Reflection

Latest #whimword offering. As always, check out my Unbound page while you're here!

I avoid my reflection now. It’s amazing how hard it was to break the habit. You don’t realise how much you look at yourself until something makes you want to stop. At first, I forced myself to keep looking – to stare for a full five minutes at a time, directly at my own face. To get used to it. To accept it. Except it’s not really my face anymore. It’s a rough approximation. They did what they could, but that’s the best I can ever hope for. In the early days, when I was still in a fug of painkillers and tranquilisers, I imagined I’d get one of those transplants. I could be a whole new me. I could start over.

I don’t keep mirrors in my house anymore. I try not to look in windows when I go outside, which is rarely. I keep the blinds drawn. I never touch my own skin. That one was easier to master. I made the mistake of doing it the first time they took the dressings off after the accident, and it upset me so much, I never wanted to do it again. It was like cracked clay. Like I wasn’t touching my own skin at all. I couldn’t even feel it. I would have cried if I could. Now I know better. If I try hard enough, I don’t have to be reminded. It doesn’t hurt anymore. If I stay away from my own face, I hardly have to think about it at all.

People stare. I know they do, even though I keep my gaze down as much as I can. If I don’t look at them, I can pretend they’re not doing it: mothers shielding their children’s eyes. Teenagers competing with each other to see who can look the longest. Grown men recoiling. I don’t blame them or resent them. They can’t help it. It’s human nature. If I saw someone like me, I’d do the same, even now. I’d forget for second and gawk in nauseated wonder, just like them.

It’s why I stay indoors most of the time. There’s a nice woman who comes to cut my hair. She knows not to bring a mirror and she doesn’t make small talk. A guy comes to take care of the garden once a month or so. I don’t even have to speak to him. There’s an agency. I pay them through their website and they send him on over, no questions asked. I order my groceries online, too. It’s ok, really. Life’s a lot easier for a shut-in nowadays.

My dreams are always the same. I’m surrounded by reflective surfaces – mirrors, windows, glittering metal, even spoons – and in all of them, I can see my own face staring out. My old face. Perfect. But then there’s that familiar blinding light, and it all goes away. I wake up and inevitably, I relive it all, and then I’m glad, at least, that I got rid of all the mirrors.

Abernathy character interview, part II

This time, it's Paul Gallagher, one of the first people to find Sarah's body and one of the key protagonists. Enjoy, share, and of course, pledge at my Unbound page to pre-order the novel!

Name: Paul Gallagher

Age: 30

Occupation: Production manager, machinery plant

Place of birth: This very town, in my mom and dad’s bedroom

How long have you been working at the plant?

Since I graduated high school. I like the work. I’m good at it, and like my old man always said, it’s an honest living. I feel like I belong there.

What would you have done instead?

I don’t know. I thought I had a shot at being a football player when I was in high school, but I wasn’t good enough to get a scholarship. Maybe I could have been a cop – I know I can scare the shit out of people when I have to.

If you could live anywhere else in the world, where would it be?

I think maybe I’d just be a wanderer, if I could. I’d just roam the earth, see it all. I don’t think I could find any place else to belong the way I do here.

What’s the one thing that makes you proudest?

Finding a place for myself in this world. Standing up tall even when everybody around me wanted to beat me down. Surviving.

When were you happiest?

The day I met Billy. I remember it like it was yesterday, even though I wish I didn’t sometimes. I felt free. I felt alive. It’s hard, knowing I can’t ever have that again.

What’s your biggest regret?

That I couldn’t do more to help Billy. That he had to die the way he did. That I didn’t see it coming. If it hadn’t happened, maybe I could have been a better friend to Jimmy, too. Maybe we wouldn’t be where we are now.

What’s your greatest fear?

That I don’t have a place in the world anymore – that all that’s over now, because of…what happened.  

Abernathy character interview, part I

I'm planning a series of character interviews with a selection of the main characters from Abernathy so that you can get to know them better (no spoilers, I promise). I'm starting with the big kahuna: Francis Abernathy himself. Have a read and then head on over to my Unbound page to pledge and pre-order.

Name: Francis Abernathy III

Age: 64

Occupation: Chief of police; town leader

Place of birth: Ashland, WI

How long have you been town leader?

As long as I’ve been chief of police, and that’s more than thirty years now.

What made you decide to become a police officer?

I’ve always wanted to help people. I wasn’t smart enough to be a doctor, or devout enough to be a priest, so it seemed like the right call. I love this town and I want to protect the people in it.

What would you have done instead?

I suppose I probably would have been a schoolteacher, like my wife and my son. I could have taught gym – I was quite an athlete in my day. I was never good enough to go professional, but I have could have taught the kids at the high school a thing or two.

What’s the one thing that makes you proudest?

My kids. They’ve all done so much with their lives. My oldest boy is a high school principal, the middle one is an architect and my daughter is a lawyer. They got their brains from their mother and I always taught them to aim high. I’m glad they didn’t settle.

When were you happiest?

On my wedding day, and on all the days my kids were born. I never felt more content than I did then.

What’s your biggest regret?

That I settled. My father always drilled it into me that I had a duty to this town and I’m proud that I’ve lived up to it. I’m glad I raised my family here, too – it’s a fine thing knowing they’ll always be a part of the history here, and it’ll be part of theirs. But I’ll always wonder if I could have done more if I’d moved away. I wonder if it would have been better for Lizzie, my wife, too. She’s always had more talent than she could use in this town.

What’s your greatest fear?

That I’ll never be able to see justice done for Sarah McIntyre. I know who killed her now, but there’s always a chance a jury won’t convict. That girl deserves more. She deserves peace.

Sarah

This week's #whimword, as chosen by yours truly!

This time around, I've used two of the characters from the novel as the starting point. This is a brand-new bit of fiction, depicting a moment unseen in the actual narrative of the novel, early in the relationship between Sarah (yes, that Sarah) and her lover, Jacob. 

If you want to find out what happens to them both, you can always pledge to pre-order the book ;-)


“Do you believe in angels?” she asked. Her voice sounded small and far away, and he saw she’d opened the French doors onto the balcony. She was leaning on the railing, the wind blowing her long, dark hair back over her shoulders. Her slight hands grasped the polished steel like a gymnast getting ready to begin a routine. Jacob looked at her, and half got out of his chair, trying to get a look at her face. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinising her.

“Why?” he asked.

“Do you think,” she said, turning her head just enough so that he could see her profile, but he couldn’t read her expression, “if I jumped off this balcony…an angel would catch me?”

“Sarah,” he said, standing up fully. He was trying to sound stern, authoritative, but she was scaring him. She turned her head all the way, and fixed him with those sad, terrible eyes of hers. Slowly, gingerly, he started to move towards her the way he would towards a wounded animal, terrified of spooking her, making her trip.

“I think they would,” she whispered. She turned away again and began to put her weight, such as it was, onto her forearms. One ill-timed change in the wind and he felt sure she’d blow away.

“Sarah, come on now. Stop-stop kidding around,” he stammered. He was uncomfortably aware that his apartment was on the twenty-third floor. Suddenly, unrestricted city vistas seemed like the worst idea in the world.

“Who’s kidding?” she said, taking a step up onto the little ledge just behind the railing. “Let’s find out.” She leaned over and he felt his heart threaten to burst out of his chest.

“I said stop, Sarah!” he shouted. “Come back inside. Please!” She looked back at him again and smiled, taking another step up. He pitched forward, half tripping over his own feet, and grabbed her around the waist, yanking her backwards. She landed awkwardly on top of him on the reassuringly solid concrete floor of the balcony, both of them breathing hard.

“S-see?” she gasped. “An angel caught me.”

Producers

This is a sort of sequel to Seed, which was my very first #whimword entry. Enjoy! 

As an aside, I'm also planning another exclusive, not-available-anywhere-else bit of flash fiction for supporters of the old crowdfunding campaign, so keep your eyes peeled!

They lived down there with him, the producers. There were the engineers, who mostly fixed the transport and delivery systems these days; the weavers, who made the clothes; the typists and the binders and the printers, who made the state-approved books and pamphlets. And then there was Solomon himself, who was in charge of the team that developed and synthesised the fresh fruit and vegetables.

Once, it had been a vast, underground hive of activity, a buzzing, whirring network of constant production, serving three-dozen settlements within a twenty-mile radius. But things had changed lately – had got harder. Information took a long time to filter through to them, but from what Solomon could gather, maybe a third of the settlements were still standing.

Rumours began to surface about the state tightening its grip, stepping up guard presence, keeping people subjugated and servile. It had forced people to stay in the hot, cramped temporary dwellings that were supposed to have been replaced with permanent housing a decade ago, and Solomon had heard tell of widespread poverty and disease. He knew the buyers always took what they wanted from the provisions meant for the wider population and he wondered if they were distributing much at all anymore.

One of the binders told him people had begun to scatter – had taken up their belongings in the middle of the night and fled towards the far hills, before their homes crumbled around them. The stories had it that there was still arable land beyond the hills, still flowing rivers and beautiful green trees. Still hope.

You couldn’t just go, though. Even Solomon knew that. You had to plan. You had to get everything ready, find weaknesses, set up your exit. You had to wait for darkness, wait for the shift change at the perimeter fences, hope you’d bribed the right person and bribed them enough. Then you could try. There was no guarantee you’d make it. But you could try. Even the guards, who lived fatter than anyone, had their limits. Even they could be pushed too far. Solomon hoped his sister and her husband had got out. He hoped they’d made it to the hills. He hoped they were free.

That hope sustained him. It kept him going when the state diktats came down, which they did more and more frequently, telling them to scale back, telling them not all their services were needed anymore. Prices dropped. Buyers dwindled. But the producers remained. The bright and glorious future they’d been promised, as captains of industry, as the saviours and the nurturers of those that remained on the surface, had faded. They’d become emblems of the waste and decay above them, rotting fruit and unsold clothes and engine parts stacked high around them, no matter how much they cut back. But still, they remained.  

Window

This is a lot grimmer than I was expecting it to be! Must be the murder mystery...
 
It's dark. Too dark. No light outside, no light in. I can't see anything, but I know I'm running out of time. No one outside to help me, no one in.


Click.


Click.


Click.


He's getting closer. He hits the crumbling walls as he goes, with that awful left hand of his, looking for me, trying to scare me into giving myself away. He doesn't call out to me or say anything. Just...


Click.


Click.


Click.


I can hear it more clearly with every passing second. I know he's only a few hundred feet away at most. I can't hide in here anymore. He knows I'm in here somewhere. It's too late to turn back. He's coming for me.


Click.


Click.


Click.


My hands are shaking. I feel like I could throw up. I can barely think straight but I know what I have to do now. There's only one way out. I have to reach the window, high up on the far wall, before he finds me.


Click.


Click.


Click.


The sun was still setting when I lost him in the woods, and then suddenly it was dark, all at once, inescapably. I wish I could see, but I don't dare turn on my flashlight. He'll only find me sooner.


Click.


Click.


Click.


I've been in here long enough to know the dimensions of the room pretty well but I'll have to guess where the window is, guess where the jagged glass juts out, waiting to slice through my skin.


Click.


Click.


Click.


It's now or never. I can still see his left hand in my mind's eye, ancient rusted metal fused with wrinkled grey flesh. I can see his low slung jaw, his empty eyes, his slack, ghoulish skin.


Click.


Click.


Click.


It's about ten or fifteen paces across the room. I pray I don't run straight into the wall and knock myself out. I pray I get the right wall.


Click.


Click.


Click.


I can see it. I'm going to make it. I'm almost there. I make a grab for the window frame. I'm free. But I slip. My hand closes around the broken window pane instead. I can feel the blood running down my arm. I want to scream, but I can't. I lunge forward, force myself through the opening, feel the ridges of glass scraping every inch of exposed flesh. I land, hard on the cold ground outside. I get to my feet, stagger forward, try to run.


Click.


Click. 


Click.