Tag: Creative writing

Day #28

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Payen: Pagan

Coppel: a shallow, porous container in which gold or silver can be refined or assayed by melting with a blast of hot air which oxidizes lead or other base metals

Antephialtic: (medicine) Acting against nightmares

—–

Freedo was weird; there were no two ways about it. I guess being his friend gives me special dispensation to label him so. He was the sort of weirdo who lived life vicariously through his computer, etching his existence pixel by pixel on forums, blogs, message boards – like a digital disciple. The Book of Freedo. He was the sort of weirdo who took antephialtic meds bought from the deep web to stave off the nightmares brought on by the stuff he saw on the deep web.

The lilac coloured tablets had screwed with Freedo’s circadian rhythm and now he was one of those people that, even though you’d made plans hours ago, would always keep you waiting. There was always some essential little thing on the cusp of being finished, a bit of coding here, a torrent download ratio to maintain there.

In fact, the only thing Freedo wasn’t late for were World of Warcraft raids. He took those very seriously. I never really understood the allure of screaming obscenities into a headset at some kid from China, but in Freedo’s defense, his Chinese was getting pretty passable. He was the only person I knew who would go out of his way to revise the pronunciation of insults. He said there was no point in calling someone a ‘monkey-fucking cock-sucker’ if they weren’t going to understand you.

But now Freedo had a new hobby: Bitcoin. He’d been introduced to it at some Hackathon in east London a few months back, one of those events hosted in unfinished, rented office space, full of guys with tumbleweed beards and illuminated by the wet glow of laptop screens like some kind of midnight payen ceremony. We’ll sacrifice this circuit board in the hope of a virus free summer…

So now Freedo barely left his house, like, at all. He sat in his room trying to mine bitcoins all day long. He called it his grand plan, described how after mining just one bitcoin he’d sell it for a packet, invest the cash in some start-ups and let the money roll in. It was a Generation Y wet dream. We both knew it wasn’t going to happen.

I was sitting on the end of his bed, selling him on the benefits of a post-1am kebab – or midnight brunch, as I was marketing it. He hadn’t moved his eyes from the screen for almost thirty minutes, face swallowed by pixels and hands fiddling with a smouldering circuit board. Freedo had yet to mine a single bitcoin, yet apparently he burnt through circuit boards as though they were joints, the floor of his room covered in them like Quality Street wrappers.

‘So what do you want to do?’ I asked, bored.

He pulled something out of a desk draw, a shallow metal dish.

‘We need to go and rob a bank,’ declared Freedo.

I thought I’d misheard him.

‘What?’

‘I need some gold to melt in this coppel,’ he said, waving the dish in the air, ‘I’m burning through too many circuit boards. The copper’s crap and besides gold’s a better conductor, they’ll last longer. So get your stuff, we’re going out.’

I’d never robbed anyone before, let alone a bank, so wasn’t entirely sure what to say.

‘…can we get a kebab on the way back?’

Day #27

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Horselaugh: A loud boisterous laugh a guffaw

Owlery: An abode or a haunt of owls

Verbarmolto: Italian, “much very”; extremely

—–

The snap, crackle and pop of twigs crushed beneath fleeing feet.

The slow, tentative crack of each and every twig, hypnotic as the pursuer stalks his prey.

Short sharp breaths, ragged as tattered clothes and greedily grasped in the fist of each lung. A salty sheen of sweat, the same brackish patina as glass washed to shore, the feeling of skin being shrink-wrapped as it evaporates. The sling cradling your arm is stained a dirty brown, blood and dirt held in place by a small metallic safety-pin that shines decadently in the dappled light of late afternoon.

The calm, collected oxygen exchange of a seasoned hunter, chest swelling and falling like budding flowers. The wolfish twitch of a nose, nostrils flaring, flooded with the tiny particles that comprise the sense of smell. Eyes taut, framed with prison cell eyelashes, pupils opening like the dark side of the moon. The webbed strap of a gun digs into his shoulder blade leaving a red welt imprinted under his shirt. The inquisitive bloodhound nose of the gun barrel pokes through the undergrowth, probing like a snake’s tongue.

A hollow beneath roots, a momentary bower presenting itself amongst the melted candlewax limbs of a gnarled old oak. The owlery above gushes forth with a sudden cacophony of soft hoots, oddly melodic and soothing, yet a stone cold musical flare. Here you are. Surprise. The horselaugh of your pursuer echoes through the wood, bouncing strangely off the trees. He may have heard the owls, but can he hear the quickening of your pulse?

Adagio…molto adagio…verbarmolto adagio…he edges forward, conducting the orchestra of his senses with the precision of a maestro. Slowly…more slowly….extremely slowly…eyes close like chrysalises and sounds suddenly metamorphose into something tangible; every coo, every hoot, every crackle, every ragged breath, he can hear it all. And now he’s coming for you. Brazen footsteps aren’t hidden anymore and the laughter he lets forth is more and more like the howling of a wolf, calling for his pack.

You hobble forward, uneven footprints left in your wake, full of microscopic scents that deer may sniff at later. The owls subside as the tree fades against the fabric of its cousins, roots entangled in the knots of a family drama. Thick, dry saliva taints every breath, dehydrated like a slug in salt, a spider web of drool that sticks to the roof of your mouth. You trip and fall on something unseen, cursing loudly and silently as the numb buzz of pain hatches in your knee, a yolk of warm blood seeping forth.

The crack of a gun. Shards of bark explode from a nearby tree, wooden mayflies departing at the sign of danger. A second shot, more shards, the noise of the gun buzzing like cicadas in your ear. Breath held. The steady boil of red heat rising in your chest. Not like this, please not like this.

There’s the crack of another bullet. Shards shatter just above your head.

There’s his horselaugh again. Closer now.

There’s the seductive rustle of bushes, the confident snap of a twig. He’s right behind you.

It can’t end, not like this.

Day #26

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Eglantine: A species of rose Rosa Eglanteria with fragrant foliage and flowers of various colors

Disbar: To expel from the bar or the legal profession to deprive an attorney barrister or counselor of his status and privileges as such

Penholder: A handle for a pen

—–

The full moon’s pallid light spilled stark shadows over the alleyway, tessellated like a crossword puzzle. Lindburgh kicked a dumpster out of frustration, the throbbing in his toes a nice reminder that he hadn’t frozen to death yet. He checked his watch, gold rim, leather strap, expensive. Too expensive to have a built in glow effect, so Lindbergh twisted his wrist awkwardly into the moonlight – fingers just like short, fleshy petals of a blooming flower – and checked the time.

The bastard was twenty-seven minutes late. How the fuck was Lindbergh supposed to win his case if he turned up looking like shit, face tired and clothes tattooed with yesterday’s wrinkles? This wasn’t a fucking game. He could get disbarred for this shit. What was the point in winning if you didn’t look the part? Fuck man! Where is he?

The wheels of a car purred on the pavement, the crinkle of an immolated crisp packet, the soft slap of rainwater in a pothole being displaced. Headlights sent the shadows fleeing, drowning the moonlight amongst heavyset waves, then dilated like a cat’s pupil as they were switched off. The click-slam of a door opening-shutting followed by the languid clip of Italian leather shoes drew Lindburgh from his hidey hole, a cockroach drawn to the vibrations.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Squeaked Lindburgh.

You could hear the rats listening in the pause that followed.

‘Charles Lindburgh III?’ asked a deep, resonant voice, ignoring Lindburgh’s question entirely. It was the sort of voice that had its own in-built echo.

Lindburgh edged forward tentatively, fully aware that this was it; now or never, fight or fly, do or die…or any number of other empty platitudes. It was a cold, clear night but that didn’t stop a nervous thread of sweat from weaving its way down the small of his back.

‘Y-Yes..’ he replied, voice cracked like the window pane behind the dumpster.

‘You got the money?’

‘Y-Yes…’ Lindburgh’s voice now as flat as the soggy cardboard boxes that lined the alley. He fumbled inside his jacket and withdrew a healthy looking envelope, grasped tightly, his hand walking the fine line between sedition and penholder.

Lindburgh held the envelope out, green bills spread like peacock feathers within. The man produced a larger, thinner envelope and let it dangle loosely between two fingers, a forbidden apple.

The exchange was made quickly, envelopes suspiciously examined and then stashed away inside cars, inside jackets.

‘Non-marked bills, right?’ asked the voice with a sudden reverb of concern.

Lindburgh looked up, taken aback, confused. ‘What? There was no mention of-‘

Cruel, rasping laughter cut him off, each throaty bark as sharp as an eglantine thorn.

‘I’m shitting you man, relax! Your sort…you watch too many fucking movies…’

The man seemed to consider something for a moment, then got back in his car and reversed out of the alley, disappearing into the night.

A cloud passed over the moon and Charles Lindburgh III stood shrouded in shadow; alone save for the rats and the large, thin envelope stashed inside his jacket.

Day #25

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Sabaeliganism: Same as Sabianism (Middle Eastern religious precursor to Islam)

Gravenstein: A kind of fall apple marked with streaks of deep red and orange and of excellent flavor and quality

Buteonine: relating to or resembling a hawk of the genus Buteo; possessing large powerful hooked beaks for tearing flesh from their prey, strong legs and powerful talons.

—–

A pair of ruby traffic lights entomb the traffic totems in a momentary caesura, exhaust fumes swelling like lactic acid amongst the tyre treads. It’s lunch-time and across the zebra stripe road, a meal deal beckons like the pot of gold at the end of a monochrome rainbow.

The temperature drops as the automatic curtains are pulled back, chills are multiplying, the refrigerators buzz with a dead glow. A Nectar Card toting Indiana Jones perusing rows of sandwiches like the dates on a calendar, their packaging garish and cheap, their innards limp and listless. It’s a hot day and I can feel the curling lip of brown lettuce pulling at my heartstrings.

‘Excuse me.’

An office boy butts in, grabs a BLT, pack of crisps and an Innocent smoothie. He immediately blends back into the crowd, swallowed by a current of quinoa salads and flat-heeled shoes. Too much choice, where’s the little packs of fruit? Apple and grape, Gravenstein and Ruby Romans, Denmark and Japan, an unlikely yet decadent duo. However, I think it’s only Granny Smith slices and little purple marbles. The white tooth of the apple is stained pink.

Around a corner, I wish David Attenborough were here as I watch a woman, buteonine, snare her son with manicured talons, bright pink with white playboy bunnies – Sistine nails. He’s spilled a box of cereal and now he’s spilling tears. Wriggling like a freshly caught fish in his mother’s grasp. ‘And so the cycle of nature continues…’ mumbles Attenborough, eyeing a box of risotto rice that’s currently two-for-one.

‘Bentley! Bentley, now you c’mere! Little shit! What’cha fink yer doin? And where’s yer sister? Mercedes! Mercedes!’

What’s this woman the head of, a family or a car show room? ‘I’ve think I’ve got the wrong program,’ mumbles Attenborough as he joins the back of the self-service queue. He’s gone from my mind by the time I reach the front, not that anything else could be when I hear the sonorous cry of ‘next please!’

Dominic scans then bags my goods and I’m left to my own devices – idle, hifalutin ideas; the sort that wouldn’t fit through a 10-items-or-less lane. Sainsbury’s to Lidl; Jamie Oliver to…well, someone; Islam to Sabaeliganism. Good word. A Wikipedia binge paying dividends.

‘D’you want any cashback?’ asks Dominic, broad chested and dark hair closely shorn.

‘Nah, it’s ok. Wait…no.’

If you don’t have it, you can’t spend it. That’s simple logic. That’s just one of the epiphanies I’ve had whilst tapping my pin code into the little fiscal Ark of the Covenant, fingers lithe as Mozart in the morning. Digits swirl, melt, LEDs expire and resurrect just down the street, little digital abacuses sending messages in Morse, a cacophony of 1’s and 0’s that dictate all and don’t really exist unless we all believe in them. I keep the receipt, just in case.

When I leave the store, bag in hand, receipt in pocket, the midday sun washes over me and I decide this must be how a reptile feels.

Day #24

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Breathe: To inhale and exhale in the process of respiration to respire

Stinter: One who or that which stints

Struthiones: Genus of ostrich

—–

‘What are you doing now?’ hissed Jez.

‘Having…’ there was the satisfying click of locks singing in unison, ‘…patience,’ concluded his partner.

Jez hadn’t asked his name, he didn’t even know where the boss had found the guy. But if he was good enough for the boss, then he was good enough for Jez. Still though, there was something off about him, although quite what exactly, Jez was having a hard time putting a finger on.

His partner eased open the metallic slab of the vault door, thicker than a man yet swinging open in silence as though it didn’t even exist. Never the stinter, Jez eagerly craned his head forward, looking beyond his partner, and his eyes bulged. Gold bars stacked in ordered piles, tightly packed like bricks and gleaming like some kind of futuristic metropolis. Both men had to remind themselves to breathe.

‘H-How on earth are we going to move all this lot…?’ stuttered Jez.

His partner strode forward and grinned. It was unnerving. Jez had never known anyone to act so, so, so relaxed in the middle of heist before. Let alone one that involved somehow evacuating several hundred bricks of gold from the basement of a bank without being seen.

‘Doesn’t matter. Say, did your benefactor explain to you my particular set of skills?’

Jez shook his head.

‘Ah. Well, this next part might become confusing then. See…you’re going to have to stay here, I’m afraid.’

Jez stared at the man. ‘What? What the hell are you talking about?’

His partner’s eyes were the glacial blue of an Icelandic spring. A faint smirk sat upon his lips.

‘See, Jez, you need to stay here, because I’m about to do this-‘

The man suddenly raised his hands, fingers arched, and started murmuring under his breath. Jez’s arms and legs fell numb. He tried to yell, to scream but was unable to do so. He was frozen in place, the head of a struthiones stuck in the sand.

Slowly, the bars of gold began to rise up and float towards the stricken Jez, eyes bulging, now from fear instead of greed. The bars slowly entered his body and began to fill him up, brick by brick.

When Jez was full of gold, his partner lowered his hands.

‘What…have…you..done?’ stammered Jez, his voice strained and distant, his body stacked in rigid towers across the floor of the vault.

‘I’ve swapped you with the gold,’ replied his partner. ‘A simple spell, but a pain to get right. See I’m just going to walk out the way we came in, with the gold walking alongside me! As for you my friend, you have to stay here in the vault.’

‘Like…this…?!’

‘Yes, like that I’m afraid.’

Jez’s pleading finally ceased when the vault door clicked back into place. As he left the room with the gold following just behind, the man couldn’t help but mutter to himself ‘I did tell you that I have a very particular set of skills…’

Day #23

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Teal: Any one of several species of small fresh water ducks of the genus Anas and the subgenera Querquedula and Nettion

Solid: Having the constituent parts so compact or so firmly adhering as to resist the impression or penetration of other bodies

Primer: One who or that which primes

—–

The early evening crickets serenade each other as I take my seat. Front row and full of splinters. This is our bench, mine and yours. It’s even got your name written on the plaque, solid and real, just as if you were here with me now. It used to be a rich toffee copper, but today it’s the colour of an overcast sky. It looks like it could be a reflection of the pond, a murky blue, cold and mysterious. You remember the pond, don’t you? The one with the ducks? You used to enjoy it so much here.

I remember the look in your eyes the last time we met, hollow and sparse, like artic tundra, so empty and alone. I’m sure my name was on the tip of your tongue; rumbling on your lips, ready to erupt and spill forth like hot lava. But I guess it cooled; a small, calcified island in the stream of your consciousness. I bet my name sounded like static to you, early evening crickets chirruping as though you were tuned into the wrong station. The doctor’s tablets couldn’t always change it back.

The wind is picking up and it’s grabbing at me, even through my coat. I’m wearing the one with the sheepskin inside, tatty and yellowed; it’s the one you got me for Christmas in ’89. Still going strong, just like me. It is cold though, cold enough for the ducks to be huddling amongst the reeds at the edge of the pond.

They look like Teals, at least I think they do. I saw them labeled in a book once; you got that for me too, picked it up at some jumble sale or second hand store. You told me it would be a good hobby. The Teals remind me of you, so I make a mental note of what they look like. Watertight petals of brackish brown feather, small black eyes, opals flashing with curiosity, a leathery bill like a scuba flipper.

They remember me even though you didn’t. I wish you had. I am the one who feeds. We were the ones who fed. I’ve brought the breadcrumbs with me. You always liked the ducks. Well, you did on your good days, on your bad days – not so much. You liked how they could fly away from their problems whenever they wanted.

I miss you, but I thick I have to set you free now. I loosen the blue plastic tag around the bread bag and start throwing crumbs. You will always be with me. Even though the bread is grey and speckly, the ducks swarm around me; quacking at their primer, who directs them like a concert virtuoso. Be safe. Crumbs here, crumbs there, beaks squabbling amid croaky yaps of excitement. I smile when I realise you’ll spend the winter down south, you always did want to spend Christmas in the sun.

I place your urn at the foot of the bench, empty, and watch the ducks fly off into the sunset.

Day #22

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Clearstarcher: One who clearstarches – To stiffen with starch, and then make clear by clapping with the hands

Agog: In eager desire eager astir

Improlificate: To impregnate

—–

He doesn’t know that I saw them, him with her. But I was there.

I was in the corner, leaning on a wall, wearing a leather jacket and with my hair slicked neatly back. Earlier in the night I’d told my reflection, ‘you look just like Buddy Holly, dude, nice work.’

He arrived after I did, at least thirty minutes after to be precise, which is an unforgiveable rudeness in my books. He came alone, as you know, wearing a sharply tailored evening suit, the inky blue of fading twilight. I remember his shirt was a blinding white, cuffs and collars stiff and rigid, gleaming like teeth. Fucking clearstarcher, I thought, with your stiff enamel collar, rigid and broad like the wings of a fucking albatross.

Bear in mind that she was already there at this point, chatting and laughing with friends, Molly from floor four, Sally from floor three, Polly from floor two. They each held a small glass tumbler, full of brown liquid, probably whisky or amaretto. I like amaretto, do you like amaretto? No? Well, she did. She enjoyed the hot flush of aniseed searing her tongue, the warmth on her throat, the gently curling heat in her stomach, a dragon in its pit.

She caught his eye immediately, but, in that dress who would fail to succumb to her charms? The long, slender legs, creamy against the strawberry red of her dress, a bodice tight as bark on a tree pushing fleshy fruits to the forefront of any man’s thoughts. I know they were in mine, plump bosoms bouncing as I stood in the corner, watching.

Did you know her hair fell like autumn leaves? A sheet of auburn silk draped lightly over her shoulders, tresses eddying like an effervescent chestnut river. It was ravishing, simply sumptuous. He saw it. I saw it too.

I saw his eyes agog, bulbous stars in the night, the fog lights of souls passing in the night, drawn to her by the white heat of her shimmering radiance.

Please, bear in mind that I too was partaking in the general imbibements of the night, if not the actual merriments. I was satisfied watching from the corner, she the dormouse to my tawny owl. He wasn’t though. Oh no, no, no!

He flocked to her; strutting, cavorting, talking, carousing, drinking, dancing, touching, holding, groping, kissing, escaping, improlificating. Possibly.

You do know what that word means, don’t you? Improlificate? It means to impregnate. But I don’t say that word. I dislike the hard ‘egg’ sound. It sticks in my throat as though it could hatch at any moment.

Anyhow, I saw them leaving together, hand on ass, tongue in mouth, crotch in crotch. The last thing I saw was the soft, red petal of her lipstick imprinted on his stiff shirt collar. Deep down I hoped it was blood. But it wasn’t. It was just affection.

His wife looks at me, eye-to-eye for the first time since I started talking.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ she asks, her voice hoarse.

Day #21

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Nah: No, not

Hydrosome: a colony of Hydrozoa, related to jellyfish and corals

Pentachenium: A dry fruit composed of five carpels (female reproductive organs), which are covered by an epigynous calyx (ovary tube, sepal) and separate at maturity

—–

Shoals of tiny fish flickered above the two divers, molten scales glinting as they grouped into tightly spinning balls before scattering skittishly whenever a larger fish passed nearby. In the glowing effulgence of the early afternoon, these aquatic dogfights resembled the cat-and-mouse antics of fighter plane pilots, dancing amongst the clouds of phytoplankton.

Broad, crepuscular rays of light bathed the divers, who were busy foraging amongst the coral reef, a sprawling mass of fantastical structures and colours, rich as trees made of precious gems. Both hunting for hydrosomes, they were working apart, one delicately plucking polyps from the upper boughs, whilst the other scoured the detritus on the sea floor.

Small waterproof sacks hung from their weighted belts, each full of tiny, tentacled creatures – whose strange whose appearance was almost alien-like. Their thin, sepal like feelers groped wildly in the dark sack, shrinking as they encountered one another, then curiously probing again.

A wobbegong shark suddenly erupted from the sea bed, disturbed by the lower diver’s digging. It flicked itself free of sand then fled through the scattered dirt into the deep blue that framed the reef. Although he knew the bottom-feeder was harmless, the diver felt his heart pounding, adrenaline surging, heavy waves crashing on the shore. He tried to swallow some nervous saliva but with a mouth arid from his air supply, it sat uncomfortably on his tongue instead, thick and viscous.

As the sand slowly started to sink the diver noticed something glinting on the seabed, must have been stirred up by the wobbegong. He glided in for a closer look, a small clown fish hovering over his shoulder. There was a shallow crater where the shark had been nestled, a few inches deep and a couple of feet long. The glinting lay at the bottom of this depression, catching the sunlight that filtered through the turquoise water.

Curious, the diver started slowly scraping the sand aside. A few small shells and polished bits of rock slipped through his hands, but pulling back the silt he could feel his heart starting to race again. Metal, gleaming and unblemished, unveiled itself slowly…and it didn’t seem to stop. Faster now, the diver scrubbed some more sand away, then some more – still more metal. This isn’t possible…nah this absolutely cannot be happening…

The diver knew from the size of the reef that it was hundreds of years old; you didn’t get underwater gardens of Eden appearing overnight, it took time for calcified pentachenium to form and grow, let alone one of this size. But if that was the case, then how the hell did you explain what he had just found…? It would mean that…no, it just wasn’t possible.

Looking up, the diver could see his partner floating among the lofty spires of coral, engrossed in her work. He had to tell her…this was just crazy!

With fingers tingling and heart pounding, he kicked off from the seabed, the metal glinting through sand.

Day #20

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Planimeter: a measuring instrument used to determine the area of an arbitrary two-dimensional shape.

Infucation: The act of painting or staining especially of painting the face

Undergo: To go or move below or under

—–

Mr Wills hadn’t left his house for two decades after returning from the war. It was for this reason, along with the honeyed windows and the reams of cigarette butts that littered his garden, that most people assumed his house was abandoned. It was just another one of those buildings that the postman delivered leftover junk mail to, the council couldn’t care less about and whose neighbours were too busy collecting their weekly giro to really pay attention to anything outside of their taxpayer funded inner sanctum.

Truth be told, this suited Mr Wills perfectly well, for he had a task to complete. It was essential that he complete this task or He would not be happy.

The elderly man got by on very little, drinking only tap water and eating only egg and cress sandwiches, but without the bread. He kept several hens in his conservatory and grew cress in every available window, so he rarely went hungry. His appearance seemed unaffected by this curious diet and so he bore the same look of any man slightly past his prime –thinning hair and greying temples, skin slackening like worn jeans and a pair of rheumy eyes that were more at ease behind a set of strong lenses.

Mr Wills spent most of his time completing his task, rarely breaking for lunch. Instead he rose early for a snack at daybreak, then finished off any leftovers before he went to bed. Mr Wills didn’t particularly like sleeping, as this was when he had to undergo the nightly status report.

He would regularly berate the elderly man for his painful fastidiousness, asking why he couldn’t speed up and when did he think the task would be done. Mr Wills, who felt he lacked the authority to speak up and say that he had never actually been told how to complete his task, instead simply dreamed of nodding. It had taken many years to perfect, but Mr Wills now knew that to pacify the voices he simply had to nod and He would slowly dissipate into the recesses of his mind, like a sea mist under a midday sun.

Sitting at his desk one morning, Mr Wills was hard at work. He would scribble wildly on a piece of paper with a fountain pen, measure the area of this arbitrary, non-Euclidean shape with a planimeter, make a note of its area in a nearby ledger and then begin the tedious infucation process. He used paints made of crushed clay and dirt, mixed with water and then dabbed lightly into different sections of the scribble – any acrylics he’d once owned had been used up years ago. He then hung the final product on the wall with a pin in each corner, taut.

These strange paintings slithered over every inch of every wall of Mr Wills’ house like snakeskin, a haunting mural .

A short while later, with russet sludge dangling from the tip of a very fine paintbrush like snot from a nostril, Mr Wills was disturbed by a sudden buzzing. It buzzed twice then stopped, so he ignored it. When it buzzed again five minutes later, Mr Wills finally realized what it was. It was his doorbell.

Day #19

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Growler: One who growls

Theocracy: Government of a state by the immediate direction or administration of God hence the exercise of political authority by priests as representing the Deity

Necessitation: The act of making necessary or the state of being made necessary compulsion

—–

Hangdur slowed the geeter to a halt. The giant bird’s thick, muscular legs quickly disappeared amongst the heat haze that rippled on the ground, an invisible lake. Shouldn’t think about water, mused Hangdur wryly, stroking his steed’s neck, the hard feathers metallic to the touch. The geeter grunted; its call was guttural and raspy, definitely parched.

Holding onto the reigns, Hangdur jumped down and tentatively approached the stone archway that loomed ahead of him. Beyond the archway sat the mountain – the only thing for miles around – jutting out the ground like a giant, lone stalagmite amongst the scrub. If what the old man had said was true, then Hangdur had to pass through the stone archway if he ever wanted to find the Kophi Sphere.

The geeter seemed suddenly hesitant, digging its wide, webbed feet into the ground. The bird was similar to an old world ostrich, two legged and entirely flightless, built solely for running. The fallout had caused the geeters to grow larger, stronger and more aggressive. They were the new battle stallions, more vicious than horses and less prone to erratic behaviour too. Besides, when was the last time anyone had even seen a horse?

‘Come on, boy,’ said Hangdur softly, tugging the reigns to gently coax the geeter forward. The bird put up a brief struggle then resignedly acquiesced, each step long but tentative. As the bird and its rider approached the archway a throaty snarl snapped through the early evening quiet. It sounded close. Hangdur slipped a gun from the holster on his back – a piecemeal weapon, metallic pipes twisted and soldered together like an Escher sketch.

From behind a rock a growler slunk forward, ribs showing and a dead-eyed hunger etched into its face. It snarled again and brazenly stalked forward, caution cast aside by the necessitation of hunger. Its patchy, sandy fur bled into its surroundings rendering it almost invisible in the twilight, a living, breathing optical illusion.

Hangdur quickly fired a warning bolt that struck and clattered off a nearby rock. The growler stopped moving, contemplating and weighing up its options, eyes wide and watery. A few seconds later, its decision apparently made, the growler bolted into the encroaching darkness. Gone – for now, at least. Gonna have to keep an eye open out for that son of a bitch, noted Hangdur.

Free to pass, Hangdur and the geeter passed beneath the stone archway. It was an impressive structure – hewn from the mountain and standing almost 20 metres tall, every inch covered in ornate carvings. Who had done them and why was a mystery, and seeing them up close reminded Hangdur of tales he had been told as a child. He shivered involuntarily, slight doubts ominously massaging his conviction. To calm himself, Hangdur flicked on the flashlight that hung from a strap draped over his jacket then switched on his co-locator, fingers squashed into a pocket. At least if the growler got the better of him now, they’d still be able to find his body.

‘That’s the problem with theocracy, boy,’ said Hangdur absentmindedly, ‘they always want you to track down the damn relics and they don’t care what you gotta go through to get ’em…’

Hangdur’s voice trailed off in awe, echoing queerly on the rocks, as the pair emerged from the archway and into a steep sided canyon that shimmered like glass.