Wish You Were Here


Attempting to put his key into the door of his apartment block, he had to give it some force. It went in with effort due to the wear and tear of both key and lock. He gave the door a final nudge with his shoulder to prise it open, the old wooden frame was swollen by the damp weather and constant steam emanating from the drain off the sidewalk right outside of the flea pit where he lived. Before he slumped into bed he looked out the window to take in the view. Dark streets lined with decrepit buildings. At the far end of the road two men were beating the hell out of a guy. In the distance a police siren wailed. But they were not coming to the aid of this man. Looking back down, the two thugs had gone but the victim’s body remained, lifeless and bloody on the crud-covered pavement.


He awoke next day, his head thumping. After making a couple of pieces of toast out of the stale bread that he had left in his cupboard he made his way to work.


On his way back home that night, he was confronted by three leather-clad delinquents. He waited for the normal demands, wallet, watch, etc. In way of a reply he just laughed. Even as the ensuing kicks and punches rained down upon him, he never cried out for help nor begged for mercy.


Hobbling back to his apartment, he turned the light on and stumbled into the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror.  His eyes were swollen, his lips the same, but bloodied. He chuckled again. A giggle at first, then a real belly laugh. He wiped the blood from his face and then punched the mirror with all his might. Shards of glass sprayed out across the room and into his face, piercing the skin and cutting through to the bone. He put his hands up to his cheeks and began pulling the flesh away. His apartment melted into darkness and then ignited into fire.


He turned and walked along a molten corridor. At the end of it was a large solid metal door. It swung open upon his approach.


In front of him sat a deformed, crippled, grotesque, monstrosity of a being. It looked at him enquiringly and asked, “So?”

The fleshless being that once bore the face of a dishwashing, downtrodden, worthless man looked back at his master and, with a smile replied, “It’s all going to shit up there.”


Lucifer smiled through bloodied teeth and replied, “Well, we’ll just leave them to their own devices then. It doesn’t appear we need influence them at all these days. Let human nature take its course, so to speak.”

Ian Sputnik

© Copyright Ian Sputnik. All Rights Reserved.

Homecoming

I took another gulp of my drink. The room swirled and I felt sick.

I lit yet another cigarette, one of far too many that I consumed that night. As I breathed in the smoke I played with my lighter. It was a brass Zippo petrol lighter that my parents had given me so many years ago. Although my father was completely against me being a smoker, he abhorred the idea of me sucking on those ‘coffin nails’, he still didn’t begrudge me possessing an instrument of my doom.

He had passed away a few years earlier. I sat there, blind drunk, with a cigarette in one hand and a large glass of neat vodka in the other, flicking my lighter and thinking of him. 

I found myself in my garden with no memory of how I had gotten there. So drunk that gaps of that evening, and of my life were the norm. I looked out across the dark of my lawn and called out to my only friends, the foxes that would visit me. 

I’d started feeding them a year or so earlier.  Even though they’d just take the food and run, I still considered them my pals. It warmed my cold heart to see them tuck into whatever I had decided to put in their bowl each night. 

I heard a rustle in the hedges at the top of my garden and saw one approach. It was beautiful. Its coat was a glorious red with white on the end of its tail. It walked towards me with much more confidence than it usually had. 

As it got within a few feet I fell to the floor. Slumped in my stupor, it continued to advance. Its eyes reflected the light from my kitchen window. They burned bright and they warmed me. As it inched closer, I was lost in the orange glow of them. Its teeth were a brilliant white, and they smiled at me with such affection that I wept. I smiled back with drool dripping from my lips and down my chin. 

I found myself being pulled into its fiery gaze. I was drawn into those orbs of orange as they fixed intently on the wreck of a man that was crumpled on the ground in front of it. Each time its eyelids blinked I heard a click and the light that reflected from them flickered. I could feel the heat from them warming my face and It felt so good.

From a distance, I could hear pitiful screaming. The sound grew in intensity, as did the heat. The fox now sat with its face mere inches from my own. I was now engulfed by its flaming eyes. 

I suddenly had a moment of clarity in my alcohol-addled brain. I had not walked into my garden at all. I was still slumped in my living room. The clicking of the fox’s eyelids was me clicking on my Zippo. The fiery eyes were the flames that engulfed me. With the spilling of my glass of vodka and the sparks from my constant flicking of my lighter, I had set myself ablaze. As the sounds of screaming ebbed, the vision of the animal returned. It moved so close that I could feel its breath on my face and it spoke to me. The voice was human. It was the voice of my father. “Time to come with me, son,” it said.

Ian Sputnik

© Copyright Ian Sputnik. All Rights Reserved.

Heaven Didn’t Wait

What is on the other side? Throughout my investigations, I had been told many things. From utopia to dystopia. From everlasting peace to damnation. I had to see for myself and could not wait for the natural timeline of my life to play out before I discovered the true answer. I had to know now.

So, I stepped across the sacred bridge between life and death by my own hand. A brief moment of pain; no drama, just a feeling of panic as the life ebbed from my veins.

I awoke in darkness with the sound of trudging feet beside me. As I looked up I saw an immense line of the departed walking onwards along a barren path through dust and ash. I joined that line and followed the ranks of that march.

After an excruciatingly long trek, I saw a huge structure ahead of us. It appeared to be an archway with walls that stretched as far as the eye could see. We all quickened our pace, our final goal just another day or so away. Eventually, the line paused as we took in the sight that befell us.

Heavy gates lay impudent on the ground. If these were the pearly gates, they had lost their protective purpose as well as their sheen a long, long time ago. They were rusted and sat decaying in the dry dirt. The walls were scorched and crumbling. The towers were smashed and their stones lay in piles around their foundations.

All around me the shadows of the dead walked with no direction, desire or hope. They were now beaten and defeated souls. As I looked beyond the queue of the devastated dead, I saw hordes of millions, no, billions huddled and howling in the distance.

It was at that moment my predicament finally hit home, like a knife through the heart. The words in the holy book were only based on truth up until a certain point in time, and everything thereafter was a lie. The war in heaven had not been won. Neither side had been victorious. No heaven above, not even a hell below. The two sides had fought to the bitter end. If any had survived, they had long since fled. Either way, they had not been here for many an aeon. All the almighty could offer us was far from redemption, only the burnt remains of an epic battle – his last stand. And beyond our mortality, no last refuge, no final hope. There was, in fact, nothing but an eternity of existing amongst the ruins of Armageddon.

Ian Sputnik

© Copyright Ian Sputnik. All Rights Reserved.

Sowing the Seeds


Andy looked at the bowl of cereal that sat in front of him.

“What’s this?” He complained.

“Muesli.” His wife replied. “You know what the doctor said. Now, when I get back from my sister’s I want you to have finished the whole box. There’s enough there for the week.”

She placed a kiss on his forehead before heading to the front door; a wheeled case in tow.

He reluctantly spooned the ‘chicken feed’ into his mouth. It had the consistency of cardboard and didn’t taste any better.

Within an hour he winced in pain. Strange sounds were emanating from his stomach.

He decided to retire to bed, hoping a lie down might make him feel better. He took a bottle of water with him; he was so parched.

Lying in bed, he attempted to reach for the bottle; that incredible thirst was driving him insane.

 To his utter dismay his arms refused his commands. His joints seemed fused, like a statue.

***

Andy’s wife returned and called out to him.

Not finding him downstairs, she made her way up to the bedroom. Halfway up the stairs she saw Andy’s foot protruding from the bedroom; it spasmed and thudded against the wooden frame. She feared he was having a heart attack.

She gasped. The foot was connected to what was left of his body by a tangled twine of branches. On the bed, a knotted mess of brambles. The only evidence that this was Andy was his head at the end of a crude interpretation of a spinal column, constructed of a stem of thorns. Andy’s face contorted as he let out a silent scream.

His wife fainted.

Unconscious on the floor, vines slowly reached out to her body. He was desperate for the rehydrating properties contained within.

∼ Ian Sputnik

© Copyright Ian Sputnik. All Rights Reserved.

Dead Air

The doorbell rang. Here we go again, I thought.

My sister answered. An elderly woman was welcomed in and led to the living room. We took our places around the table that stood in the centre of the room. The Clairvoyant sat with her back to the door; my sister, Clare took her place opposite her. I sat opposite my wife, Helen as the circus began.

“Before we start, if we can just get the payment of $100 out of the way,” the old crone said.

“Of course,” my wife replied.

She passed an envelope over. The woman swiftly took it and inspected the contents before stuffing it into her pocket.

“Let us begin. We are here to attempt to reach those loved ones that no longer dwell amongst us.”

So the pathetic ritual started. This crook went through the whole act; moaning, wailing, speaking in tongues. It was all I could do to contain myself and not burst out laughing. I kept silent though. My wife seemed to live off these pathetic pantomimes. What sort of husband would I be if I took this away from her?

I switched off as the hag asked the usual questions. My wife answered each in hushed tones.

After about half an hour of screeching and groaning, all fell silent.

“I’m sorry,” the old woman apologised. “The spirits don’t wish to let themselves be known to us on this occasion.”

What a bloody surprise. What a rip-off merchant; fleecing money off people left, right and centre.

She rose, packed away her trinkets and made her way to the hallway, closely followed by my wife and Clare. I remained seated at the table, biting my lip, trying to hold my anger in.

“So, Helen,” the lady enquired, “how long has it been since your husband passed?”

They continued talking as they entered the hallway and made their way towards the front door, leaving me sitting alone in the dark.

∼ Ian Sputnik

© Copyright Ian Sputnik. All Rights Reserved.

© Copyright Ian Sputnik. All Rights Reserved.