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Andreas. Or, The Half Hour Story Volume 3

I waited up, anyway. Did an e-mail arrive? Like buggary did one. In fact, I was a tiny bit disappointed. Having said that, it was nice to finally confirm that I was going mad, so that's a plus. In a way. I mean, it's not like I want to be mad or anything.

But I suppose it gave me something to write about for a few days. Back to boring stuff, I suppose. I won't even bother going into it. I doubt anyone reads this anyway. Ah well. I guess...I guess I'll write back sometime soon. Maybe.

--------------------------

An hour ago, a siren called. It was singing, beautifully, drawing me near. I tried to reach it but...no, it was just getting further away. A carrot. A carrot-shaped siren.

Then, high above, I heard a crow cawing in the open sky. I could see it, this one. Its voice overrode the deafening siren. I think...it was trying to lead me somewhere. I followed.

A man emerged from the dark, a flick of light in his right hand, nothing but black in the left. And the eyes. The red eyes. Hell was in those eyes, I know it.

He moved towards me, at a crawl. The vegetable barked. Hell is scared of onions. The man ran. He dropped something. I moved to pick it up and then...

-----------------------------

You're not going to believe this. Oh God. I...this has gone far too far. That up there. In the italics. I didn't write that. Yeah. OK, OK, I guess I could have been sleepwalking. I have been known to. But sleepblogging? That's a new one. What the hell does it mean? "Hell is scared of onions"?! Seriously, what the fuck! Nobody else could have written all of that. I change my password every day (to keep mum out, before you ask). It was me.

And then there's this. I got the e-mail. No subject. No sender.

"Sry. Cmputer borke. Foollw thes instrcshuns carfly if yu wan ansers. N9ne tmorrow go to teh pak. Were yu seed da. Ezacly. N Ill met yu."

So Mr. 'I Don't Exist' finally got back to me. And he wants me to meet him. Fuck that. Honestly. As much as I want answers...Ah. This just landed:

"Yu will met me. Wether yu lik it aw nt."

I'm scared. Genuinely. I haven't been scared this much in my entire life. Not even when I saw dad's body that morning. Not when I saw his 'ghost'. Not even when I sneaked on to The Screamer when I was six years old. This is a whole new level of scared. OK, I'll go. But I'll keep my distance. It's not like I'm going to die. I hope.

------------------------------------

It's ten in the morning. I just went to the park. Well, I just got back, but let's not get into particulars. Here's how it went down, exactly.

I arrived at nine on the dot, right by the climbing frame I'd seen my dad a few days before. It's a horrible day out, very dark. I could hear the rain, toxic no doubt, pattering on the dome, while the sky was, as my mum might say, 'as black as your hat'. I never got that saying. The only hat I have ever owned was blue.

Tangent again. When it rains outside, the air inside the park kind of gets heavier, a bit horrible. So there wasn't anyone around. And as the playground area is right in the middle, I'd see anyone coming a couple of minutes before they arrived.

Or so I thought.

I looked around every few seconds. I would've looked incredibly conspicuous to any passers by. I probably looked like a drug dealer, especially in my tattered school uniform. Whatever.

Tangent again. Again. I looked around to check another direction and...there was a man standing no more than five feet from me. I'll tell you what, it made me jump out of my skin. It would've been great if there was a dramatic clap of thunder just as he appeared, but it wasn't to be.

Oh right, the man. I'm not very good at reporting, am I? He was pretty tall, at least a few inches taller than me, and dressed in a long trenchcoat made of leather. It was done up, so I couldn't see what was underneath, but I guess it didn't matter. What did matter was what he was wearing on his face.

It was a gas mask. Like what people used to wear in the War. It covered his entire face, making him look like a diseased, alien elephant. And slightly above this was a trilby hat, covering his hair. In fact, thinking about it, I couldn't see a single piece of skin or natural fibre at all. Everything was covered, like a modern ninja.

"Who the fuck are you?" I said, not exactly politely. Straight the point. He didn't reply. Instead, he took an envelope out from his coat pocket, a brown A4 one like a spy might use, I suppose. He held it out to me, and I took it. I looked down and opened it. It was a note. And it said:

Hello. I am sorry that I cannot speak to you, but this shall have to do. My name is Andreas. I haven't much time, so I'll skip straight to the point. Everything you know is a lie. A lie cooked up by Hollier Corp. to keep the populace at bay. You don't need to know the 'why' right now, and I think the 'how' should be obvious. Regardless, you need to know the following:

• Your father worked for Hollier, and it was they who killed him.
• There is no such thing as ghosts
• You are not who you think you are
• You are special
• You are not mad

I do not wish to go into further details right now. I am sure that this is all very much to take in for one so young. But if you would like to learn more, leave a paperclip atop St. Albans church. Else, you will hear no more from me. I trust that you will make the correct choice.

--Andreas

I looked up, and started to ask "So how do you know all this, Andreas?", but managed to get the "S-" and that's about it. Andreas had vanished. As quickly as he arrived, he had left. The whole thing had only lasted a minute or two. Somehow, I knew that everything that he'd 'told' me was right. It was just something in my gut. I'm sure you've probably had the feeling yourself before. I sort of stood there for a bit before walking home. I'd made my descision. And I'm sure you know what I did.

I got a paperclip from the dining room, went to St. Albans, climbed up it, and put the clip where I'd met the blackbird. Then I came back home, got on my computer, and wrote this. I guess we'll see what happens, eh? I'll keep you posted.

The Bird's Necklace. Or, The Half Hour Story, Volume 2

(The following, like part 1 of this story, was written in about half an hour. I'm not being as strict as I was the other night, however. And there won't be a word count. It is first draft, so any minor mistakes should be ignored. I'll try and keep it coherent, however.)

If anything, today was even weirder. I mean, seeing a ghost of your dead father could probably be classed as clinically insane, but you have no idea what I'm about to tell you.

I got an e-mail late last night, just as I finished up my entry. It said,

"You're first impresshuns were correct. A bt. That was not ur fater. Keep ur is peeled."

And that was it. Four badly constructed, mis-spelled and most odd sentences. Bizarro.

I thought it was just Kat playing one of her tricks again, but it couldn't have been. OK, this might sound even stranger, if you're a computer whizz, but there was no e-mail address. No sender. It was just there, in my inbox. (Well, of course it was in my inbox, it was hardly going to be out of it.)

I was getting tired by this point though, so went to bed. I didn't have a single dream. Not that I can remember, anyway. I've always been like that, come to think of it. I only seem to be able to recall the really violent ones, like a bloody fight between two birds etc. Oh, wait, getting sidetracked now.

Woke up the next morning, did the usual routine of eat and ignore, then left. Friday. Too nice a day to go into school. I mean, it's nearly the weekend, so what's one more day going to matter? I decided to climb the roof of the local church, St. Albans. It's a nice spot. It's the sunniest place you can get to really.

The church is a bit of a dump now, though, to be honest. Barely anybody bothers with church anymore. It's fallen completely into disrepair: tiles missing, lead stripped, doors hanging off, birds crapping on all the windows... It's probably pretty dangerous to climb, actually, but you only live once, eh? And if I were to fall to my death, it's not exactly like anyone would miss me. Except maybe Onion. That's if dogs have memories at all.

Anyway, I climbed the church. I'm pretty adept at doing it now: climb the skip, grip hold of the entrance lobby (which sticks out, a bit like a bricked up porch, I suppose), and clamber the rest of the way.

I sat atop the spire, and looked as far as I could. Which, of course, wasn't really all that far. Only as far as Hollier Corp. wanted us to see.

I...OK, I don't want to patronise you, but I know that some of you might not know what I mean by that statement. Not those of you outside The City, anyway. If there's anyone out there at all. So I'll do my best to explain, briefly. No details.

The City is split into various subburbs, Nitnow being one of them. Each subburb has its own dome covering it, like a massive pudding bowl. At certain points, there are airlocks connecting the subburbs to other subburbs, and public spaces like parks, which have their own dome. The domes were built by Hollier to protect us. Or opress us, depending on which paper you read. But anyway, they're there.

The church's spire is as high in the Nitnow dome as you can get: it's bang in the middle of the subburb so it can reach the very tip of the dome. Above it is the air machine. Pumping cool, refreshing, pure air into Nitnow. That's really the only reason no-one's demolished the church: if something ever goes wrong with the air, someone'll have to scale it to fix the problem. I guess they don't really expect teenagers like me to climb up old buildings.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I was sat there on the roof, looking at the sky though the dome. I guessed it was probably about mid day judging by the sun, but I never really paid much attention in either geography or science, so for all I knew it could've been three in the afternoon. My mind, as it always did in these situations, began to wander. I could probably get up there. Get out, out into the outside world. I'd not last long. Oh no. But to be the first person to step outside Nitnow in 20 years...that'd be something. Escape.

I think like that all the time. I've never had the nerve to do anything though, of course not, but who knows? One day I might finally decide to break out. The one thing we're never supposed to do. It's mighty tempting, isn't it?

I'd had enough after a couple of hours of my crazy thoughts. I spun round and started climbing down, when I saw something. A blackbird. Blackbirds aren't that unusual, but this one was a bit different. It seemed to have a collar around its neck, like something you'd put on your cat or dog to symbolise ownership. It looked to be made of pure gold, and had a charm hanging beneath it, which looked like a tiny capsule.

I slowly moved to take a closer look. My foot slipped. Yeah, OK, I know I said I was good at climbing, but I wasn't really paying attention, so shut up. Amazingly, despite the sound it made, which with all the quiet up here sounded about as loud as a chainsaw firing up, the bird didn't fly away. In fact, it got closer to me. I regained my balance, and met it halfway.

It bowed it's head. Yeah, honestly. Like it was greeting a monarch. Bowed. I've never been bowed at in my life by a human, let alone a blackbird. I slowly removed its necklace, a reverse medal-giving ceremony. And then, it's job seemingly done, it flew off, without so much as a caw.

I opened the capsule. It was pretty heavy actually. I reckon the bird must've been happy to get it off its neck. Inside was a note, written on what looked to be a cigarette paper.

"Wait up 2nite. Ill emal agin. B redy to do whats nesecary."

I had no idea. Again. I haven't recieved another e-mail yet, but I'll sure I will soon. After I've posted this, no doubt. Nothing else bizarre happened today, thankfully. Maybe the Universe decided I'd had my fill. I can't shake the feeling that this all means something though. What, I have no idea, but something. I'll write back soon. Unless I get sectioned.

Footprints In The Grass. Or, The Half Hour Story, Vol 1.

Start time: 23:53, 30/3/09

So I’m sat here alone, bored. Watching the clock tick by like the perennial dripping tap in the bathroom. Music is feeding into my ears via the magic of iTunes. Ah, bliss.

It’s kinda nice, actually, in a weird way. Remember that time I told you about? When dad just didn’t come home from work that night? Yeah. Of course you don’t. OK, here’s a ‘Previously on…My Life’.

Dad didn’t come home from work one night.

Then we (we being me and Onion) found him the next morning. In the middle of the road with scratch marks all across his face like a giant cat had decided to use him as a scratching post or something.

That was about a year ago. I’ve got over it now. I suppose you could probably call me a recluse since then, really. Just me and Onion. I barely even see mum anymore. I guess… I guess since that when the world turned upside down, neither of us bothered to cling on. So we’re in freefall, drifting through space on our own paths. And space is a big place. What’re the chances of bumping into each other, really?

Anyway, I’m babbling. I guess since I barely speak anymore, I just try and shove it all onto the page. Suffice to say, though, that I kinda like being alone, being bored. Takes my mind off my sad little life, or the world in general.

I’m going to go to bed now. I doubt you’re reading this anymore now so…

Same time as last night. Here I am again. Surprised? I thought not.

Today was…weird. I saw mum first thing, at breakfast. Not that that’s overly weird. I mean, I know I said that that I very rarely bump into her into this expanding mess of a universe, but I didn’t take into account breakfast. Most important meal of the day, y’know.

We didn’t speak. Except a swift “G’morning.” I gave Onion the remainder of my toast (it was all burnt and, for all intents and purposes, a brick. it even looked like one. how the hell she got it in the toaster I’ll never know but that’s beside the point) and left for school. Didn’t bother saying goodbye. What’s the point? Know what ‘goodbye’ means? Apparently it’s a contracted version of ‘God Be With You’. It makes sense I suppose. But seeing as there’s no God, how could there be with what he let happen to my dad?, it sort of seems redundant.

Anyway, went to school. Well, went to the park. University of Life. I’m sure it’s what dad would’ve wanted.

I sat on the swings for about half an hour, just sitting. No, I wasn’t swinging. Those things make me feel ill. Anyway, I closed my eyes for a few seconds, just breathing the morning air. And when I opened them, just for a split second…

Hold on. This is going to sound bizarre. You’re not going to believe me, I know you’re not. But it’s the God’s honest truth. Actually, not God. Darwin? Satan? Bill Gates?

Whatever. I saw dad.

Honestly.

Over by the climbing frame, just for a second. He was standing there, clear as day, perfectly still, like a statue. I sort of did a double take, like I was in one of those old Laurel and Hardy films (or something) and he was gone. But it was him. It was. No doubt in my mind.

Obviously, said mind was racing at this point. A ghost? I thought. Immediately I threw that away. If I believed in ghosts, I might as well believe in aliens as well. And I’m sure as hell not Robbie Williams.

I went over to the climbing frame. I don’t know why. What was I expecting to find? Happily though, I did find something. Well, two somethings. Footprints. More like footmarks, really. Just two, right where my ‘dad’ had been standing. Nothing leading up to or away from, just two dents in the grass. But unmistakeably feet.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. They could’ve been anyone’s right? But if that was the case, then why weren’t there any leading up to or leading away from them? Huh? And how come these were so clear? I’m sure you’ll know, even if you’re not some mad scientist, that grass, especially of the variety you’ll find on any recreation ground up and down the globe, doesn’t lend itself to leaving footprints. At least, not as good ones as in sand. Or custard.

It sort of freaked me out a bit. But hell, what else was I going to do with this information? It could’ve all been my imagination. Maybe someone had been putting marijuana in the park’s air supply or something. Or I could have been dreaming: I could well have fallen asleep on the swing and, well, dreamt. I dunno.

The rest of the day went by pretty much as normal anyway. I ignored everyone, everyone ignored me. Except Onion of course. She’s different.

This has made me feel a bit tired. And is making me sound like I’m mad. Ha! Me, mad. Imagine that. Scary thought, eh? About as scary as footprints in the grass…

Finished: 00:20, 31/3/09. Total time spent: 27 minutes. Words: 879

The Rose (Parts 1, 2 and 3)

Preface:

This was one of the first pieces I 'properly' wrote, a couple of years back now. It was previously published online in three parts, but I can't remember how it was split (yay, I love computers!) but hopefully it might become apparant. Also, bear in mind that some of the writing might be a bit rough around the edges: with this old stuff, I'm going to publish it *exactly* how I find it for posterity. So, with that in mind, enjoy! (Or at least try to...)

***

Open your eyes.

He did. He looked at the green light by his bed which happened to display the time. 4:19 a.m. Shit, he thought. I only went to sleep an hour ago. Now it’s time to get up!

He rolled out of bed and creaked his neck. The cracking sound reminded him of Rice Krispies, for some reason. It’d give him arthritis one day, but goddamn did it feel good.

Like a zombie, he stumbled his way to the light switch. It gave him a quick, sharp jolt which made him move his hand immediately. Bloody thing! He looked around him. What a dump. You can do better than this, surely? A dump was the best way to describe his ‘bachelor pad’. The wallpaper used to be cream, covered with pink flowers. Now it was brown, tarnished by years of dirt and cigarette smoke. It was beginning to peel. One piece might as well not have even been there.

His bed was no better. A holey blanket rested over a mattress with so many loose springs it could easily pass for a permed hedgehog. The mattress sat on a dusty, brown carpet which looked and felt awful. Scattered here and there were piles of clothes, including unwashed underwear, creased cottons and tarnished trousers.

Meandering his way through the mountains of mess, he eventually reached his sink. God knows what rested down the plughole. A spider’s nest probably. It made a ghastly gurgling sound every time water was run anyway.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Beneath a mass of black, tangled hair was a gentle face, which somehow looked old before it’s time. He looked tired; anybody would be able to tell that without a second glance. Deep black rings rested beneath his eyes, which were surrounded by crow’s feet. Two days growth of stubble did not help much either. He was only 20, but looked in his forties. His eyes were piercing green, some might say scary, but a softness lurked somewhere within.

He rubbed his face. Bloody nightmares. I wish I could be left alone. Just for one night I wish she’d leave me alone. A tear dropped lazily from his left eye. He shook his head and moved into his bathroom (if you could call one mildew infested shower and a toilet which had trouble flushing a bathroom).

***

Thirty minutes later, he came out having done his daily business. He hadn’t bothered to shave again. Why should he? It’s not exactly like he was going out on a date, now was it?

He chucked on the least dirty, wrinkled top and trousers he could find: a sky-blue shirt and a pair of jeans. He slipped on his running shoes and went to leave his flat.

As he took a step out, he tripped, coming down to the ground with the force and speed of a felled Redwood. He lay there for a couple of seconds, winded. Jesus. Another good day awaits, then…

He stood and turned to shut his still-open door. That’s when he saw it. What he had tripped on.

Sat in a brown ceramic plant pot was a single rose. Its petals were pure, deep crimson, with nary a speck of discolouration. Its many thorns were sharp and exactly symmetrical. Hell, even the dirt it sat in seemed excellent. It was beautiful. Perfect.

Who the hell put that there? he thought in his normal, disrespecting way. There was no note or any other indication of who it came from on the rose or on its pot. He stood staring at it for a minute, for some reason entranced by its beauty. He tutted, picked the plant up, and walked back into his flat.

The soil seemed full of water, so he didn’t bother feeding it. He set it down on his tiny window ledge. Plants liked light right? Well, not right now: it was still four in the morning. He walked back to his door and took another glance at the rose as he left. Weird, he thought, and set off for work.

***

He left the rugged building which housed his shit-hole and made a left turn. He’d walked less than ten metres when he saw the old woman beggar who was outside every morning without fail, even this early. She was very old, and he felt sorry for her sometimes. But she served as a reminder to him that, no matter how crappy his digs were, at least he had a roof over his head. She was always mumbling to herself, but he’d never listened. Heard, obviously, but not listened. But this morning was a bit different.

“Did you get what I left for you?”

She repeated this a couple of times as he walked past, and finally listened on the third time. He furrowed his brow in thought and slowed down a little, but didn’t stop. Is she talking to me? He pondered a second longer. He shook the thought away from himself like a wet dog. No, she’s probably quoting the Bible or something. He walked on to work.

***

Well, if you could call it that. It was a job. A career even. But could you call it work? Maybe. At least he got paid for it.

He was a contract killer. A hitman, if you’d like. He’d tried his hand at other stuff before, sure, but there ain’t no business like the killing business. He was guaranteed that wherever he went, through the city or the big wide world, there would always be someone who someone else wanted dead. It was a sad fact, but, hey, it paid the rent.

He’d thrown his morals out the window a long time ago. He’d never been to school. Barely had parents. He only had one thing in his life he’d ever really loved, and even she was gone now. He was cold, maybe even ruthless. Why should he have feelings? It’s not exactly like anyone else was going to give him compassion. He barely even bothered speaking; a true silent assassin. Words were worthless anyhow.

He had his contract, and this morning was the day of the job. He’d catch a guy as he left his apartment block. It didn’t matter what he’d done, but suffice to say his wife thought he deserved a swift end.

A sniper rifle would be left on the roof of the opposite building, ready and waiting for our assassin. He’d wait up there, perched over the ledge. Then, he’d get rid of the gun and go and collect his payment. Most of that would go to the debts he’d accumulated over the years. And there were a lot of them. The rest would go on food and rent. Maybe he’d have enough for a haircut. Who knew?

It was time. It was about six now, and the guy would leave in perhaps half an hour. He sat, waited, and thought.

It really is a sorry existence I have, isn’t it? That shit-hole I live in’s the least of my worries. All that debt. The chance I’ll get caught. The nightmares. There’ve been so many people who are no longer here because of me. I barely even get enough money to get by. And what the hell was that rose about? Was it that old woman? Who else could it be? Oh, Lord, I can’t deal with all this. I’m so tired…

***

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and slept. He didn’t mean to, it just happened. He fell into his nightmare. But what made it scary was that it wasn’t just his brain attempting to get some rest and spewing out random crap. It had actually happened, and every time he slept, he was transported back to last year.

That summer was the time of his first hit. He needed money, and he needed it fast. Times were harder than they were now, unbelievably, and he just had to get cash as quick he could. Otherwise he could end up on the mortuary slab, not the guy he was supposed to kill. And his girlfriend would probably leave him. He’d never intended it to be a career move or anything like that. Just this once; just for the money.

There was little breeze on that hot summers day. Kids ran around the park where his victim worked. Enjoying their summer holiday, playing in the pool, chasing each other round, eating ice cream…

But wait, no, they weren’t eating. He’d expected them to be. After all, an ice cream hits the spot on a summers day, especially for little kids. The van was there, white as snow and a big plastic cherry on top. The prices were all displayed on the side, half falling off so parents would be tricked into paying over the odds for their kids’ treats. This could work to his advantage, though; after all it was the ice cream man he had to hit. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to waiting in line, then killing the guy in plain sight of everyone in the park.

He moved around to the back door, and knocked. No answer. Again, he knocked. Again, no answer. He twisted the door-handle and walked in, bringing out his silenced pistol as he did.

***

The van was small, and cold. The huge fridge which contained hundreds of ice-creams of different types was wide open. Boxes of cones were smashed on the floor. Two people lied atop them, embroiled in sex. One was the ice cream man, a bulky, middle aged man with sever military tattoos on his hairy arms. The other was his girlfriend.

The two were, quite obviously, startled by his entrance. They broke apart immediately. He didn’t know what to do. So he carried on with the job. Worry about the consequences later. He shot the ice cream man twice: once in the chest, the other in the head. Blood spilled over the floor like on of the fridges’ raspberry ripples. His girlfriend screamed. “Leave no witnesses,” he heard in his mind, the voice of the mobster he’d been ordered by. But he couldn’t kill her, could he?

***

The dream skipped forward several hours. He had to skip town, the police were looking for him with all their force, and it just wasn’t safe. As he was on the motorway leaving the city, he switched his radio on.

“A man was today found dead in his ice cream van at Golden Park. The 42-year old ex-serviceman was shot twice, in what appears to be a failed robbery. A 19-year old woman is helping police with their enquiries, but other witnesses are still being sought. If you have any in…”

He couldn’t do it, no matter what the consequences were. She was the only thing he’d ever loved. But she haunted him. He’d left her, all alone in the world, after killing her lover. She’d seen death. He could handle it, but he knew that she wouldn’t be able to. A few days later, he heard on the radio that she’d committed suicide. He couldn’t turn back time, but his dream made sure he’d never forget. He wished he could, knew he couldn’t.

***

Open your eyes.

He did. He was on this rooftop. What was he doing? Oh, yeah, about to kill that businessman. He looked at his watch wearily. 7:00. An hour later. He’d missed his window. Shit, shit, SHIT!

He began to panic. Hyperventilating, he quickly got up and ran down the fire escape. He hailed a cab, realised he didn’t have the money, and ran home, forgetting about the rifle on the roof.

The old woman was outside again, still mumbling to herself. He rushed to his bedsit, and slammed his back against the inside of the door. He sighed and closed his eyes, deep in thought. That guy…he was going away. That was why he’d left so early: he was leaving the country! It was the only opportunity…and he’d missed it. Now he wouldn’t get paid, he wouldn’t be able to work off his debts, anything!

He took a couple of deep breaths and opened his eyes. What? Is…is this the right flat?

It looked the same, but very different. It was clean. There weren’t mountains of clothes lying everywhere. The carpet looked like it’d had been washed; it was soft and slightly springy. His bed was actually a bed! The sink was spotless, as was the entire bathroom. It looked like it had been serviced by a professional cleaner.

What the hell? The rose was still there also, sat on the windowsill, leaning gently towards the sunlight. That looked different as well. It had a tag around its stem, sort of like the tag Paddington Bear had. He walked over and took a look.

“I have cleaned the room for you. Hope you like it. Time to move on, start again. Properly. Rose.”

This must be some kind of joke. That’s it, a joke. Someone had managed to fins out his ex-girlfriend’s name and play some sort of elaborate prank. He turned the tag over.

“This isn’t a joke. You need to move on. Stop thinking of me, dreaming of me, and move on. And stop killing people. Go back home, where you belong. Stop running. A clean start starting with a clean room, understand? Rose.”

“No, no, no!” he whispered to himself. This can’t be happening. I’m still dreaming right?

He was compelled to turn the tag over again, but knew there would be nothing but the original message. He turned around, and standing in front of him was Rose, his ex-girlfriend, as real as when he saw himself in the mirror earlier that day.

Shocked, he backed up, knocking the rose off its ledge. The pot smashed on the ground. “Look at what you’ve done now,” Rose said. “And after I spent so long tidying, too. Stop looking at me so oddly and relax. I am here, but not for long. You need to get out. You know it makes sense. You can’t stay here or you’ll be killed. It’s died down back home now, safe to return. And once you’re there, you can forget about me, forget about this life, and start again.”

“How could I forget you?” he said croakily. “You haunt me in my dreams, and now when I’m awake too.”

“I’ll leave. I’ve been trying to get you to leave this life ever since I left my own. You’re not the same man I met when we were teens. You never will be again. But you can be something different, something better. There’s some money on the bed. Get a cab back home, and I promise I’ll leave you forever.”

“But…I don’t want to…”

“Yes you do. You as much as said it yourself. It’s not your fault I’m gone. I was the one sleeping around, the one who killed herself. There’s no reason for you to keep me in your mind anymore.” She began to fade, gradually becoming more and more transparent.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No. I’m the one who’s sorry…” With that, Rose faded. He sank to the floor and broke down in tears.

***

The next day, he packed his things and left the shithole forever. He decided to shave for the first time in an age. He took the rose with him, though it was beginning to wilt because it had no water. On the way out, he saw the old woman again. This time, for the first and last time in his life, he spoke to her. What did they talk about? That doesn’t really matter, in the long run. For the most part it was just small talk. But a couple of interesting things did arise. It was her who put the rose outside. Why? She didn’t know. Just that a dream of a beautiful young woman told her to. He smiled a little at this, and passed the rose to her. “Keep it. I don’t need it any more.”

With that, he walked off. He flagged down a cab on the street corner. He got in, and noticed it was the same driver as yesterday, when he had no money. “Oh, you again,” said the driver. “So, where you going today bud?”

“Home.”

Introduction

Hello there!

You might know me. Then again you might not. So here's the standard 'introduction' thing.

My name is Shane Rynhart. I'm a writer, or at least I like to think I am. Or at least, I like to think I will be. As I write this, I'm a second year Creative Writing and Media Studies student at the University of Winchester. I like it. Lots. I think I've become a much better writer (and media...person) from doing it, even though I'm just about halfway through my degree. But anyway, onto more important things.

Why have I set up this blog? I should point out that this is, technically, my third blog. The first is something I call my 'personal' blog where I just vent things, really. The other is called Mirakulous and was going to be my comments on the media and stuff. It kind of tailed off when I started getting more inundated with coursework and stuff, but if you want to take a look at what little is there, you can find it at http://mirakulous.blogspot.com. I might even pick it up again at some point. It was fun!

And that, friends, was a lesson in dodging the question. Which, as you'll recall if you cast your eye an inch or so up the page, was 'Why have I set up this blog?'

Well, there isn't really a simple answer, I'm afraid. Firstly, I'm not going to be using this as a 'proper' blog. It is going to be a kind of 'hub' for all the writing I've ever done. Well, most of it. A bit like a CV, I guess. Hence sometimes there might be a splurge of posts, other times nothing for weeks. I'll put up the stuff I've got gradually as we go into the new year.

There will be two very notable exceptions, though. One is the Nexus series. This is a (currently unfinished) project of mine, which is a trilogy I started writing when I was 16. The whole first part and about quarter of the second are finished, but I haven't gone back to it. It is, though, pretty damned big and put simply, I can't be arsed to carry it all over. There is good news however! It is availiable on the Internet already. Feel free to check it out at www.freewebs.com/nexus_books. But whatever you do, don't put 'Nexus Books' into Wikipedia. Seriously.

The other exception is Operation: Sleeper Cell. O:SC was (well, is) a game that I spent a year of my life working on. It's an Alternate Reality Game (ARG) which raised money for Cancer Research UK. We did pretty well, too. I was the lead writer on the project, which meant I wrote, ooh, probably somewhere in the region of 50,000 words, I reckon. I didn't do all the writing, but I probably did about 93.72% of it. There or thereabouts. A mammoth undertaking for someone who's still (just!) a teenager, I'm sure you'll agree. You can find more information about the game itself at http://www.operationsleepercell.com and http://www.law37.com. Meanwhile, most of the writing I did for the project can be found split between http://www.wearenottheagency.com, http://www.plasticcastlemagic.com and http://www.bespokeleather.co.uk. Please do check them out so that I know I didn't waste a whole year!

So that's it in a nutshell basically. Stay tuned for stories, articles, scripts and maybe even a couple of poems. But they'll be rubbish. The poems, I mean. Hey, can't be good at everything, eh?

Oh wait, one more thing. Why 'Zebra Jimnie'? It's the name of the make of pen I've been using for notes, writing and lots and lots more ever since I was about 12. Consistancy's always a good thing. Well, that and the fact it was the first thing on my desk that I could find. And only after about ten other blog addresses I tried turned out to be taken. But hey, these things happen for a reason, right? (Write?)