black holes
There it is again—the urgent scratching of hoof or tooth against wood.
There’s a hatch leading to a cellar next to the outside wall. The deer is trying to make you look. Time you dragged yourself out of bed to see what she wants.
This whole thing won’t stop until you do.
You were in a peaceful sleep—the most restful for a long time, because this old Hebridean island chapel is dark-dark, and quiet as a mouse-house. Although you know it’s silly, you’re worried about things that thrive in the black, like ghosties—the ones who say, “You don’t belong here, lassie.” No, you’re a city girl, and not even a girl, actually, nor a boy. What are you? This question bothers you. It’s is why you came here, to write an answer. Otherwise known as: a story.
The story was sitting in your head, clearer than ever, before you went to sleep. Now the deer noise has made it difficult to grasp and so frustratingly pre-conceptual.
Exasperated, you throw off the covers and place your feet on the stone floor. Freezing, although the air has less of a chill because the log fire has been burning all day. The deer is getting frantic, louder still. You walk to the door, which is heavy, arched, and with a big old key that clunks in the lock as you turn it. When you step out, you see stars—audaciously rich clusters of stellar bodies who surprise you every time.
It's too cold for just pyjamas so you step back in and grab an old coat and woollen socks from the hooks beside the door which are always full of outdoorsy things. You also pull on a pair of too-big wellies, then you walk-shuffle to the cellar hatch intending to just scare the deer. You’re nearly next to her by the time she looks at you—dead in the eye—like you’re the animal.
After holding for a moment, the deer springs into the hills at the back of the chapel. You take a closer look at the hatch. There’s a mark. A circle with a ten-point star inside. You look up and see an ultra-bright star directly above you—closer than you’ve ever seen and it’s getting closer. Up, you keep looking. Towards the ground-star the deer found, you scuffle. Up, down, up down—until you’re standing directly on the hatch-star and looking up at the sky star—then you are:
Gone, straight up.
* * *
There’s a glint between the rocks in the bay—the bay you can see from the chapel—just near where the sea is lapping. From there, you can also see a clear view of the distillery.
You went there for a walk one evening—in fact, you’ve done that at about the same time, every evening, of the ten you’ve been staying on the island.
“But I was gone last night and I arrived back again by the morning and I’m going for a walk, again.” you say, just before you head out.
“I’m in a loop?” You say as you close the door.
Not telling.
What was that?
Nothing.
One foot in front of the other as bloody usual, feeling like you don’t fit. That’s okay. In fact, that’s good.
Back to the shiny thing. It’s a battery, from what I can see—one of those small flat ones that go in watches and the like. Pick it up quickly before it gets too dark to see.
“I love you,” shouts a voice that seems to be coming from the small shed surrounded by old buoys, ropes, and lobster pots, with no light inside or out. You look around for the owner of the voice.
“Where are you?” You shout. “I can’t see you.”
“Oh, sure you can’t. You know very well where I am.” Someone shouts back.
“Damn well don’t,” you mutter to yourself, as you bend down to pick up the battery. You pocket it. This would never happen in London, you think.
“Try looking in their eye, then.” The voice says, quieter than before.
* * *
Right, let’s get this straight. Although not too straight.
Do you remember when there was another day when you went for a morning walk—as well as an evening walk—the first time after the deer-hatch, you think.
As you were approaching the distillery on the other side of the bay, a big ginger dog bounded out of one of the fisherman’s cottages. There was no one accompanying her. Or him. Them. The dog circled you twice and then sat in front of you, like a good boi. Boi is gender neutral.
The dog said, “Yes that’s right. Now all you need to do is find the passage, which will lead you to the story. I think you’re stuck on the idea that it goes up because you know you’ll end up in heaven one day. But that’s not where heaven is, actually.”
“Where is it then?” You asked.
The dog seemed to refuse to answer and just sat there blinking in the silence. You were aware of how shiny the dog’s nose was. Such big eyes, too.
“There’s no need to stare,” said the dog. You took a step closer so you could stroke the dog’s head and take a proper look at the dog’s pupils which were the darkest and biggest you had ever seen. Looking at them felt like being drawn into a hug from death, actually. Or a womb.
Suddenly there was a loud bleat from a sheep—do you remember? You looked out over the hills of the hinterland and thought about how lucky you were to be there. The sheep was persistent. The dog was still sitting. You chose the sheep.
“Fine. It’s so hard to get you people to listen,” said the dog as they walked away.
The dog left behind a toy—a child’s toy car. Or yours. Green. You pocketed it, once the sheep stopped holding your attention.
* * *
“Nonbinary doesn’t really cover it.” I’ve heard you say that often through how you move.
The beaches on the island look like the moon.
That was where you went after picking up the green toy car. Little did you know that when you were walking on that beach, you actually were walking on the moon. It was just that you weren’t there, if that makes sense.
You marvelled at sea vegetables sprawled across the sand and you noted how you didn’t know the gender of any of them. Behind you were several cows, since the fields dissolve into the sand which becomes the sea, that’s the way life is.
“I need to write all this stuff down. I need to document my time on this island. And publish it, with the most prestigious press I can. Before I forget it. Or die, and everyone forgets me.” You said to the sky. A tear made its way down your cheek.
I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, which I am.
The story is already here—it’s already out in the world—even in its incoherent, disordered beauty—since I can see you, my grief turned grace. The great reader in the sky, me.
Anyway, so, then you walked towards the sea, being careful not to stand on the greenery. How wonderful the sky looked, aflame—the sun was beginning to sink at the end of another short Hebridean winter day. The waves were choppy and hostile—and when you noticed that—this was the time you remembered the car in one pocket and the battery in the other. You took them out and held one in each hand.
Your logical writing head threw up unhelpful thoughts like what if you can’t unscrew the battery compartment since you don’t have the correct tool? Luckily, the cover was missing so it was possible to just press the battery in. In it clicked. Did you like the sound?
What if you were to paddle in the freezing sea? I thought how refreshing it would be—like ice to a wound—although I also knew you wouldn’t believe me.
OK, instead, I thought, what if you encountered a fairy—right there—by the oddly shaped trees that straddle the farmland and the moon-beach? You seemed much more up for this, which made me happy.
“Fairy? Are you there?” You said, feet rooted in the lunar sand and sea crashing behind you. Bluster was growing in the air. I didn’t say there would be a fairy, I said ‘what if?’
“Yes of course I am.” Okay, fine, there you are then.
“Are you real?” You asked.
“What a stupid question.” The fairy answered. It was a stupid question.
“What gender are you?” You asked.
“And another one. You can’t go around asking stuff like that. If god herself was here with us, would you ask her the same? Would you ask the island? Would you ask a heart?” The fairy emerged out of the shadows, slowly stretching a long, scrawny, green leg into the light, followed by a body just as thin. Lustrous locks and a pretty goblin face.
“That’s just one of the things we humans have to ask. We need the knowledge.” You reply, in the middle of your judgments, perhaps feeling somewhat ashamed.
“Just make sure you don’t say things about knowledge-smowledge when you see you know what,” said the fairy, looking sexy.
“What?” You asked, blush creeping up your neck. Yes, the fairy was gorgeous, and cheeky, I know. That’s why I decided you should meet—your story deserves joyous spice.
“Oh, darling, that’s right—I’m all meat—no fur, no fear. Just go ahead and eat.” Said the fairy. How devastating. “All those unnecessary accoutrements, all that seeing and recognition, those are the issues. Not the flesh itself.”
“I can’t understand you. You don’t exist anyway.” You said.
“Oh, oh. For sure. Now you’re getting it. Nor do you, outside of 101010, Mx nonbinary.” The fairy disappeared, not at all heartbroken.
You then turned your attention to the little car and switched it on. It sang, how much is that doggy in the window?
* * *
I’ll go back to the dog, you thought, because that seemed to be what the car was suggesting.
“Non-existence is existence!” You shouted at the sky. I guess that was your try at a neat soundbite, or having some power in the face of your perceived weakness.
Nice try, but not quite, I whispered.
Before looking for the dog, you cooked dinner. Locally caught scallops sautéed in butter with lemon and cracked pepper, samphire on the side. A small dressed crab to start. How thick the anticipation, how I was glad to see you give yourself deep love by eating deliciously with yourself. It would have been perfect if you’d then masturbated and had a hot bath, but of course instead the shell of the dressed crab asked you to shrink and carry it on your back.
“Don’t talk shit.” You said, out loud. You got up—in a slight huff—to do the washing-up while looking out of the tall window into the trees behind the chapel. The hot water was a balm upon the disappointment of being unable to squeeze into the crab shell. That was when you heard the barking outside. You considered whether you’d heard it before on previous nights and it occurred to you that yes, actually, you had.
You took out the car again and without thinking, walked to the bay and repeatedly played the tune, how much is that doggy in the window, until you eventually became so tired you could barely stand.
* * *
When you returned to the chapel, ready for sleep, the dog from the fisherman’s cottages was sitting in a perfect doggy pose, just outside the door. You had ghosty-fear again.
“You’re right, my friend.” Said the dog.
“I am? Should I scream?” You asked.
“Aye, you probably should. Your mind is about to be blown.” Said the dog, lifting a paw and cocking its head to one side.
“How so?” You asked.
“D-O-G backwards is what, my friend?” Said the dog.
“You’re god?” You asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if I were?” Said the dog. “I am, however, a good friend of hers. Like that fairy that lives on the lunar beach, except I’m way better than them—I have even less genders.”
“Is that good?” You asked, fishing the key from your pocket.
“Good question.” Said the dog. “Why don’t you take a closer look into my eye.”
You did just as the dog asked. You knelt to meet the dog’s eye—closer, closer still—until there was nothing but black.
That’s when you felt a rolling in your chest—like having a septum piercing—and then a kick-back from a gun and when you awakened, you were inside sleep. Not in a dream, but in a black velvet capsule.
* * *
So here we are.
It feels soft, smells of aniseed, and other dark things like chocolate, coffee, any other dark medicine—wool, oil, smoke, charred meat from a BBQ, plum pudding, black vanilla, poppy seed and all the deliciousness of anything that isn’t light. Arousal and bad romance, kink and naughty jokes. Gay sex, oh so much gay sex. Peaty soil of Hebridean islands. Drinking bodily fluids. Eating, indulgence. Black pudding and black sheep. Being an outsider, forest spirit dwellers, black-out cake, and liquid love. Oh yes, this should be hell, by most accounts—but it isn’t. Do you know what it is?
“No, I don’t,” you say.
“Yes you do.” I reply—can you hear me now? Can I give up on the speech marks?
“Yes, but you’re muffled.” You say.
“Fine, I’ll keep them for now. Keep moving around, it feels good, for me. Dance about, cover yourself in my insides, my precious one.” I say.
“Who does it feel good for?” You ask.
For me.
“Who’s me?”
Me.
…
You’re inside me. A black hole, my friend, some call me a singularity, some call me a collapsed star. Collapsed star-quality, that’s me—slay.
“I can barely hear you. Am I dead?”
“Sorry. I’ll return to the old human formalities, again. Who could say whether you’ve met death, or not? There’s so many of them.”
“I would have thought you could.” You say.
“Fair. But then, you did come to me through my good friend dog.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Still wrong.
“I am in heaven, aren’t I?” You ask.
“Black hole. One of my vagina-multiples. As I said. It’s more like you’re inside my body of work, so that’s bloody close. Fairly rude, really, that you earth lot tend to call me a black hole—suggests some kind of endless darkness. But that’s accurate, I suppose. Your story should note that darkness isn’t bad. Instead, it’s a big genderless playground.”
“What’s that sound?” You ask.
“Oh, I guess the auditory side of things is a little more challenging inside here. Echoes are a problem since this is where sounds come to rest. You’re probably hearing that wretched dog song. He thinks it’s funny. It’s time you realised something. You’d better go back.”
“What? How do I end this? The mystery is still here.” You say. Now you’re getting it.
“What was that last bit? Hello? Put the punctuation back.” You say, before I send you back to the chapel. Pray. Have a cuppa and a piece of shortbread. Whisky if you like it—I can’t stand the stuff.
* * *
I’m not surprised you’ve gone to bed. You sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.
The trouble is that it’s not even been an hour and there’s that scratching again.
Here we go again. Up you get, tired, feeling inadequate about your gender—maybe an affirming haircut will do it—and then out, with the coat and socks from beside the door, outside and fearing the ghosties, and then to the hatch. You scare the deer—or rather the deer just knows that it’s time for it to go to where it needs to in the story. The bright star, the circle, looking up and into the sky.
This time, you manage to cling to consciousness and not be thrown into the next day.
You don’t sleep, and instead, you look me in the eye. And you don’t end up in one of my many vaginas, nor on my skin on the lunar beach with my toy. I suppose the least I can do is address you with the truth. The end for your story, and the beginning, and the middle—and all those things like structure, voice, point of view and cadence.
I’ll give you something to live with and by and through.
You are frightened-deer-D-O-G-cosmos loop with scrumptious food-no crab shell-walking-mind-fuck-intermission-in my image.
You are holy.
Get inside my metaphysical.
Victoria Brooks is a queer nonbinary author living in London, UK. Their first queer sci-fi novel, Silicone God, was published by MOIST Books in the UK, December 2023, and was recently published in the US (House of Vlad Press). Their portfolio can be found here: https://www.victoriathewriter.com/
