Parallax

The man's name was Creed. He had been a free-thinker for as long as he could recollect.

For this reason, it disturbed him that in the last few weeks he had been troubled by an alien feeling. It seemed as if an extraneous logic had been inserted into his verbal expression. No matter how he began a sentence - no matter how random, far-fetched, or purely personal his inchoate thought - in wording it, he would be driven ineluctably past invisible way stations of the mind to some remote linguistic fastness. His psyche had become at best an unfamiliar room.

He reviewed his situation epistemologically. He believed in personal freedom...

But had not Hamlet commented, 'There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will...'?

Fiddlesticks! Poppycock! Twaddle!

He had tried to fight the unseen cerebral interloper alone, but without success.
It was time to grasp the nettle. Expert help was needed. So he went to JFK and booked air passage.

When he arrived in Paris, Creed immediately acquired a telephone book. Alas, his search was fruitless. The man he sought must be among the immortals. Thought is, curse it, free: Death need be no barrier.

Hailing a cab, he went searching among the tombs of the illustrious. At dusk, he reached the Cimetière du Père Lachaise, and there located the plaque after much ferreting. He breathed a silent prayer to the gods of the agnostics as he stood before the tomb of Georges Perec¹, hoping that the great genius of constrained writing would hear and communicate.

The cough behind him was discreet. He turned and saw a man, in motley black and white, a greyscale Pierrot. The man was grinning.

'You have encountered the extraterrestrials.'

Creed gaped, gawked, and then recovered his power of speech. 'Is that who is interfering with my intellect?'

The man looked morbidly gleeful. 'Indeed. They come from somewhere near Delta Crucis, which as you know is in the Southern Cross.' He lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'They have implanted a device in your corpus callosum.'

'So deep?' Creed keened. 'How horrible!'

The man shrugged, a gesture of helplessness. 'We are their puppets. We dance to their drumming.' He pointed to the mausoleum plaque with its raised lettering. 'Even he, the master, was unable to resist, although in his attempts he was praised for achieving certain...effects.' He grinned again, toothily.

'Here you will not find what you seek. The dead may speak, but only in riddles. Return to the land of your breeding. You know that you require...surcease of sorrow.'

With that, the stranger disappeared. Creed waited by the tomb a few moments, shuddering. Then he went back to his hotel, attended to mundane matters. He even drank a few beers.

On the flight back to America, Creed's thoughts were reeling. He muttered: 'Surcease of sorrow. Where was that uttered?'

By the time the plane reached New York, remembrance had reached Creed. He changed planes for Baltimore, that city of mystery, Southern and genteel.

There he hastened to the final resting place of yet another master scribbler. There he placed a single rose at the grave of Edgar Allen Poe², the bard of sorrow. There he whispered, kneeling: 'You heard their jackboots in your mental corridors. Roderick Usher's house was your barricade.

'Your refuge was in lushness. Someone said, gaudy, like wearing a ring on every finger, writing bejewelled.

'They drove you mad, finally. But the last word was yours, yours alone, oh master of the effulgent....'

Creed raised his arms to the Baltimore sky, himself grown mad on his self-imposed odyssey. From the Inner Harbour he heard them tolling: the churches of Baltimore, the sound, amplified by the water, booming.

'They have arrived!' he shouted ecstatically. 'The bells!'

He echoed the poetic litany over the monstrous metal ullulation.

'The bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells...the tintinnabulation of the bells!'

He thought Poe would have approved.

Silver Apple

Author's Note: This short story was written for a competition, h2g2's 'Stretcher'. To understand what this piece of nonsense is doing, it might be helpful to quote the challenge for that week:

You are on the yacht Nirvana, somewhere between islands. It's well past midnight and the chaise-longues on the deck outside are empty, but the five of you are still engaged in bright and dazzling conversation. The bald croupier waits patiently at the table and the seal-like cocktail waiter polishes glasses a little way off. At that moment, your hostess sweeps into the lounge, dripping with jewels, with a snap of gloved fingers to summon more champagne.

I just lur-ve these evenings under the stars, dah-links, she purrs. But now you must all indulge me. We must have stories. Each one of you must tell me of your most memorable night in the tropics. Maybe it will be fraught with excitement, maybe it will be a little naughty, but whatever it is, I insist upon sophistication.

And one by one, the five of you recount your tales, in a maximum of fifteen hundred words and in the first person...

And now the story...

Silver Apple

The small man studies his hostess, weathered face creased in amusement, and wonders how it is that certain women can drip with jewels without losing their plausibility. He shambles over to the bar, holding up his glass for a refill: Irish on the rocks. With a nod to the scruffy bartender, he straightens the lapels of the rumpled Panama suit he has donned in deference to the occasion, and turns to study the elegant company - two handsome young men and three poised, well-dressed women. He smiles as he holds up his glass in salute.

'I never could get the hang of champagne,' he says. 'Don't get me wrong - I like wine, and I love fizzy water. Just not in the one glass.' He grins puckishly. 'My most memorable night in the tropics? You shall have it - with adventure and a bit of naughtiness, I promise. Sophistication? That is harder, but I think I can add a touch to the story - if you'll admit intellectual sophistication, which is the only kind I can manage. As I am the Peter Lorre of the group - funny accent, there for the comic relief - I think I should go first.

'Basically, I hate the tropics - I was born in the subtropics, and that is quite enough heat and humidity for me. Enough bugs, too. I prefer the Mediterranean, which is where my story begins. Back in the eighties, I was teaching English in Athens. I happened to buy a handmade shirt in one of those stalls in the Plaka - you know, the stripey kind they sell to tourists. They were cheap and comfortable, and as you can tell, sartorial elegance is not in my repertoire. When I took the shirt home I found a real treasure in the pocket - a little faded by being put through the laundry, but still a genuine find.

'I say a treasure, but what it was, was a treasure map. As I studied it, I grew terribly excited - the map, which was of the coast of Madagascar, showed where to find the wreckage of the Donegal Queane, the flagship of the notorious 18th-Century Irish buccaneer Brendan O'Rahaileagh, who met his death there in a desperate pitched battle against half a hundred Malagasy pirates. I am somewhat of a student of pirate history, and I was determined to go find the ship.

'I enlisted the help of my two closest friends, Hector Hunt from Sheffield, like me an English teacher in a local frontistirio, and Philautos Papamichaelidis, son of a Greek shipping magnate. Phil opined that he could get a yacht from his dad, easy, no problem, then pirazi, it was a better idea than that bilingual punk-folk band we had started, so as soon as the semester was over, the three of us set off to Madagascar in the Melina Mercouri, long nights under the stars and long days of fruitless searching - and constant bickering.

'Phil took advantage of every port stop to woo the local maidens, while Hector whinged endlessly about everything - the food, the natives' insistence on speaking Frog, his inability to acquire that sine qua non of English civilisation, a copy of The Times, the fact that our short-wave wasn't picking up the BBC reliably...we'd seen no sign of a sunken ship, just lots of cheeky monkeys and one unconfirmed sighting of John Cleese.

'On the tropical night in question - the air heavy and damp, like breathing wet cotton - we were all on edge. The captain was puttering us about the starlit lagoon in hopes of catching a vagrant breeze. Hector, his ire fueled by flat beer, was hectoring Phil about his amours, while Phil was shrugging over his favorite tipple - a vintage Tokay - and then pirazi-ing in high Greek style. I leaned against the railing, so disgusted with the both of them that I was drinking Metaxa - two-star, no less - straight out of the bottle. Then it happened. The boat took a sudden turn to avoid a snag, and I fell overboard.

'In the spill, I lost my Metaxa and my spectacles, but not, I fancied, my poise. Coming up for air, I glimpsed the yacht in retreat and realised I wouldn't be able to shout above the noise of the engines and their arguing. So I decided to swim for shore - the water was calm, and I am a strong though awkward swimmer.

'As I breast-stroked along, I began to worry about two things: the shore was farther away than I had thought, and I couldn't remember if there were sharks or crocodiles in these waters. I didn't mind drowning - I've almost done it a few times - but I have a visceral objection to being eaten.

'Then something pulled me by the right ankle, and under I went.

'The something wasn't sharp enough for teeth, though - rather gentle, but firm - and when I opened my eyes I saw a sight far more welcome than Bruce the Great White. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen - well, half-woman, the other half fish, if you want the truth - had let go my ankle and was seizing my arm. Her long, red hair swirled around her face, and her green eyes glowed as she pulled me further down into the lagoon, down to the waiting...ship...below...

'It was the Donegal Queane, in her final resting place at the bottom of the lagoon - now less an 18th-Century sloop than a habitat for marine life, its masts and hull encrusted with sessile creatures, its famous figurehead of Grainne Uaile turned to ruby coral...I hardly had time to mark its beauty when the beauty who held me turned us with a flip of her glittering tail, propelling us both down a hatch and into the captain's quarters...

'...which were laid out - well, fit for a king, or even a pirate captain. There was food. There was drink. More important to my bursting lungs, there was air rather than water to breathe. I looked at my merry-eyed companion and shrugged. We ate. We drank.

'There was a feather bed in the stateroom. Free of the sea, my companion displayed feet - very lovely ones - and a vivid imagination. I hope you have one, too, because that's all you're going to get of the naughty bit.

'Afterwards, I lay with my eyes closed, as she gently played with my hair. 'What makes you happy?' she murmured. 'What are you looking for? I will help you find it.'

'I shook my head. 'You can't, acushla,' I said with regret. 'I'm looking for something in the human heart...something few know is there...I can't share it, I can't teach it, but maybe...just maybe...I can leave a bit of a map as I go...'

'Her voice was wistful. 'Go make your map. And when you're done, come home to me. Take this to remember.' And just as I drifted off to sleep, I felt her slip something onto my finger...

'I woke to feel her caressing my hair still, but the light was too bright, I was feeling hot, and the featherbed had turned...sandy. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a beach, the water lapping around my head. I sat up and looked around.

'I could see the yacht in the distance, so I knew they'd come and find me, maybe not in time for breakfast, but soon. I heard chattering in the trees, so I knew there were monkeys, perhaps even John Cleese. I sat dazed as the next wave brought me a gift: a waterproof bag. I opened it.

'Inside was a book - the complete works of WB Yeats, bookmarked with dried seaweed. I read the poem and laughed to myself. As I closed the book, I saw the ring on my little finger - gold, with a single, irregular pearl. To me, the rough pearl looked something like an apple.

The storyteller grins his crooked grin. 'That's the sophisticated part: Can you tell me what I read? If you want, read the works of Yeats until you find it, clever you - or you can come on deck later and tell me...' He glances at the croupier...'that it would make you happy if I quoted the poem to you. But maybe just a clue?'

He pats his breast pocket. 'I still have the map, you know. And of course I'm going back. What else would I be doing on a buck-, er, fine vessel such as the Nirvana? What do I want to do when I see my mermaid again? Return this, of course...'

And he holds up his right hand. On the little finger is a gold ring, the setting containing a single, large, irregularly-shaped pearl.

If you look carefully, it rather resembles an apple.

PS. If you haven't found the answer yet, but would like one, please click here.

PPS. If you're curious as to what the judges said about this piece (and get a chance to read other pieces from the competition), please click here.

Jornada del Muerto

It is the morning blue hour in the Jornada del Muerto – one expects it to be twilight here.

It is not.

Across miles of alkali flats (for our canvas is broad, stretching for miles, as befits the moment), there should be nothing at all, for nothing at all is what can live in this waterless desert appropriately named 'the day's journey of the dead man'.

There is something here. Something that fits the time and place, the instant.

Something that fills the July air with an unbearable heat, less oven than fiery furnace.

Something that sucks the dry sand upwards into a ball of fire, gold, purple, green, white.

Every living mind focused on this event is aware of symbolism. There is nothing but symbolism today, here at the Trinity site.

Symbolism, and the need to be as far away as possible.

It is exactly 05:29:45:016, Mountain War Time, in the Jornada del Muerto. Building above the flat surface of the land is a dome, about 200 meters wide, a man-made sun, lighting the nearby mountain range with a clarity beyond day.

The sun is rising south of Albuquerque this morning.

There is no sound. Sound travels too slowly.

There is only light, and heat, and the promise of death.

Ten miles away - for indeed our canvas is broad - peering out of his bunker, J. Robert Oppenheimer gazes with professional satisfaction upon a blazing ball filled with green, liquefied sand.

At that exact moment, the words of the Gita come into his mind, fast as thought, faster than sound, faster than the light that blinds in this trackless waste. The words come faster than he can speak them, casting their timeless atomic shadow on his mind:

'I am become Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds.'

It is 05:29:45:016 in Alamogordo, New Mexico, 16 July, 1945.

Above the desert looms the face of Death.

Common Sense

It began with the anemones - impossibly blue, perfect in their arrangement on the table, the rounded cobalt vase making a pleasant contrast against the brown-and-white check of the oilcloth covering the heavy table. Jim reached long fingers to stroke the container's round glossiness, its curve somehow reminding him of the woman who was even now bustling around, putting supper on that same table. It was she who had arranged the flowers which Jim had been absently admiring in their distorted late-afternoon reflection in the casement window. Beyond the reflection Jim could see the late-day bustle of Nea Philadelphia, the Athenians having wakened refreshed from their afternoon naps with errands to run, places to go, people to annoy. He smiled to himself.

The glass in the windows betrayed the age of the earthquake-damaged stone house, even more than the ornate wood-and-wrought-iron door downstairs, or the cool, intricate marble mosaic floors Jim spent so many hours studying for hidden meaning. Jim had been told that glass was a liquid, but one that runs more slowly than honey, so slowly, in fact, that the eye cannot see it, but only perceive the effect after, say, a hundred fifty years or so, when the view through the substance becomes warped. Jim had always liked the view through old glass (without particularly caring how it got that way): he spent most of his life seeing the world, if at all, through some kind of glass, and therefore hardly noticed the distortion, merely appreciating the slightly unusual quality of the presentation. He was never very visual, anyway, and his hearing was not good - for him, truly the sweetest music was inside his own head - so that he preferred his input tactile and olfactory. Perhaps it was for this reason that the vase of anemones pleased him so enormously - the intense shade of colour penetrated even his duller perception.

He ran the palms of his hands across the slick oilcloth, smoothing out a wrinkle as Susan set out their repast: a portion of gyros, fresh and piping hot from the rotisserie in the shop around the corner, with tzatziki, a mixture of creamy sheep's-milk yoghurt and grated cucumber giving off the strong smell of the third ingredient, garlic, a few rounds of pita and a salata horiatiki. As Susan reached across him to pour the wine, something golden and local - Jim had a few choice words to say about mavrodaphne, but though choice they were not kind - he caught her by the wrist, playfully, for the pleasure of rubbing his thumb in the hollow of her soft palm, saying nothing. Susan laughed, reclaimed her hand, and sat down on the side of the table across from the window, catercorner to him.

For a few minutes there was silence, broken only by the soft hum of the overhead fan stirring a couple of flies too stuporous in the summer heat to come trouble the feast. The two toasted wordlessly, savouring the light tartness of the wine and its contrast to the other flavours of the meal: the spicy meat, the cool tzatziki, the eye-watering bite of the salad's onion. Jim winked at Susan as he pursued a reluctant black olive around the plate, and rested bare feet on the solid base of the wooden table, a short man's accommodation to the height of table and chair.

Unlike the rest of the furniture in the house - bought sight-unseen from a dodgy character who had had so many used mattresses to sell they'd joked the furnishings came from a fire sale in a brothel - the table was a fine piece of workmanship, obviously handmade and a one-off. The broad base was like a small upturned rowboat, from which two inverted arches curved to support a trestle on which the separate slab of the table rested - when centred, it was so stable that it didn't rock at all, even when you leaned too hard on one side. It was polished, but not shiny. The grain of it felt good against the soles of Jim's feet, as he ate and listened to Susan telling about her trip to the shop - the comical lady she always spoke to in halting Greek, the 'evil' white cat with the black cap that always stared at her, the men in the tiny lumberyard across the street, who actually had a customer on the premises, no, a real, live customer, she'd seen it...

Suddenly Susan's animated face froze - Jim almost dropped his fork in shock, thinking he'd done or said something amiss. As he watched, her expression turned from one of surprise to apprehension, alarm, fear, horror. He looked on in concern and wonder.

'Honey, what's wrong?'

Susan stopped being frightened long enough to look puzzled - and then angry. 'What's WRONG? What are you...? A thought appeared to occur to her, and she glanced quickly under the table, holding to its sturdy ledge as if for support. She looked at him in mock-disgust, almost forgetting her own panic, as she said in slow command, 'Put. Your. Feet. On. The. Floor.'

Jim did so - and understood. Under the abrupt coldness of the marble, he felt it. Even on the first floor, he felt it...if his hearing had been more acute, he might have heard it, but as it was, he felt it...the deep-massage vibration, the subterranean shaking, that made the house feel as if it were sitting on top of the metro...if the City of Athens had suddenly decided to extend the metro out this far...Jim's eyes widened. He understood Susan's facial ballet now. He nodded at her.

'Oh, now I understand,' he said with a grin of discovery. 'It's just an earthquake.'

Susan's jaw dropped as she stared at him. 'You ...you...unbelievable idiot...what do you mean, it's JUST AN EARTHQUAKE?'

Jim was beginning to process the enormity of his remark (slowly) when the tremor subsided, leaving only a faintly pleasant tingling in the soles of his feet, and an outraged expression on Susan's face.

His wife berated him for quite a while afterwards, only relenting when Jim offered the excuse that he was merely rather pleased that he had recognised the seismic event for what it was, having slept through the last tremor they had been in, up in Thrace. At this she threw up her hands in surrender and went upstairs to make the coffee.

Jim enjoyed the coffee - they stubbornly made German-style filter coffee - and refused a sweet, saying he'd had his baklava for the month, afterwards lying down on the patterned marble floor of the darkened room, putting his ear to it to feel the cold stone and listen for possible echoes of what he had not heard before. Susan lounged drowsily in the light that came in from the streetlamp through the open shutters, her feet tucked under her in the ratty green armchair, her long hair falling over her face, and nodded encouragement as Jim began to prattle on into the night, extemporising poetry on no particular subject.

'You know what, Susan?' he mused, lying with the soles of his feet, the palms of his hands, and his back pressed hard against the still-undeciphered mystery. 'I think...I think this house is a plane...or a time machine...or a starship...

'I think I can fly it to Jerusalem. Do you want to go to Jerusalem, Susan?'

Susan yawned. 'If you're going, of course I'm going. You can't cross the street by yourself.' She yawned again. 'Go ahead and fly us to Jerusalem...just wake me up when we get there.' And she fell asleep to Jim's low singing.