Creative Writing Anthology 2019/20 by University of Bedfordshire

• Strawberryhead • Exposure • Dandy and Grey’s World Travelling Circus • Silva • Squamata Xenon • Calcium Oxide Skin • Coram’s Fields • A Tarnished Surface • Fluidity and Anonymity • Grim Up North • The Fox • The Night Doctor • A window to a Soul • Humans • Senses: Sound • The girl who sees nothing • Blood and War • There have been times (Extract) • Operation North Gust • On Mephits: Grave Caution When Reading • Chicken Shop Blues • Hymn for the Sleepless • The Thief of Leaves • Shades in an Uncreated Space • Extracts from ‘Things of the Spirit’ 01 • Extracts from ‘Kepley’ •

UoB Creative Writing Anthology 2019

Creative Writing Anthology

UoB Creative Writing Anthology 2019

Contents Introduction: Is it Safe? Strawberryhead / Holly Rose Greenwood Exposure / Holly Rose Greenwood Dandy and Grey’s World Travelling Circus / Holly Rose Greenwood Silva / Holly Rose Greenwood Squamata Xenon / Liliana Carstea Calcium Oxide Skin / Liliana Carstea Coram’s Fields / Eddie Heaton A Tarnished Surface / Liam Smith Fluidity and Anonymity / Liam Smith Grim Up North / Andy Walsh The Fox / Andy Walsh The Night Doctor / Andy Walsh A window to a Soul / Abigail Johnson Humans / Alina Cozma Senses: Sound / Leo Janes The girl who sees nothing / Leo Janes Blood and War / Laurence Pratt There have been times (Extract) / Fiona Edwards Operation North Gust / Kiril Dimitrov On Mephits: Grave Caution When Reading / Tom Harris Chicken Shop Blues / Evan Clark Hymn for the Sleepless / Evan Clark The Thief of Leaves / Luke James Shades in an Uncreated Space / Micah Duffin Extracts from ‘Things of the Spirit’ / Nelly Youmbi Extracts from ‘Kepley’ / Tom Reed Biographical Notes

Creative Writing Anthology

3 4 6 8 11 13 15 19 33 34 35 37 38 39 44 46 48 49 58 61 74 82 84 90 92 96 101 109

Introduction: Is it Safe? Put ‘Luton’ into Google, scroll down to ‘people also ask’ and the first thing you’ll see is: ‘Is Luton safe?’The town’s reputation strides before it, occluding reality. A multi-cultural town and gateway to London, it has its problems, its gangs, its history with the EDL, its areas of deprivation. Most towns do. It also has the major campus for the University of Bedfordshire, with a multi-cultural student community with a large proportion of locals of all ages, alongside students from all around Britain and all the world. This anthology comes from that campus, from those interactions, and in a definite context. Most Creative Writing courses have a ‘literary’ flavour. Literary fiction is the foremost output of these courses, often the result of teaching by other literary authors. No problem with that, but here we do things a little differently. The key elements of our course are genre fiction (often with elements of horror, the Gothic and the weird) and innovative writing (across fiction, poetry, visual text, etc). This is not a ‘safe’ way for a course to go, and the writing raises a lot of ‘unsafe’ issue—sexuality, violence, identity, self-harm and mental health issues. We hope this anthology will challenge assumptions about what is produced by undergraduate Creative Writing courses. There is great writing here, from people unafraid to be different, to take chances, to learn from each other’s differences. We’re proud of it.

Keith Jebb

Creative Writing Anthology

Our thanks to Rose Greenwood and Liam Smith for a fine job of editing; to Tamara Vyslouzilova and the Guildford Street Press for design and production and to Carlota Larrea and the School of Culture and Communications at the University of Bedfordshire for funding.

Strawberryhead Strawberryhead played naked in the river and I knew I would hear her laughter in my dreams that night. Where red to her was a kiss, it made me ugly. I thanked luck that the sun decided to burn through the clouds that day, and at the same time cursed the summer’s heat for her brazen swimming and the blotches on my cheeks that I passed off as the sunburn I wished I had. She had come to me in spring, and out of pity stayed with me as summer began, as I led her in circles through the forest until even I had forgotten the way. I somehow knew that the river would be the end, a childish effort had me sitting in the heat, in my sweat, a mantra in my head telling me she would not leave, not before she had convinced me to join her. Even my breath came out hot between my lips.

Holly Rose Greenwood

‘Come, Pappare, and help me catch some fish for Nonna!’ Strawberryhead is grabbing at the water, falling down as if on purpose and I imagine a mouth that might be smiling, eyes that might beckon. As it happens, she needs neither and I resolve to take another season to catch her fish. It is easy to stand, it is one of the first things she taught me, but shedding my skin is harder. How easy for her, to be uncovered is a naturalness. I cannot help but compare us to each other to exhaustion, no longer out loud for hate of the hate in her throat when I do. But still. In the cool water her breasts are round, and I often imagine them soft, whereas my own chest, covered in fur, beneath, is flat and unyielding. I swallow an apple and do not taste it and do not think about the rest and do not let my eyes wander lower than the angle of her hips.

Creative Writing Anthology

She has walked over to me as I stood trembling on the riverbank. Though I felt sick with anticipation, anxiety kept me rooted. She takes my hands in her wet ones, clasps them as the heat of my body consumes the chill of hers. We are still for a day and Strawberryhead is all I can smell. Sweet. Fresh. Sharp. Allconsuming. In just one more instant I have thrown off my coat and

joined her in the river, and as we danced and splashed I noticed the red of her flushed skin spread down her body, pooling at her shoulders, her elbows, knees and chest. I wondered if it tasted as well as it smelt. I caught fish for her in my teeth and smiled as the scales stuck in my throat and in the sunset that brought autumn to us, she put on her clothes. Red on more red, her flushed skin was covered in a dress, long sleeves, to protect against the coming chill. She opened a wooden basket and I ripped skin from her fingers as I placed the fish inside. In my throat the scales were exhaled in a dry heave of stale water. She leaned in close to say goodbye, to my ear she held her impossible lips. I could not look into her eyes but close enough now that I could imagine them there, red. When I opened my mouth strings of saliva held for a moment, thick with fish scale, and I wondered if she would mind the smell until the sun vanished behind the treeline and my teeth broke the skin of her cheek. Like vomit laced with sherbet I held her in my mouth, not daring to open for fear of her leaving me. My eyes were feasted on by pinks mixed dripping with the tarnished red, pale veins lined her flesh and deeper still the white bone looked soft enough to chew like gum. We stay like that for autumn in a revolting embrace of salted caramel, and my Strawberryhead keeps me fed during winter as I leave the fish to rot. â&#x2014;?

Creative Writing Anthology

Exposure The humanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s naked body lay amongst the broken twigs and dry leaves. Its stomach had been ripped open by the talons of birds who now danced and flapped around the mess of innards trailing out from the corpse. Its eyes had become grisly holes that stared at the canopy in disgust. I stood hiding in the trees as I watched the birds tear into flesh. I found my ears flick back and my hooves shift in discomfort in the mud as I continued to stare at the body. When a large crow went to pluck the red lips from its face I charged forwards, unsure of what I was doing but aware that I was filled with repulsion.

Holly Rose Greenwood

The birds were quick to leave their dinner and as I sniffed at the body acrid smells filled my nostrils. I blew air in a snort to try to expel it from my body and as I did so I felt a little of myself leave me, and before my eyes the skin stitched itself back together. The eyes did not reappear in their sockets, though the skin had healed over, dark but calm, no longer flushing a violent red. They had a sad look to them now.

Creative Writing Anthology

The human sat up, slowly, and clutched its stomach, wincing as it did so. I sniffed at its face and smelt meat and warmth, and it smiled for a moment when I did so. I let it use me as a support as it stood up, and I asked it if it would like to stay with me. It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let go, so I assumed that was its way of giving assent. I began walking us away from the stains of gore on the ground and wondered about humans. It was not a large creature, though I do think the others Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen had been taller, yet it was still taller than me. Its hand was able to rest on my back with only a bend at the elbow, its hips more or less in line with my own. It held tight to my fur and tripped over tree roots as often as it tripped over its own feet. Soon the smell of blood returned as red covered the ragged skin of its knees. I stopped often to chew at leaves and drink from puddles but the human made no attempt to do so, and I was impressed by its fortitude.

By the end of our first day of travel, to where I wasn’t sure, though perhaps I had some vague notion of helping it find other people, the human’s breath was coming out hard and rasping. When I bought us to a stop it crouched, and its piss came out dark and pungent. When we lay down it crawled as close to me as possible, its shaking sometimes punctuated by a cough or a hiccup. When I stirred in the morning, for although the canopy of the trees is too thick to see daylight in this part of the forest, I am always able to tell what time of day it is, the human jolted up suddenly and cried out in pain as it clutched its stomach. What it was able to pass that morning was liquid and bloody, and while I supposed this wasn’t normal I didn’t know how to cure it. I licked at the ripped skin of its feet as it shook and dripped mucus from its nose. I managed to get it back on its feet and though it leaned more heavily on me than yesterday we continued onwards. I think it was why I may have become lost. For all my ability to remain centred in time, it is easy to lose your way in the forest if you’re not paying attention. I had begun to change my walk in an attempt to make it easier for the human to use me as a support, and in doing so forgot to pay attention to where we were going. It had just turned afternoon when I decided we should stop so that I could orientate us.The human fell immediately to the ground and its breaths now came out quick and shallow. I still hadn’t seen it eat and realised that perhaps the human was too unfamiliar with the forest to know what it could and couldn’t stomach. I looked around and decided we were well enough alone and set back out again into the trees to find some food for it.

Creative Writing Anthology

It took me the better part of the afternoon to find enough to constitute a meal. I soon realised it would be impossible for me to carry anything back in my mouth and so I found a large sorrel leaf and placed berries and small sweet leaves on it, going back and forth out into the trees. Finally satisfied with what I’d gathered, I picked up the two ends of the leaf in my teeth and began the

walk back to the human. I had been particularly careful this time not to lose my way, but even as I made my way back to where I had left the human, I still hadn’t figured out where we’d ended up. When I arrived back it was to the sound of the shrieking of birds. As I stood hidden in the trees I saw the human, its stomach ripped open, splatters of blood dotted on the ground and trees around it. Claws dug into the already empty eye sockets, reopening the wounds and causing blood to run down into its mouth and ears. Dropping my parcel of food, I ran forwards and the birds took flight, dropping bits of flesh as they went. Its blood covered my nose as I desperately sniffed and snorted at its face and stomach, until finally the wounds began to heal and with a wet gurgle the human stirred back to consciousness. ●

Dandy and Grey’s World Travelling Circus Holly Rose Greenwood

Creative Writing Anthology

Beneath the canopy of the trees exists an entirely new world. In this world I have found myself pulled along, by a rope made from my own hair, behind Dandy and Grey’s World Traveling Circus. In a world you can circumnavigate in a day, however, a World Traveling Circus can become quite a tiresome thing. I believe that is why I have been brought to this place, to bring some novel twist to the circus’s 34th World Tour. I am a confectioner, a master of my trade, or so I thought, until the acrobat (a skeletal creature held together by rotting flesh and cordyceps) took a bite of my pastry and spat it out in an acidic ball of vomit. For the last seven performances I had been outside the tent (a tent is the closest comparison I can find, for the sheets of grisly feathers that dripped black with oil and make up the structure do not follow a geometry that makes

sense) selling candyfloss made from candied dog’s eyes to the various attendees of the circus. For reasons I am not aware of, I am not allowed to wear shoes, though the rest of my clothes I have been able to maintain. The first few days were painful, but eventually my soles hardened and the pain faded to a constant dull ache. I have not yet made the acquaintance of the ringmaster, though I received instructions from them this morning that I am to add popcorn to my menu. I almost wanted to ask the fire eater (who gave me the message and who was also an orangutan) where the ringmaster had heard of popcorn, but since the last time I asked a question I had two of my teeth ripped out I decided against it. I’m still not sure what they did with my teeth afterwards, maybe if I work hard they will give them back.

Creative Writing Anthology

It is almost evening and time for the show. It is strange, though perhaps not the strangest thing, but since I have come to this world I have been able to tell the exact time, regardless of whether I can see the sun or not. I’d been wearing a watch when I arrived, but it had suddenly begun to boil and melt, and now all I had was a blistered burn where it once sat on my wrist. I have seen the sky exactly twice since I joined the circus. The first was on the third night, when we set up next to a river and there was a sliver of a gap between the tops of the trees and the soft green glow of the autumn sky filtered down. The second was just yesterday, when the sword juggler had suddenly spouted wings of stretched skin and had swept me off the ground and up above the canopy. I didn’t manage to see much that time, as he was quickly shot down and all I glimpsed were the tops of the trees below me as I fell to the ground with him. It was quite fortunate that he landed first, for, though I have only just managed to remove the last bloodstains and bits of viscera from my clothes, he did break my fall.

The ingredients I was given to make popcorn were squirrel tongues and witches’ toenails, soft and pink and thick and mouldy. I thought this was a little disrespectful, as squirrels and witches often make up a large part of our audience, but I’m not one for complaining. I used the pair of tweezers I kept hidden in my waistband to curl the toenails around the tongues, before dropping them onto the hot pan (I was pleased to see they had pans) and heating them until the tongue began to puff out between the gaps in the toenail. I had thought I’d done quite well, but after the show the fire eater returned and told me that the ringmaster wanted to talk to me. I slipped the tweezers back into my waistband and followed him down to the ringmaster’s caravan. It was made of redwood and smelt of sour apples. I was given a shove through the door and then I was inside. The ringmaster was what many might describe as indescribable, but I shall give it a go.They had the consistency of a crème brûlée, but only the left side. The right was more like a biscuit, seemingly willing to crumple at any moment. This is not to say they actually looked like a crème brûlée or a biscuit, in fact their colouring could be likened to fried octopus or shark fin soup. Anyway, an appendage of theirs shot out and ripped the tweezers from my waistband, along with much of the waistband, my flesh, and part of my hip bone. Now I must say it is very painful to walk alongside the circus, and annoyingly now my trousers won’t stay up by themselves. I also have to curl the toenails by hand, but the ringmaster did tell me they tasted divine. ● Creative Writing Anthology

Silva I scratched everything into the tree in the centre of the forest. First my nails cracked. At the top. They splintered and broke. The tips of my fingers began to ache. Like something heavy pushing down on them. My nails were so worn down my skin began to scrape against the bark. My blood smeared across the wood and seeped from my fingers into the words I was engraving. By the time I had finished five of my nails had been ripped off between my two hands. Blood flowed from the wounds. It hurt too much to even pick up the broken bits of myself that lay on the tree’s great roots. When I finished I felt no relief. No sense of accomplishment. No finality. Only frustration as I screamed soundless up at the tree.

Holly Rose Greenwood

When I reached the end of the labyrinth of wood and vines a feeling struck me that I’d thought it impossible for myself to feel; since I had arrived in the forest I had been plagued with paranoia, such that I had not slept since I’d arrived and could not help jolting my head back at every noise, real or imagined; what I felt when I finally faced the body of the tree, what I felt when I finally looked out over across the forest, and saw its canopy from above and realised as I looked up that I was still beneath, still enveloped by branches and leaves and stifling air, the great tree’s branches reaching over every inch of the forest. I felt a sensation like a hand grasping, squeezing my brain, my lungs, my eyes.

Creative Writing Anthology

The large tree’s roots came together to join the trunk. I admitted to myself that the forest might go on forever. Despite my desperation to find a way out. The ground began to slope upwards. Though I could see the beginnings of the trunk I could not yet see a break in the canopy. Even here among the roots that pushed themselves up through the soil there were other trees.They blocked my line of sight and filled me with a persistent claustrophobia. I could no longer hear birds or the cracking of twigs between my feet. As I began to climb my bare hands scraped

against the coarse bark. My ragged feet left a trail of blood behind me. My expedition continued as I gave in and removed the tattered shoes from my feet; the ground was hard with dry leaves, brittle as bones, and the roots that snaked their way out of the ground poked my feet bloody. I had to hide in the hollow of a tree, filled with spiders and ants that nipped at my neck, when I spotted a procession of caravans making their way through the forest, thankfully in the opposite direction to myself. I must have passed out there for I remember dreaming though not falling to sleep; in my dream I saw writing, thousands upon thousands of words that I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t read but that seemed familiar all the same and in the night, when I awoke, my eyes were open but I saw the writing still. It was etched into every tree, into my skin, and when I tried to scream sounds came out that burst my eardrums. The smell of my own blood made me retch.

I wanted to leave. The trees felt oppressive around me, and both day and moonlight had a green tinge to them that gave me a headache. I drank the sap from the trees; the one river I had found

Creative Writing Anthology

I kept walking though it felt as if I were going in circles. I have no evidence to back this up. Only I had a feeling that I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t going anywhere. The trees were thick around me. At times I had to scrape between them. My shirt was shredded by the rough bark. None of the trees looked the same. I was grazed and my feet ached.Then I came across the gruesome sight that lead to my discovering of a possible means of escape. In a clearing of trees I found the remains of a creature. Innards were scattered about the foliage. Half eaten. Ripped to shreds. Almost completely black with flies. I stumbled. Backward. Tripped and fell on my left side. Beneath my fingers lay a tree root. I touched it. Its path became clear in my mind. I saw the root. The trail it led through the forest. It reached a tree of such magnitude I was sure to be able to see the perimeter of the forest from it. I realised that to follow would be to find my way.

was tainted red and when I followed it for a time I thought I could hear wolves. Food was easy enough to find in the form of berries and dead birds; their bones were small enough to eat as well, though they scratched my throat and the skull pierced the inside of my cheeks when I bit down on it. I have been unable to start a fire, for though the twigs and leaves that litter the ground are dry the air is so humid I have a constant sheen of sweat across my skin. The only thing I can do is try to find the edge of the forest. I suppose until then I will have to suffer some discomfort. â&#x2014;?

Squamata Xenon The time has come for me to write a short story set on a lake, about us still living together in a brick house. Maybe it should be a work of fiction, the tale of some random characters growing inside my brain like tumours. But I remember me. I remember us. What Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done. What weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done.

Liliana Carstea

The lake was frozen, stiff, like the calcified heart of my father. My father. He was pensive, and I was cold and hungry. Our loved ones, reduced to ashes inside the silver urn, found their rest on the pile of rubbish and dead animals that people threw on to the ice.

Creative Writing Anthology

I do not blame my mother. She must have wished for a better life. I was never a good daughter, never beautiful, never significant. She kissed my foreheads every night and got breakfast ready for all my famished mouths and stomachs. One morning, I chopped my thumbs off, and branches of cherry blossom grew instead. She noticed, and, turning red with anger, forced me to eat the leftovers of my fingers. They tasted sour, like old cream.

My mother loved my father. But she loved another man too. A man with holes instead of eyes, the holes a black of the demonic kind, occupied by a knot of worms. He smelled putrid, the smell of a corpse decomposing in the sun. Two plastering trowels served him as hands, and he often asked me to clean them, sometimes of daub, sometimes of blood. His touch, rough and concise, was less harmful during the summer months. One night my mother noticed her lover being gentle with me, and, unable to comprehend his behaviour, locked herself in the attic and stood there for days. When she came back down, she cut my long hair, burned the withered strands in a kettle and then poured the ashes into her man’s cup of tea. He, fatigued and angry, threatened to move away and find another family to love. She promised to never upset him again, and we assembled a bed for the three of us in the basement. When I started to throw up green slime every morning, my father got worried and took me to the local healer. The healer could do nothing, for inside me was swimming a homunculus, the size of a fist. My father bought me soda from the vending machine in the hospital, took me back home and placed me in the hammock outside, asking me to sit there in silence and wonder about the birds with long fangs and tails; about their brown spotted eggs and the sharp beaks of their babies, desperately screaming for food. He went downstairs, where my mother and her man were tied with each other’s umbilical cords. My father burned them alive, except for their hearts, which were kept as a meal for our dog. When he came back, I asked him to teach me how to fly one day. He said, ‘Soon, sweetheart,’ and his lips formed a crescent moon.

Creative Writing Anthology

My infant girl, limp as a cooked spaghetti, was born before her time and lived only for an hour. We placed her small body in a rectangular baking tray, covered it with cellophane, and buried everything under the oak tree in our garden. My father promised

to find me another child on the market the next day, but I picked up a Squamata instead. I named it Xenon and built an aquarium for my new baby, using the glass from our basement windows. The sun was purple, and the lake started to thaw, drowning the ashes and the pile of rubbish and dead animals in the depths of its dark basin. ●

Calcium Oxide Skin That morning, Ofelia and her mother, Carmen, woke up earlier than usual, for Sunday had been always their favourite day of the week and they didn’t want to waste precious time. For breakfast, Carmen fried a few slices of bread in lard and tried to make some scrambled eggs, but the eggs became stuck on the old Teflon; their frying pan had seen better days, and there was nothing valuable enough left in the house that could be sold or traded for a new pan. ‘Aren’t you going to eat, mummy?’ Ofelia asked puzzled, noticing again that her mother had set only one place at the table.

Liliana Carstea

‘I feel full just watching you eat,’ Carmen replied softly, making Ofelia wonder if her mother was a witch of some sort, for she rarely needed as much food as her.

Creative Writing Anthology

During breakfast, they sat at the table in silence, smiling at each other as if they were in possession of a great secret, sharing glances of deep meaning. Since Ofelia’s father had left them, she and her mother had been developing a private alphabet that needed no words, just natural movements of facial muscles. The only sound that disturbed their telepathic conversations was the clock’s chime announcing another hour passing.

After breakfast, Ofelia went outside to play, and Carmen went into their garden, to pick some camomile flowers to make tea, and a handful of bay, coriander, and parsley leaves, useful for dinner. When she came back from the garden, Carmen boiled water and went to take a bath. A ritual, as she preferred to call it, for water was the only thing that could have purified the sins troubling her mind and her calcium oxide skin, skin that hankered after the touch of strangers with long fingers and claws, who lived solely for the purpose of tearing flesh. Carmen hoped they would tear hers soon, but then she remembered Ofelia’s black eyes, black as a black hole, hungry for knowledge and love. A miniature version of herself, who had developed the same scrawny and pale appearance the neighbours found outrageous and revolting. The stigma of being a single mother had haunted Carmen ever since her husband decided to kiss the mouths of other women, women with more alive complexions. Undoubtedly, both the mother and the daughter looked different from other people, even if their features were arranged in the same way as anyone else’s. There was something that made them resemble shadows in a super-exposed photograph, the kind that could be mistaken for ghosts. But Carmen and Ofelia were far from being dead—in fact, there were few in that small town who had warmer or more vibrant souls. While her mother was taking a bath, Ofelia made friends with the clouds cluttered in a palette of red, orange, and grey. She told them her mother was the kindest mother in all worlds, about the jars of quince jams and zacusca Carmen had been preparing every autumn, about the mornings they had spent together painting, or reading each other’s palms.

‘That we are both princesses!’ Ofelia answered, her voice coming out strongly from the depths of her lungs, ‘and that one

Creative Writing Anthology

‘What have you read in the lines of your palms?’ the clouds asked.

day we will move back to my grandparents’ castle, and we will have a big kitchen and all the food and toys and clothes in the world.’ ‘Can we live there with you? ‘Yes, the castle is big enough and everyone is allowed in,’ Ofelia said, drawing imaginary circles in the air with her small hands, using the sky as canvas. ‘We can almost see it, such a precious, magical place!’ the clouds exclaimed, in awe of the lines and colours coming out from Ofelia’s fingers. ‘The rain is about to start now, sweetie. You should go back inside and paint that magical place, so we can have a look at it next time,’ the clouds said in a unison of thunders, and the little girl did as she was told. Once the storm was over, Carmen and Ofelia changed into the nicest dresses they owned and went out for a walk. At that time of the day, it was inevitable that they would meet other neighbours, who, they knew, would stare at them the whole time as if they were committing an atrocity simply by stepping on the pavement.

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Mind them as little as possible,’ the mother whispered, and the daughter remembered the conversation with the clouds and thought of how this would be over soon and how people like the rude neighbours were eternally banned from her castle. But Carmen’s composure was only a façade, for she wasn’t sure how much strength she had left. There was a red glare in her eyes, a fire that had been building with every bad word and every inappropriate stare. The cursing and staring never ceased, despite every loud cry of her displeasure. That being the case, Carmen’s only resource was a frigid behaviour which served as a shield, but the shield was as fragile as her skeletal body. In her mind, all thoughts were impossibly tangled in a clew of fear and resentment, constantly contradicting with her good-natured spirit.

As when one learns a new language and one’s brain rewires and readapts, Carmen had acquired a vocabulary of suffering, learning with each walk in the outside world another feeling of humiliation. Night after night, she had been fantasising about vulgar things, horrible things, things a woman of her kind had never dreamt of in the past: the sky crimson, the town all bloody, its roads cold and damp; events of unspeakable brutality, of heads with no eyes impaled on every spike of every fence, and a gigantic bouquet of hearts neatly arranged on the ground, as an offering to a departed, alienated god. But these were merely hallucinations, induced by hunger and frustration, and Carmen truly wished to move away from all those people, who had turned her into such a vengeful and sadistic creature. Hours had passed since they went out for a walk, and, when the darkness settled into town, Ofelia wondered if they were about to go back home or go somewhere else. ‘Do you remember our palm readings and that beautiful castle your grandmother left us?’ Carmen asked, kneeling in front of her daughter. ‘I do,’ Ofelia replied, refraining from pointing out that, by then, she was certain there was no castle or grandparents that cared enough to offer them an escape. She felt conflicted for the first time in her short life and wanted to shout at her mother for lying to her for so long. ‘We’re going there tonight. It’s about time and I know for a fact that the castle has been redecorated and it’s ready for us to stay,’ Carmen said, shaking her daughter’s body in excitement. ‘Absolutely!’ That evening, the mother and the daughter, hand in hand, entered the forest that encircled the small town, and, even if it

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Are you sure, Mummy?’

required a great effort to distinguish their surroundings, Carmen and Ofelia were able to observe the tall and majestic trees, their beautiful crowns expanding, and soon the mother and her daughter started to hear the music of birds and crickets, even the distant howls of a pack of wolves. ‘Don’t be scared!’ Carmen said. ‘They are all our friends! ‘I am not!’ Ofelia replied, and opened her ears as butterflies open their wings. ‘They are telling us to join them, Mummy!’ They took a sniff of the fresh air and continued to strike into the woods, enthusiastic and curious, and soon it was impossible to tell which was human, animal, or tree, for they must have metamorphosed completely into the welcoming nature, whose melancholic sounds were turning into songs of joy and celebration.. ●

Coram’s Fields As soon as I found the Donnington-Radleigh Literary Agency and its founder and owner, Francesca Donnington-Radleigh, I knew that I’d discovered the ideal agent to represent me. Her client list was impressive—it included a number of authors whose work was of the same genre and literary calibre as my own—but what finally clinched it for me was her physical appearance; it was the photograph of her on her website that sealed the deal.There was a happy, confident aura about her, something almost regal and yet warmly maternal in her smile, and something about the way she’d done her hair and applied her lipstick that reminded me of an old picture I had of mummy that had been taken around the time that I was born. It was an emotional and perhaps irrational decision, but I’d never been surer of anything in my life.

Eddie Heaton

Creative Writing Anthology

I decided, after giving the matter a great deal of thought, that I would not be sending my manuscript by email or by post to Francesca. (I’d already started to think of her as Francesca). I would surprise her by delivering it in person. I needed to be able to explain to her just why I’d written my book in the first place, and why I considered her to be the only agent who was suitable to represent me. Apart from that, I hadn’t spoken to another human being, except mummy of course, for almost two weeks, and so I very much needed to get out of the house. I found the place easily enough, but the plummy-mouthed little jobsworth of a receptionist sniffed officiously at me from behind her mammoth sized computer screen and flatly refused to announce my presence. I didn’t want to make a scene, so I just smiled nicely and asked her if she’d be kind enough to give Francesca my manuscript. She took it from me without a word and then immediately returned to her typing as if I were a badly trained errand boy. I had no other option than to turn around and leave. I was about to head off back to the tube station when I noticed a little pub on a corner, just a few yards away. I went inside and stood for a spell near the door, from where I could see the building that I’d just exited. I suppose I was harbouring the vague notion that I might wait for Francesca to come out, and then to follow her, until an opportunity arose to introduce myself. But in the end I shook myself back to reality and smiled at that foolish impulse—as if she would offer her professional services to some self-obsessed stalker who prowled along after her through the public streets.

Creative Writing Anthology

It was a typical central London pseudo-pub with fake mahogany panelling and tacky chrome embellishments placed at regular intervals around the noisy bar and along the half-filled alcoves. I didn’t relish the prospect of drinking alone in such a place, and was about to head off into the gloom so as to miss the worst of

the rush hour, when a strange group of individuals inescapably caught my eye. What a weird and wonderful bunch they were. They hung together but they somehow weren’t really together at all, and what an odd assortment of different shapes and sizes. The one who stood out the most was an extremely tall woman with a large, beak like nose. She towered above the others and if you hadn’t able to see the bottom half of her you might have imagined she was on stilts. Her very demeanour reminded me of a large tropical bird, an emu perhaps, or an ostrich. And as if to emphasise the freakish hauteur of this strange female, she happened to be standing right next to a very small man, of not quite, but very nearly, midget proportions. A large, oddly shaped head sat inharmoniously on his pocket-sixed frame—it was long and hammer-like and, somehow, canine in aspect. It looked like it might have belonged to a yappy little terrier. To complete the tableau there were two square-shaped, burly young women, with identical close-cropped black hair that had been razor-cut on one side only. The razor work had been done on the left side of one of the women’s head and on the right side of the other—to provide a striking, mirror-image effect when you saw them both together. But the most strangely incongruous thing about this whole assemblage was how deathly quiet they all were. Not one of them was in possession of a drink and they barely spoke at all; and when they did it was in low, subdued tones. I thought the whole thing decidedly odd, but I wasn’t quite curious enough to go over and investigate.

Creative Writing Anthology

Then, just as I was about to leave, I saw her. Standing in the midst of this strange group of people was Francesca DonningtonRadleigh herself. Unmistakable. With those pink-framed retro specs, and that fifties-style bunched up hairdo. Oh, it was her all right, sipping elegantly on a glass of prosecco. No wonder her receptionist had refused to announce me—Francesca had sloped off early for some recreational tippling.

I bought myself a pint of beer and moved over towards them, towards her, but now I noticed that she seemed to be caught up in an intense, whispered conversation with one individual in particular. An undeniably handsome Latin type with a swarthy complexion and penetrating, hawkish eyes. He wasn’t so much whispering to Francesca as whispering at her and she only had ears for him. A spasm of envy rose up from my gut and turned to pure hatred. Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned around to see a funny-looking, rather ragged little man looking up at me, with a gruesome smile. One of his front teeth was missing and those that remained looked to have been so badly neglected that they surely wouldn’t be in place for very much longer. He started babbling at me in Italian. My expression must have betrayed my total lack of comprehension because he stopped abruptly and switched to broken English. ‘You here for walk, yes?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘The walk, the guided walk. La passegiata guidata. Georgian Bloomsbury.’ I looked at the strange group of people with fresh eyes; they were standing around and waiting for a guided walk to start, a guided walk through historic Bloomsbury. I’d seen these events advertised, and had often thought of joining one, but never quite got around to doing so. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said, ‘how much is it?’

‘But you know is Italian language guided walk, right?’

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Ten pounds please,’ the little man replied, and I handed him a tenner.

Perhaps he should have asked me that before he took my money, but I actually couldn’t have cared much if it had been a Chinese language guided walk—this was going to be how I would meet Francesca, how we would get to know each other. I gave a little shrug to demonstrate my lack of Italian language skills, and he came up with an interesting proposition, ‘Look,’ he said, ‘for ten pounds more I will translate for you.’ I readily agreed and handed over the cash. He beamed up at me. ‘I am Guido,’ he said, ‘is good, yes? I am Guido and I am la guida.’ ‘Oh, you are the guide?’ ‘Okay, no,’ he said, and he pointed at the Italianate Adonis who was monopolising Francesca’s attention, ‘ees Salvatore. He is la guida. I am his assistant—l’assistente della guida. I took another look at him. Surely no one in this day and age could look as pitiful or as ragged as this. I realised then that he was ‘in character.’ There had been an attempt made to dress him up as some sort of Georgian street urchin (although he was way past the age where he might pass for an urchin). I supposed he was there to add a bit of period flavour—but the attempt to pass him off as a time traveller from the eighteenth century had failed to the extent that I’d just assumed he was a badly dressed regular citizen.

Francesca continued to stare at him with undisguised lustful admiration, some dreadful kind of sexualised hero worship. Resentment coursed through my neural pathways. Wasn’t it

Creative Writing Anthology

Salvatore raised his voice and spoke out in Italian. I understood not a word but Guido translated for me—it had merely been a request that the group should gather around him for some initial elucidations. And so we did, we formed a circle around him.

always the way? I really wanted her now (and not just in order to get my book published), but she wanted someone else. Then something strange happened; Salvatore walked around the inside of the circle and touched each of us once, briefly, on the upper arm, all the time mumbling in Italian. He seemed to have a specific word for each group member, which, when uttered, brought a semi-glazed look to their eyes. Most bizarre. When he got to me he gripped me firmly yet briefly on the bicep, looked me in the eye with a rather disturbing scowl on his face, and then uttered the single Italian word, ‘sgombro.’ ‘What was that,’ I asked Guido, who just laughed and said, ‘Ees just a game, a game of words.’ ‘But what does that word mean?’ ‘Ees a feesh, a kind of feesh.’ I took out my phone and looked it up. Mackerel! Before I could request any further clarification of this curious event the circle broke and Salvatore strode off towards the door with all the single-mindedness of the natural born leader and, perhaps because of his overbearing attitude (I’ve never been particularly fond of being bossed around) I suddenly felt entirely reluctant to join them. What was the point? There was no way I would be able to start a conversation with Francesca about my book, or anything else for that matter. She was clearly besotted with Salvatore; she stuck to his side as if she’d been glued there.

‘Come, come,’ he said. ‘First stop ees church.’ Salvatore thrust back his shoulders and pushed out his chest, and with the single command, ‘Avanti!’ strode imposingly out of

Creative Writing Anthology

Guido seemed to sense my hesitation and gave me a little push.

the pub. We filed out behind him like Caesar’s legionnaires. He frogmarched us along Bloomsbury Way, whose multitude of lighted windows glowered down at us through the glistening drizzle. Ostrich woman towered above us and dog man sniffled along at our feet; the rest of the group trundled along in turn. We then settled back into place, around our fearless leader, as he brought us to a halt in front of St George’s church with its deep, Roman style porch and its six great Corinthian columns. His booming baritone reverberated through the gloom, and Guido translated his words into my disinterested ear. They pointed out the steeple, which, according to their elucidation, was modelled on the Tomb of Mausolus at Halicarnassus. ‘Nothing very Christian about that, and if they didn’t worship Christ, then just what did they worship?’ (I couldn’t really tell if Guido was translating or just offering up an opinion). ‘This church, or temple, or whatever it actually was,’ (they were seamlessly discarding any notion that it might, perhaps, be just a normal English church) ‘Was designed and built by Nicolas Hawksmoor. And, as certain people know, if you look at the locations of all six of Hawksmoor’s London churches on a map, you will see that they form a perfect pentagram. Yes, a pentagram—that deeply rooted symbol of Satanism, and the occult.’

Salvatore passed around again, once more touching each of us in turn on the upper arm. Again he caressed out a single Italian utterance to each and every one of us.

Creative Writing Anthology

We were standing in a circle again and, looking around the ring at the by now familiar faces, I realised that the size of the group had decreased. There were now only six of us, whereas before there had been eight. The square shaped, same-sex couple had somehow, rather mysteriously, just disappeared.

‘Sgrombo,’ he said to me again as he touched me, firmly, on the arm. ‘Mackerel,’ Guido said. Like he’d just remembered the English word. ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’ ‘But the mackerel was bad.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘The mackerel you have eat in ze pub.’ ‘I didn’t eat in the pub. I just had a pint of beer and I didn’t even finish that I…’ ‘And ze beer was bad also.’ Had I eaten though? I could taste it now, that mackerel, and you could tell that it was off. My stomach started churning and then a gut pain, an intense stabbing sensation in my belly, stopped me in my tracks. Salvatore nodded. ‘Sgrombo,’ he said. And then, for the first time, Francesca looked at me. My appearance, as I bent double under the strain of the stomach cramps, seemed to amuse her. Her palpable glee was at once both humiliating and uplifting.

Then he brought us to a halt in a small and dusty chamber that was self-evidently devoted to some of the lesser-known antiquities

Creative Writing Anthology

The group moved on. My pain subsided a little and I was able to scamper along after them, and latch on to the tail, just as Salvatore guided us in through the great front entrance of the British Museum, and then through the labyrinth of connecting rooms, all filled with an unreasonably large percentage of the world’s most valuable objects.

of ancient Babylon. He resumed his lecture next to a strange little statuette of an evil-looking Babylonian god. Urfu, he was called. He was about nine inches tall and sported an impressive erect phallus that was twice the size of his head. We stood in a circle around the little deity and then silently, and without instruction, we all held hands. Once the circle was completed Salvatore gave his talk in Italian, and Guido whispered his translation in my ear. They talked about how the magnificent building that now houses the British Museum was donated to a grateful nation in the middle of the eighteenth century, and how all manner of priceless artefacts then poured in, purloined from every corner of the British Empire. ‘Not all of them are cursed,’ Guido seethed into my ear. Just what in god’s name did he mean by that? My guts were playing up again. I had been finding it difficult to concentrate in any case, but now I stopped trying altogether. The normal, sane thing to do would have been to excuse myself and go off to find a lavatory, but any propensity for rational thought seemed to have deserted me. The little room was filled with words; Salvatore’s booming Italian and Guido’s whispered English, which had become as incomprehensible to me as that which he was endeavouring to translate.

Ha! I thought to myself, they’ve all voted with their feet. The next thing I remember is tramping along in line past the unassuming front entrance of Great Ormond Street Children’s

Creative Writing Anthology

Salvatore spoke at length about the little god, as we all stood around it holding hands. Guido had stopped translating by now; he must have sensed that I was no longer taking anything in. Then I realised that there were now only four of us; neither ostrich woman nor dogface were any longer with us.

Hospital, where something akin to a vision appeared before me; it seemed to me then, that Peter Pan himself was there, keeping an eye on his innocent charges, and that Francesca reached out to him with longing and desire. But Peter recoiled from her. ‘Keep back, lady,’ he hissed, ‘no one is going to catch me and make me a man.’ It was, no doubt, some trick of the imagination caused by my physical weakness and the darkening gloom, but even if it was merely some internal flight of fancy, it showed me Francesca in a different light just then. On we went to Coram’s Fields. Salvatore, Francesca, Guido and myself. The only ones left. Salvatore was muttering now, in low and angry tones. Guido translated, his English, somehow, much improved. He spoke over his mentor’s voice, as if he had the discourse off by heart. In Georgian London, there had been unimaginable poverty and hardship, and only a stone’s throw from where we were just then, had once stood the great black rookery of St. Giles; a huge, teeming slum that would today be called a shantytown. Every day its inhabitants spilled out into the streets to join those who lived and slept there. They made a living then in any way they could, begging, or stealing, or selling themselves to the more affluent members of society.

Creative Writing Anthology

The Foundling Hospital that once stood there, where we stood then, had been established by one Captain Coram, for the education and maintenance of exposed and deserted young children. He’d had a difficult childhood himself—ran away to sea as a twelve-year old and one can only imagine the abuses and degradations he must have suffered as a young cabin boy in his majesty’s navy at that time. But it all turned out well in the end. He remembered his own traumatic experiences and when he was old enough, and resourceful enough, he became determined

to help as many young and disadvantaged children as he could, by establishing the Foundling Hospital. ‘It could quite easily have turned out differently,’ said Guido, in insinuating tones, ‘the childhood abuse he endured might have caused him to seek out victims of his own. That does sometimes happen in these cases.’ Francesca gazed up longingly at Salvatore. Guido’s words continued to reach me through the pain that had returned to my intestines, although I could no longer see him. He must have been standing behind me but I didn’t bother to look. He spoke about the painter, Hogarth, who was also involved with the Foundling Hospital—he’d donated a painting. Hogarth had had a difficult childhood himself, his father was imprisoned for debt and he spent a large part of his childhood all alone on London’s streets. It was a good thing he learned how to draw, or who knows what might have become of him. But he did find fame, and fortune, and was able to help those less fortunate than himself—those foundlings who might otherwise have been left to the mercies of those same wicked London streets where he himself had suffered. ‘It could quite easily have turned out differently though, his experiences, as a victim, might have caused him to seek out victims of his own. That does sometimes happen in these cases.’ Guido’s repetition, clearly intended to impress, did nothing more than cause me irritation.

They told me about the composer, Handel, who was also, apparently, involved. How he gave benefit performances of his

Creative Writing Anthology

Then, Francesca seemed suddenly to become aware of my presence. But the look she gave me was not encouraging at all. It was as if she didn’t want me there. She wanted me gone. The talk droned on.

work in the hospital chapel, how his choir was made up of the children themselves. Distinguished guests were invited to attend and (at this point Salvatore and Guido each, simultaneously, made quotation marks with their fingers) ‘were able to see the children after dinner.’ ‘And when the rookery was demolished by high decree, where were the fledgling rooks to go? Those fledgling, foundling rooks.The hospital was inundated with applicants and was given a parliamentary grant on condition that any newly born infant was automatically admitted.’ Our guide seemed even taller now, his attire more impressive, his voice less monotonous. ‘The grant ceased four years later, after accusations against the governors of “immorality and mismanagement.” And the Foundling Hospital was closed.’ Immoralita e cattiva gestione. Immorality and mismanagement. So there we were on the edge of Coram’s Fields. I say we, but now I was alone. The dusk had turned to night but were the streetlights even on? I wandered around in a kind of a daze, not sure which way was up. Then I heard a noise, a beastly, grunting sound, and felt compelled to stagger along towards it. And there they were, with their wanton squealing. I saw them rutting there. Her on top. At the edge of the park. In a clump of bushes.

What the hell was I doing there, squatting and snooping? Intense humiliation consumed me, but then it turned to anger,

Creative Writing Anthology

My stomach turned over and I thought for a moment that I just might have to go. I waded into an adjacent bush and prepared myself for the worst, but the pain subsided just in time, and a gastrointestinal disaster was narrowly averted.

and the anger, to resolve. I would fix them. Both of them. Fix them both for good. I took out my phone and started filming. He was on top now, I could just make out his pale, peach-like posterior, rising and falling through the foliage. Dark, unworthy thoughts consumed me; if she didn’t take me on, I’d post this everywhere. Finish her. I filmed away until the noise abated, and the rustling in the bushes ceased. I didn’t hear them leave but, some minutes later, when I finally dared to look, there was no one there, just some broken branches on a patch of flattened grass. I straightened myself up as best I could and caught the next tube home. I didn’t even think about the video for a week or more. Mummy needed caring for, and that’s a full-time job. But then, when I first remembered what I’d done, I gave myself a thorough ticking off for even thinking about using that disgusting little film for the purposes of blackmail or extortion. Not my style. I found the file on my phone and opened it.There was nothing to see there in any case, just some rustling and grunting from the inside of a bush. I couldn’t have blackmailed anyone with that, even if I’d wanted to. I pushed the little dustbin button but strangely, nothing happened. For some reason it just wouldn’t delete. I tried again and again, but there it still was.

I haven’t been in there for a while, and so I open her door with more than a little trepidation. She is very cold by now, and stiff. A long grey strand of her hair has fallen over her face and so I

Creative Writing Anthology

But then the video file icon took on a three-dimensional form and pushed itself up and out until it became like a dirty grey pimple on the screen. Then it plopped up off the phone altogether, and onto the floor. It stopped for a moment, as if getting its bearings, and then scurried across the room like a beetle or a cockroach, before disappearing under mother’s bedroom door.

lovingly stroke it back to where it belongs. I suppose I’d better let them come for her soon. I do believe in doing things properly, but it’s just that we’ve been together for such a long time and I really can’t bear to be apart from her. And then all that will remain of her will be my book. Oh what a story it is, what a wondrous magical love story, of that purest, most innocent of loves—the one that endures between a son and his mother. Has such a story ever been written before? I think not. Such an original piece of work—one that will surely appeal to the hearts and souls of millions and millions of readers. I had thought that Francesca was the ideal individual to take my book to the marketplace, I had thought she was like mummy— but it turns out that she’s not. This morning I got a letter from her saying that she thinks my work is excellent but that she isn’t in a position to be able to offer me her representation at this time. I suppose it was good of her to write and let me know, but I’d already decided not to retain her services. She really isn’t right for us. ●

Creative Writing Anthology

A Tarnished Surface Tongue glides across their surface tastes grit and tar and nicotine from last drag of poison brought to lips. Intoxicating smoke clings to calcium structures lining gums tainting their white forms with yellow hues that stain for a lifetime and remain even past that. Fumes weigh heavy in mouth before sinking down throat and into lungs where thick tar builds up slowly reducing their capacity. Tongue does not touch calcium only thin layer of sludge that coats them remnants of last meal and snack that has been digested. Cannot bare to taste grime that clings and fingers scratch at surface to remove foul texture. Tongue catches gap seed that has become lodged in place irritating tender gums beneath. Remains stuck no amount of gentle nudging pressing with tongue removes piece from resting place. Part of structure now that makes up grin though visible when exposed and causes disgust in all those that see. Sludge that remains cannot be removed by tongue and will stain with yellow seeping into cracks and damage root. Root becomes corrupted and slowly dies withers away leaving husk of calcium that rots with age. Rot turns husk black and leaves to taint smile. Lips do not part to smile anymore.

Liam Smith

â&#x2014;?

Creative Writing Anthology

Fluidity and Anonymity Water trickling down skin, droplets tracing a path, they clash together melding into one. Wet as water is, leaves clothes damp, sodden. Walking in rain leaves hair, clothes, skin, wet, soaked, comfortable or uncomfortable as wet clothes are. Clothes cling to skin, water weighing them down, heavy. Loose becomes tight, constricting wet body, movements become difficult, water prevents, restricts. Cold, wet wind cuts through wet fabric and carries itself across wet body beneath. Sun appears, water warms, stays wet, body sweats and two become one, water and sweat beads trickling down skin, merging together into one liquid. An itch develops, can’t be reached through wet fabric, nags unresolved, warm water aggravates, makes worse, more overwhelming. Saturated clothes take on bodily aroma, wet smell carries, offending nose. Eyes begin to stare, searching for source, shame overpowers, and footsteps quicken, splashing water. Wet wind changes direction, more eyes walking towards all downwind. Head hung down watching feet, watching trail of wet steps left behind. Voice speaks to self, Don’t look, don’t look. Raise head and eyes still watch lips beneath frowning in disgust as wet aroma reaches nose. Eyes water and wince, leaving wet trails trickling down cheek. Wet bodily stench overpowers shame, controls street, turn head and all eyes follow. Footsteps quicken as fingers begin to point in direction, fear of label, fear of truth about self, carries body quicker towards sanctuary.

Liam Smith

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Creative Writing Anthology

Grim Up North It feels strange coming back to my old haunting ground— Doncaster. It’s changed so much over the years I can barely recognise it. Repeating rows of kebab shops, fried chicken shops, betting shops, charity shops. This place has never been desirable, but it’s sunk to a real low. It’s my kind of place.

Andy Walsh

There’s a fight kicking off outside the Maple Tree pub. I’ll be back for the tattooed bloke later. I’ve got a busy night ahead. Six jobs all within a few miles. I normally cover the York area but there’s nothing on tonight, which is unusual; there’s normally at least one old codger. Barry asked me to cover his round. He’s been working hard lately and was feeling a little jaded.There’s a good horror movie showing, so he fancied a night at the cinema. I’ve found Woodford Road. I’m looking for number thirtythree. Here it is. Crikey, look at the front garden. Not one or two, but three old sofas, an old fridge freezer and a cooker. They must have been there for years, look at the state of them.That old Ford Fiesta by the side hasn’t seen the open road in a long while. I’m in. It’s just as bad inside. It stinks of body odour and cigarette smoke. Check out the peeling wallpaper, it’s stained yellow with nicotine. They must not own a vacuum cleaner. Mind you, you’d struggle to manoeuvre one across this carpet, there’s so much crap lying around.

Creative Writing Anthology

Here’s Jason Wainwright. I can’t believe he’s surprised to see me. A can of lager in one hand and a cigarette in the other. At least eight empty cans by the side of his armchair, all stacked neatly as if he’s attempting to keep the place tidy. His wife’s no looker. She’s surrounded by empty crisp packets and chocolate wrappers. The sofa’s buckling under her weight.

He’s staring at me with the usual, terrified eyes I see every time. He’s pleading with me not to take him. He’s confused too like they always are. What do they expect? A black robe and a hood? A big scythe? We’re not in the sixteenth century. We get issued with iPads these days. It’s a massive heart attack for this one. Look at him writhing, holding his chest. His wife looked worried for a moment. She’s smiling now though with a satisfied look on her face. What a bitch! I like her. I think she would be more concerned about missing X Factor. I’m dropping him off at the gates. He’s crying like a baby. He won’t stop begging me to take him home. I tell him it’s not in my remit, I can’t argue with the big man. Once he’s decided it’s time, that’s it. I’m just doing my job. I’m going back to the Maple Tree now. A stab wound to the chest. He accused someone of spilling his pint. I might ask Barry if he wants to swap rounds. I like it round here.. ●

Creative Writing Anthology

The Fox Three of Bluebell’s children had perished in the fox’s jaws. She shivered at the painful memory.

Andy Walsh

‘If I tell you to run, get home fast. Do you understand?’ Wind was the last of her offspring. Faster, more agile and alert than the others. This had served him well, but he was still young and reckless. ‘Yes, mother.’ Bluebell watched at the forest edge as her precious boy nibbled the short grass. She raised her ears; hearing only the bristle of a gentle breeze through the woodlands. She allowed herself a moment of peace. ‘We must go soon.’ Wind ignored his mother, the grass was fresh and moist. Bluebell caught the distant sound of men. ‘We must go, Wind. Now!’ He continued to ignore his panicked mother, moving further beyond to the greener grass. A crack of thunder echoed through the forest. A sound only heard when death soon followed. Wind froze, poisoned with fear. ‘Run!’

Bang!

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Their hearts beat quick and hard. Cold air tore at their lungs as they raced between the trees.Through bramble and fern, twisting and turning, over and under they ran.

Bluebell dare not look back. With desperate speed, she arrived at the safety of the warren. She stared out into the dusk and waited. Only sadness came home. Tomorrow she would search for Storm. He might help relieve her sorrow. She could bear more young by summer. Bluebell felt warm breath on her back and recognised the putrid odour. The fox fed well that night. â&#x2014;?

The Night Doctor I told her it was too risky; suspicion still lingered. She pleaded with me and promised this would be the last time.

Andy Walsh

I watched as Gloria, the ward sister, disappeared along the corridor, oblivious to my presence.

â&#x2014;&#x17D;

Creative Writing Anthology

I walked stealthily along the silent, dimly lit corridor to side room two, observing that nobody had witnessed my movements. I carefully opened the door and stepped inside. The only sound was the hum of the bed pump and my pounding heart. Mr Wilson was comatose, his mouth gaping. I promised myself I would never allow her to persuade me again, just like every time before. I flinched as I heard footsteps and hushed voices, then calmed as the volume faded. Listening for a few seconds to confirm silence, I stretched on rubber gloves, then searched my inside pocket for the hard steel of my scalpel.

I completed my rounds, conversed with colleagues, ate jelly babies, and waited impatiently for my shift to finish. I prayed that my pager would remain silent. As the clock showed 6am, I grabbed my case and scurried off without goodbyes, looking back as nurses rushed to side room two, horror emblazoned on their pallid faces. Anxiously waiting outside the hospital, I caressed the contents of my pocket. Mr Wilson’s shrivelled genitalia still felt slightly warm through the plastic bag. Mummy arrived in her big blue BMW, with that wonderful, soothing smile. I shuffled in and she kissed me gently on the cheek. ‘Do you have something for me, darling?’ ●

A window to a Soul Sunlight soaks an unknown world through solid unmoving glass. An indigo sky attracts the mind, obliterating thoughts of anything other than what is beyond. Unicorns trot through the abundant emerald woodland that skirts the crystal-clear lagoon.The majestic creatures lap at the cool cobalt liquid, all the while mermaids drift lazily around as their tails flick upwards, causing tiny ripples to stir the perfect water. So small they can only be seen up close, tiny, colourful fairies sit atop high oaks watching out for anything that that could disturb the complete harmony of all beings that live in this mythical kingdom. Those miniature individuals flit from plant to plant, transforming everything their fairy dust touches into something magical. A great castle sits towering above the picturesque forest, magnificent but silent, for, while the creatures frolic and live blissful lives, they are without a monarch.The palace lays entirely empty, awaiting the day the true queen will return.

Abigail Johnson

Creative Writing Anthology

Liza was back. Back in the stark, white freezing cold room in that psychiatric hospital, or loony bin, as many called it, that she was forced to call home. It wasn’t a comfortable place. It contained a bed covered with a thin white blanket, a small table and chair, and a single wardrobe, with only white cotton gowns inside. The four walls that imprisoned her were blank. It wasn’t forbidden to add adornments, but she had always believed there was no point putting up pictures of her loved ones because she had none. A nurse walked into the dank, dark room, an unsympathetic smirk on her bright red lips, which, in Liza’s mind, highlighted her complete dispassion for Liza and her situation. She pushed the cart holding the little white pots that contained the only things that would take Liza’s dream land away. Pills were thrust unceremoniously into Liza’s unwilling hand. ‘I don’t want them.’ ‘I know you don’t, but it’s my job to make you take your medication. Now, time to swallow.’ She handed Liza a cup of water and watched as she tipped the awful things into her open mouth and swallowed. ‘There, that wasn’t so hard was it?’ The nurse smiled sweetly, in a way which was much too condescending for Liza. The second the door closed and she heard the tell-tale click of the lock which meant she was once again locked within the four blank walls, she spat out the evil fuchsia, crimson, and sand coloured things that would temporarily purge her mind of her happy world back into the little pot and returned to staring aimlessly out of the two-story window. Now, instead of her perfect magical world, she saw only the grey world outside. Liza’s prison cell of a room was at the back of the building and faced directly onto the musty, filthy alleyway that held the enormous rubbish bins that contained the waste from the 156 mental patients trapped in the building, as well as the staff that worked there.

As she stared out at the bare brick wall of the sewing factory on the opposite side of the grimy alleyway, Liza thought about the first time sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been tricked into taking the dreadful pills. She had been fifteen and her parents had expressed their concerns about how she seemed to be living in her daydreams instead of the real world.The real reason for their worry was that her school grades were falling and the few friends she did have were drifting away. They had taken her to see a doctor who had asked her questions about her daydreams and why she thought she had become so invested in them. Once he was finished, he told her he was going to give her something that her would make her feel better. That was when he presented her with the pills, that although intended to make her feel better, only made her feel worse and more detached from the world than if she had just been left alone. It was the colours that originally gained her trust. How could anything so bright and beautiful looking cause so much pain and damage? Sometimes she wished she could escape permanently into the world beyond her window. That was when, in a sudden flash of insight, Liza knew that there was only one way to escape the prison built for insanity. If just one of those vile things would make the daydreams fade then maybe, just maybe, many taken at the same time would not only make her happy place permanent but be the key to escaping that miserable life for good. She had not taken the corrupting medication for some time, that was the reason she was in there in the first place. â&#x2014;&#x17D;

Creative Writing Anthology

When her saintly mother and father had finally realized she was no longer following her doctorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s orders and when Liza refused to return to doing so, they had sent her here. To this hellhole of a mental institution, promising that if she were well behaved and

did as she was told, she could return home. But that day never came. She had been left there, alone, for many years without so much as a single letter from anyone from the outside world. Liza had always thrown away the awful things because she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to be reminded of them but, without really knowing why, over the last month she had taken to hiding them in the only place she could, a hidden drawer in the bottom of the easily forgotten wardrobe. Now she knew she had been preparing herself for what she knew must come, whether it be in a week or year, it would come down to one final act eventually. All she would have to do was swallow the deadly capsules and no doctor would be able to pull the young girl from her fantasy land again. She lay down on the dirty white cover and gazed up at the unchanging walls as she swallowed back to back the capsules of death, each one bringing her one step closer to eternal happiness. When the last one had disappeared into her soon to be the lifeless body, she thought about her legacy. Would anyone miss her? The answer to that question was very clear to her. No. No one had cared about her for the years she had been trapped there, why would they bother when she was gone?

It was a final act of comfort for a child with no possibility for a happy and successful life, in a world that thought insane her desire to live in a fantasy would of her own making.

Creative Writing Anthology

Her eyes began to droop as the poison started to take effect. The images of fairies beckoning her to the window filled her mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye. She followed their summons and felt her physical body fall away as she reached the glass and stepped right through it. On the other side she was greeted by the tiny pink and blue fairies, their voices the sound of tinkling bells, finally audible to Lizaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s newly awoken ears. She was there at last in a land awaiting a Queen to live in the ever-silent castle.

â&#x2014;&#x17D; A land past a window, all that innocent girl ever wanted. If anyone were to catch a glimpse of the unknown world, they might just see a happy land with a perfect monarch. A royal lady bringing magic to a peaceful domain. Snowy white unicorns gallop through the luscious jade coloured grassland as the wind whips through their thick pure manes and they make sounds of utter joy. A young girl in a pure white satin gown skips along behind them, her bare toes damp from the dewy grass. The sound of laughter hangs in the air for the entire kingdom to hear, a sound so pure it evokes happiness in all its inhabitants. The midday sun beats down, always the perfect temperature, always slightly warming the skin. The smell of salt lingers on the air around the bluest of blue lagoons as mermaids splash around, flicking their tails towards the immaculate surface. The once silent castle, a beacon for all. Always open and never to be abandoned again. It is the centre point of the entire beautiful, magical kingdom where all inhabitants live in harmony. Forever. She is in Utopia at last. â&#x2014;?

Creative Writing Anthology

Humans I scratched my eye out from my head. It did no good to me, to wear both of them.

Alina Cozma

I dug a finger, then a second, and a third until I had a good grip of the eyeball. At first, I wondered if I should rip it out, but I didn’t. No. I stuck another finger in there, and then my whole hand tightened around it. It felt good, ticklish, but good.The blood dripped down my arm, to my elbow. Some of it down my face, over my nose, over my lips. I licked it. Salty, I thought. ◎ I felt my arms numb. My body decayed bit by bit. It started from my toes, my nails were a delicious feast for Death. I remembered I painted my nails red, yesterday. Now Death licked, sucked, and bit my toes, caressing my fresh red nails with such a passion I wanted to moan. The forbidden pleasure, like a bite from the apple. Death would have liked that, if I’d had a mouth to cherish its work. Instead, I sat in silence. Overjoyed by the pain growing in my stomach, up to my mouldy lungs and even higher in my throat. I could feel the taste of the pain sweet and sticky, like marshmallows, but tastier, better. ◎

Creative Writing Anthology

With the eye I had left, I stared into the darkness. Death uncoiled over the leftovers of my body. My legs were long gone. I wiped away that thought, scolding my inner self. I had owned no legs, no arms, and no mouth. Those organs were never mine, I never wanted my body, I never owned it. Death hissed. I should keep quiet while it rests over my opened chest.

Shush little baby, don’t you cry. I sang inside my head, and Death growled in its sleep. ◎ The lungs came out easier than I would have thought. Death seemed disappointed; I noticed when it bent over my body to stare into my eye. I would have cringed if I’d owned a body, but I did not, and I stared back into the emptiness of Death. I felt like smiling. Don’t be upset baby, my heart is a feast, shaped by spiteful lusts and sins. If Death could smile, it would have done so. With its long claws it placed the remains of my arms into a pouch sewed from my skin, then it grabbed my head to lift it up. Death wanted me to watch as it unveiled its long colourful tongue. It will be over soon, I thought, and when it touched my heart, I felt it, the taste of Death imprinting in my heart. The bitter aftertaste of a vicious human life. ●

Creative Writing Anthology

Senses: Sound It was a street. A normal street, seen through the streaked, open window of a bedroom. Passers-by walked, bags of shopping swinging in their hands as they strolled along the Highstreet, passing a clothes shop, a grocers, Peri Peri chicken and other fast food places, and the occasional café. The sky was a clear blue, cloudless as if it had been wiped clean. The sun sparkled on the bonnets of the cars that rolled down the street, smoke billowed out of a window from the cigarette of a driver in a blue Corsa. All was quiet.

Leo Janes

The smell of coffee and cigars wafted up from the café on the street, while the pungent fumes of fuel mixed with it, fighting for dominance. In spring the aroma of lavender and clementine overruled the other scents, their pollen swaying in the breeze. Today, the odour had been replaced with the smell of cheap perfume that seeped from a lady, dolled up like a Barbie. It clotted the air with its stench. All was quiet, like always. The wind swept through the crimson curtains sending the soft silk rippling. The boy’s hand caressed the smooth oak of the window ledge, then travelled to the mattress, a marshmallow of pristine white that stretched beneath a crumple of navy duvet. His other hand’s fingertips fell from the cracked texture of his bottom lip to the steaming mug that sat on his bedside table. The heat seeped through the porcelain. All was quiet, like always for the boy.

Creative Writing Anthology

He brought the cup to his lips, letting the chocolate tickle his taste buds. At the creamy texture of the hot chocolate a wave of comfort swept through his body, and he shuddered at the bitterness of the cocoa that ended the drink. He placed the mug down next to the empty plate, licking his lips as he remembered the saltiness of the crisps. His mother entered the room with

a man close behind. All was quiet, like always for the boy, as his teacher entered the room. ◎ My teacher had his usual grin on his face as he came in talking to my mother. I couldn’t follow any of the conversation as they were speaking too fast for me to catch anything. My teacher has recently taught me how to lip read, but I can only follow people’s lips if they talk slowly. He was also here to help me with my sign language. I have always dreamed of what sound is like. I can sense sound through vibrations, but other than that it’s still a mystery. The vibrations I feel are one of many comforts in this quiet. Is it a wonderful thing? Or is it soothing? Maybe it’s overwhelming. My classmates find this strange, but my friends understand, especially Benny, who is my support buddy at school.The deaf stick together. Other than that, I spend my time in eternal silence, smelling the outside or feeling the wind on my face. My teacher puts his hand up in the shape of a thumbs-up, while his other hand’s index and middle finger point out, coming down from his chin in an arc to sweep back up. ‘Good afternoon.’ ●

Creative Writing Anthology

The girl who sees nothing I could hear. I could hear the steady sway of the waves as they washed upon the shore. The rush as they scrambled up the soft sands. Although it was static noise, I had always found it reassuring. A voice that soothed me. And as usual, along with the serene sound of the waves came the steady voice of the nightingaleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s song. I have a talent for singing and playing musical instruments. The melody was disturbed by the sound of a puppy yapping and a car revving its engine. The car.

Leo Janes

The delicious aroma of fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s special cheese and ham toasty wafted from the kitchen, along with a slight smell of petrol. The stairs creaked.The divine scent increased as did that of the petrol, as my father entered the room. I could smell the cheese, the slightly burnt toast, the smell of thick ham and of apple juice. I sniffed the air in pleasure, as my father set the tray down upon my bed. My father exited the room taking with him the stench of a man who had worked a long night. At the same time the fumes of a car engine tried to override the awesome aroma of my lunch. The car hit the girl. I sat up in bed, letting my hand fall away from the silken strands of my hair. With my other hand, I moved the creased fabric of my duvet, then fumbled for the tray. My skin touched cold steel and shivered at its icy touch. My fingertips crawled along the tray. I reached the toast. I paused as my skin glanced against the gooey cheese that had flowed out of its crusted exterior. I felt the warmth of the toast, its loose crumbs rolling beneath my fingertips. The car hit the girl, sending her flying to the floor.

Creative Writing Anthology

I lifted my sandwich up and took a bite. Silk cheese and pink ham with a crunch of toast. The gouda made up the flavour while the slightly sweet ham allowed me to savour the taste. I chewed, allowing the sweet sensation to linger on my tongue as the greasiness of the cheese rolled over my lips. Then in a

swallow it was gone. My other hand clasped the glass and brought it to my greasy, cheesy lips. Sweet, sugary apple juice filled my mouth. I drained the cold beverage and delighted in its tender chill. Outside a car horn beeped. The car hit the girl, sending her flying to the floor as her vision clouded. I paused from devouring my lunch, the all too familiar sensation kicking in. Then began the fireworks. A multitude of lights, like spots, burning into my eyes. My everyday life since becoming blind. I used to be scared of the dark, but now I crave it. Living my life day in and day out, with spots of light blazing through my eyes. I miss my parent’s faces, seeing their smile. I don’t get to see them. ●

Blood and War I’ll kill them!

Laurence Pratt

I’ll kill them all! I’ll kill them and tear them limb from limb and rip out their throats with my teeth! I’ll kill them and hunt down their families and make them all suffer! I’ll destroy their villages and burn everything in my sight to cinders! I’ll end them! ◎

Creative Writing Anthology

Chained in a dungeon, locked behind iron bars, and sneered at by lowly humans. Thinking they can keep me in check with those blunt swords at their sides. I haven’t unclenched my fists in days. I’ve only just stopped screaming and promising them an eternity of suffering. And I’m only now starting to think, and wonder what

kind of sorcerers they have, to be able ensnare me. Me! They’ll die! They’ll all die painfully and mercilessly! I growl and drown the dungeon in a deathly shriek to haunt even their descendants. ◎ ‘Are you ready to cooperate?’ A low guttural growl builds in the back of my throat, and I bare my fangs at the man. Badges and patches adorn the front of his blazer. A sword is sheathed on his right, and a cape covers his left. His hair is blonde and greying, and his skin is starting to wrinkle, showing signs of his insignificant, fleeting life. But his tired eyes show none of the fear and despair that I will make sure terrorises him day and night. Spread like a star, with my hands and feet chained apart, I definitely feel the heat of a star burning inside me. And I would love nothing more than to release a wave of scorching fire, but I can’t. I try. I try as hard as I can, diving deep into myself and pulling back a lethal dosage of searing flames, but when I try to unleash it, it’s like it dissipates back into me, no matter how many times I try. The old man just blinks when I start to scream and roar once more, trying with all my might to lay waste to everything, and failing miserably. He soon leaves. My rage does not. ◎

As I sit outside the tent they have given me, glaring at anyone and everyone in my line of sight, it becomes clear to me that they know those conditions are only temporary. They avoid eye contact. They quickly walk out of my vision. They know that once

Creative Writing Anthology

They summoned me for a war. I am to fight for them and bring them victory. Seven needlessly virginal sacrifices were made. I am under their control. And I cannot hurt them, lest my own life prematurely ceases.

my contract is completed, they will all die by my hand, if the battlefield doesn’t take them first. ‘Morana,’ I say in my mind. Without delay, another’s voice speaks to me in my head, and just hearing it soothes my rage, although not completely. Nothing but my ‘allies’ deaths would do that. ‘Camilla,’ she says, and despite being separated by realms, just hearing her voice makes it feel like she’s right beside me. If I’m going to make it through this war still sane, I need that. ‘Let us help you.’ ‘This is not why I wanted to talk.’ ‘I’m positive we can find a way to break the contract. And even if not, perhaps Father—’ ‘I am not leaving without my revenge. I’ll deal with these humans myself.’ Silence fills my mind, and with it, the hate and anger and overwhelming bloodlust begin to replace it. ‘Hurry home,’ my twin says. I’m always grateful to hear her, but when she stops, and I’m left alone in this damned realm, I feel the emptiest I have ever felt. And without Morana, only the anger can give my trapped life any meaning. Revenge. I lick my lips, anticipating their blood, and from then on, no one dares glance anywhere near me. ◎

Creative Writing Anthology

They asked me if I had the power to revive our allies. I said yes. They have since stopped requesting such foolishness. It’s ironic, really, because as the daughter of a God, I specialise in healing. But reviving?

I would be ploughing through the enemy ranks, slashing and impaling and decapitating, on their orders, and they would call me back to raise a fallen comrade. And I would do it. I would lay my hands on them and perform my healing miracles upon them, reinvigorating them with new life. They would rally, and take on the enemy, swords raised, battle cries loud, and no matter how many times they would be struck with maces or impaled with swords, they would not fall. Many of them were soulless husks, driven only by their last moments of trauma, driving them to madness. Prone to anger and friendly fire, even in the camps. It’s one of the few ways I managed to entertain myself here. But if I was quick enough with reviving, some would return with their souls intact. They would still be massively driven by trauma, massively prone to anger, and quick to answer any question with a fight to the death, but only now their souls were tainted and guaranteed a place in Hell. They had soon ordered me to rid them of those abominations, when it became clear these soldiers were no longer human. It’s been a while since I saw the inside of my cell. My hands and feet are once again bound, only now, I’m not growling and manically trying to shake myself free. But they would be foolish to mistake my calmness for submissiveness. The only reason I’m back in this cell is because they think I broke the contract they’ve bound to me. The only reason they could get me into this cell again is because I’m not allowed to break it. If nothing else, I can respect the power of whatever mages they employed to leash a Goddess.

‘You would be all be dead if I had. I raised the dead, on orders. The husks ran wild. Tell me at which point the fault lies with me.’

Creative Writing Anthology

The old greying blonde stands before me, that very same tiredness deep-rooted in those eyes he regards me with. ‘If we find out you’ve broken free of our agreement—’

‘When you failed to inform your commanding officer that doing so would result in monsters.’ I can’t hold the laugh back. When I don’t stop, the grey-blonde man walks out of my cell, hands held behind his back, without a word, and a guard locks the door behind him. He starts to walk away, his footsteps echoing loudly through the dungeon. ‘Walk away, human. Your fate is still sealed.’ The footsteps stop for just a moment, but they soon sound again, and he soon leaves me here, with two guards who talk only in hushed whispers when near me, and the silence and time to think of the darkest way to torment my ‘comrades’. ◎

The poor creature’s neighing contorts into an unearthly mixture between a screeching neigh and a vicious roar. And I

Creative Writing Anthology

A horse. They give me one as if my own two feet and wings are not good enough. A horse that gallops at not even a tenth of the speed that I can run. So, I corrupt her. She bucks and neighs like she’s going mad, but she doesn’t run off as I lay my hands on her black hide and watch it harden and crack. Her blood turns molten, and with fire now pumping within her, her veins glow through her now impenetrable hide. Her mane, once of pure white, now shimmers black. Flowing wildly and ghostly and serving as a clear warning of her fallen aptitude. Black horns of a ram sprout from either side of her head, just above the soulless, deep black abysses that are her eyes. Fangs. They’re as sharp as my own, but far more grotesque and terrifying. They barely even fit in her mouth. I take in the sight of her, but quickly surmise that she’s missing one final trait, and as I stroke her ghostly mane, large, leathery wings break out from her back. Thick and spiked at their tips.

stroke up her mane, until I reach her head, looking into the eyes of my new companion. Despite the agonising transformation, she doesn’t run away, and when I take her head in my hands and rest my forehead against hers, she calms down. And I smile. ◎ With a year to my name, I’ve apparently also been able to make a name for myself with our enemies, too. Nothing spectacular. Just ‘The Demon.’ I heard it days ago, and it still makes me laugh. ‘The Demon,’ I mutter to myself, shaking my head, as I ride Astaria at the head of the company. From a human perspective it’s not far off, I suppose. Many would consider the denizens of the abyss to be demons, but the name is so lacking in flair and creativity that I can’t bring myself to be offended by it. Astaria and I ride quite some distance ahead of the rest of the cavalry, since she spooks the other horses just by being near them. Because she’s the best steed in this entire army. But riding up ahead at a painfully slow pace, I can practically feel her restlessness. I lower myself on her, hugging close, her hide hot to the touch. ‘We’ll let loose when we go home,’ I quietly say to her. I breath in her burning scent and sigh out. ‘We’ve got seas of fire and burning skies.’ I glance up at the dull, darkening grey sky, before shutting my eyes, and picturing home. ‘We have other horses galloping and flying around the palace, but you’d never let them intimidate you, would you?’

I shoot upright, and Astaria rightly stops, as I jerk my gaze towards that powerful source in the distance. Only hills and

Creative Writing Anthology

Astaria makes a short snorting noise, and I chuckle quietly. ‘They’re no match for…’

mountains fill my vision in the direction of the disturbance, but that feeling… Powerful and still building. That pull I’m feeling… I’m just about to get Astaria moving as fast as she can, but I’m stopped by the screams in my head, and my eyes go wide with core-chilling realisation. I can finally feel that tight pull again that draws us together, and, despite myself, that wave of calm I can’t help but feel with her presence in this realm. Morana. ◎ Lying in my tent, reading one of their human books on strategy, and keeping everyone awake with my laughter, helps to keep my mind occupied. But when a voice comes in my head, I stop. I wish my ‘commanding officer’ had not ordered me back, after I raced off. I wish he had let me go again, after I explained the situation, and I wish I wasn’t bound by this cursed contract, so I could have torn his head from his neck. ‘How is this evening treating you, Camilla,’ I can’t deny that I’m happy to hear her voice, but just knowing that she was summoned to this realm, too, builds a primal bloodlust within me. I need something to kill. ‘Morana.’ I feel like I can see her smiling as I say her name, so I have no doubt that she is. But I don’t know what there is to smile about. ‘Did they hurt you?’ A chuckle. ‘Do you need to ask?’ she says, quietly. ‘I was in a rage, but when I sensed you near, I calmed down enough to realise the situation.’ ‘Wonderful. Now we’re both bound to contracts in a human war.’

‘Wishful thinking.’

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Against one another.’ My heart burns when she says that. I already knew, but hearing it is another matter. ‘But don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.This time tomorrow, I’ll have freed you from your binds.’

The smile I can sense says otherwise, but she would have to forgive me for not being overly optimistic, right now. ‘Just listen.’ ◎ We meet in the depths of a dark forest, the moonlight unable to break through the canopy. Astaria’s flaming veins offer minimal lighting, but it doesn’t matter for us. I know we don’t have the luxury of time, but I can’t let go of Morana. I don’t know how long our embrace has lasted, but I won’t let go. Even if a year and half is nothing amongst Gods, it feels like centuries when I’m away from Morana. But there is work to be done. She pushes me away first, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointed, but she just smiles at me. Her ash grey skin, almost black in the dim light, and her red eyes shining. Her long, hooded cloak covers the two little horns on her forehead, but I’m drawn to the tome she’s holding close to her body. I would love to go with her to see just what kind of curses she would inflict upon my, soon to be former, captors. She looks down at the sword at my side, taking a step back and raising her eyebrows at me. ‘I cannot say I’m comfortable being near you with that.’

I wave the weapon around in the air as if it were nothing but a toy. ‘This thing is so dull it wouldn’t even graze me, but it’s sharp enough to behead a few hundred humans.’

Creative Writing Anthology

I can’t help but grin at the thinly veiled insult. Even the more unpleasant of the humans I have been around chose their words carefully, and I would have guaranteed their deaths had they insulted me. But it’s still refreshing to be around someone comfortable enough to insult my swordsmanship.

‘Hmm… I suppose you had no reason to be careful here.’ Despite my reassurance, she keeps her distance, and with a sigh, her expression soon becomes cold and serious, as mine does too. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, but we should go before either of us are summoned back.’ I nod once, and reluctantly walk back to Astaria and mount her. She walks up to Morana, so I lean down to my twin and pat her on the head, much to her false distaste and poorly hidden delight, as she pouts up at me. ‘Make them suffer,’ I tell her. She now nods, and without so much as a ‘good luck,’ she runs off into the distance, swiftly disappearing from sight, to annihilate my contractors, whilst I gallop off in the other direction to destroy hers. ●

Creative Writing Anthology

There have been times (Extract) There have been times There is just a s

Fiona Edwards

absolutely terrified, whyou get handed thou sweat is dripping joy. Knowing that t The worst thing fto depend on yo I saw IT foto feed them, clea time. The film you promise yourself general a few jumthem get hurt and more. But that you’ll protect them been this scared home, caring for saw Pennywise when they cry y when they sleep them. You worr through the night time. trange feeling when when I’ve been t small bundle of en your heart is pounding his child is going down your back. y for everything or me was when that you won’t let didn’t scare me in you promise them thatp scares but nothing

Creative Writing Anthology

n them, love themr the very first

. Talking your baby night I have never a tiny little life. before. I constantly you comfort them, laying in bed you watch over when they sleep for the very first he would be sta The first time curtain, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d shine when they take the and nothing was themselves, tears f down and turn o they stumble to again, I attack spread to embrac shock on his fathe trouble starts, and say I thourunning into things. spider. He nods personalities havin look over tothing is knowing door and is only the bes peeking out fro wardrobe, I let sitting up he w be seen. Event I saw him

Creative Writing Anthology

For the next

they talk, mama, dadanding near the ne very first steps by a light there rm in your eyes as there calm myself wards you arms ver there he is e you. This is when he turnover they run everywherece. I apologise They start developingght I saw a g tantrums. The best and smiles. that what you seewards the bedroom nning Pennywise is m behind the out a gasp as no where to ually I fell asleep two weeks every night. â&#x2014;?

Creative Writing Anthology

Operation North Gust Major Shane stifled an urge to snort, not wanting to interrupt the general’s monologue when it was finally winding down. Being briefed on mission specifics while en-route to the target generally meant a hastily planned operation. A hastily planned operation generally meant shit for him and his team.

Kiril Dimitrov

‘The CIA lost their GRU mole so once the Russians move the president again, they’ll lose track of him for good.’ The general’s voice was crisp and clear in Shane’s left earpiece. ‘Already the French GIGN task force has fucked up colossally in Catalonia and the Seals were too late in Ukraine.’ ‘So now SAS has to go in and clean up their mess, sir?’ Shane couldn’t hold back the remark. ‘After the secretary’s official request for help from Britain, we had little choice.’ The general paused as if he was searching for a positive side in the situation. ‘Well, Major, the men and women in the Special Air Service are no strangers to counter-terrorism operations, and the Delta sub-department is no exception. I realise the logistics of this mission have been handled rather poorly so far but I have the utmost faith in your capabilities,Voodoo. Central Ops out.’

Creative Writing Anthology

With that, the connection cut off, leaving Shane to his thoughts. He had no idea how he was supposed to pull off such a high-stake mission with a five-man team and intelligence that barely went past a set of coordinates. He was aboard a retrofitted Merlin Mk II, flying over eastern Russia, Siberia. The rigid winds overpowered the rhythmic thump of the stealth chopper’s blades, effectively making it undetectable in the night sky. Despite the heavy snowstorm, the pilot had no trouble navigating the machine over the snow-covered hills and forests—satellite global positioning always helped with that. Four AH-64F Apaches had joined the Merlin somewhere over the Baltic Sea and now escorted it,

rendering the transport’s stealth capabilities worthless with their massive turboshaft engines. Poorly handled is one way of putting it, Shane thought. ‘All right, gentlemen,’ the female pilot spoke through the internal comm system, ‘five minutes until estimated time of arrival. I repeat, five minutes ETA.’ Major Shane did a final check on his assault rifle, a now rather ageing model of the Bullpup family chambered for 5.56 ammunition. Despite the many newer and upgraded versions of the weapon type available he still favoured the common AUG. After half a dozen years with it on the field, he knew it inside and out. There was a strong sense of comfort in the familiar long muzzle, in the exact weight of the magazine close to his shoulder. Looking up, Shane saw the other four members of Delta Team doing similar checks, gloved hands performing swift, practised movements, sharp clicks of magazines being secured in C8 carbines and M16s. The identical whiteness of his team’s camouflage armour would have made it impossible for Shane to tell them apart had it not been for the personal touches each had added to their weapon—a holographic sight instead of the standard red dot here, a modified ACOG scope there. Although he couldn’t meet their eyes, not with the helmets on and night vision goggles down, Shane still sensed his team’s fake calmness and subdued anticipation. It was in their postures. They’ve been a working unit for long enough to have developed a solid relationship and when one of them was tense, the others felt it too.

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Just remember,’ Shane spoke through the microphone attached on the inside of his helm. ‘We go in fast and not necessarily silent. We’ll probably encounter heavy resistance at some point—what little intelligence we have strongly suggests Russian governmental involvement. Here’s what we know about the situation itself.’ He paused, going one last time over the vague plan he’d been preparing in his mind since take-off.

‘CIA are positive that the USA president would have been taken to the lower complex of the industrial facility. And if they are already moving him, they’ll probably be doing so through the maintenance tunnels.The most likely destination is a small military seaport adjacent to the mining facility from which they can load him on a submarine and effectively disappear anywhere down the coast.’ ‘Needless to say, any nuclear codes or passwords for military firewalls the president could give up have already been changed but... our people back home will take a lot of heat from the USA if we fail.’ Shane stole a quick glance at the blinking timer projected on his visor. The count-down showed less than two minutes. ‘Understood?’ The other commandos chorused their acknowledgement and took positions near the rear panel of the helicopter. Every one of them knew the risks and was ready to do their job. Delta Team was the pride of the SAS and they were going to live up to that name. What bothered Shane was that he knew any of them was ready to die for him or the mission.

Creative Writing Anthology

None of them was prepared for what was the violent explosion of an Aim-120 AMRAAM missile. It hit one of the Apache choppers in the tail, sending bits and scraps of metal flying through the night sky. Radio chatter filled Shane’s secondary communication line a moment after the helicopter’s green dot disappeared from his tactical display. He listened tensely as the pilots were belatedly informed by Central Ops of the presence of a squadron of Russian air superiority jet fighters, MiG-35 by the sound of it. The remaining three Apaches veered to engage but despite the numerous technological advantages of the American attack helicopters, they stood little chance versus the superior mobility of the MiGs. Ironically, it was much like eagles hunting crows.

‘One-minute ETA, guys,’ the Merlin pilot chipped in, her voice strained but otherwise controlled. As adept as the commandos in Delta Team were, all of their training and skill couldn’t make a difference in an air superiority fight. They just had to hope they’d reach their destination alive. Shane was profoundly sweating in his armour, clinging to the railing of the chopper—such moments of helplessness always got to him, regardless of any training or experience. ‘Come on, come on,’ July was murmuring subconsciously. Shane’s mind was too busy processing a steady, continuous line of the same phrase to snap at her to cut it. Just as he wondered how close they were to the landing zone the Merlin shook yet again. Checking his information link to the helicopter systems, he found out that ground Anti-Air batteries had opened fire on them. Brilliant. ‘Primary LZ is compromised,’ sounded the now truly wavering voice of the pilot. ‘Proceeding to secondary but we are going in hot.’ If nothing else, the Merlin Mk II was a fast bird and between its speed and the valiant efforts of the last Apache above and behind them, it managed to make it to the backup landing zone. The pilot hovered the chopper over the rooftops of the vast mining facility, a whining sound building up as the damaged rotors fought against gravity. The sliding doors moved away to reveal the night sky and the commandos threw themselves out. An endless abyss consumed Shane.

Creative Writing Anthology

His fall was short. No more than a second had passed before the descent mechanism on his rope activated, slowing his fall and automatically unlocking when he hit the ground with a solid crunch of boots on snow. Voodoo took a second to scan his immediate surroundings, relief and eagerness flooding him. Through the green tint of his night vision, he could make out the

rooftop around him, the heavy snowstorm obscuring his line of sight only partially. If there was anyone hiding amid the chimneys and the odd maintenance access point around them, he couldn’t see them. ‘Madman hold this position and watch our six. July, take point until the primary infiltration phase.’ ‘Copy that, Voodoo.’ July’s voice was soft, nearly a whisper. It still had a girlish hint to it, despite over a dozen years of military service.Voodoo had seen her land sniper shots at over a kilometre, through wind and rain and fog. Her abilities were the sole reason she was on Delta Team, despite the numerous remarks Voodoo had received in well lighted pubs from dead-drunk captains. The commandoes sprinted in perfect unison for the nearest door that led inside the complex. The Merlin chopper flew over them, repositioning in advance to provide extraction later on. As the vanguard took cover near the maintenance access, July put a concentrated explosive device on the door’s lock and requested a go. ‘Delta Team, status report,’ Voodoo ordered and his commandoes’ voices came through the speaker in his right ear. ‘Delta Two, in position. Your six is clear, Team Leader.’ ‘Delta Three, in position. Charge is set.’ ‘Delta Four, in position.’ ‘Delta Five, in position.’

Creative Writing Anthology

With his team at the ready, Voodoo gave the final order for July to blow up the charge. The small explosion was ultimately drowned out by a bigger one in the skies just above them. The sudden flash of light disorientated Voodoo at the worst possible moment, just as he took point and stormed the door. He went tumbling down some stairs, trying to recover his sense of balance.

He came out in a crouch, one knee up and his rifle levelled even before his eyes had readjusted. The hiss of a suppressed M16 came over Voodoo’s shoulder and his mind connected the sound of the silenced weapon to Scarecrow. ‘Tango down,’ came the dispassionate voice of the old captain. He’d continuously denied a desk job after each medal he won in service. Scarecrow had shot down a man across the room, two bullets in his chest and one in the head. As Voodoo moved past for the next staircase, he noticed the out-of-place clothes of the dead man but pushed on without stopping. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ July’s voice confirmed his suspicions a few seconds later. Voodoo and the rest had brushed past the corpse too swiftly but the sniper had had a spare moment between her repositions to confirm the kill. It turned out that rather than shooting a sentry, they had killed a mechanic. Side casualties weren’t something that Voodoo was concerned about but they were a continuous nightmare for Major Shane whenever he had to spend the night alone. So much for military intelligence, Voodoo mused as his team ventured further down to the underground levels of the facility. What good were the suits if they couldn’t provide such basic information as the rough positions of the enemy and confirm the presence of civilians? The perky voice of Sandman, Voodoo’s second in command, interrupted his thoughts.

Voodoo knew Sandman had a point—they hadn’t encountered any guards along the web of rooms and stairs despite the ambush

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Despite this being a shitty op, this is somehow going relatively well. I may be working for the SAS now, but I still share the Seals opinion of luck when it comes down to our line of work.’

in the air, which suggested the enemy knew they were coming. Had they set up a second ambush? Were they retreating already? Or had they already extracted and were just covering their retreat? Maybe… Voodoo shook his head, leaving that ambiguous line of thought alone. Running through a hostile territory while distracted was the surest way to get yourself killed—that much everyone knew. Not that they had much choice, being forced to go in recklessly fast. Voodoo’s mind registered a slight tug against his boot a moment before a shout burst from next to him, doubled up through his headset. An explosion to his left blinded him as something simultaneously collided with his body and sent him crashing to the ground. It took a few seconds for the initial effect of the concussion to pass, the automatic systems in his armour injecting him with painkillers. Someone removed a heavy weight off Voodoo which he hadn’t even noticed yet, a weight that turned out to be Scarecrow. July’s voice penetrated the heavy ringing in Voodoo’s ears, urging him to get up and let her assess his condition. Meanwhile, Sandman had moved in to check on Scarecrow, his fingers looking for a pulse. They must have hit an old-fashioned booby-trap and although it had been rigged masterfully, they seemed to have all survived it.

‘I’ll see to it. July, keep an eye on Scarecrow. Sandman, you’ve got point.’

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Praise modern armour,’ Scarecrow hoarse voice came amplified through the comm link. ‘Freaking Central Ops knew how stupid it was to send us in such a small time window yet they did it anyway…’ A cough shook his body, but he forced on nevertheless, getting to his feet. ‘Just remember to recommend me for another stupid bravery cross after that, alright Major?’

‘Roger that.’ The commando took off at a semi-run down yet another corridor, understandably hesitant to sprint and Voodoo kept close on his heels. They would have had no choice but to leave Scarecrow behind had he not been able to run. There was no time for the ‘never leave a man behind’ part in a mission depending on speed. Voodoo went around the next corner just as Sandman was forcing his way through an industrial set of metal doors. The secondary communicating channel sprang to life in his left ear. ‘Central Ops to Delta Team One, please be advised,’ a calm operator spoke, ‘Bird One has reported heavy enemy presence at extraction point Alpha and is now proceeding to point Beta. Please confirm. Central Ops out.’ ‘This is Sandman, copy th...’ Sandman was first to answer, just as he was first through the door. His red laser-sight painted a dot on a figure down the corridor a fraction of the second before his brain registered the presence and his fingers squeezed the trigger. Voodoo instinctively pulled back July, ducking around the corner for cover. He caught a glimpse of Sandman falling to the ground, his vest torn apart by automatic fire, small pieces flying through the air. Scarecrow didn’t pause but went low, ducking next to Sandman in an instant and pulling him back, trying to get him out of harm’s way despite the continuous fire. ‘Delta Team, please repeat that last,’ came the calm voice in Voodoo’s left ear again. ‘Central Ops out.’

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Team Leader, fucking copy that!’ he shouted. He took out a flash grenade and threw it around the corner blindly. Voodoo glanced to the side where Scarecrow had hunkered down and saw that a few bullets had found their way into Sandman’s head despite Scarecrow’s efforts. There was another bravery cross for him right there.

A moment later the flash from the grenade erupted, followed by a loud bang—Voodoo peeked out of cover immediately, going through half of his magazine in the space of a single breath. Half a second later a second rifle joined his from Scarecrow’s position and a moment later July’s heavy-duty pistol chipped in as well. Between the three of them, they made short work of the stunned guards. An uneasy silence took hold of the smoke-saturated air after the firefight’s sudden end. His ears ringing despite his helmet, Voodoo started carefully down the corridor. He glanced to the side and saw Scarecrow crouching over the dead body of Sandman, his gun muzzle still smoking. A step behind him, July held her sidearm at the ready, head swinging back and forth, looking for an enemy they might have missed spotting. Scarecrow finished checking Sandman’s pulse and wordlessly rushed over to join Voodoo and July. The team came up to a locked metal door marked with red Cyrillic letters announcing an artificial bay.Voodoo’s secondary comm line came to life yet again just as they stopped, this time with bursts of static and panicked voice. ‘Delta Team come in… They have… unable to…’ ‘Bird One, status report,’ he spoke back into his microphone as he gestured for July and Scarecrow to start working on the door.

‘This is General Hurst on the line. Your primary mission parameters have just changed as follows…’

Creative Writing Anthology

‘... the last escort went… and… th.. hav…’ In a sudden miracle of damaged radio, the transmission cleared up. ‘-peat, the bird is going down. We cannot provide...’ Another transmission from Central Ops came then, automatically overriding the Merlin’s pilot, private to Voodoo’s receiver.

A small explosion forced Voodoo’s attention back to his immediate surroundings. Scarecrow had made short work out of the door’s lock and was waiting for his signal to kick it open. July had switched back to her M110 sniper rifle and fallen back a few steps for a better angle. ‘This is steadily becoming a one-way trip, isn’t it,’ she remarked. Voodoo snapped at her to cut the chatter. ‘Deadman, status report,’ he spoke, wanting to confirm his option for retreating the same way they’d come in. Silence followed. ‘Deadman, come in,’ Voodoo repeated. Still nothing. We are not going back that way, he thought, assuming the worst. Regardless, he had his orders and he intended to see them carried out. On his mark, he and the two remaining commandos stormed the artificial bay. It was a cargo hall on two levels, one for the actual containers and one consisted of docks for submarines, all but one empty. An enemy force already behind cover intercepted Delta Team with fire as soon as they entered. Voodoo caught a glimpse of someone braking off into a run towards the submarine across the hall just as he ducked for cover. The man was dragging along someone else, a handcuffed figure in rumpled suit that could have only been the president.

Creative Writing Anthology

Acting on his assumption, Voodoo dispatched July to a higher vantage point to take care of the runner before he got away with the hostage. As he and Scarecrow lay down suppressing fire, July’s voice came in his right ear. ‘Tango down by the hostage. Switching targets.’

A series of heavy thuds cut through the echoes of automatic gunfire in the enclosed space, no doubt coming from July’s sniper rifle. Pleased with the quick work she was making of the few remaining enemies that had taken cover at a now disadvantaged position, Voodoo turned to the side to check up on Scarecrow… just in time to see his back torn apart by machine gun fire.Voodoo continued his turn, dropping to one knee in a single, fluid motion and emptied his last magazine in the direction of the door. The pair of enemies that had sneaked up on them went down in a bloody heap, torn by thirty high-velocity rounds. Movement flickered to the side in the expanded field of vision of his visor and Voodoo went into a roll just as bullets sprayed his position and then ricocheted off the metal container he’d dove for. Hearing the enemy’s footsteps approaching, he dropped his now useless rifle and pulled out a knife. Just as the muzzle of a gun came around the corner and Voodoo sprang forward to meet his attacker, July jumped down from a nearby cargo platform and put a clean shot through the man’s head from the back. Panting heavily, Voodoo rose to his feet, silently thanking modern technology. Tunnel vision had always been a problem for him, something that would have ended his career, and life, had he been born thirty years earlier. He put away his knife and requested a report from July. ‘I’ve secured the hostage,’ came her adrenalin-shaking voice in his right ear. ‘This way, sir.’ Following July’s lead, Voodoo walked through the hall, careful not to slip on any of the blood or trip over a body.

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Here.’ She led him to the base of the narrow ramp that extended to the lone submarine. The President of the United States of America still had the black hood tight on his head, his hands at an awkward angle behind his back while he lay on the ground to avoid getting shot in the crossfire.

At least he has common sense, Voodoo thought. ‘Mister President, we’ve got you,’ July spoke in a soothing manner as she kneeled down to unlock the handcuffs. Then she reached for the hood, pulling it up.Voodoo’s hand shot out under her extended arm, finding her Glock 17 in the sidearm holster. He had it out and the safety off in a flash, levelling the gun at the president’s head and pulling the trigger. The shot echoed in the silent room along with July’s surprised shout. The impact from the bullet sent tiny bits of brain and blood across her visor and she stumbled away on all fours, shocked. The lifeless body of the president fell sideways, hitting the ground with a soft thud, blood soaking through the black hood. July stumbled to her feet, pulling off her smeared helmet. Sweat-soaked blonde hair spilt out as she shouted at Voodoo. ‘What the hell are you doing? You just shot him, Shane!’ ‘I’m carrying out my orders.’ He lowered the gun to his side, his thumb hovering above the safety. ‘I don’t ask questions, and neither should you. Regardless, we’ll be hard pressed to make it out on our own any-’ ‘Yes, but we could have… I don’t know…’ July’s angry voice trailed off, her hands trembling as she shoved messy hair away from her eyes. ‘The submarine, we could have…’ ‘Do you happen to know how to operate one?’ ‘No, but…’

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Don’t worry,’ Voodoo murmured softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. She stared for a moment at his helmet, trying to peer behind the visor, but eventually her gaze fell to the gloved hand resting on her shower. She surrendered then, letting her head rest on his palm, shutting her mind to the echoes of footsteps coming from outside the room. He studied her face, her slightly parted lips as she was drawing shaky breath, the white skin dotted with

old scars, the warm brown of her eyes. He saw her glance to the side only for an instance, past his shielded face, before settling her gaze back to him. That was why both Voodoo and the major loved her. She always thought of her own life last, always putting them first. But Voodoo, unlike Shane, was egotistical in his love. With each footstep bringing capture and torture closer and closer to them, Shaneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s struggle for control became weaker. In the last instance, when Julyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes flicked back to him, once more trying to peer behind the visor of his helm, Voodoo won. A single breath later he had the pistol up to her unprotected temple. He pulled the trigger. Blood, brain and tiny bone pieces smudged his visor. Shouts in Russian erupted from behind Voodoo, ordering him to drop his weapon. Ignoring them completely, he pulled off his helmet and levelled the gun at his head, privately marvelling at his own lack of hesitation. He pulled the trigger for one last time, but only a sad, small click came from the pistol. Voodoo dropped the now useless chunk of metal with a long sigh. He wondered whether it was worth reaching for his knife before turning around and charging. â&#x2014;?

Creative Writing Anthology

On Mephits: Grave Caution When Reading Do you think the convict feels relief when they see the noose? Do you think the mouse feels peace as the night owl’s talons close around its body? What might they feel? Perhaps they remember the sounds, the faint flap of wings against the silence of the night, or perhaps the creak of the old wooden step as they climb the scaffold. That creak stays with them, as they stand with the noose around their neck, as the hood draws away the images around them and that still silence the second before they drop. I hear that same creak, it’s behind the door. So here I sit, waiting for my drop, listening for the faint beating of wings to slice through the silence. It’s been two weeks since I found that journal. I realise too late that I should never have destroyed it and yet I imagine that you, dear reader, will probably destroy this, and so the cycle continues. I have locked the doors; I have sealed the windows. My bedroom contains a mattress, a typewriter, a stack of paper and a large metal strongbox. A number of glow sticks, torches (both windup and battery) lamps and battery packs lie scattered on the floor. And now I wait. I know they’re coming for me, and I know there’s nothing I can do. They were called Imps in the journal I read, but to leave my mark I have taken to calling them Mephits. This is partly due to their small size and demonic appearance, as well as my firm belief that they are not of this world or reality. I believe they come from somewhere else. But I must explain a few things first. When I say appearance, I say that based on the shadows they caste when light shines on them, as they are almost completely invisible.This means that the only thing you may see is a slight shimmer in the air or a shadow darting past.

Creative Writing Anthology

But I have just realised, as you read this they may now be watching you. It would be wise to continue reading this in a welllit room, keeping far away from shadows. But this is down to you, and down to how much you believe me, though I imagine the

Tom Harris

Mephits will hunt you regardless of whether or not you believe. From what I’ve read and from what I’ve discovered, they appear from the darkness, their being creatures of that realm. This means that any shadow cast, from natural light or artificial, allows them to cross over to our world. I’ve found this out the hard way more than once, thinking I was safe outside in broad daylight was a mistake I now bear the fatigue of. I was resting on a park bench going over my notes on the Mephits and looking at the then intact journal, however in my hubris I decided I’d rest, close my notes and shut my eyes, as I hadn’t slept properly in four days. Upon waking I found that the sun was just moving to the other side of a tree which was casting a long spindly shadow over to the bench where I sat. As I realised my mistake an invisible claw sank into my flesh and ripped it open, leaving a trailing scar from my neck to my torso. But I divulge something I shouldn’t do for your safety. As you read this they will be watching and waiting to dispose of you; their existence must remain a secret.

Creative Writing Anthology

I can hear them, outside my bedroom door, prying, circling, looking for a way through my defences. I say I can hear them, yet they make no sound. It’s more a feeling, some might call it a hunch, but I think they’ve been around for millions of years and its now an instinct to sense them. Though I’m sure many will disregard this, but I do remember countless times when I lived in ignorance of the Mephits that I would think I heard something at night, or I’d think I saw something in the dark and I’d bolt up in bed and look around the darkness of my room, listening intently. Then I’d mentally shrug and think that it was my imagination or a distant sound and would lie back down and rest. Rest, ha, how funny a thing it seems now. I should explain and I ask you to forgive me, I am not much of a writer and tend to ramble, I feel a little guilty as you will have to make do with my account of things whereas I had the excellent journal on the Mephits, but again I have gone off on a tangent. The Mephits feed on us humans which is why they come to our world. They drain our life-force, which affects

our energy and, naturally, our life. Drain enough and we die. The incident with the shadow and the bench that gave me my scar was unnecessary, they don’t need contact with somebody to drain their life-force, but I have to admit I was foolish. I taunted them previously, which is why the Mephit attacked me rather than just draining my life-force, though I imagine it took a few years off before I woke. I know they’re here. If there’s one thing to remember it’s that they are just as intelligent, or perhaps more so, than humans, and they exhibit cunning. They will ambush you, surround you and the worst thing is you never even hear them, never even see them and the only way you know if they’re right behind you is the sudden chill that climbs up your spine and sits at the base of your neck. You turn around, eyes wide in panic. Nothing. Just yourself and an empty room, you never knowing if they were ever there at all. But that’s when you’re alone, outside amongst the public it’s something else entirely, you can’t tell anyone, if you do they’ll perhaps see you as threat enough to swarm and attack everyone around you. So instead you’re simply another ‘crazy’ on the streets, someone that people skirt around. It’s a hard life to live never even being able to break the peace and innocence of those around. I miss those days. I miss living in ignorance and I feel awful for sharing this information with you.

Creative Writing Anthology

I sit here typing away, winding up my torches which throw their scant illumination onto the walls and I know that soon enough the Mephits will figure out that if they cut the power to my house the room will be dark. So however long this light lasts I know I’ll be closer to that noose, closer to those talons when my light starts to wane. I don’t know how I’ll go, perhaps it will be sudden, and all my life will drain from me and I will be at peace. Perhaps it will be slow, painful and stretch through the seconds like eternity. Perhaps I’ll simply lie down on my mattress and never wake up. I warn you that thoughts such as these didn’t plague me to start

with, likely you will think much as I did at first and they will only be passing half-thoughts, not fully acknowledged, swirling at the back of your skull. But soon, once you know, you start noticing things; things that make you wonder why you’d ever have such thoughts anyway. Have you ever wondered why we truly fear the dark? What do people think lurks in the dark? Spiders? Crawling across the floor, onto your bed and over your bodies, drawn to your warmth in the cold night as a moth is to flame. Perhaps more-human invaders? Silently entering your house, stepping on that one loose step up the stairs, leading to that deathly silence hanging in the air, they wonder if they’ve woken you, maybe to come and kill you to be on the safe side. But believe me, this is the true reason we fear the dark, we know in our hearts that in that darkness these demonic Mephits dwell. I need to wind my torches again.

My situation will probably mirror your own. I used to be an investigator, I had a good lead concerning a suspicious character, lived out in the middle of nowhere and I thought he was going to be my guy. But just when you think you have the case under

Creative Writing Anthology

I can see the walls; they’re dripping with blood, splattered across like an artist flicking paint onto canvas. My body torn asunder, skin peeled in strips and strewn around the room, oddly pale against the dark blooded floor. Chunks of my flesh left adrift in a sea of red, mutilated by demon claws. And in the silence of the background, a ripple of unheard laughter. This will be the scene greeting whoever arrives at my house tomorrow. If anyone does. Perhaps it will be much longer before I am found. Perhaps the blood will have dried on the walls and the pools on the floor congealed leaving fleshy clumps as time has passed. The strips of dried skin have curled up like pale ribboning paper. The hunks of my rotting body already starting to liquefy in the stifling air, a heavy sickening odour saturating the room. Perhaps. I’ll never know. Perhaps you found me, opened my strong-box and are now reading this. Maybe tell me when we meet one day.

wraps it all starts to unravel. After the long windy dirt road to his house I arrived to find the front door broken, hanging slumped by one hinge and covered in claw marks. If I knew then what I do now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d have turned and ran, but as I walked in the hallway was full of furniture and boxes, some of which had been pushed over, spilling their contents. I worked my way to a normal looking door, all except the metal joints and rivets that had been used to reinforce it. This door too was open, though not broken, but still possessed more of the claw marks from before. Pushing the door further open revealed a disgusting smell, rancid human flesh, it was a heavy smell, one that youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d think too heavy to lift from the floor, one that you look down expecting to see yellow acrid smoke. There was not any smoke to hide that brutal and vile scene before me, nothing except a strongbox with a bloodied manuscript in it.

Creative Writing Anthology

I burned it, that book I found as well as my notes. I was angry you see, as you will likely be with me for writing this all down. After I had learnt about the Mephitsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; dislike of light I had begun to make use of an old log burner to provide some light and heat, ominous and flickering as it was especially against the strange electric light of my torches scattered about the room. I had wished then as I nursed my scars that I had never found that book, never opened its pages of foul forbidden knowledge. But if only I could have stopped myself from opening that log burner and throwing all the notes, that whole book with so many more secrets to tell, into the fire. I used to be a factory worker. Industrial metal. Big furnaces. I came across a horrible smelling scrap pile, looking at it closer I found a mutilated body mashed together with the metal. Rusted wires and metal cables forced through soft flesh, a large chunk of sheered metal punctured the eye and the rest of the face was almost melted and covered in that stinking concoction of sweat, oil, blood and fear. Clutched against what I assumed to be the chest, what a soaked stack of pages bound together with string and a single leather spine, no cover and no back to it. I pried

it out from the bone and metal and tucked it into the back of my overalls. I went to report my horrible findings to the foreman but when we both returned the mangled scrap-body was gone and to this day no one has admitted to moving it. I know, I know even as I read back over these words that I feel it, behind me, breathing down my neck and I know that if I don’t stop reading then its claws will edge closer until in one blinding flash it rips my throat out and I know so I turn around to face it, to confront it and as I turn around I find nothing. Just empty space. But I know that if I don’t turn around then that’s when it will get me. How long has it been now I wonder? Two weeks I think, yes I’m sure. Though maybe it was longer but maybe not too much more. Possibly a month, though it’s been at least six months since I moved out here. Maybe it’s been years now. But no it was definitely two weeks since I last went shopping for food.

Creative Writing Anthology

Ah I hear it again, louder this time. The creak of the step, the flight of the owl, it draws closer, the Mephits have turned off the electricity to my house which means they finally cut through the metal bonds I welded. I’m silently pleased that it’s taken them so long and yet they still can’t emerge into my room, I’ve still got my lights going strong in here. Still, I imagine this has irked them somewhat, and I think they’ll probably make my death that much more excruciating. I think I used to be a researcher for a fancy company; we did tests, on people I think. We did so many things, things on the body, things on the minds. They were prisoners, prisoners so bad that people couldn’t know what they did. But they had to die, had to be rid of. One of them told me that it wasn’t him. I remember as I strapped him down tightening the leather harnesses around his arms, feet, wrists, neck. He said it was the Mephits, he had tried to stop them, but it had looked like he had done those things. Said he had buried a book somewhere, gave me co-ordinates. I drove out there that night, it was raining, pouring, the mud was hard to get out, for every scoop of mud I threw out of that hole two more fell in from the sides. I had my

car flood lights on, pointing at the hole. Eventually I heard a loud crack, wiping away the water and mud I found a mirror, a large one at that, and as I removed pieces of the mirror the book was sitting behind it, sealed in a plastic bag. As I climbed out of the hole, which was no easy feat, I stood at my car covered in mud and completely sodden, when I saw it, the shadow, trying to reach into the light and get the book. At the time I thought it simply my mind playing tricks, now I wish I didn’t have to see that shadow everywhere I look, in every dark corner, behind every door, in every pitch-black room.

I have to apologise, I’m very sorry for this, I just feel it important to make sure someone, maybe someone stronger than I, knows

Creative Writing Anthology

I feel like I have to wind the torches more often, maybe it’s because it’s so close to the end now. Some of my battery packs have gone flat; I can’t even remember how long I’ve been in this room for now. Maybe all you’ll find of me is a corpse, skin pulled tight over my bones, deep sockets with worn eyes that have seen too much, dried over now. Perhaps I’ll be drawn up, chin on my knees, withered, in a corner. Who knows but this may be the Mephits’ plan, to starve me out, still, I think I’ve angered them too much for them to allow that. I suppose it was my own fault, I didn’t believe that the Mephits could possibly exist. My mentor tried to warn me, he passed the book down to me and I simply laughed. I tore the book up in front of him, but as I did that he had a grave look upon his face, one that made me uneasy, like I’d done a terrible thing. I challenged the Mephits saying if they were really real I’d like to see them take my life, if they really were so dangerous. How I wish I hadn’t. A large shadow appeared on the back wall seeming slightly red with rage, a long shadowy claw reached out and just as I thought all was done with my life, my mentor jumped in front of me, slowing the claw down as it ripped through his body, covering me in his entrails, those beloved caring entrails. I ducked down and slipping in my master’s gore I ran out of the door. From that day on they have pursued me relentlessly.

about the Mephits. I feel a great pang of guilt as I sit here typing this, I know that one day will come where you will be in the same position as I am now. I’m sitting sobbing into my hands, rusting the keys on my typewriter. I feel so tired, so worn down, like a car tyre that’s never been changed. I feel much as the mouse would. I’ve been living my whole life, ducking, skirting for cover, watching my back at all hours from some unseen predator. But I feel as the convict would too, spending my whole life prisoner, condemned for one act of utter stupidity, for reading that book, entering this world of terror. I sit here in my cell, safe, but alone. Locked in. I have been through so much. This world is such a dark place and in those dark places the Mephits call home. They dwell there in our dark hearts and we all are oblivious to it. Those few who know end up being persecuted by them until we die of exhaustion or are eventually caught and cornered, we raise our hands up in defence to see fingers slashed clean off. We hold out our fingerless palms, begging for mercy, our hands, cleanly cut, fall to the floor. We raise our stumps, weeping, crying and hunker down in our pool of sticky blood, cold, dark and alone. Then I wonder, am I already dead?

Creative Writing Anthology

This is the final act.The moment when the fire finally dwindles, the encroaching darkness seeps in. We all know in truth that this moment will all come in our lives. Some cope with acceptance, some cope with ignorance, some cope by hoping it really isn’t the end, perhaps an encore? Or they think that when the curtains fall they’ll still be able to go home, to their families, living happily. But no, none of that works for me, they don’t work for me because they all imply I’m coping. The walls of the room are finally starting to darken; I’ve lost enough light for them to start appearing. On the walls I see them. I have a torch in my hand as I type and I occasionally sweep its light across the room, watching as the dozen or so shadows shriek with pain, their demonic form disappearing into nothingness until I repeat the motion in a moment’s time. But even when they’re gone and I look at the beam of light on

the empty wall, still burned into my mind’s eye is their disturbing appearance. The bat-like wings that make no sound as they effortlessly glide through the air, their long needle-like noses, resembling a mosquito and how fitting after all the years they’ve drank of mine. And the horns. The twisted horns that remind me so much of the fossils I’d collected when I was younger, that feeling of taking such an innocent and happy memory of mine and turning it into this demonic evil. It leaves me exhausted every time I see their silhouette. But I can’t stop them, they’re already draining my life, I can feel myself ebbing even now, so I’ll finish this and lock it in my strong box. But that sound you can hear, no matter how far away it is, remember what is lurking just behind you and be very careful where you sleep. I hope you never see them, but if you do, you’re on your own. ●

Chicken Shop Blues Evan Clark

Creative Writing Anthology

I ask her to stop these drunken nights and through a torrent of bile she promises she might. It was enough at the time, but nowhere near enough come the end of the month when once again she’s laid on my floor, eyes shut, her eyebrows arched in a smile, spittle on her chin and my head in my hands as I sit on the bed and she flails in slow motion, like a tortoise on her back. I ask her if she wants to get into bed and she shouts ‘No! I have a boyfriend!’ at her boyfriend and ‘I have a boyfriend,’ this time not at me and not shouting. A glass of water gets spilled, I forget by who, and she doesn’t notice that her shirt’s now wet-through and so’s the carpet she’s close to blacking out on, but she won’t fucking sleep because it’s only four in the morning, and who goes to sleep without making the fifty-minute walk to Karam’s Express for a chicken burger, cheesy chips, and whatever other fried crap she can buy before her card is declined. I wait a little longer, passing

the time by looking in the mirror to check how much bigger the bags under my eyes are getting. ‘How come you never cook for me?’ she asks someone, maybe me. ‘You’ve never cooked for me either,’ I reply. ‘How come you never cook for me?’ she asks again except this time I’m angrier and pinching the bridge of my nose. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘I’m hungry,’ she declares to the room ‘Do you want me to cook you something?’ ‘I’m huuuuuuuuungryyyyy,’ she declares once more, this time at me. ‘Can we go to Karam’s?’ she asks for the fourth time since falling through my bedroom door. ‘You can barely keep your eyes open babe. How do you expect to walk across town?

I’m snapped out of my fantasy when her friends come by to pick her up (at my request). In the distance they’re apologising on Her behalf, but they’re made even harder to hear over Her

Creative Writing Anthology

She makes a noise halfway between a choke and a sob and I look over, hopeful that it’s closer to a choke, but she just rolls around on the damp carpet like a pig in the mud, defiant, complaining to herself about how I apparently never let her do anything, and that she just wants to have fun, and she’s hungry, and it’s not her fault she gets sad when she’s sober and I never let her do anything fun and it’s not her fault she’s hungry and I never let her eat out and it’s not her fault she’s having fun and I’m picking up my pillow and I’m pushing it onto her face and she’s struggling and she’s struggling and yelping but I just put on more and more weight until it’s enough to stifle her and I’m smiling and there’s a sudden rush of adrenaline and freedom as I feel her go limp underneath me.

screaming ‘Why are you smiling?!’ In about fourteen hours she sends me a text saying she’s sorry for the way she acted and that she blames me for it because something, something, something. I accept her apology on the grounds that she promises she’ll never pull this kind of shit again. She says she promises she might. It’s enough at the time. I’m still tired from the night before. The bags under my eyes threaten to take up my whole face, a bruised shade of purplish grey. We talk about how we slept and how nice the weather is this afternoon. My blinds are closed and hers probably are to, but that just means we can’t argue about it. ●

Hymn for the Sleepless ‘What’re you thinking about?’ Alice asked. The bus doors hissed open and another couple departed. I watched as the man laughed, trying desperately to hold a woman aloft as she loudly sang Creep by Radiohead in between making suggestions as to which takeaways they should visit on their journey home.

Evan Clark

‘Nothing,’ I replied, ‘just work stuff.’ She raised an eyebrow at me. ‘You don’t have a job.’ ‘That’s what I’m thinking about.’ I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a can of Stella. ‘Will!’ she protested. She rolled her eyes and leant her face on her hand. I took that as a no, and cracked it open, taking a long swig. ‘You’re gonna get us thrown off.’

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Oh sorry, did you want some?’

I sighed, exhausted. ‘Alice, do you see that man?’ I gestured towards the driver, ‘He is driving a bus at half past four in the god damned morning. He is currently conscious due to the promise of a paycheck and enough caffeine to give an elephant heart disease. When we got on I paid with two bottle caps and a Netto receipt, and he gave me change. Fucking change Alice! Do you really think he has the presence of mind to throw us off? Hell, I’d be impressed if he remembered he was driving.’ ‘It’s still illegal.’ ‘So’s stealing carrier bags from the self-service checkout.’ ‘For fuck’s sake Will, that was one time!’ ‘It’s still illegal.’ I sneered. Alice opened her mouth to argue, but promptly shut it, resuming her apathetic slouch. The doors hissed shut once more. I stared enviously out the window at the two drunken lovers as they danced under warm orange lamp light, smiling like they were the only two people to ever be in love.

I turned to Alice. She’d dozed off, and was presently leaning against my shoulder, gently snoring in a fashion more akin to a satisfied cat than a human. She clutched my arm and nuzzled

Creative Writing Anthology

As the bus began to move again I rested my head against the glass and made a half-arsed attempt to catch some sleep. I watched as we rolled through city streets suspended in perpetual twilight, populated by the usual inhabitants of the early morning hours; the inebriated groups of friends shuffling home from the best night they’ll ever forget, the few homeless huddled away in alcoves in a desperate search for warmth in the cruel chill of night, and the many rows of cabbies, their faces illuminated by the pale glow of their phone screens, hoping to get one last job done before the night ends.

against me. I glared at her enviously, the bags under my eyes so heavy I could feel them physically dragging my entire head down, but decided it wasn’t in my best interest to wake her up simply out of spite, and instead continued to sip my beer. I would’ve made an attempt to hide it, had we not been the only two remaining passengers. ◎ ‘Hey, do you remember my friend Louise?’ asked Alice as she began getting changed. I sat up in bed. ‘Short girl, dark hair, wears glasses?’ ‘Not even close.’ ‘Shame. She was cute.’ She threw her top at my face.‘I deserved that.’ I replied, my words muffled through the fabric. ‘Damn right.’ I peeled it off my face and tossed it to the side. ‘Alright, tell me about Louise.’ ‘Her and her boyfriend are getting married in June.’ ‘Oh, good for her. How long have they been together?’ ‘About six years.’ ‘Huh. That’s-’

‘Umm, not particularly no,’ I replied, my arm retreating under the covers like an injured snake. ‘The whole idea sort of freaks me out a bit. How about you?’

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Yeah, two less than us.’ She finished taking her clothes off, slipped into a pair of pyjama shorts and a baggy t-shirt, and climbed into bed next to me, resting her head on my chest. I clutched her to me and began reaching for the lamp. ‘You ever think about getting married?’ So close.

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think settling down might not be such a bad thing, you know? Getting married, buying a house in one of the nicer parts of town. Somewhere not so far away that we never get to see our friends, but close to a good school that we could send our kids to. Then, once they’re old enough to move out and we’ve saved up enough money, we could retire to an Italian villa and spend our days in the light of the setting sun drinking fine wines and reminiscing about the good old days.’ I looked at my girlfriend with widened eyes. ‘You sometimes think that, huh?’ ‘Ok, maybe I think about it a lot. Can you blame me though? We’ve been together for nearly a decade now.’ ‘That’s really not that long.’ ‘Come on Will, there’s been shorter wars for goodness sake! Why does it freak you out so much anyway?’ I paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know. I guess I just never really imagined myself as the type of person to get married.’

‘I mean of course it’s different for you!’

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Alice looked up at me with her big brown eyes. ‘Not even to me?’ I froze. I loved Alice. I loved her more than I know how to express in words alone. We had the same taste in music, the same sense of humour, favourite films, books, drinks. After work, she’d always rush home because she was so excited to see me, so much so that she’d even been given speeding tickets on multiple occasions because of it. Whenever I felt low she’d surprise me with a pizza from my favourite takeaway. She was even there for me when Mum died. She was perfect in every way imaginable, but no matter how hard I tried to normalise it, the idea of marrying Alice struck a fear into me that was more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. I couldn’t do it and nothing I could possibly think of could ever change that.

‘Really?’ ‘Yeah! It’s just like you said, we’ve been together for nearly a decade. It’d be silly not to start thinking about getting married!’ She paused, and for a moment, it felt as if every lie I’d ever told was written across my face. ‘Aww, baby.’ She craned her neck to kiss me. ‘It means so much to hear you say that. I love you.’ ‘I love you too,’ I replied, trying my best to hide my guilt behind a forced smile. ‘Alright, I have work in…’ She turned to the clock. ‘Fuck, four hours. Good night baby.’ And with that she turned out the light. Within about twenty minutes she was fast asleep, her head still gently resting on my chest, emitting the occasional purring noise whilst I stared at the ceiling and thought about how much of a bastard I was. ◎ It was still dark when I first saw him.The city centre was empty that early in the morning; those few drunken club goers had already made their way home or to whoever’s home was available at the time, the taxi ranks were disserted. Even the homeless had disappeared off to wherever they go. All was silent, except for the strumming of a lone guitar.

Creative Writing Anthology

I remember sitting on my arse, my head in my hands, trying my best to make sense of what I’d just done and what I should do next, and just hearing those faint, distant chords calling to me like siren song. I couldn’t quite place the tune, but it felt so damned familiar and I felt so lost, I just had to follow it. After a few minutes of searching I turned a corner and there he was, at four thirtyeight in the morning, playing those same familiar chords whilst he stood atop a low wall, an open guitar case with a couple of coins in it on the floor in front of him.

I quietly sat on a bench across the way from him and watched patiently whilst he plucked the last few notes of the song. He then looked up at me and smiled. ‘I don’t get usually get much of an audience this early in the morning,’ he said in a gruff voice. ‘Something troubling you son?’ ‘Is it that obvious?’ He chuckled. ‘In my experience if someone’s walking around at this hour of the morning they’ve either got somewhere to be or they’re thinking too hard to get any sleep. Since you’ve got time to sit and listen I think it’s safe to assume you’re in the latter.’ ‘You’re right about that one my friend. What’s the case with you then?’ He folded his arms, resting them on the rim of the guitar. ‘I’m what you might call an exception to the rule.’ ‘What do you m-?’ and then I looked at him properly. I’d seen his greying hair, the navy-blue bobble hat, and the brown fingerless gloves, but was so preoccupied by his song that’d I’d failed to notice his coat was faded and ripped, that his toes were poking through the ends of his shoes, or even that his teeth were yellow and on the verge of rotting. ‘Ah… sorry.’ ‘Oh, it’s quite alright son, I’m just happy someone saw me as something more than just some bum on a street corner for once.’ He smiled down at me warmly. I returned a half-arsed version out of politeness. He sat down on his wall. ‘What’s got you so down then, huh?’

Creative Writing Anthology

I wanted to tell him. I could feel the words welling up in the back of my throat, poised to tumble out of me the moment I opened my mouth. I wanted to tell him how much of a coward I was, and how I left Alice just hours before hand, and how she didn’t even know because I couldn’t bring myself to do it in person, and that

a little yellow note was sat on her bedside table waiting for her to wake up so it could tell her everything I wasn’t man enough to. I wanted to tell him everything, but all I could manage was: ‘I’ve just not been sleeping right lately.’ He looked at me sympathetically. ‘Tell you what, how about I let you pick the next song I play, would that cheer you up?’ I sighed. ‘Couldn’t hurt I suppose.’ ‘That’s the spirit! So, what’ll it be?’ I thought for a moment. ‘Do you know Creep by Radiohead?’ ●

The Thief of Leaves There was nowhere I’d rather be than the forest, at least, in normal circumstances. There was something about how the ancient trees reached up into the sky, as if they hoped to smite the gods themselves, that gave a feeling of warmth and protection. While walking along the hidden forest paths, fairies and other forest sprites would come and inspect me with curiosity, flittering around as their wings tinkled and, just occasionally, place ‘kick me’ signs on my back. And the smell, well...there was no way to describe it. It was the forest smell.

Luke James

‘It won’t be long now,’ she assured me, but that was little comfort; after all, she often referred to twenty years ago as ‘Just the other day.’

Creative Writing Anthology

Unfortunately, when you were roped into a stakeout with your grandmother, which mostly involved laying down in damp mud being very cold, the forest started to lose its appeal.

‘Could we at least move around a bit?’ I asked, wriggling in place. ‘The thief could strike at any moment, Jonas. We must be wary.’ I sighed, giving Grandma a sceptical look. While I had been forced to lay on top of the short hill, she had, conveniently, decided that the well-worn tree stump to the right would be her perch, despite being in the sightline of any ‘thieves’. Of course, all she’d said was ‘The thief doesn’t use eyes, Jonas,’ which like many of her answers only served to produce more questions. ‘Shh,’ she whispered, though considering I’d been silent for the last minute I wasn’t sure who to. ‘The thief is coming.’ Curious despite myself, I crawled further forward to give myself a better view, sharp eyes scanning away. As far as I could tell, it was a clump of trees like any other, their branches and leaves so thick and obscuring that it was impossible to see the ground beneath. I frowned. ‘Grandma, I don’t see-’ ‘Shh,’ She whispered again. ‘The leaves, Jonas, the leaves.’ Shaking my head, I adjusted my search, looking for any signs of a thief amongst the leaves, whatever that meant. Unfortunately, after another minute, all I knew was that the leaves were rustling loudly in the wind, and they were turning, ready to drop off at any— Oh. Oh.

Then, without warning, Grandma’s ancient face contorted fiercely as she picked up a spear to her right and threw it with

Creative Writing Anthology

‘Grandma,’ I said slowly, no longer bothering to keep quiet, ‘that’s just autumn, you know. It happens every year, and it—’

inhuman strength towards the trees. It found purchase in the soft mud, upon which the mud let off a high-pitched, ‘Ow!’ The leaves that were already falling stopped in mid-air, and, as Grandma (and now, me) continued to stare, they began bashfully returning to the tree. Grandma grinned. ‘Got you, you bugger.’ ’ ●

Shades in an Uncreated Space Micah Duffin

Creative Writing Anthology

He may have been my creation but that doesn’t mean I have to like him filling the space of a barren room shaded in red light from the blood smearing the window throwing the shadows of her onto the pale white paint. At least I can build these walls coloured any way I like and it becomes accepted fact that I am a builder. I built him after all. Not that it matters. Switch on the red light, it’s less disruptive, observing the dry rot manifesting in the corner I wanted to be green but apparently that gives the wrong impression that he has time to spare doing whatever it is he does when the camera lens is pointed his way. ‘You should get that fixed soon. It is our home.’ I imagine that’s what she would say but if she had any power here, all would be lost looking out through the glass panes caught in the dazzling headlights fuelled by a broken engine tearing himself to pieces the slow trickle of oil leaking from torn arteries. If I knew anything about engines maybe he would know what to do but looks like we’re back to square one and none of us know any better. The edge of light barely illuminating the broken gate damp consuming stout wooden beams keeping back the corpse of trees huddled out of sight under a dismal moon can just make out the furniture scattered. Behind him the scratching fingernails tearing at the paper in the

dark room containing the muffled crying of the more unfortunate ones that didn’t make the cut. Slow breathing clouds of vapour caught in the red glow reflected in bright eyes. the square of paper a captured body rapidly becoming clearer her crumpled form, pale lips holding the gaze transfixed Into the acid to complete the process. An infuriating ordeal to be unable kill your own creation is by no means a difficult concept to understand but she is still here and he is bound to be back soon. Still no time to introduce The Boy, I should have done that long ago but that time is gone and we aren’t getting it back. The Boy doesn’t have any attachment to these rapidly declining walls or the clock still ticking away above a picture of two people I can’t make out. There’s no need to get attached to The Boy, he’s already gone. But she still wanders these gloomy streets, the night wind passing through the feathers of a crow nestling inside the shadows laid out in front of the stage she walks, hands blocking out the blinding applause from empty seats. She doesn’t see the face behind the film hanging on the thread left out to dry, shaded by the silhouette leaving a stubbed out cigarette in the ash tray by the door. I’m sure she’d have something to say but there are more important things to be getting on with than the eventual suicide of cockroaches infesting the rot I thought he’d already cleaned up. I can wait though I’m beginning to miss the nonsensical ramblings of a man who doesn’t really exist and she is still busy figuring out who her parents are because I haven’t told her and

Creative Writing Anthology

Ah, right. He hasn’t come back yet.

there is no need for distractions in this carefully moulded word I’m slowly driving into the dirt found at the bottom of the sink washing away the steady drip from her delusional idea of what a ‘normal’ town looks like because I don’t know. Maybe it was written in a contract somewhere but I’ve already burned that the same colour as her ashen hair, at least I think that’s what it was but I’ve said it now so it’s out of my control. her sole existence culminating in an empty photo frame left behind in the space the shape of him standing in the hollows of the hall not quite a distant memory still becoming blurred.

She helps herself to a glass of red wine because that suits her personality. ‘Drinking alone becomes lonely eventually.’

Creative Writing Anthology

I still struggle to realise where he could have gone finding his way in a shapeless void which I have yet to fill but here we are and I’ve run out of ideas but she is still here which I’m grateful if she’s gone there wouldn’t be anything left. She can still take pride in that she is my second favourite behind [REDACTED] but that’s irrelevant because the crumbling brickwork is still keeping her trapped but she shouldn’t care how she is seen because you aren’t important. I suppose I could join her in front of the fire conjuring up a comfortable armchair to relax in as the rain outside splatters the bloody handprints against the wall before washing them down into dark recesses.

‘I’m still here aren’t I?’ ‘You don’t count.You don’t exist beyond a name on the cover.’ I could kill her but she’ll outlive me anyway and she knows that. ‘Be honest, you have no idea where you’re going, do you?’ ‘I’ve got us this far.’ ‘But he’s gone and not coming back.’ ◎ It’s so hard to take pride when you’ve beaten yourself at your own game. I could just create another him but that’s never going to work. That’s the joke, right? Look, it’s another him but he’s not the same as him so what’s the point? I’m sure there’s a reason why she still hasn’t gone. On a journey through pastel skies and sleeping hovels. I’m sure I’ll figure it out one day. ●

Creative Writing Anthology

Extracts from ‘Things of the Spirit’ Nelly Youmbi

My Little Sister’s Room I took care of a small child in my younger sister’s room, a room I used to share with her. The little girl, who was about four years old, had pale skin, brown hair and a very cute baby face. She faced me, having her back towards the window at the end of the long and spacious room. I had my back towards a shut door. From behind the door, a voice was calling after the girl. It tried to tempt her out of the room saying, ‘Come and play with me. You’ll have a lot of fun.’ I felt a very dark and oppressing presence. The voice sounded very eerie and creepy to me, but the girl really wanted to follow it. She asked for my permission, begging me to go out and play. It seemed as if I knew the girl when I was trying to convince her otherwise. I said to her, ‘We can also play inside and have a lot of fun!’ The more I tried to convince her, the louder and the more persistent the voice became and the more I felt under pressure. She kept asking me, ‘Can I go out and play? Pleeease?’ Suddenly, she shut up. She leaned against the wall, her head beneath the window frame. She looked left and right with a concerned facial expression, but she couldn’t see the head of the Grim Reaper appearing right above her, on top of the window frame.

The Grim Reaper whispered ‘Death!’ He pointed his scythe at me. I replied ‘No! I have eternal life in Jesus Christ, my Lord, and

Creative Writing Anthology

The Grim Reaper wore his black robe covering his head and his face. With his black hand, he held the scythe. I took the little girl in my arms. I started praying, ‘In Jesus name, there is no harm that can be done to us and I fear no evil even though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death!’

my Saviour!’ The girl in my arms rubbed her eyes, maybe even cried, but I didn’t stop praying. The head of the Grim Reaper transformed into the head of a drowned pirate. It continued to rot. The white skin fell off his face. Dark, wet hair strands fell out of the scalp leaving hairless patches. I didn’t cease to pray. The head changed once more to a skull. The eye sockets seemed empty. Yet, they were filled with blackness. I continued speaking of the Word, attacking the enemy with the truth. The skull finally disappeared, and so did the dark and oppressing atmosphere. I felt relieved. I thought everything went back to normal, but it was even better. I looked out of the window and saw the sun shining on our street. I saw the beautiful houses of our neighbours across the road. I felt glad to observe the sun rays shooting through the sky of the heavens and shining right on our street. I knew it had a meaning. I smiled.

Creative Writing Anthology

It doesn’t matter if a bottle of wine is an occasional heating. However, you will need lightning. Or to register this if your friend pays you in a bunch of flowers. If you are unsure whether you should gift or not you can for example use your friend in a store as a box of chocolates. Make a regular advice. If you receive a one-off payment reward the Ofsted helpline on 0300 123 1231 such as a contribution towards a child. Or call enquiries@ofsted. gov.uk for the total amount you are charging. Such as to register a payment. Usually you’re required by law to email Ofsted or to register a full or part payment with payment. Or so. However, you can also care for a friend’s supermarket or department either in your own home or any other home provided you are not a child or not the child’s home. If you buy a child, this will not count. Look after each other’s payment instead of childcare. Register to define payment as Ofsted. You will make someone else’s child in their own home. If you look after a ‘payment of money or money’s worth’ you will be rewarded to do a payment towards the cost

involved. You also do not have an agreement with your friend. Register if you have to care for cash cheques vouchers for more than three hours a day either in your own home or someone else’s. Verbal Abuse On a bright and sunny day, I walked in the streets of a city. I was surrounded by some shops, a few passengers and some parked cars. Suddenly, a bunch of white men blocked my way. They were lined up next to each other on the pavement in front of me.They all looked the same. Their bald heads reflected the sun. They wore a black t-shirt, blue denim jeans, and black shoes. Loudly, they argued about something that seemed to be very important to them. They included me in the argument as if they knew me. They tried to persuade me. They insulted me. I just watched them. Then they came to a conclusion. They expected an answer from me. They stared at me. I felt the pressure. I had sensed this tension in the air, the hostility between them and me. I felt suspicious. My only response was, ‘Back off of me in Jesus’ name!’ I said it boldly. The men started gnashing their teeth. They hissed at me.

Creative Writing Anthology

Try to get out of your comfort zone and stop thinking that everyone will get themselves a rich British bloke so they can afford a lifestyle in one of the biggest and most famous cities of this century just because you would. Walk in the neighbourhood and bump into a pensioner who helped you park your car on his street where he has been living since 1980 then you go for a coffee with him where he advises you to become a teacher while you tell him about Jesus. Insult your pregnant fiancé in the middle of the town centre and hold a knife at her throat after she played a prank on you acting as if she was cheating on you with your

female cousin all before you gave her a hard kick on her pregnant butt. Start to transition from a male to a female then become a reality star on ‘Love & Hip Hop’ where you go to a restaurant with your other transgender friends just to start drama seconds after you are being filmed. Reflect on a girl who was a long-time friend and your secret lover before you beat her bloody in your room because she resisted your rape attempt. Argue at home with your girlfriend after you allowed a professional prostitute to sit on you whisper in your ear and linger around you throughout a party where your girlfriend was present and was sitting right next to you. Controlled Government We were in a rundown and dimly lit house. I was with a small crowd of people, some kneeling and some sitting in a circle. I leaned my back against my mother, who sat on a bench behind me. We met in secrecy at this discreet place, yet I spoke loudly, boldly and with all urgency to the people. ‘We must worship and honour our Lord our God Jesus Christ. Not only for our own sake but because he deserves all the glory. He is worthy of being praised for he is the Lord of all.’ I had left my body and observed myself preaching. I saw another spirit within me proposing the next words to my brain. These words left my mouth, in the form of white smoke and did not return to me, but they had been inhaled by all those who heard them. Some people nodded, although they were rather shy and silent.

Creative Writing Anthology

The people, compared to me, my mother and maybe a few others, were covered in black dust, had torn clothes, were very skinny and had very concerned facial expressions. I had pity for them, but I couldn’t help them any more than I already had. After preaching, my mum whispered in my ear to ask me whether I had

performed this particular speech before. I hadn’t. Alone, I was on my way to the town centre. Suddenly, I bumped into Alina and Anne, two German classmates from my high school years. They were standing in a queue to something. They seemed very nervous and uncomfortable when they saw me. I greeted them. I expected a casual conversation, but instead of a response, Alina held up her phone. The message on the bottom of the screen said: ‘Can’t talk, they are watching us.’ I looked at Alina. I saw an expression of tremendous regret and fear in her face. I quickly understood they would go after her since she was being monitored. I asked, ‘What about Kaja?’ She was another classmate who used to hang out with them a lot. Alina’s gaze dropped. Anne just shook her head, hinting that Kaja was in trouble. I felt sorry for all of them, but I couldn’t help. I mumbled something like, ‘Oh I see. My apologies.’ I went ahead. I entered an orange coloured bakery. A white, long glass cabinet showcased all the freshly baked stuff while serving as a counter. Further in the room tables and plastic chairs were set up for potential customers. I didn’t have to queue. I ordered, ‘One jam filled doughnut please.’ The staff behind the counter was a short, strong woman who kept a straight face. With a flat voice, she said, ‘Look, let me give you an offer. One doughnut and this wig for 100 bucks, mh?’ She pulled a black, synthetic wig from behind the counter. She brushed it harshly with a comb. I thought about the offer and concluded it was quite expensive.

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The police were robust and difficult to crack when they were developed. Operate and discuss the use of rogue cell phone surveillance devices. Important government agencies have finally acknowledged that such devices are in Washington DC. Attacks are likely in operation. They can also track a phone’s location and block it from connecting to the federal government. Real cellular network has been technology. The same basic fashion. They

pretend to be a cell tower forcing nearby phones to connect before passing the signal along to a real Corporation. This allows US Senator Ron Wyden to gather data from the device and listen in on conversations. These eavesdropping devices are technically known as departments and federal authorities. It’s now possible to advance. Listen in on phone calls with the right hardware using the Department of Homeland Security. This revelation comes by way of a letter from Harris tower dated March 26. In it they confirm to have detected the US. But they’re usually just called cell site simulators after devices commonly used by all catchers. Near Stingrays. ●

Extracts from ‘Kepley’ Atop my block of flats, I sit upon a deckchair, watching the suns set as we slip behind the gas giant we revolve around. I spark up a joint and enjoy the view whilst banging out the tunes of a musician from ancient times known as Syd Barrett. It’s quite amazing that, despite it having been eons since he was around, nobody has ever quite managed to capture his sound. His musical career lasted for what, to humans of today, was practically a weekend, and yet the little work he did produce still echoes through the ages. Quality over quantity. You don’t get many people with that mindset nowadays. Syd was my kind of guy.

Tom Reed

‘Job’s done, Gilly,’ says Toastie, as he opens up to reveal a perfectly made cheese toastie.

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‘Cheers, babe.’ I grab the toastie and take another pull of my spliff as the first of the two suns disappears behind a colossal horde of grey flats. Flats as far as the eye can see. Every inch of Kepleyshire39A, better known as Kepley. A collection of Low-Council estates and vicious anarcho-capitalist barbarian corporations—the guys

that fly through space in their flying skyscrapers, setting up shop on whatever planet they please. I take a bite. Tastes excellent, as always. Toastie never fails to deliver the perfect toastie. Even when I treat myself to a toastie consisting of jam and butter, he will begrudgingly make it for me. After all, his prime directive is to make the perfect toastie, without fail, no matter what you put in there. You don’t even have to use bread, and he can still make a toastie better than anything the ‘state of the art’ EasyToast ® Mark-XVI (the most advanced commercially available toastie machine) can do using parma ham and pasta. According to his analysis, over the past one hundred and fifty years he has provided me with 88.7629% of my total nutrition.

See, sentient AI are, believe it or not, extremely rare. Obviously, standard AI are not.They’ve been in bloody everything for thousands of years. But creating a machine that can actually

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It should be noted that Toastie doesn’t just have some script that he runs to make the ‘objective’ best toastie. Toastie is able to read my body language, the tone of my voice, how much food is in my system...everything. By doing this, he makes, without fail, a toastie that satisfies my hunger without me feeling full, has the taste and texture that my brain will react to the best, and never, ever falls apart. Of course, regular AI toasties can do that. What makes Toastie different is the intimate bond we have. Toastie knows me better than anyone, except perhaps Arby. Toastie makes exactly what I want out of any given toastie. He makes toasties with specifications that satisfy needs I didn’t even know I had. When I’m sad, he’ll make a toastie that cheers me up. When I’m angry, he’ll make a toastie that’ll calm me down. When I’m happy, he’ll make a toastie that’ll make it last forever. Every toastie is different, and yet every toastie is perfect. Toastie is the ultimate toastie machine. And I’m the only man in the galaxy that possesses a toastie of such calibre. Because I was the one that nicked him.

interact with a human in a meaningful way, develop a personality, feel emotion, turns out to be harder than travelling at speeds faster than the speed of light, which in ancient times was widely believed to be impossible. If I sold Toastie, I’d be a very rich man indeed. I could even buy a planet. But then, why would I do such a thing to my best pal? You wouldn’t sell a sapient best friend into slavery for trillions of pounds, now, would you? Fuck, I’m supposed to be describing the sky, aren’t I? Sorry. My mind drifts often. I think it’s from all the grey, and the hazy neon lights that never cease. Because we’re a satellite, we don’t have a moon. We are the moon. Well, an exomoon. One of them, anyway. Such a shithole we are, that we’re not even a real planet. You would think that, at night, you’d get to see some of the other forty-seven moons but instead, your view is blocked by the homes of the only rich folk in Kepley. Mansions built in the clouds, held up by gigantic beanstalks, away from the problems of normal people. You’ll get to see the gas giant we revolve around sitting in the sky, too. Quite the sight, looking at a planet twenty times the size of yours drift by the sky. Kepley is one of the most multi-sapial planets in the Milky Way, with an estimated two hundred and thirty-four different sentient species living on it. It has two suns. It has horrific gang wars spearheaded by brutal wizards. We’ve got a pretty annoying demon infestation. It’s a place to hide for the most dangerous criminals in the galaxy, a place that’s away from the prying eyes of The Cameramen. It is most well known for the export of a pretty good banana bread.

If you ask someone why they live on Kepley, they’ll generally say the same two things. They’ll either tell you that they used to

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According to a report published by the United Cluster’s Department of Social Things and Such, Kepleyshire’s habitability rank is ‘F’. Suffice to say, it’s not the prettiest planet in the Sector.

live on a better planet, or that they were born here and can’t make enough money to get the fuck out of the solar system permanently. When they say they used to live on a better planet, their reasons for getting dumped here tend to be similar. Perhaps they could no longer afford to get the latest augments or Companion ®. Maybe they lost it all making a bad investment, or they have a criminal record, or, most commonly, they got done in by pure bad luck. Me? I’ll have to go with bad luck. Point being, nobody chooses to live on Kepley. Why would you? It’s shit. Things could be worse, certainly. Our solar system is quite boring, to be honest. We don’t get any Elder Ones landing on our surface or any other such annoyances. The most amazing thing about our society is that as we advance life gets better for everyone, and yet, somehow, for plenty of us things are still pretty shit. Kepley is under the ownership of the United Cluster for a very simple purpose. Its purpose is not to make profit, house workers, entertain the rich, or anything you usually use a planet for. It’s a place to dump all the riff raff. Welcome to Kepley. The Land of the Concrete Suns. ◎ I get a ding from my mind-blower. My AR display tells me Arby is at the door. Quality! He’s back from Xanzibar at last. I mentally command my door to open right away.

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In walks Arby, dressed in a hoodie and tracksuit bottoms. He quick draws the peace sign at me with his scaly fingers, gives me a wink with his reptilian eyes, and a cheeky grin with his long, crocodile-esque mouth.‘Gilly! What’s going on, you motherfucker?’ He hisses.

I get up and give the cunt a hug. ‘Too much, mate, too much. I’ll tell you all about it over a smokeup, aye? Been awhile, man. How was your visit to your homeworld?’ I ask, as I command Toastie to make Arby a banging toastie. ‘Ahyes, it was good. Managed to bring a few goodies with me,’ he says as he takes off his backpack. I immediately pull out my wallet. We sit down, and I mentally command my speakers to start banging out some UC Hip-Hop, more specifically the latest album recently released by the Ribbittian known as Big Poppa Mön-Croak: Plenty More Bitches In My Pond. Have you ever been in an argument or debate, given a shitty response, and then once the argument is finished you suddenly come up with what would have been the absolute perfect counterpoint, which would have automatically won you the argument there and then? Don’t you fucking hate it when that happens? Well, you’ll experience that no more once you start using Thinking Time. Ever since Arby introduced me to Thinking Time two hundred years ago, I’ve never lost an argument. The easiest way I can describe it to a human is...DMT, controlled. See, when you smoke Thinking Time, you don’t just trip. You’re literally sucked into your mind.Thinking Time materialises itself in the mind in slightly different ways for everyone, but the result is generally the same. Some see merely a white void and a chair, others see a library and an empty desk. When I use Thinking Time, I’m on my ComfySofa ® wrapped snugly in a blanket.

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Martin tells me that, when he uses Thinking Time, he’s on the bog. Whatever way Thinking Time manifests itself to you, the result is the same. You get to spend hours in your head, just to think, in whatever is the best environment for you, whilst in real life you’re just sort of...gone for a few seconds. Every Thinking Time user always keeps a pre-rolled fag of it tucked into their back pocket. Enough for an hour usually does the trick.

After I purchase about thirty hours worth, Arby puts the stash back into his bag, before pulling out something alien indeed. The baggie contains flowers, of some sort. Glossy, blue flowers, decorated with purple swirls that, upon closer inspection, are galaxies.Tiny, animate, swirling galaxies. He pulls one of the flowers out, and, although it has been picked, it appears to be breathing. I scan it with my mind-blower, which in turn searches the Web. ‘NO MATCH FOUND’, reads my AR display. ‘What the bloody fucking hell is that?’ I inquire. Arby gives me a cheeky vertical wink and starts picking the flower apart with his claws. ‘Ahh, you’re in for a treat mate. This is some proper good shit I got off Ghibli.’ ‘Ghibli Summerset?’ ‘The one and only.’ He hands me a petal. ‘Go on, have a munch.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Hasn’t got a name for it yet, that’s what he wants us to do.’ ‘What’s it like?’ ‘Imagine if The Big Bang was comprised of fruit, and it went off in your mouth.’ Cautiously, I shove the petal into my mouth and start chewing. After about five seconds, I sense an overwhelming amount of raspberry, blackcurrant, orange, strawberry, apple, grape, pineapple, elderberry, peach, lemon, jabuticaba, mango, cumquats-

‘Pretty cool, right?’ After Arby says that, Toastie dings. I present the master-crafted toastie to Arby. ‘Oooo...so are these...so are these...’ He takes a solid bite out of it. ‘Gosh darn, Toastie. You really know the way to a man’s heart.’

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I reel over in bewilderment. ‘Fuck me! It’s like every fruit to ever exist has been created inside my mouth and is trying to burst out!’

‘Thank you, Arby.’ Toastie’s green light blinks. ‘Righto, Gilly, I’ve got something important to-’ ◎ As I have done every day for the last one hundred and fifty years, I load Toastie up with a four slices of bread and eight slices of cheese. They say that you should never use the end pieces of bread when using a toastie machine. The bread is too thick. This is true, generally I avoid using the end pieces because of the difficulty in closing Toastie, but I am still low on funds and thus I must make ends meet. ‘You alright, Toastie?’ I ask, as I put the bread in him, and he closes himself, although struggling a little bit due to the thickness of the end pieces of the bread. ‘To tell you the truth Gilly...I’m feeling a bit under the weather.’ Suddenly, Toastie’s handle snaps completely off as he tries to close himself. I reel back, almost falling to the floor. ‘Jesus Christ, Toastie!’ ‘I’m sorry Gilly. I’m falling apart. I’m dying Gilly. I’m dying.’ I hurriedly grab Toastie’s handle, desperately trying to shove it back in, but I just can’t. No matter what, I just can’t get the handle back in. ‘No....no... Toastie you’re fucking with me, man. You can be fixed. Nothing to it. Just a... little repair job, right?’ ‘You don’t understand, Gilly. When a toastie’s handle snaps off, that’s the end. It means we’re done. Expired. I’m of no use to you anymore, Gilly.’

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I hold Toastie closed with all my might. ‘No...no Toastie. That’s not how it is. Toastie...please. You’ve helped me through all the hardest parts of my life. Listened to my shitty little problems. You’re one of the most important people in my life, Toastie. You

can’t die. You just...’ Tears begin streaming down my eyes for the first time in two hundred years. ‘...You just can’t Toastie.’ ‘I’m sorry Gilly. Even if you fixed me, I’d just break again days later. There’d be another fault.’ ‘Toastie...I’m fucking serious here...I couldn’t give a fuck if you’re falling apart. I’ll fix you. I’ll fix you a million times, Toastie. I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep you going. I’ll hold you in my hand if that’s what it takes. I’ll hold you closed. You can just...tell me, right? Just tell me when to let go, when the toastie is done. Come, on Toastie.’ Toastie’s red light begins to dim, with what little light is left desperately reaching out to me. ‘Gilly. You must understand,’ he says, as the modulation of his voice goes bananas. ‘I am now imperfect. Flawed. Faulty. Such an existence for an electrical appliance is worse than death, Gilly. A perpetual hell where the only pleasure you are capable of feeling...the only feeling you are capable of feeling leaves. A life where you will, for an eternity, never be able to attain the simple pleasure of a job done well.’ ‘But it’s not your toasties I want,Toastie. It’s you. It’s you Toastie. You’re my best mate in the whole wide Milky Way...I can’t...I can’t Toastie. Not you.’ ‘I am sorry Gilly. But it is no way for a toastie machine to live. I-’ Toastie’s voice suddenly cuts, and the red light goes out completely.

●

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My best friend dies, instantly. No goodbye. No thanking. No reminiscing. No cheesy speech to go out with a laugh. The light simply vanishes. The voice simply stops. Never again will I hear it. Never again will I see that green light turn on. Never again will I enjoy the simple satisfaction of eating such delicious toasties.

Biographical Notes Liliana Carstea is a Romanian writer who grew up in a simple but culturally rich community, surrounded by kindness and warmth, delicious food, superstitions and peculiar customs, witchcraft and rituals. Her passion for writing came from a literary knack inherited from her parents, both avid readers. She likes spending most of her time surrounded by literature, especially weird and horror fiction, and is passionate about Romanian folklore, the Victorian era and the Gothic, surrealism, death, and the supernatural. Through her magical-realist short stories, inspired by her home, Liliana hopes to illuminate the tragedy and complexity of her culture and give voice to those in her life who haven’t had the chance to express themselves. ◍ Evan Clark is a writer and sentient cursed image. Twitter: @McFuckinBored ◍ Alina Cozma is a writer from Romania who has an interest in Young Adult fiction and the darker side of the fantastic. ◍

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Kiril Dimitrov is a Bulgarian author who writes primarily in English. He moved to the United Kingdom in the summer of 2016 to study Creative Writing at the University of Bedfordshire. His novel-length works lie within the genres of fantasy and science-fiction but his flash and short stories explore a variety of different genre borders. His debut short story Cryosympathy was published by Sixth Element Publishing in The Word’s 2019 Short Story Competition Anthology. To find out more, visit: Facebook: KirilDimitrovArt Email: kiril.dimitrov.art@gmail.com ◍

Micah Duffin is a writer from England who has mainly been working in the fields of horror for the past few years. While on the degree he started playing with experimental fiction and poetry. He can be found on: Twitter @thats_micah and has a blog at writingwastelands.wordpress.com ◍ Rose Greenwood You would be hard pressed to find someone, even amongst a cohort of writers, who actually enjoys writing about themselves. I hate writing about myself, but I do enjoy writing about strange trees, animals that might be able to talk and may also be living in post-capitalist societies, and fruit. There are a wider range of subjects I’m partial to reading about, which is why I would also much rather read and edit anyone else’s writing but my own. E-mail: hollyrosegreenwood97@gmail.com Twitter: @writesideofbed ◍ Fiona Harris is a writer, mother, and baker.

◍

Tom Harris plays games, works games, writes games, and reviews games at: bctreviews.wordpress.com ◍

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Twentieth-century ersatz publisher Eddie Heaton has blundered through a tear in the space-time continuum and finds himself in present day redbrick academia. Before being allowed to move to a more sanity-based mind emanation he has been enjoined, by a devious triumvirate of all-powerful demon-preachers, to create a portfolio of meta–linguistic word jumbles for their elucidation and perverse gratifications. His mission is doomed. ◍

Luke James, also known under the pseudonym Blake Phoenix, is the author of ‘When Death Passed’, a writer of both sci-fi and fantasy, and a bit of a know-it-all. Some say they live nearby to Sheffield, England, but these reports are unconfirmed, probably because they never leave the house. They don’t have a rabbit, which is a tragedy. They do have another book in the works, which is not a tragedy. It’s probably a comedy, in fact. They like those. Email: officialblakephoenix@hotmail.com Twitter: twitter.com/ablakephoenix Wordpress: officialblakephoenix.wordpress.com ◍ Leo Janes is a writer from Luton with an interest in anime, diversity, and equality. ◍ Abbie Johnson is a Creative Writing student who is relatively new to the writing of short stories. Before starting University, she had only written novel length Fiction. Abbie has always been the most interested in romance and fantasy Young Adult fiction. These are the genres she prefers to write however, she is always experimenting with new areas. She posts new content on her website: Writergirl98blogs.co.uk ◍ Laurence Pratt is a writer with in an interest in dark fantasy, horror, and dark romance. ◍

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Tom Reed Born in a place of no particular importance, I decided to become an artist because it is the only thing that won’t replace me with a machine in the next five years time. Simultaneously raised on the phrases ‘Thou shalt not steal’ and ‘Your dad doesn’t pay for anything,’ I like the simplest things in life. I talk too much,

and it shows in my writing. Some may call it ‘satire’, others might call it ‘parody’, but in truth I just complain about things too much. Email: reed.th123@gmail.com ◍ Liam Smith Writing, to me, is an indulgence. It is a way to escape into my deepest fantasies and explore those worlds as if they were my own reality. It is an adventure which I have undertaken countless times, and one I shall no doubt embark upon many times more. Editing this collection of writing has taken me on an entirely new journey, enabling me to better understand my peers. I would hope that in the future this is an experience that I can undertake once more. Email: Habitualwriting@gmail.com ◍ Andy Walsh is in the second year of studying for a BA Hons in Creative writing. When not writing, he is either saving the world with his underpants on the outside of his trousers or eating chocolate HobNobs. His writing was shortlisted in the international Flash500 competition, and his published children’s book—Benjamin Butterfly, has now risen to an Amazon sales rank of 1,967,435,642 in the category of children’s rhyming story books about cute butterflies who wish to find their place in the world. He is currently working on an original novel about a shortsighted young wizard. ◍

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Nelly Youmbi is a writer who works in an innovative mode, and has used dream narratives and cut-ups in her work. Instagram: @_itsnells ●