Taron

Taron sits at the edge of the train line burrows, where a small stream meets the mouth of the forest and the two wind there languid way down to the brook. In her lap lies a red moleskin notebook with motto’s and sketches scrawled across its ageing pages. Quietly Taron narrates as she writes with passion, “Somewhere along the way between me leaving home and finding myself. Somewhere, I forgot what it was to be normal, whatever normal is. I got so caught up in recovery, in working, in keeping myself motivated, that I lost everything that I used to hold dear. I don’t want to be the person that looks back on their life in thirty years time and has nothing they are proud of. When I was eight I wanted to somehow get up there, among the stars in the sky. As far away as I could possibly get from my shitty coastal life… I went through a faze of praying every night before I went to sleep, because I stupidly thought that I would somehow find the answers I was looking for in a mystical man in the sky... But he never answered, and so I forgot about him. Decided instead to internalise my feelings, to try to suffocate the voices in my head. And now here I am twelve years later, going quietly insane in a world that won’t stop to let me get off.” The cigarette she has been smoking has now burned down to nothing and she flicks it away into a nearby dandelion.

A faint grumble makes her look up at the sky and she sees the all to familiar words, emblazoned on a red banner, “Polaris saved you. Support your city – work the munitions”. The bi-plane with which the banner is attached, rumbles on over the city proudly depicting the slogan of The Creators. “Hypocrites” Taron mumbles as she stuffs her book into her satchel. The red sun was just starting to descend below the tree-line and Taron stretched up, shaking out her aching limbs. She made her way down, past the burrows and tracks until she reached the path that would lead her back to her home. Home seemed an odd word to describe the house she lived in, as it had never, and would never be a place of sanctuary.

Once she reached her door she paused and looked down the dirt road. There at the end towered a huge billboard with neon bulbs spluttering out sparks and light at random intervals, that once would have advertised the newest toothbrush or hair-dye, but now brandished yet another piece of propaganda for The Creators. The company logo for “RISING POWER” was just visible in the far corner and the sickening smiles of a family at dinner could just be made out amongst the crumbling paint, with the words, “You may believe you know best. But never forget who powers your world." slanted across the border in elegant red writing. Sighing deeply Taron enters through the dusty red door.

Taron throws her bag down on the table in the kitchen and kicks off her boots. She looks at the plates piled in the sink that had started to grow fur and the glasses that now glisten from the crystallised bacteria within. “Isaac?” She calls out. When no reply reaches her she glances up at the water stained ceiling before making her way upstairs. Passing the yellowing wallpaper and crooked picture frames depicting scenes of tranquil villages and flowers in vases, she climbs the two flights of stairs to the top floor and then makes her way through the window at the end of the corridor. The window, which was once boarded up with damp wood, now laid out bare the baron dessert below and the sight of the centre in the distance.

The cool evening air hits her hard and she inhales deeply, smelling the toxic powder that wafts its way over the entire city from the factories at its centre. Grabbing onto a rough and threadbare rope she pulls herself up to the top of the roof, which, unbeknownst to anyone on ground level, flattened out to form a sort of terrace. There, laid out with his arm over his eyes on two, old, leather car seats, was Isaac. His auburn hair contrasting with the harsh navy of the sky, his Walkman lay by his side. Taron stood for a moment trying to work out the song that was blasting in his ears. Hearing the lyrics, “Though nothing will drive them away” Taron picks up an empty can and chucks it at his head. Jolting upright with a look of pure rage in his eyes, Isaac glares at Taron for a few seconds, before pulling off his headphones, and letting them rest round his neck.

“Seriously, Heroes? Again?” Taron pushes his legs off the seat and plants herself next to him. “You’re going to wear that tape out in a week if you keep playing it all the time.”

“It’s a good song” Isaac clicks his neck from side to side, rubs his eyes with his fists then brushes his hair back off his face.

“We need to do something about the kitchen… We’ve got a new life-form being created in there at the moment” Taron takes a brand-less packet of cigarettes out of her pocket and passes one to Isaac.

“Pretty sure I saw a rat in their last night.” Isaac lights up holding out the match for Taron to use.

“Seriously? That’s disgusting…” Taron inhales then looks out mindlessly over the landscape. As he yawns Isaac mumbles,

“I mean. It could have been a sock, I was pretty hammered.” In the distance the noise of machinery and hard-manual labour can be heard grinding away, and a thin layer of dirt and soot from the factories floats carelessly onto their clothes. Brushing it off, “Man, I wish we didn’t live so close to the centre… Did you get the tokens?”

“I couldn’t get past the gate, there were too many Crawlers. You’ll have to go tomorrow, If i’m there twice in a week they’ll be suspicious.”

“Fine. But you know they’ll just try and recruit me again” Isaac flicks his cigarette then reaches into Taron’s satchel and pulls out a can of beer.

“Well you just say what you always say, ‘I’m sorry but I already have employment at the Electricity Mains.’ So go suck a dick you poisonous cunt… Okay maybe not the last bit.” Isaac laughs and chucks a beer at Taron.

As they sit, the sun disappears completely behind the silhouetted buildings of the centre. Isaac reaches over and pulls on a bead cord that hangs limply from an old, sad lamp with its shade threadbare and worn, the floral pattern browned from exposure to the weather. It hums to life and then glows faintly pushing the surrounding area into a dull blanket of light. Mechanical beeps screech from the factories and the machinery grinds to a halt. Soon the only sound to be heard is the dull buzz of the electricity lines that run concurrently with the houses down their road.

“Do you ever wait until this time at night, close your eyes… and imagine we’re still living before the war?” as Isaac speaks he closes his eyes and lets his head roll backwards. Taron follows his lead: she closes her eyes and lets all her senses take control. Her ears prickle and she notices the sound of a child laughing, the river on the hill bubbles as it picks its way over stones, and the animals in the forest roam the dirt floor scavenging for any tiny piece of nutrition. She smells the harsh chemicals being used to wash down the machines after a days work. She feels the car seat beneath her and imagines it’s the leather of her grandfather’s old sofa. The one that pointed out over the harbour and always smelt off coffee. A small smile caresses her lips and she wonders what Isaac dreams of at times like this, but the tranquillity is broken as a new banner trails its way above their heads proclaiming the saying, “Remember! You are only as strong as the weapons you forge”.

The two of them follow its path across the city in silence until Isaac mutters, “Filth. I’m so sick of it.” Isaac, who had made his way to the edge of the seat in anger now slumps back and throws the can off the edge of the roof. Taron hears it ‘tink’ as it hits the metal awning above the front door then rolls off into the dirt. She sighs then nudges Isaac’s arm,

“Come on, we should go in. Crawlers will fly over in a minute.” They stand up and make their way back into the house. Its white slatted wood creaks and the shadows of its curling paint make the house look as if it were covered in scales. The windows rattle in their frames and the doors hang low on their hinges.

“Alright. Can you grab me last week’s tokens? I’ll run and get some ingredients from the 24/7” Taron leans on the red kitchen chair that she had found off of Highway Six, and pulls on her boots. Isaac goes into the small study just off of the kitchen and returns with 8 tokens and their gun. Taron takes the gun and stuffs it down the back of her trousers under her jacket, “Thanks.” She looks at the tokens, “Wait where are the rest?” Isaac furrows his brow but says nothing, “There should be at least thirteen…”

“No, don’t you remember, last Friday, you gave seven to that little kid we saw down by Brambers Bar.” Taron reminisces seeing that small face poking out by the dustbins, the soot smudged down one side and the hair malting onto his shoulders from malnutrition.

“Oh yeah…” She shakes away the image. “Okay let’s say, 20 minutes?”

Isaac turns to a small egg timer on a shelf above the window and winds it to the point that would have once read ‘twenty’ but that now only remained the letters, ‘wen y’ They embrace and Isaac holds the sides of Taron’s face, as she does his, and together they say, “Too odd for life, too unique for death” They smirk and then Taron leaves swinging the front door shut behind her.

The night now enveloped the sky and Taron crouched down behind the porch railings and counted, “10, 9, 8, 7, 6…” Suddenly the sound of a chopper grew louder and louder until it drowned out all else, a beacon of light soared ahead searching the ground for anyone out past curfew. It rested on the path a few feet away form Taron then proceeded to check the front of each house. Slowly one by one it rolled away until Taron decided it was safe for her to move. She picked her way over fences and through bushes until a few minutes later she got to a broken down shack with boarded up windows, and a rusty sign squeaking on its chain. It read, “Frank’s Grill” in old calligraphy font, a title to throw off any unfriendly eyes looking at it. She walked to the door and lifted the bolt, pushing it open she slipped inside and was greeted by the soft scratching of a record player quietly churning out the song “Bulldog” by some band from the olden days. It was slightly out of tune and sounded fuzzy but was comforting nonetheless. The shack was lit by two fluorescent beams that cast a harsh blue light, making everyone and thing, in it, look sickly. Taron strolled along the cases of ‘home-wear’ until she got to the shelves of food. A balding man in a grey military jacket sat behind the counter sipping from a mug of what smelt like whisky, and reading a newspaper. He looked up once as Taron neared, then cleared his throat and returned to his article. Taron picked out a bag of long pasta, and grabbed two ripe tomatoes from a broken basket, that held three others that were going brown and soft. She also grabbed two bottles of beer from a leaning fridge that smelt of off milk. She moved over to the record player and watched the record spin on its wheel. She flicked through the other vinyl’s that were stacked in untidy piles next to it. Names of people she’d never heard of where printed on the covers, all with strange photos depicting people in grassy fields or sitting on rocks by the sea. She took her items to the counter, and the man folded his paper then started packing the ingredients into a paper bag.

“Quiet tonight. Not many been in since they doubled the Night Crawlers rounds.” Taron nodded as the man flicked through the bag and counted on his fingers, “Make it 6Ts” Taron sifted through the tokens in her pocket and handed over six, then grabbed the bag and left.

The air had turned sour and Taron reckoned she had ten minutes to get back to the house. She decided to risk going straight down the road instead of through the gardens, and set off keeping to the shadows. A few minutes later as she rounded a corner she spotted a truck roaming slowly down the road, with a searchlight sweeping the gardens and porches. She ducked behind a bush and pulled the gun out, resting her finger by the trigger. She could hear the rattling cackles of the soldiers in the truck. Through the leaves she could make out two men standing on the back with the searchlight, and a woman steering. All were smiling and one was eating what looked like a leg of chicken. As they got closer she managed to hear snippets of their conversation,

“I got one yesterday, some girl. She tried running to the old train line burrows, but I got her as she climbed the fence.” The man with the chicken leg proclaimed proudly to his colleagues, who laughed. The woman placed one arm on the back of the passenger seat so that she could talk to the men with more ease,

“Get this, two kids, found them trying to steal from that old liquor store on Route Eight. One ran through the back and the other tried to hide in the manager’s office. I went out, picked off the one that had run. Then I went to the door of the office set down two charges, got back in the truck, got out my coin. Fair and square right? Heads he keeps his, tails, not so lucky.” They all laughed. Rough, dirty laughs. The kind you hear in reaction to the murder of a child. The Crawler turned back to face the wheel and accelerated. Taron could just make out the end of her story as the truck turned a corner. “Let’s just say the builders association don’t have to worry about getting a demolition permit anymore.” The three roar with laughter as they disappear into the darkness.

Taron spits and then runs to the house. She shuts the door and turns to see Isaac wearing a faded pink apron and rubber gloves, dancing around the kitchen to the song ‘Johnny B. Goode’. She stands in the doorway watching him for a minute. Suddenly the egg timer rings and he turns to stop it, spotting Taron watching him, he slowly melts into a nearby chair and pretends to be trying to pick something off of his socks. Casually and without meeting her eyes he mutters, “How, how long were you standing there…?” Taron smiles and crosses her arms,

“A while.”

“Did you se-”

“-See you dancing around like a ballerina? Yeah, I did.” She smiles.

“…Did you like it?” He smiles back. She walks through the archway laughing and places the bag on the table. Looking around she says,

“Kitchen looks amazing, well done”

Isaac, who had stopped trying to act casual and was now pulling off the apron grins,

“Only the best for Little Taro.” He noses at the ingredients she lays out on the table, “What ya cookin’, good lookin’?”

“Pasta and a Bolognese sauce? Thought I’d use some of the herbs I found in the field yesterday.” She pulls out a cigarette and lights up, Isaac grabs a small ceramic dish depicting the face of some queen from the olden days. Its blue china speckled with cracks and the words; ‘Queen Elizabeth II’ had all but crumbled away. He places it in front of Taron and then lights his own cigarette.

“You okay?” He eyes Taron who had been staring at a groove in the oak table.

“Yeah. Well, not really. I nearly bumped into some Crawlers on my way back.”

Isaac sits up,

“Did they see you?”

“Do you think I’d be sitting here if they had?” She tokes on her cigarette and listens to the paper as it hisses and crackles.

“Alright, calm down. No need for the sass, thank you very much. What happened?” Isaac looks into the bag and squeaks as he spots the two bottles of beer. Knocking them on the edge of the table, he lets the caps fall to the floor before passing one to Taron. She takes a gulp before retelling the conversation she’d overheard. Isaac’s face grows more and more stone-like until he finally slams his fist down onto the table. “No more.” He gets up, stubs out his cigarette on the dish and goes upstairs. Taron sighs then putting out her own cigarette she starts to prepare dinner.

The Moon was struggling to glow from behind the pollution filled clouds: Isaac and Taron were finishing their meal. Some old record crackles and repeats in the background and the two sit and discuss the possibility of something outside of the dust clouds and pollution.

“Sometimes at night I can hear a distant drumming. Like someone, or something is out there calling to us. Asking us to go home.” Isaac drains his bottle of beer and then goes over to the fridge. He nudges it forward with his shoulder grunting at the weight of it. Then he bends down and pulls open a vent in the wall. He removes two pouches with blue powder in. “But in the meantime. We can just imagine we’re home.” He chucks one of the pouches to Taron,

“Is this all we have left?” She flicks the packet so that the powder lays in a neat flat line at the bottom of the bag.

“People need more escapism nowadays. And by people, I mean us druggies.”

“Don’t call us that. You know it’s not like that anymore.” Taron traces the lines of the bag slowly.

“Don’t get me wrong! I love it. It’s the best thing about this city. An overabundance of people who aren’t content with,” He salutes stiffly, “RISING POWER.” Taron laughs. “Shall we?” He offers her his hand and then leads her dramatically and slowly into the living room. Its high pillars crumbling: a chandelier hangs loosely from the ceiling with only two of the seven light bulbs humming faintly to life. Three ragged red sofas occupy the middle of the room and a Persian rug, placed in the middle, supports an upturned car fender being used as a coffee table. The fireplace on the far wall is dusty from disuse, and along its mantle lays photos of the two, and other pictures depicting long lost families. The huge bay window that once would have flooded the room with light has been boarded up with random planks of wood, and old road signs.

Isaac heads over to the record player and places a “25 greatest Rock songs” vinyl on. He drops the needle near the middle of the vinyl and slowly the sound of “Cherry Bomb” comes on. The two of them start smiling, licking their fingers, and placing them in the bags they take a scoop of the powder then rub it into the gums. A few seconds pass then they start laughing maniacally, as the chorus starts the two of them dance around the room screaming the lyrics, jumping on any available surface to perform the song.

“Sing it girl!” Isaac thrusts his arms towards her and, as if a spotlight has hit her, she grabs an empty bottle and sings into it.

“Hello Daddy, Hello Mom, I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-CHERRY BOMB!” She felt like anything was possible. She felt like every worry had vanished. This is what she lived for now. The small moments of bliss, in an otherwise dying world.