Category: English

25

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A vendor pulled up to one of the park benches with his stall. The night was young and people are always hungry. Especially, he grinned to himself, after they caught a whiff of food as good as his floating in the air. He took a pair of wooden wedges out from one of his bulging trouser pockets, bent down beside the cart and threw them next to the wheels. Still on his haunches, he opened up the back of the cart and drew out some napkins, a collection of neon coloured plastic bottles of sauces, and cans of soda with different logos. He placed each in their own groups on the floor around him. When he was done, he stood up, rolled up his sleeves, and began to arrange them on the left side of the cart lid. He was short and stocky but the muscles in his arms revealed a lifetime of pushing and pulling a full cart around the city. His preparations were smooth and relaxed, like a performer rehearsing an old routine.

 

“She’s a beaut tonight, isn’t she?” He asked the young man on the bench as he flipped two covers open and wafts of aromatic steam billowed out into the night air. A passerby slowed to a stop, turning their head to find the source and looking at the cart with a mix of curiosity and hope. “They say,” he continued, glancing up briefly at Ellie, “that everyone sees her differently. “All Eyes look to Her but not All See Her”.” He chuckled to himself, stirring the contents of the two containers and releasing more steam. A small crowd of hungry-eyed customers had begun to gather.

“So tell me, how does she look to you?”

The young man did not respond immediately. The vendor pressed a button on the side of the cart and a hologram of a red and white pinstripe umbrella appeared above them, complete with blinking yellow OPEN sign.

Before he started the first shift, he looked over to the young man and found that he had lifted himself out of his slump and was staring at the tower. He turned to the vendor and simply said;

“Blue”

24

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The siren had jolted him out of his paralysed state. Its shrill alert cut through the regular thrum of the city night and brought him face to face with a name. A small bronze plaque stares at him from the bench; names of faceless citizens, long forgotten whose will forever support the backs and arses of the living. He sat down to the side of the carving, slouched beneath the street lights.

 

He stared with unseeing eyes, out into the crowds, searching deep within himself for some cavity, some empty space where he could house his grief, a room to store his sadness so he could put it to one side for now and find a way to participate in a world that insisted in moving on regardless.

 

His family would be on the way to the memorial by now. They would stand together; his father, mother and the twins, united in grief. Would they expect him? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

They would make their way to the memorial grove house. When their turn came, a bald man with a hooked nose would take their ticket and solemnly guide them to a suitable location. They could usually tell by sight whether or not to begin denomination determination but the info from the Retribs should have filtered through by now anyway. A release form used to be required and had to be signed by a direct family member. This was not necessary anymore. His family would be guided to a room with a photo, his grandfather’s belongings, pension and a state crafted bronze memorial plaque, probably embedded into stone or destined for a bench.

23

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The streets are awash with people. As soon as he steps outside, a torrent of bodies crash down on him. The evening rush teems with all forms and shades of life; business suits, working boots, uniforms, high heels, runners, flip flops, hats, runny noses, giggling, electronic alarms, smoke, dogs barking, babies crying, the beeps of reversing vehicals, all bubble up around him, swirling around corners, whirling around him, a mighty cachophony. But he hears nothing, sees nothing. He does not realise until much later that it is the jostling crowds that keep him bouyant and its flow that guides him down the currents of crowds, back towards his home.

Underfoot, tramping feet leave their indelible but imperceptible mark as they follow their regular course, eroding the cobbled streets bit by bit until pebbles and loose stone call the Repairmen to the scene.
In the City, crowds ebb and flow as regularly as the tide, filling the streets before the working day begins and emptying out again during the daylight hours, with scattered pools of people left on street benches or in parks, waiting for the next surge to carry them away again.
High tide draws in when darkness descends. The stench of sweat and dirt, the sweet scents of perfume and cologne, the aroma of frying miscellaneous meats that spit and sputter from street stalls, all swirl together and pour from the main boulevards down lanes and byroads, saturating the revellers who follow the swell of bodies home.
He ambles forward, numb to the people around him. Every step takes effort, as if he were walking under water. All noise becomes a murmur. He blinks back tears. Suddenly, the sharp shrill of a siren cuts through his reverie and he looks up. Across the road he spies a vacant bench and, turning slowly, he makes his way towards it.

22

  By ,

Kepa brushed his thumb across his grandfather’s knuckles. The thin skin stretched taut across bone and worn out cartilage. Arthritis had crippled him years ago but he had stubbornly refused any of his grandsons medical opinions. It was his body, to do or not do as he pleased.

– Rest in peace, Papi. He whispered, his breath turning to fog as the temperature in the room dropped.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack
Something was coming down the hall.
No alarm had sounded. The hospitals were not always the first to know when a patient died, but the stribs always knew. And they were always there to reclaim.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack.
The room temperature dropped again. Kepa looked at the door and shivered. He stepped back into the corner, pulling the shadows around him like a cloak.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety…
The door opened, white light screaming in. Two masked men and a trolley crossed the threshold. If they had noticed the shadow in the corner, they did not show it. They stopped next to the bed. One opened the trolley, swinging it from hinges at its centre, revealing rows of unlabelled, variously shaped compartments. They approached the body, and with measured, assured movements, swiftly dissected the body. Every part was removed, cleaned and repackaged, until the only thing left behind was an impression in the bed linen where the weight of a man’s body had rested. When the stribs left, they left a clean room, and the taste of metal hanging in the air.
Eventually, Kepa emerged from the shadows. He reached out to touch the bed. He had no idea why, there was nothing there. He turned back to the wall, grief swelling in his chest, and threw up.

21

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The first dead body he ever saw, died at his hands. He felt no remorse. His hand on the chest, feeling it rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall once again, for the last time. It had been a painless death, in the end.

He waited afterwards, sitting with the body in the dark, the imperceptible hard cold of death seeping up through his fingers. It had been the most difficult thing he had had to do in his life, and he would lose himself for years afterwards. No trace of him anywhere, as if he did not exist.

He came from a traditional family; some were even religious. It had been claustrophobic, and provided an easy root for a determined rebellion. He began to Alter.

First, it was just to see if he could get away with it, if they would notice anything. As he grew bolder so did his augmentations. Just as his dad had predicted, he had fallen in with the “wrong crowd”. Fortunately, the ” wrong crowd” was garnering attention from other, more interested and interesting parties.

 

He was trained to be precise, lethal. He had learned quickly.

But then his grandfather had become ill. It was his father who had contacted him. Tentative bridges were formed in solidarity against the diseases ravaging the elder’s body and mind. They were a traditional family. Nature would take it’s course. His father was deaf to any pleas, and sent grandfather to the hospital instead of getting treatment.

The deterioration was rapid and it tore the family apart as much as it pulled them together.

In that small, dark room, with the ventilators finally silenced, the sharp, constant lights, subdued, he was God. And it hurt like Hell.

He held his grandfather’s hand in his own, placed the other on the frail chest, and waited.

His father would never speak to him again.

20

  By

Ellie’s Shadow.

Everybody in the city knows how to tell the time without a watch – see where Ellie casts her shadow. Towering over the contours of the skyline, Ellie’s gaze faces east and west, north and south. She is the first to see the dawn and the last to catch the final strands of light setting over the horizon. She rises from a ground of white rock and her marble surface gleams in the sunshine. Her presence is constant, like time itself.

Some say the Elysium is the heart and brain of the city; all roads begin and end at her base, all intelligence passes through her corridors. She is the to and fro of the city, she is its constant vigilance. Her four faces see out past the wealth of the inner city limits, whose residents prefer and can afford the marble of the Elysium, out past the market sector, that broad band of jumbled buildings and bazaars encircling the inner city, acting as a physical buffer between the wealthy areas and the red-stained slabs of the tower block residences, which stand at the edge of the dome.

Within Ellie’s walls, agents worry the corridors. On the first floor, there are school tours being guided around a small room filled with historical details about past glories and heroes. This is the only floor open to the public. Most of the first ten floors are open to those with limited access and is comprised mainly of administrative staff. There are few people who know exactly sure how high Ellie is, because the lifts to the first ten floors only give the option of ten floors. There is more to her though, the city knows but it stands back, out of deference rather than ignorance. They know that if she falls, they all fall.

From her upper floors, an outside Agent screams before being sedated. The information will have to be enough for now. The exchange is tomorrow and the wipe needs time.

19

  By

On the first day, he had been beaten. His voice had been breaking at the same time. He was short, croaky, with a face full of adolescent pimples and swollen lips. That was when the short-lived nickname ‘Toad’ was born.

Nobody had called him that in years. In the camp, you could volunteer for different surgeries. He had. More than once.

Kepa brought his hand up to his face. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion in the void, but he knew he was fast. Nobody had beaten him again after that first time, and left unscathed. His fists and his footwork were unparalleled by the time the camps had closed. Every week, youngsters left the camp with a bruised eye, lip or ribs thanks to Kepa.

There was only one summer left until he reached adulthood and could claim independence when they had shut down, and his grandfather had worried that Kepa would have to stay with his father for the few months. He did not have to worry for long; just after the camps made their announcements, Kepa was contacted by more than one scout.

“Who came to you?”

There were many. He was smart too; excellent memory and problem solving skills, but some discovered his lone wolf tendencies and never called back.

“They wanted a team player?”

“I have Bianca…I’ve always had Bianca… She’s all I need.”

“Who is Bianca?”

Kepa began to fall faster. He clasped his hand to his chest, tightfisted.

“Where is Bianca?” He demanded. “What have you done with her!”

“Tell me the story of Bianca”.

The descent upward slowed, for a moment.

“No.”

“Tell me the story of Bianca”.

Kepa spiralled faster. “No! What. Have. You. Done. With. Bianca!”

 

 

 

 

 

18

  By

Kepa looked up at a sky blue ceiling, flecks of grey peeking through peeling paint, and fell towards it. In the calm of the upwards descent, a voice spoke to him.

“Tell me a story.”

“What kind would you like? A story about heroes? Lovers? Ghosts? A story about beginnings or a story about endings? Something humorous or something more serious?”

“Tell me a story that’s true”.

“All stories are true”.

“Tell me a story about you”.

In the endless descent, Kepa breathed, feeling his lungs expand with every intake of breath, the cavity of his chest growing and then shrinking again as the warm air passed through his parted lips and escaped back out into the world.

As the air flowed out, he whispered his tale. He told the voice about his home in Old Town, about the middle aged women who gossiped on the stairwell of the tenement building, about the football league between the different floors, about his first goal and his first kiss- with Sam from the fourth floor who had been the goalkeeper on the opposing team.

He spoke about his first implant and how his father had threatened to throw him out of their two bedroom flat because of it- and eventually did after the third. He spoke of the summers outside under the Dome, and how, when he saw blue sky for the first time, he felt completely lost and so alone.

He described the gifting of his violin after his grandfather died, and how he was able to use it to grieve for the man who had been such a powerful influence on his life after he was kicked out of home. Not long afterwards, he did the same with his grandmother and mother.

In the infinite blue and grey there was a serene calm. There was no reason to hold anything back.

He began to talk about his initiation.

 

 

 

17

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He looks at his bloodied hands and pauses.

Sighing, he looks up and sees the note on the wall, a note he had left for himself many years before, to remind him why he did these things. Words he had chosen that meant something, though they had lost all value here long ago. Words whose form had to be altered enough so that a casual glance could not find a trace of the original.

He was no linguist so he had borrowed from an alien and little known language. Its script was perfectly suited to his needs. He had attacked the transliteration project as carefully and methodically as he would any other project. When he had finished, he printed the result out onto glossy paper, to make it look like it was part of the marketing campaign of some new sci-fi or fantasy movie. Like the rest of the paperwork in the office, he had made sure that it was crumpled and had at least one coffee stain on it before sticking it up on the wall.

There had been no need to go to such extremes though, not really. The only visitors he had down here were the custodians, and they never stayed long enough to see anything. It was just him and the work. He looked up at the note one more time before proceeding to the next stage.

 

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16

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Kepa is guided to a lift. Restricted Area, an automated voice announces as they rise.

 

A mute scientist prepares his tools. He does not have much time. He presses his thumb and middle finger against a panel of white plastic on the wall, and then returns to his preparations. From the area he touched, a transparent hand emerges, followed by an arm, torso, legs and, ultimately, a full-bodied, ghostlike image of the scientist himself. It steps towards the table in the middle of the room and begins to monitor life signs.

 

It takes 17 seconds before the voice begins again – Basement – After which, there is a regular two second interval between floor announcements. Nobody gets in, nobody leaves; they do not stop. After a minute passes, Kepa feels the temperature change. The bandage over his eyes means he still cannot see anything, but there is a warmth on his face that feels like sunshine. The lift must have moved outside the building.

 

The scientist gets to work on the body. He begins with the vital organs, carefully removing them from their host and placing them in individual containers that rise from the floor, next to the bed. The containers are filled with fluid that quickly turns from clear to pink, and each one is connected to another. He strips the rest of the body, piece by piece, until the only thing on the table is blood and hair, and the scientist is surrounded by a web of containers.

 

The announcements eventually stop and Kepa is lifted to his feet once again. He stumbles out of the lift, guided by his old friend. The sun has gone. He is placed sitting on a table and instructed, not unkindly, to lie down. As he slowly wheels his legs up onto the table, he feels the sunshine on his face again, and leans back. Human hands lift his head and unwind the bandage. Beside him, Pedro hands a slim case to a woman: “So this is the one who has been marked?” She removes a syringe and allows three drops to fall into Kepa’s sockets. She hands back the syringe. By the time Pedro has placed the instrument back in its case, Kepa can make out a woman in her fifties with younger skin but her own hair.