We apologise of the delay. The fireworks got out of hand. Drinking and a flare gun never mix well. Neither does a circle of depressive drinkers and a gun which you pretended to load with a single road. Drink enough, someone will be motivated enough to break into the camp of the traveling circus. He or she will be set to unlock all of the cages in the hopes of setting the animals free. The animals were probably asleep, which is why they fucking charged this person when they heard the rusty war-screech of an anarchist lush and bang of a heavy gauge lock being busted open with a stolen fire axe. You should have seen them run, it was kind of beautiful. You could put Vangelis to it.

The electricity went out. But that’s because of the pool party someone got the bright idea to throw upstairs. There was no pool, so they blocked every drain with old clothes they found in a spare bedroom. Then they turned on every tap full bore and even dragged up the hose, like some overgrown python. Eventually it all collapsed, the top floor breaking and then gushing and rushing down to the ground. Thankfully no one was hurt. The original owners will get a shock when they return from their trip abroad.

Meanwhile in a room, it’s ceiling hazed over from all of the smoke, six people wait anxiously passing a gun around each other, hoping to be the first to Valhalla, and not to be the sucker that comes last. They idly cheer and clap each other, between drinks, urging them to pull the trigger.

I think there are waaaay too many roman candles. This thought floats through several people’s heads, but their minds are like teflon. The idea does not stick while each of them search for more explosive material.

When they hear the sirens, they do not panic, they cheer. It came in with the beat. That was the sheer Schrödinger luck of it. They just kept dancing. It wasn’t a smoke machine. It was actual smoke. The lights were still going, but half of it was faulty electrics burning away the only available exit. Maybe it was the ecstacy, maybe it wasn’t the collective pharmacy in each belly. Have you ever wondered why there are oxygen masks on air planes, why there is ‘Duck and Cover’? Makes it easier to establish a better frame for recovery from a disaster. Easier to find your body in your alloted seat or underneath your sturdiest piece of furniture. As I said, it was easy for authorities to clean up after that warehouse rave.

They had too much furniture. They were hoarders after all. But they didn’t have a place to sit. All of the chairs were piled high to the ceiling. They really could not use the beds any more. It wasn’t just the lack of matresses, but they were vertical to make room for cots and wardrobes. They slept in two tall boys. And when they wanted to screw, they did it on a coffee table, where they would have to squeeze underneath a dining table. They lived happy lives in a labyrinth of their own design. But when disaster struck there was no escape.

Too many fireworks, somethings going to go wrong with this pile. The thought just doesn’t stick. Neither does the fact of how they managed to find so many in such short time.

I’m getting off topic. There was a delay, because the electricty went out. We use it to make our publication. It’s all on computers now. In the old days, it was to be pumped out on a type writer, carefully and patiently spaced late at night, while the television was playing out dark white nose. Then carefully cut the pages with an Xacto knife and paste them down. One might discover spelling mistake or an error in the grammar. But fuck it. There was no way out but through. Though the photocopier needed juice, it was during the day and the library was usually empty. And hacking it for free copies became a breeze. It was just simple attention seeking at first, but then it was crazy attention seeking. That’s why all these things were done.

The group are exhausted. Like worker bees, they got busy and built a pile of things that blow up. They decide to celebrate their haul, by passing around bottles of dark liquor. Someone came late, but brought the pièce de résistance, a vintage British one inch flare pistol.

Smoke continues to fill the room. There is not more noise, just an impatient silence. The hammer slams against the chamber. The ‘Click’ echoes against the temple, and rings in the head. No Vahalla for me. The pistol is passed around. They have not realised yet there and never will be any bullets.

Accidents happen. Like that time you sent of a prank letter, only to think that when you sobered up, it really did seem like a ransom note if read in the correct light. You wondered if they would take it seriously…

And then you wondered if you could write another.

The panicking, escaped circus animals wreaked havoc with authorities trying to evacuate selected city blocks. Disturbed by drunken activists and then further terrified by the explosions and the fires, they charged people trying to leave their burning dwellings and those still partying out in the street.

All of that dense wood, pine and oak, would only fuel their funerary pyre. The heat and smoke overwhelmed them and all they could do was hold each other.

There wasn’t much left of the liquor nor was there much of the people either when that flare gun overshot the apple and sailed majestically through the air, right into the heart of fireworks and homemade explosives. There was the moment, where everything froze like a photo. People staring into the pile, waiting while time slowed down for what was to happen next when everything ignited at once. The shockwave konocked some of them to the ground mostly, sparing them from being burnt by the heat or their limbs snicked off by the shrapnel.

In the smoke-filled room, the party of suicides have realised that there are and never will be bullets in their gun. They have wasted so much time sitting here hoping to die and now they fear they will live forever. One of them, alone has the courage to step up, grab the pistol and whip each and every one of his friends into Vahalla’s hands, beating down on their skulls. Realising what is unfolding, they each give out their thanks and prayers. Covered in the blood and now alone, the sole survivor needs air away from all this smoke and death. He opens the door and steps outside, only to find that the horizon is aflame and chaos echoes through the night. Like stepping into a Bosch painting, he has entered Hell and goes mad.

There was a delay. We get distracted sometimes. And then things get out hand. So we have wait for every Dick, Jane and Charlie Chimp to be rounded up and put back in their cage. Once the fires are out and we can survey the damage we’ll get back to work. At least, until we are distracted once more.

photo by nintaro

Today, I was with Kaelee, in our first sort of creative writing thing, where we try to run a little exercise to quickly drum up some fiction and then read each other’s projects. Today’s exercise was to create a short character description, trade then characters and write a short piece about them, as fast as possible.

This is character bio as written by Kaelee –

Gracchus is a bureaucrat working for an etherreal ministry for the dispensation of dreams. He is severe and stern and treats his job with intense focus. Hi is tall, thin and spindly, almost spider-like. Past attempts at friendly conversation from workmates have been shot down with icy silent stares.

Gracchus works specifically in the constructions of dreams; he designs and directs the dreamscapes that are dispensed into the world, and observes the growth of the ones that best take root in people’s subconsciouses. He obsesses over the tiny details in his dreamworlds, leaving cryptic, mostly nonsense messages in symbols and dialogue for the dreamer to discover, but has yet to observe a dreamer who is actively seeking the messages.

So this is what I wrote –

The stage was almost set. People ran busily back and forth moving props, wiring up cable, setting and testing lights. Some of the actors were already in makeup, attempting to memorise their lines, or running through exercises of adlib and improv.

“Now repeat that for every dot on every mushroom.” Gracchus began to walk away and then said, “Or you are fired.”

Thought I made minor edits, not bad for some speed writing, I think. Not sure how long this actually took, but I wrote until my hand was sore. Reminded me something of exams, but I was actually satisfied. I believe Kaelee may post the story on her site.

Above Paris a couple of birds chirped sweetly before fluttering out of the foliage and into the sky. Behind him a voice spoke out.

- You’ll never finish it if you keep sleeping.

Paris, not moving from his spot, spoke in return.

- Just resting the eyes. Need to pick out the detail, you know.

- So you keep saying.

The voice was closer. Like the birds it was sweet and song. Paris felt as if a shadow had crossed over him. Slowly lifting the brim of his hat, Paris already knew who it was. Heather. His love had long golden hair that came alive in the wind and faded freckles on her skin from a childhood in the sun. She wore a dress the colour of leaves in autumn, that kind of sweet dry brown. She held a covered basket, her arm looped through the handle.

- I brought something in case you were hungry.

Paris smiled.

- And this is why I love you.

Heather rested the basket near the chair and moved over to the painting resting on the easel.

- So I want to see this painting that you seem so satisfied with that you sleep away the day.

Paris lifted himself from his seat, adjusting his hat so that it staying atop of his head.

- It’s not quite finished yet.

Heather smiled at his modesty.

- Oh you always say that. With nothing finished, it’s no surprise that you never sell any of your paintings.

- Well I’ll be sure that I finish this one.

Heather always marvelled at the intricate detail of each of her lover’s works. Every one was so well painted, it seemed like he took the scenery itself and stretched into a canvas. Most of the time she had to peer around the canvas just to see if there wasn’t a hole that Paris had cut from the world.

Heather looked around the painting and easel to see the landscape still there. But there was something else. A dark figure strode across the emerald meadows. Its pace was fast, like the speed someone gets when it’s near the end of a long journey. The figure didn’t follow the road that curled its way around the mountain. It climbed over the fences that separated the pastures. The person was making a direct line for Paris and Heather.

Heather turned to look at Paris. He seemed more focused on his painting, as if there was something missing. In the back of her head she knew that something terrible was going to happen. But Paris didn’t seem concerned.

- You know what I think? I think I need some Parisian Blue. But I left it in the workshop. Would you mind getting me some?

Heather understood the meaning of this. She understood that her love had made many enemies. And that one day one of those enemies might come around. She nodded nervously and then began to move up over the back of the hill, back to the home they shared.

Paris had seen the shadow making its way across the landscape for sometime. On a clear day like this and at this elevation, he could see all the way to the horizon. He always thought a day like this might come and ran through it countless times over. When the figure reached the bottom of the hill, Paris lent over and reached into the box at the bottom of the easel. He felt the cool steel, the warm wooden grip. He pulled his SAA from the box, feeling from its weight that it was loaded. He let his arm relax, letting the heavy sidearm take his hand down to his hip.

The figure began to take form. It was a young man dressed in long black coat and underneath, sour white clothes. He was staring directly at Paris. He moved up the steep hill with ease, as if the terrain were merely an illusion.

Paris was ready, but the man had not drawn any weapon. It seemed unreasonable to Paris to fire. As the man in black reached the top of the hill, Paris stepped back to give him some room. The man had stopped. Paris observed this man. He seemed barely out of boyhood. Hair was as black as coal and skin as white as driven snow. His eyes were grey with dark rings, as if he had never slept. He seemed slightly hunched over, as though he had been driven like a beast across this landscape. His coat was overly long, his hands disappeared into the sleeves. A moment of silence passed until Paris realised that nothing had been said. He expected this man to say something, his name, Paris’ name, to call out every grievance and misery that Paris somehow caused since those days. But there was nothing. The man was silent.

- Why are you here?

The man seemed to have difficultly speaking. He bared his teeth and shifted his lips trying to shape the words. Finally, he spoke:

- You.

The word seemed to smoke its way out of his mouth.

Paris’ forearm tensed, ready for the first sign of trouble. So Paris asked again:

- Then what have I done to you?

The young man paused at this, as if trying to understand the question.

- Nothing.

Paris could feel his heart beat in his chest. He couldn’t read this man. Here he was travelling miles on foot, dressed clothes that didn’t fit, to walk in a straight line directly for him. Why? If not for revenge, then what?

- Then what the hell do you want?

When Paris spoke the fear cracked in his voice. Fear he hadn’t felt since when he stared down the eye piece of his rifle and saw a man covered in blood and tattoos in that burning valley. Staring back at Paris with possessed eyes. Paris pulled the hammer back on his gun with his thumb.

Again, the young man in black had trouble finding the words, as if the entire concept was foreign.

- You.

Then his hand began to snake out of the sleeve and into his coat. Paris felt he should react, but could not shake himself from the stranger’s dark eyes. The hand pulled the coat open slowly, to reveal a pistol that was silver with a black handle.

Paris blinked, snapping out of his trance. His arm raised, his finger squeezed the trigger. The SAA spoke loudly. At the same time, the young man darted to the side, his other hand darting out of the sleeve into the coat like a sidewinder on the attack. In a fluid motion, the young man drew and fired.

Paris let out a hot smoky breath, stumbled back and fell to the ground. It was noon, the sun beamed down him from high above. Then a shadow eclipsed everything. The young man drank deep of Paris’ final breath. Standing up, the young man stretched out, exhaling slowly. He lent over again to pick up Paris’ gun. He held it like a curiosity, between thumb and forefinger, staring at it like a child might with a spider or frog, studying its form. Standing up again, the dark man tucked the gun into his belt and turned to leave. The painting seemed to catch his eye. Something felt unfinished about it, though the man never touched pigment to canvas before. He titled his head to one side, and thought it might be a blue. Though he couldn’t be sure which. Then without further thought, the young man went down the hill. In a new direction.

Later Heather returned, with a rifle in one hand and a tube of paint in another. As she reached the top of the hill, she couldn’t see either Paris or the stranger. Fearing the worst she ran to the tree, only to find the easel and her love lying on the ground. In her grief, Heather couldn’t feel the tears run down her face, nor the Parisian Blue running over her clenched fingers.

Preceded by: Part 2
Continued in Part 4
]]> http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/05/magpie-part-3/feed/ 0 http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/04/magpie-part-2/ http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/04/magpie-part-2/#comments Mon, 20 Apr 2009 22:46:00 +0000 Jack http://66.7.193.146/~thescrea/thescreamingwall/?p=55 Elsewhere. A homestead lies in ruin. The fences fallen apart and toppled over. Not that they were keeping in anything. The cattle were sold long ago, and they were barely worth anything. The ground was near barren, brown and rocky. What little grass remained was the same clay-brown as the earth that bore it. The building itself was slowly separating, even now the boards that made the shell, were loose and would rattle in wind. The house looked like a skull, decayed on the deserted ground. But none of this bothered the occupant. He was living on borrowed time.

A young woman approached the homestead. She looked back at the wagon that brought her here. The driver, turned elsewhere, so that his attention did not seem transfixed on her. She returned her attentions the house and moved up old stairs and onto a porch. Both groan and wheezed as though she stepped on the near dead.

She crossed the threshold into that house. Dust and dirt had come in through every available open and settled here. Everything was clay-coloured. The walls rooms were bare, only vast plains of boards could be seen. There was no furniture. A crate of food, salted meats and tinned sundries lay in the corner. The woman turned to a closed door. Pushed gently, it creaked loudly, protesting. Inside the room was a man kneeling as if in pray, but not quite so. He his hands were not clasped together and held under his chin, but instead lay relaxed on his lap. He did not seem bothered by her entrance, all announced by the house. Around in this room lay the bare few items: a simple mattress and worn blanket, a blackened chamber pot lay in the corner. Some books lay piled in the corner. Against the wall sat a large leather case, worn, dusty and locked.

- Cassandra, he said, what brings you out all this way?

She turned her head, to look around the house.

- I heard you sold all of your things. At least that’s what the people in town said. And that you were selling it all for pennies.

- That’s true. Some felt strange for taking it for free. They wanted to pay something.

-But –

-I didn’t need those things. They weren’t important. No one seems to make sense of that.

He smiled, trying to reassure her with this. But it did not. She was certain that her father had begun to lose his mind. A lifetime of guilt and regret had finally corrupted him.

- What if you come back to town with me? Set you up in the hotel –

She pleaded but was cut off again.

- No. Why don’t you understand what I want is right here? Those things, all of those things, were a burden. The table, I never ate at it. The chair, I spent too much time sitting on hardscrabble under the stars to get used to it. And the bed…

He paused, hiding his true feelings.

- The bed was too comfortable.

Cassandra knew the truth. All of these things were his wife’s, her mother. Every piece of furniture reminded him of her, and his failure. He had fought and survived and won so many battles that he lost the home front. She read it in him plain like an open book, just as he did for her. He made these excuses as if to pretend for her sake. As if everything were normal. Despite the mistakes of the past, he pretended to move on. But this house felt like it was dying. She wondered if her father reflected this house. She wondered if she would have to bury another parent. That’s why she came out here. She dreamt a shadow fell over this place. Something that strode across the desert. It moved slow and steady, but nothing would stop it. Not heat, or dust, or starvation, not storms and not fire. It was inexorable. And it would claim him. She wondered if her father was just waiting for Death to come knocking.

Her father turned his head towards the grimy window. Something was coming. Her father always felt it before she did. Before either of them heard it, or even the other senses registered. Then the thudding of hooves and grinding of cartwheel against the hard ground came. The wagon outside came to a stop. The horses whinnied restlessly. Cassandra felt the shadow of a man as it drew itself across the ground from the lazy afternoon sun. She felt darkness, but not the darkness in her dream.

- I think I better be going, Cassandra said.

Her father nodded in agreement. She quickly stepped outside. As she opened the door she recognised the man connected to the shadow. He was middle-aged, hair turned grey and silver. The body had become slightly rounder, but was once fit and strong. The clothes were expensive, too expensive for anywhere nearby or any honest career. He had one foot on the first step. It didn’t groan for him.

- Hello Colonel.

Cassandra spoke with feigning dignity.

The Colonel tipped his hat.

- Afternoon, my dear Cassandra. My you are looking lovely as ever.

Fake platitudes for fake platitudes. The Colonel continued:

- I take it your father is inside.

- Yes he is.

- Well, I wonder what brings such a lovely creature like yourself out to a depressing place like this? The Colonel gestured with his hand to the house and the empty, dead farm.

- Just visiting my father. Nothing more.

And wanting to say nothing more, Cassandra headed for her wagon. The Colonel wore a sidewinder smile.

- You be careful there. Dangerous days for a beautiful young woman like you.

Cassandra told the driver to go and the horses drew the wagon around in a slow circle and made their way back to town.

The Colonel watched them for a moment, before turning his attention to the house. He moved up the steps without a sound. And old trick he had kept in practice. It allowed him to sneak from unwanted guests that his wife had brought. It let him to move around the house at Christmas as a proxy for Saint Nick for his children. With this skill, he killed men in their own encampment, their throats cut like a second smile.

Despite his silent steps, he knew the man inside was expecting him. He entered the house and then stood at the bedroom door. He looked around the house as if admiring the place for its ability to continue standing.

- I like what you have done to the place, Shaman. The Colonel noted. – Nice décor.

Shaman still looked out the window towards the horizon that Cassandra disappeared on.

- Do you want a drink, Colonel?

- Sure.

Shaman moved out the bedroom, past his old comrade, towards the kitchen. He reached up into a cupboard with both hands and pulled out two small glasses and a clear glass bottle. There was a small amount of amber and gold liquid in the bottle. Shaman set these things on the stove.

Shaman immediately read the Colonel’s intentions

- So you want insight?

- Yeah.

The Colonel replying as he looked around for somewhere to sit, but realising that there was none.

– Came here for advice. And to bring news.

- News?

Shaman looked up at the Colonel. He rarely asked questions.

- Yes. You hadn’t heard? Clara’s dead. Gunned down outside her own home. In front of her kids. Terrible thing for children to see. But this is the problem. We think the same fellow killed Ichi, and Clarke and Jackson. Hell, he’s even got to a card shark down the Mississippi and a few others.

Shaman uncorked the bottle slowly, the cork making a lengthy squeaking sound.

- What I want to know, the Colonel continued, is that if this guy is hunting us. And what I need to do to stop him.

Shaman poured the amber whiskey out into one of the small glasses.

- I can see a man dressed in the same colour of his shadow. He goes everywhere by foot, as no animal will carry him. He is moved by something that robs him of sleep and stays his need for food and drink and safety.

Shaman poured the other glass that perfectly emptied the bottle and at the same time, perfectly filled the glass.

- He is a hunter. Like you and more than you.

Shaman handed the Colonel the glass. The Colonel nodded his head.

-Salud.

They both drank.

Swallowing the last remnants of the burning whiskey, Shaman reminisced, picking up the empty bottle.

- Do you remember when I got this bottle?

The Colonel smiled, the memory coming back.

- Yeah. I remember, we picked it up after the whole valley thing. Your whole strategy about setting those fires paid off.

Shaman was holding up the bottle looking through the crystal clear glass

- Do you remember what I said when I got this bottle?

The Colonel shook his head slightly.

– No…

Shaman looked directly at the Colonel, as if looking down upon him.

- I said that the last time we would meet would be when this bottle was empty. It would be when I would give my last piece of advice to you.

- And that is?

Shaman looked back at the bottle, as if it were a prism that could separate the light.

- One day, we all find ourselves hunted. This man, who has killed our friends is a force of nature. He cannot be bought with coin or a lover’s warmth or a safe place. You will not be able to outrun him or hide from him. You will need to stand and fight.

The Colonel wiped his mouth. There was a bitter aftertaste in the face of this advice. His smile had gone. Taking this in, the Colonel nodded. Shaman had always told the truth. And it always came true.

- Well. Best of luck then. See you later.

Shaman did not draw his attention away from the bottle.

- There is no later. Goodbye Colonel.

The Colonel left. Shaman could hear the wagon pull away, the sound of the horses and wheels disappear into the dusk.

Shaman place the bottle on stove, returned to his room and sat down on the floor cross-legged. He closed his eyes. The sun had sunk lower and lower. Everything had become dark. Except behind Shaman’s eyelids. There was a light that only he could see. It was strange the way it rose, like sun setting in reverse, clouds traced across the sky like fingers. Shaman’s sight raced across the land, a wide barren desert of rock, stone and mesa. An empty wilderness that tested everyone who dared to cross it and claimed most. His vision raced across the landscape at an incredible speed. Shaman knew the thing that he was looking for. Suddenly from the edges of the horizons sprang a great mountain. Alone in the desert it was a behemoth standing over everything. This mountain was old as the sun it now blocked. Let shadow meet shadow, said words in Shaman’s voice, but not his. This would be his battleground. This would be the place to test who was the hunter and who was quarry.

Shaman opened his eyes. The sun had long left the day. Even in the darkness, Shaman moved over to the leather case and opened it. He knew where everything was. He picked up his guns, put in his coat, rolled his blanket, and picked some food out of the crate. Then he was out the door into the darkness. Speeding towards his final stand.

Preceded by: Part 1
Continued in Part 3
]]> http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/04/magpie-part-2/feed/ 1 http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/04/magpie-part-1/ http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/04/magpie-part-1/#comments Mon, 20 Apr 2009 03:15:00 +0000 Jack http://66.7.193.146/~thescrea/thescreamingwall/?p=54 The house stood on the hill overlooking the dry, golden fields of grain. A light wind had them swaying. In the right light, a late summer afternoon, dry and cooling, these fields would look like a shimmering sea of gold with waves rippling in the setting sun. The other side of the house was shielded from the weather and prying eyes by a small copse. It was made of trees that seemed hundreds of years old, tall and strong, unyielding to the elements. They stayed green for most of the year.

Two girls played on the porch. Dressed in pastel colours, long dresses and small black boots. One, with darker hair, read quietly on the long chair made of pine. She was the older sister, but still not big enough for her feet to reach the solid wooden floor of the porch. The younger girl, clinging to a doll made of soft cloth and filled with stuffing, skipped across the porch. Skipped and bounced to a tune that ran in her head and had no words.

Annoyed, the older sister closed her book. Mimicking maturity, she barked at her sister
- Will you stop that?
The younger seemed perplexed at the order.
- I’m just playing.
The older one sighed.
- You’re such a child.

There was movement in the copse below, a shape slipped between the shade of the trees. There was no sound to be heard, no even the rustling of leaves or the short, snapping sound of branches. Well-placed feet made their way through the copse.

A figure emerged, a young man, lean and tall. He walked with a strange gait. Oddly paced, yet deliberate steps. Moving towards the porch, where the girls stood. They froze, unsure what to make of this man. The older sister saw that the legs of his black trousers were too short, nearly rising up half his shins. In contrast, his jacket was too big, with the sleeves coming down over his hands. Both jacket and trouser were black. Beneath the jacket was a white shirt that had become stained will dirt and grime. His skin was pale and off-white, and dark rings surrounded his eyes and hair equally black, shortly cropped on his head and styled in no particular fashion. The older sister could also see three guns strapped to his waist. And something else, like a knife that sat in an ornate sheath decorated in what looked like flowers.

He stepped up to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the girls.
The older sister stepped forward, in front of her younger, as if to protect her.
- Hi girls.
His voice seemed to sing a little, though he also seemed out of breath, like he walked halfway across the world to see this place.
- Is your mother at home?

The older sister backed towards the door of the house, while grabbing her sisters hand in reflex.
- Mom!

Inside, Clara looked out the window, the moment she heard her girls stop talking, even before they called out for her. She watched the man glide to the front porch. She stood there at the window the whole time and until her child had called for her, she was transfixed with a fear that this man had finally come to her door. When her eldest daughter, Helen, called out, she snapped out of it. She dashed out the front door and moved to the tops of the stairs, so that she was between this man and her girls.

She stared at him with a transfixed gaze. Half was in fear and the other half, like the evil eye.
- Helen, Kate. Go inside.
The girls followed their mother’s words without hesitation. Clara did not take her eyes away from the young man. The moment she heard the front door close, she spoke again:
- Why are you here?

The young man leaned in close, smiling gently.
- Oh…you know why. You have something that I want.

Clara had heard of him. She received the news from the wire and letters from an old acquaintance. Clara had known the people that this man had killed.

Already she had recognised the man’s clothes and his weapons. They belonged to her comrades – former comrades – from a time that was thought forgotten. Vicious times and brutal days, unforgivable things were done those years past. Now that she had daughters, she found a peace and left her violent ways. But there always was the dread that her past might come back to haunt her.

Originally she thought that it was someone out for vengeance. She had this notion when she heard the potter and poet were dead. They made a bad name for themselves and many enemies in those days. Further letters revealed that this same man tracked a conman on the Mississippi. And some ex-army fellow turned preacher. Two people who had no connection to Clara, her acquaintance or her former comrades.

This was not revenge.

The man spoke again
- So do you want to do this now? I can wait a while. Some like to say goodbye to others first.

- You’re not taking my daughters.

The young man seemed offended by this, as if she mistook his agenda.

- No…You…What I want is inside you. No harm will come their way.
He paused, as he looked at her. It didn’t seem that she believed him
- I promise. Nothing will happen

He seemed to speak the truth on this. He was only after her. Something within her, insubstantial to her, but worth enough for him to travel so far on foot to find her.

Clara went back inside, the young man didn’t move from his leaning on the stair post. She raced through the house into her room, got down on her knees and reached under her bed. Her hands felt something old, oily and leathery. They grabbed frantically at this and wrenched it out into the light. An old trunk made of dark brown hide, worn from years of use and neglect. This was Clara’s past. She opened the case and there lay the shooter, a revolver made of steel and iron. It had a handle fashioned from wood that came from the copse outside. Beneath it was the holster and belt that she had worn at her waist before it gave way to motherhood. It fit around her again. For the briefest of moments, she felt the reckless and dangerous joys of her youth. Somehow she wanted to return to those days, where there was death and beauty. She couldn’t. Her fate stood waiting outside in mismatched clothes. She slid the gun into its rightful place. Striding from her room, about leave out the front door, she heard the unmistakable sound of her youngest sobbing. She turned to her family, her husband and father of her two daughters, whose tears were streaming down their small faces.

Her husband knew of the life that she led, though he took no grievance of it. Until now. She took some steps towards them, but then abruptly stopped.

- Go. Leave this place. If I walk from this, I’ll find you.

She wanted to hold her daughters and dry their tears. She wanted to kiss her husband and make love to him. She wanted to run, away with them. But that would only seal their fate. She knew this dark man outside. This demon also took the lives of any who stood in his way. Men, women, even animals and children, he killed without remorse.

- Can I help? I can get the rifle…

Clara shook her head, her eyes told her husband everything, You are no match for him.

Clara turned and walked out the front door.

The man was still there, casually scratching the back of his neck. The afternoon was turning to sunset, and the insects were coming out. As she came down the stairs, her eyes never leaving his dark gaze, he spoke, almost warbling.
- Where do you want to do this? I imagine that around back has a fine view-

Clara had cut him off there.
- Here. Right here. Right now.

The man nodded, complying with her wish, while scratching the back of his head.

They both walked out onto the green grass into the cool shadow of the house, with the trees risen up on the other side. Between them was a distance of about twelve yards. The dark man had removed his coat as he got into his position. Clara saw all his weapons. The dark smoky wood of Jackson the poet’s six-shooter. The eagle embossing on Paris’ SAA. The cherry –blossom pattern on the tanto of Ichi the potter. She suddenly noticed the charms of bracelets, the rings of silver and gold and rosaries that adorned this man. He was the cause of death to many.

- Whenever you’re ready.

His voice was smooth, his dark eyes transfixed on her. Her eyes matched his.

An uncounted moment passed. The wind picked up and rustled through the trees and rushed through the grain. The peep and cry of birds could be heard in the distance. Then everything went quiet, the calm before the storm.

Clara’s hand, quick as lightning, whipped the revolver from her waist and at shoulder-level, delivered her final shot. The dark man was not as fast to draw, but instead dodged, falling, rolling to the ground, and drawing in the tumble. A second shot rang through the trees. Startled birds scattered from their perches.

Clara had her gun fixed on her target that crouched in the soft ground. But though she beared on it, she couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Her body was frozen and numb. The gun suddenly became so heavy that her arm fell. The weapon dropped from her hand. There was a burning sensation in her chest, like a coal had lodged itself in her chest and she was choking on it. She coughed and tasted the iron-tang of her blood. She felt the fabric of her dress become warm and wet. Clara fell to her knees, her gaze still as fixed as her adversary. Falling back, her head hit the soft ground. Clara could no longer move. She stared with abandon at the clear blue sky, with wisps of cloud slowly drifted across.

As she lay there dying, Clara heard steps approach her. A shadow fell over the dying woman. She choked back the blood that she was drowning her. Dark eyes met hers. He kneeled down so he could be closer to her.

- That courage. That’s what I was after.

The man’s face was only inches from hers.

- Is there one last thing that you want to say?

He like a holy man taking last rites.

All she could get out in a raspy, painful gurgle was:

- Your name – ?

- Name?
He paused.

- I don’t have one…but some call me a Magpie…

Clara heaved as she drew and exhaled her last breath and then she was gone. The man stared across his newly fallen quarry. He saw something shining at her wrist. A simple band of silver. He took it off and then put it on his own. Returning to his feet he stepped over to where Clara’s gun had fallen and picked it up, tucking it into his belt.

Magpie then looked up at the porch. He saw the oldest daughter and he knew the name now. Not just from when he had heard it earlier. It was now in his heart, as if he had reared that child for the last eight years. Helen. Her name was Helen and her favourite colour was blue because of the sky.

She was just staring at him. The tears that trailed down her cheeks were drying and her eyes were filled with a confused mixture of grief and anger.

Magpie, feeling no guilt or remorse, turned and walked back into the copse. Back the way he came.

Continued in Part 2
]]> http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/04/magpie-part-1/feed/ 0 http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/04/under/ http://thescreamingwall.com/2009/04/under/#comments Thu, 09 Apr 2009 01:29:00 +0000 Jack http://66.7.193.146/~thescrea/thescreamingwall/?p=53 Construction is a constant part of this city. Like a living thing, this place is under constant renewal. From the office building I worked in, I would see half a dozen cranes dominate the skyline. They gracefully spin, slowly and surely heaving materials in and out of the sites. I was lucky enough to have a window seat at my desk. My colleagues who sit in a sea of cubicles have nothing but grey partitions as a vista. Some attempt to overcome this, but decorating it with knick-knacks and photos of happier times. But not me. At anytime I could just turn in my chair and see the blue sky painted with clouds above, and the grey stone and silver steel and dark blue glass of the city below. I enjoyed watching the construction. Seeing the workers move about like ants, carrying materials inside, talking to each other, having lunch on the newly set concrete floors. All of them seemed uniform with their yellow hardhats and orange vests. All of their work was in silence when I watched them from the window. Seriously I could do it for hours.

Near the building where I used to work, there was an old church. It seemed older than the city itself. It was an old limestone and granite building, with a steeped roof and decorated with some sculpture on the capstones that smoothed and worn away from the elements. For as long as I remembered, it was always abandoned. I never saw any services there. No long lines of patrons. The doors had always been chained shut. Metal grills bolted over the stained glass windows. Some windows were cracked or broken, but you couldn’t see inside. It was just so dark in there. It seemed odd to have such an old building in the heart of the city, where change seemed a daily occurrence. Old buildings were often quietly demolished and new buildings eventually took their place.

On Monday, I came to work and found the high temporary walls around were the church was. The standard signs adorned the wall: “Construction Site”, “All Visitors and Contractors Report to the Site Foreman” “Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted”. As I walked past the wall, I looked up at the crane towering overhead. It was still and poised with it arm facing to the mountains. I beamed with excitement. This site was only a street away from my work. I could clearly see the whole construction from my window. I was only a couple of floors from the ground and my viewpoint initially did not give me a good idea of what was happening beyond the walls. I figured they demolished the entire church over the weekend. I was out of town on that weekend. I eagerly waited to finish work that day. I remember being exicted. Not that I get excited so much nowadays.

The next day I brought in my camera and tripod. I thought that during the day I could take a couple of photos of the construction site. I thought maybe I could keep the progress of the works; maybe compile it into a short film. So everyday I took one photo in the morning, one at midday and another before I left for home. The thing with new high-rise buildings is they first build the elevator shaft several stories and then build the rest of the building around it. If the building needs to be higher, the workers extend the shaft and then return to the building at large. Over the next couple of weeks I saw these towers of concrete rise above the temporary walls. They looked like mushrooms with the construction housing sitting on top, setting the latest layer of concrete. I took the first series of photos home on the weekend and figured I need to take more. So I set a timer for every hour and took a photo then. It was really just pressing a button as the camera was already focused on the site. After a while, the construction workers built a giant framework around the building. It was made of mesh and looked like it was stolen from the batting cages. Eventually it wrapped around the entire site, like a cage for some oversized creature. Inside you wouldn’t be able to see too well, but there was the steel pipes that made up the framework supporting the concrete floors above. As more floors were added the darker it became. But there I was, every hour taking photos of the progress. It was something to do, to break the monotony of work. I enjoyed it at first. Watching the clock, for the next reminder to show up and then “click” another shot made. Soon enough though, the construction site began to worry me.

It’s all about supply and demand. Weekend work is not an uncommon thing for construction workers. It’s extra money and God knows in those days, I guess they needed it. With the work going ahead seven days a week, it meant that I missed out on some of the progress. I began coming into work on the weekends for a couple of hours to even out the empty spaces in the progress. But everyday, when I started work and left to go home, the sound of construction was as constant as ever. It didn’t seem to stop. But I didn’t think much of it. I figured that there were two shifts running the site. Maybe more with the weekend work. I sometimes wondered at the cost of trying to get this building finished on time. Nothing seemed suspicious until one night. I had parked in the city. I left my car in a place where I knew it would be free. In the end I stayed longer than I expected, meeting with a few people in a bar for drinks. It got late and I thought I better get home. I had to walk past my work and the site. It was near midnight and I expected to see a silent skeleton, sitting still in the darkness, with the crane quietly keeping an eye on it. No. I heard the sound of impact drills, the buzz cutting of saws, the hammering of steel. I saw the flashes from welding or the sparks from the grinding of angles. How much was this building worth, I wondered. No sane person would work into the night. When I got home, I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was the endless construction.

I began to get headaches. I woke up earlier than normal. My home seemed dull and grey, with nothing to do. I decided to go to work early, maybe take a cat nap before the day really started. The city seemed practically deserted. It was something like six. The sun had not really risen above the horizon and everything seemed stuck in a grey twilight. I walked past the site and found it quiet. I felt relieved, but then I was frozen by the noise. It was like a bell. But, at the same time, not like a bell. Like a hammer, violently meeting a long piece of steel tube in long even strokes: TONG TONG TONG TONG. There was something I felt behind it. Something I couldn’t hear. I shook. I didn’t know what came over me. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, these construction workers appears and made their way toward the gates of the site. Most people on their way to work chat and smile, laugh and complain. But not these people, they quietly marched towards the gate, orderly and cowed. Some had sunken dark eyes. Some looked starved. They filed into the site, and I could see into it. I went to work. I didn’t get a nap. I watched construction throughout the day. I couldn’t focus on anything else. My headaches didn’t go away. I loaded myself with painkillers, but they just hummed through my skull. I took photos all day and did no work. The next day, I was told to work back. There were a few people sick today. I worked into the night. And I heard that terrible bell again. Even through the double paned glass of the building that silenced the city. I could hear it in my skull. TONG TONG TONG TONG. I still didn’t sleep, at least not in any consistent way. All I could dream about was an animal, I don’t know what it was, but I could feel its bones. They were moist and warm, the sinews and strings of muscle seemed to write and wriggle across it, like thousands of worms right in my hands, tightening and binding around the bone, decaying in reverse. The creature seemed to lash out at me. Then I would wake. And I could hear in the distance the strange bell. I lay in my bed eyes wide open, unable to move. I began to get nosebleeds.

I went to work, but I was told to go home. They said I was too sick to work, even with so many away. I saw a doctor and he prescribed some pills to help me sleep. They did not work. All I could think about was the construction. I looked through the photos, scrutinising every photo for a clue, or something to explain this madness. I eventually saw it. The people in the photos had changed. No longer the yellow hardhats and the safety orange-coloured jackets dominated the scene. I saw people in regular clothes, tracksuits, business wear all through the site, working and cutting and drilling and building. I had to get to work. I had been away for a several days and wanted to claim my camera. That would be my excuse. The traffic was quiet on the way in. There seemed to be no one on the road. It was peak hour. It didn’t click. Not at first. I was only concerned about the progress on the building. No one was on the street. No foot traffic. No students breaking away from class. No busy people. Or homeless. I went into work and found it deserted, an empty silent sea of grey. I went to my desk and looked at the construction. It was enormous now. The scale had bloated out, spilling over the temporary wall. The whole work now seemed erratic. Supports and girders jutted out the sides at all angles. The concrete formations seemed warped. The whole chaos seemed it shouldn’t have stood, but there it was, a monstrosity rising out of the ground.

I began to watch it over days, taking photos that were relevant. Swarms of people would come and go throughout the day. The entire structure was a hive under constant activity. Hammering and drilling and welding. Four times a day that terrible bell would ring. TONG TONG TONG TONG. I’d cover my ears, but I would feel it in my skull. By the time it stopped, I would be on floor, curled foetally. Workers would leave and be replaced by other drones. Each of them looked haggard, worn to the bone. I never saw them take out any fallen or sick. Each of them would walk, hobble or limp out. But they could move under their own strength. I dreaded what they did to those exhausted from the construction. The whole thing would only stop late at night, in the witching hour. But this respite was only mere moments before the bell sounded again and I picked myself of the floor to see people crawling all over the site.

I went home along vacant empty roads. I see other cars but we pass like ships in the night. Sometimes, I could see a fire and smoke rising from an abandoned suburb. There is no one to tend to it and it burns through dusk and dawn. I found myself breaking into supermarkets and shops for food. I carry a large kitchen knife to protect myself, hoping someone else didn’t have a gun. I avoided anything that made too much noise. Some days I could hear large groups of people moving, stripping a supermarket or convenience store of anything edible or buildable. Other times I would see the lone stranger, picking through what was left behind, be it the instant noodles or cans of dog food. We never talked, just show each other our improvised weapons and then go about our business at opposite ends of the building. This is what we have been reduced to.

I don’t know why the construction hasn’t claimed me yet. I don’t know how I haven’t been drawn to it like my friends or most of everyone in the city. It repulses to think of entering. It’s like an allergic reaction I guess. I can see the thing in my dreams and now from the horizon when I looked through my bedroom window. Time is doing strange things, days feel they stretch out for weeks, but the weeks roll by in moments. It’s become harder to find food and shelter, I’ve found whole neighbourhoods destroyed and dismantled.

I’ve decided to go there. I’m going to wait for that bell in the streets and try to stay standing. And when the gates open for the change, I’ll melt into the throng of people and go inside and find out what abomination has swallowed this city. I don’t know if I can stop it, but I guess I go through that door when they build it.

Don’t come for me. Leave while you can.