Green Fingers

Si noticed the small hand growing in the bush the week before his fortieth birthday. The house belonged to his friend Jason who had asked him to look after it for a month whilst he was away on holiday in Haiti.  Si had decided that eventually he was going to move to Australia to investigate the great “Down Under”, but until he had the means to go off on that particular adventure he would take any opportunity he had in his life to experience the finer things.  Jason’s property was vast and this fitted in well with Si’s plans for his celebrations regarding his entry into his fourth decade on this third marble from the Eye. Jason had given the OK for such a celebration with a warning that the party be contained within his house. Jason did not wish for his prize Siamese twin cats to be allowed out of the house to venture where their curiosity would allow.

House was one word which could be used for the property Jason had allowed Si to inhabit.  Mansion was another.  Si had spent the first night wandering the various wings of the building drinking the fine brandy and wine stored in the basement. The following morning Si, having looked from the kitchen windows, decided to investigate the Grounds. He discovered an impressively large patch of land including a small lake and a huge lawn with a vast array of Garden Greenery which Si with his minimal gardening knowledge could only describe as bushes. It was one of these bushes which caught his eye that sunny morning.  Si was rubbing his forehead as the hangover which had been blurting a klaxon from his waking was now diminishing to a hover-board in his brain.  He looked at the bush about ten feet wide and seven feet high. The leaves blowing in the wind allowed a Zoetrope effect. There, yes there in the lowest part was a small hand. It’s wrist tiny and attached to the stem, but its palm and fingers grasping at the breeze.  Si noticed it had fully formed finger nails, clean and sharpened to a point. No larger than a tennis ball it squirmed and jiggled and grasped until it touched another leaf.  Si rubbed his eyes challenging the reality to explain the absurdity. When his blurred vision returned he saw merely a leaf with five green points protruding from the body similar to a horse chestnut. He shook his head and returned to the kitchen.  Behind him a Sparrow flew into the garden. Turning it’s head as if beckoned it flew into the bush.

The next morning Si headed back into the lakeside which he had taken to calling the sprawling mass of blessed land. He’d decided he wished to take a rowing trip on the lake encompassed in the said terrain. As he headed to the boathouse he noticed a dead robin on the path. Next to the robin was a sparrow, and next to the two birds were several small rodents. All the creatures had sections of flesh ripped from their bodies which lay in odd angles as if multiple fractures had been inflicted upon them. The path of the recently deceased garden beings led to the bush which he had seen the day before.  Si derailed his idea of a casual rowing boat jaunt on the lake preferring instead to investigate the unusual events which had caused the grotesquely distorted corpses lining the grounds to pull his curiosity in an invitational manner. The path led to the bush. By now there were at least twenty hands growing from the branches. Each hand had five fingers with sharpened nails.  Si noticed that the hands had become filthy and the nails were now caked with a substance he disturbingly realised was blood.  Each hand was grasping another leaf, rolling it in it’s palm and exulting triumph as it emerged in it’s renewed existence as a fresh hand.

Si noticed a bundle in the bush. It’s limbs spitting out between the fingers of the leaves. The bundle thrashed this way and that never once being allowed a release from the strong grip of the clasping hands engulfing it. Before he had a chance to help the cat’s neck was snapped and it’s throat ripped open allowing the blood to be poured into the soil covering the bushes roots. He reached into the bush to retrieve the cat which he now recognised was one of the Siamese twins Jason had asked him to keep in the house, when he felt the first nip. Followed by a pinch, followed by a grab. The bush with it’s increasing number of hands was reaching out and not only picking at his clothes but continuing to reach other leaves and, stroking their lamina, creating fresh ghastly appendages.

Screaming, Si stood and pulled away from the leaves, leaving welts of flesh contained in their fingers. He rushed to the lake house where the rowing boats were kept and frantically searching for something to combat the foul growths found a hedge trimmer. Powered by 2 Stroke he pulled the tag and for once this weekend allowed himself an ounce of comfort as the device sprung into life with a satisfying rumble. Leaving the boathouse he ran back to the bush realising that the foliage was now mostly made up of hands. These hands had grown. They were no longer the size of small leaves, instead now being muscular and the size of a young adult male’s. He ploughed the hedge trimmer through the first wave of hands, noticing that only flakes of leaves passed over his head. The other hands grabbed the intercepting juggernauts of the hedge trimmer resulting in many evaporating, but the larger ones held strong.

As Si got deeper into the bush the hands became plentiful and grasped the interweaving blades with aplomb. Even at this stage Si noticed other hands grasping leaves, stroking them. Si felt the hedge trimmer being turned. He felt the hands grabbing his shirt. He heard the 2 stroke motor being reversed into the path of his midriff. He felt the flesh from his stomach being ripped out of his belonging. He saw the blood being guzzled by the soil underneath the bush. He heard the motor stop. He dropped to the floor and felt himself being pulled into the bush. Pulled into the bush by hands which slightly tickled his skin prior to ripping at it.  Soon he was gone.

Jason returned home the day after, having completed his holiday in Haiti. The Houngan Holy Man he had gone to visit out there had told him what to do. He’d contacted all of Si’s friends informing them that their friend had decided to spend his Fortieth in Australia. He’d had a long chat with him and Si had told him that he was very likely just going to take off whilst over there. They had to admit, that was just like Si? He’d always wanted to see Down Under.

For My Child.

This blog is not just for scary stuff, I'll also be posting poems, sketches, musings and general nonsense which seems to fall out of my head.

Ten years ago we were ecstatic when we discovered we were going to have a baby.  our daughter was 3 and we had been trying for our second for a couple of months.  We spent the weekend in York and had a wonderful time.  When we returned home, my wife began to feel unwell, and without going into too much detail we experienced a miscarriage.  The next morning I woke and wrote this.  I've kept it in my wallet since that time, and through discussion with my wife I'm writing it online for the first time.  If you have experienced or are experiencing this awful time, I hope it helps.

My Child,

I'll never see you floating contently in the womb

I'll never see the faces as I show you to the room

I'll never change your nappy or hold you in the bath

I'll never get to hear you cry, I'll never hear you laugh

I'll never ask how your day has been or pick you up from school

I'll never have you help your Dad or teach you all the rules

I'll never help to mend your heart the first time it gets broken

I'll never get to shake my head when you tell me you are smoking

I'll never get the chance to see you start in your career

I'll never get to tell you that I always will be here

I'll never feel the sadness as you set off on your own

I'll never feel the pride as you set up in your first home

I'll never meet your partner or your children and their friends

I'll never get to be appalled as you wear the latest trends

I'll never get to see your face

I wish I could have met you

But of all the things I never will,

I never will forget you.

Dad. X

Soulstice.

 There was a thirst building in him that meant only thing. Water was required. As much as it pained him, Ian was going to have to get out of bed and trudge to the bathroom to procure the life affirming liquid. He pressed the alarm clock on his bedside table and its face lit up informing him that the time was just before 5am. Ian pondered his situation. He would be getting up in another two hours anyway, was it worth breaking the snug warmth he was experiencing in his bed to dip his beak a little? His tongue scraping along his palette gave him all the answer he needed. The seven beers he had quaffed and the takeaway Southern Fried Chicken he had devoured not more than six hours ago did not seem such a good idea anymore. Ian quietly slipped out of the bed so as to not disturb Nicki, his partner of twenty five years. She had been with him the night before and she had the good fortune of not being at work this morning, a rare thing indeed. To wake her on such an occasion would not end well. His eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The coldness of the late November morning pressed tightly against his bare flesh causing goose bumps to appear on his lightly tanned arms. Opening the bedroom door he walked out onto the landing.

The stranger was stood in the darkness. Half illuminated by the light bulb shining out past the half closed door of the toilet at the top of the stairs, it had one hand held out. Its palm was facing Ian in a “halt” gesture. Ian felt his breath dragged from his lungs. The Stranger lifted its other hand raising a forefinger in a waggling manner as if instructing Ian to not go through with what his terrified mind was contemplating. Ian understood what was being asked and complied. He wasn’t sure whether he had the guts to confront the stranger anyway. The stranger pointed down the stairs and made a “follow me” gesture. Ian followed the stranger down the newly carpeted stairs and into his kitchen. Ian noticed the softness of the fabric under his toes and soles of his feet. He noticed that the door to the kitchen opened without the stranger reaching for the door handle, and felt the door close behind him as he entered the room. The stranger sat at the breakfast table. The same table Ian had always thought he and his wife and kids would sit around every morning whilst eating their early morning meals, the three of them reading their comic’s or magazines, Ian reading his newspaper. This had never happened. Mornings were in reality far too hectic for anything other than toast being munched whilst on the move, or in the car taking the kids to school, or travelling to his workplace.

The stranger looked up to the ceiling and the electric light buzzed into existence. Ian could now see the strangers face. He recognised it. It’s gentle features and kind eyes immediately put Ian at ease. He was not going to be robbed or murdered in his own house. The Stranger spoke, and Ian knew the voice. Sitting in front of him was his favourite school teacher. She was called Mrs James and she had set fire in Ian a lifelong love of learning. He had been 7 when he first met her, in what those far off days called first year Juniors. Ian had forgotten he was thirsty, so when he spoke he was surprised at just how rough his voice sounded. “Mrs James, what are you doing in my house?” He asked before coughing. Looking at the table he noticed a glass of water perched on a coaster. Taking a sip of the deliciously cold liquid he looked at his old teacher. She looked exactly the same as she had back then. He knew this was the same of all teachers when accidentally bumped into by ex-pupils twenty plus years after leaving their classes, but she did look exactly the same.

“I’m afraid I’m not Mrs James,” she replied in that sweetest of voices.

“I have assumed this persona and shape as she is the only person in your life who could help you on this first step.”

Ian coughed a little. “First step, what do you mean? Who are you?” he asked. “The first step to the end Ian. I’m known by many names in your plain, but your culture know me and my kind as Death.”

Ian’s head swirled. He felt the room begin to spin and grabbed onto the table for support. Cold sweat covered his body. Mrs James held out a hand and gently stroked the top of his arm. Ian regained his composure feeling at peace. 

“That’s not an uncommon response.” Mrs James said smiling.

“Here have more water it will help.” Ian gulped greedily and wondered if he was dreaming. Mrs James sensed his thoughts.

“No Ian, I’m afraid this is really happening. A time has come and we are now about to end this part of it.”

“But how,” Ian blurted out “how can I be dead? I’m as fit as a fiddle, I’ve just had a full physical health check, came out with flying colours. I was promised another thirty plus years!” Mrs James stroking his arm her gaze never losing his replied

“The one organ they did not examine was the one affected by the disease. Your Soul.”

“My soul? But that’s not an organ.” Ian said blinking tears back. ”How can my soul have become diseased?”

Mrs James took her hand from Ian’s arm.

“Ian, I am about to change. This is necessary for your mind to be able to accept what I am about to tell you. Don’t be scared it will only take the briefest of moments.”

Ian did not have time to respond, but noticed a change in the form sat in front of him. It was too quick for his eyes to fully take in, but his brain understood. The being sat opposite him, where his daughter had sat many an evening completing her homework, expanded into a skin stretching mass before retracting into a recognisable human form. This time the person sat looking back at him was his Editor at the local newspaper where Ian had begun his career working as a journalist. His name was Jeb Taylor, but everyone called him JT. The nicknames corniness was never lost on Ian, and he would often ask JT why he had settled on the moniker. “With a name like Jeb, I’m never going to complain about what they call me.” was the oft quoted response. JT looked at Ian through his hard rimmed spectacles and smiled.

 “Listen to what I’m going to tell you, and don’t interrupt. You get one chance of hearing this and one chance only!” He said firmly. “My kind created your people. We breathed life into the clay, if you will. We soon realised though that your species was missing something. They were born, slept, woke, ate, mated, killed, gave birth and died with no thought of anything further. How could any species hope to develop with those restrictions. So we developed an organ that could help with this.  A Soul. Everyone of you has your own Soul, the same way everyone of you has your own heart, liver, lungs. The problem was that putting a soul into a human body was like putting a bowling ball into a sandwich bag. The thing was just too big for your shells to take. It took us a very long time to figure out how to allow you all to retain the thing and learn from it.”

He paused waiting for a question. None was forthcoming.

“Are you keeping up with this Ian?” he asked.

“What? Yes, yeah I think so, I’m just a bit…..overwhelmed.”

“Well don’t be, we don’t have much time.” Said JT.  He now placed his hand on Ian’s forearm, and again the peace descended.

“We finally realised that we had to adapt principles from our plain into your plain in order for this to work. Our dimensions are different to yours. We can transcend your laws by placing those dimensions into your existence.”

For the first time Ian understood how his Soul worked.

“You mean it’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside?” He interrupted. JT looked at Ian and smiled.

“You a fan of that show too eh?  Well in a manner of speaking that’s exactly what we mean. We made the organ so small that externally to your kind it was imperceptible. We placed it in the heart. Making sense now? The problem is that as a species you developed what your German contingent call “schadenfreude”. That is joy in other people’s sorrow and suffering, and this is the one thing that destroys the organ. Like smoking a cigarette destroys your lungs, deriving pleasure from other people’s sadness destroys your Soul.”

Ian lurched forward. “I’ve never enjoyed other people’s suffering. That’s just not fair.” He said, his anger now rising.

“Really?” said JT raising his eyebrows. “What about the moment you heard about Diana, sitting in that newsroom so early in the morning?  You couldn’t wait to get the story out there. How many stories gave you a buzz knowing that you were getting them out there as an exclusive? Gaining the acknowledgement of others relating to the suffering of many. Damn, you just have to go on any social networks these days. How many exclusives have you tweeted in order for them to be favourited, reposted always feeding your desire.” Ian sat back.

“Guilty.” He admitted.

“Anyhow it doesn’t matter how many times you do it, it only takes one instance to introduce the disease to the Soul. Once it’s there, it spreads.  It can take two days, it can take twenty years, but it will eventually destroy the Soul. Sorry son, but that’s how it is.”

Ian closed his eyes and sat back in his chair.

“Ian, it’s time to go.” This voice was different. It was the first voice he had heard in his life and it would now be the last.

“I can’t.” Ian said, tears tapping his eyelashes.  Ian’s Mother placed her hand onto his arm, and Ian felt released.

“Your soul doesn’t disappear it just becomes too big for your body again. You now visit it in our plain. Your Soul is touched by many. But it is the Souls that are touched by each other that are intertwined when your shell ceases. This provides a network of contact. The nature of that contact whether positive or negative balances out and dictates the next step of your existence. A few people understood this and tried to tell you but you are scared by them and kill them. The Soul you visit now is what they told you is the afterlife.”

“But Mam, I don’t want to go. I’m not ready”

“Oh but you are love. Come darling. Hold my hand. It’s time to start believing again”

Ian held the Angel’s hand and walked into the light.