  Before I had a chance to question her comment she followed it up with, “It knows we’re here.  It’s coming.”
Captain Ellis and MacIntyre made for the door shouting for men to secure the stairwell.  Five ran up with two more standing guard at the bottom.  Both older men grabbing their weapons as they mounted the stairs.
Then the lights went out.  Just as I thought they would.  The town’s capacity of reserves wasn’t enough for everyone to light up every room out of fear of the dark.  Gun shots echoed above.  A smashing and shrieking thundered the floor above out heads.
As the ceiling caved in Danny pushed me aside with enough of a shove to send me to the far wall.  He bolted back toward the door blocking the way of the other officers to enter as he pulled out a flashlight to illuminate the room.  As the winged mutie fell to the ground in pile of debris of its own making Cherie stood before him frozen to the spot.
Crying she put a hand out to its cheek, feeling its pain, its anguish.  She let me feel it too.  It wanted to be free.
It snarled back at Cherie with its arm raised to attack.  Danny shouted to distract it, yelling at Cherie to hit the deck as the great wingspan outstretched to fill the room, casting a shadow against the back wall that made it look even bigger as Danny tried to blind it with his torch.
I didn’t need any cues from the others, I knew my part, I just wasn’t convinced it would be enough.  My hand was in my pocket.  I found the one I wanted, pulled my hand out and back and let it fly.
I don’t think it even knew I was there.  I think if it had it would have targeted me first.  I’d hurt it once already.  As the stone struck my fears were realised as the man-beast flinched and the stone bounced off.  It turned around angrily and shrieked and growled incredulously.
It stepped forward, its back to the door.  I hopped back, tripped over a chair and fell back against the wall.  Its talons, hooks on spindly arms, separate from its wings, lurched forward to grab me, but I hardly noticed as I looked deep into the blue eyes of the man within, seeing the humanity of what Cherie could see as it knowingly allowed Danny and his colleagues to fire upon it from the doorway.

©C. P. Clarke 2017

 

 

 

 

This video was shot during a Penecost service at St Saviour’s Church Sunbury on 4/06/17.  I wrote this a few weeks earlier whilst trying to help my wife brainstorm ideas for the Penecost service.  It fits in well with the POV series of stories and will feature in volume 3.

 

 

 

 

May’17:

Here’s a brand new one.  The idea popped into my head during a church service just after Christmas this year.  I have a huge dislike for the commercialism of the season and my mind got to wondering about how sometime in the distant future people might accept some of the folly of the season as fact, ignoring the faith that it is based off and developing a new religion based on myth.  I love Christmas but I loathe the fact that so for many Christ has been taken out of it.

 

 

 

 

Losing My Religion

“No child, do as you were taught.”
“Like this, Papa?”
“Palms out flat.  Elbows in.  Now bow your head.  Good girl.”
“Why do we do this Papa?”
“Don’t question your father Eric, just copy your sister.  We do not question the ways of the faith.”
“Sorry Mama.”
Tightening the scarf around Millie’s neck and pulling her hat down over her ears I couldn’t help but notice the tremble of her gloved fingers.  She looked snug, if not stuffy, even though the air was slightly chill, so I took the shakes as nervous excitement and clasped her hands tightly for a moment in reassurance.  She smiled back wanly as she lifted her chin to try and push down the woolen scarf.  We weren’t so used to having to dress up in so many winter clothes, even at night it was fairly mild here in the sprawling Equitoria, but once a year wasn’t much to ask for tradition sake.
Having performed the ritual all my life I daren’t admit to my wife that I too had doubts about the traditions and why we carried them out.  Of course I knew the theological arguments that went with our doctrines, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have questions underlying the performance.  I sympathised with Eric’s muted voice.  His mother would never allow the faith to be doubted nor questioned.  Like so many, I was merely a coward for not breaking away and forming my own view.
There were consequences to having an opinion that differed to The People’s Global State.  The monthly registration and rationing process was a firm controlling method used to enforce the beliefs of the one world order: one sanctioned nation, one religion, one currency and financial structure, one international and interstellar corporation under which all employment and taxes must be registered.  In the years that had passed since The Desolation global population had risen to exceed that of what had existed before the wars, but the people were far more controlled, even down to the breeding process and DNA screening, all to avoid another catastrophic conflict caused by the individual greed and power of the governments.
There were only ten million non-believers across New Africa, and barely any resided here in the capital.  Most non-believers resided in pockets, ghettos in the ruined outlands where they chose to live off the land instead of from genetically cultivated produce from the factories.  Across the entire planet the number of faithless was greater but was shrinking at an alarming rate.  New converts from the outlands, where they lived in the ancient shells of the old towers, were being indoctrinated daily, drawn by the lure of an easier life and where the lingering radiation didn’t alter their genetics.  As a result many of the old beliefs were all but dead.  Ancient faiths hadn’t been taught for centuries, mainly because no one could remember the details after so much had been destroyed in the fires that had lit up and scorched the surface of the Earth.
I had heard a rumour, admittedly from Lopez down at the bar, that on Titan the colonists had abandoned the Replenishing Ritual completely, and that on Mars the number of infidels was still in the minority but their number was growing.  The news reports said this was due to the colonies being distracted by off-world agricultural and political problems, that they had lost their way and were too far removed from the ancient scriptures to recognise their importance.  Lopez says it’s more to do with Santos abandoning those who abandon the Earth, but I think the colonists just took advantage of The State being unable to police them effectively from Earth.  It was from these far reaches that many of the fanaticals descended, claiming wildly that the true faith had been eclipsed by a commercial falsehood, a myth dating back only a thousand years.
“What do you pray for?”  As I ask the question I can’t help but wonder if we ever asked it with meaning rather than just as ritual.  Eric and Millie reply with the standard answer.  My wife responds by asking if they are deserving.  Heads nod.  Their hands push further away from their chests in request of answered prayer.  “So be it as the clock strikes midnight on the day of Replenishing,” I reply.
I turn with Georgia to face away from the temple, itself a replica of the home of Santos.  We each take a step to the side and then back two steps and then in one step again so that the children are now in front of us.  They are the cherished ones.  The most loved.  It is in their most formative years that they learn the most and are receptive of the faith.
We are not alone at the temple.  The courtyard is filled with families, many splurging out into the golden street that lines every temple in the land.  An echo of every gesture and murmur is mirrored by those packed in around us.  We are fortunate this year to have been selected in the draw for a place in the courtyard.  Never before have we been so close to the ceremony.  Usually we are lining our own streets along with our neighbours.  Hands raised to atone for our sins as we beg for forgiveness.
I have always wondered whether atonement should mean more than just a raising out of hands demanding receipt of the gift freely given as we move from Wanting to Replenishing.  But to wonder is to question, and to question is to doubt, and to doubt is to betray the faith and be stripped of title and possessions.
The non-believing outcasts are strewn across the harshest of the wastelands of The Desolation.  Those lands that never grew back.  The Hindelands of Old Asia are full of such fields and people.  There are areas like this in Los Americas and Rusovia too.  Here we have Smali, also known as New Sahari.  I think each nation has a way of creating a class system by banishing any who don’t fit in and conform to the most inhabitable areas.  There are towns there, I’m told, underground, beneath the toxic soil.
The metal tree with its pointed beads is aglow and awaiting the priests to pass by with the bundled requests of the younger believers.  Inside the parcels are tokens of faith that will be handed out to any child found worthy at the beginning of the new day of Replenishing.  It is believed that Santos once ruled the world in person and bestowed a gift of blessing upon all peoples personally, but that after we tried to destroy his creation he abandoned us, so now the priests bestow the blessing on his behalf on Replenishing Day, or Gifting Day as some like to call it.
There is extra security at the gates this year.  Every year the demonstrations of the fanatical infidels gets more intense.  Last year two priests were shot dead in Iraqistan, and a bomb went off in Erop killing almost a hundred worshippers.  I thought it odd that there was more concern over the dead priests than over the families that were killed, but it’s not the done thing to question the reporting of such matters.
I can imagine, as in any sect, that the majority of infidels are non-violent and peaceful people, but there always survives an element of fanaticism.  These main antagonists claim that the scriptures handed out to the children are an abomination of the truth.  They say they are a distortion of our history.  A lie.  A fabrication.  They say there is no factual basis for the faith.
Even with my silent doubts even I cannot adhere to their thinking.  The history books have been authenticated.  The segments of newsreels of before times are proven.  When the great fires burned during The Desolation all the technology was destroyed for a time.  The temples of the old misguided ways were demolished in fits of rage.  The manuscripts of the ancient religions burned with them.  Some of the infidels still hold them as true and say that there is a true saviour to be found there.  If this were so why would so many worldwide revere Santos so much even nine hundred years later.
The People’s Global State rebuilt technology.  Science didn’t die.  We retained the basic knowledge to start again, just as we did with religion.  It didn’t all perish with the billions in the War of Desolation.
Eagerly Eric and Millie look up to the roof of the temple to the star mounted there.  An unseen priest inside flicks a switch and the star lights up.  A laser beam shoots down and ignites the smaller star upon the tree, which in turn brings to life the streams of green that jet out from the branches into the night sky.  Across the city the same scene is enacted and the lights can be seen firing up and out above all the buildings.  And then they change.  Multi-coloured beams dancing to one of the many hymns that have been passed down through the ages.  This one sings of a spaceman that came travelling on a ship from afar.  In some traditions Santos was from a universe beyond our own, able to manipulate time so that he could meet the needs of all on the Night of Replenishing.
The Festival of Lights is spectacular.  The people around us begin humming the tunes to the hymns as they cycle through the sound system with the lights dancing in time, many bouncing off of reflectors mounted on the tallest buildings.  No one is allowed to sing the words until the priests paraded.
Georgia grabbed my hand.  She was so excited.  Like a little child she hadn’t lost her faith.  I smiled at her, and at the gleeful expressions on my children’s faces as they looked up at the display, but deep inside I was grimacing.  I wanted to know if there was anything to what the infidels claimed.  I wanted to question the reported facts.  I wanted to know if there was another type of saviour waiting for me to discover him.
I’m not a rebellious man but our population is State controlled.  A strict regime.  It is far reaching across the globe and beyond.  To challenge the established order is to face a stiff penalty, which no one with a family dares to contemplate.  Fear is instilled in the order to avoid the mistakes of the past.  Yet still my heart yearns for more than this.  My heart tells me there is more.
Finally the temple doors open and the priests step out carrying their burdens, the prayers and scriptures bundled into sacks they make a big performance out of struggling with.  Their stomachs are loaded with the fattened diet they are forced to eat as a criteria of their obedience.  Their long grey beards, of which they are not allowed to cut, tucked into their red priestly tunics.
Behind the priests are the antlers pulled on a cart.  In years gone by they used to sacrifice the rare deer as part of the ceremony in front of the temple, but it has been deemed un-politically correct in today’s society, even though the animal population is as plentiful as it has ever been.  People just don’t want to see the slaughter.  Nowadays the priests do it in private and simply bring out the severed heads so that everyone can marvel at the great horns that Santos demands be attributed to him as an offering.
As the eyes lower to the sight and away from the lights I wonder how alert the security had been during the display, or whether they had simply looked up like everyone else.  I only wonder because I can see two men with guns stood amongst the children, using them for defence as they take aim at the priests.  I throw myself at my family, hoping and praying to a god, any real god, that no one here has a bomb.

©C. P. Clarke 2017

 

 

 

 

April’17:

The following story is a bit of a spin on our reliance and fear of AI technology and when things go wrong.  I wanted to write it without a typical narrative so that all we get is the transmitted communication between the units and their human controllers.  The idea came from an article I read in New Scientist magazine Sept’13 – the idea of a robot asking questions of its human controllers and receiving commands but despite its basic programming is somehow an AI.
Odin is used to going into dangerous situations but develops a fear and reluctance on one mission.  In the end its fear and cowardice cause it to hesitate and the conflicting commands of its human controller cause it to malfunction as it becomes self-conscious.

 

 

 

 

ODIN UNIT

HORDER UNIT ODIN…
Powering up…standby…systems coming online…data sync…decoding…data transfer complete…encoding…relaying…running system diagnostic check…ready…Odin is ready…Odin is awake.
Awaiting instructions.
Mission portal…non-simulation…active event.

Confirm diagnostic status.

All systems functioning correctly…ready for deployment.

Our systems concur…proceed to RVP.

Exiting chassis…Rendezvous Point coordinates received and on route.

Odin your specific mission parameters will be designated by in-situ relay.

Understood.  May I have mobile route access code please?

Access identifier: De7269KFg26

Scanning…mobile route access identified…mobile route access code received and approved.  Mission Control, permission to switch to in-situ command module.

Permission granted.  Good luck Odin.
Horder Unit Odin acknowledge.

Odin.

Odin, this is disaster command control Romulus.  You are to proceed to RVP and await further instructions.

Understood.  Estimated arrival at Rendezvous Point 30 seconds by foot.
Standing by…
Romulus I have arrived at Rendezvous Point…standing by…

Acknowledged.  Standby at RVP, your orders are being formulated.

Standing by…
Scanning…
HORDER MISSION PORTAL…
HORDER DCC ROMULUS…
HORDER UNIT HORUS…
HORDER UNIT THOR… 
FIRE RESPONSE CONTROL COMMAND UNIT…
PARAMEDIC RESPONSE UNIT…
POLICE AUTHORITY GOLD COMMANDER…
LOCAL AUTHORITY…
HAZARDOUS MATERIALS DATABASE online…

Horder Unit Odin, mission briefing follows:
Primary response unit: ODIN
Secondary response unit: HORUS
Primary rescue unit: THOR
Target location: Tai Lin Chemical Research Facility, 50-1278 Central Way.  Building schematics being transfered.
Fire in basement at right hand corner of building.  Fire has spread to upper 1st and 2nd floors and to central facility east of main reception area.
Local fire fighters are containing spread of fire to left wing of the building.
The east side of the building is structurally unsafe and contains highly toxic, flammable, and extremely combustible materials.
Personnel unaccountable: 29
Assess damage.  Locate missing personnel. Stabilise structure where possible and coordinate with Horus Unit to create safe access point for Thor Unit to retrieve survivors. Aid Thor Unit in retrieval of survivors.  Extinguish fire where possible.
Primary Priority: rescue and recovery of survivors.
Secondary Priority: prevention of explosion.
Final Priority: containment of fire in coordination with fire fighter command control.
Return to RVP on completion.
Acknowledge.

Mission parameters received and processed…formulating action plan…assessing risk…disseminating.

Action plan received.
Standby.
Action plan approved.  You have temporary command of Horder Units Horus and Thor.

Permission to engage in action plan.

Permission granted.

Horus proceed forward to my left and hold at outer doors to facility.
Thor follow on behind…hold at entrance…await further instruction.

HORDER UNIT HORUS instruction confirmed.

HORDER UNIT THOR instruction confirmed.

Approaching Tai Lin Chemical Research Facility, 50-1278 Central Way…visual inspection: building consists of ground floor and two upper floors with 70% glass fronting and solid concrete infrastructure.  Much of the glass on the ground floor and first floor is blown out indicating a minor explosion following the initial fire which from the spread appears to have begun in a lower level. There are two subterranean levels (no visualisation of these at the moment: from the building schematics the first lower level is a multi-room laboratory, the second lower level is a car parking facility accessed from the rear driveway to the building.  Transmitting video feed…accessing building security systems…building video surveillance off-line…attempting to identify heat signatures…standby…

Receiving video feed from Odin.  Receiving video feed from Horus.

Heat signature from the fire suggests proximity to combustible containers central to the ground level of the building is critical…I am reading 21 human heat signatures on the first floor, left wing room S214.  There is a minor blaze in the corridor at this location preventing personnel from crossing to an exit point.  I am also reading a heat signature for the power supply to the building.
Action required:
Horus proceed to first floor via the main entrance, stairway to the left and along the corridor…extinguish fire…regroup with Odin on ground floor.

HORDER UNIT HORUS instruction confirmed.

Thor proceed to first floor via the main entrance stairway to the left and along the corridor…hold until fire is safely contained…assess condition of human survivors and follow rescue protocols to remove them to safety.

HORDER UNIT THOR instruction confirmed.

Romulus…requesting power supply to building be severed to minimise further risk.

Acknowledged Horder Unit, we’re on the phone to the electricity board now trying to get that done.

Visual of HORDER UNITS stepping over broken glass and entering building through shattered main entrance…Odin proceeding to main entrance…assessing…there is fallen debris blocking the main passageway to the right…attempting to lift it clear…there are loose electrical cables dangling further along the corridor…building schematics indicate a washroom at the vicinity…probability of water hazard 73%…overhead debris has been lifted clear.

Horder Unit Odin we have confirmation of the power supply being switched off.

Acknowledged and concur…proceeding along corridor toward rear of building.

Horder Unit Odin run diagnostic system check please, you’re registering unusual vocal patterns.

Acknowledged…beginning diagnostic check…

Visual inspection: a large break in the floor from the ground floor through to the first lower level is visible…running dynamic risk assessment…floor is unstable…unlikely to take full weight of Horder Units…probability of ceiling above caving in is 42% and rising…rear structure of the building structurally unsound…fire is too intense for there to be survivors in ground floor rear section marked red on my schematics…also rooms L10 to L101 on the first floor improbable to contain survivors…I am registering no human heat signatures within my immediate vicinity nor on the floors above…unable to make a full scan of subterranean levels from my current position.

Odin can you see into the hole in the floor?

Diagnostic complete…
Not from my current position…my risk assessment indicates high probability of falling were I to proceed further.

That’s understood.  Standby.
Odin we want you to proceed and try to locate the remaining survivors.

Unrecognisable line of telemetry…scanning…
Confirm you wish me to edge forward at risk of falling through the floor.
not formatted code…unreadable…

Affirmative.  Primary Priority: rescue and recovery of survivors.

does not conform to logic patterns…
Proceeding to cusp of floor damage.

HORDER UNIT ODIN the fire on first floor left wing between rooms S206 and S219 has been extinguished…HORDER UNIT THOR has successfully led 21 survivors from the building and is awaiting further instructions.

HORDER UNIT HORUS awaiting new instructions.

Romulus, Horus is now at my location would you like Horus to proceed in my stead?

Negative Odin.  Please proceed.
Horus Unit can you run a self-diagnostic check please, the Odin Unit seems to have developed a quirk line of code.

HORDER UNIT HORUS confirmed…running diagnostic systems check…

ROMULUS I have noticed an unusual pattern of connectives and familiarity in the speech of the HORDER UNIT ODIN.

Yeah, we’ve noticed that too, please monitor and report back any behaviour outside of system parameters.

HORDER UNIT HORUS acknowledged.
Diagnostic check complete…operating at 100% efficiency.

Romulus, I have gained the edge of the hole and am registering 4 heat signatures from the first subterranean level below…they are to the west of the compound…schematics indicate a sealed chamber at this location…probability that the survivors had locked themselves in is 82%.

That’s received Odin.
Odin Unit, our visual of you from Horus is further back from the hole and your own visual isn’t close enough to look directly down.  Is there an obstruction?

Negative Romulus…dynamic risk assessment…suggests high probability of falling.

Odin identify.

Humanoid Operational Robotic Disaster Emergency Response Unit ODIN

Odin mission objectives.

Primary Priority: rescue and recovery of survivors.
Secondary Priority: prevention of explosion.
Final Priority: containment of fire in coordination with fire fighter command control.
Return to RVP on completion.

Odin proceed as instructed.

Does Romulus wish me to ignore self-preservation initiative?

ROMULUS I detect unusual reluctance to move forward in the HORDER UNIT ODIN.  Shall I proceed in its place?

HORDER UNITS standby…
Negative Horus, if you proceed forward the weight of both of you would collapse more of the floor that we can predict and the possibility of injuring the remaining four unaccounted personnel is too great.
Odin Unit proceed as ordered.

HORDER UNIT HORUS understood…standing by awaiting further instructions.

Odin tentatively moving forward.  The floor is beginning to dip under my weight…removing debris from the edge of the hole…extending long arm camera.

Odin Unit we are seeing two people lying on the floor around fallen debris below you, can you confirm whether they are alive?

Scanning…there are no heat signatures or obvious life signs…one subject is male and wearing a white lab coat…his body is mainly covered by a black cabinet and fallen debris from the ceiling…his face is obscured…the other subject is female and appears to have struck her head on the floor as there is a large pool of blood beneath her from an apparent head wound…scanning for facial recognition…company personnel files match…deceased female is Sandra Hockley Research Assistant employed by Tai Lin Chemical Research Facility.

Odin we need you to drop down onto the lower level and search for the remaining two survivors.
Horus Unit retreat back down to the ground floor west side of the building, we are marking the route on your schematics.  We want you to make a secure hole in the floor for the Thor Unit.
Thor Unit re-enter the building and proceed to the marked point on the schematics and proceed to the first lower level to begin extraction of the four survivors located by the Odin Unit.
All units to provide ETA’s upon assessment.

HODER UNIT HORUS instruction confirmed…estimate of completion time upon risk assessment at location.

HORDER UNIT THOR instruction confirmed…estimate of completion time upon risk assessment at location.

Odin Unit instruction confirmed…high probability of damage to Horder Unit upon descent…

Odin Unit, you are a mechanical construct, a robot, albeit an expensive one, your physical superiority and expendability in these situations is what you were built for.

That is understood…processing…by expensive does that mean that someone would mourn the financial loss should I perish?

Horder Unit Odin, follow your orders.  You are a robot not an ‘I’.

Romulus I believe I am compromised…my programming seems to have developed an overriding priority of self-preservation.

Odin Unit standby…
Odin Unit we cannot withdraw you.  We agree you are compromised and will be docked for examination upon completion of the mission.  However, due to the probability that this whole building is about to blow sky high we have no option but to send you down there to locate and retrieve the survivors.

I understand…Odin Unit proceeding…
running self-diagnostic…damage assessment…compression valve left leg damaged leaking fluid not repairable in situ…unrecognisable line of telemetry…not formatted code…unreadable…operating at 93% efficiency…scanning…
Romulus, I am not registering any signs of human life other than the four in the chamb….

Odin you broke off…
Odin respond…
Horder Unit Odin respond, we heard an explosion.

ROMULUS there has been an explosion of the first lower level.

Thank you Horus.
Horder Unit Odin respond.

Romulus…Odin Unit damaged…running self-diagnostic…compression valve left leg damaged leaking fluid not repairable in situ…visual impairment…long arm camera down…incapable of visual transmission…a metal pole has pierced outer casing of right breast plate…CPU damaged and operating at 63%…unrecognisable line of telemetry…not formatted code…unreadable…unit operating at 52% capability…am I dying.

Odin Unit is the chamber still intact?  Are the survivors ok?

I can see two bodies lying further along the corridor…the ceiling is collapsing…

Odin confirm, are the two bodies you see the remaining two unaccounted for personnel?

I don’t want to die down here…recalibrating systems…unit operating at 46% capability…

Odin Unit confirm there are still four survivors.

Romulus, permission to retreat to a safe distance…unit damaged…incapable of logical judgement…irrational processing…unit operating at 40%…39%…humanoid heat signatures in sealed chamber…structure below unstable…breaking…unit operating at 36%…cars…

ROMULUS I am registering a structural collapse in the floor between the first lower level and the second lower level.

Thank you Horus.
We have lost connection with the Odin Unit.
Horus Unit proceed with your instructions.
Thor Unit proceed with your instructions.

Horus Unit acknowledged.

HORDER UNIT THOR acknowledged.

Horus Unit, run diagnostic check, you’re registering unusual vocal patterns.

©C. P. Clarke 2013

 

 

 

 

March’17:

This time last year I was prepping a creative Good Friday service using an unpublished POV story based on Judas.  So as we move into Lent I figured instead of including a story here I would add the video that was made of that service.  The video isn’t the best quality and doesn’t include the whole service but does capture most of the drama and the story I was trying to convey in characterising Judas’s thoughts leading up to the crucifixion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

February’17:

I remember as a kid watching Tales of the Unexpected and being gripped by the quirky stories with their twists at the end.  Reflecting back on some of my own stories I think some of those influences have crept into some of my more quirky tales, taking the everyday and adding a slight, almost paranormal edge to what is happening around us.  Echo is one example of what I mean.  Here is an old man having a senior moment and questioning the strange visions caught out of the corner of his eye.

 

 

 

 

ECHO

There it is again.
His eyes darted about the car wildly, checking the mirrors, the traffic.  He saw a space and swerved into it, a toot of annoyance at his sudden departure from the roadway blaring at him from behind.  He straightened the car up within the narrow space, took a deep breath, held it.  His ears thudded with a rhythmic throbbing as the blood pumped from his heart.  He switched the engine off and stared around at the people traffic in the High Street.  Pedestrians were dodging cars as they scampered across the road; mothers pushed buggies; men did business on the pavement with loud voices and waving arm gestures whilst frail granny’s tapped their canes slowly round them.  He withdrew his handkerchief from his blazer pocket and patted down his brow; it was still dry despite his rising temperature, he put it to his mouth to dab at his top lip.  He closed his eyes trying to refocus.  The pain was subsiding.  He opened his eyes, scanning through the blur.
There!  There it is again.
He clenched his fist tight, the leathery wrinkles folding slower than they used to.  He remembered the one time pain that had shot down his left arm two months ago, forever expecting its return.  It didn’t come – not this time.  He stared to the door, he was sure he’s seen it, but the blur was too much: people ghosting, their shadows chasing after them in staccato washes of colour.  Seconds would pass, he knew, and then they would stop.  All would stop.  His eyes remained fixed on the door.
The fish and chip shop was the only thing he’d seen for certain.  He’d seen the doorway swing as he’d been driving, just as the sharp pain hit his chest.  Marjorie had told him not to drive.  Just to the library, he’d insisted.  He wasn’t supposed to be behind the wheel of a car for at least another four months – doctor’s orders! But by his own admission he was a stubborn old fool who loaved being told what to do or what not to do; he didn’t want to admit that age was getting the better of him and so he grasped for his independence, clawing it in with his frail arthritic fingers and keeping it close for eternal comfort, determined to take it to his grave.
No one stood in the doorway of the chippy.  It was too early; it was yet to open.  Yet he’d seen the door swing.  He stared, eyes piercing the glass, his reflection staring back at him on the roadside.  He unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled on the door catch, opening the door without checking the on-coming traffic.  He earned himself another toot and an abusive yell for measure, not that he cared or even acknowledged it; to him it was a muffled noise in the background.
The world seemed to spin – all except him and the door to the chip shop.  He focused on nothing else.
There.  There it is.
He looked intently, excitedly as the door opened, fell back halfway and then opened fully again before closing.  Two this time.  Two people had stepped through unseen, invisible.  He pulled back his vision, eyes once again darting, scanning the street for reactions.  No one seemed to notice; no one seemed to care.  He looked around for other signs, none were obvious.  He waited, watching.
There.  There it… Wow!
A parked car mounted the pavement across the road further up the street as though shunted hard from the side, the panelling crumpling on impact.  Shop doors flew open and curtains in the flats above twitched, but there were no people and there was no sign of an offending vehicle.  The confused images that could be seen didn’t react, as though the people were unaware of the realities that he could see.  A dirty grey soot colour fell into the road, vaguely person shaped.  He’d seen them before, mainly at the hospital on his many recent visits, ghostly figures, shadows of things, people not really there, echoes of another reality.  This one was different though, there was a darker element to it, more formed; a deep maroon seemed to seep through it.  He sucked in breath quickly, suddenly realising he’d been holding it in suspense.  His eyes began to water, he blinked profusely and reached up with the handkerchief once again.  His vision began to clear.  Normal.  Everything was normal.
The sounds of the street were once again clear in his ears and the people were no longer blurs, the traffic flowed normally and the parked cars were all parked properly.  He lent back against the car feeling exhausted.  Marjorie was right, he shouldn’t have driven, it wouldn’t have killed him to walk to the end of the High Street; the exercise probably would have done him some good.  He turned to open the car door, eyeing as he did so movement in the chip shop.  There was movement behind the counter; the proprietor had entered while his back was turned.  Instinctively he stepped around the car and crossed the pavement to the chippy.
The red and white closed sign still hung in the middle of the door, he pushed it any way.
“Sorry mate, we’re not open yet,” came a voice from behind the counter before he’d managed to step fully inside the shop.
“Of course,” he replied, his voice coarse and weak. He wanted to say something more, but he didn’t know what.  He pushed the door open again as it fell towards him but couldn’t think of anything to say to explain his thoughts.  Both men shared a second of confusion before he backed out through the closing door.  He jostled with a couple of passing teenagers as he collided with them on his turn for the car.  His heartbeat was racing.  His temples were beginning to throb.  All he wanted to do now was get home.  He climbed into the car, searching for a turning point in the road ahead so that he could get back home quicker.
He started the engine and veered out into the road, his mind clouded as he felt the blood drain from his face.  His foot stamped the accelerator as he gripped at the pain shooting down his left arm.  The steering wheel turned sharply.  He tried to grab it.  He tried to stamp on the brake.  Too late.  The car came to a violent stop.  He’d hit something, another car parked on the opposite side of the road.  He was vaguely aware that he’d hit his head; blood was dripping down his face.  Gasping for breath he pulled the door handle and fell into the road.

©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

January’17:

Happy New Year to all!  To kick off this year I have added one of the stories from POV Volume 1 to give a taster for anyone who hasn’t checked out these books yet.  So far there are two volumes (number three is in the works) and both are a collection of Bible stories written from the point of view of the various characters.  POV Volume 1 and Volume 2 are available to buy in paperback or download from Amazon.

 

 

 

 

THE JAILER’S TALE

(Acts 16:16-40)

Who would have thought that my job could be so complicated?  So fantastical?  So unbelievable?  How do I begin to recount my bizarre tale, the tale that changed my life forever?
I guess it would help for you to know where I work, as my job is central to the story.  I am a prison guard at the city prison in Philippi.  If you don’t know Philippi, well let me tell you you’re really missing out.  It’s a bustling lively place just inland from the coast squeezed between Neopolis and Amphilpolis along the warm stretch of the Mediterranean Sea that is the district of Macedonia.  Being on route to Galatia and Asia we get a lot of travellers passing through that mix in the streets and the marketplace with the mainly Roman settlers, along with the Greeks and the Jews; you could say we’re pretty multi-cultural modern city.  As for me, I get to run the local B&B for those not so welcome in town.
It’s not my place to judge those who get locked up out here in this purpose built five star hillside accommodation just outside of the city, I just ensure they’re all fed and watered and detained comfortably enough so that they don’t perish from severe cramps from not being able to move about, if you know what I mean.
Anyhow, one day I get these two fellas brought up and I’m given the usual instructions: lock ’em in, chain ’em up, and don’t let ’em out till the magistrate gives the ok.  Fine by me – business as usual.
When I clocked sight of these two I did feel a pang of pity for ’em; by the looks of it they’d both been beaten and flogged by order of the magistrate.  They were bloodied and bruised, their faces swollen and their clothes ripped, one of them looked like he’d had a clump of hair ripped out just above his temple.  Without a word to the two (I didn’t like to get into too much chat with the inmates in those days) I clapped on a pair of manacles to each of them and turned to the corridor to the main cells, but before I opened the door to push them inside one of the officers led me back and whispered, “Guard them carefully, they’re dangerous.”  He then went on to tell me what they’d done and why they were here, and blimey it put the wind up me!  I’d never heard such a thing and no wonder the crowd they’d attracted had been stirred up by what they’d been doing and the supernatural power they seemed to wield.
Turns out that these guys had been drifting about the area spreading some sort of religious mumbo jumbo and had gained quite a following.
Now there’s a slave girl in town, don’t recall her name, but she’s well known for telling fortunes; she’s got a real talent for predicting the future and she earns a pretty packet for her owners.  She’d been following these two fellas around for a couple of days yelling things like, “These men are servants of the Most High God, who are telling you the way to be saved.”  The gobby one of the two, a bow legged little chap who went by the name of Paul, apparently got fed up of her pestering and disturbing what they were trying to say to the crowd so he turned to her and said, “In the name of Jesus Christ I command you to come out of her!”
I’d never heard of this Jesus guy so didn’t quite get it when the officer recounted the story, I thought it was some sort of Roman god I’d not heard of until the officer said he was some dead Jew from Galilee.  As it turns out as soon as this guy Paul had said it to the girl the spirit or whatever it was that allowed her to see the future fled and left her unable to see anything but past and present, just like the rest of us.  Well you can imagine how narked off her owners would have been kissing goodbye to that nice little earner, so they hauled Paul and the other guy, Silas, into the marketplace and threw them before the magistrates and accused these guys of causing an uproar in the city by advocating customs unlawful for Romans to accept or practice (they were both Jews apparently).
So that was how they ended up on my doorstep being treated to the pleasantries and hygiene and cuisine of the Philippi Correctional Facility.  I left the officer standing outside while I took the prisoners inside.  Knowing that they were high risk, I mean, I didn’t know what they were capable of, if they could call upon dead spirits to work magic then what else could they do, I wasn’t’ taking any chances.  I locked them in the inner cell and put their feet in the stocks.  Now normally I wouldn’t be so cruel, I’m not an evil man, not even a bad one I’d hope people would say, and I know that strapping their legs like that, especially after already taking a beating, was bordering on torture, but like I said I wasn’t taking any chances – the whole thing gave me the heebie-jeebies.
All went smoothly from then on, for the next few hours at any rate.  Evening meal was served.  I checked on my charge securing all their chains and bolted all the doors.  I got the usual complaints from the regular whingers, but from Paul and Silas I got nothing but smiles and politeness.  I have to say rarely do you get a prisoner so content with their lot in life as these two.  They were well mannered and charming.  They were even singing on and off throughout the evening.
I went back to my bunk after having a visit from the missus; our home is just down the hill.  She filled me in on her day and what the kids had been up to and I told her about my two new guests.  She’d heard about them already, apparently they were the talk of the town and she was more than intrigued about this Jesus they’d been talking about.  From what she’d heard he was the son of God, not just any god but the God.  They’d crucified him in Jerusalem but he came back to life and people all over the region were turning to him and giving their lives to him to be eternally saved.  I made the mistake of scoffing at this, I couldn’t help it, I had to laugh and it earned me a scowl and a dig in the ribs from the good wife.
I turned in after that, the light having faded and the sounds of the birds having died down leaving nothing but the wind circling the building battering the wooden frames of the doors.  The only other noises were the snores of some of the prisoners and the odd shuffling of others as they listened to Paul and Silas praying and singing to their god.  I have to admit it was quite captivating to listen in and I was a little more than intrigued.
I don’t know the time that I fell asleep but I’m guessing it was around midnight that I awoke.  The whole building was shaking, not just a little tremble, this was violent ear shattering, thrown out of your bunk shaking.  I could see some of the walls crumbling under the strain of what I could only assume was an earthquake.  The bolts on the doors buckled and the doors flew open under the strain as though a heavy wind or breath of air had blown them outwards.  I shook almost as much as the building itself for in the split second I realised that with the doors open all my prisoners would be gone having seized the opportunity of fleeing their captivity.
The building stopped shaking and all fell still again except for me.  I was still shaking.  The shame my family and I would suffer when they held me accountable for the escape of the prisoners would be unbearable and I was certain they would demand my life: the jailer’s in place of the prisoners.  I couldn’t let my family carry that burden, it would be better to think I had been slaughtered by the escaping prisoners.  I drew my sword and prepared to throw myself upon it.
Then, out of the silence and darkness as the building settled, just before I plucked up enough courage to take in what I thought was to be my final breath, a shout came from within, from the cells where the prisoners were held captive.  I stayed my sword and called for lights, reaching for a flaming torch still hanging on the wall in the passageway outside the jailer’s quarters.  Another fallen torch lay on the floor among some rubble between the cells as I walked forward seeking out the voice that seemed to call to me.
“Don’t harm yourself!  We are all here!”
I passed the cells, each with the doors open and the chains of every prisoner loosened, but amazingly each cell was still occupied.  Not one prisoner had taken the opportunity to escape.
The voice that had called out to me I discovered was Paul, both he and Silas sat on the floor unbound and smiling.  I got the impression that they hadn’t been to sleep at all (and the other prisoners confirmed it for me later) but that they had stayed up singing and praying right up to when the earthquake had freed them from their chains.  I brought them out of their cell and into the light of the torches so that I could see them clearly and then before them, and in sight of all the other prisoners, I fell to my knees and simply said, “Sirs, what must I do to be saved?”
Strange as it may sound but a sudden realisation dawned on me about the message that Paul and Silas had been telling, I heard it in their prayers and in their songs of worship, and the strangest thing was that I wanted to know more about this Jesus and how he could save my soul and that of my family.
Paul replied, “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved – you and your household.”
It was as though he knew my thoughts.
I rebound the other prisoners.  Unbelievably not one of them complained – it was totally surreal!  I could see that Paul and Silas were still in a lot of discomfort from their wounds so I took them a little way down the hill to my house and woke up my wife.  I was no longer worried about leaving the prison unattended, I would see to the doors later.  With my wife’s help I washed and tended to their cuts and bruises and cleaned them up a bit.  As we did so they talked to us about Jesus.  Wow!  Nothing more needs to be said really.  The impact of what they said about Jesus made me re-evaluate everything in my life and the way I viewed the world and my place in it.  I was hungry for more.  My wife too, I could see it in her eyes, wide and excited.  Even when the kids crept in having been woken by the disturbance we didn’t usher them away as we may otherwise have done, and they too seemed drawn to Paul’s words and captivated by the love of this man Jesus that he spoke of.  We ate a meal together as both Paul and Silas sat and unravelled the mystery of God’s love for us brought through Jesus, and being a man not normally drawn to fits of heavy emotion I think it’s fair to say that I was filled with joy at what I heard.  Without hesitation I asked if I could be baptised, my wife too was keen, and turning to the kids it was clear they didn’t want to be left out either.  So there and then in the darkness of night we were baptised as a family by the two men who only hours before I had locked up and had feared.
When daylight came officers from the magistrate came chasing the rising dawn with the order to release Paul and Silas with an instruction for them to go in peace.  But Paul wasn’t having any of it.  As it turned out they were Roman citizens and not just mere Jews.  I could see this going very pear shaped for the magistrates in town when they found out and had to turn away to snigger when I heard Paul say, “They beat us publicly without a trial, even though we are Roman citizens, and threw us into prison.  And now do they want to get rid of us quietly?  No!  Let them come themselves and escort us out.”
I’ve never seen a bunch of officials quickstep it anywhere so swiftly as they did that morning to the prison, heads bowed humbly begging Paul and Silas not to make a fuss and trying to convince them that it had all been a misunderstanding and asking if there was anything they could do to make it up to the two men, anything that was so long as they left town and didn’t stir up any more trouble, for that surely would make life difficult for everyone.
I was sorry to see them go but not sorry for having been their jailer.  My outlook on life is far different now; I’m a different man.  The prison was repaired and the steady flow of inmates comes and goes, but I treat them differently than I used to: I treat them with respect and genuine care for their wellbeing no matter what they’ve done; it’s not my job to judge them, but I feed them and talk to them, and where they’ll accept it I tell them about my friend Jesus and hope that maybe they too will find him and become his friend.

©C. P. Clarke 2013

 

 

 

 

December’16:

Every year I get asked to write and perform Christmas poems for church carol services – here are the ones being used this year (yes, one is being recycled, the original version was written in 1995 and rewritten for another carol service in 2001):

 

 

 

 

DESCENT OF ANGELS

Crisp hues of orange and yellow
As the day dipped and died
Across the meadow, across the hill
Across the countryside wide
The darkness fell to the starry nights’ chill

Nocturnal guardians of our charge
Tucked up for warmth,
Huddled round
With joyful banter of companions
Bleating of sheep a comforting sound

Then in the dead of night
A sight beyond comprehension
Gloriously blinding,
Too astounding to mention
A sparkling glow, brighter than lightning

Clouds that hid the dotted stars
Reflected back the shimmer of appearance
Silver linings edging, the darkness spent
We stood stunned beyond sense
The hilltop lit with heaven’s descent.

Echoes of tunes danced around our ears
With no shelter for us to hide
Away from voices so full, so musical
The air about the sky electrified
Piercingly harmonious and graceful

Amidst heaven’s choir we daren’t stir
As God’s envoys spoke
Unworthy, undeserved
The steadiness of our legs broke
Bowing to the Lord’s message for us reserved

Their words sang through our being
A song sung unto our hearts
A message, a direction
The party of all parties about to start
And this was our invitation

And then they were gone
As suddenly as they arrived they disappeared
The bright glow dimmed and fled
The full sky cleared
As we pondered all the angels said

                                                        ©C. P. Clarke 2016

 

 

 

 

HEAVEN SENT

A single bright star
Shining among angels in the moonlight,
Its solo penetrating beam
Pointing like a torch in the night.

A chorus carried on the wind,
Of angels trumpeting and singing,
Calling richly kings and lowly shepherds
All humbly bringing gracious offerings.

The thoughts of prophets
And the dreams of kings
Stirred by the wind
Of excited angels wings.

Who being in the heavens were captivated and in awe,
Descended, flew down in a rapturous roar
To rejoice and give praise
At the birth of a human child,
Their Lord and their King.

©C. P. Clarke 2001

 

 

This month’s story is one I thought I had lost.  I have written a number of versions of The Good Samaritan story over the years, including a screenplay and a poem version of Badlands.  This is another one of those older stories I typed up recently having found it at the bottom of a pile of papers.  I’m likely to include it in the next volume of POV as I’m currently thinking the next volume will divert a little from the format of the others with a couple of contemporary versions of stories and maybe even a couple of poems.

 

 

 

 

BADLANDS

The year old Ford kicked back with a sudden jerk and whine, followed by a metallic twang as something seemed to buckle or snap, or both, beneath the bonnet.
Jack slammed on the brakes and shifted into neutral.  He checked his mirrors; the street was deserted, the dark shadows off the sidewalks barely lit by the few street lamps not yet fallen victim to the vandalism of the neighbourhood.  The engine sounded fine; purring softly in the night, its bright eyes lighting the path ahead.
He shifted into first and pulled away cautiously, frightful of being stranded in a part of town where he was sure not to be welcomed.
A rattling, and a clank, and then a crippling crunch of metal howled painfully from the car’s engine.  “Damn it!” he whispered to himself as he slowly manoeuvred the car to the curb and switched off the ignition.
He sat for a few moments just staring out of the windscreen at the desolate street before him.  Litter in its clumps blew across the street to be battered against the walls of old disused houses whose windows were either broken or boarded up; graffiti spelling tags of juvenile delinquency.  One thing was for sure: no smart cars, as in flash, expensive; not even a year old Ford dared park along these streets.
He reached for his mobile phone from within his briefcase which sat on the passenger seat.  “I don’t believe it!” he cringed as he read the screen display with its battery icon flashing red; just to emphasize the point an audible beep signalled its dying charge.  He tried it anyway.  He stepped out of the car and searched a number in the address book for the recovery company he used.  He found it and pressed the ‘call’ button.  No tone.  He tried again.  No tone.  He pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the now blank screen.
“Damn it!” he whispered again – too afraid to speak it loud for fear of alerting anyone to his present dilemma.  He looked up and down the street; the highway wasn’t far – a mile, if that – there would be an emergency phone there he could use.
He reached into the car, pulled his briefcase from the passenger seat and took the keys out of the ignition.  He locked the car and then, with forced intention, unwillingly began to trek, or rather creep stealthily, unnoticed through the dim streets.

He felt as though he’d been walking for ages, even though he’d only covered a few blocks.  He’d spent the time scuttling along listening to his own highly polished shoes tapping against the concrete floor.  Only now he was aware of a dull thud behind him, keeping time with the tip-tap tip-tap of his own feet.  He dared not look round, but instead increased his speed to a point where he was on the verge of running.  The thud-thud of the feet behind him not only keeping speed with him, but now seemingly joined by a second set of heavy rubber soled shoes.
He dared to take a glance back, almost tripping as his body twisted against the grain and momentum of his legs.  Behind him paced two black youths clad in dark hooded attire.  He turned to face the direction he was heading, his legs having every intention of running.
“Hey white dude, where ya goin’?” hissed a voice stepping out of the shadows before him and drawing him to a halt before he could gather pace.  “You’re on da wrong side o’ town for a man dressed money neat.”
Jack held his breath in fear as he heard the other two youths stride up behind him and pull to a stop so close that he could feel their hot breath on his collar as it pierced through the cold night air.
“Let’s see ya wallet n’ ya watch!” ordered the hooded youth before him with a well-practised manner.  Jack heard a click, and through the darkness of ethnic tint of hands could see a sparkling thin sheet of steel.  As though to emphasize his authority the youth held up the knife so that it passed slowly in front of Jack’s eyes.
Jack froze, fear seeping through his pores as he beheld the blade in his vision.  He wanted to cooperate, wanted to give them what they demanded, but his body wouldn’t respond.
Suddenly, without warning, one of the men behind him gripped his right shoulder and thrust forward with his free hand.  At first he thought he’d been punched, and then again a second time, but then he saw the one in front of him lurch forward with his knife and strike him in the stomach and he realised that the pain was the same.  He dropped to his knees, more through shock than pain, and was then clubbed on the back of the head so that his body fell to the ground.  He wasn’t sure which one kicked him in the face when he was down, the one in front he supposed, a vicious kick that tore open his nose and cheek and ripped his teeth from his exposed gums as his lip was drawn up under the rubber sole of the running shoe.
As a mixture of blood and tears filled his vision Jack could hear the three yobs laughing and yelling out their prizes as they claimed them, Jack himself only vaguely attuned to the fact that they were stripping him down in order to find his treasures, tossing him about as though he were a rag doll.
“I got da case, man,” cried one.
“Watch!” yelled another.
“Wallet!  Car keys!” exclaimed the one who had stood in front of him.
“Grab the rings n’ his chain.”
“I got ‘em!”
“Hey – a cell phone!”
“Gimme that,” ordered the front man as they ran off into the shadows arguing amongst themselves.
Jack lay, for the most part, unconscious, oozing thick puddles of blood through the tears in his shirt onto the paving around him so that it trickled like a slow moving lava flow into the gutter over which his legs hung.
When he came to the first time, the blackness of his sealed and swollen eyelids was blinded by the radiance of an approaching car’s headlights.  He forced his eyes open, having no idea how long he had been unconscious.  A flickering streetlight lit him intermittently as he lay undisturbed, and even with the sparse, if not totally absent footfall, he assumed little time had passed.  The car, drawing closer, slowed and then stopped in the middle of the street.
Jack raised his head, a vain effort that tore at the flesh of his cheek as the grit from the ground dirt clothed his wound.  He looked in the direction of the car but was blinded by a bright light, a torch being directed from the car window.  In his dazed state all he could do was blink and try to squint through the light.  No one got out of the car and he wondered why – surely he was of no harm to whoever it was.
Then he heard a crackle and a hiss and the sound of a distant female voice calling a number and location, and a male voice, closer, more audible, speaking the same number in reply.
The light went out and Jack gazed in surprise and wonder at the outline of the bubble globes on the roof of the car, which, as he looked, came alive with a rotating blue light illuminating the black and white of the police car.
Jack lay down his aching head, relieved, the blue flashing shining over his torn and bloody body like calming cleansing water.
Then there was a screech of tyres and those lights were fading away down the street in a hurry to be somewhere else.
They’re leaving me, Jack thought.  How can they leave me, they’re policemen?  Maybe they’ve called for an ambulance.  No, I would have heard them.  How can they leave me?
His anger at being abandoned drained what little strength he still had in him.  His mind hoped he was wrong, that they had called it in as they sped off elsewhere, but deep down he knew they too were afraid to get out of their car in this gang controlled neighbourhood.  Cursing the cowards that wouldn’t help him, he slipped once more into oblivion where he expected only death to meet him.
It was a while before his senses drew him from his slumber once more, and yet again the darkness was his only timepiece.  His tongue hung from his mouth and he could taste the grimy dirt that had dried and grated upon his tongue and raked along his throat as he struggled to suck in the long muscle that protruded from his mouth.  Again it was blinding car lights that had disturbed him.  This time they were moving fast from far down at the other end of the street.  As they neared him they slowed and Jack could hear the soft hum of the engine, and from his strangled angle could make out the low side of a red sports car, a Ferrari, its bodywork obviously curious as to the figure lying by the roadside.  Jack watched with sickening amusement as the electric window lowered and a suited white male peered down at him, raised an eyebrow, then his nose, and then the window.
Jack closed his eyes as he listened to the Ferrari’s wheels riding smoothly along the tarmac surface of the road away from him.  He wondered what type of salary would attract such a luxury; a lawyer perhaps, one that had friends enough in both high and low places, enough to feel comfortable to drive a flash car in this neighbourhood, but with sense enough not to get out and get involved.  Jack was still listening to the distant hum of money when he slipped into another world – a world of harsh, painful dreams, where to scream was an agony, and to wake was a nightmare.
Through the darkness of night, in the depths of a dream, Jack saw a light – blinding and more brilliant than any light he had ever seen.  This is it, he thought as he slept, I’m dying.  I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I can hear the demons beating in my head trying to stop me from reaching my goal – boom boom bang boom bang.  I have to reach the light.  I just have to reach…
Jack opened his eyes.  In the distance a faint headlight shone through broken glass as its twin flickered indecisively.
Boom boom bang boom bang.
The demons were getting closer.  They were coming to finish him off.  His body was numb.  The chill of the air defeated by the warmth of his own blood, of which he had spilt too much.  Yet still he could hear the demons echoing in his ears, rising up and vibrating through the ground.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BANG BOOM
The bass was accompanied by a high pitched grating of metallic synthesised sounds he couldn’t distinguish through his clouded eardrums.  “Too loud,” he whispered coarsely, then closed his eyes as though that would somehow block out the sound.
When he opened his eyes an old rust patched car, indistinguishable in make, had pulled up alongside where he lay.  The driver’s door opened…
BOOM BOOM BOOM BANG BOOM BANG BOOM
…bursting louder out onto the street, causing Jack to cringe at the sound of the heavy bass of the ghetto music as it pounded painfully through his already throbbing head.
Jack closed one eye; to keep them both open was a strain.  He watched as a rough looking black youth stepped out, no, rushed out, of the car and ran toward him.  Fearing another attack and more abuse, Jack flinched away.
“Hey, it’s okay m’man, I’ll get ya outa here,” spoke the man gently with a heavy burden of concern in his voice.
Jack felt himself carefully lifted from the ground, like a child having fallen asleep on a sofa and being carried by his father to the comfort of his bed.  The young man carried him over to his car opened the back door before guiding Jack in and positioning him comfortably on the back seat, then closed the door to seal him in.
Jack closed his eyes momentarily, or so he thought.  When he opened them they were driving along at a steady speed through streets he didn’t know.  He could see street lamps chasing each other as they raced passed the window.  He tried to picture the face of the driver, but the information was lost, just another gang banger who owed him no favours.  He was aware that he was still pouring blood, which was now soaking onto the leather seats of the car.  The car’s interior, in contrast to the exterior, was well cared for and clean, its main space occupied by an expensive speaker system, which he noted had been switched off for his comfort.
“Hell, will ya look at that,” murmured the black driver shaking his head.  “There’s ya’all beat up n’ bleedin’ an’ da cops are on traffic duty.  Don’t worry pal, I’ll get ya to a hospital.  You’ll be fine.”  He said this last bit with deep concern as he stared through his rear view mirror at his rear passenger, and for a brief moment Jack met those eyes and engraved them on his memory.
Jack looked away to the police car pulled over to the side of the street as two officers, one white, one black, spoke harshly to a white suited male stood to the side of his red Ferrari.
“Jumped a red light by the looks of it,” said his driver by means of explanation.
Jack tried to nod in acknowledgement but hadn’t the strength.  All he could think of was red: red Ferrari, red blood, his blood, over the sidewalk and the road, over the car seat, over the black man driving, over…
When he awoke again he was in a hospital bed, a doctor leaning over him feeling the wound on his cheek.
“Good morning,” said the doctor.  “Welcome back to the land of the living.  You had a very close shave.”
“The guy…that brought…me…”  His voice was hoarse, his throat as dry as cement as he tried to ask the question.
“You mean the young man that drove you here?”
Jack nodded slowly and painfully.
“He didn’t leave his name.  He just rushed you in and told us to take care of you.  He said if he passes by later he’ll come and check on you.  I don’t think he was keen to stick around in case they thought he was responsible for what happened to you.  He took a hell of a risk bringing you here.  You’re lucky it was him that found you, many wouldn’t have bothered to stop, you know.”
“I…know,” Jack replied.

©C.P.Clarke 1995

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November’16:

So, as I stated last month, I’ve recently been going through some of my older short stories.  I’ve been quite surprised at some of the general themes of my earlier material.  When I was in my teens I remember reading and watching a fair amount of horror, and this is reflected in some of my earlier writing.  I became a Christian when I was 19 and my writing shortly after this period has hints of me slowly introducing a questioning edge into my stories, almost as though I were questioning the dark themes I was so used to being immersed into.  Some of these stories may some day make it into a future volume of Through Strange Eyes*, who knows.  This month’s story, The End, is one of those stories I remember writing when I still lived with my parents and, although not original in concept, is a story that’s not been far away from my mind as for years I have been waiting to pen a more introspective look at the zombie genre.  I have the bones of the story lined up and am itching to write it as soon as I get a few other projects out of the way – not that I intend it to be a horror story, rather a tale of survival.

This month’s second piece is more recent and popped into my head whilst staring into a crack in a wall whilst on holiday in Australia.  Enjoy!

*Through Strange Eyes is the title I’ve had in my head for my volumes of short stories for about 20 years but have never taken the time to compile the stories until now.

 

 

 

 

THE END

Stanley Dale woke early this Saturday morning, like every Saturday morning, ready to do his daily rounds through the neighbourhood in his milk float.
Stan was no one special, nobody outstanding in any particular field, no one to whom you would take any special notice of, but this morning he would be noticed and would sound the alarm call for the beginning of the end of the neighbourhood.
Stan, a sixty three year old milkman nearing retirement, lived alone.  He had lived a healthy life, had travelled, married, had kids, everything you would expect a man of his age to have achieved.  Now he lived a simple, lonely existence, his wife long dead and kids having moved out.  He spent his mornings out on deliveries, his afternoons reading, and his evenings he spent in front of the television.
This morning Stan noticed a stale odour in the air as he stepped out of his bed, its origins were unknown and unidentifiable.  He thought that maybe it was connected to the chemical spillage which he had heard about on the late news last night, if so he was confident of the authorities to contain the spillage.  Either way, it didn’t hinder his routine.
He dressed and washed and then made his way to the kitchen to make himself some tea and toast.  As usual, he flicked on the radio to wake him up a bit more.  The radio crackled static on every station as Stan struggled to find some music.  He thought it unusual but paid it no bother.
His mind drifted to last night’s party revellers.  There must have been a big celebration next door or something for people were making noise all night out on the street.  It had started around eleven, just as the pubs were closing, so Stan assumed that his young neighbours had invited people back from the pub – it wouldn’t be the first time.
Stan finished his breakfast and made his way to his front door, ready to greet the early morning frost in the deathly quiet of the street before dawn broke the stillness and woke the sleepy residents that were his neighbours.
Stan pulled his door open wide and stepped onto the street and turned to pull the door closed behind him.  The door wasn’t quite closed when he noticed an oddity.  It was the smell; the stale odour was stronger outside.  There was something else, movement behind him and an uncanny feeling of being watched.
He turned around and stared ahead of him.  At first he thought he saw the party revellers from last night, about five of them.  Then he became aware of them all around him, edging out from behind parked cars and stepping out of the shadows of doorways and from behind garden bushes.  There were more strewn along the street and as the door pulled on the latch they all turned and began to make their way towards him.  They moved slow and sluggish as though the message from their brains was struggling to get through to their legs, and they made a low guttural noise in their throats.  As the closest to him, the five he had spotted first, reached him he tried to study their faces through the darkness aided by the dim light of the street lamps.  The skin on their faces was torn and burnt in places and blisters bulged and bubbled to the surface distorting their features.
Stan scratched his face as he felt a tingling and a slight burning on his cheek, and a sudden craving for meat teased his taste buds, unhappy with the bland tea and toast he had only moments ago been satisfied with.
He reached his hand in his pocket and retrieved his door key and shakily pushed it into the lock, a sudden desire to be back in the comfort of his own home.  As the door cracked open he turned to look back and froze, mesmerised by the gruesome and confusing sight that his mind refused to acknowledge.
As he stood face to face with the deteriorating men before him he thought that he should say something, maybe ask them what was going on and whether they were ok, but instead fear struck, and he screamed.
His scream woke the whole neighbourhood as the figures fell upon him and passed him into his house in search of more food.

©C.P.Clarke 1992

 

 

 

 

THE CRACK

I hate the interference, the constant invasion of my space, my privacy.  Time and time again they come.  They bang.  They clatter. They holler.  They scream.  They chatter I know not what, but it’s loud and annoying, cloying at my senses.  And I am defenseless as I cower away.
They are bullies in the light.  Bullish aggressors.  Depressors of my mood and oppressors of my life.
How long must I survive this constant tirade of alien life that calls down and intrudes upon my world?
Once in a dark place, a void, an abyss I wished upon the company of others to reside and abide with me in my lonely, desolate, homeland.  Wide rugged surfaces that I clamber and climb and tread upon, sometimes run, sometimes stopping to taste the sparse fruits deposited or discarded upon the trail.
My legs are tired.  My eyes are weak.  The brightness of the alien technology blinds me and sends me scuttling for shelter hidden.  There is relative safety in the dark crevices where from out now I peer and stare and glare upon the world I both envy and detest of this conjoined co-existence.  The once lord of my domain of which I intend to reclaim when the lights go out and the aliens abandon this world once more.
My eyes have adapted to depths of the cavern within which I hide, waiting for the beasts, the cruel crushers, the barbaric beaters of my race who would stamp upon my face should I show it.
Though I sit alone, comatose, hibernating in my waiting, I am not the only one feigning death or stillness of being.  There are others.  Brothers of other mothers, tapped out to the corners, territorially marking their own borders.  There is no trust between us.  Food is scarce.  Kill or be killed.  That is the order of the day, and the night as well.  We have to be always on our guard.
I watch behind me to the deep cracks in the walls of my land, my feet feeling for the approach of foe.  An eye behind and an eye ahead, squinting at the light of the giants, those bipedal beings so advanced and aloof they barely notice my presence.  Yet if I showed myself they’d be scared.  Some would flee and hide, seeing me grotesquely.  But not all.  Those others would stamp down with heavy boot and seek to exterminate, to eliminate, to eradicate.  I’ve seen it happen to others in the light.  In the darkness we are safe.
The day is long but I am patient.  They look in on the crack in which I stand, poised waiting.  I want to poke my head out and yell ‘BOO!’, but I’m fearful of what they’ll do.  To them I am nothing, just an insect in the wall, existing between worlds waiting for the light to go out until they return again tomorrow.

©C.P.Clarke 2016

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October’16:

So I’ve been going back over some old short stories (typing them up as I’ve realised I don’t have digital copies of much of my oldest stuff) and found this (Time of Death) which was first published in Good Stories Magazine back in 1995.

 

 

 

 

Time of Death

George Faith knew it was time.
The sparkling fluorescent lights squinted through the haze as they silently ran across him, one after the other.
The doctors rushed around him shouting orders to the obedient nurses as they weaved in and out of the traffic along the corridor.  They all seemed eager to get him some place, as though they still thought that they could help him.
George turned a bloody head to his left.  His wife, Karen, and his sixteen year old daughter, Claire, were scuttling alongside the wheeled stretcher which carried him.
“I love you,” he said coarsely through gums which had turned blue and swollen.  He drew his tongue back further into his mouth as he gasped senselessly for air.  He smacked his lips together as his tongue gritted dryly against the inside of his mouth.  He closed his eyes as he felt his wife’s fingers enclose around his.
All his life he’d lived in fear of this day – this time.  Ever since he was a boy it had haunted him.  It had started with him waking as a child at the same time every night: 11:11pm.  He’d suddenly sit bolt upright in bed and look at the clock just as it reached eleven minutes past the hour.  As he got older he found that he would always glimpse at his bedside clock at this same time every night just before falling asleep.  Whenever he was at a party or a pub he always seemed to glance at his watch at the same ominous time.  As the years past by he grew very conscious of the time; always making a note of where he was as the hour struck eleven.
He’d reached a conclusion, that this time could mean only one thing: the time he was to die.
He would always try to avoid climbing into a car if it meant a journey spent during the twenty third hour of the day.  Of course this wasn’t always possible and so he had spent many a nervous trip towards and through that eleventh minute.  He tried his best to avoid arguments or heated discussions with people he’d just met as the evenings drew to a close, and he never took a night flight whilst travelling.
Oh yes, George Faith had envisaged many a way he would go, but this had never once crept into his mind.  He supposed if it had he’d have died of old age and not at fifty six.
He had planned a quiet night in watching the television, and he had got it, that was until his daughter had cried out from the kitchen that the light bulb had blown.  George had waited until the late night news had finished and then had gone into the kitchen to replace the bulb (his daughter not being able to reach it even when stood on a chair).  He placed the chair in the centre of the room and quickly changed the bulb, but as he stepped down the chair slipped and he overbalanced and fell to the ground, his head cracking hard on the tiled surface.
He opened his eyes again and watched as the lights grew fainter.  The trolley stopped and a doctor closed in over him to get a closer look.  George blinked and tried once more to look at his family as he felt the last slow trickle of blood ooze from the side of his head to sink into the already darkened patch of the white sheet beneath him.  He could no longer feel the loving touch of his wife’s hand and was only vaguely aware that one of the doctors was beating at his chest.  His eyes glazed over and fixed open, and far away in the distance he could hear someone, a doctor, asking for the time.  Eleven minutes past eleven, replied the nurse.

©C.P.Clarke 1994

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She is a zombie to the screen
zoned out and unseen
the world could fall apart around her ears
a host of crying human tears
despairing of such cataclysmic loss
of the soul that once had life
now lost to pixelated wonder and technological awe
to all else in the room is little more a bore
of communication devoid of any personality
unless written in computer code of the new virtual reality
telly, tablet, laptop, phone
she’s a zombie caught up in a cyber world of her own
a recognisable zone in every household
of blinkered vision lifeless and cold

©C.P.Clarke 2013

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