Relics of the Ancients (Fiction)

He paused.

What a find! He could barely breathe in his excitement. He tried to call out, but instead squeaked like a mouse. His throat seemed to have dried and stuck together.

So. Many. Relics.

All in one place. All tangled together. It would take years to carefully prise them apart, trying not to damage them further, assemble and catalogue them.

A goldmine!

He smiled at his own use of such an archaic and abstract term. Even more ancient than these relics. It meant a “bottomless pit of riches”.

That’s exactly what he was seeing here. He knew that what he was looking at was only a small part of what was beneath. His imaging equipment told him the volume beneath – it was massive.

The ancients had dumped items no longer being used into collective areas. Ancient texts referred to them as “Refuse centres”. Possibly because the items were refused as imperfect?

It could also be a “Recycling Collection Point”, he pondered. It was hard to tell the difference, but more items of coloured hydrocarbon and metal were found at “Recycling Collection Points”, and not much else.

Either way, he’d have years of funding for a whole team to dig it all out. Years more to examine, catalogue and discuss it.

He gasped audibly. A travelling exhibition! He could be famous! His mind was running ahead of him, hoping, imagining, the items he would find beneath his feet.

He took a steadying breath. He found his water bottle and drank. Another steadying breath.

Wait. He’d be the first to collect something before he called the others.

He checked his thick protective gloves as he knelt. No tools. Just gentle hands.

Carefully he grasped the nearest piece of flexible hydrocarbon and tugged. It slithered towards him smoothly, then stopped abruptly. Folding it out of the way, he reached beneath it. Using both hands he gently prodded, moving things aside. There! What was that! He pulled out a bright red mass of thin plastic threads, bound together on a wide open, shallow bag of some sort. One side was loose threads, the other a woven net of a different colour. With the care of wonder adding to his years of training, he lifted it, turning it gently, watching how the strands fell. Eventually he decided that it was a decorative protective covering of some kind. It seemed to have a better aesthetic when “upside down”, the coloured part inside, the red threads falling neatly in a cascade. What it covered he had no idea.

Credits flashed before his mind’s eye. So many credits. Countless wealth! It would take years of research. YEARS!

In his excitement he almost forgot to be gentle as he stuffed his find into his collection bag.

He was about to call to the others, but there were more things right by his feet. He might as well have a bit more of a look.

His probing fingers found something more solid. Small. Rectangular. Thin. He extracted it slowly. At the other end it had a small circular hole, and a length of webbed fabric attached. He kept pulling, disentangling the fabric from the many things it was entwined with. Once it was free, he gently wiped at the rectangle, trying to make out the ancient language.

ComiCon

Drat! He wasn’t familiar with that! He would have to consult the lexicon.

He added it to his bag. There was something glinting. He’d grab that too! Carefully extracting the shiny thing revealed that it was an embossed, five pointed shape of gold-coloured plastic attached to khaki fabric.

Deputy Sheriff.

He knew what that meant! It was a mark for a law-enforcement occupation!

As he extracted more of the fabric, he realised it was the remains of clothing. There was more plastic attached. This one rectangular and black with white writing.

Nicole Haught

He had no idea on that one. Lexicon again. Research hours!

He was shaking with excitement by now. Uncovering the culture of the past! No doubt some important figure had worn these items. A person of significance in the culture of the ancients.

“What are you doing?” It was an exasperated shriek from Eiowyn. “Your camera light isn’t on! It’s not recording! You’re missing valuable footage!”

She stomped an exasperated foot.

“How many times do I have to remind you that people won’t come to see the relics unless they can watch The Finding! They’re certainly not going to pay to read about something that they haven’t seen verified as authentic first! Without The Finding all the videos would be incomplete too! What were you thinking?

You’ll have to tangle it back up in there and find it all over again.

Why didn’t you call me first?”

He still couldn’t speak. The excitement was now mixed with embarrassment. The dancing credits slowed their whirl in his head.

“Of course.’ He said, defeated.

He pulled out his find. He tucked the lanyard and ComiCon pass inside the wig, and put the remains of a shirt with 2 badges on top. He placed them under the half-submerged plastic shopping bag. It wouldn’t matter that they weren’t buried deep. It was more important that they not be damaged any more. He’d pull out other things first, then “find” them. It would work.

Eiowyn seemed satisfied. She called the lighting team, walked him back a few paces, checked his makeup. Some smearing made it more “believable”.

Jupiter, the lighting guy, checked the levels and nodded. Checking everyone was in place, Eiowyn flicked the switch on Brad’s helmet-cam, nodded to the other cameramen and shouted:

“Action!”

Swimming Away (Fiction)

Trigger warning: childhood abuse

The woman swims until her body is numb, acting by instinct, efficiently, not the way it’s been taught, which is more awkward, less efficient. It feels good.

She does a few half-hearted dolphin kicks, remembering her childhood, pretending to be a mermaid.

When she reaches the end of the pool, the young Lifeguard speaks to her excitedly, impressed:
“Were you trying to do a dolphin kick?” they begin.

“Childhood muscle memory,” she mutters, adding without thinking, “Trying to escape.”

The Lifeguard blinks. Pauses. “Were you attacked in the water as a child?”

Shaking her head, not in denial but to shove the memory away, she dives back under, swimming away to safety, the Lifeguard left wondering.

But she’s never safe. She swims with her memories.

“I’ll let you back up when you swallow,” he grins evilly, his hand on her head, pushing her back under water, her eyes wide, her scream muffled by the huge sausage in her throat. Food isn’t supposed to hurt you. Food isn’t supposed to choke you. Fathers aren’t supposed to hold you under water.

An adult walking on the beach approached and asked suspiciously,

“What are you doing?”

“Playing a game,” he said easily, with a relaxed smile.

The adult looked skeptically at the struggling child under water. He let her up and she coughed violently, gasping in desperation, unable to do anything else. Her father made reassuring, apologetic sounds and picked her up. She sagged against him in relief, clinging to his neck in desperation.

The stranger seemed reassured by his charm as her father continued the conversation and they eventually laughed at her with her father, and walked on.

Once they were far enough away he gently coaxed her to let go of his neck, smiling, soothing. Once her feet were on the ground he grabbed her wrist angrily and there was a cracking noise. He almost pulled her off her feet.

“If you get me into trouble, I’ll leave you behind! You’ll never see anyone again.” He hissed at her.

She blinked. Terrified. Left behind? Like her doll. Never see anyone? What does that mean? So many images whirling through her mind: Her friend down the road. Her grandma with the yummy cakes. Her school. Her loving father who was so strange and angry. The stranger laughing at her. She didn’t want other people to laugh at her. It was so bewildering.

Again she was under the water, unable to breathe, choking on the sausage that her father always managed to bring when he took her to the beach.

Maybe they grew at the beach? She had checked the beach bag before she put it in the car, “So helpful!” Her mother had smiled, going back to bed. There had been no sausage in the bag, but again she was choking on it’s vast rubberyness. Where did it come from?

“I’ll let you up when you swallow.”

Her stinging eyes were closed, she couldn’t breathe, she was so tired, so sleepy. She just wanted it to end. She wasn’t even sure if she did it on purpose or just couldn’t help it, but she swallowed that hateful sausage. She felt it stuck in her throat, and it seemed to burst. The world went black.

“Swallow the salt, it will make you vomit.”

Isn’t vomiting bad? She had vague memories that teachers and mothers don’t like vomit. Grandma HATED vomit, she remembered.

She was stumbling up the steps to the holiday cottage, crying and shaking uncontrollably. Her throat hurt from the salt and vomit and blood and from the sausage that had been there, stretching it. She’d swallowed it, but she was still so hungry! Her nose was running. She couldn’t speak, but she tried to. Urgent noises came from somewhere deep within her.

Her mother blinked. “What happened?”

“Oh,” said her father in that condescending tone reserved for children who have inconvenienced their parents by hurting themselves, “She went under water and got a mouthful. It got up her nose.” He laughed. “She’s not very happy about it!”

Her mother laughed too. “It’s only some water!” In a mocking tone: “Did the mean water hurt you, diddums?”

Her father said: “You can go to bed for a while.”

That meant he didn’t want a child in the way. She went.

She needed some fresh water to drink, to wash her eyes and skin, but couldn’t speak to ask for it. She was too small to get it herself. She needed something to eat, too.

No-one cared. No-one would help.

She went to bed. Her skin was stinging, here eyes were stinging. Her throat was worse. She closed her eyes and relaxed her body as she’d learned. She could hear her parents making those noises they made sometimes when she was in bed. She didn’t like those noises. She put the pillow over her head. Sleep would make it go away. When she woke up she knew that her parents would be happy. They would have forgotten she had been hurt and upset. It would almost be like it hadn’t happened. If she tried to talk about it, her mother would say it was a dream.

She’d learned to swallow her tears.

Later, she’d made the water her escape. Now she could swim away.