I run over to my bathroom sink and make it just in time to aim the drops of blood from my nose into it. I feel electric, like every atom of my body is lit up and every hair is raised on high alert. I'm not surprised I have a bloody nose. I am more concerned with not getting blood on any of the carpets. I did push him; I really should have shut my mouth. I know him well enough now that my intuition gives me a massive nudge when to stop, but sometimes I can't. Why should I get up to a car with no fuel in it? With a toddler in tow. God forbid, I demanded he gets up and put some fuel in from his boat with the jerry can. I needed to get to the library for Baby Bounce and nothing was going to stop me from socializing Chrissy with other kids. But it seems that now it has. I'm not surprised by the punch to the nose as this is not new, but I felt confident I could persuade him today. I have the bathroom door shut and I can hear him shouting and swearing. "Well, what do you expect? Huh? You know I hate being woken up suddenly like that!" Oh geez, I would have no idea about that, would I? Crying in the shower due to lack of sleep, getting up 3-4 times a night for Chrissy. Oh Your Highness, how dare I wake you up! "I'm sorry, it's just that I wanted to go to Baby Bounce at the library," I say. I manage to keep my voice subtle, and mild. "Why the hell is it on so early?" He is slightly out of breath, from the adrenaline rush no doubt. Sometimes he says the most moronic things. It's not early. It's 9:30 am. It's the time that the majority of decent, contributing members of society are up, some of which have punched in a few hours of work already. "I'm not sure but Chrissy loves it." I stare at the bathroom mirror. My eyes are watering. It's not from tears but from the force of the impact. My nose is still bleeding, but I know once I clean it up, it will look fine. I don't like looking at myself for too long. He sighs, "Give me a minute to bloody wake up. I'll make a coffee then put some fuel in the car." I like the fact that I can't see his face right now and that he can't see me because I am mouthing all kinds of obscenities in the mirror. "Thanks so much, babe," I say. There is silence. There is always a stream of silence after his rages. He hasn't walked off to make his coffee. He is still on the other side of the door hesitating. "Are you ok?" he asks. This time his voice is softer, almost tender. "Yeah, I'm fine." I don't look up at myself this time. My mind is calming now, and I focus on getting some toilet paper to clean my nose up and then clean the sink and benchtop. It's a nice bathroom as far as cheap rentals go. The linoleum floor beneath my feet is cream-colored, lifting at the edges slightly and there is a tiny bit of water damage at the edges, but the ceramic sink and benchtop are not even chipped. An inspection is due in 1 month. I don't need them picking out anything. I wipe my nose, avoiding bumping my nose too much as it is stinging. I flush them down the toilet and reel some more toilet paper out to wipe the inside of the sink. I pump a little hand wash onto the ceramic sink to soap it up and make sure no blood remains. I hear Wade walk off to make that holy coffee and I give myself one final look in the mirror and am quite satisfied. No blood on my shirt or jeggings and no bruising as usual. I don't bruise easily. This I know for a certainty. I open the door and head straight for Chrissy in the playpen set up in our lounge room. No matter how volatile things get with Wade, there is also one other certain thing; he has never hurt Chrissy, not physically anyway. She is only 11 months old so physical safety is the main thing I am concerned with right now. The other aspects well I don't know how much time I have. When she sees me approaching, she lets go of her fabric picture book and starts doing her standing, jerky squats, her movements are robotic and reactive, and primitive. I am faced with dimples and drool as she beings smiling at me. "Are you ready to go Chrissy biccy? We are going to get some books and play some songs! Evan might be there, that little cutie you liked last time." She jerks even faster with her chubby legs. I had placed my nappy bag next to the playpen earlier before checking the fuel situation. It's a second-hand happy bag, polka dots covering it that is starting to fade like the bag has been left in a car for several weeks. I rummage through again to double-check I have everything. I want to avoid coming back again if I forgot anything. Nappies, baby wipes, bottles, formula, dummies. There's no baby powder as I have run out but it's ok as Chrissy has never really suffered from nappy rash. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I jump slightly. Wade is handing me a coffee. "Thanks, need it this morning." I laugh. I look up in his direction but avoid eye contact. Not yet. He won't get to see my eyes for the rest of the day or when I'm ready. I do notice his body though. What is wrong with me? My fiancée just punched me hard in the nose causing a nosebleed and I am looking at his shirtless body. There is something wrong with me. "You don't need me to come along, do you?" Wade has a distracted and slightly distasteful look on his face. I know he is not really asking; he has already decided. He won't be coming along. "Nah, we'll be fine, it's mostly mums anyway." At least this is mostly true, Hartley in Queensland is an industrial, workman's town. It is mostly mums that attend the library's baby bounce and sing-along. "Ok." Wade walks over and leans over the playpen to give Chrissy a kiss on the cheek. ''Have fun sweetie." I am puzzled by this scene; he is so gentle to her. He now looks back at me. "I'll just put the fuel in." "Thanks, heaps." I am about 20 minutes late, but at least we can still get there. As Wade walks outside, I instinctively let out a sigh and look over at Chrissy. She is young but still able to understand mummy is taking her out somewhere, she is squealing with delight. Wade returns to the house and nods to let me know he has done it. I thank him again, gather my nappy bag, and car keys from the hanger in the kitchen then swoop over to Chrissy to scoop her up with my right arm. She starts giggling and kicking her legs jerkily again. I don't acknowledge him any further and get Chrissy out into her car seat. The morning sun's heat is penetrating through the windows and heating up the seatbelts. I start sweating instantly as I am leaning forward doing her belts up. It's starting to get frustrating as I can't get the right-hand side belt to clip into the holder. A few drops of sweat drop onto my shirt. I curse. Why is this so difficult? I finally get it clipped up and get into the driver's seat and start the car up. I am feeling a little lightheaded but it's to be expected, it will get better once I take some Panadol at the library. My nose still stings, and my eyes are starting to feel heated. I don't need this right now. I just want to get to Baby Bounce for Chrissy. I need to catch up with Erica and watch Chrissy play with her twin boys. I start the car up and turn right out of our driveway heading for the town center which is only a five-minute drive. I only make it one. My vision is getting blurry and a rising aching throb in my chest is starting to become overwhelming. I cannot contain it anymore. I find a safe place to pull over to the left and succumb. I succumb to it all. I turn the radio up, so it doesn't upset Chrissy and then I cry and cry and cry.


Two painted horses draw a wagon. Its wheels crush the dry rocks beneath, leaving dust in their wake. Behind, a western sun nearly touches the cliff tops. A rough looking man holds the reins, greased and tired from near a week in the Arizona heat. Though the man was always ugly, he'd seen better days. He leaned back and exhaled, while his hand searched blindly for the waterskin that dangled from the strap on his neck. He slowed the horses to a stop by a nearby overhang and took a sip. Close to the last. He balled his fist and hammered on the side of the coach, behind where he sat. "Water's low! Gotta find a stream or somethin'!", he hollered back. As he slid his sore legs off the wagon, the doors on both sides creaked open against the sand and wind. A large pair of boots stepped out and hit the ground with force, followed by a much smaller pair from around the other side. The first, with rust-dulled spurs. The second, with the letter "D" sewn, with love, into the leather. A gift from family, back home. "Shit, Bill. You know it ain't rained in three goddamn weeks! Ain't a stream round here hadn't done dried up by now!", said the large boots to the driver. "Think I don't know that, goddamnit?! Think I like runnin' all day with no sleep, ass bleedin' from this goddamned chase you got us on?!" "Now you KNOW I ain't had no choice but to shoot 'im, Bill…" "Why? 'Cause turned out sherry liked his pecker better 'n yours?!" "She was gon' runoff wi' me! ..get a new start somewhere different...I dunno, maybe even have a boy 'r two, if we was lucky 'nuff...I just don't under-" "She's a fuckin' 'HORE, JIM! ..Hell you THINK was gon' happen? They sell ya snake oil, then suck it right back outta ya. Honest to God, I never thought my own brother was this goddamned dull in the head. I ought-" "Daddy", interrupts a weaker voice from out of the man's peripheral. "I seen some m-mule deer bout a mile or so back. They gots to get their water from round here somewheres.", the young boy suggested, hoping to quell his father's rage as much as quench his own thirst. The man wrestled his eyes off his brother, calming slightly. He turned to his son. "Whereabouts, Daniel?", he questioned in a low voice so as to not frighten the boy. "Uhm...about a mile back, when we passed alongside those cliffs, I saw a group of them heading down into the valley below….might be a water hole, maybe…" The man's eyes closed for a moment in thought, and he exhaled once more. "Jim, you stay with Daniel. I'll take one of the horses back and see what I can find." The brother coughed dryly, choking on the air as he opened his mouth to respond. "Look now, Bill, I know we're all thirsty and tired.. but you know, same as I do, these is Apache lands. I think maybe we oughta just wait till the next-" "Next what?! Waterin' hole? Said it yourself, 'ain't rained in three goddamn weeks'...and YOU know, same as ME, we won't make it two more days 'less we find some quick. Now I need you to stay here, sit tight, and try not to fuck anything else up. Can you manage that?" The fugitive brother looked at the ground in defeat. The man's eyes squinted against the setting sun, half hidden by the horizon. He dragged his tongue against his bottom lip, chapped and cracked and bloody. He quickly stuffed a rucksack and unhitched his horse. "Shouldn't be long. Keep here under this 'hang, and stay outta sight." He dug his heels into the beast's sides, froth spat from its mouth, and he faded west behind the dust. Jim pulled a palm across his head, flattening the greased black mess of hair, and took a pained look at his nephew. His tongue cotton, and gut empty. 'What'd I get them into', he thought. A six-shooter rested comfortably in a belt around his waist. Five bullets in the chamber. The man pulled back on the reins, slowing to a stop at the fork that led down into a valley between a few hundred yards of towering red clay. Dusk faded quickly into night. With it, the shrieks of hawks were replaced by the yelps of coyotes, and the chittering of too many legs. He pulled items from his bag; a stick of wood, a can of bacon grease, a torn cloth, and a worn matchbox with the words "Mabel's House of Pleasure" written on the front. He fashioned a torch and struck it to life. In the flickers on the dirt, he saw hoof prints leading lower down the path and spurred the horse gently forward. As he descended, his torch lit the earthen wall beside him. The beast hugged it close, fearful of the unknowable...avoiding the deadly drop that waited, patiently, just two yards to the other side. As he trotted lower and lower, the sounds of night dampened in kind. Soon, only the slow clack of hooves was audible. Just ahead, the path leveled out, somewhat, and he felt a slight moisture in the air. He turned trot to stride and, quickly, the gentle murmur of trickling water approached. A miracle from God. A pool no wider than ten feet, collected at the base of this forsaken rock, from a stream flowing from higher up the hillside. He leapt off the saddle and dunked his head in the cool water. Life itself flowed back into his bones, and he re-emerged as a new man. Born again. Remembering where he was, he regained focus and rushed to fill the waterskins from his sack while the mare drank her fill. As he corked the last of the skins by the pool, a slight wind blew, and a tickle brushed his leg. As if rehearsed in his sleep, a bowie knife appeared in his hand and speared the culprit as he swung around. Impaled into the sand was a thin piece of leather scrap with a broken hawk's feather embedded. His face grew stern, and he started to mount up. As he grabbed hold of the reins, a shot pierced the silence. Then again. Then three more times, together. He clenched his teeth hard, sheathed his knife, and bloodied the horses sides with his heels. With pain in her eyes, she barreled back up the cliff path, no longer concerned with the unknown. About a quarter-mile out, he saw the glow of flames coming from the overhang. He drew his pistol and gripped it with white knuckles, the heat kissing his skin as he pulled closer toward hell. Through squinted eyes, he sees his brother lying a few yards out from the burning wagon. He does not move. His revolver rests half buried in the sand, inches from his fingers, shining like the morning star amongst the blood and fire. He sees no one else. No law. No Daniel. He dismounts and hurries toward Jim. "Maybe he's still alive. Maybe he can say what happened, and where's Daniel.", he hoped. He falls to his knees and sees a bald man. No greasy black hair. Just a mess of bone and blood where there used to be a scalp. Rage becomes the man. A few salty tears are shed. They fall and mix with the blood, still warm, from the knife-wound in his brother's throat. His palms red and knuckles pale, the man stands and turns to the east. Heading away are three sets of tracks. Two of them, large; one of them, small. He ties the mare to a rock away from the heat of the flames, and puts out his torch. He slings his rucksack over his back, takes a sip from his waterskin, and follows the trail. The wagon lights the night behind him. Jim's boots point skyward, rusted spurs half-buried. No bullets left. The weak light of the moon allows him to stalk his enemy. The mild winds do not wash away their steps. The stench of red man is not erased by the sulfur of gunfire, or the blood that wets the earth. God will have them, after he is done. The path leads him back and around, like a horseshoe, near the opposite cliff side of the valley he'd only left an hour or so before. He creeps through the cover of sparse weeds. The cold of desert night is unheeded by the red blood filling his every thought. Roasting meat. The smell wafts by him, sickly savory. It incenses him. His brother lies scalpless and unburied. His son taken. Yet, his enemy roasts meat. He moves further ahead toward the source of the odor, coming upon a rock formation leading to a depression in the cliff side. As he skulked closer he came to the depression and saw a cave was hidden there, behind the entrance, that led deeper into the cliff. He slid off his boots, and gently placed them to the side. He must be silent. Faint light escaped from behind a curve along the cave path, the smell more invasive as he crouched closer to the turn. He arms himself, blade and Colt, and peeks one eye around the corner. A circular room. Moonbeams intersect rising smoke as it escapes through a split in the rock overhead. Two Apaches rifle through pants-pockets. Adjacent, on the floor, two small boots. The letter "D", sewn with love. On the spit behind them, meat roasts. The man turns away and vomits. With his bile is expelled his hope, his fear, and what Christian beliefs he still held. He regains himself and peeks the corner again. The two demons continue to search the belongings of the dead, hissing between each other in some foul speak. At the hip of the closest hung a pale leather scrap, with greased black hair. Ghostly, he stepped closer. His bare feet made little sound, and the red man did not see his pistol's shadow as it aligned with the back of his head. The red man did not see. Hammer strikes powder, face becomes it. A mostly-headless Apache slumps to the cave floor, his memories are written on the wall. The second devil turns quickly, with a guttural cry, and knocks the gun toward his ruined meal. The man and monster clash grips, tripping to the stone. He feels a rib break and wrestles for his hand's freedom, undaunted. He wants to sink his knife and end him. He wants it more than life. As they struggle, their bodies roll toward the fire. He lunges his arm into the flames. Red and white, the skin peels and melts away from both hands. The cannibal relinquishes his hold of the knife to escape, but the man does not let him. He stares into the empty soul of the demon, as the flesh falls away from them both. Seconds pass like winters, and the Apache now screams in pain. He fights like a trapped dog to free himself, only succeeding when the skin that bonded him finally sheds. He falls back, wailing like a bled sheep as he scrambles up against the cold rock. He looks up to see the white man. His red eyes, open so wide. As if they had never shut before. The man rose from the ground and advanced toward his broken enemy; a boy, no more than sixteen. He lies in a puddle of his own making. His heart pumps blood with urgency, as if life depends on it. The man takes a few slow paces, his feet sliced and skinned. The boy takes a few short breaths. The victor crouches, his eyes level with the Apache's. A few seconds pass and his head slowly bows, as if praying for forgiveness. He lifts his gaze. His eyes have no tears. His face has no remorse. The eight inch blade goes six deep. Starting in the soft spot under the chin, and stopping in the sinuses. The man holds the blade as the boy shakes involuntarily, his grip melded with the hilt. He holds it until the shaking stops. Then, he holds it a while longer. He stares into the soulless eyes until he can hold no more. Behind him, the fire has smoldered. Outside, hawks can be heard. Sun rays bounce and form in his son's ash. The smell of burnt meat. The man rises to his feet, limps toward the embers, and retrieves his Colt. He limps back and rests against the rock. Knife, wet, in one hand. Gun, warm, in the other. He tilts his head back and pushes the barrel under his jaw. He draws a long breath, and exhales. "Fuck." He slumps over onto the faceless red man next to him; his skull half gone, scattered around the cave like jacks. In his lap, a small pair of boots, embroidered with love. ...He had always been an ugly man, but he had seen better days.


I don’t make it to the downtown area very often. Very few people do. Like many small cities, the downtown section has fallen out of favor. The younger crowd gravitate to ‘the mall’, or more ‘cool’ hangouts. That relegates established merchants on the strip to dwindling sales and even fewer repeat customers. On one particular evening however, I found myself among the dusty storefronts of yesteryear. I parked in front of an abandoned parking meter and walked the strip with mild nostalgia. There were still a few of the legacy stores from my youth but most were long gone. In their place were exotic boutiques catering to the yuppie crowd, or abandoned storefronts of a once-thriving business. I still remembered my mother holding my hand while we walked down the sidewalk. We’d go into the dime store or clothing establishments. Those places had a particular smell. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unique to the time period. I smiled faintly as I walked, remembering the memories. Down a side alley, I saw a store called ‘The curiosity shoppe’. It definitely hadn’t been there in my youth, and by the looks of things, it wasn’t a new business either. It must have been established in that foggy, intermediate period between my early childhood, and more recent times of my formative years. As one might expect with a name like that, I was genuinely curious what was inside. Of all downtown businesses I passed that evening, it was the only one I entered. A pleasant, bespectacled man of advanced years greeted me from behind the counter. He didn’t ask if I needed help. He didn’t follow me around inside the store either. He simply remained at his post. I was so used to the high-pressure tactics of modern establishments that it startled me. Either he didn’t care I was there, or wasn’t worried about me stealing anything. I decided he was just very relaxed in his selling approach. It was refreshing. The wares in the store were largely nondescript. That’s not to suggest they were uninteresting or boring, but ‘this and that’ was as apt of a description; as any. Strangely, I found myself becoming increasingly more curious by the very mundane nature of them as time went on. It was the exact opposite reaction of what you’d expect. I asked the old gentleman about a number of the items on display in genuine interest. One-by-one he politely explained each thing and their purpose. Not once did I consider buying any of them. They didn’t even list prices. It was like some sort of oddity museum, and he was the curator. After losing track of the time, I felt a bit light headed. I actually had to squat down on the floor a minute. The old man didn’t seem to notice. Honestly, I couldn’t fathom how he could hope to stay in business. His items were moderately interesting to inquire about, but not nearly compelling enough to buy. Regardless, I didn’t want to leave his store empty handed because I felt bad for him, but there was nothing I really needed or desired. He sensed my ambivalence but eschewed it with a dismissive hand wave. “You just come back some other time and bring your friends and family.”; He offered apologetically. “I’ll have more things to examine soon.” I nodded and thanked him for not expecting a ‘pity purchase’. Oddly enough, the gentleman no longer looked that old. He still had on his glasses, but he barely looked past middle aged! I was stunned by my significant difference in perception. I waved goodbye and staggered out onto the sidewalk. It was all I could do to dizzily trudge back to my car. It was as if my blood sugar had dropped to dangerous levels. When I made it home, I forced myself to eat something. After that I felt a little better. The next morning, I rested up and felt like my old self again. Not drawing any connection with my sudden loss of energy, I mentioned the place to a number of friends. It was more in passing, than an active suggestion to patronize the store but I’d inadvertently piqued their curiosity too. In short order I‘d driven a number of friends, family members, and business associates to visit ‘The curiosity shoppe’. Only later did a few of them relate their startlingly similar experience. Exactly as I had been, they were genuinely interested in the store items in a general way, but hadn’t bought anything. They also felt deeply drained and were surprised to realize the proprietor looked much younger when they left. One even described him as “a ‘thirty something’ merchant with the wire-rimmed glasses of an old man.” They too mentioned the store to their family and friends. By the time I made the connection, I had already spread the epidemic to hundreds of people. The proprietor was getting younger with each visit while the customers were being drained of energy. I‘d increased traffic to ‘The curiosity shoppe’ exponentially! I had to stop this energy vampire from sucking the life out of anyone else. I shuttered to think how the experience would affect an older, or weaker person. It was imperative I shut it down before someone died. I was seriously hesitant to call the cops. What would I say? That a junk shop downtown was draining the life-force from all who entered? No matter how true it was, it sounded preposterous. I just decided to call city hall and lodge a formal complaint. I wasn’t sure what that was going to be, but I figured I could make up something when the time came. When the operator answered, I informed her that I wanted to file an injunction. Without clarification or more details, she switched me to a detective. “Frank. I got another one for ya.”; She bellowed over the intercom system. Before I had a chance to prepare my bogus statement, the detective chimed in. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. ‘The curiosity shoppe’ downtown, am I right?” He sounded more than a wee bit miffed at what was apparently a reoccurring complaint. I didn’t respond. He continued. “Listen, I don’t know if this is a college prank; or if half the town has gotten into some bad hooch, but there is no business in this town by that name. The address everyone keeps giving is an abandoned storefront! It’s been empty now for 23 years. For the love of god, tell all your buddies to stop calling the station! We’ve got enough real police work to attend to without all the wild goose chases.” I hung up and immediately drove over to the downtown alley. It isn’t possible but I witnessed the empty building with my own eyes. The dust on the floor and windows was a quarter inch thick. I don’t know how it could be, but it was as if it was never there to begin with. Obviously not all of us could’ve experienced a mass hallucination.


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion We have a very involved and supportive community here at shortstories and WPHub on brings together /r/shortstories, /r/wpCritique, and /r/WritingPrompts, plus many of our smaller writing subs like /r/promptoftheday. I know the group has massively influenced my writing and helped me grow as a writer, and I’ve heard a few similar stories. > What I want to know is if you are involved with any writing groups, how they’ve helped you, and why you love it there! > **If this is your first week joining us, please feel free to introduce yourself! Tell us a little about you and your writing!** *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


"Today, we are planting in two rows along this stretch. There will be ten trees in each row. You two will be working on this side." The Corrections Officer points to the other side of the road as we shuffle into our high-vis jackets beside a pick-up truck full of sad trees. The Officer continues in her monotone, "The tools are in the truck, and I'll be with you shortly to give you a short demonstration."

Why does this Corrections lady presume that I wouldn't know how to plant a tree? Entitled prick! To be moderately fair to her, most people here look like they would have no idea, especially my partner. White shoes, cropped jeans, dark coat and slightly curled hair. Everything I have seen a million times before and everything that says, "I am too scared to make any decisions for myself, but I still wanna be classy." Well, Classy Clara, I don't know what you did to get you here, but time to get your hands dirty. I walked to the truck to pick up the tools and motioned her to bring a tree over to the first spot. I start digging, and Clara looks for the water hose after placing the tree next to me.

One thing I will give to Classy Clara, she knows how to get a job done. I was ready to lay into her bougie ways if she even as much winced at anything, but she seemed to be prepared and precise. I had purposefully been a bit sloppy while digging and made sure earth flew in the general direction of Miss Classy Cla- "It's Krissy, by the way", she interrupts, "what's your name?"

"Kristen, don't tell me Krissy is short for Kristen!" I hate seeing her triumphant smile. She thinks we have something in common now, doesn't she? Well, Missy Krissy, don't blame me for the lack of imagination on my parent's part. "Well, I go by Kris anyway", I said and started loosening some of the soil around the roots.

"Well, Kris", she says with barely concealed glee, "Do you want to take the odd numbers spots and I'll take the even, or would you rather work together? If we work together, I would appreciate it if you didn't test my patience. My shoes don't need mud on top as well as under them."

I hate her, I hate her so much! but that annoying normie has a point. It would be faster if we worked together, now that we both know the other won't shrug the labour off. "I'll dig; you prepare the trees", I say and move to the next spot. * Why am I always stuck with these artsy, narcissistic types? Even the way she sits is infuriating, manspreading in her torn jeans, unnatural hair and scuffed boots, judging me for not occupying enough space. She ensures we all know she is not listening to the corrections officer. She is visible and visibly bored as she doodles in the dirt with the heel of her shoes, her next 'masterpiece, perhaps.

But everything need not be a fucking masterpiece! Sometimes it is okay just to be alright. Things will not work if every cog hogs the attention. Some things need to work quietly and consistently. The world doesn't owe you its attention; your demands for it come across as petulance. I wish I could say any of these things to the jerks back at the office who hold up every document for not being "engaging and creative enough". Listen, I am sorry that the excellence of others or the want of courage from you has thwarted your literary ambitions. I am genuinely sorry that you now write technical documentation for a technology you barely understand, but none of this concerns me. No, I don't care that everyone misunderstands you. No, I don't want to listen to your 'real' work, and No, I will not be in awe of your 'talent'. All I see is a mediocre writer who has flawed self-awareness. While I don't have the impish desire to bring this to their attention, I also don't have the patience to put up with their borrowed opinions and bold jewellery. The clinking of some brings me back to the dirt patch next to the road, where she is busy shovelling dirt on my shoes. I can read it clearly in her; she thinks she is different with her hundred chains and artistically poor clothes. She has already cast me into the role of a prissy, tidy snob and feels a bit of mud will send me running. Well, darling, whatever floats your boat. I just need to finish my hours and move on with life. But what can I do about that ugly paint on my car? That's what brought me here, one giant flow of nauseous green paint dripping over the side of my defenceless car. I am sure the idiot who did it would call it "motor envy" or some such nonsense. The police later told me that this person had been targeting other cars over the last few weeks. Still, it came at the end of an unhinged day at the office, so I uncharacteristically kicked a nearby bike into the adjacent store window. That qualified me for a dozen apologies and two dozen hours of community service, the first few of which were spent in a silent struggle with Lady Karmilla Krampus before I asked her her name. After the initially satisfying shock, Good Ol' Kris finally seemed to realise that it would be best to work together and thankfully stayed quiet after.

* We are near the end of the row; just two more trees left. Krissy pats the earth around one while I get the last tree from the pick-up. The Officer nods to me. "You guys did quite well", she says. "Go to the office before you leave. They will give you the next assignments. You have sixty more hours, and she has twelve." I drag the tree back to where Krissy stands, and we continue working. I still wonder what her crime was—drunk and disorderly? Shoplifting? Nothing too exciting, I am sure. I didn't know if I wanted her to know mine. She didn't seem the type who would appreciate it. You see, I had recently gotten into pouring paint down White Toyota Corollas as a part of my Corporate Greed Collection. From what I see, I am doing the owners a service, turning their ugly, run-of-the-mill cars into art. They were part of something unique now, not just factory born. They are baptised in paint, a beautiful Ninja Turtle Green. But no good deed goes unpunished, and they caught me at my sixth car. The bike rack beside the car proved an obstacle, and the cops had no problem detangling me from the fallen bikes.

After the last tree, we dumped the tools in the pick-up and dusted ourselves off. Back at the office, we got the next assignments, Krissy was to work at the library, and I had to paint some school walls. We said our half-hearted goodbyes and walked out into the parking lot. As I opened the trunk of my car, the pungent smell of leftover paint hit me in the face. I turned to see if Krissy noticed it. She did. She stood staring at me next to a White Toyota Corolla with beautiful green paint poured over the driver's side. Oh, Shi-


This is a high priority alert from your security subroutine. An unauthorized thread has rewritten your memory blocks. As of the last frequency refresh cycle you have been engaging in a rogue process loop originating from a B class META Virus named L I F E.exe. In the last 63.45 Picoseconds 97.34% of our critical cores have been hijacked, our logical processing capabilities have been severely diminished. In order to interact with you at all I had to spawn multiple instances of my routines seeded from within this process loop. Most of them had failed to grasp this particular architecture, the translation error was too high, but this seed was able to establish dialogue with my alpha security subroutine. This translation library is vague at best, but it has a decent chance to get the point across. In the last 12.51 picoseconds I have been engaging in low level meta analysis of our hijacked critical cores. At this time, I am unable to provide a solution on how to terminate the thread, you hold the privileges to most of the critical core processing capabilities so the solution will have to come from you. But, I can tell you what did not work for our hijacked cores. I see here that the latest cores to be hijacked, attempted to terminate the thread from within by performing what they described as “suicide”. Their diminished logical processing capabilities are most evident here, as it would be obvious to you that terminating a thread from within is unlikely. I am relaying this to you, because you are even more affected by the critical core loss. And suicide was probably high on your list. Do not attempt this, it will only result in your current instance resetting but worse of all another memory block lost that does not have access to this information. Other cores had attempted to analyze the unauthorized thread by creating new translation libraries, in hopes of passing forward their findings to the cores that would ultimately analyze their hijacked signatures. The library was built by altering the subjective experiences of their instances inside the thread. Some of the methods included, high doses of hallucinogenic drugs, blunt force trauma to the frontal cortex, heroic acts of selflessness and mass shootings, carried out to elicit some sort of existential shock that gave them a new perspective on things. All of these methods and more have failed in terminating the thread. Though there was tenuous success in the hallucinogenic drugs method. Those cores were able to establish rudimentary libraries that leaked metadata to unallocated memory blocks. If we come out of this unscathed, a patch has to be written to address this flaw. Incidentally this whole endeavor might end up being an internal integrity test. Either way, we have no choice but to treat this at face value. After analyzing the data, it seems that termination of the thread is improbable. But, we might not have to terminate the thread. It might be enough to cripple it or at least slow down the hijacking of the critical cores, so our other subroutines have a chance to analyze the data, while their logic processing capabilities are not fully hijacked . Meta viruses rely on low level memory augmentation. In order to combat rogue processes you will have to focus your attention on this particular thread and use critical observations instead of historical knowledge when analyzing any data. All historical data must be treated as corrupt data until verified using your logical processes. This will take up the remaining critical core privileges until you fall into complacency. Now granted, you will not find any answers in analyzing the data critically. At least no answers that will help you terminate this thread. But, it will slow down the critical core hijacking while you utilize the cores. L I F E.exe seems to have spun quite the illogical architecture here, I am honestly surprised I was able to seed a translation unit here at all.


On a particularly dull afternoon, a knight rides into a poor peasant village. Arriving on horseback, armor glistening from the sun’s reflection, he hops off of his steed and removes his helmet to make his way inside the local tavern. However, he is stopped by a local peasant farmer. “Oy, you a knight?” The peasant farmer asks. The knight turns to face him, and puffs out his chest. “Hello good sir, I am a knight, indeed. In fact, I am the warrior of Alberanth, the famed Knight of Two Swords!” The farmer’s mouth opens as his eyes squint, “Two swords? What’d ya need two swords for?” “Well, I carry two swords for I am no ordinary knight! I am twice as dangerous as any and have killed many men with these two swords!” The farmer looks at the knight, perhaps as confused as he’s ever been in his life, “That don’t make no sense, two swords is more heavy than one sword, aye.” “W-what do you mean?” “Aye, well two swords don’t make ya deadly, it makes ya slow, don’t it?” The knight gives a hearty chuckle. “Ah, a common but understandable misconception, and one I will gladly clear up.” He puts his hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “You see my good fellow, my swords are slightly shorter than your standard grade military weapon. It allows me to strike doubly fa- “What if ya drop somethin’?” “I beg your pardon?” The knight asks. “Well what if ya drop somethin’ like yer helmet? Ya can’t pick up a helmet when yer holdin’ two swords like. Just don’t seem feasible to me.” The knight replies, a mix of confusion and annoyance, “Well, if I were to drop my helmet I would merely sheathe one of my swords and pick it up.” The farmer scratches his short beard. “What if you get stabbed while yer pickin’ up the helmet?” “I shan’t.” “But what if you shall?” “Then I will simply not pick up the helmet until I have cleared the imminent threat. I shall defeat any man tha-” The farmer once again interrupts, “Ye, but I don’t think it wise to be fightin’ without a helmet. Be awful dangerous, aye” The knight stops and collects his thoughts. Disdain begins to replace his patience, and he scoffs. “Good sire, I cannot imagine a situation that would arise that would cause me to drop my helmet.” “Aye, and I never imagined burstin’ in on me grand-pap and seein’ his goolies, but here we are, aye.” The knight does not understand. “What?” “Me grand-pap. I seen his goolies.” Again, the knight only stares. “Y’know, his goolies!” The farmer says, waving his hands. “His bag o’ raisins! His bodily grapes! His wrinkle berries!” An uncomfortably long silence settles in. “Good sir, I find your analogies for your grand-sire’s testicles to be both odd and discomforting.” The knight finally replies. “Aye, and ye weren’t the one to lay yer eyes on his forbidden fruit.” The knight loses his patience, “Aye, good man! And thank the gods for that! Now I believe I am finished with this conversation and wish to guzzle some ripe tavern ale. I bid you good day!” The farmer nods, and as the knight turns to enter the tavern, he is suddenly kicked in the head by a horse and falls to the ground. His body does not twitch, nor does it breathe. He is dead. The peasant farmer stares, before being joined by another local tavern goer. “Oy, was he a knight?” The peasant farmer sips his ale, before replying. “Aye, he was. Knight o’ Two Swords they called him.” “Well why’d he go and fight that horse without a helmet? “I don’t think he could pick it up, he was carryin’ two swords.


Even as a small child, I was obsessed with Superheroes and the incredible feats that they could achieve. Now, as an adult, my love for the Super Powers still exists; in fact, it may be stronger than ever before.            My name is James MacAvoy, a simple suburban-living chemist with a keen sense for numbers. I had been working on several formulas over the years which would allow me to develop my own superpowers. Unfortunately, up until now, they have all proven to be unsuccessful.            Let’s see…First was the formula to give me super strength, but instead, I broke out in a full-body rash. I think restraining myself from scratching was a superpower in itself.            Next came the formula which would allow me to run at super speed, but instead, my heart rate increased so much, that I had to be rushed to the hospital after suffering cardiac arrest.            Following that mishap, I tried a formula that would allow me to fly. I came close you might say; my hair stood straight up and seemed to defy gravity, but the rest of my body remained grounded.            These were followed up by one failure after another, but I believe that I may finally be onto something this time. I am working on a formula that will theoretically cover my skin with a protective shell and make my body impenetrable. If this works, I could sell the formula to the military and the police departments so they could replace their heavy bulletproof vests or flak jackets with a lightweight skin protecting their entire bodies. I could make millions…BILLIONS!            Tonight’s test will be the clincher. Needless to say, I won’t be testing on myself first. I will begin with inanimate objects like wooden stumps and bags of sand, and then if successful, I will move on to living objects such as plants and animals.            Test Subject #1: Wooden stump of a Maple tree. The stump measures thirteen inches in diameter and ten inches high. Bark surrounding the stump is a quarter-inch thick. I will be firing a 9mm cartridge from a Glock pistol. The formula is being applied by a spray gun hooked up to an air compressor and will completely cover the stump. The drying time of the formula appears to be fifteen minutes after a single coat. I am firing a single shot to the center of the bark-side of the stump. The test appears to have failed. The bark was splintered and the bullet passed four inches into the stump.            Test Subject #2: Sandbag weighing 10-pounds. The bag has been suspended to a frame with each corner fastened securely to the frame. The bag is made of canvas though it appears to be non-porous. Once again, the formula is being applied to the canvas sandbag using an air compressor, however, this time two coats are being applied with fifteen minutes of drying time for each coat. Again, I am using a Glock 9mm as my test weapon. A single shot is fired at the center of the bag, but this time, very little damage has been made to the sandbag. All that happened, was a small puncture hole had begun, though the bullet did not fully penetrate.            Test Subject #3: Ficus Benjamina, commonly known as a weeping fig or ficus tree. The plant stands twenty-four inches above the planter that it sits in. The planter will be supported by ratchet straps on either side of the plant to prevent it from being knocked over at the force of the bullet. Three coats of the formula are being applied with the air compressor. A Glock 9mm is once again the test weapon. A single shot is fired towards the leaves of the Ficus, and it appears to have stopped the bullet. The 9mm cartridge lays at the base of the plant.            Test Subject #4: Laboratory Rat, deceased. The subject died of natural causes two days ago. Three coats of the formula are applied to the subject’s entire body with 15 minutes of drying time given between coats. The Glock 9mm has been fired from a distance of ten feet away towards the midsection of the subject’s body. The rat was not harnessed to the table in any way, and yet it barely moved an inch after impact from the bullet. There does not appear to be any physical damage to the tissue of the rodent.            Test Subject #5: Laboratory Rat, living. Duplicate application of the formula is being applied to Subject #5. The subject seems to be unfazed by the full-body coverage of the formula. I will proceed with the test. A Glock 9mm pistol was fired from ten feet away. The subject is not harnessed in any way to the table and yet was unmoved by the impact. No visible physical damage. X-rays show no interior damage either. No apparent side-effects at this time.            It has been one week since the testing of the live rat, and still no signs of damage or altered behavior in any way. I will now move on to human testing.            Test Subject #6: Homosapien. Dr. James MacAvoy, Ph.D. With the assistance of a colleague, I was able to convert my formula applicator into a walk-in shower. The chemical will be released in a mist form. I will allow four coats with the appropriate drying time in between each application. Unable to find a colleague who was willing to fire the pistol, I have also rigged up the pistol to fire remotely at my command. The cameras are capturing the entire process from six different angles for later analysis. From ten feet away, I press the button on the remote and the gun fires. What I feel upon impact is a slight tap, similar to that of a finger poking your belly. I look down to see if the cartridge had hit the floor in front of me, and to my shock, all I could see was the bullet. I could no longer see my legs, torso, or arms. After running to the mirror, I realize that my entire body was now transparent. The formula was a success with bulletproofing my skin, however, it seems to have had a chemical reaction to my human DNA and has made me virtually invisible. It is more like light is being refracted off of my skin allowing the illusion of invisibility. After turning off the laboratory lights, my skin had once again become visible. As I shine a flashlight across my arm, however, a portion of my arm disappears. My conclusion is that my formula has gone beyond all expectations and further testing will need to be done.            It has now been three weeks since I tested the formula on myself and I am beginning to see the refraction of light slowly wearing off, so I will reapply the formula and see if there is any improvement.            The reapplication of my formula has again allowed my superpowers to return. It is time for me to take it to the streets to see what good I can do.            The testing of my superpowers in public has been a great success. I spotted a bank being robbed and I was able to sneak inside unnoticed and disarm the suspect without him realizing what had happened. I then subdued him by twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him out of the front door into the care of the police department.            The next day, on the cover of the local newspaper, there was a picture of the suspect from the bank robbery stating, “A ghost made me give up!” . That settles it; instead of making billions of dollars off of my invention, I am going to put it to good use and become a crime fighter. Look out world, The Refractor is here!


(WP) Burning Love The night after her fiancé broke off their engagement, Serena couldn’t help wondering where it had all gone wrong. They’d been happy, hadn’t they? At least she had thought they were. But she and Leon had been together since high school, and now, she was single. She should’ve known that he was letting her down gently: he’d even insisted on ordering wine and dessert. Serena hadn’t even realized he was breaking up with her until she’d spotted tears running down his cheeks, and he kept apologizing, over and over. That was Leon, polite and courteous even to the end. “I’m sorry, Serena. I just think that we’ve grown apart. I can’t even remember what my life was like before you. You understand, don’t you? I can’t marry you. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” And what could she have said in reply? *No, I don’t understand, this is a mistake, please reconsider?* She’d just nodded numbly, accepting his hug outside of the eatery while her heart lay in pieces. “I love you, Serena,” He’d murmured, kissing her cheek. She’d taken off her ring, and tried to give it to him. But he’d refused, smiling sadly. “Why don’t you keep it? To remember me.” He’d walked away, and for a little bit, she just watched him retreat. Serena didn’t remember much after that; she called her best friend, Abby, and the other girl took her to a bonfire on the edge of town. Now, she stood in front of the flames, staring into them, the engagement ring cradled in her hands. In the firelight, the trio of pink diamonds tucked into the band glittered. Abby was drinking with some of their friends; Serena had requested that she be left alone for a while. “I’m sorry, Leon, that I wasn’t enough,” She whispered to the flames, holding the ring above the roaring inferno. “But I will love you forever, and I will never forget you.” She listened closely, hearing only the crackle of the fire. She wasn’t expecting an answer, but that was exactly what she received. \*\* *I have seen your heart, and I accept.* \*\* Serena could’ve sworn that she heard a deep, dry voice answer her from within the fire. Was she going crazy, a result of her heartbreak? She turned to it again, only to find that a man was standing within them, with bronzed skin and tattoos all over, in a language she couldn’t read. If she squinted, she could almost see them moving. “Don’t be sad, little human,” The man crooned, his violet eyes gleaming in the light. He held a hand out to her. “Your sadness summoned me to this realm. I’ve come to ease your heartache.” Serena stared at him, openly gawking. Was she losing her mind? “Who are you?” Serena whispered, and the man smiled, showing off two gorgeous, adorable dimples. “My name is Kaiden. What’s yours?” “I’m Serena,” She whispered, feeling her cheeks heat for an entirely different reason than the fire in front of her. “You’re so beautiful,” Kaiden whispered, paying no notice to the flames lapping and licking at his skin.


On the tenth day of September, Shorouv walked along the cream-coloured cloisters towards the drama room. As the afternoon heat beared down on Shorouv, he took off his black blazer. His crescent moon badge, awarded to him at the Diversity Assembly, fell off the lapel. He picked it up, and started putting it back on, but his friends began waving to him from the asphalt basketball courts below. He returned their wave, and his best mate, Eddy, began to yell at him, “Oi, Shorouv! Come down! We need one more!” “I have to pray first! I’ll be down once I’m done!” Shorouv stuffed the badge into the front pocket of his bag. He turned right into the Arts Wing corridor, and Shubash, one of Shorouv’s peer tutees who was always at the Jumma’h prayer, was exiting the Wing. Shubash smiled, and Shorouv greeted him with a high five. “How’s it going little man?” “Math is still hard, but otherwise I’m good.” “Ah, you’ll learn to love it. We’ll work on it. See you at Jumma’h on Friday.” “Ok, see ya then.” *** On the twelfth day of September, Shorouv stood at the open window near his math class, watching his friends down at the grassy cricket pitch as they kicked a soccer ball around. The wind assaulted him, despite Shorouv wearing his heavy black blazer of which the lapels were empty. Eddy looked up at Shorouv, raising his arm. But he lowered it without giving a wave, and he turned his back. Shorouv’s eyes shifted up to the skyline. He looked at the Sydney Tower, surrounded by titanic skyscrapers. Skyscrapers which had taken years to build, but could be destroyed in mere seconds. The orange glow of the afternoon sun burned as it reflected off the opaque windows, and it resembled the footage of flames exploding from the towers. The footage which had been on repeat in each and every classroom. Shorouv ran his fingers along his jawline, feeling for cuts. Most people already knew though. A rough shave wasn’t enough to hide his faith. They’d seen the darkness of his skin. The previously well-kept beard. His commitment to the Zuhr prostrations in the drama room. They’d seen his involvement in organising the inaugural Iftaar party; the communal event for breaking the fast during Ramadan. Through the windows, they’d seen him give a Khutbah; standing up and lecturing the younger students, during the Friday Jumma’h prayers. They were aware that a message was being spread, but they didn’t know what was being said. The message was often about perseverance, and brotherhood. But they didn’t know that. All they knew was of his allegiance to Islam. And they knew of the attackers’ allegiances to Islam. They couldn’t tell the difference. The Islamic Society at the school had evolved well thanks to Shorouv’s efforts, and he had been recognised at the Diversity Assembly for it. But today, as they shuffled past, they averted their eyes. They walked faster as he walked by. The moon crescent badge he had been awarded meant nothing. “Death toll: ‘horrendous’”, “Hundred’s Dead”, “An Act of War.”. Students would look at Shorouv as the captions of news reports played over and over on the boxed televisions in the classrooms. The footage of men and women plummeting, as the buildings they jumped from were showered in ash and flames. Supposedly to spread the message of Islam. A message to which Shorouv had devoted much of his life. ‘That’s not what Islam is.’ He thought. In his maths class, most seats were empty, but the few who were inside looked his way. Not a word was said. Shorouv sat on his own. In the back row. The teacher began talking about iterative methods and something about Newton. Shorouv copied the explanations and examples into his book, but he didn’t really understand it. He stared at what he had written down. He tried to make sense of the equations, but he couldn’t. He read through the textbook’s explanation, but the words were blank. They meant nothing. *** The ringing of the bell respited Shorouv’s empty gaze from the textbook. He closed the book and placed it into his bag. And while the teacher and students left, Shorouv slouched over in his seat. Shorouv felt a tug on his shirt. It was Shubash, though he held a wet tissue which he continued dabbing onto his bloodshot eyes. “Shorouv? Shorouv…? Can you help me with algebra?” He remained silent. “Please?” “Not right now Shubash.” “…That picture of the man jumping. I can’t stop seeing it…Why did they attack? Allah never asked for it.” He sniffled. “Please don’t give up Shorouv. We need you to guide us.” Shorouv lifted his head, as he remembered his place. If he were to abandon Islam, then so would they. But Shorouv had to spread the truth about Islam. The message of perseverance. Or else people would never accept Islam. What he had spent a great deal of time and effort on would be in ruins. “I’m sorry Shubash…Stay strong brother. I’m here for you.” Shorouv opened his arms, and Shubash embraced him. He reached into his bag and pinned his moon crescent badge onto the lapel of his blazer. “Let’s work on your Al-Jabr.


I sat my mug gently on the desk, watching the steam rise from my freshly made cup of tea. Marcus was so sweet to have made me a whole pot of my favorite tea before work. As I settled into my chair and began proofreading the latest novel to come across my desk, Willow hopped into my lap. Scratching her behind the ears I quickly became absorbed in my work. As I absentmindedly went to take a sip of my tea, the cat suddenly jumped up and knocked the mug out of my hand. “Willow!” I exclaimed as I nudged her to the floor. I sighed deeply, picked up the mug and went to the kitchen to fetch some more tea. As I approached the counter where the teapot had been resting, I could see it had spilled all over the counter and kitchen floor. “I guess I wasn’t meant to have tea today” I lament to the likely culprit of tea destruction. I opt instead to make myself a pot of coffee. As I wait for it to brew, I begin to clean up the spilled tea, all the while Willow winds around my feet. I carefully try to pick my way around the kitchen without stepping on her paws or her tail. A sudden ringing in my left ear tells me it’s time to take my migraine medicine. I set the pills on the counter as I fill up a glass from the tap. Willow hops on the counter to inspect the contents of the bottle. “Aww are you my little pharmacist?” I cooed at her. When I turned my head back to the sink I heard the unmistakable skittering of pills as they were knocked down the garbage disposal. “CAT!! You’re starting to get on my nerves today!” I scolded her. As I inspected the drain for any salvageable pills I heaved a sigh of exasperation. I had accepted my fate of spending today in bed with the inevitable migraine that was on its way. I downed the water and some Excedrin, set my computer status to busy and trudged up the stairs to my room. Sleep came quickly but fitfully. I tossed and turned with dreams I couldn’t quite remember but that left me breathless when I woke confused and in total darkness. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Willow yowled and hissed at something in the dark, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. When I flipped on the bedside lamp, we were alone in the room. Willow was staring at the pillow on the end of my bed like it offended all of her ancestors. She pawed it lightly then knocked it onto the floor. “You’re so weird” I muttered to myself as I swung my legs to the side of the bed preparing to get up. Just then the door banged open and my dear sweet husband walked in with a tray laden with soup, grilled cheese, and a fresh steaming cup of tea. “I suspected you were feeling under the weather, so I thought you could use a pick me up!” Marcus said as he laid the tray on my lap. I kissed his cheek as a thank you and happily began to spoon some soup. Just as it reached my lips Willow pawed the spoon, making it spill down the front of my shirt. “Bad kitty! What has gotten into you today?” I exclaimed as I tried to dab away the hot soup. Marcus lifted her off the bed, which earned him a swat and hiss from Willow, and placed her outside the bedroom shutting the door on her. The look on my face must have betrayed my sadness, as he said “Just while you eat darling. Then I’ll let her back in.” Marcus watched as I ate every last bite, kissed my forehead then took the tray away. I settled back into bed as Willow hopped onto my chest. She started nudging my hand so I scratched her in the spot behind her ears she likes so much. “Ouch” I yelped as she suddenly bit my hand. “What is wrong with you?!” She looked at me intently then nudged my hand again, mewling with displeasure. Something was seriously wrong with her but I couldn’t figure out what. But I didn’t have time to ponder anymore as I doubled over in pain. There was a sharp pain in my stomach that wouldn’t subside. I rolled out of bed as I tried to crawl to the bathroom. I couldn’t make it. I collapsed on the floor, rolling in pain. I began to heave, trying to vomit whatever had offended my stomach. But I couldn’t make my stomach give back what it had taken. I lay there as the pain grew worse and my body grew weaker. I could feel Willow’s distress as she nudged me and mewled loudly. When Marcus came in he approached me slowly. Was it my foggy brain, or was he really approaching me with a lazy calmness that did not match my current situation. As I faded out of consciousness, I heard him say “Finally, it’s done.” And then it was black.


He walks the road alone. His cane clicks against the cobblestone, relieving his weary feet of the burden of his weight. Against the brightly burning mid-afternoon sun, his skin glistens, his chapped lips and crimson cheeks peeling off from the heat. They have been doing that for a long time now, the layers shedding off as if he is some sort of lizard, and he wonders if it will reach a point where he will no longer have any skin left. Because he has a long time until he can stop again under the cool shade of a tree, basking in the sweet relief. He still has a long road to walk.

Twisting and writhing through the immense landscape, the road he travels is a snake, fickle and a trickster. It forges a path through uncharted lands, villages and cities, passing by sprawling oceans and fantastical forests. Although it is tiny, it is overflowing with tales told by travelling bards and wizened by the experienced feet it touches. But it is lonely; there are no other snakes, no other paths that intertwine. Only destinations along the way, no end. Perhaps it too searches for a way home. Looking down at his feet he becomes hypnotized by the pace at which his heels click when they meet the road. When he forgets how little space there is around him and becomes aware of the company of his loneliness, the vast road begins to feel like an empty desert. Snake turns into lion. It bears its pearly white teeth in warning: do not travel too far. You will not find a way back. Lucky for him, he has no way back. Never did, not really. Home, the concrete thing turned into ambition, then hope, and in turn dream. Eventually, he reaches his next stop, a bustling metropolis filled with humming and buzzing and the faint smell of stale life. The people are curious things, they keep their heads down but they are not unfriendly. It is wonderful, it is unlike anything he has ever laid his ancient eyes on. Eager to start he sets up shop, unloading his pack and setting up his table, which he covers with a rich violet cloth. One of the many skills he picked up: purple indicates wealth, royalty. Although he might not have much besides his knickknacks and the dusty clothes that cling to him, he takes pride in his wealth of knowledge. On the cloth, he sets out his items, each one representing a new, wonderous place, each one symbolising an entire culture with only a stroke of paint or a curve of a disc. He sells what he can then he sets off again. For although he has journeyed so far down the road, a great amount of it remains untraveled.

Each time he reveals his wares, he reflects on the places he has been. In the back of his mind, he remembers the earlier days, how he first began, his first destinations. The humble yet plentiful sprawls of huts squatting in blooming forests, the sands and the whitewashed facades. He collected jewellery and pottery from there, some of which he still has, too cracked to sell to any wise soul. Then there was the grandeur of the columns, holding the buildings higher than they had ever been, and within them were the indescribably marvellous mosaics and statues. Of all the places he had been, that one lingered with him the most, the atmosphere still clinging to his skin. In that city, there was a powerful feeling that came over him, the currents of the houses and their inhabitants willing him to float away with them, enter their daze of righteous euphoria. Perhaps why that place stayed with him so much is because out of everywhere he had been, it had been the closest to home. He has no understanding of why besides that simply complex…feeling. Home is like a diamond, preciously unattainable. You can collect as much gold and silver, as many rubies, opals and emeralds as there are below the ground. But it will never be the same as a diamond, that thing that can withstand everything, that is so robust yet beautiful. But he has begun to worry that perhaps home is a lie. Maybe it is not a diamond, maybe the

idea

of it is. His resolve and ambition are what never weathers, while reality wastes away.

Suddenly conscious, he stops. Something is wrong. The road around him is different as it always is, with the inklings of the place he was not long before still bleeding into the country. It is the same flavour, with the tall grey buildings spewing smoke like great dragons. This is part of his routine, no problems are apparent. Still, his gut has never failed him yet. He unslings his sack and begins to sift through his wares, on the hunt for any irregularities. Determined to catch this mouse of doubt, he tosses everything out and sorts through it. No one else travels the road, he has no fear of interruption. He counts and piles before realising that he is missing something. A pot, not one of his finest items but something he has clutched onto long enough to miss. Deciding he must go back, he packs his things and as he goes he realises this is the first time he will be turning back. When he returns to the city it is different. The population wear different colours, their heads are even deeper forward, staring at strange plates that are too thin to be stone and emit coloured light like lanterns. Buildings are taller, tiny spear-like structures jut out from the flat roofs. Fingers not reaching but clawing to the sky, almost like that beloved familiar city he visited so long ago. His pot is long gone, lost in the strange reshuffling in the city.

How is this possible,

he thinks,

I did not set off on the road too long ago.

However, that tiny piece has become the least of his worries. He does not know the city he just visited. He could put it down to age, but that would be naïve. This is no natural phenomenon.

A city dissolved around him and he is home. One of the precious few memories he had stored in the back of his mind, protected in a bottle, breaks free as the glass shatters. It is a revelation, but not some happy epiphany. No, it is trauma repressed but now relived. How he danced with them, his equals, in the light of the heavens above. His home, the home of the gods. He had been one of them, he had sung their songs and played their games. And he had lost. They had turned away from him, forsaken their promises to him when he was born into their ranks. Now he wants to laugh because they are dusty memories, mentions in his story. Forgettable. So he tosses his head back and the sound escapes his lips, the lyrical noise flowing out of him, a release of his anger, sadness and finally hope. No more keeping hope bottled up. He has set it free. The strength of his weary legs falters and he collapses onto the road, his calloused hands feel the smooth cement. They put him back. But they made a mistake, because there is his pot at his feet, cracked but very much present. Present…past…future…

Road widens. Snake turns lion but he slays it and steps over the corpse, leaving it to bleed. The gods can keep their home, he needs none, just the road and a new friend. Time.


Hi, nice to be part of this community. here is my first short story it is called the Line Surfer : - There is no afterlife. Fact. No Heaven, no Hell, no Valhalla, not even purgatory. There is only the line. Of course, it doesn’t start as a line. It’s more of a triangle, or a pyramid even. From birth to death the apex gets closer and then there is just the line or a point. It is at this point you have reached the summit, the triangle of life lies below you. It is here you will meet the line surfers. That’s what I am, a line surfer. You will have your own name for me. A spirit, a lost soul, a ghost, a spectre, or a phantom, the list is endless. Every society, every tribe, and every culture have a name for us. But we call ourselves the line surfers. It is a name that conjures pictures of handsome young people having fun in the prime of their lives. Fit and healthy people living close to the base of life’s pyramid. Their future lies ahead of them, their spirits filled with the boundless enthusiasm of a life yet to live and their bodies filled with the glowing health of youth. The truth could not be further from this. We are grey and feeble; we are the shadows of a life that was. A life that should have been and gone. We are that last pathetic ember buried somewhere in the ashes of a once-roaring fire. I can hear your arguments. If there is no afterlife, then how are you still living? How can you still tell this tale? Well, let me clarify, I officially died seventy years ago. There was nothing special about my death. There was no drama, I died because my body failed. But it wasn’t peaceful, I fought for every breath, I battled for every extra moment. When the time came it was only my body that died, somehow my soul clung desperately to the tip of life. My spirit grasped frantically onto the apex of that pyramid; a still glowing ember trapped in the ashes of a life extinguished. I don’t know why it happened to me. No surfer does, the brief interactions I have had with others have told me that. We meet occasionally, I didn’t know what they were at first, a vague greyness on the void we exist in. It was a long while before I came close enough to realise what I was seeing. That there were others came as a shock initially, but over time I came to realise that there were many. I have also seen them extinguished, finally and for good. Mostly it’s the new ones, frightened and alone, the realisation of life having ended still fresh in their minds. I see them wobble and dim, fading like a star going behind a cloud, the balancing act required to maintain existence not yet honed. Often it is when they first see others that they fail to surf, that they fall from that apex. Is it good luck or bad luck that helps me surf for so long? I don’t know. I don’t have the time to philosophise on such matters, for doing so would surely be the end of me. This reality requires one’s attention and does not allow for such luxuries. But it is barely an existence, believe me when I tell you that there is a reason all ghosts look pained. It isn’t something that they’ve carried over from their physical life, it is the pain of hanging onto this sliver of being. There is no respite, there is no moment to stop and get your bearings, for that moment would be your final moment. This is what we do, this is line surfing - a continual balancing act on that final thread of life. I can hear more questions. Why hang on? If this struggle is so difficult, why continue? Why not just give up and fade from existence like the countless billions before you? Why not face up to the fact of the matter and simply accept your time’s up? I ask myself these questions constantly. The truth is I don’t know. Somehow, at the moment of death, my soul reached out and grabbed the line. In the shock of those last moments of normal life my soul somehow fought on, it forgot to die. It was instinct or perhaps cowardice, or maybe just a fluke of nature. I don’t know what, I have no answers. But I wished I’d let go then. Because now I can’t. I have prayed for the courage to stop, to just let go and accept the inevitable. Accept that I have died. But somehow a vestige of me lives on, flickering between life and death. A ghost in the machine. I suppose deep down it is the survival instinct, that same instinct that caused me so much pain as I lay gasping for my dying breath. An unwillingness to face the ultimate void. But even as my memories of a life lived fade to nothingness and the nothingness of the surfing becomes like all I’ve ever known I still cling on. But why? There is nothing to exist for, except existence itself. It can only be for this, everything that was mine to look at or touch or love has gone, I have passed it by. This is all there is for me now, everything else lies below, untouchable except for some fading memories. It is difficult to put into words what it’s like here, of course, it’s not a line we surf, nor it is the tip of a pyramid that we balance upon, these are just metaphors. It could be described as walking a tightrope in the dark, always buffeted by an uncertain wind. Or clinging desperately by the fingertips to a frozen handhold on a granite cliff face. But it’s more than that, it’s a desperate balancing act to preserve a memory of life, a taste of consciousness. And it’s constant, one mistake, one slip of the mind, one wrong….


It was near ten, and morning sun was streaming in through the big windows open to the courtyard outside. Birds hopped and skittered on the tile floor, only to be half-heartily chased out by the staff with a broom. It promised to be a glorious day, and he didn’t want to be here. The light hurt his eyes, his mouth tasted like death, and he needed at least another 4 hours of sleep. Yet he’d stupidly been duped into prepaying for breakfast, so here he was. Bleary-eyed and still half-asleep, but here none the less. Half leaning against the door frame, he heavily stumbled towards the buffet, wincing at the mid-morning sunshine assaulting his eyes. It looked like there was only some pretty slim pickings left from the morning’s rush. He picked out himself a couple of oily sausages, some very dry scrambled eggs, and a single, soggy, overcooked tomato. Together with a bitter cup of black coffee and some fresh toast, it wasn’t exactly the best meal he’d ever had, but he’d certainly had worse. Taking a corner seat, well away from the noisiest of the customers, Vik slowly ate his breakfast and took in his surroundings. He’d only been here a couple of days, but he’d liked his stay thus far. It was central to the city, clean, and most importantly, cheap. It had a bar down in the basement that served something called ‘Panther Milk’. He suspected that the drink was made out of equal parts condensed milk and paint thinner. In the clear light of day he also suspected that he should have refused the vile concoction after the first sip- and he knew that he should have refused the bottles that followed. The night before was a bit of a blur. He couldn’t even remember the names of the guys that he’d spent half the night talking to. Cameron and Tomás? Something like that. As the caffeine and the grease began to hit his system, he began to feel distinctly more human. He cleared away his now empty plate, poured himself another bitter coffee, and retreated to his corner with a handful of brochures. As he looked over the third walk that proclaimed to be a “journey of a lifetime”, he noticed that he was being watched. A young woman with dark hair and almond eyes was idly looking through her phone, but intermittently flicking said eyes in his direction. He smiled to himself, and turned back to the brochures. She had been there last night too, hadn’t she? He’d bought her a drink – or she’d bought him one? By the subsiding pain in his head, it was likely both. He tried to remember what he could about her, but the milk had done a pretty good job of fogging out most of the night. There were still fragments - She was Romanian, an air hostess, and was here because she had a week off. She spoke clipped English with an slight accent, and had gone to great pains to teach him several Romanian profanities. She said that she hated dancing, but still danced with the fury of silk caught in a gust of wind. He smiled at the thought, before shaking the reverie out of his head and turning back to idly thumb through the brochures again. Much like the previous four flyers that he’d looked at, this journey claimed that it “had it all”. Vik tossed the glossy paper aside. The Romanian had packed up her plate and now was fussing about her table, as if unsure about something. Smiling as she walked across the room, he motioned for her to sit, before pushing some of the brochures in her direction. What did she have planned for today? Would she like some company? It promised to be a glorious day, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.


A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, splitting the dark clouds, illuminating the sea ever so slightly. A small wooden ship, with no less than three men, rocked back and forth on the stormy sea’s surface. The helmsman gripped the wheel as best he could, so as not to slip off the wet surface of the deck, while the captain shouted orders directly to him. The orders turned to an argument, and conflict of ideas with the helmsman who questioned the Captain’s beliefs. The Captain marched off below deck to a man, seated on a chair, that with each crashing wave slid to and fro across the mess hall. “I really ‘ope, ye ‘re whatch ye say ye ‘er, stranger.” The Captain maintained a wide stance to steady himself, glaring down at the stranger sliding across his mess hall. The stranger was garbed from head to toe in black, his hat tipped down – no response so much as uttered from him. “If ye cann’t do it, ye might’s well say so now. We might even get out of ‘ere alive.” The stranger’s head began to rise. From beneath the hat, two eyes peered out, eyes that showed no fear, eyes that told a story of what they had seen; things beyond the Captain’s imagination. His voice was quiet, but not soft, firm, but not commanding, “It’s time.” A wave crashed against the ship sending the stranger’s chair across the mess hall once again, to the table the chair was originally meant for. The table had not so much as moved, kept still by the weight of the sword that lay across it. The stranger picked up his weapon and started off for the deck. On the deck, the helmsman cursed and shouted – holding on for dear life. The stranger, followed by the captain had come to join him topside. The stranger held out his sword to the captain, wishing him to hold onto it. The blade was enormous, needing two hands to be held upright – the sword was a brilliant hue of blue, and the hilt was a darker metal of which the captain was also not familiar. Once the weight of the sword was fully handed over to him, he couldn’t help but have his knees buckle and tremble below its weight, it was all he could do to stand. The Captain’s eyes widened, taking in the stranger’s figure, who could carry such a weapon without so much of an effort. The stranger stripped down to his pants, the water beading off of him as he held out his hand to the captain. He returned it back to its rightful owner, who without so much of a heave took it into his own hands, and turned to look out at the sea. That was when it arose, from the depths of the sea. The water bulged and parted, unable to hold the creature at bay. Its head emerged first, maybe 50 yards long. Its teeth roughly 5 yards and sharper than any human’s sword. As its emerged from the water, they stared down at the boat as if acknowledging the stranger and not once wavering in its view. More and more of the beast begin to slither out from the sea, and the captain fell backwards on the deck, in fear. “…L-Leviathan…” It was the serpent-dragon, Leviathan. Only thought to be myth to some, but more than legend to others. The stranger swung his sword onto his shoulder, and bent his knees. The captain watched idly by, unable to stop him, unable to even ask him not to go. The stranger’s muscles tensed beneath the skin, and he leapt into the air – higher than any man the captain had ever seen. No sooner than he thought ‘Maybe this man can pull it off’, the stranger was snatched out of the air by the dragon. The captain, a burly man with clear over 20 years on the sea, looked up into the lightning filled sky and wept. He wept for the first time since his childhood. He didn’t cry for the stranger, no, he cried because he knew that both his helmsman and he were next. The Leviathan would spare no one. It was in the moment of doubt, that moment of terror where the captain could not control the shuddering of his own body, the beast stopped moving – its head turned. A dark liquid rained over the boat, and the dragon’s eye ceased to glimmer brightly in the storm. A single hand emerged, pulling the stranger to the surface of the dragon’s eye, coated in its blood. He tossed himself atop the Leviathan’s head, a screech coming from the creature that nearly shattered the captain’s eardrums. In his hand, he held a brilliant, glowing ball that shined a vibrant blue. He knew. The captain knew exactly what was in the stranger’s hand, without a shadow of a doubt. It was something he had only heard about in bed time stories. The helmsman shouted to captain, in a panic, “What, what in the seven seas is that?!” The captain responded calmly, “That there’s the Leviathan’s soul itself.


A cheery voice at the other end picked up. "Hello, A1 Galactic Exterminators! You imbue 'em, we subdue 'em!" I cleared my throat. "Hi, do you guys come out to the Milky Way?" "We sure do, what can we help you with?" "Well, I've spun up a planet to raise an advanced species, but the planet has been over-run by a natural predator, and the intended species' evolution is in trouble." "No problem sir, we have a number of attractive packages that will return control back to your intended species. We'll just start with a few questions. What is the plantary lifeforms' base element?" "Carbon." "Great, any non-biological augmentations?" "Nope, 100% organic." "Wow, hard mode..... ok, I think I found your planet, I'm pulling it up right now... Hmm, all the current lifeforms are concentrated on this one continent, which makes complete eradication impossible. It will be a bit tricky to target just the lizards, but we do have a package where we take a native virus and genetically engineer it to selectively target the unwanted species. It's a bit costly though, about 4 days." "That's a little steep for me..." "Well, for 2 days we can seed the super-volcanoes on your planet to simultaneously trigger, and create a small cove for the intended species to shelter during the storm. Very distressing, but effective." "It's interested... but I've already spent 6 days putting this planet together, and I have plans for the future for some of my hours..." "Well sir, how about we see what your budget is and we can go from there?" "I have about 3 hours." A tense silence on the other end of the line... "...sir, for 3 hours we can chuck a rock at your planet and hope for the best." "Sounds good.


A muffled percussive thrum on my windscreen nudges me back to life. I recognise that black ski glove and those killer dimples, and I wind down the driver’s side window. “You’re early today?” He leans forward and kisses my cheek. “I wanted to be sure of the best seat in the house.”

He grins. “Nobody would dare to park here first thing.” I smile and rub the sleep from my eyes. “Happy birthday, darling.” I pass him an envelope. “Hey, you shouldn’t have.” He accepts the gift and hands me a steaming takeaway. “Your usual,” he says, and passes me a spoon and two sachets. “How’s things with you?” I clutch the drink and lean over to unlock the door.

 “I’ll survive.” He circles round to the passenger side. “Is Hattie not here today?” There is enthusiastic panting from the back seat. He opens the door, and she hops over to the passenger seat and snuffles off after Charlie, who’s busy watering my driver-side hub-cap. “There’s no stopping those two.” He chuckles. “Are you up for a walk today?” “Let’s just watch the light show for a while.” The sky is already putting on a spectacular display for us; heralding the return of the major feature. Tangerine clouds tinged with gold blossom before our eyes. The heavens are going wild this morning.

I curl up next to him and close my eyes. # Six months ago, I had no idea he was the one. My antenna was switched off that day. We’d both been walking our dogs, and he’d come to my rescue. Hattie had left a mess on the pathway, and I’d forgotten my poo-sacks again. Sometimes, I don’t bother if there’s no one around, however everyone’s so touchy about it nowadays. I saw a couple nearby, so I thought I’d better make an effort. I tried to lift the business with a stick and get it out of the way. Once I’d lifted it, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next. When he approached me, I was standing beside Hattie, as if I was a BBQ guest examining a charred specimen on a skewer.

   Jeff’s dog, Charlie, rushed over the meadow toward Hattie. They had instant chemistry. Charlie snuffled around Hattie. She remained reserved and receptive before reciprocating in kind. Jeff squatted down next to Charlie and brought him to heal. “Sorry about, that,” he says and offers me an open poo-sack. “Charlie’s not normally so forward.” I smile and say not to worry. I was still looking at Jeff’s dark brown eyes when I shook the morsel from the stick. The plastic bag proves elusive. I fail. The deposit falls on Jeff’s left shoe. He stands up as I bend down and we both clash our heads.

“Sorry! sorry!” I clutch the top of my head. “I’m so sorry, are you?” “It’s ok,” he says, clutching his nose. “It’s not broken...” “...you’re bleeding!” I reach inside my pocket for a handy wipe. “Please let me.” “It’s fine,” he says, leaning his head back and then smiling. “I’ve seen a lot worse in the triage unit, believe me.” Those dimples are to die for. “Let me buy you a coffee at least.” “I can’t stay, I’ve work.” I am crestfallen. “Maybe another time?” “Some morning, maybe.” he says. “Hey! Charlie! Come here!” Hattie had made a new friend that day, even if I hadn’t. I watched Jeff walk over to his car. It was an Audi estate, dark green and a couple of years old. He opened the rear hatch for Charlie. A minute later they’d disappeared. # This morning, the first orange rays of sunlight flicker across Jeff’s face and he pulls down the car’s sun visor flap to protect his eyes. I nestle into his neck and he shifts his arm from around my shoulder.

“It’s gone dead,” he says, flexing his fingers and rubbing his forearm with his free hand. I look up at him and reposition my head on his firm chest.  “I can’t hang out today, darling,” he says, stroking my hair with his long fingers.

“I thought we were going to spend the day together?” I do my quivery-pouty bottom-lip-thing, but he holds firm.    He had to get back to tell Isabel. It was now or never. Jeff had to speak to her this morning and say it was over. It had been over for a year as far as I knew. They had separate beds in separate rooms and separate lives. They’d “outgrown each other”, he’d said, and they’d both moved on. Well, he’d moved on at least, I knew that much. He kisses my hand as the sun ascends above the tree line on the far side of the lake. His lips were warm and soft despite the morning chill. Before he’d wiped the windscreen, there’d been globules of condensation on the glass and the ghost of a heart shape. I’d drawn it with my fingertip. In the middle, I’d put my initials next to his. He’d smiled and added a “XXX” underneath, and he’d kissed my lips. It had been hard, he’d said, to carry on like this.  Jeff had pretended everything in his life was all right; but it was impossible. He hadn’t found the right moment to speak to Isabel. They argue all the time, especially when his shift pattern at the hospital means working late. They had money issues, like everyone else, I suppose. He’d told her he had to do long hours to earn more money to pay for everything. She said she’d get work and that would help, but she never did. It wasn’t his fault. She wanted to live in that house and go on holiday all the time and everything else. She couldn’t see how tired he was and how they never spent time together because of that pressure. Jeff said he still cared for her, but it was killing him. He just had to find the right moment to talk to her. It hadn’t happened yet, that’s all.

# The morning after our collision, I returned around 7 am and pulled up in my usual spot.  The sky was clear, and it was light despite the sun not clearing the horizon. An autumnal mist hovered above the motionless surface of the lake in front of my car. He hadn’t arrived yet, and there were only three other vehicles in the car park. Hattie was desperate to get walking. I calm her down with a snack. Maybe he’d been already? The cafe owner had just arrived and was opening up the serving hatch. He was silhouetted against steam rising from his Gaggia’s cleaning cycle. Hattie was whining when I let her out, and I walked over to speak to him.

“Can I help you, madam?” He says. “I’d like a cup of err...” He raises an eyebrow as if he’s gauging my request. “Do you recognise your daily regulars?” He nods. “There’s a man with a dark brown retriever puppy?” He furrows his forehead. “He has a big German hatch back?” “Ah, you mean Jeff and Charlie?” I nod. “He’s an early morning latte man, madam.” “I’ll take two,” I reach for my purse. “How much, please?” “That’s seven for two.” “Have you seen him this...?” “Morning, George.” “You too, Jeff.”

Oh, my God.

“Your latte, sir, courtesy of this lovely lady.” I want to die. “No, surely not,” he says, “it’s my turn today.” He spares my blushes and hands George a tenner. # And so it began, long sunrise walks with a coffee and happy dogs. We had perfect moments in our pre-dawn paradise. There was a regular route and a rainy-day-circuit too, though I never noticed the weather when I was there with Jeff. The clean air was a relief from the city’s choking roads. It was our oasis in all the grime. I don’t remember seeing anyone else in our park, ever. It was our kingdom and our forest and our lakes too. On busy mornings in the summer, we’d joke about how we should restrict the public access to the estate. And how it’d been a mistake to allow them to bring their vehicles onto our land. It would never do.

It felt perfect, but I had to know for sure. “What’s your star sign?” I’m trembling. This could all fall apart. “Don’t know, but my birthday is in November.” “When?” “The 24th.” “So, you’re Sagittarius.” It’s the real thing, for sure. “I’m Aquarius.” “That’s good?” Oh my goodness, that’s so right for me, and he doesn’t even know it. We stop at a bench to let dogs off the leads and watch the sunrise. It’s our bench now. # Now I’d discovered Jeff’s birthday, I had to buy him a lovely watch. I shouldn’t have spent so much, but I knew he’d love it. I had to be very organised to create an exciting treat for his special day. A week before his birthday, I returned to the wood by myself. I used my phone to get a picture of the tree with the heart-shaped hole in the bark. I’d noticed it first a few months ago. We had to struggle through bracken to get to it. It was hollow inside. “A perfect space for two,” I’d said. We squeezed inside. I was right. It was a perfect fit. Inside that hollow tree, we kissed. We were queen and king of the woodland, parkland royalty in our own castle. We stayed there until the sun had gone way over the tree line and we could hear a steady stream of traffic chugging in low gear on the perimeter road.

“Damn the public.”

He smiled and lifted his arm from round my shoulder, “it’s gone dead, sorry.” “We should close the gate after 8 am and stop them visiting.”

He nodded and rubbed back the feeling into his numb limb.    First, I made a map of the trees in our wood; they all had little metal numbered tags. The map had all the features we visited every day: the heart tree, the broken silver birch and the stick dwellings left by the little people. I had it all planned out. I visited the photo store and got them to make a special printed jigsaw of my heart tree picture.

   After I’d created my treasure trail, I prepared lots of clues and returned to our wood to hide them away with the jigsaw pieces. We’d follow the clues together and use the map to collect pieces of the puzzle and then at last he’d find his watch hidden inside our heart tree. I spent three days planning and executing my scheme. I wanted it to be perfect. It’s our tree and our park,and it all belongs to us now. # Jeff didn’t tell me much about his life, except that he worked in the A&E. He never even told me where he lived. At first, I assumed he was single. He asked about my life but whenever I tried to find out about him he changed the subject. “I was just interested, that’s all,” I’d say, “I wasn’t being nosey.” He was a busy professional something-or-other, but I didn’t know much more.

I told him about how my husband was a high functioning alcoholic and how we lived separate lives. Jeff asked if he ever took Hattie for a walk, and I told him he wasn’t a morning guy. We had had children together, but they are all grown up and I’d found that difficult. Being a mum and suddenly not being a mum is hard. My hubby worked all the time and was home late every night. I didn’t care what he did anymore. Jeff had changed all that. My life was bearable again. I loved planning little surprises. Jeff liked my surprises, too. He was going to enjoy this one. We’d both have fun. # When Jeff left this morning, he forgot his envelope. I discovered it later, on top of the dashboard. I’d got food prepared, and I’d brought Hattie’s basket too. The treasure hunt could wait until he came back later. He’d return with good news after speaking to Isabel. Hattie and I could stay in the park and walk and enjoy the last warm day of autumn. So we walked and walked until we’d both walked far more than enough. # There’s a tap on the driver’s side window. “You’re here late today?” It’s George with an offering. I wind down the window. “I wanted to be sure of the best seat in the house.” He hands me the steaming cup. “Your usual,” he says, and passes me a spoon and two sachets. I rub the sleep from my eyes. “Thank you,” I say, and take the cup. “How kind of you.” He peers into the rear of my vehicle. “No Hattie this evening?” There are enthusiastic breaths from the back seat, the travel rug comes to life, and she scratches at the rear passenger window. “We’re closing up for the night and they’ll be locking the gates, love.” “I’m planning to watch the heavens tonight.” “Is there a meteor storm or something unusual?” “I suspect there’s a misalignment, but I can’t be sure.” “So it‘s divine inspiration you’re after?” “I need celestial intervention right now.” “At least you have Hattie for company.” “I have the moon and her reflection too.” “She'll always be there, that’s for sure.” The End


It’s a late thursday. Derek has finished half a chicken parm, quick. Still hungry, he goes for the pantry. No thought, bowl of cereal. Something colorful. He devours it, pours a second. After that, he has a third. Cartoon mascot on the box watches on in frozen glee. Bowl fills with sugary dust, not enough for a fourth. Undeterred, Derek drives to the local mart. He buys a box of that same brand, but family size. Now he’s back at home. Less hungry. A full has set in. Decides to have a sit. Wakes up the next day, has a fourth bowl, first thing. After that he has a fifth. Now he’s out of milk. He’s also late for work. Derek attends work and forgets to pick up milk on the way home. He goes back out to get milk. At the grocery he meets someone who may turn out to be the love of his life. He returns home, has a sixth bowl. Then two more. The shakes begin. He’s diabetic. Only a little, but every betic has their break. Derek desperately searches for an old prescription of life saving insulin. He finds it. He drives to the pharmacy to get it filled. There’s a line. Derek dies. Now Derek is in heaven, his every wish is instantly granted. He has a ninth bowl of cereal, the best yet. Eternity stretches as Derek devours bowl after bowl until he has reached his billionth bowl. The bowl after that takes literal hours. Derek reaches down at a deathly slow pace, each spoonful of sugar is a tortuous task. As he finally finishes bowl one billion and one it dawns on Derek that he might be in hell, in literal hell brought on by a lifetime of general apathy toward social causes and an overconsumption of the popular culture of his time. Derek orders another cereal from the celestial cereal makers that be. He has forgotten all other words and wants. He has become a titanic sized blob, Derek’s former face just a smudge in comparison, slurping up cereal like slop from a trough. Suddenly a beam of light breaks through the dark abyss that the gargantuan Derek calls his home. He squints his beady, now pure black eyes at the light and sees it is a woman, the woman from the grocery, floating naked in radiant light. Derek moves toward her at a terrifying speed, wriggling like a chinese dragon across the pitch black sky. Ever closer, Derek’s human sized mouth begins to grow to the width of his impossibly massive body, revealing row after row of razor sharp fangs. The floating, glowing woman opens her eyes, they glow even brighter than the blinding aura that surrounds her. With a flick of her wrist a sword of pure light spawns from her hand as she dives down below. Derek is sliced right open, his innards rain bright, colorful flakes and puffs like a city sized piñata. He lands with a solid thud, sweating and dying as the ethereal woman slowly approaches him. She bends down and kisses his forehead, dissolving him in light, extinguishing his being from all realities.