Tagged: creative

Death and Buses

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Here’s some more short story nonsense.

In the cold hours of an early April morning, Cole Lowman’s feet squelched into half-melted snow as he trudged to work, head ducked low in a tailored black overcoat. The fog hung thickly in velvet sheets, enveloping everything it touched. The sun didn’t seem to have the energy to fight the gloom these days, not that Cole could really blame it. As he walked, sleet drifted down and danced before his face, and cold air stung his eyes. Headlights of sickly yellow cut through the fog as the first car of the morning traffic felt its way along the road. The driver, a lumpy mass of scarf and coat, peered impatiently over his steering wheel as though he believed that pinched face indignation would somehow make the fog lift faster. More headlights soon appeared. The thought occurred to Cole that the world always woke up, no matter how lousy the weather. The apocalypse could occur this very morning, and no doubt people would still go about their routines, oblivious. Unless, perhaps, they pulled up beside the unusual sight of a skeletal horseman stuck in traffic. Jobs to work, money to earn and bills to pay, with the occasional buying of coffee machines and the like. The things we live for. As he squished along the footpath, his feet rapidly turning numb, Cole wondered dimly just when life had become this way. A car bounced through nearby pothole, splattering Cole with icy mud.  It was going to be a dismal day.

It was 6.49am when Cole got to the corner of his bus stop. He was adhering to his usual schedule. He had somehow become a punctilious man, although he wasn’t exactly sure when or how it had happened. The bus would arrive at 6.52am, Cole would step onboard, take his usual seat, and stare out the window as the bus clattered down the road, belching black smoke and stopping intermittently to disgorge people along the way. Cole had a few minutes before he was due to cross the road to the bus stop, and paused a moment. He rubbed his hands together, and blew air on his fingers, hoping that the feeling would return to them. His employer would have little use for a frostbitten typist. His boss, a bald, permanently red-faced man with a tie that was always done up too tight, would remind Cole that he had better look after himself, because he didn’t have any sick days left. Cole sighed and watched as his breath spiralled away into the morning air. Faces buried in scarves and jackets hurried past him, each a walking set of blank eyes and headphones marching along to their own soundtrack. One set of eyes cast a glance at Cole, darting downwards and narrowing slightly, before meeting his gaze. The strangely bright eyes, set in an elegant, angular face of a young man, moved towards him.  A surge of anxiety spiked in Cole’s chest, and he remained still. The strange man moved close to Cole, and leaned in. ‘Don’t be late, Cole. You’ll miss your bus’ the voice said, softly whispering in his ear. Terror spread through Cole like molten hot metal in his veins. He turned and ran. His pulse drummed in his ears and his mouth turned acrid as he hurried across the road. As he ran, his mind scrambled with panic, he wondered deliriously if anything that morning was real. Cole was prone to panic attacks, and he had been suffering more of them of late. But, in addition to their usual effects, unpleasant as they may be, there would additional consequences today. Cole would no doubt now be late. Secondly, and perhaps more seriously, it caused Cole to be completely unaware as he wandered into the path of the oncoming 409 bus. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the bus ploughed into him, flinging him across the road. His skin ground away against the bitumen as the world became a garbled blur of gravel and pain, spinning wildly as he tumbled. A scream sounded from an onlooker as Cole came to a stop in the gutter. Now a mangled mess of broken bones and spreading blood, his thoughts slowly ebbed away into blackness as horrified faces peered down at him.

‘Call an ambulance!’ he heard a voice shriek.

‘Not going to help him, lady. He’s a goner’ a gruff voice replied. He felt a foot poke at his side. ‘Might as well call him a hearse.’

All in all, a dismal day. But, Cole thought deliriously as his vision faded for the final time, a dismal day that was now done.

cracked-sky-gothenburg-sweden-6837359543

Found this cool photo here. I should cite these. Kinda close to what I saw in my head when I wrote this.

Cole’s eyes snapped open. He was seated on a worn padded chair, clothed and apparently healthy, free from any of the typical aftereffects of being run over by a bus. He had regained consciousness in a panelled room, dimly lit by a single flickering light, swaying gently from the ceiling. Yellow dust hung thickly in the air, and twisting veins of darkly coloured wood lined the room, warped and in danger of splintering apart. A single closed door stood at one end. A sickly-sweet odour of decay, a nauseating blend of decomposing wood and rotting gardenias, caused Cole to gag violently. This was not where he was supposed to be. Cole slowly rose to his feet, and ran his hands over himself. He was sure that he was supposed to be dead. But, no matter how many times he checked, everything on his body was where it should be. Moving over to a window, he peered out at a blackened sky, splattered with brilliant white cracks that spread like webs to the horizon. Straight roads with glowing streetlamps spread out into the darkness, each dotted with buildings that pumped smoke into the air in rhythmic bursts. Cole stumbled back to his chair. It was all utterly incomprehensible. He pressed his face into his hands.

‘First time?’ a voice asked.

Cole became aware that he was not alone. He looked up, and saw a young man seated in the far corner of the room. He seemed relatively normal, if somewhat unnervingly ambivalent about their current situation. As Cole focused his vision, he saw that the young man’s eyes glowed faintly, as if reflecting a candlelight that wasn’t there.

‘Is this your first time through, I mean’ said the young man. He leant back in his chair and stretched.

Cole got up and pulled frantically at the lone door, before banging on it with his fists.

‘That won’t do anything. It doesn’t open until you’re called’ he said as Cole clawed at the door. ‘Didn’t you read the sign?’ He yawned and gestured to a sign hung pointedly above the door. It read:

‘Sit until called. Do not leave the room. Do not cut the line. No fighting. And don’t forget to smile!*

*Failure to smile is an offence

 Printed by Because I Said So Civic Control Corp.’

‘The no fighting part always makes me laugh,’ the young man continued. ‘I mean, what’s the point of fighting if the person you just killed can just reattach their head?’

Cole slumped into a corner, breathing rapidly. He tried to remember the breathing exercises his doctor had given him, but realised with horror that these may not work if you aren’t breathing at all. The curious young man stood, and moved over to Cole. He knelt on his haunches, and placed a hand on Cole’s shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I forget sometimes that this isn’t exactly easy. I’m Nine. Stupid name, I know, but it isn’t my original. Long story.’ He took Cole’s hand and shook it.

‘I’m … Cole.’

Nine smiled. ‘Well Cole, I find the best way is the most direct. You’re dead, and you’ve ended up here. I don’t know if this is the afterlife, but if it is, it’s pretty disappointing, really.’ Nine looked around the room, and sighed.

Coles breathing began to slow. He looked up at the young man with the glowing eyes.

‘The last thing I remember,’ Cole said, ‘was crossing a road. And maybe a bus. And pain.’ He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

Nine grimaced. ‘You remember less each time, but that doesn’t sound like a good one. I’ve had a few bad ones myself. One happened on a roller coaster called ‘The Slicer.’ Nine walked over to the window, and peered through. ‘If I’d known it was going to be that literal, I probably wouldn’t have gotten on.’

Suddenly, an announcement sounded from a crackling speaker.

‘Cole Lowman, please enter Receiving Room One.’

Nine helped Cole to his feet, and brushed the dust from his clothes in quick swipes.

‘That’s you. Better get in there. You don’t want to miss your appointment, or you’ll end up like old man Dusty over there.’ Nine pointed to a dimly lit corner. There sat an old man, gnarled and grey, beard trailing on the ground and covered in brown dust, unmoving and blended into the wall.

‘That’s a man?’ Cole said, recoiling.

‘Used to be, I guess. No one knows how long he’s been here for. His marbles have pretty much all rolled away now.’

The old man creaked his head in their direction, dust falling from him in clumps of dirty snow.

On and on we try, born without being alive, but there can be no hope, in a place where not even time can fly’ the old man rasped, soil blowing from his lungs.

Cole hesitantly opened the door. A desk stood in a circle of light, behind which a tall man stood. His back turned, he was clutching an open file, his arms unnaturally long. Cole saw with horror that a noose was tied around his neck, buried into glaring red flesh. He took a step back.

‘Don’t worry. It’ll be alright. Well, maybe. But you have to go in.’ Nine placed an arm around Cole’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see you again, ok? I guarantee it.’

Cole nodded, and slowly headed into the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Cole looked out across the vast factory. Oil dripped freely from the walls, forming brown pools upon the rivet-studded floor, shimmering with heat. Blasts of steam hissed as the machines pumped, throwing rust and metal shavings into the air where it slowly fell in polluted flakes. Sallow faces stared at the conveyor belt in front of them, assembling parts that came past. His fellow workers, some of whom still carried evidence of their latest demise, stared straight ahead through glassy eyes, mouths agape and covered in ochre grime. The strange man in the room had certainly not sugar coated it. He had been given a pamphlet, taken to a bus, shoved onboard, and promptly driven to his new place of work. The pamphlet, entitled ‘So, you’re life-impaired!’ explained that as a new arrival, Cole was entitled to a dwelling and employment, where he was expected to work. It was all part of what was termed the ‘adjusting period’. Cole could expect to work here for a few hundred years, before a position possibly opened up in management. It was not optional. Each factory was staffed with similar men to the one in the room, each with a noose around their neck, and they prowled around the factory floor, making sure that everything remained in order. They often dragged malingerers to a lower floor of the factory, and usually, they did not return. To Cole, this seemed to be a slight subversion of ‘eternal rest’.  But, with no choice given, he worked.

Cole felt a tap on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure how long he had been working, or even if time really meant anything in a place such as this. He turned to see the face of Nine close to his.

‘Follow me’ Nine said, his voice low.

‘Now?’

Cole never usually liked to leave in the middle of shifts. In his old life, he was infamous for being one of the few employees to have remained at his desk during a building fire. Luckily for Cole, it was extinguished shortly before he had to get up.

‘Yes. Now. This way.’

Ducking low, Nine slunk through the factory, avoiding the gaze of the patrolling Noose-men. He stopped at a large iron door which led outside, and gestured for Cole to hurry. Reluctantly, Cole crouched, and followed.

Cole and Nine stood on top of a cliff, overlooking an immense murky sea. The sable waves churned below, crashing into jagged rocks that stuck out like broken teeth, stained inky black by time. A lone wooden sign stood at the peak. It read: ‘Everywhere is nowhere. Everyone is no one. There is no escape’.

‘Ignore that,’ Nine said, shrugging off his jacket. ‘That’s just there as a loss-prevention device.’

Cole looked down over the edge of the cliff to the crashing waves below.

‘This next part might get a little wet. That down there, is how you get out of here. Only way to do it is to jump. Might want to hold your nose, or something.’

Cole backed away from the edge. He had never been a great swimmer.

‘That’s how to escape?’ Cole said, hugging himself against the wind. ‘Isn’t there a better way?’

Nine stripped off his shirt.

‘Believe me, I’ve looked. This is the only way. I’ve done this before.’ A tinge of sadness crept into his voice. ‘It leads to the surface, or whatever world you left behind. Problem is, they look for you, and find ways to bring you back. Each time you move between the two, you lose a little piece of yourself.’ Nine crouched, and ran his hands through the rough gravel of the clifftop, pebbles falling through his fingers. ‘Pieces chip away from you, like your memory. Nine isn’t my name. Truth is, I can’t remember it anymore. It’s only the number of times I came through here before I lost count. To be completely honest, I’m not even sure if I’m human anymore.’ Nine looked up at Cole, his eyes glowing faintly. ‘But you have to make a choice. I made mine. And now you do too.’ With that, Nine leapt off the cliff, disappearing into the waves below.

Cole was never one to break rules. His whole life he had done what he was told, sat up as straight as he could, and the only thing it had gotten him was the privilege of being hit by a bus. He wasn’t sure of it, but he felt he was close to grasping the answer to a question that had long eluded him. The answer lay at the bottom of that cliff. With a deep breath, Cole stepped off the edge, into the abyss below.

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Dead Tired

Death glanced over the mornings schedule, empty sockets peering with cold intensity over the neatly typed page. It was a typical day.

Mourning Schedule:

Kill

Skull polish

Kill

Lunch

His assistant had a habit of inserting these curious puns into his work. He didn’t quite understand it, and even if he had, he had long forgotten how to laugh. He thought he had once, but it turned out that he had gum in his neck. Did it involve moving? Or was it a sitting activity? These questions irritated him, but the menial details of existence had long become blurred, turned to dust inside his bleached white skull. But, all in all, a typical day. Except something was wrong. He couldn’t quite determine what it was, but a foreign and unnerving sensation had begun to press down upon him, straining his joints beneath his sable cloak. A feeling of listlessness, a silent and creeping ennui, advancing upon him as he attempted to concentrate upon his morning tasks. Being unable to define this feeling frustrated him, but he had found it was easy to be of few words when you generally killed people with them. Suddenly it dawned on him. He was tired. The realisation was startling, as he was fairly sure that he wasn’t supposed to get tired, so he turned the sensation over gingerly in his head, examining it with the meticulous scrutiny only an eternity of collecting souls could provide. Despite this, the feeling grew. He didn’t even have a brain, and yet he was sure he had a headache. Death was immovable and unending, and did not have bad days where it would rather stay in bed. It did not have moods or inclinations. Remembering this fact compelled him to rise from his desk, and attempt to focus on the upcoming tasks of the day. Although, he could recall a day where he had lost part of his foot. It had eventually turned up underneath a filing cabinet, but if something could be qualified as a bad day, that was probably it. He reached for his scythe, the metal shining and edge grinning in the gloom of his office. Grasping it firmly, he swept out the door, cloak trailing behind him as a shadow does its master.

Arriving at his first destination, he saw that he was to collect the soul of a forty year old man, who was heading for a chest-clutching heart attack. He had arrived at a park, on a summer day one could use as a template for all days to follow. The sun shone brilliantly in an azure sky, flawless and golden. Death did not have much appreciation for good weather. To him, good weather just meant more people outside to be hit by buses and die in freak yachting accidents. Glancing around for his victim, he saw a man running laps around a calm lake, completely oblivious to all except the track presented before him. That was the first victim of the day. He certainly didn’t look prone to a massive heart attack, but cardiology was not one of his areas of interest. Besides, appearances could be deceiving. He waited for the man to complete his lap. Running was also not one of his areas of interest. All-powerful eternal being or not, no one looks dignified running in a cloak. As he waited, the vague agitation he had experienced before began to renew with increased intensity. He attempted to ignore the sensation once again, but it continued to grow, dripping onto his normally ordered thought like a faulty tap inside his head. Fatigue and routine. An eternity of dispensing his namesake had now begun to takes its toll. Now he could grasp what was wrong – he didn’t want to do this any more. With the thought crystallised, it was now impossible to placate. In the midst of this epiphany, he almost failed to notice that his victim has rounded the last bend, and was now approaching rapidly. Perhaps devoting his full attention to the business at hand would assuage the turmoil he now felt. He rose to his full height, and spoke as the rather red faced man drew near.

‘I HAVE COME …’

The man did not stop. In fact, he didn’t even slow, or show any sign of acknowledgement in the slightest, and continued on to his next lap. This was quite a blow. When gifted with extraordinary power, one likes to be treated in a manner befitting as such, not viewed with as much interest as a telephone pole. Why was he doing this? He was sure he could be doing other things, not being ignored by a mortal more concerned with lap times than an ancient apparition coming to take his life. What was barely contained now broke into full mutiny. Why should he be doing this? What was to stop him from simply returning to his realm, putting his cloak over his head, and sleeping for a thousand years? The running man approached again, significantly more flushed.

‘I HAVE COME FOR …’

Again, the man continued on, headphones on and music blaring. Utterly ignored, Death sat down. He had now arrived at a terminus, a suitable point for the end. Only this time, it would be his end. He placed his scythe upon the ground, loathe to leave it but unable to take it on the upcoming journey. Producing a bony hand from his sleeve, he raised it above his head. Soon he would have peace, and would no longer be forced into the servitude that he could not remember commencing. Surely his assistant would do a satisfactory job, although the puns would have to go. Bringing his hand down, he placed Death’s touch upon himself, and began to fade, the anguish dissolving into joyous relief, flooding over him like liquid. Now, he could rest. Before the last remnant blinked out, he remembered his skull polishing. That may have cheered him up, now that he thought about it.

Flawtopsy

I’m not exactly sure what I’ve written here, and it is a little out of my usual style. Way more halting, and I usually love commas. Like, a lot. I only began with a vague idea about an obsessive-compulsive Pathologist. Only after did I hit on trying to impress the idea of a guy more comfortable with the dead than the living. Not that original I guess, but felt like writing tonight, so here it is. Only short, but hey, I don’t get paid much. Or at all.

I glanced at the clock. 2 pm. Time to begin. I approached the bench, counting each step as I went. Five steps. Chart clenched stiffly in my hands, the deceased’s information was typed in black, standing prominent against the sterile page. Aseptic. Lifeless and unchanging. Thirty years of age. Massive cerebral hemorrhage. But the particulars didn’t concern me much. An autopsy had to be performed. I had a job to do, and it was routine. It had to be routine. It was the only way to cope, really. Due to this, I had to start now. Muted tinges of anxiety began to grab, as the seconds marched forward to 2.01 pm. I couldn’t start at 2.01. That just wouldn’t work. No one starts at times like that. It was very stressful sometimes. Life has so many variables, a chaotic unplanned disaster that pained me at every moment I couldn’t ignore. Here, I had my routine. It had to be the same. I rushed through my preparation. Tools laid out, descending in particular order, metal shining and edges grinning. Superiority dictated by usefulness. Life was not as simple, but death could be. The gloves were speckled with dust. Catastrophe. A big deal. I couldn’t continue. Yet, I couldn’t restart as much as I could reverse time. That power was beyond me, even here. I had fifteen seconds. I can’t explain why I had to change them. A vague, all-powerful compulsion, a maddening, itching, burning desire to eliminate a variable, the outlying, the line outside a stone-set column. I rushed over to the supplies. Fifteen seconds, as I grabbed desperately for fresh gloves. Sweat dripped down my face. Acid rivers stung in my eyes, panic mounting, driven into my head like a spike. The gloves caught in the box. Blind anguish now. Breathing ragged, heart straining in petrol-driven tachycardia, bursting, sputtering. The gloves pulled free, and I snapped them on. I hurried back to my position. Two seconds to spare. Relief, joyous and flooding, poured over me. Deescalation, tranquil as water. Normality and routine. I made my incision, and began. Blood spilled bright over my gloves. I smiled. I was home.