Sensible

When I regained consciousness, all of my senses were jostling for my attention with news to report. Each sense obviously felt its news was more important than the others, and was busy trying to hold the other senses’ mouths closed while they were elbowing him in the stomach and stepping on his toes. It was giving me a headache.

The first thing I noticed was that I was standing. Touch saluted, and stepped out of the melee. This seemed to be rather unusual, considering the previous dizzying blackness, but I wasn’t about to complain. Next on the list was that it was really cold, and really dark. I opened my eyes. That seemed to solve the darkness problem. Sight pushed its way to the front of the pack, and presented several surprising facts, the most prominent being that I was no longer standing by the rubble of my house on Middleborough road. That scared me a bit.

I was, it seemed, upright in the middle of a field. To my left was the fringe of a forest, and in front of me was a man. He was wearing fashionable clothes, circa 1700s. That’s muddied robes. Again, this scared me a bit. I looked at the man.

‘I’m just…do you mind…’ I stuttered. There was no response.
‘Right then. I’ll…’ I trailed off, and turned 180 degrees. With my back to him, I felt a little better, then a lot a worse. My legs were suddenly aching. I sunk to the ground.

‘That,’ announced the 1700s man, ‘would be the growing pains.’
‘Growing?’ I asked, turning in the mud.
‘No time, no time,’ he interspersed, and then giggled in the exact same way that grown men don’t. Well, shouldn’t.
‘…’ I said, and was quite proud that I did. I turned around again.

Reaching into my pocket, I – (‘Hurry up and get it!’ interspersed the man, both slightly inappropriately and rather staggeringly unnecessarily) – brought out the Rubix cube-like thing that would fit nicely into an indentation in my scalp, if I was so inclined, which I wasn’t. It fell apart in my hands, and I looked up guiltily. Once I returned my gaze back towards my hands, I saw that the two halves were held together with a loop of masking tape. This was surprisingly reassuring.

Exhibit A

I spasmed, and stood up in a rush of movement. Wiping the sticky mess off my leg, I dry retched, then spat on the rubble. Mental note: not the surgeon type either. A cough arose from behind the pile, and my head shot up. Picking up a sturdy beam, I wielded it experimentally. It felt solid, even if it was covered with splinters. I worked myself up: ‘It’s okay, Joel. Just go around the corner and see who it is.’ It came as somewhat of a surprise, then, when in the middle of my personal pep talk, a small black object was tossed over the pile and hit me in the head.

‘Ow,’ I squeaked, but then midway through tried to pretend that I didn’t by coughing loudly in a low manly voice. In a further attempt to cover up the general wussy-ness of the exclamation, I launched straight into a brave ‘Who’s there?’ In true B-movie style, no one replied. I stumbled over the shifting bricks and slid around the central pile. There, in front of me, was a corpse covered in yellow blood. He had shock white hair, and ice blue eyes, which were dribbling a dark fluid. If his health report were presented to a teacher, they’d write a big, fat, red F on it. Thankfully, before I was sick again, my eyes were dragged away from him to a D-grade body. He looked more alive than exhibit A. The fact that he was talking reinforced my assumption.

‘Where is it?’ said the man, his eyes glinting wildly. His breath was labouring, and it was obvious he was dying.
‘Where’s what?’ I replied.
‘The Shifter.’ You could practically hear the capital.
‘The what?’
‘The black thing. You squeaked.’
‘I…I did not. You...’ I paused, and then stormed off, mentally cursing myself. I retrieved the offending object from the rubble, and threw it at the man’s feet.
‘Who are you? What did you do to my house?’
‘...holder. Not me. Him.’ His breathing was ragged, and he seemed distant. Each reply took time.
‘The holder did this?’
‘Take this.’ He twisted the black box, like a Rubix Cube, and then pushed it into my hands.

I stumbled backwards; there was surprising force behind his shove. The silence of the neighbourhood was suddenly broken, with an unnatural rushing and buzzing sound that grew in volume until my ears shook. My vision became patchy, with black spots appearing in front of my eyes, as if I’d stood up too quickly after lying down. Blood rushed to my head. My head rushed to the ground.

Battered

As a prepubescent tween, I wasn’t particularly good looking. Not ugly, but nothing to write home about either. Unfortunately, this was becoming more and more apparent as time progressed; at just 12, I was only beginning to understand that there were several hard years ahead of me. I didn’t exactly fit in with others my age. That wasn’t entirely my fault.

I set out for school at my regular time of five past the bell. My walking rhythm settled, and I rubbed my eyes in a somewhat vain attempt to wake up. My mind went over the English essay I’d finished last night – I was under no pretence that it would score well. Even in such an interpretive subject as English, I could never convince the teacher that my point of view was valid. In fact, I’m not the academic type. I’m not the sporty type either. I’ll get back to you on what type I am once I work it out for myself.

So anyhow, I was walking along the pavement to school when I got to the end of my street. I hurried across the intersection, and turned the corner to school. Insert six hours of boredom, loneliness and arguments here. I shouldered my bag, now heavy with homework, and exited the classroom.

As I crossed the road, it struck me as odd that there was no traffic around. No cars, no buses, no pedestrians. What struck me as odder was the silence. The absolute quiet. My small black shoes made dull taps on the concrete path. The only other noise was a distant rushing, or crumbling noise. I walked faster, brushing past the sticky overgrown bushes and stepping over dog deposits, McDonalds wrappers and the general rubbish on the streets. The rushing sound was growing louder. My brisk walk became a slow jog. I reached my house. What was left of it, anyway.

My home was a pile of smouldering rubble. Smouldering, but with no fire or heat. Just steam. It looked like someone had just…pushed it over. I staggered, devastated. My room, my one haven in this hell of a world was gone. Crushed. I walked forward, and slipped. My shin slid along the slick side of a supporting beam. I landed on all fours on a pile of bricks. I looked at my leg, and reeled back as a waft of sickly, metallic air floated into my face. My leg was covered in thick liquid, but it felt okay; it wasn’t my blood. I was pretty sure of this, because it was yellow.

Prologue

A young boy stepped off the verandah, and on to the gravelled path. He waved to his mother, and felt the lunch he’d made that morning settle in his backpack. He walked to the gate, and with a squeak and a clang was out. His watch blinked 8:30 – 5 minutes before the bell. A glance back at the house revealed no parent; no doubt she was already grabbing her cigarettes now that he was off to school. He sighed, and jogged up the street.

In ten seconds, he was at a crossroads.

Someone was already there. A rugged but not unfriendly man studied him as he approached. A car approached the intersection. The man grinned, and stepped in the road. The car screeched, but the driver had ignored the speed limit. The man rolled up the car and his arm caught under the windscreen wiper, wrenching his head against the glass before it broke. His arm, that is. The body flipped in midair, landing on the boot of the car as it rolled forwards. He slid awkwardly onto the asphalt, bleeding.

He was laughing the whole time.

The boy ran away.

Here we go...

Okay then.

I've decided that for general neatness to create a second blog - this one - which will house exclusively the story 'Switchling'. All comments, heads-ups etc. will be back in In The Long Run.

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