|
Writer
Join Date: Nov 2006
Location: England
Gender: Female
Posts: 48
|
The Afterlife and what Jack Friar found there
Hi all
I haven't posted here for a long time, mainly because I've been busy with that nasty thing known as reality and have neglected my fiction writing. Still, I've done a short story, although that's pushing it a bit as it's 2900 words and would really appreicate any feedback or comments on whether you enjoy it or not.
It's and odd little piece, sort of an idea for a longer story I hope to write.
Thanks in advance for any feedback!
Rachael
/////////////////////////////////
The afterlife and what Jack Friar found there
The Afterlife ain't all it's cracked up to be....
For those who are of a religious persuasion, and believe in off-kilter factions of Christianity no one can find a pronounceable name for, there may be an alternative to the somewhat extreme categories of heaven or hell, essentially adding a third option to 'so, what goes on after yer die then?'
Visions of this unnamed, due to it's total lack of distinguishing features,place are generally of a gray, endless stretching nothing. They're half way correct, but describing it as an endless, stretching call station with innumerable partitions resulting in an eternity of isolation where those who suffer from it are not even aware of the feeling would be more apt.
The denizens of both heaven and hell viewed 'the place' with a significant measure of disgust, both viewing it as 'mediocre' 'dull' and 'utterly unremarkable', for when the afterlife for a significant mind boggling figure of lifeforms generally taken by surprise by it's mere existence consists of eternally being plugged into devices that were cunningly made to appear as shockingly mundane aspects of office life, a mind scanner for example taking the appearance of a call operator's headgear, it let down it's general reputation.
You see, whereas in heaven there were never ending quantities of religious music, soaring hymns, fluffy white clouds and baby animals and in hell there were voluminous quantities of fire and brimstone, Cradle of Filth records, torture pits where the screaming never ceased and hordes of perky, chatty second hand car salesmen chased after you with dogged, senseless determination – the 'place' was quite simply extremely bland.
This view especially applies to Jack Friar, who found it so utterly sole destroying in it's total lack of pleasure that he found his thoughts being dominated by feelings of significant animosity and dissent towards the bosses who kept them shackled to their lot whilst they enjoyed sentient company and ceaselessly flowing reserves of Decaffeinated coffee on demand.
Now Jack had never been a bad lad. Well, not that bad a lad, more the kind who whispered lewd comments to young society ladies that made them keel over into a melodramatic faint and would purposely sloped to his job with the general agility of a snail every day for shimmying down a hundred and fifty feet deep mine was not his concept of a good time. In the end, it had been his inattentiveness that had killed him, forgetting to properly attach your safety harness is not the brightest idea when you have a descent of twenty minutes into the bowels of the earth to eagerly savor in the immediate future.
Jack had been a bright young fellow, when he was prepared to listen, was able to write with some degree of competency and could read if it the material in question was printed in a font that did not necessitate use of an extremely powerful telescope. He'd went to Sunday school without fail every single weekend because his mother was careful to inform him she would curse him to the fiery pits of hell should he not attend.
He hadn't found it extremely invigorating, found the idea of a man transforming water into wine 'a load of dog's bullocks' but he went and sat in stupefied yet diligent attendance to the teacher's circular droning, that held one key message – 'God is better than the rest of us. Therefore we should all therefore spend our entire lives in praise of his glory to avoid eternal damnation.' Jack had considered at the time that if hell was brimming over with horned, cackling demons and heaven with beautiful pearlescent angels he'd opt for the former, a man who's favor was determined by how much time you spent enthusing over how wonderful he was wasn't his cup of tea.
Unbeknownst to him, hell had to remove him from their list of 'possibilities' for the vague degree of religious conviction. If there was anything that made them curse using a worrying number of expletives it was Sunday school attendees. Still, as it has been stated, Jack was a clever lad, and was able not to suffer a second heart attack when after his body had been horribly mangled and distorted at the bottom of a very deep, water sodden pit he found himself in a waiting room.
The room was wholly unremarkable, there was a faint scent of damp that lingered unpleasantly around the level of the nostril, the walls were whitewashed that added to the general sensation of overwhelming blandness and the floor was graced with some cracking lino that looked not dissimilar to a piece of earth situated too close to the equator.
There were three other boys there, all very pale, all highly agitated, like condemned men anticipating their final summons. All their eyes locked upon his in the moment he came, only to drift away at the realization he was no more fantastical or glorious than they were. There was a chair besides the eldest boy, and Jack took it, eyes glazed over in a state of sustained shock.
The youngest could be no more than six, had a shock of curling tawny hair that flopped despondently into his tight, rigid face. The second had dark skin, something Jack found fascinating, as he knew nothing darker than the soot caked skin of his fellow men down the mine, his eyes were huge and held wide in fear of what was to follow for none of them knew. The last was his age, and he looked extremely well bred, he wore a waistcoat that was too tight for him – he sported cuff links for no other reason than that his parent's could afford to buy them. Not that they would be any great asset to a rigid cold corpse. He squirmed and paid excessive attention to his sleeves. Not a word was spoken between them, only a terrible, protracted silence remained, a silence that inspired greater heights of fear than those borne of instinct and a terrible gaping ignorance that left them vulnerable to whoever wished to strike them.
All of their faces flashed to a door that hadn't been there a second before when it cracked open, all anticipating to be awed, overwhelmed by some glorious, exquisitely formed angel, or for Jack there was the vague worry it may be a scarlet skinned devil who lurked in wait to initiate his torture. He almost wished he'd actually meant those fervently spoken prayers in that split second. He didn't want pain.
It was then, that a small, balding man with a stubbornly clinging bushy mustache scurried in like someone racing to catch a bus in the process of leaving without him. He slowed to a halt when he caught sight of four terror struck boys.
“Oh. You're here, well, um...” his voice trailed as his head darted around the room in frantic exasperation. “Geraldine! You never told me I had anyone to expect!” Geraldine was evidently not within earshot. “Useless, absolutely useless...” he muttered to himself in tones of low, menacing conspiracy, before turning his gaze to the boys, slapping his hands together like a thunder clap in the manner of an over enthusiastic social worker. He was attempting to be warm and approachable, not easy when you're a tubby, supernatural figure with a head as red as a radish.
“So lads, let's see what we've got lined up for you, that is if the silly girl remembered to leave me your files...” he trailed into an awkward laugh to which none of them responded. Agonizing absence of speech was substituted for Jack clearing his throat, speaking with a voice that wobbled like a jelly.
“Um, sir, if you don't mind me asking, where might we be?” He darted his head around, as if he couldn't bring himself to face the man he was speaking to. Jack noticed an image nailed to the wall of the man before him, in a state of some reality alien to him. The man was sticking a thumb up and dressed in a repulsive khaki combination of clothes that appeared ready to burst from the burden of the figure's weight. A wide, terrifying smile adorned his face and he was besides a very attractive young lady who looked somewhat bored, her hand lazily clinging to a Piña Colada. If he had squinted he would of read a meticulously lettered caption 'Me and Geraldine, Costa Del Sol, 1974.' A date that would of confused Jack, being from a time where a lady venturing into the streets unaccompanied resulted in achievement of a sordid reputation. Jack's gaze returned to the man as he spoke.
“Oh, this? The afterlife.” He began rummaging through the draws, muttering and cursing to himself, before clucking with pleasure as he unearthed a sheath of crisp, white file papers. Jack looked on dumbfounded, he couldn't take it in, couldn't believe it.
Everything, everything about him denied that possibility. It was all just too normal. It was like his Uncle Jim's accounting office, that was it, white walls and all. He tossed his head vigorously to rid himself of a memory. A memory of a chilling, splintering scream that rose from his own mouth.
“But, but – I can't be dead.” His voice distorted and cracked as he tried to speak, “me mam's waiting for me, I, I have to eat my tea!” The unrestrained childishness, the misplaced hope and anticipation for a normality lost forever would have been heartbreaking to most. Instead, the man couldn't restrain a cackling jeer.
“Oh my boy, you will never see home again.” He wiped a tear of merriment from his eye as he attempted solemnity. “Sorry, you just have no idea how many times-” his voice broke up to laugh once more, it was an unnatural, escalating to break to the stupefied silence before settling to a deranged snigger.
The laughter made Jack's skin crawl. “You're not right, you're not, let us go. Let all of us go back home.” He paused, articulated his head in the direction of the others who sat huddled together in an attempt to dissolve into the scenery.
“I am sorry, truly, but you are here now, all of you, and that is how it is, now, let's be sensible about this.”
“Bout what? What's gonna happen? Tell me!” He was smartly ignored.
“That, is what I need your records for.” He fished out a paper, “now, Mahbub Dawodu?” The dark skinned boy shot up, and walked towards him, his head tilted high and knuckle crunched into a tight ball. He never once cried, though it was heartbreakingly apparent he wanted to. The man scanned the notes, giving a low whistle before commenting, 'ouch, nasty. So, my boy, well, you've had a good track record. Brave, loyal, strong conviction.”
He raised his head, smiling with too much effort in the process revealing a set of grossly disfigured teeth, that appeared as little more than blackened, rotten stubs. “Welcome to heaven!” He spoke like a game show host awarding the star prize, shook the boy's hand as he gabbled in shock and incomprehension of what was going on. The man yanked him up, very near shoving him through a door to the right of the room that had not been there a second before and was wiped back into the wall's crisp white conformity the moment the boy stepped through.
“You're ignoring me! Answer me questions ye bugger!” As if in acknowledgment of Jack's protest, the man darted his head towards the youngest child, who whimpered and hid his face with his hands, he wailed for his mama, his voice strongly accented. Jack thought he sounded French.
The man ambled over, patted the child, making him wail louder and proceeded to read from the sheet in his hand. “Basil Poisson. Cinq ans. Oh dear, I'm not very good at my French, never was.” He laughed once more with ill humor, seemingly totally inconsiderate to the fact that no one cared. “So, tuberculosis, poor little chap. Still, you've been a good little fellow, off you go,” he prised the boys hands from his face, and ushered him towards the door. The boy could still be heard, uttering his plaintive, unheeded cries as the door disappeared.
Jack opened his mouth to speak once more, attempting to seize his last chance to speak, but the man spoke hurriedly, was quite clearly desperate to rid himself of them and to return to a crossword Jack could spy on his desk. “You two both have the same final destination. You,” he pointed at the smartly dressed boy who gave a noise not too dissimilar to a pig at the spotlight being pinned on him, “are a naughty boy. Pinched little girls, boxed with seven year olds? Tut – tut...” he gave a crocodile's leer at the boy's face of contorted anguish.
Suddenly, the established routine of the man's voice and Jack's constituting the only sound in the room, a wild wail broke through. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please not hell, anything but that! I never meant to!” He fell to his knees before the man who looked somewhat disgusted, sobbing like he had fallen over and grazed his knee as he grappled for a hold on the figure's shirt.
Jack couldn't bear seeing anyone grovel, so snapped irritably, having reached the conclusion he had been afforded a one way ticket and it was very likely his dinner was going to go cold without anyone ever returning to eat it. Essentially, he concluded that whining and blubbering was somewhat redundant – for there was nothing he could do to act. There were no weapons, no clearly labeled emergency escapes – nothing. “Oh stop it yer pansy!” The boy appeared not to hear, continued to cry ceaselessly.
“For once boy, I'll agree. Go away.” The figure refused until the man vigorously shook him off, leaving him sprawled, sobbing without restraint, across the floor.
“Yer didn't need to hurt him.” Jack's voice was quiet. He knew nothing that he could say mattered to anything other than his own conscience.
“In all truth, I doubt he would of prised himself from me of his own will, he is, after all, attempting to delay the rest of his existence, as a surprising proportion do with a worrying level of resolve. Besides, he fears something that will not happen, Hells' too good for two little nobody's such as yourselves.” He paused, sighing with relief that it was all over as a door behind his desk came into view. He directed his head towards Jack who looked on it blankly, numb of all sensation as he looked on in terror laced anticipation of the rest of his life. “And as for you, Jack Friar, I am sure you have justified what lies in wait by your actions today alone. This way.” Jack bent over, aiding the pudgy boy to his feet as they both staggered towards the door.
Jack gasped with a sudden sensation of dreadful cold as the wafts of mist rose in plumes from the entrance. He sobbed to the silence as he felt how it enveloped him and heard his companions periodic cries and felt how his blood was restricted from how the boy clung to him like a leech.
They both fell to their feet, overcome when they found themselves on the other side. They were blank, faces sunken with despair for a life from which there would be no pleasure, no sensation at all, for Jack could tell, despite the odd clothes and equipment – that he was in neither heaven or hell. It was worse than that. It was something nobody had ever even considered could exist. He couldn't help but ask, as he looked down on himself clad in the same gray, neat suit as everyone else, if pain, if sustained torment was preferable to a life of no feeling at all.
Jack Friar set there at his desk writing documents he didn't understand with knowledge he never knew he had. Dull, vapid and lost to everything and all that had made him Jack Friar.
But there was a flaw, there was a fault in the great design that no one saw, and as Jack Friar sat there, day after day, year after year, decade after decade, he found that each second added to the rage, to the fury that should have been quashed in the stupor resulting from the shock, the grief of his own death. He found himself remembering, recalling just how it had felt to know happiness, to know grief, to feel love. He found himself imbued with rage knowing there was a force there was a presence that existed to stop him feeling what had made him human.
Jack Friar found himself wanting them, and when he had built up a true enough picture as he could, a strong enough image of the dark haired boy racing through Manchester's smog ridden streets alive with energy and drive, he vowed to himself that he would reclaim them, that he would build himself and all the others sentenced to eternal unfelt misery a future in the land where time stood still.
~The End~
|
!
