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    Migration
    Migration
    Migration
    Ebook51 pages51 minutes

    Migration

    By David Rupert

    ()

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    About this ebook

    It's 2095.
    Sarah is excited about her imminent immortality whilst Eve is still waiting for her husband's body to appear.
    Zoe just wants out.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Rupert
    Release dateOct 22, 2014
    ISBN9781311366795
    Migration
    Author

    David Rupert

    Born in the UK in 1969 to an RAF pilot father and ex-art student mother, I have spent most of my life with the urge to keep moving and explore creative communications in my blood.Most of my working life has been spent in the arts and culture industries, from performing to making spaces for others to express themselves.I am fascinated by the changes in modes of existence and expression that both the 20th and 21st centuries have brought upon us, and the threads of being human that continue unchanged regardless.

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      Book preview

      Migration - David Rupert

      Migration

      By David Rupert

      Copyright 2014 David Rupert

      Smashwords Edition

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Chapter 1. Eve

      In the hot August morning, the air inside the tiny shepherd's hut was already thick and sluggish with the rising heat. Utterly still, the intense silence was only broken by the occasional hum of a passing insect, or the chirrup or coo of a bird outside.

      In the timbers of the hut, insects scuttled and skated in the dark passageways that narrowed and gaped between every panel, occasionally venturing out to search the flats for food or snare a smaller beast that fate had marked. As the temperature rose, the hut began to creak and groan as it swelled and twisted under the sun.

      A rambling and haphazard gallery of photographs, newspaper cuttings, notes and maps covers every inch of the walls. Some are held up with pins, some pierced on to nails or splinters, whilst others are jammed into creases or balanced precariously on ledges and lips. There are scratched and dogeared pictures of small groups of people; smiling at dinner tables or waving at the viewer with their arms around each other, walking away through a forest, sitting by an ornate fountain, and in one jumping en mass into a swimming pool. As their feet force up the first waves and spray from the water, their mouths gape wide open in shrieks and shouts and their faces shine into the photograph with the happiness and carefree joy of recreation.

      There is a faded ordinance map, traced with elegant pale pink lines that curl and swoop to plot out the rise and fall of hills and valleys. Little teardrops of blue pick out the lakes and ponds that nestle amongst the contours of the land, and a solitary black line creeps over the top right corner where a railway track winds awkwardly over the terrain. A red pencil line, faded and smudged a little, draws a delicate link from the north-west side of a patch of dark green, around the gentle terraces of pink before stopping as it pricks into a large bubble of blue.

      Pinned firmly to the corner of the map, a middle aged couple stand in front of a large house with red shutters and a winding gravel drive. He is standing behind her with his arms reaching over her shoulders and wrapping tightly around her waist. Her floral summer dress is scrunched around the waist and raised up a little by his embrace, revealing slender legs in white pumps that bend slightly under his weight. His cheek is resting on her hair, which catches a little in his stubble and forces her head to tilt slightly towards her shoulder. He is squeezing her with all his love and her face radiates her sense of belonging and completeness.

      On the table tops, shelves and window sills an array of things break up every surface, a scattering of keepsakes and memories. Two smooth beach pebbles, one black, one white. A wine cork with a faded date scratched in pen. A blackened silver watch with a broken strap. An old jam jar filled with multi-coloured buttons. A tiny porcelain child pushing an old style bicycle, his nose and fingers chipped away. A dented and rusted tobacco tin, scratched and polished from years sharing pockets with keys and loose change.

      Almost disappeared in this tapestry of things, almost invisible by her stillness, Eve sat motionless in a faded armchair. She was remembering and, once in a while, her eyes drifted from item to item as she bathed in their evocations. The flowers that grew rich and strong at the bottom of her chair were faded and threadbare by the time they curled over the arms, and here

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