The Average Ignorant

8/14/2019 The Average Ignorant

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The Average IgnorantBy Yevghenny Bolgakov Rakmenanov


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Contents

Pink..............................................................................................page 4

The House of Groan...................................................................page 14

The Secret..................................................................................page 30

The Master and the Apprentice..................................................page 38A New Dawn.............................................................................page 52


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It was kind of crunchy.

Lonnie Stiffler


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Pink

It was a pleasure to read.

To think and talk and write. The smell of the ink, and the hard feel of

the pen as it cut into the paper.

fingerprints. He looked down and the words spun through his head.

People, places, names, love. Just looking at the paper was gloriouswithout even reading. The words formed an abstract painting on an

imperfectly perfect canvas with faded brown blotches on the faded

white paper. Even the paper itself smelt, and as it bristled quietly

between his fingers small specks of it were sent flying across the table.

But he had an appointment. He sniffed in the smell of the paper, ink,

and oaky wood of the table one last time, then picked up the paper,

slipped it carefully into his bag and stepped outside. He left early, early

enough so that he could walk slowly and take his time, breathing in the

world with each step. The sun was shining brightly in the sky, and it

watched over the world like the heroes of old. The blue sky caressed itgently like a muted medusa, and the green trees and glass all smelt

sweet and swayed gently in the wind.

He listened to his soft steps felling the grass with wet, gentle

crunches, and in the distance a far off bird crowed, and all around him

he could hear invisible creatures scurrying about much more gracefully

than he.

Then in the distance he saw her. She wore crass bright colours that

made the sun seem dark, and she moved quickly through the grass,

leaving behind her a trail of destruction, yet somehow doing it so

gracefully that her hair managed to stay settled on her shoulders,unmoved by the horrible things that she was doing.

He was curious. Of course he was curious. Crass and tasteless she

may be, yet unless illustrated by an artist, he had learnt not to judge a

book by its cover, so he bounded after her carefully, trying not to crush

too much grass. As he got closer, he followed in her footsteps, but


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slowly his lungs found it harder and harder to breath in air, and he had

to stop.

Excuse me, he said, but she did not stop. Excuse me! he shouted.

She stopped and he swallowed as she turned around. She smiled at

him with red lips, and walked towards him with just as much grace as

she had when she ran, while he stood with sweat running down hisface, and panted like a dog.

Yes? she asked.

He said nothing as she smiled at him. He had nothing to say. He

thought quickly and he thought hard, and he pored over the words that

composed his mind, yet none of them seemed to be appropriate. None

of them.

What did you want? she asked again, still smiling. Are you okay?

I am fine, he said, as she commanded him to. Thank you.

Its just that youre covered in sweat and panting, so she trailed

off, and he waited for her to finish, but she did not.So? he asked.

So, she said. Just so. You know?

No, he said. I do not know, because you did not finish your

sentence.

Yes I did, she nodded.

Well, he said as the sweat on his forehead began to grow cold, and

collected in the lines like crevasses in ice. I am sweaty and panting

because I was running after you.

Why did you do that? she asked.

I dont know, he said, and wiped his forehead with shame.She smiled. She never stopped smiling, and she made him feel stupid

and small.

Well, I was running over there, she said as she pointed to the town.

You can run with me if you like.

No, he said quickly. I was on my way somewhere.

Then why did you run after me? she laughed, and he sighed as he

did not know the answer. It was nice meeting you, she said. Then she

looked at him as if waiting for something. Well then, she said

finally. See you later.

Wait, he said quickly, then bit his lip with regret as she began toturn around.

What? she asked impatiently, her smile gone. Youre starting to

annoy me.

Im sorry, he said. I just wanted to know what your name was.

Charlotte, she replied. Charlotte Blake.

Im George, he said. George Michael.


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She laughed.

Whats so funny? he asked.

Your name, she grinned mercilessly, and he swallowed again.

There used to be a singer called George Michael.

Opera? he asked. Choral? I have not heard of him.

She laughed again. He swallowed again.No, a pop singer.

Apop singer? he asked.

Does that upset you? she smiled.

I dont know, he said. It did.

Why not? she asked.

He said nothing.

Well, she grinned. I will see you later, George Michael.

And she turned around, and before she ran she sung. Her voice was

high pitched and harsh, and settled in his ears like maggots. But he

stood and watched and listened as she ran through the grass until hecould see and hear her no longer.

Finally he turned, the maggots still squirming in his ears, and walked

uneasily back the way hed come, in the same foot steps, and at the

same pace. He reached into his pocket and took out his watch. The

hands pointed to a quarter passed five. He stopped and looked down at

it to make sure that he had seen it right. He slipped it back into his

pocket and continued on. He did not walk faster, because it was too

late. He wasnt fashionably late anymore, he was just late, and he felt

too strangetoo weak to think. He swallowed. Too weak to think.

When he saw his house he didnt smile. Its dilapidated grey stonewall didnt provide him with the homely comfort it should have. He

looked at it for another second. The cracks between the stones bothered

him now. The grey mortar looked too grey, and the stones too chipped.

He stepped inside and breathed in the familiar smell of paper dust. It

made his eyes water, and filled his lungs with phlegm.

He would find what he was looking for in his househis sanctum;

his home. But what did he want? He paused as he listened for the

familiar scratching of pen and paper, but he heard nothing. What did

he want? he asked himself out loud. He didnt know, and he decided

that he wouldnt find it here. He glanced up at his library. The words onthe spines of his books looked at him mockingly. They looked at him as

if he was a child and they were a teacheryet they were a teacher that

refused to teach and instead they turned up their noses at him, and

scoffed at his ignorance, for somebody who knew nothing, did not

deserve to know anything.


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He swallowed and turned away from them, with their abstract

paintings on their spines, and their cold hard covers. He headed into the

hallway. What had happened to him? All the words, all the paintings,

all the pictures, all the essays, everything that he had thought was real

had been cast aside and destroyed like a first draft. Something had over

taken him. It was a desire for something, but he couldnt work out whatit was hecouldnt work out why, and he took one last spiteful glance

at the books cold spines, and he thought with a scared shudder, that

they did not hold the answer.

He stopped. If he had been carrying anything he would have dropped

it. Then he moved immediately, yet his frightened jerk moved to a

slow, frantic step, as he fell to his knees. His wife lay in a red bath, her

skin white and pale, and her body thin and frail.

What are you doing? he asked stupidly as she looked up at him.

Words, people, places rushed through his head, death, blood, pain,

Judas, Jesus, Jerusalem, hell, lovehe stopped as she smiled. Love?Its okay, she said reassuringly. I just wanted toI just wanted to

see what it was to bleed like a pen. She raised up her bloodied wrists,

and he shuddered at the sight of the dark red wounds that were darker

than space, and looked colder and deeper than a black hole. Its not as

good as Id expected it to be.

Ill be back, he said as he ran for the cabinet-mirror. He ripped it

open with such force that it almost was torn from its hinges.

He pulled out bandages and rushed back over to her. She raised her

wrists up obediently as he wrapped them up with the bandages and

turned them red as they absorbed blood, water and death. As his handswere covered in blood he looked down at them and swallowed. He felt

sick, but not from the sight of the blood.Love. He didnt love her. He

pulled her out of the bath gently, and bloody water slid down her body

like a water fall, and was absorbed by his shirt like a sickly oil. He led

her across the room, and they left behind them a trail of red water that

quickly collected a layer of dust as if it was snowing.

He laid her down carefully on the bed, and she looked up at the

ceiling as she shivered. He covered her up with blanket after blanket,

then ran his fingers through her wet hair as she smiled.

Im going to get a doctor, he said.I dont need one, she said and turned back to the ceiling.

Do you want me to stay with you?

No. Her reply was quick and fast, and it cut him in his stomach like

a dagger.

Then Ill be back soon, he said as he let her hair fall through his

fingers like sand.


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He ran from the room and out into the town. He wanted to get away

from the househe wanted to get away from her. He swallowed. When

he saw herwhen he saw her cold, bony body, he had wished that she

was already deadhe had wishedhe had wishedbut he wasnt sure

why. He didnt have time to stophe didnt have time to think. He

could only runrun when everybody else walkedthrough the slow,dusty streets, down laneways and over bridges, until finallyfinally

the doctors house.

He was panting as he pushed the door open, and the nurse looked up

at him with a smile. She had pale red lips, and her clean face seemed to

sparkle with sweat. She licked her lips, so that they shone more

brightly, and then spoke: How can I help you? she asked, her voice

soft and short.

My wife has slit her wrists, he panted, his voice heavy and fast,

almost drowned out by his own desperate breaths. Ive bandaged

them, but she looks very weak, and shes tired and cold.Wait here, she said as she stood up and revealed the rest of her

boring brown dress that snaked down to the floor with frilly edges like

a curtain.

She disappeared behind a big, heavy wooden door. He waited, and he

cursed her angrily, he cursed the boring woman that was more beautiful

than his wife, that he hated more than his wifehatedhe stopped

Hated? he whispered; hated his wife? No! He cursed the boring

woman even more loudly: she had given him time to think.

The door opened and he sighed with relief. A man with small round

glasses, and thick white hair that flowed from his nostrils like violentwaters, stepped out into the waiting room.

Well? he asked gruffly. Lead the way.

Can you run? he asked.

The need is dire, the doctor replied. I can run.

He led him out of the room and thanked him silently. They ran

without stop, foot after foot, step after step, with no chance to think.

But when they stepped into the house they slowed, their chests

heaving up and down painfully, and the dust collecting on their sweat

like frost. They headed into the bedroom and Michael almost expected

to see her lying in the bed motionless and still. But instead she sat upslowly, her white arms shaking under the strain. As she smiled she

looked like an old woman. Her face was wrinkled and white, and her

lips quivered, as if smiling was hard. He shuddered.

The doctor took her cold, shaking arm with his hands that almost

looked young as they held her half-dead skin and bone.


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Food, he said as he let her arm rest gently on the bed again. And

water. Lots of water.

Is that all? he asked as the doctor slowly unravelled the bloody

bandages.

Maybe, he said, and clutched the bandage in his hand as he looked

down at her wrists.They were an even darker black. The blood had congealed around the

wound and stopped the blood, and they sparkled sickly in the dusty air,

collecting as many tiny figments of paper as they could.

You dont need stiches. He turned to the corpse on the bed. But we

better wash it.

The corpse nodded.

In the mean time. He turned back to the living. You should make a

hearty, salty soup for her.

Michael nodded obediently, then headed out of the room, trying to

ignore the words flowing through his head. He headed into the kitchen,and as he turned on the stove, and poured water into a dismally grey

saucepan he stopped. Why? He stared deeply at a speck of dirty black

in the saucepan. Why? he whispered as quietly as he could. She was

deadnonohe had wished she was dead! He had wished she was

a dirty, cold, rotting corpse lying in bed. He had hoped that the bed was

covered in blood, and that the only movement left in the room were the

hands of the clock. He jumped with fright and the thoughts were

washed violently away as the black spot disappeared behind churning,

white water, and cold, slimy liquid ran across his hands like a mouse in

the corner of his eye, and made him gasp.He turned the tap off quickly and placed it down on the stove as the

flame roared into life. It flickered in the corner of his eye, and just for a

moment the cleansing flame, burned all thoughts from his mind. He

blinked and opened a draw. There was a knife missing. He took out the

remaining one, and glanced down at the dull blade. Already dust was

settling on it, but it was red dust, red, cleansing dust, that dripped from

the tip of the blade.

As he cut up the vegetables he flinched with every stroke. Each time

the blade cut faintly into the wooden chopping board, he felt it in his

wrists, but he didnt stop. And he wondered why. He dropped them intothe bubbling saucepan, and they floated to the bottom like dead bodies.

He watched for a second as they grew in size, and did not complain as

they were brutally burnt. He looked down to the chopping board and

froze. Sitting as still as a corpse on it was meat. His arms and hands

were numb, and the knife slipped into it easily, so easily that it dug into

the chopping board with a jarring thud. It cut through bone, flesh, fat


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and gristle, and all with a clean, cleaving power that did not

discriminate.

He picked up the soft, wet meat with his hands, and squeezed it

gently. It didnt feel like her. He didnt want it to feel like her. He

wanted it to be her. He threw the meat into the saucepan and watched

as the fat was ripped gently from the flesh and floated up to the top. Heshook his head angrily. Words, again and again and again. He didnt

want it to be her. That was from a book, a story, a poem, but which? He

couldnt remember, but it wasnt from him.

All of a sudden the words that floated around his head, that composed

his mind, were a disgusting pollution that blackened his thoughts.

Leave the fat in it, the doctor said as he popped his head through

the door way. He smiled with his confident eyes, and automatically

Michael smiled back. Shes in bed again. No exercise until shes got

some colour back in her face, but I dont think that shell need any

blood.Good, Michael said. His mouth moved, but were the words that

came out of it his?

She should be fine, the doctor smiled, as he saw Michaels white

face. Shell look much better after shes eaten something.

Michael smiled still. It was his smile, but it was a fake one. The

doctor turned to go, then turned back again.

Lots of salt, he said.

What? Michael asked, his thoughts were being choked by James

Joyce, portmanteaus, idioglossia, foreign words, and puns had their

plump hands around his throat, and what made sense days, hours,minutes ago, were nothing more than words.

In the soup, the doctor smiled. Lots of salt in the soup.

Oh, he nodded and turned back to the white steam. Of course.

He picked up a tea towel then picked up the saucepan with it

carefully. He placed it down on the sink and then picked up a bowl. He

poured the steaming soup into it, and the transparent yellow liquid

galloped into it, as the saucepan vomited the meat and vegetables. They

plopped into it sickeningly, and as Michael dropped the spoon in with

one final plop, he sighed with relief.

The bowl was hot in his hands as he stepped into the hallway, but heheld it tightly as it burned his finger tips and palm. He turned into

the bedroom, and his wife looked up at him. She didnt smile. He sat

down next to her and the steam floated up slowly into his eyes as he

rested the bowl on his lap. He picked up the spoon, and the soup stirred

rudely as it slipped from it like silk and spilled into the bowl noisily.


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She opened her mouth reluctantly like a dog being given medicine,

and swallowed the soup with a sickening gulp that made the hair on

Michaels back stand on end. He raised spoonful after spoonful and

endured gulp after gulp.

Finally he put the glinting spoon into the empty bowl, and rested it on

the bed side table with a sigh of relief.Im sorry, his wife said weakly. It was stupid.

It was stupid, he echoed her.

I justId just had had enough of the paper, I had had enough of the

inkof the paintof it all. She smileda sane, apologetic smile that

made Michael smile too. I was reading Shakespeare, and all of a

sudden:

Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars! He

wears his honour in a box unseen, that hugs his kicky-wicky here at

home.

Ive read it a thousand times, but all of a suddenall of a sudden itwas me. And I could feel the ink, and smell it and taste it, and my body

was filled with inkmy skin was ink, and I looked at myself in the

mirror. She closed her eyes. I was as black as inkeven my eyes

were black. She opened them and Michael jumped. Then I realised

all that was left was bloodeverything else was black! And I had to

exorcise itI had to! I know it was stupid, but the whole room turned

black, and I wanted to see somethingto see some colour, so I had to,

I had to or the whole world would have been black.

Michael looked down at his wife. There was something lurking

behind her white eyes. It hid behind her pupils, but it whispered to himsilently, and he shivered.

Well? she asked with a white grin. Have I gone mad?

Yes, he laughed.

Her grin faded.

I didnt mean it, he said quickly.

I know, she said. Even if it were true it wouldnt matter what you

think. It was just a depression. Her smile returned. Everybody goes

through one. If they didnt what would they have to write about? To

paint? Happiness? she grinned. Get my paper and my pen, she said.

I am feeling inspired.The doctor said you shouldnt over-exert yourself.

She laughed.

Writing is an endurance test, she smiled with a patronising curl in

her lips, not a sprint.

Dont your arms hurt? he asked.


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They are a little numb, she conceded. But there is no greater pain

killer than distraction.

And when the distraction is over there is no greater hang over!

Michael laughed as he stood up.

The room fell back into its dusty silence, and as he walked across the

floor, his dull footsteps could not be heard over it. He stepped into thestudy, and the thick dust formed a layer over his eyes, and got stuck in

his throat. There were papers and scriptures and sketches all over the

floor and the tables and the chairs, and on the walls were dark black

paintings that seemed to recede into the walls like shadows.

He found a piece of paper on the desk, and he looked down at it with

disgust, then picked up a pen. There was ink dried on its sharp end like

blood, and he imagined the sound of it scraping across the paper, and

he felt it scraping across his skin. He looked down at the blank paper as

he walked back into the hallway. There was dust all over it, and its dull

yellow-whiteness seemed to fill the whole room, screaming in his earseven louder than text.

He was relieved as the soft paper slipped from his fingers. The

screaming grew quieter; quiet enough for him to hear her say: Thank

you.

He sat down on the bed again. He felt weak. The blank paper had

emptied his mind of all his thoughts; of all his words, and just for a

moment the screaming stopped as he thought nothing, but slowly the

words and the thoughts began pouring back in and he closed his eyes

and sighed.

Whats wrong? she asked.Nothing, he said.

Well, she said with a commanding voice that made him look at her.

Leave me. How can I concentrate with you sitting there looking like a

black dog?

He stood up and walked to the door. The silence was broken by the

scratching of pen and paper and he flinched. He turned around and

opened his mouth to speak, but the words were trapped in his head with

no way out. He closed the bedroom door gently, but the sound of

scratching slipped easily under the door and climbed up his legs with

tickling, molesting fingers, that pushed their way into his ears andmade the words in his head spin faster and faster and faster.

He stepped out onto the veranda and looked down at the cracks in the

floor boards. They revealed only blackness and nothing else. He shook

his head and jumped onto the soft ground and ran. He felt his brain

bounce around his head and he smiled as his chest heaved and heaved.

And he didnt think. The words were thrown around with his brain, and


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they were illegible as they flew quickly passed his vision like

mosquitos.

Finally he stopped. He was surrounded by green grass, and the distant

sound of animals, and just barely he could see a town. He sat down in

the soft, forgiving grass, then let his back fall beneath him and stared

up at the blue sky. White clouds stood up in the sky movelessly, but heclosed his eyes and ignored them. He let the words out. They took his

breath away, but he let them slip through his body, down his fingers,

and into his toes. His body tingled with relief and euphoria. He had

denied himself his mind for far too long, but he hated his mind, and the

euphoria slowly grew in to an uncomfortable feeling hiding just behind

his eyes, and whispering to him silently. But he listened.

He sighed with frustration. He couldnt understand what it was

saying. It wasnt speaking with words, or pictures. It was speaking with

its soulwith its heart. He cried quietly to himself with only the

animals and the clouds watching, and he cried until the clouds wereturning black and threatening and the sun had abandoned him. He

glanced around as his body twitched with fearhe had run here twice

and home twice, but in the darkness the animals squawked and cawed

like black owls and tigers, and he ran again, the words knocked the

voices from his eyes.

He stopped when he saw his househis home. He had never seen it

without a light on before. It was a part of the horizonof the

landscape. Its big dark walls grew up from the earth like rocks and

trees, and inside it was a nest for birds and animals. He walked forward

slowly, trying not to look at it, and he jumped with fright as thefloorboards on the veranda creaked with an earthly groan.

He walked down the hallway as the silence enveloped him. She

wasnt writing. Was she dead? He pushed open the bedroom door.

There was a corpse on the bed, and it didnt move. He pushed his way

through the dust, and placed his hand carefully on her soft forehead. It

was warm. He sighed with relief and lay down next to her as her chest

rose up and receded with each breath. She was the only thing alive in

the dead house. He put his arms around her, but her touch wasnt

comforting; it wasnt loving. He closed his eyes as tears rolled down

his face. He didnt love her, but they hadnt been his words.


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The House of Groan

When he woke up the bed was empty. He ran his hand down the sheet

next to him, but it was cold as if nobody else had ever slept in it. As the

dark world filled his eyes and ears he sat up with a jolt. He felt the

scratching of pens in his ears and stuck his fingers in them. He sat there

still, his fingers pressing against his brain, and suffocating his thoughts.But finally the scratching stopped and he let his hands fall to his side

and then he stood up. His stomach informed him politely that he was

hungry, so he walked into the kitchen.

Michelle, he said as he saw the corpse standing over the stove. The

name burned his throat like heartburn. He swallowed hastily to push it

back down into his stomach, but instead it was sent crashing into his

brain.

What? she asked as he sat down.

The doctor said not to exhaust yourself.

She turned to him and smiled, her lips contorting in to a pleasantcrescent that made him uncomfortable.

Youre the one that looks exhausted, she said as she turned back to

the stove. You look like you can barely standyet youre sitting

down.

Like dust silence filled the room again, and he looked down at the

cracks in the table. He stuck his fingernail into one of them, then

started picking away at it, trying to cut out a chunk of wood.

What are you doing?

He stopped and looked up as two bowls were set down on the table.

He sniffed in the sweet, salty smell of porridge, and picked up hisspoon.

What were you writing? he asked as he looked down at the porridge

in his bowl.

He poked it with his spoon. It moved like vomit.

I was exploring that feelingthat blankness with poetry.


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He spooned the vomit into his mouth, and let the hot liquid cool on

his tongue. It was sweet, yet it slid across his tongue, and around his

mouth like worms.

And what did you find? he asked as he swallowed the worms, only

to fill his mouth with another spoonful.

I found myself, she laughed. I found that the blackness was mine.I found that the blackness was me. And it wasnt the blood that I

needed to bleed with, but my thoughts! The only way to get rid of the

ink was to write, and Michael. She beamed. I feel like Moses on

Mount Horab, only Im the dictating the commandments. She

laughed. I feel like God!

I feel like Michael the Levite on Mount Golgotha, Michael laughed

croakily as he put his spoon down in the empty bowl.

When was the last time you wrote? Michelle asked. When was the

last time you really wrote?

Yesterday, Michael sighed. At work.And he, the man who waslost in a sea of sand, waded his way through time on the clock hand,

but was lost, and was never to be found.

Cute, she smiled patronisingly. But when was the last time you

wrote for yourself?

I dont know, he said.

See? said she. You look worse than me, and I almost bled to death

yesterday! She stood up. Well, I am going to slip back into the

blackness. I will see you when you are back! She grinned and leaned

forward and kissed Michael on the forehead.

Her saliva lingered on his skin for a moment, seeping into thewrinkles, and creeping into his thoughts. For a moment his vision

turned an inky black and he gasped. He blinked it away quickly and

stood up. He picked up his things and headed vaguely in the direction

of work. He reeked of sweat and misery but he sniffed in the air around

him, and grass, flowers, animals and birds filled his nose as they

scrunched, buzzed, squeaked and twittered in his ears.

He let the words swim around his brain. His legs ached, and he didnt

have the willpower to run. His body was empty and lifeless.It needed

ink. He laughed then stopped. He was where he had seen the girl. He

sat down and looked around at the beautiful trees and grass as theyswayed gently in the wind. If he watched for long enough he could see

the animals scurrying about, but it wasnt long before he gave in to the

voice in his head and pulled out some papers in his bag. He shuffled

through them until he found what he was looking for. And he looked

down at the dull yellow paper, and the dark black ink and read:


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He looked out across at the rocks. They stuck out of the ground like

hands from the grave, and they seemed to beckon to him. They were

hideous and rugged, yet he found himself walking forwards. They were

crass and rude, yet he found himself listening to them, hanging on their

every word. He sat down on their hard surface; caressed them and

kissed them, then looked up at the dark blue ocean.The sky above it was black, and it looked on with a serious face that

betrayed none of the seething emotion that languished behind it.

Instead it tormented the ocean which churned with bright white foam

and deep, dark blue water that broke against the rocks like splinters,

then slipped just as gently back into its waiting hands as it had beeen

violently thrown from them.

As he sat he was waiting. What was he waiting for? He didnt know,

but the rocks had told him to wait, and he had to trust the rocks. He let

his hand rest on one as doubts started to slip into his head, but with its

hard touch they were washed away jut as easily as they had slipped in.Michael jumped with fright. A soft, warm hand touched his shoulder

and he looked up quickly. It was her. She smiled at him with wet pink

lips, and he felt himself smiling to.

What are you doing? she asked, and her eyes turned from his and to

the paper.

I was reading, he replied.

What were you reading?

It does not have a title, he said proudly.

Then whats it about?

He opened his mouth, but words betrayed him, and he closed it againwithout saying anything.

Nothing? she laughed. Figures, George.

Michael stood up and grinned. He hadnt been called George by a

stranger since he was a child, and there was a youthful resonance about

a first name.

Charlotte, he grinned.

What?

Nothing.

Did you write it? she asked to avoid a silence.

He nodded.Then why dont you know what its about?

I dont know, he said. I should, but I dont.

Well, it doesnt matter anyway. Its not your fault. Books are

meaningless if you ask me, they just pretend to not be. I dont like them

because of it. They can be so patronising and coldand. He watched

her eyes search for words. And alienating. Unless you agree with the


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authoragree with whatever they are trying to say, but instead of

saying it they wrote a book, and if you dont then you are derided and

degraded as you read it.

I hope my writing is not like that, he said quickly. I would not

want to degrade anyone.

Of course not! she laughed. Which is why youre patronising me. Iknow its not your fault. Youre all the same, but youre not as bad as

the painters. Theyll paint a black square and say it solves the human

condition and if you dont understand it then it isyou that is at fault.

Composers are no better. She grinned, But at least some of them are

hot.

Hot?

Hot, she said again. Sexy, beautiful, attractive. She laughed.

Wheres a thesaurus when you need one? Michael reached into his

bag but she laughed again. I was joking. Have you ever heard

techno?Techno?

She reached into her bag without saying anything, and pulled out a

white bead attached to a white wire which snaked its way into her bag,

and she handed it to Michael. He looked down at it and turned it over.

It was smooth on all sides, and shaped not like a bead, but a drop of

rain.

Put in your ear, she said as she pulled a small white box from her

bag and another lead dangled from it.

He watched as she followed the lead with her hand until it found the

second rain drop, then she pushed it into her ear and he did the same.She pressed an invisible button on the white boxs grey screen, and

green lines danced on it as a fast beat slipped into his ear and vibrated

around his skull and brain. Again and again as fast a stampede and

louder and louder until it started to give him a head ache. But he

endured as he watched her move to the beat, moving and wriggling like

the green lines on the screen and he had the urge to do the same. But

just as quickly as it had begun the beat began to fade out, and she

pulled the rain drop from his ear.

Ive got to go, she said, and without another word ran again and

quickly disappeared.Michael turned in the direction of his destination with a sigh as the

sound of animals and words started to push out the beat that was still

bouncing around his aching head.

He glanced at his watch. He was fashionably late. He walked away

towards the town without hurrying with the beat still echoing around

his head. It wasnt long before there were buildings around him. They


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were all small and old, and their stone, straw, and wooden surfaces

seemed to crumble before his eyes, leaving the streets bathed with dust

that danced in the dull sunlight. Or dulled the sunlighta thought made

its way through the beat, and he pushed a door open.

Michael, Professor Baldrick said. Youre late.

Sorry, Michael said and sat down at an uncomfortable woodendesk.

It doesnt matter, the Professor smiled and sat down at the same

table. Before you begin let me ask you something.

Michael looked up at the Professors wise face. There were deep lines

that were dug into his forehead and beside his eyes like trenches, and

the soldiers inside of them threw water into his bright white eyes so

that they sparkled. He smiled and took his long white beard in his hand,

and ran his fingers through it as if he was washing it.

Anything, Michael said.

You look troubled, he smiled comfortingly. You look tired.He leant back in his seat and glanced around at the books that

adorned the walls, then back to the Professor. He smiled at the man he

respected, and swallowed his words before they could leave his mouth.

Come now! Professor Baldrick said. Dont be silly. Would I keep

something from you that troubled me so?

No, Michael admitted dryly.

So why keep it from me?

Because it is embarrassing, he said. You will think that I am

stupid.

I have thought you were stupid many times, he grinned. So I cannot promise you that I will not this time. But is that a reason not to tell

me? Perhaps I will understand, and if not, at the very least the weight

may be lifted from your shoulders and you will not look like the

personification of a troubled Mister Jaggers!

I saw a girl, he said.

Was she beautiful? The Professor smiled.

She was, but that does not matter.

Ah, he shook his head still smiling. But beauty does matter,

greatly so!

But she wore pink, Michael went on, and the Professor screwed uphis face. And talked quickly and bluntly. She was crass and hideous.

He stopped.

Yet? The Professor asked. Yet you find yourself fallen insatiably

in love like Romeo and Juliet.


19/53

No, Michael laughed. Ever since I saw her nothing makes sense.

Even my own writing I do not understand. It is as if words themselves

have lost meaning.

More like Samson and Delilah! he said seriously with a playful

grin.

This time Michael did not laugh.And today she played me some hideous music. It was fast and loud

and had no melody and no discernible composition, and I could not tell

it from a symphony!

Well, the Professor smiled. It could be a case of Stendhal

Syndrome! Or more likely, you do really find yourself infatuated by

her. Was she young?

He nodded.

Well, we are all cursed to love young women I am afraid, Michael.

There is nothing to be ashamed of. I think you should tell your wife

about her. At the very least she might understand and if youre luckyshe may suggest a mnage et trois!

Be quiet! Michael laughed. Im meant to be working arent I?

The Professor said nothing as he stood up and Michael looked down

at the table. He listened to his soft foot steps on the stone, and after he

heard the screech of wooden table legs dragging across them, he

reached into his bag and dropped some papers onto the table. He

pressed his pen against the paper and wrote while reading in the corner

of his eyes. He was transcribing or translating somethinghe wasnt

surebecause both the complete and incomplete text looked the same:

even though they were not the same language: both were meaningless.He was interrupted as there was a knock on the door. He put his pen

down and walked across the stones. He pulled it open and a woman

with plump red cheeks and a furious smile stood on the door step.

Hello, she said, and as she spoke Michael noticed a child standing

next to her. The child looked down at the ground defiantly, and his

plump red cheeks betrayed how tightly shut his jaw was. My son

refuses to read.

At all? Michael asked.

At all, she replied.

I dont want to read! the childs tightly shut jaw opened easily.Because it is a waste of time.

The woman slapped him gently on the back of the head, and the child

cried as violently as it could.

Im sorry, she said as she pushed her way inside. Its those God

damn music machines! Will you show him around? I thought he might

be more interested if he saw somebody writing.


20/53

No, he almost said before the Professor put his arm on his shoulder.

Of course! he smiled. A young boy must read, and what better

place to read than in here?

Thank you! the woman beamed and reached into her pocket.

She pulled from it one of the white boxes that Charlotte had had and

bent over her son who looked at it enviously.If youve been a good boy and these kind gentlemen tell me that

youve read, then you can get this back. She waved it in front of the

childs face teasingly, and much to everybodys except her amusement,

he snatched it from her and blew a raspberry in her face.

The woman wiped her face furiously, then snatched the machine back

from her son. She threw it to the ground, and his jaw fell open as it

landed on the hard stones. She jumped on it furiously, and it was

crushed under her feet like an insect.

See what happens when you dont read? she asked furiously and

kicked the broken machine across the room where it exploded in ashower of metallic parts and leads.

Tears rolled silently down his face and without another word the

woman stormed over to the door and slammed it behind her.

Ill clean it up, the Professor said. You look after him.

Michael nodded and led him over to his table. He sat him down in

front of him, and pushed the papers and pen back into the bag.

You dont have to read if you dont want to, he said.

The boy wiped the tears from his cheeks and smiled with relief.

I hate reading, he said. Did you? When you were a boy?

No, Michael smiled. I loved it. But Im starting to hate it!Whys that? he asked.

I dont know, he sighed.

Its boring, the boy said. I hate reading. I like music. But not

classical.

Of course not! he nodded.

Dont patronise me, the boy said coldly.

Sorry! he pleaded with a smile. What is your name?

Mummy says not to tell strangers my name, he smiled

mischievously.

Well, he said. I am Michael.I dont care much about names, he said. And Michael is a stupid

name.

Whys that?

Because Ive seen a picture show with Michael in it. Hes a

detective, and hes emotionally inept, cold, and a devout Christian

whose only friends are those he has met at church and the YMCA!


21/53

Michael is also one who is like God, and an Arch Angel!

Well, Michael, the boy grinned. If you are anything like God, then

God must be a bit of a fool and baby.

A fool and a baby? Michael laughed.

A fool and a baby! the boy nodded.

Well, he grinned. After this tirade of abuse I think I have earnedthe chance to ask you a question.

I wouldnt say that you have earned anything, but you may.

Well, why didnt you just read something or not snatch it? You may

have got it back in the end.

Come now, Michael! he laughed. You are well read are you not?

He nodded.

I am not! Yet it would appear I know more of principle than you.

Think of Atticus Finch, Saint Sebastian, Jesus Christ! Though

admittedly in the case of the latter it was a little sacrifice if any at all.

Come my son, martyr yourself for your disciples, then be reborn andcome up to eternal paradise. What a great example he was. Do what

you want only for a reward! Sadly all I will be getting is a beating.

The door was flung open. We mortals must suffer while God and his

son sit in heaven enjoying themselves!

A man stepped inside with a furious glare. His black hair was tied in

angry knots that flopped over his shoulders like nooses.

Come here, my boy! he said angrily. Youre going to get whats

coming to you. And then you are going to read 1984 from front to

cover!

No! the Professor cried as he stood up with a flourish. Not 1984!I, the martyr, will take my punishment, and expect nothing in

return! The boy turned to the professor who sat back down.

Youre damn right you will, and then youll write an essay about it!

the man cried and slammed the door closed after them.

Professor, Michael said. Do you mind if I take some time to think?

My work is suffering because of it, and I fear I am no use to you until I

have worked out what is wrong with me.

Of course, the Professor smiled sympathetically. Tell your wife of

this coarse Venus you found running about like a pink hare! Tell her

and be cured.Thank you, he said hastily as he picked up his bag, and slipped

back into the dusty street.

He would try talking to his wife. But he knew it would amount to

nothing. And when it didnt, he knew where he could go. Outside the

sun was shining brighter. It illuminated everything, leaving no stone

without a bright glow, and the things lucky enough to be hidden behind


22/53

a shadow where the only invisible things that were left. He walked

away from the streets quickly. He could see every speck of dust

floating before him, and he looked up at the sun angrily as it made

sweat roll down his forehead. The only thing it illuminated was his

own ignorance!

He stopped at the familiar spot leading into town again and glancedaround. He saw no one. He sat down for a moment and reached into his

bag as the sun made the words in his head melt into thoughts of water.

He waited for her, and stared in the direction of the townin the

direction of the sun, but as his eyes hurt and his skin burned, and his

head spun, he stood up angrily and turned away from it.

As he walked towards home the sun seemed to spill into the thin

pocket of air behind his back and shirt and burn his skin until a gentle,

hot breeze blew the cloth onto his back and it stuck to it with a thick

layer of sweaty glue.

He blinked when he saw the house. In the bright sunlight he could seea big cloud of dust and decay hovering around it. The wood looked

older and drier and rotting, and around it the grass and flowers were

full of weeds that hid poisonous secretes.

He flung the door open angrily and wiped the sweat from his head as

the sound of scratching entered his ears. He headed into the kitchen and

tuned the tap on. As it disappeared down the plug-hole he was so

thirsty he could smell it. It was warm and tasted like sweet copper, but

he drank until his stomach felt cold and he was desperate for air. He

wiped the water from his chin as he turned the tap off, then dropped his

bag onto the table. He undid his soaking shirt, and as he took it off itheld tightly onto his back until it was finally ripped away like dead

skin.

He followed the sound of scratching into the study then looked down

at his wife. She sat at her desk with a blank, blinking stare as she

looked down at her never-still hands that moved across the page like a

machine. Her body was completely still, and her mouth tightly shut.

Michelle, Michael said but she did not look up. Michelle, he said

again, louder.

Her eyes blinked back into consciousness and she looked up at her

husband with a look of frustration.Arent you meant to be at work? she asked.

I am, he replied. But I have the day off, and I wanted to talk to

you. I have been doing some thinking lately and I feel sick.

Do you? she asked, her eyes still pulling the rest of her face back to

the paper. I will be finished soon. Just give me an hour.


23/53

Michael did not reply. The machine was already moving again. He

stepped back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He could feel

his own eyes pulling him towards the bag and he reached into it

reluctantly.

He pulled out the papers and a pen and let the machine take him over.

He didnt know if he had the patience to wait. He sat and watched thesky and the sea, but it was boring and his mind wandered into a

frustrated daze. The cool, hard touch of the rocks wasnt enough to

reassure him and slowly he felt fear push its way into his body. It

overtook him sickeningly until he felt like vomiting, and that the rocks

had betrayed him. They were gone.

He felt them again to reassure himself that they were still there but he

couldnt be sure. He could feel them, but he couldnt feel his own touch,

not when all he wanted to do was spit out everything about him so that

he no longer existed. Not while he wanted to run out into the sea and

drown; yet had a mortal fear of what he was waiting for.It was coming to get him. It was coming to kill him. It was coming to

destroy him. He didnt even know if the rocks cared about him

anymore. He hated them. They could have saved himthey could have

saved his life. But instead they had betrayed him and left him sitting,

and waiting, and waiting, while the tide grew ever closer and closer;

its watery hands reaching out to pull him into the grave.

Michael?

He jumped with fright, and his skin was torn from the sweaty vinyl of

the chair with a sickly quiet rip that only he could hear.

What did you want?I wanted to talk to you, he said as he pushed the papers and pens

back into the bag quickly.

About what? she asked as she sat down. Why have you taken your

shirt off? Its not that hot.

It was outside. He shook his head. I got the day off because I cant

think. And the Professor said that I should talk to you about it.

Then do so. His wife took his hand comfortingly, and he smiled.

But it was an ignorant comfort.

Yesterday when I was going to work I saw a woman. She was

running and she wore bright clothes, andAnd?

And I think she was smiling. I chased after her She interrupted

him.

Because she was beautiful?

No, he shook his head. Because she was different. When I stopped

her she was blunt and crass, and she said that there was once a singer


24/53

called George Michael.

Choral or Opera? his wife asked.

Neither, he replied. She said he was a pop singer.

Michelle shook her head with disgust.

And then she asked if that upset mebecause I told her my name

and I said I didnt know. But now I do. It did upset meit didntjustupset meit knocked me over, and ever since then nothing makes

sense any more. The words flowing around my head are meaningless,

and when I read I feel like I am being poisoned. Then today I ran to the

same spot that I had met her, and I saw her. She played music to me

with a strange machine that she put in my ear.

A machine? she asked.

A machine, he nodded.

Thats horrible! She squeezed his hand comfortingly, but he

continued:

And it was almost just a beat, so fast and loud that it knocked thewords around my head and made me feel sick, but when it was over, I

realised that I couldnt tell it from Mozart!

You poor, poor thing, she smiled. Was she beautiful?

She was hideous.

Theres no need to lie to me. I wont be jealous.

No, he said firmly. She was hideousyet she was so hideous that

she was beautiful.

Like a Rajapaksa!

No, Michael laughed. Not at all, but since meeting her I cant even

understand my own writing.Could I read it? she asked.

Yes, he nodded and handed her the papers. I have not got much

further. Hes got to the rocksbut now hes just a man sitting on some

rocks on a God damn beach!

He leant back in the chair with a frustrated sigh, and the

consciousness was pushed from his wifes eyes as she read. From left

too right they moved quickly and accurately as if in a trance, and the

pages were turned with blind mechanical accuracy, until they were put

down and life slowly poured back into her eyes.

There were tears in them and she swallowed.Whats wrong? he asked.

Its beautiful, she replied as tears rolled down her cheeks. So

beautiful.

She stood up without saying anything and he heard her feetpitta

patta down the hallway. He pushed the papers into the bag, then


25/53

followed thepitta patta into the bedroom. She lay on the bed weeping

with a wet pool of tears on the pillow.

Are you okay? he asked her and she nodded.

It is beautiful, she said. But please let it absorb me alone. Just for a

little whileit is so beautiful.

Will you be okay? he asked, and she nodded with a re-assuringsmile.

He stepped outside and the sun was going down, and the world was

bathed in an in-different orange that hid many secrets from his eyes. If

he could make it to town by dusk perhaps he could find him againor

her. He ran away from his home and let her fill his thoughts. He still

hated her for abandoning him, but the hate made him think of her

beauty, her pink lips, and her white eyes, and her crass smile, and how

much he wanted to kiss her passionately, and hit her and beat her and

scream at her for destroying him.

The town loomed in the distance under sun. It was bathed in aglorious orange, and all the buildings seemed to be coated with a thick

layer of egg yolk. As he walked through the streets they werent as

dusty. He could just barely hear the sound of electronic voices slipping

underneath peoples doorways, and his heart jumped as he turned into a

clearing.

He was confronted by an empty concrete park. The orange light

plainly illuminated the thin haze of dust floating around, and it twirled

around a park bench. A park bench which held up an old man from the

ground, an old man that Michael had seen before. He walked forwards

slowly as his heart kicked in again and beat loudly in his chest, shakinghis skeleton and muddling up the words floating in his head.

He sat down next to him silently then opened his mouth to talk, but

closed it as he turned to him. The old mans face was changed. Big

trench coat collars hid away his mouth, and his glinting, dark eyes

seemed to be lost in wrinkled skin.

Bic, Michael said and the old man jumped with fright. What has

happened?

Shes dead, Bic said, and his dark eyes fell on Michael and he felt

cold.

Who?Charlotte.

Charlotte? he echoed him. Charlotte Blake?

Bic nodded, and Michael swallowed as he thought of what he had

imagined doing to her.

What happened?

She was killed in a building collapse, he said. She was crushed.


26/53

Michael said nothing.

Who are you? Bic blinked. And what do you want?

Its Michael, he said. Dont you remember me?

Michael? His eyes widened. Michael! What has happened to

you?

That is why I am here, he sighed. I dont knowit was Charlotte.Charlotte, he echoed him.

I saw her, and she was different. She was fast and ugly and I chased

after her, and we talked, and she made fun of my name.

Bic laughed. George Michael, he said.

And thenand then nothing has made sense! She destroyed my

worldshe turned it into something without meaning or logic, and I

dont know why. And nobody understands me anymoreand I dont

understand them. Professor Baldrick thought it was lust, and my wife

doesnt care. She just wants to read what Im writingbut I dont even

know what it means!I bet Baldric said that it was Stendhal Syndrome, he laughed.

What a foolish old man.

What could it be?

Wait, he shook his head. George Michael, he grinned as he

reached into his pocket, did she tell you he was a singer.

Michael nodded as Bic pulled one of the small white machines from

his pocket.

She had one of those, he said.

Of course, Bic nodded. Its an iPod and it lets you listen to music

wherever you want. Before that there was the Walkman, and before thatthe Boombox. He laughed again. But that wasnt nearly as small.

Theyre almost gone now. People still have televisions, but only out

here. Theyre trapped in their houses, because outside they know that

people like you will try and stop them from doing what they want.

People like me.

People like you. But, he added, maybe not any more. George

Michael was pop singer.

She told me.

He no longer exists. You would never have heard of him if it wasnt

for her, but he speaks of oppression, sexuality and love just as anyopera does. Would you like to listen?

He nodded, and Bic slipped the small device into his ear, and slowly

the sound of an organ seeped into his brain, but just as soon as it had

begun it disappeared and a soft-semi singing, a tambourine, and drum

took its place, and then clapping and then the singing grew louder, and


27/53

a screeching high pitched instrument that sounded like a harpsichord

appeared.

Whats that? Michael asked.

An electric guitar, Bic replied as all of a sudden the song ended.

Michael pulled the device from his ear with a sigh.

It means nothing, he said.Good, Bic smiled knowingly. You must go home now. Its getting

late.

But I cant go homeI cant endure the sound of writing. He

shuddered.

Take this, Bic handed him a strange sea-shell shaped device. Put it

behind your ear, and I will be able to talk to you. It might give you

brain cancer, but it sound like youre already sick, he laughed and

stood up as Michael slipped it into and over his ear.

Come back tomorrow and I will show you something, and if you are

scared and want to talk to me press your finger against your ear andtalk.

Thank you, Michael said as he shook his hand.

Bic said nothing and slipped the device into his ear, then walked off

whistling an alien tune. Michael walked quickly through the streets,

listening as intently as he could to the mechanical voices, but they were

quiet, unintelligible drones. He tried to peer through the bright

windows that hid behind them the life of the people inside, but saw

nothing through their drawn curtains. When his feet found grass he ran

again, and held his finger to his ear to stop it from being dislodged.

Then he heard a voice and jumped with fright.Michael? He stopped still. What? I can hear you breathing.

Bic! he laughed as he realised who it was. I was runningI was

running and I pressed my finger to my ear to stop it from falling.

Well, Bic sighed on the other end. When youre engaging in a

night of troubled passion may I suggest that you take it off and put it

somewhere safe or just take the risk? I am an old man and long passed

my days of voyeurism.

Michael laughed and let his hand fall to his side as he ran and it

stayed tightly wedged to his ear.

He stopped when he saw the house. No lights lit up the windows tobetray the deathly black hollow that blotted out the horizon. As he

walked again he thought that Michelle might be dead. He swallowed as

he stepped onto the veranda. They hadnt been his words. He pushed

the door open. They hadnt been his words. But when he heard the

sound of scratching and the flickering light of a flame creeping down

the hallway like smoke he wasnt relieved. He could feel the scratching


28/53

on his face, and as he closed the front door behind him he closed his

eyes as the pens nib moved closer and closer to his eyes. He walked

down the hallway blindly, counting his steps, then turned left and

opened his eyes. In the darkness he could see the bed, and he pulled off

his sweaty clothes quickly then crept onto the bed with only the

machine in his ear touching his body.He let the sheets envelope him and he closed his eyes. He was bathed

in complete darkness as the soft sheets fluttered down onto his body

like leaves, and he felt like he was lying on the bottom of the ocean. He

pulled the sheets back as he felt he was drowning or suffocating in a

coffin.

He lay there with his eyes closed as he heard the deafening

scratching. All he could see were words and they moved along quickly

with the scratches composing the images of what she must be writing.

Black ink swirled around her stomach like a disease. She felt sick and

tired and as she looked down at her stomach she blinked. It wasswollen and big as if she were pregnantor as if it was infected. She

touched it: she felt it; it was cold. Death. Death, she thought, death.

Was it dead or was she dead? She touched her forehead with the back

of her hand. It was hot with sweat. She lay down on the floor and

curled up in a miserable position. She felt the black ink growing in her

stomach, spreading through her body like a poison, and she felt as if

her death was inevitable.

Each breath was laboured, and her lungs croaked and wheezed as if

full of phlegm. But she knew what they were filled with, and when she

coughed bitter, tingling, disgusting ink filled her mouth like bile. Shespat it out and it stained the floor in ugly streaks. As she wept to herself

she felt a huge weight on her chest. It was growingit was growing

with the amount of ink stains on the floor. She coughed it up, but she

swallowed a little of it and her eyes spun briefly, perhaps it wasnt the

ink in her chest. She sat up quickly and glanced around, and placed

her hand on her heart. It beat; pumping the poison through her body.

But perhaps somebody was strangling her? Perhaps somebody was

sitting on her chest, suffocating her as she lay.

But as she sat there it still grew worse, and she coughed more and

more until her throat ached and groaned and begged her for mercy.She stood up as she cried and stumbled over to the mirror. She coughed

again, and black, thick ink rolled down the mirror, but behind it she

caught something. She wiped the black away with her white sleave and

turned it a deathly black, then she screamed. Her eyes were as black as

paint, and rolling down her cheeks were dark black tears, that seemed

to cut through her flesh.


29/53

Michael woke up with a jolt as he felt the bed move with the weight

of another. He turned over to see his wife. She was smiling at him in

his sleep. He could taste the ink, and feel the weight on his chest and he

gasped for air as he cried quietly. He raised a finger to his cheek and

picked up a tear then tasted it. It was salty. He looked at his wife with

sympathy and fear, and put his arms around her tightly for comfortthey werent his wordsbut her smiling face and still body provided

little.


30/53

The Secret

When Michael woke up he was holding the sheets, and felt the sound

of the scratching boring into his skull. He pressed his finger against his

ear; the sheet still woven around the fingers of his other hand.

Bic? he asked.

There was no reply.Bic, he said again.

There was no reply.

He sat up and looked down the dusty room into the hallway.

What? He heard in his ear and jumped with fright and relief. Is

anything wrong?

No, he replied as he stood up. I just wanted to show you

something.

Fine, Bic yawned. Meet me at the same seat.

Michael pulled his clothes on quickly then stepped into the hallway.

He followed the sound of scratching into the study, and looked down athis wife reluctantly.

Wheres my writing? he asked, and slowly her eyes returned to life,

her hands stopped moving, and she looked up.

I put it back in your bag on the kitchen table, she said. Are you

going in to work?

No, he shook his head, then added quickly: Im going to try

writing in town.

In town? Michelle frowned. Well, you must do as your muse

commands you! Now leave me alone. She smiled. My muse

commands me that I be alone!Michael said nothing and headed into the kitchen. He flicked his

fingers through the papers in his bag and flinched, then flung it over his

shoulder and stepped outside. He paused to glance down at the

floorboards of the veranda, but blinked away the dark cracks as he

remembered that Bic was waiting for him. He ran across the grass,


31/53

staring directly in the direction of the town, and trying not to see the

world around him.

He opened his eyes again as he stepped into the town. The streets

were bustling with people, running and skipping, with ear pieces in

their ears, and machines in their hands. He slowed down as he took it

all in, and he stopped to listen to a talking box. There were some oldmen crowded around it, and they listened to a confident voice that

droned on and on with words that all sounded the same.

He continued on, and when he arrived in the park he sped up as Bic

saw him and stood up.

Come, Bic said.

Michael followed him loyally, and they stepped into the middle of the

road.

Have you heard of cars? he asked. Motors as Toad might call

them.

Yes, Michael nodded. I have written several essays on The Windin the Willows some devoted entirely to what the contraption of the

motor car may symbolise.

Bic laughed. No, no, the motor was a motor! Yes maybe it was used

to express his greed, but motor cars used to exist. It was published in

nineteen o eight, and even back then they existed! You will have seen

the progression yourself in literature surely?

Yes, he nodded, as societys greed for speed increased so did the

metaphor to symbolise it.

But it was no metaphor! I used to drive, Michael, before they were

all taken away to be recycled. Your house probably has a bit of a car init, and have you ever made a sculpture?

He nodded.

Well, thats where most of the metal went. I suppose it wasnt such a

bad thing to happen to them, but I loved my car. I had a beautiful

Porsche 911. God, everyone at the university hated it. They all drove

Priuses as if they thought they were celebrities, and there I was

destroying the world at one hundred and sixty miles per hour on the

freeway!

Michael gasped.

One hundred and sixty miles per hour?Bic nodded proudly. But you know what they say about those who

have a nice car? He laughed, and Michael shook his head. Well, it

was an unfair stereotype! You know people who write short stories?

Of course, Michael nodded.

And what they say about them?

He nodded with a childish grin.


32/53

Well thats what they used to say about people with nice cars. But I

can assure you I would never write a short story! he laughed. They

were the contemporary craze at the time. Everybody was writing them.

But things always change I suppose. I think you would have liked the

car, though, it was a work of art. Black with smooth clean lines that

seemed to float across the road while kissing it at the same time as itsped past.

They stopped outside a big old house wedged in between two new

ones. It was made with white weatherboards; the paint peeling and

poisoning the dead grass below them. Bic led Michael up the cracked

concrete foot path and pushed the door open and then led him inside.

Welcome to my home, he said as Michael glanced around the dull

hallway.

There was a bright red carpet on the floor and a cheap and garish

chandelier that hung up above them.

Bic switched it on with another click as he closed the door and theroom seemed to fill with dust. He led him down the hallway and into a

pitch black room. A light turned on with a click and he gasped. There

were screens all around the room, and one giant one on the wall. There

were stereos on the tables and big speakers next to them, and in the

centre of the room was a leather couch facing towards a big screen.

Take a seat, Bic said and Michael obeyed.

It was soft and comforting.

A simple beat with an electronic noise that Michael had never heard

emanated from one of the speakers and Bic sat down next to him.

Whats that noise? he asked.A synthesiser, he replied.

All of a sudden a tuneless chant began, firing forth a barrage of

rhyming words.

Sort of like spoken word poetry, Bic said.

Why are they rhyming so much? Michael asked. Only

Shakespeare can rhyme!

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting

That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay

Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly

And prais'd be rashness for itlet us knowOur indiscretion sometimes serves us well... Bic laughed. What is

the greatest book ever written? he asked.

La Comdie humaine, of course! Michael replied.

It used to be Ulysses, he sighed. Now, tell me what you wanted?

I wanted you to read this, Micheal said as he reached into his bag.

Tell me what it means.


33/53

He handed Bic the story, and he settled down into the couch to read.

Michael watched as Bics eyes darted across the page quickly, while

listening to the music that had taken on the same monotone drone of all

sound.

Well, Bic handed the papers back to him. I am afraid you are very

troubled. You should keep writing, try and purge yourself of yourthoughts. Thats all writing isthats all art isunless youre a genre

artist, purging somebody elses thoughts! Its just like detox, he

laughed. But it could take even more than five years!

Five years? Michael swallowed.

Just an old mans joke, Bic grinned. The world no longer makes

sense, but you should go home. Will your wife still be there?

Probably, he replied.

Well, youll just have to write with her there wont you? Spit it all

out onto that paperspit until your mouth is dry!

He stood up and Michael followed.Good luck, he said as he led him down the hallway.

Thanks, Michel smiled as he stepped through the doorway.

See you later, he smiled.

Goodbye, Michael said as the door closed.

He turned to the street and walked slowly through the town, trying to

imagine the motor cars from The Wind and the Wheels careening down

the road at one hundred and sixty miles per hour, and floating while

kissing the road. When he stopped onto the grass he ran again. He

shook his head as he did. Running was closer to detox than writingit

obliterated everything; writing magnified it.When he stepped onto the veranda he listened carefully. The squeak

of the door pierced his ears as he opened it, but as they stopped ringing

he smiled. He could hear no scratching of pen and paper. Then he

remembered the bath. He glanced into the bedroom; it was empty. He

continued on and glanced into the kitchen; there was a note on the

table. He stepped through the door and picked it up.Felt like some

fresh air, it read,goodbye.

He put it down with a smile and walked back down the hallway. He

glanced around at the lifeless nature then held his breath as he knelt

down on the veranda and ran his fingers across the floorboards. Hepulled one up and reached underneath it. He peered into the darkness

and reached his hand into it, until it grazed against something cold and

hard. He clasped it and wrenched it from the darkness with a guilty

excitement. He grinned down at the white machine. It had two screens

and a black plastic pen dangled from its side, attached by a string. He

replaced the floorboard then stood up and walked into the house. He


34/53

closed the door behind him then headed into the bedroom and sat down

on the bed.

He turned on the machine with a click and it flicked on, then off, then

on again and writing and pictures appeared on the screen. He picked up

a pen and pressed it againststarton the screen. A blurry, out of focus

Chinese criminal appeared on screen, and Michael led him on a gleefulkilling spree, the sound of explosions and violence filling his ears.

Michael.

His heart stopped, and the machine fell from his hands. He looked up

and Professor Baldrick stood in the doorway.

Its okay Michael, he said. Everybody gets curious once in

awhile.

What are you doing here? he asked.

I am here to see how you are doing, he replied. I was worried

about you.

Michael said nothing.Listen, come into work tomorrow, and we can talk about your

problems. I thought that perhaps a break would help, but obviously it

hasnt. Ill tell you all about technology and what it did to humanity.

I dont know, he said.

You dont have to, he said quickly. But I am worried about you.

You shouldnt be, he shook his head.

Michael glanced down at the screen and saw the Chinese man die.

Everybody plays a game once in their life timeeverybody gets

curious. Bring it with you tomorrow, and I will help you destroy it.

Okay, he nodded. I was just curious. The words werent his.The professor smiled.

Ill see you tomorrow.

Ill see you tomorrow. The words werent his.

He turned off the machine as the professor disappeared, then he stood

up and walked anxiously down the hallway. He stepped onto the

veranda and glanced around. Professor Baldrick was gone. He pulled

up the floorboard quickly and dropped the machine gently back into the

darkness, then pressed his finger against his ear.

Bic, he said.

Whats wrong? he asked. You sound terrified.Professor Baldrick saw me playing with a machine.

Is that some sort of euphemism? Bic asked, then laughed. Michael

did not. Sorry, Bic said quickly. Humour is meant to help in such

situations. What did he say?

He said that I should take it into work tomorrow and would tell me

all about technology and help me destroy it.


35/53

Go. I will be with you the whole time, and maybe he will help

illuminate a few things for you better than I can.

What about the machine? he asked as he thought of its cool touch.

You bring it to me early tomorrow and Ill see if it can be replaced. I

have quite a collection myself.

Okay, Michael said reluctantly.Remember that Ill be right beside you the whole time. Ill be your

guardian angel in your ear.

He smiled.

Do you need anything else? he asked.

No, he replied. Ill be fine.

Well, see you tomorrow then, Michael.

See you tomorrow, he replied.

He walked back into the house and headed back into the bedroom. He

sat down on the bed again and reached into his bag. He pulled out his

papers and his pen and he sighed in the darkness before swallowing hisfear, and writing:

He felt the rocks move. At first he thought they were going to carry

him into the sea, but as he looked down at them they stopped. He felt a

sudden urge to pick one upto see what was hiding underneath it. But

as he tried to prize it from its home it stood there resolutely like a

soldier. He gave up and hated himself for doing so, but he told himself

that eventually he would see what was beneath it. He turned back to

the sea. It was bathed in a foga fog that invaded his lungs and made

his breath short and his thoughts troubled. He coughed and he looked

down at his hand, expecting to find blood, but instead he foundhundreds and hundreds of tiny pebbles.

He dropped them onto the rocks with a fright and swallowed. He felt

that someone was watching him and, glanced around, but he was

completely alone, with only the rocks to keep him company. He listened

to the sea, trying to understand what it was saying, but as it lapped

against the beach, moving ever closer, it said nothing.

He tried to stand up but the rocks held him down tightly. He struggled

with fear as he heard the seas threatening cry as it moved closer and

closer. And as the cold water froze his feet he had almost given up. He

turned to the rocks pleadingly and tried to prize another rock away, butgently this time and he closed his eyes, and all of a sudden it came free

with a silent explosion and he looked down with wide eyes.

Michael? Michelle said through the doorway, and he quickly

pushed the papers back into his bag and dropped the pens in after them.

I didnt mean to disturb you.

Its fine, he said as he looked up.


36/53

There were dark circles under her eyes which were blood shot and

wet, but as she smiled at him as if he wasnt there, he knew she

couldnt be drunk.

Im going straight to bed, she said as she kicked her shoes off. Are

you tired?

Not really, he replied.Are you still writing?

Not really, he said again.

Do you mind if I read the writing in bed, then? she asked hopefully

as she sat down beside him. Just this once.

Fine, he said as he stood up. Im going to eat something. Good

night.

He kissed her warm forehead, and she smiled at him with the last

glinting shreds of humanity in her eyes, which disappeared as she

turned down to the paper and her eyes turned dull and dead.

Michael opened the cupboard and pulled out some bread then pouredhimself a glass of water. He sat down staring through the open doorway

at the light in the hallway as he ate. It turned the cracked-whit- wall

paper orange, and the floorboards a dirty black. He swallowed and

drank. The bread was dry.

The light turned off with a click and he stood up with relief, and tip-

toed down the hallway onto the veranda. He sat down on it with his

feet in the grass and glanced around at the night. The sky was black

with blue specks trying to light the sky, but not even lighting half of the

moon. There was a hot breeze, and it ruffled his hair and clothes

pleasantly. It seemed like hours before he felt safe enough to prize upthe floorboard, and as he reached down in to the darkness he felt eyes

on his back and his body turn cold.

He felt something smooth and wooden with his fingers, and then

clasped it tightly and pulled it from the darkness into the light. He

looked down proudly at a smooth machine. It had a wooden handle,

and a long metal barrel, but the part he liked most was the circular

chamber. He spun it and it clicked softly, then he opened it and pulled

out one of the big lead pills it contained. He pushed them back in and

then placed it reluctantly back into the darkness. He replaced the

floorboard then tip-toed back inside as the eyes left his back.He turned into the bedroom and saw Michelle lying in bed. She was

facing away from the window, but he jumped with fright as she turned

over. He climbed into bed shaking with fear as he realised she might

have been watching him. He felt her put her arms around him, as they

reached for something to hold, and he felt the tight clasp of shackles on

his wrists, and a noose around his neck.


37/53

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the hot, jumping feeling

creeping through his limbs, but not even the jumbled words in his head

could drown out the fear that had taken over his body, and when he

finally fell asleep he was covered in a terrified sweat.


38/53

The Master and the Apprentice

When he woke up he still felt her hands around his chest, but they

didnt seem as tight now, until he remembered her eyes, and pushed her

hands away with a jolt. He walked quickly into the kitchen and turned

the tap on. He splashed the cold water into his face and drank, but it

didnt cool him down. He ran back into the bedroom and grabbed hisbag, then looked down at hisbegwife pleadingly. He wanted to wake

her up, and beg her, but all he could do was kiss her on the forehead,

which felt even more lifeless than yesterday.

He ran outside and kept running until he stood leaning against a tree

gasping for air. Before he could breathe again he pressed his finger

against his ear and spoke:

Bic! he said desperately. Bic!

H waited anxiously as his breath returned.

Michael? The reply finally came. Whats wrong?

I thinkI think my wife saw me with something.With what? Surely it doesnt matter? Just hand it in.

Hand it in! Hed forgotten the machine! Hed forgotten the machine.

He had to go back. He turned around and ran.

With what? Bic asked again, but he didnt reply. Michael are you

okay? he asked. What did she see you with?

But he didnt reply. He peered in through the bedroom window and

sighed with relief as he saw she was still asleep. He knelt down on the

floorboards and ripped one up with a creek, then pulled out two of the

machines and dropped them into the bag and replaced the floorboard,

then stood up and ran.When he could barely breathe he glanced over his shoulder and

couldnt see his house.

Bic, he whispered. She saw me with a gun. She saw me with

bullets.

What the hell are you doing with a gun? he asked and the fear on

his voice scared Michael even more.


39/53

I he said. I dont know.

He waited in silence.

What sort is it? Bic asked. Do you know how to use it?

It is a 44. Magnum, Michael replied. I have it with me.

For Gods sake get rid of the bullets!

No, he replied firmly. Its beautifultheyre beautiful. The onlyway theyll take it form me is if they prize it from my cold dead hands!

Its the only thing left that makes sense.

Bic laughed.

Whats funny?

Nothing, he replied quickly. Nothing has changed then. Dont act

stupidly! Forget the other machine: go to work; hand it in. Hell be

there right?

Yes, Michel replied. He practically lives there.

Good, he said. Go quickly. Afterwards well need time to think.

Michael said nothing and held the bag tighter in his hands as heglanced over his shoulder again and walked as the words seeped back

into his mind.

He blinked in the familiar dust of the town, and found a lonely wall to

lean against and catch his breath. As the dust seeped into his lungs he

glanced around. Everyone around him had long hair, and long clothes,

and walked slowly. They talked quietly and they seemed as dusty as the

street.

He pulled himself from the wall and headed into one of the buildings

he wasnt sure which one; only that it was the right one.

Michael! Professor Baldrick said. Youre as early as the hare!I suppose youre the turtle, then! Michael smileed as he felt the

sweat welling on his forehead. I wanted to show you my writing. He

reached into his bag, and swallowed as his hand touched wood. And I

brought this of course. It slipped from the wood to metal and paper

and he pulled them from his bag and handed them to the professor.

He looked down at the machine with an air of fear in his eyes, but he

discarded it on the table safely, and sat down with the paper in his

hands. His eyes disappeared behind the pages, and Michael pressed his

finger against his ear, but realised he could say nothing.

Finally the Professors eyes returned and he smiled.You must finish this! he said eagerly. You have me well and truly

enthralled.

I must admit that I am still troubled, Michael said, then let his

finger fall from his ear with a twinge of fear.

Not yet, Bic said. Have you ever destroyed technology? Let him

take you first.


40/53

I can see that in your work, the professor nodded. You should have

rested for longer.

I wanted to talk to you, but first let us destroy the machine. It haunts

me even on the table.

The professor nodded and picked it up.

Let us, he said, and they stepped outside.Press your finger against your ear for three seconds, Bic said. And

I will be able to hear anything.

Michael did as he was told.

Is something wrong? Professor Baldrick asked.

No, he replied. Theres just something in my ear.

That one liner was almost worthy of a comic book! Bic laughed. I

could just imagine Batman saying it after he head butted the joker with

his ear. And no, he said, Im not talking about satire but a black and

white battle of good and evil with a troubled protagonist.

Michael almost stopped. In the distance he could see a huge tower ofdark black smoke reaching high into the sky like a plague.

It used to be that the whole world was like that, Professor Baldrick

said seriously. When there were factories everywhere and the sky was

black. You couldnt breathe because of all the smoke, and it got into

your food and water and made your hair dirty and dry and your skin

itchy.

As they drew closer Michael saw a huge building as black as the

smoke. And even as they came closer and closer there were no signs

that it wasnt just a giant black brick; there were no windows and no

doors and no signs of life. When they were close he could see that thethick black paint was speckled with big disgusting bubbles that made

him feel sick.

Feel it, Professor Baldrick said. Its hot.

He pressed his hand against the wall tentativelyagainst the hideous

bubbles, and he smiled. The wall was hard metal, but it was warm like

flesh.

Baldrick knocked loudly on it and the sound ran out across the wall

like an avalanche and the bubbles popped and paint crumbled down to

the ground to reveal charred black metal beneath. The wall opened

slowly and a man with a black smoky face and bright white eyes wasrevealed. He wore black overalls and his body was drenched in a layer

of black sweat. Behind him Michael could see the shadows of dancing

flames, and he could feel the heat on his face, and hear its vicious roar

quietened only by distance.

Go on, Baldrick said.


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Reluctantly he pulled the machine from the bag and handed it to the

man. He looked down it without saying anything, then turned around

and the doors started closing. Michael swallowed as he imagined the

flames devouring it, melting it; destroying it.

He looks like a black minstrel doesnt he? Bic asked, but he said

nothing.They walked in silence all the way into town, with only the words in

Michaels mind keeping him awake.

They stepped back into another building, and sat down at a familiar

table. Michael rested his hands on his bag for comfort as the Professor

smiled.

So, Michael, what is bothering you? he asked.

The world, professor, he replied. That machineII liked it.

Have you ever used one? It was fun. Thats all it was, but it was fun.

And it was smooth and cold and li

The Average Ignorant

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