ebvarlin-blog

[ebvarlin-blog]

Caleb; Draft 2

Note: Things in bold are things I’m considering changing.

The sun was setting and Caleb slinked below it. Brushing through the trees like a whisper tickling a neck, he paused and sat on his haunches. Low voices drifted towards him as he watched like a great white shark, complete with dark dead eyes. Perfect, he thought. He shifted and the leaves on low-hanging branches rustled. 

A group relaxed on the brown, patchy, grass. Caleb observed as two of them stood and danced. Notes of laughter floated in the air as dresses twirled. Through the round cotton holes, Caleb watched. The wind rushed and he was motionless as the leaves beat a tattoo on his shoulders. 

Four bare feet danced over the ground, disturbing what little grass remained. One of the girls was sat down, his eyes darting towards her. Brown hair flowed down her back, and one strap had fallen off her shoulder. His gaze followed her slender back, until he saw how her hips widened. He raised his camera and snuck a photograph.

Shrieks, and his gaze flicked up. The others were in a pile, tussling in the grass. A few more. He raised his camera again. Under the cover of the trees he was invisible, dressed in all black. The girls didn’t leave until the moon was rising. 

Crawling backwards, Caleb stood when he was clear of the shrubbery. Around him were tall trees with thin trunks and thinner branches. Leaves crunched as he strode. Orange, red, and dark yellow, curling as they died. Grasping at the crown of his head, he tugged the mask off, stuffing it into his back pocket. 

He had sandy hair, a round nose and dull muddy eyes. Trudging forward, Caleb stalked between the trees. His car sat at the side of the road. A car trundled past. He waited before leaving the forest, standing behind one of the thin trunks. He watched it disappear around a bend in the road, and hurried to his car. 

The gravel driveway crackled under his tires. He tugged the handbrake, removed the key, and the low rumble of the engine ceased. The door of his Imp creaked as he opened it, and stepped out. 

He pulled the ring on a can of Carling, and poured it into a glass. The head frothed over onto the kitchen counter. Slurping at it, Caleb carried it to his desk. He clicked the mouse. 

The monitor illuminated his face, and he typed. Geraldine71. Routinely, he plugged a cable into his camera and waited. He drank. A few clicks, and the girls were on his computer, blown up from the small screen of his camera. Blurred reds and oranges singed the edges of the pictures. 

He perused the photos, and he drank. 

The alarm screeched. His finger pushed the off button, and Caleb sat up. The covers fell from his pallid chest. He swung his legs out, and sat at the edge. Staring forward, he looked at the unused dressing table. His face glowered back, lips a straight pink pale line and ears that were flat to his head. Standing, he flicked the switch on the light on the dressing table. Caleb was lit up by patchy half-working lights. He turned it off. 

The kettle shuddered and shook; steam gushed from the spout. One mug sat on the counter. Slippers brushed the floor, and the boiling water sloshed through the teabag. Caleb peered at the garden. Brambles grew through bushes, spiked branches reaching toward him. Flowers wilted, dead and dying in their beds. The tree had shed its leaves; naked. Caleb dumped the teabag into the sink.

Buttoning his baby blue shirt, he lifted the collar. Caleb tightened the tie around his neck. 

He typed. His fingers stabbed at the keys as though each had insulted him. The din of the office around him plugged his ears. Phones rang, keyboards chattered, people milled. Caleb typed. 

‘Caleb?’

He grunted an acknowledgement.

‘Do you want me to send over the Cramwell story?’ asked Tom. Caleb looked up from his keyboard. Tom was standing in the open doorway of his office. Don’t remember leaving that open. He was young, had swept back auburn hair; freckles dotted his cheeks. 

‘Have you finished it?’ he asked, his dull brown eyes boring into Tom’s sparkling blue.

‘Yeah; all done,’ replied Tom with a proud smile.

‘Send it over,’ said Caleb. Tom turned and Caleb thought he saw a skip in his step. ‘There had better not be any mistakes!’ Tom didn’t hear. He settled back into his typing, and sent back the article, frustrated. 

The Crunch. It was stuck in limbo, floating along in mediocrity. Caleb looked out from his office with its glass walls at the large sign opposite. The title of the website hung there in bold black letters, a full-stop sitting at the end. Caleb leaned back in his expensive executive chair, and stared at the ceiling. He tried to see patterns in the ceiling tiles but it was chaos in off-white. Tom’s email arrived with a pleasant ping.

Caleb stood over the shoulder of his sub-editor, Jemima, watching her arrange pictures of a celebrity; blurred leaves lived at the edge of the intrusions. He told sub-editor the composition was good, and to liaise with Tom to complete the article. The office sound had died out, his staff gone for the day. 

He closed his office door and collapsed into his desk chair. He regretted the decision to have a modern glass interior. There was nowhere to hide in the office, save for a bathroom stall. The space was open-plan, with a collection of desk where his staff spent their days. Turning his back on the emptiness, he looked out over the river and the city south of it. The water rushed along, bringing several boats with it. Two had small sails, one streaked with a splash of blue, the other plain. There was a tug, orange and white. He could see the captain; rotund and wearing overalls, the clasps gleaming. The tug pulled a barge. It was covered by a dark tarpaulin. Caleb wondered what it carried. His best guess was fish from the nearby harbour. 

His gaze followed the tug until it was out of sight, hidden by one of the bridges spanning the river. He spun again. Caleb looked past his dim monitor with its perpetual bouncing screensaver to the empty office. One of the chairs had its back to him. Sarah would usually sit there. He imagined the girl from the night before. Caleb could see her dark locks spilling down her back, and they shifted, blown by an imaginary breeze. He blinked and she was gone. 

Caleb was in front of his computer. Glass of beer in his left hand, mouse in his right. Click, a picture. A woman, tall in dark heels, his eyes raked over her. Click. A young man, square jawed and broad shouldered, in deep red swimming trunks. Click. A girl, dark hair tumbling down, obscuring her neck. Click. Geraldine. Click. Nothing.

The passenger-side door didn’t creak. Caleb clambered over the gearstick, and got out. His camera was swinging from a strap around his neck. He pushed the car door shut with a gentle thump. The tall thin trees surrounded him. Leaves crackled and crunched underfoot. The mask was soft, dark in his hands, and he pulled it on. Dirty blond hair covered his eyes. Caleb stuffed a hand into the mask and pushed it away. He set off through the forest, looking for the field on the other side. 

Gazing out of the bushes, the field was deserted. He checked his watch. Still early. The moon was faint in the pink evening sky. Caleb settled into the bushes, sitting crossed legged on the dry ground. He waited. Even the bushes were starting to succumb to the autumn. Soon they’d barely hide him. 

Caleb waited, and waited. Waited some more. Checked his camera, flicking through old photos he’d yet to delete from the memory card. The scroll wheel clicked. Two men. Then, a bunch of students out on the town, one man being held up by two others. They wore clothes as tight as the man’s arms clutching his friends. 

He wrapped his arms around his body, holding himself like he used to hold his wife. Caleb looked up as the grew darker until the moon was a white crescent, high in the sky. Nothing stirred on the field. Caleb sighed, and shoved himself up. He stumbled and fell out of the bush, his foot caught on a thick branch at the root. He cried, and there was a snap like a branch breaking. Crumpled in the open, he pushed himself up. The lens of his camera hung by a tangle of electronics. Cursing, he stood.

Fuck this. 

His little Hillman Imp was freezing when he was back inside. Caleb rubbed his hands together and dropped his broken camera on the passenger seat. He rotated the key a half-turn and twisted the dial on the dashboard. The heater roared at him through tiny vents, and he was blasted with cool air. Caleb snatched up the camera. He flicked on the interior light. 

The body looked fine, he thought. Though the lens was irreparable. He pulled at it until it broke off, detaching what remained from the body of his camera. The heat was dry, blowing into his face. He turned it down a notch, and set off. The lights illuminated the road before him. His rickety old car swallowed up the black tarmac, and cat’s eyes gleamed at him. Caleb turned on the radio. Skip, skip, skip; settled on a talk show.

‘… and this was what lead to the downfall of print media,’ said a voice, deep and full of righteousness.

‘I wouldn’t say it’s dead, any more so than radio is “dead”,’ replied a more level voice, soft, like a breeze you welcomed during a heatwave.

‘But you two would both agree that it’s declining?’ asked a moderate voice.  

Caleb’s eyes darted to the side of the road, where a figure was holding out a hand. A thumb was stuck up. He drove past, and watched through the rear-view. They dropped their arm and leaned their head back, staring at the sky. They might’ve been shouting but Caleb couldn’t hear over the blasting heater or the continuous blabber of the radio. He put on the brakes and flicked his hand down on the indicator stalk. Stopped at the side of the road, Caleb watched the figure hurrying to the car through the rear-view mirror. 

The door opened. 

‘Going to the city?’ There was barely enough light to see him. He sounded young and male. 

‘Near,’ replied Caleb.

The man got in. Caleb snatched the camera so the hitchhiker wouldn’t sit on it. He tossed the broken camera onto the backseat. The door shut and Caleb drove.

‘Thanks,’ said the man, ‘would’ve hated to walk. I’m Darren.’ He offered a hand. Caleb crossed his arms and shook it.

‘Caleb. It’s not a problem. Headed that way anyway.’ 

Darren held his hands to the vent on the far left of the dashboard. Caleb looked at him sideways. Overhead, lampposts passed and he could catch glimpses of Darren’s profile. His nose was sharp and long, with thin lips, an underbite, a weak chin, and patchy stubble. 

‘Got anywhere to stay tonight?’ asked Caleb, breaking the silence.

‘Um, no idea. Didn’t really plan…’ Darren ran a hand through wavy hair and Caleb caught his nervous glance.

‘You can stay at my house,’ suggested Caleb. What are you doing?! he screamed to himself. 

‘It’s okay, you don’t have–’ 

‘No bother at all, you can sleep in the spare room,’ continued Caleb, staring straight ahead as he drove. Stopped at a junction, went left. 

‘That’s kind of you, thanks,’ replied Darren.

Caleb opened the door to the spare bedroom. It hadn’t been used since his daughter had left. It was plain now, she’d taken most of the things she wanted. The wardrobe and drawers were empty, shelves devoid of books and her small film collection. A poster was askew on the wall, corners ragged. A boyband posed in it. 

‘Here you go,’ said Caleb. Darren entered, looking around. Caleb turned away then paused. ‘Oh, door doesn’t close, by the way.’ 

He could hear Darren turning on the old bed. The springs cried and screeched at every roll. Staring at the ceiling, he waited for the sound to stop. The digital clock was red. 01:13. When Caleb thought it was safe. He’d not heard springs for half an hour. He got up, and padded down the hallway.

The door was ajar. Darren had tried to close it. Caleb peeked his head in. Darren was on his back. His chest naked, and the duvet had bunched around his middle. He wasn’t muscled, and some hair grew on his stomach. It tapered into a thin trail going south and leading Caleb’s eyes. He took a soft step deeper into the room. His heart pounded against his ribs. All he could hear was blood coursing through his body like a raging river. 

He reached for the duvet. 

[ebvarlin-blog]

Caleb; Draft 1

Notes: Words and phrases I’ve bolded are things I wanted to look at changing as I wrote them.

The sun was setting in the sky and Caleb slinked below it. Brushing through the trees like a whisper tickling a neck, he paused and sat on his haunches. Low voices drifted towards him as he watched, a pair of white pricks in the dark. Perfect, he thought. He shifted and the leaves on low-hanging branches rustled.

A group relaxed on the brown, patchy, grass. Caleb observed as two of them stood and danced. Notes of laughter floated in the air as dresses twirled. Through the round cotton holes, Caleb watched. His chest rose and fell, and he was motionless as the leaves beat a steady tattoo on his shoulders.

Four bare feet danced over the ground, disturbing what little grass remained. He focused his attention elsewhere. Brown hair flowed down her back, and one strap had fallen off her shoulder. His eyes followed the taper of her back, until he was staring into the dirt. He raised his phone, made sure it was on silent, and snuck a photograph.

Shrieks, and his gaze flicked up. The others were in a pile, tussling in the grass. A few more. He raised his phone again. Caleb stayed still, though. Under the cover of the trees he was invisible, dressed in all black. The girls didn’t leave until the moon was rising. 

Crawling backwards, Caleb stood when he was clear of the lower branches. Around him were tall trees with thin trunks and thinner branches. His shoes crunched leaves as he strode, orange, red, and dark yellow. Grasping at the crown of his head, he tugged the mask off, stuffing it into his back pocket.

He had sandy hair, a round nose and dull muddy eyes. Trudging forward, Caleb passed between the trees. His car sat where he left it at the side of the road. He waited before leaving the forest, standing behind one of the thin trunks. A car trundled past. He watched it disappear around a bend in the road, and hurried to his car.

The gravel driveway crackled under his tires. Pulling the handbrake up, Caleb turned the key in the ignition, and the low rumble of the engine ceased. The door creaked as he opened it, and stepped out.

Inside, he pulled the ring on a can of Carling, and poured it into a glass. The head frothed over onto the kitchen counter. Slurping at it, he carried it to his desk where he wiggled and clicked the mouse.

The monitor illuminated his face, and he typed. Geraldine71. Routinely, he plugged a cable into his phone and waited. He drank. A few clicks, and the girls were on his computer, blown up from the small screen of his phone. In some photos, blurred reds and oranges singed the edges of the pictures.

He clicked slowly through them, and he drank.

His finger pushed the off button, and Caleb sat up. The covers fell down from his sallow chest. He swung his legs out, and sat at the edge. Staring forward, he looked at the unused vanity. His face glowered back, lips a straight pale pink line and ears that didn’t stick out enough. Standing, he flicked the switch on the vanity, and the lights lit him up. Some didn’t work. He turned them off.

The kettle shuddered and shook; steam gushed from the spout. One mug sat on the counter. Slippers brushed the floor, and the boiling water sloshed through the teabag. Caleb looked into the garden. Brambles grew through bushes, the spiked branches looked as if they were reaching toward him. Flowers wilted in their beds, and the tree had shed its leaves. Caleb dumped the teabag into the sink.

Buttoning his baby blue shirt, he lifted the collar. The tie slipped around and he held out the left side. He folded the right over it, and pulled it through the hole. Caleb tightened it around his neck.

He typed. His fingers stabbed at the keys as though each had insulted him. The din of the office around him plugged his ears. Phones rang, keyboards chattered, people milled. Caleb typed.

“Caleb?”

He grunted an acknowledgement.

“Do you want me to send over the Cramwell story?” asked Tom. Caleb looked up from his keyboard. Tom was standing in the open doorway of his office. Don’t remember leaving that open. He was young, had red hair that was swept back and freckles that dotted his high cheeks.

“Have you finished it?” he asked, his dull brown eyes boring into Tom’s sparkling blue.

“Yeah; all done,” replied Tom with a proud smile.

“Send it over,” said Caleb. Tom turned and Caleb thought he saw a skip in his step. “There had better not be any mistakes!” Tom didn’t hear. He settled back into his typing, and sent back the article, frustrated.

The Crunch. had not been the huge success he had hoped, but neither had it flopped. Caleb looked out from his office with its glass walls at the large sign opposite. The title of the website hung there in bold black letters, a full-stop sitting at the end. Caleb leaned back in his expensive executive chair, and stared at the ceiling. He tried to see patterns in the artex but it was confusion in off-white. Tom’s email arrived with a pleasant ping.

Caleb stood over the shoulder of one of the sub-editors, watching them arrange pictures of a celebrity. He noticed a few tell-tale hints that the photographer had lingered in some nearby shrubbery. He told sub-editor the composition was good, and to liaise with Tom to complete the article. The usual annoying office sound had died out, with most of his staff gone for the day.

He closed his office door and collapsed into his desk chair. The decision to have a modern glass interior was one he regretted. There was nowhere to hide in the office, save for a bathroom stall. Turning his back on the assorted empty desks, he looked out over the river and the city South of it. The water rushed along, bringing several boats with it. Two had small sails, one streaked with a splash of blue, the other plain. There was a tug, orange and white. He could see the captain, rotund with braces keeping his trousers up. The tug pulled a barge. Caleb wondered what was in the barge as it was covered by a dark tarpaulin. His best guess was fish from the nearby harbour.

His gaze followed the tug until it was out of sight, hidden by one of the bridges spanning the river. Spinning in his chair once more, he looked past his dim monitor with it’s perpetual bouncing screensaver to the empty office. One of the chairs had its back to him, and it was where Julie would usually sit. Now he imagined the girl from the night before. Caleb could see her dark locks spilling down her back, and they shifted, blown by an imaginary breeze. He blinked and she was gone. 

Caleb was in front of his computer. He had his glass of beer in his left hand, mouse in his right. Click, a picture. A woman, tall in dark heels, his eyes raked over her. Click. A young man, square jawed and broad shouldered, in deep red swimming trunks. Click. A girl, dark hair tumbling down obscuring her neck. Click. Nothing.

The passenger-side door didn’t creak. Caleb clambered over the gearstick, and got out, a camera swinging from a strap around his neck. He pushed the car door shut with a gentle thump. He was back between the tall thin trees. More leaves had fallen since his last visit, and they crackled and crunched underfoot. The mask was soft in his hands, and he pulled it on over his head. His dirty blond hair was pushed down over his eyes. Caleb stuffed a hand into the mask and pushed it away. He set off, passing through the forest, looking for the field on the other side.

Gazing out of the bushes lining the edge the field, he saw it was deserted. No matter. He checked his watch. Still early. The moon was faint in the pink sky. Caleb settled into the bushes, sitting crossed legged on the dry ground. He waited, dull eyes staring. Even the bushes were starting to succumb to the autumn. Soon they’d barely hide him.

Caleb waited, and waited. Waited some more. Checked his camera, flicking through old photos he’d yet to delete from the memory card. The scroll wheel clicked. Two men. Then, a bunch of students out on the town, one man being held up by two others. They wore tight smiles and tight clothes.

The moon was high in the sky, a white crescent. Nothing stirred on the field. Caleb sighed, and shoved himself up. He stumbled and fell out of the bush, his foot caught on a thick branch at the root. ‘Ah!’ he cried, a crack sounding alongside his cry. Crumpled in the open, he pushed himself up. The lens of his camera hung by a tangle of electronics. Cursing, he stood. Damn this.

His little Hillman Imp was freezing when he was back inside. Caleb rubbed his hands together and dropped his broken camera on the passenger seat. Turning the key, he started the engine and turned the heater on full blast. It roared at him through tiny vents, and he was blasted with cool air. Waiting for the car to warm, Caleb snatched up the camera. He flicked on the interior light and observed it.

The body looked fine, he thought. Though the lens was irreparable. He pulled at it until it broke off, detached what remained from the body of his camera. The heat was dry, blowing into his face. He turned it down a notch, and set off. The lights illuminated the road before him. His rickety old car swallowed up the black tarmac, and cat’s eyes gleamed at him. Caleb turned on the radio. Skip, skip, skip; settled on a talk show.

‘… and this was what lead to the downfall of print media,’ said a voice, deep and full of righteousness.

‘I wouldn’t say it’s dead, anymore so than radio is “dead”,’ replied a more level voice, soft, like a breeze you welcomed during a heatwave.

‘But you two would both agree that it’s declining?’ asked a moderate voice.   Caleb’s eyes darted to the side of the road, where a figure was holding out a hand. A thumb was stuck up. He drove past, and watched through the rear-view. They dropped their arm and leaned their head back, staring at the sky. They might’ve been shouting curses but Caleb couldn’t hear over the blasting heater or the incessant blabber of the radio. He put on the brakes and flicked his hand down on the indicator stalk. Stopped at the side of the road, Caleb looked into the rear-view again.

The door opened. 

‘Going to the city?’ There was barely enough light to see him, but Caleb thought he sounded young, and male. 

‘Near,’ replied Caleb.

The man got in. Caleb snatched the camera the hitchhiker wouldn’t sit on it. He tossed the broken camera onto the backseat. The door shut and Caleb drove.

‘Thanks,’ said the man, ‘would’ve hated to walk. I’m Darren.’ He offered a hand. Caleb crossed his arms and shook it.

‘Caleb. It’s not a problem. Headed that way anyway.’

Darren held his hands to the vent on the left of the dashboard. Caleb looked at him sideways. Overhead, lampposts passed and he could catch glimpses of Darren’s profile. His nose was sharp and long, with thin lips that barely protruded, a weak chin, and patchy stubble.

‘Where do you want dropping off, got anywhere to stay tonight?’ asked Caleb after a while in silence.

‘Um, no idea. Didn’t really plan…’ Darren ran a hand through his wavy hair and glanced at Caleb.

‘You can stay at my house,’ suggested Caleb. What are you doing?! he screamed to himself.

‘It’s okay, you don’t have–’

‘No bother at all, you can sleep in the spare room,’ continued Caleb, staring straight ahead as he drove, stopped at a junction, took a left. He barely looked at Darren.

‘That’s kind of you, thanks,’ replied Darren.

Caleb opened the door to the spare bedroom that hadn’t been used since his daughter had left. It was plain now, she’d taken most of the things she wanted. A poster was askew on the wall, held by Blu-Tack, corners ragged. A boyband posed in it. 

‘Here you go,’ said Caleb. Darren passed him, and looked around. Caleb turned away then paused. ‘Oh, door doesn’t close, by the way.’

He could hear Darren turning on the old bed. The springs cried at every roll. Staring at the ceiling, he waited for the sound to stop. The clock was red with 01:13 when Caleb thought it was safe. There hadn’t been any sound for over half an hour. He got up, and padded down the hallway.

The door was pushed to. Darren had tried to close it anyway. Caleb peeked his head in. Darren was on his back, his chest naked with the duvet bunched around his middle. He wasn’t muscled, and some hair grew on his stomach tapering into a thin trail leading south. Caleb took a soft step deeper into the room. His heart pounded against his ribs and all he could hear was blood coursing through his body.

Stretching out his hand, he grasped the duvet and pulled it down.