Blog

Al’arc knelt quietly by the burned out connection watching the birds as they turned and tumbled in formation in the sky. This was his problem; too easily distracted. But watching the birds filled him with stillness. He couldn’t understand how they did it and watched carefully to see whether one began to turn before the others, or perhaps the turns and spirals were an expression of the formation itself as it moved through the air, the way one car on a highway influences the others around it as they influence it in return, the whole system interconnected in so many invisible ways.

The call had been logged in the small hours. Al had always been an early riser, not enjoying the late-night social activities popular among his friends and often found himself returning home to eat the meals an earlier Al had cooked and left for him in the fridge, read a little of the book by his cot and then drift into sleep.

He slept hard and would wake after four or five hours, blearily crawl beneath the bed to retrieve his eye mask from where it had inevitably fallen in the most inaccessible corner and rinse his mouth with water from the outlet in the small kitchen. Stumbling about in the darkness, trying to avoid waking himself too fully.

Small tasks complete he would climb gratefully back beneath the still-warm blanket and think about something uninteresting until he could drift back to sleep for another couple of hours. He often felt better rested then than he would when the alarm sounded at its usual time.

Last night the slow blink of a notification greeted him as he came back into the bedroom from the kitchen. He slowed a little, curious as to what the notification might be, proud he could let it be until he awoke later.

Nestled in the blankets he had gently pulled the eye mask over his head and settled it across his face. There was a perfect place for it, where it could hardly be felt at all as it lay in front of his eyes, yet it stopped almost all of the light which had begun to stream in through the window.

He enjoyed opening his eyes then, to gaze in the complete darkness at what seemed to be a vast space, yet he knew was a layer of plastic and cotton fibres just a few milimetres from the tips of his eyelashes.

It was ever a short-lived pleasure as the small motions of the muscles in his face as he opened his eyes and looked around was soon enough to disturb the mask and ruin the illusion. A crack of light would appear and with an inner sigh he would settle back more comfortably on the pillow, reset the mask to its proper place and leave his eyes closed and motionless beneath it, hoping to find sleep.

Sleep had, today at least, been elusive

Sleep had, today at least, been elusive. For while his mind did not turn to it immediately, wandering past thoughts of properly washing his toothbrush, and ordering the new seal his clothes washer desperately needed. Small random thoughts, all loosely themed around maintenance and other routine tasks which needed his attention when it was available. Connection made, he began to think about the notification.

The systems were mature, so mature they very rarely failed by themselves, and where there was a risk they might, they or another neighbouring system or device would helpfully send a notification well in advance, so they could be repaired or replaced as needed.

Notifications like this one usually arrived during the day, when the others were awake. They may not like to admit it, or even think about it but they were the principal, or perhaps only cause of unscheduled maintenance calls. Rough handling, misconfiguration, abuse, all took their toll and Al would pack up his tools and walk around fixing the things they had broken.

Which meant someone had been here last night. A conclusion which, like most conclusions, only created more questions.

The dense metal of the blast door was almost thick enough to deaden the wailing klaxon in the hall beyond. Simon looked about the dim space, fingertips extended as he groped for the wall he knew should be just to his left. Despite his caution he managed to jam an extended finger against the base of a grab handle, pain shooting up his arm. The joint of his finger caught slightly and he flipped his hand over to wipe it against the grab handle. Relief coming as he bumped the troublesome digit into a curve and was able to flex it again.

The klaxon was fading beyond hearing and he realized this was most likely because the air was leaking out beyond the bulkhead door. Sure enough, the bright red warnings on the three sides of the triangular opening had lit up to indicate the lack of pressure on the other side.

The three lights flickered and Simon realized they didn’t align neatly with his sense of up and down. The gravity system had also been affected and the pull beyond the door had dropped away, everything on the other side would soon start to slide down the long straight corridor to pile up against the door, drawn there by the grav plates still working on this side. Once that area failed completely there would be a mess of equipment, wreckage and bodies stacked against the opening.

Bodies. Simon’s eyes flashed down to where the long burn tracked across the chest of his suit. The surfaced ablated and torn where something had streaked across him at a narrow angle. He’d been lucky, the blast had thrown him through the blastdoor even as it snapped shut, triggered by the explosion and hull puncture as the attack ram impacted on the ship.

That’s why there were bodies. He had been talking to Romanov as they jogged towards the armoury. The comms from the other ship had been laced with attack software, the banal messages about damaged engines and part lists had arrived only moments before the bridge dropped off the intercom and the lights flickered as power routing was rapidly changed across the whole ship.

They had been headed to their assigned station when Romanov had noticed the attack rams sliding silently through space towards them. One of them growing horrifyingly large and detailed as they realized it was going to strike the ship where they stood.

He hadn’t thought to say anything

He hadn’t thought to say anything, running had seemed so obvious. His powerful legs had moved him swiftly back towards quarters and only as he slowed to palm open the door did he realise he was alone. Turning the world had seemed to slow, his neck muscles straining to rotate his head which suddenly felt stiff and heavy. His eyes darted about as the corridor behind him slowly, so slowly rotated into view.

Just before he could see there was a terrific crack as several long spears lanced through the meters thick ceramic hull. Two of them breaching the corridor itself. Then there was a series of exlosions so close together he heard them as a roar, like a space dragon screaming outside the ship. The space between the lances exploded inwards just as it came within his field of view, dozens of his colleagues smashed to bloody pieces along with the debris against the far wall, which collapsed through into the chambers beyond in several places.

Romanov had started to job towards him and turned back to see what had happened as the first bolts of white blue light slashed across the corridor and figures in suits with the hazed outline which accompanies military-grade battle gear stepped into the space. Like Simon she was moving slowly and he saw horror start to spread across her face just before a bolt struck her visor and most of her head flashed to bloody vapor, her armoured helmet hanging uselessly at her belt.

Then the compressed air and noise had reached him and tossed him bodily up and back through the already closing blast door, which tugged at him as it snapped shut just inches beyond his feet. Wait, no, that’s wasn’t right. Inches above. He looked down and cried out as he saw the stumps of his legs which both ended above the ankle. The slight angle at which he had been flying through the door meaning one stump was several inches shorter than the other.

There was no pain, but the suit could do nothing about the shock now he had noticed the double amputation and his willing mind flooded him with pain which had little to do with the physical injuries and everything to do with the pain he was utterly convinced he should be in.

Noggin leant back a little so the light of the fire wouldn’t play over his face as he looked down through the branches. Around the fire the humans were talking and gesturing at one another, their strange noises carrying easily like the pungent smoke from their cook fire.

The tall one sat reading while the small one washed itself with a rag. They made noises at each other while the fat one dug a pit and waddled over to produce a small pot from the packs laid over the pony. That’s why Noggin was watching them, the pony looked and smelled so tasty his mouth already watered at the thought of roasting its flesh over the fire later.

The fat one made some noises and the small one squealed and slapped at it. Noggin grinned as the squeals reminded him of Dunker leaving Ribbon’s tent last night to rut noisily with him instead. She’d laughed when they were done and told him that while his was straight like a knife, Ribbon’s was as bent as Barok’s scimitar.

As bent as Barok’s scimitar

The four goblins had been careful to shepherd the group for the last few suns. Keeping a bear and a small group of wolves away. Humans often lost their wariness when things seemed safe and comfortable and their progress through the forest had been easy as the goblins ranged ahead of them, scaring off the animals who might otherwise have come to pester the humans at night.

As he crouched in the tree the tight-wound leather of his knife felt good in his fist. Running his tongue over the cool metal he wondered whether he would get a chance to use it this time. The fat one looked slow and should be easy to catch. He pictured the round white face gaping at him as dark blood seeped and pulsed through its fingers as he slashed and hacked at that enormous belly.

Just then his keen nose caught the twin scents of terror and blood drifting from upwind where the humans had hobbled the pony just beyond the firelight. Ribbon must have slit the beast’s throat and would now be finding his own tree. He just needed to be patient.

Noggin still had some wolf meat stuck in his back teeth. He picked at it with the knife and managed to work a chunk clear just as Ribbon’s recurve bow twanged loudly from across the clearing. Noggin traced the arrow as it whipped through the space and buried itself in the small one which had finished washing and stood to pull its clothes over its head. It screamed, stumbled and tripped headfirst into the fire.

Noggin traced the arrow

The fat one gaped at the screaming creature, but the tall thin one was reaching for its sword even as it began to look about, ignoring the small one which quickly stopped screaming and thrashing, the scent of burnt hair and flesh filling the air. That instinct to look for danger betrayed its experience and training and Noggin gripped his knife tighter seeing at least one of these foul-smelling creatures knew how to fight.

Then a nearby branch drooped suddenly. A loud crack rang out and Dunker, who must have crept too far out on a dead limb, flailed as she and the branch fell from the tree to crash with a whimper to the ground by the humans below.

Noggin froze until movement caught his eye and he saw Barok in a tree to his left moving from where he crouched in the shadows, curved scimitar held ready, yellow eyes fixed on the shapes below as he prepared to jump. Noggin leant forward too, tensing for the little leap which would carry him out into the dark as the tall human rolled smoothly forward from where it sat like hot fat flowing down meat, quick and slick, coming to his feet immediately below Noggin and extending its sword towards Dunker.

She let out a little gasp and as his body began to uncoil Noggin saw the human hadn’t simply gestured at her but had pushed the sword down through Dunker’s chest in the same fluid motion that brought it to its feet. It yelled at the fat one, probably some pointless human warning, dropping the sheath to snatch out a dagger just as Noggin’s feet left branch.

As he fell he could see Dunker was dead, body lolling limply as the human stepped forward onto her chest, crushing her under its boot as it pulled the sword free with a grunt and turned towards Ribbon. Ribbon who was rushing out from the trees, fancy bow discarded and gleaming axe held overhand above his head, bawling a battle cry.

Ribbon had killed himself in trying to save Dunker. Even as the air began to roar past Noggin’s ears he could see realisation on Ribbon’s pinched face. His lips were white and eyes wide as the willowy human side-stepped and almost tenderly slipped the sword under Ribbon’s arm, through the gap in the mail there and into the unresisting flesh of his chest. It looked so easy.

Noggin struck then, high where the shoulder met the neck. The notched, black, and wicked-sharp blade of his knife disappeared up to the handle in the smooth pale skin. Noggin stared at the handle in his small fist knowing he didn’t have the experience or skill to have struck such a blow deliberately. The tip must have found something vital because the body buckled beneath him and they both collapsed to the ground.

Noggin lay stunned while the screams of the fat one let him know Barok must have started hacking it to pieces. He smiled at the sounds until turning his head he caught sight of Dunker’s body close by in the grass. With a pang of regret he realised she would never again offer him the warm comfort of her flesh. A pleasure only improved by the jealous looks he’d get from Ribbon. He groaned quietly then; Ribbon was dead too.

Perhaps write something fictional? A juxtaposition of two or more things.

I read once that writers block describes the experience of a person trying something better than they are capable of writing. It’s not that they cannot write at all, merely that the words which can flow through them an onto the page are not as good as they would like them to be.

This might be one of the most helpful things I have ever read, after all, if I am ever stuck I can simply lower my expectations of myself until I am unstuck. Ironically, once I am unstick there is a reasonable chance I find myself writing something worthwhile after all.

As he brushed a long hair

These were at least some of the thoughts occupying Paul’s mind as he brushed a long hair out of his eye and back over his head. As he returned his gaze to the screen, it fell back to where it had been, tickling the thin skin around his temple and moving about so that he twitched and spasmed involuntarily as his body sought to protect his eyes from his own hair.

With a gentle sinking despair Paul reminded himself that it was he who selected the hairdresser, a cheerful and slightly rotund lady who had the manner of a woman who was very beautiful when she was younger and who hasn’t forgotten how it felt to be desired by almost all men, it was also he who selected the cut, short back and sides, keep the length on top please, and it was still he who styled it every morning, pushing the long curly hair back across his forehead and pressing it down with wax to keep it out of the way.

Blinking and trying to ignore the errant strands he tried to re-read what he had just written, but the words glossed over and he found himself imagining what Pauline might have been like in her prime. The shape of her body before she settled down with John, her sensible second husband, who had loved her since they were at school together. The children weren’t Johns, although the youngest looked like him. Her aquiline nose leading many to think she was.

A man named after part of a car

No, the children belonged to Axel, yes, axel. A man named after part of a car, and to John’s own father, Michael. That John had married Pauline after that came out so publicly was a sure sign both of how hopelessly in love with Pauline he was and how little he valued himself. He couldn’t see it, but John’s careful consistent manner and broad shoulders caught the wandering eye of many women, but he had only ever had eyes for Pauline.

Paul smiled, somehow John was breathlessly happy. He ran past Paul’s window around 6.15 every morning, steady footfalls pressuring Paul into starting his own day. Paul wonderered, fingers still  hovering over the keys rather than pressing them down where they might register a sentence or two on the screen, how many people who lived in the area started their day, or picked up the pace of what they were doing because of John’s metronomic footsteps passing by their windows, followed by his steady breathing.