Fiction Vortex - November 2013

by Fiction Vortex

  “Is that last one really necessary?” he asked.

  Looking down at the side of the chair, Al replied “Don’t you worry, Darren, you’ll be fine with me,” and pressed another lever.

  The chair pivoted backwards like a dentist’s chair, but all the way, at the same time straightening itself out so that Darren found he was lying flat on his back and looking up at strange lights in a strange ceiling. For an instant he didn’t grasp what was happening, then he realized that the section of wall into which the chair was built was the door he’d been wondering about earlier on. Simultaneously, there was a faint rumble as Al pushed the trolley, which the door had now become, into the other room.

  Darren looked around as far as his restricted vision would allow. Leaning over him were the faces of three men, one in black and two in blue jackets, all with businesslike expressions. The top of a screen was visible behind them. One of the men shifted slightly as Al pushed the trolley, which snapped into place as it docked with something in the far wall.

  “Al! This isn’t supposed to be happening now! You told me tomorrow. I’m not ready!” Darren managed to gasp out, breathless with shock.

  From somewhere out of sight, Al spoke. “It’s best this way, Darren. Trust me, it ain’t gonna hurt.”

  Darren stared, mouth open and unable to say anything. One of the men in blue was holding a paper. Speaking quickly but clearly, he read from it. “Here is a copy of the agreement which you signed on the sixteenth of October. I Darren Swayles, of sound mind, hereby contract to hand ownership of my unharmed body to Beckford Medical and Custodial Group plc, in order that its representatives may permanently uninstall my own consciousness and permanently install the consciousness of their client, whose identity will not be disclosed to me. This process will take place at the complete discretion of the Beckford Group any time after conclusion of the financial arrangements, namely the permanent transfer by Beckford Financial Services plc of five million pounds into a trust fund for the care and upbringing of Joseph Tinson, Rebecca Tinson, and Shane Tinson, to be administered by your authorized representative until they reach the age of eighteen, after which an allowance will be made to each of them until they reach the age of twenty five, after which they will direct your said representative as to the future apportionment of their share of this money. I hereby commit to this procedure in full awareness and acceptance that once begun, it is irreversible.” He folded the paper. “Please confirm to me that you are Darren Swayles.”

  The cotton wool cleared from Darren’s mind. He wanted to live. It didn’t matter about the money. He’d manage somehow, and he’d see the kids right. He’d make them stop it.

  “It’s a mistake!” he called out. “I don’t want to do this. I’m ordering you to stop!” Then in a moment of inspiration, as he thought, “I’m not Darren Swayles! I deny being Darren Swayles!”

  The second man looked down at Darren sympathetically. “It’s a formality, Darren. We know who you are. We are going ahead now. It’s like Al said, this way is best for everyone.”

  Now the man in the black jacket stepped forward, and Darren saw that he was wearing a clergyman’s collar. At the same time, there was a mild pricking sensation in each upper arm, followed by a tingling. The clergyman said softly “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I absolve you of all your sins,” then stepped back and nodded to the first man.

  Darren opened his mouth to call out, but the tingling had reached his throat and he couldn’t speak. The tingling became a buzzing, then a whirring which spread throughout his entire body and brain, bringing with it the terror of the inexorable. Now it was drawing him down and he didn’t want to go, but the pull was too strong to resist. With a last despairing cry that never reached his lips, his fingers slipped off the rock face and he slid down into the abyss, dissolving as he went.

  The three men waited patiently at the edge of the trolley. Al sat down in a chair by the wall, his face showing signs of strain for the first time. His part in this was over at last, and he was glad of that. He always told himself he’d never do another one, and yet when the offer came the money was always too good to turn down. But he never really got used to it.

  After about a minute of complete stillness, Darren’s hands and legs began twitching as sensation returned to his body. At the end of the trolley, behind his head, a green light came on. Now it was the doctor who breathed a deep sigh of relief, saying “I think we’re there.”

  A pair of eyes opened, and a person who was not Darren looked out of into the world.

  “Mr. Farnon? Blink twice if you can hear me.” The eyes blinked, twice.

  “What number did I give you to remember?”

  The eyes blinked again, first three times, then once.

  “Thirty one. It’s him. Welcome to your new life, Mr. Farnon.”

  Behind the screen, a ventilator was switched off and a tired old body breathed its last.

  Edward Pearce is a retired technical translator who lives in Lincolnshire with his partner and their two cats. His stories usually contain a supernatural or eerie element, and have appeared in the All Hallows journal, in the UK Terror Tales series, and in the anthology “Acquainted With The Night,” and a further three are awaiting publication. In his spare time he enjoys walking, reading, looking for bargains in antique stores and online, days out on the East Anglian coast, and almost anything of historical interest.

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  The Weather Forecast

  by Jackie Bee; published November 26, 2013

  First Place Award, November 2013 Fiction Contest

  2020 (June 10, 20:57)

  There’s a large green carpet on the floor of the make-up room. It’s so soft and fluffy I can imagine myself lying on grass, the yellow lamp over my head serving as the midday sun. Rational and self-respecting adults shouldn’t be lying on the floor like this, and if anybody comes in and sees me … but I know that nobody is going to come in. Not yet. It’s just that the carpet looked so inviting. Bury myself in the soft pile and fall asleep…

  Lying on my side, I examine the fibers, stroking them gently. Muffled voices come from the other side of the door. The live broadcast will begin in a few minutes, but they still won’t bother me. The whole crew is in the studio right now, the host is being made up on set, and I have this room all to myself, although, I’m not using it properly. They’ll have to smoke me out of here before the show begins.

  That assistant girl is about to walk in. Having brought me a glass of water a few minutes ago, she feels braver than the others.

  Three. Two. One.

  As the doorknob turns, I quickly sit up. Sitting on the floor is still more acceptable than lying.

  “Can I bring you anything else?”

  I admire the approach. Not “Why aren’t you on the set yet?” but just a polite offer of another glass of water.

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  I stand up and walk out. People go quiet; some of them look away, others stare. Every night they fill the corridor, but some keep pretending they just happened to walk by, minding their own business, nothing to do with me.

  The assistant strides behind me, trying to keep up. She is wearing high heels and I am in sneakers, so the competition is not quite fair.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she says. “A little one.”

  “Not now,” I reply. “After the show.”

  “Of course, sure…”

  After the show the crowd will push her aside so we won’t have a chance to talk. Her question will lose any meaning anyway and will remain unanswered. It does have an answer, but I wouldn’t like to give it away. She’s a nice girl, and I hate breaking hearts, although I do it every day. It’s much easier to be cruel to huge, faceless mankind than to specific people. Especially skinny ones with big eyes like hers.

  The host greets me briefly as I take my place, but there’s no time for conversation — the commercial break is over, and we are live.

  �
�Thank you for staying with us.” He addresses the cameras, and then, half turning to me, “Hello, Selia. How are you doing today?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Optimistic, as usual.” His face switches to a professional expression, one that always fascinates me with its complex mix of expectation, irony, and readiness to become serious in the blink of an eye. Whatever I say, he will match it. “Well, the next five minutes are all yours. What are you going to tell us about?”

  I stare at the camera, which is focused on my face. I’ll decide as I go along, but simple stuff is always good to start with. So I make myself comfortable and say:

  “Let’s talk about the weather.”

  ~~~~~

  2015 (October 5, 18:30)

  It’s the end of the week, and everybody is trying to sneak home as early as possible. Around 5 p.m. the corridors are empty and computer screens go blank. I can hear the door slam every now and then, as the last employees escape to freedom.

  I’m the last one here. I have a lot of work to do, and I prefer to finish it now rather than continue next week. But by 6 p.m. my head refuses to keep up. I barely have enough energy to go through my email, so I just give up.

  I climb into my car. Driving slowly to the street, I notice the security man waving at me; at first I wave back but then realize that he’s just reminding me to turn my lights on. I blush and hastily switch the lights on. I’m so tired, it feels like my brain is numb.

  Actually, it’s just a matter of minutes before my life changes forever, but I know nothing of that yet. I stop at a red light and rub my face to wake myself up. Then the light turns green, and a white Subaru to the right of me starts up with a roar.

  ~~~~~

  2015 (October 5, 19:05)

  The car turns over and slides down the slope upside down. I seem to be moving in and out of consciousness over and over within seconds. When the car slides to a stop, I quickly unfasten the safety belt and try to get out. The car rests on its side, rocking slightly; the driver’s door is blocked, so I stand on it and try to open the window on the other side. Then I realize that the whole windshield is smashed so I can get out easily. I’m in a state of shock and feel nothing but the urge to get outside as soon as possible.

  I crawl out and find myself under the light of a street lamp. I notice some kind of stains over my hands — either dirt or blood — but feel no pain. Someone is yelling; I can see two or three cars parked at the roadside, and people are running towards me. Bending down, I manage to walk a couple of steps before one of them reaches me — a guy with a mustache. That’s all I can make out, that he’s a guy and he’s got a mustache. Quite a reasonable combination. He tries to support me by grabbing my shoulders, although I can stand well enough by myself.

  “Lie down!” he shouts. “You may have injuries, don’t move!”

  “We need to get away from the car,” I say, trying to avoid him. “It may explode.”

  In movies they always do.

  I manage to dodge him, but then, somehow, I find myself sitting on the ground surrounded by people. One of them is the owner of that white Subaru that was swerving from lane to lane all the time; at first he looks scared, but then starts screaming at me — “What kind of driver are you?” — though it was he who hit my car. The others start to yell at him — that’s good, I can’t defend myself right now.

  A woman sits down next to me and says, “You’re bleeding.” I look at my hands again, but she reaches out with a tissue and wipes something off my forehead.

  “That’s okay.” I mutter.

  “Yes, yes,” she says. “What’s your name?”

  “Selia.”

  “It’s going to be all right, Selia,” she says, suddenly looking all blurry and repeating, “Don’t sleep! Don’t sleep!”

  I look away and see polar lights in the sky, and suddenly everything around seems to be covered with snow…

  ~~~~~

  2015 (November 1, 19:35)

  The restaurant parking lot is poorly illuminated, and the rough asphalt looks like one big pool of water. I run to the door and pause there to adjust my coat and arrange my hair to cover the scar. Despite all efforts, there’s still water in my shoes. Thanks to yesterday’s forecast for my tomorrow’s cold.

  These blind dates are a kind of a puddle in their own right. You are sure to get your feet wet; the question is how much. At my age of thirty-three, when all the worthwhile men have been taken by luckier or quicker-thinking women, I have to be content with what’s left — momma’s boys, divorced misogynists, and hopelessly stubborn bachelors. I wonder what’s in store for me this time.

  The place is dark and half empty but feels cozy. I look for the “young, serious, 5’9″, brown eyes, wearing white shirt” guy. And there he is – the only white shirt is waving at me, the only “beige coat, 5’5″, green eyes, dark hair, loves kids and animals, interested in serious relationship.”

  The guy actually looks about thirty, and he does resemble the picture from the site. It didn’t reveal the glasses or the fact that he’s slightly balding, but that’s small fry.

  “Selia?”

  “Eric?”

  An exchange of plastic smiles follows, accompanied by complaints about the weather and the mandatory compliment of “You look better than your picture.”

  “The weather is just terrible, right?” he says.

  “And they said there would be no rain…”

  “I got here right in the midst of it; good thing I found an umbrella in the car”

  “When I started driving, there was such a downpour I had to pull over and wait for a few minutes.”

  “I saw two accidents on the way. People simply don’t know how to drive in the rain. Waitress!”

  “Right, one guy passed me and he didn’t even have his lights on.”

  “On days like this it’s better to stay home. But who knew? Waitress!”

  A girl with a notepad approaches. He orders coffee, I ask for a beer.

  “That’s role reversal for you!” he says and smiles. “If we were ordering food, I’d probably have taken a salad and you a steak.”

  Oh, he can make a joke. Nice.

  As we go on with our small talk, the gray noise grows louder – at first I think it’s coming from the people around, but then realize it’s in my head. As the noise increases, it’s getting harder to hear what Eric is saying. The scar on my forehead itches. I rub it slightly, trying not to draw Eric’s attention, but he notices.

  “What’s that?” He looks closely. “Seems like a fresh scar. What happened?”

  “Had a car accident three weeks ago. Another car hit mine, and I flew off the road.”

  “Wow!” He looks at me anxiously. “Concussion?”

  “Yeah, with some bruises and scratches, but I got off lightly, you know.”

  “Than, maybe, you shouldn’t … I mean, beer and stuff?”

  I wonder what he means by “stuff.”

  He means sex, prompts the gray noise in my head. And he wonders if you haven’t gone crazy as a result of the concussion, if you’ll stab him with that bread knife that lies on the table next to the spoons and the forks. Eric is fond of himself and doesn’t want to deal with some crazy chick. Apart from that, he’s married, so he’s really not looking for trouble. He just wants some time off from family life. Last time he slept with his wife was a month ago, and his dream is to have sex with a stranger in a public place, but still he wrote to you, despite the “interested in serious relationship” thing, because he’s afraid of picking up younger and bolder girls, and you had kind eyes on the picture.

  Gray noise goes quiet. Or maybe I force it to.

  “Eric, are you married?”

  He frowns slightly, then smiles.

  “No,” he says, “You can see, there’s no ring. Why do you ask?”

  “You look like a married guy.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I prefer dating singles.”

  “I’m single. If you
don’t like me, just say so.”

  “No, I do like you…”

  I take another swig from the bottle, contemplating him. Yes, I do like him. When he’s not talking banalities.

  The gray noise creeps in again – information, a whole ocean of it, raging around us, protected only by the weak dam of our limitations. My dam started leaking when the car flew off the road. I didn’t just hit my head, I hit it at some very unique angle. I don’t know if anyone has hit such an angle before, but my guess is that I’m the first. And now the leak was letting in all this unwanted information, which, it turns out, was filling the space around us – answers were crowding in, just waiting for the questions to be asked.

  It started at the hospital when I woke up after the crash, pumped full of drugs, and the doctor had a headache. It took me a while to actually understand that it was him having the headache and not me. I just woke up and realized that there was a headache, but then, checking my sensations, found no pain. A doctor was talking to a nurse near my bed, so I asked, “Does your head hurt?”

  He looked at me, puzzled, and said, “Yes, but how did you know?”

  I didn’t really have an answer, so I just closed my eyes and fell asleep — or maybe passed out.

  What does Eric think about me?

  She’s got pretty eyes. Nice boobs too. How far will she go on a first date? Maybe if she finishes her beer … should I get her another bottle? But how will she drive home in this rain after drinking that much? Why did she ask if I was married? A mark from the ring? She looks distracted. What’s with that concussion? Maybe she has problems with her head. Should I get involved with her at all?

  Well, that’s nice of him to worry about me getting home. Also, he did notice my eyes.

  “Have you finished your beer?” Eric points at my bottle. “Should I get you another one?”

  I smile involuntarily. Selfishness seems to beat good intentions.

  “No, thanks.” I stand up.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Just to powder my nose.” I reply, and suddenly add, “Want to join me?”