Lethe's Road

By Russell Kightley

Would you know if you'd shifted to another universe, or even to another body? A new word appears, and a new life opens. And you ask yourself, "How long have I been here?" Lethe's Road's a cozy, psychological story, with a dash of time travel, set in an altered Canberra, in a baking, Australian summer. A small family notices a subtle change in their world. Then the journey begins…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell Kightley
• Release date: Aug 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994370426

Russell Kightley

Russell Kightley has been writing sci-fi stories since 2014. His books are philosophical science fiction / literary fiction / magical realism with a slice of satire and a twist of time travel. Often, they explore the nature of consciousness and reality, but they’re written in a light and easy style, often with wordplay. Russell Kightley, a long time scientific illustrator, lives in Canberra, the capital of Australia, with his wife, an astrophysicist, and his younger daughter, a science student. His elder daughter is a well-known model. Ollie the shih-tzu lives with him and features in some of the stories.

Book preview

LETHE'S DREAM

EVERYTHING TIPPED AND the steering wheel span—all resistance gone as the tyres left the road. John was flying, a pilot in a crashing plane, then asphalt slammed the windscreen like a shovel in a face. Metal screamed, and pain rammed his head and chest and shins.

I’m not alone, he thought, in that last, extended moment, Lily and Marie are here, and we’re in trouble.

John slipped free and looked down at the little car. It lay on its back, cracked like a dead turtle, and dark patches spread over the ground as broken machinery bled out. Harsh propellant hung in the air, making his throat sting. And there were softer smells of blood and piss and fear—and a cloying sense of loss. And, at the very edge of hearing, a thin song rose and fell, like a distant lament. The car’s bright yellow panels and struts—all bent and twisted—glowed against the dull road. The windows and shattered glass flashed in the sun, dazzling him as he circled above the translucent chassis. It’s not real, he thought, you can’t see through metal. Or hover in trees. I’m dreaming or dead—and dead’s more likely.

His wife and daughter hung in the back seats—clearly visible through the car’s glassy belly—with their white faces and blue lips and twisted limbs. Their chests were still, but their eyes tracked him. Red stains seeped over the ropey fibres of their clothes, and he wondered if their rough dresses could absorb the flow, or if he’d need a sponge.

A hulking figure lay pinned in the front seat. And I’m dead, too, he thought.

It’s bad news, boomed a woman’s voice from the treetops.

A man spoke from the ground, but his words were tinny and faraway.

I know it’s bad news, we’re all fucking dead, John screamed, but no sound came. His windpipe narrowed to a needle-thin straw, and he gasped, desperate to drink, just to breathe…

A rush and roar, water sparkled everywhere, and the cracked turtle—packed with corpses—rose in the instant flood and bobbed away. He jumped into the sudden, wide, and sunlit river and tried to swallow, but his throat clamped shut. Then the sky split.

John sat bolt upright, sucking in air, coughing and gasping, and tearing his membranes. Tears welled, and he brushed them away and reached across the bedside table, feeling for his glass. Then his spectacles—perched on an upturned novel—clattered to the floor. Bollocks! He grabbed the glass and gulped and rubbed his eyes. Bollocks again!

Lily stirred next to him. What’s going on?

I’m choking. A splutter, a cough, and a rasping breath. After blinking, he sipped his water and wiped his face. Bloody nightmare…

With a grunt, he twisted to check the clock radio. The faux-wooden box boomed, and the digits glowed red. It was 7.01, and the news was bad.

At least fifty dead, said the treetop woman from his dream. And dozens are missing.

John got up, swore, and staggered down the hall. Swaying slightly, and still wheezing, he sprayed into the toilet bowl and stared at the window—a bright flat square of frosted glass—and felt the rush of warm air. Another weekend gone, another hot Monday, another scorching Australian summer. And today would start, like every other day, with the morning tasks of brushing his teeth, filling the kettle, and emptying the dishwasher. Then the brief lull of coffee and breakfast. The coffee would be long and black and strong. He’d drink two mugs, and Lily would have one. The cereal would be warm, and the cooked fruit sharp, and the conversation terse. Then would come the daily commute. These simple rituals marked each morning, winding the mainspring of his day and pinning down his thoughts.

Marie bounced into the dining room, wearing a dark top with red piping, black shorts, pink trainers, and white socks. She sat down and spooned