Creepy Sheen

By Rebecca Gransden

For decades, Humankind sent transmissions around the globe. In addition to reaching every corner of the planet, the signals travelled beyond, into the dark void of space. All of broadcast history made its way gracefully through the stars, racing into the unknown—until the mid 1980s, when nuclear mushroom clouds plumed in the skies of Earth's Third World War.

 

The magnitude of the explosions caused the extinction of life on Earth, and sent a shockwave through the fabric of reality. Due to this anomaly, all broadcasts running at the time of the bombs hurtled into space at an impossible speed. The signals, disobeying natural laws, outran and passed all transmissions from previous eras, leaving them far behind. At the head of Earth's messages to the cosmos travelled the collective broadcasts from one atomic day in history.

 

In a remote star system, eyes turned towards the approaching 1980s transmissions.

 

Curious consciousnesses examined the broadcasts from the strange extinct civilisation of Earth. Filled with these transmissions, the distant consciousnesses devised their response. They returned it in the form of their own transmission, directed back to the origin of its inspiration—1980s Earth.

 

That transmission is Creepy Sheen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cardboard Wall Empire
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201854904

Rebecca Gransden

Rebecca Gransden has always lived by the sea. She tends to write about the edges of things so if you inhabit the fringes you may find something to like. Please consider leaving a review of her books anywhere. It really helps indie authors.

Book preview

Broken Wings

Debbie Doesnt is the one girl you can rely on.

She lounges poolside, chunky pastel green telephone receiver to her pierced ears, lobes dangling mini gold cocktail glasses. The curly cord reaches all the way back into the living room, through the open patio door, the cord an extension her stepdad has purchased for her so she can stay by the pool and talk to her friends while he watches from the opposite side. Today he’s on a business trip, so Debbie lounges alone.

Hi Wanda, it’s Debbie. You still coming over tonight? I’m thinking we could turn the whole thing into a sleepover. My stepdad is taking my mom to one of those new motels, you know, with waterbeds. He thinks I don’t know about the waterbeds. She laughs, throwing her head back, white teeth revealed as her fuchsia lips part. Sun-bleached tips of layered blonde hair catch her face in wisps as she moves, single glitter star applied to her upper left cheek, a beauty mark in gold. Anyway, they won’t be back until tomorrow, and as usual, don’t care what I do.

That’s bad, says Wanda, down the line. It’s like you have to die for them to give a shit about you.

"Yeah, and then it would be just because I made them look bad." She shifts her body to release her legs as they are sticking to the white and blue striped lounger in the heat, her cut off denim shorts digging into aerobicized upper thighs. The red string bikini top clings to her skin, the closeness of the poolside atmosphere causing her to perspire, the residue of her morning shower of only a couple of hours ago triggered to release perfumes of tropical citrus. She peels her back away from the lounger. Cool air sweeps her, before she shuffles, recrosses her lightly tanned legs and reclines once more, exhaling warm spearmint breath.

You should ask Tiffany.

Yeah, I was thinking about it. Rather her than Natasha.

Yeah, I mean, I like Natasha, but she’s boy crazy at the moment.

Just one boy—Nate.

It’s getting desperate. I mean, I know they are sort of together, but they just seem too weird, as a couple. She thinks it’s gonna last forever.

She’d probably invite him over, just so she can watch him. Which would be so awkward.

I don’t like talking about them behind their backs, but Debbie, it’s hard, when it’s so obvious.

That he’s playing with her.

I didn’t want to say it. I think she can tell what everyone is thinking.

She’s knows it’s true, that’s why. She’s waiting for someone to say something so she can blame us all when it goes wrong. We can’t invite her.

What if she finds out though? That we had a sleepover at your place and she wasn’t invited? She’ll be pretty hurt.

We’ll have to make sure she doesn’t find out. It’s only me, you, and maybe Tiffany.

Yeah, okay.

I’ll call Tiffany later. Hey, do you want to meet me at the beach? I’m so bored here.

***

Soft banks of white sand create a wide expanse and the sea washes up to meet it, foaming waves breaking against the flat sheen of the beach. Lifeguard stations observe from on high, equidistant from each other, flags atop billowing in the warm breezes. The sands are almost empty, the exclusivity paid for by the residents from the hills. Debbie walks barefoot with Wanda, both gazing up towards the vast white buildings attached to the primitive rocks, planted to face the ocean, outcrops and flora placed between each residence so that the buildings have the illusion of being alone in the hills, their neighbours out of sight. Debbie’s eyes trace the hillside and a twisty road that slinks upwards past every gateway until over and between brittle trees to somewhere unseen on the other side. That’s where Tiffany is right now—they’ll see her later. But for now their feet leave tracks in the perfect sand.

Debbie swings her hand lightly back and forth, just enough to be out of step with herself, holding canvas beach shoes between her fingers. Wanda flattens four fingers of one hand together and places them at the base of Debbie’s spine, edging them underneath the belt of her denim shorts. They both stare ahead and walk.

In the distance the ocean sparkles. Nate stands by one of the lifeguard towers. He’s dressed in his uniform white tee and shorts, and has small binoculars to his eyes, following windsurfers with bright pink and orange sails.

I hate him, Debbie says.

Ah huh, Wanda says.

***

Tiffany arrives early and unpacks a flowery beach bag. This is all I could raid, she says, unloading one bottle after another, variously sized and coloured. It’s from my uncle’s summer house, she explains, No one will miss it. There’s a whole cupboard still full of half emptied bottles—hardly made a dent on his alcohol stash. He died last year and the house hasn’t been sold yet. I stole the key and got a new one cut and put the old one back before anyone noticed. It’s cool. We should go up there sometime. He was a hippie guy, into computers. There’s some mad shit in that place. Voodoo masks, life-size dolls, crazy stuff. He was a freak, I’m discovering.

Where is this place? Debbie twirls a stray lock of blonde hair.

Over the hills.

And far away.

Right.

Later that night in Debbie’s bedroom Tiffany dances with fluorescent mesh scarves, looping them around in tandem, fluttering them against Debbie’s posters of Blane Lightning, him posed holding a microphone, distinctive lightning motif etched beneath his left eye in shining white and blue makeup.

Tangerine Seagulls are playing here next year, Wanda says.

What? Where? I can’t believe it. They only play the east coast.

Yeah, my dad knows their manager. They’re doing a big tour. I can get us tickets. And backstage probably.

Holy shit. Tiffany spins faster. Put ‘Black Widow Rendezvous’ on, that’s their best track. Oh my god, this better be true.

Debbie fast-fowards the cassette through and past ‘Lonely Boy Hotline’ until it hits the fade out. The tape runs the silent interlude between tracks.

The first power chords of ‘Black Widow Rendezvous’ hit and Tiffany squeals wildly, launching herself upwards, nearly braining herself on the low ceiling light.

Debbie and Wanda collapse backwards in laughter, falling onto Debbie’s kingsize, and into a gathering of pastel pillows with ruffled lace trimming.

Tiffany runs on the spot, too energised to attempt to keep to the rhythm of the track. She tears at her long and fluffy chestnut curls, closing her eyes hard, as if the music is too much for her to bear. As the chorus elevates and moves into the bridge, she readies herself for the moment she’s heard over and over but never lets her down, where the stratospheric guitar line of the solo pushes into the ecstatic key change.

The moment happens and her body is free, and she moves from an inexplicable place, that makes sense only now. Swept up, she careens out of step a fraction as the heights of the moment pass, and her left hand, lightly gripping the sleeve collar of her silken pyjamas in a loose fist, flies too close to Debbie’s dressing table and makes contact with a sitting pierrot china ornament. In one move the pierrot is projected across the room and shatters with force on the wall by the closed bedroom door, shards in white, grey, black, and pink, littering the plush peach carpet as the broken pieces fall.

Tiffany stops, opens her eyes.

No. Debbie whispers, quietly.

Oh god. I’m sorry Debbie. Tiffany rushes to the broken pieces and starts picking them out of the carpet. I think it’s beyond repair. I’ll get you a new one. I know where they sell these, just the same. I’ll find the same one.

Debbie’s eyes fill with hot tears. The door pushes open, scraping the fluffed carpet. Natasha stands there, Nate hovering sheepishly behind her.

Wanda throws the decorative lacy pillow she has been squeezing to one side of her on the bed and stands up. Natasha, how’d you get in here?

Natasha smiles. Debbie showed me once, when I was with her when she got locked out before. There’s a window frame that’s loose round the back of the house. If you waggle it, the inside latch opens. Thought I’d surprise you all. I see you are having as much fun as I thought you’d be.

Debbie stares, her eyes red, tear marks staining her cheeks.

Wanda takes Debbie’s hand. She’s upset because her pierrot got broken.

Oh, right, the one from Daddy.

Debbie gulps, before doubling up and covering her face with her hands and sobbing into them.

Tiffany stops collecting the remaining smashed pieces and stares at Debbie. My god, Debbie, I had no idea this was from your real dad. I don’t know what to say.

Natasha sniffs. Yeah, pretty hard to replace I’d say, Tiffany. She moves over to the dressing table and inspects the collection of bottles the girls have been dipping into throughout the evening. Jesus Christ, how old is this liquor?

They are from my uncle’s place, Tiffany says, Most of them are gross. We’ve tried them all now I think.

Yeah, I’d pour these down the sink if I were you, unless you want to die of alcohol poisoning. Your uncle has shit, cheap taste.

Had. He’d dead.

Oh. Natasha picks up a bottle containing a bright green liquid, raising her eyebrows. I’m not surprised. She transfers her gaze to Tiffany, her mind joining the dots. So you’ve got access to your uncle’s place? Is it empty?

Tiffany nods. What? You want to go up there?

If it’s not far. What type of place is it?

Wanda puts an arm around Debbie’s shoulders. I don’t think Debbie’s really up to going anywhere at the moment.

Natasha shrugs. Me and Tiffany will go then. And Nate.

Debbie looks over to Nate who is silent and still outside the room, loitering. No, I’m okay, she says, and stands up. She puts her jeans on over her pyjama shorts. I’m kinda curious actually.

Wanda tuts and grabs her stonewashed denim jacket.

Natasha turns around and moves to join Nate, putting both arms around to link behind his neck,