August 23 – An Appointment

Welcome, it is good to see you again. Come inside, please. May I offer you a seat?

 Thank you.

 Of course. Would you like something to drink? I have scotch, or lemon soda.

 Just water, if you don’t mind.

 Still as ascetic as ever, I see.

 Hardly.

 Yes, well. Water is easy enough, if you’ll wait one moment.

 Sure.

 Here you are.

 Thank you.

 It’s been a while since you’ve last been in. How have things been going?

 Not too bad, thanks for asking. Just doing the same old stuff. Nothing terribly interesting happening.

 Your studies are going well?

 Well enough, thank you.

 Okay, that’s good. Last time you came to see me, as I recall you’d been having a bit of trouble with your personal life, particularly with fallout from your last relationship. May I ask how that is all going?

 Well, it was hard. I felt a lot better after the last talk I had with you, so I wanted to thank you for that. After what we spoke about, I got together and talked with him one last time, said all the things that had been left unsaid, got a whole lot of stuff off my chest, and just closed the whole thing off. It was really hard to do, but after that I felt, not good, but more… free, I suppose. I could stop thinking about him every morning and night. I think that’s when I really started to move on.

 Well, that’s a positive development, then, even if it was quite difficult for you. I get the feeling though that you didn’t come to talk to me about him.

 No, you’re right. That was quite a while ago now, and I think after that I was pretty much back to normal.

 You said ‘was’. Does that mean that something has changed? I mean, much as I’m happy to see you all the time, usually I only see you when something has happened.

 Well, yes, something has changed. I’ve met someone new. I guess I’m just a bit scared. This is the first time that I’ve felt this way about anyone since I broke up with Alex, and while it’s been really nice, and this new guy is really lovely, well, it’s scary. I’m not putting this terribly well, am I?

 It’s alright. Take all the time you need to.

 Okay, well. I suppose, I met this guy, and I just felt this kind of chemistry. He likes the same kind of stuff I do, he’s funny and nice, and suddenly it hit home that for the first time in ten months I might be actually interested in having a relationship, but that the chances of making it work were so small, and getting together with Alex was quite rocky to begin with, so I’m just not sure I can cope with the fear and uncertainty again, especially after all the hurt from the breakup. Suddenly I’m back in this place where I really don’t know what to do, and it would be so easy to make a mistake, and the link is so very tenuous and I really, really don’t want to lose it. Does that make sense? It sounds kind of stupid when I say it out loud.

 It’s not at all stupid, and it does make sense. It’s perfectly normal to have these kinds of feelings, especially considering what’s been happening for you in your life. You’ve said that you’re feeling afraid and uncertain, which is completely fine. Have you thought about the future, and what you might do about feeling this way?

 Well, I suppose the thing I’m afraid of most isn’t rejection, although I am afraid of that too. I think maybe the thing I’m most frightened of is missing out on whatever opportunities may come of this. And I mean, I’ve got a great group of friends to support me, so even if it doesn’t go anywhere I’ll probably be okay pretty quickly. I guess I’ve just got to do my best, and what comes will come.

 Phew. I’d better be off now, it looks like there’s someone else to see you. Thank you for listening. It’s so helpful just to be able to talk to someone about all this stuff. Someone who isn’t one of my friends, who just listens like you do.

 Well, that’s what I’m here for. You know you can come and talk to me any time. I do like hearing about your life, since I can’t be a part of it as much as I’d like.

 Well, I’ll make sure to come and visit again very soon, okay? Take care of yourself, Mum. I love you a lot.

August 22 - The Fight

She takes me by surprise. I’m leaning against a tree, one in a long line following the curve of the hill. Her hand slaps into my shoulder blade, sending me off balance. Before I know it she’s inside my guard, quick blows raining on my ribs. I spring backwards, swinging my arm around to deflect her next attack, but it doesn’t come. She just stands there, arms crossed across her chest, smirking at me. I take a deep breath, and bring my hands into guard position. She got me, but she’s going to regret giving up her advantage. Her smile fades, as I step take a slow step forward, I think she’s realised her mistake.

 I lock eyes with her, then dart forward, right hand flickering towards her face, she throws her own up, but I expected that, and my left catches her a glancing blow on the forehead. Her blue eyes narrow, and she hisses, scratching at me. Her nails rake against my upflung arm, and I jump back again. Now she’s mad, and that’s just the way I like it. She jumps at me, fingers crooked into claws. I step back, and back again, leading her through a complex dance. Each of her attacks I slap away with ease, using my longer reach to get around her and strike her head, again and again. Each time she gets more and more angry, and yet more frantic. Her nails scrape against my skin, peeling off rolls and drawing blood, but that’s just my guard. She cannot touch my core, and she knows it. She breaks off, standing still save for the rise and fall of her chest. A strand of black hair is plastered across her face. I smirk, and she rushes me again, breathing coming in quick short gasps. I step back once again, but rough bark slams into my back, stopping me short and knocking my breath out of me.

 She rushes forward fist driving into my stomach and doubling me over. Her knee rushes towards my groin, and in desperation I twist to the side, grabbing at it with my hand and pulling it to immobilise. Her weight puts me off balance, and we pivot. Her back slams into the tree, and her other leg wraps around my waist. I can feel her breathing as her body presses against mine. Her fingers grip my hair painfully, dragging my head back, and I feel her teeth on my neck. Her legs tighten around my waist, grinding my hips against her. Her breath is hot on my neck, and I can feel her muscles tense as I run my hands up her legs, her back. She nips at my earlobe, so I grab her chin and bring her face to mine, crushing our lips together. Her fingernails dig into my back and I hear a growling deep in her throat. I feel the warmth of her tongue as it runs across my teeth. We come up for air gasping, and she rests her head against the trunk. I kiss her cheek, and then her jaw, her throat.  

 We walk down the hill, fingers intertwined. She leans against me, and we weave slightly. “I’ll get you next time.” She says. But she already has.

August 21 - The Spinning Room

I wake up to the sound of silence. It washes over me like a wave and settles like a blanket, making me painfully aware of the sound of my quickening breath, and the pounding of my heart. On a station like this, silence means that the machines have stopped. No more air scrubbers, no more correctional thrusters, no more reactor. On a station like this, silence means death. I unstrap myself from the wall, arching my back to gently propel myself out of my sleep cocoon. I take a couple deep breaths, trying to stem a rising tide of panic. Never have I heard such a silence. There is always something clanking, hissing, or humming in the belly of the station. For them all to shut down at once, something big must have happened. Something catastrophic.

The station is an old one, built before shielding was perfected and everyone was freaked out about some micrometeor punching a hole in the hull and sucking everything out into the airless dark. So each hallway junction and every door has its own little airlock. Mine takes the longest time to cycle, I can’t count the times I’ve been late to a shift because of it, and some internal hose was nicked over a century ago and won’t stop hissing whenever it opens or closes. I hated that door, and now I could kiss the bloody thing, because it’s just saved my life. The station is gone.

I can see out of a reinforced port in the outer airlock door, and instead of the cream-coloured curve of the interior hallway all I can see is darkness punctuated by the endless stars. I can’t see anything else, for all I know it could be just my cabin floating around in space. I take deep breaths, trying to control my heart rate, because panic really can’t help me here. But my head is pounding, and I can see by the stars that my tiny section of the station is rotating gently, and something foreign comes into view. I’m distracted by the puzzle of it, the novelty, for I’ve certainly never seen anything like it. All bent and warped panes, both light and dark, radiating slowly from some central point. But I can’t shake some horrific feeling of familiarity, and all too song I realise what it is I’m seeing. It’s the station, ripped apart into pieces no bigger than a bed, sending a cloud of debris spinning out into space. The entire station, completely and utterly destroyed. Except for me.

I can’t help but stare, unmoving, as my little alloy bubble slowly tilts away. I’d lived here for ten years, and now, now it’s all gone. I don’t really feel anything, which surprises me. I thought I would feel… something. As it is I just feel cold, and tired. There is no food in the room, not a great supply of air. The room nears its first full rotation since I woke, and all I can do is stand at the door and look at the stars. Avoiding thoughts of the station, of me and my own safety, of death. Just existing in the moment. Something is falling towards me, angular like the head of a chisel, with blazing blue lights in lines down the side. I wait for it to approach, and over the next hour it just grows bigger and bigger in my view, until it is just a wall of dark metal stretching out to a new horizon. Now it is if I am falling towards it, alone in my room and hurtling towards an unyielding ground. The air is starting to taste thin and my lungs are burning. I can’t help but take big gasping breaths, I feel weak at the knees, and all the thoughts I’d been avoiding crash into my head and make me dizzy. The station is gone, the air is gone, and I’m falling into this strange alien doom. Tears wet my cheeks and spatter against the window. I’m going to die. I’m going to die, and I can’t breathe and I’m falling and I’m going to die and I am so very, very scared.

The wall opens before me, and I am blinded by the light.

August 20 - The Carpenter

It is dark outside. The sky lies upon the world like a blanket of the darkest blue, pricked now and then with the twinkling of stars. The moon is a mere sliver, obscured occasionally by the dark form of a scudding cloud. The trees sigh and shiver in the fitful breeze. There is the sound of doors opening, closing, brief snatches of conversation and music flit by on the wind and are then quiet. A dog barks distantly, distractedly, and falls quiet. The city settles into itself with the night, creaking and groaning into sleep. One by one, lights flicker out, until the city resembles nothing more and nothing less than a night sky, pricked now and then with stars.

One light in particular burns this night, cheery yellow-red, in the window of a workshop. Inside are gleaming wood benches burnished bronze by the lamp, mellow chisels snugged securely in their niches. The slides across every surface, brushing by the bottles of stains and oils, stolid nails and broad-headed hammers. A man works at the bench, and the light touches him too, from his curly black hair and beard, to the light sheen of sweat on his bronzed skin, off the warm-toned leather of his apron. His breathing is measured, even, deep breaths matched by the movement of his arms as his plane shaves wafer thin slivers from the chocolate wood before him. They tumble lightly through the air, twisting and turning like a leaf before settling into a pale pile on the floor. The solemn sounds of the workshop mingle with the breath of the wind.

The man sets aside his plane, settling it into its drawer and tapping it once to make sure it is secure. Another drawer yields coarsely-sanded paper, and this too he applies to the wood, long strokes matching the rise and fall of his chest. He takes up a cloth that once was white, and is now filled with uneven whorls of brown and grey. He passes it over the chocolate-coloured wood, which then becomes so dark as to almost black. He sets the wood aside to dry, and turns to another piece, this one with raised ridges and mesas. With a small curved pick he carves, painstakingly growing graceful vines and delicate flowers from the wood. The only sound is the scrape of the pick, and his deep even breathing. When he his garden of dark roses is to his satisfaction, he stains it too before setting it to dry.

Now there is a change in him, his great shoulders relax, and he wipes the sheen from his brow. Each of his tools is carefully stowed, the lamp snuffed, and the workshop meticulously locked, before he begins to walk home in the starlight. As he walks his bearing shifts. No longer so solemn, as we walks he swings his arms a little, wiggling thick fingers to feel the air through them. He hums a little, quietly, and to himself, and a little smile creases the corners of his eyes. He reaches another brightly lit window, and pushes open a door with a broad grin on his face. A child with the same curly dark hair barrels into his arms with a delighted cackle, to the laughter of the man and the woman who is sipping tea by the fire. She is his wife, and both she and the child have ruddy cheeks with the effervescent glow of health, upon which the man bestows many a scratchy kiss. He sits by the warm hearth, and leans his head back into the woman who has stood behind him and is gently stroking his shoulders. Before long the fire is banked and the lights doused, and the sleep of the household joins the greater sleep of the city.

The days progress in similar fashion. The wood is planed, smoothed, carved and stained, all the while under the solemn eyes and hands of the man, making no sound but those of his tools and of the air in his great lungs. Each evening, he returns to his cheery, hearty family, and he shows his love through his smiles, his kisses, and his great booming laugh. Slowly, the wood in the workshop takes shape, dark wood stained darker, forming a box carved with roses. When it is finished it is as tall as a man, and a white cross adorns the front. He moves on to other work, a chair, a table, and with these he whistles, and sings, and the workshop is a raucous, joyous place. Every night he returns to his family, who are boisterous, and loving, gleeful. But every so often he makes a box with the dark-coloured wood, carves it with roses and stains it black, and when he does so the workshop is quiet but for his breath, and that of his tools.