The Virus

I wrote this one a good few years ago and just recently revisited it and re-edited it. Hopefully there is more of a story here than some of my other stories. Thanks for looking.


The Virus
I was lying on the carpet, the one with lotus flowers that I had bought on e-Bay for a bargain, too sick to make it to my bed, listening to the blaring TV. I could feel my eyes swelling up so I closed them. What was the first sign of fever – sweat, hot and cold flushes? I had all of the above and now I was starting to shake. It’s funny when the dreaded word ‘death’ takes centre stage in your thoughts and you start to ponder all that you did in life. Would people speak well of me when I was gone?
Would they say, “She was a good person. A right saint.” Or would they say, “Thank God she’s dead, she was a right bitch.”
Who knew?

For some strange reason I thought of the man outside who had positioned himself at the corner regularly injecting himself with rusty needles. He reminded me of my father with his monkey shaped ears and his glassy-blue eyes. His lips were purple, like he had lived off a steady diet of beetroot. I hated beetroot. The red-purple juice could stain anything and the taste was like a mouthful of dirt. Not that I knew what dirt tasted like. He annoyed me, that lucky son-of-a-bitch, the way he dodged oncoming traffic cursing drivers in their cars as they narrowly avoided him. He thought he owned the very ground his feet touched. I felt like screaming when I saw him openly stabbing his arms with crusty needles.
“Won’t you go home and do that in private?”
No, he did it in my face with his eyes rolling around in his cavernous head. Soon he would be screaming for another hit, his tin cup shaking furiously.

There was a cockpit with a sea of flashing controls and I was sitting in front like a child who had been given a new toy and didn’t know what to do. I looked over at the co-pilot, sitting next to me, with his beach blonde hair in his eyes. He was probably a hippy back in the sixties. Now all he could do was peek through his fringe perhaps imagining when he last got laid—most probably the sixties.
“Houston, this is flight 197 request emergency landing.” I shouted into the controls. This is fun.
A voice replied: “This is Houston, over, permission denied.”
“Mayday! Mayday!” I roared, pressing a big red shinny button. The co-pilot turned his head and shot a despondent glance in my direction.
“This is control tower. What seems to be the problem?”
“We are experiencing difficulty with the…”
I stretched out my arms. Ha-ha! Look me! I’m flying! I heard a commotion above. People were talking amongst themselves but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I opened my eyes. A face with a surgical mask stood over me. The smell of fish was thick in the air.
A crowd of people in white and green rushed about.
“She’s waking up!”
“She’s alive!”
“…Nurse can we get a hand here!”
“Stay back!”
“…Doctor!”
Where the hell am I?
The face with its surgical mask looked at me with its oversized head. It wore a shinny earring in its left ear and had pasty green eyes.
“I’m your Doctor.” He put a gloved hand to his chest. His breath stank of fish. I christened him Mr. Fish.
“Uh, hello,” I croaked, lifting my neck.
“Don’t move.”
“Why, not?”
“Miss … ?” He procured a clipboard from the foot of my bed. “Yes, Miss Williams you are not well enough. Not yet that is.”
“What happened, I thought I was in my apartment. I didn’t die, did I?” It didn’t look like heaven. Someone’s breath couldn’t smell like rotten fish in heaven. Who said you would go to heaven?
“You are alive! And that is a very good thing for YOU and for US.”
“Yeah I guess. So why is it good?”
“Well, you are the first person to survive the epidemic. Do you know what that means?”
“That I am going to turn into a lab rat?” I imagined myself in a cage spinning on a wheel. I would be going nowhere, just spinning. I didn’t want that.
“No, no” His eyes were everywhere. “It means that the good oxidants that were mixed with the bad oxidants…”
“What does it really mean doctor?”
“It means now that you survived the deadly strain we are closer to combating the disease.”
I wasn’t looking forward to my future. I envisioned being hooked up to every possible tube and analysed 24/7. “And what if I refuse?”
“Miss Williams you won’t refuse!”
“And why can’t I?”
“Just think of your grandchildren and the stories you can tell them about how you were instrumental in saving mankind.”
“And what if I don’t want grandchildren?”
Mr. fish-breath put his hand to his forehead. “It will be easier if you co-operate. We will save mankind with or without your consent.” I folded my hands and lowered my lip. I guess it would have to be done the hard way. I would take mankind with me to the grave. “Don’t you know that there are countless people dying and you are the only one that can help…?”
“Don’t give me that doctor. What about the countless millions that die in wars everyday, is it up to me to help them too?”
He swung his fist in the air. “Miss Williams you will co-operate … you will co-operate!”
“I will do no such thing, do you hear?” I turned over on my side. There was no convincing me.

They left me on my own, filled with needle marks and tubing. Thank God they didn’t put one up my ass. The pain would have been unreal. I listened to the monitors whirring in the dark and watched a flashing display of lights.
Bleep! Bleep! Bleep!
The hospital would not let me go not until they discovered the secret to my survival. I got out of bed and ripped the wires and cables that covered me like a bowl of spaghetti. It was time to make a dash. Cautiously, I neared the door, peered out of my room into the quiet empty green corridor. Green was supposed to be soothing – it was not. I turned around. I thought I heard a noise. With no one in sight I ran down a flight of stairs.
I could smell fish. I turned around.
Oh, God! Mr. Fish’s eyes resembled large red marbles. I started to run he ran too. He pursued me with his big swollen head.
He shouted: “Come back here!” And then his arm caught mine.
I tried to shake his grip. “Bastard!”
My fist flew into his face as he fell backwards. I watched his eyes as he tried desperately to grip on to anything to stop the fall.
“Help!” It was too late for help as he hit his head off the soothing olive coloured wall.

I was outside now, thank God, with the cool refreshing air in my face. I walked slowly down the deserted streets looking in every which direction for a friendly face but there was no one about. If anyone was alive they had locked themselves up in their houses, I assumed. Maybe the dead had been taken out of the city and dumped. Only those stupid enough would do such a job though earning a wage would probably not come high on one’s list of priorities.
I saw him as I neared the corner with his metal cup. A used needle lay on the ground beside him and he clutched a shaky handwritten cardboard sign. It read: Will work for food! I spat. He wasn’t looking for food.
“Please!” He reached out his arm. A steady thick stream of yellow mucus dripped down his nose. He used his tongue to stem the flow. His pants were torn, his legs covered in big black bruises and his arms filled with open pocket marks.
I patted my pockets. “No money here.”
“Please!” He was starting to crawl towards me like a desperate dog on all fours. The amber sky lit up his silver hair as he began to rattle his begging cup, again.
“Don’t come near me!”
“Please!”
I turned my back and ran. He terrified me.

The sun filtered through the tatty net curtains like God’s hand was shining on my life. I put on a decent pair of jeans, an old faded t-shirt and pair of runners and then made my way, apprehensively, out of the apartment, out into the world.
No one was around though the stench of rot bit me in the pit of my stomach and as I walked down the empty streets the smell only got worse. I turned the corner startled to find the bum in the middle of the road with his tin cup all lit up in the sunlight.
“Please!”
Oh God no! Not that man again!
He was advancing towards me. “Get away from me!”
He rattled his cup. “Please!”
“Please?” Is that the only word you know?
It suddenly hit me. The man was the only other person alive. It was him and me. Oh, God no! What would I tell my grandchildren?

Dolphin

Hi guys thanks for looking, I know the ending may read a little disjointed, having trouble with it and I have been editing it now for over a month so I probably got rid of the good stuff :p Anyways, enough of that, hope you find something good in it. Cheers

Dolphin

Dawn. A black saloon car drives down a long stretch of road pulling into the driveway of a three-storey house. A skinny, tanned girl, with a head of curly blonde hair, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt gets out of the car, walks slowly up the steps and enters the large framed doors. She clip-clops down a long marble entrance up a staircase and takes a turn, at the top of the stairs, down a corridor. She enters a large room with a four-poster bed and walks out on to the balcony. From her high vantage she surveys the landscape, watching gardeners thicken the lawn below, scurrying under verandas and archways, flecking the bridges, and mobbing the terracotta gardens. Far out beyond the trimmed lawns and manicured gardens a mist covers a lake.

She makes her way over a stone bridge, with a fishing rod, passing the gardens and tall trees, arriving at a rickety old pier. In front of her is a wide muddy lake. The rod is cast way out into the water and then she sits with her legs dangling over the pier holding the fishing rod and watching the red and white float bobbing along in the distance.

Suddenly a grey thing appears in the water, though only for a moment. The line is quickly reeled in. It’s a mad dash along the shoreline and through a thicket of trees. She arrives at the location, an old boathouse. It is a struggle opening the large peeling doors but finally she gets in. It is dark. With the help of little rays of light coming through the rafters, she discovers a boat hidden in cobwebs.

In the distance a voice calls: “Piano lessons!”

The piano instructor arrives all buttoned up and with her hair in a bun. She resembles a bluebell in spring. Ironing out the ruffles in her dress, with her hands, she sits stiff-like on a stool. The girl tightens herself, imitates the teacher and begins to lightly dance her fingers over the piano. The girl steals glances at her fingers.

The instructor scowls and jerks her head towards the score sheet. “Now, try again, from the beginning.”

She starts again. Her fingers touch the keys, picking up speed, cantering and then galloping. The page is turned; another piece plays, a little harder this one. Her fingers trip at times. The instructor does not wait for the finale. She grabs the girl’s hands, hums the tune, and hammers the tips of her fingers on the keys.

When practice is over, she is left with a pile of homework, and progress expected.

The sky above turns grey as a light drizzle creates ripples across the lake. On the water a boat bobs inside the girl sits still and scans the lake.

A shape of a fin is seen then a long nose and a flipper. She rows out towards in the direction of the sighting, she stops, looks around and then down into the murky water. Then she hears a loud chatter followed by a large splash. A dolphin!

Sunlight streams through the dining room window, travels down the long table and casts light over a man in a polo shirt. A woman, wearing a black strapless dress and a pearl necklace sits next to him. The girl sits at the far end of the table.

The woman sips her wine. “As if our marriage wasn’t shaky enough you decide to go and get yourself a whore. I mean what were you thinking, maybe if I went and got myself a …”

He cuts into his meat. “I wouldn’t put it past you from what I’ve heard...”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The woman turns her nose up at the food, waves the dish away and downs her glass of wine.

The girl piles peas and carrots on to her plate and spoons a generous portion of gravy into a mountain of mash. She forks a pea and throws it into the gravy. “Help I’m sinking!” A carrot is roughly tossed into the inferno. She deepens her voice. “It burns! It burns! I promise I’ll be good!”

The word divorce stops her play. The man glares. “Eat your dinner!”

When the adults leave the light starts to fade. Dusk is approaching.

She takes off her shoes and socks and wades into the water. She shivers then dips under the water continually moving her arms and legs about. The dolphin arrives, all chat, and draws ringlets around her.

A voice calls: “Time to come in!”

She draws near to the dolphin it chatters and splashes all at once when the contact is made. She strokes the dolphin, cautiously, running her hand across the smooth grey arch of its back.

Voices call: “Time to come in!” “Where are you?”

She looks back at the house then swims after the dolphin. In the night sky the silver moon shines down on the lake and the girl swims down into the darkness.

Body -revised

Due to a few comments I have gotten and my own dissatisfation with the story I have revised and redited it. I think I sorted out the voice and put it in present tense. Hopefully this reads a lot better than before. I will probably continue editing this.

Body
The crisp morning air numbs the wide ugly-flat countryside. Roughly ploughed furrows of earth cover the landscape. Down by a windy stretch of road a collection of spindly trees screen a clutter of cowsheds and a grey two-storey house. The house door is open and it is dark and cavernous inside. In the narrow corridor large muddy footprints paint patterns and travel down the worn flowery carpet stopping outside an open door. Through the door is a small, mouldy-smelling room. A thick layer of dirt veils daylight from entering through the window, below a limescale sink holds a dirty pot submerged in water. Next to the sink a bed of bricks prop up a food-incrusted cooker while cabinets and drawers with crooked doors sit on either side. A table stands by the wall while a large-sized man with rolls of fat forming around his neck and waistline slouches over a cereal bowl. His hair is matted, dark and greasy, and his face tired.
Above a black-and-white photograph hangs over him, enclosed in a stocky, protective frame. The figure is of a slim a man wearing a cap.
The man does not finish his breakfast instead he gets up from the table and makes his way into the muck-filled air.
Outside the cold stings. The man walks briskly over the untidy yard covered in farm equipment and mountains of turf and makes his way towards an open shed in which a tractor with a plough is parked. Sunlight illuminates the tractor bonnet, spills out over the rusty grates and travels into the windowless driver’s box. He climbs high up into the cold icebox and turns the key in the ignition. The engine rattles. He drives over the cobbled yard passing cows crowding behind a fence and enters the flat fields.
From his vantage point he can inspect the land. Tidy uniformed hedgerows, with the odd gorse bush, skirt the edges of the ploughed fields. Gripping the wheel with his butcher-like hands he drives the tractor over the rough furrows of earth and stops. The plough, with its blade fixed in its frame, cuts into the weight of the earth and prepares the ground for the planting of seeds. Then the blade strikes something. The stubborn earth fights. The tractor rattles. He slides out of the tractor and marches over to investigate. Standing above the trouble spot he looks down and not more than a foot below are dark, bony limbs peeking out, preserved and barely visible. The face is shrunken in and skeletal, the skull nests in the worn fibres of a lined cap. The jacket is in tatters and the trousers well gnawed.
Reaching into his trouser pocket he pulls out a battered mobile and with his muddy fingers and dirt clogged nails he dials a number. “I want to report a body I found in my field.”
On the other end an incoherent, monotone voice replies while sky-grey stacks of cloud appear. He concentrates on the little drizzles of rain watching drops silhouette his fleece, and then he turns his attention to the phone call– a shaky bad reception one. He gives his name, information and address.
He makes out: “We will send someone out to you shortly.”
Hanging up he slides the phone back into his pocket, takes a deep breath of air and climbs back into the tractor. He rests his face in his hands and dozes off. A siren wakes him and he spots a vehicle, in thick black clouds, flashing lights in the distance. The vehicle pulls up next to the tractor. The cut of the guard is anything but reassuring. He is sweat-soaked, wears a cap and busts out of his wrinkled-blue uniform. It is a struggle to get out of the car. After numerous attempts he becomes unstuck only to discover the field presents another obstacle – mud. His movements are slow and laboured, his breathing heavy. Up in the tractor the man points. The guard’s footsteps play catch up with the other as they follow the direction of the finger and the intricate line of the gesture. When he arrives at the body, he hovers, and reaches for his radio, which he carries by his side. He messes about with the controls while above the sky blackens and raindrops increase in regularity and size.
“When do you think I could get back to work?”
The radio crackles as the guard studies the dirt, the layers, the slight differences of colour, the mixture of clay and topsoil. “I’m afraid you won’t be doing any work today – from the look of things.”
The guard offers the man a lift. He gets in and gives directions for the duration of the journey over the fields. All the while sweat oozes from the guard, the smell fills up the car. In an attempt to avoid suffocation the man rolls down the window but this does not help as the thick smell trails down his nostrils and enters his lungs. When the car arrives at the mouth of his house the man exits the sweatbox with the smell cloaking his clothes.

The sitting room is dark. A trickle of sunlight filters through the dirty net curtains illuminating layers of dust on the open marble fireplace. Above, a large copper-frame mirror hugs the flowery-white wallpaper while inside a tall glass cabinet an assortment of china rests beside a black-and-white photograph of man wearing a cap. A little smile lights the lips of the figure in the photograph and he stands up to his knees in a bog resting on a shovel used for cutting turf. Below the cabinet a whiskey bottle sits on a coffee table. The man takes a seat on a worn leather settee while the figure in the uniform sits opposite in a small wicker chair. There is no customary cup of tea, scone or biscuit only a slice of uneasy silence.
“It is too early to make assumptions but we will follow every line of inquiry. We will get to the bottom of this.”
The guard fishes out a black leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket followed by a biro and starts to write. He stares into the man’s eyes. “It must have been difficult dealing with your father’s disappearance at such a young age.”
“Difficult?”
Silence follows. There is mention of legal proceedings as sweat churns round the room.
“The area is not to be disturbed.”

Upstairs the man sits on a single bed with his boots still on nursing a bottle of whiskey. Next to the bed is a table, on top is: a tin, a clay pipe and a box of matches. He puts the bottle down, on the floor by the bed, and presses his thumb hard on the tin, revealing little curls of tobacco. The scent of chestnuts swirl about the room as he stuffs the pipe with tobacco. Licking his lips he puts the clay pipe in his mouth and strikes a match. Light waltzes around the walls and across the lines of his face and then he lights his pipe, puffing white clouds around the room. The velvet curtains dance as he sinks into a horizontal position. It is a dangerous occupation, lying down and smoking, but he is well accustomed to such a routine. He positions the pipe upright on the bed, a little signal of smoke streams upwards as he fishes blindly for the whiskey. After a few attempts of snatching nothing but air he grabs hold of the bottle, opens it and draws the prize to his mouth. He lets the warm taste of oak whirl about in his mouth, and then releases the fiery stream down his throat and into his belly. In clever little intervals he puffs his pipe and gulps his drink. He views dusk through the swaying curtains, spotting flickering lights in the muddy-grey sky. The outline of the moon hints silver.

He is outside, now, swaying over the yard, clasping the cold, thin neck of the whiskey bottle. Taking large regular swigs he watches his white breath in the dark. He uses the light of the moon to guide him through the sheds and out into the open fields. A cold wind tears at him as he makes his way towards the approaching shadowy hedges.
He makes it to the spot where the body rests. Large pools of moonlight entrench the soil, illuminating the thin, bony skeletal features. Crouching down to get a better look he takes a swig for courage and then with an air of apprehension he touches its cheekbone. He gets accustomed to the cold rubbery flesh and then his fingers travel up to its cap, tracing the face, following the line of the jaw. He takes another swig while above the night sky swarms with white, forensic stars. He digs his hand into the jacket pocket of the skeleton, pulling out a thick-leathery bit of paper and with the help of the moon he makes out ghost-like faces. He runs his fingers over the sides of the paper, the front and back and then turns his attention back to the petrified body. He studies ground worms feasting inside the yawning smorgasbord mouth. A centipede scutters out of a deep eye cavity and travels endlessly down the sinewy road-like legs. The photograph slips now out of his fingers, floating over the blade of the plough and out into the hedgerows. Little drops of sweat slide down his arms and dampen his sleeves as he takes another swig and starts to walk, first in little steps but then they quicken over the landscape. He makes no plans, nor will he follow a path or an intricate route by which his generations once followed. Taking one last look behind at his moonlit house he walks towards the large brooding horizon that streaks little wisps of light.

Coming to an Understanding

Granny never talked about the Lusitania, I quickly learnt that such a topic was off limits. Most days she would sit on a chair by the fire, hunched over her knitting. Sometimes I would sit for lengths at a time in the round bath, enacting a full scale battle; suds were perfect places to hide battleships from the roaming eyes of submarines. Low sonar sounds would pause momentarily as they surfaced. Panic ensued on an ocean liner as a torpedo tore into its side. “Abandon ship!”

At the public pool the smell of bleach was thick in the air. A young lifeguard tried to establish some sort of order with a group of kids engaged in horseplay. I slipped into the deep end and did a few leisurely lengths of the pool. I quickened the pace, thinking of the up-coming competitions. All of a sudden I panicked. My arms and legs were useless. Above muffled screams and shouts slowly disappeared as I floated helplessly towards the bottom of the pool. I could hear the pounding sound of my heart. When I came to I was lying on a deck chair. A crowd had gathered. A lifeguard asked, “Are you okay?”

When I got home my worried parents said that I would have to go to the hospital for tests the following morning. Granny arrived from upstairs to see if I was okay. She ushered me into the sitting room. A cup of tea and biscuits were in order. I sat by the roaring fire on her favourite chair.

“It must have been terrible when the Lusitania sank” I said, cupping my hands around the piping hot mug. She grew tense.

“It was”, she said “though I was lucky to have survived”.

I looked at my granny, her white hair and her wrinkled hands, and pictured her struggling to survive out there in that giant ocean, in that pitching ship.

Aliens, SHEEP and other Things

So I have been at this story for a good few years and it's something that I have just been messing around with. I thought I'd clean it up with a bit more editing and see what people think. It is by no means finished, though I have written a fair amount of it. I know the title is a bit bizarre, but it was the best I could come up with. Thanks for looking ;)


Aliens, SHEEP and other Things

Thoughts and Traffic
I woke up to the sound of traffic below. Gathering by the light that was struggling to get in through the old dusty blinds it was early morning. I tried to go back to sleep but the events of the previous day were whirring around inside my head. I could almost see my reflection on the bald shiny head of my boss. His glaring blue eyes frightened me. The flare in his nostrils made me jump.

"You're fired!" He gnarled. I covered my ears, screaming got people nowhere.

I inquired into the reason for the sacking the only answer that came was: "We're cutting down on overheads." That was it. I thought about it for a while with my head in an open staff locker trying to tell myself in the dark crampt space that everything would be okay, that I could find another job after working in one for ten long shitty years.

Now I had my head under my pillow thinking faster than I really wanted to. Job, job, job...Money, money...sleep, sleep, sleep. The thinking continued on and on. I had enough of the clattering below so I leapt out of bed, ran towards the bathroom, and doused my head with cold water from the white ceramic sink. There's nothing like a cold bit of water in the morning to wake you up, to reposition your thoughts and to get you to focus on the day ahead.

I couldn't focus. I glanced at my face in the large mirror that was full of dried toothpaste from a ritual called brushing one’s teeth. I hated brushing my teeth, and why did someone have to come up with tongue brushing? I ran my hand over my rough, leathery face. I needed a shave. I tried not to think, tried not to tell myself, "You were fired, so you need to find a job."

If my father showed his face I would have loved for him to say, "You can ride off my coat-tails anytime, son."

That was a fictional incident; such a thing would never happen, I was sure of it. I continued to stare into the mirror, into my green eyes, wondering if luck had anything to do with my current position. Luck had nothing to do with it; I was not superstitious nor had I ever had notions of becoming such.

After deciding to postpone job hunting I crawled back in bed. I owed myself a lie in. I shut my eyes and scrunched them closed to stop any bit of light from entering.

Why? Why what? Why? I thought for a while under the covers, huddled in a fetal position, a stream of images and thoughts filling my mind. Somehow my mind was having a field day at my expense. When I pictured Dad in my head I saw a stubborn, greying-haired man wearing round glasses, standing hunched under a door frame. I heard a dog, and the sound of car engines followed. I had no headache, no pain establishing itself anywhere, just a lot of thoughts that were collecting like a snowball slowly rolling down a hill and then gathering up momentum.

Why is there such a thing as coffee? Why can't hands exist on legs? Why does red offer certain connotations that green does not? Now such questions are what an eight year old may ask himself or his parents, but he quickly learns that such questions are pointless and will only wreck the head if such matters are continually thought on.

I never had such a problem with thinking too much, come to think of it. I think I had, at various times of my life, been accused of not thinking enough. This was different, though. Something wasn't quite right. I would have to pay the doctor a little visit.


A Visit to the Doctor
The walls were a white off colour and a coffee table positioned in the middle of the room was surrounded by a dozen of oddly matched chairs. A bunch of magazines cluttered up the coffee table; a sailing journal, a supplement from some paper titled, How to Look Young in Fifty Easy Steps. I picked up a few magazines aimlessly flicking through the pages. I sat trying not to think of thinking, looking at the clock and tracing its every tick. But the more I tried to resist the temptation of holding back my thoughts, the more it became inevitable that my brain was building something, building up a great explosion of thoughts. My palms began to sweat and my legs started to shake violently.

Don't think, don't think, don't think…

Why are you here? Why is the coffee table of a wood variety? What kind of wood was used? How old is old? Why is love red? Those were only questions, stupid questions that I seemed to have stored somewhere especially for a time such as this. My legs started to shake even more; I tried to resist but it was useless. I sat on my hands, thinking that it would do something to calm me. It didn't.

Light is light and dark is dark. Huh? Such silly little thoughts. Room. I held the thought gathered in my mind and spelt it: R-O-O-M. Perhaps such a word contained an equation, some hidden secret. I thought about it for a second and then jumbled up the words in my head. M-O-O-R. Room spelt moor. It spelt M-O-R-O. Somewhere I read that the Moro Reflex was a response to unexpected loud noise, or when the infant feels like it is falling. It is believed to be the only unlearned fear in human newborns. There was a study done once called the little Albert study which used the startle reflex in a conditioning experiment to make him fear white fuzzy things. Perhaps something like this had been done to me. Though I did not know what the conditioning could have been, it definitely couldn't be white fuzzy things. The more I thought the more confused I became, almost to the point of losing it.

Would the doctor hurry up! What was taking him?

I noticed no one had entered the room nor left it, and from what I gathered I had been sitting in the waiting room for about thirty minutes.

"Mr. Bates!" I heard a husky voice shout out from the hall. "Mr. Bates! Doctor Martin will see you now."

I slowly got up, made my way to the door and pushed down on the handle.

He was sitting on his black leather chair his fingers tracing his chiselled jaw line. A splash of light haloed his blonde hair. He was young, though his brown eyes said, "I have seen a lot for my age."

He was making little grunting noises just below his throat as I took my seat. He opened his mouth to say something and then quickly drew away, continuing to swivel his chair. He listened to my heart, checked my pulse and did a variety of little checks while grunting his disapproval. I listened to the sound of his tapping feet under the desk mimicking the beat of the clock.

"So what is wrong with me doctor?" I asked after a moment of uneasy silence.

He sat upright, tore a piece of paper from a notebook on his desk and drew a square.
It was four sided, nothing out of the ordinary.

"What is it?" He asked.

Puzzled I cocked my head and said, "A square?"

"Yes, and…?"

"A box?"

He looked up at me and said, "You have to think outside of it."

My eyes enlarged. How could I believe what the doctor was telling me?

The doctor continued, "How do you think outside the box?"

"Ermm…" I thought. How does one go about thinking outside a box, how does one develop thinking inside a box in the first place?

"You see Tom, you have what is termed as 'over-thinking'." He was pointing his large bony index finger at me.

"Over-thinking?" I was confused, never heard of such a term.

"Yes it is when you think too much." That was an overly simplified version of what he thought my condition was. Perhaps it was too simple.

Was it a disease? Would I have to live with it all my life?

"I know it may sound bizarre but such a condition, though highly rare, occurs with males between their mid twenties to late thirties. Some say it is brought on by anxiety, but really no one knows what triggers it."

Wonderful!

"You can still live a normal life and with the right medication and mental exercises it can be manageable. Recently a doctor in Holland devised the Outside Thinking therapy, which is a programme of different exercises that will get you to think outside what he terms a mental 'square' or 'box'. You are undergoing a mental flux at the moment where your mind is stuck inside a space. However, with this therapy you can harness your thoughts which are at the moment firing on all cylinders.”

It was all too much for me.

"You also have to realise that this method is very much at the early stages of research and has only been tested on a few patients. I advise you to continue with this therapy for six months, take all the medication that I subscribe to you. I will meet you on a regular basis to discuss your progress."

I put my hand to my head. Great news! It sounded so absurd.

"I'll get the subscription done up right away, and I'll give you all the instructions on how to carry out the therapy. Any questions…?"

I shook my head.

There were lots of questions, a lot of them he couldn't answer so I just kept quiet. I got up from my chair, picked up my coat and left through the door I came in. I took all the information of the therapy and the subscription on the way out. What news! I deserved a coffee for all my troubles.

The Ad | Part II. | NWS

Webmaster's Note: I moved this over to Fiction along with Part I because I need slim down our main page to just poetry.

Please use caution when reading this - this is when the graphic parts take place. I wanted to warn you unless you put the blame on me.

§§§§§§

Wednesday morning arrived, Henson walked to his lecturers with a spring in his step at the usual time of 8am. When 12pm arrived he found himself down Greenway Road, a line of orange trees on the side of the road and a row of houses. He found himself in front of a red brick house with the number 103 hanging, off centred. He shuffled for the key in his pocket and then put the silver key into the key hole, turned it at which the door squealed open - in need of some oil. The foyer was empty, only a black umbrella balanced on the wall, a frame with the words; I will succeed hung crooked on the peeling white wall. He entered the kitchen, a table lay in the centre, a stainless steel sink, a big window behind to let in the garden that was overgrown with weeds. No dishes in the cabinets, no kettle to boil some water for tea. A broom leaned on a wooden door, intrigued he opened it realising that there were steps leading down into blackness. After searching for some sort of light he found a cord and pulled it, which sprayed light over darkness. The creak of the stairs worried him as he slowly made his way down into what he realised was a basement or cellar of some sort.

It was reasonably clean for a basement, though, there was this musty smell that shot down the mouth and released itself all around the lungs. A table stood in the centre of the room, only one small window though lay to the side. Most of the decorations of the room were irrelevant as the table was the main attraction. A large box lay on the table with a glass screen; it was covered in wires in the back which then led in a tangled mess to a power source attached to a central board. Henson scratched his head not knowing if the procedure would be easy, it looked highly complicated. A book lay next to the contraption with the word manual written in black lettering. A chair lay in the corner with wires running out of it and across the floor towards the central board.

If he was to get his 5,000 he would have to make a move on it. He picked up the thick book and read.

There are minimal procedures involved for the successful working of this machine. First flip the red switch on the wall marked A.

Henson looked around, saw a red button which was marked A and flipped it down, immediately a large whirring sound kicked in.

He continued to read. Switch the box on. The switch is found on the front below the screen.

He did this. The screen flickered black and white lines. Next turn the switch on behind the chair.

It was a mess behind there, but eventually he found the switch.

Connect patches to your head, the wires attached with clips fasten to the fingertips, then sit.

It was comical all the wires tangling with one another, the patches wired to God knew where sticking to his temple. His fingers wired up were now turning blue. He sat down and waited. He looked at the screen flickering, the sound of whirring in the background. He closed his eyes slipping back in the easy chair.

Each memory flickered somewhat, at times it was static, though it was a moving representation of another world, a life perhaps that would exist in the penultimate utopia. It was warm a cool breeze whispered across the blue sky marinating with the field of golden wheat. A picnic lunch was shared on a green crescent hill, lovers on a blanket, the red wine bottle empty now. Faces smiled; content to remain silent, to remain in a timeless ecstasy alone with another soul, lost in an instant forever.

Winter was eaten like ice-cream, vanilla snow, a walk through the park, a run through the melting stuff. A snowman melts in the mouth, a fullness of stomach.

“Hello,” a voice called out, she was blonde, shining like an angel, her eyes the colour of a dark green leaf.

“Hi, there,” the man replied, his knees shaking, his cheeks reddening.

She made it known to him what she wanted, by uncovering herself, by pulling back the covers, by the strawberry scented candles, by the soft music filtering through the room. He could hear the snap of the bra, the unbuttoning of his pants, her breath in short little puffs for air running down his neck. It was time for bed.

Memories came and went, new ones, ones were invented. It was over an easy five grand.

The first two weeks went well, he realised at the end of what he now termed a session that he could play back his entire session on the screen, which seemed a little surreal. The thought about why they needed such information never entered his head as long as he got his money.

Now he didn’t know when it started but he realised there were little flickers, little flashes of images that made him shutter. He could be walking over warm, white sand, a blue shimmering sea and then bang, the sea would turn red and blood would cover his toes, and just as suddenly as the image changed everything was normal again. He would be smiling, a blonde haired girl, in a bikini would run to his side. Everything would be wonderful.

“You there…!”

Henson lifted his head off the desk, a little dribble of drool slipped down his chin.
“Yes?” he pointed to himself.

“Sleeping is prohibited in class.” The wizened haired professor shouted.

Eyes darted his direction, a snicker or two, a whisper of voices. Henson straightened himself out, defiantly sitting in his seat for the remainder of the class, still struggling to stay awake.

The little car could only go so fast. It shuddered as it turned a bend, shook as it chugged around the round about and headed off into the fog. The driver with his hands on the wheel peered out into the road. A few vehicles with their burning lights passed the car going the opposite direction; he rubbed his eyes trying to stay awake. He passed a row of houses a disused petrol station, a parked lorry on the side of the road.

Bang!

The car jumped, shook, and then veered off the road hitting a tree. The driver ran out of the vehicle back to where he heard the bang, felt something underneath the tires. A bit of a body was there, on the road, its head intact, though bloody, a little trail of entrails spilling out, it was missing a leg at the socket, perhaps the car had grinded it, chewed it up and spat out into tiny pieces. It had black, curly hair that soaked up the blood, its eyes shut, a fountain of blood spurting out of nostrils. Perhaps it was a boy; it was difficult to make out the size of the body. A moan arrived, a deep groan that bellowed down the road, a few window lights switched on. The driver looked aghast, clutched his ears, and opened his mouth wide as he ran back towards the car, jumped behind the steering wheel, kicked the car into first gear and sped away.

He watched it again. The body lying on the road, he replayed it on the box, shaking at the sight of the blood and guts. No more. It reminded him too much of the newspaper boy. He turned everything off and slowly exited the house. He would go to bed.

He didn’t know how long he slept for but all he knew was he slept. And he should have felt good because he had not slept for days, yet he felt like shit. He made himself a breakfast of fried eggs and toast and washed it down with milk, that he could have sworn was sour. The clock on the wall read 11:30am, suddenly it dawned on him that it was Wednesday and if he was to make his 12 o’clock appointment he would have to hurry. Forgetting such a thing would mean the end of all payments. He ran out the door, flying down the steps out the front door and into the oncoming traffic, trams and lorries nearly hitting him, a little yellow Vespa, with a helmeted passenger swerved out of the way narrowly avoiding him.

He was on time, barely as he opened the door of the house at precisely twelve o’clock, though upon closer thought he realised that he wasn’t told whether the tests were to begin on the hour or he was supposed to arrive no later than that certain time. Upon arrival in the basement and after turning on the light, he was shocked to find the place in disorder. Papers were strewn all over the floor, the manual had pages torn out, the chair was ripped in several places, wires pulled out of sockets and the box lied face down on the floor. He scratched his head, wrinkled his brow, trying to think.

“I did not do this,” he said out loud. “I can remember perfectly well that I left the place in order.” He remembered the other man waiting for the appointment and surmised that perhaps he had also got the job or others who attended the interview were just taking other shifts. After thinking to himself momentarily he started to tidy up the mess so that he could continue on with the tests that he had committed to carry out.

After struggling to find what he deemed was the right place to connect the wires he sat on the chair, wired himself up and continued on with the tests.

It was four o’clock when he turned off the machines and locked the door behind himself.

Now paranoia was starting to set in not that there was any reason to get paranoid, but he thought of the box and how he could replay what he seemed to think were his thoughts, his inner conscious, were they playing it out on some channel, like a reality show? Perhaps the nation were watching him, watching his neurosis, his pattern of brain waves on the box that sat in every house, on a comfy chair.

He realised now, suddenly it dawned on him, eyes were peering out – watching him, commuters coming from work would furtively look away. A little red-head boy eating chocolate ice-cream stared at him not realising the ice-cream was melting, running down his hands, staining his school shirt that his mother so lovingly ironed. He checked the TV guide no reference to such a programme, he checked the Internet for latest crazes – nothing. He checked YouTube to see if his videos were being uploaded there – nothing.

The lecture came, Professor Evans stood in front of the class and said, “Mr. Dockard, you are a failure, you are making your class look bad with your low attendance and bad grades. I do not care what issues you have, family or otherwise, you are here to learn.

Henson stood up, realising he was shaky on his feet and shouted, “Mr. Evan, I do not care about my grades or attendance, in actuality I do not agree with your ideologies, I realise that a vagrant would make more sense than you, and would encourage more classroom growth than you can ever imagine. Why don’t you just shut up, I do not think anyone is interested.” Henson sat back down, after which the professor excused himself and the rest of the class followed suit not really knowing what took place.

He was on the chair again, only this time it was different. He was going on for a reason to enact revenge on someone who he believed destroyed any common sense he had and destroyed him for it. He closed his eyes, smiled and then thought hard.

He listened to the sound of his feet bouncing over the pavement; up ahead a white haired man was running beside an elderly woman. He sped up, and ran alongside the couple. The elderly man saluted him, he did the same, but what followed was a fist which smashed into the man’s face. He was thrown to the ground, the woman stopped running, and rushed over to the man. She gasped; his mouth was swimming in teeth and blood.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She cried as the elderly man moaned.

The assailant swung his foot, cracking the woman’s jaw and swirling her around in the air. The man on the ground fought to stand but he was beaten back down in a torrid of punches and kicks. After beating them senseless he turned around and ran off leaving them groaning in their own blood.

The images were real, brutal footage of a defenceless couple being beaten into the ground. He smiled, at least he could imagine, at least he was not harming anyone. He went home, had a bite to eat and then went to sleep.

What he could see in the box was being translated into his dreams, he dreamt of strangling the professor, of choking him, of sneaking up behind him while he was jogging and killing him. He imagined taking him down into the dark basement and killing him. But it was only a dream so it would never happen.

When he awoke he felt terrible, the light streaming in the window only compounded his headache and made him flee back to his bed only to experience more nightmares. He eventually made his way to class, though he was told to go home as one of his professors had died – brutally attacked while jogging. The funeral would be held the next day.

He arrived at the house sat himself on the chair and imagined what pain would feel like. He sat in front of a table in front of him was a saw, a hammer, and a drill. He picked up the saw tooth saw and drove it into his finger – blood followed. There was a tool box under the table, where he found a clamp he fixed it to the table and then his arm and then proceeded to saw with his free hand. It felt tingly when the blade broke through skin and then arteries – the arm bleeding. The motion of the saw went back and forth as he neared the bone sawing, and screaming all at once, his eyes popping out of his head. Sawing through bone sounded and felt like chalk on a blackboard – screeching through the body like a wailing cat. Not long later he stood agape without an arm, blood dripping out of him, the sawn off arm dangling on the clamp, his mouth wide and agonised.

Enough for one day he was going home.

A week had passed and he felt terrible, he could not sleep, though he could not drag himself out of bed except to use the toilet. He did not eat and his mind keep on thinking, thinking about the jogging professor, thinking about the child that he ran over, thinking about his arm that he so recklessly tore off in his mind. In reality he still had two arms, though he was growing suspicious as to the death of the professor and started to think of what else he had done.

He was in the basement again, on time, a chance to make an easy 5,000. Though this time he got the biggest scare of his life when he turned on the light to find the walls covered in red, his shoes soaking up the blood on the floor. Something else grabbed his attention, next to the box on the table was a hand gun and next to it a piece of paper with his signature.

I Henson Dockard hereby declare that I am the sole owner of the house. I purchased the premises on the 1 Sept 2005 in the presence of a solicitor. All other documents relating to such a matter can be seen upon request.

Sincerely,

Henson Dockard.

He picked up the gun looked at it, the chamber was loaded.

“Mr Dockard!” A voice rang out.

Henson spun around it was coming from outside.

“You’re surrounded, put your hands behind your head!”

Huh, he whispered as he neared the window and saw squad cars parked outside – a contingent of uniformed men with rifles stood in the driveway.

Henson did not understand the urgency of such a matter, he had done nothing wrong, the blood in the basement was not due to him, he never bought the house, the gun was not his, he killed no one.

He turned on the box, put it on replay, he grimaced, the neighbours Mr & Mrs. Devon were on the screen. He had seen them on one or two occasions suspiciously watching him as he entered the house. Now he watched on screen shocked to find that he was dragging them down the basement into the toilet. He stopped watching, ran towards the toilet and opened the door to find both of them slumped over the toilet bowl, bullets through their backs.

“Henson, this is Mr. Finchley, come out of the building! Why don’t you just give yourself up?”

What was Mr. Finchley doing with the police? Henson was doing the tests for him, he was sure Mr. Finchley would understand. He neared the window, opened it and fired a few shots.
Bang, bang!

“Mr Dockard the police know you killed Professor Evans, they know what you did to your neighbours, they know…”

His voice died down.

“Mr Dockard this is the police, if you don’t come out in five minutes we have no other choice than to come in.”

Henson grimaced, looked at the gun and then the chair. Everything was pointing in his direction; no one else could be connected. He swore at himself, cursed his predicament all the while trying to think how he could get out of such a situation. He could think of nothing. He thought of Faust and his pact with the devil, he was in a similar position. Unlike Faust nothing would save him, he could not be redeemed, for whatever it was he did. Salvation was not for him. He walked slowly towards the chair, sat down, wired himself up, and closed his eyes, jamming the trigger into his temple. He thought of lying in a bed of green rolling hills, his sweetheart in his arms, a red bottle of wine intoxicating the both of them, the yellow sun swimming in the cloudy sky.

Bang!

The mess was cleaned up; Henson’s face was on the front page of every newspaper. Psycho Student Goes on Killing Spree, Student Takes His own Life after Three Dead, headlines read. A few days later, an ad was placed in the Mansfield Press.

Requesting the services of certain individuals to test product x
Reply c/o Forster P.O. Box 1892

The test had been a success, now they were looking for new participants.

[end]

The Ad | Part I. | NWS

Webmaster's Note: I moved this over to Fiction along with Part II because I need slim down our main page to just poetry.

I have made it NWS due to the sensitive nature. Please do not read this if prose like this does not suit your tastes. I do hope it does not offend anyone.


The Ad

I.

He had seen it advertised in the local paper; the lettering was red and the font was large italicised letters that ran unevenly across the page. The only image was a box that was covered in wires. It read:

Requesting the services of certain individuals to test product x

Reply c/o Forster P.O. Box 1892

Henson shook his head, put the paper down, rubbed the smudged ink off his hands and took another sip of his now cold black coffee. He looked at the advertisement again realising that on the bottom left hand corner in tiny lettering it read: terms and conditions apply. Now such a find opened up more questions such as what the terms really were, who were the individuals, what was product x, what was the image of the box, what was the need for a PO Box and what was the need for no details about the company itself.

After paying for the coffee that he treated himself to once a week he crossed the busy road, newspaper still in hand and headed off to the campus park where he would whittle away the rest of the afternoon admiring the various species of ducks, then turn his gaze towards a passing college fresher, with her blonde hair and blue jeans, looking hopelessly lost. This day was different; his attention was turned towards the ad in the paper and his skyrocketing student debts that would only cripple him after graduation.

Intrigued by the ambiguous request of certain individuals to test product x he pulled out a small notebook out of his blazer jacket and then a pen out of the same location and wrote.

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing in relation to the ad seen in the Mansfield Press. I am requiring to the nature of such an advertisement and to arrange for an appointment to obtain further information on such a statement. You will find on the back of the envelope my address.

Sincerely,
Henson Dockard

Now such a formal letter should have been written on crisp white paper, but Henson having worked out his financial spending pattern a month in advance knew that writing paper had not been figured into the accounts. Envelopes were allowed, though only the brown starchy kind, the kind that scratched like sand paper. He posted the letter.

Studies were all that Henson could think about and the weekly drink down in Harty’s Pub followed by a game of footie on the college grounds.

A letter arrived, in a white envelope; he opened it carefully and read:

Dear Mr. Dockard,

Thanks for replying to the ad campaign we have been running in the Mansfield Press. We are pleased to announce that an appointment has been arranged for you.

Sincerely,
Forester

Henson discovered a small piece of paper detailing the whereabouts and time of appointment. It read: Tuesday, 12pm 19A Rectory Place, Parklands Industrial Estate. Tuesday was only a day away so he made sure his suit was ironed the night before his black shoes polished and shined and his hair combed back for the event.

It was a grey day, smoke stacks reached into the sky bellowing out plumes of smoke. Henson brought his little red Ford to a stop and got out of the car to see where he was.

He read the sign of the building – twelve, he got back in the car, carefully closed the door put it into first gear and rolled the car around the corner and down an empty road.

He counted the numbers, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen….

Once again he got out of the car, noticing the dent on the bonnet, the dent reminded him year ago when a newspaper boy cycled into his car and left a mark— he didn’t know what happened to the boy.

He stood in front of the large red brick building; it was tall, the top floor was painted black, only a window or two to let the light in. He brushed off his jacket locked the car and briskly made his way to the entrance, giving his watch a flick with his wrist making sure he was on time. Upon entering the empty lobby that contained no sign of life, no desk, no chair, no whirring of sound, beeping of monitors, no ring of phone, he spotted a sign, off colour yellow, hanging on a door that read in hurried handwriting: Interviews in Progression. He put his hand around the door handle and pushed gently. A row of chairs filled on side of the wall, a coffee table in the middle with a pile of magazines, a tall palm tree in the corner lay in a ceramic pot that was too small for the roots. Another door lay to the side the door to the interviews.

A man with greying hair and red bloodshot eyes sat on the chair occasionally giving out a whimper of a cough that bounced off the walls as if there were a chorus of coughs. Henson sat on the wooden chair, clasped his hands, and stared at the clock - he was on time. The incessant ticking transferred into his head and then a whirring, droning sound entered which was eventually followed by a squeal of a door, clicking of heels, and then a, “Mr. Finchley will see you now sir.”

He slowly followed the woman, the brown knee length skirt the voluptuous hips, her shoulder length hair. He passed through the door noticing an empty chair in the centre of the room. A man enveloped by a cloud of smoke sat behind a desk surrounded in papers, pens and empty mugs covered in a light film of brown grunge.

Henson took the seat. The door closed behind him.

“So Mr. Dockard,” the voice was monotone, slow-droning, enough to put anyone to sleep.
“Yes,” he replied conscious of his body language.

“You are probably curious as to the nature of the ad campaign we have been running.”

“Yes,” he replied crossing his legs. It was obvious he was interested, that’s why he was there.

“Basically we are undergoing tests on a certain product and we need subjects who are willing to undergo analysis.”

Henson’s eyes widened, a puzzled look stretched his face. When were they ever going to get to the point?

“Yes, well, it consists of once a week going to a certain location hooking yourself up to a machine for an hour, we will monitor all your behavioural patterns and then you will be on your way. This will last for six months, which means twenty-four visits. We will deposit five grand a visit which added up makes…”

120,000? Henson titled his chair back with shock though he managed to throw his feet out in time to bring the chair legs back to the ground.

“I am sure that amount is adequate, though if you don’t think so, we can always make other arrangements.”

Not wanting to push his luck and reverse the good fortune he gulped and said, “No, no 120,000 is adequate enough.”

“There are certain stipulations, you must show up every week if you are to receive your 5,000, if you miss one appointment the entire contract expires and that is the end of any future deposits. You will undergo a full examination both physical and physiological, and you will keep all contact you have with us to yourself. You will be given a copy of the contract and terms and conditions if you are interested in taking this interview further. That is all. Oh, yes and you will be given a manual on how to operate the device, it is very straight forward, you will find no difficulty whatsoever.”

“And will I be helping advance science?”

“Don’t ask questions, if you want to take part in this, and receive the payments you have to learn not to ask questions. Follow through with all the given procedures and you will manage.”

Henson left the building with a large enough document in his hand. In all the excitement he forgot to ask about the risks. Were there any dangers? 120,000 kept on playing, rolling, swimming inside his head. What to do with all that money, more than enough to payback student loans, his old beat up car could be replaced, he could rent a flat and get far away from the student dorms, and he could invest. He jumped into his car and pulled out of the estate.

There was no thinking about it, no tug on the conscious, no question as to what it was all about, the terms and conditions were too long and time consuming to even read so he signed the end of the document posted it back and awaited a response. A letter arrived in the post two days later telling of the examination he was to undergo and if everything checked out he would proceed to complete the task.

He was seated in the waiting room, a noticed a stack of magazines on a metal coffee table, a leafy green plant grew towards the ceiling. A door opened a woman in a white uniform said, “This way Mr. Dockard, the doctor will see you now.” He walked down the long white hall, not much sound, except the clippity-clip of the woman’s high heels clicking off the floor. He was led into the room where a man with a stethoscope was waiting for him behind a desk. Everything was fine; he was healthy as a spring lamb. Henson was given a document as he left a jangle of what sounded like keys could be heard from the package.

Certain things annoyed him, irritated him, caused him to think of storming out of class and joining a student’s protest group, and this was one of them. Professor Evans was once again going on, furiously driving the white chalk into the blackboard coming up with some new theory. Today it was Faust, which concerned the fate of Faust, who in his quest for the true essence of life summons the Devil. He offers to serve him for as long as he lives.

There was a fury of writing, of screeching the chalk against the board of muttering to one’s self, and an occasionally glance at the students.

“Who was Faust one might ask.”

A hand rose.

“Yes?”

“Faust was a man who only wanted to attain his zenith and he was willing to sell his soul for it.”

“Yes, yes, though it was only really a teaching tool, an example, a way to exude fear. And who is to say there is a soul, the weighing of the soul, the scientific study was flawed, hence you can concur that such a thing was only a fifteen century teaching mechanics.”

A freshman quickly shot up from the back, turned around and ran out the exit, another wrong class.

The professor continued: “Firstly hell and damnation was all the rage back then. Now such things have become passé, irrelevant, nonsensical garble of words, and a haematosis of pathogens in a divagation passed through the single state of an organism.”

Huh, what is he smoking? Henson thought, looking at the clock on the wall, thinking he was in the wrong class. God I hope Wednesday comes sooner so I can get my hands on the five grand.

“Imagine a hyperbole of activity, a strange reasoning, a mathematical occurrence of atoms spun by a single thread of neurons, attached only by the burning desire man has had for centuries to obtain ultimate wisdom, a perfection of sorts, a level where man can truly say – I am satisfied. Perhaps a prime example of such a man was Faust, the yearning, the realisation that he would do anything to pertain enlightenment.”

Henson found himself nearing for the desk, his eye lids closing and his muscles relaxing.

Part II.

Secrets

Jessica Martin looked out of her kitchen window of her luxurious two storey house. It was beautiful. The colours of the garden were full of pinks and whites. Butterflies as red as a burning sunset flew in the bright yellow sunlight. She listened to the sound of the radio playing in the background.

“Golden winged, gypsy eyes as you soar, you softly weep...Golden-winged, gypsy eyes only you can know secrets you must keep...So spread your wings, toward the sun soon your flight will be done, and you will close your eyes…”

Soon her children would be home and her isolation would be shattered by loud amplified screams. She sighed as she looked out into the garden. If only she could spread her wings and fly out into a world that seemed to steam ahead without her. Here she was a typical American housewife that seemed to be as rigid and flat as a steam iron. She was just a mirror image of thousands of others who had resigned themselves to live as housewives. Secretly in the corner of her mind she envied those that partook of free love and were searching for truth. She wished she could just leave her life, and be free to experience what she saw blaring out at her through her TV set. In the screen she saw people liberated. No one could tell them what to do. Mothers and fathers could not control their kids, and the government were having endless problems with protests that seemed to be occurring on a daily basis. She wished she could be out picketing for the return of the boys that were needlessly dying for no real purpose at all. She dried her wrinkled hands. They had been soaking too long. She sighed. When would her husband be home? He was in Vietnam, a country that she had no real interest in. It could have been the moon—it would have made little difference. She imagined him terrified, his eyes burning from the jungle heat, and his feet swollen and wrinkled much like her hands only much, much worse. Tears were starting to form. She had to stay strong. Her children couldn’t see her in such a state. Her husband wouldn’t want her to experience such grief. Honour and respect didn’t mean anything to her anymore, although she never confided in anyone about this. She would keep it to herself, lest she would be seen to be unpatriotic in her circle of friends. She didn’t know how long she could keep her emotions hidden; one day she would let out everything that she had held inside if she didn’t do something about them.

The months that followed became a wave of troubled sensations. She never heard from her husband. All she saw was on the news, and that frightened her terribly. Shadows of the dead and the dying crept up on her as she lay asleep. Her eyes reddened. Life didn’t seem to matter anymore. The only thing that kept her sane were the children that demanded her attention. What would she tell them if she got a letter through the door informing her of their daddy dying in some paddy field in Asia with a bullet to his head? She wouldn’t be able to live anymore, and the children would grow up deprived of a father. Weren’t they already deprived? He was no longer their father but a soldier trained to kill in the jungles of an Asian country that she was beginning to resent. The body count was starting to rise as the protests only increased. Picket signs jostled on the streets as angry crowds chanted antiwar slogans. Someone had to do something to bring their men home. Millie, a neighbour a few doors down, had received the dreadful news. She had become an emotional wreck, refusing to get out of her house and to accept the condolences from those that were sorry. Her husband wouldn’t be coming back to her not even in a body bag.

Still no news from her husband—not even a letter telling her that he was safe and that he was holding on to the hope that he would see her again. She imagined him in the kitchen as she prepared the children’s sandwiches for school. He was smiling big and bright, soaking in the sun that shone through the window. She smiled back and then turned to spread the smooth butter on the thick white bread. He was probably eating food that would make anyone sick. She glanced at the red juicy tomato on the cutting board and raised her knife, piercing the ripe flesh violently. She was beginning to hate the word Vietnam and everyone in it from taking her husband away from her. What was the point in shipping thousands off to war to fight for something that the government didn’t believe in? The more she thought about it the more erratic she was becoming. She had to stop thinking about it and try her best to retain her sanity for the sake of her children who needed her more than ever.

It was Friday night, the night that all the women in the neighbourhood got together to socialise. Most of them had waved goodbye to their husbands as they took possibly their last look at them in their full service uniform. Now they had banded together for moral support and to help each other survive. Millie had come. Her eyes were raw from all the crying she had done. She didn’t look well. Jessica sighed. Millie's emotions were in plain view for all to see. She was just the opposite. She had hidden her feelings of hopelessness the day that she embraced her husband in her arms for possibly the last time. Millie sat next to Jessica on the reclining couch. They had been good friends but ever since her husband died she hadn’t spoken once.

“Millie,” she looked her in the eyes. She felt awkward. “Are you okay?”

It was obvious that Millie was anything but okay. She could have snapped back, but she didn’t. It wasn’t like her. “Jessica…” she tried to smile and hold back the tears all at the same time. She tried to speak but the tears cascaded down her pale face. She had to hold someone— she was desperate to feel the warmth of another human being in her arms, but Jessica couldn’t read her mind and the embrace never came.

“Millie, you know you can come over to my house anytime.”

She smiled, wiping away the tears. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Jessica. You know I love to be in your company only I have to be alone….”

“I understand. You know where I live if you need anything.”

The night was long and empty as Jessica lay restless in her bed. She couldn’t contain her thoughts as they roamed freely, lost somewhere in Vietnam, amidst the battered battalions of hopeless men. She could see their eyes penetrating the dark. She rolled over in the double bed that seemed to hold endless space. She needed to reach out and hold someone. She needed to whisper all her fears and get out all the anger that she was building up inside. Millie needed to hold someone and yet Jessica had been too selfish to realise the need, and now she felt the same hunger for love and compassion. If only she had listened to her troubled heart and reached out to a friend maybe she wouldn’t be in such a state. But all she could think about was her husband, who as far as she was concerned, was millions of miles away caught up in something she couldn’t understand or even comprehend. All she knew was that if she didn’t get her husband back alive she would probably be thrown into a mental institution never to experience life as a sane person again. So she lay restless— her thoughts trampled down by fleeing soldiers in disarray. Her husband was somewhere lying crushed to death near the bamboo trees. She could sense his presence, but no matter how hard she tried to find him through the thick encroaching forest she could not. She listened to the creaking bamboo that swayed in the darkness, muttering some incoherent cry. Then she heard voices, not American voices that she longed to hear, but a strange and terrifying dialect of one of the many Vietnamese languages that ripped through her like a knife. She didn’t know what to do. She felt trapped in a canopy of trees that filtered out the light. What could she do? The more she thought the more paranoid she started to get and her panic started to build. She started to run through the green trees that dripped with the early morning dew.

She opened her eyes— another restless night had passed. She wearily made her way to the bathroom and looked at her tired face in the mirror. Her blonde wavy hair was a hapless mess of curls interwoven like a bramble bush. Her pupils were red and puffy and there were dark bags under her eyes. She would put on all the makeup she could get her hands on. No one would see the real her. She smiled back at her reflection in the mirror. She was a master of disguises. In a few minutes she would be looking normal again. She walked down the green carpeted stairs everything seemed to blend into one. The pale colours of the walls seemed to merge with the whites, the greys, the reds and the blues. She neared the front door; something told her not to open it. The wooden door that she had relied on to protect her and keep her safe would open to hell. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. A few cars lined the road and people strolled slowly by. She looked down. A small brown envelope lay next to her feet. She bent down to pick it up and nearly fell over with shock. The letter was addressed from the War Office. She took it inside. Her husband was dead and she knew it. She sat in silence on the sofa feeling the crisp sealed envelope in her hands. The kids would be up any minute. They didn’t deserve to see their mother cry. The paint that she used to conceal her face would be useless. She slowly opened it. The news was not good, perhaps it had been written exactly the same way Millie’s letter had been written. It was typed with a rigid formal precise manner.

Dear Mrs Martin,

With the innermost regret we wish to inform you of your husband’s death. He was a fearless solider who died bravely for his country.

Deepest Condolences,

Thomas Chilton

War Department

She closed her eyes. All she could think about were the children—how would they cope? She had already been mourning his loss for sometime now, even though he had been alive in some rainforest in Asia. The tears were flowing now. The paper was smudged with mascara. Her face was smeared in the paint that had been her disguise. It would soon wash away.

Millie knew how she felt. They would make the perfect couple in their bereavement. Two crying friends sobbing in each others arms, trying to come to terms yet never wishing to leave it go. What was the point of living? She thought as she buried her head into Millie’s thick raven hair. The mourning had begun, and the weeping of mothers and wives echoed the same sentiments throughout the country.

Jessica looked out of her kitchen window. The garden was growing fierce and wild. The burning red butterflies no longer flew her way, and the bright colours that had adorned her once prized garden had turned to rotting decay. Bang! Bang! Bang! She turned her attention to the front door. The banging was erratic— something seemed wrong. She quickly dried her hands with a towel and ran to the door. Whatever it was it was important. She didn’t need anymore bad news. She heaved a sigh of relief. It was only Millie and she looked happy.

“I had to come and tell you the news!” What news? Had her husband been found and was he alive?

“Come inside Millie!” she smiled for the first time in days. “It looks like you got the neighbours attention as well.”

Millie could hardly contain herself. She fidgeted with her hands as she sat on the red satin couch waiting for Jessica to bring in the tea and cakes. “Tell me everything.” She handed Millie a hot cup of tea.

“Well you know Clare has been trying to get me to see a clairvoyant.”

“Yes?” she was puzzled. She was getting all excited just because she had seen a psychic?

Millie looked at her questioning her response. “What?”

“I just thought that maybe you got good news about your husband.” They were best of friends. She could say it to her face.

Her smile dropped for a second. “No, she was able to communicate with my husband.”

Jessica frowned. She never believed in such things. How in the world could people communicate with the dead? They were dead and there was no point even considering such a crazy notion. “And what did she tell you?”

“She told me that he is all right and that he is looking out for me and the kids. I thought it would make things worse but I feel much better knowing he is happy. You know you just want to know how they are doing.”

She sat listening to everything she said. She didn’t believe. It all sounded like utter nonsense, but she didn’t want to take away the smile from Millie’s face that hadn’t been there for months. No, she would leave her believe in whatever she wanted as long as it made her happy.

“Jessica you’ve got to go maybe she’ll be able to tell you about…”

“No!” she wouldn’t even let it cross her mind. “It is not for me Millie…”

“But…”

“It just doesn’t feel right.”

“This is if you change your mind.” She took a piece of paper out of her purse and left it on the coffee table.

Millie’s visit had confused her. If people could communicate with the dead then why didn’t her husband talk to her, and not to some old woman hunched behind a crystal ball? He was her soul mate. Why didn’t he just come to her? For some reason she had put the address on the fridge door in case she changed her mind. Deep down inside she hoped she would change her mind. She wanted to hear from her husband desperately.

Jessica turned her metallic blue Dodge into a driveway that was overgrown with weeds peeking through the cracks of the paved driveway. She turned off the engine and made her way up a flight of steps that led to a screen door. She looked around to see if anyone in the neighbourhood was interested in her arrival. No one was around. She looked at the doorbell that was barely hanging on the stone wall and rang it twice. The woman took her time, any longer and she would have left.

“H-h-hello,”

“Uh, hello dear,” called a grey haired woman from the other side of the screen.

“I’m Jessica Martin. I tried to call yesterday about making an appointment but I got no reply.”

“Sorry about that. When you get to my age your hearing starts to suffer. Won’t you please come in?”

Jessica looked around Mrs Wilson’s sitting room that she had been led to. She had no TV and her ornaments were plain and ordinary. Judging by the dusty room it looked like Mrs. Wilson rarely ever got customers. After the customary tea and a chat on trivial matters Mrs. Wilson got down to business.

“You know that I have to get paid for my services, otherwise I won’t be able to live. I only ask for ten dollars.” She looked into Mrs Wilson’s eyes; she was a kind spirit. She didn’t feel out of place in her company. In fact she felt quite comfortable in her presence.

“I don’t know how this all works but…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be doing most of the work the only thing that I want from you is to leave all your inhibitions aside—just this once. I can see you were a bit apprehensive coming here and you are having a hard time believing that someone can communicate with the dead.”

She nodded not really knowing why. She just felt like agreeing. Besides she was right.

She had a special room where the séances were conducted and she kept it that way. She closed her eyes and surrounded herself in the aura that engulfed her. Jessica looked around the room. The walls were covered in light green carpet and cushions covered the floor. Mrs Wilson didn’t care for the dark she had to be in a light cheery room. The light from the open window shone on her face as she stared mystified at the old woman who was a picture of peace. Her eyes were closed as she sat surrounded by a mountain of pillows. She looked closer. It seemed as if her outer shell was in the room, but her inner spirit was flying above the clouds away from everything. Jessica wouldn’t close her eyes she would continue to study her dedication to the gift that filled her with awe. She noticed her mouth slowly moving, she was going to speak. Silence would be broken.

Then she heard them, two audible words that came thundering through the silence. “…Pin… Yang…” And just as soon as the words came the room was engulfed in silence once again.

Jessica sat in the silence of her own home. She couldn’t understand it. Her husband didn’t speak to her—did he even want to? All the words that came out of Mrs Wilson’s mouth were Pin Yang. Those words made no sense to her, but she couldn’t shake those words out of her head. The more she thought about it the more she got confused. What did those words mean? She had to find out.

The monsoon season had arrived. The slippery leaves of rubber trees dripped with the pouring mountain rain that engulfed the small village of Pin Yang. Water Buffalo roamed freely through the flooded plains. Night had fallen and Nguyen Thi An lay restless on her straw mat. She opened her eyes and listened to the heavy rain pouring down from the sky. It had comforted her in the past, as ever since she was a small girl she loved to sit and listen to the sounds of the rain. This time things were different. The storms only seemed to stress to her the seriousness of the situation. She closed her eyes and imagined each drop representing the tears of her ancestors who had seen and heard the brutality that had torn her country apart. Such deeds would not go unnoticed. She did not know how long she lay lost in her thoughts, contemplating over things that were too deep for her to understand. What had happened to her people? What caused brothers to hate each other and fathers to cry like babies in the face of death? She had seen death. She had stared death in the face many times and she wished she would someday wake up out of the nightmare that surrounded her world. She smiled to herself imagining bathing in the moonlight afraid for nothing. She would plunge into the water submerged in peace.

Morning had arrived. The tears had dried on her high cheekbones as she looked outside her house at the rising sun. Burning red butterflies flew high into the orange sky. She took a deep breath. Why couldn’t she fly away from everything? The tears were coming again. She could feel them forming in her throat. She clenched her fists determined not to give into her emotions that stretched as far as the spiralling mountains. She had to remain strong for the sake of her child. She listened to the hum of the dragonflies as they flew by her. Maybe now that the insects were returning things would only get better. The angry sounds of the bombers that drilled in her head every time they passed had been silent for sometime, and the dull repetitive sound of rotor blades had disappeared. She ran her hands through her long black hair and looked out into the rice fields. It was time to get to work.

The quiet morning air was suddenly interrupted by the raging sound of a mud splattered vehicle roaring through the leafy green jungle. It was heading for Pin Yang. The driver’s steel icy glare was enough to realise that he had seen something in the past that had cut him deeply. He stared out towards the winding mountain road as he shifted the well worn gear stick. Birds screamed as the jeep tore through the forest. It was risky business driving in such territory, but the reward for driving his passenger was too great an opportunity to pass up. His dark brown eyes glanced over at the foreign woman, who had been the object of his desire ever since he had laid eyes on her. He had never been with a woman outside of his country before. He studied her blue eyes and her blonde hair, dangerously taking his eyes off of the muddy track that the vehicle continued to lurch through. The driver quickly turned his attention to the road and stepped heavily on the brake pedal. The battered jeep had stopped. Heavy silence engulfed the vehicle as the driver put his hands to his lips. The foreigner glanced at him. Her eyes widened as she realised her driver was not interested in getting her to Pin Yang. He had other ideas. She could see deep lust pouring out of his eyes as the silence continued to rage. She started to panic as she reached for the door. She wouldn’t let it happen. No, she would run into the dark foliage away from this strange man that she had been so naïve to trust. She turned to the door.

“Miss,” it was him—the driver that she had put all her faith in bringing her to a place she had never knew existed. “You be quiet! We are not alone.” She didn’t say anything. There was no need. She had to trust him. She felt uneasy in the silence as she glanced over at the driver. She couldn’t understand him or the forest that had secrets all of its own.

Nguyen Thi An was puzzled by the appearance of a foreign woman to her village. She frowned. Her arrival brought back memories that she had tried to forget and leave behind, but the more she stared into the white woman’s face the more she started to remember.

“What do you want?” she eyed the woman suspiciously. Her arrival had angered the villagers.

“Your English is good.” She held out her hand. “My name is Jessica Martin. I’m looking for my husband, Sean Martin.” She reached for a small worn picture of her husband and handed it to the small Vietnamese woman.

Nguyen Thi An held the thin photograph in her hand as her eyes glanced nonchalantly at the man who was dressed in full army uniform, smiling from ear to ear. It was Sean! The memories flooded back to her all at once. If she didn’t do something she would explode in a torrent of emotion. She handed the photograph back to the woman that she could hardly drag her eyes to look at.

“You must leave now!” She turned her back and ran, leaving Jessica standing in shock. Was she keeping a secret? Did she know something about her Sean? She looked at the picture of her husband. Why did she even bother coming to a country she didn’t understand? Perhaps it was the fascination that had built up inside of her over the years for the words Pin Yang. She had acted on a freak impulse and now she was in the very place she had tried to ignore.

“Miss,” it was the driver. He looked terribly concerned. “We must go…villagers are saying we not welcome…they want us to go.” She looked all around. It seemed her arrival had created no small stir. The people were unhappy. She looked in the direction where the woman had run to. She desperately wanted to find out what had upset her. She listened; something wasn’t right. Suddenly she heard something whistle by her.

“Miss we must go!” A large popping noise was heard as the driver was thrown to the ground violently. She started to shake as she saw him lying in a pool of blood. He was dead! The entire village had erupted into a frantic state as mothers grabbed their babies searching for a place to hide in the leafy green canopy of the thick jungle leaves. She started to run amidst the confusion. She had to find out the secret of Pin Yang – she had to.

She had found her hiding in her stilt house. She looked into her oriental eyes. It was obvious that she was afraid—afraid of what the foreign woman would do when she heard the news. Jessica listened to the sound of rifles popping and the high pitched wails of the dying.

“Did you know my husband?” She took out the picture again.

Tears started to fall down Nguyen Thi An’s face as she trembled with fear. “I…I…” she couldn’t think not with the white woman staring into her, but she had to. By some inexplicable force she had arrived in her village seeking answers. She had travelled such a long way; it was her obligation to tell her the truth. The large wooden room was engulfed in silence—cut off from the ravages outside.

“We meet in Saigon I was young and he was lonely…” She trailed off telling her how she had to flee and live with her relatives in Pin Yang. She never saw him after Saigon and never heard from him again. The only time she would see him was in her dreams when the moon was full and bright. He was happy just like in the photo. Next came the hardest part as the Vietnamese woman trembled violently. She didn’t want to say it but it had to come out. “We…had… a son.”

She drew back in shock. Not only did Sean have a relationship outside marriage, betraying their marriage vows, but he had a child with a woman that she had never known about. Why hadn’t he been faithful to her? She had— even when she had been tempted to satisfy her needs. She wanted to feel the pain and anguish but she couldn’t. Their eyes met. They were from different backgrounds yet they understood each other. One wanted to forgive the other wanted forgiveness. Words were of little consequence as they embraced each other. The pangs of guilt and pain were washed away and the heaviness was lifted. Suddenly the realisation of the world outside bore down upon them in an ear shattering moment.

Jessica opened her eyes. She was alive. She listened to the cry of a child softly wailing over a limp body that she had been talking to moments before. She looked at the child—it was Sean’s son. Motion seemed to blur as she scooped up the small boy in her arms. She ran through the burning village and passed the crazy heartless men who burned evil in their hearts. She held tightly onto the boy as she disappeared into the tall bamboo trees. There was a massacre enfolding in the village, and there was nothing she could do about it. All she thought about was the boy and his safety. That’s what Sean would have wanted and that’s what she would do. She would take him home and rear him as her own son.

The night was shining bright as the croaking frogs came out to sing amongst the white lily pads. A drooping crane fished for eels and the sound of crickets filled the night. A woman was bathing alone in a pool of silver water, catching up the rays of the moon.

“Nguyen Thi An,” she heard whisper through the long lemon grass and tickle her naked back. She turned around. She recognised the voice.

“Sean?” He was standing next to a tall Banyan tree that almost reached the heavens. He smiled just as he had in Saigon. She smiled back.

“How is my son?” He was concerned as any father would be.

“Jessica took him home with her. He is safe— don’t worry he is in good hands.”

Sean smiled as he entered the soft inviting water. It was good to see her again. He had missed her terribly. He closed his eyes savouring the moment. Someday he would see Jessica again and things would be made right between them. He was sure of it.