Those of Ghosts

Jayna slid the bolt-lock home with a clang and dropped to the ground, listening to the man dying on the other side of the shed door. His gurgling was intensifying, so much so that Jayna was worried he was not getting weaker as she'd hoped he would, but actually getting stronger with the sheer disbelief and rage that this 16-year-old girl could defend herself against him.

I didn't just defend myself, she thought, with a bitterness that shocked her. I gave more than I was getting.

She'd left the shard of glass in the soldier's throat.

Finally, after what seemed like far too long, the gurgling ceased abruptly. Jayna waited for another minute before gently standing back up and peaking out through the window beside the shed door. The soldier lay on the ground with his helmeted head resting against the wood of the door, legs splayed out in a large V from where Jayna was looking. Blood circled the entire upper half of his body, soaking slowly into the dark ground. Jayna allowed herself one cursory glance at the gore of the soldier's neck, before turning away in disgust.

She walked away from the door, further into the large farm shed, and put her hand to her mouth. The sobbing was uncontrollable, and the tears followed with a force she was powerless against. She leaned against one of the wooden pillars, which disappeared up into the darkness of the loft ceiling, and cried. She kept her eyes closed, allowing faces to float up in her mind: Jake, her little brother, screaming and reaching out for her as the soldiers lifted him up into one of their vans; her mother, wailing on her knees for the loss of her children, whom she presumed were dead; her father, the betrayor.

Faces like those of ghosts: memories that were still new, but ready to be freshly mourned.

* * *

They'd come in the night, as they'd been making a habit of doing. The civil war that had been initiated by the Potestas Party was still ongoing, though they were acting as if they had already won. For the last three months, they had been rounding people up -- seemingly at random -- and taking them away to the camps that had been set up without anyone's prior knowledge. The government claimed surprise at the existance of the camps, but everyone found that a little hard to believe.

There had been endless fighting for most of a year, but Conrad's Potestas Party was everywhere now, and he had assumed control. People hoped that they would not get taken, and continued to fight regardless of how outnumbered the civilians were. There were shootings in the streets, nightly raids, attempted protests (which never lasted long), and an overall sense of fear that would never go away.

However, among all the chaos and terror, small pockets of resistance existed in dark corners of the city and its outskirts. No one ever came right out and spoke of them, but most people were aware of them in some way. There were those who claimed it was all just hopeful nonsense, but most believed they were there, planning a way to stop the Potestas Party before they could claim total victory. There was quiet talk of these resistance groups, but there were also markings, and it was these that cemented in people's minds the idea of hope. The markings were left on signposts and back doors, on postboxes and traffic lights. It was the head of an eagle, but soft-focused so as to look ethereal and ghost-like; the word "Aquila" was branded underneath it.

There was hope and rebellion already, and people were preparing to fly on its wings before they were forced to give up.

* * *

A fierce rapping on the other side of the farm shed shook Jayna out of her rumination. Her heart jumped up into her throat, stifling her tears. Her breathing came in quick gasps, and she moved to the opposite side of the pillar, hoping to remain hidden. It was dark, but some light from fires outside shone traitorous strobes throughout the inside of the shed. Jayna tried to remain still and silent, but the last of her sobs betrayed her.

More knocking, still from the far side of the shed. Whoever was out there was walking back and forth, looking for a door. There wasn't one on that side, but there were more windows, through which Jayna caught glimpses of a silhouette. It strutted one way and then the other, but didn't continue around to the front of the shed, for some reason. Jayna couldn't figure out why. If it was a soldier, there was no reason for him to shy away from the main road --

Unless it's not a soldier.

The realisation hit her, and she stumbled a little at the strength of it. Of course, nothing was certain, but there was a possibility it was just another civilian looking for any survivors.

Or for a young, vulnerable girl to take advantage of, she thought.

Then, on the heels of that: You just killed a man. No one's taking advantage of you.

This thought gave her some confidence. There was the evidence right outside that she wasn't easily messed with. She'd done it once, and she was certain she would be able to do it again, if the situation arose. She would need some sort of a weapon, though. Glancing around the dark shed, her eyes rested on a large pitchfork on the ground near the side where the silhouette was patrolling. She'd have to just go for it.

You're going to have to leave here at some point anyway, she thought, wiping the tears from her face.

She stepped out from behind the pillar, bending down low. The silhouette had stopped at one of the windows, but wasn't trying to look in. This was nearly worse, as Jayna had no idea of what to expect from him. This wasn't normal behaviour for someone who was presumably trying to get into the shed.

Without thinking anymore, Jayna ran low towards the pitchfork. She grabbed it in one swift movement and slid under one of the windows, trying to push as much of her body up against the wall as possible. She held the pitchfork in a tight grip, but her hands were becoming sweaty, slippery.

The silhouette's footsteps crunched the soil just outside from where Jayna sat. Her shaking was uncontrollable, though she prayed for it to cease, for her body to please just help her this one time.

The footsteps stopped.

The window above her head smashed to pieces. She raised her arms above her to block as much of the falling shards as possible, but she could feel her hands and arms getting scraped. Something grabbed one of her wrists and dragged her up and out through the window with an ease that was terrifying. Her whole body was thrown in an arc up and over, then down onto the cold ground with a thud. She went to let out a scream, but a gloved hand pressed firmly down over her mouth. Another arm held her down across her abdomen.

His face was young but his eyes spoke of age and experience. Jayna stared into their grey irises and was certain this man would bring about her death. She'd tried her best, but there was nothing for it now. Tears came again, and her body went limp under his hold.

"Can I trust you to be quiet if I take my hands off you?" he asked gently.

Okay, she thought. Maybe he's not going to kill me.

She gulped, then nodded her head minutely.

The man lifted his hand from her mouth, but kept his arm across her. "My name is Curtis. I'm with the Aquila Resistance."

Jayna was dumbfounded. Her eyes widened, but she couldn't speak. So it was true.

"You're Jayna Proctor, correct?" Curtis continued.

Again, Jayna nodded.

"Okay. Good."

He stood up, grabbing Jayna's wrists as he did. She stood before him, not believing he was actually there. He had strong features, with a hard jawline and defined brow, but his eyes were soft and revealing. Jayna felt strangely safe all of a sudden -- but she didn't wholly trust that feeling yet.

"What are you going to do with me?" she managed, her voice small and cracking.

Curtis smiled. "I'm going to take you somewhere safe. We know where your brother and mother are being kept. We can help you rescue them."

She couldn't believe what he was saying. She didn't want it to, but hope rose in her stomach regardless. Jake...mother...

"But...why me?" she asked.

"Because of your father," Curtis replied, his face becoming stony and serious. "We also know where he is. And we want you to help us get him."

Of course. Her father, the betrayor. They would want him, all right, and everything he knew. Would she be able to face him, to ask him why he did it? Would she really be able to deal with whatever horrible truths had lain unsaid between them, up until now? Ghosts, memories, all there to be mourned, but only if she allowed them to become ghosts, memories.

Yes. She could face him. And it would be glorious.

"Show me the way," she said.

Sideways Down

I'm doing it. It's like being the new kid in school: you want people to like you but you know you're so late to the party that it's going to be nearly impossible. There are so many people already there that you're just another tiny voice among a cacophony of words. Will I be bullied? Will you take my lunch money and kick me to the ground? Will I cry to my mother and get fed fries and hot chocolate to make myself feel better?

Probably. Definitely, actually. Though I might make the hot chocolate for myself before any of that happens. Mmm.

I'm posting these book reviews over on Goodreads, but you never know what might happen in the future with sites owned by large corporations. So, I figured it would be a good idea to start my own blog (incidentally, owned by one of the largest corporations in the world, what a gas). Either way, this allows me to vent some non-literature steam, but also put down my reviews of books, too. Surely that's a win-win, right?

I'm seeing this as a parallel to Goodreads, but more than likely a step down as I'll also be posting shit about shit -- a kind of sideways down movement. Is that a good thing? Who knows? I generally think any sort of change is a good thing (except maybe the destruction of the planet; that much change is a little too permanent), so I'm going to go with this for the time-being and see how we get on.

Can't be we friends, you and I? If nothing else, it might be a little bit fun.

Danse Macabre

It always surprises me how many fans of Stephen King have either never heard of this book or have never read it - by choice. True, I put it off for quite awhile, but I don't think if I'd read it when I was 14 I would have fully appreciated it, let alone actually finished it. But it's King's final statement on the matter of horror vs. society, and it is essential reading for King - and horror - fans.

King visited the main theme of this book in his introduction for the short story collection, Night Shift, and I think he was quite surprised at how many people loved it. That introduction then spurred on his editor at the time to suggest that King expand on it and make it into a full book, which he eventually did, after some years of indecision. I'm glad he did it.

I've always wished I could have attended one of King's lectures on literature and horror fiction, so I see Danse Macabre as the closest I will ever get to that. And it feels like it, but in the best way: we're all just sitting around, drinking beer and discussing horror and shit. Maybe there's one of the old B-movies on in the background, and we're making jibes on it. Yeah, it was fun to imagine that, and even funner to read what King's thoughts on all of that are.

As this was published in 1981, it is ever so slightly dated, but I forgave it that as the details King puts in about all of the movies and novels and radio shows that comprise the guts of this book were so impressive as to make any misgivings you might have about it moot. There is the perfect mix of research and fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants thought-to-page processes here. I loved both, but I'll always savour the genuine moments of unplanned thought that King sometimes gifts us with.

I will say, this book won't be for everyone. I think you'll know it's your thing before you start reading it, and if you're that person, you'll have a great time reading it. If not, though, don't worry; the novels and stories are more than enough to be getting on with.

Also published on Goodreads.

Night Shift

If you ever want to find out what horror means to an audience and to a writer - or if you simply want to be chilled out of your wits - then Night Shift is the perfect answer. It's also a great way to get introduced to Stephen King's writing, and his thoughts on why he writes horror and why people read it. The introduction he has written for the collection acts almost as a condensed version of his longer exploration into the meaning of horror in society, Danse Macabre, which I read concurrently to this. That introduction is a great way to get you prepared for the stories that follow it.

I must say, 'Jerusalem's Lot' is such a clever opening story for the collection. People have called this story boring, and I can almost understand where they're coming from, but it's such a wonderfully-crafted horror story in the simplest sense of the word that I couldn't imagine any of the other stories setting the tone for the entire collection. It harks back to Lovecraft, and borrows from him, too, but it's exceptionally detailed and cleverly creepy.

The few stories that follow it are of the more obvious variety, relying on gore and shock tactics to get their points across - which is perfectly fine. I'm not going to turn down the opportunity to read some gore! But among these few - 'Graveyard Shift', 'I Am the Doorway', and 'The Mangler' - lies a story that seems to get overlooked by many. 'Night Surf' was written prior to The Stand, and it is clearly the main influence for the longer novel which came after it. But it's brilliant. It's full of subtlety and bittersweet reminiscence for the past. Its overriding theme, characterised brilliantly by the line 'Nobody should think about winter in August,' is heartbreaking. I loved it.

Then come the stories that we all know because of the movies: 'Trucks' (adapted into the brilliantly awful King directorial debut, Maximum Overdrive), 'The Lawnmower Man', 'Sometimes They Come Back', and 'Children of the Corn'. My favourite of these is definitely the latter; it has great characterisation, creepy children, fanatical religion (which King does so well), and some nice nods to The Dark Tower, which I'm always in favour of.

Other stories of note would be 'Strawberry Swing', 'Quitters, Inc.', and 'The Woman in the Room,' which is one of King's most tender moments.

Overall, the collection is probably King's strongest. It has a good mixture of creepy, gory, fun, and melancholy, yet the quality of the writing in some does tend to leave you wishing for more.

Also published on Goodreads.