feeling listless

Fiction Inspired by BBC Four's Science Fiction Britannia season here is one of the few pieces of short fiction I've ever written. It was put together during a course I took some years ago in writing Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror, and well, be kind. Ironically, it's called ...

Failed

Jack Simple watched the crowd gathering around the centrepiece of the exhibition, an alien man getting up from a bed. He mentally ticked off all of the faces of the people who had turned down his original set of work, who had accused him of being too derivative for the current art market. If he had any integrity, he would now be turning them away. They didn't care about the art, they only cared about the investments they were making. The thing was, he didn't have any integrity, and he'd sell to anyone with a big enough cheque book. The fact they where now clambering over each other to own the work offered him some satisfaction.
Eventually, one of the curators of the exhibition, Madelyne Brown, pushed through the crowd and began to explain the piece. The last time Jack had met Madelyne was at art school. He had always been jealous of the way she could effortlessly create figurative drawings after glimpsing people in a hallway or in the street, creating stunning reality from memory. But she had always had problems creatively, and had often fought battles with a tutor who preferred abstract works. Which meant Jack, who spent much of his time giving the tutor what she wanted, passed the course and she didn't, even after a re-mark. It wasn't fair, he noted, but the tutor had been more impressed by his performance. A performance he needed little encouragement to give.
His tutor, and Madelyne - with whom he had also been together for a very short, but very steamy time - had proved one thing to Jack. There was sex in art. As long as he acted as though that was the last thing on his mind. He might have thought to begin with, he wanted to become an artist for high ideals. Presenting the human condition. Viewpoints on contemporary issues. But from an early age, when he chose a painting class over sports because he would be the only boy there, he had decided the way to some women's heart was through their minds. Art was sexy, and for the many years since he had left art school, he had been having the time of his life, despite his lack of success, and his poverty.
And in the past few years, as success came, so did the money - his other reason for becoming an artist. The money was there in abundance, and he was enjoying every penny of it.
Jack's eyes followed Madelyne as she danced around the sculpture, her arms emphasising the shape. His ears followed her as she described how the figure was in the process of waking up, performing a ritual which welcomed the new day. His nose followed her perfume as it mixed with the fragrance of the sushi and cheesy biscuits. His mouth followed the line of the cigarette she had given him as he inhaled deeply on it. His trousers followed her as all of these sensations became a gut reaction. It was comforting to know he wouldn't have to be the sensitive artist for her benefit tonight.
When he began to show any attention to what Madelyne was saying, the curator was working towards the end of her lecture.
"All of which work together, making Jack Simple one of the foremost artists of his generation, these representations of an alien culture offering the perfect fusion of contemporary science fiction and sculpture. Enjoy the show."
The group turned and clapped Jack, then set about getting a closer look at the pieces. There were some who had obviously come to appreciate the work. But these seemed to be out numbered by those who looked upon the event as an art supermarket, even to the extent of either carrying calculators or inviting their accountants along.
The artist smiled as Madelyne approached him. There was much which had changed about her. She was dying her hair blonde, he noted and was wearing contact lenses. His agent had taken care of the show, so tonight was the first time he had met anyone else involved. He greeted her, kissing her gently on the cheek.
"You made it then." She said. "It only took ten years."
"Eight and a half." He corrected her, then cringed slightly as he said, "You look great."
"Thank you. You haven't changed a bit." She hadn't meant to be so quick, but she remembered what had happened last time he had told her she 'looked great' and didn't want a repeat of the ensuing hostility. "Although, I have to admit, your work has improved somewhat. But then, I remember your Green period."
The Green period. When he had decided that all of the other colours in the spectrum where evil, and everything he created were different shades of lime.
"I still love those Green works."
"I thought you might." She smiled winsomely. "So what happened? I've followed your career, and up until two years ago, I was expecting your underselling success to lead into a career as a teacher. No one would touch you. Then I hear rumours that you'd locked yourself in a studio somewhere and begun creating these epic pieces like our friend over there." She turned to a figure who appeared to be emerging from the floor, like a swimmer from a pool. "I couldn't believe it. Then the Serpentine goes out on a limb with an exhibition of work from an all but unknown artist, and it turns out to be you."
He smiled. He loved to perplex people. That was why he liked to keep his work as ambiguous as possible. But not so ambiguous, the viewer didn't understand what the hell he was working towards.
"Within months you're a hot property, and I get a call from your agent offering me all of these new pieces, an offer we now can't refuse. So what happen?" By now she had become quite exasperated and distracted. So distracted she hadn't realised she was hogging the guest of honour. Before she could get an answer, one of the art collectors had approached and introduced himself. She wasn't going to get an answer now.
Jack shot her a look. The same look he had given her all those years ago.
"I know," she whispered gently in his ear, "You'll tell me over dinner."

It was such a calming scene. Jack was overcome by its serenity. A mother sat suckling her child, giving him the milk he needed for life. The babe cried slightly as his lips slipped momentarily from her breast, his face offering relief as the feed continued. The room was brightly coloured - shades of green and blue, throughout the sparse furnishings. This was a sleeping area. He had been here before and witnessed the child being conceived, a moment he wouldn't forget.
He floated past the scene and slipped into the next room, one of the living areas. The father stood reading from an information screen which floated almost magically in the corner. He nodded his head now and then, his central limb pulling the down the words as he finished each page. The information was in a language Jack could not understand. He swept around the father's body to see his face. The alien's features projected a horror he had only ever seen before in war documentaries.
The alien pressed down hard on the screen, and the text disappeared. Jack floated nearby as he headed for the sleeping area. He greeted his wife with the customary stroke of the horns which lined the back of her head. He leaned over so that she could return the gesture. He needed comforting about something.
Moments later, as was customary, he felt a sensation of being lost. Then, another scene came into focus. He was in a large arched hall, filled with aliens all speaking over one another, some standing emphatically clenching their upper limbs together. His mind had conjured this up before as well. This was the governing house of the society.
It was always noisy, but never like this - something was terribly wrong. Many of the beings were out of their boxes, parading around the house, pointing at each other. Jack couldn't keep up with the scene. On the far wall, a screen - a huge version of what he had seen in the home, seemed to be showing some kind of map of space. The images where comically like a video game, small triangles shooting at tiny squares. They were afraid of this.
That second, Jacks attention was drawn back to the crowd, which was descending into a mob. One of the aliens had his three limbs wrapped around another's neck. His opponent's head was turning from red to blue, as he pressured the life out him. Jack felt helpless, even though he knew it wasn't really happening. Moments later, the alien's body fell lifelessly from his killer's limbs.

Jack shocked himself awake. He trembled slightly as pandemonium bled away into reality. He glanced around. Madelyne was lying on her side next to him. She had been watching him sleep. Memories of the night before flashed through his mind, as he remembered how little had changed.
"Good morning." She said, like a teacher greeting a late pupil.
"I've got to work quickly." He said sitting up in bed. He reached to his bedside table and grabbed the sketch pad and pencil which lay there. He feverishly opened it up and began to jot and sketch down everything he had seen - the mother and child, the look of horror on the father's face, the riot in the government, the murder.
Madelyne knelt at the end of the bed.
"You've had another dream, haven't you." she said, trying to fill what she thought was an awkward moment. Jack nodded vacantly at her, obviously paying more attention to what he was writing and drawing. "Artists." She sighed, standing up. The same thing happened when they had tried dating a few years ago. The work had got in the way. So she began to get ready to go home and change for work.

As she cleaned her teeth, she remembered the night before, at dinner, when, as promised, he had related his secret to her. The tone had been almost confessional. Just as he was hitting rock bottom artistically and financially, becoming 'ideas bankrupt' as he called it, he began to have these strange dreams about aliens. At first he thought they must have been vague memories of an old film, which his subconscious had triggered for some reason or other. But the dreams became more vivid each time, and he realised somewhere deep inside, his imagination was throwing these images at him, almost as a counter measure to his artists block. Although this scared him, he realised they would be his salvation. He began to draw them and to recreate them in clay. It was hard work at first, capturing the alien-humanoid form in these unique positions - especially without a frame of reference, but as time went on, the work became easier. An agent took notice of the work, and she had heard the rest. Jack was always too busy to give interviews (the press thought) so she felt privileged. He had trusted her.

Eventually, Madelyne had made herself look half presentable. Jack was in the kitchen, loudly cooking breakfast, so she sneaked a look at his sketch book. Anyone who looked at the pages he had just been working on, would have decided they were the work of a serial killer, a mixture of nonsense writing and impossible figures. This scared her somewhat, but considering the sculptures he might develop from them, what did it matter? She dropped the book on the bed and followed the smell of bacon.
"This is a nice flat." She offered as she sat down at the kitchen table.
"Thank you." He replied, throwing more bread into the toaster. "I'm just renting it for a few days while I do publicity for the show."
She has changed, he thought to himself. Indeed she had. Before now, she would have commented on all kinds of things. The spliffs in the ashtray by the bed. The phone number of his dealer lying next to his sketch book by the bed. The cigarette stub in the half drunk glass of cider on the television. The dirty dishes he had already amassed. 'You certainly are having a good time,' she would have said, in that sarcastic way of hers. But not now, and this intrigued him.
"Do you think you'll use any of your new dreams?" Madelyne asked instead.
"I think so ..." Jack replied cracking an egg into the frying pan. "...they were pretty vivid. The image I saw of the woman breast feeding will fit nicely in the feminist series."
He spoke as though he expected Madelyne to have been in the dream with him. But his intensity meant she was reluctant to ask more. After breakfast they made their promises to see each other again and she left.

Jack stubbed a cigarette on the floor of his studio. His cleaner hated the way he did that, but when he was in the midst of working on a piece, he didn't think of such things. That last dream was having a stronger than usual effect on him, and he had cast aside the other pieces he had been working on in order to develop the images that had possessed him, into working models. Nearby sat the alien mother, much as she had then. He's sculpted her before, and it hadn't been too difficult to recreate her in this new position.
It was her baby he was having trouble with. He couldn't seem to remember how the third limb was part of her figure. He was distracted. The night before, he had broken up with Madelyne for the second time in his life. Actually, she had broken with him, after finding him and the waitress who had served their anniversary meal naked together in the flat he had taken in London, so they could be closer together. He was distracted because he couldn't find the waitress' phone number.
To practice, he had placed a lump of clay on an old gallery pedestal and he was moving it with his hands, the mixture flowing through his fingers, trying to find the shape of the piece. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the material, trying to allow his memory of the dream to guide his hands like a mould. It was an intoxicating feeling. Disorientating.
Suddenly, he felt the shape come into focus. He felt the head, then the limbs. The middle limb - it was here. He opened his eyes. And he almost screamed.
The studio had gone. He was standing in the alien bedroom he had dreamt of. And he was holding the alien child. But it wasn't human hands he clasped around its little form. They were alien limbs. His head began to ache. This wasn't his body. He had to concentrate hard not to drop the child.
The alien mother entered the room. She knew. The expression on her face was unmistakable.
"Do not be afraid." She said. Even though she was using the alien language, he understood her every word. "There was no other way." Sensing his discomfort, she took the child from him and placed it in a cradle in the corner of the room.
Jack fainted.

When he awoke, the alien mother sat near him. Somewhere along the line his head had stopped hurting. But the new sensations he was feeling had not disappeared. Gone was his soft human skin, replaced by a husk as hard as an elephant. His sight was black and white (which would account for the garish decor he had seen before). At least he had to legs - but his foot had been replaced by a concave stump, and that third 'arm' in the middle of his chest.
The alien mother reached out and held it tightly.
"What's going on?" He asked. It seemed to sum up the list of questions he really wanted to ask.
"It was the only way." She repeated.
Jack noticed his reflection in the mirror on the wall. The image of the alien father looked back at him.
"Oh, God." He said. It seemed to sum up all of the exclamations he really wanted to make.
"There isn't much time. Please come with me." She helped him from the bed and although he was still groggy, managed to guide him into the living area.
As they entered, Jack noticed the information viewer in the corner was already working, throwing up text. Again, although it was the same alien language as before, he understood the words. Although they moved up the screen at an incredible speed, two words kept re-appearing - Genocide and one other - Human.
The woman became distant. She approached the only window in the room and looked out across the street. Her head moved backwards as she looked into the sky. Her head bowed. Her eyes closed. Then, turning to him, with a calm she hoped would offer understanding she said:
"They're here."

They were getting closer. Jack could feel it. He could hear it too, as explosions could be heard from all sides. They had been running for some miles now, through the countryside, but it was no use. He could sense them gaining, and there was nothing he could do about it, but try as hard as he could to protect the family he was now a part. His feet had not been evolved to help with running - there was no need in such a serene society - so this slowed them down. The alien mother had insisted upon bring the information screen and this slowed them down somewhat. "Its everything we are," she had shouted, and there had been little time to argue.
There was no way he could have known he would be thrust into the middle of what amounted to genocide. Films had been no preparation for the reality. There was no way to describe being at the receiving end of an attack which used such weapons, with such powers to destroy. The invaders had swept down each street, instantly disintegrating each house, including occupants. Those who had managed to escape were now being hunted down by soldiers on foot. Anonymous soldiers, covered in armour, afraid to show their faces to their prey.
He had always played safe. The only other time he had been in a life or death situation, was as a child, when he was walking around the circumference of a park. A group of ducks were going through a mating ritual by the side of the road. The males had piled onto the submissive female, hoping to make their mark. Once one had been lucky, they all disappeared, leaving the female to waddle about dazed. He was fascinated. So transfixed as she walked side ways into the road. So transfixed he didn't see the car. So hesitant as the duck was thrown across the road. He still felt guilty about it now. He wasn't going to let it happen now.
As they ran, the alien mother had been desperately trying to tell him what he was doing here and what was happening. The screams of her baby, the sound of the explosions and voices in the distance, were making her work impossible, so he was having to piece together odd phrases, trying to understand. These aliens had certain telepathic abilities. Collectively they had worked to bring his mind to their world. The dreams he had been experiencing had been the manifestation of their attempts. They realised, to give him form here, one of their number would have to give up their body, and her husband had volunteered. They had brought him here so he could witness the devastation which was being brought upon them by these invading forces, who cared little for them. This planet was the last living outpost of a once thriving civilisation which was slowly being destroyed. The invaders appeared to have a kill or be killed attitude to their galactic neighbours. But why had they chosen him? This was a question for which he could get no answer.
The voices had got closer, and family tried to scrambling for shelter. They hid under a natural canopy which jutted out of a rocky hill. The alien mother's confidence had turned to fear, and there was nothing he could do now, but comfort her and the baby. He arched his head to the side to see if he could hear what their hunters were saying - but the words were gibberish
As he crouched there, holding them tightly, all of the emotions he had hidden from all of these years, began to rise up ready to explode. Along with the fear, there was a guilt which was even harder to contain. The dreams he had been experiencing - he could have been using them to keep a record of the society. He could have been more analytical - less quick to use artistic license. At that moment, he resolved that this race would not be forgotten, if he spent the rest of his life. His lonely planet, on the other side of space, would not forget.
They heard a footstep above their head. It took all of Jack's strength not to gasp, but a sound came. Not from him. From the alien mother. There was nothing she could do.
The soldier shouted something with some certainty, then jumped to the ground in front of them. He turned, and raised a weapon.
"Not again!" Jack shouted.
With all the strength he could find, Jack leapt forward and launched himself at the soldier's body. But he had by now forgotten his newly alien form, and misjudged the attack. He only managed to grab a leg.
This was enough. The soldier fell to the rocky ground with a thud, the helmet flying off. At that moment, Jack realised why he was here.
Beneath the helmet, was a perfectly human face.
Jack scrambled backwards with shock, giving the human enough time to re-aim the weapon. In seconds a shot was fired past him, hitting the mother and child point blank. They disintegrated on contact. Jack had failed.
There was little he could do. He opened his three limbs, threw back his head and screamed.
The Human cocked her weapon and repeated her target practice. Mission accomplished.
Jack was vapourised.

Madelyne's high heels clomped hard upon the cobbled floor of the yard and echoed loudly through the seemingly deserted warehouse complex. Jack said that he needed as much privacy as possible, so he had bought and converted this entire factory for himself. She would not have liked to have been here at night. But this was dawn, and the place was unnervingly peaceful.
She found the huge, closed door of the main workshop and tapped hard on the wood. Nothing. Walked along the door slightly, and tapped again. Still there was no answer.
She sighed and began to move away. But as Madelyne turned her head, she heard the faintest of murmur from inside the warehouse.
"Jack?" She shouted, hoping her voice would be heard through the door. There was no answer.
She gripped both hands around the large handle down the edge of the door. The door did not move far - but the gap was just enough to slip her body through. The studio was in complete darkness. Although she had been here before, and been impressed by the vastness of the place, right now she felt unnervingly claustrophobic. The air was thin. She felt herself breathing deep and hard in an attempt to fill her lungs.
.Madelyne ran her fingers up the wall until she found the light switch. It clicked loudly as she pressed it upwards. The place was flooded with light.
The entire floor space had been engulfed by a forest of statues. They were in the Jack's familiar rough style, but gone was the life affirming nature of the works from the gallery. The images where grotesque but compelling. But one feature ran through them all. The fear in their faces. Madelyne gingerly walked forward, noting the subjects of the pieces. An alien man running. The same figure spiralled forward on the floor, Madelyne guessed he was dead. The alien woman, she had seen before, crouching as though she were hiding from something. The alien man embracing a different woman, grief in his eyes, her body limp in his arms.
As she walked forward, the images became more incoherent. The alien figures gave way to something even more horrific. Figures she hadn't seen before - some kind of soldiers in futuristic armour, in various position, mainly with a weapon cocked or in the process of firing. Madelyne found herself gasping like a child. Step after step, statue after statue, the images became more shocking. The soldiers lost their helmets and were Human. They were attacking the aliens in all kinds of unimaginable ways. Every moment, she wondered what had been going through Jack's mind as he created such monstrosities.
Then, as she neared what could best be described as a clearing, she heard the murmuring again.
"I've got great it right, they've got to see."
Through the legs of a statue, she at last saw Jack. He looked terrible. He was covered from head to foot with clay, in his clothes, his hands, his face, his hair. His eyes were filled with anguish - he didn't look like he'd seen a bed in days, even weeks. His body shook erratically, as though in the grip of some kind of dementia.
He was standing between two statues. One was the alien woman again, sitting, clutching the child in her arms, tightly. She was looking up with terror at another statue of a human soldier, holding a gun aimed directly at her.
"It's not right. Somehow. Not right." His voice was gruff and low, as though it wanted to scream and shout, but did not care anymore.
She chose her moment.
"Jack it's me, Madelyne. What happened to you." She reached out. He didn't flinch. He didn't respond. She pulled her hand back.
"Its not right." He said to her, although there was no recognition of who she was. She could have been anyone.
"No one has seen or heard from you in months." She stepped forward a bit more. "I've tried to call, but your phone just rang and rang."
Jack stepping forward. For a moment, Madelyne thought she was through to him, he was going to embrace her. But he turned and grabbing a lump of clay and they it onto the back of the soldier's neck.
"Your agent said you often locked yourself up like this when you want to work. But I had to see you. I'm glad I came."
He began to fashion clay into more hair.
"The show was a complete success. You missed the party. Believe it or not, that waitress turned up looking for you."
He turned to her.
"Cindy?" He asked.
She smiled. Some things didn't change. Had she reached him?
"Yes. I gave her your phone number. She'd lost it."
"I don't care." He told her, before returning to his work. A moment past, then he looked directly at her, for the first time seemed to recognise her. "I want a new exhibition." He said.
"I shouldn't see that as being a problem. This last show was a hit. But we are booked up for at least six months, though."
"NOW!" He snapped. "You have to know! All of you!"
"Jack." She said as calmly as she could. "You need help. I don't know what has happened. But you need help."
"If you don't have the space, I'll find someone who does!" Jack was furious. He grabbed another lump of clay and strode towards her. "Go on - get out! Now!"
Madelyne had lost. Wordlessly, she turned and ran.
Jack threw the clay on the soldier and carried on working.

The curator found the space. There was nothing else she could do. She still cared for him. Perhaps by giving him this new exhibition, she could help him out of the emotional cave he was lost in.
He had cleaned himself up at least. But he still had that obsessive look in his eyes. She still didn't understand what he had been though, in the time when he had all but locked himself in his studio. Or what had led him to it. When she asked, he would fly off into an incoherent explanation, about being transported to an alien world, and seeing humans kill aliens and how he had been chosen because he was a communicator to tell our world about it, to stop it somehow. She didn't understand. Not really.
With Jack's notoriety, it hadn't actually been too difficult to find a gallery space. But, the show was a rushed job. It would only have the clay pieces from the workshop. Jack had run through it with her, selecting pieces, seemingly at random. She had noted them down, and placed them within the space as best she could, in order of creation. But even within the white walls, they looked like a jumble. She tried to leave some out, but he wondered let her.
As the work progressed, she saw changes in Jack. He slowly became more relaxed. Reflective. He was getting what he wanted, and it seemed as though a mountain was being lifted from his shoulders. He had given up drinking. Drugs. They went out and celebrated the opening of the exhibition. He was a changed man, and Madelyne felt herself falling in love with him, again.

Then the exhibition opened. People came because of the Jack Simple name. But as they entered the gallery, they felt much the same as Madelyne had when she visited the studio that day. They didn't understand. Jack spent many days there, ready to answer questions. But visitors didn't ask. They just wanted to leave. They simply saw the artist destroying the alien world he created, and that was unforgivable.
The media had a field day. They wanted to know what had happened to this up and coming artist, nominated for the Turner prize, no less. They wanted to know what had led to his nervous breakdown. And he told them. About being transported to an alien world in the future. Seeing the human race wipe out an alien species and how he had been chosen because he was a communicator to tell our world about it. To stop it somehow. He told the world. And the world laughed, and turned the page looking for gossip about soap operas and football.

Jack had failed. He hadn't felt the same since he returned to Earth. He'd experienced terrible headaches, and been drawn into actions he couldn't control. But his life had finally been given a meaning. He had finally been given a strong reason for being an artist. He had finally created works which he could be proud of. And he had fallen in love with someone, Madelyne, who he felt he could spend the rest of his life with.
But that wasn't enough. He had failed. The human race was destined to become the murderers of the future, and there was nothing could he do to stop it. And he could not live with that.
He breathed in, and kicked the box from under himself. As the makeshift noose tightened around his neck, the last images he saw were the statue of the alien mother, and Madelyne as she entered the studio.
"I'm sorry." he whispered.

Madelyne ran forward, to grab him, but there was nothing he could do. Jack was dead. He was hanging from an old pipe jutting out of the wall. Next to him, was his final piece. A human male and an alien female embracing each other tightly.
Madelyne knelt down before them, and wept.

Jack Simple tore the wrapping paper from the present and grinned at the title. 'Jack Simple'. It was by a writer he had never heard of - Madelyne Brown. During the days it took him to read the book, he learnt of how art was treated in the second millennium, about an artist who destroyed himself. He thought about how art was missed in such turberbulent times. He shuddered slightly at the illustrations. There was a familiarity about them.
The announcement Jack had been waiting for came. The soldier threw the book on his bunk, and grabbed his weapon. He threw on his helmet and headed for the shuttle. He felt a slight ting of sadness. This would be the last inhabited world which would be cleansed for some time. After this he would have to find another profession. Perhaps he would become an artist.