NaNoWriMo 2010 – Day 10

James was waiting on the swings. Him and Sophie had been friends since before they really knew there were differences between boys and girls. It would be an understatement to say that James had “a little bit” of a thing for her. Sophie was well aware of this and did her best to make sure it was kept in check. Though that didn’t stop her from accepting the ego boost his affections provided.
Sophie could see him as she walked across the grass. He was wearing his usual attire of an excess of baggy clothing that served to emphasise his small frame, rather than disguise it. She often teased him about such things, but he didn’t seem to wish to ever change. He was sat, moving gently back and forth, and dragging his feet along the ground. He turned as he heard he footsteps on the wood chippings of the playground.
“Hi, James.” Sophie smiled at him.
“Hi, Soph.” James beamed back at her behind his thick-cut, NHS glasses. “How’s life?”
“Exceptionally confusing.” Sophie slumped onto a swing next to him. She pushed off with her feet and began to swing in a slightly haphazard fashion. “Everything was so much less complicated when we were kids, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” James looked thoughtful. “School was definitely a lot easier.”
Sophie gave him a look of endearment. “Yes. Yes it was. Families too.”
“Families are complicated?”
“Mine is. Well, it is now. I’m adopted, James.” She looked at him hopefully.
“Oh.” James’ face was offering no help. “Well, it’s nice to know, I suppose?”
Sophie sighed and went back to swinging.
“Do you know who your real parents are yet? I mean, your biological ones…”
“I’ve met my father. I don’t know what to think of him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, either he’s mad or the world is. And even then, I think he’s still at least a little bit mad.”
“I sometimes think my parents are a little bit mad. Mainly whenever they try and go on about sport.” James gave her a reassuring smile.
“Yeh, he’s not that kind of mad. He’s more of your ‘mad prophet’ kind of mad. Beard and robe and everything.”
“Oh dear.”
“I’m meeting up with him again tomorrow. I’m gonna try and make him make a bit more sense. And maybe I can learn a bit about my mother.”
“Why can’t you meet her? Oh, she’s not dead it she?” James did his best to make his face show concern, but the glasses rendered it a bit ineffectual.
“Not that I’m aware of.” Sophie stopped swinging. “She’s apparently gone off somewhere and he doesn’t know where. He thinks she’ll be coming back, but has no idea when. Hell, that could just be some sort of delusion of his. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were staying away from him as much as possible.”
“Oh come on, he can’t be that bad!”
“No, I suppose he’s not. But it’s a bit jarring, really. To find out one day that you’re adopted, and then to find out the next day that your real father is the sort of man you’d avoid in the bus station in case he tried to give you some sort of leaflet.”
“Can I help at all?”
Sophie smiled, “You can take my mind off all this. Take me back to yours, beat me at computer games, and feed me until I pass out.”
“Um, okay?” James always got a little bit nervous at the thought of having Sophie in his bedroom. His mother would never allow girls in his room, but Sophie wasn’t considered a “girl”. James’ mother had known Sophie longer than Sophie had known James and she’d always approved of her. Though she did share Sophie’s mother’s opinion about Sophie’s hair. Suddenly Sophie wondered if James’ mother had known about Sophie’s adoption. And did anyone else know?
This all kept Sophie rather quiet on the walk to James’ house (not that it was a particulaly long one). James didn’t press her to break her silence. He’d never been one for excessive talking anyway, and Sophie’s company was enough to keep him more than happy. He preferred to simply look at his feet as he walked, trying not to smile or blush too much.

James’ bedroom was a boy’s bedroom. The walls were covered in posters and almost every possible surface was covered in things no longer considered toys (as he was now too old for such things) but collectibles. James was a hoarder and could see no reason to get rid of something that might have a use one day. He had drawers full of things with broken or missing parts and spare parts for things that he no longer owned. He had a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that was full to bursting with well-thumbed paperbacks. Some of them he didn’t even like, but he kept them anyway, just in case he forgot how he felt about them and needed to find out again.
It was relatively tidy today. His mother had come in earlier in the day and picked up all the clothes that had lain littered about. She’d intended to clean it, as she’d done the rest of the house. Unfortunately, there was barely anything to clean, without resorting to a large scale rearrangement of items. She’d vacuumed the floor and left it at that.
Sophie was now sat on this dirt-free floor with a plate of cheese-on-toast that James’ mother had made for her when she’d told her that, no, she hadn’t had any dinner yet. James was busy setting up the game they were about to play. He handed a controller to Sophie and she held it with one hand, the other being occupied by a half-eaten slice of the cheese-on-toast.
The game began and Sophie continued eating, neglecting to move her character and concentrating her focus on hitting whatever attack buttons she felt like. James’ character was running and jumping all over the screen, but was barely managing to land a blow on Sophie. She managed to stifle a giggle as his character was knocked out and he turned to look at Sophie in disapproval. She nonchalantly chewed on the last bite of the slice and placed her now free hand on the controller.
James took the second round with ease as Sophie was trying to remember complicated button combinations she’d learnt when they’d last played this game. None of them seemed to work, so she turned back to her random button strategy for the last round. It was a close fought thing, but James just beat her. Sophie gave him a smile that was intended to make it seem like she’d let him win, but she knew it wasn’t true. Sophie got up and left him to play on his own for a bit while she ate her second slice of toast and inspected his bookcase.
“Surely you’ve read them all by now?” James asked, not looking up from his game.
“I have not!” Sophie replied, petulantly. “And anyway, you might have some new ones.”
“Not for a while now. I’ve mostly been getting stuff from the library or just re-reading old stuff.”
“Let me guess, Hitchhiker’s Guide for the millionth time?”
“They’re great books! And no, other stuff.”
“Maybe I should give them another read. I might be going on my own fantastical journey soon…”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if Bob’s no help, that’s my new dad, by the way, I may have to go find my mother. No idea how I’d do that.”
“Well, couldn’t you just do a quick internet search for her? Everyone’s online in some for or another…”
“If she’s anything like Bob seems to think he is, she’s probably not going under her ‘real’ name any more. Hell, she might not even have a real name.”
“What?” James stopped what he was doing and looked round at her.
“It’s a long story that I don’t know the full details of yet.” Sophie lay down on James’ bed. “Bob seems to think he’s as old as the human race. And he said something vague about him and my mother having ‘arrived’ around then. Where they arrived from, I don’t know yet. I’m going to see him tomorrow, so I might be able to learn a bit more then. Or I’ll just come away even more confused.”
“Oh. That’s definitely very… hmmm.” James managed.
“Yes, it definitely is that.” Sophie rolled onto her side and looked at James. “Why have you gone all quiet?”
“There’s, um… there’s a girl in my bed.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “I’m not in your bed, James, I’m on it. And you know full well it wouldn’t mean anything even if I were in it.”
“Yeh…” Jamie avoided her gaze. Sophie rolled her eyes once more and lamely threw a book at him. It caught him on the arm and James rubbed the imagined bruise as he blushed heavily.
Sophie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stared down at her feet. “I just need a friend right now, James. Everything’s being complicated right now, can’t we just be simple?”
“Sorry.” James adjusted his glasses and smiled at her. “You’re my best friend, Soph, and I’m always here for you.”
“Thanks, Jim-Jams.” Sophie smiled back at him and watched him wince at the childhood nickname she’d given him long ago. “Now, what other food have you got? That cheese-on-toast was most certainly not enough to fill the gaping hole in my digestive system.”
“Your entire digestive is a gaping hole!” James teased. “A black hole, into which all snacks fall, never to be seen again! You know, when you went on holiday a while back, mum was still buying the same amount of food and she couldn’t understand why our cupboards were overflowing. It was because you hadn’t been round here raiding them for over a week!”
“Oh, shut your mouth and get me some cake, you silly boy.” Sophie stood up and pushed him out of the bedroom door towards the stairs.

Bob was searching his home, which was part of the church and yet wasn’t. To any normal human, it wasn’t there at all and most of the time, neither was Bob. To Bob, he was very annoyed by how often he had people being thoroughly bored in what was essentially his hallway.
He was searching for various diaries and personal effects that he would need for tomorrow. Sophie wanted to know the truth, which would mean he’d have to remember it all first. Oh, if only her mother were here! She’d remember it all. She’d always had such a good memory. Or at least it seemed as such. He’d let himself get old and he’d gotten forgetful. What was the point of remembering all these things that had no bearing on now? The price of eggs at the corner shop was worth remembering, the name of that Viking who’d gotten drunk and taken offence to Bob calling him a halfwit was not. Though he did remember old Oglaf, for some reason.
The diaries would have to do. Sophie’s mother had kept them while she had been here and she’d brought him a new one whenever she returned from her travels. He never read them. He’d been there for almost all of her original writings and he had no interest in anything new she had to say. He’d resolutely taken to just throwing them in a corner and forgetting about them. Right now, he was wishing it had always been the same corner.
A small grey cat sat and watched him at work. It mewed at him.
“Yes, Douglas, I had thought about that.” Bob said, in seeming reply.
The cat mewed once more.
“Well, I’ll tell her not to, won’t I?” He turned to face the cat and it cocked it’s head on one side, managing a marvellous look of withering skepticism. “Oh don’t look at me like that! She’s not going to want to go off looking for her. I mean, why would she? She’s a 16 year-old girl. They don’t do such things, do they? They sit and watch television and go to parties and court young men on that web-thing. 16 year-old girls do not go wandering off looking for mothers they’ve never met!”
The cat gave a final mew, before wandering off to the kitchen to find itself something to eat.
“The salmon in the fridge is not for you!” Bob called after it, knowing full well he would be ignored. He cursed his decision to endow Douglas with further intelligence than his normal cat-genes would have allowed. But then, he did serve as a decent sort of conscience. As long as the dilemma didn’t involve an outcome that would involve him getting fed, that is.
Bob went back to his searching and it wasn’t long before it bore fruit. He placed the two further diaries he’d found on the pile. The problem was, he wasn’t sure how many there actually were. She’d always managed to keep them fairly concise, he knew that. But even then, there was a lot of time to cover. And there’d be even more noteworthy events available to go into the more recent ones. He’d just have to search everywhere until there was nothing left to find. He looked at the vast expanse of mess and sagged at the prospect. There was no way he was going to get this all done before Sophie arrived tomorrow.
He decided a tea break was in order and retired to the kitchen. He found Douglas sat next to the kettle, with a plate before him and something a definite salmony pink hanging from his mouth.
“How you manage to do that without thumbs, I’ll never know.”
The cat gave him a smug grin and finished off the salmon. Bob opened a cupboard a pulled out a rather ancient looking mug. He hesitated a moment and turned to Douglas.
“A milky one for you, I assume?” The cat nodded and Bob grabbed a small tea cup from the same cupboard. He filled the kettle and put it on to boil and busied himself with putting tea bags in the mug and cup and adding sugar to his. He got the milk out of the fridge and set it down on the counter next to everything else. He pretended not to notice Douglas licking his lips as he did this.
The kettle boiled and Bob made the tea, making sure to make Douglas’ with about the same amount of milk as water. The tea bags were squeezed and went into the bin and the tea was stirred thoroughly before being taken back into what could vaguely be called the living room. Douglas followed along behind Bob and took up residence on the footrest, where he could easily reach his tea after Bob had set it down on the table.
Bob sipped his tea and vaguely stroked Douglas. “Do you think she’ll be happy with all this?”
Douglas mewed and lapped at his tea, making a face after discovering it was still a bit too hot.
“Me neither, old boy. To be honest, I really have no idea what she’ll think.” Bob sighed. “Maybe she’s just like her mother. Maybe she will go off to try and find her and these diaries will just encourage that. Maybe I’m just destined to not have a woman around this place.”
Douglas was too busy with his tea to give any sort of answer. Bob slurped at his and then looked puzzled.
“Oh, sod it all, I forgot to bring in the biscuits!”
Douglas watched him as he left the room and shook his head. He could tell what was going to happen and felt a bit sorry for Bob. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t excited at the prospect of tagging along on Sophie’s adventure. If she had one of course. But then, he was pretty sure she’d decide to. I mean, with his persuasion, why wouldn’t she?

NaNoWriMo 2010 – day 7

Sophie was 16 when she found out where she came from. Not all that sex stuff, she’d learnt that years ago, in a long discussion with her mum and from a book she’d given her (there’d also been lessons at school, but they’d involved so much blushing and stammering on the part of the teacher that it hadn’t been particularly informative). This time, she learnt that the people who she’d always thought to be her parents hadn’t been in involved in the sex act that had produced her.
It was the day of her birthday and they’d waited till all the food was eaten and the various relatives (or not, as it later turned out) had been ushered out of the door and to their waiting cars. Grandma was the last to go, having spent most of the time post-dinner snoozing on the sofa after one too many glasses of sherry (“one too many” being defined as the half a glass she’d managed before falling asleep). Sophie was attempting to disentangle her hair from the elastic of a cardboard party hat when her parents announced that they had something to tell her.
“You’re of an age now,” her mother had started off, “where you deserve to know certain things. You’ve grown up into a very sensible you girl –young woman– and… and..” That was as far as she got before the tears started. Her father sat down and put his hand on her mother’s knee and squeezed.
“What your mum’s trying to say,” Sophie turned to look at him with confusion in her eyes, still absently trying to free the last few strands of her hair from the hat elastic. “is that we’re very proud of you and we love you very much. You’re a wonderful daughter and we’re so happy you’re ours. Except technically… you’re not.”
“What? Ow!” Sophie hadn’t quite finished untangling her hair and the shock had caused her to pull the hat away, taking a fair few strands of hair with it. “So, I’m adopted?” she managed, after she recovered.
“Yes.” her father replied. “We thought it was about time you knew.”
“We still love you dearly!” her mother managed, between the tears.
“Very much so. You’re our daughter, regardless of your DNA.”
They were both looking at Sophie quite expectantly. She was quite unsure what to say. It had certainly been a shock, but it didn’t jar her mind quite as much they seemed to be expecting. She decided it was probably best to take some time to think. That would probably satisfy them.
“I love you guys too.” She gave them a big smile to emphasise that she meant it. “I think I’m gonna go up to my room. Have a little lie down and a think.”
“You do that, darling. Let us know if there’s anything you need or if you want to talk about anything.” her father smiled the way he always had, ever since she was a little girl, but now he wasn’t her father. Sophie wasn’t sure yet if that made a difference.

Sophie lay on her bed and listened to a CD she’d been bought for her birthday. She wasn’t sure if she liked it yet. She’d heard a song off it and loved it instantly, but all the others were leaving her sort of cold. Except that bit of guitar in the second song. She liked that.
She wondered about what to do. She was an adoptive child now. She’d seen this in movies and on TV. Where adoptive children meet up with their biological parents and hear the tragic stories of why they had to give up “their own flesh and blood”. And they suddenly find out that they’re like clones of these parents they never knew. They discover why they’d never fit in at home. Why they loved certain things that their parents couldn’t understand.
Sophie couldn’t see that happening. It wasn’t that her parents always saw eye-to-eye with her, just that she was far from being the proverbial “square peg”. They didn’t always understand things she was into (her style for one thing was often frowned upon. She couldn’t count the number of times her mother had berated her for dying her “lovely blonde hair” pink) but there were still many things the connected on. Her father loved to read and so did she. Her mother played the piano and she was well on her way (and practicing like mad to try and live up to her mother’s talent). The 16 years of her life (give or take however long it was before they adopted her) that she’d spent being their daughter was not something she could easily dismiss.
Sophie sat up and looked around her room. You couldn’t really see the walls any more, as she’d done her best to obscure the pinkness of them with posters. She looked at the dressing table she’d had all her life. The same dressing table that had belonged to her mother, that still had a few fading stickers on the mirror, announcing her mother’s love for various bands that Sophie had never heard of. She clambered off the bed and went to sit at the dressing table.
Sophie looked at herself in the mirror, examining her features and mentally comparing them to those of her parents. There were obviously dissimilarities, seeing as she didn’t have her father’s moustasche and neither of her parents wore as much mascara as she did (though there was that picture she’d found of her mother on the way to a Siouxsie and The Banshees gig. That thought made her smile). She thought about her naturally blonde hair and compared it to the mousey brown hair of her father, or the deep brown, almost black, hair of her mother. She looked into her blue eyes that paled to grey at the centre and about the two pairs of brown eyes that her parents owned. Her nose was fairly pointed like her mother’s and they had similar sized ears, all 4 being quite small and usually obscured by their hair. her father’s nose and ears were fairly large and rounded. The only hair that covered his ears tended to be growing out of it.
Her mother had trouble keeping weight off and indulged in various gym sessions and diet routines to keep herself in shape. Sophie found herself naturally thin, no matter what she ate or how many Saturdays she spent on the sofa watching cartoons in her pyjamas. Her mother often told her how she’d miss it when her metabolism slowed down and she’d have to work to be thin. Sophie wasn’t so sure. She’d happily carry the burden of the extra weight if it meant she found her way free of the A cup she’d been trapped in since hitting puberty. Boys complaining about her “bony arse” when she sat on their lap was also something she wouldn’t miss.
The CD had looped round again and that guitar bit came back. Sophie smiled and picked a chocolate out of one of the boxes she’d received for her birthday. She munched it thoughtfully and then spat it into the bin in disgust. She didn’t not like Brazil nuts. The next few chocolates went down better. Sophie made herself stop when she’d eaten half a tray of chocolates, replacing the lid of the box firmly and telling herself she couldn’t have any more. At least until she stopped feeling ever-so-slightly sick.
Sophie wondered what her parents were doing. Maybe they were talking about her. Or they could be carrying on like any other night, her father reading either the newspaper or a book, while her mother watched something he didn’t care for on the TV. She considered going down to see, but she hesitated at the thought that they might want her to talk about things. She still wasn’t sure she had anything to say. She wanted to learn more about where she came from, but surely that was a decision that was meant to take a while? Everyone in fiction seemed to think about things for a few days before announcing out of the blue that they wanted to know their “real” parents.
But this wasn’t fiction. She hadn’t been angry at her parents when they told her. She hadn’t flown into a rage because of their “lies”. What were they meant to do, throw it at the end of every sentence? “What do you want for breakfast, adoptive daughter of mine?” She sincerely doubted that would work. They’d done what they were meant to do, be her parents. And that was something she’d chosen to do. Which was more than she could say for those that had created her. So, was she angry at them? Sophie wasn’t sure. She didn’t know them and they didn’t know her. She couldn’t even begin to imagine their reasons for giving her up, so why should she be mad when she had yet to know everything?
It wasn’t even that it hadn’t sunk in yet. It just seemed sensible to not be mad. She couldn’t be mad at the parents she’d been raised by, as they’d done nothing but good. And she couldn’t be mad at people she didn’t know for something she was yet to understand. So why not just carry on as usual? She sarcastically congratulated herself on only being 16 and already being so grown-up. She heard her mother’s voice in her head saying “despite certain… indiscretions, Sophie’s a very practical and sensible girl.” Sophie smiled at herself in the mirror and brushed several strands of one of her “indiscretions” behind her left ear.

Sophie woke up the next morning to an empty house. She found herself fully clothed and lacking a duvet. The CD was still playing in her stereo. She got up and turned it off. She then picked up the duvet that she’d almost got her feet caught in and put it back on the bed. She thought about making the bed properly, but decided against it. making the bed was for days where her mother might see it.
She headed downstairs and into the kitchen, on a quest for cereal. There was a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet, depicting some region of Spain an aunt had visited at some point (Sophie couldn’t care less about the who, where, and why of such things right now). The note was from her mother and told of how they hadn’t wanted to wake her and they hoped she was Ok and other such things. Sophie wasn’t so interested in those bits. Her attention was drawn by the ending, which stated that her mother had yet to do the shopping, so there was money by the front door for Sophie to go and buy herself something for lunch.
Sophie was pleased to discover that this lack of food didn’t seem to apply to cereal, so she happily poured herself a large bowl of supermarket own brand frosted corn something-or-others and topped it off with the last of the milk. She crunched her way through a spoonful as she made her way to the living room.
Turning on the TV announced to her that it was actually past midday and so the bowl of cereal counted as lunch. She dismissed such silliness and planned a later lunch consisting of something from one of the shops ‘round the corner. It might even contain something vaguely healthy, as her birthday had supplied her with enough chocolatey goodness to last her for maybe a few weeks, if she were sensible. A few days if she decided to be otherwise.
The TV wasn’t offering much in the way of decent entertainment, so she eventually turned it off. Monday lunchtime was not exactly peak time for interesting viewing. Sophie sarcastically cursed it being the summer holidays. She’d have something to do, even if it were only school. She looked out of the window to check the weather. It was a fairly nice day, maybe she could go for a walk as part of her trip to get some lunch. She finished her cereal and slurped the remaining milk from the bowl. It tasted sugary and sweet. She took the bowl and spoon back to the kitchen and placed them in the vicinity of the sink, waiting to be washed by someone who wasn’t her. She headed out of the kitchen and towards the door, grabbing her jacket from the peg and the money from beside the telephone. She stepped out into a pleasantly cool breeze and shut the door behind her. She fumbled with her keys somewhat before finding the right one and locking the second lock that kept the place safe. She was perfectly warm without the jacket on, so she just folded it over her arm and set off.

NaNoWriMo 2010 – Day 2

The room was empty except for Robin and the desk attendant. The morning’s arrivals had all happened bright and early, while he’d still been sat on the bus. His alternate was probably sat in the waiting room, leafing through old magazines with a look of awe on his face (in a world that’s so different from your own, even trash can be fascinating). He walked to the desk and gave his name.
“I’ll just go and get her.” The attendant replied.
Robin waited, a little confused. The message had told him that he was meeting an alternate version of himself, not just someone who held his position. “Maybe they got it wrong,” he thought to himself, “Or maybe it’s-” He didn’t get to finish that thought as the attendant had opened the door and was calling his name into the waiting room. He heard a female voice answer and then the shuffling of magazines back into piles. A few moments later, the attendant stood aside to allow her to exit the room.
“Miss Robin Ver of dimension ZZ9-221984.” The attendant announced. The woman standing before him was alternate version of himself. From a dimension where his father’s sperm had offered up and X chromosome instead of a Y. Robin studied her, trying to see where they were similar. They shared the same dark brown hair and greyish-blue eyes. Her haircut was even similar to his, short and somewhat spiky in an unkempt and lackadaisical fashion. She was at least a thought shorter than him though, and very much a woman. She had curves in all the right places and even the short hair didn’t send her looks too far in the direction of “boyish”. Robin’s nothing-but-black suit, shirt and shoes were replaced by a dark grey blouse, a pencil skirt, tights (at least by Robin’s guess, he couldn’t see the tops of her legs), some plain black heels, and one of those little cardigan things that didn’t even fully cover her arms.
“Um, hi…” the other Robin said, “I’m Robin.”
“Oh, yes!” Robin was ejected out of his ruminations, “Sorry about that. It’s just that I’ve never been a woman before, I mean…”
The other Robin laughed, “I get what you mean. I’ve met male versions of myself before. A fair few, in fact. There seems to be woefully few female Robin Vers out there. Or maybe they all just went somewhere else for work.”
“Maybe they did. Well, it’s lovely to meet you and welcome to ER7-724272.” Robin offered his hand and she shook it and smiled. “Shall we head up to the office? You do work in team 5, don’t you?”
“Yep. Arts researcher, just like you. Or so they tell me.”
“And they’d be right!” Robin (the original) smiled and led the way through the building. As they walked, they talked politely about things, such as how he didn’t really need to lead her as the building was almost identical to her own. She occasionally pointed out things that were different; a vending machine that stocked a different brand of drink, a picture that hung on an opposite side, a plant that someone had killed by pouring something rather nasty into the pot at a recent office party. They also exchanged brief life stories about themselves, mostly a snippet from one of them, followed by a reply of “same here, but…”. The stories had similar plots, a pleasant childhood in Bristol, before moving to London for University and finally ending up at The Library. She’d done slightly better than him, ending up with a 1st, rather than the 2.1 he just barely scraped. His musical career had mostly consisted of playing guitar in a variety of short-lived, local, metal or punk bands, whereas she’d been a blues singer who’d really had a chance of going somewhere, but she’d decided to focus on her studies.
They arrived at the office and made their way to the cubicle they’d share. “It’s even in the same spot!” The female Robin exclaimed. “So I still get that lovely view out of the window. Oh, but that church isn’t there.”
“Take your pick.” Robin said, indicating the extra computers spread around the circular desk. “I’m on 1, obviously, and some guy from RR6-565677 has been using 4 a lot recently.”
“One of us?”
“No, not another Robin. His name’s Terry, I think. Don’t think he’ll be back for a few days, said he had a lot of material to gather. All The Beatles are still alive and making albums where he’s from, apparently.”
“The Beatles?” The female Robin looked confused.
“Yes. Surely you guys have them?”
“Don’t think so. But maybe they’re just not that big and I haven’t heard of them…”
Robin laughed “Maybe! I’d love to know what those guys did instead! Here, I’ll pull up something for you to have a listen to.” He sat down at his machine and started clicking away, scrolling through masses of music that had never and would never exist in his own dimension. Finally he came to what he was looking for. “Here we go.” With a click of the mouse, and a turn of the speaker’s volume knob, “Hey Jude” was flowing out of the tiny computer speakers he’d been provided with. The female Robin listened intently, a slight smile forming on her lips.
“I know this one!”
“Oh, so they do exist?” Robin looked a her hopefully.
“I don’t think so.” She gave him a troubled look. “I think it was churned out by one of those awful pop factories in the late 20th. I can’t for the life of me remember who was singing on it. Not that it matters really.”
“Oh dear. It’d be a real shame if they were reduced to that sort of thing.”
“It was probably a cover or something.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Give me all you can on them and I’ll do some research when I get back.” She took a seat at 2 and started her voyage of discovery into the works of one of the most successful bands of all time, who were almost nobodies where she came from.
Robin watched her work and he smiled. She was definitely very attractive. He was sure he couldn’t look anywhere near that attractive if he tried. The more he studied her, the more he could see resemblances, but every one of them had a feminine bent that made him believe she must be someone else. But obviously the checks had been done. They had to be. The Library needed to know if you were going to be working with an alternate. The simplest way was via name and position in the company. They were both Robin Ver and they both worked as Team 5’s arts researcher. But that wasn’t enough. Names could belong to anyone. There was definitely another Robin Ver living in this dimension already who was in no way an alternate of himself (he occasionally got e-mails or online requests from people looking for the other Robin Ver, though he was unable to direct them elsewhere as his searches for him had also been fruitless).
Their work day rushed along and they got along well on that first day. They sat and ate lunch together and they were joined by another Robin Ver, this one being from TD7-454533 and instead being an historical researcher for team 2. He’d been visiting for a while and informed them that this was the last time he’d be there as his team’s project was finishing up and they’d be moving on to editing and publishing the data they’d collected. Robin (the original) had gotten to know him quite well and expressed his sadness at seeing him go.
“Well, you’ll have to pop over sometime!” said Team 2 Robin, “We’ll have a night out. Drinks will have to be on me, obviously.”
“Ah yes, no monarchy over there, so our money won’t even pass for good.” said Robin.
“And maybe the young lady could join us?”
“Oh, that sounds lovely!” the female Robin replied. “I’ve yet to experience the UK as a republic outside of research texts.”
“Good good. I won’t bring the wife. She seems very much of the opinion that one of me is far too many at the moment.”
“Ah yes, Jenny Saunders,” the original Robin mused, “I was heartbroken when she ditched me. Guess I dodged a bullet there!”
“You certainly did, my boy!” Team 2 Robin gave him a fatherly punch in the arm, despite their identical ages.
“Jenny Saunders? She got very drunk and tried to kiss me at a party once!” the female Robin exclaimed. They all laughed.
The rest of the day was an enjoyable one for Robin. There was pleasant conversation throughout the afternoon between him and the alternate Robin and he was sad to see her to the departures department at the end of the day. She assured him she would be back though. She had lots of surface data to sort through and compare to what they had back home. Then she’d be back to do some in-depth research and provide him with some data for comparison. He told her he’d be very much looking forward to it.
His bus home was on time and he spent most of the journey thinking of her. It was then that he first began to consider some kind of relationship between them. The thought shocked him at first, but it kept nagging at him. She was definitely very attractive and they shared a lot in common. It wasn’t unheard of for employees of The Library to begin relationships across dimensions, but with an alternate? That’s surely just a little fucked-up? Robin began making narcissism and masturbation jokes in his head and was still giggling when he got off the bus.

Robin had a dream that night. It began with him and the female Robin working in the office, like they had been that day. Almost instantly, it changed. Female Robin stood up and had a predatory look in her eyes. She pushed the computer terminals off the desk one by one and then leapt upon it. She pulled Robin towards her and kissed him deeply and passionately. They began to undress each other. Pulling at each other’s clothes, taking off only what was needed. He ripped open her blouse and pushed up her skirt. She was wearing stockings in his dream. She lay back on the desk and he removed her underwear, discarding it on the floor. He climbed on top of her, leaning in close to hear what she was whispering.
“Fuck me.” Robin exclaimed as he awoke. He felt dampness against his face and instinctively wiped his mouth, but it was dry. He realised it was sweat and sat up. His could feel the hardness of his penis against his underwear. “Fuck” he said again and fell back to lie on the bed again. He masturbated to the fading images of his dream. To the thought of fucking an alternate version of himself. To the sound of her whispering in his ear. To her stockings. To the look of hunger in her eyes when she’d taken hold of his neck and kissed him. He came to the fantasy of fucking himself. The euphoria subsided and he fell into a restless sleep haunted by doubts. But at the back of his mind hung that look. He wanted to see that look for real.

I would also accept “resignation”

“This is Toby” said Rhiannon, as she produced a small grey kitten from somewhere about her person.

“It’s a cat.” He looked at it skeptically.

“She‘s a cat. A Russian blue, to be precise. Lovely colour.”

“Grey?”

“Very practical; doesn’t show the dirt.” Rhiannon pushed the cat towards him and he reluctantly took it. Holding it like a perpetually single uncle would a newborn niece or nephew. Toby slouched down in his hands and looked up at him with big yellow eyes and slicked-back ears.

“Toby’s a boy’s name.”

“Well, technically, yes. There was certain complications and stubbornness when it came to naming her.”

“I see.” Julian frowned, “What exactly are you giving her to me for?”

“She needs a new owner. Someone who’ll actually care for her. I found her under a doormat.”

“I assume you hadn’t wiped your feet already…”

“Obviously. Currently, you and her are the only ones who actually believe in me. I thought you should get acquainted.”

“She… believes in you?” He looked puzzled.

“Well, she knows I exist. And she’s been very affectionate to me. I assume that implies belief. Though she might simply believe in not dying of hypothermia under a doormat. I’m not too fussy.”

“I know that all too well.”

Let the inane statements begin

The kitten lay under the doormat. It was very cold. It dared not venture further for warmth; the house was all it knew. The family had left it there when they moved. Pets weren’t allowed in their new place and the kids had lost interest in it anyway. They’d been so excited when presented it as a surprise Christmas present. The little girl had insisted it be called Toby, even after her parents had told her it was a girl. Toby had loved those months. She’d been the centre of attention and had been showered with toys. Fuzzy things on bits of string, pretend mice that squeaked when she bit them, even a two-tiered scratching post. But the children had grown tired of taking responsibility for her. They loved playing with her, but hated the chore of feeding her. The mother had balked at the vet’s bill for her injections too. So now, there she lay, cowering under a worn hessian doormat, trying not to freeze. She awaited the kindness of strangers, too scared to help herself. She was there for two days until she was found; weak from hunger and cold, barely able to mew in appreciation for the warmth the strange hands brought to her.

A set of stars still incomplete

She called again last night. She told me it was over. She told me she just couldn’t go on like this. Or at least, that’s what I assume she said. I don’t really listen any more. It’s been almost a year now since it ended. And every month, regular as clockwork, she calls me up and ends it all over again. I don’t know why. I don’t know if it’s a compulsion or some sick obsession she has with twisting the knife. She always says the same words. I always say so little it doesn’t matter. I often let my mind wander while she speaks. I wonder exactly what she’s doing as she speaks. I wonder how she prepares. Does she make a cup of tea and then sits comfortably and breaks my heart while it cools? I wonder if she’s ever called while I’ve been out and been disappointed. I still answer the phone every time. It’s always the same day so I always know it’s her. I just can’t bring myself to not answer. Maybe I’m punishing myself. Or maybe I can’t let go of this one last connection we have. Maybe it makes the break-up somehow less painful. I dread the day she stops calling.

-Alice

The onset has begun

I needed blood. Not a lot of it, just a little. I’d run a knife down my finger and licked the drops from it but it wasn’t the same. I was still twitching from the need and now I had a painful cut and a mess on my carpet. I thought of her. I couldn’t ask her to satiate my addiction. Once someone’s left you, the intimacy’s gone. If it had been something meaningless like sex or a kidney, it wouldn’t have mattered. But cutting someone open with a knife was something that you needed to be close for. People don’t tend to let you break out the razor blades if they can’t stand the sight of you. I’d thought about meeting someone new, but that would take time. There’s so many stages you have to go through first, before you even get to the point where you find out she isn’t into it and leaves in disgust. I’d even tried one of those “alternative personals” sites. That had been a waste of time and money. No, I had to think outside the box. I looked down at the body before me. I decided the mourners wouldn’t notice just one more scar.

-Alice

You’re all I could ever lie for

I’ve pushed this poem on you too many times. I’ve tried to manipulate you into this classification that’s unrealistic and idealistic. I’ve tried to twist your attributes into this fiction that I’ve created. I’m deluding myself that this is actually who you are. I’m lying to myself and it feels so good. This is what keeps me going and I don’t want to let go of it. I don’t want to be left here, alone and pining for this fiction, so I tell myself that you’re it and leave it at that. I ignore the nagging voices lurking in the depths of my subconscious, telling me that this isn’t right. Telling me that what I believe isn’t true. You’re what I want and I’ll deny any retort until the day I die. I’ve accepted you and now I must learn to live with it until the day I lay down in my grave. Then I’ll rest. Then I’ll stop lying. Then I’ll accept that it wasn’t you. I’ll leave you alone and I’ll embrace my sweet release. But not yet. For now, I’ll make do with loving my fiction and seducing my poetics. For now I’ll make do with you.

-Alice

Let’s bring this up at the reception

Everybody said they loved her. She was the talk of the town and oh so popular. They carried her high on compliments and platitudes. She walked tall, surrounded by admirers and sycophants. I wasn’t sure how that made me feel. I wasn’t sure if I should try to be pretty by association or something. Or whether I should be jealous of all the attention they gave her. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss her or kill her. Or maybe both. Did I want her to lose all that admiration or did I want her to simply not want it? Did I really desire for her to have some depth to her personality? Did I want her to conform to some sort of definition of a “whole person” that I had created for myself? I’m not sure if I see this as romantic or not. I don’t think it is. What they all want from her is nothing from a quaint twenties film. If they had their way, they’d be in alley, up against the wall. If they had their way they’d all get their turn. She’d just be something they’d use and discard. Maybe I’m just jealous that she doesn’t want that from me.

-Alice

I didn’t think I’d need to say it

Her vocal chords were straining as she cried out. It sounded like some kind of unearthly sound, some kind of call to a god of the underworld. I wasn’t sure quite what I’d done to her to produce that sound, but it seemed promising, so I kept going. She grabbed my hair, pulling on it as her body shook. More noises came from her throat and her grip tightened. I kept going, trying not to worry about whether I’d lose any of my hair because of what I was doing to her. Her body was beginning to shake quite violently. The noises weren’t coming any more. She seemed to be concentrating all her energy on simply gasping for air. I started working faster and slightly harder. I wanted to push her like she’d never been pushed before. I wanted her to reach the edge and fall over it in such spectacular fashion. I wanted her to remember this. I wanted to be something that she would never forget. Something that she would talk about to others. Something that everything else would be compared to. I wanted this moment to be immortal and for me to be undying with it. I think I may have been asking too much.

-Alice