Special Little Man

Heyyyyy!

Hi.

Hey guess what, I had coffee with Marti and look! Look! Look!

Nfh.

You’re not looking. Look! -- What’s the matter?

Nothing, nothing.

Bad day?

Yeah.

Aww. But look!

(she is holding a DVD box set. it is the second season of True Blood)

Oh, cool.

Pfft. C’mere.

No.

You want to talk to Mum about your bad day?

…um.

(a pause)

Yeah.

OK. Just a sec.

(she leaves. he drinks the rest of the Ribena. rain falls into the garden outside.)

(she returns, now wearing horn rimmed glasses, a blue bathrobe and hair curlers)

Aww here’s my Rojie.

Hi.

Awww here. Have a hug. Tell Mum about your bad day.

It was okay.

(she pulls a pack of cigarettes out from the robe and lights one)

Did you feel the earthquake this morning?

Nn-nn.

Felt like a big one. It was early, at like 10 or something. The sky got dark and the whole building shook. You didn’t feel it? At first I thought it was like a bomb or a missile or something… plane crash.

My Rojie. Worried about plane crashes. You’re my nervous little guy.

Yeah – but then it was weird, because afterwards I kept finding all this dust in my office, like white powder or something. It was getting into my shoes and everything. And then fucking Korea was –

Tsk.

Sorry Mum. Sorry. It’s that guy, he’s like… he had me on the edge of a panic attack all day. They’re doing performance reviews this month and he’s just walking around the office all morning staring at people’s work stations, doing spot checks. Who was in, who wasn’t in. He’s going to lay off half my team, I know it. You should have seen him, he was stalking around like some kind of primal hunter. And then he’s coming up to me and asking if I believe there’s a God – what are you supposed to say to that!? Like what, you’re going to fire me because I don’t… shit, could he do that? I don’t even know what religion he is, so I can’t lie. Fuck’s sake I can’t even work out what ethnicity he is!! Sorry Mum. I shouldn’t swear, I know. I’m just really worked up.

There there. I don’t like this man very much.

He doesn’t blink. Not very often anyway.

I don’t like anyone who’s mean to my little Rojie.

And he’s calling me all day, I mean what are you supposed to do? And oh God I haven’t told you -- he gets Janet to come in, all like “you have to go see Korea right now”, like “RIGHT NOW” and I go there and his office is empty. It’s just me and… he has all these little statues, like Easter Island things. And then I hear this thump, it’s like a horror movie or something, and really slowly he comes up from underneath his desk and stares at me. HE WAS HIDING THERE. Under his desk. And we have this… I don’t know what you’d call it, “conversation” isn’t really the word. He’s going on about Star Trek and man’s mission to the universe or some shit – sorry – and I’m standing there thinking “what have I done”, you know? “What have I done, why is this happening to me?” Just like “I’m going to get fired now” or “maybe he’s going to bite me to death”, and I don’t know why it’s happening, and all I can pay attention to is that my hands are in my pockets and they’re full of this white powder shit, and he’s not blinking, he doesn’t even blink once, I couldn’t take it, I thought I was going to puke, I actually had to go to the toilet and stand there for like three minutes because I thought I was going to puke…

My brave little boy.

…and y-yuh… yuh…

(gulping for breath)

You just let it out.

Hnnnhhhh.

That’s right. Let all that tension out. Deep breaths. You’re so brave.

(a long pause)

Huh. Hnnh. -- You shouldn’t smoke Mum.

Tsk.

(a long pause)

But he didn’t fire you.

No.

And they’re not going to. You’re too special for them to fire you.

Yeah.

My brave little man. You had a bad nasty horrible Wednesday but you made it didn’t you?

Yeah.

And you have your pretty girlfriend coming over and she’s going to watch True Blood with you. You like that show, don’t you?

Yeah.

That’s right. It’s your favourite show, and you’re going to have ice cream and everything’s going to be all right.

Yeah. -- Thanks Mum.

Tsk. I love my little man.

(she kisses him on the cheek, then smiles and walks out of the room)

(a moment passes. he has regained his composure)

…fucking Star Trek… I mean, what the fuck...?

(he picks the DVD box up off the kitchen counter. turns it over. reads the back)

Hmmph.

(she returns, dressed as previously)

Hey hon!

Hey.

(she sniffs)

Phee-eww! Did she smoke in here?

Yeah. I told her not to.

Ah well.

Horrific Nightmare Action (2 of 2)

Been meaning to finish this. So:

Men, boiler suits and masks – hammers, rope. More and more people screaming. Breaking into the flats, pulling the people out, dragging them. Into the courtyard. Pushing their bodies into the coffins.

I’m watching. I think: oh shit I have to protect my grandmother. Pushing them into coffins and hammering the lids shut with massive iron nails. Up onto my feet, armchair falling over.

One of the teams is near the flat, the leader looks my way
looks right at me
points
to say: 'that one'
and they set down the hammers
start walking over
walking across the courtyard of coffins
walking through harsh sunlight
sound of screaming is everywhere
but not too fast
an assured, practical stride
four or five of them
coming over

I run to the door and somehow it's hanging open. Somehow they're closer than they should be. The first one is just three or four steps away. Blank-faced mask, reaching out.

No time to shut the door. Got to save my grandmother.
I turn and run into the flat, and that's when everything
I mean everything
explodes with wriggling, crawling
there are old people climbing out from everywhere
out from inside the furniture
under the carpet
out from behind the pictures on the wall
climbing out of vases, climbing down out of the lampshades
they have these leering eyes
broken teeth
naked
all of them are naked, they have drooping flesh and liver spots
matted hair
veins under their skin
purple/black flesh from bad circulation

I run through the lounge, leaping up from the limbs clutching up from the floor, amazed - HORRIFIED! - by this. In the hallway doors are bursting wide, they're falling out in twined masses, piling onto the floor.
I scream. I turn back - the men are stepping inside, the first man is staring at me across the writhing, transformed room. His eyes are made of shining metal.
I don't have a choice, I run into the hall. I have to step on some of them. They moan. They are hard to step on, they're all in motion, churning, it's a sexual thing - OH GOD, they're having SEX with each other, or they're trying to.
The rooms have moved. The whole layout of the flat has changed, I open the door to what should be my grandmother's bedroom, but it's a toilet and two of them are pushed up, rutting against the sink and watching me in the mirror.
I turn - metal eyes at the end of the hall. Climb over more of them, they're moaning now, and here's a side-hall which is free of them, it's empty, then a corner, a small room. A washing machine. A big wooden door. Beside the door, my third grade teacher.
My teacher pulls her top off, revealing large naked breasts.
She points at the door, a gatekeeper from an old, old story.
She says: "Your father is waiting for you."
The panic is gone. A strange silence has settled, it's almost like peace but it's not. A hum of expectancy.
I step up to the door. My teacher's breasts are heavy, pale, round. She smiles.
"Go in."

I open the door. It's a bedroom. Not my grandmother's.
It's too late to save her anyway.
Ornate. A four-poster bed, drapes and tapestries on the walls. Antique furniture. A large gold-coloured statue - an eagle taking flight with something dead in its claws. On a side table, a smaller sculpture of two dogs tearing at each other's throats. The whole place has a feeling of opulence, dread.
Opposite the door is the most important thing - a cheval glass. A full-figure mirror. Ornate golden frame, fashioned into a series of animals eating each other. This has been a recurring image for me, both before and since. Chains of animals, all eating each other. Here, looking at this mirror, I think: this is Nazi stuff. Evil.
I look at the mirror. I guess I must have taken a step forward because she's closed the door behind me. The hum is actually in my ears now, humming and growing louder. The reflection in the mirror is cloudy, I can only vaguely see myself, my own body. The glass is rippling, like water. The glass is on fire. Those invisible flames which shimmer, warp your vision. My reflection is moving, stepping closer.
What did she mean "My father is waiting"? My father?
It isn't my reflection. Something's coming out. Something breaks the surface up high, up at the top - two points, horns. Far apart, more and more of them. And now I can see fingers, emerging to grip the frame, which is on fire.
More and more of the horns, my god they are huge.
And a hairy knee, a leg, a cloven hoof planted onto the carpet, which blackens, scorched.
I'm thinking: MY FATHER?
When this thing comes out, when I see its face, some part of me will be destroyed, utterly. It doesn't matter that it's only a dream. When I see this thing's face, it'll be over.

The Big Sleep Dep Monster

The laughter dies, an awkward silence ensues, and then the ground quakes.

The Big SDM wakes, it comes lurching out of the soil, from a field or a hillside somewhere. Maybe out in Sterling, the outskirts of Perth.

It would yawn, except for that mangled face. It grinds its jaws in a yawn-like way.

It's sort of a greyish green monster. It has lean limbs, a dessicated face, teeth which grow straight from its cheeks. No time or expense wasted on lips or other such pleasantries.

It would blink, except that mess of tissue couldn't really be called eyelids, and the misty grey balls of mush therein couldn't really be called eyes.

It does, however, have a garage. From this garage it extracts two oily, bulging sacks, both leaking coloured powder.

The one in its left hand, the bag with the white powder is labelled FEAR.

Fear that you won't wake up in time for work, or that when you get there you'll have forgotten something. Fear that you're not doing a good job. That your colleagues do not like you, that your job itself is beneath you, that your childhood self would recoil in shame if it saw what a miserable hash you'd made of your life.

Fear that you'll be old before you know it, dead before you know it. Fear that you're missing the point, that people out there, your friends, are making a better go of being alive. You should be more like them. Or actually fuck your friends, let's have instead the fear that they're HOLDING YOU BACK. All of them. Holding you back from what? You don't know, and that scares you. Surely you ought to know what you're being denied.

Scary. Scary, scary fear.

The other bag, the one in the right hand trickling with candy-pink powder is labelled HABIT.

Because you need a little treat to reward yourself for getting out of bed on a Monday, let's say a danish or a donut, and then you're at work so there's your coffee. There's your chewing gum, good on you for not smoking. There's the mail, the Outlook Inbox, there's those fuckers you work with filing in. There's the 10:30 slump, waiting for lunch. The perfunctory lunch. Nothing too lavish, got to save money. The afternoon, Jesus, roll on the weekend. The clock, ticking. The chores, performed. Jesus, Jesus. Almost there. 4:30. 4:40. 4:45. The evening!

Except what to do, God, well there's the post-work run, dinner, a video maybe, a beer most definitely. Two? Any more than three and you have a drinking problem, so let's call it three. There's Monday. There's Tuesday. I wasn't kidding when I said roll on the weekend. Thursday. There's the weekend!

What were we going to do with the weekend? Tell you what, roll on payday. More money would solve this. Only the end of the month. Not much longer.

It's a monster all right.

The Big SDM hefts its two lethal bags, grins its mangled smile into the weak light, and sets off to destroy me.

It's big. It's HUGE. It's so utterly vast that a single one of its steps crosses 20 entries of Sleep Dep.