Momento Mori

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Something I wrote for an assignment this week. It was meant to be horror, and maybe it still is, but it seems to me to be more like fantasy.

But I digress. Enjoy!
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David hated Halloween. Not even on the subway could he escape it: the tacky rubber bats; the garish plastic jack-o-lanterns. Kids grinning in anticipation of a weekend of sugar highs and parents dreading sleepless nights.
It wasn't just the kids, either. Sitting across from him was a man already garbed in costume. This one was genuinely creepy though, at least. The skeleton-print onesie was standard, and he wore a roughed-up black leather jacket, but the carved-turnip-effect mask was startlingly realistic. It looked old, too, like a rough hemp sack pulled tight over a bowling ball. The mouth was moulded open in a sinister leering expression, and the eyes were blank sockets, and betrayed no trace of hidden slits through which the wearer might see.
Come to think of it, the man's posture and general countenance were at odds with his surroundings. He seemed to be genuinely in the spirit of the macabre. Whereas most of their fellow commuters were slouching in their seats or hanging off the overhead grips, this ghoulish individual was sitting up straight, hands clasped in front of him, and was staring around the carriage with impish glee. He would attempt to make eye contact with those around him, but his gaze was universally avoided. The old Italian gentleman next to him coughed and returned to his paper. A young fashionista in winter furs sneered and turned up her nose. A mother of two frowned and shooed her brood behind their pram, lest his grim countenance fuel their dreams that night.
So caught up had he been in observing the young reveller that David forgot to look away himself when his gawp was returned. Turnip-head, clearly delighted, smiled a broad smile that turned up the corners of his mouth. His mouth? No, that couldn't be right. He looked down and pulled an old brass timepiece, which was on a chain attached to a button hole on his jacket, out of his pocket and checked it, before looking back at David and nodding, still grinning that rubbery grin.
“This is Grand Central Terminal” chimed the recorded announcement, snapping David out of his stupor. The train sprang to life as its occupants scurried towards the doors. He shook his head and grabbed his briefcase before standing up to join them. The man in costume was nowhere to be seen.
Grand Central was packed, as usual. David elbowed his way to the barriers and presented his ticket to the slot. The machine took the ticket, pondered it for a few seconds, then spat it back out. He tried again. No joy. The crowd behind him was jostling with impatience. Flustered, David tried one more time. At the third round of rejection beeps, he started to become angry. He banged on the metal casing and was rewarded with a shockwave up his arm and a tight feeling that shot across his chest.
Before David could catch his breath, the man behind him reached around and slotted his own ticket into the machine with infinitely greater success, before giving David a hefty shove between the shoulder blades which carried both of them through. It was a rough measure, but it did the trick.
The walk up the main staircase to the street was harder than normal. He grabbed onto the hand railing for support, but could barely feel it in his hand. That guy must have hit a nerve or something, and David laughed at how weak he felt all of a sudden. Looking up to the top of the stairway he was surprised to see Turnip-head looking right at him.
He nodded again. The next moment David was tumbling backwards, and then it all went black.

*

When he came to it was getting dark, and moreover, it was cold. Very cold. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling and came to the realisation that he had been left exactly where he had fallen. Brilliant.
"This is probably the most boring part of my job. The waiting.”
At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, David sat up too quickly, and winced. The back of his skull hurt. He raised his hand to touch it.
“I wouldn't if I were you.”
The way David had landed meant he was now facing into the deserted station. The voice came from behind him. Turning, he was greeted with a familiar figure. Even in the darkness he could make out the skeleton print of Turnip-head's onesie, glowing faintly.
“Take it easy for a moment. You're probably still in shock.” he said.
“Look, thanks for waiting around. Looks like you're the onl'y one who did.”
He laughed. “Didn't have a lot of choice really!”
David stood up and dusted himself off. His clothes seemed to be in fairly good shape, despite the fall, but his head felt light and his limbs were numb.
“I suppose I should go to the hospital.”
Turnip-head laughed again. “You people crack me up sometimes. Come on, we should be going.” He turned and set off up the stairs.
David only caught up to him outside the building. He was waiting in the deep shadow cast by the statue of Hermes that watched over East 42nd Street.
“I'm not quite sure what...going where?”
By way of answer Turnip-head nodded towards the Park Avenue Bridge. “Watch out for the hounds. They bite,” he added.
There was a howl from above them. A pack of feral dogs, some pacing hungrily, some hanging their forepaws over the edge, hovered on the overpass. They looked ragged and emaciated; David didn't doubt that they would.
“They like to try it on with transients whilst they're kind of fresh,” he said, grinning.
Turnip-head slung his arm around David's shoulder and started walking him in the direction he had indicated. As they passed out of the building's shadow and into the direct moonlight, the mysterious stranger's ghoulish features came into stark focus. Up-close he could see all of the minute details; the rough texture, the cracks in the skin, all of the wiry little hairs. David was confused. This looked like no mask he had ever come across before.
Seeing his surprise, Turnip-head gestured back to the grand clock above the station entrance. “Ultima Forsan my friend. Every hour wounds, the last kills.”
“Look, I really should be going...my wife...”
“You don't have a wife David.”
This man was becoming more unsettling by the second. The way his mouth moved like the mask was alive. He shook free of the stranger's bony limb.
“I'm not going anywhere with you 'til you tell me your name!”
Turnip head sighed, slackened his shoulders, then quick as a flash grabbed David violently by the throat. Caught off-guard, he began gasping for air. He tried to wrench free, but his assailant's grip was like a vice. He started to feel faint, his vision turning hazy from lack of oxygen.
“Calm down David.”
But he couldn't. In struggling to focus he missed the other hand arcing across to bring a stinging slap to his cheek.
“Calm down!”
Stunned, David stopped struggling. His vision snapped back to normal almost instantaneously and he blinked. He was fine. Turnip-head let go.
“Stop being stubborn. I'm afraid you don't have a choice. You've nowhere else to go.”
They were interrupted by a growl from behind him. He looked down to see one of the hounds half way through tearing a lump of flesh from his calf, trouser fabric and all. With the same speed with which he had attacked David, Turnip-head aimed a kick at the mutt. It connected with a disgusting mushy sound, causing the dog to yelp mawkishly and back off to where the rest of its pack was lurking.
“What did I tell you about watching the dogs?”
David could only stare at the gaping wound in his leg and wonder why his brain wasn't registering what should have been agony.
“Oh, it's not that bad. I've seen worse. And you haven't seen the back of your head.”
Reflexively, David reached up to touch it, but his fingers still refused to register any feeling. His hands came away covered in a disgusting crimson mush that caused him to retch.
“I did warn you not to do that.”
“Look, I really need to go to a hospital!” he pleaded.
“No, David, you don't. You're a little beyond their sphere of expertise right now.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name for that matter?”
“Would it help if I waved my scythe and pointed a skeletal finger at you? You're dead, David. I thought you would have realised that by now. Loss of feeling? Gaping skull fracture? Mysterious lack of need for oxygen? I'm just here to make sure you don't get lost.”
David felt weak.
“H-how?”
“It was a close call. It started off as a heart-attack, but you rather stylishly pipped it to the post with a good old-fashioned brain hemorrhage. It was quite spectacular really.”
“Why didn't anyone move my body?”
“Oh, they did. You're probably in one of those cold storage lockers by now. This,” he gestured to David's body “is is a mental manifestation of your physical memory. Still damn tasty to the doggies though. Then again, they're not fussy. Come on, it's not so bad.”
“You can talk! You're not dead – are you?”
“Well I never died, if that's what you mean. I've never had a life though. Never tasted a fresh strawberry; run through a field of corn; made love. You think you've had it so bad?”
“I'm sorry; I didn't know.”
Turnip-head stared at him blankly for a moment, then cracked his customary grin. “Naaah, I'm just pulling your leg. This is the best job in the world, especially on Halloween. I get to shit you fleshies up all day and you don't have a clue who I am.” He pulled a face. “Boo! Come on sour chops, let's get you where you need to go.”

Bar of the Dead

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This is the second assignment for my genre class. We had to describe a location and how we might use it as a setting within a genre of our choice.
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A bar in a small, midwest American town. It isn't much to look at; faded wooden sign hanging above the door. The car park barely registers as that – just a patch of dirt and dust. The outer walls are a white-wash affair, mismatched with a border of faded pastel red that serves to emulate the hicksville feel of the single-room affair inside. Nothing that would be missed should a few stray shotgun shells blow off the plaster, or if a head should explode bloodily too close to it.
Going through the main door, you come to a shabby set of faux saloon doors that serve no other purpose than letting you know that the owner once had big ideas for this place, but gave them up pretty quickly when they came to the realisation that no-one would be impressed by a Wild West-themed bar in the actual Wild West. They would certainly be no defence against the living dead; a minor hinderance at best. Good thing the outer door, one of only two entrances, is heavy and set with steel hinges and thick double bolts.
The windows, too, are fairly well fortified. After several break-ins, the owner had wire mesh bars installed over the glass: great for preventing brick damage, but fantastic for the mindless undead to claw themselves to shreds on.
As it goes, your average bar is probably the best place to head for in the event of a zombie apocalypse, short of your local gun shop, and this one is no exception. The owner wisely keeps a sawn-off shotgun under the bar for sticky situations such as scaring drunks. Ammunition might be a factor for anyone caught out here, but the array of weaponry doesn't end there. The array of spirits lining the back counter can be combined with old barcloths to make for an effective incendiary, provided you have a source of flame – but what self-respecting group of human refugees doesn't contain a seasoned smoker or two?
For your more sociopathic survivor, a broken bar stool can easily go the distance, mulching brain matter if applied with enough force, with backups to spare should the weapon break across the skull of the local school teacher or the county sheriff.
Should all defences fail, and retreat is the only option, the designated emergency exit is the cellar. Buried underground and by rule of thumb inaccessible to zombies, it should be easy to throw off pursuit, provided the owner themselves aren't waiting in the shadows, drooling over the kegs and staring out the mortar in the walls. Still, any quick-witted group that still retains some kind of weapon should be able to deal with this minor hinderance with minimal collateral damage. From here, it is a mere case of unlocking the cellar's tightly locked wooden delivery hatch (or blowing it open) and escaping to whatever end.

The Golden Valley

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A recent assignment for my genre studies class required that we write about a place, fictional or real, in the style of two different genres. I chose to write about one of my favourite places, known as Golden Valley to locals. It's a really peaceful place that I used to go to do some of my writing when I wanted to be alone, back when I lived in Malvern. I know it that well that I thought it would come easily, but thinking about it in terms of different feelings than it normally evokes was pretty difficult.
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The Golden Valley

Horror

It is twilight. A grey mist sits on the surface of the lake, reflecting the drone of the lone electricity pylon that towers above me. Although I cannot see it, I know the derelict old cottage is still there on the other side of the chill waters; all broken windows and rotting door-frames. It has spooked me ever since I was a little child. I swear I saw the light of an old oil lamp in one of the windows once, even though the building had been abandoned for years. Mama told me I must have imagined it. I hope now that I did.
The last, cold light of the winter sunset glows behind the hills, making them loom ominously. I daren't go that way; a patchwork of potholes and gorse bushes make for unsteady going at the best of times, and it's getting darker by the minute. Bad things happen on these moors. Terrible things. Should I need to run, I would be in serious trouble.
I can't go back; the way behind me is burning. So I head into the fields.
I feel my way through the gathering night. The long grasses and tips of barley brush my fingers and palms, giving me the sensation that I am floating. The way across the common is long, but I have no choice. I couldn't stay here, even if I wanted to. I'd be found.

Science Fiction

The midday sun glints off the hologram that poses for the lake's crystal-clear water. Things certainly have changed.
I step away from the door of my contraption. It hasn't just been a long time since I have seen this place in the rise-and-fall-of-civilisations sense: I may be able to reach the farthest corners of the time-line, but it has also been close to forever in my own lifetime since I set eyes on these fields.
I used to come here as a boy. It was one of my favourite places, actually. I would sit on the mossy old logs that served as benches with my Gramma and have picnics and feed the ducks. I don't suppose they have those any more – real food is costly to produce; far beyond the price range of the average human family. The ducks are definitely gone. It's funny, they can afford state-of-the-art holographic equipment so it doesn't look like they suffocated their own planet to death, but good luck enjoying it if you're a native. This is purely for the newsvids. If they caught me here though, trespassing would be the least of my problems. They have technology, but nothing like this. There would be some serious temporal consequences if they got their hands on this baby. But they won't; they'll never even know I was here.
I dig my hands into my pockets and sigh. The wind that blows through my hair at least is real. The barley stalks are simulated to sway in time with the breeze, but I know that if I walk over there my hand will go right through the stalks.
It's time to go. As I re-enter my ship, I take one last look over my shoulder and try to remember it as it was: the ducks, the water, the mossy log. Such a shame.