So much space
silence—or what passes for silence
in the suburbs at night.
Sirens in the distance.
Refrigerator hum.
Wind.
Rain.
The creak of settling foundations.
But still, true silence is here.
It lies, as always, to my left,
where no breath,
no murmur of sleep,
no rustle of sheets is heard.
A place reserved for a protector
who has never shown himself.
It’s funny how an empty house can amplify an empty bed.
These are the five posts I am most proud of. Some a quite short, but this was never a place for publishing epic fiction… enjoy!
If you have any topic requests or questions or opinions or a good recipe for chai, send an email to acircadianrhythm@gmail.com and I’ll get back to you.
- Cassi H.
take out that pen
put it to use
that one
two
eight thousand word work of art
(if it even starts)
won’t write itself
it might live
as a bud in the mind
for years
but every rise and set
is back burning
a forest of poetry reduced to ash
floating
you can try
again
and again
to bring it back
the way it was
write it in a year
plant each new word
a seed
to grow a new forest
still green
wide
dense
alive
but different
no names carved deep
no path to the river
it’s the same story
with no soul
These are the five posts I am most proud of. Some a quite short, but this was never a place for publishing epic fiction… enjoy!
If you have any topic requests or questions or opinions or a good recipe for chai, send an email to acircadianrhythm@gmail.com and I’ll get back to you.
- Cassi H.
Late in the evening, Lorena finds herself staring out through the living room window into the shifting shadows of the garden. She feels the presence of something beyond what she can see. She is certain that the others must feel it too, and as she turns an ear to the hallway she hears a soft murmur roll through the house, as though each sleeping soul had at once drifted to the furthest edges of reality to find some place between the physical world and the dreamscape, to some place unreachable by the light of day, some place more real than waking life allowed them to see. She closes her eyes and touches her fingertips to the cool window, willing herself to find it, willing herself to see, to know. Moonlight climbs the wall behind her, lifting with it the sweet, heady smell of flowering jasmine that weaves its way into the house through tiny cracks around the window. She lowers her hand, exhaling slowly as her fingers run over the glass.
There is a shift in the atmosphere. She opens her eyes to find that the shadows have become more dense, somehow solid.
Behind her, the dust rises as if disturbed by some unseen footstep, motes spiralling upward into slanting beams of moonlight which guide them through the air to a new resting place atop an open book, a glass, a white piano key.
She awoke in the night with an aching need to see the ocean. Her heart quavered with the need for it. She felt it calling her, and somehow, suddenly, it was all there was, all there ever could be.
She felt as though she would burst into flame unless she saw it, and so, beneath the pale orange dome of the city’s night sky, Hannah ran until her lungs burned, then with wild eyes and jelly legs she climbed aboard a rattling tram. It shook and lurched, and her heart pounded as she felt panic bubbling deep within her chest.
At last she stood on the damp planks of an ancient pier, with salt spray clinging to the loose fibres of her coat. Boats on the horizon blinked in and out of sight. She watched them through stinging eyes as the smell of rotting seaweed grew strong.
‘It’s okay,’ she whispered, ‘I’m here, I’m here.’
She spent the day feeling imaginary. As though she was something less tangible than mist. Less memorable than the air or electricity. Those things would at least leave an impression. Damp skin, cool breeze, a sharp, hot shock.
But she left nothing. Not even a sense of absence.
Her heart was a void, and she had slowly collapsed into it until there was nothing left.
Will had finally started drifting off when a sharp knock at the door pulled him back to the 70’s wallpaper of his motel room. He shuffled to the door and looked through the brass-rimmed peephole. A middle aged woman stood in the flickering light outside. She wore a name tag, the same as the woman at the motels reception desk. Diane. He flicked on the light and opened the door.
‘Yes?’
The woman didn’t respond. Instead she stared with clouded eyes, swaying slightly. She appeared not to be looking at Will, but through him, at some point in space far ahead. Wispy curls of blonde hair were matted to her forehead, where a thin veil of sweat reflected the blue light of the bug zapper. She swayed again. Is she drunk? Will took a step forward.
’Are you okay?’
Almost on cue, the woman crumpled at the knees and hit the tile walkway. Her face connected with the ground with an echoing crack, and Will rushed to help her to her feet. But she was heavy, and moving her was awkward. She’s a dead weight. Will shook off the unwelcome thought and pulled hard on her shoulder, finally managing to roll her onto one side. Her nose was crushed, but there was no blood except for where her skin had grazed on the ground. Her eyes were still wide open, unblinking.
’Diane?’ Will shook the womans shoulders gently, trying to wake her up. He held two fingers against her throat, checking for a pulse. Nothing. He held his hand in front of her mouth, checking for breath. Still nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh shit. He stood and took a step back, trying to remember anything at all about how to perform CPR. How many ribs am I supposed to count? How many compressions in-between breaths? He stood, wide eyed and frozen in the flickering blue of the bug light. What am I meant to do if I hear something crack?
There were three zaps before he moved again. Two moths and a spider.
He darted back into the room, and seconds later was back in the doorway with his phone in his hand. Before he had dialled the first number something hit him hard in the chest, and he flew backwards through the door. He hit the wall, and with the impact all the air rushed out of his lungs. His eyes watered as his mouth moved, trying to breathe air that suddenly felt sharp and solid. His lungs felt too small, and full of needles. His vision blurred. He thought he saw Diane being dragged by her hair into the room as if on an invisible rope.
The door slammed shut, and he tried to sit up, too see, but an unseen foot crunched into his shoulder and he fell back, hitting his head on the metal bed frame. Sharp pain shot down his spine and radiated from the back of his head. A hot, sticky mess of blood dribbled down his neck, and his hair stuck to his scalp in dark waves. Finally gasping some air, he called out for help, but the sound was barely audible.
He felt a hand pin him to the ground, pushing down hard on his collarbone while five cold fingers pressed something over his mouth. If anyone had been watching he appeared to be struggling against no-one, gagging on air. His nostrils filled with a bitter burning, and he felt the cold, dry hands move to his arms, holding him down. He began to feel weak. A dim memory played in the corners of his mind. He tried again to call out, but one of the hands moved back over his mouth and held it closed. Red marks like fingers slowly appeared on his face as he squirmed helplessly. His head filled with a loud buzzing, like distant powerlines, and at first he thought it was the bug zapper outside, but it grew, steadily getting louder and louder, buzzing in one long, continuous stream of noise, buzzing buzzing. His whole body felt numb, pins and needles kicked in, and he jerked around on the carpet. A caught fish on a river bank. A fish in a frypan. Spitter spatter, fish cooked in batter.
His eyesight dissolved around the edges, plunging him into tunnel vision as his heart-rate increased, stuttering like a poorly tuned radio. His arms grew heavy. Whoever was holding him down felt his struggling cease, and loosened their grip. After a few seconds, they let go completely. The buzzing in his head grew louder still. It pulsed in his skull and he felt like he might be sick. He tried to yell again, but his tongue felt as though it had suddenly grown too big for his mouth. His eyes rolled frantically back and forth, trying to see where the person had gone. He couldn’t see anything, and it occurred to him then that he didn’t even know if it had been a man or a woman. How could I not have seen anyone?
Suddenly, without thinking, he stood up like a puppet being pulled from above. His stomach lurched as his legs started to shift forward on their own, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He tried to stop, to yell out, but his mouth could barely move and all he could manage was burst of low whimpers. He walked toward the door, over Diane’s body. He felt the snap of her fingers under his feet.
Outside, in the parking lot he caught his reflection in a car windscreen. His eyes were screaming. That isn’t me.
This one’s for Sydney. A belated birthday present, of sorts. I would take more time and write something better, but it took me three weeks to write anything at all, and for that I apologise. I’ve been working a lot—not that that’s an excuse. I need to find a way to stop my dayjob from interfering with my writing.
I exhale, and he speaks slowly. Low. Almost under his breath. I feel the warmth of it on my neck. His lips are bristling-close. I stare straight up. Smoke curls around itself, through itself, moving in circles to the ceiling. The harder I try to see it, the more it dissolves, swallowed by the air. He is speaking, still. Theres an urgency in his voice, though it is quiet, and his hands tell me what it means. Ash falls on the sheets and we move like smoke.
Tonight I wrote while listening to Led Zeppelin. This was longer, but it was a little too much of a sex-fantasy-related filth-fest. I nearly posted it but got embarrassed and deleted what I will refer to as ‘all the good parts’. I don’t quite know why Led Zeppelin has this effect on me. Sorry. Will try to write something good next time.
The air here is heavy. It takes my breath and holds it up before me in little white clouds. I watch the clouds float and hope they wont carry on the breeze beyond the leaves and betray my hiding place. Here at the bottom of the garden it is dirty and damp and dark. But it is safe here, in this place usually reserved for spiders and beetles and mice. Glossy green leaves above me still drip with hour-old rain, soaking through my shirt. Sweet jasmine crawls through the branches. Theres a wall of green between me and the world on all sides. As long as I stay hidden I’ll be okay. I have to believe that. Any second of doubt, any brief moment of panic will be enough for a whimper to escape my lips, and then I won’t stand a chance. If I’m hidden, I’m safe. The stones beneath me bite into my hands and knees. I see their teethmarks on my skin. They sting, but they are nothing compared to what waits out in the light. And I can hear them coming. Moving through the house like bulls.
Tonight I wrote while listening to The Cave by Mumford & Sons. It’s been three weeks since I updated, and I’m sorry about that. I’ve got no real reasons. Just… I don’t know. I’ve been distracted. Caught up in things that barely exist. Anyway, enough of that. This piece was inspired by the sound of rain on the roof, and an inexplicable but nagging fear in my chest. It’s very short, I realise this. But for now it is the best I can do.
I was thirteen, and suddenly I had no friends.
Mid way through my final year of primary school, my parents decided to move, and the next year they had sent me to the secondary college closest to our new house. Being so young, this separation from my two best friends of the preceding six years was difficult to stop. Though we still lived in neighbouring towns, it felt as though we were much further than that. Without seeing each other every day, we gradually drifted apart, though we had each promised we wouldn’t. They were both lucky enough to go to the same high school as most of the other kids we knew. As for me, there were only three other students from my old school who ended up being sent to the same place.
One was a boy who had been a part of the group that beat me up regularly throughout grade five and six. The other two were girls; one so shy that becoming friends with her was about as likely as discovering kryptonite, and the other too spiteful and mean-spirited to make eye contact with. Most of the other new kids at the college were from the adjoining primary school, so despite being at a new school they already had close-knit groups.
I was an outsider, and horribly shy, so mid way into the first term I was still spending the majority of my lunchtimes on my own.
This lack of friends, combined with what was at the time my major ambition, performing, led me to audition for the school musical. It was Little Shop of Horrors that year. I got in, only in the chorus as year sevens were considered too young for the lead roles, but with a small speaking part in one scene. In this scene I was paired up with another year seven girl, and we had to carry flowerpots given to us outside Mushnik’s Flower Shop from stage left to stage right.
She was tall and skinny, awkward as I was, and equally shy. We didn’t speak much at first. We practiced the songs, stood on the stage in our places and waited for our cues.
Then one afternoon, during the mid-rehearsal break, we walked to the supermarket together. Neither of us had much money. We pooled our change and bought a bag of gummi bears.
At the time of course, I had no idea what this meant for the rest of my life. But in that one small act, everything changed. The next rehearsal, we pooled our money again. And the next, and the next. Walking to the store together during the break and sharing a bag of gummi bears or m&m’s or skittles became a regular part of the rehearsal routine. I found out that she too didn’t really know anyone at the school. We talked about everything and discovered that we liked the same songs and movies and classes. We agreed on most things we talked about.
Soon after, we were spending our lunchtimes together. And then going to each others house on the weekend to watch a video or play a game or sing along and dance to the Grease soundtrack or talk about boys.
And before I knew it, I had a new best friend.
From that point on, the years flew by, and we grew up together. By the time we were eighteen, and in our final year, we had both changed a lot — but somehow this had made us even more alike than before. In the six years of knowing each other, we never had a single argument. We told each other everything, even the things that would have anyone else running to find a psychiatrist, without fear of it getting out. We encouraged each other through our moments of self-doubt. We took most of the same classes, and gave each other feedback on our work. Her photos and my photos. Her designs and my stories. She kept my secrets and I kept hers. There was never any mention of the possibility of drifting apart after high school.
She went on to further her study of Photography, and I went on to study arts, majoring in Filmmaking and Animation. She graduated. I dropped out. It was during this phase, when I was at a loss for what to do, and she had a clear focus, that the second major life-changing event occurred. She was offered a job as a photographer on a cruise ship in Alaska, and accepted it. I was simultaneously happy for her and sad for myself.
A month or so later, her parents picked me up at some horribly early hour of the morning, and I went with them to see her off at the airport. After she was gone, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I had a job at a photo lab, which I enjoyed, but I knew it wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing. I decided to take two weeks leave, and travelled three days on the train to Queensland, where half of my extended family live. I spent my holiday trying to figure out what on earth I was going to do with my life. I knew I wanted to work in some creative environment, but had no idea in what capacity. On the train home I wrote a lot of short stories in my notebook. Stories about the water, travel, music and random people I saw along the way. I still had no idea what I wanted to do.
When I got home, the first thing that happened was that I received a phone call from my boss to tell me that the photo lab was being closed down in a month, and that I would need to start looking for a new job.
I looked. I applied. I got nowhere. Then one day, I typed ‘Photo Lab’ into the keyword box of the job search website, and accidentally hit enter before I had selected Melbourne as the city. Dozens of jobs appeared. Jobs on mountain ski resorts. Jobs in rural towns. Jobs on tropical islands.
And there it was. A Photographic Assistant position in the Whitsunday Islands. On Hamilton Island. Rent included in the wage. Editing photos. Two regular days off each week. I was qualified, and I suddenly felt the need to get out of the town I was in. I decided that it was my location that was stifling me. I had to get out. I sent through an application on the 5th of June, got the job ten days later, and left the following Monday.
I lived on the island for six months. It wasn’t until mid-way through that sixth month, as the sun was going down on the ninth day of November, that it hit me. It was like someone had flicked on the light switch and suddenly I could see what it was that had been nagging at me from some dark corner at the back of my mind. It was that afternoon that I realised that I was a writer. Not that I wanted to be a writer. I already was one. I knew because every time something bad happened, my first response was to write about it. Every time something good happened, I would write. And during all those times in between when life was flat and bland and neutral, I would step out of myself and write about something else, someone else, anything at all. I realised that it was only when I wrote that I felt real.
So I quit my job. I moved back to Melbourne. I enrolled in a writing course. My best friend came back. It was like she had never left. Like I had never left. Only we were both more focused. We still are.
Now we live together, along with her boyfriend who moved here from Canada where they met. I work on my screenplay until the early hours of the morning. She takes photos and works at a lab to pay the bills.
We are both moving towards doing what we are meant for.
And if it weren’t for that shared bag of gummi bears, all those years ago, we might never have got this far.
Sorry I haven’t posted much lately… I’m writing a screenplay, and have producers waiting on pages, so the majority of my writing time has been spent working on that. Also, this has meant that whenever I have tried to write something else, it has been of a fairly low standard. Apparently there is only so much quality writing that I am capable of producing at once. This entry in particular deserves better writing. I’ll edit it when I get time. For anyone who missed part one, you can find it here. It’s nowhere near as long. Barely a paragraph, in fact. Annnddd…. Goodnight.
i open my atlas. my thumb traces a mountain range and i picture light leaks in the sky. the aurora. it’s so far away. somewhere with space and snow and silence. here it is loud and hot and crowded. the sky is low and heavy. i wonder how anyone can think straight with the sky bearing down on them like this.
i’m sorry. i missed a day, and then another, and then time just snowballed. i will try to resume my daily posts…
here we are on a rock floating through space. the ground is soft beneath our feet. way beyond, under the soles of our shoes, the earths core is hot and churning. on the other side, someone else digs their heels into the dirt. you feel the connection. they are your polar opposite. they keep you grounded.
i might do something more with this concept. for now, am going to go to bed. my focus is yet to return. i just feel lost at the moment. tired. stressed. confused. worried. et cetera. heres hoping things change soon.
it’s funny how looking back, it’s possible to trace all you have become to one single defining moment. one thing that changed everything.
for a lot of people, it seems to be a particular piece of music. a holiday they took. a teacher they had in school. an accident, a near miss. they have an experience and something changes.
but for me, it wasn’t a song. it wasn’t a place or a poem or a book or a fright. it wasn’t something profound, it wasn’t something terrifying.
for me, it was gummi bears.
too tired to continue with this tonight… i’ll explain how gummi bears changed my life in the next post.
