Oneiroi Zero-Eight

Written by Erik Garkain ©  2018 

(Approx. 32,000 words)

Chapter 1: Life is Elsewhere

Mica joined the queue for the Firefly coach from Sydney to Adelaide, all his worldly possessions in his tattered backpack. At the front of the line, the ticketing lady looked at him twice before asking if he was sure, was that really where a nice boy like him wanted to go?

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he said with a polite smile.

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You one of them, then? Those infected, those—Volatiles?’ She growled the slur at him. ‘That’s all Adelaide’s good for anymore. No more City of Churches, it’s City of Freaks now!’ she spat.

Mica’s heart pounded as he snatched the ticket away rougher than he’d intended. ‘You see anything freakish about me, lady?!’ he managed. Mica knew there were limited outward physical signs of his mutation and he’d almost perfected the art of pretending there were none. He turned his back with more confidence than he felt, then boarded the bus to the sounds of her incoherent grunts. The curious gazes of his fellow passengers, who all looked as normal as him but could quite as easily be hiding their own secrets, followed his steps.

The bus was at near capacity for the overnight trip to Melbourne, but most people disembarked into the first flush of morning at Southern Cross station. The city was already bustling, and the aroma of coffee wafted through every street. This metropolis was mostly unchanged, still home to people unaffected by the Oneiroi Zero-Eight virus that had spread throughout the country. People who didn’t want to know freaks like him. People like his family, those unaffected by the retrovirus. Apparently, Adelaide was an entirely different story.

There were only a handful of people still aboard when the bus passed through Ballarat, and after the drivers changed at Horsham, Mica was the only passenger left. He was the only one to see the illuminated billboards in the night. Not the path you seek. Turn back and find the light: A message brought to you by the Anti-Oneiroi Community. And another one not even half a kilometre down the road, a desperate last plea by the same community who were petitioning for mandatory testing and isolation of the infected. There is life elsewhere. Call us today. Concerned citizens spreading the words of their God; ignorant of the increasing statistics of scared young people killing themselves because of that same hateful propaganda and fear mongering bullshit. The same support ‘community’ that his parents had contacted after he’d come out to them when he received his blood test back. The ones that had influenced his parent’s views on his affliction, made him appear like a predator to his kid sister when Mica refused to attend their internment ‘camp’… and his father’s belligerent last words to his firstborn.

Mica turned away before his rising hatred had time to get the better of him, but the next billboard pulled his attention back. Two people, seemingly in full body makeup rivalling the best prosthetic special effects in the industry, dressed to the nines, their top hats dipped low. Their arms were held back like a private welcoming ceremony to the greatest show on earth. And the words, quoted from one of his favourite superhero films, Hellboy: All us freaks have is each other. And, Welcome home.

Mica grinned and settled more comfortably in his seat.

#

In the early hours of the night, almost twenty-four hours since he’d boarded, they stopped outside of a place called ‘Sweeties Bakehouse’ in the small country town of the unambiguously named, Bordertown, though it was almost twenty kilometres from the actual border separating Victoria from South Australia. The deli was a dimly lit weatherboard shop sporting two large wagon wheels. Here the bus keys exchanged hands once again. Fuzzy with perpetual dozing, Mica peered out of the window at the two drivers who conversed and traded satchels. Lights from the neighbouring Shell service station didn’t penetrate the shadows enough to see the pair clearly beneath a gently swaying tree, but the new driver glanced up and directly at Mica. What light there was reflected from his eyes and Mica shrank back. It must have been pitch black on the bus, only the headlights and safety lights around the outside were lit up – there was no way he could have seen in, could he?

Mica sank away from the window and deeper into his seat, his eyes bleary from sporadic sleep and his mind still vague from dreams, or so he convinced himself. The new chauffeur boarded and stood glancing down the aisle at his single silent passenger. Mica feigned sleep but swore the driver’s eyes gleamed red beneath his hood for only a second or two. He clutched his backpack closer to his chest and calmed his breathing. The bus rumbled into ignition and sat idling for a moment while the driver sorted himself out. Mica breathed a sigh of relief as the bus rolled down the quiet street and back onto the highway.

Weathered signs were highlighted by the bus’s high beams. Some of these vandalised, ripped down, but their messages were all the same: Road Closed Ahead; No Access; Restricted Area; Quarantine; Do Not Venture Beyond This Point; Oneiroi Zero-Eight Infected Zone. Mica stared. 

The bus slowed to a stop. Were they going to be turned away? Mica sat taller, his head swivelling, searching for danger. 

The driver didn’t appear worried. He stood up casually and stretched rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side. ‘Pit stop,’ he called down the aisle. ‘Won’t be a moment.’ The front door yawned open, and the driver disembarked. 

He reappeared moments later strolling towards the shell of a long since abandoned single brick office building. Colourful scrawls of graffiti and the charcoal stain of fire were visible through a single busted window. A huge weathered sign labelled it ‘Checkpoint Zone 6’. The driver walked straight up to the checkpoint, shuffled around in the front of his pants and started pissing on the remains of the building.

Mica jerked his eyes away. Six-foot fences topped with razor wire surrounded them and disappeared into the darkness beyond – how long did they go on for? Once in, was he trapped? But it had been damaged, and there wasn’t a single person to enforce the quarantine. No doubt, when the virus has been new and scary, these gates would have been heavily restricted. He’d heard about the testing measures to ensure only the infected were allowed to pass. Nowadays people were free to make their own decisions whether to come or go. What uninfected person would want to cross this border? And who of the infected would think it was a good idea to leave? Or perhaps, did too many people carry latent versions of the virus making any control unenforceable? It was hard to believe anything mainstream media said of the virus.

The lights, only a few of which remained, lit up the surrounds like daylight. The gate ahead of them had been ripped from its hinges, laying bent across one side of the road. So, it had been busted open? Not freely opened? Since when? A single tank upended onto its side, the continuous tread stripped from the wheels, the turret ripped clean from the hull – what could do that? Behind it an emu lay decomposing, one toe twisted between two lengths of wire fencing, its other leg snapped under its heavy body.

Mica startled as the driver reclaimed his seat behind the wheel. ‘Tradition,’ he laughed. 

The door closed. Off they went, unhindered. 

#

Four hours later they reached Adelaide.

Mica hadn’t slept since the drivers swapped. He watched the darkness lift and the city lights approach, his mind filled with anticipation and a dreaded fear. Would he be any more welcome here than he had been at home?

The driver was standing at the doors when Mica disembarked. His hood pulled back revealing his face to be unshaven, but otherwise unremarkable. No visible sign of mutation, but Mica knew that meant little.

He held out a perfectly regular hand to Mica. ‘Welcome to the city of Adelaide,’ he greeted with a warm smile. ‘May you find what you’re looking for.’

Mica hesitantly clutched the man’s hand, thrown by his sincere welcome and the intrusion into his soul. Was he that obvious? ‘Thank you,’ Mica mumbled unable to find any other words. He moved off, his legs humming with the relief of activity. He could feel the bus driver’s eyes on him until he found the foyer of the bus station and finally disappeared out of sight into the restrooms. He splashed the sheen of sweat off his face with cold water and stared at his haggard reflection. No regrets.

The young lady behind the counter this time was friendly and helpful. She called him ‘bloke’ and told him not to take attitude from anyone; that the people around here could be aloof at times, but generally, they had good intentions. She directed him to cheap accommodation just around the corner.

‘Good luck finding what you’re after,’ she called after him.

He stopped. ‘Why do you think I’m looking for something?’

She smiled. The tattoos down her neck swirled and morphed like Rorschach blots when she moved. ‘We’re all freaks here. All outcasts. No one comes to Adelaide these days unless they are looking for something; somewhere to call home, somewhere to fit in, someone to love; hey bloke?’ She suggested. ‘I hope you find your happiness.’

‘Thanks,’ he mumbled. So his journey here hadn’t been original? The double doors slid open and warm air burst in drying out Mica’s already tired eyes. The sun was only just on the rise and already the day promised to be a warm one.

On the corner, only a hundred metres from the bus station he found ‘Sunnies’, what he’d been told was the friendliest place to stay for those with little to spare. Tourists were up and sharing a pancake breakfast, so he joined them with minimal persuasion. Although they included him, Mica was too tired to hold any conversation for long. He retired to a newly purchased bunk in a shared room and collapsed. His bones creaked and popped in relief as he stretched out for the first time in what felt like aeons. Suddenly the weight of the past week, his recent journey, and his full belly overwhelmed him. He couldn’t even find the energy to make it to the shower before the need for sleep defeated him. He closed his eyes to the tune of his father’s angry mantra: Get away from my daughter. Get out of my house. Go away!

A fantasy novel I am working on...

Where dense forest joined water on the outskirts of Forest Blakt, I crouched. I stared unblinking out into the Waterfalls of Lake Neb, focused on any movement among the cascades. Lined with jagged rocks and algae that waggled beneath surging water, the Skyggen prince Azrayh stood motionless under the deluge, his lean and pale body almost luminescent under the glow of the moon. Frightened that any movement could scare away my prince, I watched him carefully, as I had since he’d surfaced when the sun disappeared beneath the horizon some hours ago. I’d been waiting for the young Skyggen to lift his head and take a breath, but Azrayh remained as he had, a drowned water statue.

‘Azrayh,’ I whispered finally, desperate for my lover’s return. Impossibly, he snapped to attention, his amber eyes finding mine in an instant. He dove into the water and surfaced just metres away. I could almost touch him. I edged closer but he stayed just out of reach, his wings slowly undulating the water, gazing vacantly at me. His eyes, once bright and filled with curiosity, were empty and hollow, devoid of the passion he’d once had. I could have sworn there was a faint blue tinge to his skin, he’d never been quite so pale, his scars transformed into translucent purple veins about his flesh.

Stepping into the muddied edges of the lake, viscous darkness engulfed my legs to the ridge of my black boots as I waded further into the water – closer to Azrayh. I reached out to collect him into my arms but he frowned and backed out of reach with a flick of his wings. In the water he was faster. He smiled at me, as if this was a game, lifting a svelte arm and holding it out for me.  I grasped it before he could change his mind. With a strength I had never imagined he dragged me down into the water, laughing as I was doused up to his chest, soaking my clothes through.

I threw my arms around his naked waist for an instant before recoiling so violently I smashed backwards into the surrounding banks of rock. His skin was ice cold, even in the tepid water. The void that embraced me when I held him was endless. Desperate I pressed my hand against his chest. ‘What’s happened to you?’ I withdrew. ‘How long have you been out here?’

‘Swim with me pretty,’ he cooed, ignoring my questions. ‘I will show you sights of this world unknown to the—’

‘Azrayh, do you know who I am?’ He wasn’t there.

He laughed delightedly and for a moment I allowed myself to indulge. That laugh. But it wasn’t him. He wasn’t there. ‘Of course I do… You are beautiful…’ He ran a finger down my cheek. I could see the green tinge of algae collected in his long nails, and he reeked of the depths, of coral and darkest caverns. All familiarity I once knew – gone. ‘I would show you a world that mirrors—’

‘Come with me!’ Angered at the unfairness of life, I hauled my lover from the water. 

Azrayh shrieked as he hit the rocky banks, water running in rivulets down his torn and scarred leathers – last remnants of the proud armour he’d once donned.

I collapsed next to him, my hand on the Skyggen’s chest holding him against his will, with strength and incantation. ‘Your heart is not yet cold,’ I warned. ‘You are not yet of the deep. Please fight it Azrayh. Please.’ The fear of losing my lover was too real.

She'll kill me when she reads this...

My best friend is an avid gardener. In a few short years she’s turned a once barren backyard into a wonderland for native birds and insects. She is macabre with a penchant for gore and surgery and a love of nature and native propagation. She is androgynous with a shaved head and large green eyes. She has body piercings, scarification, and a pair of gargoyle wings tattooed on her back which she wants extended into a xenomorph tail down her legs. She has the chemical elements for psilocybin mushrooms and DMT tattooed on her neck but tells people who ask that they’re dopamine and serotonin. Other than this half-truth she is incapable of telling lies, shy, somewhat anxious (especially with phone calls), hates conflict, super intelligent, gentle, meticulous. She can’t make decisions and is often sad. She doesn’t like social gatherings, prefers to be alone or with close friends, loves to cook with fresh ingredients from her garden, and abhors clutter. Her home is minimalist – everything in it has purpose. If there is artwork it’s dissected bodies or true-to-life medical illustrations. She’s building an anatomically correct piñata from skeleton up, to bash away personal demons, for an upcoming birthday. She works in an indigenous plant nursery and has plans to one day own her own business selling native plants, homemade food and handmade wares. She just needs to banish self-doubt to enable her plans to come to fruition. She has lots of acquaintances and few true friends, but those she has know her worth and adore her completely, even though sometimes she doesn’t have the confidence to see it herself. She’s spiritual and believes that this is only one of many lives lived.

Clues to her personality (some truth, some fiction):

1. Can’t lie but hates conflict – so when she tells people her half-truths about her neck tattoos, saying they’re ‘feel good’ elements, she can’t keep eye contact and fiddles with her lip piercings. She doesn’t trust that people will be reasonable with the truth.

2. Shy – She doesn’t like to meet new people. If there’s a stranger in the house she will linger in her bedroom until they go away.

3. Anxious – She will sit at her desk for half an hour staring at her phone in preparation to make a phone call.

4. Intelligent – Her words aren’t casual and every one is thought out and planned ahead. She lives in her head most of the time. She won’t casually respond to a question – her answers take time.

5. Gentle – She holds her budgerigars in her hand while they happily nibble on seed.

6. Meticulous – Everything in her house, bag, and mind, has a perfect place and a perfect order.

7. Sad – Her smiles are rare and take some effort to form.

8. Self-doubting – Compliments from others are often shrugged off, or excuses found to discount them.

9. Doesn’t like making decisions – She often becomes frustrated if she has to make a decision, something like what to order for dinner can have her in tears and without food.

10. Macabre – She rejoices while watching real-life TV shows about surgery.

My friend is meticulous (Latin meticulosus from metus ‘fear’. Is she afraid of what might go wrong if things aren’t so perfect?) In everything she does, she has an extreme attention to detail. She cares about the small things and getting things exactly right every single time and won’t stop until they are perfect. She thinks before she talks and creates structure, order and compliance. She is organised, graceful, hates making mistakes and writes lots and lots of lists. She needs space, quiet and sensitivity. I don’t know why she is like this but it’s helpful to me because she edits my work, organises our trips away, and cooks awesome meals. I think she likes to be in control. She doesn’t thrive on chaos, can barely function in it. When she is in my kitchen she gets frustrated because I don’t have the perfect tool for a certain requirement. I’m a ‘many uses for one thing’ person. Any cup will do for a measurement, if indeed I even measure. She needs precision. She likes to produce things of a high standard and as such she needs to be meticulous.

MY BEST FRIEND TURNED CHARACTER

The child looked upon the needle in wide-eyed horror. Azha trapped his attention in her placid green eyes and only then was she was able to pick up the needle without him flinching away. It was a large needle – far better at closing wounds on a warrior, not a small child who’d fallen from a tree – but it would have to do, it was all she had.

‘Do you have any sister’s Tobin?’ She asked as her fingers deftly threaded the bone needle with a braided silk suture. Quietly she blessed the needle and pointed it east before shifting her attention to the boy. As she worked she hummed a barely audible enchantment that soothed Tobin’s mind and dulled his senses. His anxiety flittered away and Azha was able to stitch the wound closed. Drunkenly the boy blathered of his family and life in general until she had finished.

‘Done,’ she said simply. The boy’s mouth dropped open a little before he dared look at his arm. Where moments ago it had been a red raw gash now nine neat little stitches disguised the wound. His face changed in an instant. Forgotten were the moments of intense distress that had penetrated Azha’s afternoon nap. Forgotten were the streams of blood he’d thought he’d lost and never recover from. Now it was a warrior’s wound, one he’d survived, one none of his friends had… He beamed.

‘Thanks Healer Azha!’ He jumped up, restless to be back with his friends.

She flinched at the title he’d named her, but he was already off with barely a nod. The villagers had dubbed her their healer, and though she didn’t refute it, she disliked the dependence it gave them. They respected her for her knowledge of medicine but were wary of her solitary life and use of magic. Despite the fear, Tobin’s mother was sure to come by later to offer thanks. They were diligent with their thanks and continued to remind her of her worth to them. Azha would conveniently be out picking herbs or collecting water when they came by. A gift basket of dried meats and fresh fruit would be left on her porch as always. Many times the villagers had offered her services or insisted she allow an assistant into her home, but every time, she refused. She enjoyed things as they were, however hard chores were becoming.

Azha rose with a sigh and rinsed her hands and instruments in the stream. Cold water jarred her joints. The cramps were getting worse. How long until she could no longer wield a needle, plant a tree, hold a cup of tea? Banishing the thoughts she unfolded her instrument wrap and replaced the tools carefully into their assigned places to be sterilised later that evening.

She wandered home stopping to admire the seedlings that had sprouted in the recent rains. She discovered a cluster of rare purple herbs and breathed in deep the sedate mint aroma.

Her home was small and offered little in the way of creature comforts, but it offered all she needed. To a casual gaze it was invisible in a copse of fallen trunks and dense bush; spider webs lined the porch protecting her from negative energies.

A large black bird cawed at her from a tree top, its beady yellow eyes judging her for being away so long. ‘Oh shush Worm, it was hardly an hour!’ It cawed again and landed gracefully on her right shoulder, instantly fussing with her scarf to make more room for its oversized body. ‘You need to cut down on grubs.’ She said as it unhooked her scarf and pitched it to the ground. Worm croaked and looked away. Azha smiled and poked the bird playfully.

A taste of my novel to come...

I see body bags every day, this one, no different. That same plain blue becomes so monotonous, so easy to forget the contents; negating countless lives. The unzipping always takes me back to childhood days spent camping; that early morning surfacing from the tent, tearing the fly screen open to eagerly set out for a new day of adventure and exploration. Easy, care free days.

Inside this body bag was a dead girl.

It should have been no different, but seeing her tore a rusty nail through my heart. She was one of mine – one of the ‘freaks’.

Her tattooed body displayed bands I loved, logos I knew, artists I admired. She could have been my friend.

She could have been me.

Seeing her made the pain fresh, brought me to that moment, those final seconds of desperation as she stretched her neck into that noose. It was the most common way these days: hanging. So easy, almost everyone was doing it.

Through a latex barrier, I caressed her cold flesh, rippled by years of self-harm. A pain I was intimately familiar with. She was younger than me, by five or six years, but she was here. She was one of the ones who hadn’t made it. I’d tasted that pain almost every day and felt how easy the way out could be. Not the act, the temptation. How it grasped at the darkest part of your mind and suffocated you with it. No kind deed or happy face or friendly grin made its way through that jumbled web of grey: hatred so intensely self-destructive.

Her life, reduced to a report and a photo in a file. Her organs sampled in a pot with a label. Her, just a body on a trolley – a statistic on suicide.

Gévaudan Rhymes

Gévaudan Rhymes is a fantasy/horror television series (1 hour episodes) similar to Being Human, American Horror Story etc. This pilot episode will revolve around the blossoming friendships of our three main characters, and debunking werewolf fiction from fact. It is aimed at an older teen/young adult audience and will be based more on werewolf legend than pure fantasy.

The main setting of series one is at university where our characters are studying anthropology, but this will only be the setting that unites the characters; the lessons will not feature unless they have direct relevance to an episode.

The narration is a study of human nature, with everyone having some side of their personality they are ashamed of, and want to hide from society. At the start, this is shown with Kal (werewolf) and, gender nonconformist, Blue. Throughout the series this flaw will be evident in everyone who features; including Tuesday and her ego, somewhat more sinister than the werewolves.

Kal is an introverted, socially awkward guy, displayed by stuttering, mumbling, limited eye contact, and at times, rambling. There is a subdued attraction he has towards Blue. He shows empathy towards the werewolf/killer. He thinks he understands him, as does Blue. This is their first instance of attraction.

Blue is sceptical, and almost asexual because of his gender dysphoria, but mutually curious towards Kal. Blue is very quiet and distrusting of new people and his personality grows with the developing story.

Tuesday is confident, bordering arrogant, vain, and you wonder why she is hanging out with these misfits. She can’t have Kal, so he’s all she wants, but she also wants to belittle him for refusing her. She is flirty, judgemental and jealous.

Dialogue in this section is mainly the characters learning about themselves and each other. I think I succeeded with showing the characters personalities, but not enough with Blue. Blue’s personality is too big to fit into a small section as he has many facets yet to explore. At the moment everyone is being overridden by Tuesday, who is the more outspoken one of the group.

GÉVAUDAN RHYMES © 2014

Episode 1: As the Wolfsbane Blooms

 START EXCERPT:

2.  EXT. UNIVERSITY GROUNDS. DAY                         

Androgynous BLUE sits against a River Red gum, as TUESDAY approaches, dropping the Advertiser beside him.

TUESDAY

Did you see this?

BLUE

(picking up the paper)

Local Werewolf Killer Strikes Again! A werewolf, seriously? What next, Dracula Rises?

He throws the paper back down and picks up the remainder of his lunch.

TUESDAY

(sitting down)

You know all the killings have occurred on a full moon—

BLUE

Coincidence.

TUESDAY

—And, all the victims have said to be mauled by something “resembling a large canine”.

Tuesday air quotes with long, slender fingers, topped with beautifully maintained hot pink nails. She raises her eyebrows, encouraging belief.

BLUE

You’ve been doing your research, I see.

TUESDAY

Alas, no. Subject’s taken. I just find it incredibly interesting that Kal would be following that train of thought. Did you hear, he’s proposing this guy is an actual werewolf, not just replicating the killings in a “wolfish” manner?

Tuesday swoons, collapsing down across Blue’s lap.

TUESDAY (CONT’D)

I think it’s sexy; the ultimate expression of power over another person.

BLUE

By eating them? I’m sure.

Blue yawns, his sight shifting to a young morose guy, KAL, wandering in their direction, oblivious to the attention.

Tuesday rises, and growls, noticing her prey.

TUESDAY

Gosh, that boy is awfully tasty.

Blue giggles and only then does Kal’s attention shift to the couple. He attempts a half smile which does nothing to lighten his brooding demeanour. He’s looking at Blue as he approaches – his grey eyes sheen unnaturally silver, like an animal caught in headlights.

BLUE

(rising to his feet)

Hey Kal.

Kal nods in response, shifting his gaze to his shoes.

KAL

Hi Blue.

TUESDAY

We were just talking about cannibalism…

(standing)

And speaking of, Kal, how’s your thesis coming along?

KAL

C-Cannibalism?

TUESDAY

I heard your character description of that murderer suggested something more mythological, say, a werewolf?

KAL

Werewolves cease being human once they’ve changed, so cannibalism is hardly fitting.

TUESDAY

Ahh, but you don’t doubt he may indeed be a werewolf?

KAL

This guy is real. He struck again last night, as you saw.

He nods towards the discarded paper.

TUESDAY

(grinning)

So it’s a ‘him’?

KAL

My character profiling suggests it’s a man, yes.

Kal is speaking to Tuesday, but his grey eyes flick over to Blue. He too is studying Kal curiously. Catching one another out, they both grin awkwardly.

TUESDAY

You know, Vore is a completely valid fetish. Perhaps this guy wanted to step it up from imaginary role playing.

KAL

(back at Tuesday)

V-Vore?

TUESDAY

It’s a sexual fetish where a person fantasizes about eating people, or watching people being eaten… I studied sexual fetishes first year. I can hardly believe that you’re not including this as a possibility though.

KAL

I—I guess I never thought of it like that— I don’t think it’s a sexual thing. I think he’s struggling with something inside himself that he has no control over, like, fighting a society that says it’s wrong to be who he is. It’s, well, I think I know what that would be like, if I was him, if… um, if you know what I mean…

BLUE

The wolf part is irrelevant.

KAL

(smiling at Blue)

Exactly.

Tuesday watches the two carefully, her eyes narrow.

TUESDAY

You want to join us for lunch?

KAL

N-No, I can’t. I have a lot of work to get through. I have a stack of texts by my bed I haven’t looked at yet.

TUESDAY

(elbows him playfully)

I’d like to see that!

KAL

(to Tuesday)

Yeah. Okay, see you.

(to Blue)

Bye Blue.

Blue waves briefly at him and smiles. Kal wanders off as awkwardly as he had approached. Tuesday sighs and looks at Blue.

TUESDAY

Damn. Must be gay.

BLUE

(raising his eyebrows)

A guy who doesn’t find you the 'be all and end all' certainly must be gay. Jeez Tuesday, for someone who studies human beings for a living, you really have no idea do you?

He snatches his bag up and moves off.

END EXCERPT.

HAPLESS JORGE AND THE MILK INCIDENT

08.04.2014

No milk. Staring into the empty cavity of my fridge, barren contents stare back, mocking me. An overturned jug of cream with its monochromatic bloodstain, laughed aloud, pitying my predicament more than its own lingering death. Fat, green, gherkin fingers jiggled in their juices, the gag not lost inside the sealed jar, nor on the box of pizza; the few surviving slices of a drunken Saturday night, crisp on the outside and curling through the middle.

I slammed the door, shutting out the mockery. Of course this was the sort of morning with no milk because it was exactly the sort of morning I needed the damn milk. I needed it like I needed breath; cool, delicious thickness soothing a night of too much cigar smoke and straight whiskey, pacification of the lingering hallucinations still stabbing the edges of my sanity.

I sank onto the kitchen counter; cold, gripping skin with prickly goose bumps. The shock welcoming and real, so very real, unlike muffled giggles exuding from the refrigerator. The milk had run off. I couldn’t be bothered going out to collect more. Not now, I was too involved here.

Punching on the kettle, I glared, challenging, as the red light flickered before stabilising. I grabbed a mug; brown stain of coffee thick around the inside. A quick splash of water would rectify. Rusty, blood smelling syrup spewed from pipes. Walls around me rattled. I gagged, growling at the faucet. Slapping the spout away, I slammed mug on bench. Coffee stain and rust-rinse be damned! I fished for a spoon in the drawer, to be answered only by forks and knives; steel reflecting misery and self-loathing. Not a spoon in sight.

‘Damn you milk!’ I cursed the heavens. The kettle hissed a response, steam rushing the spout, refusing to disconnect the boil. Of course! I flicked it off, half expecting resistance, or electric shock. I snatched up the jar of coffee. Spoon be damned too! I erupted into hysterical laughter, as I unscrewed the lid and poured black gold straight into the cup. Granules disintegrated in rusty muck at the bottom, expanding to thick brown puddles. More granules gushed over the rim, pursuing freedom. Sugar joined coffee; a pair that complemented best when hot and milky, measured precisely, one spoon and two. Not today. Boiled water liquidised ingredients, uniting lost loves, entwining dissolved succulence forever. Forever for them was not long at all.

I hauled the fridge door open. A gasp cut short as occupants beheld my wrath: top lip curled, nose turned up exposing a murderous canine, eyes narrowed and readying for revenge. I cackled maniacally, gathering the cream. Rogue globules jumped free but entrapped remnants were too late. Thick blobs plopped unwittingly into black coffee, melting in pools of curdled liquid. Black and white mingled into the perfect salvation of a morning near ruined.

Retrieving a knife, I stirred the coffee. No longer lamenting absconded milk, but praising my problem solving brilliance. Basking in the genius of me, I guzzled my masterpiece, caffeine slamming my senses with electric buzz, hurling my brain from the veil of hangover and delirium. A moment of surprise for a new development… Gummy chunks of chewy coffee rolled over my tongue before acrid taste became horrendously clear. Misfortune backed by a burst of amusement from within the fridge. Hilarious.  

On Questioning Style, and whether I mimic an Idol.

Glitter Girl

 25.03.2014

Inside were shadows and darkness; the wait . . . as maddening as the whispers in the wind. To pass time he examined the hands responsible for altering their game. They were large with long fingers, scarred, nails torn and dirty, smeared with blood and filth. 

Your father’s hands. 

He clenched them, as if the truth could be denied. He was different, he had to be.

The front door yawned open, spilling light towards Daniel that felt like creeping darkness. Fear paralysed him as his father stumbled in. He had no way of knowing how much he’d drunk already, but it became obvious. 'Where’s your mother?' he barked.

A malevolent voice spoke through his. 'Out whoring, like you told her,' it said.

His father grumbled, but not angrily because he had, on numerous occasions, told her to do exactly that. 'And you, what the fuck . . . What’s that fuckin’ stink?' His father stumbled forward, intent on investigating the source, but he hovered, hand clutching the edge of the table next to where his son sat.

'I . . . think a rat died in the bathroom,' Daniel stammered, standing to intercept him. 'It’s all right, I got rid of it.'

His father looked him up and down before he sneered and stumbled into the lounge room. He collapsed in front of the TV to catch up on the local news. 

And that left Daniel to prepare for the remainder of their game. 

He retreated to his mother’s room. She was staring up at him as he passed. 'It is true mother,' he said, ‘We should do something about that smell. It’s not healthy.' He turned to the dresser, rifling through the assortment of treasures before him. He found her perfume, Obsession, and sprayed himself, feeling the trigger of lust stir his groin. He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing away the other. 

NO!!!

The eyes that glared at him from the mirror were dark; long black eyelashes painted thick with mascara and smeared in kohl, as if the all light in the room had been absorbed into their depths. Hollow insides all prettied up. Utterly insane. Daniel scowled at the pallid creature reflected before him. Behind him, strewn over the bed and littering the floor, were the remnants of his mother’s closet. They had been in here all morning searching the vast array of clothing for something special. The clothes he wore fell lifelessly around his chest and hips making him appear waifish and childlike, flat chested and not the slightest bit appealing. 

Revolting! It glowered. It wanted the flowing cornflower blue dress with the cute spaghetti straps, but he couldn’t find it.

Daniel turned away from the petite girly boy in the mirror and stared at the clothes in sheer bewilderment. He seized an armful of the pastel flowery pile and pushed them to the floor until the bed was entirely cleared of mess.

She watched silently as he pulled back the comforter, uncovering the rest of her swelling, mottled body. 'Of course.' Daniel smiled, relieved, and it smiled with him. He proceeded to manoeuvre one stiff arm through the strap of the dress. It wouldn’t help him. 

Once she’d been undressed he pulled free of his own clothes, once again becoming transfixed by the naked reflection before him. He didn’t recognize the pale, ragged body, or the flaccid appendage between his legs, they didn’t belong to him. But the hate was all his; every angry mark, every scar, and every wound he’d carved into it.

Pulling the dress over his head, he slid his hands over the blue silk fabric. A wave of warmth, like when his mother’s blood had spilled out of her body and over his, like an orgasm, rose up from the pit of his stomach. The thing in him rejoiced. The dress was perfect, even with the dark staining and jagged holes through the chest, a reminder that beauty was never flawless. He unbound his dark hair and it cascaded around his shoulders, the hard-on marring an otherwise perfect silhouette.

Publishing Idea - Book Proposal

16.06.2014

Re: Wild Cards (edited by George R. R. Martin).

The 12 initial volumes were originally published by Bantam Books (1987 – 1993), Baen Books published the next three (from 1993 – 1995), then (from 2002 – 2006) ibooks Inc., released two new volumes, and reprinted the first six.

The current publisher (from 2008) is Tor Books (Tom Doherty Associates, LLC), who have released four new books and re-printed several, with a new volume due in September 2014.

Wild Cards is a science fiction/superhero series set in a shared universe. It tells the alternate history of Earth after an alien virus is released. The virus rewrites human DNA, killing 90% of those who come into contact with it. The remaining 9% mutate into deformed jokers, while 1% become aces with superpowers. Aces that acquire useless/ridiculous powers are deuces, and the unaffected human population are nats (naturals).

These books employ a naturalistic approach to storytelling; characters generally don’t have ‘secret identities’; and, modern pop culture references and celebrities are referenced to give a better sense of the world. Book titles and terms commonly represent card playing expressions.

So, I have developed a cure for the Wild Card virus.

While previous chapters have employed a variety of genres, the Wild Cards Universe has never explored horror. Horror has never been as popular as it is now, so I propose Drawing Dead, my cure for Wild Cards:

A Wild Card ‘cure’ is announced by a mysterious foreigner with a penchant for world domination, while closer to home, a formidable killer stalks the streets of Jokertown.

Backed by multi-million dollar pharmaceutical corporations, mainstream media declares Xenovirus Takis-A, a danger to the ongoing survival of the human race. With increasing force behind their campaign, nats soon force ‘immunisation’ upon the ‘infected’. Celebrity aces are the first easy targets.

Meanwhile, Mica, a deuce rejected by nats and jokers alike, struggles to find belonging. Burned by his former life, he finds solace in the mysterious joker, Talon. But Talon has secrets that will change their world. In his struggle for acceptance, has Mica allowed the biggest monster of all into his bed?

DRAWING DEAD

Based on Wild Cards (edited by George R. R. Martin).

Mica stumbled from the pub into the damp alley, morning still hours away. Above him, a weathered neon sign illuminated random letters for a shop, long since abandoned. He coughed, exchanging stagnant air for the sickly sweet odour of rot, and swiped at fresh blood that trickled down his chin. Even in the poorly lit backstreet he could see silver staining his fingers, and he knew the glitter would be everywhere. Using the back of his sleeve to wipe blood from his fractured nose, he glared at the predicted residual flash.

Pointedly ignoring his sinus ache, he glanced around, suddenly comprehending the danger of this location. He didn’t fear Jokertown, but Wild Card murders had been on a recent rise, and at night, violent gangs prowled unpoliced streets. The darkness slinked in, claustrophobia gripping his chest. Adrenaline replaced his alcohol-fuelled buzz and his stomach clenched. Buildings and streets he’d become familiar with in daylight hours became looming towers hiding nameless dread. Winds caused unlatched doors to creak and bang. Noises in the distance became pursuing footfalls.

His stride lengthened as his mind fought threads of terror through deserted backstreets. Shadows, or shrouded creatures, melted into darkness before his eyes. He stared into the gloom, fearing to blink, his eyes stinging with strain and sweat, his heartbeat in his throat.

The anticipation became too much. Losing all direction in the maze of alleyways, he fled directly into a dead end, and an incarnation of his terror, as if he’d willed it into being. 

Mica stopped dead, staring at the eviscerated carcass before him. The horse’s disembowelled organs and severed head spanned several metres. In any other place, the presence of a horse might seem absurd, but not in Jokertown, where freaks found solace.

Mica blinked, the colour draining from his face. His palms were clammy, and his clothes drenched in cold sweat, giving his whole body an otherworldly shimmer. On the ground, inches from the mutilated head, sat a single three-foot-long horn. It had been hacked from the horse, nay, unicorn, and lay tangled in bloodstained hair. Mica enjoyed horror films. He found the cheesy storylines and excessive blood amusing. Here, now, with the smell of viscera thick in the air, he staggered.  

Since moving into town, he’d familiarised himself with The Jokertown Boys. He’d planned to see them live, curious about their advertised, ‘unique twist’ on gothic rock. Knowing as little as he did about the local rock stars, he still recognised the horn from the lead guitarist, Alec ‘Alicorn’ Harner, who’d donned an impressive spiked blonde mohawk to disguise it.

Tearing his eyes from the slaughter, he finally noticed the tall, slender man staring at him. The man clutched a bloodied machete, a weapon that looked enormous in comparison to his slight frame. Mica couldn’t look away, possessed by the man’s soulless eyes. His vision distorted, and white noise filled his head. Cold hands clamped his throat. As they tightened, the white noise amplified, until the only thing Mica could comprehend was the static. It spoke. It told him he must die. It said that all those infected by the Wild Card virus would die. And he would be next. He understood, and it made sense… so he allowed it.