Literati: The Priory School Literary Magazine: February 2016

A word from the writer on somewhat unrelated topics:

Ideas are worthless, when you die you take all of the good ideas that you never told anyone about with you. As I person I honestly think that it is your responsibility to record your private genius so that later, or after, your life, someone may benefit from it.

Prelude

Once upon a time I forgot to die, I lost the ability. I had been shot to death by police officers for I had spoken out. My whole life I had been oppressed. My boyfriend had supported me throughout my entire career as a DJ. He had even supported me when I went abroad. My manager had got me on a global tour that was when it began; I began to see life in all of its forms whilst on my travels. I found that though the dance may be of different bodies, to different tunes there is a common grace of the found in all people, the spark of life. I had vowed to protect life, to channel my spare resources, be it money or time, to worthy causes around the world. I felt that although my life was profitable and comfortable I could never enjoy my luxuries again in the knowledge that there were people elsewhere who did not have these luxuries. I was relatively well informed, I watched the new just as much as the next person so I knew of the global suffering but before I had distanced myself from it all. That is, until the day that the wall between me and pain shattered.

I was in Moscow when it started; I was playing at a well-known nightclub, a small gig in between two different festivals in Russia. A man flipped back his hood as he entered past the bouncers. As soon as the bouncers saw his face they dragged him back and began to beat him. On the very floor of my domain, I watched as more dancers flooded to steal the life from his body, for he was black. The black folks had been outlawed in Russia yesterday, the youth must not have known. The police quickly arrived and I was forced from my booth, as was the crowd from the dance floor. As soon as the officer who had led me away turned his back I rushed around him, back towards the soon to be lifeless young man. I knew not what I would do to help, I simply had to act. I charged forth in a blur of adrenalin hours passed in my mind as the batons swung again and again, each swish ending in a hard crack of skull.

I heard a harsh snap from behind me, not understanding until the pain hit: the officer that I had passed had shot me. I felt every moment, Life did not leave me fast enough to spare me the impossible feeling of every nerve cell being shattered as the rear of my head split. I writhed, for I was not done with life. Then and only then did my consciousness seep out of the cracks in me.

Chapter 1

Sight returned long before my vision did. At first there was naught but turquoise, not a flat colour but with more depth than I could understand, there it sat, infinity far away and in every direction. Then I could hear again, obviously my ears were damaged, so painfully slowly the ringing became louder and with it a mist of crimson descended on my turquoise field. Now the rest of my senses began to input their contribution to my mind. Pain, so very much of it, more than I had ever felt before. I did not move, I did not scream for I was still a prisoner inside my mind. However inside the walls of my cell I beamed my wailing expression of anguish around at the emptiness. I decided that my first priority would be to begin measuring time. I heard my heartbeat, a slight blue pulsating at the very edges of my internal vision. I counted the pulses, I can remember that after around one thousand beats I became used to the pain, as simple as stepping into a hot bath. Although it burned me I could not change it so I did not. After straining for 100 strokes I broke through to the ability to open my eyes. I still could not see for another million pulsations. I never grew board for whilst the million passed I found that I could move my arms, then all at once the rest of my broken carcass began to respond. I stood up as a zombie, hesitant and stopping after very slight move. When my vision returned it replaced the turquoise of death, which swiftly dripped away.

I was standing in a wasteland; the charred remains of trees littered the otherwise grey and dusty landscape. I stood atop a vast mountain of bodies, all of which were dead. All of which were mutilated in some way and lifeless. A rotten arm was draped across my bare left foot. The weather was warm; this did not stop an icy clarity from shrouding my mind. Had been placed on a mass grave It did not take me long to notice that I had not been respected whilst I was… gone, (I dare not accept that I had been dead). My parents would never have allowed this to happen to me: I was devoid of clothing, my body held many scars all of which were covered in a film of dried blood. I remembered the impact from the bullet that sent me here. With as much haste as a newly undead can muster I lifted my right arm. This took more concentration than I would have liked. I felt each fiber of muscle twitch to life, twitch back alive.

When I left my fingers brushing my now shaved head I began my exploration of my nape. The reverse of my head left like a shallow bowl, it was hard to tell through the crust of scab. A smooth ring circled the crater. I assumed it must have been bone.

I considered what my reality was: I felt no great urge to begin eating the corpses beneath me so at least I was not a zombie. I had been an atheist before so I was quite sure that this was not the afterlife, the constant stabbing pain agreed with me. No I was most definitely alive, despite not knowing what I had to thank for my resurrection I was most sure of what I was going to do with my newfound life. I would not be done with life ever again until I was certain that all life was perfect, free of hatred. I silently vowed to shape the earth into a utopia of love.

My philosophy rang in my ears as I focused carefully beginning my descent from the mountain of death. Time passed. Eventually the thrum that I recognized to be helicopter blades grew louder on my eyes. I decided not to take cover, to pretend to be no more than one of the many bodies rotting between my toes. I had finished with pretending; let them see me, let them try to tell the tail of the walking corps.

Predictably, after dumping their newest victims atop this heap, the occupants of the helicopter began to rain a storm of bullets upon my frail body. It seemed I had not been mistaken to remain walking. Although 19 (I counted) fresh stabs of pain shot through me they were no worse than the agony I was already enduring. The new bullets all seemed contrary in comparison to what I had happened to me. Every time I felt an impact it also brought a small joy: that one had not killed me nor the one that followed. I suddenly I was flooded with a sense of freedom, I felt like skipping and jumping but considering I could scarcely walk I settled for a laugh. It came out as a harsh sounding thing; my scratchy thought barley keeping up. I was a giggling mess when the bullets stopped coming and the helicopter landed. Crossing from behind, over my head, it came to rest away from the base of the rotten pile. I got to see it for the first time: the helicopter had two ugly sets of blades atop its bloated dark body. The veil of cracked black paint split to reveal the open doorway from which two cautious foot soldiers emerged.

I pause and then continue my delicate footfalls. The soldiers wait at the base of the mass grave. It takes me a long time to reach them yet I am unwavering in my strides. I make as though to travel directly past the two sentinels. They shift their weight; I can see that they are nervous. The one on the right, banged on the helicopter door, it does not open.

Remembering the bodies I changed my path, I wished him dead, time skipped as my body acted on instinct. A beam of emotion shot forth from my very being. My wish was fulfilled with a new body to add to the vast pile.

Turning to the now terrified second soldier I weighed his soul: the countless lives I would save not to mention the weight of those he had already killed outweighed any mercy I may have had. The young man, probably in his twenties, did not have time to scream. Taking blood from the gashes my nails had carved in his throat I painted my purpose, in poem form, on his at demand bare and now cold chest. I left before his crimson blood could dry on his marble skin. The occupants of the helicopter would do no harm to my soon to be better society. They would be purified by fear when they went to claim their dead.

The sun was setting as I ran from my personal crime scene intent on rejoining the life I once knew.

Killing was not the same form as it had been in any media depiction, I had done the right thing, I felt no remorse. It would have been a crime to let them live.

Although I was pure of intent my selfishness did lead me to shun my duties as eternal guardian of life in order to visit my partner. I ran at a speed previously unknown to sprinters, following the sunset I found that it began to rise up from the horizon for I ran faster than the earth does spin. Quickly I came into contact with a bloated city, I reduced my speed to a light jog. Caring not for the stares that wracked my cut and naked body I looked back only at those that looked with hunger, my electric gaze melted the lust from their faces. I came to a phone box. “Do you have some money I could have to make a call?” I asked the man who exited the booth before me. He glanced at my beaten face and hastily opened his wallet. Giving me all of his loose change I took a look at his face, his kindness would be rewarded, I would not forget him. Filing a copy of his image in my mind, I turned and dialed. I immediately recognized Charlie’s voice “Hey I know I said this last time but its still a bad time.” His tone was low, it sounded like he had been crying. I could scarcely speak “I missed you so much” I managed to get out. “Sam…” and then much quieter “this isn’t true, the black killed you, I had too much.” “No don’t go, where are you?” “I’m home, the same place I always am, goodbye, Ghost” I hear the rattle of bottles before the line went dead.

I did not blame him for thinking me dead, but he had swallowed the Russian lies so easily, things must be bad back home for him to believe such blatant propaganda. I would have to prove myself alive to him in person. A free newspaper told me that I had reached Moscow. I predicted it would take me three days to get back to my home in Britain. The paper also told me something I would rather not have known: not only had I been… gone, for a month, but London had been subject to a military coup. I hoped that our little home in Brighton had not been harmed.

Chapter 2

I decided to be as inconspicuous as possible as I left Moscow towards the southwest, I ran only slightly faster than I could have done, before. I stopped countless rapes on my departure, every scream drew me in, I left a trail of broken legged would be abusers, bleeding in dark gutters. From each of my victims I took an article of clothing as payment for me sparing their lives. With the favors of too many women and children pushing me forth I ran, my skin now covered and my belly full with food bought with gratitude.

When I came to the border I kicked down the vast chain fence, dispatching of the guards in the tower, spitting on the one who ranted about my “pure” white skin. I left when he called me a traitor to my race. When I returned I helped a family of battered refugees cross the river out of the cursed land. I gave them the wallet that I had found in my jacket pocket. They tied to bless me that morning “may the lord watch over yo”-“If there was a God watching over me I would ask him about the pain that I have seen.” They looked quizzical for a moment before I was half a mile away.

Of course the obvious option at the ocean was to swim, but I was much too tired. I stowed away clinging to the side of a private yacht. My hands ached but I forced them to remain still. Impatiently, the moment the shore came into view, I leapt from my perch and shed my coat as I slipped into the ocean. The razors of icy water dragged over my body as I swam to the shore. A firy sunset splayed over the sky as I dragged my now shivering body up the beach.

I had never been a self-conscious woman but walking through the streets of Brighton sodden wet and somewhat bedraggled I could not help but feel the cool eyes of strangers sweep across my frozen back.

I had no keys for our flat so I tried knocking on the door, when no answer came I looked fro the key, which we kept behind a loose brick. It crumbled as it came away and my hope disintegrated with it when I saw no key in the cavity. I knew something was wrong.

Skippo

A mess of cables and pipes waited in the shadows, it took me a long time to realize that it was a person; it waited patiently before extending out of my armchair it seemed to have stopped at about my height but then continued to raise a cluster of cameras that had been slumped against its shoulder. I assumed that this functioned as its eyes, the lenses focused on my face. I stood impassive, shocked and unsure what to do. A surprisingly smooth if not tinny voice floated out of the machine “I had heard that I may have a companion” its amber tones washed over me. “I suppose you are speaking of me?” I scowled, had this thing waited for me in my house? “Yes, Samantha Green, I speak of you”-“How do you know my name, what have you done to my”-“Your partner was dead long before I arrived here, I am so very sorry, nether of you deserved this fate” It seemed as though it knew what I was going to say as it answered the question pounding in my mind “He killed himself, his body lies yonder.” A shiny metal arm extended and skeletal fingers pointed to the kitchen. Thoughts of questioning as to the friendly monster in my home were pushed aside as I rushed into the crammed cupboard of a kitchen. I refused to believe the sight that met me as hanging meat that had been my lover turned to stare at me with its glassy eyes. He had clearly hung himself by jumping from chair on top of the kitchen table. The chain that dug into his neck trailed up to a beam which held up the high ceiling. The rest of the room was surprisingly tidy, the only blemish on the otherwise spotless room was a pile of vodka bottles, none of which had been opened, on the table and a note pad with a vast pile of ink pens next to it. I opened the note-book and entered the mind of my suicidal partner. I could picture it, in a fury of tears my love intended to drown his sorrows but instead was immersed in his grief. Covering every page: my name was scrawled in a thousand different fonts. I saw that all of the pens had run out of ink. Tears burnt my cheeks, hurting more than all of the bullets I had endured. I jumped in shock when a warm metal hand embraced my shoulder from behind. “He must have loved you very much” my mind washed with golden sorrow and I melted into it’s otherworldly arms and cried. Time passed.

I did not hear its voice when it told me we needed to leave. “Why?” I whined, I was not ready to leave this life behind me. Some how I knew that if I left I would never be able to drag myself back here. “The police are here”, I glanced outside and noticed a black van pulling up. “Wait, at least, first tell me your name.” “You can call me Aion.” My grief was paused as I stood up and began striding towards the window before I remembered “I don’t need to run from anyone ever again” “I am not as bullet proof as you” I raised an eyebrow at Aion’s steal plate chest, wondering how he knew that the police would be hostile. I complied with his request and felt a rush of deja-vu as I ran away out of the window with an unknown boy.

A matt black range rover responded to the blip of car keys produced from somewhere within the metal man. I imagine that any normal woman would have been afraid to get in a car with a strange chrome … thing. I opened the door and watched with intrigue as my accomplice folded his huge frame into the driver seat. As we drove in silence I took a moment to store all of my grief in the deepest depths of my mind. An icy sensation gripped me as I grew emotionless. I attacked with my question “What are you and what do you want from me?” I demanded. The majority of the lenses turned away from the road to me. He looked like he was preparing to tell a story. “I can assure you that all I want is to be your friend” I aimed my best that-did-not-answer-my-question glare. He continued “I was a person, born and raised just like anyone else. I promise I will only be honest with you. I got a cancer when I was thirty years old. I did not want to die and I was both rich and smart. As my body began failing me I took out the broken parts and replaced them with my own inventions, I only wanted to stop the cancer at first but as time went on more of me became broken. Little of my first body remains needed."

Literati: The Priory School Literary Magazine

Wednesday 10 February 2016

Issue One: 'The Future'

Eternity [MK I], by Stanley Wood

Poems, by Stanley Wood

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