Luftpause

Luftpause is set in a future Berlin, the city shaped by the pheromone breath trails of its most privileged residents, including student Paul. A group of urban ‘breath-guerrillas’ disrupts Paul’s carefully ordered life, drawing him to an underground world of breath-trails and resistance. Luftpause appears in Beta-Life: Stories from an A-Life Future, ed. Ra Page and Martyn Amos, Comma Press. Also available as an audiobook.

Reviews

“Annie Kirby’s ‘Luftpause’…[offers a] humanistic [look] at the implications involved in the technology-driven loss of Privacy.” Publishers Weekly

Excerpt from Luftpause

I remember the first time I saw you, when you and the grungies spilled like ants from the disused tunnels, past powered down robots and piles of bricks, into the bright lights of Siebte Neue Bahnhof Schönhauser Allee. You jolted us from our early morning coffee and doughnut solitude as we waited for the university train. Dozens of you, the calculated sloppiness of your ripped denims and flannel conspicuous against the crisp lines and colours of our blazers. Glancing up from my Scroll, I noticed your curly hair, torn stockings, green boots laced up to your shins; watched as you ran to the back of the platform and blew onto the wall through a stencil, the fabric of your plaid dress stretching and wrinkling across your shoulders. The MoodHound app on my Scroll registered a change in my breath signature, advised me I was feeling intrigued. The voices of other Scrolls rippled along the platform, informing their student owners they were feeling anxious, alarmed, distressed.

The train arrived, students and grungies piling on. No one but students had ever boarded our train before. I hesitated. The Guardians were coming in their pale blue uniforms and you were still blowing on the wall. You spun round, and I thought I knew you then, tried to gather up a memory of your face but it slipped from my grasp. The train was instructing me to embark. You stood under a scrolling sign, The most democratic city in the world. You lead, we follow, your arms stretched up in a triumphant V, shouting, “Fuck Democracy! Fuck Democracy!”

You, the Guardians and I were the only ones left on the platform. I rolled up my Scroll.

“Paul Sommers, you must embark,” said the train and I put my foot in the door to stop it closing.

As I stepped inside, you jumped past me into the compartment, the train gliding away. We stood by the door, squashed together. There were always enough seats, but not today. I wanted to ask where I knew you from, why grungies were catching the university train. You stared at my mouth, chewed on your lip in that pensive way. You were still holding your stencil, crumpled at the edges. The shape cut into the card looked like a fat comma.

“What is it? That symbol?”

“A luftpause. A breath mark. It’s from music.”

“Do you play?”

You told me you didn’t play.

Urban scenery flashed by. Concrete apartment blocks, ramshackle fire escapes, buildings crammed together, no trees, nothing green. Obscenities painted on walls in garish colours. Low chatter swelled to an uneasy babble, students peering out the windows. We’d diverted from the university line, humming through ghost stations. The train shuddered and swayed. Suddenly, you stumbled against me. Students screamed, grabbed their seats. Scrolls began to chatter, telling their owners they felt angry, afraid. You were calm.

The train halted in darkness, rocking, brakes groaning against metal. I thought it was a tunnel, my chest tightened, but it was a station, deserted, half-derelict, beams of sunlight puncturing the darkness through holes in the ceiling. You were still staring at my mouth. Scores of grungies getting off the train, buzzing, whooping. None of you had Scrolls to tell you how you were feeling. You opened your mouth to say something, changed your mind, got off the train without a backwards glance.

The sign on the platform said Alt Tempelhof Bahnhof. I’d never heard of it. I searched for you as the train pulled back into the light, but you’d vanished into the darkness.

 © Annie Kirby, 2021