The Hours of Creeping Night - a Collection of Dark Speculative Short Fiction by Sophie Playle Page A
Authors: Sophie Playle
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to meet his hand, purring loudly. ‘Dinner time, is it?’ The man shuffled over to the other half of the room, which served as his kitchen, and put a saucer of milk and a bowl of tinned meat on the floor.
This simple gesture between a man and his cat caused a warmth to bloom deep within Victor’s typewriter chest, where the radiance of the fire could not reach. He stood up. The net felt a little lighter. He took a few steps towards the kitchen, placing his little hand against the buzzing refrigerator to steady himself. His fingers dislodged a photo from beneath a magnet and it skidded to the floor.
The man picked it up and studied it with brief familiarity. For the briefest of moments, the net fizzled against Victor’s metal flesh and he felt the most joyous sensation lift his heart. But then the muscles in the old man’s face loosened and drooped. ‘Judith,’ he sighed, placing the photo back on the fridge with a click of the magnet. ‘It’s just me and Ziggy here now.’ He looked down at Victor with a sad hollow light in his eyes. And just like that, the warmth in Victor’s chest extinguished and was replaced by a heavy ache. It felt as though he was being squeezed tightly from the inside; unable to breathe, unable to swallow. It felt as though something vital had been wrenched from him, turning life into a series of necessary motions – and nothing more.
It was too much. The net was heavier than ever and he scuttled towards the door, escaping back up the stone stairs one at a time, straining against the burden dragging behind him.
Victor clambered into an old skip and picked up a sharp piece of metal. Gripping it tightly, he hacked. He didn’t want it dragging him down anymore. Somewhere, in the back of Victor’s mind, he heard the roar of a giant engine grow steadily louder. A bright orange light flooded his vision, but he paid no heed. There was a loud clank and the skip shuddered. The twine began to split. Eventually, Victor cut right through it like an umbilical cord. And then everything went dark.
~*~
Once his focus adjusted, Victor realised he was once again in the junkyard. He lay twisted up inside an old doorless car, the windshield shattered and the front seat missing. Around him lay familiar junk – broken pieces of furniture, dusty rubble, scrap wires and old shelf brackets – that had been tipped out of the skip with him. He tried to sit up, but was tangled in the amputated netting, now limp and empty. There was a loud, mechanical noise; the vehicle shifted. A bright light blinded Victor and there was a loud boom as something hit the roof of the car. Victor was pulled upwards by an unseen force, but the tangled net held him down. The cog on his left eye came loose and flew upwards, attaching itself to the roof. Suddenly, the car was moving through the air. As it crashed down, the pull on Victor ceased, and his detached eye clinked downwards and lost itself inside the broken typewriter.
Victor reached for the door, but couldn’t move and soon gave up. As the sides of the car were crunched and compressed together, he did not struggle. He realised that he had severed the net too late; whatever it had been collecting was already harboured in his heart.
However, in the midst of the dark swelling in his breast, there was a tiny light. At the core of the city, cloaked in the pain of loss, there was something warm and beautiful. A tiny match illuminating an army of shadows. Yet the match would soon extinguish, and bright lights would be reduced to shadows. Victor tried to consider the worth of this light, but before he had a chance, his body was contorted in screaming metal.
Victor didn’t die. He simply fell apart.
The Carved Woman
D ante had walked the world to find the Living Forest. For fifteen years he had followed hearsay and local legend. And now, as he made his way through the undergrowth, he saw the trees shudder at the touch of his machete. The branches swept with
This simple gesture between a man and his cat caused a warmth to bloom deep within Victor’s typewriter chest, where the radiance of the fire could not reach. He stood up. The net felt a little lighter. He took a few steps towards the kitchen, placing his little hand against the buzzing refrigerator to steady himself. His fingers dislodged a photo from beneath a magnet and it skidded to the floor.
The man picked it up and studied it with brief familiarity. For the briefest of moments, the net fizzled against Victor’s metal flesh and he felt the most joyous sensation lift his heart. But then the muscles in the old man’s face loosened and drooped. ‘Judith,’ he sighed, placing the photo back on the fridge with a click of the magnet. ‘It’s just me and Ziggy here now.’ He looked down at Victor with a sad hollow light in his eyes. And just like that, the warmth in Victor’s chest extinguished and was replaced by a heavy ache. It felt as though he was being squeezed tightly from the inside; unable to breathe, unable to swallow. It felt as though something vital had been wrenched from him, turning life into a series of necessary motions – and nothing more.
It was too much. The net was heavier than ever and he scuttled towards the door, escaping back up the stone stairs one at a time, straining against the burden dragging behind him.
Victor clambered into an old skip and picked up a sharp piece of metal. Gripping it tightly, he hacked. He didn’t want it dragging him down anymore. Somewhere, in the back of Victor’s mind, he heard the roar of a giant engine grow steadily louder. A bright orange light flooded his vision, but he paid no heed. There was a loud clank and the skip shuddered. The twine began to split. Eventually, Victor cut right through it like an umbilical cord. And then everything went dark.
~*~
Once his focus adjusted, Victor realised he was once again in the junkyard. He lay twisted up inside an old doorless car, the windshield shattered and the front seat missing. Around him lay familiar junk – broken pieces of furniture, dusty rubble, scrap wires and old shelf brackets – that had been tipped out of the skip with him. He tried to sit up, but was tangled in the amputated netting, now limp and empty. There was a loud, mechanical noise; the vehicle shifted. A bright light blinded Victor and there was a loud boom as something hit the roof of the car. Victor was pulled upwards by an unseen force, but the tangled net held him down. The cog on his left eye came loose and flew upwards, attaching itself to the roof. Suddenly, the car was moving through the air. As it crashed down, the pull on Victor ceased, and his detached eye clinked downwards and lost itself inside the broken typewriter.
Victor reached for the door, but couldn’t move and soon gave up. As the sides of the car were crunched and compressed together, he did not struggle. He realised that he had severed the net too late; whatever it had been collecting was already harboured in his heart.
However, in the midst of the dark swelling in his breast, there was a tiny light. At the core of the city, cloaked in the pain of loss, there was something warm and beautiful. A tiny match illuminating an army of shadows. Yet the match would soon extinguish, and bright lights would be reduced to shadows. Victor tried to consider the worth of this light, but before he had a chance, his body was contorted in screaming metal.
Victor didn’t die. He simply fell apart.
The Carved Woman
D ante had walked the world to find the Living Forest. For fifteen years he had followed hearsay and local legend. And now, as he made his way through the undergrowth, he saw the trees shudder at the touch of his machete. The branches swept with
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