Well, these are my currently completed writings with others to come. It may take time with some of them but there is plenty to read. Here is the approximate chronology:
Julian's Hell
The Room
Cold Heart
The Ship
Dilemma
A Story About A Picure
The Captives
Issues of Equality
The Machine
The Honeycomb
If we're talking my personal rankings for them, I guess I would put them in this order:
The Captives
A Story About A Picture
Dilemma
The Machine
Cold Heart
The Ship
Julian's Hell
The Room
The Honeycomb
Issues of Equality
I think that's a bit rigid. Check the intros first and read at your leisure.
Again, for those of you that you do, thanks for reading. Feel free to leave comments but any comments are best e-mailed to me. ccaps@tinyworld.co.uk
Peace out,
Chris Caps
Monday, 30 August 2010
Cold Heart
Written in 2005, I believe. Quite different to the others as it is more gothic in style. It was written because I was trying to write something after a break-up. It started slow but after a while it came together. Just over 5000 words.
I looked out of the window and stared into the dark, bitter night. Her name whispered through my mind over and over: Estelle. Why had I forsaken our love? An impossible question to answer, I am human and we endure the woes of our own doing. A man, far too much of a man.
The rain tapped incessantly on the pane and I placed my palm upon it. Only a thin sheet of glass kept the two elemental forces from being one- the roaring of the storm and the roaring self-loathing in my heart. I could hardly feel either, though I was totally aware of both. The thunder bellowing tauntingly outside could not speak above the gentle gasps of her name in my mind. Meanwhile, the depression had hit such a climax that I was totally numb. My heart was cold. Too cold to let me feel the wretched sorrow that clung to my soul. Both these powerful forces so undeniably prevalent and yet I remained totally immune to their strikes for attention.
Estelle. Precious, sweet Estelle. Why did I have to make her desert me? I know I was sad in those last dry, gruelling months, but she was the sanctuary from the horror in my life and not the stimulus. I was a fool to push her away. I was so aware but out of control. I see now that my cold heart did not begin on this evening. No, I have been numb to love and life since that blighted day, almost a month ago. A curse has been set upon me! And I made the deal, I accepted the terms; I pay the price. I must reflect on that horrid time…
I was in the library on that fateful evening, perusing through the various tomes of dark romanticism adorning the shelves. Various pieces of beautifully bitter-sweet literature that far surpassed my own attempts. I finally settled on the greatest piece within the grand collection- ‘The Twisted Soul’ by my father, Wilfred Damort. It was so rich in dark poetry that it filled me with a conjuring of the least pleasant emotions- Jealousy; Disgust; Self-Loathing; Doubt; Anger; all these feelings visited me at once, the most unwelcome and the most persistent of guests. That desire to write something of equal stature hit me again as my eyes traced the first few lines:
In truth, I speak of deep unpleasantness,
Tortures few mortal men could hope to endure,
Upon a quest of much blighted distress,
I shall speak of it once and then ne’ermore.
My soul is twisted, gnarled, burnt to cinder,
It haunts me and harms me as if a plague,
‘Til my Death it shall forever hinder,
While life is futile, bleak and ever vague.
I leaned my neck back and closed my eyes tightly as I recalled just how tortuous this tale was when in full torrent. The inner-demons, the terrifying mental turmoil and the physical anguish could almost be felt from the page. It is clearly a very masochistic man who wishes to speak of such horrors; but that was I, a man hungry to capture a hellish story that would be loved like dear Father Damort’s. When you have found such beauty in these desperate, dark places, you cannot help but desire to revel in the tragic territories for yourself. How I longed to endure such pain to benefit as an artist or, at least, just to become someone moderately eloquent at describing human emotion. But I could find nothing. I was empty of sorrow. The death within my prose was plentiful in both its content and its quality. Macabre it certainly was, but it was also moribund, pointless drivel.
I sighed heavily. My sweetness must have been passing at that precise moment for I heard the door creak open and, when I opened my eyes, I saw her floating gracefully before me. Her eyes were filled with warm concern and, despite feeling drained, stressed and low, I could not help but return her beauty with a smile. “Melvin, my sweet, I have seen you pained for days, I can see the hurt inside you. Please, tell me what ails you, so that I may perhaps be the balm.”
‘Dear, sweet Estelle, ever doting and ever perfect,’ I thought, ‘she does truly love me.’ She came and rested on my thigh and I took her hands in mine; they were soft and tender and I could not help but kiss them. I spoke to her: “Estelle, you are my angel, my single solace in my life and I hold you more dearly than anyone else in the world, myself certainly included. However, I do feel that you can never be the cure to my distress. I cannot write, my sweet and I feel the burning desire deep inside me and if I do not satisfy it I fear the flame shall burst into an inferno of tortuous fire. If self-expression cannot be achieved, then self-immolation may be the inevitable tragedy.”
“Melvin, must you always speak with such melodrama? It is merely a little writers’ block. It is a tragedy that can and will be overcome. You shall write,” came Estelle’s reply, a slightly amused whisper of a response.
“I do not write, Estelle. I try and I leave a day’s work as ripped paper, a blank page and a frustrated soul. I see no end to this frustration. I cannot express these tortures. I am a writer who is too distracted. I know that I am a writer and I long to achieve my fate but it is cruelly mocking me. I can imagine no end to its taunting…”
I placed my arms around her waste and held her tightly, finding some comfort in the steady beating of her heart. She leant back from our embrace, placed her hands upon my cheeks and lightly put her precious lips to mine.
“Melvin, this will pass, and I will love you and stand by you as long as it takes.” With these final words she stood up, clasped my hand tightly and exited the library. I blessed the Earth for my one joy and closed my eyes once more. As soon as the darkness enveloped me, however, I felt her presence totally gone and I exchanged my blessing for a curse for this wretched world had given me a heart too futile in its ability to express my feelings. I felt as if I was a mess, a mass of flotsam that would never be human.
“I can help you…”
I opened my eyes and the library, apparently empty, came into vision. I sat up and turned my head, searching for the owner of the mysteriously uttered words. The voice had been a low rasp of a whisper, rough and sinister, filled with a multitude of promises as yet unuttered. However, the speaker was nowhere to be seen, as if the words had been from within or expressed by an apparition who had said their haunting words before vanishing as quickly as they had arrived. But it turned out to be neither internal voices nor the mutterings of immaterial spirits. Instead, I managed to follow the voice to the shadows near the curtains and standing there was the silhouette of a man, shaded grey. His words remained thick and tough as he hissed, “I can help you, Melvin Damort. I can give you the peace you seek by giving you the Hell you desire first…”
I was awash with questions, but I asked the most pressing one first: “Who are you, sir, and how did you find entrance into this room, or even my home, without my knowledge of the fact?”
At first there was no answer and I felt unsure how to proceed. Estelle and I were alone in my abode, for the help had left hours earlier. Perhaps I should confront this man immediately, I wondered, and discover the finer details when I know I am safe. However, the being had a strange allure and I did genuinely wish to find out who he was and establish exactly what this intruder was offering to me. I inquired once more, with greater severity in my voice, “I asked who you are and how you got here? Answer me now or I will have to act for the sake of my home and my honour.”
“Dear sir,” came the reply in a less hushed tone, however the voice remained distinctly unusual, slightly serpentine. “Dear sir, I offer you no harm. Unless that is what you desire…” He paused but I found myself unable to offer a response. “Melvin, I come with a proposition for you. You wish to experience the most horrific things that a man can endure in the hope to create a literary piece of disturbing beauty, do you not?” I nodded dumbly.
“You wish to suffer for the sake of your art. I come to offer you the suffering, the pain, that you feel you will need to create this desired masterpiece. If you accept my terms you will be crushed, wounded and a sick shell of the man you were before, the man you are now. However, it is very likely that you will be able to pour your feelings in the most gloriously grotesque manner. You, sir, will be satisfied through the sorrowful treatment I can place upon you.”
I remained silent. It was as if I was trying to write my prose once again. All words failed me. I felt frustrated at my complete inability for expression. And then he said a sentence that awoke me from my trance of futility:
“I knew your father.”
I stared at the being before me with eyes widened by confusion and intrigue. The intruder then moved out of the shadows and I realised that this was no typical man. His clothing was plush and regal and he wore jewellery that was opulent and impressive. The hat upon his head was of a deep black and its wide rim covered most of the face below it with shadows. However, it was the part of his face that escaped the veil that really made this character so intriguing and intimidating. A beard, neatly trimmed, was visible. Deep, dark blue in colour, the wisps of hair contrasted greatly with the skin it covered, the tone of which was also undeniably peculiar. His flesh was a sickly, diseased yellow colour except at the lips, which included a fiery, autumnal tint. I could not yet bring myself to speak and, instead, I tried to develop a better comprehension of this unusual entity that had visited me and, apparently, my father.
“It is true,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “I offered the same deal to Wilfred many, many years ago and he accepted, thus giving the chance for ‘The Twisted Soul’ to be written. If it was not for him accepting my bargain, your father would never have succeeded in his desires. Your fate is the same- refuse me and suffer a life that can never be fulfilled or accept and suffer the life of a tortured, yet eloquent, artist.”
There appeared to be no clear compromise. I now understood this man’s offering fully, if I wished to be a writer of disparity and woe, the consequence must be to experience these emotions on a sufficient scale. The promise that was being proposed, then, was to torture my being to create the true opportunity for expression. The details of what malice I was to face, however, had not been made so transparent. Amidst all the questions I had (and they were numerous), I settled on inquiring further what the deal entailed.
“Who are you,” I asked, “and how can you offer me the torment I desire?”
A smile flickered unnaturally across his face and he hissed, ‘My name is Alistair and I am a slave to Satan. Satan desires as much misery and pain in the world as can be achieved. With you I see an opportunity of satisfying my Lord and your needs also. Your gain is nothing, but Lucifer’s needs are all that matter to me. He can gain if you are willing to allow it.” He paused and then added, “It will benefit you too.”
My head spun with uncertainty. I realised that the pains that I would endure, if they were for the joys of the Devil, were sure to be intensely severe. However, was not such extreme abuse precisely what I felt I needed? We discussed more the terms of our potential covenant. The Hell I was to endure was to not be merely physical and would involve a ritual that was terribly blasphemous and disgraceful. The results of Alistair’s spell were to inflict upon me such diabolical acts that they would be beyond any human understanding. However, he assured me that I would be fully capable to pour my experiences on to the pages that I had left blank on so many other frustrated occasions. The inspiration may not be immediate but it would certainly occur without any real effort. I thought carefully of what was being offered and whether to accept or not. My conclusion was easy enough, despite any cautious consideration I tried to take. I needed to write, to fulfil my masochistic desires. The agreement was sealed before I had been aware of the terms, the dialogue nothing but mere formality. I was told to seek out the grave of Luke Iscariot in the church cemetery if I genuinely wished to conclude this awful offer. I made my plans to visit the tomb that same evening.
After I was certain Estelle was asleep, I silently crept from the house and out into the cold, bitter night. No noise could be heard except for the violent howling of the wind, a fierce bellow that could not have made it clearer that I should turn back. Indeed, even if God had parted the night sky himself and had called down to me directly, it would not be more transparent than this powerful, angry gale. My reaction to such a supernatural event would have been the same as it was to the oppressive storm; I pushed on ignoring all wiser senses. I walked along the village path, every house pitch black for all had turned to slumber and thus I moved unnoticed in the night. Neither human nor beast was seen on my nocturnal excursion; possibly all had been forced to seek shelter because of the intense severity of the wind. Still, it felt peculiar that the night owls were neither seen nor heard, being such a common part of the evening sounds of this village.
Eventually, I arrived at the cemetery and was surprised to find its gate unlocked and swinging wildly in the tempestuous weather. I pressed on, unsure of what other curious occurrences were to greet me, very aware that the most bizarre and unpleasant still remained ahead. My eyes scoured the numerous stones and it took me some time before I eventually came across Monsieur Iscariot’s eerie place of rest. The carved marble that was embedded into the ground spoke in brutal tones:
‘Here lies Luke Iscariot.
This dark man led a dark life.
He lies restless and uneasy.’
I am sure that the tombstone was unaware of how accurate a story it told but there was no denying its awful truth. The patch of land below the rock was indeed disturbed soil and a large hole stood before me. I was aghast at the sight, an abused grave! I should not have been as shocked as I was, but I could not believe that nothing was sacrosanct, not even the rest of the wicked. I crept cautiously closer towards the hole in the ground and peered into its depths. The cavernous crypt suggested great depth but a flicker of fiery light could be made in the dark distance. ‘Climb…’ Beyond the screeching wind a breezy suggestion caressed my ears. ‘Climb…down…’ I felt the whisper and acknowledged its words; I turned and began to climb down the gulf of a grave. I kicked my feet fiercely into the earth to create hold and dug my hands in deep, clawing myself something to grip. Worms and other insects of the night crawled upon my hands and slithered up my arms. Some unpleasant creature resembling a millipede reached my shoulder and began to dance at my face, its stick-like legs constantly drumming upon my cheek. Unable to contain myself, I flinched in a most exaggerated and cowardly fashion and my grip faltered. That wretched creature stimulated descent into the horror below.
I had no clue as to what time it was when my eyes flickered open and I had regained consciousness. A piece of me, the small yet ever-present sane part, was disappointed to learn that my fool-hardy expedition was a reality and not some unworldly dream. I attempted to sit up but my arms and legs were tied. I turned my head and realised I was shackled to an earthy, granite slab of a table. My knowledge of the occult may have been limited but there was little doubt in my mind that I had been strapped to a sacrificial altar. I called out, “Alistair, are you here?”
“Ahhhh,” he rasped out a lengthy sigh, “my visitor awakens. Good evening Melvin Damort, your fall left you incapacitated for almost hour.”
With this small piece of information I calculated the time to be little after midnight. My head did not ache but I had an unusual tingling, sensation down the back of my neck and spine. Few other thoughts could be calculated before my sinister host spoke once more. “I have gone through the details of our agreement time and again and I know you understand fully the consequences of what shall occur tonight. I ask you one last time, do you accept my will? Once I begin, I shall not stop. Be sure you are prepared to endure the vicious abuse that I ravage against you.”
I had made the journey and I was terribly aware of the rules set. I was not entirely certain of the extremities of the torture but I was certain that it would be near insufferable. I was also sure that it was too late to escape this Satanist’s inflictions; both our minds were set. I nodded a sign that I was willing to receive any horrors he cared to unleash. He returned my nod and stood directly over me. He extended his hand a few feet above my face, it was holding a small bag. Shaking his hand gently, a soot-like dust fell upon my head before unleashing a perversely pungent kind of incense. He walked around me, shaking the rancid aroma around the earthy hovel and giving me the last pieces of information. “I assure you this, you will be writing of horrors unpronounced before thirty one days have passed.”
Thick smog filled my vision and I heard not another word from him. Nor could I see him through the grimly scented grey fog. My senses were intoxicated with the black magic that filled the air. My head felt light and detached. I heard a crackling behind me. It sounded as if something was cooking crisp and black. Amidst the sounds of fire and flame came demonic roars and unnatural laughter. I turned my head right. I turned it left. Nothing was visible. All around, there was just endless smoke. I felt sick as the smoke choked my lungs. My head span. I felt incredibly nauseous. I felt I was about to faint when I saw it glow through the grey. A huge sword was silhouetted black in the swirling gloom. The runes raised upon it flickered red and orange. The arcane symbols were mesmerising. The blade spun in the air. It pointed towards me, towards the altar. With blistering speed, the sword struck straight down. It was embedded in the slab, between my legs at my knees. I stared at the glowing runes. I felt their burn. I felt it deep inside me. That fire. That desire. My yearning to write, to feel, rising inside me. The intense burning. The runes burned brighter. My internal flame grew stronger. My head reeled with the searing pain of fire. I was lost to the runes…
Melvin’s stomach ripped open with an unholy torrent of fire. A flaming crescendo burst forth, leaving him to scream in endless torture. His flesh began to curl around his abdomen before becoming black, crisp ash. As the fire spread round his body, pus of various colours secreted from the hole in his belly. Muddy orange mixed with vile green and sloshed forth, acidic and raw. They churned together repugnantly and absorbed his cooked, dead flesh. His body was becoming nothing but cinder, his legs, torso and arms all being burnt black. His screams intensified as the incredible cremation continued ever onwards and an unnatural smoke escaped his howling mouth. The arcane, supernatural concoction not only kept him impossibly alive but conscious. The extreme, malicious burning did not subside and he felt his stomach, heart and various other organs begin to melt into the erupting ooze. Soon, Melvin was nothing but a head, eyes closed, wincing at the devastating torment, steaming in the intolerable heat. His body that had been a pyre had now been entirely subsumed by the sludge that had spewed from him throughout the immolation. As the extremity of the pain began to slowly calm Melvin’s head began to quit its smoking. His eyes flickered maniacally as he tried to comprehend this surreal and depressing experience. As he scanned in his panic, he hesitated to notice that the murky mire that had absorbed the rest of his body was beginning to congeal into a tar-like blob. Slowly it gained coarseness to its texture and it began pulsating and pumping a steady rhythm like a revolting, monstrous heart. The repetitive flexing began to draw Melvin’s attention and he stared transfixed and open-mouthed at the horror before him. The giant, black blister, the size of a young man curled into a ball, began to harden further still and it increased the pace of its abhorrent pumping. Pump, pump, pumppumppumppump. Burst! Suddenly, the pestilent pustule exploded and a thick, black liquid erupted into the air, followed by demonic insects of some unknown nether world. They crept viciously, sadistically over Melvin’s face, stabbing him with sharp, venomous bites filled with insanely painful poison. They wriggled up his nostrils, resulting in agony more excruciating than the most malicious bout of water torture. They ran up his cheeks and their pin-like legs scratched his eyes and pierced his soft flesh. The mass of callous creeps had nothing to assault but Melvin’s unfortunate face that was unable to move without its torso and thus they ravaged his cheeks, forehead and lips with toxin that made him shake with seizure. After much time had passed, what felt like an eternity, two lithe, lice-like creatures dived upon Melvin’s eyes and burrowed deep through his corneas. He offered one last desperate scream before being visited by total and complete blackness…
Without explanation, Melvin found himself whole once again. He was standing in a barren field, totally lifeless; nothing but a vast landscape of grey soil was before him. His immediate reaction was to use his arms to feel his body, to comprehend that he had moved on from the fire and the monstrous insects. The movement proved that his experiences thus far had been no consequence of imagination but terribly real. He felt his body ache and burn with memories of the awful onslaught. His eyes looked around desperately, eager to seek some sort of sense or direction. A thick, heavy wind lifted some of the light soil into the air. The ancient looking dust danced playfully sinister in the oppressive breeze. Melvin felt distinctly uneasy in this new, desolate surrounding. The draught pushed the powdery earth back and forth before flinging it directly at Melvin’s chest. Immediately, Melvin’s clothes began to dissipate into nothing to leave him standing naked in the bizarre, unnatural realm. Another light gust blew the soil through his fingers and onto his hands. Again, the effect was almost immediate as the skin of his palms seem to turn into sand and slowly fall to the ground. He stood there, as if a human hourglass slowly ebbing away his life. He felt unbearably uncomfortable as his entire body began to tortuously shrivel, age and turn to dust. Suddenly, his frail legs snapped at the knees and he quickly fell backwards onto the earth. Gradually, the pace excruciating and nearly static, his whole body began to dissolve as one into the ground. He let out a yell and his lower jaw cracked and dropped away from his body, turning into a pile of corpse ash. His cheeks peeled away from his skull and the bone began to rupture with rapid ageing. Eventually his eyes dissolved and the pale yet blackening sky began to disappear from view. Though blind and incapable of any sense except for touch, Melvin’s torture was not over. Instead, he felt a sickening sensation that is almost impossible to transcribe. Slowly, from within his decaying skull, his brain was agonizingly breaking into ashen sand and mixing with the rest of the decrepit pile that used to be the body of Melvin Damort. Gradually…horribly…Melvin felt himself crawl into nothingness. Melvin was no more…
I awoke with a start. Breathing hard and fast, my eyes jagged excitedly across the room in a desperate attempt to recognise my surroundings.
“Calm, Melvin, calm.” Estelle. Estelle was beside me and it took one look into her deep, hazel eyes to bring myself back to sanity. I began to slow down my breathing and I realised that my torture was over. At this moment, the idea of asking questions, to try and discover what had happened to me, did not strike in my mind. Instead, it was Estelle who began the inquiring: “Melvin, what happened to you? Where had you gone and why did you return in such a state? I do not know which emotion has been more pertinent in these last few days, my deep concern for your good soul or my deep confusion at finding you naked at the front steps. I was not even aware you were outside. Melvin, please, offer me some refuge through explanation.”
It was obvious to me that to offer the truth would be a destructive course of action. First, my tale would sound too fantastical to be accepted and, second, my actions and compliance in the whole affair would raise far more questions than it would alleviate. My immediate reaction was to feign complete bewilderment. “Estelle, I have no idea. I can offer you no explanation, indeed I cannot even offer it to myself. You found me naked? When was this?” I asked, a genuine question because the last memory I had was of indescribable horrors.
“I found you in the early hours, the morning after you had lamented to me the difficulties you had faced in discovering your muse. You were huddled into a ball as if a small child, shivering violently, naked in the fierce cold. You have been in the midst of a deep sleep for three days, your spasms only subsiding twelve hours ago. I have barely slept since this event and have been sick with worry. Can you tell me nothing?”
“Estelle, damn you! I do not know what happened! I feel wretched and sick! Torture me no more with your questions!”
After I snapped at her, Estelle pulled away, shocked and guilty. It is true that I did feel afflicted, but it was little to do with Estelle’s trivial harassment and more in relation to the accursed ritual that I had endured. The dark occurrences on that night felt as if they were a plague upon my soul and, even now, I feel infected. Though the consequences of the ritual were supernatural and many may assume that they did not take place at all, I am certain that my experiences were not merely the result of an over-enthusiastic mind. My hellish experiences were as real, as tangible and as affecting as being attacked by one’s closest friend. I did not have any recollection of the events after I had suffered my magical mistreatment and I am not sure at what point I returned to this world; however, I am beyond doubt that I left this simple plane of existence to a realm of indescribable terror. Quite possibly, I visited the guts of Hell. Estelle could never understand these dark moments and so I could never confide in her the facts she longed to uncover.
For one more day I was bed-ridden but I was by no means cured. I had been eternally cursed and no ceremony contained enough magic or piety to save me from my cruel, self-inflicted fate. I was no longer a man. Instead I was a husk, the skin of my former self. My soul had remoulded itself into a snake and escaped its old, useless container. Ever since I have returned to consciousness, I have been distant and barely conscious at all. My eating is minimal and my interaction with other people, less. It was this reclusive personality that drove Estelle away. She tried to speak to me, to console my heart but it was frozen; a cold heart never to be warmed. The more effort she made to have me return her love, the more hostile I became and I lashed out at her, irrationally harsh. She strived to persevere but it took less than a week to cause her to exit, such was the extremity of my transformation. When she confessed her plans for departure, I did not even offer her a farewell; an arctic glare from dead eyes was all I could muster and she left broken hearted. Though I am painfully aware that I miss her and love her I cannot bring myself to want her back, I am incapable of feeling these emotions, I am only aware of them- they are suggested by my mind but are irrelevant to my heart. Estelle may have departed with her chest aching and her muscle torn into two, but I question if I even have a heart left to feel. All that I feel now is the bleakness of my life. I lost my love and now I can never be satisfied. I have not yet begun my prose and now doubt its worth. Morbidity is now all I know, but what joy is there in describing death if you do not know life? Now, as I look out into the night sky, with the rain shooting at the window pane, I realise that I would rather fail as an artist of death and succeed in love and life. I peel my hand away from the cold glass and move to the corner of the room where my desk awaits. The only light around me comes from a whisper of flame in the weakest lamp I own, I am sitting in dank gloom. I lift my pen and begin to let it write. I icily start to scratch out some thoughts. Here it is, the work I have longed to scribe, majestically morbid and inspired in its ugliness. My success is beginning but it feels hollow and empty. Yes, my masterpiece shall be written but the reward does not exist. I continue with my dark tale, ‘The Cold Heart’, throughout the night. A tragic tale of torture and death. Rain continues to spit from the Heavens. The deed is complete.
Cold Heart
I looked out of the window and stared into the dark, bitter night. Her name whispered through my mind over and over: Estelle. Why had I forsaken our love? An impossible question to answer, I am human and we endure the woes of our own doing. A man, far too much of a man.
The rain tapped incessantly on the pane and I placed my palm upon it. Only a thin sheet of glass kept the two elemental forces from being one- the roaring of the storm and the roaring self-loathing in my heart. I could hardly feel either, though I was totally aware of both. The thunder bellowing tauntingly outside could not speak above the gentle gasps of her name in my mind. Meanwhile, the depression had hit such a climax that I was totally numb. My heart was cold. Too cold to let me feel the wretched sorrow that clung to my soul. Both these powerful forces so undeniably prevalent and yet I remained totally immune to their strikes for attention.
Estelle. Precious, sweet Estelle. Why did I have to make her desert me? I know I was sad in those last dry, gruelling months, but she was the sanctuary from the horror in my life and not the stimulus. I was a fool to push her away. I was so aware but out of control. I see now that my cold heart did not begin on this evening. No, I have been numb to love and life since that blighted day, almost a month ago. A curse has been set upon me! And I made the deal, I accepted the terms; I pay the price. I must reflect on that horrid time…
I was in the library on that fateful evening, perusing through the various tomes of dark romanticism adorning the shelves. Various pieces of beautifully bitter-sweet literature that far surpassed my own attempts. I finally settled on the greatest piece within the grand collection- ‘The Twisted Soul’ by my father, Wilfred Damort. It was so rich in dark poetry that it filled me with a conjuring of the least pleasant emotions- Jealousy; Disgust; Self-Loathing; Doubt; Anger; all these feelings visited me at once, the most unwelcome and the most persistent of guests. That desire to write something of equal stature hit me again as my eyes traced the first few lines:
In truth, I speak of deep unpleasantness,
Tortures few mortal men could hope to endure,
Upon a quest of much blighted distress,
I shall speak of it once and then ne’ermore.
My soul is twisted, gnarled, burnt to cinder,
It haunts me and harms me as if a plague,
‘Til my Death it shall forever hinder,
While life is futile, bleak and ever vague.
I leaned my neck back and closed my eyes tightly as I recalled just how tortuous this tale was when in full torrent. The inner-demons, the terrifying mental turmoil and the physical anguish could almost be felt from the page. It is clearly a very masochistic man who wishes to speak of such horrors; but that was I, a man hungry to capture a hellish story that would be loved like dear Father Damort’s. When you have found such beauty in these desperate, dark places, you cannot help but desire to revel in the tragic territories for yourself. How I longed to endure such pain to benefit as an artist or, at least, just to become someone moderately eloquent at describing human emotion. But I could find nothing. I was empty of sorrow. The death within my prose was plentiful in both its content and its quality. Macabre it certainly was, but it was also moribund, pointless drivel.
I sighed heavily. My sweetness must have been passing at that precise moment for I heard the door creak open and, when I opened my eyes, I saw her floating gracefully before me. Her eyes were filled with warm concern and, despite feeling drained, stressed and low, I could not help but return her beauty with a smile. “Melvin, my sweet, I have seen you pained for days, I can see the hurt inside you. Please, tell me what ails you, so that I may perhaps be the balm.”
‘Dear, sweet Estelle, ever doting and ever perfect,’ I thought, ‘she does truly love me.’ She came and rested on my thigh and I took her hands in mine; they were soft and tender and I could not help but kiss them. I spoke to her: “Estelle, you are my angel, my single solace in my life and I hold you more dearly than anyone else in the world, myself certainly included. However, I do feel that you can never be the cure to my distress. I cannot write, my sweet and I feel the burning desire deep inside me and if I do not satisfy it I fear the flame shall burst into an inferno of tortuous fire. If self-expression cannot be achieved, then self-immolation may be the inevitable tragedy.”
“Melvin, must you always speak with such melodrama? It is merely a little writers’ block. It is a tragedy that can and will be overcome. You shall write,” came Estelle’s reply, a slightly amused whisper of a response.
“I do not write, Estelle. I try and I leave a day’s work as ripped paper, a blank page and a frustrated soul. I see no end to this frustration. I cannot express these tortures. I am a writer who is too distracted. I know that I am a writer and I long to achieve my fate but it is cruelly mocking me. I can imagine no end to its taunting…”
I placed my arms around her waste and held her tightly, finding some comfort in the steady beating of her heart. She leant back from our embrace, placed her hands upon my cheeks and lightly put her precious lips to mine.
“Melvin, this will pass, and I will love you and stand by you as long as it takes.” With these final words she stood up, clasped my hand tightly and exited the library. I blessed the Earth for my one joy and closed my eyes once more. As soon as the darkness enveloped me, however, I felt her presence totally gone and I exchanged my blessing for a curse for this wretched world had given me a heart too futile in its ability to express my feelings. I felt as if I was a mess, a mass of flotsam that would never be human.
“I can help you…”
I opened my eyes and the library, apparently empty, came into vision. I sat up and turned my head, searching for the owner of the mysteriously uttered words. The voice had been a low rasp of a whisper, rough and sinister, filled with a multitude of promises as yet unuttered. However, the speaker was nowhere to be seen, as if the words had been from within or expressed by an apparition who had said their haunting words before vanishing as quickly as they had arrived. But it turned out to be neither internal voices nor the mutterings of immaterial spirits. Instead, I managed to follow the voice to the shadows near the curtains and standing there was the silhouette of a man, shaded grey. His words remained thick and tough as he hissed, “I can help you, Melvin Damort. I can give you the peace you seek by giving you the Hell you desire first…”
I was awash with questions, but I asked the most pressing one first: “Who are you, sir, and how did you find entrance into this room, or even my home, without my knowledge of the fact?”
At first there was no answer and I felt unsure how to proceed. Estelle and I were alone in my abode, for the help had left hours earlier. Perhaps I should confront this man immediately, I wondered, and discover the finer details when I know I am safe. However, the being had a strange allure and I did genuinely wish to find out who he was and establish exactly what this intruder was offering to me. I inquired once more, with greater severity in my voice, “I asked who you are and how you got here? Answer me now or I will have to act for the sake of my home and my honour.”
“Dear sir,” came the reply in a less hushed tone, however the voice remained distinctly unusual, slightly serpentine. “Dear sir, I offer you no harm. Unless that is what you desire…” He paused but I found myself unable to offer a response. “Melvin, I come with a proposition for you. You wish to experience the most horrific things that a man can endure in the hope to create a literary piece of disturbing beauty, do you not?” I nodded dumbly.
“You wish to suffer for the sake of your art. I come to offer you the suffering, the pain, that you feel you will need to create this desired masterpiece. If you accept my terms you will be crushed, wounded and a sick shell of the man you were before, the man you are now. However, it is very likely that you will be able to pour your feelings in the most gloriously grotesque manner. You, sir, will be satisfied through the sorrowful treatment I can place upon you.”
I remained silent. It was as if I was trying to write my prose once again. All words failed me. I felt frustrated at my complete inability for expression. And then he said a sentence that awoke me from my trance of futility:
“I knew your father.”
I stared at the being before me with eyes widened by confusion and intrigue. The intruder then moved out of the shadows and I realised that this was no typical man. His clothing was plush and regal and he wore jewellery that was opulent and impressive. The hat upon his head was of a deep black and its wide rim covered most of the face below it with shadows. However, it was the part of his face that escaped the veil that really made this character so intriguing and intimidating. A beard, neatly trimmed, was visible. Deep, dark blue in colour, the wisps of hair contrasted greatly with the skin it covered, the tone of which was also undeniably peculiar. His flesh was a sickly, diseased yellow colour except at the lips, which included a fiery, autumnal tint. I could not yet bring myself to speak and, instead, I tried to develop a better comprehension of this unusual entity that had visited me and, apparently, my father.
“It is true,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “I offered the same deal to Wilfred many, many years ago and he accepted, thus giving the chance for ‘The Twisted Soul’ to be written. If it was not for him accepting my bargain, your father would never have succeeded in his desires. Your fate is the same- refuse me and suffer a life that can never be fulfilled or accept and suffer the life of a tortured, yet eloquent, artist.”
There appeared to be no clear compromise. I now understood this man’s offering fully, if I wished to be a writer of disparity and woe, the consequence must be to experience these emotions on a sufficient scale. The promise that was being proposed, then, was to torture my being to create the true opportunity for expression. The details of what malice I was to face, however, had not been made so transparent. Amidst all the questions I had (and they were numerous), I settled on inquiring further what the deal entailed.
“Who are you,” I asked, “and how can you offer me the torment I desire?”
A smile flickered unnaturally across his face and he hissed, ‘My name is Alistair and I am a slave to Satan. Satan desires as much misery and pain in the world as can be achieved. With you I see an opportunity of satisfying my Lord and your needs also. Your gain is nothing, but Lucifer’s needs are all that matter to me. He can gain if you are willing to allow it.” He paused and then added, “It will benefit you too.”
My head spun with uncertainty. I realised that the pains that I would endure, if they were for the joys of the Devil, were sure to be intensely severe. However, was not such extreme abuse precisely what I felt I needed? We discussed more the terms of our potential covenant. The Hell I was to endure was to not be merely physical and would involve a ritual that was terribly blasphemous and disgraceful. The results of Alistair’s spell were to inflict upon me such diabolical acts that they would be beyond any human understanding. However, he assured me that I would be fully capable to pour my experiences on to the pages that I had left blank on so many other frustrated occasions. The inspiration may not be immediate but it would certainly occur without any real effort. I thought carefully of what was being offered and whether to accept or not. My conclusion was easy enough, despite any cautious consideration I tried to take. I needed to write, to fulfil my masochistic desires. The agreement was sealed before I had been aware of the terms, the dialogue nothing but mere formality. I was told to seek out the grave of Luke Iscariot in the church cemetery if I genuinely wished to conclude this awful offer. I made my plans to visit the tomb that same evening.
After I was certain Estelle was asleep, I silently crept from the house and out into the cold, bitter night. No noise could be heard except for the violent howling of the wind, a fierce bellow that could not have made it clearer that I should turn back. Indeed, even if God had parted the night sky himself and had called down to me directly, it would not be more transparent than this powerful, angry gale. My reaction to such a supernatural event would have been the same as it was to the oppressive storm; I pushed on ignoring all wiser senses. I walked along the village path, every house pitch black for all had turned to slumber and thus I moved unnoticed in the night. Neither human nor beast was seen on my nocturnal excursion; possibly all had been forced to seek shelter because of the intense severity of the wind. Still, it felt peculiar that the night owls were neither seen nor heard, being such a common part of the evening sounds of this village.
Eventually, I arrived at the cemetery and was surprised to find its gate unlocked and swinging wildly in the tempestuous weather. I pressed on, unsure of what other curious occurrences were to greet me, very aware that the most bizarre and unpleasant still remained ahead. My eyes scoured the numerous stones and it took me some time before I eventually came across Monsieur Iscariot’s eerie place of rest. The carved marble that was embedded into the ground spoke in brutal tones:
‘Here lies Luke Iscariot.
This dark man led a dark life.
He lies restless and uneasy.’
I am sure that the tombstone was unaware of how accurate a story it told but there was no denying its awful truth. The patch of land below the rock was indeed disturbed soil and a large hole stood before me. I was aghast at the sight, an abused grave! I should not have been as shocked as I was, but I could not believe that nothing was sacrosanct, not even the rest of the wicked. I crept cautiously closer towards the hole in the ground and peered into its depths. The cavernous crypt suggested great depth but a flicker of fiery light could be made in the dark distance. ‘Climb…’ Beyond the screeching wind a breezy suggestion caressed my ears. ‘Climb…down…’ I felt the whisper and acknowledged its words; I turned and began to climb down the gulf of a grave. I kicked my feet fiercely into the earth to create hold and dug my hands in deep, clawing myself something to grip. Worms and other insects of the night crawled upon my hands and slithered up my arms. Some unpleasant creature resembling a millipede reached my shoulder and began to dance at my face, its stick-like legs constantly drumming upon my cheek. Unable to contain myself, I flinched in a most exaggerated and cowardly fashion and my grip faltered. That wretched creature stimulated descent into the horror below.
I had no clue as to what time it was when my eyes flickered open and I had regained consciousness. A piece of me, the small yet ever-present sane part, was disappointed to learn that my fool-hardy expedition was a reality and not some unworldly dream. I attempted to sit up but my arms and legs were tied. I turned my head and realised I was shackled to an earthy, granite slab of a table. My knowledge of the occult may have been limited but there was little doubt in my mind that I had been strapped to a sacrificial altar. I called out, “Alistair, are you here?”
“Ahhhh,” he rasped out a lengthy sigh, “my visitor awakens. Good evening Melvin Damort, your fall left you incapacitated for almost hour.”
With this small piece of information I calculated the time to be little after midnight. My head did not ache but I had an unusual tingling, sensation down the back of my neck and spine. Few other thoughts could be calculated before my sinister host spoke once more. “I have gone through the details of our agreement time and again and I know you understand fully the consequences of what shall occur tonight. I ask you one last time, do you accept my will? Once I begin, I shall not stop. Be sure you are prepared to endure the vicious abuse that I ravage against you.”
I had made the journey and I was terribly aware of the rules set. I was not entirely certain of the extremities of the torture but I was certain that it would be near insufferable. I was also sure that it was too late to escape this Satanist’s inflictions; both our minds were set. I nodded a sign that I was willing to receive any horrors he cared to unleash. He returned my nod and stood directly over me. He extended his hand a few feet above my face, it was holding a small bag. Shaking his hand gently, a soot-like dust fell upon my head before unleashing a perversely pungent kind of incense. He walked around me, shaking the rancid aroma around the earthy hovel and giving me the last pieces of information. “I assure you this, you will be writing of horrors unpronounced before thirty one days have passed.”
Thick smog filled my vision and I heard not another word from him. Nor could I see him through the grimly scented grey fog. My senses were intoxicated with the black magic that filled the air. My head felt light and detached. I heard a crackling behind me. It sounded as if something was cooking crisp and black. Amidst the sounds of fire and flame came demonic roars and unnatural laughter. I turned my head right. I turned it left. Nothing was visible. All around, there was just endless smoke. I felt sick as the smoke choked my lungs. My head span. I felt incredibly nauseous. I felt I was about to faint when I saw it glow through the grey. A huge sword was silhouetted black in the swirling gloom. The runes raised upon it flickered red and orange. The arcane symbols were mesmerising. The blade spun in the air. It pointed towards me, towards the altar. With blistering speed, the sword struck straight down. It was embedded in the slab, between my legs at my knees. I stared at the glowing runes. I felt their burn. I felt it deep inside me. That fire. That desire. My yearning to write, to feel, rising inside me. The intense burning. The runes burned brighter. My internal flame grew stronger. My head reeled with the searing pain of fire. I was lost to the runes…
Melvin’s stomach ripped open with an unholy torrent of fire. A flaming crescendo burst forth, leaving him to scream in endless torture. His flesh began to curl around his abdomen before becoming black, crisp ash. As the fire spread round his body, pus of various colours secreted from the hole in his belly. Muddy orange mixed with vile green and sloshed forth, acidic and raw. They churned together repugnantly and absorbed his cooked, dead flesh. His body was becoming nothing but cinder, his legs, torso and arms all being burnt black. His screams intensified as the incredible cremation continued ever onwards and an unnatural smoke escaped his howling mouth. The arcane, supernatural concoction not only kept him impossibly alive but conscious. The extreme, malicious burning did not subside and he felt his stomach, heart and various other organs begin to melt into the erupting ooze. Soon, Melvin was nothing but a head, eyes closed, wincing at the devastating torment, steaming in the intolerable heat. His body that had been a pyre had now been entirely subsumed by the sludge that had spewed from him throughout the immolation. As the extremity of the pain began to slowly calm Melvin’s head began to quit its smoking. His eyes flickered maniacally as he tried to comprehend this surreal and depressing experience. As he scanned in his panic, he hesitated to notice that the murky mire that had absorbed the rest of his body was beginning to congeal into a tar-like blob. Slowly it gained coarseness to its texture and it began pulsating and pumping a steady rhythm like a revolting, monstrous heart. The repetitive flexing began to draw Melvin’s attention and he stared transfixed and open-mouthed at the horror before him. The giant, black blister, the size of a young man curled into a ball, began to harden further still and it increased the pace of its abhorrent pumping. Pump, pump, pumppumppumppump. Burst! Suddenly, the pestilent pustule exploded and a thick, black liquid erupted into the air, followed by demonic insects of some unknown nether world. They crept viciously, sadistically over Melvin’s face, stabbing him with sharp, venomous bites filled with insanely painful poison. They wriggled up his nostrils, resulting in agony more excruciating than the most malicious bout of water torture. They ran up his cheeks and their pin-like legs scratched his eyes and pierced his soft flesh. The mass of callous creeps had nothing to assault but Melvin’s unfortunate face that was unable to move without its torso and thus they ravaged his cheeks, forehead and lips with toxin that made him shake with seizure. After much time had passed, what felt like an eternity, two lithe, lice-like creatures dived upon Melvin’s eyes and burrowed deep through his corneas. He offered one last desperate scream before being visited by total and complete blackness…
Without explanation, Melvin found himself whole once again. He was standing in a barren field, totally lifeless; nothing but a vast landscape of grey soil was before him. His immediate reaction was to use his arms to feel his body, to comprehend that he had moved on from the fire and the monstrous insects. The movement proved that his experiences thus far had been no consequence of imagination but terribly real. He felt his body ache and burn with memories of the awful onslaught. His eyes looked around desperately, eager to seek some sort of sense or direction. A thick, heavy wind lifted some of the light soil into the air. The ancient looking dust danced playfully sinister in the oppressive breeze. Melvin felt distinctly uneasy in this new, desolate surrounding. The draught pushed the powdery earth back and forth before flinging it directly at Melvin’s chest. Immediately, Melvin’s clothes began to dissipate into nothing to leave him standing naked in the bizarre, unnatural realm. Another light gust blew the soil through his fingers and onto his hands. Again, the effect was almost immediate as the skin of his palms seem to turn into sand and slowly fall to the ground. He stood there, as if a human hourglass slowly ebbing away his life. He felt unbearably uncomfortable as his entire body began to tortuously shrivel, age and turn to dust. Suddenly, his frail legs snapped at the knees and he quickly fell backwards onto the earth. Gradually, the pace excruciating and nearly static, his whole body began to dissolve as one into the ground. He let out a yell and his lower jaw cracked and dropped away from his body, turning into a pile of corpse ash. His cheeks peeled away from his skull and the bone began to rupture with rapid ageing. Eventually his eyes dissolved and the pale yet blackening sky began to disappear from view. Though blind and incapable of any sense except for touch, Melvin’s torture was not over. Instead, he felt a sickening sensation that is almost impossible to transcribe. Slowly, from within his decaying skull, his brain was agonizingly breaking into ashen sand and mixing with the rest of the decrepit pile that used to be the body of Melvin Damort. Gradually…horribly…Melvin felt himself crawl into nothingness. Melvin was no more…
I awoke with a start. Breathing hard and fast, my eyes jagged excitedly across the room in a desperate attempt to recognise my surroundings.
“Calm, Melvin, calm.” Estelle. Estelle was beside me and it took one look into her deep, hazel eyes to bring myself back to sanity. I began to slow down my breathing and I realised that my torture was over. At this moment, the idea of asking questions, to try and discover what had happened to me, did not strike in my mind. Instead, it was Estelle who began the inquiring: “Melvin, what happened to you? Where had you gone and why did you return in such a state? I do not know which emotion has been more pertinent in these last few days, my deep concern for your good soul or my deep confusion at finding you naked at the front steps. I was not even aware you were outside. Melvin, please, offer me some refuge through explanation.”
It was obvious to me that to offer the truth would be a destructive course of action. First, my tale would sound too fantastical to be accepted and, second, my actions and compliance in the whole affair would raise far more questions than it would alleviate. My immediate reaction was to feign complete bewilderment. “Estelle, I have no idea. I can offer you no explanation, indeed I cannot even offer it to myself. You found me naked? When was this?” I asked, a genuine question because the last memory I had was of indescribable horrors.
“I found you in the early hours, the morning after you had lamented to me the difficulties you had faced in discovering your muse. You were huddled into a ball as if a small child, shivering violently, naked in the fierce cold. You have been in the midst of a deep sleep for three days, your spasms only subsiding twelve hours ago. I have barely slept since this event and have been sick with worry. Can you tell me nothing?”
“Estelle, damn you! I do not know what happened! I feel wretched and sick! Torture me no more with your questions!”
After I snapped at her, Estelle pulled away, shocked and guilty. It is true that I did feel afflicted, but it was little to do with Estelle’s trivial harassment and more in relation to the accursed ritual that I had endured. The dark occurrences on that night felt as if they were a plague upon my soul and, even now, I feel infected. Though the consequences of the ritual were supernatural and many may assume that they did not take place at all, I am certain that my experiences were not merely the result of an over-enthusiastic mind. My hellish experiences were as real, as tangible and as affecting as being attacked by one’s closest friend. I did not have any recollection of the events after I had suffered my magical mistreatment and I am not sure at what point I returned to this world; however, I am beyond doubt that I left this simple plane of existence to a realm of indescribable terror. Quite possibly, I visited the guts of Hell. Estelle could never understand these dark moments and so I could never confide in her the facts she longed to uncover.
For one more day I was bed-ridden but I was by no means cured. I had been eternally cursed and no ceremony contained enough magic or piety to save me from my cruel, self-inflicted fate. I was no longer a man. Instead I was a husk, the skin of my former self. My soul had remoulded itself into a snake and escaped its old, useless container. Ever since I have returned to consciousness, I have been distant and barely conscious at all. My eating is minimal and my interaction with other people, less. It was this reclusive personality that drove Estelle away. She tried to speak to me, to console my heart but it was frozen; a cold heart never to be warmed. The more effort she made to have me return her love, the more hostile I became and I lashed out at her, irrationally harsh. She strived to persevere but it took less than a week to cause her to exit, such was the extremity of my transformation. When she confessed her plans for departure, I did not even offer her a farewell; an arctic glare from dead eyes was all I could muster and she left broken hearted. Though I am painfully aware that I miss her and love her I cannot bring myself to want her back, I am incapable of feeling these emotions, I am only aware of them- they are suggested by my mind but are irrelevant to my heart. Estelle may have departed with her chest aching and her muscle torn into two, but I question if I even have a heart left to feel. All that I feel now is the bleakness of my life. I lost my love and now I can never be satisfied. I have not yet begun my prose and now doubt its worth. Morbidity is now all I know, but what joy is there in describing death if you do not know life? Now, as I look out into the night sky, with the rain shooting at the window pane, I realise that I would rather fail as an artist of death and succeed in love and life. I peel my hand away from the cold glass and move to the corner of the room where my desk awaits. The only light around me comes from a whisper of flame in the weakest lamp I own, I am sitting in dank gloom. I lift my pen and begin to let it write. I icily start to scratch out some thoughts. Here it is, the work I have longed to scribe, majestically morbid and inspired in its ugliness. My success is beginning but it feels hollow and empty. Yes, my masterpiece shall be written but the reward does not exist. I continue with my dark tale, ‘The Cold Heart’, throughout the night. A tragic tale of torture and death. Rain continues to spit from the Heavens. The deed is complete.
The Honeycomb
The last thing I wrote. A very strange story written to look at the ideas of art, individuality and conformity and other ideas using music - though it could have been any artform, really. Only part of the tale I was unsure of was a collection rhyming couplets at the end. May have been a bit too cheesey. So, I've ommited them. I may add them later but I doubt it now. About 3,000 words.
“The atmosphere's strange out on the town. Music for pleasure. It's not music no more. Music to dance to, music to move. This is music to march to… it’s a war dance.” (Wardance, Killing Joke).
Max Webster looked at the crowd swaying, hypnotised and pulsating. His window, 73 stories high, gave him an easy view of the moving throng. The bass of the music was audible, just, from up here but really it was the visual experience that he was most aware of. Most enjoying. The people were one, an individual. A cohesive conformity to the regimented beats of the band playing below. This recent signing was becoming a brilliant exercise in unity, popularity, connectivity, marketing and, of course – most importantly – commerce. A101, the band, had become one of the most powerfully popular musical groups in the world and this live show, outside their record label building was showing just how unifying music could be: in a fashion, it was unstoppable. And it was certainly lucrative.
Webster loved the regimentation that music could bring. He liked order. Seeing a mass of people move together, each individually, finding their own place in the beat and yet somehow still one. His appreciation for this power of music impressed upon him in two seemingly contradictory ways that he found equally satisfying. First, the music connected people – it brought them together as one. They may find different interpretations upon the sounds, lyrical meanings and intensities of the beats, melodies and instrumentations, but when the crowd were there - as he analysed them – it was really one essence. Uniformity, conformity – ultimately a hive essence. Like worker bees in a honeycomb of the queen music. No one would deny the individuality of each insect but what is one without the whole? The whole can be captured by the wonder of music.
Second, music was still, in a sense, for the individual. People didn’t like the same music. For the million-strong privileged that spent their hard-earned money (or not) on attending this special A101 concert, there were millions more that detested their music. They may consider it ‘hollow’, ‘vapid’, ‘too commercially-viable’ or to have some other hilarious, nonsensical flaw. That was fine with Webster. It wasn’t A101 that was what made him enjoy music’s power. It was no band in particular. In truth, music didn’t really affect him at all – it was a product that he enjoyed the effects of when he witnessed the effect upon others. So people may dismiss one of the musical collectives amongst the company’s countless bands but he was almost certain that everyone in the whole world appreciated at least one of the musical enterprises his company had released. For one hive does not really ever work alone. It is tied to others hives. The honeycomb may appear separate, distinct, but they all follow the same rules and restrictions in the end. Integrity, independence and individuality are largely very misguided, illusory ideas. So the person that rejects one band as regimented regiments themselves with another. The music is created by the artist and people then implant their own interpretation upon it. As if it is a part of them and they are a part of the music. Music then had two uses, to give people a feeling of togetherness and a feeling of personality. In both cases the reality for Webster was the same: a healthy drone culture. He nodded in a satisfied manner to himself.
At a different tempo and timing, the crowd bobbed in a satisfied manner to itself.
“Your 22:00 appointment is here, Mr Webster.”
Max pressed the intercom and confirmed admittance. There may be a party going on outside but business rarely stops. Especially for a man as industrious and dedicated as Max Webster.
There was a heavy knock on the door and Max declared ‘enter’. In came a man, early thirties, scruffy-looking in a denim jacket, a lumberjack shirt and leather-like trousers. Max Webster looked him up-and-down and felt indifference. The person could have come in some ridiculous, futuristic metal-and-wire get-up and Max would have felt equally lacking in emotion. Musicians, ‘artists’, all had different understandings of their aesthetics. Fine. He was not to deal with the package, just the packaging. The purchase.
“Hello, sir.” Said the visitor, polite enough.
Max walked forward, extended his arm and introduced himself.
“Were you upheld much by the commotion outside?”
“Commotion is right,” responded the visitor, “an impressive show. I’m not late am I?”
“No, no. Do you like the band?”
“Not really my cup of tea, if I’m honest. A bit too… (At this point, the visitor made a noise that can be likened to a bin-truck reversing). I am more of a traditional man myself – Dylan before electric guitars, if you get what I mean.”
Max nodded once to acknowledge he knew what the man meant.
“So, this is a preliminary meeting to ascertain a contract. I listened to your music. It sounds like something we would be happy to release and support.”
“Well, that’s very exciting.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
They were not really in agreement.
At this point, the man began to express the important of his music to Max and Max let the man speak. The visitor spoke of his personal experiences, how they had impressed upon him, how music was his creative outlet and that while he hoped that other people could connect and relate to his music it was really an important, personal outlet. He just hoped that through the company’s assistance this personal outlet could become more collective. A way to be appreciated and to hopefully appreciate others.
Webster let the man speak. He was not a man of the musician’s manifesto. He had his own purpose. Dispatch. Profit. Though, of course, there was one binding thought in both men’s consciousness - connectivity. It was just that their understanding of it was worlds apart. After the man finished his impassioned statement, Max nodded again. He said he understood and that he was glad that he would be able to assist the man spread his message. He confirmed that he, too, was hoping that the appreciation would be a many-way-street.
The meeting progressed swimmingly. Agreements were made, contracts were written up and a final date-signing was established. A simple arrangement.
Sometimes these meetings can be complete chores. All sorts of different people want to release music. Some are desperate for fame, some for wealth. All they really want is acknowledgement. Some are immature enough to want it on particular terms. It matters not to Max. He does not understand these people that arrive as if there is a war between music and industry. If you produce a product then you want to make the deal. Max doesn’t resent people if they think he is watering down an art-form. However, he does tire of the resentment sometimes directed at him. Not because he feels it’s a personal indictment upon him but because he has never impressed an attitude to the enterprises he has funded. ‘Do what thou wilt’ is Max Webster’s attitude. He felt far too busy working on the selling and the success. If people wanted to behave moronically, get drugged-up and ‘kick against the pricks’ that was their business. If people wanted to be puritan, passionate and successful that was acceptable. This was not an emotional business. It was more ordered than that.
After the meeting, at around quarter to 11, Max decided to enjoy himself with a bit of philosophising about the honeycomb. At a press of a button, the large window became covered with a grand projector screen that covered the whole glass. The barely-audible bass hum, which was due to finish shortly, also became completely muted. On the projector appeared countless more screens, each one hexagonal to go with the theme, the vision, Max had for his concept. On each one another record label of the company. Subsidiary after subsidiary after subsidiary of different music companies wrapped together in one tight conglomerate. He loved the vision of screen next to screen linking all the different groups of music, genres, styles and ethos. Something that people understand as so contradictory actually being so simple: All is one. Obviously, music varies but it is still music. And, obviously, music is personal. But we are all people. People are such contradictory animals – their desire to be themselves and to be part of the whole. Most of them are not even aware of their psychotic-like natures. Over in the far corner of the vast screen there was a cluster for freakish, industrial, noise types. Next to them, irrelevantly, though links could be made if someone wanted, were musicians involved in urban, hip-hop styled sounds. How similar? To Max, the same. Each owned. Controlled. All these different products that can be melded into one thing – a gift for others. A way of bringing people under one beat. A singular drone. Music as freedom. Freedom to live as part of the hive – the honeycomb of existence. This is what Max enjoyed. The way people can feel so distinct and individual, even though they wrap themselves in an identity of others. Music puts people into one, tight unit. Like the bees flow through two different plants and move at their very own beat, they are all so homogenous. They are contented with their own buzz within the honeycomb.
This thinking reminded Max of Einstein and his thoughts on marching and war. He pulled the quote in front of him from a collection of quotes in his drawer:
"He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder."
He laughed at Einstein’s position. His appreciation for the quote was, of sorts, one of agreement but he felt none of the disdain of the great scientific thinker. On the contrary, he felt the empowering nature of music and its relation to the all-important rank and file. Order. War was not something the company was involved in. There are, of course, many music labels and companies with fingers in many pies. Some of those pies are wretched, corrupt, despicable and violent. However, the only real off-shoot of Webster’s companies, he felt, was conformity. As for war, it was a dirty business but it was not his business. However, the ‘army-model’ sentiment was not something he saw as uncomfortable for society. Indeed, he admired army order. People marching rank and file, getting on with things. How could people object to that? That was the primary purpose of life – to keep moving forward. Productivity, advance, progress. This wasn’t conservatism, this wasn’t radicalism. This was not a political agenda so much as an apolitical agenda, or an anti-political agenda. This was why so many different groups could swarm together into his hive. As long as they believe they got to serve their individuality and their inter-connectedness then the status quo could be maintained. That casual tension between things moving forward and remaining stationary. That tension was indeed held together by people having the sufficient spinal cord and the belief that their large brain was being satisfied. And the large brain was being satisfied. It’s illusion of individuality was being fulfilled and, better yet, its need for acceptance, classification and un-individuality was being satisfied. Einstein may have felt contempt for the automaton-like nature that people felt but Max knew the man was intelligent enough to see its beautiful practicality.
Max was no fool. He did not make the mistake of thinking that music was the only form of control. He did not even consider the most important form of control. It was not relevant what part of ‘artistic-expression’ was the most satiating to people’s regimentation. However, it was undeniably important. The written word was obviously important too. It was probably a more powerful way of impressing ideas to help them become their own ‘individuals’ with their own ways to fit in and break out of the hive. And other media were all equally vital. Hives within hives. Honeycomb connected to more honeycomb. Another insect metaphor could be a spider web – another description that Max did not mind. Both ideas produced an idea of stickiness, an interweaving that left people both trapped and yet, somehow, free. This is what he saw when he looked at his masses of hexagonal screens all upon one screen. He saw the interconnections of his companies and he saw the interconnectedness with everything else. He saw the conformity. He saw the one heartbeat. He saw the hive mind. He saw himself as a part of a large, multi-queen that had the power over people to make them settle into a rigidity that kept them incapacitated and satisfied. He thought again of the crowd outside. Their rhythmic pulsating. Their unity in the music. It was music to dance to. It was music to move. To keep steady motions going. And as people showed their rhythmic unity, they flowed that into their every movement. During their entire lives they would work united and keep pace. Like an army, like drones they would continue to feed that system that Max Webster loved. Order… The order of the hive. The order of the honeycomb.
But life is not all as Max Webster sees it.
Everything is whole and everything is separate. Max Webster may enjoy these tensions and contradictions and he is entitled to his view. And his world is insulated and it is all bound within his honeycomb and he is right to feel safe. He is right to feel that the productivity will continue and the order will continue. That is the world he has created for himself and his hold is intense. But his world is not all the world.
No. Life is not all as Max Webster sees it.
A one-thousand-and-eighty-two mile distance away from Max Webster, there is a man, seated on a hillside. He is oblivious to Max as Max is oblivious to him. He is in another country, he speaks another language and he lives another life. His life is simple. He lives in a mountain village and he cares nothing for the world that Max has idolised and helped to construct as a linear perfection. The man considers his life free and song is an expression of that freedom. The man lives his simple life and never contemplates such bizarre concepts as rigidity, conformity and order. As the man is seated, breaking as he chooses, he often sings a song. The translation goes like this:
“I have been here a while, a decade, two or three,
Working in this field, with this drum between my knee,
And people may take from my labour, but they may not take from me,
Because I will always play here, with my drum and my ditty.”
And the man will sing this song, even though his labour’s not really taken. And his words may not be particularly profound or beautiful and his drumming may not be technically interesting or impressive but it is all he needs. And it has no relevance to the intense uniformity of Max Webster’s hive.
And somewhere else there is another musical manifestation. A much more urban environment, in a basement, a woman is experimenting with heavy bass vibrations. It is improvised and wild and cathartic. And it is something that Webster would be very happy to package and promote to help people feel this catharsis. There is a market for these oddball types, as can be seen in his honeycomb. But the woman does not care. She does not know of Max Webster and his theories. She does not want to be part of his world. The music she makes is deeply personal to her. Any intentional repetition would weaken its essence. It is about a moment. Her moment. Most people would not consider her soundscapes music at all. However, its vitality to her is paramount. These are not things that Max Webster will ever be able to grasp. He will not have to. And neither will this woman ever have to grasp Max’ concept. They are separate worlds.
And elsewhere there is a collective. A mass of instruments that work together in unity and conformity, producing beautiful, harmonic and quite traditional arrangements. And some may aspire to some sort of musical acknowledgement and may encounter Webster in a particular circumstance but not in this one. Here, these people work together to experiment within the traditions. It is written down but it is to be owned by the collective and the collective alone. And they will do nothing with it but play it with each other. Here, the reasons are each their own. Here, the reasons are never the reasons of Max Webster.
And so it continues across the globe. There is a hive. A honeycomb. And Max sees everything within his honeycomb exactly as it is. But the world is not just the hives of his activities – of his productivity and order. Even within it there is a greater vibrancy than he recognises. He just does not have to recognise it. But it is certainly there. For music can be one of the most powerful, creative and personal things an individual can have – both within the hive and without. It is one of the best reasons to believe that people have souls. It can course through your life’s blood, completely expressive. And it can be looked at in a staid manner like Max and even be admired for it. Or it can be something so much more. Ultimately, with interpretation, it doesn’t matter what purpose the music has. As long as it has purpose.
Quick note:
The name Max Webster was a name plucked at random. I think it came from Max Weber (somewhat fitting because of his ideas around ‘disenchantment’ with modernity) and then thinking how a spider’s web was a slightly related metaphor and so how the editing of the name would be appropriate. However, I googled the name only to be surprised that it was a Canadian progressive rock band!
I have, as yet, never heard their music, though I imagine it’s something I’d enjoy and I do intend to check the band out. The coincidence is surprising and I wouldn’t be surprised if I have seen the name because apparently there is a Rush connection and I do like my Rush.
So, quickly to clarify, the use is not at all meant to be to pick holes in the band because, as I have already said, I have not checked them out to judge one way or the other and I expect to appreciate. Also, as the band started in 1973, I put Max Webster on the 73rd floor and, as they ended in 1982, I put the first alternative to the character’s ideas that many miles apart. Weird the things that crop up when one writes!
Further note: Have since listened. An unusual, quite new-wave/punk type sound in places. Not bad!
The Honeycomb
“The atmosphere's strange out on the town. Music for pleasure. It's not music no more. Music to dance to, music to move. This is music to march to… it’s a war dance.” (Wardance, Killing Joke).
Max Webster looked at the crowd swaying, hypnotised and pulsating. His window, 73 stories high, gave him an easy view of the moving throng. The bass of the music was audible, just, from up here but really it was the visual experience that he was most aware of. Most enjoying. The people were one, an individual. A cohesive conformity to the regimented beats of the band playing below. This recent signing was becoming a brilliant exercise in unity, popularity, connectivity, marketing and, of course – most importantly – commerce. A101, the band, had become one of the most powerfully popular musical groups in the world and this live show, outside their record label building was showing just how unifying music could be: in a fashion, it was unstoppable. And it was certainly lucrative.
Webster loved the regimentation that music could bring. He liked order. Seeing a mass of people move together, each individually, finding their own place in the beat and yet somehow still one. His appreciation for this power of music impressed upon him in two seemingly contradictory ways that he found equally satisfying. First, the music connected people – it brought them together as one. They may find different interpretations upon the sounds, lyrical meanings and intensities of the beats, melodies and instrumentations, but when the crowd were there - as he analysed them – it was really one essence. Uniformity, conformity – ultimately a hive essence. Like worker bees in a honeycomb of the queen music. No one would deny the individuality of each insect but what is one without the whole? The whole can be captured by the wonder of music.
Second, music was still, in a sense, for the individual. People didn’t like the same music. For the million-strong privileged that spent their hard-earned money (or not) on attending this special A101 concert, there were millions more that detested their music. They may consider it ‘hollow’, ‘vapid’, ‘too commercially-viable’ or to have some other hilarious, nonsensical flaw. That was fine with Webster. It wasn’t A101 that was what made him enjoy music’s power. It was no band in particular. In truth, music didn’t really affect him at all – it was a product that he enjoyed the effects of when he witnessed the effect upon others. So people may dismiss one of the musical collectives amongst the company’s countless bands but he was almost certain that everyone in the whole world appreciated at least one of the musical enterprises his company had released. For one hive does not really ever work alone. It is tied to others hives. The honeycomb may appear separate, distinct, but they all follow the same rules and restrictions in the end. Integrity, independence and individuality are largely very misguided, illusory ideas. So the person that rejects one band as regimented regiments themselves with another. The music is created by the artist and people then implant their own interpretation upon it. As if it is a part of them and they are a part of the music. Music then had two uses, to give people a feeling of togetherness and a feeling of personality. In both cases the reality for Webster was the same: a healthy drone culture. He nodded in a satisfied manner to himself.
At a different tempo and timing, the crowd bobbed in a satisfied manner to itself.
“Your 22:00 appointment is here, Mr Webster.”
Max pressed the intercom and confirmed admittance. There may be a party going on outside but business rarely stops. Especially for a man as industrious and dedicated as Max Webster.
There was a heavy knock on the door and Max declared ‘enter’. In came a man, early thirties, scruffy-looking in a denim jacket, a lumberjack shirt and leather-like trousers. Max Webster looked him up-and-down and felt indifference. The person could have come in some ridiculous, futuristic metal-and-wire get-up and Max would have felt equally lacking in emotion. Musicians, ‘artists’, all had different understandings of their aesthetics. Fine. He was not to deal with the package, just the packaging. The purchase.
“Hello, sir.” Said the visitor, polite enough.
Max walked forward, extended his arm and introduced himself.
“Were you upheld much by the commotion outside?”
“Commotion is right,” responded the visitor, “an impressive show. I’m not late am I?”
“No, no. Do you like the band?”
“Not really my cup of tea, if I’m honest. A bit too… (At this point, the visitor made a noise that can be likened to a bin-truck reversing). I am more of a traditional man myself – Dylan before electric guitars, if you get what I mean.”
Max nodded once to acknowledge he knew what the man meant.
“So, this is a preliminary meeting to ascertain a contract. I listened to your music. It sounds like something we would be happy to release and support.”
“Well, that’s very exciting.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
They were not really in agreement.
At this point, the man began to express the important of his music to Max and Max let the man speak. The visitor spoke of his personal experiences, how they had impressed upon him, how music was his creative outlet and that while he hoped that other people could connect and relate to his music it was really an important, personal outlet. He just hoped that through the company’s assistance this personal outlet could become more collective. A way to be appreciated and to hopefully appreciate others.
Webster let the man speak. He was not a man of the musician’s manifesto. He had his own purpose. Dispatch. Profit. Though, of course, there was one binding thought in both men’s consciousness - connectivity. It was just that their understanding of it was worlds apart. After the man finished his impassioned statement, Max nodded again. He said he understood and that he was glad that he would be able to assist the man spread his message. He confirmed that he, too, was hoping that the appreciation would be a many-way-street.
The meeting progressed swimmingly. Agreements were made, contracts were written up and a final date-signing was established. A simple arrangement.
Sometimes these meetings can be complete chores. All sorts of different people want to release music. Some are desperate for fame, some for wealth. All they really want is acknowledgement. Some are immature enough to want it on particular terms. It matters not to Max. He does not understand these people that arrive as if there is a war between music and industry. If you produce a product then you want to make the deal. Max doesn’t resent people if they think he is watering down an art-form. However, he does tire of the resentment sometimes directed at him. Not because he feels it’s a personal indictment upon him but because he has never impressed an attitude to the enterprises he has funded. ‘Do what thou wilt’ is Max Webster’s attitude. He felt far too busy working on the selling and the success. If people wanted to behave moronically, get drugged-up and ‘kick against the pricks’ that was their business. If people wanted to be puritan, passionate and successful that was acceptable. This was not an emotional business. It was more ordered than that.
After the meeting, at around quarter to 11, Max decided to enjoy himself with a bit of philosophising about the honeycomb. At a press of a button, the large window became covered with a grand projector screen that covered the whole glass. The barely-audible bass hum, which was due to finish shortly, also became completely muted. On the projector appeared countless more screens, each one hexagonal to go with the theme, the vision, Max had for his concept. On each one another record label of the company. Subsidiary after subsidiary after subsidiary of different music companies wrapped together in one tight conglomerate. He loved the vision of screen next to screen linking all the different groups of music, genres, styles and ethos. Something that people understand as so contradictory actually being so simple: All is one. Obviously, music varies but it is still music. And, obviously, music is personal. But we are all people. People are such contradictory animals – their desire to be themselves and to be part of the whole. Most of them are not even aware of their psychotic-like natures. Over in the far corner of the vast screen there was a cluster for freakish, industrial, noise types. Next to them, irrelevantly, though links could be made if someone wanted, were musicians involved in urban, hip-hop styled sounds. How similar? To Max, the same. Each owned. Controlled. All these different products that can be melded into one thing – a gift for others. A way of bringing people under one beat. A singular drone. Music as freedom. Freedom to live as part of the hive – the honeycomb of existence. This is what Max enjoyed. The way people can feel so distinct and individual, even though they wrap themselves in an identity of others. Music puts people into one, tight unit. Like the bees flow through two different plants and move at their very own beat, they are all so homogenous. They are contented with their own buzz within the honeycomb.
This thinking reminded Max of Einstein and his thoughts on marching and war. He pulled the quote in front of him from a collection of quotes in his drawer:
"He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder."
He laughed at Einstein’s position. His appreciation for the quote was, of sorts, one of agreement but he felt none of the disdain of the great scientific thinker. On the contrary, he felt the empowering nature of music and its relation to the all-important rank and file. Order. War was not something the company was involved in. There are, of course, many music labels and companies with fingers in many pies. Some of those pies are wretched, corrupt, despicable and violent. However, the only real off-shoot of Webster’s companies, he felt, was conformity. As for war, it was a dirty business but it was not his business. However, the ‘army-model’ sentiment was not something he saw as uncomfortable for society. Indeed, he admired army order. People marching rank and file, getting on with things. How could people object to that? That was the primary purpose of life – to keep moving forward. Productivity, advance, progress. This wasn’t conservatism, this wasn’t radicalism. This was not a political agenda so much as an apolitical agenda, or an anti-political agenda. This was why so many different groups could swarm together into his hive. As long as they believe they got to serve their individuality and their inter-connectedness then the status quo could be maintained. That casual tension between things moving forward and remaining stationary. That tension was indeed held together by people having the sufficient spinal cord and the belief that their large brain was being satisfied. And the large brain was being satisfied. It’s illusion of individuality was being fulfilled and, better yet, its need for acceptance, classification and un-individuality was being satisfied. Einstein may have felt contempt for the automaton-like nature that people felt but Max knew the man was intelligent enough to see its beautiful practicality.
Max was no fool. He did not make the mistake of thinking that music was the only form of control. He did not even consider the most important form of control. It was not relevant what part of ‘artistic-expression’ was the most satiating to people’s regimentation. However, it was undeniably important. The written word was obviously important too. It was probably a more powerful way of impressing ideas to help them become their own ‘individuals’ with their own ways to fit in and break out of the hive. And other media were all equally vital. Hives within hives. Honeycomb connected to more honeycomb. Another insect metaphor could be a spider web – another description that Max did not mind. Both ideas produced an idea of stickiness, an interweaving that left people both trapped and yet, somehow, free. This is what he saw when he looked at his masses of hexagonal screens all upon one screen. He saw the interconnections of his companies and he saw the interconnectedness with everything else. He saw the conformity. He saw the one heartbeat. He saw the hive mind. He saw himself as a part of a large, multi-queen that had the power over people to make them settle into a rigidity that kept them incapacitated and satisfied. He thought again of the crowd outside. Their rhythmic pulsating. Their unity in the music. It was music to dance to. It was music to move. To keep steady motions going. And as people showed their rhythmic unity, they flowed that into their every movement. During their entire lives they would work united and keep pace. Like an army, like drones they would continue to feed that system that Max Webster loved. Order… The order of the hive. The order of the honeycomb.
But life is not all as Max Webster sees it.
Everything is whole and everything is separate. Max Webster may enjoy these tensions and contradictions and he is entitled to his view. And his world is insulated and it is all bound within his honeycomb and he is right to feel safe. He is right to feel that the productivity will continue and the order will continue. That is the world he has created for himself and his hold is intense. But his world is not all the world.
No. Life is not all as Max Webster sees it.
A one-thousand-and-eighty-two mile distance away from Max Webster, there is a man, seated on a hillside. He is oblivious to Max as Max is oblivious to him. He is in another country, he speaks another language and he lives another life. His life is simple. He lives in a mountain village and he cares nothing for the world that Max has idolised and helped to construct as a linear perfection. The man considers his life free and song is an expression of that freedom. The man lives his simple life and never contemplates such bizarre concepts as rigidity, conformity and order. As the man is seated, breaking as he chooses, he often sings a song. The translation goes like this:
“I have been here a while, a decade, two or three,
Working in this field, with this drum between my knee,
And people may take from my labour, but they may not take from me,
Because I will always play here, with my drum and my ditty.”
And the man will sing this song, even though his labour’s not really taken. And his words may not be particularly profound or beautiful and his drumming may not be technically interesting or impressive but it is all he needs. And it has no relevance to the intense uniformity of Max Webster’s hive.
And somewhere else there is another musical manifestation. A much more urban environment, in a basement, a woman is experimenting with heavy bass vibrations. It is improvised and wild and cathartic. And it is something that Webster would be very happy to package and promote to help people feel this catharsis. There is a market for these oddball types, as can be seen in his honeycomb. But the woman does not care. She does not know of Max Webster and his theories. She does not want to be part of his world. The music she makes is deeply personal to her. Any intentional repetition would weaken its essence. It is about a moment. Her moment. Most people would not consider her soundscapes music at all. However, its vitality to her is paramount. These are not things that Max Webster will ever be able to grasp. He will not have to. And neither will this woman ever have to grasp Max’ concept. They are separate worlds.
And elsewhere there is a collective. A mass of instruments that work together in unity and conformity, producing beautiful, harmonic and quite traditional arrangements. And some may aspire to some sort of musical acknowledgement and may encounter Webster in a particular circumstance but not in this one. Here, these people work together to experiment within the traditions. It is written down but it is to be owned by the collective and the collective alone. And they will do nothing with it but play it with each other. Here, the reasons are each their own. Here, the reasons are never the reasons of Max Webster.
And so it continues across the globe. There is a hive. A honeycomb. And Max sees everything within his honeycomb exactly as it is. But the world is not just the hives of his activities – of his productivity and order. Even within it there is a greater vibrancy than he recognises. He just does not have to recognise it. But it is certainly there. For music can be one of the most powerful, creative and personal things an individual can have – both within the hive and without. It is one of the best reasons to believe that people have souls. It can course through your life’s blood, completely expressive. And it can be looked at in a staid manner like Max and even be admired for it. Or it can be something so much more. Ultimately, with interpretation, it doesn’t matter what purpose the music has. As long as it has purpose.
Quick note:
The name Max Webster was a name plucked at random. I think it came from Max Weber (somewhat fitting because of his ideas around ‘disenchantment’ with modernity) and then thinking how a spider’s web was a slightly related metaphor and so how the editing of the name would be appropriate. However, I googled the name only to be surprised that it was a Canadian progressive rock band!
I have, as yet, never heard their music, though I imagine it’s something I’d enjoy and I do intend to check the band out. The coincidence is surprising and I wouldn’t be surprised if I have seen the name because apparently there is a Rush connection and I do like my Rush.
So, quickly to clarify, the use is not at all meant to be to pick holes in the band because, as I have already said, I have not checked them out to judge one way or the other and I expect to appreciate. Also, as the band started in 1973, I put Max Webster on the 73rd floor and, as they ended in 1982, I put the first alternative to the character’s ideas that many miles apart. Weird the things that crop up when one writes!
Further note: Have since listened. An unusual, quite new-wave/punk type sound in places. Not bad!
The Room
This one was written after Julian's Hell, in terms of chronology. A story about two people who find themselves confined to a room. Originally, it seemed obvious that it was about the possibility of revolution. However, I thought it didn't have to be quite as one-dimensional as that. So the quotes are there to hopefully show that it doesn't have to simply be a left-wing metaphor type thing. About 3,000 words.
“One of the consequences of such notions as "entitlements" is that people who have contributed nothing to society feel that society owes them something, apparently just for being nice enough to grace us with their presence.” (Thomas Sowell, American Economist on the concept of the welfare state)
“The ultimate end of all revolutionary social change is to establish the sanctity of human life, the dignity of man, the right of every human being to liberty and well-being.” (Emma Goldman, American Anarchist on the concept of revolution)
“Come on, Harry, let’s just do it!”
“I don’t know, John. We know nothing about this place; we can never guess the consequences. If we don’t know the risks we can’t make the judgement; not on any intelligent level, anyway.”
John’s enthusiasm quickly dwindled back into exasperation. Harry was right of course, they did know nothing about their situation. These walls, for the past six weeks, had been the only thing they had really known. It was so frustrating, bleached- white walls restricted them to a bland and cramped cell. They didn’t know how they had got there, had no idea why they were there and did not even know where ‘there’ was; perhaps frustration was not an apt enough term for their emotions at that moment in time…
John looked at the sign again; the big, bold words hung over him with authority:
YOU MUST NOT LEAVE THIS ROOM.
Below the forbidding plaque was a door. They hadn’t even worked up the courage to see if it could be opened yet. When they had first arrived there had been a note and its message had been extremely clear: they were in a room that was secure; leaving the room would end their security. Do you leave what you know, even if what you know isn’t brilliant, at the risk of something you don’t? Something that could be far worse? Harry was decided, he liked the security; John was far less satisfied.
About six weeks ago, John and Harry had agreed to meet up for a drink. They did not know each other well but were about to start a new job together and their employers had thought it was appropriate for them to meet up to ‘gel’. The last thing both Harry and John remember was shaking the other person’s hand, both feeling a little unsure of why the company had been insistent on the meeting. However, none of this had the chance to be answered because they had both blacked out, only to open their eyes to a room of pure white. Upon their awakening they found a great meal set out on the floor before them. Both were ravenous and, before they had properly grasped the situation, they began to feast. Only halfway through eating did the first question of many ask itself:
“Where are we?” Asked John. Harry stopped eating for a second and had a look round.
“We are in a room,” he replied. John gave Harry an unimpressed look, but Harry widened his eyes and nodded towards something- a note. John picked it up and began to read. At the top, in big letters, it read:
“You are in a room.”
Following this was a small statement:
“You must not leave this room. If you stay you shall be fed, entertained and satiated to a fine level of living. In this room you are secure. Outside this room you are not secure. Things will not be like this room and this room will no longer be secure, for it will be just a room. You must not leave this room.”
Bizarrely written but clear all the same, this room was where they were to stay. John’s immediate reaction was to leave but Harry was hesitant and the matter was discussed.
“Look,” Harry had said, “We don’t know what’s out there… Death? Disease? Assassins? Nothing? We have a note promising us a tolerable level of living, which is at least living. If life is that bad then we should take the gamble but why give up what could be okay?”
“I don’t like being told what to do,” replied John, “I just want to get out of here and get back to reality. This place, it makes no sense.”
“Look, John, quite simply, we shouldn’t rush into any bold decisions. Let’s just feel this place out and then, if we want to go, that is still an option.”
It was settled that John’s immediate instinct had to be restrained and Harry’s rationality prevailed. They decided to stay put and, in time, the mechanisms of the room were experienced.
Their sleep was bizarre. It just happened; they never felt tired and they could never remember anything apart from the waking up. Neither of them ever dreamt but merely refreshed themselves on the immediate call of the body. Every time they awoke, before them was a platter of gourmet food to gorge on and they always ate with hunger until they were content. Any food they left always disappeared when they slept to be replaced with a new and different meal, equally as delicious as the one before. Also books and games would frequently be placed alongside the food, often being changed exactly when a previous book had been finished or a game had been made dull from overplaying. Why and how these things occurred, neither of them knew because it was all done when they were asleep. However, neither of them minded the experience much; they were entertained to a reasonable level and the delicacies prepared for them were exquisite. Yet, a room of such small proportions could never be described as the ideal living environment as far as they were concerned. John especially found it forbidding and frustrating; the room was great for captives but nothing it could offer could match real freedom. Harry however, though far from finding the small world around him divine, did not wish to leave a good thing. The note had told him to accept the room and it was all the information he had; what was he going to do, risk his life (possibly) for no reason (again, possibly)? Too many questions in this room; not enough answers- the debate of whether to stay or leave was looking as if it was unlikely to be resolved amicably.
The calculated time of six weeks is far from determined. John had conjured up an estimate by the amount of times they had been asleep. Both agreed that their slumber was deep and nourishing and so they mutually agreed it was logical to suppose that is was an eight hour sleep. The food that was laid out for after their resting always seemed to require about three sittings and so was considered, essentially, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Therefore, each time the two inexplicably dozed, it was assumed to be a day. However, time is a fiction and their measurements could really be any number of times too fast or too slow.
Harry cared not. He was there and that was that; such a conclusion John could not find palatable. He wanted to know how long he had been incarcerated. His mind hungered for answers; it burned with a desire to know more. Why were they here? Was it a test or an experiment of some kind? Why were they allowed to have no information except for a ridiculously scribbled note that gave nothing but a taunting riddle? Most immediately for John though, the most frustrating and constant question that repeatedly niggled him and mocked him from inside his brain was ‘What is beyond the room?’ It just wouldn’t leave him alone. ‘What is beyond the room?’ Was it good, was it bad? Was it the end and did it matter if it was? ‘What is beyond the room?’ He stared at the door and it looked blankly back at him. ‘You’ll get nothing from me,’ it seemed to say and John knew the only way to open its mouth was to turn the handle and change things forever. ‘What is beyond the room?’
“What is beyond the room?” He whispered and then repeated again louder, “What is beyond the room?”
“John? John, are you okay?” Harry looked concerned, partly for John, partly for what John might do and at what consequence to himself. He stood up and walked over to John. He bent his knees so his head was at John’s level and placed his hands on John’s shoulders. John looked up into Harry’s half-smiling face and asked again, “What’s beyond the room?”
“I don’t know John, does it matter?”
“Course it matters. Everything matters. We’ve got to get out of here Harry, this isn’t how we’re supposed to live.”
“So, what is out there might not be better. Could be worse. Hell, how do we even know that there is an out there?”
“Because there must be,” answered John. “How else is the food brought in here? How are things brought to us? Through that wretched door, that’s how. If we weren’t meant to leave, then why is it there? What is beyond the room? Hey, Harry? We must know. Don’t you feel it, that nagging? That longing for something more? I need it Harry, I have got to be FREE!”
John leapt up, knocking Harry back off feet onto his backside. Harry yelled, “No! John, the paper tells us we don’t need to know. The nagging, the longing- are you a child? You should be able to get past that!”
“Past this? You think it is childish because I can’t take being cooped up for no reason at all?! You think it’s childish because I won’t take heed to a piece of paper! You are a fool, Harry! A damn fool! You have made yourself a slave and for what? For no reason other than you are too scared to dream. Well, have your room Harry, have it to yourself because I am leaving.”
“NO!” Harry dived at John but he knocked Harry aside and headed for the door. He placed his hand round the handle. His body shivered with a rush of emotion- fear, trepidation, doubt, excitement, exhilaration and the feeling of a longing about to be filled. He gave it a turn.
John opened his eyes. He turned his head to see Harry coming round; Harry didn’t look good and John, for the first time since he had been in the room, felt sick. He felt fragile and cold and did not feel like moving much at all. Harry, let out a groan, “What happened?”
“The room stopped me from leaving, Harry. It wants us to stay as we are. I can’t just turn the damn handle, Harry. If I want to leave I have got to break straight out of this claustrophobic, coffin of existence. Can’t you feel it choking us, restricting us?”
“No, John,” replied Harry, “I can feel it telling us to get use to this but that is it. It wants us to enjoy our stay and to remain here. You try to leave and we won’t enjoy it.”
Harry groaned again and rolled over onto his back. John stood up, his legs shaking, barely able to keep him upright. His belly rocked back and forth and he nearly vomited, holding back the sick with a steady, rhythmic breathing. “Do not make this any worse, John,” Harry warned, “that could have been a threat, a hint. It’s like I said- we know this room, we know it’s good- if we leave we could die.”
John didn’t reply but his thoughts were pounding. ‘We know this room, we know it’s good,’ the words didn’t ring true to John. ‘This is the good’, he thought. ‘Okay, it is existence but it is meaningless and it’s stagnant. Disgustingly destitute and worthless, how can anyone say this is good? Beyond that door we could find…we could find… well, who knows and who cares at least we would find a purpose beyond non-death. This isn’t living, this is postponing the inevitable. I’d rather dance to my death than sit and wait for it to come for me, we must face the facts. We are all going to die but we can die constricted, slowly turning stagnant or we can progress, move on. We can sit in the room or we can burst through the door. It can try and stop me but…’
“I will leave,” John said aloud.
“The hell you will,” replied Harry. “You are not taking away my security. I am happy with my lot. This may be claustrophobic, this may be restricting, this may not be how I ever envisaged my life- a slave to something I barely understand, that I have no choice but to accept- but it is my life and you will not take it.”
“You’re so BLIND!” John roared at Harry in frustration, “How can you not see past this room. Or even if you cannot see, feel past it. Feel, Harry, you know there is more to life! This is not us, the real us, we are trapped. Enslaved- you said it yourself: you are a slave to the room. It’s captive and servant and now you want to help it keep me enslaved?”
“No, I want to keep me alive!”
“This isn’t living!”
“It’s all I have. It is all I have!”
Harry charged John and cracked a swinging fist into his jaw. The nausea for both men was replaced with adrenaline. John went down but immediately launched himself upward, his rising fist connecting with Harry’s jaw. Harry felt his teeth clash together and heard something crack in his mouth; an electric pain ran through his gums. Stumbling backwards, he was winded as John tackled him to the ground. As they hit the ground, Harry raised a knee into John’s groin who replied with a scream and another blow to Harry’s face. A sickening, wet thud indicated to Harry that his eye was bleeding and the red mist confirmed it but John had keeled over. In a daze he returned to his feet and then swung a foot sharply into John’s rib cage. John let out another yell and looked up, a foot about to land on his face. He rolled and gave Harry a tough kick to the back of the legs, making Harry fall to a kneeling position. John rose and Harry fell and flung an elbow forward, feeling it sink into Harry’s face. Not even a noise escaped Harry’s mouth, his body slumped and he lay there unconscious, bleeding a constant river but alive.
John shook his head, he would have much rather have had an ally in Harry but they had made their positions clear from the start. With cooperation this could have been a mutually beneficial and far less violent affair. No matter, the desire for life will always win over the desire to not die. John turned to the door, it stood before him as it had done always, blank but mocking. He would be trapped no longer. THUD! His foot pushed hard onto the wooden door. THUD! CRACK! CRACK! Splinters spewed forth as he wood ruptured in reply to his fierce kicks. One more push and his leg crashed straight through and he was free. His body followed on and he flowed out of his prison into another world. The experience was surreal and sublime, as if he was breathing air for the first time. He wept sweet tears, not for where he was but for where he no longer had to be. He fell to the ground.
He slowly caught his breath, slowly returned from the ecstasy of his mind, to the new world that lay before him. His eyes shifted and he realised that he was in another room. However, instead of immediately feeling woe and frustration he analysed it and took it in. This room was not white but of myriad colours; it was an indescribable rainbow of beauty compared to the mundane realm he had left behind. And there was another sign, but this one did not demand his obedience. Instead, it offered hope:
FROM HERE YOU GO AS YOU CHOOSE! ALL YOUR PATHS ARE UNKNOWN.
As he looked around, John saw that there were many doors on the walls of this room, all unmarked and ready to be opened. He did not know where he was to go, he did not know if danger and disaster were waiting for him behind every door or whether he would maybe move on to yet another world, with more options. It did not matter what was to happen, it did not matter where he was to go, for he was free to make those decisions and he embraced his freedom. John picked a door and he was gone…
Harry shook himself awake. His view was horrendously blurred, partly due to a dulled mind and partly due to a swollen eye. However, his sight could not deny the horror he saw before him. The door was gone. In its place was a mess, a shattered mess. Harry panicked. He asked his mind what he was to do, for his world was no longer secure, no longer the same. No! It would be the same. He had accepted the room it would still accept him. And so there Harry stayed and he clung to the hope the room would give him food. That it would give him oblivious sleep. That it would entertain and satisfy him. But it never came. John could not accept a room to be his life but Harry could not accept anything else. In time, Harry grew weak for his wounds were not cared for and his sustenance never received. Harry remained in the room, but the room was dead. The room was dead.
The Room
“One of the consequences of such notions as "entitlements" is that people who have contributed nothing to society feel that society owes them something, apparently just for being nice enough to grace us with their presence.” (Thomas Sowell, American Economist on the concept of the welfare state)
“The ultimate end of all revolutionary social change is to establish the sanctity of human life, the dignity of man, the right of every human being to liberty and well-being.” (Emma Goldman, American Anarchist on the concept of revolution)
“Come on, Harry, let’s just do it!”
“I don’t know, John. We know nothing about this place; we can never guess the consequences. If we don’t know the risks we can’t make the judgement; not on any intelligent level, anyway.”
John’s enthusiasm quickly dwindled back into exasperation. Harry was right of course, they did know nothing about their situation. These walls, for the past six weeks, had been the only thing they had really known. It was so frustrating, bleached- white walls restricted them to a bland and cramped cell. They didn’t know how they had got there, had no idea why they were there and did not even know where ‘there’ was; perhaps frustration was not an apt enough term for their emotions at that moment in time…
John looked at the sign again; the big, bold words hung over him with authority:
YOU MUST NOT LEAVE THIS ROOM.
Below the forbidding plaque was a door. They hadn’t even worked up the courage to see if it could be opened yet. When they had first arrived there had been a note and its message had been extremely clear: they were in a room that was secure; leaving the room would end their security. Do you leave what you know, even if what you know isn’t brilliant, at the risk of something you don’t? Something that could be far worse? Harry was decided, he liked the security; John was far less satisfied.
About six weeks ago, John and Harry had agreed to meet up for a drink. They did not know each other well but were about to start a new job together and their employers had thought it was appropriate for them to meet up to ‘gel’. The last thing both Harry and John remember was shaking the other person’s hand, both feeling a little unsure of why the company had been insistent on the meeting. However, none of this had the chance to be answered because they had both blacked out, only to open their eyes to a room of pure white. Upon their awakening they found a great meal set out on the floor before them. Both were ravenous and, before they had properly grasped the situation, they began to feast. Only halfway through eating did the first question of many ask itself:
“Where are we?” Asked John. Harry stopped eating for a second and had a look round.
“We are in a room,” he replied. John gave Harry an unimpressed look, but Harry widened his eyes and nodded towards something- a note. John picked it up and began to read. At the top, in big letters, it read:
“You are in a room.”
Following this was a small statement:
“You must not leave this room. If you stay you shall be fed, entertained and satiated to a fine level of living. In this room you are secure. Outside this room you are not secure. Things will not be like this room and this room will no longer be secure, for it will be just a room. You must not leave this room.”
Bizarrely written but clear all the same, this room was where they were to stay. John’s immediate reaction was to leave but Harry was hesitant and the matter was discussed.
“Look,” Harry had said, “We don’t know what’s out there… Death? Disease? Assassins? Nothing? We have a note promising us a tolerable level of living, which is at least living. If life is that bad then we should take the gamble but why give up what could be okay?”
“I don’t like being told what to do,” replied John, “I just want to get out of here and get back to reality. This place, it makes no sense.”
“Look, John, quite simply, we shouldn’t rush into any bold decisions. Let’s just feel this place out and then, if we want to go, that is still an option.”
It was settled that John’s immediate instinct had to be restrained and Harry’s rationality prevailed. They decided to stay put and, in time, the mechanisms of the room were experienced.
Their sleep was bizarre. It just happened; they never felt tired and they could never remember anything apart from the waking up. Neither of them ever dreamt but merely refreshed themselves on the immediate call of the body. Every time they awoke, before them was a platter of gourmet food to gorge on and they always ate with hunger until they were content. Any food they left always disappeared when they slept to be replaced with a new and different meal, equally as delicious as the one before. Also books and games would frequently be placed alongside the food, often being changed exactly when a previous book had been finished or a game had been made dull from overplaying. Why and how these things occurred, neither of them knew because it was all done when they were asleep. However, neither of them minded the experience much; they were entertained to a reasonable level and the delicacies prepared for them were exquisite. Yet, a room of such small proportions could never be described as the ideal living environment as far as they were concerned. John especially found it forbidding and frustrating; the room was great for captives but nothing it could offer could match real freedom. Harry however, though far from finding the small world around him divine, did not wish to leave a good thing. The note had told him to accept the room and it was all the information he had; what was he going to do, risk his life (possibly) for no reason (again, possibly)? Too many questions in this room; not enough answers- the debate of whether to stay or leave was looking as if it was unlikely to be resolved amicably.
The calculated time of six weeks is far from determined. John had conjured up an estimate by the amount of times they had been asleep. Both agreed that their slumber was deep and nourishing and so they mutually agreed it was logical to suppose that is was an eight hour sleep. The food that was laid out for after their resting always seemed to require about three sittings and so was considered, essentially, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Therefore, each time the two inexplicably dozed, it was assumed to be a day. However, time is a fiction and their measurements could really be any number of times too fast or too slow.
Harry cared not. He was there and that was that; such a conclusion John could not find palatable. He wanted to know how long he had been incarcerated. His mind hungered for answers; it burned with a desire to know more. Why were they here? Was it a test or an experiment of some kind? Why were they allowed to have no information except for a ridiculously scribbled note that gave nothing but a taunting riddle? Most immediately for John though, the most frustrating and constant question that repeatedly niggled him and mocked him from inside his brain was ‘What is beyond the room?’ It just wouldn’t leave him alone. ‘What is beyond the room?’ Was it good, was it bad? Was it the end and did it matter if it was? ‘What is beyond the room?’ He stared at the door and it looked blankly back at him. ‘You’ll get nothing from me,’ it seemed to say and John knew the only way to open its mouth was to turn the handle and change things forever. ‘What is beyond the room?’
“What is beyond the room?” He whispered and then repeated again louder, “What is beyond the room?”
“John? John, are you okay?” Harry looked concerned, partly for John, partly for what John might do and at what consequence to himself. He stood up and walked over to John. He bent his knees so his head was at John’s level and placed his hands on John’s shoulders. John looked up into Harry’s half-smiling face and asked again, “What’s beyond the room?”
“I don’t know John, does it matter?”
“Course it matters. Everything matters. We’ve got to get out of here Harry, this isn’t how we’re supposed to live.”
“So, what is out there might not be better. Could be worse. Hell, how do we even know that there is an out there?”
“Because there must be,” answered John. “How else is the food brought in here? How are things brought to us? Through that wretched door, that’s how. If we weren’t meant to leave, then why is it there? What is beyond the room? Hey, Harry? We must know. Don’t you feel it, that nagging? That longing for something more? I need it Harry, I have got to be FREE!”
John leapt up, knocking Harry back off feet onto his backside. Harry yelled, “No! John, the paper tells us we don’t need to know. The nagging, the longing- are you a child? You should be able to get past that!”
“Past this? You think it is childish because I can’t take being cooped up for no reason at all?! You think it’s childish because I won’t take heed to a piece of paper! You are a fool, Harry! A damn fool! You have made yourself a slave and for what? For no reason other than you are too scared to dream. Well, have your room Harry, have it to yourself because I am leaving.”
“NO!” Harry dived at John but he knocked Harry aside and headed for the door. He placed his hand round the handle. His body shivered with a rush of emotion- fear, trepidation, doubt, excitement, exhilaration and the feeling of a longing about to be filled. He gave it a turn.
John opened his eyes. He turned his head to see Harry coming round; Harry didn’t look good and John, for the first time since he had been in the room, felt sick. He felt fragile and cold and did not feel like moving much at all. Harry, let out a groan, “What happened?”
“The room stopped me from leaving, Harry. It wants us to stay as we are. I can’t just turn the damn handle, Harry. If I want to leave I have got to break straight out of this claustrophobic, coffin of existence. Can’t you feel it choking us, restricting us?”
“No, John,” replied Harry, “I can feel it telling us to get use to this but that is it. It wants us to enjoy our stay and to remain here. You try to leave and we won’t enjoy it.”
Harry groaned again and rolled over onto his back. John stood up, his legs shaking, barely able to keep him upright. His belly rocked back and forth and he nearly vomited, holding back the sick with a steady, rhythmic breathing. “Do not make this any worse, John,” Harry warned, “that could have been a threat, a hint. It’s like I said- we know this room, we know it’s good- if we leave we could die.”
John didn’t reply but his thoughts were pounding. ‘We know this room, we know it’s good,’ the words didn’t ring true to John. ‘This is the good’, he thought. ‘Okay, it is existence but it is meaningless and it’s stagnant. Disgustingly destitute and worthless, how can anyone say this is good? Beyond that door we could find…we could find… well, who knows and who cares at least we would find a purpose beyond non-death. This isn’t living, this is postponing the inevitable. I’d rather dance to my death than sit and wait for it to come for me, we must face the facts. We are all going to die but we can die constricted, slowly turning stagnant or we can progress, move on. We can sit in the room or we can burst through the door. It can try and stop me but…’
“I will leave,” John said aloud.
“The hell you will,” replied Harry. “You are not taking away my security. I am happy with my lot. This may be claustrophobic, this may be restricting, this may not be how I ever envisaged my life- a slave to something I barely understand, that I have no choice but to accept- but it is my life and you will not take it.”
“You’re so BLIND!” John roared at Harry in frustration, “How can you not see past this room. Or even if you cannot see, feel past it. Feel, Harry, you know there is more to life! This is not us, the real us, we are trapped. Enslaved- you said it yourself: you are a slave to the room. It’s captive and servant and now you want to help it keep me enslaved?”
“No, I want to keep me alive!”
“This isn’t living!”
“It’s all I have. It is all I have!”
Harry charged John and cracked a swinging fist into his jaw. The nausea for both men was replaced with adrenaline. John went down but immediately launched himself upward, his rising fist connecting with Harry’s jaw. Harry felt his teeth clash together and heard something crack in his mouth; an electric pain ran through his gums. Stumbling backwards, he was winded as John tackled him to the ground. As they hit the ground, Harry raised a knee into John’s groin who replied with a scream and another blow to Harry’s face. A sickening, wet thud indicated to Harry that his eye was bleeding and the red mist confirmed it but John had keeled over. In a daze he returned to his feet and then swung a foot sharply into John’s rib cage. John let out another yell and looked up, a foot about to land on his face. He rolled and gave Harry a tough kick to the back of the legs, making Harry fall to a kneeling position. John rose and Harry fell and flung an elbow forward, feeling it sink into Harry’s face. Not even a noise escaped Harry’s mouth, his body slumped and he lay there unconscious, bleeding a constant river but alive.
John shook his head, he would have much rather have had an ally in Harry but they had made their positions clear from the start. With cooperation this could have been a mutually beneficial and far less violent affair. No matter, the desire for life will always win over the desire to not die. John turned to the door, it stood before him as it had done always, blank but mocking. He would be trapped no longer. THUD! His foot pushed hard onto the wooden door. THUD! CRACK! CRACK! Splinters spewed forth as he wood ruptured in reply to his fierce kicks. One more push and his leg crashed straight through and he was free. His body followed on and he flowed out of his prison into another world. The experience was surreal and sublime, as if he was breathing air for the first time. He wept sweet tears, not for where he was but for where he no longer had to be. He fell to the ground.
He slowly caught his breath, slowly returned from the ecstasy of his mind, to the new world that lay before him. His eyes shifted and he realised that he was in another room. However, instead of immediately feeling woe and frustration he analysed it and took it in. This room was not white but of myriad colours; it was an indescribable rainbow of beauty compared to the mundane realm he had left behind. And there was another sign, but this one did not demand his obedience. Instead, it offered hope:
FROM HERE YOU GO AS YOU CHOOSE! ALL YOUR PATHS ARE UNKNOWN.
As he looked around, John saw that there were many doors on the walls of this room, all unmarked and ready to be opened. He did not know where he was to go, he did not know if danger and disaster were waiting for him behind every door or whether he would maybe move on to yet another world, with more options. It did not matter what was to happen, it did not matter where he was to go, for he was free to make those decisions and he embraced his freedom. John picked a door and he was gone…
Harry shook himself awake. His view was horrendously blurred, partly due to a dulled mind and partly due to a swollen eye. However, his sight could not deny the horror he saw before him. The door was gone. In its place was a mess, a shattered mess. Harry panicked. He asked his mind what he was to do, for his world was no longer secure, no longer the same. No! It would be the same. He had accepted the room it would still accept him. And so there Harry stayed and he clung to the hope the room would give him food. That it would give him oblivious sleep. That it would entertain and satisfy him. But it never came. John could not accept a room to be his life but Harry could not accept anything else. In time, Harry grew weak for his wounds were not cared for and his sustenance never received. Harry remained in the room, but the room was dead. The room was dead.
Sunday, 29 August 2010
The Ship
Certainly science-fiction, certainly dystopian. The authors that influenced the ideas I reckon will be quite apparent (there's even a name drop! But I hadn't read anything by him at the time, I promise, just others that had nodded to him). The writing is quite dry but I think the intention is pretty clear. About a worker moving a large vessel through space. About 5000 words again.
Worker A422 opened its eyes and the blank ceiling became visible. The blue-grey texture of the metal roof appeared depressingly dull. Worker A422 vigorously shook its head to encourage the motivation to move out of bed and out of the cabin. Peeling off the covers, its temperature dropped slightly and it felt the slightest Goosebumps begin to rise on its skin. A brisk shudder and the worker was ready to begin its day.
A shower first. This was mandatory procedure for all workers and the routine ran with incredible efficiency. The water shot out like fierce, hot hail and left the skin bruised and clean. The shower was automatic and nothing could be controlled- the time, the temperature and the intensity were all set, never to be changed. When the shower stopped, Worker A422 picked up its clothes bag and opened it, extracting the towel. The towel was coarse but the worker used it without considered sensitivity because there was little consolation found in the worker’s existence - regardless of how soft or tough a dry-cloth was used. The reality was that such effort over such a trivial comfort was best seen as an effort to mask the fact that nothing could be done and that the plight was set. The course of the ship was guaranteed; the course was also irrelevant to Worker A422 because its job would be exactly the same wherever the ship was headed. The routine never changed, its details never changed. And the ship crawled on.
Once dried and dressed, Worker A422 walked on to the canteen and received it’s breakfast from Cook A679. They nodded at each other with minimal interest. Conversation was futile. They were both in fine health or else they would be in Ward A; the breakfast contents were always the same and always tasted the same; and they had no commonalities allowing no opportunity for small talk through mutual interest. The paste-like porridge was slopped into a bowl and then dropped onto the worker’s tray. Another silent nod before Worker A422 went and sat down at a table. Each table in Canteen A had a solitary chair attached to it, thus allowing minimal interference in the individual’s sustenance program. Apart from the occasional gasp of eye-contact, no communication took place amongst the diners. Instead, a steady rhythm was drummed out, monotone, as the spoons chinked against the bowls in unintentional unison. Worker A422 finished the gruel and left the canteen. It was time for work.
Down the corridor went the worker, passing all those who had finished their shift. They all stared right ahead because there was little to be gained in looking anywhere else. Their clothing was identical - the grey uniform of the worker role - while the shaven heads and ill-fitting fashion guaranteed that sex was impossible to discern. Although it was known that there were male and female workers, the knowledge did not go much further. The doctors took a bit from a male and a bit from a female before using their Science to create more. The two bits became one bit- another doctor or worker or cook or cleaner or securer or navigator. And the ship crawled on.
Worker A422 reached its workplace, seat 422, and began to work. A large metal wheel protruded out of the wall, a handle available for grip. Worker A422 grabbed the handle and turned. The wheel went round. Endlessly, ceaselessly it turned, round and round as eternal as its shape, gathering momentum and hitting a steady, plodding pace. Short intervals dispersed the work but a worker was not allowed to move from their seat during their shift. Any effort to break routine was dealt with by the securers - dark, heavy individuals that wore dark, heavy outfits. The consequence was unknown but it was certainly severe. Wild theories had slothfully spread around the different chambers of the ship but it was impossible to conclude the truth. Many workers believed that when the securers took an individual away it was never seen again. However, because the relationships between everyone on the ship were as strong as cotton and as thin as web (both within castes and without), individuals did not notice if anyone went missing nor if they returned. What was certain was that at the end of the Shifthall there was a door and if an individual broke the routine it would go through the door. The routine was rarely broken.
A sharp electric buzz signified the start of the first interval for Worker A422. It took a seat and stared out the window. There were few options available for the interval, a worker could look round the dull interior of the Shifthall or look searchingly into space. Worker A422 scanned the stars and accepted that there was little more excitement outside the ship than within its monochrome interior. The white specks on the blackened space-scape twinkled endlessly and without change. Any possible activity that would spark interest was so far away that the imagination would be more real. However, Worker A422 was aware that its mind was weak and unused, a natural development because a worker’s mind plays second to its body. The body must work to keep the great ship on its sluggish quest through the stars, the mind’s duty was merely to keep the body on task. No alternative functions were required and so none were exercised. Only one question dripped into the worker’s thoughts as it stared out into the endless depths of the universe. Being so inflexible in its ability to think, Worker A422 wondered how the navigators managed to translate the stars and keep the ship on course. Their intellectual depth was beyond anything the worker’s shallow thoughts could muster. But still, all were certain they were on course, sure and steady. The navigators had a direction and the ship was run to complete their plotted journey. Looking out at those stars, it appeared to A422 that the scenery had never changed and, for all it knew, the ship may not have moved at all and it could have remained stationary in space. But the navigators knew, they noticed the change and they felt that the ship was getting warmer to its destination. Such a wonder, that a navigator could know so much and a worker so little. Each were as vital as they were different.
The mild distractions of the interval faced a very sudden and immediate end. Normally, due to their expert knowledge of the routine, the workers knew when the intervals were to start and finish. Despite there being no specific measurement of time, those on the ship had internalised all mechanisms and processes to the point of ingraining it to their very core-being. Thus, the buzzing signal was not ending the interval but another disturbance had taken place. An inevitably more exciting proposition. Another worker was being held and dragged by two securers to the door. Their restraining hold meant that the worker’s struggle was unlikely to come to much and its mouth was covered as to prevent any further distraction. However, for the first time in Chamber A and possibly the first time on the entire ship, the worker wriggled free. The grip of the securers faltered and the worker fell to the ground. Quickly, it picked itself up to its feet and yelled, “I am not worker A329, I am just and right! Seek their book, seek their truth! They will have us dead! They will have us dead! We must open our eyes! If we stay blind, we shall all be doomed! Rise, brothers and sisters! See!-” The speech was dashed short by the securers as they determined their control. Worker A329 was silenced once again and disappeared through the door. And the ship crawled on.
However, the excitement had stirred parts of Worker A422 that had been dormant since its living memory. Emotions! Feelings! They splashed colour onto the blank canvas that was the worker’s soul. Speckles splattered, faint and scattered but certain to spread upon the worker’s mind, forming impossible questions. The securers may have regained control of their target but damage had inevitably been done, and Worker A422 had been awoken in the debris. The speech was cataclysmic. A single spark to ignite and the world is set afire. The torch had been passed on - one worker falls, another stands tall. However, concepts of conspiracy were not routine and Worker A422 understood its duty. The shift was to be completed. The buzz went seconds later and the work began again. The hands gripped the handle and the momentum began once more. Physical labour was necessary to project the ship ever forward in space. ‘The workers provide another vital resource for acceleration,’ thought Worker A422, ‘speeding us to a place unknown.’ Worker A422 had never thought beyond the routine before, it had never found any alternative concepts, but the passionate words of the forgotten worker (already forgotten, another face never known and never to be known) had created many possibilities and one seed was destined for fruition. For better or for worse, the worker was determined to discover the secrets of the navigators. The wheel turned incessantly, its pace equalling that of the workers mind. But the feverish effect of rebellion did not break for intervals.
With the exception of the unexpected glitch, the shift was completed without any noticeable complication. The metallic oars were oscillated as required, the ship was projected deeper into space and the workers returned to the canteen. Along the corridor Worker A422 acted out of character and glanced at all the faces that passed on the way to their shift. The act was not noted by anyone, for no one looked back, but the worker felt already that a great change in attitude was developing within itself. Back in the canteen, the worker picked up a tray and greeted the cook with a smile of humility and compassion, even offering a verbal greeting! The cook’s face remained as immovable as a mountain but Worker A422 cared not, the significance was the personal change and not other people’s reactions. Other people! Brothers and sisters; these individuals were not ‘its’ but ‘hims’ and ‘hers’! Although, it was unaware what the difference was between the sexes (it mattered not except to doctors; caste was the significant differentiation), Worker A422 felt that its view had developed people from objects into beings. Even if this thought had not been established by others, even if they remained conscious of only being a role and a tool, the truth remained, obvious and yet powerfully hidden. Despite having no social skills and a complete inability to interact with the other individuals, Worker A422 began feeling an affinity with those around it. These other workers took part in the same routine as Worker A422, they shared an understanding of their role, they understood other roles in relation to their own and they all felt the same distance and at the same time, however little, the same interconnectedness. Worker A422 was developing caste consciousness. Of course, others had not developed a rebellious streak and any attempt at mutiny was likely to result in failure at the hands of the securers. Instead, having constructed a duty to its fellow workers, Worker A422 was going to have to act all the more as an individual. The worker finished its meal and emptied its food tray, returning to its room ready to seek out the navigators and their unknown covenants. Its mind energetically cantered with the various possibilities - success or capture, death or glory. And the ship crawled on.
Worker A422 paced its room, attempting to envision the best course of action. Within a small space of time, it would be expected that the worker would be unconscious and deep in slumber. This would be the most appropriate time to make an effort at reaching the navigators’ chamber. The navigators were unlike other castes because they lived in a separate community that partook in minimal interaction with others. The hulking, mechanical spaceship was divided into seven chambers - specifically, the ‘Body Chambers’ that were notified as Chambers A-F and the ‘Brain Chamber’, or Chamber N. The first six chambers were developed into tightly-knit communities that thrived on an endlessly repeated routine and required its inhabitants to be as precisely confined. Each individual was committed to a specific role that they had to complete with the minimum of distraction and error. The communities were dependent on each person being undeterred from their mission and the securers were the most important because they had to quench any subversion. The securers were the only caste that related to the navigators the developments and situations in each of their relevant chambers. Each Body Chamber had a staircase that led to the Mind Chamber and each staircase was well guarded because the navigators held the most important position on the ship. If the navigators did not ascertain the course for the ship the drifting would be endless and futile; though only the navigators knew what the destination was, all the ship-dwellers were aware that a destination was set. Beyond the details of their role, the navigators were a mysterious and evasive caste, intellectual masters of organic automatons. Very few of those that existed in the body chambers developed any form of interest in the navigators’ situation for it did not hold any significance to the routine. The majority were aware of their duty and had become so indoctrinated by the clockwork notions that alternative matters became irrelevant matters. Furthermore, the ‘Body Chamber’ populace, though barely awake in consciousness, were blissfully content in slumber (due to the benefits of soothing drugs excreted through the air-conditioning) and only a few anomalous beings were tempted to rock the boat. Worker A422 had become one such irregularity.
As the lights in Worker A422’s room switched off automatically in accordance with the routine, the worker slipped out of its room. The corridor remained well lit and the securers were still on sentry duty. Each role, whether securer or doctor, remained functioning, with shifts being infinitely rotated for maximum efficiency. Therefore, much discretion was required to guarantee that Worker A422 would proceed successfully without detection. Looking up, it saw the thick iron piping that pumped the oxygenated atmosphere around the ship’s titanic interior. The worker ran up the wall, exercising grace, agility and balance before wrapping its arms round the piping and swivelling round to the top of the pipe. Slowly, cautiously, the worker creepily slid along the cold, coarse tube, the softest scrape being made as flesh rubbed against metal. The whispering hush was near silent but possibly circumspect if the securers were more alert. However, actions out of the routine were rare experiences and securers reacted to them instead of containing themselves at a constant level of awareness. Therefore, the worker managed to proceed with rough poise all the way to the sturdy door of thick steel, the solitary entrance in Chamber A to Chamber N. As always, two securers were standing at the door, an intimidating barrier. Typically, the securers were large and impressive and Worker A422 understood that a strict assault would be necessary to proceed further. A moment of hesitation struck the worker but it dived out of the mind as quick as it entered. With a falconish swoop, the worker swung its legs acrobatically forward and struck the securers severely in their faces, their heads flinging back and impacting upon the metal walls. Unconscious.
Worker A422 opened the door to Chamber N with nervous anticipation. A staircase greeted it, basking in warm, dusty light. Worker A422 stepped in and closed the door before moving up the steps with slow and defined purpose. An intense wave of uncertainty tingled its body - such extreme rebellion from an inspiration so recent. Were these actions right? It had never thought them necessary before. The worker hesitated but then remembered the duty it had felt. It had never felt more alive than in this recent time - the desire to know offering a chance to be more than a mere mechanism. A chance to become a person! Worker A422 climbed the stairs and placed its hand around the handle. A push down and the door opened.
As the worker peered through the entrance, it was greeted by a vast, plush utopia of Eden-like proportions. Considering the metallic quality of the rest of the ship, the only world the worker had known, it could do nothing but stare mesmerised and astonished. There was an organic humidity and warmth that, contrasted with the sterile coolness of the ship’s steady air-conditioning, was overwhelmingly wonderful. Occasionally dotted amongst the vibrant foliage were robed-figures, casually talking and playing various light-hearted games. Worker A422 stared at these new and unusual beings: The Navigators, the elusive leaders of the ship. As if a stunned statue, the worker stood there in silence. After a while, its presence was noted by one of the monk-like navigators. With a warm smile, the navigator offered a hand. “Welcome, child,” he said by way of greeting. Unlike other castes, it appeared that the navigators were notably of a specific sex. In this case the navigator had shoulder-length hair and a face that was hardened yet friendly. Furthermore, his robe denoted the male sex by being the colour of orange clay. The female’s robes, by contrast, were a warm green. The worker placed its hand in the navigator’s and it passively had its hand shook.
“Who are you?” enquired the navigator.
“I am Worker A422,” came the reply.
“No-no,” responded the navigator, “That’s what you are, not who you are.”
The statement made very little sense to the worker and the navigator understood. “It shall become clear,” he offered as a mysterious attempt at explanation. He continued, “I am Navigator Aldous. May I ask how and why you are here?”
The worker struggled to answer. Casual conversations were not commonplace for Worker A422 and it did not know how best to respond. In the end it gave an answer: “I have come to see.”
The navigator nodded sagely. “Then you shall see.”
Navigator Aldous began to stroll forward and the worker followed. “We are on a ship that is heading for a destination, A422. I am certain that you are not aware of the history of our people and the position we faced. It became necessary to leave our home and we are en route to a new home, where our people will live in social harmony. Much like we do on this ship at the moment.”
So many unusual words hit the worker. Words that were used in such strange ways. Home was the ship, there was no other meaning. Home had always been the ship. What did he mean by a ‘new home’? The worker knew there was a destination, but was not aware the destination was a home. What of the ship? And ‘our people’? A very peculiar way to speak. There were workers and doctors and the like, but no people. The worker had thought such an expression as outrageous, a sign of its rebellion. However, the leaders of the ship used this subversive phrasing as if it was natural. Strange. And then this totally new word: History. The worker had absolutely no idea what this object was but it was apparent that the people had one. Confused, the worker waited for more information.
“You are a worker. Your task is to turn the wheels - to set forth increased motion for the ship, you aid it towards its destination. But you do not know what the destination is, you blindly project us to a new world. You have no idea what you are doing but you know it is expected - demanded. Tell me, can you read?”
Assuming it could not, Worker A422 shook its head.
“No, of course,” smiled the navigator with a mysterious mix of superiority and malice. “There was a navigator in the past called Navigator Erica Blair. She wrote a genius story called The Ship. I cannot recite it in great detail but would you like to know the tale and its meaning?”
The worker looked without offering a sign one way or the other.
“Well, I shall tell it to you. It is a story of a ship, much like this one but it is of an earlier time. As the end of our first home was coming to pass, Erica discussed the possibility of a ship going into space, seeking a new home for its inhabitants. The ship and its people are an interrelated metaphor- that means that they represent certain aspects of each other. So, the ship requires a brain and it requires limbs and what-not so that it can successfully survive. Obviously, it needs its ‘arms’ and ‘legs’ to be powerful and requires sustenance and so, as you can see, the ship’s system can be perceived organically. Likewise, a person needs its brain to offer commands to its body so that it can reach its destination, fulfil its course. A person is on a journey, much like a ship. Often, if not always, the person cannot be sure of where it is actually heading, exactly like this ship. Thus, the parallels are clear and impressive. However, a fact does become equally as transparent within the tale - there is a stark difference between a ship and its occupiers, for people have consciousness. Within our organic selves, there is only one mind. Our cells do not compete and argue with each other. Our arms, our legs, they do not have their own separate wills and desires. But on a ship, each individual in each role does not work automatically, without thought. The various components of a ship are each intrinsically vital, like the various parts of a human, but command is not guaranteed on a ship, unlike the various parts of a human. The tragic conclusion of Erica’s story is of the ship descending into chaos, wildly destroying itself. The story raises several questions, many of which are merely philosophical. However, some people took it literally as a warning about the perils of our inevitable future space quest. Measures were taken and when various ships began to depart from our home, this ship attempted to follow a template that would limit disruptions from the routine as best as possible. Do you understand?”
The worker’s mind was expressing its lack of understanding with a dull throb. Worker A422 tried to grasp the meaning. Was the worker like a ship? It did not know what to do or say, and so it asked the question aloud. The navigator smiled once more but, this time, it offered sympathy.
“I’m sorry. I am a navigator, my caste and I represent the brain. We lead and we are very alive for it is necessary for us to have consciousness to best fulfil our role. An ancient philosopher once made the remark, ‘I think, therefore I am’. We have realised that this leaves a lot to be desired. Worker A422, you think, therefore you are or, in other words, you exist. However, I am conscious, therefore I live. Worker, we have made you as a tool, a slave without consciousness - you barely have the capacity to think, let alone to philosophise or reflect. By making all the other castes as near to mere mechanisms as we could, our caste feel we have guaranteed the most efficient and capable ship. In many ways, it’s for our mutual benefit. The modifications you have received, the indoctrination you have embraced, these things have improved our chances for survival. But whether you are like a ship or not is ultimately irrelevant. A ship is essentially a vessel for its passengers. The simplest way I can explain the situation, is that I am a passenger of the ship, I am seeking its destination, whilst you are more part of the ship than you are anything else. We are as closest we have ever been to making a worker a literal tool and little else. You are not like a ship, you are merely a component. Do you understand?”
The worker felt it did understand and, more than this, it felt it disagreed. Throughout the navigator’s lecturing the two of them had been moving. They were now coming to a stand that held a large book upon it and the navigator stopped to flick through its pages. Now that they had stopped moving, the worker felt ready to speak.
“But if I’m a tool, if I’m incapable of thinking and merely complete my set tasks, then why am I here? If I am so bound by the routine, then why have I broken it?”
“Well, let’s see if you can offer an explanation,” said the navigator still working through the book, slowly stroking each page and then turning it. The worker considered the question and thought back to the rebellious worker’s fiery speech: ‘Seek their book, seek their truth!’ ‘If we stay blind, we shall all be doomed!’
“I have come to discover the truth, I have come to see,” answered the worker confidently.
“To see what? To discover which truth? Your truth is your role. What you need to see you see every day. What you have seen tonight what has it answered for you? It has answered nothing, instead it has created more questions. Questions you cannot even phrase…”
The worker’s confidence dwindled. It asked with uncertainty, “Why do you think I have come here?”
“Like all tools that disrupt their routine, you have malfunctioned. I have a feeling you were in the room involving the incident with Worker A329? I can check if necessary.”
“No,” replied the worker, “don’t check, I was there.”
“Well, we know he delivered that speech. That caustic, childish drivel! To a navigator we can mock it for being the pathetic piece that it was but to a worker, with such a simple mind, it would no doubt have an incredible effect. It stirred things within you that we have made you suppress - feelings and passions - and now you have malfunctioned through these foolish demands for action. You are still a tool, but now you are broken, of no use.”
The worker lowered its head, as if ashamed. Then something flickered in its mind, something confusing and wonderful. ‘We know he delivered that speech’. “Worker A329 was a ‘he’?”
“Yes,” replied Aldous, “Worker A329 - male, white, blue eyes, brown hair, approximately a third of his working life expired. Sadly, the remaining two-thirds will not be completed. His name was Justin Wright, a descendent of the genes of Justin and Emma Wright.”
Worker A422 looked up at the navigator with a look of amazement when it felt both arms apprehended. The bulky forms of securers restrained the worker on both its sides. “Ah, and here you are,” announced the navigator, a finger upon the book, “Worker A422 - female, white, blue eyes, brown hair, approximately a fifth of your working life expired. Another unfortunate waste. Emma Wright - my word! Surely not a coincidence. A defective gene, perhaps…”
As the navigator mused over this discovery, the worker, Emma, felt herself come alive once more. She struggled against the securers but could not break from their powerful hold. “Let me go,” she screamed. The yell brought the navigator back to the situation at hand.
“Certainly not. You are wild, you are now not only a waste but a potential threat, a danger. You have only one use left, and that shall not be ascertained by allowing you to be unrestrained. I’m sorry worker, but its nearly time for you to leave.”
“My name is Emma,” she seethed.
“That may be who you are,” replied the navigator nonchalantly, “But that is not what you are. Worker we are on a journey and we are seeking a destination, a new home. We feel we are getting close. We can feel its warmth. Unfortunately, you will not see our new utopia any closer than it is now.” The navigator stood aside and raised an arm as an arrow, pointing to a transparent screen, a vast window revealing their destination. It glowed with astounding brightness upon the black canvas. A molten ball, a boiling hot star. Existence upon such a thing would be impossible, a fact that even Emma could uncover.
“If you go there, we shall die,” she said solemnly.
“What would you know?” replied the navigator. “We feel it is the best place to go and we are far more aware of things than you are.”
Emma felt frustrated by his indignant tone. “Can’t you see?” she asked.
“Who needs to see when you can feel?” answered the navigator.
“You mean you are blind?”
The navigator laughed. “You were closer with your first summation. Who is more blind, me or you. You have been pushing this ship ever forward without any ability to see where you have been going. You have had no reason to execute your actions but you blindly complete them because you have been so conditioned. The judgement of the navigator caste, who through our own genetic weakness have been denied sight, is surely far superior to yours. Your time of insolence is over, take her away.” Upon the navigator’s command, the securers began to drag Emma away.
“Your course is set for death!” Emma attempted to warn the navigator once more. With no verbal response, Aldous made a hand motion and the securers silenced the ex-worker.
Emma was dragged back down the stairway, along the corridor she had passed countless times before and into the Shifthall where she had spent such a great deal of her life working. She looked at the workers on shift with pleading eyes but the grip of the securers was unshakable. Then the door at the end of the hall opened and she was immersed in darkness. She could see little and heard nothing but the solemn steps of the securers. Another door creaked open, she was thrown and her entire body collided with a wall, winding her. The door closed. A few seconds later she gathered back her breath and began to feel the walls for an exit. Her search was working with little success when a voice came over a speaker:
“Welcome. You have malfunctioned and this is where you must reside until you complete your final use. The workers use the metallic oars to project us further but are not our only source of motion. We also use fuel to aid projection. You are destined to be fuel earlier than expected. We shall be calling upon you soon.”
Emma sat down in the darkness, blind once again. Everyone on the ship was incapable of seeing and they were blindly moving to their demise. The lower castes conditioned to be blind servants. And the navigators were literally blind but were suffering from a worse type of blindness. Their blind arrogance was leading the ship to a burning death. And the ship crawled on…
The Ship
Worker A422 opened its eyes and the blank ceiling became visible. The blue-grey texture of the metal roof appeared depressingly dull. Worker A422 vigorously shook its head to encourage the motivation to move out of bed and out of the cabin. Peeling off the covers, its temperature dropped slightly and it felt the slightest Goosebumps begin to rise on its skin. A brisk shudder and the worker was ready to begin its day.
A shower first. This was mandatory procedure for all workers and the routine ran with incredible efficiency. The water shot out like fierce, hot hail and left the skin bruised and clean. The shower was automatic and nothing could be controlled- the time, the temperature and the intensity were all set, never to be changed. When the shower stopped, Worker A422 picked up its clothes bag and opened it, extracting the towel. The towel was coarse but the worker used it without considered sensitivity because there was little consolation found in the worker’s existence - regardless of how soft or tough a dry-cloth was used. The reality was that such effort over such a trivial comfort was best seen as an effort to mask the fact that nothing could be done and that the plight was set. The course of the ship was guaranteed; the course was also irrelevant to Worker A422 because its job would be exactly the same wherever the ship was headed. The routine never changed, its details never changed. And the ship crawled on.
Once dried and dressed, Worker A422 walked on to the canteen and received it’s breakfast from Cook A679. They nodded at each other with minimal interest. Conversation was futile. They were both in fine health or else they would be in Ward A; the breakfast contents were always the same and always tasted the same; and they had no commonalities allowing no opportunity for small talk through mutual interest. The paste-like porridge was slopped into a bowl and then dropped onto the worker’s tray. Another silent nod before Worker A422 went and sat down at a table. Each table in Canteen A had a solitary chair attached to it, thus allowing minimal interference in the individual’s sustenance program. Apart from the occasional gasp of eye-contact, no communication took place amongst the diners. Instead, a steady rhythm was drummed out, monotone, as the spoons chinked against the bowls in unintentional unison. Worker A422 finished the gruel and left the canteen. It was time for work.
Down the corridor went the worker, passing all those who had finished their shift. They all stared right ahead because there was little to be gained in looking anywhere else. Their clothing was identical - the grey uniform of the worker role - while the shaven heads and ill-fitting fashion guaranteed that sex was impossible to discern. Although it was known that there were male and female workers, the knowledge did not go much further. The doctors took a bit from a male and a bit from a female before using their Science to create more. The two bits became one bit- another doctor or worker or cook or cleaner or securer or navigator. And the ship crawled on.
Worker A422 reached its workplace, seat 422, and began to work. A large metal wheel protruded out of the wall, a handle available for grip. Worker A422 grabbed the handle and turned. The wheel went round. Endlessly, ceaselessly it turned, round and round as eternal as its shape, gathering momentum and hitting a steady, plodding pace. Short intervals dispersed the work but a worker was not allowed to move from their seat during their shift. Any effort to break routine was dealt with by the securers - dark, heavy individuals that wore dark, heavy outfits. The consequence was unknown but it was certainly severe. Wild theories had slothfully spread around the different chambers of the ship but it was impossible to conclude the truth. Many workers believed that when the securers took an individual away it was never seen again. However, because the relationships between everyone on the ship were as strong as cotton and as thin as web (both within castes and without), individuals did not notice if anyone went missing nor if they returned. What was certain was that at the end of the Shifthall there was a door and if an individual broke the routine it would go through the door. The routine was rarely broken.
A sharp electric buzz signified the start of the first interval for Worker A422. It took a seat and stared out the window. There were few options available for the interval, a worker could look round the dull interior of the Shifthall or look searchingly into space. Worker A422 scanned the stars and accepted that there was little more excitement outside the ship than within its monochrome interior. The white specks on the blackened space-scape twinkled endlessly and without change. Any possible activity that would spark interest was so far away that the imagination would be more real. However, Worker A422 was aware that its mind was weak and unused, a natural development because a worker’s mind plays second to its body. The body must work to keep the great ship on its sluggish quest through the stars, the mind’s duty was merely to keep the body on task. No alternative functions were required and so none were exercised. Only one question dripped into the worker’s thoughts as it stared out into the endless depths of the universe. Being so inflexible in its ability to think, Worker A422 wondered how the navigators managed to translate the stars and keep the ship on course. Their intellectual depth was beyond anything the worker’s shallow thoughts could muster. But still, all were certain they were on course, sure and steady. The navigators had a direction and the ship was run to complete their plotted journey. Looking out at those stars, it appeared to A422 that the scenery had never changed and, for all it knew, the ship may not have moved at all and it could have remained stationary in space. But the navigators knew, they noticed the change and they felt that the ship was getting warmer to its destination. Such a wonder, that a navigator could know so much and a worker so little. Each were as vital as they were different.
The mild distractions of the interval faced a very sudden and immediate end. Normally, due to their expert knowledge of the routine, the workers knew when the intervals were to start and finish. Despite there being no specific measurement of time, those on the ship had internalised all mechanisms and processes to the point of ingraining it to their very core-being. Thus, the buzzing signal was not ending the interval but another disturbance had taken place. An inevitably more exciting proposition. Another worker was being held and dragged by two securers to the door. Their restraining hold meant that the worker’s struggle was unlikely to come to much and its mouth was covered as to prevent any further distraction. However, for the first time in Chamber A and possibly the first time on the entire ship, the worker wriggled free. The grip of the securers faltered and the worker fell to the ground. Quickly, it picked itself up to its feet and yelled, “I am not worker A329, I am just and right! Seek their book, seek their truth! They will have us dead! They will have us dead! We must open our eyes! If we stay blind, we shall all be doomed! Rise, brothers and sisters! See!-” The speech was dashed short by the securers as they determined their control. Worker A329 was silenced once again and disappeared through the door. And the ship crawled on.
However, the excitement had stirred parts of Worker A422 that had been dormant since its living memory. Emotions! Feelings! They splashed colour onto the blank canvas that was the worker’s soul. Speckles splattered, faint and scattered but certain to spread upon the worker’s mind, forming impossible questions. The securers may have regained control of their target but damage had inevitably been done, and Worker A422 had been awoken in the debris. The speech was cataclysmic. A single spark to ignite and the world is set afire. The torch had been passed on - one worker falls, another stands tall. However, concepts of conspiracy were not routine and Worker A422 understood its duty. The shift was to be completed. The buzz went seconds later and the work began again. The hands gripped the handle and the momentum began once more. Physical labour was necessary to project the ship ever forward in space. ‘The workers provide another vital resource for acceleration,’ thought Worker A422, ‘speeding us to a place unknown.’ Worker A422 had never thought beyond the routine before, it had never found any alternative concepts, but the passionate words of the forgotten worker (already forgotten, another face never known and never to be known) had created many possibilities and one seed was destined for fruition. For better or for worse, the worker was determined to discover the secrets of the navigators. The wheel turned incessantly, its pace equalling that of the workers mind. But the feverish effect of rebellion did not break for intervals.
With the exception of the unexpected glitch, the shift was completed without any noticeable complication. The metallic oars were oscillated as required, the ship was projected deeper into space and the workers returned to the canteen. Along the corridor Worker A422 acted out of character and glanced at all the faces that passed on the way to their shift. The act was not noted by anyone, for no one looked back, but the worker felt already that a great change in attitude was developing within itself. Back in the canteen, the worker picked up a tray and greeted the cook with a smile of humility and compassion, even offering a verbal greeting! The cook’s face remained as immovable as a mountain but Worker A422 cared not, the significance was the personal change and not other people’s reactions. Other people! Brothers and sisters; these individuals were not ‘its’ but ‘hims’ and ‘hers’! Although, it was unaware what the difference was between the sexes (it mattered not except to doctors; caste was the significant differentiation), Worker A422 felt that its view had developed people from objects into beings. Even if this thought had not been established by others, even if they remained conscious of only being a role and a tool, the truth remained, obvious and yet powerfully hidden. Despite having no social skills and a complete inability to interact with the other individuals, Worker A422 began feeling an affinity with those around it. These other workers took part in the same routine as Worker A422, they shared an understanding of their role, they understood other roles in relation to their own and they all felt the same distance and at the same time, however little, the same interconnectedness. Worker A422 was developing caste consciousness. Of course, others had not developed a rebellious streak and any attempt at mutiny was likely to result in failure at the hands of the securers. Instead, having constructed a duty to its fellow workers, Worker A422 was going to have to act all the more as an individual. The worker finished its meal and emptied its food tray, returning to its room ready to seek out the navigators and their unknown covenants. Its mind energetically cantered with the various possibilities - success or capture, death or glory. And the ship crawled on.
Worker A422 paced its room, attempting to envision the best course of action. Within a small space of time, it would be expected that the worker would be unconscious and deep in slumber. This would be the most appropriate time to make an effort at reaching the navigators’ chamber. The navigators were unlike other castes because they lived in a separate community that partook in minimal interaction with others. The hulking, mechanical spaceship was divided into seven chambers - specifically, the ‘Body Chambers’ that were notified as Chambers A-F and the ‘Brain Chamber’, or Chamber N. The first six chambers were developed into tightly-knit communities that thrived on an endlessly repeated routine and required its inhabitants to be as precisely confined. Each individual was committed to a specific role that they had to complete with the minimum of distraction and error. The communities were dependent on each person being undeterred from their mission and the securers were the most important because they had to quench any subversion. The securers were the only caste that related to the navigators the developments and situations in each of their relevant chambers. Each Body Chamber had a staircase that led to the Mind Chamber and each staircase was well guarded because the navigators held the most important position on the ship. If the navigators did not ascertain the course for the ship the drifting would be endless and futile; though only the navigators knew what the destination was, all the ship-dwellers were aware that a destination was set. Beyond the details of their role, the navigators were a mysterious and evasive caste, intellectual masters of organic automatons. Very few of those that existed in the body chambers developed any form of interest in the navigators’ situation for it did not hold any significance to the routine. The majority were aware of their duty and had become so indoctrinated by the clockwork notions that alternative matters became irrelevant matters. Furthermore, the ‘Body Chamber’ populace, though barely awake in consciousness, were blissfully content in slumber (due to the benefits of soothing drugs excreted through the air-conditioning) and only a few anomalous beings were tempted to rock the boat. Worker A422 had become one such irregularity.
As the lights in Worker A422’s room switched off automatically in accordance with the routine, the worker slipped out of its room. The corridor remained well lit and the securers were still on sentry duty. Each role, whether securer or doctor, remained functioning, with shifts being infinitely rotated for maximum efficiency. Therefore, much discretion was required to guarantee that Worker A422 would proceed successfully without detection. Looking up, it saw the thick iron piping that pumped the oxygenated atmosphere around the ship’s titanic interior. The worker ran up the wall, exercising grace, agility and balance before wrapping its arms round the piping and swivelling round to the top of the pipe. Slowly, cautiously, the worker creepily slid along the cold, coarse tube, the softest scrape being made as flesh rubbed against metal. The whispering hush was near silent but possibly circumspect if the securers were more alert. However, actions out of the routine were rare experiences and securers reacted to them instead of containing themselves at a constant level of awareness. Therefore, the worker managed to proceed with rough poise all the way to the sturdy door of thick steel, the solitary entrance in Chamber A to Chamber N. As always, two securers were standing at the door, an intimidating barrier. Typically, the securers were large and impressive and Worker A422 understood that a strict assault would be necessary to proceed further. A moment of hesitation struck the worker but it dived out of the mind as quick as it entered. With a falconish swoop, the worker swung its legs acrobatically forward and struck the securers severely in their faces, their heads flinging back and impacting upon the metal walls. Unconscious.
Worker A422 opened the door to Chamber N with nervous anticipation. A staircase greeted it, basking in warm, dusty light. Worker A422 stepped in and closed the door before moving up the steps with slow and defined purpose. An intense wave of uncertainty tingled its body - such extreme rebellion from an inspiration so recent. Were these actions right? It had never thought them necessary before. The worker hesitated but then remembered the duty it had felt. It had never felt more alive than in this recent time - the desire to know offering a chance to be more than a mere mechanism. A chance to become a person! Worker A422 climbed the stairs and placed its hand around the handle. A push down and the door opened.
As the worker peered through the entrance, it was greeted by a vast, plush utopia of Eden-like proportions. Considering the metallic quality of the rest of the ship, the only world the worker had known, it could do nothing but stare mesmerised and astonished. There was an organic humidity and warmth that, contrasted with the sterile coolness of the ship’s steady air-conditioning, was overwhelmingly wonderful. Occasionally dotted amongst the vibrant foliage were robed-figures, casually talking and playing various light-hearted games. Worker A422 stared at these new and unusual beings: The Navigators, the elusive leaders of the ship. As if a stunned statue, the worker stood there in silence. After a while, its presence was noted by one of the monk-like navigators. With a warm smile, the navigator offered a hand. “Welcome, child,” he said by way of greeting. Unlike other castes, it appeared that the navigators were notably of a specific sex. In this case the navigator had shoulder-length hair and a face that was hardened yet friendly. Furthermore, his robe denoted the male sex by being the colour of orange clay. The female’s robes, by contrast, were a warm green. The worker placed its hand in the navigator’s and it passively had its hand shook.
“Who are you?” enquired the navigator.
“I am Worker A422,” came the reply.
“No-no,” responded the navigator, “That’s what you are, not who you are.”
The statement made very little sense to the worker and the navigator understood. “It shall become clear,” he offered as a mysterious attempt at explanation. He continued, “I am Navigator Aldous. May I ask how and why you are here?”
The worker struggled to answer. Casual conversations were not commonplace for Worker A422 and it did not know how best to respond. In the end it gave an answer: “I have come to see.”
The navigator nodded sagely. “Then you shall see.”
Navigator Aldous began to stroll forward and the worker followed. “We are on a ship that is heading for a destination, A422. I am certain that you are not aware of the history of our people and the position we faced. It became necessary to leave our home and we are en route to a new home, where our people will live in social harmony. Much like we do on this ship at the moment.”
So many unusual words hit the worker. Words that were used in such strange ways. Home was the ship, there was no other meaning. Home had always been the ship. What did he mean by a ‘new home’? The worker knew there was a destination, but was not aware the destination was a home. What of the ship? And ‘our people’? A very peculiar way to speak. There were workers and doctors and the like, but no people. The worker had thought such an expression as outrageous, a sign of its rebellion. However, the leaders of the ship used this subversive phrasing as if it was natural. Strange. And then this totally new word: History. The worker had absolutely no idea what this object was but it was apparent that the people had one. Confused, the worker waited for more information.
“You are a worker. Your task is to turn the wheels - to set forth increased motion for the ship, you aid it towards its destination. But you do not know what the destination is, you blindly project us to a new world. You have no idea what you are doing but you know it is expected - demanded. Tell me, can you read?”
Assuming it could not, Worker A422 shook its head.
“No, of course,” smiled the navigator with a mysterious mix of superiority and malice. “There was a navigator in the past called Navigator Erica Blair. She wrote a genius story called The Ship. I cannot recite it in great detail but would you like to know the tale and its meaning?”
The worker looked without offering a sign one way or the other.
“Well, I shall tell it to you. It is a story of a ship, much like this one but it is of an earlier time. As the end of our first home was coming to pass, Erica discussed the possibility of a ship going into space, seeking a new home for its inhabitants. The ship and its people are an interrelated metaphor- that means that they represent certain aspects of each other. So, the ship requires a brain and it requires limbs and what-not so that it can successfully survive. Obviously, it needs its ‘arms’ and ‘legs’ to be powerful and requires sustenance and so, as you can see, the ship’s system can be perceived organically. Likewise, a person needs its brain to offer commands to its body so that it can reach its destination, fulfil its course. A person is on a journey, much like a ship. Often, if not always, the person cannot be sure of where it is actually heading, exactly like this ship. Thus, the parallels are clear and impressive. However, a fact does become equally as transparent within the tale - there is a stark difference between a ship and its occupiers, for people have consciousness. Within our organic selves, there is only one mind. Our cells do not compete and argue with each other. Our arms, our legs, they do not have their own separate wills and desires. But on a ship, each individual in each role does not work automatically, without thought. The various components of a ship are each intrinsically vital, like the various parts of a human, but command is not guaranteed on a ship, unlike the various parts of a human. The tragic conclusion of Erica’s story is of the ship descending into chaos, wildly destroying itself. The story raises several questions, many of which are merely philosophical. However, some people took it literally as a warning about the perils of our inevitable future space quest. Measures were taken and when various ships began to depart from our home, this ship attempted to follow a template that would limit disruptions from the routine as best as possible. Do you understand?”
The worker’s mind was expressing its lack of understanding with a dull throb. Worker A422 tried to grasp the meaning. Was the worker like a ship? It did not know what to do or say, and so it asked the question aloud. The navigator smiled once more but, this time, it offered sympathy.
“I’m sorry. I am a navigator, my caste and I represent the brain. We lead and we are very alive for it is necessary for us to have consciousness to best fulfil our role. An ancient philosopher once made the remark, ‘I think, therefore I am’. We have realised that this leaves a lot to be desired. Worker A422, you think, therefore you are or, in other words, you exist. However, I am conscious, therefore I live. Worker, we have made you as a tool, a slave without consciousness - you barely have the capacity to think, let alone to philosophise or reflect. By making all the other castes as near to mere mechanisms as we could, our caste feel we have guaranteed the most efficient and capable ship. In many ways, it’s for our mutual benefit. The modifications you have received, the indoctrination you have embraced, these things have improved our chances for survival. But whether you are like a ship or not is ultimately irrelevant. A ship is essentially a vessel for its passengers. The simplest way I can explain the situation, is that I am a passenger of the ship, I am seeking its destination, whilst you are more part of the ship than you are anything else. We are as closest we have ever been to making a worker a literal tool and little else. You are not like a ship, you are merely a component. Do you understand?”
The worker felt it did understand and, more than this, it felt it disagreed. Throughout the navigator’s lecturing the two of them had been moving. They were now coming to a stand that held a large book upon it and the navigator stopped to flick through its pages. Now that they had stopped moving, the worker felt ready to speak.
“But if I’m a tool, if I’m incapable of thinking and merely complete my set tasks, then why am I here? If I am so bound by the routine, then why have I broken it?”
“Well, let’s see if you can offer an explanation,” said the navigator still working through the book, slowly stroking each page and then turning it. The worker considered the question and thought back to the rebellious worker’s fiery speech: ‘Seek their book, seek their truth!’ ‘If we stay blind, we shall all be doomed!’
“I have come to discover the truth, I have come to see,” answered the worker confidently.
“To see what? To discover which truth? Your truth is your role. What you need to see you see every day. What you have seen tonight what has it answered for you? It has answered nothing, instead it has created more questions. Questions you cannot even phrase…”
The worker’s confidence dwindled. It asked with uncertainty, “Why do you think I have come here?”
“Like all tools that disrupt their routine, you have malfunctioned. I have a feeling you were in the room involving the incident with Worker A329? I can check if necessary.”
“No,” replied the worker, “don’t check, I was there.”
“Well, we know he delivered that speech. That caustic, childish drivel! To a navigator we can mock it for being the pathetic piece that it was but to a worker, with such a simple mind, it would no doubt have an incredible effect. It stirred things within you that we have made you suppress - feelings and passions - and now you have malfunctioned through these foolish demands for action. You are still a tool, but now you are broken, of no use.”
The worker lowered its head, as if ashamed. Then something flickered in its mind, something confusing and wonderful. ‘We know he delivered that speech’. “Worker A329 was a ‘he’?”
“Yes,” replied Aldous, “Worker A329 - male, white, blue eyes, brown hair, approximately a third of his working life expired. Sadly, the remaining two-thirds will not be completed. His name was Justin Wright, a descendent of the genes of Justin and Emma Wright.”
Worker A422 looked up at the navigator with a look of amazement when it felt both arms apprehended. The bulky forms of securers restrained the worker on both its sides. “Ah, and here you are,” announced the navigator, a finger upon the book, “Worker A422 - female, white, blue eyes, brown hair, approximately a fifth of your working life expired. Another unfortunate waste. Emma Wright - my word! Surely not a coincidence. A defective gene, perhaps…”
As the navigator mused over this discovery, the worker, Emma, felt herself come alive once more. She struggled against the securers but could not break from their powerful hold. “Let me go,” she screamed. The yell brought the navigator back to the situation at hand.
“Certainly not. You are wild, you are now not only a waste but a potential threat, a danger. You have only one use left, and that shall not be ascertained by allowing you to be unrestrained. I’m sorry worker, but its nearly time for you to leave.”
“My name is Emma,” she seethed.
“That may be who you are,” replied the navigator nonchalantly, “But that is not what you are. Worker we are on a journey and we are seeking a destination, a new home. We feel we are getting close. We can feel its warmth. Unfortunately, you will not see our new utopia any closer than it is now.” The navigator stood aside and raised an arm as an arrow, pointing to a transparent screen, a vast window revealing their destination. It glowed with astounding brightness upon the black canvas. A molten ball, a boiling hot star. Existence upon such a thing would be impossible, a fact that even Emma could uncover.
“If you go there, we shall die,” she said solemnly.
“What would you know?” replied the navigator. “We feel it is the best place to go and we are far more aware of things than you are.”
Emma felt frustrated by his indignant tone. “Can’t you see?” she asked.
“Who needs to see when you can feel?” answered the navigator.
“You mean you are blind?”
The navigator laughed. “You were closer with your first summation. Who is more blind, me or you. You have been pushing this ship ever forward without any ability to see where you have been going. You have had no reason to execute your actions but you blindly complete them because you have been so conditioned. The judgement of the navigator caste, who through our own genetic weakness have been denied sight, is surely far superior to yours. Your time of insolence is over, take her away.” Upon the navigator’s command, the securers began to drag Emma away.
“Your course is set for death!” Emma attempted to warn the navigator once more. With no verbal response, Aldous made a hand motion and the securers silenced the ex-worker.
Emma was dragged back down the stairway, along the corridor she had passed countless times before and into the Shifthall where she had spent such a great deal of her life working. She looked at the workers on shift with pleading eyes but the grip of the securers was unshakable. Then the door at the end of the hall opened and she was immersed in darkness. She could see little and heard nothing but the solemn steps of the securers. Another door creaked open, she was thrown and her entire body collided with a wall, winding her. The door closed. A few seconds later she gathered back her breath and began to feel the walls for an exit. Her search was working with little success when a voice came over a speaker:
“Welcome. You have malfunctioned and this is where you must reside until you complete your final use. The workers use the metallic oars to project us further but are not our only source of motion. We also use fuel to aid projection. You are destined to be fuel earlier than expected. We shall be calling upon you soon.”
Emma sat down in the darkness, blind once again. Everyone on the ship was incapable of seeing and they were blindly moving to their demise. The lower castes conditioned to be blind servants. And the navigators were literally blind but were suffering from a worse type of blindness. Their blind arrogance was leading the ship to a burning death. And the ship crawled on…
Julian's Hell
I think this is the earliest of my writing - goes back to 2002 or 2003. It's quite dark and I suppose quite strangely written. I realise these little introductions don't really detail much of the text but then, I'm trying not to mess with your own reading of the different pieces. This one is about 5000 words.
21st January:
So, that was my first day here. Wherever here is, I really haven’t been paying attention, all I know is I don’t deserve this. Discipline. Well, I’m no disciple, they won’t have me bowing down, bastards. Think they can tell me what to do. When I don’t listen they make sure I can only do as they say. Trapped behind these walls, the outside calling me with a birdsong or a branch beckoning in the wind. I will get out of here.
Don’t show you much on the first day, the hell really starts tomorrow. Not that it hasn’t already started- Hell is all this place has been, all it will be. Filled with people like me, people that won’t learn, that won’t SHUT UP. Three hours and I already hate it, who is anyone to tell me where I should be. Those who judged me- they think they know what’s best for me. They don’t have a clue, they just want me gone, forgotten. I gave Hell, so they took me to it. Well, I’m not going to say I’m sorry. They can’t make me repent… I’d rather DIE. May as well tell you what I’ve seen. The canteen looked alright. Just where they slop out the same old crap. The food here is meant to be great, I’m lucky. Yeah, I feel lucky. How lucky can you be trapped in here, filled with a bunch of wankers ready to judge you as quickly as you are to judge them. Shit, everyone thinks they’re God, that they know all. Well, I’ll tell you, if they all know so much, why am I so different? And what they doing here, anyway. If they’re God, shouldn’t they be everywhere…Omnipresent? Well God, I hope your present as I’m on m’knees:
Dear Father,
I know you’re busy, you guard all on earth,
‘Till they’re buried, from their birth,
But I ask you, Lord, hear my plea,
Free me from this prison, let me be,
Amen.
Fuck it, he never listens. I always call, but he never hears. I know why I’m here, I know I did wrong. Who knows, maybe I’ll persevere and end up back in the Garden of Eden. Funny how we consider things, our views are always changing. It’s like one day a mirror will tell us how great we look, the next we hate it, smash it and it plagues us for seven years.
The only other place I’ve seen is where I am now. This piece of shit where I sleep. It’s hard this bed, my pillow feels like a rock. No one else seems to care, they’re all asleep. Met the guy beneath my bunk, he’s alright. If a fat bastard who’s Mr. Optimist is alright. He talks about how great it is here, how I’m sure to fit in. Well, I don’t want to fit in…maybe that’s why I will? Haven’t talked to anyone else yet, don’t really want to. Bet they’ve already had a real good bitch. Been here three hours and it’s already- ‘the new one looks like a wanker’ ‘the new guy better not try to get matey with me’- well, don’t worry anyone, you’re all a bunch of idiots, already. Got the picture of my mum and dad up. I loved ‘em. But it goes to show, give anyone anything and they’ll take a whole lot more. ‘Give an inch and they’ll take a mile.’ Well, I gave a yard and I still suffer. Bastards. Nothing else to say about the room except for the walls. They make me feel sick. They’re this horrible, fleshy colour, meant to make us feel calm and tranquil but it just looks like skin plastered over the walls. These bastard walls of flesh, they trap me, keep me away from where I want to be. How I hate this flesh.
22nd January:
Well, now I know why I hate this place so much. All this patronising, this talking down to. Like we need some direction in our lives. How can we have direction when we’re in here. We’re at the bottom and we can only go lower. Why try and sell us hope, offer us salvation, like they’ll turn the clock back. We have our punishment and it will never be changed. Freedom can only come from doing as are told, and they are telling us we can’t be free. How can they think us so blind?
Then there are the other people. I haven’t said much around them, kept quiet, don’t want them to think of me as some loud-mouth prick. However, I talked when I was spoken to, don’t want to make trouble for myself. This one guy, Jake, asked me where I was from, so I tell him Hatfield. Couldn’t say much else, just it was nice. Then one of his mates, forget his name, asks me if I like it here. I tried not to laugh. I said ‘What’s not to like?’ They smiled. Don’t know if they really got what I was saying, but it felt nice anyway. We talked a little bit, I think I have some people now to talk to. Don’t really like them but I can’t stay an outsider, that’s been made abundantly clear. No acceptance outside, but a bit of acceptance in here; but I’m not stupid. I’m not going to let too much slip. Not yet, for there may be consequences…
Well, the food was alright. A bit typical, but then I’m not here to eat, I’m here to learn. The learning isn’t great either though. Like I said, a load of patronisers- the Patron Saints of Patronising. Talking to me like I’m a retard. I made a mistake, but that doesn’t mean I AM one. They are all just talking shit about stuff I already know. God, there attentiveness is killing me, it’s not so much like I should expect something from them but the other way round. Well, if they want a teacher, why follow he who won’t be taught – the one they think so blind? They really piss me off. Asked me if I wanted any books or anything, but I’ve got the two I need with me. My photo album, filling me with memories, a reason to get out and be free again. The second is this one, my Bible. Telling me what it is like, letting me get what’s off my chest. This is my priest behind a screen. Just as blank, just waiting to be filled, like a jug of confession, only this one doesn’t pour out any judgement. You only have your own thoughts staring back at you, judge yourself by what you wrote. Both my gift and my hex: My Deity. My Diary.
Oh God, I know I act like I can stand this place but I can’t. It’s not home, I don’t feel safe. This is no haven, no respite. Nothing I can do will make me feel free, everything here is torment, memory. I need an escape, if I don’t leave this place soon I will go mad. These past two days. One of travelling and one of introduction. They’ve made me weary, frustrated and lonely. Should I give this a chance? Fine, one chance. It’s all I got, and if they expect more then they are mistaken. So, tomorrow is a new day and I will be a new person. Reincarnated. Down with the people to be happy once more.
23rd January:
A glimmer of hope? On the third day a light at the end of the tunnel is found. Friendship? Not yet, but so much potential…and chance is better than no chance. Talking more to Jake and his friends made me feel something never quite felt before. Not understood, you don’t understand someone from two meetings- the world wasn’t made in a day. Maybe accepted? Is that what I mean? I think so, it is nice. An opportunity, this is what I have and what I was meant to have.
These people are not perfect, far from it. They have a little bit of attitude, you can tell that not everyone likes them, but at the same time, no one is liked by everyone. I don’t mind their forwardness, it’s nice, different. However, this effort to be welcomed is coming at a price. These guardians, those we’re meant to follow, they are not revered by my new found allies, but condemned. Much as I did when I first met them, they are both oppressors and those that insult our minds. We find these preachers, teachers, perverse and twisted. Instead of being sheep happily led by the shepherd, we seem to have a bit of wolf in ourselves. Me included. Where before my disapproval had been muted by isolation, to merely be screamed from this tome, it is now becoming a noise amongst many, encouraging my thoughts, Our thoughts. Our rebellion is almost blasphemy, and we are viewed with caution as all perceived as potential heretics. I wonder if they think I can be saved? Will I be put back, back on to the righteous path? Who knows?
Mr. Optimist was not so much today, it appears some of the mist has cleared and the rosy view has some weeds choking it. He warns me, he swears there will be consequence. Well, we shall wait and see for I have a feeling that my destiny is soon to be found, and my fate sealed. And, while I know that tragedy and eternal torment may be my punishment I am not willing to dismiss this chance to be accepted, to be with people that do not immediately condemn me. I have seen. The path forks and I chose my journey, now I must follow it to the end. To my end…
Before I sleep tonight, I take another look at the walls. Do they calm me now? They certainly no longer frustrate me, make my stomach twist into knots. No, they do give me some peace of mind. For their fleshy tones no longer scream of entrapment, they no longer keep me from running. Instead they protect me, I have returned to the womb, deep inside I feel its warmth and affection, and now… I welcome it.
24th January:
My progression here is strange. How sure I was that I would detest this place. This cage, treating me like some kind of beast, placing me amongst others condemned as unfit to live outside. Yet, it appears more to be an escape from where I am different. We are not monsters, merely misunderstood. And as our purpose in here is unclear, so much so that our guides struggle to guide us, we have found unity in something other than goals…in our lack of them. And so, I find myself lost but at the same time very much found. Lost, as in no direction, aimlessly travelling. Lost as in no hope, I am a lost cause…they are ready to wash their hands of me and I am being swept away…To where? Who knows, but I do not fear this current, I place my faith in it. Today, as they continued to mock us and our intelligence we retaliated. Due to my new found (dis)position and my already apparent frustration I was willing to lash out at those that are meant to control me here. As they lectured to us all, and as they listed their demands, I ignored them and when they declared their dissatisfaction, I returned by shouting at them. I unleashed my frustrations, and I mocked their intelligence in a far less sneaky, snake-like manner. My tongue is not forked, it is sharp, and I cut deep. I was punished. Made to pay my sins. In isolation I found myself. Nothing to confide in but four walls and a watcher. It was Hell, it was what I expected all along. This was judgement, this was spite, this is what I hated. However, this time it did not fill me with dread because I had demanded it. And I sat on that chair, the one reserved for those that have gone too far, I sat there as if it was a throne. I was a leader and my acquaintances revered me. One even followed my lead. Found himself, too, trapped – placed into solitary confinement. They are strict on disobedience here, well so shall I be. I shall demand it as much as they demand it to be punished. They drove me to where I am, they can be punished for that. These actions have given me a heightened level of respect. I am now welcomed fully, the price has been paid. To receive your thirty pieces of silver for a betrayal you should do doesn’t result in regret and self-loathing.
Another gift was given to me today. I, as was everyone, was allowed outside today. I could not leave the grounds, obviously, but I could leave the walls. The sun caressed my skin, welcoming me back, and the wind stroked my hair as lovingly as any mother to her son. I ran freely, and inhaled the sweet air. It felt good to be back with nature, but it wasn’t depressing. Knowing that I had been allowed some freedom was better than not having any, and I was not going to feel like this was a tease. It was more a reminder of what shall be mine to experience, without ANY constraint, when I am finally free. This place may still be Hell. It may still be a cage but it is not the horror I had anticipated. Those that have been dragged here, those that resent it, they unite as kindred spirits. We may be isolated from all the others, persecuted for being slightly off-the-beaten-path, but we have each other and we thank ourselves for such small blessings. So as long as I have like-minded souls and this occasional freedom, I have all I need. And when freedom does come, it will be all the sweeter for having survived.
And now, as I rest on this hardened mattress, no more comfortable than toughened earth, I reflect on my parents. As I stare at their photo, separate from my more sacred memories, held in the scrap book, I look at them confused. Do I hate them? Do I resent them for making me be here? I don’t know, I look at their picture and, more than anything, I am saddened. I am saddened because I think I still resent them and this feeling is reciprocated. Bastards. I do still hate them. I hate their actions, though they have had unexpected, beneficial repercussions. The fortune wasn’t planned, least of all by them. Now I am truly crying, my tears make this earth sodden. The mattress is flooded, with my tears of regret. Each drop holds a piece of my emotion and I am slowly being drained. Swept off into a river of sleep. I leave you with a trembling hand that rights this piece and a scalding tear hot with regret and anger…
25th January:
Today my actions are received with even greater animosity by those they frustrate. Both our preachers and the converted react with hostility to our arrogance and ignorance to their teachings. Our resilience to their indoctrination is far from appreciated and so our indifference was met with not isolation this time. No dismissal, apart from to go to an office, to a confrontation. Sent to the Leader of this order- the high priest himself. Few words were shared before I got sent there. I merely gave some justified, though provocative, criticism. I sent this place to Damnation! Well, if it wasn’t already there. I think it really rubbed the ‘Patron(ising) Saint’ the wrong way. It freaked out some of the class too. I am slightly concerned that maybe I’ve become too relaxed, possibly this new blessing that can be described as friendship has made me throw caution to the wind. Perhaps I will suffer. Anyway, so after my ‘shocking’ (because that is what honesty is) condemnation I was met by this ‘great’ man, this Master. We discussed ‘my attitude,’ which I consider to be comparable to my group but I am being made the scapegoat- the martyr. This ‘alternative way of thinking’ is not productive. Apparently, things could get harder for me. Really? Well being treated harshly is a step up from being treated like an idiot, a simpleton. I explained that I wasn’t going to divert from my opinions, as I was entitled to them and to express them. I think this world, behind these walls, is mocking us, its captors, and I resent it. I ask if that is unjustified? It appears not, according to the gentleman I was talking to. He understood that I was ‘hurt’ and ‘bitter’ and he accepted that my opinion should be allowed, but he preferred it if I expressed my difficulties in a more ‘traditional fashion’. Apparently, my ‘irate attacks’ at those ‘just doing their jobs’ and ‘just trying to help’ made them suffer unjustifiably. I did not argue then, but don’t we judge those that do the devil’s work. Someone’s got to do it? It makes me fucking sick how people can be so easily forgiven, little repentance is needed- we ALREADY UNDERSTAND? Understand everybody but me. I may have some form of unity here, but right then I was very much alone, and I could feel myself nearly bowing down to them. But they can’t break my faith! I rested upon it, propped myself upright with it and held my head up high. I agreed to some sort of compromise. As in my concerns would be considered if I didn’t act in that ‘confrontational manner.’ With these concessions I was free to leave.
I met Jake and the others in the canteen. They asked me what happen and I gave them the story near enough as I told it above. They were impressed, no one said anything but I fed off their pride, I felt glad that I had pleased them. One or two were concerned about what I said. One, Harry, asked if I was some kind of ‘Jesus freak’. It was thought strange that when I get angry I turn to religion, even in how I express myself. Like I mentioned before, I am concerned that I might be letting too much go too soon. I am nervous about the consequences, but I shall see if this proves disastrous later.
And so too bed, and tonight I feel totally comfortable with myself as everything has proven itself to be okay. Faith has been my support, my crutch, my oaken staff. As long as I have support from those I have met here I will not falter. I will not fail.
26th January:
As it turns out, today I have time to write before lunch. Again, we have been allowed to venture outside. It is beautiful here. I went on a walk alone. I went through the dense wood, thick with wild plants and animals. As I walked through the wilderness, even on such a cold day, with its chilling breeze, I felt warmed deep inside. It was a strange feeling, one I am sure is to be described as contentment. While I hate this place for not letting me be free, I love it for its isolation and purity. Untainted by the sick, sick world that lies just beyond its borders. There are hints of it here- drugs, lust and other horrors, but at the same time the amount is so small, it is free from the Hell outside it. It is innocent.
So, onwards through the walk, taking in the incredible beauty of nature at its most pure, completely alone, and I felt the most amount of joy I have ever felt. It seems that I have all I need here. Enough beauty to satisfy my soul and enough Hell as to keep me occupied in my mission to cleanse. I think I will buy a camera. I will begin a new scrap book, collect new memories and, in time, destroy those other ones. They were great but these, they will be more natural, more favoured. More. Anyway, as it is lunch I will write back after. It seems that I need to pour my soul into this book to collect these memories. This will not be bitter it seems, but the sweetest treasure I will ever cherish. To be the most precious of things until my dying day.
There is a hint that maybe I didn’t take my own warnings too seriously.
They are pursuing my belief in religion. It is not my faith that infatuates them but the extreme. They ask of my parents, grandparents, schools. None of these answer their questions. They became puzzled, and intrigued. They demanded to know, to understand. Who am I to deny those that welcomed me so, that have stood by me, been so attentive for no reason other than they accept me? So I explained. About finding a Bible when I was young, about those hard days at the age of four where I discovered the old tatty book that called out to me. I had been so stressed and I escaped. This book began to shape my life, it helped me to understand. Of course, I don’t need to get anymore precise. It is obvious what I told them. That day will never need photos or words to keep fresh. The reason I am still nervous, uncomfortable even, is because I am uncertain of the repercussions, if any. While they all took interest, and I am sure it was not out of politeness, their reaction to it was quite blank. I don’t think they were indifferent, but they were quiet about their thoughts. Only Harry and Samuel gave me any opinion. Sam was amused, considered me strange, but it did not feel condescending, merely as if he thought it alien, understandable, I’m sure. Harry, on the other hand, seemed touched, he thought it was cool that I had found faith in something. And it is. It is very good to have found faith in something.
I think, on reflection, I am being too cautious. I’m sure everything is okay.
Now the day has come to an end. It was quite slow moving but I really did have nothing to do. Never mind, it’s over now and it wasn’t exactly painful. Just a bit dull after lunch. Still, I am now suited here. Everyone was quiet about what we’d discussed earlier so fair to assume it has passed. Didn’t really see them much. Saw Luke though, that’s Mr. Optimist, and he started asking all sorts of stupid questions about what was going on. Doesn’t like trouble it seems. Well, I explained that we don’t have to be silent, what we have to say matters. It is what we tell people that affects the world. Our world. What we say and what we do are vital, they decided our fate. He said he doesn’t like the look of mine, some sort gospel that is. Pessimistic son of a bitch. I have taken down the photo of my parents and put it in my old scrap book. They can be a precious memory of the past too. I forgive and I forget. I move on.
BASTARDS. They betrayed me! They are the fucking snake leading me to false freedom, false wisdom. These bastards they worked to launch an arrow at the heavens and I aided the folly’s fucking construction. These foul heretics of cruel design. These fucking perverts of truth. They made me so blind, placed a holy mirage in front of me and I fell under its spell like many a blind man. Oh God, why couldn’t I have seen earlier? WHY! Their deceitful whispers lulled me into emotions unknown, and I became hesitant, ignorant (even to my own subconscious warnings!) My sin was complacency. COMPLA-SIN-SY! And now I will suffer as these sick bastards have dragged me to Hell. Crawling, screaming I descend. Bastards! BASTARDS! They are Lucifer leading rebellion tempting from the virtuous path. They are Lucifer tempting Jesus in the Wilderness. They are Lucifer. THEY ARE LUCIFER.
A pox on your family, to crawl on their bellies forever more,
A pox on your mothers each is a bitch, a diseased-ridden whore,
A pox on your fathers full of each sin, fattened on wrong,
A pox on your lies, an evil, tempting caress from every forked-tongue,
A pox on your children, the vermin to infest this sick place,
A pox on your partners who mate with a devilish disgrace,
A pox on you all, you are forever blighted and damned,
And a pox is on I, just as you always had planned.
BASTARDS! They shall suffer. Suffer deep consequences- GUILT SHALL ENVELOP THEM ALL! I attack my skin, my corrupt, horrid flesh. My wrists now cut open, let the impurities run out. Never mind the stains, this is your last day- my last day. Every sin I indulged in pours out like a red stream of repentance. I AM sorry, I bow down to you! I was wrong. But I am suffering. I can feel my strength fade, but it’s already gone, went mere hours before this. When they destroyed my friendship. My faith. How could I have been so ignorant? Well Father, forgive me. I am coming to your judgement now, the only one that matters, ever mattered. My watch! It bleeps! It is a new day. The SEVENTH DAY. THE DAY OF REST. Well, they will never rest easy. I CONDEMN YOU ALL. BASTARDS!
He slapped the book, crumpled from dried blood, in front of Mr and Mrs Joabe. As it hit the great oak table, it felt just as if they’d been slapped round the face. Another book followed, its cover bloodied but its insides untouched. This was far from subtle but there was no easy way to handle this situation.
“These were found with his body, on his bunk,” he began. Then he hesitated. Which book should they discuss first. He tapped the blood-stained diary, “This gives quite a clear account of how your son was feeling here. Can you tell me, why did you decide on a boarding school for Julian?”
“Well, you see,” began Mark Joabe, “We had had a big argument with Julian at the start of the Christmas holidays and we decided that he needed supervision we couldn’t give him. He hurt us, Mr. Prior, and we needed a break. Both of us did. I guess we just needed some time apart.” A solitary tear crawled down his cheek. He bowed his head in regret. He never meant for this to happen.
“I’m very sorry to tell you this, but, we believe that Julian was a truly disturbed teenager. We only have the details of these two books but they suggest a complete fanatic, a crazed-zealot.” The stares that Prior received made him sharply realise that he had just been extremely insensitive, all the more so for not letting the parents finish reading the diary. He asked them to read it in full and check out the ‘scrapbook’ as well.
Upon conclusion the parents became sickly pale. Their child clearly had been very distraught but had never turned to them. Maybe his heated accusations were true. Maybe they were disgraceful sinners and, what Julian didn’t mention but remained a painfully apparent indictment- awful parents. Their faces reddened with the heat of embarrassment upon his mention of ‘hard days at the age of four,’ when Mark’s Dad had passed away, around the same time he and Charlotte had been going through a rocky patch. Julian had kept so quiet, confiding and escaping into his bible and not his parents. They had been so clueless this whole time. Sending him away merely highlighted the point: They couldn’t deal with their son. The next book was harder to take. This is what truly horrified them. Pictures of murder. Hangings, knifings, asphyxiations and other, more horrid methods of torture were collected. Worse was that these were not newspaper clippings, no collection from the Internet or books or anything else. These were photos, a collection of murders, each dated. The ragged victims, seemed to suggest drug users and prostitutes. Julian appeared to have been God’s righteous hand of justice before being sent away. And here he had killed himself. Possibly hating what he had become, what he had found himself associated with. The parents hesitated. Scared, blaming themselves for what had happened, certain that the accusations were directed to them just as much as those who’d been more directly attacked. “Have you talked to this gang he’d been associated with?” came Charlotte’s trembling voice, breaking the guilty air of silence.
“We have,” Said Prior, “apparently a couple of them pulled a childish prank aimed at Julian’s religious fervour. We are still discussing punishment. I assure we will be harsh but nothing to the amount they are punishing themselves.”
“And…How is Luke?”
“He is coping but not well. It was a terrible fright to him, such a thing to find must be hellish.” Silence again.
Funeral arrangements were discussed and it was agreed that the school would pay some sort of tribute. A memory to Julian Joabe, aged 15. But no one needed anything to remember him. His presence would encircle the despised boarding school forevermore. Wherever he rests it will be a Heaven, for his whole life was Julian’s Hell.
Julian’s Hell
21st January:
So, that was my first day here. Wherever here is, I really haven’t been paying attention, all I know is I don’t deserve this. Discipline. Well, I’m no disciple, they won’t have me bowing down, bastards. Think they can tell me what to do. When I don’t listen they make sure I can only do as they say. Trapped behind these walls, the outside calling me with a birdsong or a branch beckoning in the wind. I will get out of here.
Don’t show you much on the first day, the hell really starts tomorrow. Not that it hasn’t already started- Hell is all this place has been, all it will be. Filled with people like me, people that won’t learn, that won’t SHUT UP. Three hours and I already hate it, who is anyone to tell me where I should be. Those who judged me- they think they know what’s best for me. They don’t have a clue, they just want me gone, forgotten. I gave Hell, so they took me to it. Well, I’m not going to say I’m sorry. They can’t make me repent… I’d rather DIE. May as well tell you what I’ve seen. The canteen looked alright. Just where they slop out the same old crap. The food here is meant to be great, I’m lucky. Yeah, I feel lucky. How lucky can you be trapped in here, filled with a bunch of wankers ready to judge you as quickly as you are to judge them. Shit, everyone thinks they’re God, that they know all. Well, I’ll tell you, if they all know so much, why am I so different? And what they doing here, anyway. If they’re God, shouldn’t they be everywhere…Omnipresent? Well God, I hope your present as I’m on m’knees:
Dear Father,
I know you’re busy, you guard all on earth,
‘Till they’re buried, from their birth,
But I ask you, Lord, hear my plea,
Free me from this prison, let me be,
Amen.
Fuck it, he never listens. I always call, but he never hears. I know why I’m here, I know I did wrong. Who knows, maybe I’ll persevere and end up back in the Garden of Eden. Funny how we consider things, our views are always changing. It’s like one day a mirror will tell us how great we look, the next we hate it, smash it and it plagues us for seven years.
The only other place I’ve seen is where I am now. This piece of shit where I sleep. It’s hard this bed, my pillow feels like a rock. No one else seems to care, they’re all asleep. Met the guy beneath my bunk, he’s alright. If a fat bastard who’s Mr. Optimist is alright. He talks about how great it is here, how I’m sure to fit in. Well, I don’t want to fit in…maybe that’s why I will? Haven’t talked to anyone else yet, don’t really want to. Bet they’ve already had a real good bitch. Been here three hours and it’s already- ‘the new one looks like a wanker’ ‘the new guy better not try to get matey with me’- well, don’t worry anyone, you’re all a bunch of idiots, already. Got the picture of my mum and dad up. I loved ‘em. But it goes to show, give anyone anything and they’ll take a whole lot more. ‘Give an inch and they’ll take a mile.’ Well, I gave a yard and I still suffer. Bastards. Nothing else to say about the room except for the walls. They make me feel sick. They’re this horrible, fleshy colour, meant to make us feel calm and tranquil but it just looks like skin plastered over the walls. These bastard walls of flesh, they trap me, keep me away from where I want to be. How I hate this flesh.
22nd January:
Well, now I know why I hate this place so much. All this patronising, this talking down to. Like we need some direction in our lives. How can we have direction when we’re in here. We’re at the bottom and we can only go lower. Why try and sell us hope, offer us salvation, like they’ll turn the clock back. We have our punishment and it will never be changed. Freedom can only come from doing as are told, and they are telling us we can’t be free. How can they think us so blind?
Then there are the other people. I haven’t said much around them, kept quiet, don’t want them to think of me as some loud-mouth prick. However, I talked when I was spoken to, don’t want to make trouble for myself. This one guy, Jake, asked me where I was from, so I tell him Hatfield. Couldn’t say much else, just it was nice. Then one of his mates, forget his name, asks me if I like it here. I tried not to laugh. I said ‘What’s not to like?’ They smiled. Don’t know if they really got what I was saying, but it felt nice anyway. We talked a little bit, I think I have some people now to talk to. Don’t really like them but I can’t stay an outsider, that’s been made abundantly clear. No acceptance outside, but a bit of acceptance in here; but I’m not stupid. I’m not going to let too much slip. Not yet, for there may be consequences…
Well, the food was alright. A bit typical, but then I’m not here to eat, I’m here to learn. The learning isn’t great either though. Like I said, a load of patronisers- the Patron Saints of Patronising. Talking to me like I’m a retard. I made a mistake, but that doesn’t mean I AM one. They are all just talking shit about stuff I already know. God, there attentiveness is killing me, it’s not so much like I should expect something from them but the other way round. Well, if they want a teacher, why follow he who won’t be taught – the one they think so blind? They really piss me off. Asked me if I wanted any books or anything, but I’ve got the two I need with me. My photo album, filling me with memories, a reason to get out and be free again. The second is this one, my Bible. Telling me what it is like, letting me get what’s off my chest. This is my priest behind a screen. Just as blank, just waiting to be filled, like a jug of confession, only this one doesn’t pour out any judgement. You only have your own thoughts staring back at you, judge yourself by what you wrote. Both my gift and my hex: My Deity. My Diary.
Oh God, I know I act like I can stand this place but I can’t. It’s not home, I don’t feel safe. This is no haven, no respite. Nothing I can do will make me feel free, everything here is torment, memory. I need an escape, if I don’t leave this place soon I will go mad. These past two days. One of travelling and one of introduction. They’ve made me weary, frustrated and lonely. Should I give this a chance? Fine, one chance. It’s all I got, and if they expect more then they are mistaken. So, tomorrow is a new day and I will be a new person. Reincarnated. Down with the people to be happy once more.
23rd January:
A glimmer of hope? On the third day a light at the end of the tunnel is found. Friendship? Not yet, but so much potential…and chance is better than no chance. Talking more to Jake and his friends made me feel something never quite felt before. Not understood, you don’t understand someone from two meetings- the world wasn’t made in a day. Maybe accepted? Is that what I mean? I think so, it is nice. An opportunity, this is what I have and what I was meant to have.
These people are not perfect, far from it. They have a little bit of attitude, you can tell that not everyone likes them, but at the same time, no one is liked by everyone. I don’t mind their forwardness, it’s nice, different. However, this effort to be welcomed is coming at a price. These guardians, those we’re meant to follow, they are not revered by my new found allies, but condemned. Much as I did when I first met them, they are both oppressors and those that insult our minds. We find these preachers, teachers, perverse and twisted. Instead of being sheep happily led by the shepherd, we seem to have a bit of wolf in ourselves. Me included. Where before my disapproval had been muted by isolation, to merely be screamed from this tome, it is now becoming a noise amongst many, encouraging my thoughts, Our thoughts. Our rebellion is almost blasphemy, and we are viewed with caution as all perceived as potential heretics. I wonder if they think I can be saved? Will I be put back, back on to the righteous path? Who knows?
Mr. Optimist was not so much today, it appears some of the mist has cleared and the rosy view has some weeds choking it. He warns me, he swears there will be consequence. Well, we shall wait and see for I have a feeling that my destiny is soon to be found, and my fate sealed. And, while I know that tragedy and eternal torment may be my punishment I am not willing to dismiss this chance to be accepted, to be with people that do not immediately condemn me. I have seen. The path forks and I chose my journey, now I must follow it to the end. To my end…
Before I sleep tonight, I take another look at the walls. Do they calm me now? They certainly no longer frustrate me, make my stomach twist into knots. No, they do give me some peace of mind. For their fleshy tones no longer scream of entrapment, they no longer keep me from running. Instead they protect me, I have returned to the womb, deep inside I feel its warmth and affection, and now… I welcome it.
24th January:
My progression here is strange. How sure I was that I would detest this place. This cage, treating me like some kind of beast, placing me amongst others condemned as unfit to live outside. Yet, it appears more to be an escape from where I am different. We are not monsters, merely misunderstood. And as our purpose in here is unclear, so much so that our guides struggle to guide us, we have found unity in something other than goals…in our lack of them. And so, I find myself lost but at the same time very much found. Lost, as in no direction, aimlessly travelling. Lost as in no hope, I am a lost cause…they are ready to wash their hands of me and I am being swept away…To where? Who knows, but I do not fear this current, I place my faith in it. Today, as they continued to mock us and our intelligence we retaliated. Due to my new found (dis)position and my already apparent frustration I was willing to lash out at those that are meant to control me here. As they lectured to us all, and as they listed their demands, I ignored them and when they declared their dissatisfaction, I returned by shouting at them. I unleashed my frustrations, and I mocked their intelligence in a far less sneaky, snake-like manner. My tongue is not forked, it is sharp, and I cut deep. I was punished. Made to pay my sins. In isolation I found myself. Nothing to confide in but four walls and a watcher. It was Hell, it was what I expected all along. This was judgement, this was spite, this is what I hated. However, this time it did not fill me with dread because I had demanded it. And I sat on that chair, the one reserved for those that have gone too far, I sat there as if it was a throne. I was a leader and my acquaintances revered me. One even followed my lead. Found himself, too, trapped – placed into solitary confinement. They are strict on disobedience here, well so shall I be. I shall demand it as much as they demand it to be punished. They drove me to where I am, they can be punished for that. These actions have given me a heightened level of respect. I am now welcomed fully, the price has been paid. To receive your thirty pieces of silver for a betrayal you should do doesn’t result in regret and self-loathing.
Another gift was given to me today. I, as was everyone, was allowed outside today. I could not leave the grounds, obviously, but I could leave the walls. The sun caressed my skin, welcoming me back, and the wind stroked my hair as lovingly as any mother to her son. I ran freely, and inhaled the sweet air. It felt good to be back with nature, but it wasn’t depressing. Knowing that I had been allowed some freedom was better than not having any, and I was not going to feel like this was a tease. It was more a reminder of what shall be mine to experience, without ANY constraint, when I am finally free. This place may still be Hell. It may still be a cage but it is not the horror I had anticipated. Those that have been dragged here, those that resent it, they unite as kindred spirits. We may be isolated from all the others, persecuted for being slightly off-the-beaten-path, but we have each other and we thank ourselves for such small blessings. So as long as I have like-minded souls and this occasional freedom, I have all I need. And when freedom does come, it will be all the sweeter for having survived.
And now, as I rest on this hardened mattress, no more comfortable than toughened earth, I reflect on my parents. As I stare at their photo, separate from my more sacred memories, held in the scrap book, I look at them confused. Do I hate them? Do I resent them for making me be here? I don’t know, I look at their picture and, more than anything, I am saddened. I am saddened because I think I still resent them and this feeling is reciprocated. Bastards. I do still hate them. I hate their actions, though they have had unexpected, beneficial repercussions. The fortune wasn’t planned, least of all by them. Now I am truly crying, my tears make this earth sodden. The mattress is flooded, with my tears of regret. Each drop holds a piece of my emotion and I am slowly being drained. Swept off into a river of sleep. I leave you with a trembling hand that rights this piece and a scalding tear hot with regret and anger…
25th January:
Today my actions are received with even greater animosity by those they frustrate. Both our preachers and the converted react with hostility to our arrogance and ignorance to their teachings. Our resilience to their indoctrination is far from appreciated and so our indifference was met with not isolation this time. No dismissal, apart from to go to an office, to a confrontation. Sent to the Leader of this order- the high priest himself. Few words were shared before I got sent there. I merely gave some justified, though provocative, criticism. I sent this place to Damnation! Well, if it wasn’t already there. I think it really rubbed the ‘Patron(ising) Saint’ the wrong way. It freaked out some of the class too. I am slightly concerned that maybe I’ve become too relaxed, possibly this new blessing that can be described as friendship has made me throw caution to the wind. Perhaps I will suffer. Anyway, so after my ‘shocking’ (because that is what honesty is) condemnation I was met by this ‘great’ man, this Master. We discussed ‘my attitude,’ which I consider to be comparable to my group but I am being made the scapegoat- the martyr. This ‘alternative way of thinking’ is not productive. Apparently, things could get harder for me. Really? Well being treated harshly is a step up from being treated like an idiot, a simpleton. I explained that I wasn’t going to divert from my opinions, as I was entitled to them and to express them. I think this world, behind these walls, is mocking us, its captors, and I resent it. I ask if that is unjustified? It appears not, according to the gentleman I was talking to. He understood that I was ‘hurt’ and ‘bitter’ and he accepted that my opinion should be allowed, but he preferred it if I expressed my difficulties in a more ‘traditional fashion’. Apparently, my ‘irate attacks’ at those ‘just doing their jobs’ and ‘just trying to help’ made them suffer unjustifiably. I did not argue then, but don’t we judge those that do the devil’s work. Someone’s got to do it? It makes me fucking sick how people can be so easily forgiven, little repentance is needed- we ALREADY UNDERSTAND? Understand everybody but me. I may have some form of unity here, but right then I was very much alone, and I could feel myself nearly bowing down to them. But they can’t break my faith! I rested upon it, propped myself upright with it and held my head up high. I agreed to some sort of compromise. As in my concerns would be considered if I didn’t act in that ‘confrontational manner.’ With these concessions I was free to leave.
I met Jake and the others in the canteen. They asked me what happen and I gave them the story near enough as I told it above. They were impressed, no one said anything but I fed off their pride, I felt glad that I had pleased them. One or two were concerned about what I said. One, Harry, asked if I was some kind of ‘Jesus freak’. It was thought strange that when I get angry I turn to religion, even in how I express myself. Like I mentioned before, I am concerned that I might be letting too much go too soon. I am nervous about the consequences, but I shall see if this proves disastrous later.
And so too bed, and tonight I feel totally comfortable with myself as everything has proven itself to be okay. Faith has been my support, my crutch, my oaken staff. As long as I have support from those I have met here I will not falter. I will not fail.
26th January:
As it turns out, today I have time to write before lunch. Again, we have been allowed to venture outside. It is beautiful here. I went on a walk alone. I went through the dense wood, thick with wild plants and animals. As I walked through the wilderness, even on such a cold day, with its chilling breeze, I felt warmed deep inside. It was a strange feeling, one I am sure is to be described as contentment. While I hate this place for not letting me be free, I love it for its isolation and purity. Untainted by the sick, sick world that lies just beyond its borders. There are hints of it here- drugs, lust and other horrors, but at the same time the amount is so small, it is free from the Hell outside it. It is innocent.
So, onwards through the walk, taking in the incredible beauty of nature at its most pure, completely alone, and I felt the most amount of joy I have ever felt. It seems that I have all I need here. Enough beauty to satisfy my soul and enough Hell as to keep me occupied in my mission to cleanse. I think I will buy a camera. I will begin a new scrap book, collect new memories and, in time, destroy those other ones. They were great but these, they will be more natural, more favoured. More. Anyway, as it is lunch I will write back after. It seems that I need to pour my soul into this book to collect these memories. This will not be bitter it seems, but the sweetest treasure I will ever cherish. To be the most precious of things until my dying day.
There is a hint that maybe I didn’t take my own warnings too seriously.
They are pursuing my belief in religion. It is not my faith that infatuates them but the extreme. They ask of my parents, grandparents, schools. None of these answer their questions. They became puzzled, and intrigued. They demanded to know, to understand. Who am I to deny those that welcomed me so, that have stood by me, been so attentive for no reason other than they accept me? So I explained. About finding a Bible when I was young, about those hard days at the age of four where I discovered the old tatty book that called out to me. I had been so stressed and I escaped. This book began to shape my life, it helped me to understand. Of course, I don’t need to get anymore precise. It is obvious what I told them. That day will never need photos or words to keep fresh. The reason I am still nervous, uncomfortable even, is because I am uncertain of the repercussions, if any. While they all took interest, and I am sure it was not out of politeness, their reaction to it was quite blank. I don’t think they were indifferent, but they were quiet about their thoughts. Only Harry and Samuel gave me any opinion. Sam was amused, considered me strange, but it did not feel condescending, merely as if he thought it alien, understandable, I’m sure. Harry, on the other hand, seemed touched, he thought it was cool that I had found faith in something. And it is. It is very good to have found faith in something.
I think, on reflection, I am being too cautious. I’m sure everything is okay.
Now the day has come to an end. It was quite slow moving but I really did have nothing to do. Never mind, it’s over now and it wasn’t exactly painful. Just a bit dull after lunch. Still, I am now suited here. Everyone was quiet about what we’d discussed earlier so fair to assume it has passed. Didn’t really see them much. Saw Luke though, that’s Mr. Optimist, and he started asking all sorts of stupid questions about what was going on. Doesn’t like trouble it seems. Well, I explained that we don’t have to be silent, what we have to say matters. It is what we tell people that affects the world. Our world. What we say and what we do are vital, they decided our fate. He said he doesn’t like the look of mine, some sort gospel that is. Pessimistic son of a bitch. I have taken down the photo of my parents and put it in my old scrap book. They can be a precious memory of the past too. I forgive and I forget. I move on.
BASTARDS. They betrayed me! They are the fucking snake leading me to false freedom, false wisdom. These bastards they worked to launch an arrow at the heavens and I aided the folly’s fucking construction. These foul heretics of cruel design. These fucking perverts of truth. They made me so blind, placed a holy mirage in front of me and I fell under its spell like many a blind man. Oh God, why couldn’t I have seen earlier? WHY! Their deceitful whispers lulled me into emotions unknown, and I became hesitant, ignorant (even to my own subconscious warnings!) My sin was complacency. COMPLA-SIN-SY! And now I will suffer as these sick bastards have dragged me to Hell. Crawling, screaming I descend. Bastards! BASTARDS! They are Lucifer leading rebellion tempting from the virtuous path. They are Lucifer tempting Jesus in the Wilderness. They are Lucifer. THEY ARE LUCIFER.
A pox on your family, to crawl on their bellies forever more,
A pox on your mothers each is a bitch, a diseased-ridden whore,
A pox on your fathers full of each sin, fattened on wrong,
A pox on your lies, an evil, tempting caress from every forked-tongue,
A pox on your children, the vermin to infest this sick place,
A pox on your partners who mate with a devilish disgrace,
A pox on you all, you are forever blighted and damned,
And a pox is on I, just as you always had planned.
BASTARDS! They shall suffer. Suffer deep consequences- GUILT SHALL ENVELOP THEM ALL! I attack my skin, my corrupt, horrid flesh. My wrists now cut open, let the impurities run out. Never mind the stains, this is your last day- my last day. Every sin I indulged in pours out like a red stream of repentance. I AM sorry, I bow down to you! I was wrong. But I am suffering. I can feel my strength fade, but it’s already gone, went mere hours before this. When they destroyed my friendship. My faith. How could I have been so ignorant? Well Father, forgive me. I am coming to your judgement now, the only one that matters, ever mattered. My watch! It bleeps! It is a new day. The SEVENTH DAY. THE DAY OF REST. Well, they will never rest easy. I CONDEMN YOU ALL. BASTARDS!
The Aftermath:
He slapped the book, crumpled from dried blood, in front of Mr and Mrs Joabe. As it hit the great oak table, it felt just as if they’d been slapped round the face. Another book followed, its cover bloodied but its insides untouched. This was far from subtle but there was no easy way to handle this situation.
“These were found with his body, on his bunk,” he began. Then he hesitated. Which book should they discuss first. He tapped the blood-stained diary, “This gives quite a clear account of how your son was feeling here. Can you tell me, why did you decide on a boarding school for Julian?”
“Well, you see,” began Mark Joabe, “We had had a big argument with Julian at the start of the Christmas holidays and we decided that he needed supervision we couldn’t give him. He hurt us, Mr. Prior, and we needed a break. Both of us did. I guess we just needed some time apart.” A solitary tear crawled down his cheek. He bowed his head in regret. He never meant for this to happen.
“I’m very sorry to tell you this, but, we believe that Julian was a truly disturbed teenager. We only have the details of these two books but they suggest a complete fanatic, a crazed-zealot.” The stares that Prior received made him sharply realise that he had just been extremely insensitive, all the more so for not letting the parents finish reading the diary. He asked them to read it in full and check out the ‘scrapbook’ as well.
Upon conclusion the parents became sickly pale. Their child clearly had been very distraught but had never turned to them. Maybe his heated accusations were true. Maybe they were disgraceful sinners and, what Julian didn’t mention but remained a painfully apparent indictment- awful parents. Their faces reddened with the heat of embarrassment upon his mention of ‘hard days at the age of four,’ when Mark’s Dad had passed away, around the same time he and Charlotte had been going through a rocky patch. Julian had kept so quiet, confiding and escaping into his bible and not his parents. They had been so clueless this whole time. Sending him away merely highlighted the point: They couldn’t deal with their son. The next book was harder to take. This is what truly horrified them. Pictures of murder. Hangings, knifings, asphyxiations and other, more horrid methods of torture were collected. Worse was that these were not newspaper clippings, no collection from the Internet or books or anything else. These were photos, a collection of murders, each dated. The ragged victims, seemed to suggest drug users and prostitutes. Julian appeared to have been God’s righteous hand of justice before being sent away. And here he had killed himself. Possibly hating what he had become, what he had found himself associated with. The parents hesitated. Scared, blaming themselves for what had happened, certain that the accusations were directed to them just as much as those who’d been more directly attacked. “Have you talked to this gang he’d been associated with?” came Charlotte’s trembling voice, breaking the guilty air of silence.
“We have,” Said Prior, “apparently a couple of them pulled a childish prank aimed at Julian’s religious fervour. We are still discussing punishment. I assure we will be harsh but nothing to the amount they are punishing themselves.”
“And…How is Luke?”
“He is coping but not well. It was a terrible fright to him, such a thing to find must be hellish.” Silence again.
Funeral arrangements were discussed and it was agreed that the school would pay some sort of tribute. A memory to Julian Joabe, aged 15. But no one needed anything to remember him. His presence would encircle the despised boarding school forevermore. Wherever he rests it will be a Heaven, for his whole life was Julian’s Hell.
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