Sonnet: "I am not far, as some would count the miles"

I am not far, as some would count the miles.
Mere hours separate me from my home.
This unfamiliar city, little trials,
has nights both long and cold. I am alone.
The streets are made of light as I ghost through them
from conference to hotel. I choose to hide.
The living walk and talk. I could speak to them.
I am not here, so I cannot decide.
My thoughts are fixed on those I hope are waiting,
wondering how their moments pass, their day.
Are they now, like me, anticipating?
Counting every minute? I ache to say:
"I'll be back soon." I'm empty when I'm gone.
I long for home - for now I just hold on.

Adventures in Broken Rooms

~0~

There is a Broken Room in that small corner which nestles in between architectural features on the west side of the Town Hall.

I know it's there, because I saw it. Or, if you're being picky, I saw the way the wind carried the leaves around it, a perfect miniature whirlwind of brown, broken things.

(Maybe I wouldn't have seen it, except for the leaves. Maybe not. These things call to me.)

I don't know where it goes to. It might not even know, until someone steps into it, and through. 

For a moment I considered it, I won't deny it. For one delicious moment I felt that falling/flying of transition, that heady rush of... something.

But I'm safe here, for now. They haven't found me yet. And it's nice to stay still for a while.

I know that one day soon they'll find me, and that I'll have to run. Throw myself into the whirlwind and hope, and pray that I'm prepared. That I've got my bug-spray, sun lotion, winter coat, goggles, gun.

But not yet. Until then, I'll give myself a moment, and watch the leaves dance around the edges of a Broken Room.

~0~

Broken Rooms is a roleplaying game of parallel worlds, which I worked on with some very clever and talented people.

I provided a lot of background material, which has since been merged, amalgamated, re-defined and generally changed to become greater and more interesting than it was before. Some of the fiction I wrote for it is up on the game website:

• Sunny Came Home
• Names Changed

Diamond Light Reading - Launch Event

Me with the starring character from the winning story. (Determining who is who is left as an exercise for the reader.)

I'm very pleased to announce, that, after a very nice launch event and tour of Diamond, the Light Reading anthology is now available for download as epub, pdf or mobi format.

There's a formal press release here, which has gathered a lot of interest from places like the Oxford Mail and io9.

My story "28 Hours" can be found here. 

Sonnet: "There is a truth the heart already knows"

for F. and C.

There is a truth the heart already knows:
At times, one heart in different body meets,
cries out in joy as it the other greets.
And as the dating dance, so formal, goes,
these hearts care not for proper, outward shows.
Free from doubt, though cautious head entreats,
two hearts apart are forming common beats.
Rejoicing in the love inside, that grows.

There is no time, when two hearts beat as one.
A second is a year, a year a day.
No choices to be made, decisions done,
for what is left, when each to each may say:
"You are my light, my life, my soul, my sun.
I am your heart. With you I'll stay"

From the Archive: "Marking Time"

            Rory hated taking the bus. But with his car lying belly up in the garage, he had little choice. It wasn’t the inconvenience of it, the searching for the correct change or even the waiting of long minutes in the dark for it to come that he hated. It was being tied to a schedule not of his own devising.

That, and the fact the buses were rarely, if ever, on time.  He had his life well organised; he hated anything that threw him off his precise schedule. No need to accommodate anyone or anything else in that plan. It was safe, secure and comfortable, even if the buses weren’t.

            That morning the bus was late, again. When he finally spotted its double decker silhouette in the distance he tsked to himself under his breath and tucked his umbrella under one arm like a sergeant major. He stepped towards the edge of the path, one hand raised to flag it down. It pulled to a stop in front of him, doors opening in a jerky fashion. He quickly boarded and cast his money disdainfully into the waiting receptacle, pausing only to take his ticket before turning to look for a seat.

            Oh, better and better. The bus was packed; each and every single seat was taken, people even standing in the aisles. Time to try upstairs. As the bus pulled away, he climbed the staircase to the top deck, one hand clutching the rail tightly to compensate for the erratic sway of the vehicle, while the other quickly stuffed the ticket into the pocket of his long coat.

            No seats up here. Wonderful. No, wait a minute. A single seat right at the very front. And in it, a girl, leaning far forward, staring through the glass ahead into the distance.

            She looked up as he approached and he revised his estimation. No girl this, but a woman, though still young. Ex college student? Perhaps. Although her clothes looked a bit too expensive for that. She swept the tails of her coat from the seat and he sat stiffly, staring out into the distance.

            It was a moment before he realised she was talking to him. He had been looking at his watch, planning the mundane details of his day.

            “I love sitting up top here”, she said. Her voice was soft, almost as if she was talking more to herself than him. He could just hear her over the noise of the engine and the conversations of the other passengers.

            “If you lean right forward and look out through the windows, you could almost pretend you were flying.”

            Rory sat, rigid with apprehension. His only comment was:

            “I can’t stand heights.”

            At this, she turned with a look of surprise on her face.

            “Oh, I’m sorry. Why are you up here then?”

            “No seats and no standing room below. And my car’s in the shop.”

            “Ah,” she said in understanding and with a touch of sympathy.

“One day I’ll have a car. Eventually. In the meantime, I’m subjected to the tender mercies of the bus company. You’re lucky, even though your car is in the shop. At least you won’t have to suffer the buses long.”

            “At the moment I don’t feel very lucky. I feel quite sick in fact.”

            She looked at him with concern, then smiled as she saw the wry half grin on his face.

            “I’d love to have a car. But I have a problem,” she continued.

            “What’s that then?” he asked.

            “Well, two problems really. First, no money. And second, I can’t drive.”

            “Ah,” said he. “Those are problems alright.”

            “But I have a plan,” she continued. “A great plan. One might even say a plan to take over the world.”

            “And what would that be then?”

            She leaned forward, whispering to him in a mock conspiratorial tone.

            “Ah, now, that’d be telling. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. And I wouldn’t want to do that.”

            There was a smile on her face and laughter in her voice.

            Rory shrugged his shoulders at that, playing along with the mock seriousness of it all.

            “Fair enough I suppose. I wouldn’t want to be killed either. You wouldn’t be wanting to tell everyone you met now, would you? Never know who you’d meet on a bus. There are spies everywhere.”

            “Indeed there are,” she agreed gravely. “Indeed there are.”

            After that exchange a silence fell over them. Rory shifted uncomfortably in his seat, beginning to feel the chill of vertigo and motion sickness seeping into him. He was concentrating so hard on the interior of the bus that he nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke again.

            “ Look! Do you see the swans?”

            The bus had been making its rickety and unsteady way down the country roads, swaying side to side with every curve and bend, occasionally knocking overhanging branches and scraping them against the roof. Then the road cleared, grew wider and the driver picked up speed as they travelled though a half-inhabited industrial estate.

            It was built around a large roundabout; the main road the bus was taking went straight through. On the right were two factories, one on either side of the turnoff, heavy, grey and boxlike. They sat on acres of concrete attended by rows upon rows of cars. Bland and featureless, they still possessed a menace that made Rory turn away, unnerved. They were soulless.

             On the left was another turnoff, but no factories, instead the road ended a bare fifty metres into the fields that were once the farmlands of the area, now lying unkempt and wild. Briars and brambles tangled with long grasses; the hedges that once bordered the fields were now more like thickets. The colours were green, and gold; the dried and dying grasses yellow against the occasional rich red of the windblown leaves.

             Built on either side of this segment of road were fountains, or at least that’s what Rory assumed they would be. Wide stagnant pools, built on two separate levels with water intended to pour over the tiny weir between. Around them the grass was carefully mown into the smooth greenness of a front lawn. Something you’d expect in front of a hotel with ornamental goldfish swimming in it. Not adorning a bare scrap of road leading into an empty field. And in these fountains, calmly paddling oblivious to the noise of the traffic and the factories, were two swans.

            Rory blinked a couple of times and shook his head in disbelief. When he looked again the bus had carried them out of sight, continuing on its predestined path, the chug of the engine loud in his ears.

            The girl had craned her neck to see as much of them as she could, when they turned the bend she dropped back into her seat with a sigh.

            “I always know it’s going to be a good day when I see them.”

            “They live there then?”

            “Oh yes. Although I don’t know why. You’d expect to be seeing swans on a river or lake or something, not in a fountain. I wonder how they like living in such a small place.”

            “Perhaps they like it, the security. They know everything about their home. Nothing’s going to change.”

            She seemed dissatisfied with that explanation. A small frown creased her brow.

            “Perhaps. Or perhaps they’re plotting to take over the world and are just marking time there while they plan.”

            Her impish smile returned as she said:

“Like me.”

            A few moments passed in silence, then she gathered her bag into her arms, reaching up with one hand to ring the bell. The bus slowed and came to a stop in front of yet another industrial estate, this time the building looked more clerical. Or at least it had more windows. Rory wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.

            “Time to go to work.”

            Rory stood as she did, standing aside to let her out, then collapsing back into the seat.

            “Nice talking to you,” she said smiling.

            “Take care now,” he replied, and was surprised to find that he meant it as more than just an empty courtesy.

            It was a matter of habit for Rory to mark off the days on his calendar before settling down to work. It had started as a way of keeping track of the time, now however it was merely a comforting ritual that everything was going on as normal. Mark off the day and begin a new one. But today it was harder than usual for him to get into the correct mindset; his thoughts kept drifting, to the swans, the girl. He had a plan to take over the world once. What was it again? Ah, he had forgotten. No matter, time to get back to the real world. His feet were firmly on the ground now. Too much dreaming and you’d never get anything done.

Resolutely he pushed all extraneous thoughts aside, as he had learned to do over the years, giving his full concentration to the work at hand. Time later. Always time later. Time enough to dream.

            That evening he was on the bus once more, this time seated comfortably below with his paper a shield against the eccentricities of his fellow travellers. The darkness outside cast his ghostly reflection back to him as he looked out the window, glancing once, then twice, then with increasing frequency as the bus went on its erratic way.

            As the bus came up to the fountains he gave up all pretence of reading and stared out into the gathering gloom. A faint splodge of white was all that he could see of the two swans; they were huddled together for warmth. The sight sent a shiver through him, a sort of wistful yearning. Two creatures huddled together, comforting each other in the cold and the darkness.

            The bus drove on. He ceased looking out into the night, instead turning his attention to his reflection in the glass. There were lines around the eyes, he noticed, even visible in the imperfect ghostly image. He already knew there was grey in his short brown hair. He was told it made him look distinguished. He reserved his judgement on that score. Time, he thought. It waits for no man. He shrugged his shoulders. What can you do? He turned back to his paper.

           

            He got his car back the next day. His driving route didn’t pass the swans. And the days were ticked off with relentless precision.

            It was several months before he had cause to take the bus again. The reason this time was a near miss on the motorway that left him panicky, his hands shaking and his breath coming in gasps. He never knew what prompted him to climb the unsteady stairs to the top deck, there were plenty of seats below. But he was glad he did when he saw her there, looking out over the road ahead, like she was flying.

            “Hello again,” he said.

            “Oh, hello! I was hoping I’d see you again.”

            He was taken aback by this slightly. What could she mean by that? A hope flared in his mind. It was instantly extinguished by his dour realism.

            “Remember my master plan?”

            “The one to take over the world? Of course.”

            “Well, events are proceeding apace. Today’s my last day here. I’m off to London tomorrow.”

            “Oh,” he said. There was nothing more he really could say, except for “Congratulations.”

            “Thanks. I’m off to swim in a bigger pond now. No more little fountains for me.”

            “I’m very happy for you. And, when you do take over the world, don’t forget about me.”

            “Of course not,” she said. “Forgetting you would be like forgetting the swans. I couldn’t do that.”

            They fell into silence, until they reached her stop. Then with a little smile and a wave, she was gone, down the stairs and away.

            “Good luck,” whispered Rory as he watched her walk across the wet concrete of the car park.

            That evening, in the late cool air of the spring he looked out for the swans as the bus weaved its way unsteadily past the fountains. Try as he might, strain his eyes and crane his neck as he might, he couldn’t see them. They were gone, with not even a white feather left behind to prove their existence. The fountains were undisturbed, still water reflecting the clouded sky, the grass green, the fields wild.

            He was about to turn away, back to his paper, when a sweep of wings caught his eye. Not white feathers but grey waved to attract his attention. A heron had come to land, its long wading feet rippling the water and its wings outstretched. As the bus rounded the corner Rory could see it as it folded its wings, staring out with the haughty glare of a lord overlooking his domain.

4th January 1999

A little light reading

Back last year I submitted a story to the Diamond Light Source Light Reading competition. And, whaddya know, but my very random start-of-the-zombie-apocalypse story got into the top 15 (out of 55 entries) and therefore counts as highly commended! (If I am really cheeky and assume that the order that the story titles are posted in was their ranking, then I came 7th.)

There's no prize for highly commended, other than the glory, but the winning and highly commended entries (plus a few more) will be published as an anthology in dead tree version, and I'll get a copy.

You can read the story "28 Hours" at the Light Reading webpage.