Blog 95: Moving House

A light rain fell in the bright sunshine, feeding the parched forest. He stood in the shade of the giant leaves of the parisula, each leaf longer and wider than he would ever be. He’d made his home from the leaves of that tree, it didn’t take many. The leaves were glued in place by the resin of the catamac tree which turned to amber in the warm sunlight.

He’d need the help of his troop to move the house; it was suspended high over the forest in the canopy where he could keep watch for intruders and raise the alarm. He took his duty very seriously despite only having to raise the alarm twice in all his time there. He’d been given a horn by the alpha to sound the alarm for which he’d made a pouch he kept on him at all times.

The first time he called the alarm the troop had been there in no time to fight off the invaders who quickly retreated back to their own territory. The second time however his troop had been near the opposite border of their dominion when the intruders came. His signal not only brought his troops attention but that of the invaders. He fought them furiously, killing two, but was overwhelmed by their numbers and suffered deep wounds all over his body. No fur grew over the many scars he’d suffered for his troop. When he saw himself reflected in a pool of water he sometimes wondered if it was worth the sacrificed he’d made.

He told himself the scars might pay off in the end. The females liked warriors and soon he would take a mate. He was one of the largest males in the territory which was probably the only reason he’d survived the second invasion. When the time came he would swing through the trees amongst them and call at the top of his lungs and they would fight each other to be his. He would pick one who would live with him in the house he’d built for a family. The two of them would watch the border together and at nights when the stars were out they’d count them, lying on their backs on the branch where he did.

The troop came through the trees, his brothers and sisters amongst them. He greeted them with an offering of fresh fruit and nuts which they ate before beginning to untie his home from its position in the dying tree. It was moved to a new position, more stable where he would need to trim the foliage to better his view of the border.

When the home was moved most of the troop moved back to theirs at the centre of the territory but his older brother stayed with his family to help with the small touches that would make the house a home again. The nest was filled with fresh, soft leaves and he watched his brother and his family, his young son who held so tightly to his mother while his little eyes glinted with curiosity. His brother had the scars from tearing their enemies off him when he arrived during that second battle. They traced each other’s scars and expressed gratitude for the help in the vicious fighting.

They were still sitting together when he saw dark shapes moving through the forest bellow, the other troupe had come in force. His brother’s mate hid with the child while he blew the horn and threw himself amongst the invaders. The troupe would be there in no time whilst he and his brother took revenge for the death of their father who’d taken three of the enemy with him. He sustained many more cuts and wounds during that battle and his brother almost died but he never regretted it. He was protecting his home, doing his duty.

Blog 94: Conversing

“What's so awful about classical literature then?” Luke asked his companion as their train shot through the countryside.

“I'm not saying it's awful, just too predictable and contrived to my eyes, quite formulaic.” Alan twirled a London Underground ticket in his hand. Luke frowned at him.

“Maybe it seems formulaic because it's so embedded in our culture.” Luke kept his volume to a polite level but the irritation was rising in his tone.

“It's all too much; alas my love I do declare I am to wed the man stood there. My father would rather I perish than grant me my one wish: to be betrothed to you…”
“And what's,” Luke interrupted but Alan spoke over him.

“…And then the man says; I will beseech him reconsider and should he not I'll prove myself a gallant fool when I challenge the soldier at a duel. The soldier shoots the lover before he can take aim but as with most it ends the same. The soldier, victorious, sees not the lover's bullet let fly which strikes him in the eye. The soldier dead, the lover rests in bed, nursed by his woman.” Alan grabbed his juice bottle as it slid across the fold down table. He sipped from it before continuing.

“They both live happily ever after until the soldier's family notice he's dead in the second book.” Luke frowned.

“You're such a pessimist.” Alan gave him a blank stare, his face radiated no emotion. Others projected emotions onto Alan's neutral features. The fearful saw distilled violence hidden behind cold indifference. Those who like to comfort saw sadness. Luke saw indifference, a statue that might have thrown away his soul if he'd had one. Luke had begun the conversation to end the silence he'd endured for an hour since they left Kings Cross Station on the train bound for Inverurie. Luke shrank away when Alan glanced at him during the silence. Luke hated silence but Alan just sat through it, if anything Luke thought Alan had come closest to smiling during the empty silence, while Luke squirmed. He couldn't just sit next to Alan the whole way, it would have driven him mad. Alan let Luke's last quip hang in the air, he didn't see it as an insult.

“Why do I talk to you?” Luke asked.

“I've been wondering that for a while.” Replied Alan, watching the aggravated reflection of Luke in the window. Alan thought of how just moments before Luke had proved the absurdity of his need to fill the silence by retelling the story of a very awkward journey he'd had on a train. Alan realised instantly that Luke was describing events just hours prior as if he hadn't been there. “If you want to talk so much then why not talk to the redhead you've been staring at?” The redhead in question turned to glare at them, assuming they'd mocked her.

“Thanks! Now I can't talk to her.” Luke hissed.

Lucky Her, Alan thought. “You can, she just wont listen.”
“Brilliant.” Luke sighed and stared at the luggage rack above his head. The redhead turned back to her phone, still frowning and sent her friends a rant filled text. “I don't want to talk to you.”

“Then don't, find another seat somewhere and we'll never talk again.” Luke thumped the chair and stood; he grabbed his bag from the luggage rack and found another seat. Both of them settled and reminded themselves that they'd only met when they sat down next to each other that morning.

Blog 93: A Fleeting Dream

He was staring down the barrel of an assault rifle, lamenting that he had just moments to live, moments to compose his final work. The commanding officer was giving the order to fire; he’d started to say it. The prisoner disappeared into his mind, escaping into the vast region of time that stretched between his executioner pulling the trigger and the death that would follow when the high calibre, high velocity projectile spread his brains across the wall behind. The world that would end him disappeared as he entered a world of his creation. He dreamt of what might have been:

The warrior stared out across the city, intact and safe as it was he could see the smoke of distant battlefields. He winced, feeling the pain of his near fatal wound, it was healing well. The executioner had been killed whilst carrying out the sentence. He’d been saved by a sniper squad, the leader of whom owed him one for similar reasons. The war was on-going but he’d been granted leave to see his lover and their child Immersion. The boy looked like him; pale white skin and long purple hair. He had his mother’s eyes though; crimson, omni-focal. As long as Immersion had treatments before puberty his eyesight would forever be perfect. He could see the stars just as the gods who made them.

Shimmer beamed with joy as she watched her son with his father. It was her brother who’d saved him from certain death, her kind were born snipers. She saw them on the city’s far border, keeping watch for the enemy forces. The city would fall soon, they both knew it. Immersion would have to say goodbye to the blue cats of the city he loved so much. She wouldn’t weep for the city, she’d lost her town of birth to the invasion years ago and she worried about the grief it would cause her son. Immersion had only known the city of towers. Its sandstone skyscrapers reached the heavens, from those heights the snipers would inflict heavy casualties upon the enemy before they retreated.

Her son might still know the war when he came of age to fight; it had been raging since before her time. She feared only that it would be lost before he lived to see the end, while there was fighting there was hope against the genocide. Her race had spanned nations once, now there were hundreds, maybe a few thousand at most.

If it were not for the likes of Arcane her people would be long gone, just dusty memories beneath the feet of the ravenous empire. Their warriors were weak but infinite; they came in waves, washing over all defences as they wore down the resistance. Her people had pleaded every empire, every nation each town beyond for help but none had answered but Arcane’s, his people were mercenaries hardened by centuries of battle, they alone pushed back the invaders into old territory. That had been years ago, for their loyalty and bravery their numbers were as diminished as those of her own people.

Arcane held his son tightly in his arms, Immersion wriggled in his grip. While his son struggled to free himself Arcane held close the boy he’d thought of as the executioner took the order he smiled at his lover, a tear rolled down his cheek onto their son’s head.

“Can I go now,” Immersion asked, “I want to see the cats,” he ran to the window, “they’re by the red fountain can I go?” Arcane squinted but couldn’t see the distant landmark his son was staring at.

“If it’s safe?” Arcane asked, looking to Immersion’s mother. She walked to the window and stared out at the border guard, they were relaxed.

“Yes you can go but no further south than the market and if you hear any explosions you run back here as fast as you can, understand?” Immersion nodded his purple hair jumping as he did. He disappeared through the doorway and they heard him throwing himself down the steps three at a time.

She looked out the window again at the guards; they were staring at something all of a sudden. She shouted to call Immersion back but he was already out of earshot. She was about to tell Arcane to run after the boy when she saw a border guard jump for joy. Plumes of smoke, far bigger than normal, rose on the southern horizon.

“What  is it,” Arcane asked, “you look worried, are they here? Should I run after Immersion?”

“No, we have to go higher, come up the stairs with me, to the roof.”

“The roof’s seventy three stories up! I barely made it this far.” He said, looking exasperated.

“Come on!” She shouted as she ran up the flights of stairs at full speed. Her long brown hair wiped behind her as her sandaled feet clopped up the stone steps. He followed close behind her, consoling himself that at least he could enjoy the view on the way up as she ran ahead.

His lungs gave out on him halfway up; they were on fire as was his dry throat. She stopped for him and walked down a corridor between the flats on that level, she traced a line along the sandstone to the window that looked southwest and leaned out to look south.

“What are you looking at?” Arcane asked, “what can you see?” She looked at Immersion.

“I see our son with the cats at the river, picking his nose.” Arcane sighed. “I see the guards at their post.” She turned to see Arcane still waiting for a reason to run up so many stairs. “I see high altitude bombers flattening the enemy that would have been here by tomorrow morning.”
“What!” He shouted. “We don’t have bombers, we don’t even have aircraft.”

“Exactly, they’ve joined us; we’re not in this alone anymore.” She turned and hugged him. “This will end the war we can win this and stop worrying about Immersion.”
“What will we worry about then?” He laughed and kissed her as she leant in to his ear and whispered.

“You promised me a big wedding if we won the war.” He was more afraid in that moment than he’d been during the war. No death was more terrifying than the fury of his fiancée should he fail to give her the wedding she wanted. He smiled and kissed her, thinking of the reward if he got it right. That was the way to look at it, look on the bright side.

The bullet struck the dreamers head, freeing his thoughts as he fell. Immersion, his mother and father all lived happily ever after, because the dreamer hadn’t had the time to think further about them, their story was over, like his life.

Blog 92: An Old Book

The book which had once pitied humans for their boring lives now wished for their chance at a quick death. It wanted a fire to end the suffering. It was losing its words. The story didn’t make sense anymore, it only had bits and pieces. That was the curse of old age, not like its youth when many had turned its pages to know the story that outshone their boring lives. There was nothing it could do to bring the words back. It just had to wait for the rest to go, enough at least that it would cease to notice, cease to care.

Blog 91: Persona Slave

I’m a nervous person I guess, cautious but I like to think sensible. It was sensible to be worried that I always had headaches in the morning. I was always tired despite early nights and plenty of sleep.
The physical symptoms weren’t too worrying really, not compared to the hallucinations I started having. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of my hand and see some nicotine stained digits with dirty fingernails. I always take great care with my appearance. I had outer body moments where I seemed to be watching some alternate reality version of myself living out his odd life. In the other reality I had the same flat, the same furniture and the same haircut but looked about five years older and had cocaine dust on my nose or puke on my sleeve.
I wondered for a while if I was dreaming of someone who was having a more interesting life because I thought mine was boring. Really though I was happy. I made enough each month to pay my rent and put three quarters of my paycheque in the bank. If I ever wanted to go crazy the money was just there waiting for me. The worst thing about my life was my flatmate, I never saw him because he lived his life like the version of me in the dreams. I was never sure how he paid the rent, I didn’t get the chance to ask him because we were never in at the same time. I assumed that he was being supported by his family and the dole.
His room was a bombsite, if the bomb had gone off in a drug lab or a pub. I’d clean it up now and then because I found the smell so repulsive. He didn’t pick anything up, didn’t have a bin and didn’t seem to care. In contrast to his room mine was positively immaculate and by design minimal. I had a bed, a light a lamp my chest of drawers with my work clothes and some casual stuff that I’d always meant to get around to replacing.
I wasn’t much for going out. I preferred to watch television or just sleep when I could. Since I was always tired I thought sleep would help but if anything when I went to sleep I woke up more tired. The hallucinations became more and more frequent as time passed. I decided that the fumes of drink and drugs were probably to blame for my problems. The hallucinations could have been caused by acid or other some such nonsense.
When I couldn’t find him before leaving for work one morning I left the drunken junkie a note on the fridge telling him I needed to see the lease agreement. It was by my bed the next morning or at least one version was. On his version of the lease I wasn’t a signatory which was ridiculous because I remembered vividly signing it just before I got my job at the hotel. It had the stain where I’d spilt an energy drink on it but not my signature, only the drunk’s.
The lease agreement was just a blip on the radar compared to what came next. I started waking up in my flatmates bed. Soaked in drink sweat like I’d been out for a night on the tiles. A few days later whilst I was doing the shopping in the supermarket round the corner a girl walked up to me, slapped me, called me something foul and then walked away as if I’d know why I deserved it. Another morning I woke up with a phone number written on my arm in permanent ink. I was sure I’d fallen asleep in front of the television watching a show about antiques. Clearly my lovely flatmate had used my as a notebook whilst using the phone in the living room and then maybe done something nice by carrying me to bed.
One day I thought I’d heard him in his room, laughing. I was going to ask him to do the dishes for once but when I opened his door there was no one there. I’d been sure I heard him talking to a girl. At least he probably talked to girls. I worked with a few but despite them being pretty I never felt any urges. I had no sex drive at all. I was completely celibate and I felt nothing which seemed inaccurate. I was certain that despite the possibility of madness I was not asexual.
Finally I decided it was time to go on a spending spree, to do something unexpected. When I checked my account however there was almost nothing there. When I looked at the card it wasn’t mine but I knew the pin code and account number. My name is Wilson, that wasn’t the name on the card. It was his card, had I been spending money on it by accident. He had to have leant it to me some time ago. It seemed like the sort of thing he’d forget. Maybe he’d asked me to buy him something whilst inebriated and forgotten to ask for the card back. That seemed logical. It also explained the lack of money, I had savings and he spent everything on killing himself.
I couldn’t find my card anywhere, I searched my room, the living room and the kitchen.
The last place I wanted to look was his room, my tidying before had always been superficial, scraping off the surface mould, binning things that were close to the door. When I started digging though that was when it got weird. There was a Polaroid of the girl who’d slapped me, she was kissing me. It wasn’t me though. I was wearing his clothes, the stupid t-shirt and a daft hat with bells on it. I tried blinking, the photo remained the same. When I looked at her I imagined kissing her. It was so vivid. I imagined her so clearly and for some reason I imagined a tattoo on her shoulder. It felt so real, like a memory.
He was from the same town as me, it was why we’d decided to get the flat together. I’d been regretting that for a while, I really hadn’t known him before, just known of him. Then I found an old Valentine’s day card under a pile of damp clothes. It was like he’d rewritten or stolen it. I remembered the card fondly. It had been my first and only from a girl at school, she’d been my first kiss. It was bent and crumpled and soggy itself but I could still read her writing. She’d been seeing him too. She’d written him the same message, word for word. The only difference was his name instead of Wilson.
I threw the card aside in a rage and began tearing through his things. He’d stolen a watch my parents had given me for my birthday years before. I’d forgotten all about the watch but that wasn’t the point. I put my watch on and unbuttoned my shirt as I worked up a sweat throwing his clothes into the hallway. The pervert had a photograph of my sister. One of my parents too.
I looked at the watch on my wrist and saw a cut that shouldn’t be there. My fingernails looked dirty again and I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I was dressed head to toe in his clothes, I had a club stamp on my hand.
“What are you doing in my room?” His voice startled me. I jumped, slid on a magazine and fell headfirst into the wall.
I woke up dizzy, sore and the world seemed darker. It was spinning as I tried to stand.
“Are you alright?” He asked, standing over me, a silhouette against the light. I could only see his knees. “You had some sort of seizure when you collapsed. Should I call an ambulance?” I looked at my hands, they were back to normal. My shirt was back, unbuttoned, torn along my side. The watch was gone. I looked for the Valentine’s card and the photos, they weren’t anywhere to be seen.
“No don’t call an ambulance. I’ll be ok.”
“Can you stand?”
“Not yet.”
“Take it easy then.” Everything faded to black and I awoke in my bed with a half finished plate of pasta next to me. On my chest of drawers was a card with a teddy bear in bed on the front. Get well soon Wilson was written inside. Considering what I’d thought of him it was rather sweet.
I called my work, told them what had happened apart from trashing my flatmates room and said I had to take a few days off. I could recover and in the mean time without sick pay I would just eat into my savings a little. That was on the twelfth of the month before a few days of rest. On the sixteenth when the rent was due I received a text message from the landlord asking where his money was. There was no reason for the money to not have been paid into his account. I didn’t have an overdraft but I should have had a few thousand to spare. I told the landlord there had clearly been a mistake and that I would deal with it.
The clerks at the bank were no help to me, they said I had no money at all and when I started arguing with them they called security to throw me out. I realised I’d been using my flatmate’s card again and tried to re-enter the bank but a butch man in a suit just stood in my way and shook his head.
When I got home from the bank the card was gone from the top of the chest of drawers. In its place was the watch I’d been given for my birthday and the Valentine’s day card. When I read it again it seemed I had my own card back. I saw Wilson written in her handwriting until I blinked and saw his name again.
I started digging through his things again, I found one of his bank statements. It made out as if he’d been paying all of the rent, not just his half. That was complete crap. Further down I saw a payment from my work. It was the same amount as I got each month. I was the only one in the whole hotel who got that much, I was the only one who worked that many hours. My name wasn’t on the statement but I saw some of my transactions there amongst his. There were the new shirts I’d bought from the posh place in town to replace the old ones I’d worn out. All of the little things I’d bought though were surrounded by big cash withdrawals and payments for bars and clubs I’d never been to.
My wage was the only input to the account. He was spending my money, defrauding me and somehow I had never noticed. He’d been leaching all of my money the whole time, using my account and spending the money I thought was going to savings.
Then I found a photo of my family, my sister, my mother, my father and me. Except it wasn’t just me. We were both there. The one person, he was the stupid clothes and the outrageous shoes. I was the clean, tidy hair the neatly trimmed nails and the shinny teeth amongst his grimace. The boy in the photo was halfway to both of us as people. Not quite him yet, too far from me.
“So you’ve seen me through the mirror worker bee. The game’s over then. You were my free ticket.”
“That’s crazy.” I shouted.
“We’re crazy Wilson. You and I. You’re a split personality I created to make my life easier because I was running on fumes.”
“You didn’t make me, you’re not capable of making a meal never mind a split personality.”
“It all gets a little easer for mad things like this to happen when you’re tripping out on pills and drunk, reading all of the final warnings from the electricity company, the landlord, the council. When you have nowhere else to turn you do what you have to. I asked for someone to take control of my life, to sort out my mistakes, someone sensible who could work a job without getting bored. I called Wilson and there you were, ready to live a sensible life.”
“If anyone’s the split personality it’s you.” I spat in rage.
“Do you remember your invisible friend when you were little. Mum and dad were so happy when he went away.”
“Harvey.”
“No, Harvey was the dog, my invisible friend was called Wilson.” It was all true. I remembered the dog, a big Labrador.
“I’m not invisible.”
“No, invisible friends don’t get hotel jobs. Really you’re like Wilson two point o.”
“So you’re mad?” I imagined the world dissolving around me.
“The drugs probably don’t help.”
“Probably not.” I looked at my hands, they were stained but the nails were well cut. I was wearing the horrible shoes but a good shirt. “What now?” I asked.
“How about a deal. I work half the time, party less and show you how to enjoy yourself.”
“What makes you think I don’t know how to enjoy myself.”
“I keep waking up watching the shopping channels.”
“Fair point, deal.” We imagined shaking hands. We imagined sorting out life out and there it was, waiting for us. Both of us. Maybe I was just an imaginary friend once, when he wondered why school was so scary, now I think he knows I’m as real as him. Maybe more so.