Authors: Michael Sutherland
Revolution (14 page)
And
it's just a matter of time before you become a part of it.
That
place doesn't just get under your skin.
It
prickles into your bones and snares into your lungs until you're choked into
submission.
And
all the while you think you're in control, that you're safe, until the day you
want to leave and find out that you can't.
One
step at a time you stride into a trap of corn cockles and cuckoo flowers that
puff their smoky pollen at you knowing you can't help but breathe it in.
And
then you're back again for more and more to have yourself fixed by wading
through the stink of treacle thick nightshade letting punch into you, and numb
you, little by little.
But
that's the trick, you see, you're stunned by the time you're sinking into hell.
Only
you have no idea it's happening to you, man, none at all.
And
by the time stables came into view I could already smell mint and wild onion
Titch
pulled the tin out of his pocket and I knew what would be next, the roll up and
that sweet pungent odor that went along with the burning.
And
yeah, yet again, we would be sitting around getting hammered out of our
realities and end up stoned without wings.
But
desperate to fly all the same as we were going to sit and talk of nothing in
particular and end up thinking everything was funny.
Like
it always was when we took that stuff.
Nothing
was funny this time though.
It
just seemed that way.
it's just a matter of time before you become a part of it.
That
place doesn't just get under your skin.
It
prickles into your bones and snares into your lungs until you're choked into
submission.
And
all the while you think you're in control, that you're safe, until the day you
want to leave and find out that you can't.
One
step at a time you stride into a trap of corn cockles and cuckoo flowers that
puff their smoky pollen at you knowing you can't help but breathe it in.
And
then you're back again for more and more to have yourself fixed by wading
through the stink of treacle thick nightshade letting punch into you, and numb
you, little by little.
But
that's the trick, you see, you're stunned by the time you're sinking into hell.
Only
you have no idea it's happening to you, man, none at all.
And
by the time stables came into view I could already smell mint and wild onion
Titch
pulled the tin out of his pocket and I knew what would be next, the roll up and
that sweet pungent odor that went along with the burning.
And
yeah, yet again, we would be sitting around getting hammered out of our
realities and end up stoned without wings.
But
desperate to fly all the same as we were going to sit and talk of nothing in
particular and end up thinking everything was funny.
Like
it always was when we took that stuff.
Nothing
was funny this time though.
It
just seemed that way.
And
yeah, yet again, every single one of us was going to end up in our own personal
little bubble of protection, jabbering or not, and stare at some tiny bit of
Tormentil that had taken root high up on some part of a decaying wall.
Clinging
to life we'd watch it and wonder how it got there, how it could possibly
thrive.
But
it must have been possible because it did grow.
And
maybe that was it.
That
the less you had the more you grew.
Not
like Pete who'd had everything but for the asking a little while back.
And
even although his roots had been fertilized to hell from birth, he might as
well have been force grown in Dieldrin for all the good it did.
I
remembered how once before we'd gone up there and I'd looked over and saw that
blank look in his eyes as he'd be stared at it too, at some weed doing its best
to grow, to flower, as if it was trying to tear itself out of the birth canal.
Only
there was anger at the back of those ice-blue eyes of his that time, something
not quite right.
And
tonight again I would have to look away from him, let my head drop and stare at
the stone slabs under us to wonder at how no matter what the weather, that even
if it hadn't rained in a month, they always took on this damp grey look.
Christ,
I thought as I looked up as the stable came into view.
Turrets
on a horse barn!
Who
in hell puts turrets on a stable?
Well,
if you were that rich I supposed you could do almost anything, and if turrets
were in then that was it.
The
path was springy with old leaves and pine needles, which had been there for God
only knows how long.
And
with that we veered off into the stables proper.
The
walls were still there, the doors long gone.
There
is no roof on the place any longer and the sky was already turning deep orange
as we entered stepping past an old iron ploughshare and a rusted spade.
There
were four horseboxes in all and we scraped around on the broken slabs until we
came to number three.
Something
special about it, our box, dank and depressing to some perhaps even by the
light of a magical moon.
But
it was ours all right in everything but brand-ironed rock, a place with weeds
struggling to exist everywhere, with some in flower still hanging onto the damp
coolness within the stones.
So
we hunched down and waited.
Titch
had already licked and rolled at the paper after he'd stuffed in whatever it
was we were about to ritually smoke for the umpteenth time.
But
I dragged my eyes away from him, from everyone because I didn't want to see
that bored look in their faces.
The
pretence of fun had had us this far.
But
with that thing realized and out in the open the illusion of us wanting to be
there would have been shattered.
I
just didn't want to be the first one to hand over the trigger.
Besides,
with that spell broken I could just see Pete storming off yelling, "To
hell with it!" and leaving us all behind.
Titch
would maybe smile and think, so what?
And
Boyd would maybe look startled for a second. Grant, well I didn't know about
what his reaction would be since he always seemed incapable of reacting to
anything.
And
me, if Pete left us there, I would have just walked back home.
It
wasn't that far, three or four miles.
But
I wouldn't be mad.
And
maybe I would have been relieved that the coming nightmare was over, that we
had escaped before it had a chance to start.
And
as Titch inhaled on his drag with a look on his face like he was about to choke
to death, but holding it in anyway instead of spluttering, I took in that
burning tealeaves odor of skunk.
After
that I looked around the walls again that suddenly seemed too close.
I
looked at the cracks between the blocks, at the dust compacted between the jibs
and joins. Eyes glazing over as I looked at weeds with flower heads of piss
yellow and violet struggling from cramped spaces.
Trying
to pull free, to be born, only knowing they were dying in the process.
Then
I looked over Pete's head and saw something that didn't make me feel great,
because on the sandstone behind him someone had scrawled a pentagram.
It
had been drawn in red crayon.
And
I got to wondering about what kind of weirdo comes up here, all the way from
civilization, to scribble on a wall miles from nowhere with something a kid
would use.
And
another thing struck me.
Up
to that point the place had felt like it was ours.
Only
now it felt like someone had invaded our space.
That
was nonsense of course.
The
place didn't belong to anyone.
But
I couldn't help it, that feeling.
And
that's because that place makes its possession of you in slow creeps up your
back, until it's right inside and crawling under your skin, taking you over
until you end up in a red-out as it's reaching into you and whispering,
"It's all yours, kid, no one else's, no paperwork required."
Seeing
that red thing on the wall made me feel like my back was growing bigger than
the front of me, like this pressure was bunching a hide up my spine.
It
didn't help by wriggling my shoulders either.
It
still felt like limpets were sucking at those scars on my back.
I
tried not to show anything as Pete pulled this face, like he was about to throw
up, as he passed the smoke onto me.
When
I took it from him he had this look on his face like he was drowning and his
lungs were about to burst.
I
didn't want to take the damn thing, but I didn't want to look like the idiot
one out either, so I did.
I
took a drag, but then let most of the smoke out without inhaling it.
Still
I choked all the same and everyone laughed.
And
as snot exploded out of me someone shouted for me to watch what the hell I was
doing.
And
without thinking I stuck my hand out, arm's length, and passed the smoke on.
I'd
had enough of the shit.
Let
them take it to themselves. Let them get smashed up on it.
yeah, yet again, every single one of us was going to end up in our own personal
little bubble of protection, jabbering or not, and stare at some tiny bit of
Tormentil that had taken root high up on some part of a decaying wall.
Clinging
to life we'd watch it and wonder how it got there, how it could possibly
thrive.
But
it must have been possible because it did grow.
And
maybe that was it.
That
the less you had the more you grew.
Not
like Pete who'd had everything but for the asking a little while back.
And
even although his roots had been fertilized to hell from birth, he might as
well have been force grown in Dieldrin for all the good it did.
I
remembered how once before we'd gone up there and I'd looked over and saw that
blank look in his eyes as he'd be stared at it too, at some weed doing its best
to grow, to flower, as if it was trying to tear itself out of the birth canal.
Only
there was anger at the back of those ice-blue eyes of his that time, something
not quite right.
And
tonight again I would have to look away from him, let my head drop and stare at
the stone slabs under us to wonder at how no matter what the weather, that even
if it hadn't rained in a month, they always took on this damp grey look.
Christ,
I thought as I looked up as the stable came into view.
Turrets
on a horse barn!
Who
in hell puts turrets on a stable?
Well,
if you were that rich I supposed you could do almost anything, and if turrets
were in then that was it.
The
path was springy with old leaves and pine needles, which had been there for God
only knows how long.
And
with that we veered off into the stables proper.
The
walls were still there, the doors long gone.
There
is no roof on the place any longer and the sky was already turning deep orange
as we entered stepping past an old iron ploughshare and a rusted spade.
There
were four horseboxes in all and we scraped around on the broken slabs until we
came to number three.
Something
special about it, our box, dank and depressing to some perhaps even by the
light of a magical moon.
But
it was ours all right in everything but brand-ironed rock, a place with weeds
struggling to exist everywhere, with some in flower still hanging onto the damp
coolness within the stones.
So
we hunched down and waited.
Titch
had already licked and rolled at the paper after he'd stuffed in whatever it
was we were about to ritually smoke for the umpteenth time.
But
I dragged my eyes away from him, from everyone because I didn't want to see
that bored look in their faces.
The
pretence of fun had had us this far.
But
with that thing realized and out in the open the illusion of us wanting to be
there would have been shattered.
I
just didn't want to be the first one to hand over the trigger.
Besides,
with that spell broken I could just see Pete storming off yelling, "To
hell with it!" and leaving us all behind.
Titch
would maybe smile and think, so what?
And
Boyd would maybe look startled for a second. Grant, well I didn't know about
what his reaction would be since he always seemed incapable of reacting to
anything.
And
me, if Pete left us there, I would have just walked back home.
It
wasn't that far, three or four miles.
But
I wouldn't be mad.
And
maybe I would have been relieved that the coming nightmare was over, that we
had escaped before it had a chance to start.
And
as Titch inhaled on his drag with a look on his face like he was about to choke
to death, but holding it in anyway instead of spluttering, I took in that
burning tealeaves odor of skunk.
After
that I looked around the walls again that suddenly seemed too close.
I
looked at the cracks between the blocks, at the dust compacted between the jibs
and joins. Eyes glazing over as I looked at weeds with flower heads of piss
yellow and violet struggling from cramped spaces.
Trying
to pull free, to be born, only knowing they were dying in the process.
Then
I looked over Pete's head and saw something that didn't make me feel great,
because on the sandstone behind him someone had scrawled a pentagram.
It
had been drawn in red crayon.
And
I got to wondering about what kind of weirdo comes up here, all the way from
civilization, to scribble on a wall miles from nowhere with something a kid
would use.
And
another thing struck me.
Up
to that point the place had felt like it was ours.
Only
now it felt like someone had invaded our space.
That
was nonsense of course.
The
place didn't belong to anyone.
But
I couldn't help it, that feeling.
And
that's because that place makes its possession of you in slow creeps up your
back, until it's right inside and crawling under your skin, taking you over
until you end up in a red-out as it's reaching into you and whispering,
"It's all yours, kid, no one else's, no paperwork required."
Seeing
that red thing on the wall made me feel like my back was growing bigger than
the front of me, like this pressure was bunching a hide up my spine.
It
didn't help by wriggling my shoulders either.
It
still felt like limpets were sucking at those scars on my back.
I
tried not to show anything as Pete pulled this face, like he was about to throw
up, as he passed the smoke onto me.
When
I took it from him he had this look on his face like he was drowning and his
lungs were about to burst.
I
didn't want to take the damn thing, but I didn't want to look like the idiot
one out either, so I did.
I
took a drag, but then let most of the smoke out without inhaling it.
Still
I choked all the same and everyone laughed.
And
as snot exploded out of me someone shouted for me to watch what the hell I was
doing.
And
without thinking I stuck my hand out, arm's length, and passed the smoke on.
I'd
had enough of the shit.
Let
them take it to themselves. Let them get smashed up on it.
I
didn't want to be a part it any more.
I
jumped up and lurched past Pete and Boyd to the opening, to suck in the sweet
smell of jasmine and honeysuckle.
Anything
was better than that sick house odor.
My
face was red because I'd nearly blown my lungs out of my mouth.
Sometimes
your body overrides sense and cries out to your dim wit that something is
rotten.
But
by then I was in a bubble of my own as I looked out onto the trees thinking
somewhere out there lies what I'm looking for.
Only
the situation was this. That somehow, with that building, with that stone built
horsebox of a place, I could have been in one of the same kinds of prisons that
I'd been forced to live in for most of my life until then.
That
feeling didn't make sense.
But
it didn't stop it coming at me.
I
mean there was no roof to that place except the sky.
There
were no bars on the windows, except the trees in front me.
But
I realized that I was as trapped as I ever was.
Only
this time I was trapped in a cell with four other neds bent on struggling for
freedom and getting nowhere.
Pete
the rich-kid-no-more called out in that lazy drawl of his.
"Jack?"
But
I just stood with my back to him wanting to climb out and just run away
forever.
But
I didn't.
And
I knew I couldn't stand like that for long either.
There
was too much of a razorblade about to slide down my back about it
So I
turned around and looked down at him.
Pete
had this lopsided hick grin on his face, that was sort of innocent and sort of
verging on stupid at the same time.
"Toke?"
he said holding up what was left of the roach.
I
shook my head and turned away again to the trees, to a scarlet sky bleeding
through the leaves.
"You're
missing" all the fun," he said out, and then I heard a hiss as he
took another drag.
He
choked on it but I just kept standing there, my spine bunching to them all as
someone made these hollow thumps on his back.
"Hey,
enough?" Pete said and the thumping slaps stopped.
Then
there was silence again.
Nothing
was moving.
Nothing
was breathing.
And
that's when I realized that that place knew something we didn't.
It
knew we were already dying.
didn't want to be a part it any more.
I
jumped up and lurched past Pete and Boyd to the opening, to suck in the sweet
smell of jasmine and honeysuckle.
Anything
was better than that sick house odor.
My
face was red because I'd nearly blown my lungs out of my mouth.
Sometimes
your body overrides sense and cries out to your dim wit that something is
rotten.
But
by then I was in a bubble of my own as I looked out onto the trees thinking
somewhere out there lies what I'm looking for.
Only
the situation was this. That somehow, with that building, with that stone built
horsebox of a place, I could have been in one of the same kinds of prisons that
I'd been forced to live in for most of my life until then.
That
feeling didn't make sense.
But
it didn't stop it coming at me.
I
mean there was no roof to that place except the sky.
There
were no bars on the windows, except the trees in front me.
But
I realized that I was as trapped as I ever was.
Only
this time I was trapped in a cell with four other neds bent on struggling for
freedom and getting nowhere.
Pete
the rich-kid-no-more called out in that lazy drawl of his.
"Jack?"
But
I just stood with my back to him wanting to climb out and just run away
forever.
But
I didn't.
And
I knew I couldn't stand like that for long either.
There
was too much of a razorblade about to slide down my back about it
So I
turned around and looked down at him.
Pete
had this lopsided hick grin on his face, that was sort of innocent and sort of
verging on stupid at the same time.
"Toke?"
he said holding up what was left of the roach.
I
shook my head and turned away again to the trees, to a scarlet sky bleeding
through the leaves.
"You're
missing" all the fun," he said out, and then I heard a hiss as he
took another drag.
He
choked on it but I just kept standing there, my spine bunching to them all as
someone made these hollow thumps on his back.
"Hey,
enough?" Pete said and the thumping slaps stopped.
Then
there was silence again.
Nothing
was moving.
Nothing
was breathing.
And
that's when I realized that that place knew something we didn't.
It
knew we were already dying.
Also by Michael Sutherland
Novel
Invisible Monsters
(
Print publication from Less Than 3 Press, April 2013)
Short Story Collections
Passport to Phelamanga: After
All, Death Trapped, Only Human,Till Dawn, The Bridge to Andromeda
(MUSA Publishing, 2012)
From Here to Hallucigenia: Aviatrix,
Doodlebug, It’s Up to You Now, Bambi, What Goes Around Comes Back Weird
(MUSA Publishing, 2013)
Short Stories
Soul Vampire
(Dark Gothic Ressurrected
Magazine, April, 2013)
An Endless Harvest
(Jupiter Science Fiction
Magazine, April 2013)
Copyright ©
2013 Michael Sutherland
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