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realexplodingcat) wrote2005-01-27 11:52 pm
realexplodingcat) wrote2005-01-27 11:52 pm
Gates of the Necropolis (Busdriver #4)
Little Steven watches his friends leave the schoolbus to go home. Through the dirty, thick windows he observes their movement, like a lonely fish looking beyond the walls of its aquarium, and longs to be with them. He is alone again with Bob—Bob the Busdriver.
Everyday after school Steven finds himself left alone on the bus for a few short minutes before arriving at his home. Steven's house is an old construction, far removed from the modern housing developments in the area. As a result he is the sole occupant of his bus-stop. He is also the last stop on the bus's afternoon route.
"We're alone again, Steve," Bob says.
Steven can see his eyes, only his eyes, in the large rearview mirror. He is much too frightened to wonder about the rest of the man's face. Every afternoon, even on the first day of school, Bob raises up his eyes to meet the gaze of Steven's in the rearview mirror, saying, "We're alone again."
On most days Bob would remain silent the rest of the ride and drop Steven off like a normal busdriver. On most days.
Steven sits quietly, mid-way to the rear of the bus. Staring straight forward, he concentrates on nothing and everything at the same time. His fore-sight sees the back of Bob's head, the top of Bob's head in the mirror, the road in front, and beyond. His peripheral vision picks up the rapidly passing scenery outside the windows. He sees all of this, yet his attention is focused inside himself in order to distance his perception of the reality he's in. Bob's reality. Bob's bus.
Steven's heart nearly stops when the bus continues past his home without stopping. He follows his house with his eyes as it passes, as if he stands still and it is the house hurtling through the air at 60 mph.
"Um," Steven nearly chokes on his own saliva. His voice quivers as if it were solidified gelatin melting on his tongue. "You passed my stop."
"Yes. Yes, I did," Bob replies, his eyes remaining fixed on the road. "I want to show you something."
Steven remains silent. Mother never warned him about a situation like this. There's no where to run to if Bob offers him a piece of candy.
"We never talk, Steve." Bob's eyes gazed at the boy in the mirror. "I think it's about time we do. I've been thinking about a lot of things during my life on this planet and there comes a time when I'd like to share my thoughts with an open mind."
Steven's face pales. He returns Bob's gaze in the mirror with glazed eyes.
"I get lonely sometimes, Steve. I have nobody. Therefore I have nobody to talk to. All I want, Steve, is to be able to tell someone my secrets. Someone to listen to me. Someone to . . . well, you get my drift."
Steven is silent.
"Look here, Steve. This is what I want to show you. Look out the windows on your right."
Outside the bus a cemetery passes, seemingly spinning in a great circle before his fixed eyes, like a great celestial mass turning on its axis. Steven is familiar with this graveyard. The large plot of land is a near perfect circle around which a road lies. The bus stays on this road, circling the necropolis.
"There's a fence surrounding the cemetery, Steve," Bob says, expressing the obvious. "Let me ask you something. Why are there fences around cemeteries?"
Steven remains quiet, watching the passing burial ground on his right. The vast expanse of well-kept green grass and orderly stone monuments is beautiful at first glance. However, Steven thinks about the place's purpose and its inhabitants causing him to sicken at his original reaction. A most splendid city, the necropolis, but it's dead.
"Why are there fences around cemeteries?" Bob asks more sternly. "Who the hell would want to get in? There's nothing in there but a bunch of dried up people! "
Silence from Steven.
"So why are there fences?" Bob asks again. "I'll tell you why. Do you think it's fun in there? Let me tell you, it's boring. It's so dull you want to kill yourself, but, damn it all, you can't cause you're already dead. Sure, some of them are content to lie around, but others must have a need to get out. There must be others!"
Steven's eyes fail to blink at Bob's gaze in the rearview mirror. No longer looking at the road, only staring at Steven, Bob somehow continues to drive the bus.
"Now, Steve, no upstanding citizen would put up with dead people walking around would they? No, of course not."
Steven sits quietly.
"But sometimes one of us finds a means to escape. Sometimes there are vehicles that can transport you from one world to the next. Death is one of them. But are there vehicles traveling in the opposite direction as death? Can anyone actually pass freely between these worlds? You better believe it, baby!"
The bus suddenly lurches to the right and smashes through the cemetery fence, bursting it apart with ease. Accelerating toward the deep center of the necropolis, the bus drives over gravestones.
"I WANT TO SHOW SOMETHING, STEVE, " Bob yells over the roar of the engine. "I WANT YOU TO VISIT ME AT HOME! "
Steven's scream is lost in the noise.
Everyday after school Steven finds himself left alone on the bus for a few short minutes before arriving at his home. Steven's house is an old construction, far removed from the modern housing developments in the area. As a result he is the sole occupant of his bus-stop. He is also the last stop on the bus's afternoon route.
"We're alone again, Steve," Bob says.
Steven can see his eyes, only his eyes, in the large rearview mirror. He is much too frightened to wonder about the rest of the man's face. Every afternoon, even on the first day of school, Bob raises up his eyes to meet the gaze of Steven's in the rearview mirror, saying, "We're alone again."
On most days Bob would remain silent the rest of the ride and drop Steven off like a normal busdriver. On most days.
Steven sits quietly, mid-way to the rear of the bus. Staring straight forward, he concentrates on nothing and everything at the same time. His fore-sight sees the back of Bob's head, the top of Bob's head in the mirror, the road in front, and beyond. His peripheral vision picks up the rapidly passing scenery outside the windows. He sees all of this, yet his attention is focused inside himself in order to distance his perception of the reality he's in. Bob's reality. Bob's bus.
Steven's heart nearly stops when the bus continues past his home without stopping. He follows his house with his eyes as it passes, as if he stands still and it is the house hurtling through the air at 60 mph.
"Um," Steven nearly chokes on his own saliva. His voice quivers as if it were solidified gelatin melting on his tongue. "You passed my stop."
"Yes. Yes, I did," Bob replies, his eyes remaining fixed on the road. "I want to show you something."
Steven remains silent. Mother never warned him about a situation like this. There's no where to run to if Bob offers him a piece of candy.
"We never talk, Steve." Bob's eyes gazed at the boy in the mirror. "I think it's about time we do. I've been thinking about a lot of things during my life on this planet and there comes a time when I'd like to share my thoughts with an open mind."
Steven's face pales. He returns Bob's gaze in the mirror with glazed eyes.
"I get lonely sometimes, Steve. I have nobody. Therefore I have nobody to talk to. All I want, Steve, is to be able to tell someone my secrets. Someone to listen to me. Someone to . . . well, you get my drift."
Steven is silent.
"Look here, Steve. This is what I want to show you. Look out the windows on your right."
Outside the bus a cemetery passes, seemingly spinning in a great circle before his fixed eyes, like a great celestial mass turning on its axis. Steven is familiar with this graveyard. The large plot of land is a near perfect circle around which a road lies. The bus stays on this road, circling the necropolis.
"There's a fence surrounding the cemetery, Steve," Bob says, expressing the obvious. "Let me ask you something. Why are there fences around cemeteries?"
Steven remains quiet, watching the passing burial ground on his right. The vast expanse of well-kept green grass and orderly stone monuments is beautiful at first glance. However, Steven thinks about the place's purpose and its inhabitants causing him to sicken at his original reaction. A most splendid city, the necropolis, but it's dead.
"Why are there fences around cemeteries?" Bob asks more sternly. "Who the hell would want to get in? There's nothing in there but a bunch of dried up people! "
Silence from Steven.
"So why are there fences?" Bob asks again. "I'll tell you why. Do you think it's fun in there? Let me tell you, it's boring. It's so dull you want to kill yourself, but, damn it all, you can't cause you're already dead. Sure, some of them are content to lie around, but others must have a need to get out. There must be others!"
Steven's eyes fail to blink at Bob's gaze in the rearview mirror. No longer looking at the road, only staring at Steven, Bob somehow continues to drive the bus.
"Now, Steve, no upstanding citizen would put up with dead people walking around would they? No, of course not."
Steven sits quietly.
"But sometimes one of us finds a means to escape. Sometimes there are vehicles that can transport you from one world to the next. Death is one of them. But are there vehicles traveling in the opposite direction as death? Can anyone actually pass freely between these worlds? You better believe it, baby!"
The bus suddenly lurches to the right and smashes through the cemetery fence, bursting it apart with ease. Accelerating toward the deep center of the necropolis, the bus drives over gravestones.
"I WANT TO SHOW SOMETHING, STEVE, " Bob yells over the roar of the engine. "I WANT YOU TO VISIT ME AT HOME! "
Steven's scream is lost in the noise.
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From what I've read of your writing, it's definitely time for you to start trying to get published. (And I should practice what I preach.)
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Actually, I have been trying to publish for years. Goddamn...maybe 15 years. I started way early, sending out some seriously crappy stuff. Every now and then I take a break. I haven't been focused on trying to publish for about 3 years now. But I think it's time to try again, once I get this new house in order. I have a few recent ideas that need writing and some never before submitted stories that could use a polish before going out.
Do you have any favorite markets for short stories? Places you'd considering sending stuff?
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Ah, Indiana childhoods full of pulp horror and field discers.
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Technically, I'm already published since I won a poetry contest in Cobblestone magazine when I was 9. I haven't tried publishing as an adult, though, and I really should.
As for markets...hmm. Gothic.net used to have a fiction section; don't know if they're still up & running. The Year's Best Fantasy & Horror takes their selections from a variety of genre magazines, but the same magazines keep cropping up year after year. So I'd say look at genre anthologies, see where the stories were originally published, and submit to those publications. There are also the writers' market books published every year.
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Yeah, I know what I should do. It's a matter of finding the energy. I'm not sure if last night's story is right for publishing, but I think it's pretty good for 45 minutes' work.
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I suppose I am technically published, too. I had a short story published in BARK! when I was 16 or 17. This magazine was one of those hip and sassy things targeted at high school students. It was apparently short lived, as I can't find any mention of it online. These days there is a Bark magazine for dog lovers. Not the same one.