Eclecticism Ezine Issue 9 July 2009 by Craig Bezant

CONTENT WITHIN FOR A MATURE AUDIENCE

Eclecticism E-zine ISSN 1835-5528

TEXT:

Issue 9, July 2009

Published by Eclecticism www.eclecticzine.com

Made in Australia Incorporating the World

Edited and Designed by Craig Bezant

Address all queries to the editor at: eclecticism@westnet.com.au

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Additional Photoshop brushes from: Stephanie Shimerdla, at: www.obsidiandawn.com and DamnedInBlack, at: http://www.damnedinblack.net/about.html

All works placed in the Eclecticism e-zine retain the copyright of their respective creators.

CONTENTS ECLECTICISM - ISSUE 9 JULY 2009

THEME: Pages 8 - 18

Through Animal Eyes THEME CONTRIBUTORS: p.9 - 13: WAITING FOR THE HUNTSMAN by DEBORAH SHELDON

p.14 - 18: HOUNDKIN by JASON FISCHER

Open Short Fiction p.20 - 33: READ MY LIPS by JOSEPH D’LACEY

p.35 - 43: WHEN HORSES FLY by MYRA KING p.48 - 64: HABAROVSK 1 by BEN BROOKS

Poetry p.34: POSSESSION by BRIONY FAWKE p.44: INCIDENTAL RIOTS by LES WICKS p.45 - 47: OPEN HOUSE WITH THE CRABTREES by MARIELLE LAVENDER

FEATURED ARTIST

Linda Lisa West PAGE 19 "Match" ~Waiting for who will make the first move.

-Time: 12 hours -Photoshop CS3 / Wacom Graphire 4 All digital painting, using a photo reference to look at. Linda Lisa West, 27, is a freelance illustrator from Cabool, Missouri, USA. She attended Memphis College of Art, and has experimented with work in a variety of fields. She has been a member of Deviant Art for 2 years. This is where Linda Lisa started to learn more about digital painting. She received a Wacom tablet and has been using it for the past year. She has now become a freelance illustrator / concept artist until she can use her talents with a larger company. Her digital painting work instantly captivated me - it was difficult to pick just one piece of art to ask for a contribution! 'Match' won my favour because it sits nicely with the feel of the theme and stories within this issue. Dark and nasty! Enjoy, and make sure you view more of the artist's wonderful work at: www.lindalisa.deviantart.com Or email her at: LindaLisaArt@live.com

AUTHOR BIOS: IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

Deborah Sheldon's credits include television and play scripts, feature articles for national magazines, nonfiction books and medical writing. Her short stories have appeared in a range of literary magazines including Quadrant, Polestar Writers' Journal, Australian Reader, Southern Ocean Review, page seventeen, Positive Words, FreeXpresSion, Eclecticism E-zine, Prima Storia and Cottonmouth. Her short story collection is scheduled for publication late 2009 and will be available through Amazon.com and other online bookstores. Deborah lives in Melbourne Australia. Visit her website http://deborahsheldon.wordpress.com

Jason Fischer is based in Adelaide, South Australia. He attended Clarion South in 2007, was shortlisted in the 2009 Ditmar Awards for Best New Talent, and is a recent Finalist in the Writers of the Future contest. He has stories in Dreaming Again, Apex, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and Aurealis Magazine (forthcoming). He can be found online at http://jasonfischer.livejournal.com/, and is a contributing member of the Daily Cabal and Last Short Story projects.

Special Guest Author Joseph D'Lacey is the author of MEAT and Garbage Man - Eco-Horror published by Bloody Books - and the forthcoming novella The Kill Crew, in print and downloadable formats from StoneGarden.net. MEAT has been translated into German, French, Hungarian and Turkish and was optioned for film in '08. His short fiction has appeared in small presses, magazines, print anthologies and online. Joseph is co-curator of www.horrorreanimated.com where he blogs about Horror and interviews today's creators of the genre.

Briony Fawke has now had her first publication. Briony lives in Sydney, and is a student with hopes of having a collection of work published. She is very interested in the creative arts and would like to explore ways in which they can be used to help others in their own healing processes through art therapy, music therapy, dance therapy, etcetera. Further work (short samples) can be seen on: http://song13ird.deviantart.com/

AUTHOR BIOS:

Myra King is an Australian writer and a member of the Deakin Literary Society and Ballarat Writers. She has written a number of prize winning short stories. Recently she was awarded first prize in the UK-based Global Short Story Competition (2008) shortlisted (2009) and commended for the Rolf Boldrewood and Scarlet Stiletto Awards. Her stories, articles and poetry have been published in print and online in the UK, Australia, USA and New Zealand.

Les Wicks has toured widely and seen publication across 12 countries in 7 languages. His 8th book of poetry is The Ambrosiacs (Island,2009). You can visit Les at: http://leswicks.tripod.com/lw.htm

Marielle Lavender is an Australian currently residing in Canberra with her husband. She has been writing extensively since childhood but has only recently decided to make it more than a hobby. Marielle is in the process of working on a novel, entitled 'Pieces'.

Ben Brooks is a young author from the south west of England. He has work forthcoming in Succour, Dogzplot, Willows Wept Review and Paperwall. He has written a novella which nobody wants to publish. He blogs at http://anineffableplayforvoices.blogspot.com/ about how awful life is.

THANK YOU TO ALL THE WONDERFUL CONTRIBUTORS IN THIS ISSUE AND OVER THE LAST 2 YEARS

EDITORIAL

elcome to the second anniversary issue of Eclecticism E-zine. Eclecticism is no longer the little engine that could, it's the engine that can. It's walking with bigger feet now, proving it can keep going alongside the big boys. (If you're wondering where I'm going with this, the first anniversary issue had an analogy comparing the e-zine's growth to that of an infant.) So, as it learns to run and garble nonsensically… Nah, I'll leave the analogy alone. I’ll simply state that this issue is something special. There's no other way I can put it. It's another milestone. Two years. Two years!? That's almost like two hundred years the rate zines are appearing and disappearing. And I couldn't be happier this creation is still around. In those two years, Eclecticism has been nominated for 2008 and 2009 Tin Duck Awards, a great achievement, proving someone is reading this thing. And it has published the work of many various authors and artists, from people achieving their first ever publication (there's another one this issue) to those notching another one into their well-stocked belt of terrific work (yes, authors wear special belts - keeps the ideas from getting too lowbrow). Since this issue is number 9, it conveniently has 9 contributors, with 5 short stories, 3 works of poetry and 1 amazing artwork from Featured Artist Linda Lisa West. Now, when I say short stories… well, two top the 9 000 word mark, so in total you have roughly 27 500 words to digest! That is huge. Wait, did I just make that? I told you this issue was something special. That's not all. Because one of those long short stories is an exclusive contribution from UK horror author Joseph D'Lacey, of MEAT and Garbage Man fame. I am still partially on the floor in shock that he so willingly agreed to let me throw his story onto my virtual pages. Stephen King has been quoted saying, "Joseph D'Lacey rocks!", and I second the motion.

So where to from here? Well, as the e-zine hits double digits in October, it's time to take a pause and assess the future. Being a free e-zine has had its benefits in these financially tight times. I would like to keep it free. But I realise people would love to hold some of the wonderful stories published in Eclecticism in their hand. I am one of them - just because I am publishing this online, doesn't mean I don't horde roomfuls of paperbacks (and hardcovers)! So check the website this time next year - there may be something extra to read. A special, short print run anthology, perhaps? Until then, I will strive to keep pumping out a quality, eclectic experience in this online format. But it's only because of you that this is possible. Thank you, reader, for finding enjoyment in the zine and spreading the word. Each month the number of downloads and subscribers slowly climbs, and many a compliment are messaged to me about the work within. I beam with pride because of that. But of course, most of the praise should go to the wonderful contributors. I have published work I never could have imagined, which makes it all worthwhile. Now, to get back to that analogy, Eclecticism E-zine enters its toddler years. Time to scream loudly and proclaim "I am so great, I am so great!" and have the biggest birthday ever for a 2-year old. Balloons and streamers and cake and lollies and… a deserving belt of scotch, for the dad. This is actually the second online magazine I have made this quarter - the other was a secret project for the school I was teaching at (educators, you should know this format is a brilliant way to encourage writing and showcase a term of work). So I will, in fact, make that scotch a double, to suit the occasion. See you next time, Craig Bezant Eclecticism Editor.

the H untsm an Waitin g for

AH R O B

DO L E H

zed e-si iris l p p E its a e dark t on D n th h ow BY d d d and al caug e l l ro un nd hy just ay aro er sa ,w , d m H a i w e . h the ack ts h pat ly d ve i ed all step b n o a ing le. s m i d w a . r a t o ' d b idn ites sh e took aughe o ahe surp one ta d t l e l G h h s fe h hor the w ned. S Kate said. " ank y the p l e f h d l n e s i T unt bled s. e pi eed an ," Kat you." horse' hall b off. i l m e a a y t e the Nat apew baby dare The ing boo ock had ft of c hat a on, I hook. ept in , back t padd d gum her "W ome and s um k ie said tmen ns an us in a tu s u? C lie's h hair M Natal e agis ng jea iculo o at i y h i d h a c i t r " t . t ' w , r a a t f d, N e arm wha de o e, we rim elt don h , so ly f lace t "Gaw si Kat t n r . e e e said , lik There e oth , like o sudd es and d said, d e r t h " a ha an and wh leev mt ," K w Fro th fat atalie, pped s atalie o n " , he k o n N a a b t N t ' c . a t n s, s er sm girl eered a ith it ointed e I do with h a sale nt." o , y w w t t th e e t 's sn ress girl p ci uck u d m o a y e o h b e th re st Th mer d e fat . "D the m ate a day. T s m e ' l o i e r K f w m g lip at On sum tive l and ndly s ania oke to lowin ck its a l e a l sp it rie fo ba er ey asm t?" "Som n hosp on a f 's in T er and g the ulled ere th ow, a h t h e W rin ed 's i dp kn um alie tri ling. H gnored as ente eye an s bite? idn't m d se er Nat ravel irls i te w zed "H hor s? She g. t a a g r f t c d K i o a f t ts in nt at D a lo ut the ion th with i eeth. elepha veryth s e t B do te re ke etit alie mp d Nat t squa acks li t abou o c he jus att ng lun ridi e watc r its b ctable knew s e i hor how h npred Mum "Uh-oh," one of the girls said, ; to s e to u would "look out." n pro Mum "Bye, Kate," the other one said. but "See you at the championships, okay?" Both girls took off. Natalie turned. A squat man in overalls with a paunch as tight and round as a basketball was approaching from the car park. "Who's that?" "My old man," Kate said. "What should I call him? Mister Wallace? Or is he my uncle?" "Call him whatever you want, dumb arse." Kate's father walked straight under the horse's chin, his gaze fixed on Natalie and his eyes sunk within dark circles. His face was sunburnt, chapped and whiskery. "You must be young Natasha. How was your ride in on the train?" "Good thank you, Uncle Henry, but my name's Natalie."

kept hed and g u a l d n e ees a n his kn desire for hom as o s d n a ised ery h sharp his leath now why. The ad prom eek or h t u d p a e D H long, st a w dn't k 't be for treet Station, ju atalie di n N o . w g s n i i t. Th ers S laugh al. her ches s neck at Flind n i t h o norm htened up. t g i k h c cau a o b t horse cried in d straig ould be she had n everything w ed laughing an ts withers. The he pp the at i so and t last, Henry sto e and slapped un, but lips r o t y d s At othy d, rea e hor ng its fr ticed th . Natalie brace i l o r n u e c h d , Startled le eye revolving g its hooves an big n pp , stampi miration. s, just a f i l shied, a e e s h t i l l d a at's n ad id." eadie horse st ry gazed in ope ust a big kid, th is, just a big k and e j h en en while H ook at him, he's g kid, that's all ng statues, froz i i y b a "L l a just was p y . "He's te who d a i a K s t e a of her to h t d e h c g n u kid," a o l g lie th its Natalie nd Nata ntil the key in a , d i a s legs u id," he waiting. e's just a big k ing its little tin "H rch stop ma o t e l b a n for a robot, u d down. blindly rk, m e n h u t o t ta e car pa y?" u r h o t n back w b e s a d H r d a e e rs, k tow d star "Uncl car doo ue irled an oss the paddoc e h h t w l l y a r l n He out acr He flung open ont next to a b k c u r t s r . the f ollow t, then momen or the girls to f at and put it in ok in gf back se ave a lo e H h " gesturin t , e i m l o a Nat ifle fr d said to took a r esky. n a y k s e e ite and wh te pointed at th Ka it?" there." hat's in W ? y h "W

"Open it and find out." Natalie felt her insides clench. She lifted a corner of the lid. On a bag of ice, curled up as if asleep, lay a rabbit with soft ginger fur, a dull eye and a coin of dried blood on its ribs. "That's your dinner," Kate said, smirking. The drive to Kate's house was ten minutes along a ruler-straight road that divided paddocks and green hills, followed by turns through a town with roundabouts but no traffic lights. The weatherboard house had a pitched tin roof. Kate pointed through the carport - "Go out the back and give Mum a hand" - and went inside the house with Henry and the esky. Kate's mother, Betsy, was thin and wore her grey hair chopped short. She was behind wire in the chicken coop, mucking out straw into a wheelbarrow while hens clucked at her feet. Natalie wandered over. "Hello again." Betsy stopped and leant on her fork. "Right. Have fun with the horses?" "It was okay." "I'd ask you to help put this straw on the garden beds but you're not exactly dressed for it. Didn't your dad pack any clothes you could use?"

"I don't kn "Well, g ow." o on ins ide, Th the kitc e house smelt o ask Kate to len hen pas d you so f mothb tH m a beer fro m a larg enry, who was lls. Natalie walk e jeans." e bottle seated a ed throu looked t the tab and gh to le d dead-en have been cobb didn't appear to see h rinking d passag led toge er. T the ew wooden steps in ays, rooms ope r in unrelated s he house n tages, w doorwa ing into slope of ys t ith th ot walls, h e floor. There w hat led up or d her rooms and ors ow er gallopin e figurines on t e metal horse s n depending o n the hoes ha g horse he man mmered tle, a ve on a bea showed l o c in ur paint h with f a stamp ing of a to oa ed Natalie ing mob, a bra ming rollers, a ss rubbi wandere clock fa boxes an ng of a ce that d into a d broke h o n r a n s r e she noti r d 's o e w c h k e junk roo a cha ced the m with d. bookcas irs. She was ab trophies s t a e o ck . u L engrave d with K ining the shelv t to walk out w s of pennan hen es were ts. ate dozens pony. T Natalie picked 's name, and a o f he girl c up a fra stack of me ou ribbons chubby and face pin ldn't have been d photograph of ch more th an five y Kate on a "What a ed in concentr at ears old re you d , her oing in ion. Natalie h tur er Kate he ned. "You mus e?" sita tb and ope ned a cu ted, said, "Hey e a fantastic rid ,l er pboard. britches She bro et me show you ." an ught ou s board, t d a buttoned r omethin t on han ed jacke wo boxe g g e t r s , s white ," knee-hi gh boot that held a blac and from the f o s. "I'm in a cou k riding hat an ot of the cupd a pair ple of ca o tegories tomorro f buffed w, champion rider l under under thirteen years and champion loca title, seventeen years, and I'll win at least one maybe both." "That's so great. Your parents must be really proud of you." Kate's face closed up. She rammed the rd and items of clothing back into the cupboa she said. slammed the door. "Go on, get out," Natalie retreated to her designated via a ladder bedroom, a space in the roof accessed hunkered so at the rear of the kitchen. The rafters e was only low that she couldn't stand up, and ther a double room within the chipboard walls for f, looked mattress. A window, cut into the tin roo the rake in over the backyard. Outside, Betsy put ked under the shed, approached the house and wal could hear Natalie's line of sight. Soon, Natalie w, humming her moving about in the kitchen belo and clattering pans. Then silence. Betsy must be skinning and gutting the ered the anirabbit, Natalie thought, and rememb her toy mal's glassy button eye. She grabbed foot of the bunny, Violet, from her suitcase at the lt like mattress and lay down. Her pillow sme home. #

"Tea's ready." Natalie broke from her doze in alarm. Kate's scowling face peered through the hole in the floor and ducked away. Natalie hid Violet under the clothes in her suitcase then descended the ladder. Betsy, Henry and Kate were already at the kitchen table. Natalie took her seat. Henry didn't have a plate; he stared at nothing in particular and drank in slow, thoughtful draughts from a large beer bottle. Three empty bottles were lined up on the table in front of him. "You must be starving, girl," Betsy said. "Tuck in." The red meat on her plate glistened in its gravy but Natalie picked at the beans and mashed potato instead. No one spoke for a time. Then Kate said, "Hey little baby, what about your casserole?" Natalie speared a chunk of rabbit with her fork and placed it in her mouth. As she chewed, she tried to think of sausages and chops but the meat stuck in her throat like chaff. She managed to swallow and said, "Has Dad called?" oing he was g y a s e h y, did id, "Wh ot a s y s t e B he's forg n u f h c o mu nd having s ed at Natalie a to 's e to?" h e grinn open "Mayb aid. She ith her mouth r s e t a K he gw er," about h int of chompin ashing between o n p meat g made a e rabbit h t f f o show teeth. # atalie tlight. N h g i n a ave k, didn't h lay on her bac e m o o r up. Kat c The atti ff the lamp and a noise and sat d o le rd ed. switched iolet. She hea e floor and craw n isper mpany." h V i w h t g w co lie pillo clutchin om the hole in Nata eep you ched up attress, " m ? r e f t h t d n k e f a o ren climb side o you w told me t ss and w e empty o h t d s s t e o r a r ac , she "Wh up. Mum the matt m o o l . n t hand the g pe like a r "Shu rself onto o t e ted sha ide adjus , a black re's a sp rew h h s t e y e e e th 's ers Kat eet. atalie n the raft , I think h s N e e e th ." Onc ething i e. "Kat time r. "Kill c a m e f o h r s t all see orne ve he smen into a c could and abo t n u h lf h et e get ng herse open re." W t to g . y n u l l e a f b h , a t W g b s. up "Pro e, gaspin ozzie m i t l a a Nat t." en e i ntsm l u l i H k te t." for? ease kill i to compe o t it, pl "What t ave ou h u? I've go y , e r n?" don't ca , will yo bitte "I ut up h s , "Aw ." rrow tomo "It'll drop on me." "No it won't, go to sleep." Natalie clenched her teeth. Then she heard muted shouting, and scraping noises like furniture getting shoved around. "What's that?" she said. "Nothing. If Dad comes up here, pretend you're asleep."

ce . "I spa s e b i h r n her rs. T ntsma ite t t s f n a ra hu gai the . The t was w n the da o e t k s w in ic ,i es rt k red darkn on her eep do Please a a t e s r 's h and k with ts eyes slow c closer. and s alie e." r t i y a c a s i N hom t te ce, th d feel gin it er and bunn ndered a d l e o y g b en be ud wo to h." ou t to "Toug thum n pres she c might got lo st her . She n't n in a w alie its ow knew, hat it stairs again came he had e was t a e r n t N had su on if s ace so ow she er, se off ing d her f her. N ays or w for of h o r w no at w ing he sed ang in t watch to dro and b ie pres enly F erious ould k v t r l was for he elling Nata he hea is mys who w . y ing . The of here from t e of H erson p l wal e out a sign in on only e m g get ed for ovin but th nd m t i , wa e was rectly here, a if H ed cor somew y pra spital o a h alie Nat had no idea how * to d fin her.

Houndkin by Jason Fischer

Houndkin could smell dog on the man, a bitch and her newly whelped litter. Oddly it was the dog-lovers that treated him the worst. The Vicomte had been no exception, leaving a grimy dish on the ground for him to drink from. They left the Ch창teau proper, the noon heat making his head swim. Houndkin's homeland was still in the grip of winter, and his thick fur soaked up this sun. The cobblestones stung the pads on his feet as he trotted alongside the nobleman. He did his best not to drop to all fours, was relieved when they stepped from the roadway and onto rolling lawns. He knew they made a ridiculous pair, a country gentleman walking his grounds with a monster by his side, a dog-thing trotting along on its hind-legs. He was folken, that most despised of all man's servants. 'The gardens of Fleur-Ch창teau,' the Vicomte announced, a broad sweep of his arm encompassing an amazing view. The water features, meandering pathways winding through grottos and tree-lined avenues. But above all, acre upon acre of flowers, bright beds of every hue. An army of \gardeners attended to the immense estate, and sprinklers sprayed gallons of water across the grounds. 'My ancestors have maintained this estate for seven generations,' the Vicomte said. Houndkin noticed his finely manicured hands, and guessed that this man had never touched a shovel. He said nothing. 'My lands are large, and I maintain a common ground for the nearby town,' the Vicomte continued. 'You know, to

hold fairs, markets and such.' Houndkin resisted the urge to dash to the nearby fountain and stick his snout into the cool water. Curse this fur, damn this heat! 'The problem began when a band of bohemiens set up camp on my land. Gypsies,' he added when Houndkin obviously missed the phrase. 'The town elders were soft and let them stay, but as long as I have breath in my lungs I will not suffer a mob of thieves and prostitutes on my lands.' Houndkin had been driven from some of the remoter villages, stoned and spat upon. Gypsies and travellers had only ever welcomed him, shared bread and bed. 'I summoned the gendarmes and took my sturdiest hands, read out my deeds and title, evicted them from the common ground. They were sluggish and made as if to pack up, but I've played that game before. They meant to stay.' They were in the first acre of flower-beds. Each row was numbered, and the Vicomte counted off their passage. He found a certain pathway, and led Houndkin through the bright and cheery laneways, through great arcs of vine and thick creepers. Chrysanthemums, roses, gerberas of every shade. And all for the pleasure of this man, who'd rather spit on gypsies, Houndkin thought. What a waste. 'I told my men to whip them until every last wagon, filthy child and starving dog was moving down the road. They jumped quick enough then,' he laughed, perhaps at the memory of someone shrieking under the lash.

'A woman shrieked at me from the back of her painted wagon, yelled fit to pop a lung. Claimed my flowers should grow in a soil as dry as my hospitality.' They stopped in front of a disaster, and the Vicomte pointed. An entire bed of roses lay wilted and dead, thorny sticks pushing out of sand. Dry and gritty sand, not the thick loam of the neighbouring plots. 'These rose-bushes were nearly two hundred years old, folken. And two nights ago they were killed. I laughed at her words, and I am not a man to believe in the curses of the homeless. But today, I do not laugh.' 'What would you have me do, seigneur?' Houndkin asked. 'One of the gardeners saw an intruder two nights ago, lurking around here. A woman.' He kicked at the sand with the toe of his boot. Houndkin dropped down onto his front legs, tired of standing as a man. He began to sniff at the dead roses, the sand tickling his nose a little. There was the hint of something else, something musty and old. 'The gardener is a drunk, but the only witness. I had men out with torches and lanterns, called the gendarmes out to search the grounds. Every exit watched, and no-one left my estate. Whoever did this is still in here, hiding.' The Vicomte looked around, and when he saw that no-one was watching, knelt down till their faces were level. This amused Houndkin no end, knowing that his eyes were just a little bit too human to belong to a dog, and that his almosthands made this man uncomfortable. 'This intruder, this mystery woman, struck again last night. A great stretch of lawn by the lake, as dead as a desert.' Shifted closer. Made as if to cup Houndkin's muzzle and thought better of it. The folken's lip had begun to curl back and he fought to urge to bite the man, buried an angry growl deep within his chest. The Vicomte smelt bad, but his

money was good. 'I sent your Master the telegram because your reputation in these matters is known, even here. If you can stop this creature, this garden-killing devil, you and your Master will be rewarded handsomely.' Houndkin nodded for yes, his wagging tail knocking sand onto the path. # 'I swear on my mother's life, a woman like none I've ever seen,' the gardener said. His nose had the broken veins of a drunk, and for a belt from Houndkin's brandy flask he told the folken all that he knew. 'She was beautiful, but a little too tall, arms that reached nearly to her knees. Her hair was all silvery, moved in the moonlight like she was swimming underwater.' A tall tale by anyone's standards, but Houndkin believed the man. He was entranced by the memory, not even looking at the flask that he raised to his lips. No man with a beating heart could hope to move against a true Witch. Even if the Vicomte's gendarmes cornered her in the vast gardens, they'd never reach for their pistols or even blow on their whistles. They'd see her forever, imagine her throughout a thousand cold nights as they snuggled with their fat, soursmelling wives. Tell the story to their grandchildren. But not once would any man do anything to harm her, he would just stare at her unearthly beauty, entranced. He took the flask from the man, thanked him. Earlier he'd walked a wide circuit around the blasted lawn, and did this again. There it was again, the scent of something incredibly old. There was dampness there, and mould. Smells that had nothing to do with the dry sand.

He retired to the small hut they'd set aside for him, a lean-to that doubled as a tool-shed. He fetched a light blanket from his little suitcase, and curling up on the wooden floor he napped throughout the heat of the afternoon. Dusk, and Houndkin woke instantly. The thick leather band around his throat constricted slightly, as it always did when he awoke. A little reminder from Master, that no matter where he went, he was still owned by a man. He yearned to be rid of it. He began to roam the grounds, ears pricked up for the sounds of footsteps, searching for the strange scent he'd picked up earlier. He wandered through vine-choked gazebos, past hidden love-seats and looming statues. Everything made grey and unreal by the moonlight, every sound the footstep of the intruder. He saw his own shadow stretch before him, his great bow-legged stride, the wagging tail. An absurd image, and even as he gave the yipping bark that passed for laughter he cursed his lack of caution. He would drive this Witch to ground if he wasn't quiet. If there is a monster in this place, surely it is I, Houndkin thought. A dog-man, set to hunt another in the night. He caught the scent then. The smell of damp clothes left to moulder, the faint whiff of rot. Then the wind changed, and he lost the smell. So close, he thought as he stole through the laneways of the great garden. Then he found the mouldering trail, dropped to all fours for speed and followed his nose, stealth abandoned. He'd found her! He tore from left to right, caught a glimpse of a silvery shape rounding a corner. She was quick, quicker than a mortal man, but he had her marked now. The night-air was cool, and Houndkin had the energy to out-run this creature, knew he was gaining on her. He cursed, skidded to a halt in a tangle of legs. The great hedge maze rose before him, solid walls of briar that stretched for exactly one square mile. She'd run through that dark archway, a black hole in the greenery marked ENTRﾃ右. Visions leapt into his head, of traps, of a Witch cornered and tearing him apart with her great strength, but he

felt the presence of Master, knew that right now he was watching events through Houndkin's eyes. Felt a slight tremble in his collar, that blasted collar, and knew that if he did not go in, he would be yanked forward by an invisible and distant hand. Rising to his rear legs he carefully walked forward, wary of any tricks. His eyes adjusted to the dark, much quicker than a man's would, still he was not a true dog and couldn't see much. Houndkin had nothing now but his nose and ears. The unusual scent was thick, a hint of decay down every path he tried. Clever girl, he thought. She's backtracked, laid her scent everywhere. He followed the pathway with the strongest scent, lost it once or twice. Terror seized his heart, the terror that sharp talons were waiting behind the next hedge, that this ancient was sick of running and had decided that she could take on one folken. His side twinged with memory, a great scar running across several ribs. It had happened before. Fear is my friend, he thought. Give her a chance to breathe, and she will think, plan. Fight back. I must keep her scared, on the run. He began to bark, long and angry snarls that belied his own terror. He pounded along the winding ways of the labyrinth, sending dirt and leaves flying with each tight turn. He could hear her flapping footsteps as she ran in a mad panic. A living man-folk would be panting like a racehorse, but his prey was immortal. Still, she was beginning to tire, and he was gaining ground. He felt it then, the workings of magickry that always made his hackles rise. He rounded a corner and saw that she'd blasted through the thick hedge. She'd pushed through a narrow gap of blistered sticks, dead and sticking out of desert sands. It was as if a thousand scorching summers had withered the shrubbery in moments. Again he felt her sorcery. Somewhere ahead she had burnt her way through another layer of maze, and he smelt her stench at its strongest yet, the loamy stench of rotting vegetation.

He saw moonlight peering through the latest hole, realised she'd burnt her way out of the maze itself, pushed through the brittle dead growth. A great loping shape was \making its way down a rolling slope of lawn, heading for the thick woods between here and the Ch창teau. Fool, Houndkin thought, and then he was at full sprint across the lawns, every muscle aching as he drew from his deepest reserves of strength. He might have looked like a large Eirish Wolfhound, but he had the speed and power of a greyhound, the agility of a whippet. He closed the gap in seconds, and the exhausted Witch turned to meet him, sharp talons sprouting from her slender hands. She let her phantasms go, and in that brief moment he saw her not as the impossible creature of grace, but a gaunt and incredibly ancient monster, mouldy rags draped over her sagging teats, hair patchy and brittle. Then Houndkin was upon her, teeth tearing at her flesh, her foul taste in his mouth. She struggled some, and he felt her scratching at his ribs, his neck, his powerful forearms. Her strength gave, and then he held her pinned to the ground, worrying at her arms and face. Then finally, achingly, his sharp teeth found a main cable in her throat, an artery pulsing violently with life. He tore through it with vigour, and coughed in surprise. It was sand, not blood, sand that flooded his mouth, and sand that the Witch bled out onto the Vicomte's immaculate lawns. She breathed one last, incoherent sound, and then she died. # 'Burn it,' the Vicomte said. His men tossed the dead Witch onto the flames, and she went up like kindling, drained of vitality, her thousand-year-old flesh as dry as paper. Houndkin sat to one side, licking at his wounds. He'd

had worse. Even so, he stared into the funeral pyre, felt numb. I don't even have a soul for this act to weight upon, Houndkin thought. I have no love for these most ancient of children, whoring their services to curse-makers and the like. Why does this sit ill on my thoughts?? He later led the Vicomte through the hedge maze, showing him the damage inflicted during the chase. The seigneur was oddly calm, did not seem to mind that it would take two generations of gardeners to repair all of the damage, for the sand to be removed and for new life to grow. 'No crone will ever get the better of me,' he crowed. 'If they return, I will have that family of itinerants strung up by the thumbs.' Houndkin followed the Vicomte on all fours, still sore from last night's encounter. The man was unusually polite to the folken, had a look in his eyes that Houndkin found unsettling. How quick he is to look past his prejudices, now that I have proven useful. As they strolled back towards the Ch창teau, a hated visitor entered the folken's mind, gave one curt command and was gone. 'I must return to the Kennel,' Houndkin said. 'Master is calling me home now.' 'I will call for the carriage,' the man said, but didn't. 'This, uh - Kennel, what is it like?' 'A home, of sorts,' the folken said. 'The rest of my pack is there, and Master treats us well enough.' 'You need not return,' the Vicomte said, a little too quickly. 'I could make use of your services. The money I have wired to your Master, how much do you see of that?' 'Very little,' Houndkin admitted. 'Enough for what privileges he allows us.' 'You'd be given a salary of your own. I have need for a guard, someone of your - nature.'

A brutal killer, in other words, Houndkin thought. Would he send me to tear out the throat of a courtly rival, reward me with a bone? 'I am not my own property to sell, seigneur. I'm not a slave, not a pet, not even a person. I am folken. Master will not look kindly upon such a transaction.' 'I do not fear your Master, or any man,' the Vicomte said. 'My cousin is the ambassador to your homeland, my uncle no less than the Dauphin's Viceroy. I make a powerful enemy, and he would do well not to thwart my desires.' Houndkin padded along beside the man, deep in thought. He then raised up onto his rear legs, loped alongside him. 'I will serve you,' he said, 'if you but remove this collar.' The Vicomte stopped, quickly masking his surprise. He looked at the dog-man's collar, a simple strip of leather. Raised a well manicured hand to tug at the clasp. Houndkin could hear the gendarme tailing them at a discrete distance, one man always minding the Vicomte when he walked the grounds. Even though the man would be lulled by the boredom of his task and the heat of the midday sun, the folken could smell the oiled metal of his gun, knew that he would need to be quick. 'No,' the Vicomte said, dropping his hand. 'I do not trust the word of a folken. You have hands to release your own leash, but do not. Logic serves that it is there for a reason.' 'Then our business is done, seigneur,' and the Vicomte nodded in agreeance. How I ache to rip your throat out! Houndkin thought. Had things gone differently, he might have already been slipping into the thick trees, muzzle drenched in blood. The Vicomte gave a hand signal and within moments the stage-coach pulled up alongside them. Houndkin's little suitcase had already been thrown inside.

By noon he had boarded the train for home, the attendant herding him into the baggage car. People didn't care to sit with folken, and Houndkin found himself with another of his kind, an enormous ape-thing who they'd dressed as a houseboy. He gave poor conversation, as his tongue had been torn out at the roots. The thick collar banding his throat named him as "LOUIS". 'So you cannot tell of your master's buggery or your mistress's rough trade?' Houndkin barked his laughter, bringing out his brandy flask. The ape-folken shared his grog, and pulled out a deck of cards to pass the time. Houndkin staked the Vicomte's watch which he'd lifted slyly during their walk, lost it to Louis. It went without saying that, but for their collars, they would be storming through the train, Houndkin tearing at flesh and the ape-thing ripping off limbs or whatever it did. The engine itself was some poor folken bound into a cage of steel and oil, and Houndkin pitied his poor cousin's lot. Given the chance it would buck this train from its rails, murder each of the flesh-walkers sitting in the plush gas-lit carriages. No doubt it dreamt of driving them into a mountainside, even as they played at baccarat and drank all the ouzo. For man's credo was this: House a demon in flesh, bind it, make it serve you, but for heaven's sake show it no kindness. Indeed, toy with your servants to the point that they would kill you, if only they could act on this desire. The motion of the train lulled Houndkin into a light doze, where as always he dreamt of the bloody ending of Master, torn apart by the whole pack. Then their barking laughter as they spilled out of the burning Kennel, leaving it as a beacon to warn the human race: We Are Free.

Featured Artist

‘Match’ by Linda Lisa West

Read my lips by Joseph D'Lacey

"The only uttered truth is the truth uttered in death" taken from 'The death code conspiracy' by Dr. Grace Barbonette.

Original Image â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Feminine Featuresâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; taken by Bonvivant, SXC

uff Girl Channing and her three Cadettes watched the terminee's head fall into the receiving basket and assessed its expression: surprise, a kind of puzzled wonderment, the eyes attempting to look around now that the head no longer could. Already, the greasing over of the eyeballs had begun. The mouth moved. The four of them leaned in, peered closely. The mouth slowed and stopped, open. They straightened and keyed text into their palmtops. Three heads turned towards Puff Girl Channing and she read their faces. Disappointing. She couldn't see any of these three completing the training. "Okay, what have you got?" she asked. Puff Cadette Fielding raised her hand. Channing waited. "Um, it was something like-" "No, no, no, Fielding. Not 'something like'. What was it?" "It wasâ&#x20AC;Ś'I know I'll shag her well'." Channing looked at the girl until she looked away. It took less than a tenth of a second. Channing sensed the other two girls restraining their giggles. "Anyone else?" Puff Cadette Wrigley stood straight. "'His sin shook the world.'" "You're reading too much into it," said Channing. "What about you, Blick?" Blick bit her lip and frowned so hard it look like her head would implode. "No," she said. "No what?" "I couldn't make it out." "Try," said Channing. "Anything at all. A couple of words. One even?" The frown lines deepened. Channing waited for the Puff Cadette's head to disappear. "Interchucklespell." "What did you say?" The other two Cadettes held their hands in front of their faces. "Interchucklespell." "Is there any such word, Blick?" "Iâ&#x20AC;ŚI don't know. You said we shouldn't think about it." "I said you shouldn't try to interpret at this stage. I didn't mean switch your bloody brain off." The girl, Blick, had no future as a Puff Girl, that was clear enough. The other two were average for this stage. No they weren't. They were below average. Far below. "The true words we will be adding to the Treatise from this ending will be: 'It's in the sugar well.'" Blick's face unwrinkled, re-inflating with shock and indignation. "But that doesn't make any sense either." "The truth, in fragments, doesn't have to make sense, girl. It's the whole truth that we're working towards. The more true words we add to the Treatise, the more those words will point to the truth. We may never actually be told the truth, we must divine it from the sum of what

we have recorded, from every true word that has been spoken. Too many of you join up thinking you'll be the one to divine the total truth from a single puff. It takes years, decades of work, to even begin to see the patterns in the true words. Divine the true words all day and study the Treatise every night without sleep and you will only be scratching the surface of the total truth." The three Cadettes's faces showed something Channing interpreted as occupying the territory between boredom and defeat. Not good territory for the mind of a Puff Cadette to occupy. "Don't worry, girls. Nothing worth having comes without a lot of hard work. You must persevere." She clipped her stylus to her own palmtop and stepped through her trio of students. "Let's move onto the next cell."

* Alicia Fielding cast her Cadette gowns into her locker in a heap, applied tiny touches of make-up using the mirror in the locker door, cleared SSS security with a wave to Coombes, the overweight gatekeeper, and ran to Hope Park. It was four thirty and the sun still warmed the streets. She knew she shouldn't run. Peter would think she was too eager. She didn't care. She wanted to leave the School of the Spoken Silence far behind, both physically and in her mind. And the truth was, she was eager. Peter was beautiful, quiet and gentle like no other boy she'd met. He wasn't a brute, and yet he was manly in the softest, most magnetising way. And she knew Peter was eager too when she saw him sitting on a bench by the Fountain of Total Truth. He was always early. That was a sign, wasn't it? A sign that a boy was eager? She let her run slow to a hurry to avoid being out of breath when she reached him. If he'd noticed her, he gave no sign of it. She decided to give him a fright and veered off the path in the rolling parkland dotted with broad, shade-generous trees. She circled far behind the bench he'd chosen - a different one each time, curiously and padded in silence over the yielding grass. Ten feet away, Alicia allowed herself a mischievous grin. Warm swirls of summer air stroked the leaves of a nearby tree. "Hi, Al." She straightened up, the hunt blown. The thrill of tension leaked from the neat double puncture made by his words. She hoped he would see the disappointment on her face. "I was going to give you such a jump. You saw me coming all along, didn't you?" He turned, draped one slender arm along the back of the bench, owning it. Whatever was behind his eyes connected with whatever was behind her own. For a moment she forgot the endless-seeming tour of cells and endings she'd worked through that morning. Forgot the endless-seeming worry that she wasn't empathic enough to graduate as a Puff Girl. Forgot that she'd lost control of their tryst before it had properly begun. And she knew that was why she was keen on Peter McKay. With just his eyes, he made the world disappear.

She was part of his aura as she approached and joined him on the park bench. Without touching, he held her, drew her in. Fighting for her voice and control of the moment, she said: "So did you see me coming, or what?" He seemed to shrug, though she didn't register any physical movement. Something seemed imminent. Something other than his answering her - she already knew - petulant question. Then, somehow, she was kissing him and the world had disappeared again.

* Three girls to train. A year to do it in. Three months into the program and not one of them could even half read a Puffer. Margaret Channing reviewed the endings she and her Cadettes had 'read' over the course of another interminable training day. Wrigley, Fielding and Blick weren't making any progress. The responsibilities of any Scribe of the Spoken Silence - Puff Girl was less of a mouthful - included initiating others and passing on the skill. Channing knew she wasn't struggling alone. Every Puff Girl in every School of the Spoken Silence in the world would be working with three female Cadettes, labouring to impart their knowledge and increase the numbers of working Scribes. That was the theory. In reality, it was rare for any Puff Girl to see all three of her Cadettes graduate. Two was considered a great achievement and one was normal. Numbers were growing too slowly. They'd read thirty-six endings in the morning, another twenty-four after lunch. Channing reviewed only the crucial moments in each now, double-checking her own readings and occasionally watching one or all of her Cadettes get it wrong. When she was satisfied with each reading, she uploaded the words to the Treatise which was accessible online to all Puff Girls. Hard copies of the ever growing Treatise were stored in secure locations across the world. There were so many of them, the knowledge they held could never be destroyed. Asexual, self-perpetuating, carbon dioxide breathing nano-bots kept the hard drives in pristine condition so that time itself would never claim the Treatise. When Humanity was gone, the Treatise would be there to mark its passing, testament to the greatness of the species. If. If Channing and all her Sisters in Silence could train enough Puff Girls to complete the Treatise, before the end came.

* Samantha Blick, Kate Wrigley and Alicia Fielding occupied one corner of a communal spa the size of a small swimming pool. The mustard-yellow water smelled of sulphur and overcooked cabbage. It arrived hot, warmed by the ever-widening cracks in the Earth's crust. It was a steaming broth of Cadettes. Under the water, their legs

touched and twined lazily. "Did you hear about the intruders at the Edinburgh School?" asked Samantha. Kate rolled her eyes skyward. "You've always got some story, haven't you?" "Three Cadettes raped so severely they won't be able to complete the training," said Samantha. "They only had a couple of weeks to go." "That can't happen," said Alicia. "It can and it did. Ask Channing if you don't believe me." Tension rippled through their tangled legs. Alicia withdrew contact. "Where do you hear about this stuff, Sam?" "I have my sources. Intrusions are becoming more common as time gets shorter." "But why?" asked Kate. "What have we done to deserve it? We're trying to help everyone." "Rape is a crime of anger. Of hatred. Men hate us because we're sensitive to the Truth. We not only have access to it every day, we're encouraged to understand it. Men have no chance of that and never will. They have to rely on us. They're weakened by that, jealous to the point of rage." Kate and Alicia were silent. Alicia explored the water with her legs again, seeking comfort. She found Kate's legs searching hers out. They giggled but only for a moment. Kate couldn't bear the silence. "Do you think we'll all graduate, Sam?" "What, us three?" "Yes." Sam chuckled. "It's in the sugar well, I guess." The other didn't even smile.

* Promotional information taken from page 17 of the Total Truth (the leading global supplier of Schools of the Spoken Silence) product catalogue:

Over 70% of the world's Schools of the Spoken Silence use the Scarlucence range of Laser Saws. Here's why: A Scarlucence III Laser Saw will remove a human head in five hundredths of a second, about the time it takes to snap your fingers. This makes it quicker, safer and more efficient than any other brand and certainly simpler and cleaner than any other method. For the purpose of Endings, the S III is mounted on a simple spring-loaded axis about two metres away from a Terminee's body. Operated either manually or on a programmable cycle, its beam will activate and spin through less than ten degrees to achieve its purpose. The S III's arc of motion takes its beam from the back of the neck towards the throat, passing between the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae and effecting total craniectomy every time. The speed of the S III maximises the time available to Scribes and Cadettes in which to read The Truth.

For Schools requiring five or more S III Laser Saws, Scarlucence will supply twenty receiving baskets and a year's supply of hyper absorbent, disposable sheeting. Don't forget to ask our representatives about other special offers and discounts. Terms and conditions apply.

* Alicia Fielding lay in her cot trying to concentrate on memorising one of the early paragraphs of their physiology textbook, The Biomechanics of Silence. The core knowledge existed in just a few lines. The rest of the book revolved around that single passage, detailing it, dissecting it and reinvestigating it microscopically in the subsequent chapters. If she could remember the passage by heart, Puff Girl Channing had said, the rest of the book was merely icing. By the tiny reading light she scanned the same lines over and over again. Closing the book regularly to see how much of the extract she could repeat in her head. But it was useless. All she could think about was Peter McKay and the skilled attention of his fingers. She preferred his touch to that of her peers. What might he be able to achieve given more time and the space to use other parts of his body? No, no, no, girl. Concentrate. She read the text again: 'All endings are precious. All endings are sacrosanct. They exist for scant moments and we would do well to remember our own existences will soon seem as fleeting. Throughout our lives we each have access to the Truth but only in death do we make that conscious connection. Would that it were otherwise. In that moment of connection it appears we also realise that the Truth is not meant for the living. This is why, traditionally, though people often talk about a fear of dying alone, most souls choose to be unattended at the very moment of departing. 'The dying all exude a final breath, this is the natural and inevitable relaxing of the diaphragm when autonomic functions cease. Often this final exhalation presents as a percussive sound - the anecdotal death rattle. But we now understand that the rattle is an attempt by the dying to choke back their final words, their sole portion, their single phrase of the Truth. We can not afford for them to do this. Not now, when our time is so short. 'Remember this, Cadettes, as you look upon an ending and read it. You must die with the Terminee. Be with them in emotion and body and spirit as they, like the oldest stars in the universe, wink out. Respect them. Love them if you can. In doing so, your empathy will grow. You will understand their final expressions. You will hear that single, ultimate puff of air escaping their severed tracheas. You will feel their moment of Truth and you will learn to read their silent lips, where breath cannot give voice to their final words.' She closed her battered copy of The Biomechanics of Silence and tried again to repeat the passage in her mind. She got as far as '…only in death do we make that conscious connection' when she heard a muffled clang outside her small sash window. It sounded like someone on the fire escape.

Original Image ‘Art Portret’ taken by Tomas B., Poland

She scrambled out of bed, dropping her book to the floor and losing her place as it slapped shut. The only thing close to a weapon was the broom which she swept her room with each day. She grabbed it from the cupboard, not even sure which way to hold it for best effect. Then she ran back to her bed and switched off her reading light. Blackness. After a few seconds she could see well enough to creep around the bed to the window. It was no use hiding - her quarters were the size of a prison cell. She couldn't leave because the door was locked from the outside by the school matron and wouldn't be opened until six in the morning. The broom shook in her hands. Outside the window there was no movement. She replayed the metallic noise in her mind and imagined it was someone stumbling, their boot catching the railings. Now it was silent again. Alicia could imagine the intruder creeping now, pressed to the wall on each successive steel landing, crouched low on the rising flights of stairs. Had anyone else heard it? In the last six months, Student Bodies across the world had been lobbying for a simple panic alarm to be installed in all Schools of the Spoken Silence but, so far nothing had been done. According to Samantha Blick, incidences of intrusions, rapes and even murders of Puff Cadettes were rising fast. Schools everywhere were considering keeping their girls locked in to protect them. Training as a Puff Girl had once been a glamorous aspiration, bringing with it popularity and celebrity. Now it was dangerous and potentially isolating. She could hear footsteps. Soft but unmistakeable, and they were very near, right outside theShe dropped the broom and both hands flew to her mouth to stifle a cry. Hands trembling, she stepped to the window and slid it open.

Original Image â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Feminine Featuresâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; taken by Bonvivant, SXC

Margaret Channing's orgasm lifted her hips from the cot and sent streams of ejaculate into her lover's face. She screamed with the power of the release and collapsed, trembling, her sex raw, an ache like a fresh bruise heavy on her pubis. She rolled to her side. "That's it. No more." The spasms dissipated, to be replaced by vague feelings of incompleteness, disconnection and shame. Puff Girl Blanchard, the best yet in terms of skill, the worst in terms of companionship, climbed into the narrow bed and pulled the covers over them. Blanchard's petite breasts, mostly nipple really, were insistent against her back. Blanchard's kisses were soft on her shoulder. Channing found the touch difficult to ignore even though her feelings for Blanchard were close to revulsion. "How long do you think we've got?" asked Channing. The nature of the pause was enough to prove Blanchard didn't understand the question. Channing persisted. "Until the end, Blanchard. How long?" "No one knows." "Yes, but what do you think? Will it be sooner than they predict or will we get more time?" She felt Blanchard shrug. The kisses resumed, moving from her shoulder to the back of her neck. "Don't you even care?" "You worry too much, Channing. You think too much. You should learn to relax and enjoy the moment. The moment is all we have left." "That's just trite dogma. You think it means have as much pleasure as you can before the end. That's not what it means." Again the shrug. Anyone else would have been offended. Not Blanchard. Blanchard didn't care. "I still say you think too much." "We're Puff Girls. We're paid to think. We exist to think. What do you suppose this constant striving for Truth is all about? Why do you think we pore over the words of the Treatise every day? Why do you think we add to them hour by hour? We can never think too much. Thought is all we have. Moments do nothing but advance the clock. Thoughts make a difference." Blanchard, in an uncharacteristic show of energy, half propped herself up in the cot. "I know you think I'm stupid, Channing, but I don't care. I'm happy with myself. Of the two of us, you're the one who spends her days brooding and afraid. We're all going to die one day, whether the end comes tonight or in fifty years. Men tried to penetrate the secrets of death for most of our history using science. Now women are trying to do it using intuition. It's no different." Channing was silent, her body tense and withdrawn. She'd never heard Blanchard speak this way before. It was verging on perfidy. The woman was"You know what I think? You really want to know? I agree with the dying. Death is a secret and it was always meant to be that way. I'll tell you something else, Puff Girl Channing. I've never entered a single true word into the Treatise. I make it up. All of it. You know why? Because the dying don't speak the truth. They speak a mumble of nonsense caused by their brains shutting down and the shock of being beheaded. The Treatise is a pile of drivel that will never mean anything to anyone. If the world ends

tomorrow or in ten years or a hundred I'll be able to say I enjoyed my life while I had it. You'll never be able to say that." Blanchard was out of the cot and dressing. Channing turned quietly to watch the woman pulling her gowns on in anger, her tiny beauty disappearing from view beneath shapeless vestments. Blanchard used her passcard to unlock the door and stepped outside. Before she shut it she turned back. All her anger was gone and she spoke softly. "We could have had so much fun," she said. The door closed. The lock turned. Channing couldn't hear Blanchard's bare footsteps retreating along the stone corridor. She imagined them instead.

* At first Peter had been reluctant and distracted but she'd soothed him, drawn him to her cot. His hands became butterflies, then sables, then fauns; caressing, exploring, mystical in their power. She strained towards his touch, her skin rising to meet the lodestones of his fingertips. She would let him take her. Right here. Tonight. Ha! Let him? - she would discard herself to him. But then he faltered, almost as she had that thought, the forest magic of his body retreating far within. Now he was troubled again, his mind elsewhere. "What's wrong?" She whispered. "I came here to talk." "We can talk. We can doâ&#x20AC;Śeverything." He shifted onto his back, ending their embrace. "Do you ever question what you're doing?" He asked in the darkness. For a moment she thought he meant their physical contact. Only for a moment. She answered him honestly. "Things are so focussed, so constrained. Time is so short. I think about what we're doing. I think about it a lot. But I don't question it. We're beyond that." "No human being is ever beyond questioning, Alicia." She wasn't used to him using her name that way. In full. It was formal. Almost commanding. She didn't disagree with him. "Don't you think it's odd? Doesn't it strike as the least bit strange the way things are set up?" She nearly shrugged but stopped herself. That was her body's response, the automatic shaking off of the need for doubt. She knew he was right. There was always room for questions but you had to stay alert all the time for that. Had to be vigilant and in dispute of what was placed before you. Still, she didn't answer. "Well, let me clarify for you. Let me take the spin off it. Allegedly, we are in the jaws of Armageddon. We still know nothing about death or what it means and we're about to experience it, en masse. Suddenly, everyone wants to know death's secret. Based on Dr. Grace Barbonette's rather convenient and barely scientific discoveries, we have pursued the Truth through Endings. We end males over the age of forty-five. We end all males with any sign of illness. We end all males with criminal records. We end homosexual men. We end men with mental and emotional problems. Why? Because, if the world really is doomed, there's no

longer any need to procreate. That's what they tell us." "Are you saying it's not true?" "I'm not saying anything, Alicia. I'm asking you to question it." "We end women too, Peter." "The insane. The senile. The barren. Those who bear too many sons. Those who question, Alicia. They are ended because they are inconvenient. It's a utopian fascist's wet dream. Every day around the world there's a soul exodus worse than any holocaust in history." "But we've got no choice." She regretted the words because they weren't hers. They were the words of the Puff Girls. The words of Channing. The words of authority. She regretted them because she saw the response they drew from his eyes. He was quiet for a long time, as though dislocated, then he seemed to reach some kind of inner conclusion. "I do love you, you know," he said. "I just find it very difficult to trust you." Love and mistrust, revealed in a moment. Her response was mingled, bittersweet. "Iâ&#x20AC;Śdon't understand." He took her hand between his palms. "What if it was me in the cell? What if I was a terminee?" "That would never happen, Peter. You're far too young." "What would you do? Would you stop it?" "You can't stop an ending. No one ever has." "No one's ever tried, Alicia." He looked away from her. "Would you save me?" "Iâ&#x20AC;Ś" She realised he was crying. She held him tight, rocking him. "Peter. Peter, I would never hurt you. I promise." She pulled him down into the cot again and this time he did not falter. All the talk was gone from him to be replaced by gestures, tantalising, agonising, beautiful gestures. His love was fulfilling in ways she hadn't even considered. She was the first to tire. When she woke to the sound of the six o'clock bell she sat up with a hammering heart ready to hide him in the cupboard. But she was alone in her cot. The window was shut. On her bedside table, on the cracked cover of The Biomechanics of Silence, lay a palmtop disc and a note:

I wanted you to have this, Al. I trust you. I love you. P xx. She had five minutes before her door would be unlocked, time she usually spent dozing. She tapped the screen of her palmtop and slid the disc into its tiny port.

* Channing watched the faces of her Cadettes as they finished up in Cell 96. Pink-clad orderlies removed the

receiving basket and its now unflinching contents. They gathered still-warm absorbent sheeting into pink PVC bags. They wiped stray ruby splashes from the cell's glass panels and white floor. The orderlies were a pastel blur of practised movements. The three Cadettes were pale islands of uncertainty. Without any exchange, the orderlies hurried to other cells, almost running to keep pace with the day's work. Channing read her Cadettes as though they had the faces of terminees. Something had changed in the air of the school's corridors and chambers. There were undercurrents. At first she thought it was her own turmoil over Blanchard's words and the dilemma they'd created. But it was soon clear the trouble was widespread. Every Cadette's face wore a veil, eye contact fleeting. Expressions now hid riptide fears and whirlpool secrets. Insane, thought Channing, in the face of the world's destruction, that there was some greater danger to be feared. There was no greater danger, of course, but that was the nature of fear. Irrational. Undeniable. Powerful. The Schools of the Spoken Silence and everything they stood for was the forest that had sprouted from the seed of fear. Channing owed her position and personal history to fear's legacy. For a moment the realisation might have capsized her. Until she righted herself. Resumed her true course across the troubled waters of her times. Her very existence was the antidote to fear. Puff Girls' worked toward one goal, to discover the death code and end fear in all humanity. It called for strength of mind. It called for command of the emotions. She knew she had the capability.

* Fielding, Blick and Wrigley were agitated. Each of them concentrated hard on their palmtops but they were using the devices as a point of focus - away from Channing's exploratory gaze. They weren't really concentrating. "Let's move on, girls," said Channing. She led the way to the next cell, Cell 98. Ten doorways back on their side of the corridor another Puff Girl and her three Cadettes moved swiftly from one cell to another. Ten cells behind them another party of four were visible. On the opposite side of the corridor other groups were visible, either through the glass of the cells or moving between them. Silent red jets sprayed many of the corridor's glass panels as Channing glanced around. In Cell 98, Blanchard the blasphemous lay ready, a shaven and white paper-gowned terminee. Channing's eyes watched the Cadettes, her stare full of hooks. The girls let their palmtops drop to their sides. Their eyes focussed on Blanchard's. Channing scowled, so intense was her focus on the girls' faces. Not a flicker of emotion was writ there. Not a trace of recognition on any face. Satisfied, at least for the moment, Channing looked down into the eyes of her lover and empathised. There was a click as the laser-saw performed its swift partial rotation and Blanchard's head fell, face-up, into the receiving basket. Tears ran from the outer corners of Blanchard's eyes. Her mouth worked. Her lips made noiseless pronouncements. The onlookers leaned in close for a few moments and then tapped text into their palmtops. Channing questioned the Cadettes. The orderlies arrived. The group moved on to Cell 100, the final cell of

the day.

Fielding lay in her cot wishing Peter would return to her, comfort her in the way only he could. In her hand her palmtop glowed, the only light in her personal darkness; the hasty thump of her pulse at odds with her reclined posture. She scrolled through the interminable index of book-length documents, reading abstracts, passages and conclusions at random and moving on. The disc was the most terrifying object Fielding had ever touched. Despite her training in impassivity, she wore the colour of guilt like a birthmark. It wouldn't be long before a Puff Girl read the truth on her face as they passed in a corridor. She'd hidden the disc, using double-sided tape to stick it above the doorframe on the inside of her cupboard, but each time she entered her room, she retrieved it and investigated its data. There was more information written there than in her entire three-year syllabus. She doubted she could read it in three years if she sat for ten hours a day, six days a week. Gigabytes of scientific papers by scores of scientists - all of them men, all of them blasphemous. It was no hoax, no contrick. She'd read enough to be certain of that. The papers represented the life's work of many of the world's finest minds - minds since ended in pursuit of the Truth - and taken together the information utterly refuted the two tenets her life was built upon. First: the world was not going to end. Not in her lifetime. Not in the foreseeable future. Probably not in a million years. Second: the dying had nothing to hide. The mouthings of the beheaded, the death rattle, the last words they had no meaning. They were the final physiological sparks of a guttering fire. Nothing more. Both conclusions were backed by hard, fastidious, tested science. They were facts. They were truths. The more she thought about it all, the more she wanted Peter's touch. Cloistered away like this with only women for company, only women for closeness, it was all wrong somehow. It had been designed, this lifestyle. It had been contrived. Her palmtop vibrated making her jump. It was a text from Peter. Stay calm and everything will be fine. How could he know she was fretting? Did he really know her that well or was it obvious that the information would scare her? But how could he be sure she'd even read it? Where are you? She typed instead of a greeting. At home, why? I was worried. I was thinking about you. I know. That's why I texted! Really? Women aren't the only sensitive ones, you know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. Don't be sorry. I know you're not like the others. What did he mean by that? Are you coming to see me? she typed. And

Original Image â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Art Portretâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; taken by Tomas B., Poland

then - I need you. Can't. Too dangerous now. Meet me in Hope Park tomorrow. Usual time and place. She hesitated. Another message came in. Okay? Was all he'd written. I'm frightened, Peter. There's nothing to be frightened of anymore, Al. You'll see. Meet me tomorrow. Okay. I'll see you there. Love you. I love you too. I love you too… Panic and desire flared in her, she didn't know how she would be able to sleep. Suddenly, all she wanted was to be with Peter, far away from the School of the Spoken Silence, far away from Channing and all the other Cadettes. She texted fast. I need you to get me out of here, Peter. Please take me away. Peter must have switched off for the night, though, because no reply came back.

* Keeping her face stone-serene throughout another training day was the hardest thing Fielding had ever done. Blick and Wrigley's faces were the same, of course, but Fielding detected boredom and disinterest beneath their calm masks. Armed with the knowledge that the men and useless women they were killing had no special secrets to impart, Fielding managed to catch every word of 'Truth' from their silent mouths. She guessed it was simply that which diverted Channing from unearthing the tension and panic behind her eyes. She was grateful but the pity and horror she felt for the human beings they were slaughtering was almost impossible to hide. She spent lunch in the library, pretending to read The Treatise so she wouldn't have to talk to Blick and Wrigley. When the afternoon's training was done it was hard to stop herself from running to the gate. She waved to the security guard and waited but the gate didn't open.

Original Image ‘Feminine Features’ taken by Bonvivant, SXC

She approached the booth where Coombes, the chubby gatekeeper always sat reading a magazine and eating a never-ending chocolate bar. Coombes had been replaced by a skeletal guard so thin her uniform didn't fit properly anywhere. Her grey hair was parted like a boy's. Her grey eyes were dead as stone. Fielding held up her pass at the booth's window. Skeleton-boy gave her a two-dimensional stare and shook her head. "What?" asked Fielding. "Just open the gate, will you?" "Curfew." Said skeleton-boy girl and looked away again. "Curfew? Why?" There was a pause during which skeleton-boy girl might have quietly died. Then the head turned back, the eyes still domino blank. "Attacks. Too dangerous now." "No. This is all wrong. I have to go out. I'll be perfectly safe, I can assure you. I'm meeting aâ&#x20AC;Śfriend." "Curfew is in place until further notice," said skeleton-boy girl before turning her head away and expiring again. Fielding stared through the gate. She could see the entrance to Hope Park on the other side of the street. She turned away feeling as withered inside as the new security guard looked on the outside.

* In the spa, Fielding tried to let the tension in her body go. Neither the warmth nor the minerals made any difference. A Cadette she didn't recognise slid into the bouillon-murky waters beside her and tried to make eye contact. Fielding turned her face away. The girl drifted away towards another lone Cadette and soon they were giggling together, the movements of their hands hidden by the water. Fielding gave up on the relaxing properties of the water and went for a shower. The water was cold but she endured it to make sure the residue of the spa's pungency was all sluiced away. Shivering, she rubbed herself dry in the changing room. It was only then that she realised how dark it was. The spa was always dimly lit but the changing rooms should have been bright. Candles and lamps burned on stands that had not been there the previous day. The corridors leading to the library were similarly lit. The flickering of dim golden light dispelled the modernity of the school. She might just as easily have been walking the corridors of a convent in the days before electricity. In the library there was electric light, but when she entered she could hear a motor running. Looking out the window she saw a generator in the courtyard, a wire leading up to supply power to the library. She found Wrigley and Blick in the corner, studying. "What's going on?" she asked. Blick and Wrigley exchanged a heavenward roll of their eyes. "The power's down," said Wrigley. "Down? Why?" "It's the men," said Blick. "They're trying to shut the schools down."

Fielding sat at the same study table where Blick and Wrigley were reading about facial musculature and its effect on human expression and communication. "This school? Our school?" "Every school," said Wrigley. She leaned forward over her open books and notes. "Why is it you're always the last to know about everything?" Fielding didn't know what to say. Blick smirked but it wasn't unkind. These two were the closest thing to real friends she had. Fielding listened to the grumble of the generator. Every few second the engine revs dipped for a moment and the glow from the library lights dimmed in response. "They've changed security." She said, expecting more gentle derision. "The new people are an outside firm," Said Wrigley. "They're armed and everything. A lot of the other schools have been using them." "What happened to the others?" "Coombes and two others volunteered for endings. The rest walked out." "Why would they do that?" asked Fielding. Blick typed some notes into her palmtop. "I guess they went to look for work elsewhere." "No, why did Coombes and the other two volunteer?" Behind the nearest wall of leather-bound tomes, a heavy book thumped shut. Fielding jumped. Channing appeared with both hands holding a huge volume, its pages edged in gold leaf. "Because time is very short now, Fielding. Coombes and her associates wanted to make their contribution to The Truth while there was still an opportunity." Channing's laser-saw eyes bit through Fielding's attempts to remain blank-faced. "A noble and laudable act, don't you think?" None of the Cadettes answered. Channing replaced her book using both arms and her chest to push it up into the place it had occupied on the shelf. "I'm quite sure many of the Cadettes in many of the schools the world over will follow suit. Add them to the numbers of male subversives we're currently rounding up and I think we may complete the Treatise before the end comes." She smiled as she brushed a trace of dust from her gowns. "Now then, girls, I suggest you accompany me to the cells." The Cadettes would have exchanged incredulous glances if Channing hadn't been watching. Their trainer was already at the door to the library, her back to them, but it was as if she could feel their questions on the particle-laden library air. "From now on we'll be running a third shift each day. All hands will be required no matter how inexperienced. And, with the power down, the work will be more physically demanding for everyone." She turned back to look at them. None of them met the scalpels that were her eyes. "Hurry up, girls. There is much to be done in these final hours."

Original Image â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Face in the Darkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; taken by Loleia, SXC

Hours? Hours? Fielding rushed along the complex of corridors behind Blick and Wrigley, all three of them drawn by Channing's majestic wake. If the world was about to end she wanted to see Peter one last time. How could such cruelty exist in the world? How could a love like theirs be denied fruition and completion? It was only now, suddenly, that she cared about the end. The end was not only the end of everything. It was the end of her and Peter. She dropped a plumb line deep into her own feelings and knew that all the endings in the world couldn't answer why their love would be cut short. And if they couldn't do that, there was no way they could piece together the truth from beyond the veil of death. They descended flights of stairs until they reached the cells. The activity there was antlike. Orderlies were pushing draped trolleys into every cell. Puff Girls were corralling with Cadettes at various stations, ready for the new shift double the number of groups that usually appeared. In some of the groups Cadettes were shaking their palmtops in frustration, tapping them furiously. The batteries were running out and, until the power was reconnected, they would be unusable. Fielding was almost relieved. The disc would be unreadable for now, even if it was found. A panting Puff Girl ran down the centre of the corridor, dodging trolleys and orderlies while handing out pads of paper and pencils to each group of trainees. When they had their own pads, Channing herded Fielding, Blick and Wrigley into a cell. Two orderlies were busy with their first terminee. It was a young man, probably Peter's age. His head had not been shaved. He had tape over his mouth and his eyes were wide. Usually a sedative was administered to keep terminees calm during the process. Now, apparently, there was no time for that. The young man's head was secured in the neck-yoke of a small guillotine. He lay on his back, as terminees always did, with the receiving basket ready for it's cargo to be delivered.

However, the process would be reversed for all terminees under this regime. Their necks would not be cut from the vertebrae towards the soft tissue of the throat, as they would be with a laser saw. Instead, they would watch as the guillotine's blade fell towards them, cutting their throats first then cleaving their neck bones before removing their heads. This was essential in order for their head to drop faceupwards into the receiving basket so every precious moment of divination could be afforded the scribes of the Spoken Silence in their search for the truth. Before the full implications of their work became apparent, the screaming began. None of the girls were able to prevent themselves from looking across the corridor to the other cells. Even Channing's attention was drawn by the unfamiliar sounds of terminees voicing denial and terror. In the cell opposite, the source of the first screams, a Cadette had torn the tape from a terminee's lips. The Cadette was almost white-faced with shock at the noise the terminee was making. She appeared unable to move. Seeing her paralysis, the Puff Girl training her and the other two Cadettes lunged for the release mechanism on the guillotine. The screaming worsened, the terminee's voice breaking as too much air was forced past his larynx. Then there was a snickthump, the sound of a cleaver parting raw meat and meeting wood. The screaming stopped. Even from across the corridor Fielding, Blick and Wrigley heard the puff of the terminee's last breath whooshing from his severed trachea. All of them realised this was where the term Puff Girl originated. Not in the relaxed exhalation of the drugged - a whisper they'd all heard thousands of times - but in the scream cut short of the fully conscious victim, the final cry of the executed muted into a wordless rush of deoxygenated air. Nor was the aftermath mitigated by the cauterising effect of a laser saw. The first three spouts of blood pulsed upwards and outwards in high-pressure jets. The effect was

to obscure the window of the cell. Nothing could mask the shout of the Puff Girl railing at her charges. The one who had removed the tape from the terminee's mouth was on the floor in a faint. "Divine! Divine!" screeched the Puff Girl. Not an expression of the beauty she saw in the act but an admonishment to her trainees to read the face of the terminee before the opportunity was lost. All along the corridor the screams continued to be silenced by the plummeting of angled blades. The three Cadettes turned to Channing, their only guide in this new regime. "With dignity and grace, girls," Channing said. "Let's remember why we're here." Their terminee struggled beneath his bonds. "Fielding. The tape, please." Fielding moved towards the young man then stepped to the side where she was less likely to be marked by the venting of his blood. He noticed the movement and there was no mistaking his contempt. She took a hold of the edge of the strip of tape and the young man looked upwards at the blade he was powerless to defend against. Fielding ripped the tape free, releasing a loud scream curtailed by a butcher's shop impact; noises which made the extra shift the longest ever.

* The showers were crowded and the drains ran wine-tainted for a long time. The cold water made the removal of dried blood more difficult. Without exception the Cadettes left the showers and entered the natural warmth of the spa with chafed, ruddy skin. The usual mood of charged playfulness interspersed with giggles and sighs had been replaced by bowed heads and whispers. The spa was quiet with shock and something else, an emotion that would flower into guilt given the time and nurturing. Fielding, Blick and Wrigley sat in their usual corner enjoying the only warmth in the entire school but saying nothing. There was no touching below the surface of the sulphurous water. Fielding's secrets crowded her mouth but how to let them out? Surely, now was the time. "I have a discâ&#x20AC;Ś" was as far as she got. From the corridors the sounds of running and screaming filtered into the spa. Distant at first, imaginary perhaps. But not all of them could be imagining the same sounds, could they? The three girls looked at each other's faces and saw the shock they felt reflected there. The running was not running but chasing, the slippered feet of Puff Girls and louder than that, much louder because it was so out of place, the sound of booted feet stomping in pursuit. The screaming was the sound of terrified Puff Girls, another contradiction never to have entered the corridors of The School of the Spoken Silence. There was shouting too. The final sacrilege. The sound of men abroad in corridors where they did not belong. None of the girls moved. Then three Puff Girls entered the spa, their gowns hitched so that they could run more easily. Behind them a throng, a torrent of men, flooded the dimly lit cavern. The three Puff Girls tried to skirt the spa waters. Two were successful but several men slammed them into the walls, pinning them there. The other wasn't

nimble enough to prevent herself from falling into the spa itself. Naked Cadettes drew away, their own screams rising over the shock. Six men went into the water after the third Puff Girl. Fielding was the first to scramble for the locker room. Looking back, she saw that the men in the spa weren't allowing the Puff Girl to surface. Cadettes followed Fielding in splashing panic. Behind them, more men filled the space around the water, grabbing the nearest Cadettes and hauling them away by their wet hair, by their wrists and, the ones that fell over, by their kicking feet and ankles. Behind Fielding the screams of panic became screams of pain and denial. She grabbed her gowns from her locker and sprinted, barefoot, merely holding her clothes in front of herself, for the other spa door. She heaved it open and ran into the corridor. Into the waiting arms of a hundred angry men.

* When it had first begun, Peter had wanted to help. Like many others he believed the end of the world was coming. He also believed the dying had something to tell the living, if only there was a way to capture and translate their final words. As extreme a solution as the Schools of the Spoken Silence were, he could see the strange logic behind them. Not only that, Peter was sensitive. This made him unlike many - not all - of his fellow men. At the very beginning he had tried to involve himself but it had all happened so quickly. It soon became clear that men were not required for the work, the critical work that needed to be done in order to find an answer to the world's woes before it died and took every living thing with it. What began as 'not required' soon became not trusted and then suspicious and then expendable. Peter's sensitivity had never been allowed to bear fruit. And now, now that he'd discovered the truth for himself without the use of his sensitivity, only by research and logic and process, the male way - he was happy never to have used his skills in adding to the mountain of insanity and heads The Schools of the Spoken Silence had heaped up in the name of divining the 'truth'. Of course, there was insanity all around him right now. The men - young, old, fit or otherwise - had lived in fear of their lives for too long. Now they had control. All over the country, all over the world, uprisings like this one were ending the years of control and extermination. The era of the Puff Girls was ending in the way totalitarian regimes always ended, in revolution. Peter watched the revolution unfold in rape, beating and execution. He walked from one cell to another as the ever more bloodstained mob dragged naked and broken women down to the guillotine corridor. Beheading every one of them would never counterbalance the numbers that had died in these cells but it gave the liberated men their retribution. It gave them a grim and short-lived satisfaction. Head after female head fell into basket after basket and Peter read as many of their faces as he could. He read them well and many of them did indeed move their lips in silent speech. And what they said was exactly what he excepted them to say. Words of terror and denial. Words of nonsense spilled from fast-draining consciousnesses. From time to time, however, a phrase or sentence was uttered that was not of this kind. A sentence that could have been part of

an enigma or cabal. And these were the words that frightened Peter. Were these particular women channelling some secret message from the other side of death's screen? Had they been right all along in pursuing it. No. Surely not. And Peter remembered the research papers and documents, many of them based on exactly the same work the Puff Girls had been engaged in all these years. Science could not prove that there was no existence beyond death but it had proved the death code did not exist and that the Schools of the Spoken silence were in reality factories of deluded selfgenocide. Science had also proved that the predicted death of the Earth itself was incorrect. The planet had millions of years left to exist. It would die, one day, the way everything imbued with life died, but not soon and not in some sudden cataclysm. Science had also indicated the need for swift, decisive revolution before humanity's quest for 'truth' became its own death sentence. All these thoughts passed through Peter's head as he watched his men breaking free of oppression in the most vile and gratuitous ways. If it wasn't enough that the women were repeatedly raped, beaten and tortured, some of the men had taken to experimenting with partial beheadings - leaving the women's heads in the yokes rather than their necks, thereby cleaving their skulls at tooth level, at nose level, at the hairline. Many of these women lived long enough to be beheaded a second time.

* The waters of the spa steamed harder and soon they bubbled. The movement of the water turned the body of the drowned Puff Girl face up, robes swirling around her. Her skin was cooked grey, her open eyes hard-boiled. The water level rose until it overflowed and leaked away into the showers and locker room, out into the corridors carrying the odour of sulphur with it.

* When he came upon Alicia, some of the insanity of what his men were doing caught up to him. Their justification became pale and lost its solidity. The men in Cell 28, unrecognisable through sticky slicks of arterial spray, had laid Alicia Fielding out with her eyes in the guillotine's drop-line. "No," he said. "Do it properly." Tense aggression passed through every man in the

room but Peter didn't move. Glances between the men showed white eyeballs inside masks of gore. They adjusted Alicia's body. Unlike the men who had been butchered earlier that same day, many of the women were unconscious or hoarse from screaming by the time they reached the guillotine corridor. Most of the noise came from the cheering of the men. All Alicia was able to do was sob and cough. When she heard Peter's voice and saw him she briefly believed he'd come to release her. She smiled and tried to reach out to him before being restrained. "Peter?" "I'm sorry, Al." "I thought you loved me." "I did. I do." "Then for god's sake get me out of here. Take me away." "I can't do that. The uprising is far more important than the individuals it involves. Much as your own work here was considered to be. If I was on one of these tables awaiting my ending, would you have stopped it? Could you have?" "But you have power, Peter. Aren't you inâ&#x20AC;Ś command of these men?" "Not to the necessary degree." She was quiet for a few seconds. "You're a sensitive, aren't you, Peter?" "Yes. Yes, I am." "You know what I'm thinking by looking at my face, don't you?" He thought he did. She was thinking about the meaning of the words 'the necessary degree'. Thinking what a very male thing that was to say, especially at a time like this. She was wondering if, in the same way, he had loved her but only to the necessary degree. He watched her watching him and knew she knew he knew. He could see she knew there would be no reprieve. "I'm going to do something for you, Peter. Something most terminees tried very hard not to do. I'm going to try and stay conscious for as long as I can. I'm going to try and see the truth on the other side and I'm going to do my best, my very, very best, to tell you what I learn in my moment of ending. I'm going to do that because I love you, Peter. I love you to the necessary degree and beyond it. Unto death, Peter." Peter didn't try to hide his emotions. Where was the point when she could sense so much? He nodded to the man nearest the guillotine who hit the release with a slippery red hand.

When their work was done a great hush descended over The School of the Spoken Silence. The men, their clothes brown and stiff with dried blood, trailed up the stairs and along the stone corridors towards the spa. To Peter they looked weary and sick with the knowledge of what they'd done. Less sullied than the rest of them, he still wanted to wash away the stains of their deeds. He found the men backed up in one of the corridors and tried to see what the hold-up was. He pushed through towards the front. One of the men turned to him. "Their communal bath's overflowing. Stinks of diseased farts." Peter could smell the odour of rotting eggs in the hot damp air. Looking past the last few shoulders blocking his way, he saw the waters of the spa advancing along the corridor, steam rising from the flow. He turned away and pushed back through the queue. His men followed him into the courtyard. It should have been dark by now but the sky was bright with crimson flickering. Smoke hung on the air, which was warm even out here, and the smoke was full of dust. He hurried through the open gates onto the street to see better. The fountain in Hope Park was spewing lava in bubbling spurts. Many of the trees were aflame. The bench where he and Alicia had last met had already been consumed by a tide of molten rock. His men had followed him and now stood around, waiting for guidance. A trembling began deep below them, with it a sound like the very earth tearing itself apart. He knew it was a sound that would only get louder. "What is it?" one of them asked. "It's the end of the world," said Peter. In his mind Alicia repeated her final words. Words she'd sent back from beyond.

No meaning. No purpose. No god. Only void.

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WHEN HORSES FLY by MYRA KING

he nasal tones of a teenage check-out chick echo again above our heads: 'Security to Cosmeticsâ&#x20AC;ŚSecurity to Cosmetics.' The look I cast my daughter is returned, doubled. What is taking them so long? No one has dropped a facelift, or spilt vanishing cream. What is happening is a full pitched argument which, by the sound of it, could soon escalate to bloodletting. 'At least I got brains 'n' that!' screams one young woman. She is wrapped in a high cut skirt and low cut top, with bulges of fat for garnish. Her nose sports more silver than a trophy cabinet. She and her girlfriend, similarly attired, are definitely in the running for the world's worst dressed. Two men crowd into the girls' personal space, chests puffed like obese pigeons. We are waiting here because I need some hair dye and this is the only store which has my shade. If only they would move to another part of the store. I have an important date tonight and I really need that dye. My roots make me look like a skunk in relief. I glance at my daughter, Jasmine, who is unashamedly watching. I remind myself that she has three more years before turning twentyfive, the age when a brain is fully developed, so she's in no way responsible for her actions. 'Come on, Jazz, I'll try Priceline.'

lived in the district all my life and know about most of the attractions and where they are. Maybe not the best way to get to them, I have a lousy sense of direction - I always joke that women are good at everything else so we have to have one failing. As I said, most people are nice.

'Mum, they don't have your Number 96 there, you know that.' I grab her arm and soon we are trading the cool confines of the shopping complex for the hot tar fragrance of the main road. Cars honk on passing; I know their tune is not for me. Jasmine is gorgeous. Long blonde hair and a figure trimmed to perfection, she glides confidently one stride ahead. As we approach the crossing the fighting foursome appear behind us, but I'm not surprised that trouble seems to be following me. Not with what's been happening this week.

work for an art gallery-cum-gift shop; have done so for the past ten years. Trisha, my boss, owns the place and hires me part time, seven days a week during school holidays. I love meeting people; ninety-nine percent of the visitors are fun, friendly and out to have a good time. I also act as tourist information. I've

ast Monday it was hot and humid. You probably think we'd have lots of visitors but the beach beckons with weather such as this. We do much better on rainy days, as people come into the gallery for shelter. They look at souvenirs and gifts and sometimes I can do my spiel and get them to actually buy something. Really, I don't know how Trisha can afford me. She always says the gallery's a labour of love and I believe her. I've seen the books. Anyway, on Monday I was on my own, placing and pricing new stock in the gift shop when I noticed a man in the gallery. He was walking far too quickly to be looking at anything and he kept glancing furtively in my direction. Intuition raised hairs of apprehension but I approached him confidently when he entered the shop. A whiff of stale clothes and alcohol matched his appearance. He looked and sounded to be in his mid forties. He didn't answer my 'Can I help you?' but walked quickly through, barely

glancing around. Just before leaving he turned to me and asked. 'Your husband work here too?' 'I'm divorced.' My response was automatic. Inner alarm bells clanged louder. He turned on heel, Nazi-like, and left. I put the incident on the back burner when an unexpected busload of tourists arrived. I was flat out meeting and greeting for the next hour; they were from Broken Hill and it's true what they say about country people being friendlier. My unease re-ignited when the man came back early on Tuesday. Once again he walked through without looking but this time grabbed a small gift pack of perfume and approached the counter. 'For my wife.' I could tell he was lying. 'Are you from around here?' My voice sounded strained even to me. 'Yes. I'll have to bring my wife here soon. She would like this.' So, he was promoting the 'I'm married so no threat' theme. But I wasn't buying. Not with the look he was giving me. As he was driving off I wrote down his number plate. The police got back to me within the hour. 'Mrs. Megan Shelley? The car belongs to a Mr. Thomas Duran. He is known to us and, excuse the pun, but he's a bad customer. In fact he's currently awaiting trial on serious charges. Oh, and there's no wife.'

So much for my ex-husband saying women's intuition is crap. The police told me to be careful, whatever that was supposed to mean, but there was nothing they could do as he was in his rights, visiting a public place. 'Look, Mrs. Shelley, he may not even come back. Just stay alert. We can only act if he does something.' I was stung speechless. Would I have to be raped or assaulted before the police could do anything? Jazz was almost as non-committal: 'What does he want with you, Mum?' Gee, did I have to spell it out? I hadn't skipped the birds and bees lesson had I? (Although I did have a vague memory of buck passing, along the lines of 'Ask your father'). Thankfully, the police seemed to be right. Wednesday came and went and the man hadn't returned. Also, Trisha had introduced me to a guy who'd asked me out on a date for Thursday night, so things were looking up. Or at least they were until Trish said 'Meg, you really have to do something about your hair.' Trisha's not big on tact.

azz goes off to work and I return to the department store. I get my hair colour and still arrive at the gallery in time to start work. The tourist industry is not an early

riser; most places don't open until late morning. I load the till and put out the decoy, a gigantic stuffed rat which usually takes the two of us to move, but Trisha's late and I have to shuffle it to its place by myself. Set up to impede foot traffic, Ratty catches people's eyes with his cheeky grin. The large 'Open' sign he holds entices them in well, that's the theory. I am daydreaming, looking at the roses lining the sides of the road and thinking how ours could do with some light pruning when a familiar car pulls up. I stare at the number plate but fear has etched it to memory and I know without checking whose it is. My stomach tightens. I catch a glint of something pointing in my direction through the windscreen. Binoculars? Camera? A firearm? What should I do? Ring the police? But they've already told me there's nothing they can do. He has every right to be here. For a moment I feel hysteria rising. Perhaps I should run out and fling myself on his bonnet, ask him what he wants. Maybe a mad woman will be a turnoff. The car crouches like a waiting predator then slowly pulls out to merge with the increasing traffic. It's going to be a busy day. Trisha arrives at last. 'Lots of tourists in town today, Meg.' Years ago before PC we jokingly referred to them as 'terrorists'. Today it would be apt. I don't answer. She keeps talking: 'Heaps of number plates from interstate.'

Panic at last breaks my silence. 'Trish, there's something I have to tell you.' An hour and several vanilla squares later (maybe added weight will make me less desirable) I am feeling a little better but Trisha is furious. 'I can't believe the police won't do anything, Meg. At least they could put you under surveillance or something? What if he finds out where you live?' I pick up the last vanilla square and stuff it down. The trouble is I own a hobby farm fifteen kilometres from town with no neighbours in view. And I live on my own; Jazz left home years ago. Trisha touches my arm. 'Meg, look, don't think about it. You have that date tonight. Why don't you knock off a bit early?' 'It's not that the police won't do anything, Trish, they can't do anything. The guy hasn't been convicted yet, and even if he had he's still allowed to enter public premises.' I sound far calmer than I feel. Trisha clears away the plates and cups and wipes the bench, concentrating hard on a stubborn bit of drying custard. She looks up mid-rub. 'Come back to my place tonight and stay for a few days. It will save you travelling in. It's going to be a busy weekend.' As if in confirmation a group of tourists stop to take photos of Ratty and then crowd into the shop, laughing and joking. They had lifted the plush fur hiding Ratty's

nether regions and discovered his anatomical correctness. Some time later I answer Trisha's questions. 'I think I'll cancel that date. I won't be good company tonight, anyway. But I will take you up on your offer of a bed, Trish. If I can leave now I'll have time to bulk feed the budgies and ponies before dark, and make sure everything's okay at home.'

he countryside unravels as the kilometres tick by. The paddocks are crisscrossed with alternate blocks of brown and green, the contrast complete beneath a solid blue sky. Some of the irrigators are going and my car narrowly misses being sprayed as one overshoots the road in a huge rainbow arc. I cross the bridge that spans the river, note the power of water surging below; despite hot weather recent rain is making it flow freely again. I thank God I have air-conditioning and safety locks. I'm feeling as spooky and jittery as a race horse on speed. I keep checking my rear-vision mirror but no one is following me. I watch out for the white ribbon I tied to a bush when I first moved here to mark my right turn off. All these side roads look the same and it's really easy to get lost. The ribbon is fluttering like a truce flag and I spot it easily. I tend the animals and drive back to town, by then my heart rate has returned to normal.

very parking space is taken up in front of the gallery. I note all the number plates of the interstate travellers. Trisha will have been flat out. I feel a little guilty for not being there. Ratty is still in-situ and I wonder if I should stop and help bring him in. Then I see the familiar car parked in the side-street and, worst of all, no driver. I pull over and with shaking hands and quickening breath retrieve my mobile from my bag. My heart is throbbing staccato as I dial the gallery. Trisha answers on the fourth ring. I hear a clunk as she puts down the phone, scrunching of wrapping, and her saying 'See you later' to someone in the distance. When she picks it up she is breathing heavily too. 'He's there, isn't he, Trish?' 'Yes.' The voice doesn't sound like hers. 'Okay, just answer yes or no. Are you okay?' 'Yes.' 'Is he the only one in the shop?' 'No.' 'Do you want me to come back?' 'No! We definitely don't have any of that range left.' She sounds decidedly unfriendly. I wonder what the other customers will be thinking of her phone-side manner. 'Okay. Bye.' It feels like I am talking to a stranger. Anyway, I'm still going back; surely he won't try anything with two of us?

I needn't have worried; by the time I get there he has gone. Trisha is struggling with Ratty as I rush up. She changes positions so I can help. 'I thought it was him from your description, Meg. Then, when he asked about you, I knew I was right.' At that moment Ratty gets stuck on the entrance threshold and all I can do is grunt with the effort it takes to dislodge him. Trisha locks the doors and pulls down the blind with the 'Closed' sign. 'What did he want?' 'He wanted to know where the other woman who worked here was. He gave me some half-arsed excuse that you were holding something for him. Then he hung around. Creeped me out.' 'I know the feeling.' 'You shouldn't have come back. You would've been safer going to my place.' 'What! And leave you here alone?' I look out through the gallery's window but the street is hard to see from that angle. 'I think he's gone.' I pray he isn't hiding somewhere, waiting for us to leave.

he warmth of the evening lifts the aroma of honeysuckle and hyacinths, making me feel at home as we climb the steps to Trisha's cottage. Set on a small rise, it is a jigsaw of sandstone, bluestone and slate shingles, looking every bit what it is - an artist's abode. Trisha fusses around like a mother, putting

on the kettle and rummaging in the freezer. 'I know I've got some herb bread in here. It will go down really nice with that pâté I bought at the market this morning.' I go over to the wine rack and retrieve a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. I am pleased to see it has many companions. After dinner we sit out in the cool inner patio with our second bottle of wine. I feel safe here. Trisha owns two mastiffs, Bonnie and Clyde; they live up to the notoriety of their names by size and demeanour. I trace a finger absentmindedly around the rim of my glass. Trisha stares at an open magazine on the coffee table, set to the crossword pages. She smiles and pens something in. 'I don't know how you do those cryptic ones, Trish. I can't work out how to do them even when I look at the answers.' 'Yeah, they can be tricky. You have to think laterally, then they are great fun like…' Trisha suddenly closes the magazine and looks serious. 'That's it, Meg. We have to look at this thing from another angle.' 'By this thing, you mean my stalker problem?' 'Well… if the police can't do anything because he has legitimacy visiting a public place like the gallery, what if we lure him to a private place like your home?' I stare at her like she's gone mad. I put on my sarcastic voice.

'Oh, okay, you mean we lure him to my place, wait for him to arrive and then call the police?' Trisha nods vigorously. 'Not bloody likely, Trish. What if they don't get there on time and - ' 'No, listen, we wouldn't be at your place, we could set up security cameras and watch from Joe Furner's house.' Joe is my nearest neighbour; he is retired, lives on his own and keeps to himself. I've met him only twice, once when Jemmy, my pony, escaped and ended up on his front lawn and another time when one of his geese flew into my chook run. I don't know what he'll make of this. He was friendly enough those times, although he seemed a little conservative. 'I don't know, Trish, I hardly know the guy.' But whether it's through drink or desperation, Trisha's idea sounds more appealing by the glassful. 'So how do we get the man to my place?' Trisha's face clouds; obviously she has not thought that far. 'Hmmm, that is tricky.' She pours another drink, hands the glass to me and fills her own. I am feeling better - a coupling of relief from a possible solution and the mellowness of the wine. We sit for several minutes in a silence interspersed with 'what ifsâ&#x20AC;Ś' Finally, Trisha sits forward with her hands

on her thighs. 'Look, just hear me out. This guy doesn't know we are onto him does he? I mean, the police didn't give him a warning or anything?' I shake my head. 'Good. Then it should be easy. We get someone asking directions to your place while he's in the gallery.' 'You're forgetting one thing, Trish. He may already know how to get there.' 'I don't think so, Meg, otherwise he probably would have had you already.'

n the morning Trisha tees up a plan with her daughter, Kelly, who coincidently is friends with Jazz. They grew up together and now work with each other at the Library. Kelly is also a member of the local drama company. Trisha tells me she jumped at the idea of doing some acting for real. The man arrives later in the day. Apparently bolder with impunity, he parks right in front of the gallery and enters the shop. I unpack a box of small statuettes and try to look nonchalant while Trisha ducks out the back to text her daughter. Kelly is there within minutes. The library is only a block away. I see the man's shoulders slump. He must have realised that getting me on my own was going to be a lot harder than he thought. 'Hi, are you Megan?' Kelly says.

'I saw your ad saying you had a horse for sale?' Good line, I think. 'Yes, I do. He's a great horse. He's done pony club and show jumping. What are you looking for?' 'I'm just getting into the show scene. How many hands is he?' 'Sixteen Two. Look, you should come out to the property and see him. Go for a trial ride. I'll be finishing here at five tonight. You can follow me home.' Kelly looks genuinely disappointed. 'No, I can't, I'm working late. If you could give me directions I could come over this weekend.' Her performance deserves an Academy Award. From the corner of my vision I see the man pause in front of a painting then slink closer. 'Head out along Highway Seven, turnâ&#x20AC;Ś' 'Can we write this down?' This girl is smart; perhaps her brain is maturing earlier than Jazz's. I write it down as I am saying it. 'â&#x20AC;Śand then turn down the side road, the one with a white ribbon tied to a bush.' Kelly reads back my directions aloud. 'So,' she says, 'I take the first left past the old cemetery, follow the road for five kilometres and then start watching out for the white ribbon.' If the guy doesn't know the way now he is thicker than he looks. He leaves soon after without acknowledgment from us or him. 'Gee, Meg,' Trisha says, shivering despite

the heat, 'I hope we're doing the right thing. Now he knows what time you'll be leaving and the way to your house, too. And what if he doesn't go there tonight? Or if he decides to follow you out?' 'I'll leave earlier then.' I hold none of Trisha's fears. It probably seems strange but I am actually feeling very positive about it all. This morning I went to see Joe Furner, my neighbour. It turns out he is a retired copper and knows all about red tape. He doesn't condone what we are doing but understands why we need to do something.

leave work before Trisha and detour past my place to Joe's farm. Even though the sky is clear, distant rumblings and the odd flash give portent of the storm to come. I know it won't deter the guy from coming; he looked like a man on a mission when he strode from the shop. Joe helps me set up the surveillance camera Trisha has loaned us from the gallery. The picture we receive is grainy but then we aren't after great photography, just a warning. It is all going to plan. Trisha arrives an hour later. We take it in turns to watch. It is tedious work staring at a static picture. I keep losing concentration and looking over at Trisha every time she speaks to me.

'You don't seem too worried, Meg.' She is right, I'm not so concerned anymore. Joe lets us stay overnight. He volunteers to sit up for the rest of what now is early morning. So far the man has been a no-show. The others put it down to the storm but I'm not so sure.

ll the late nights gain me a deep sleep and I don't wake until 9am. At first, the unfamiliar room and the fact Jazz is standing over me make me think I am dreaming. 'Mum, Mum! Guess what? They pulled a car from the river this morning, and get this. It was your man. You know - the one who was stalking you. The police haven't reported it yet but I saw the car at the wreckers, after it was towed in. It was his number plate. You know when horses fly, two and four is six.' 'Jazz, Jazz, slow down honey. You're not making any sense.' 'You know, Mum, an acronym. I made one up so I could remember. When Horses Fly - WHF246. His number plate.' I slump back onto the bed. Clever girl, this late brain maturing thing must only be for guys. At breakfast, Joe makes a phone call and then sits down with us at the table. He doesn't seem to mind four females (Kelly is there too) in his house all talking at once. He puts up his hand as a brake and

addresses me. 'I got hold of one of my mates on the Force. It was Thomas Duran, your guy, who drowned.' My guy, like we had a relationship or something. But I smile and then wonder if smiling is appropriate. After all, a man has died. 'He must have taken the wrong road,' Trisha says, looking at me strangely. I realise I am still smiling. But I feel as relieved as a condemned man given a pardon. Really, this was the only way I could ever feel safe again. 'It may be my fault.' I try to look contrite. 'You know I'm not good with my sense of direction. Remember that tourist bus that time, Trish? Ended somewhere out in the pines.' The others are quick to defend me. Jazz even gets the directions I'd written for Kelly. 'See Mum, this is right. He just got confused. Those dirt tracks are treacherous, steep all the way down to the river, and with that heavy rain, visibility would have been zilch.' 'Plus the river flooded again,' Joe adds. I put my hand in my pocket and scrunch down the white ribbon. I'll tie it back later today.

INCI DENT A by L L RIOT S ES W ICK S this scho I olya rd n Q or hat orma e of h lly st you in am a nd a ks we. So w hy d id h e fi ght? No m an i sa his n Irela c n vine the art elery ar d gar ichok m s a dres nd piss e fists (in then sing a sa hi the lad grea s opinio down q sy c n u )u ite h clam ips of ndeserve clas ouri d s beg for j ng in m mates pare ock ust a nts few t ery to t ears. urn S off mobi uch a ni les at t ce area, Nobo he schoo teache dy i r s st l conce s rt. ill marr ied. Dann y th ro fare wing p un wel the l next ches insc i a ribe d on njury of ngel quiet lett ers home .

Original Image â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Old Manor Houseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; taken by Ilmais Mednis

OPEN HOUSE WITH THE CRABTREES by Marielle Lavender Welcome, says the sign, posted out the front. A long spear driven firmly into the ground. Come in to our home, it's for sale you know, Please, allow us to show you around. Mother shows mother to the house's advantages A large kitchen, perfect for cooking large meals A chimney that you could lose your husband in. Haha! Only joking, she quietly appeals. Sister shows sister to places she likes, See this lake, that lovely tree, all the freedom we have There's enough room out here to live forever, Enough to see you into your grave. Brother shows brother all that there is to see, There's worms and dirt and a tree house above Look at the dead animals, how they have shed their bones, And a bicycle would fit in here, it would fit like a glove. And lastly, father shows father what he has to show, A good lake for fishing in, take your son along, A nice place for wife and daughter To entertain you with a song. See, this house is so beautiful,

Original Image â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Old Manor Houseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; taken by Ilmais Mednis

Everyone's happy, all found counterparts, All it needs now is love, To feel beating hearts. But wait, there's one more, she's been forgotten. Grandmother waits, feeble, in the car, Wondering what there is for her here. She can't sit out in the cold, watching the stars. The lake is big enough for her to drown in, The stairs will ruin her back, The animals will make her frightened, Set off arthritis, ssshh, you can hear her bones crack! Quietly, she wonders if they remember she's here, Helpless, left at their mercy, she's old. But whatever happens, how far they hide her away, Nothing could free her from this deathly cold. It's the feeling of rejection, Of being forgotten by those you assisted through life, They were ashamed of her now, after everything She's been a mother, a daughter, a sister and wife. Old skin, old hands, old eyes, an old mind. Old life, old memories, no use for them now. New thoughts, progress, are all taking over, Even her husband has been lost, somehow. But still, she'll sit, knowing that what must happen will, She knows they don't mean to leave her behind,

Original Image â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Old Manor Houseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; taken by Ilmais Mednis

She'll wait quietly, so patient, so lost, Wait until she can rejoin her kind. One day when mother was in at her stove, Brother was burying the family dog, Sister was singing and playing piano, Father was fishing, seated on a log. Grandmother wheeled herself, tiny arms straining, Out to the lake, to watch the sunrise, Slowly, she rolled too far to the edge, From the bottom of the lake, she smiled at the skies.

Habarovsk 1 By Ben Brooks Day 1 He enters at Kirov; a tall, swaggering Mongolian shielded with a regal crucifix that shines with emblematic significance in my melancholically aphotic carriage. Given the darkness his true hair colour is indiscernible, as are the ravines of his face, buried deep into the coarse bed under the weight of his great body. His modest pack waits faithfully beside our table like a lame hound. I do not trust dogs. A stream of mild whisper runs from beneath his corpse; a prayer. I think of the glittering minarets of Moscow, palaces, cesspits for them, the craven infidel of reason. But this is too much, I am not so aggressively intolerant as my choice of words would have you ascertain, I would just like to make clear my trench at the start, before any shots are fired. "Why do you watch me?" The question erupts from his whisper coldly. It is an accusation. I have nothing else to watch, this carriage could barely host Stalin's birthday. "This angers you?" "This irritates me. It is late and I wish to be left alone." "You have no grounds for complaint! My already inadequate chamber has been invaded in the dead of night by a stranger who is insisting on murmuring himself to sleep and claiming exploitation as free cinema." My thin voice rises assertively until the pause. The crossroads. A low roll of tight lipped laughter greets the end of our silence and I feel shamed by my irate rise to his entrance. I place myself on his bed and look across to the unreasonable, angry little man confronting me. I laugh too. "Sleep well," he offers, appeased. We fall into formaldehyde and are taken east.

Day 2 The morning is reluctant and I wait beneath the shelter of my sheets, studying my new companion. I can see now that his short hair is a wan blonde, appearing dull even under the flattering glow of the young sun. His frame is less foreboding than I had remembered and he has dispensed with his initial face-down slump so that his dark eyelids study our ceiling. He must be around thirty; the shy chin and hollow cheeks show a certain weariness and the stripe of dirt running over the bridge of his arched nose hints at poverty. The face is likeable. Trustworthy. The features twitch before he rises and stoically leaves the carriage with a fleeting glimpse of his tweed coat and the worn heels of his leather boots. His departure imbues the cabin with a surreal air which in turn shakes me into sobriety and I rise to fumble with a partly consumed packet of Marlboro's. I leave and find him on the small platform at the back of the carriage, rapaciously drawing on his own shrivelled cigarette and kicking the caps of his boots between the orange of the balcony bars. "Morning," he says, withdrawing his boot from the barrier. "Sleep well?" "Not at all. Forgive the nocturnal intrusion, there are a great many things troubling me and a wild narcissism burgeoned with my weariness." I study him once more, feeling grinding pity for the man. I want to help but the chiming crucifix warns me no help is required; the lord offers divine aid far stronger than anything a mortal may offer. "Where is it you are bound?" "Vladivostok. My daughter is gravely ill and I wish to be beside her when the saviour restores her." "You have complete faith?" "Total. I know from the bed of my heart that the lord carries with me wherever I choose to go; he is the all powerful interlocutor of my prayers and my shepherd. You then, are an unbeliever?" "I am indeed, had any real evidence been presented before me then I would no doubt think differently." "I am sure you have never been personally presented with any real evidence that air exists and that we breathe it, or that we constantly relieve ourselves of carbon dioxide, though I will reasonably assume that you have faith enough in the science of our day to believe this. Why then, can you reasonably choose to place faith in the men of our day and not in those of Jesus'? Why is my bible any less worthy of faith than your scientific journals?" "That is an absurd comparison." I feel outraged. Not at the man, but at the very idea of God; such a deceitful creature. "Science is a product of countless careful observations and calculations. The foundations of science lay in reason while theism roots itself in blind faith. Why is there a God? Because thousands of years ago a group of men all claimed to have received revelations and conveniently enough there was a pope on hand to assemble the approved books into a bible. Here we are worlds away from those times and you are trying to argue the case of a being whose existence you have but read about." He studies me as I draw to end.

"What shape is the earth?" "It is a sphere, why?" "How do you know this?" "I have seen pictures taken from space. Evidence." "If I show you a picture of a God then will you believe?" "No. It wouldn't be real and how would I know that it is God?" "How do you know that the pictures you see are of earth?" "I will show you a thousand pictures of the dead and suffering. These tell me that we cannot have a picture of God." "I pity you, unbeliever." I allow a derogatory snort to escape me. "And I pity you, blind sheep." With this he too lapses into a laugh and we both begin new cigarettes.

Majestic hills rise around us, coloured with towering pines which sigh under their blankets of snow. The bitter cold lengthens the blurred trails of smoke we throw out as the train continues to throb onwards, winding its way round the coarse hillsides we watch. My companion clutches the filter between two chipped lips as his violently pink hands force the line of button's through their opposing slits. His coat is enviously long, a dark blue tweed that suggests military, though his demeanour disagrees. I feel his eyes taking me in; the ugly olive parka that I clutch to myself, the old leather boots that sit awkwardly beneath me and the beaten, brown face that I have not seen for at least a month. I can only vaguely picture my deeply green eyes, wide nose and thick lips. It is a strange face I know, bearing more structural similarity to an African than a European-Russian and being a hue too dark for normality. My hair has grown considerably since I last glimpsed it; a reflection in the window of a Moscow jeweller, the thick mousy brown hangs below my eyebrows until I sweep it behind my ears. "This is how I know she will be okay," he says softly, looking out at the rusty hills around us. I tilt my head back. The sky is blank. I bite down on my teeth. While there are a many things I want to say I cannot bring myself to pointlessly pick at this God who will shamelessly instil such comfort in such a desperate man. "She will be okay," he assures me. "I hope that she will." "She is a god-fearing child and will prove to be the house that fails to fall in the hurricane that flattens all around it. I have faith, this is all I need." He smiles, content, and I begin to wish for a dose of his placebo. A placebo that would prescribe meaning and hope and comfort. "Where are you from?" The question marks a change in tone, no longer so heavy with meaning but more playfully curious and light. "I have spent the most part of my life in Moscow. It is a beautiful city though I will freely accredit much of its allure to the striking bulbs of your churches, such beauty that they can be easily forgiven for so rudely puncturing the skyline." He laughs again and nods. "It is a most beautiful city, but for me the most beautiful church will always be my own." "Where is that?" "Homyel. It is a small corner of Belarus whose hills can match the minarets of Moscow for beauty. I have spent all of my life in Belarus and it is with great reluctance that I have embarked upon this trip." Again we look out as the hills give way to vast plains of cracked, brown earth. I follow him back into the carriage though it is little warmer than our exposed platform. I begin to think of food. "Are you hungry?" "Extremely, I don't think I have eaten for at least a day," he replies earnestly.

"If you don't mind my saying so, it shows," I say boldly; he laughs to himself as he falls onto his bed and I begin turning through the contents of my rucksack. Eventually I produce a small pan and a packet of noodles. I boil water with the small kettle on our table and fill the pan with the powdery tangle of pasta. He watches eagerly as I douse the noodles in water and a surprisingly attractive smell emanates from the resulting meal. "Where is it that you are headed?" he asks, his pale eyes still trained on the smouldering food. "Same as you, though with a less solemn motivation. I am going to stay with my mother and hopefully find a job." A silence manifests between our beds, not awkward but illuminating; I realise we have missed something. "Your name, you have not yet told me your name," I say clearly, idly stirring the tender noodles. He smiles. "I am Timur." "And I'm Jan." "Jan," he repeats, rolling the first letter into a whisper. I resist the temptation to mock this by repeating his name in an odd manner as I doubt the joke would be greeted warmly. His weathered lips remain curled around my name for a few seconds as I divide the noodles between two plastic bowls. We both cradle the warm bowls in our raw hands as freckles of rain begin to decorate the window. The sky has darkened and I turn on the light of our cabin before delving into the jumble of pasta and small, conservative chunks of vegetable. "What is wrong with your daughter?" "Tuberculosis. I am told that she is coughing up blood, not eating and becoming so thin as to be almost unrecognisable." I look at him, saddened. "Your God allows this?" "It is a test, like Abraham. When she pulls through this, faith intact, she will be rewarded more highly in heaven than you will ever know." I wish he was right. I hope is. His bowl is empty before mine has really been touched and he calmly leafs through a fatigued leather bible while I finish. The rain slaps our window ever more violently as the sky turns marginally too dark for what must be around four 0'clock. I lay back and realise that we must have missed the white obelisk marking our entrance to Asia. It irritates me slightly but I know I will see it one day. I work out that we must be a round 2 000 miles from Moscow. I feel a little ill. I begin to doze out of boredom as the train draws up into a small station; Tyumen. We are greeted by a parade of sellers who march the row of windows offering up a variety of foodstuffs and trinkets. Timur kneels on his bed, face pressed against the glass, and beckons a seller bearing a bulging canvas bag over towards us. He pulls open the window and begins hurried negotiations with the plump, pockmarked woman. I cannot make out what they are saying but after a few minutes the women waddles away smiling and my friend reclines happily on the bed, an unlabelled bottle in each hand. "Cups?" he asks excitedly as the train begins to pull away. I nod and obediently produce two small, metal mugs from my pack, into which he liberally splashes the clear liquid. We each take one and mechanically drain them in unison. The shooting warmth takes me back as again I find myself desperately rolling two bitten hands above the dirty fire of an old barrel. We talk animatedly about the tyrannical Tsars of old Russia as a streetlight dies overhead. She watches me, disbelieving, from across the fire, its mild glow lighting her face from beneath like a sculpture, as Sym recounts our earlier raid on the Great Kremlin Palace. Those green eyes shone unnaturally in the desolate night, drawing attention to the beautiful symmetry of a face so conspicuously far from home.

She was a fleeting fascination. On the last night we talked on the motorway bridge over the rivers; red and white. Her perfect Geisha face burned fulgent beneath the bitter tungsten while I sunk inwards, disbelieving, clawing excitedly at the walls of my stomach as she touched me. The headlights and streetlamps violently parade but her face is the brightest white. White. Then she leaves but I don't mind and I run back through the late unknown and the feral wind. It is perfect so I sing. I look past the stoic grey sky in the morning because I am propped upon a wave of endorphins. Mesaba tries but the iceberg slips beneath me. I see her that afternoon, jigging beside a friend in anxiety and stopping me only for enquiry. My purse? Me. Ask about me. How am I? No? The giant is not Bercilak and I am to die. She leaves without a whisper. Without looking at me like before. It was barely hours ago, please look. I burn holes in the back of her head while she walks away but still she doesn't turn around, flinging open her arms and remembering her enamour. Fuck the ocean that led me to her harbour; let me weather here, the sea is a storm. The giant mockingly misses and I blink tears away, the street a fauvist smudge ahead. I am almost stumbling now because the world has retracted to a lone path. I am tugged rudely out of the memory by my companion, sloppily smiling and re-filling our mugs. The dirty grey of the dull weather sky is rolled away by a more natural evening darkness and our small cabin warms under the weak tungsten of the single light. "You are not forbidden to drink?" I ask my steadfastly Christian friend. "No! Our Orthodox church was chosen to allow for it. I see no problems, most biblical personalities chose to quench themselves with wine." "What about Jews?" I ask, wondering open-mouthed. "Perhaps," he replies noncommittally, clearly less curious than myself. He fills each cup again and once more our flailing arms swing on their pivots, filling our mouths with fire. "And Muslims?" "No, I shouldn't think so." He waits for a second before repeating the word, "Muslim, Muslim" ever fainter, as if tasting the word and finding it quite unsatisfactory. "Worse than you unbelievers," he proclaims, unsuitably loudly whilst groping my shoulder reassuringly. "You are a good man, Jan. I hope one day you join your flock." "I hope one day you question yours." "I hope one day you learn faith." "And you reason." "And you - " He is braked by a young boy, clearly aghast at how forcefully he had thrown open our thin door. "Come in, come in," Timur coaxes, unquestioning. "I, err, I was just looking for my mother," the child explains weakly. He stands between our two beds awkwardly, feet angled inwards, hands fumbling behind his back. I see that he must be around fourteen and the curve of his brittle spine together with the arches of his calves show ill-treatment. I think that Timur must see this too because he softens his voice and invites the boy to sit beside him. "Here," he smiles, offering up a full mug to the boy who instantaneously empties it and breaks into a fit of coughing while Timur and I try to restrain laughter. "Sorry, perhaps it might have been best to warn you. What is your -"

Smack. Another rude intrusion into our quaint diorama, though this time less forgivable. "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING YOU EVIL..." Smack "…LITTLE…" Smack "…CHILD?" The last word is followed by a particularly heavy hit to the boy's head and we spring to our feet in his defence. "Leave him be, you deranged woman," Timur shouts as we grapple with each of her monstrous arms. I see that he is intoxicated by the way that his left foot keeps kicking his right and he continually stumbles as a result. The boy stares as if we have given him the world when my friend throws the crazed women from our room and hastily draws across the lock. "Let me in, you child snatchers! Thieves! Thieves!" No rescue party assembles and eventually she spanks the door defeated and walks away. "Does she always treat you this way?" I ask, appalled. "Yes, since father died I have become but a servant." He eyes his feet sadly. "That is terrible, no man deserves that treatment." "I am but a boy. "Still, you are a human being. Do not take her assaults to be waged on truths, you seem a good person." "Thank you, its has been - " "You shall ride with us!" Timur bellows, rising to his feet then finding them not to prove adequate support and falling to the rough carpet of our floor. The boy laughs, high-pitched and innocent, as my friend writhes frantically to his feet. "Slippy, very slippy," he mumbles to himself, falling onto the bed and crushing the boy's thin thighs in the process. His warbling turns to puppy yelps as I break into a riotous laughter and fill each cup once more.

Reverie. My last meeting with the Trans Siberian was many years ago. A long time for me, less for the railway, having begun life as an idea in the head of Tsar Alexander II (also Grand Duke of Finland and King of Poland); consequently assassinated in 1881 in the most poignantly jocular manner. The radical reformer found himself en route to Manezh in order to review the life guards of the reserve infantry and sapper battalion regiments. It was a regular traverse that presumably aroused few anxieties. He rode in a bullet-proof carriage, a thoughtful gift from Napoleon III and a steed that proved life saving. Once. Whilst the Tsar rode between two barbed walls of adoring citizens a bomb was thrown beneath the hooves of his horses, presumably in the hope that it would destroy the carriage and its regal stuffing. Fortunately it did not, though the police Chief Dvorzhitsky had a well founded suspicion that there might be another potential attacker in wait and so the Tsar was advised to remain within the safety of his practical present. However the Tsar, being an atypically ornery man, wished to first inspect the site of the explosion. A somewhat childish lust but none could question his motives. Whilst the Tsar bent, enthralled by a dirty hole and several horse hooves, another bomb was thrown at his feet by a young Jewish man waiting diligently by the canal fence. Not surprisingly, the curious Kings legs were shattered, and he was left radiating blood through open wounds. After being dragged unceremoniously up the marble staircase of the Winter Palace, he was scrutinised by an already plotting Romanov family and bled to death. It was later learned that a third bomber had been on hand, just in case.

Following the assassination, two hundred Jews were beaten to death and the reform movement was left slovenly inactive for a number of years. His son, the imaginatively named Alexander III, supervised the railway construction from 1881 until 1894, when he was allowed to die of natural circumstance having been endowed with far more sagacity than his father. The far-east segment was completed in 1891 and was opened by the future Tsar Nicholas II and Alix of Hesse. 79 years later, at the tender age of 12, I first climbed aboard one of the less well kempt trains that ran the 9 289km from Moscow to Vladivostok. We were to stay with my less amicable pair of Grandparents and I had but the lowest hopes for what proved a rather revelatory journey due to unforeseen circumstance. Our train died, just short of Irkutsk station. We walked the remaining mile or so to the town and, thanks to my fathers wanderlust, spent the evening sleeping beside Lake Baikal with a handful of other lost denizens displaced from the abeyant train. Despite our camp having been chosen by misfortune, the atmosphere swelled to excitement as we stripped off and flailed about in the vast waters of the world's deepest lake: One thousand six hundred and thirty seven metres deep. Twenty percent of the world's freshwater supply. Mum had told me off for openly urinating into it and I had been forced to explain my reasoning; I wanted a fifth of the world to be forced to drink my urine. Father and his ersatz partner shattered into knowing laughter as if they had both done the very same.

Day 3 I wake to an almost comical scene. The young boy, a faint memory in my pounding head, is led across the width of Timur's bed, acting as a pillow for the man, who is violently snoring and routinely squirming in his sprawling coat. I watch the pair, happily dozing as time passes around them unnoticed, and it begins to itch at me that such men can still hold fast their faith even when the world is full of boys like these and girls like his daughter. The most I can do for now is sigh, and I grudgingly leave the muggy warmth of the cabin for the open air platform at the back of our carriage.

Before taking the final step outside I pause. There is a woman leaning poetically across the rotting bar staring out at the perfect watercolour we race away from. Two ethereal mountains sit miles away, faded by the distance as the train rides through a valley between pine forests. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

"Not at all," she replies, her voice weary but polite. Her auburn hair is wound around two wooden sticks which protrude at uneven slants either side of her head and the cold seems to be biting as she has flung the loose strands around her neck. She is wearing a brown fleece that tumbles below her knees while two snow-white calves hang beneath it. Her old military boots ride halfway up the calves and she doesn't seem to be wearing socks. Her eyes are wide. "You are cold?" "Extremely," she admits, "though it is sobering." "It is dangerous in such evil air. Take this." I hand her my coat somewhat reluctantly and she lights up, her grey eyes burning with thanks in the focus of that dainty face. "You are a kind man." "You are an insane woman." "I am not, my suffering earned me this wonderfully warm coat." She smiles radiantly. "What is your name?" "I am Jan." "Elena." She shakes my hand cheerfully. It is so cold as to sting and I keep the greeting short so that she may hide it back within the pocket of my coat. "Where are you going, Jan?" "Vladivostok. I am to stay with my mother. And you?" "Birobidzhan, with my son. I hope to find shelter there and perhaps someone who will take him on as their own, someone who can offer more than me." "The father?" I say, possibly intrusively. She pauses and looks away at the walls of pine trunks that surround us. "I apologise, it is not my business." I watch as a lone tear spills from the rim of her right eye. She must be only eighteen and her dire situation must prove terrifying. I feel a burning, guilty pity for this girl I do not know. "The father," she stutters through a mouthful of tears, "he is also my own." I do not move because I would not know how to; it would prove no comfort no matter what I chose to do. I allow her time to calm before speaking. "Let us go back to the warmth of my cabin. This morning does no good for either of us." "We must go to mine," she insists. "If Jannick were to wake without me he would be lost." I agree immediately and prop open the cracked door with my foot as she wanders down the corridor. I cannot help comparing this stunningly selfless accidental mother with the devilish women who raided our room the previous evening. Why would God imbue but a few with such qualities and then leave them subject to such bleak circumstance? It is not only nonsensical but malicious in an aimlessly ironic manner. Her cabin is two down from ours. We enter to find the child quietly sleeping, innocently chewing its delicate thumb and as blissfully ignorant of its situation as when it is conscious. It is the most pitiably tiny baby I have ever seen, curled beneath the sheet like a cat. To be born from such ugliness as lust, into the care of a beaten teenager means that it is perhaps just as well that it cannot yet understand the things around it. "Where are you from?" she asks, stroking the wispy strands of blonde hair that curlicue on the head of her child. "Moscow."

"Tell about it, Moscow?" "It is beautiful. One day you shall see, the glittering minarets of St Basils, the towering modern monoliths of the rich and the swarms of millionaires buying time with money." She scrunches her mouth to one side. "And you? What was your house like?" "When I was young we lived at the top of an old apartment block, under the constant scrutiny of a far taller, more modern counterpart. We would spend many hours at our base on the roof, planning attacks on the dens of our neighbours, though often in the winter months the snow destroyed a majority of our enemy forts anyway. Ours was built from a car bonnet and three large doors that we had taken from an abandoned factory. It was well constructed and we were rarely the victims of weather." "And when you grew up?" "My father died too young and my mother moved away, leaving a note and address but also a hint that I was old enough to fare alone. I stayed with a friend for a year, until the restaurant we worked for closed and we ended up living anywhere we could fit ourselves into." I wanted to know of her childhood, but fearing a horribly oppressive tale I didn't ask, choosing instead to lead the conversation up a less solemn path. "He is beautiful." "He is. I almost wish I could pickle his innocence before the world takes it." I agree. "Tea?" I ask. "I am sorry, but I have nothing to offer you." "You misunderstand me, I will be back shortly." I leave behind the unfortunate couple and venture back into my own room. Strangely, Timur and the boy seem to have reversed, with the child now dozing happily on the thin stomach of my companion. I smile and retrieve my glass pot of teabags and a few packets of noodles before heading to Elena's cabin. As I enter her perfect lips widen to a welcome. "You show such kindness." "As much as anyone deserves," I say, boiling her kettle and making up two cups of tea. Strangely the way in which she finds such hospitality a novelty angers me. Why would any able person neglect to show such a girl even a splinter of kindness? I want to saturate her with selfless giving, though admittedly only because of the consequential 'warm feeling' that I will receive. I have never understood why it is described a 'warm feeling', to me it is a feeling of moral superiority rather than a comforting notion of having done something good and a badge of disdain is something I would generally regard as cold. "We are stopping," I observe as she continues lapping at the steaming tea. "Mmm," she replies by way of agreement. The train pulls to a complete stop and I bid farewell in favour of my own carriage. "Up!" I demand mockingly, smacking Timur's head with a rolled paper. "Wahh?" he asks, grudgingly raising his head to survey me through two squinting eyes. "We have stopped, let's go and get something to eat." "The boy?" "Let him come, we cannot leave him to the mercy of his mother." He agrees and we both rattle the boy conscious before leaving the carriage in search of a cafĂŠ. The blistering wind lashes our faces as we stand, undecidedly on the small platform.

"Are you certain we are to stop for an hour?" the boy asks through desultory clacks of cold teeth. "Yes, it is to be our single significant stop before Vladivostok." "Come then," my companion commands, having already strode ahead of us. "That looks adequate." He nods toward a modest and fairly unpromising-looking diner. A chipped black sign that swings half-heartedly above the window labels the place 'Kaplan', a Jewish name which seems extraordinarily out of place in this quietly grey town. "Really?" "Why should it not? Simply because it does sit behind an ultra-modern front or perhaps because it is the business of a Godfearing man?" His accusations are wild and unfounded though I cannot find it in me to argue and, after complete concurrence, we all traipse towards the weathered green frame and cracked glass panes of 'Kaplan'. Any premeditations of mine turn out to be reasonable assumptions as we find ourselves fidgeting uncomfortably on un-sanded wooden seats. Everything about the room is dismal and it seems the cafĂŠ is concordant in everything but name to the grey penchant of the town. After several silent minutes a slow, balding man emerges from a veil of plastic raffia, wearing a worryingly unclean white jacket and a pair of equally sullied chinos. His face is clearly Jewish; severe and unhelpful despite our custom being a godsend. He stands slovenly before us, tapping the chewed biro as if the other zero or so patrons of the cafĂŠ are clawing for his attention. "Well?" he demands, as if we have been caught with our heads between his chubby legs and he is searching for an explanation. I scan the torn menu hurriedly. "The steak pie and a black coffee." "A tea and a tuna salad please." We both turn to the distracted boy. "Oh, err, chicken pasta with chips." As the man waddles away into his abattoir, Timur widens his eyes and pulls down the corners of his lips in mock horror. The boy laughs. "I'm not convinced this is will prove a stunningly successful outing," I chide, thick with bitter sarcasm. "The food is not yet here, surely you cannot be forming conclusions based on little or no evidence?" He is baiting me, playfully, yes, but I am not in the mood. "Yes, you've caught me. A food theist." He smiles smugly. "But really you are acting in a microcosm of theism. You see this establishment, it admittedly appears neglected and so you assume that the food will be terrible. I see the world, it is such a cleverly devised and complex entity that I assume it must have a creator." "Your analogies grow ever more abstract. My assumption is based on past experience, having often been let down by barely edible food from ugly restaurants I assume this will be the same. We cannot assume the existence of a God simply because our world is complex." "If you chance upon a watch you will assume a creator, why any different then if you chance upon a blade of grass or a body of water?" "Of course they are created, this doesn't require a supernatural creator." "How can you debate God?" the boy asks unexpectedly, his high voice puncturing the tension. "Well, why do you believe in God?" I ask tenderly. "The bible, of course." He seems childishly satisfied with this answer. "Tell me, have you read of Baba Yaga?" "Yes, when I was younger." "So you have read of her, must she exist?" "But that's different," he protests. "That's a story!"

His upset is interrupted by a series of dull thumps as our orders are dropped onto the table. Bizarrely, the food looks tempting and we all descend upon our own. The pie crust is a healthy, sun-tinged brown and its contents prove rich and satisfying, almost suspiciously so. I finish first, closely followed by the boy who doesn't leave even a splinter of golden potato in the chipped bowl. Timur ends his meal messily, a liberal streak of tuna left on his wide lapel, and we go over to pay. The meal turns out to be hideously overpriced and our reluctant host fails to offer us the change, despite it being enough for a further pie. We file out into the violent cold and begin heading for the train, my friend desperately trying to make a cigarette with his dead fingers as we walk. "Thank you," the boy says, beaming as we re-enter our cabin. "That's the best I have eaten for months." We both swat his thanks with modesty and direct our attentions at his future. "What do you want to happen?" Timur asks, quietly. "I am not sure. Though I am reluctant to go with my mother I have little choice, it is the only home I have." Timur and I eye one another, both adamant that he shouldn't be forced to return to the care of his wild mother. "We cannot let you go back to such a woman." "You owe me nothing, in fact I am now indebted to you." "We will make firm plans when time insists we must, for now you stay with us," my companion concludes sternly. "I'm just going out for a cigarette." I choose to stay with the boy. I don't know what he would do alone. I don't know what we will do alone either. "HELP! HELP!" The cry comes faint but firm through our thin walls and I immediately rush out to obey, instructing the boy to stay behind. Why do we obey faceless voices? In the corridor I find another bewildered man, seemingly searching for the noisy damsel. He is older, sixty perhaps, with wiry spectacles and a tangled shrub of grey hair. "In there," he says, flinging his arm in the direction of the end cabin. The door opens only partway until a shuffling sound which allows us to enter into the sweaty, moaning room. It feels like a trench; pain and sweat. She is led, face-down upon the floor in despair, and though I am at a loss as of what to do my partner readily kneels beside her and bellows instructions. "BREATHE, BREATHE. COME ON NOW, YOU CAN DO IT." Had we not been in the company of a screaming labourer his call would have been deafening, instead it is an almost melodic line above the ugly roars of the sweaty woman. She writhes and sings like an animal. I am not an animal person and so choose to stand awkwardly, holding my gaze firmly from the gaping hole that confronts my virgin eyes. Now I am well aware of how the majority perceive childbirth; beautiful. Except it is not. Perhaps it is because it is a young girl in a cramped carriage or perhaps it's is largely due to the howling, sweating, cursing, bleeding and stretching. The stretching particularly gets to me. Why would God so ill equip women? Eve? Oh. I think we should punish every consequent descendant of Hitler.

After several hours of the chide and scream duet we sit back and admire the girl, weakly smiling and cradling the bloody bundle of humanity. Timur enters and he too smiles smugly as if the woman has given him a picture of God to thrust in the faces of heretics. "Birth is a beautiful thing," he proclaims. "You didn't have to watch it," I whisper. It goes ignored as he lulls himself into a daydream. "How can you deny God when such beauty and love confronts you?" "Lets go out for a cigarette," I say, unwilling to denounce God in front of this girl who has brought herself through labour with only prayer and a cracked rosary. Not until we are pinched between the rusty bars of the back balcony and the carriages sagging walls do I dare continue what he attempted to begin. "Love is chemicals. The chemicals turn in our heads to persuade us that fornication and gestation are the most useful and rewarding things one can do. They are not. Having children is an unrewarding and nonsensical drain on time and money unless one happens to be an Ethiopian subsistence farmer in desperate need of free labour and a pension." "Then why have children at all?" he asks, apparently having failed to grasp much of what I have said. "Don't. That's what I have been saying" "And have you ever loved?" "What relevance does that have?" "When you have loved perhaps you will look upon having children differently." "That's because my brain will be corrupted with chemicals and I will be led to believe I should do so." "Why have these chemicals?" "To ensure the race survives" "And why should the race survive?" It seems I have no answer but then I doubt he can do much better. "No idea. If God deserted us after the fall then why need we survive now?" "We needn't but we choose to. God couldn't let us die anyway, we are his children." He smiles and our conversation has drawn to a rather unsatisfying close. He finishes his shrivelled cigarette before me and turns back into the carriage. I stay. The wind is so efficient in its riot as to be almost ordered and the once quaint landscape has rolled into flat, earthy plains. I think of Elena and God and Timur. Clearly the "gift" of a child is not always a welcome one and I find it difficult to imagine Elena's labour as having been beautiful. She sits alone beside a screaming hole in the pubic carpet. What wispy strands there are beneath her are dark with wet and curlicue with her writhing. Her two raw legs are clenched together in fear and she is counting in Spanish she can remember from school though she cannot find seven and so burrows her face between her legs. Then it starts and she cannot help but scream. At first she yelps pseudo-shouts with her lip pinned beneath six teeth but soon hoarse barking becomes unavoidable. Enter him: a stubbly scowl, two slender hands, two eager boots. As he kicks at her rolling sides she is opened from within like a prison cell. Blood. Flesh. Bruise.

The boy and Timur are playing cards and I have to gesture the boy off my bed before collapsing onto it. I vaguely hope for answers in dreams before I fall into them.

Reverie. In the morning we wept because men had taken our food in the night and the horses had fled. Bereft of hope I had clawed at my face and sunk into the hungry snow until Daigo began to sing and a warmth shot through me like when we are eating pepper noodles at Tabito's. I drew myself up to watch him happily warbling and melting snow in his coned hat because sometimes you just have to cope.

Day 4 When I woke, the aged, ersatz nurse from the previous day was standing at the door of our cabin. "Would you mind looking in on Maria while I get some sleep?" I nod drunkenly, quite unaware of what he is talking about, and after he leaves I fall asleep once more. I wake around half an hour later and pull on my cold clothes. Timur and the boy have gone and although I cannot think where they may be. Their absence bothers me little. Maria must be the girl from the night before, though I see little reason for her needing constant care. Nevertheless I shuffle shoeless over to her door and tentatively enter. Christ. She is the colour of a dead dolphin and mumbling quietly through grazed lips. Her body is bent backwards. Her eyes are closed. "Hello?" I ask as if entering an abandoned house. She holds out her arm and it flails in the space between us before I take hold of her hand and take a seat on the edge of her filthy bed. I assume that any further attempts at engaging my writhing patient in even the smallest of talks would prove futile and so I resign myself to a dull few hours. Ten minutes later I decide I cannot remain unoccupied for several hours and so I write her story:

At school she had few friends. It was a big concrete comprehensive full of people unwilling to learn and teachers unable to teach.

Nobody understood her. She read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky but nothing post-war because it tainted the literature. She was dubbed "Sooka" and "Mudak" though she was convinced she was neither. Then, one summer, a new boy turns up; lanky, blonde, and constantly smoking. He gives her an American Novella and they fall in love. She gets pregnant, her parents get angry and she has to leave home. Out of guilt new boy gives her what little money he has earned from working a month in their local bookshop and points her towards his Grandma who leaves in the East. One day he will join her and they will create a perfect nuclear family. It has now been half an hour and she is quite clearly asleep. The thin man is not my father nor my jailer nor my employer so I don't have to do what he says so I leave. Our cabin is still empty so I sit on the bed. Just sit. Because this is a train journey and that should be all there is to do. I feel hungry but I don't eat, choosing instead to venture out to the balcony for a cigarette. Elena is there. "Oh, hello," she says, turning to face me. Her eyes are wide and awake and she looks elated though I cannot tell whether it is a result of my entrance. "You must come back to my cabin." She takes my wrist and leads me down the rocking corridor into her cabin. The child is sleeping and a young boy with a tatty Mohawk is kissing a girl with a shaved head. He is wearing clumsily bleached jeans and a large brown fleece and she has on only an oversized t-shirt which reads "KILL THE POOR". "Jan, this is Becker and this is Georgia," she explains nodding towards the boy and the girl respectively. The boy gives me a low greeting and the girl smiles. There is a small, plastic bag of pills on the bed and I understand why Elena is so blunt. It is hard to criticise someone for being a drug addict while they are running away from a broken home with a child that is the product of an incestuous rape. A glass of vodka is pushed into my hand and I settle down beside Elena. I drink it in one. And another. She is smiling at me like a sloppy dog. I hear Becker ranting at his girlfriend: "We can squat in Berlin. Break free the system." She sighs in response as if used to having to deal with his feral dreams. "We are going the wrong way," she points out. "We can squat in Berlin," he insists, his eyes drawing close. "Berlin." He is half asleep on her bare legs. I want to ask Elena about herself but I remember that I promised myself not to. "How was your day?" she asks quietly. "Desperately dull, and yours?" "I met with Becker and Georgia so it was not as bad as it could have been." I don't ask anymore.

She touches my hand. She turns off the light. I used to think that I was the smartest person in the world until I found the things I could not understand and the people that didn't understand me. I am still the centre of everything. Existence exists because I observe it, I am central to things in this respect which is a great responsibility, but I bear it well. I'm worried this isn't being explained brilliantly well when really it is a simple idea. I am the only fixed, objective truth within existence and its existence depends on my observation. Where does that leave you? I'm not wholly sure though if you are reading and understanding you are winning and you are as key to your existence as I am to mine. The inevitable result of me being the keystone of the universe is that people are a means to an end. The end is whatever I should wish it. This is why I have no qualms with sitting beside a seemingly pretty girl in the dark now despite some sort of commitment to another, the end can walk itself round. She is Elena and I don't know how old she is or who she reads or what her parents do, the other is Renate and she is twenty four and reads London and her mother is a nurse and her father is not there. She is not here now either but I am and it is my whims that must be satisfied because if they aren't I might die and then nothing would exist anymore. "Have you left anyone behind at home?" "Just Renate" "Who is Renate?" she asks, her worry made worse but drunkenness. "I'm not sure." Which is a lie. Renate is my girlfriend. It seems this is adequate explanation because she throws both arms around me and I decide that I have grown bored. "I'm just going out for a cigarette." I do have a cigarette outside. Then I go back to my cabin. The boy is sleeping and Timur is watching the ceiling, as he had been that first morning. "I picked you up some reading," he says, throwing a rolled-up magazine into my arms. Watchtower. Brilliant. "Thank you so much." I laugh, falling into bed. "Remember God's miracle of birth yesterday?" "Yes, life is beautiful," he says, smiling. "The woman is now so ill as to look dead. Why would God do that?" The smile slips off his face. "This world is not our home. It should not be overly attractive to us. One Peter Two Eleven: I beg you as sojourners and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts which war against the soul." "You can't believe that," I say, feeling the argument is so weak as to not require rebuttal. I fall asleep.

Day 5 I wake up late. Twelve in fact. Again the cabin is empty except for myself and last night's gift of a copy of Watchtower. I hate Jehovah's Witnesses. There is an article which attempts to reconcile God and suffering and its main points are: -Suffering keeps the world from becoming too attractive which it should be as it is not intended to be a home (as my companion pointed out). This does however imply that heaven is our true home which in turn implies that the immortal Adam and Eve would never

have reached their true homes had they not first succumbed to temptation. Devilishly confusing. -Suffering can bring out our best. This is a lie. I doubt the Holocaust brought out the best in anyone. -Suffering brings us closer to God. I would not walk halfway through a tunnel of barbed wire to be nearer a beautiful woman. At the bottom of the article there is a subheading which says "conclusion". It is not really a conclusion at all, more a test to see whether you have been convinced by the mirrors. Can we begin to see why a righteous and merciful God would allow suffering, even to the innocent? I'm sorry, no. I slowly make a cup of tea and survey the dirty sky, gun-metal grey clouds and frowning hills. Then I return to the article with a biro and a new found determination. The truth is in there somewhere. I spend half an hour ringing words to spell out a better message, I think it may have been what the author intended. It reads like this: We have been taught by a great host of intellectuals that God cannot exist. As with every teaching scenario, however, there are a number of pupils unwilling to learn or unable to grasp what is being offered because it is often easier not to. Just order society and sit, a happy wheel, within it. Not because God desires it but because you like people and because their company keeps you sane. I am satisfied and leave the magazine open on the bed for Timur. Where does he go with the boy so often? Perhaps they have made friends. Perhaps they visit Elena and Becker and Georgia. I hope they don't do drugs. I decide to escape onto the balcony as I will both find a friend there and quench my unrelenting addiction. The quenching of an unrelenting addiction is an oxymoron of course. I find no friend and quench nothing. I go to Elena's cabin and she is not there. I go to Maria's cabin and find her asleep, with the thin man's hands clutching at her mottled breasts. I go to my cabin and find Timur but no boy. "Where is the boy?" I ask. He does not answer. I watch him and see that he is rocking backwards and forwards. His hair is patchy and his eyes are red through and trained upon the old bible he is clutching. He is wearing trousers but no shirt and he is sweating. "What's wrong?" "My daughter is dead. Note in the night at Birobidzhan. Why would God do this, Jan?" All the time he speaks his eyes remain glued fast to the bible. I cannot respond. "WHY?" His voice is far louder than his bent double body. "This is not a test, this is not refinement, she was but a pilgrim too. Sojourner. What does that even mean, Jan? Tell me? Does this show faith has no rewards? Come, seize this ammunition. Publish it in a pamphlet. Tell the world." The train draws to a halt. Khabarovsk. Habarovsk 1. He walks bare foot out of the cabin and off the train. It is not his stop but I understand that he has little reason to continue. I imagine that he will become a tramp, begging on the streets of this lost town. Kopecks for lost faith. We start and stop again.

I don't know what to do now. He has left a book behind and I begin to read it: There once lived a hideously wealthy Tsar. He lived content within an arrogantly majestic castle that rose up into several bulbous minarets, piercing the dense shore of trees and sky to proclaim his unashamed opulence. Inward of the castle walls was the most beautiful garden in the entirety of that land. The garden was not limitless but perfect in its size and inhabitants and made mockery of the surrounding forest in the radiance of its pines and delicacy of its collection of Izbas. Beside the Izbas lay a lake as calm the castle towers and across from the lake was an orchard. The centrepiece of the King's orchard was a gnarled tree that bore faultless golden apples regardless of the season and so the Tsar had open to him all the wealth he could desire. One evening the Tsar returned from an amble in the garden to reveal that an apple had been taken from the tree and in his fury he ordered each of his guards to watch the orchard without rest until the culprit was apprehended. After several days of sleepless policing the guards reported to the King that they had discovered the thief and offered up to him a scarlet feather as evidence of the Firebird's guilt. "You are to go forth and bring to me the Firebird who has stolen my apples," the Tsar announced to his three sons. "Whoever should catch the bird shall take half my kingdom and become my heir." I never find out how the sons fare on the quest because the thin man enters. "Why have we stopped?" "We are at a station?" I reply, puzzled by his failure to grasp the relatively simple event. "It was supposed to be a passing through but we have been here over half an hour." I know we cannot have been here that long but as I glimpse Becker passing behind thin man to check our status I agree to go with thin man to do the same. We join a huddle of people beside the front carriage and the cause of the delay folds out before us; the body of a great Mongolian crushed beneath the steel beast, with wounds flapping like the gills of a trampled mushroom.

Epilogue. The journey was not about right or wrong. We are Aristotle's prisoners. Many sit at the mouth of the cave shouting ourselves hoarse, ripping our throats through with truth. "This is the real world, out here, out here," we cry, but still they sit in the shadows. It is laughable but I am too selfless to submit to temptation. Do I regret it? Yes. Sometimes you slap a man to wake him up and end up breaking his nose.

Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to Eclecticism E-zine. Happy Birthday to me! Ah...... I hope youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve enjoyed the special 2nd Anniversary Issue of Eclecticism E-zine. Prepare for the bizarre journey ahead as the e-zine enters into the realm of double-digits...... All constructive comments are appreciated e-mail them to:

eclecticism@westnet.com.au

THE THEME FOR THE NEXT ISSUE IS:

INANIMATE REANIMATE I command thee to have life! Oh, the deliciously-naughty stories I foresee with this theme. From 'Toy Story'-inspired high jinks to zombie-style citywide mayhem. If it wasn't meant to be alive, it is now!

10 ISSUTO E BE RELEASED OCTOBER 2009 www.eclecticzine.com

Have you read every issue of the Eclecticism E-zine? Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all available to download, for free, in the Back Issues section: http://www.eclecticzine.com/backissues.html

ISSUE ONE THEME: Horror CONTRIBUTORS: Lucas Aguirre & Bram Vanhaeren (Featured Artists), Glen Canning, Mariusz Pocztowski, Denis Dack, Mark McAuliffe, Brian G Ross, Craig Bezant, Codoban Mihai, Sarah Mitchell, Keith Nunes, Natalie JE Potts, & Eric Grayson.

ISSUE TWO THEME: Secrets CONTRIBUTORS: Brian Andrews, Janet Beard, Amanda le Bas de Plumetot, Mark McAuliffe, Brian G Ross, Catriona Annis, Tim Hamilton, Amy Mackiewicz, Ian C Smith, Dimitri Castrique, Talulah belle Lautrec-Nunes, & Rodier (Featured Artist).

ISSUE THREE THEME: Weather Extremities CONTRIBUTORS: Dianne Dean, Simon James, Ben Kooyman, Brian G Ross, Kyle Foley, Sarah Mitchell, Syd Monkhouse, Keith Nunes, Eril Riley, Brian Andrews, & Loish (Featured Artist).

ISSUE FOUR THEME: World/s of the Past or Future CONTRIBUTORS: Brian G Ross, Myra King, Simon Petrie, Julia Brannigan, Anton Ansford, Amy Mackiewicz, Sally Franicevich, Chris Major, Penny Davison, & Sofia E (Featured Artist).

ISSUE FIVE THEME: From Our Childhood CONTRIBUTORS: Mark McAuliffe, Peter Lingard, Lawrence Salani, Amy Mackiewicz, Syd Monkhouse, Keith Nunes, Ian C Smith, Les Wicks, Richard Butler, and Jessica Madden (Featured Artist).

ISSUE SIX THEME: Getting Away With It CONTRIBUTORS: Julia Brannigan, Louisa Davin, Dianne Dean, Kate Gordon, Simon James, Myra King, Tyson Young, Keith Nunes, Ian C Smith, Les Wicks, Clyde Grauke, Talulah Belle Lautrec-Nunes, Ilona Nelson, & Dave Burke (Featured Artist)

ISSUE SEVEN THEME: Twisted Fairy Tales CONTRIBUTORS: Rijn Collins, Jim Euclid, Amy Mackiewicz, Holly Painter, Simon Petrie, Susan Rodio, Stacey Roy, Deborah Sheldon, David Such, Pavelle Wesser, and Natalie Shau (Featured Artist).

ISSUE EIGHT THEME: Conspiracy CONTRIBUTORS: Dianne Dean, Jacqui Dent, Stefan Fergueca, Emma Furness, Alice Godwin, Clyde Grauke, Melissa Mercado, Nicholas Messenger, Keith Nunes, Peter Tonkin and Demitasse-Lover (Featured Artist)