ARIANA E. DEAN
The Boy
The passing hover-truck sent cold light buzzing through my eyes. I winced as pale splatters floated through my vision. I didn’t move until the whirring of the engine faded away. When my eyes cleared, I looked through the gap again at the now-empty street outside my scrap aluminium fort. I stayed crouched and silent, just like Mum instructed. It was too quiet down here. No vendors, or scrappers, or bickering adults, or other kids, nothing familiar at all. Mum usually told me to stay away from streets like this.
In the silence, I grew aware of the trembling and creaking of the wall to my side and the concrete beneath my feet. I usually only noticed it when staring at a glass of water, at the pretty ripples appearing and disappearing into its surface. The whole city shook under the weight of thousands of storeys above. I looked up. Metal beams stretched criss-crossed between slanted walls. I couldn’t see far up as everything disappeared into the dark blue-ish smog.
A tickle scratched at my throat. Me, Millie, Mum, and her crew wore old respirators tonight. Mum had me stay up late with her, scraping off their identifications. This one stank of oily cigarettes. Mum wouldn’t let me swap it for my usual mask.
Something grabbed me from behind. ‘Raah!’ I cried out and buried my face in my hands. A voice behind me snickered. My anger spiked. I whipped around and shoved Millie away. She stumbled back onto a damp patch of ground.
‘You nearly broke my mask!’ She whined.
‘Shhhh! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be by the door.’
‘I got bored. You know, you could have killed me. I’d be dead now.’
‘I didn’t touch your mask. Even if I did, you wouldn’t instantly die without it.’
She crossed her arms. I could picture her obnoxious pout. I scowled, thinking about all the times she got to stay home while I got put on watch duty for one of Mum’s ‘jobs’.
Talking only made my throat ache more. I let out a quiet cough. I spun around on my heels, no trucks for now. I lowered my voice: ‘If you want to do the big kid job, you have to be quiet. No talking and no scaring.’
She mockingly raised her finger in a silent ‘shush’. But at least she’d shut up.
Over the next few minutes, my throat became more sore and Millie more annoying. She kept poking my arm, then pretending she hadn’t as soon as I turned around. She only stopped when a deep wailing sound emanated from above. The tremor of the ground increased just a little, then faded away. That’s five o’clock. Three more hours to endure.
‘Did you know that sound comes all the way from The Heights?’ she blurted out.
‘Wow. Did you know you have brown hair?’
She ignored me. ‘Kevin says a giant dragon lives up there! Sleeping on a bed of clouds until it’s dinner time. Then, he gets angry and yells like this, “GRAHHHH”.’
‘Firstly, dragons aren’t real. And secondly, do you even know what a cloud is?’
Her excitement trailed off.
I coughed a bit. Eugh. Now the mask smelt even worse. I continued, ‘They’re made of floating water. Like steam. You can’t sit on them. You really believe everything that kid says, don’t you?’
She looked at me with a quiet disappointment. ‘So, what do you think makes the sound?’
‘The doors, obviously. They open every afternoon to let the clouds in.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re colourful. They fly around and make everything look cool. Heights people like cool stuff.’
She seemed unsatisfied with my answer.
‘… I also like cool stuff.’
‘Yeah, well, if you keep quiet and keep watch for Mum, she’ll steal enough to buy us whatever we want.’
‘Even a cloud?’
‘Maybe, but–’
Light shone through the gap. A truck was right outside. Millie froze. My throat was burning. I covered my air filters to muffle my quiet hacking. Stupid. I couldn’t breathe. I tipped forward, sending our hiding spot crashing down. I lay sprawled on the ground, gasping as I stared up into the smog. The headlights shut off. A door opened. I pulled the alarm from my pocket and flicked the switch.
The Old Man
Blue and red LEDs bathed the small room in a cold, purple hue. I slowly manoeuvred through tightly stacked rows of plants, tipping water into plastic troughs at the end of each aisle. I squinted, my foggy eyes struggling to see much more than darker and lighter blobs in the dim room. A familiar drizzling spread through the small plastic piping running through the stacks; the gentle pattering of droplets onto leaves signalled my success.
Growing my own food, from parsley to potatoes, was much safer than buying them from the supplier. My daughter gave me a pocket-sized Geiger Counter as a retirement gift. A nifty thing, good for making sure my soil stayed under the danger zone. I smiled to myself, remembering how furious I got with this one dodgy seller. Tried to give me soil four times the limit; I chewed him out right there on the street. The look on his face was priceless, but he knew to keep his mouth shut. No one contradicted elders. And scamming one? That was career suicide.
I felt my way out onto the balcony. Small colourful windows were scattered all over the irregularly shaped buildings that reached up through the darkness below. Large steel beams stretched between towers, pulling everything together like a mycelial network. I winced as I lowered myself onto my bench. Years of labour may have got me a garden, but it sure was shit for my joints.
A deep groaning echoed down. I automatically reached out to steady my tea table as everything shook for a good thirty seconds. Five o’clock. Right on cue. My eyes drifted upward, up into the smog-free above. As a workman, I made a handful of journeys that went even further, up into The Heights.
Tables, clocks, chairs and cabinets, furnishings of all sorts, passed through my hands. Each one carved slowly, with detail and care impossible to find in any of my kin’s homes. In the daytime, my crew and I hauled everything up to the elevators. At the summit, we encountered vast metal doors high above which extended indefinitely in every direction. Slender, symmetrical buildings pressed up against the doors like sunflowers against a light bulb. The atmosphere was too damaged to block out the sun; opening the doors in the daytime would burn us to a crisp.
One afternoon I worked overtime past five o’clock. My recollection may be patchy, but I’ll never forget the feeling. Soft clouds splotched with lilac, blue, and turquoise refracted colourful beams all over the city. Through the clear glass, the soft palette stretched up further than I could have imagined. I felt as though I were floating, untethered in a bath of crisp, moist air. My body carried on as normal, yet the work seemed far off and meaningless compared to the fantasy above me.
Over the decades since that evening, I’ve considered saving up to book a real dusk tour. But I never did. It would be pointless to burn savings that could instead give my grandkids an education or keep Luiz’s business afloat another year. Yet the sky always wedged itself back into my mind. Over and over again. Stories flowed through butlers and maids down to their families and friends. The vast world that lay only a pane of glass away.
A grimy film had settled on my spectacles. I sighed as I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief. I couldn’t dream about the sky; I had my garden, my home and my family. I would be a fool to ask for more.
The Newcomer
The incandescent light shone through rows of crystal champagne glasses. A waiter in a sequined vest swept by; a soft woody scent trailed after him. Women in cropped skirts and feathered headdresses laughed and danced across the patio. I wove through them, keeping my shoulders straight yet relaxed, in an effortless way only achieved through diligent practice. Every now and then I glanced up at the doors, as if I would look away and miss my first chance to see them open.
Forcing my attention back to the party, I noticed a group of older men standing huddled in a corner. Their gazes all pointed toward our boisterous host. His emerald blazer and tiger-striped tie were an eyesore, but it was undoubtedly some ahead-of-the-curve statement which I was yet to understand. I trembled a little at the thought of meeting him face to face. Steeling myself, I plucked a champagne flute from a tray and slipped into the fray.
I tapped his arm and deftly swapped out his empty glass for mine. ‘It seems you need a refill, Mr Park.’
He smelt of cigar smoke and pricey cologne. He looked at me with curiosity. ‘Seems I do. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure… ?’
‘No, we haven't. I'm Mrs Karam.’
Park’s eyes lit up like a child spying a toy in a store display. ‘Ah, of course! You’re Samer’s bride! He told me you’d pop by; he hoped it would make up for him flaking out on us again!’ He chuckled. ‘You’re from quite far down, aren’t you? You must tell me how you crossed paths with our dear Samer.’
‘I’m a sales engineer. I actually had my start in the industry thanks to you. I was selected for the “Consolidation Program” you funded. I’ve long admired your work.’
‘The…? Oh, of course! I will say that the program ended a while ago; I thought you were fresh out of school! You must have an excellent cosmetologist. You know, my wife could use one of those. I should set you two up for a little chit-chat.’
A foul taste bubbled in my throat. ‘Actually, we should all have dinner sometime, the four of us.’
‘How quaint! I’m sure we’re both dying to catch up with Samer after his mid-level ventures. Don’t you worry, as his senior, I’ll give him a stern talking to. Can’t believe that rascal left his young wife all alone in an entirely foreign world.’
My long nails dug into my palm. ‘I would have joined him if I could. Unfortunately, I have several clients of my own to manage up here.’
Before I knew it, another man was pulling Park away. ‘Seems I’m in high demand tonight. Tell Samer my agent will contact him. And it really is lovely to see a nice girl make it. You’re proof that hard work and clear goals are what make success!’ He was gone before I could respond.
The corner of my mouth twitched as I recalled the other candidates for the ‘Consolidation Program’. Me being a tiny speck picked up on the sole of a shoe. But there was no time for reminiscing. The excited tension at the party stirred as a towering clock ticked closer to five. I squeezed my way toward the edge of the deck.
I heard it before I saw it; a familiar deep groaning reverberated across every surface, louder and stronger than I had ever witnessed. Plates chattered on their trays as waiters sprang through the crowd, plucking up glasses to prevent any spills on the finely adorned patrons. A giant crevice opened, releasing beams of yellow light that stung my bulging eyes. Rusty dust clung to the other side of the glass, sticking and unsticking as they were tossed about by distant winds. A dense layer of mustard-coloured clouds clotted the sky. Vast, gunky, amorphous shapes that sat dense like an alien crown.
My neck ached when I finally lowered my gaze. Everything appeared as if viewed through a yellowed plastic. The ladies and gentlemen drank and danced beneath the irradiated sky.
Ariana E. Dean is a young Australian author living on Dharug land. She explores the human experience as inspired by her lifelong obsessions with Agatha Christie, H.P. Lovecraft, and Edgar Allan Poe. Ariana is currently absorbed in themes of terror, injustice, lesbianism, and the supernatural.
