Holding Pattern

Chemically white dunes as far as the eyes can see — only this — and The Sun, a vast hydrogen fusion, hundreds of thousands of miles hot and deep, totalitarian in its sky, there are no more nights for it rules. Those who are left have learnt to work with it, harness its energy, channel its powers; this is the only way to sustenance, or food as they used to call it. 

In Chimborazo, survival is stasis, progress is in the staying still, since striving ahead could mean sudden death, anyway, there’s nowhere to go that anyone knows about. And even if there were, it would require wasting Melintrose (units of sun energy gifted in a life).

“May I ask you something?” Phre asks, careful in trying not to look like it matters.
“A question? I hope it’s not a difficult one.” Ra says.
“It’s not part of everyday” Phre whispers. In Chimborazo, eyes look up and out beyond any form, watery and unfixed.

With this sudden news, Ra nervously starts fingering the screen of her Memory Bank, scrolling to find her familiar images, the reflexive muscle-memory a comforter. Warm in the solace of knowing every picture of herself and the people who have made up her life, the safe backdrops, the selected smiles and poses. A distraction from the fact that her cells were inevitably dying, but at least this way, they would die at a lesser rate, since this exercise is easy on the nerves. 

“Look at me here Phre; this was when I was watching a bird.” Ra’s now attempting to change the course of the conversation. Phre has seen this image a thousand times already and feels deadness, a highly sought state in Chimborazo, although he doesn’t feel his usual satisfaction since something stirred within him.

“Do you ever imagine moving?” Phre asks.
“No, we cannot waste time thinking such silly things,” Ra says.

Here to live well and orderly is to lay down rested, still, with the Sun instruments perfectly balanced to capture as much energy as possible. The only activity considered safe: to rearview mirror your past in a passive elegiac way, like imagining the scenes of your best days to the sounds of an Al Green song, not a wild memory, no, more of a remembrance of general calm times.  To think or act would be a waste, and to maintain energy was the primary purpose of a Chimborazian.

Phre looked at his hands, feminine and veinless, no tension had ever been felt through them, throughout his existence he had only ever been a receptacle, life happening to him, no will had been exerted outwards. Phre looked down at his body, atrophied and spongy, he wondered if he could stand up. Ra had given up thinking to do this, since theoretically speaking, standing could burn more Melintrose than what one could gather with the instruments in a Sun Course. Of course, it was right to try and conserve as much as possible, anything else would be risky, but Phre felt an itch within him — he needed to know whether standing was something he could do.

Slowly he begins removing the charge covers from his body, and with wavering doubts attempts to lift an arm. Oh, his bones, seemingly so weighty, nausea rising from his chest, he might throw up now, and as all this comes over him, the arm spasms and gives way.  With every bit of effort, one could expect from a man that had lain horizontally underneath his charge covers his whole life, he raises his lead-like arm again towards his eye, with just the right balance of force and gentleness to swipe out his UV Prognector lenses. Breathless, and all the while wondering if he is, in fact, capable of rising to his feet.

“What in the hell are y’ doin’?” Ra blurts, almost hyperventilating.
“I am going to try to stand,” Phre says, so unsure it comes out all high at the end, rather like a question.
“Whatever for?” Ra said.
“I want to know I can, that’s all,” Phre says.
“What is the point you’ll use up all you’ve made this Sun Course; you’re wasting it.” Ra says.

Phre lay back assessing the situation. Standing is a bit of a long shot and would not only use up most of his quota, but the energy expended would also create a feedback loop, increasing its output rate over the coming Sun Course, even Two Sun Courses.

“I need to know” Phre defends.

Now Ra looked visibly frightened. After all, this: a rebellion of the highest kind. Nobody had gotten out from under their charge covers and removed their instruments since the mass suicides. Ra had some images of their great grandparents who had been part of this revolt in her Memory Bank. It had been said that a hundred and eight of the Dial Caste had removed themselves from their Sun Pods, lifted off their charge covers and had just started walking. Some younger ones, even ran, until their Melintrose depleted, starving themselves, slowly shrivelling up like scorched roots.  The Compound Patrol had said that a young baby’s face had melted onto a rock from the sheer force of being without instruments, and today, still, the features of that baby could be traced in sandy stone. Nobody could reach that rock, so they could only ever imagine how it looked, and this type of thinking was not considered healthy.

Ra’s mother had often said that it had been too much imagining and talking amongst themselves that had poisoned each one of those one hundred and eight minds. Thinking ahead had got them all worked up, talking killed. ‘Talk is expensive,’ as they say.

By now, Phre had removed every single instrument and was focussing all efforts to lift his head. Ra had never really considered how a human head is a heavy thing, weighing roughly about the same as a white-tailed eagle. And to raise an eagle on a neck that had laid horizontal its whole life was no easy feat, nigh impossible. He tried to move it quickly, and his jaw took on a tightness that bit down on skin from his tongue,  he felt a sharp sensation bore through blood, he tried to mind-dull it and not let out a shriek since Ra would find fault. His jaw had never moved around quite so much as now, and he was also burning up. In all his frenzy, he had pushed away his cooling vector.

He had spent a lifetime laying down there next to Ra, and she had been a pleasant companion. A face that he thought he would enjoy looking at a lifetime. Big grey eyes, a cute nose, one of her nostrils a slightly different shape to the other, which held a strange, captivating asymmetry that, depending on his mood, had different affects over him. Her lips were rather thin and crusty, and that had an overall ruining impact on her looks, he would sometimes try to cancel those parts out by lifting his gaze upwards, zoning out on the more beautiful parts of her face.  And even though these days she was a little weathered, he saw glimpses of attractiveness that had never properly exercised its powers, because she had spent a lifetime unseen.

Now she was looking at him like he had gone mad. To move forwards, he decides to turn away from her, and she then starts to try to get his attention back by widening her gaze and licking her lips in that young teenage way. No, he mustn’t look! He begins to count the names of the Golden Eagles, deciding that on Suturi, he would seize himself and STAND, there could be no doubt, no fragmentation, for at this rate he would crumble to a heap in a cloud of sand dust.

“Please Phre, don’t do this. You cannot…you’re scaring me. Isn’t it enough for you to be here together?’ Ra pleads.

In his tightening to get his legs to move, Phre had not even considered what was going through Ra’s mind. There were creases about her forehead that he had never seen before. Clearly, he could see how she had long passed the stages of being a young woman. He had laid next to her a lifetime, and he only ever saw the child-woman, and it dawned on him that he’d never really looked at her as she is. Side-by-side; sharing little glances, soaking up energy from The Sun, being perfectly subdued and enough for one another. He had been lucky that he had that face to pair up with since she had been enough for him, he couldn’t imagine a better person to spend an aeon with.

In a second, he realised that her skin and features had changed more on the outsides than what was going on in her insides; when speaking, she was always the same old Ra, for she had only ever been a good citizen, staying in the certified zone, and looking back. 

“Don’t be silly, I love you all The Sun” Phre responds.
“Then why are you doing this to me? What point are you trying to make? Lay back down, and I’ll stroke your hand.” Ra whispers.

Her eyes had taken on a strange sphinx-like quality; she had a way of stretching her spine and coiling that she knew he liked. These days she hardly ever offered to stroke his hand because it was a waste of Melintrose, yet she knew how much he liked it and that tempted him. It was just like his mum used to do it, so gentle and soft — on the edges of being tickled but not quite.

He sunk back down, letting his body give in to its usual pattern, a heavy sigh enveloping him…aahh…the relief. When he looked at Ra, she looked once again familiar, that deep worry line that had reared itself earlier no longer visible. With all the strength he could muster, he lifted his arm, placing his hand near to hers, so she could cup-it-up in that old way he liked and stroke it. She flicked it off.

“Put your covers and instruments back on then; you don’t want to lay here and let it be a waste,” Ra said.

He felt a jolt of red run through him, but maybe she was right, it had passed its hottest point, but he could probably at least make evens for this Sun Course, instead of just burning more than he’d gathered. Ra kicked the charge covers with her foot over to Phre, seeing that he had wasted so much for This Course, she felt this was the least she could do, she had already made 0.4 zps of her quota. With all the strength he had left within, he manoeuvred the covers with his foot stretching his arm down as far as it could go, pulling it up and around himself, jiggling-in to get snug. Now she was grinning at him, and her eyes seemed to be smiling too.

“That’s better. Go on, get your instruments back on then.” She says.

He had placed them within easy reach, and luckily, they were still plugged into the central shield, so all he had to do was slot them into the head of the Sun Pod, which was all within easy grasp. He felt exhaustion overtake him that he had not remembered ever feeling and wondered what had come over him to want even to try to get up.

“And your lenses.” Ra insists.

Oh, she did love him; he knew that. In all the kerfuffle he had nearly forgotten about those darn lenses, and the Sun’s fury would soon have lost him his sight. Reaching down he grabbed them out from the Vensticular and placed them over each eyeball, it was hard for them to settle since his eyes were all gummy, oh he just wanted for everything to go back to normal. He yawned wildly; he had exerted himself today that’s for sure.  

“Haha, you’re so tired. Calm yourself, wanna look at that picture of me when I made that big yawn.” Ra said proudly.
“I’ve seen it so many times,” He says in that half jokey way where she knew that he wanted to see it.

She scrolled through pictures of herself thinking about her mother. And the one where she was picking her nose. Ha, she did have some good ones Phre thought.

“Look!” She pointed at the one where Phre had a sand fly land on his nose that was so weary it had stayed long enough for Ra to reach around and take a picture.
“Oh, that’s a great one,” he said.
"Yea, the best," she said, "Oh, here it is."

He could barely keep his eyes open now they were all stingy, but he thought she’d gone to all the trouble of scrolling to find it. He looked over, and there it was — Ra with her mouth wide open yawning. He let out a breathy laugh through a broad smile, secretly wondering whether he would get that hand stroke that she’d promised him earlier. He crawled his hand towards hers and placed it nearby, their skin touching.

“Not now,” she says.

Oh well, it’s the thought that counts, Phre mused, he was mighty tired by now anyways and had pretty much given up on the idea. It would be a bonus, but the tiredness was so that he didn't care anymore. He felt a soothing haze complete him, the kind where you know that in a few moments you'll be out for the count.

Cold Night Smell

It was a cold green summer night when he picked her up from the alleyway, all wet from a downpour. He smothered her in his coat, and with his hands hard around her neck, kissed her deeply and brought her home for good. She a complete stranger with a presence that his mind could not make borders for, she reeked of a wild, damp fury.  

When she became his it was a struggle to get out of bed, to untangle his body from hers. Often, when she moved across the room he would look at her and she would sense him intuitively, turning her whole being towards him. Her intelligence frightened him in these moments because she seemed quicker, sharper, more alert. His mind did not work this way. 

She did not admire herself in the mirror, her beauty far beyond anything he had ever known he couldn't tell whether she knew this or not. When he brought her food she grabbed at it without hesitation, no move she made without purpose; if there wasn't anything she needed she would sit still and relaxed, her hair the colour of blackstrap molasses. 

He left her alone in the house when he went to work, he sometimes imagined her screaming wildly with other men: the flat-nosed guy in the local shop, or the small African postman. In his business he could not focus, he looked her up online endlessly, even though he knew she didn't exist there, he wondered about her real name, he could tell she wasn't who she said. He imagined other identities for her, based on things she'd spoken about; as if random conversations were clues to her being in the world. 

He would drive himself crazy, ruminating: how she could just show-up, like a lost object. He created pictures about their future together - was this an attempt to keep her?

He asks how she would like to decorate the property; he wants her to make a mark. When he speaks this way she says she likes things the way they are; he searches every part of her for a sign she's holding back, maybe something bad happened to her when she was a child? The fact she wants everything to remain the same unsettles him to the core.  

When he comes home from work she always meets him at the street-door, her lips searching before he even has time to put down his gloves and keys. Lately, he wonders whether she meets him here so urgently because she has something to hide, like she's been busy clearing away the evidence: burying her shit.

–Hello, Mr, she says. The shape of her eyes, almost Egyptian, though she is English. Her waist and hips in a navy-pleated skirt; he watches her move, she pulls off his coat without care for its quality, he hears the lining tear as strands of her sweet, thick hair get entangled in his watch. He yanks his wrist, her eyes widen: her body retracts and opens-up when he hurts her. He pushes her down on the lower step, then puts everything into her mouth, he is all the way in the hollow of her throat; her body twitching and crouching, he notices that she has made small damp patches on the floor. Did she pee? He pulls her by the hair upstairs; she prefers it this way, she stares lost into the unknown when he is too tender. He pushes her face, she hisses and pulls him inside her. He wonders where she goes in these moments; she seems a member of a secret sect, part unknowable like all sharp women are. He only ever treated woman like this before that he thought below him. When she is finished she curls up in a ball and lies still like a coiled foetus. - Well Goodnight Then, he says.  

She dreams of lost city-streets in Istanbul: dark passageways and half-men in the shadows. In her purse, alongside the nightstand, is a small purple string key ring. A pointless item, but she keeps it with her and who knows the reason?  

One night he wakes to find her vomiting in the corner of the bedroom. She is bent over, gagging and holding a large brown bucket. As she leans forward the notches in her back rise against her flesh. Her protruding spine, the open mouth, a clicking sound deep within her stomach: the scene is unnerving, she has always been an image of health. In the first month they met she had some mass removed from her uterus; she was told it may be still possible to have children, she didn't seem to care, she got up that very afternoon and left the hospital; rosy. He argued with her in the car on the way home: asking why she wasn't concerned about her fertility - did she not want to have babies? He became obsessed. He felt subhuman in this moment, all nervous system, oh how she drove him mad with insane thoughts, degenerating him to create ugly, precious fantasies, mostly of a sober domesticated kind. He no longer recognises himself, he aches for the days of culture over monstrosity. 

She seems very unwell, she's stuffing her long puny fingers deep inside her throat, she is panting heavily, grabbing for air, and her eyes are streaming with run-mascara; the whites of her eyes haemorrhaging spidery red vessels. Her hand prods manically, her knuckles shiny with saliva; her whole fist is now in her throat. Raw. She shudders, like a wasp has moved up her spinal fluid. He touches her on the small of her back - "are you ok? I have to leave now". She retches again and this time it's not dry, she spits-up a pile of black hair, it looks pubic. Colour returns to her face and she walks to the bathroom, turns on the tap, her lips under the fresh stream of running water. She walks back to him and kisses him with an open mouth, she smells curdled.

•
 

When he returns from dining with clients, he opens the door, unsure of what he may find. The air smells of defecation, he opens all the windows and doors and searches as frantically as he does for her virtually. She is nowhere, she is gone now completely, oh how she is irreplaceable! He knew this, feared this day would come. He reaches for the whiskey, he keeps it for visitors, he hasn't drunk since 2009, but he cannot go on. He gulps it in one go and pours another, his insides aflame, just like he remembers.

But wait - in his peripheral vision he sees a shadowy figure dancing across the grass. It's his lover. She is on all fours, pulling herself up on fully stretched legs and arching her back in the shape on an inverted-U, as he approaches her through the glass doors she flattens the front of her body and raises her rump in the air. She is rolling on the frost-dew grass; she is writhing and rubbing herself in a manner that fascinates him. She turns her head and smiles. Something is wrong she is no longer his. Her bones are amiss. They are chiselled-out incomprehensibly. Direct. Her lips are no longer kissable; her nose is a light-pink stub. She is blacker and bushy, she darts across the lawn, in a slinky unconscious way, that he has never seen in any female.

He runs towards her unbalanced, he reaches out to her and is attacked with blows from her sharp, clawed forepaws; she spits and growls at him and then retreats towards the Ancient Sycamore. For once it is she who is very much in charge of what is happening.  

Her clothes are there in a small pile on the lawn. She has picked up speed now; she is so fast; sleeker, fitter. She is darting and narrowing, darting and narrowing, running further away from the house. Her lace scarf is trailing behind in the wind. All humanity shed. She looks back at him. Oriental eyes glistening. Feline femme fatale. Then in a flash...she is gone through the thicket, it is almost 1. A.M.  

With mania flapping in his chest he picks up her belongings from the lawn: her burgundy silk maxi dress, gold hooped earrings and suede sandals, and folds them on the kitchen table, finishing the bottle.  

Days, and then a week pass-by and still there is no sign. He has taken to working on the kitchen counter, his lap-top looking out towards the garden, every third minute his eyes wander to the glass doorway, hoping, he has even taken to praying to an unknown entity. These days he cannot sleep, to the new night sounds of shadow and teeth, he can hear the screams of copulation outside. Beasts! He wonders whom she is with? More stuck nights pass and he replays the reels of their romance in scenes. Indignant he wonders whether when she's out roaming she considers how lucky she is? He thinks he can still have anyone. 

This morning he gets up and looks out through the glass door like he does everyday, and on the ground, sitting in a puddle of jellied blood, is a mangled chunk of pink meat. He looks closer: it is long, pink, fleshy. His eyes go wild, is he seeing things? Is it human? Did she trap and kill it? He cannot tell. She left this for him as a present. At last she is back! He sips from the bottle of whiskey and with tears in his eyes roars out an inaudible sound, a wailing from times uncivilised; just like the screams he hears in the sleepless middle-night. Uncontrollably he pleads with murky hope that one day she will see sense, admit the truth of her whoring, come back.