The Man Who Hated Light

By Steve Merrick

Take a photographer, any photographer, and drive them mad, then add dimension hopping weirdos and an omnipotent virus to the equation and the result is insanity. Welcome to the reality called 21. Can the visitors from the other realities save the people of 21 from their own human stupidity? Can the deranged photographer kill enough of their profiteers whilst swearing like a trooper? Can the problem of 21 be solved in any rational way?

Probably not.

it isn't solved by the end of this first short outing, and overall its possibly a job for the Man Who Loves Light, which will be coming soon.

You have been warned........

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Merrick
• Release date: May 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370145423

Steve Merrick

Why is it so hard to write your own Biography and why do words like pretentious and dilemma keep ricocheting around my head as I type this. So from the top, I am Steve Merrick, I am also known as stevesevilempire the photographer, check the website any time you want or type that into google, really I am a one man evil empire. My life long dream has been to write good science fiction, real stories that use the future in an allegorical way to reflect our present. Other than cycling and tree hugging my hobbies are Physics, Marine Biology, Ilford HP5 Film, music and my first love is photography. Steve Merrick AKA stevesevilmpire

Book preview

The Man Who Hated Light

By

Steve Merrick

Copyright Steve Merrick 2017

Smashwords Edition

Shock walks in a different way to the man, it laces through the conscious mind, building up dose by dose till it gets to a level of toxicity that can only be matched by a lethal jolt of radiation. Take a human any human and they can be brought low by the repeated shocks that time and space will inevitably throw at them. Oh look there is one now, it may be the lost methodology of his footsteps that give him away, or the inner view he is obliquely translating the world with. Watch as he stumbles shambolic through these dusty streets. Bathe in his temporary downfall and vanquish your compassion as you watch his mind tumbling from sanity's fragile grip. If I with my viral capacities look closer, past his cameras, or his jeans, I see a man letting go of all logic, shaped by the events that have repeatedly unfolded in his world to be twisted so out of shape that his own thoughts are unrecognisable to him. Life itself is little more than a complex sequence of traps to this person, this shapeless geography his mind is now inhabiting has become his everything.

As a virus I could say that it wasn't always this way for this person. Once with a curious mind he had searched, using his camera's to see elements of this world that otherwise would have remained blind to his heart and thoughts. That curiosity itself sent the light fetishist out into the world, a birth of sorts in this visual sea on planet Earth. So he wandered far and wide until this point, a child being born caught here, and aged ones death caught there, throughout the worlds of industry and commerce he watched, witnessed and created the image of a world, using the most basic of tools imaginable. Light. Yet all of that is now lost, light is an enemy. Even here as the sun sets his eyes are being assaulted by the spongelike absorbance of the vivid light that is scattering richly around his eyes. Bless my mitochondria he has seen something ahead.

A mirror in a smashed window lies half on the floor, shattered, and like a moth to a flame he is drawn to it. Looking for a hope that he could anchor his now turbulent mind within himself. Fill his self with his self, possibly even re attach his own sanity. For now he kneels and stares almost through the unfamiliar face that is reflected in his thoughts. For now he longs for blindness, I could be stating the obvious but this photographer has witnessed the worlds of humanity, he has seen the lack of humanity in this human world, and as he looks at the pale eyes he see's the cosmic joke of a photojournalist in front of him. As the sunlight fades the street light picks up the slack, harshly reflecting each grain of desert dust in the air, and the man who has reached a particular point in his mind sits on a wall.

Next to him the sea corrupts the shore as it flows to the rocks, trails of water trickle harmlessly over his shoe, as he watches the water crash quietly against the shore, the suede absorbs the wet, darkening, yet he is oblivious to it. Caught up in spiders web of thoughts, thoughts that whisper to the truth that he must never acknowledge. It wasn't the fatal nature of this day that has killed him, yes even blood can flow beautifully through a lens. No it was the waste of it, the waste of all of this, the lack. He wasn't a particularly evil man, but then you wouldn't have called him good either, not that that matters at all in the long run. He was just tired of the waste, the loss and all that that implies. He was tired of the beauty of it all, that beauty of light was in the starkest of contrast to the short comings of humanity.

For now as he watched the water freezing slowly, in his mind he was tired of the blindness's of others, tired of their inability to see the wonder in it. Curling in a ball he slept on that rocky out crop of land, listening to the sea. He longed for that blindness of others, and not to see any more. Yet even with his eyes closed he could see, as his nose smelt the muggy crispness of the ocean and his skin felt the spray he slept. Wide awake dreaming of blindness...........

ALTERED STATES OF HEART AND MIND IN THEIR PARALLEL PLACES

So I lay there, I had seen a reality, a glimpse of the worlds ahead, I had felt the bitterness of journalism crushed by pressure's weird, I had touched the tangents of a future, not like some mystic pagan sacrificing to a tree, nor like a pseudo delusional epileptic maid of Cristian folk law. My brain had analysed it all, and in that architecture of mind and space it had seen an inevitability, an end to those dreams of bright futures for our species. I had no illusions that journalism had died, just like the flower that was democracy had. So I lay there, the options were simple, sacrifice the cameras and the realities of the lenses creation, in favour of fighting back, in every way possible to avoid this future we now walk through. Ask yourself this though, at this fork in my life, I decided to keep the faith with the cameras and a promise I had made to myself, but in doing so failed to embrace the violent or necessary actions that could have changed this world we now live in. In my lack of actions violent, did I accidentally became a traitor to my species? But what of those other universes parallel to ours, what if I had embraced that rage and anger, what if I had chosen that path on that sunny Lebanese morning........

ALTERNATIVE 21.

Yes I loved the woman I was with on that morning but she could off fuck with her socialist duplicities, nor could she have tamed that which beat in my heart, like a memory genetic of battle drums past, it raged, it was in this twizzle that I thought. I thought of the perilous fates of humanities ahead, and realised that life is never measured in mere length but in that twisted shape of it's path, life has nothing to do with it's ending. It is but moments of a geological clock that we see though our optics, smell through our nose and taste with the touch of tongues against each other. Yet as I sat in front of a computer it was there, clear as day that my ending would have nought to it, not even merit. There on those electronic binary entrapped pages was the first of my enemies, seen, fouled by their actions and thoughts to die at my hands. The bitterness of this one old man, who like a magician of olde folklore stood with blood stained finger tips gloating, yes this baron from the world of petrols would be the first.....

Fortune herself smiled upon me as I met the arms dealer, yes he was on my list but for this time I needed him, his death would match his redundancy to my purpose, so I smiled with menace, and praised the time space for making firearms a plenty available in Lebanon, for then it was a short hop to Cyprus, and that vintage Villa that the magician hid behind. His guardians slobbered in the baking sun like dogs, obedient for their supper, and I sat watching through my site, as they ignorant of their imperilled position dreamt of their luxuries. Betraying themselves in their own sea of denials these vile protectors patrolled slovenly secure in their weaponry. The barrel of the M14 followed them slowly as I watched, her trigger cried for release and still I watched them. Peacefully my mind accepted this change in self, happiness was in the sunlight of it all, and as the dark fell upon this place I struck.

I struck with metal, a sword of old, a leaf of a sword, slipping the wall I assaulted the first who died without even a whimper, just loss to his eyes as he saw his potential flush away from himself. He in that moment felt that irrelevance that I had felt on that evening past, yet his heart had to stop to see it. For there is freedom when you know no relevance, liberation in your facelessness and lack of value, that knowledge of meat. That is liberation. A world without fears. That is insanity, and insanity is now my home. The second dog fell, with a sigh of ignorance as I slipped the blade back from his body his eyes searched mine, finding nothing. Then I was inside this corpulent space of opulence that passed for that first magicians home. Whilst his guardians sat at the gates secure in their powers. He gazed into my face and I stepped into his room as he arose from his desk he placed both hands out in front of him, yet I danced forwards with one jump I was on him. My eyes and self empty of anything but peace watched as his mind, lost in the dreams of dominance, thinking of negotiations or bribes perchance, looked through me, calculating me, he was still lost in his math of who, when my sword sung in his heart, and bloods of his life like slate slipped through him to the floor. Within the merest of times moments I was gone.

Dissolving from the scene of a crime, that much was simple, when the crime has not yet shown it's face to his guardians, then you can escape with ease. I crested the hill around the villa and was then away to vanish as if I never happened at all. Then and there as my savagery sought its voice, as my violence became aware, there I saw it descend. Slick dark with a dull shine of light flowing across it's surface. Like a murderous ape I watched it, then with gentle pressure flicked the M14's safety catch forwards giggling at the concept of lethal safety. Was this a sign of government, or an as yet unknown security measure. The strange machine settled, it's sank slightly into the dried ground beneath it, then with a slight pressure from within came a short pop like sound, a part of it sprang upward but paused inches into it's journey, then almost as if it was being held by an invisible maiden it began to slowly open.

The tired cold blue of the moonlight glanced in a sinister fashion along it's reflective surface. After infinite seconds of expectation a figure became clear, like some Spartan Hoplite, the figure sat seated, silhouetted by luna's brightness behind it, the helmet was smooth, and of the same darkened green of the suit, armour covered the chest, and strips of some unknown material glanced against his thigh almost as if he were wearing a skirt. Suddenly I realised that the green was off set by different shade in what I would call a tiger stripe pattern. Oh a tiger, a Corinthian tiger, in green ancient Greek style of dress, yet with fluid silence the man slipped gracefully from the innards of the steaming machine. Across his back was a slung rifle, it was of a design I did not know, slick varnished and darkened wood secured the metals of it's design, then as he twisted away from me, the pistol that graced his thigh, that to was not of a shape I knew, a short leaf sword slapped against his leg as he walked away, with the savage looking spear in his hand.

There upon his left shoulder I saw a small Union Jack flag, but beneath it was an oval, a zero, but then he was walking slowly away from me. I raised the rifle to sight upon his head, and he turned rapidly, then with blackened eye slots the helmeted but faceless vision stared at me. Finally he snapped his fingers together with a sharp click and turned again to walk away. I stood frozen in my dumbness and watched him getting smaller, only to feel the intense cold of that tube he had descended in, it had at a distance seemed hot, yet I knew that my finger tips would freeze and adhere to its surface should I have touched it. With that single rational moment my mind awakened, and I as if in some Celtic dream of demonic forest god's followed at a distance, observing him, as he walked into the middle of the clearing. The moonlight made the grass look as if it had snowed, in that fairy tale clearing he lifted the spear and thrust it into the ground. A light throbbed within it, and

with each beat of the light the air around it vibrated, I watched feeling it's throbbing pulse gently against my skin.

He turned like he was on a string, then scanned the forests edge, finally he started to walk towards me. Straight at me. I am no coward so I stepped from that forest with my weapon ready and aimed, he stopped and circled around me then when he was firmly held in the sharp moonlight, the man sat. I watched as he undid the airtight seal of the gloves, my mind acknowledged that he was wearing a pressurised suit of some kind, but then as he placed the gloves in his pocket, the man unsealed the Ancient Greek corinthian style helmet he was wearing. There came the same popping sound as the tube had, finally and with a slight struggle, the helmet was pulled away from his head, as his chin and teeth appeared first and then I in my shock saw his face. Shoulder length Gray hair fell with a scruffy grace about his face. I knew that face, and as if my mind were lost to madnesses eternal I lowered my weapon. He smiled and then spoke, but his words came far to fast for my mind to translate them, finally he pulled a box from his belt, then moved the clockwork of its heart and spoke into it.

I knew that aged face more intimately than I could fathom comfortably, he twisted at the nob slowly on the machine and the jabbering that it was screeching out slowed until finally I could hear clear and comfortable English, I recognised my own voice clearly enough as the older version of myself smiled to me.

Hello from Alternative Zero.

SOME SAY THE DEVIL IS DEAD.

Casshern, oh watch as this little anthropologists heart pounds absorbed in the movie that is from alternative 21, Gizmobots of violent mania attack each other as the story progresses, whilst emboldened by his bloodstained psyche the hero progresses to the ending. Hope. Oh how could the enlightened woman from zero have had a chance against this, her mind was awash in concepts, lost in the tragedies of the reality she was visiting. She sits watching it, to your eyes as an inhabitant of this place the frame rate is to fast, yet for her mind it is almost slow. Zero is the closest reality to reality, it is reality, things go quicker there, minds live like sharp darts of thought against the lusher light, and she cannot ever open her mouth here in 21, she wrote painfully slowly two words for the hotel clerk, the words were throat and cancer, she has neither, you see in Zero they defeated cancer many years ago, in Zero the highest IQ's of 21 would be swamped in their own ignorance, they would drown in their lack of imagination. Yet what bothers this little woman from Zero is that the further from reality she gets the slower it all is, she has a god, not a hypothesis, and not a creator, just a kind of advisor, that god by reasons strength is me, a virus writing these saddened words of defeat, so she is bothered at the stillness here, the stagnation and the silence from her usually chatty god. She feels that alienating disconnection, it pains her that they live so blindly here.

All around her is the evidence of destruction as they in their silent screams of isolated self loathing suffer, the news paper pages as she scan's through them almost break her heart, the damages of the aggressors are like a self harming scar to her eyes, yet she does not doubt her will to bring change to them. Standing in her blue jeans she looks at her reflection, by your standards she is vibrantly healthy, yet even the light itself is second hand here, slower, less, even the air that she breaths smells used, but for her it is full of unhealthy carbons from their debauchery with petrol. Her breasts

stand firmly in the mirror as she pulls the T Shirt over her shoulders. Her plastic watch pulses on her wrist and she watches it for a moment, then twisting it's face she looks at the holographic display, they are about to arrive, the pathfinder had sent the signal. Gazing through the map she picks up a large canvas shoulder bag, then with it firmly secured on her shoulder and with her sandals in her hands, she walks from the room through the hotel and into the clean warmth of the muggy night.

Lovers stroll oblivious to her presence along the small harbours sea front, to their perception the air is sweet, the light is gentle and at least from my perspective they have each other to hold on to. Our little anthropologist scuttles quickly past the scene and walks up the fallow hill heading for the valley, longing to be out of their sight so she can speed up and move as she normally would. There is pleasure in being a virus, there is subtlety in my fingerprint's wherever you find DNA, and as she slowly trudges up the hill, I can feel my doppelgänger here in this reality as well, but where I had evolved to be what I am, the one here is but a shadow of the original, something less than a reflection of my greater self. In mammalian terms it would be as insignificant as a toenail clipping, I can not rejoice when I feel my alter ego retreating to it's darkness's, not feeling fear, that would be too human but it retreats almost tidally, as if it is repulsed by my field of influence.

She stops and scans around her, in the darkness her eyes need no night vision, as she can see almost all of the obstacles