Skip to main content

The Space between Atoms 14

 Wandering the maze of the underground world of the asylum, Terah had a revelation.  Currently, apart from being a little thirsty, his needs had been met.  His entire adult life, up to this point, had been a constant, unrelenting drive to get the next bit of chaos under control.  He had to be somewhere or doing something to prevent being failed, fired, expelled, evicted.  Other people had told him what to do and when to do it.  Lost amid the pipes and concrete walls, a strange feeling settled upon him.

Terah had, of course, known freedom as a concept.  Now, however, nobody was telling him what to do.  He could decide to take a nap right now, and nobody could say why he shouldn’t.  He was alone in his castle.  Okay, there might be some ghosts too, but they couldn’t command him.  In fact, the idea of a nap sounded appealing.   His sleep the night before had been fitful, and turning off the flashlight here underground it was midnight.  Terah had the power to make it day or night.  As long as the batteries held out.  He found a corner, curled up into a ball, and made it night.

Sounds awoke him.  Irritated at first, he recalled that the problem with interrupted sleep was that you had to go to work the next day and if you were yawning all day long you’d be judged for it.  If, on the other hand, you were free you could simply nap.  It was going to take some time adjusting to freedom.

The cold swept in as he stretched himself, releasing trapped heat between body parts.  There was no wind down here, so he would warm up by moving.  He should investigate the sound in case someone had invaded his private liberation.  He listened to the dark.  It spoke to him.

“Hey, Cal.”

He screamed.  Fumbled for the flashlight.  Mich stood in the dark.  “In my house you don’t shit wherever you please.”

“Mich!  I thought you’d left!”

“And I’d better not catch you pulling your dick out when I’m standing right next to you again.”

“It was an emergency,” he pled.

“That’s why I decided to let you back in.”

“Did you find the intruder?”

“Some punk from town.  He got bored and left.  They usually do.”

The situation was awkward.  Mich had built all this up himself and Terah had taken some of his food, as well as his flashlight.  He offered it back.

“Hold onto it.  I’ve got others.”  He flicked his on, to demonstrate.  “While we’re out here, I’d better give you a tour.  First stop, the bathroom.”

As Terah had suspected, Mich had subtly marked his environments with signs that wouldn’t be obvious as pointers unless you knew them.  The boy showed him a remote room that he could smell before seeing.  A deep pit had been dug in a corner and a salvaged toilet seat was propped over it on a framework of boards.  “No need to use the throne if ya gotta piss, but just pick a place where you won’t be hittin’ the boards or seat.  If ya gotta go, now’d be a good time.”

“I don’t need to.”  The truth was that Terah had a bashful bladder.

“Go ahead, man.  It ain’t like I’d be shocked or anythin’.  Looks like we’re roomies now.”

“No thanks.”

“My house, my rules.  Give it the old college try.”  

So this was going to be a power play.  “At least keep your light off me,” Terah said.

“Over here,” Mich continued when he’d finished, “there’s an old fashioned water pump.  I get the feelin’ the builders were cuttin’ corners.  It’ll give you water anyhow, and a bit of exercise.”

Mich must’ve trusted him.  He gave Terah a tour that included what now seemed to be obvious guideposts to navigating the basement.

“Have many intruders come down here?” Terah asked, as they sat around the fire in the boiler.

“Not many as long as I’ve been here.  Most the people who come by are thrill-seekers.  The basement doesn’t have much of interest.  It’s dark and unless ya make it all the way here there’s nothin’ to see.” 

“How long have you been here?”

Mich fell silent.  “I can’t say.”

“I know it’s your house and all,” Terah began, “but guys my age are still curious.  I mean, doesn’t it bother you to be alone?”

“Not really.”

“Living in the dark?”

“Safety’s important.  Even if you have to sacrifice light.  Besides, yer eyes adjust.”

“I don’t want to sound all patriarchal and all, but you’re at an age when your health allows it.  When you get a bit older you need some kind of insurance.”

“Do you have any, Cal?”

Now that Danielle was gone, no.  Of course he didn’t.  He stared into the fire and wondered about how long January could be.

“You’re not gonna croak on me, are ya?”  That was a smile tinged with concern on the younger man’s face.

“Not planning on it.”

The two sat in companionable silence, neither wanting to reveal too much.  Although Cal had lost his sense of utter freedom, the feeling of negotiating simply survival remained.  Like farmers before everyone moved to cities.

“I heard screams earlier.”

“I heard ‘em too.  Ya get used to it.”

“I having a difficult time really believing in ghosts.  You know, you spend a lifetime being told they’re not real and you come to believe it.  They say it’s all made up.”

“What ‘they’ say is bullshit.  I’d think you’d have figured that by now.  When I first came here I had no idea if anybody else lived here.  I mean, there’s the graffiti and all.  I soon figured out jury-riggin’ the front door, an’ explorin’.  I got good hearin’.  After a long time I knew I was alone.  I been all over this place.  I know each room.  Yeah, people come once in a while, but they always leave eventually.  When ya go a long stretch knowin’ yer alone and ya still see other people, ya gotta explain it somehow.”

“Forgive me Mich, but this is going to take some getting used to.  Are they interactive?”

“The ghosts?  They move shit, if that’s what ya mean.”

“Do they try to communicate?”

“By talkin’?  The way I figure it, they’re mostly the ghosts of the inmates.  In life they dint communicate well.  Why’d that change?”

“But that couple—“

“Yer back onto that, huh?  I thought old guys lost their interest in sex.”

“I thought young guys couldn’t think of anything else.”

Mich’s smile was inscrutable.  He stood.  “It’s time ya got to know this place better.”




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Dusty

  My, this thing is dusty.   My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic.   No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third.   With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give.   Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out.   I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again.   I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut?   My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago.   Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction.   Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up.   I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best...

Creative Righting

  Rejection of my writing is a rejection of my imaginative world.   That’s why I was cheered by the acceptance of one of my stories this week.   That makes number 31. I’ve been working on a lot of fiction lately, even as nonfiction book number 6 is going to press.   The ideas are still there, and bizarre as ever, but publishing venues just aren’t welcoming. The other day I had lunch with a professor whose wife is also a professor.   She just had her first novel published, and so he pointed me to her indie publisher.   I went to their website to learn that they’re closed to submissions.   I have to admit that my latest accepted story, “Creative Writing Club,” was probably given the green light because I know the editor.   That seems like a pretty dicey way to get any notice, doesn’t it?   You have to know the right people even in the low circulation world. My fiction is difficult to classify.   It’s got speculative elements to it.   ...

Creativity

  Maybe you’ve noticed this too.   When you step away from fiction writing for a while, your creativity becomes flaccid.   I’ve had to step away from this blog for a while because I was writing my sixth nonfiction book.   God, I’ve missed fiction! Now that I’ve entered that phase of waiting for publishers to respond, I’ve turned my limited writing time back to fiction.   I submitted a couple of stories this week and am waiting to hear about those as well.   When you’re a writer, waiting is a way of life. Opening my software where I store my fiction stories, I was amazed by how many I found.   Some of them are bad—so bad that they’ll never (rightfully) be published.   Some are surprisingly good and have been sitting around while I finished up my nonfic. The vast majority, however, are unfinished.   Some years back I realized that when I’m writing in the heat of inspiration but don’t have time to finish a story that I need to write down where I...