LETHE'S ROAD
DEATH & DOGS & REINCARNATION
Words shift. That's the only sign we're in a different life. Lethe is the forgetting river in Hades, but some memories survive death... Metaphysical science fiction about a family moving between parallel worlds. Unsettle yourself.
Words shift. That's the only sign we're in a different life. Lethe is the forgetting river in Hades, but some memories survive death... Metaphysical science fiction about a family moving between parallel worlds. Unsettle yourself.
LETHE'S ROAD (the first few pages)
Everything tipped and the steering wheel span—all resistance gone as the tyres left the road. John was flying, a pilot in a crashing plane, then asphalt slammed the car’s windscreen like a shovel in a face. Metal screamed, and pain rammed his head and chest and shins.
I’m not alone, he thought, in that last, extended moment, Lily and Marie are here, too--and we’re in trouble.
John slipped free and looked down at the little car. It lay on its back, cracked like a dead turtle, and dark patches spread over the ground as broken machinery bled out. Harsh propellant hung in the air, making his throat sting. And there were softer smells of blood and piss and fear—and a cloying sense of loss. And, at the very edge of hearing, a thin song rose and fell, like a distant lament. The car’s bright yellow panels and struts—all bent and twisted—glowed against the dull road. And the windows and shattered glass flashed in the sun, dazzling him, as he circled above. He stared at the translucent chassis. It’s not real, he thought, you can’t see through metal. Or hover in trees. I’m dreaming or dead--and dead’s more likely.
His wife and daughter hung in the back seats, clearly visible through the car’s glassy belly. He saw their white faces and blue lips and twisted limbs. Their chests were still, but their eyes tracked him. He knew he’d killed them and he watched the red stains seep over the ropey fibres of their clothes, and he wondered if their rough dresses could absorb the flow, or if he’d need a sponge.
A hulking figure lay pinned in the front seat. And I’m dead, too, he thought.
“It’s bad news,” boomed a woman’s voice from the treetops.
And a man spoke from the ground, but his words were tinny and faraway.
“I know it’s bad news, we’re all fucking dead,” John screamed, but no sound came. His windpipe narrowed to a needle-thin straw, and he gasped to drink, just to breathe…
A rush and roar, and water sparkled everywhere, and the cracked turtle—packed with corpses—rose in the instant flood and bobbed away. He jumped into the sudden, wide, and sunlit river and tried to swallow, but his throat clamped shut. Then the sky split.
John sat bolt upright, sucking in air, coughing and gasping, and tearing his membranes with the force. Tears welled, and he brushed them away and reached across the bedside table, feeling for his glass. Then, his spectacles—perched on an upturned novel—clattered to the floor. “Bollocks!” He grabbed the glass and gulped and rubbed his eyes. “Bollocks again!”
Lily stirred next to him. “What’s going on?”
“I’m choking.” He coughed, then drew a rasping breath. After blinking to clear his eyes, he sipped his water and wiped his face. “Bloody nightmare…”
With a grunt, he twisted to check the clock radio. The faux-wooden box boomed, and the digits glowed red. It was 7.01, and the news was bad.
“At least fifty dead,” said the treetop woman from his dream. “And dozens are missing.”
John got up, swore, and staggered down the hall. Swaying slightly, he sprayed into the toilet bowl and stared at the window—a bright flat square of frosted glass—and felt the rush of warm air. Another weekend gone, another hot Monday, another scorching Australian summer. And today would start, like every other day, with the morning tasks: brushing his teeth, filling the kettle, and emptying the dishwasher. Then the brief lull of coffee and breakfast. The coffee would be long and black and strong. He’d drink two mugs, and Lily would have one. The cereal would be warm, and the cooked fruit sharp, and the conversation terse. Then would come the daily commute. These simple rituals marked each morning, and they wound the mainspring of his day and pinned down his thoughts...
continue reading Lethe's Road
Everything tipped and the steering wheel span—all resistance gone as the tyres left the road. John was flying, a pilot in a crashing plane, then asphalt slammed the car’s windscreen like a shovel in a face. Metal screamed, and pain rammed his head and chest and shins.
I’m not alone, he thought, in that last, extended moment, Lily and Marie are here, too--and we’re in trouble.
John slipped free and looked down at the little car. It lay on its back, cracked like a dead turtle, and dark patches spread over the ground as broken machinery bled out. Harsh propellant hung in the air, making his throat sting. And there were softer smells of blood and piss and fear—and a cloying sense of loss. And, at the very edge of hearing, a thin song rose and fell, like a distant lament. The car’s bright yellow panels and struts—all bent and twisted—glowed against the dull road. And the windows and shattered glass flashed in the sun, dazzling him, as he circled above. He stared at the translucent chassis. It’s not real, he thought, you can’t see through metal. Or hover in trees. I’m dreaming or dead--and dead’s more likely.
His wife and daughter hung in the back seats, clearly visible through the car’s glassy belly. He saw their white faces and blue lips and twisted limbs. Their chests were still, but their eyes tracked him. He knew he’d killed them and he watched the red stains seep over the ropey fibres of their clothes, and he wondered if their rough dresses could absorb the flow, or if he’d need a sponge.
A hulking figure lay pinned in the front seat. And I’m dead, too, he thought.
“It’s bad news,” boomed a woman’s voice from the treetops.
And a man spoke from the ground, but his words were tinny and faraway.
“I know it’s bad news, we’re all fucking dead,” John screamed, but no sound came. His windpipe narrowed to a needle-thin straw, and he gasped to drink, just to breathe…
A rush and roar, and water sparkled everywhere, and the cracked turtle—packed with corpses—rose in the instant flood and bobbed away. He jumped into the sudden, wide, and sunlit river and tried to swallow, but his throat clamped shut. Then the sky split.
John sat bolt upright, sucking in air, coughing and gasping, and tearing his membranes with the force. Tears welled, and he brushed them away and reached across the bedside table, feeling for his glass. Then, his spectacles—perched on an upturned novel—clattered to the floor. “Bollocks!” He grabbed the glass and gulped and rubbed his eyes. “Bollocks again!”
Lily stirred next to him. “What’s going on?”
“I’m choking.” He coughed, then drew a rasping breath. After blinking to clear his eyes, he sipped his water and wiped his face. “Bloody nightmare…”
With a grunt, he twisted to check the clock radio. The faux-wooden box boomed, and the digits glowed red. It was 7.01, and the news was bad.
“At least fifty dead,” said the treetop woman from his dream. “And dozens are missing.”
John got up, swore, and staggered down the hall. Swaying slightly, he sprayed into the toilet bowl and stared at the window—a bright flat square of frosted glass—and felt the rush of warm air. Another weekend gone, another hot Monday, another scorching Australian summer. And today would start, like every other day, with the morning tasks: brushing his teeth, filling the kettle, and emptying the dishwasher. Then the brief lull of coffee and breakfast. The coffee would be long and black and strong. He’d drink two mugs, and Lily would have one. The cereal would be warm, and the cooked fruit sharp, and the conversation terse. Then would come the daily commute. These simple rituals marked each morning, and they wound the mainspring of his day and pinned down his thoughts...
continue reading Lethe's Road
LETHE'S ROAD: insights and spoilers
A cycle of species-jumping reincarnation. A Canberra reimagined as a religiously dominated dystopia. Graveyards that change like the sea.
A cycle of species-jumping reincarnation. A Canberra reimagined as a religiously dominated dystopia. Graveyards that change like the sea.