Exurb1a - The Bridge to Lucy Dunne

The Bridge to Lucy Dunne

Exurb1a

A Note from the Author

Oh hi.

I hope you enjoy these stories. They're some of my best. That doesn't mean a lot though. A dog might present you with some of his finest poops, but I doubt you'd award him the Pulitzer.

Some of these made it into magazines under different titles. Others I wrote for fun. There's no running theme among them. If you look for one you'll be bitterly disappointed. Like my parents.

There are pros and cons to not using a large publisher. A pro is that I can write this flippant introduction and insult you a bit. A con is that I don't have a team of proofreaders, editors, marketing whizzes, or people who actually know what they're doing behind me. If you notice something unusual or out of place, please drop me a line. I'll berate you a little bit, but then calm down and probably be very grateful.

For those of you who are coming at this book from YouTube, you'll probably notice a few common themes and characters. You might think that's sloppy of me, plagarising from myself. Well, maybe it is. But I like my writing how I like my women. Unoriginal and with a deeply embedded sense of inadequacy. And besides, lots of these stories came long before any of the videos.

If you enjoy the book, and you have a free minute, I would be ever so grateful if you'd be kind enough to leave a review. If you don't enjoy the book, and you have a free minute, I would be ever so grateful if you'd be mean enough to leave a review. As always, you are more than welcome to direct your criticisms, vitriol, glaring spelling errors, and proposals of marriage to: exurb1achannel@gmail.com

And really, and most importantly, thanks for bothering with my work in the first place. I appreciate it more than I can say.

All the best,

Ex.

For Pie , who is a good human.

Table of Contents

The Guests

When they come, you must host them. That's the law.

The sun had just gone down and three were sat in the living room when I got back. A short one, a fat one, and a woman. They didn't get up to greet me.

Hi, I said.

Hello, said the short one in a heavy accent.

You'll be staying then? I said.

Yes, said the short one. Not for too long though, you understand.

I nodded and tried to smile. There would be no point asking why they were here. They never tell, apparently.

A long silence. The woman folded her hands, unfolded them. She was wearing a modern skirt but with a t-shirt that read 'I shot JR'. The fat one was fairly strange too, pink socks and baggy red trousers. I don't know if they dress this way to single themselves out or just do a poor job of fitting in, but I am yet to hear of a guest who wears normal clothes.

And their skin, it was just like the pictures I'd seen of the others: thin almost to the point of being transparent.

Could I make you all some tea? I said.

Dried leaves in boiling water? said the short one.

Yes.

Sounds delightful. We're curious about your beverages.

I went off to the kitchen and listened for chatter from the living room but there was none. I mean literally none. I don't think they're telepathic. I would have heard on the news. Maybe conversation just isnt something we do in the future.

I would need to report this all to the Ministry of Guest Affairs, of course. They would keep the press off my back until the guests left, but after that I would become a celebrity like the other hosts had. I didn't mind the thought of that so much.

I stirred the tea and left the bags in too long so I wouldn't have to go back in the living room quite so soon. Actually, they all looked like good people, the short one, the fat one, and the woman. I didn't mind them being in my house. I only minded that they were here at all; that they had come for me.

I gave them all their tea. And then I asked the only question you are supposed to ask the guests if they visit.

Would you mind telling me when you're coming from?

Not at all, said the short one. Three hundred years ahead, to the day in fact.

To the day? I said.

Oh yes. They all smiled and exchanged a knowing look.

Then today is special, I said.

Yes.

Why is that?

But the short one only cocked his head and the woman fumbled with her hands and the fat one sipped his tea.

Please go about your day in the usual fashion and we'll keep out of your way, the woman said.

Go about my day in the usual fashion. There are guests in my house, in my house. I tried a few further small talk questions but they only smiled pleasantly and nodded. So I went into the workshop because there was nothing else to do. I saw them in my mind as I worked, still sat on my sofa, staring straight ahead, mannequin faces.

I checked the news. No other reports of guest visitations that day.

I did a little research online. There had been two hundred and three visitations so far, making mine two hundred and four. Only two were linked with death, so that was good. One hundred and ten were to attend the births of notable figures. The rest were simply unknown; not enough time had passed yet for it to be apparent what they were here for in those instances. I wrote a quick note to the Ministry for Guest Affairs saying I had them in my house then sat at the workbench and took stock of my life. I was not unusual. I had done nothing of great significance. There were the paintings but they'd hardly sold. Perhaps they were about to become a sensation.

A noise in the doorway. All three of them were huddled at the workshop's threshold like penguins grouping for warmth.

Hi again, I said.

Greetings, said the woman.

Can I get you something?

No. Please continue as you were.

I tried to look busy and idly removed the bolts on an old x-ray machine. I had already stripped most of the parts down. I took off the front panel then put it back on and tried to wear a determined face. The short one paced over and stood behind me. Then he checked an instrument on his wrist no, in his wrist and exchanged a glance with the fat one and the woman.

What is it you're doing? he said.

Err, honestly I'm not sure. What is it you'd like me to be doing?

They exchanged another glance. Then the short one took a tube I'd salvaged from a television the week before and put it on the desk.

I don't understand, I said.

He checked his wrist again. Then he gave the tube a tap. This, he said.

This what?

The clock said four minutes to midnight. The short one took another part off the shelf, from the motorbike last year.

And this, he said, and pointed to the part.

They're connected, said the woman. Somehow.

I don't even know what they are, I said. I just sell spare parts.

You do know what it is, she said like a hypnotist. You must.

I shrugged. The fat one stroked his nose with his index finger and cocked his head.

But you must, said the woman.

A silence. Then: You are she said my name. Correct? I nodded. And this is January 8th?

I nodded again. Two minutes to midnight. They were all checking their wrists now. The short one was sweating a little.

It is very important that something occurs to you today, she said.

Okay.

On January 8th. Please think. Is there anything in particular you have been working on recently?

A motorbike, I said.

What's that?

I pointed to the chassis by the door. She cringed. Anything else ?

No, I said. Honestly.