No one came to my tenth birthday party. Mother and I awoke at eight in the morning to start setting everything up. I was hardly big enough to carry a wooden picnic table, but I was able to drag it across the lawn and place it by the front walkway. Dad fumed about the tracks I left behind and how I tore up his grass. Mother draped ribbons and streamers along the tree branches and lifted a piñata over our heads. We finished prepping by 11 and waited patiently for everyone’s scheduled arrival at noon.
The Dudleys backed out last second, and Tom and Johnny from the cul-de-sac were grounded by their parents. My cousins Jane and Elisa came down ill from eating too much pizza, and thus never showed. I grew nervous and a little sad when two o’clock rolled around and still no one appeared. I mean, I never expected the Tanners or the Wilsons to show up, but I would have settled for a few neighborhood kids to come, even that big, ugly kid Ross.
By six in the evening the day had lost most of its shimmer and the sun grew more and more tired. Mother and I sat at the picnic table and had picked clean most of the cake. The two of us, together, like sad storefront owners begging for customers. We both stood and took down the piñata, unpinned the tails from the donkey, brought all the banners inside, and placed them back in a box labeled Jacob’s 11th Birthday.
Michael O’Neill is a fiction and poetry writer residing in Chicago. His work has appeared in Maudlin House, WhiskeyPaper, the Journal of Microliterature, Unbroken Journal and Great Lakes Review, among others.
She had tried for months to get me to go. I’d refused because I didn’t want to head down that path. I didn’t want to do the whole couples retreat thing to save our marriage. I was already out. I had been for years.
In the end there would be a death knell, a final straw. She could tell it was coming and Wisconsin was her savior.
“I made eggs,” she said, passing me a plate.
“No. I didn’t even think about it. I could run to the store. There’s a little place on site.”
She had this adventure planned out by the hour. Canoeing at 11. Hiking for the afternoon. Campfire in the evening. I could tell her now and be done with it. I could wait till she goes out to the car, then wander away and make everyone believe I was lost or injured somewhere in the woods.
“Jackets! Everyone good to go? Alright, we’re gonna push off slowly, then that first current will catch us and pull us downriver,” the instructor said.
What kind of guy wears a neon life jacket for a living and enjoys spending his time with strangers from the suburbs and losers looking to escape their shitty lives? Why is he in this little boat with me and my wife?
The first couple of waves were nothing. The tail end of the canoe would swing out, the bottom taking on a little water, but we kept moving. I was expecting waterfalls or maybe falling rocks.
But no. It was just me, Jan and this guy. Every now and then I’d rock the boat a little, or try to stand up just to throw a little fear into the action. I didn’t like this guy leading the way and telling us what to do. You’re not gonna save my marriage with a wooden paddle.
Jan was having the time of her life; her face said it. She’d turn around and peak back at me to see if I was smiling or not. I’d just look away like I didn’t notice.
I could see up ahead a small channel where the river narrowed and the rocks were larger, sharper. The current was forced into an opening, breaking against the rocks. Jan went to adjust her helmet when the underside of the canoe flipped over.
10 seconds went by before I finally reemerged, my torn life jacket barely able to keep me above the surface. All I could see were three paddles floating on top of the water but no sign of Jan or the guy. The canoe rocked back and forth. The instructor was trapped underneath, his leg bent. I swam over and tried to upright the boat, but I had no traction and was swallowing water. I went under and tried to free him, tugging at his jacket, but the water had begun to flood into his nose. I couldn’t tell if he had stopped moving or not, but I left him there.
Jan, I could see, was struggling against a rock about 20 feet away. She was screaming, but I could only hear the sound of her hands slapping against the water. She was trying to hold on so she wasn’t pulled further downriver where the water deepened, blood covering half her face.
We made eye contact and it was almost effortless how we both knew.
She tried once more to call for me before she slipped and her body was dragged underneath. I waded motionless, braced on a tree branch closer to shore.
The police confirmed within an hour that both of them were gone. I asked the cops to leave me be. I would pack my things and leave in the morning, head home.
We never got to go hiking that afternoon but I still made a fire out behind the little summer house, just as Jan had planned. I tried to start it myself but I gave up after five minutes and began spraying gasoline on top of crumpled newspapers and threw a match.
It was peaceful, sitting there alone with my stick held over the fire. The flames turning green then orange then a soft yellow. I could stare into them and try to imagine a shape, her face maybe. I could try to see my future in the streaks of black smoke. I could try to bring her back. I could try these things.
And yet, seeing the fire struggle for oxygen, trying to hang on before succumbing to the night, was almost too easy. Letting her go was that easy.
I drove back to Illinois the next morning at sunrise. It wasn’t difficult. I tried to conjure up a meaning for the beautifully sunlit September day, locate some sort of metaphor for the long ride home. And I know this is where I was supposed to feel something. But I didn’t.
Many years ago, I too had died. But I did it slowly, hovering above the flatline until I was shocked awake by her absence. How final it was.
Michael O’Neill is a fiction and poetry writer residing in Chicago. His work has appeared in Maudlin House, WhiskeyPaper, the Journal of Microliterature, Unbroken Journal and Great Lakes Review, among others.
I’ve only recently come to understand the Bottleneck Effect, which occurs when a segment of a population is alienated from the rest of its pack and thus lives in seclusion, creating generations and generations of offspring that begin to differ from the rest of its original species. It’s often found in marine mammals due to the violent nature of hurricanes, as evidenced by the African elephant seal, which nearly went extinct. It can sometimes be seen in large groups of sloths, which are slow to adapt to their surroundings, the runts even more so. If you’re handy with a magnifying glass and are vigilant enough to brave the dangers of the rainforest, you will notice the many different pigmentations of insects that have devolved from their original beauty, ant-sized nonetheless. Or, if you ever make your way to Fairfield, Nebraska, you can come to 621 Henderson St, into the back room on the left with the door tightly locked and examine the human boy that lives there. Notice the stale wallpaper, the dust-ridden baseboards, and the stained carpet of his habitat. Brush your hand overtop his head, touch his cheek with your gentlest finger, feel how odd he is. How strange and different he seems. Please do this. Please.
Michael O’Neill is a fiction and poetry writer residing in Chicago. His work has appeared in Maudlin House, WhiskeyPaper, the Journal of Microliterature, Unbroken Journal and Great Lakes Review, among others.
Susan pulled the mosquito shield onto her forehead to get a better look into the cave, but they were on her in seconds. She thrust it back down and spit the insects from her lips.
Back in the tent, she fired a lantern and unearthed Dr. Novello’s notebook. On the cover were her trademark maxims and aphorisms, scrawled there as she worked to save the world from malarial collapse.
Oremos para que la Tierra perdone.
Pray for the Earth to forgive.
Aprende la humildad o pereces.
Learn humility or perish.
Susan had no quarrel with the sentiments, unvarnished though they were. If she had, she wouldn’t be crawling through caves in search of microscopic glowworms hypothesized to possess humankind’s last hope.
The Herald Moth was a Russian nesting doll of parasitology. Its gut served as an incubator for roundworms called nematodes, that, in turn, carried a rare strain of bioluminescent bacteria known to be toxic to certain insects. The question was whether or not it would work on the new breed of mosquitos that swarmed the globe. Doctor Valeria Novello had come to the cave seeking the answer, but had likely perished inside.
Susan flipped through the pages for her mentor’s observations on the moth’s life cycle. Near the end of its dormant period, the worms would erupt from their hosts and drift through the cave in a poisonous bloom. The notes, thankfully, were meticulous. The current dormancy had two more months. It was safe to enter.
Susan stripped to her shorts and undershirt, bathed herself in repellant, and donned her bulky mosquito suit. She turned to the first blank page and scribbled a note:
5/12/26: Went in. -Dr. Susan Boyd
A gibbous moon bounced light through the cave’s moist interior, allowing her to see for the first thirty yards. Night vision optics led the way further in as artificial light could interrupt the dormancy cycle. She marked her progress on the walls in chalk X’s. Dr. Novello’s own signposts were absent.
At a narrow tunnel she knelt to look inside. Novello lay face down mere feet from the opening. Susan crawled in and grasped the fabric at her mentor’s shoulders. The body moved easily, its flesh having become food for the cave.
With the remains clear of the passage, she took to all-fours and started through, staying low to avoid the miniature stalactites that hung from above like rotting teeth. Farther in, the tunnel narrowed. She tried to squeeze through but caught a snag. A machine gun pop of threads, and the suit was buzzing.
She launched clear, completing the gash down her spine. Mosquitos settled upon the skin of her shoulders and the tunnel echoed her screams as a thousand needles found home. Delirious, she collided with a knuckle of rock and the optics sputtered to black.
The tunnel emptied into a chamber, and she rolled across the sand like a person on fire. The ground swept some of the insects clear and she tore away the suit to release the rest. Blind, her skin crawled in anticipation of another wave, but none came.
She gathered herself, shuffled to a wall, and probed the rock. Its contours conjured visions. Faces and ghosts. Her father and sister, two nephews—even Dr. Novello, who had made Susan promise not to follow on what was surely a suicide mission. The memory brought a smile—the promise had been a charade for both of them. Susan was always going to follow if Novello failed—and Novello knew it.
Her thumb happened on a dozing moth. From a pocket she produced a scalpel and a sample tube preloaded with enzymes. She felt her way to the centerline of its abdomen and made a small incision. A luminous blob breached and dribbled into the tube. That was it. She wouldn’t know if the bacteria reacted with the enzymes until it was back in the light of the tent. The lid snapped shut and she set her mind on re-finding the tunnel. A touch of lightheadedness came and went.
The rock undulated as it passed beneath her palms, and again the shapes played tricks with her mind. Were they tricks? Something felt different now. The forms—the rocks themselves, she realized, were no longer imagined. A bluish glow kindled, filtering down to grace the walls. She briefly thought she was outdoors, the reflections so much like starlight. Her gaze tracked skyward.
The stars were falling.
She splashed through a shallow pool in the center of the floor, her limbs growing weak and clumsy. Short of the tunnel, she collapsed in an anesthetic haze. The dormancy period had ended and the bloom was upon her. How could this be? Novello’s notes had suggested that it was safe to enter.
It was snowing in the cave now, tiny flakes of sapphire, and her skin sparkled in the dust of a billion worms that held no malice but gave their poison nonetheless. They lit the cave like dawn, drawing shadows down the walls. In the new light, a patch of mottled chalk emerged.
Nosotros éramos el azote.
Bacteria pulsed within nematode bellies, forming bright constellations across the cavern’s dome. Susan sipped air into her ever-constricting lungs and forced the enzyme tube toward the light. A bittersweet smile. The experiment had worked. They had the answer.
Her head lolled to the side, sending tears to the loam and her eyes to the chalk, the words scrawled there an unrepentant confession of the last human betrayal.
We were the scourge.
Chris’ short fiction has appeared in “Ghost Parachute”, “The Ginger Collect Magazine”, “Fiction on the Web”, and “Tales to Terrify”, with forthcoming work in “Trembling With Fear”. He also draws album covers for tiny metal bands. He lives in Dallas, Texas, with his wife and daughter. Plays himself on twitter @chrisjpanatier
Trading in junk derivatives and as yet publicly unconfirmed insider trading..
I tried to focus on the words on my cracked phone screen but the sounds of thumping steps and slaps kept jarring me out of my concentration. I looked up to find Stephen had gotten out of his chair and was pacing a short distance up and down the hallway, slapping himself repeatedly.
“What are you at?” I asked with an exasperated exhale. He turned on the ball of one foot. Tears were taking root in the bottom of his blue eyes and his cheeks were now splotchy and red with the risen blood.
“Stanislavski man. You ever see these guys when they go on TV? Apologising and all this. Always with a face like a smacked arse and like they’re about to ball. You have to really live in that skin if you want people to buy it. What does it say on the website…give them…catharsis”.
I looked at him. It was pleasant sometimes to be surrounded by my fellow theatre graduates in my new line of work. And sometimes, at times like these I thought, they’re eccentric devotion to what was always referred to as ‘the craft’ was just irritating.
“How can you be sure anyone has ever seen them on TV?”
Stephen murmured something like agreement and took a seat again. He rubbed at his whiskers. They’d be taking a couple hundred off for that attempt to maintain the art-student identity.
“Mr Cowen…the studio is ready for you now!”
Neither Stephen nor myself took our heads out of our phones to see the woman in the pant-suit peering out the doorway at us. Our thumbs flicked furiously through the interview prep (“I apologise unreservedly” “I will be taking time to be with my family” “It is a systemic and not individual issue”) to hit the point where the bolded, main biographical details of the case would bump against the soft yellow branding strip at the top of the app’s windows labelled “Pat-Si”. Mine eventually bumped to a halt and the canary-coloured corporate logo gave a little wiggle against the block reading Name, Age, Occupation and Scandal.
“That’s me. I’ll be out in a bit bud”.
I doffed my phone slightly at Stephen who had a look of minor relief on his face. Not his time to sweat on the boards just yet. He could have a bit more time to hone his character with whatever Marlon Brando crap he wanted to indulge in. I tipped the phone, gave some of the words a little flick and brushed up on a couple of trickier points. Confident enough I slid the phone into the right breast pocket of the crisp pink business shirt I hadn’t quite yet learned how to comfortably wear. Had to make sure it peeked out just a bit. The public had to get a bit of flash with their mea culpas for this thing to really work right. I allowed the pant suited woman to lead me into the barebones studio.
In the centre was a stool pooled in harsh lights. Beside it was a little dresser where a glass of water from a branded bottle I didn’t recognise stood. I took a seat and squinted as the lights glared into my eyes. The pant-suited woman came over an affixed an ear piece to my left ear, given that the right one had a bluetooth headset that had been a last minute addition on my walk to the performance. An excellent touch even if I did say so myself. The woman’s fingers were all I could see silhouetted in the harsh lights, shadows dropping away steadily into the light and counting down as the ear piece crackled. And then it was show time.
“We go live now to Reginald Cowen, Senior Executive at Hibernian Finance to explain exactly how this all could have gone disastrously wrong…”
And for 5 minutes I shut myself away in a little cavity in my chest. And Reginald Cowen came to live in my skin. Not the actual Reginald Cowen of course, who was no doubt on some yacht or at some occult sex party, indulging in all manner of bacchanalian pleasure as he arranged for the swiftest possible legal resolution to his problems. But the Reginald Cowen that the seething mass of the public could rage at was sat in a little study on the outskirts of the city, wearing my skin and sweating my sweat. He was running his palm nervously through my hair and hinting at maybe crying my tears in the tensest moments. I, the unemployed theatre graduate, could give the public the Reginald Cohen they wanted: a blood sacrifice. And after they’d ripped out my still-beating heart, which was Reginald’s heart now, they would offer it to the setting sun on the 6’oclock news and go looking for the next sacrifice.
Eventually the news anchor bid me farewell and the possession ended. I turned and swished the whole glass of water back in one go. It was pure and sweet and classy. The kind of water Reginald Cowen drank, I mised. I stepped back out into the hall to see Stephen sitting there, looking edgy.
“Have you seen the latest job?” he asked, his eyes wide and white as a deer’s tail.
I pulled out my phone and noticed one new posting from the Pat-Si app. I saw three words that made my stomach roll with what I’ll tell you was disgust to preserve some dignity.
Child molestation ring
Apartments were so expensive then. Especially ones that weren’t in danger of being swallowed by the sea. Maybe Chloe and I could finally afford to have kids? I tapped “Accept Role” with my thumb and thought about what colour we were going to paint the nursery.
David O’Donoghue is an Irish author, journalist and activist currently resident in Limerick City. His fiction has been published in The Singularity, Sci-Phi Journal, The Runt, Flight Writing and Tales From the Forest. He won the 2015 Kerry’s Eye creative writing competition and was shortlisted for the 2015 Hot Press Creative Writing Award and the 2016 Penguin Ireland Short Story Award. His short story “Beautiful Along the Break” made the Top 6 Shortlist in the 2016 Aeon Literary Award. His is presently contributing editor at fiction/art/political essay zine the Lunatic Soviet. See him do a bad impression of weird Twitter @DavidJODonoghue
‘The ocean. Down there. It’s pretty common around this area.’
‘But so suddenly? There were green fields over there a second ago, and those great grey cliffs. Now I can’t see anything. Even those sheep have disappeared.’
‘I can’t see a damn thing.’
‘We should stop somewhere.’
‘Where? There’s nothing out here. And if another car comes barreling down this road?’
‘There might be a village?’
‘Like the last one?’
‘Stewart doesn’t know.’
‘That’s true, I’m afraid.’
‘There’s a light up ahead.’
A wind was whipping at the side of the car as it inched forward along the narrow road. The driver, Raymond Woods, was hunched forward over the steering wheel, peering out at the mist. A hundred metres ahead a lamp shone like a beacon in the grey haze. Beyond, its irresolute outline just visible, was a small stone building set into a steep hill. The car wheels churned in the gravel as Raymond pulled up outside the building. The other two occupants were out of the car and had run to the small front door of the building before he had had a chance to switch off the headlights.
Inside the lights shone feebly, the bare bulbs flickering and giving off an amber glow that cast long shadows into the corners of the room. The cold had swept in with the three strangers and filled the small room. Raymond managed to pull the door closed and the three stood huddled in silence.
‘Should we be here?’ asked Caroline Woods. She was a petite woman, pretty with short-cut hair. Her cheeks were flushed red from the cold and the wind. Raymond put his hand on the small of her back.
‘It’s a pub. I think,’ said Stewart. He is older than the other two; his hair, cut short and tight, sis greying at the temples. He stepped further forward into the room.
A door opened and a thick-set woman appeared at the back of the room, her grey-white hair pushed up in a bee’s-nest on her head. She stared at the newcomers for a moment and then walked slowly behind a bar set against the back of the wall. Raymond took Caroline’s hand, ready to pull her back outside and to the car. He hoped that they could escape, and maybe leave Stewart there alone with the forbidding looking woman.
‘Crazy weather, eh?’ Stewart called out.
Raymond tried not to wince. He was cold and tired, but sharper than either of these discomforts was the constant grating of Stewarts forced cheerfulness, his brash arrogance and false entitlement.
The woman shook her head noncommittally.
‘It’s good to be out of the cold at least. Nice and warm in here. I’m Stewart. Stewart Grandley. And these are Caroline and Raymond Woods. What’s your name?’
Caroline put a warning hand on her husband’s arm.
‘Travers. Mrs Travers,’ the woman finally said, ‘What can I get you?’
Raymond move up to the bar. A drink might help.
‘I’ll have something in a short glass. Whatever’s going,’ he said. The woman grunted and pulled a bottle off of the shelf behind her.
‘You aren’t from around here,’ she said. It wasn’t a question. Not hostile but not particularly friendly either.
‘No, I guess we aren’t,’ said Stewart, moving forward until he was standing directly behind Raymond. ‘I’m from the States originally, but I live just north of London. These two — all the way from Australia of all places — are visiting. I’m showing them around.’
Raymond sat down on a high stool and cupped his drink gratefully when it came. He tried not to listen to the what the others were saying, but it was difficult. Like trying to ignore a persistent itch.
‘Stewart’s a friend of my aunt’s, he’s been very helpful during our holiday,’ Caroline said. She stood with her hand resting on Raymond’s shoulder. She seemed to be trying to force him to relax, which made the feeling of tension all the more unbearable.
‘Helpful, yeah,’ Raymond said.
‘Not a good day for sight-seeing,’ said Stewart.
‘No, no I guess not.’
‘What can I get you?’
‘It’s all good.’
Stewart pointed at a tap.
‘If that one’s good and local, that’d be just fine. Caroline? Two of those.’
The woman filled two large, grease-smudged glasses. The beer was thick and dark, almost black in colour. It swirled sickeningly with each heavy pull of the tap.
‘Stout eh? Now that’s more like it.’ Stewart said. He tried to hide a shiver of distaste at the acridity of the drink.
‘So, um, Mrs Travers, is there anything you can tell us about this area?’ Caroline asked.
‘I guess that depends on what you would want to know.’
‘I’d like to know what you can tell me. Legends, folk tales, any good stories that may be told around these parts.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. There’s a cinema on the mainland, not two hours drive from here.’
There was a lull. Raymond tried not to laugh.
‘Stories huh? You want to know what us backwards, isolated, sheep-shaggers tell each other on the long winter nights?’
The three turned. The voice had come from a dark lounge area to their right that they had taken to be empty. From behind a high chair-back stood a short, stout, grey-bearded man, his face lined and weather-worn. He pushed his flat cap up from over his eyes and gave the three newcomers a wide smile. Raymond noticed the shine of two gold-capped teeth, bright against a mouth that was otherwise the grey of the ocean during a storm. He was was holding an empty glass which he brought up to the bar with exaggerated care. Stewart shifted back on his heels slightly as the man bushed past him.
Mrs Travers took the empty glass and re-filled it with the same milky-black beer, placing it gently back down on the bar.
‘Don’t bother these people George,’ she said.
‘Don’t mind me. I’m just taking the piss.’ There was a burr in the small man’s voice, a lilt that played softly over his vowels.
‘We don’t mind,’ said Caroline.
‘Though it is true that we are quite seperate from the big world out here,’ he continued, ‘and isolation does breed strange stories. So what do you want to know about our simple, shit-stained, backwards folklore?’
‘That’s some language,’ Stewart said.
‘The extra words are free of charge.’
‘Just any stories that are specific to the island,’ said Caroline, ignoring the exchange. ‘This is fact-finding mission of sorts. I’m studying recurring variants of common folktales for my doctoral thesis.’
‘Caroline’s an academic,’ said Stewart. Was there a note of pride in his voice? It wasn’t his damn achievement. Not that it was Raymond’s either. But he was proud of her, no matter what had happened.
‘I guessed as much. Hmm. Fact-finding doesn’t sound quite right. Nothing factual about most folktales. So you want to know if we have any island version of Cinderella or Bluebeard, only known to us villagers?’
‘Yes, that’s absolutely right!’ Caroline said. Her cheeks were glowing a brighter red now and there was excitement in her voice. It was an excitement that had always made her attractive to those around her, who wanted to share in her enthusiasm. Stewart and the other man leant in closer to her.
‘Well we don’t have anything like that. Nothing that I can think of right now that you wouldn’t be able to get out of a book. Though you might be interested in a story of immortality?’
‘Who wouldn’t be?’
‘Yes, there is something about the idea of cheating death. Better than the alternative, I suppose. ’
‘What do you mean vampires and werewolves, those sorts of things?’ asked Raymond.
‘No, nothing so commercial as that. No, the story I wanted to tell is one that they used to tell here on the island, back in the day when we knew something more about these things.’ He took a long drink. ‘It had to do with an old well that sits just up the road from here, on a track that leads along the hillside. Nothing to look at, really, just an old well, walled up in stone, but it must have been important in some way. People say that it used to stand at the centre of a village, though there’s no-one left to tell you who dug it or to what the water was used for.
‘What they can tell you, though, and what you might find interesting, is that on days like this when the mist lies thick on the island, the water in the well shines in a very unusual way. If you go and look down into it you might see something that resembles mercury; you’ll see a reflection that looks so clear that some swear they can see the future in it.’
‘So what’s that got to do with immortality?’
‘Well the thing about the well is that it is supposed to be able to gift immortality. Or at least longevity. Some such thing.’
‘How?’ asked Caroline. Her shining eyes, her slight smile; she was entranced, but whether it was because of the story or its potential use in a dissertation was unclear.
‘Through sacrifice. There’s always an element of sacrifice in these stories isn’t there?’
‘I’m sure Caroline could give us dozens of examples,’ said Stewart.
‘Well the sacrifice you needed to give the well,’ continued the old man, ‘was in fact the sacrifice of self. It was said that if you broke yourself in two and consigned half of yourself to the well, then the other part of you, the part that was left, would live on forever. Forever, that is, as long as it remained physically on the island. Immortality. Or a sort of stasis. A broken thing existing for all eternity.’
‘But how is it possible to break yourself in two?’ asked Caroline. She made a moue with her lips and shook her head slightly. ‘That sounds horrible.’
‘Ah, well it’s not what you think, you’re not discarding limbs, no, it goes deeper than that. You take your love, your dreams, your expectations and all the things that make you strive to grow older and more complex and you throw them away. Down the well. That’s about the long and short of it’
‘Doesn’t sound very tempting.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ said Raymond. He was thinking not about the promise of longer life but more about the other part of the story, the side effect of discarding a part of yourself. Weren’t there parts of himself that he wanted to get rid of? Or people. His jealousy would be one. And whatever spawned that jealousy. There was something to the idea of being able to rid yourself of emotional turmoil and upheaval. Maybe if he didn’t love Caroline quite so much — he could see himself living in just one place, having a routine that never changed, going to the same pub, and never feeling too much any which way.
The small man was still speaking:
‘The older folk used also say that many of the people around here had already given their half to the well, which is why so many of us seem so lost, morose and melancholy, and why no one and nothing ever seems to change around here.’ He chuckled to himself, went as if to take a drink and then putting his glass back down on the bar. ‘As far as myths go it’s not by a long way the most imaginative, but its still there and there is something about the well that draws people… and pushes them away. You need some strength to walk that path.’
‘You’ll never see someone piss in it and that should tell you something,’ said Mrs Travers.
‘Don’t ruin my story Mary.’
‘It’s just a fucking hole. Pay no attention to him and just keep to your drink. Nothing else can keep you alive like being drunk.’
Raymond nodded. His drink was good and he wanted more. He suddenly wanted a lot more. He wants to keep on drinking here, in the warm, and everything else forgotten, pushed away.
‘Might be worth a visit,’ said Stewart. ‘When the mist has cleared.’
‘They say it’s in the mist that the well is most powerful. It’s something about boundaries and the edges.’
‘Even so,’ said Caroline. ‘I think I’ll stay in here for now.’
Raymond looked across at the man, and then to Caroline and Stewart. They were standing close together, her shoulder pressed up against him. He saw that entranced look in her eyes again.
‘I think I’ll go have a look,’ he said.
‘Are you sure, Raymond? It’s awfully cold out there.’
‘Yeah don’t worry about me, I’ll be back soon.’
Before reaching the door he looked back at the others: Stewart and Caroline were still arguing with the strange old man, the woman, Mrs. Travers, interjecting occasionally.
The wind woke him as he stepped outside. It was colder and darker than when they had entered the bar, and the fresh air stung his eyes. There was an aroma of the ocean and of frost hanging in the air. For a moment Raymond stopped, lost in thought. It was a smell of his childhood, of playing out in the cold in winter, of bright mornings and long evenings in front of the fire. But the memories transfigured and now there was just the previous few weeks — meeting Steward in London, and all that came after; time spent driving and arguing, visiting quaint towns and doing all the things that he couldn’t stand but that Stewart and Caroline seemed to enjoy together.
He stopped thinking then and looked around for a path. In the glow of the street lamp he saw nothing but the car and the mist. He walked in the general direction that the man had indicated, his footsteps making long grating sounds in the gravel. Maybe he’d piss in the well, in the way that that peculiar woman, Mrs Travers, had said that no-one did. That would be something. He could tell the story at parties. People would cringe and they might think less of him, but they’d remember the story and they’d remember him. Yes, it’d be fitting. It’d be a fuck you to Stewart who brought them up here, to the stories the two of them had searched for together, to Caroline’s interest in them — to this god-forsaken rock and the others like it, and to the whole damn trip. He tried to smile but the self-satisfaction wasn’t there and his face fell into a look of empty melancholy. No, he wouldn’t piss in the well, but he was out now and he had to go see it. If just to be the one who saw the damn thing while Stewart stayed warm inside the pub.
He found a small dirt path that led up the hillside and into the mist, it looked like it might be the one the man had described. It wound up and around the hill, a thin line of dirt and mud that clung to his shoes as he walked. Powder white stones like bones slashed up from the ground; he slid on one and stumbled, landing on one knee and smearing his jeans in mud. There was a movement and Raymond turned to see a set of three rabbits huddled under a low bush. Two bounded off together, leaving the third to stare blankly at him. It shook out its long ears and and hopped away, unhurried.
There was a bend in the path and around it he could see the ocean; it lay clear and dark through a window in the mist. Out in the distance he could just make out some smaller outcrops of land, dimples of grass and rock fenced by churning waves. And there, to his left, was the well, standing alone on a slight grassy slope. It was an incongruous thing, somehow seeming more solid than the land it stood on, but clearly man-made. There were sheep in the distance but the land around the low well was barren and rough. Up close it didn’t look like much: just a low well built out of the same white, coarse stone that littered the hillside. The old man had likely as not made the whole thing up, he had probably just wanted to hold the attention of a few naïve foreigners, trying to see which of them would be dumb enough to go actually try to find the damn thing. Well it was him alright, but he might as well go look at it, though, see it through.
The wind whipped at his hair and clothes and he shivered as he stepped forward to look down into the well. It was a shallow hole, nothing much. He bent forward, leaning his weight over the rocks. And suddenly he saw that it wasn’t shallow at all, it was in fact deep, somehow cavernously deep, and down in the darkness was a shimmer something — a silver coin of water — scintillating and iridescent. Above Raymond could just make out the mirrored coin of the sun high above behind the clouds. The longer he stood there the more he was entranced by the water in the well. As he watched the water the sun shone brighter and the water appeared to rise up towards him, so that — while the well was still infinitely deep — the silvery liquid looked close enough to touch. He could see himself reflected in it, older but unchanged and completely, utterly, alone. There was something tantalising about the image; he felt the inexplicable desire to swing himself into the hole, to drop down and sink into its depths.
A strange thing to feel, like he was being hypnotised by that depth. There were things there, images that he couldn’t get out of his head. There was Caroline’s hand as it had been the night before when it had brushed the back of Stewart’s at dinner: porcelain white and delicate, full of an electric thrill and a single beguiling promise. Strange how vivid the image was, and how strongly it made him feel. He could feel his love for her rise in his chest, feel it mingle with his suspicion and jealousy until it was all that there was; there was no more biting wind or strange wells. The feeling rose up and bubbled in him until he was drowning in it; he was being torn in two by the gale of everything he had allowed himself to feel.
There was a ripple in the water below and the mist rose, the clouds above covering the sun more completely. The the cold had set in again. What a strange thing to be doing. What was he doing out there in the wind? Why was he standing next to some old well? Why he had left the warmth of the pub, where he could at least be drinking, and therefore doing something worthwhile?
He turned and walked quickly back down the path, slipping occasionally in the mud. Maybe he had drunk his first whisky too quickly. It must have been strong stuff.
There was the light of the streetlamp and the little car sitting there, waiting. The sectioned glass window of the pub window was warped and distorting and through it he could see them still huddled together and seemingly happy. He could see the woman, Mrs Travers, reaching for a bottle and he found himself unaccountably thirsty.
The conversation didn’t break as entered the small room.
‘But how could it ever be worth it to suffer like Tithonus, if it means cheating death?’
Caroline looked up at him as he took his seat. If she saw the change in his face, she didn’t show it.
‘Well it depends, doesn’t it, whether you’re willing to give up the things that make us human, the things that are worth suffering for.’
Raymond signalled to the Mrs Travers. The voices washed over him, the words didn’t seem to mean anything. Caroline’s eyes lit up as she argued, there was that flush in her cheeks and catch in her voice. They were things which had always sent a shiver through him. Strange how he couldn’t feel that now. How now he felt nothing, nothing at all except a throbbing dullness and a need for another drink. He poked at his feelings like at an aching tooth, trying to see if he could still feel the keenness of them. He tried to bring himself to remember what first drew him to Caroline but there was nothing there, just a gap where love used to be.
‘Are you alright young man?’ said the gold-toothed man, leaning over to him. He smelled strongly of stale beer and pipe smoke.
‘Yeah,’ Raymond said. ‘Just tired.’
He was tired. More tired than he had felt in a long time. Maybe he should stop travelling for a little while. He could let Stewart and Caroline get back in the car without him. They probably wouldn’t put up too much of a fight. It wasn’t such a bad island and Mrs Travers might have a spare room. He could stay for a while and do nothing but rest. He did need a rest.
‘How was the well? Did you see your future?’
‘I couldn’t find it,’ Raymond said. He had a drink and turned to look outside the window. The mist had begun to clear, he could see the ocean. Somewhere beyond that deep cerulean expanse was mainland he no longer wanted to see.
S. D. Jones is a Swiss/Australian writer currently living in France. He has recently completed a MSt in Creative Writing at Cambridge University and will soon be starting a PhD in Creative Writing at Aberystwyth University. Examples of his work can be found at STORGY Magazine, Typishly Literary Journal, Short Fiction Break, The Esthetic Apostle, Ink & Voices and The Drum Literary Magazine. Voices.outofsightspeech.com
According to my mother, I quit squalling soon as the doctor recorded my birth weight and length. Mom always has been prone to exaggeration … prone to a lot of things. But it’s certain I had a fascination bordering on obsession with measuring. OK, I’ll admit it: I teetered over the boundary into compulsion at a young age.
One of my first memories is from 20 or so years ago. I determined Miss Gilbert’s desk was 22 first-grade hands wide and 11 deep. Billy Johnson’s blue eye was less than a hand from his brown one.
My itch to measure intensified the older I got till — shortly after my tenth birthday, when I threatened to run away from home because I didn’t get another ruler for my collection — my parents took me to a child psychologist.
He asked me to tell him the first measurement that popped into my mind. I gave him the distance to the moon in miles. And kilometers, feet, meters and inches. I wanted him to know he wasn’t dealing with a stupid little kid — at least not when it came to measurements. He scribbled something in his pad and spent the rest of the session teaching me relaxation exercises. Then he asked my parents for $125.
That evening I overheard my folks discussing things they’d have to give up to afford my sessions. Mom especially was upset about Saturday date night. Guilt pushed down on me, and I vowed to control my compulsion. Or at least hide it. When I felt an urge biting, I went to my room, flicked baseball cards and measured how far they flew. I admired my collection of rulers only under the covers with a flashlight in the middle of the night. I eventually convinced my folks I was cured, and they stopped my sessions.
I bumped along the next few years pretty well thanks to my relaxation exercises and exercising discretion. I flicked a lot of baseball cards. I did have a few slip-ups though.
One was because of this crack in the floor outside the boys’ room in middle school. I ignored the fracture till I couldn’t resist any longer. I whipped out my tape, fell to my knees … and Principal Johnson, who I’m sure was rushing to the lounge for a smoke, tripped over me. I wouldn’t have thought a little forehead cut could bleed so much. Or that a grown man would faint at the sight of blood. Anyway, the school counselor informed my parents I was “at it again” and recommended they take me to an OCD specialist, but Mom wouldn’t have it.
My biggest mistake was sophomore year. I told Debbie Dunker she had pretty hands and asked how long her fingers were. After that, every time she or her clique saw me, they started laughing. I was glad when it came time to escape to college, but my relief wasn’t to last long.
At the university, I found that between having a roommate and struggling to keep up in classes, I barely had opportunity or time to measure anything. The pressure built until one day I exploded out of a lecture hall, my emergency tape in hand, and started measuring everything in sight — the water fountain, the width of the hallway, height of the exit door … the tire of a bike parked outside, the height of the curb.
I measured my way back to the dorm, found a janitor’s ladder and climbed to the top to measure the distance down. I went onto the roof and dangled my pride and joy, a 100-foot Lufkin. I measured till exhaustion stumbled me to my room. I didn’t leave it for two weeks except to eat and go to the toilet. I decided college wasn’t for me and went home.
Mom had thrown out my baseball cards, so I rolled poker chips around the house and logged their distance. My fingers wore off the markings from my favorite tape measure. I found myself studying my hands as if they held the missing numbers. I stood outside, my open arms measuring empty spaces.
Dad finally couldn’t take it anymore and got me a job on a construction crew. Mom said if I messed up, she’d kick me out of the house.
Turned out I loved my work, and my boss was impressed with my commitment to “measure twice, cut once.” I didn’t tell him how hard it was for me to stop at twice.
After about a year, I could afford my own studio apartment. Between my job and living alone, I could measure to my heart’s content. I was probably overdoing it. Then I met Diana.
I was framing a house when I noticed a surveyor pinning the lot. My eyes leapt to her bright red hair. I had to know how long it was. During a break, I introduced myself, planning to distract her and quickly hold my tape measure to her hair. I asked her to point out the back property line to me. Before doing so, she explained, elegantly, the measurements she’d made. By the time she turned to point out the boundary, I was so smitten, I felt it would be wrong to secretly hold my tape to her head. Instead I asked her to dinner.
After our 12th date in 41 days, I was over the moon for Diana and decided to disclose my obsession. I feared she might dump me, but felt I owed her the truth. Diana listened carefully, took my hand and said if I ever needed to measure her hair or fingers or anything else, I could — as long as I asked first. It was as if something had pick me up, shook me gently and set me back down. From then on, my obsession became easier to manage. I found almost all I needed was to sneak a few extra measurements on the job. My boss was ever impressed that I never made a wrong cut.
Diana and I eventually moved into a small bungalow together. That was several years ago, and we’re still there. Tall hedges seclude the back yard. Sometimes on warm, crickety nights we take a blanket and fool around under the stars. One evening, we were lying on our backs when Diana asked me the distance to the moon. I told her it was closer than I ever imagined.
(Note to reader: This story is 1,069 words long. I’m much better, but not completely cured.)
David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for a Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous print and online journals including Soft Cartel, Gravel, Moonpark Review, Bull and Cross, Lost Balloon, The Fiction Pool, Fiction on the Web and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.