PKD!

It was PKD weekend in the O'Leary household, that's Philip K. Dick, author of some of the most challenging science fiction ever written, to you. Watching an Arena documentary, "Philip K Dick - A Day in the Afterlife", and the fan-produced "The Gospel According to Philip K. Dick", was my effort at reviving fond memories of this author's work. Both documentaries took a talking heads style approach to the usual events (the break-in to Dick's home in 1972, his visions of God in 1974, his 8000 page 'Exegesis') with the usual sci-fi writers (Tim Powers, Robert Anton Wilson) trotted out to give their view on his sanity. "The Gospel According to Philip K. Dick" was particularly annoying, with a dreadful animated device introducing its key sections. A little more of a focus on the work would have been better. As it was, I learnt nothing new and was only moderately entertained. Poor.
I also listened to a reading of his not so sci-fi story, "Of Withered Apples". I remembered being set ill at ease when I first read it, and hearing it had a similar effect. Set in New England (Dick lived his life in California), it was very much his attempt at a Shirley Jackson style horror story (with just a pinch of Lovecraft), and not bad an attempt at that.

Nature

He always found it strange how they took such good care of their fingernails. Given that their very recent ancestors didn't have any, there was probably some strange racial pride at work. The whalepeople were just the kind of synthetic species to indulge in a fetish like that. This particular whaleman, Kevin, lounged in the great harness set up for his kind and gently rubbed his fingertips with a small nail file.
'Can't you do that on your own time?'
'Break,' Kevin answered.
Denzel smoothed an eyebrow in an effort to keep his composure.
'Break ended twenty minutes ago. Come on, we have work here.'
Without breaking a frown on his smooth white forehead, Kevin rocked his seat back and forth to generate some momentum before sliding quietly on to the floor. It was far too graceful an accomplishment for such a graceless form, Denzel reflected.
'Wonderful! Try the Murphy load first. That's due back by six.'
'Sure,' rumbled Kevin and went into the back room to whale-iron the Murphy hotel linen.
Shaking his head, Denzel mumbled something about the genome project and what did it really ever do for us. Pays my salary, anyhow, he had to concede. He began to read his paper again.
When he stopped to think about it, it still mystified him how the whole whale-ironing craze had flared, caught and become part of daily life. At first it was simply a deprecating kind of way to give the burgeoning whalepeople population a job; they had become something of a drain on national resources, what with all that fish consumption and all. And then they did like to roll about anyway (must of reminded them of the sea or something, Denzel thought). When someone suggested they use their huge, smooth, warm, but non-perspiring, bodies to iron cloth, people laughed at first, but then gave it a shot. Initially a luxury for the very rich, there were enough whalepeople happy enough to lend their services for minimum wage to make it a service of mass appeal. Whale laundries were everywhere now.
'Sharkman exonerated of murder! What next!' Denzel read the article with something of a sinking heart. Apparently the defence had used the old nature argument; it was in the sharkman's nature to go into a feeding frenzy. He couldn't help himself. He'd bitten through the burgergirl's throat provoked by all those fish burgers on show. And after all hadn't humanity, pure humanity, made him that way?
From the ironing room Kevin's soft moan, his song, undulated in a doplar beat, louder, quieter, keeping time with his luxurious rolling.
The shop door opened. Denzel didn't bother to look up, but something about the silence worried him. Had someone come in afterall? He raised his head. The sharkwoman was right in front of him. He could see the vestigial gills, flapping, on either side of her neck, the huge, black eyes, the ill-fitting teeth stretched in a monstrous smile. Involuntarily he stepped back.
'Can I help you?'
For a moment longer, an impressive moment, she continued her unpleasant grin. You never could tell with the sharks when they were actually smiling, but Denzel felt this one was, evilly.
'Introductions,' she rasped (sharks, like the whalepeople, liked single words when they could help it). 'Ethel, my name's. You're Denzel?'
For a moment he thought that was a statement, but when her black eyes bored into him some more, he realised a question was intended.
'Yes, yes, I am. Denzel McDonald.'
'Thought so.' The corners of her mouth pushed wider still. 'The owner. Wanted to meet you.'
'Oh?'
'Message. I'm from a school, nearby.'
'You teach?'
She did her best to mean her glare.
'No. My school, my family.'
Some of them liked that archaic form of self-reference; it gave them a feeling of solidarity, of unified difference. She continued.
'We like your business. We think it's good. We think we need some.'
'Well, we serve all. Just bring your clothes down, we'll give them a full wash and roll. The best whale-'
'No,' she interrupted; 'Some of your business. We want it. Money.'
There was no point in playing dumb any longer. Denzel had heard of the shark rings and their protection rackets. This was extortion.
'You lousy-'
'What?' she laughed, or rather barked.
'I could run you and your lousy shoal into the police!'
She barked again, then pushed her toothy face close to his.
'No, you couldn't. No right.'
'I have every right.'
'No right. We're protected. We offer you protection too.'
'Scram!'
Ethel grabbed Denzel's collar and pulled his face still closer.
'I eat you, little man. We eat you. Genetic! What we do!'
Apparently she glanced down (he couldn't tell where those huge pupils were looking) and pushed a pointed nail on the newspaper. 'Nature.'
Denzel understood now that sinking feeling he had felt on reading the news story. The floodgates were open; the sharks were now circling for a feeding frenzy. No shop, no laundry would be safe. Any atrocity could be justified as shark instinct. Homo sapiens, the original ones, still guilty at what excesses they had wreaked on Nature, would accept this as the wrath of an outraged Destiny. Old humanity deserved it. If he were truthful though, Denzel knew there was something else beneath the false guilt. There was also that sneaking feeling that if we treated the sharks, the whalepeople, the pandafolk and all the other strange twists and sports of the genome as full humans in court, we would have to treat them as people, real people in every other way. And that was just too high a price to pay.
Ethel wasn't going to leave without his money and his commitment to keep paying. He stared into her monstrous black eyes. She would kill him if she had to. One wider smile, one quick snap and he would have a throat like that burger girl. She might do it now. He could see it in those eyes.
He could see something else in those eyes too. Something big. Something reflected.
With one lazy slap of his hand, Kevin knocked the shark halfway across the store. Nonchalantly he ambled around the counter. Ethel was shaking her head, moving her jaw up and down in a worried sawing motion. Kevin strode to her side and flipped her into the air. She smashed against the wall and slid down to the floor again.
'Stop!' Denzel cried. She couldn't take much more of that, surely. 'Stop, Kevin.'
Kevin did as Denzel asked and Ethel, apparently not as hurt as Denzel feared, pulled herself to her feet and ran for the door, still jawing at the air. She didn't even look back as she raced away from the laundry. She wouldn't be back.
Denzel looked at the huge, impassive figure of his employee, standing in the center of the shop. The whaleman lifted a hand and stared at his nails; perhaps one had been broken. The vision was too much for Denzel. He ran from behind the counter and grasped that hand. He shook it over and over.
'Thank you, Kevin. Thank you.' And for minimum wage and all the scorn Denzel usually heaped on the big man too!
The employee shrugged his massive shoulders and started to walk to the back room.
'I just don't get it,' thought Denzel. 'After all the shit I put this guy through!'
'Why did you do it, Kevin?' he couldn't help asking.
The whaleman kept walking.
'Nature,' he rumbled.
There might have been a smile in all that blubber, but Denzel couldn't see.

Running

The fat politican rolled down the street. He licked his bulbous lips with the satisfaction he felt with the world and his place in it. Ahead of him a thin man in a long grey coat walked, slowly and melancholily. The sight made him even happier with himself.
He could do no wrong. In television appearance after television appearance he had committed the ultimate political sin; he had let his emotions show. But the audience loved him for it. His smug scorn for his opponents was apparently lapped up deliciously by the people. They adored his blunt contempt, his selfish arrogance. He need not hide anything any more. Having initially trailed in the polls, now he led. The newspapers that morning said so. People loved him.
He breathed in the cool spring air and looked, with an apprehension uncommon for him, in quiet wonder at the grey sky. Life was good. He could walk and walk and everything would be pleasing. The world was good. It was his. And this was his city, he felt like shouting. Indeed, outside of the sad character ahead of him, the road seemed empty. Basking warmly in his pleasant reverie, he was alone.
Or was he? Not far behind him, a soft, but sprightly fall of feet suddenly began. A hop. A skip. For some reason the happy staccato bothered him. So soft, but excited. As if the person behind had an anxious aim, but was trying to evade notice. It annoyed the politician, intruding on his happiness because it seemed to be another's happiness. This was his day, for him alone! Who was this person who shared this day?
Turning his head he stole a quick glance behind. Sure enough, a small jumpy character was close behind, a grubby, scruffy man in a tracksuit. He didn't like the look of him. Well, no reason to have him there. Let him have the street. The fat man turned at the next corner, on to a less populated street, and walked on at a faster pace.
The tracksuited man followed.
The politican felt a small stab of worry. What did he want? Was he following him? The sound of the man behind was even unhealthy. It was an irregular tread, a kind of anxious skipping. Not like a normal person, certainly unlike the politician's own strong stride.
He sped up still more and again, noting the upcoming intersection, readied himself to turn again. He did so, quickly. The man behind accelerated and turned the corner too. He is following, thought the heavy walker. It's me he wants. Damn, why do I refuse a police escort. I am an important man. I attract attention, undesirable attention. Naturally stalkers will target me. He turned another corner. And another.
It was hard to go any faster. His bulky frame was not used to so much walking, and he certainly didn't want to give his pursuer (yes, I am being pursued, he thought with a shadow of fear) the satisfaction of seeing him run. He had to evade him in some other way. Evade the man or confront him. He decided to stop. If the man still came on, he would face him.
In front of a glass pane, he stopped and stared into the shop, apparently looking at the merchandise. Was he coming? Could he hear any footsteps? He tried to catch sight of the pursuer in the reflection of the window, but he couldn't see enough of the street. He hazarded a glance. No, no sign of the tracksuited man. Muscles that had bunched up, now relaxed. Air escaped through his teeth, and he began to absorb his surroundings. He had been standing in front of a sex shop. Hastily, he tugged at his trousers and walked on.
In his haste to get away he had wandered into a poorer part of the city. Small, grimy houses faced poster covered hoardings. There should have been new construction behind those boards, but somehow after demolition, no one had gotten around to rebuilding. There were some shops as well, ones like the one he had stood outside, but few of them seemed to be open, at least, not yet. He shouldn't be seen here, he reflected anxiously, but then after a moment's reflection he relaxed. People love me. People love me no matter what I do.
The irregular hop and skip of footsteps started once more.
Damn him!
Self-respect lost in his panic, he began to run. And run. He panted, but refused to stop. He felt his stomach protest with pain, but he wouldn't halt. His lungs too burned. Behind him the hop and skip had morphed into a corresponding patter, a frightening speedy chase. Who was this man? What did he want? Ahead of him he seemed to see another fleeing figure, a thinner mirror image of himself. Pursuit was everywhere. The chase was everything. What is happening to me?
In his exhaustion and pain, he noticed an upcoming corner almost unconsciously. Without a thought, he turned it and stopped. He had to stop. Through the stinging of his eyes, he saw a desolate blind alley. He shouldn't be here, he thought. This isn't a safe place. But he couldn't run any more. He had to rest.
His eyes flew open as the knife pierced his stomach.
'Why?' the voice hissed. 'Why are you following me? Who are you?'
The thin man in the long grey coat stared hysterically into his face.
'Your partner has been following me for weeks. Now you. I can't stand it! Can't stand it!'
The fat man tried to speak, but no words entered his head, only a growing awareness of pain.
'Why do you hate me?' the man screamed.
The politician sank down to the pavement. He grimaced as the thin man yanked the knife out.
'I'll get your tracksuited friend too! I swear!' Tears flowed from the man's eyes. 'Why couldn't you just leave me alone!'
Grey coat flying behind him, the man, sobbing, ran off.
The fat man on the pavement gripped his belly trying to stop the flow of blood. It was no use. It flew in bright streams through his fingers and across the pavement. He watched the red lines run away from him. They sparkled like threads of rubies in the bright spring light. Glittering streams. Rivers. On and on, they ran and ran, his life, running away.

Jackanory Time Again

Might as well post a story/anecdote for this week:

A Snowy Night

There was snow on the road. That would have to be his excuse. Lying on his side, he felt more annoyance at the blood flowing into his eyes than he did at what had just happened. It was an accident, nothing to do with him. Although he couldn't turn his head, he knew the young child's (dead?) body lay some way back. Damn this blood! Damn the snow! Damn!
All he could do was wait. Between the pain, the seatbelt and the tightly packed metal, he was rigidly contained and couldn't move. Waiting was the only answer. A car would surely come soon, would round that bend and light up the scene in all its gory glory. They would phone for help and he would be cut out, carried away, rescued. Maybe the child might be saved too. Just wait. As it happened the way the car had fallen by the roadside, his eyes were pointed out over the edge, directly at the road below. He might see any approaching cars. He might do, if that blood stopped washing into his eyes, stinging. He closed his lids to keep the liquid out.
The silence rushed in. Almost silence. A whisper of wind spoke through the firs. Something dripped somewhere. Slowly. Come on, he thought, come on, someone! Anyone! As if in answer he seemed to hear a gentle purr. Risking the sting, he opened his eyes. Yes, there were headlamps on the road far below. They were headed up the mountain and would round that bend within minutes. He could hear that purr grow louder.
He could now hear something else though. A rustling sound came from the road behind him. The child? He couldn't turn his head, but surely it was the child. It sounded like a body marshalling its poor powers, laboriously trying to pull itself together and up. A slap of flesh on tarmac, a dragging scratch of cloth, it could only be the child waking up, getting up. There was a silence, then what sounded like, yes, a footstep! The child was walking! Well, limping. He could hear a long drag follow the thud of shoe. In spite of his own discomfort, he almost felt relieved. Curious, how there was no noise of breathing. That long drag of foot could only mean pain, yet there was no sharp intake of breath, no choking or gasping. And the noise of the child was getting louder, nearer. He suddenly revised his relief. He didn't like that sound at all.
Below the car had disappeared, but the strong music of its engine was now becoming clearer. Hurry, he willed the vehicle. The halting footsteps were getting nearer. He didn't want to see that creature. He didn't want to look in its bloody face. He closed his eyes to keep out the blood, but with his mouth he prayed in his own harsh way for the new car. Hurry! Ignore the footsteps!
A foot came down hard on the tarmac behind him. He cursed the chain of cause and effect that faced him away. What was that person doing? Sweat, or blood, trickled under his shirt. Why had they stopped? What would they do? Why had all gone silent?
Suddenly in the many surfaces of snow, glass and metal the light of the new car erupted. The car was rounding the corner. Finally! Under the roar he heard the child move, away from him, into the middle of the road. Into the path of the oncoming car. For all that the road was covered in ice, he heard the tyres sliding to avoid the figure. He heard the spin of the driver's steering wheel, the panic. He was an audience to an event. There was a crash of the new car against his own, a shearing meeting of metals and a push. It all seemed of a whole, a complete act, especially the steady downward motion that began to accelerate. He tried to press the blood from his eyes as the road below came nearer and nearer.

Spoilt

'What can I do for you, Mrs Quinn?'
The man at the meat counter smacked his hands together with anticipatory professionalism. Grace looked at the display, not him, thinking how much he needed some meat himself. A thin man was Gary, but he suited the clothes at any rate. They must make them wear that straw hat and striped red apron, she thought. The traditional butcher's uniform.
'A pound and a half of round mince. That'll do.'
'Fair enough.'
He set to weighing the meat, adding little tidbits to get the exact weight. Around them both a soft, warm piggy smell curled lazily. The ovens shhhed as their fans swirled their heat.
'Actually, give me some pork chops too, around four. They'll do for tomorrow.'
Grace looked away from the glass fronted ovens as he continued to put together the order. It was a quiet morning in the supermarket, with only a few trollies moving up and down the aisles of the small store. A few young mothers with prams or toddlers or both.
'Yeeeeeeeahhhh!'
A six year old ran by, his hand out to knock two packets of toilet rolls from an end of aisle stack. She stared for a moment at the spilled packages, wondering should she pick them up. No one else would. Certainly there was no sign of the youngster's mother. Spoilt little brat. There was no discipline these days for these young women. They let their kids run riot and they would pay for it too, eventually.
'There you go. Fresh from the freezer this morning.' The hollow-eyed butcher was holding out the meat to her.
'Thanks, Gary. That's great.'
She took a look around to see where the child had run to.
'They're let run wild these days.'
'The kids? Yeah, make a mess of the place.'
Gary knew what she meant. Our generation, she thought with nostalgia. She picked up the toilet rolls and placed them as best she could on the pile.
'Still they have to be let grow,' he added.
She stared at him.
'I suppose. Still you feel we did it better in our day sometimes. See you now.'
'Bye now.'
She certainly felt she had gotten it right with her Martin. He had done okay, out there in Sydney. She had brought him up well. Some day she would get over her fear of flying and go out there to visit him. So far off though.
She walked along the shelves in search of gravy granules. Ahead, the empty aisle stretched, past an intersection, and on to more goods, no people. Such a quiet morning. So empty. Well, not quite. There was that child again. She recognised the copper coloured head of the small boy down in the next aisle, the confectionery aisle. He stood, not much taller than two shelves, hardly visible except for that hair, staring intently at the chocolate. I'll bet his mother stuffs him with those things, she thought. It's easy to spoil a child. Bad for them though, letting them get used to getting without any effort. They think the world is their's.
Suddenly the boy reached out, grabbed a chocolate bar and ran off, screaming with victory.
'Daniel!'
A tall dark-haired woman came into sight, shouting after the tike.
'Daniel, put that back!' But he was gone.
Shout all you want, Grace reflected, that's not enough. He needs to learn that it's wrong. You need to tell him.
The woman looked down at Grace with a rueful shake of the head.
'You just can't control them at that age,' she complained.
'No,' said Grace. She gritted her teeth and turned away. You won't get any sympathy from me. She turned to the pickles. She didn't want any. Gravy granules.
The cold flourescent lighting of the ceiling played on unnoticed as the morning sunshine streamed through the windows beyond the cash registers. There wasn't even any music from the loudspeakers that day. Just the easy sound of footsteps, the squeak of prams and trollies, the soft clink of a jar inspected and rejected and put back in its place on the shelf.
'Daniel!'
The high voice of the tall woman rang out suddenly. Grace looked up from the frozen foods at the sound. The woman was behind her.
'You haven't seen my son, have you?'
'The little red-haired boy?'
'Yes.'
'No.' Can't you even keep an eye on him, even if you can't keep him under control?
'I can't find him anywhere.'
'Did you try down by the chocolates?' Grace asked pointedly.
'Yes,' the woman answered, not picking up on Grace's tone. 'Thanks anyhow.'
The woman walked swiftly on, pushing her trolley towards the cash registers.
No control, no discipline. Just fattening up a spoilt little brat to take, take, take with nothing to gve to the world when he's grown. She'll find him now drinking out of the lemonade bottles, or scattering around potato snacks on the floor.
But the woman didn't find him doing either. The tall woman didn't find her son at all.

The face of the red-haired child stared out at Grace from the side of the milk carton. To think, all that time missing. Poor child. Poor woman. It must be hard to lose an infant like that, even more so not to know what happened to him. There had been a lot of publicity at the time, a lot of questions and a lot of searching. Soon the searching gave way to the questioning though, sterner questions, questions asking what kind of a mother lets her son disappear in a supermarket like that. A supermarket! How could she let him out of her sight. Grace did not agree. A mother shouldn't be held accountable like that. She shouldn't have to know where her child is every second of the day. And especially in a supermarket. How could you lose a child in a supermarket, for goodness sake.
She put the milk down. She didn't need any.
'What can I do for you, Mrs Quinn?'
Gary stared at her hollowly from under the brim of his straw hat.
'Oh, I'm not sure yet.'
The ovens puffed quietly in the background, exuding a warm, meaty smell. She couldn't place the aroma.
'What is that you have cooking today?'
'In the ovens? That's today's special, Mrs Quinn. Venison. Fresh from the freezer this morning.'
'It doesn't look like venison.'
The slender, small limb on the rotisserie seemed too evenly proportioned for an animal leg.
'Just the cut of it. I have more of it uncooked if you want a proper joint.'
He waved behind him to the meat counter where a large round of flesh lay waiting to be cut.
'It does look good. I haven't had venison in ages. I don't even remember how it tastes.'
'It's a good meat, Mrs Quinn. They fatten them deer up well these days too. Had this in the freezer as a special like.'
She looked hungrily at the red haunch on the counter. She could see the bone in the middle of the dark red meat, a layer of fat all around. It did look good.
'Okay. Give me a joint. Though the ribs look good too. No, the joint will do.' She looked in her purse to check she had enough. 'We should treat ourselves every now and again, shouldn't we, Gary?'
'Certainly should, certainly should.'
He went back and began to hack at the thick piece of flesh.
It's amazing how the freezer keeps it so well, she thought. So fresh. You have to wonder though.
'There you go.'
'Thanks, Gary,' said Grace taking the package. She tucked it into her basket and was about to go away when she looked at Gary again. 'Gary, just while you say it, the freezer. You say it's fresh from the freezer. Does it really keep it well. The freezer, I mean.'
Gary smiled from ear to ear.
'Gracious, Mrs Quinn. The freezer would keep anything fresh from now till Doomsday. I put everything in there I want to keep.'
'So it is fresh,' she persisted.
'Mrs Quinn, it's as fresh as when it's killed. I just thaw it out when I need it.'
'But-'
'Mrs Quinn,' he said levelly,'I'd never let it spoil.'
He smiled again, treating her to a wide mouthful of tombstone teeth. It made her feel queasy for some reason, but she smiled back and walked away. There was a man who enjoyed his job.