Pen to Paper Anthology

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the contributor.

This book is published by Bath Spa University, Newton Park, Bath, BA2 9BN, United Kingdom, in May 2013.

Editor Chloe Platts.

Assistant Editor Kelly Mullins Cover designed by Maria Johnson Template designed by Richard Carter

First edition.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 4 FOREWORD 5 SHORT STORIES 6 POETRY 109 JOURNALISM 116 SCREEN PLAYS 124 ILLUSTRATIONS 129

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Acknowledgements

I would like that thank everyone who was involved with the publication of the anthology: The students for their amazing contributions, My assistant editor, Kelly Mullins, for noticing all the small details, Maria Johnson for designing and creating the superb cover, Richard Carter for designing and creating the excellent template, To both Dr Mimi Thebo and Dr Paul Meyer for their constant guidance and enthusiasm throughout the production of this publication.

The Editor, ChloĂŤ Platts

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Foreword ChloĂŤ Platts

Whilst editing and producing the anthology, I have been able to see the amazing talent at Bath Spa University. What I love about the anthology is that it has brought two different areas of the university together, creative writing and design. I can honestly say that this publication has made me proud of the students from this university and I hope you all enjoy reading the anthology as much as I enjoyed creating it.

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Short Stories

Abigail Herbert Alexandra Farnese Annie Campbell Ashley Biffen Beverly Randall Carmelle Giganto Dale Taylor Edward Prior Emily Maycock Elerie Davies Elizabeth Walker Emily Sowden Jake Matthews Joanne Cook Jonathan Bayes Kate Ashmore Katherine Lund Kelly Bolger Kerry Bivand Kieran Price Letita Lees Marianne Bowen Matthew Coot Natalia Spencer Owen O’Hagan Rachael McKenzie 6

Richard Falkus Sean Thomas Theresa Harold Thilder Holdt Thomas Stone Tim Goodings

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The Fallen Hero Abigail Herbert

Sunlight brightened his eyes for the last time, the wind brushed the hair from his face.

Death waited impatiently for him to take his last breath.

A single tear ran down his cheek.

Death snatched the fallen hero prematurely from this world, a quick appreciative nod to Cancer for another life claimed.

They say that eyes are windows to the soul. I can only imagine what amazing things you had seen, the stories and memories hidden beneath the mischievous glint in your eye. You were my definition of indestructible, physically and mentally strong; a warrior. But Death can claim even the greatest warriors. You were evidence of that. You were forced to fight, without any protection and without any defence. Each day a new battle fought and lost until finally you were just a shell. Even as a shell, your soul continued to shine through your eyes. I never once doubted your ability to claim victory.

You always fought to convince us you were fine. ‘I’m not afraid of dying,’ you’d say, your trembling fingertips contradicting your words. You suffered in silence but I heard your muffled cries as we walked away. Ben was just fourteen; I held his defenceless body close as he sobbed after every visit. The sobbing became harder and longer each week, as you got weaker.

‘Make it stop,’ he wept as I stroked his head and let the tears run down my face, unable to repress the feeling that this may be our final visit. It broke my heart watching him fall apart as his undefeated hero lost battle after battle.

We watched Cancer try and strip you of everything that you were. Your booming voice became nothing more than a raspy whisper; your rosy glow drained to a faint yellow tinge and skin fell loose over the bones where your physical strength used to be. He sucked the energy and life out of you, but he could never steal your soul. They say that everything happens for a reason, but I saw no reason for you to leave. I was plagued with ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens.’ I divided every question with questions and concluded that Death was selfish and wanted you all for himself.

In the autumn the doctors gave you a few months to live. Christmas was your favourite time of year and we aimed to make this one a celebration to remember. Death had other plans. Those months we were promised turned into weeks and by October you had passed. We waited for you to bounce through the door, belting out Christmas carols with a sack full of presents. We anticipated your wheezy laughter as you spilt the gravy down your jazzy Christmas waistcoat.

We tried to enjoy ourselves, you would have wanted us to, but the taste of your homemade runner bean wine was the only thing that made us laugh. You’re the glue that held the family together. You made us strong and I thank you for that.

Russell and I barely shed a tear at your funeral, for which I am gravely sorry. I convinced myself that the coffin was too small; too small for your body and certainly too small for your

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personality. I was waiting for you to sneak in late; expected to turn around to see you holding Grandma’s hand, reassuring her that she could conquer life’s problems alone. I wanted to be told one last time that you will always be proud of us; to stroke Heather’s hair whilst she choked back tears, reading your poem, to your guests, at your funeral. You never came.

Technically you were our Step-Grandad, but I never thought of you as anything less than the real thing. You were a fairy-tale Grandad and nobody deserves the title more than you do.

You saw the secrets behind our smiles, dried our tears before they had fallen and believed in us when no other sane person would have. Terry, mum’s biological dad, doesn’t remember our names, misses every birthday and wouldn’t even recognise us in the street. Your good heart, amazing personality and gentle warmth affected anyone in your presence. You were our hero.

You still are.

Autumn reminds me of you. Not as an anniversary of your death, but because of the memories we shared together. ‘Make sure you wrap up warm’ you would say; helping us with our coats, hats, scarves and gloves. ‘Grandad it’s so hot! Hurry up!’ We’d complain, eager to get outside. The huge brass key to the door hung on a hook. Even when I got onto Russell’s shoulders, we still couldn’t reach it. When we stepped outside, cold air hit our burning faces and we all laughed as we kicked up the leaves and threw handfuls at each other. Golden brown elegant paper-like stars fell from the wilting trees as we scuffed along the abandoned railway track. It was always a time of pure enjoyment.

On Earth you were tall, strong and bright. From heaven you live on through the flowers that you grew. On Ellen’s eighteenth birthday, the sunflowers we took from your garden flowered for the first time. We know you’re still here. It still doesn’t seem right to celebrate without you.

So for my twenty-first birthday party we put sunflowers in the window to brighten up the room just like your smile always did. You were the talk of the day, as per usual and there were a few secret tears shed. You have no grave for us to visit so we plant sunflowers every year to keep your memory alive and fill the house with flowers.

Every hello ends with goodbye. Goodbye is a horrible word, but a necessary one. I wish I was as strong as you were, and I wish that I could’ve had the strength to visit you more, especially towards the end. Any time I found the courage to visit, ‘see you soon’ were the only words I could surrender. I thought we had all the time in the world together, but now you’re just a memory I long to have back. I thought that if I didn’t say goodbye, you would wait until we all had before leaving us. I left it too long. I was naïve to believe that death had a conscience.

Sometimes I regret not saying it. Other times I remember you, and know why I never could.

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The Holiday

Alexandra Farnese

Welcome, fellow readers. You are about to experience a rollercoaster ride of blood and terror.

What makes my story better than some of the others you may have read? Well, there is only one simple answer. It is MY story and I am better than all the other writers you have loved and admired. This is based on true events and confessing what I have done may get me arrested, so I am trusting you not to turn me in.

I suppose you want to know a little about me? My name is Samantha Febray, I am 25 years old and I come from an American family, a rich and well-respected one as a matter of fact. My father is a banker and a graduate of Harvard Business School and my mother is both a lawyer and classical musician. Because of my family’s status I am pressured to do well in my career and was forced into doing a Masters degree. My parents moved here to England when I was 14 but we tend to spend the summer back in L.A. I met my girlfriend, Lauren at school when I was 13, but a year later when I moved to England we had to keep a long distance relationship by only seeing each other in the summer. However, as soon as she turned 18 she moved to England to be with me and had a civil partnership, which her parents didn’t attend as they are strict Catholics.

Lauren and I have been married now for seven years and she is five months pregnant with our son through artificial insemination. I have started my own business and Lauren is working as an art dealer. On a Sunday afternoon I was checking through my e-mails and saw I received a message from Lauren’s mother. The e-mail said: Samantha, Have I not expressed my thoughts on you and my daughter’s relationship enough to you? You are both committing a sin every single day by being together. I do not want my youngest daughter going to Hell. Not only are you female but you are pretentious, snobby and egotistical and I cannot stand you. I will do everything in my power to ensure you are not in Lauren’s life but also the baby’s.

I heard Lauren come into the room and I shut my laptop. She walked up to me and put her arms around my neck; I could smell the sweet scent of her Vera Wang perfume and feel her soft skin against mine.

‘What are you doing honey?’ She asked me.

‘Just checking some work e-mails. I have lots to get through.’

‘Remember, we have a whole summer away from the stresses of work. We get to go home!’

An idea came into my head from nowhere.

‘Why don’t we stay in the UK this year? Find somewhere different to go. After all, we have lived for all these years and we have only been to London and Brighton.’

Lauren smiled and her eyes gleamed, she nodded her head and answered, ‘You’re absolutely right Sam. We should! Why don’t you find somewhere nice for us to go?’

I smirked and a darkness rose over me when I asked Lauren,‘why don’t we ask your parents to come with us?’ Lauren’s voice rose, ‘my parents? We have not spoken to them in years.’ I looked straight at her with a fake smile on my face, ‘I know but I thought by us going on a trip together we could try and put our differences aside.’

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‘Do you think that will really work?’

‘Of course. After all, our son deserves to have his grandparents in his life.’

‘What would I do without you?’ Lauren kissed me softly. She always tasted of vanilla, from the first time I kissed her when I was 13 to that exact moment.

‘I’m going to the store to buy some bread. I’ll be back in a minute, honey.’ Lauren left the room and I heard the front door close.

I opened up my laptop and looked for haunted towns in the United Kingdom and with a detailed search I found the perfect place to take them. I discovered Antrim Town, County Antrim in Northern Ireland. ‘A number of residents to the area have spotted ghosts of people hanging from the trees. Local folklore says that this was once the location of a hanging tree.’

I read to myself out loud. I researched the area as a whole and saved the information to my memory stick.

The next day while I was bored at work I planned on replying to my mother in law’s e-mail but whatever I planned to say, it didn’t sound right. I was looking around my office with much disgust; Lauren decorated it without asking me what I wanted. I wanted it simple and professional but she decided to turn it into Barbie’s dream house. The walls looked like Hubba Bubba bubble gum had thrown up on them and instead of leather seats there were bean bags and inflatable chairs. I was waiting to have it re-decorated without her knowing. I was glad my clients had not criticised me on it as they know I am too rich and well respected for them to say anything. I checked through my e-mails again and found an e-mail from one of my clients saying our meeting has to be moved from this afternoon to this evening.

‘FUCK!’ I shouted. I slammed my laptop down as hard as I could. I got up and locked my door. I opened up my draw and took out a large kitchen knife I kept as I used to slice myself regularly at work due to stress and pressure. I undid the buttons of my trousers, pulled them down to my shins and then I cut my thighs, slowly but hard. I didn’t feel anything whilst I did it but then the stinging sensation came afterwards. I used baby wipes to wipe away the blood as it was rushing down my legs. I put my trousers back on, doing each button up was an effort. I noted down in my pad how it felt and how deep the cuts were from last time. I felt dizzy from the blood loss but I somehow managed to do it and focus for the rest of the day.

Towards the end of the day I replied to my mother in law’s e-mail telling her that I was ‘sorry for any hurt that I may have caused her and wanted to start a fresh by going on holiday together.’ After I told Lauren what I said in the e-mail she was so happy we made love twice that night.

The next morning my mother-in-law replied saying she would give it a go for her unborn grandson’s sake. I booked the flights right then. I did not however, tell my mother in law about the sights of ghosts in Antrim, I wanted to keep that as a surprise.

When Lauren’s parents came over the night before so we could fly out together, I was left out of every conversation. I was made to wait on both of them hand and foot. They wish I had never been born, they had told me that several times. Lauren’s mother is extremely overweight and has breathing problems. She had never worked a day in her life and devoted her time to her many cats. She wore a ginger wig and had smudged red lipstick which made her look like a hung-over clown. Her husband was a very thin, frail man who commits himself to his fat whale of a wife.

‘You call this a cup of tea, it is very weak!’ Lauren’s mother moaned with a disgusted look.

‘I’ll put another tea bag in for you, then.’

‘No need. I’ll drink it.’

‘But you just said it was weak.’

‘Samantha, do you mind? I am having a catch up with my daughter.’

I muttered ‘you’re going to suffer’ and left the room. I went into the bathroom and an

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uncontrollable rage came over me. I started slicing. I slice my legs so none of my staff and clients can see the scars, Lauren being my wife knew I have scars. She didn’t like it but she had no idea how much pressure I was under. The blood rushing from my thighs was the only real release I could purely enjoy as I was used to the sensations of orgasms.

There was a knock on the door. I pulled up my trousers.

‘Who is it?’ I asked.

‘Honey, it’s me. Are you in there?’

I put the knife in one of the drawers and opened the door. Lauren looked like a Hollywood actress as she had curled her hair and was wearing a black cocktail dress which showed off her beautiful curves, she was wearing the ruby necklace I bought her for our engagement.

‘I just wanted to see if you were okay?’

‘I will be fine. Do they want the apple tart yet?’

‘I know what you were doing; Sam and they aren’t worth hurting yourself over.’

‘I’ll defrost the ice cream.’ I walked past Lauren and went downstairs; she didn’t try and stop me to talk to her, which I thought she would.

The next morning we left at 5am to get to London Heathrow for 7am. Our flight to Belfast took less than an hour but it seemed like three hours as Lauren’s mother was complaining about feeling hot and claustrophobic. We arrived at Belfast by around 10:30am and got the train to County Antrim. We checked into the Dunsilly Hotel which had an old fashioned glamour about it. The hotel receptionist asked us in a strong Northern Irish accent, which I could barely understand, ‘Where are you folks off to, today?’

‘Antrim Town.’ I answered whilst I was taking my credit card out of my purse.

‘Ah. We have lots of folk from all over visiting Antrim Town. To let you folk know breakfast is served from 6am until 10am.’

‘Is it complimentary?’ I asked.

‘Yes and it is a buffet so you can have as much as you like’ ‘Did you hear that Marie, all you can eat buffet, you must be happy!’

‘Screw you Samantha! Harold, are you going to let her speak to me like that?’

Lauren’s father didn’t say anything, he just stood there awkwardly.

Lauren’s mum took the hotel key from the manager and stomped upstairs with her husband.

The hotel manager handed me our key and said, ‘You have the hotel suite which includes a Jacuzzi, queen sized bed, mini fridge and an entertainment system. It is three doors down from your parents-in-law Ms. Febray.’

‘Thank you.’ I shook his hand and gave him a £20 note. I don’t usually tip at hotels but as he helped piss off my mother-in-law I wanted to thank him.

I carried our bags upstairs and unpacked while Lauren was resting. When she fell asleep I went downstairs to speak to the receptionist.

‘What time is the last bus from here to Antrim Town?’

‘I will find that out for you now, Ms Febray.’

While he was calling the bus company a rush of excitement hit me and I couldn’t stop smiling, luckily he wasn’t looking at me at the time, otherwise he would have thought I was insane.

‘The last bus is at 10:45pm, tonight, and to get back it is 1:30am.’

‘Perfect. Thank you.’

I left the hotel to collect ‘supplies’ for tonight as I wouldn’t be able to get some of the stuff past security at the airport which took almost half the day. I went back upstairs to tell Lauren and her parents that we were going to Antrim Town tonight. They weren’t happy about getting there so late but I told them the receptionist suggested a moonlight stroll by the lake. After dinner we got on the 10:45pm bus, Lauren’s mother was complaining about not being able to

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see anything in the dark.

When we got to Antrim Town there weren’t even any lamp posts to see where we were walking to but I somehow felt like I had been there before and automatically knew where we were going … maybe it was due to the thorough research I had done such as looking at maps and landmarks.

‘There have been sightings of different ghosts … such as a female cyclist and people hung from a tree … ’ ‘Oh my!’ Exclaimed Lauren’s mother. After several minutes walk around the town I came across what I was looking for. The hanging tree. I stared at it for several moments.

‘Why are you staring at the tree, Sam?’ Lauren asked me concerned. I turned around and faced everybody.

‘I brought you here for a reason.’

I took out a hand gun from my bag and pointed it to Lauren’s father and shot him in the foot, to injure him. He fell to the floor instantly and started screaming in agony.

‘WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?’ Lauren cried.

Lauren’s mum lay next to her husband, pressed her hands on his wound and was looking at me with fear, her pupils had widened greatly. I walked up to Lauren’s mum and pointed the gun.

Lauren started gripping me on the arm to stop me and I shoved her away.

I then shot Lauren’s mum in the leg, to again, only injure her. Now both of them were pleading.

Lauren’s dad cried out, ‘Do what you like with me, but please let them go!’

I walked up to Lauren and told her, ‘I don’t want to do this but I have to.’

I pushed her to the ground and sat on top of her. She was clawing at me, she screeched, ‘Sam! Please don’t do this! Think of the baby!’ I took out the rope from my bag and tied the noose around her neck. My in laws were continuing to moan and groan in pain. With all the strength I had in my body I dragged her to the tree. I tied the rope around the branch. I made her stand on a stall which I found in the nearby area. When I forced her to jump off it, I heard her neck snap.

‘You killed her!’ Lauren’s dad shouted.

‘Now you know what it is like to suffer. I will give you two choices. I can let you both go if you promise not to go to the police, because if you do, I will kill your other daughters. Option two is I kill you both now to put you out of your misery.’

They both looked at each other, hoping the other would tell them what to do.

‘Harold, you make the decision for both of us.’ She held his hand tight.

‘Are you sure, Marie?’ He stared into her watery eyes.

‘I can’t live with what I saw tonight.’

‘Me either.’

Lauren’s dad looked at me and said, ‘Do it. Shoot us both.’

I threw him the gun and said, ‘Make it look like a joint suicide.’

I walked away and headed towards an abandoned allotment where I knew there was a car, which I could break into. When I got into the car I heard the two gun shots. A smirk appeared on my face and I started the engine. I actually for the first time in my life felt happy.

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Alma

Annie Campbell

A light breeze hushes through the fields of barley, which have paled to blue in the fading light.

Crickets chirrup their evening song and a weathervane squeaks slowly round to the west. He treads the path up to the ranch at an easy pace; hat pulled low over his eyes, heels sinking into the dust. As he passes the farmhouse he hears the press of an argument against the windowpanes. For a moment it grows louder, and then quieter again as it is trapped behind the snap of a closing door. He looks up and sees her standing on the porch.

‘Hey, you,’ her voice is soft.

He looks back down at the dirt and keeps walking.

‘Hey!’ Louder this time, ‘You.’ He stops and looks up at her. Her dark hair, just washed, hangs heavy down her back. ‘Come here,’ she says. He considers the demand. He’s warm from the whiskey he had in town, but is still steady on his feet. In his pocket his wages press against his thigh. He has enough notes left to save, which is more than the rest of the boys. He didn’t pay a girl tonight.

She steps down off the porch. ‘Come here,’ she says again. He presses his palm against the roll of notes in his pocket and goes to her. He goes because she’s the boss’ daughter. He goes because he must.

‘You came back early,’ she says, pushing her damp hair behind her ear.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Didn’t want to get drunk?’ The breeze presses her thin shirt against her breasts. The fabric at her shoulders is a darker shade of blue, made wet by her hair.

He thinks about the whiskey. He didn’t drink as much as some.

‘No, Ma’am.’ He reaches up and takes off his hat. He should have done so earlier, but the whiskey’s slowed him down.

She folds her arms across her chest. ‘Didn’t want a girl tonight?’

He meets her gaze and doesn’t answer. Her lips press together, and then apart. ‘You come with me.’

He follows her to the stable block and watches as she unlatches a stall door and leads out her buckskin mare. She leaves him waiting as she fetches the bridle and slips it over the horse’s head, whispering quietly in the creature’s ear.

‘Get the saddle,’ she tells him.

He fetches the saddle, polished leather, worn at the edges. She lets him lift it up onto the buckskin’s back for her; lets him tighten the girth and run down the stirrups. He puts his weight into the right as she lifts herself up using the left.

The mare shifts under the new weight, ears twitching as she feels the press of heels against her sides.

‘Pa won’t want me to go riding,’ she says, her voice soft in the shadows of the stables. She shortens the reins; makes the horse stand still. He helps her find the stirrup, his hand resting on the heel of her boot.

‘Maybe I’ll not come back.’ She’s watching him, waiting.

He reaches out and runs a hand down the mare’s neck. He can feel the quiver of anticipation in muscles bred for running.

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‘You got any money?’ He asks.

She smiles, ‘Not a dime.’ He thinks of the roll of notes in his pocket and imagines the long run.

‘Hey, you,’ her smile straightens slightly. ‘Why didn’t you pay a girl?’

He thinks of the money and of the girls in the whorehouse; thinks of the long walk back to the ranch and the boss’ daughter standing on the porch with her hair wet, calling him.

‘I’ve seen you get up on this horse a hundred times without my help,’ he says.

She tilts her head. ‘A whole hundred?’ The ends of her hair are starting to curl and so are her lips. His silence stretches into the shadows.

‘You’re quiet,’ she says, ‘You’re always quiet.’

He moves his hand up to rest on her calf. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

The farmhouse door snaps open. ‘Alma!’ The boss is drunk. He stumbles out onto the porch, boots thumping on the wooden slats. When he notices them in the shade of the stable block he stops and squints, as though he’s having trouble seeing. Her leg slips from his hand as she digs her heels into her horse’s sides. The mare bolts forward and he steps back.

And then she’s gone.

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Life In A Cage Ashley Biffen

‘Let’s split,’ Mitch shouts, wiping the blood from the blade and dropping it in his pocket. My eyes water as I force myself to stare at him. Mitch’s steely eyes reveal he’d kill me too if anyone finds out what just happened. Vomit rushes up from my stomach so I cover my mouth and gulp hard. I can’t show I’m scared. I nod at Mitch before spinning round and running.

I sprint down alleyways, across back gardens, flicking mud as I scrabble through bushes. I don’t know where I’m running to. All I know is that I need space. Barbed wire rips through my flesh as I clamber over a fence. A patch of blood quickly surfaces on my joggers, but the pain hurts less than my thumping head.

The acrid smell of cattle tells me that I’m close to an open field. Blood trickles down my shin as I try to clamber over a stile, but I’m yanked back by my hood. Falling to the ground I hear people rustling through the undergrowth behind me. This is it.

Three years later.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I wake up to the sound of a dripping tap. There’s no screaming or shouting. Taking in a deep breath, a musty pong fills my nostrils. A crimson mist blurs my vision. Where am I? I try squinting to gain focus but the streaks of light above sting my eyes, so I’m forced to shut them again. The muscles in my neck give way and my head falls sideways.

The floor cools my swelling cheek. The blood on my face irritates my skin, but I’m too drained to wipe it. Adjusting my eyes to the light, I notice a puddle of dried blood next to me.

I can’t be seen like this. I can’t let the inmates know I’m an easy target. My mind feels busier than a city in rush hour as I try to make up a story to tell the prison officers. I need to get to my feet and clean myself up. I use the back of my arm to clear my eyes, but the blood is replaced instantly. As the red mist descends, purple lumps obscure my vision. I move my arm across my body, placing my palm on the wet floor. I can’t help myself yelping as I put weight on my swollen wrist. Using both hands to gain balance my head starts spinning, it’s like I’ve had four shots of absinthe. My arms tremble as they take my bodyweight. The pain is too much. I collapse, crashing my top and bottom teeth together and splitting my lip on the hard ground. Drip. Drip. Drip.

If I crawl over to the tap, I can pull myself up using the sink basin. I slither across the room, ‘It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright,’ I repeat to myself in a futile attempt to control my heavy breathing. I feel the bruises growing as I make my way to the sink.

Stretching my arm I reach the basin with my fingertips, but I’m not close enough to clasp it.

I look over my shoulder to see how far I’ve crawled, it’s only five yards but I feel as if I’ve crossed Death Valley. My wounded body has left a trail of blood; it’s no wonder I’m light headed. I force myself forward one more time and I manage to grip the basin. I shut my eyes and clamp my teeth as I bear the pain of dragging myself to my feet.

I steady myself, resting my palms on the sink. Looking into the mirror I see the same frightened boy who stood by and watched Mitchel Doherty stab an innocent kid. But this

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time I’m the wounded one and I’m alone. Maybe this is what’s meant by karma? It’s been three years. Three years of being beaten. But, what can I do? I’m too ashamed to tell anyone.

I can’t cry in case someone hears. I admit that I’m a coward for saying nothing, I wish I could go back to that night and shout, ‘stop, don’t touch him.’ Then none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t be here; I’d be home with my family. I don’t want them to see me bloody, battered and bruised, like a monster.

‘I can’t take this anymore,’ I bellow, throwing the flannel on the floor and picking up my razor. If I grass in prison then I’ll wake up with more than a few cuts and bruises. I’m trapped in this cage with nowhere to turn. No way out. My hand burns as I clench it and place the razor on my throat. This is no life. I spit blood into the sink and one tooth swirls in the watery blood like a dice on a roulette wheel. I turn the tap on, watching the tooth spin and disappear down the dark plughole.

17

Jimmy Can’t Skim Ben Chapman

James reached down for the bottle, the plastic popping back against the light pressure of a curious twelve-year-old grip, both hands bone-white from the cold Atlantic foam. Through the plastic, those hands and eyes beheld a piece of lined paper, folded about four times. Four right arms further up the shore sought to skim the pebble-beach back upon itself. Then just three arms since Robin was walking over. One arm on James’s shoulder now.

‘Keep up Jim.’ But his tummy hurt. ‘Can’t you skim?’ The stones, the sand, the clouds (the skies) were grey. Robin’s hair, grey, shook tiny white tufts of detergent into the dying washing waves, too many to count, the amount, that dissolved into wave nine-hundred-and-four. Or was that wave nine-hundred-and-three? James couldn’t remember. He knew it didn’t matter, but that was why he had to know. Otherwise it would be wave-nothing, wave-the-same, wavemay-as-not. Robin skimmed a stone for him seven times, and James let it go. He could cope without knowing and slip back amongst the grey — it didn’t matter.

‘You must not let landscapes get to you,’ his mother had said, echoing from inland. James almost got over it, but the confrontation of the bottle, this message someone wrote between lines, folded four times, pushed, capped, floated, sent, the very intent, was what James could not ignore. Unlike the waves, dandruff, and skims, he had to know the message because it was countable, so James said it counted.

James’s knuckles coiled around the plastic lid, tightened and rotated, yet only performed a useless Earth-Sun orbit around the immovable bottle cap. Again he tried, this time with his face scrunched up, ignoring the ignoring Robin with closed eyes. Failing, he still gently tried to unscrew that cap but kept his eyes shut and sought refuge in memory.

Once, he had picked up pebbles and put them in his coat. The weight of them had broken through the pocket seams and clacked inside the coat’s lining with each step. He thought of how eventually, if he walked and walked, how they would grind down to sand, to almostinfinity but also nothing. They’d had to leave the coat behind it became so heavy. He’d not been able to keep the stones. Not been able to count them before they’d gone. James knew he had to get into the bottle. His stomach rolled and churned like the crests over to his right, his foot-blisters burned, pebbles rolled and eroded each other as well as his thoughts.

James stubbed his toe on a younger child’s stack of rocks, opened his eyes, and tried to heed the words windswept cross-county post-past from his mother, ‘the present, James, is where you ought to be. The present is where you’ll get pudding.’ But how to remember her words without the past?

When James stopped kneeling, cradling his toe through jelly-shoe lattice, he saw Robin had caught up with the others and that the stones were once more flying, skimming, sinking.

He didn’t know what was wrong. He counted waves and he couldn’t count all the waves.

Details seemed both futile and necessary. Some were bigger than others. Some were inside bottles, like in stories, that didn’t change and had to be gotten into. He couldn’t open the lid.

Someone could have written that folded message years ago. How many? Not a hundred. Not before the biro was invented at least. Not before plastic bottles. The message will still be the same despite its years. James didn’t want to grow up; not entirely and not yet. Moving on, moving faster, he tried to stamp through the pebbles as he fumed along; and indeed it seemed

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that as James hurried up the coastline the ever-shrunken shingle turned to sand, satisfyingly.

Soon his anger, his pace, his tummy-ache, subsided slightly.

He noticed he’d actually managed to catch up with the others, him, with the youngest, shortest legs. Robin and the three boys greeted him but wouldn’t take their eyes off the beach as they combed for those skimming stones which were becoming increasingly rare.

Now the boys and Robin had to dig under bulges in the sand in order to find a suitable rock. James locked his teeth around the bottle cap, chewing, wrenching, slobbering, though he only added toothache to his returning tummy-ache. James rubbed his jaw and saw that Robin and the others now seemed to just throw anything, whether it’d skim or not, into the ocean; into the ocean in some tribute to the ocean, or into the ocean in some retaliation (but James would rather tally ocean) against the waves, seaweed, and plastic bottles it threw back up. James couldn’t skim stones and didn’t want to. He just wanted that lid off. In desperation he tried to peel a limpet, acting as beacon of the rock pools, so that he might use it for a bottle-opener. Shingle slingers sent a volley over his head. Again James screwed up his face unscrewing the cap, but nothing would come of it.

It was overwhelming. The overwhelming itself overwhelmed him. It was unfair; he couldn’t undo the lid. Robin was there, his left arm holding a stockpile of stones that dwindled as his right arm flung them, his right hand gripping, twisting at the last moment, and sending them bouncing way out to sea. James imagined that ancient hand gripping and twisting the bottle cap and sprinted over. Robin saluted the sun as he looked over the water surveying his last throw.

‘Thanks Jim,’ and glancelessly Robin took the bottle offered to him in reverse grip. Robin’s thumb, index, and middle digits held the lid, the bottle held the message, and James held his breath.

Robin cast the bottle; the message in centrifuge. The wind caught it, sent it skimming far away on air rather than water, and James had no clue as to whether it sank, floated, or just disappeared. James took to the ocean, but the waves dwarfed him into rhythmic on-off retreat, and all he could bring himself to do was paddle half-heartedly after the message in the bottle with the sense and the knowledge of missing out forever. James’s tummy ached harder.

19

Rachel’s Day

Beverley Randall

Rachel chased the cat from underneath the bed. Again. This had been Sherlock’s latest game and it really pissed her off. She daren’t leave him in the bedroom — the last time he shat on the floor and then proceeded to drag her knickers through it, like he was some kind of feline Picasso.

As she pulled up her tights and smoothed down her skirt, she could hear Mr Rex, her manager’s voice inside her head, ‘That’s the third time this week you’ve been late and …’

‘I know, I know,’ Rachel said out loud as she grabbed her coat. Sherlock purred in response.

‘Oh shut up!’ she shouted back at the cat as she slammed the front door.

At five thirty-two in the evening — having made up the thirty one minutes that she was late — Rachel was allowed to leave. She headed for the lift and caught a flash of something white out of the corner of her eye. She spun round — nothing. The lift door opened and the full length mirror inside revealed a few squares of toilet paper trailing underneath her left heel.

‘Rachel, Rachel.’ It was Henry, the security man. ‘You’re …’

‘Oh, it’s alright Henry, I know. I’ve got toilet paper stuck on my shoe, I’ve just seen it.’

‘No,’ said Henry hesitantly, ‘your skirt is …’

She spun around and saw in the mirror that the back of her skirt was tucked inside her tights, just as the lift doors closed.

‘Oh thanks Henry. That could have been embarrassing couldn’t it?’ Rachel untucked her skirt, wishing the ground would open up or that the lift would come back.

‘I think I’ll take the stairs …’

Fuck it, I deserve a treat, Rachel told herself as she headed to the supermarket. There was the usual post-work scrum in Waitrose but somehow it felt more polite than the Sainsbury’s scrum. Basket in hand, she marched towards the prepared meals’ aisle and spotted the last chicken meal for one, with the rich gravy and chanterelle mushrooms, she could taste it already. She reached down to pick it up just as another hand appeared in front of hers.

‘Er … that’s mine,’ Rachel said.

‘Well, you didn’t have your hand on it,’ said the old woman.

‘As good as.’

Before the old woman had a chance to answer, Rachel grabbed the packet and ran for a till.

Skidding round the corner of the aisle, her basket went flying as she tripped. The offending object was a carelessly placed large black leather-clad foot.

‘Can’t you watch …’ She started.

She looked up. Oh God. He was gorgeous.

‘Well, if you were looking where …’

‘I can’t stop.’ Rachel grabbed her basket, spotting the old woman heading in her direction with someone who looked like a store manager.

She ran the length of the queues, locating the shortest one. Oh bugger, she thought, I’ve forgotten the wine.

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‘D’you mind …’ she said to the man behind her in the queue, ‘I’ve forgotten something … won’t be long.’

She returned quickly with a bottle of Saint Emilion and nodded her thanks. The man arched his eyebrow in an upward direction before looking away. Honestly, you’d think I was an alchy or something, she fumed to herself.

Keeping an eye out for the old woman, she trotted through the supermarket doors and took the back route to the tube station. Bloody Northern line, she thought. She waded through the crowd to the southbound platform, manoeuvring her way through the hordes to the other end.

The notification board wasn’t working. Really? Haven’t I had enough today? Just at that moment, the tube emerged through the darkened tunnel.

‘Oh good,’ she said out loud to no one in particular.

Rachel tucked herself close to the exit so that she could end up resting against the tube doors, rather than being stuck in the middle with nothing to hold onto. Bending, she placed the shopping bag on the floor and steadied it. The tube moved forward as she was about to straighten up. She couldn’t. She could neither stand nor crouch. What the fuck? She was sure there wasn’t someone behind her, so why couldn’t she … the tube jerked suddenly and Rachel felt a tug on her coat lining as she heard a tearing sound. Oh no …! She had trapped her coat in the doors.

The tube juddered forward, toppling over her shopping bag, setting the wine bottle loose.

It rolled just beyond the reach of her fingers. Shit. She tried to reach for it again but the lining tore a little more. How could she travel all the way to Kennington at a right angle to the door without anyone noticing? As she glanced to the left, she caught sight of herself in the glass panel, in the narrow gap between the jostling bodies. Her back was arched and, in an attempt to look up, she saw what resembled a manic-looking tortured tortoise stretching its neck. At this angle, she was the same height as an Oompa Loompa. The next jolt forced Rachel to head-butt the crotch of the person in front of her. She angled her head upwards to say sorry and saw that it was Mr Gorgeous from Waitrose. Shit, shit, shit.

‘What on earth are you doing …’ he started. Then he just stared at her. ‘Oh.’ The wine bottle rolled further across the floor. Mr Gorgeous reached down and rescued it. With pursed lips, he placed the wine bottle in her shopping bag and set it upright. She pushed her hair out of the way, looked at him again and said, ‘For God sake, just laugh will you!’

In a split second Mr Gorgeous became Mr Prat. He had a horrible laugh. It sounded like a braying donkey with hiccups. It also attracted the attention of those closest to him who then noticed Rachel. The tube stopped. The driver made an announcement over the tannoy system. ‘Apologies for the delay. There’s a signalling problem but we should be on the move again shortly.’

The whispers had spread around the carriage that there was a right-angled woman stuck in the door. People jostled to get a look. Ingeniously, they had formed a semi-circle around Rachel. Mr Prat started braying again and within seconds they’d all joined in. Comments ranging from ‘I thought I was having a bad day,’ to ‘that’s made my day’ fought for space as they swam over Rachel’s head. The laughter eventually subsided to a gentle hum.

The tube began to move forward, then, even more violently, jolted to a halt. The ripping sound from her coat silenced the entire carriage. To Rachel’s relief, she could see the bright light from the platform flooding the carriage as the tube finally pulled into Kennington station. The doors opened and she stood up. She stayed by the door, frozen. Passengers cheered as they rushed past her. It was over.

Rachel trudged up the stairs, her legs barely clearing each step, as she struggled to keep her sleeve attached to the rest of her coat. Approaching the station’s mezzanine, she could hear rain. As she turned to walk the last flight of steps, the torrential drops were coming in through the station’s entrance. She quickly opened the umbrella before reaching the exit, and

21

it promptly closed around her head. Really? Before anyone could notice, she tried to open the brolly again. It stayed open this time, only she had managed to catch the back of her hair in the hinge. She tugged at it which made the hinge feel like a tourniquet around her hair. Now the umbrella was at a jaunty angle, as if she was enjoying a stroll on a summer’s day. As she stepped onto the pavement, the rain lashed against her face. What was the bloody point? Rachel sauntered down Kennington Lane, with her shopping bag tucked under one arm and the loose coat sleeve on the other side, hanging down for all to see.

Completely soaked, she turned the key in the lock and pushed herself sideways through the front door, with the umbrella spokes digging into her shoulders. How the bloody hell am I going to get the brolly out of my hair, she puzzled before hearing a strangled yelp, as she tripped over Sherlock. Lying on the floor in the hallway, with Sherlock’s nose nestled up against her face, Rachel threw her head back and finally laughed.

22

Snowflake

Carmelle Giganto

Amara didn’t speak to us for the whole two weeks we made our way down the mountain.

We warned her not to come with us. I knew she was too young to go hunting. She didn’t understand these things yet. But she had to follow us anyway. I always said her stubbornness would get her killed one of these days.

‘I can go hunting too,’ she said. ‘I’m big and strong, just like Dad and Kuma.’

Too bad we didn’t notice her until we were half way up the mountain. It would’ve been a waste of time to go back.

‘How’s your sister?’ Asked father, as we finished pitching up the tent.

‘Still sulking. You sure it was too late to take her back when we found her?’ Father chuckled.

‘You saw your first kill at a young age too, you know.’

‘I was definitely older than six winters,’ I paused as I finished stocking up the wood for tonight’s fire. ‘Besides, Amara is more delicate than me.’

‘Ha! She was brave and crafty enough to follow us out here without us noticing.’

I turned to remind him about how Amara almost got in the way of a good hunt, but stopped myself. Father was looking up in the sky, still and silent, his eyes moving slowly across the mountaintop. After finally spending weeks in the wilderness, hunting with him, I knew what the look in his eyes meant.

‘Go find your sister,’ he said, breaking his trance. ‘I’ll get the fire and dinner started.’ It wasn’t hard to track down Amara. I found that out after the third day of worrying about her all the time on our trip. Father showed me that she was quite heavy footed and left tracks like a wounded mountain beast. It’s why we let her wander off alone when she wants to. She never goes far anyway.

I walked around a small outcropping of frozen rock and found Amara crouched on the ground, playing in the snow and humming to herself. The sight of her confirms my earlier thoughts of how she was still to young to come hunting with us, still a child.

‘Amara, time for dinner.’ She jumped, startled and took a sharp intake of breath. It was always so easy to sneak up on her. I guess it runs in the family.

‘C-coming!’ Amara blurts out, fumbling more frantically at the pile of snow she had built up on the ground. I narrowed my eyes. This was the first time she’d said a word since we left the mountaintop.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘N-nothing! I’ll be there in a sec!’

‘You feeling better then? Talking to us now?’ She stood up, slinging her satchel behind her in haste and glaring at me with those icy-blue eyes. The same eyes as father’s; except she’s not too good at hiding her real expressions behind them yet. I glance quickly down at her bulging satchel. ‘What’s in your bag?’

‘Nothing,’ huffed Amara. She started to stomp off towards camp. ‘Let’s go.’

I spun around and quickly caught her satchel strap. With one tug I managed to pull it from her.

‘No, Kuma! Give it back!’

My jaw dropped as I opened up the bag. I thought it was a large, white rock at first, nestled in a bed of snow. But hunters have a sense for living things, and there was definitely

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something living in that rock. Amara snatched the bag back from me before I could examine it any further. But I didn’t need to. I knew what it was.

‘An egg? Amara, where did you get that?’

‘You’re not killing her, too!’

‘Give me the egg.’

‘No!’ ‘Amara! Give it to me!’ She ran for the camp, clutching the satchel close in her arms. I ran after her. ‘Amara! Amara, give it to me!’

The noise we made caught father’s attention. He strode towards us from the camp.‘Hey! What’s going on?’ He asked, as a teary-eyed Amara stopped before him. ‘Kuma? Amara, what’s wrong?’

‘Father!’ I shouted, nearing the camp. ‘Father, she has an egg!’

‘A what?’

‘No,’ Amara shook her head, her dark curls bouncing frantically about. ‘No, I don’t. He’s lying.’

‘Give him the egg, Amara.’ I spoke between gasps for breath as I stopped a short distance from them. We were quiet for a moment. Amara sobbed softly as she held the satchel tighter. I could tell that father was surveying her, his silent eyes moving slowly up and down and finally resting at her satchel. Just as though he was surveying prey, calculating their movements.

‘Give me the bag, Amara.’ He spoke in his stern, solemn tone. Amara shook her head. Father didn’t let that stop him. He prised the satchel from her arms despite her sobs and pleas. There was the egg again, pristine white with swirls of pale grey and blue, beating with life in father’s hands.

‘Don’t kill her’ whimpered Amara. ‘She’s just an egg.’

‘She?’ I shook my head. ‘Amara, that’s a dragon egg. You saw how ferocious it’s mother was.’

‘It’s cruel!’ Amara’s voice was shrill. The tear streaks started to crystalize into frost of her cheeks. ‘You killed her mother, and now you’re going to kill her too?’

‘You should’ve left it at the mountain, Amara.’ I moved my glance to my father. He was looking up at the sky again. ‘This is dangerous.’

‘She’s an egg!’

‘A dragon egg!’ Father’s voice was not loud, but clear as spring day. He placed the egg on the snow. ‘We’re leaving it here.’

‘But, who’ll take care of her?’ Father didn’t answer. He started to slowly make his way to the tent. Amara wiped the tears from her face and bent down to pick the egg up.

‘Put it down.’

‘No.’ Amara stood firm, egg in her arms. I never knew where she got her courage.Father turned to face us. Without a word, he smacked the egg from Amara’s hands. It rolled a short distance and hit a rock jutting out of the snow.

‘No!’ Amara began to run for the egg, but father held her back.

‘Leave it.’ He ordered. But Amara still struggled to break free from his grasp. Father started to drag her towards camp. I followed, but quickly stopped in my tracks. I heard a crack.

‘Father … ’ Amara grew still and so did father. Our gaze fixated on the egg, shuddering in the snow. It twitched, jumped, then a thin crack broke the perfectly white surface and a small, scaly snout emerged, letting out high-pitched chirping sounds.

‘Snowflake!’ Cried Amara. She broke free from father’s grasp and ran to the egg. Crouching beside it, she started to build a small mound of snow around it. I walked up to father’s side.

The look on his face was blank and unreadable, but his eyes gazed sternly at the dragon whelp, now breaking through the shell. The joy in Amara’s face as she giggled at the hatchling couldn’t be denied. There was definitely no getting rid of it now.

‘What do we do?’ I whispered to father.

He shrugged his shoulders, then looked to the sky once more. Without a word, he walked to

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the camp and sat by the fire. I looked down and small, frost dragon hatchling. It looked small and fragile, but I could already see its claws and teeth. Its leathery wings were still pressed at its sides, and it staggered out of the egg, chirpy and crying for Amara. Pale white scales, whiter than the snows around us. I tried to control the shiver that ran down my spine as I watched it open it’s tiny eyelids and focus its vision on my sister.

‘Hello, Snowflake.’ Whispered Amara. The dragon chirped in response, then wormed it’s way onto her lap. It had claimed her now.

25

Galek Manor Dale Taylor

The window had been left open again and a chill had enveloped the room. This in itself was nothing special, for the place was usually full of guests and it was only natural that one, out of so many, would forget to replace the latch. Jacob was used to such lapses. So tonight, like on many other nights, he found himself making his way through the long hallways of Galek Manor checking that all the doors were sealed shut and that nobody had crept in. His body shivered from the cold even though he was sealed within the lush confines of his woollen robe—the very same robe that Miss Halis in room thirteen had given him last Christmas.

The Manor had been around for hundreds of years and it was a point of pride for Jacob that his family had been its caretakers since it had been originally built. For him and the rest of the Regis family, Galek was, and always would be, their home.

‘Is there someone out there?’

The voice had a rich foreign accent and sounded more pleading than frightened. Listening, Jacob walked up to a door on his right and putting his ear to the door replied: ‘Yes, it’s only me Mr Sizwe, Jacob.’

The door opened and revealed Mr Sizwe, his dark skin making it difficult for Jacob’s old eyes to pick out much detail from the man’s face. Then as if seeing Jacob struggle, he turned inside and held out an old wick candle set in a silver saucer with a curved handle.

‘Ah, Mr Regis I had thought it might be you, here take this.’ Jacob gently took the candle and held it to the side, marvelling at how much it illuminated the corridor.

‘You really should ask someone to replace these old lights, you’re getting too old and eventually I will not be around to loan out my candles.’ Jacob laughed at the thought of Mr Sizwe ever being anywhere else. He was still a young man, only in his early forties but had been a resident of the Manor as long as he could remember. Like most people who visited, he had been captured by its beauty and had simply never left.

Jacob had always enjoyed Mr Sizwe’s company and together they had formed a unique bond, for Mr Sizwe himself was quite a unique person. Like an ancient animal discovered in some long forgotten pit and placed on display, he was a man caught in a world where he did not belong. He held a special preference for anything old and traditional, much preferring the candlelight to any bedside reading technology. For him, the Manor was his way to escape a world in which he simply did not fit.

Looking ahead as the shadows were peeled away by the candle’s flame, Jacob began to appreciate just how much care the Manor was in need of. Everywhere his eyes passed he saw signs of her age beginning to creep through: the wallpaper beginning to pale and tear, the low circular lamps set into the walls flickering—as if the heart of the house was starting to fail, and stains were seeping into the dark red carpet that covered the entire floor of the corridor. The dark patches were accompanied by the thin trickle of water seeping down the side of the walls, which left ugly green and brown streaks across usually unblemished surfaces. How such things had been allowed to occur were beyond Jacob’s knowledge, but it saddened him to think of people neglecting his family’s pride and joy to such a shocking degree. Pausing at the base of the first set of stairs, he made a mental note to write a letter to the board of governors and petition them to come and rejuvenate the building that was

26

so loved by its tenants. Then with a sigh he began to slowly make his way up to the second floor. Pictures gazed at him from their vantage on the top landing; the sneers of the previous occupants of Galek burned their displeasure into him. Such was the ferocity of their presence, Jacob never took his eyes from the floor, simply content to place one foot in front of the other until he was able to reach the landing and shuffle his way past the leering glares of the pictures. None of them liked him but that did not matter, this was his manor and they would just have to tolerate his company.

The first floor of the manor was very different from the lower level and it was here that the majority of the guests stayed. The numbers on the rooms were distorted and misshapen and as Jacob moved alongside them, the metal began to melt and morph. As he peered from the corner of his eye, he was able to make out the anguished faces of people screaming, but they were blurry and fragmentary. The second he stopped and turned to face the doors, all he would see is a regular doorknob and nothing out of the ordinary.

After a while, the doors began to blend into a haze of colour and stretch into each other.

He was beginning to get tired. He moved his hand into his top right pocket and produced his silver pocket watch. It was a family heirloom and had his family emblem—a door with a set of keys hanging from a chain at its centre—etched into its surface, its edge was lined with gold and it gleamed even in poor light. His finger played around its top, he was tempted to press down and hear the satisfying click as the hatch popped open, but he thought better of it in the end. It was late and it was best left at that, knowing would only make him long for his bed more.

With a deep sigh he replaced the watch and stopped to rub his eyes, but just as his hands were moving away, he glanced up the hallway and noticed a little boy who was staring at him from the end of the landing. Wiping his eyes to focus them he saw that the boy was only young, no older than ten years, and was wearing a short bright red t-shirt that contrasted against his black jeans. For a moment they simply stared at each other, but before Jacob could get more than a startled gasp out, the boy had disappeared around the corner, leaving him to blink away the after-image of the red dots created by the boy’s trainers.

Then Jacob realised what was going on and called out after the boy, begging him to wait. He began to run up the corridor after the boy, but he was old and did not have the stamina he used to. The doors began to leer at him as his breath became strained and his muscles started to burn. Then, just as he caught a glimpse of the boy’s red shirt ahead of him, he tripped and collapsed onto his knees. Black spots poisoned his sight and he wheezed as his body struggled to breathe. Each gasp caused him to choke and cough and made his head light and foggy, until he found his face pressed against the carpet. Tears began to form in the corners of his eyes and his ears were filled with the roar of his blood racing around his body. He tried to call out to the boy, but his voice was weak and was lost in the vast house. In his heart he knew it was already too late, but he forced himself to keep trying. He knew the day he stopped his soul would truly be damned. He tried to get up but his body had nothing left, so instead he allowed his eyes to close.

When he woke up, the candle that Sizwe had given him was gone and the lights of the house had been dimmed. There were dark shadows all around him that had no right existing. He saw leering faces and clawed hands reaching for him. He tried to drag himself away and pushed his body towards the small window at the end of the hall. In his head he thought some fresh air and everything will be alright, but really he knew it was just a bitter hope. Things in the manor were never alright once a new child had been selected. It was just the way of things.

As he opened the window he could just make out the faint silhouettes of people searching the nearby wood, their torches shining bright against the wood’s blackness. He could hear them calling out, but the distance was too far for him to clearly make out the boy’s name, it

27

was just a murmur of sound that was doomed to never be answered. Then he heard it, the sound he had both been dreading and waiting for. He turned slowly and began to follow the tiny whimper of a lost boy. The doors smiled at him as he passed, mocking his pathetic attempt to change what simply was. He had not yet learnt his place within the Manor.

The whimpering took him onto a landing that was very different to the rest of the Manor.

Its walls were a dark blue with white streaks spread randomly across its canvas. The carpet was also different, not the traditional red of the house but instead it was a light purple; combined, the two colours created the illusion of a vast tunnel. Looking up, Jacob saw that instead of being flat, the roof of the corridor was arched, so you could not tell which direction you were going, it just constantly looked straight. However, he knew what was really happening. He knew that it was just an illusion, a very clever one designed to draw in the victims and make them believe they were getting far, far away from the Manor—but this was simply not true. The Manor was far too clever for that, and instead Jacob knew that he—just like the boy—was being drawn down towards the Manor’s heart.

The passage was not lit by the small, ineffective lights that dominated the rest of the house. Instead, the white streaks on the walls shone like stars; it was like being outside, and if he closed his eyes, Jacob was sure he could feel a breeze on his face. It felt like freedom. It felt like a trap. At the bottom of the corridor there was a single bronze door. It was covered with inscriptions that hurt Jacob’s eyes if he tried to read them and made him feel sick and dizzy. The door made a heavy thunk as some mechanism began to move out of his sight.

The door began to creek open. The Manor liked to do this to him sometimes. It enjoyed making him suffer when it felt that he had overstepped its authority and it really loved to draw out every second.

On the other side of the door he found himself standing in a circular room; behind him he heard the unmistakable sound of the door closing and locking, trapping him inside, but that did not matter. He was committed to finding the boy—regardless of what he knew must happen once he did. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was brightly coloured with a large oval roof completely covered in bright blues and whites, all painted to resemble a perfect sky. The carpet was a light fresh green and the air that circulated the room felt so real that Jacob could hardly believe he was underground. They always did like to put on a show.

Looking around he saw the little boy sitting in the centre of the room. As he got closer he saw that the boy was asleep and rocking slowly back and forth. Tears welled up in the corner of Jacob’s eyes as he realised that the process had already begun. He crouched next to the little boy and held him gently in his arms. He tried to hold his body still, but the force moving the boy’s body was too strong for him, so he rocked with him instead and gently stroked his hair.

From the corner of his eyes he saw things moving in the grass-like carpet and a shudder went through his body at the thought of what was being hidden. All of a sudden, the boy’s eyes shot open and his hands gripped onto Jacob’s arms and made him wince. The boy’s deep blue eyes had a glassy look to them and Jacob knew that he was not really there— it was just a small fraction of him being allowed out for the Manor’s amusement.

‘What’s your name?’

Jacob said it without thinking and jumped slightly when the boy smiled at him and replied in a twisted sing-song voice, ‘Its name was Freddie. Why do you want to know Jacob?’

Jacob’s face turned white and he jumped back and away from the animated body of the boy, he felt sick and could taste bile on his tongue. The Manor had never spoken to him before.

Even as he started to back further away, he saw the body get up off the ground and begin to skip, throwing out its arms and spinning in circles. It was such a sick perversion of life that when it opened its mouth and laughed he was sick; it frothed up out of his body as if it was the only thing his brain could think of to reject the sweet, haunting delicacy of the things

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voice.

‘Oh now, really Jacob, was there any need to ruin my nice carpet? And I spent so long making it all pretty just for you.’

Tears began to stream down Jacob’s face as he looked at the sweet little boy standing before him and he felt his mind breaking. It was simply too much for him and he was too old for such a game. Sensing this, the boy’s face changed. It was no longer smiling, instead it glared at him in disgust, for it hated anything that showed itself as weak or old. Then without a sound, thick black worms burst out of the carpet around the boy, their mouths were filled with rows of thick yellow teeth. Then, without any warning, they began to devour the boy’s body, the glassy look in his eyes disappeared and instead Jacob found himself looking at Freddy. He kept eye contact for as long as he could, but then Freddy began to scream and it was all Jacob could manage not to crawl up into a ball. Instead, he just shut his eyes and held his hands over his ears in an attempt to block out the horrible sound.

The screaming went on for hours past the point where the boy must have died, and it was only when Jacob felt a hand resting on his shoulder that he opened his eyes. The bright sky had turned a lazy red, as if the sun was setting and there was a youthful feel to the Manor.

Looking up he saw that the hand on his shoulder belonged to Sizwe.

‘Come my friend, I can see that you are tired and it is time for you to rest.’

His voice had changed since their conversation on the landing, it was lighter, as if years had been taken off him and he was a once again in his mid twenties. He was completely different to the man Jacob had spoken to earlier, yet he knew it was not the Manor in disguise. With Sizwe holding him, they made their way back through the Manor, but nothing was how Jacob remembered it. The walls were different, instead of the old and faded paper there were smooth white walls and the stained red carpet had been replaced with fine wooden planks.

The lights had been replaced with shiny new lamps that shone with a bright elegance.

Finally they stopped and Jacob smiled to see that even Sizwe’s door was different. Then he noticed the little emblem etched into the centre of the door and suddenly he felt very afraid.

‘Sizwe, why is my family mark on your door?’

In reply, Sizwe simply opened the door and led Jacob into the room. It was huge and consisted of many rooms, each of which connected in some way to Jacob’s own personality.

Looking around he no longer felt scared, only very tired.

‘It is time for you to rest here my friend, but do not worry about the Manor. I will mind her for you why you regain your strength.’ Jacob was too tired to reply and allowed Sizwe to lead him into a bedroom that contained an old Victorian posted bed, the colours in the room were bright and made Jacob feel peaceful. He was not even aware of getting under the covers and his eyes closing. In fact the last thing he saw was Sizwe closing his door and the click of a turning key.

Outside Jacob’s door Sizwe began to wander the Manor, learning all of its paths and new areas. In one particular room he found a wall of old paintings, each of which contained a leering portrait, he looked around the room searching for the one he was after. Then over in the corner of the room, he found it, a small frame tucked away so that only those who were looking for it could find it. He stroked the edges of its frame and admired the vivid red of the boy’s shirt and how, as he moved it, the photo created the illusion of lights flickering on the figures trainers. Then without another word, he left the room and filled the Manor with his laughter.

29

Family Dinner Edward Prior

‘What time did your sister say she’d be here?’ The father asked.

‘She didn’t.’ The son opened the oven, turning his head so the rush of hot air wouldn’t steam his glasses.

‘Well she better be here before dinner’s ready, that’s all I’m saying.’

The son used a ladle to pour hot fat from the chicken over its crisping skin. He transferred a few ladlefuls to a tray on the work-surface, and then closed the oven to keep the heat in. The potatoes had steamed dry now. Putting the lid back on the pan, the son held it firmly in place and shook the whole pan vigorously for a few seconds.

‘What are you doing?’ asked his father.

‘Fluffing up the edges. It’ll make them go all crispy.’

‘Oh.’ The father picked up one of a dozen dirty cups from the work surface, then put in down again onto a plate varnished with congealed gravy.

‘Don’t worry Dad, they won’t kill you.’

‘Oh no. I’m sure they’ll be fine.’ Collecting up a handful of knives and forks that had been scattered around the sides, the father placed them, handles down, into the cup. It promptly tipped over, spilling the cutlery back onto the work surface.

The son turned back to the oven to hide his expression. He opened the door too quickly, forgetting to turn his face and his vision disappeared in a white fog. Tilting his head back he managed to see well enough under the rim of his glasses to shake the potatoes onto the tray of hot chicken fat.

‘You could just put them in the tray with the chicken. That’d save on the washing up.’

‘They need to be spread out. Otherwise they don’t cook properly.’

‘Oh.’ The old man’s face sagged.

The son noticed his father had several small shaving cuts; one on his cheek, two just inside one nostril. As kids, he and his sister had always laughed at their dad’s bushy nose hair.

Now the son was creeping up on thirty and had recently had to buy some electric nose hair trimmers. He could get the old man a pair, but he would never use them. Placing the tray into the oven, he closed the door and went to put the saucepan into the dishwasher.

‘That doesn’t work,’ said his father. ‘It doesn’t switch on anymore. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.’ The son pressed the power button. The light failed to come on.

‘Right.’

‘I just wash up by hand.’

‘Isn’t the dishwasher still under warranty? When did you get it?’

‘Last April. When I had the kitchen re-done.’

‘Right. And you’ve got, what, three years cover? So, have you rung them up to get it fixed?’

‘Oh, I just wash-up by hand.’ The father picked the same dirty cup back up and placed it in the sink. The son rolled his eyes.

‘Yeah, but have you rung them?’

‘I will do, but I’ve been quite busy lately. I haven’t had chance.’

‘Right.’ The son put the saucepan in the sink, nudging the cup to one side. He wiped his hands on his trousers, then checked his phone.

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‘Anything from your sister?’ His father asked.

‘Nope. Maybe she’s decided not to come.’ It was meant to be a joke.

‘Don’t say that.’ The son began to clean the saucepan.

‘You can leave that,’ his father said. ‘I’ll do it later.’

‘I need it for the carrots.’

His father walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. He pushed a stack of empty egg boxes to one side and shuffled his newspaper around, but didn’t really look at it. The son glanced at his phone again.

The chicken looked good. Moist, skin the colour of expensive honey. It steamed a little as it sat in the middle of the table.

‘Aren’t you going to cover the chicken?’ The father asked, ‘otherwise it’ll be cold by the time your sister gets here.’ The son found a large ceramic mixing bowl and put it over the roasted bird.

‘Do you think she’ll be much longer?’ His father said, brow wrinkling. The son didn’t have an answer to that. Not that his father would like. He shrugged.

‘Well she better hurry up or the dinner will be spoiled. She’s very naughty keeping us waiting like this.’

‘I expect she’ll be here soon, Dad.’ They waited forty-five minutes; then ate without her. The chicken was still vaguely warm, though over-moist from being covered too long. The vegetables were all cold, except the roast potatoes. The son had left them in the oven, temperature turned down low. They were perfectly crunchy on the outside, but still soft and fluffy inside.

‘These potatoes are very good.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Where did you learn to do them like that?’

‘From the TV. That’s how everyone does them now.’

‘They’re really good.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll do the washing up in a bit.’

‘Okay.’ The son felt the question growing between them. His father put down his fork, half a potato still speared on it.

‘You think she forgot?’

The son didn’t meet his father’s eye. ‘She’s been really busy lately.’

The father nodded. ‘It sounds like she’s doing really well at work. And her young man is very nice, isn’t he?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘Much nicer than the one before. I didn’t really like him, if I’m honest. I never said anything though. You know what your sister’s like.’

The son took his plate and placed it in the sink. He found some plastic tubs in a cupboard and started to pack away the leftover food.

‘You did remind her about this, didn’t you?’ his father asked.

‘Yeah Dad, I spoke to her yesterday.’

‘And you definitely said it was today?’

‘Yes Dad.’ The son knew what his father was thinking. He placed the tubs of leftover food in the fridge. It was ridiculous, the size of that fridge. Way too big for one old man living on his own. It was a relic of the old kitchen, his father was never one to replace something until it was completely beyond use. The son filled the kettle and put it on to boil.

‘Tea?’ ‘Yes, why not?’ The son sat back at the kitchen table and waited for the kettle to boil.

‘You definitely told her?’ The son shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe I forgot.’

It seemed easier that way.

31

Jackdaw Entertainment Emily Maycock

Boy and bear stare, searching for a betraying muscle, a slight stance shift, an eye-flick. In this ragged, dusk-wreathed clearing, man and beast weigh prowess. Boy is small and young but lifehardened, bare-skinned and dirt-streaked. Bear is no dull-witted animal; the light in his eyes is lithe. The cold season has been too harsh; his belly aches and he is hungry for more than sparse vegetation and fish. Boy just wants to travel on, to go home to his people. But a thought is dawning in his mind, what if, what if, what if‌ Boy has his flint-tipped javelin and bear has his auroch-crushing jaws. Boy thinks I will be disadvantaged soon; for he cannot see well in the dark. But boy can jab as well as throw, and whilst bear can thunder and snap-crumple limb and skull, boy can dance and dart.

He would be the smallest to ever defeat a bear, that forest sovereign so mighty the stars are already named after him. Boy would return to the village with its pelt and skull, its claws clattering and teeth rattling on a thong around his neck. The elder brothers would be envious and awed. Can I do it?

The pine-shadows lengthen, and the snick-beaked jackdaws settle on the boughs. Their sharp eyes watch and judge; the cawing wagers unintelligible to the indistinguishable souls below.

A red deer bounds between the empty space, and the stalemate is broken. A callused palm tightens on a birch shaft; a claw digs deeper into the earth.

They leap, and for a moment they are airborne, suspended.

Then an arm thrusts and a jaw closes. The jackdaws take flight again, exchanging feathers owed, flying to find a new match to bet on.

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The Late Girl Eleri Davies

The leaves fell while he was away. The clearing is littered with golds and browns that once belonged to the trees around it. The breeze is cold, welcoming the Winter. It won’t be coming quite yet, though. Our prince looks around with a smirk. Home is just as he likes it. He left two years ago last summer, when the clearing was lush and green, and the trees were full of life. Now he is back in his favourite place and at his favourite time. Peaceful and undisturbed, he sits and lies back. For a while he is still. He thinks about how duty binds him to this place, how he must always return, however far away he goes. He loves it, of course he does. Yet he cannot help but resent that he can’t just leave and return when, and if, he pleases. It is not a matter of free will and whether that plays a part. He simply has no choice; something will always be calling him back.

The sound of leaves crackling reaches him. Someone is stepping on them, crushing them with great pace. Our prince turns his head, just slightly. The sun is glaring down on him, and through the light appears the outline of a girl. Her hair is long and flowing and golden in colour. The girl is no older than him, eighteen at most he decides. She is breathless, her dress muddy and her cloak torn. But it is her face that captures him; she is delicate, like nothing he has seen before. Quite simply, she stuns him.

The time for quiet has long passed. Our prince smiles and opens his mouth to speak, but she denies him and carries on her way.

‘I’m late,’ she says. ‘Late for my friends.’

He takes her by the arm and asks, ‘Who are you?’

She still replies the same; ‘I am late.’

She pulls her arm from his grip and rushes away, into the forest. She doesn’t stop to look back, and this irks our prince. She can’t know him, he decides. He has been away for some time, after all. It must be that she’s new to the kingdom; she wouldn’t dare walk away from him without permission, otherwise.

Our prince sits against an ancient oak at the edge of the clearing, and leans his head back.

The sun burns in the sky, soaking him in warmth. A reminder to be grateful, he thinks. His mother always used to say it. He was a lucky young man, given the gift of grace and loyalty by those who looked down upon them from the heavens. He should not take advantage of his position, or allow emotions such as jealousy, anger and greed into his mind. They were, after all, the emotions of darkness, and he is a prince of light. His mother would always tell him this, to keep him good and just. But two years away from home had changed him. Living among peasants had seen him grow bitter against them, disgusted at anyone who ranked below him, and looked unordinary. But the late girl was something different; he had never seen such beauty. And he is determined to have her for his own. He stands immediately and sheathes his sword. But when he turns she is already there, standing before him. There is a mere inch or two between them. Our prince catches his breath and maintains a smile. The girl tilts her head quickly from side to side, eyeing him as though he is a prize. His smile widens with confidence.

‘Prince Cassius,’ he inclines his head just slightly, holding her gaze. He takes her hand and kisses the back of it. ‘What is your name, my lady?’

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‘I’m no lady,’ she replies, taking her hand back. ‘I’m still late. But you have distracted me.’

‘Far be it from me to cause a problem.’ Says our prince, taking her hand again. He eyes her dirty clothes for a moment, and struggles to hide his distaste for them. The late girl follows his gaze.

‘I must apologise for my outfit. Unfortunately, I haven’t a rich father to accommodate me.’

‘That’s hardly your fault, my lady. We cannot all be so blessed as to own jewels and fine clothing.’

He replies, unaware of the glint in her eye and she looks him up and down once more.

She takes his hand. ‘Perhaps, if you come with me, I can find something more appropriate to wear.’ Her eyes captivate him. ‘I wouldn’t want to disgust you with my sodden dress any longer.’

Our prince waves his hand. ‘We cannot help what we cannot help.’

‘And yet the things we can help, we choose not to.’

She pulls him to the forest, and he follows. Desire in his heart, he doesn’t question the way she is leading him, over fallen trees and broken branches. Not even when the forest grows dark does he take his eyes away from her. So ensnared he is, our prince doesn’t notice the smoke rising from a cauldron not far away. When they reach the cauldron, the girl turns to him, her eyes wide.

‘Might I pose a question to his majesty?’ She asks, trailing her hand across his chest. Her fingertips rest on a golden medal he wears over his heart. He nods, and she goes on. ‘What was it that drew your majesty to me? A poor, dirty girl found in a forest.’

Our prince smirks. ‘Your face is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I would make an exception for you clothes, if I were to have you for my own.’ Quite abruptly and in his face, she laughs.

‘Oh, it is a hard life, your majesty. A peasant girl in the forest, all alone until a handsome prince arrives to save me from my misery. And I had thought you were worthy of your title.’ She applies pressure over his heart, her nails digging in to his chest. ‘But you are shallow, greedy, and undeserving. Whereas I,’ she says, bringing their faces close together. ‘I have been waiting years to sit upon a throne I was born for. This kingdom deserves someone who understands the needs of a peasant, someone who won’t wrinkle their noise at those in need, and who is willing to help those less fortunate then themselves.’

‘Take your hands off me,’ says our prince. ‘Or I will cut you in half.’

‘Hush now,‘ says the girl. She brings a finger to his lips, and draws a pattern over them. When she is done, the prince’s lips are sewed shut. ‘I will take what you don’t deserve, boy. And for all my beauty that you so keenly desired, I will leave you with this.’

The late girl was no girl at all. She tore away her clothing and stood naked before him. A faint glow surrounded her then, and our prince could not cry out as she transformed into the shape of an ugly, old hag. Her hair was greying, her eyes hollow. She smiled a near-toothless smile, and then approached the boiling cauldron. She took the large serving spoon from it and sipped it. ‘Wonderful,’ she screeched, approaching our prince once more. ‘This won’t hurt for long, my love.’ She waves a hand and our prince finds himself moving through the air. He throws out his hands to grab something, anything, to save himself from her. But it’s no use.

She stirs our prince into her boiling cauldron, and he is unable to scream. His skin melts into the liquid, and he becomes a shell of his former self. His eyes were gone, his skin sagging. And the old woman, after she had taken a drink from her cauldron, found herself transformed once more. But this time she was no beautiful girl with flowing, golden hair.

She was a prince of light.

34

When The Bombs Fell Eleri Davies

My name is Flo, short for Florence Knight. I’m sixteen-years-old and five years ago I was evacuated from London. On my eleventh birthday, just after I blew out the candles of my beautifully, hand-made cake, we felt the house tremble with the oncoming planes. Everything was silent, just for a moment. Then there was a whistling sound, and shadows were cast over all of London. That night, the first bombs fell.

I remember the day my brothers, my sister and I left our parents. It was my twelfth birthday. We were each given a wooden plaque to wear around our necks. They had our information on. The people in charge of our evacuation tried to separate us; my sister was just three at the time, and they expected they could find a family for her to live with much more easily than if we came as a group. My brother, Arthur, the oldest of us all, said ‘no’ and took her back. We held hands as we stepped on to the train. I saw my parents for the last time through the steamed up windows, waving goodbye with smiles on their faces. They were saving us, but not themselves. I waited for them for five years. Every morning I would look out of my new bedroom window and stare at the gravel driveway, expecting them. They wouldn’t forget about us. Our new house was everything you could want in a home. It was enormous, with six bedrooms and it overlooked a lake in the countryside. We each had our own room, except my younger brother, Alec, who chose to share with Arthur. Alec was the most nervous of us all, and Arthur the bravest.

The people we were staying with were as wonderful as the house. Mr and Mrs Plec, who insisted we call them Theodore and Jeannette. Sometimes my sister, Molly, called him Theo but that came as a shock to no one; she was just three, after all. Theodore was a largely complicated word for someone of that age. We ate breakfast with them every morning, along with lunch, dinner and supper. They became our friends. Arthur and Alec would spend hours with Theodore in the garage, and he taught them everything they know about cars, hunting and being a young man. My sister and I stayed with Jeannette normally, and while I loved her company and grew to love her too, I couldn’t shake the dislike I felt for the fact that she wasn’t my mother, and that she never could be. It angered me often that my parents were suffering in London, and Mr and Mrs Plec were here in the Carmarthen countryside. They lived in an enormous house all to themselves, had maids and servants and no one to care about but themselves until we came along. I hated that they were so free of responsibility.

That was until one rainy afternoon, when Jeannette confessed to me that she couldn’t have children, and that my siblings and I had woken love in her that she had been afraid to feel.

We became their children, and I let us. Our parents never came, never wrote, and I knew there could only be one reason for that. Arthur knew, and by the time the war ended and Alec was fourteen, he understood too.

We never went back to our parents. We went to where our home had once stood. Molly had stayed in the country with Theo and Jeannette. She was too young to see this. I held my brothers’ hands as we stood in the street. One wall of our home was left standing. It was the one that separated my bedroom from the hallway. Our home had been decimated, lying in ruins on the cobble street we had so loved to play on before the war. The entire row of houses had been flattened, and other children like us were coming back to see it; to find

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peace. But after all, we were just children. Any sense of normalcy was gone with our parents and our families, much like our homes, were left in ruins; a shell of what they once were.

Arthur pulled on my hand and I in turn brought Alex with us towards the ashes that were still fizzling out. My room was a pile of rubble; the authorities later informed me it was where they found my parents, wrapped in each other’s arms not four weeks earlier. I had imagined this moment countless times in my waking hours, and dreamed of it even more than that. There was no feeling I could compare my grief to. There was anger and sadness, but mostly the fear of having lost them and not knowing what I would do next. How could I be strong for my siblings, when I could barely speak of it, or anything for that matter?

I was not a crier, and I never had been. But being a child without parents was too much, even for me, and it took days to console me. Arthur was strong for us all when I couldn’t be, and for that I will be eternally grateful to him. He grew into the young man we all knew he would be.

He was eighteen by the end of the war, and our parents’ money, good name and the well-being of the rest of us fell to him. He went to London to find work and a new home for us. The others and I stayed in the country.

For a while I felt guilty. I didn’t let Jeannette hug or comfort me the way my mother used to, because it felt wrong. I didn’t want to forget my mother, and how she’d saved my life. It was Molly that changed my mind. I watched her as she grew up, wondering if she remembered our parents at all. She says she remembers our mother’s blonde hair and her smile, and our father’s brown eyes. But she didn’t know them like I did; she doesn’t remember. In the end, maybe that’s a good thing. She doesn’t remember the fear, the screams in the blackouts, the pain of having to leave our parents, and not knowing if we would see them again. All Molly remembers is how she was loved, both by our parents and Theo and Jeannette. That is how I want her to stay. Safe in the knowledge that she was so loved, and far away from the nightmares and loss the rest of us remember.

For years after the war ended, I was not at peace with myself. I felt I owed something to my parents for how they saved us, and I didn’t know what to do. So I planted two trees. Now, whenever I revisit the house that had become my home in Carmarthen, I stand in the garden and look at the trees that have grown tall and strong, and how they are reaching for the sky.

One branch from both trees has curled towards the other, and I smile when I think that, wherever they are, my parents are safe and together in one another’s arms once more.

36

Only For You

Elizabeth Walker

I daren’t look across at you once you’ve sat down. Why me? Why did you have to sit by me?

I’m sure it was because you noticed my slight smile as you boarded the bus—it drew you to me.

In a way, I almost wish you hadn’t sat there, then I could be more obvious in my observation.

God, I sound like a perve. Don’t worry; I’m not like this usually. Only for you.

I can feel you shuffling in your pocket, getting your iPod out maybe? Maybe you’re not even the type of guy to have an iPod? I reckon it’ll be something obscure, because you refuse to conform. Oh great, now I’m too shy to get my own iPod out. Ah phew, you do have an iPod. But now I’m worrying that if I get mine out and you wanted to talk to me, you couldn’t. Maybe if I sit and listen for a while, I could identify your music and ask you about it. It could be something I love too—you never know. I’m excited now. This could be my chance. Every day, you board this bus, one stop after mine. And every day, I want to talk to you. And today could be it. I know I said that yesterday, but today you sat by me. It’s surely an invitation.

I’m trying so hard to make out what you’re listening to. The bass of your song beats softly out. Nope. I can’t make out what it is. Damn. All I need to do is say ‘hi’. Yeah, start out with something simple. You’d take your headphones out, with a quizzical look on your face. I’d repeat what I had just said, laughing ever so casually. I’m sure you’d been wanting to do the same thing the whole journey, so you’d reply with a similar ‘hi’, trying to act all cool. A moment of silence would pass; we would both desperately seek out where to take the conversation next.

Don’t worry; I’ve got it all planned out. Maybe now would be the time to ask about your music, this would be a good opportunity for me to show off my in-depth knowledge of the field.

After this has run dry, you’ll say you noticed me a while ago too, and I’ll ask where you go every day. It’s obvious, because you work at a cafe in town. You’ll ask where I’m going. I’ll say I am early to visit a friend in hospital. True story. You’ll ask if I have time for a free tea, and of course for you, I do. We’ll walk to the cafe, laughing about how silly we’ve been by putting off speaking to one another all of this time, and you’ll thank me for being brave. Our eyes will catch at one point and there will be a bliss moment of silence. Finally we’ll reach your cafe, a cute little place snuggled down an alley. You’ll hold the door open for me, your manager raising his eyebrows in a bemused expression. Maybe he’ll be happy because you’ve told him about me. Yeah, I think he definitely knows about me. We’ll chat for an hour non-stop. I don’t even like tea but I’ll force a cup down, smiling as I do so. We’ll realise we live pretty close, and that we’ll be amazing for each other. I’ll tell you I write music, you’ll ask to hear some and I’ll say ‘yes, maybe soon I’ll show you.’

We’ll meet again, this time for dinner, and things would move blissfully fast after that.

Our parents will get on ever so well and on our wedding day, the best man will make a joke about me pulling you on a bus. You’ll look at me apologetically, but everyone will laugh. We could tell our kids that love can be found anywhere—you just have to reach out and grab it, like we did. On our anniversary we’ll always take a trip on that bus, and you’ll hold my hand.

We’ll live out our lives to the fullest. Even as we grow old, we’ll kiss every day and take walks together.

Yes, today is the day I shall make all of this happen for us. The bus is stopping and people are shuffling. I want to wait until the commotion has ended, but you’re standing,

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weaving around the others dotted at the front of the bus. And you’re gone. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

38

Tequila Mood Swings Emily Sowden

Tonight we’ll drink this place to the ground. Tonight we’ll watch the darkness turn to light.

Tomorrow it’ll be a new year.

Nine o’clock we start the party, everyone has a beer out of the six pack to warm up their stomachs.

‘Chin chin,’ beer cans chink and bottoms up. In no time we’ve downed the beer and we’re ready for the real stuff. Two bottles of Vodka, one of Rum, two bottles of Whiskey and my Tequila pops its lid. Shot glasses slam and the cards come out. Let’s play twenty-one. Deal out two. A seven and an eight makes fifteen. I look up but can’t tell who has what.

‘Twist,’ I say. My shot glass glimmers and the liquid within hopes that I lose the hand. Dealer slides my fated card across the table and the results - another eight makes twenty-three.

‘Bust,’ Dealer places the shot in my hand and everyone chants for me to knock it back.

No salt.

No lime.

I gag but keep it down. Everybody cheers. Back to step one.

‘Twist or stick? Twist or stick? Twist or stick?’ Shot. Shot. Shot.

Half past nine and an eighth of my Tequila is gone.

My first swig of the bottle left me gagging, but now my taste buds settle and I start drinking it like water. One more shot and I feel like my brain is made of cotton wool, it makes everything especially funny. We play Pyramids, everyone gangs up on Dan. I land on a bottle-capped card and allocate the number of fingers to him, downing the rest of his drink. We all laugh.

I can’t stop.

Ten o’clock and two eighths of my Tequila is gone.

My eyes scan the room and fall on each of my friends. I love them so much. God, I love them more than anything else in the world and I’ll tell them so.

‘Guys, I love you all. You guys are great. You’re so great and so awesome. You guys are my friends, my very best friends and I love you all so much.’ I’ll tell them how much.

‘Guys, I love you all so much, seriously, I don’t think that you realise the amount of love I have for you.’ They’re such great friends to me, even the awkward one in the corner that I met tonight. I’ll tell them that.

‘Guys, you’re just so awesome. Even you’re awesome Steve—James—Frank—’ ‘Richard,’ he corrects me.

‘Dick. That’s the other name for you. I love you too Dick.’ I put my hand on his shoulder and give him a reassuring pat. I don’t need to say anything more, he felt the love.

Eleven o’clock and three eighths of my Tequila is gone.

I’m sat in the corner thinking about difficult subjects while the boys play Fluxx. I don’t bother attempting it, I’ve tried before but I just can’t follow the rules. It’s too difficult. I’m a ridiculous excuse for a human being. If I couldn’t even understand the rules to that game

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then why should I even be able to pass my exams? I’m such a fool. A foolish fool. I swig from the bottle, what’s the point in the shot glasses now? I’m no better than the hobos that drink out of paper bags on the street corner. Maybe after I fail university I’ll be able to become a streetwalker and earn my money that way.‘Why can’t I do anything right?’ My tears fall relentlessly and I sob between swigs.

Ten minutes past eleven and four eighths of my Tequila is gone.

Where is my God damn phone? Eventually I find it and dial my best friend, but she doesn’t pick up. The answer phone message I leave her is somewhat incoherent and I set to dial someone else to tell them about my problems.

Twenty to twelve and five eighths of my Tequila is gone.

I sprint to the door and make it outside just in time. My insides spew out over the front garden. After clearing my eyes of retching tears I can see one of the poor flowers that got hit. It glistens in the moonlight but now leans dejectedly under the new weight of my stomach acid.

‘I’m so sorry Mister Flower,’ I doubt it’d forgive me but I clean it as best as I can.

Twelve o’clock and six eighths of my Tequila is gone.

We’re back around the card table joking and laughing. The iPod playing in the background shuffles to a new song and ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ blares out of the speakers.

‘Oh my God, I love this song.’ I slam my hands down on the table to emphasise my point and starts to bop along with it.

One shot. The bop turns into a wiggle.

Another shot. The wiggle turns into a groove.

Another shot. I let myself go as I dance around the living room. I know I look so sexy right now. Mila Kunis, eat your heart out.

One o’clock and seven eighths of my Tequila is gone.

I don’t even feel drunk anymore and want to get out of the house. Into the back garden I go. I can’t face Mister Flower in the front after what I did to him. The flame of my Zippo illuminates the decking as I light my cigarette. One sweet inhale and the cloud returns to my head, blanketing my brain in bubble wrap. Each drag lifts me higher until finally I flick the butt out into the darkness and stand up. As soon as my feet touch the floor I stumble and fall down the decking steps, landing on my head.

‘Mother fu-’ I feel for blood but there’s only a bump and a graze on my arm. I’m indestructible.

I’m a super hero.

Two o’clock . All of my Tequila is gone.

I’ve been staring at these sofa cushions for what feels like a lifetime, convinced that it’s whispering things about me to the chair next to it. I go to stand up but fall again. My legs don’t work. I must be Gumby reincarnated. My friends pick me up and put me in a chair, everyone’s drunk. One Tequila, two Tequila, three Tequila...

‘We’re all drunk.’ I say ‘but I’m okay. I haven’t had much, just a little bit. I’m absolutely fi-’ Floor.

Ten o’clock in the morning.

I wake up alone in a hospital bed. My stomach hurts and my throat is burning. A doctor tells me I’d had my stomach pumped.

That was a waste of good Tequila.

40

Cake

Jake Matthews

The cake that my Mum had just baked was sitting on the cooling rack on our grey, granite prep area smelling of sweet, sweet heaven. It’s obvious succulence lassoing me and dragging me towards the delights that it held within. I reached out and ran my finger through the hollow icing, which lay upon the cake, childishly writing my name in it as if it were snow on my porch.

Feeling it setting as I reached the end of its sprinkle covered yet entirely edible miniature Lapland, I felt what little resistance to the lures of this freshly baked delight that I had left slowly sap out of my body.

I couldn’t take any more. I grabbed the closest knife to me and ploughed through the soft, warm, creamy centre of the cake, realising that although my newly raspberry red hand was an indicator that Mum had put too much jam in, the rest of the package was so perfect that it didn’t matter. My gluttonous desires were now in overdrive. The bouncy sponge was now free from the rest of its body. Free for me to eat.

I picked up the supreme treat with one hand, supporting the crumbly base with the other.

I plunged it into my mouth, gorging on its ripe, tender contents. The feel of the crispy icing, the bubbly sponge, the thick, rich buttercream and the warm, fruity raspberry jam left me overwhelmed sinful desire. It was truly heavenly.

As the last few crumbs floated off the edge of my mouth and danced their way down towards the tiled floor I was hit by a powerful—yet wholly expected—urge to take all the cake I could. My internal voice was hollering GET MORE CAKE!!! Repeatedly in what strangely sounded like Jim Carey off Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. Odd. Letting my sweet tooth take an even tighter grip on me I lunged a second time for the knife. The stone cold black handle seemed to melt into my hand the moment I touched it, as if we were meant to be together forever, the cake being our holy matrimony.

The cutting of the next slice seemed to last a lifetime, I’m sure I had at least a five o’clock shadow by the time I finally reached the bottom. The subtle flavours of the next slice screamed pure love at my nostrils, raising my anticipation levels to new heights, my mouth trying it’s best to maintain composure in what must’ve been an incredibly testing time to carry out such a task. The blade faintly chimed as it reached the bottom of the cake and gently tapped the worryingly thin cooling wire. My senses were now truly bewildered. They were all simultaneously crippled by the beauty of this cake. The joy I felt as the second slice sped down my throat was indescribable. If you can imagine white pain, but the complete opposite of it multiplied by cake then you are probably a fraction towards the abundance of bewildering joy that I was being exposed to. A cinematic example would be Renton’s monologue about ‘who needs life when you have heroin?’ In the opening sequence of Trainspotting. Just without Scotland. And heavy drugs.

As the last morsel trickled down my throat I felt as if I was in the Garden of Eden and cake was my forbidden fruit. Serenity reigned true and pure until I gave into temptation and ate what should’ve remained untouched. I could now imagine the wrath of God (or gym instructor Keith as he is otherwise known) blazing me in fire and condemning me to an eternity in hell, but I did not care. For these fleeting moments I was full of bliss. It was like I was with my first love. It was like Liverpool winning a league title all over again. It was like

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heaven.

Don’t get me wrong, guilt consumed me shortly after. I wondered if now I had started the cake would I have to finish it all and blame it on the dog? Or would a simple ‘I didn’t do it’ suffice? Many varying excuses and solutions to my dilemma were whirling round my head at an incessant speed. You will however be pleased to know that this hurricane of thought in my head quickly passed as I began to reach for the knife a third time with a frightening look of purpose on my face. I had made up my mind. After all Tom Wilson once said ‘the only time when losing is more fun than winning is when you’re fighting temptation,’ I was George Foreman, the cake was Muhammad Ali, the kitchen was ‘Rumble In The Jungle’ and we were about to enter the eighth round. History had repeated itself...

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Cigne Negre

Jake Matthews

December 31 2009, the end of a decade was less than 6 hours away and Lydia Hayman was getting ready for what she hoped would be a classic night. She was at Becky Stirk’s rather grand, Victorian house getting ready and pre-drinking when there was a knock on the door.

The boys had arrived early! Lydia, still without ‘her face’ applied had no other choice but to hurdle as fast as she could up the stairs to avoid any embarrassment. As Lydia reached the peak of her ascension she missed a step, catapulting her face first onto the amber carpet. Thankfully no one saw. She reached for her nose, checking for blood. There was none. Getting back onto her feet she felt a sharp pain in her left ankle. She managed to hobble into Becky’s room, wincing all the way, before crashing on her duvet, the floral pattern enveloping her. Lost in a daydream, she was bought back to earth by Becky’s entrance.

‘Were you just asleep?’

‘I think I’ve twisted my ankle.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Well, I ran up the stairs when the boys knocked and tripped up on the top step. I went into your room because I didn’t want them to see me crying. You know what they’re like, they’d be like ‘man up Hayman, grow a pair for once!’

Lydia could tell from Becky’s quizzical look that she was thinking what everyone always thought. She was known as a wimp, so this reaction was standard.

‘Let’s just get you dressed, continue drinking. See how you feel in the morning, yeah? You’ll be ok.’

‘Ok’ Lydia conceded. A litre of vodka was going to have to be consumed if heels were going to be worn tonight.

Eight hours later Lydia was in a packed Bar Fusion trying to stay composed enough to dance coherently to the Bloc Party’s ‘Banquet.’ Her ankle still hurt, but the fifty-pound hole in her purse had made sure that all pain had waned for the night.

January 1 2010, 11am, cue a head like a rhinoceros’ stampede and a mouth dryer than Ghandi’s flip-flops. Clambering out of bed she felt last night’s clothes carelessly scattered on her floor, making her way to the bathroom her left ankle twanged again. She quickly recoiled, hopping to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet with her ankle balancing on the sink she recalled the events of the previous night. As it painfully throbbed more and more, hazy snippets of dance floor antics and spurned romantic possibilities returned to her at an alarming pace. This train of thought was soon halted by the sudden onslaught of ‘new year’s heaves’, a viciously horrendous sight. She tried not to wake up her Dad as the vomit hit the basin but the sound of creaking floorboards told her otherwise.

A week later Lydia was sat on the sofa watching Hollyoaks with her ankle wrapped in a robust strap of frozen peas. The pain still hadn’t subsided and school started in six days. More importantly her auditions for places on dance courses at universities were in full swing, failing these would be a disaster. Lydia had been going to dance class since she was three, even ten years on when she wanted turn away from it her Mum told her to persist, even forcing her

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to go on occasions. At the time she even lied to her friends about what she was doing every Saturday morning as anything seemed infinitely cooler than ballet in a village hall. Now, fifteen years since she toddled into her first ever class, two feet tall and unable to string a proper sentence together, dance was where Lydia saw her future. Up until she chose her options for Hillview Sixth Form College of Performing Arts (which she preferred much more than Wrotham Secondary School, a ‘confined place full of inbred pikeys’) she had always wanted to follow in the footsteps of her family and reside in the travel industry.

As year thirteen reared its foreboding head, she realised that dance was the subject that she was passing more than any other. She especially loathed Geography where she was the solitary girl in class taught by a man so sexist he made Andy Gray and Richard Keys look like martyrs in the vein of Emmeline Pankhurst. One particular moment that made her realise she wanted to study Dance at university was a chance meeting with a second year student who told her how much she loved the course, and that nothing could make her drop out. This was reinforced by a visit to her boyfriend at Portsmouth University where the thrill and spontaneity of university life was on full display. The day before the ‘final stretch’ of year thirteen began she resolved to consult a doctor about the pain in her ankle. After an inconclusive appointment she was referred to a physio; a family friend who gave her exercises to do twice daily that would hopefully heal her ankle.

A month passed and the looming spectre of a potential ski trip with the family forced another visit to the physio. Her ankle had not improved at all, auditions at Bath Spa, Winchester and Chichester University had taken their toll with the added stress of A2 coursework and allimportant Dance finals leaving Lydia strained and exhausted. Why hadn’t her ankle started to heal? Surely the exercises would’ve started to show some sign on healing by now?

Another month passed. Still there wasn’t even the faintest hint of improvement in her ankle.

The fact that her physio was a family friend was now more of a hindrance than help, as no one wanted to offend him or insult his medical ability. The thought of using Father Hayman’s health insurance looked like an extremely appealing proposition now, if not for comfort of seeing an expert but also the knowledge that any waiting list won’t be five years long.

After deliberating on what course of action to take, Lydia decided to press the physio for a scan using her Dad’s health insurance. She wanted a clear mind for her A2 Dance practical; this had been going on too long now. Surprisingly she was granted an MRI scan with a wait of only four days.

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday passed without much note. Then Friday came. One missed alarm call ruined everything, Lydia (rarely prompt at the best of times) had to speed through Tumbridge Wells to get to her appointment, narrowly missing police cars and speed cameras yet somehow still managing to do all her make up in the rear-view mirror whilst simultaneously cramming every available space in her mouth with a BLT sandwich. Arriving at the hospital she realised she had forgot her sense of direction. This was the first time she had gone to the hospital alone. It was also the first time she realised how big hospitals were when you’re by yourself. Hobbling as fast as she could up and down the cavernous corridors she managed to miraculously stumble into her appointment room.‘You must be Miss Hayman.

Glad you could make it,’ said a kind nurse warmly.

Given Lydia’s naivety when it came to hospitals, MRI procedures came as a shock. The nurses sensed this however and gave her the option to listen to The Chris Moyles Show on Radio One to calm her down while they wrapped her left leg with protective foam and conducted the procedure. When you have an MRI scan, there is only one rule, don’t laugh while you’re being scanned. Just as the scan was about to begin, ‘Car Park Catchphrase’ had begun, a regular feature on The Chris Moyles Show, which also happens to be Lydia’s favourite due to its intoxicating hilarity. Although she managed to avoid laughing, she was pretty sure that she

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broke her ribcage doing it, or at least burst a kidney. The upbeat mood quickly subsided though when a doctor rushed in and told her she needed a second scan ASAP. They began setting up for a second time instantaneously.

Many emotions flooded her; relief at people’s realisation that she actually was injured but also fear, she didn’t know what was wrong, and judging by the looks on the doctors faces they didn’t either. The next fifteen minutes were the longest of her life. Worry possessed her body like a ferocious demon, only loosening its grip once the doctor briefly explained what was the problem was.

‘You’ve torn two ligaments in your left ankle and the fluid from this has spread to your calf.

You’re going to be in a cast for six to eight weeks. We’re sending the results to a sports injury specialist who’ll also be your new consultant for this injury.’

‘So no surgery then?’

‘None at all.’

Before she knew it her leg was in plaster and she was sat in an obscenely tidy office opposite an Asian man who had a ‘cool’ aura about him, while also emitting a ‘no-nonsense’ vibe. He was her sports injury specialist. He was the man that would find a solution. Gazing across the numerous result sheets that had come back an angered look flicked for a mere across his face for a split second. Lydia knew a storm was coming.

‘Who was your doctor?’ He asked sternly.

‘Dr Trevelyan.’

‘Well she is awful. How any qualified doctor could miss this is frankly shocking. You first injured this on New Year’s Eve. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Tell me everything you’ve done since then.’

Whilst briefing him on everything she had done over the past three months she realised it was all very pathetic really. All this pain, all this stress, it was all because of one person’s mistake.

Everyone should have health insurance; it would stop things like this happening. If only she’d used it before …

‘You did the right thing coming to see us here Lydia. The next time you’re in pain do not hesitate in coming to see me.’ The downside of finally discovering the cause of all her pain was the two weeks of rest she had to take during a very important time in terms. She had exams in less than a fortnight.

The pain still persisted, but every day it was healing bit by bit. She also exploited the fact that there was now a legitimate reason for her to boss people around. This was counteracted by the frustration of missing dance and the strain of doing revision for Geography and Psychology.

Dance was practically based, so the injury was really obstructing Lydia’s aim of getting the grade to get her into university. Work was also a hassle, partly because the only way that you cannot work on checkouts at Sainsbury’s is if you’re dead. Regardless if you have to catch a taxi into work and serve customers with your crutches, you will still be expected to turn up. It was mortifying. Although Becky aided her (partly out of guilt), providing lifts, cooking etc Lydia still felt as if she should prepare for worst, that being failing. Half of her saying she could do it again while the other half said she could defer and rebuild the strength in her ankle. It all came to a head during a meeting with her Dance teacher.

They were both sat in her office. The cast would be coming off on the weekend. Her practical module was split into two parts; directorial work and a solo. Lydia pleaded with her teacher, saying she could teach her dance on the Monday then perform her solo piece on the Tuesday.

‘It would be too unfair on you’ her teacher said tearfully.

Lydia broke down. She could never be a professional dancer due to this injury. She had to accept that everything now hinged on her theory. It had to be better than it had ever been.

She had achieved an A in AS level but this was a completely different playing field. Pressure

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exposes people for who they really are, it brings out either the best or worse in us. There is no compromise. Because of her excellent practical the previous year Lydia really couldn’t be considered for anything less than an A. All that mattered from then on was the exam. The questions zoomed by, the answers poured out just as quickly, but upon leaving the exam hall she was unsure as to how she really did. The wait for results day was going to be a long one.

August 19 2010. Results day. Lydia’s hand was visibly shaking when she opened her envelope.

Nothing else mattered. She unfolded it quickly, scanning mercilessly till her eyes hit ‘Dance,’ they whizzed across and landed on ‘A*’. She was ecstatic, numbed with shock and taken aback by awe all at the same time. She had got into university. She had had done it. Bath Spa lay in wait. Benjamin Disraeli said, ‘there is no education like adversity.’ Never has this been truer.

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Aumakua

Jake Matthews

What’s the worst sound in the world? Your Mother crying? Your girlfriend STILL snoring at 4am? Westlife’s ‘Greatest’ Hits? The correct answer is none of the above. The worst sound in the world is in fact my alarm clock. Now, you may say that this opinion is subjective, and I would normally agree, however, in this instance I shan’t.

Picture the scene. You’re wrapped up so warmly in your favourite quilt that you’re actually half convinced you’re a human marshmallow, having a dream that involves your celebrity crush, a multi-billion pound lottery win and the death of Jeremy Clarkson. Perfect, yeah? Now imagine this picturesque setting with one difference, a horrendous honking sound shattering the ambience. The dreaded digital alarm clock has started ringing and there’s only one way to stop it bleating your senses into submission. You leave your haven and descend into the unfathomable waters of your unkempt bedroom, with pants scattered over the floor like soiled lily pads, upturned plugs like hazardous rocks ready to bring you crashing down at the first opportunity. Navigating this is never easy but having to undertake it half-awake with a hangover mere seconds from gripping your body makes it doubly dangerous. Thankfully, the voyage is less a tragic Titanic and more triumphant USS Thomas Jefferson.

Silence.

Serene bliss flooded my body. Do I dare hit snooze? I stared at the snooze button. It stared back at me. I had never known such a temptress. I was drawn in; intoxicated with the knowledge that the next ten minutes sleep would be the best of my life. I could barely wait.

Succumbing to my urges I hit the button and was duly swallowed up by my delicious duvet, reality and dream blurring together to create a psychedelic canapé of slumber. It lasted a lifetime.

RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIIING! I darted up, glowering at the time. Not even a single minute had passed.

RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIIING! That wasn’t my alarm.

RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIIING! It was the front door. My parcel had arrived!

RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIIING! RIIIIIIIIIING! I dashed for the door, snatching any garment in reach and slipping it on as the world’s most impatient postman and the world’s loudest doorbell got ever closer, each ring clanging against every fibre in my body. I wrenched open the door only to be greeted by the hairiest man I had ever seen. I stood at the front door, rigid.

‘I’ve got a delivery for Mr Hayman.’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘Can you sign here please.’

‘Yeah, no worries.’

As I signed I noticed he was staring at my crotch. Passing back the form I looked down. I was in a mustard yellow thong.

‘Here’s your package.’

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‘Thanks.’

It was there and then that I decided my no pyjama policy needed re-thinking. I also concluded that maybe my girlfriend does need her own drawer in my bedroom after all.

Trudging into the front room I sat down and opened my parcel. They were better than I could’ve imagined; pristine white all over complemented by a staggeringly attractive navy blue trim, a springy yet firm sole, laces crisper than the first bite of a Granny Smith’s apple and a heel that was as elegant as an antelope. My Brooks Glycerin 8 running shoes had arrived, and boy they were magnificent. The waft of new shoe lingered as I delicately placed them back in the box and headed back upstairs. Still in a dreamlike state I failed to notice my bemused housemate Charles gawping at me as I finished my ascent.

‘Mate …’ He was lost for words.

‘I can explain.’ Charles is a sceptical person at the best of times; my impending excuse however, had taken his sceptisism to uncharted heights.

‘Okay. Let’s hear it.’ I explained what had happened.

‘Is that the best you could come up with?’

‘Charles, I’m not lying.’

‘You really must’ve been slaughtered last night.’

‘Yes, I was, but that’s not why I’m like this.’

‘WHAT THE FUCK?’ Denzel had woken up. He was not a morning person.

‘Morning Denzel,’ Charles and I chimed.

‘Charles, are you completely oblivious to this?’

‘Oh I’m not. He gave me some cock-and-bull story about waking up and needing to answer the door but having no clothes on.’

‘Why didn’t you just put on a dressing gown?’ Denzel had raised a very good point. A deathly silence swept over us all. They knew I was beaten.

‘I didn’t think about that.’

They both stared at me.

‘C’mon guys, it was 7am!’

‘You know, this isn’t the first time …’

‘We don’t speak about with your ‘maybe’ cousin …?’

‘Touché.’

We stared. The faint buzzing of Paul’s alarm could be heard. The awkwardness was rising to new levels. I had to leave.

‘I think I’ll go change now.’

As my bedroom door slammed I fell on my knees and begged the ground to swallow me up. The only positive to be gleamed from the situation was that at least this time I wasn’t stark naked and Paul’s ultra-Christian sister wasn’t staying over. I’ve never been able to look at a vicar the same way since. I opened my wardrobe and instantly dived down to my ‘fitness draw.’

Littered with lycra, sweatbands and football shirts older than Bruce Forsyth, it was a paradise for anyone mad about exercise. Or anyone mad enough to enter a marathon with less than four weeks to go. Like me. I don’t know if it was the upcoming Olympics, the Paula Radcliffe autobiography or my new obsession with all things concerning Dustin Hoffman (especially Marathon Man) but one miserable Sunday afternoon I arose from my post-roast nap and felt inspired to run. And so it began, I hauled my motivation off the sofa and on to the laptop I signed up to my university’s annual marathon all in the name of PETA. Why PETA? Because Babe isn’t just a movie about a pig, just as Animal Farm isn’t just a book about communist pigs, it’s a life-changing experience.

Seeing the frost caressing my window I selected the lycra. While it might not be the prettiest sight for Joe Public to see, it was most certainly the wisest option for me. One bowl of porridge later I was hitting the city streets. My route consisted of one lap around the estate, a left turn onto a country lane and then a sprint back alongside the river. It was a standard affair really,

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only interrupted by the occasional milkshake ‘drive-by’ carried out by those hilarious school children and the potent fumes of cow pat suffocating you along what is otherwise a terribly clichéd country lane.

The most enjoyable segment of my course was the final leg; the notorious River Redmond.

It oozed a deadly calm that clashed with the macabre carnage that is my day to day life. Quite often, after my runs, I would have a much clearer view of situations that had previously plagued me, so I was pleasantly pleased to be nearing the final dash.

The corner approached, my heart rate was intensifying but I would not be deterred, I would get back home in my best time yet. The row of hedges started to decline and ahead of me I saw the tip of the concrete path that ran alongside the river, I upped my pace, my thighs screeching at me, begging to stop, but I had to maintain course. Clumsily swivelling I began the home stretch, energy levels low but morale still high. I had ten minutes left to reach a new personal best; this normally took me six, I considerably ahead of the curve. I tried to regulate my breathing, and get back into a rhythm or a stitch was surely pounce at the most inopportune moment. The only problem was my footing, the path had frozen over and despite sporting a brand, spanking new pair of Brooks Glycerin 8’s the grip still left a lot to be desired.

I glanced down at my watch, my time was not encouraging. I went flat out. All or nothing.

My feet pounding against the concrete, I accelerated with unexpected ease, focusing my eyes into the distance. Come on I said to myself, just one more push. I hurled myself forward with even more ferocious pace, fixated on reaching a new personal best…

Darkness everywhere, bubbles running up the side of my face. Panic struck my body instantaneously. I couldn’t breathe. I kicked madly, my survival instinct hitting overdrive. I didn’t want to die. I hit the surface. Heavenly air filled my lungs. My sight was impired. My footing must’ve gone. I had fallen into the river. Shit. My adrenaline was wearing off, my jaw started to chatter, I had to stay calm. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Silence.

Something brushed my leg.

‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!’

I turned round.

All I could see was the raised pathway. It was at least fifteen foot high. There was no way up, unless someone walked past.

‘HELP!’ Nothing.

‘HELP!’ Not even a flicker.

I was alone.

This was it. I gave in. Panic flooded my body. My body was unbearably cold. I glanced at my hands. They were blue. Lycra could only keep me conscious for so long. I tried to swim but I couldn’t generate the motion any motion in my lower body. The sun had fully risen now, but it was hidden behind ominous clouds. I felt like I was being watched, as if a great beast was preying on me from the murky depths. I waded forward, utilizing as little energy as I could. The river ran to an estuary, which was usually devoid of human presence, barring the odd dog walker and the occasional fisherman or lost tourist. My chances of a swift saviour were remote. Waves of pressure appeared, swelling the water, and then deflating. The pressure intensified with each repetition, as did the deflating. I scanned the vicinity. Was a boat coming?

‘HEY! HEY! HELP!’ Still nothing.

I couldn’t see anything but the swelling persisted, continually intensifying.

Something was coming.

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The swelling was worryingly intense. I was uncontrollably bobbing up and down now. My head kept slipping underwater.

‘HELP! HELP!’ With all the effort I could muster I waved my arms in the air, making as much commotion as I could. I was dragged under. I held my breath. Sewage filled my vision. I kicked up and grabbed what air I could before being dragged down again. I kicked up again but couldn’t reach the surface, vile, putrid fluid filling my lungs. I tried to spit it out but I couldn’t escape.

I was going to drown. Manically, my head breached the layer of grime that covered the surface. I bobbed madly, desperate not to go under again. My entire body was frozen now.

My limbs wanted to plunge to the river bed. The swelling stopped.

A deathly silence.

I scanned the area again. I couldn’t even hear the birds singing. Five spikes pierced the top of the river like glass, coming directly for me, before diving under again. I couldn’t feel my legs. I reached down to touch my leg but there was only a stump there. Pain and panic combined to create a cocktail of hysterical agony. I screamed like I’d never screamed before.

My immediate area changed from dour black to deep red. I thrashed my arms madly. I wasn’t ready to die. It purged the surface once more. Fifty yards away. It’s tail flicked up and crashed down again, propelling me below the surface. It homed in on me. Its soulless eyes met mine.

I froze.

Thirty yards.

It opened its brutal jaw, row after row of venomous teeth about to embrace me.

Ten yards.

This was it.

The great beast lunged at me. My spine snapped as it caressed my torso.

If only I’d slept through my alarm…

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Eesha

Joanne Cook

Eesha Baboor moved silently through the crowded streets of Agartala. Jamal Baboor was dead and everyone had come out to get a glimpse of his body, but Eesha had already seen it. She had seen his body when it was full of life, moving sleekly around their mansion, talking crudely into the phone pressed against his ear; she had seen his body open and seep with blood as it was slashed apart; she watched his chest rise and fall jaggedly and she looked into his eyes as they filled with pain and terror and then closed forever, her eyes then resting on the pool of blood spreading and staining the bright marble of their bedroom floor. Eesha felt an elbow jab into her side as an impatient old lady in a dark sari pushed past her. She moved to the side of the street to avoid more blows and leaned against the crumbling plaster of a family home. The building was silent and cool against her back as the excitement of the crowd blazed furiously in front of her. She pulled her headscarf low over her forehead and held part of it over her face leaving only her eyes visible to the chaotic mob.

Eesha looked around her at the bustling street. It might have been any other day, except today the people were excited and yelling loudly to each other: ‘He was shot down in the street. My cousin told me. There’s blood everywhere.’

‘Seven other people are dead too.’

‘They slit his throat with a meat hook.’

‘They cut off his ears with a butcher’s knife.’

‘Hurry up children or we will miss it!’

Eesha looked at the eager faces as they rushed by. Old ladies with walking sticks; bare-chested young men carrying machetes or baseball bats; children running through the dusty legs of the adults around them, pointing to each other and yelling ‘Bang! You’re dead.’

They were all like demons licking their lips in the expectation of tasting blood. Eesha sank to the floor and gasped for breath. She felt the acid rise in her stomach and braced herself to vomit. She held the light blue scarf firmly over her mouth and took slow, deep breaths. The scarf subdued the dusty, stale smell of the street and filled Eesha with the scent of home.

Delicate spices and jasmine blossom soothed her stomach, but not her mind as she pictured the blood on the marble floor, spreading, drowning the sweet smell of home. It seemed that all the marble in the world was now stained red, all the laughter muffled by screams, all the exotic scents marred by the metallic odour of blood.

The movement and noise of the crowd calmed her somehow and eventually she rejoined the sea of people and was dragged along to the head of the street by their anticipation.

The street opened onto another, her street, or what once was her street. It was now a procession of men in suits, with gelled hair and polished shoes holding microphones and flashing cameras. They didn’t have a violent, anxious look in their eyes; they looked serious and solemn and spoke of ‘a tragedy’ and ‘reprehensible attack.’ She pushed past the excited townspeople and the sombre journalists until she could see the mansion, her home. She squinted against the brilliant whiteness of the stone walls and held her hand to her eyes to block the afternoon sun reflected in the tall windows.

Policemen in light brown uniforms swarmed, like pale ants, around the building.Two stood either side of the front door, like sentries, guarding the solid oak doors that gaped

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open revealing Eesha and Jamal’s hallway. There was movement at the front door. Two men in suits came out and spoke to the sentries as two uniformed officers carried out a stretcher draped in a white sheet. Eesha could see the contours of a body but nothing to suggest who it was or what had happened to it. The officers carried it carefully down the steps as camera bulbs flashed and people gasped and yelled in shock and excitement. They carried the stretcher along the pavement to the waiting ambulance. As they passed, Eesha studied the stretcher for any trace of her husband, like a child checking a dark corner for the monsters of their dreams. They loaded the stretcher awkwardly into the ambulance and slammed the doors shut.

Eesha staggered away from the crush of bodies, to a narrower but less crowded alley way, where she hid in the shade of the mob. From here she heard the start of an engine and the grinding of gears. She heard the squeak of tires and saw over the heads of the crowd, the roof of the ambulance move slowly down the street. Eesha jumped as the siren sounded out crisp and clear above the throng of people. It gradually faded as the ambulance got further and further away. When it had finally gone completely she let the scarf fall from her face, and walked out on to the street. She turned away from the crowd, away from the news crews and police, away from the mansion and walked back the way she had come, stopping only once to take one last look at her former home.

‘I am free of you,’ she whispered before leaving the town of Argartala forever.

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Roses

Jonathan Bayes

Richard sat in the corner, between the Kentia Palm tree and the waste paper bin, which needed emptying. Mr Peters, at his desk, held his head in one hand and a pen in the other, reading and making notes. His face was strained with concentration and every now and then he would frown at something he read. Around him, on the desk, were several piles of paper, books and stationary. At the start of the day they had been neatly stacked and organised but now sheets lay scattered everywhere.

Richard tried not to lean back in his chair or stretch his legs out; not that Mr Peters would notice, but somehow it seemed disrespectful to relax in front of a man working so hard. So instead he sat upright and still. Mr Peters leant over his desk barely moving a muscle, unless to turn a page or scribble something down. Even his eyes barely seemed to move. What am I going to do? Thought Jack Peters. He stared down at the paper in front of him but didn’t take any of it in. I just can’t believe I forgot it was her birthday, he said to himself for the hundredth time. He sat still, head in his hand.

Why doesn’t Rich move? He thought. He’s been sat there all morning and hasn’t shifted at all. Jack sketched a bit more of the picture of his wife on the back of the finance report. Then he drew a speech bubble and wrote ‘RICHARD!’ He stopped. Why had he written that? He’d meant to put his own name, why would Emma be shouting at Rich? I don’t think she even knows him. Must be because I was just thinking about him, thought Jack.

Richard stared at the framed photo of Emma on the desk. I wonder if Jack’s forgotten it’s her birthday again? He’d only met Emma once, at some work party, but she’d seemed pleasant enough. He suspected though that their marriage was struggling. Several times he’d had to feign deafness while Jack failed to reason with Emma down the phone. Richard was pleased his own relationship was rather more stable. His mind turned to his girlfriend, Samantha.

What are the chances she’ll be free tomorrow, I can’t believe I haven’t seen her since Tuesday, he thought. I must see her tomorrow though, even if it can’t be for dinner.

‘Rich,’ said Jack looking up suddenly, ‘can you go into town and buy some flowers for me?’

‘For you?’ Richard replied, ‘I didn’t think you like flowers that much.’

‘No not for me, for my wife.’

‘Oh right, sorry. Sure. Any particular type?’

‘Um, roses. They’re always good.’

‘Red ones?’ Asked Richard, standing up.

‘Yeah, cheers Rich,’ answered Jack, his eyes back on the page on his desk.

So he did forget Emma’s birthday, thought Richard as he strolled along the street. He’d not been to many flower shops before, he always felt overwhelmed by the choice and wasn’t sure what Samantha liked. He made a mental note to find out.

As he entered the nearest florists the intense mix of scents hit him, causing him to cough.

He proceeded more slowly amongst the rows of colourful buds. I’m not sure which I like least, he thought, the smell of a florist’s or the smell of those perfume shops. Richard didn’t have much of a clue about perfume either, but Samantha had always graciously received anything he’d bought for her.

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‘How may I help you Sir?’ Said the owner from behind him, causing him to jump.

‘Oh, err, a bouquet of red roses, please,’ replied Richard.

‘Certainly,’ the man said, selecting a few flowers and wrapping them. ‘A good choice, I must say.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Would you like us to deliver them for you? Anywhere within five miles at no extra cost. Over five we charge a pound for every mile.

‘Err, yes,’ said Richard. His head was starting to hurt with the smell of all the flowers, but he gave Mr Peters’ address. As the man made a note Richard suddenly recalled that Samantha wouldn’t be free tomorrow because she was meeting a friend. Damn, he thought.

‘Would you like to write the name on a card to go with the flowers, Sir?’ The man pushed a card across the counter. Richard took a pen from his jacket pocket, wrote Samantha, and passed it back.

‘That will be thirty-five pounds please.’ Richard counted out some notes, nodded his thanks to the man and left as quickly as he could, desperate to get out of the shop.

It was only later, when he was back in Mr Peters’ office, that it occurred to Richard what he’d done. Just then the telephone rang.

54

Dawn On The Beach Kate Ashmore

Dawn has only just arrived, so, at this moment, the beach is calm. For now, there are no dog walkers or shouting children or bikini clad girls. Just the gentle lapping of the water, back and forth, back and forth. This is where she stands, the girl in the white dress. The bride. In that place where the sand is no longer steady beneath you and your feet sink under. The bottom of her dress floats and moves with the water but she doesn’t appear to notice. It’s like she’s been standing there a while and hasn’t acknowledged that the water has crept up around her. Strands of her hair have broken free from the once-perfect arrangement of curls and flowers at the back of her head and are now circulating in the gentle breeze. She does nothing to swipe them out of her face. Held loosely in her hand, by her side, is a bouquet of lilies. Slowly, without her seeming to realise, her fingers loosen and they drop with a small flump into the blend of sand and water. She shows no sign of reaction.

The girl with the blue hair doesn’t notice her at first. She trudges along, kicking sand with her Doc Martins, deep in her own thoughts. It is the boy she notices, sitting on the sand bank. He’s skinny with auburn hair and a notebook on his lap which, at the moment, remains forgotten as he watches the bride. It is only when she turns to see what he is looking at does she register the bizarre sight of the woman in the lavish wedding dress standing in the water.

She looks between the two for a moment and then makes a decision.

‘Do you know her?’

He looks up surprised, he hadn’t noticed the girl at all. He looks embarrassed at being caught staring at the bride and slightly bewildered at the girl that has just arrived in his life. His takes in her blue hair, orange dress, beads, red nails, the stars painted on her wrists, travelling up her arm ...

‘Er, no.’

She looks back at the bride, frowning slightly and then turns back to the boy and acknowledges his red eyes. ‘You rolling?’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Not right now.’

She pulls tobacco out of her jacket pocket and holds it up. ‘Can I?’ ‘Okay.’ He digs in his bag for a moment and throws her a small see through bag full of weed.

She catches it with one hand and throws herself down on the sand heap about a metre away from him and begins to roll the spliff.

‘Do you think she’s okay?’ She asks, attempting to extract some tobacco without losing it to the wind.

He knows who she’s referring to. ‘No, probably not.’

‘You seem sure.’

He shrugs. ‘She’s on her own in her wedding dress standing in freezing cold water at the crack of dawn and doesn’t seem to care about her dress getting wet, or ruined...’

‘Maybe the reception just got out of hand? She might just be really drunk and have no idea where she is.’

He smiles slightly. ‘Maybe.’

‘So what’s your excuse?’

‘Sorry?’

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‘For being on the beach at stupid o’clock?’

‘Oh. I couldn’t sleep.’

She nods, not looking up from the spliff.

‘Why are you even trying to roll that in the wind?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s a challenge’ ‘And why are you here?’

She shrugs again. ‘Why not?’

‘Fair enough.’

They fall into silence. She continues to battle the wind as she tries to roll and he returns to writing in his notebook. The bride doesn’t move.

‘Lighter?’

He looks up, her voice drawing him out of himself. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes. She holds up a perfectly rolled spliff. He doesn’t bother to register his surprise, just pulls out the lighter from his pocket and hands it to her. She lights up and, after a moment, blows out smoke. A sweet smell is suddenly present, intermingling with the salt air.

‘Maybe she got left at the altar.’

They both watch as one of the flowers in the brides hair is caught in the wind and flies away.

He shakes his head. ‘But why would she be here all alone?’

She takes another drag and then passes him the spliff.

‘Alright, maybe she left him.’

‘Probably more likely.’

‘Or had an affair and it all came out at the altar and she ran away.’

‘You’ve been watching too many soaps.’

She raises her eyebrows at him as he passes her back the spliff.

‘Do I look like the kind of person who watches soaps?’

He smiles a small smile. ‘I suppose not.’

She takes another drag. ‘Maybe he died, like, on the way to the ceremony or something.’

‘Would she really be alone if something like that happened?’

‘Hey, you don’t know, maybe they were getting married in secret or something.’

He laughs. ‘Sure about the soap-watching?’

‘Positive.’ She says, smiling as she takes another drag. After another minute, she passes the joint back to him. ‘Anna.’

‘You’re trying to guess her name now?’

She laughs for the first time. ‘No that’s my name.’

‘James. Nice to share a spliff at stupid o’clock with you Anna.’

‘Likewise.’

They finish the joint in silence, their eyes on the un-moving bride. When he flicks the end of the joint away, he stands and pushes the notebook in his bag. ‘I have to go.’ She looks up and realises he’s taller than she thought.

‘Life to lead and all?’

‘Unfortunately so.’

‘Will you be here tomorrow?’

He looks at her, registering that she’s probably a couple of years younger than him and that her eyes were tinged with red before they’d smoked.

‘I’m here most mornings to be honest.’

She nods and turns back to look at the bride. Neither of them say anymore and he slowly walks away, bag slung over his shoulder.

She finds him in the same spot the next morning, writing in his notebook with an unsmoked spliff tucked behind his ear. She sits in the same place and stares at the spot where the bride had stood. After a minute, he hands her the joint and a lighter without a word. She

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lights up and takes a drag.

‘I bought her a drink and everything.’

She turns and acknowledges the three take out coffee shop cups propped up in the sand by his leg.

‘What did you get her?’

‘Orange juice. She seemed like that kind of girl.’

‘What did you get me?’

‘Hot chocolate. You don’t seem like a coffee drinker.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Good.’

He hands her one of the cups.

‘Cheers.’

‘That’s alright.’

She hands him the joint. ‘You should have got her champagne.’

They look at each for a moment and then both begin to laugh.

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Locket

Katherine Lund

10 o’clock Today was the day I had to choose her outfit. We always used to joke about what an odd concept this was. She would say ‘don’t bury me in anything horrible, I don’t want to be wandering around the afterlife looking a mess. The whole of eternity seems like an awfully long time to be dressed poorly.’ After a pause for thought and a quick mental stumble around her wardrobe, she would add, ‘and nothing burgundy, it’s awful for my colouring, I always look like an overgrown child, in school uniform.’ As I worked my way through her clothes, thinking of what she would have wanted, I found dozens of soft pink blouses, suede brown boots, crinkled at the toe and various muted neck scarves. Then it dawned on me that there was no burgundy. I smiled, she was amusingly in control of her life and my decisions, even after she had left me.

At the very back of the wardrobe, I found a small round tin, with Cadbury’s Chocolate, embossed on the front of it, in a charming old font. I realised this tin once held small chocolate drops, which I had given to her on our second date, after being told by my mother that ‘all women love chocolate.’ As I went to lay it back down, something rattled around inside it. Carefully I opened the small tin, the old fragile hinges squeaked. As the lid fell backwards, it revealed the necklace she always wore. A small, perfectly rounded gold heart.

The once lustrous gold on the back had dulled to a lifeless bronze, where it had sat against her forgiving heart for eighty-nine years. I thumbed the dull metal; I could have sworn it still felt warm beneath my dry touch. There had been so many times since she died that I could have cried, hard. This however, was not one of them. This was oddly liberating. I had always wondered what sat inside this treasured locket she never removed, and yet, as I fought with my weakened thumbs to prize it open, I felt a certain apprehension.

I wondered if images of me would be in there, perhaps as a young man, caught unexpectedly during a day in the happy sunshine, immortalised at my best. In the days of faded cheque shirts, undone more than I would ever entertain these days, perhaps begrudgingly wearing a daisy chain headband she insisted I wore—simply because she had taken the time to do it for me—and with sandy hair, bleached by the fantastic blistering summers England used to have.

The locket wasn’t opening. I am a superstitious man and I have always believed in fateful happenings. I wondered whether I should leave it alone, but I found myself picking up an antique letter opener from my bedside table. As I plunged the silver blade into the cracked gold, it prized open. I found something I hand’t anticipated. Nothing.

Not a picture, not a scent of old perfume or a lock of our daughters hair, nothing. I found an empty heart. After decades of wondering what she kept so sacred, wrapped round her neck everyday, I now knew, it was nothing. It suddenly struck me as odd that such a small thing can be so hurtful, when the person isn’t there to explain. In our bedroom, I was surrounded by dozens of framed pictures. Our children’s earliest experiences in snapshots; precious, happy lives caught in a faded, sepia tone. I found myself looking at small pictures that would have fitted in this heart perfectly. Why had she left it empty? She must have

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known I would find it? A part of me, no matter how irrational, felt like I meant nothing to her.

12 o’clock The doorbell rings and makes me jump. I feel as though I have been caught doing something I shouldn’t. I look quickly down at my watch. It will be my daughter, bang on time, as always ... and looking for answers. At the moment, she constantly asks me why ... why she left us, why she didn’t get to say goodbye and why she took her for granted so much. I have no answers for her and it makes me feel useless. I was supposed to be the only person in the world who knew my wife inside and out, but I have no answers for our wounded, confused daughter.

Since Norah died, I have realised how completely alone she insisted on being. She never vocalised her problems or worries, even though she must have had a lot of both. The more I thought about how little I knew of her, the more it felt as though my daughter was drifting away from me too, with every answer I failed to provide for her, and every conclusion I couldn’t reach. I tucked the delicate locket into my trouser pocket and made my way downstairs with a deep breath, a confused heavy heart, and a feigned look of hopefulness.

‘Hello, dad.’ She throws her arms round my neck immediately, and I can already hear her sadness. She hugs me as if it will bring her mother back, it’s worryingly powerful and holds a huge amount of despair.

‘Hello you.’ I hold the sides of her head with my hands and bring her face central to mine. I look directly into her eyes, searching for some answers of my own; I say ‘how are we?’

She smiles an unconvincing smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘We’re better than last time,’ she says, I don’t believe it; it’s not true for her or for me. If anything, we’re worse than last time. I bring her into the kitchen, a desperately dismal room I’d always refused to have renovated. Waste of money; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, I can hear myself saying it, God, I suddenly realise I’m an almightily miserable bastard. She steps onto the orange linoleum and it sags a little beneath her expensive high-heeled boots. She gives me a slightly pitying smile that makes me feel even guiltier somehow. I click on the kettle.

‘How are you getting on with the outfit? Staying away from burgundy?’ She raises an eyebrow in mockery. She looks so like her, it’s unnerving.

‘She appears to have got rid of any burgundy, so we’re safe there.’ As she bows her head with a smile, I wonder whether to tell her about the necklace. ‘Actually, I found her locket this morning.’ She looked at me, blankly. ‘Did you ever wonder what was in it?’ I asked, trying to gauge her thoughts.

‘I did, but she never had it off long enough for me to even attempt to have a look. Now I think it would just feel wrong to look in it. Without her here, because it was so ‘hers’, you know?’

There was a pause for a while as she blew the steam away from her tea. I did know, I knew exactly what she meant. It was the same feeling I’d had this morning. However, she was clearly considering what was inside it, she was just as curious as me.

‘I ... I looked ... Inside the locket that is. Yes, I looked.’

The look on her face was unreadable, it sat somewhere between intrigue and disgust. I let her process it, while I then took my own turn in blowing the steam away, to pass a few moments. Sometime during the silent minutes that followed, I reached into my pocket and passed her the necklace. It was a silent agreement; she could look if she wanted to. To my surprise, she put it on and walked round the room. She fingered the chain absentmindedly as she looked at the clock ticking, just like her mother used to. A part of me wished she would never leave, it was like I had her mother back, even if just for one afternoon.

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2 o’clock ‘What’s in it?’ An illusion shattered when she spoke, it ended a perfectly meaningful silence. ‘I want to know, what’s in it.’

‘Nothing.’ I hadn‘t spoke for a while, consequently my voice cracked a little as I said that one, hurtful word.

‘What?’ She whispered. Her eyes filled up with tears. She too had obviously envisaged a picture of herself, or something else that pertained to the love we hoped she had felt for us.

I cleared my throat and, once again said, ‘nothing.’ ‘Bitch.’ The word came out of her mouth heartbreakingly easily. She pulled the necklace suddenly with her hand and the thin chain broke easily in her small, shaking fists. She proceeded to put the entire necklace and shattered chain into her mouth, before spitting it out with disgust, into the metal sink, her eyes and mouth full of hatred. I watched in my peripheral vision as she tore pots, pans and whatever else she could find, off the shelves, where they had always stood neatly, and onto the floor with as big of a crash as she could muster. The whole time I stood, leaning on my hands against the sink. I didn’t stop her, but I didn’t encourage her either. I felt a distinct a lack of anything, indifference.

4 o’clock As I sit on the matted carpet of our bedroom at the foot of the bed, I listen to my daughter screaming and crying just beneath me; so close to me in proximity, so far away mentally and emotionally.

6 o’clock After nearly half an hour of silence, I hear her on the stairs. Soon after, her face edges round the door. Her eyes are red, swollen and sore, her index finger is covered in the watered down mascara she has wiped from her face, and her hair is matted with the sweat she worked up when trying to destroy my wretched kitchen. She comes and sits down in front of me, before silently taking my head in her hands and saying: ‘We’re not ok, Dad.’ I looked straight back at her. ‘I know we aren’t.’ We sat like this for a long time, it was almost entirely dark when she finally stood and said, ‘I’ll be off then. I will be back tomorrow to help choose her outfit.’

‘I did it while you were downstairs. It’s all laid out on the bed.’ She looked meticulously over my selection, questioning and judging it in the same way her mother would have.

‘No burgundy?’ She said, surprised but clearly impressed.

‘No burgundy.’ I repeated with a faint smile, I too was impressed with myself.

I saw her careful eye turn back to the pre-prepared outfit, lying on the bed like a ghost of the person we used to know. Gradually she reached out her arm to where the contentious gold locket lay on our faded blue bedding. After a few moments, she clicked the locket open, for the final time. Placed on either side of the planished heart, was a cut-out picture of each of our faces, from an old family photo which my daughter could clearly recollect. Tears filled her eyes as she looked to me for some reassurance. ‘This is how it’s going to be, love. It’s how it always should have been.’ I said as my voice cracked and hissed, fighting back tears.

She nodded at me knowingly, as she snapped the locket closed and laid it back on the bed, exactly as it had been.

60

The Girls At School Kelly Bolger

The girls at school think it’s funny that Mummy is a doctor, like she doesn’t wear a white coat and works in her office at home instead of a hospital. Mummy isn’t that sort of doctor. She’s the kind that you get to be from reading books. Her office has got lots of books in it, books about animals that you’ve never heard of. If I’m quiet and not a pain Mummy lets me look at the books while she’s working.

The animals in the books all have Latin names that sound foreign, but they’re not, that was just how people used to speak in the olden days. The names are hard to say but they make ordinary things sound like they are from a faraway land. For example, if I said that my cat sleeps on my bed you wouldn’t be very interested would you? It’s okay, I wouldn’t blame you. But what if I said that a Felis Silvestris Catus slept on my bed every night? You’d sit up and take notice then. You’d wonder what this mysterious thing was, you’d wonder if I had discovered something magical, if it had fallen through my wardrobe from Narnia and was sleeping on my bed until we could work out how to get it back home again.

Once, a Fair came and the girls at school were talking about the big wheel and how you could win a goldfish in a bag to take home. Mummy said we couldn’t go because there wasn’t time and anyway she hated that sort of thing. I called her a Sus Phillipine over and over again, like I was casting a spell on her, but it just made her send me to bed without any tea because she knew I was just calling her a warty pig.

I like the pictures of the animals too, especially the ones that look like they’ve been made up for a story, like the platypus (ornithorhynchus anitinus) which looks like an otter except it’s got a beak like a duck. Or the Armadillo (Dasypus Novemcinctus) which has got big eyes even though it can’t see very well, which is a bit stupid if you ask me.

Sometimes the girls at school are stupid. I like pretending to be a Komodo dragon (Varanus Komodoenisis) but they only ever want to be a cat or a rabbit, which isn’t actually that much fun so then they get bored and play ballet games instead. I’m not allowed to play with them because I don’t go to ballet and I would ruin it. Mummy said that I might be able to go to ballet soon, when she’s not so busy. I think that means a long time though, because Mummy always says she will be finished her work soon and I wait outside her office door but she doesn’t come out, not even when its teatime and I’m hungry.

Sometimes when Mummy’s not in her office she sends me there to get things for her. I hate doing that because the animals watch me and I think they are going to come back to life, even though they have been dead for a really long time. When I was little, I used to stroke the head of the tiger (panther tigris) rug because I thought he was like our house cat. Then I started reading Mummy’s books and I got scared because I found out about how he could rip animal’s skin apart with his teeth.

Now every time I go in Mummy’s office I have to stand by the door, looking for a long time to check that he’s not watching me. Then Mummy shouts for me to hurry up so I hold my breath and rush in and hope that I can find whatever it is quickly before he can bite my legs off. I have these dreams where he is alive again, with all four legs and he chases me because I stepped on him when he was a rug. I wake up just before he gets me but I’m scared that he will catch me one day. I told Mummy about it and asked if we could throw him away

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but she said that I was being stupid and that she would never get rid of him, because she’d got him in India and he was special.

Mummy got me in India too, when she met my Daddy. He knows everything about Rhesus Macaques (Maccaca mullata) and he loves them more than anything else. That’s why he wouldn’t come to England when I was born, because Macaques live in India. I don’t think he knows that I’m a little monkey too, because he would come straight away if he did. Mummy says that animals are better than people anyway and that she’s better off on her own. I always laugh when she says that because she’s forgetting about me.

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She Said

Kerry Bivand

She said ‘the first sign of madness is talking to yourself.’ How about writing to yourself ?

Having a conversation with yourself through your writing? Considering your existence and it’s meaning, or is that just considered to be philosophical bullshit?

He sat there staring at the page, the words in front of him transformed into her face.

He closed his eyes and pictured her. They were in the newly refurbished kitchen; he sat at the counter while she made cups of tea. He watched her as she slowly poured the water in, delicately stirring the water and squeezing the tea bag. He knew that she’d be relaxed by the simple mechanics, finally able to take a step back. It annoyed her that he knew her so well. He’d always through it in if she was in a mood, just for good measure—of course. On occasion she said that she liked how he knew her so well, it meant that he knew she didn’t mean anything she said if she was in one of her moods. She was stubborn and hated to apologise and admit defeat. This entire time, he knew. He often wondered if it was fair to manipulate her moods?

He continued writing, as this was his usual routine. He would get up in the morning, make breakfast, for one, go shower and sort through the things that needed to be done that day and see anybody he needed to see. Sometimes he would even take a walk around the local park and sit at their bench. He tried not to but she would always creep into his mind.

He couldn’t help it. After everything was done he would sit down and write his thoughts down in a notebook. It was something he’d done since his early twenties. When he had his first flat there was furniture scattered throughout, they’d both fall over the shoe boxes full of notebooks. He would always carry one around with him; he preferred the leather pocket-sized notepads. They would slide into the back pocket of his jeans with ease, but this would mean they also ended up half rolled with the pages crumpled in his back pocket.

On occasions when he’d forgotten his notebook he would use a napkin and later place it in the notebook, they were not only rolled and crumpled but they also filled out with anything he’d written on and wanted to be kept along with the rest of his filed thoughts. She used to question his constant obsession with writing everything down. She’d say, ‘the Nazi’s used to write everything down, look where that got them.’ Whenever she made this comment he’d challenge her comparison of him and the Nazi’s asking whether she really thought him to be so sadistic?

He’d been reminiscing so much about her recently, anything could remind him of her face, but nothing more than their only daughter. He was shocked at their resemblance as she grew up. He would sit in the front room of the house, it wasn’t a large room but big enough for the three of them. Their mint green walls showcased various holidays, Jessica’s school portraits, and a family photo shoot, but on the mantel piece was a small white frame of Clara as a young girl with her father’s arms wrapped around her. It was the only photograph she had of her dad. He had died shortly after her fourth birthday. When he looked into the young, happy eager eyes of his daughter Jessica, he saw the same eyes that were reflected in the photograph of his wife Clara. Whenever he took a step back and looked at the two women that were his world, he noticed how just a like they were. Clara was a slim woman with curves, concealed by the clothing that she wore. Her hair was a deep shade of brown

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that she often wore clipped up. Over the years the exhaustion of a full-time job and a child had taken it’s toll on her. Her expansive green eyes grew tired and dark circles started to appear underneath them. As Jessica grew Clara worried more and the lines became visible on her face. Her face wasn’t full of negatives, she was still beautiful with her heart shaped face - laughter lines framed her mouth, she always said her lips stretched over her face too much when she smiled. He smiled at the memory of her, of her smile. It was his favourite thing about her features. As he thought about it more the words in front of him stretched over the page forming a smile on her face. Now, the old man was staring at the smiling memory of his beloved wife.

Jessica had come to see him the other day, when he opened the door to her, he was stunned by how much she’d matured and grown into her features, which resembled her mothers. The same love heart face with the same green eyes full of wonder, excitement and youthfulness. She had his defining jaw line. Shaping the lower part of her face into a more rigid line. Unlike her mother she had fuller lips that didn’t stretch across her face.

They simply didn’t need to. She kissed him on the cheek and made her way forward into the house. Like her mother she went straight to the kettle. She had said on the phone that she had some news to tell him. She had received a job offer with an advertising company. Since she’d graduated from university she’d been working on building her portfolio, she’d gained various placements but nothing permanent. This meant she had taken a job lower down in one of the companies as a receptionist. She’d been there for about a year, now they had an advertising copywriter position available. She’d gained the interview and thankfully won them over. The only downside was that they wanted to move her to their main branch in South London. This he was not expecting. Jessica had always stayed close after the death of Clara until now. London was over 50 miles away from his home in Brighton. On average a train would take at least an hour and half. What if he needed her for something? What if he fell in the middle of the night? Who would come then?

He had felt the vibrations of the loss ripple through himself engulfing him completely. She had left him. The cancer had spread too quickly. Chemotherapy and radiation would only prolong her pain and suffering, there was nothing more the doctors could have done for her.

She had left his world. For days after he couldn’t quite grasp that she had gone. Every morning he expected to see her at the table with a tea in her hand as she watched the morning news.

Instead there was … nothing, just air. Another empty space around their dinning table. He tried to write in his notebook, he had so many things inside his head, so many things he was feeling. But when he opened that notebook all words escaped him. He starred at the page— willing that something to happen—for words to appear on the page but they remained blank.

He thought about their life together and how they had first met. She had seen him in a small cafe with his notebook out, a half eaten English breakfast accompanied by half a pint of apple juice. He had his head down, he was concentrating on something. The pages in front of him full of scribbles. He held the pen close to his mouth but moved his lips as if he was talking to himself. She was worried he might have been a crazy person with his his constant scribblings. She sat and observed him for a little longer. He fascinated her. She wondered what he was writing about, was it his family? His day to day to life? The half eaten breakfast and freshly squeezed drink in front of him? It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him in the little cafe, he was quite a regular there. She walked round the counter and made her way towards him. His head was still stuck to that notebook and he was still muttering away to himself.

‘You know the first sign of madness is talking to yourself.’ For the first time since had stopped eating his breakfast he looked up.

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The First Legend of Makoto Kieran Price

Although dimmed by clouds, the moonlight was still able to reveal the wide landscape, dusted with winter’s first snows. Nestled at the bottom of one valley, a village lay like water held in cupped hands. Flickers of firelight cast the villagers’ silhouettes onto shoji walls as they ate their evening meals. A dog barked down there somewhere, locked out in the snow.

Of all the buildings in that village, only the silk mill failed to glow. Not because the day’s work was over; work at the mill hadn’t happened for up to a week. Not because there was no one inside to light the lamps; the old woman who kept the mill, Ayame, was there, as she had been her whole life. The mill was dark because the oil for the lamps had run out two days after the villagers had sealed all the doors and windows, trapping Ayame inside.

Ayame was cursed. People in the area spoke of a woman with a yokai, a demon, living under her skin. They said that it ate at her as it grew, that it was evil and would move to another, younger person if it could. Other people had only averted their gaze when asked, or pointed away, towards the village in which Ayame lived. None of what they said or showed in their actions would keep Makoto away. If anything, it made him more eager to travel to the silk village and see the cursed woman. He stood now, at the rise of a hill, looking down at the buildings lit by fire, covered by snow. He looked at the silk mill; cold and dark. Setting off down the hillside, his straw boots crunched in the snow and he pulled his cloak tighter about him. His breath misted in the air before him and he leant forward as he moved, countering the weight of his pack.

Some of the lights behind the shoji had gone out by the time Makoto reached the village.

The people were readying for sleep. That was good, for if any of them realised Makoto’s intentions, there would be trouble. He made it to the silk mill without being noticed, though he had made no effort to conceal his arrival. He had no right to hide himself from these people. If they were meant to find him, then they would. Makoto knew he couldn’t change fate.The doors to the mill were boarded up and reinforced with leaning timbers. Nothing inside was able to escape, but it was no great task for Makoto to push the timbers aside and prise the planks from the door frame. Before him lay a great expanse of tatami flooring, painted by the twisted shadows of the looms. Reels of silk lay stacked in neat piles along the walls, and baskets of silkworm cocoons waited by the stove in the far corner, ready to be boiled.

Makoto stepped in and slid the door shut behind him. He tipped his henrogasa from his head, allowing the strap to catch around his collar and the hat to rest against the top of his pack. He stood for a few moments, watching, listening, but nothing snagged his attention.

Despite leaving his boots at the entrance, clumps of snow fell from his clothes like the downy feathers of a fledgling. He paused after a few steps at the creak of a board beneath him, but there was no sound from Ayame or the yokai. Makoto turned slowly when he reached the centre, checking behind the frame of each loom, listening for someone’s breath as he held his own. The main workroom was empty. He moved over to the door that he knew would lead to Ayame’s living quarters. Standing before it, he almost left and barricaded the exit again. He would never have to open this door then; never have to face what was inside.

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But then he remembered why he had come here. He knew that whatever waited in this silk mill could be no worse than what he had already seen. What he already was.

He took hold of the wooden handle and drew the door aside. Every muscle in his arm was tense, ready to pull the door shut again, despite knowing that there was little that washi paper stretched over a wooden frame could stop. Nothing came. Without moving, Makoto checked behind the low kamado stove and a pile of woven baskets. Still the mill seemed deserted. He scrutinised the windows. The shutters had been nailed closed; that meant Ayame must still be inside, unless she had been possessed by a yokai with the ablility to transport its host spiritually from one place to the next. If that was the case, then it was not the yokai that Makoto sought.

There was still one more room to check. The shoji door to Ayame’s sleeping quarters wasn’t fully shut, allowing a small gap for Makoto to peer through. Squinting against the gloom, he could make out the white of bedsheets, rising over the lumps of what could only be two feet.

The door hissed as he opened it, but Ayame made no movement. Makoto stood over the old woman. She watched him from beneath heavy eyelids. Her mouth was agape and her chest moved imperceptibly; her breath wisped away irregularly in the cold air. Several strands of grey hair had broken free from her bun. Two weathered and starved hands rested neatly atop the covers. A fleshy lump bigger than a hen’s egg stood out from her neck, beneath her jawline. Makoto bowed before speaking. ‘Oyasumi nasai, Ayame-sama,’ he said in greeting.

‘My name is Makoto.’ The old woman smiled and nodded once before taking a ragged breath.

‘Oyasumi nasai, Makoto-kun. I didn’t think I would see another person before I—’ She broke off to cough weakly, facing away from Makoto. She didn’t seem strong enough to even raise a hand to her mouth.

‘They have been saying you are cursed. That the lump on your neck is the mark of a yokai.’

Having recovered, her eyes met his again, visibly struggling to focus.

‘I am very sick, Makoto-kun, but this is not the work of some spirit or demon. It is just the one illness strong enough to claim a woman who has outlived all others.’ She smiled again as if she were not talking of herself; of her own death.

Makoto believed what she said. If there had been a yokai inside her, he would have felt it.

He wasn’t sure if the feeling in his stomach was relief, dissapointment or grief. Just a sick old woman, locked in her home by the fearful superstition of her neighbours. Cold, starving and alone. It seemed that his search would go on. But not quite yet. He sat on the floor beside her and reached out. He took hold of one of those thin hands and pressed it between his.

Her eyes fluttered shut, but her shallow breathing continued.

He would stay, while he was needed.

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Mermaids Letita Lees

When I was young, Father would tell me stories about mermaids. I was hooked from the beginning. By the time I was seven I knew every tale by heart. He would tell me stories of when he was a fisherman. He would see mermaids with shining silver skin playing in the waves.

‘Remember, there’s nothing more magical than seeing a mermaid. It’s the most breathtaking experience,’ he would say before launching into another story about the merfolk he’d seen. I’d sit on his lap, dreaming of the day when I could see one too. Our house was a sanctuary for the creatures of the sea. Photographs of ripples, which mermaids had left, cluttered the walls of father’s study.

‘There was one there, I promise!’ He would say. Apparently it was impossible to capture a mermaid on camera. He could spend hours sitting at his desk with a map, marking down points where there had been sightings. He had a treasure chest of items, which he believed belonged to the sea creatures. Inside were combs, bottles and various trinkets that had been washed out onto the shore. Sometimes Father forgot to take care of himself, his face was gaunt and he barely washed. When I sat on his lap I could always smell the salty sweat on his skin.

I was home schooled. My lessons focused on how humans descended from sea creatures.

We would study models of fish and read Greek myths about Sirens luring sailors into the sea. We would take walks along the beach by our house; watch the water, eagerly waiting for signs of life. I thought that hunting for mythical creatures was part of life. Until I was about twelve, I had no idea that my life was any different to anyone else because I knew no one but my father. When I got older, instead of watching the sea, I would watch my father. I watched his eyes alight with the excitement of his obsession, gradually feeling the first stirring pain of doubt. When we’re young we have faith in our parents. We cling onto their beliefs like treasured possessions. But as we get older, the realisation comes that we have been deceived.

It was when my father attempted to drown himself. That’s when I knew he had gone too far.

His fantasy world was crashing around him. It all began when my mother drowned. Father used to tell me that the mermaids carried her off to be queen in their underwater palace.

‘She’s sitting on a throne of corals and covered in head to toe with pearls.’ Father said as he put me to bed one night. ‘She glides around the water on dolphins and dances under the moonlight.’

‘Can you see the Moon from underwater?’ I interrupted.

‘Of course, everything is possible underwater.’

I must have looked doubtful because he frowned at me.

‘Don’t you believe me? The mermaids don’t take kindly to non believers.’

‘I believe you,’ I whispered.

‘Good,’ he relaxed. ‘One day, when our time on this Earth is done, we will be reunited.’ He stared behind me as he uttered these words. Father had a way of looking past me.

I used to think he said things like that for my sake, but now I know, it was for his.

I couldn’t have stopped him, even if I tried. He made up his mind a long time ago. The days before, he seemed even more distracted than usual. He barely spoke; he just smiled to himself and went on long walks to the beach, alone. The night before, he came and said goodnight to me. He handed me a smooth white pebble. It felt warm in my hands.

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‘What do you think? A gift to the mermaids? To your Mother?’ I nodded and handed the pebble back to him. He grinned and pocketed it.

‘I’ll give it to her tomorrow,’ he said. Then he left my room and closed my door. The next time I saw him, he was being lifted into a rescue helicopter. I grew out of the mermaids, but my father grew deeper and deeper into the coils of insanity.

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White Christmas Marianne Bowen

‘Come they told me, bar-rum-ba-bum-bum … ’ He sang quietly with the old, crackling wireless as he gently lowered himself into his favourite armchair. He placed the mahogany box on his lap; his hands shook as he opened it and sifted past the medals, pulling out a yellowing envelope. Inside were memories of a happier time, when he wasn’t so alone. Laughter trickled through the window but he didn’t hear it as he began to remember. His eyes closed as his thumb feathered over the picture of two beaming children sat on a doorstop together.

‘Hurry up, Billy, or it’ll all be gone!’ Emilie cried, grabbing his hand and pulling him down the school hall amongst the other children. Not even the bark of the headmaster could stop their excited run towards the doors. Billy didn’t see the point in telling Emilie there wouldn’t be much snow—there never was—and was shocked when they finally burst through the doors.

He hadn’t realised so much had fallen. He heard Emilie laugh and suddenly felt a cold, compact object smack into his cheek. Billy blinked and ducked her next snowball, quickly launching one of his own. Soon they were engaged in a school wide snowball fight which was impossible for the headmaster to stop. After his fingers had gone numb for the third time, Emilie and Billy detached themselves from the fight and began the walk home. They were friends forever, the very best of friends in the whole wide world.

He gently placed the photograph back in the box, pulling out another of the same two children, both with smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes as they stood in front of a war poster.

‘Emilie! What’s taking you so long?’ He sighed and leant against the wall, his fingers tapping impatiently on the box of his gas mask. He heard a small giggle, a door shutting and turned to see Emilie dashing towards him, her dark brown hair plaited in one long braid, her heart shaped face clear. Her big brown eyes glinted as she shrugged on her brother’s old coat. She looked ridiculous, but Billy wasn’t going to tell her that. They had to ‘make do and mend’.

‘Let’s go or we’ll be late. You know what Mr. Thomas is like when people are late.’ She shuddered.

‘Don’t forget your box.’ Billy reminded her, trying not to think of the cane that had bruised him a mere week ago. Emilie sighed and reached back, plucking it off the hook in the hall.

‘Uncle Roger says the war isn’t even going to happen.’ She said. Billy rolled his eyes. He’d heard all the rumours but his mother always wanted him to be safe. He just wished he was old enough to go and fight the Nazis. His father was somewhere in France now, a pilot in the RAF, but at twelve-years-old Billy was simply too young. He’d soon get his chance, and then he’d give those Nazis what for.

His fingers picked up another photograph, a group of people smiling as they gathered around an Anderson shelter in a back garden; there were men and women, young and old and two best friends, now teenagers who’d grown up in these difficult times.

They sat, huddled together in the corner of the shelter as the bombs fell around them. It was

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damp and cold. The stench of fear, sweat and urine mingled together. Billy had given his scarf to Emilie but he could tell it wasn’t helping as she buried her face in his shoulder. He tightened his arms around her. This would be his last time in the shelter at the end of his garden. He’d sign up tomorrow and end this war for his mother, Emilie, old Mrs Sampson and for his father who’d died somewhere over Belgium, shot down by Nazi planes. He squeezed Emilie’s hand as another bomb fell. The deafening boom shook the crude shelter and made the little ones scream. Those Nazis had better fear old Billy Lucas; they’d better start shaking in their boots.

Next he took out a small folded letter, a photograph of a young man in RAF uniform fell out onto his knee.

There was another raid last night, right at the end of our street. The bomb landed on the Millers’ house.

Mrs Miller was at work when it happened, just the three children inside. Thomas, Aggie and Jane, none of them survived, Billy. They’ve started to evacuate the children out to the country, but why couldn’t they have done it sooner? Mrs Miller’s only just stopped screaming; now she’s just silent which is worse. Your mother says she’ll lose her job in the factory if she carries on like this. Your house and mine weren’t too badly damaged, but old Mrs Sampson’s house had all of the windows blown out, apart from one. This afternoon, old Mrs Sampson got out a bucket of water and washed that one window until it was sparkling, then gave the skies a two fingered salute. It seems like I shouldn’t be smiling but it was just so typical of her. I think even Mrs Miller smiled a bit. I can’t believe you’re really gone. By the time you get this I could be working in the factory too. Uncle Roger’s come to live with us now because he can’t go to war, they won’t take him because of his leg. I hope the training is going well, write back soon. It just doesn’t feel right without you here.

His fingers traced over the smooth handwriting as his eyes scanned the date again. It had been sent just over a month ago; Billy wondered how Mrs Miller was coping now, had Emilie joined his mother in the factory? He hoped not, those places were a death trap. Billy sighed and folded the letter again, putting it into his breast pocket before joining his fellow pilots. He’d followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the RAF, he was recognised as one of the best pilots they had. With a new fire igniting his resolve, he climbed into his plan and took off, leading the squadron against their enemy.

He pushed aside more photographs and pulled out a small, circular box. The ivory satin was beginning to discolour, grease filling the delicate material at the joint, the old hinges now stiff after so many years.

Billy shouldered his canvas bag with the few possessions he owned and walked out of the barracks. He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face, the war was over and he’s survived. His mother was still alive and was living with Emilie and her Uncle Roger. He’d already sent her uncle a letter asking for his permission to marry Emilie and had received the delighted response. Billy joined in the celebratory singing as they crammed into the old freight cart that would transport the successful soldiers to the docks.

An old newspaper clipping of a dock filled with anxious families was the next thing to come out of the box, along with an obituary of a young woman who had lost her life as she walked home from work.

Billy felt like a hero as he stepped off the boat. He tried to find their faces in the crowd, but there were too many people.

‘Billy! My Billy!’ He turned and saw his mother’s kind blue eyes. It shocked him to see how much she’d changed but he didn’t dwell on it. Tears rolled down her cheeks as he hugged her tightly.

‘Mum … ’ He whispered. She still smelled like her old perfume that his father used to buy her.

She was wearing a smart green coat with a fur collar and he didn’t think she’d ever looked so lovely.

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‘I’m so glad you’re home, Billy,’ she whispered, clutching at him tightly. Billy pulled back and glanced around them.

‘Me too … let’s go home mum.’ He murmured, his heart sinking slightly. Why wasn’t Emilie here to see him?

‘There’s something I have to tell you.’ His mother said, instinctively knowing who he was looking for. Billy glanced down at her.

‘That’s alright; I’ll see her at home.’ He grinned, not hearing her words and forcing the hurt out of his eyes. His mother’s face fell as she slowly shook her head.

‘She’s dead Billy.’

Billy Lucas sat in the house that had been his since 1959, in his favourite brown leather chair, an old mahogany box filled with a lifetime of joy, love and happy memories resting on his knees. A tear fell onto the satin cover of the box as he opened it with great difficulty. The amethysts and diamonds sparkled against the old velvet, the engagement ring he’s never had the chance to put on Emilie’s finger. He closed his eyes as Bing Crosby started crooning an old favourite. He remembered that first white Christmas he’d had when school had closed a week early after a mass snowball fight.

‘I’m … dreaming of a white … Christmas …’ He sang softly with the old wireless that still worked after all these years. The trickle of laughter filtered through the window as Flight Sergeant Billy Lucas, decorated war hero and loyal friend, joined his beloved at last.

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Alone

Matthew Coot

It was surprising that she could see through the stuck on fake eyelashes, but my manager eventually finished reading the resignation letter. She shrugged, showing that she wasn’t surprised. Her eyes attempted to look sympathetic as she explained that she had been expecting it and that my productivity had been down since my return to work. The truth behind her false sympathy was that I should never have returned. She was happy to see the back of me. In fact, the feeling was mutual.

The next day, I woke up on a train. My eyes turned to the window and were met by the fusing colours of fields, trees and sheep. The dizzying effect did nothing to help my spinning head and neither did the stench of alcohol that invaded my nostrils. In front of me, on the fold down table, were three empty cans of lager. I checked my pockets and discovered a small half-drunk bottle of some cheap vodka. I downed the rest it, ignoring the sharp sting as it went down. I closed my eyes and drifted back off to sleep.

‘The next stop is St. Erth.’ The announcement for my childhood home jolted me back into consciousness. My eyelids were heavy, but I eventually managed to get them open. There was a teenage couple a few seats away. They were staring at me. The boy whispered to his girlfriend.

They both laughed. I held up my middle finger. It made them laugh more. Ignoring them, I placed both of my hands on the plastic armrests and attempted to push myself up, but failed.

I fell back into my seat. The sound of the teenagers laughing grew even louder. My second attempt was more successful and I stumbled through the carriage attracting the self-righteous stares of many judgemental passengers. I ignored them all. That was the last thing I remember.

The waves crashed against the rocks and woke me from my drunken slumber. My hands felt around where my body lay and my fingers dug into the grainy sand. I couldn’t remember what happened after the train arrived at the station, however the feeling of a thousand knifes stabbing the inside of my skull gave me a clue. I tried to open my eyes, but even the mere millimetre was too much as the brightness of the sun invaded my delicate eyes. I found myself groaning as I rolled over to escape the sun and ended up getting a mouthful of sand. I began to choke. The choking made me wretch and I vomited all over the sand. It didn’t seem to end.

The vomit travelled from my stomach, through my throat and gushed out through my mouth decorating the sand with something that resembled a watery vegetable soup. It eventually ended, leaving a stinging in my throat. I rolled away from the vomit and lay on the sand, exhausted. My legs ached, my arms ached, every inch of my body ached. After a while, and with a struggle, I sat up with my eyes closed. I placed my hand in front of them. Slowly, I spread my fingers apart to allow the sun access to my eyes. My hand dropped away when I saw it standing there.

‘What?’ I muttered. There was a creature standing on the other side of the beach. It was something that I could never have expected to see. My hangover was forgotten while I stared at the grey giant. The ears alone were larger than me. The legs were like four oak trees sprouting out of the ground. The creature’s giant eyes were staring out to the calm sea. It seemed like he hadn’t seen me yet. Gradually, I got to my feet, watching as the trunk came up out of the water, curled, and entered the elephant’s mouth. It was a spectacular sight.

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I knew this beach. During the summers of my childhood, my father and I would climb down to it. There were only two ways to get here: down the cliff, or by boat. I couldn’t understand how the elephant was here. The animal was normally at home on the wild African plains, not on the rocks of this Cornish beach. I also couldn’t understand how I could have gotten here.

I was in oblivion and definitely could not have abseiled down the cliff. There was also no boat anywhere in sight, not that I would have been able to drive one without crashing. It was a mystery.

It took all my willpower to make my foot move forwards. I stumbled, steadied myself, but I didn’t take my eyes off the elephant. He hadn’t moved. I was worried that if I spooked it, he would go into a frantic panic and trample me to death. The last thing I wanted was to die beneath those gigantic feet. Then again, it would have been a much more memorable way to go than the one that I had planned. I continued to move closer to the animal.

‘Hello,’ I whispered as my hand gently touched the thick rough leather skin of the elephant’s leg. The eye, so large and so deep, glanced down at me. It was the eye of a giant, but it seemed so human. The colour fascinated me. It was a mixture of brown and orange swirling around outside of the bottomless black pupil. It stared straight into me, and I stared straight back. I sensed a strong emotion being conveyed through the animal’s eye. It was emotion that I knew only so well, pain and loneliness. I smiled at the elephant. ‘It’s going to be okay boy, I’m here now’.

Life exploded within those magnificent eyes. It was as if the elephant understood my words. He raised his trunk into the air and trumpeted his approval. It seemed as if he was cheering his appreciation for my words. The elephant stepped off the rocks and splashed into the cold seawater. Once in there, he sucked up the liquid and with one swoop into the air he sprayed it all over the both of us. I couldn’t help but laugh. For the first time in months, I was laughing.

The elephant was joyfully playing in the sea when I decided to sit on the rocks to watch. He seemed to love the waves crashing into his lower body. It was a bizarre sight, but such a delight to watch. This spectacular scene, and the happiness it caused, it couldn’t last. The elephant didn’t belong on the beach. I knew this. I reached into my pocket to find my phone, but instead my hand grasped around a small bottle. They were anti-depressants.

Take them. End it. The thoughts raced in my mind, temporarily paralysing me. I had come here to die and an elephant shouldn’t be able to stop me. Or was the elephant here to do just that?

The elephant was splashing around in the sea just like I did when I was a child. My father watched me from the very same rocks that I was watching the elephant from. Could it really be a coincidence? Was this elephant a sign from him? Then again, the coincidence was a little too much for my liking. After all, my father had been a lecturer in zoology before he died.

The lecture he had been preparing before his death had been on elephants, the creatures had fascinated him.

Cancer stole my father several years ago. If he had been around today, then perhaps I wouldn’t have ended up on this beach. He would have dragged my selfish ass out of the pit of grief. He had, after all, been there himself when he had lost his first child. He would understand what I was going through. He would have stopped me. It was exactly four months ago since she died. It had been sudden and we’re still not exactly sure how it happened. I had popped out for cigarettes, a stupid mistake. When I returned, Isabella was lying on the living room floor. She was unconscious. I couldn’t wake her. I called for an ambulance. They rushed her to hospital.

The journey had been strange. I wasn’t sure what to do. The sirens were blaring, the paramedic was yelling things to his partner, and I was just sat there on the chair watching my daughter, as she limply lay unconscious on the stretcher. When we got to the hospital, I followed the stretcher. The paramedics pushed it whilst several nurses and doctors surrounded Isabella. Nobody spoke to me. Everyone was all too busy trying to save my

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daughter. I just followed them until I was eventually stopped. A hand held me back from walking through some double doors. The nurse, who stopped me, showed me to a private waiting room.

I remember when the doctor walked into the room. It seemed like hours later, but I wasn’t really sure. Time didn’t exist that day. The doctor’s face told me the whole story. He didn’t need to say the words and no matter how many times I replay the scene in my mind, I cannot change what he said. ‘I’m so sorry. There was nothing more we could do. Isabella passed away a few minutes ago.’ She was dead. My daughter, my little princess, was dead. The doctor went on to tell me what he thought had happened. Words seeped through to my brain like ‘embolism’ and ‘atrial myxoma’ and other scientific sounding words, but I wasn’t really listening. She was dead.

‘I killed her.’ I said. The doctor shook his head and knelt down. He placed his hand on my shoulder.

‘There was nothing, nothing at all, that you could have done.’ He was wrong. Of course he was wrong. I was responsible. I had killed my daughter. When my wife eventually managed to get to the hospital, I had to break it to her. I was holding her hands, but by the time I had finished, she had let go. After the funeral, she told me that she was going to stay with her parents. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.

My hands wiped away the tears that had gathered in my eyes and I stood up to look around the beach. I needed vodka. Hoping that my drunken self had brought some, I searched around the beach. There wasn’t any. I swore. The elephant trumpeted and I turned to see that he had stopped playing.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a drink for me?’

The elephant stuck his trunk into the sea and raised it to spray the water into the air again. I shook my head. ‘Not exactly what I meant.’

The elephant again stuck his trunk back into the sea. He raised it. This time, instead of pointing it in the air, the trunk was aimed straight at me. I held up my hands in protest. ‘Oh no. No you don’t. Don’t you dare.’

The elephant didn’t pay attention to my protest. The water hit my chest with the strength of a heavyweight boxer, but I managed to stay on my feet.

The fog was clearing from my brain and I remembered that I had been about to call the RSPCA. I reached back into my pockets, eventually pulling out the iPhone. I stared at it.

A drop of water fell onto the screen. I couldn’t tell if it was from my wet hair or my tear ducts.

Isabella was smiling back at me. She had a party hat on her head. The photo had been taken on her birthday, the last truly happy day.

I threw my phone to the ground. It landed in the sand next to the prescription bottle. I looked over to the elephant. He was still staring at me, not moving. He had been so happy when he had been playing, but now those enormous eyes were full of sadness. He understood.

‘Thanks for trying.’ I said, picking up the bottle of medication.

The elephant walked back onto the beach with the tree trunk legs sinking into the golden sand. I didn’t care that the sight in front of me was impossible. The mystery of how the elephant and I had gotten here didn’t matter to me. I was thankful he was here. I didn’t have to die alone.

We stood side by side there on the beach, looking out to the horizon. The sun began to descend as the day came to an end and I whispered one final word. ‘Goodbye.’

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The Eyes Have It Natalia Spencer

The underground, rammed to capacity with commuters, hurrying home to family, loved ones or just the comfort of a singleton apartment, was even more of a minefield to negotiate this evening. Several times I had to dodge large brash, flashy bouquets that screamed: look at me, I have someone special in my life and you are loser. By the time I emerged onto the platform to catch the connecting overground train from Kings Cross to Darlington, the sight of a mangy dog urinating on his drunken owner did little to alleviate my mood. Fortunately for me, I would be making the rest of journey up in first class, away from the vulgarity of Valentine’s Day and the banal mentality of the people who subscribed to it.

Once inside the first class compartment, my eyes scanned along the overhead rack for my seat number and came to rest on a heart-shaped helium filled balloon. The woman attached to it filled the seat with her ample behind and her eyes, caked with layer upon layer of mascara, double blinked at me as I slung myself into the seat opposite her.

‘Why people become so hung up with making such loud statements of love, I’ll never know’ I said out loud, shaking out my copy of the Telegraph so that I could hide behind it and not have to look her sucked in face.

Ten minutes later, the Trolley Dolly, as I like to call them, arrived and I ordered orange juice and coffee.

‘Are you okay Madam, can I get you something?’ I heard her ask and sniggered when the reply came back, in a thick northern accent, ‘just a Coke please.’

Reaching for my coffee, I felt her nail polished fingertips brush against the side of my hand.

‘I’m sorry, I was trying get to the napkin,’ she said quietly.

She flinched as I flicked back the corner of my newspaper to show my disdain, her face awash with black streaks running from her eye sockets. Beside her, lay a pile of balled tissues.

‘Be my guest.’ I said.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, removing the last cosmetic traces from her lined face, ‘but, it’s just that the balloon is for my daughter, she was born on Valentine’s Day, you see. She really loved all of this. She said that was so nice to see people all around her celebrating the miracle that love can bring. She said it made her feel special.’

‘Oh, and you’ve been to see her today?’ I said, in attempt to change the subject, silently hoping that she wouldn’t witter on about her wonderful daughter.

‘No, somebody said my husband was down there. A year ago he ran off, he said he couldn’t cope with living with me anymore.’ She was crying again and fumbling in her oversized bag, all the while the balloon bobbing overhead.

I took my Harrods monogrammed handkerchief from my inside breast pocket, leant forward and with one hand tilted her chin and with the other, gently dabbed at her face. And that’s when I noticed the intense blueness of her eyes, the intense blueness that had been obliterated by the panda rings.

‘Thank you, you’re so kind.’ she said.

‘Not at all.’ I replied, placing the handkerchief in front of her.

She took it and noisily blew her nose.

‘You keep it, you might need it again.’

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‘Well, okay but if you give me your address I’ll wash it and send it back to you in the post.’

‘No, that’s okay I have many more like it. It’s no problem, no problem at all.’

I watched as it slid out of sight, below the neckline of her black sweater and under the lace edge of her brassiere and I have to admit I liked what I saw. I’ve always had a penchant for bosoms. Big ones, small ones, pert ones, pendulous ones, even bee sting bumps, there’s something about a bosom a man can call home.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I feel I’ve been rather crass; let me buy you a glass of wine. It’s obvious you’ve had a trying day, as I have. Tell you what, let’s make it a bottle and make the most of each other’s company.’

She opened her lipstick stained mouth to say something and again, I leaned forward and placed two fingers on her lips. It seemed to do the trick and I called out to Miss Trolley Dolly, standing in her cabin.

‘When you’re ready, a bottle of the finest of whatever East Coast Rail carries.’

For the rest of the journey, I entertained her with little anecdotes, small talk about the political climate, which of course, she didn’t understand. However, she did say, she felt that the rights of animals were more important than humans.

‘Why do you think like that?’ I asked.

‘Because all my life, I have owned dogs, they give you so much love and loyalty. They don’t care what you look like, or do a runner when you’re having a bad time. They accept you for who you are.’

When I told her about the drunk and his dog on the platform, those blue eyes of hers looked like the deep waters of the Mediterranean reflecting sunbeams, and she smiled.

‘There you go,’ she said, ‘my point exactly and that is why, whenever possible, I will take a dog in and give it a home. I’ve got five, three of my own and two I am fostering.’

Over the intercom the trolley dolly announced. ‘Darlington, Darlington your next station stop.

Thank you for travelling with East Coast Railways.’

I stood up and reaching for my briefcase, asked, ‘are you getting out here?’

She eased herself out of her seat and when she stood up I saw just how tubby she was, but it didn’t matter to me now. I felt sure, in that ample bosom of hers, she would have more than enough of that word love for the two of us.

‘Here, Shelly let me be of assistance.’ I said, stepping from the carriage onto the platform. She was unsteady on her feet—I assumed it was because of all the alcohol she had consumed. She took my hand and almost fell into my arms, the green twine of the balloon twisting around the pair of us, becoming the leash to take me home with. Or, so I thought.

Her face flushed pink, she giggled, and when she had managed to untangle us, she stepped away from me and walked to the end of the platform, the part that juts out from underneath the arching canopy. I followed and as I drew level, I saw her let go of her red tinfoil heart, her face wet with emotion as it rocketed skywards.

‘Goodbye, my beautiful baby girl. I will never forget you and your Mam will never, ever, stop loving you.’

Her words were punctuated with great gasps and with both arms I reached forward to hold her, but she pulled away from me.

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise your daughter had died.’ I said ‘if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, I’m here to help.’

Shelly didn’t answer and teetered in her high heels back along the platform.

‘Look, I know we got off to a bad start and I was a bit of a grumpy bastard, but please, let me drive you home. You’re in no fit state to be alone tonight.’

She crossed over to the other side of the platform and turned to face me.

‘No thanks, the Saltburn train will be here in a minute. Besides,’ she said, reaching into her brassiere and pulling out my handkerchief, pressing the heat of it into my palm, ‘I don’t keep the company of wolves.’

76

Left Or Right

Owen O’Hagan

James feels like he’s on a plane that’s about to hit the ground. The sense of dread before the landing consumes him. But he’s not flying in the air. He’s sitting in his kitchen contemplating the phone call that has just ended. He tries to forget the conversation. He rubs his eyes, attempting to erase the words from his memory. He fails. Staring out the window, he wishes he could escape. He sees a bird sitting quietly on the tree in his front garden. It looks around peacefully and freely. James wants to be free.

A girl with big eyes and dark blonde hair comes up the pathway and scares the bird away.

Katherine. A plan writes itself in his brain. He jumps up and races out the front door, not wanting to turn back. Katherine’s big blue eyes widen when she sees the door fly open. James looks panicked and she doesn’t know why. She knows why she’s here though. Katherine wants to escape the drama. She doesn’t care much about love anymore. She wanted James to listen to her ranting and let him help her. But she can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s got other things on his mind. He shuts the door behind him and walks up to her. Katherine becomes concerned. What the hell is going on?

‘Remember that news article?’ James says without even greeting his friend. He hopes she’ll remember straight away but she doesn’t.

‘Remember! That girl who just up and left home, decided she didn’t like it there, so she just left.

Everyone thought she’d gone missing but she just went to Oxford or something.’

Katherine does remember the article. She felt jealous when she read it last month, wishing she could be so brave. But she doesn’t understand why James is standing in front of her, asking her to remember.

‘Yeah, I do. I told you about it. Why? James, what’s wrong?’

‘I think we should do it. She only took her walking boots. We can do this. Let’s just go!’

‘To Oxford?’ His request intrigues her. She’s wanted to run away since Dave found the picture of Ruby. But James is crazy to think they could run away. He isn’t thinking clearly. Katherine wants to agree, she really does.

‘Fuck off! You’re serious? What’s wrong? Why would you…-’ ‘No questions. Let’s just grab some money and go. We can walk somewhere. Anywhere.’ James stares into Katherine’s eye. He thinks back to the phone call and desperation attacks him.

‘Please, Kath. Please come with me. We can be free. We can escape.’ Katherine looks at James intently. She knows it’s stupid and unrealistic but he’s sold it. She wants to go. She doesn’t want to see Dave. Not now. What about everyone else? What about food? What’s really wrong with you?

Katherine doesn’t ask the questions stirring in her mind. She knows he won’t answer them, not yet. James smiles and looks nearly excited. Katherine nods and smiles back at him.

‘You’ll go? We can go?’

‘Let’s go, James. Let’s get the hell out of here.’ Katherine feels James’s arms around her. She feels scared for him. This isn’t like him. But she hugs him back anyway, hoping she isn’t getting herself into trouble.

They have already set off half an hour later and James doesn’t look back. He switches his mobile phone off and hides it away in his pocket. They grabbed his wallet, some food and a carton of orange juice. They placed it all in James’s back pack. He doesn’t think about

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everything he’s forgotten. James stares down at his feet as they take each step and, for a moment, he feels free. But the sound of the dead phone line rings through his ears again. He doesn’t take in the people he walks past or the houses he walks by. He focuses only on the clear blue sky. He realises they haven’t spoken since they left.

‘Orange juice?’ He shakes the carton near Katherine’s face. She shakes her head and looks down at the ground. James knows she’s regretting the plan.

‘Where are we even gonna go?’ Katherine is worried. She regrets giving in to this ridiculous adventure. The only thing stopping her from turning back is Dave, and the last words he said to her. ‘Are you gay?’ She doesn’t want to have to answer him, not after the way she stormed out. She suddenly realises that she has no idea how long they will be gone for and curses her decision to not go back for a coat.

‘I don’t know. Let’s just walk, yeah?’ James doesn’t know where he wants to go. He just likes the sun beaming down over his face and the thought that everything is behind him. He sees a park in front of them. The grass taunts him with its brightness.

‘Actually no, you’d better run.’

‘What?’

‘Because I’m gonna catch you.’

Katherine’s eyes meet the park, and as if she and James are in synch, she runs off towards it. James races after her and they laugh and smile and forget about their problems. Time passes by quickly and they become tired. Katherine lies on the grass and James scoots down beside her. He stares at his friend whose eyes are now closed. He’s grateful that she’s with him. He knows she cares about him. He sees how distracted she is.

‘I never asked you why you were at the house.’

Katherine hears the question but puts her hands over her face. She can feel the sun warm her skin and wants to be asleep. Maybe he’ll tell me what’s wrong if I tell him. She opens her eyes and the light stings them. Turning to James, she feels his gaze firmly on her.

‘I wanted to … I wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t Dave.’ It hurt to say it aloud. But it’s true. She knows that James won’t take his eyes off her. He always was a good listener and that’s what Katherine trusts in him. But does she trust him this much? Does she know him enough for this?

‘He found a picture of something, someone. And I don’t know what to tell him or say to him.’

‘A picture? Of who?’ James wrestles with the thoughts still stabbing his brain. He wants to be there for Katherine. He can see that she’s shaking and frightened. He knows she doesn’t want to tell him or at least is struggling to find the words.

‘I’m gonna lie down, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Katherine is confused for only a second. Not looking into his eyes makes her feel instantly at ease. The bombshell doesn’t seem so deadly now. She wants to tell him that she’s gay. That she loves Dave but that it isn’t enough anymore. That she doesn’t know who she really is at the moment. But her phone vibrates in her pocket. Katherine knows he wouldn’t want her to look at it. It’s only the two of them now. She looks anyway and interrupts the silence with ums and ahs. Where are you? We can’t find James. Katherine closes the phone. She thinks about why people would be looking for James. They’ve only been gone an hour or two, not enough to worry anyone. But people are worried. Something fucked up has happened with James. Why is he here?

‘Need inspiration?’ James looks on angrily. He knows he has no right to be upset but he thought he had escaped it all. He can tell that she is worried now and he doesn’t want her to be. He wants to feel sane for a while.

‘No, I’m sorry. It went off and I thought maybe people were worried. I’ll turn it off, okay? I’m sorry.’ Katherine isn’t worried, she’s anxious. Something bad has happened and James has run away from it. But she turns her phone off and hides it away too.

James smiles but is thinking of what part he played in what happened. He wonders if he could

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have stopped it.

‘Let’s get out of this place. Yeah?’ Katherine wants desperately to know what’s wrong with him.

She doesn’t think pushing him will help though. James nods and they walk away from the park.

Katherine turns her phone back on in her pocket without him noticing. It vibrates several more times. She hopes everything’s okay but doubts it. She stares at her feet and her anxiety grows with each step they take.

Katherine sits on a wall gulping orange juice. She doesn’t speak to James who looks from left to right. Her phone vibrates again. She thinks of the picture of Ruby and the look on Dave’s face when he found it inside her pillow. They had talked about her feelings for girls before but they were drunk. It wasn’t real. None of this feels real either. Katherine reaches in her pocket for her phone but stops when James’s eyes dart towards her.

‘Which way now? Left or right?’ James asks, not really caring which direction they head in. He laughs to himself because this crossroads seems set up solely for this journey. Here they are, at the end of a street, with a clear turn left and turn right ahead of them. Passing cars make the decision easily. They aren’t free like us, thinks James.

‘I don’t know. You decide.’ Katherine can only think of Dave and Ruby now. If only sexuality could be a left or right decision, she thinks.

James smiles cheekily at Katherine.

‘Answer these questions straight away. No thinking. No debating. Okay?’

‘Why, whatever you say, sir.’ Katherine rolls her eyes, knowing her friends game. Life is never this easy, she thinks.

‘Orange or apple?’

‘Apple … I think.’ She notices a frown appear on his face and closes her eyes.

‘Red or white?’

‘Red.’ Katherine blurts out immediately.

‘Four or five?’

‘Five.’ She smiles at James.

‘Horse or rabbit.’

‘Rabbit.’ Katherine wishes James knew about Dave and Ruby. Then he could use those two in his game. Then everything could be clearer.

‘Left or right?’

‘Left.’ She giggles nervously. She turns her head left and looks down the road.

‘Decision made.’ James grins and holds out his hand. He lets her use it to climb down. They begin to walk left. James commends himself on his strategy. He has only just thought back to the phone call and all the shit it brought with it.

Dave or Ruby. Ruby or Dave. Gay or straight. Straight or gay. Katherine plays the game continuously in her head. She cheats. Thinking. Debating. She wants to tell James but doesn’t want to disturb his silence. Then she realises that he’s been silent too long. Katherine turns to see that James has stopped a little while back. He’s not moving and looks pale. The back pack is sitting by his feet. She rushes in front of him. He looks through her.

‘I don’t want to go left anymore. Let’s go right, okay?’ James’s words only just leave his mouth.

He struggles to control their movement. His hands are shaking and he can’t stop them. He is staring at something in the distance ‘Okay. That’s fine, you should’ve said. Let’s go back. We can go back.’ Katherine realises she has to look at her phone soon. He’s hurting. She watches as James turns away and heads back in the direction they came from. Katherine fixes her gaze on what’s in the distance. It explains why James is acting the way he is. It gives Katherine the answers she needs. She sees a graveyard. She runs up to him, not pretending to be free anymore.

He ignores her for as long as he can and then looks her in the eyes.

‘What happened, James? What are running away from?’

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‘I told you not to ask me that!’

‘I can’t. I don’t want to play games anymore. Tell me James. Or I’ll find out some other way.’

Katherine holds up her mobile phone. She hates using it as a weapon against him, but he needs her. She won’t let him run away anymore.

‘Fine. Screw you.’ James lets his legs do all the work and they run as fast as they can. He can hear Katherine running after him. This can’t be real. He can’t be gone. The faster he goes the louder he hears Katherine’s racing footsteps. He rushes across the road and stares up at the green light. He knows it will turn orange, and red, and that he can’t stop that. How can you stop what’s inevitable? You can’t. He can’t change what’s happened. He’s gone. Suddenly, Katherine’s footsteps disappear and an unforgettable screech rings in James’s ears. He hears car doors opening. He hears panicked people. James turns around. Katherine lies motionless on the floor, bloody and broken. Her big eyes are masked by the dark red liquid. Her dark blonde hair serves as a pillow for her wounded head. James runs towards the carnage, watching his every step, and with each one he feels more terrified.

Katherine can’t feel anything. She wants to scream out for James but her lips don’t move. She wants to grab hold of the strangers arm but her hands don’t budge. She wants to stay awake, but she’s finding it near impossible with the blood in her eyes. Katherine wishes she could tell Dave the truth and then closes her eyes.

James’s phone receives countless messages and missed calls. He struggles to find the call button anywhere. His head is all over the place. Katherine is in surgery, somewhere James can’t find. They won’t tell him what’s wrong. He thinks he should be crying but he can’t. His phone vibrates and a picture of his mother appears on the screen. He answers the call. A doctor walks out from the double doors and glares at James.

‘I can’t talk now. I’ll ring you back Mum, okay?’ He hangs up the phone. The doctor walks closer and closer. James hopes Katherine isn’t dead. He hopes he hasn’t killed her. He only wanted to escape.

‘Your Katherine’s friend, aren’t you? Who came in with her?’

James nods. His hands haven’t stopped shaking since he saw the graveyard. Will this be his punishment for not accepting death in the first place?

‘She’s going to be fine. It’s going to be a long road ahead from here, but she’s alive and fighting.’

James can’t believe it. He almost smiles but stops himself. He feels free for a second. It passes.

Katherine opens her eyes and the pain hits her instantly. She remembers running after James and trying to avoid the red car. She remembers playing James’s game and hoping he would say ‘Dave or Ruby?’ She starts to cry when she thinks of them. Katherine thought she was going to die, and in that thought, she wanted both of them. She knows she loves Dave but she can’t hide her real feelings. She has to break up with him. For him. For herself. While she cannot say it to him now, Katherine plans every word in her head. I ran away today and that was scary. I did it because I didn’t want to admit the truth. I’m gay, Dave. I’ve known, and you’ve known for a while now. I love you so much but I won’t do this to myself anymore. I can’t run away again. Please don’t hate me. Katherine closes her eyes and the tears stop. She wants to thank James for taking her away. She wants to know why he ran away from death. But for the moment, she feels okay in herself.

James walks towards Katherine’s room. He clutches his phone in his hand. He remembers her asking him what he was running away from. He leans against a wall and breathes in. He slowly dials a number on the phone and closes his eyes. Saved voice messages. Message one received today at 10.33am. James, please call me back now. Right now. It’s an emergency. It’s your father. James’s throat dries up. His hands stop shaking. He opens his eyes and breathes out. James feels like he’s on a plane that’s just safely hit the ground. The sense of release after the landing consumes him.

But he’s not flying in the air. He’s crying.

80

The Restaurant Owen O’Hagan

The menu is like every one I’ve ever faced; scary and overwhelming. The font is fine. The design is up to par. But the food isn’t for me. To be fair, that’s not the easiest of tasks to complete. I don’t like fish, I hate most meat and I certainly despise any kind of vegetable.

When I was younger and living with my parents, I would always pick something safe and easy.

Now, twenty-three years old and sitting in front my long-term girlfriend, ordering sausages and chips in a fancy restaurant seems almost criminal. No, it is criminal.

‘Are you ready to order?’ Fuck off and die. That’s what I tell the waitress, with my eyes at least. We’ve only been sitting down for five minutes and the vultures have already arrived.

I swear they’re paid just to make life more difficult for me. I only just notice that Anne is staring at me impatiently. No way can she be ready.

‘No I don’t think so, can you give us a few more minutes?’

I’m grateful for the extra time. I can feel my brow sweating. Shit, shit, shit. I stare into Anne’s eyes. God, she’s beautiful. She’s understanding and kind and she gets me. I only wish I’d told her about my horrendous fussiness when we first started dating. Instead, I’ve spent the last seven months making excuses and taking her to dodgy burger bars. Why she hasn’t dumped me already is beyond me. I glance around at everyone else and notice I’m one the few men not wearing a suit. I didn’t realise how posh this place was going to be. The menu’s made out of velvet for Christ’s sake. Anne’s biting her lip now, meaning she wants me to decide. I love her little quirks. This is why I want us to take the next step.

‘Christ Pete, are you having a moral dilemma or something? I’m starving here.’

Okay, maybe we’ve been here for a bit longer than five minutes, but how can someone be expected to decide on their meal in such a short space of time? At home, you can spend all day mulling over what you’ll eat for dinner. Not here. Bugger it, I’ll just pick something from random. I can always pretend to be sick if it’s too horrifying.

‘Sorry, sorry. There’s just so much … choice. I’m ready.’ I try hard not to laugh at my lies. I’m a fraud. Anne gestures for the waitress and she must have some dignity left after her original attack because she’s next to us in a flash.

‘I’ll have the fresh-herb salmon please.’ Anne says without any hesitation.

They are talking about how she’d like her fish, and that gives me an extra few seconds to make my decision. My finger finds a meal just as the waitress has turned to me for answers. Here it goes.

‘Slow roasted pork with apples and peppers for me, please. Thank you.’

She takes the menus away just as I glance at the awful deserts. Puddings are meant to be good things. I’m already dreading their appearance in my life. Only now do I think about how I hate pork and would rather turn into an actual pig than eat some. Well done Pete, well done. Anne smiles at me and I forget about food for a little while. I love the way she rolls her eyes when she sees something she doesn’t like. I admire how she can talk to anyone that approaches her. She is everything I need to make me better. So why haven’t I told her about my eating habits? Fear. Embarrassment. But probably a fair amount of stupidity too.

I want to ask Anne to move in with me. We’ve been going out for nearly eight months now

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and I think it’s time. I haven’t thought about what I’ll do about eating and how I’ll get around it. She’ll find out and that’s inevitable. I think.

‘It’s so nice be in a classy place, don’t you think? I feel … looked after.’

She laughs and that makes me smile. While Anne waits and I dread the foods arrival, we talk effortlessly like we always do. We make each other laugh. That’s important in my book. She tells me about her annoyingly morbid flatmate who collects obituaries. I smile because I think she’s more likely to say yes and live with me after each word she says. Please say yes.

I stare at the corner where the waiters disperse from. They hold plates of food in their hands like time bombs. Every waiter I see makes my heart jump. Luckily, they don’t come to us. Hopefully they’ve burned our meals. Anne tells me that her shower is breaking and I want to ask her to move in right now but she yawns and I lose my nerve. Then dinner arrives and it’s worse than I thought. I’m caught completely off guard. Anne’s face beams as she takes in the smell of her salmon. My heart sinks when I see the slab of meat that must be none other than pork. It sits there, like the pig it really is, and taunts me with its dingy grey skin. I want to scowl at the waitress but she’s already gone. And it’s my fault anyway. Anne tucks in straight away and I envy the way she takes each bite. I play with mine, feeling defeated. I’m a child. Why would Anne want to live with an adult sized kid? We’ll have babies and they’ll be eating better than me. I wouldn’t date someone who ordered off the kids menu. I’m stressing myself out now and realise I’ve been carving the knife into the table. Anne looks suitably concerned. Fuck.

‘Sorry. Lot on my mind. How was work?’

She tells me how work was but I’m more focused on the people who could be staring at me.

They’re probably wondering why I’m just playing with this plate of delicious food, only taking a bite every five minutes. I wish we were sitting in a booth, just me and Anne. Instead, we’re sitting in the centre of a room crowded with tables for two. A spotlight practically shines on us.

Fucking chandeliers. I feel myself going red and I want to run away and hide. I try to keep my eyes on Anne. Just looking at her puts me at ease. But all I can see is her eating without care or worry. How can she do that? I push the knife into the pork and almost as if it’s a voodoo doll, my stomach churns. I can’t eat this.

‘What’s wrong with the food? You’ve barely touched it.’

I’ve been rumbled. Shit. I feel like a fool and I’m sure I’ve been playing with my hair too much. Will she see the signs? Will she misinterpret those signs? Maybe I should just go. Call it quits now, it will be best for everyone involved. The waitress probably thinks I’m going to get her fired with the looks I’m giving her.

‘I don’t know. I feel sort of-’ ‘Sick? Not hungry? Any other excuse that you can cook up?’

What? She’s figured me out. Or she probably thinks I’ve got an eating disorder. I would think I had an eating disorder if I was her. Bollocks. I better come clean or I’ll scare her off before she can even think about moving her toothbrush in.

‘Seriously, Pete. I know you’ve got so—’ ‘No. I definitely do not have an eating disorder. Actually, I’m completely sane. Not that people with eating disorders are insane. But no, I just hate food okay? Hate it. I wish it would go away.

In fact, I wish we didn’t have to eat food. If I could invent something that made it so we didn’t have to eat to live, I would.’

Anne looks slightly taken back and a bit scared. I hope no one heard my rant but they almost certainly did. If people weren’t staring before they definitely are now. But I feel relieved to have said it all. I even smile at the waitress. And the pork doesn’t scare me anymore. I laugh in its face, internally anyway. Anne puts her cutlery on her near empty plate and lets out an almighty sigh.

‘Um, okay. I was actually going to say that I knew you had something to ask me. Like you want me to move in with you?’

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Shit. She wasn’t accusing me of having an eating disorder. Now she must think I’m insane.

‘But, that’s okay too. You have food issues. Fine.’

She smiles again and my heart sinks, in a good way. I should have known she’d understand and wouldn’t care.

‘It’s just food.’

She gets up and approaches me. Oh my god. Don’t leave me. Don’t say goodbye. But she leans in towards my mouth and kisses me softly. She’s definitely not freaked out then. I grin at her, overjoyed.

‘And yes.’

‘Yes?’ ‘Yes, I’ll move in with you. And yes, we can leave before desert. I saw your face.’

She knows me too well. She gestures for the waitress who rushes over with some desert menus.

Anne asks for the bill and the waitress has no choice but to accept defeat. I smile at the waitress genuinely for the first time in the evening and she returns one. As I walk out hand in hand with Anne, my girlfriend and soon to be roommate, I glare at a menu sitting on an empty table. I don’t feel so scared anymore.

83

Evil By Proxy

Rachael McKenzie

The next morning after my Superintendent had left my apartment, I showered, got dressed and then drove to the jewellery store to collect the watch. I now remembered where I had seen exactly the same watch before, and on whose wrist. I then drove across town to where Siston police station was based. I parked in the bay marked D.C.I. and then walked into the building.

The desk sergeant looked at me and then nodded in recognition. I strolled into C.I.D. and made my way over to D.C.I. Dean Wood’s office.

I went to open the door when I heard a female voice say, ‘He’s not in yet, Sir.’ I turned to face a young, plain-clothes officer, most likely a detective constable.

‘When will he be in?’ I asked.

‘He should be here in a minute, Sir.’ ‘In that case, I’ll wait,’ I said, going inside of Dean’s office and closing the door.

I sat down in Dean’s chair and put my feet up on the desk. I opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out what I thought to be an expensive bottle of scotch whiskey, unscrewed it and sniffed. I wrinkled my nose; it was just a cheap supermarket brand inside; typical of Dean. I put the bottle back into the drawer and then heard Dean shouting, ‘whose sodding car is that parked in my bloody space?’

As I looked through the glass partition, I saw the female detective mouth my name and gesture to where I was sitting. Dean came storming in, nearly taking the door off its hinges.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing in my office, Filton? And get the hell out of my chair.’

I stood up slowly. ‘Bonjour, Dean.’

‘What do you want, Del-boy? If you’ve come to arrest me again for something that I haven’t done like last time, then you can bloody well forget it.’

‘You couldn’t blame me for wanting to protect my Superintendent, Deano.’

‘Protect? Is that what you call it? Personally, I’d call it a bastard fix up.’

‘Well, at least no harm will come to her from now on,’ I said, popping a mini-lozenge into my mouth, ‘Not now she’s with me, if you catch my drift.’

‘What, you and Detective Superintendent Leah Carr? Yeah, right, in your dreams!’

‘It certainly isn’t a dream, Deanie. It’s your worst nightmare, more like,’ I said, thrusting my hands deep into my pockets, ‘I don’t blame you for being envious though. You always did have a soft spot for her, but this time the woman in question chose me. I make that one-all.’

Dean folded his arms tightly across his chest.

‘Oh, we’re harking back to that again, are we? You never did get over my ex-wife preferring me to you.’

‘In the scheme of things, it looks as though I had a very lucky escape where your ex-missus was concerned,’ I said, ‘Didn’t she leave you for another woman? How utterly humiliating for you, Dean.’

Dean sighed. ‘Look, Filton, if you’ve just come here to brag about your love-life, then you can piss off. I’ve got better things to do than to stand around here listening to you.’

I took the watch from out of my coat pocket and held it up. ‘Recognise this?’

The blood seemed to drain from Dean’s face as he snatched the watch from my hand.

‘Where the bloody hell did you find this?’

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‘I thought you might remember it,’ I said, moving the mini-lozenge around inside of my mouth, ‘Care to refresh my memory, Deanie?’

Dean Woods looked at me intently but said nothing.

‘So, Deano, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘If you’re thinking that it looks like our old friend is back, then yes.’

‘No friend of mine,’ I replied, as I remembered my last encounter with the alleged perpetrator.

‘Nor mine,’ said Dean, handing the watch back to me.

Dean looked questioningly at me. ‘So, what are you gonna do about it?’

‘What are we going to do about it, you mean.’

‘You want my help in nailing this scum-bag? What’s the catch?’

‘No catch. I just thought you’d care to join me in seeing chummy get their just desserts, seeing as they evaded it last time. It wasn’t just me they pissed off, remember?’

Dean nodded in agreement.

‘So, what are you doing at six o’clock this evening?’ I asked.

‘Why, what have you got planned?’

‘Press conference. I want to let this bastard know that we’re onto them.’

‘Not a bloody press conference,’ protested Dean, ‘I hate doing them. The last one I did was a bloody disaster … ’ ‘Just leave all the talking to me.’

‘You always did like the sound of your own voice, Filton.’

‘So, are you with me or not?’ I asked, holding out my hand for Dean to shake.

Dean hesitated for a moment and then shook it.

‘By the way, this doesn’t mean that we’re now friends again.’

‘Far from it,’ I said, placing another mini-lozenge inside my mouth, ‘care for a mint?’

At six o’clock that evening, representatives from all the various newspapers, television channels and radio stations were gathered in front of myself, D.S.I. Leah Carr and D.C.I. Dean Woods. I made sure that I was sat in between the pair of them. I trusted Dean as a fellow police officer but I certainly did not trust him where Leah was concerned. The press conference went well. I did most of the talking, along with Leah as she held up the watch for all to see. However, Dean was put on the spot with a couple of terse questions from a female newspaper reporter with whom he had once had an affair. When the press conference was over, the three of us retired to the bar. I was just getting a round of drinks in, when my mobile phone started ringing.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that D.C.I. Filton?’ Asked a very agitated male voice.

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

‘I want to stop.’

‘Stop? Stop what?’

‘I want to stop killing but he won’t let me.’

I quickly hit the ‘Activate Loudspeaker’ function on my phone, grabbed Dean by the arm and pulled him in closer to listen.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

The man started to cry. ‘He calls me Saul. I don’t want to do this anymore but he makes me.

Please, you’ve got to help me.’

There was a slight pause.

‘Before I kill again.’

85

Proposal Of Reality Richard Falkus

People would often speculate that one day there’d be flying cars. There are no vehicles in the sky though. In fact, only the fortunate have the resources to drive a car. Even then, they have to drive over the potholed roads of Clapham that would make the Romans cringe. I imagine the rest of the world is the same. Possibly worse.

People are reminded to eat food three times a day by the vibrating steel collars they wear. Most of us are in what we call ‘Alternate Worlds’, so noises don’t alert us. To adapt to this new way of life, an underground system was built so that food could be delivered directly to each of our fridges every day. We only eat one type of food, allios. Allios is a meal in a carton. It has every nutrient you could need, compacted together. Food isn’t the sensual pleasure it once was.

Food is a detested necessity. People would rather not be distracted from their fantasies being lived out in Alternate Worlds.

AW technology allows uncanny holographic versions of ourselves to meet up in imagined places. There were a few prototypes of AWs created by Alternate World Creations that were tested in the 2030s whilst I was growing up. The first one which remains popular to this day was a small coffee shop. Originally, people had no idea that it would not only work but also end up changing the face of the world. It’s lead to governments being dismissed. AWC is the only superpower there is. Many world leaders are now part of the AWC Corporation.

It bemused many as to how far an extent the brain works, leading you to feel, smell and even taste what you experience in AWs. All the while your real body lies still in bed at home with AW goggles on. People rarely meet up in the real world, known to most people as ‘Standard World’.

They meet in AWs instead. Fifty years ago, technology such as televisions and consoles kept people occupied for hours until they got bored. Today, AWs keep you occupied, entertained and fulfilled for an entire lifetime.

I’ve been with my girlfriend, Jenny, for five years as of today. I haven’t actually seen her in SW for three years. In fact, the last time I even saw her in an AW was six months ago. She is currently being trained by AWC as a creator of AWs off somewhere in the real world. Her superiors told her this nonsense that they wanted to use our love as a tool to create AWs. Their thinking was that if she didn’t see me for a few months, her creativity would apparently peak and she could make some particularly romantic AWs where people could have virtual meals, romantic nights and even weddings. However, Jenny and I do correspond via AW emails.

In her last email she told me she had created a private AW for us to meet tonight for our anniversary.

One thing AWs have improved is population limitation. By the 2030s governments worldwide were struggling with ideas for how to deal with ever growing populations. However, now we spend so much time in AWs, marriage is less common, and reproduction is a rarity.

Having a child means you have to bring them up for a few years, taking it in turns parenting whilst your partner has a break in an AW. When your child grows to about three years of age, you can get them started on the AW technology, sending them on AWs for Children where they learn all AWC deem necessary. I want a child nonetheless, and no one but Jenny could mother my children.

I have dark thoughts sometimes that there are children around the world dying from neglect.

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I could never know as we don’t receive any media unrelated to AWs. I can only imagine that most children don’t survive long anyway as there are no longer any hospitals. You have to monitor births yourselves and keep the child healthy on doses of allios. Medicine is so rare that it’s not even worth looking for. Lives are left in the hands of fate.

Before I see Jenny, I want to see my mother. I haven’t seen her for months in SW despite her living just across the street. I want to tell her about my plans to propose to Jenny. Unlike most others, I still wish to do some things in the SW and this is one of them.

I take out my middle meal carton of allios. I put it in my coat and brace myself for the unfamiliar English cold before rushing out of the front door. It’s quite difficult for me to remember where my mother lives despite her being just around the corner.

I walk over the roads and think about when they were last amended. There are quite a few urban foxes around scavenging. Birds chirp away in the sky, their lives barely different. As I approach my mother’s house I see a man in a ragged suit walking, looking all around him. It catches me by surprise but I’m somewhat pleased to see someone.

‘Are you okay there?’ I ask.

‘Not really. Who invented this dump?’

‘Erm, God?’ ‘That’s a good one. Seriously though, this AW is a hole. I can’t find a port to get back to SW.’ ‘What are you on about? This is SW!’ ‘Oh give it a rest.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Whatever you say. I’m going to find a port.’

‘You’ll have to go home if you want to go to an AW.’ ‘Just shush now!’

With an angular frown he walks off in long strides.

I continue on to my mother’s bungalow door. When I reach it I knock on the door but there’s no answer. Of course there isn’t. I walk around the back of the house into the garden. The garden has thistles as tall as me. They are unavoidable and I just try and slide through as smoothly as I can. I make it to the back door which is wide open. People don’t bother with precautions nowadays since there’s no need for burglary. Anything you could possibly desire you can have through some kind of AW. Everyone has a similar quality of life now. Everyone has the same opportunities.

I walk into the kitchen and call out for my mother. Again, there’s no response. My collar vibrates for my middle meal.

‘Mum it’s middle meal time!’

I go to her fridge to get her allios. When I open her fridge door, two cartons fall at my feet.

I look up and see that there are over a dozen cartons in there. I shout for her louder now, running to the bedroom. She’s sat up on her bed, wearing her AW goggles, opposite a fifty inch screen that hangs on the wall.

‘Wake up Mum.’ I shake her side to side but don’t receive a response. I’m tempted to tear off her goggles, but remember how dangerous we’ve been informed that would be. The screen reads, ‘Welcome to AW-MEADOW-097’. There is only one thing I can do now.

I sprint home, avoiding potholes along the way and scaring off foxes inadvertently. I run into my house and up the stairs into my bedroom. It’s the first time in months that I have spent the entire time between early meal and middle meal out of any AW. I jump onto my bed, turn on my AW screen and put my goggles on. Once your goggles are on, it’s as if your vision becomes the screen and your finger becomes the cursor.

There are nine options on the sky blue screen. Most Popular AW’s, Brand New AW’s, AW’s for YOU, Custom AW, AW Library, AW Search, AWs for Children, AW Reviews and AW Email. I select AW Search and type in ‘AW-MEADOW-097’ Before you enter an AW you see a message.

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It says, Alternate World Creations are not liable for collar negligence or misuse. Subsequently, a minute of shapes and colours put you into a trance. Then you appear in a world created in someone else’s imagination. Someone like Jenny.

I had until late meal to find my mother. Ten years ago it would’ve been an easy feat since almost every AW was quite small; just a meeting place. This AW meadow is certainly beautiful with green grass mounds that appear like waves beneath the blue sky. It’s by a winding river and a little wooden bridge that leads to a white pub. The port I come out of is on the decking of the pub. Ports are glass booths. I suppose they are made transparent so that people aren’t too distracted from their alter reality. It can be frustrating trying to find them.

It can be difficult to differentiate between AW sims and people who are just visiting the same world as you. The staff are bound to be sims, but AW creators do also tend to create regulars for a bit of atmosphere. Interacting with sims is like interacting with people in your dreams, they say what you imagine they would. They’ll usually just say something that resides deep in your sub conscious.

This pub has white cloths on each table with carnations as centrepieces. Most people are sat near the decking enjoying the sunlight. I can’t see my mother, so I go onto the decking and look out over the meadow. There are not many people here. The only people outside are a big family playing rounders and a young couple lying on the grass holding hands. The man is well shaven with mousy brown short hair and beside him is a beautiful copper haired woman.

I go back inside the pub and ask a young female blonde from behind the bar.

‘Have you seen a middle aged woman, about five foot seven with greying red hair?’

‘No I haven’t.’

‘Ah, it’s my mother you see.’

‘Sorry to spoil your alter reality sir, but I should probably remind you that she is likely to be in an Alternate Body now, so you won’t recognise her.’

‘Of course. Thank you kind sim.’

Now which one is my mother? I call out for her again, but the people in the pub ignore me.

I go to the decking and look around again. The family are still playing rounders and the couple are now walking side by side in my general direction. I approach them, since I suspect they’re real people by the fact that they have moved places.

‘Excuse me.’ I say. ‘I was wondering if …’ I suddenly recognise the young woman.

‘Hello Matty. How are you my baby boy?’

‘Mum! Wow, you used to be quite striking when you were younger!’

‘I’m young now.’

‘Course you are Mum. Look we need to get you back to SW as soon as possible. Your Standard Body is in serious trouble because your collar has stopped vibrating.’

‘Excuse me?’

My mother looks bewildered. The young man with her does too. I think he is a sim, because his facial movement and body language seem unnatural.

‘Can I talk to you alone for a second?’

‘Sure, could you give me a second honey?’

The sim smiles and walks off. My mother watches him leave.

‘Look at me Mum.’ Her eyes look up at me, glowing with ignorance. ‘You will die soon if we don’t get you to a port.’

‘Son, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but this is SW.’ ‘What are you talking about?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes. You’re my son. Got any harder questions?’ She smiles.

‘Do you realise how young you are here?’

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‘Yes. So what if I’m young?’

‘Mum in this AW we’re the same age, do you not realise why that’s strange?’ A long pause ensues as my mother looks away. She looks back at me, her eyes trembling with confusion.

‘Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to scare me? It’s not funny you know.’

‘I’m not trying to scare you Mum. We just need to get you better.’

‘I’m just fine here Matty. You go on your way now. Visit again soon, but don’t joke like this next time.’

I need a moment. I hug my mother. I hold her tightly and kiss her forehead.

‘You’re right Mum, I’ve never been the best at pranks’ I say. ‘Before I go though, I have a surprise for you. Would you come with me to the decking?’

My mother nods and follows me, shaken by my attempt to tarnish her alter reality. Her strides are quite slow and sheepish. At least she’s moving. We get to the decking.

‘Close your eyes’ I say.

She closes her eyes. I open the glass door. My mother peaks through her fingers.

‘What are you doing with me?!’

I pick her up over my shoulder and charge into the booth.

I tear off my AW goggles and sprint downstairs and out of the front door. I run with eyes only for my mother’s house. The foxes once again scuttle away. I trip on a pothole and fall to my right knee, but carry my momentum forward and keep running. I run around the back of my mother’s house and straight into a thistle that pricks me aggressively. I swing the back door open and grab two cartons of allios from the fridge before I scurry to my mother’s room. She is weeping on the bed. I sit by her side and face her.

‘Oh Matthew, tell me this is a dream. Tell me that I can go back to the real world.’

‘I’m sorry Mum, this is the real world.’

‘For once I had what I wanted.’

‘You can have it again in your next AW trip. First you have to eat this allios.’ She grasps the allios without a word and swigs from it for a good few seconds. She wipes her mouth.

Meanwhile I go into her bedside drawer and pick up a replacement collar. I click her collar off and replace it.

‘But Matty, this time it was real. It was my life. I had real companionship, something I could never have in this Standard World.’

‘You haven’t eaten in days. Your AW would have ended along with your life soon enough. I was saving your life Mum.’ ‘You saved the life I didn’t want.’ I can’t look at her. She puts her hand on my shoulder.

‘Thank you Matty. Thank you my baby boy.’ She leans forward to hug me but winces.

‘Mum you need to drink your allios and relax. I’ll keep you company for a few days, I just need to email Jenny if I could just use your computer.’

‘Why?’ ‘It’s nothing, I was just meant to meet her tonight.’

‘You haven’t seen her for quite a while.’

‘Six months. I can see her next week though.’

‘Six months! You must be joking. You’re not staying here with me. Go see her and send my love. When are you going to finally propose to the girl?’

I laugh, ‘well the reason I came to see you today was to ask for your blessing to propose to Jenny. Some advice perhaps and …’

‘Give me a hug!’

She opens her arms and I lie on her chest hugging her, trying not to put any weight on her.

‘You have mine and your father’s blessing. He would’ve loved Jenny.’

‘I know.’ I sit up again. ‘Well you eat up your allios Mum and meanwhile I’ll get me a wife! You sure you’ll be okay?’

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‘I’m sure.’

‘You’re happy?’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘Okay. Don’t go into an AW whilst I’m gone!’

I hug her again and kiss her head. I walk back home in the darkening sky and straight to my room to email Jenny, to ask her when we’re meeting. The nerves build as I wait for a response.

I have nothing to distract me from the pressure awaiting me. It takes a long half an hour for her to respond.

I’m so close to seeing you and I can’t believe it. Meet me as soon as possible after late meal today my GORGEOUS man. The AW code is ‘J4M001’ and the password is ‘anniversary’. Don’t you dare come in any kind of Alternate Body, all I want is to see you.

Jenny By meeting after late meal, we could spend hours together. Late meal is at seven o’clock, about fifteen minutes away. I am overwhelmed by nervous energy, and decide to run up and down the stairs until I have to eat. It’s time. I drink my allios down as soon as my collar vibrates at seven o’clock and run up my stairs and into bed. I put on my goggles. AW Search, J4M001, anniversary. Alternate World Creations are not liable for collar negligence or misuse. The trance, and then I open the glass door.

I’m on the rooftop of a skyscraper. The port is in the corner. It is night time, but despite the altitude there is no cold; barely even a breeze. I look over the edge of the roof, and see that I am surrounded by water for as far as I can see. Waves splash against the side of the building. The stars spell, ‘Matthew and Jenny’ inside a love heart. I see a candle lit table with a transparent surface in the centre of the rooftop, with Jenny sat by it. There is a bottle of wine on the table with two glasses. She’s wearing a slimming black dress, and her brown hair is curled perfectly to either side of her face, which holds no make-up other than a small portion of eyeliner. Just the way I love it to be.

My chest feels like it can’t contain my heart as she looks up at me with the smile I’ve waited so long to see. ‘Matt!’ She cries out and runs to me. I open my arms to hug her. She leaps onto me and we fall to the ground, where she squeezes me and repeatedly kisses all around my neck, face and then lips. Her perfume is just as I remember it. Such a sweet, overpowering strawberry-like smell.

It takes minutes for us to regain civility and sit down.

‘I brought you beer too’ she says. ‘I know wine doesn’t always tickle your fancy, even if I did create it myself.’

‘Thank you baby. This scenery is beautiful. The stars really caught me by surprise.’

‘The stars were a creation that took me weeks. I wanted this AW to be perfect.’

Now I have the chance to look into her eyes, I notice something strange. I can’t quite tell what it is.

‘I love you’ she says looking into my eyes with that wide beautiful smile. She doesn’t blink once. I smile back.

‘I love you too.’ As conversation continues, I keep noticing strange things about her. She blinks rarely and never looks away from me. There is something oddly uncomfortable about her smile. I lean over the table to kiss her.

‘Are you okay, baby?’

‘Of course I am gorgeous face.’

‘You look nervous or something.’

‘It’s nothing. I’m just so happy to see you silly one!’

‘You’re okay at AWC aren’t you? They’re looking after you ‘n’ all.’

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‘Yes. AWC are incredibly kind to me. Now stop being silly.’ I eventually get used to her unusual facial expressions despite my suspicions about AWC having had some effect on her. We talk for hours about AWC and different worlds she has created.

‘I watched a beautiful Thai couple get married in one of my AWs and it was the most surreal feeling.’

‘Would you make an AW for us?’

‘I already have silly.’

‘I mean to get married.’

‘We’re not engaged!’

‘Well, I have missed you so much. I haven’t seen you for six months. I haven’t seen you in the real world in …’

‘There’s no such thing as a real world anymore baby.’

‘There is Jenny, and there are some things I wish to do in the real world. Come see me tonight in SW. I have an important question to ask you.’

‘Are you serious? Don’t say anything else. I’m coming to see you right now in SW. It’ll take me half an hour in the helicopter.’

‘Helicopter?!’

‘Yes. AWC still have fuel to last a century.’

‘Well then, please do! I’ll check on my mother whilst you’re on your way.’ We kiss goodbye and I give her my address, which of course corresponds to my AW computer number.

I go back to the port, take my goggles off, get my coat on and walk outside. It’s only 9 o’clock despite it feeling like four or five hours had passed in Jenny’s AW. I walk on to my mothers, eager to talk to her about how my anniversary is going.

I walk around the back of her bungalow, and see that she is lying on her bed with her goggles on. All the allios cartons have gone, so I go back to the kitchen to check the fridge.

It’s empty. I go back to the bedroom and kiss my mother’s forehead.

‘I told you not to go back to an AW you wonderfully stubborn woman.’ I leave her be to go home and wait for Jenny. It’s only a few minutes until I can hear a helicopter in the distance. I hear a knock at my door. After three years of not seeing the real Jenny, I am longing to feel her.

Really feel her, smell her, look into her eyes and kiss her. I swing open the door with a great big smile. It’s not Jenny at my door. It’s a man in his sixties wearing an overcoat with shaved white hair upon his receding hairline. The helicopter’s rotor blades are slowing down.

‘Where’s Jenny?’ I ask.

‘Can I come in? Then I’ll explain.’

‘Fine. Is she okay?’ He ignores my question and moves past me. He sits down in my living room on my old brown sofa. I stand on the other side of the room. He takes a deep sigh and leans back.

‘Before we talk about Jenny, I have a few questions I’d like to ask. You have just seen her in an AW she created. Is that correct?’

‘Yes. Are you from AWC?’ ‘How did you find your experience with Jenny? Was it all that you had hoped for?’

‘Of course it was. I hadn’t seen her for six months.’

‘Was Jenny how you remembered her? Did she look the same?’

‘She looked the same, she might have lost a few pounds.’

‘What about her mannerisms? Did she act the same?’

‘Pretty much.’ The man leans forward.

‘Pretty much?’

‘Well she just seemed a tiny bit off. She looked uncomfortable.’

‘Interesting. So tell me Matthew …’

‘What is this?! Tell me where Jenny is now or I won’t answer any more of your questions.

Where is she and what is the reason for all this?!’

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‘Okay, okay. My name is Victor Townsend. I am an important member on the director’s board for Alternate World Creations. We are constantly trying to improve the standard of living for everyone worldwide, the world relies on us to do so. Sometimes one person’s suffering is an unfortunate necessity so that …’

‘Tell me where Jenny is now. I am begging you.’ Victor sighs. He looks me in the eye.

‘She’s dead.’ I collapse to the floor.

I wake up completely disorientated. I’m lying on my sofa. Victor is a blur beside me.

‘You’re in a state of shock Matthew. We’ve given you a drug to calm you down. See, five months ago Jenny volunteered for an experiment where we put her into an Alternate World her mind just couldn’t handle. We’re not sure why. She went into shock and her body shut down.’

I try to speak but cannot muster words. I merely gargle as saliva seeps down my chin.

‘Relax Matthew. When she died we saw an opportunity to test something we had wanted to for years. We wanted to try and design a sim based on someone deceased. This would mean that people could potentially never lose someone close to them. You see what we were trying to do, Matthew? Bring back people from the dead. I can only apologise that you were the guinea pig of this experiment. I can’t apologise for our intentions though, for what I’ve learnt from you is that our experiment was a success. You’ve been a part of something beautiful.

All we have to do is create the person and try our best to give them lifelike mannerisms, then your brain will give them speech. We’re taking advantage of the brain, Matthew. Letting people use more of it than ever before. There was once a time where people thought dreams were surreal. Now, dreams are boring compared to what we’ve created.’

I fall back to sleep.

I wake up in the morning. I still feel dizzy. My hands shake as I try to get up. On the coffee table is a card, Victor has left a card with his AW email. I pick it up a rip it in half before throwing it to the floor. I stumble out of my front door. I run across the roads, trying to stay in a straight line. I wail into the empty streets.

I barge through my mother’s back door. ‘Mum!’ I cry out. ‘Mum, please!’ I fall to the kitchen floor weeping, choking on my own phlegm before spitting it to the cold surface I lay upon. I claw my way to my mother’s bedroom. As I turn into her room, I see under the bed is a dozen cartons of allios. I stand up and fall onto my mother on the bed. ‘Mum!’ I scream again. I tug on her collar and it comes off. It has been unclipped from the back. There’s a note on her bedside table saying, ‘Sorry baby boy, but I cannot live here anymore.’ I check her pulse.

My mother and Jenny are dead.

I hug her lifeless body. I tear off her goggles and shake her. ‘Live Mum! Live! Please! Please!

Please! Please!’

It takes me three hours to crawl away from her and back into my house. I think of ways to kill myself on my way home. A slimy path of tears and vomit trails behind me. My eyes are stinging, my insides are burning. I can taste the pungent sick and feel mucus dribble down to my mouth. My legs and elbows are burning from the friction of the potholed roads. I crawl through my front door, to my coffee table and pick up the pieces of Victor’s card. I crawl up to my computer. I put Victor’s card together and send him a message.

‘Victor give my mother and jenny back to me’

92

For Fun

Sean Thomas

I arrived at school and my Mum switched the engine off. We were near the large heath that was next to my school and the gorse bushes had little yellow flowers. Their scent filled the car and it felt like spring. She carefully pulled a large photograph out of her handbag and it was of my Great Grandma sat in her red chair. She had died ninety-five years of age, after choosing not to eat for two weeks. The Slovakian house nurse found her in the evening before my Grandpa came up the road to help. When I saw him he told me ‘you don’t start mourning properly until four months afterwards’, he smiled with sad eyes and wrinkles and held his hands behind his back. The breeze brought in the smell of smoke from the heath as it was often set on fire. That morning the hillside was black with ash. I was given the photograph and told not to fold it.

At school everyone had to look at the photograph and say Great Grandma had nice hair, and she did have nice hair for someone who was ninety. In History everyone was talking about Lydia and George; Tsar Nikolas had ordered the army to shoot hundreds of protestors outside the Winter Palace, yet apparently Lydia didn’t even like him. A girl called Hannah invited me to her party that night and I wanted to go because I knew what her house looked like from the outside, but not from the inside. The entire time she was talking to me she was looking at Great Grandma on my desk. She was rude and I wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t stare. I told her I would go to the party. Hundreds died on Bloody Sunday but we weren’t listening, too busy with our party.

‘That’s a big photo of Great Grandma.’ Dad said when he picked me up.

‘I know,’ I said, ‘it’s mine to keep.’

‘It’s yours.’

On the way home we talked about our dog and his upcoming surgery. My Dad found a lump under his front leg and took him to the vet; it was a malignant cancer and needed to be operated on and we were all hoping he would be okay. Our dog worshipped my Dad and Dad loved him so they were going to be okay. I got ready to go.

Inside, the girls house was small with two rooms on the ground floor and no upstairs. Stepping between the people who crowded the hall, I saw there were dark patches on the green carpet that would ooze brown liquid while others were old and dried on. I looked for someone I knew as electronic music shook the dark front room. The hall lights were energy savers, which made everything yellow and only brought the walls closer together; I had to stoop to get into the back room. It was warm with bodies inside and their faces swollen like balloons filled with water, some of them were green too, the back door was open and a blonde girl was retching.

Hannah had sick on her knees. More people arrived and it was difficult to even get into the music room, which sparkled and gurgled with electrocution. I stayed in the hall and shared a drink with Turner who talked about Lydia and George.

The front door was wide open and I saw silhouettes standing in the road with smoke rising in the orange streetlight; I went out to see Liam and Shane. They had not been invited but it was assumed they would come anyway like everyone else. Shane was gangly and liked me a lot even though we didn’t talk much, and Liam was funny but needed Shane for everything, I stood with them and we laughed for a while. More boys from the party came

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out and joined us in the road, we all started to have a good time, one even fetched a ball from a neighbors’ garden and we passed it about. Eventually the ball got away and a yawning man walking up the hill kicked it back and we carried on, but I could feel eyes and heads following the yawning man until he was out of sight then Shane said ‘Lets go,’ and they all bolted down the hill.

I did not know why they were running or who was running but I decided to run with them. It was so sudden yet instinctive to go, it felt right, running like a pack. Liam galloped down, Shane shouted, a boy tripped and fell and cried out, but we weren’t stopping, we couldn’t, we were running; my legs plunged further down the tarmac hill. The streets rustled with polyester trousers. We were doing this and no one knew but us! WE OWNED THE NIGHT and we knew it. Then a boy running beside me kicked a wing mirror off a parked car, a family car, on the other side someone ran a key the length of another; a red car had a door kicked in by black boots, in the window a baby seat was in the back, while a few more wing mirrors were taken. They were ruining it and they weren‘t stopping. The streetlights hooded their features and I couldn’t see them anymore; I watched a shadow pick up a brick.

I kept running until I left them all behind, I threw white up on the pavement and my lungs inhaled half of the night. I could hear glass breaking and heavy footsteps with their jackal laughter cracking windows so I got up and walked further away.

I was blue and green and wanted to keep on walking so I went around the big gas works at the bottom of the hill and stood outside my Granddad’s house for a while. I wanted to see his eyes and how he held his hands behind his back. Great Grandma used to do the same when she would wait in her kitchen for the kettle to boil. I sat on the lawn to feel the earth beneath me, to make the day stop for a moment, it hadn’t stopped all day and I needed it to stop for only a few moments before I walked on. Looking over the weary buildings opposite I saw the house I lived in when I was five. Small and painted white with two windows, it had an apple tree in the front garden that didn’t grow any apples. One spring the leaves didn’t return to its branches and we thought it was dead, rotting inside the whole time. We left it for a year to make sure and the next spring it returned and produced a single apple, tiny and inedible, but we couldn’t have been prouder of the tree. When we left that house we all said goodbye. Looking at the house then, sat on Grandpa’s lawn, I couldn’t see the tree, but I hoped it was there.

Smoke was in the air. The sun was rising over the houses but it wasn’t in the east. I scrambled up the hill putting my hands to the gravel path to keep my balance. A billowing black cloud hung overhead poisoning the sky and a fiery orange outlined the landscape opposite. The night was broken and now it was burning too, someone had set fire to the heath again. This time it was huge. It was beautiful and terrifying and I wanted to shout, it was growing in to a furnace and lots of animals were going to be burnt to death. Red trucks with lights appeared and disappeared racing to the heath up the opposite hill.

I was scared so I waved goodbye in the direction of my Granddad’s home and turned my back so I couldn’t see the heath and began my journey home. I came across George who was also going home from the party and I walked with him for a way and we talked about History homework and he asked me where all we boys went. I told him those guys went running off somewhere while I just went to go home. I asked him what everyone was talking about, about him and Lydia and he said he didn’t want to talk about it.

‘Do you want to see something?’ He then said to me and I said ‘sure’. Opening his inside jacket pocket he brought out a handful of CDs he had stolen from Hannah’s house and asked if I wanted one, I did and I took The Smashing Pumpkins record. He went on and I took a left and I got home at three o’clock in the morning and got straight in to bed without undressing.

I wish I didn’t take the CD.

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Lay Me Down Theresa Harold

It was May when we first met, and November by the time we fell out of love. By January, we had separated, and in March the baby was born. Nothing dramatic had happened to cause the split. No accusations, no denial. But then, nothing dramatic had happened to start the relationship in the first place, so why the end should be any different … God only knows.

May: the golden rays of Florence. We sat by old fountains, and watched the copper-green statues watching us back. We travelled light; but always with an umbrella. Weeks of Italian sunshine having done little to dispel the habits formed in childhood. Bring a cardigan, make sure you have good shoes.

The Ponte Vecchio at night, its lights shimmering in the river like candescent stilts. The professor had asked us to record foot traffic, measure its effects in the thump, sway, pulse of the bridge. I think at heart, he wanted to play Cupid. Shops with bright souvenirs and aged leather artefacts, clung to the sides of the bridge. There was a statue of Benvenuto Cellini, and on the metal railings enclosing him hung hundreds of padlocks. Rusted ones. Shiny ones.

Travel-sized luggage locks. Heavy iron Yale ones. I turned to you, the question still forming in my mind but you had already answered it.

‘Lovers. They lock the padlock and throw away the key.’

Here, you pointed towards the river.

‘They think it gives them an eternal bond. It began in Russia, I believe.’

I bit my lips, hiding my smile. I didn’t want you to think I was laughing at you. What I wanted, I think, was for you to buy a padlock—from the man at the end of the bridge selling them— and come back, with it cupped in your hands like a newly hatched bird. We would giggle, and dismiss it as a silly superstition; but for a second, when we heard the lock click shut, we would wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was some truth to it. You would slip the two keys off the loop that held them, and pass one to me, before throwing yours away overarm. I think I would have held on to mine for a moment, made a wish perhaps, then dropped it quietly into the Arno. It doesn’t matter, it never happened.

There’s a sign now, warning people of the €50 fine. It still seems a bargain, for locking your heart to a railing in Florence.

November: the soft sulphur stench of Venice. Emerald canals from water stagnant for too long. We walked across wooden platforms a few feet above the ground, raised every year at this time for the high waters. Acqua alta, in that lyrical accent, had peaks and troughs like waves across the lagoon. A beautiful anomaly, Venice. It shouldn’t exist.

The Piazza San Marco, where we sat on slick metal chairs wet from the rain. It rained every day but one that week. My birthday, as it turned out. We sat under grey skies facing the Basilica, as pigeons flocked around our waterproof boots. Scrawny birds. Fat ones. Mutilated and maimed ones.

‘A kit of pigeons. That’s the collective for them.’

For some reason, you knew that. I forced myself to stay still.

Later, as we walked towards the vaporetto, you pointed at something on the ground.

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A pair of pigeon wings: outstretched like the angel-wing tattoos found on the shoulder blades of women, who would in time regret it. I dragged you aside, but not before seeing two pigeons land and jostle for space at the carcass. Peck, peck, pecking at the pink, fleshy membrane where the wings once joined the body. I felt my stomach heave—or was it a quickening? My hands rushed to press the slight swell. You looked at me, a crease between your brows. For a second, I thought you would want to know. Instead, you said, ‘the professor’s talk starts soon, at the University. Let’s go.’

The rain started again, determined the city should drown. Around the square, groups of Chinese tourists pulled out plastic ponchos and Hello Kitty umbrellas. You pulled up the hood on your coat and steered me to the waterbus stop. The drawing room of Europe could have done with a roof.

January: the Doppler roar of planes landing at London Gatwick. A metallic ping signalled seatbelt release. I released the breath I’d been holding. Outside, the dark skies matched the runway; clouds heavy with forecast snow. A young air hostess smiled at me, gesturing for me to ‘Deplane first please, ma’am,’ in light of my condition. Deplane. In my head, I heard you snort. I pulled myself up. My lower back ached, as it often did now, and my feet tingled with the remnants of pins and needles.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll be okay,’ I crooned to my belly. You weren’t there to hear it, but our baby was.

March: the sharp sea breeze of Cromer in spring. A hanging basket of primroses sways beneath the green metal road sign. Gem of the Norfolk Coast, it reads, twinned with Nidda, Germany, and Crest, France. So really they mean triplets. The cliffs retreated a meter that winter; the product of storms and lazy dog walkers taking a shortcut to the beach. There’s a gap in the fence, on the carnival field where carefully, carefully, I slide and shuffle down. Turmeric sand wedges between my flip-flopped toes. It stains, this sand. I don’t know why.

In an hour, I’ll have to be home. I want to be home. I want to wake our son up from his afternoon nap, kiss his hamster cheeks where the pillow left creases. He clings to routines– you’ll understand that–and his naps are one of them. I’ll ask, ‘Are you ready for your party, birthday bear?’ While he widens his eyes at the idea of cake. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew he was three yesterday and today he is four. You can age a lot in one night. I’ll chase after him, as he tears down the hall, stops at the landing and looks back at me.

‘Careful … ‘ I’ll warn, ‘Hold onto the rails.’

And you know what? He does. He always does, my wonderful boy. He shuts all the doors, closes the child gate. I worry he’s too much like you, sometimes, when he tells me solemnly, ‘I’m not a bear, Mummy, I’m a boy.’

I picture my own Mum bustling between the kitchen and garden, wondering if those clouds look like rain. Dad blowing up balloons; before pleading dizziness and sitting back down in his chair. Mum taking over balloon duty.

So I linger on the beach, watching a plump seagull bob along the waves, unruffled by surfers nearby. The pier looks as postcard-ready as ever. There are lumps of chalk buried between the stones and pebbles, and I bend to pocket one. I imagine wrapping my fingers around our son’s as he clutches the curved piece of chalk. He’ll be suspicious at first, it looking nothing like the smooth, colourful sticks he uses at nursery, but I’ll explain it came from the beach.

With the afternoon sun slanting shadows on the ground, we’ll draw a train on the cracked driveway, and the tracks for it to run on. He’ll ask me to make the tracks long, broken up with stations, points and level crossings.

When he asks about you, I tell him the truth. Or at least, my truth, which, without you, is the only one there is.

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State Of The Art Theresa Harold

There was a craze, a few years back, for android-generated art: ARTificial Intelligentsia, they called it. The market was flooded with algorithm—based haikus and random, generated novels. Computer paintings sold for billions at auction.

But the bubble soon burst, as all effervescence does, leaving behind the popped soap suds of washed-up androids living in converted garages and attics; ironically, acting more of an artist than they ever did at their peak.

‘Hearse, the delivery guy’s here!’ Croaked Rembrandt. His voice box hadn’t been oiled in months, it showed. From somewhere in the attic came the sound of joints creaking, followed by a smothered curse. Footsteps clunked on every step of the ladder down. A postman stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked no more than twenty-years-old with his spiked blonde hair gelled to resemble bed head, or some other ‘come hither’ hairstyle. Hearse reached for the square of glass in the post boy’s hand and pressed his thumb against it. A moment of whirring followed the beep: Unverified. Rolling his eyes, Hearse thumbed the plate again, this time holding it for the required three seconds. The screen flashed: Android Verified.

‘I know, it’s a pain, ain’t it? All the “human this, android that” bullcrap. Way I see it, who’s gonna mistake one for the other?’ The postman chuckled, as if in disbelief that no one else had reached this obvious conclusion. ‘No offense and all. I got nothing against androids; some of my best friends are robots. Just don’t see how they could pass for human when … ’ ‘When it’s illegal?’ Rembrandt interrupted. His disdain was only slightly marred by the rust in his voice box. Hearse pushed his friend aside.

‘My package?’

The postman flushed a shade to match his uniform. He fumbled in his magnetic levitation cart for a brown box, the name and address on which were artfully inked.

‘Here you go, Sir.’ The lad bit his lip and half-turned, but not before his words spilled out, ‘I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean any harm. I just didn’t recognise you. You are the Hearse X Pro, aren’t you?’

Rembrandt, who had been conspicuously dusting the letterbox, shook with stifled laughter.

Hearse glared at him.

‘Yes, yes, I am actually.’

‘Oh my God, I was such a fan. That Untitled XXX piece you did? Genius. I had a print of it on my wall.’ His eyes lit up at the youthful memory.

Hearse looked at Rembrandt, who had abandoned any pretence of discretion and was surveying the scene with a smirk.

‘Would you like me to sign something?’ Hearse offered. He waved his hand in a pen gesture.

‘Nah, you’re cool, mate.’ The post boy winked. ‘But thanks though, it was real good to finally meet you.’

With that, the postman left, whistling as he pulled his MagLev® cart along.

Rembrandt snorted and shrugged his shoulders. He patted Hearse on the back as he shut the front door, nodding his condolences.

‘Hey, at least he recognised you, right?’

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Hearse clenched his jaw and stared at Rembrandt’s gleeful face. ‘I meant whether he needed me to sign for the parcel. Not an autograph, you idiot.’ Carrying his small box, Hearse climbed the ladder with one hand. The attic’s trapdoor slammed.

The attic room was wide and airy, with a sloped ceiling above the bed that Hearse liked to walk up while lying down. Piles of paper perched on the floor next to the desk, threatening to topple but never quite following through with the threat. A wall socket served as the kitchen, charging androids up with juice when needed. He needed some right now, but the current was switched off, Rembrandt’s idea of saving money. Hearse filed a sequence of abuse away for later use. With a grunt, Hearse dragged the foot of the bed over the trapdoor, barring Rembrandt’s imminent visit. The mattress gave a familiar twang as he sat. He tore open the parcel, glancing at the handwriting on the front. It was too singular and uneven to be android.

Inside the box was a small figurine, the sort one might buy at the last minute when exiting a museum gift shop. Hearse held it up to the light. His eyes traced every mould seam on the mass produced lump. At the bottom of the box was a handwritten note, not typed. It was a brief letter, and he read it twice. Then, he refolded it along its crease. Hearse picked up the plastic toy. He replayed the incident with the postman in his Mind’s i™, setting it to slow motion. The initial excitement on the young man’s face dissolving into indifference. The moment he dismissed him with a ‘mate.’ All contact with humans was predestined for them to lose interest.

Hearse rewound to his old exhibition parties. The opening nights with middle-class drones, clutching the stems of their champagne flutes as if that would help them grasp the deeper meanings of art. The ARTificial movement had been on everyone’s lips; the buzzword bandied around by buyers and sellers alike. It had to be a success. The art world prides itself on self-fulfilling every prophecy.

And then, the zeitgeist changed.

The newest buzzword became manmade. Buyers bemoaned the lack of ‘authenticity’ and the human touch was wheeled out of retirement. A loud knock from under the bed disturbed his line of thought.

‘Hearse, let me in. I’m not leaving until you do.’

Hearse ignored him.

‘I know you’re ignoring me, Hearse.’

With a sigh, Hearse swung his legs off the bed. He leant against the bedframe and pushed back, scraping the bed along deep grooves in the wooden floor. Rembrandt crashed through the trapdoor, grinning. His dark eyes widened at the sight of the toy in Hearse’s hand.

‘Is that … ?’

Almost imperceptibly, Hearse nodded.

Rembrandt slumped onto the bed, continuing, ‘but why? I mean, who sent it? Did you order it? That must have been, what, eight, nine years ago?’

‘Ten, actually. Nearly to the day, give or take the time difference.’

‘Was there anything else? Just that?’

In answer, Hearse tilted his head towards the box on the floor. For once, his friend had no pithy comeback or platitude to dispense, only a tight smile that stretched wider across his latex face. Rembrandt gripped the paper and read.

Dear Mr Hearse X Pro, I’m sure by now, you will have realised I’m not a fellow android like your esteemed self. Allow me to make my introductions. My name is John Doe. (Yes, my parents had a sense of humour. But for the purposes of the proposal I am about to make, I find my name quite fitting.)

Mr Hearse, I have been an avid admirer of your work ever since the inception of your model type, X Pro. I find

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the art generated by your model to be like none other, emotive in the way that only something truly impersonal can be – like the Milky Way, or thunder.

It saddens me that your kind is no longer accepted by the art world. I want to help you. I want to give you my name.

My proposal is this: create your art. Do what you were designed for. They want ‘manmade’, well what’s more ‘manmade’ than you?

However, caution would dictate it best that I put the work out as my own, just to start with. I do this not for profit, you understand (though I do charge a handling fee of ten per cent for any commissions that come about as a result of this partnership), rather it stems from a desire for more beauty in the world. I know what I am asking of you, and I know the risks for both parties. But this isn’t about race subterfuge, it’s about art.

Be the antidote to all the ugliness and horror, of which there is so much.

Please accept this as a small token of my good faith. Do you remember it? It is a souvenir from your first show ten years ago. I believe it was called, ‘Artifice’.

Yours Faithfully, John Doe Rembrandt looked up to find Hearse’s glowing eyes fixed on him. For a moment, neither moved. Then, Hearse laughed and ran his hand through his hair in a gesture Rembrandt well recognised. It was the same before every show.

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Miriam’s Nails Thilde Holdt

‘I feel like I have been here before.’ Alice looked up at her mum.

‘Of course you have been here before.’ Alice didn’t understand. She couldn’t remember ever having been here, yet it all seemed so familiar. The old oak tree on the left and the way the path slightly turned from side to side.

‘Your Grandmother lives in that house just over there,’ her mother pointed at a house down the road.

‘No she doesn’t.’ Alice laughed at her mum’s foolishness. ‘She lives in the country-side.’

‘Your other Grandmother, Alice, your Father’s mother.’

‘I didn’t think Dad had a mother.’ Her mum stopped walking and turned to look at Alice in surprise.

‘Don’t you remember her?’

‘I didn’t even know she existed until you told me just now.’

They started walking again.

‘We used to visit her and her family when you and Rob were younger.’ Alice looked at the house that her mother had pointed at and tried to remember. The house had bright red roof tiles and was made of yellow bricks. She felt a small sting in her mind as though someone had poked her with a nail.

‘When did we stop seeing them?’

‘The last time we saw them was ... ’ her mother paused to think. ‘ … In 1997. So, that’s six years ago.’ Alice calculated in her head. She had been four years old. ‘Your dad and his step-dad got into a big argument and your dad has refused to see them ever since.’

Her mother looked away into the distance. Alice knew what that meant: she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. But Alice was curious as to why she couldn’t remember anyone from her father’s family. Dad’s family, she thought, Dad’s family, there must be someone that I remember.

Another nail poked her head. Miriam.

Miriam’s long nails were resting on her lap. They were painted dark red and had a hint of violet as though she hadn’t taken off the previous layer of colour.

There wasn’t a whole lot of finger, only nail, Alice thought as she observed them.

‘I don’t like it,’ Alice’s grandmother said in a careful voice that didn’t suit her. She fiddled with the corner of her summer dress as she spoke. ‘I’m fine with him.’ She glanced at Rob playing by himself in a corner. He was completely emerged in his game.

‘But her …’

Alice focused on the nails.

‘Just like her mother,’ Miriam said, glancing in the direction of the door. She moved her right hand to grab some peanuts as she spoke. Alice followed the action with her eyes.

‘She is a know-it all. Line was easier, not as calculating,’ Alice’s grandmother concluded and turned her attention to Alice, sitting on the sofa next to her.

‘There must be something wrong with her, the thing doesn’t talk,’ her grandmother said and rubbed the corner of her red lips. ‘Look at the way she is eyeing your peanuts.’

‘Just as greedy as her mother.’

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The adults stayed silent for a short while. Miriam ate her peanuts. Alice stared at her, amazed at how she managed to grab them with the tip of her long nails. If I had nails like that, Alice thought, I’d eat peanuts the entire day. Alice felt scratches all over her head as the memories poured back.

‘Mum, How come they always give Rob money and presents, but I never get anything?’ she asked just as Miriam walked through the gate with her now long black nails. She frowned at Alice, and lifted her head high.

‘Hi Miriam.’ Alice’s mother smiled. Miriam ignored the greeting and walked into Alice in passing. Alice rubbed her shoulder. Her mother didn’t notice.

‘Well, maybe they just forget.’

Alice saw Miriam halting by the door.

‘Besides,’ her mother continued ‘your brother is older than you so maybe they just don’t think that you are old enough to get money and don’t know what else to get you.’

Miriam opened the door.

‘Rob, hi!’ Alice heard her say enthusiastically as she entered the house.

It’s not because they don’t like Mum and me. It’s just because they like Rob. Alice repeated to herself. The door slammed shut behind Miriam.

They walked through the gate and down the road. There was still frost on the gate.

‘Why don’t you ever play with the toys together with Rob?’ Her mother asked. Alice didn’t answer. It’s not because they don’t like us.

‘Doesn’t he want to play with you?’ Her mother looked concerned. Alice pouted and stayed silent for a few seconds while she stepped on the grass to make the frost disappear.

‘I don’t think that he doesn’t want to play with me ...’ she said.

Alice felt her mum firmly holding her hand.

Her dad was wearing her favourite shirt, the one with the Disney characters that made him look like a tourist from Texas.

‘I’m bored Mum,’ she said. She had been watching her mother take out the salad and sauces.

Her mother crouched down to level with her.

‘What about going in to your grandmother and asking if you can play with the toys?’ Alice looked down at the grass as she considered the suggestion. Her mother got up again and continued arranging the table.

‘Miriam?’ Alice asked. Miriam put on her usual fake smile that meant that Alice had to speak very fast because Miriam was a busy girl.

‘Can-I-play-with-the-toys?’ she hurriedly asked. Although she had never liked Miriam, she had always liked her long nails. Now they were gone, and what was left was painted in a boring skin tone.

‘You have to ask Mum that, I’m busy,’ she answered. ‘She’s in the kitchen.’

Alice took a couple of deep breaths and walked inside the house.

‘Grandma?’ The woman sighed and looked down at Alice.

‘Yes?’ she asked raising her painted eyebrows.

‘Do you have some toys that I can play with?’

Her grandmother sighed again and dried off her hands in a towel on the kitchen table.

She didn’t say anything to Alice, just mumbled to herself as she walked towards the living room. ‘What a brat, give me this, give me that. Always clinging to Mum and Dad. Nothing like Rob.’ Her grandmother’s leopard printed high heels resonated on the stone floor that led upstairs.

Alice had to run to follow.

She was led into the first room on the left. ’It’s in that box,’ her grandmother said and went downstairs again.

Alice watched her go down. She won’t play with me like she plays with Rob when he is here. She sat

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down on the floor and opened the box. Inside there were three old action figures, seven pieces of Duplo and five beads. None of the toys that she remembered having seen her brother play with were there.

Alice shook her head and tried to focus on her shiny shoes. They had become dusty because of the gravel. She wanted to sit down and clean them, but now wasn’t the time. She used all of her strength to focus on the shoes and lock everything else out; she didn’t want to remember anything else about her father’s family.

They had been walking in silence for the past few minutes.

‘Do you want to meet them?’ Her mother asked. Alice vigorously shook her head.

‘No … Never.’ She looked down at her hands. The only thing I want to know is what colour Miriam’s nails are now.

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How To Pass A University Creative Writing Course Thomas Stone

FUN FICTIONAL FACT: ‘Creative Writing’ is the Latin for ‘lying’ YEAR ONE 1. First things first congratulations on getting high enough A level results! Or lower but you got in anyway, whatever. Nonetheless you’ve earnt those A levels so well done! You now get to embark on a three year course to obtain a qualification that will render those A levels completely worthless. Congratulations again!

2. Yeah! Woohoo! You’re at Uni at last! Let’s celebrate! Let’s enjoy your freshers we— NO. STAY AWAY FROM FRESHERS WEEK. You are going to spend the next three years with these people. Do you really want to waste your first impression getting hammered, calling them all bitches and then trying to convince one of them to touch you? No! Not yet! Bide your time and get to know these people, how often you’ll be seeing them. Sip lemonade and take notes this week.

3. Having said that, if the monstrous acne of your youth that made you resemble a mutating dot to dot puzzle has cleared up or the large gap between your two front teeth, previously often described as ‘repulsive’ or ‘bleeding again’, is now considered ‘endearing’ or at least ‘overlookable’, then you might want to try and persuade someone to have some sex with you.

I’d recommend trying one of the other students for best results.

4. Don’t be afraid to miss as many lectures and seminars as you need to achieve this sexy new goal. But make sure this conquest for love doesn’t distract you from the drugs you should’ve started getting into by now. There will be a test for these at the end.

5. Coming down and probably sleeping with someone by now, you might have run out of time to phone in your assignments. If you require more time simply lie to your lecturer that you have been far too busy protesting the rise in tuition fees. They’ll eat this up and give you all the time you need to finish your work.

6. Of course that wonderful excuse wouldn’t be possible if our Prime Minister hadn’t trebled tuition fees, so don’t forget to send David Cameron a thank you letter.

7. How do you like the course so far? If you’ve finally realised the last thing the world needs is yet another fucking writer or you hate it so much you’re on the verge of suicide, but wouldn’t mind leaving a legacy, no problem! Simply make sure your lifeless corpse is found with a note saying I did this because they raised tuition fees. Instant martyrdom!

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8. If you for some reason think your stupid, pointless life is worth continuing, but could use some cheering up, console yourself with this moneysaving tip. Don’t buy the books on the reading list, just look up the synopsises online. Most books are far too long and badly spelt anyway, so why bother? Remember, you’re personally insulting the creators of Wikipedia when you don’t use it.

9. With the money you’ve saved you could go home and visit your family! Don’t do that. If you go back to your hometown/city to visit your family/friends, you’ll quickly realise you have completely Stalinised your memories of whichever loathsome shithole you spent your youth trapped in. Don’t go back. As far as you’re concerned, your family is dead to you. We are your family now.

10. You’ve been texting dealers with code words for drugs throughout the year. Check your spelling in these messages. Has your writing improved?

11. Regardless, it’s now time for the laughably easy task of passing your first year. If you’ve somehow managed to write anything good this year (trust me, you have not) then save it for next year when you might actually need it (you won’t) and just hand in any old crap (you’ve written plenty of that).

12. Congratulations on passing your first year!

YEAR TWO 1. Year 2! Now this year you’re briefly going to have to up your game and write the best piece of your literary career so far. I’m not kidding, you should be redrafting this piece daily, if not hourly. Workshop it in seminars, show it to friends, get opinions from strangers on it. When you are absolutely positive it is as good as it is going to get, title it ‘mitigating circumstances’ and save several copies.

2. With that out of the way, feel free to continue phoning in this joke of a course. As long as you attend at least three seminars in each subject over the whole year you’re fine. Go to a lecture if you want but you won’t learn anything.

3. Perhaps you wish to try and have a bit of intercourse with someone again. You might as well, as your first year relationship inevitably ended in bitter burning tears when he/she dumped you, tearing your heart out of your shaking chest and stamping on it with his/her hobnail boots until every last part, every last trace, was utterly destroyed when he/she met someone who was actually attractive. Not that I’m bitter or anything Susan Webster you ice cold whore bitch/man.

4. Don’t forget to keep trying new class A Substances. I personally detest them all, but hey, I’m a ‘man’ who can’t get it up unless he’s dressed as Princess Peach and imagining giant black cocks ejaculating into his hair so who am I to judge? Stay off heroin.

5. Don’t forget to keep your tuition fees note on you in case of overdose!

6. Hand in your mitigating circumstances and phone in your assignments. It may be tempting to plagiarise other writers’ work but I urge you to think about what you’re doing. You’re stealing the creative vision of another man/woman, possibly his/hers life’s work, so make sure he/she has the same name as you. Google your name and the word ‘writer’ and help yourself. ‘Wow!

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You’ve already been published on the internet!’ Liberal morons. Each and every one of them.

YEAR THREE 1. Close this ridiculous ‘guide’ idiot and go ahead and turn the internet off while you’re at it.

Start trying really, really hard or be prepared for a real job like the rest of the sheep. Would you be OK with a real job? Then you shouldn’t have been on this course in the first place.

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Pigeon Slurry Tim Goodings

I’ve always been the last one to acquiesce in my group of friends. Fashion trends—I would always resist, because I didn’t want to be dictated to by some outside zeitgeist that I couldn’t control. But, inevitably I would succumb, just at the ebb of the wave. I bought skinny jeans much too late, and currently I’m resisting the elasticated carrot-shaped canvassy trousers epidemic. I know even that’s only a matter of time though. I had long hair way after that went out of fashion, but I still had it cut eventually, because everyone else did.

I’m the last one to be invited to things, the last one to lose my virginity, or at least I will be, and the last one to laugh when one of my friends tells me they smashed up a bird’s nest, and destroyed all the unhatched eggs. Maybe this bodes well, The Last of The Summer Wine was around for ages, Last of The Mohicans is supposed to be pretty good, and The Doctor is the last of the Timelords. Although The Last of The Summer Wine has finished, and The Doctor has died about ten times. Still, I found an opportunity to gain some credibility amongst my friends, and I took it, because I was sick of being left behind. No-one got hurt, not by me anyway, but I still feel guilty.

I was walking back home from school alone; my friends live far enough way that I can sometimes convince myself this is the reason I’m the de facto runt of the litter, even though it’s actually because of … I don’t know what. I had just passed through a loose spinney which, if I had the inclination or temptation, would have been the perfect spot to smoke a joint where no-one could see, and indeed each time I walked through the spinney, I found myself avoiding the eye contact of sixth-formers doing just that. The hard sunlight found its way through the branches above me to make leopard spots on the path, which finally led to the main road of a housing estate. I looked up to see the sort of pale-bricks that my parents were just well-off enough to be snobbish about and walked out into the sun. A bloodied, feathery mess was bunched up against the curb on my side of the road. It glistened red, and I could imagine the smell that would soon be coming from it, so at first I turned away and tried to ignore it.

I wasn’t more than twenty metres up the road before I realised I was still thinking about it—thinking about how much pain it had felt when its chest burst open under the weight of a moving car. Curiosity piqued, I turned back and stood over the pudding of innards. I remembered how obsessed my friends were with dead animals, so I got my phone out and texted Joe. ‘At the Ise Lodge Estate, Reynolds Close. Come and see this. It’s fucking sick.’

No ‘lol’ necessary.

I walked back into the spinney, found a couple of sticks, and tried to convey the mess up onto the curb, so it wouldn’t look like roadkill. I bundled it together at the edge of the tree line, put the sticks down, and carefully dipped the toe of my shoe into the pile, watching the eyes bulging within the decapitated head.

After some minutes of waiting, as I had hoped, Joe arrived with Davey. They started to approach from the top of the road and I saw Joe’s twin sister Natasha appear from round the corner after them. I questioned Joe about her presence with a look. He replied with a helpless

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shrug. I inferred that it was somehow out of his hands, and that his parents probably insisted she tag along like they often do. Joe had an undisguised hatred for her, but their parents apparently wanted them to have a loving, trusting sibling relationship, despite the lack of love or trust. They also seemed oblivious that their children were both sixteen and well past a point where their relationship was likely to change, or should be interfered with. Under any other circumstances it would have been great to see Natasha; I was pretty sure she liked me. Pretty sure. Well, I liked her, and at the time, I somehow saw that as a sign that she must like me too. I started to realise that wouldn’t last much longer after she’d seen the bird. There was a concerned frown on her face when she looked at me, trying to work out what I’d done.

Joe didn’t really say much when he walked over. He somehow towers over me despite being slightly shorter, managing to dominate most of our conversations with his imagined height. He didn’t look at me either, noticing only the pigeon slurry and running straight to it, muttering, ‘Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. What has he done?’ He turned to Davey. If we were part of a misfit gang of teens in a movie, Davey would be pigeonholed as the lumbering sidekick.

Actually he wasn’t at all stupid, but his face never gave any clue as to how much he understood of what people were saying to him. Davey looked over at Joe, hunched over the prize, gleefully pointing at the shapes that had survived the trauma.

‘Shit me, I think that’s his heart. No hang on that’s a lung. Do birds have lungs?’

Davey crouched down next to him, staring. ‘Haha. His beak’s come off his fucking face.’

I had to say something, ‘Yeah, first kick, beak came clean off, started to make gurgling noises after that.’

Joe stood up and looked at me, amazed, impressed. It had worked. I smiled at Natasha, trying to communicate both a ‘hello,’ as well as ‘clumsy me for kicking a pigeon to death.’ I don’t think it came across. She still couldn’t see the full extent of what I was claiming to have done, but she already looked slightly disgusted. She took an elastic band off her wrist, and tied her hair into a ponytail.

‘You really did this?’ Joe kept looking at me. I nodded, and looked down at my shoe. Joe’s eyes followed, and he looked back up.

‘What was it doing?’

‘Just getting on my nerves, it started flapping around in my face and kept shitting on the floor.

I thought it was going to shit on me, so when it was flapping around at about knee height, I just fucking kicked it.’

Davey was still crouched down, inspecting the remains with more dignity than Joe. He wasn’t excited, he just seemed to appreciate the violent act. He looked at me.

‘That is fucking excellent.’

Just as I started to feel pride in the lie, what I was gradually forgetting was a lie, I heard Natasha groan behind me.

‘You could’ve just left it alone.’ She was the angel on my shoulder, while Joe and Davey were devils. I didn’t want to defend my fabricated actions to Natasha in case she thought I was a psycho who liked hurting animals. But if I tried to downplay it, Joe and Davey would start to think I wasn’t a psycho who liked hurting animals. I could explain to Natasha another time that I didn’t actually kill it. For now though: ‘I could’ve left it alone, but it wouldn’t leave me alone. It’s a flying shit machine. I’ve done it a favour.’ In hindsight, this was the wrong thing to say. Actually in hindsight, I shouldn’t have been hanging around with people who considered animal mutilation a worthy pastime.

I couldn’t look at Natasha, but I knew her opinion of me was rapidly changing. Her stance would have been no more vehement had she been a member of the RSPB. ‘You really think it deserved that?’

No, no I don’t.

‘Yeah, it’s just a nuisance. That’s probably twenty cars I’ve pre-emptively saved from bird-shit

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now.’

Joe laughed, even though I knew he didn’t know what ‘pre-emptively’ meant. Then Davey laughed, because Joe had laughed. Then I laughed. Then a car drove past, and the driver looked out at us, suspicious of three lads gathered round a single spot on a pavement. He saw the open bird, frowned and shook his head. I wished I was the driver, just a fleeting character in the story who could forget about all this straight away. Feeling no guilt, and realising how wrong it is to fetishise a dead animal, he had the moral high-ground, and drove on disgusted.

Natasha sighed and started to walk away.

‘Natasha …’

She stopped, and turned her head, ‘What?’ Her eyes were hoping.

‘It’s not uh … I didn’t.’

Still hoping.

‘I didn’t really. It was a car. I moved it onto the curb so it looked like …’

Still looking.

‘Pathetic.’ She turned back and left. I couldn’t figure out if she meant I was pathetic for lying in the first place, or if she thought I’d just now told a lie. She was right though, either would have been pathetic. Davey looked up.

‘Was it really a car? … Are you serious?’

I looked over at the patch where I first saw the bird. Davey did too, and saw a few faded patches of blood on the road. Now Joe and him were both studying the spot in which the bird had actually been killed. I waited for one of them to call me pathetic too. They didn’t, but they sighed, and walked away.

I was the last to leave.

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Poetry

Francesca Bradshaw Jennifer Appleby Natalia Spencer Owen Jary Ruby Holness Sam Ashcroft

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I Miss The Way

Francesca Bradshaw

I miss the way I’d text you and say: ‘Can we please go out today?’

I’d run downstairs and beat you there, as you were always doing your hair.

Not a single hair was out of place, you always made sure it was looking ace.

And don’t get me started on you being Welsh, because the only word that rhymes is squelch.

I miss us baking a chocolate cake, and I miss the way we used to take, the cake downstairs to chill it out, it was the ‘bestest’ cake without a doubt.

It made me laugh when you asked me, what the Royal Crescent could be?

I replied: ‘A Pub?’ with a wink, you stared at me blankly, not even a blink.

You’re such a sweet and amazing guy, and this poem isn’t me saying goodbye, I’ll be seeing you, as it is not the end, Because James: you’ll never stop being my bestest friend.

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The Moth Queen Jennifer Appleby

While you slept, the moths got in.

They used their ways to pass the lock and eat your wedding dress.

Nobody would marry a girl in beggars’ clothes, but the Moth Queen is quite content, in her gown of finest silk.

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Winter Bride

Natalia Spencer

Here, in this room she stands.

Sliding from her hips, a sheath of white shimmers and festoons the floor with folds of satin.

Her fingertips reach to hooks and eyes.

Slowly, inch by inch, the flesh that is mine she reveals.

A silhouette softly shaded and bathed in moonbeams beckoning, unveiling the truth of her faded youth.

From her slender neck, suspended on a silver chain, a crystal droplet casts harlequins across her skin, between her handsome breasts and a valley I have longed to seed.

And in this moment, as she sashays towards me, my senses heightened by kaleidoscopic colour, my winter bride most fair, in her surrender brings an old soldier to his knees.

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Zest

Owen Jary

Ripened under Mexican skies, where the sun bestowed zing and zest, yellowed peel and flesh.

Where the unwaxing moon cooled groves.

Green leaves and branches.

Laden with bitter, sweet lemons.

Juice and pip, fresh segments, sharp slices and the double nub; citrus shape of beauty.

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Sorry About The Cat Dying, Lol Ruby Holness

‘Sorry about the cat dying, lol’ the last text sent by my Grandma.

You see, I’ve been told that ‘LOL’ means ‘Lots of love’ to old people.

At least I hope so.

Sometimes she will send just a smiley face, with another text straight after, asking ‘did you get my last messa—’.

Based on it being sent at seven this morning, the answer is no.

She’s not the only one though who’s tackling modern day.

Not the only one to say ‘In my day, we would write letters, not e-mails.’

I sit quietly nodding.

I won’t make it worse by explaining e-mails are old— a poke on Facebook is conversation now.

I remember watching a group of wrinklies learn to use a computer.

It was going great, everyone was happy, until it crashed.

Mass panic ensued.

Blue-rinse haired Nanas fainted, as a granddad called ‘999.’

‘Stand back’ said an old man in a cowboy hat, as he ripped the plug out of the wall.

‘It’s going to be OK,’ he said, settling back down with a cup of tea.

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They left the session, shaking their heads.

‘This technology thing, it’s not for me.

I mean, in my day, Apple was a fruit, A mouse was an animal, A cursor was a very rude boy.

I’m going to text the grandchildren Enough is enough, I’ve drawn the line.’

And you know what, Grandma, that’s fine. :)

Alcohol And Sex Sam Ashcroft

Straight veins of blue escaping blackness, The electrical battle sparking across to meet mine, Baby ghosts poke out from under her lips, Beads of excitement clinging on a cliff.

My thoughts of her like a fuel-air bomb, Yet acid sometimes runs through my veins, A swirling pit in my gut.

Night time is when the snakes of truth come out, Coaxed out by alcohol and prying thoughts, Caused by aimless fishing of the opposite sex, To feel the tug but not reel it in.

There is no time for loving looks, We are not swans in a lake, Or doves on a branch, We are just blackness and battles, Ghosts and bombs, acid and snakes, Alcohol and sex.

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Journalism

Alexandra Farnese Catherine Smalley

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The Reality Of Homeless Cats Alexandra Farnese

Like dogs, there are many homeless cats living alongside their owners on the streets. This article is written by Alexandra Farnese, author of ‘Lily Anne: The Cat Girl’, which is a life-changing adventure of both a special black bombay cat named Salem and a young woman named Lily-Anne Arpino.

If you are reading this as a dedicated patron of ‘Catsworld’, then your fluffy, slightly plump friend will probably be curled up on your lap, or, like Eliot’s ‘Gumbie-Cat’, sitting ‘on anything that’s smooth and flat’. No doubt, ‘Old Possums book of Practical Cats’ will have pride of place on your bookshelves with well-thumbed and suitably creased corners at your favourite pages.

Unfortunately not all felines have the privilege of receiving love, attention, or even food.

My novel journals the tragic events and desperate situations of Lily-Anne and Salem on the bleak streets of London, which involves drug abuse, prostitution and challenges the loyalty of Lily-Anne’s family and friends. Lily-Anne discovers that Salem’s friendship is the only one that has been true and lifelong.

During the research process for my novel I discovered that millions of cats are lost, unwanted or abandoned and left to survive homeless on the streets. Their chances of survival are less than 50%, and one statistical quote was unbelievable: ‘One cat or dog is euthanized every 6.5 seconds in this country.’ As a cat lover, I found this number horrifying—especially when there is a simple solution to help the number of homeless cats and overloaded shelters—through the simple process of identification through micro chipping and neutering. If every cat owner assumed basic responsibility, which is painless and widely available, then the tangential problem of overcrowded shelters (which leads to the death of thousands of cats per week) would be resolved. The research and writing process of ‘Lily Anne: The Cat Girl’ led me to realise that the animal shelter system, killing animals who cannot be rehomed is a tangible sign of society’s deep disconnection from other living beings, and I needed to externalise my feelings and give expression to this through the novel.

In the words of Gandhi, ‘The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.’

In the book, this disconnection was reflected through certain human frailties that were then turned upon Lily-Anne and Salem during their ordeals on the streets. This discovery was for me so profound and damaging that it can be rightfully described as an illness, and was triggered by my in-depth research into the ‘shelter system’ and the gradual realisation that human beings need to transcend the concept of sheltering as it exists today. The system is being abused; its primary function is the processing of feline beings—either by recycling them to new ownership or destroying them. They are being ‘disposed of ’ in order to relieve people and communities when they tire of responsibility.

The reality today lies in the simple truth that in civilised society, there is no need to dispose of animals as if they were trash. If we stop filling shelters with homeless animals, the killing will stop.

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Obital Of Bath

Catherine Smalley

A journey around the ancient and mythological sites surrounding the city.

The prehistoric stone circles of Stanton Drew stand in a flat of land between low lying hills; the fields broken up by scrubby copse and one hill to the north-east lined with a backbone of bare poplars. I visited during a week of torrential rain. It had relented for the morning at least but the wearied fields lay sodden and overhung with dank air. Herring gulls seeking refuge inland wheeled around like paper confetti gleaming white against the grey sky and reflected in the metallic sheet of flood water in the neighbouring fields. On a nearby slope, the conventional village complete with medieval church stood oblivious to the ancient ritual site in its midst, apart from its few squat bungalows which bear names like ‘Stoney Lea.’ There are three stone circles that date broadly to the late Neolithic and Early Bronze Age. The largest is the ‘Great Circle’ and there are two smaller ones to the south-west and north-east. I found myself unconsciously tracing the circumference of the Great Circle, pausing at each of its megaliths. A recent magnetometer survey found that within this circle were nine concentric rings of wooden posts, each one metre apart and each post a metre or more across, all surrounded by a seven metre wide ‘henge’ or ditch. Circles have emerged as a theme of this journey. What I intended as an orbital around Bath evolved into an inwardly spiralling ammonite. With history, myth and legend you are compelled to jump in at a random stone and passively follow the labyrinth of story within story to wherever it leads.

Thus though the city still remains its nucleus I end up beginning my journey ten miles to the west.

Bath-born John Wood the Elder, architect of the eye of that nucleus, The Circus (that better known circle, this time of Georgian origin) considered Stanton Drew a pagan site and believed its layout was based on a Pythagorean planetary system. An early Freemason with an interest in sacred geometry, Wood published the first detailed plans of Stanton Drew as well as Stanton Drew in 1740 and it is said that The Circus is based upon the exact dimensions of the latter. It is easy to understand his curiosity in these places. The megaliths have the aspect of fallen meteors from outer space. They are magnificent eroding boulders of clay-red rock pock-marked with dark craters, the recesses of which glitter with metamorphic crystals. Some are imposing giving an impression of the once vast temple or structure that stood here, and others worn to small stumps by thousands of year’s exposure to the elements.

The cold sun emerged from behind a lightning-struck tree on the hill, beaming its rays through the antler branches splayed skywards. Elongated shadows fell northwards from myself and the stones and the gentle dips surrounding each semi-submerged stone darkened.

I began to wonder what lay beneath the land and the strata of millennia. What happened here? What savage sacrifices? What ritualised performances, barbaric sports? For John Wood these British stone circles were once more elaborate buildings built by King Bladud, the mythical founder of Bath, and this little known circle at Stanton Drew his palace; the seat of British Druidism.

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From Stanton Drew I headed east towards Bath eventually joining the Wansdyke which threads through my next landmark, Stantonbury Camp. The Wansdyke is a linear earthwork thought to have been built during the Dark Ages as a defence by the native Britons against Saxons encroaching from the Upper Thames Valley into the West Country. The Saxon victors named it ‘Woden’s Dyke’ (from which we get modern day Wansdyke) in tribute to their pagan god of boundaries. Woden, the psychopomp, whose Wild Hunt has been witnessed taking to the skies; a phantasmal assembly of jet black mounted huntsmen attended by rabid dogs, boding wars or plague and dragging all mortals in their path to the land of the dead. Walking along this ridge raised between earth and sky there is the echo of old footsteps trod, a commune between those long dead pagans and the still worldly walker.

I was reminded of Robert Macfarlane’s words: ‘Paths are the habits of a landscape. They are acts of consensual making. It’s hard to create a footpath on your own. . . . Like sea channels that require regular dredging to stay open, paths need walking.’

Dark was descending by the time I climbed the thickly wooded dirt track to the Iron Age hill fort which lies just north of Stanton Prior village. Icy rain spattered down. The swash of the close-by A39 could be heard and occasionally red and white car lights twinkled through the young beeches and evergreens. Crows cackled overhead. There are several wide rides that circle the 60m high hill and one must cut between them, scrambling up muddy slopes, to reach the summit. In the twilight I thought I saw someone among the trees. A motionless brown square with what looked to be legs. As I came closer its neck turned sharply and the blazing white eyes of a roe stag pinned me before he tripped swiftly off into denser cover.

Further up near the summit young oaks stand tightly parallel to one another forming a curtain of skeletal figures, black against the murky sky. I finally crashed through the end of this oppressive maze into a wide open expanse where once would have stood a settlement of wattle and daube huts. Like Maes Knoll situated to the south of Bristol and marking the beginning of the Wansdyke, Stantonbury Camp would have been another boundary fort. These Iron Age camps are thought to have been defensive strongholds either against continental invasion or to keep a grip on social tensions. There are no stone remains here and instead large unkempt crop beds of shrivelled sweetcorn and all around the panicked flutter and shriek of farmed pheasants. I decided to disturb them no further and stumbled back down the hill to continue my journey.

A first sighting of The Circus, that kernel of my journey, comes once I penetrate Bath’s southern suburbs and have ascended the smart residential streets of Beechen Cliff. From the summit at Queen Alexandra’s Park the group of plane trees standing erect on The Circus’s green form a pin on the map of the city spread out below; a small beating heart at the centre of the vale which the ancient Britons called Caer Badon. Like Rome, Bath is a city surrounded by hills. Mount Beacon or Beacon Hill, Little Solsbury, Bathwick Hill and the edge of the Cotswolds offered the previous Roman inhabitants a strong military position as well as a more sheltered climate vaguely reminiscent of home. The severe cliff drop bordering the park gives way to a panorama that exposes the city’s topography. If you squint you can almost imagine yourself as Emperor Claudius scoping this settlement in 60AD. Now the wide brown path of the River Avon provides the spine from which the city expands like a neuron cell, its synaptic branches of infrastructure reaching out of the valley basin. As clear as the stroke of an artist’s paintbrush, Bath Spa railway courses decisively towards the capital with the Kennet and Avon

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canal at its side, and Palladian Bath Stone buildings sit within a golden weave of Georgian crescents and parades.

Of course it was the same thermal waters which led the Georgians to develop Bath as a popular spa town that originally drew the Romans. The Romans knew the city as ‘Aquae Sulis’. Sulis being the Celtic deity worshipped at the thermal spring, whom they identified as Minerva. But peel back the layers of onion skin yet further and in John Wood the Elder’s ‘An Essay towards a description of the city of Bath’ he is convinced that 900 years earlier in 863BC, it was King Bladud, Eighth King of the Britons, who first discovered Bath’s medicinal waters and attributed them to Sulis.

The story goes that while studying as a boy in Athens Bladud contracted leprosy and on his return was banished from his father, Lud Hudibras’s, court. He fled in exile to the Avon valley where he found employment as a swineherd. It was while driving the pigs in search of acorns in the then heavily wooded hills surrounding Bath that he came to the small village of Swainswick. Here a farmer advised him to try Beechen Cliff on the other side of the river where there may be some beech nuts. Wood continues: … in a few Hour’s time he reached the Spot of Ground where the Hot-Springs of BATH boil up … into which the Pigs directly immerged themselves; and so delighted were they in their Ouzy Bed, that BLADUD was some Days before he could get his whole Herd away; which had no sooner done, and got them clean of their Filth, with which they were covered, that he observed the Pigs had shed their Hoary Marks.

The Prince, in Astonishment of this, ran back to the Hot-Springs, striped himself naked, plunged himself into the Sedge, and Waters, and Wallowed in them, as the Pigs had done; so that in a few Days his White Scales began to fall off.

The story ends happily with Bladud cured and accepted into his father’s court once more.

On his succession to the throne Bladud recalls his gratitude to Bath’s thermal springs moving his whole court to Bath and building his palace at nearby Stanton Drew, the humble stone remains of which formed the starting point of my trail.

I pursued the upward curve of my orbit north-eastwards towards Bathampton Down at the summit of Bathwick Hill. The down, a fifteen acre limestone plateau, was once another Iron Age hill fort dating to the Mesolithic Period. Nowadays Bath Golf Club has dampened any enduring mysticism beneath a carpet of green velvet lawns. Where once would have stood ramparts is a barbed wire boundary fence lined with a plethora of hostile signs and it proves tricky identifying bunkers from burial mounds. I grew despondent, but still determined in my antiquarian quest I rose at dawn the following day to tackle my final mapped ascent of Little Solsbury Hill that stands on the city’s north-eastern edge.

One sole wren kept me company as I walked the lane to the hill’s base, its brave song cutting through the chill morning air. The hill above held an imposing black profile against the mauve-blue sky. I climbed higher through grass strung with frosted spider webs and decorated with dew droplets. From around 300-100BC the summit would have hosted a walled village of Iron Age people, enclosed by a univallate rampart of dry stone wall twenty feet wide and at least twelve metres high. Sitting on the edge of the plateau where the line of the rampart is still in evidence, I looked out to the valley and the city below. Bath and its surrounding hills emerged like islands out of a sea of mist. This timeless scene, as old as mankind, was brought into modernity as one by one scattered electric lights appeared in the semi-darkness.

In the mid-1990s this hill became the site of an environmentalist camp against the A46 bypass road which now wraps around its base. A turf labyrinth made by the protesters still remains and I sought it out. As I trace the indented channels round I am struck by that sense of orbit again, compelled as I was at Stanton Drew. An orange glow falls on me from

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over the crest of the hill warming my exposed face and hands. Like the sites of our ancient ancestors- forts, stone circles, pathways- this man-made labyrinth will fade with time. Visiting these places is a way to gain perspective, to break free of the grip of our current age and be strangely reassured of the insignificance of humankind. Through the ages of civilization, from Iron Age settlers to Georgian architects, it is the land which endures. We, like our forefathers, are but imprints in the sand to be washed away by incoming tides.

From the lofty heights of Little Solsbury Hill I feel a tug towards the journey’s end and gravity-pulled descend the final miles back into the hum of the city and straight towards The Circus.

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Screenplay

Rebecca Ryan

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The Shadow Of The Wind Rebecca Ryan

Int. Sphere and Son’s bookshop. Rambla de Santa Mónica, Barcelona, Spain.

Scene opens on a blank, black screen.

(Narration:) I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time. It was the early summer of 1945, and we walked through the streets of a Barcelona trapped beneath ashen skies as dawn poured over Rambla de Santa Mónica in a wreath of liquid copper. Shortly after the Civil War, an outbreak of cholera had taken my mother away. We buried her on MontjuÏc on my fourth birthday. The only thing I can recall is that it rained all day and all night, and that when I asked my father whether heaven was crying, he couldn’t bring himself to reply. Six years later my mother’s absence remained in the air around us, a deafening silence that I have not yet leaned to stifle with words. My father and I lived in a modest apartment on Calla Santa Ana, a stone’s throw from the church square. The apartment was directly above the bookshop, a legacy from my grandfather, which specialised in rare collectors’ editions and second-hand books – an enchanted bazaar, that my father hoped would one day be mine. I was raised among books, making invisible friends in pages that seemed cast from dust and whose smell I can carry on my hands to this day. As a child I learned to fall asleep talking to my mother in the darkness of my bedroom, telling her about the day’s events, my adventures about school, and the things I had been taught. I couldn’t hear her voice or feel her touch, but her radiance and her warmth haunted every corner of our home, and I believed, with the innocence of those who could still count their age on their ten fingers, that if I closed my eyes and spoke to her, she would be able to hear me where ever she was. Sometimes my father would listen to me from the dining room, crying in silence.

The sound of the striking of a match.

MEDIUM CLOSE UP SHOT of a candle as it flickers into life, illuminating a ten year-old Daniel’s face, covered in sweat with tears running down his cheeks, obviously having just woken up from a nightmare.

(Narration:) On that June morning, I woke up screaming at first light. My heart was pounding in my chest as if my very soul was trying to escape. My father hurried into my room and held me in his arms, trying to calm me.

CUT TO ESTABLISHING SHOT of Daniel’s bedroom, Daniel sat bolt upright in his bed as he pants and cries. The door bursts open and Daniel’s father hurries into the room, rushes to his son’s side and holds him in his arms.

CUT TO MEDIUM CLOSE UP SHOT as Daniel’s father shushes Daniel and holds him tighter, trying to calm him down.

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Daniel: ‘I can’t remember her face. I can’t remember Mummy’s face,’ Daniels mutters breathlessly.

Daniel’s Father: ‘Don’t worry, Daniel. I’ll remember for both of us.’

CUT TO CLOSE UP SHOT as Daniel and his father search each other’s eyes in the flickering candle light. Daniel’s father begins to stand up.

CUT BACK TO ESTABLISHING SHOT of Daniel’s bedroom as Daniel’s father draws opens the curtains, letting the pale glint of dawn into the room.

Daniel’s Father: ‘Come Daniel, get dressed. I want to show you something.’

CUT TO CLOSE UP SHOT of Daniel Daniel: ‘Now? At five o’clock in the morning?’

CUT TO CLOSE UP SHOT of Daniel’s father, as he flashes a mysterious smile.

Daniel’s Father: ‘Some things can only be seen in the shadows.’

END SCENE Ext. Rambla de Santa Mónica, Barcelona, Spain. Early summer. Dawn.

ESTABLISHING SHOT of the street as Daniel and his father emerge from a building on the left-hand side of the street: Sphere and Son’s bookshop.

It is still dark outside and the street lamps on each side of the street are still alight, however the sun is visible in the distance just beginning to rise. The street is almost deserted apart from a single night watchman lingering in the cold, misty street, who observes Daniel and his father as they emerge from the building.

CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT of Daniel and his father as they begin to walk down the street.

Daniel’s father: ‘Daniel you mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see today, Not even you friend Tomás.

No one.’

CLOSE UP SHOT of Daniel’s face as he looks up at his father.

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Daniel: ‘Not even Mummy?’

CLOSE UP SHOT of Daniel’s fathers face. He signs and smiles sadly.

Daniel’s Father: ‘Of course you can tell her. We keep no secrets from her. You can tell her everything.’

END OF SCENE ESTABLISHING MEDIUM-LONG SHOT as Daniel and his Father walk hurriedly toward the camera. The stone pillars of a huge decorative archway can be seen on either side, entering the frame.

CUT TO LONG SHOT from the other side of the archway, showing Daniel and his Father walking away from the camera and under the archway. CAMERA SLOWLY PANS UP, allowing the archway to come into full view.

CUT TO MEDIUM OVER THE SHOULDER SHOT as Daniel and his father enter a narrow alleyway. Daniel’s father ushers his son forward and then checks over his shoulder.

CUT TO LONG SHOT as Daniel’s father follows his son through the alleyway, displaying the small crack in which they are disappearing into amongst the immense building.

CUT TO BIRDS EYE/OVERHEAD PANNING SHOT as Daniel and his father exit from the narrow alleyway, emerging into an open courtyard. CAMERA PANS ACROSS from the alleyway to the other side of the courtyard, surveying the setting.

MEDIUM SHOT as Daniel’s father walks calmly over to the camera and stops in front of it.

CUT TO OVER THE SHOULDER SHOT of a large door made of dark, carved wood.

There is the sound of knocking as Daniel’s father knocks on the door.

CUT TO MEDIUM CLOSE-UP so that Daniel and his Father are both in shot. Daniel’s father looks down at his son.

Daniel’s Father: ‘Daniel, you mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see here today. Not even your friend Tomás. No one.’

CUT BACK TO OVER THE SHOUDLER SHOT as the wooden door slowly begins to open. Between the crack in the door a face peers through, the face of a small, old man with vulturian features, framed by think grey hair. He observes Daniel and his father, his gaze resting on Daniel’s.

CUT TO CLOSE-UP SHOT of Daniel’s father’s face.

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Daniel’s Father: ‘Good Morning, Isacc. This is my don, Daniel. He’ll be eleven soon, and one day the bookshop will be his. It’s time he knew this place.’

END SCENE CUT TO OVER THE SHOULDER SHOT from Isaac’s perspective as Isaac opens the door and Daniel and his Father walk over the threshold and into the Cemetery of Forgotten Books.

The only light comes from the open doorway; the rest of the shot is in darkness. As the wooden door closes the screen goes black. The sound of someone striking a match follows instantly and the scene re-opens to an establishing shot of the setting, the flicking of a candle throwing light around the room.

CUT TO POINT OF VIEW SHOT from Daniel’s perspective, as Daniel and his Father follow Isaac along a dark corridor. Isaac’s back and Daniel’s father side and hand, which is holding onto Daniel’s, are in view.

Daniel is looking up at Isaac and his father as if from a WORMS EYE POINT OF VIEW, emphasizing Daniel’s youth and innocence.

CUT TO LONG SHOT from the other end of the corridor as Isaac, Daniel and his father emerge from the other end.

As they reach the end the CAMERA PANS AROUND to view the room they are entering.

A labyrinth of passageways and crammed bookshelves rise from base to pinnacle like a beehive, woven with tunnels, steps, platforms and bridges that presage as immense library or seemingly impossible geometry.

CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT OF DANIEL THAT SLOWLY ZOOMS-IN TO A CLOSE UP of his face, an amazed expression upon it.

CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT of Daniel and his father, Daniel’s father smiling down at his son.

As Daniel reaches his gaze, his father winks and they both turn to look back at the sight before them.

Daniel’s Father: ‘Welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten books, Daniel,’ says his father proudly.

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Illustrations

Hannah Chapman

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