He went on.

  But he got lost and was late for work. Nobody noticed. Nobody said good morning. Nobody threatened him with anything. He went to his desk ... But was it his desk? He wasn’t sure. Couldn’t quite remember. He hadn’t left it so tidy the night before, had he? He was never tidy. His spaces, like his mind, were a litter of unfinished business. Still, nobody sent him away from it ... ‘Excuse me?’ he said to a tall woman with dark red hair as she brushed by, unaware of him. He followed her, coming up behind. Nobody looked at him. ‘Excuse me?’ He touched her shoulder. She entered an office cubicle without stopping for him. Angry, he went in after her. ‘Look, Ms...’ He couldn’t bring her name to mind. She had very big eyes—deep green. A mane of hair framed her face in a lush burgundy texture. ‘You ignored me,’ he said, hurt. She frowned, as though she couldn’t quite hear him. ‘Do you want something?’ she said. ‘I just wanted to know if that was my desk ...’ he began, but her eyes glazed over, as though she’d thought of something else. He watched her smile to somebody who wasn’t there ... and unbutton her blouse. She took it off. Her breasts were full, their nipples like pink-brown fruit. Then her skirt and her underwear. He stared at the downy redness between her legs. Was she offering him something? He stepped closer. Reached out his hand. Felt the softness of her breast. He knelt; she leaned back against the desk. His hand probed within her thighs, parted the swollen lips of flesh, wetting his fingers, wanting to open her fully. He could smell her rich scent, but inside her, what was there? ... Something? He couldn’t see clearly. He looked up at her. She stared at him, unaware, and suddenly he thought she was like his mother (though he couldn’t remember what his mother was like) and he pulled back his fingers and moved away. Outside the door, he rubbed her moisture on his handkerchief.

  Dealing with the files on his desk was impossible. He didn’t know what they were for. Anxiety and a peculiar tension made him fumble, sent his mind off into other places. He didn’t see the woman again, though he kept looking for her. His eyes searched for gaps in the slim venetians too. Glimpses of somebody or something walking by the building. No, he was five storeys up. Nothing could pass. He tried to catch the eye of other workers. No one met his gaze. The figures on the papers he had to process became more alien.

  ‘You!’ A shadow fell over him and he looked at its original ... a man, familiar, yet he couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen him before. ‘Day-dream and you’re done for,’ the man continued, his goatee beard pointing like a threat. He barely seemed to be looking at him. ‘You must pay attention to the present!’

  He saw the red-haired woman again on his way ... somewhere. To where he slept? Yes, to a little place that wasn’t his ... that he rented. (Had he ever had a home of his own?) He followed her along the street. She’d disappeared when he rounded a corner ... but the window was there. In the blank wall. He realised he’d been anticipating seeing it, feeling eager to look through its impenetrable pane. Perhaps the woman was behind there. He shuffled close. Then away. Back again.

  Something moved against the glass. He frowned, squinting at it. A fish emerged from the black surface. It swam into the air as though the world were a sea, flapped its fins and curved back into the window. Gone.

  He blinked, his mind numbing. Was the windowpane solid, or just a shadow? Either way, what was beyond it? Nose almost touching it now, he sniffed, trembling, afraid something would come out at him. Nothing did. He could see only a dim reflection of himself. (He guessed it was himself, though the phantom shape looked like someone else ... he didn’t know who. Seemed familiar.) ‘Is there anyone there?’ he whispered. His fingers, still smelling of the red-haired woman’s sex, hovered against the glass. Touched. Entered through it. Black paint swept aside, the way the surface membrane of an algaed pond might, its tension broken by a stone. Blackness disappeared ... and suddenly he could see beyond it. For a moment, the images through the parting curtain were bulbous and featureless. Heaving shapes. Forming. He blinked.

  It was not the interior of a building, but a park. Short picket fences defining landscaped edges. Icecream seller’s van, side flap open. War memorial. Crucifix. A bench. On the bench, a woman. A red-haired woman. It was his mother ... he knew that, though he could not quite remember what his mother looked like. Next to her was a stern, formally dressed gentleman with a goatee beard. He resembled ... whom? Someone ... sort of like Sigmund Freud. But he knew it was his father (though again memory of his father was formless). The woman was holding a baby. In the middle distance, a young boy ran past, yelling silently—the scene was utterly soundless. He felt a strong conviction that the boy was his own son. ‘Can you hear me?’ he said. The woman stood up. Aimlessly ambled forward, not looking at him. The baby squirmed and she glanced down at it. The baby was staring straight at him. Caught his eye. There was no question that the child saw him. That he saw the child. They stared at each other with intense recognition.

  *

  ‘What’s he looking at?’ the red-haired woman said to her husband. She followed her child’s gaze. There was open sea, sweeping out from a rocky foreshore. It was restless with wind and marked by a pattern of undercurrents, so that the surface of the water was thick and broken.

  ‘Looking for fish perhaps?’ the man replied. Then added, glancing toward dark clouds forming across the horizon: ‘There’s bad weather on the way; we should head off home. We can come back tomorrow.’

  The woman smiled at him, agreeing perhaps.

  Robert Hood writes horror-fantasy, SF and crime stories. “Inchoate: Night Memories” was inspired by a series of works by artist Tony and was published in the exhibition catalogue in 1992. It may not be ordinary supernatural or gore horror, but it is rather psychologically disturbing, once you put the pieces together. Hood’s website is http://www.roberthood.net.

  “Silence”

  Martin Livings

  We sit together on the log, he and I, both naked in the cold night air, and look out across the lake, still, dark, deep. There is no moon, just starlight. We’re miles from anywhere.

  His arm is around my shoulders. One hand rests on my breast, the other high on my bare thigh. I ignore them.

  Listen, I tell him, as we sit. Listen to the silence.

  He doesn’t understand. All he hears are birds in the distance, the sound of us breathing, his own quick heartbeat. He has an erection. I ignore that too.

  Listen, I say again.

  Then I scream.

  I scream high and loud, scream as if my life depends upon it. I scream until my lungs are empty. Then I stop.

  Now the silence calls to me. The familiar high-pitched whine fills my head, surrounds me, makes me safe.

  The doctors call it tinnitus, a ringing in the ears. They say, if it’s bad enough, it can drive people insane. Not me, though; I find its siren song a comfort, a constant friend. When everything else is gone, it’s still there with me, humming that same note, reliable, dependable.

  I wish I could share it with someone.

  He’s let me go now, and looks at me like I’m some crazy girl. What the hell was that for, he demands, angry, frustrated. His erection is gone now. The camping trip I invited him on has taken a surprising turn for the worse; he expected to have sex under the stars, climb aboard and cleave me in the chill night air, miles from anywhere, miles from anyone.

  They all expect that. What I expect, of course, is to find a soulmate, someone to share the silent music with. But I never do.

  Well, if he can’t share the song with me, perhaps he can help me hear it better.

  I reach down beside the log, then plunge the hunting knife I hid there earlier into his thigh, all the way to its hilt.

  He screams high and loud, screams as if his life depends upon it.

  I’m careful not to hit the femoral artery. I want him to scream, not die. I twist the knife, and his scream hits a new pitch, almost as high as the music itself that he calls for. Then I yank it free, and he falls backwards off the log. Black blood spurts over the wood like redgum. I stand up, over him. The blade of my knife drips in the moonlight. He’s still screaming.

  We’re miles from anywhere, miles from anyone.

  He screams as I bend over and cut into his scrotum, and shell him like a peanut. He screams as I sever his penis. He screams until his lungs are empty.

  Now, I whisper, now.

  I swipe the knife across his arched neck. The blade slices deep into the flesh there, severs his veins, his arteries. His windpipe. His screams stop dead, replaced by a soft wet sigh, and his whole life pours out of him in a single gush of fluid. His eyes roll back in his head, and he stops struggling.

  Then I straighten and turn, skin hot despite the cold night air, and look out across the lake, still, dark, deep. Deep enough to hide so many bodies already, and more. It comes to me now, comes in the newborn silence, lured once more by the bedlam that I offered it. I smile, safe, peaceful.

  It sings to me.

  Martin Livings‘s first book, the horror novel Carnies, was released in June 2006.

  His webpage can be found at http://www.martinlivings.com.

  “Chocolate”

  Robbie Matthews

  Tonight, Nathan wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He’d been watching her for weeks, and he was as prepared as he was going to get. He put the knife in one pocket and stuffed a handful of silk scarves in another; gags and bonds, all in the one convenient, compact, innocent looking package. He had a few stiff drinks to put him in the mood, and then walked upstairs and knocked on her door.

  Monica opened it. She looked pale, but serene. She blinked at him for a few moments. She’d been drinking, he could smell the alcohol. Strange expressions crossed her face, before she finally smiled.

  “Nathan. What a surprise. Come in. I was just having a late night treat, and it would be nice to have some company.”

  Slightly bemused, Nathan allowed himself to be led into the lounge room. There, on a coffee table, was a fine spread of chocolates in many shapes and sizes. There was also a bottle of fine cognac on the table, about three quarters full.

  “Just let me get you a glass. I’m in the mood for spoiling myself. Have you tried cognac before?”

  “I dunno. Can’t remember.”

  “If you had, you’d remember. This stuff is amazing. You don’t so much drink it as inhale it. Here, try some.”

  He did, and it was. It was peculiar how friendly Monica was. He’d talked to her a few times before, and apart from that one time at another neighbour’s party, she acted as though she really didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

  There was a loud hissing and gurgling from the kitchen.

  “That’ll be the coffee”, she said, rising. “Just a minute. How do you like yours? I’ve spared no expense, and it complements the cognac and chocolate so well. Help yourself... I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The chocolates where pretty good. Not as sweet as the stuff he was used to, but creamy and rich. He stuffed a few more in his mouth when she left.

  He also sliced the cord on her phone. Just to be on the safe side. For all that she was acting nice now, women had been known to change their minds.

  She returned, bearing a tray of coffee and cream and all the other makings.

  “How do you like the chocolates?”

  “Great, thanks. Umm... what’s the occasion?”

  “Oh... nothing, really. Just that life is too short not to spoil yourself every now and again. I made the chocolates myself. Go on, have some more ... if you leave them, I’ll just eat them all myself, and I’ll regret it later. Perhaps.”

  Nathan did have some more. This was definitely not turning out the way he had planned. On the other hand, this wasn’t so bad, either.

  Then Monica sighed.

  “Look, I may as well come clean. This is all because... well, I’m going to die.”

  “...err...”

  “The final tests confirmed it today. Lymphatic cancer. It’s going to be a very painful death, they tell me. I have perhaps three months to live.”

  “Oh. That’s ... terrible.”

  “I have all these pills to take, which might help things a bit. But I never could take pills, you know? Never could swallow them. Always have to grind them up and mix them with something, and they taste so vile...

  “Anyway, I decided that if I don’t have long to live, then I’m going to damn well enjoy the time I’ve got left.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Nathan, with feeling. No wonder the bitch was acting so strange. Not really knowing what else to say, he inhaled some more cognac.

  “So, I’m glad you’re here. I ... really would like some company.”

  “You know, I’ve ... always fancied you.”

  He took her, then. Just stood over her, pushed her to the couch, and took her. She struggled a bit a first, but he could tell her heart wasn’t really in it. In the end, she just relaxed and let him do it. It didn’t take long.

  Afterwards, she looked at him, a peculiar, languid smile on her face.

  “Well, that was interesting. Different, anyway. Let me just straighten myself up. Have some more chocolate, enjoy the cognac.”

  When she came back from the bathroom, she was swaying slightly.

  “Whoops! I’m all giddy now. Too much cognac, I suppose. Still, no point in leaving it, is there?”

  She spoke then, of all her plans, and how they’d come crumbling down. All her ambitions, her old loves, her hobbies, her hates.

  Nathan sipped cognac between sips of coffee, ate the chocolates, and listened. He wasn’t really interested in what she said, but he’d drink her liquor and eat he chocolates while they were there. Maybe have another round later — she might not be conscious later, but that had never bothered Nathan.

  “Oh! We’ve finished the chocolates,” she said. “How naughty!”

  “Yeah, well... I guess I’d better be going...”

  Not that he felt like going. The cognac was hitting him hard, and standing up and walking downstairs to his own flat seemed just too complicated.

  Monica drained her glass.

  “Well, that’s that.”

  She threw it backwards over her shoulder, and it shattered on the kitchen door.

  “You know, Nathan, I’ve always thought you were a slimy little shit.”

  “What...?”

  “Always looking at me, following me around, undressing me with your eyes. I just knew you were picturing me while jerking off. Some of the others warned me about you, you know.”

  Nathan lurched to his feet.

  “That’s not bloody true!” he yelled, knowing full well he was lying. “You’re just a bloody bitch!”

  He lunged at her, but tripped over the coffee table, and rolled to the floor. It was getting really hard to concentrate, for some reason.

  Monica hadn’t moved. Her head was lolling back, her eyes closed, her voice a mere whisper.

  “So when I decided to kill myself, and you showed up at the door, I thought, why not? Do the world a favour.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “The chocolates. Choc-full-a-barbiturates. All different types. I couldn’t face trying to swallow them, so I mixed them into the chocolate. Worked pretty well, don’t you think?”

  Panic struck, but it came from a long way away, and barely penetrated through the comfortable cottonwool feeling that was engulfing him.

  Somehow, he managed to make it to the phone, dragging it off the table, and groping for the buttons.

  It was 911 wasn’t it? No, that was American cop shows. 000. That was it.

  He picked up the handset, and pushed the buttons, but there was no noise, and no dial-tone.

  Some silly bastard had cut the cord.

  He was still trying to work out what to do next when darkness swallowed him.

  Robbie Mathews made his first paying sale early in 2000, and since then has been heavily involved in local writers group, the Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild (CSFG) and the Critters on-line critiquing circle. He is also involved in editing and publishing Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine.

  “The New Religion”

  Brett McBean

  In the cavernous chapel, thick with the smell of blood and burning oil, Reverend Fred Barnett, in black felt hat and long black jacket, had already begun his sermon. The light from the gas lamps adorning the brick walls flickered over the congregation and as Nathan moved over the cobblestones that had only been laid last week – this church, like many around the country was still being remodelled – some of the converts stirred at the sound of his footsteps.

  He knelt beside his best friend Joe in the back pew and they exchanged a nervous greeting.

  “Late again,” mouthed Joe.

  This was the fifth time in a row Nathan had been late – he was lucky the door hadn’t been locked, as was the norm after mass started. And he didn’t want to miss tonight’s mass – it was sacrifice night, to commemorate the death of Annie Chapman.

  Nathan shrugged, bowed his head and listened to the reverend’s oration.

  “…hundred years since our Lord graced this earth, two hundred years since the beginning of the new-world and in this bicentennial we pay tribute to the first and greatest of them all – his mystery, his fame, his legend – and pay homage to all who have followed in His footsteps. We honor the five apostles: Peter, Ted, Peter, Kenneth & Angelo and praise holy Not-Virgin Mary, for she sacrificed the most to the Lord. In the year two-hundred AR, at the dawn of the third century, we are fortunate enough to be closer to the truth than ever before; soon our true messiah will be named. Let us pray…”

  Nathan took the bible from the back of the pew in front of him, ran a hand over the ominous visage of their cloaked god on the cover and watched Joe hesitate, a sheen of fear flash across his face before he picked up the small tome. Joe’s parents still believed in the old religion, a world that was rapidly dying, and Nathan understood the guilt Joe felt every time he stepped inside the White Chapel.

 

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