1
A World in Slow Motion on Sat Jan 21, 2012 9:53 pm
Tybs
Just getting started
If you're a member of Gaiaphage, some of you may have seen this- it's a short story based on Gone by Michael Grant! :D
“It’s official.” screamed the news headlines, “The barrier surrounding the small but infamous town of Perdido Beach, California has disappeared, leaving behind only destroyed buildings and a handful of kids.”
Somewhere, in a nearby motel, a man jerked his head up in a sudden motion, his cheeks and eyes red from yet another fit of crying. His eyes met the screen which showed current rescue efforts, interviews with both relieved and distraught parents, uniformed officials who claimed to know all about the situation and, horrifically, the kids themselves. Starved, scarred and half mad. The town behind them lay in ruins, the steeple of the now crumbling church just visible over the last few standing houses.
He watched as a reporter stood there in the rubble, dressed for the cameras, a perfected smile on her face at what some thought to be a happy moment. The happiest moment of their lives.
But for some, this would be the end of life as they knew it.
He continued to watch anxiously as they interviewed an emaciated boy, whom the news captions named as ‘Sam Temple’- he spoke wearily, as if exhausted and holding back tears. A brave facade, concealing a year’s worth of horrors and torture.
“I...I...” it seemed the words wouldn’t escape his mouth, “I...couldn’t save them all.”
And with that he turned his bruised body and limped away.
The man was almost on the edge of his seat, his rough hands clasped together as if in prayer. His dulled sapphire eyes began to twinkle once more as he listened and watched intently for what he wanted to see. His heart was beating strongly against his rib cage, his yellowed teeth clamped down on his chapped bottom lip.
“Please...please...show him...please...” he muttered under his breath.
“And we’ll be right back, after these messages.” the reporter announced with a grin, the picture cutting to a bright advert for McDonalds, the loud music pounding in the man’s ears. Frustrated with the TV and anxious and fearful about the day ahead, he stood up and rummaged through the pile of clothes to find his jacket.
The door to the motel room bathroom creaked and a woman slowly walked out, running her fingers through her chestnut, damp hair. Today, she had made the effort to put on some make up; made the effort to wash her hair.
“We can’t sink into depression”, she had said to him the night before, “He wouldn’t want us to.”
And at that he had snapped, his bottled up emotions finally breaking free from their prison.
“For God’s sake!” he had screamed at the top of his voice, whilst she looked at him through her almost obsidian eyes with shock, “Stop talking like he’s dead! He’s not dead!”
The woman, still playing with her soft hair, went quite still at the sight of her husband searching through the drawer and pulling out his jacket. He met her eyes and smiled. An expression of confusion and hurt passed over her face.
“Why are you smiling?” she said, “How can you be smiling at a time like this? I said we wouldn’t become depressed, not that we’d forget all about him!”
The man opened his mouth to speak but she continued, grabbing her worn hairbrush and roughly pulling it through her locks. A tear rolled gracefully down her newly made up cheek.
“He is still our son and I won’t give up on him!”
“You don’t understand!” he spoke slightly louder than her and, as those words passed from his lips, a deathly silence fell between them. The woman stopped brushing her hair and placed the hairbrush down with a clatter. She folded her arms across her chest and gave her husband a questioning look, shoulders uncontrollably shaking from crying.
“Then help me to understand.” she lowered her tone.
A silence.
“It’s down.” he murmured, “The barrier has come down.”
“He’s alive?” a radiant smile broke out on her face, unimaginable hope leapt into her heart.
The man could only smile feebly back.
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The buzz of chatter from news reporters, parents, children and aid crews was deafening. The man pulled their battered truck onto a patch of grass and stopped the engine. He felt a firm grip on his arm and saw his wife’s hand, knuckles white to match her paled face. She stared intently out of the windscreen, barely blinking. The question neither of them wanted to think played through his thoughts like a broken record- is he alive? Desperately trying to erase it from his mind, he followed his wife’s gaze and froze.
Ruins. Corpses. It looked even worse in real life, rather than on a screen.
The woman pursed her lips together, her eyes threatening to well up. The man, without looking away from the nightmare, grasped her hand, his fingers aching from holding the steering wheel too tight.
“Come on.” he said quietly, “Let’s go and find him.”
She nodded and slowly, they pushed the cars doors open, a cool breeze skimming their faces as they exited. The man straightened his back and walked round the car to join his wife, leaves crunching under his discoloured tan shoes.
It was like looking at an illustration from a horror novel- a ring of charred and ashen streets; blood drops stained walls and floors; ghostly crosses, reminders of the past year within the children’s cage. But yet around it, bright emerald grass, the azure sky and white stone buildings stood tall and proud, as if nothing had happened. The sea was slightly rough, lapping the sandy coast every few seconds, each wave reaching out towards what was once Perdido Beach. Footprints lined the shore, memories of the days gone past. A small silhouette that resembled a newly dead child was visible amongst the debris.
A few heads turned to look at them- the man recognised a few faces from the news. Sam Temple and his mother. A boy called Howard who they had interviewed. Police lights were flashing wildly, officers questioning the children about what Howard, in his interview, had called ‘the FAYZ’. Sam frowned a little as he met the man’s eye, slight recognition in his eyes.
Together, the man and the woman shuffled through the chaos.
As they walked, he stopped almost every aid worker, heart beating quickly.
“Have you seen my son?”
“Have you seen my son?”
“Have you seen my son?”
The time it took them to walk through the crowd felt like a lifetime but eventually, they broke free and were standing amongst the ruins of the town that was once their home. The man spotted just beyond the collapsed steeple the roof of their house, now burnt with a caved in roof. The plaza looked almost identical to how it had been the day they left; same shops, same cars, same houses. Only now it had graves of the many deceased, windows smashed with sharp glass fragments strewn on the ground. The woman braced herself and then began to journey forward into Perdido Beach Plaza, her husband not far behind.
They paused in front of the markers of the dead.
“He’s not there.” the man whispered into his trembling wife’s ear, rubbing her shoulder to comfort her “Of course he’s not there. Because he’s alive. They’ve probably just taken him to give him some food or...”
“Excuse me?” the voice sounded weak and exhausted.
The couple turned around to see Sam Temple looking at them. He seemed to be balancing his weight on one foot, as if his leg had been injured; a woollen blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. He had a large cut across his forehead and his eyes had dark rings around them. He was shivering, despite the fact it was not a cold morning.
“You look just like him.” Sam said, addressing the man.
“You know my son?” the tempo of the man’s voice quickened, “Where is he? Are we allowed to see him yet? Is he hurt?”
Sam remained silent, his lips trembling both from shivering and from the sentence that perched on them.
“Where is our son?” the woman asked again.
“Umm...” what was once a confident, young surfer stood broken and haunted in front of the two people whose lives he was about to ruin.
“I’m sorry.” that was nearly all he could manage, “He’s dead.”
The woman clasped one hand over her mouth but she couldn’t prevent a hysterical sob from escaping through her fingers. The man froze in shock- all he could bring himself to do was hold the other hand of his wife and squeeze it tightly. There was a pause between the three of them- the rest of the world continued in slow motion.
“I’m so sorry.” Sam repeated, weeping also, guilt shining in his eyes, “but Hunter’s dead.”
Mr Lefkowitz fell to his knees.
He buried his face in his hands and cried.
Hope you liked it!
“It’s official.” screamed the news headlines, “The barrier surrounding the small but infamous town of Perdido Beach, California has disappeared, leaving behind only destroyed buildings and a handful of kids.”
Somewhere, in a nearby motel, a man jerked his head up in a sudden motion, his cheeks and eyes red from yet another fit of crying. His eyes met the screen which showed current rescue efforts, interviews with both relieved and distraught parents, uniformed officials who claimed to know all about the situation and, horrifically, the kids themselves. Starved, scarred and half mad. The town behind them lay in ruins, the steeple of the now crumbling church just visible over the last few standing houses.
He watched as a reporter stood there in the rubble, dressed for the cameras, a perfected smile on her face at what some thought to be a happy moment. The happiest moment of their lives.
But for some, this would be the end of life as they knew it.
He continued to watch anxiously as they interviewed an emaciated boy, whom the news captions named as ‘Sam Temple’- he spoke wearily, as if exhausted and holding back tears. A brave facade, concealing a year’s worth of horrors and torture.
“I...I...” it seemed the words wouldn’t escape his mouth, “I...couldn’t save them all.”
And with that he turned his bruised body and limped away.
The man was almost on the edge of his seat, his rough hands clasped together as if in prayer. His dulled sapphire eyes began to twinkle once more as he listened and watched intently for what he wanted to see. His heart was beating strongly against his rib cage, his yellowed teeth clamped down on his chapped bottom lip.
“Please...please...show him...please...” he muttered under his breath.
“And we’ll be right back, after these messages.” the reporter announced with a grin, the picture cutting to a bright advert for McDonalds, the loud music pounding in the man’s ears. Frustrated with the TV and anxious and fearful about the day ahead, he stood up and rummaged through the pile of clothes to find his jacket.
The door to the motel room bathroom creaked and a woman slowly walked out, running her fingers through her chestnut, damp hair. Today, she had made the effort to put on some make up; made the effort to wash her hair.
“We can’t sink into depression”, she had said to him the night before, “He wouldn’t want us to.”
And at that he had snapped, his bottled up emotions finally breaking free from their prison.
“For God’s sake!” he had screamed at the top of his voice, whilst she looked at him through her almost obsidian eyes with shock, “Stop talking like he’s dead! He’s not dead!”
The woman, still playing with her soft hair, went quite still at the sight of her husband searching through the drawer and pulling out his jacket. He met her eyes and smiled. An expression of confusion and hurt passed over her face.
“Why are you smiling?” she said, “How can you be smiling at a time like this? I said we wouldn’t become depressed, not that we’d forget all about him!”
The man opened his mouth to speak but she continued, grabbing her worn hairbrush and roughly pulling it through her locks. A tear rolled gracefully down her newly made up cheek.
“He is still our son and I won’t give up on him!”
“You don’t understand!” he spoke slightly louder than her and, as those words passed from his lips, a deathly silence fell between them. The woman stopped brushing her hair and placed the hairbrush down with a clatter. She folded her arms across her chest and gave her husband a questioning look, shoulders uncontrollably shaking from crying.
“Then help me to understand.” she lowered her tone.
A silence.
“It’s down.” he murmured, “The barrier has come down.”
“He’s alive?” a radiant smile broke out on her face, unimaginable hope leapt into her heart.
The man could only smile feebly back.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The buzz of chatter from news reporters, parents, children and aid crews was deafening. The man pulled their battered truck onto a patch of grass and stopped the engine. He felt a firm grip on his arm and saw his wife’s hand, knuckles white to match her paled face. She stared intently out of the windscreen, barely blinking. The question neither of them wanted to think played through his thoughts like a broken record- is he alive? Desperately trying to erase it from his mind, he followed his wife’s gaze and froze.
Ruins. Corpses. It looked even worse in real life, rather than on a screen.
The woman pursed her lips together, her eyes threatening to well up. The man, without looking away from the nightmare, grasped her hand, his fingers aching from holding the steering wheel too tight.
“Come on.” he said quietly, “Let’s go and find him.”
She nodded and slowly, they pushed the cars doors open, a cool breeze skimming their faces as they exited. The man straightened his back and walked round the car to join his wife, leaves crunching under his discoloured tan shoes.
It was like looking at an illustration from a horror novel- a ring of charred and ashen streets; blood drops stained walls and floors; ghostly crosses, reminders of the past year within the children’s cage. But yet around it, bright emerald grass, the azure sky and white stone buildings stood tall and proud, as if nothing had happened. The sea was slightly rough, lapping the sandy coast every few seconds, each wave reaching out towards what was once Perdido Beach. Footprints lined the shore, memories of the days gone past. A small silhouette that resembled a newly dead child was visible amongst the debris.
A few heads turned to look at them- the man recognised a few faces from the news. Sam Temple and his mother. A boy called Howard who they had interviewed. Police lights were flashing wildly, officers questioning the children about what Howard, in his interview, had called ‘the FAYZ’. Sam frowned a little as he met the man’s eye, slight recognition in his eyes.
Together, the man and the woman shuffled through the chaos.
As they walked, he stopped almost every aid worker, heart beating quickly.
“Have you seen my son?”
“Have you seen my son?”
“Have you seen my son?”
The time it took them to walk through the crowd felt like a lifetime but eventually, they broke free and were standing amongst the ruins of the town that was once their home. The man spotted just beyond the collapsed steeple the roof of their house, now burnt with a caved in roof. The plaza looked almost identical to how it had been the day they left; same shops, same cars, same houses. Only now it had graves of the many deceased, windows smashed with sharp glass fragments strewn on the ground. The woman braced herself and then began to journey forward into Perdido Beach Plaza, her husband not far behind.
They paused in front of the markers of the dead.
“He’s not there.” the man whispered into his trembling wife’s ear, rubbing her shoulder to comfort her “Of course he’s not there. Because he’s alive. They’ve probably just taken him to give him some food or...”
“Excuse me?” the voice sounded weak and exhausted.
The couple turned around to see Sam Temple looking at them. He seemed to be balancing his weight on one foot, as if his leg had been injured; a woollen blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. He had a large cut across his forehead and his eyes had dark rings around them. He was shivering, despite the fact it was not a cold morning.
“You look just like him.” Sam said, addressing the man.
“You know my son?” the tempo of the man’s voice quickened, “Where is he? Are we allowed to see him yet? Is he hurt?”
Sam remained silent, his lips trembling both from shivering and from the sentence that perched on them.
“Where is our son?” the woman asked again.
“Umm...” what was once a confident, young surfer stood broken and haunted in front of the two people whose lives he was about to ruin.
“I’m sorry.” that was nearly all he could manage, “He’s dead.”
The woman clasped one hand over her mouth but she couldn’t prevent a hysterical sob from escaping through her fingers. The man froze in shock- all he could bring himself to do was hold the other hand of his wife and squeeze it tightly. There was a pause between the three of them- the rest of the world continued in slow motion.
“I’m so sorry.” Sam repeated, weeping also, guilt shining in his eyes, “but Hunter’s dead.”
Mr Lefkowitz fell to his knees.
He buried his face in his hands and cried.
Hope you liked it!
