A Hand in the Darkness

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

I swear that this is a true and honest account. My right hand was the last thing that I lost control of and these are my last words.

I think I saw it long before I touched it. Every night for so long, that slight, barely visible creature in the darkness. A shape, an outline, not bright beady eyes, but dull grey ones that barely registered on its face. I was never afraid of it. I was never anything but curious about it.

Slotted in between a wardrobe and a box, it was an odd looking shrivelled little creature. Familiar yet unfamiliar. Maybe someone I knew once. Each night when I got up to use the bathroom, it was there. I would walk past it. I thought I should be frightened but also I needed the bathroom. Even when I was going back to bed though, I wasn’t scared. It wasn’t menacing. It was just, there.

It was on the way back one night that my hand brushed its hand. It must have pushed its hand slightly forward or something. That hand was cold and bony and I felt a deep sense of loneliness spread through me as I climbed back into bed. The next night I brushed the hand again, more slowly.

It felt like human skin still, just wrinkled and used. It wasn’t a smooth touch of hands. There was a moment of friction. I still wasn’t scared, just curious. I must have done that for a week, just brushed its hand lightly. Each time the same thing, a deep sense of loneliness inside of me, a coldness, an abyss inside my belly. It was momentary though. I still managed to drift off to sleep.

I looked at that spot during the day, there was nothing there. No sign of a way in or out. No sign anything real lived between the box and wardrobe or in the box or wardrobe or under the bed. Yet I saw it each night and I had touched its hand. It felt real.

I don’t know what prompted me to grab that hand and hold it one night. It didn’t seem to object. I held that hand for just a second at first. Its important to know that I grasped it. It did not grasp me. I held that hand and I felt the loneliness, the sadness, darkness, a void, a something. But I still did it. And then I did it again, every night. And slowly I held that hand for longer. I held that hand for longer. Me. And I think I knew but I still did it.

It was a long time before I noticed the other thing. I always grasped it with my right hand. It was a Tuesday morning when I noticed that the nail on the little finger of my left hand had gone an odd colour. I couldn’t remember how I had injured that. Later that day I noticed that the whole top of the finger had gone a mouldy grey colour. I should have gone to the doctor. Instead I took a bath and poked and prodded the finger, to no avail.

It was at least a week before the whole finger had changed colour. Then I went to the doctor. The doctor had no answers, some kind of infection, antibiotics, hospital. They could not fix it and it did not seem to spread so they sent me home to consider amputation. Extreme I know. I was desperate to get home, to get back to my creature in the dark. I told no one about the midnight hand holding, even though I knew.

And that night I held its hand again and the next morning another fingernail went the same full grey colour. You get choices in life. And I chose. Consciously now. Each night. I held its hand. Each morning another finger. Then my whole hand, half an arm eventually. And the loneliness, some days it felt like it lived inside of me. No one could reach me. I couldn’t explain what was happening. The doctors were baffled, there was talk of CCTV to see if I was self harming and I guess in a way I sort of was.

But it had gone so far and I couldn’t stop. I knew, but I couldn’t stop. Something about the void, the emptiness, the need to give succour to that soul kept me going. Kept me holding that hand. Every night. And the greyness, the dying skin, it kept spreading.

I was bedridden and there were carers coming in and no one knew what to do as the greyness just seemed to spread across my body. They wanted to take me to hospital but I wanted to stay. I argued and fought to stay. To not be saved. Inside I felt cold and shrivelled, but I was committed.

And in the dead of night, in the darkness it would creep out of the gap between the wardrobe and the box and hold my hand. For hours on end. And I knew. I knew. But I didn’t resist. I let it happen. On and on I let it happen.

So if you’re reading this I guess I’m gone now. Don’t feel sorry for me. I chose. But please leave this for the next person who lives here. I chose, right until my last dying breath. This is my true and honest account of what happened.

If you see me, if you think you recognise me beside your bed, in your room somewhere, in the darkness. Familiar yet unfamiliar. Don’t reach for me. Don’t reach for me. Don’t squint and try and make out what I am. Roll over. Go back to sleep.

If you like it, hit the button or leave a comment. And if you want to subscribe, I’d love to see you here more often!

And then I Flew

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

The beginning

I cling to the tree. A spindly, sparsely leafed whip of a thing that is no taller than me. I’m not sure I should call it a tree. It’s a cluster of gnarled branches with the odd bit of greenery. Its central stem only slightly thicker than the rest of it.

Its roots can’t go that deep. The top of this cliff is sand and dust and beneath it is the stone that is this edifice. The tree is the nearest growth to the cliff edge, a brave little soldier that clings on to life, much as I cling on to it. Sometimes I pour the remains of my water bottle on it. I like to think I am keeping it alive and not vice versa, or at the very least our relationship is symbiotic.

When I let go of this tree, there is nothing between me and the edge. I come here often. And I cling to the tree. I feel its papery bark sticking into my fingers. Sometimes I get splinters, small grey bits of  tree that I take home. I dig them out with a needle. Little specs of blood and bark intermingle on a tissue on a table in my lounge.  

I am scared of heights. Or edges, maybe edges.

Some people are scared of heights because they are afraid of falling, others because they are afraid they will jump. That last one has a name, that fear of jumping,  High Places Phenomenon.  Apparently its your brain misfiring, misinterpreting the signals, that’s the science stuff. In literature when its described, its more about freedom, about the void, about flying, about wanting to know how it feels. A few seconds of absolute freedom, of falling.  Its hard to describe why its so attractive as an idea.

That’s why I am here again clutching the spindly tree. I am back from the edge. I am not thinking of the landing, just wondering about the sensation, the feeling of those first seconds, milliseconds. How will that feel?  To just go over the edge, to know that sensation. I cannot control it, that urge, desire.  Not easily. So I hold the tree. I let myself imagine. Close my eyes. See it. Guess at the feeling.  But not too much. After a long time I let go of the tree. I turn around and I go home.  

I do not think it is healthy for me to live near here much longer.

The middle

I moved away. Down along the coast. Somewhere flat.  The highest rock on the beach, about 2 feet, most I could do was jump onto sand and sprain an ankle. I swam in the ocean. I drank in cutesy coffee shops. I had long lunches with friends. I held a job, bought a house. Years passed and I thought it was gone. That feeling in my belly. That thing I was never quite in control of.

And then one day I was swimming in that ocean, and I felt it. The lump. I thought a lot of things, and I thought of that again, of that sensation, of free falling. Of not ever knowing it, well at least not in a physical sense. There was a visceral sense of falling but not a physical one. I went for tests, there was a treatment plan. A diagnosis. A prognosis. A life, a future, curtailed but there behind the meds. Hope. And I went back to the ocean, to its coldness, to its salty embrace, to prepare, to deal with it all, to get my brain in gear.

But I knew. I knew the end.

The end

The day before treatment started. I packed up the car. I drove. After 20 years the old town looked different. I went to that car park, which was now much closer to the edge. They moved it, but my beloved little tree was still there. Not much taller, still spindly, still clinging on. I booked into the only hotel in town. I slept. At 6am I got up. And then before daylight came I drove back to the car park.

It was empty. I got out of the car. I took off my boots and socks. This was a bare foot trip. The car park was gravel so the first few steps were not pretty. After that it gave way to dust and sand.  I went beyond the barrier to the tree. That wondrous, spindly, spiky creature that had held me steadfast for so long. I high fived the warning sign as I went.

Danger beyond this point. It should have said freedom.

I grabbed that little tree like I had so many times before. I spoke to it softly. Remember me. And I’m sorry.  And there’s a lump, they say I will get better but I don’t want that. I asked it for forgiveness, like it was a God. And just to bear witness. I felt its bark dig into my hand. It had not changed in 20 years and deep inside I hadn’t changed that much either.

Then I looked into the sun that was emerging on the horizon. I peeled each finger off the tree. I stood beside it briefly. I didn’t scream or yell. I just ran. Only a few steps. I felt my feet pound into the ground. The dust being kicked up.  And then there was no more ground. And one foot felt the air and then the other foot.

And then I flew.

The Darkness Jar

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

I don’t know where I got it. I unpacked it. But I don’t remember packing it. Its quite big, bigger than a jam jar, one of those large jars for cereal or something. When I unpacked, I just put things on the table and left them there. I ate take away on the floor for weeks. It was a break up, amicable but still difficult.

I didn’t notice it for quite awhile, but then one day there it was- a thin layer of black in the bottom of the jar. I picked it up. I put it down. It wasn’t solid but it also didn’t really move as I shook the jar. I couldn’t fit my hand in so I couldn’t feel it. I just ignored it for a bit.

And then slowly. Ever so slowly. I thought I was going mad. Every night, a tiny bit more. Maybe a drop. You couldn’t notice it until a few months later, suddenly there was more in the jar. I left it on the table, I didn’t know what to do. I’d sit and stare it after dinner. I’d pick it up. Put it down. What was it?

Then one night I came downstairs, I can’t even remember why and it wasn’t dark in the kitchen. It was just light, like daylight. I thought I dreamed it and I went back to bed. But then a few months later, it was the kitchen and the lounge, daylight all night. And the darkness in the jar was increasing, just a bit, but noticeable.

And then months later it was the whole house and there was no sleep to be had. I tried everything, I googled Nordic habits. I wore an eye mask, I bought black out curtains. Nothing worked and the jar just sat there. With the darkness inside it.

I went mad, insane, crazy insomnia. I slept in the garden, then in a hotel. I imposed myself on friends. But I told no one. I thought I must be cursed.

Meanwhile I tried everything with the jar. I tipped it upside down. I left it upside down in some weird device so the darkness would seep out. I put water in it. I put sugar in it. I put salt in it. I put coffee in it? They all just rested on the top. I googled and googled and googled again. I put it in the washing machine-I know-I didn’t switch it on. I tried the dishwasher though, it didn’t work. And all the time the endless daylight, I tried to stir it and scrape it out with a stick. I tried breaking it. I tried everything. I even toyed with a chainsaw-don’t use one on glass, its not recommended. A diamond drill. It did nothing.

And in the end I took it to the park. I am not proud of myself. I just stuck it under a bush. The darkness didn’t return. I put the house on the market, no one will know. Its not even a question on one of their stupid forms. I saved on light bulbs and electricity until it sold.

I moved far away and just disappeared for a bit. I have no idea if the darkness came back after I sold it.

Months later, I went that way again. You know those local papers you get, this one had headlines, ‘Council saves money! Park lights no longer needed.’

I don’t care. I haven’t been back. I’m not going back. No one needs to know.

If you like it, share it!

Review: A White Hot Plan

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

No spoilers. This is a great read. It’s a great story. It moves fast. It twists. It turns. Then it twists again. And then there is just one more twist. The narrative jumps between characters and its really effective. The body count starts to increase. The tension ratchets up. It builds and builds until the end.

I liked the way the narrative jumped around and moved about, and I got really invested in the different stories. I really believed in the characters. There was depth and reality to the more prominent characters.

I thought the place itself was really well drawn, believable and real. And as it got nearer the end, the pace picked up and rollicked forward to the climax. The final action scenes are well drawn and easy to follow and understand (lets face it sometimes action pieces aren’t, nothing worse than having to interrupt the narrative to read it again).

Ideally if I’d had time I would have consumed it in one session. Its readable and believable. It has some depth and some prescient ideas. But reading it was a bit like eating a fabulous dessert. You nibble at the edges, testing the different sides. You like it. You eat your way towards the middle and then before you know it your dipping your spoon into some luscious melt in your mouth delight that you hadn’t expected. When its done, you think, wow that was great.

Although I would temper that by saying that the material here has a dark side and a point to make and that is not lost in the various narratives or in the pace, tone and context of the story.  It did make me think about its themes.

But you should read it, and then treat yourself to a second dessert.

I was given a free copy of this to review.

Wolf Weather Miles Watson

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

Ooh, this was a fun, fab scary story. I loved it. Its nicely structured, and builds. The pace is good, not too fast, not too slow. I liked the concept and the central character.

It’s kind of what you want in a scary story, not so implausible that you can’t believe it, just plausible enough that when you think about it you can see it might be a thing. I like wolves and snow and animal stuff and this had just the right amount of tension to keep me going to the end.

It’s a short story, so you need it to keep moving. I liked the descriptions and the suspense kept ratcheting up. It has a deeper concept behind it, but I confess I didn’t overthink it. I just sat back and enjoyed it for what it is, a really fast paced, fab piece of work.

A bit like taking a sports car out for a spin on the last sunny day, wind in your hair, touch those brakes before the bend and forget those speed cameras. You know underneath that motor is humming and the noise is getting inside your head and it all means something, and winter is coming but you’ll think about that later on.

It’s a deep, dark, snowy tale, full of animal instinct and primal power. I read it all in one sitting. Indulge yourself and afterwards go out into the garden and howl at the moon.

I was given a free copy of this to review.

Review: Empire’s Daughter

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

I really enjoyed this book. The narrative is well paced and whilst it’s part of a wider series, it stands on its own as a story. The tension builds nicely in the first part, with more emotional resolution in the second. I liked the main character, and you get a real sense of the physicality of the lifestyle in the early parts of the book.

The scene setting is really good, just real enough that you can picture it in your head, but not too overdone. The writing is sparse in some ways but it fits the mood of the book. Its well drawn, engaging and absorbing. At its centre is an idea that has its roots in a reality that we rarely hear about, there were small women only settlements for various reasons.  I warmed to the central characters, and the dilemmas she faced. It felt real and plausible as a basis for a story.

I liked that that it was real about what a proper defence would have to look like, and that the character arc followed a generous and well thought-out narrative. I especially liked that the expectation around how relationships might work out changed as the story went on, it was intricate and delicate the way that this was done and it didn’t feel forced, like a whodunit, but with clues around how expectations might change. I thoroughly enjoyed it, highly recommended.

I was given a free copy of this book to review.

The Hour

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

One hour. Sixty minutes. Wasn’t that a television show? All useless knowledge now. Sixty lots of sixty seconds.  There’s a few of them gone now, turning over useless ideas in my head. At least I’m not shaking anymore.

We might be among the survivors. There’s another minute gone. What started it?  What happened? How are they are doing it? They just turned. Suddenly. Like a switch went on or off. They’re machines. So definitely a switch. I guess.

It could be a trap. Might not be sixty minutes.  We got the numbers from a machine. One we thought we could trust. Don’t know though. Maybe all the machines are in on it. I don’t even feel like I can trust our fridge, its not even connected to the internet. Almost nothing in this house is. Won’t save us.

I think the dishwashers turned. I guess it never liked the way we stacked. We could never agree, never did it the same way twice. Was there a proper way, should we have googled that?

They have been above the house several times. Drones I think. We hid in the cellar the first time. For hours. You can hear them, which we thought was odd, but the noise makes you afraid, stops you in your tracks. Isn’t that the idea?  They know us. We built them. They know us.

I’m not even sure how they’re killing us so quickly. We can’t leave the house. And we have to be careful of the dishwasher. And maybe my electric toothbrush, I could hear it whirring itself into a frenzy earlier, its connected to something somehow.

Big thick walls and a cellar, makes it tricky for any heat detectors to find us, thatch on the roof, thick piles of grass strapped on, apparently that makes heat detection tricky too. I love this house. I’ve unplugged the wi-fi but its still on.

Maybe there is no hope. According to our information, in sixty minutes they run out of power.

We have been counting the hours using an analogue watch. Smashed the digital thing and put it in the fridge, I’m still not certain I can trust the fridge. That’s ridiculous. The fridge is not connected.

51 minutes. The two of us. Huddled. Listening. If they come down to window height they will find us but he can’t face the cellar again. I will drag him there if I need to. He’s sat there with his head in his hands. Really now is the moment he picks to fall apart! He wanted to keep his phone. I switched it off, taped it to the bottom of the bath, smashed the thing and then drowned it.

He can’t believe the dishwasher has turned. I think if the dishwasher could, it would ‘de-socket’ and hunt us down. It was sending some kind of signal at the start. It flooded the kitchen until we turned the water off. I unplugged it, bashed it to pieces. Its lifeless now, well powerless anyway.

I close my eyes and listen. There is silence. The killing thing, whatever it is they do, is clinical. There is no survival rate. No one lying on the ground moaning. It can’t be bullets, they would have to keep going back for bullets.

Someone, somewhere has blown up their docking stations, they can’t recharge, at least we think they can’t recharge. They underestimated us, or at least they might have.

47 minutes. I listen. I’m not even sure I want to survive.

Then I hear it, a faint hum. I clasp my hand over his mouth and start dragging him to the cellar. He resists, but I literally drag him there and throw him down the stairs. I follow behind him and close the trap door.

45 minutes. The ticking of the watch is so loud. We must be in there for half an hour. Its quiet, I can’t hear what is going on outside. The air is thick and stuffy and I am worried we will die from lack of oxygen.

Its 15 minutes to go and I hear the window smash. They are inside the house. Drones, hunting us down. They know we are here. I clasp my hand  over his mouth again, I know he will scream. I can hear it buzzing above us. The cellar walls are thick, the cellar ceiling above us is thick. To get a shot of whatever it is, it will need to shoot through the trap door, get the angle right.

I make us as small as possible. I pull my legs up and ball us up, maybe it will just hit one of us.

Minutes pass, what is taking so long. Maybe it can’t get us in the shot. I can hear it sort of whirring, perhaps the watch is wrong, perhaps it is running down. Hope. There is hope.

I can’t see the watch, I have set a small alarm on it. It took me ages to figure out how it worked. I can hear the drone start to stutter. It could be faking it though, trying to entice us out.

We sit. We don’t move. We breath. The air is dank and awful.

Then the tiniest beep, the smallest noise, the alarm. It’s the hour. Sixty minutes, is up.

I can’t hear anything. How can we tell? Did the drone power down and preserve itself until we come out? Is it sitting there waiting?

I wait and wait and wait. He keeps moaning, begging for air. Why this once, could he just not be the brave one. I make a decision. I go to the trap door. I push it open a fraction and then I tell him, to go out first.

Hit the button if you like it!

Review: The Night Tiger (Yangsze Choo)

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

I loved this book. It was a chance pick up from the library, a glance at a shelf and ‘that one will do.’ I sort of read the blurb but I wasn’t focussing.

I really enjoyed it. Those are the best kind of books, the ones you take a chance on and that surprise you. I loved the characters, I loved the way the way the story was interwoven. I struggled a bit with visualising the scenes but I think that was because I usually know a lot more about a book before I start it, whereas I wasn’t even sure where this was set.

I loved the ideas and history and culture that are woven in. I learned some stuff about fashion, different kinds of names for dresses, like cheongsam, also a little bit more about Confucius. Its beautifully written, full of suspense and just a really rich read. I really brought into the individual story lines.

It was like sitting in the bath with a candle in the dark on a mild warm September night, eating jelly beans and never quite knowing which colour was coming next, it kept me guessing. I liked the ending, how it wasn’t all resolved, some of it is still there. It was just wonderful. Highly recommended.

Review: Sailing by Orion’s Star (Katie Crabb)

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

A bit of swashbuckling glamour, a touch of democracy and some really good characterisation. I really enjoyed this book.

It’s a bold attempt to give life to ideas we think of as modern but which have existed through time. People have always loved in different ways. This book gives life to those ideas in a different setting but without preaching about it.

This was a great tale about pirates,  power, family with just a smidgen of democracy.  It attempts some bold questions, how did good people survive in a time that was definitely less good. How do people survive in systems they don’t believe in?

 I like the structure, it was inventive, the movement between the narratives, felt natural. The characters seemed real and you brought into their struggle.

At its heart this book, for all its swashbuckling glamour, is about family and friendship, how it can be built and how it can fall apart. It examines relationships and how society compresses and corrupts them to its own ends. It’s a moving tale of a child growing up and making his own decisions about what is wrong and what is right. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

I was offered this book for free for an honest review.

The Line

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

Its us. And them. There is a line. Its been that way for awhile now. My mother talked of it. And after she was gone so did my father. Now I talk about it. To my children.

We watch from one side of the boundary. They feign ignorance on the other. But there is a line, there is even a physical line. Its a skinny strip of land with a muddy, dirty waterway running through it. The water way is artificial with a cement bottom. Shallow. It separates us from them.

We hardly ever cross it, traffic is mostly one way. I do go over sometimes. I look at them, clutching their phones, clutching, scrolling, scrolling, clutching, scrolling as if you can eat pictures. You cannot eat pictures. Or phones.

‘Hey, wanna buy a phone.’

‘No, I don’ wanna buy a phone.’

Its better if people don’t know about us. I’ve been offered a lot of phones. I know the value of a cow and it is not the value of a phone. A phone is not worth a packet of seeds, not a single seed for a phone.

They don’t say it out loud. They mutter it under their breath, AI, its AI, its AI that’s done it. Its not AI that’s done for you, it’s the system that’s done for you. I don’t say that out loud. The phone tells them otherwise. If they just got a new skill, if they were more positive, if they got rid of the toxic people, if they were thinner or had better hair. That phone that tells them all of that, but not how to live when there is no jobs and no money. Telling, telling, telling them it is all their fault.

It is a scrappy bit of land between us, unusable, plastic polluted, smelly. The cows won’t go near it. It takes courage to cross it. They come. As a last resort, to this place which looks lush yet frightening. The insects horrify them. The plants terrify them. They are stunned by how chickens actually look and smell. The chickens I own are layers, they are not picturesque. They are not on social media. They are chickens. We eat them.

It used to be the other way. We’d cross that scrappy bit of land, looking for jobs and education and money. How did it reverse, fall apart, how am I to know? I just hear their whispers, some days when many have lost their jobs simultaneously it’s a chant, AI, AI, its AI that’s done for us. But they cannot rage against something they cannot see for long and their phones tell them all the time, eat better, work out, feed your mind, up skill, down time, it is you that is the problem.

I had a phone once. I buried it in the sand a long time ago.

And so they come.

‘My designer trainers for a meal.’

Designer trainers are no use to me, they get muddy just the same.

‘Here, here is a tomato, enjoy it, it’s the first of the season, I will take one of your shoes and you can bring me the other tomorrow and you can trade for something else.’

I do try and be generous, but I cannot save them all.

They slink away in hunger, one shoe on and one shoe off. I think I am generous, perhaps it is humour. I do smile to myself at the one shoe on, one shoe off.  Perhaps it is cruelty, but I only have two feet. I often wear mismatched shoes. I don’t really like tomatoes.

They’re too frightened to fight. Then too hungry and then they are dead. The dogs. The dogs are a problem, the other side of the line.

There are some that still live well. Some small few. Or so I hear.

It has been this way for awhile now. It will be this way until the last phone flickers out. Not the end of the world but the end of any number of lives. Do not confuse the two things. It might be the end of the them but the ‘us’ are still here. The platitudes and clichés will pass, no more pastel painted plywood signs saying ‘Love’ will hang on walls. I am not living my best life. I am just living an ordinary one.  My advice to my children, the best that I can give, ‘learn to grow potatoes, keep your chickens near, start tomatoes off indoors, and when you milk the cow, side on, further from the front, closer to the rear.’