Writecity 2014 15

Aberdeen City Libraries is proud to present this collection of creative writing.

The short stories, poems and other creative pieces gathered here were created by the participants and writers involved in our creative writing festive #WriteCity.

Funded by a grant from the National Lottery Awards for All Scotland, #WriteCity saw well established writers lead a total of 20 workshops throughout the City from September 2014 - February 2015. These ranged from senior pupils at our secondary schools through to local community groups as well as open sessions in some of our community libraries.

As you will see the pieces cover a variety of topics and styles yet all reflect the quality of creative writing produced thanks to the #WriteCity workshops. We very much hope that you will enjoy reading them.

With thanks to; National Lottery Awards For All Scotland Our #WriteCity Writers; Alan Bissett Sheena Blackhall Cathy Forde Alison Irvine Laura Lam Lynda Radley Olive Ritch Our Workshop participants; Aberdeen Grammar School Bridge of Don Academy Bucksburn Academy Cults Academy Harlaw Academy Kincorth Academy Oldmachar Academy North East Scotland College Northfield Academy St Machar Academy Torry Academy

shmuTRAIN SHMU Youth Journalism Group XdysleX Youth Group VSA Young Carers Cummings Park Community Flat TripleA Zone Youth LGBT+ Northfield Community Library Tillydrone Library & Learning Centre Torry Community Library

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Contents Snow Excerpt from The Art of Swimming Demolition of Fore Close, 1974 Aberdeen The Crystal Ball The Page Emily is a Proper Noun Silver Flask A Hole in the Soul Into the Silence Daydreaming Unnecessary Only Connect...

Vajrayana Descent into Madness Life’s Clichés Okay Dark Beach Uneven Parity Teaspoons and Black Cats Storr The Dragon of Lukovo Sacs à Main Cummings Park Community Flat Cummings Park Community Flat Cummings Park Community Flat Cummings Park Community Flat Journey to Where?

This is the Way Things Are The Hut in Corrie Etchacan Red Lipstick Short Story Idea Crystal Ball Dream Escape Just Remember The Sea of Life XdysleX Youth Group

Cathy Forde Lynda Radley Olive Ritch Alison Irvine Laura Lam Sheena Blackhall Alan Bissett Alex Anna Benjamin Emma B Emma L Grant Jamie Kevin Lynne Numa Paul Philip Polly Ruth Stuart Shayla Colin Pat Alison Donna Tasha Damilola Don Wells Yasmin Connor Fern Klaudia Holly Charles Petrie Zoe

4 6 10 11 12 13 14 17 21 23 28 33 39 41 46 49 51 60 61 66 68 71 74 75 75 75 75 76 77 79 80 80 81 81 82 82 83

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Snow

Cathy Forde

It had been in the forecast for days, but when the

point you can cast up. Parry with. Half in jest and

snowfall actually came it took the city by surprise,

wholly in earnest:

whispering down just in time for Friday rushhour.

Nine thousand dinners to nil, honey-pie.

Gridlocking the weekend commute. So they said.

Or is that just me?

I didn't notice it to be honest. Busy, as usual, in the kitchen, I was. Only aware that the hush and

Anyway, the night of the snow I was preparing

stealth of giant confetti flakes had blanketed the

Charlie's meat and two veg as per. Nine-thousand

flowerbeds and the garden path thick and white

and thirty six...

when Charlie was framed in the open doorway.

'Aye, aye, aye, ‘his sigh trailed behind him as left

'Bloody hell, some drive that. ‘He stomped beards

the kitchen. He full-stopped it with the dull metal

of snow from the tips of his shoes, whinnying to

deposit of the car keys shifted from his pocket to

let me know he was feeling the cold.

the hook I'd made him buy.

'Shut that, will you.' I told him, and when he didn't

I wasn't expecting to see hide nor hair of him

do it fast enough I left whatever I was stirring to

again till I called him through to eat. What

slam the door behind him.

normally happens is I do it once, - sing-song civil

'Only what you'd do to me,' I reminded him. This

enough: 'Char-lee...’ - then have to holler him in

was before he could put his oar in about my tone:

like a fish-wife with a grudge when he doesn't

Lovely to see you too, my sweetness. Which he

respond. Second time. Third time. Asleep you

would have done. Point made I went back to

see he falls in front of the news. I cast that up

making his dinner.

too:

I always am when Charlie comes in from work. Or

All you have to do is sit down and eat what's

else I've got it left ready for him, with written

been made for you when it's ready, and you can't

instructions. Nine thousand hot meals and

even do me the courtesy of that.

counting we calculated once in the kind of

But this night, instead of changing straight into his

exercise couples like us pursue just out of

house duds and slippers, Charlie came back into

interest. Maybe in front of the kids. Or when

the kitchen.

there's pals round for supper. Ones of our

'Is there time to post this?' Still in his coat, letter

vintage, of course. With no scrap of illusion left

that had been sitting all week in one hand, big

about the bride or groom they marched down the

winter boots in the other, his question wasn't

aisle miraculously morphing into the husband or

really a question. Bending over to pull on his

wife they hoped they'd mould.

boots I knew he was grinning.

Three hundred and sixty five days minus holidays

'The snow might not lie,' he said, but like he was

multiplied by...How many years? Let's call it

urging himself rather than talking to me. I

thirty...

watched him, drawing his laces up, fumbling to

Starts off convivial, a diversion like that, before

knot them. Before he stood up he pulled on his

you end up using what you've totted up to prove a

bobble hat. Tugged the flaps down over his ears

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so hard he pulled the wool over his eyes. 'Literally

We both turned at the same moment, frozen in

'- as an I used to kid wee Charlie when he did

the full-beam dazzle of a sidewinding estate car.

exactly the same.

Brakes biting for traction, finding none as front

'Right then.' The gloves were on now and Charlie

passenger wheel glanced the kerb far too close

banged them together before he turned the door

for comfort

sneck.

'Jesus watch yourself, Annie.' Charlie's arms

'Look at all that,' he said, head poked out the

were round me, shoving me backwards into the

door-crack he'd opened hardly widely enough for

nearest hedge putting himself between me and

the rest of himself.

the car that was slewing like a pinball on a

'Will I come with you, Charlie? 'I said.

skidpan to the kerb on the other side of the street.

He'd to pull me upright out the bush, one hand

The snow had stopped falling when we set off

hauling me to my feet, the other brushing clumps

walking. It didn't feel cold, although my breath

of snow from my face, twigs from my head. The

steamed my words grey when I remarked. 'It's so

skidding car long gone.

bright.'

'You all right there missus?'

Underfoot, the soft fluff squeaked, yielding to our

He patted at the side of my hair, straightened my

boots.

hat. All with one clumsy gloved hand, because

'Like talcum powder, 'I said. 'Or glittery royal

the other was still clasping mine. He kept it like

icing.'

that as we took into the first side-street. A shortcut

Charlie chuckled. Whispered. 'We never get to

home.

walk on stuff like this any more.'

It led us up a hill, steep enough to make us reach

We reached the post-box, then carried on without

into our lungs with each foot-trudge, and pause

discussing why or why not, marking four fresh

for a gasp at the top. You could see our house at

parallel tracks on the pavement. He hummed.

the foot of the final descent of our walk, porch-

Walking in the air. His deep voice. I took deep

light glowing, meal cooked and ready in the warm

breaths. Made my shoulders drop and slacken

kitchen, table set. And all that separated by a

with each one. We didn't pass another soul the

private unmarked piste.

whole length of the white carpet we walked. Arms

I was running before I unclasped from Charlie's

by our sides, brushing sleeve to sleeve the odd

hand, only letting go when he followed me. And

time. Must have been nearly a mile we'd gone,

then we were zig-zagging in and out of each

and in my head I was second guessing whether

other's path, looping figures of eight all the way to

or not he'd scoff if I suggested 'It's like this

the bottom of the hill. Arms outstretched. Being

snowfall was sent down for us,' when the whine

planes. Contrails of joy trailing behind us. Two old

of a tyres spinning interrupted the fluid pace we'd

fools turned back into children in the gift of the

found.

virgin snow.

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Lynda Radley This is an excerpt from The Art of Swimming which is a solo performance about Mercedes Gleitze, the first British woman to swim the English Channel. I wrote and performed it. It was directed by Tom Creed for Playgroup and contained original music on typewriter and accordion by Michael John McCarthy. The full text is published by Oberon in The Oberon Anthology of Contemporary Irish Plays.

I

bring

out

a

rope

knotted

myself to the edge of my capabilities,

throughout at small equal intervals.

beyond what is reasonable.

(The sound of breathing and the

But I don’t know how long I can keep

sea)

something

this feeling up, and now this misty rain

yourself

has swept down from nowhere… They

standing on a beach at two o’ clock in

ask me if I’m sure. I say, ‘This is the

the morning and realising that you are

weather we’ve got. It’s neap tide. It’s

about to take your clothes off and wade

calm. The currents are good. It’s

in, but particularly in October, on the

already October. We need to go now

north coast of France. I won’t put my

because soon it’s going to be too cold

feet down again for many hours, but

again, and I can’t wait till next year.’

There

unnatural

putting

my

is

about

feet

always finding

down

will

mean

success.

‘I know the way’, I think,’ I’ve traced it seven times before’. And the porridge I

I don’t survey the vista, or scan the

had for supper last night tugs at my

horizon or any of that because it’s pitch

stomach and say, ‘’Not quite’.

black and there’s a heavy drizzle falling. From my vantage there’s no

At 2.55 am I begin.

way to tell where the sky ends and the I step onto the cloth and into the sea begins. map.

I feel ready. For the first time in all of

There’s nobody to see me off: Mr Allan

my attempts I am going to allow myself -the guide in charge of charting the to go further than is actually safe for course- and the fisherman -who will me to go. I feel prepared to push

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steer it- are both on board the boat. I

checking status, giving pep talks. I’m in

gave the signal for Allan to start the

my head, going over each of my seven

clock and walk in; the most unnaturally

previous attempts, remembering what

natural thing I know to do.

went wrong, agonising over stupid mistakes and feeling the weight of

I push the rope through my hands, a knot at a time.

The first few hours are difficult. There’s

exhausted disappointment. ‘Remember to pace yourself or you will get too tired by the end.’ ‘Don’t allow the currents to beat you, swim through the waves’ .’If

always a gnawing anxious feeling and that isn’t helped by the strong currents off the French coast. They’ve been my downfall when I’ve tried swimming in the other direction. Sometimes it’s like swimming but standing still. You can be five hundred yards from shore and find it impossible to make it. Or you can be swept towards Belgium, or south towards Brittany. Swimming in the opposite direction I’m trying to use

the weather changes the weather changes, there’s nothing you can…’

Dry mouth, no hunger, can actually hear the clock ticking even though Allan’s got the stopwatch on the boat.

Last year Gertrude Ederle came over from America and became The First Woman. She did it in fourteen hours thirty-nine

minutes

on

a

second

attempt, and she was only nineteen.

these tides to my advantage but it means I have to push hard from the

And I catch myself in these moments:

beginning. I don’t like going out strong.

‘Thinking like this isn’t going to help.

The more you agonise the more likely

It’s like being back in those early days of training in the Thames. I’m not really in my body. I’m not travelling from limb to limb and from organ to organ,

you are to make the same mistakes all over again, or different ones, and you won’t even see them coming because you’ll be too busy failing.’

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At intervals Allan allows me to catch up

beginning to invade my marrow. I need

to the boat. He bends over the side

to sprint to bring my temperature back

muttering

and

up. ‘Take it easy.’ ‘You can do this.’

instructions. Careful not to disqualify

‘Just one last concentrated push that’s

me by touching me, he throws me

all you need.’ ‘Stoke, pull, stroke…’ I

grapes and honey, or strong tea, or

am so wrapped up in an anxious

cocoa. Stretching out on my back, I

attempt to compose myself that I don’t

feed like some performing seal.

I

hear the fisherman’s signal or the

struggle to push the liquids down. I feel

shouts from the guide boat. I lift my

no hunger but I know I need to eat. I

head to breathe and from out of the

don’t usually taste anything but I feel

rain there’s the prow of a steamer only

the warmth and I feel the food, feel

five feet away. I stop. (I drop the rope)

what it does.

I barely remember to tread water and I

times

and

tides

swallow a gulp full of the Channel, but The rain seems to be closing in around me. I no longer have any sense of where I’ve swum from and where

somehow it passes me by, just. Its swell knocks me backwards. I shout, ‘I’m alright’ and start swimming again.

swimming to. I’m in the middle of nowhere and it seems like the most

I begin again to pull the rope

ridiculous thing in the world. The rain

through my hands.

falls heavier. An ambivalent dawn is breaking.

I’m losing a lot of fluid. The sea is salty and my sweat is salty and it’s mixed

Its light now and I do begin to slow and

with the lard and Vaseline on my skin.

I do begin to hurt as I knew I would. My

In the shipping lanes it’s choppy and I

arms have gone completely numb. The

begin to feel sick. I swim through what

water temperature is dropping. My

seems like a universe of jellyfish, trying

lungs are burning and the cold is

not to hold my breath with fear. One of

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them stings me on my left calf. It doesn’t hurt, which is to say the cold

(Singing)

hurts more. I feel like a machine. I feel

Show me the way to go home

out of control.

Show me the way to go home Show me the way to go

And then I am suddenly aware of the presence of something else out there besides

myself.

It’s

a

sound,

or

sounds. At first I think I’m hallucinating and then I realise that it’s coming from the guide boat. They must have brought a gramophone on board and now they’ve wound it up for this final

Show me the way to go Show me the way Show me the way Show me Show me Show Show Show

stretch.

The last knot has passed through (I sing)

my hands.

Show me the way to go home.

I’m tired and I want to go to bed.

I had a little drink about an hour an ago And it’s gone right to my head.

When I crawl up the beach I don’t feel anything but relief. Fifteen hours and fifteen minutes. I have just become the first British woman to swim the English

I pick up speed. I shift gears from breaststroke to over-arm and I begin

Channel. I collapse and can’t be woken for two hours. It’s a dreamless sleep.

the sprint towards the shore which I can just about make out in the distance.

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Demolition of Fore Close, 1974

Olive Ritch

The imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth.

(Genesis, 8:21)

Sliced walls and fallen roofs leave sealed rooms open to the imagination of onlookers gawping at the empty homes laid bare to the sky.

Unlike Pompeii, there is no Apocryphal fire, no slow flow of lava, only the rattle of rubble ordered by city-planners – developers – and the black, black oil. Turned out, Lottie and her neighbours stand together on the grey pavement, silent (for there’s nothing more to say), but the lips of reporters talk mischief about the folk of Fore Close, Old Torry.

On tomorrow’s news, Lottie turns her back.

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Aberdeen

Alison Irvine

Aberdeen you are my search for a cashpoint after my train rolls in on the eve of the referendum. You are the slick shopping centre with escalators and eateries. You are the taxi queue and the ride out to the school, with the clock ticking and the meter whirring.

You are a roomful of teenagers in blazers on the cusp of voting. You are the photographs I take out of the wallet and spread over a table. Teenagers writing quietly, heads bent, pens at it. You are fifteen minutes of sighs, narrowed eyes, pauses in which to think. And you are words. Words that belong to the teenagers in blazers on the cusp of voting.

You are my librarian companion, who accompanies me on the bus, down wet streets, takes my suitcase and says she’ll meet me in the library.

You are oil, boats, granite, Aberdeen FC, everything I know of Aberdeen. The girl in the DM boots I met on a drama course in London. The friend called Biff of a friend called Stef. The sharp air. The north sea. The beef.

You are the room in a library of doors and corridors and collapsible tables. You are the teenagers who write and tell stories, who also choose photographs and write carefully and tenderly.

Aberdeen when we finish you are deeply dark. You glisten. Your damp air shines in headlights. My librarian companion tells me it’s the sea haar. To me it’s romantic, ethereal, strange. To her it’s a shame we cannot see her city. We are walking amidst a mist. A mist that seems as if it would disappear your hand if you held it too far from your body. Clothes blackened and greyed by the dark and the damp. The harbour and the boats somewhere over there through the mist. But for the sea haar I would see them. I would like to see them.

You are the train journey out of the haar, home. The click of ring pulls on the cans of the men whose shifts are finished. You are their holdalls and my suitcase, you are the dark, escorting us home.

You are my children with covers pulled to their chins, asleep, a day gone to bed without their mum, their mum gone to work with teenagers, some of whom in their blazers and shirt sleeves will be off to vote the next day.

Aberdeen, you are my adventure, my dash across the country, my big day out. Thank you. City brooding in black air. City not yielding up its boats yet, to my eyes anyway.

City whose teenagers are growing. Whose teenagers have voted. And written. Voted and written.

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The Crystal Ball

Laura Lam

One of the activities I did at most of the workshops for #WriteCity was to bring in some objects and ask students to write about them for twenty minutes or so. I’d bring in things like an old key, a spanner, 3D glasses, and a crystal ball. Over a few of the workshops, I wrote a short snippet about a fortune teller, inspired by the crystal ball, which I brought to every workshop. I wrote longer bits in other workshops, but I didn’t like the direction it took, but feel the opening remains solid.

The Crystal Ball By Laura Lam Her sister told her that the fortune teller was magic, but Cassandra thought that was rubbish.

Over the years, Cassandra had seen palm readers and fortune tellers in their quaint, old-fashioned wagons camped out next to some tourist trap. In Paris, in London, in Newcastle. Painted bright green and yellow, they promised to tell your future and your fate.

This trailer, on the other hand, looked like it’d smash into kindling at the first sign of a strong wind.

“No, I’m serious,” her sister had said. “She saw things no human could possibly know about me. Not even you.”

Cassandra knocked on the door. No one answered, but the door opened.

Inside she saw only darkness.

“Good trick,” Cassandra muttered, even as her stomach fluttered. As soon as she entered, the door swung shut behind her. She tried the door handle, but it didn’t turn.

“Let me out!” She fumbled in her purse and found the pepper spray attached to her keyring, holding it out with a shaky hand.

“Hello?” Her voice came out high and hysteric.

A blue glow appeared, brightening the room. The interior of the trailer was as ramshackle as the outside—the walls waterstained, exposed insulation, fiberglass like candy floss in the corner.

A woman sat at a plastic table, and the blue light emanated from the crystal ball before her. The woman looked nothing like any fortune teller Cassandra had ever seen. Her hair was long and straight, ratty at the ends. She wore no make up on her lined face. She wore simple khakis and a t-shirt with a barn owl cocking its head to one side.

“Sit,” she said, “And I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

- Northfield Library, 15 September 2014

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The Page

Sheena Blackhall

the page is listeningopen your heart to it paper will not judge will not begrudge you a moment of its time

the page is listeningempty your mind in it no need to clock in, clock out

it is always ready to turn a new leaf

lift your pen and touch it

it'll open its ear like a flower

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Emily is a Proper Noun Oh, and she’d also done a horror film. Emily McKay: JANE MANSON. She’d had to kill a guy by driving a pipe into his mouth and through the back of his head. The plot: five friends had all come back from uni to their hometown, brimming with bonhomie, until they realised a murderer was waiting to take revenge on them for watching his brother die from an ecstacy pill at a party. Emily personally hadn’t felt this warranted a killing spree – they hadn’t even given the brother the pill! – had said as much during the script reading. The director, in his Offspring hoodie and scraggly ginger beard, had felt ‘strongly’ that the brother’s death was a ‘moral issue’, that the brother’s death was ‘all our brothers’ deaths’, and had glared at Emily in a way that suggested he was already regretting casting her.

Still, it’d been a feature film.

Now here she was, in Aberdeen, in a hot, airless room, in a university teaching block, choreographing a teen musical called Stags, watching thirty-eight youths yawning their way into a warm-up while her Uncle Jim’s funeral happened in Perth (‘You simply have to take the Aberdeen job, darling. Jim would understand.’) and everyone else she knew was partying at the Edinburgh Fringe.

‘Focus, everyone,’ Emily said, clapping her hands, as Helen, the director, paced behind her, pen stuck into a hair bun, ‘Eyes front. And up!’ (clap) ‘stretch!’ (clap) ‘right!’ (clap) ‘front!’

Jim would understand.

A menagerie: jerky, earnest, flowing, stiff. Limbs and neck rolls, jazz hands, thigh-stretches. The shy, lonely girls whose parents were lovers of Chekhov and sending their kids away for a fortnight. The divas-in-training, elaborate curls yanked into scrunchees, eyes on Hollywood and mouths tightening when Emily ticked them off for lateness. The row of small, strange boys, from a factory of small, strange boys, fitted with various strains of awkwardness. Gordon, the writer of Stags, frequently had to go over to them to explain why, in a teen musical about the wonders of the natural kingdom, a line like, ‘Beyaatch, you gonna get down on yo knees and beggggg!’ was probably not going to work Helen stalked the edge of the warm-up, at the fringe of limbs, with a pantherlike aspect. Gordon whispered something to her and she nodded, then headed for Emily. Emily stiffened. She liked

Alan Bissett Helen just fine but was wary of directors. Even their benevolence felt, somehow, stage-managed.

‘Babes,’ said Helen, looking down her schedule.

‘What d’ya want?’ said Emily, in a Noo Yoik accent, throwing some West Side shapes with her hands.

‘Lemme tell ya,’ said Helen, rolling with it, ‘I want a cwuppa coffee and a bagel. And I need you to bring the Stag Death Dance in by this afternoon.

Dat okay witchoo?’

‘Shoa,’ said Emily.

Helen went back into her clipped, Home Counties accent: ‘And if you could tighten up the Hunters Shanty, that’d be great too.’

‘Those boys,’ Emily sighed.

Helen clutched her clipboard, Brooklyned out again: ‘I know, huh? What we gonna do?’

‘Want me to wack em, boss?’

Helen winked. ‘Wait til after the show.’ Then she went back over to Gordon, whose hairy bulk was leaning over the script, and whispered something in return. He frowned and scratched at a shirt that he’d been wearing two days in a row. Emily had deoderised her own socks that morning.

Everyone was down to the final items in their suitcases. She took out her phone to do a quick Google search for laundrettes and noticed another text from Matt: I have to wait 1 week for no reply?? Sorry hun i like u and thought we had a really good date but this hot and cold thing gets to me. I mean its not like ive no 1 else to go out with know what I mean? Dont leave me hanging emily its not fair.

One date. One date. She felt her lungs expand and hold the air – steely as cylinders – then release it as one of the small, strange boys approached.

‘Yes?’ she said, stuffing the phone back into her bag.

‘You know in the Village Ceilidih dance?’ he said, head wavering to one side, not making eye contact. None of the boys ever made eye contact with her. ‘Should I fire my gun?’

‘What for?’

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‘To start off the dance.’ He made a gun shape with his fingers. ‘You know, like, I now declare this ceilidh open. P-chow!’

He even reloaded.

She blinked and all thirteen years of him turned into a middle-aged man in his boxer shorts watching cartoons through a rank smell.

‘Run that one past Helen, okay?’ Emily said, and he shuffled towards the director with his hand up, as though he were needing to pee. She turned back to the rows of lycra-clad girls and shapeless, t-shirted boys, who were shaking it out to Florence and the Machine and then, for no real reason, barked, ‘Come on, you lot! Come on!’ and punched her fist into her hand. She checked her phone again. One from her pal Lucy at the Edinburgh Fringe and one from her mother: Great show at the Pleasance, Em, you’d have loved it! Just saw Hugh Grant. Swear.

Drinks daquoris, who knew??

Lovely testimonial from the minister. Very moving. Everyone asking for you xx Through the window, beyond the bobbing forest of arms, Emily saw Aberdeen Harbour: ships roaming gigantically, sunshine, and the infinite blue calm of the North Sea. * For a Tango advert she’d had half an hour’s notice and was told to turn up with black underwear and orange lipstick. ‘Orange lipstick?’ she’d said to the casting director who’d phoned, ‘At half an hour’s notice?’ ‘Yeah,’ he’d said. She could hear the tapping of keys down the line.

‘Just let me pick it out from between the mauve and the mint green,’ she’d said sarcastically.

‘Great,’ he’d said, ‘Don’t forget the black bra.’ * The fridge hummed. The fridge made a point of humming. It had been installed, most likely, in 1972, encapsulating the institutional, breezeblock, Soviet-prison atmosphere of the kitchen.

Halls of Residence. Function: halls, where one resided. No fancy marketing name could make this into anything other than a space where people ate, slept and showered. The most significant feature in the room was a fire extinguisher.

There were seven of them round a tiny table, upon which plastic cups and copies of the script fought for dominance. Gordon poured more wine from the box, tipping its reluctant mouth, then

offered her the pale yellow dregs: ‘Emily?’

‘Cheers.’ The chaperones had joined them – production meetings were late-night, boozy affairs, through which gossip sloshed – and Petra, head chaperone, was detailing for Helen the vagaries of the kids’ affairs.

‘Two of the dancers have had a wee tiff,’ Petra mused, before shrugging it off, ‘About straighteners. Be fine by morning.’

‘So long as they can still be stags,’ Helen said flatly, sipping her wine, ‘They can claw each others’ eyes out, for all I care.’

‘Wee Claire was crying earlier. Homesick.’

‘So long as she can still be a stag,’ Helen said, more loudly.

‘And Trudi’s staying up far too late at nights.’

‘Yeah, she looked really tired in rehearsals today,’ Emily chipped in, mainly because she hadn’t said anything for a while and didn’t want anyone to think she was pissed.

Helen rose suddenly, thumped the table and roared, ‘So long as she can still be a stag!’ and all of them cackled. The laughter oxygenated Helen, who raised her hands in the air, eyes wide. ‘I want tragic young girls DYING for the cause of this musical!’ Then she crumped theatrically and held her head and pretended to weep. ‘How many days til we open?’

‘Two,’ Emily said.

‘Is electro shock-therapy illegal?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Petra, ‘But we could just slap them about?’

‘Yes!’ said Helen, straightening up sharply, ‘Tomorrow, after the warm-up? The slapping!’ * Emily had been the hands in a public health information film about breast cancer, her fingers roaming concernedly over her jumper. She’d been in a pop video for a song called ‘On It!’, wearing a ra-ra skirt, hair in bunches, bouncing on a trampoline while playing a toy guitar. This was the shoot on which Emily had become a smoker, shivering in a back alley between takes with the crew, eating sugar mice the Key Grip had bought for them. She’d kissed him at the launch party. Married. Usual.

And so the ‘production meeting’ progressed, from the arrangements for the get-in, tech and dress rehearsal, to the possible changing of key during one of the songs, and finally to a slow-motion

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boxing bout between two of the chaperones, which the rest of them cheered from the sidelines like drunks. During round two, Emily’s phone beeped: WTF? U didnt even reply to my last text so is this me being punished yeah? Lol. Look I didnt mean to snap at u emily just that ive been doing a lot of thinking and ive decided ud b someone id really want to hang out with more. But how are we supposed to do that if u dont reply to my texts lol?

Gordon raised his eyebrows at her and she nodded and crossed the room to a newly-opened box of wine. Something about the way she did so – a downcast eye, a revealing sigh – made Gordon furrow his forhead and say, ‘Everything alright?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, but she couldn’t stop it. It came clawing out of her mouth. ‘Just. Well. It’s my uncle’s funeral today.’

Gordon handed her the plastic glass of wine.

‘And you can’t be there because of this show.’

She sipped at the kind of cheap wine she used to drink as an acting undergrad, 18 and sloshing over in the student union with ambition and belief.

‘That’s crappy,’ he said, ‘But-’ ‘That’s theatre?’

He gave a you-know-it shrug. ‘It’s my son’s birthday tomorrow. I’m not there.’ He pointed over at Helen, who was drunkenly telling Petra an elaborate story about the time she’d had the ‘insane misfortune’ to direct a famous, cokeaddled soap star. ‘She told me last week she’s never been able to hold down a relationship.

Petra had a huge falling-out with her husband last night.’ Gordon rubbed at his eyes then raised his plastic glass. ‘Here’s to missing birthdays, weddings and anniversaries. Forever and ever.

Amen.’

‘Amen.’

Plastic rims touched before she gulped the wine, all of it, and felt it burn.

‘But you know what?’ Gordon said, swilling the tumbler, ‘For now. We’ve got each other.’

‘Please,’ he said, and she placed his glass under the box, suddenly bursting with happiness. * She’d been in a short film called ‘Starlet’, which opened with a breathless paparrazi chase, before it had all gone Black Swan and a doppelganger had begun taunting her by leaving bitter almonds on her dresser, a symbol, apparently, that the doppelganger was sleeping with the Starlet’s boyfriend. Or was she?

Emily had gone to the gym every day for three weeks to prepare for the part. ‘Starlet’ was shown once at a short film festival in Glasgow. * In bed that night – with the late summer-sun becoming weak and dark and starlings chirruping on the campus – she phoned her mother. Her mother wept. Emily wept. Her Uncle had been a good man, kind and patient. He’d helped fund Emily’s acting degree. Her mother reminded Emily of the shows she used to put on in the family living room when she was nine, the songs, the routines, the impressions of celebrities. Emily asked her mother to stop, the sweetness of it all rising in her throat and choking her, and her mother said, ‘You did the right thing, honey. He’d have been furious if you’d missed your first paid choreography gig just to come to his funeral.’

When the call was finished the phone slid down her chest and she shook her head and stared up at the ceiling. She saw teenage girls dressed as stags pirouetting with perfect grace. She saw the gleeful faces of the cast as the curtain fell, hugging and squealing, ‘We did it! We did it!’ She saw a delighted theatre full of clapping mothers, fathers, brothers, sister, cousins, aunties.

Uncles.

Emily’s phone beeped. She picked it up to see another text from Matt: Why you ignoring me babes?? Im starting to think this ‘show’ is just an excuse! Just be honest with me and tell me if you want to see me more or not cos im fed up with this silence. I think you owe me that emily!!!

She texted: Emily is a proper noun.

She looked at him and smiled.

‘We’ve got two days to bring this ship into the harbour, Emily. Let’s make it great.’

Then she pressed send, turned off her phone, and lay down to go to sleep.

‘More wine?’ she said.

16 | P a g e

Silver Flask

Alex

Two o’clock

blouse, skirt and coat but she had to get

She was standing over the River Clyde in

away from the office. Not surprising, with

Glasgow. On a typical day, she would be sat

Christmas just having passed: a period of

at her desk perched over her computer at this

intense, confined exposure to friends and

time or with her phone balanced between her

family followed by the New Year, a time when

shoulder and ear, files splayed across her

one is encouraged to start afresh. Her firm,

room, as she dealt with one client’s legal

which specialised in Family and Divorce law,

matters and another’s paperwork. So much

was overflowing with martial and familial

was it her routine to skip lunch and only have

problems, and as well as dealing with

a drink that the stodgy, cloying pasta she had

commercial matters she was responsible for

grabbed from Costa made her feel

taking on a whole range of these divorce

somewhat nauseous; she threw the almost

cases. This was a duty she had been given

full packet into a nearby dog poo bin. As she

by the senior partner- Andrew Thorne.

noticed too late, that it was over filled and unlikely to have been emptied in weeks, the

Four o’ clock: two missed calls from

packet stuck to the frosty exterior, the artificial

Andrew Thorne

tomato sauce stark and red against the icy bin.

Thorne undoubtedly knew what he was doing. He had been at the firm for almost ten

Three o’ clock

years and held the most superior position.

It was a bitterly cold, winter afternoon; she

Generally, it wasn’t in his job description to

wrapped her long camel coat around her

recruit new employees and train them, but for

slender body and buried her hands deep into

a year and six months he was the one who

her pockets holding on to the contents within.

had given her the guidance she needed when

She wasn’t dressed for the weather in a mere

she started at Plenderleath. In regards to his 17 | P a g e

teaching style, he very much took the view

As she continued to wonder along the frosty

that one can only learn by being exposed to a

river bank, attempting to focus on anything

situation in which one either rises to the

but her work life, her mind tracked back to

challenge or falls short, and must then deal

memories of her childhood in this part of

with the consequences of the failure.

Glasgow; those short January days when

Plastered on his wall were reminders to

she’d hurry back from school, wrap warmly in

himself and everybody who entered his

her thick blue jacket and woollen gloves and

office- lawyers and clients alike- that life

run straight to the river, sledge in hand.

wasn’t fair and hard work was essential.

There, she’d race her sister down the slushy

Every morning when he came in he would

stone river banks coated with that

read these out to himself and everyday he

combination of rain and snow that made for

worked tirelessly. Yet part of her believed his

the perfect slides. Of course, with Glasgow

mantra did not extend to her. Despite her

being one of the rainiest cities in Britain, the

having worked at Plenderleath for over two

snow and frost never lasted for long, but in

years, he still continued to land work that

those final days of slush her dad, whenever

didn’t necessarily relate to her job type; it was

he wasn’t at the firm (which wasn’t often),

as though he wanted her to remain busier

would sometimes drive them to the furthest

than everyone else. This past week

reaches of the river where the last patches of

especially, with all of the divorces coming

slush would cling to the sloping bank. At this

through, she had been unable to go home

point the sun would slink lower in the sky and

until ten o’ clock each night. With the amount

as the temperature dropped a thin sheet of

of paper work he had personally delivered to

ice would form over the slush. This allowed

her, she felt she had been singled out.

the three of them to pick up speed, especially when they used their combined weight,

Five o’clock: four missed calls from

before jumping off at the very end of the

Andrew Thorne

slope to avoid plunging into the freezing, murky water.

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had drunk its entire contents. Almost on cue, Seven o’ clock: six missed calls from

her phone shuddered in her pocket.

Andrew Thorne The winter sun was beginning to set and all

Nine o’ clock: six missed call from Andrew

became submerged in a dull twilight. That is,

Thorne

with the exception of a few rays of sun that had managed to filter through the trees

She didn’t have designated hours for breaks,

above, and fell onto the water. As she

and a lot of the time she chose to remain in

observed their path through the sparse

the office because she had so much to get

boughs she noticed how the river remained

through. Always, in the back of her mind she

impenetrably dark, and the rays of sun

suspected this would please Throne, bearing

bounced back into the air like they were

in mind his mantra was- work hard, always,

repelled by what lay beneath the surface. In

but also she knew that he worried about her.

contrast, she felt pulled towards the water

Whenever she left the firm during contracted

edge and began to clamber down the banks

hours, within at least thirty minutes she would

of the river, as though that forgotten child

receive a phone call from him and she would

again, unable to resist the urge to be closer to

be expected to answer immediately. Of

the water. What drew her nearer? Was it

course, she was well aware that his treatment

melancholy, or the mysteriousness of it all?

of her was not ordinary, if anything, it was

When she got to a particularly steep part of

invasive of her personal life and could be

the bank, she realised she was going to have

considered harassment but she knew why he

to embrace her inner child fully and scoot

did it.

down the steep embankment on her bottom, but as she placed her hands down to steady

Ten o’clock: 9 missed calls from Andrew

herself- a soft chink of metal hitting the

Thorne

ground whistled through the air. The silver flask she had been holding was empty; she 19 | P a g e

She reached for her phone and slid it back

days. But when it turned eleven o’ clock and

into her pocket, it flashed as she turned it off,

only silence filled the air her mother gently

making her suddenly aware of how dark it

pulled her daughter’s tiny delicate face away

had got. No longer was there a distinction

from the letter flap and carried her off to bed.

between the grey water and the bleak sky.

Not even the ice lined bank looked defined in

11 o’ clock: 2014

the distance. It all seemed to merge together.

It was as though it was even getting darker in

It was ten years ago to this day that he was

her head. As she peered off into the tenebrific

last seen by Andrew Thorne, his colleague

distance, she could only just make out the

and close friend, leaving work. He was last

best sledging sight, the same place where it

sighted wearing all but his work attire and a

happened.

thin camel parka and so it is unlikely that he

11 o ‘clock: 2004.

had not intended to go home. He was a

It was one of those slushy days, the last day

known alcoholic and whilst it was never

of the year they had predicted, and her dad

raised as an issue that affected his career or

had promised to take her out to the river. She

home life, we are told that he carried a silver

was ready sitting crossed legged at the door,

flask with him at all times from which he

her sledge balanced on her knee peering

continuously sipped alcohol throughout the

through the letter box waiting expectantly to

day. His phone had been turned off, but was

hear the tap of his heeled work shoes against

used to identify his body. Official scene of

the pavement as he walked briskly to meet

death: South bank, the River Clyde, Glasgow.

his daughter. He hadn’t driven to work that

Cause of death: accident, thought to have

day, so part of her was prepared for him to be

slipped and fallen, drunk and unaware of his

later than he said and for the footsteps to

fatal mis-step. Family left behind: wife and

appear heavier as they usually did on such

two daughters.

20 | P a g e

A Hole in the Soul

Anna

It was shoes that fascinated him. Not because he yearned to strut in a pair of stilettoes – however interesting they were. Not because he owned an array of shoes himself – he didn’t. Not because of the lack of footwear belonging to his rather eccentric parents – a great deal of headbands could be sold for some foot protection in his opinion. Not even because of his intrigue as to the reasons that particular footwear was chosen by a particular person – although this did appear very telling of an individual’s thoughts. No, it was because feet tended to be in his line of vision for the large majority of the time. Quiet, isolated, scared: it was easier for him to take an interest in other people than himself and shoes seemed to be the only part of anyone’s appearance at which he could bring himself to look.

Solomon River Driver: a name so close to being too weird. Although Solomon found comfort in the fact that he hadn’t been named something along the lines of Windsong Moonshine Driver, his middle name was almost enough to fling him into a pool of three eyed, rainbow rabbits and walking lampshades: a fantastic accompaniment to the torrent of torment he would surely receive. His name was a reflection of the personalities of his parents and even then it was an understatement. They were the type of people who strolled around the bungalow often missing several items of tie-dye clothing. The lack of bacon and excess of the colour green in their lives were travesties to Solomon who had an addiction or, as he liked to say, “a keen liking” for the former. However, spontaneous and excessive yoga was the most vexing idiosyncrasy that they had because it seemed to spill over everywhere; the breakfast table was his father’s most favoured perch for a despicable array of unsightly positions and the driveway served as a “completely appropriate and in every way okay” place for his mother to stretch. The pair formed a charming combination of almost iridescently pale legs and bodies drenched in the putrid stench of sweat. These habits meant that their own son was tarnished by the wake of their peculiarity, all the while remaining oblivious to the battering he received from the turbulent waves.

Instead of following in the ecologically sanctified, sandalled footprints of his parents, Solomon was pushed further into solitude through embarrassment. His preference lay with people strolling along with concealed feet and walking to school allowed him to observe this. With eyes glued to the rain spattered concrete he could watch the procession of pupils marching to school, complete with shoes. Worn-out trainers scuffed through wafers of tarnished orange and rusted reds – the leaves adorned with unique patterns of mahogany splodges: ink blots from nature’s quill.

Chunky boots with laces conscientiously knotted together by over-protective parents were dragged through the grass at the side of the road by reluctant wearers. A thousand soldiers shod in black trudged the melancholy road to school. Any individual style was relentlessly repressed by those in authority; everyone had to ‘fit’… And where did Solomon fit? His shoes were a sort of murky grey because they hadn’t been replaced in a good three years. His toes bunched up uncomfortably at the ends of them: a painful reminder of the lack of attention he received from his parents.

A great heat befell him in a bloody rush to his cheeks. The fire was caused by millions of lacerating eyes: merciless. Cruel utterings sounded like snarls and words began to sneak upon him; every shuffle he made towards his class attracted yet another beast to hunt him, to trick him, to pounce, kill. To enter his English classroom was like transitioning from the wild to a zoo: the animals still blood thirsty but contained. From Solomon’s position he could observe his own feet with such interest that one might believe he had never laid eyes on such things (the perfect excuse to avoid any form of human interaction). A sort of love-hate relationship existed between Solomon’s footwear and himself. They were so dull, so insignificant, so muted - but with this came the bonus of camouflage: grey and tattered; frayed laces, limp and twisted between slack eyelets; and, a large hole in one sole allowed rain, mud and pure impurities to seep in – making his foot rather cold. Yet his mother refused to buy new shoes as they were, “damaging to the earth” and because the money should go to “more deserving people than yourself.” After such remarks, Solomon’s mother would return to her perennial spiel about the restoring benefits of meditation or the latest recycling station she’d found - with no further attention to spare for her son. Always so preoccupied with tree-hugging and tie-dying, she didn’t have time to ask Solomon how school was, or why he looked so trodden

21 | P a g e

down, or why his grades were so low, or why he never had any friends over, or why he didn’t brush his hair, or why he lost his appetite after a long school day, or why he didn’t lift his eyes to look at her in conversation. Nope, mused Solomon, his mum didn’t love him so why should he love himself? * * * To Solomon’s relief, a horror movie was to be watched in class that day -which was code for not having to answer any questions or project his voice into the air always so thick with judgement.

The titles began to run and the black screen gradually lightened to a small room shrouded in moonlight. A woman was the single focus of the camera. Gracefully, material floated around her feet as if a maroon wave was breaking over her black, pointed boots. Atop an abundance of lily-white lace, one could trace a fold of velvet leading to the tiniest of waists. The corset formed a cage of bone upon bone: a statement of territory in the indentations left behind in her skin. Flesh spilled over the rigid neckline in an attempt to escape the suffocation within and her neck was adorned by a string of diamonds trembling on a silver chain just as dew-drops cling to spider webs. The rope that seized his attention, however, was a much more dramatic accessory. It twisted and intertwined within itself; a thousand fibres, glistening gold in the fleeting light, coiling around the neck of its swinging wearer. Her boots dropped mournfully, scuffed heels indicating a hard life. Suicide. Maybe she was somewhere beautiful now, where regret and hurtful words were things of the past? Maybe he could join her… No one would mind, he was sure of that. He would probably be doing his family a favour because if he was non-existent, he could no longer disrupt the “aura” of their precious “green home”. This seemed like a perfect escape route. Solomon sank back into the padded chairs and allowed the film to wash onwards…

Solomon’s heart now bled a pain that he had never before experienced. Trailing homewards, his mind was consumed by the desperate desire to be noticed or even just to have a glance drift his way from a stranger. With each step he yearned to scream at his mother: “LOVE ME LOVE ME

LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME!” LOVE ME LOVE ME

Yet, what could he possibly gain? The craving penetrated his gut with feverous greed but it was too late for this now. His mind was set. Even if he needed a few days to plan it correctly. Or weeks.

Perhaps a month or two’s scheming would yield the perfect way to go. And, if he wasn’t going to do the deed today he could at least decide on a method.

Solomon walked into the bungalow. Hanging? Like the worn beauty in the film? He scuffed his feet along the carpet. Overdose? He parted the curtains that acted as a door because “doors are a family’s barriers”. Could he befriend a murderer, get his gun and …

On his bed, in a sturdy box, nested a pair of aromatic, gleaming, pristine leather boots.

22 | P a g e

Into the Silence

Benjamin

A figure striding through the snow towards me; dressed in filthy, tattered rags, dragging himself towards me. His face is hidden by his clothing but what can be seen of it is a hideous, scarred and bloody mess. Dragging behind him is a long chain imprisoning his ankle, chinking softly as he moves. I’m held still, petrified with terror, unable to move. He leans over me preparing to finish me off. I am going to meet my fate, the same gruesome fate he met many years earlier. There’s no help, no-one to save me, I’m just waiting for the inevitable end…

The Arctic. I guess most of the people back home think of it as a land teeming with wildlife and great landscapes. Maybe I used to as well. But what really hits you about it upon first seeing it, is the emptiness of it; the loneliness and the silence. Upon arriving there you feel like the last human alive: an insignificant dot in the vast untamed land. There is no life: you travel miles without a single landmark. To me it feels like a world of death. It is a world lacking completely in colour: the bleak, white landscape stretches out to the horizon, forever. It is the sort of world where a man could lose his sanity: be driven mad by the emptiness of his surroundings and the silence. The silence. That is the thing that disturbs me the most about this strange world. It is the greatest contrast that I could have ever imagined to the great, bustling city life to which I have acclimatised myself. But the scariest thing about this silence is that moment where suddenly, and without warning… it is broken.

I think most people by now are wandering why a city kid is discussing his experiences in the Arctic? I worked as a geographer in the middle of London and found myself cooped up and trapped, my heart yearning to see the wider world. Anyway, I was approached by a company wishing to send some men to make some reports on the landscape and life in The Arctic as well as experiencing first-hand the winter there: a time in which the land is enveloped in a cloak of never-ending darkness. Well, I was intrigued and excited at the prospect of this once in a lifetime adventure: a trip to such a mysterious and uncharted area of the world. And so, a few months later I found myself and the rest of the team shipped off north. Our journey had begun!

23 | P a g e

I would’ve thought a journey to such an unknown, uncharted area would be something exciting, the thrill of danger hanging over us for the entire journey. But really, it was just dull… The other men on the trip, George and Alfie, were pleasant enough in my presence but I suspected they were resentful of my joining the trip. I think they’d wanted another posher, more “gentlemanly” character on board, not just some grammar school kid. Alfie especially tried to create a schism in our companionship and was clearly uncomfortable being around me. Honestly, I don’t think I could have borne things if it was just him.

Our captain, a Mr Erikson, was an extremely cordial and friendly man although I’m sure he was mystified at why three seemingly normal young men want to travel to such a harsh, uninhabited place. As an experienced Norwegian sailor I was sure he would know lots about our destination and what living there would be like. Yet, when we tried to approach him on the subject his reaction was unexpected to say the least. A look of shock passed across his face as he growled ominously, “You’re making a mistake boys.” His attempts to alter the ship’s destination went unheeded as although my two colleagues exchanged glances they evidently didn’t believe his fears to be any more credited than a Norwegian superstition.

The news about the destination of the journey caused great discontent among the crew. I tried again to approach Erikson about it but was met with a curt, “It’s best if you don’t know.” Getting no more out of him I approached my colleagues on the subject but was firmly assured that his fears foolish and unimportant. And yet, why were all these men who braved the roughest conditions imaginable all year round, so afraid of this place?

The crew left quickly, leaving us to fend for and support ourselves. All alone. Our only means of protection was a tiny, wooden hut built by the crew: a cabin barely large enough for three men to lie down in, let alone live in. After the crew had left I went off for a walk and an exploration of the area while the others began to organise our hut and plan out how we would survive until we were restocked with supplies. As I stared out to the horizon I thought I could make out a faint haze, little

24 | P a g e

more than a brown smudge. It struck me that this was the first sign of civilisation we had encountered throughout the entire trip. My pulse quickening, I began to trudge towards this new discovery. Well. To my amazement, I found myself walking amongst the remnants of a village.

Numerous huts similar to our own, some standing, others smashed to pieces and crumbling. I eagerly turned back towards our camp intrigued to know what my colleagues would have to say.

And it was then that I saw him.

A figure was standing in the distance in the midst of the snow. My first thought was that he must be a crew member who’d foolishly wandered off and been left behind. However, my calls to him went unheeded as he silently, slowly dragged himself along. Nor were his clothes that of the crew: they appeared, from a distance, to be far more tattered and ragged. And then suddenly, he was gone, swept from sight by the snow and clouded away as though he had never been there…

For the rest of the day I tried to comprehend this mysterious figure. My colleagues were both sceptical, believing me to have imagined it. I too, was not convinced that I had really seen another person in this deserted land and that it was not some hallucination induced by the severe cold. And yet, I knew that that village existed, for the evidence of its existence was right there in front of us: that brown smudge just visible on the horizon…

Winter began to close in upon us, bringing the prospect of complete darkness. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, really. George went down sick: he looked awful and there was no way he could stay. We sent a message asking Erikson to take him back to a hospital. And I knew what the consequences of this would be. George took me aside before he left and explained: “Pete, it’s got to be you staying here. Alfie, well, if we leave him on his own the trip will be ruined. He won’t last a day.” He looked at me appealingly and my choice was an easy one. Deep down, I wanted the two of them to respect and revere me if I stayed I would be the hero: the one who faced up to adversity.

As the ship sailed off with the two of them on board I scanned the area around me, searching for a sign of life, asking myself, was I really alone?

25 | P a g e

Darkness enveloped the land. I awoke in the morning to find the blackness that had been creeping closer and closer to us had finally swallowed our cabin and all the land around. There was little you could do: all activities and observations were impossible to perform in that light so every day was spent stuck in the cabin, whiling away the hours…

Before, I was sick of the tedium. After last night I’d have given anything to have it back.

Because I finally knew for certain - there was something out there. I could sense it getting closer and closer. I was awake all through the night listening to the wind howl and trying to make out any noises of other creatures. That figure. He was real. I was sure of it. But how could he survive? What was he? A ghost? But ghosts… they weren’t real, were they? Were they?

I looked through every book that we brought, searching for knowledge about what was going on here. Erikson. He warned us about something. He knew the dangers of this area of The Arctic. But what was it that he knew. Why was he and his men so afraid of this area?

The figure was spectral. I was certain. It defied every sensible thought in my brain but there was no way anybody could be living in this climate and terrain. But a ghost (even if it existed) wasn’t real. It was merely an apparition. Couldn’t touch or harm me. So, why did I feel so threatened?

Fear began to take over, swamping me. I became too scared to leave the cabin for fear of meeting that creature again. It wasn’t just an apparition. It wanted something: revenge. It was targeting me: I could hear it moving around the cabin during the night. My nights were spent wide awake, staring at the door, praying that it continued to stay shut.

I couldn’t bear it any longer: sitting in this oversized coffin waiting for my doom to arrive. I had to go out and face it; see if I could reason with it, or destroy it. Trembling, I made my way out of the cabin, using my flashlight. To my horror, I saw footsteps scattered around and knew they were

26 | P a g e

not my own. I explored the nearby area trying to find it, knowing that it was hopeless. I would never find it. How could I find anything in this world of darkness?

But it found me. As I made my way back to the cabin it was on me. I scrambled away trying to see it: see what sort of monster this was. And then, through its layers, I caught a glimpse of its face: a gruesome sickening sight; the flesh burned and bloody; its mouth disfigured. I looked into its eyes and realised that this was a creature beyond reasoning. I could see only anger and hatred.

This creature had been done a great wrong a long time ago, and it had not forgotten: it would never forget. In an instant the dots were joined up in my brain: the link between this creature and the destroyed village. He wanted revenge for the destruction of his people and he saw me as responsible. I tried to plead with him, to move away from him, but I could only wait for my fate. He moved towards me, closer and closer.

Suddenly, out of the black, I heard voices: people coming towards me. The creature hissed and backed off. I was aware of people lifting me up. What miracle was this? I saw a burly man move towards me and was filled with gratitude. Erikson. The Norwegian had put his and his men’s lives in danger to help me. I tried to thank him but found I was dumb; strength was leaving my body, my eyes were closing and, as we moved away from the shore I caught my final glimpse of the cursed place before falling into a deep swoon…

That was a couple of years ago now. I’ve never forgotten the kindness and bravery of Erikson in coming back to save me. As soon as it occurred to him- the danger I would be in- he immediately set out to rescue me. Even more powerful in my mind however, are the final moments I spent there, staring death in the face. Nightmares have affected me ever since although I’ve been assured by people who worked with me in the aftermath of the trauma that these will eventually pass. Erikson swears he will never return. He and I both understand: some things are best left… to darkness.

27 | P a g e

Daydreaming

Emma B

The sun had scorched the earth. Its fiery kiss left the once verdant grass hued in various tinges of brown. Its embrace exhausted life. Next to the parched field, stood the dull, bleak building, grey and inert. The whole school had an air of weariness, a numb lethargy that wore off on its inhabitants.

Within, the classrooms were bland, lacking in colour or vibrance; they inspired nothing and served only to sap the spirit. What’s more, they seemed to go on forever, every one a precise duplicate of the one which came before. The people, it seemed to him, were no different. They had all the same interests, wore all the same clothes, spoke the same talk. He had not developed much of a taste for these people. Copies, that’s what they were, mere copies of each other and this bored him endlessly. This is what Caleb contemplated one perpetually long Friday afternoon while ignoring the dreary teacher who spoke in a slow, disinterested drawl to which it was impossible to listen, let alone pay attention. He was counting the seconds on the clock as time wore on lazily, still an hour to go. A knock on the door awoke the class from their slumber as the old man staggered into the room, whispering something covertly to the educator who himself seemed grateful for the interruption. It is quite an achievement, to bore even yourself.

The old man was of course the Headmaster, name of Richard Poole; he had an unsullied reputation for transforming young boys- such as these- into model members of society. Churning out lawyers, doctors, engineers by the dozen was the function of his establishment and he took great pride in this achievement. A practical man, he despised those who seemed to be wasting his time often treating them in a brusque and arrogant manner. On the other hand, he was able to recognize the importance of a situation and knew the art of flattery. He was known to blandish parents, especially the more prosperous kind. Caleb’s parents belonged firmly to this category thus the name Corcoran was one in which Mr. Hagan took great interest. This interest had been fuelled greatly when Mr. Donald Corcoran had kindly decided to “help the school” by covering the full cost of of a brand new library, several years previously. Incidentally, the following year, his elder son

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Lawrence was accepted onto the role, despite failing the entrance exam, producing one of the most spectacularly low scores of the year. Thankfully, Caleb’s education only cost the annual tuition fee.

As Poole turned to leave the grim classroom, his eyes caught Caleb’s who knew them well.

Caleb was quite aware of his family’s position in Mr. Poole’s eyes and knew also that every smile he received, every kind word given to him particularly was earned not by his achievements, but by his name. He also knew that if he wanted to, he could get away with more than other boys. Had he been a more troublesome character, he perhaps would have taken advantage of this opportunity more wholeheartedly. How other boys would have abused this situation, given half the chance! But Caleb was never one to engage in such acts of unnecessary defiance (or even worse, clowning), which he considered below him. Instead, the youth took pride in his incorruptible attitude to the upholding of every rule, every stricture, every demand.

Speaking of which, there should be a rule against subjecting children to such agonizing tedium. Still the teacher droned on whilst his audience sat, again in various stages of somnolence, heads drooped and bodies slumped. How miserable it must be: teaching. Hours spent in dull classrooms, teaching dull children who gave little gratitude in return. Caleb would never waste his time in a place like this. Who would choose to come back? Rather, he wanted excitement, preferably an adventure of some sort, one to later revive for his children and grandchildren. Maybe even write a book. Of course, until then he would have to find a job, make money. Adventures are fine but he would need somewhere to go home: a place of stability and comfort. Unfortunately, he had not settled on an occupation yet, though he had cast away many potential jobs. Law? Too stale.

There was no thrill in the intricacies of rules and regulations, important as they were. Medicine? Too common; every other boy here already belonged to this calling, no doubt under the influence of their parents. Caleb’s own parents would eagerly approve of these professions, all publicly demonstrating their child’s great intellect. His mother always longed for a child to parade in front of guests, and to brag about. In this respect, his brother, Lawrence, had failed. He had eventually been employed in their father’s firm where, under watchful eyes, he could not make too many mistakes.

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Hardly much of an achievement. It was one of the prevailing advantages of the privileged though; having a place in the world already reserved for you, like a seat at the table with your name on it, albeit written in someone else’s handwriting.

Caleb, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. From a young age he had demonstrated a superior intellect, not only in comparison with his brother but his peers as well. He had learned to speak and count unusually early, and mastered languages easily. He knew that in terms of intellect, he beat all the others in his year; that he was sharper and faster than they were; that his work was worth a lot more. He often felt that he was meant for great things. That he was his father’s child, the one who would earn his own place at the table. He did not need to be handed anything because he would earn it himself. There was something altogether very exhilarating about taking control of one’s life- he decided- of building something from nothing. He almost wished he was one of those poor, orphaned boys he had read about in books, for this would surely come to increase his ultimate triumph. What was the quote? “The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it.” Of course, with achievement there was always the threat of failure, as the two were entwined. A gamble was required; a bold leap in the dark’ a kind of test of character. What is life without failure? he thought. Life is pain and loss. If you haven’t lost anything then you haven’t been playing the game. Not properly anyway.

Caleb shook his head: daydreaming again. His mind was prone to wandering, and he did this often throughout the day; within a few minutes he was gone, transported far away. He liked to think about the future, probably because the present proved so disappointing. He knew that he was capable and that one day, the life he longed for would be his. But for the time being, he was back in the stultifying classroom where the hands of the smirking clock were slowly creeping towards half past three. Still so long to go. It seemed time was not in his favour today. Glancing outside, he saw a group of boys on the football pitch, all running after a little, leather ball with furious intensity. Sport.

It seemed such a fruitless endeavour: far more trouble than it was worth. It required a certain physical greatness and coordination that boys so admired amongst themselves, eager to follow the

30 | P a g e

strong- but this was not a category in which Caleb could include himself. While in the classroomsas mundane as they were- he enjoyed his superiority: on the pitch, he was obviously defective.

There, Caleb was reduced to a liminal bystander; a resentful audience and, at best, a clumsy impostor. Sporting camaraderie and companionship were alien concepts to Caleb. Those boys outside were‌ Well, they were a group, their closeness evident in the way they encouraged and supported one another, patting one another on the back or grabbing arms in elation. There were moments such as this, when witnessing this kind of unity that Caleb was filled with a profound and unsettling sense of displacement. These people, as boring as they were, had something he did not, something he suspected to be quite essential. For though Caleb never claimed to be a person of sentimentality and though he was always content on his own, he could not deny that a small part of him wished to belong. After all, humans are social creatures, built for communication. Even those born deaf or mute find a way to interact with the world around them. Why then, did he find this so difficult? He was much smarter than they were, and well-spoken. But for all the words he knew and all the languages he spoke, he could find no way of making them understand him. He seemed to be a different species altogether, the only one of his kind. Looking around this class, there was no-one to whom he could turn. He had no friends, that was the simple fact of it. People never sought his company.

Caleb could not help but think of his brother. Lawrence may not have been the smartest of people- lacking even half the knowledge Caleb possessed, though he was twice the age- but he never lacked friends, being kind at heart and caring by nature. He had a great understanding of people and saw only the best in them. Some people would see such blind kindness as a form of naivetÊ but it was, in fact, a gift, and one that cannot be learned but is innate. Caleb admired his father greatly and had a deep desire to make him proud, but it was Lawrence who listened to Caleb tirelessly and sought to help him always. Caleb wanted to make his mother happy by always striving to be the best but it was in Lawrence he would confide in whenever he struggled. Not that it was his parents’ fault, because they were always busy and would surely rush to his assistance had he not been too shy to disrupt them. His father had a business to run, which meant phone calls and

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meetings. His mother was no ordinary housewife, being a popular and important member of their suburban community. They had sent him to boarding school because they wanted him to get the most out of his education and not because they wanted freedom from their second son. And if they called rarely, it was surely a sign of their busy schedule, which was doubtless for the good of the family.

Anyway, it was not as if he was alone in this. He went to a boarding school after all, and a detachment from parents was something that many of the other boys also experienced, including his own brother, those years ago. It was also nearing the summer holidays and with only a week to go, Caleb could look forward to seeing his family soon. He would tell them all about his studies in which he took great pride, of how he excelled at sports- especially rugby, like his father before himand how popular he was with his classmates. He could even fabricate stories about pranks and antics in which he had engaged with his many friends. He was very good at making up stories: His English teacher complimented him, often, upon his imagination. And he enjoyed it too; he loved relating his stories back to his parents who were so happy to hear about their son’s successes. He could even throw in some amusing anecdotes, sure to make them laugh. Maybe these were not, strictly speaking true-but this was all for the best. Things so rarely turn out the way we want them to; life is disappointing; that’s just the way it is. What was the point in worrying them with trivial dissatisfactions? He liked their proud eyes and their remote smiles and he liked the Caleb in these stories. He could not wait to go home...

Caleb was returned to reality one last time by the sound of stirring in the room as books and jotters began to close and chairs creaked as they were pushed under desks. Finally. Caleb followed the others, lagging behind them as they moved away in their groups, all laughing and shouting excitedly. One of them was telling a joke loudly to his friends, a very good one too. Caleb made a note in his mind to tell his parents about it, let them enjoy it as well. He could even tell them about how he had made it up and how funny everyone had found it. It was quite simple, really, to create a successful life.

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Unnecessary

Emma L

“Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms

reduced to ash. He watched as another pile of old

Inside your head, and people in them,

photographs was added to the first by the man

acting

who was probably called Daniel. Or maybe David.

People you know, yet can't quite name;

Something dropped in the back of his mind,

each looms

causing a ripple of memory to move through it as

Like a deep loss restored…”1

he noticed an image of a small dog. He considered asking for it to be spared but,

The old man slumped in his chair and watched,

embarrassed about having no real reason for

from behind weary, half-closed eyelids, as a

doing so, he maintained his usual stoic state.

younger man sorted his life into two piles. The

The old man fell asleep for some time,

first was a large heap of multiple differently-

maybe minutes or maybe hours, and when he

shaped cardboard boxes labelled unnecessary.

awoke the young man was still speaking,

The second consisted of one small box and a

apparently unaware that he had been audience-

pitifully sized, tattered suitcase, both marked

less. Except now he was not alone. Two small

necessary. The younger man was saying

children were running around, playing with things

something about how all the so-called

that used to matter to the old man. The young

unnecessary papers and clothing would be

man turned to him and smiled a falsely

perfect for that year’s bonfire night. The old man

sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you’ll love it at Manor

however, was no longer listening. Instead, his

House, Dad. They have a billiard table there - you

mind was drawn to the ever-present thought that

love billiards,” he said with obviously feigned

he too might soon be labelled unnecessary and

enthusiasm. The old man could not remember

1

expressing an interest in whatever billiards were

The Old Fools, Philip Larkin

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but apathy was easier than protest so he let it

words “nine thirty sharp” had been branded onto

slide. He simply watched the two children playing

his mind and, although he tried as hard as he

by the cracked fireplace where the remnants of a

could, he could neither remember their

fire from some time ago still lay. Who were they

significance nor shake the feeling that he was

and how they had got there? Who were the little

awaiting a kind of death sentence.

boy’s parents and why on earth they had let him

Some time passed and by the time the

out with odd socks on? Why did the little girl

clock had tolled five times, he had had but a

remind him so much of Esther and who was

moment’s sleep. Somewhere, deep in the dark

Esther?

fog of his mind, he felt listless and ready to move.

Finally, it appeared that his surroundings

Move where? He did not know, but something

had been sufficiently packed into boxes, sealed

was no longer letting him slip into his usual

and labelled. All the giggling and whining dyed

vegetative apathy. The old man groped the air

away until it was replaced by the ticking of his old

around his chair until his fingers skimmed past his

grandfather clock and the promise that they would

walking stick. Ironically named, as from the

return tomorrow at nine thirty sharp. Alone once

moment he got it, he did increasingly less and

more, he shifted his weight around in his chair.

less walking. He felt as though he was breaking

Suddenly, now the walls of the room were bare

out of an ancient shell as he pushed down into his

and every sound echoed around him, his old,

toes and tried to lift himself out of the chair. It took

faithful chair was no longer comfortable. The

him another four attempts but eventually

imprint that he had built up over years of

movement made its return into his knees and he

immobility seemed to no longer fit him. The

found himself standing. Bewildered as to how and

backrest was, all of sudden, too stiff and the seat

why he was doing this, he almost sat back down.

too lumpy. The old man closed his eyes and tried

However, with the words “nine thirty sharp”

to drift into the comfort of senselessness but the

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hanging over his head like the Sword of

Natural Calico. “Well, it matters to me,� he heard

Damocles2, he remained standing.

a woman say from some distant district of his memory. The house seemed alien to him as he

Clutching the stick as a climber grips a

stumbled through the hallway. He noticed, for the

rock, the old man moved inch by inch across the

first time, the presence of a pungent odour of dust

room, growing ever more terrified of falling into

and smoke. It smelled like old people.

the monstrous crevice of carpet below. Every step

With a sideways glance into the kitchen,

further from his chair made him wish he had not

where a sandwich had been abandoned and left

left its velvety embrace but every step closer to

to harbour new life forms on the worktop, the old

the living room door urged him on. As he entered

man sighed. If a man’s home was his castle then,

the hallway he was dismayed by its emptiness

over the years, this had become more of a

and inwardly hoped that at least one of his

trodden sandcastle than a resilient fortress. His

treasured paintings had passed the

mind too was crumbling and had become foggy: a

incomprehensible entrance exam of the

visit from his family could morph into a room filled

necessary pile. He looked at where someone had

with strangers and fear. Moments of clarity were

spent seconds ripping out the carpet on the stairs

fleeting and cut through him, reminding him not of

that he had spent hours fitting so many years

the glistening moments of his life but the bitter

ago. He vaguely remembered an argument over

ones which left him begging for the fog to return.

shades of beige and thought of how little effect it

Finding himself swaying unwittingly in the

would have had on the perpetrator of this act if

hallway, facing the door, it seemed only logical to

the carpet had been Desert Sand instead of

the disillusioned old man to make his way out.

2

The feeling of the cool metal of the door handle

A sword hung by a horse hair over the seat of Dionysius (II), a fourth century B.C. tyrant of Syracuse, put there to teach a court sycophant about the anxiety that comes with power. http://ancienthistory.about.com/od/ciceroworkslatin/f/Da moclesSword.htm

struck him with such strong familiarity that it almost knocked him off his feet. Feeling strength

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surge through his fingertips, he freed himself

A field. No, the field, rising skywards like

momentarily to become a younger and stronger

Jacob’s ladder where it seemed the essence of

version of himself. Then, as he opened the door,

heaven had spilled out onto its grassy slopes.

he was out of his hermit’s cave, blinking like a

Around him, seeds danced in the air as they

new-born, and back into the world that had, for so

celebrated the beginning of spring and it was all

long, passed him by.

Harry could do not to dance with them.

He started walking with purpose; finding

The old man opened his eyes and shifted

the route into the unknown was becoming a

his weight back onto his feet. He stepped forward

familiar path. For years he had seen the trees

with hazy determination, knowing now where he

leering down towards his window but now they

had to go. He walked with purpose, his feet

reached out with open arms to greet an old friend.

directing him in moments when his mind failed.

Instead of falling away as it did on his occasional

People looked at him and he smiled. Even if they

voyages to the bathroom, the ground seemed to

remembered, in the coming days, the strange old

come up to meet his slippered feet, carrying him

man striding through the streets, he certainly

onwards on his journey.

would not remember them. He wound through the

The old man had been walking, seemingly

maze of streets which he had previously

without aim, for a few minutes when he was

navigated easily. Sometimes, the old man’s path

struck with shame. What was he doing? He was

crossed itself but he was invariably moving

making his way out into a world that had altered

forward. When he grew tired or confused he felt

irrevocably as it had spun around him through the

sentiment’s hand on the small of his back driving

decades. He stopped in his tracks and leant

him onwards towards memory. He fixed his gaze

heavily on his stick. Breathing in the youthfulness

on nothing in particular so that his mind could

of the air, he closed his eyes. As he stared into

wander uninterrupted. Soon, it returned to the

the void, he saw an image forming.

field.

36 | P a g e

Harry’s step plunged into the long grass.

disapproving glances from the senseless shapes

As he followed the trodden path, each stride was

that surrounded him. In a shop window he caught

placed with more force and more purpose. His

a glimpse of an old man watching him. His eyes

stick hung, now devoid of use, from his fingertips.

wore the solemn hoods of monks and the lines on

He waded through the grass rejoicing in the way it

his face were like the messy scrawls of a bored

parted before him. A familiar ripple in the sea of

child. His head drooped as if gravity had a

honey caught his eye. Then, bursting in sight,

stronger hold on him than most and his hair was

came Barnaby. His body moved in waves of joy

the colour of cold ash. The old man blinked at his

as he bounded towards his master. Harry bent

reflection and wondered when he had become

with ease to scoop the little dog into his arms,

like this: a walking exhibition of the effects of age.

breathing in the familiar smell of warm fur and joy.

He leant heavily on his stick and clawed

This little dog was a constant of contentment in

frantically at any fragment of memory that flashed

Harry’s life and was, for him, a solid friend and

before his eyes, desperate to fall back into the

confidant.

warmer world of nostalgia that he had been

Walking on, the old man passed people and he realised how much had changed.

frequenting that day.

She was there. Esther’s voice carried

Passers-by walked with a confidence he no

lightly on the breeze towards Harry and the dry

longer possessed but there was something

branches of his heart blossomed as he turned to

missing. It was as if each person was blinkered to

see her. The very sight of her face shining in the

those around them. The human race, it seemed,

morning glow broke through the habits of the

had evolved, leaving him behind to rust into

years and he began to run. His feet pounded into

disuse. It shocked the old man how alien he felt in

the grass as he grew closer and closer to her. His

the throng of people swirling about him. He

breath hitched as he ran, partly from exertion but

abruptly stopped, choosing to ignore the

mainly from fear. As she stood before him like a

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vision in a dream, anxiety inside him grew. He

until he heard the rasp of Death’s voice, he would

needed to touch her. To feel the softness of her

be filling them.

skin against his and the veracity of her heart beat

He turned the corner and there he saw it.

against his, before she deserted his life again. He

The field. No, a field. Its lonely expanse sprawled

could not allow his world to once again be drained

upwards and there was no sparkle in the grass,

of colour and settle in the dust to slowly rot away.

no vitality in the air. Realisation struck him bluntly

The old man reopened his eyes as

in the chest as he took in the fact that, once

determination grasped at his heart anew. His

again, his memory had failed him. It had

pace quickened until he was almost outrunning

embellished what little was there to create hope

himself. He rounded the final corner with greater

from the ashes. Foolishly, he had believed that

anticipation than he had ever felt before. He knew

somehow his old life could be restored if he could

now. He would turn and he would be young

return to the place where it had once flourished.

again. He would be Harry and the winter of his life

The old man leant heavily on his stick as, before

would thaw allowing the vitality of spring to bloom

his eyes, the final scrap of his existence was

once more. Harry’s life would never again have to

labelled unnecessary and carelessly flung onto

be fragments of memory stitched together in a

the fire.

blanket of tedium. Instead of counting the days

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Only Connect‌‌

Grant

Brian sat slouched down low in his armchair beside the crackling fire that was sending embers up into the air and causing misleading shadows to be cast upon the far walls of the darkened sitting room. His chin was drooping against his chest and his hands were grasping lightly onto the arms of the leather recliner of which he was so proud, and had recently purchased as he believed that it fitted in with the interior design of his home. What a grand home it was, with its marble staircase, high ceilings and walls lined by tall, oak bookshelves brimming with green, brown and navy but ( never black as it would stand out to much and look rather ghastly) leather bound books. One thing to note about these superb and rare texts was that most of them had never even been opened and the ones that had, simply, leafed through or left out conspicuously on a small round table next to his chair or propped open upon his desk at the far side of the room, usually with a non-prescription pair of reading glasses atop of them, but only when Brian expected guests. The only thing out of the ordinary in this scene? Brian is dead.

Yes, very much so, I'm afraid. Stone cold, in fact. By the time the maid finds him tomorrow morning after coming into the room to dust his impressive book collection and speaks to him for fifteen minutes before making her horrifying discovery and then calls the police and the coroner, who will pronounce his approximate time of death to the detectives, who very much want to think there is no foul play involved so they don't have to investigate the case further... Brian will have been dead for exactly seventeen hours and twenty three minutes. Although, the coroner will say it was twenty hours ago, just in case you were wondering. Also, spoiler alert, foul play had been involved.

No, this isn't a cautionary tale of how a man of good physical shape and thirty years, three months, seventeen days and four hours of age was struck down by natural causes. Well, unless you consider murder a natural cause. In which case, I think you have more important questions to be asking yourself.

(Although, there is a view that people are natural so people killing other people is natural too. Maybe you are right after all? Anyway I digress.) So, in summary, let’s see... Brian is dead. Somebody killed him. Just making sure we are on the same page so that when things get stranger you have a point you can return to where you know what was going on. A bit like a check mark for when you do that thing where you are reading and start thinking about something else then realise you have just read a whole page and have no idea what was said. Or maybe it's just me that does that? Either way now you have a handy point to return to in case you did the thing I just said but I guess if you did that thing you wouldn't know I spoke about it and wouldn't know about the summary. Bother.

Anyway, enough about Brian. Let us move on together to the far more interesting area of the man who killed him. He was a person although this much I have already established. He was probably not as wide as a bus and was maybe, no definitely, shorter than an average Sunday. He had some eyes, two I predict, a nose, a mouth and some hair. As he walked away down the street from the house, which would become a crime scene seventeen hours and twenty three minutes later, he became disheartened as he could feel the start of a cold coming on. Not that it mattered much as he would be killed in tragic hit and run accident on the way back to his apartment, a few days later. This would take place right outside the local undertaker's premises and would cause the driver's spiral into depression. He would attend counselling two years later where he would meet his future wife and the mother of his two children one of whom would go

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on to become the first female President of the United States... In any case, John, our murderer, had been in fact, paid to kill Brian. He'd been paid a substantially large amount to kill Brian, I might add. No, in fact I will add, as it might become relevant later.

John made it back to his home after the violent events of that night and had a pleasant sleep before waking up early the next morning. His ablutions however, were delayed due to a problem with the boiler that stopped him from taking the shower that was part of his morning ritual. He decided to solve this in true manly fashion. He stared at it with his hands on his hips while murmuring "hmm". This was before delivering a swift kick to it and realising he was not wearing shoes. He was not a thoughtful man. This lack of thought had also caused him to leave his hat on the desk in Brian's sitting room. John was prone to losing things so he always made a point of writing his name on his belongings. And there it was, printed on the inner band: "Property of John Smith". After his shower, John's day improved drastically. He took his young daughter to school and then went out to buy cough syrup. Wondering what his daughter would be doing at this moment, he walked right into someone...

Detective Anders was still puzzling over the previous night’s crime scene as he walked down one of the many aisles of the local supermarket. "Property of John Smith" he muttered to himself. The other detectives had eagerly decided that since there was no visible cause of death, Brian must have died from natural causes but Detective Anders was a slightly more dedicated officer. By all accounts he was an outstanding citizen and officer of the law, even taking part in charity runs when he could. I have a suspicion that he did the runs to make himself feel like a good person rather than to help people but, regardless, it still created the same illusion. If we return to Anders' inner thoughts for just a moment, we see him still puzzling through the case, that had been decided was not a case, by his colleagues. If that man wasn't killed then who is this John Smith person? And why did the man with the most common name in the city have to be the top of my suspect list? Not that there was an official suspect list or an investigation of anything of the sort. Even if there was, our John was 217 Johns down the list of Johns which makes it very unlikely he would be found before he was run over.

Anders was so deep in thought that he barely noticed the snivelling, coughing wreck that slithered past him, moving towards the cough medicine aisle, and staring with wide eyes at the freshly polished police badge clipped to Anders' belt. Then again, who does pay much attention to every person that walks past them in their everyday life? If we did things like that then we wouldn't have space in our minds for the important things in life: like fussing over the ownership of hats, for example. If we could only connect with one another, once in a while, then maybe we would all understand each other a bit better - but that's just my opinion.

Anders eventually went on to become the head of his district before becoming the chief of police for his city. He instigated many reforms over the years due to his annoyance at other detectives trying to avoid doing their work, or what Anders referred to as their "sworn duty". The police department and city become a better place because of him. The walls of his office would be adorned with his many medals and badges from charity runs and marathons. John... Well we know what happens to John. As for Brian? He was dead from the start.

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Vajrayana

Jamie

It was better that time. Clearer. The familiar ephemeral feeling of my soul returning to my body passed through me. I lay still, eyes closed, slowly gaining feeling as a tide of burning fire alit the energy pathways of my body. I knew by now not to move at this stage. The first time, I tried to stand, only to fall, disoriented, at the feet of the colossal Arvek’s gnarled feet, with the rumble of his throaty amusement washing over me, drowning my pride in his mirth. I gradually returned to my body as if awakening from an icy tomb, somnambulant and exhausted. It was always a disconcerting feeling, returning from the Other side. I must have been away for a while, this time. I could feel the painfully mortal weariness in my limbs, the intense effort with which it took to sit up. That was the worst part. My mind felt fresh as ever, rejuvenated by my odyssey through the other world. I felt constrained, trapped when I returned to the brutish physicality, the repulsive vulgarity of the human form.

Arvek looked at me from the corner of the cramped hut. Although it was small, this hut was the most sought after structure of the whole village, being the only one made of solid stone. It was a queer shape – crooked and decrepit, with the stones piled in an ingeniously haphazard fashion, always seeming about to fall, but never succumbing to the pull of the earth – but its incongruities held it close to the hearts of all the village people, most of all mine. The stones were packed against one another with barely a crack or seam, requiring no mortar to hold them together. The vicious desert wind couldn’t penetrate it; the torrential monsoons couldn’t seep through it. It was, to all intents and purposes, an enchanted hut.

I remember the first time I stepped through that door with hinges unseen. I was buffeted by the poignant, cloying smell of burning buchu, an herb that grew in profusion around the village. Although I found the smell overpowering at first, I came to tolerate and, soon, to revel in it. The inner walls were covered with tapestries, rich brocades threaded in mysterious lands afar. Barely a pebble could be seen of the inner walls, so decorated were they, with trinkets and antiquities, herbs and spices, innumerable miscellaneous objects, and seemingly pointless utensils for which I knew there were uses, but none that I could discern. Things hung from the walls and even the roof, upon a myriad of hooks, nails and clamps, never two items the same. The floor was not much better. Piles of parchment, tomes and scrolls littered the room, making it impossible to navigate in a straight line. As dubious of these fragile towers’ structural integrity as I was of the very hut’s, I picked my way through the maze of miscellany as light-footed as a panther, lithely dodging and weaving to avoid incurring the wrath of the great man who slept in the corner.

Then, as I navigated the last twist of obstacles, my gaze alit on something behind Arvek’s shoulder…

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I looked closer. It didn’t seem to be anything important. All I could see was a short, thin cylinder, about the width of two fingers and twice as long. It had a faint metallic gleam to it, with perforations and indentations all upon its length, yet it was difficult to see through the mottled glass enshrouding it. It was encased in four different pieces of glass, fused on to a metal frame evidently of Arvek’s own design. He must have managed to find that glass in his travels – glass was incredibly rare – and gone to a lot of effort to make a container for this strange object. Yet it was not for this reason that I was attracted to it. There were countless other, more richly decorated valuables in the hut, but I felt drawn to it, inexorably enticed by this enigma. I took a step closer, and another one still. Not daring to look down at the sleeping Arvek below me, I reached and strained, until I was a hand’s length away, a finger, a nail…

Something compelled me to look down. One looming eye scrutinized me from beneath a sinister, hooded eye socket. Its startling blue seemed incongruous against his dark skin, a swirling pool of liquid that could change from the bright, still waters of the oasis, to the terrible, tempestuous wrath of the sea. At that moment, I fancied I could see lightning flash across the turbulent waters, fuming and tumbling in their ire.

Despite normally being petrified by his other, dysfunctional eye covered with an ominous patch of leather, I found myself desperately averting my gaze from the formidably dominant scrutiny of the other. He was silent. Slowly, deliberately, the old man unfolded his limbs and pulled himself upright. He stood a full head taller than any man I’d ever known, and despite being the eldest in the village, with weather-beaten skin creased and folded like the parchment with which he was so obsessed, he remained robust and athletic, with a grace uncommon to such large people. He stared down at twelve-year-old me, frowning with what seemed like confusion; as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. His very utterance of my name reverberated through the entire structure of the hut: “M’Bwaké!” he exclaimed, “What are you doing here?”

My whole body shook with fear and anxiety, envisioning the multitude of nefarious ways our village shaman could make me suffer. I therefore was unable to reply with anything other than a terrified squeak.

He seemed to take me in for the first time then, observing my still outstretched arm, my wide, terrified eyes, my shaking limbs. His eye softened, and I saw to my great relief, the water inside calming to a tranquil azure. Then, he seemed to forget me as he dived into one of the great piles of books behind him. Petrified to the spot, I didn’t dare move, unsure as to what the huge man planned for me. Instead, I stared at him, stunned to realise that this was the first time I had seen him without the traditional feathered headdress that

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all shamans were obligated to wear. I saw it lying discarded on the floor, feathers and bells and trinkets skewed at strange angles to each other, each supposedly resembling an area of study that the particular shaman had successfully completed. Arvek’s had many, many trinkets. I followed the lines of painted skin – the sign of a true initiated shaman – and realised that it was all actually embedded into the flesh itself, not at all superficial, as I had once believed. Arvek appeared to find what he was looking for, and spun round with a large tome held in an equally large hand. He handed it to me – although I had to support its weight with two arms – and commanded me to read it. “This will determine what is to be done with you: read it, and tell me what you’ve learned,” he said in a guttural growl.

“I cannot, wise one. I do not know how to read,” I hesitantly replied in muttered tones. Flinching at his disapproval, I cursed myself for my lack of tact.

“Of course you cannot. Very well, I will teach you. Sit,” he demanded. I was then subjected to a brief but effective lesson in the use of letters, with accompanying scrolls for further work. “Read it and return to me,” he reminded as I beat a hasty retreat.

Once outside, I inhaled the cool night air, grateful to be out of the nauseating confines of the building. Clutching my newly acquired material to my chest, I rushed to my shelter; eager to expose the secrets contained in the pages I carried. Little did I know that my training to become a shaman had already begun…

Five years later, Arvek was still scrutinising me with that intense gaze of his. I moved my head cautiously, wary of being caught unawares by an attack of dizziness. Apparently fine, I sat up and returned the old man’s look. My gaze was then drawn, as ever, to that cylinder in its glass case. Arvek saw, and his eye narrowed, yet he did not speak. Rays of sunlight filtered through the open door, illuminating billowing clouds of disturbed sand as I shuffled upright. “It was better that time,” I said excitedly, “I’m close, I can feel it! Every time before it has felt hazy, but I could sense it all, sharp as I can see you know.”

“Yes. I can feel it too,” was the short reply, but I knew not to interrupt as he pondered over something. I couldn’t help but allow my blood to rise as I considered the implications. I was so close! It was tantalizing.

Another week, maybe less, and I was confident in being able to succeed. Once I had found another being on the Other side, I would be passed the final test at last. I would become a shaman; one of the Vajrayana themselves! They were the seers, the ancients who guided and advised the Tribe when it was only one faction, a mass of people all come together under a single banner. Even though that was long ago, echoes

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of their deeds fell down to us, becoming our objective, our aim, our religion. One day, all the ancient tribes of Africa would be united once more, when another Elder Vajrayana comes into the world. That is what I was seeking in the spirit world: the faint ties to that ancient civilization, to find something that could give me more information on the Elder. I didn’t quite believe the stories that Arvek kept on drilling into me, but he had taught me all I knew, so for that I was grateful, and did not question him. All I cared about was becoming a shaman, and being able to sense and communicate with spirits of those around me. I had been into the other world countless times before, and the experience always left me regretting having to return to a world in which I was burdened with the physical encumbrances and limitations of my body.

I said that once, but Arvek sharply remonstrated me for being foolish, that those too attached to the other side can be lost from reality. I admit, it did not appear the most salubrious of pastimes. Nevertheless, that is the feeling I was assailed with every time I returned. But it was not only that which I was being taught: the responsibility of a shaman included medicinal and political tutelage, something I enjoyed almost as much as the Other side. However, the lure of that mysterious cylinder in the corner grew exponentially more potent as time went on. Arvek had never mentioned it since that first night, but I could tell that it was important. I knew there was something he was not telling me, but I also knew that the only way of finding out was by being patient. That was the only way with Arvek. “Yes, you are very close indeed. Come, let us walk,” and with a flourish, he strode out into the blazing sun.

The heat soon sucked the moisture from my body, and maintaining the rate with which the huge man’s strides carried him was laborious for one so slight as myself. We did not talk; we did not need to.

Struggling up the dunes as I was, I resolved to inquire later as to how he managed to stroll up the shifting mass so effortlessly. On we walked, riding the roiling waves of sand up to their peaks and down to their valleys, until the sky grew orange, then pink, then red. Clouds rose, forming a transient archway in the air, glowing from within with a passionate crimson menace. It seemed the very doorway to the underworld, until a gust of wind dispersed the image, carrying with it a barely tangible smell of smoke upon the desert air.

We were almost complete our circuit, and broke into a run as the currents carried an unmistakable smell of burning from the village, along with a piercing shriek.

As we broke the precipice of the last dune, we could see the familiar chaotic shape of the stone hut, illuminated from within by the intense glow of a raging fire. I looked on with despair as tongues of flame licked through the stone, turning the building into a grotesque effigy, a symbol of my life. I desperately

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thought of all the possessions, all the valuables, the wealth of knowledge stored in that building, now disintegrated into ash, scattered with the sand, destined to blow on forever in the endless expanse of desolation. Ashamed at not having first consoled Arvek, I turned to him with a bleak face, only to find that he was not there. I desperately spun towards the hut, seeing his huge figure speeding towards the flames with a loping gait like that of a bear. I sprinted down the dune, eyes fixated on the figure as it disappeared into the terrible inferno. I stopped as close as I dared go, a wall of heat and light knocking me back. I waited. My breath caught in my throat for an interminable amount of time. No sign of Arvek. I couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him, couldn’t sense him in any way. Then he came, stumbling out of the conflagration to collapse at my feet, something clutched in his fingers. I patted out the flames on his clothes, revealing scorched, blackened flesh beneath. The smell of cooked meat hung in my nostrils like a toxic cloud. With supreme effort, I rolled him over with a groan and forced myself to look upon his damaged face. He looked at me with two eyes for the first time, one still a piercing blue; the other nothing but white all around. He handed me the small cylinder held in his arms, the object for which he sacrificed himself. The tarnished metal was cool to the touch, almost cold. It seemed to draw in all heat from around it. “Blood of the Elder Vajrayana… Drink, when you are ready…” he muttered with utmost effort.

Then, he died.

I didn’t sleep that night. The fire consumed itself, miraculously leaving the strange pillar of stones upright and intact, a vast, bleak tombstone. I left the village and walked: walked as far as my legs would take me. I needed to think, but I couldn’t think. I was desolate, lost, forsaken, just like the desert in which I stumbled. Finally collapsing, I examined the cylinder for which I had previously held such intense curiosity, with a contrasting state of disinterested indifference. Nothing held much interest for me any more. I thought, with passive surety, that were I to drink the blood of the Elder, I would be linked to them in the spirit world, and would hold the key to reforming the single Tribe. I knew that is what I should do, yet I could not take any pleasure from it. Not when the price for such a thing was so high.

I would do it, I concluded. But, not now. When I was “ready” – whenever that would be – I would try.

Until then, though, I decided to cease my attempts at connecting to the Others, and focus on connecting with my village. After all, I now held the responsibility of being their shaman. Then, I would begin my objective to unite all the tribes. And I knew that I could find Arvek if I needed to.

And I will

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Descent into Madness

Kevin

Butter-less toast. The nutritional value was high, yet the lack of butter reduced the fat intake. Crisp yet un-burnt: made well enough to be proud of. This dry monotone breakfast fuelled his arid, monotonous day.

It was a cold morning, worthy of his vast, brown, featureless coat. There was no wind... some clouds but no rain; the weather showed as much emotion as the man's stony exterior. Deep lines tore across the landscape of his face: years of repetitive labour had slowly corroded him to the bone. It was a face which was easy to overlook, an option many chose to take. He left his house at eight am sharp - wouldn't want to go off schedule. No need for a brisk walk; his leisurely pace was well rehearsed and ideal for letting him think. Another day had begun, as simple and routine as it had been for the past thirty years.

Who are these 'scientists' claiming global warming is an imminent problem?! I haven't been able to walk to work without at least three layers of clothes for the past three winters! At least it's tax time at work, hours of pouring through those leafy sheets of facts and figures, the adrenaline of getting it to balance, mmm... That's why I love this time of year. Thinking of this time of year, better remember about getting them damn nephews a present, don't see why I have to, they bring nothing but unrest to my life.

Upon a glance up at the sky, the old man stopped; stunned. Just seconds after wonderfully clear skies; a gargantuan black cloud with a fiery red inferno its centre had masked the calm blue skies. The cloud continued to grow, soon encompassing all the man could see - not only above but soon around as the storm closed in around him.

What in God's name is that?! The sky... How can it... How does it... It looks like... like fire?! Wait...

How come no one else is reacting to this? The whole sky looks like the pathway to hell! I feel no heat but these tendrils of flame are low enough to lick my skin! And that noise... the enraged yell of the eternally damned - how have they not seen it?!

"Young man... look at it, look at the sky!" the old man exclaimed as he grasped the reclusive arm of a passing teenager.

"Get off of me you old freak!" squealed the young man after inspection of the very ordinary sky.

"Guess these blue skies are rare enough to drive any one mad," he remarked with a smirk to his pal before walking away.

He... He's right; the sky is just blue... I must be getting too old for this; I am due a check-up after all.

I could swear that the sky changed though... my eyes may be old but they are not wrong - I nearly locked eyes with Lucifer himself! Better not mention this at work, they'll never believe me. Call me mad they will, get me transferred over to the postal department, 'invalids stuffing envelopes' is what they always said to me - soon I'll be one too!

The elderly gentleman was now a third of the way to his work - a route he knew so well that he knew that he would arrive at eight fifty-six, sharp. His life was so routine that his colleagues cruelly claimed his timing was better than the local bus services. He glanced at his watch, unnecessarily. He knew it was eight twenty-one and rush hour was in full flow around him - an ever changing grid of flashy cars for speedy lifestyles.

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Thankfully I feel better now - that episode really got my stomach churning. I guess I should also be thankful that the sky's back to normal. I wonder if something did actually happen or if it was just all in my head. NO... Stop. I can't think about this now I just need to focus on the rest of the day, I can ponder it all over this evening. Anyway, all this thinking about it is actually making me feel queasy again. Maybe if I stop looking at my feet I'll feel well again.

Ah... The beautiful bell tower, such fine craftsmanship it needed - it deserved! These modern buildings are getting worse, everything so 'sleek', 'modern' and 'innovative'. Bah, the mastery and skill of the creation of these old buildings are beyond us now! Look at the way the rock curves, so fluid - a sinuous journey from the intricate spire to the solid roots.

The man pulled up sharply, his face aghast.

NO! Where are all these cracks coming from?! Where are those bricks falling from, who would do such a thing?! This tower is a local icon - travellers come from afar to gaze upon its majesty, why is it being destroyed?! In front of my very eyes too! Oh... Oh no, the queasiness has returned... The noise too, it's like screeching vultures gaggling with excitement over a corpse. Where has everyone gone? There were people all around me just a second ago, has it got darker too... why can't I move..?

The man forced himself against the mental constraints further, fear paralysing him. He watched as the black cloud engulfed the crumbling building, spreading out onto surrounding decaying buildings in seconds. All around the man were tumbling buildings - old or new, the darkness was indiscriminate, wreaking havoc on all that lay in its path. Soon the darkness was pursued by overwhelming flames, lighting up the darkness like hell. He fell to his knees, consumed by fear - tears raced down his cheeks like a river through a valley, following the ever increasing contorted lines of terror... Until the chaos stopped. As quickly as it had begun, the carnage surrounding the man disappeared leaving him very alone and very confused.

What is happening to me? The people have returned but with no support, I must be alone in what I have seen. The bell tower is there again, now sun drenched and beautiful, standing defiantly amongst its modern neighbours like a memorial to a forgotten past. As relieving as it is to see the building intact again, what is wrong with me today? Should I still go to work or just go straight to the doctor? Maybe I need sleep... Or maybe this is all still just a dream...

It must just be tiredness; that was a rather late night last night - this is certainly a good reminder!

Damn what a fool I must have looked, so easily falling to my knees and weeping like a baby - it was all just in my head after all!

With these reassuring thoughts, the old man resumed his extraordinary journey to work - Such an irregular occurrence for such an ordinary man. Although from now on, those around him gave him a wider berth than before.

He was near his work now - only seven minutes away. He cautiously glanced across the street at the cafe to which he went for lunch daily. He never wished to be seen, he hated the obligatory wave to the owner he barely tolerated. There was just no way anyone could be happy all day long in his opinion, especially not the owner of a struggling cafe. When walking past, it needed checked regularly to see that it was still in business as he never had company when visiting - an appealing factor for him. However, it did

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make him forever cautious of its imminent closure. They did an affordable black coffee and had a variety of regular sandwiches - not like the bizarre combinations the surrounding modern outlets provided.

Ah, that's a small relief to recover my day; my lunch will be comfortable again today. Wow it's getting really bright, have the street lights been kept on or something? Uh-oh... It's happening again, are those comets falling from the sky?! Just stay calm this time, you know it's all just in your head. Hmm, these are getting pretty close now...

With a thunderous crash the first of the comets mutilated the surface of the road next to him. This was just the beginning as it was followed by a crescendo of roaring destruction all around him. Before he knew it, his beloved cafe was replaced by a colossal rock, visibly smouldering. He began to panic now. The heat was intense and the smoke was making it difficult to breath. He started to realise the reality of the situation. Soon a comet came plummeting down beside him, forcing him to launch his frail body to the side.

That was close; someone must be looking over me. How come the comets sound closer, I can't see any nearby... The sky is so dark again and again the black storm is descending. Where have everyone gone... What is that light?!

As the man squinted to see the source of the lights, the radiance increased, partially blinding the old man. The sound of the incoming comet intensified, consuming the man. He was at its mercy, frozen with fear, blinded and deafened by its presence. His dull, relentless life was to let him go in the most extravagant fashion.

I am finished... I feel no pain but I know. The sound has stopped but the blinding light continues.

What a cruel way to leave my... my boring, POINTLESS life! What a waste I have been, what an opportunity I have squandered. Oh how I loathe my cowardly being! Why did my parents protect me so...?

Why did I live in such a sheltered way?! I wish I could go back... I wish I could actually live my life! Too late now...

***

It's sad really... The older generation these days just don't get the support they need at times! He was obviously struggling... suicidal some are saying. I'm not sure. Even though I saw it all with my own eyes, I do not believe he tried to kill himself. The way he lunged onto the road, helplessly staring with glazed eyes into the frenzied headlights of the transit van. I think he was delusional... I think he was seeing things that others can't. Boy I'm glad I've been so careful not to go near drugs or alcohol - my parents raised me with such care. Who cares if they say it's cool, I'd rather live a boring life than end up like that old drunk.

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Life’s Clichés

Lynne

Life is short, shy and nervous. Only four feet and three quarters tall, he is very easy to ignore. He is just like any other eleven year old boy. He goes to primary school and he has friends: Joy, Saad and Tristan.

However, this year is a big one for Life as he is now moving up to secondary school. Panic sets in. Poor Life, so anxious that everything for him is changing. His mother keeps telling him, ‘You must enjoy yourself and the last year of Primary.’ But will he?

Life is simple. There isn’t much to him. He has soft, smoky brown hair and immense, hazelnut eyes.

They are faultlessly matched. He likes playing sports, especially hockey; his position is usually in defence.

Teamwork. That’s what he likes: teamwork. He likes the feeling he gets when he is with his friends. The feeling that he belongs. There really isn’t much to him…

One day, while Life and his friends were practising the sport they all love, hockey, all of a sudden an argument started to boil between Saad and Joy. The argument got so heated that the two began punching at each other. Life and Tristan did their best to stop them till a teacher intervened. Saad, in a sulk, ran off somewhere. Life chased after him in a panic. Everything is changing.

Life found Saad gazing into a shallow river bed. Saad was stomping around to release all his frustrations.

He kicked the pebbles into the water to hear that satisfying plop sound. When Saad finally calmed down, Life quietly sat next to him. He waited patiently till Saad was ready to speak.

“You know what this river is called?” said Saad as he threw pebbles into the water.

“No, should I?” “It’s called Tears River. What a stupid name.”

“Yes, that’s a very stupid name for a river.”

“Why is Joy such a block head?”

“Because he is a funny guy, you know. Don’t worry; he is always like this anyway.”

“Well, I am glad that I won’t be seeing his face again.” Saad stood up and walked into the mist. What did Saad mean by, ‘I won’t be seeing his face again’? They always fought. Why was this fight different? Was Saad leaving Life? Panic set in. Everything is changing.

Saad was Life’s best friend. Saad was always serious, strong and powerful. However, Life also saw the more gentle side of him. He was honest. He could rationalise things, unlike anyone else his own age. When he spoke, his words held the essence of truth. A very impressive eleven year old boy.

Whenever Life stood next to Saad, he could feel the confidence which radiated from within him. He never wanted to lose a friend like Saad.

One week later news came that Saad was moving away. Saad kept it a secret from everyone till he left. No one knew. It felt like he disappeared with nothing but a chill left behind, as if he was never there to begin with. The last thing Life ever saw of Saad was his back, slowly fading into the mist.

The group acted as if nothing had happened, but not Life. Joy and Tristan had always been very close whereas for Life, it was Saad and him. Life was alone now. With Saad gone, Life was nothing. He had never felt this way before. Empty. What would poor Life do? Everything is changing.

Tristan, a good fella, realised that Life was slowly dwindling. This was not the only change, yet, for the group. Tristan was a boy one could trust; there by his friends’ side, even when they didn’t know. Tristan had a calming aura. He did his best to get Life more involved with the group but he started to neglect Joy, who became furious with Tristan and stormed off in a tantrum.

Joy: outgoing, overly active and energetic. He had the tendency to over-exaggerate on the truth. This made Saad increasingly annoyed and angry with him. Saad and Joy were never on great terms to begin with.

However, through time the distance between them intensified.

Joy started to find ‘better’ friends. News came to the group of friends that none of them would be in the same class when they reached secondary school. Instead of Joy savouring every last moment with his

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friends, he chose to move forward. Abandonment. Joy left his friends because he did not want to face the pain and maybe also because it was time for them to no longer be friends. He cut off all connections with Tristan and Life. Joy departed. Tristan, Joy’s best friend since forever, was now alone. Tristan felt betrayed.

Joy got bored ever so easily and thus was constantly searching for the next best thing: friends; hobbies; always, the next best thing. Now it seemed that Tristan and Life were the remaining members of the friendship group. How long would this last? Till the end of term? Till the end of summer? Everything is changing.

Life could be annoying. He had difficulty expressing his true emotions. He tried to please everyone which ended with no one being happy. This frustrated the people around him so much they would say something hurtful, either by accident and in the moment, or because their true feelings were becoming evident.

“Life sucks. I wish Life could go away. Life is such a challenge.” Those words hurt. They hurt the most for Life when he heard Tristan say them. Both Life and Tristan had lost their best friends. Tristan blamed Life: all his friends had left him because of Life. Life was a nuisance.

Life had no friends and was leaving Primary school on a low. Life had no control. Everything is changing.

Summer finally arrived. Summer had always seemed to be a delightful time for Life. Now with no friends however, Life was in a very lonely place. His concerned mother suggested that he go to the local park to try and meet some new people. However, Life was shy and awkward and, thus, easily ignored. His mother’s second idea was from all those American summer movies where children earned extra money by creating a lemonade stand. She and Life built the stall together and called it: When Life Gives You Lemons. They placed it outside on the lush grass in front of their home. Life did enjoy the extra money but he still could not shake off his loneliness.

After a week of selling lemonade Life was ready to give up. The boredom became too much for him. Half way packing up all his items, suddenly a girl appeared.

“Hello,” a sweet voice murmured.

Life looked up and saw a girl with honey, dark hair in an elegant French plait.

“Can I have a lemonade?”

“Ah, yes sure,” stumbled Life, “That’ll be one pound, please.”

She handed him one of those mouldy, sickly looking pound coins.

“So…what’s your name?”

“Huh?” “I said, what is your name?”

“Life.”

“Life. Is that short for anything?”

“No, just Life. What’s yours?”

“Love - but that’s short for Olivia. So, how long have you been selling lemonade?”

“A week.”

Olivia chattered on for another ten minutes. It was annoying but Life didn’t mind. He enjoyed the fact he was not alone. As their one-sided conversation continued, Life made a discovery. Both were going to be in the same class in secondary school. Life’s world had suddenly grown more colourful. Life changed after meeting Love.

“So Life, did you make a new friend?”

“Yes, and guess what? She will be going to the same school, and she will be in the same year, and in the same class, and her name is Olivia but she likes being called Love…” He just remembered that he needed to breathe. His mother smiled. She was so happy that her lonely Life was no longer alone. Life some had confidence. He was no longer afraid about the changes. He was still anxious but no longer afraid.

Standing right before Life is his future. The secondary school building looms over this little boy. The building has an intimidating exterior that makes Life quake in his freshly polished shoes. What will happen to life?

Life is tall, strong and confident. Yes it is true that Life has faced many obstacles: however, he is ready. Life strides into the secondary school with his new confidence. His next chapter begins.

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Okay

Numa

15th November 2014 I was at the shops this afternoon when I ran into Marie. She was the same Marie as before; wearing bright turquoise, rounded glasses and a long, flowing, floor length dress.

She cheered and hugged me when I first saw her. Right in the middle of the aisle - bread on one side, jams and honey on the other. She smelt like incense and she had the same never ending smile on her face, wild hair all askew. The crow’s feet around her eyes have deepened with age, her hair a little greyer. It has been years since I last saw her, years since the incident. She hasn’t changed.

At my first session she handed me a black and white striped notebook. She wanted me to write about what happened, said that if I got urges it would help distract me. She thought it would have been a way of helping me cope - the only way that I could learn to deal with the problem was by addressing it, not by pretending it never happened.

Even after I gave her a final goodbye, and years later, I still write. Not in the same notebook, but there’s a little shelf in the back of wardrobe with a row of various notebooks from over the years. I read over them sometimes, I still have her first one. xxx ‘Will you go to the dance with me?’

The smile wouldn’t leave my face.

But I tried to play it cool.

Didn’t want to seem too desperate. …

I said, ‘Okay.’ xxx I remember when I first met him. He was new to our school and so hot and mysterious and special. I was ecstatic when he asked me, surprised that he even knew who I was. When I told my friends they got excited, in the way that teenage girls get. We all

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spent the next few weeks planning everything; my dress, my shoes, my hair. His opinion mattered so much to me - I wanted everything to be perfect.

He picked me up at my house on the night, said I looked beautiful. I felt magical. He drove us to the hotel where it was being held and we laughed and danced and I thought he was amazing. He managed to charm my parents, had my friends hanging onto his every word. He was entrancing. Maybe that’s why things happened the way they did. xxx He started holding my hand.

In the hallway.

In maths while doing trigonometry.

It’s not the romance you see in movies. …

But it’s Okay. xxx He never really asked me properly. There was no ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ But there were secret kisses between classes and dates at the cinema and coffee after school.

I thought that was enough - it was something to tell my friends about. I was in love.

I didn’t notice how he never really introduced me to his friends. Or how I never met his family. He said that he didn’t want to share. Said that we’d be the perfect secret. He hid everything so well. xxx He whispered ‘I love you’ across my skin.

‘Please,’ and ‘I need you,’ breathed into my neck.

‘We’ll be together always; I promise.’

I wanted him to be happy. …

‘Okay.’ xxx

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We were at my house when it happened. My family were out. He said he loved me for the first time. ‘Everyone’s doing it- it doesn’t mean anything.’ I believed all his empty promises; I thought he was telling me the truth.

I don’t think I was ready. But I thought I loved him and I was scared. Scared that if I said no he’d leave - I didn’t want him to go away. I wanted him to be mine forever, and he was right, everyone was doing it. But it felt so wrong.

He kissed me goodbye that night, said he loved me again. I faked a smile, told him it was a perfect night. But that night I cried for an hour. I told myself I was happy - how can it be wrong when he was so happy? xxx Walking down the halls. Hearing the whispers. The rumours.

‘She’s so easy.’

‘Whore.’

‘Skank.’ …

I don’t feel okay. xxx It was two weeks later that I found out for the first time. Alison pulled me into the bathrooms at lunchtime. She told me what they were saying. Everyone knew and I didn’t understand how. After that I could hear them speaking about it - behind my back, spreading throughout the school. When I asked him about it he said, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

I didn’t seem to realise that just because it didn’t matter to him, doesn’t mean it didn’t matter to me. xxx ‘Where were you last night? You never showed up.’

‘Out.’ ‘With who? Why didn’t you call?’

‘Stop it. You’re being clingy. Leave me alone.’ …

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‘Okay.’ xxx

He started ignoring my phone calls. He limited texts to one word answers. When I saw him in school he walked the other way. The rumours didn’t stop; they escalated and escalated until there was hardly any truth left.

One day I was in class when a girl turned around and told me that ‘he’s with someone else.

You don’t give enough.’

I saw him that afternoon. He told me to leave. That was the first time. xxx ‘Look, this isn’t working out. We’re better off alone.’

I want to cry.

I want to scream.

But I knew it was coming. So I don’t. …

‘Okay.’ xxx

He was at my house when he did it. I didn’t cry.

But that night I spent an hour in the bath. I found release in the pain. It made me feel better.

I fooled myself into thinking I could stop whenever. Into thinking it was okay. All he wanted was me. Why didn’t I just be with him?

I made him leave. I deserved to hurt. xxx ‘I hate myself.’

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It’s written in the blood against my skin.

It’s in the permanent scars.

On my body. In my mind. …

The pain makes me feel okay. xxx It became something I did every day. It helped me forget their words. My mother always said that the only person who can hurt you is yourself – she never meant it literally. My friends said that ‘he was stupid’ and ‘what people say doesn’t matter.’ They all meant the best, but it made me feel as if I only had a right to be upset, if someone physically hurt me. That person was me.

We ignored each other in classes. But I saw him around school sometimes. Holding hands with a new girl every week.

It was typical, it was obvious, but at the time it hurt so much. xxx ‘Why are you hurting yourself?’

They ask, tears falling down their cheeks.

‘We love you.’ ‘We need you.’ ‘Please.’

Their words sound too similar. …

‘Leave me alone. Okay?’ xxx

My friends found out by accident. It was my birthday but I wasn’t in the mood to do anything. They thought they would surprise me - they loved me so much and I didn’t realise it. They ran into my room and ordered me to get dressed.

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‘ We’re going out for dinner. Wear a dress!’

T hey forced me into the same one I wore back then. But this time it wasn’t the same. I tried to get them to leave, to ignore it, to move on. They saw the scars.

Heather asked me first. She started crying. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

I made them leave. Made them promise not to tell anyone. They broke their promise. I hated them for it. It was the thing that saved me. xxx They tell my family.

My parents say I have to speak to someone.

I refuse. They drag me here.

They don’t understand. …

I’m okay. xxx My parents sat me down that evening. My mother hugged me and told me she loved me and cared for me. My dad almost cried. ‘You need to see someone. Get the help that we can’t give you.’

I shouted and screamed and didn’t want to go. I was ‘fine’ and ‘not crazy.’

And I wasn’t crazy… But I wasn’t fine. I needed help. I just didn’t understand it at the time. xxx It’s a middle aged lady.

She says she knows how I feel.

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She doesn’t ask questions, she waits for me.

She can wait all she wants. …

Because I’m okay. xxx I remember when I first went to a session. I thought Marie was insane.

Her office was cluttered, and messy, and perfectly depicted who she was. She had pictures of her cats and her friends and family in frames around the room. There was one plush, comfy, bright lime green chair and another in a fantastic shade of orange that had an ancient coffee stain on it. Her desk was unused, the only thing on it, was the only proof that she was a professional. Her diploma lay on her desk, hidden in a dark corner, the rest of the room lit up with candles that smelled like vanilla one day and lavender the next with fairy lights strung all around the room. She preferred to hand-write all her notes and keep them in piles lying on the floor around the room. She never poked. Never prodded.

I hated it. xxx Eight, half hour sessions is what it took.

Not much. Brief words.

‘I thought he loved me.’

I broke down. …

She told me it was okay. xxx

We sat in silence for eight sessions. She would greet me, offer me tea or coffee, ask me to sit and waited for me. She would sketch, or read the latest novel she had with her and I would write. About school. About him.

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I asked her on the fifth day why she never asked me what was wrong. ‘You have to understand that something’s wrong, before you can fix it.’

T hat was all. I kept writing. She kept reading.

I hated it. But I needed it. xxx Eventually the truth unravelled out of me.

‘I wanted him to be happy.’

‘I didn’t want him to leave me.’

‘At school they all hated me.’ …

She made me feel okay. xxx I started telling her what had happened. Little bits at a time. It would take months before she knew everything. She never asked for more than I was ready to tell her. She never expected anything.

‘I don’t want to be crazy.’ ‘ You never were.’ xxx And I finally realised that I wanted to be happy.

For MYSELF. His happiness wasn’t my responsibility.

It should have been both of ours. …

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I’m finally okay. xxx It took two years before I was better. I left for university; I became serious about my future. My sessions went from once a week to once a fortnight to whenever I was back home. Once he left school I never saw him again.

But I learned how to be happy. xxx That night I apologised.

To my friends.

And my family.

They cried and said they loved me. …

This time it really was okay. xxx 14th April 2037 I read the last piece I wrote in my first notebook from Marie today. It was something I wrote when I was finally feeling better – the first thing with a positive outcome. I went to visit her today: laid flowers by her name.

I told her all about Katie’s first child, and how being a grandparent is like all the good things about being a parent without the late nights and early mornings.

I can never thank her enough for getting me to this point: okay. xxx In Loving Memory, Marie Louise Shephard.

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Dark Beach Come, soft prints of your touch and take me back to Dark Beach.

If you remember me in Roman stone, then I you in our time alone by water, hold my hand with the tightest clutch.

Paul Come, hold yourself close like a pillow.

Come, let me pray low at your altar.

Let the honey glaze of meaty tongues Send a flood of blood between two lungs.

Trace your prints over sacred bones below.

But how do I bear your beauties truth When your heart pumps poison and smoky ash?

Though you emblazoned my endless dark skies With dreams of moonlight and wet, ghostly eyes.

How you toyed with the virtues of youth.

Love me, love me! Love me, please!

Hang me high or save me from myself.

I can purify our family nameI’ll douse myself in gasoline And light up: an unholy Christmas tree

Youth in the way you spread your timeless grin, charming me away from all the noise, from human kindness: lay me to rest on the sand.

My fallen angel or star-lit man, Never speak of the birth of our very first sin.

He is the one that fuels my fire And he is the one I pray to still.

He haunted me with spirits, but I still drank.

One drink, two drinks, three drinks. Drunk.

So know this: with deepest glass, I will hang high.

Not a mind’s glance to your perversions, When you asked me to kill a man?

“Black is the colour of enigma love” I whispered to you as we drown the dove.

Crying into me- creeping crabs, with an Atlasburden.

Disgrace I will bring. Down goes the dammed boy, His mother would wretch like sea salt to the gut.

Tear it open and let the ocean pour or castrate the beast to hear his belly roar.

Clarity is obscure, though my tears fill your cup.

You could have wrapped me in your wings Or caressed me in coils, Carried me in your veins, poured me like oil.

Our time ends, with a songbird’s cry above.

But now take me back to times with a clear throat and leave me there.

Times of soft silk skin and a bleached face.

Then drag me back from this salty place On the horns of the goat.

Only disgrace of a boy born to destroy.

Hide! I can keep you safe. I can keep you pure.

Fold into me like a paper crane.

Free you into the storm then swallow your faults.

Step into the glare of the lightning bolts.

Now look at my scars: show me yours.

Beauty- beauty holds the black coals In the darks of your eyes.

Your midnight falls upon the summer’s sickly soulSilent, still, I sweetly suffer On a starless beach, as the sea bleeds dry.

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Uneven Parity

Philip

Desmond stood, surveying what was and what could have been. He could see this world he was due to depart in a new light: a mere stop-off point on a journey to a greater place. All beauty is impure, perverted and you can find yourself yearning for something that you cannot find. Something intangible. They say, he thought, a wistful grimace smothering his face, live for the moment and suffer the consequences later, but he now knew what he didn't before. He had a discerning quality to him. It made him judge everyone he saw, but he knew he would be judged himself sooner or later.

The door eased open and a nurse flew in with too much eagerness and joy. Desmond saw through it. It was a faÇade, a veneer to mask the literal sadness she witnessed every day: the eternal reminder of death's inevitability.

"Hello, Mr Liberty! How are you today?" she chirped in an excessively shrill way that was disagreeable to the ears.

"Fine," murmured Desmond who secretly wished she would exorcise her artificial happiness and face - it looked as if she bathed in makeup, but who was he to judge - somewhere else.

"The weather's taken a turn for the worse, hasn't it, Mr Liberty?" she said in a typically condescending tone. Just because I'm in a hospice, doesn't mean I'm a complete dolt.

"Aye, right you are," refraining at the last second from adding "sod off" to the sentence.

Jocularity only gave a momentary lapse in his contrition. His heart pined for the unobtainable.

He knew he had to die to satisfy his desire.

The nurse persisted to flap around the room, appearing to footer with the pillows and air conditioning, then her slender figure exited as quickly and eagerly as it had come in. Desmond went to the window, and the weather had, indeed, turned, but not for the worse. Rain gave him comfort and peace of mind like no human voice could. Pluviophile is what one of his friends had called him prior to the "happening".

All those years ago, even in hindsight, he didn't know if he had done the right thing. He had lost everything worth living for in this life. From the window, the environment was harsh and offered no comfort, with the valley, like his mind, littered with jagged rocks seemingly clamouring for his death. He had consigned himself to quietus ever since being diagnosed with terminal cancer. His fate lay in God's hands; only He could see him for the man he really was...

Years ago, Desmond sat, perched upon the stump of an oak tree that was given a new leash of life as a seat. He was at one with nature, and nature at one with him. Pallet in hand, he

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depicted pockets of dappled light that lay before him onto the canvas; mere twiddles of his brush brought nuance to the forest's abundant beauty. He liked to think he was unobtrusive, but he knew that man's power was ill-gotten, and vengeance would be had. Reverence is a requisite man largely ignores.

Lucifer didn't care for reverence, unless, that is, it was directed at him. He leered over the kingdom that he called his, clasping it in his vice-like grip. Around him, the leafy green trees grew progressively brown, dying by his presence, life conforming to death wherever he went.

His body was devoured by the deep swart of his clothing, and there was a dark suavity to his look. He wore a black suit, blacker than night itself, and all the time, he toted his undecipherable blivet. 3There was an unhealthily sallow complexion to his face, almost as if he was dead, yet the pale blue of his eyes suggested knowledge and temptation as expansive as the ocean - but oceans have their limits in this world, despite their dominance.

Rivers filtered into lakes and seas, with the silt ever-rising, transforming the beautiful, icy turquoise of the rivers into a snaking trail of merkiness. Trees bowed to an unknown force, and the leaves were falling as men did on a battlefield. The world was losing its battle.

Desmond traced along the path running adjacent to the fjord at a fair pace, constantly feeling his painting equipment jabbing his lower-back. It was cool as night began to conquer day, and the sun conceded to darkness' irrepressible force, but day would come again soon, and the sun would rise from its slumber. He thought he could hear the whine of his children as he approached the log cabin he called home, then, promptly, the serene and even tone of his wife allowed for the continuation of the night's quietness. He couldn't help but let a smile cross his face as he pushed open the protective oak door... The scene that met his eyes was of profound devastation. Darkness enveloped the interior in its unbreaking grip. The smile on his face transformed into a wrought-iron rictus, holding his mouth open in shock. Not even the most infinitesimal of cries was emitted: these lay dormant in eternity's mouth - one day they would be spoken. One day, atonement would be made.

Smoke whipped up into the air, swirling around its master.The vapour filtered into the blackness of its soul as the creature filtered into night's darkness. He stood atop a precipice, surveying the damage that he loved to wreak - it was innate, God-given, and it was to be used for pain and suffering. His eyes excitedly flitted from conflagration to conflagration, house to house, proud of the swirling pit of fire that erupted into the night's void. He was a step closer to conquering this seemingly God-forsaken place.

Disbelief. Desmond panted, struggling to gain control of his breathing again. He turned to see smoke billowing from his former town. He had managed to escape, but the rest of his family had not. He didn't know if they were dead or alive. He steadied himself aginst a jagged 3

Satan's trident.

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rock that overlooked the eroded valley and tried to process everything that had happened. The once green grass now had a cold resemblance to death's blackness. Flowers wilted, and the valley's beauty dissipated.

Forsaken. The black valley walls began to encroach upon him. He was running. Running from what? He did not know. Trees' leaves again fell like men on a battlefield. The path became too mud-stricken to run on. Trepidation grabbed at him, dragging him to the floor. His face screwed into a conflation of fear and bewilderment. He was sinking. The blue of his eyes were drowning in the mud until, finally, darkness seized him from consciousness.

Lucifer watched all this from the top of the valley. He strode around, his typical panache and arrogance accompanying him. How pathetic man was, he thought. God has given them this beautiful land, but why can't I have it for myself? I am a god in my own right. I have power as much as God, but He wastes His love on these senseless fools. It's only right that I claim what should be mine, he thought: this land and all that is in it.

Lucifer's blivet continued to throb as the valley Desmond was in compacted into a void, ready to be transported to his world: hell. The void promptly disappeared and the blivet proceeded to retract and find its place on Lucifer's belt, as a sword is placed into a scabbard. He laughed with a depraved shriek, face contorting into pain's mould, but it wasn't pain he felt, it was joy.

His singed black hair billowed in the wind as the wings of a crow are carried by the wind. He was one step closer to making earth and its inhabitants fully conform to him. Many already did.

No one can resist me, thought Lucifer, haughtily. No one.

Sulphur. Burning. Burning sulphur. The heat was almost unbearable. Pain, so much pain.

Eternal pain was offered by this consummate depravity. Desmond clinched at the threads of consciousness, his vision almost clearing but not quite. His immediate sense was of being in a state of hypnagogia - between sleep and consciousness. It was as if he was suspended in a blue abyss. Its serenity resurrected the memories of opening the oak door to see his family stolen away by that man who was as black as night itself.

"Desmond," a voice sounded in the wilderness. "Desmond, I have not forsaken you, and never will." The voice was divine, incomprehensibly explicit and true. As the sun gives life to this dastardly world and watches over it, this profound spiritual presence invigorated Desmond.

"Don your armour and take your sword. By my hand, you will salvage this world. We all must make sacrifices, and remember that everything happens for a reason. Lucifer and man have desecrated this once sacred haven. Your own family have been taken prisoner by him. This whole world has been prisoner to evil ever since sin reared its ugly head. Man has a choice, Desmond: live for God irrespective of what happens, or face the eternal consequences that lie

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below you." Desmond glanced down at this point, only for his eyes to be fought off with a searing pain that he never truly could recollect. "Trust in me, Desmond, and I will never lead you astray."

Desmond came to, by a grassy hill. He was lying down, the cool morning dew making his back tingle with coolness. He felt better than before. His body was different: it was muscular, almighty and toned to sheer perfection. His tanned body was adorned with armour of the finest materials, and a sword in its scabbard was suspended from his belt. Desmond's face adopted a shrewd and perceptive quality; wrinkles on his skin became creases brimming with knowledge. He knew, almost innately, his purpose. God had sent him to eschew the devil from this seemingly innocent land.

Desmond walked, following the trail of blood: blood spilt over the years of warfare, torture and murder that had ravished this world. It flowed like a river. He was the rock that stood firm in the face of tribulation, and defeated the river's source: Lucifer.

"So you've found me," said Lucifer, a supercilious smile permanently frozen to his sallow face.

"I've come to end your reign of decimation, Lucifer. From every cell in your body, an unrelenting and ubiquitous malevolence sprouts. I do not fear you: I am a transformed man."

"End my reign? You are a mere stumbling block in the way of me gaining power," Lucifer retorted, smirking, "I am God. Can't you see? I have his power and I am using it the way it should be used. For example, what about your family? They're right here." He spun on his scaly heels to face Desmond's family who had emerged from behind an overbearing rock.

Desmond almost wept, but a screen of composure remained.

"You want them? Leave this world to me. I can strike them dead with a mere flick of the wrist: would you like to see?"

"No," Desmond said with all the conviction he could muster, "leave them out of this."

"So - you don't want them, then?" One swift movement of his arm saw him summon his blivet to hand. The next struck all of Desmond's family into a motionless heap...

There was no time for words. Desmond's face adopted a tenacious grimace and, with fearless eyes, he began to fight a far more physical battle. Swinging furiously with his sword, Desmond continuously missed his target; Lucifer dodged, ducked and weaved past Desmond's clumsy blows. Beads of sweat began to dilute the steadfast courage his face projected, and Lucifer knew that his opponent's fatigue grew with each failed blow. Lucifer struck hard with the blivet, creating an almighty clang of metals that carried down the valley.

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Desmond knew he had to conserve energy, but how? Fear began to slither into his thoughts.

Fear that God had left him. He had let his family die, hadn't he? Why? Lucifer was toying with his brain: trying to control it.

A sharp blow to the head brought him back to real time. Lucifer continued, blow after blow, brutal efficiency driving him on. Desmond caught Lucifer's pale eyes, but there was no clemency: only oceans of darkness.

"Do you give up yet?" said Lucifer, in a nochalant tone.

At this, a newfound anger welled up within Desmond, catalysing strength. He swung with all his God-given might, splitting Lucifer's stomach. Blood spattered everywhere, but he did not stop. He realised the true use of anger: as a man gleans joy from chopping wood with an axe, Desmond found a certain joy in the flawless correlation between his mind and body...

Lucifer lay, a bloody mess, gore trickling from his venomous lips.

"It is finished," sighed Desmond unconvincingly as he turned to his wife and children.

Everything happens for a reason, thought Desmond to himself. He let out a plaintive sob that echoed loudly in eternity's mouth. Streams of tears traversed his cheek, baptising his wife and children. I'll be with you one day, he thought. And I will long for that day.

Meanwhile, a spirit forced itself from Lucifer's mouth, proceeding to glance at Desmond's back, and then fade into the ether. The perpetual battle between good and evil was, at least temporarily, on hold in this world. A parity was restored, but for Desmond, this would ever be an uneven parity...

Years on, dying in a hospice, there Desmond was, looking out of the window, the rain torrential, isolated from this world. He knew his fate lay elsewhere. Had he done the right thing all those years ago? At least they were in a better place, he thought, gripping the sole photograph he had of his family, grimacing, fighting to hold back the tears. He would join them one day, running his hand through his thick hair, failing to hold back the tears now streaming down his face. That night, all those years ago, his unsaid cries had lain dormant in eternity's mouth. Those cries were awoken now, but as cries of joy. They awaited him. Desmond smiled the smile of a lost child reunited with its parents as he crumpled into a heap. Atonement had been made, and a world of parity awaited him with open arms.

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Teaspoons and Black Cats

Polly

The biscuit fell into the tea cup, dissolving into a beige mush at the bottom and flavouring the rest of the tea. Sighing, Agatha reached for her tea spoon; it was a nice one silver with tiny ornate roses on the handle- she’d got it as a wedding present back in 1964. All her friends had been having ridiculous spiritual hippie weddings at the time in disgustingly muddy fields, but no, hers had been a really classy affair with lovely wedding presents, the spoon especially. She fished around for the soggy remains of her digestive but only succeeded in mixing it in even further. “It was that cat’s fault!” she muttered, digging around in the biscuit tin for a new one- but all she could find were the disgusting ginger biscuits her husband insisted on having. “It jumped up against the window on purpose to make me drop that biscuit and ruin my tea!” There was very little in the world Agatha hated more than the cat; it was her husband’s pride and joy and, of course all the children and grandchildren loved the horrible creature. “If you think I’m going to let you in, you furry menace, you are very much mistaken. You can stay outside until George comes home! Go terrorise the lovely little birds or something.”

The cat slunk off and Agatha settled down to enjoy the last of her tea and finish her crossword. She loved crosswords but she had no time for those silly Sudoku puzzles her daughter loved so much. She was strongly considering writing to the newspaper to tell them to make more crosswords and less Sudokus since they were most definitely taking over the puzzles page. “I bet the cat likes Sudokus,” she muttered and the mushy biscuit filled her mouth as she drained her cup. She had two more clues left, she was stuck on ‘Grey matter output’ ending in A… when the doorbell rang. “What is it now?” she moaned as she climbed out of her armchair.

Outside, the plumber was fending off the overly friendly cat who was desperate to tie itself around his ankles; he was horribly allergic to cats. He struggled towards the bright red door to ring the doorbell again when it opened and an angry looking old lady with her hair in curlers stared out. “What do you want?” she demanded as the cat streaked past into the house, “Oh-look what you’ve done now!” she growled.

After a great deal of hostility and checking of name labels she believed that he really was meant to be fixing her radiator and let him in. However her frosty attitude was not improved by the fact the cat was now curled up happily in her chair fast asleep or by the plumber helpfully pointing out the answer to her crossword. “It’s idea.” “What is?” “Grey matter output- it’s ‘idea’, you know, Hercule Poirot and his little grey cells and all that… it ends in A too!” “Is it now? Well, thank you for your assistance. Are you nearly finished?” Agatha swept out of the room and decided then and there not to offer this disrespectful plumber a cup of tea at all.

Once the plumber had gone Agatha went back into the living room to inspect his work on the radiator; sadly, she couldn’t find anything wrong with it to complain about. But then, when she went to clear away her tea things she realised something terrible had happened. Her teaspoon. Her beautiful, precious, had it for decades, was a wedding present teaspoon was gone! She burst into tears and dropped her tea cup. “Oh bother, bother, bother!” she cried as a chip flew off the rim: a perfect little white triangle with half a pink rose painted on it. The little flower reminded her of the spoon and she started to cry even harder.

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“What’s wrong love?” came a voice from the door way, and then her husband’s strong hands were delicately picking up the pieces of cup. He led Agatha over to her chair, shooing the cat out of it. “The spoon!” she sobbed, “What spoon, dear?” “Oh George- the wedding tea spoon- the wicked terrible plumber has taken my spoon! I’m sure of it!” And she was- how else could it have gone? Looking over her husband’s shoulder, she saw the cat looking back at her, smiling smugly. “That wicked cat was involved too! They’re a team of thieves!” she cried. “What- a pair of cat burglars?” George chuckled. Agatha looked at him with a hard, level stare through her tears. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he said, backing very quickly out of the room. “What are you going to do George?” she asked, a steely edge entering her voice and freezing him in his tracks. “What would you like me to do love?” “I want you to phone the plumber and make him give me my spoon back!” He winced, “I really don’t think the plumber has stolen our spoonthere’s a lot of money in plumbing, you know. No need to steal from little old ladies!”

Two days later, the fight about the spoon was still going strong. Agatha was insistent that the plumber had stolen her spoon. “You didn’t meet him, George; he was rude and had very shifty eyes.” She was determined that George should phone the plumber’s firm and complain but he was refusing; she’d always thought he was too soft and afraid of confrontation. He just sat in his brown arm chair and stroked the cat, telling her not to be so quick to blame the poor plumber. She did feel quite bad sometimes when she thought about the plumber but then she’d see her cross-word, or the cat hairs on her chair, or remember the missing spoon and she’d be suddenly filled with a surging red tidal wave of anger.

That evening, George came back from work a lot later than usual. “What time do you call this?”

Agatha cried “Your dinner’s a dried-up shrivel we used to call beef!” He shuffled his feet a little and then plunged his hand into his brief case pulling out a silver box topped with a light blue ribbon. Agatha stopped mid-rant; it had been so long since she’d had an unexpected present from her husband. She quickly crossed the room and lifted the box out of his hands. She slipped the ribbon off the top and lifted the lid.

Inside was a small, silver teaspoon. With shaking hands Agatha lifted the spoon up to the light gazing in amazement at the tiny intricate roses woven around the handle. She looked over at her husband with tears in her eyes. “How did you…? Where did you…? I didn’t think any shops would sell a replacement.” George laughed and scooped up the cat from its spot on the floor, “It’s not a replacement love; it’s the original.”

“What?” cried Agatha “How?” “I was searching the living room for it. I felt so terrible that it had been lost and then I looked in the cat basket… and there it was.” He smiled, rubbing the cat’s furry head. “He obviously found it for you, and kept it safe.” Agatha looked from the perfect silver teaspoon to the black cat curled up in her husband’s arms; “I took it to be cleaned just to make the surprise even better,” smiled George. “Well” said Agatha “you better go and have your dinner while I find something nice for the cat.”

She bent down to stroke the cat’s purring head as her husband walked past to the dining table. “I’ve always liked this cat you know. Never could understand why other people didn’t,” said Agatha, carefully putting her beloved teaspoon back in its drawer.

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Storr

Ruth

The old man was always there to greet her

at the side of the street. London was a

as she left the house every morning. As

mere memory of her past life as a shop

usual, she gave him a smile, before swiftly

girl in her local greengrocer. At the age of

picking up her old straw basket and

twenty-five, the only times she ever got

making her way to the market in Portree- a

mere glimpses of the countryside were in

short walk from her tiny cottage on the

the tales and sketches of travel

banks of Loch Fada. Today, the old man

magazines, and in the posters by the

was not there to say hello. He was

railway station, and even those were

shrouded within the clouds teetering on

tainted by the filth of the city air. London

the tops of the mountains across the

was all she knew. When she woke up

island. Nevertheless, Eunice set out on

each morning, all she could hear was the

her way to the town. A rough ocean of

chattering of workers on their way to the

moss and grass covering the hills was

factories and the garbling of drunkards

stretched out in front of her. The susurrus

after a night at the bar. Sunlight could

of the path below her feet carried her

never quite strain its way through the

down the rocky hill and onto the main

cracks of the tenements, and what light

road. With every breath, she felt the bite of

eventually managed only lit up the thick

the air in her throat, fresh from the grip of

dust that loomed in the air. What a way to

the long autumn night. At least she could

start the day. Each morning, she had the

breathe clean air here. At least she could

same first thought: “I have to go. I have to

look around without being disgusted by

go soon. For the sake of my heart.”

what she saw.

Dressing was a chore after a night spent on Eunice’s bed. Her body ached and her

Eunice never missed Mrs Barker’s infernal nattering about how she wished her husband would come home sober for once. She never missed the smokey canopy dominating her view of the city skyline, and she certainly never missed

joints cracked as she bent over to tie her bootlaces tight enough so that the muck on the ground would not get through to her socks as she walked to work. As she stood up, she glanced at a leaflet on her desk. She had found this tattered old

the miasma of malady and vermin piled up

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leaflet in town the other day advertising

wind swirled around Eunice, this time

rail travel to Scotland. She didn’t care that

dislodging her shawl slightly. She hugged

the edges were ripped or that there were

it closer to her body and kept walking. As

bits of dirt in the crumpled folds: the

the wind died down, she finally caught

illustration was what she kept it for,

sight of Portree. She loved going into

because she saw her future in it. Rolling

town. It was the first place she came to

hills strewn with wild deer and intrepid

when she set foot on the Skye. Eunice

adventurers adorned with tweed coats and

paused for a moment. It had been almost

binoculars. It seemed like a fairy tale to

a year since she had decided to finally buy

Eunice, but only a train ticket away.

the train ticket to head north. To finally leave the place which had beaten her

Eunice was brought back by a

down to a weary pulp.

sharp gust of cold wind crashing into her.

She had already passed the South side of

She recalled walking towards the

the loch and was about to begin her

large ticket booth at King’s Cross station,

descent downhill to the town. As the wind

trembling but with a smile on her face.

blew the clouds began to drift away, letting

“One ticket for Edinburgh Waverley,

sharp streams of light through to touch the

please. Standard class.” The vendor had

earth. Eunice had never admired

stared at her for a second with confused

something as simple as sunlight as much.

eyes.

It was almost heavenly how the rays bore

“Do you require another ticket for your

through the heavy cloud, as if there was a

husband?” he’d replied in a croaky,

troop of angels behind them dancing

cockney accent. Age had taken its toll on

amidst the white mass. There were a few

his vocal chords.

minuscule white cottages scattered on the

“No, just for me.” He’d scoffed and with a

surface of the next hill. They stood out

shake of his head had reached into a

among the deep green hills, yet they

drawer and produced a ticket.

seemed like they were in their rightful

“You’re bloody brave, you are” he’d

place amid the scenery. Another gust of

pronounced patronisingly, “going all the

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way up there with all them wild Scotsmen,

beyond the smog and squalor. Serenity

on your own.”

had filled her heart when she laid eyes

“I’m sure I’ll be all right. They aren’t as bad

upon the abundance of great grassy

as people say, I’m sure.” He had tutted

expanses laid out further than the horizon.

and turned to the next customer. Eunice

Dew had glistened on the fields and

could not help but feel discouraged by his

rooftops as the clear sunlight kissed the

comments, regardless of their blatant

earth, and birds had glided through the

ignorance. Will I really be safe in a place

sky like they were guiding Eunice...

so different from London? she thought,

She still hears the faint

What if the people really are nasty brutes

clatter of the train sometimes when she

like I’ve been told? Is this too far for me to

dreams. It is the sound that carried her

go? A weight had begun to swell in her

from the darkness into unspoiled lands:

chest, and she’d felt her heart rattling

places where nature was a force to be

against her ribs. From the back of her

respected, not to be conquered. It is a

mind, she’d heard a voice- a voice telling

sound that will resonate in her dreams for

her to turn back, to stay in London where

the rest of her life, for it is this sound that

she knew the people. Stay in London

saved her from her life of longing, and

where she belonged...

brought her to a life of living. As Eunice

No. She had bought her

carried on to Portree, she turned to see if

ticket. She had left her tenement, and she

the old man was there. He was there. The

had confirmed her new accommodation. It

cloud had lifted and he greeted her. He

was time for her to board the train. The

was the sight she was welcomed with the

huffing and clattering of the locomotive

day she arrived on Skye. He had taken

had serenaded Eunice on her journey

her into his heart and immersed her in the

across Britain. As she’d gazed out of the

life force that filled every mountain and

window, she was amazed at what lay

every fairy pool. The old man of Storr.

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The Dragon of Lukovo

Stuart

Vibrations through the glass cause sleep to elude me. My weary head rattles against the thin pane as the rickety bus careers over the dirty make-shift road. Through the steamed up window I see the foreign landscape go by in a blur. The forest which runs parallel to the road has been smothered in the early morning dew which shimmers in the sunlight. The sun itself overpowers the blue sky and dominates my view upwards. I find this beautiful weather frustrating: it completely contrasts with my mood of melancholy and self-loathing.

You see, I’ve spent weeks travelling across foreign lands, all by my lonesome self, in the hope of finding a little inspiration. So far? Nothing. This... ‘failed quest’... has caused all the eagerness and excitement I had at the start of my journey, to seep out of me, leaving nothing but fear and regret. And now I’m stuck on a strange bus, on a strange road, in a strange country, and going back home is not an option.

No, no, that door closed on me when, much to my parents’ outrage and disgust, I left university mid-way through my degree.

Why? Well, it’s something I needed to do in order to achieve my life goal. Obviously my parents didn’t back my decision. Why would they? The money and effort they spent putting me through university, only for me to turn my back on my engineering degree. A waste they called it. My father went further; he said I was chasing a ridiculous and childish dream. Those words hurt. Still do in fact. But my burning passion has always been English: I couldn’t resist it. Unfortunately, they don’t understand that. I mean, all I want is a bit of support from them, but that’s not something I’ve had the pleasure of receiving. This is one of the minor reasons for my depressed state, the main reason being that I haven’t actually achieved anything on my trip so far.

The pot-holed ridden dirt track, which the bus has been racing over, has resulted in frequent bumps, nudges and a very uncomfortable journey. To make matters worse, rays of sharp light penetrate the darkened bus and as a result, the humidity within is almost unbearable. My stack of paper which was once neatly propped up against the bottom of my seat has spilled onto the floor. But, being too mentally and physically fatigued from my travels, I am not willing to pick them up and rearrange them. The throbbing window, upon which I rest my head, beats like a drum with impeccable consistency as I stare down at the pen, limp in my right hand, and the crumpled paper resting in my lap. The black pen and the blank paper sit teasing me and, the paper especially, is the root cause of my distress. You see; I am trying to write a novel,

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and it is this huge, massive, gargantuan task, which caused me to pack my bags, bid adieu to my education and venture to a foreign land. I’m searching, desperately searching for...‘something’ that will inspire me.

Out of my window, I see the forest pass, and recede into the distance. A small village comes into my view and the slowing down of the bus, and pulsating window, indicates to me that we are going to stop here for a while. I wearily get up off my seat, gather my equipment and make my way down the aisle. After exiting the bus I proceed to meander round the colourful, yet sleepy rural community. It’s a stereotypical small European village: cobbled streets and white stone houses with bougainvillea smothering them; a wide road leading down a hill to an azure sea of gentle waves; beautiful architecture, with curved buildings sculpted into the sloping landscape. It’s all very nice and pretty and lovely, but where is the powerful, allinspiring...‘thing’ that I’m looking for?

A small cafe catches my eye - bright sign, wooden framed windows, very continental in its appearance - I decide to enter. Following the purchase of a cup of coffee and a pastry I sink onto a comfortable, teal coloured chair near a window. This position provides an excellent view of the village.

Although it’s not a very dynamic one, the pleasant architecture and muted ambience provide something to stare at and scrutinise. My eyes fall upon the town square which lies to the left of my viewing gallery. It appears to me that this square is the centre of the village as streets from numerous directions come to meet at this focal point. It is slightly lower than street level and thus has steps down to it. In the middle of the square is a tall beige pillar. And upon the pillar, is a stunning statue of a dragon. Sculpted out of stone and elevated above those who admire it, the dragon looks utterly captivating as the sun beats down on its arched back. Its wings and talons have been crafted with expert precision and the detail on its body is magnificent. With its mouth open and tongue out, it looks poised to breathe fire at an enemy.

The statue sparks my imagination and makes me think about my novel. Could it provide me with the inspiration I so desperately crave? I’m sceptical, yet despite my negativity I find my head to be swirling with ideas. My tangled mind is being unravelled like a ball of string as if it was a locked treasure chest which the dragon has opened. Ideas flash into my mind thick and fast. I have a split second to mull each over before a new one replaces it. I shut my eyes to concentrate and begin to nurture one main idea in my mind. It begins to grow and expand and become more intricate. The idea is appealing and thus to make absolutely sure I don’t forget it I frantically grab my pen and scribble the crux of my thoughts down onto the paper. I open my eyes and there on the paper, I read the words...

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Knight

Quest

Dragon

Object the knight must obtain

Maiden

A medieval, mythological story. However silly or unclear or ridiculous this idea sounds to you, I am in pure bliss. And in this state of utter ecstasy, I bid farewell to the pain that I have suffered, the mental turmoil that I have endured, and the feelings of regret to which I have become all too accustomed. I have finally got an idea!

Better yet, I also have a vague idea for the plot of this novel. In basic terms, it will be the story of a knight who is sent on a quest to find an object (which is as of yet undecided) that will save a maiden. To make my novel a bit more thrilling, the knight will face a series of obstacles over the course of his quest, and the final one will be a dragon which guards the object he must obtain. For me, the most exciting part of this idea is that, to a certain extent, it is something to which I can relate. It’s kind of like my journey so far, isn’t it? I have been travelling around various towns and villages to obtain inspiration that will kick-start my novel. It’s the same sort of idea.

Excited by this vague plot and the fact that I have an actual, solid, concrete concept for my novel, I begin to ponder on which style I should use. Third person? No. First person? Hmmm...first person narrative? Yeah. And why, you ask? The first person narrative style will allow me to make the reader feel sympathetic towards my protagonist, and thus they will support him. This will be an important in my novel, as I’d like my knight to not be your stereotypical hero, but more of an anti-hero. This is pleasing, I’m finally getting somewhere.

The blank face of my watch, situated on my right wrist, stares at me urgently. It’s time to go it frantically implores. I push back up off my chair, get up and exit the cafe. Only a few meagre crumbs left from my pastry and a dirty coffee cup indicate that I was ever there. I make my way back to the bus and return to the seat in which I was previously seated. A smile starts to etch itself across my face as I remember the pain and anguish I felt when I was last in this position. Not anymore. I am a changed man.

And all the credit has to go to that dragon, the magnificent-looking beast that is perched so eloquently upon its pedestal. If it wasn’t for the dragon, I would still be at a loss.

As the bus starts to move off, I see a sign indicating the name of the village. It reads Lukovo. Hmmm, Lukovo... sounds quite medieval to me. I consider the impact that this small coastal village has had on me.

Immense, is the word that springs to mind. In a moment of realisation I recognise that I will forever be indebted to this humble, little village and thus, without hesitation, I decide on the name for my novel’s world: “Lukovo”.

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Sacs à Main

Shayla

It begins before you’re even born. Although born isn’t the word we are told to use, we aren’t born we are created. For years the human race has been struggling to find ways to show each other how ridiculously wealthy they are. Diamonds on this, the feathers of an endangered species on that. It’s all nothing to us, just a game of social hierarchy we like to play with one another. So what do you buy when you already have all the possessions in the world? When nature has been stressed to breaking point to afford you every imaginable luxury, yet you still haven’t made yourself feel stronger than those around you? That’s when you buy people.

Though we are taught not to refer to our self as people, we are items. Possessions. Handbag humans raised to be the actual embodiment of wealth. As of 2023, each year 100 babies are born from parents specifically chosen for their good genetics. Of those 100, 10 are chosen at age 15 to officially become rentable people. We accompany our buyers to whatever event they feel they need to show off at and we look pretty. There is little to it, just the knowledge that they can afford to spend multiple millions on the ultimate living accessory.

From infanthood, the education for that years 100 Handbags in training begins. Babies who are sickly, cry too much or have any feature deemed unattractive are removed. Our schooling has been limited, we were not to get any ideas. We were taught manners and posture over actual learning. At events we are to speak if spoken to, and to mimic every interaction people have with us. Someone smiles, I smile. They introduce themselves, I introduce myself. Hello, I am Creux recited 1,000 times over like a prayer.

I have been learning facts of my own from the age of 10. I watched a girl named Ombre with tight black curls and the chubby rosy cheeks of a cherub be smacked on the back of the head by a Carer for beginning a sentence with “I think” and something inside of me clicked in a way it hadn’t before. Every year kids were kicked out for talking about their thoughts. Those who were deemed ‘trainable’ had every last wish and thought beaten out of them. We were not human, we were made husks through years of silence. That day I comforted myself with the thought I would not be made into a husk, I had as much right to my thoughts as those who rented me like a car.

I’m more than a symbol, I am a person.

I have been thinking and learning ever since, quietly.

I was created 18 years, 176 days before my own thinking became relevant.

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Cummings Park Community Flat Colin Went to a fortune teller who produced this bit of triangle with a big ball sitting on it. They told me there had been a murder just a few blocks from here. The suspect was believed to be from the surrounding area and there had been a few clues left at the scene. One clue is a key ring. The other clues lead to a second murder with similar clues at a different crime scene. The two sets of clues are sent away to be checked and it is found that the same person has committed both murders. The person is finally caught and sentenced to many years in jail and everyone is safe and sound and lives a normal life once again.

Pat Even with the ground being as hard as a brick the snowdrops are in flower. It’s hard to believe that such tender delicate flowers can force their way through such a hard surface. The daffodil and crocus leaves are showing also, though some were through as early as November. I’m glad to see daylight is not over until 4:45pm, a few more weeks and planting time will begin, potatoes going in plus veg seeds and bulbs for summer. It’s also time for pruning and fertilising, emptying our compost bins, digging it all into our garden to improve the soil. Cleaning out our greenhouses and getting rid of creepy crawlies that have taken over during winter, might seem like a boring job but if we want good fruit and veg it has to be done, it really is worth the effort. So you can enjoy the fruits of your labours.

Alison It was a nice day, the sun was shining. I felt it was alright with the world but it wasn’t going to last long. As I was walking up the lane I saw a girl and boy arguing, they were shouting loud, then the boy started hitting her. I ran down to see if I could help. The boy stopped, told me not to get involved but the girl was crying. The boy walked away and I took the girl home as she was in a terrible state. We went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, the girl stopped crying and we talked.

She told me what it was all about, she said she was pregnant and it wasn’t her boyfriends. She had no one to go to or anywhere to go to. I said she could stay with me and that I would look after her and she said she would be very pleased.

Donna The Cummings Park Community Flat had seen many people through its doors. The volunteers lives were very different but yet had similarities. It was a typical Friday afternoon in the clear, crisp month of January when a new person enquired within. The new person introduced himself as “Colin the Mysterious”. The volunteers, who try to be non-judgemental, welcomed the newcomer into the premises. Colin sat himself down and placed a blue crystal ball on to the already full of items coffee table. “I can feel the energy within this room” exclaimed Colin. “There is goodness and kindness within, but I feel a sadness. I can see there is need of my work here. I am willing to offer you my expertise and read, through my crystal ball, where you are now and how I can empower you to live your life in a better, more productive happier way”. Was this man a con artist?

Was he trying to gain access to people through their own vulnerability? Pat and Alison were sceptical. They had done neurological perception training and didn’t feel this very forward, forceful person had anything new to offer. The ladies suggested to Colin that he write down exactly what he proposed to do and they would take it to the management Committee for further instruction.

Colin didn’t return to the Community Flat but one has to wonder if he managed to engage another group and where this was and what outcome was established?

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Journey to Where?

Tasha

I can hear people crying. Calling my name. They sound sad and hollow.

There is a pressure on my chest. It’s a constant thump thump as weight is lifted on and off my chest, over and over again…..Everything is dark. My eyes are closed and it feels like they have been stitched shut. I reach out in front of me to get my bearings and my body jolts as it surges with electricity. The thump thump continues. My body jumps this time as a stronger current of electricity bring me to life. My eyes open.

The bus coming towards me comes to a halt and its doors open. The bus driver is wearing a black as night cloak. His hood is up covering his face. He doesn’t want to be seen. A gruff voice tells me to sit down. Without thinking I obey it. I look around the bus to see what seats are empty.

There are plenty as there are only a few passengers. A young boy covered in bruises crying for his mum and an elderly couple sitting beside each other smiling and holding hands. The last passenger is a woman – about the same age as my mum- and she looks sad but she refuses to cry. A pool of blood lies at her feet. Its trail begins at her stomach where the red oozes through the sunshine yellow. Thump thump. I walk back to the back of the bus-not beside anyone-and sit down.

The bus rides the waves as it cruises through the streets. It’s dark outside and no streetlights seem to be working. Even the headlights of the bus aren’t working. The only light I see is one at the end of the continuous road we seem to be driving along. My head really hurts. I move my fingers towards the pain to soothe it away but feel a liquid slither its way between my fingers.

Thump thump. My head is bleeding. Thump thump. I shout to the bus driver that I need to go to hospital. He laughs and tells me I won’t need a hospital soon.

The bus stops again and this time the woman stands- no blood to be seen- and she alights the bus, smiling. Three people get on the bus now. All with holes in their foreheads. One of them is holding a gun. I blink and in the next moment the gun is gone and the three people all sit together. They start arguing about money and police. They scare me and I want to get off the bus now. Thump thump. I want to go home.

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This is the Way Things Are

Damilola

The feeling of being arrested are what the sawali faded walls stimulate. I find myself staring into the ormolu mirror, although all that captures my attention are the smooth white patches that scatter themselves all around the mahogany coloured background. Every morning when I wake up, and every night before I go to be, this routine has to take place else the secret will be leaked out.

As the temperature falls, the noctilucent clouds are taking over the evening twilight. We have made it a tradition to gather outside the hut to tell stories, sing a song, invent a game or even gossip about the latest new that hit the village. But today, the evening brings about a sinister atmosphere. The wood fetched earlier on today has been beaten down with rain; therefore it cannot be used for fire. And wind refuses to settle. But we are all headstrong on gathering together anyway, so we take our wrappers and bin bags to keep warm. Tonight we are all in the realm of where and who we would want to be in the future. The demarcation of the ambitious and non- ambitious is very obvious. Some of the girls are satisfied with the village life and insist on living this way by getting married to the “chewing gum boys” that follow them around. Some are under the category of perfecting their cooking skills so they could settle with a rich guy as they know that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. However a minute number of us think very far outside the box.

It is now my turn to speak; “Adazuri what are your future plans?” they looked very interested – as if they knew I was going to spill out something completely unexpected.

“I plan on attending the National performing arts school in South Africa… and maybe move into a modelling career” I said with a very low voice. As expected they all burst out laughing, asides from one girl that seemed to make sense out of what I said. “None of us has ever stepped a foot outside this country of Sudan, talk less of going to SOUTH AFRICA, you must be crazy.” One of them shouted out.

“How about India? Isn’t your father that abandoned you come from here?” she mocked. One of the few reasons I still have faith and hope in my dreams is because of my beloved mother has been my one and only supporter. As the night hinted, tomorrow morning may not bring me good news.

These patches are transforming from pale coloured to pure whiteness. Now it is even more problematic to try and cover them up to match my skin tone. I have no other choice but to stick with the same shade even though it makes me look sick. It is market day today, the day in which

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we buy most of the food stuffs. It is observed by women and daughters every first Saturday of the month and it always puts me in a good mood all day. At least it gives the assurance that we won’t spend the next week or two eating rice or yam every day. As usual, the mothers always meet up to gossip, leaving the girls behind with the baskets and bags to carry. We decide to mingle with the chewing gum boys at the river side because Bello can’t help but see her heartthrob daily. Of course they would always be there as they have nothing to do but make trouble everywhere.

I never wanted to go along but it gave me an opportunity to speak to Astur about the patches becoming worse. She is the only one I trust with this secret and I believe her name backs it up.

Astur, meaning to conceal or protect. However, the tables begun to turn. I am still not convinced as to why she decided to backstab me. Maybe she did not want a diseased girl for a best friend.

The elders of the village called a meeting with my mother and I present. They gathered to decide my fate. I am part of the very few ones with vitiligo in the town. However, this had not occurred for the last 30 years. They believed they’ve managed to sweep it away as they banished everyone with the disease- they were viewed as witches of the village. Now I am under the category. I knew it would come to this.

Finally, we are back to school. The ray of sunlight gracefully landed on my bare skin- this was the first time in a whole year that the sun had a chance to gleam over my facial skin. My school is my second home through the good and bad times. I will be the topic of the day – if not the whole week –‘the white sheep of the town’. I decide to go to school with no cover up; I needed to start getting comfortable in my own skin. You cannot let the haters gloat, when they throw negativity at you, fire back positivity. As expected, people either kept a distance away from me or mock me. Astur explained that she did not mean to, but it slipped out of her mouth. Teachers were not willing to help me either, and then my confidence migrated to dinking sand. Only one thing could make me happy at this point; my ma, a magazine (for inspiration) or a letter of admission into the performing art school of South Africa.

Applying to National performing art school was not useless but successful. The principal called me to his office to give me the letter then he excluded me from school till I recovered. Running to the farm overwhelmed to deliver the news to ma, her face signalled the opposite vibe. The elders had taken away the land and sent us out of the village. Ma had suffered enough for my sake and all I could pay her back was banishment from her birthplace. Everything happens for a reason but it cannot be seen in the heat of the moment. We began walking, hoping to be favoured on the walk to South Africa.it was a walk to remember, a long walk to freedom. But was it a walk to success or a walk to more misery. I am here today, Adazuri- the first vitiligo model, internationally. How it came to this? I can’t even tell.

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The Hut in Etchacan

Don Wells

Many years ago, I first arrived in Aberdeen as an eighteen year old National Serviceman.

Coming from the relatively flat lands of the Thames Valley, where the Chiltern Hills counted their height in hundreds of feet, I was thrilled to find myself close to the mighty Cairngorm range, rising to over four thousand feet. I lost no time in joining a climbing club.

In the Etchacan Club, we walked the hills every Sunday and sometimes the whole weekend, from Lochnagar to Torridon and Glencoe – wonderful days in the wilderness, through all weathers.

During my last few weeks of Army service, I took part in the building of a mountain hut in Corrie Etchacan. Volunteers from every climbing club were needed, because lorries to transport the building materials could get only as far as Derry Lodge.

From there, it was down to a few ponies and many dozens of climbing boots to traverse miles of moorland, valley bottom and steep, rough footpath, carrying granite blocks, cement and sand, scaffolding, timber and tools, a window, a door and a chimney-pot, to the chosen spot beside Loch Etchacan, about 3,000 feet above sea level.

One of my tasks, with another chap, was to carry scaffolding poles, something between twelve and twenty feet in length.

How did we do it? We both had Commando style rucsacks, available in McKays of Queen Street for about fifteen shillings then. We took off the canvas sacks, leaving the A-frames, which projected each side of the waist. The poles rested on these, so the weight was taken on the padded straps at our shoulders.

They were no light weight but the main problem, which we found as soon as we set off, was that we had to keep to the same pace and stay in step. Not too difficult on the flat, but when the path wound around rocks and started to get steep, the load got more and more tricky to handle.

The worst bit was crossing the Derry Burn on stepping stones. We had the sense to stop and consider the problem of how to get across without a ducking – or worse.

Imagine your boot slipping off a rock; sideways you go; either your elbow or your ribs or both are thrown violently against solid tubes of unyielding steel. Bones would be broken. The bloke at the other end of the poles would also fall. The nearest doctor was miles away in Braemar. The nearest hospital, Ballater.

We did it anyway - one step at a time. Take a step, wait till we were steady and had each picked out the next rock, then I at the rear would shout “Go!” and we'd both step together. It worked, not even a wet foot.

That bothy, the Hutchinson Memorial Hut, is, as far as I know, still standing, after sixty years of the worst that the Cairngorms could throw at it.

I still take a pride in my small part of it.

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Red Lipstick

Yasmin

“You will come face to face with the love of your life tomorrow night at exactly 23:59pm. You must look beautiful and wear red lipstick as he’s one to keep” says the blind fortune teller. “But I’m only 18 how could I come face to face with him at such a young age?” I said. “you are never too young to find love Abbi-gail, Never!” said the blind fortune teller I really don’t believe!

“How are you even a fortune teller? You’re just a big fat juicy liar!. This is a scam!”

I started to walk out of this stinky old woman’s house. I reached by hand for the door but the door was locked. I suddenly noticed the key was in the door, so I turned the key. The key had 52-67, which was odd as the door was 54 but it unlocked and I ran out the door. Tomorrow nights is going to be about me, not my future husband I haven’t even met.

It is now a day since I went to see the fortune teller and I’m out having a drink with my friends.

23:50 23:51 23:52 23:53 23:54 23:55 23:56 23:57 23:58 23:59.

The clock strikes. “What a scam” I thought in my head. I turned round and bumped into someone. 2Sorry” I said. The person looked up it was a handsome boy.

“Don’t worry about it” he replied “My name’s Abbi-gail” “My name’s Peter” “Come out with me, Peter?”

“Um ok, I think you’re beautiful by the way and I love your red lipstick” “thanks….”

That creepy, blind old fortune teller was right, I’ve met my true love.

Short Story idea

Connor

A young boy is exploring the house of his recently deceased grandfather and finds a pair of old glasses. When he puts them on he begins to see messages written on the walls that he couldn’t see previously. At first he just thinks it’s a joke that his grandfather plays. But he puts the glasses on at his house and sees more messages on the walls telling him to rummage through the cupboard in the guest room. When he does this he finds a photo of him and his granddad together (in a photo frame) and on the back he sees a message telling him he should put these glasses on in different places, such as the park or at a forest. He does this and is constantly directed to places containing valuable possessions which belonged to his granddad. But it starts to get more and more difficult as his parents begin to suspect him and maybe even discover a few of the possessions. He is also picked on a lot by the local bullies for his constant wearing of the glasses. And if one of them tries the glasses on, he may never get them back.

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Crystal Ball

Fern

The agents had got into the hotel and they had to find the missing crystal ball that tells the future. They searched all the lower floor and the middle floor but it was nowhere to be seen. They decided to go up the stairs and look on the last floor to hopefully find the crystal ball of the future. As they climbed up the stairs something glimmered in the corner of their eyes.

They all looked at each other. The boss of the rest picked it up. It had 52-67 engraved on it. It was gold and shiny. The boss told them to find the hotel door with 52-67 on it.

They searched all around constantly looking at the doors.

They had found it but the boss wasn’t there and he had the key. It was ok he took the lift. William, one of the agents grabbed the key and tried to open the door. They busted the door open and ran to the sofa and table. It wasn’t there and they had checked all the rooms. William, one of the agents saw a not and read it out.

“You will never find it, but you will die soon for your future!”

Dream Escape

Klaudia

Things can come as coincidence, but not always. Aiden and I knew each other from a dream in which we were trapped but led a fantastic life in a dark castle. When we wake up we both knew that we exist. We exist means that he knew me and I knew him from our dream but not in the real world. We both perfectly knew that it wasn’t just a dream, it was the future. Our dreams showed our future and I start to search for him as fast as possible. I’ve checked what the castle was called and it was called Vindell Val and was located in the South of England. I’ve taken the hotel that was nearest the castle. I entered the hotel and saw a beautiful chandelier with blue crystal balls that spread their light over their room. That kind of blue represents me. Blue that calls into the abyss of other shades of blue. That colour represented me as my name was Blue. I’ve blue hair and blue eyes, pale skin as white as paper. I’ve taken a room with this golden and quite old but posh style key with room 5267. The hotel seemed old and posh too but filled with Egyptian mythology. The walls were carved with a language that no one in the world understood, the roof was high with golden bronze frames around the roof. The carpet so soft you would rather sleep here than your room and the colour of dead red with a colour of blood and broken heart. I walked through the crowded hotel and saw a guy with raven black hair, blue eyes and pale skin. He wore a dark and mysterious suit and his glassed covered his face. It was Aiden from the dream.

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Just Remember

Holly

I do, I don’t I do not remember that is me I remember or think of a great idea I tell the teacher.

I walk to my desk and it’s gone I don’t remember How do I ask the teacher what did I say?

Stop asking questions that is what they say It’s only a moment but I don’t remember.

Friends get angry as I ask all the time the same things Don’t they see it is much harder for me.

I do, I don’t I do not remember that is me So please remember as I don’t dyslexia can effect short term memory.

The Sea of Life

Charles Petrie

The sea of life that carries us like ships in rise and fall Will test all our endeavours through waters that we trawl In search through darkness and in light for purpose set to sail Trusting calmer waters will follow every gale Surviving each and every storm for the sake of every catch When all the good things that we net are shared with those we match Till time comes when the journey ends and all must say goodbye Our voyage must be over and our ships in harbour lie

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Zoe

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