AN ANTHOLOGY J u l i a n a B y e r s S a m u e l H a r r i s K e e l y N a y l o n - A m a n d a S i m p s o n J a c k W a l s h J o s e f i n e W i l l a d s e n C h a r l i e Y e r o n d a i s WRITING FREE CREATIVE FICTION AND NON-FICTION STORIES BY EMERGING WRITERS AT VICTORIA UNIVERSITY
First published in September 2022 by Victoria University Students. Cover created on Canva by Josefine Willadsen. Individual works © all rights reserved.
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Amanda Simpson: The Storm
Fiction
Keely Naylon: Front Tooth
Table of Contents
Juliana Byers: A Little Purple Cake .11
………………………………………………………………..37
Josefine Willadsen: In Between 6
Sam Harris: Consequence
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About the Authors
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Charlie Yerondais: Soulscape
………………………………………………………….......31
Memoir
Foreword 4
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Jack Walsh: Refuge & Struggle
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The Writing Free anthology includes memoir, sci fi/space fiction, dark fantasy, urban fantasy/horror, and historical fiction. Words that will make us feel, make us connect, and make us think. Some words will get to you more than others. Let them.
Sean Ryan
Sit back, relax, invite the words in, and enjoy, Writing Free
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Words are things … Someday we’ll be able to measure the power of words. I think they are things. They get on the walls. They get in your wallpaper. They get in your rugs, in your upholstery, and your clothes, and finally in to you Maya Angelou
free is a privilege; it is also an obligation. What words are we sending out to the world? What effect will they have on those who read them and hear them? Words are things; they have the power to make us laugh, to cry, to divide or unite. Words can make us feel needed, a part of something bigger. Words remind us of our place in the world when we gather to read and to hear.
Nothing is quite as contagious as passion. Being in the company of a group of people who share a collective passion for something is nearly magical. There is an extraordinary energy in a room full of writers when you can hear nothing but the sound of computer keys typing furiously or pens scratching the page. The thoughts, ideas and images hang like rain clouds above the writer, ready to burst with love, loss, death, life, happiness, and hilarity.
That pensive moment when a student bares their soul on paper yet finds the courage to read aloud in front of others is so often more than just reading to the class; it can be a defining moment, a release. Letting go of a secret, finding your courage or finally being able to find the words and phrases that perfectly capture the emotions that you are feeling … is freedom.Writing
Foreword
You can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will Stephen King
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For as long as I can remember, we’ve always made our own Christmas decorations in my family. Throughout the year, we would gather acorns, pinecones, beech nuts and small tree stumps from the woods in preparation for December. When the shops put up their holiday
Josefine Willadsen
I’d forgotten how dense the darkness grows in winter back home. It was only late afternoon, but the landscape was pitch black beyond the car’s windows. We were making our way back to Mum’s house from Copenhagen airport. Mum steered the black Citroën expertly through the twists and turns of the country road. I didn’t know the way to her new house and felt uneasy driving down the dimly lit street. The white markings on the road were almost invisible, swallowed by the darkness.
Mum had cried uncontrollably when I appeared through the automated swing doors from the arrivals’ terminal; Dad couldn’t hold back his tears either, although he managed to remain slightly more composed than Mum. I’d concealed my own ambivalent emotions in the face of their overwhelming, bittersweet joy of reunion. The happiness I felt from seeing them again was slightly blurred by the absence of another feeling that I’d expected to be greeted by; the sense of homecoming.
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In Between
It had been two years since I’d experienced Christmas back home. I had purposely booked my flight from Australia to get back in time for the Christmas market that Mum and I used to go to every year. Fortunately, it had been cancelled last year due to the pandemic; it would’ve been heartbreaking to miss it, even though I was half a world away at the time. Christmas had always been my favourite holiday. I loved the food, the traditions, the ornaments, the lights … I was hardly unique in that regard. The Danes celebrate Christmas for a whole month. Not because we’re a particularly religious bunch, but because we need something to combat the winter darkness.
Last Christmas was the first I spent away from my family. I’d moved to Australia in February to be with the man I’d fallen in love with the year before. The Covid 19 pandemic hit four weeks after I arrived in my new country and gradually shut it down. It was a long, tough year. But when December rolled around, the homesickness became almost unbearable.
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Last year, the experience was quite different.
A flash of recognition came over her face.
My neighbourhood in suburban Melbourne was devoid of beeches, but a few, alien pines grew amongst the palms in the park across the street from my flat. I’d plucked a couple of light green, unripe cones off their branches in the previous months, looking over my shoulder like a thief while I broke them loose. I’d hunted for clay, suitable Christmas ornaments, ribbons, and candles in the shops along Glen Huntly Road, and had managed to find enough materials for just one decoration.
‘Where in Australia do you live?’ she asked me.
inventory, we bought ribbons, candles, bells, and hearts and transformed lumps of brown clay into small, decorative creations with natural and synthetic ornaments.
‘Oh, is that right?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘I had a friend from primary school who moved to Melbourne. She got married and had kids down there. After she and her husband split up, she tried moving back to Denmark. But it didn’t feel like home to her anymore.’ I didn’t know what to say in response. My expatriate life had me calling two places home, but none of them felt completely like home.
‘Please make sure you wrap this one up extra carefully,’ she asked of the woman who owned the stall. ‘It’s going all the way to Australia with my daughter.’
Mum nodded towards me, and the woman politely obliged her.
A couple of weeks after the market, I met two of my best friends at an ice skating rink in Copenhagen. We had managed to stay in touch during my absence, but our phone calls had become less frequent, severely challenged by the 10 hour time difference. We ran slalom around the myriad of children on the rink, and I worked hard to make our friendship seem as effortless as it used to be. I made witty comments, laughed loudly and finally succeeded in reviving the warm, fun filled ambience we’d always enjoyed together. After we had enough of the ice, we bought overpriced, steaming hot gløgg to keep us warm and sat down at a
‘In Melbourne.’
The day after I arrived back in Denmark, Mum and I went to the much anticipated Christmas Market. We browsed the stalls, bought elves and angels, sipped gløgg and ate apple slices with jam and sugar. Mum caught sight of a range of red clad elf figures positioned in various yoga postures in our favourite stall. She insisted on buying one for me to take back home to Melbourne, where I had started taking yoga classes.
One day in early December, I spread it all out on the dining table. The sun beamed down on the roof, and it was sweltering hot in my flat. The palm tree outside my window was the cherry on top of the nearly humorous contrast between my current environment and the frosty, dark landscape that usually surrounded my holiday tradition. I put a Danish Christmas playlist on and started assembling my decoration, pressing piece after piece of materials into the clay. Every time I moved my hand, my heart sank a little further. There I was, all on my lonesome, desperately trying to manifest Denmark in Australia. I couldn’t stop a few melancholic tears from rolling down my cheeks.
‘H aaa y?’ The word flew automatically out of my mouth with an unmissable Australian twang. My friends looked at me with equal amounts of surprise and confusion. I laughed and quickly explained to them that saying hey is just Australian for what did you say? But my subconsciously automated response hit me like a punch in the gut.
On Christmas Eve, I gathered around the table with my dad’s family for another serving of traditions. My grandmother had prepared a whole duck as beautifully as ever; stuffed with prunes and apples and drowned in enough brown sauce to allow the duck one last swim. The savoury flavours familiarly tickled my tongue, but one thing was absent from the well known aromas; the umami of my special someone’s presence was missing from the meal.
Thistears.Christmas
The year before in Melbourne, my partner and I had attempted to roast a Christmas duck in our ancient, lousy, gas oven. After carefully consulting both my parents on preparation methods, we fumbled with the thawed bird, clipped its neck and tail off with our all purpose scissors, and tied its wings up with string. I had the honour of getting up close and personal with the duck, stuffing it with as many prunes and apples as it would fit. While it roasted, I cooked a sauce to the best of my abilities, but it remained thin and pale despite my efforts. When we finally sat down for our Christmas Eve dinner, the duck turned out to be partly tough and overcooked, partly pink and undercooked. Once again, I couldn’t hold back my
season eventually faded into a new year, and I was almost ready to fly down under the Australian sun again. Before I bid the darkness goodbye for now, I went to my high school best friend’s house along with another old classmate. I hadn’t talked to these girls much since I’d left Denmark, but the lounge we sat in still felt homey to me; I’d spent countless afternoons of my high school years in that room. As we talked, laughed and goofed around, I discovered, to my surprise, that their company felt just as familiar as the room. I told them about my struggle to build a full life in Australia, so far away from everything that made up the old me
I’d been in a fight with English ever since I came to Australia. Something as trivial as ordering a coffee at a café was a struggle for me at first. I’d always prepare the sentence I was going to say in my head before attempting to let it roll off my tongue. And much to my frustration, it never rolled. The overthinking tongue tied me, and I stumbled upon syllables of unfamiliar words as they made their way out of my mouth. On the other hand, my relationship with my native tongue had always been a love affair. I adored its beautiful words and my flawless ability to let them out into the world. But now it seemed like my tongue had become caught in between two languages.
bench table near the rink. They sat across from me, next to each other, and I sat by myself: a fair representation of our current dynamic. A noise from one of the nearby food stands distracted me, and I looked away just as one of them asked me a question.
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The sentiment of her words didn’t root in me at first, but the seed of a new perspective had been planted. I slowly realised that I’d been too busy clinging to my old life to see that new opportunities were emerging all around me, just waiting for me to grasp them. Christmas had proved that I couldn’t stuff Denmark into my suitcase and that I wasn’t meant to. The vacant space was there to be filled by something new. The old, I would always carry inside.
‘This is a chance,’ she said, ‘to build something new; to be whomever you want to be.’
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Then, one of them told me something wise.
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She blushed; feeling like an animal on display.
‘Yes, Uncle Billy.’
‘S Sorry, Uncle Billy,’ she stammered, ‘and y yes, Aunt Cissy said to come down ...’
‘Come in then,’ he said, in a distinctly unwelcoming tone, gesturing to a comfortable chair near the window. ‘I suppose Cissy told you to come down, did she?’
Jessica nodded, trying to make herself as small as possible as she settled awkwardly into the armchair. Billy frowned.
To make matters worse, her Aunt Cissy wasn’t there when she arrived. Instead, Uncle Billy and Uncle Tom were sitting together in two of the armchairs, talking quietly to each other. They broke off quickly as Jessica approached and she felt their hostility. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should leave and wait for her aunt, but Billy gestured at her irritably and she didn’t dare disobey.
Juliana Byers
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Billy made a frustrated noise, clearly irritated by his sister’s insistence that their niece be present in his parlour.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said meekly, looking at her shoes. ‘Mrs Marks hasn’t finished any of the new dresses yet.’
‘Then why isn’t she with you?’
‘Speak up, girl,’ he snapped, and Jessica jumped as if he’d cracked a whip at her.
‘After tea, you are to tell the maid that I want her to look out some of Cissy’s old gowns and she is to adjust them to fit you before teatime tomorrow,’ Billy ordered severely. ‘You are never to wear that thing in my presence ever again.’
The sun was streaming in through the windows of the parlour when Jessica Cobb came down for tea. Despite her trip to the dressmaker yesterday, she wore the same plain, brown dress and heavy utilitarian boots she’d arrived in two days ago, as none of the new gowns had been finished yet. She entered the gleaming room, feeling judged by the marble fireplace and gold tasselled armchairs, and hating how the luxurious Persian rug muffled the sound of her boots across the heavy oak floorboards. She felt like a turd on one of the starched white tablecloths, waiting for a servant to come and sweep her away.
A Little Purple Cake
‘Of course she did.’ He paused, looking his niece up and down, before he added, ‘And I thought I said I never wanted to see that awful frock again?’
‘She told me yesterday to come down at four ...’
‘What are you here for?’ he asked them fondly, and Jessica felt a stab of jealousy. Why couldn’t he speak to her with the same kindness? ‘Come to steal tea, have you?’
‘Oh, um, s sort of.’ She blushed, wondering if she’d been rude.
‘I doubt it,’ Tom said, turning to face his sister, ‘not if Billy’s feeling soft ...’
‘I’ve never had tea before,’ Jessica admitted. Cissy gave a rather knowing smile. ‘Well, you must take your time and savour it.’
‘Sort of?’ Cissy asked, looking mildly bemused, ‘either you’re hungry or you aren’t.’
‘I’ve told you I don’t like having those damn animals in here.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ he said, sounding more offended than was called for under the circumstances, but Tom was a match for him.
Seeming satisfied with her submission, Billy turned away and said no more, but Tom, who had been watching his niece with a piercing, almost violating gaze, spoke up.
‘My Mama used to say that’ Jessica said, looking at Tom uncertainly.
Billy turned to look at his brother like he was mad.
Jessica wasn’t sure how to respond to this and the uncomfortable conversation was ended by the arrival of Washington and Liberty, Billy’s old Irish Setters. The dogs padded hopefully into the drawing room and Billy looked at them in good natured exasperation.
‘They came for tea.’
Lawrence set the tea tray down on the table and began to pour, while Matthew waited patiently with the platter of sandwiches and cakes that Jessica was itching to try. She caught his eye and couldn’t help grinning. The young man grinned in return.
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Cissy had arrived. She discarded her hat and gloves with no regard for the expensive ribbon and lace adorning them, then pulled her hatpins out of her greying hair with a sigh of relief and threw them carelessly onto a nearby table. She glared at Liberty and Washington with distaste and Billy looked back at her with a placid smile.
‘You look like your grandmother, Jessica,’ he said softly.
‘The single truth your mother ever told, I’m sure,’ Tom said dryly.
‘I’m sure they did,’ Cissy said darkly, lowering herself into a chair beside Jessica. She gave her niece a warm smile before turning back to her brother, ‘Will there be any left for us?’
The playful argument between the siblings was ended by the arrival of Mr. Lawrence, the butler, and Matthew, the young footman. Both were carrying trays filled with delectable looking sweets and Jessica felt her mouth water. She’d seen tea being prepared before, but she’d never been allowed to try the little cakes and pastries, arranged in perfect circles on the tiered platters. Such things were not for the enjoyment of young girls working in laundries.
Tom noticed. ‘Are you hungry, Jessica?’
‘Don’t act blind, Billy,’ Tom replied. ‘Cissy and Harry always looked like Mama; Jessica has it too.’
‘I am not soft!’ Billy declared, although his eyes were twinkling, ‘and why shouldn’t Liberty and Washington enjoy the finer things in life?’
‘As long as we’re not trapped here for hours,’ Billy muttered.
In pride of place, on the top tier of the platter, was a small, purple cake, delicately iced and topped with a beautiful sugar spun flower. Billy reached for it, placing his teacup down in front of him, only to withdraw his hand sharply with a yelp as Cissy rapped him over the knuckles with the sugar tongs.
‘What was that for?’ he demanded, shaking his hand angrily to try and ease the pain.
Looking as though he might like to strangle his sister, Billy motioned for Jessica to help herself in a gesture that was barely polite.
Cissy raised an eyebrow.
‘Don’t you dare give that cake to your wretched dogs, Billy,’ Cissy warned, waving the sugar tongs threateningly, ‘not when it’s Jessica’s first afternoon tea.’
‘Please tell me that you were not about to start an argument over a vanilla cake.’ Cissy blushed deeply and took an overly large gulp of tea to try and disguise it, while Billy looked guiltily down at Washington and scratched his ears. Liberty, jealous of the attention, pushed her brother aside with a whine and was rewarded with an extra scratch herself. Satisfied he’d made his point, Tom decided to let them off the hook.
‘That’s vanilla,’ she told her brother. ‘Since when did you like vanilla?’
‘But you’re right, I don’t like vanilla.’
Billy muttered something that everyone in the room chose to ignore, and Lawrence handed teacups to the siblings and Jessica. His job done, he allowed Matthew to set the silver platter down on the table. The two servants then stood back unobtrusively, waiting against the wall until they were needed again.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
Tom gave both his siblings a long suffering look.
Cissy gave Billy a particularly nasty look and pulled the tray closer to Jessica. Terrified as she was of antagonising her uncle, the excitement of being able to take whatever she wanted from the plates before her was too much to ignore.
‘Go on then,’ he snapped at his niece, as if it had been she who hit him, ‘before your aunt has an apoplexy.’
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He reached over and, with obviously exaggerated care, picked up the little purple cake. Despite having had his eye on it, Billy’s pride had prevented him from taking it after Cissy had struck him and he watched his brother with a steely eye.
‘If your horrid dogs are allowed to enjoy tea, then Jessica is quite entitled to do the same,’ Cissy replied.
Not wanting to seem greedy she took only one item from each tier, although avoided the little purple cake in favour of a cream coloured one with a small, glazed cherry on top. After that, the siblings helped themselves and there was a strained silence for a few minutes before Tom decided to lighten the mood.
‘Enjoying afternoon tea,’ Tom declared.
‘Nothing; vanilla is boring and unpleasant ...’
‘Yes,‘Thomas!’Cecilia?’
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Tom gave his brother a look of utter exasperation.
‘It was a cake, Billy. A little. Purple. Cake.’
‘What is wrong with you?’
‘You can’t take a bite out of something and put it back!’ Tom looked delighted with himself.
‘Ah, but Billy, I just did.’
‘That is not what Cissy meant and you know it.’
Unable to control herself, Jessica burst out laughing.
With that, he plucked the little sugar spun flower from the top and popped it in his mouth, before shamelessly licking the little cake clean of icing. Then, without the slightest hint of remorse, he put the now naked sweet back on the tray and gave a satisfied belch. Jessica wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or delighted by this, and only just managed to suppress the giggles which bubbled up. Billy and Cissy, on the other hand, looked scandalised.
He gave his sister an innocent smile.
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Consequence
‘Those horses would’ve been useful now!’ I panted, ‘we could have traversed more quickly!’‘They would have died off forty miles ago! Do not worry, we are making good time. Most would have given in and turned back hours ago!’
Darkness. Infinite darkness. I forced my eyes open to marvel at the vast void of deep space. Curse that witch for granting my wish and condemning me to this accursed existence. How many years have passed since that terrible day? How much time have I lost? Are these stars? I close my eyes. I want to end it; I pray for a quick death. Curse that witch.
‘I will go no further,’ he said. ‘The witch has forbidden me. I guide only.’ I looked into his eyes and saw fear. I was shocked. My informants told me he was the greatest warrior on
‘How much further?!’ I shouted over the wind.
‘Then I would strip your corpse for your valuables!’ He shouted back, his amusement seeping through over the wind. It then began to die down and we could hear each more clearly.
‘My ghost would torment you till the end of your days!’ I spat venomously. He let out a deep laugh.
‘I’ll be dead and buried before turning back!’ I said with as much conviction as I could muster.
‘I would welcome your company,’ he said, more cheerfully than I had ever heard him speak.An hour passed, and the entire valley had plunged into darkness. The night sky was brightened by both stars and green and purple rivers of light. Soon the blizzard had ended.
Sam Harris
Snow covered every inch of the entire valley.
‘Only half a mile!’ Grimta answered. I paused, allowing him to pass by. I shuffled after him, trying to keep up. We’d been walking for eight hours, and I could not see any real progress made.
‘How much further?’ I asked, blinking the last remnants of snow from my eyes. He pointed at a wood hut in front of us. ‘Excellent. Shall we?’
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‘You must be the witch who grants wishes … for a price that is,’ I said with a smile.
Her eyes widened, ‘Payment?’
‘You’ll wait for me?’ I asked cautiously.
I paused, Grimta did not even know my name. I took a deep breath. ‘Payment first.’
The hut was warm as I entered. The carpeted floor squelched, the heat from the fireplace melting the snow from my boots. In front of me there was a small table with chairs surrounding it. Behind it stood the most breathtakingly beautiful woman whom I had ever set eyes upon. Her face was marred by an expression of superior disdain. My blood boiled at her dismissiveness of me, but I schooled my features and bowed respectfully.
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‘I would rather not become your servant as Grimta clearly is.’ I said, smiling reassuringly. Her face immediately went blank.
‘Nandini is my name, and I am a sorceress,’ she said. ‘Grimta is an animal. A stinking, disgusting animal.’ She gave a sly smirk, and regained her composure, before gracefully sliding into the chair. I bowed again and sat across from her.
She held the angry expression on her face a moment longer, then relaxed. Straightening herself up, her voice became melodic and soft.
the entire continent, yet he was afraid. I paid my informants well and I was in the right place. Good.
‘I apologise.’ I said, bowing my head. ‘It was not my intention to cast doubt on your character.’ She looked at me for a minute and gave a slight nod.
‘I apologise Madame,’ I said, attempting to be charming. ‘My guide referred to you in such a way. How am I to address you?’
‘I. Am. Not. A. Witch!’ She furiously spat.
‘Do you believe I would demand an unreasonably high payment and punish you if you cannot meet it?’ She asked slyly.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I would like to know exactly what’s needed from me before you grant my wish.’ I smiled my most charming smile at her. She didn’t look impressed.
Her smirk faded and her nut brown face darkened.
‘What is your wish, Turan?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied sternly. ‘Time out here and in there are not the same.’ He continued, ‘I will return once a day until you appear again. For my payment.’ He glared viciously leaving the threat hanging. I scoffed indignantly. I always keep my word, and much more importantly my debts. Grimta gave a nod of satisfaction and turned his back and walked away. I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, and strode toward the hut.
‘The payment will be what you value most. Grimta’s was his freedom. I don’t deceive. Magic is not free for me so why should it be for you?’
‘My word is my bond. Once given it must be kept. Give me your most prized possession and I will grant your wish,’ she said, smiling seductively. I reached into my pocket and pulled out four rings. She raised her eyebrow. ‘This is what you value most? Not fortune or family?’
‘Wouldn’t you rather I brought your family back?’ she asked, pleadingly.
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Her features contorted into an expression of fury.
‘I want to live forever, never to age or be affected by sickness and harm.’ I said with all my resolve. She stared at me and sighed deeply.
‘These are my most prized possessions.’ I said, allowing anger into my raising voice. ‘I have given them to you. Now grant my wish. Your word is your bond. Isn’t it?’
‘You have given your word. To go back on it now …’ I trailed off. She grew stiff. I grinned smugly. ‘I already told you. I am a negotiator. No negotiator goes into a negotiation without all the relevant details at his disposal.’
She continued to glare, saying nothing.
‘You will never die or age. Nor know sickness, nor harm.’ She looked me right in the eye. ‘But the pain will remain. When this earth is no more you will be all that remains of existence.’ Light returned as she turned her back on me and gazed into the fire.
‘No. I will find a way.’ I said to her back. She said nothing, her back still turned to me. ‘Good day to you. Witch.’ I spat at her leaving the hut. As I exited into the snow, I saw Grimta waiting.
‘Nevertheless, you will grant me this.’ She shook her head.
‘Negotiation or manipulation?’ she venomously spat.
She nodded grabbing them up. ‘They are sufficient. What is your wish?’
‘I’m the manipulative one, am I?!’ I spat equally as venomously, jumping up from my seat as she had. ‘You’re the one who demands people’s freedoms, wives and lives as payment.’Sheglared at me. ‘Get. Out!’
The hut grew dark. Nandini straightened her back and projected her voice throughout the hut.
In equal vigour, I answered, ‘Not without my wish!’
‘Fine.’ She said, her voice spiteful. ‘You want to live forever Turan? Then you shall.’
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Immortality.’ She looked up shocked.
‘Once there were those who gained what you seek. What they became …’ She trailed off. ‘In order to end what you’ll become my descendants will be sacrificed to destroy you.’ She said, pushing the rings towards me.
‘I am not some small waif you can intimidate into acquiescing to your demand!’ She screamed, standing so abruptly that her chair toppled over.
‘No fortune left. My family is dead. These rings are the last remnants of them. They died from a plague while I was off negotiating peace.’ I looked down at the rings, then up at Nandini. ‘Is that good enough for you?’
‘What would be the point of bringing them back?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘So that my daughter and I can watch each other die?’ Nandini was growing uncomfortable. ‘Why? Am I really the first to wish for this?’ She gazed at the fire for a moment before turning back to me.
‘I found a way.’ I rasp.
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Darkness. Infinite darkness. I see a bright flash beyond my closed eyelids. I open them. In front of me is a behemoth of metal floating amongst the stars. Its gravitational force pulling me towards it. Giant flashes of burning light shoot out at something behind me. The structure is within arm's reach. I grasp onto a built in ladder and climb up. I come to a door with a wheelAshandle.Iopen it the hiss of trapped air escapes. I enter the small room and close the door behind me. As I turn the wheel closed, the room lights up and gravity and heat returns. I breathe air for the first time since I can remember. I turn around and see a window, looking out I see the space and stars that I had spent the centuries, nay the millennia, floating in. I turn and see a green button flashing. I press it and the wall slides open.
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His lips are blue.
‘
‘
She was a difficult child,’ Mum says, refusing to look at me though I’m sitting only meters away, staring at her, 'she believes she was abused.’
The jury shuffles in their seats, their gaze is torn between me and Mum, a tear drops from her chin. I clench my teeth.
‘
Mrs Grant’, the lawyer begins, shuffling his papers. ‘We’re here today to determine your daughter’s character, Miss Grace Grant. How is your relationship with your daughter?’
Keely Naylon
I pretend I am home. I pretend I am home, and my mother is drunk, and I am small. I pretend I am home, and my mother is drunk, and my tooth lies bloody on the couch. I pretend I am home. I pretend I am gone.
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Front Tooth
And why is that?’
Grace,’ Claire moans, her hand colliding with my shoulder, shaking me. ‘Grace, we have to call the police. Grace.’
‘I’ve never laid a hand on her.’ I swallow back bile.
I am 14 and Mum is drunk. She waves a permission slip in the air violently, the paper begins to tear, I sit still. She yells. She calls me selfish. She calls me idiotic. She calls me irresponsible. I sit still and I wait, and I listen. She yells until I cry. I run, I hide beneath the covers of my bed, I wait. Mum slips in beside me. She holds me tight. She cries. She says
Mum clears her throat shakily. ‘Estranged, sir.’
Claire is frantic beside me, her breathing distracting, hissing in and out. I focus on it. The shaking, heaving breaths. I pretend her breaths are moving his chest and I pretend his lips are blue from nicotine. I pretend his blood isn’t ruining my jeans. I pretend I am home. I wish I was home.
‘
My mum sits on the witness stand. She sits still but her hand is shaking as she lifts a crumpled tissue to her mouth, stifling a cough.
‘Mrs Grant, as Grace’s mother, do you believe your daughter could be violent?’
She hits her brothers often. Gave them black eyes, broken noses. I have to pull her off them. She’s not allowed in my home.’
‘Her friends deny these claims?’ The lawyer asks, and Mum nods again. She isn’t grinding her teeth. I close my eyes and try to picture it. I close my eyes and try to imagine the tooth. If the tooth isn’t real, I have nothing. I have nothing.
I feel dizzy. She keeps talking, telling lies (are they lies?).
When Mum lies, she grinds her teeth. Her front teeth are short. When Mum smiles, they stand out, ground down to nubs. She isn’t grinding her teeth.
22
‘
‘
I am 16 and Mum is drunk and screaming. I am cowering in my room. I hear her footsteps thundering down the hall, rapid fire, like gunshots, echoing off the white walls. She skips my room. My heart sinks. Next door my brother screams, he sobs, he shoves. I curl into a ball. ‘Don’t be a coward’, I think, ‘please, please, please. Don’t be a coward.’ I am.
‘Grace lost her two front teeth this afternoon, pulling them out herself. She claims to have placed them in a ‘safe place’ in her bag but was unable to find them again when asked.’ The lawyer nods, as though considering, as though each word he says hasn’t been planned and rehearsed.
No, I am confused, I must be confused. She did that. She must be lying. I am not sure she is lying. She does that.
‘
If my tooth isn’t real. If my memories are not real. I am not sure of anything. I am not sure I am innocent. I am not sure. I am not sure. I cannot see my tooth
‘
The story, about the tooth, is there evidence proving it false?’ the lawyer asks. Although he knows the answer. Mum nods and the lawyer lays a paper on the desk before her. He asks Mum to read it and she does. Her voice is clear and steady. She isn’t grinding her teeth. I can’t see my tooth.
She told her friends, her school friends, this ridiculous story. That I’d get her drunk, let her friends get drunk. That I’d beat her so badly her tooth came out.’
Would you say she has a habit of lying?’ The lawyer asks, and Mum nods. The lawyer presses further. ‘Could you describe an example?’
she’s sorry. She begs for forgiveness. I tell her I forgive her. I stroke her hair. In the morning the permission slip sits on the benchtop. Signed. My birthdate is wrong.
‘She is violent,’ Mum says without hesitation, without blinking.
The court hushes, papers ruffle, chairs squeak.
The man wasn’t anyone I knew. I called Mum from the police station. I sobbed down the phone. I had expected sympathy. I didn’t know who else to call. When in danger, you call your mum. When you're scared, you call your mum. Even if she is what scares you. She has never liked me moving away. Mum likes to keep her secrets close and I am her worst keptIsecret.keeptelling stories.
She nods, watching me.
Oh! Yes.’ Mum nods, her hand resting over the tooth, her pointer and thumb caressing it between them, rolling the tooth gently up and down.
‘
‘
I found the man seconds after he was murdered. He bled so much my jeans dripped when I finally stood. I pulled out the knife. It was my fault he died. I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want him to die. I am not found guilty, but I am sent away to hospital. I am a compulsive liar. I am dangerous.
‘Yes.’ She says, finally. ‘I do.’
Mine?’ I ask, my heart fluttering, flattered, warmed. Yet guilt compounds still. Seeing her makes my chest ache. It feels wrong to let her love me. I wish she would visit less, though that thought makes my stomach turn.
Mum swallows audibly, heavy, hard. Is she scared? Of me?
That’s what I’m told.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I whisper, reaching forward. She clasped my hand in hers. Her palm cold against my knuckles. ‘Is it a front tooth?’
23
Hm?’ She asks, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight, uninhibited by her usual glasses, ‘Is it real?’ I ask. Pointing.
‘Do you think,’ the lawyer continues. ‘That Grace could be capable of murder?’
I lean forward, smiling ‘Oh, that’s pretty.’
‘Yours, actually.’
Mum sits across from me and she is beautiful. Her hair is curled, freshly blonde, it bounces when she laughs, when she speaks, when she leans forward and grips my hand in hers and squeezes. It makes my bones ache. She visits twice a week. She’s my only visitor. There’s a new necklace resting on her chest. A dainty golden chain, and a small tooth, a front tooth, dangling sweetly.
‘
I can’t remember.
I can see my tooth. I can see my tooth.
My front tooth, I thought, head spinning. I remember finding an extra two dollars waiting for me the morning after I lost them. They were the special teeth, the ones that symbolizes youth and childhood, the ones everyone has a story about. I suddenly still. The warmth fading as the cool reminder settles in my bones. My story doesn’t match. My palms grow wet with sweat.
I start to pull my hand away and Mum grips it tighter, so tight my knuckles press together, it begins to ache again, this time I wince.
Her nails dig into my skin. Her eyes are hard, the blue sharp as ice now, cold.
‘Mum, that hurts ’
‘But … Mum,’
I can’t see her anymore. I can feel it again. Feel my face pummelled into the couch cushions, the material rubbing harshly against my skin, the crochet blanket marking my face to match. I can feel her weight above me, on top of me, her hand on the back of my head, squeezing. I can feel my tooth catching on the blanket, feel her hand yanking me upwards. I can taste the blood in my mouth and the salty snot and tears.
‘
Her lips are still stretched in a smile. An old fear curls in my stomach as I look at her. Liquid hot and burning, bubbling up my throat. I drop my gaze, avoiding hers. I feel sick.
Yes, you do.’ She said, leaning closer, blood curling under her neatly manicured nails. ‘I do too.’
I shake my head, though I did know, or I had thought I did. The burn in my throat turns to heaving retches, my body jerks in my chair, I cannot pull away and Mum is disappearing into memory. The chair screeches as I pull, my shoulder aches as I attempt to yank myself away yet still Mum clings on.
24
‘You did.’ She answers, still smiling. ‘One of them.’
I shake my head. ‘No, no, I swear it was both. Mum?’
‘I … I thought … I lost those at school. I did … didn’t I? I … I swear I lost them at school.’ I try to look up at her, but I can’t tear my eyes from the tooth.
‘Just one,’ Mum said, her voice sweet. ‘Don’t you remember how you lost the other one?’
I falter, blinking.
25
Later, Talia stepped into the turbo lift that delivered her to the ground floor of her apartment complex. The ground level of the biodome where Talia lived was filled with cafes,
He nodded, peering over his schematics. He looked up briefly.
‘Still at it?’ she asked, a note of irritation in her voice. ‘Gotta get this done before the storm.’ he mumbled. She glanced at their kitchenette and saw the dishes piled up and repressed a sigh. Talia knew she would have to take care of them later.
‘Do you want me to go to the shops after work?’ she stammered, desperate for a wisp of conversation.
26
‘No, but I want to go outside to the Cove,’ Talia replied, moving towards the large, curved window of their apartment, staring out at the rolling waves. They were higher than normal. Her eyes narrowed.
‘You thought that last year too. Weren’t they normal in the end?’ ‘They’ve been off for the past three years’ she thought bitterly.
The Storm
‘Are you going into work today?’ he asked her.
‘I want to look at the weather instruments to double check the readings … some of the numbers are … concerning.’ she said, turning to Michael.
She sleepily stumbled into the main room of the apartment she shared with her husband of 12 years, Michael. She found him hunched over a laptop, engineering schematics strewn all over the table.
Talia awoke again to an empty bed.
Already she was tired.
Amanda Simpson
‘No. I can do it.’ Michael replied, brusquely. ‘Ok.’ Talia felt awkward talking to him. It was like they were just passing in the street.
‘I better get ready then. I’ll talk to you later?’ ‘Sure.’
‘Last minute adjustments?’ she asked. He grunted softly, not raising his head.
She padded to the bathroom, and silently cried in the shower.
‘There were some … abnormalities.’ she replied magnanimously. Michael nodded. Talia stared at the back of his head, waiting for more, her heart sinking.
27
Black humanoid shapes, with glowing green eyes, jumping from the wall of the storm into the cresting waves.
Outside, it was humid, but not oppressively hot, so Talia decided to walk to the Cove, rather than take the auto taxi. As she walked, she saw ground crews preparing to send curated trees that lined the small streets to the underground, readying for the cyclone. A gust of wind blew, whipping up Talia’s brown curly hair. She held her thick mane as she walked.
Something dark was approaching.
Talia adjusted the focus on the binoculars. There were … Talia couldn’t almost bring herself to think it … shadows in the cyclone. Humanoid shapes, with glowing green eyes.
Something terrifying was approaching.
As Talia moved towards the City exit (after bidding her husband goodbye with an awkward peck, the chaste kiss further tightening the anxious knot in her stomach) she reflected on how she normally looked forward to sheltering.
clothing, and grocery stores. Today, there was a buzz among the morning crowds as people made last minute arrangements for the storm that was coming in tomorrow. People excitedly compared their plans for the six week sheltering while grabbing last minute provisions. Talia’s job for the past decade had been tracking the storms that hit the City, and along with her department, had been able to pinpoint the exact timing of storm season. A grateful City government acted on their warnings: only the bare minimum movement within individual City domes and none outside.
They were rising early. And if that were the case, it would mean the storm would arrive early, when people were not fully prepared
But not today. Today, there was a heavy dread.
She rifled through her bag that carried her weather drone and found a pair of binoculars and trained her gaze on the horizon for a better look at the slow moving storm in the far distance. Squinting, she could see the mammoth dark grey wall of the cyclone. And … something else.
Talia took a sharp intake of breath. She looked again.
The winds would only get stronger in the next hours.
‘This is insane.’ Talia thought.
She arrived at the top of the Cove, looking out to the sea. Blue green waves were already breaking against the shore, confirming what she suspected.
The data Talia and her team produced saved millions of lives across the six biodomes, and with gratitude, Talia and her colleagues were treated with reverence by the City. They were rewarded with the best apartments with ocean views, high up away from storm surges on the top floors in the biodomes. Reduced rent, extended electricity ration, and beef … delicious beef. Talia and Michael always got an extra portion during the storm, and Michael made a warming, slow cooked stew. It had become something of a sheltering ritual.
Her phone buzzed in her gear bag, distracting her from the disturbing images.
She approached the counter, and gingerly took the cup, aware of the jealous glares from other customers.
How she wanted to blurt out her fears to Sharm. But Talia just shrugged and rolled her eyes.
Talia’s heart skipped a beat.
‘I I have to go to a meeting now,’ she stammered, ‘but this coffee is amazing. Have a great sheltering, uh, see you at the celebrations after!’ Talia quickly made to leave, her awkwardness flushing her cheeks.
‘I can’t wait!’ Sharm replied, waving at Talia’s hurriedly retreating figure.
‘Dr Britland.’ she answered.
Cows were an endangered species. They were grown in one of the other domes and the milk was considered one of the rarest foodstuffs in the City, and it was ridiculously hard to get.
‘You … you don’t like it?’ Sharm asked tentatively.
‘Professor, it’s Maya.’ it was one of her PHD students, ‘the team ran your numbers, and there are … crazy readings!’ Talia looked at the distant storm, ‘we really need you to come in for a meeting and double check them.’ She could hear the concern in Maya’s voice. ‘I’ll be in shortly.’ Talia replied, packing up her gear, and grabbed an auto Taxi to the University dome.
‘There you are!’ a young Barista with long dark hair shouted excitedly from a coffee cart, that was on the University ground floor near the entrance as Talia entered through the large glass doors; she was beaming at Talia and holding a cup out for her, ‘I’ve got a long black with cold milk for you. It’s cow’s milk!’
Talia's meteorology department was on the top floor of the campus. The windows of Talia’s office faced towards the desert, away from the coast. It had once been a forest, but due to a series of ferocious bushfires over 150 years ago- combined with the harvesting of the burnt landscape in its wake it was now a brown, brackish desert. The biome in the centre of the University ground scraper part of the City was dedicated to flora and fauna from that time.
28
‘Thank you, Sharm,’ Talia said warmly. ‘I knew you’d like it,’ Sharm grinned. They had always traded a little flirty banter, a bit of fun. Talia took a sip of the smooth, milky coffee, and felt a rush of relaxation. But then a flash of the figures in the storm appeared in her mind, and fear washed through her.
‘No, it’s wonderful. I just have …’
‘The storm … y’know …’ she mumbled, wavering her hand to indicate the shelter in place commotion that everyone grumbled about every year. Sharm nodded and laughed lightly.
How was she going to tell people what she saw?
She placed her bag and coffee onto the table, and sat at her desk, and swivelled her chair towards the open window, feeling the cooling breeze coming from the storm wafting in. She checked her watch; she was running late. She was sure that some on the staff wouldn’t be happy with that, given how little she was in the office. Still, she remained in her chair.
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ she replied, dismissively.
She had worked hard: staying back long hours, ripping apart her marriage, her health, all the while they laughed and went out for drinks at fancy bars; using the privileges that her arduous work had won for them.
Damn it, she was going to make William wait
But the worst thing would be that she would no longer be able to do her research. Over a decade of work gone. She would be bereft.
29
If she announced this to her team, and she was wrong, they were going to crucify her. Her and Michael would lose all their privileges. No more spacious apartments, red wine stew or pure cow’s milk lattes served by pretty young Baristas.
She was not going to be the laughing stock to the small group of people waiting impatiently outside her door.
Her assistant, William, knocked on her open door.
Her mind turned back to the figures she saw this morning and wondered the best approach to share what she had experienced: Talia was a scientist, she had to report the facts as she saw them. But what she saw defied any scientific consensus.
If what she had seen earlier today was true, she would handle it herself.
Talia stood up defiantly and left her office for the meeting.
Talia resolved herself. She had to lie.
There was too much at stake.
‘Ready for the meeting?’ he asked curtly. She sighed.
Talia was almost positive that William was undermining her at every turn, but she just couldn’t prove it. His tone made her hairs stand up on the back of her neck.
Talia rubbed her eyes.
30
31
Red lightning violently and forcefully struck the earth with incredible speed, and the silver clouds shook with great turbulence. The icy winds were fierce and unwavering, as they did not distinguish between flesh or stone. He could hear the unsettling sound of trees being torn apart, creaking, and splintering into many pieces. The wind had managed to pull stones from the mud and throw them at great speed. Damascus had covered the girl in a cloak to protect her from the elements and then covered his face with a bandana.
Maevia, a girl of a distant land, did not speak his native language and had no means of defending herself. But he had witnessed her fortitude, the pain and hardship she had endured at the hands of her master, Aereus. Damascus had always despised the man, a gluttonous fool incapable of mustering the strength to lift a single finger. Cruel by nature and incredibly shallow, Aereus had a violent reputation within the Patrician courts as a barbaric egotist with great wealth, but he was far from the worst. Damascus could not understand how the sight of this girl, the property of an imperial citizen, had made him make such a decision. To abandon his life as a loyal, law abiding man with no criminal history for a life of crime and punishment.Hehadseen
Jack. A Walsh
Even as he moved through the dense storm, he couldn’t understand the reasoning behind his decisions, it simply made no sense. Dense rainfall continued to fall, and he found himself struggling to manoeuvre through the darkness with Maevia on his back as the relentless rainwater fell from the skies above. He had come back to the present, and the muddy earth beneath him appeared to have become even more treacherous. His footing had been greatly hindered by the terrain and it seemed to be getting more difficult with each step. Maevia
The rain would not stop, and the daylight would weaken with every step. He had travelled for days with the girl, eager to get her beyond the border of the very Empire he had been loyal to for his entire life. In one move Damascus had managed to sever all ties to the most powerful civilisation the world had seen. All for a slave girl that he himself had no real knowledge of, aside from a name and her incredible resilience.
slaves beheaded, beaten, and fed to bloodthirsty cave lions in the Gladiatorial Games, but somehow this girl had made him abandon his fealty. He had been branded a criminal for saving Maevia from a monster and fled from the capital with as much haste as possible. While his thoughts where indeed conflicted, he found himself pondering his decision to forfeit his life as a citizen and rescue a single slave.
Refuge & Struggle
Damascus was perplexed, ‘What ... are you doing?’ he said.
a stray bolt of lightning could be this devastating, he dreaded to imagine the full power of such a dangerous deity. Damascus could feel a burning pain spreading within his body, and the scent of burning leather filled the air as a plume of steam rose from his body. If it were not for his faith in Black Magic, he would have died many years ago.
The magical lightning passed straight though him and travelled deep within the ground beneath him.
Yet another lightning strike produced another blast of feint light, and he saw that the girl had lowered her arm and was already starting to gesture for him to carry her once more. He obliged, but had no idea what Maevia …
Maevia spoke softly and in an unknown language. She quickly climbed down from Damascus, who could only faintly see her in the darkness; walking, kneeling and then standing before him. He was not sure what she was doing, but the shimmering light from a distant lightning strike briefly revealed her expression. Damascus caught a glimpse of an exhausted girl with tears in her eyes, and a fiery expression that he had not seen before. The light faded and the world became dark again, and Damascus suddenly felt a small, cold hand pressing directly at his forehead.
At this point anything would do. He scanned his surroundings in desperation for something, anything …
Extreme pain suddenly engulfed his whole body, originating from the centre of his forehead directly where Maevia pressed her finger. For several moments he lost his ability to see entirely and began seeing images of unknown people and places he had never been before. He witnessed an enormous stone tablet made of solid gold emerge from a sea of molten gold, and the shining text upon the tablet was written in an unrecognisable language with letters that appeared to be moving.
A sudden explosion of red light caught him off guard as a stray bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree, staggering him with a powerful blast of stray electricity and cold wind. Maevia let out a shriek of terror as Damascus struggled to keep his footing and fell to his knees, where he paused for a moment. Lesser men would have undoubtedly died from such a blast, and he reminded himself to never insult the Red Magician, lord of lightning and master of wrath.If
‘Girl are you alive?’ he said in a strained voice as he slowly regained his strength and pulling himself up from the ground.
32
started to shiver, the cold winds were clearly having an effect on her. Little could be done however, and he pressed onward with the intention of finding refuge in a secluded location. Perhaps a cave? Maybe an abandoned house?
‘WHAT … WHAT IS THIS?!’ Damascus bellowed, his voice echoing through the clouds.The sun opened its mouth and let out a terrifying roar so loud that several comets fell from the clouds above. Damascus was petrified with what he was seeing … and then suddenly, he awoke. His eyes opened. The sun had disappeared, and his surroundings had changed. Damascus found himself lying on a wooden floor, staring up at a wooden ceiling within an interior he did not recognise.
Damascus turned around to see Maevia standing before them. Her eyes blazing with anger, she appeared to be fine. Her slave clothes had been swapped out with a small, white
‘Who are you? Where are we?’ he demanded. The elderly woman started to breath heavily, and she replied softly. ‘I found you out in the meadow, I saw that you n needed …’ ‘Stop!’ cried out an unfamiliar voice.
Damascus looked around at his surroundings, he was no longer kneeling in a muddy field somewhere beyond the borders of the Empire. He found himself levitating in a void of golden clouds, and Maevia could not be seen anywhere. What was he seeing? It was unlike anything he could comprehend; he had studied magic his entire life and nothing mentioned anything that aligned with what he was witnessing. Bright yellow light shined directly down from the sky above, he looked up and to his horror he saw the sun. An enormous, eyeless maw of razor sharp teeth, made entirely of golden fire and driven by a ravenous hunger. The vile creature written in history books and labelled as a myth. Damascus had always assumed it had been nothing more than a story, that the tales of how the Magicians covered the world in a veil of silver clouds to protect the world from the wrath of the sun.
The room was well lit, with several candles on the walls and a blazing chandelier overhead. Where was he? Damascus pulled himself up from the floor, placing a hand on his head. He got to his feet and scanned his surroundings. It was unclear if he was in a single room building or a room within a larger structure, but the layout of the interior looked well lived, with furniture and even mugs visible on the counters. He was certainly not within any building of the Empire; the architecture was very different to anything he had seen before. He started to move around the room, and while he was evaluating his surroundings, he could see Maevia fast asleep on a nearby chair, a blanket placed upon her shoulders as she rested soundly. Damascus was about to call out to her before the door suddenly opened, and almost out of sheer instinct, he dashed towards the doorway with his knife drawn as an elderly women entered with a ceramic plate of food. She let out a gasp as Damascus placed the knife against her neck.
33
What could this mean? His heart began to race.
He looked back to Maevia, who had remained standing, not saying a word.
woollen cloak that would certainly draw less attention. Damascus was glad to see her fine, but he couldn’t let his guard down.
34
‘I SAID STOP!’ screamed the voice, and to his shock, Damascus realised that the second voice had come from Maevia, who was speaking in his own language with almost perfect fluency; he was bewildered by what he was seeing and shaken by what he had seen.
‘… I … Where are we?’ He asked sharply as he lowered his knife. With heaving breathing, she looked over Maevia, and then back to Damascus. She cleared her throat and spoke softly.
‘Maevia? Is that the name of your daughter? She was frantic. Akulov had to have our eldest bring you indoors.’
‘My husband Akulov found you on our lands, he brought you in and put you here. I came to check on you, we have supper ready.’
‘Whoever said that, come out now or the old woman dies!’ he called, baring his teeth, and snarling like a feral dog
The room fell quiet in a moment of solidarity, Damascus could hear the distant sounds thundering rain battering and whistling winds from outside. In silence, and with the elderly women still at knifepoint, he briefly turned his attention to the elderly woman.
She was a short woman with a long gown and a coif. Her face appeared weathered and worn. Was she a nun? Was this a temple or shrine of some kind?
Whoever this woman was, she was no killer.
Damascus homed in on her eyes, and her terrified expression and dilated pupils told him everything he needed.
The elderly woman looked towards Maevia, still uncertain if she had made a terrible mistake and a poor decision.
Akulov, I know the difference between an imperial soldier and a struggling father!’
‘Put down your weapon, you damned fool.’ said a deep voice from behind. The sound of several swords being drawn from their scabbards filled the room, and with hesitation, Damascus complied.
Damascus stood still, deciding if it were best to seize the moment and grab Maevia. The windows on the walls hung just below knee level, but he had no way to determine if they were above ground level or several stories high.
‘Stasia! Step back, this man had a dagger to your neck! Look at his clothing, an imperial … you made a poor choice bringing them here.’
‘
‘ I erm apologies for the knife I it’s been a very challenging day,’ he said, still struggling to understand everything.
The woman nodded sternly, and with an agitated gesture, Akulov walked past Damascus.
The elderly woman clapped back at the voice.
‘
Akulov locked eyes with Damascus once more, clearly suspicious of him and his intentions, and then followed his wife through the doorway into an unseen corridor leading to an unspecified part of the building.
‘Hey ’ he blurted out. Unable to finish his sentence, as Maevia replied hastily before he could get another word in.
The meal is hot, join us when you are ready,’ said Stasia.
‘I am Damascus.’
He was forced to go along with her, and as they approached the hallway he was struck with the scent of cooked meat and wine. Several weeks living on soup and dry bread had seemingly dulled his sense of taste, as he felt an almost uncontrollable hunger.
Damascus sheathed his dagger and took Maevia by the hand, they wandered down the hall together.Faintsounds of laughter and music grew stronger with every step. The questions would have to wait, he needed a sturdy meal.
Talk? Yeah, we can finally understand each other.’
That couldn’t have been true, her slave notice said that she was a land on the other side of the world.
35
Damascus kneeled down to Maevia; she clearly spoke. Could she have understood him the whole time?
Maevia, did you ’ Before he could even finish his sentence, Maevia spoke.
Damascus was shocked. He didn’t know what to say.
‘
‘You know my name already, but what is yours?’ she asked. He paused for a moment.
Maevia nodded softly, he was not entirely sure what was going on. He stood up, and before he could ask any questions, he found himself being pulled by his sleeve by Maevia towards the hallway.
‘No time! They are kind people, and we can talk later! They have food!’ she said.
‘It’s lovely food,’ said Maevia. ‘Come on!’ she called, pulling his sleeve even tighter. He was forced to trust Maevia’s intuition, and perhaps it was for the best.
He would enjoy this moment for as long as he could, and perhaps it was even more important for Maevia.
He was an elderly man likely no older than his wife and carried in his hand a sharpened short sword. They moved towards the doorway before turning once more towards Maevia and Damascus.
‘
36
Soulscape
37
‘Ness, if I can’t see you please use your words, that could’ve been anyone trying to connect’. Ness grinned.
‘Lighten up Lonn! Not only is it date night but it’s a fucking miracle of evolution’. Lonny laughed. Ness always made him laugh.
Lonny found himself waiting under a blinking fluorescent light on the corner of Guryon and Janata. Between the blinks was the characteristic glow of neon shadow, where deep reds bled out the edge of silhouettes.
Charlie Yerondais
‘Ready for dinner?’ Lonny asked.
‘You read my mind.’ They crossed the street for carne di cavallo.
Where the fuck is she. Ness was characteristically late and Lonny early. They made plans to go to the holo club last night, but since then he hadn’t heard anything. He contemplated taking half a blue and reaching her but decided against it. He had been using too much since he landed, although she was undoubtedly high at the present. Waves of sound rebounded through the alleys. Reverberations of the crowd began to form and move as one, surging into the hellscape of New Ares. Lonny liked this corner because it was one people tended to avoid. The Sicilian barbecue and bar across the street, dealing in horse racing and the subsequent butchery and serving of the animal, kept anyone he knew away. Not to mention he was a sucker for horse meat. Boo. Ness was here.
Making their way through the lower district, Lonny got swept up by the atmosphere, as he always did. Ness was right at home. She was born on Mars, and nothing shocked her. Digital screeches from back alley slot parlours rolled into the swathes of people lining the street. Just ahead of them was a commotion involving two young pickpockets and some street thugs. Lonny grimaced, bracing for impact on their behalf. Ness just laughed. They passed the street corner preachers, raving mad about repentance in Spanglish to a horde of sinners longing for the lost blue skies of America. Earthen nostalgia hit Lonny that he immediately suppressed.Nessfelt it. Earth’s boring Lonn, that’s why you left. Look at this place! It couldn’t be denied. Low Town was dark, dirty, and unregulated. An uneasy mix of trouble and fun sat behind every corner. Everything Earth wasn’t. Couldn’t even get a drink past midnight by the time Lonny left. He relented, unzipping the baggie in his pocket and dry swallowing a blue. Better? No doubt.
‘Here for French Kisz, we’re on the holo jock’s list tonight chief’. The thumb, appropriately charmed, moved aside and revealed stairs descending into the void. Ness pushed them down the rabbit hole as the blue took off, making their way past love puddles and spilt drinks. The system was pumping deep and sexy, working the crowd into a trance. In the booth beside French Kisz was Glen Galactic, holo jock extraordinaire. Lonny settled into things, moving with the rhythms and trying to catch a groove. He visualised his internal dial and tried to slide it to the right channel. He got caught on the racket of thoughts bouncing around when Ness interjected.
38
Try behind the eyes.
She always knew the sweet spot. Dial locked in, right behind the eyes and above the bass, the holos came alive as the lows ruptured his innards. A full moon appeared above the dance floor, bright eyes in place of craters, giving Lonny suggestive looks. French Kisz worked some vocoder into the mix and the moon sparkled. There were only around 200 people in the club. All on blues, all on the same channel but with slight variations. The wasters in the sunken pit at the back left had their dial tilted deep into the bass, while the art crowd stuck to the bar keeping their dials open to dialogue. Lonny and Ness were on the floor, pressed against each other as the horde swelled and swayed as one. FK slowed shit right down as the night sky fell through the ceiling. Ness and Lonn tripped next to Orion's Belt while it pulsed with the beat.
Glen is fucking on tonight. The rhythms became so sparse that the galaxy seemed to lose interest, retreating back through the ceiling, leaving stardust which hovered between dancers and vibrated with the bass. Lonny reached out to the glittering specks that surrounded him. Touching the dust made it explode into an aura that swept over his figure and throbbed with the energy on the floor. Everyone had their own aura now, coating them in sparkling light that rippled and bounced along the grooves. Lonny looked up at Glen Galactic who just winked. The moon laughed, and the beat rolled on.
Leaving the holos in the club was as exciting as discovering them. The afterglow from the blue and the discovered mind channel meant that Lonny could see echoes of other holos scattered around the cityscape, flickering when he walked past at a certain angle before shimmering back into the early morning air. Lonny loved the ghost holos, the way they
The entrance to Seek bordered the night market, creating a necessarily strict door policy. Overflow from the dives brought raving drunks and emaciated rogues. Limbless cripples huddled in the gutter facing the door, cock eyed and desperate while young bohemians torched on narcotics obnoxiously stomped past. The bouncer, a man whose thumb like neck and head merged into one as it burrowed out of his cheap suit, had an intimidating brilliance as though he had been carved from stone.His presence radiated fear in those out of the loop. He turned to Lonny and gave him a hard stare. Lonny felt the blue take root in his lower back, preparing to enrapture the rest of his body. He was conscious of the sweat seeping onto the surface of his skin. Lonny never took confrontation well. Ness flashed a medallion resembling a pixelated bird with spread wings. The stare shifted to her.
radiated throughout the metro imparted a sense of scale to the endlessness of Low Town. The rolling grey structures surrounding the narrow streets blocked out sunlight, trapping pedestrians in permanent shade.
Lonny closed his eyes, found it, and let it take him. He felt Ness’ conscience slip over his. The bliss rolled around the room, thoughts combining and emotions one. He felt her touch her cunt as if it were his own. They didn’t know who controlled what anymore.
Channels shifted. Eyes half open, incandescent butterflies radiated out of her olive skin, carrying waves of hypnotic bass that lulled them to sleep.
Ghost holos added so much colour, touchpoints and a much needed understanding of relative size when you were looking 130 storeys up on a residential street. Blues unlocked the secret of Low Town’s bedroom holo jocks, the ones that found the right channel and started projecting their dreams, with or without an audience. Butterflies floated through a closed window and brought with them the echoes of deep bass. The lower district was so ugly under shady grey light. Neon did its best to mask it but could only do so much. Ghosts were the only thing keeping Lonny’s sanity in check. A parallel world that softened the grey angles of New Ares.
Come on Lonn, paradise is around the corner. Stumbling through the corridors, giddy and ready for more. They fell through the door laughing and caressing, horny and high. Lonny collapsed on the couch, leaning over to peek out the window and spot the holo ghosts 80 storeys up. Ness put on a record. Martian bass soaked over him like a bath. He tilted his dial towards it, sinking into its depth and warmth, its characteristic skittering rhythm and spliffed out pads. He turned to Ness who had a blue between her teeth. She knelt to eye level and bit into it, splitting it in two while exchanging a French Kisz. Our channel is on top of the bass.
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Ness’ block sat near the edge of Low Town. Earth’s middle class migrants were beginning to set up shop around the neighbourhood. Once an old fashioned bad area now catered to the comforts of well to do children. Regardless, the charm of Low Town was still apparent. The lift smelled like piss and the stainless steel walls were dented and scratched to look like a crushed can. Faint shadows filled the recesses and light glinted off the peaks. Think I can get on your channel? Ness’ eyes went wide, and she laughed. The lift jerked to a stop at level 77.
You got more blues? He asked. Always Lonn, the pad’s this way remember? Left at the butterflies.
It didn’t matter, they moved together, unsure but certain. The collective orgasm’s brilliance shone in time with the bass, enveloping them for what seemed like hours, oblivious to the world outside of their joined consciousness. Their eyes closed, colours blazed and settled to a faint glow. He sensed Ness slip out as her shuddering body eased next to his.
Juliana’s favourite book series is The Century Trilogy by Ken Follett. She likes to read from many genres, including historical fiction, military history, non fiction, and fantasy. Although she mainly prefers to write historical fiction. A quote about writing that is very important to her is: It seems that writer's block is often a dislike of writing badly and waiting for better writing to happen Jennifer Egan
Juliana Byers
Samuel Harris
About the Authors
Samuel’s favourite book is the Bible, with the Lord of the Rings series as his favourite fiction. Despite this, he mostly reads fantasy although he does write both fantasy and science fiction. The quote that means the most to him about writing is: Someone out there right now is going to write someone else’s favourite book of all time and is currently wondering if the story in their head is worth telling Jenny Lawson
Josefine Willadsen
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Josefine’s favourite book is Nothing Holds Back the Night by Delphine de Vigan. Her favourite genres to read are fantasy and creative non fiction. Her favourite genre to write is also creative non fiction. The quote about writing that means the most to her is: Everybody walks past a thousand stories a day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most don’t see any Orson Scott
Charlie Yerondais
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Charlie’s favourite book is The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin. His favourite genre to write is speculative fiction and science fiction, which are also his favourite genre to read. The quote about writing that means the most to him is: We've got a great job! We got to be charlatans and we're paid for it. We make this shit up and people believe it William Gibson
Jack’s favourite book is Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton and the manga series Berserk by Kentaro Miura. He mostly reads dark fantasy, modern fantasy, or science fiction, although he mostly only writes dark fantasy. The quote about writing that means the most to him is: Living for the future is more important than trying to avenge the past Kentaro Miura
Amanda Simpson
Amanda’s favourite book is Jennifer Government by Max Barry. She mostly reads speculative fiction, political essays, and travel writing, which also happen to be her favourite genres to write about. The quote about writing that means the most to her is: Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is on Louis L’Amour
Keely’s favourite book is The Secret History by Donna Tartt. She mostly read surrealist fiction with some drama for variety's sake and she mostly writes either drama or poetry. The quote about writing that had a great influence on her is: People tend to forget that my presence runs counter to their best interests. And it always does. That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out Joan Didion
Keely Naylon
Jack Walsh
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