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.

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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...

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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.

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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.