Last Call

Paul had walked the corridor between his desk and the coffee machine hundreds upon hundreds of times without seeing the door. It didn't look like an office door, given that it was made of real wood, with a brass handle and heavy studs. Paul reached out to lift the circular handle, but didn't turn it.

Then he let go and turned away, looking out on the car park instead. It had started snowing at some point, and the flakes were settling on the ground. Fluorescent lights lit the scene, even though nobody was there, even though he was the only one working late. The lights did no more than push the darkness back a little.

The door was still there. He knew where it led - some of his childhood friends had wandered to that other world. It wasn't that he didn't want to go through: to swim in Mermaid River, to climb Sugarcandy Mountain. Some of his friends had quit real life for good, preferring adventure to the mundanes of divorce and depression and drink. Paul always resisted. Over the years, the call to adventure had faded to a whisper.

The problem was the practicalities. Even in the most magical place you'd need to find decent food or somewhere to lay your head. And then there was the question of coming back - walking away without preparation would mean abandoning his entire life - his flat, his things, his job. If Paul didn't care about his work, then he wouldn't be working late.

But... But... This might be the last chance he had. It had been years since the last doorway had appeared. He grasped the handle once more, turning with enough pressure to catch the latch.

Among the bookmarks on Paul's work browser was one for a Wikipedia page: ‘Visa requirements for British citizens’. It listed every place he could travel to without planning, should he want to escape his life. And yet he didn't.

Paul decided: he would finish his assignment, send it to his boss. And then, if the door was still there, he would go through.

Background

I think I’ve written about that Wikipedia page before. It’s a great resource for day-dreams.

I’ve not felt much in the mood for writing recently. This happens every so often, and it’s probably good in the long run. I decide I hate my writing, that it’s embarrassing, and I slow down for a bit. I’m not begging for sympathy - this is a cycle I go through. It’s good to question things.

Despite this sense of frustration, I’m still working on a new Advent Calendar, which might make it out this year. I’ve had 24 candidate stories for the last month or two, and I’m waiting on some reviews.

I also have the usual uncertainty about whether I’ve gone too hard in a few places. Moral Injury has definitely made the cut. But, currently, The Jizz-mopper’s Christmas and The Christ Who Ate His Mother might be rejected in favour of something nicer. It’s hard to write horror stories for an audience whose tolerance is certainly less than mine, and won’t recognise that a title refers to a Ramsey Campbell novel.

It’s like… A lot of people enjoy 28 Years Later or Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma, but they would be upset and disgusted by a film like Martyrs. We don’t all appreciate the same art.

I’ve written a few nicer stories to take the place of the harsh ones - but it does means I’m accumulating a set of grim stories I can’t use. If I continue at this rate, by 2039, I’ll have enough for The Black Calendar, one composed solely of stories that go too far.