Darkest Minds

by Bacon, Stephen

  Cleopas put his hand on Nate’s chest. "There’s so much evidence of God in this world. People don’t see. They expect God’s presence to be overwhelming, like staring into the sun. But in fact God hides in our world. This is an imperfect land. Epileptics” uncontrollable hand gestures are signings, over and over again, day and night, of God’s name, to protect us. Dogs bark in backyards because sometimes the imperfections of this world overwhelm them. Would you like to see the world as it really is?"

  "What?"

  Cleopas lifted his hand off Nate’s chest. Positioned his palm a yard from Nate’s face. "You’re going to be happy, then sad, then happy again." Cleopas tilted his large head to one side, sympathetically. "Not as happy as you once were—as we once were—but happier than you are now. And at the very end, you will see the truth. Are you ready?"

  Nate backed up. "I don’t know if—"

  Cleopas slammed the heel of his palm against Nate’s forehead, hard, knocking Nate off his feet.

  Like seeing the world in black and white, then for the first time ever, seeing green leaves, red tongues, yellow sun.

  Everywhere around him on his drive back home, Nates and Hollys.

  He was crying above his steering wheel, wiping his eyes as he drove. Could it really be? So many of the two of them? What had kept him from seeing something so obvious?

  Each day afterwards, he took to going into the city, to malls, restaurants, parks, sitting by himself, watching all the Nates and Hollys interact with each other.

  Sitting on a green bench, brown squirrel on its haunches across the paved purple path, twitching its black nose at him, he watched as different versions of him and Holly strolled by, couples in their eighties, a longevity denied them, still holding hands, white-haired and bent; young versions of them striding past, laughing, caught up in each other. Nates and Hollys who had been lovers for forty years, Nates and Hollys who were on a first date, happy and shy with each other, never having yet kissed. Nates and Hollys who first met in their forties, teens, thirties, sixties. He always regretted he and Holly hadn’t met until their late twenties, he had never gotten a chance to see what she had been like as a child, but now he got to see her, and him, as children, him skate-boarding past, showing off, crashing, arms out as if flying, her rushing over, still holding onto her book, thin body bending to examine his bleeding eight year old knee.

  But each day he’d rise from the park bench, not having seen, in that passing crowd of Nates and Hollys, he and her, precisely he and her. They were everywhere. Almost. But not quite. They were, ultimately, not there.

  Years passed. His hair turned gray, then white. The strong, tall body of his youth went frail, bending over, so that he needed a cane.

  On the last day of his life he rose from the park bench, feet touching the earth, eyes raised to Heaven. Still not ever having glimpsed, in that passing crowd of Nates and Hollys, precisely he and her.

  After all those lonely years, as the first spasm convulsed his heart, he finally saw the truth Cleopas promised.

  Even in a world of eighteens, no one was exactly like Nate and Holly.

  The 2.

  Ralph Robert Moore’s fiction has been published in America, Canada, England, Ireland, India and Australia in a wide variety of genre and literary magazines and anthologies, including Black Static, Shadows & Tall Trees, Midnight Street, ChiZine, and others. His story “Our Island” was one of four stories nominated in 2013 for Best Story by The British Fantasy Society. His latest book, Ghosters, a novel in ten stories, is available through all major online venues.

  Time Waits…

  Mark West

  “Time waits for no man,” said Martyn.

  He was in the kitchen, looking out of the window as he ate his breakfast, watching the God-botherer from across the road drive away in a hurry. He glanced at the hob clock - it was a quarter to seven - rinsed his bowl out and drained his glass of orange juice.

  It seemed to Martyn that time was not only speeding up - something his parents had assured him he’d think, as he got older - but creating ever more restrictions. And nobody was exempt from it, not even the man who made time every Sunday morning to attend to the will of the God he worshipped.

  Martyn went upstairs. Ellen was in the bathroom brushing her hair, half-dressed and he stood behind her, putting his arms around her waist and kissing her cheek.

  “Hi,” she said, cocking her head to the right to brush just above her left ear.

  “Doing anything exciting today?”

  She moved her head to the left, the brush untangling the sleep from her auburn hair. “Meetings all day - the nine-thirty, then planning at eleven until one, half an hour at my desk for a bite to eat, operations meeting from one-thirty to four and then a staff meeting from four-thirty to five.”

  “Not much then?”

  She stopped brushing her hair to turn and kiss him. “Maybe an hour’s worth.”

  “Lucky devil.” He kissed her and went back downstairs, put his shoes and jacket on, picked up his briefcase and unlocked the door. “I’m off now.”

  “See you later, gorgeous,” Ellen shouted from the bathroom.

  “Love you,” said Martyn and then he was gone.

  It was six-fifty-three, three minutes later than he’d normally leave.

  Over the crest of a hill, the valley opened its splendour to him; high, tree-flecked hills reaching for the sky on either side of the road, a railway line crossing a viaduct and fields as far as he could see. Martyn often took this route as a shortcut to Haverton, avoiding rush hour traffic, because it was barely used, its slightly longer distance putting it as second choice to most satellite navigation systems. This shortcut could save – depending on the amount of traffic on the main road – ten or fifteen minutes on the journey.

  He followed the slight turns in the road and drove under the viaduct. Sheep grazed on the rich, velvety grass pausing now and then to watch his progress. Clouds danced across the sky, obscuring the sun, painting patterns across the fields and road.

  The dash clock changed to 7:01 and the news came on the radio. Martyn had no desire to listen to the latest doom and devastation, so pressed the CD button. It was one of Ellen’s pop albums and he debated switching it off but, a few moments later, found himself singing along. Today, he felt, was going to be a good day. According to the clock he was five minutes late, which was a problem, but after the next corner he had a straight run where he could get his speed up and that would buy him a little more time.

  After the corner, the road ahead - which ran for perhaps three miles to the lip of the valley - was clear. Beyond it was Haverton.

  He put his foot down and looked at the dash clock - 7:09. That was strange. He checked his watch - 7:05. He lifted it to his ear and heard its gentle tick.

  “Bloody clock,” he said to the dash, not sure why it was gaining time when he’d only set it two days ago.

  The CD stopped mid-song. Martyn looked down and pressed the eject button. The player made a peculiar noise so he pressed the button again and a quarter of the disc appeared. He pulled but it wouldn’t budge. He checked the road ahead (nothing coming), wedged his knees under the steering wheel and pulled hard on the CD. It didn’t move.

  “Bugger.” The radio crackled into life.

  “Good morning, it’s seven thirty. I’m Edward Brooks and these are the news headlines…”

  Martyn glanced at the clock. It read 7:11. He checked his watch again - 7:07.

  “What the hell is going on?” he said. The CD player made another strange noise and the disc ejected itself, dropping onto the gearstick before sliding into the passenger footwell. Martyn followed its progress, then looked back at the road just in time to see the man on the bike.

  His heart jumped violently and he yanked the car heavily to the right to avoid the cyclist who was clad in bright yellow jersey, white helmet and red trousers. The man must have been there for ages but Martyn had just not seen him but no, that couldn’t be right, his vie
w had been unimpeded, he’d have seen the bright colours if nothing else.

  As he passed, Martyn looked at the cyclist and felt a sudden cold pull in his chest. The cyclist had no face, just a flesh coloured blank with dark smudges where eyes, nose and mouth should have been.

  Martyn pulled back onto his side of the road and looked in the rear view mirror. The cyclist continued to pedal steadily, apparently unconcerned at the near miss. His face was still blank.

  Martyn could feel goose bumps pebble his arms, how was this possible? Perhaps he was wearing one of those cycling masks and with the speed he was going, Martyn hadn’t seen him properly? That had to be it, because to think otherwise would be madness. He rolled his shoulders, trying to iron out the kinks that had suddenly bedded themselves in.

  The dash clock now read 7:15. The road ahead was clear so Martyn risked a glance in the rear view mirror.

  The cyclist wasn’t there.

  Martyn peered through the windscreen. Inexplicably, the cyclist was now a long way in front of him, still pedaling steadily. Martyn put his foot down, the speedo creeping through the sixties and seventies and the cyclist got nearer, his head bobbing from side to side as if he was singing to himself. Martyn closed the gap - one hundred metres, eighty, sixty, forty, twenty. He passed by and looked hard, trying to see everything and not leave any gaps for his imagination to fill.

  The cyclist looked at him and smiled, his eyes and nose crinkling, his teeth bright against his wind burned face. Martyn nodded at him and carried on.

  “Good afternoon, this is Edward Brooks with the lunchtime news.”

  Martyn looked at the dash clock - 26:05. He checked his watch and the hands were moving away from each other, creating patterns like synchronised swimmers. He looked in the rear view mirror and the cyclist waved and then overtook him, his face melting away, the nose running into the mouth, the eyes rolling sideways like rain on a windscreen, disappearing into the helmet. The featureless thing rode by, leisurely pumping the pedals, no effort exerted. Martyn looked at his speedo and saw he was doing almost ninety.

  *

  Lying on the bed, Martyn listened to Ellen in the bath, the gentle splashes and the soft rub of her razor on her delicate skin. He pictured her, an arm above her head and felt himself react to the image. He sat up, plumped up the pillows and cracked the spine of his book.

  “What time is it?” she called.

  “Half eleven.” It was actually 11:29 but Martyn didn’t like to be exact about time when he wasn’t at work and Ellen was happy being somewhere near or thereabouts. On their first date he’d been bang on time only to discover that not only was she still in her bedroom, putting on make-up, but she hadn’t even decided what to wear. He’d sat with her father in the lounge, watching the local sports round-up and trying to sound interested in the fate of Gaffney FC.

  “I’ll be done soon,” she said, her voice softer this time.

  “No rush,” he said and liked to believe that he meant it but he didn’t. There didn’t seem to be spare time to be had any more, any gaps or spaces to just relax. He loved Ellen dearly but every moment they spent together seemed to be stolen from something else that really needed the time - should he finish that report or go out for a meal with his wife? Should he let her finish the manning programme she’d been poring over for hours or should he cuddle her and see if anything developed?

  He understood that you needed time to make time but it seemed to be constantly slipping away from him, not so much the grains of sand falling through an egg timer but an avalanche of the stuff, burying him in its relentless path.

  “Would you like to scrub my back?”

  He leaped out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

  #

  Martyn had to get the car up to past one hundred before he caught up with the cyclist. The man leaned back, for all the world like someone going for a leisurely ride on a Sunday afternoon, but still pulled ahead.

  “Good evening, my name is Anne Lesley, it’s seven o’clock and these are the evening headlines…”

  “Seven?” Martyn looked from the radio, to the clock and then outside. It took him a moment or two to realise just what was wrong with what he was seeing. Everything was the same; the hill, the road, the trees and the sheep, but the colours seemed to be draining away. Where the grass had been a vibrant green, it was now an insipid lime.

  The cyclist stopped pedaling and Martyn overtook him but it wasn’t the faceless man, this time it was Ellen looking at him from under the brim of the helmet. Martyn felt a jolt in his chest that seemed to run down his arms, making his fingers tingle. Ellen waved and pointed ahead. Martyn looked and saw that the sky was now blotted by a purple cloud, the colour of a livid bruise.

  He felt beads of sweat beads run down his forehead and his heart thumped a tattoo. He looked at the speedo and took his foot off the accelerator when he saw the needle waving at one hundred and ten. As his speed dropped he glanced in the rear view mirror. The cyclist was a long way back now, only visible because of the bright colours he wore, his pedaling still sure and steady.

  “Ellen,” Martyn said and laughed. It was stress, it must be; he was working too hard and not getting enough sleep. Thinking it’d been Ellen on the bike was as laughable as thinking the cyclist had no face. He glanced at the jammed dash clock - 26:05 - and then at his wristwatch. It was 7:29 and everything was alright with the world. Maybe last night’s love-making had taken more out of him than he’d realised.

  He took a deep breath, rubbed the bridge of his nose until it hurt and looked back at the sky. With horror, he saw that it wasn’t there any more, replaced by a cloudless darkness that made him feel cold just looking at it. He watched, his heart thudding hard enough that he could feel it in his upper arms, as the empty blackness of the sky began to seep into the hills, like water-colour paints applied in the wrong order. The lime green grew darker, going through several shades until it wasn’t there anymore.

  A quick glance in the rear view mirror confirmed the same thing was happening behind him. The black sky and hills were slowly merging into one another, the viaduct already gone. The cyclist was still coming, unaware of the darkness creeping up on him, a deep shadow painting its progress.

  “Come on,” shouted Martyn. “Get a move on!”

  He braked hard, the car skidding to a halt and looked back at the cyclist. The man looked behind him and wobbled on his bike, then leaned forward and began to pedal harder. Even as he did so, the gap between him and Martyn seemed to grow. It looked as if he wasn’t moving at all, an impression helped by the lack of landmarks other than a dusty tarmac road seemingly suspended in the middle of nothing.

  “It’s about time,” said the radio, “for you to get your skates on. It’s 7:30 and we’ve been up for hours so why aren’t you?”

  #

  Ellen was always telling him to slow down but he didn’t pay much attention. The thought of time nagged at him constantly. When did it stop being elastic and become a bind that trapped and suffocated him, denied him things and became an opponent that couldn’t be beaten? He remembered wasting time in bliss, reading and watching TV until time stopped and stretched - turning slowly into a boring miasma of counted minutes and seconds, to be willed on, wishing there was something else to do. Now he begged for more hours - too many meetings, too many people to see, too many things to do and too many miles to drive. He made time for Ellen but other people and things dropped off the end. He felt like he was living thirty-hour days in half the time and even his boss - bald and riddled with ulcers - said he didn’t know how he managed it.

  #

  The darkness passed over the cyclist and he was gone. Martyn wound down his window but a draught of cold, dead air seemed to push him back into his seat. He quickly wound the window up, put the car into gear and wheel-span away, willing the car on quicker towards the black horizon, the Haverton road and presumed sanity.

  The radio hiccupped into life, a voice muttered something and then disappear
ed, replaced by a song that Martyn remembered from a long time ago which weaved in and out of the static like a footballer. The dash clock flickered, flashing on a hundred variations. It settled again at 26:05, burned brightly for a second and then dulled, hard to see with no natural light. Martyn looked around but all that was left of the world that he’d begun to travel this morning was the road and himself.

  The blackness ahead began to eat the tarmac, cutting off his route. Frantically he looked around but it surrounded the car, chewing away his world.

  Was this it? All his attempts to beat time, had he somehow managed it? Had he broken the rules?

  “I love you, Ellen,” Martyn shouted as he gunned the engine and drove into the darkness, a darkness which embraced him with a sense of love and finality.

  Mark West was born in Northamptonshire in 1969 and now lives there with his wife Alison and their young son Matthew. Since discovering the small press in 1998 he has published over seventy short stories, two novels (In The Rain With The Dead and Conjure), a novelette (The Mill), a chapbook (What Gets Left Behind), a collection (Strange Tales) and a novella (Drive). He has more short stories forthcoming, as well as another novella (The Lost Film) due from Pendragon Press and he is currently working on a novel. He can be contacted through his website at www.markwest.org.uk

  The Catalyst

  Gary Fry

  Emma stabbed the spade into sun-baked earth, her joints responding painfully with the impact. She’d been working in the back garden for an hour, but now the summer was reminding her of her age. Just a little more, she encouraged herself; there’s life in you yet. Then she re-assaulted the barren border with renewed vigour . . . but when the metal blade clanged against something hard beneath the soil, her bones vibrated so rigorously that she relinquished the tool and immediately mopped her wringing brow.