Fallon's Wonderful Machine
Copyright 2014 Maire De Léis
Published by Maire De Léis at Smashwords
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Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
About Maire De Léis
Other stories by Maire De Léis
Connect with Maire De Léis
One
"I have everything I need. I have no more use for it," where the words. The speaker, Gair McGinn. Fallon McGinn's grandfather. 'It' a chest. Fallon was too young to understand why he no longer wanted his chest full of cool metal parts. It became her treasure. Strange exciting smooth things. Shiny brass. Stainless steel tubes. A mahogany cover for something. Knobs, levers, gears, some wrapped in oiled paper.
Every few years she'd take the chest down from a shelf and lay all the parts out on the floor or a desk. Sit and look at them. Turn this part this way and that. A lot of engineering had gone into each part. After Gair died she thought about where they had come from. Had he made them? Collected them from dusty antique stores? Ordered mechanics and metalworkers around the county, maybe the whole island, to build such and such a part to these exact specifications? And when she was done she would take care to wrap them in their oiled paper or put them in their little wooden boxes. Set everything back in the chest just so. Replace oil and paper as needed. Because there was one thing she valued as much as she valued the chest itself. The smell. The tool-shop in South Mall had the correct oil. Smelled like the oil from before. And everything was perfect.
All those years that passed. As she grew up, became a woman with a job and a house and a boyfriend. In all those years she never asked, 'what is it?'. Not her. Nor her trusted friends from childhood and on. When her boyfriend Darragh asked her, seeing it on a shelf in the garage, she had no reply.
"I don't know!" she said, "I never saw it as a something."
"That's daft. Get someone to look at it. Bet it's worth a few euro," Darragh said.
"I'm not gonna sell it."
"Whatever. Might be nice to know, though?"
"I guess," she said. It had been years since she opened it. She felt disappointed that Darragh hadn't been more excited about it. Privileged as he was to be let in on her secret. Not the oohs and wows from her childhood. No young faces lit up in reflected torchlight.
She snapped the lid down and went back to look for the shears.
That night Fallon dreamt of Gair. Not the man who'd died. No. The legs that bore him were strong and youthful. Not the frail branches he could barely move on. His fingers not bent at strange angles, with nails like brown paper that crumbled every time he tried to perform any task better suited to a younger man. Her big strong grandfather. And she an adult.
They spoke about the things you speak with dead people about in dreams. How strange it was that they had put him in that stupid wooden coffin. Should have made sure he was dead. They had been sad and cried. How wrong can you be? Another strange thing was how they could fly now. Before Gair died they never flew. But now it was common. Everyone did. On her antique table in her living room stood a machine. Fully assembled, from the parts in her chest.
The next day Fallon got the chest out of the garage and set it on her living room table. And she asked, to the room, to herself. To her grandfather:
"What is it?"
The question her starting point. The assembly was difficult. She was no mechanic. So many parts she didn't know what did. So many that fit into one another. From her dream she knew that the chest was part of the machine. Not just storage. Working from there she got the frame put together. That made it easier. She pondered. She theorised and tested theories. She put a part in its place, then removed it from there, because no, it wasn't that part's place at all, but this one. But how could that be?
How patient was Fallon, how single-minded! One day, a forgotten and stained glass of white wine forgotten on the table, one day at last, the final piece fell into place. The machine was completed.
And Fallon asked again. Knowing that she'd never get an answer. Not from the room, or Gair. And least of all from herself. But still she asked:
"What is it?"
Two
Darragh surprised her that evening. There were several things. First, he texted her. Plain language confirmed that he was coming over at half seven. She had complained. His texts were impossible to read. He'd finally gotten the message. The text came in plenty of time. Instead of his usual call or message that he was on his way.
Another: he was well-dressed. He smelled of the aftershave she'd picked out for him on their trip to Berlin. And - he brought flowers. A small but tastefully selected bunch. Modest. Suitable for their budget. He was on time of course. Darragh was always on time. No matter about his five-o-clock shadow. No matter if he didn't have time to put on a jacket or change into the trousers without the ketchup stain. He loved those trousers. No, being on time was Darragh's way of being dependable.
Of course he was the one. Fairy tale ending. Perfect and she loved every detail about it. That didn't mean that sometimes in her mind he was better dressed and smelled of nice aftershave. Or maybe in her thoughts he sometimes brought her flowers. Maybe he had finally learnt how to tie his tie straight.
The Darragh that came through the door and kissed her, maybe there was one thing, one tiny detail different than her mind's picture. But you know what? It's cute how his knot is always crooked. She wouldn't even try to straighten it. Her man was so sweet.
"Well, hello there, handsome man of mine," she said between kisses.
"Hello yourself, gorgeous," Darragh said, in those same pauses.
There was even a fifth surprise. When he opened his beer and sat down on the sofa, he held the cap in his hand for a few moments. Looking for somewhere to put it. Instead of flinging it onto her glass table he stuck it in his pocket. Fallon wondered why she'd bought such an expensive table. She was terrified of scratching it. After months she'd found semi-transparent straw mats they could set their drinks and snacks on.
Reliable Darragh. Before they were a couple he hadn't been. Very precise. Careful about certain aspects of his life. Like taking care of what he ate and his body. Work. But it had taken him a while to realise that Fallon was as important as those things. And he had moved her from wherever he had her compartmentalised. Into the important drawer, where things were serious. Better cared for.
Drawbacks? Hardly. He always followed through. For good or bad. Berlin had been great. They had been to the zoos and the museums and the bridges and the buildings. Taken the photos that go with them. Laughing. Smiling. Hugging a policeman and getting licked in the face by a giraffe. Spent a day in their hotel room and made love. Walked along the Spree eating Berliners. Looked into each other's eyes over candlelit tables with red wine fuelling the love in their bellies. All according to Darragh's schedule. Every destination on the hour. Every lazy loving day in his planner or in his mind.
That's why his sixth surprise was so welcome. With all her Irish hospitality she welcomed it.
In a word: impulsiveness. But that won't do. We'll need more! Here:
He took her hand as she was about to head back into the kitche
n. Manoeuvred her easily into his lap.
"And where are you going?" he asked. Kissed her.
"Oh!" Fallon said. Or laughed. There was something about the kiss. And those that followed. Passion. Warmth. Like he was exploring her anew. Both gentle and with passion. Hard and restrained. It turned her on.
His arm around her waist. His lips soft, moistened by touching hers. Kissing her neck, her shoulders, without breaking contact with the skin. Pushed her sweater down her shoulder to move further. To find more skin to touch. Light then passionate. Greed then tenderness. His hand on her hip. Moving with that same gentleness. Then grabbing handfuls of her thigh. Releasing it slowly. Let it slide out of his hand. Every movement one of desire. No. Of lust.
And her skin underneath her jeans, her bared shoulders, longed for that touch. In between the buttons on his shirt her fingers found his skin. Soft fuzzy fur on his stomach. Underneath his ribcage where the skin was the softest. She moved upwards. Undoing buttons. Here he was harder. Muscle more defined. Hair rougher. Except where it met in the middle like small rocky streams meeting to form a gentler, calmer river.
She too was greedy. She tore his shirt open and ran her hands up and down his ribcage. Around him. The landscape on his back. His spine. The shoulder blades moving back and forth as his hands and arms and neck and head was all over her.
He lay her gently down on the sofa. They helped each other out of shirts and sweaters. No thinking. No fiddling with buttons. No stuck zippers, no tie-knot too tight. Only desire to get at the skin underneath. See it. Smell it. Most of all touch it. His arms. Oh, his arms. The finest of all. She loved holding her hand atop his forearm and feel the muscles move. Tighten and relax while his fingers mirrored the movements on her body.
She loved seeing the desire in his eyes when he admired her breasts. That moment before he touched. A gourmet before a meal. Made her feel desired. Safe. Exposed yes. But with this man who admired her body so, safe.
In his neck. His nape and his back. Fallon touched the muscles that were doing these things to her. The parts of the machine that kissed her between her breasts. Touched them with his lips. So smooth the movements when his hands came into the fray. And, and, oh. Here was a muscle she couldn't feel. His tongue. Flicking across her nipples. His lips closing around them as they stiffened. Rose up into that moist cavern. Oh yes. He was gentle. Careful. Way too much so. She pressed her chest up against him. Rolled her shoulders back. Held him tight. Here, now. Just here, just now. It didn't matter what happened next. The armrest pressing into the back of her head didn't matter. Didn't matter that Darragh could only breathe through his nose. Just this moment. Just this nearness. That was it. Her and her man and his aftershave and his neck muscles and his mouth engulfing her nipple. Pressed hard into the flesh.
Had she thought he was immobile? Did she think she could keep him from moving, keep him from pleasing her even more? No. His arm freed, opened her jeans. Pulled them down along with her underwear down to her knees. Now that hand between her thighs. Grabbing, stroking, caressing. Almost pinching. Then gentle again. Fallon held the arm. Not guiding it. Just feeling it move. Admired how advanced every movement was. How beautiful the machinations that allowed them to happen.
No words now. She wanted him near and he was near. She wanted to be touched and he touched. To be teased with a finger on either side of her pussy and she was teased. Closer and closer she wanted him and closer he came. Touch it! Touch it hard. Press your hand up against me. Relax. Take your hand away and taste it. Look me in the eye and taste it. Touch me again. Feel how wet I've gotten from watching that. My juices flow freely onto your hand. Part me. Find your way inside.
Two fingers slid into her pussy. His thumb remained on duty outside. Circling. Not touching her clit. Explored her inside. Pushed and pressed and prodded and stretched. Found her ready. Now the thumb touched. That magical spot. Yes. Right there. Right there!
A bolt of lightning. Forked into so many small ones. Shot through her body in all directions. And one hand there. Pushing her further and further into the place where everything becomes unfocused. Everything but your lover's eyes go fuzzy. Slow-moving coloured cloud. His other hand opened his trousers. Letting his cock out at last. Breathe. Bounce and twitch as his muscles tightened and relaxed. Seeing him like this. So ready for her. So turned on by her. The final piece. The picture now complete. Everything perfect.
Fallon came.
She was gone. Somewhere else. A different plane. Everything soft and white like clouds made of cotton. When they touched her she moaned in pleasure. When the released her she sighed in relief. All around her they gathered. Climbed from her toes, up up, reached her midsection and intensified. A thousand more joined. And still they climbed, climbed. Soon she was covered head to toe and she exploded with joy.
Then as slowly and gently as they had come, they released her. Let her go. Back to earth. Back to her Darragh.
There he was. Looking down at her face. Satisfied smile mirrored her own. So adoring. So caring. For a few seconds that was all there was. Then his features more determined. Movements stronger.
He entered her with such ease. Fallon felt like she was pulling him in. Like they were being pushed together by an outside force. No, like they were being pushed together because they belonged like this. Forces be damned. They couldn't be held apart any longer. Everything was right. Everything was perfect now. His cock moved back and forth. Twisting a little this way and this way. Re-exploring its forlorn home. Finding new things and old things forgotten. And with every stroke they climbed, together now, like they were meant to be, together they climbed towards that special place Fallon had just left. Her heaven. She could not let him go. Held him as tightly as she could. She scratched him she knew. She held him like this because they had to go together. She wanted to feel him. To hold him while they were there. Their bodies slick with sweat. Clinging together. Wanted his breath. His pulse. His every movement to belong to her in there, in that cottony sky.
And then as lovers, as one, his hands around her body like hers around his, they left our world behind and entered their own.
Three
The next day was when Fallon fell down the stairs. Such a stupid way to die. Tumbling down the stairs with her whites flying out of her hamper. So stupid. Way too early. Easily avoided. Just pull the shoes on properly. Not slip into them and step the heel flat. Always did that. Stupid. So many times she'd nearly fallen. Couldn't see her feet when she was carrying the hamper. Knew it was unsafe. And now she'd killed herself with her idiocy and laziness.
It wasn't in slow motion like the books and movies said. No. Much too quick. Another thing was true. She saw everything. The old worn metal strips nailed to the stairs. Eight on this one. Ten on the next. Two bent out of shape. Missing a piece here. And there was the one her foot got snagged on that time. When she hit her head on the steps the third time her sweater got stuck on the errant metal and ripped. Awful. She loved that sweater. Just a white zip-up hoodie with knitted patterns and pockets that she could close. Or keep her hands in a resting position in front of her stomach. And now it was ruined. She wouldn't even have the comfort of being found in a whole sweater.
And not only her ruined sweater and dumb way of wearing shoes: dying like this was so inconvenient. Her laundry wasn't done. Her dirty plate and coffee cup from breakfast still in the sink. Everyone was going to think she had been a total slob. The EMTs would carry her out, complaining about the stink and her dirty underwear strewn all over the stairs and floor. Hope they'll be careful when they come down. The t-shirt on the rung above her could cause somebody to slip. Then another person might fall down and she'd be responsible for another death. That was all she needed now.
She hadn't even thought about Darragh. Her family or friends. Wasn't she supposed to? She was being awfully rude. That's when her neck hit the sharp rung. That was supposed to be her last thought. Her spirit was supposed to remain behind and watch the rest with complete serenity. Except:
Fallon McGinn didn't die.
There's something very disturbing about knowing it was your time, waking up on the basement floor without a scratch. You should be dead. But it's not a common feeling. Not everybody can relate. Fallon took stock. No damage on her. Her white hoodie still intact. Whites on the floor next to the hamper in front of her. Not strewn all over the stairs. Ask anyone and they'd say she tripped at the bottom. Lost her hamper. Imagined the whole thing, poor dear. Fainted maybe. You're here right? So nothing happened. Fallon had to admit these imaginary people, a jumbled amalgam of everyone she knew, with the voice of her mother, were convincing.
She felt that something had happened. Something was wrong. Of course! She was a ghost. That was it. A ghost that picked up her laundry with non-translucent hands. Put it into the machine and added the pouch of washing liquid. Poured some detergent in the drawer. Of course. Didn't ghosts do laundry all the time? So she wasn't a ghost.
We've all felt this strange malaise. Waking up from a dream and sorting the true things from the fake things. Realising there's no way we could have crashed our mothers' cars or lost our uncles' dogs. Because neither exist. It fades in time. We start to feel normal again. Get on with our days.
As Fallon did.
Sometimes when she walked through the living room, she felt like the machine had moved. It was on the antique table like in her dream. There were plenty of moving parts. A crank spun a large brass wheel. Throwing a lever and turning the same crank moved many small gears that in turn spun a smaller wheel. Everything was perfectly balanced. She would turn and twist and pull and they would stay where they were. But now, again, it looked like it had moved. Why wouldn't it have! Darragh fiddled with it all the time. People who came over did too. And she. No one could resist. Stuck their fingers into mechanisms. Moved a cog or looked at cams and cam followers while the big wheel spun. So it was nothing to worry about! Someone had touched it. It hadn't moved.
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