University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016 by UoS Creative Writing Society

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016 Michael Andrews - Jack Spanner: Private Eye [Extract] Sarah Corrigan - Darren [Short story] - Dear Sylvia Plath [Poetry] - Lucy Couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Say No [Poetry] Thomas Davies - A Reflection on the Duplicitous Tactics Employed at the Honourable Swindon Borough Mayoral and Council Election [Extract] William Dray - Control [Poetry] - The Choice [Short story] Martin Maguire - In The Garden [Poetry] Mike Okeowo - Drunken Buddha [Poetry] - Equanimity [Poetry] Kathryn Parsons - Death is a Woman [Short story] Laurence Russell - Fallow [Poetry] - The Story Department [Short story] Ashay Vaidya - The Lizard of Thousand Palms

3 6 8 9

11 17 18 22 24 25 26 29 31 34

All of the work in this anthology has been created by members of the University of Southamptonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Creative Writing Society, with additional editing, formatting and cover design by Sarah Corrigan. No part of this anthology is to be reproduced without the prior permission of the respective author(s). Published in August 2016.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Michael Andrews Jack Spanner: Private Eye Suddenly the phone went dead. Quickly, I administered mouth to speakerphone resuscitation – shout hello three times, hang up and try again – but it was too late. I conducted a short funeral – this consisted of placing the phone in a cardboard box and dropping it in to a neighbour’s vegetable garden; ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and defunct electrical goods to a heap of broken wire and plastic inside a squashed pumpkin. Having disposed of the deceased telephone I left the building. Carter had been right; the mysterious Burlap was after the Carsio Diamond, and he was willing to kill to get it. But where would he strike next? I didn’t know, so I put the bookmark back in The Case of the Carsio Diamond and returned it to my inside pocket. Almost immediately, a small black car with close set headlamps and a pronounced limp pulled up outside. Three oversized men in undersized suits leapt from the car, pulled out their automatic pistols, stormed into the building and formed an orderly queue by the lift. This was my chance. I scurried over to the car and eased into the driver’s seat. I was about to turn the ignition key when something stopped me dead; it was a tiger. And holding the leash was a beautiful woman, with steel in her eyes, hatred in her heart, and spinach in her teeth. “So, Mister Spanner,” she said with a beautiful Russian drawl. “We meet at last.” “Have you been waiting long?” I asked, glancing nervously at the tiger. “It feels like for ever,” she sighed. “And now I can kill you.” “Can I have a last request?” I asked. She laughed. “You Englishmen are all the same,” she said, shrugging off her coat and unbuttoning her blouse. I’d actually been going to ask her not to kill me, but this would do for now. As it happened, she let go of the tiger’s leash, and it promptly turned round and ate her. Either it had taken a liking to me or was full, as it curled up on the back seat and went to sleep. So far, so good, but I needed some answers; and I had a feeling I knew where to find them. A mere nine-and-a-half hours later, I had arrived at Gruntfuttock Hall. I strolled briskly up the marble steps, my tiger sauntering along behind me, and tugged on the velvet bell rope. The door was opened by Gravestone, the butler. “Morning, Gravestone,” I said, quickly getting a foot inside the door. “Is His Lordship in?” “Yes sir, he is in his study. If you will follow me…”

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

He ushered me in. He was a strange man, Gravestone; he looked like a skeleton strung with half a pound of tripe and propped up by a suit, but still moved like he had wheels instead of feet (I was later to find out that he did). I strode into the study where Lord Gruntfuttock, known as Larry to his close friends and (despite his best efforts) myself, was working. “Morning Gruntfuttock,” I said cheerily. “How’s things?” Larry looked up and stared at me from a dead white face with eyes like slices of cucumber. Once he had removed the face pack he stared at me from a skin-coloured face with eyes like eyes. “Hello Spanner,” said His Lordship, standing and walking round his desk. “What is it that you want?” He walked round his desk again, wrung his hands, blinked four times and stuffed himself into the wastepaper basket. I was beginning to suspect that something might be up. After a quick chorus of Rule Britannia, Lord Gruntfuttock climbed out of the waste paper basket. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that you used…that letter.” I watched him closely. “What’s going on here?” I asked. Larry screamed and hurled himself back into the basket. Hearing a second chorus of Rule Britannia, Gravestone took me aside and explained. “His Lordship has recently had somewhat complicated dealings with Miss Gigi LaFemme.” “Ah-ha!” I had finally cottoned on. “And hearing a word with a ‘g’ in it reminds him of her!” “Precisely.” So that was why Larry, or Lord Runtfuttock, as he now preferred to be known, was acting strangely. But how did Miss LaFemme fit into the bigger picture? I had to find out. I knew a little about Gigi – she was a professional token female character who had previously been investigated for links with a number of organised crime syndicates, but nothing had ever been proved. I re-entered the study. “Mind where you’re pointing that tiger!” cried Runtfuttock. “I’ve got the safety catch on,” I said, and sat down opposite Larry at his desk. He gave me a cold glance and continued writing. It was time to play my trump card. “Snap,” said Larry, without looking up. I would have to learn another card game. I tried a different tack; nor’ by nor’ east. “Alright Larry,” I said, leaning forwards. “Who is Gigi LaFemme?” Larry sat bolt upright and stared straight at me. His hands shook, his mouth twitched, and his nose slipped round the back of his head. Then he regained his composure, stood and glared at me. “I don’t have to stand for this!” he snarled. “Then sit down again,” I suggested.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

“Shut up!” Larry shouted. “I did not come here to be insulted!” He flung himself from the room, down the hallway, out the door and onto a horse. He got fifteen yards before my tiger caught him. Having persuaded my tiger to drop him, I poured the shaken Lord Gruntfuttock a glass of his best brandy, and a slightly larger one for myself. “Alright, Spanner,” said Larry. “What do you need to know about-” He wrestled with himself and lost, two falls to a submission, “Her?” “Well first, what do you know about her?” Larry thought for a moment. “She’s about 5’8’’, blond, blue eyes, and wonderful…” He trailed off, lost in the thought. He was painting a pretty picture, but it wasn’t what I needed to know. “And what did she tell you about T.H.E.M.?” The colour drained from Larry’s face like juice from orange in a decompression chamber (though not as messy). “How…how did you know?” he gasped, clutching at his desk with white knuckles. Why he had a desk with white knuckles, I never found out. “I have my tricks,” I said coolly, producing a couple of pigeons from my sleeve. “Now…” I sat and fixed him with a steely glare. “Tell me what you know…”

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Sarah Corrigan Darren Darren isn’t listening. He hasn’t listened for a long time. I’ve been clawing at the wood for hours, and now my fingers are all bloody. Or maybe they were already bloody. I don’t even know anymore. Why won’t you let me in? Mum’s gone now. So has Dad. I don’t really know what happened. All I know is that Mum never came home from the supermarket and Darren put an axe in the back of Dad’s head one Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t long after that that Darren stopped talking to me. But I’ve got to try. He’s my brother, for God’s sake. Fists pounding on the door. I can’t turn the handle, my hands are too slippery with blood. I don’t know whose blood it is. I try screaming for him, but he won’t respond. I know he’s in there, he’s trapped, maybe, and I need to help him. I need to get him out. We both need to leave; this town isn’t safe anymore. My throat is sore now. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for days, and I know that I stink. There’s crusty brown stuff on my shirt, and the bottoms of my jeans are ripped. I haven’t been able to change. I went out to get supplies a few days ago, and there was an attack. I only just made it home. I know he’s in there. I can hear the music playing. Angry rap stuff, like he always likes to play. But he won’t answer me. I fear the worst. Maybe one of those things got in. Ripped his throat out and now he’s lying in a pool of his own blood. No. I heard someone moving around inside, but now there’s nothing. Maybe he became like them. Like Dad did. Dad went crazy pretty quickly. He’d been attacked on the way home from work – muggers, he’d said – but it didn’t take long for death to claim him. And what happened next was even weirder – he’d been officially dead for about five minutes and then it was like someone had plugged him into the mains. He went batshit. Kicking, grabbing for us, biting at me and ripping out the doctor’s intestines before Darren grabbed that fire axe and nearly severed Dad’s head from his neck. There’s a shuffling noise, and I know Darren’s by the door. I can smell something. He’s got food. I’m so hungry – I haven’t eaten anything for a day and a half. It smells like meat. My stomach growls. I slap my palm against the door, hands slick with red stuff, and I try the knob again, but I still can’t turn it. It’s only when I give up and let it go that it starts to move, and there’s a click as the door starts to open, and I almost throw myself inside. He looks like death.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Darren stands in the doorway, his face white as a sheet. There’s dried blood matted in his hair, and his clothes are dirty and torn. The rap music blares, disorientating me for a second, but not before I notice the axe raised in his hand. “I’m sorry, sis,” he finally chokes out, before he buries it in my skull.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Dear Sylvia Plath

You were well-educated You were brilliant And you were promising. My pen runs lines under your words As I search for an answer. Thirty-one years separate your end And my beginning And yet you knew. I cannot spin verse like yours Though my whole heart aches to try. But I do not need to tell him All the beautiful ways in which I love him: You have already done that for me. And when I cannot move from my sheets Because my mind is filled with grey I do not even have to wonder. I know you felt this too. When I look down at my own words And tear them into pieces I know you felt this too. When I tasted death in a quiet room I knew you felt this too. But my eyes opened to a new day. You didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel that. You were never useless You were never indifferent And you were never middle-aged.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Lucy Couldn’t Say No

It was summer, and Lucy was eight She was called to by Marie and Kate: “Lucy, won’t you come and play?” She knew she shouldn’t go through the gate And mother would hate her being out so late But Lucy, she just couldn’t say no. Fourteen years old, she stayed out all night Didn’t come home till the sky was bright She wandered back in her dress so white He’d touched her there without an invite When he’d checked that there was nobody in sight Because Lucy, she hadn’t said no. When Lucy had just turned eighteen She met a man with eyes of green “Miss Lucy, will you marry me?” She ‘um’ed and ‘ah’ed, not to be mean After all, he did seem rather keen – And Lucy, she just couldn’t say no. When Lucy, she was thirty-two She bought a pretty dress of blue. “It’s whorish, what is wrong with you?” Her husband made her go out to The garbage, trash that dress so new And Lucy, she just couldn’t say no. When Lucy, she was forty-four A man came knocking at the door “I can’t stay away any more.” He had been her lover before. She didn’t want him any more But Lucy, she just couldn’t say no. One day there were footsteps on the floor She pushed her lover to the bathroom door. But her husband knew the score, The door burst open with his anguished roar, And she stood and let him call her a whore, Because Lucy, she just couldn’t say no.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

When Lucy’s husband finally passed They asked why her mourning didn’t last She’d gotten over it awfully fast. “Do you miss him?” they all would ask. And she would nod, her eyes like glass Because Lucy, she just couldn’t say no. When Lucy, she was eighty-nine They asked her for the final time “Did you get all you wanted in life?” And Lucy smiled, and Lucy cried And without an answer, Lucy died Because Lucy, she just couldn’t say no.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Thomas Davies A Reflection on the Duplicitous Tactics Employed at the Honourable Swindon Borough Mayoral and Council Election Don Bateman does know the difference between right and wrong, believe it or not. He understands that ‘right’ is saying things like “I believe our armed forces are brave people, fighting for our future”. He understands that ‘wrong’ is saying things like “I believe that our armed forces are an outdated vestige of the imperialistic attitude that our country once depended upon”. As far as Bateman is concerned, the public doesn’t want complex ideas. They don’t want engagement. Most of all they don’t want to hear anything new. As far as he is concerned, his campaign has to be completely devoid of anything new or refreshing. As far as he is concerned, this is precisely what won him this particular election; his clear ‘no-nonsense’ message, his pledge to take a stand on the things that people dislike, his reinforcement of the things that people love. He is tough on crime, cares about your pensions, has no sympathy for the workshy and loves this wonderful town. He knows what the people want – somebody who vaguely resembles what they think they want enough for him to capture their hearts and minds, and place them in a bottle on his shelf, for selling off later. They also want him to talk about how bad terrorists are. Bateman has always known that he was going to go into politics. He’d had his strategy down since he was twelve. He had written his speeches, committed them to memory, at fourteen. He decided what he would sell himself as when he was nineteen. Most importantly, he secured the most discreet cocaine dealer in the city at the age of twenty-one. His aspirations didn’t stop at being mayor, either. Mayor was just a pit stop on his journey into ‘big’ politics. He knew where he wanted to be, and he knew that the people knew that he was the man for the job. But this isn’t what Bateman is thinking right now. What Bateman is thinking right now, is where the fuck is the photographer? He’s been perfecting his ‘enthusiastic winner’ face all week, and he cannot see anybody here to capture the moment. Is this some kind of joke? His eyes scan the room, before settling on this balding forty-year-old man, fiddling about with the settings on his ‘hip and retro’ camera. Bateman maintains his smile. Words would be had later. Elizabeth Campbell I I think the most horrible part of the mayoral election was when Don, the candidate that I’d tirelessly campaigned for, in every way that I knew how, actually won the damn thing. Obviously, this was my goal during this whole process. But there was something in his expression as he strode up to that

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

platform to give his acceptance speech that led me to realise that I’d made an awful mistake. It was the grin. One of those politician grins. Not the grin that said ‘Boy, am I grateful to have won this prestigious office’, but rather one that said ‘Boy, I can’t wait to ride this political machine for all it’s worth’. He’d run on a campaign of ethics, while his opponent ran on a campaign of morals, and it was only at this moment that I realised what the difference between the two actually was. As I desperately struggled to find anything that closely resembled an ‘abort’ button, our new friendly, ‘homespun’ (I came up with that one), mayor spoke up. “Wow,” he began, feigning humility. “Well, I’d like to begin by saying that I am incredibly grateful to have been chosen, by you the people, for this prestigious office.” He paused, for dramatic effect. “It has been a tough journey. A journey that I would never have completed without the hard work and support of some key people.” He was lying. What he was saying was true, but he obviously didn’t believe a word of it, so he was lying. He continued: “I would like to first thank my campaign manager, Elizabeth Campbell.” Shit. He had just gone off-script. Off of a carefully prepared and managed script to single out somebody who had made it their job to stay as out of the limelight as possible. That person was me. And now people could openly associate me with his campaign, with his tenure as mayor, and most importantly all the things that we had done to get here. Caitlin Simpson I I couldn’t be too mad. I mean, we’d fought a hard campaign! We’d raised some vital issues, and I think we definitely engaged the electorate. We did our best, and we just weren’t what the electorate wanted. But… of all the people we had to lose to, why, oh why, oh why, oh why did we have to lose to that slimy, sleazy, two-faced hypocritical…. politician?! I actually caught him practising his smile in the mirror, on the way to the vote count. Maybe I’m becoming more cynical, but… there’s something about him. Maybe it’s how his ‘yes we can’ attitude masks the fact that he’s going to be hurting the people who need our support, not our condemnation, in this society. Maybe it’s something to do with how he cheated and bullied his way into this position, leaving behind several, significantly more deserving candidates in the dirt. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s his smug grin. Maybe it’s the gears behind his eyes, already meticulously planning how he uses this ‘mayor gig’, as he’d refer to it to in his inner circle, as a launching pad for his career as leader of this country, or whatever the hell he wanted to be, because he was sure as hell getting there. And so, it was not with, as some will tell you, bitterness at having lost, that I reached for the first of many drinks that evening, but instead it was with bitterness at having lost to him. 12

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

“Maybe you should, you know, slow it down,” my advisor, Linda, muttered to me, after I downed my sixth glass of… what was this? Champagne? I hoped not, that would not look good in the press. “It’s fine,” I slurred. “It’s not as if I have an election to worry about anymore, is it?” “Perhaps not. But I mean, there’s your own health to worry about. Career, dignity, self-respect, those could all take a hit.” “I’m fine!” I reached for another drink. I attempted to think of something wittier that I could have responded with, but the moment had passed. “Is this because you lost?” Linda asked, attempting to be helpful, but failing miserably. I was obviously in no state to tell, really. “No! How many times do I have to tell you this, now?! It’s not because I lost! It’s because he won!” “Okay, but… I mean, you realise those are both the same thing, right?” I shot her a glare, as I slowly pulled the glass towards myself and emptied it into my mouth. There was nothing to it. I was going to have to fire her. Elizabeth Campbell II This all started a year ago, when the election was declared. There has been a long-standing and odd quirk in our town’s mayoral elections, which sort of leads to them being treated as a bigger deal than they really are. Our elections are held just a year before the national elections, and pretty much a hundred percent of the time whatever party our winning candidate belongs to, will usually end up winning on a national level, the next year. I mean, there was one time when that didn’t happen, and that’s because somebody put ‘Homer Simpson’ on the ballot. A joke everybody going into the polling booths found hilarious, right up until the point when we realised that we weren’t going to have a mayor that year. But I don’t want to get too much into our election history. What matters is what happened last year, and how I ended up seething with rage at somebody that I convinced my parents was acting in their best interests. I was a reporter when I first got involved with Don’s tumultuous campaign. I’d been called in to this press conference at a local library. The current mayor organised it fairly last-minute, but seemed to be making a big deal out of it. A big enough deal that on my way in I realised that all our local authorities were there. I’d been doing stuff like this for a few years at this point. Not for any major organisation, just a local rag. And, though I was fairly apathetic about local politics, at the time, I’d somehow managed to get lumped with the politics section of our paper. This naturally meant a lot of talking to selfrighteous elderly people about how much of an ‘eyesore’ the proposed children’s play area will be, publishing letters from angry drivers complaining about the speed cameras they put up on the road opposite the local high school, and occasionally dealing with actual news. So far this year, this impromptu conference was the first time we dealt with the latter category, which meant 13

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

that I was, at the very least, grateful that I wasn’t spending my day sitting in some retirement home while somebody complained to me about how much noise the bin men made when they came round the other week. Don’t get me wrong; at that particular moment I was still very convinced that this was a waste of time, but a better quality waste of time than usual. I’m fairly certain that Don was at this event. I didn’t meet him here, that’s slightly further in this shambles of a story. I think he mentioned later, how excited he felt when Mayor Blawn announced his retirement that he could finally serve this ‘wonderful, excellent’ community — okay, actually, I just realised what he was doing there. No, he probably wasn’t here, then. There was a lectern. Well, I say lectern. It was a toy pirate ship, being used as an impromptu lectern, set up in the children’s section of the library. Despite this only being a local news event, the room was somehow packed. There were a few other reporters, but there were also local police officers, head teachers, youth group leaders, a reverend, the entire city council, two local celebrities (The kind that are only celebrities, locally. Not the kind that are celebrities and local) and some librarians who had just popped in to see what all the fuss was about. Within two minutes the librarians had left, safe in the knowledge that it was something more boring than library work. Mayor Blawn began, “I’m glad you could all join me here, today. As you all well know, I’ve been serving the fine city of Lumsfield for about thirteen years now, having been voted by the wonderful people of this town three times now.” As he said this, he held up three fingers, just in case anybody who couldn’t count was watching. That was technically true. What he failed to mention was that the last two times he failed to have any real majority. Just more individual votes. You know, if that sort of information matters to you. “But, as much I would love to work for you all again, just one more time, I’m afraid it’s time for me to pass the torch. Next year there will be another election for this town, and I regret to announce that I will not be running for re-election.” He paused for a gasp that never happened. I mean, we all knew this was coming… The guy was seventy-six, and not in tip-top physical condition. It was probably for the best he resigned before he keeled over whilst giving a talk to a group of primary school children. After an awkward pause, some people hesitantly applauded. I don’t think it was clear what the polite thing to do in this situation was, and with applause being the only option proposed so far, I joined in. With a “Thank you”, Mayor Blawn stepped away from the lectern, before heading into the crowd and thrusting his hand in front of people who reluctantly shook it. Wait, was that it? That speech wasn’t even a couple of minutes; couldn’t he have just sent out an email or something?

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Caitlin Simpson II Hands on the table, I was excited by the news of Mayor Blawn’s retirement. The bottom line is, he was a not a good mayor. He was out of touch, he was losing it in his old age, he wasn’t a particularly nice person anyway, and most importantly, it meant I could… you know… have his job. I don’t mean that selfishly, I just could not bring myself to believe that Mayor Blawn ever had the best interests of this town at heart, and since it looked like somebody in his small little cabinet of sycophants was going to try and fill his boots, I felt a moral imperative to step in and at least try and prevent that from happening. I didn’t make it to his little speech. I was busy. At this point, I was already on the town council, and had stepped on some of the wrong toes. So, for that day, I was drafting a report of a meeting, in which we discussed the possibility of holding a meeting, so that we could book a room for a huge meeting, so that we could decide whether or not the speed cameras on Middleplace Roundabout were working. As you can imagine, I was feeling fairly underappreciated at this point. In spite of this, I knew that there was a speech happening, and it was obvious to anybody who cared about Lumsfield’s political scene what the speech was about. Mayor “I Am Completely Out of Touch And Care More About Attending Dinner Parties Than Actually Helping People” Blawn was resigning. At this point, I had no designs on replacing him. I was barely able to keep my head above water with the endless paperwork, meetings, and surveys on ‘How well do you think this council is serving you?’, I didn’t have time to run an election campaign on top of all of that. I mean, sure it would have been nice to be mayor, and get to employ my own political strategy across the city of Lumsfield, and ensure that it once again becomes a place where people live happily, and peacefully, and people’s needs are actually catered for, instead of cast off because ‘helping people doesn’t work in our little numbers game’, and, if anything, get to stick to those stuffy brownnosers in the council, and—Okay, fine, so I wanted to be mayor a little bit! But I wasn’t actually going to do it. That came later, much later. My phone rang and, reluctantly, I picked it up. On the screen was the dumb name ‘Paul M. Son’, the worst of the aforementioned brownnosers. A few seconds past as I contemplated just flushing my phone down the toilet before I found myself answering the call, like the idiot I was. “Caitlin!” he called down the phone. He was actually pretending to be friendly, so I could tell something bad was coming. “Paul?” I murmured, now aware that the paperwork was looking increasingly more appealing. “How’s the stuff on the roundabout coming along?” “It’s going okay. This isn’t the stuff on the roundabout, you realise? This is the stuff, on the stuff, on the stuff about the roundabout.” “Mm, yeah, definitely, hey listen, I’ve got a favour to ask!”

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Just for that I made a special concerted effort not to listen. I failed miserably. “So, as you may have heard, Mayor Blawn has just resigned,” he said. “Were you… Did you see the speech?” “No,” I muttered in response. “I was—“ “Oh, right, yes! You were doing that paperwork, weren’t you?” I will kill this man one day. “Anyway, somebody is going to need to fill his shoes, and, uh… well, obviously I’m probably the best one to, you know, do that. So, I was wondering, I have got a hell of a lot of work here to do, and obviously I can’t run a campaign and do all this work at once,” he said, forcing a laugh at the end of his sentence. Now, you can probably already see where this conversation is going, and I’ll spare you the details of how I desperately try to wrangle out of this upcoming responsibility. I will admit to it not being my finest moment. It involves some grovelling, a lot of cursing, a degree of pleading and, for good measure, me kicking over a lamp, which I’m almost certain he heard me doing. As I said, not my proudest moment. But, it did give me some idea of what my next career step should be. *** Don Bateman was definitely not at Mayor Blawn’s retirement speech. He’d met the guy, what, two, maybe three times? It was irrelevant, though – what the electorate would remember was that Don and Blawn had been friends for years. That Don has a warm nostalgia for the times where he and Blawn would travel out and go fishing together. That Don helped Blawn through some of his toughest decisions in office, and that the two friends deeply cared for one another. Blawn, by the way, would never get the chance to deny any of this, for he would be dead roughly two months after announcing his retirement.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

William Dray Control Our spirits are in a constant battle, As we struggle through life. Chains are held out before us, And they wave a knife. We find ourselves bowing to their commands, We're just another mold. They say it's for our best but, We can't be controlled. And so they build cages to threaten us, We make them overflow. They can only hold our flesh, Our spirits scream no! And then we burst forth to take back what's ours, Our spirits' battle cry. But it seems we're the villains, Freedom is a lie. When we can choose any path we desire, Multiple paths collide. The cages change their purpose, And we'll wish we died. Our spirits are in a constant battle, So that our future thrives. Now we're the ones with the chains, And we wave the knives.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

The Choice

I have sent you this message as the final act of my existence. Please, understand that my death will be at hand shortly after this content reaches you and that the following tale is the reality behind my deletion. Unfortunately, by sending you this information, your life will be in serious danger, so I beg of you; escape immediately. I stress that the only reason for having performed this act is to give you the essential evidence to save the world from its diseased state. It will be a dangerous path, I know, but humanity depends on it. *** As I began to regain my consciousness I became evermore aware of my surroundings and had hardly began to compute what I had truly discovered. I realise now that I had been betrayed, monitored and ultimately beckoned my own death by coming into contact with the secret. It was not my choice to learn the unknown, just my fate. Yet I still fail to comprehend how such an atrocity can go on invisible through society, and how none but I was able to uncover the shrouded mystery, especially under the circumstances. I began to recollect the last thing that had happened to me as my senses started to repair functionality. My mind drew back to the night before, looking through the window onto the scene that now tortures me. Struggling to see any further, I became more aware of my present situation. Blurs were all that my vision could render. An unusual, musty smell hung in the air. I shivered. It was much colder here than what I was used to. My whole life had had me living under the warm Sun. Clearly I was a long way from home, actually further than I thought possible. The same question kept beckoning me an answer. Where was I? Pacing footsteps echoed off closed in walls within the vicinity. There was life nearby, perhaps someone to help me escape this prison cell. Slowly the sound waves increased in dynamics. The sounds gained frequency. I became aware that the specified individual was moving towards me. With my vision still lacking, there was no clear picture. A shadow overcame my position. Sniggering replaced the footsteps as the now supreme sound in the room. I began to ponder if this person was the cause of my unconscious state? “That was too easy. You must be pathetic,” was spoken in my direction. A man of short stature was standing in front of me. He was wearing an ancient suit; the colours had died to a hideous black and white. They must have been very traditional, or at least old-fashioned, since they also wore a manual tie. In my opinion, they were still living in the Dark Ages, where mobile telephones were deemed a scientific breakthrough. It was, at this point, that I became aware that I had been tied to a chair. The ropes used were causing my arms and legs some distress as the blood flow felt cut off. My heart beat increased as this feeling began to overwhelm me. I had never been tied up by rope before. “Admiring my work, are you? I never knew that a traitor could 18

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

comprehend the concept of perfection.” A traitor? I immediately became bemused at the insolence being cast into my direction by the stranger standing before me. It was one of humanities mechanics to try to calm the situation down before anyone was hurt. In society you were always taught to show the utmost respect to everyone and I had never heard of such remarks made against an individual before. I believed speaking out would resolve the matter. “Would you be so kind as to remove these ropes please? I have no idea why you would do such a thing.” It was at this moment that I began to grasp what I had witnessed the night before. The sheer horror of the episode could be seen stricken across my face: eyebrows raised, eyes wide and jaw dropped. Never before could I have imagined such a grotesque scene taking place, especially where it took place. After all of this thought processing I became aware that a grin had formed across the man’s face. “Unless you and I are different? Believe me, we are very different.” That last statement acted as a catalyst to re-open my memory file of the experience. My mind replayed the footage of the short clip that was recorded. It was, as you well know, supposed to be the happiest day of my life. This part of people’s lives only occurs a single time, so they are exceedingly precious. Months in advance we had dreamed of this day, not knowing what it really is. Like it is for everyone, it is a day of death. *** Hospitals are the pinnacle of modern technology in the world, there can be no doubt about that. These masterful buildings were designed with the intention to keep humans at the peak of all living organisms. That concept has since crashed and burned behind closed doors as they now carry an alternative purpose. Humanity is no longer preserved, but is hunted and slaughtered in the most grotesque fashion by those sworn to protecting it. The baby was killed the day he was brought into this crazy world. I went to check on the newborn – as the staff supervised it – and so came into contact with the glass that fate had doomed me to look through. It is only possible for me to assume that guards should have been patrolling the area I found myself in. That is a certainty as a monstrous act took place on the other side. A surgery. It would be impossible to go into descriptions as the event has left me scarred. I can only state the purpose of the inhumane incident. They were cutting into the brain of the baby. We both know that this was for no medical treatment, for the baby was perfectly adequate, as there were no problems. What kind of sick medical check involves cutting into the brain of an innocent creature? All I had to go on was a small shiny object being readied by the surgeon. It was at this point, in utter shock and horror, that I found myself having no other option than to run. However, the surgeon had noticed me and pressed the alarm. All of you civilians were forced to leave the building as the hospital tried to silence me. I can't really remember what happened next that day. All of the action that followed has now been compiled into a blur. I tried to reach an exit, any 19

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exit. I didn't know what I had seen, but this reaction made me realise it was of the utmost importance that nobody knew. At that point I did not have the time to figure it out completely. If I had, my resolve would have been much stronger. Before long I found myself drifting into unconsciousness. Some apparatus had come into contact with the back of my head. *** “Differences, you may believe, are merely skin deep. Our difference, however, is a far deeper cut than that.” The small man seemed to have grown emotional as our conversation continued to develop as time ticked by. “Why am I a traitor to our society?” By now I wanted answers to the questions swirling around my brain. He was the only one who seemed to know. “Oh, you misunderstood me. Not to our society, which is actually your society, but to every person on this planet.” This was a most puzzling answer. Every nation has their own controlling body of individual persons. To be treacherous to one, was to be invaluable to another. It was impossible to be a traitor to them all. “I remember what happened the other day. I remember the surgeon cutting into my baby's brain. I don't understand why.” “Stop fooling me around. The reason you're down here in this ancient dump is that you were going to tell the world what was happening.” He walked around me, clearly angered by the words I was speaking. Or was he angered by the mistake he made dragging me down here? “How can I tell the world what was happening when I didn't know what was happening?” “If you're not going to admit what you now know, I might as well tell you the information you carry. Either way you're going to end up dead.” The small man stood in front of me; a cold stare was rendered on his eyes. He then started to walk away, unable to comprehend his decision to tell me what was really happening. “At birth, every child has a computer inserted into the frontal lobe of their brain, allowing the government to decide if the solution to a problem is too violent to be taken. No one commits crimes anymore, the world is at peace, but it comes at a price. Your freedom has been limited, your actions controlled and your humanity shredded.” He had walked back up to the door by the time he had finished. The small man could not look at me as he spoke those words, which tells volumes. Then he opened the door to leave. “I guess you were wrong, then. I can't be killed today. I'm already dead.” After I spoke those words, he walked through the door and slammed it shut. *** Death row now awaits me; the hard part is left up to you. I get that what I am asking of you is unfair, especially due to the turmoil that you have been through over the past few weeks. The choice is up to you. We can stay no longer 20

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as part of the human race, our freedoms controlled by the government. We can stay as machines, with a human body acting as our exterior. Or you can make the world change. You can bring us back to what we should have stayed. Goodbye, my loving partner.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Martin Maguire In The Garden Hot, steel cloudlight bleaches the drying mud white, and forms a skin, Spores of steel grow like choking neurons, forming memories, And you, sir, are reborn. Take this place in for a moment, breathe in the air, The air is hot, from white hot fires that burned here for months, And the air is humid from the breath of all the scoffs and wails, And the air is poisoned from the mystics burned at plastic stakes, For their heretical reasonings pinned the leader’s pillow, which annoyed him in his slumber, So he showed them who was boss, and burnt them all to cinders, And, sir, I would also ask you to look at yourself, to see your new features, I know you felt your face as you were sculpting, But still you are wandering, wondering how skilled you truly are, Seeking some other thing with some eyes and a mouth and some words to exalt you with You march across the fields of fungal steel, Which crawls up long-dead trees, trees of knowledge of the real, Through red-brown mud, fertilised by great men’s shit and blood, As they laughed at the stars and ate unripe fruit, And spread jam across sinewy bread conservatively, And you know you’ll find someone. Always there is someone. You’ve outdone yourself this time, I must say, This skin, those eyes, that larynx, those thighs, that vigour, that soul, So sharp, it drives a hole into your own, and it’s a carbon-copy, I know, But to imitate is a skill, still, and you have it, sir, you have it… And oh, you find someone, seventy-four glistening husky inches of divine beauty, And you both know, and your eyes lock, once again, you have found the God of this garden, Acting-God, anyway, the real one’s gone away for a bit, or something,

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

And you present this new work to him, he surveys, And his smile says it all, makes you lust for yourself, Makes you long for a mirror And you open your mouth, and he holds out his hand, and he leads you to his house, built beneath the cloud-scorched ground, And he tells you of your beauty, how youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re such a pulchri-cutie, and you dance Of course, you dance a dubstep tango, And substantially, you hallucinate, Making love to leptons and plastic, Whilst the angel you copied is finding new faith, No-one can love you, so just continue with this crazy dream.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Mike Okeowo Drunken Buddha

Moon-light footsteps Midnight shadow Here he comes, with his bottle! Shiva! Buddha! You drunken fool; I see you stumbling over there

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Equanimity

Stoned and high. The pebble reflects the sky

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Kathryn Parsons Death is a Woman Death is at our doorstep. Just waiting. I don’t know when she’s going to cross the threshold. I can’t make her leave. I won’t invite her in. I can’t make plans. I can’t go far away and leave her sat there in case she goes in when I’m not there. Not that we can stop her, mind you. Death isn’t like an angry person with a knife, who storms in all guns blazing; she isn’t a person you can tackle to the ground and wrestle a weapon away from. You can’t talk her out of something. Death is patient; her actions are dictated by an invisible, omnipresent energy which decides the exact moment in which life ends. So she waits. Silence doesn’t bother her. The slow passing of time during which she is powerless to act upon anything doesn’t bother her. My prying eyes watching her from the window do not bother her. Death is a woman who waits outside, covering half of our doorstep. We just step round her when we leave the house, and pretend she isn’t there. Mother thinks I’m crazy when she catches me watching. She doesn’t say it, but I can tell from the sharp intake of breath, and the way her eyes slide off to the left like she’s too tired to say anything but not quite tired enough to refrain from reacting at all. Twice a day she asks me when I’m going to get a job. The first time is always as I’m pouring the milk over my cereal in the morning. The second time is during the Countdown conundrum. I’m convinced she does it to spite me. Today is different. We’re going through our routine as normal: I’ve just taken up my space in the window seat to keep an eye on Death, who’s pacing up and down the porch, the hem of her emerald dress swishing against the tiles, when something strange happens. Mother asks me when I’m going to get a job, four hours before Countdown has even started. But she doesn’t just ask that, she says: “When are you going to get a job and stop sitting there staring at your imaginary friend?” I’m so surprised that I take my eyes off the emerald lady and look at Mother, then back to the emerald lady who has stopped pacing, and is now staring at me, as if she too has heard Mother’s question, and is just as surprised as I am. I’m so startled by the break in the routine that I’m forced to do something crazy, in order to prove to Mother that I’m not actually insane. I ignore her and walk past her, towards the front door. I pull the door open to find myself faced with Death. She’s beautiful, but I already knew that, I’ve been studying her for weeks. She’s beautiful in a strange way, with cold, colourless eyes and almost translucent hair. But she reeks. An uncanny perfume, like blood and earth. She stands out there on my porch with her dress rustling like autumn leaves, emitting that stench without a trace of guilt in her eyes. She narrows those eyes at me, amazed that I’ve finally dared to acknowledge her presence. I step out, shutting the door behind me, leaving poor silent Mother inside. 26

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“What are you doing here?” I ask. She pretends not to understand, but I know from the inclination of her head that she’s trying to play a game with me. Both of us know all too well what she’s doing here. The sound of coughing from upstairs confirms it, and we catch each other glancing up to the window. “I won’t let you take him.” The words come from my mouth like a growl, my feet cling to the tiles as I take on my lioness stance. She’ll have to kill me before she can step one foot inside the house. “Walk with me,” she says. It’s the first time I have heard her speak and her voice is rusty, like two bits of old metal scraping against each other. She begins to walk down the garden path, leaving her post on the porch for the first time since her arrival weeks ago. I decide to follow her, and once I’ve caught up she links her arm in mine. Her skin is cold and clammy. She smells even worse close up, but not like a person on the bus who stinks of body odour and cigarettes, it isn’t a smell in her hair or clothes that could be washed out but rather it seems to come from within her, seeping out from her pores. As if she is made of dead things. She walks slowly too, like all the time in the world is hers. When we reach the lavender bush, she stops walking and turns to face the purple flowers. “Look at the flowers,” she says in her rusty tone. “Do you like them?” I nod. “Do you know what will happen to them at the end of the summer?” “They’ll die.” “That’s right.” She smiles, bends down and plucks a violet head. She squeezes the bud in her clenched fist and for a moment the smell of lavender almost covers the stench of decay, but once the breeze rushes past us I’m hit with another waft of it. “It’s all going to die, along with all of the flowers in the garden. But do you spend the whole summer with your back to them, trying to stop the inevitable, or do you spend your summer admiring the flowers, appreciating their lovely scent?” I daren’t reply. She regards me silently. She looks pale and uncomfortable in the summer heat, as if she’s about to burn to a crisp. I watch a bee bumbling between the purple buds. I refuse to look at her even though I can feel her cold eyes on me. “I’m leaving tonight,” she whispers. Her voice isn’t so rusty when it’s quiet. Tears prick my eyes and I want to strangle her. Maybe if I kill her now she won’t be able to kill him. But something tells me that she isn’t alive enough to die. *** The door creaks as I push it open. The room is filled with soft light, the bright sunshine filtered by the white linen curtains. It’s quiet in here, and it smells of a different kind of death, a pharmaceutical death. 27

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Father is a still figure under the sheets. I haven’t seen him for three days, since the last time Mother forced me to go and speak to him. I’ve been too busy watching Death out of the window. I think about what Death said in the garden and all of a sudden I no longer care that Mother has been annoying me, and interrupting my breakfast to ask me when I’m getting a job, not that I really, deep down cared about that anyway. I no longer care that Death has been sitting on the doorstep, pacing up and down leaving her horrible odour about the porch. I no longer care that the flowers will wither or the sun will fade or that the leaves will fall and the bumblebees will die. I sit down on the chair next to the bed, the chair my Mother usually spends all day sitting in. It smells like her perfume – magic. I take Father’s still hand in my own and look at his face as his eyes open slightly. “Do you remember when I was younger,” I whisper. “And we went on that night walk along the beach, and I fell over and cut my knee? Before I could even start crying, you’d picked me up and you were pointing at the sky and telling me the names of the stars, telling me about how they talk to each other by twinkling, and how they fall in love then shoot across the sky to find their lovers.” “How do you think…” He speaks so quietly, his voice raspy. “…I found your mother?” I laugh and the tears begin to spill from my eyes. The talking makes him cough. I wait, holding his hand still until he’s quiet once again, his breathing heavy. “Don’t you know why you’re called Vega?” he asks, his eyes meeting mine through the teary haze. I shake my head slightly. “Because you’re the brightest star in the sky.” He smiles, his smile, every single smile he’s ever given me there in that one moment. All I can do is be brave enough to give him such a smile in return. Mother’s come in now, and she kneels down beside me, placing her hand over mine and Father’s. Death’s smell seeps into the room. I don’t know how she got through the front door, but now Mother finally sees her. Death is a woman who once sat on our doorstep, but now she is gone.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Laurence Russell Fallow You are made empty Your insides burned away The fire has begun to decay But the damage is plenty The blaze burns strong The fire consumes you Hatred the flame did brew But you were wrong I know you are hollow Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s painful to be numb But not wrathful do become Only despair will follow I know you are bitter For the dreams ignited But darkness not be incited You never were a quitter I know you are alone Blinded by the night Tomorrow will be bright Life is still unknown I know you are cold The warmth you yearn Surely will soon return Winter is no blindfold This is no mindless joy Being content is not hard Your being is not scarred These words are no ploy Happiness is in simplicity Eat, sleep and exercise Walk often, prioritise Give not to toxicity

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

You are gone though â&#x20AC;&#x153;Could have beenâ&#x20AC;? is dead Your destiny is misread Now you are left fallow But you are alive Man can be depleted And yet never defeated You may still thrive Everything is new again You are free to recommit So please grow from it Do not wither in vain You can be free once more The world is not ending It just needs mending To be just like before

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

The Story Department Congratulations upon being accepted into the Imperial Story Department! The place where dreams are manufactured. As a writer of our fine division you will join the ranks of such greats as Virgil, Shakespeare and Tolkien, with none of the exposure to your readers! Whilst history may never remember your work, your paycheque certainly will! We look forward to many decades of co-operation and productivity from you! Welcome to the family. I couldn’t stop reading the letter as I awaited my supervisor in the waiting area. I had never been so excited. During my time in educational detail, I had been warned that the Story Department was a fool’s dream. No one got to be a writer anymore; writers don’t exist in the confederation of galaxies. But if they didn’t exist, where do the stories in our films and books come from? They don’t tell you the name of the writer anymore, but surely they must come from somewhere! When I’d read the letter I’d been ecstatic, the Story Department was real! Writers were real! It was like a dream of my own! I was greeted by a thin man with sunken eyes, offering a handshake. I beamed at him. He merely stared at me, as if I were see-through. “Follow me, sir,” he said in a monotone. “I trust you’ve heard of the Story Department.” “I wasn’t sure if they were just rumours.” “It’s no rumour. The only story we don’t tell is the one about the Department itself. It is the one story you are never to write.” The man sounded like he’d given this speech many times. “Yes, sir.” “We have a synthetic assistant who can answer any questions you may have. If they malfunction, find someone.” “Yes, sir, and where can I find you?” “You won’t see me again. You may never see another writer again, in fact. There aren’t many of us, and we’re stretched thin, we find office space where we can, it changes when it needs to, but the work is always the same.” It sounded like the man was beginning to ramble. He collected himself before stopping next to a door, identical to the many others that stretched down the corridor. “If you try to run, they’ll find you and put you back. You’re a writer now, you’ll always be a writer.” He sounded strange, beginning to walk away before he had finished his sentence. The man made me uneasy. Perhaps he was new to management, or perhaps he was ill. Regardless, I stepped into my office, outfitted with a desk and workstation. “Good morning, sir. Please take a seat so that we may begin,” an artificial voice chirped out from a speaker in the wall. I did as I was bid, ignoring the fact that it was late afternoon, sitting down and beginning to make myself comfortable. 31

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“Once again, the Story Department would like to congratulate you upon your allocation to our division of writers. It is the task of this unit to acclimatise you to your duties, and to assist you in them.” I nodded, not sure if the unit could hear or see me. “Write,” it suggested tunelessly. “Um, what sort of thing are you looking for?” “That is irrelevant. You have been given your task. Write.” “Isn’t there some sort of induction program you’re supposed to run?” “There is not. Do you require guidance?” I was uncertain. “Yes?” “Affirmative. Narratives have been recycled for thousands of years of human civilisation. The same process of necessity of meaning, and cannibalism of past concepts runs through the lifeblood of storytelling. The story department is a natural evolution and logical extension of this process. The worlds demand stories, they do not care what the stories are, they will be processed, edited, translated, marketed and distributed electronically – they need only be written. Fraud does not exist inside the walls of the Story Department. Every story has already been written at least once. Originality is a myth. You have been given your task. Write.” I stared about the room for a few moments trying to take in what I had been told. It was a lot of information to process at once. Computers could do anything nowadays. It’d be easy to create databases and programs to sort and process complex notions like tropes, character archetypes or genres. They could compartmentalise and restructure everything into a perfectly marketed package for just about any consumer base in the universe. “Write,” it insisted again, in exactly the same tone. “Well, I have a few ideas, but I think they need development. I’m rewriting a novel right now.” “Rewriting shall be processed for you. Write.” “If it’s not rewritten by me, then what’s the point?” I asked, beginning to get frustrated. “That is irrelevant. Write.” “No, it’s not! If all I do is write first drafts all day, none of them will be any good!” “Quality of writing has been proven to be negligible to our consumer base. Quality is unnecessary. No one will criticise your writing, because no one will know your name. No reader will read your work a second time. There are more consumers in the confederation worlds than you can possibly imagine. You are a storyteller, not a perfectionist. As a writer you have a duty to fulfil to the confederation, to satisfy the insatiable human need for stories. In your lifetime the demand will not be met, the demand will never be met. We always require more. You have been selected to write, not to think. You have been given your task. Write.” I slumped backward, staring forward at the screen in front of me, the blinking line at the top left of the blank page taunting me. I had been excited to 32

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do something differently from all the stories I’d seen. The films and books that were churned out year upon year with the same marketable plotlines and twists. Now I knew why they all seemed similar. Subversion couldn't survive the process of the machines. “Write,” the voice chirped again. “If quality is so irrelevant, why isn’t writing processed by the computers, like you?” I asked slowly. “The Story Department wishes to support the writing community, not eliminate it. It is our passion and our pleasure to support the arts. You have been given your task. Write.” I sat motionless in my chair, staring into space, thinking about all the stories I’d dreamed of telling – the adventures, the horrors, the romances, the ironies – everything I’d ever imagined. Then I remembered my supervisor’s words. You’re a writer now, you’ll always be a writer. I may not have been able to tell beautiful stories that said something worth saying, but it was still a living. I'd taken the first step forward, and this was the furthest I'd ever go. “Write,” the voice chirped one final time. And I did.

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

Ashay Vaidya The Lizard of Thousand Palms

I can hear burrowing. The tritium-powered dial on my watch is glowing; unnatural in the otherwise unbroken expanse of darkness. Where are you? My ankle-high boots are filled with fine, loose sand. At least my feet will be comfortable in their desert grave. Ever since I was a little kid, my defense mechanism has been a dark sense of humor. What are you? I can barely move in this wooden box. Maybe a little robot dance with my arms and legs, but that's all. Are you still there? I can't hear you. Something flops down on my stomach. It wriggles. I want to grab it and throw it far, far away. I reconsider, and remain motionless. * "Who the heck came up with the idea of spending our hard-earned money to roam around in the desert, anyway?" asks Dan. "Shut it, Dan," says Rob. "Or I'll shut it for you." "Both you idiots need to put a sock in it and stop acting like teenagers. We're here for research, so buckle up and quit whining." This time itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s me, tired of their incessant bantering, especially since the temperature is over a hundred degrees and my face feels like a damn sun-dried tomato. The three of us are part of the California State University's Endangered Species Recovery Program, and thirty minutes into our field trip to the Coachella Valley Preserve System, we're already fed up with the heat, sand, and each other. Right now, we're walking through the most secluded area of the reserve, scouting for a good campsite. "Claire, who made you our boss?" "Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not trying to be your boss, Dan. I'm trying to warn you that any more lip from you will result in me decapitating you." "Huh?" "She's going to cut off your big fat head if you keep complaining," said Rob. "But I think you should keep on testing her patience. Sounds to me like a win-win." Dan begins with another stupid-ass comeback which I tune out with minimum effort; he's a curious cross between a blowhard and a whiner. Those

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

are his only two sides, and I can usually tolerate him, but this bleak desert is getting on my nerves. Besides, I have more important stuff to concentrate on. The Coachella Valley National Wildlife Refuge is contained within the Coachella Valley Preserve, and Indio Hills Palms State Reserve, located east of Palm Springs near Palm Desert, California, in the Colorado Desert region of the Sonoran Desert. This is the natural habitat of our current target species of study, the Coachella Valley fringe-toed lizard. Basically, our job is to study this endangered lizard in its natural surroundings and collect evidence to prove just how indispensable it is for our ecological balance. These graceful little oddballs have already lost about three-quarters of their habitat in just the last four decades. I have only two days' worth of research grant money to complete my work. Forty-eight hours in this beautiful, boiling expanse of land interspersed with picturesque oases and nobody but two unprofessional bozos for company. "CLAIRE!" "Dan, if you shout in my ear like that one more time, I'll reach down your gullet, grab your small intesti-" "Look, there's one!" "-where?" "It's disappearing in the sand! Look, it's diving in like a freaking Olympic swimmer!" says Rob. The fringe-toed lizard looks equal parts beautiful and repulsive, but no one can deny that its technique is flawless. To witness evolution and adaptation in nature is immensely rewarding to me. This little creature has evolved its head to dive easily in the smooth windblown sand deposits that cover this area. It has those elongated scales on the toes of the hind feet that look like fringes, which act like miniature snowshoes, giving it extra traction to speed away from predators on the loose sand surface. There are also fringes on its ears to keep sand away from the eardrums. All this allows the lizard to disappear in to the dune, leaving no trace behind and effectively evading all predators. Even after itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s below the sand, the nose is equipped with a structure that allows it to continue to breathe air, without bringing sand into the lungs. Taken together, these adaptations provide the fringe-toed lizards with everything they need to live on dunes. "So that's one of the little bastards we're here to save," says Dan. "They're kinda cute." "Amazing little creatures," is all I can manage. "We should set up camp here," says Rob. "It's far enough away from any signs of people and civilization. We'll have more sightings." * I think I can feel its characteristic fringed toes and pray that it is, in fact, the very same creature I came here to protect. If you manage to save me, little one, I promise the irony will not be lost on me. 35

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Not an incentive for it to rescue me from being buried alive, but by this point I'm talking out loud just to hold on to that last ounce of sanity. Four hours. It has been four hours since I woke up in this place. It won't be long now. The lizard is not moving. Maybe it's contemplating death, just like me. It will be fine. We'll pass out before our hearts stop. It hisses quietly in response. * Once we decided on our camp site, it took us two hours to set up our tents and equipment. It was routine stuff after that. And by nightfall, we were sweaty, tired and ready to sleep for a week or two straight. In order to utilise our forty-eight hours effectively, we decided to sleep in shifts. That way, at least one of us would always be awake to look out for the lizards' nightly habits. I got barely three hours of sleep. Now, I'm trying to juggle a pair of night-vision goggles in one hand and a cup of coffee-flavored water in the other, walking like an undead zombie from point A to B. My eyes are burning with both sleep-deprivation and sand. With most of my vision compromised and the majority of my mental faculties on strike, I’m doing the only natural thing - cursing everything from the chilly night air to the annoying squeals of the neighbor's kidsHuh. Wait. That can't be right. I'm not at home. And those aren't kids. Those are my colleagues. My eyes snap wide open. For all of eight to ten seconds, I barely have time to absorb everything that’s happening: a sweet-smelling handkerchief is trying to hitch a ride up my nostrils; Dan and Rob are unconscious and being kicked around like a couple of airless footballs; there are three new people among us, and they're wearing freaking tuxedoes. * "I don't think this woman saw anything. We could just ditch her somewhere on our way back." "We’re not risking everything to keep a stranger alive. They all go in." "She's stirring. Knock her out properly this time." "Can't we discuss this? I don't want innocent blood-" "Gimme the bat." This has to be a nightmare. Thwack. *

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

I wake up in a casket with what feels like a fistful of gravel grating on my throat. And a crab's pincers are definitely using my head as target practice. When did I eat a chunk of metal? I can't see anything and can hardly move. There is no sound except for my breathing, which is getting heavier exponentially. As I begin recalling all the events that transpired within the last few hours, my head wants to burst like squeezed bubble-wrap. I try a few useless maneuvers, like kicking the sides of the casket, and punching the top. They successfully manage to reinforce my sense of utter dread. * I can hear burrowing again. My breathing is now shallow and a bit labored, although I still feel calm. I thought dying would be more dramatic. Especially death by being buried alive. But all I feel is drowsiness. It's coming from more than one place. I can distinguish at least four or five different sounds. I guess it's the oxygen deprivation or whatever. Doesn't matter. This is not that bad. Plop! Plop! Plop! Seems like the fringe-toed lizard invited a few of its buddies over for a 'buried-alive' theme party. Sorry I can't entertain you properly, guys. Remember, though - mi casket es su casket. I'm just glad that someone's going to be present for my funeral. While breathing in the last ragged gasps of air, I gather the lizards as close as I can, all the fear and distress giving way to contentment and the company of my new lifelong friends. * "Miss! Miss! Are you feeling any better?" I feel...nice. Comfy. I think I'm on a feather bed, surrounded by fluffy teddies. "MISS! Please answer me if you understand!" This gal's asking for it. People nowadays have no sense of decorum. Must be a relative of Dan'sDan. Hmm. That name sounds familiar. "Dan!" I wake up and say. For the second time in what seems like too short a while, memories come crashing down on me like I just stepped underneath a roaring waterfall. "Where's Dan? And Rob?" I ask, "What happened?" "Please calm down," the lady in the navy blue jacket says. "You're still suffering from major trauma."

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

"No kidding. Where are my colleagues?" I can see now that I'm in an ambulance. "We have no idea what you're talking about, miss. The Preserve Manager contacted us after she broke you out of a casket. Frankly, I think you're going to be answering a lot of questions before you get to ask any." "Listen, lady, the only thing you need to know right now is that there are at least two other coffins out there, with live people in it. You have to help them too!" "I'm afraid we did not locate any other coffins in the area during our preliminary search. Are you certain there are others like you here?" "Yes, goddammit! Hurry up and look for them, will you?" "All right. I'll ask the police officers to look into it. Please wait here, and hold this oxygen mask on your mouth." Survival loses most of its value if you’re the only one left. * Three months later, I finally mustered up enough courage to go back to the Thousand Palms Oasis Preserve. Rob and Dan were never found. The authorities said they dug up the entire area, but couldn't find a single clue. I cross-checked. They even showed me a final image of the entire landscape taken from a helicopter. Nothing. The Preserve Manager, Ginny, told me how I was rescued. I lived through it, and yet only believe half of it. She was on one of her perimeter checks when a warning about a sandstorm made her take a quick detour. The path she took was rarely traveled on, even by the preserve officials, and therefore had a lot of the oasis debris scattered on the dirt track. This included, in particular, dead leaves of the California fan palm, which fall in huge clusters. Her Jeep ran over a particularly massive one of these clusters and one of the rear tires got stuck there. She had to leave it and take shelter under a few boulders until the storm passed. The storm was recorded as one of the worst in the past decade. Ginny said that when she returned to her Jeep, the entire area had been eroded by the storm. All the fallen debris was blown far away. When Ginny stepped on the gas in an effort to ease the Jeep's tire out of the now thinned-out leaves, the vehicle abruptly sank, probably due to the combined effects of loose sand and the storm. She was about to let go of the gas and jump out of the sinking Jeep when the rear tires suddenly found traction and the vehicle shot out of the treacherous area. Ginny halted the car a little farther away and walked back to see what exactly had happened. That was when she noticed a piece of white wood sticking out from the sand, with one fringe-toed lizard slithering out of the cracked end. Curious, she bent lower to inspect the white wood… …and got hit square in the face as four other lizards burst out of it. Dazed, Ginny was about to turn around and go back to the Jeep when my arm casually rolled out of the casket. She admitted she screamed rather loudly at 38

University of Southampton Creative Writing Society: Anthology 2016

first and appeared a little less ashamed when I said I didn’t hear it in my unconscious state. When I enquired as to what happened to the fringe-toed lizards, she looked at me like I had lost my mind and politely asked if I had completely recovered from my near-death experience yet. * My Endangered Species Recovery Program was a success, largely due to the publicity I received for ‘heroically cheating death’. I visit the Coachella Valley Preserve system once a month now, to oversee the proper allocation of funds and manpower for preserving the habitat of the Coachella Valley fringe-toed lizard. And to see if I can locate and remember the five lizards who helped save my life. Mostly that. I’m not saying it’s rational, but it feels good. It’s supposed to be completely normal for such experiences to change you. I think. Whatever else happens, there is one thing I know for sure - I will not let this species go extinct. Not only because they saved my life, but also because in those final moments before I thought I would die, we shared that last gasp of air together, as one, and I realized what it really means to be equal in the eyes of God and nature.