High above the city Hiding from the crowds Looking down upon them Peering through the clouds.
High above the city Finding landmarks, I have to search The buildings all look minature Viewed from my lofty perch.
High above the city There’s not a soul to be seen Reflecting on my wretched life I think what could have been.
*just wrote this for a quick warm up before writing my crime story today
Small tendrils of doubt began to creep into the back of Martha’s mind. Tiny details, seeming inconsequential at the time, now began to swirl around, connecting like jigsaw pieces in her mind.
_ Oh, I don’t really hang out with my colleagues; there’s really only my old boss, his EA, another middle-aged guy and me. No point in you meeting them when I barely socialise with them myself._ _ Where I’m from is such a small town, no one ever knows it, but it’s just a bit east of Ballarat. My family has all since moved away; I never go back._
Laura, this woman she had let into her life, her heart, her soul; the woman she had trusted with her deepest secrets, was lying to her.
Overcome with suspicion, dark thoughts keeping her awake at night as Laura slept soundly beside her, Martha had to find out more. She had to see for herself, to prove it was just her suspicious mind and nothing more, to put her worries at ease.
One morning, after parting at the station and kissing each other goodbye, Martha slowed her steps, stopped to browse a newsstand. She turned, searching for Laura’s fuscia scarf draped over her shoulders. She was heading to the train platform. Walking briskly up the length of the train, ignoring the closest carriage, heading for the front as she always did.
Martha walked, trying to keep pace, trying to remain hidden behind tall men in suits, gangley teenage boys in their starched blazers. The flash of fuscia remained in her line of sight. She started to head for one of the back carriages, intent on keeping as far back as she could. Suddenly, the fuscia scarf turned, moved quickly to the left.
Pivoting quickly, ignoring the annoyed looks and cursing behind her as she knocked into people, Martha struggled through the sea of people towards the escalators leading up to the concourse. Laura was almost at the top now, slipping effortlessly through the crowd.
Martha pushed past the people on the escalator, murmuring apologies as she went, quickening her pace as she lost sight of Laura. One last push through the crowd and she was at the top, bursting out into the wide open space of the station concourse.
Stepping to the side to avoid being trampled, she scanned the cavernous space in front of her, searing for that purple scrap of fabric. Left, right, down towards the other platforms, across to the food stands she looked. But that flutter of fuscia was nowhere to be seen. Laura had vanished.
“Your time is up. Better run!”
Her words echoed in my ears as I ran blindly through the dark woods, hands out to defend against the clawing branches and leaves, desperate to trip me up.
My breath was coming in ragged gasps, my heart was thumping wildly. Thoughts raced through my mind, my brain struggling to come to terms with this situation. How had this day gone so pear-shaped? One moment, we were enjoying a romantic picnic, the next, I was being chased by a potential psychopath.
“Ugh!” I was almost knocked off my feet by a large branch striking me across the chest. Leaves slapped across my face, stinging my skin. I stumbled backwards a few steps until I regained my balance. Concentrate. This is not the time to be analytical. That can come later, after you survive this. If, you survive this.
I looked around me, trying to quieten and slow my breaths. Trees surrounded me. Everything loooked the same, various shades of brown and green, closing in, offering nothing, no path of escape.
“Your time is up. Better run!” Her words, loud in my thoughts, continued to taunt me as I tried to decide which direction to head. A laugh. “Better run,” she repeated. Ice filled my veins as I realised her words were now coming at me live, from somewhere scarily close sounding, rather than my crazed thoughts. I willed my heart to silence its thumping so I could listen for sounds to indicate her direction.
A sharp crack filled the air. From my left? I hesitated a moment then took off towards my right. Running again, knees high to avoid the dead branches and animal holes that littered the ground, hands out to protect my eyes.
A searing, stinging pain sliced across my right arm. I turned, searching for the culprit whose sharp end had pierced my skin. I froze, my heart stopped. The hunting knife was held out in front of her, dripping with my blood. Her eyes were a cruel steely blue, calmly assessing the situation. This was no crazed maniac, she knew what she was doing. She had planned for this.
“And here I was thinking that you were different,” she said. “A mature and emotionally developed man, not intimidated by my success and fame. You embraced the public scrutiny, took it in your stride. You paid your way, not expecting me to pick up the bills, to get you freebies, to do you favours. You never name dropped to get in, to get ahead.”
I stayed perfectly still as she ticked off my positive personality traits, not wanting another slice. But inside, I was trembling, waiting for what I knew was coming next, what this was all leading to.
“But then, I couldn’t find my Tiffany charm bracelet. Or my sapphire ring. At first I thought it was my cleaners so I raked them over the coals, supervised their work. But things kept disappearing. And then I realised, the last time I could remember seeing each item, I was out with you. And then I watched. And waited. And now I know. Shame. I’d really liked you.”
“Sienna, wait-,” I started, hoping to buy myself some time to think.
“Oh I’m done with waiting Johnathon. Your time is up.”
Sienna lunged towards me. I raised my arms defensively, the knife slashing against my forearms again and again. I screamed, the pain was intense. Sienna was strangely calm, not screaming or crying. Just slashing with intent. I tried to turn, to run, and felt a red hot burning in my side. Then another, in my stomach, and another in my side, until it all became one hot mess of pain.
I dropped to the ground, writhing in anguish. Sienna stood over me watching, enjoying her moment. A chill enveloped my body and my limbs stilled. My vision was darkening at the edges, going fuzzy. I tried to speak but my body wouldn’t obey. Done with waiting, Sienna lunged closer, the knife plummeting into my chest in her final move.
“Goodbye Johnathon.”
A noise startled me awake. I lay in my bed, holding my breath, ears straining. Chink chink, a metallic clanging. Clank, clank, the sound of metal scraping across the corrugated steel roof. On any other night, the sounds would have terrified me. But tonight, I suddenly became a believer. Maybe he WAS real? Could it be? Was Santa really here? On my roof?
I listened carefully, excitement building in my chest. If I snuck down quickly to the living room, and hid before he arrived, I could finally see what he really looked like!
I threw back the covers and swung my legs out of bed. Quietly, I stood up, carefully making my way to the door, picking my way through the minefield of clothes and shoes strewn across the floor.
I tiptoed down the hallway, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards, and paused when I reached the doorway to the living room. I listened carefully for any sounds that would indicate Santa was already here. Nothing.
I quickly crept to the corner where Mum’s prized Monstera stood, behind Dad’s armchair. Hidden amongst its leafy foliage, I waited.
Scuffling and scraping noises soon sounded from the chimney. I crouched even lower, straining my eyes in the darkness.
The sounds became closer and louder and then suddenly, a figure was emerging from the fireplace.
He stood upright, groaning as he did so. I guess Santa feels age, just as we do. Although it was dark, he didn’t look like the Santa I’d expected. His profile was tall and skinny, not the jolly, fat old man the storybooks show.
There was an odd smell too, wafting towards me. A kind of musty, mouldy smell, like our garage after the rainy season.
As he moved towards our Christmas tree, I noticed he seemed to be limping, and something dragged along the floor as he moved. Strange.
A beam of moonlight, emerging from behind the clouds, streamed through the window, lighting up the odd figure.
I looked closely at his ragged attire. Dirty and ripped, his suit was more maroon than red. I could see now why he was limping; chains were shackled to his ankles, preventing smooth movement. This was Santa? He looked more like an escaped prisoner.
He pulled a sack, surprisingly empty-looking, from over his shoulder. He bent low, hunching down towards the gifts already laid out. Reaching out, he picked up two of the boxes, and threw them into his sack! He quickly picked up another large box and tossed it in! What?! He was stealing our presents! I watched in shock as Santa quickly threw the remaining presents into his sack.
In my shock, I must have inadvertently made a sound, for he turned quickly, staring at my hiding spot. With the moonlight highlighting his features, I gasped for real this time.
His face was hideous, gaunt and grey, with a thin, straggly beard drifting down his chest. His eyeballs bulged from their sockets and his bald grey head highlighted his large, pointed ears. I stared in horror.
“Santa?” I croaked?
He took a step towards me. “Ha! You think I’m Santa?” He scoffed. “Do I look like some happy and free old fat man, giving joy to children? No, I’m not Santa, you stupid child. I am Atnas, prisoner of Samtsirhc. Doomed for eternity to roam the universe, visiting this godforsaken worlds once a year to collect all the treasure and booty for my master.”
I was rooted in place, frozen with terror and disbelief. What on earth was happening? An anti-Santa??
The creature called Atnas was suddenly almost upon me. “Oh, and all this disgusting cookies and milk everyone puts out?” His tongue darted across his lips as his putrid breath wafted across my face. “Absolute rubbish. Don’t they know I’m a carnivore?”
I froze. He cackled, and leapt.
The face staring back at me is not mine. I don’t recognise the sunken cavities with smokey yellow eyes staring blankly. The red skin is pulled tightly over the skull and where there should be hair, there are two, long horns, like of a minataur or goat.
This demon reflected back at me is not me. My heart beats faster, unsure of the trickery behind this visual illusion. “I am your thoughts,” a voice in my head responded. “Your thoughts are the real you. I am the real you. Look at this image of yourself you see before you. Your dark and twisted thoughts, your melancholy, your sadistic nature. I am the manifestation of your soul.”
Sweat trickled down my back as my fear grew. This was my thoughts? How terrifying. I knew I’d been kept up at night before by my thoughts refusing to rest. Been woken in the middle of the night by cripping anxiety, with thoughts of inflicting harm on my enemies. But, these were jus thoughts. These werent real. Which meant… this demon was not real, just a fignment of my sick and over-reactive imagination. I could dispel it.
I looked the demon in the eyes. My arm slowly rose from where it had been clenched tightly by my side. My hand reached out towards the mirror’s surface, heart beating even faster now. I breathed deeply, and as my fingers touched the cool surface of the mirror, my eyes closed, the thoughts stopped.
The mist blanketed the landscape, suffocating the ground beneath. It rose up from the grasslands, tendrils of grey lazily heading upwards. The air was still and silent. Not a single birdsong broke the peace and calm of the early morning. No animals about, snuffling through the grass, searching for food.
Cutting through the barren landscape, intruding on the stillness, the girl plodded along. She dragged her feet across the rough boardwalk, shoes crunching loudly with each scrape on the frosty surface. Encased in grey from head to toe, a long puffy jacket cocooned her, the hood pulled tightly against the crisp morning air. Her shoulders were hunched, hands in her pockets as an ineffective measure against the biting cold. Small puffs of cloud as she breathed out disappeared into the fog that swirled around her.
Startled by the loud and unfamiliar noise that rang out across the land, a crow cawed in distress, then took flight, its wings beating rapidly as it climbed higher into the sky. The girl, herself startled by the crow, jerked then stopped walking. She tipped her head to the sky, tracking the crow’s path. She kept staring, long after the crow had disappeared from sight. She eventually closed her eyes and let the quiet calmness envelop her.
I just did this as a quick “cold write” scene/start of a story, without too much revising and editing. I’m curious - do you think this would read better written in 3rd person rather than 1st?
Stinging cold water hit my face as I paddled. The drop splashed up as I paddled furiously, the oars slicing through the water. My chest was heaving with the exertion and fear. My lungs burned and my arms ached.
This wasn’t meant to be an arduous task. It was supposed to have been a relaxing canoe ride, drifting down the river, taking in the scenery, breathing in the fresh air. Now, I was paddling for my life, trying to resist the temptation to turn around and see how far behind my pursuers were.
Slice, splash, sting. Slice, splash, sting. It became a beat to paddle to, to focus on. My breath was coming in gasps and I could feel the terror building in my chest, squeezing it tight. Hysteria starting bubbling up and soon it was not just the icy water stinging my eyes. Shit, now my vision was blurry as well as my glasses. I daren’t stop paddling to wipe them clean though; I just blinked furiously and shook my head a few times.
Stifling a sob, I pulled even harder on the oars. My arms were burning; I knew I couldn’t keep up this pace forever. I strained my ears to listen for any sounds to indicate the men were close. I couldn’t hear anything which I hoped meant I was far enough in front.
I paused, and turned my head, only to see an oar rapidly filling my vision. I tried to duck but it was no use. The oar hit me square across the face, sending me flying backward with the impact, over the edge of the canoe and into the freezing, dark water.
Something hit my brow bone with force. A phone? A shoe? I felt my face start to throb and a trickle of blood drip towards my eye. Personal items-turned-projectiles flew through the air, striking anyone in their path. The earsplitting sound of screeching metal almost overwhelmed the screams and cries of terror. Almost. The woman next to me couldn’t stop screaming and was rocking back and forth with her hands over her ears, trying to block out the horrendous noise. The baby seated two rows in front of me, who’d been crying for most of the last hour, had ratcheted it up a notch, and its terrified howls cut through the air.
The shuddering force at which we slid across the runway was intense. The vibrations shot through my whole body; I could feel it in my bones, my teeth, my heart. Black smoke was rapidly filling the cabin, the acrid blackness burning my nose and throat, despite the oxygen mask I had firmly affixed to my face just moment ago. Tears welled in my eyes and I squinted to see. A man was running, partly propelled, down the back of the plane, screaming to get off. The plane lurched, he cracked his head on an open overhead bin and fell heavily to the ground.
I tried to imagine what this must look like to the horrified onlookers in the airport lounges, to the ground staff, to the passengers taxiing in other planes. Were the engines alight? The wings covered in flames? Were we just an orange streak barreling down the tarmac, fast approaching the field at the end of the runway?
The shuddering intensified, the screeching reduced and the plane started to slow as the trees rushed by. A horrific ripping sound and daylight suddenly flooded the cabin as the right wing dug into the ground and held on. The plane heaved and spun to the right. Smoke poured in through the opening and completely filled my vision. Trees smashed against the left side of the plane. The screams from those still capable of making sound were never-ending as we quickly and finally came to a stop. One last sudden lurch. I swayed in response, my head cracking against the wall of the plane. Blackness.
I can feel the water lapping at my neck, each wave sending a spray of water into my face. My eyes, nose and mouth burn with every assault of salty drips. My feet are kicking beneath me, tying to propel my head higher above the waves.
I can’t see a thing from this angle, the waves creating a mini wall around me. The thought that I can’t see past the waves and what lays beyond them is terrifying. The fact that I can’t see BENEATH the waves has me paralysed with fear. Now that my brain is set on that train of thought, there is nothing else I can think of.
I imagine a great white shark, lazily swimming towards my kicking legs, sensing my fear, knowing I’m prey. It circles me, out of range of the swirling waves, checking out its surroundings, not sensing anything else nearby and knowing that I am alone. It’s in no rush, there is no threat to it. It turns away, swims for a few metres before turning back. With one fast flick of its mighty tail, it darts forward, straight towards my legs.
I can almost feel the weight of its powerful jaws, closing around my thighs, crushing the muscle and bones. It tosses me this way and that, trying to rip off a piece — STOP THAT! I tell myself, my heart absolutely pounding through my chest. If there WAS a shark nearby, it would certainly sense the frenzied heartbeat of a prey animal.
Stop it, stop it. You’re fine, there’s nothing there, I say, in an attempt to calm myself. Breathe normally, breathe slowly, I tell myself. It’s a little difficult with the constant spraying my face but I manage to slow my breathing, slow my heart rate. I can feel myself relaxing a little, ready to face the situation logically. Calmer, calmer, no worries, breath, you’ve got th— Something brushes my leg.
My key turned in the lock and the door creaked open, stiff from months of neglect. I stepped over the threshold, dumping my back pack on the floor. Dust rose up from the impact and swirled lazily through the air, the larger particles catching the sunlIght streaming through the window.
I cast my eye around the apartment, checking to see what had changed. Would I even notice any changes after a year away? Had there always been that black scuff mark by the lounge skirting board? Had I really hung the pictures that crookedly, or had they been disturbed from their fastenings by a breeze, an earthquake, a person?
It wasn’t like the movies; I didn’t fall to the ground, snow-angelling through the dust, crying “I’m home! I’m home!” I didn’t rush to my possessions, turning them over in my hand, exclaiming how much I missed them or how good it was to sit on my own couch again, flop down on my own bed again.
In fact, I felt no attachment or affection at all. It could have been anyone’s apartment, save for the framed photo of me and Dad sitting on the bookshelf. It’s funny what home means to you.
Was this my home? Or was home that small mountain village in Switzerland, where I lived for 6 glorious months, made connections with so many people, who I was still in touch with months later? Was home Turkey, where I spent 3 weeks staying in town after town, village after village, soaking up the sights and sounds, gorging myself on fresh, flavourful food?
My soul belonged in those memories, those places, those people. They were home. This was a dusty, empty apartment, loudly reminding me of what I was missing, what I had left. And a preview of the monotonous life that was to resume, now that I had crossed the threshold. Home.
