Michael Scott Hand

Category: Stories

• The Equation

  Posted at 7:55 am by Michael, on February 21, 2020

  Something changes part way through the equation.

  I can’t figure it out. From this to that and then backwards: forever again. The numbers, letters and symbols that swim in and out of my mind’s eye only make sense up to a point, and then…

  Magic.

  It doesn’t make sense; it is the only thing that makes sense. It is the only answer that seems appropriate, and yet, for a man like me to suggest it is so utterly inappropriate that I should never dare to speak the word aloud. So, instead, I will bury my confession here: amongst the pages of my journal like some sordid confession of sexual iniquity.

  I have thought of little other than the equation these past months. It has haunted my dreams and, more so, those hours where I simply lay there unable to sleep or to dream, because the very weight of my ideas presses down on me like a jumbled weight of valves, and tubes and motors.

  From this to that and backwards: forever again. I can’t figure it out. The numbers and letters and symbols that swim in and out of my mind’s eye only make sense up to a point, and then…

  That great academic mewling of scientists, that “rhubarb rhubarb” from which choice words and phrases nonetheless come slipping through like eels. Words like wave and theory and particle. Graph paper and arrows in red ink that are pointing right at me, accusing me of blasphemy, preparing me to be crucified for my unwillingness to fall into line alongside my mentors and contemporaries who shuffle ever forward in life’s eternal lunch queue.

  I find myself amongst them and hold out my hands like a cup to catch my dreams as they are served from a stainless steel ladle held in the iron grip of a stainless steel lunch lady.

  Something changes part way through the equation and I can’t figure out what it is. Worse still is the fact that everybody else is oblivious to it… this great blinding omission that hangs over us like the sun. It is woven into everything that we know and understand about the world. This truth, this lie, this…

  Magic.

  It has to be magic. I ruminate on the word and open a few old books. I find only ever more irrelevant questions. I find myself staring at an old map of a country I don’t recognise before I realise the map is upside down. I right the map and the cities and roads settle into their familiar locations. I see the river Char.

  The map is no longer an enigma, but it is of no use to me. It is a distraction, just like everything else. Like traffic lights and street signs and the smell of coffee and the taste of blood and smoke that rises from chimney stacks like Tiamat.

  Listen to me: this is important. Perhaps I will never understand and one day you will find these journals stuffed away in an old trunk somewhere, in a dusty attic, in some future world. You will, at first, be inclined to dismiss these ravings as nothing more than the affectations of a madman on a decline into absurdity, a mad scientist, a mind no longer capable of reconciling the various thoughts and images and ideas that it contains.

  Whosoever reads these words: no matter the form in which they reach you, I implore you to listen. For what I am about to tell you is a truth wrapped in time, a whisper that precedes the wind.

  Something changes part way through the equation.

  The explanation?

  It’s magic.

  Posted in Philosophy, Stories | 0 Comments

• Shadai and the War

  Posted at 8:11 am by Michael, on February 13, 2020

  Shadai clutched the rifle to his chest. It was the only thing he was sure existed. His breath rasped. He didn’t know if he was cold or hot. He perspired inside his combat suit. He was afraid. His teeth were clenched. He clutched the rifle even more tightly. His fingers throbbed. His heart drummed.

  DOOM.

  From far away. Then a sprinkling of gunfire like firecrackers. Such an unimpressive sound. Not at all like the movies. This was no movie. This was real. This was happening. This was happening right now and yet he still could not believe it.

  DOOOOM.

  His own death edged closer. He was aware of the danger and he was afraid and yet he was also absent. His consciousness was floating somewhere between the combat suit that he wore and the rifle that he held. He was sure he would lose his mind if he were to become fully cogent of his situation.

  DOOOOOOM.

  That one struck a nearby building and broke it to pieces. His goggles fogged up and he tried to wipe them with the back of his hand. He couldn’t unclench his teeth. He was still holding the rifle. There was a voice in his head, but he pushed it away—there was no time for that now.

  DOOOOOOOOOOM.

  Shadai was down. He couldn’t reach his rifle. He couldn’t feel his arms or his legs. But they were still there. He could move. He could crawl. He made his way through the darkness, feeling the way with his hands. And that voice, again, ringing in his ears like God speaking to an unbeliever:

  “Team E: respond.”

  “Team D: respond.”

  “Team K: respond.”

  Shadai unclipped his earpiece: there were no voices here.

  He waited for another explosion.

   

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• Tap Tap Tap

  Posted at 8:45 am by Michael, on January 21, 2020

  This is a story that by most educated estimations could rightly be referred to as a “fairy-tale”, which is to say that it contains all manner of strange and unlikely situations, most singularly guided by those inviolable laws of magic and witchcraftery that were set out long ago by the forest-folk and the spirits-in-the-trees and the eyes-in-the-night and the eyes-in-the-sky and the darkness-beneath our beds—or, perchance, lurking within our minds—like the tiny man we call homunculus who steers our emotions with a pair of minuscule, steadfast hands on that spinning wheel of cognition that turns this-way-and-that as we surge through a churning, obsidian sea.

  This is a story that is rendered in layers of muddling reason, just as our vital organs are wrapped in bone-cage and muscle and skin and perfume; swaddled in cotton and wool; bundled up in front of a fire that whispers flickering premonitions of enlightenment into our ears. And like the cabin surrounded by pine trees and the tempest that howls beyond the wooden door—wolves or wind or both—we will tremble atop these foundations and we will cling to these words ever more tightly such as we do with the blanket that keeps us warm.

  But the blanket, and these words, become threadbare with time and eventually neither will suffice at keeping the cold away. The fire burns low, crackling and cackling. The light becomes ash and charred remains. There’s a tapping at the window, an insistent tap-tap-tap that could be sleet or pine-needles.

  It could be—but it’s not.

  Because this is a story that could rightly be referred to as a “fairy-tale” and that tapping you can hear..?

  Is a witch.

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• Flood of Blood

  Posted at 8:26 am by Michael, on January 20, 2020

  I crack open a can of Coca-Cola and step onto the balcony. The sun blazes down on the rooftops of the houses in the valley, reflecting off of TV antenna and solar panels. Old trees line the streets but the sunlight punctures through the branches, seeking out the shadows and driving them back. There is something unapologetic about a summer morning.

  I am like the sunlight. I blaze. I am defiant. My body is strong and lean and tanned. I am marked by the sun and vampires don’t like that. But then… those undead fucks don’t like much of anything.

  I drink the can quickly, I guzzle it. We all have our vices. At first I needed the caffeine to keep me awake, but now it’s just a habit. The tiny people mulling about in the valley below remind me that ignorance is bliss. But some of them know. Some of them have watched the faces of their loved ones transformed by an illness that we still don’t understand. An illness that turns people into monsters.

  And it’s spreading.

  I blame TV. I blame movies. I’d blame books if anybody actually bothered reading them. They glamorised the thing. They made everyone wanna be a fuckin’ vampire.

  A lot of people believe the illusion. They think that the undead lifestyle is some sort of classy soft-focus porno. They don’t realise until it’s too late that vampirism is a sickness. A disease. It’s like when an apple turns rotten at the core. The body keeps on living, but the rot is inside of them. It eats away at what it is to be human. It strips them of their dignity, of their self-respect, of any pretence that they might have once had of being a ‘good person’.

  I’m not convinced that anyone is a good person. Not really. But no matter how bad you are, vampires are worse. Vampires are hungry. Vampires are desperate. And vampires will do whatever they can to not only survive—but to propagate. That’s why it keeps spreading. That’s how these things started to get out of control.

  I don’t know who brought the illness here. I don’t know who Patient-X was. The only thing I can do is keep killing them. But for every one I kill there seems to be a dozen more. I’m swimming in a losing battle. I’m fighting in a flood of blood.

  The Coca-Cola is finished and I crumple the can. A wasp swings by, defying gravity, silent stinger poised. I should get some rest, but I’d prefer to stay here in the sun. Last night was bad. Really, really bad. Really, really… messy.

  But there’s nothing I can do about that now. I can only keep hunting them down and killing them, I guess. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve put wood through. Which makes me something like a serial killer, I guess.

  I told you, I don’t believe anyone is a good person.

  Continue reading →

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• episode 2

  Posted at 8:20 am by Michael, on January 6, 2020

  When she dances,

  She thinks of the forest,

  She has never seen a forest,

  EXCEPT FOR IN DREAMS,

  And those dreams,

  Or those times,

  When she’s dancing,

  And remembering,

  Those dreams,

  (Of the forest she’s never seen)

  Are the happiest part of her existence,

  Otherwise,

  She is caged,

  Like an animal.

  And those behind the cross-linked wire,

  Howl and bray,

  Like animals,

  As her body gyrates,

  The forest is all she sees.

  Continue reading →

  Posted in Poems, Stories | 0 Comments

• Scott’s Dream

  Posted at 7:47 am by Michael, on December 4, 2019

  Scott runs like he did when he was young.

  He springs, he bounds over a rustling green sea. Wildflowers cluster amongst the foliage; the pollen tickles his nose. Ahead: a ringlet of dark brown hair drifts through the forest like smoke—a trail for him to follow.

  He calls out, but he doesn’t know her name.

  Now: he can see her.

  She’s climbing over a boulder and pushing through a dense wall of vines. She does not look back, but he can tell she knows he is there.

  Sunlight diffuses the forest; glittering motes dance in the air. But as Scott draws closer to her, each one is snuffed out. With every step the forest grows darker.

  The darkness closes in around the edges of Scott’s vision. At first he does not pay attention. His focus narrows: he studies the girl and the dancing undulations of her hair. He watches her trip on a twisted tree root and go sprawling, face-first into the dirt.

  Around them: the forest has descended into full darkness. A delicate glowing ember drifts past, caught in a breeze that carries the hint of distant fire.

  Scott pounces. He grabs the girl by the shoulders and turns her over. And then, as he finally looks upon her face: he starts to scream.

  The girl is pale as death. Her features are contorted into disturbing, inhuman proportions. She stares up at him, dark red lips peeling back to reveal a pair of fangs.

  The sky thunders.

  Continue reading →

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• Bus to Shiva

  Posted at 7:00 am by Michael, on November 21, 2019

  Cliffs and rocks and grey dirt and dark green plants that burst out from between the rocks and cling there. The roar, the drone of the engine of the bus as it rattles, rattles, barely holding together, or–perhaps–held together by our faith.

  Believe. Believe. BELIEVE.

  I think I can. I think I can. The bus rounds a bend and for a single dizzying second there is  nothing between me and the plunging ravine except a pane of dirty, cracked glass and the reflection of the pilgrims’ faces looking through me like ghosts.

  Their faces are also my face, impassive as the mountains and the jungle trees and the rocks and the sand on the tracks that wind back and forth as the path snakes higher–wraps tighter–like Vasuki around Shiva’s neck.

  And I am certain now that faith alone is what is holding this bus together. It sounds crazy, I know, to whoever is reading this: sitting wherever you are on some lazy, comfortable day,  in some stolen, fleeting moment, eyes glancing across these words.

  But here, on this bus, joints straining and rattling as it sways and bounces above great gulf of plunging, deadly rocks; here amongst the overwhelming smell of bodies and dirt and petrol, I can believe it.

  I have to believe it.

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• Another Castle

  Posted at 7:36 pm by Michael, on October 29, 2019

  Despite their age, the bricks sparkle. Ancient minerals, trapped glass. The bricks are imperfect–they were so from the day they were cast and they have grown ever more imperfect with time, beaten down by footsteps, weathered by wind and rain, gathering dirt and grit with each year that passes, stained like old teeth, grey as old bones.

  Crumbling. Crumbling now into decay. Coated by soil and wet moss that clings and permeates, rotting from the inside. Now, the bricks are little more than husks, empty remnants of old walls.

  Mighty arches once rose here. Blood was spilt for these bricks–now buried and forgotten. The castle has been swallowed by the forest and is ignored even by the wolves. Trees rise in places that towers once stood, their roots forcing the bricks apart, cleaving ancient dungeons open to the sky.

  Decades pass. Centuries.

  And then…

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• Road to Sveta

  Posted at 8:40 am by Michael, on October 1, 2019

  Mother thought the day was over, but then came a knock at the door.

  “Simon,” she hisses. “The garlic!”

  He can barely reach the hook from which the cloves are supposed to hang, so he has to clamber up the side of the armchair to reach it. He strings up the garlic just as she opens the door.

  They come straight in—they do not require an invitation.

  There are three of them, all clergymen: two burly subordinates with white shirts tucked into black pants. Each wears a knife at his belt, a vial of holy water and a crucifix hanging from a heavy chain.

  And there is the the Bishop, his face flushed and pink, shorter than the others except for the peaked crimson cap. He wears a red robe, lined with gold thread. There are gaudy rings on each of his fingers. Mother barely notices the resplendence of his dress, all that she can focus on is the sound of his tongue as it scrapes across dry lips.

  The Bishop looks at the garlic hanging from the wall and raises thin white eyebrows.

  “We’re due a fresh batch,” Mother says. “I’ll send Simon to get some. Simon—”

  “No,” the Bishop says. “The boy stays.”

  Mother tries to stop him, but the big men grab and hold her. Her foot hits a sidetable and something falls from it and breaks. Something also breaks inside of her.

  “It’s okay,” Simon tells her. “I’ll go.”

  The Bishop guides the boy to the bedroom.

   

  Mother cannot hear anything that is happening beyond the door and somehow that is the worst thing of all. Every sound, real or imagined, morphs into something grotesque.

  And yet, Mother is also aware that if she could actually see what was happening she would surely go mad.

  But we are not so lucky—our vision fixed on the glossy white door—a few bubbles of paint, a brass doorknob that reflects the upside-down shapes of the living room, and a dark keyhole through which we pass into the room beyond…

  Darkness, then: light.

   

  “It is time for your Absolution, Simon,” says the Bishop. He licks his lips.

  “Have you sinned, boy?” he touches Simon’s shoulder. His breath is hot against Simon’s ear. He licks his lips (again) and Simon can hear it up close.

  The Bishop’s hand moves to the boy’s chest and a dark shadow rises behind him.

  The shadow dwarfs the Bishop. It looms over him. Simon thinks that the shadow is merely an extension of the Bishop himself, his darkness given form. At first the Bishop does not even notice—and when he does, he thinks that a cloud has merely covered up the sun. In a way, it has.

  But the shadow is alive. It collapses onto the Bishop and Simon starts to scream. He knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help it. Simon screams and screams as the Bishop’s eyes bulge from his skull and the shadow sinks its teeth into his neck.

  The priests are already kicking open the door. Behind them Mother is screaming and saying his name over and over: “Simon! Simon! Simon!”

  The Bishop’s men rush the vampire. One of them raises the crucifix, but the vampire takes it from him and uses it to crack open the skull of the other. There is now a smell like burning and smoke is rising from the vampire where the sunlight patches through the window.

  Simon moves. He grabs the curtains and pulls them closed. For a moment the darkness in the room is blinding and absolute.

  “Simon!” Mother is still screaming and he can get to her, but not without stepping over the body of the Bishop and the other man—a crucifix protruding from his head. He tramples over the bodies and into Mother’s arms.

  The last man has drawn his blade and he’s slashing at the vampire. The vampire punches him in the chest: once, twice, three times. Then he reaches into the mess of cracked ribs and tears free the man’s heart. For a moment the arteries stretch and cling to the body like elastic bands, but the entire circulatory system is not so easily dislodged and there is a point at which they rupture.

  Blood explodes across the room. Even Mother and Simon, in the other room, are splattered with it. It drips down from the boy’s dark fringe and she tries to wipe it away. It leaves bloody smears on his face.

  The vampire is standing in the doorway—neither of them saw him move, but he is there. He is speaking to them, he is telling them to travel south.

  “There is refuge there,” he says. “Beyond the foothills, through the forest, on the side of the mountain—there is a place called Sveta. There… you will be safe.”

  Mother is shaking. Simon is not.

  “Are there priests?” he asks. “Are there churches in Sveta?”

  The vampire shakes his head.

  “But…” Mother tries to speak but can only stammer. She can’t collect her thoughts or her breath. There is so much blood. She tries again and this time finds her voice: “Are there vampires?”

  “Oh yes,” says the shadow, and grins. “There’s vampires.”

   

  ROAD TO SVETA

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• Chatravati

  Posted at 11:31 am by Michael, on September 17, 2019

  The warm breeze carried with it the scents of the plateau below. It was an acrid smell of sweat and decay, of gunpowder and poison and of corpses that rotted in the sweltering heat beneath the thunderclouds.

  It had been said that the demons were constructing temples out of carcasses, enormous ziggurats of flesh and bone and face.

  Chatravati wiped his forehead with a stained scrap of cloth and looked out across the wasteland. He could scarcely believe it, despite having been here two weeks. The times before that were growing hazy and indistinct, a side-effect of time travel.

  Now, Chatravati fished for the card in his pocket and followed the familiar printed letters with his eyes. The Department had provided each member of Westcrest with a similar card detailing facts about the lives they had left behind.

  They had been instructed to read the cards frequently, lest they “lose synchronisation” with their future selves. Chatravati, an intelligent man, wasn’t sure what that meant. But it did provide him some small comfort to grip the card—a talisman from a future yet to occur—and to remember.

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