Thread: 01/20/2012 - LM - At last some life

LITERARY MANEUVERS
The January Challenge


A reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner of the LM.
Their entry will appear in the WF Newsletter, which is a good chance to get your work widely circulated.
Now we are also offering a Friends of WF (FoWF) subscription free for a month to the first place winner!

So, do your best.

Another round of LM begins! And this time, the task is simplicity itself, just breath a bit of energy into the old challange thread. Our prompt for this installment, courtesy of Bazz is:

At last, some life in this place
In 650 words, write a story where the line above is the last line in the story.
Not much to interpret here, probably be fine if it's preceded by dialogue tag.
If you read back a ways in the LM Coffee Shop you'll can find some discussion on the matter.

The judges for this round are as follows: bruno, bazz cargo, Hawke and Like a Fox.
(To the judges, send your scores to Like a Fox via PM - and if we could aim to have them sent a week after the closing date that would be awesome.)

Now a recap of the rules:

1. The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
2. You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but really, you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
3. And of course, there can only be one entry per member.

As always, there are two ways to post your entry:

You can opt to have your entry posted in the LM Workshop Threadwhich is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. You would put your story here if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Take note: If you have elected to put your entry in the Workshop thread you must copy the link into this thread or else it will not be counted.

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your entry right here in the LM Challenge thread.

Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.

This competition will close on "Sunday the 5th of February.
To avoid confusion I (she) will close the thread at 11:59pm (Sunday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time.


This will make it 5:59pm on Monday for me in Melbourne Australia
It'll be 2:59pm on Monday for Fuhrer in the Phillipines
For anyone in Baghdad it'll be 9:59am on Monday morning.
If you're in the UK (London Time) it'll be 7:59am Monday morning.
If you're in New York it'll be 2:55am Monday morning.

Daylight Savings may make me wrong here... if so, get it in an hour early to be safe!

I (all she) hope if I haven't covered your area, you guys can figure out when it'll be for you.
The world clock kind of does my head in.


No comments, please - Only competition entries (or links to) to be posted in this thread.


Now that all's set, let the writing begin!

Creation


“Every moment of my life, every breath I’ve ever drawn, was destined to bring me to this night.” He stood hunched over the long worktable where his assembly lay covered by an ochre stained rectangle of canvass.

Outside a storm raged, slashing at stone walls with blades of rain, hammering with mauls of thunder, but inside there was only the soft hiss of torches, the scraping of boots against stone as the man’s assistant moved from one machine to another checking connections and setting dials. “Will it work?”

“It will work,” said the other. “It must.” He finished connecting a series of cables to the object on the table. The thick, conductors looked like snakes crawling over the shrouded form. Satisfied that each connection was secure, he strode to the wall where a chain hung from a gear set into the ceiling far overhead and began to pull. “It is time.”

The quiet was shattered by the grinding of gears and the clanking of chain. As he pulled, a panel in the wooden roof opened like an ancient eye, and – as the human eye is said to reveal the spirit within – this eye’s slow awakening revealed the soul of the storm. Brilliant flashes of blue-white incandescence illuminated the tower one after another, separated by no more than the explosions of thunder they caused. Rain fell down the throat of the keep, wetting the man, and the thing, below. The man’s smock was quickly drenched, his hair hung in saturated cords against his pale, grinning face. “The antenna!” he shouted to his assistant. “Raise the antenna!” His voice scarcely penetrated the din of the machine and the chorus of the storm.

Clambering up a decrepit wooden ladder the assistant reached a large wheel attached to another geared chain and began to turn it. Bursts of lightening reflected like shards of bronze from the length of a copper spire, which rose steadily toward the roof-top opening as the wheel turned. Trailing beneath the metallic needle were the other ends of the snake-like cables; a glistening umbilicus climbing toward the mother storm.

“Turn! Turn, damn you!” the man screamed, and the assistant continued to turn the wheel until the copper shaft had completely penetrated the ceiling’s breach and stood fully exposed to the fury of the tempest.

Above the chamber a heavy wooden door opened onto a small balcony. That door now swung open and a beautiful woman stepped through. She looked down upon the tableau arrayed before her and her eyes grew wide. The swirling winds of the storm snatched at her long, blue dress. “Victor!” she cried. “Victor, what are you doing?”

Before the man below could answer, the air was shattered as the storm caressed the copper spire. Light beyond description bleached the chamber and its contents of all color. The world shook, and the air was filled with the acrid scent of burned metal.

Then there was silence.

But only for a moment. A strange, small sound came from beneath the shrouded form . . . and then another.

“They called me mad,” Victor said. “They all called me mad.” He took a step toward the table. The sounds from the assembly under the shroud were getting louder, stronger, more frequent. It was a sound of creation, of energy, and with it came a new odor, a fragrance which cut through the foul stench of its birth and the mustiness of the ancient room. “Do you think me mad now?” Victor reached out and took hold of one edge of the stained cloth, and then, with a flourish, whisked it away from the table. “Look!,” he shouted. “Look and see!”

There on the table was the thing he’d assembled, and within the thing something was growing. “I give you . . . microwave popcorn!”

From her place high above the woman said, “At last, some life in this place.”

I'll just apologize in advance. (Apologise, to the Queen's people.)

Iowa

Terry Peterson elbowed open the door and stepped in. A warm blast of heavy air hit him in the face. It smelled of frying bacon and potatoes. He stomped the snow off his boots and unbuttoned his jacket.

“Morning, Donna,” he said, looking under the brim of his ancient John Deere cap.

A thin woman in a pale pink uniform dress looked up from wiping the counter. “Mornin’, Terry,” she replied, swiping a wisp of hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Hey everybody: Terry’s here.”

A large Mexican man wearing a fat-splattered apron barely looked over his shoulder before returning his attention to the grill. Off in the back booth, away from the window, sat Noah Walker. He nodded at the newcomer in a vague sort of way. Standing next to him was a short, prim woman in the same uniform dress. Hers must have been newer. The pink still showed some life.

“I’ll be darned, Donna! It’s Terry Peterson!” Phyllis Townshend couldn’t have been less enthusiastic.

“You guys are a riot,” said Terry, crossing the aisle over to his regular seat at the bar. He slipped the canvas overcoat off and laid it on the next chair. The chocolate colored tag said CARHARTTS. No one in this town would have expected to see anything else. He spun the bar chair around on its post and plopped heavily into the seat. The snow on his boots was beginning to puddle under his feet.

Clasping his hands and leaning in on his forearms, he said what he’d said every morning, for as long as anyone could remember. “What’s for breakfast, Donna?”

“Hit him!” yelled Phyllis. “You swore, if he said that one more day, you’d hit him!”

Donna glared at her fellow waitress. Then she glared at her customer. Then she folded her arms across her thin chest and decided to say nothing.

“Donna,” said Terry, “how long’ve I been coming in here?”

“Eighteen years, according to you. But that was yesterday.”

“Okay, eighteen years and one day then. And how many times have I asked what’s for breakfast?”

“Every damn day.”

“And you think I’m gonna change my ways now?”

“You should have two poached eggs on white toast with home fries,” called Noah from across the diner. “That’s what I order every day.”

Terry rolled his eyes. “Manny, why don’t you make me up something good?”

The cook turned around three-quarters of the way, placing the spatula-holding hand on his hip. “You remember last spring when I made you chorizo? You lost two days of planting because you couldn’t sit down!” He shook his head and turned back to his griddle. “Never again, amigo.”

Phyllis cackled from her station next to Noah. She slapped her thigh and repeated, “Two days of planting!”

Ignoring her outburst, Terry began again. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna have no two poached eggs on white toast!”

“I like it,” said Noah. “I order it every day.”

“How about, it Donna? How about you surprise me with something fine today. Just this once. Huh?”

“How about I surprise you with a knuckle sandwich, Mr. Terry Peterson?”

“Oh, come on. There’s gotta be a donut or a bear claw or some kind of Mexican delicacy that I can try. Dammit, I’m bored with eggs and homefries!”

“You really want something different this morning, Terry?”

She took an empty bowl from under the counter and set it in front of him. She placed a spoon next to the bowl. Next came the milk in a small pitcher. Then she thumped down a large white cereal box with large colorful letters on the front.

Terry Peterson broke into a huge grin. He looked just like a kid when he said, “At last, some life in this place!”

The grey of the day didn’t have me down, it inspired me. It matched me, suited me, went along with my mood like a nameless fellow drunkie at the bar, and together the day and I sipped our poisons, silently together. I thought of all the hair I’d been losing, thought of the girl who so recently took up the space in my little bed, how I’d so badly wanted her gone so I could stretch out, roll over, fart in my sleep, roll and tumble the whole night long. If I were a prize fighter they’d call me Gaseous Clay, and I’d be undefeated.
The rain, the rain. Ah, how the weather was like me! Even the drops were hesitant, hectic and spastic, falling in a frenzy for twenty minutes, then nothing but mist for a while, a little wind to whip the moisture, then falling hard again. I was in unison; I stood up, dressed, decided to go out, lost the mood, sat down, smoked, got up to leave again, paused at the door searching the crevices of reason for a reason, something to keep me in or pull me out and found nothing, lit another cigarette, and returned to my chair full of confidence that there was nothing to do, but it had to be done right away, and well.
The telephone broke the silence, a call like an electric bird to the wild, a beckoning. I looked at the black plastic machine on the table and wondered if land-lines would last much longer, if anything of this day and age would last, could last, because they really don’t make things like they used to, do they? I grimaced and pessimistically let myself go, spitting my soundless thoughts into the empty air, “Nothing of today deserves to last!”, I thought, “It’s all nonsense and blubber.”
Another smoke was what I needed. Where did all those ashes come from underneath my fingernails? I pulled them along my teeth, scraping them clean, chewing the filth. This world, this world so vacant with the crowd and the traffic of space. I worried about the rays penetrating my body, the wifi the radio the television the mobile phone conversations in the air the government radar and the astral goop spilling over and out between my ears. The grey of the window comforted me, patted my soul on its back, and cooed. Not to worry, the day was saying, this is a day to sit and slobber and wait until the Thirst arrives.
The ‘drops were on the move again, falling now like a crowd rushes across an open field, and the activity gave me energy. Time to get out, go do something. Something cheap – no! – something free! I missed the girl for a moment, looked around, between the bottles and the ashtrays and the dirty clothes, looking for something of hers to hold and smell and suck on for a moment, anything would do, a shirt, a sock, even a pen she left behind. Then I remembered, ah!, I’d got rid of all that stuff on my last bender. No traces, no lingering fingerings…done and done and back into the wasteland of solitude and poverty, smoke and cheap liquor, and the persistent vague desires that plague the erstwhile.
The hour of my appointment drew near, came upon me, cracked my guilty-bone a few times with its elbow, and took its leave without me. Another missed appointment with Life, with productivity that disappeared like the nicotine buzz after a few strong drags. What a drag.
From the kitchen came an insect, a pompous ugly thing that looked me dead in the eyes and dared me to wonder where it had been, where it was going. My instinct was to smash it, or perhaps capture it and torture it in some awful way. Nah. At last, some life in this place.

Kamuda Youth
(650 words)

It’s cold. Bylsa rubs her shoulders. Her brother, Quan, slaps the back of her head. When she shoots him a look, he puts a finger to his lips and gestures, with his eyes, to the right.

Bylsa understands, but she’s young, and her emotions are strong this morning. She reaches up and slaps Quan’s face. She doesn’t strike hard, but the sound echoes through the woods like a thunderclap.

Their quarry is startled. It lurches up, bellows, and crashes through the overgrowth.

“Stupid!” yells Quan. But before Bylsa can respond, Quan is on his feet, pulling her by her arm. She stumbles and is dragged through the roots until she finds her footing. When she finally matches her brother’s stride, he releases her arm, and they’re running, side by side, through the forest.

“I’m sorry,” Bylsa gasps, but Quan ignores her. He’s focused on the hunt. She can see it in his eyes. When she looks forward, a broadleaf slaps her in the face. “Ugh!” she yells.

“Pay attention!” hisses Quan. “What are you going to do when I’m gone? You have to be strong! Fierce! You have to be alive to stay alive!” His words tumble through the air, so Bylsa doesn’t hear them all. But she can tell from his tone what he’s saying. Quan is sixteen, drafting age. Soon he’ll be sent to Senron, to fight, to die. He has accepted this. He looks forward to it, even, like all boys of Kamuda.

To die for your planet is an honor.

But Bylsa doesn’t see it that way. She sees the boy who covered her mouth when Roglans tore into their home and mauled their parents; the boy who taught her to clean a fish, and which plants were edible, poison, or medicine; the boy who holds her every night while they sleep in the Holo roots, their bodies pressed together for warmth.

She also sees his future; clad in armor, launched into war against the Velduns – android giants built to chew the bodies of Kamuda boys. She sees the fear on Quan’s face when he realizes what he’s been sent into – this planet of pain and death and hungry machine mouths – but by then it will be too late.

When the Roglan attacks, Bylsa doesn’t realize what’s occurred until Quan has already killed it. It happened that fast. She was running, thinking, when the beast turned and lunged, knocking Quan back – just a meter to her left – while she continued forward.

Quan is still stabbing the Roglan’s eye when she arrives. The creature is massive. Its veined wings are crumpled over muscular shoulders, with jagged quills bristling through its grey skin. Quan is on his back, pinned beneath the skull. When Bylsa tries to lift it, Quan yells and throws his head back. The knife falls from his hand. Bylsa suddenly understands. The tusk beneath the Roglan’s jaw has pierced her brother’s abdomen, like a hook through a worm. “No,” she whispers.

Quan tries to speak, but only air comes out. He coughs, squints, and makes a gurgling noise. Blood gushes from his mouth and spills down his cheek.

“No,” Bylsa says.

“Look,” Quan coughs, “food for a week.”

Bylsa is crying. “Shut up!” she yells.

“Bylsa,” Quan sputters. “Be strong.” He struggles to get the words out. “Fierce,” he groans. He reaches to touch her, but she pulls away.

“No!” she sobs. “You’re not doing this! I won’t let you!” There’s water everywhere she looks. Even the sky is submerged in tears.

She’s drowning the world.

Quan is pale. His eyelids are drooping. The side of his face is streaked with blood. He looks at Bylsa and smiles, his eyes shiny and wet. His voice is gentle, but to Bylsa each word is a blow to her heart. As his eyes close, Quan taps Bylsa’s sternum and whispers, “At last, some life in this place.”

* * *

Which Side Are You On? 390 words.
By Bazz Cargo.


Have you noticed how time is elastic?


It was a nice spring day, so the usual suspects did the usual thing, suffered from boredom.


“Why do we always gravitate to the village graveyard?” asked Stan.
“Because the duckpond is surrounded by grandparents training Toddzillas how to concuss the ducks with stale bread,” answered Jill.


There was a moment of conversational hiatus. Bird song filled the gap.


Jill held up her mobile phone and squinted at it. “Why do we come here? there's never any signal.”

“Well,” said Oliver, “the whole village is the same.”
“True,” she sighed.


More stunning verbal virtuosity from a lark.


“Hey, there's a funeral coming,” said Eric. “Quick, let's get in the shadow of the oak.”


The Vicar and his Verger appeared from inside the church moments before a pink, Ford Transvestite van pulled up outside the gate. The suspects and the religious order watched as six stalwart men dressed in spectacular evening gowns took a rainbow coloured coffin from the back of the van and carried it on their shoulders to the graveside. Quite a large group of soberly dressed mourners exited more mundane vehicles and followed.


“What a weird one,” said Stan.
“Yeah,” said Jill, “see how they've split into three groups.”
Eric scratched his nose. “What I reckon we got here is a cross-dressing bigamist.”


The service was over and most of the crowd left.


The six Trannies put on frilly pinny each, took a shovel each and filled in the hole. Then as the sun was setting they covered the grave with a six by three foot sheet of parquet. They put a small cd player where the headstone would go, and pushed play. Gloria Gaynor's voice told the world of her survival, and two at a time the Trannis danced on the grave.


Quietly a queue started to form as the mourners from earlier returned to take a turn on the impromptu dance floor.

Stan sighed. “Wish I'd though of something like this.”
“Yeah,” said Eric.


A pale shadow slowly coalesced in the moonlight and the new member of their group arrived, he had a mobile phone in his hand.


Jill waved her no longer pointless phone. “Well, at last some life in this place.”

The Scientists in the States- 639 words

“The first one was in Tennessee, which is in the States. Everything starts in the States, it’s like we live eight years in the past. It’s always the guys in the big cities get stuff first, like new computers, fancy fast food, clothes, shoes, movies, all that kind of stuff. While all we do just sit around and wait. It gets boring.

And there’s nothing out here either, it’s like the landscape is bored as well. Too bored to even make a mountain, or a nice big lake for swimming. It’s hot as hell here, so somewhere to swim would be flipping great, you know? Maybe for my next project, I’ll build a swimming pool, with flipping big slides on all the sides. There’ll be a smaller pool as well, for babies. I guess I’ll have to pay someone to drain out all the wee and fish out all the baby turds every week or whatever. I don’t think Cyril will help out with that. He didn’t even want to help out with this project and it’s not half as hard as a swimming pool. Screw him anyway.

So, whatever, the first one started in America, but they’ve got lots now. Not just in America, but all over the world, you know? The first time I saw one, I wanted to work in one. But the ones in America, they only let scientists and what-what inside. They use special equipment and tools and things to take measurements and stuff. They write it all down in books and send their ‘findings’ to other scientists. Now I’m no scientist, you know, I didn’t even pass physics in high-school because it turned out our teacher was a gay and by the time we got a new one, I’d already stopped going. But I’ve always been interested in things, you know? Like life. What makes a person alive? What makes us dead? Okay, sure, lots of things make us dead, but you know what I mean. Like the spiritual side of stuff and everything.

And what happens after we die? You know? Do you know?

Anyway, the first one started in America and I decided that I wanted to start the first one here. Maybe it’s not the first one in the country, I don’t know and it’s too hard to find out, you know? What do you do, drive through towns asking people on the street if they’ve seen one? Or phone the local municipality? It doesn’t work like that. You have to be part of some kind of secret science society or something. Whatever. But it’s definitely the first one here, you know? And you know how I know? Because no one’s ever seen anything like it! I’ve had five people since I opened and everyone just, like, completely loses it when they see it.

When I first started, I only had the one guy and I was worried about the smell, you know? Even though there’s no one around for flipping miles. And since I added the five new ones, I’ve noticed the smell changing. It’s interesting. I’ve tried to write about it, like the scientists in the States do. I put the smallest of them, a girl, in a bin and sealed it up really tight. She’s been in there like, six weeks now. When I open the bin, I think the smell will be really bad, but you’ve got to put them all in different places, different situations. That’s what makes it a ‘body farm’ and not just like, a graveyard, you know? Anyway. What’s your story? What brings you around here? You know, it’s funny, when I saw you just now, coming through the gate like those guys did six weeks ago, you know what I thought to myself? I thought, ‘at last, some life in this place!’”

Treasures

Jessie grew up seeing her father bring home coral-crusted coins from the bottom of the Pacific. She dreamed of one day finding her own treasure. Now, that hope swelled with each rolling wave.

“Come on, Jessie,” Daniel said, holding a Champaign glass. “Have a drink.”

“We’ve got work to do,” Jesse replied, studying their find. They had salvaged a gold bar and buttons studded with pearls. “We can’t waste time with your flirtations.” She traced her fingers over the gems.

“They’re not flirtations,” Daniel sighed. “Live it up a little. The treasure will be there tomorrow.” He squeezed her shoulders. “We’ve got time,” he said, patting her ass and flopping into a chair. He propped his feet on her desk.

Jessie smacked his feet. “Jesus, Daniel. I brought you on this expedition because you’re an expert diver. I won’t be another notch on your bedpost.” She knew from his silence that she had hurt his ego. He walked out of her cabin without saying another word.

Closing her eyes, Jessie imagined Daniel’s lips against hers. She felt the heat of his tongue while his soft fingertips trailed down her spine. She was lost in daydreams of loving him, when she heard Caroline giggling in the next cabin, and realized Daniel had gone to her for his fun tonight. Jessie took a shaky breath and lectured herself for being a starry-eyed fool.

The next morning, Jessie awoke to a creak in her box-spring. Her mattress dipped her toward the tanned body sitting beside her, rolling her so close she felt the heat from his skin.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Daniel smiled. “It’s beautiful outside. You can see our markers from the stern.” He waved a cup of coffee under her nose.

Jessie sat up and groaned. Leaning on her elbow, she took the coffee. “Mmmm, alright. But you’re following my lead,” she said, blowing steam from the cup.

“Ay, Captain.” He saluted and walked to her bikini hanging on the door. “Sure I can’t help you into this?” He ran the strings between his fingertips.

She whipped her pillow at him even though he was halfway through the door. “You’re not my type!” she yelled.

Daniel leaned his head in and smirked. “Next time I’ll get you out of the bikini instead of into it.” He ducked away before the other pillow hit the door.

It was a beautiful day, Jessie thought. Sunlight sprayed through the water in rays. She was on the seafloor, sweeping sand with her hands, dreaming of being able to afford real equipment, when she noticed something glinting in the distance. Jessie turned, looking for Daniel. She wanted him to be with her when they investigated. She swam in circles, wondering where he was.

Then she looked up.

Floating above her, Caroline was wrapped around Daniel, like they were having sex in the depths with Jessie as their audience. Jessie’s fingernails cut into her palms as she swam toward them. She tapped Daniel’s shoulder and pointed to the surface, indicating she was heading up.

Jessie unzipped her wetsuit when Daniel dropped his equipment to the deck. “Why’re you angry?” he asked.

“I’m not angry.” She shot him a look. “Just go back to Caroline.” She turned and stepped from her wetsuit.

“Is this about Caroline, or about us?” he said, pressing his chest to her back. He pulled her against his body and kissed her neck.

Jessie felt it all slipping away. Everything that told her he was wrong for her began to fade. He dragged his hands across her stomach and turned her around, then kissed her. She melted into his embrace. Her back arched as he took her lips between his.

When he pulled away, Jessie smirked.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“This.” She shoved him, flipping him off the boat. He yelped before splashing into the water.

Jessie laughed. “At last, some life in this place.”

Days Gone Way Past Woe (645)

Gracie (650 words)

Life took a bit of a wrong turn last year when his beloved wife succumbed to her much advanced years. While it was with some relief when she passed, George cannot bear life without her. He hasn’t dealt with the loneliness too well; the emptiness of life without her after fifty years together causes an ache to penetrate deep within him. His enthusiasm and zest for life aren’t there anymore. He wishes he had died too. He doesn’t much see the point in going on. Not alone anyway. Life was never going to be same again, not without his dear lovely Gracie.

The decision to move from his little house had been difficult one but he knew he didn’t have much choice in the matter. Gracie had done so much for him that he knew he’d struggle alone. It would be hard to uproot himself from such familiar surroundings. He’d miss his garden for sure and was sad to be giving it up. It was heartbreaking to pack up his things, just a boxful or two, to take with him. The rest, and most of the furniture, were either thrown out or given away. It had come down to this.

Today was moving day. The gloominess of this dull November afternoon did nothing to lift his already low spirits. The scowl filling his face said it all. He wasn’t happy. Not one bit. He won’t have you tell him it’s a nursing home. No, it’s definitely a retirement home. That’s what he tells his friends. And he likes to add that it’s a rather nice place too. That’s what he tells them anyway.

George had met a number of the other residents over the days that followed. Residents he thought, what a strange thing to be called. They were a nice enough bunch of people, friendly too, but he couldn’t help thinking that it was an unexciting existence living here. Many of them just sat around all day, a partially vacant, empty look about them. One chap, Jimbo, a younger man in his seventies, more chipper than most of them, had thoughtfully given him a potted plant to brighten his room. The gesture made him feel welcome and he was grateful for the kindness. How he was going to care for the plant he didn’t know. That was usually Gracie’s department. The lawn and vegetables were his domain; houseplants were Gracie’s niche. But Gracie wasn’t here now.

When Jimbo dropped by George’s room a few days later enquiring after him, and checking on the plant’s progress, he was happy to see that the little plant was thriving.

“You certainly have green fingers George,” Jimbo announced, “although ficus are easy providing you don’t overwater them”.

“I dunno, it’s probably just luck,” commented George.

“Care for some more?” asked Jimbo.

Looking confused, George said “What you do mean?”

“Well,” said Jimbo, “I have a bunch more if you’d like to see ‘em. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Struggling to keep up with Jimbo’s pace, George scuttled along beside him as he was taken through a maze of corridors to an area towards the rear. The sprawling old property housed a number of disused and neglected outbuildings. George led him into a mainly glass structure; its windows misted with condensation. Not prepared for what came next, George gasped; his jaw dropping as his mouth remained open for a few shocked seconds. The expanse before him was packed with greenery; a familiar earthy humid smell emanated from the space, engulfing his senses.

“What is this place?” George finally asked.

“It’s mine,” exclaimed Jimbo. “Well, not mine exactly but I’m the only one who takes an interest, so I get to look after these ‘ere plants. You know, I grow ‘em, propagate some too, just for fun. Like it?”

As Jimbo stood watching, all George could say was “At last, some life in this place”.

In Dark Spaces
(634 words)

In amidst one of the dark spaces beneath the world, where the smell of damp and decay ever waft, sat a young woman upon the ground, weeping quietly. It was her second year down there, and she’d had quite enough. No matter how much skin-care product she slapped on, a little bit more of her skin would fall off every day. Regardless of the sheer vastness of shampoo and conditioner she stuck into her hair, she’d always awake to find it a little more greyed and split. And her mind, her very self, ignored the fact that she had consumed a sea of disgusting cod-liver oil for days on end and continued to decline.

It would not be long now, she thought, before she ended up like the rest of them. Mindless twits. Always emitting incomprehensible moans and groans, losing limbs to packs of corpse-rats, or walking into walls. It was an utter unfairness that she was expected to live with them, within that poor charade of a society.

There were butchers who worked with bones instead of meat, there were firemen who put out those who came by way of incineration, and there was even a doctor who, it can only be assumed, was not particularly good considering all of his patients were corpses. His purpose was supposedly to reattach limbs and put eyeballs back into their sockets, but considering the foul state of everyone down there, he was fighting a losing battle. His uselessness mattered little, however. It was the nature of the society to be nothing more than a depressing mimicry of what they used to be a part of. Some corpses even attempted to rebuild their old homes down there, to largely low rates of success. And anyone who did succeed found their houses beginning to decay even faster than they were.

The young woman didn’t want any part of it. There was no point trying to just mimic her old life like they all were. It was pathetic. She wanted to actually be back in her old life. Back when she was pretty, when she was smart, and when she had a future. Or rather, a less depressing future. It had all been snatched away too soon.

The town bell rang. It signalled the ridiculous call to dinner. Eating alone was supposedly unsociable, so it was either eat together in the town hall when the bells sound or don’t eat at all. Granted, she hated them all, so maybe she was unsociable. It was tempting to ignore it, to just sit there and wallow in self-pity for a little while longer, but whenever she’d done that in the past she’d find the next day that she’d had even more overnight decay than usual. She picked herself up off the ground, wiped away some tears and snot with her horrid rags, and opened her lopsided front-door. The mobs were all there, limping their way through the roads, answering the bell’s call. She took a deep breath and pushed her way in.

*

So suffocated by corpses, she hardly even noticed that she was indoors. Long, dusty, splintered tables were all out to greet her, and the mob dispersed amongst them, taking their places on the benches. She sat near the doors, for a quick escape after the meal.

The final corpses took their seats and the food trays were delivered to the tables. No doubt it would be bone food again. As the lid of her table’s course was lifted, the young woman gasped. It was her ex boyfriend, from back before she was stuck down there. It was the first living thing she’d seen in two years. However did he get to her?
“Jess,” he whimpered.
She reached for the carving knife. “At last, some life in this place.”

Laughing in the Dark
(650 words)

“Hello, Clement!”
Two blue eyes look up into the bespectacled countenance of Dr. Berenson. Berenson’s eyes widen in anticipation of Clement’s reply… but there is none. Instead, the demure figure that is Clement Carlson slumps deeper into the chair gazing back indifferently.
The doctor leans forward in his chair slightly, his smile still in full force. “You know one of these days, Clement … I’m going to have to shut you up you’ll be talking so much, you wait….YOU WAIT!”
Ostensibly annoyed Clement lowers his head and shifts a bit in the chair.
“So!” Berenson announces with a heavy slap on his knee. “Is today the day?”
“The day for what?”
“I’m sorry, Clement, but I’m what you would call old; I don’t hear so well,” replies Berenson.
“I said…the day for what?”
“Oh! Well…uh…the day you talk to me about what happened, I suppose,” Berenson chuckles. “I mean…that…that is what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
Clement’s pursed lips suddenly give way to a smirk.
“Looks who’s got a smart mouth,” whispers Clement menacingly.
“Oh most definitely, Clement, my sarcasm is my charm…; I don’t go anywhere without it!” says Berenson a smirk of his own now rising to meet Clement’s.
The two sit like this for a moment smirking at each other. Clement’s smirk growing more… wilder, Berenson’s growing more jovial. Berenson thinks to speak but the sagacious old man squelches the impulse. He sees something in Clement’s eyes that he hasn’t seen before in the last four meetings; the indifference in Clement’s gaze seemed at last to given way to some resonance of genuine interest.
“Well, what do you want me to say, doc. What?”
“Whatever comes to mind,” remarks Berenson and for the first time during the session the jovial air that surrounds the old man disappears and a wise solemnity takes its place.
“Those doctors told the judge I was crazy, so now I’m here.”
“Well, I—“
“What I don’t understand, Doc, is why I’m here…with you. I saw ‘em writin’ things.
“Saw whom writing things?” says Berenson squinting quizzically beneath his spectacles.
“The shrinks, they type reports don’t they, you seen them haven’t you –?”
“Yes”
“Then why the hell am I here,” murmurs Clement restively.
“Because I’m not interested in the subsequent murders, which is what the bulk of all the reports cover or necessarily the reports in themselves –“
“Oh really?” interjects Clement.
“Yes”
“Then…why…the fuck…am…I here, DOC!”
“—For the very reason I may have alluded to by bringing up how much they speak on the subsequent murders. You see, there is very little data to glean from those reports on the circumstances surrounding your first murder, that of your mother”
There’s a pause. The demure figure that is Clement Carlson scoots to the very edge of the chair, beaming. His blue-eyed gaze once dull, now, pierces maliciously through the lenses of Berenson’s spectacles. Dr. Berenson, in turn, shoots a glance at the guard standing outside the door.
“…I hated Martha” whispers Clement.
“Precisely, Clement! I –“
“Stop glancing at the fucking door! –That’s… not very polite, doc.”
“A…As I was saying Clement, ‘I hated her’ you must understand is tautological at this point; it adds no substance to why you…why you really murdered…your…mother, Martha. You’re here because we want to know WHY you –“
“Maybe cause Momma…was…just too…damn…QUIET!” bellows Clement. The guard jumps and moves to open the door but Berenson repels the intrusion with a glance, a tacit yet resounding “Don’t!”.
“–Because she was negligent during the abuse; is that it, Clement?”
There’s another pause. Clement turns and flips off the guard then retreats back into the chair.
“Was Martha negligent…? Hmm? –You wanna hear a joke, Doc?”
“…Sure”
“After I had wrapped that extension cord around her neck and I could feel her body go limp; I thought … AT LAST! ... some life in this place.”