2010

Jiggity · 2008-12-22T11:03:57Z

A/N: For those of you already familiar with the story, I apologise for tiring your eyes with this again. I am rewriting/completing this very old story. I also apologise for its length. I meant to put it in Adv. Critiques but Nate decided to reset the points I worked so hard for, today of all days! So, I appreciate your patience. I imagine this mostly working as a graphic novel, I'm just writing it out as a novel first as its the only format I know well. Plot points do not interest me. Section 1: Loom The pool of blood frothed with soapy bubbles. Clarence scrubbed vigorously, humming all the while. Blood was always the hardest to get out and he simply couldn’t have his wonderful white tiles spoiled like that. He wasn’t overly worried or even angry. At his age, keeping busy was a matter of pride. His thick hands, skin stretched thin over puffy veins, luxuriated in the liquids. Clarence huffed, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes and applied himself with renewed vigour. There wasn’t too much of it, thankfully – it had mostly drenched the boy’s clothes, seeping down over the rough wooden chair and onto the floor. Clarence looked up at the dead boy, squinting in the light. Small and finely boned, his hair was messy and blonde; blue eyes stared down at his neck, split in an obscene smile. His expression was troubled, as though he couldn’t quite recall what was so amusing. ‘Don’t worry, boy. It ain’t worth remembering, anyhow,’ Clarence said with a groan, as he eased his stiff back. He stood up, stretching with audible pain, popping and cracking rusty joints. He looked down at his work with a critical eye, appraising the damage. The dry residue that had affixed itself to his tiles was mostly gone and with a thorough mop, all would be well again. A pleased smile crawled out from amongst weary, grizzled jowls. Clarence walked to the corner of his cellar, grabbed his mop and bucket and brought it over to the offending liquids. As he worked, mop sloshing merrily, he hummed; the tune was mostly wish-washy nonsense, the kind he’d heard on the squawk box in the ‘20’s. ‘You know what I like best about dead people?’ he said, pausing for a response. He shook his head, chuckling. ‘That’s it right there - they never interrupt. Quiet, unassuming types for the most part.’ His movements were slow and methodical, pressure measured and precise. Clarence sucked at his gums in irritation, pausing again to look at the boy. He was, Clarence decided, more a young man than a boy. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Was it relevant? Probably not, he knew and yet, he couldn’t shake his agitation. Something was wrong here. Gently lifting the youth’s chin, he looked suspiciously into dead eyes. No spark quickened within – it was too soon for that. He breathed in, extending his senses through the rock, dirt and tiles above and out into the ramshackle hotel. Nothing stirred there. Between the giant, broken down letters atop it an ageing raven nestled. Few buildings surrounded his and those that did were in just as bad a shape; desecrated corpses in desperate need of a proper burial. The town was little more than a deserted outpost, a long forgotten mole on the desert’s rear. Nothing appeared untoward and yet, he quested still further, heart quickening as he finally caught his quarry – the distant rumble of a motor. Senses contracted rapidly and he was back in his cellar, beneath the ground, staring into frighteningly aware blue eyes. ‘Did you call for help, you cheeky little devil?’ he said, grinning. Chuckling, he cast off his bloody apron, revealing his bare chest and blue overalls. Thick grey bush curled over the edges. ‘Well, just so’s you know, they won’t find you - won’t find this place, this town or nothin’ unless I want them to.’ Unconcerned with his dress, he bounded up the stone steps. Clarence emerged in the lobby, the sparkling white floor a soothing balm to red-stressed eyes. To one side, a fat brown counter squatted, resentfully protecting the many key-rings hanging off the wall behind it. Wallpaper that had long since forgotten its original colour was hanging off the walls in strips and air-bubble bulges as though it longed to tear itself off and flee. Clarence sighed as he strode behind the counter; this was home. Despite his seeming unconcern, he was seething inside. That he had the boy, his first visitor in more than a hundred years – not counting his deliverer – was enough cause for concern. Strange forces were in motion this night, he well knew, being one of them himself. He considered the problem, knowing his work could not be disturbed; too much hung in the balance. Anxious, he waited as patiently as he could and soon, the sound of the engine was a roar that shivered through the night air. High beamed pupils burned a path through obscuring shadow as loud, angry music poured out of the car. Should he unveil the town? Did he need more victims for this hungry place, more players in this twisted game? No, he would let them drive on, in a seemingly perpetual loop. Here, in his part of the world, time obeyed him and at that thought, he grinned. This could yet work in his favour. He traced his steps back down to the cellar, avoiding the red-tongued staircase leading upward. Even he had no wish to go to that place. Clarence quickened his step, descending into the cool, but barren chamber below ground. The dead boy remained as before, sitting in the lone chair, starkly framed against the freshly scrubbed ceramic glare. It could be his imagination, but Clarence thought he seemed more despondent. He pretended not to notice. ‘Well, boy, where were we?’ He tilted his head, as though listening. ‘Ah yes, that’s right! You were asking for a story.’ Clarence brought a chair – that to all intents and purposes hadn’t existed a moment ago -- over to the corpse. He settled it with a groan of contentment, producing a cigar from one of many pockets. ‘The story you’re wanting is a long one, older than you, older than even myself and that boy – that’s somethin’ in itself, heh – but for the purposes of sagacity, I’ll be brief.’ He lit a match, again produced from one of innumerable pockets. It flared, given the breath for one lingering kiss with the cigar before dying. Smoke curled in the air, rich and heavy. ‘Gotta start with the eldest, of course. They’re always the closest reflection of the parent, after all, no matter how crooked the mirror.’ #1 – Phyllis Phyllis Adam Brooks was dancing. Not intentionally of course; he hopped and pirouetted madly between tottering stacks of books and dangling charms. He had stubbed his foot on a treacherous chair leg, become unbalanced and so begun his whirling efforts to regain his footing. The bell above the door tinkled in merry warning, freezing Phyllis to the spot. Everything hung still, hushed in anticipation – the books shook, charms swayed and he trembled, balanced as he was on one foot. A small, dark haired boy stared at him in what could have been awe but was more likely incredulous amusement. ‘Hello,’ he ventured. Phyllis blinked. Slowly, he grounded his stray leg and was righted once more. He smoothed the twin tufts of hair that remained to him, perching like little grey owls behind his ears. Phyllis wasn’t quite sure what to do; he hadn’t had a customer in decades. His small shop was more akin to a bizarre magpies nest than a proper, modern store and that was the way he liked it, customer or no customer. He wrung his hands. His loose, dry skin shrivelled up with each passing caress, liver spots rolling. ‘Hello, young man. How can I help you?’ Phyllis asked. ‘I’m meant to be doing an assignment for school,’ the boy said, by way of explanation. ‘On maps,’ he added. Phyllis beamed. ‘Well, then you’ve come to the right place, lad, yes indeed. Oho!’ He was all but clapping with glee as he moved forward. ‘The name is Phyllis,’ he assured, shaking the boy’s hand. His hand lingered. After a moment’s pause, he turned away, retreating to the recesses of the room. ‘Uh, my name’s Tim, sir,’ the boy said. He didn’t seem to mind that he was alone for the moment as Phyllis rummaged around in the back. The walls were covered in layers of odd materials, signs and maps in a seemingly haphazard manner. Phyllis finally spotted the large compendium of cartography he was after. He blew the thick layer of dust off its surface, hacking and coughing within the small storm that followed. Fanning the air wildly, he turned to see Tim stumble toward a wall, reaching out a hand to grasp one of the maps. His smooth pale hand trembled upon touching it and he visibly flinched back. Phyllis watched in fascination through a golden curtain of falling dust. It bestowed on Tim a certain holy aura, fitting his now reverential expression. Upon touching the map, the illusion of clutter would have vanished. He was viewing the true shop, its cavernous walls covered in giant maps made from all kinds of animal hide. There was one in particular that dominated the view, inscribed with a multitude of continents and masses of land, far beyond what should be normal. In long, flowery lettering it read: Lyceum. Next to it and indeed all around it, maps of various towns and cities across the Earth were dotted. Phyllis walked forward, so soft and quiet, he barely disturbed the restless dust. ‘I have maps of every country and every world,’ he whispered in Tim’s ear. Tim jumped, a small scream escaping his throat. Phyllis blinked, surprised. ‘Did I scare you?’ he asked, head tilted. His blue eyes were hard, predatory. Tim hesitated, his uncertainty betrayed by flickering eyes. He nodded and swallowed tightly. ‘I made them all, handcrafted from various skins,’ Phyllis said, turning away to hide his growing excitement. This boy was different; he could see what normal humans wouldn’t. He ran a gentle hand along the nearest, a faint smile on his lips. ‘I-I like this one,’ Tim said, pointing to Lyceum. ‘It feels funny though.’ Phyllis stared at the boy, eyes half lidded. He could barely contain himself from snatching Tim right there, but he held himself back. ‘You can see that, can you?’ he asked, just to be certain. He licked at dry, puckered lips. Tim nodded, puzzled. At that, Phyllis finally allowed a smile to stretch his face. He placed the compendium down on a nearby table. ‘Not many people can see the truth,’ he said, walking to the door. He locked it, turning back to face the boy. ‘Such individuals are…unique.’ ‘Why did you lock the door?’ Phyllis breathed in that tremulous fear, welcoming it like a long lost lover. He approached Tim, kneeling so they were face to face. ‘Lyceum is a far off place, lad. A much distant world,’ he said, ignoring the question. ‘And the material this map is made from – ah, it’s a fine thing indeed. It lasts the longest, as you can see, but alas, its usage has long since faded from this realm of men. However, I think you’ll find I’m a traditionalist.’ He grinned, revealing pointed, sharp teeth. ‘I want to go home now,’ Tim said, backing away. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Tim, much too late indeed,’ Phyllis said, calmly herding the boy into the back of the room. ‘I specialise in unique maps, you see.’ Tim stumbled, crashing to the ground behind the counter. ‘I don’t care, just leave me alone!’ His plea went unnoticed. ‘Every little line on your face, every scar and mole,’ Phyllis said, reaching out to run a hand lightly down the boy’s face. ‘Tells a story; your skin is the map of your life. And I am the map maker.’ A silver gleam in his other hand drew Tim’s eye and he screamed as the knife flashed toward him. For one brief instant a golden fire burned in those eyes and Phyllis grunted in surprise, even as the blade rammed home. His arm shook as Tim jerked and twitched beneath him. Had he imagined that flare? Unsettled, Phyllis roughly dragged the body into the back and set to work. #2 - Ivan People often misconstrue the beauty of the blank canvas. They see it as nothing, something merely to support the vision. Ivan knew better though; he gazed into the pristine surface, waiting. He sat on a small crotchety stool, placed before an open double window, staring at the canvas in anticipation. Through the window streamed the noise of the busy metropolis, the chatter, laughter, yelling … the stench of humanity, tinged by the hues of a crimson gold sunset. He let it flow over him and into his cramped apartment undisturbed. He so rarely ventured out anymore, that it was a blessing merely to feel the heat of the sun on his skin. He knew what people said about his absence, heard the whispers that surrounded him; naming him obsessed, eccentric, mad. He didn't care about the jealous slander; art was all he had. His passion, his love was being abused, and he had to fix it. No longer did the visionaries bless the grey world with their presence. The truth, the secret, lay in the blood. He sat for days, merely waiting. Some pictures were harder to coax forth. This one took three days; rough stubble shadowed his delicate features and a haunted look grew in eyes stressed and red from avid search. Exhausted, he smiled suddenly and leaned forward, nub of a pencil in multi-hued fingers and began to draw. It always gave him a rush, the feeling of creating, of power; a brush with divinity that made him ache for more. The first bold stroke, the dark outlining shapes, things previously hidden. He could see it now: a street encrusted in filth. Against a blur of people walking by a road oozing black blood along exposed veins, there existed a miracle of nature—a puddle in a pothole. The dark rainwater pooled, glacial and still, nursing in its centre, a perfect flower. Brilliant red petals fanned outward, a contrast so vivid it seemed to leak into the water, while in the centre a soft gold shone. It was lovely. And yet, something was wrong. His head was pounding, his vision swam and the image flickered. Ivan was confused; this had never happened before. Always his genius would spread unhindered across the canvas. Unnoticed, blood dripped from his nose, falling silently on the floorboards. Instead of the perceived pothole, a very different image was shaping up beneath his hand—a backdrop of mountains, rising spires, trees. He shook his head, trying to clear it; blood splattered onto the canvas. He raised a shaking hand, only now aware of the blood streaming from his nose. His breaths were rapid and short, pupils dilated. He flushed, a wave of heat rising up from the floor to his head. All the while his hands jerked and flashed erratically over the page with a will of their own and a sinister world came to life. He could see the few trees he'd individualized from the forest, sway in a breeze. He felt his body slacken and lean in, drawn closer. His head flew backward and a massive sneeze rocked his body, spraying the art with blood, freeing him from its grasp. His mind was numb with shock, mouth agape in silent terror. But he couldn't stop. The painting had to be finished. Night descended on the outside world and cold stars glared down on the city. The hectic rush of man and machine slowed as lights and nylon signs burst into life. Ivan reached to the side, losing the pencil and acquiring a small, fine brush. He began to gently but firmly apply pressure, smearing his blood into a light haze. The painter in him knew this shouldn't be possible, aware that normally the blood would dry and be difficult to spread. It was as if the laws of reality had been suspended just for the unfolding of this... nightmare. After many hours Ivan stood back, exhausted and still. He felt not the usual triumph, but a hollow emptiness. Never had he created something so powerful, so dark that it tugged at his soul even as he watched. Vaguely, he was aware of a gnawing horror. When one paints a vision, a world, he gives away a part of himself; the art is a reflection of innermost self. But this, Ivan knew, was not one such. It had nothing to do with him. “This is no’ right,” he said aloud. Behind him, a voice answered: “But it is beautiful nonetheless.” Ivan whirled, heart pounding. Standing there was a tall man, richly dressed in black velvet. Swaying on his feet, Ivan could only get an impression: dark sable hair, intense silver eyes, a trim salt and pepper goatee. The man reached out a hand. "And so are you," he finished, gently cupping the surprised artist's chin. Before he could do anything but gape, the man raised an ebony cane and smashed it across Ivan’s face. The force of the blow sent Ivan reeling, spinning him backward and onto the painting. Yet he felt no resistance, and continued to fall. The man watched, impassive, but silently regretful as Ivan began screaming. The painting sucked and tore at him; pulling him in. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped and Ivan was gone. The painting remained, gleaming now with a polished coat. The man stepped forward, stroking the map that had brought him here. He studied the painting for a moment as sounds of music and people drifted in on the ghost of a breeze. “Your blood is your cage. My collection is mine,” he said ritually, as he’d done, for the past hundred years. “And you are the last, the final piece.” # 3 – The Whistler The hiss and crackle of static filled the room. The blue glow of the television illuminated the couch and the bedraggled form of the boy sleeping on it. He shifted slightly, weight pressing down on the remote. Immediately the static vanished, replaced with a current affairs program and the crisp, clear tones of a news reader: ‘Good morning, and welcome to this urgent report. Today, police confirmed that another person has gone missing, the latest in a series of bizarre missing person cases that have left authorities baffled. Simon Green, 16, is only the most recent of what began with the case of little Timothy Roberts…’ Paul Brook awoke. He stared blearily at the screen for a moment, confused, before leaping forward in alarm. “Shit, what time is it?” he muttered. He cast about for his phone, finding it wedged between cushions, and cursed as he discovered he was late for school. He had just begun his senior year at Plenetary High. Constantly late, forever dreamy, he was the prime target of many a teacher’s ire. Not that it had any effect. He ran a hand roughly through his messy hair, hoisted his bag, and left for school with a sigh. The day passed in a blur of shouting faces, mumbled apologies and heart-felt groans. As he walked away from yet another lecture, toward the end of the day, Paul wondered why he even bothered. He was sure that if it weren’t for his friends, he’d have left a long time ago. Well, that and his mother. She had cancer. Every day he had to face her painfully thin figure, and those too bright eyes that gleamed with hope when she saw him. He couldn’t bear to dash that hope, and so everyday continued the charade. Paul shook himself, trying to think of better things. He didn’t want to brood today. The final bell rung and with a clatter and scrape of moving chairs, everyone packed up and left. Paul was slower to his feet, even though normally he’d be the first out the door. He didn’t feel well at all. As he left the school grounds, he was joined by Nick. Immediately the mood changed, and within moments they were laughing and chattering. Nick had that effect on people. Good looking, with dark hair and blue eyes, he was an athletic freak and resident popular kid. They moved within the stream of students heading toward the station; a great migration of exuberant youth. It was Friday and they had every reason to be excited. They had happy, healthy families to rush home and greet. Thinking of this, Paul felt the happiness bleed away from him and saw the same effect occur on Nick’s face. ‘What’s up, mate?’ ‘Nothing, just thinking.’ ‘Ah.’ Nick shifted, uncomfortable. With an effort, he pushed the dark thoughts away and concentrated on being happy. Or what passed for it anyway. After a while, the tension eased and they talked good naturedly of the footy and upcoming assessments. At a cross-road, Paul led his friend away from the rest and headed toward the library. It wasn’t far away, and they had research to do after all. It was a strange, murky day. The type everyone hated. Brooding grey clouds smothered the light, but the heat was still stifling. Speeding motorists steadily chugged out polluting fumes, making them cough and splutter as they crossed the street. Again, silence stretched between them. Up ahead a cluster of buildings huddled together as if afraid. Gradually, they crept closer, looming above the boys. A biting cold wind cut into them, slicing through the meagre protection afforded by their clothes. Big, fat droplets of rain began to fall, smacking into them, at first singly then in torrents. Breathless and drenched, they skidded to a halt in front of the library entrance. The automatic doors slid open. The shadowed interior beckoned. Nick looked back at him. ‘Come on already, I need to go to the toilet.’ ‘And what? You need me to hold your hand?’ Paul snorted but followed him anyway. He needed to go as well. They approached the toilets. There was movement in the upper levels, but nothing distinct. Again, Paul was struck with an odd feeling. Irritable, he pushed open the door and was instantly bathed in harsh UV light. Smooth, gleaming white tiles covered the floor, reflecting the light as waves. Rows of cubicles stretched away. Within one of them, someone was whistling. Despite being the one to bring them here, Nick didn’t go to the toilet. Instead, he approached the mirrors, and stood there adjusting his hair. Paul made a noise of disgust and found himself a cubicle. He relieved himself, listening to the whistler. It was an odd tune, and one Paul felt he ought to remember. At the same time he felt his stomach clench, sickened, as a thick metallic taste flooded his mouth. Somewhere further down, a door creaked open. Despite this, no footsteps could be heard. It was the song that approached – dark and swelling with ugly promise. Everything in Paul screamed at him to run, to hide and cower; trembling, he resisted. It sliced into his gut, penetrating his roiling insides, coiling there, serpentine. He dry heaved, hunched over. It was under his skin, crawling, invading, and probing sharply. It lanced into his eyes. It was, he realized, searching him. Two, glossy dark shoes halted outside his cubicle. Paul felt his heart lurch. Sweat dripped down his face. After a moment, the shoes slid on. Suddenly the pain was gone, and Paul sucked in air gratefully, shaking with relief. He knew he should call out, give warning, scream—But he didn’t, paralysed by fear. He heard a brief scuffle, a muffled shout and the tune swelled, triumphant, and full. He was vaguely aware of opening the door, of rushing to the piles of clothing and empty bag of skin and bones that were all that remained of his best friend. He remembered screams, terrible gut wrenching wails of horror and flashing blue and red lights. Paul was numb to it all. He heard only the song. A comforting blanket was placed about his shoulders and he was led away, a strong authoritarian voice assuring him everything would be okay. He was placed in a police car and driven away. Hours passed. He stared blankly out the window, and only after a long while had passed was he aware of what he stared at. Long swathes of desert greeted his eye. He frowned. ‘Hello?’ he said. Or tried to anyway. All that emerged was a strangled croak. The cop said nothing. Licking his lips he tried again. ‘Hello? Officer?’ Nothing. ‘Sir? Hello? Where are you taking me? Silence was the only answer he received. He began to breathe heavily, panic setting in. ‘Help me!’ he screamed. He thrashed. He pleaded and begged but heard nothing in reply. After a while, the officer began to whistle #4 – Clarence Clarence puffed on the half-finished cigar. ‘At least, that’s how this all began. But then, you’re still not sure why you’re dead, are you Paul? Well, I expect that you can tell me a little bit more about what happened after Drake took you – despite what they say, I ain’t all-knowing, heh.’ Paul looked no more pleased than before, head lolling to the side, skin turning an ugly shade of grey. He didn’t seem all too inclined to talking either, not yet anyway. Clarence withdrew an antique pocket watch from his pants, afire with metallic light. A very loud tick-tocking began to beat at the air with precise thrums. ‘Guess it’s a little early for that, after all,’ he muttered, bushy eyebrows hunching over. ‘Now where was I?’ he said, brightening up considerably. ‘Ah yes, Drake – truly the strangest of my brood, always singing that damn song, you’d think he’d learn a little variety after a thousand years, but he can be a singular son of a bitch and that’s a fact. Singular but not dumb and by taking you, he stuck his foot right in the proverbial hornets nest.’ #5 – The Detective They were in a small room, sitting opposite one another. A nondescript table sat between them. Slight wisps of smoke trailed upward from his fingertips. He couldn’t stop staring at her; she was the most fascinating being he had ever seen. Unusually tall (although you couldn’t tell when she was sitting), with long white-blonde locks of hair framing the most intense silver eyes he’d ever seen, she was nothing if not mesmerizing. She wore a simple, strap free white dress that left her lovely cream shoulders bare. A massive white spear was propped up against the wall behind her. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Instead he puffed heavily on his cigarette. ‘That’ll kill you one day,’ she said. Her voice was rich, deep, smooth. It rolled over him in waves. ‘Plenty of other things will do that, too. 'Least this way I’ve got a say in the matter.’ His voice, rough and grating, jarred in the aftermath of hers. It was an odd moment for the aging detective when he wished briefly for a softer voice. She smiled. ‘So, where exactly are we?’ he asked. It was fairly obvious they were in an interrogation room; it was the location of this room and the matter of how he’d gotten there that concerned him. It was also a question that had been answered before, at the very beginning of this extremely odd dream. He had discounted it then, but now thought better of it. This was merely a fantasy after all; it might be interesting to see where this went. ‘This room is a construction of your mind,’ she said. ‘A reflexive defence against my intrusion into your subconscious.’ ‘I see.’ So, she was a nutcase. It was always best to roll with their madness, he knew. It made them less agitated. Given the nature of the weapon behind her, agitating her was the last thing on his mind. He shifted in his chair. ‘And what are we doing here? What caused your ‘intrusion’ as you put it? I was having a nice dream about the simple but boring life awaiting me after retirement.’ ‘You don’t dream, Detective.’ He frowned, irritated. Dreams really shouldn’t be so self-aware, he thought. ‘And we haven’t the time for verbal sparring,’ she finished, ‘so let’s get straight to the point: you’re about to die.’ He stared at her. No witty response, wry observation or cutting remark came to mind. After forty years in the business, that was most depressing. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he said. His shoulders slumped, cigarette fizzling out in neglect. She said it with such certainty, such conviction, that he couldn't find fault with it. ‘No one does,’ she said softly. They remained like that for a moment; him, slumped in a room of shadows opposite a goddess in white, who stared resolutely into the distance. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked. He didn’t know when this had stopped being a silly fantasy, only that it seemed a certainty now. This was real. In his wildest of imaginings he could never have constructed a woman so perfect, so rigid and strong. His mind shied away from actually identifying what was occurring. He dealt with the mundane, the ordinary… not this. ‘You can stop working on the missing-persons case.’ He stiffened in shock. A thousand thoughts ran through his head and a dozen different emotions shot through him; mostly though, he was disappointed. It was as if for one moment he’d gloried in the knowledge and experience of magic, of other. But it was all a lie. ‘Is that all this is then?’ he shouted. ‘A goddamn scare tactic? Well it won’t work, those people need me.’ ‘Those people are dead and so are you if this continues,’ she said bluntly. ‘It’s bringing you unwanted attention; you have a part to play yet, Detective.’ He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Leave the case? In forty years he had achieved the highest success record in department history, and yet… he had to admit that he was close to despairing with this last one. Several people of varying ages, races, religious and political stances had vanished with no common link between them. There were no clues, no evidence, no cause; it was all too clean. Several newspapers had actually hypothesized alien abduction. He rubbed his temples. And now there was this. A part of him wanted to yell and scream and punch things, while the other was simply too tired. You’re in way over your head, old boy. This was more suited to the up and coming hotshots, he thought wearily. ‘And what’s your part in all this, then?’ ‘I hunt the hunters.’ ‘Oh really? I hadn’t noticed, what with the seven dead people and all.’ A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. ‘I am doing my best, but the scales are tipped in their favour. As for the dead; they have fulfilled their destiny and that of this world.’ He felt a spasm of anger tear through him, and for a moment he struggled to restrain it. ‘And you can’t help me?’ She shook her head. ‘I remain too far a field to affect matters directly yet; all you need do is lie low—make no mistake, there are forces far more powerful than you and I at play, both supernatural and human. You cannot win this battle!’ She was standing now, arms resting on the table as she stared fiercely at him. ‘Let me show you their power,’ she hissed. Before he could react, the room shifted and pulsed, and suddenly he was gulping in terror as a frightening old man slit his throat. He watched helpless as he was dragged to the back of a room and wailed silently as his eyelids were cut away; skin and bone cut apart and harvested in some obscene ritual. He listened in rapt fascination to a haunting melody that ripped through flesh, bone and spirit and numbly succumbed to a ravenous painting. They are coming for you. Just as the vision was about to shift again, he screamed, ‘Stop!’ He was shivering. Sweat coursed down his body over trembling lips and muscles. ‘This is what we face, and it is just the beginning.’ There was a mountain of grief in those silver eyes, a piercing eloquence that went beyond words. ‘What do they want?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘The Apocalypse; they prepare the way to the End of Days.’ And with that, she vanished.

Jiggity

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Fri Jan 02, 2009 7:40 am

Jiggity says... · Fri Jan 02, 2009 7:40 am

Jabs >> Awesome! I'm glad I creeped you out. It's what I do. I shall get on those little things.

Gryphon >> I appreciate the sentiments ^_^

I definitely want this to work as a comic, and I know somethings would have to change but I think that I'd like to break new grounds, you know, in the medium so I wouldn't be looking to completely conform to conventional structures. I'd need an artist with a similar frame of mind too. XD

Thanks all, for the comments.

Cheers

Mah name is jiggleh. And I like to jiggle.

"Indecision and terror, thy name is novel." - Chiko

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Kylan

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Fri Jan 02, 2009 5:12 pm

Kylan says... · Fri Jan 02, 2009 5:12 pm

Jiggity -

Fantastic! Much more rich and smoothly delivered than part one. I enjoyed this immensely. Sometimes, you just gotta strain to get good things, I guess, right? Everything was just really well executed. Everything from the descriptions to the dialogue. I loved the dark humor you wove into the blood and gore of the whole situation. Love the golem.

Really, I don't much of a critique. I think that Phyllis's power or whatever was a little vague, but that's forgivable seeing as this is only part two in an epic novel. I really like how you chose a seeming antagonist as your main character, but I do wonder when you're going to introduce your protagonist. I expect it should be soon, otherwise, we as the readers will sympathize more with Phyllis than whoever you choose to be the good guy. We may do that anyway, if you don't manage to make your main protagonist strong and likable and unique. But, no pressure, right? All I have to say about that is: do you utmost to make your protagonist unique, well thought out, and tough. I don't want none of this mamby-pamby stuff that I saw in Tim and your other teenagers.

Or. Is Phyllis the protagonist? ...I don't see it.

‘Yes, yes and if you gift it to me I will owe you!’

I dunno. 'I will owe you' seems so childish to say. Like something a bunch of gradeschoolers would say to each other, you know? Make that line a little more classy, I think. Like, "I'll be indebted to you" or something.

Anyway, great, great job. Deliciously dark.

-Kylan

"I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy."

- Serenade, Adélia Prado

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Jiggity

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Sat Jan 03, 2009 12:04 am

Jiggity says... · Sat Jan 03, 2009 12:04 am

Yo, Ky! Thanks for the comments. I don't really have a single protagonist and I don't believe so much in good and evil - I very much enjoy twisting the reader's sentiments as regards people and acts they should hate, XD. Moral ambiguity in the win. It's just not so clear at the moment.

Although if I had to pick one of the clear-cut "good" guys, I'd say I've already shown him to you. XD

Anyways, thanks for the review.

Cheers

Mah name is jiggleh. And I like to jiggle.

"Indecision and terror, thy name is novel." - Chiko

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Sat Jan 03, 2009 4:29 pm

Jiggity says... · Sat Jan 03, 2009 4:29 pm

#7 - Simon

Simon Green was in hell.

No, he corrected himself, this was far worse. He stumbled, exhaustion dragging at his limbs, struggling to see through eyes swollen and bruised. His tongue was a fat tombstone in the cemetery of his mind. Dark streets crowded him, streetlights glaring with disapproval. Simon wasn’t sure how much longer he had, but he knew they would come again. They always did. His breathing scraped against his ears, harsh and loud as he staggered into a nearby alleyway. Trembling hands groped for the wall, found it and with a grateful gasp, he slumped down against it.

It was a familiar position these days and he curled up, almost expecting the kicks and punches to rain down. The last session had been particularly bad. He shivered in the cold, lips tinged blue, waiting for the inevitable. It came sooner than expected.

‘Is he dead?’ the familiar, querulous voice asked.

‘Naw, kids these days, they never do a job right,’ the speaker, male this time, hawked and spat.

And with those words, Simon Green’s ordeal began all over again. He cracked open eyelids almost crusted over with blood. Two, seamed potato-shaped heads squinted down at him. The Ferguson’s; how he hated them.

‘Still that was some nice work you did back there, Martha,’ Mr. Ferguson said to her.

‘Come now,’ she said, coquettish. ‘It wasn’t all that much. Those Latino’s were primed and ready for it anyhow, all bundles of nerves and anger and hate.’

‘No, I mean it. Planting the suggestion that he’d raped one of their sisters – heck, I couldn’t have done it better myself.’

From the way he said it, this clearly meant something. They stared adoringly into one another’s eyes. Simon chose that moment to spasm, hacking and coughing until red spittle flecked his lips. The Ferguson’s stared down at him, disgust and anger warring for dominance on their faces.

‘Hell, but he’s right,’ Mr. Ferguson said, shaking his head. ‘Here we are patting ourselves on the back like a pair of old biddies, and we didn’t even get the job done. Not proper anyhow. Unless -’

‘Nope, I didn’t see nothin’. You?’

‘Damn.’

Simon scrabbled away at the ground as Mr. Ferguson knelt down, a frantic whine building in his throat. Mr. Ferguson shushed him gently, cooing as to a scared animal. His long brow ranger’s hat cast darkness on his features. ‘I ain’t going to hurt ya boy, you should know better ‘an that by now.’ His hackneyed cowboy bullshit wasn’t fooling him. Every time he awoke, they were in a different costume, another disguise. Always forgettable, forever changing, they said, was the secret to their success. They seemed to be enjoying this particular one, though. It had been present for the last three occasions.

‘You can end this torment,’ he continued, repeating the same tired speech. ‘All you gotta do is Ascend.’

‘We know you got the talent,’ Martha said from within her bundle of coats, her pruned face peeking out. ‘We got a nose for these things,’ she added, tapping hers.

The world spun for a moment, as a thousand Ferguson’s asked him a million questions and the buildings menaced him from above, brute thugs. Simon struggled just to keep breathing. Of course, he had no idea what the maniacs were babbling about and had told them so frequently. It was no use and he couldn’t afford to waste precious breath on it anymore. He lay silent, limp and cold, willing himself to die. Mr. Ferguson looked back at his wife and they shared a glance. Simon watched him suck at his lips in irritation, only to purse them; fresh caught fish that gleamed.

‘Way we figure it, on account of the whassit called –‘

‘— the superhuman syndrome,’ Martha supplied.

‘—thank you, dear, that’s right, theirs them that say when threatened some creatures go berserk, finding reserves of power they didn’t even know they had. The human being is one such. You are one such. And by God’s bloody hand, we will have it from you.’ Mr. Ferguson spat to one side, a satisfying punctuation. Simon didn’t respond, only stared at the man with a resigned expression.

‘Oh, that’s enough already. Stop pestering the boy, it’s freezing out! We’ve stayed too long as it is,’ Martha said, striding forward. Her descending glove was the last thing Simon saw as pain lanced into him.

The crackle of flames woke him. Simon blinked, the burning logs seeming too fuzzy to be real. He didn’t question it, choosing instead to revel in warmth long forgotten. In the background an old radio croaked out a dusty Johnny Cash song. The words floated about his head, rhythmic nonsense that slowly, slowly began to take on meaning.

You can run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time, run on for a long time,
Sooner or later God’s gonna cut you down
Sooner or later God’s gonna cut you down.

The fireplace sharpened into focus, hissing in anger. His head twitched back, and he blinked rapidly in surprise. The expected backlash of pain didn’t occur and that confused him even further. Carefully, Simon eased up onto his forearms. He was in a horribly familiar motel room, seedy and cheap as always, aside from the comforts they decided to add. Simon shuffled away from the fireplace, staring at it suspiciously.

‘Nastier things than flames out there,’ Mr. Ferguson said, from behind him.

Simon jumped – a distant part of him luxuriating in the freedom from pain – even as he winced reflexively. The old man – not so old as he remembered, Simon noted – was sitting in one of two armchairs resting a few feet away. His body was big, buff and red-grey at the head and moustache. A half-empty bottle of rum sloshed in his grip.

‘Took us a while to learn that, heh, but learn it we did,’ he continued. ‘Yessir, you ask me we were better off before the light. We took comfort in the darkness, afore the flames and then we saw what crawled within the shadows and we knew real fear. Far better for the harmless fears of your imagination than to understand the reality, far greater –‘

‘Mr. Ferguson!' Martha came charging into the room, flower bedecked apron tied tight around her bulk. She came to a rest before him, arms crossed. 'Have you been drinking again?!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You put that bottle away right this instance. Where have your manners gone? Dinner hasn’t even been served!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Sighing heavily, he shifted his considerable mass and walked over to the nearby cabinet. He replaced the bottle and returned to his seat, plopping down with an oomph and silly grin. Simon stared at the sickening parody of normal life in a mixture of horror and surprise. It was certainly the longest speech he’d heard from Mr. Ferguson at any given point.

‘I’m sorry, dear, when will dinner be ready?’ Mr. Ferguson asked, looking up at his wife.

Martha’s stance softened. ‘Not for some twenty minutes yet and don’t you go pestering me about it.’ She took a seat in the chair beside him, only now glancing at Simon.

‘And how are you, Simon?’ she asked, kindly features scrunched up. Her usually severe bun of hair had been let loose and it flowed around her. Their eyes burned, embers reflecting the flames.

He gawked at her, mind refusing the simple nature of the question. ‘Uh…Better. Thanks.’ Simon cursed himself as soon as he said it – he’d actually thanked her. He shook his head, trying to shake the spell off. She was up to something, he was certain. Mr. Ferguson evidently thought the same; he turned and stared at her.

‘Woman, what did you do to your head?’ he said, baffled.

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. ‘Trying something different, dear,’ she said, voice sweetly dangerous.

‘Well, stop it. You’re creeping me out,’ he said.

‘Damn it, you bull-headed old fool! Can’t you see I was trying to be nice to him?’ Voicing her disgust, she turned away, even as her appearance shifted back to normal.

Mr. Ferguson blinked, turned and stared at Simon. His eyes widened in awareness and he cackled. The sound was so unexpected, like an explosion of ravens in flight, that it shocked Simon and Martha both.

‘You thought you could mollycoddle him into Ascension? Aheh-heh, oh my, oh that’s rich.’ He coughed and shook and rumbled his amusement. A dark, ugly look descended on her face.

‘And why’s that?’ she said. She held herself completely still and Simon found himself mimicking her actions, barely daring to breathe. Something of her mood seemed to touch on Mr. Ferguson.

‘Whoa now, settle down girl. All I mean to say is, they’re soldiers, here to kill us all. Being nice to ‘em ain’t going to do us any good.’

‘That a fact? It certainly won’t do us any harm! And we both know they pose us no danger.’

He shot her a look. ‘Don’t be so sure. You feel this night? You know what’s happening, this convergence –‘

‘Bite your tongue!’

‘Well, its gotta be said. Things aren’t going to happen like anyone expects. We’re in for a rough ride and this punk is our ticket out of it all.’ They turned and stared at Simon, who was busying himself trying to meld into the floor.

‘Sides, I think its far too late trying to be nice to him. He’s near rabid as it is.’

Silence, but for the spit of burning logs and the rumbling song. ‘What if he’s not just a soldier?’ Martha asked, abruptly.

Mr. Ferguson cocked his head at that and Simon fancied that he could see the wheels of thought behind those eyes, spinning in new directions. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘What if he’s Aspected? And what we’re doing – which is right in itself – isn’t working because it goes against he’s very nature!’ She seemed suddenly excited, leaning forward, an avid light in her eyes. Mr. Ferguson wasn’t convinced.

‘You think this lowly worm is Aspected? Ridiculous, of course, its too soon for that…,’ he stopped, turned and stared at Martha. Mirror smiles dawned on their faces. ‘By God, darling, I think you’re right.’

‘Well, someone around here’s got to have the brains,’ she said, insufferably pleased with herself. They continued to talk, exclaiming over the new possibilities, the potentials, but Simon wasn’t listening anymore. He felt so weak, so helpless, mired in an unending nightmare and silenced by the weight of past torture. They didn’t even need to hurt him now, he reacted to every order instantly. The true spark within him, the real Simon, he buried deeper and deeper with each passing day, a seed he hoped would emerge untarnished. He wrapped his arms around his chest, shivering despite the flames. Some of what they had said this day tugged at that seed, demanded he respond.

‘You better hope you’re wrong,’ he said, aloud.

Sudden silence.

‘What was that, boy?’

Horrified, he realised he’d spoken aloud. He was so cold, the encroaching ice laying a film across his mind, numbing him.

‘You better hope you’re wrong and I don’t become more, I don’t become greater, better, whatever,’ he repeated, staring straight into Mr. Ferguson’s eyes. ‘I will have vengeance that day.’

Mr. Ferguson leaned forward, and whispered. ‘I’m countin’ on it.’

Simon didn’t respond, turning away. He didn’t want the man to see how much that affected him. In the distance, a timer pinged.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ Martha said.

**

Did I overdo their relationship? XD

Last edited by Jiggity on Sun Jan 04, 2009 9:26 am, edited 3 times in total.

Mah name is jiggleh. And I like to jiggle.

"Indecision and terror, thy name is novel." - Chiko

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Sat Jan 03, 2009 5:06 pm

Angel of Death says... · Sat Jan 03, 2009 5:06 pm

Hey Jiggy!

No, he corrected himself, this is far worse.

I think the is should be was.

Dark streets crowded him, streetlights glaring with disapproval.

Don't like the way this sentence is worded. Try: The dark streets crowded him and the streetlights glared at him with disapproval.

Overall, a very good first paragraph. There was good description, and I could picture everything that was going on.

Simon scrabbled away at the ground as Mr. Ferguson kneeled down, a frantic whine building in his throat.

kneeled should be knelt.

The words floated about his head, rhythmic nonsense that slowly slowly began to take on meaning.

nix.

Did I overdo their relationship?

Wow! The Fergusons are an eccentric couple, I'll give you that, but I liked them though they just creeped me out a bit, which is good cuz it takes a lot to make me scared. They need to be a little more rounded, is all, and you'll be good. So hopefully there's more of them as the story progresses.

Overall Thoughts

As always, a very good read. You don't disappoint every time you add on a segment to this. It's entertaining and different, and I can't guess what's going to happen next, which is brilliant because I hate when people write things that are too predictable.

Your descriptions were good and I like how the setting changes. Sometimes that factor can be hard to draw into a story, but you transition everything well. Can't wait for the next part!

Keep writing,

~Angel

True love, in all it’s celestial charm, and
star-crossed ways, only exist in a writer’s
mind, for humans have not yet learned
how to manifest it.

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Sat Jan 03, 2009 11:09 pm

JabberHut says... · Sat Jan 03, 2009 11:09 pm

Hey, Jigs! =D

Mkay, I found this one weaker than the others. ^^

First off, there are silly typos and grammar mistakes that you can easily fix after reading through it yourself. I didn't take the time to do it because they were so silly, you might have considered suicide, and I didn't want that to happen. xD So! Yes, a quick read through will take care of those. ^_^

Second, it was confusing altogether. The others, you kind of eased the reader into the part. Here, we jumped right into beatings and Furgesons, and I was a little lost. By the way end, I kinda started understanding things. I'd say what I think, but I'm still unsure about it. I think the grammar check itself will help the confusion this section poses. Again, a nice, firm edit will do the trick. ^^

Their relationship was done pretty well. Their characters were a little rocky in that I felt there were personality changes, but when I think about it now, I don't think there were any. *had to stop in the middle of reading -_-* We may have overdone it a tad, though. xD I felt we were dwelling on that more than the actual plot, and we may be. I'm not sure if we're going for a novella length of novel length comic.

Those are my overall thoughts. Hope I helped some. ^_^ Just a read through and edit will fix things up for you here. You will laugh when you see some of those typos just because they're not Jiggity typos. xD

Keep writing! =D

Jabber, the One and Only!

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Sun Jan 04, 2009 2:36 am

Jiggity says... · Sun Jan 04, 2009 2:36 am

Psh, there were only three that I found. Hardly suicidal-inducing XD considering I wrote it at 3AM.

Thank you both for reading! It is weaker than the others and truly, I didn't mean to spend so much time on the Ferguson's. They're just so interesting...kinda dominated when they weren't meant to. But this isn't just a random character - Simon, that is - I mentioned him in #4, if you remember.

I'm also keeping the plot in mind, I actually thought I was a little less subtle in this piece and it worried me that I was being so obvious XD. Apparently y'all don't think the same?

:p

Thanks again!
*hugs*

Mah name is jiggleh. And I like to jiggle.

"Indecision and terror, thy name is novel." - Chiko

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Sun Jan 04, 2009 9:30 am

Jiggity says... · Sun Jan 04, 2009 9:30 am

A/N: I changed #7 somewhat. Take note, please ^_^

#8 - Ivan

Ivan woke to the sound of chattering birdsong. It was a pleasant sound and the light falling on his face was neither harsh nor weak. It felt comforting. He was floating in a sea in his mind, weightless, free of memory and pain. He didn’t want to leave it, but with awareness of the condition, came sensation; sticks and stones jutted into his back. Ivan groaned, shifting to dislodge them. He opened eyes onto a maroon sky. His arms were splayed on either side, wide out from his body. Ivan retracted them, measuring the simple movement with pleasure. Who’d have thought you could miss actual physicality? The density of muscle and skin, the rushing torrent of blood flowing through veins, animating the body; these were things one took for granted.

Ivan breathed in deep, following the air inward, expanding his lungs. He felt alive, nay, electrified – as though every nerve within was on fire. He regarded the maroon sky, its deep shade of red both familiar and alien. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him. He doubted anything would, after what he’d been through. Painful didn’t even begin to encompass the experience. His being, the very fabric of his soul had literally torn apart, ripped to shreds by a million clawing hands. His consciousness remained, a spark that refused to dissipate, a weight that would not be denied and slowly, his body reformed, threaded with strange new strands.

This place was his.

Ivan got to his feet, surveying the pine forest. He reached out a hand and caressed the nearest, wonder lighting his expression. The bark was rough and tough beneath his palm, real. A light breeze brushed passed, leaving a wave of goosebumps in its wake. He was, Ivan realised with bemusement, quite naked. It seemed fitting. This wasn’t meant to be, he knew. That man, in his apartment, had meant him more than simple harm. The savage violence so casually given, the surge of alien power and the final, easy dismissal indicated that the matter was settled in the most final manner. Except something had gone wrong, and it hadn’t worked out so simply. An empty shell, discarded and consumed, floated in the ether until something sparked within and without; a hand had guided him, he remembered, and showed him the way. Now he strode within a world of his own fashioning. Ivan had always been a God, composing worlds or fragments of such, but never able to dictate further. Once completed, the world remained out of his reach and he would never alter it.

Had it been the same for Earth? Was God even now raging at his own helplessness, transfixed in horror as his creation crumbled and burned from within?

Ivan shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the thought. It was enough that he strode this place, reborn and renewed. He would make something of this, he decided, feeling a little giddy. A whole world to explore; he was a traveller within his own soul and who knew what he might find herein? A strange smile flitted across his face as he began to walk through the woods.

In the distance, forbidding temples towered against a backdrop of mountains.

Mah name is jiggleh. And I like to jiggle.

"Indecision and terror, thy name is novel." - Chiko

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Angel of Death

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Sun Jan 04, 2009 1:59 pm

Angel of Death says... · Sun Jan 04, 2009 1:59 pm

Hey Jiggy!

A light breeze brushed passed, leaving a wave of goosebumps in its wake.

In the distance, forbidding temples towered against a backdrop of mountains.

What a way to leave us hanging.

Overall Thoughts

It was written well, but it was too short for me. I was getting into it and then that dreaded line comes around. Well, you didn't lose my interest, though there wasn't much happening in this part but I guess I'll have to be patient.

Keep Writing,

~Angel

True love, in all it’s celestial charm, and
star-crossed ways, only exist in a writer’s
mind, for humans have not yet learned
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Sun Jan 04, 2009 2:26 pm

Jiggity says... · Sun Jan 04, 2009 2:26 pm

Angel! *snugs*

Thanks for keeping with this. Yeah it was short, but so is my attention span, rather obviously XD, but the only point I wanted to make with this was that he's still alive and will play a part in the events to come.

And I'm really just after getting the bare bones of each bit down you know? I can pad it out a bit later.

Thanks again!

Cheers

Mah name is jiggleh. And I like to jiggle.

"Indecision and terror, thy name is novel." - Chiko

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Thu Feb 05, 2009 1:57 am

Jiggity says... · Thu Feb 05, 2009 1:57 am

# 9 – Detective Aaron

~as ever, somewhat rushed out, apologies for dip in quality. just getting desperate to get the story out now ~

Aaron struggled to rein in his anger. His temple throbbed with the effort, knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. His whole life seemed to be unravellingl, ever since that damn dream. Scratch that, ever since this whole ridiculous charade of an investigation had begun. More and more people were vanishing with each passing day with mounting public and media criticism turning on the ‘inept’ police force. Someone would have to be crucified for this and it seemed it would be him. Aaron tore at his tie with one hand, steering savagely with the other.

The sudden parade of federal suits in the office and the way Jim, his friend and colleague of thirty years couldn’t look him in the way, told him enough. The investigation was being hijacked and he was being hung out to dry. Fuckers. As if he hadn’t done enough. This parade of disappearances went beyond normal means of detection and with the media circus constantly distorting facts and exaggerating cases, the ability to distinguish between real cases and the delusional paranoia of every crack pot and mystic drug addict – suddenly validated, they claim, of all things – was fast fading. He eased up on the gas, as the light ahead changed from green to orange and red.

Aaron rubbed at his weary eyes. It had been a week since he’d had the dream; that woman haunted him yet. When he closed his eyes, her white perfection glared at him and he remembered that succession of terror – an old man cutting at him with terrible rage, a haunting melody consumed him even as a malicious painting sucked and tore at him. As the days passed, he took to re-examining those feelings and images in a morbid quest for information. While being dragged away, he’d felt small and helpless – indicated as well by the ease with which the old man carried him; a child’s body and helplessness blurring the maps on the wall. It wasn’t easy, reliving those moments and that terror but it was necessary. The melody echoed, he remembered, but that was too little to go on. He was able to glean a location from the last, however; the Eiffel tower was the last thing he’d seen. These were his primary targets but only one was within his reach.

The child, he suspected, was the very first victim, Timothy Roberts. If he recalled correctly, the boy vanished on an after-school walk home. His information was sketchy on the boy as it was sometime before the issue became national and a taskforce headed by him was put together. The Missing Persons Unit had taken care of the first few issues. Given the go ahead once more, he continued driving and eventually, pulled up at his destination. Cherrybloom Elementary was a small, quiet public school. Its facilities seemed relatively new, surrounded by verdant greenery. Small children were running about, shrieking, laughing, and crying. As if he didn’t feel old enough, he scowled. His short-cropped white hair gleamed in the sun, highlighting the crags and lines in his face.

He walked forward slowly, besieged by memories. The high battlements of his brow showed nothing of the internal battle; these stones had weathered the storm before and would do so again. Sweat beaded his brow as he made his way into the front office. A plump office lady, all bulging fat within her severe sweater, stared out from behind a decomposing mask of poorly applied makeup. Luckily, he’d seen worse and managed to stare her right in the eyes. Discomfited, she shifted beneath his stern gaze.

‘Detective Aaron Grave,’ he said, flashing his identification. ‘I’m here investigating the death of
Timothy Roberts, aged 10 at the time of his disappearance.’

She rocked back, visibly startled. ‘Death? From a student here? How awful.’

She immediately began typing into the computer before her, click-clacking in a thunderous monotony. Her eyes kept flickering up to his, and back to the screen. The fleshy tip of her fat pink tongue peeked out, at the edge of her lips. She was, he thought, a rather unpleasant woman and incompetent to boot. The minutes dragged on and as they did, a creeping suspicion dawned on him. It was his turn to glance from the computer screen to her face. Just what was she doing? And for that matter, just how was it that she didn’t know of a murder that had received more press coverage than the presidential election? He began to feel the familiar itch, just on the back of his neck, the one that warned him something was amiss. It had kept him alive in more than one nasty case.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t find - ’ she began, but got no further.

‘The apology is mine, I’m afraid I must’ve been mistaken,’ he interrupted, turning on his heel and hurrying out. The sun beat down on him and curiously, the fields around the building were empty, bereft of the children that had so populated it moments before. He approached his ragged-looking Volkswagen, unlocking the door as he approached. His ears pricked up as he did so, hearing the screech of tires against the tarmac. At the end of the street a sleek black car revved into view speeding down toward the school. He jumped into the car, starting the ignition immediately. The car came to a swift stop, almost directly opposite him, and two suited men briskly approached the administration building.

Aaron couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. It was something straight from the scene of a movie. His lip curled; it was just the kind of movie he hated too. Calmly, he pulled out of his parking spot and drove away. As he did so, his phone shrilled loudly. He swore, jumped and swerved in surprise. Horns blared from other commuters as he reined the car back, and fished for the offending device. He flipped it open.

‘Chief?’

The voice at the other end didn’t bother with pleasantries. As he listened, the colour slowly drained from his face and there wasn’t much to begin with. He became even greyer, sullen-toned and grim as Death himself. Occasionally, he mustered the brief protest, ‘Me? They can’t…But I’m…’ and so on. He felt like a child, belittled by his father and after a moment, he realised how irrational that was. Familiar rage flared within his breath. ‘Fine, you want me off the case? You and this whole cockamamie fucking investigation can go to hell.’

He hung up, looking up into the mirror in time to see the feds pull up behind him. He smiled.

The hunt was on. So be it.

Mah name is jiggleh. And I like to jiggle.

"Indecision and terror, thy name is novel." - Chiko

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