Recursion

I snatched the drawstring bag off my head, forced my battered body to roll over and tried to catch any detail of the car as it sped away. The dust from its spinning tyres rendered everything a blur. Audi. Black.

My ankles and wrists smarted where the cable ties had cut into my skin. I pushed myself to my feet. My joints popped. I stretched my stiff legs until I could stand upright. Everything hurt. I could taste blood on my lips.

The two-lane blacktop stretched to the horizon in both directions. Rolling fields of dusty grass bordered the road, separated by low hedges, covering the landscape to the hazy limit of my vision. A scarecrow kept guard over the field to my left, the pathetic remnants of its stuffing hanging out of torn coat-sleeves. A rook flew from its perch on the figure’s tattered shoulder.

I couldn’t remember anything before waking up in the trunk of the car. I’d come to my senses in complete darkness, my breath inside the canvas hood making my face sweat. The rocking of the car made it hard to stop myself being sick. Not just the rocking. They must have drugged me. Where had they picked me up? And where had they dumped me? This could have been anywhere.

It was useless. I couldn’t even remember who they were.

I tried to brush the dirt from my battered jacket and looked along the road again in both directions, hoping for a clue. There was nothing, just the dead straight road running between identical vanishing points. The sky was cloudless, the air still. I was alone under the baking sun.

Yet I felt someone was with me. It wasn’t so much like I was being watched. Worse than that, it felt like someone had simply noted my arrival. Watching was no longer necessary.

The sun was at its highest and I could see no shade for miles around. It crossed my mind to wait until someone picked me up, try to hitch a ride to a nearby town, but I quickly decided I couldn’t stay where I was. Which way should I go? I glanced back and forth, suddenly indecisive, with nothing to guide me. But there was something: a piercing point of light on the horizon, not far from the road. A chance reflection from a distant window? It was something new, something suggesting civilization. I was glad to have something to break the symmetry.

I dropped the black canvas hood into the parched grass at the side of the road and took off my jacket. As I draped it over my arm a few seeds fell out of the inside pocket and scattered on the ground. I brushed them away with my foot and set off along the centre of the road, following an irregular crack that ran continuously along its length. I must have walked for an hour, my head down, limping more and more as an ache in my left ankle became worse with every step. I passed field after field on both sides of the road and never saw another soul. Occasionally I glanced up to see the point of light still burning on the horizon, unwavering. I doubted that it was a reflection, it was much too constant. The sun didn’t appear to have moved.

Another mile, possibly two, I trudged on. The heat was becoming unbearable and my pace had slowed. I was desperate for water and the taste of blood had returned.

Suddenly I looked up to see a woman walking towards me.

I stopped in my tracks. I should have seen her coming from miles away, but she was only a few tens of yards distant. She smiled at me, and when she did my heart pounded in my chest. She was blonde, so incredibly blonde that the sun burned around her head. She was wearing a red dress, split above the knee, and you carried a black and gold handbag. The clicking of your high heels on the tarmac pierced the silence.

You were only yards away now, so beautiful, still smiling, and yet looking through me. I tried to speak, but my throat was parched and no words came, only a terrible thirst. I realised I was panting. The patches of sweat beneath my arms suddenly felt cold against my skin. I watched you walk past, your hips swaying, you seduced me. I tried to let you go, but I turned. I let you go for just a few dreadful steps before I turned to watch you leave me. I turned, but you weren’t there. Frozen, I stared at the space where you should have been, but the road was empty. I whirled back around in a panic to see you strolling away. Click, click, your steps counted out time. Wasn’t that the way you’d come? Wasn’t that the way you’d always been, always one verse ahead of me? I glanced back over my shoulder, confused, and when I looked back: nothing. My head swam. I span, desperately looking for you, and the world span with me. The clicking of her heels slowed as I did, stopping as I came to rest, a Wheel of Fortune with only two possible outcomes.

I took a deep breath, and shivered despite the heat. I was completely disoriented for a moment, but the glint of light, my goal, my faithful companion, was still shining brightly on the horizon. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be any closer. I turned to see if I could tell how far I’d walked, and my heart sank.

There was another light.

It shone equally brightly on the opposite horizon, a precise image of the first. Or perhaps it was the first. There was no way of knowing. The endless road bordered by identical fields provided no reference point from which to judge. I had only one choice to make: I picked a direction, gritted my teeth, and started walking once more.

There was little sense of progress, no sense of time. I went back to following the central crack in the road, head bowed, not looking too far ahead. Looking into the infinite was overwhelming. Occasionally I glanced up and tried to judge distance using the boundaries between fields. I set myself targets. Make it to the next hedge. And the next. Just half way to the next hedge then have a rest, take the weight off that ankle, take a break from the electric pain of every step. A hundred more steps. Fifty steps. Twenty. The targets got smaller, but no easier, and the light got no closer.

I couldn’t go on. I threw my jacket on the ground and collapsed. My whole body burned. I stared up into the terrible blue sky, and it seemed to envelop me, drawing me into its featureless void. Nobody dies like this, abandoned and pathetic on some generic American highway. My head fell limply to the side and I was about to close my eyes when something caught my attention. Something I recognised: A black canvas hood.

Laughter. Hollow laughter.

I crawled over to the verge and picked it up, grasping the rough fabric tight in my fist. Someone did this to me. I almost knew who.

I wasn’t beaten yet. I had to leave the road. I had to get away from that place. I grabbed my jacket and dusted it off, stuffed the hood into my belt, and stood up straight. Without hesitation I hobbled as purposefully as I could into one of the fields, down the slope of a small ditch and up the other side. The ground was uneven but soft. The grass felt lusher than it appeared from the road, and seemed cool even through my shoes. The field rose gently to a ridge, and I wondered what sight might greet me when I crested its top.

Every step took more effort than the last. I glanced back and guessed I was perhaps a third of the way up the field. I stopped to catch my breath. Was it my imagination or was it getting colder? The sun still shone fiercely overhead.

I steeled myself and went on for another minute or two, smiling at the imagined irony of reaching the top and looking down on a town, a bar, a motel. A hospital. Another break. I was exhausted, but I kept telling myself that a few more pushes would see me through. It was definitely colder now. A breeze had picked up, carrying with it the cries of a bird, and a faint humming sound.

I turned to look back at the road, and as I did so I started to shiver. My blood was ice, and cold sweat trickled down the small of my back. I tried to put on my jacket, but my limbs were heavy and lifeless, and I struggled to get my arms into the sleeves. A couple more attempts and I managed to stretch it over my shoulders, pulling a seam in the process. The wind made my eyes water, the sun blinded me. I took the hood out of my belt and put it over my head, fumbling to pull the drawstring tight around my neck.

All was darkness, and a hum that grew.

A sudden weight pressed into my shoulder. A scuffling sound, biting and tearing, and I could see once more.

A car came into view. Audi. Black. A man looking at me. And the rook flew from its perch on my tattered shoulder.

A Dream Of Knowing

She pulled the car over to the side of the road, into a small layby where the lake could be seen through a gap in the trees. I rested my arm on the sill of the open window through which I could hear the crunch of gravel as the wheels gradually halted. The sun beat down on my skin and made it prickle. A gentle breeze played among the trees, and the water lapped softly against the small pebble beach, listless, the ripples barely strong enough to move a single stone. This would be as good a place as any.

I’d seen this before, or scenes much like it. Memories, perhaps only dreams of memories. I grew up by the lake. She came from the sea, a deeper past.

Her shoulders slumped as the engine died. She sat back in the drivers’ seat and stared out across the water at the scree-covered banks beyond. She was still beautiful to me, my shining star. I stole a glance across at her, but my attention settled on the clock.

Four minutes left. No sirens wailed out here.

I wanted to speak to her, but my mind was empty. Perhaps there was nothing to say. Perhaps I was simply overwhelmed by the enormity of what was about to happen. Now that the time was so short I could only feel relief. I wasn’t even ashamed. Perhaps my soul was empty too. I tried to think back to a time when we hadn’t known, before this fate had become inevitable. All that came were memories of a time before her, memories of an uneasy elsewhere that I could only assume were mine. Perhaps only dreams of memories. The innocence of youth, and the guilt of an adult.

A garage, the same ruined cars outside for months on end. Kids from the estate asking for spare inner tubes on a warm summer morning, hoping to ride them down the river to who knows where. Nobody ever made it past the south bridge where the ice-cream van parked.

I saw myself splashing along in that current, my arms hanging over the sides of my vessel, burning on the hot black rubber. It was summer, endless and bright. The sun, directly overhead, radiated a seething fire onto my face. I closed my eyes gently and all was red. I screwed them shut tight and all was green. Red. Green. I hadn’t known then.

Three minutes left.

The river widened as it passed the Brown Bull, where afternoon drinkers sat at picnic tables, wafting wasps and shouting at the heat. The current took me out into the middle, between two islands, little more than pebble mounds separated from the shore by shallow channels. A gang were playing on the island by the east bank, having waded out in their bright yellow wellingtons. The water was getting deeper and I worried that they’d be trapped out there after dark.

The sun was setting. It hung above the distant trees, an airburst in freeze-frame. The east-bank kids’ faces shone with its red angry light. Ghoulish devils, cackling.

The evening air had taken on a chill, and a fresh wind blew my wet hair, taking away my breath. One by one the evening drinkers stood and headed inside the pub, each one draining his glass and raising it to me in an empty salute. A thirst grabbed my throat, but the black water around me seemed to seethe with slimy things. I pulled my arms to my chest and dared not drink.

Two minutes.

I shivered. It was winter, and a knife-edged wind cut across the wasteland, cracking my parched lips and bringing with it the distant sound of distorted chimes. The sun put forth no warmth. Its ghost light filtered through the perpetual dusty murk as it rose slowly, pouring scorn on the east-bank kids’ pathetic yellow wellingtons and frost-shattered skeletons.

The current was becoming stronger now, and the wooden rowing boat creaked as it span around until I once again faced downstream. The chimes came once more on the wind, a song out of time: gay, incongruous. The mists parted, and for a second I saw my destination before a submerged branch – only a branch – reached out and capsized my vessel.

Sixty seconds.

She had hit my life like a bomb then rebuilt what she destroyed. I fought to hold on to the inner tube but its slick wet skin seemed to writhe in my arms and then it was gone, swimming down into the infinite depths. The water was bitterly cold, as black as oil and as thick. Its rotten stench filled my nostrils. My head bobbed below the surface and I tried to keep my lips closed tight, but somehow the vile liquid was inside and I drank it in great gasping mouthfuls, panicking, thrashing, yet eagerly swallowing despite myself.

And then a calm came over me. My muscles felt like lead, but my body floated easily along with the current. I folded my arms across my chest and exhaled a deep breath I didn’t remember taking. Sweet chiming music came to my ears and finally I recognised Greensleeves.

Nobody ever made it past the south bridge where the ice-cream van parked.

Her head was in my lap, and she was crying. I ran my fingers across her cheek. Over the lake, towering above the hills, a cloud of dust and fire was rising. Thunder. Time. I was shrinking to nothing. And I said quietly: “Yes, done now.”

The SimStim Conceit

I’ve recently been mulling over a few fairly nebulous ideas for a science fiction novel. I’m not planning on jumping in and writing it just yet, not until my thoughts have coalesced into something coherent, and even then I’ll delay until I feel I’ve found my voice as a writer. I plan to write a few short stories that will be set in the same future as my intended novel, so that when I come to undertake the longer work I’ll be putting characters into a known environment.

Science fiction, and its many subgenres, has always attracted me as a reader. As a kid I spent most of my time dreaming of space-ships and aliens, probably triggered by my early exposure to movies like Star Wars and Dune. One of my favourite memories of the cinema as a child was going to see a double bill of 2001: A Space Odyssey and 2010: The Year We Make Contact on the release of the latter. I was only seven years old, and I didn’t understand most of what I was seeing, but the haunting images of a silent, lonely and sometimes deadly future in space clearly stuck with me: I studied physics at university, I own a telescope, and I still dream of space-ships and aliens.

In working towards starting my own sci-fi work I thought I’d survey some of the best that the genre has to offer, looking for conventions and general inspiration from the masters of the field. I managed to pare down the list to the length of my longest arm, then started reading a true cyberpunk classic: Neuromancer by William Gibson.

I’m about three quarters of the way through it, enjoying every dark and sinister page even though I’ve read it several times before. I don’t want to discuss the story too much at this point, but one thing struck me as worthy of note, and that is Gibson’s handling of multiple protagonists in third-person attached narration. (This isn’t the most exciting thing about the book, I assure you.)

The story follows Case, an expert hacker of dubious morals who’s down on his luck. He becomes embroiled in a conspiracy to attack the computer systems of the rich and powerful Tessier-Ashpool family, though he knows little about his co-conspirators or their shadowy employer. The ‘run’ against the target system will be undertaken by Case himself and the team assembled around him: a biomechanically enhanced assassin, a software simulation of an experienced but deceased hacker, a half-crazed ex-military agent, and a criminal who can project illusions into people’s minds. The assassin, Molly, must infiltrate the physical family home of the Tessier-Ashpools while Case simultaneously breaks into their virtual security systems from a remote location.

So how do we follow Molly’s progress while remaining attached to Case’s point of view, when he is physically separated from her? It’s a common problem faced by all stories that employ this form of narration, requiring the author to deliver information to the protagonist indirectly, or to bring the protagonist to scenes they wouldn’t otherwise attend simply so that we, the readers, can also attend them. Gibson comes up with a very neat solution, and one which actually enriches the world of his story.

SimStim is a technology that allows Case to ride along with Molly’s senses. In effect, he can hack into her brain, seeing what she sees, feeling what she feels. His brain is stimulated with the same inputs received by hers. Thus we, as readers, can follow Molly’s activities without ever leaving Case’s side. It sounds far fetched, but in this twisted cyberpunk future the technology doesn’t strike us as overly exotic. In fact, it is presented as a logical evolution of television, in which we can view simulated stimulation (SimStim) programmes just as easily as live broadcasts.

Gibson places limitations on the technology to keep us at arms length, and these in-fiction technological constraints drive narrative constraints on the page that further enrich the telling: the device doesn’t allow Case to know what Molly’s thinking, and can only support one-way communication. Molly can speak aloud and Case will hear, but she has no way to receive a response nor even to know if he is listening. Case is only a passenger and can’t intervene even when he is trapped watching through her eyes as she makes a mistake that could be fatal.

Well anyway, I find this stuff interesting. What other approaches to solving this multiple-viewpoint problem might exist in the infinity of possible futures that science fiction provides?

The Biggest Loser

Wednesday 9th June 2010

Getting close now, less than half a stone away from my target. Exciting! Feels like coming to the end of a journey. Can’t believe how far I’ve come already. Need to keep going though. There’s no point getting this close and then missing my targets. Can’t get complacent.

Still no word from the show though. It’s been a long time since the closing date. Maybe I should chase it up?

Met Sally yesterday, just for a girly chat. She’s put a lot back on now. Shame really, but I knew she wouldn’t keep it off. She must have spent a fortune on health shakes and protein bars and all that, but you can’t sustain it. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she was surprised about how much I’ve changed. You don’t notice it, looking at yourself every day, but other people notice when they haven’t seen you for a while.

Looking forward to seeing Will next week. Seems like it’s been ages, so I bet he’ll notice the difference. On the phone last week it sounded like he was happy with how his exams went. Shame I can’t afford much, but maybe I’ll take him out for a meal or something. It’ll be nice, if I’ve passed that half-stone target I won’t have to worry about what I order for a change.

Friday 18th June 2010

Got some good news from the show. My application’s progressed through to the next stage! They want to do a telephone interview. This could be it, my chance to get on TV, and a shot at the big money. I can’t believe how far I’ve come, that this might really be happening. Who’d have thought, six months and six stone ago, that I could even get a chance? I mustn’t screw this up!

Will’s just left to get the train. He didn’t stay. Got a new girlfriend, so we’ll see how long that lasts. He spent most of the night complaining about his dad. John doesn’t approve of her, by the sound of it. He still thinks of Will as a little kid. I guess it’s like I said, you don’t notice how people change when you see them changing. Funny how John used to come between me and Will, and now it’s moaning about John that makes Will and I feel close. But I guess if things were swapped round Will and his dad would be sharing their hatred for me.

Still, it was nice to see him. I do miss him. Will didn’t mention my weight. Maybe he was uncomfortable, talking about his mum’s looks. I messed up a bit though. We went out for lunch, just to that new cafe up by the shops. I had a sandwich, a chocolate muffin and a skinny latte. Jesus, what’s the matter with me?

I’m only two pounds off hitting my target now. I could have been there. Can’t believe how close I am. Come on Andrea, don’t lose it now. You’re going to be a star. You’re going to be rich.

Thursday 24th June 2010

Screwed up the phone interview. I don’t know what they were expecting from me, but the questions were just ridiculous. They hardly asked anything about my weight at all. They just kept asking personal stuff, questions about the divorce, my relationship with Will, my financial difficulties, unemployment and so on. I tried to convince them that none of that stuff really matters, not to me. It’s true, mainly.

I told them how I’ve dedicated myself to the show, and how much I’ve changed. I explained my regime. I told them about the calorie counting, the targets I’ve hit every week. I offered to send them the food diaries, but they weren’t interested.

They’ve seen my application, the photographs. I’m perfect for them. Six stone in six months. What more did they need? I’m bigger than anyone they’ve had before. Six months of 8,000 calories a day, spending every penny on chocolate and lager, feeling sick after every meal, eating my own sick if I lose it.

You won’t beat me. Next year I’ll be bigger, so big you won’t be able to turn me down.

---

This piece was inspired by the fifth exercise in Kiteley’s The 3 A.M. Epiphany, entitled “Journalism.” It’s another experiment with point of view and tense. This time, tell a story in the form of three journal entries.

The Witness

A shout echoed between tall red brick buildings, along the empty street, then I saw him striding towards me and the rush of fear followed quickly. I couldn’t see his eyes under the hood he wore, but his mouth was a snarl and his body canted forward through the rain with angry purpose. He was approaching quickly. The pocket of his coat was torn, and he held his left hand close to his chest. I didn’t have time to pray but God’s will came to me unbidden, as it has so many times. I stepped into his path.

He almost walked into me, as if he could have brushed me aside, but I held my ground and forced him to stop.

“Are you alright, do you need help?” I asked.

“Leave me alone,” he said.

I smelled alcohol and smoke on his breath. He was older than I’d expected, and his face was deeply lined and sallow under the streetlight glow.

“I heard you shout,” I went on, “I thought you might be in trouble. Were you in a fight? Are you hurt?”

“Get out of the way,” he said. He avoided meeting my gaze, but his eyes told me that he could be saved. He went to step past me, but I moved to block his path.

“Out of the way,” he repeated. He put the palm of his good hand across my face and tried to shove me away. His name was Liam. I put my hand on his arm to calm him.

“You’re suffering, Liam. You have a wrath inside you that I can soothe. With God as my guide I will heal your deepest wounds.” He swore and pushed me again, but I persisted. “Don’t walk away from your salvation, Liam. See how I am at peace, though you are violent to me and insult me? Jesus said ‘unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other.’”

As I spoke his expression went from anger to disbelief and back. His emotions took their predictable course. He formed a fist of that unhurt hand and punched me in her mouth. Her eyes were already closed.

Mary began to fall, and as she did the world held its breath. The rain almost came to a standstill, individual droplets hanging in the air around her like beads on invisible wires. Around her lips, dark red beads mingled with the clear, falling imperceptibly slowly along with her limp body.

She looked at Liam’s face and the terrifying mask of hatred he wore. She drew her faith into herself, a deep breath of cool air she could hold forever. She pushed into his thoughts. She went down through grey matter and white matter, to a scale below matter and above matter. She navigated through constructs no microscope would reveal, without the geometry of logic or the geography of emotion to guide her. She traced the contours of Liam’s soul, seeking the key event deep in his memory when he embraced rage. She would turn that key, open the door, let Jesus return.

Mary found it, a seething mass of fury that screamed and burned. For a moment she hesitated, afraid to approach. Liam’s fury was different from that of the others she’d converted. His fury was directed against her.

She knew she didn’t have much time.

Inside, her senses as a single sense with neither dimension nor duration: the sound of laughter beside her ear, the taste of blood, the scent of old books, the pain of sex, and the sight of an old man with trembling hands, replacing his white collar.

Mary hit the ground hard, and filthy water from the gutter splashed onto my face. Instinctively my hands went to my bleeding lips, but my own pain could wait. I crawled to where Liam had collapsed in tears. I put my arms around his shoulders, and whispered God’s pathetic, meaningless apology.

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Another exercise from The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley – write a scene or story fragment in which the narration switches between first- and third- person. However, it should be clear that the central character doesn’t change during the switch. In other words, you shouldn’t switch point of view characters along with the narration.

The real difficulty with this exercise was thinking of an event boundary at which a context switch would be appropriate, and losing/regaining consciousness seemed to fit the bill.

She, A Dove

Somewhere above Eldon a voice called his name, trying to catch his attention. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke up towards the high ceiling, but he couldn’t see the source of the voice. Whoever it was, he ignored them. The pounding bass beat of last year’s house music swelled in his ears, and suddenly in his heart. Time to move.

He wanted something to drink, something strong, vodka, to take the edge off. Eldon made his way towards the kitchen, rattling through the crowd like a penny in an arcade. When he finally pushed through the crimson curtain hanging across the doorway it was into cooler air. It snatched at his breath.

Sophie was there with Mary, or Marie. The other one, whatever. Sophie was sitting on the grey plastic counter, reclining, smoking, hanging half out of the window. The musty smell filled Eldon’s nostrils. Posh girls, posh dope. Same old pantomime. He poured himself more than a measure of warm cheap vodka that turned out to be warm cheap rum.

“Mind you don’t fall,” he said.

“I won’t,” Sophie replied with a shrug, then turned to look at Eldon and indicated his glass. “Hey, pour me one of those. It’s Elson, right? Weird name.” Marie snorted in agreement. Eldon smiled and nodded, hoping that would be her final contribution to the conversation.

He looked around but there wasn’t another clean glass to hand, so he handed his own drink to her. She took it, sniffed it, drank it.

“So, what did you get?” he asked. She reeled off some letters automatically. Eldon cringed at himself. Alphabet soup. The inevitable chaser followed and she told him she’s studying something, it doesn’t matter what, they’re all the same so it doesn’t matter.

“What about you?” she said.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he replied. “Doesn’t matter does it? I mean, that was so long ago it’s basically irrelevant, right? You get to the point where it doesn’t really matter any more what alphabet soup you got. Life is what matters. Experience counts. That’s why I took my year out, worked at the plant. Experience. It’s not who you are, it’s what you know you. You stick with me.”

“Are you a mature student? I didn’t like to ask.”

“Why wouldn’t you ask? I’m not a mature student, I’m doing a master’s. Chemical engineering. It’s the hardest one you can do.”

“So you must be, what, twenty?”

“No, twenty. I’m in third year.”

He looked around but there wasn’t another clean glass to hand, so he snatched open the fridge and took out a bottle. He opened it, put it down, picked it up again. The fridge swung closed of its own accord. It must have been weighted a certain way so that it didn’t stay open indefinitely if you forgot to close it yourself.

“Clever thing,” Eldon whispered.

Sophie had jumped down from the counter where she had been threatening to hang herself half out of the window. Eldon looked up at her suddenly, as if remembering she was there. He remembered how much he loved her. He always had, from the first time he glimpsed her shining eyes across. From the first time he glimpsed her long blonde hair in. From the first time he grasped her long blonde hair in.

“Are you alright Eldon?” a voice asked from somewhere above him. “Here, take this, it’ll calm you right down.”

He took it, blew smoke up towards the high ceiling, but he couldn’t see the source of the voice. Whoever it was, he ignored them. The pounding bass beat of last year’s house music swelled in his ears, and suddenly in his heart. Time to move.

Eldon pushed the crimson curtain aside and stumbled into the darkness beyond. He hit his hand on something, an upturned chair perhaps. It knocked the drink from his hand, but in that moment he didn’t even notice. He only noticed his palms beginning to sweat. He strained to see, but the darkness was complete. Had he imagined the low murmur of voices that now died away to nothing? No, the sound was still there, but stifled, not wishing to be heard. Instinctively he held his arms out in front of him. He didn’t need to see them to know his hands were shaking.

Suddenly a blinding light was upon him, accompanied by a tumultuous crash of cymbals. He tried to close his eyes, to cover them with his hands, but his body was frozen in terror. He stared up to the gallery and screamed at the faces staring back. A thousand mouths contorted with laughter, and their sweat and their spittle showered down upon him like warm rain.

He turned and ran, caroming off wooden clouds, stumbling through green plastic vegetation, pushing between the decaying halves of a brown dappled horse. He fell to his knees as he lost all sense of space and momentum.

Eldon muttered to himself and shook his head. He shut the door to his room quietly from the inside. He shut his eyes tight, but he couldn’t shut out the pounding bass beat of last year’s house music. It counted out a constant measure of time’s passing, each moment of life elapsing at a chemically accelerated rate. He crawled over to the narrow bed, made a crack in between the heavy crimson curtains, and winced as the sickly sodium glow penetrated his room. He lit a cigarette and stared vacantly at the world outside. It hadn’t stopped raining all night.

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This was another exercise taken from Brian Kiteley’s book. The task was to write a short piece from the point of view of an unreliable third-person limited narrator. The account of what happens to Eldon becomes increasingly fragmented until we begin to doubt whether any of the story happened at all. At least, that was the intention.

In fact I found it very difficult to find inspiration for this exercise. Looking at various sources of theory and short fiction online, it seems that the main possibilities for an unreliable third person narration involve some form of mental illness or perception-altering substance abuse. In the end I opted for the latter, and tried to incorporate a fragmentary style I’m fond of from books like Naked Lunch and the Illuminatus! trilogy. Whether this worked is a question I leave for you.

Jack Of Knives

Open your eyes but fail to see. Flex your fingers. Tighten them into fists. Grip the rough cotton sheet. Feel the anticipation and know that today is the day of your death.

Flex your fingers. Sit up, swivel, stand. Peer from the window into the dark world beyond. Wonder if it’s too early, or already too late. Take a breath. Flex your fingers.

Consider the mission and only the mission. Pull on your clothes and boots. Smell the stale aroma. Remember your purpose. Remember your identity. Remember your past. Remember your king. Forget the others. Convince yourself once again. Stretch. Yawn. Shuffle through to the next room. Light the two candles. Bow your head. Close your eyes. Remember your king. Remember your god. Remember your orders.

Pause.

Open your eyes. Drink what remains of the ale, stale and warm. Flood your senses with its bitterness. Cherish your own bitterness. Feel the courage return. Feel the doubt dissolve.

Sit on the hard wooden chair. Listen for sounds from the world outside. Listen to the world awaking. Watch the glow of morning creeping beneath the door. Watch the pale light creeping through the narrow window. Watch the sick light glinting on the blade of the knife. Regard the knife. Pick up the knife. Turn the knife in the light. Watch the reflection it casts dancing across the dank walls.

Remember your past. Remember comfort, opulence, status. Remember family. Remember your king. Remember your identity. Consider the mission and only the mission. Sheath the knife, gently, reverently. Tuck the knife into your boot where it won’t be seen, where it will sleep until the moment is right. Picture the moment. Play the future in your mind, bifurcating fates, each a carefully prepared end. Consider the fates you neglected. Consider the fates you can’t foresee. Convince yourself that there can be none. Convince yourself that each fate is fatal. Convince yourself once again.

Picture the man whose life you must end. Paint his picture in your mind. Consider his deeds. Acknowledge that you know them not. Consider his politics. Acknowledge that you care not about them. Consider his religion. Acknowledge that there are things you and he share.

Construct instead for him an image of evil. Know that he is evil. Construct an image of his life as yours once was. construct comfort you will never again know. Construct opulence as lavish as that which was taken from you. Construct status, influence at the king’s court, unfairly gained in your rightful place. And in all your constructed jealousy, inject your family. Construct his happy home, your loving wife as his own, your beautiful children at his feet. Know that you know this man, and know your hatred. Resolve that this man must die by your hand, on this day, though it take away your own life. Feel the anticipation and know that today is the day of your death, and his.

Check the knife. Tighten your boot. Pull your reeking furs around you and throw open the door. Dash into the light, headlong through the village. Get run over by a Volkswagen at the mini-roundabout by Dixons. Wake up in a police cell.

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Another writing exercise this time. I found this one interesting, though I’m not sure I learned anything from it in particular. The idea was to write a short piece composed entirely of imperatives. Writing under any arbitrary constraint makes you think around the problem, exercise your imagination in a new way, but maybe starting off my writing blog with two pretty bizarre pieces wasn’t the best idea!

As ever, comments are more than welcome.