Erosion

This is a first draft of a short story I am submitting to a competition. It was inspired from when I saw a mother and daughter having an emotional conversation on the sea shore when I visited New Hampshire recently. Any feedback on how it can be improved would very much be appreciated. Hope you enjoy.

Erosion

It was the girl’s bright pink hoodie that drew my attention. She was sat on a rusting bench, her body hunched and head bowed, the briny wind blowing her raven hair behind her like a plume. Her arms were crossed and she was rubbing her hands along her shoulders for warmth against the February chill. She was a teenager, but I was unable to pinpoint her exact age. As the years pass you find yourself unable to make such distinctions, though a long time ago it had been the easiest thing in the world. She wore those denim mini shorts, dark tights and bright red converse shoes that all the girls in the city centre paraded in. I briefly wondered if Gwen was wearing similar attire at this exact moment. The fact I didn’t know brought tears to eyes already watering from the regular icy blasts attacking us on this cliff top.

      I stared out at the churning sea beyond me, whipped into frenzy by the hostile winds. Waves smashed into the cliffs below, the water foaming like the jaws of a rabid beast repeatedly snapping at its prey. The water swirled and twisted each time the waves beat their retreat. In younger days Angie and I had sat at this spot picking out shapes in the frothing brine, like children seeing animals in the clouds on blustery days. She’d once found it funny after I claimed to see the outline of Pope John Paul II. I could no longer make out any shapes. Maybe I was too old for such fanciful creativity. Or perhaps Angie had been my muse, and without her I could only see the waves for what they were; a relentless force intent on picking apart the cliffs stone by stone. A metaphor for what the tragedies of life could do to a love once as steadfast as these rocks.

    I inhaled deeply, in an attempt to chill the burning lump in my throat with cold sea air. It didn’t work; it only made me shiver into my heavy grey overcoat. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be truly warm on the inside. I shifted on the spot, the wet grass groaning underfoot. I thought it curious how stood here I was in no danger, but no more than three steps forward would result in a cold, painful and utterly lonely death.

    I looked at the girl again. She’d barely moved in the minutes I’d stood here. I scanned for a group of friends, but we only had each other for company. I wished she’d get up and leave. A selfish request, considering she wasn’t here to enjoy this view either. Her glossed lips were downturned and her eyes fixed on the mobile she was spinning through her fingers. She was very pretty, the type of girl that in my teens I’d have done almost anything for a chance to promenade her along the pier on a lazy summers evening.

   What would it be like to be young again? To be her age once more with the kaleidoscope of emotions and chemicals swirling through a developing body, now armed with the experience provided by the passing years? I suspect it would have made me more cavalier in my approach to the opposite sex. I’d be aware of how a long lasting relationship at that age is as much an illusion as how the cliffs repelled each wave’s assault without a scratch.

       Perhaps that was why she was upset. A schoolgirl crush turned sour by the bitter taste of rejection. It could have been almost anything, given the intensity with which teenagers deliberate over every decision. Was Gwen experiencing similar feelings of rejection? Would they twist and turn through the endless labyrinth of her mind until she emerged despising me for what I’d done? The thought would have broken my heart, had it not already been splintered.

    A seagull flew overhead, its mocking cry piercing our bubbles of isolation. The girl finally looked up and saw me. I turned away slowly, returning my gaze to the point on the horizon where the grey seas met the greyer skies above. I could wait. She would go soon and I had no schedule to keep. Not anymore.

    “Stacy! Stacy!”

     An unfamiliar voice made me look around again. A middle aged woman in a smart trouser suit was jogging down the path, her high heeled pumps clattering against the gravel path. They shared the same height, same stature and shade of raven hair. There was only one person this new arrival could be, and the girl didn’t look pleased to see her.

    “I told you to stay the hell away!” she bellowed, standing up swiftly from the bench. Yet she seemed incapable of moving further away, only able to turn her back on her advancing mother. Just like me, paralysed by grief and fear.

   “I just need you to understand,” the mother pleaded, grabbing the girl’s right arm only for it to be roughly jerked from her grasp.

    “I understand better then you do!” the girl howled, ignoring the wind as it flicked strands of hair into her eyes. Clasping her forehead with both hands she added with an anguished growl, “God I can’t believe you’d be so stupid!”

     The mother hung back momentarily; then lowered herself onto the far side of the bench, splaying her feet as she cradled her hands in between her knees. “Ok Stacy, I’m listening. You want to tell me what you really think, go ahead,” she said while staring at the sodden ground.    

    Stacy deliberated over this offer for a good few seconds. I could see her shoulders rising and falling as she took deep gulps of air to calm down. Then she sat down in her original spot, her converse clad feet jiggling from the nerves. I knew I shouldn’t have intruded upon their private conversation, though in truth I didn’t hear much over the adverse weather anyway. I just caught the odd word, including “betrayed”, “unbelievable,” and repeated use of the word, “twat.” At one point Stacy almost got to her feet again, as she shouted at the top of her voice, “And yet you keep going back to him!”

       I was now completely unable to take my eyes away from their heated debate. Was this some sort of cruel joke played on me by demons of the oceans, like in the seafaring myths of old? Of course not, but the sheer coincidence unnerved me nonetheless. It was as if the most recent battles of my life were being acted out before me. Only it was no act; their pain was just as tangible as mine. As tangible as anyone who had ever broken their heart through acts of unfiltered selfishness. As tangible as the pain I had inflicted on my ex-wife and only daughter.

     Jesus I loved them both. And I was sure they still loved me, but I knew it was a love that could never be reclaimed. I’d been the worst type of fool. A cheating fool: a reckless fool: above all else a violent one. I wished so much that I could forget what had happened at precisely 2:17am on an eerily still November night. I’d been drinking, in a fruitless attempt to stall the impending failure of my construction firm. How easy some find it; pinning their troubles on irresponsible governments during times of economic hardship.

     But it was no politician’s fault that I returned home in a whisky drenched haze, barking and thrashing like a bulldog. Angie had tried to calm me down, as always, but this time she couldn’t soothe my anger fast enough. The immediate seconds afterwards were a haze, as if my brain had deleted them out of shame. What I remember for certain was, over Angie’s desperate and pained sobs, hearing the living room door softly creak open. In stepped Gwen in her purple pyjama’s, tears already falling from her misty blue eyes. She looked at me with an expression of terror so powerful no artist or actress could ever recapture it.

    I’d always lived near the sea. I loved the gentle hiss of waves running over the shingle beach, the reek of fresh seaweed intertwining with overpowering smell of fish and chips, seeing the lights of trawlers through the darkness of night. But now, standing on the brink of deep oblivion, I only saw its raw power. It was an untamed force beyond control. Men built sturdy walls, nature imposing cliff faces. Yet to the sea these were obstacles to be ultimately devoured. How similar to love. Once the affection between Angie and I was so fierce we felt we could roll back the tides like King Canute of the legends. But then we faced money problems, the stress of keeping my business afloat, Gwen being mercilessly bullied at school, the temptation presented by my PA Rosie Henderson, the violent fuel of alcohol. Each was a wave that crashed against our love until it eroded into rubble. Now all that remained was dusty sand, and it was being washed further and further away from the place it had once stood so steadfast.

    I sighed and took a single step forward. The roar of the sea increased in volume, cheering me on, tempting me like Satan in the desert. But I hesitated. The simplest act of the human body, a single step forward, suddenly became the hardest. I became aware of the taste of salt on my tongue, the rumble of distant traffic and the pinpricks of drizzle on my exposed forehead. Little things that you take for granted but would be missed if they were not there. But what use do they have when life loses all meaning?     

   Unable to stop myself I turned around once more to see the argument had ended in a mutual ceasefire. This was signified by the tears now falling down Stacy’s cheeks as she rested her head on her mums shoulder, who affectionately ran her hands through her daughters raven hair; the well practised motion only a mother could perform. It seemed they’d found peace, at least temporarily. Above all it was a moment of silent reflection over what had already transpired, and what was yet to occur. Their closeness was almost tangible, like a familiar childhood smell that soothes you when nervous or afraid.

     I felt a burning in my chest, and the knot in my throat began to unravel.  Tears blurring my vision I could imagine Gwen in the girls place, her long red hair tumbling down her shoulders like a curtain, crying out for her father to help her. Maybe I could. The domestic affair unfolding in front of me had reawakened a long dormant emotion. Hope. I’d been running from my past for too long. This mother and daughter had confronted their problems and, while perhaps they were far from reconciled, they had made their first crucial steps away from the precipice on which I now stood.

    The sea didn’t seem as hypnotic now, the waves no longer beating out an inviting rhythm. This could be an end, but didn’t have to be the end. I could no longer reclaim everything that I had once had, but perhaps there was a chance to build something new from the eroded rubble of my previous life. That is the cycle of the coast, and ultimately the cycle of life.  From what was lost, something new will take its place, for better or worse. What I made of these changes was up to me, and was something to be embraced, not discarded.

    My fingers trembling as much as from the adrenaline as from the cold, I reached into the pockets of my billowing coat and picked out the heavy rocks filling them, one after the other. Then in turn I threw them over arm into the air. I watched as each stone hurtled into the sea, the noise they made on impact drowned out by the roar of the waves. They swiftly disappeared into the dark grey depths, now serving a different purpose to what I had originally intended. Nature would carry them downstream to ultimately form new lands on which life could flourish. They would no longer be used as tools to end my own existence. Then, holding my head high against the disapproving wind I walked away from the brink, bestowing a thankful gaze to the tearful girl and mother as I strode purposefully to my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting down shore

Copyright Michael Foster 2012

Alan Wake's American Nightmare

We live in a world where video game heroes are bald, chisel jawed and have more muscle then an Olympic weightlifter. They carry massive guns and blow the living stuffing out of everything that moves, such is the demand for the action packed shooters that dominate the modern gaming world. Perhaps this is why mild mannered Alan Wake is a breath of fresh air. He has hair, which is a good start, but additionally he is as far away from a hero as you can get. He’s a writer, not a warrior, and carries deep flaws and traits that make him feel utterly mortal. You played through the game believing you were in fact seeing the development of a character, as opposed to the development of an avatar.

    Alan Wake was a thoroughly enjoyable romp; a knowing love letter to the Stephen King school of psychological horror mixed in with the action elements that are usually found in a Resident Evil or Silent Hill. There was more than a whiff of Resident Evil 4 in the sequences where you are being relentlessly hunted by possessed townspeople wielding axes and chainsaws. A strong story featuring likeable characters, a suitably dark and imposing setting, and a neat gameplay device of weakening enemies using light before you could blast them, added into one very strong title. It had some issues with pacing and repetition, but a strong desire to see the story through to the end helped you power through without really thinking about it.

     The problem then, for Remedy, was what to do next. The first game took five years to develop and sold respectably, though not astoundingly. It was clear from the nature of the ending and the way they affectionately referred to the title as ‘Alan Wake, Season 1,’ that they had more planned. But what they produced next was not a true sequel in the strictest sense. They released ‘Alan Wake, American Nightmare.’ An exclusive DLC release that provides a short, but sweet, additional adventure for Mr Wake.

    In a slight twist, this tale is acted out like an episode of Night Springs; the ‘Twilight Zone-esque’ show you could watch on various TV’s dotted around the first game. There is a reason for this. Alan, in his continuing battle with the darkness in the form of his murderous doppelganger Mr Scratch, has written another tale that is coming true, which he based on an old episode of Night Springs which he wrote when he first started out as a writer. But his manuscript is scattered and his knowledge on how to end the nightmare incomplete, and once again he has to find the missing pieces in order to stop himself being trapped in a groundhog day-esque time loop for all eternity. The game is deliberately canny about stating whether this is an out and out follow up to the events of the first game set in the real world, or if it is just a product of Wake’s imagination as he battles his evil twin.

     There’s no such deliberation to be had with the gameplay however, as you are quickly plunged straight into the darkness bashing that made up the meat and potatoes of the first game. Less is made of the story heavy segments, focus this time is much on the action. A good job then that while the gameplay remains pretty much unchanged, they have added an array of new weapons for Wake to wield, and made it so his torch is nigh on impossible to run down. It makes dodging and shooting the baddies that much more streamlined, and much more enjoyable as a result.

     A shame then, that it suffers so much from issues of repetition; which is bizarre when you consider that it is a five to six hour game. It is inevitable, when dealing with time loop storylines, that repetition is going to play a big role. But largely it deals with it well by mixing events up and changing dialogue with the NPC’s. But when you find yourself dealing with wave after wave of very similar enemies, as you did in the first game, then you begin to wonder if they couldn’t have shaken it up a little more.

    This of course doesn’t mean that it isn’t fun, because it is. The chance to discover more about the story by once again uncovering pages from Wake’s missing manuscript provides an intriguing distraction, even if the writing style is erratically different from one page to another. Radio interviews featuring Wake’s agent Barry and his new clients (the old time rockers from the first game), and TV’s displaying the hijinks of Mr Scratch, add another level to an already compacted story. A story that definitely leaves you wanting more from Alan Wake, with the ending again decidedly ambiguous as to where the protagonist will go next.

     Add into this a high score arcade mode, where you fight to survive until morning against the hordes while scoring as high as possible, and you get a package that is well worth the 1200 MS points you’re asked to hand over. Above all else it is encouraging to see that Remedy are not yet done with this fledgling franchise, and bonus material such as American Nightmare can only increase our hope that someday we will see a fully fledged sequel.