How I Came to Light Up the Universe
By Ian D. Smith
The sun was low when I looked out and saw a red dust vortex. The prolonged darkness had brought a plague of rats down from the mountains. I poured myself a whiskey and patted the green harbor light I was repairing. I was one hundred and fifty steps above the maquis.
The windows creaked and the lights dipped. They always dipped when the batteries cut in, and when the ship’s bell rang, the sound was muted as though it was underwater. I caressed a carved figurehead. She was protecting me as we spun through space together. I could also hear water. I cupped my hand to the window and saw raindrops swirl like sparks from a fire.
Then I saw a giant wave.
The wave struck the lighthouse. The glass cracked and I was thrown into a sudden and immense panic, but then I realized the best place to be when an ocean returned was right where I was. I entered the stairwell.
“Coming up!” I shouted.
I liked to sit out dust storms crouched amongst the reflections, but midway I stopped. Glass smashed and the bell rang. Foam filled the stairwell below. A cold blast of CO2 stung my face. I pulled on my oxygen mask and breathed deeply.
I saw a light across the stairwell above. I shielded my eyes and reached the top step. I pushed open the door, but all I could hear was the slapping of waves and the rattling of lenses and mirrors. The glass chimed and a reflection moved across all the surfaces at once. A circling glow was refracted and then a man walked out of the mirrors.
“Happens all the time,” he hissed. “Every lighthouse I visit. Lovely accommodation!”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Carbonized rods driven into the rock. Basalt blocks planted round them. Magma poured in to form an indestructible core. It’s guided us for centuries. It lit the whole universe, and then… Well aren’t you sorry?”
“Sorry?”
“You’re in darkness and you don’t even know it. If you’d been paying attention you’d know that a plague indicates the thousand year storm, statistically speaking. Watch and learn.”
A small spark lit a flame and the invader’s hands burned. The flame travelled up the man’s arms into his body. He unscrewed the lantern and the light poured in exploding into the magnifiers and reflectors. The mechanism started. The windows were sucked shut and the flames snuffed. I was alone and staring at my glowing hands. I shook my fingers and a long flame shot out. I’d been instilled with immense power and it hurt. It hurt a lot.
- - -
Ian D. Smith was born in Manchester and lives in Wiltshire, England. He holds an MA, Goldsmith's, University of London. Stories published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Silverthought, The View From Here and others.
By Ian D. Smith
The sun was low when I looked out and saw a red dust vortex. The prolonged darkness had brought a plague of rats down from the mountains. I poured myself a whiskey and patted the green harbor light I was repairing. I was one hundred and fifty steps above the maquis.
The windows creaked and the lights dipped. They always dipped when the batteries cut in, and when the ship’s bell rang, the sound was muted as though it was underwater. I caressed a carved figurehead. She was protecting me as we spun through space together. I could also hear water. I cupped my hand to the window and saw raindrops swirl like sparks from a fire.
Then I saw a giant wave.
The wave struck the lighthouse. The glass cracked and I was thrown into a sudden and immense panic, but then I realized the best place to be when an ocean returned was right where I was. I entered the stairwell.
“Coming up!” I shouted.
I liked to sit out dust storms crouched amongst the reflections, but midway I stopped. Glass smashed and the bell rang. Foam filled the stairwell below. A cold blast of CO2 stung my face. I pulled on my oxygen mask and breathed deeply.
I saw a light across the stairwell above. I shielded my eyes and reached the top step. I pushed open the door, but all I could hear was the slapping of waves and the rattling of lenses and mirrors. The glass chimed and a reflection moved across all the surfaces at once. A circling glow was refracted and then a man walked out of the mirrors.
“Happens all the time,” he hissed. “Every lighthouse I visit. Lovely accommodation!”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Carbonized rods driven into the rock. Basalt blocks planted round them. Magma poured in to form an indestructible core. It’s guided us for centuries. It lit the whole universe, and then… Well aren’t you sorry?”
“Sorry?”
“You’re in darkness and you don’t even know it. If you’d been paying attention you’d know that a plague indicates the thousand year storm, statistically speaking. Watch and learn.”
A small spark lit a flame and the invader’s hands burned. The flame travelled up the man’s arms into his body. He unscrewed the lantern and the light poured in exploding into the magnifiers and reflectors. The mechanism started. The windows were sucked shut and the flames snuffed. I was alone and staring at my glowing hands. I shook my fingers and a long flame shot out. I’d been instilled with immense power and it hurt. It hurt a lot.
- - -
Ian D. Smith was born in Manchester and lives in Wiltshire, England. He holds an MA, Goldsmith's, University of London. Stories published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Silverthought, The View From Here and others.
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