A cry, a scream, dealing with the turmoil of what The Noise means. Am I Alone, a short story of mine on Hypnopomp.
I was twenty-two when I first acknowledged you. When I first understood the noise is a part of everything I did and didn’t hope to experience, dream, succeed and fail at. It was a great awakening realising I had always been accompanied by a hateful friend, joined for all my life. I lay there in my sweat-soaked bedclothes thinking, turning, and finally seething at the injustice of a till then unnoticed but now accepted always aural scream. At least that’s how I’ve come to remember it. How I’ve reconstructed that night trying to figure out why.
I lay there thinking some electronics – whining through the night like a kitten, a cub destined to be a hunter of large prey now away from her mother – was keeping me from sleep. I clamoured from my bed, unplugged computers, took batteries from what I could, and eventually unscrewed a light bulb. Yet your howl persisted.
Am I Alone on Hypnopomp
In that twilight state between wakefulness and sleep Maeve’s mind is dealing with a promotion back into a world she may never have wanted, Clear the Dawn on Cold Coffee Stand, a short story by me.
With work starting at dawn, Maeve turned and pulled the duvet close. The thoughts she saw were disjointed and she knew sleep would come soon. The warmth wrapped around her.
The cool air from the window soothed Maeve’s leg. A half in, half out body piled bedclothes into a mound that gathered between her thighs. She could end up working in the office at the hotel. That’s what they wanted. That’s what the afternoon’s meeting was about. The general manager with his body hugging, tailored blue suit and brown shoes everything she hated about corporate work.
Clear the Dawn
My first short story to be published, The Noise When I Stop is available on The Honest Ulsterman.
Waiting for the bus is part of everyday. Stand, and wait. Walking would be better but motivation left when my interloping mind fell quiet. Calmed with time and medication and now I’ve settled into days filled with simple occupation for recovery, like taking the bus to visit my mother. She seems at ease with my diagnosis. Calmly telling me to do the basics, “Walk to my house, for lunch. Focus on getting better.” Walking there would be thirty minutes of exercise. It might help me feel like a full person, but I’m too drained.
From my spot at the bus stop I see a double decker passing but it’s not the one I need. Mine should have arrived by now so more and more people are joining in the wait. Everyone will want a seat. Young people will be expected to stand, and make way for the elderly and sick but I don’t look sick so how would they know. People always judge.