The wind howled and the rain pelted down.
Sandi pressed her nose to the glass of the sliding door, watching the drops in the outdoor floodlight as they soared from the sky at a 45 degree angle, then bounced up again right out of the sphere of light. There was a pathetic meow behind her; she turned and gathered her little cat into her lap and spoke quietly to her, scarcely able to hear her own voice over the thundering of the rain on the tin roof overhead.
She wished suddenly that she hadn’t been left at home, left in charge of everything. She was twelve, of course, and perfectly capable of handling anything that could come up, but nonetheless. The storm was the fiercest she’d ever seen in her life. She held her kitten tight.
As she turned back to the glass, there was a dazzling flash of lightning followed sharply by a clap of thunder that jarred her bones. The kitten, just beginning to be old enough to show signs of cat-ness, sprang from her lap and, body held tight against the floor, sprinted across the room and under the sofa. Seconds later, there was a sharp fizzing sound and the lights went out.
The power was off and it was black. The clock on the microwave had disappeared. The dozens of little glowing lights that guided her through the house at nighttime were gone. It was black, charcoal black. Black like when she was little and used to hide in the closet. Black like when she and her dad went camping last year. Black like there was nothing, nothing, nothing in front of her.
Black like there could be ANYTHING in front of her, and she’d never know it was there.
Sunday 30 January 2011
Monday 24 January 2011
Torn by torrents (Kerry)
With her dress tangled on the branch she couldn’t move. The wind howled and the rain pelted down. She couldn’t see where John had gone. Last she’d known they were holding hands as the roaring tide buffeted them down the main street. Was there no end to this nightmare?
Pat and John enjoyed their morning coffee at Rita’s, sitting quietly with the crossword in the sun. It was an opportunity to sort out the day’s activities, such as they were these days, and to simply connect. As soon as they got home John would be out in the garden if she hadn’t worked out a schedule with him.
Now she was suspended in this roaring flood. She cowered as a huge shed rumbled past. Others who had been caught up in the water were floating by desperately grabbing at anything solid. Pat was grateful for the tree in a way although she also knew that if the water rose higher she could be in trouble.
She pulled at her dress. It was very tough material. There was no way she’d be able to tear it. Momentarily she considered stripping it off but never in the main street of her town. She’d lived here all her life and had her dignity and her reputation to think of.
It was then she remembered Salty. Surely they had brought Salty with them this morning to Rita’s. Where was he? If only she could come up with some satisfactory explanation for this sudden tsunami in her mountain village. How long would it last?
Pat realised that she was free and could move away from the tree. Bracing herself against the rushing torrent she moved one hand at a time along the branch of the tree. She stretched across the gap to the metal railing alongside the road and grasped it with both hands.
As she felt her feet touch the ground below the railing she knew that the water was beginning to go down. But there was something caught on the fence at her feet. She thought she recognised the red shirt.
Pat and John enjoyed their morning coffee at Rita’s, sitting quietly with the crossword in the sun. It was an opportunity to sort out the day’s activities, such as they were these days, and to simply connect. As soon as they got home John would be out in the garden if she hadn’t worked out a schedule with him.
Now she was suspended in this roaring flood. She cowered as a huge shed rumbled past. Others who had been caught up in the water were floating by desperately grabbing at anything solid. Pat was grateful for the tree in a way although she also knew that if the water rose higher she could be in trouble.
She pulled at her dress. It was very tough material. There was no way she’d be able to tear it. Momentarily she considered stripping it off but never in the main street of her town. She’d lived here all her life and had her dignity and her reputation to think of.
It was then she remembered Salty. Surely they had brought Salty with them this morning to Rita’s. Where was he? If only she could come up with some satisfactory explanation for this sudden tsunami in her mountain village. How long would it last?
Pat realised that she was free and could move away from the tree. Bracing herself against the rushing torrent she moved one hand at a time along the branch of the tree. She stretched across the gap to the metal railing alongside the road and grasped it with both hands.
As she felt her feet touch the ground below the railing she knew that the water was beginning to go down. But there was something caught on the fence at her feet. She thought she recognised the red shirt.
“See me …” Gordon MacAulay
“The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone”
“Hey there! Did you drop that piece of paper?” I called. The stranger just kept walking having not heard my cry of assistance and disappeared into the supermarket. It took me about 30 seconds to get up to where the crumpled piece of paper lay on the ground. I do object to people throwing rubbish on the ground. It is an aggressive act against the environment. As I often do, I bent over and picked up the piece of paper to eventually take it to the rubbish bin thinking little of the contents. However, there was something really curious about the crumpling. The paper was folded in from each corner and then crumpled. My curiosity got the better of me. I untangled the piece.
The characters appeared to be all in Chinese. But, as I glanced at the piece of paper it caught the sunlight so I could see a set of words faintly embossed in the paper. They read: “See me ….” The rest was obliterated by the folding and so the sunlight was unable to show up the hidden characters.
I walked into a nearby restaurant and asked for a coffee. As my coffee was being delivered the waiter slid a gun out of his right hand pocket while holding the coffee in his left. “Follow me or you die” he said in a very Chinese accent.
Gordon MacAulay
24 January 2011
“Hey there! Did you drop that piece of paper?” I called. The stranger just kept walking having not heard my cry of assistance and disappeared into the supermarket. It took me about 30 seconds to get up to where the crumpled piece of paper lay on the ground. I do object to people throwing rubbish on the ground. It is an aggressive act against the environment. As I often do, I bent over and picked up the piece of paper to eventually take it to the rubbish bin thinking little of the contents. However, there was something really curious about the crumpling. The paper was folded in from each corner and then crumpled. My curiosity got the better of me. I untangled the piece.
The characters appeared to be all in Chinese. But, as I glanced at the piece of paper it caught the sunlight so I could see a set of words faintly embossed in the paper. They read: “See me ….” The rest was obliterated by the folding and so the sunlight was unable to show up the hidden characters.
I walked into a nearby restaurant and asked for a coffee. As my coffee was being delivered the waiter slid a gun out of his right hand pocket while holding the coffee in his left. “Follow me or you die” he said in a very Chinese accent.
Gordon MacAulay
24 January 2011
Saturday 22 January 2011
The adventures of Jules by Peta
Jules opened the crumpled wad of paper. The guy in the black cape had stuffed it into his hand as he rushed by hotly pursued by a rowdy, angry and scary looking bunch of men. The all looked Arabic and yelled and screamed as they raced by, knocking people left and right. The caped man was now no where to be seen. Vanished into thin air.
The paper was like parchment, old and yellowed around the edges. The writing was odd, Egyptian like. Jules had no idea what it said but sensed they were of some importance. Instinctively he knew that somehow he was being drawn into something potentially dangerous. He was sure the hieroglyphics meant something to some one.
As he pondered this, noise erupted once again. From the direction they had disappeared, the mob appeared again. The shouting had ceased. They huddled together in a protective manner, almost shuffling along. As the group leveled with Jules, he noticed the caped man in the middle of the group, trapped amongst the others’ bodies, confined by their presence. His eyes were like pools of oil and fastened on Jules. They widened to their extreme. Jules saw so much within them – mortal fear and pleading. Pleading to Jules. He understood this immediately but felt powerless to help. Briefly the black eyes flickered down to Jules’ hand, still holding the paper and back up again to Jules’ face. Pleading. And then Jules understood. The message on the paper was somehow vital to this man’s survival or some greater puzzle.
Jules remembered vaguely nodding as the huddle of bodies continued past him and was lost again in the crowded street. He stared after them for a long time. Suddenly he felt like Idianna Jones caught up in a mystery so powerful it could be life changing. The big difference was he knew Harrison Ford would know precisely what to do. He had not one iota of an idea. Not yet any way.
Carefully he folded the paper and stored it in his pocket. He’d work this out. He had been chosen, who knows why, but he knew there was a reason and the caped man’s life could depend on it.
The paper was like parchment, old and yellowed around the edges. The writing was odd, Egyptian like. Jules had no idea what it said but sensed they were of some importance. Instinctively he knew that somehow he was being drawn into something potentially dangerous. He was sure the hieroglyphics meant something to some one.
As he pondered this, noise erupted once again. From the direction they had disappeared, the mob appeared again. The shouting had ceased. They huddled together in a protective manner, almost shuffling along. As the group leveled with Jules, he noticed the caped man in the middle of the group, trapped amongst the others’ bodies, confined by their presence. His eyes were like pools of oil and fastened on Jules. They widened to their extreme. Jules saw so much within them – mortal fear and pleading. Pleading to Jules. He understood this immediately but felt powerless to help. Briefly the black eyes flickered down to Jules’ hand, still holding the paper and back up again to Jules’ face. Pleading. And then Jules understood. The message on the paper was somehow vital to this man’s survival or some greater puzzle.
Jules remembered vaguely nodding as the huddle of bodies continued past him and was lost again in the crowded street. He stared after them for a long time. Suddenly he felt like Idianna Jones caught up in a mystery so powerful it could be life changing. The big difference was he knew Harrison Ford would know precisely what to do. He had not one iota of an idea. Not yet any way.
Carefully he folded the paper and stored it in his pocket. He’d work this out. He had been chosen, who knows why, but he knew there was a reason and the caped man’s life could depend on it.
Monday 17 January 2011
The stuff of life (by Heather)
The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone.
Lena smoothed the paper out gently on the flat centre of the steering wheel in front of her. The little sheet of paper was torn from a notebook, a rough edge on one side.
She had spotted it, tucked in beside the gearshift, as she’d been driving, and immediately pulled over to the side of the road to retrieve it.
Robtars
Nutk
Qlfoof
The hieroglyphics DID mean something to someone – they meant something to Ben, to whose unmistakeable hand the squiggles belonged. The rounded letters backed over one another, crashed into each other, fell in a heap over the note-paper lines.
It would be funny if…it were funny.
But without Ben to translate the undecipherable; to race the cart down the supermarket aisles to find the robtars (potatoes?), the nutk (milk, probably), the Qlfoof (catfood, almost certainly); to haul the green bags back to car – well, it wasn’t very funny, really.
A familiar panic engulfed her as she ransacked the paper for clues – there must be an answer to the incomprehensibility her life had become, and where more likely than here in his very own handwriting?
Remembering to take large gulps of air, she folded the little list carefully and tucked it into her pocket.
She leaned far over to check under the seat to see if there was anything else, anything at all, anything that could give her what she needed.
She straightened, combing a lock of unruly hair back with her hand. She placed both hands firmly on the steering wheel in front of her. She carefully checked the rear view mirror behind her, then slid the car into gear.
She would go on.
Lena smoothed the paper out gently on the flat centre of the steering wheel in front of her. The little sheet of paper was torn from a notebook, a rough edge on one side.
She had spotted it, tucked in beside the gearshift, as she’d been driving, and immediately pulled over to the side of the road to retrieve it.
Robtars
Nutk
Qlfoof
The hieroglyphics DID mean something to someone – they meant something to Ben, to whose unmistakeable hand the squiggles belonged. The rounded letters backed over one another, crashed into each other, fell in a heap over the note-paper lines.
It would be funny if…it were funny.
But without Ben to translate the undecipherable; to race the cart down the supermarket aisles to find the robtars (potatoes?), the nutk (milk, probably), the Qlfoof (catfood, almost certainly); to haul the green bags back to car – well, it wasn’t very funny, really.
A familiar panic engulfed her as she ransacked the paper for clues – there must be an answer to the incomprehensibility her life had become, and where more likely than here in his very own handwriting?
Remembering to take large gulps of air, she folded the little list carefully and tucked it into her pocket.
She leaned far over to check under the seat to see if there was anything else, anything at all, anything that could give her what she needed.
She straightened, combing a lock of unruly hair back with her hand. She placed both hands firmly on the steering wheel in front of her. She carefully checked the rear view mirror behind her, then slid the car into gear.
She would go on.
Sunday 16 January 2011
The Agent - by Rick
The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone. Otherwise why would they be there, why would the paper be all crumpled, and why would it be sitting in my wastepaperbasket. I call them hieroglyphics but technically they may not be. But they look like those little bird pictures, wavy lines, pharaohs sort of turned in profile that you see on Egyptian tombs. Of course I’m not an expert, and it could be some sort of code.
But why it bothers me is that I’m a CIA employee and naturally suspicious about everything. OK, I do work for the CIA and what I do is install the software updates onto the PC’s of the operatives but it puts me in contact with a lot of clever dudes and I pick up things. Like how to read a suspicious clue when it hits you in the face.
How did that piece of paper end up in my trash bin anyway? I operate in a small office that’s behind a door that has a 7 digit password on it that only my supervisor and I know. And he’s off in Europe at an IT conference. See the software that I install on the PC’s isn’t your simple Microsoft Office or the like. I install the super snooping type of software that every agent needs to do his work. Stuff like voice recognition, finger print analysis, chemical decomposition and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t understand and don’t have a need to know either. But the agents all need this stuff and I’m the only one in our division that is cleared security-wise to touch all their PC’s. Not just anyone can go and do it. I’m patriotic, trusted and have to be.
So now I have to figure out what to do. Clearly there’s been some sort of breach in security. Someone broke the code and got into my office. And if they could do that, they could also break into the code on my PC and get the security codes for over 250 CIA agents. Now I have to be one step smarter. The person who did this wasn’t stupid. The hieroglyphics have to be a message of some sort. Is it a warning to me personally? Am I being tested by our security department? If I don’t crack the code will I lose my job?
Or is it more sinister? Do we have a mole in our building? Am I being taunted, dared to take this further? I mean should I report this to head of security right now? Is this bigger than just me? But how could I do that without first at least trying to figure it out? I’ve got to show some initiative don’t I? Or maybe not? Maybe this is really big? Maybe this is something from a terrorist cell that’s infiltrated our building? Maybe this has been left here for somebody besides me? Maybe my office is considered some sort of drop-box and they didn’t count on me rummaging around in my waste bin. I mean if I hadn’t drop my flashstick into the bin, I wouldn’t have even found this paper. Hey, that’s right. This paper wasn’t meant for me to find?
Hey maybe I’m being tested by the head of the CIA himself....
But why it bothers me is that I’m a CIA employee and naturally suspicious about everything. OK, I do work for the CIA and what I do is install the software updates onto the PC’s of the operatives but it puts me in contact with a lot of clever dudes and I pick up things. Like how to read a suspicious clue when it hits you in the face.
How did that piece of paper end up in my trash bin anyway? I operate in a small office that’s behind a door that has a 7 digit password on it that only my supervisor and I know. And he’s off in Europe at an IT conference. See the software that I install on the PC’s isn’t your simple Microsoft Office or the like. I install the super snooping type of software that every agent needs to do his work. Stuff like voice recognition, finger print analysis, chemical decomposition and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t understand and don’t have a need to know either. But the agents all need this stuff and I’m the only one in our division that is cleared security-wise to touch all their PC’s. Not just anyone can go and do it. I’m patriotic, trusted and have to be.
So now I have to figure out what to do. Clearly there’s been some sort of breach in security. Someone broke the code and got into my office. And if they could do that, they could also break into the code on my PC and get the security codes for over 250 CIA agents. Now I have to be one step smarter. The person who did this wasn’t stupid. The hieroglyphics have to be a message of some sort. Is it a warning to me personally? Am I being tested by our security department? If I don’t crack the code will I lose my job?
Or is it more sinister? Do we have a mole in our building? Am I being taunted, dared to take this further? I mean should I report this to head of security right now? Is this bigger than just me? But how could I do that without first at least trying to figure it out? I’ve got to show some initiative don’t I? Or maybe not? Maybe this is really big? Maybe this is something from a terrorist cell that’s infiltrated our building? Maybe this has been left here for somebody besides me? Maybe my office is considered some sort of drop-box and they didn’t count on me rummaging around in my waste bin. I mean if I hadn’t drop my flashstick into the bin, I wouldn’t have even found this paper. Hey, that’s right. This paper wasn’t meant for me to find?
Hey maybe I’m being tested by the head of the CIA himself....
Saturday 15 January 2011
Message from the bottom drawer (Kerry)
The hieroglyphics on the crumpled paper must have meant something to someone.
The scribble looked important but the question was to whom and what did it mean. I had just been rummaging through the bottom drawer of my grandmother’s tall boy when I cam upon the scrap. My mother had told me of my grandmother’s interest in witchcraft so was this connected?
Carefully I flattened the paper on the old table behind me. The ragged edges were a warning to me to handle it with care. The writing appeared to be in ink; there were blotches above the top line. A careless spill perhaps. Or maybe the message (if that’s what it was) had been written in haste. Some characters had faded, particularly those nearest the edges of the paper.
I recognised the hieroglyphics as Middle Eastern in character or maybe Greek. My knowledge of such things stemmed from the course I had done earlier in my youth on Middle Eastern and Ancient languages. I decided it was probably Arabic script. I’m sure I would have recognised some of the characters as Greek symbols. Especially since I had taken extensive university Maths courses and was very familiar with pi, epsilon, beta, alpha and so on.
I knew that I was not going to be able to translate the words myself but I wondered if my next door neighbour, Hassan, who comes from Iran would be able to help me. I was curious now and immediately resolved to visit him
I knocked tentatively on his door. We were neighbours but I wouldn’t have said we were exactly friends. He was much older than me and didn’t share my taste in music, or pets for that matter. Mine were too loud for him on both counts, the metal jazz and the Rottweiler. Before he came to the door I composed myself and tossed around in my head what I would say to him.
When he finally opened the door and steered his wheelchair out into the porch I was ready to broach the subject of the hieroglyphics.
“Hi, Hassan,” I stammered. “Sorry to disturb you this afternoon. I’ve just taken delivery of a piece of furniture from my grandmother who died a month ago. I found this piece of paper in one of the drawers. I think the writing on it is in Arabic and I wondered if you would be able to translate it for me.”
I handed the paper to him. He scanned it quickly. His face turned pale. His eyes widened. The paper dropped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. Hastily he turned his wheelchair and disappeared through the doorway. I heard the key turn in the lock.
The scribble looked important but the question was to whom and what did it mean. I had just been rummaging through the bottom drawer of my grandmother’s tall boy when I cam upon the scrap. My mother had told me of my grandmother’s interest in witchcraft so was this connected?
Carefully I flattened the paper on the old table behind me. The ragged edges were a warning to me to handle it with care. The writing appeared to be in ink; there were blotches above the top line. A careless spill perhaps. Or maybe the message (if that’s what it was) had been written in haste. Some characters had faded, particularly those nearest the edges of the paper.
I recognised the hieroglyphics as Middle Eastern in character or maybe Greek. My knowledge of such things stemmed from the course I had done earlier in my youth on Middle Eastern and Ancient languages. I decided it was probably Arabic script. I’m sure I would have recognised some of the characters as Greek symbols. Especially since I had taken extensive university Maths courses and was very familiar with pi, epsilon, beta, alpha and so on.
I knew that I was not going to be able to translate the words myself but I wondered if my next door neighbour, Hassan, who comes from Iran would be able to help me. I was curious now and immediately resolved to visit him
I knocked tentatively on his door. We were neighbours but I wouldn’t have said we were exactly friends. He was much older than me and didn’t share my taste in music, or pets for that matter. Mine were too loud for him on both counts, the metal jazz and the Rottweiler. Before he came to the door I composed myself and tossed around in my head what I would say to him.
When he finally opened the door and steered his wheelchair out into the porch I was ready to broach the subject of the hieroglyphics.
“Hi, Hassan,” I stammered. “Sorry to disturb you this afternoon. I’ve just taken delivery of a piece of furniture from my grandmother who died a month ago. I found this piece of paper in one of the drawers. I think the writing on it is in Arabic and I wondered if you would be able to translate it for me.”
I handed the paper to him. He scanned it quickly. His face turned pale. His eyes widened. The paper dropped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. Hastily he turned his wheelchair and disappeared through the doorway. I heard the key turn in the lock.
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