Return 10

Posted on March 12, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

The next day, small animals, those who may have managed to  survive by living in warrens and tunnels. Blind moles, rats, snakes.  We caught many — some were kept, and were given scrap and rind and their weaker comrades; in this way, we fatted them, and then fed. 

The next day, more of the same. The next day, the next day, the next.

One morning, we woke to what seemed more dream than what we experienced during sleep — birds had come to the encampment. They sang and whirled in the sky, diving and screeching, screaming. Some were small, and hopped about, pecking at the gravel, while others were massive, and they skimmed the surface of the pool and then rocketed off into the sky again.

Something in the air had changed, somehow; the sky above remained as it had been, grey and featureless for the most part, save the occasional roiling storm of dust and lightning, but now it was full of birds, singing and cawing, wheeling around.

They, too, were caught, kept — caged like hens.  We began to scout around for wreckage, salvage, anything at all that could be turned to our purpose. The children were still the ones who brought back food, or what could be renewed into garden-worthy seeds and sprouts, but the adults were sent off on any other viable search.  The Captain could not tell us if seasons would still change, but the mild, nigh-weatherless world in which we found ourselves might not always remain that way, and most of us thought we ought be prepared.

It was another time of joy the morning our birds began to lay in their nesting boxes.  Some were tiny, some were speckled; all of them were thick-shelled and full of yolk so yellow, so pure, so bright, we wept to see such vivid color.

We began to truly live, we refugees, we scattered people who found one another after the smoke began to clear, and the ground stopped trembling. We began to live, not simply survive. We found purpose in waking up each day and tending the garden, adding new plants, watering the soil.  We took turns keeping vigil over the winged creature, who laid at the bank of Songfall and seemed to sleep without breath or blood. The Captain dreamt every night, still, and each day, the children were gone, and then they came back in the twilight, exhausted and ready to sleep.  We began to build, making mortar and stacking rough-hewn stone into shelters.  We sought to reach the sky again, wondering what was above us, now that we could not see the stars.

It was no fine city of steel and glass, no architectural masterpiece  — in truth, after we had built several, the tallest of the buildings fell, crushing the people inside. We could not get to them fast enough, and they bled into the ash, and were as breathless as the creature when we pulled them free.  The Captain had us clean them in the waters of Songfall, and then we dug open the earth to receive them. We sang to them the only song we knew — that of the fallen thing, whose melody still hummed in the pool, hummed in the garden of growing things, and hummed within each of us.

We did not let our stones reach for the sky, after that.

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Return 9

Posted on March 11, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

The next morning, the children were gone again, and many of us, including Ilen, were uneasy yet again.  But they came back that evening, and over time, we grew to understand that even if we did not agree with the Captain’s methods at first — the children never quite seemed to be worse for wear, and indeed, our garden was growing, and our little refugee camp seemed to be growing strong. Day after day, they left — Ilen stopped trying to follow them, and at that, the last of those who might have opposed the Captain gave up.

One morning, Riesa, one of the children was found at the water’s edge, weeping bitter tears at having left behind. The Captain tried to console her, but she would have none of it, and only railed at the unfairness, angry at the world at having been left out. At the twilight, before the others were to return, she went to Luroteo, and asked if she could sit with the fallen thing alone, for a time. Seeing her distress, Luroteo gave this time to her, without reservation.  She sang the song the creature taught the children, and something within it resonated, seemed to sing back.

It was this sound that brought the Captain, racing from the far side of camp, from where he had been talking around the fire. He ran for the pool, carrying his feather, fingers clutching it tightly. He ran over the rocks and dodged the makeshift sleeping shelters and his face wore something that was either terror or excitement, and either way, we ran with him, to share in the joy or to die with him, in fear. He was our Captain, and for all that the land seemed to want us dead, he had given us back enough of a life that we wanted to fight for the rest.

Our Captain arrived at the water’s edge, to see Riesa floating on her back, her hair a grey halo clouding the water in curls around her face, her shift cast off at the bank of the pool. Her face was calm and clear, her eyes wide and blank, staring up at the star-dark sky. The Captain waded in and retrieved her, and she put her arms around his neck and laid her cheek to his, promising him that she understood, now.  He walked by Ilen, who seemed baffled, and gave her to the women of our group who immediately fussed like mother hens, and took her away.

When the children came back later, as everyone sat around the fire for the night meal, they looked on Riesa with awe and jealousy — she wore herself differently, lifted her chin higher, and met the eyes of the adults like an equal.

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Return 8

Posted on March 10, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

Ilen tried to stay with the children, to shepherd and chaperone them, but no matter what, he never managed to be with them when the Captain summoned them unto their task. He grew further enraged when it played out as a trick, a game, and the Captain no longer seemed gentle in his denial of Ilen’s wishes.

One night, Ilen went to the Captain, but he was turned away, as the Captain was sleeping, was in the thrall of his dreams, holding tight to the long, full feather, the surface of it flatly pressed to his lips. Ilen left, angry, and went to the banks of the waters of Songfall, to where Luroteo kept vigil, as though he never needed to sleep, wanting to know if the man saw the children go, if he knew why and where they went. Luroteo had no answer to satisfy Ilen, but told him that he should listen to the Captain, that all would someday be made clear.

Ilen was not made to follow blindly; now that survival seemed as close to being taken for granted as possible, he could not stumble after the Captain without questioning every step.

Rather than go back to his bedspace, Ilen stayed with Luroteo and waited. The Captain often came here in the morning, and he would speak with him them.  As the night quietly bled into morning, the Captain approached. He did not acknowledge Luroteo, or Ilen, but Luroteo gave him a small nod. The Captain knelt near the fallen thing, and leaned down, as though listening.  He kept the feather in his hands, running his fingers over it, and whispered, as though conversing. Ilen could not really hear the words, but knew they sounded like song. He was angry, because he was afraid. He was afraid, because he did not understand.

When the Captain got back up and walked away, Ilen followed him, wanting to know where the children would be going. Wanting to know if he could go, as well. Wanting to know why he wasn’t being told the full truth.  The captain looked  saddened, but could give no answer that would satisfy.

When Ilen came back to the group, the children had already gone, and Ilen spoke of the Captain’s inability to, or unwillingness to, explain the situation.  We tried to soothe Ilen, but when dark came, and the children did not come home, those of us who had been complacent in their pilgrimages rose up and went to the Captain at once.

He was as calm and quiet and well-spoken as always, though he looked haggard, worn and tired. It only fueled Ilen, who advanced, outraged, furious that the very beings we should have protected above all others were now missing, to the last child.

He stood there and screamed.

He stood there and wept.

He raised a fist, but then a small hand touched his shoulder, and held him back. Where there had not been children, now there were, walking amidst our group with their treasures, and their tired, but determined, accomplished faces, and their return brought joy enough that Ilen’s raised fist was forgotten, as was the Captain’s refusal to explain.  Their return brought enough joy that much could be forgotten, perhaps even forgiven, and when they had offered up their findings, our group celebrated, even with laughter and song.

If anyone noticed that one of the children had not returned, they showed no sign.

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Return 7

Posted on March 9, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

At dawn, the grey sky still hung heavy over the camp; the pool itself was the only thing that seemed returned to life. The Captain had woken early, and had gathered the children — to what purpose, we didn’t know.  He sent them all out into the world of rock and ash and grey sky, and by the time we had awakened, they were gone, and he stood at the water’s edge, with Luroteo, who still kept vigil over what had fallen through the clouds.

When they came back, dirty and ragged, he took them down to the banks of the pool, and took what they gave him, and laid it down in the water. 

We watched as withered husks came to life again, as seed pods swelled and burst forth with sprout and vine, as branches stripped from skeletal trees sent out roots and sought nourishment, then began to bud. We watched as these green, living things hummed with the song that flowed into them, through them, and we counted our blessings, and each in turn passed close to the fallen, touched its wings, and said what passed for prayers in our own simple words.

Again and again, the Captain sent the children out before we woke. Again and again they came back. they came back, dusty and scratched, scraped and ragged, hands full of treasures. On the fourth day, we had managed the tiniest, most pitiful of gardens, and yet to us it was as lush and bountiful as anyone had ever seen, and everyone sought to tend it, to make it grow. Many of us told the Captain we would go hunting for the seeds and roots and vines to sustain our collective, as we saw the children growing increasingly exhausted, wearied and wounded. The Captain denied us this, but gave us no real reason other than his meditations. Every night, he slept with one of the feathers. He told us it gave him clarity of thought — that it sang to him in his dreams. We believed him, as his leadership had kept us from death so many times, he seemed a miracle himself.

Still, some of us were uneasy.

One morning, a handful of us woke early, wanting to help, believing the Captain simply needed to see our reasoning, but he had already sent the children ahead. Many of us began to question the Captain aloud, now. Some of us were combative. He maintained an air of dignity few can hold, and even fewer, while being accused of manipulation and trickery. Ilen, one of the loudest, tried his best to explain that his fear was simply for the greater good: the children had to be kept safe — what would happen to our society without them? None of it seemed to sway the Captain at all. When he spoke, it was with conviction, and every word he said seemed punctuated with a gesture of the feather he now carried with him everywhere. He was seeing to their safety, he promised. When the children came back late that day, alive and well, and with a greater-than-normal load of their treasures, many of us were soothed.

Still, some of us were uneasy.

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For as much as infinity, for long as forever.

Posted on March 8, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

I hate God. I’ve hated God since I was ten.

That was the year my father lost his job, my pet rabbit got hit by two cars, my mother left with her girlfriend Dee-Dee, and my best friend David got stolen by some guy in a white van who needed help finding his puppy. I guess David wasn’t any help finding the puppy, because the man must have been real mad to leave David wrapped up in Plasti-Kleen bags in four different dumpsters. It was also the year that my older brother Francis stole my coin collection and sold it to get money for pot, my sister Jeannie locked herself in the toilet and cut open the insides of her knees and elbows in the bath, and even though issue #46 ended with Captain Black Blood about to catch his arch-nemesis, he got killed off, for no good reason. Twice.

That summer was awful — no one let their kids play out on the street anymore, and we had to do these stupid ‘Stranger Danger’ workshops at the school even though school was out, like what kid doesn’t just yell that at their parents in the grocery store for some laughs? It’s not like we’re smart enough to yell that if we’re actually trouble; we’re just kids for cripes’ sake.  My brother was locked up, my sister was in a loonybin, my mom ran off, and my best friend and favorite hero were dead.

I was more alone than I’d ever been, even though most of the time, I had to stay with my neighbor, this old lady who chain-smoked Tareytons, lighting a new one from the stub of the old one. She had this raspy voice, and a cough that came from her belly button up, rattling, and then she’d smack her wrinkled lips, shake her head and say, “Gettin’ old’s hell, kid!” Then she’d laugh, her upper lip wrinkled to show her tobacco-stained dentures. She’d laugh so long, sometimes she started coughing all over again.

At first, I hated staying there, and I complained every night. Dad said I should be nice to her, especially because she was all alone, too. Her daughter had died of cancer, and her husband had run off, leaving Magda her grandson Jason to raise, but he died, too, not cancer, just a stupid car accident, and all she had left of him was the boxes of stuff they sent back from out in California.

Sometimes she stared off out the window, like she was expecting him to come home, and then she’d be in a bad mood and want to be left alone. She would drink, then, bourbon that made her eyes wet and her breath reek. She’d fall asleep and burn holes in her afghan with her cigarettes. It wasn’t all bad–she liked to play cards, and taught me blackjack, and never said I couldn’t have as many cookies as I wanted, and she had a lot of cool stuff all over her house that she didn’t mind letting me touch. “What’s the point of all the nice shit in y’house f’it’s like a goddamn museum?” she would say.

One afternoon, while Magda dozed off in front of her stories, I went upstairs and started looking through things, like I did every other time. I found some of the boxes from California she’d gotten a few weeks ago. I couldn’t resist; I figured if she didn’t want me going through them, she’d have put them in the attic, right?

The first box I opened had books in it. The next one, art supplies. One had a typewriter, and I started opening the rest of the boxes with a Christmas-morning frenzy, vowing to get back to the typewriter and start using it as soon as I found the paper that went with it.  The next box, though, was labeled ‘Captain Black Blood’ and I opened that carefully, staring down through a cloud of dustmotes to which I’d given life while I was tearing around. Inside that box was every issue of my favorite comic. Nestled with each was a copy labeled ‘proof’ — and bundled beside were typed pages, with handwritten notes. I read through every one of them, relishing the words on the page — I had memorized these stories, all of them. Even #47, where Nash Kelvin kills Captain Black Blood for no reason, even though they’re best friends, even though they haven’t saved Sophie Winters yet, even though The Blind Huntsman was never defeated. These were my comrades-in-arms, my friends, my dreams. I lived and breathed that world. Being able to touch its bare bones was a feeling like no other. Fat paperclips held each bundle of typed pages together, their dog-eared corners labeled ‘J. Bismarck’.

I sat back on my heels, stunned.  J. Bismarck was the writer of Captain Black Blood! A million questions tried to get asked out loud all at once, even though I didn’t have anyone to ask. I thumbed through them with awe; the handwritten notes talked about plans for later issues, and all of them were to or from… Jason! I like my eyes were going to fall out of my face I had them opened so wide. J was Jason. Jason was J! Magda’s grandson created Captain Black Blood, and now I was holding proofs of the entire print run!  I pulled out the bundle marked #47 when my heart caught in my throat. I knew every cover — and this wasn’t it.  I rummaged through the box, looking for answers, and came up with bundles #48 through #52.

My shaking hands barely held the pages still enough so that I could read the lines. There, in black and white, my Captain lived! Black Blood was still hot on the trail of The Blind Huntsman, knowing he would be led to Sophie’s location, so Nash could get her out. I knew it! I knew it couldn’t have ended like that. When Jason died, people working on it must have just tried to throw together an ending, because they didn’t know how to keep it going without him. But here it was, in my hands, proof that it hadn’t ended — that the Captain was still alive, could still be alive, at least for me. I laughed out loud, with actual glee! I suppose I was making a ton of noise up there, laughing and hooting like it was the best day of my life, and it was, really.

That’s why it was jarring when Magda’s came in. “What are you doing?” she screeched. “You get your hands off of his things!” she yelled, staggering over to me and clawing the papers out of my hands. The scent of her was smoke and tears and hate. “You get out!” she howled. “You get out, you bastard! You ungrateful turd! You rotten little shit!”

I ran. I ran like I’ve never run before, and I didn’t stop until there was a stitch in my side and I could taste pennies on the back of my tongue, and see black stars floating in front of me. I slunk around for the rest of the day, hiding, and then just went home to meet my father after work. I didn’t tell him anything; I was all mixed up from how wonderful and confused I felt to know Captain still lived, and how awful and confused I felt when Magda got mad. I made up my mind that when I went next door to her place tomorrow, I’d make us lunch and I wouldn’t complain about her smoking, and I’d do all the washing up, and I’d apologize for being nosy, and then maybe, just maybe, she’d let me look at just that one box, just so I could read those last three bundles. The last real adventure Captain Black Blood would ever have.

That night, my father woke me out of a sound sleep, and wrapped a blanket around me. It was near the end of summer, and the night hadn’t gotten cool, but I was only in my tighty-whities, and he was dragging me out to the front lawn.  I couldn’t understand what was going on, but I could hear this weird roar, and sirens, and I stumbled out after him, and we stood in the street, and I watched Magda’s house glow and crumble and collapse. Firefighters were wetting down our house, and the trees next to hers, so they wouldn’t catch fire, but her place was too far gone — they weren’t even trying anymore. Everything in it, from her wedding dress to her Tareytons to the boxes from California, to Magda herself, was just smoking ash. Captain Black Blood was dead, all over again.

I stood in the street, in my underwear, only ten years old, and watched my hero burn, and I decided then and there that even if God were real, I hated him, and hoped that he would feel as lonely as I did, for as much as infinity, for long as forever.

* * *

This is for a flash fiction challenge from Terrible Minds — the concept being ‘of these two lists, randomly pick one item from each, and craft a story. You have 1500 words and one week’

My random items were: a terminal illness, and a forgotten manuscript. It’s 1500 words.

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