Man From the Future

I’m on the right track, baby, I was born to survive!

The stereo blasted Lady GaGa like there was no tomorrow, and Claire danced accordingly, using a celery stalk as her pretend-microphone. She was home alone for the first time in weeks, and the first thing she did was lock all the doors, draw all the blinds and curtains, put on a light skirt and her favourite blouse and turn on the stereo as loud as she liked it. Next came Lady GaGa and, bam!, instant magic.

It had been a stressful week, and dancing and singing helped her unwind. She was so into it currently, that she nearly missed the frantic knocking at the back door. Sighing and cursing colourfully under her breath, she paused the stereo and grabbed the metal bat she kept by the front door before going towards the back. She peeked through the curtains, and blinked in confusion.

There was a middle-aged man at the door, holding a beat-up wooden box in one arm and a cylinder in the other. It didn’t look like anything Claire had ever seen before, and about a thousand alarms went off in her head. If that wasn’t enough, his clothes looked… odd, to say the least. The fabric they were made of looked very stiff, like old, dirty clothes tend to get, but these looked new. The man’s hair was probably the weirdest thing of all, though – it seemed to defy gravity, sticking every which way in shapes that she’d only seen in video games and anime.

All things considered, she shouldn’t open the door. She should call the cops and tell them that maybe someone had escaped the local psych ward and was currently stalking her. Something about the man, however, overrode thousands of years of survival instincts and Claire opened the door… bat still in hand, of course.

“You have thirty seconds to tell me who you are.” Her voice was calm and collected, and had just enough edge to it to be slightly threatening without sounding violent. Working for tech support had its advantages.

The man, however, didn’t look threatened, not even baffled. It was almost as if he was expecting Claire’s reply, and that made her nervous.

“Hello, Claire. My name is Edgar, and I will not harm you. So, could you please drop the metal bat you’re holding in your left hand? I assure you there’s no need for it.”

There was a loud clang as the bat hit the floor, and a curse as Claire was startled by the sound. Tech support did not prepare you for this kind of thing. Because, sure, the man could’ve guessed she had a weapon concealed… but how did he know the specifics of it? And her name, for that matter? She’d never seen him before, she was absolutely certain of it.

“You’re correct, to an extent,” the man said, shifting his stance and rearranging the box under his arm. “Now, I know how this is going to sound, but would you be so kind as to let me in? These things are heavy, and there’s much I need to tell you, with little time to spare.”

“Correct in what?” Claire blurted, already knowing the answer but still refusing to believe this man had actually read her mind.

“Like I said, Claire, there’s really not much time left, and you’re not the only person I have to meet today.”

Stepping outside, Claire closed the door behind her. She regretted it a split second later, but there was no way she’d let this man into her house without getting some more information first. Besides, her snoopy neighbour would have a clear view of the going-ons, and would call the police if things got out of hand – never did she think she’d be grateful for old Mrs. Sarandon’s meddling.

“You’re not coming into my house if you don’t tell me who you are and what you want.”

Edgar shifted his stance again, maneuvering the cylinder so it was tucked under his arm along with the box, and reached into his slacks’ back pocket, producing an envelope, which he gave to Claire. She took it warily, not taking her eyes off the man in front of her while she opened the envelope; she pulled out something that felt like a picture, and looked at it.

“… is this a joke?” She asked, hands shaking and brow furrowing.

In the picture, she stood next to three people she knew, and two she had never seen before. Well, one – Edgar was one of them. Those she recognized were her sister Hazel, her uncle Marco and a co-worker, Bill. They all looked at least 20 or 30 years older, and their clothes were similar to the one’s Edgar currently wore. The picture was taken in front of Claire’s house, which looked like it was about to fall apart – she thought she could see a rundown rocket sticking out from the backyard, but she wasn’t sure.

The first thing that crossed her mind was that it had to be a photo manipulation – a damned good one, at that -, but there was something about it that screamed against that notion. After a couple of minutes, Claire figured out what it was – the paper. No, the ink – the ink and the paper. The paper was far too porous for regular ink to be properly absorbed for the picture to be as sharp and defined as it was. More than a picture, it seemed as if she were looking at an image in a small LCD screen or something.

“Well?” she asked, once again looking at Edgar, this time fear mixing with outrage – at what, she couldn’t say, but it was there.

“It is not a joke, I assure you. That picture you have there was taken yesterday by my wife, Cristina. Yesterday for me, 23 years from now to you. The people in it are you, your sister, uncle and a co-worker that will become Hazel’s husband. Plus my nephew Tony and myself. I’m sure you recognize this house as the one in the picture.” Claire nodded, but said nothing, so Edgar went on. “I don’t expect you to believe me right off the bat, but I’ve come from the future to warn you and those in the picture not to board the escape pods five years from now.”

“You’re crazy,” Claire said, turning to go back into the house. “Leave now or I will call the police.”

“I can prove it,” Edgar said, dropping to one knee and placing the box in front of him. He didn’t check if Claire had turned around; he simply opened the box and produced a tape recorder that looked home-made. He pressed play, and Claire’s voice, older and sickly-sounding, came forth.

“My name is Claire Mills. Today is Thursday, June the second, year 2034. The time is 13:20, and it’s raining outside. With me are my sister Hazel Collins, our uncle Marco Tomassi, and my brother-in-law Bill Collins. Outside are Edgar Johanssen, his wife Cristina Johanssen and their nephew Tony Michaels.”

Other voices spoke up as each name was called, and Claire recognized her relatives… and herself. She was pale now, and trembling, looking wide-eyed at the recorder.

“We are the only survivors in our block, and are staying over at my house. However, we will soon need to find another place, because the shuttle out in the backyard is about to crush what’s left of the house.

“Whoever is listening to this must pay attention to what Edgar has to say, as our lives depend on it.” A painful coughing fit interrupted her, and present-day Claire winced, bringing a hand to her neck in empathy. “Your lives, to be precise. This is not a joke, not a montage. It’s all very real, but more importantly, it can be prevented. Listen to Edgar.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, Claire was pouring a cup of coffee for Edgar and a third shot of tequila for herself. They were in the kitchen, the cylinder and the box’s contents cluttering most of the table. Other than the tape recorder, there were ticket stubs, more pictures, newspapers and journals, at least one of which was Claire’s. The cylinder, Edgar had explained, contained his means to return to his own time, and shouldn’t be opened until he was ready to do so.

They sat in silence while Claire read the journal she’d written… or, would write. There was no doubt it was her handwriting, and her writing style, but the tone was bitter, something she didn’t associate with herself. However, she supposed the death of her parents, most other relatives and friends could have something to do with it. Halfway through, she stopped reading and looked at Edgar again.

“You said you don’t have much time, and that there are others you need to meet. So, what’s this thing about escape pods?”

“Five years from now, there’s going to be a world-wide nuclear crisis. Or so we’ll be told. The governments of all countries will then get as many people as they can into escape pods – they’ll look like the rocket thing in the first picture I showed you. You’ll be told those pods will take you to the Moon, Mars and asteroid Aeria, which in a few months from now will be deemed as habitable. In truth, none of the pods will reach either of those places – they’ll leave Earth and float around it for over 10 years, then an automated system will bring them back down. By then, most people will have already died, and those who survive will be extremely ill – you’ll end up being one of the ones worse off.”

“So, if there’s no nuclear crisis… what happens?”

“We still don’t know. All we know is, the people that were left behind are fine, and the ones who left are not. The details are not important, Claire. All that matters is you have to stay behind; you have to avoid getting on the pods at all costs, and you must find out what’s going on. We’ve been trying, but it seems the records and most other information were wiped out while we were up in space. The past is our only hope now.”

“How the hell am I supposed to find that out? I mean, it’s not like I can go to the government or the FBI or CIA or whatever and–”

“No! You mustn’t do that! You’ll get caught and nothing will be accomplished that way! You still have time, so be careful. I’ll leave your journals with you, so you can go through them – maybe you will find a hint, a clue, something to guide you through this. But you must be careful!”

Claire could only sigh and nod wearily. She had no idea why, but she believed everything she’d been told so far, and it depressed her to no end. She could foresee tons of Lady GaGa and Queen in her near future…

***

Half an hour later, Edgar was gone and Claire was alone again. Her journals, the one she’d yet to write but were already with her, lay hidden at the top of her wardrobe. On the stereo, Lady GaGa was begging some Alejandro guy to leave her alone, and Claire danced like there was no tomorrow.

Prompt 1 – Boring Book

People used to refer to her as Belle, like the character in The Beauty and the Beast – not because she was particularly pretty (she wasn’t ugly, either, more like average-looking, if you will), but because she loved to read. She craved books like some people craved chocolate, alcohol, drugs or any other addiction-inducing substances or elements; luckily for her, this addiction had no dangerous downsides… or so she liked to think.

Her father was entirely to blame for her fixation, having home-schooled her out of some pathological need to keep her close and safe from everything and everyone. So, she’d received a library card at a ridiculously young age, and she’d exploited it to the max at the public library.

Now, some twenty-odd years later, she found herself facing a bit of a problem: she’d devoured around 95% of the library’s books, and they were slow to update their stock. She could buy new books at a bookstore, instead, like a friend had suggested, but another quirk acquired through her father stopped her from doing so: she never bought a book she wasn’t 100% sure she would like. There were enough things she needed to buy to be stuck with drivel; the fact that she could resell books did not affect her decision at all.

So it was that she found herself scanning through the library’s shelves once again. She ignored Mr. Green’s silly little smirk as she passed him by at the front desk, and the roll of Mrs. Kathinja’s eyes as they crossed paths on her way to the back – she was used to them, and refused to let them dampen her spirits. The same went for the few people at the library that recognized her – small town, small crowd, same old, same old.

She finally reached the section she’d last checked the day before – Z2. Taking a deep breath, she scanned through the various books there, mentally going through a checklist: read – boring, read – entertaining, read – should be burnt, read – actually quite good, read – boring as all hell, unread, read – good…

Wait. Unread? She frowned and looked at the offending book – no wonder she’d skipped it before. It was impeccably bound in a flat brown colour, and the title was almost the same shade as the cover… and the books next to it. If she got close enough, she could read the title – Zaa to Zea. An encyclopedia, then. Add that to the boring list.

Back to where she left off, then… read – dull, read – classic, read – another classic…

Zaa to Zea. It had to be boring, but… she couldn’t get her mind off it.

Curiosity, her father had told her, was a trait inherited from her deceased mother, whom she’d never had the pleasure of meeting. Said trait had gotten her in many a problem in the past, but nothing she couldn’t charm, weasel, buy or bribe her way out of. Taking a glance at the rest of the shelf, she scrunched her nose and shrugged. If the book was indeed boring, she could add it to the “boring” side of her mental-list with actual proof; if it proved to be interesting, she just saved herself the trouble of going through the rest of the shelf… for a day or two.

When she tried to pull the book out of the shelf, it wouldn’t budge. Nor would the two books on either side of it. Feeling annoyed more than anything else, she pulled harder once… twice… thrice. The book finally moved, but she ended up landing on her butt and knocking a few books from the shelf behind her. A colourful string of curses got interrupted when she looked up and found the entry to what seemed to be a tunnel in the space the shelf had previously occupied. The shelf had swiveled inwards, like a door, and the book she’d pulled was back in its place.

She quickly brought a hand to the back of her head to verify she wasn’t bleeding or had a bump – all clear in that regard. Warily, she got back on her feet, ignoring the books she kicked and stepped on while doing so; a couple of shaky steps brought her to the pitch-black entryway – it seemed to suck all light into it, like some sort of black-hole. Which was ridiculous, really – black-holes encompassed enormous amounts of space in… well… space! There was no way one could open up in the rear section of a library and not swallow the whole planet in less than a second. No, not possible. Yet…

Another step, and she could see the beginning of a staircase past the entryway… a staircase going up, apparently. No, scratch that – a staircase going up, and another one going down.

Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought him back. That was in a book somewhere… but she couldn’t recall which one at the moment. She would have to ask her father when she got back home.

Flipping a mental coin, she decided to take the staircase going down, expertly ignoring the voice in the back of her head that told her all the experience she had acquired in books indicated that going down almost always lead to certain death. Truth was, she was afraid of heights, so to hell with whatever books said and hello cliché.

Two steps down, and she heard the “door” close behind her; at the same time, the staircase going up disappeared. No way but down now.

You Are Here

This blog has been laying around for a while because I didn’t know what to do with it. Now that I’ve finally figured it out, I hope to be able to update it more or less regularly.

This won’t be, however, a journal-like blog. I already have that over at blogger, and I don’t want to duplicate things.

I’ll be posting fiction here, more often than not. Perhaps I’ll make a post that will work as an index/summary with some thoughts about each of the stories posted, but that will come later down the road, since there are some things that require my attention in a more immediate manner.

For the time being, I will be getting a feel of the site, customizing the blog to my liking, and working on other written projects I would like to finish up and show to the world.

Hugs,

Ale Meza-Santiago

PS: You may also find these stories published over at my deviantArt account, and everything will be shared through Facebook and Twitter. If you see anything of mine anywhere else, let me know so I can confirm it’s me posting or to check if anyone is stealing my stuff.

Leaks

The roof is leaking. The puddle on the floor reaches up to his arm. The tile beneath him is cold, and his shirt is soaked; he can barely feel his fingers or feet, but the beat of his bloodstream pounds on his ears intermittently enough to keep him from falling asleep or into unconsciousness.

His eyes leak, too. A few tears every couple of minutes or so, salty liquid pooling on the shell of his ears, trickling in and making him shudder. There’s no sobbing or runny nose, though, just a hitched breath now and then to remind him that he still breathes. His lips are dry, however, probably from breathing through them instead of using his nose, or maybe because of all the begging and pleading he’s been doing.

He’s bleeding, as well. Knife wounds to his arms, legs, torso and back ooze viscous, dark blood which spills onto the floor and is absorbed by his clothes, making him feel heavy and anchored to the now red-stained blue ceramic underneath him. They’re all deep enough for blood to escape his body in a continuous flow, but shallow enough to keep him alive long enough.

Long enough for what? To get medical attention? Highly unlikely, taking into account the fact that no one knows he’s here and his cellphone was taken away. Even if he had a phone, he wouldn’t be able to provide directions as to his whereabouts – he doesn’t remember how he got here in the first place.

Not enough time to be saved. Long enough to think about his crimes, his sins? No, the pain doesn’t allow him to focus on much else other than wanting to either die or be saved. Perhaps that’s it – perhaps he’s meant to live long enough to experience as much pain as possible. It’s a morbid thought, particularly if he tries to match it to the person that left him in this state, but stranger things have happened, and humans have a tendency to break out of their mould when pushed to the end of their rope, of their sanity.

Torture, then. He’s being tortured. He can take that, can deal with it. Because of whom it’s coming from, because he knows he’s had this coming for years now. He pushed, shoved, pried, lied, cajoled and manipulated, tugged at strings better off left alone, always waiting for a spontaneous reaction as opposed to a carefully thought-out answer, always wanting the raw, passionate riposte and not the calculated, politically correct comeback.

He had to wait years for it, but he finally got it. That it came in the form of an ambush he did not expect; that his body would be kicked and punched he would have never been able to foresee, but he wasn’t exactly surprised at the cold-blooded precision with which the knife wounds were delivered. That it was a knife, however, was an inside-joke of sorts, and even through the throbbing pain he could appreciate the intimacy behind the chosen weapon.

Despite the blood loss and the precariousness of his situation, his mind wanders and there’s a stirring in his loins that manages to draw a hoarse moan from his aching throat. The effort, involuntary as it is, renews his body’s pained cries, and he feels lightheaded for the first time since he was carelessly tossed to the ground.

He concentrates on the sounds around him to keep himself awake – what for, he doesn’t know, but it seems important to make an effort. He can still hear the leaking roof, and now the pool of water has reached his back and head; he can’t turn to look at it, but from the corner of his eye he can see that the water is now a dirty shade of pinkish red, very likely due to his blood mixing in with the other liquid. That either means that there’s enough water to reach one of his wounds, or his blood has pooled and extended all the way to where the water is. At any rate, it is bad news for him… if he wants to live through this, that is.

It surprises him to realize he doesn’t know if he wants to survive or not. There’s clear advantages to both, which confuses him – shouldn’t he be scared of death? Shouldn’t he be finding a way to get up and out of this dank, cold place? Just laying still and praying and begging to hypothetical deities or fate or the universe would get him nowhere fast. Still, he doesn’t feel like moving. What does that say about himself?

Footsteps echo all around and he can’t figure out where they come from until a pair of legs stops right in front of his field of vision. There’s blood on the black shoes and the hem of the black dress-pants; he’s not sure about anywhere else since he can’t see past that area – his head is lolled to the side and he has not the strength or will to move it. There’s also mud, and something white that could be dried salty water or something else entirely. He knows who this is, and feels the need to say something. He tries, but stops in mid-word as his chapped lips bleed when he parts them to speak. New tears roll down his eyes, and a sob shakes his whole frame, bringing along more pain as the world around him takes a frilly turn.

His torturer drops to one knee and places the back of a warm hand to his forehead; his skin is cold in comparison to the other’s, bringing out goosebumps all over his body. The contact is almost gentle, but he refuses to believe the action is anything but methodical – Torture Methods 101: Do not let your victim die before you’re ready to put them six feet under.

Two fingers press against his neck now, obviously checking his pulse; he knows it’s very weak, but not weak enough to worry his captor. A frustrated sigh reaches his ears, and he feels a small surge of pride at managing to make his assailant mad or at least upset.

Before he can explore the implications of said feeling, ice cold water splashes on his whole body almost at once; he realizes a hose is being used just before his lungs contract and leave him without oxygen for a few agonizingly long seconds. He somehow manages to curl into a loose foetal position, instinct taking over in spite of the pain. The aggressor continues to hose him down, taking advantage of his position to reach his back properly before placing a foot on his chest and rolling him so he’s on his back again. More water hits his face before the hose is tossed away and he’s left shivering and panting, although thankful because his lips and throat are no longer dry.

The foot on his chest retreats only to be replaced by the attacker’s body straddling his own; it brings no arousal his time, only breathless anticipation as his body is covered in warmth he’d thought lost until this precise moment; the scent of his blood mixed with floral shampoo and citrusy body lotion is new yet familiar and welcome. Cold hands cup his unmarred face – just now he wonders why the knife had spared it along with his groin, but then soft, warm lips are pressing against his cold, chapped ones, and his eyes close wearily; his body arches up to meet the other’s, and instinct has him try to reverse the position – however, his strength fails and he ends up splayed out almost wantonly. His left arm, the least damaged, manages to reach the other’s face but is swatted away and he makes no effort to move again.

The kiss is sloppy at first, almost mockingly so, until it slows down and deepens, turning into some sort of goodbye or parting. He’s crying again once his mouth is released, and he refuses to open his eyes, but two quick slaps across his face force him to look into blood-shot eyes. He can’t read the expression on the face hovering over his, and for the first time he’s truly frightened. He follows a hand and sees it wrap around the knife and the sight of his blood on the blade triggers the panic switch on his brain, the fight-or-flight response reduced to a command to flee that cannot be carried out as his body refuses to respond.

There has been no exchange of words between them since he stepped into the building some odd hours ago and was clubbed on the stomach – not a single word during the brutal beating, not even while his body was methodically and efficiently slashed and stabbed with the same knife that now glinted in the half-light in front of his face. No response to his questions, no reaction to his pleads. He thought he was afraid before, but nothing could prepare him for the sheer terror the voice he now hears conjures.

It is nothing like what he was used to, and it seems impossible that the voice stored in his memory and the one he hears now belong to the same person – his mind goes as far as to hypothesize this is someone else, a twin or a double of sorts, but many things speak against such a theory. The only explanation he can come to that rings more or less plausible is that hate and rage have twisted a light and soft voice and turned it into a deep, hoarse murmur that resonates on his chest like a distorted bass.

“Remember you once told me… I could only love you or kill you…?” He nods, afraid of what might happen if he tries to speak or fails to respond. “And I told you I couldn’t do either… that you couldn’t force me?” Another nod, followed by a shiver that earns him another slap. “Then you told me to make up my mind and let you know, remember that?” Sobbing, he nods, tears blurring his vision as his breathing gets faster and shallower. “Well… this is me… letting you know.”

*****

I stand up, pulling the knife out of his lifeless body along the way. A new stream of blood gushes out, but it’s only a vacuum effect of sorts. I stay at his side for a moment, committing the scene to memory before I go and get the hose to clean his body off, entranced at the eddies that form as water and blood mix and rush towards the nearby drain. I then clean the knife and my bloodstained hands and legs before deciding to hose myself completely, lest I miss something; the clothes will burn, anyway, and the knife will go to the attic, along with everything else I can’t readily get rid of.

After making sure everything is clean and I cannot be traced back to this god awful place, I go back to have one last look at him. I’m tempted to provide one last kindness and close his eyes and mouth, but three things stop me. The first and least important is a technicality: I cannot do either because he hasn’t been dead long enough for rigour to set in. The second one is also a technicality, one I picked up in some movie or other – fingerprints can be picked up from eyes, too, and I will not risk that.

It is the third that really stills me, however. I’m nauseated, and touching a corpse might make me lose control over my stomach and its contents. I’ve never felt such repulsion before, and it frightens me, so I simply grab my things and walk away without ever glancing back.

A couple of hours pass before I return home. I know my partner’s around, so I sneak into the basement first to take my clothes off and toss them into the ancient heater the house came with; everything goes in, shoes included. I watch them burn while drying myself and then I put on the spare change of clothes I brought along. I go into the house and head to the kitchen to get a glass of water – I think about maybe grabbing something stronger, but my stomach is still waging battle against itself, so I settle for ice cold water. Then up the stairs and into the attic, where I bury the backpack with the knife and other things under a pile of junk that will either burn later on or go to charity, I’m not sure which yet. Afterwards, I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth twice until all I taste is acrid mint – no him, no fear.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I realize I look as though I’m about to be sick, which is how I look when I’m stressed out almost beyond my breaking point. I take a couple of deep breaths, reciting my favourite mantra while flexing my back and shoulder muscles until I feel something inside click back into place. I splash warm water on my face and pat it dry before glancing at the mirror again – there we go! Tiredness but no sickness, and my stomach is back to normal.

Feeling confident that I’m composed enough to face the world again, I go into the library, where my partner is. There’s a smile aimed my way, and while I notice a flash of suspicion crossing mirthful eyes, nothing is said. Instead, open arms beckon me hither, and I walk to them, sitting on a warm lap and allowing myself to be cradled by loving arms, my own wrapped around a narrow waist as my head rests on shoulders slightly broader than my own.

“Everything all right?” I nod in response, suddenly exhausted. “Sleep,” is all I hear before closing my eyes and slipping into comfortable slumber.

******

The scent of blood cannot be simply hosed down. Murder doesn’t flee one’s eyes immediately.

Out of all the things I’ve taught you, I never imagined you would ever excel at the coldest and most heartless of all. It is so foreign to someone as cheerful and overall peaceful as you, not to mention loving. Perhaps, however, that is why you’re so good at it? No one would ever see it coming, so you’ll always have more time to prepare, to plot and set the board to your liking before making your move.

Yes, there was murder in your eyes earlier this evening; yes, the scent of blood and death impregnated your skin and hair, almost dousing the aroma of shampoo and perfume. Many would probably say part of your soul died as you took a life, but I’ve never believed in such nonsense. Particularly not when your nightmares were eradicated so swiftly and seamlessly.

You used to toss and turn in your sleep very often; I wondered what could be causing it, but you never let anything on, not even through direct questioning. In a way, it is a frightening thought that you can hide something so heavy and consuming from me, being that we’re bound ’till world’s end. It is also comforting, in a darker sense – it means you can still surprise me, and there’s still much to be learned from each other.

If you’d spoken of your grief, I would’ve taken matters into my own hand and eliminated its source. I would’ve been right to do so, but perhaps I’d be robbing you of a chance to grow and try new things. As it stands, it is very likely your decision was the most appropriate one; you are, after all, sleeping so peacefully no one would believe you took a life mere hours ago.

Seeing you sleep so soundly, on the other hand, makes me remember my oath to you. Even if you set the world on fire, I will ensure your happiness is ever lasting.

Second Star to the Left

“Second star to the left and straight on to the morning.” That’s what that drunkard Peter Pan told me after selling me pixie dust and showing me how to use it. I should’ve known better than to trust a washed … Continue reading →