Caity Yates

A New Life

Tears rolled down her cheeks without end, making them shine in the moonlight.  She sat on the fence, arms curled around her stomach and body arching forward over skinny knees.  Her tiny body convulsed with each rasping breath.  She was beginning to see her breath, and she wiggled her toes to try to feel them, to no avail.  “You said you’d come!” she shouted to the forest.  “You said!”  Someone grabbed her, and she let out a loud shriek.  A hand was clapped over her mouth, “Hush,” a voice whispered in her ear.

“Please...” she whispered through the fingers.  “Shut up,” the person growled.  A hand wrapped around her tiny neck, and he shoved her off the fence roughly.  She tried to move away, kicking her scrawny legs against the frozen dirt, the rough grass scratching against her body.  “Oh stop it,” a deep voice said.  She lay panting on the ground, shivering.  She stared up at the outlined male figure.  He was leaning over the fence where she had been curled up seconds ago.

“What are you--” she began.

“Shut up.  I told you to stay quiet out here, didn’t I?  Kyor’s Dagger... What is wrong with you, girl?!” he said quietly, cursing in an ancient language she didn’t know.

“Don’t hurt me,” she whimpered.

He groaned in frustration.  “You’re beyond useless, child,” he growled as he jumped over the fence.  She tried to scramble away from where he landed, inches away from her, staring up at him.  “What are you doing on the ground?  Get up!” he snapped suddenly, beginning to walk into the forest.  She scrambled up and followed after him through the forest.

Branches snatched at her flesh, and brambles ripped at her thin clothes.  She winced as a thorn was pressed into her bare foot, but she kept following him, nearly blind in the dark forest.  A tiny light spotted the dark forest, and they were walking towards it.  She wrapped her arms around her stomach again and let out a little whimper.  The man before her stopped, and she nearly ran into him.  “What?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.  Even in the dark, he knew his expression.  “I said nothing,” she whispered quietly.  He nodded once and continued.  She bit her lip and tried to keep up and not get hurt any more than she already was.  She wondered how many had come this way; how many had the same brambles snatch at their clothes, felt the same branches snap against their skin.

They walked into a small clearing, a fire blazing at the center.  She stood at the edge, staring at the hooded figures seated around the fire.  The creatures slowly turned towards her, their covered eyes boring into her.  She could feel it, the heat of their stare.  She looked at the man who had led her here.  He was leaning against a large tree with his arms crossed, staring at the ground.  From what she could see of his face, his eyes were closed.  She didn’t have time to register anything more.

The nearest creature leapt at her suddenly, and she was pinned to the ground.  Its mask fell away to reveal a lizard-like creature.  Its bright yellow eyes burned into her, holding her captive, a snake charming a human.  It opened its mouth and let out a loud hiss, but it took a breath in.  Her body lurched, and she felt like something was being drawn out of her.  She screamed, begging for help from anyone.  The scaley thing above her bit into her shoulder as she screamed, but she barely felt it.  The others joined in, pouncing on her like rabid dogs, and biting into her flesh.  She felt as though she would be torn apart.  Whatever they were drawing out of her, it made her body convulse violently.  And then, it all stopped.  Her vision blurred and faded.  Her body felt warm.  She couldn’t feel them biting into her any longer.

She watched her siblings play around her, and, for the few times in her life, felt joy.  Felt happiness.  And then, the image was sucked away, and she woke up to the reality of lying on the forest floor, blood staining her tattered clothes.  But... She wasn’t on the floor.  She was in a bed.  And she was no longer bleeding.  Slowly, she brought a hand up to her arm where one of the creatures had bitten in.  A wool bandage was wrapped tightly around her arm.  She slowly opened her eyes, her vision blurring before, after a long while, becoming clear.  “Where...?” she muttered, barely able to finish her sentence.  “Don’t sit up.  Don’t move.  Wait for it to wear away,” someone said.  She made a small grunt of acceptance and closed her eyes, falling into a dark world.  But she couldn’t sleep.  With a long sigh, she opened her eyes again.

A man was standing over her, fixing her bandages.  She tried to move away, but he pressed a hand to her chest and held her down easily.  “Relax,” he muttered.  She stared up at him, panting, as he finished.  Then he moved away.  She sat up slowly, a wave of vertigo crashing over her and nearly making her lay down again.  After closing her eyes, she took a long breath, then opened, staring the man right in the face.  “Who are you,” she demanded with a hoarse voice.

“Your captor.  And savior, I suppose,” he replied with a shrug.

“My... Captor?  And savior?”

“Did I mutter?  Like you seem to?”

“No...  But, who are you?”

“In your language, Zalen.  I won’t even bother telling you my real name, human.”

“My name isn’t human.  It’s Miechele,” she snapped.

“I know.”

“How...?”
“You talk in your sleep,” he replied gruffly.

“What happened to me?”

“You became one of us.”

She was dumbfounded.  And by the look on his face, he wasn’t surprised.  She opened her mouth to speak, but her stomach groaned instead, and she threw up onto the blankets, passing out shortly afterward.  Zalen cleaned up the blankets by the time she was awake again.  It was late at night, though he had a fire going.  She opened her eyes slowly, and turned on her side, every rib pressing into the mattress.  He was sitting at a desk nearby, writing something.  “So... What are you then?” she asked rubbing her eyes gently.  “Haven’t you heard the stories, Miechele?  The stories of the Broken?  Of the Sad?”

She nodded slowly.  “Yes... I have...”

“You were supposed to be smart.  Don’t tell me the Charmers have made a mistake...”

“You’re... But they’re stories.  Legends.  They don’t exist!” she cried.

“No, Miechele.  We’re nightmares.  And we do exist.  And now, you’re one of us.”

“No...  No!  I can’t be!” she screamed.

His hand was over her mouth faster than she thought possible, and his face was mere inches from hers.  “Quiet.  Tell me what you know, quietly.”  She nodded slowly, and he removed his hand.  She began to recite a story she had told her siblings many times.

“When the Mountain was new, strange creatures existed.  Mixes between each other.  The most feared, and most deadly were the Slevath.  At first, they were the most caring, and most beloved creatures on the Mountain.  But...  They made a pact with the Larker long ago.  They were given eternal life, but at a cost.  They fed on the joy of other creatures.  Before long, they were hunted, almost extinct.  But a few survived.  The people they fed on often died.  But... Somehow, some lived.  They became the Broken, the Sad.  They were without joy, and knew no emotion but the hatred of the Slevath, for the Larker’s betrayal.  And... Somehow, they gained part of the Slevath’s eternal life.  The original Broken are said to be still alive, finding new prey for their masters.”

He nodded slowly.  “It’s all true.”  He stared at her.  She saw it now, the...Lack of any emotion in his eyes.  She saw no reflection, just the dark grey of his eyes.  Somehow, the tore her gaze away, and rolled back onto her back.  “Now I’m one of the Broken?”  She asked quietly.  He threw his hands up, clapping loudly.  “Give her a medal, she can be taught!”  He quieted, looking down at her.  “Yes, you’re one of us.  Though... Only humans call us Broken.  We call ourselves The Meingah.  It means servant.”  She rolled away from him, facing the wall, shaking quietly.  “I don’t want to be a Broken...”

“Too late, Miechele.  You’re one of us.  Now you have to accept it.”

“How?  How am I supposed to accept the fact that I’ll never feel joy again?”

“Easy... By forgetting it ever existed.”

“But...  I know it exists.”

“Really?  Have you ever felt joy, Miechele?”

“Yes!”  She snapped defiantly.

“Real joy?!” He growled.

She began to shake more, and for once, it wasn’t of cold.  She’d grown up in the cold, and now there was a bright fire blazing in the fireplace.  Fear had gripped her, and it wouldn’t release.  He rested a hand against her shoulder and stood up, looking down at her.  She looked up at him quietly.  “Do you want to see your mark...?” he asked quietly.  A frown creased her brow, and she stared at him blankly.  He rolled his eyes.  “Now that you’re a Broken, you have a mark.  It’s your mark of power, and I’m to teach you how to use it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Planes scream in the air overhead, roaring their engines and splitting the air.  Bombs hiss and explode, pounding sound against the city walls.  Rapid gunfire sputters in the air as the RAF tries to stop the bombers.  The cacophony of noise shakes my makeshift bunker, the brittle wood trembling against the tin roof.  I sit on the tiny bed, listening to the orchestra of the war; the terrible, beautiful hum of the engines, the high-pitched scream of the bombs as they fall.  My infant brother awakens as a bomb shatters nearby, and he joins the music with his screams of terror.  I wrap him tighter in the tattered blanket and cradle him to my chest, humming along with the engines.

My mother had gone out yesterday to try to find food, or a better hideaway, but hasn’t returned.  My veil of optimism from my youth had been torn to shreds with the first bombs, and I know she isn’t coming back.  Perhaps we can survive a little longer on old jerky and sour water.  I pray for rain; rain that will soften the musical war into nothing but the hum and crackle of droplets on the tin roof.  My brother murmurs sounds into my chest, and I sing quietly to him, my voice falling like the bombs, rising like the planes.  The glorious, tragic symphony playing feverishly into the night, steals the sleep of thousands and gives it forever to an unlucky hundred; a fanfare to an unexpected exit into the afterlife.

Through a crack in the bunker, I watch London be torn into fragments of worthless rubble.  I watch my house collapse into a heap of wood and flame.  How my heart yearns for the comfort of rain, the normalcy of the drops, the drum roll of thunder, the warm crackle of lightning.  They’d stop the raid, and everyone would listen to the familiar foreign language of the rain.  They’d let the city rest, let the tension fall through the gutters, and let everyone find each other, and themselves again.  We’d count losses, find the wounded, bury the dead.  Maybe shreds of my optimism were still trying to cover my reality.

The night never seems to end.  For hours, I watch the bombs start fires that consume the fragments of London.  I look up to the sky, filled with clouds.  Filled with clouds, but never letting the rain come.  The fire begins to creep closer, and I hug my infant to my chest too tight.  He lets out a small moan, and I lay him down on what’s left of the bed.  Many years of neglect left it torn.  I never would have pictured myself using it to sleep in every night.  The springs creak and groan as I settle down each morning, once the sun finally begins to show its cowardly face to stop the bombings.

It seems that the Germans only end their bombings when the sun comes.  For a long time, they were bombing all day.  The RAF had been more successful then.  Perhaps it was the daylight giving the pilots some sort of hope, or perhaps it was that they could actually see their targets.  Although, there had been something in gossip recently that there was this... Thing.  They called it “Radar.”  From what I’ve heard, it lets the pilots know where the other planes were, even in the dark.  Sounds like pure hogwash to me.  How could they see at night?  Probably just more propaganda to try to keep the British people hopeful.

I’m tired of the propaganda.  I’m tired of seeing the posters on every wall as I pick through the ravaged city.  There’s no one left to have hope, so why do they bother?  Just take down the damn posters already.  No one reads them anymore; except small children.  I think people used to, back before the bombings began.  One the bombs began falling, everyone’s hope just... left.  It’s like it was the first thing to be destroyed was their patriotism, and then the city.  Maybe one day people will think that we actually survived the bombings.  Yes... We’re still alive, but there are parts of us that will never be alive again.

Another earth-quaking bomb brings me back to reality, and I pull tattered covers over both of us.  Through the cracks, I watch the sun stretch its rays over the battle in the air.  I watch a plane fly over, followed in quick pursuit.  Beside me, my brother has fallen asleep already, and is gurgling quietly to himself.  My eyelids are heavy.  There is a strange quietness over the city now that the symphony had finished playing.  It is almost peaceful.  It feels unpatriotic to say so, but I wish it was always like this; right after the bombings.  There is never more peace in London than after the planes have dropped their final bombs on our city.  I let my eyes drift shut, and I’m rocked to sleep by the wind and crackle of the fires of the city.

--

There is a steadiness to the metronome of the radar screens.  Quiet ‘blips’ set a soothing pace for everything to match.  The rain seems to sprinkle the windows in time with it; my heart seems to be in tune, never faltering.  Even the talking seems to pause and play with the blips.  As I adjust the Radio microphone around my mouth, the creak of leather and metal even falls sharply in between two blips.  “Anything?  Anything at all?”  My pilots ask.  I shake my head, as though they were here with me.  “Nothing.  Return to base.”  There isn’t a reply, just the steady progression of the little dots on my green radar screen.

All of us are exhausted.  The pilots have been flying with eyes that sit in a tower and stare at screens, the technicians have been trying to portray accurate and helpful locations based on the little blips.  Everything is based on the blips.  Nothing is isolated from them.  Whether we’re checking the location of the squad, or trying to send them to a Luftwaffe plane, it’s all based on those little screens in front of us.  A long, sleepy blink could spell the end for the entire squad under one technician.  Our eyelids might very well have bricks anchored to them for how much they seem to weight.

Soon, the day-light technicians will come in.  How we all wait for the door to creak open and for them to take the giant headsets away to let our necks rest.  We all pray, every night, that we still have a house to come back to.  There are no promises in safety anymore; the safety of London sits on the screens of the radar, and, somehow, the screen hasn’t cracked yet.  None of us complain of exhaustion.  We all wait for the other to break first, and so no one breaks.  We lean on each other by outlasting each other.  There’s no disguising the signs of exhaustion in everyone’s faces.

We’ll all pick through the rubble to find our homes.  We’ll see the people we’ve failed to protect, the home’s we’ve destroyed.  With each house we see in fragments, we carry every last memory of that house on us as we walk by.  I don’t know if people blame us, but we blame ourselves, and that’s blame enough.  We picture the families that used to live in the houses; the children, the parents, the grandparents.  Hell, one of my buddies often talks about the pets he finds.  Dead dogs lying in the streets, wounded cats climbing through the remains of houses.  There’s no way around the guilt.  We’re the ones who are supposed to keep London safe, and we’re having to find new paths home every morning because of the rubble.

And, if we’re very unlucky... We come home to nothing.  Split wood and shingles, beds and couches and shredded blankets greet us.  We know we’ve failed to protect everyone, but when we come home after trying to protect someone, and we see we’ve failed to protect our own property, our own families...  No one ever really knows what it feels like.

We hate those propaganda signs now.  We used to have pride in being soldiers.  We used to think that we were doing such good for Europe when we fought the Germans.  That pride... It just... Disappears one day.  For a very lucky few, it never disappears.  Those are the people who everyone sees pictures of; grinning in their uniforms.  For almost everyone else, the only thing that kept us here was a common goal: keep the Nazis out of our country, and our allies.  As I walk home, I almost tear one of the signs down.  But I think better of it; there’s no reason to take the sign down if it gives civilians hope.

I march on to my house, praying I have a house left.  I haven’t been home in weeks.  The walk takes longer than I remember, and I swear that I’m lost.  A familiar building in the distance assures me that I’m going the right way.  Picking through rubble takes longer than walking on a clean road does.  I turn the corner and I can see my property.  Walking down the street that I’ve lived on since I was four brings back many memories; memories that will never happen again, because my street has been bombed, and a fire spread to it.

I see the other families I used to play with, I see them playing in clean yards, pretending to be soldiers.  I play with them.  But I can’t pretend anymore.  I am a soldier now.  I turn into my yard, and all I see is ruins.  Something in me cringes, but I walk on.  I go out back and search.  The bunker still stands, though it’s in bad shape.  I pry open the door, and it screeches in protest.  Luckily, neither of the figures sleeping on an old mattress wake up.  I walk over and rub my hand on her shoulder, then pick up the infant beside her, cradling him.  He blinks awake slowly, lazily.  With a smile, I kiss him on the forehead.  He looks exhausted; too exhausted for his age, I think.  Something has kept him up all night.  She told me a few weeks ago in a letter that he sleeps through the bombs.  She must have been trying to soothe me.

I look around at their stores, and shake my head.  There’s a pitiful amount left.  It hasn’t been safe until recently to leave their bunker.  A stack of empty cans sits in the corner rusting.  It must have been a challenge to get the infant to eat the salty preserved foods; though he does look very thin.  I sit on the end of the bed, and the springs creak and groan.  It’s odd not hearing everything to the Radar anymore.  Everything seems... Free.  It’s set to its own rhythm, not some artificial blip of a man-made machine.  It’s organic.

The girl wakes up slowly, and stares down at me.  With a tired smile, she welcomes me to the bed, and we sleep until noon.

-----

I wake up early each day, ready to leave for my job.  It’s a new job, yes, but it pays much better than a receptionist’s wages.  With the United States entering the war so recently, industries have been flourishing as we prepare to really engage in battles.  There’s a sense of pride, and we all want to be a part of it.  Women are working in factories.  That sign with Rosie on it has encouraged so many women to pursue... Unconventional jobs.  Though I’ve had my job almost a month now, I can’t shake my excitement at having a job like a man.  

I walk to work, feeling very proud of my minor sacrifice to save gasoline.  A lot of people walk to work now days.  It’s almost surprising the amount of support for the conservation of resources as we prepare for the war.  As I walk, I hear the brassy tones of a high school band playing the national anthem.  I stop by the fence of the high school and listen, as many others seem to have done. We’re a proud people, though the Government doesn’t seem to think so.  We haven’t entered any combat yet.  Everyone knows we will.  President Roosevelt seems to be waiting for the right time; a time when everyone will be behind the war.  As I walk, I see protesters trying to keep us out of the war.  To each their own, but I don’t agree.  I think a war would help the States rather than hurt us.  A lot of people don’t think there’s a reason to enter the war.  Hopefully they’ll see one soon.

I enter the factory and I’m welcomed by the loud din of workers.  Metal clangs in high notes, people murmur low towns, and the machines drone on.  I go to my station and begin piecing things together.  My mind begins to wander after a few hours, and I think of the episode of “Private Snafu” I watched yesterday.  I remember all of the Nazi symbols I saw cartoonized.  I think of the posters I see on a couple of the buildings as I went to work this morning.  “Don’t be a sucker!” it read, and had a big fish with its mouth about to land on a hook; “Keep your mouth shut!”  Was the government really that worried about people giving away our secrets?  What secrets did we have?

I wait rather impatiently for the lunch bell to din through the halls to signal the end of the morning.  I listen to the inorganic, rough noise of the factory.  Machines clicking and gears grinding, people chatting with each other.  I finished piecing together the last parts I could as the lunch split the sounds of the factory.  As I walk down to the diner for my lunch, I pass more posters trying to encourage the rationing of supplies such as food, gasoline, and tin cans.  Almost everyone is behind the war now.  Even if they don’t support it, I truly hope that people are at least supporting the war by conserving their supplies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Apartment 567

What can be said about HER.  She was strange, that was enough for him.  She had a mohawk that was often colored different each day, and it was rare to see her without make-up.  Her black hair had tight french-braids on the sides of her head leading to her short, spiky mohawk.  She wore strange clothes and most of her jewelry was... Odd to say the least.

He had never tried to talk to her, though he watched her every day.  She knew it too.  She flipped him off more than once.  He’d never been into her apartment: number 567, just across the hall, and she was very careful to block his view whenever she went outside.  What did she have to hide?

As he watched her walk down the street with her grey hoodie, sleeves cut off to show heavily tattooed arms, he scrambled for his phone.  Two rings, then someone picked up on the other line.

“Hello?”

“She’s at it again...”

“Get over it, it’s been two months,” came the gruff reply.

“Please?  Just once?”

“No.”

“Please?” he begged.

The line went silent for a long while.  “Fine, once,” the other replied, a defeat in his voice.  “Thanks!” he hung up quickly and waited, pacing the apartment.  Downstairs, his friend, a tall, bulky man who looked about in his twenties, hair shaved.  The doorman looked up lazily.

“Yes...?”

“Hi, my girlfriend lives here.  She told me to pick something up for her, but she forgot to give me her key.  Can you give me a spare?”  he asked, trying to sound as polite as possible.

With a sigh, the doorman answered.  “What room?”

“Uhm, 567 I think she said.”

“Oh...  Her...  Yeah, here you go,” he replied, looking up as he handed the key over.

With a thanks, he took the elevator up to the fifth floor.  He fiddled with something in his coat pocket as the elevator sped to the right floor.  With a ding, its doors slid open.  He stepped out and looked down either side of the hallway, a plaque pointing the right way.  He walked quickly, and stopped at her door.  After fiddling with the lock, it clicked open, and he stepped inside.  It was pitch black.  It was the middle of the day.

“Wonder why he’s so obsessed...” he muttered as he fumbled for the light switch.  Eventually, he found it.  The lights flashed to life, and he blinked rapidly, unable to take in the sight before him quite yet.  As he was finally able to look around, he gawked.  There was nothing.  Nothing.  No floor, no walls, no ceiling... Nothing.  “Welcome,” a metallic voice greeted him.  “You have been selected for testing.  Please state what environment you would like to stay in,” it demanded.

“Uh...  City?”

The scenery changed to his perfect city, and his testing began.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the same every night.  Three cries of pain from an unearthly creature, and then silence.  The footprints in the snow of a barefoot child leading to the forests behind the house.  I’d followed them a few months ago.  They led to a barren tree the middle of a clearing.  Even in the Spring when dandelions dotted my yard and not a flake of snow was frozen to the grass, there was a trail of grass that had yet to curl back to life after being stepped on.  The path never deviated, and I found myself wondering why I didn’t just place stepping stones where the footprints were.  They were precise, as though each were simply a copy of the first, rather than someone actually walking.

The tree was something I had documented for the entire year, watching the trees around it.  I set up a tall tripod, and positioned it.  For 48 hours, it took a picture every half hour.  I watched a deer wander through the woods, watched birds fly and peck at the ground for tiny morsels of food left over.  And then the sun began to fall, throwing brilliant colors around the tree.  A coyote had passed through just as the camera snapped the picture with a bright flash, and its eyes glowed an eerie green as it stared down the lens.  One picture, repeated over and over again at the same time every day, was one that changed my life.

The tree, barren in even the bright summers, sprang to life at about 7:30pm, buds blooming on every branch and twig shooting from the soft-brown trunk.  The next picture, half an hour later, it was barren again, barren and ghostly.  It seemed to so out of place, but there was something...  A presence to it... It belonged there, and would never move; it stood like a bright white rose in a foggy graveyard, standing as a single illumination against the decay around it.  After the year was up, and I’d watched the other trees bloom, die, and shed their leaves, to bloom once more in the spring, I went back out to my camera.

It was 6:45pm when I went out, and I had to work quickly.  I reset the camera to take a picture every minute for the next two hours.  Perhaps half an hour had been too long.

I went back inside to a warm fire, leaving the crisp early Spring night to set in.  I watched from my laptop, stared at every picture sent by the camera, an awe spreading over my body and paralyzing me.  At 7:14 exactly, the tree began to bloom, a life spreading from its roots to the trunk, and finally, up to the branches.  Buds curled into existence, and bloomed into leaves.  White petals curled from small branches, dotting the tree in snowflakes of ivory.  Then the petals wilted, and fell to the ground like a dusting of snow as the leaves flooded with reds and yellows.  In a few minutes, they fell to the ground one by one, covering the petals in a fiery grave.  I could never expect what came next.  A shock of ice-blue burst from the tree.  I only caught it as it began, and would never know what happened.  The leaves of gold and crimson burned in the blue flame and followed that path, footsteps of flame.  I only saw the back of one of the things that cried out at night, the same blue flame coated their tiny bodies and spread out like wings, and soft, ivory colored cloth curled around their bony limbs.

I nearly screamed when I heard the first cry of pain.  Something about the ordeal shook me to the core.  Something was so familiar, but so foreign about it; like my name being said in another language.  I ran, nearly yanking the computer as its cord entangled my foot.  I ran to the glass door in the backyard, slamming into it with my hands as I skidded to a halt.  But I saw nothing.  The yard was bare, except for the footsteps.  Tiny embers flickered into death after a few seconds.  At the forestline, the blue flame faded away.  I missed it.  The most routine thing in my life, and I missed it...

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Artwork

Paws

Muddled Reflections

Quiet now

Okapi

Charge!

Mirror

Waddle Quickly, My Dear