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RED HERRINGS

His beard is a disguise.

People see the dark skin, the thick hair, the traditional clothing, and come to all the wrong conclusions. But it is his beard they notice first, the thickness of it, its length. It is the first of many red herrings in his appearance.

Hiding behind its thick, curled tangle are gentle cheeks, a sad smile, soft lips that mouth poetry on the underground.

He’s clutching two open notebooks, one on top of the other. His nails are rough-ridged and cracked but he holds the pen delicately, copying words from one notebook into the other.

The words themselves are another red herring: words of pain and suffering, of loneliness and anger, carefully misspelled to feign ignorance.

He needs these — the beard, the words, the disguise — because without them, he is nothing, no one. Just another man on the tube, another forgettable face.

THE GIANT BUTTERFLY

Once upon a time there was a butterfly named Bonnie.

Now Bonnie was no ordinary butterfly, she was a GIANT butterfly. She was bigger than all the other butterflies. She was bigger than the dragonflies. She was even bigger than your two hands put together!

Bonnie was so big that when she landed on a flower, the flower would break. When she drank from a puddle, water would splash everywhere. And when she flew through the fields, the wind from her wings would knock all the other butterflies off-course.

None of the other butterflies wanted to play with Bonnie.

Bonnie was lonely.

One day a zebra arrived in the forest.

Now this was no ordinary zebra, this was a KILLER zebra. His tail was thin and whip-like. His hooves were sharp and strong. And his teeth were very large, and very white.

The zebra trotted into Bonnie’s field. He hit all the butterflies with his tail. He squashed all the flowers with his hooves. And he ripped up the grass in great chunks with his teeth.

“Help, help!” cried the other butterflies, watching their home get destroyed.

And Bonnie, because she was big and because she was brave, went to the rescue.

She flew right up to the zebra and landed right between his ears, where he couldn’t see her. Then she leaned over and shouted into his ear: “LEAVE THIS FIELD, ZEBRA!”

The zebra jumped. “Who’s that? Who’s there?” He turned round and round on the spot, but couldn’t see anyone. The field was empty. He shook his head nervously, and Bonnie had to hold on tight so as not to fall off.

“I AM THE MIGHTY LION!” roared Bonnie into his ear.

Oh, how the zebra jumped now! “L-l-l-lion?” he stuttered, his hooves knocking together in fright, because zebras and lions were mortal enemies. He galloped to the edge of the field and hid behind a tree.

The zebra shook his head again, and again Bonnie had to hold on tight.

“THAT’S NOT FAR ENOUGH!” she shouted, growling angrily.

“Eep!” yelped the zebra. He ran even further from the butterfly field, and hid behind a large rock.

Bonnie took a deep breath and said: “NO, THAT’S NOT FAR ENOU–”

But as Bonnie was speaking, the zebra shook his head again, and she fell splat onto the rock!

“You’re not a lion!” the zebra said angrily. “You liar!”

He lifted up a hoof to squash her, but Bonnie cried out, “I had to lie! You were destroying our home! You squashed all the flowers and ripped up all the grass and hit my friends with your tail!”

The zebra was shocked. “I did? I… I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bonnie said. “Just don’t do it again.”

And she gave the zebra directions to Africa, so that he could travel there and hang out with all the other zebras, where he belonged.

As soon as the zebra left, all the butterflies gathered around the rock, fluttering their beautiful wings. “Oh, Bonnie! You saved our home! Thank you, thank you!”

“It was nothing,” Bonnie said modestly, embarrassed by the attention.

She tried to flap her wings, to join them in the air, but nothing happened. Her wing was broken!

“Come on Bonnie,” said the butterflies. “Let’s go home!”

“I can’t!” she cried, trying to flap her wings again, wincing at the pain. “I can’t fly! I must have broken my wing when I fell on to the rock,” she said sadly.

And then all the other butterflies went away, because they knew Bonnie couldn’t be a butterfly anymore.

Inspired by and written for Bonnie Sparks.

SPEECH RECOGNITION

I wake up in a bed I do not recognize. My left temple is throbbing unnaturally and the shining white ceiling only makes it more difficult to see.

I bring the duvet up to my nose, contemplate going back to sleep. But when I close my eyes my head begins spinning wildly, and I have to choke back the nausea.

Awake it is, then. I turn my head to the side. There is another pillow next to mine, the centre still indented from the weight of another’s head.

The memories return: a flash of black hair, green eyes. I’d met him at the bar when I’d gone up to order a round. All of a sudden I can remember kissing him in the streetlight, but for the life of me I cannot remember his name.

I glance under the blankets. Still wearing yesterday’s clothes, although that could mean anything.

So where is he, then? I turn my head to either side, searching for clues. It’s a luxurious room, but impersonal; the duvet I’m clutching is goose down, but the painting above the bed is a mass-produced print. I’m definitely in an upper scale hotel. That’s right, wasn’t he a tourist?

That’s when I spot the small black box installed on the ceiling, and realize just how upper class this hotel is. If I’m not mistake, that box is an AI. This room had its own AI! Despite the clenching of my stomach and the vile taste in my mouth, I cannot contain the sudden surge of excitement. I have a vague recollection of talking to the AI last night; let’s see if I can remember how it works.

“Computer?” I say tentatively.

As soon as I speak, the AI powers out of snooze and comes to full attention, brightening the lamps in the room up to daylight levels.

I cringe, shield my head. “Dim lights!”

When it’s safe to look, I poke my head back out from under the blankets and push myself up to a sitting position, leaning back against the wall to catch my breath. In the corner of the room is a kitchenette, separated from the bedroom by a breakfast bar.

I sit up properly, now, eyeing the distance. It’s about twenty steps: far too far in my condition.

“Computer,” I say smugly, “make tea.”

A smooth, cultured female voice replies, the source of the sound impossible to pinpoint: “What did you say?”

Ah, yes. One has to enunciate things carefully for computers. I clear my throat. “Make. Tea.”

“What did you say?”

“Tea. Make tea. T. E. A.”

“What did you say?”

Okay. I rub my forehead. This requires some lateral thinking. “Boil water,” I then say.

No response.

“Kettle, on!”

“Command not found.”

I scream in frustration and flop back down onto the bed. That black box is laughing at me, I know it. I glare up at the ceiling, crawl over to the foot of the bed to better scowl at it. “What’s a girl got to do to get breakfast around here, huh?”

Finally, the AI seems to pick up on my words. “You would like breakfast, is that right? Just say yes or no.”

“Yes!”

“What did you say?”

“Yesssssssssssssss.” I probably look like a complete idiot, crouched on hands and knees on the bed, hissing at the ceiling. Oh well.

The light in the kitchenette brightens. Success! Something is happening! I wait for the AI magic to begin, ready to be impressed. Everyone talks about these miracles of science, these must-have gadgets that simplify even the hardest of tasks.

“Kitchen is fully stocked,” the AI says. “Please proceed to the kitchen to prepare your breakfast.”

To prepare my—?

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I tell the black box, shaking my fist at it. “You can’t even make tea? What’s the use of an AI if it can’t make tea?!”

A door behind me opens. I look over my shoulder, watch my mystery man walk into the room with a towel around his waist, fresh out of the shower.

He takes in the scene: me crouched on the bed, hand in middair, as the AI says for the umpteenth time: “What did you say?”

“Not this again,” he says.

TUESDAY, WITH SPIDERS

The spiders on the ceiling were hungry.

Rich huddled over the counter, whisking his pancake batter to smooth out the few remaining lumps of flour. Keeping one eye on the ceiling to track the spiders’ movements, he dipped a finger into the bowl, then licked it clean. Mmmm; it was ready.

Bowl still in hand, he walked over to the hob, took out a pan and turned on the heat. He placed the pan on the gas, dropped in a thick wodge of butter, then glanced up again. The spiders were gone.

He panicked, hugged the mixing bowl closer. There they were! Three black spiders scurrying across the ceiling towards him. One of them—skinny, malnourished—lagged behind the others, as if it could not quite keep up. Rick scowled at them warningly. His wife would have hoovered them up by now, but she was out for dinner and he did not know where the hoover was.

The spiders came to a halt directly above his head. Rich squinted up at them, then grabbed a tea towel and waved it ineffectually in their direction. The spiders did not move. He glanced down, noticed the butter had melted and begun to foam. The spiders could wait; his pancakes were more important.

Rich set the mixing bowl down by the hob, then paused. No ladles. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He shrugged, grabbed a mug from the cupboard and dipped it into the bowl, filling it to the very brim.

The batter barely sizzled as it hit the pan, creeping out towards the edges slowly but inexorably. Damn, he’d forgotten to check the pan temperature first. Rich raised the heat a notch, tilting the pan back and forth to spread the batter evenly, but there was too much liquid and his supposed delicate crepe was turning into a cake. Exasperated, Rich tried to flip the pancake with a jerky wrist movement. It was a half-hearted flip at best: the pancake folded in half and proceeded to stick together.

“Double damn!” Rich tried to prise the two halves apart, but it was too late. Defeated, he tipped the pancake onto his plate. The half-moon of dough smiled winningly back at him. He munched on a corner thoughtfully and ignored the spiders. They were mocking him; he was sure of it.

Take 2. Pan at the right temperature, check. Enough oil, check. Mug half-full of batter, check. And pour.

This time it sizzled, it spread thinly and evenly, and when the top began to bubble, Rich lifted up the pan and flicked his wrist with extra flourish. The pancake soared into the air, then back down, landing neatly in the pan. Victory!

He flipped the pancake again, higher this time, letting out a cheer when he caught it. And again, higher! And again! Rich completely forgot about the spiders, so intent was he on his newly discovered manly talent.

Then it happened: his golf club swing sent the pancake soaring up, and up, and up, until SPLAT! It came to a rest on the ceiling, and did not come back down. Rich waved the pan enticingly, but the pancake did not move.

The spiders huddled together, conferring. Then, as the seconds passed and the pancake remained securely on the ceiling, they began their advance, circling the pancake, drawing in for the kill. The skinny one struck first, scurrying straight across the dough to the centre.

Later, when his wife came back home, all that remained was a circle of grease.

She stared up at it, incredulous. “Darling, what on earth happened?”

Rich shrugged. “The spiders on the ceiling were hungry.”

FEELING BLUE

I have come to realize that fashion forever follows nature. Polka dot dresses reminiscent of ladybirds, the black-and-white zebra stripes on high heels, the comfy jumpers with kangaroo pouches…. All the animals imported from Earth have been faithfully copied until there is nothing left to copy. And now this… Blue skin, highlighter-bright.

As a young lady of certain repute — sufficient to garner attention, yet not quite enough to make up the rules — I must conform to fashion’s dictates. So here I sit spreading blue tincture down my arm in preparation for tonight’s festivities. It’s our gold anniversary: 50 Earth years since we colonized Venus.

I say we but of course I played no part in the original settlement — why I was only decanted seventeen years ago! Some of the first colonists still have to wear firmasuits to hold their bodies in place; their bodies are too old to adjust to the gee here, but I never have had to, hence the blue skin.

I’ve heard on Earth girls brown their skin in the sun, and during the cold months tint their skin orange to recapture the warmth. Orange like the sky of Venus, like the endless canyon and deserts… It was Rosca who decided if the Earthmen wear a tribute to us, we should wear a tribute to them.

Blue is a rare colour here on Venus. But on Earth — or at least on the holograms of Earth I’ve seen — you can drown in blueness. Blue sky, blue flowers, why even rivers and lakes and oceans of blue that you can bathe in without protection! (That last I’m not sure about; surely whatever turns the water blue is noxious?)

The thought of so much blueness fills me with a strange longing. Or maybe it is the thought of so much water — the only water in my room, other than that in my body, is the quarter-full tear jar in my pocket. We’re a nation that carries our grief with us, always. It’s our best form of currency. When I fill up this tear jar I’m going to trade it in for something exciting… I don’t know what yet. Perhaps flight lessons, although mother says I should save up for a family permit. As if I am interested in starting a family now!

After what happened with Cajk, I don’t think I shall ever speak to boys again. He… he… I expect he will be there tonight with her. I saw her in the compound last week, carrying an Adsa shopping bag of all things. I imagine she buys discount tinctures there and will attend the party tonight with skin more green than blue. But I shouldn’t judge; mother says it’s unbecoming.

Although I simply cannot stop thinking about it. I don’t understand how she appeals to Cajk! I thought… I was under the impression what we shared was special. I was ready to — well, you know.

Just a minute while I put some tincture on my lips. There, all done. I’m blue everywhere. Even my insides feel blue. What a fanciful thought! But perhaps they are… Perhaps the tincture has seeped through and tainted the bottled-up grief with its colour. As if I need anymore tainting.

Perhaps that’s why Cajk left me: he realized I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t worthy.

Oh! I’m crying. I better put down the dictaphone and catch my tears.