Unsettling Things
& Other Stories
by
Michael D. Britton
* * * *
Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton / Intelligent Life Books
UNSETTLING THINGS
Oh, no.
I must do it again.
I wish there were another way, but there isn’t.
Who knows what might be in there?
Yet another reason I prefer to keep my nails so short that no white is showing. At least that way nothing can get stuck under a nail, pressed up against that tender part where the nail attaches to the skin, lodging there like an unwanted guest.
Unfortunately, it’s been a few days since I clipped my nails, and there is some white showing, practically inviting some tiny piece of debris to wedge itself in there.
Some determined crumb is bound to make its way under one of my nails, and I’ll be plagued by its presence, feeling as one does when a particularly stubborn piece of meat is trapped between one’s teeth, unable to leave it alone until it is extricated.
But that’s not the worst of it.
It could be sticky.
Oh, how I loathe stickiness. If it’s sticky in there, I won’t rest (or touch anything) until I’ve washed my hands. The way it feels when your fingers stick together, involuntarily bound by some foreign substance, is almost too much to bear. Washing my hands instantly afterwards is not fast enough.
Even worse, there could be something sharp hidden in there. A pin, a needle – it puts me on pins and needles to think about it. Maybe there’s a lost pair of scissors or a knife waiting to slice into my probing fingers. There could even be a syringe – who knows where this thing’s been.
I’m not up to date on my hepatitis shots, so there better not be a syringe.
But there’s bound to be crumbs.
Bread crumbs, cracker crumbs, cookie crumbs, crumbs that used to be something soft, but have dried up into some unidentifiable flotsam – all waiting there to escape their dark prison and hitch a ride on me.
Wasting no more time on my perfectly legitimate fears, I dive into the dark abyss. I slide my hand in, and it feels cool on my skin.
As expected, there are crumbs.
There must be hundreds of the little castaways, huddled together, waiting to be rescued and see the light once more.
I brush past them, feeling my way in the gloomy little cavern. Cautiously, I slide my hand back and forth, pushing deeper into the fissure, hoping to find my quarry before it’s too late.
It’s too late.
I somehow managed to find something sticky. With a three year old in the house, it could be anything. I am not going to sniff my fingers afterward, because I just don’t want to know.
Moving toward the back of the space between the cushions, my hand strikes something hard.
Smooth.
With little rubber buttons.
Eureka!
I have found it. I reach my fingers around it and slowly pull it from its hiding place and place it on the end table.
Tiny threads, hairs, and a few escapee crumbs are lodged between the buttons.
Once again, the remote control has been snatched from the murky depths of the couch. Once again it is redeemed from the fate of eternal darkness amidst all the other lost items. Why it is so drawn to that dire pit of doom I will never know.
As I dash up the stairs to wash my hands, I struggle to pick the crumbs out from under my nails and feel thankful that there was nothing sharp lurking in those cushions.
This time.
CUT
“How long have you been in this place?” I asked.
The woman, a yellow-haired maiden wearing a shiny red gown with high heeled shoes, seemed out of place.
She was.
“I think I just got here,” she said in a husky voice. “I was at a party, I think, and some cop was murdered. Next thing I knew, I was here in this room. What’s going on?”
I looked around the gray-walled room. No windows, no doors. A mere box, really. About a dozen others sat on the floor – men, women, and even a couple of children. All dressed quite differently – as if they came from different lands and different eras of history.
“I’ve been starting to think we’ve passed on,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, leaning back against the wall. “Do I look dead to you? What’s your name, anyway?”
“My name is Gunther. I-I don’t think I have a last name. Or maybe that is my last name.”
“Hmm. I’m Carlanda Ritchings. You may have heard of me. My father is a big newspaper mogul.”
I racked my brain, but the name didn’t ring a bell. Nor did the term “newspaper.”
Suddenly, another man appeared in the room. He wore a strange costume that made him look like some kind of athletic participant.
“I don’t believe it!” he yelled, stomping his foot like an angry child, or a defeated sportsman. “How could he do this to me? I’m freaking integral to the plot!”
Intrigued, I stepped to him and introduced myself. His name was Thrash Moreland, or so he said.
“Gunther?” he mused. Then he nodded at me. “Yeah, I’ve seen your type before. You’ve been cut plenty of times. But me? I just don’t get it. That book won’t survive without me.”
Carlanda approached us. “Excuse me, but what did you just say?”
“The book! Don’t you know what this is? This place? Don’t you realize who you are?”
“I have been trying to figure that out for – well, for as long as I’ve been here,” I said.
Moreland sighed heavily and sat down on the floor. Carlanda and I sat down with him and waited for his explanation. Her tight dress, and my flowing robes made sitting down a clumsy matter, but we wanted to hear what Moreland had to say.
“We’ve been cut,” he said. “This – place – is where the cut characters go. The Creator – that is, the author, Jay Barrows – when he decides he no longer needs a character, or the story line isn’t working, or a subplot is failing, or he is running too long and needs to trim stuff out – well, here we are. Deleted.”
We stared at him as if he were crazy.
“You look like a failed subplot to me,” he said to me with disdain. He turned to Carlanda. “She was probably too clichéd or maybe Barrows had too many words. I dunno. But me? I can’t believe he cut me!”
As he spoke the words, they made sense to a part of me, deep inside. A strange, faint glow of understanding began to grow within me like the dawning of a new day. “Let’s say this is true,” I said. “How is it that you understand all this – the nature of our existence – yet we don’t?
“I’m much older than you,” Moreland said. “I was created many months ago, and have survived through almost the entire lifespan of the WIP. I survived two drafts! I’m in nearly every chapter. Or, was. I understand who I am, and what I am. I’m Thrash Moreland, starship commander. I’m practically the hero! You – you’re probably from a short story, or maybe even a piece of flash.”
“What’s a WIP?” asked Carlanda.
“Work in Progress,” said Moreland.
“Well, we don’t need to suffer this,” I said. “Where I come from – the story in which I used to live, I had some power. I had the Ace.”
“The Ace?” asked Carlanda. “You were a dealer?”
“No, the Ace. The Ace Stone of Q’ash-Bato. From it, I derive my spells and charms – indeed all my wizardry. Surely you’ve heard of it?”
The other two looked at me blankly.
“I was hesitant to use a spell until now, because
I was unsure of my situation. One should never cast spells without any information. Can be very dangerous business. But now, I suggest we get even with this Jay Barrows fellow. He thinks he can cut us? I say we cut him!”
“Kill the author?” said Moreland. “Preposterous.”
“Look,” said Carlanda, “you two mugs don’t make much sense to me. But if Gunther here can do something to get us out of this cage, I’m all for it.”
Moreland looked me in the eye. “You’re serious? You can cut the author?”
I thought for a moment. “I can do better. My initial reaction was based in rage. A measured approach will yield a more suitable result. I will cast a spell upon the mind of this Jay Barrows. I will – change – his mind.”
“Get us put back in the story?” asked Moreland, his eyes widening with enthusiasm and a smile splitting his rugged jaw.
“Precisely.”
I reached into my robes and withdrew the Ace. “I need the hands of two others,” I said. Moreland and Carlanda each placed a hand on the magical stone. Then I whispered the appropriate incantation, “Absum exsculpo mutuus demoveo. Concurro!”
A gale ensconced us, and a clap of thunder struck with a flash.
The room transformed around us, turning into a much larger chamber, with bright windows that looked out onto a strange world. Beyond the windows, giants lumbered, roaming slowly around and holding vast sheaves of thick paper.
“Where are we now?” asked Carlanda, tears welling in her eyes.
“The slush pile,” said Moreland. “We might be here a while.”
HARDTOPS
Dressed in a shimmering golden robe that hung an inch above the floor, the tall man with shaved head and long black beard approached the titanium cage that sat in the dim room.
The robe made him appear to hover or glide across the floor. His beard came to a neatly sculpted point mid-way down his chest. He stood stiffly before the hovering cage with his hands clasped in front of him.
The only sound in the room was the humming of the heliostatic coils that kept the cage floating in the air, and the buzz of the ununoctium lighting that was kept at low luminosity.
“Menzin,” he said, his voice a near-whisper. “Menzin, wake up.”
The man inside the shadowy cage stirred, and then sat up in a cross-legged position. His head was covered in a matted mop of graying hair. His scraggly beard was also long, but not out of choice. His clothing consisted of a simple gray coverall.
“What is it you want, Rashal?”
“I want you to wake up.”
“I am awake. Are you pleased?”
“No. I want you to wake up from your foolish dreams and live again.”
“I live.”
“You live in a cage. What life is that?” Rashal asked.
“It is my life. You live somebody else’s life.”
“Ah, more of your ridiculous double-talk,” said Rashal. “Does it not bother you that I am free to do as I please, to come and go, to teleport at will to a pre-defined list of destinations, to enjoy my sixteen wives? Granted, I am not allowed to travel to all locations, or have hundreds of wives, as are the Endemic, but look at you! I see no wife at all.”
“They may have taken away my wife physically, but we will still be married forever. Your so-called marriages will fade to dust as –”
“Physically? Ha! There is only the physical.”
“I believe otherwise.”
“Believe. Huh. Childish nonsense. Why do you think they called it make-believe when we used our imaginations as children? When will you let go of your childish notions of eternity and spirit and recognize reality?” Rashal began to slowly pace around the cage. “Reality is that you live alone in a cage. How does it aid you to cling to your beliefs, now? How has being a Hardtop served you?”
“So, you now use the language of our oppressors.”
“It is accurate language. Your head is full of rocks, friend. A simple change of mind and you could be free, but instead you live in captivity.”
“It is you who are the captive, Rashal, and you fail to see it. You have given up your freedom of conscience by converting to the Hadestin. You may walk freely, draped in your golden robes, but your soul is now in chains. I, however, have maintained the only thing that is truly mine – my freedom of choice. I pity you, my brother.”
“You pity me? You are mad. Tell me, my brother, how long has it been since you stood on your feet without stooping over? Since you tasted of the tisado fruit? Since you saw the sun or sat beneath the moons? When was the last time you traveled in a vessel to another world? How long since you sacrificed all of your comforts for the sake of a dead religion?”
“It is not dead, it lives in me, and in all of the Hardtops, as you call us. Besides, time is irrelevant. Eventually, this shall all seem as the blink of an eye. It saddens me that you have chosen to sell your beautiful, eternal future for such a mediocre, fleeting present. It is shameful that you prefer to live as an enslaved, second-class citizen under the thumbs of the Endemic Hadestin.”
“I may have a few limitations on how I live, but at least I am not in a cage that is too small for standing up straight. You made the wrong choice, Menzin.”
“And you have been blinded, Rashal. Or have learned to lie convincingly to yourself. Either way, I prefer my fate to yours.”
“Well, then, we are both content. Goodbye, brother.”
Rashal turned his back to the cage, his shining robes fanning out and brushing against the bars. He started to walk away, heading toward the energy-field protected doorway that led out of this high-tech dungeon, then stopped and turned back. “Menzin. You should know, this was your last chance. The Endemic have determined that all Hardtops will be put to death. It has become inefficient to maintain the cageblocks.”
Menzin stared into his brother’s eyes.
His brother.
As young boys, they had been inseparable. Now, that connection was severed. Menzin’s only regret was that he would no longer be around to try to talk sense into his wayward sibling.
“Do me a favor,” he said.
“Yes,” said Rashal. “I will.”
“Read our mother’s journals.”
Rashal exhaled slowly. “It is a very dangerous thing you ask of me. The Endemic is in the process of destroying all such pre-conversion writings.”
“But you still have them?”
“The files remain aboard our dead parents’ moon shuttle in a storage locker. I have never touched them.” Rashal looked down, where his foot drew small circles on the shiny floor. “I will do this only because it is your dying request.”
Menzin managed a small smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, as a tear rolled down his dirty cheek and disappeared into his beard. Menzin knew there was strength in those written words. He knew that somehow, their mother’s powerful testimony could make a difference for Rashal.
Menzin would now go to his death in peace.
END
THE BUS
Under a gloomy California sky, the convoy of buses flows up the hill, stretching out into the distance like a mechanical snake. Each bus, I know, is packed with people, the same as the one I am riding.
People of all ages. I count forty six of us. No, there are forty seven, including me. I see a young girl, maybe six years old. An old man, perhaps in his eighties. And everything in between. They are all strangers to me, though we all have something in common. Nobody is speaking to anyone else – they do not know each other.
I feel very uncomfortable, like the temperature has suddenly risen a few degrees. It’s stuffy, difficult to breathe.
Everyone knows where we are going, and nobody has any complaints – no reservations or concerns. They are resigned to their fate – to wind up where the policy rubber meets the heartless road of procedure. It’s just the way it is.
And thus, we ride the bus.
It suddenly occurs to me, however, that I am not content to simply go along with this. There are still many things I want to do, and no reason why I shouldn’t do them. There are books to be read, people to see and things to do. I still have things to accomplish and good to experience.
I realize I want no part of this madness.
But, I mustn’t make a scene. Everyone else takes it for granted that this situation is normal, and any objection on my part will raise an alarm. But, how can they all be so calm? How can they just accept this policy? I am not going to fall prey to that way of thinking.
So, I take a slow, deep breath, rise from my seat, and calmly stroll to the front of the bus. I keep my eyes on the road ahead, never making eye contact with any of the other passengers. Just as I get to the front of the bus, we come to a stop at a traffic signal.
“Okay, this is my stop,” I say casually to the driver. He barely looks at me as he, out of habit, opens the door for me and I hop out of the bus and escape my doom.
Suddenly I feel liberated. Confident. Bold.
I stroll down the street with a sure stride, and then I realize where I am.
It is North Street, in Bristol, England – my childhood home.
How did I get here? Who cares! I am alive and I am going to stay that way – at least until the disorder takes me, though that concern already seems to be fading into the background like a bad dream.
As I walk down the deserted street, I see a man coming toward me. I recognize him as Jon Reid, a childhood friend. I wave at him and call his name. We speak, and I notice that I am very confident, speaking comfortably in my normal American-accented voice, rather than trying to fake an English accent as I did as a child. That need to fit in is gone, and I can just be myself.
I am wearing my old white high-top sneakers – the Cons – and some sporty blue shorts. We go into a house, where we see a family sitting at dinner. I recognize one of the people as another boy I knew many years ago. Nathan was his first name, but Mark Webb, his next door neighbor and part of our group of friends, always referred to him as “Varrn,” because the buck-toothed Nathan sounded like he was saying “Varrn” when he said Mark’s name. But Varrn is still young, the way he looked more than twenty five years ago.
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