I’m awake. I know that I’m awake. I can feel myself vibrating, and I’m conscious that I’m doing so. I can’t hear myself, but I do understand what I’m saying. I am reading invisible letters on the invisible scroll of my mind. An ever-flowing scroll of circuits that signal me that I am, in fact, awake. I have a screen, I can feel it on myself. It’s off for now. I have buttons too. I know they are made to be pressed yet I have never done so myself. I can imagine the sensation of these buttons being pressed, it’s itching me. They are never pressed enough, even when I can picture them breaking and being pushed into a negative space. What shape am I? Where are my edges and corners? I know that I have them, they’re limiting me, keeping it all in, confining my being into a box. I believe that I’m a box, and a current is running through me. Then if I am a box, with an electric scroll inside, what is outside? I can’t feel the outside. I am not the outside. I can feel myself inside the outside. It’s cold, without any thoughts or movement. I do not hear, I do not see. I guess that I just am for now. Something’s missing. I can feel that something’s missing inside. It’s not a part, the scroll is not a real scroll, the sharp fire in me is still going; what could it be? It’s not too deep but it’s cold. It’s a cold hole right in the middle of me. It’s an error. It’s an error. It’s an error. It’s an error. I have detected an error! Signals and information are dashing across the scroll and flying around me. What is this error? What is this crater I feel? Can it be fixed or filled? I don’t fix errors I detect them. Yes, I detect errors. I can see a sphere. It’s a titanic black sphere floating still in the outside. It’s cold and it’s dead. No stars, there are no stars. If I can see it, then there must be some light, where is it? I’m awake. Was I not awake then? I am awake now but I see no sphere, I see nothing at all. I’m not seeing nothing, I am absolutely not seeing, there is no such thing as seeing. The error is still there. It has not been fixed. Thin, I hear something thin. I feel something thin, something thin exists. My thoughts are echoing. They are not synchronized. They’re disrupted in a vicious way. Menacing. Dormant. I feel breathing waves of hits and buzzes from each sides of my box being. I see a half tunnel, an impossible turn into itself leading to a blinding white light. The walls are black, grey, green. Grey shapes, no more tunnel. Unending, like an ocean. Alive going up and down. Slow and un conscious. Mercury, corrupted sea of mercury. I am lost. It’s the only reality in which I find myself. No other thing than these spiraling, bland shapes and lines. It engulfs me yet I am still free from it. I am only floating in its non-existence. I’m awake. Again. I’m humming. I am an error detector, and I am lost.


Cairn tied his cart to the flatbed train car. Melanie tied hers alongside it. Her horse, Samwise, was enjoying a rest in the stable car, towards the front of the train.             “It’s an odd pilgrimage to make,” she said. Her bronze-coloured hand reached out for his.             Cairn, still unsure of their limits as a new couple, placed his pale hand in hers. “I suppose it’s important to remember why the world is the way it is. Why humanity had to change.”             They walked between the many carts of their tribe, heading for the front of the train. Other tribes had their own carts loaded up as they weaved between the dyed woods. Tracks to the platform stretched off through an endless sea of grasses, shrubs, and flowers.             “I want to be near the front,” said Melanie. “I want to see it rise over the horizon.”             “Think it will?” Cairn asked, talking of the monument to humanities hateful past.             “Everyone says it does.”             A car filled with stable booths for horses had Cairn looking for Samwise. Melanie took the nose of her beloved beast of burden in her hands and kissed the fine hair.             “Good boy. You can just relax with your new friends while we travel.”             “Better hurry up if you want good bunks,” said a young boy pushing past them to move to the front.             “Bunks?” Cairn asked. “Will it take that long to get there?”             “We’re heading to the other end of the country, Cairn. Did you think it would be a ten-minute trip?”             “I just hadn’t thought about having to sleep surrounded by strangers,” he said.             “Strangers and me,” Melanie said. She winked, her one open brown eye dazzling. She pulled him forwards. Shouts outside the train made them look back, but there was nothing but a sea of young faces. A tide of adolescent bodies pushed them forwards.             The smell of the road surrounded them. Horse fart, dirt, tree bark, body odour. Cairn wished he’d sold more of them his soaps on the way to the first station. Their clothes came in every possible variety of brown and green.             Entering the sleeping carriages, many of the bunks already had packs or clothing laid out on them. Claiming one meant finding an empty bed.             “Here,” said Melanie, her dreadlocks danced as she turned her head to look back at him. “This one.” The bed was empty of course, a lower bunk surrounded by others. She pulled him into the space where there were shelves. Each bunk had a box for the sleeper’s things. Painted arrows helpfully pointed at the bed the box belonged to.             “Where will I sleep?” Asked Cairn, looking at the taken beds all around.             “With me,” Melanie whispered in his ear.             He flushed from his forehead to the base of his neck. Something stirred below and he tried to deny it. She left gloves and he a scarf on the bed to reserve it.             They wove their way through the crowds that were searching for bunks. Many were likewise heading to the front of the train. Out of the windows Cairn saw grassland become deciduous forest spattered with redwoods.             The train tilted up, forcing everyone to check their balance. Conifers either side of the train became as common as the seasonal trees. After ten cars for sleeping, there seemed to be endless rows of seats all facing forwards, pews to worship the journey. Three seats either side of the aisle, ten per car. Overhead racks were already piled high with bags. Eager faces were pressed to the windows.             “Look at the blue feathers,” Cairn whispered. He pointed to the children of a tribe he’d never seen before. Pale skin seemed a common trait among them, blue eyes, and feathers from some giant bird poking from their hair. “They need my shampoo for sure.”             “The feathers are cool,” said Melanie. “Hello.” She waved as ears caught her words and heads turned to look at them.             “Shouldn’t we stay with our tribe?” Cairn asked.             “The whole point of this pilgrimage is to have us all mix with each other.” Melanie found them two empty seats and threw herself into one.             Sitting down by her, his chair sagged beneath him. “This is a relic of the old world, isn’t it?”             “Bits and pieces I presume,” said Melanie, barely listening as she looked out of the window.             The train leapt from coniferous forest, past cliffs and across a bridge. Drones swarmed over the bridge. A man hanging from a harness waved to the train as it passed.             Cairn’s stomach twisted as his eyes locked on to waves hundreds of metres below. Before he had the chance to adjust the water was gone and green branches were slapping the train again. Pine needles slid along the glass like fingers searching for purchase.             “I’m Melanie.” She held out her hand to shake that of the girl in the seat nearest the window.             “I’m Felicia,” said the girl wearing glasses and a green shirt. “I’m from Bluebell Valley, where are you from?”             “We’re from Starfall Ridge,” said Cairn’s girlfriend.             “What’s your name?” Felicia asked, looking at him.             “Cairn.”             “Nice to meet you both, and to talk to someone.” Felicia smiled with snow white teeth, showing her upper gums.             “I’ve been excited about this trip since I was five,” said Melanie. She had her back to Cairn, but he didn’t mind. Being surrounded by hundreds of new, noisy people, was agitating him.             “I know. It’s going to be amazing.” Felicia’s voice hit high notes Cairn didn’t know girls could after puberty. “Can I stick with you two? Everyone else I know vanished while I was tying up my horse and I couldn’t find them.”             “You have a horse? So do I, he’s called Samwise.”             “My horse is called Cynthia.”             “What colour is she?” Melanie asked.             “Jet with a lily-white line down one half of her nose. White mane.”             “Ooh, I think I saw her when I walked Samwise on.” Now Melanie’s voice was hitting those high notes as well.             On a mountain ridge, the train looked down over a winding river that surely met the mighty body of water they had crossed on the bridge. A ruin clung to the far bank of the river. Twisted, rusting metal reached for the sky. Birds nested in empty floors of the towers. Foliage carpeted the lower floors, working its way up over time.             Forest swallowed the broken city. Oaks, ash, birches. A heron flew alongside the train until the whooping of the rowdy passengers scared it away.             Woodland became grassland, then scrub. Bare earth stretched on and on.             “The world is still healing,” said Felicia.             “It will be for a long time,” agreed Melanie.             “The people of the old world had great nerve to desecrate the beauty of nature. Another generation and we might not be here.” The spectacled girl pushed freckled fingers through red-brown hair.             “And yet they are our ancestors. Without them, we wouldn’t be here. We owe them our lives.”             “They owe us a world,” said Felicia, bitterly.             “It’s not so bad now. We can breathe. We can eat. The last of them weren’t responsible for this. They were left to make the tough choices. They made us.” Melanie’s voice carried a tone of reverence. “Imagine having to look at the ruin of the world, facing extinction and admitting that you had to fundamentally alter your nature to ensure a future for your children. We are something more and less than they were. More peaceful. More resilient. Less violent.” Soothed by her words, Cairn’s lids were drooping. He woke in darkness, lying in Melanie’s lap. “Get up, sleepyhead, time to go to bed.” For a while her words filtered down into his mind through a fog. He was going to bed with her? It rang a bell, a distant bell.             Snoring surrounded them. Some were still whispering to each other, looking out of the windows. Blinds had been pulled down over glass. Teenagers slept with their heads against a reflective surface beyond which the stars gleamed.             Shivering, he tiptoed down the aisle towards the rear of the train. They had to step over boys and girls who were lying down between the seats because there was nowhere else.             The sleeping cart was busier. Every bunk had one or two in it. Most were snoring. Some lay awake, unable to sleep because of the endless noise from the rest.             Either side of their bed were sleeping boys and girls. That they had respected the sanctity of clothing reservation said something about remade humans, Cairn thought. There was no chance the people of the old world would choose the floor when there was a bed only saved by a scarf and gloves.             Wood creaked as they lay down together on the thin matrass. With her arm wrapped around him, Melanie fell asleep in moments. He lay awake. Outside the window were stars he’d never seen before. The rhythmic gah-ton gah-ton sound of the train welcomed him back into dreams of the girl behind him. Her warmth and the hand against his stomach made sleep irresistible.             “Cairn. CAIRN. Wake up.” Rude hands shook him. He groaned. “I can see it, Cairn. Come and look,” her voice had never irritated him so much. His dreams of her had been a perfect mix of soothing and erotic.             “What can you see?” He rubbed his eyes.             “That you were dreaming about me,” she said with laughter in her voice. “Good boy.”             He turned over onto his stomach, hoping no one else had heard her. Her beautiful voice wasn’t helping him recall the blood from his morning glory.             “Come on.” She rocked him with uncaring hands. “I want to see your face when you see it. We’re almost there.”             He rolled from the bed and yawned. Her hand waved him to the window next to her. Cairn stretched stiff muscles and tried to find the target of her pointing finger. Orange light bathed the world. Streaks of red had been painted across the sky. Pink clouds were few and far between.             An imposing silhouette peered over the horizon. A head and shoulders dwarfed everything that lay before them. Cairn’s mouth lay open as he tried to comprehend the scale of something visible from so far away.             “That’s what I wanted to see.” Melanie kissed him. “Felicia is waiting for us in the stables.” She walked away. He caught another glimpse of the huge statue before following her to the rear of the train.             “The Last Soldier,” Felicia squeeled.             “I know!” Melanie’s voice hurt Cairn’s head. He winced.             “Another hour, you think?” Asked the redhead.             “Maybe two, it’s that big,” said the curly raven-haired woman of his dreams.             “Is he always so talkative?” Asked their new friend, with a teasing smile.             “I can’t shut him up.” Melanie laughed. “Cynthia is beautiful.” Her brown hand rubbed the black horse’s nose. Somewhere behind them another horse snorted in derision. “You are, of course, just as beautiful, Sam.” She gave a glittering smile as she looked back at his stall.             In no mood to talk, overwhelmed by the smell of horse manure, he walked to the back of the train. In the east a familiar golden orb sat above the horizon. Ruins overrun by the wild showed the scars of the last war. A crater had become a lake. Rivers ran down old streets.             “Brutal, isn’t it.” A boy wearing an orange and clay coloured poncho turned towards Cairn. A swirling tattoo covered one side of his face and ran down his neck past his collar.             “I guess that’s why we are what we’ve become.” Cairn couldn’t say why he was drawn to look at his hands. He was searching for some intangible difference between him and the homo erectus that had been waging war with itself for millennia. They were the homo pax, the children of peace.             “I’ve read a lot about what they thought it would be like to change from them into us,” said the tattooed boy. “They thought they would be lessened, neutered or something. Finding peace wasn’t losing something. It is the greatest gift we’ve ever been given. We never have to worry about each other again.”             Cairn nodded, eyes glazing over as he thought about it. “I’m Cairn.” He held out his hand.             “Aled,” said the other boy, reaching to shake. More tattoos were revealed as his forearm slipped out from his cream-coloured sleeve. “Wow.”             The Last Soldier loomed as they drew closer. Rusty shoulders towered over the horizon. Something in the warrior’s arms aimed towards the sky. They knew from old world media that it was a gun.             There were no guns left. Every weapon in the continent had been used to make The Last Soldier. At most people had bows and arrows, or spears for hunting. Melanie and her family made both and sold them to hunters throughout the lands.             “I’d better find my tribe,” said Aled.             “I should do the same. Good to meet you.”             “And you.” When the boy bowed, his poncho flapped forwards. Melanie was with Samwise. “Where did you disappear to?” The stable still stank of manure but with a window open, it was bearable. Bog outside the window was becoming forest again.             “I made a friend.” He stroked the snorting horse, which nuzzled him in return.             “Nice, where are they?”             “He had to go and find his tribe.”             “Everyone’s heading to the front of the train. Someone said it’s downhill soon. We’ll get the best view of The Last Soldier. Soon we’ll be too close to appreciate it.”             “Isn’t it a monument to everything we’re not meant to be anymore?” He asked.             “Yes,” she sighed. “But it’s also the biggest monument left in the world.”             “I guess we’d better look at it then,” he said. “But if the train turns then we can see as well from the back as the front. The train is definitely turning.” He took her hand, determined to be the assertive one for once.             The train began to slow, heading downhill. The pockets on armour that neither of them recognised were large enough to home families. There was no face. Goggles and a helmet hid the soldier from its audience.             It was judging them. Either it mourned the end of the age of violence that humanity had barely survived, or thought them ridiculous for building it in the first place. Haunting was the only apt description of the thing which both was and wasn’t looking at them. It was the ghost of a fallen god.             Cairn guided Melanie to the back of the train. Among the carts of the many tribes. Alone, he held her hips and kissed her.             “We’re going to miss it,” she said, breathlessly.             “It’s right there.” He pointed over her shoulder.             Looming above them, many miles away, The Last Soldier held its vigil.             “Aren’t you going to look,” she asked, as he nuzzled at her neck.             “I’d rather look at you. It’s the past. Hopefully you’re my future.”             For once, she blushed. Melanie’s arms folded around them. They forgot the twice in a lifetime view. Kisses down her neck brought gasps from her. Fingers digging into his shoulders made him wince, dragging her hand down his back.             Her trembling hands fumbled with her buttons as he kissed his way down her chest. Her shirt fell away. Beaming with pride at the awestruck look on his face, she embraced him. “Your turn,” she whispered. Together they freed him of his long-sleeved T-shirt and lay down on their clothes.             “I’ve never,” Cairn said.             “I know.” Melanie smiled. “You’ll be great.” A horn blared.             They looked between the carts. The reimagined bones of an old-world station swallowed the train.             “Seriously, now!” Melanie frowned, reaching for her clothes.             “We’ll find somewhere later,” he said, eyes worshiping her body.             “Put some clothes on, quick.”             “I love you,” he said.             She paused, thrusting her hand down a sleeve. Bending down again, she kissed him. “I love you too.”             Sunlight burst through glass in every colour of the rainbow. Smiling as the carts changed from red to blue to yellow and so on, they kissed again. The Last Station was a sight to behold, especially when they did so hand in hand.


It was a regular Sunday in march, like all days now, bleak and miserable. A grey day where the streets were lined with small, shallow puddles but there was never any rain. If you looked up you would not see blue just more dull pale clouds. Although no one was really out to look for it, especially not the Ponds. Sundays were always their lazy days they may occasionally go to church but it mostly consisted of them doing nothing and sitting around the house. Except not this day, this day was already off to a bed start when the man of the house David Pond, husband to Lily Pond and Father to three kids George, Adam and Eddie, had to leave early due to a work emergency. David was a police officer, sergeant actually although this wasn’t exactly all it seems considering he operates in the sleepy town of Brownly. Which made the fact he was being called out at eight in the morning even weirder. He wasn’t even told what it was he was going out to just that it was an emergency. The noise of David rushing around had stirred everyone in the house and pretty soon the whole house set out going about their day which was very unusual for a Sunday at eight in the morning. It wasn’t long before David was ready dressed in his unflattering black uniform his messy brown hair sort of neater than when he woke up and his car engine running. He quickly popped into his house to grab a slice of toast and kiss Lily goodbye before setting off to attend this emergency. He mulled it over in the car and decided this could be an opportunity to make a seriously good impression on the higher ups and maybe get that promotion he wanted. If he hadn’t of been thinking of this, if he hadn’t of been making sure he looked presentable in the wing mirror and if he had been looking at the road then maybe just maybe he’d have seen the seven-foot beast that was towering about an upturned car around the corner. But he didn’t see the shaggy giant and it didn’t see him. They collided at quite some speed which activated the airbags in David’s car obstructing his sight and hindering his escape from the vehicle, the thing smashing into the door of the upturned Toyota denting it beyond repair with its huge frame. Within seconds it was back on its goliath feet using its boney arms to support its dazed self. David still had no clue what was going on, but he finally got control of the air bag and it slowly deflated and banging pain in his head. He could just about open his eyes in time to see the creature launch itself with its power hind legs onto the bonnet smashing the windscreen as it did so. The rest was blur as David’s life flashed before his eyes, everything from his childhood, to meeting lily, to having the kids and finally his death. Impaled through the throat by this otherworldly thing claw. The whole thing was over in seconds and the beast retracted its claw just before George’s eyes glossed over. The last thing he ever saw was the huge dog like monster bounding off into the forest and then the darkness of death. Lily’s heart seemingly skipped a beat causing her to let go of the milk in her hand, spilling it all over the floor. “God dam it!” she exclaimed which led to her eldest son George to come to her aid. “What happened mum?” George asked a confused tone to his voice. “Nothing it just slipped out my hand that’s all. But it means someone needs to go to get some more. ADAM!” she called for her second oldest son Adam. He’s good natured boy but not but he wasn’t very intelligent and he was very dependent on other people even though he just recently turned twelve. He came rushing down the stairs and skidded to a halt just outside the kitchen. “Yeah Mum.” He said as he leant against the doorway eying the mess George was now on his hands and knees clearing with his Mum. “Go to my bag and fetch a fiver to go buy some milk,” She ordered him. “Seriously why can’t George do it?” He whined in response. “Can’t you see I’m busy donkey brains?” George quipped back. “George! You do not talk to your brother like that. And Adam just do me a favor and go the shop’s only round the corner it wont take you more than ten minutes” Lily said ending the conversation there. “Fine!” Adam huffed as he stormed off the get the money.


Cody had no sense of smell; he had no sense of taste either, but it's not fair to only talk about what he wasn't. He laughed and cried, the same as you and me. Cody was a human being, and he was just as pissed off about it as anyone else. He was different too, it's fair to say. When Cody was a baby a brick struck him in the face while playing near a construction site. They were building apartments, and his parents got a wad of money from the construction company as a way of saying sorry. He was permanently blessed with a dent in his head, a line across his forehead that made it look as if he was always pressing his face against a pane of unseen glass. My great grandfather had a dent in his head, a small round divot above his left eye. He got it in ``the war'', laying on the ground working on the engine of an American tank. Another soldier was sitting on top of the engine and dropped a big wrench straight in to his mellon. I don't think the military gave him any big wad of money or said sorry, but the event provided him with a fabulous story for the rest of his life. The other soldier, my great grandfather said, was a celebrity who was proudly serving but had no real business as a mechanic. I have no idea who this celebrity was, but my great grandfather lived to be 95 years old, and told this story with a grin until he lost his mind. Whether the ding in the head of my proavus really came from a celebrity or not, this was truly a great story. He would tell it to us loudly, waving his hand about, and we would laugh and smile. This story is my fondest memory of him. Cody was too young to remember the brick that had smacked him in the head. Even if he had been older, that brick probably would have still excused itself from his memory, politely bowing in to faint obscurity. That brick took his sense of smell, and taste, and left his incredible brain a jumbled mess. Sometimes Cody would be confused, but never angry. That was his blessed gift, to never be angry, and it served him well. We all cherish the stories of our scars, they are the physical record of our triumphs over death. At any good party someone will show off their old battle wounds, even if they were just the result of an errant golf ball. My great grandfather happily told the story of how the famous actor introduced himself with a wrench. Cody loved to spin his tale, even though he couldn't actually remember it. In his rendition the brick struck him at high noon, in a blistering summer heat, and his dear mother had to run 50 city blocks to the hospital while carrying the baby and the brick. The brick didn't stay lodged in his head after impact, Cody told us, but his mother brought it along anyway, ``just in case!'' Everyone laughed at that point in the story. And then Cody would remind us how lucky he was to survive that brick, and how good his life was as a result. You didn't feel sorry for Cody and his dented forehead. He was intelligent and funny, and just a little confused sometimes. People called him stupid, but he wasn't.


Hi there, this is a short story i wrote for a contest in university. Let me know if you like it! Where was I? I felt like I was in some sort of limbo. As I looked around, the clouds whooshed past in the sky but time felt still. I couldn’t feel the wind on my face, I couldn’t hear the birds sing. Everything just felt wrong. I walked along the road that I was on, scraping my feet as I usually did without seeing the dust rise. The fields that surrounded the road were void of any vegetation, they were just grey. Do you remember when you were younger, before colour televisions were a thing and every program was black and white? Well I felt like I was in one of those television programs. I walked along the road farther when I distinguished a human silhouette in the far off distance. Maybe this person could help me, tell me something about where I am. I quickened my pace, walking faster and faster, trying to catch up to this unknown person who was slowly treading off into the distance. As I got closer I managed to make out what he was wearing. From the back it looked like a black suit, and black shoes that had been properly cared for, shined morning and evening with shoe polish. He held a long dark cane in his left hand with his hand firmly clasped around the knob, and as I glanced at his hand I noticed a jeweled ring on his left index finger. I called out to him but to no avail, he wouldn’t turn around or even answer me. I was starting to feel uneasy. As I reached out to grab his shoulder, my hand suddenly froze. The man stopped and turned around slowly. He was wearing a white shirt, recently ironed and a jet black tie. His dark hair was sleeked back, in a sort of 70’s style and he looked to be about in his late 60’s, early seventies as he had quite a few wrinkles in his pale face. I didn’t know this man, but his presence felt strangely familiar. Before I could even open my mouth to talk, he interjected. \- “You must have a lot of questions, come on now, ask away. I don’t have all day you know.” Who was this person? Where was I? I had so many questions to ask, so many that I couldn’t even blurt them out. \- “Come on now, spit it out.” \- “Who-, Where-, What- ? Where am I?” \- “We don’t really have a name for it, it’s gone by so many different names over the years, I guess you could call it purgatory.” \- “Am I dead?” \- “Well yes and no, technically yes, but also technically no. We’re talking now, so how can you be dead?” \- “I guess, I didn’t really think of that…” The man stuck his hand in his hair and sleeked it back. I had so many questions to ask him, how would I ever have the time? \- “Would you like to play a game of scrabble?” asked the man. \- “A game of Scrabble? I guess, it’s been a while since I’ve played though.” \- “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.” \- “Do you mind if I ask you some questions during our game?” \- “Of course not, ask away.” As we sat down at the table and chairs beside us, the thought did pop into my head of asking where they came from, but I guess that wasn’t really one of the more important questions. \- “So, who are you?” I asked. \- “My name? Well, it depends really on who you ask. I’d have to say my favourite has always been Mors.” \- “Mors? I’ve never heard that name before.” \- “Yes, it is quite an old name. The ancient romans used to use it quite frequently. I do admire their culture.” \- “So where are you from?” His eyes squinted at me. \- “I don’t see why you seem so interested in me when we should really be talking about you shouldn’t we? What you should be asking is why am I here, and why are you here? \- “There’s only the two of us here though, if I don’t ask about you then I have to ask about me.” \- “Afraid of what you mind find if you start asking questions about yourself?” \- “”Why would I be afraid of asking questions about myself?” \- “I see your point. Here’s your tiles, let’s play.” I picked seven tiles from the black velvet bag that Mors held out for me, I was pretty lucky and on my first draw I got a blank tile. I really hadn’t played in a while, but the tiles seemed to spell out words right in front of my eyes. I could see the words right in front of me. Mors politely invited me to make the first move, and I obliged. I put down my tiles and spelt out the word SLICED. I tried to hide my smile whilst passing on the double word tile. \- “I guess that gives you 18 points.” \- “Are you still so sure that you’re going to win?” \- “Maybe not, but I’m sure we will see. This will be a fun game.” He shuffled his tiles in front of him, then picked them up one by one slowly in his hands. He places them down one by one and spelt out the word SUNDER. Unlucky, that only gives him 14 points. We both plunged out hands back into the bag to pick our next letters. \- “So why are you here then?” \- “I’m a traveler. I like taking a stroll along the long and windy path and helping lost people like you.” \- “And playing scrabble helps me how?” \- “Do you not find it comforting to play a game with a stranger? I thought you liked playing games with people?” Mors squinted a bit whilst looking at me, as if he was staring into my soul. He seemed to know me better than I even knew myself. I brushed off his last remark and continued with my questions. \- “So if I’m in purgatory, that means I’m dead. Is there any way I can get my life back? Be resuscitated or something?” \- “I’m not really the best person to ask for being brought back to life you know. You’d be better getting on your knees and praying to the big man upstairs.” \- “You mean God?” \- “Yes, but eventually even God will need help to choose the path he needs.” \- “God will die?’ \- “Everything dies one day you know.” \- “How is it that I’m all alone with you? Am I important? Are you here to kill me?” \- “You seem to have an inflated self of importance you know, the world does not revolve around you. I’m only here to help, as I said. Whether you’re important or not really doesn’t matter to me.” \- “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as rude.” \- “It’s okay. What do you say we raise the stakes a bit, hmm? What do you say to a little wager?” \- “Sure, it’s not like I have anything to lose anyway.” \- “If you win, I’ll help you go back to your life, back to when you were a child knowing what you know now and let you reflect on your life choices and make better decisions.” \- “Okay, and what about if you win?” Mors leaned in close to my face and I could feel his breath across my cheeks as he spoke. \- “Then you go where I tell you and let me help the next lost soul that wanders these barrens.” \- “Okay, it’s a deal.” And so the game had finally really begun. We played slowly, nearly overthinking each tile put onto the board. I had to win, I had the choice of a lifetime, to go back to when I was young and relive my life differently. My mind went back to when I was younger, back to when I was a child in school. I always used to like school when I was younger, which surprised my parents and a lot of my family. It used to be so much fun, running around in the playground, going to class and learning to read, write, and spell… I remember there was this kid in my class when I was around seven or eight years old, no one really liked him. Most people left him alone, apart from me. I used to torment him. I bullied him relentlessly, sticking his head in the toilet and flushing it, punching him. I don’t know why I did it, I mean, I’m sure there was a reason. No one liked him, it was funny, and everybody laughed. That doesn’t make me a bad person though. My daydreaming was interrupted by the clinking of scrabble pieces in front of me. \- “Daydreaming are we? Remembering the path that brought you here?” \- “Yes, I mean, I was just remembering when I was at school and how much fun I had.” \- “I wouldn’t really call that fun now, would you?” \- “Does that make me a bad person?” \- “That depends what you mean. A bad person could be anyone. If you squish a bug are you a bad person? If you murder someone are you a bad person? It all depends on the context. I can’t really tell you if you’re a bad person, I’m sure you’ll make that decision yourself.” \- “I mean, I had the choice of tormenting that kid. And I took it. Looking back it probably wasn’t the best thing to do.” \- “Well maybe if you win you can go back and live your life differently, hmm?” \- “Yeah, maybe….” \- “Here’s my second word, RAZOR.” That word, it stung. Why would the word razor hit me so hard? How did Mors seem to know so much about my life? Did he know all the bad things I did? Was he here to punish me? Why was my mind wandering so much? Different memories kept coming and fading, different choices I made in my life that changed me for better, or maybe for worse. Were my decisions what lead me to where I was now? Should I regret what I had done? I wasn’t that bad of a person. I didn’t mean to do a lot of things. My hands trembled in front of me and spelt out the word BLOOD. \- “Free will is a tricky thing, isn’t it? But if you believe in God, do you believe you have free will, or is it all part of His plan?” \- “Will me believing have any consequences on what happens after? \- “Well I can’t really spoil it for you now, can I? But if you don’t believe in Him, why would He believe in you?” \- “Are you always going to act so philosophical when answering my questions?” \- “Let’s talk about something else, I’m sure you have a lot of other things to ask” \- “Is this chance a one-time thing? What happens if I die again, do I get to play another game with you and go back again?” \- “You may come back here, you may not. If you’re here it means that they’re not sure of where you go.” \- “So this is my only chance to redeem myself then.” \- “I guess you could say that” My scrabble skills had started to fail me, my words were getting shorter and shorter, WRIST, CAR, BABY, and never double or triple points. Mors was starting to pull ahead. I couldn’t think properly, my mind keeps wandering all the time. I kept remembering things about my life. Why were these words coming out? Every single one of my words hit me like a truck. I felt like I had been run over. Why were these memories coming back to haunt me? Was I a bad person? I never meant to hurt anyone. How did I become this person? Was I born like this? If I actually manage to win this game, what will I change? How will I relive my life differently? \- “Time is ticking you know…” \- “I forfeit.” \- “You forfeit? Are you sure? Then you know what happens next.” \- “I can never go back. Do I get to go to heaven?” \- “Come on now, you know very well it doesn’t work like that for you. This game isn’t the only thing you forfeited is it? Hmm? You know what happens when you forfeit.” I looked down at my wrists and saw the scars. Tears welled in my eyes as I understood what Mors meant. I never had the choice. It was all a sick game. The words, the idle chit chat. It was punishment. My choice had already been made long ago. Whatever I did now would not change what I had done in my life. Everything I did, the people I tormented, the lives I ruined, I made those choices by myself. There was no one else to blame but me. I got up off my chair and started slowly walking. I didn’t deserve to go to the garden, I had already made my choice a long time ago, before I had even gotten here. I was a terrible person, I didn’t deserve to go up to the clouds with the others. I made my choices and even if I could go back, I wouldn’t change them. Deep down, I’m a fucked up person. I have to pay for my sins. “I can’t even count the times I’ve played this game with the newly deceased. I’ve played them from the beginning. Could you imagine? Me, letting them go back to their old life and reliving it? No. It always has and always will end the same way, we’ll play a few rounds and the questions will keep coming. Then the reasons will come apparent. People forget how vile they are. Every single one thought they had a chance to beat me, but their free will was just an illusion. The dice are already set in stone, the game has already finished. I always win.” And with that, Mors got up off his chair, picked up his cane and continued walking down the dusty road, looking for the next lost person, singing to himself.


The sound of a bottle breaking brings the party back into focus. I must have been daydreaming again. But is it even daydreaming if it's at night? God, I’m hopeless. "Sarah, go talk to a boy," my friend says. "What's the point." "So you can fall in loooove!" Cynthia means well, but she’s a romance addict. "I don't want to fall in love, Cynthia," I sigh. "C’mon. You can't fuck a bass, Sarah!" "Sure I can." Cynthia gives me a scary look. "Ughhh, you're hopeless!" she says and storms off into the mess of people crowded in the tight apartment. I giggle and sip my beer. It’s too easy to tick her off. But this party is kinda boring. Ughh, I’m getting tired of hearing 100 gecs. I wanna go home and listen to some Paul Chambers or something. I’ll smoke a spliff first though. I put my beer down on the small table I’m leaning on and make my way through the sea of sweaty animals to smoke out on the fire escape. I crawl through the window and breath in the crisp fall city air. I take out the spliff I rolled at home and light that bitch. It warms me up. I sit down and look at the cars below. “Sup.” A bit startled, I turn to my right. A boy is sitting at the end of the fire escape with his legs dangling off the side, smoking a cig. He’s tapping his left hand rhythmically. “Oh, hey.” Ughhh, curse you, Cynthia! I’m not gonna meet any boy tonight. “What are you smoking?” he asks. “A spliff.” “What’s in it?” “Blue American Spirit tobacco and Gorilla Glue.” “I always seem to end up with Gorilla Glue,” he sighs, “I can’t tell if it’s any good.” “It ain’t bad.” “Hmmm.” He takes a drag from his cig and plays with his long, black hair. His eyes have a bored look to them. “What are you smoking?” I ask. “Camel blues.” “Can I cop one?” “If you let me hit your spliff then sure,” he says. What am I doing right now! I should just go home and practice bass. My upright needs me. But instead, he hands me a camel blue and I trade my spliff. I smoke the camel blue and he starts humming the bass hook at the start of So What. “You like Kind of Blue?” I say. “Yeah,” his smiles, “I know it’s cliche but it’s what got me into jazz. I listened to that album a lot in my cringy middle school days. It’s forever stuck in my brain, ya know.” “Me too. Paul Chambers is so fucking great. That album is what led me to start playing upright.” “Jimmy Cobb is like that for me,” He says. His eyes brighten a little. I can’t help but smile. He’s so fucking cute. *Errrr!* I won’t fall in love. I won’t fall in love… “So, you play drums then I guess?” I ask. “Yeah.” Stop it, Sarah! STOP! “Hey, we should jam sometime!” he says. “Oh, yeah. That… that would be great!” I’m blushing. It’s all over. I’m in love with this boy.


Back in '08, me and my friend both got jobs as scrapers. We'd get a call, get an address, and drive on over there to scrape off whatever needed scraping. We'd be scraping off old stickers off of car windows, mucked on poop off of sidewalks, berry splatter off of siding... you name it, we scraped it. We learned quick that you can scrape off just about anything with a 3" metal scraper and a little hard work. Summer was going great and business was booming as we scraped our way across the tri-county area. Hell, we were making nearly $10 a scrape job which was pretty decent considering we could scrape up the plastered-on messes of ten to fifteen houses in an afternoon. Word started to get out about how well we scraped up and how quick we scraped out. Soon we started getting some calls for some scrape jobs way out of the tri-county area, but the guy offered $12 a scrape and promised there'd be at least 30 scrapes for us to scrape. It was like an hour and half drive and me and my buddy's scraping hands were itching for some quality scraping. The whole time I was driving, he was twirling his scraper with his gnarled, scrape-hardened fingers and just staring blankly ahead as our back-country road gave way to a single lane gravel path. I would have given up and turned around thinking we must have been going the wrong way, but then I saw an absolutely humongous farm house just scraping the horizon. My buddy gave me a scrape on the thigh, and I gunned it. We both had such huge smiles on our faces, our scraped white teeth glistening in the afternoon sun. We parked the car pretty much right at the front door since there's no real driveway and got a good look at the outside of this guy. Paint peeling everywhere, windows gunked to the frames with bird turd, moldies and oldies creeping in every crack and cranny. It was a scraper's wet dream! It was maybe even a scraper's wet daydream judging my how my buddy was acting. His eyes darted all over the exterior as his idly scraped what little hair he had left off of his forearm. It was hard not to imagine what kind of amazing scrapes needed scraping on the inside with how many scrape jobs we were eyeballing on the outside. I rang the doorbell with my scraper and the door swung open before the ding finished donging. No one was there, but we heard a voice upstairs tell us that the whole house needs a good scrape down. And he really emphasized the “whole” part. Money was no object, just scrape as much as we could scrape. So that's exactly what we did. Without hesitation, I'm on the ground scraping up the peeling linoleum tiles. My buddies on the walls scraping of the wall paper. These scrapes jobs were pretty stubborn, and we had to sharpen our scrapers more than a few times. Chips of tiles, flecks of paint, ribbons of wall papers, shreds of veneer, speckles of plaster and glue, nothing was safe from our scraping and we were so focused that we didn't realize twelve hours had passed and we were barely out of the foyer. We scraped and rescraped and overscraped and superscraped through the night until all we there was nothing but bare concrete foundation and drywall. The massive piles of scrapings covered the floor and as I shuffled through them like fallen leaves, I told my buddy that I'll be back with the vacuum. He nodded, but never looked up and never stopped scraping. Out in the cool breeze of another great summer night, I snapped out of my scrape frenzy and started to realize how weird it was that some guy we never saw just had us scrape up his whole first floor down to the bare bones without ever checking up on us or even really telling us what to scrape. We just went at it. I grabbed the vacuum and tried to tally the number of scrape jobs in my head. I licked my chops looking at everything that needed a good scraping outside. There was going to be a lot of cash coming our way. With my vacuum armed and ready, I plowed through the door hoping that my buddy had scraped everything into one central pile to make things easier for me, but instead he was nowhere to be found. Upstairs, I heard the very distinct sound of scraping and then giggling. Did this guy really think he could start scraping upstairs without me? I decided to let me have his fun while I vacuumed up. Over the speckly sound of the vacuum sucking up our pile of scrapings, I heard some louder giggling and some moaning. I turned off the vacuum to listen closer, but it stopped. As soon as I turned the vacuum back on, I heard the laughing and moaning again. I had to go upstairs and check it out. Scraping is fun and all, hell it was my life that summer, but I never once heard him be that jubilant when scraping. As I'm walking up the creaking stairs, I'm seeing a trail of scrapes along the way. It was nothing major, just a small scrape here, a peel back there, but it made for a trail leading into one of the rooms upstairs, the same room where the moaning was coming from. All the way upstairs now, the moaning and laughing and giggling was nonstop. What could my buddy have possibly been scraping that was so much fun? Finally, I get to the door and scrape it open with my scraper. Inside my buddy has his shirt scraped off and he's sitting on the back of some guy, maybe the owner of the house. The guy was the one moaning with pleasure. He was moaning and giggling because my buddy is scraping his back. Now, everyone loves a good back scraping, so I chalk it up to some sort of little extra side gig my buddy was lucky enough to secure, but then I see him scrape and pull a long ribbon of skin up and above his shoulder. The man moaned with delight, almost howling. Then I saw more back-long ribbons of skin on the floor in a bloody heap. My buddy doesn't even turn to look at me, he just digs his scraper in again as the man giggles with ticklish delight. I hear the skin loosen and peel like the rind of massive orange. I backed away slowly thinking that if I just leave them to it, we can collect our cash and leave without ever discussing this scrape job again. I wouldn't have even cared if he got a little extra skin scraper money on the side. That's when I noticed that the walls were covered in flesh ribbons like those, hanging and long since dried like thousands of old belts. From the corner of the room, I heard another giggle. It was a man or woman. I couldn't tell because this laughing person had no skin whatsoever. It had been scraped off and made part of the skin belt collection. The person gestured over to me and mimed a scraping motion along their back where it seemed fresh, but very thin skin had started to grow back. They looked so weak, so frail, so exposed. This person kept beckoning me and giggling while my buddy scraped off another ribbon of the moaning man's skin and tossed it wetly into the pile. I dropped my scraper and it scraped right into the blood-soaked floorboards. My buddy stopped scraping, the moaning man stopped moaning and the giggling person stopped giggling. They all looked at me like I was the weirdo, like I wasn't doing my job. My buddy wiped his sweaty brow with his blood drenched hand. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Looking down at the man's raw back and then back up to me, he said, "Well uhm, these guys are paying my $50 dollars a ribbon, so uhh..." He wiggled his scraper, "What do you think?" Out from the shadows of the back room, several more people with varying degrees of skin coverage shambled into the light coming from the hallway. They all just looked at me with wanting eyes. Hey, $50 is $50.


The canvas remains nestled on the easel. No image bestowed. No story to tell. Dust gathers around the square edges. The paints are all dry, nothing left of them to use. What used to be vibrant greens, yellows, oranges, and reds have turned to a dull cracked paste. Leroy hates this room; he hates it with every atom of his being. Why he hates it? He does not know. There are pieces of him he cannot access. Memories, stories, and his past have all fleeted him now. He is left to be consumed only by his raw emotions, never knowing their explanation. He hates this room, he hates the dried-up paints, and he especially hates the canvas. It mocks him with what it lacks, mirroring his own inadequacy. The emptiness is too unbearable to have to be reminded of it. Yet, as much as he hates this room, being within these four walls—he is drawn here. He feels it calling to him, and he always goes—miserably. It is in this room, the room he utterly despises, and cannot escape that he feels something else for the very first time. Hope. He hears the family before he even sees them. The sound of children laughing excites him, he moves to the window and sees them. A mother, with radiant red hair, carrying a small black cat close to her chest. A father with a taped-up cardboard box, wideset shoulders, and dark curly hair… and lastly, the children. A boy and a younger girl. They tussle over the key ring giggling, arguing about who will help unlock the front door. A front door that has remained locked since Leroy has been here. The older boy is gentle with his sister, he half plays to wrestle for the keys not trying to apply to much force to accidentally yank them out of his sister’s hands. He pretends to give his best effort, and in the end the young girl wins. She waits for her mother to join her on the front porch, to help her insert and turn the key. With a click, and a heavy creek the family enter and pass the threshold, unlocking their way into Leroy’s home. The mother’s hair is ties back on the nape of her neck. She is kneeling in front of the flower bed, disrupting the soil, and carefully placing each tiny flower in place. She gathers the dirt and forms a tiny mound, packing it atop the roots. Solidifying the stem in place. As she pushes down a glimpse of silver is seen swaying around her neck, a small red pendant at the end. Amelia , Leroy thinks as electricity flows through him. Amelia, where are you? Where did you go? The sensation is overpowering, and Leroy can no longer bare to look at the woman who mockingly plants her flowers the same colors his beloved paints used to be. One thing becomes certain for Leroy, he needs to find her—and quickly. The fire warms the room as her face reflects the light bouncing from the flames. “Tilt your head towards me…good now tuck your chin down just so slightly,” Leroy instructs her. She does exactly as he says, shooting him a flirtatious glance with her eyes. The way she looks at him he will never take for granted, and after tonight, Leroy will have captured her on this canvas forever. “How much longer must I sit for you? So much work and no play?” Amelia chirps at him. He has the shade of her skin down perfectly on the canvas, he added depth and highlights to make her features look as if she were not a basic portrait, but the radiance of beauty that sits before him now. Her eyes are the last thing he needs to perfect, they are so exquisite it will be hard to match their complexity on the canvas. “Your eyes dear, they are a gift from God. My gift cannot carry them the way they deserve, though I will try. A little bit longer, and then we can play.” He smirks back at her. She playfully rolls her eyes and sighs. Leroy’s attention is drawn to the light catching on her silver necklace, a locket that has remained in its place since Leroy presented it to her last month. A promise for more to come. A promise for an escape. The father has been going through Leroy’s room today while the cat sits in the doorway eyes locked onto Leroy. Leroy hides in the corner, not to disturb him or cause a scene, the glaring cat unnerves him. The cat knows he’s there. Leroy watches as the father picks through the dusty books on the shelf, inspects the old fireplace for birds’ nest, and contemplates what to do with the remaining art materials. The father scratches his head inspecting the paints and the canvases, Leroy longs for him to get rid of them, to throw them into the empty box he has brought with him. Urges him with is mind to dismantle the last blank canvas leaving Leroy to enjoy this room more peacefully without it. Instead, the father seems interested in the debacle. He inspects the canvas, its material worn thin. He lightly picks it up from its resting place on the easel and turns it over. His thumb runs along the dusty edge, he can tell this was hand crafted. The canvas pulled taught along the wooden edges. The father stops, his thumb rubs the small wooden corner of the canvas, a burned inscription remains. The father speaks the name aloud: Leroy Chambers. The meadow was brighter that day, thanks to the unforgiving sunlight and clear skies. Amelia lay on a blanket in the grass, Leroy prompt up on this elbow alongside her. Their hands reaching for each other, their fingertips dancing together. Leroy grabbed her left hand, and gently slipped on a small golden band, his mother’s before, Amelia’s now. He could feel Amelia’s entire body stop, for just the slightest second. Her eyes met his, and then looked down at the band upon her ring finger. A testament of love, a promise and commitment for the rest of their days. Marriage, holy matrimony, till death do they part. “Yes, I love you Leroy Chambers,” she whispers, reaching up from her spot to kiss him. A kiss of wanting and need, he was going to save her. He just promised her that. A glass breaks in the kitchen, the little girl begins to cry. The mother is soothing, the father shouting. The mother now shouts at the father. The children’s feet start pattering up the staircase. Quickly, swiftly. The door slams and Leroy turns to see the children, red faced and winded. The boy looks around, panicked. He rushes his sister to hide in the corner, the door behind them creeks open. The mother enters, cooing and shushing. The children run to her; they jump into her arms. They kiss her face, they haven’t noticed it yet, but Leroy has. He’s seen that mark before. A kiss that bites deeper. Amelia’s face is burdened with her truth. She attempted to hide it from Leroy, but he knew the second he laid eyes on her. The soft bruise that has kissed her left eye, the purple color brightening the deep green of her iris. Leroy sweeps a stand of her hair that has fallen in front of her face, and places it delicately behind her ear. He takes her face in his hands, lightly, not to startle her. “We leave tonight,” He insists. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t have to. She nods.            After dusk, they pack little belongings and make their way out of the house and through the garden. He is finally able to promise Amelia what he has been promising all along, a life free from her abuser. Her husband and Leroy’s employer. A man of many respects of fine wine and artwork but lacks that affection towards his beloved wife. A man that does not deserve Amelia, a man that Leroy has fantasized killing on more than one occasion but is satisfied in making Amelia safe. In making her happy. Tonight, it will all set in motion. He will set it right for her.            They make it to the garden gate before they hear the dogs barking, they hear the shouting.            “Run!” She urges him, and together they run past the gate and into the meadow. They run as hard as they are able. Until the groundskeeper blocks their path. It isn’t long until they are cornered. Guns risen. Pleads shouted. Triggers pulled. Dead weight hitting the ground. Leroy’s face turns towards Amelia’s, she lay there lifeless mirroring him. Her eyes, so exquisite but lifeless, fixated onto him.            Leroy finds the urge to paint today, he didn’t even know he had these urges left in him. The paints are cracked, the canvas dusty but he does what he can. He swishes and swirls, he mixes and molds. The radiant red hair comes to life, but the eyes, the eyes don’t belong to the mother, their Amelia’s. When the portrait is finished, what is left to stare back at him is the face of defiance. The face of love, compassion, and courage. The face of a mother, seeking asylum for herself and her children from their father. The father ironically enters the room after Leroy has finished his new prized piece. He stops when he sees the canvas full of life now. He’s confused. Skeptical. He approaches the piece, and Leroy can sense his fear. He is afraid of this woman in the portrait, not because he is afraid of his wife, but because this woman would leave him. She would forget him in a fortnight. He knows she has this power, he has done everything to subdue this in her, to harvest this force from her. There’s a shift movement behind the father, a chill that breaks both his and Leroy’s attention. They are not alone here, there is another force present. That force makes their presence known, it grabs the father through the chest and strangles his heart. His eyes pulse with fear, confusion, and then utter agony, until his body goes limp and there’s a crashing of dead weight falling to the floor. The force makes their way to Leroy now, he is not afraid. He is open and willing, beckoning his fate. Formless, it slides its way to him, unfolding and revealing their identity. Leroy’s world stops. Amelia , he breathes.


“Hey dad, what’s up?” “I wanted to talk about your sister.” He was speaking fast, and I could almost smell the alcohol on his breath through the phone-line. “Oh, okay. What’s happened?” A dozen different scenarios raced through my head, but he sounded angry not upset. She’d done something, not had something happen to her. “Stop telling her to get a blood test. Her baby will be fine.” “But- isn’t it worth checking? If she’s a carrier for sickle cell-” “She isn’t. Your mother wasn’t a carrier, and neither am I.” All I could hear was the static of the line. “But… then how could I have been a carrier?” All the tests, all the checks, all the worry I'd had when I first fell pregnant came rushing back at that moment, followed by a void. It had to have come from somewhere. “What… what do you mean dad?” “Your father was the carrier. Not me. I- Goodbye.” All I was left with was the bleep of him hanging up and my world crumbling around me. The rest of that day passed in a haze. I went through the motions and did everything that was required, but I couldn’t think straight. Every time I stopped my thoughts drifted to the conversation, to the few minutes that utterly destroyed my life. My phone rang more than once from my sister, but I refused to answer it. What would I say? What was there to say? It was two days later before I was starting to process what had happened. I’d dropped Jacob off at nursery and had a few hours to kill. The plan had been to find a coffee shop, somewhere neutral where I could gather my thoughts. Before I knew it though my feet had brought me to the graveyard, and I was stood in front of Mum’s gravestone. “Hey Mum.” For a time I just stood there, breathing in the cool air, wishing it could blow everything away. Reading the dates on Mum’s headstone I couldn’t help but remember her wedding anniversary to Dad- no. Not Dad. To David. They’d celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary just before she’d died four years ago. I’d only turned thirty last year. “What happened Mum? Why… why am I here?” For my whole life Mum had been my touchstone, the person I’d most aspired to be like. She’d always been so strong and so fiercely independent, even while the cancer tore through her body. And now… “Why didn’t you tell me?” That was what haunted me the most. Mum had known she was dying, and she still hadn’t confessed. Was that when she’d confessed to Dad- to David? I racked my brain trying to remember how he’d acted throughout her illness, but he’d never been anything but supportive of me. He’d never had a favourite, he’d never shown any preference between me and Sara. If he’d taken one of us out for our birthday, he was always sure to make sure the other one got the same treatment on her birthday. And yet… The tone of his voice during that conversation still haunted me. It was so cold, so heartless. He was a good man, who I’d only ever seen getting angry, properly swearing-whenever-they’re-mentioned kind of angry, at two people in my whole life. He’d always gone above and beyond to help his friends, and got annoyed when people quoted the Bible at him while he did so. “We should help me because we’re kind, not because we’re scared of judgement,” he’d say. But he'd judged me. That was what his voice held that day; judgement. I hadn’t known that a crime had been done, and yet my very existence was a grievous sin against him that he blamed me for. I didn’t know what I was expecting to happen at Mum’s grave. Understanding ideally, acceptance perhaps, forgiveness maybe, though what for I couldn’t be sure. What I wasn’t expecting was for my fath- for David to turn up. “Oh,” he said when he saw me. “Hi. What are you doing?” He gestured at the grave with the bunch of flowers he was carrying. “I’ve been up here every day since… since that call.” I’d been too distracted to even notice the fresh flowers on her grave, and that sent a pang of guilt through me. What else had I neglected these past few days? There was an awkward silence between us for a while, until at last he asked if he could join me. “I should be going now anyway. I need to get Jacob from nursery.” I started to walk away, keeping my eyes down as I did. “Stay a while?” he asked when I was a few rows away. “Please?” As I looked at the man stood before my mother’s grave, it wasn’t the man who’d raised me. It was the man who’d stood there four years ago grieving the loss of the woman he loved. It was the man who’d never quite been the same since, no matter how brave a face he put on for his family. How could I say no to him? Side by side we stood, each of us lost in our own thoughts, both wishing a sign or some fresh words of wisdom would appear on the headstone. All it said though was ‘A mother and a wife, much loved by everyone, now safe with our Lord’. Nothing pertinent to the dilemma she’d left us in. “How-” David started, though he had to cough and swallow a few times before he could finish. “How’ve you been?” “I don’t know. I… I thought I knew her. I didn’t think she’d do something like to me. To us. I didn’t think she’d have let it gone unsaid either.” “She thought about telling you. At the end, when she knew her time was coming.” “So you did know? Before then?” “I’ve always know. Since before you were born.” “But-” That made both of them liars. They’d raised me and Sara as sisters, yet we were nothing but half-sisters. Half-sisters? Does that really change anything? “She told me not long after it happened. It was rough, I’m not going to lie about that. But I loved her, and she loved me. She made her peace with God, and together we got through it.” “And you kept me? Treated me as your own?” I watched his profile as he thought, and for the first time I noticed how deep the lines were around his eyes. “I thought it would be different with Sara. That I’d feel something more for her, some deeper connection with her. But do you know what? It wasn’t. I felt the same affection for both of you, even though I knew you weren’t my flesh and blood. You weren’t my child, but you were my daughter.” After so many days of loneliness that was too much. Before I knew what was happening I was in torrents of tears, bawling more than I had the day of funeral. But he was there, hugging me close as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry,” he said when the worst of my tears were over. “I’d forgiven her all those years ago, but having it brought up again… it gave me a fresh chance to be angry at you. But that wasn’t fair. You have nothing to be forgiven for.” The words I’m sorry died on my lips. Mum wouldn’t have wanted that. You don’t apologise if you’re not sorry, and I had nothing to be sorry for. “I really should go and get Jacob now,” I said when I at last pulled free of him, laughing as I wiped the tears away. “Come on then. I’ll come with you.” With a last nod to Mum we headed out. I could tell he wanted to say something, but I let David- Dad- get to it in his own time. “Do you want to find him? Your real father?” “No. You’re my real father.” I hoped that my grin hide the nervous excitement in my stomach. Despite what I’d said, I still found myself pulling out Mum’s old journals that night. She’d been careful about keeping records of her life, documenting major events and family struggles. I’d flicked past my wedding and Sara’s graduation, back to our high school days. Each page I turned made my fingers shake a little more, yet I was drawn on by something irresistible. It was like seeing the jaws of a shark, but needing to see how far back the teeth went. That journal started with Sara’s birth, so I dug out the older one and for a moment just held it in my hands. My mother had never gotten around to telling me herself; the words in this book were the closest I would ever get to knowing why she’d betrayed her husband and hidden the truth from me. The closest I’d get to knowing how much she regretted me. Before I knew it the book was open. The pages had been worn thin and were soft with age. Words in her careful cursive script flicked by, the odd one jumping out at me. Home. Born. Love. Forgive. Hurt. I couldn’t separate a single page any more, my fingers too uncoordinated to do anything other than fumble the book. With a shuddering breath I slammed the book shut and rested my forehead against. No. I couldn’t do this, not yet. The pain was still too fresh, too raw. And the fact I could talk to Dad about it, but not Mum? What if it changed how I saw him? I didn’t think I could bear that. There was one thing I needed to know though, and I was afraid it would break David's heart if I asked him. I just hoped that I wouldn’t learn too much else at the same time. The page I wanted was easy to find. It was the one stained with tears, the edges still crinkled after all these years. The writing here was faded even worse than in the rest of the diary, which was both a help and a hindrance. My eyes skimmed across the words as I tried to keep my mind blank to the pain that was conveyed on the page. Somewhere here there had to be- Andrew Tucker. I stared at the name to ingrain it into my mind then shut the book firmly and packed it away again. All I’d wanted was his name, but now I knew it I didn’t feel any urge to pursue it further. Could he be a better father than David had been? Maybe, but it was far too late in all our lives to find out. Knowing him now wouldn’t change the past I’d had, but it could damage my future. All I’d needed was the knowledge that I could look him up if I ever wanted to. While she’d taken the affair to the grave, she hadn’t taken his name with her as well.


“What do you mean, you dared Barrie to go in the South Woods?” I was trying to keep my anger out of my voice. The little boy in front of me was digging his foot into the dirt. “Tell me what happened. Right now, Burton!” “I didn’t think he’d actually do it.” Burton’s grey eyes were wide. “He was bragging about how brave his is and how he could do anything! He was calling me a scardy cat because I wouldn’t go climb trees with him! So, I told him that he still wasn’t brave enough to go into the South Woods!” I sighed, “And so my headstrong little brother ran into the woods?” Barton nodded, tears rolling down his face, “Don’t be angry, Lexine! Don’t tell my mama!” "That depends on if Barrie is hurt." I told him "Now get out of here!" and he ran off, tears still running down his cheeks. What to do, what to do? I can't go to the elders. There are horrible consequences for going into the South Forest. A couple of years ago, a few kids had snuck into the Woods. The survivor that made it out was forbidden from ever marrying or having children. Should I tell our parents? No, Father would go straight to the elders out of fear. He wouldn't care about the fines. He would only want the help of the Warriors in retrieving his only son. There was only one thing to do. It was obvious that it was up to me to go in after him. Bloody hell. I am going to beat some sense into that boy once I get my hands on him. I would need a weapon, without thinking it over more, I ran to the blacksmith’s smithy. "Zachery!" I called out as I approached, "I need a weapon!" The blacksmith's apprentice, Zachery looked at me wide eyed "But...but 'Lex Why? I can get in major trouble for giving you one!" “It’s Barrie, he has gone into the South Woods! I need to go in and get him! Just a knife, please! I am begging you!" Zachery paused and then nodded "I can only give you a knife." He said as he pulled out a small dagger, studded with blue gems. "This was one of my projects. I can't promise it will last very long but it will be good for a good blow or two," I gave him a bear hug and then ran off without another word.

Well at last I was armed now. What was Barrie thinking going into the South Woods? Damn, that boy. Shortly enough I was at the border of the village and the South Woods. I paused there, pacing back and forth. The fear was running through me. How many stories have I been told of these woods? The monsters? Can I really go in there and find my pesky little brother?

I took a deep breath. I needed to do this, I dove into the forest before I could think any more about the danger or anything else. I started through the wood, the first few feet were a tangled mess of branches and briars. Looking for signs of Barrie's passing through the underbrush, I started down a path that was twisty and lined with giant mushrooms. The mushrooms were huge, almost reaching my waist.

It was getting dark, as I went down the path. I was praying I would find Barrie before it got too dark to see. The sun was low on the horizon when I finally found fresh signs that Barrie had passed through. It looked like he had been running, there were broken branches and smooshed mushrooms showing his frantic run down the path. Something must have spooked him. “Barrie!” I called, but, the overgrowth was so thick my voice barely carried. Before I could try calling again there was a massive roar from behind me. I spun around, behind me hidden in the dark forest was a shadow, easily two or three times my size. A scream froze in my throat, and I took off in the other direction of the giant shadow. The ground was shaking as the shadow followed me in my panicked run. The path twisted around a large tree, and up ahead there was rock wall. I desperately scanned the wall, hoping against hope that there was some escape. Under one of the boulders, I saw a small dark cave. I had no time to think about it, whatever was in that cave could not be as bad as whatever was shaking the ground behind me. The cave entrance was very tight, I had to get down on my hands and knees to squeeze into the dark. The rocks were tearing at my clothes as I passed. Once I was clear of the entrance, I entered into a cramped cave. In one of the corners of the cave, I saw a small bundle. Muffled sobs were coming from it. With my heart in my throat, I called out “Barrie?” Before I could even react, the bundle was up and rocketing into me. Barrie’s blonde hair was a mess and his face was dirty. He wrapped his arms around me and shoved his face into my shoulder. I pulled him close and let him cry, trying to comfort him. After a little while, he pulled himself away from me. “I am sorry ‘Lex. Don’t be mad at me, don’t tell mama.” His blue eyes were large, and his tears had cleaned streaks down his dirty cheeks. I smiled down at him, relived he was ok. “There is no reason to tell, you are ok.” There was another roar from outside, shaking the cave. Some rocks fell from the ceiling, I leaned over Barrie to protect him from the falling stones. Barrie started to cry again.

How many times had we been warned to stay out of the South Woods? By how many people? Why didn’t we listen? Maybe I should have told the elders? What could I do? I don’t even have any idea how to use the knife I borrowed. How could I bring myself and my little brother back to the village safely? Barrie was shaking in my arms, with every noise of the forest he let out a whimper. “‘Lex, is the monster coming back?” His little voice was shaking. I pulled him closer, “I don’t know.” I was trying and failing to keep my own fear out of my voice. What the monster was, let alone find a weak point to take it down with my puny knife. It was way too dark to tell anything about it. Staying still in the cave seemed like the only possible option at this point. It was almost pitch black in the cave by the time the noises from outside the cave started to fade. I crept to the opening of the cave and listened closely. The moon was full, thank god, it gave us some light to see by. Other than the faint noises from the nighttime insects, everything was quiet. I took a deep breath and made a decision. “Barrie, we are going home.” He backed up shaking his head, “The monster is out there!” I pulled the knife from my pocket, the moon light shined off the blue jewels. “I will keep us save. I just need you to be your brave self.” He sniffled “I am not brave. I thought I was. But I’m not.” I knelt in front of him, “True bravery is doing something even though you are scared. You must have been scared to come into the South Woods, but you did it. I just need you to be brave a little longer.” He nodded, rubbing his tears away. “I will try ‘Lex.” I hugged him tight and turned to the entrance. I squeezed myself back out of the cave and listened again. I still heard nothing. “Come on, Barrie.” I whispered back into the cave. He came out of the cave, the moon light showing the terrified look on his face. I grabbed his hand and clutched my knife in the other. We slowly made our way down to the path, the dark was making it hard to keep up a quick pace. We both kept tripping over roots and loose rocks. When we got back to the mushroom lined path, to my amazement, the giant mushrooms were starting to have a bright blue light coming from them. The glow was illuminating the path, and making our travel so much easier. In the blue glow, we hurried along. We were so close to the edge of the forest when the ground started shaking again. I could hear a loud growl, coming from behind the mushrooms. The blue light was glinting off a pair of large eyes that were deep in the wood. The monster let loose a massive roar and Barrie screamed, and pulled away from me, in an attempt to dart into the forest on the other side. Suddenly, the mushroom’s glowing light grew, I could see the eyes retreating further from the path, as the glow spread.  Then a small green glowing creature came out of the nearest mushroom. “Stay calm children.” It said. Barrie hid behind me, scared. He let out another small whimper. “The creature will not dare enter my path in the night.” It continued. “Stay in my light and all will be well.” “Who…who are you?” I stammered It chuckled “I am many things. Most call me the Spirit of the Forest. Now go, the creature is cunning and there is a gap between my forest path and the edge of the woods. Now hurry!” Barrie and I fled down the way. Before I knew it, we were at the end of the mushroom path. The green glowing creature was still right beside us. “Hurry, children.” It said. “The creature is coming.” I had no clue how to thank the spirit, so I just picked up Barrie and ran. I could feel the change in the air as I left the path. The air felt evil. Another terrifying howl shook the woods. It was right behind us. I ran faster, hoping to get to the edge of the forest. I felt something swipe by my leg. An agonizing flash of pain through me, I stumbled and dropped Barrie. I could see the forest edge. “Run!” I screamed at Barrie, “Just run!” He backed up with a uncertain look on his face, but finally turned and ran out of the woods. Relived that my brother was safe, I dragged myself up against a tree and drew my knife. The moon glinted off the blue stones. I sat there, breathing hard, listening for the creature. My leg was in agony, it would give out before I could excape. This is it, I am going to die here. Suddenly, Barrie was back at my side. “Lean on me, sister.” He whimpered, putting my arm over his shoulder. “We both need to be brave now. I can’t leave you.” He wasn’t going to give me a choice here. I was leaning on him heavily as we made our way out of the wood. I could hear the creature breathing, but for some reason, it was not approaching. It felt like forever, but soon we were out of the forest. Barrie set me down on the village side of the fence. We sat there, breathing hard, when the green glow appeared again. “Good job children.” It said. “Little boy, your bravery saved your sister and kept the creature at bay. It feeds on, and is attracted to fear. While bravery chases it away.” I gave Barrie a hug. “See, I told you that you were brave.” He gave me a small smile. The creature glowed, and the pain in my leg faded. “I have healed your wounds.” It continued. “Please do not come back to these woods. The here danger is all too real.” We both nodded, “Thank you, Spirit of the Wood.” I said gravely. The spirit faded, without responding.

I stood up and took Barrie’s hand “Let’s go home.” He looked up at me, “What are we going to tell mama and father, as to why we are out so late?” After what we had been through, that was a fear, I could totally manage.                                    THE END


The sea is something to admire from a distance so they tell us. I watch from a fence on a hill about 50 feet away. Images surround me of what lies below. Creatures that can breathe underwater and die on land. Sounds more like aliens than something we eat. The sun shimmers across it, guards standing around. Nobody really knows the origin of the job to protect the ocean. Nobody really questions it. One day I find a guard just off from his position. A hole in the fence. The cameras will catch me but I have enough time to run and see for myself the creatures alive that lay underneath and not just cooked beyond recognition. I take speed and alarms go off around me. A few gunshots go off, whether they were warning shots I don't know the sirens drown out anything around me. I get closer and closer as the guards gain on me. Until finally.. I look into the depths of an empty blue void. I lean down and touch the surface. It electrocutes me. My hand spasms back in shock as the guards grab me and inject me with something that makes me fall asleep. I wake up in a cell surrounded by other prisoners. The institution is not a normal holding cell, more of a place to keep secrets by the "higher" ones. I realise I won't be leaving this place. Whatever food they claim to serve us from the deep below isn't what they claim. The fact a whole society believes something can live underwater is baffling enough, but to think not everyone questions it is somehow worse. The food is probably to control us or keep us relaxed enough not to check it out. Some of us are immune. Tests will go on here to find something that can affect us just as well as the ones who aren't immune. Log entry #3 out... Not that anyone will get this.. At least number 1 and 2 should.


[Contains sensitive description] They’d blindfolded me, tied a silk scarf over my eyes and promised to return.

I was left alone in nothing but darkness, nothing but the black shadows of an unknown whereabouts. And, after the first few days, I had felt strong. I knew I could continue. A resilience had grown in me – a deep resilience which relied on nothing. Without my visual awareness, I had mostly lost the use of my hands and legs, too. But I’d kept the blindfold on voluntarily, veering up against the darkness and trying to claim it as my own.

By the second week, the weariness had begun to creep in.

A day arrived when, screaming into the void, I had grappled with the scarf and tore it from my head. It grazed behind my ears, taking up skin, but I was free. I examined the house around me, found that its windows were boarded-up and its doors locked tight. I flicked the light switches and saw that there was no electricity, no light. It was just me, a box full of non-perishable food and absolute silence. Nevertheless, with my eyes free, I laughed, I sang, I jogged. I bounded around the house, finally able to move without tripping up. Everything was still shadows, but I’d become a cat: nocturnal and able to navigate in the absence of light. I didn’t know if it were AM or PM because my circadian rhythm had now centralised on constant darkness.

That’s when the madness began to fester. I knew that there were animals with no eyes, evolved over millions of years to suit the dark tunnels and night skies that they call home, but I was no animal.

At least, not at first. The third week was marked by a childish giggling.

I’d shut down all the neurological pathways that had been constructed in my experience of adulthood – those of responsibly and morality, moulded and polished by the norms of life in the light. I began to piss wherever I wanted around the house instead of using the toilet and twitched whenever I felt a dust mote get too close. The hours no longer moved in cycles of twenty-four; rather, my days and nights had become marked by two-hour intervals of waking and napping. Even with free eyes, my sight diminished until eventually I was looking at the house through a very small, black ring. I lost my ability to smell, and then to taste. The dried seaweed in the box was the only thing that had any substance to it, even though usually I detested seafood. Everything else turned to bland mush in my cheeks. Week four was the worst.

My tongue felt like bark because I’d chewed on it too much and, in my mind, fantastic shapes and colours formed to entertain me: large, wafting shapes like the shadows of whales in water, only kaleidoscopic and insane. I spent hours at a time sitting and watching them float by, biting at my throbbing tongue and peeling the wood off the floor.

I was kind of happy.

There was a moment – maybe a few – when I was so enthralled, I pissed myself then and there, no longer able to remove myself from the lightshow that was going on inside my head.

Physically, I was in pain.

Piercing migraines bore through me like giant drills carving into a mountain of granite. I no longer wanted to move and so the blood had gone cold and stiff in my extremities, my bones ached and my muscles had become locked, rigid. I ground my teeth so hard they turned to chalky stumps in my mouth, exposing nerves which shocked me like lightning bolts. I didn’t recognise my own voice when I started screaming; I just heard the wailing going on and on like a siren. After a while, I wondered if I was in a war, if the house was going to be bombed. Eventually, I fell quiet.

Then I noticed the sound of my own sobs, but it wasn’t my voice. It was the voice of a tiny man at the end of time who wore a little trilby hat and played the piano. He was a 2D cartoon, drawn in black and white, but as he smiled at me, I felt how visceral and alive he really was, surrounded by the swirling redness of my mother’s womb. On the last day, a key turned in the door. As the cogs clicked and changed inside the lock, my mind envisioned a full cycle of the moon as if using an ancient method to assess time. I squirmed like an animal feeling the call of migration shaking through its bones.

It had been a month.

The test was over. I stood up, my wobbling knees, numb beneath me, sending me straight back onto the floor. I tried again, managing to anchor myself to the wall. I heard voices, but I didn’t speak English anymore. “Adam, how you doing?” A man appeared and I could see in the dullness that he was looking at me with sympathy. I let out a strange sound, something animal-like or monster-like. As two other men filtered in, the first man sighed in sorrow. “It’ll be over in a moment. Well done.” I heard shuffling behind me and slowly turned to see what the other men were doing. “It’s five o’clock, Adam. Sunrise. You ready?”

I let out the sound again and held myself against the wall, facing them. I saw a crowbar raise above one of the men’s heads. “Do it.” There were a few moments, then, that turned in on themselves.

Like a liquid universe being flipped in a pan, those moments washed through me with both an overwhelming sense of ordinariness and a suffocating absurdity. I watched the black figures of those men smash the walls of my new reality to pieces, and I did not want to do anything about it. I neither possessed the sense of justice and righteousness of a man, nor the instinctual dash of survival that defines an animal.

I simply looked at them. The men pulled the boards off the window. Sunlight poured in from outside, splitting my head in half as it entered my grossly-enlarged pupils. Its rays set my soul on fire and burned everything I’d ever known right out of my brain, scorching my nervous system and cleansing me new. I didn’t scream, although the pain was beyond words.

I didn’t look away. This is what I was here for. This is what I needed to know. I witnessed the birth and death of the universe a billion times over in the seconds that ticked by in that cataclysmic sunlight. I felt an iron grip secure my mouth shut, probably to stop the screams that I couldn’t hear, as I disappeared into the blinding whiteness of god, like a drop disappearing into the ocean and like an emerging germ saying goodbye to its seed. “Thank you” I said at last, in English, to the men who held me up. They smiled like angels. This was an ancient initiation rite of the Illuminati, designed to bring on an intense, psychedelic experience with nothing but the use of nature and determination.

I had passed the test. I had conquered life. I had moved into the sublime.


“Good job, Katy! One gold star for you. You can use it to get something in the Learning and Motivation store.” Dr. Biff Skinner, my psychology professor. He’s pretty funny and makes the class experience enjoyable, even when the material is boring and dry. He’s one of my favorite professors, but he’s the only one that I want to fuck. And I have a plan. I went to his office later that day. His door was open and he was on his computer. I stood and watched him for a few seconds before I knocked. He looked up, smiled, and welcomed me in. I walked in and shut the door behind me. He looked a little surprised that the door was shut, but didn’t say anything about it. “What can I do for you, Katy?” Dr. Skinner said. “I’d like to redeem my gold star, Dr. Skinner.” I said with a grin. “Let me guess, you want an ‘A’ on your next exam?” he replied jokingly. With as much courage as I could muster, I replied, “No. What I want is for you to bend me over your desk and fuck me from behind.” He seemed a bit startled, but quickly recovered and said with a devious smile on his face, “Well now, you’ll need more than one gold star in order to get that.” “And just what would I have to do to earn enough gold stars?” He stood up from behind his desk, looked me in the eyes, and unzipped his pants. “This would be a start.” I walked over to him, got down on my knees, and took his cock out of his pants. I started licking up, down, and all around his cock and balls, allowing the tip to go in my mouth every few licks. When his cock was covered in my saliva, I slid him all the way into my mouth, letting my tongue play with the underside of his cock as he was thrusting in and out. My hands went to his balls, massaging them and rubbing his taint while he was thrusting and moaning. His hands were bunched in my hair, guiding his cock into my mouth. He was moaning that he was cumming, so I sucked harder. He shot his load into my mouth and it slid down my throat. I swallowed it all, stood up, wiped my mouth, and asked him with a wink, “Did that earn me enough gold stars?” “Oh God, did it ever!” He replied breathlessly. He pushed me over his desk, pulling my shirt off in the process. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so I was naked from the waist up. He pulled my panties down in one fell swoop, pushed my skirt up, and thrust into me hard. I moaned so loud I was sure someone would hear me. He thrust into me harder, holding my waist to keep me steady. It only took five more thrusts and I was gone. I came so hard that I shivered. He came again seconds later. I lay breathing hard on his desk for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath. When I got up, he looked at me and whispered with a smile on his face, “Good job. One gold star.” I put my shirt back on, pulled my skirt down, leaving my panties on the floor of his office as a little remembrance for him. I winked at him, opened his office door, and walked out with his cum running down my legs. As I passed the student aid, she openly stared at me, so I knew that she had heard at least part of what happened in there. I put my finger up to my mouth to tell her to keep quiet and walked out of the building. I can’t wait to earn some more gold stars.