Thursday, 5 August 2010
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Quicksand
It was a muggy July day, somewhere between fog and rain, even at the beach. James felt he was swimming through a haze of water droplets, and all he could see was the moist sand stretching out towards the sea, somewhere under the blanket of mist.
The sand squelched as he walked, seawater tricking into his sandals. He enjoyed walking along the beach, even in this sauna-like weather. It was lucky that he knew his way about, with the quicksand and –
Something darted, on the edge of his vision. A small shape. A dog? No, too big and too slow. A child? Out on the quicksand?
Then, the screaming started. ‘Help, help!’ A ragged hysterical voice that cut into his spine and made his stomach lurch. He walked carefully towards the sea, in the direction of the voice.
It seemed to come from all around, the mist closing in on all sides. His foot sunk into the sand. Need to be careful. His leg plunged in to his knee. Fuck! Sweat beaded his forehead, mingling with the droplets of mist.
He couldn’t hear the screaming anymore, but he carried on anyway. After a couple of knee deep steps, he slid in down to mid-thigh.
‘Help!’ The fog muffled his voice. No use shouting, no one will hear me. No idiots are out in this weather anyway.
He turned around gradually, heart pounding in his chest, expecting the next movement to suck him in to his waist, fighting to retain his balance. If I fall in, I’m a dead man.
But he managed it. After wading around in a circle, he was facing the way he had come.
He could see a rock ahead and pulled his leg out of the quicksand, with a loud sucking noise. After a few staggering steps, the watery mush was up to his knees again.
James was nearly at the rock when he stumbled. At first he lay there in the knee-deep, quicksand, in shock, as his chest and elbows slowly sunk beneath the sand.
Then he felt it again. Hands, around his ankle. Small hands, childlike hands.
The hands pulled viciously, and dragged him towards the sea. He managed to scream once, arms flailing in panic, before the quicksand engulfed him and filled his lungs. The watery sand closed over his head, the mist closed in above, and all was quiet.
Does what it says on the tin! I hate those sorts of days by the seaside, when it is muggy and foggy and constant drizzle. Also saw some kids ankle-deep in quicksand a few months ago, and pulled them to dry land on a boogie board!
The sand squelched as he walked, seawater tricking into his sandals. He enjoyed walking along the beach, even in this sauna-like weather. It was lucky that he knew his way about, with the quicksand and –
Something darted, on the edge of his vision. A small shape. A dog? No, too big and too slow. A child? Out on the quicksand?
Then, the screaming started. ‘Help, help!’ A ragged hysterical voice that cut into his spine and made his stomach lurch. He walked carefully towards the sea, in the direction of the voice.
It seemed to come from all around, the mist closing in on all sides. His foot sunk into the sand. Need to be careful. His leg plunged in to his knee. Fuck! Sweat beaded his forehead, mingling with the droplets of mist.
He couldn’t hear the screaming anymore, but he carried on anyway. After a couple of knee deep steps, he slid in down to mid-thigh.
‘Help!’ The fog muffled his voice. No use shouting, no one will hear me. No idiots are out in this weather anyway.
He turned around gradually, heart pounding in his chest, expecting the next movement to suck him in to his waist, fighting to retain his balance. If I fall in, I’m a dead man.
But he managed it. After wading around in a circle, he was facing the way he had come.
He could see a rock ahead and pulled his leg out of the quicksand, with a loud sucking noise. After a few staggering steps, the watery mush was up to his knees again.
James was nearly at the rock when he stumbled. At first he lay there in the knee-deep, quicksand, in shock, as his chest and elbows slowly sunk beneath the sand.
Then he felt it again. Hands, around his ankle. Small hands, childlike hands.
The hands pulled viciously, and dragged him towards the sea. He managed to scream once, arms flailing in panic, before the quicksand engulfed him and filled his lungs. The watery sand closed over his head, the mist closed in above, and all was quiet.
Does what it says on the tin! I hate those sorts of days by the seaside, when it is muggy and foggy and constant drizzle. Also saw some kids ankle-deep in quicksand a few months ago, and pulled them to dry land on a boogie board!
Susie
Sarah sipped her cup of chamomile tea, feet up on the sofa. ER was on, and the children were being quiet, a blessed moment of respite. Not that the girls were bad, but they were boisterous in the way that a two year old and a four year old could be when they delighted in each other’s company and mischief.
Things were difficult enough anyway since the separation and, like her ex-husband, she had just moved into a small flat. The area was nice enough, a flat in a Victorian villa as opposed to her ex’s new build apartment, but just not the same as the four bedroom house and garden they had relinquished. She had the children most of the time, as well as working part time, but she still enjoyed Friday afternoons with them, after picking them up from their father. It broke her heart sometimes when they parted each Friday lunchtime, but the continual arguments and bitterness had been too much to bear.
Sarah padded through to the bedroom to see what they were doing.
‘Playing with Susie.’ The oldest girl Hannah smiled and her eyes shone with amusement.
‘Susie our fwend,’ beamed the younger Amy.
‘Well, as long as you’re having fun,’ laughed Sarah. ‘Does your friend Susie want a cup of tea?’
‘Don’t be silly, Mummy,’ said Hannah. ‘She’s not alive.’
Well, that’s me told, thought Sarah as she slinked back to the living room.
Bath night was always fun. They would splash in bubbles, usually making a mess of the bathroom. Afterwards, Susie would wrap them in fluffy dressing gowns and leave them to choose story books, while she went into the kitchen to prepare supper, usually half a doughnut each with a glass of milk.
She was cutting the doughnut with a bread knife when she heard the conspiring whispers.
‘Susie says to do it like this…at the same time.’
Then, a loud thump and throaty gurgling from the bedroom. Sarah ran through, catching one of the milk glasses with her elbow. It shattered on the floor, splashing milk everywhere.
The girls dangled from the dressing gown cords, wrapped around their necks and tied to the bunk bed. Their eyes bulged desperately from red-blue faces, hands clawing at the constricting nooses and feet scrabbling desperately at the ground.
Sobbing in horror, Sarah slashed the cords and the girls collapsed to the ground. She pulled frantically at their necks and loosened the nooses.
‘Why did you do that! Why, oh why, oh why!’ She screamed as she hugged the girls close. Thankfully they were screaming as well, floods of tears, which meant they were unhurt.
They huddled together for some time until all three had calmed down.
Sarah sat the girls together and looked sternly at them.
‘Now girls,’ she asked, ‘why did you do that? That was a really really bad thing.’
‘Susie told us to do it,’ said Hannah.
‘Susie say do,’ said Amy, not wanting to be left out.
‘Don’t be silly, girls,’ said Sarah. ‘There’s no Susie here.’
‘Yes there is, Mummy,’ said Hannah. ‘Her name’s Susie Side. She said she did it years ago, and if we did it then we could play with her forever.’
Fear gripped Sarah’s spine. ‘What – ‘
The bedroom door slammed shut. The light bulb flared briefly and died. A cold wind rattled through the curtains.
Sarah grabbed the children and ran out of the bedroom, out of the flat, downstairs and out onto the wet pavement in her bare feet. She opened the car door and bundled them into their car seats.
‘Where are we going, Mummy?’ asked Hannah.
‘Where we go, Mama?’ asked Amy.
‘We’re going to see Daddy,’ said Susan, as she buckled the seatbelt. I’m not setting foot in that flat again.
She turned the ignition key and selected the reverse gear, glancing into the rear view mirror –
A swollen-purple face filled the mirror, eyes staring wildly, rictus grin gasping for air. A thrashing hand clawed at her hair.
She screamed.
This is just horrible! No redeeming features at all.
Things were difficult enough anyway since the separation and, like her ex-husband, she had just moved into a small flat. The area was nice enough, a flat in a Victorian villa as opposed to her ex’s new build apartment, but just not the same as the four bedroom house and garden they had relinquished. She had the children most of the time, as well as working part time, but she still enjoyed Friday afternoons with them, after picking them up from their father. It broke her heart sometimes when they parted each Friday lunchtime, but the continual arguments and bitterness had been too much to bear.
Sarah padded through to the bedroom to see what they were doing.
‘Playing with Susie.’ The oldest girl Hannah smiled and her eyes shone with amusement.
‘Susie our fwend,’ beamed the younger Amy.
‘Well, as long as you’re having fun,’ laughed Sarah. ‘Does your friend Susie want a cup of tea?’
‘Don’t be silly, Mummy,’ said Hannah. ‘She’s not alive.’
Well, that’s me told, thought Sarah as she slinked back to the living room.
Bath night was always fun. They would splash in bubbles, usually making a mess of the bathroom. Afterwards, Susie would wrap them in fluffy dressing gowns and leave them to choose story books, while she went into the kitchen to prepare supper, usually half a doughnut each with a glass of milk.
She was cutting the doughnut with a bread knife when she heard the conspiring whispers.
‘Susie says to do it like this…at the same time.’
Then, a loud thump and throaty gurgling from the bedroom. Sarah ran through, catching one of the milk glasses with her elbow. It shattered on the floor, splashing milk everywhere.
The girls dangled from the dressing gown cords, wrapped around their necks and tied to the bunk bed. Their eyes bulged desperately from red-blue faces, hands clawing at the constricting nooses and feet scrabbling desperately at the ground.
Sobbing in horror, Sarah slashed the cords and the girls collapsed to the ground. She pulled frantically at their necks and loosened the nooses.
‘Why did you do that! Why, oh why, oh why!’ She screamed as she hugged the girls close. Thankfully they were screaming as well, floods of tears, which meant they were unhurt.
They huddled together for some time until all three had calmed down.
Sarah sat the girls together and looked sternly at them.
‘Now girls,’ she asked, ‘why did you do that? That was a really really bad thing.’
‘Susie told us to do it,’ said Hannah.
‘Susie say do,’ said Amy, not wanting to be left out.
‘Don’t be silly, girls,’ said Sarah. ‘There’s no Susie here.’
‘Yes there is, Mummy,’ said Hannah. ‘Her name’s Susie Side. She said she did it years ago, and if we did it then we could play with her forever.’
Fear gripped Sarah’s spine. ‘What – ‘
The bedroom door slammed shut. The light bulb flared briefly and died. A cold wind rattled through the curtains.
Sarah grabbed the children and ran out of the bedroom, out of the flat, downstairs and out onto the wet pavement in her bare feet. She opened the car door and bundled them into their car seats.
‘Where are we going, Mummy?’ asked Hannah.
‘Where we go, Mama?’ asked Amy.
‘We’re going to see Daddy,’ said Susan, as she buckled the seatbelt. I’m not setting foot in that flat again.
She turned the ignition key and selected the reverse gear, glancing into the rear view mirror –
A swollen-purple face filled the mirror, eyes staring wildly, rictus grin gasping for air. A thrashing hand clawed at her hair.
She screamed.
This is just horrible! No redeeming features at all.
Mutant
A birth, of sorts.
The mother splits into siblings, deep within the moist stronghold of raw red caverns which no daylight has penetrated.
A series of slow convulsions shatter their sanctuary. Propelled upwards, borne into alien daylight just as the birthing cycle begins again. Both siblings split, disappearing into what should be two perfect copies of each parent, grandparent and earlier generations beyond numbering.
But this time is different. Perhaps a photon of light, or the violent wave action of ultra violet. The reconstituted genome is imperfectly paired, the double helix spirals linked in one location by adenine and thymine instead of cytosine and guanine. Consequently, one cell’s membrane has a different structure of proteins and phospholipids to its ancestors. It is stickier. Such a change, beyond microscopic, will change the world. In time, it will be discovered, but not until it has claimed the lives of ninety per cent of the human population.
The consequences are yet to unfold as the mutant splits into two deviant copies, blind to the sparkling dust motes that dance in the swirling air. Caught by a vortex, the twins are sucked into a gaping maw, embraced by fleshy darkness. They are grains of sand on an alveolar beach amongst their half-siblings, but they alone stick as the tide recedes and their fellows are expelled on a rainbow spray.
They stick to the surface of the lungs. They multiply, two, four, eight, sixteen times and more, spreading into the new frontier of the bloodstream. Nutrients abound in their new home, which they absorb, convert and subvert like living creatures everywhere, chemical reactions leaving by-products in their scythe-like wake.
One of these by-products is a three-protein toxin which acts as an enzyme, a cellular catalyst, interfering with the complex mechanisms which regulate water uptake into the host human cells and form the very basis of their function. It also kills the macrophages which are the footsoldiers of the immune system. Rapid cell death follows as the invaders sweep through arteries, veins and capillaries, splitting and splitting all the time.
The man coughs, spraying microscopic droplets throughout the train compartment. He has a low-grade chest infection anyway, the common cold virus allowing bacterial proliferation, making it even easier for the new invader to set up camp. Soon, at work, he shivers and sweats, chest convulsing in a rasping series of coughs. He returns home and retires to bed, sipping a hot lemon and paracetamol drink. Within twenty four hours, he is dead, surrounded by mask-wearing medical staff and other patients close to death, as the sweat chills on his wracked and wasted body. The masks offer little protection against the tiny microbes, whose malign ancestor was borne into daylight just over a day previously. Within another couple of days, fetid winds will gently lift their distant cousins from the bloody foam congealing around corpse-mouths, blown around the litter-strewn and silent streets, emperors making their triumphal procession amongst the newly-conquered kingdom of the dead.
This short story came to mind on the train last week, when someone sneezed. I thought about a pandemic from the microbe's point of view. The science is loosely based on the mutation of a bacterium leading to an effect similar to that of anthrax, which is extremely toxic but not very infectious.
The mother splits into siblings, deep within the moist stronghold of raw red caverns which no daylight has penetrated.
A series of slow convulsions shatter their sanctuary. Propelled upwards, borne into alien daylight just as the birthing cycle begins again. Both siblings split, disappearing into what should be two perfect copies of each parent, grandparent and earlier generations beyond numbering.
But this time is different. Perhaps a photon of light, or the violent wave action of ultra violet. The reconstituted genome is imperfectly paired, the double helix spirals linked in one location by adenine and thymine instead of cytosine and guanine. Consequently, one cell’s membrane has a different structure of proteins and phospholipids to its ancestors. It is stickier. Such a change, beyond microscopic, will change the world. In time, it will be discovered, but not until it has claimed the lives of ninety per cent of the human population.
The consequences are yet to unfold as the mutant splits into two deviant copies, blind to the sparkling dust motes that dance in the swirling air. Caught by a vortex, the twins are sucked into a gaping maw, embraced by fleshy darkness. They are grains of sand on an alveolar beach amongst their half-siblings, but they alone stick as the tide recedes and their fellows are expelled on a rainbow spray.
They stick to the surface of the lungs. They multiply, two, four, eight, sixteen times and more, spreading into the new frontier of the bloodstream. Nutrients abound in their new home, which they absorb, convert and subvert like living creatures everywhere, chemical reactions leaving by-products in their scythe-like wake.
One of these by-products is a three-protein toxin which acts as an enzyme, a cellular catalyst, interfering with the complex mechanisms which regulate water uptake into the host human cells and form the very basis of their function. It also kills the macrophages which are the footsoldiers of the immune system. Rapid cell death follows as the invaders sweep through arteries, veins and capillaries, splitting and splitting all the time.
The man coughs, spraying microscopic droplets throughout the train compartment. He has a low-grade chest infection anyway, the common cold virus allowing bacterial proliferation, making it even easier for the new invader to set up camp. Soon, at work, he shivers and sweats, chest convulsing in a rasping series of coughs. He returns home and retires to bed, sipping a hot lemon and paracetamol drink. Within twenty four hours, he is dead, surrounded by mask-wearing medical staff and other patients close to death, as the sweat chills on his wracked and wasted body. The masks offer little protection against the tiny microbes, whose malign ancestor was borne into daylight just over a day previously. Within another couple of days, fetid winds will gently lift their distant cousins from the bloody foam congealing around corpse-mouths, blown around the litter-strewn and silent streets, emperors making their triumphal procession amongst the newly-conquered kingdom of the dead.
This short story came to mind on the train last week, when someone sneezed. I thought about a pandemic from the microbe's point of view. The science is loosely based on the mutation of a bacterium leading to an effect similar to that of anthrax, which is extremely toxic but not very infectious.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Metamorphosis
When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.
Samsa was not sure of the phylum, class, genus or species but he was certain that he was an insect. He lay back and looked up at his six legs, which were slowly writhing and pointing towards the ceiling. He noticed, as he always did every morning, the peeling paintwork in the corner and he thought, as he always did every morning, that he must have it repainted. Samsa looked back at his six legs. He was still an insect. Six legs, segmented abdomen, mandibles and antennae symmetrically paired at the edge of his vision. He tried to feel his face with one hand, to touch skin and bone and break the spell, but all he felt was the mandible brushing chitin at the edge of his vision.
Reluctant to explore his condition any further, he lay back in his bed, Samsa the insect. Was he an insect, did he just look like an insect to himself, did he look like an insect to others? He cast his mind back to the fevered dream of the night before. Perhaps that had brought on the change. Perhaps the dream and his insecthood were symptoms of wider change. Change was on the march, in his life, in his society, in his street and in his place of work. People that were once spoken to were now not to be spoken to, a consequence of their genealogy, their grandparents, their ancestors, their religion. Certain ideas were no longer to be spoken, best to stay quiet, keep one’s head down, move in the same direction as the rest of the insects, beetlelike, scurrying, bypassing obstacles like a seamless shimmering sea of black, following only the common purpose Little of this was spoken, much was instinct. In his dream he had been changing, stifled and wrapped in a cocoon, a chrysalis, unable to move, parts liquefying and resolidifying, thoughts liquefying and resolidifying, until the new shape was ready to emerge, leaving behind only a discarded husk.
Samsa sensed movement beside him in the bed. His wife, Sofia, was beginning to stir. He could see that his insect writhing had thrown the blankets clear of the bed. He felt panic begin to stir, and he watched his legs writhe furiously, his antennae twitching. He was a bug on his back, nothing he could do. Sofia murmered as she turned towards him, her arm slowly seeking his warmth. What would she feel? Would she feel chitin, hard unfamiliar ridges? When she opened her eyes in shock, would she see Gregor the insect, lying there, changed beyond all imagining? Or was he only an insect in his own eyes, unfamiliar to his new shape? His wife’s arm moved closer as she continued to turn, yawning. Any moment and they would touch.
Samsa could see Sofia looking closely at him, vague concern on her oval face, brown eyes narrowed and brow furrowed.
‘Are you an insect, Gregor?’ she asked.
Samsa froze.
Frowning in annoyance, Sofia said again, ‘Are you upset, Gregor?’
Samsa’s insect mouthparts must have uttered something, for she lay back and stretched before sitting up with purpose, legs swung over the bed’s edge, standing up and padding barefoot into the kitchen of their small flat. Sofia was clearly no insect; that was a feminine form beneath the nightgown. Samsa managed to somehow roll onto his side and off the bed, landing on all six legs. He was becoming more comfortable in his changed self. Scurrying through to the kitchen, he declined breakfast, before crawling quickly to the bathroom and bedroom in succession to create the appearance of starting the day as a human.
Samsa worked as a junior assistant architect in the Ministry of Public Works in a small provincial town which was the municipal headquarters for the surrounding province. His salary paid for the apartment and little else; Sofia brought in a little more money from work in a pastry shop although she had trained in bookkeeping. Professional examinations would have to be paid for and undertaken before he could progress to a higher grade and salary, although the bitter irony often struck Samsa: he could not progress to earn more money because he did not have enough money to pay for the progression. However, this was not on the mind of Samsa the insect at that moment. He was more concerned with his insect state and possible solutions that would allow its reversal. Leaving the main door of his apartment block, Samsa scurried along the pavement towards his place of work, some ten minutes to human legs. The insect attracted no outright stares of astonishment and he was becoming accustomed to the notion that his status was only evident to his own self. Six legs rustled in perpetual motion, paired like the oars of a galley, and Samsa was propelled along the pavement with his mouthparts inches from the stone paving, multifaceted eyes gazing forwards. He could feel the vibrations of a distant disturbance, a rumble, through his bristling antennae, and paused. Something was coming towards him, along the road. Something large.
The Iron Guard were marching. This knowledge briefly pushed Samsa’s insectness from his mind. The Iron Guard were a uniformed organisation dedicated to progress, order, purity and the occasional casual brutality, all with the unofficial sanction of government and police. Their members were drawn from all walks of life but primarily from those who did not meet the unremarkable requirements of the Army and those who were cunning and ambitious enough to seek a safer route to uniform, rank and status. The Iron Guard marched with banners, flags and band, and it was customary to stop walking, talking, or any activity and to observe their progress solemnly. Samsa stopped his progress and scurried, beetlelike, to the pavement edge with his neighbours.
Samsa was acutely conscious of his insecthood. Would he be picked out, crushed beneath bootheels, or would he be safe in the crowd. A child leaned against him, elbow on his carapace, oblivious to the touch of ebony chitin. Someone jostled against him, standing on the end of one of his six legs, uttering a muffled apology. The Guard marched onwards and Samsa could feel their rhythm through the paving slabs. The band passed him, playing with more enthusiasm than accomplishment. The Guard standard-bearers then passed, mostly minor politicians and businessmen, flagpoles held close to bulging stomachs, helmet straps cutting in to double chins. Samsa felt more urgent vibrations to his left and squinted towards the noise with his shining black multifaceted eye. Some of the less disciplined Guards had spotted an enemy or an undesirable, and were beating their victim with fervent enthusiasm. A wave of relief flooded Samsa: it was someone else beneath the fists and boots, someone else who was the spectacle observed from the corner of the eye. Like his neighbours he scuttled away in his beetlelike way, conspicuously minding his own affairs.
A week had passed since Samsa’s metamorphosis. He was still aware of his insectness, but had overcome the difficulties of integrating his changed self with his environment. He could sleep, walk, converse, eat and drink and conduct his duties at work. Work, of course was the greatest concern. Those who did not fit were under increasing scrutiny, and there were some empty desks: here one day, gone the next without comment. He was unclear exactly how he accomplished his own integration against such a backdrop of scrutiny, but he did so to the general satisfaction of his wife, his colleagues and friends, and neighbours. He did not attract attention, he kept his insect head down and minded his own affairs, wary that at any moment he would be identified as an insect and crushed. This was not to say he was comfortable with insecthood, but he had reached an accommodation with his condition. That was just as well, as it was Sofia’s birthday and this event was customarily marked with a dinner in a fine Hungarian restaurant.
They prepared for their evening meal, as the sky darkened beyond the apartment curtains. Sofia was radiant, in a close-fitting dark dress, wearing the new necklace Samsa had bought for her. He had fitted the necklace himself, closing the clasp neatly with his forelegs. Samsa’s carapace shone, he had preened himself with his forelegs and cleaned his mouthparts. They left the flat, walking into the crisp night air, Sofia’s hand resting on Samsa’s glossy chitinous back as he scurried and she walked along the pavement. The restaurant was in an upmarket district, some fifteen minutes walk, but the journey passed quickly. The couple were greeted by the maitre’d on arrival, their reservations were checked and they were shown to their table.
The meal was delicious, Samsa managed to even enjoy his goulash. Sofia was shining in the candlelight, and the violinist (paid by Samsa) played at their table in her honour. However, the ambience of the evening was disturbed by raised voices from a nearby table, increasing in volume as wine flowed in greater quantities. Samsa thought he recognised one of the marchers from the previous week, a minor official. His companion bore enough of a resemblance to be a brother or cousin, and was of a similar age. They were making increasingly vulgar and noisy comments about a couple at a nearby table. Samsa recognised the gentleman, a professor at the university, respected member of the community despite his religion and ancestry. At first Samsa ignored the commotion, turning away, Sofia turning away, the rest of the customers turning away, exposed insects seeking darkness. However, as the insults flowed with the wine, Samsa became increasingly uncomfortable at the professor’s predicament, and increasingly angry. There he was, a beetle, pinned to a board, legs writhing, unable to move under the bright light. His wife was squirming next to him, also pinned to the board, writhing and unable to move. Samsa could see them clearly, squirming pinned insects, and he felt their pain and fear. He could take no more. He stood up, on human legs, and shouted at the insulters: Mind your manners.
The restaurant and its occupants changed. A metamorphosis.
Samsa was human again, two legs, two arms, soft flesh. It had been an eternity since he felt his own mouth of flesh move, and words pass his lips. He looked around at the restaurant and his all-too-human jaw dropped.
He was surrounded by insects.
They were feeding on corruption, rotten fruit, decaying flesh, their many forms writhing and slithering around each other. White larval forms, carapaces of chitin, squirming in a slimy putrescent mix of fruit, flesh, and rot. The corruption surrounded them, it was their world, it sustained them. Only Samsa was different.
That is, only Samsa, the professor and the professor's wife were different.
Everyone else was an insect. Even Sofia, who slurped with her proboscis at the suppurating puddle in front of her, she was an iridescent moth. It all became clear to Samsa: they had changed, not he.
He had tried to change, and he had failed. He was not like them.
The insects continued to feast, but were staring intently at the human trio. Samsa suspected that, in the restaurant, they were not eating but drawing sustenance from the atmosphere, the shared climate of hate. Sofia’s feathery foreleg reached out, and touched him and the spell was broken.
They were all human again.
Samsa stood up hurriedly, clasping his wife’s arm of flesh. They left quickly, scurrying back to their apartment, Samsa with his head down. He was no longer an insect but it did not matter. He would be crushed. He did not know where, he did not know when, but it was inevitable. He would be crushed.
That, perhaps, was the price of regaining his humanity.
(c) I Paton 2008 with acknowledgments (Kafka)
This is an old story...I wrote it back in 2008, shortly after starting a creative writing course. This was run at Madras College by a Fife-based poet and writer called John Brewster.
The exercise was to write a paragraph following the opening line of a story. Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka, was one of the stories. I found I could not stop at one paragraph and wrote nearly 2,000 words. I hadn't read the original story at that time, only The Trial.
Samsa was not sure of the phylum, class, genus or species but he was certain that he was an insect. He lay back and looked up at his six legs, which were slowly writhing and pointing towards the ceiling. He noticed, as he always did every morning, the peeling paintwork in the corner and he thought, as he always did every morning, that he must have it repainted. Samsa looked back at his six legs. He was still an insect. Six legs, segmented abdomen, mandibles and antennae symmetrically paired at the edge of his vision. He tried to feel his face with one hand, to touch skin and bone and break the spell, but all he felt was the mandible brushing chitin at the edge of his vision.
Reluctant to explore his condition any further, he lay back in his bed, Samsa the insect. Was he an insect, did he just look like an insect to himself, did he look like an insect to others? He cast his mind back to the fevered dream of the night before. Perhaps that had brought on the change. Perhaps the dream and his insecthood were symptoms of wider change. Change was on the march, in his life, in his society, in his street and in his place of work. People that were once spoken to were now not to be spoken to, a consequence of their genealogy, their grandparents, their ancestors, their religion. Certain ideas were no longer to be spoken, best to stay quiet, keep one’s head down, move in the same direction as the rest of the insects, beetlelike, scurrying, bypassing obstacles like a seamless shimmering sea of black, following only the common purpose Little of this was spoken, much was instinct. In his dream he had been changing, stifled and wrapped in a cocoon, a chrysalis, unable to move, parts liquefying and resolidifying, thoughts liquefying and resolidifying, until the new shape was ready to emerge, leaving behind only a discarded husk.
Samsa sensed movement beside him in the bed. His wife, Sofia, was beginning to stir. He could see that his insect writhing had thrown the blankets clear of the bed. He felt panic begin to stir, and he watched his legs writhe furiously, his antennae twitching. He was a bug on his back, nothing he could do. Sofia murmered as she turned towards him, her arm slowly seeking his warmth. What would she feel? Would she feel chitin, hard unfamiliar ridges? When she opened her eyes in shock, would she see Gregor the insect, lying there, changed beyond all imagining? Or was he only an insect in his own eyes, unfamiliar to his new shape? His wife’s arm moved closer as she continued to turn, yawning. Any moment and they would touch.
Samsa could see Sofia looking closely at him, vague concern on her oval face, brown eyes narrowed and brow furrowed.
‘Are you an insect, Gregor?’ she asked.
Samsa froze.
Frowning in annoyance, Sofia said again, ‘Are you upset, Gregor?’
Samsa’s insect mouthparts must have uttered something, for she lay back and stretched before sitting up with purpose, legs swung over the bed’s edge, standing up and padding barefoot into the kitchen of their small flat. Sofia was clearly no insect; that was a feminine form beneath the nightgown. Samsa managed to somehow roll onto his side and off the bed, landing on all six legs. He was becoming more comfortable in his changed self. Scurrying through to the kitchen, he declined breakfast, before crawling quickly to the bathroom and bedroom in succession to create the appearance of starting the day as a human.
Samsa worked as a junior assistant architect in the Ministry of Public Works in a small provincial town which was the municipal headquarters for the surrounding province. His salary paid for the apartment and little else; Sofia brought in a little more money from work in a pastry shop although she had trained in bookkeeping. Professional examinations would have to be paid for and undertaken before he could progress to a higher grade and salary, although the bitter irony often struck Samsa: he could not progress to earn more money because he did not have enough money to pay for the progression. However, this was not on the mind of Samsa the insect at that moment. He was more concerned with his insect state and possible solutions that would allow its reversal. Leaving the main door of his apartment block, Samsa scurried along the pavement towards his place of work, some ten minutes to human legs. The insect attracted no outright stares of astonishment and he was becoming accustomed to the notion that his status was only evident to his own self. Six legs rustled in perpetual motion, paired like the oars of a galley, and Samsa was propelled along the pavement with his mouthparts inches from the stone paving, multifaceted eyes gazing forwards. He could feel the vibrations of a distant disturbance, a rumble, through his bristling antennae, and paused. Something was coming towards him, along the road. Something large.
The Iron Guard were marching. This knowledge briefly pushed Samsa’s insectness from his mind. The Iron Guard were a uniformed organisation dedicated to progress, order, purity and the occasional casual brutality, all with the unofficial sanction of government and police. Their members were drawn from all walks of life but primarily from those who did not meet the unremarkable requirements of the Army and those who were cunning and ambitious enough to seek a safer route to uniform, rank and status. The Iron Guard marched with banners, flags and band, and it was customary to stop walking, talking, or any activity and to observe their progress solemnly. Samsa stopped his progress and scurried, beetlelike, to the pavement edge with his neighbours.
Samsa was acutely conscious of his insecthood. Would he be picked out, crushed beneath bootheels, or would he be safe in the crowd. A child leaned against him, elbow on his carapace, oblivious to the touch of ebony chitin. Someone jostled against him, standing on the end of one of his six legs, uttering a muffled apology. The Guard marched onwards and Samsa could feel their rhythm through the paving slabs. The band passed him, playing with more enthusiasm than accomplishment. The Guard standard-bearers then passed, mostly minor politicians and businessmen, flagpoles held close to bulging stomachs, helmet straps cutting in to double chins. Samsa felt more urgent vibrations to his left and squinted towards the noise with his shining black multifaceted eye. Some of the less disciplined Guards had spotted an enemy or an undesirable, and were beating their victim with fervent enthusiasm. A wave of relief flooded Samsa: it was someone else beneath the fists and boots, someone else who was the spectacle observed from the corner of the eye. Like his neighbours he scuttled away in his beetlelike way, conspicuously minding his own affairs.
A week had passed since Samsa’s metamorphosis. He was still aware of his insectness, but had overcome the difficulties of integrating his changed self with his environment. He could sleep, walk, converse, eat and drink and conduct his duties at work. Work, of course was the greatest concern. Those who did not fit were under increasing scrutiny, and there were some empty desks: here one day, gone the next without comment. He was unclear exactly how he accomplished his own integration against such a backdrop of scrutiny, but he did so to the general satisfaction of his wife, his colleagues and friends, and neighbours. He did not attract attention, he kept his insect head down and minded his own affairs, wary that at any moment he would be identified as an insect and crushed. This was not to say he was comfortable with insecthood, but he had reached an accommodation with his condition. That was just as well, as it was Sofia’s birthday and this event was customarily marked with a dinner in a fine Hungarian restaurant.
They prepared for their evening meal, as the sky darkened beyond the apartment curtains. Sofia was radiant, in a close-fitting dark dress, wearing the new necklace Samsa had bought for her. He had fitted the necklace himself, closing the clasp neatly with his forelegs. Samsa’s carapace shone, he had preened himself with his forelegs and cleaned his mouthparts. They left the flat, walking into the crisp night air, Sofia’s hand resting on Samsa’s glossy chitinous back as he scurried and she walked along the pavement. The restaurant was in an upmarket district, some fifteen minutes walk, but the journey passed quickly. The couple were greeted by the maitre’d on arrival, their reservations were checked and they were shown to their table.
The meal was delicious, Samsa managed to even enjoy his goulash. Sofia was shining in the candlelight, and the violinist (paid by Samsa) played at their table in her honour. However, the ambience of the evening was disturbed by raised voices from a nearby table, increasing in volume as wine flowed in greater quantities. Samsa thought he recognised one of the marchers from the previous week, a minor official. His companion bore enough of a resemblance to be a brother or cousin, and was of a similar age. They were making increasingly vulgar and noisy comments about a couple at a nearby table. Samsa recognised the gentleman, a professor at the university, respected member of the community despite his religion and ancestry. At first Samsa ignored the commotion, turning away, Sofia turning away, the rest of the customers turning away, exposed insects seeking darkness. However, as the insults flowed with the wine, Samsa became increasingly uncomfortable at the professor’s predicament, and increasingly angry. There he was, a beetle, pinned to a board, legs writhing, unable to move under the bright light. His wife was squirming next to him, also pinned to the board, writhing and unable to move. Samsa could see them clearly, squirming pinned insects, and he felt their pain and fear. He could take no more. He stood up, on human legs, and shouted at the insulters: Mind your manners.
The restaurant and its occupants changed. A metamorphosis.
Samsa was human again, two legs, two arms, soft flesh. It had been an eternity since he felt his own mouth of flesh move, and words pass his lips. He looked around at the restaurant and his all-too-human jaw dropped.
He was surrounded by insects.
They were feeding on corruption, rotten fruit, decaying flesh, their many forms writhing and slithering around each other. White larval forms, carapaces of chitin, squirming in a slimy putrescent mix of fruit, flesh, and rot. The corruption surrounded them, it was their world, it sustained them. Only Samsa was different.
That is, only Samsa, the professor and the professor's wife were different.
Everyone else was an insect. Even Sofia, who slurped with her proboscis at the suppurating puddle in front of her, she was an iridescent moth. It all became clear to Samsa: they had changed, not he.
He had tried to change, and he had failed. He was not like them.
The insects continued to feast, but were staring intently at the human trio. Samsa suspected that, in the restaurant, they were not eating but drawing sustenance from the atmosphere, the shared climate of hate. Sofia’s feathery foreleg reached out, and touched him and the spell was broken.
They were all human again.
Samsa stood up hurriedly, clasping his wife’s arm of flesh. They left quickly, scurrying back to their apartment, Samsa with his head down. He was no longer an insect but it did not matter. He would be crushed. He did not know where, he did not know when, but it was inevitable. He would be crushed.
That, perhaps, was the price of regaining his humanity.
(c) I Paton 2008 with acknowledgments (Kafka)
This is an old story...I wrote it back in 2008, shortly after starting a creative writing course. This was run at Madras College by a Fife-based poet and writer called John Brewster.
The exercise was to write a paragraph following the opening line of a story. Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka, was one of the stories. I found I could not stop at one paragraph and wrote nearly 2,000 words. I hadn't read the original story at that time, only The Trial.
Monday, 17 May 2010
In Progress - May 2010
Recently finished
By The Sword....done, submitted to a crime writing competition. Hopefully Banzai Billy will be unleashed....
Preacher Man...done, submitted to Dark Horizons for consideration.
His Master's Voice...finished, submitted to Music For Another World anthology.
In Progress
Wanderer
Circus of the Damned
Trees (working title)
The Outsider
Four Letter Words
Hoochie Coochie Man
An un-named Japanese ghost story
By The Sword....done, submitted to a crime writing competition. Hopefully Banzai Billy will be unleashed....
Preacher Man...done, submitted to Dark Horizons for consideration.
His Master's Voice...finished, submitted to Music For Another World anthology.
In Progress
Wanderer
Circus of the Damned
Trees (working title)
The Outsider
Four Letter Words
Hoochie Coochie Man
An un-named Japanese ghost story
Welcome
Welcome to this writing blog. It's a continuation of my old WordPress blog, which became a bit unwieldy. I'll post stories, news and whatever else I can think of regarding my work, dark fiction and horror, and writing in general.
Like everything, this is a work in progress and will take a little time to get right.
Tomorrow it's off to the Glasgow Writers' Group...and maybe a pint!
Like everything, this is a work in progress and will take a little time to get right.
Tomorrow it's off to the Glasgow Writers' Group...and maybe a pint!
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