The Janitor... (working title)

He thought of his wife as he looked at the blood. It wasn't much blood and it wasn't his wife's. He didn't know why it made him think of her. Many strange things did lately and he thought it might have something to do with the holidays. He never remembered that he felt this same feeling every winter although, if it were pointed out to him, he certainly would be able to explain why.

Josh, the robust but slightly overweight wrestling coach opened the door as he was spraying disinfectant over the bloody spot on the mat.

"Hello Caleb, sorry about that. They got a little out of hand again."

"It's no problem," answered Caleb as he wiped the spot with paper towels and sprayed it again.

"Poor kid busted his nose pretty bad. Almost had the other guy pinned too," Josh said with a chuckle. "It's going to be a great season I think."

Caleb didn't know whether the blood was the indicator of a good season, or the other kid almost getting pinned. He didn't ask. He just smiled and nodded, his mind on other things.

"Anyway. I'll try and have 'em be more careful from now on. I'm sure you have a lot of work to do as it is," Josh said and stood awkwardly for a moment until he realized that Caleb wasn't going to reply. He turned and left the room, muttering to himself.

Caleb didn't try to make other people feel uncomfortable around him. He also didn't make much effort not to. His mind was simply on other things. For instance, why blood on a wrestling mat would make him think of his dead wife. As he pondered this, he went over the spot one more time with his mop. One thing the faculty of Brightwood Academy for Boys would always say about Caleb, long after he was gone, was that he was a careful worker.

Maybe a sci fi story or something?

He woke to a foreign voice, sweet and sincere, and he wiped a tear because he feared he'd dreamt it. But working under a shaft of grey light he heard it again, far above his head, and was afraid for a moment because nothing good came from above. God was below, in the infinite depths of unseen rock, molten and scorched. But it was such a pure voice. Perhaps one of the first voices, still seeking a way out of the cold and empty.

So he searched. The dark rooms and dark halls. Occupied only by his sweat soaked and soot blackened companions, banging and clanging and toiling in the blackness. And, feeling his way blindly, he struggled from the earth's beating heart. Pulsing like a piston against its braces. Where the only noice piercing his ears was the straining of steel and rods and hissing of steam. The great machine rumbled its engines as he pushed his way through shafts of dirt and rocks, breathing his first crisp breath on a desert road.

His hair blew and he searched the reaching sky for a fan or turbine but saw nothin but space, dark, perforated by light. Nothing to explain the wind. Never had he felt such wind, blowing cool and fierce against his face. Dust swirled and circled in the air like some pale dancer and he wondered at this new place with no ceiling. Where wind blew of its own will.

Then he began to walk...