Imaginings

Imaginings

Imaginings A Collection of Short Stories from Senior College This collection of short stories by students from ACG Senior College is broad and diverse, spanning genres such as horror, comedy and personal drama. These stories were written as part of an assignment on emulating a famous author’s style, resulting in passages which capture the influential author’s voice intertwined with the writer’s own.

Caged (Genevieve Boalch) Development (Blake Roberts) Diamond 88 (Lydia Bensky) A Spark of Jealousy (Zoe Walker) Flowers and All (Diva Giles) The Tale of a Desperate Mother (Saffron Randle) Deep Order (Max Jeffs) The Contortionist (Phoebe Joiner) Staying Strong (Grace Yan) The Princhetts (Gabriel Thompson de Wit)

Edited by Blake Roberts, Lydia Bensky, and Gabriel Thompson de Wit. Artwork by Esther Ly.

Caged Genevieve Boalch

London, 1851. I am a freak. I have never known any different - I was born this way.

Outcast in society. Outcast everywhere. I am forever trapped in this world of loneliness and sorrow. I have adapted to what I am and only have one way to survive. People pay to laugh and shout at me as they watch me use the only skills I possess, the ways I can mutate the form of my figure to hide. I am called The Creature. I am the last act at the Freak Show. People say you save the best ‘till last, well in this case the Freak Show saves the most deformed and revolting till last.

Something I wish I wasn’t.

I am constantly reminded of what I am. I can’t reveal my gangly body in public, constantly hidden in the shadows watching as people go about their normal daily lives, carefree. Horses and carriages trot by, laughter tittering down the cobbled streets. Jealously bubbles inside me. Craving to fit in, I stole clothes that hung from my body. I attempted adjusting my figure to stand upright; even then I was not tolerable. I was forced to become a creature of the night. I revealed myself every night at the show, and slept restlessly during the day. The freaks were offered caravans out the back of the show to live in. I would never feel safe living in them and some people believe us to be abominations of God; worshippers of the devil and so feel inclined to rid the world of our evil. Caravans got torched as result of this; the world looked upon us freaks as either something to laugh or scream at or something to destroy. And so I found a place to rest where nobody would look for me.

Somewhere hidden, somewhere safe. With my form being able to fit and mould to any circumstance. I can move through the sewers, tunnels and pipes underneath London easily. My home is beneath the city, I know the tunnels and sewers like the palm of my grey and slimy hand. Even though I feel safe underground, my mind is constantly unprotected. I am haunted by what I am ceaselessly; my dreams only replay what occurs at the Freak Show. Boys that point and jeer at me, questioning their fathers about why I am the ghastly way I am. I never had a father.

I hated the Freak Show, constantly searching for a way to rid myself of it. But I knew I could never leave. I cannot change who I was brought into this world to be. I am forever trapped in my own skin, never able to shed it, impossible to grow into new skin. But little did I know that tonight would change my life forever. . . . .

I am a chess piece. Always controlled, constantly being played in a game I don’t want any part in. I am not allowed to make my own decisions. Everything goes through my parents. What I wear, who I’m friends with, how I behave, what I can eat, everything. I hate it. I used to dream of the day when I could make my own choices, I believed I would be able to. But now it seems my parents are passing me on to a new owner. The prestigious Sir James Archibald. He is unbelievably wealthy, handsome, well connected and my parents’ dream future son. I have met him a few times, and find him an utterly vile person. I feel trapped in this life, like everyone is pushing for me to move one way, when all I want is to run in the other. I want to please my parents, of course I do, but I can’t imagine a life with this man, whose head is bigger than the British Empire.

His word is becoming my parents’ Bible. Whatever his opinion, they are convinced of its truth. He drags us around town, towing me along, parading me in public.

Mother thinks he’s an utter gentleman because he is constantly sending me gifts.

Dress after dress, flowers after flowers. Always orchids. The dresses are always flamboyant, ghastly shades of pink and red and always very low cut. James always took me out to extremely expensive restaurants. He introduces me to everybody as his fiancé, announcing me as his wherever we went. We always ended up joining tables with one of his work colleagues or an old friend of his. I would just sit there quietly, only offering him an agreement whenever he addressed a comment to me.

He always ordered for me as well, an intimate façade.

“You like lamb don’t you sweet pea?”

“Yes. Lovely,” I would reply.

I hated lamb. He knew I preferred not to eat meat, but he had decided that I was ‘just being silly’ . . . .

The show started out like any other night, crowds of few and large came and went.

Mixed emotions mingled throughout the atmosphere, excitement, curiosity, Fear. I used to watch people arrive at the show, hiding behind the curtain. I was curious as to the types of people who would come, wondering if they would accept me. But I no longer desire to see who comes; I wish to block out everybody. They are all the same - judging us freaks, looking down on us and never interested in the man behind the mask. The show began, people laughing, screaming, gasping and shouting. Each freak received a different reaction from the audience; mine varied from night to night. I did not care what people thought anymore though. The show dwindled on: freaks went on and off the stage as my cue slowly approached, my turn to face the crowd. The three-legged man tripped off the stage and grimaced at me to signal it was my time to go on.

I slowly crept onto the stage. Spotlights swung around and flooded the stage with light. I was blinded and stumbled whilst my eyes attempted to shield themselves from the intense brightness used to exaggerate the extremities of our deformities. I shaded my eyes and glanced up to examine the audience. And my eyes found her.

Row after row until she appeared at the back of the theatre, the curtain silhouetting her face and hiding her half from view. She was pale as moonlight, high cheekbones accentuating the delicacy of her features. She was wearing a pale blue gown that emphasised the piercing blue intensity of her gentle gaze. Her dark locks were drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck except for a few untameable curls that escaped to frame her face. She appeared to shy away from the man gripping her arm and directing her to her seat. . . . .

He was gripping me rather hard. I was nervous. My parents weren’t with us tonight.

This was an evening just for us. The idea made me wary. He had told me he was taking me somewhere special: a new side to London. It was dark, mist gathered around us while we waited for the horse and carriage to approach. People walked past in thick coats never raising their eyes, just briskly going on their way. The

clopping of horses’ hooves and rattling of wheels on the cobbled street echoed in the gloom. James pulled me in close to him, presuming I was cold and scared. The horses loomed out of the dense mist and pulled to a halt. I stepped up into the velvet interior of the carriage, James followed and the carriage lurched on to our unknown destination. The carriage interior was stuffy and close. James had positioned himself sitting right next to me with his hand on my thigh. I was scared now, desiring nothing more than to be at home, safe in my room. We were thrown forward as the carriage came to a sudden halt. James, having a short temper, cursed at the driver. He was furious and I could see him becoming violent. He called to me to get out of the carriage as we were at the destination. I warily stepped out.

The mist was denser here and quite dark. A lamp post flickered on the other side of the road, allowing glimpses of an old broken down theatre, it was a tall, dark building, built of jagged grey stones. The door towered above us and in the middle of it a monumental brass knocker was positioned. A swinging sign squeaked above the door, engraved “CIRQUE DU FREAK”. I drew my gaze up to James’ face, panic obviously showed as he just sniggered and slammed the knocker against the door creating a thunderous noise. The door opened and a man bowed as James firmly positioned a hand on my back and propelled me inside. With a creak and thud the colossal door shut behind us. The air was still and musty inside, dust and cobwebs floated through the air; James put his arm around my waist and tugged me to his side. I was not comforted.

James placed a few notes into a tall man’s huge, bony hands. He nodded to a door, where screams and shouts seeped under the doorframe. James, having his arm around my waist, easily dragged me towards the door and pushed me in. The room was dark except for a few stage lights, the audience was one of about 20 people.

The rows of chairs were narrow, so James switched to gripping my arm tightly and dragged me behind him as he manoeuvred his way to some good seats. Bright lights swept across the stage drawing my attention to a small gangly creature. His skin was deathly pale grey and was stretched across his frog-like figure. A few wispy strands were all he had for hair and they dangled down in front of his eyes, which resembled glass orbs. The creature was all but naked, apart from a strip of ragged cloth that was tied around his waist; he clambered further onto the stage using all four limbs.

The audience began to hoot with laughter; James guffawed and shouted at the creature. I was ashamed to be around him, to be here with these low-minded people.

They saw the creature as an object of entertainment, something with no emotions. I hated them for it. The creature seemed to be scanning the crowd, looking at those for whom he had to perform tonight. He paused as he looked at me; his eyes widened and seemed to be staring straight into my soul. I lowered my gaze and James wrapped his arm around my shoulder. I quivered away from him. Why had he brought me here? What was the purpose of this? I wanted to leave. . . . .

I watched her throughout my performance. She only ever looked up at the exit; her gaze for most of the show seemed to be on her hands in her lap, her eyes shut tight as if trying to block out her surroundings. As soon as my performance finished I shuffled off the stage. The lights lit up the room; she stood up and quickly and left.

She moved like a swan, with grace and delicacy. Her dress flowed behind her. The

man she was with laughed at her quick exit. I dashed desperately into the crowd, scrabbling to find her. My heart was throbbing in my chest. Where was she? Why had she come?

I escaped from the crowds and entered the cold night. My eyes flashed through the darkness searching for her delicate figure, and wisp of a waist. I saw the man clamber into a carriage that began to rattle into the mist. I chased after it. Desperate to see this girl one more time. The carriage slowed down to let people pass, I took the opportunity to dart under the carriage and cling on to the underside. The carriage started off again. I was splattered with mud and puddles by the wheels. The ride was rough but soon came to a stop. The cumbersome man heaved himself from the carriage and then offered his hand to the girl. She stepped daintily out the carriage, wished him goodnight and quickly entered her home. I dropped from the underside of the carriage and slunk into the shadows. The man smiled to himself then stepped into the carriage, which vanished into the darkness.

My eyes darted around my surroundings; the girl lived on a cobbled street full of large, white, ornately decorated houses. The street was lined with lamp-posts casting dim glows. I silently ascended a lamp-post just in time to see the girl enter a room, which I presumed to be her bedroom. She sat down on the edge of her bed.

She seemed to be shaking. I watched for a while, even after she blew out her candle to sleep. I loved her, I didn’t know why but the warmth settling in my heart left little doubt. There were wilting bluebells on her writing desk in the window. They were the same blue as her dress. There was a bunch of flowers in the bin, orchids I thought. From him, most likely. I left her to sleep and retreated to my shadows.

Over the next few days I followed her about the city. Always present, but always out of sight. I would catch glimpses of her through the grilles in the street. Each morning I would pick fresh bluebells from the local park and place them in her window for her to see as she awoke to the morning sun. I would watch as she smiled at them whilst at her desk, forever trapped beneath the surface. . . . .

I explained to my parents where James had taken me that night, they called a doctor to see if he could cure my ‘nightmares’. Nothing I would say would ruin their devotion to him. So I asked if I could at least stay away from him for a few days to help me ‘recover’ from my ‘nightmares’. They agreed, and let me walk the city with my maid each day for fresh air. Remembering the appearance of fresh bluebells on my windowsill I thanked my maid, though she claimed she had not touched them. This surprised me but I knew there would be another reasonable explanation.

I fell asleep peacefully that night. It was a full moon my favourite nights of the year. I awoke to a loud creak and a cold breeze billowing my curtains into my room.

Through my window a long skeletal hand was stretched with a fresh bluebell pinched between its fingers. My eyes fluttered upwards finding themselves trapped in the gaze of two humungous orbs of eyes. I stifled a scream and the orbed eyed creature fell into the night, leaving a crushed bluebell on my windowsill.

Development Blake Roberts

Cambridge's most renowned success story is that of one Malcolm Maloch. Fresh out of high school, his first venture was buying a struggling manure business – with $2000, left to him by the passing of his father – which just so happened to fail miserably. He was $15,000 in debt within a year, forcing him to sell and work as a used cars salesman. He bought the lot two years later, with experience and knowledge to guide him on his path. Malcolm built an empire that, at its peak, comprised the Ford and Mazda dealership, the Toyota dealership, the Mitsubishi dealership, Bargain Wheels rentals, two motels and a saddlery – with previous endeavours unlisted, future endeavours enraptured.

Malcolm owned just two cars. A Lexus LS400 Limousine – black metallic paint with dark tinted windows – and a Toyota Hilux SR5 – black metallic paint with highly chromed bull bars. He sold each at the end of every second year, trading up for the newest model. No other LS400s existed in Cambridge. He tried a Bentley once. No one in town really knew what it was, where it was made or how much it cost, and no mechanic dared touch it – not even Malcolm's own. It was sold in Auckland within 12 months.

He wore suede jackets in colours from brown to black, white, collared shirts with denim pants and brown dress boots. His adornments were sparse, peaking at a Tag Heuer and some Ray Ban Aviators. Suits were never worn. He stored his money in offshore financial institutions – predominantly in Europe – using short term, high interest accounts. He made money by having money. And gold. He employed a fulltime bullion buyer, cutting him in at 10 percent.

Despite his eligibility, Malcolm was childless and unmarried. He enjoyed women, but they were simply a distraction. He enjoyed alcohol – whiskey especially – but not to the extent that he could not work the next day. Money was far too important. And his main thrill was his bank statement.

He lived in a large Tudor-style house, the kind where the second story ran the full length of the first; tall, narrow windows; a steeply pitched roof and vast white walls were frequented by dark brown, decorative half-timbering. A tennis court ran down the side, with an over-sized bean shaped pool – large enough for a single 25 metre lane – out back. Not that anyone would know – huge fences enclosed the property and large, double security gates were the only way in.

Each morning, at 6:00, Malcolm ran 3 kilometres into town, collects the Waikato Times from the dairy, then loops 3 and a half kilometres back. His route detours to include the town's five real estate offices – three residential, two rural. He savoured

seeing new listings, seizing every opportunity he could to enlarge his estate. He once saw a 600 acre farm just north of the town, but that had since been snatched up.

Greg Dykes had been a farmer all his life. He was born on a farm and raised on a farm and worked on a farm. He was a complacent man, happy with his place in the world. He lived a simple life with his wife and young daughter, both of whom he adored. He was manager at an isolated Sheep Station, living on site with his family.

Most of his coworkers enjoyed his company, especially when his wife was near. His daughter was home-schooled, due to the nearest school being over an hour away, but was more often found on the back of her father's quad-bike.

Like his father before him, Greg's ambition was to own a farm. That ambition became a reality when he bought a 600 acre lot, just north of the town, opposite Cambridge High School. Despite this ambition, the driving force behind purchasing the farm was his wife. She wanted greater social connections, a better education for her daughter and easier access to the shops. The 600 acre farm was somewhat pricey, but Greg was more-than-willing to make the sacrifice; he couldn't take losing either his wife or his daughter, simply because he worked so far from anything.

Two loans were granted, from different banks. One fixed, one floating. Both $750,000. Enough to make most men cringe. Greg knew he was going to need help.

There was no way he was going to be able to pay the banks. Malcolm wanted that land. The potential was massive. Subdivide, build, sell. He had it all planned out. A central strip with a few shops, Cambridge High School within walking distance, treelined streets. A pleasant suburban neighbourhood – with big profits to be made. He hired a private investigator – Lindon or something – to figure out who bought the farm and what his weaknesses were: Greg Dykes. Farmer, married with one daughter. $1,500,000 owed to banks.

Previously station manager at Oldfield's Station.

Malcolm found this pleasing. Now he had something to bargain with. Especially since Roger had ceased farming subsidies. Lots of farmers complaining, half of them have gone bankrupt.

Malcolm drove along the winding dirt road, the Hilux's rear kicking out frequently. He arrived at the door and knocked thrice. A young girl bounced to the door, obviously unaware of her father's debt. Malcolm asked if her father was home. She claimed her father was fixing a fence, in the up corner of the farm.

He found Greg wandering along the road with fencing shears in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other. Certainly not the time to aggravate him. Malcolm

stepped out of the Hilux, stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Greg lay the sledgehammer on the ground and returned the gesture.

Despite Malcolm's encouragement, Greg was not willing to sell the farm. At one stage, his grip on the shears visibly tightened. Malcolm knew to back off. He ended then and there with the clichéd “Call me if you change your mind” and took off, back down the winding dirt road.

He received a call a few days later. They met, over coffee, two hours after. Greg outlined his plan. Cut the farm into 4 sections, sell 3. Perfect for Malcolm's plan.

He fired off calls – architects, developers, tradesmen, council officials, town planners, finance authorisers – anyone who could assist him in his quest. Malcolm bought the 3 lots for an undisclosed sum (although, both parties were happy). Work was scheduled to commence in a month.

With the sale, Greg was able to pay off the loans. He bought 200 cows and installed milking stations. His wife was pleased; now they had some sort of income as well as no debt.

The land came level enough to commence. Infrastructure was a big task. Sewerage, water, power, optical fibres, copper wires – all needed attention. At the same time, the Soviet Union collapsed. Malcolm's offshore funds became next-to worthless. He pushed through anyway. He sold vast amounts of his precious gold and took out large loans. Roger's devaluation of the dollar didn't help. Cheap materials were overseas. But he had little buying power left.

Malcolm sold with the foundations laid and roads paved. He was not pleased with the sum presented, but he had little choice but to take it. He lost money. And lots of it.

Diamond 88 Lydia Bensky I first came to Diamond 88 Ranch two years ago last spring. And looking back, I hardly recognize that boy who walked through the great timber gates with those long, tapered horns strung up high above them. I had been riding horses for a few years before that. What started out as therapy for after the crash became the only thing I knew and was good at. I wasn’t able to buy my own horse, living right in the centre of Dallas, but I used to drive for miles out to rodeos and watch the men rope and barrel race. Almost every night I’d go home to that tiny flat, tie myself a lasso out of an old tow rope and practice on anything we had; the couch, chairs, the fire-escape railings.

So naturally, when I finished school with grades as poor as was thinkable, I shipped myself out to cattle country to try my hand at ranching. I had nothing to stay for in the city, and the one thing that should have made me stay was the reason I was going.

Course I didn’t know that at the time.

Two springs ago I stood in front of the main house for the first time. I was dusty and dishevelled, having had to walk up the mile long track to the worn, timber house. A fresh coat of paint covered the boards but not that or ten others could disguise how old and tired that house was. At any second I expected for it to collapse, panting in the Texas heat. It was around five in the evening and the sun was beginning to slant at that lazy angle. Ranch hands were busy in the barn sorting their horses for the night and, though I was tempted to head right on over there, I made myself climb the bowed steps up to the front porch.

I was about to knock on that peeling varnished door when it swung open and another ranch hand barrelled right into me. She raised her head in surprise and I couldn’t help noticing that her bottle green eyes were glossy with beginnings of tears.

“Sorry,” she said, stuffing a folded piece of paper in her pocket and wiping her nose on her blurred, threadbare cuff, “I’m not a great one for looking where I’m going.”

She paused, confusion sweeping across her oval face. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Are you one of the new hands?”

“I hope to be, ma’am.” I regretted that word as soon as I said it. What had I gone and called her that for? She was probably only a year or so older than I was. Her frown changed from one of puzzlement to annoyance.

“Ma’am? No thank you. You call me Marina.” She glanced me up and down. “And what do I call you, aside from city boy?”

I had felt suddenly self-conscious in my black jeans and crisp white t-shirt.

“My name’s JD. I was hoping you’d have a place for me to work here. I can ride well and I’m pretty sure I can rope too.”

“Pretty sure? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I…. I never roped a cow before but I’ve practiced on other things.”

I swallowed and prayed she didn’t ask me what the ‘other things’ were. A gleam shifted into her eyes and the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Like barrels or something?”

I dropped my gaze to my boots and stared at the burnt orange dust that coated them as I answered, “Mostly on our sofa, really.”

A laugh much deeper and richer than one would suppose bubbled up around me. My eyes flicked up to Marina and I couldn’t help but chuckle too. Her laugh was so abundant it was as if it were to share.

“Well you go on into the house now and talk to the Big Man,” she said when she could speak again, “First door on the left.” She past me quickly and jogged on down the steps but I could still see the corner of her smile.

The Big Man turned out to be Diamond 88’s owner and also Marina’s father. He said there was a place if I didn’t mind hard work but that he couldn’t pay me; just offer me food and lodgings. I agreed of course. It wasn’t money I wanted. I wasn’t sure exactly what I had come for but that wasn’t it.

I started the next day at six. We were drenching the cattle and branding the younger ones, ready for them to be driven out to the summer grazing. The others told me we would be taking them out there at the end of the month. The two hands who I bunked with, Wade and Cooper, said it was like nothing either of them had seen when they first rode out there.

“You ride on through a gorge and when you come out you think you’re flying” Connor told me, “Damn near as close to heaven as you can get.”

“I reckon heaven has fewer scorpions though” said Wade, grinning.

By the end of my first week I was bruised and sunburnt but feeling that strange contentment that only comes from hard work. We were almost done with the 400 short horns, with only another 20 or so left to drench. It was that day when Marina asked me the question I had been trying so hard to hide from.

I had tripped down our little cabin’s steps that morning and landed heavy on my hip.

It only hurt for that brief, grounded minute but I knew it would play on my leg badly for the rest of the day. I carried on over to the holding pen’s rails, where Marina was already waiting, trying to ignore my own crookedness. I clambered up the rails and swung round to the opposite side from Marina, ready to pin up the nervous short horns head for the drench. It was the same routine as it had been all week, with Marina drenching and me holding, while in other pens more ranch hands worked in pairs. But it was alright. I had a system and besides, monotony, hard work and I got on well. But Marina, in her blunt, endearing and unthinking way, asked the question.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” she had asked, so simply and pleasantly. “Your limp seems worse today. How’d you get it in the first place?”

It took me a while to sort out what to say. That prickling, metal feeling had sparked in my stomach again. I scowled. I thought I had that under control by now. But Marina had caught me off guard.

“I was in an accident” I said, with no intention for elaborating.

I hoisted myself into a better position and came close to the cow’s head. In its great, treacle coloured eye I saw my reflection; that same cold face I had long ago stumbled upon and still wore every now and then. Marina had seen it too. She didn’t pry any further. In fact, the whole day, she was shrouded in an unusually thoughtful silence.

The next evening, there was a knock on our hut’s door and Marina appeared. She hadn’t waited for a ‘come on in’ of course, just barged right ahead.

“JD, can you come outside for a minute. I want to show you something.” Then she turned on her heel and went back on out the door. I ignored the smirks from Wade and Cooper and followed her.

She didn’t say anything but led me to a corral behind the barn, where half a dozen horses were penned. Leaning against the rails she pointed. I strolled up to the corral’s fence and rested my chin on the beaten rail.

A sandstorm in the shape of a horse looked directly back at me, meeting my gaze with curious eyes. He stood out from the herd, being the only one awake. All the others had their heads hung low and back legs rested; but not this horse. He was too alive.

His legs looked sooted and a bold line, like a charcoal mark, trailed down his spine, a long road joining his cropped black mane with his heavy, coal tail. I remember thinking, if it hadn’t been for his smoky markings, he may have simply blended into the dusty ground.

“I’ve been working with him for a while,” Marina said, her voice as soft as a night breeze so as not to wake the dozing mounts, “he’s a rescue horse.”

I ducked through the fence and slowly walked up to the gelding, my hand up-turned.

I paused a few steps away from him. After a beat, the dun placed his dark muzzle in my palm.

“His name’s Hawkeye” whispered Marina from outside the ring.

The name suited him and brought my attention to his mismatching eyes. One was a deep, cocoa brown, as is so common with horses. But his left eye was an ice river blue, a much rarer feature for a horse to have. I had never met a horse with a wall eye before. Somehow it seemed fitting that Hawkeye was the first.

My hand strayed from his nose up to his forehead. I tangled my fingers through his forelock and felt a something in me come to life again, something which had long been dormant.

I hear the soft falls of Marina’s boots strolling away. I was the last rancher out now, with the night’s shadow tumbling over the horizon. The other horses all slept on peacefully.

Just me and Hawkeye.

My hand trailed down from his head and along his neck. At his shoulder I stopped, feeling something incredibly familiar. Under his lion hide coat, criss-crossing like a weave, was a raised strip of flesh. I glanced back at Hawkeye’s ghost-like eye, leaving my hand resting on his scar tissue.

In a strange way, he was doing the same.

In the weeks leading up to the cattle drive, I worked hard. I did my assigned duties, which now seemed to stretch from well before dawn till just after dusk. In the moments I could steal, I worked with Hawkeye, first with Marina teaching me how to work him on the ground and then with me trying to get the feel when I rode him. And if there was a little portion of time left after that, Wade and Cooper would practice roping with me.

Finally, the day came when we got up even earlier than usual. It was a good day’s ride out to the grazing and even if all went well we’d still be camping there over night.

So we saddled up in near dark and drove the herd out just as the sun made its first appearance. It was a beautiful journey to make and I often fell behind being distracted by the raw, Texas land. Hawkeye always reminded me when we were lagging though, breaking into a lope to get back with the group. He was a real cow horse and knew what to do before even some of the best ranch hands did. He helped me with strays and with pushing on some stubborn short horns. But mostly, through working with him, he helped me with my scars. In the physical sense, riding was a great therapy. But there was more to it than that. He was so trusting and offering it got me thinking, If a horse can forgive all the hurt, why can’t I? Course it didn’t mean I could do it all then. But it started something. And it made me realise that when I left the city I was running from something that’d always follow me. The only way to really get rid of it was to go back.

Wade and Cooper were right about leaving the gorge. The way the land was tilted meant that once you broke away from those chiselled ochre walls there didn’t seem to be any ground. We came out on a narrow ridge and the ground just seemed to melt around us. We were on the only bit of solid land for miles and looking way down there were miles and miles of perfectly untampered Texas. If there was one place where anyone could feel like they could fly, this was it.

We got to the grazing at dusk and the herd was free to wander through the acres of unfenced land. After tending to Hawkeye, and setting up the camp, I had wandered off. As I walked I thought of what I had been trying to ignore these past five years.

And it was hard. When you don’t think of something for a long time the memory

becomes muted and stringy, like when you find a thread but it has no meaning on its own. Eventually though it leads you to the spool.

My father had once again come home drunk but for some reason my mother had spoken up this time. They had had arguments before, but this was like nothing I’d ever imagined. He had grabbed my mother by the wrists. He had shoved her to the ground. And he had hit her. I don’t know why he had done it this time, or why he had done it in front of me, but he had. She had put up with years of him stumbling in at some dark hour in the morning and crashing about. She had dealt with the mess when he showed up late for work weeks in a row or simply hadn’t shown up at all.

Because all that time, he had loved her. But this changed things.

My father had let go as soon as he had done it and burst into tears. I don’t recall ever being so frightened of someone and then so sorry for them. Mama had grabbed me and we had bolted out the door. We got in the car and we drove. She was crying too.

I reckon that’s why she didn’t see the truck.

The next memory I have is of waking up in a strange bed and not being able to move my legs. And then, as I screamed, my father had held me and cried. When I finally was quite he had told me that my mother was gone. I remember feeling a whole mass of things but somehow blame was the one that masked the others the best.

And that’s what I did; throughout listening to the doctors changing their minds as to if I could ever walk again, through the excruciating physio, through the years of coming home to him crying and knowing he needed me there. I blamed my father for my mother’s death. And I know he blamed himself too. But out of the two of us, I was the one who knew it wasn’t really true.

I walked back to camp well after midnight and found Marina sitting by the embers of the campfire. She was the only one up and looked at home in the moonlight, with her chestnut hair forming renegade curls on her shoulders. I walked over and sat beside her.

“Thank you for letting me work with Hawkeye” I said.

She seemed surprised but smiled.

“I just wanted to help. You both needed someone and I swear you and that horse are one and the same.” Her smile lost its edge. “I just wanted to help someone I guess.”

A crease deepened between her eyes.

“You know, JD, all I’ve wanted to do since I was little is help people. I want to be a counsellor.”

She glanced at me to see what I made of her dream.

I was intrigued seeing this side of her. I also was thinking how beautiful her alabaster skin with those tiny acorn-coloured freckles looked in the half-light. I was hoping I kept that last part hidden.

“I got accepted to a college in Dallas. Where I can learn to be one… But Daddy said no. The farms in trouble and he said we can’t afford it. I told him it was a scholarship but…he just blew up. Kept saying he needs me here.”

Her eyes were growing glossy again. She sighed, but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders.

“I guess I still am helping.”

Before I could say something intelligent, she leaned over and kissed me. After a few moments we parted.

“I’d better get some sleep” she said, whisking herself up and off to her tent.

“Goodnight” she called over her shoulder.

Though she had left with her uncanny speed, I had still caught the edge of her smile.

A strange thing happened on the cattle drive that night. Marina woke up unable to move her legs and with a scorpion crawling over her blankets. Though we got her to the doctors as quick as we could they said there was nothing they could do. It was a particularly dangerous kind, they said, that had chosen to wander into her tent. But they recommended a specialist in Dallas hospital. Unfortunately, though he tried as many methods as he could, she only regained a little movement.

After a few months of seeing her so miserable at being unable to help on the ranch, the Big Man let her go to college. To Marina, who had near been broken by the loss of movement in her legs, this was the small silver-lining. I have never met a girl who’s so good at finding those. I told the Big Man I would be around to help for as long as he needed me, and though he was still heartbroken about his daughter leaving, he seemed to brighten a little.

When the semester was due to start, I was the one who drove Marina up to Dallas.

After all, I had to go see a man in a tiny flat.

A Spark of Jealousy Zoe Walker

I shan't even begin to elucidate to the extent I loathe this, this malevolent thief: she who appears while I am absent and makes herself scarce when I am present! A tryst on the sly. I cringe at even the notion of her beauteous countenance of which I so resent. What does he - this Magnificent Mortal - perceive in her? I see nothing but impending disunion.

Nonchalantly was I browsing the aisles of my favourite book haunt, secretly longing to happen upon the object of my obsession, him. He frequents the library - as do I often. Having meticulously chosen my attire for the outing, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the store window. Half expecting to see a soulless wraith staring back, instead she was an unremarkable figure with dismal features - a forgettable specimen. A sting of joyous laughter interrupted my gaze to the bookshelf. The familiarity of it furrows my brow and boils my blood.

I shakily drew aside a collection of books to fashion a narrow gap that allows me to peer through to the opposite side of the shelf. Just as I had foreboded – there - was sat the foul creature! She was leaning her head against her hand - her evil green eyes fixed upon my lover, whose back was facing me. Oh! If one was to see my contortion through the slit in the bookshelf - if they were to stumble upon me from the other side, I cannot devise what harm I might cause to them. I tore away from the books, caring not of the turbulent clatter they made. My mind was certainly made up.

She must die.

I arrived home, distraught after the disastrous episode. I remembered the struggle I had faced to pass them unnoticed and the memory of that look on the wretch's face following his smile. In frustration I threw my head against the wall - hard. Stars collected in my vision, something I was merely used to - I chronically took my anger out this way. That night I felt unable to sleep, the calm wind offered me no comfort, my head was far from at ease. I finally resolved to take my grief-stricken soul down the stairs to stand in front of the fire mantel, my preferred place in times of desperation. A few embers were still glowing when I approached, the ash of the previous evening's fire smeared thickly around the tile. I didn't care for the untidiness; I was rather fond of it. Without a second thought I submerged my hands wrist deep - into the powdery residue and let it sift through my skeletal fingers. I relit the embers and watched the flames crack and spit for a good hour and a half. My eye lids, though heavy, were the least of my priorities! I was engrossed in my plan for homicide.

I picked myself up from my slouched position and shuffled into my shoes at the front door. Coming to the conclusion that my victim presumably would be located in the

dwelling of that of my beloved, I stepped out into the night air, shook-off the cold, and proceeded down the road. My footsteps were seemingly light as I crept up to his veranda. I had been walking for 20 minutes at least but my determination had not waned. I made no haste to open a window as I felt I had all the time in the world to complete my deed. Slowly but oh so surely I slithered through the tight opening feet first, unwinding and unravelling until my elongated figure was completely inside the room.

I shifted my eyes back and forth; the house was still‌ silent - empty. It didn't stop me. I stealthily ascended on all fours up the stairs so as to even out my weight on the creaky wood. Despite the eerie circumstances I felt extraordinarily calm. I reached the landing and met my shadow for the second time against the opposite wall--a comforting friend who, at that moment, had the same motives as did I. Absentmindedly, I watched my shadow's hands reach into its dark pockets and retrieve a glossy, glass bottle of chloroform. Genius. I glanced down at my own hand, checking I had my own bottle; it was there. I bid my shadow farewell and continued down the passage, following my instinct to the room where hopefully, my prey was sleeping.

As I had thought, the victim, accompanied by him, was lying, peacefully - too peacefully - on the same bed, same side as I once did. If I had equipped myself with a knife I surely would have lunged at her now, but that, would have defeated the whole purpose of my cunning scheme. Before opening the lid of the chloroform I orientated my way through the gloom in the hallway to a separate, unknown room.

The only visible matter was the line of white light, edging the curtains. I gradually stepped over to them and drew one curtain open. Pale moonlight beamed in upon the rooms features. I swiveled around from the glare and looked at my surroundings.

As my eyes adjusted to the light I saw something dreadful. I stood there, petrified with disbelief. It dawned on me; I was looking at an infant's cot. My bottom lip began to quiver slightly. No! It couldn't be so, it couldn't be! I stumbled over to the cot and clenched the frame as I looked inside. Like the house appeared as I had first entered, it was empty. But who knows for how long it would still be empty? I had no other choice, I was already here, I had already seen, I had yet to fulfill my long awaited wish. There was no way I was leaving yet.

I grasped a blanket in my shaking hands and, doubling over to muffle the noise, ripped it in half. With the intention of drenching it in the chloroform I passed back into the room where the pair lay. I looked down at the tranquil face of my victim. I felt nothing but hate. I raised the torn cot blanket and tipping a lethal dose of the chemical into the bunched material, advanced slowly towards her. It was silent, painless and unsuspected. I covered her mouth and nose with the blanket and steadily held it in place. The sweet smell of it began to make me feel dizzy so I turned away. The body relaxed and I lifted her head to tie the cloth around it. I glanced up to lay my eyes upon the angelic, sleeping face of my beloved, he was still

resting deeply. My chest began to ache slightly but I just assumed it was a side effect of the chloroform. Her limp body was surprisingly heavy as I carried her back to my house.

She fell like a broken rag doll as I dumped her carelessly on the stone floor. The fire had died now, and so had she. I relit the embers again and tore the cot blanket aside. Her once elegant face was now covered in sores and welts created from the chemical. I then proceeded to sever her limbs from her torso, cutting off the arms, legs and head. I tossed them, individually into the fire. I watched each part of her burn down to ash before replacing another limb. The smell was indescribable. Once the cremation was complete, I once again dug my hands into the remaining ashes, this time with an evil grin‌ I woke abruptly. My head lay uncomfortably against the dusty, cold tile. I arose with a groan and scraped the ashes out of my tangled hair. I wanted no longer the memory of the murder within my head, let alone my hair. For a while I sat staring blankly at the charred remnants, letting it sink in. I then decided to go back to the library. The lack of abnormality in the library puzzled me - the atmosphere had not changed at all. I knew not why but I felt a sense of relief, even though I regretted nothing.

I sat down gingerly and looked around from under my crinkled brow. I wasn't sure as to why I was feeling stuffy under my collar. I buried my chin lower into my chest, as if not to appear suspicious. What on earth was I doing? A familiar scent tickled my nose, I flared my nostrils, deeply inhaling the essence until I came to realise what it was. Smoke. I jolted my head up and began to inspect the room with my eyes. I looked for a book on fire, a shelf, a chair, a table, a person. I began to fidget nervously, scratching the coarse skin of my hands. I glanced to my right, hoping an old man was smoking a pipe nearby, but much to my dismay there was none. My fingernails were close to tearing the skin. I stumbled to my feet and hastily made my way to the door, the smell not leaving. I got all the way to the park across the road, attempting to rid myself of the insidious odor.

But it seemed, wherever I roamed, the smell pursued. I resorted to escaping back to my home. Slamming the front door on the scent I sunk to the floor, agitated. The smell had ceased but something else seemed askew. From around the hall, I heard the licking and popping of a high fire. Wide eyed I crawled to the mantel. The grate, although dirty with ashes, was fire-less. I felt a shiver venture up my spine. Was I going insane? Hearing and smelling things that were not there? That night, my sleep was unsettled; somewhere downstairs I heard the distant flicker of flames, hissing and crackling. I clawed at my hands.

The next morning I avoided the mantel at all costs, slipping out the door into the crispy cold air. My breath, creating smoke-like vapor in front of me, I found difficult to exhale. In a quick walk I entered the library. I sat down flustered, for I knew not why I

was here again - the latter of my two cherished places. The fire mantel I had once been so attached to, now a commodity of anxiety - the library, a hell hole for my keen senses. The aroma of smoke had returned, this time, with a hint of burning flesh.

My mouth twitched nervously. Suddenly I heard a very familiar sound - a short, unnerving laugh from behind the bookshelf. I spun around on the chair leg in fright.

Frantically I shifted my gaze upon each book. Did I imagine it? I didn't need to get up to find out. From around the corner walked, hand in hand, the very couple of which I had intruded in on the other night. A let out a slight shriek and they both looked my way. What a sight I must have been, trembling in my chair, gawking at their very existence! Well - her existence! I felt faint. She paced towards me, smiling confidently as she knew she was superior to me in every way.

Against my inner intentions I cowered before her. Hadn't I burnt this grotesque hag?

She was wearing all her limbs, her head was placed correctly upon her shoulders, no singe marks, no scolds! This was the work of utmost evil. She addressed me and asked of my wellbeing, but I could not answer. I could barely move, let alone speak.

Looking down at my flaky hands she gasped and questioned my violent actions on them. I snatched them away from her grasp and without looking at my lover, fled from the library, occasionally tripping on my skirts. It was raining, an appropriate ambience for my twisted soul. I lunged into a puddle and lay there, sobbing and shivering. The reality of it was clear now. She was real, she was alive. I hadn't burnt her, I had merely dreamt of the murderous deed.

Flowers and All Diva Giles I hear the door creak open, small footsteps patter across the hallway. A streak of light and a soft thud as she knocks her knee on the table. I slip out of the bed, hoping not to wake Nate.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on her. It’s different now but, back then the nurses took your baby away immediately. They wouldn't allow you time until they thought appropriate. It was the hardest night I had ever faced. My body ached, my head spun and all I could think about was that beautiful little girl in the other room.

Alone. I was so enraged. It was 2 am when I first saw her. I was yelling at the poor nurse when they brought her in.

As I walk blindly down the stairs I can smell the smoke on her breath. She is facing away from me, her body bent over. Her thin white fingers are gripping the edge of the couch. The scars on her wrists, enflamed. I am overcome with pain. I want to take her in my arms and hold her. I want to yell at her, scream at her. How could she do this to me? How could I do this to her?

I knew before I saw her that they had brought her in. My heart had slowed. Soft, peaceful beats. The nurse was talking to me, instructing me but in that moment the only sound, the only noise, was her breath. I heard her. I felt her. I saw her. When they placed her in my arms I knew. I was her only hope. I now belonged to her. Her soft hands entangled in mine, as if to say, I'm yours, you're mine. We were one.

I hear Nate get up. The floors groan, a map of his movements. I go to the kitchen and return with a bucket. Tears are falling down her face as she takes it and throws up. It’s okay my love, I want to say, it’s okay. But it isn’t. Nate talked to me about this.

He says I need to be stronger; I need to create structure, consequences. Order, he says.

I was 19 when I had her. Her father and I met at secondary school. We both left Britain together, needing to get out. It was 1968. We had spent the summer of ‘67 in San Francisco, exploring the summer of love. It’s a cliché now: kombis, long hair, flowers and all. But it was real then. We wanted, we needed change. We expected more from the world. We were the new generation. We had settled in San Fran, there was an air of hope, love and possibility. Everything and anything was near.

I stroke her back, giving her time. I know this is hurting her too. She hates herself.

She once told me that. Granted, she was high at the time but her honesty was so brutal it ripped through me like a knife. I want to give her what she needs. Pack up and leave. Somewhere new. Anywhere different but Nate says she needs stability, not change. She needs a parent, not a friend, Nate says.

We were best friends, her father and I. He was wild, a free spirit. He brought out the best in me and he brought out the worst. His brown shaggy hair reached his shoulders and his deep green eyes were an open book. He represented everything I loved and everything I feared. He was passion, he was faith but he was pain and he

was impulse. He believed in peace, nature, life. He also believed in me.

"Mum...I...I'm so…"

"I know, baby. I know" "I'm so…so sorry" My parents loved me and I have forever regretted the way I left them. They were, they are, heavily Catholic but that was never enough for me. I needed more. I don't think my mother ever understood why I left. She couldn't see beyond our fence, our church, our street. It wasn't that she didn't want to, she just never could. I would call her from America. Tell her about the life that I was living. The lights, the music, the people. She would 'mmm' and 'aaah' cheerfully but would never offer her thoughts, dreams, or ideas. Not in the way my father did. But that worked for them. They lived well. They had found their peace and I hoped they understood that I needed to find mine.

I take her arm and lead her to the couch. Her delicate curls fall onto my lap. I pull them away from her soft, modest face. Thick drops of mascara fall from her pink cheeks. I ask her if she wants to talk about it but I already know the answer. Nate says that I need to demand she talks but I don't know how to demand things of her.

It wasn't always easy in America. We had our rough times. He would go out for days and nights and sometimes I wouldn't be there when he got back. I loved when he got mad. I felt thrills when held me, when he shook me - frustration surging through his veins. Through mine. It never turned violent, though. Being with him wasn't always safe, but it was never dangerous. At night we would sit for hours, listening to endless Rolling Stones records, talking about life, about love, about the future. The day was never different. Golden Gate was our home - its occupants, our family. We were so young. Trying to find ourselves. Trying to find the world.

Nate comes down. He lifts her fragile body from me and walks slowly to the bedroom. I wait for a moment and then follow him in. We sit at her bed. He holds my hand, I hold hers. He watches her, I watch him.

I met Nate in 1972. I had just moved back to Britain, my baby girl was 4 years old.

We were living in Nottingham. Nate was studying at the local university. He had a girlfriend at the time. We were never especially romantic. I grew to love Nate and he grew to love us. Our relationship built over the years. I think it was 1982 when we moved in with him. I can’t remember when we began sleeping together. It just happened. Nate was what we needed and we were what he needed. We became a family. Being with Nate was simple, safe.

I wake up. My baby girl is lying next to me. Her hair is caught in a soft mess. The subtle tattoo of a daisy sits behind her ear. The back of her neck is bare. Deep Purple marks constrict her skin. Anger erupts in my body. I reach out to touch them, to soothe them.

"He loves me" she whispers.

We had lived together for a few years. Her- her father and I. She was about 2 when

he left. He hadn't given up the lifestyle and I was finally giving up hope. On our last night together, we had sat, talking. We talked of the past, the present. Neither of us mentioned the future. The next morning he came and hugged me. A silent apology.

An acknowledgement of mistakes. A love.

I retrieve an ice pack from the freezer and gently place it on her neck. My attempt to mend everything I have broken.

Her father and I had talked every day for a long time. He eventually came back to England. He would visit us every weekend. He got his life together, he found a wife and I believe he was as happy as he could be. He was still my only love and I was his. Three years ago he passed away.

Nate turns on the record player. “If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear flowers in your hair…”

I don’t believe she has ever gotten over his death. I don’t believe I have either. It was okay at first. We carried on with our lives. One day she came home. Her eyes were blazing red. I broke, screaming at her. I didn’t want this life for her. I could see where it was going and I screamed. All my pain, regret, anger came out in that moment.

She was so shaken. We both were.

After that, I lost her. She lost herself.

A Tale of a Desperate Mother Saffron Randle

Once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived twin sisters, Lila and Veronica. The girls never got along as Lila was sweet and caring and would never hurt a fly, whereas Veronica was was cruel, sadistic and malicious. Their father was a powerful wizard, and their mother a beautiful maiden, but they both died a terrible death when the girls were young. When they were born, their father's magical powers were inherited only by Veronica, though Lila inherited their mother's beauty.

As the girls grew up, all Lila did was dream of becoming a mother. She spent hours and hours playing with dolls and dreaming up names for her baby, while Veronica would play nasty magic tricks on her mortal sister as she was jealous of her overwhelming beauty. With time, Veronica became stronger and more witch-like, and tried to kill her sister many times. So Lila ran away to a far, far land, where she fell in love with a handsome woodchopper, and lived happily in a cottage in the middle of an enchanted forest, awaiting the day she was blessed with a beautiful baby. She waited many years, but it did not come. She asked a magic gypsy to come and tell her why she could not have a child, and the gypsy told her she had been cursed by a witch, and that only that same witch could undo the curse. Lila knew that it could only have been her sister.

So one day, Lila set off to find Veronica. She knew that she lived somewhere in the enchanted forrest, so searched all day and all night. When she reached the deepest darkest part of the woods, she recognised a certain stench that could only be the most evil witch of the whole forrest.

"Veronica" She whispered, trembling ecstatically.

There was no sound.

She felt a cool tingle against her neck and turned around with a gasp. It was the ugliest thing Lila had ever seen. Unlike her sister, Lila had grown even more beautiful in the years they had spent apart.

Veronica cackled and said in her high pitched nasal squeal, "You are brave for coming here sister.. Ahh ha haha. Now what do you want?"

"You.. you cursed me, Veronica! All I wanted was a child and you had to forbid me from having one! Please sister, I will do anything you wish! Just release me from your curse" Lila fell to her knees and cried, although her sister just laughed her evil laugh in response.

"You may be beautiful, but you are weak. What is stopping me from killing you right now?"

One of her fingers grew four meters, wrapped around her sister's long, golden hair

and ripped a lock out. She brushed it against her own cheek.

"I will make you a deal, Lila. I will break your curse, and within one year you will have a beautiful little boy. But in exchange, you have to give me your husband. As you can see, no love will fall for me because you stole all our mother’s beauty! So the day your baby is born, your husband will be mine and I can do what I wish with him."

"Th..that is not fair!" Lila quivered.

"Do you want a child or not you fool!?"

"Yes!" she gasped.

Without hesitating Lila agreed, for being a mother was her lifelong wish, and if it meant losing her husband so be it, though she loved him dearly and he was utterly devoted to her. Veronica cackled her wicked laugh and muttered a spell. Lila wiped away her tears and thanked her sister, hurrying from the forest. She never mentioned this to her husband, and denied ever finding her sister.

One year past and Lila had the most perfect son, Sam Edward Norrington, just as she had always wished for. He had delightful blond curly hair and alluring deep green eyes, just like his father's. That afternoon, when her husband went out to get food for dinner, he never came back. Although Lila felt remorseful, she was so overjoyed with her newborn baby, the bliss overcame her guilt.

Years passed, and Sam grew into a handsome young boy. He loved his mother so much, and they lived happily together in the cottage, although finding food was sometimes a struggle. Sam was a curious boy, and one day when he was six years old, he went wandering into the forrest, for he loved to play with the animals.

Veronica had been watching her sister and her son, and again became jealous of their happiness. For having a husband that could not love her back was no use to the wicked witch. She watched Sam wander into the woods and decided once again, for her amusement to play a wicked trick on Lila. This time, she turned Sam into a chicken, the most pathetic animal she could think of, just for a day and a night to watch him waddle around stupidly.

Lila worried when she couldn't find him. She knew he was a sensible boy and wouldn't wander too far, so surely he would come back soon. She waited on the front porch for over an hour, it was getting late in the day. A strange looking chicken that leaped out of the bushes kept pestering her, pecking helplessly at the bottom step, but Lila thought nothing of it, as they often had peculiar animals wandering out of the forrest. She soon became very worried. She put on her cloak and went out to search for him. She looked for a long time. Meanwhile, that odd chicken followed her, harassing the poor worried mother. But there was no sign of Sam. In the distance she swore she heard Veronicas cackle, the one that haunted her every night. The shiver down her spine made her decide to go home to wait for him, she knew he wasn't far, she could sense his presence. On her way back, the chicken still followed her, so she grabbed it, and broke its neck and took it home to cook for him, so dinner would be waiting for her son when he came home.

Deep Order Max Jeffs

Icy hands of daybreak, tearing you from sleep. You’re pulling on wet clothes, mechanically, not realising it. You step back, into rain, and you’re off. Clumsy footsteps, pulses, drumming you back to consciousness; pretty soon, your heart’s at it too. Numb, you gaze blankly, like an infant, uncomprehending; a blank, veiled sun rising above a perfect bay.

To the top, grab oars, and you turn back. Round a corner and wind hits you, slices through wet clothes. Feet thumping along a jetty, jolting your brain, and your eyes blur. Dive gracelessly into waves; cold slams into your gut. You splutter to the surface, and do your inadequate paddle to a boat. Feet are running again, up a narrow beach.

To the top, grab oars, turn back. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump along a jetty; splash into waves. Ears filled with water make your heartbeat and rapid breathing thunder. Arms heaving: backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards. Wind lashes maliciously across your exposed back. Numb fingers struggle with ropes. White sail shoots up against a black sky.

Wind shoots past a headland, and a boat suddenly writhes back and forth over dunes of water, struggling against its captors. “Gust to starboard!” Wind twisters scream across water like the end of a world. Grey sky clings to grey water, and you feel trapped. “Port tack”, a captain shouts, and you crawl across, like a sinner, repentant. Furious wind tears at you; waves brutally bash some boat. Sail is always luffing; ‘Two reefs? We’ll never get there by sunset! Faster, faster, faster.’

Thumping beat of waves, irregular pulses, oars heaving; you fall into some trance, drumming, beating, making you delirious. And suddenly, but not unexpectedly you are in a Japanese garden, talking to Andrew Bolonski about metaphysics, with the boxcar boxcar boxcar soaring overhead. But you don’t care. Wake up, you must be tired.

A constant beat, some savage polyrhythm of waves, a sail luffing, head, heart beating. Trying to sing yourself to sleep; waves slap against a boat, irregularly, making was mir behagt some modernist dirge. A migraine rolls in waves; you jump in and out of something else.

You are back, little red, bright, almost fake, leaves fluttering languidly, stones arranged perfectly.

Curl into a ball and try to escape into your head. You try convincing yourself you don’t exist, there is no universal truth. This is not reality. Attempt to be rational,

reason, find proof that these relentless streams of photons do not indicate an external world. You shiver with cold. Being rational is not nice anymore. You suddenly find you are reciting ‘there is no water’, ‘there is no water’ mindlessly, like some prophecy. You carry on. You crawl back into your dark little cave, and chain yourself back to the wall, accepting the illusion, and the blindness of darkness.

A butterfly drifts past, and you forget everything.

Try to lull yourself to sleep, doing Laplace transforms in your head; describing waves with partial differential equations. Where is your table? Mind jumps to an image of a torn, soaked pulp, coated in blurred, arcane symbols; utterly fragile. F t is e to the s t ft dt, F t is e to the s t ft dt. A mind vomits forth inanely, repetitively, rhythmically, without you really realising it. “Starboard tack”.

Light glances in little diaphanous panes through leaves, and earth smell rises.

You try to think up obscure allusions in other languages but you know they don’t care; writing is just amusement, distraction, construction, just pouring out onto a page. ‘It’s really all a bit cliché and postmodern, it’s been thought before’. Just play around with trivial word games, mind games games games, as though something more could arise from this insignificant jumping mess. Something philosophical, arising from some writhing mass of water, every second a new contortion, a new, suddenly fashionable, chaos, some autocatalytic mess of molecules. Countless atoms of what you call air, smashing into a vast pool of the same molecules beneath you. But yet you care about that. It’s all a bit cynical, really, and it’s been done before.

Sitting on top of a hill somewhere in a childhood, you watch a sun set.

They don’t care. You don’t care. You should probably wake up.

Instead, you just become numb to it all, barely coherent. Rain and wind become peripheral. You do not know what is happening. A mind jumps around, distracting, protecting itself, sliding and blurring in and out of consciousness, chaotically. Hunger throbs, so does your head, your fragile body mindlessly mutinying. You ought to be doing something, something urgent. Try to remember something important, that you have forgotten. What? Like sheltering? ‘Faster, faster, faster’. Pain echoes through the back of someone else’s mind.

You are walking along some long stony beach, towards vast clouds turned orange by a setting sun.

You do not know. Your mind jumps.

It’s all just your body’s natural reaction, you note somewhat curiously, and surprisingly rationally. It’s like some book you read at school; the reality of man is savage, but you can’t quite remember the rest. Or understand it.

You are on some boat, sailing into a tiny bay.

“Port tack”. They don’t care. You don’t care. You crawl further into your cave.

You will be sailing in to the tiny, perfect bay, of all the bays in the world, a happy chance. A setting sun makes water silver-purple and glowing. A tiny, shallow bay, with a long, narrow beach, a small jetty. You will be sailing in.

A boat almost rolls, and someone’s childhood flashes before you. You are clinging to a boat, like it’s a whole world, or at least one you have suddenly fallen in to.

You will clamber onto a thin jetty, with little platforms out either side. You want to cling to it and never let it go, as though it is the whole world.

Why you? Does anyone else feel like this? Are they mad? Are you mad? You crawl away from this.

First watch. You will crouch, by the tiny glow of a fire, on this beach, with countless stars revolving silently in blackness overhead, unnoticed. Orange light, sparks, make the shining stones stars. Waves, like steady, gentle strokes, seethe softly through sand and small stones, whispering senselessly of something mysterious.

There is no water. There is no water. There is no water.

That unmistakable night-smell, crispness with the soft scent of smoke, will crystallize time. The unintelligible chorus of the song of every conceivable bird will become distant. Each regular breath pours forth, tumbling languidly before it diffuses into blackness.

This is not reality. This is not reality. This is not reality. This is just some fragile construct.

You will wonder what will happen when you get home; plain sailing, you will think.

You do not know. Your mind jumps.

You ponder what will happen in the future; perhaps you will write all this down some day.

They don’t care. You don’t care. No one cares about words on a page.

Change of watch. Nothing is said. Without realising or caring, you walk to the end of the jetty and dive off.

Are you mad? Are they mad?

Luminescence flashes, a bright orb, and spins off into a myriad of lazy little eddies. It will feel like your soul jumps out, if there is such a thing, or is it just the cold?

You do not know.

You want to lie back, suspended in this infinite abyss of black and watch the stars, but cold will grip you. So you swim out to the boat.

You need to sleep, but you can’t. Need to sleep. Can’t, Can’t, Can’t.

But you sleep anyway.

And then the stars will hit you.

Sometimes something concrete indicates something more significant, and you will see a brief glimpse of everything there in the stars; the aleph, a silhouette walking towards a setting sun, an infinity of tired clichés, pale light through leaves, something about a boat, a lonely bay, daybreak and sunset and a huge ocean teeming with waves. You will not understand, all of a tiny fraction of mathematics. You feel dizzy, leaning out over an abyss.

You are climbing up a rope and crawling into your sleeping bag, cold and wet.

But you will want to go back outside, and look at the stars, which remind you of something bigger, something even more clichéd, something above, that is everything, but nothing. It will nag at the back of your mind; something forgotten, like a dream, important, prescient, but that you could not fathom. You have lost it, locked it in some cave and crawled away, because you could not cope or comprehend that vast meaningless confusion that is everything, Yet you exist.

And you would rather hide in that shallow serendipity.

That you will wake up next morning and sail off through this flat calm water, back to your life, and never realise.

But a boat rolls, and you catch another fleeting glimpse.

Or something in the light sparks another sudden idea. And you will call it insanity.

And your reason tells you it is just insanity, visions. You will ask whether anyone else feels this insanity.

But you will never realise.

You will write about it, describing exactly the delicate hues of the light, with words on a page, as though they could somehow ever reveal something more than what had been perceived, in some sudden autocatalysis of words that would help you to understand. So you desperately assign each hue, each concrete image some meaning, some deep order to this mess of thought.

‘I don’t get it, it makes no sense’ they will say, and though the wide blue sky is as vast as it ever was, you will feel more alone than ever before. But you just keep writing and writing and writing, in some grammarless rant that no one will ever understand, that will somehow achieve some profound depth through obscurity and complexity.

But yet you cannot stop.

You will never realise.

You will never realise.

But you will sleep anyway.

The Contortionist Phoebe Joiner

The Contortionist sat at her dressing table as a mellow hum of airy music surrounded her. This is how she started every performing night, a routine never broken. She ran the golden brush through her jet black hair, fastened it into a tight bun, and then slipped her hair piece in. It was silver, with miniscule yet detailed leaves travelling from the base to the top of the slide, cascading in an exact spiral pattern with a single elongated figure stretching out at the end. Some observant spectators would notice it and stop to admire the achingly beautiful contrast it had to her hair, like a beacon of light growing out from the immense darkness. The Contortionist covered her face in a veil of white powder, and painted on her delicate blood-red lips, and pitch-black eye makeup. She then slipped into a black full body suit with a sheer floor-length skirt and examined herself in the mirror. She had lived this scene so many times throughout her life, and knew what was coming next. At a glance at her face she was reminded of the indentation running from the corner of her eye across her cheeks, unsuccessfully concealed by the makeup. A wretched shiver shot up her spine as she unwillingly recalled past memories. The contortionist headed for the small silver container, took two pills and swallowed them with a shot of brandy.

The Contortionist readied herself behind the great velvet barrier, and breathed out every thought that consumed her. The sound of violins began to seep through the gaps before the floor, and as the curtain was propelled upwards, it charged in and around her, filling her ears, her nose, her eyes. The Contortionist could not hear the menacing applause the unseen simple minded spectators offered her, only her own heart beat and the soft melody that carried her towards the centre stage. What happens next is out of her control, it always is. It is such a graceful yet disturbing sight, and is probably what continuously invited so many people to witness the famous performance. The music brought her hands to her torso to give a bow, and she began to bend, her face completely expressionless, possessed by the notes, conquered by the rhythm, as she seemed to melt into the floor then evaporate and condense in such drastic positions all in one movement. Her skirt became a black mist, lingering in the light then letting the sweet melody shape her again and again with her delicate body floating above, forcing her legs and body to bend with such ease and grace. As the music ended, The Contortionist gave her last bow and in return received a satisfactory silence. She gazed briefly at her spectators to see each uniformed awestruck face gaping back at her. It was not until the curtain closed in front of her when a horrific applause crashed against the walls.

It was then that The Contortionist ran to her quarters, slammed the door then broke down in hysterics. It was only a muffled whistle to the leaving audience, merely the wind. They excitedly moved on to the next viewing with cotton candy and caramel popcorn to arm them. The Contortionist was left lying in her small dark room where smashed glass and bottles surrounded her. Oh how she craved the freedom these

people took for granted. It was an everlasting jealousy that rumpled in the depths of her stomach, only to be released in a graceful eruption as she performed, then resettled as she met the identical faces at the end. She lay completely still. She was imprisoned by the tightly wound end of the spiral, constantly thinking of ways to expand her freedom until she was the figure escaping her fate. Wherever the circus travelled, any country, any town, she would always be confined to this mockingly familiar room. Her meals were delivered to her, and no matter how extravagant they were, they contained no taste. The Contortionist’s collar bones protruded grievously, her torso emaciated. Had she made a mistake, she would be in a different kind of hysterics. She would be trying to grip any stable object, soaked in perspiration and blood whilst anticipating the next strike of the baton. She switched on her record player and let the sounds soothe her, comfort her, rock her to sleep.

It was the same dream she had every night after a performance. She was smaller then, just taller than the table she was crouching under. She heard her name boom across the kitchen floor. She stopped breathing, closed her eyes and wished it all away. But it came, it always does. The footsteps trudged uncertainly across the wooden floor. A heavy blur of fighting, screeching and crying followed this, concluded by a single slash of the kitchen knife across her face. The faltering figure stumbled away and she ran. She ran upstairs, stuffed her bags with whatever was in reach, and ran out, never to return. Freedom.

It was a week later; the circus was in New Orleans. The Contortionist went through her ritual, but this time the wind changed. During her performance something built up inside her snapped. That’s when the incident occurred. Perhaps her anger was triggered by a comment made by someone in the audience. The Contortionist kept a blank expression as she exited the main stage and found the juggler’s set of knives behind one of the screens. She chose the sharpest, most menacing one and glided back on stage. With the knife concealed behind her back, The Contortionist slowly danced her way towards the audience. It was Smith, the first victim. The Contortionist slashed his cheek up to the corner of his eye, leaving the relinquishing blood to trickle down his neck. An uproar of shrieks emerged from the witnesses, as they scrambled up the auditorium stairs. The Contortionist smiled. Now they were stuck; Helpless to prevent their unperfected fate. The Contortionist flew after them, grabbing the stragglers by the neck and making an identical slash across their cheek. It was not until she had finished her 20th victim when the circus security, ambulance, and police arrived.

The Contortionist awoke. The unfamiliar surroundings pleased her. A blank canvas of white. Here the Contortionist would make new memories to replace the old ones.

The room contained a single mahogany desk with writing tools, a chair, and a bed.

The sun leaked through the only window, but its reflection against projected such a bright pure light that she could not help but breathe in deeply, taking in its potential cleansing qualities. She arose from the lumpy bed, and with a white blanket draped around her shoulders, made her way towards the door. Locked. She paused, sat,

cried. The Contortionist searched her hair for the spiral in desperation but it was gone. There was no spiral anymore, no hope, no chance. Only silence.

Staying Strong Grace Yan

After I run into the building from the pouring rain and sign in, a nurse immediately takes me by the arm and leads me to a room, “Thank goodness you’re here,” she says hurriedly, “Jenna’s been terribly miserable. She’s been calling for you ever since she came. Hang on a moment; I’ll just check that she’s ready to see you.”

I hear some murmuring and the scrape of chairs, then after a while the nurse says, “You may enter now, ma’am. Would you like me to leave you two in here by yourself?”

“Yes, thank you,” I reply. “And could you please close the door?”

Clang! The nurse shuts the heavy metal door and next minute I am standing in an eerie silence. A pillow in her left hand and a comb in her right, Jenna brushes out her locks with her glittery brush with tiny flowers embedded inside, an item she has kept ever since she turned eight. It was a birthday present from her father, whom she loved dearly but who unfortunately passed away, after heroically fighting cancer, not long after she received the gift. She has kept it in her treasure box, but she now takes it out fifteen years after his death.

“Jenna,” I call out into the quietude.

Her hand stops oscillating and she gently places the brush down onto the chair but the pillow remains in her other arm. Slowly, she turns around and stares straight into my eyes with her own purple-ringed and bloodshot eyes.

“You came,” she whispers.

“Of course I came,” I reply. “I’m your friend. You know me; I will always be your friend. And I will support you wherever you go. But please, first tell me how and why you’re here.”

Again, the air around us shifts into the silence that makes me extremely uncomfortable. She looks down but her expression is blank, so I cannot tell whether she is happy that I am here, or if she is angry with me - never mind if she is even listening to me. I sit down gingerly beside her on the bed. Eventually she blinks and looks up at me again with those haunted eyes.

Jenna doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, but then she says so quietly that I almost could have sworn it was just leaves scraping the window: “You remember what I told you about Katie?”

I nod. Of course I remember – how could I forget? Jenna talked nonstop about her every day when lectures became boring…

Katie Harrison is Jenna White’s stepsister; her mother married Katie’s father after she was widowed. Jenna and Katie grew to be inseparable and did practically

everything together. They would enter competitions of all kinds and one of them always came out on top. Katie is about ten months older than Jenna and was always elected to be the leader of their teams if they worked together. In their spare time, they compiled pictures of themselves in a scrapbook, doing the things they love most, which just happen to be the same. So you would think that the marriage of their parents was ‘destiny’, right? This was true, until the girls’ final year in school.

Jenna and Katie planned join all of the school activities together that year and gather a couple of other musicians to form a band. Students envied their talents, their sisterhood, and their popularity. They appeared in school articles almost every month, and were considered to be the stars of their school. Near the middle of the year, Edward, a teenager from England, began attending their school. Jenna was the first to talk to him and guide him around, and after a few more conversations, they began dating. He was the first beau of her life, and she cherished this new relationship. Of course, the highly academic Jenna still completed her homework and assignments on time, as well as staying strongly committed to their band. In fact, Edward was even invited to be the drummer. But Katie, on the other hand, was a jealous wreck. She didn’t show it, but she loathed the fact that her younger stepsister had a boyfriend before she had one.

So her bitterness began to show in August, when their science fair project was due.

Katie convinced Jenna that she could take their board up to the exhibition hall alone.

But what Jenna didn’t know was that Katie had only registered herself - so when Jenna arrived at the back door to the hall a few minutes later, she was denied access. She tried to shout for Katie, to prove there must have been a mistake, but Katie was already at the very front of the hall and Jenna had to be escorted away from the result of months of her hard work. Katie won the science fair, of course, and the following days at the Harrison house were full of fights, tears and slammed doors.

But Jenna, in her rage and anguish, forgot about the talent quest, yet she showed up on the night anyway to support her friends. Jenna had also forgotten about Katie, Edward and Tom, a fellow guitarist, but was reminded when their band started to play, without her. She watched, flabbergasted, as they sang and played. After the concert, she followed them and asked why they didn’t remind her, or drag her to their rehearsals, but all Katie said was, “Well, I’m sorry, but it was really difficult, with you being so ignorant. Besides, you were always stuck in your room, so we just decided to enter the competition as a trio. No harm done, right?” She smirked, evidently pleased with the effect that her actions had, and Jenna watched in astonishment again as they walked away.

She became an embarrassment, a failure, and was promoted to the least popular girl when Edward dumped her, publicly, for the more successful Katie. The rest of the year was distressing for her, and she would glare disdainfully at the ‘cutest couple’ – Katie and Edward – every time they sneaked giggly kisses in the corridors.

Nevertheless, she bravely got over the humiliation and the breakup and school was at long last over. The next year, Jenna moved out and started university, which is where I met her. And that is also where I learnt about her life up to that point.

Back in her room at the hospital, she says, “I haven’t seen you for nearly three years and since then, a lot has happened.”

During this time, I was in London completing my music degree.

“Go ahead. Pour your heart out; tell me everything. I’ve got plenty of time” She hesitates. Then she smiles dreamily, “Well, not long after you left I met Jack in a bar. Oh! He is the sweetest, funniest, most compassionate man I have ever known. He understands how I feel, and he always makes me smile whenever I am down. He is so romantic; he has taken me out to parks whenever I’m not working, and occasionally we dine at incredibly fancy restaurants. I can list more wonderful things that he has done, but my point is, I love him so, so much, and he loves me too. We bought a flat together, and we were happy.

“Then one day, we received a call from Katie – she wanted to see me after goodness knows how long, and she wanted me to bring Jack too. I was obviously not pleased with this arrangement, but ultimately I agreed, just to make her stop bothering us. So her and Edward, yes, the same Edward, picked us up and together we went to this café that we used to go to after school. Why she chose to go there, I have no clue.

She claims that it will remind me of ‘the good old days’. Ha! For her, maybe, but for me, it’s just a reminder of how she stabbed me in the back multiple times with a blunt knife.

“Anyway, we never actually got there. There was a distinct smell in the car, and when I realised that it was alcohol, I told Edward to stop. Katie got angry and she yelled at me for accusing them for drinking. I yelled at her too for lying and Edward sped up and- and…”

She starts to sob and I place my arm around her. My heart tightens as I watch tears stream down her florid face, “Suddenly, bits of glass flew everywhere – in my hair, in my hands, in my neck – and my head hit the head rest in front. Then I saw all this blood. So much blood! I looked at Jack and saw that a pole was pinning his arm to his seat and he was unconscious.

I didn’t know what to do! I started panicking and the next thing I knew I was in an ambulance holding his hand.

“I was told that he had a brain injury, and was in a critical condition. They even said he might not make it! I couldn’t believe it, and asked to see him. But they wouldn’t let me.”

I hand her another tissue, and she chokes, “Why won’t they let me visit him? They say it’s to protect him, to ensure that nothing goes wrong. I couldn’t see him for too long, and I began seeing everything differently. I realised that I wasn’t the only one to blame for Jack’s injury so I went over to Katie and Edward’s place and we fought. I can’t believe they would drink – in

the morning, too – and then drive. I knew they were spiteful but I didn’t know they were stupid as well.

“Also, whenever I went out for walks, I saw so many cheerful couples – some even had kids. This really got on my nerves. I just wanted to rip their happiness from them like how mine was wrenched away from me. Life is so unfair! I felt as though I was the only one on the planet who was separated from my partner. Depressed, I unsurprisingly ended up here,” she gestures vaguely towards the concrete walls.

“Then, a week ago, I was notified that Jack is paralysed from the waist down and is in a rehabilitation hospital. They still won’t let me see him, especially now that I’m in rehab myself.”

She pulls out a photo frame from her pillowcase with a picture of her and another man, “That’s Jack Evans – my soul mate, the love of my life. With him under my head every night I can only just manage to sleep.” She picks up her brush from the chair.

“You know,” she continues, “when my father gave this to me, he told me to stay strong, just like that flower, see,” she points to a tiny pink bud, “and only now I realise what he meant. I must stay strong for Jack when he is discharged, just like how my father stayed strong to look after me. Oh, I do hope they will let both of us out soon.”

Then she yawns and kicks her legs up onto the bed. “Goodnight,” she mumbles, and her breathing becomes heavy. I slowly stand up and exit the room. I look at my watch; it’s only 2:00p.m., but I drive home anyway, teary-eyed, and pondering.

Two weeks later, I return the mental hospital, and ask to see Jenna. The nurse tells me Jenna already has a visitor, and I look over her shoulder. Sure enough, Jenna is conversing with Jack in a wheelchair, which must have been an extremely pleasant surprise. They are smiling, laughing, embracing one another and I tell the nurse to pass on a ‘best of luck’ message. I walk away again, this time beaming – not only because Jenna and Jack can finally see each other after almost two months, but because I have seen how two people in love can be so incredibly exultant, and that there is always hope.

The Princhetts Gabriel Thompson de Wit

Valerie Princhett set the last of the dishes down on the drying rack. A solitary bubble ran down its height, leaving a matte grey trail as if a baby snail had recently crawled across it. She hung-up her yellow rubber gloves and walked through to the living room, where her husband sat mutely in his customary armchair, engrossed in a periodical. He had a way of reading that left her slightly weak at the knees, either in awe of the diligence with which his eyes paced across the text or in mild revulsion at the mouth, which hung slightly ajar and tilted to one side.

“That’s the last of them,” She spoke into the silence. Her husband made a point of folding his paper delicately and placing it neatly by his side. He took great pains in removing his gold-framed reading spectacles from his nose. Valerie could see his fastidious eyes, once merely bland and now surrounded by sagging wrinkles, mostly reddened by continual rubbing. He took a deep breath, turned to face his wife and eventually said, “Good, now let’s go, dear – we have to be at the airport in an hour.”

Valerie could not quite reconcile his deliberate tarrying-about and his apparent haste.

In the car, Valerie rolled her thoughts over.

One day, her husband had come back earlier than usual and summoned her into the living room. He ushered her into her chair and began, “I saw a doctor today, dear,” she sat up slightly, “He told me I have cancer and, well, dear,” he faltered slightly, his face twisting into an entirely unfamiliar expression, “he told me I have little over two years to live,” The expression in his face immediately vanished and he returned to normal. It was, overall, quite dreadful news. The next week, when her husband came home, she came straight into the living room with his tea, her hands almost shaking, “How was your day, dear?” she began, “Not too bad, dear, not too bad,” She stood in the middle of the room until her husband glanced up at her from his newspaper,

“Yes?” he said, in an elongated, protracted, drawn-out fashion, “Well, dear, I,” she paused, “I went to the doctor today, dear, and, well,” she pivoted slightly on her feet, “I- he told me that I have cancer too, I-“ She froze as her husband’s eyes shot up, his features exuding indignation at her seemingly imitating him. After a long moment he raised his eyebrow slightly, signalling her to go on,z “I have only two years to live as well.”

Her husband remained motionless for several seconds, and then a flash of excitement came into his eyes. He turned his newspaper back several pages and began reading intently. All through this, Valerie was standing, swaying with her hands and arms folded around her hips. Her husband started to talk, “Yes, dear, I was reading about this in the newspaper. Now, death from cancer is said to be drawn-out and very painful. Now I wouldn’t want to put too fine a point on it, dear, but I don’t especially want to go through that.

“Now, there’s a place in Switzerland I’ve read about, where they offer to ease your suffering, so to speak. Essentially, they,” Valerie stood transfixed, “give you an overdose of some kind of medicine, and that kills you before-“ “Oh, no! I absolutely forbid it: it sounds ghastly and horrible and I shall have none of it!”

Valerie had covered her eyes: she found this idea revolting; he had talked about it before. It was silent, and she removed her hands to see her husband staring at her in a state of slight shock. He composed himself and continued, “I have decided that it would be preferable to being in pain for such a long time, and unable to do anything about it,” he declared.

Valerie sank into a chair and thought for a while; her husband resumed his reading.

Some time later, he sent her to make dinner, to which she went obediently. After they had eaten, he again brought her into the living room and sat her in a chair. He explained to her, “I know it sounds unpleasant, dear, but ask yourself: would you really prefer to spend two years in pain?”

He had a way of convincing her that felled her like an old tree every time, and eventually she agreed to a dignified death.

“Now, dear, it’s very important to me that if I do this, you do it with me,” he smirked slightly, “I wouldn’t want you being left alone” and with that he went back to his reading.

Over the next month or so, the various arrangements were made: they visited a solicitor who drew-up their final wills and testaments, Mr Princhett made a phone call to the men in Switzerland, who were all too accommodating, and they booked plane tickets – one way. On the day of their departure, Valerie did the washing-up, packed a small bag for them both and they drove to the airport. The next day, she woke up at their hotel with slight apprehension, but nonetheless managed to wash and dress herself as per usual. Mr Princhett put-on his best tweed jacket, combed his short hair to the side and trimmed his nails, in appreciation for the magnitude of the occasion.

When Valerie emerged, he was slightly cross, and snapped, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, could you not have made a little more effort, woman? We are going to die now; don’t you want to at least look pleasant?”

Persuaded, Valerie retired and fixed her hair and makeup to perfection. Her husband sniffed as she stepped out and simply said, “Fine, let’s be off.”

They arrived at the clinic and were shown through to a little room similar to the hotel they had been in. Another solicitor made a visit and had them sign a waiver of some kind. Then, after a few minutes of silence, a young woman came in with a tray bearing two small cups of yellowy-orange juice. She set the tray down on the table between them, and Valerie was the first to raise her cup. When her husband held his glass close to his mouth, he looked at her, and their gazes met. Trembling slightly, he said, “Well, here goes,” and downed his drink in one.

Mr Princhett closed his eyes and set his glass down; Valerie did the same. After a few minutes, he murmured, “I say, dear, do you feel sleepy at all?”

Valerie replied, “Oh yes, dear, very sleepy.”

“And doesn’t it feel rather nice, dear?”

“Oh yes, rather. Rather.”

Valerie sat and listened to her husband’s breathing, which was gradually coming to a halt. His mouth began to open and she could hear each breath becoming more forceful with every motion of his chest. Eventually, the noise grew quieter and quieter, until Valerie could no longer even feel the rustling of her husband’s jacket on the chair. In one swift motion, dizzy with excitement, she jumped up from her seat, emptied her glass into the sink on the counter and left the room. The woman at the desk fell-back in shock when Valerie burst through the door, but Mrs Princhett paid her no heed and went straight for the door. In no time she was in a taxi, headed for the airport.

Valerie would enjoy her remaining time – without Mr Princhett.