Paratethys: A Sialon Story

Lockwood sat at his post on the lip of the Anilos Volcano like so many had done before him. It wasn’t a tall volcano and it hadn’t erupted in over a thousand years. A lush, deciduous forest had grown on the base and at the crater was a layer of magma which puffed away silently as if it were some ancient but powerful being waiting inside. Lockwood had never ventured far from the volcano- it had been decided long before he was born that he be the one to wait. Wait for what? Lockwood could never quite tell.
His clothes had been brought to him by villagers. So too had food, books, and ‘female company’ but Lockwood had worked it out long ago. He was like a parrot in a mine; he was the warning to the rest of the village. The moment he croaked it would be time for them to pick up and leave. He had resigned himself to his situation though; it wasn’t likely that the volcano would erupt in his own lifetime. So he waited at the cliffhanger, waiting ever so patiently, thirty years he had spent waiting.
Then one day, people stopped arriving. No one came to bring him clothes or food or books of ‘female company’. Lockwood was alone on the mouth of the devil with nothing. One hundred days finally passed before he had a visitor. He was reading Roald Dahl for about the millionth time in the hot sun when he saw the figure approach. This figure was dressed rather raggedly. Lockwood had always been supplied very smart clothes for reasons unknown, to give the demons a good impression? His figure however was dressed in a thin shirt, large denim trousers held up by suspenders, a pair of buccaneer boots and a grey woolen overcoat.
“Hello?” Lockwood put the paperback into his jacket pocket, “are you lost?”
“That was so going to be my question” the man’s accent was American. Now that he was closer Lockwood could make out the man’s face. His hair was long and straggly, his skin was rough like tanned leather and his chin was surrounded by unruly stubble. Lockwood took the clues and assumed he’d be one of the jumpers- he wasn’t the first to have jumped into the mouth of the volcano.
“I’m Lockwood”
“Is that your first or last name?” the man scratched the back of his greasy hair, “it’s a nice name nonetheless. I’m Professor Orwell, nice to meet you”
“What do you want?” Lockwood said bluntly, “not another seismologist, for God’s sake, I’ve talked to a hundred seismologists, literally”
“I’m not that fortunate” Orwell took a little green glass orb from his pocket and rolled it around his hands, “I’m not that fortunate though I wish I were”
“Are you another one of those Occult people? I have explicitly told the villagers-”
“Ah, then you’re going to have a bit of a problem complaining to them”
“Why?”
Orwell pushed passed him and made his way uphill, “they’re all dead”
“What?”
“They were all found dead forty-two days ago. All of them, men, women, children, cats, dogs, horses, the lot. Nothing lives down in that village”
“What did they die of?” Lockwood grew cold.
“At five o’clock, forty-two days ago, they all stopped breathing; all four-hundred of them just stopped breathing”
“They asphyxiated?”
“I wish they had. Something just stopped them remembering how to breathe; something got into their minds and just wiped everything from it on how to breathe”
Lockwood shook his head, “what could have done it?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out” said Orwell as he buttoned up his coat, “things might start to get very cold up here”
“We’re sitting on top of a volcano”
“Is that your shack down there?” Orwell nodded to the little cottage built centuries ago, mended by the villagers for the post, “anything valuable to you?”
“I don’t keep any money or-”
“But is there anything valuable to you?”
“My ring. It was my grandfather’s or so the villagers claimed”
“Is that it?”
“Yes”
“Go get it now” Orwell ordered. Lockwood felt compelled to accept the orders of this stranger and so went to fetched the gold circle. When he returned Orwell had taken a rock from the ground and tasted it.
“Ah!” Orwell spat, “that’s…”
“Well what do you expect? It’s a rock”
“No, there’s something else” Orwell grimaced and took a worn notebook from his pocket, “let’s see now”
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh just… seeing the sites” Orwell blew off, “you know”
“I may have been here all my life but I’m no simpleton”
Orwell put on an apologetic face, “no. Sorry about that. In all your life has anything ever happened at this volcano? Anything the volcano’s done? A tremor, anything?”
“Actually no but that’s not too weird for a volcano”
“It’s not just a volcano” Orwell closed his book, “it’s a prison”
“What?” Lockwood didn’t take too lightly to jokers and even though Orwell had said it in all seriousness, Lockwood felt like the man was taunting him, “what do you mean?”
“A demon, a death cloud, maybe a devil”
“You say ‘Devil’ like there’s more than one”
“I did, didn’t I?” Orwell patted Lockwood’s arm, “you better get out of here. Things might get very dangerous”
“We’re on top of a volcano”
“Do you have the patience to hear an old story?” Orwell asked politely.
“I’ve heard a thousand old stories, I’d be surprised if I couldn’t hear one thousand and one”
Orwell took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, “this is an old story but I think you’ll find it enjoyable nonetheless. Here we go…”

“Once upon a time there was a fiend or a sprite of chaos or a punishing whisper; something of great pain. A terrifying, utterly terrifying thing. One day it would just hide under your bed and wait for you to go to sleep. That’s what It does; it comes for you to use your repression, your rage, everything you hold dear, everything that makes you not you. It hid well but in time, it devoured half the planet and then everyone recognized what It was and It made them mad.
There was nothing anyone could do about It because It could be anyone, anything and It knew when anyone would even think about hurting It. It feeds on the panic; It is nourished by whatever’s hiding in the Dark. No one could fight It because they didn’t know how It worked.
Then one day, something fell from the dark side of the Moon and he was praised as the Magician who might defeat It. The Magician tricked It, he tricked It into hiding in him and threw himself into a place where It couldn’t escape. He threw himself into a volcano where no matter how much It screamed there was no one to hear. Once that happened, they forgot. Everyone forgot about It and the Magician who had tried to be a Hero and ended up a Martyr.
So every man, woman and child forgot It ever existed but It was not friendless”

“It’s a nice story”
“It’s not just a story- it’s Paratethys” Orwell looked into Lockwood’s eyes with a dead stare, “one of Sialon’s Brigade”
“So whatever this thing is, you think he’s escaping?”
“Paratethys isn’t a corporeal being- bits of him squeeze through the cracks, your whole village wasn’t enough to feed him though, they all lacked… well, the cynicism to keep him healthy or even to keep it from starving. It went through each and every one of those life forms in less than a second and he died of malnourishment”
“So it’s over?”
“That’s just a tiny-tiny bit- a pilot fish. The rest is still in the volcano, waiting for the right time”
“Is this thing immortal?”
“As long as there’s life on this planet; there will be those like him”
“So what did you come here to do?”
“I came here to release it” Orwell breathed in the sulpher, “I’m going to take away the bars of the prison. Paratethys can use me to rip open a crack in the volcano. All those suicides, all those people who fell in were feeding the prisoner. I should be enough to revive him”
“Why would you do that?”
“A demon we know how to fight is better than one we don’t- when I unlock Paratethys he’ll go back to Sialon. People will remember Paratethys and if he is remembered he can be fought”
“All those years ago-”
“They didn’t know what we know now” Orwell dangled himself over the crater and let the hot air envelope him, “and if we have a chance of beating Sialon, I need to throw myself into this volcano. Better it calls the attention of those who know what to do rather than wait for Sialon himself to find this”
“I’m sorry”
“I’m not- if I die; it might mean the end for all of this” Orwell teetered over the edge.
“One question” Lockwood couldn’t help himself, “is any of this real or was that just a fairy tale?”
“Sounded like one, didn’t it?” Orwell tipped himself in. There was no scream, just the gushing of lava around a man. Lockwood was frozen in thought until he felt the ground beneath his feet rumble. He ran. Something in his genes, all those race memories, told him to run and he did. He dashed until his legs hurt and he was at a reasonably safe distance. He looked at how the volcano began to belch dark smoke; it almost looked like a demon. Alone, friendless, he lamented to himself aloud:
“So it begins”

Ode to the Lights

So by now you’ve got your plastic gels,
Your heavy scaffolding, your 7000-watts
Any colour really sells,
Ordered in 700 lots
There’s your basic shades
Red, yellow, blue
And your actors filleted
In all the different hues
That you can place on them
That subtle icing
They can be a gem
With only the right lighting
And when you need mood
Or rather, when they need tension
Or when they need to brood
You’ve got a cable extension
You can make them anything
Anything in time
With all of your funny little gadgets, oh those funny little gadgets
But, and this is very important, but
You miss the smell of limes
That citrusy smell, cracked opened with a knife
And used to light up the stage
Or someone’s tiny little life
O, to see use those limes once more
Tis something to be missed
Like a walk along the shore
Or a lover once kissed
Where are those little limes
We once used to illuminate
A man’s passion, his hopes, his crimes
His fear, his love, his fate

Shakespearean Prose & The Comatose: A Sialon Story

Written by

Cosmo Smith & Ashm Walters

..

“Shakespearean Sonnet Ex-Ex-Vee-Eye-Eye, you’ll like this one. Shall I read it to you?”
That was me, Oliver McIntyre, reading to the closest thing I might have to a girlfriend, Carlotta Kiid. We lay on her hospital bed, me thinking about Shakespeare and his hackneyed nature and Carlotta thinking about whatever comatose people think about. If you think it’s terrible that I’m sharing a bed with a comatose person then I shall point out that the coma is how we met.

It had been a long day at school with Mikayla making it clear that she never wanted to see me again as she had something better and her name was Courtney and getting mugged walking home. At the home, I had to endure a stern lecture from Pater over where all the vodka in his cabinet was going. I still maintain he drank the spirits himself, if I want booze I can easily lift a couple of bottles of wine from the supermarket. As soon as I was in my room I quickly packed a suitcase and a backpack. I was unsure over what a high school student with a grand total of sixty-three dollars and slim pickings of friends could do in the world but still, with all the teenage bravado of the world I slipped out of the window and onto the sidewalk. Humans always aspire upwards and one of my few friends, Jeffrey, was working as an orderly for Standaloft Hospital, a short ten minute walk from my former residence. While waiting for him in the lobby I went for a bit of a wander, ending up in Carlotta Kiid’s room. In a fit of annoyance and frustration I sort of wept by her bed.
“Oh, sorry”
An Indian doctor with thick spectacles and a rather official clipboard stood by the door, looking at me.
“I didn’t know Miss Kiid got any visitors, I can come back”
The doctor hopped away out of the rabbit hole. Ignited with ingenuity, I looked at the chart on the foot of the bed and read that Carlotta Kiid was pretty much braindead and had been for the past eight months. This gave me an idea. This was the start of my vagrancy.
With the little money I had I bought a roll of aluminum foil and made a thick lining in my backpack. I would shoplift five or six books from well-established bookstores and then sell them to outlet stores. Twenty dollars a day for ten minutes work. On weekends I would go to video stores, shoe emporiums and electronic shops. It’s surprising how much you can stretch living off twenty dollars a day. If ever I was hungry I could go behind to dumpsters outside supermarkets; about sixty percent of what was being thrown away was only twelve hours passed the expiry date. With the residue of my earnings I was able to smoke three cigarettes a day, catch the bus to school, get new clothes and pay for any alcohol I could want and give me my freedom. It was my two obols.
It was idyllic, if not bohemian, which suited me down to the ground. Any time I needed a bed I shared with Carlotta and all of my possessions were kept with her. She was my landlord, my girlfriend and my therapist all rolled into one and slipped under sterile white covers. I think I was in love.

My day began with the familiar bright light of Carlotta’s room. I got up at five o’clock so as not attract too much attention when I use Carlotta’s bathroom. I think a comatose girl using the facilities would be too much, especially as her room bordered on the psych ward. After a quick shower, brushing of the teeth and combing of the hair I got dressed and ready for school.
I arrived at the newsagent at six-thirty. Mr. Pedanski was a hobbled gentleman with dusty glasses and a head devoid of hair.
“What would you be needing today Sir?” he leant over the counter and leered at me suspiciously.
“Walters cigarettes” I said cheerfully. He turned his back to look at his cache of cancer sticks.
“Red or blue?”
“Ah…” as I pretended to think, several candy bars fell into my jacket pockets and even a can of soda, “red please”
I placed my coins to pay for the cigarettes on the counter and walked out briskly. I entered school around seven o’clock to use the computers. Typing up my essay on the state of economy during the French Revolution I ate two of my candy bars and most of my soda. By nine o’clock I was in class and ready for action.
I sat through school, paying less attention to my studies than I paid for food and board. After six mundane hours I was allowed to leave. Lighting my second cigarette of the day, I walked home with my satchel slung around my shoulders. I had saved up enough for a bottle of tequila, which Jeffrey would happily buy for me if he got a share. I fiddled with my transistor radio I’d found in the trash while dumpster diving a few weeks ago. If you want to prove that a monkey shares the same ancestors as a human, just put a broken transistor radio in front of each and they’ll do the same fiddling about.
I returned o Carlotta’s room and studied for my Classics exam in the following week. After two hours I felt too tired to stay awake. I leant beside Carlotta and relaxed every muscle in my body.
“Sialon” she whispered into my ear. My hair prickled as she said that. She had not just said it nonchalantly but grabbed me and sat up slightly.
She whispered it again, “Sialon” before her heart monitor began to flatline. I had thought about that particular scenario months in advance. I quickly packed away all of my possessions and slipped out before the crash cart and the doctors arrived. From outside the room I heard Carlotta continually flatline until finally the plug was pulled.

I waited in the hospital lobby for Jeffrey, sitting in one of the comfy chairs. He had a hot pie to comfort me which was nice. He took the chair beside me and showed off a golden liquid in a plastic bottle.
“What is it?”
“Jet fuel” he grinned, setting it on the table, “it’s a cocktail with a bit of… well, everything”
“Why is it called Jet fuel?”
“About the same alcohol content. Sorry to hear about your landlady”
“These things do happen” I shrugged.
“What will you do now?”
“I don’t really know”
“You can keep your things in my work locker until you find a place to stay” Jeffrey said, “I just locked them up now”
“Thanks”
“I’d offer you my place but I’m already behind on rent”
“Of course”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“Yes…” I thought of Carlotta’s first, and in my case, only, words before thinking better of it, “actually no”
“Well, I’m off” Jeffrey stood up, “hope you find nicer lodgings”
“You forgot your Jet fuel”
Jeffrey stood at the door but didn’t turn around, “no I didn’t” and then he left the building.

I sat on the roof of the hospital and fiddled with my transistor radio as the sun set. It was silver in design, with one of those really old grates on the speakers. I expected it must have made a tinny sound when turned up to full volume. As I played with the radio I sipped on the Jet fuel. I am no novice when it comes to drinking but that concoction was enough to bring a lesser drinker to their knees.
“Hello everyone!” said a cheery Estuary English voice from the radio, “this was DJ Delirious and welcome to the Sialon Hour”
My surprise that the Sialon Hour was what Carlotta was talking about was nothing compared to my surprise that the radio itself worked. I turned up the radio and listened in.
“To all our Oliver McIntyres out there, this is for you” the DJ Delirious began to play some smooth jazz. At the time, it didn’t sound so crazy. I unscrewed the lid and took a large mouthful of Jet fuel. It wasn’t tasting so bad at one third consumed.
“Actually” the DJ stopped the song, “Oliver McIntyre, we need you to do something”
“What?” I said into the radio grill, “what do you want me to do?”
“Stop talking into the radio?”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m not in the radio; I’m in your head”
“Oh. How are you in my head”
“It’s complicated”
“Really?”
“No. Go to the carpark”
“Why?”
“Just do it”
So I did. The carpark was reasonably full with almost every space filled. I wandered around the sixth floor until DJ Delirious spoke again.
“Go push that guy over”
“Who?”
“The man in the white coat leaning over the balcony smoking a cigarette”
“Why? I can’t kill a fellow smoker. We’re endangered”
“You’d better because I say so”
“And who are you?”
“Listen to me- in ten years, that man will work out the cure for cancer. I’ve seen it but we can stop it right here, right now, if you just push him over”
“I can’t”
“No?” DJ Delirious was surprised, “let me show you something in eight years time”
In the reflection of one car’s windscreen I could see a little hospital room where Pater was lying meekly in one of those hospital gowns, looking at the doctor.
“In eight years, your father will develop lung cancer and in two years, he will be the first person to be saved by the Ivan-Hao technique but you can kill him by killing this man now. No one will see you Oliver McIntyre, not for another thirty-four seconds and counting”
Ever notice how a ticking clock will make you do things you wouldn’t normally do? I swallowed the last of the Jet fuel and quickly bounced over to this doctor. He was standing on the balls of his feet, leaning as far over as he could to avoid getting smoke on his clothes. In less than a second, my palm slapped him hard on the back and he fell to his death. I heard the wondrous crack of his bones.
“Congratulations” the DJ said, “here’s your reward”
I stepped backwards and was hit by a drunk driver.

I never dream, it’s a waste of imagination. I awoke to a familiar bright light as a girl’s voice whispered something to me.
“Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed/ The dear repose for limbs with travel tired- hello”
“Hello” I was lying on my old bed in the hospital. A willowy girl with brown hair and the most gorgeous face you could ever see smiled at me which lit the wick in my heart. I tried desperately to think up something to say but she cut me off.
“You’ve been in here for three months, the car hit you pretty bad. Your head’s been a bit damaged in three places but you should make a full recovery. Also, they had to take off your left foot. Oh, and your parents are coming in tomorrow”
Though that was a lot of stimulus to take in, I did indeed accept it all into my psyche. I then realized that I didn’t want to come up with soliloquies to this Angel, just one clarification:
“Carlotta?”