

Copyright © 2020 The Superstars & Friends

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For anyone who needs it.
OTHER TITLES

By The Superstars

From The Mysterium:

Title Not Included

Some Assembly Required

Functioning as Intended

This Way Up

By Fi Angwin

From DOUBLE CHECK:

Soul Lights

Soul-Scars

From Telos Publishing:

Hunted by Demons

From The History Press:

Manx Folk Tales

From DOUBLE CHECK:

Cold Dead Cosplay

By Rae Bailey

From The Mysterium:

Hey Kid

By Jessica Grace Coleman

From Darker Times:

The Little Forest Series:

The Former World

Memento Mori

The Exalted

Carnival Masquerade

The Gloaming

The Downfall Trilogy:

The Downfall

By Raven Dane

From Demain Publishing:

House of Wrax

By Mike Farren

From Templar:

Pierrot and His Mother

From Yaffle:

All of the Moons

Reel Bradford

From The Blue Nib:

The Blue Nib Chapbook Four

By Kim Hosking

From Jara23 Publishing

Midwinter Anthology 2014

Midwinter Anthology 2016

By Lauren K. Nixon

From The Mysterium:

Echoes of the Light

The Fox and the Fool

The House of Vines

Mayflies

By Iain Shaw

From Deadstar Publishing:

Age of Slavery

By Laura Sinclair

As Laura Testa

From Sybex:

PageMaker 5.0 for the Mac Page Design
CONTENTS

Introduction

Picture Credits

Sixty Days

The Last Time I Was a Child

Dogma and Catma

One More Sin

Coyness in the 21st Century

A Fairy Tale

The Message Tree

The Wolf in the Wood

The Wild Moon

Pinned

Never Alone

The Township of King

The Darkness of Lockdown

Light

Digging In

The Labyrinth

Time Lapse

Hope

The Devil Got a Website

A Letter

Fait Accompli

When the Lights Come On

The Most Beautiful Word

La Costa Lotte

Toads, Exorcised

Ocean's Gift

The Call

Hedge Knight

Place

Tallahassee Golem

Things That Last

Homeward

Love, Liberated

Acknowledgements

Contributors
INTRODUCTION

There is a tradition, in the theatre, of never leaving a space entirely dark.

For the most part, it is done for practical reasons: there are many dangers in a light-less theatre, from falling into the orchestra pit, to taking your shins out on the set. It is helpful to be able to navigate the space safely, but also to be able to find the controls for the house lights.

The ghost light itself is usually a solitary bulb or lamp atop a stand, caged for safety. While no one is in the building, it continues to burn, just in case it is needed. There's something quite arresting about the sight: that one point of light, throwing shadows as much as illumination.

Of course, theatres are places where stories are told, both on stage and off it, and small wonder then, that most of them have at least one ghost. Mine does. (Buy me a drink some time and I'll tell you all about the little girl who fell from the dress circle and plays with the musical instruments when they're left in the seating rig.) Many theatre ghosts are held to be mischievous, if not downright temperamental. It is usually thought to be a good idea to stay on their good side. For this reason, some say the space must stay lit to appease the ghost and not incur their wrath.

But it is also a promise: that we will return. That the lights will come back on, the music will swell, the costumes will ruffle and the rafters will rattle once more with life.

And so, after a fashion, is this volume.

We have Superstars, now, from all over the place, from all kinds of backgrounds. Some of us are published or self-published; some of us write professionally, some of us have never written before; some of us are poets dabbling with prose, others are prose-writers temporarily stricken with poetry; some of us are more at home writing comic books, others write novels when they aren't being Superstars, a few of us delve into non-fiction on a semi-regular basis. Our stories, musings and poems range as widely as we do, across love and loss, friendship and adventure, murder and magic, fantasy and family.

With the aim of putting together a free ebook to keep people entertained at such an extraordinary time, we reached out to some of our friends and fellow creators, writers, artists and photographers, and they've really pulled out all the stops. Whether you're after poetry, the brevity of a short story, or some good, old-fashioned escapism, we hope you enjoy this anthology.
What a strange time to be alive.

At the start of this year, I had assumed April and May would be taken up with conventions and book fairs, that I might visit family, or even take a trip north for research and finally finish that novel I've been working on. Very quickly, it became obvious that this was going to be a very different kind of spring, and will likely continue on into a very different kind of summer.

It is difficult to look around at what is happening with Covid-19 and know quite how to respond. There is a great sense of helplessness, even among those who are giving the most, and that is a thing that weighs heavy. We, as a species, are going through a collective trauma, and as we survive and work our way towards our new normal, whatever that is, we're falling back on the arts to provide an escape, and hopefully a little solace.

Among our writers are healthcare professionals, key workers, volunteers and everyone else, quietly staying at home so we can get this thing on the hop as quickly as possible. As a group, we have thus far been fortunate, though many of our members have themselves been ill, as have our extended families. At a time when so many are doing so much, we wanted to be able to give something back, and this is the result. Putting an anthology together in a month is a tall order, so we reached out to our fellow creatives, and good grief but they've done us proud.

I could not be prouder of my writers and friends.

Stay safe.

Lauren K. Nixon

Chief Curator

~*~

This year has been nothing like anyone expected when celebrating the New Year. Our freedom has been restricted and everyone has felt the impact of Covid-19 in one way or another. I have felt it through twelve weeks of shielding and not being able to see my partner, family, or venture beyond the boundary of my back garden.

Morale and building up spirits has, to me, never been so necessary. Simple tasks have become tricky and it's difficult to see how we will get through this. But we will.

This anthology has given each of the writers and artists involved a time to escape into an imagined reality and to transport our readers there as well. Ghost Lights has become a very tangible entity and one I have had the greatest pleasure of co-curating.

We are, as Lauren has said, a group of many key workers and others just as valuable, muddling our way through and gathering together to put our own stamp on this time. We have come together with one goal and we have reached that goal admirably.

Stay safe and see you on the other side!

G. Burton

Co-Curator
PICTURE CREDITS

Rae Bailey \- Apple Blossom

Naveen B. Bhat \- Supermoon; Friendship; Memorial

G. Burton \- Carousel; Riot of Colour; Sparkle

Alison Clare \- A Single, Shining Flower

Mark Connors \- Steep

Izzy de Bono \- Cherry Blossom

Fiona Gallagher \- Skull

Liz Hearson \- Ghostly Lights

Slithey Malice \- String Faerie; Google; Dreamscape; Colour Wheel; Sanctuary

Minnie Delphi Mannion & Family \- Gift

Lauren K. Nixon \- Dew; Lilac Heart; Daisies; Glow; Reflection; Winter Sunrise; English Rose; River Wharfe; Cairns; Hydrangea; Nails; Who, Me?

Heather E. Page \- Peek; Curious; Giraffe; Positivity; Sunflower; Safe

Hannah Russ \- Rainbow; All Booked Up; Flower

Joanna Sedgewick \- Photograph of Mark Connors

Laura Sinclair \- White Oak; Summer

Jo Shoebridge \- Tasty

Ariadne Thayne \- Canal; Night Light

Heather Thompson \- Night Life; Face; Mountain; Gourd

E. L. Tovey \- Sunflower; Flames; Jellies; Fireworks; Feathered

Yvonne Ugarte \- Light on the Water; Above the Clouds

Little Red Wolf \- Tomatoes; White Flower; Water Dog; Magnolia; Red Wood; Line; Busy Day; Planets; Wild Garlic; Stump; Moss; Moor; Cosy

Cover art by James at www.GoOnWrite.com

Sixty Days

Lauren K. Nixon

March 24th

I am not much of a diarist, but this year I am writing two. One will consider the statistics and the news and such, and the other – because I will lose my mind if that's all I write about – will be more about the day-to-day. Think Samuel Pepys, but with less emphasis on personal plumbing.

I am getting ahead of myself, however.

My name is Eli Stone. I am thirty-two years of age. I build websites for a living – freelance, so I'll probably be okay, for a while. We'll see. I play the violin with reasonable success, and I watch a lot of movies.

Last night, the Prime Minister announced that the UK was going into lockdown for the foreseeable future. I am not sure how I feel about this, to be honest. My boss had us all working from home from last week, anyway. It's good that there is an official line on it at last. It's going to be very weird not to be able to just pop out, though. Everyone is transitioning to working from home, home-schooling their kids, taking an hour's exercise a day, catching up with people via video chat, and Coping with a capital C.

Like Pepys, I have the urge to record some of these events through a lens at the personal level, so mostly in this diary I will be focusing on my household and my street, Cooper Grove. I can't promise an entire wheel of cheese, but you never know.

A little background:

My household consists of myself and Fudge, a cantankerous three-legged housecat whom I have had since he was a cantankerous, three-legged kitten. We live in a three-bedroomed terraced house, in a row of seven, on Cooper Grove. It's probably too big for us, but I'm loathe to move, if I'm honest. I don't know if I'd ever find something like it. And I love the location.

Our back gardens are narrow, but fairly long and run up against a back road that serves as a place for the bins and raucous football matches among the local children. On the far side of the back road is The Sweet House, a rambling old theatre of some renown. Before lockdown it had a lively and varied programme of both local and professional things, which I rather enjoyed attending, and reporting back on to Fudge. Their garden, a thing which theatres don't usually have, backs onto ours, so the land between Cooper Grove and The Sweet House forms sort of an island of green chaos between the buildings.

I live at number six, which is two from the end.

At number two, there's a Dave. I think he's a Dave, anyway. He has a teenage son I am ninety percent sure is called Liam, who is working on getting a motorbike license, so I assume is sixteenish. Dave is a delivery driver for a grocery store (and therefore is working all hours at the moment) and Liam is a cleaner at Aldi.

Number four is home to Derek and Simon, my immediate neighbours. They were going to celebrate their 20th anniversary this year with a big party, but I guess that will have to evolve a bit. Derek is an architect and is presumably working from home; Simon works at the local library, so I'm assuming he's on furlough, unless they're doing a lot of online stuff.

On the other side of me, at number eight, are Josie, Melanie and their six month old baby, Lucy. Mel runs an online seamstress business (I made her website), and Jo's a civil servant, so working from home is going to be a bit of a juggling act for them.

At number ten, it's Becki and her two kids, who have names, but get in trouble so much that we all just call them Thing 1 and Thing 2. She was made redundant last week. I don't know what she's going to do.

Number twelve is home to the Suri family: Nadia and Karim, their three kids, Atif, Tahmina and Umar, and Nadia's mother, Sidra. Nadia is a teacher and her school is still open, I think; Karim is a GP. It must be particularly nerve-wracking for them.

Then, across from our little block of terraced back gardens is The Sweet House. It was built in the 19th century, and has within its labyrinth, three performance spaces a bar, several rehearsal spaces, a workshop, various storage areas and a big flat at the top, where the custodians live. I'm not entirely sure how this arrangement came about, but basically the four people who spend the most time managing things live in what used to be the attic. I've never been up there. I only know because when they did a ghost tour last Halloween, they told us.

There's Bob, who is in his late sixties and does all the administrative stuff; Carol, who is the technical manager and a bit intense; and Cole and Katie, who are about my age and sort of do a bit of everything, as far as I can tell. I think Cole does most of the cooking and Katie keeps the garden. It's a sort of holistic operation where they grow some of the food they sell. It's a good garden, though. Three years ago it was a couple of falling down outbuildings, but now it's quite lovely, and I am glad to be able to look out into it.

Anyway, that's Cooper Grove. And this is Day 1.

25th March

I think basically everyone is confused by some aspect of the government advice. A lot of places are still winding down, equipment is being sent home and there are about six million toilet paper memes.

I turned off the radio, because they seem unable to talk about anything else. The ice cream van parked at the end of the road for easily two hours, with his music on, until Melanie stalked out with her mask on and asked him to fuck off. He was a bit rude, until he realised she had a six-month-old baby and everyone on the street is trying to bloody work. Myself, Simon and Derek gave her a three-man cheer as she went past and she executed a beautiful, socially distant curtsy. Thing 1 and Thing 2 were unimpressed at the lack of ice-cream. They have declared the street's adults to be tyrants.

Called Dad. He is surprisingly calm about it all. Set up online ordering for him. Feels weird that I can't just visit. I talked him through Skype.

26th of March

Rubbish weather, so I stayed inside most of the day, and didn't bother with 'real clothes'. Waved at Bob from my office in the attic. He appears to be building something at his desk. I'm not sure what, but it seems to involve a lot of glue. I'm quite intrigued.

Fudge knocked over three glasses of water today. I think he knows something is up. Ordered noise cancelling headphones online, in case the ice cream van comes back. Also a new catnip banana for Fudge.

Everyone went outside at 8pm, or hung out of their windows, and clapped for the people keeping us all going at the NHS, and keyworkers and such. It was strangely moving, and – if I'm honest – a bit scary. It didn't feel entirely real until now.

27th of March

Did not sleep well. Note to self: do not stay up late reading the news, it is not good for me.

Things are beginning to settle down. I'm seeing a lot of influx of new clients, because everyone is having to adjust to distance working and learning. I've decided to stick to my normal hours, because I've done working from home before and otherwise, time becomes meaningless.

I've also decided that I need things to work on over the weekend – maybe more physical things, too. But not ones that require deliveries, or might result in minor injuries. I feel like the NHS has enough on, right now.

Cole and Carol set up a Facebook group for the Grove, and stuck a sign on the wall about it. We've all joined. People are helping each other out, which is really nice.

March 28th

Saturday. Normally, I'd be going off for a walk somewhere, and I have the impetus to expend energy. It's beautiful out, so I spent most of the day tidying my garden. We have worked out on the group that our fences are sufficiently high that even if people stray into 3 feet of no-man's-land close to the boundary, we're probably going to be okay, as long as we are all sensible. That doesn't mean that we're not avoiding it, just that we're not going to panic if we're both hanging washing out at the same time.

Liam dropped Becki some groceries off after his shift. I like Liam, he's good people. Melanie is experimenting with more effective masks. I chatted with Carol – she was in the part of the theatre that backs out over the road, where they lift in sets for shows, I was in my kitchen. She gave me a recipe for gingerbread brownies.

According to the Facebook group, Nadia and Karim have turned the attic and the basement into self-isolation mini-flats so they don't infect their family. I think they've moved into them, separately, for the duration. There are no words for how angry I am that they have to do this. Luckily, Sidra can look after the kids. I can hear them playing in their garden. Nadia, who has the attic, is directing a game remotely. It breaks my heart.

March 29th

Time has no meaning.

Well, sort of. The clocks went forward this morning. People on the internet are being way more dramatic about this than it probably requires, but although many of my time keeping devices updated themselves, somehow I have lost all faith in their accuracy.

The catnip banana arrived. Fudge is ecstatic.

Spent much of the day in the garden. I'm not much of a gardener, but I have a bit of lawn, some flowerbeds and some strawberries. My predecessor had a greenhouse, which I have used for storage up to now, so I cleaned it out. I'm a bit concerned about how we're going to get food, so I figure if I'm taking a bit of pressure off the shops by growing my own veg, that ought to be good. I actually have plant pots, somehow. I'm going to see if anywhere will deliver compost and seeds. It might not seem that essential, but again, even if I'm just supplementing my diet a bit, that's got to help.

Simon tells me the chickens are arriving this week. They've had the coop ready for a couple of weeks, so this isn't a knee-jerk lockdown thing. It takes up most of the bottom third of their garden, and Derek designed it with lots of things for the chickens to run about on, climb, hide in – that sort of thing. They've got grass and mud and a water feature with an actual fountain. I'm quite excited.

Played X-box games online with Liam, Dave, Cole, Carol, Josie, Atif and Thing 2. I have never before realised how badly I suck at it.

March 30th

Back to work! All the kids seem to have the same time in the garden, however they are being home-schooled, which is good, I guess, since they can yell at each other across the fences. Sidra got her grandkids outside by 9am to do some kind of online PE thing. It looked exhausting. Thing 1 and Thing 2 helped Becki with the laundry, which was nice.

The Facebook group is full of pictures of the kids' art, YouTube tutorials and gorgeous pictures of Lucy. I put a picture of Fudge sleeping on top of the wardrobe. Liam has started calling me 'Cat-Dad'.

Cole put up some recipes, which I'm going to try. I have food coming tomorrow – and loo roll! I'm quite relieved.

31st of March

Ermagerd, Carol's brownies were so good. I've already had four. So. Good.

My headphones are here, so I can tune out the kids' shrieks when I need to, though it's nice to hear them most of the time. Lucy did a lot of crying this morning, but she's okay, according to Josie. Just doing her baby thing, I guess.

Dad called through Skype and we cooked dinner together. He's got himself back in with the milkman, who is also delivering eggs.

I'm quite surprised Spotify haven't come up with a lockdown playlist yet. It seems like the kind of thing they would be really good at. I have to turn it off every so often because the (entirely necessary, don't get me wrong) government information adverts damage my calm. Made my way through 'Hits of the 90s', and apparently I sang pretty loud. Several group posts taking the mick, but in a very gentle way. Josie added some requests.

1st of April

Even Thing 1 and Thing 2 held off on April Fools this year, to everyone's relief.

The chickens arrived!

The person delivering them did a really complicated manoeuvre where they put the boxes inside the new coop (chickens come in boxes, who knew?), then bailed without touching anything so Derek and Simon could open them up, then disinfect everything. I think the entire street has been watching them all day, from various windows. Derek has named them after the Golden Girls, which does not surprise me at all.

Melanie dropped off packages with two masks in for everyone on the Grove, and the theatre. They're very good. Karim put up a post about how to safely decontaminate post the other day, so we all put that to good use. Cole asked if anyone has allergies, which is a thing that might come in handy. He made a Google doc' for it.

Bob put up links to places you can stream online theatre and music performances for free. There's a London Symphony Orchestra concert tomorrow – Brahms, I think. I might 'go'.

Working is hard. There are so many other things I want to do – and there's this big cloud inside my head that's getting in the way. It's probably stress. My boss tells me we're taking on new clients, but not to work overtime, because he doesn't want us burning out. He's a good egg, is Nigel. I sent him a picture of Fudge murdering his banana; he sent me one back of his pug, Henry, stealing his wife's garlic bread before being sick everywhere. It's this kind of thing I appreciate in a workplace.

April 2nd

Atif, Tahmina and Umar convinced Thing 1 and Thing 2 to do their morning PE with them. Sidra and Becki both joined in. It sounded like a lot of fun. They all spent the afternoon colouring the back wall of their gardens with rainbows of chalk for the NHS.

I was working out in the back bedroom when Nadia came home from work. I chatted to her through the window for a bit. She says there aren't many children still in school – and although her kids would qualify for being there, she's happier with Sidra taking care of them, for now. She'll be on 'Easter holidays' next week, though, so that will be easier to manage. Mostly, I think she's worried about Karim.

Worked in the garden for a bit, and listened to Dave and Liam doing some motorcycle maintenance. I'm glad I tidied it up a bit. I'm very, very grateful to have outside space. I think I would already have gone loopy if I couldn't at least sit outside.

Went outside and clapped for the NHS again. The chickens were a bit freaked out – but they soon settled down. At least we've had no fireworks here.

The concert was excellent!

3rd of April

I'm still enjoying the presence of the chickens, and I'm glad there's no cockerel. Simon said something about urban livestock rules. I assume it's to do with noise. Fudge is spending most of his time lounging in the window, sunning himself and watching them – except when he is trying to climb on my head when I'm on call with clients.

Braved the pharmacy on Josie and Melanie's behalf. Lucy is a bit colicky. It was very weird being out in the world, and I did not like it one bit. Lots of rainbows in people's windows, though, which is nice. I threw my clothes in the washing machine when I got in, and then showered.

Managed to replenish tea and milk, too, but honestly I think I'll just order online if I can. One less person bumbling about has got to help. Given that I can stay home, I should.

Today we had a Skype meeting, which was less shambolic than Nigel thought it would be. I saw the inside of most of my colleagues' home office arrangements, and was introduced to several of their pets, partners and children. It was quite a happy affair. Nigel says at next week's meeting we are all required to wear a silly hat. I can't decide if I like the idea, or if he's trying too hard.

4th of April

The weekend again. Ordered seeds and compost. I spent most of the day outside, and I rather hoped to spot Kate in the garden of The Sweet House, but I didn't see her. I could do with some tips! Spent some time reading.

Practised the violin for a while. Played a couple of old folk tunes my grandad used to sing when I was a kid.

I've started doing a bit of laundry every day, instead of all of it on one day, which is being helped greatly by the continuing good weather. It also means I have to get up from my desk and hang it out, which is good for my back.

It occurs to me that I have not seen Katie once since lockdown began, even when they have the curtains open into the common area in the flat on top of the theatre. I think her rooms are across from mine – her curtains are shut. Cole and Bob have been working in the garden, which is usually her domain. She's not been online, either. I sent her a DM.

5th of April

I made cornflake cakes, of which I am rather proud. I'm not used to reducing recipes – usually if I bake I take the spare stuff to work and it gets hoovered up there. I made up little takeaway boxes of them for the street instead, which they can wipe clean and decontaminate, just in case. I mean, I don't think I have it, or have had it, but given how long it takes to incubate, how would I know? My hands were clean when I cooked, and I'm not breathing all over the cakes, so I feel like it's okay.

I'm pretty sure Thing 1 and Thing 2 have stolen some eggs from their mum and have put them in the old rabbit hutch at the end of their garden. I suspect they have chicken envy. Simon has become the chicken whisperer. He can pretty much hypnotise them into doing anything. Derek tells me he can't decide if he's mildly jealous of Simon, or of the chickens.

I cooked a brisket, which I'll try to use throughout the week. I feel like I'm relearning lots of skills I remember people doing when I was a child. We've become so dependent on constant access to a wide range of food all year round. I've realised that instead of popping out to the shop for things, I'm getting better at planning – which is good, because shopping slots are like gold dust, right now. I'm not opposed to heading to the shops in person, but if I can get stuff delivered, that's still reducing the number of people out – and if I'm sensible about the delivery, it means the delivery person is safer, too.

Everything takes a lot of thinking, which is exhausting.

No response from Katie – though I did see her light on this evening. I hope she's okay.

April 6th

I had entirely forgotten that this is a four day week! I'm quite pleased about it, because it looks like the stuff for the garden will come in time for me to get stuff done.

Karim sent me a message to say thanks for the chocolate nest things. He had yesterday and today off, which I feel like he badly needed, and we spent the morning chatting. I got the impression he was relieved not to have to talk about his work.

The cornflake cakes seem to have gone down a treat, though Thing 2 is offering her professional opinion as a food critic. I am unsure whether I ought to encourage this!

Watched Bob working on his project at the desk by the window. I still can't work out what it is. He was painting things today. I'm hoping he'll put some pictures up on the group, eventually.

Katie messaged me back. She had The Thing, before the lockdown came in, even, so she's working her way through recovery now. She's stopped having symptoms, and she has kept away from her housemates – though Cole has been keeping her fed – so, now it's just fatigue. I sort of want to ask her what it was like, but I don't think I will. I mean, there's so little information about it, but also I don't want to burden her with that. She says she's doing a lot of reading and re-watching her favourite TV shows. I'm glad she's alright.

April 7th

Today, I put the PE class thing on YouTube and worked out with the kids in our respective gardens, despite everyone being on the Easter break. Sidra messaged me on Facebook later to ask if I wouldn't mind joining her and Becki in taking it in turns to keep them occupied if it's sunny and we're all in the garden. I don't mind – it's only half an hour, and it gives them a break. I am really out of shape, though, so perhaps the PE sessions are something I should do more regularly, anyway.

Used my lunch break to FINALLY put up that poster on the stairs. I've had it for a year already – I can't believe it's taken me this long. This whole experience is really making me examine how much time I spend commuting. It's forty minutes, both ways. I don't entirely know why Nigel doesn't just have us working from home most of the week anyway, and just rent a space once a week for a meeting or something.

Sent Katie a YouTube video of someone's cat snowboarding. She said it made her laugh. She opened her curtains today, and we played charades. It was a lot of fun.

Called Dad, who took me on a walk with Snowy (I have not yet grown out of the Tintin jokes, and it doesn't help that his neighbours are the Thompsons). It was lovely, going out into the woods with him. I'm glad he lives somewhere remote enough that going for a walk is less of a risk.

8th of April

On request from Atif and Umar, I made a big rainbow picture for my front window. Tahmina is more interested in reading comics, apparently, so I printed out some pictures of Supergirl and Wonder Woman for her, too.

Managed to get a fair amount of work done today. I can hear the kids playing in the gardens, all day. Most of the adults are outside a lot, too. Nadia has the fortnight off, and having completely disinfected everything, is spending as much of it with her kids as she can. It must be rough that Karim can't do the same.

Becki asked me to design a website for her. She's doing freelance bookkeeping, while she's looking for another job – and that's going to be trickier for a while, I imagine. She insisted on paying my full rates, but I told her I'd only accept it two months after she'd got a new job. I might become her first client, actually. I can't even think straight about doing my tax, and I've started getting those emails from the HMRC already. I can't imagine they have time to process anything right now, anyway, with all the things the government has promised (though we'll see how many of those come true).

April 9th

Everyone wore a silly hat in today's meeting (it's a day early this week, because of Easter). It was a lot of fun, actually! We have a big range of weird hats. Fudge insisted on sitting on my lap throughout, as if he was also a part of the meeting. He only left when Henry the pug made an appearance. Rashid, who does our marketing, has a Chameleon called Betty, who seemed suspicious of everything. Next week we agreed to make the theme plants.

I pulled my bicycle out of the basement and put it up on blocks in the spare room so I can do some exercise when the weather turns again. I had a job getting the wheel off, so I messaged Dave, who gave me tips. Liam has been working really hard, using his spare time to drop shopping off to people who are self-isolating. Dave is – rightfully – very proud of him.

Katie had her windows open today, and I heard her singing. She's pretty good. She tells me she's allowed out tomorrow – both into the flat and into the garden. I'm quite excited for her. If the weather holds, she's going to sit outside and read. I might well do the same. Cole and Carol have been keeping on top of the gardening, but I'm not sure they've told her, so that will be a nice surprise for her.

Went out and clapped again. Someone nearby had fireworks, which made us all roll our eyes. Thing 1 and Thing 2 banged pans.

10th of April

Good Friday. I made Katie an e-card celebrating her freedom. She made some terrible puns about being 'arisen'. She tells me she is re-reading the Cadfael books by Ellis Peters. I've not read them, but I remember the TV show with Derek Jacobi. I wonder if they're very different.

My seeds and compost have arrived. Spent most of the day either planting them in seed trays in the back bedroom, or preparing the beds at the back. I don't have much of a front garden, just a space for the car, really. I might grow beans around the front door. It's therapeutic, because there's a tangible result.

The adults in the street are planning a visual Easter egg thing for the littles to spot, so we've all been cutting out pictures of colourful eggs to hide in our gardens. Bob has temporarily suspended working on the Mystery Project and is making egg puppets instead. I love this street.

11th of April

Carol set up hammocks in the garden of The Sweet House, then made a tutorial for everyone else. I've got a couple of older blankets, so I gave it a go, from under the kitchen window to the wall of next door's conservatory. It's a nice spot, sheltered from the wind, but still sunny.

Read the second half of Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose and started Paradise by Toni Morrison. Beautiful, but a bit heavy going for where my head is right now. I might intersperse it with something else.

Katie's going to lend me the first Cadfael book once it's passed sufficient days in quarantine for the virus to have left it. She is watching my garden progress with interest, which is a bit daunting, given how good she is.

April 12th – Easter Sunday

The egg hunt was a great success! The theatre folk did a weird little play with the egg puppets, too. Josie got out her guitar, and I jammed with her a little on the violin, from a safe distance. Derek made and dropped off banana bread muffins. A festive atmosphere.

In the afternoon, Cole and Carol opened up the retracting wall on the side of the theatre where set gets delivered, and put on their sound system. They took requests and the kids had a wild time. The adults, too.

13th April

Stiff from all the dancing. Mostly I played X-box in my pants. Got a delivery slot for next week, which is good because I was beginning to worry about that.

14th April

I was very much not ready to get back to work today. Stayed up far too late playing X-box with the usual suspects, plus Karim, who bought a second hand console so he could play against his kids while he's isolating in the basement. I was also chatting with Katie, on and off. She made a joke about burying cheese, so we ended up talking about our mutual affection for Pepys, most of the night.

Got quite a headache for my trouble, but I haven't had that much fun just chatting with someone in ages.

Quite excited to see the first pea shoots in my seed trays. It's sort of like magic. Sent a picture to Katie.

15th April

Dad called, we chatted all morning, while I worked.

Felt very down all afternoon. I'm not sure why, other than the way the world is, I guess.

Going to bed early.

April 16th

Didn't feel much like getting up, but Fudge poked me repeatedly in the face until I did. It's a good job I love that little weirdo. I played with him for a bit before I started work. Apologised to Nigel for being late, but he told me he got it. I guess everyone is struggling.

Discovered a box of lemon cake on the wall from Derek, which was lovely. I took my laptop outside and worked in the garden, which helped a lot, because I could hear people doing their thing, and lots of investigative chicken noise. Fudge watched me from inside with an expression of great betrayal. I'll make it up to him. I've had a DIY cat tree in the cupboard under the stairs since Christmas.

Katie sat on the theatre wall for a bit and we talked about shows. She's been re-watching Dr Who and is coming to the end of it. I suggested Stargate SG-1. I might re-watch it, too. I used to love that show. I'm really enjoying getting to know her better – and all the neighbours, to be honest. Feels weird to be enjoying any of this, but still.

Stood outside and clapped for five minutes this evening. All the children have pans, now. Someone a few streets away has one of those vuvuzela things that were so popular during the World Cup. Fewer fireworks, which is good. The chickens were much less unsettled.

Friday, 17th April

Staff meeting. Everyone brought a plant. Steph's plant was made of Lego, and Oleg had a painting his daughter had made. Lots of fun!

I feel a bit more buoyant today. Got up and used the makeshift exercise bike. Watched a lot of Tiny House YouTube videos while I worked. I wonder if I could build one. Dad's been talking about having a summer house or something for years – and if we made it a Tiny House he could rent it out on Air BnB, after all this nonsense is over. Fun to think about, at any rate.

Dave posted in the Facebook group that one of Liam's friends is coming to live with them. Bit of a bad situation, apparently. They've made up a room for her in the attic, so she can isolate from them for a couple of weeks, just in case.

Lockdown is being extended for another three weeks, but I have no idea why anyone is surprised at this, given the data we have from elsewhere.

Katie set up a thing so we can watch Stargate together, with a vid chat in the corner.

18th April

Ignored the seed pots for two days and lo and behold, BEANS! They're already four inches tall. It was a bit of a shock! There are also very tiny tomatoes and the herbs are coming up. I am really enjoying this. It's good for the soul. Katie gave me a round of applause.

I planted some onions and garlic, and some potatoes. Then I built the cat tree for Fudge, who is (of course) ignoring it entirely. Cleared out the last few boxes from moving in three years ago, despite government advice against spring cleaning. Nothing that needed to go to the tip, anyway. Might wait for a rainy weekend and paint the bedroom. I've got all the stuff, because it was on offer last autumn, and then I did my arm in. It would be nice to get that done.

Watched more Stargate with Katie. Really enjoying the company, even if it is digital.

19th April

Spent the morning playing X-box and the afternoon gardening. It's nice to get outside. Cole and Carol went through the big shed at The Sweet House, so there's now a file in the Facebook group for random tools and stuff. They gave Tahmina an old piece of set – a big plywood cupcake – for her room.

Food order came, which felt oddly like Christmas. I got myself an Easter egg as a treat, on sale. Made sure I had enough supplies for two weeks, just in case I can't get another slot, or out to the shops. Did a big batch of soup for the freezer. Called Dad to cook with him, then practised the violin. Spent the early evening reading in the garden. Katie was singing again. I like to hear her sing. I think she's getting less fatigued, because she's out in the garden more often.

Watched more Stargate with Katie. We have, at some point, passed the point where we care whether the other one sees us in pyjamas. Hers have owls on.

20th April

Got up early to make sure I was ready for the kids' first day back at home school. Did the whole workout with the children, in our respective gardens. Thing 1 had some strong criticism for my ability to do a burpee.

Sidra made samosas for everyone and dropped them off on people's back walls. They were delicious! I saved half of my share for tomorrow.

Discovered Fudge sleeping on the cat tree. Slunk off as soon as he woke up and realised I was there, but I know he likes it now. His subterfuge will no longer work!

Katie suggested we watched something else tonight – so we tossed a coin for who got to choose the film. She won, and we watched Fifth Element. It's been ages since I watched that movie. Made popcorn from scratch and Katie was jealous, so she's going to buy some corn next time she gets a delivery.

Tuesday, 21st April

Swapped books with Katie (I lent her Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere; she lent me A Morbid Taste for Bones by Ellis Peters), leaving them on the wall and running away like some kind of weird exchange of contraband. Going to leave it in the quarantine box for a day or two, just in case.

Chatted with Jo and Mel over lunch, from my hammock. I think they're getting a bit stir crazy. So am I. I honestly don't know what I'd do without Fudge – and the rest of the street, actually. Cooper Grove is really looking out for one another. Lucy is, of course, adorable.

I think knowing that I have a standing arrangement for Stargate (or other viewing) with Katie is really helping me fight off the gloom. It's the high point of my day.

April 22nd

Got up very early again and went for a jog in my Government Mandated Exercise Hour. Watched the sun rise over the valley, and took pictures for Dad and the Facebook group. Probably the folks at work would appreciate them, too. Lots of discarded masks and gloves about. I wish people would bin the damn things – I mean, surely that's the point of them? Maybe next time I come out I'll bring an old barbecue fork or something and put them in a bag as I go, and dispose of them properly.

Derek was ecstatic to discover that despite the fireworks, clapping and stress of moving, the chickens have started laying. He drew a smiley face on the first egg, which is now his profile picture online. A couple of the people at work are off sick – one with The Thing, one with a broken wrist (DIY related) – so I took on a couple of their clients. We had a whip-around and Nigel organised a care package from all of us. It's hard not to worry, but what else can you do, right now? I made a donation to Refuge. I'm going to order some extra tins for my next delivery – which will be in May – and take them to the local foodbank. It feels like I should be doing more than just sitting in my nice, safe house when all this is going on.

Katie shares my frustration. She went outside into the world for the first time today, and she said it was very weird. The air quality is good, though, so we're clinging to that. We're nearly halfway through season one of Stargate already, which is good, because as much as I love this show, the first season was a bit slow.

23rd April

A lot of disturbance overnight. The friend staying with Liam and Dave is escaping from a very bad situation at home, and her dad tried to break into their house and remove her. Lots of shouting, much of it trans- and homophobic. Apparently Megan is transitioning, and her dad is very unhappy about no longer having a son. He appears to be a horrible person. Finally left when the entire street's worth of adults were yelling at him to fuck off. Thing 1 and Thing 2 threw their rotten eggs at him.

Bit of a zombie from lack of sleep, but I made angel cakes and shared them out among the neighbours. Decided to work in bed in the afternoon and dozed off for a while, so I made up the time later on and worked until the NHS clap at 8 p.m. Someone nearby was shouting about PPE and testing, and I couldn't agree more.

Katie says she's filled a super soaker in case Megan's dad tries again. If we were in a relationship, I would have said that I thought I couldn't admire her any more than I already do.

April 24th

Everyone quite tense. I think we're all half expecting trouble, to be honest. The kids are all over-loud. Lots of tantrums. I'm surprised there haven't been more, given the circumstances. It must be even harder for children to understand what's going on than it is for us grown-ups.

The Friday meeting's show and tell was 'something purple'. It yielded several feather boas, various toys, a picnic plate and that bus from Harry Potter. I contributed one of my couch cushions. Very warm day. Walked for about half an hour and took pictures. There are some lovely flowers out. I guess a lot of people suddenly have less of a commute and every reason to work off a bit of nervous energy in their gardens. Some excellent rainbows in all manner of shapes and sizes.

Got a surprising amount of work done this afternoon, largely because Fudge settled on my knee and he was too cute to move. Bob was working on his Mystery Project again, and I think I finally know what he's building: a diorama of the theatre.

Started reading the book Katie gave me. I see why she likes it – the style is refreshingly good.

Weirdly nervous for the vid chat with Katie tonight. I'm not sure why.

25th April

Another sunny Saturday, but it's cooler. Got some of my vegetable seedlings hardened off and in the ground. The rest are happy enough in the greenhouse. Weirdly, if it does rain for the next couple of weeks I'm sort of looking forward to it – though I'll miss the communal noise of outside.

Chatted with Cole about bread making. He's talking about running an unofficial 'Bake Off' for the street each week, to give people something to look forward to. I feel like I may have to up my game! Went for a walk this lunchtime, down to the fields and back. Saw Sidra and the kids doing the same in the opposite direction, so we did some waving and yelling and half-semaphore from several fields away.

Thing 1 is practising his recorder. Thing 2 appears to agree with the rest of the street that this is a form of torture and is making as much noise as she feasibly can with a couple of pans. I may order Becki some gin.

Dad called and we played chess over vid chat, which was relaxing. It's hard to resist doing a bunch of DIY since I'm home, but I think it's important to actually rest, too. Not that it's easy to convince my brain that this is a thing it should do.

Katie gave me a virtual tour of the theatre gardens this evening. It looks great – and it was fun seeing the parts obscured by the wall. She told me her sister had been hoping to come down and stay in the summer, but that's likely on hold. She owns a bed and breakfast in the Highlands, somewhere. Katie made popcorn, with salt and rosemary. I'll have to try that!

April 26th

Katie and I got to talking and somehow forgot to watch any shows at all last night. Fell asleep mid conversation – and it must have been pretty late. Woke up with my laptop timed out and Fudge curled up by my chest. I still can't figure out why I'm so nervous about talking to her, all of a sudden. We've known each other in a vague sort of way since I moved in, three years ago, and now we talk every day. It doesn't make sense.

Gave the whole house a thorough clean, which properly wore me out, so I napped in the hammock in the garden, under the pretence of reading. Very chilly when I woke up. It looks like it really will rain at last.

Watched a couple of episodes of Stargate with Katie. She'd done something different with her hair, and I complimented her on it. She looked really pretty, even just in pyjamas. Much to my surprise, she blushed. I don't know, but it made me smile.

Monday 27th April

Oh my God, I'm in love with Katie.

I must be.

I dreamed about her last night, over and over – watching nerdy shows together, exploring the world together, tending our own garden. Fudge was there, too. It was such a lovely dream, it took me a minute when I woke up to work out why she wasn't there.

At least I know why I'm nervous about talking to her, now.

This is all massively unhelpful.

Got very little work done. Unexpectedly jittery.

Hopefully didn't make an ass of myself on the vid chat, but who knows. I feel like I'm all over the place. God, I hope she didn't notice.

28th April

A little less out of sorts today. Got more work done, and attended some virtual meetings with the team where we actually got stuff done. It struck me, mid-morning, that this is week five of the lockdown in our country. When I think about the way I used to live and work, it feels like something out of a different world. It is, I suppose. They say the peak is beginning to level off, but who knows, given how little testing is happening, and how often information given out at the highest levels is misleading.

There was a minute's silence for keyworkers killed by the virus. Not ashamed to say that I cried. I'm also incandescent with rage that action was not taken earlier, and for political reasons, and that testing is still not widespread, and the lack of PPE, and the utter lack of care or sense the government is showing. But this is not the place for that. I shall expand upon it in the other journal.

Added to the lunchtime cacophony with my violin. Thing 2, Atif and Tahmina danced, and Thing 1 provided percussion. Umar was more interested in kicking a football. Josie is talking about having another jam session at the weekend. She's very busy at work at the moment, because of all the new measures that have been put in place. She and Melanie did a photoshoot in the garden for the new range of more summery clothes she's making at the moment. Mel also made Lucy a sun hat, which was adorable.

Sat on my wall and talked to Cole, Bob and Katie on their wall. Carol came out after a while, too. Finally asked Bob about his Mystery Project: it's not just The Sweet House, it's also going to include our houses and gardens. He's calling it our 'island', and I like the sound of that.

I really liked Katie's sundress, but I didn't want to say so in case it made things weird.

Nigel called this afternoon. We're another colleague down, but this time it's maternity leave and we knew it would be soon.

I won the coin toss this time, and subjected Katie to the National Theatre Live's version of Twelfth Night, which was epic.

April 29th

Becki emailed me to thank me again for the website. She's getting quite a lot of interest, so that's really good. I'm glad for her. It's rubbish being unemployed and it must be particularly worrisome now.

Cole kicked off his 'Bake Off' idea with a recipe for flatbreads, and I think the whole street is joining in. There have been photographs pouring in all day. Various levels of success. I think Karim or Simon might win this round, though Liam's are a strong contender. Melanie made hers with honey and cinnamon, and I want to steal them. I'll settle for the recipe!

Went out to do the PE video thing with the kids, but it started raining, so we retreated under cover. After nearly the whole lockdown so far being sunny, it's very weird to see the rain. I went out after work, when it was a bit drier, and transplanted tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers into much bigger pots. I was almost done when Megan's dad came back.

This time he brought tools to break the door down with, so I called the police. Dave and Liam were both out at work. I could see her in the window in the attic room. She looked so scared. Katie squirted him with the water gun, but he threw a brick at her window. He missed by a mile, but it was still a bit hairy. Bob and I recorded him effing and blinding, and trying to break in, until the police arrived. I wanted to do more, if I'm honest, but I didn't want to make the situation worse. He went ballistic, and screamed some appalling things. They had to physically remove him. I was pretty shaken, so I can only imagine how Megan feels.

I know it's not particularly helpful, but Carol and I went over, keeping our distance and wearing our masks, and repaired the damage to the door. Dave told us on the Facebook group that by the time he got home, there were four cakes, a big bunch of flowers, several friendly kids' pictures, a freshly made sundress and a flag in the trans rights colours left outside her door. I'm rather proud of the street.

Didn't watch Stargate, in the end, because we were both too wired. Katie told me she was glad we had these vid chats to look forward to, too. I know she probably just means as friends, but I couldn't stop smiling for ages.

30th April

Megan joined the Facebook group to thank everyone for their support. She's going to get a restraining order. She seems like a really nice kid. I'm glad Liam and his Dad are there for her.

Today has been much less eventful, thankfully.

There were (thankfully) fewer fireworks at the NHS clap tonight. Fudge was much less upset and consented to be introduced to Katie during our Stargate marathon. She seemed oddly shy today. I wonder...

May 1st

The Friday meeting theme was cake, which we were all happy about. I made angel cakes, which I haven't had for ages. Running low on fresh food, so I'm glad my next shopping order is coming tomorrow.

Video called Dad, who is reorganising his bookshelves. I think I spent more time talking to his dog, but it was a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, anyway.

The rain matured into being torrential, and it was pleasant to finish work early and curl up in a blanket with a hot drink. I only wish Katie was able to come over and watch TV with me in person. We reached the end of season 1 and moved on to the next.

May 2nd

The chickens are a bit cross with the change in weather. They have plenty of cover, but they had grown accustomed to the constant sunshine, as we had. Now they're soggy and irritable, and have stopped laying in protest.

Saw Nadia coming back from a walk and gave her a few spare tomato plants for the kids to experiment with. We chatted at a distance, and although she's tired and worried, she seems to be doing okay. She says the school is fairly quiet, still, even with the kids of key workers. There are so few students they can help them practise social distancing, which is good, I suppose. It must be very strange – and very stressful.

My food order arrived and I had to struggle not to eat everything. Had a picnic in the living room with Fudge, who managed to steal a big slice of chicken, the little rotter. The street-wide X-box tournament is heating up, so no Stargate tonight.

3rd May

I'm going to ask Katie out. The X-box match was fun, but I really missed her. Hopefully, it won't backfire and make things really awkward, but we're both being shy around each other and I think if I just ask and get it over with, we can move on and get back to being easy around each other again. I mean, she's seen me in my pyjamas, and dancing around the office with Fudge, and she still doesn't think I'm weird. I really hope she says yes.

Nervous energy all day, so I painted the bedroom. It looks great! Might sleep in the spare room tonight, because of the paint smell. Fudge is most put out.

Waited until the end of tonight's episodes before asking Katie out. I felt the complete opposite of smooth, and I couldn't stop that weird nervous laugh I get sometimes. She said she'd think about it, but she was grinning when she said it, so I'm hopeful.

May the Fourth be with you!

The whole street is doing a Star Wars watch party tonight, with party food and games to keep the kids interested. We're watching Return of the Jedi, which is one on my favourites. It's a pyjama party, and I'm sort of fascinated to see what everyone decides to wear. Trying not to think too much about whether Katie will say yes or no, but it's tricky. I didn't realise just how much I liked her until the lockdown started. I think I must have been rather taken with her for some time.

Chatted to Umar, Tahmina and Thing 1 about Bletchley Park and codebreaking, over lunch. Not sure if I'm enabling them for some future life of mischief, but they seemed enthusiastic about it. Melanie uploaded a video of Lucy sitting up on her own for the first time, to much celebration. It feels weirdly like the street has become an extended family.

Cole hosted a bake-along after everyone finished home schooling, so the kids could learn how to make crispy marshmallow squares. I watched along as well, while I made dinner. I invited Dad to the watch party, and Nigel and his wife. I spotted various relatives and friends among the names on the watch list. Lots of excellent pyjamas. Even Fudge appeared to be watching (though I think it's likely he was paying more attention to the tuna salad). Great fun to be watching together.

I missed chatting with Katie. I almost called her to say goodnight, but she asked me to let her think, so I shall stick to that.

5th of May

Got a lot of work done this morning. I should have known it was all going far too well. Managed to make lunch, then the power went out. It's a hell of a power cut – must be going for three or four streets, because when I stuck my head out of the window you could hear the alarms going on back-up generators, everywhere. It was an ear-splitting din. The chickens were so unhappy that Derek and Simon took them inside, where it was quieter – and a good thing, too. Not ten minutes later a storm rolled in. A proper, bruised-sky spring storm, complete with rain lashing against the windows and great forks of lightning streaking across the sky.

It was quite the event! I had to run out to close the greenhouse door, and in that short journey and the one back to the kitchen door I was soaked to the skin. I had to strip and bundle everything into the washing machine – and even then I left a puddle on the kitchen floor. I put on more comfortable clothes, rang Nigel to let him know what was occurring, and retreated to my study with a cup of tea and a blanket. I was particularly glad of the noise cancelling headphones, even if I was saving battery on my phone so I didn't plug them in. I worked until my laptop turned off, then made notes for projects until it was more or less knocking off time.

Sandwiches for tea, and put a few candles out. Texted Dad to let him know. I missed chatting with Katie, immensely. I don't mind that the power cut is taking a while – the power companies must be rushed off their feet, and operating with skeleton crews. It's bound to take longer.

Just before going to bed, I went and stood at the window, watching the rain come down. Then I saw Katie. To my delight, she was waving at me from her room, and started lighting candles – she had arranged them to say 'yes'! I don't know how she was making them stand up like that – some kind of theatre magic, I guess.

Utterly giddy. I cannot stop grinning.

6th May

The rain had abated somewhat, though it's still cold and miserable outside. I suspect that if this weather is prolonged, people will really begin to get stir crazy – more than they already are. Simon and Derek took the chickens back to their coop. The power is back on, too, with an apology from the power company. Busy charging everything up, just in case. I put batteries on the list for my next order.

It's Cole's Bake Off day, and today's project is lemon curd cupcakes – his girlfriend's recipe. Everyone's pictures made me so hungry! Karim decorated his like bees, so I suspect he will win this round. When all this is over he'd probably be a contender on the real Bake Off.

Megan is allowed outside again, just in time for the rain. We're all keeping an eye out for her dad, but no sign of him, to everyone's relief.

Chatting with Katie all day. She seems as giddy as I feel, which is lovely. More Stargate, but I was definitely paying more attention to her than the show.

May 7th

Simon hosted a reading hour with the kids over video chat this morning, so I put that on in the background while I worked. Fudge sat and watched it with interest. I presume he recognises Simon, but he's never seen him 'in' the house before.

It continues to rain, which is good for the gardens and the reservoirs, but the dullness in the sky is affecting people's mood, I think. It's cooler, too, so there's less of the festival atmosphere. I'm finding excuses to put noise on in the background because we're not all out in our gardens.

Started a mystery podcast that Josie recommended. It's rather good. I finished the book Katie lent me, so I'm going to send it back tomorrow, along with a little something extra. Spent most of the evening making origami flowers, just out of sight of the video chat, so Katie didn't cotton on. Clapping for the NHS felt a bit subdued – possibly because of the weather. Also, in my case, because of the papercuts.

8th of May

Discovered the Spotify 'at home' playlists, and danced around the house while planning out a client's website. Today's meeting theme was 'travel'. There were a lot of Hawaiian shirts. Steph did the whole thing in scuba gear – including the wet suit. I am impressed at her commitment.

Asked Bob about his diorama, which he was working on this afternoon, and he promised to send me pictures. Dropped off the book and a bouquet of origami flowers for Katie, feeling like an overgrown teenager. Got a message half an hour later from Carol, threatening dire consequences if I hurt her.

Katie was very pleased with the flowers. She put them in her window.

'Sat down with' Becki (remotely, of course) and went over my accounts. That sounds like it took a lot more time than it did – it's really not that complicated, but not having to submit a tax return is one less thing to worry about this year. She insisted that she worked for me for free for a couple of months to pay me back for the website, and I caved. I think she was happy to be able to do something in return.

Watched Stargate with Katie, and planned our first 'date'.

May 9th

Played X-box with Karim, Mel, Liam and Megan. I am improving, a bit! Still raining, but went and checked on my seedlings in the greenhouse, which were a bit thirsty. I'm rather pleased with myself. Traded a tomato plant for a box of eggs from Derek.

Set things up for the date – a remote indoor picnic. I made potato salad and panzanella, and some pear and raspberry tarts for afters, then packaged half up and dropped them outside the theatre. About half an hour later, Katie dropped off a leafier than usual Waldorf salad, sausage wraps and some chocolate brownies – along with the next book in the series. I laid out the living room with a picnic blanket and cushions. I think she was in one of the smaller performance spaces – the studio, and I have to admit, her set dressing was far superior to mine! There were bunches of fake flowers and fairy lights. I may have to up my game.

We put on Il Barbiere de Sivilgia and pretended we were at Glyndebourne, (to which neither of us ever have been, and we both want to go, one day). It was a little surreal, with the weather howling at the windows, the occasional dive-bombing attempt by Fudge, and not being in the same place. I told her that I wished I could kiss her goodbye, and she said that she wished I could too.

Could not stop grinning all evening. I think it weirded Fudge out, because he's hiding under the spare bed.

10th of May

Lot of energy today, possibly because the date went so well. I spent most of the day reorganising my office. It's one of those jobs that has needed doing for a while, so I'm very pleased now. It looks good enough for Instagram – a state that I imagine will wear off in about ten minutes, tomorrow.

Called Dad and he put his phone in a holster thing and took me with him when he and Snowy went on their walk. It's not raining in his part of the world, but it clearly has been. Snowy got very muddy. It was nice seeing another part of the world.

Josie asked if I could do another pharmacy run, so I'll be venturing out tomorrow.

Couple of very good Stargate episodes with Katie tonight. Wish we could have curled up together, but it's still an excellent way to end the day.

May 11th

Went to the pharmacy very early, and missed most of the queues. Still very busy, though. Picked up milk, bread and fruit for various houses on the street who have run out and whose deliveries won't come for a few days, along with some detergents etc. Took some food down to the community centre, who are feeding quite a few homeless people. I can't imagine how scary this all would be without a house to shelter in.

Also got Thing 2 a birthday card, since she will be nine this week. She's a bit upset that she can't have her party, but the street are on it. She and her brother insist their names are Siân and Jay, but they're apparently happy enough with my nicknames for them that they made 'Thing 1' and 'Thing 2' signs for their bedroom doors.

Less rainy today. Nadia tells me they are considering re-opening the schools, but she doesn't think they'll be back properly until September at the earliest. I know some parts of Europe are relaxing their restrictions a bit – but they've been in lockdown longer than us. It will be interesting to see what happens, where – and what the effect is. It definitely felt like there were too many people out today.

Watched an episode of Stargate with Katie, and then stayed up far too late, talking about shows she has worked on. We worked out the details for our next 'date'.

May 12th

Busy work day, made slightly more trying by lack of sleep. It's not raining today, but still very damp.

The folks in the theatre are doing a full overhaul of their equipment, which is a big job. They're posting photos as they go, which is keeping us all entertained. Atif is utterly fascinated by it, judging by the comments on the photos. Perhaps when this is all over he will be absorbed. Sidra made mushroom pakoras and dropped some off at each house. I managed to catch her and give her a puzzle book I'd found in the office I thought she'd like. Took some back and forth manoeuvring to ensure safe distances, which we both had a laugh about. I'm really missing everyone being in the garden all day. I'm so grateful for the Facebook group!

Derek held a pub quiz on Twitch for the street and anyone we wanted to nominate to join us. I fielded a team with work and Dad, and we came second to Josie and Melanie, and their choir. Great fun!

Managed to squeeze in one episode of Stargate tonight, after the quiz. Katie is crocheting a blanket, and it's like watching magic happen.

13th of May

Cole's bake off recipe was orange and chocolate marble cake, and it looked so good I made it instead of having a coffee break. The only minor downside of all of us baking along with him is that we all have a lot of cake. I also made cherry scones, and took some around to Sidra and her grandchildren, with separate containers for Nadia and Karim. Did an extra thirty minutes on my bike to make up for it.

It was drier today, so after work I went out and tied up the peas and beans, which have shot up like mad in the last week. I asked Katie for some tips and she taught me to make a sort of tepee shape out of canes. It looked great when I was done – rather chuffed with myself. Took a photo and sent it to Dad, and he sent me one back of his unruly magnolia, which is just finishing.

Had a second 'date' with Katie tonight – no Stargate, for a change. We decided to order pizza from our local pizzeria (we both wanted to support local business), and take a couple of remote tours online. I picked Verona, because I've always wanted to see the amphitheatre there. Katie chose the Fairy Glen on the Isle of Skye. It was really lovely, to be honest – and we were impressed by the Uber driver who delivered the pizzas to our respective doors, with proper distancing etc. We still disinfected everything and gave the pizza thirty seconds in the microwave, just in case, but I imagine everyone is being extra careful about food safety right now.

Katie said that maybe when the lockdown was over we could go to these places together, and I swear it made my heart do loops.

14th of May

Several covert package drops today: Melanie and Josie supplied everyone with bunting, Cole made Ravenclaw cupcakes for everyone, Carol and Katie sent out packs of fairy lights, Megan and Liam made paper streamers, Dave brought bags of party snacks, I made cups of jelly, Bob painted Wooden letters spelling out Tahmina's name, Derek and Simon distributed home-made chocolates, Becki and the things sent everyone balloons. Nadia and Karim have been organising presents for their daughter, and Sidra has been cooking and getting everything prepped for tomorrow. There's a lot to disinfect and keep out of sight, ready for tomorrow, but it will be worth it. I hope the weather stays fine.

Work seemed very boring, compared to birthday parties and street shenanigans. Dozed off for a while this afternoon, and dreamed of hiking across Skye with Katie. Very peaceful.

Did the weekly applause for the NHS, but I am increasingly angry with the government and media from mishandling the whole thing. I'm a lot more vocal about this in the other journal, but still.

Reached the end of season two. We decided to alternate Stargate with Community, for a bit of variety.

15th of May

Absolutely lovely weather today. Up early to get work in before the party. Went outside and did the morning PE session with the kids, to give Becki a break and Sidra a chance to do some last minute preparations. The plan is for Umar and Atif to help Sidra run interference while they are home-schooled with Tahmina, so they can get things set up in the garden – along with the rest of the street.

Today's meeting had a music theme, so everyone wore a band-shirt, and several people brandished instruments, including me. Nigel said something overly enthusiastic about starting a company band, but we're all hoping that's the lockdown talking. I can't imagine anyone being especially enthusiastic about it when we're released back into the world. Pavel is back, though his wrist is still in plaster, which is nice – and Charlie is back, too, part-time, while she recovers from The Thing. Like Katie, the fatigue is slowing down her recovery, but we're all making sure she doesn't have to do too much, too fast. Sam and Devon's baby is due next week, so the second half of the meeting was spent organising a care package for when they make their appearance.

Went out at lunchtime and decorated the garden with the bunting and fairy lights, then worked until half three. Tahmina was so excited when she came outside. Everyone jumped up and down in their gardens and cheered. The Sweet House opened their delivery doors and played music for a couple of hours.

Didn't watch anything with Katie tonight. Instead, we made hot chocolate and read together instead, which was lovely.

May 16th

Dad called. He told me about the shed he's ordered for the garden.

Weather is cheerier, so I worked outside for most of the morning. I had the radio on, and Katie sang along behind the theatre wall. Simon, Becki and Dave joined in, too. I think we're all taking advantage of the sunshine to get outside a bit more. The last week of rain was harder. I think we're all battling lockdown fatigue. Josie made banana muffins for everyone.

It was dry enough for an outdoor picnic this evening, so everyone set up blankets in their gardens and the theatre folks opened their stage delivery doors again. Carol and Bob set up a projector and a screen just inside, and played a couple of kids movies. I let Fudge explore the greenhouse before I watered. He's fascinated. Lots of things to smell – and he discovered a shelf he can watch the chickens from. Maybe when it's not too hot, I'll bring him out here with me a bit more.

Mentioned the idea to Katie over our evening's entertainment and she suggested we build him a 'catio' – a cat patio. I love that it's 'we', now!

17th of May

Spent the morning playing X-box with the usual suspects. I think it's really helping Karim to have something regular and entirely non-medical to do. Got my arse kicked entirely at Halo.

Chatted with Cole, Sidra, Nadia and Josie about recipes for pickling things, assuming the gardening continues to go well. I think between us, our little street might be okay, if we put our heads together (at a safe distance). There's talk of clearing out one of the old theatre outbuildings that has a door onto the alley between the gardens and making it into a communal pantry for things that can be preserved and stored and such. I think as long as we keep up with disinfecting everything and washing our hands, and make sure only one person is in the shed at a time, it could work pretty well. We might all need a key, too, if we want to keep it secure.

I had a read around of international news for the first time in a couple of weeks. It was damaging my calm, before. It looks like some places are opening limited shops and businesses, and other places are looking at opening schools. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I'd rather we made sure this thing was on the hop everywhere. I know not everyone is in a position to be cautious, though. Some of it seems quite sensible, and it gave me a bit of hope for the future. Still, I think it will be at least another month – if not more – before we should think about ending the lockdown.

Watched a lot of Stargate today. After all the excitement of the birthday party, neither of us felt like being particularly active.

May 18th

Got a package in the post from Dad, who made rhubarb and ginger jam last week. There were several jars, so I'm going to give one to the postie when he comes next, to say thank you for keeping everything moving while all this is going on. Dropped another jar off for Katie, too.

Steph is off work this week, for her annual leave. I guess she didn't want to rearrange the dates – or she knew she'd need a break. I have some booked in June. I should probably think about what to do with it.

Did lunchtime yoga in the back garden with Derek, Simon, Melanie, Becki, Carol and Thing 1. Thing 2 was more interested on replenishing the chalk pictures on the path in their garden which the rain washed away. Katie spent the day painting parts of the theatre with Cole, and when she turned the vid chat on ready for our 'date' she had a streak of yellow across her cheek and various other splodges on her dungarees. The whole effect was extremely cute.

We did karaoke this time – accompanied by quite a bit of gin. I will probably have to apologise to my immediate neighbours, but it was worth it. It's difficult not being able to wrap my arms around her, but I have to admit if this lockdown hadn't happened, Katie and I might never have grown this close. An extremely minor silver lining in the grand scheme of things, but world-changing from my perspective.

Tuesday, 19th of May

Megan made Apfelküchen, which is a kind of sponge cake with chopped apples in, and dropped pieces around for everyone. It's her grandad's recipe, and it's good to know he's still perfectly happy to talk to her. She's talking about going to visit him in Munich when all this is over.

Work went well until mid-afternoon, when we heard that Sam had her baby: a little boy called Owen. He's cute, in that squashed prune kind of way new babies you are not closely related to often are. None of us got much done after that, because we were too excited for her.

My tomatoes are big enough to need pots of their own, so I took Fudge into the greenhouse with me to repot them. He was surprisingly well-behaved. I suspect he is lulling me into a false sense of security.

Watched Back to the Future instead, which felt like just what I needed. We both fell asleep with the video chat on again.

May 20th

Rain again, but with interludes of sunshine. This weather is much more Aprily than April was. Perhaps they swapped.

Had a meeting with Nigel about continuing cover while Charlie is part time. Checked on my cucumbers – they seem to prefer being on the opposite side of the greenhouse to the tomatoes. The peppers I put in the other day are just coming up, too.

Today's Bake Off was focaccia, with whatever peppers or tomatoes and herbs we had lying around. Derek made his with aubergine. Becki went with onion. I had some slightly squashy tomatoes, so I used those and some rosemary. Katie made apricot tart instead, because she was feeling rebellious. We traded, and it was yummy! Despite everything, I feel really rather lucky.

Stargate and chatting until late.

21st of May

They're talking about opening the pubs in June, and it makes me nervous. Not that I wouldn't love to sit in our local, along the canal, with a pint of cider, but still. Maybe it's just the effect of being in isolation for so long. I don't know.

Katie finished Neverwhere, so she returned it, along with a mysterious package, addressed to Fudge. I lent her Lord of Light by Roger Zelazny instead. The package turned out to be the blanket she was crocheting, and a felt fox toy full of catnip. Fudge is ecstatic about both. It was such a lovely thing to do for him. I took some pictures for her. She says she's going to put one with both me and Fudge in it on her desk. I actually blushed, which would have been embarrassing if anyone could have seen. I might do the same with the screenshot I have of her with the paint on her face.

Got quite a bit of work done today, which felt good, then worked out on the bike, which felt better.

Clapped for the NHS. It's almost become a way to mark the passing of time, at this point.

May 22nd

This week has felt oddly short, and I'm almost unsure how it's Friday already. Possibly it's because I've been busy, but also I think it's because I've been happily occupied with Katie. One of the local florists is holding onto remaining open by delivery bouquets to doorsteps, so I sent Katie some actual flowers this time. I saw her greet the delivery person when they arrived, and I'm ridiculously pleased that I could put a smile like that on her face. I only wish I could do it in person. One day!

Fudge is wandering around the house with the fox Katie gave him in his mouth. I think he's besotted. He sat on my lap during the meeting, as though he was joining in. This week's theme was umbrellas, which was difficult to balance with Fudge there as well, but I managed.

Bob's diorama is coming on. He's got most of the outside done – he started posting pictures of his progress on the group. Dave is hosting an X-box tournament tomorrow, but I'm sitting this one out, because Katie and I made plans.

Started season 3 of Stargate, but spent a lot of the evening reminiscing about our equivalents of 'bright college days' instead.

May 23rd

The weather isn't bad at the moment, which is good, because Katie proposed a 'camping trip'. We both set up tents in our respective gardens and did camping related activities – cooking on camp fires, 'exploring the wilderness' (we both took each other on adventure-like tours of our gardens), paddling in 'the lake' (bucket), and stargazing when it got dark. We even told ghost stories and roasted marshmallows. It made me feel like a kid again, but in the best way. I think I'm really falling hard for this delightful mad woman and I could not be happier.

I can't wait to be able to do this properly – or, at least, in the same tent.

24th of May

Practised violin, and then went outside and played some jigs and reels for the kids to dance to. Thing 1 and Thing 2 are now thick as thieves with the Suri kids, which is nice – but possibly worrying given how much mischief two of them get up to, let alone with reinforcements. Josie came out with Lucy for a little while and joined in. Lucy has learned to clap, which the other children are supremely excited about. At this point, they're basically all behaving like cousins.

Had a vid chat with Dad and played chess until Snowy knocked his table over in his excitement at someone walking past on the road. Couldn't stop laughing.

It sounds completely mad, of course, and it's possibly prompted by sleeping out of doors all night (and therefore not sleeping particularly well at all), but all day I've thought about what it might be like if we moved in together. I half expect to see her when I go into a room, now – and I keep putting out two mugs when I make a cup of tea. We've been 'dating' for three weeks, and we've never been nearer than four metres, but it just feels so right. Nothing more than a pipe dream, though. It would be crazy to ask her to move in with me, though. Particularly in the middle of a lockdown.

Wouldn't it?

May 25th

Work was trying. Lots of those weird little problems that bubble up from nowhere in a project. Spent more time sorting them out than getting anything else done, which was a bit frustrating.

Carol is taking requests for another film showing next weekend, which led to a long, distracting conversation on the Facebook group. It was very enjoyable. I'm glad I'm not the only one on the street who likes Nordic thrillers, either – Nadia, Becki and Megan have my back on that.

I may have jokingly mentioned my weird thought about moving in together to Katie, and then quickly said that obviously it was too soon and so on. She told me she had been wondering about it too, which floored me. To my surprise, we started talking about practicalities pretty much straight away. We've both been more or less isolated for more than three weeks, none of the other people in the theatre have been ill and it's been more than a month since Katie's symptoms disappeared. Although we've both made short trips out, we've been wearing masks and staying as far away from people as we can – and soaping down everything as soon as we get inside. It might actually be safe and doable. I don't know if it's sensible, given the way things are, but there's a large part of me that wants to try. After all, if there's one thing this year has shown me, it's that life is precious.

The only downside I can see is that she wouldn't be able to help in the theatre until after the lockdown (though we both suspect she could work in the theatre garden while everyone else was inside). Obviously, it's not something we should rush into, but still!

I can't believe we're both considering it.

26th of May

Day 60.

When I started this diary, I didn't quite know what to expect. It was a form of stress relief, I suppose, as much as a place for reflection. It's not a complete record of my experiences; the other journal, for instance, is full of the rage and fear I feel every moment of the day, that I decided had no place in this one. I wanted a space where those feelings were not in control. It has helped me – and I'll continue it as long as the lockdown lasts. I might even continue after.

I certainly didn't expect to fall in love, or forge such strong friendships with the other people in the street. I thought perhaps we would nod at one another more, or wave as we passed on the far side of our fences, but we've become a real community, and I'm truly grateful for that. I feel like we'll be okay, as long as we keep moving forward together. It feels like a big, weird family, and I really hope that never goes away.

There really aren't words for how I feel about Katie, and I'm wary about being too carried away by it. Things between us are still very new and fresh, and it might be different when we can be in the same space, but somehow I doubt it. It feels like something we are both in for the long haul. That fact alone makes me want to dance around the study – though I am aware, as I write this, that Bob can see me.

In some ways, I suspect this is the halfway point. The peak is behind us (of this wave, at least), and people are beginning to talk about easing the restrictions, but it will be a while before we do. Other parts of the world are cautiously re-emerging, without a huge spike in new cases, which is encouraging. I hope that the same will be true here.

I hope that we have learned lessons, and grown closer and more caring. We certainly have in Cooper Grove. I hope that we have had the opportunity to examine the way we live and change it for the better – both for the sake of the planet, but also for the people around us. I hope that more people have learned that politicians will say anything to get you to support them, and a large number of them never have any intention of following through with their promises. I hope that more people have seen that there are other world leaders who have behaved with good sense and kindness, and that our local model is not the only way it can be.

I hope this thing is on the hop, now, and that we will be better prepared for the next wave.

I hope that we start helping everyone, instead of just ourselves.

I hope that we can learn to live, instead of just survive.

I hope.

The Last Time I Was a Child

By Mike Farren

I lay on my back  
on a single bed  
at night in an unlit room  
with open curtains

the last time I was a child  
I counted the stars  
until I could see  
that the gaps between  
were filled with stars  
and at back of these  
were still more stars

and what had seemed dark was light  
and what had seemed empty  
was full beyond my power to see  
beyond my power to imagine

the last time I was a child  
I was gripped by an emotion  
that had no name  
and I would have to discover the name  
and I would have to recover the emotion  
and I would have to re-align the stars  
to go back to that child

Dogma and Catma

Rae Bailey

Jake and Finn, Finn and Jake.

One likes chicken, the other likes hake.

One likes water, the other one oughta.

They're like sons who love my daughter.

One loves out, the other hates in.

Finn and Jake, Jake and Finn.

One More Sin

By Lizzie Nolan

So it started with envy, sneakiest of the sins. A sly little thing that creeps in the cracks and fills up your nooks and crannies until you've got liquid jealousy for blood.

Even nuns have their vices. Sister Margaret always had very fine stockings. Sister Clare took too many painkillers. Sister Bridget took none at all, in a very suspicious way, and always took far too eagerly to the harsher sorts of penance. Oh, yes. In the scheme of things, smuggling gossip magazines into the convent whenever I went out to work in the community? Small beer. And writing comments on them in chewed black biro was harmless as well, or so I thought. But eventually, like I said, the envy sneaks in round the corners. Vicarious enjoyment turns to bitter gall, as I guess perhaps it always does. I don't know how I got from there to the night when I stared at the glossy paper covered in frenzied black ink, gouging out the eyes of Kate Middleton and Kim K. Nor why I didn't stop when the torn pages flurried around me and I flung my old battered crucifix against the wall of my cell.

I stole the cash box.

It was supposed to go to charity, but I stole it, and I kicked off my sensible black shoes and my sensible long skirt and ran shoeless in my slip into the night.

So what's a nun to do when she finds herself barrelling down the M1 in a hire car with a few thousand pounds worth of commandment-breaking on the passenger seat? Sin, and sin again. Gluttony first – what a novice sin. I bathed in butter, I covered myself in cream. Cake and I became very intimately acquainted indeed. This, naturally enough, slipped carelessly into lust. Chocolate, sweat, tang and dancing. A crushed strawberry kissed off lips. I don't remember his name – or was it hers? You might think these things don't come easily to a woman of my background, but you'd be surprised how free you feel, once you've kicked the habit.

They wanted me. I writhed, throwing my body in ecstatic curls in darkness and smoke, performing, becoming more. I gloried in the muscles under my glistening skin. I loved myself in the angle of my wrist and the taut stretch of a thigh, and look how easily I moved onto pride. One day he, she, someone clouded in my memory, told me I was worth rubies, worth turquoise and gold. So I demanded it.

And it showered upon me. A nun's ransom in stiff coloured paper, under the table, and under my mattress. Sometimes trinkets, silver and jewels, and never enough. Never. So I twisted and I turned and I danced and at night I decked myself in my finery and I bathed in gold. I avoided my reflection in mirrors.

I spent like water and plied my trade like a fisherman. I led men (and women) like a flock. I cried to the Lord my God in the night, and more and more sincerity burned through unbidden like a holy flame. I spoke in tongues.

I confronted the woman in the mirror – we screamed. Silvered glass rained down, in our hands and our hair. I felt more myself than since I don't know when. Wrath was short-lived but I knew it was time. So I packed up and filled that cashbox with more than I stole. Hah. Now it's time to test that holy forgiveness, O my Mother.

I didn't quite get there. Not quite. I spent my sloth in Edinburgh, six long weeks wandering the cloistered gardens and the insalubrious alleys. I spent time with the penguins at the zoo. It reminded me strangely of home. But of course one day in the barely-light of early morning I climbed into a cold car and drove.

So that brings me to now, and to here, in a traffic jam approaching the Forth Road Bridge one December morning. It's been overcast all day, and over Fife boiling clouds suck darkness from the air and a storm is getting ready to try its own wrath on the far bank. A break in the cloud cover opens up overhead and I am bathed in pale platinum light. In front and behind others crawl in identical metal cells. The road back is clear, but I'm not thinking of that. I'm not. I wonder if the others have missed me. I wonder if forgiveness is divine. Just ahead of me a sign looms up, destinations (mine not listed) paved with good intentions and bad. Below it, a stern injunction: no turning.

No turning.

No turning.

My idle hands drum a devil's tattoo on the wheel.

No turning.

...

What's one more sin?

Coyness in the 21st Century  
After Andrew Marvell's To His Coy Mistress

By Mike Farren

Time had a different meaning when  
Marvell wished to employ his pen  
in the seduction of his coy  
mistress: to be put off from joy  
might mean you never had the chance  
to savour that experience  
and, on the instant, jealous Death  
might conspire to cut short your breath,  
with Illness apt to play the villain  
in days long prior to penicillin.

When politics was not just looks  
on TV, comments on Facebook –  
but something that was rather more  
inclined to end in civil war  
it's clear why Marvell loathed delay  
in trying to get his end away.

And yet, consider it from the mistress's  
point of view: her lover's distress  
could scarcely have been seen as worth  
the risk of dying in childbirth:  
and honour would have been in question  
before effective contraception.  
God knows what STDs ensued  
from a cavalier attitude!

Lover and mistress might incline  
to envy us our world and time –  
our endless-seeming days, what he  
considered vast eternity.  
Our expectation of long life,  
not compromised by civil strife  
is cossetted from harm, you see,  
through wondrous modern pharmacy.  
If Marvell feared to play Tithonus  
he might enjoy this welcome bonus –  
by homely Aysgarth or far Niagara,  
to woo his mistress on Viagra.

Still, at our back, through that dark portal  
that welcomes everyone born mortal,  
the chariot ever hurries near.  
I have already matched his years  
and though we have been spared the mower  
the flesh begins to lose its power,  
so, even if not with rough strife,  
let's garnish what is left of life:  
Marvell, I'm sure, would joy to see them  
who carpe the hell out of that diem!

A Fairy Tale

By Helen L. Bourne

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess called Isabella Lucy Jenkins. She was a beautiful princess, but also she was a council worker whose job it was to clean the offices after senior management had left. The fact that she was a princess was, unfortunately, not widely known. If the managers knew, they probably wouldn't speak to her like a servant. And if the councillor knew, he probably wouldn't have slapped her behind and called her 'a nice bit of arse'.

Isabella was careful not to say anything, because whatever the odious man's crimes, he probably didn't deserve a beheading.

Oh, she thought about it sometimes, though.

It was tough work being a cleaner, but she always remembered she was a princess, and that helped. She remembered it when people pushed past her like she was invisible and she remembered when they had her cleaning toilets that had been blocked for days and ignored by men too important to use a toilet brush, or even call maintenance.

One day she came into work and discovered a prince. He had sandy blond hair and a high visibility jacket. He looked worried.

"Hi, is there any chance you could help me? I just got sent down by site management, but I don't know what to do."

Ah, bless. It was typical of royalty undercover to be a bit lost at first. It didn't come naturally to them to adopt this life of servitude. Isabella remembered the difficulties she had had during her first few weeks, and the derision she got from colleagues.

(She obviously didn't want anyone to be beheaded, but when a girl had sneered at her clumsiness using a vacuum cleaner, it was a great comfort to know it was only her own magnanimity that prevented her from having the girl summarily executed).

"Of course," she said, with a little wink, giving the prince a clue she knew who he really was. She showed him where all the fire alarms were and the main control unit for testing. She talked him through the different power points, including the dodgy one that only worked if you taped the plug in, but was useful for reaching the corners of the room with the vacuum cleaner.

"Thanks so much," he said, and quietly got to work. She marveled that he knew how all the tools worked. Perhaps they'd let him play with construction toys when he'd been a young boy, in the time before all royalty had had to go into hiding.

She didn't see him for a while after that first meeting. She felt very lonely without him. She didn't judge her colleagues for not liking caviar and champagne, especially since it had been so long, now, that she'd nearly forgotten what they tasted like, but she didn't understand how many of them could go through each day with so little hope. She wished she could tell them it would change when she ascended the throne, when she had the power to stop poverty and injustice in its tracks. But they had stopped believing in fairy tales, they would say, when she predicted their eventual happy endings. And they laughed at her and shunned her.

And then the ball was announced. Well, it wasn't a ball, per se, it was a Christmas party in a rented room above a bar and they had to pay for tickets and buy their own booze, but Isabella decided she would go. Her fairy godmother didn't turn up to give her a dress (really, she was most unreliable) so Isabella went and got a nice secondhand one from Oxfam in town.

And she hoped... and hoped.

When the day came, her colleagues whistled at her sumptuous gown when they changed for the ball, and the councillor even gave her a leery look, but luckily councillors didn't go to parties with cleaners. She got in the taxi with the others and tried to remember all the dance steps she'd been trained with when she was a girl.

He had scrubbed up very well, the sandy blond prince, wearing a purple shirt and a pair of chinos.

"Wow," he said, looking at her gown. "You really went all out."

Isabella blushed. "It's nothing. Ten pounds from a charity shop."

"Wow, really?" he said, then he blushed. "I borrowed this shirt from my dad."

The music in the room was much too loud, and the prince could not hold a conversation for long. He went to get a drink, and when he came back, Isabella was crying.

He couldn't hear what was wrong, so eventually he coaxed her outside.

And Isabella couldn't tell him that she'd just remembered she wasn't actually a princess.

And in fact she'd discovered she looked like a bit of a tit sitting in the corner of a bar wearing a ball gown.

And she was just so tired: so tired of hoping, so tired of pretending, so tired of finding ways to believe things would eventually get better and she wouldn't be cleaning offices forever like a Cinderella who could never go to the ball.

So he just listened to her cry, took her hand and said, "This is a crap party anyway, do you want a McDonald's?"

She laughed through tears. "Yes, please."

And he wasn't a real prince, but still, he was charming.

The Message Tree

E. L. Tovey

Sometime in the spring of 2108 E. L. Tovey painted a small tree white, and placed it in a central location of a small community. Next to the small white tree, she left a placard asking passers-by to leave a message on a paper leaf, together with an explanation that the responses would be used by a local author to create a poem.

This is the poem based on the anonymous messages left behind on that tree's branches.

Dear Friend...

A leaf.

Is never alone,

When it is part of a tree.

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you for being there.

But

Thank you,

Is not enough.

I've made mistakes.

I've made a few,

But I am growing.

Getting better

At being

Me.

Dear Those who Cannot Smile...

Turn that frown upside down.

It costs nothing, but it is worth a lot.

They say it writes a thousand words,

So shall we all be writers?

Dear Loved One...

Seeing you makes me realise,

I must be important.

I am sorry I yelled,

I am sorry for being mean,

Brother, when you trusted me.

Sorry,

Is not enough.

And please,

Stay safe.

I forgot to say,

I love you

This morning.

Dear Leaves...

May you be advised

By your own advice:

Don't worry about how you look,

On the outside.

Worry about how you look,

On the inside.

Be yourself,

And try your hardest —

It is all we can do in life.

Treat others,

The way you would like to be treated.

And some say,

Never let your dreams outnumber your memories,

Or should that be;

Never let your memories outnumber your dreams?

Great times ahead,

Great times behind.

But,

We don't look back,

Only forward.

You will regret the things you don't do,

More than the things you do.

Keep going – you are doing well,

They just forgot to tell you.

The Wolf in the Wood

By Yvonne Ugarte

A beautiful girl with a bright, red cloak

Had a heart that was hard as a stone

She lived in a house at the edge of the wood

And seemed happy to live all alone

She'd shout at the birds

And she'd trample the flowers

She'd destroy any nest that she saw

She didn't have friends, but she couldn't care less

Nature, to her, was a bore

The squirrels and badgers kept out of her way

And insects just hid where they could

All were afraid of this cruel, heartless girl

Except for the wolf in the wood

He had decided enough was enough

And decided to pay her a call

With a jaw full of teeth and his twelve deadly claws

Did this girl pose a threat? Not at all!

She was only a girl with a bright red cloak

Perhaps it was all a phase?

If her cruelty didn't stop then he'd gobble her up

But he hoped that she'd just change her ways

She answered the door with a beautiful smile

And warmly invited him in

"I'm just having lunch, but I'm willing to share.

I want friends, but I don't know where to begin!"

Over the months, the two grew very close

And it seemed that she'd changed for a while

With a song in her heart she would skip through the woods

But a darkness still hid in her smile

Yet the wolf couldn't tell, for he'd fallen in love

Couldn't see all the badness beneath

Not 'til the day she bit right through his neck

With her sharp little vampire teeth

The Wild Moon

By Lauren K. Nixon

April, and with April's changeable moods

In both weather and heart.

We find comfort in constancy, in the reliable,

And turn our faces skyward, to seek her again.

And what a sight! The supermoon, on a cloudless night!

Our own fair neighbour, amplified.

A friend, waving from an appropriate distance.

The perfect ambassador for hope:

A silvered promise that those times we long for

Will come again, as surely as she.

Pinned

By Rae Bailey

It was the mouths that bothered her most, when the moonlight slipped through the too narrow curtains to silver the pinned collage of faces above the desk. She had lain unsleeping in the spare room, rigid with overthinking, listening in vain for routine noises, seeing unfamiliar lumps loom in the dark.

Then the moon lit a picture of a row of slightly parted, slightly swollen, slightly raised lips floating impossibly on the faces of children.

That's what he wanted of me, she thought. All the efficient home-making, all the good salary, but housed in a never changing voluptuous child, without worn hands, a sore back and the skull deep weariness of a well-paying but soulless job.

She shifted away, pulling at her friend's lovingly crocheted, but itchy blanket, ready to turn her face to the wall, when the moon, finding another chink, caught her hands with light and stopped her. She moved them slowly in the glamour, seeing the curl and crease of them, their arches and grooves, making them dance.

She lay back, breathing out slow and long, feeling free to make and touch new things with their beauty. And slept, bathing in silver.

Never Alone

By G. Burton

A small, solitary light

Shining in the darkness,

A pinprick of light

A beacon of hope.

Around us lies disaster,

Rubble, sobbing, dismay,

Save for that light,

The glimmering, guiding light.

A time of uncertainty,

Of fear and anxiety,

Yet still the sun shines

And still people connect.

Social distancing,

A physical measure,

But video-calling and standing in gardens

Allow for conversations to continue.

We connect,

We support,

We allow ourselves to change,

Adapting to this new way of life.

Community spirit,

Rainbows,

Posters in windows,

A cheery hello when we clap.

Gratitude for all

Working hard to keep us going,

Church services in our homes

Via videolink.

That small, solitary light,

The ghost light,

Burns within us all,

Reminding us that although we're apart

We are never alone.

The Township of King

By Iain Shaw

The tall, chubby ageing frame of Inspector Johnny Diamond and the young, slight figure of Special Constable Steve Armani marched toward the large impressive, yet rustic building in King City, which served as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police headquarters in the Township of King.

Although the township itself was mostly rural in nature, King City was where the 'action' would happen.

Special Constable Armani made a calming gesture with his hands. "Now, Johnny..." Inspector Diamond stopped and gave him a withering glare, which lead Armani to a quick correction, "Sorry, Inspector Diamond." Diamond resumed his brisk pace as Armani struggled to keep up. "Inspector Diamond, I know you are upset, but we are still visitors in this country, so maybe we should just hear the Lieutenant out."

Inspector Diamond didn't reply. He'd been this way ever since they came to Canada from Scotland Yard. Come to think of it, thought Armani, he was not any more laid back when they worked at the Yard.

They burst into the building. Diamond strolled straight up to Elaine, on the front desk. "The Lieutenant in?" he barked at the young lady.

Coolly, she finished typing the paragraph she was working on for the report she was writing up and regarded Diamond with a look that even had him straightening up.

"I'm sorry, Inspector, did you want something? I am assuming that ignorant barking is not the way you generally ask a lady to assist you, Johnny." She looked past him to Armani and gave him a grin, as if to say 'don't worry, I'll take care of him for you'.

Clearly, she had heard them talking outside and was always more than happy to take the Inspector down a peg or two on Armani's behalf. Armani didn't know how she got away with it, especially calling him by his first name like that, but she had this power over Inspector Diamond. Armani suspected it might be similar to the effect she had on most men, Armani more than included.

Inspector Diamond took a deep breath and plastered on a strained smile. "Good morning Elaine. How are you? Well, I hope?"

Elaine batted her eyes at Diamond, almost sarcastically. "Why Inspector, how nice of you to ask! I'm not too bad. Got a mountain of paperwork I have to –"

"Is Lieutenant Page in, by any chance?" Diamond cut in. "I believe he wanted to see us?" He would indulge her only so much.

Elaine knew this, too, and knew when to quit whilst she was ahead. "Sure, go right in. He's expecting you."

"Thank you, Elaine," Diamond replied, already walking to the Lieutenant's office.

Elaine gazed at Armani with bedroom eyes. "So, Steve, how's you? The Inspector treatin' you right, I hope?"

Armani always got so tongue tied around Elaine, especially when she used his first name like that. "Well, I... I mean... He's just a... well, you know!"

"Ah, I see," Elaine said, nodding thoughtfully in a playfully mocking way.

"ARMANI!" The Inspector called as he knocked on the Lieutenant's office door.

"Sorry," Armani apologised to Elaine. "I'd better be – well, you know..." and with that he did a quick step after Diamond, he could just hear Elaine giggling as he left.

He smiled to himself; he was in there.

The Mounties Armani passed nodded a greeting. Even Jay stopped tuning his guitar long enough to blurt out a, "Good day, Steve! How's it going, buddy, eh?"

They were not worried about hitting Canadian stereotypes around these parts. Rather, they leaned into them with enthusiasm.

Armani just caught up with Diamond as he entered the Lieutenant's office.

Lieutenant Page brushed his foppish blond hair from his eyes with one hand and turned from staring out his office window at the snow-capped mountains in the distance to regard the two Brits as they came in: Diamond at a march, with Armani almost knocking into him as he bumbled in at that pace men use when they want to run, but don't want to be seen to be running. Page smiled an uneasy smile as he took off his suit jacket, popped on the glasses he had just finished cleaning and sat down in his chair, signalling to the two men to do the same.

The lieutenant was about to engage in some pleasantries when Diamond leapt in, feet first, as always. "You wanted to see us, Lieutenant? I would assume to wish us luck with the bust tonight?"

Armani had the feeling his suggestion to tread lightly might have gone on deaf ears. At least the Inspector never disappointed.

Page put on his broadest of smiles, the one he reserved for when he needed to be at his greatest Canadian politeness, under challenging circumstances. It was a smile he found himself using a lot with Diamond. "Inspector, do you remember the deal we made, between us here at the RCMP and Scotland Yard when you came here on the hunt for the Reaper?"

Diamond returned the smile, but his attempt came out looking crabbier than when he just let his face do the scowl it was so renowned for. "Of course I do. I would stay attached as liaison to the RCMP from the British consulate and assist on other cases, between working on leads relating to the Reaper."

The Reaper was a notorious drug baron. Originally, he had stuck to his native territory of the UK, coming originally from London. But when his operation had been shut down there after a bust which had made the careers of Diamond and Amani, he fled to his Canadian cousin, with whom he opened up supply routes all over the country. Recently, he had matured into gun running as well. It had taken a few years, but Armani had been the one who tracked him down to the Township of King. After some wrangling with the RCMP it had been agreed Diamond and Armani would head up a local taskforce under the RCMP and British consulate in exchange for helping on local cases along the way. A part of the deal Armani was happier than Diamond to comply with.

Page hid a sigh within a broad grin. "I was more talking aboot the part where any operations were to be run past me. That although you were head of the taskforce and would work the leads, before you actually took any action, I would have to approve said action. You remember that part, eh?"

Whilst Armani was marvelling at Page actually using both 'aboot' and 'eh' (in one sentence, no less), Diamond was bridling incredulously at the implication that he wasn't sticking to the agreement.

"I'm very aware of that part of the agreement, Lieutenant," he said with ill-hidden contempt, "which is why I sent you an email this morning, saying we were going in."

Lieutenant Page's grin broadened to the point where it was painful in an effort not to break and tell this Limey what he really thought of him. "You know, here in Canada, and I like to think especially in King, we pride ourselves on being courteous and kind. We don't expect everyone to be just the same as us, but it would be nice if they got into the spirit a little bit, don't you think, Armani?" He said, turning his unnatural facial expression towards Steve.

Armani didn't know what to say. Did he agree with Page, risking Diamond's wrath? His mentor was clearly in the wrong, but he was his mentor. At the same time, he couldn't very well risk worsening the situation with the Lieutenant. In the end, he got as far as, "Well, sir..." before Page thankfully cut him off.

"I think it would, anyway. So when we said, 'all operations to be run past me', maybe you could choose to realise, Johnny, that we meant for you to ask for permission and not inform me of said operation once it was already planned. You hear me, Johnny?" This last 'Johnny' was coated in not even slightly hidden contempt.

Inspector Diamond was seething on the inside. Why had he been put in this position? All he wanted to do was come to another country, catch a now international drug and gun runner and do it without answering to anyone, was that too much to ask?

He, too, put on his polite voice. "I'm sorry Lieutenant, please may we go after the bad guy?"

Armani felt more uncomfortable by the second. When it came to police work, he had nerves of steel. When it came to dealing with awkward situations about chain of command, he melted.

Page tried his best to ignore the sarcasm. "Maybe," he found himself shouting before he recomposed, "Maybe you gentlemen could be so good as to talk me through the plan? I am assuming you do have a plan?"

Before Diamond could pour more petrol on the fire, Armani stepped in again. "Of course, sir," he enthused, glancing between his two superiors as he stood up.

Page looked relieved to be dealing with him. Diamond was less pleased at being prevented from letting his true feelings be known.

Armani continued, "We tracked the Reaper to an old, closed down wood mill at the base of Gross Mountain." He pointed to the map on the wall of the office. "Turns out his cousin owns it through a patsy he pays off and has used it for small-time gun running to the territories for years. Now, the Reaper has stepped up operations. There's vast quantities of guns, ammo and cocaine going out, daily. At night it's still fairly poorly guarded – for now."

Page held up a hand. "If he's running so many guns and so much product, why is this thing so poorly guarded?"

Diamond, relieved to hear an actually sensible question for once, stepped in. "Our info comes from a small-time petty thief we picked up. Usually we collar him every month or so trying to fence something of the back of a lorry... or truck, if you like," he said, the sarcasm sneaking back in. "But this time he was trying to move some of the guns they've been churning out. He was more than happy to talk to avoid a meatier sentence than usual. He says to me, where the Reaper's been stepping up operations so quick, he's short on manpower. His cousin tried to warn him, but when the Reaper wants to step things up, he doesn't wait. He had the men to do that in London all the time, no sweat, but his cousin is not so well-connected, so it'll take time for them to get enough men in place. Hence them using our friend to move the goods. They can produce the goods but not protect them so well. His cousin has used the excuse of less men guarding, less suspicion. The Reaper is getting lazy. This is our chance to get him before he manages to get more men. Come on, Mike, we'll just stakeout the area. We'll come to you before taking any action."

Armani winced. That was so nearly a great argument before Diamond had resorted to using Page's first name.

Page looked out his window, taking off his glasses again and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Without turning around, he said, "Fine, you have a go. But you're taking Stanley and Taylor with you." Before Diamond could protest this addition to the stakeout he spun to look him in the eye, "And Johnny... you try to email me instead of asking permission again, or you even dream of calling me by my first name, and I'll put you on a plane back home to 'Blighty' myself. Thank you kindly, gentlemen."

Diamond was about to retort when Armani ushered him through the door. "After you, boss."

Armani was the one marching on the way out of the office. Diamond caught up to him as he stopped outside and waited for Diamond to come out and light up his post meeting cigarette. Diamond looked at Armani who was quietly seething to himself.

"Okay," Diamond said, taking a drag, "let's have it, why are you pissed with me?"

Armani looked at Diamond. Did he really not get it? He scoffed. "Don't worry."

Diamond took another, longer drag on his cigarette. "Oh, God. This is like talking to one of my ex-wives – they look all pissed off and won't tell me why. Like I should just know. Like I'm psychic, or something."

"Well maybe if you paid more attention you wouldn't have as many ex-wives." Armani found himself blurting out. Diamond almost laughed.

"Ah, I see my young partner has a voice in there, after all."

This had been building up for months, ever since they got to Canada. Armani could not hold back any longer. "Okay, you want to know why I'm so annoyed? It's you. I put up with a lot of shit from you back home, but now I just can't do it anymore."

Diamond was enjoying seeing this fire in his hitherto softly spoken sidekick, but honestly he wasn't sure what had led to this. "Can't do what anymore?"

"All of this. You go into every situation like everyone owes you something, like you're just deserving of everyone doing things your way. You got away with that back home because you were the cock of the walk after we busted the Reaper's operation. You must know it's not going to fly here? The Lieutenant has been nothing but kind to us since we got here, lent us every courtesy. Can't you just be nice?"

"Nice?" Diamond parroted back with an expression like the word was a wedge of lemon in his mouth. "Nice? What is wrong with your generation? I remember when officers wouldn't even give you the time of day if you didn't sass them a bit. You've gotta be able to talk to superiors like you would women."

"With respect?" Armani said, holding out little hope this was his intention.

"Like they know you mean business." Diamond went on, ignoring the foolish naivety of his colleague. "You're a good officer. Don't mind admitting we wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for your way around forensics and tracking down the Reaper. But you've got to know how to talk to people to get things done in the real world."

Armani sighed as Diamond crushed out his cigarette. "With respect, sir, I think the 'real world' you are talking about went the way of the dinosaurs about a decade or two ago. Believe it or not, I'd hate to see your considerable skills go with it."

Diamond tossed the cigarette butt. "You worry about staying sharp out there tonight. Let me worry about me. Now go home and get something to eat and catch a nap. We'll be working through the night on this one." He pulled up the collar on his raincoat (an affectation he still thought was a cool bit of detective kit) and walked off, leaving Armani to ponder if they would catch this perp before or after one of them killed the other.

The station dog, a Labrador called Benny, came out, followed by Elaine with two cups of coffee. She handed one to Armani. "Thanks" he said, taking an appreciative sip and petting Benny. It was a good coffee, white with two sugars. She always got it just how he liked it.

"You okay?" she asked, brushing her long black hair back from her face and throwing Benny a treat. "I heard you and the big man going at it. The most I think I've heard you say back to him since you joined us."

Armani sighed. "He just got to me, finally. He's a good man and the best officer we have back home. He just... I don't know. I just wish he'd get out of his own way sometimes and get with the twenty-first century. Maybe even let his partner in, occasionally."

Elaine blew on her coffee thoughtfully. "It's true he could learn a thing or two about being more respectful and that the world doesn't owe him quite as much as he thinks. But think about this: if he's such a dinosaur, why are you here with him?"

Armani thought about it. "Scotland Yard wanted me here with him. I was needed."

Elaine wasn't buying it. "So, this case halfway across the world comes up and you had to say yes? No one else could have come with him?"

Steve thought about this for a moment, rocking the now half empty paper coffee cup in his hands back and forth as he watched Benny give himself an impromptu bath on the front porch of the station. "I wanted to come. I wanted to spend more time with him. He was a legend around the Yard. People kept telling me how good he was and how I'd be lucky to work with him before he retired. So, when he recruited me to help on the case back home and I helped crack it... I wanted to see it through. And yes, I wanted to work with him."

Elaine took his hand in a way you wouldn't usually at work. "So, work with him," she said simply. "Maybe being around you will change him a little, maybe it won't. But you wanted to spend time with him and learn whilst you have the chance. That comes with accepting him for who he is, not who you want him to be. Sometimes you are stuck with people for reasons that only make sense after the fact. The ones who don't act like you want them too can often teach us the most. No harm in giving him a hard time along the way, though!"

The two laughed and caught each other's gaze for just a little longer than was professional. Elaine patted Armani's hand as she withdrew hers and walked inside without another word.

Late that evening, the two officers were bundled into a van with tinted windows, across from the mill. Both were wearing binoculars around their necks. Armani was trying to listen to an earpiece tuned in to intercept the walkie-talkies the Reaper's men were carrying, but was finding it hard to hear over the rustling of the pack of 'Dino-Donut bits' and slurping of coffee coming from his superior.

He turned to Diamond, who was, of course, in the driver's seat. "Can you possibly eat and drink just a little more quietly?"

Diamond took another, purposefully louder, slurp of coffee. "Lighten up, sunshine. The informant said the Reaper isn't even due for another hour. Don't you know half the fun of stakeouts is the snacks and the waiting? You never even seen any films?"

"Sorry boss, I kind of thought maybe listening out for any further information, you know, doing a little police work, might be a better way to spend our wait."

Diamond took a napkin and shovelled the sugar from the donut bits from the corners of his mouth into it. He looked at his partner. "You think I don't pay attention?"

Armani was trying to keep his cool, but wasn't succeeding. "Honestly, sir?"

Diamond nodded. "Honestly."

Armani looked into his eyes for any sign this was a trap, but it didn't matter, he was going to speak his mind even if it was. "Okay, no. I think you are very good at the job you did when you qualified in Manchester, back in the 80's. Matter of fact, I still think you're good at doing that part of the job, now. If you want someone who will track a thug down, even to the ends of the Earth, you're our man. If you want someone who can follow his gut to some hideout the same perp thinks no one knows about, that's you, too. But to wait? To be patient? You ever wonder if there is a reason it was me and not you who got the forensics on the Reaper? That it was me who tracked the DNA to find out his birth name was John Riker and that he had family here?" Armani, took a beat and recomposed himself. "I do admire you, sir, but you have to move with the times."

Diamond shook his head. "There you go again. 'Move with the times', 'don't be a dinosaur'. Who the goddamn do you kids, fresh out of nappies and the academy, think you're dealing with? You know why I asked for you in the first place when I was tracking the Reaper?"

Armani didn't know what to say. He had no idea why.

"Well, Steve," Diamond continued after a pause just long enough to make Armani feel a little foolish, "let me tell you why. 'Cause a good officer knows what he knows. A great officer knows what he doesn't, too. That's the first thing we learned at the academy. You think I am unaware; I don't know the forensics as well as you? When I was training that was all new. I go to the training, I try to keep up, but you know what? I'm old. Few more years I'll be retiring to some desk back home. Maybe even teach some snot nosed kids back there how to track a collar when you don't have all the fancy gadgets with you. But until then, I will spend every moment surrounding myself with ungrateful know-it-all wankers like you, so I can learn as much as I can to be as good a copper as I know how to be. Not because I just love your company so much, but because it's what I need to do to be most effective at my job. You might consider doing the same."

"But I –" Armani was about to try to defend himself somehow but the Inspector wasn't done.

"You think because I'm drinking my coffee and slipping down some donuts I'm not aware of my surroundings? When did that blue car across the street pull in?"

"The blue car?"

"Exactly. It parked at 22:21, exactly. Half an hour ago. And that guy on the street corner – how long's he been casing out the street, presumably for the Reaper's operation?"

"Well, I hadn't actually noticed..."

"No, you didn't. He's been there an hour, got here just after us. So yeah, you have your ear piece tuned into their radios and you have your aerial photography and schematics of the area on your little smartphone, there. But just maybe if you were listening for what I know instead of zeroing in on what I don't, you might just learn, too."

The van was silent for a moment, till Armani broke it. "I'm sorry."

Diamond finished his coffee and let the apology hang in the air a moment before saying. "Yeah, I accept your apology. You're also not completely wrong. I know I could shut my mouth more often with Page and a dozen more bosses like him. Might have got a few pay grades higher if I did, truth be told. It's just..." Diamond trailed off, genuinely looking like he didn't have an answer for why he behaved like this.

Armani smiled. "It's just, you've got to have fun somehow, between wives, right boss?"

Diamond smiled back. "You checked in with the Mounties recently?"

"No, I'll call through now," Armani said retuning his radio. "Nest to Bird One, how goes it?"

Constable Taylor looked up from the dog he was flipping on the grill of the van he was manning and held his finger to the ear piece, faking pushing his hair back. "Well, my uncle will be pleased. I think I've sold more dog tonight than he does in his usual spot on the other side of town in a weekend. And he got the night off. No sign of the Reaper, though."

"Don't forget to save us two with everything. I'll check in on Stanley." Armani flicked the dial again to get Constable Stanley, who was posing as a tramp, down the road. "Bird Two? Got enough for a coffee, yet?"

The radio was silent, save for a soft crackle on the line. Then a voice said, "Sorry officers, but your Mountie friend isn't going to be able to come to the radio, right now."

Both Diamond and Armani recognised the Reaper's hard Yorkshire accent instantly.

Armani answered frantically, "Is he safe?"

"Well," the Reaper mused, "bits of him are. How much of him remains safe is entirely up to you. How many men have you got out there? Obviously you will be with that fat pig, Diamond, but who else?"

Diamond grabbed his radio, "Yeah, I'm here. But that's it. Just the three of us, with Stanley."

Armani nodded to Diamond. They could at least protect Taylor.

"Just three? Really?"

"Yeah, it's just us," concurred Armani.

"Very well, then," the Reaper said, with an even tone. They heard him murmur something to someone off radio.

There was the sound of gun fire.

Armani shouted to Diamond who was scanning the street with his binoculars. "Can you see anything?"

"NO!" Diamond screamed, completely forgetting himself. "It's Taylor! He's gunned down Taylor." There was a click on the radio, the Reaper again, "You said there was only three of you. Now there is. May I suggest your answers from now on are a little more truthful?"

Diamond grabbed the radio angrily. "What do you want?"

The Reaper's smile could be heard across the airwaves. "Simple, really. The two of you will drive your van into the wood mill. You will park by the office at the back. My men will check you for weapons, then you will proceed to my office. I'll let your man go. A skilled surgeon should be able to give him a relatively normal life, I'm sure."

"You bastard," Armani spat into the radio.

"Tut, tut," the Reaper chided. "Inspector, control your man, there. He might come to harm if you don't. Let alone Mr Stanley, here."

Diamond put a calming hand on Armani's shoulder as he spoke into the radio. "Just me, let Armani go."

"I'm sorry, officer, but you both shut down my operations back home. You both get to come see me."

"Okay," Armani said, with as much calm as he could muster. "But I want to speak to Stanley first. I'm doing nothing until I know he's safe."

There was another crackle on the radio, then Bruce Stanley's voice croaked, "I'm okay. Don't do it, just leave." There was a scream from the Mountie as the Reaper took back the radio. "Now, Mr Stanley, look what you've made me do. That won't heal if I keep prodding it." He spoke to the officers in the van: "You don't come, he dies. You radio for help, he dies and I take you out now, as well. My men already have their weapons trained on you. You have five minutes to comply."

Diamond dropped the radio, but Armani picked it up and tried one more time. "Reaper? Bruce! Damn it!" he exclaimed, throwing it across the van. "So, what do we do?"

Diamond didn't say anything, he just started the van.

"You can't be serious?" Armani said incredulously. "You are just going to go in? No back up, no plan?"

Diamond stopped the van for a moment. "What would you have me do? You heard him, if we do nothing he'll kill Stanley, just like he did Taylor. He's clearly tracking our radio and he'll know if we radio in. He'll have guns on us already. I won't make you do this, but unless you have another plan, I don't see another way. When I start this van back up, we either floor it and try to get out of the area alive, or we go in and try to get Stanley out of there. Maybe think of something to take the Reaper down when we are in there. Only we probably shouldn't count on making it out alive. No one does, with the Reaper."

Armani didn't say anything. What could he say? Eventually Diamond started up the van and turned into the wood mill.

The goons on the gate just watched as they drove through, clearly having their orders already, they simply pointed them toward the office at the back. As they drove past the mill they could see stacks of boxes, full of guns, drugs, or both.

They parked up in front of a set of metal stairs that led up to the foreman's office, which the Reaper had made his base of operations. The guards at the bottom of the stairs watched carefully as the two officers slowly made their way out of the van with their hands up.

Diamond spoke slowly and calmly. "We are going to, one at a time, go into our pockets slowly and drop our weapons on the ground before walking toward you, okay?" The men on guard nodded and slowly Diamond and Armani disarmed themselves and walked over, allowing themselves to be frisked and taken up the stairs at gunpoint.

When they reached the top they went into the office where the Reaper signalled for the men to take Stanley outside. As the man started dragging him out, Diamond noticed he wasn't moving. He instinctively went over toward him, but was stopped by the two men dragging Stanley, who waved their guns threateningly.

The Reaper gestured for the men to lower their guns and put Stanley down. "You can check, Inspector. He is still alive."

Diamond moved slowly but purposefully over to his friend and fellow officer. He was lying on one side now, facing away from him. No blood visible, but Diamond gently put his hand on his arm in a supportive gesture, ready to turn him over the see the worst. Stanley stirred and spoke softly, "I'm sawry, Johnny."

Johnny Diamond was far from an emotional man, but he felt his eyes prickle. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

Suddenly Stanley turned over and revealed a gun which was now pointed at Diamond's chest. Armani went for a gun, but their captors' weapons were instantly pointed at his head, stopping him in his tracks.

Stanley got up, moving Diamond with him, with the aid of his gun. "But I do, boss. I'm afraid I didn't get captured after all. You can't get captured when you are working for someone."

Diamond couldn't conceal feeling more than a little hurt. "But why, Stanley? You didn't need to do this."

Stanley's face changed from one of slight sorrow it had come to this, to that of contempt. "If you bothered to actually find out what was going on in anyone's life but your own, you might know about my wife having cancer. Who's going to pay the bills? My insurance doesn't cover the drugs she needs. My reputation as a Mountie isn't gonna save her life. This medicine might. If I have to help someone running guns and drugs to do that, so be it."

Armani watched, powerless to act, as Stanley shoved Diamond next to him.

The Reaper looked on with a grin that could only be described as 'shit eating'. He pulled out his own gun. "Any last words, gentlemen?"

Before Armani could say anything, Diamond reached for his secret side piece, a gun he had concealed in the back of his trousers, just where it might be missed in a hasty search. He reached it and drew it up to the Reaper with impressive speed – but not fast enough. The Reaper shot first and with a thud, Johnny Diamond hit the floor, bleeding uncontrollably from his belly. His recently concealed weapon fell to the floor and span to the Reaper's feet. Armani sank to the floor and held his partner and superior officer up, applying pressure to the wound with his hand, but it was no use.

Diamond grimace in pain. "I'm sorry, sunshine. Doesn't look like we are gonna win this one. I had to try."

Armani fought back tears as much as he could, forgetting the situation they were both in. The Reaper seemed content to let this play out until Diamond died.

Armani looked Diamond in the eye. "Why? You always have to be so pig-headed and now you're gonna die on me! You've been like this all my life!" Armani wasn't sure why he'd said that. 'All his life? They'd only worked together a few years, intense as those years were.

"I know," Diamond said, going along with this strange utterance. "But when your Mum died you needed someone to be strong for you. I tried to show I cared, too. It just wasn't easy. At least we always played at being detectives like this, huh?"

Armani looked down at his hand. It was smaller suddenly – that of a child. Diamond seemed somehow younger now, too. Early thirties. There was no blood, but they were in the same pose, like this was all a game. What was going on?

"Dad?" Armani found himself saying.

Before Diamond could respond another voice came from nowhere, accompanied by some dramatic and very dated sounding music: "Can Inspector Diamond beat the odds and survive this seemingly mortal wound? Will Armani find their way out of here and defeat the Reaper? Tune in next time to the exciting conclusion, only on 'The Township of King!'"

Armani felt sick. He felt like he was remembering something he didn't want to. "Dad... Diamond... don't leave me... Don't –"

John Wright woke up in a sweat in the hospital 'night room', reserved for families of patients. The TV in the corner of the room was playing the theme tune at the end of The Township of King as he shot forward in his chair, hissing "- die!"

As the nightmare faded, it took him a while to orientate. As all the facts hit his head the feeling of sickness from his dream solidified into the real world.

He had been in the hospital for forty-eight hours solid before he finally agreed to leave his father's bedside. His father, Johnny Wright Snr, was dying. He had been diagnosed with cancer months before, but had stubbornly kept it a secret 'til last week, when he toppled over in the aisle of Aldi, in town, whilst getting his weekly shop. John had been called by a checkout assistant who found his number on his dad's mobile. So, after years of being estranged John had come to his father's bedside to be with him each night. It was hard to talk to each other, even though both men wanted to say so much. Forty-eight hours ago Johnny had slipped into unconsciousness as the now terminal cancer took hold.

When the nurses had forced John to take a break in this room, even if he just sat down for an hour, he paced for a good ten minutes before noticing an old cop show on the TV with no sound on. He tracked down the remote control under some out of date 'Home and Garden' magazines and turned the sound up. It was The Township of King, a cop show that he grew up watching with his dad. Memories of all the times he had watched the show with his dad had come flooding back. All the hours they had spent in the garden pretending to be the two British heroes, showing the Mounties how they did it back home. His dad as Inspector Johnny Diamond and him as his loyal young assistant and partner, Special Constable John Armani. Dad always insisted he needed to be the lead cop as they had the same name. Many was the night his Mum would have to practically drag them in for dinner, half an hour after her first warning: "It'll get cold if you don't come in, right now!"

When his Mum died when he was ten, John had sat and watched Township alone, expecting his dad to bound in, as he did every time he heard that theme tune. But he hadn't. John had assumed he was busy and gone looking for him, calling through to his dad to come play. After he received no reply he went through to find his dad in his home office. When John suggested they go find some bad guys in the garden, Johnny had slurred, "You're a little old for us to keep playing that," and topped up his drink.

John had never brought up the game again and the two never watched the show after that. One or the other switching over when it came on. When he was old enough, John left for University and had never returned until now, thirty years later.

Nurse Elaine came through to the family room. John was pretty sure she had been at the hospital as long as him, but you wouldn't know from her relentless kindness and energy for her patients. She gave John a smile and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay, John? I heard you shouting." She had call him John right away when they first met and the lack of formality put him at ease every time.

"Yes. Just a dream... or a nightmare."

Elaine nodded kindly and spoke softly, "He... Your Father... He's awake and asking for you. I think it's time to say goodbye."

John nodded wiping tears he hadn't felt himself cry away, as if by instinct. "Do I have a moment?"

"Of course," Elaine said, walking to the door. "I'll go make him comfortable, ready for you to come in."

He simply nodded as she left and drew himself to his feet.

His dream had helped him understand something, in a weird way. Yes, his dad had been cold after his mother died, and he had been stubborn for a long time before that, but he cared. Aside from the distance, there were other memories from those times, like when John fell asleep with his TV and lights on and woke up with them magically off and his lunch waiting for him in the fridge for school. Or when his dad worked night shifts in the office without comment to earn the money to pay for a school skiing trip they could ill-afford. When John had made the school play and although he wasn't there before and disappeared after, he saw his Dad at the back of the audience with pride on his face.

At the time, John had thought he was avoiding him. Maybe he had been, in some ways, but there were a dozen ways in which his dad had been there for him, over the years. They may have been apart for a long time, unable to reach out to one another, but they were here, now, finally. He would remind his dad of The Township of King; of all those times together in their garden; of Mum calling them in for a beautiful, home-cooked meal and hugs.

In these final moments with his dad, through all the sadness and tears that would follow, John had found his father – and found hope.

The Darkness of Lockdown

By K. Palomar

The darkness of lockdown we fear, but will soon disappear.

We shall be reunited with the loved ones we have missed,

Then we can give them a big kiss.

The darkness of lockdown we fear, but will soon disappear.

And the kids will return to school, which is cool!

The darkness of lockdown we fear, but will soon disappear.

Then we can go to the seaside and eat fish 'n' chips,

While we watch the ships.

The darkness of lockdown we fear, but will soon disappear.

People will go back to work, with their heads held high

As they look at the sky.

The darkness of lockdown we fear, but will soon disappear.

Then we can have the biggest get-together –

And we can wear our best leather!

The darkness of lockdown we fear, but will soon disappear.

Because there is a shining light at the end of the tunnel

That we can see –

And that includes me!

Light

Rae Bailey

On the scrubbed deal table, still smelling of carbolic soap, she had placed a piece of precious paper, a tiny bottle of ink and the pen her parents used for accounts. She put aside the slate on which she had practised, wiping away the chalk dust, and leaned The Works of Tennyson against the sugar bowl.

She allowed herself a few precious moments to dream of where the even flow of copperplate might lead: another year at the Industrial School, becoming a monitor, perhaps learning a language, perhaps a handsome boy who would take as much pride in her as a scholar as her parents did, Mum fairly bursting busying about the dairy, Dad humming ballads as he milked. Probably not to Oxford like her cousin, who left in glory, never came home, and with all his practice at it, never wrote. She felt the deep current of a future loss running below their steady pride, though they never let it surface.

Over the graphite hump of the scippen, the sun faded to the same red gold as her hair. She lit the stub of tallow candle, which spat and guttered smokily, yet lit the clean white page. She picked up her pen.

Digging In

By Lauren K. Nixon

It has been some time since I last wielded a spade,

And this particular one has lineage of its own.

Like Trigger's broom, it is a thing of parts:

It got its newest handle yesterday;

The blade and shaft are the same that cut the clay

Of my grandparents' vegetable beds.

I am a thing of parts, too.

Part of me will always be there; another part

Will live forever on a rain-swept island to the north,

Among the longhouses. Another in the woods

Behind my mother's home, and in the theatre,

Playing with words and light.

All of them, digging in.

Part of me wants to run,

To walk out into the wild and keep on going,

Somewhere we have never heard of this thing.

Or dance on the green with my neighbours,

Threading bodies around ribbons around the maypole,

Rejoicing in the spring.

But I won't risk all those breaths not taken.

So, I join my neighbours when they sing across fences,

I cut turf and sow seeds, I bake scones and make soup.

I wash the curtains – and my hands –

And I keep people company in pixels.

And while my mind roams free,

This part of me is staying right here, like everybody else.

All of us, digging in.

The Labyrinth

Wayne Naylor

There was much cursing and shaking of Jerome's right hand as he looked over the suit's gloves to ensure there was no break in the seal. He looked around, examining the archway as the electrical discharge dissipated. Some form of barrier, then.

How was he meant to get in there? He needed to get inside and Jerome was not used to having to figure out things the hard way. He was accustomed to easy answers. Sparing a glance at the three suns in the sky he was glad that the suit had adequate cooling systems. Taking a breath, he returned to the arch and re-examined it, bringing his hand close, but not touching the place he had got shocked last time.

Cautiously, he felt his way around the archway itself and did not find any hidden panels or off switches. There was an abrupt swing and a clang, but his attempt at percussive maintenance did nothing to the mechanism, however there was a buzz from the suit. He turned his hand and looked at the display on his gauntlet: the notification showed that he had cracked a tiny solar recharge panel on the gauntlet. They were segmented and distributed throughout the exterior of the suit. Nothing to worry about. There were plenty of others, and besides, on a planet with three suns, solar generators made for an efficient power supply.

Power supply...

That was what Jerome should have been looking for, he realised as he stepped back from the arch to the top of the stairs. Sand blew up at the edge but natural barriers kept it from sweeping too far in. Thanks to the three suns overhead he could see what looked like a power panel at the top of the arch. There was no obvious sign of a battery and he wondered if the archway held one.

He felt bad for what he was about to do, but it was necessary. He took out a sidearm and pressed a button, there was a snap and click from inside and he took aim at the panel. Pulling the trigger, a small speck flew from the pistol and there was a loud ping as he hit his mark, a little bit lower than he wanted, but it was there.

Grinning within his helmet, Jerome pressed a button on the gun. There was an explosion and bolts of electricity arced from the device. Chunks of masonry and machine collapsed around the doorway. Jerome waited for the dust to settle and knelt down to pick up a sizeable chunk of debris. He turned it over in his hand for a moment before taking careful aim. The chunk flew as he threw it towards the archway. It landed on the other side with a clatter before it skittered to a stop.

He strolled over, his boots clacking against the floor. He hesitated and reached his hand out, unconvinced until he didn't receive a shock. Stepping through, he sighed in relief.

"Tez, I'm in. No turning back, now." His voice was steady as he spoke into the microphone in the wrist mounted computer. There was a bleep of confirmation as the message ended.

Passing through the arch, Jerome walked into a wide chamber lit by several strips of orange lights embedded within metallic walls, which then narrowed into a corridor that was barely less claustrophobic than his suit. The sooner his mission was done, the better, so far as he was concerned. He just needed to find what he came for and then he could leave.

The corridor split and, checking down both ends with a glance, Jerome saw they split again and cursed. He raised his wrist again. "Tez, is the scan complete?" His question was answered by two brief, angry sounding bleeps. "Great. Thanks, Tez. Stupid scrap pile," he added, to himself.

He chose his route, sticking to the left. It would be slow going, but he might eventually be able to make his way through the labyrinth. The lights in the walls were strong at first, but became dimmer and farther apart the deeper he went inside the complex, and soon he needed to turn his own lights on. They radiated out from his suit, casting bizarre shadows that jumped and leapt as he moved.

"Tez, how about now?" There was no answer for a long moment followed by another bleep, high pitched this time. "The scan? Is the scan complete?"

Another two negative bleeps.

As he got his answer, a loud bang echoed all around. Jerome quickened his pace. At least it was confirmation that he was on the right track. His boots thudded loudly in the dark. He had never been good at stealth and given that they probably already knew he was there from that business with the arch, he thought it was pointless to start now. Speed was what was needed if he was going to have a chance of succeeding. The corridor flew by in flashes of grey and orange as the various lights from his suit streaked ahead.

From ahead there was a loud mechanical whine, followed by heavy stomping, and then Jerome saw coming from one of the branching paths a many-legged mechanical monstrosity – or so it seemed in the flickers of light. Jerome tore ahead down the next branch.

"Tez! Now would be good! Scans!"

Another two negative bleeps.

A loud voice in an alien tongue rang out. Jerome could not understand, but he gathered he was not welcome here as the mechanical creature pursued him, metal limbs scraping on metal.

The floor suddenly vanished from under Jerome and he fell. He cried out and reached his hands out, the suit automatically engaged and his shoulders wrenched slightly as his descent stopped. The magnets in the gloves working as intended. He looked down, judging the distance to the floor of the level below and as the creature began descending slowly.

He dropped, this time more prepared for the descent, and then he was off, running down corridor after corridor until he had no idea where he had been. Only the repeating message somewhere behind kept him running senselessly.

"Tez, you piece of junk, I need those scans! Where is it?" The answering bleep was strangled and cut off abruptly. "Don't be like that!"

This was turning into a very bad day, but then every day was a bad day when you thrived on the fringes of the system. This was definitely one of the worst. Jerome wondered why he had agreed to this in the first place. So many others had volunteered, but only he was dumb enough to be the first volunteer.

Suddenly the labyrinth became blinding as it was illuminated from everywhere at once. Shielding his eyes, his heart leapt. He could see a door. At last! He couldn't help but laugh as finally something must have gone right.

Ignoring the alien warning behind him, he checked his computer, flicking through text files until he found one he recognised and scanned it, making sure he knew what he was doing. He found a panel on the wall and used the magnets in his glove to pull it off, exposing a manual handle attached to a cylindrical mechanism. He grasped it and gave it a three-quarter turn, then pulled it out slightly and turned it back before pushing it in. The door hissed open and Jerome stepped inside, repeating his actions on the panel and handle inside.

Hoping he was now safe, he turned and examined the room he found himself in. Rows and rows of giant glass vats lined the walkway and Jerome strode straight ahead, ignoring their contents. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that there were things floating in them and wires snaking out of those things and around the room. He really didn't want to know.

At last, he came to a console beneath a sizeable screen atop a pedestal and pressed a button. The entire room seemed to pulsate as machines turned on and data began appearing on the screen. He pulled wires from his wrist mounted computer and attached them to the ports. It was old, but fortunately still compatible.

"Tez, downloading now. I'll be done soon. Scans?" There was silence. "Tez?" Jerome checked his computer, "Tez I know we're connected!" He groaned as the computer bleeped, showing the download was complete and then disconnected before turning everything off again and heading for the door.

The alien message was muffled somewhat, but it was still repeating. Jerome groaned again.

"Look, Tez, I'm sorry for calling you junk. Will you please help me come back? I'll give you a better quality refuel, class three?" There was a pause and then a questioning bleep and he read the screen. "One? I can't afford class one even with this gig! Two is the best I can do!"

There was an affirmative bleep and a detailed map populated the screen. "Thank you, Tez. Love you!" A series of affirmative bleeps. "Okay, okay! Don't get too excited. Can you guide me out? Then I – sorry, we –can get this where it needs to go!"

The map suddenly lit up, showing three circles in red, blue and green. Red was the mechanical creature, blue was Jerome (handily labelled as such), while the last was his guide, which slowly navigated to the other end of the room to another door. Jerome broke into a sprint, occasionally glancing at the screen.

He unlocked the door and moved quickly. The creature was far away, but starting to get closer once more and he hoped desperately that Tez was taking him the short way out. He needed to get the data out if he was to accomplish his mission, and it would be nice to get paid, too. The green blip led him down corridor after corridor, the red dot slowly gaining with a horrible sort of inevitability. Jerome cursed. If it weren't for all the twists and turns in the corridors slowing down the coordination and ordering of the robot's many legs it might have already caught him.

As he sped through the corridors, a question rose in Jerome's mind; he had to fall down a hole to get down to this level, how was he getting back up?

As if in answer a warning blipped up on the computer screen, making him stop in his tracks, conscious of the robot coming up from behind. His heart pounded in his chest.

"Tez? Anytime now!"

The warning continued emanate from the screen and he could hear grinding and rumbling from the complex behind him.

At the far end of the corridor, the creature loomed and Jerome swallowed.

"Tez? I'm going to have to run! It's almost on me! You can see that, right?"

Tez agreed that yes, he could see Jerome just fine, through a series of cheerful electronic chirrups. As the legs of the creature began scrambling onto nearby wall space and Jerome turned, the floor pushed upwards hard, shooting up and splitting one the mechanical arms of the creature off. It thrashed around on the large moving tile. Jerome, who had fallen face first onto the floor, felt around his mouth with his tongue and spat out a tooth. He staggered to his feet, stepping out of reach of the mechanical leg, which twitched menacingly in his direction. Jerome pulled out the pistol, flicking a switch and shooting. The round impacted into the arm and electrical discharge enveloped it, making it spasm more violently, clattering noisily around the lift before ceasing to function.

"Tez, I could have used a little bit more warning, but thank you!"

Tez bleeped happily, satisfied with a job well done.

The floor stopped moving and the green dot moved away on the map. Jerome followed it through many twists and turns, which all looked the same. He did not see another guardian, though he strained his ears in case one came up behind him. As he went, the lights were shutting off behind him, one by one.

Jerome stepped into the wide chamber that marked the beginning of the complex and walked outside again to stand amongst the rubble. He looked up and saw a small, rectangular, rather battered spaceship descending to meet him.

"There you are! Let me in, we have a delivery, Tez. It's time to get paid!"

Time Lapse

By Yvonne Ugarte

I turned the key to the hidden room

And pushed the door aside

The sun streamed in to breathe new life

To memories long since died

With child-like thrill I touched the toys

That long forgotten lay

A rocking horse stood in the midst

Its colours brightly gay

The sun alone bedecked its form

No dust to dim its view

It stood apart from all the rest

With silver springs as new

With cautious step, I ventured near

Though fear within me stirred

The horse began to slowly rock

Then children's voices heard

I felt them pass but could not see

Their presence real and strong

One climbed upon the rocking horse

Their timeless souls lived on

A stranger, I, within their world

Where I'd no right to be

I locked the door and walked away

Then threw away the key

Hope

By Fiona Angwin

It was a perfectly normal prison cell – normal in a medieval way, that is, consisting of hard stone walls and with flagstones on the floor, covered by a stinking layer of rotted straw. The ceiling was – well, to be honest the cell's occupant didn't know what the ceiling was made of. He couldn't reach up high enough to touch it, and he couldn't see it, because there wasn't any light. That was the most frightening thing of all: the total absence of light.

People say that eyes can adjust to the darkness, but that just means that they can adjust to a low level of light, not to none at all. The prisoner didn't know how long he'd been there, and was struggling to remember why he'd been imprisoned at all. The charges read out in court had been long and involved and he thought it had boiled down to the fact that he had written a newspaper article that criticised the government. Possibly more than one article... it was all getting lost in the muddle of his memories.

Of course, it was impossible to judge the passage of time inside his cell. Days should be separated into day and night, but in total darkness time became infinite, fluid, immeasurable. However, he decided he wouldn't let it break him. People had been imprisoned before, and would be again, and some of those had always been, would always be, writers. So he would write – somehow. Of course, this hadn't been a decision taken in the first few hours or days of his incarceration. It had followed a period of adjustment, involving screaming into the darkness and pounding on the walls. At length, he had discovered the slit in the floor through which trays of food were shoved, but he'd been unable to claw the hole any bigger. Then he'd had to wait while the torn flesh of his fingers began to heal.

By the time he'd decided that the only way to cope was to carry on being himself, to continue writing, he'd also realised the difficulties. He had no materials: no devices, paper, ink or light to see by. How could he write? How could anybody write in these circumstances? Was it even worth the effort?

He heard something rustling somewhere in his cell. He couldn't see what it was, of course. A rat? A mouse? A cockroach?

He remembered one of the prosecuting team referring to him as a cockroach during his trial. At the time he'd felt insulted, but now he remembered something he'd heard about cockroaches, years before – that they were the creatures that could survive any kind of a disaster. And so he decided to embrace the insult. He would survive, he would keep going, he would write! Perhaps all writers were cockroaches really, at heart.

Other people might be put off by imprisonment, especially in such unexpectedly feudal conditions, but not him. As soon as he'd made the decision he began to feel better – but then he heard the scrabbling sound in the straw again and his resolve crumbled. What was the point in writing? Even if he found a way to do it, who would read it? More screaming and smashing at the walls followed, more time passed.

The next day, or perhaps hour, he calmed down and began a systematic search through the straw on the floor. He didn't find anything much, just some old cheese, a couple of bones (human finger bones, he'd wager, from the size and shape) and a match. He tried to strike it, but it must have been burnt out long ago. Useless.

More time passed and he began to wonder how the courts could get away with keeping him in such terrible conditions. Surely it wasn't legal? Perhaps that would be the next thing he could write about, conditions in the modern prison. Of course, for that he'd need to find a way out, and have access to a way of publishing the article. Which left him back where he started – and back to wondering how long he'd be kept in the cell. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd left court in, and had had no chance to bathe or wash. There was just a bucket in the corner for bodily waste, which never got emptied. They must have told him the length of his sentence, so why couldn't he remember it? Then again, if they were keeping him in these conditions, how could they ever let him out? They must be expecting him to die there, which, to be honest, might happen fairly quickly. Back to working out how to write...

The things that felt like finger bones could be used to scratch words onto the walls, but the stone walls were the stronger of the two substances, so the bones just snapped and crumbled. Also, if the next prisoner was kept in darkness too, they wouldn't be able to see the words anyway. He decided he wanted to take his words with him, if he ever got out. So forget the walls. Perhaps he could do something with the straw. Come to think of it, didn't people in ancient Egypt make papyrus from rushes?

Feeling with his fingers in the darkness he began to lay out the strips of straw beside each other, with another layer on top lying at right angles to the first, but without a way to press the two layers together (and with straw having different properties to papyrus) he failed to make any kind of writing surface. All that was left was his skin. Perhaps he could scratch words into his own flesh, that way he could take them with him when, or if, he left.

He thought of all the great works that had been written in prison cells over the years. Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan, Don Quixote by Cervantes, Conversations With Myself by Nelson Mandela – and now it was his turn to create something – to join this powerful pantheon.

His spirits lifted, briefly, but then he realised that all he had to scratch the words into his skin with was one last remaining bone. That way infection lay. The prisoner sighed and lay down on the floor, defeated. It was at that point the he thought he saw something.

He could hear the rustling again, over in a corner of his cell, but now there seemed to be a certain faint glow there too. Very faint and very small. The prisoner lay completely still. Whatever was sharing the cell with him, he didn't want to disturb it.

After a few moments the glowing shape began to move, creeping hesitantly towards him. It approached his feet first, then moved along the floor towards his face, stopping every few inches as if checking to see if he would react in some way. As it came nearer he realised that it wasn't just a random ball of light...it had a shape to it. The shape of a mouse. A glowing little mouse!

By this time it was almost nose to nose with him, and he could see its whiskers twitching as it stared unblinkingly at him. The prisoner had been afraid at first but now he was fascinated. What was this creature? And why was it in his prison cell?

"Hello mouse," he whispered.

"Finally," replied the mouse, or at least there was a tiny whisper in his brain that seemed to come from the mouse. "I thought you'd never notice me. You were so busy panicking."

The prisoner sat up, offended.

"I wasn't panicking," he said. "Though perhaps I should be now. I've obviously cracked up if I'm talking to a mouse. I must have been in here even longer than I thought."

"How long do you think you've been in here?" asked the mouse.

"Days, weeks, months?" replied the prisoner. "I can't tell!"

"Well, don't ask me," said the mouse, rather sniffily. "It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it? My perception of time is different to a human's, anyway. When I was alive I was only expecting to live for two of your years, so..."

"Hold on!" the prisoner exclaimed. "When you were alive? You mean you're dead?"

"You didn't think I was a normal mouse, did you? Of course I'm dead! That's why I luminesce! Also, normal mice don't talk... not to humans, anyway."

"So, you're the ghost of a mouse?" The prisoner leaned back against the wall, struggling to take it all in. "How? Why?"

"Don't ask me," said the mouse again, giving a surprisingly human little shrug. "I just lived here, then a prisoner killed me. Smashed their boot down on my head. Urgh!" The delicate creature shivered at the memory. "Next thing I know, I'm still here, but I can talk human, and I sort of... glow. Like a ghost."

"So you're stuck here?" asked the prisoner.

"No," replied the creature. "I have found several ways out. But I'm supposed to be here. It's my... job, I suppose. So, I choose to remain."

"How can the ghost of a mouse have a job?" scoffed the man. "You obviously don't get paid!"

"And you claim to be a writer?" retorted the ghost mouse, indignantly. "Purpose isn't only based on pay, is it? Surely you don't only write for the money?"

"Well, no," the prisoner agreed, thinking of all the great works he meant to write, but mostly had to put aside to use his words to earn a living. "But it does help to be able to pay the bills."

"Dead mice don't have bills!" announced the ghost. "So there!"

The prisoner resisted telling the mouse not to be so childish. "So what is your purpose in staying here?" he asked instead.

"This," said the mouse, smugly. "You're not panicking now, are you? You're too busy arguing with me. And there's more, but you have to work it out for yourself."

The prisoner stared at the mouse, puzzled. Then he noticed something; he couldn't only see the mouse – the ghost mouse – but by the glow it gave off he could see a little of the floor around the creature, too. He could see a little patch of the straw that covered the floor – except that it wasn't straw, it was strips of paper, like the contents of a paper shredder. What he had thought was straw – wasn't.

"Why is there shredded paper all over the floor?" he asked the mouse, accusingly.

"I brought it in, through the slit under the door," the creature replied. "I thought it would make the place cosier for you, having something to nest in. Especially as you weren't using the bed."

"There's a bed?" The prisoner scrambled to his feet. "Where?"

"Lift me up," said the ghost mouse. "I'll show you."

The prisoner gently lifted the mouse onto the flattened palm of his hand, and raised it up like a candle, until its faint glow fell on the nearest section of the wall. Sure enough, there was a long rectangular panel running along one side of the cell. The man saw a catch on one edge and released it, and a bunk swung down, attached to the wall by hinges. He began to feel foolish. Still carrying the mouse on his open palm he moved across to the opposite corner of the cell. There, behind a partition that somehow he'd never bumped into, was a toilet. One that flushed automatically, silently. Which was why it never needed emptying. It emptied itself.....which meant that the smells in the cell had all been in his imagination.

"Thanks, fella," he said to the mouse.

"Actually, I'm a female," she replied. "Not that humans ever pay much attention to us individually. You just scream and throw things in our direction."

"Sorry," said the prisoner. He felt rather embarrassed about how he'd let his imagination run away from him inside the cell. And not in a good way. How could he have assumed the place was like a medieval dungeon?

He carried the ghost mouse towards another wall. It was covered in words and pictures. Other writers, other artists, had been here already. They had left their mark, just as he had wanted to. He felt something crunch under his foot as he moved along beside the wall, peering closely at the inscriptions. Reaching down he picked up one of the broken finger bones, which turned out to be a piece of chalk. Even in the darkness his face glowed red. How could he have been so foolish? If it wasn't for the absence of light the place wouldn't be too bad. He'd still be locked up, of course, but it was hardly the dungeon of his imagination.

Just then he heard something rattle over towards the doorway. Still relying on the tiny mouse for light he moved towards the sound and saw that a tray of food had been pushed through the slot at the bottom of the door. It looked alright, actually. He heard the sound of receding footsteps outside and called out, but whoever had been there was out of earshot.

He picked up the tray and carried it over so that he could sit on the edge of his bed to eat, the mouse sitting on his shoulder. Now that he was less frightened he began to eat, hungrily.

"Hmm?" hinted the mouse, and he held a little piece of bread out for her to take. She reached out for it but it fell through her fingers and landed on the blanket covering his bed.

"Drat!" she muttered. "I forget that I can't eat anymore."

The meal over, the mouse offered to sit on his shoulder so that he could see enough of a clear area of wall that he could start writing. He picked up a broken piece of chalk, stared at the wall, and felt his mind go completely blank. Before, he had known what he wanted to write, but now his whole perspective had changed he wasn't ready to write anything at all. In the end he just slumped down onto the bed, frustrated with himself. The ghost mouse curled up and went to sleep, and the light she emitted dimmed.

He heard footsteps clumping down the corridor towards his cell. A male voice called out to him.

"Sorry about this, we've had a bit of a situation going on this week, so we had to leave some of the prisoners in their cells for longer than usual."

"What kind of a situation?" asked the prisoner.

"A prison riot," replied the guard. 'Trust me, you were safer locked up in here. It took a few days, but we've got it under control, now."

"A few days?" queried the prisoner. "It felt like weeks – months, even – trapped here alone in the dark."

"That'll be the fuse box," replied the prison officer. "Some of the prisoners smashed the electrics, took out the power in this wing of the prison. We'll have the electricity back on soon. Mind you, the connections in your cell have always been a bit iffy. I've had no end of prisoners telling me that that room is pitch dark. As if we'd deliberately leave anyone in the dark! Anyway, it won't be your problem for much longer. You're due for release later today."

"Today?" echoed the prisoner, stunned.

"Well, you only got a slapped wrist, didn't you? One week for contempt of court. Hardly surprising, after what you said about the judge."

"But I thought I was in here for something I wrote?" said the prisoner, confused.

"Don't ask me," said the prison officer. "Maybe the trial was about something like that, though as I recall you won your case, but the prison sentence was definitely about something you said. It's all words in the end, isn't it?"

The officer walked away, calling out that he'd be back in a couple of hours to release the prisoner.

The man sank down onto the bed, shaking with relief. He hadn't been trapped in a medieval dungeon for months, but in a modern cell for a week. For his own good, to keep him safe from other prisoners during a riot. He was rather glad he hadn't started scratching words into his own skin. That would have been overkill, under the circumstances.

He nudged the ghost mouse, still curled up asleep on his bunk, and she opened a sleepy eye.

"I'm getting out of here later," the man said, grinning. "Can you do me one last favour?"

The mouse nodded and climbed onto the open hand the man held out towards her. He carried her over to the bare patch of wall, picked up a stub of chalk and began to write.

"Nothing lasts forever!" Followed by, "Harry J. Watkins was here."

"Harry J. Watkins?" said the mouse.

"It's my name! Well, the name I write under, anyway. My real name is Norman Winterbottom."

"Is that all you want to write?" asked the mouse, as she stared at the words, puzzled. "You were prepared to scratch words into your own skin, earlier."

"Perhaps, if I was trapped here forever, I would," agreed the man. "But I'll be out of here in a few hours. No point in starting to write a novel, is there?"

"Not here," agreed the ghostly little figure. "But perhaps when you get home, when this is over. Then you'll be ready to do what you've always meant to do."

"Yes," The Writer replied, firmly. "This time I will." He paused and looked at the whiskered face glowing in front of him. "You could come with me if you like? Leave this miserable place. I don't have a cat or anything. You'd be safe."

"Thank you," said the mouse, the ghost of a smile playing across her features, "But I can't leave. I'm needed here. You might have only been locked up for a week, but many people are here for much longer. They often seem to put the creative types in this cell, and the lights really don't work very well. So I have to stay here, so that people know it will be alright in the end."

"Fair enough," said The Writer. "If you're sure. By the way, do you have a name?"

The little mouse nodded and glowed more brightly. "I'm called Hope."

The Devil Got a Website

By Dean Wyrre

My friend Joe was nothing special; blew his life away

From job to job and bar to bar, living for the day

Then searching and ambition got to him one day

A babe in a mansion and mega holidays

I said, "Where did you get it all?" He smiled and spoke up close:

You just have a think today on what you want the most

Of course it costs a fair amount, but my advice is free

Make yourself a wish list up – but limit it to three!

The devil's got a website, you can sign your soul away

Get the things you always wanted, right now and here today

The devil's got a website, you can register for free

Easy terms on pay back, it's your eternity!

Register yourself at Mammon central

Get yourself a barcode for your soul

Then you have to mail it off to Satan

That's the point – you've given up control

There's a link on the web page, after you sign on

Watch a short projection of where your soul has gone

Joe's is stuck in limbo, you might not do so well

Some recent applicants are roasting down in hell

The devil's got a website, you can sign your soul away

Get the things you always wanted, right now and here today

There's no guarantee on your investment

Your soul can go down as well as up

Better see your spiritual advisor

Be very sure you want to join that club

The devil's got a website, you can sign your soul away

Get the things you always wanted right now and here today

The devil's got a website, you can register for free

Easy terms on pay back, it's your eternity!

A Letter

By Kim Hosking

I could thank all the others,

They did a lot of work too,

The ones who kept me going,

Let me know they cared.

But this letter is for another...

Thank you for getting me through.

I punished you for not being thin,

Or pretty, or smart,

And I looked for another to make me whole,

But when it came down to the wire,

All I really needed was you.

Thanks for keeping the light on.

Thanks to my heart for continuing to beat,

Even when I cried with pain.

Thanks to my lungs for letting me breathe,

To the fatigue for the healing sleep,

Thanks also to my mind

For distracting me with memories.

So I write you this letter

And make a solemn vow,

I'm sorry for all the times I've been hateful,

Never again will I call you

Ugly, fat or dumb.

You're perfect as you are.

That fire inside is beautiful.

Thank you.

Fait Accompli

by Wayne Naylor

A great sadness fell upon the features of one Theo Stanimir as he descended from the knackered carriage that had borne him from the bustling city into the silent countryside on the cusp of night. The porters descended from the rooftop and proceeded to unload his luggage as he stood and stared at the dilapidated structure before him.

Withdrawing his hands from his pockets he looked down at the crumpled letter and rusted iron keys in his hands and began to once more read the words imparted to him by the previous owner of the now abandoned manor, the man whose name he bore from the Deveraux side of his family, his great-grandfather.

Theo,

To you, whom I believe to be the first of the Stanimir line to bear the name of thine and mine I leave the Deveraux Manor. It has a strong lineage within our family, from the time before written records and I would prefer you did not sell it. I have resided here now for many decades, only retreating within these walls and withdrawing from this world within the last. It is time that the Manor passed to another, for I have been told as much, and so it is bequeathed unto you.

I place but a single demand upon your person and then consider legal obligations to be fulfilled, according to your wishes. You must reside within the manor for but a handful of nights – that is to say, a week, not including the sixth and seventh days.

The time has been long since I last saw you and I do sigh that those will also have been the last times. I am afflicted with a wasting sickness and by the time you arrive in the several months it will take you to travel here I shall have expired and been interred within the grounds of the manor. There does lie a family crypt at the rear of the property, should you desire to pay your respects, so I daresay in what I expect my state to be, I shall not notice your presence.

The world has, as such, turned and you are the owner of a fine building, rich with history and art, and the many lives of those who have preceded you. It is likely known to you by now that several members of your family, including myself, have been artists; some have been authors. I understand that you took to cartography and I find it joyous that you chose such a profession natural to the common calling in our blood.

As you inherit the manor I give you but one warning: do not bargain with the wanderer in moonlight. He returns with every turn of the moon, prophesying doom. However he does this to every home in the county and it is not restricted to ourselves. The poor fool is a madman, I fear, and has not yet been apprehended. Should you encounter him, you have only to return indoors and bolt the door shut before reporting him to the local guard (or your staff, should you have brought any) in the morning.

Although I will not be in a capacity to do so when you arrive, I welcome you home, my distant grandchild and I particularly invite you to make use of both my study and the drawing room. May this manor serve you well, during and after your period of trial.

Yours forgotten,

Theo Deveraux

And forgotten was certainly what the manor appeared to be. The letter had been written months ago and Theo could see that, with the staff reduced to a single caretaker long before, that the elements had taken their toll on the structure: window panes were cracked and caked with filth; shutters were hanging precariously from frames they were barely attached to; the door was open, with a trail of leaves leading into the property; roof tiles lay spotted around the ground in various states of broken slate; a compost heap rotted in the stable to the side of the property.

The only welcoming element was the caretaker, a man in a dishevelled mode of dress than didn't really rate much better than a sackcloth, for that was what the material of the shirt and trousers appeared to be, and the shoes were of such worn leather than the toes were visible on the man's right shoe. He bowed stiffly and though he bore a grim visage from the cruel scar across his face as the porters lugged the trunks up to the doorstep and left them in front of the aged, but grand double doors.

There was a polite cough from Theo's left and the rustling of pages opening as the driver proffered the invoice. Theo palmed several coins of silver into the man's hand before striding towards the caretaker.

The fellow stood a little straighter on the new owner's approach. "Master Stanimir, it is good to finally meet you, your great-"

Theo held up a hand as he looked at the doors, admiring the stain and the hinges to keep his status in check. "Yes, I know I am here. Can you see that my belongings are moved to the master bedroom?"

"Very good, sir. Did you bring any further staff?"

"I thought I would hire local staff rather than pay the expenses required to bring my full complement of employees." Theo decided it had been long enough and turned to face his new servant. "Do you have any recommendations?"

"I'm afraid not sir, certain tales have kept people away from the manor for some time. I made enquiries, but there were no interested parties in the immediate locality."

"What kinds of tales? Rumours, perhaps?" Theo was no stranger to whispers amongst the middle and upper classes; he would just need to brush them off, once he knew what they were.

The caretaker nodded as he spoke. "I assume your predecessor informed you of the moonlight wanderer?"

"He did."

"That is but one of the tales." The man sighed, and pulled the door open, attaching it to a latch. "Others seem to paint your great-grandfather in a poor light, though in reality he only did as was required for the stay he requested."

Theo's ears pricked "Requested? I thought he owned this manor."

"Oh, he does, or rather did. But do we not all only stay upon request of the soul?" The caretaker seemed to be testing Theo's view of the world, perhaps to simply know what breadth of caution he should be exercising.

"I suppose we do." Theo spoke cautiously, himself trying to feel this new acquaintance out. "I would have you tell me what you know over the evening meal – can you cook?"

"I can, sir, in a limited capacity. I may not be able to provide the fare you are used to, but I can provide something not unlike a venison stew."

"That will do, for tonight. You will tell me these 'tales' and the requirements of the manor's current level of upkeep. I have five days to decide whether to retain this residence or to lease it out before I return to my employment." Theo held up the tome he was carrying; the cover was so far blank, but the pages were loose and held together by the leather strap, the edges of maps and glued scraps of paper leaked from around the edges of the book.

"Very good, sir." The caretaker seemed hesitant. "Though I would perhaps advise against selling it."

"Why is that?" Theo asked suspiciously.

He frowned. Was this related to the tales in regards to the house?

"If you so desire, sir, I will explain over the meal. I have these trunks to move."

"Set to, then, Mister..?"

"Fallow, sir. Just Fallow."

Theo watched as Fallow reached and tried to lift the first trunk and then winced as he managed it as high as his knees. Theo held the door for his servant before setting out to explore the rest of the house, leaving behind a cacophony of splutterings and pained grunts, which punctured an otherwise complete silence. The interior of the manor looked to be in as rough a condition as the exterior. Mould lined the walls and spider's webs filled the corners. Theo would be putting Fallow to work heavily tomorrow to make him earn the title of caretaker.

As Theo entered the drawing room, he saw a most spectacular if peculiar painting above the ornate fireplace, clearly the centrepiece of the room. The painting was enclosed within a silver frame and depicted a woman whose head was cloaked in a dark cloth, her eyes bound behind a band of grey. It was curious, as Theo's eye wandered down the painting it was clear that the figure was not one prone to modesty, despite her veil, as her right hand was pressed against her exposed breast so firmly that blood was drawn there by purple shaded nails. Upon the left hand was a ring bearing a luscious green emerald, bonded to silver.

Theo was taken aback and couldn't stop himself from heading towards the painting, reaching out to caress the ring even as he started at the violent sensuality of the piece. He stood there and stared, agog, for what felt like an eternity.

There was an almighty thud from behind. Theo turned to see Fallow, prostrate on the floor beside the second trunk. The poor fellow took several long moments before he could breathe evenly once more.

"That was painted by one of your ancestors, sir," he gasped. "I forget precisely the name, but Deveraux used to be rather taken by it. He would sit beneath it, working on his art for hours, stopping often to take inspiration."

"Does it have a name?"

Fallow momentarily glared at Theo. "I don't know sir." he repeated, rather shortly. "Your trunk of materials is here, sir. I shall momentarily get the supper on."

Fallow shuffled out of the room, stretching his back and groaning again as his footsteps disappeared to a different room – probably the kitchen, Theo mused. There was a faded opulence to the manor that he would never truly be used to. He had never really known what it meant to be poor, but with promissory notes and debts littering his way, this inheritance was but a momentary reprieve before he lost everything.

The words of the undertaker as his father's debts shifted to him echoed in his mind: that Theo "would now know the hell only the living may know," as he learned of every distasteful act the old man had committed. Theo himself had been spared of his father's unscrupulous dealings, but the courts had saddled him with debt and stripped him of nearly everything.

He would need to find a new patron after his current work was complete. It would be better to sell the property and be done with it all, rather than lull himself into false security. He opened the trunk and retrieved his artistic supplies and began arranging them. He would have to return to the maps in the morning if he were to meet the deadline imposed. The extension had been useful, considering the sudden death of his father, but it would only hold for so long.

With a sigh, Theo returned his attention to the painting and stared. He wondered who could have inspired such a piece and what the significance of the ring was. He compared the paintbrush strokes to his own inking on parchment with admiration.

He swore he could feel heat emanating from the painting itself never mind the hearth below it.

He started when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Dinner is ready, Master."

"That was fast! Well done, Fallow," Theo complimented as he removed Fallow's hand firmly from his shoulder.

"Not really, sir. It has taken some time to get the pot to boil. I apologise for the lateness."

"Fallow?"

"The hour is late, sir. See for yourself, the light retreats to the west." Fallow gestured to the shuttered windows and Theo could just about tell that Fallow was right, even without throwing the shutters open.

How had he not noticed that it was much darker in the manor than when he had arrived?

A little baffled by the uncommon passage of time, Theo allowed himself to be led to the dining room, where a bowl of hot stew awaited him. Nearby, as requested, there was another bowl set for Fallow. The two men seated themselves and Fallow pushed a stack of papers towards Theo.

"Are these all to do with the upkeep of the manor?" Theo asked, taking the top document and skimming the contents.

"Not all, sir. Some are private letters and manuscripts kept by your relatives and accounts from other staff as to the activities of the manor over time. I took the liberty of preparing them, should you wish to peruse them."

Theo shook his head, as if he had time to read through these papers and complete his work. "Not at this time. Could you summarise it for me, Fallow?"

"That would depend on what you wish to know, Master Stanimir." The servant shrugged and dared to eat a spoonful of stew.

"Is there a commonality in the keepers of the Manor?"

Fallow's spoon was dancing in his hand, the movement seeming oddly precise and unwavering as it pointed in Theo's general direction. "Well, the patrons of this house have always been artists of some kind, sir. I guess that it would have to do with your culturally rich backgrounds."

"I see. It does seem fitting, I suppose. I could design my maps and continue the legacy, if I so desired."

"That you rightly could, sir." Fallow paused. "You wished earlier to know why you might rethink selling the property. Do you still wish to hear my understanding sir?"

"Yes, it might be beneficial and might persuade me to change my mind."

"It has precisely to do with two things," said Fallow, expansively. "The first is that the property has many stories attached to it, a reputation if you will."

"A reputation?"

Fallow shook his head, "All stories, sir. I promise just the usual tales of murder and disappearances, but they're all just trite banter for the local people to amuse themselves with, and to keep the worst of the peasantry away."

Theo was taken aback. "The stories were all rumours?"

Why? And why was Fallow telling him this?

"Well it's possible some of them may have truth to them, but there have been no murders during my time with the manor, Master Stanimir, and the tales of the wanderer – while unsavoury – are just that: stories."

"Are any of them recounted in detail in this collection?" Stanimir enquired, resting his hand on the sheaf of papers Fallow had presented him with.

"Yes, sir. I suspected your curiosity might be piqued. If you'd rather not peruse them, I can burn them." Fallow made to stand and reached for the stack.

Theo replaced the sheet on the top of the stack and placed his hand more firmly atop it. "Thank you, Fallow, but I shall read them at my leisure. You said there was a second reason?"

"Yes, sir. The second derives from the artistry that has driven the owners of this house. While the property is worth a tidy sum to the right buyer, it would be foolish to let go of such a legacy. Your predecessors saw the value in retaining this rich establishment." Fallow paused again and creased his brow as if trying to remember, "Some chose to charge guests to remain here a long time ago and the income of the manor was once supplemented by the discovery of nearby mines. There should be related papers inside the stack if you wish to know where they are."

Now, that was interesting and Theo couldn't disguise it. "What kind of mines?"

"Silver, sir, and I was given to understand they were quite rich."

"Then why were they not plundered?"

Fallow smiled brightly, seizing the moment animatedly as if glad to be an authority on a subject. "It was on request of one of the Deverauxs, I believe. They wanted the veins to remain secret so that they could be mined privately."

"But they weren't?"

"They just never got around to it," said Fallow, with a shrug. "A sample was brought into the house and it was used to craft the frame of the painting you were so taken with." Fallow gestured towards the study and Theo's gaze followed, but he kept the painting from his mind.

"I see, so there is wealth beneath our feet. This is interesting news, Fallow."

A mine might provide a full income if Theo could fortify his interests. Perhaps the manor was worth keeping.

"I thought it might be, sir. I do hope it will enter your deliberations as to remaining here."

"We shall see, Fallow."

"Very good, sir. Is the stew to your liking?"

Later that evening, Theo retired with his thoughts. Inheriting a manor from a family member he barely remembered, needing to complete his latest cartography project for a book that was to be published by the end of the month so that he would get paid, on top of those infernal debts which, circumstances being forgiving, he might be able to solve with the mines rumoured to lie beneath the manor. It was a lot to consider. Strange that his ancestors had chosen to leave the silver there. His mind was swimming as he settled in his bed and he blew out the lantern on the bedside table with a smile. Perhaps fortune was smiling on him at last.

His sleep was troubled with flashes of the manor and by visitations of the spectres of his employers, demanding his services and withholding payments, and by a woman offering to sell him a ring, set with a bright glowing green gem that would make all his worries fall away.

This disturbed slumber was further interrupted by a heavy knocking on the double doors of the manor. He sat up in a cold sweat, shaking (why was he shaking?), as the knocking persisted, insisting upon answer. He called for Fallow vainly. Was the man so hard and fast asleep? With a curse, Theo lit the lantern, walked over to the windows of his chamber and opened them to the wintery grasp of the night.

"Who goes there, who knocks?" he called out, receiving no answer from the surrounding trees and the black sky. He leaned out trying to see the front door of the manor but he could not see through the roof over the entrance.

The banging against the door continued, prompting him to sigh and resignedly leave his quarters. With the lantern he navigated the somewhat precarious stairs and made a mental note of hiring further staff to bring the manor up to quality, whatever his decision with regards a sale.

The banging intensified.

"Alright! Damn you at this ridiculous hour, I am coming!" He retrieved the key from the hook at the foot of the stairs and placed it in the lock, turning it. All the while, the knocking reverberated through his head – and through his hand as it worked the latch. He flung the door open and took a breath to bellow.

Only there was no one there. Theo was rendered speechless as he stared out into the ordinary, empty sight of the courtyard at night.

"Hello?" he called out, taking a careful step outside in his slippered feet.

Catching a glimpse of a cloaked figure just at the gate, Theo gasped. He thought him a traveller, or perhaps a wanderer – the very one he was warned about, perhaps. Whatever manner of person he was, the figure was a nearly shapeless form in the night, upon which the black sky decided to let loose a light rain. Theo hailed him and beckoned him in, thinking only of common kindness.

After a moment Theo realised what a mistake that was.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the figure and Theo saw him clearly for the first time, or at least thought he had. Surely, he couldn't have seen three distinct faces? But that was what his eyes and mind had told him, and now he could not forget those terrible visages: the first face was craggy, weather-worn hardened, not cruel, but yet a sad determination beneath brown patchy hair; the second was that same face, but blooded and scowling as it blamed him for some injustice, real or imagined; and the third was but a skull, and that vision had extended down the body, which was clothed in rags, stretched loosely over bone.

And abruptly, without seeming to walk, the figure stood on the threshold of the manor. It now bore only a single face, that of the well-worn traveller. He didn't speak, only stared. Theo stood aside, feeling a tense pressure at the door. He was more than a little intimidated. Where the devil was Fallow in all this? The heavy sound of the Wanderer's boots hitting the floorboards showed Theo just how real he was. He swallowed and offered to take the stranger's cloak, but as the words left his mouth the being was suddenly much closer than Theo was comfortable with.

"You are this manor's new occupant?" The voice was deep and rumbling, as if it was everywhere.

Theo swallowed thickly. "And you would be?"

"I am –" The being stopped for a moment and sighed. "No, I was a wanderer. As to what I am now, it makes little difference."

"Why are you here?"

The figure stared right at him and Theo sensed malevolence. "Because I need to be, you do not."

He breathed deeply, inhaling a sickly taste from the air as he spoke. "What do you mean by that?"

The figure smirked. "Do you know the history of this house?"

"Some of it."

"Then you know of the lord of the manor."

Theo raised his voice, "I am the lord of the –"

There was an overwhelming cacophony as the voice flared up in anger, "You are not the lord of the manor. You are but a servant to it. Leave!"

"That won't be possible. " Theo felt very small as he winced from the authority in the voice.

"The wealth is too tempting? Which is more important: the silver, or your life?"

"Now, see here!" Theo exclaimed, and then he felt the bones of a skeletal hand press against his mouth.

"You shall listen well, mortal man, for I tell you a secret," the creature proclaimed. "I have wandered these lands far longer than the majority of your lineage. No more shall I wander this land – however, neither shall you. You have three days to sell your farmstead, or I shall return once more." Theo grabbed the skeletal hand and tried to pry it away from his face as he stared with terror into the skull, now exposed from the hood. "You do not know what you stir in staying here. None of you ever do. Your neighbours and predecessors have ignored my warnings. It is past time this nonsense ended!" The last phrase was roared, echoing throughout the building.

Theo cried out as lightning illuminated the hallway and the rain truly started to pour.

"Master Stanimir? Is everything alright, sir?"

Theo looked about him and saw Fallow, and for a moment looked at the man like he was insane, did he not see the –

But to Theo's consternation, the skeletal figure was gone and Theo was leaning against the wall, the door banging as wind picked up force outside.

Fallow stood over him holding a candle. "Were you sleepwalking sir? Was there some kind of problem?"

"You didn't see?"

Fallow stepped around him. "See what, sir? Come let's get the door. Would you like a spot of tea, sir?"

"The door? Tea, yes. Yes, a cup of tea would help greatly."

Theo began to relax in the face of this calm practicality. Perhaps it had been just a night terror of some description.

"All is well, sir. Look it's closed, and we shall go and put the kettle on."

Theo took the hand offered by Fallow and allowed himself to be pulled off the floor and to his feet. "The letter I received warned me about a wanderer," he said softly.

Fallow seemed to wince as he led Theo into the kitchen and set the kettle sloshing onto the fire. "Ah, yes. Well, you'll forgive my saying so, sir, but the old master of the house did go slightly mad towards his end."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes he would lock the doors to the drawing room and I would hear him talking to himself."

"And what did he say?" Theo continued to probe, this hadn't come up during the dinner table conversation about the stories of the manor.

"Sometimes he would talk to the painting about the manor and weave tales about how old it was." Fallow began busying himself attending to his task. "Sometimes he would rant and rave about needing visitors; and sometimes he would scream that he was doing his best. He often spoke about the mines to it as well. I used to leave him in there overnight and he would come back to himself. And there you are, sir, your brew."

"Thank you, Fallow."

"Will you be needing anything else, sir, or will you be retiring back to your bed?"

"Bed, I think, Fallow."

Theo awoke the next day and spent it and the two that followed busily arranging for people from the local area to come and give the place some much needed cleaning and maintenance, under the supervision of Fallow's experienced gaze. Things were almost normal for Theo as Fallow kept him plied with tea and food beyond contentment. Even the encounter of the first night was mostly forgotten. Only thoughts regarding his debts and projects, and several letters he had composed concerning the silver plagued him as he sat beneath the painting.

He had to admit the painting did have some appeal, but he couldn't imagine talking to the thing as he read measurements from a list and examined artist recreations for his latest map. His concentration fluctuated between enraptured and bored as ink blotted and scratched into parchment.

He was just scribbling in the shadow of a mountain when he noticed the candle on the table flicker. He checked around the room, but none of the windows were open; the fire was blazing in the hearth, probably set by Fallow while Theo was working. He stood still, observing the room and glancing back at the painting, wondering what hour of the night he had reached, when the candle winked out.

He picked it up and studied the wick. It seemed perfectly normal, so he carried it to another candle and pressed it to the second flame. When he pulled them apart, the candle was lit again, but only for a few seconds, then both candles died out.

This was strange, to say the least, even before a great howl crescendoed throughout the manor. The fire in the hearth poured up the chimney before the great gout of flame disappeared into the night. Theo stood paralysed for several moments until the howl faded.

"Fallow?" His voice quavered as he moved towards the door.

As he tried it, he discovered it was stuck fast. A great booming resounded at the front door and Theo remembered the encounter of the previous night: the wanderer. And he hadn't yet done anything to start working towards selling the property beyond maintaining the upkeep and those enquiries about workers for the mines.

The booming against the front door increased in intensity, to such a degree that Theo thought the door would burst inward while he was still trapped inside the drawing room. He called again and again for Fallow, but there was no answer.

He spurred himself to the fireplace and picked up the poker; it brought him a small measure of courage and he spared a glance at the painting of the woman. He started and thought himself mistaken, but it seemed she was different. Yes – in the gloom cast by the remaining candles, he saw that the hand with the ring was pulling the cloak down, revealing a face of sores, while and the other hand was removing the cloth, revealing bloodied eye sockets. Theo felt himself lost in a void as he stared aghast, waves of nausea rolling through him.

What was going on with this manor? Why was this happening to him? Why had this blasted Deveraux granted the manor to him in death? He shook his head, wrenching his eyes from the painting; what was happening was not real. It was all impossible. He took the poker to the hinges of the door and began to pry them loose.

"STANIMIR! ANSWER YOUR DOOR!" came a familiar bellow.

Theo paused in his efforts long enough to think that probably answering that front door when he was free would be a bad idea. He needed to find Fallow somewhere in the house.

There was a clang as the bottom hinge of the door fell away, the wood splintering. The door swung awkwardly enough that Theo could squeeze his way through, catching sight of the painting looking normal and of the desk he had been working at. If only his work was still the only thing he had to concern himself with.

The front door shuddered with the latest thud and an ominous creaking and cracking told Theo all he needed to know as he ran for the stairs, poker still in hand as he leapt and stumbled up them two at a time before bursting into the first room, which he believed to be Fallow's quarters.

What he saw was fairly nondescript: in the unlit room there was a bookcase, a bed, a chest and a table and chair. He went inside for a closer look, hoping that Fallow was simply in bed asleep. He glanced as he walked in: the books were plain and nondescript; the chest lavish and polished like new; the bed was damp and a disturbing red stain pervaded; the chest impeccable; the candles flickering nicely and the chest –

Theo swore as the door slammed shut and he realized he hadn't lit the damn candles.

The chest suddenly shunted towards him but stopped at his feet, before jumping slightly into the air and crashing down once more, only just missing his toes. Theo could already feel pressure in the room, and the candles flickered causing the shadows to expand and threaten to devour the room. The chest nudged up against him, demanding his attention.

This was indeed madness. He swallowed thickly and reached down, placing hands on either side of the chest lid, feeling the wood was warm to the touch. He opened the chest, the lid swinging easily open. Theo regretted it instantly. That stench! Such a foul, sweet odour that soured his stomach. He stared into the box, even as his bile threatened to rise and overwhelm him. He had to get out of this damnéd place, but he couldn't. He remained in placed, transfixed in horror.

What would bring someone – anyone – to commit such a barbaric act?

Disgusted, he slammed the chest shut before losing his most recent meal and adding to the foul odour. He fell over his own feet, slamming into the door before railing against it trying to break himself free.

He needed to get out!

He needed to get out!

HE NEEDED TO GET OUT!

And as he stood and took a step back, he twisted and fell over the chest with an almighty crash – and then he saw it: a skeletal arm reaching for him, strangely devoid of aggression. The hand was grabbing at the air, but not doing anything.

Then a yawn sounded from within the box. "Do you know how long I have been in here, waiting for some fool to come along to release me, despite my will?"

The arm was followed by a torso that still was sheathed within torn and splitting skin, through which Theo could see into the chest cavity. Somehow, within he could see uncountable numbers of beating hearts, each threatening to burst free of the ribcage.

"Now then, how many did you bring me?" The strange corpse asked standing and looking about the room.

Theo gaped and at the lack of response the corpse turned its head. "Come now, you must know why you're here! The instructions are clear, how many did you bring me?"

Theo's mind raced. Was there something he had missed in the letters and the documents he had been reading? Just what was he staring at? How was this possible?

"STANIMIR, of the Devareaux's blood, did the caretaker explain to you what was required? I must know!" the apparition demanded, in a terrible voice.

Theo bolted from the room and careened down the stairs, momentarily forgetting just where in the house he was located. Each stair made itself painfully known as he banged into each pointed corner. In the abrupt descent, the poker flew and clanged against the main door. Pain lanced through his body from the shock.

As he tried to roll to his front he spied the coat rack by the door and realised that certain items were missing. His own outer wear was still hung there, his shoes at the base, but Fallow's was not. Theo's head pounded in much the same way as the noise from the beating on the door. It continued to hold from the threat outside. He wondered if Fallow had known and left already, abandoning Theo to the events of this night.

"Come now, human!" came the call from up the stairs as the skeleton with the dripping hearts began to walk slowly down them. "I have work to complete; it is far more important than you." It paused and coughed as if it were still alive and ill, which caused a slew of blood to pour from the ribs and the jaws. "You are living in my home and this is how you repay me?"

"What do you mean repay you?" Theo stated. "I don't know or owe you anything! I inherited this house."

A grand gesture as two skeletal arms spread themselves wide with flair and flourish. "From my indomitable self."

"No," Theo's voice shook as he pulled himself to his feet. "From my Great-Grandfather!"

The skull leaned to one side. "On my instruction! He provided you with this wretched enclosure on my will and my will alone"

"What?"

"My work shall not wait," the thing roared. "I would have your service, your vital essence shall be the core of that which must be fashioned, much like those who have passed before you! Perhaps then I shall reward you."

The front door crashed inward and the wanderer strode inside, sword drawn and tattered cloak billowing as flickering lights allowed his form to ripple between the three faces that Theo had seen.

"I warned you, Stanimir – this is what happens when you do not heed my warnings! Look, he comes!"

The wanderer flew past Theo and narrowly missed the other spectre as Theo flung himself back into the drawing room, picking up the poker, scraping it along the carpet, barely keeping hold of it. He stumbled up against a door frame and watched as the two entities became entangled.

"Why do you run, mortal, from another simple interruption?" The entity then broke its gaze with Theo and turned to the new combatant. "And you, I told you I tired of you over a century ago."

"Then you should have departed, O Master of the house." There was a smile on two of the rippling faces.

"You know why I cannot! Now remove thyself from my path and my goal!"

The wanderer broke the grasp and in the flicker of flaring candles one skeleton guided the blade into the ribcage of another and punctured several bleeding hearts. A scream of rage escaped the dry lips of the apparition from Fallow's room, who reached forward and wrenched the skull from the spine of the other before derisively tossing it up the stairs.

The wanderer's body collapsed and a miserable grey sludge seeped out of the stump of its spine.

The other entity, blood pumping from the wounded hearts and trickling down the jaw and splattering against the rest of its torso, stepped across the threshold into the drawing room, where Theo stood with the poker raised before him like a sword.

"What are you?" Theo's voice was hoarse.

"I am the master of this dreary plane and soon you will assist me in reasserting myself." The voice had mellowed to a hiss.

"To what end?"

The entity seemed to freeze and the shadows in their body and blood seemed to spread. "I would write the shadow of this illustrious painting of sorrow and promise broken. I would recreate and manifest her soul by drawing upon the flesh of a cowardly artist and use his blackened blood as my ink. I would feast to continue my work and then banish you from my house, instead of bidding your corpse to do my bidding. What say you, frothy intruder into my domain?"

Theo began to move. "I'd rather just leave without any of that."

The shadows in the room deepened and the skeleton seemed to tower over him. "Then I shall have what I need. She will be returned, even should it take another lifetime of work. I will turn your soul to the ash!"

Theo had had enough. "Who will be returned?!" he demanded angrily.

There was a pause as the skull turned and a skeletal finger pointed across the room. "The victim of that painting!"

"Victim?"

"Is that not what she is?"

"I do not know what she is. Fallow... Fallow told me it was painted by an ancestor!"

"I am that ancestor!"

"Then why do you call her a victim?"

The entity returned its gaze to Theo. "You will understand soon enough!"

The abomination lunged forward, skeletal arms reaching to rip Theo apart as he raised his poker. The iron scraped across bone and jammed in the ribcage as bone tore at fabric. The eye sockets of the skeleton flared with red light and it growled in anger. Theo was staring his death in the face and it only made him panic and scrabble and kick as he tried to wrench the poker free. A rib cracked and splintered as Theo twisted hard; he caught another heart, as the wanderer had.

The thing howled and the jaw hung open, refusing to snap shut as that red from the eyes lit up the whole skull. It pushed Theo back up against the fireplace hard enough to cause the painting to drop off the wall, the green ring glowing dully.

Theo felt the fire at his back licking at his clothes when suddenly the force was pulled off of him. The wanderer had wrapped its arms around the torso, dragging the entity off him.

From over the shoulders of the skeleton, the wanderer stared through its phasing faces and an image of resignation appeared on his features. "Stanimir, if you wish to live, spear the remaining heart and burn that painting!" it declared.

Not waiting to ask why, Theo proceeded to stab and hack the poker through the rib cage of his abhorrent ancestor; further bone fragments were chipped away and as he sliced through the hearts on the left hand side, he broke several of the ribs away completely. Blood poured from the shrivelling hearts, more blood than had any right to be inside a single body, never mind inside someone clearly deceased.

"The painting, Stanimir! Burn it, now!" It was an order and not a request.

Theo turned to the painting and saw the face twisted into a snarl. The ring lit the entire painting. A woman's corpse was staring back as he stabbed it through an eye and thrust the poker and the painting deep into the fire.

"Drop it, Stanimir! Flee! This will be your one and only chance – all will be banished!

"I would write the shadows of your wretched treachery and of your cowardice, I would draw upon the flesh of – I would devour your – I shall –" What it wanted to do would not be known as it collapsed to the floor and bloody bones set afire as it let out another scream of agony. The manor began to smoke alongside its master and a scream rent the night air as Theo fled the room and burst out of the front door.

In the fireplace, the painting burned, the frame warped and bent, and a green flash split the stones of the fireplace.

"Thank you, Stanimir," the wanderer shouted, as a red light filled it from within and fire began to consume it.

His opponent broke free and thrust itself into the blaze to scoop up a ring set with a green jewel. The wanderer laughed as it resumed combatting and restraining what was left of his foe.

Outside, as far as he dared run without a lantern, Theo gasped gulps of smoky air as he stared at the blazing manor. The bright orange flames swelled and devoured the front face of the structure, causing the entire facade to slip away as if it was melting. This was accompanied by a deep scream, which seemed to emanate from the very core of Theo's soul, as well as from the heart of the dying building.

Theo could see the two figures grappling and railing at each other within the flames, one desperate and crumbling, the other blazing, and as the faces flickered he thought he could maybe make out a grim smile of satisfaction, with one hand holding the weakening other party in place, the other free hand raised in salute.

Theo didn't know what to make of it as he trembled in fear and shock. The drawing room was fully engulfed, now. It was all dying: the kitchen; the bedrooms; the study; the stables; the parlour; even the greenhouse. As a beam collapsed, bringing the rest of the roof down, Theo sank to his knees.

Hours passed and he couldn't see anything other than the crumbling husk of the manor. As dawn broke over the ashes of Deveraux manor, horses and carriages had begun to arrive from neighbouring settlements.

Accepting gentle ministrations from kind neighbours, Theo explained that he had been working and must have added too much wood to the fire. He was asked where his staff were; he responded that he didn't know, only that he had checked the quarters and called for his caretaker several times with no answer and there hadn't been time to search safely.

It was agreed that all the onlookers could do was make sure the fire didn't spread beyond the manor. Theo wasn't really paying attention. There was a flash of green silk. Someone pressed a book into his hands and walked away before he had time to tell who it was, other than it had been a woman. Distracted as he was, he leafed through, briefly catching only snippets about the last openings of the mines and tales of strange occurrences within them such as people disappearing and a handful reappearing. That alone caught his attention, and he began to read more deeply. Curiosity drove him to the last few entries, which detailed a collapse in the mines and the loss of the daughter of the lord of the manor. Mad with grief, he had commissioned a special ring and a frame from the silver that had claimed her and so many other lives.

Theo shuddered, snapping the book closed. What had he been falling into?

Fresh paper caught his gaze: tucked into the final leaves was the final draft of his map. He unfolded it, wonderingly; every detail was intact, though the edges were lightly charred.

He looked up in time to see the central chimney crumble and collapse in on itself. Flames belched up like a dragon's dying breath.

I am free, he thought, as his family's dark legacy was consumed in front of him. If this madness was over, perhaps he could open the mines and turn a profit, though he wasn't sure how seriously he could think about that prospect.

One of his neighbours gently led him to their carriage. He understood that he had been invited to spend the remainder of the night at their home, and his bewildered silence had been taken for shock. He supposed they were right.

Exhausted, he allowed himself to be settled inside, and listened as the neighbour began prattling about Stanimir's financial situation and the worthlessness of his lands and former manor. He was willing, he said, to buy them and the dried up mine from beneath them for a tidy sum. It was a chance for Theo to start over, a modest investment. Theo began to laugh, a wild, half-mad laugh of utter relief.

As the carriage drew away, Theo caught a glimpse of a familiar figure on the crest of a hill, a green light emanating from its hand. Had it been closer, Theo would have sworn that three faces flickered between themselves.

When the Lights Come On

By Jessica Grace Coleman

We all stand in the dark

But while we stand alone

We really stand together

We're in this together

We'll get through this together

And when we finally come up for air

Blinking, into the light

We'll emerge together

But what do we do 'til then?

Wait and mope and groan?

Or count our blessings

And remember

We're not alone?

For many things have not departed

Even in the dark

They shine small rays

Of light

Into the gloom

Outweighing the bad

By a long, loving mile

The sunlight

The trees

The flowers in bloom

The springtime

The air we breathe

The acts of kindness

The rays of hope

The laughs

The stories

The singing

The technology

That keeps us connected

And sane

And working

The opportunity

To rest

To reflect

To dream

To rebuild

To live

In a different way

Everything we'd forgotten

Or pushed aside

Or lost

Has now been found again

And as we pause and grow

Nature does the same

Reclaiming the land

Reclaiming the oceans

Reclaiming the skies

As it should be

And, when the lights finally come on

And all is over

We shall remember this time

This darkness

This fear

And be grateful

For our friends

For our families

For the heroes who kept going

For the ones who never gave up

Who just kept on trucking

Fighting for humanity

Fighting for love

Fighting for hope

Fighting

For the future

The Most Beautiful Word

By Mike Farren

That something so beautiful in the mouth  
should grow out of the mould, the muck, the mulch,  
starting even uglier than your still plain siblings –  
mash, mesh, mosh, mish-mash,  
a slangy face, a call to speed the huskies –  
and ending in vacancy, ready to be inhabited...

You're an alien, not animal or vegetable,  
(and certainly not mineral!);  
as mysterious as resurrection,  
you are the decay, just as  
you are the life.

From the Eleusinian Mysteries  
to Santa, flying at the Pole,  
you feed our dreams. And is it true  
that those who fall for your magic  
see you in their visions? Is it true  
that the nightmare of you  
we all once shared,  
has really disappeared,  
never to return?

La Costa Lotte

By Raven Dane

Once upon a time, long ago, in a land far, far away...

Deagus Stanley Thrubb was angry. He stomped, huffing like a vexed rhino hauling his considerable bulk around the room. Thrubb had no focus for his fury. He was thoroughly pissed off in a wordless, aimless display of boorish rage. Spotting a large, confident cockroach strolling nonchalantly across the tiled floor, he stamped on it. Then leapt up and down on its smattered corpse with both feet, over and over again until it was obliterated. His wife Smelda sighed. What a waste of protein.

"We was conned. Conned, I tell you," Thrubb bawled at his missus and seven kids, "if I ever see that weasel Vinny Grimes again, I'll ring his scrawny neck."

Smelda was baffled. Why was her husband so angry? They had recently arrived at their holiday hovel in the Costa Lotte and hadn't even unpacked the burlap sacks before Thrubb had exploded into fury.

"That little git promised us sun, sea and sanitary hovels – and look." Thrubb pointed down to a thin yellow smear on the floor. "A huge, foreign bug thing in our room! It might have been poisonous! It might be carrying the beige plague!"

Smelda was lost for words. She'd certainly run out of exclamation marks, unlike her vexed husband. There was no doubt the arrival at the seaside resort had been a culture shock for the family. For the first time, their bare feet had walked on a hard, hot and dry surface that hurt soles more used to a lifetime of trudging through wet mud and pig shit. Thrubb had worked hard as a Swine Flanger since he was a lad, and after twenty years had saved enough groats to give them a once-in-a-lifetime treat. He had saved up his leave, too, from working an eight-day week with an afternoon off every other Donglemas. This had given them nearly a whole week at the resort.

He had originally planned to stay in his homeland and travel north to attend the three-day Feast of St Supercilia in Grimsby, an orgiastic revel of feasting and games involving walnuts. That was adventure enough for a man who had never left his village in forty summers of life.

But he had been seduced by the gilded tongue of super salesman Vinny Grimes. The man who had sweet talked the Vikings into abandoning their cerise berets and donning cow horn helmets; the man who had sold stone cladding to the Romans. (The Coliseum never looked better and was now guaranteed for five years against weather damage and creeping mole blight.)

Grimes had promised a week abroad in the sun in a new-built holiday hovel by the sea. Outside, heavy rain bucketed down and the first foreigner Thrubb had encountered was a bloody great poisonous, plague-bearing bug. Smelda took his arm in an attempt to calm him down. Their kids were bleating now, alarmed by the shouting and stomping and no doubt missing the green pasture of their home.

In a timid voice, she questioned his show of anger.

"Thrubb, our own hovel is teeming with bugs, lots of them. We have sock weevils, bed bugs, spiders and woodlice. Bluebottles in the summer. Why should you be so fraught over this one?"

Thrubb sulked like only he could. There was no rational answer. He just needed something tangible to focus his temper on, to deflect from the realisation he had made a huge mistake in booking this overseas holiday. Three days in Grimsby were perfect for a man of his simple tastes in life's pleasures. He hated abroad, he hated being in the Costa Lotte and now he'd made sure that cockroach knew it, too.

Smelda walked away and busied herself putting out hay for the kids, leaving Thrubb to stew, already in a dour mood beyond all reasoning with. Two hours later, Smelda ignored the skulking rain cloud of gloom that was her husband and prepared to look her best, dressing in a new grey sackcloth gown with only a few stains on it. That night, the package deal they had bought from Grimes had promised a night of exotic food and cabaret at a bar in town. She had no idea what 'cabaret' meant but she liked the sound of anything exotic. A lifetime of hard toil in the mulching fields and boiling turnips with the occasional rat thrown into the pot for supper had palled. Looking after a hulking great lummox like Thrubb had palled too, especially when he went into a mood over nothing. The sulks could last for days, weeks even, and she'd had enough. Smelda was going to spread her wings and have some fun. Especially exotic fun.

Dragging along an unwilling, grumbling Thrubb, her eyes gleaming with delight at the brightly-coloured lanterns that were strung across harbour-side bars, Smelda soaked up the atmosphere. The aroma of strange but enticing food wafted from the bars, lively music filled the air and the lantern lights danced across the night-darkened sea.

A new feeling swelled in Smelda's ample bosom, a tingle of excitement and adventure, something she had never felt before in her life. Winning Best Darned Sock at the village fete faded into significance compared to this.

They found Los Nabos Locos bar, owned by one Vincento Grimez, by following its distinctive smell. Thrubb grinned and Smelda groaned as wafts of turnip stew mixed with stale sweat, manure and dank wool emanated from the premises. Smelda's worst fears were realised as they walked in; the place was full of peasants, serfs and cave trolls from their region, all snuffling, grumbling and belching their way through food familiar from home. "Oh, wonderful," she sighed, "this is so exotic."

Thrubb dumped himself down at the nearest empty table and after glancing at the menu (a pointless exercise as he couldn't read), grunted his order at the waiter.

"Musty gruel followed by Turnip Catalan... but without the cat. I am a civilised man, you know. Not like you dodgy foreign types. And the wife will have the same."

A surge of rebellion blossomed and bloomed in Smelda's soul. She had never questioned her husband before but in a wavering voice, she addressed the waiter.

"Actually, I would like something different."

Ignoring the look of jaw-dropped shock on her husband's face, her voice grew stronger. "Can you suggest something local? Something without any turnips. Or gruel."

The waiter overcame his own astonishment and smiled. His dark eyes smouldered, melting Smelda's heart; his teeth were the most extraordinary hue, one she had never seen before... shining white. She thought teeth only came in yellow, green, black and missing.

"Senora, I will bring you the chef's finest."

Huffing and muttering about his wife's stupidity and warning that he would refuse to clean up any resulting mess later, Thrubb took in the bar's ambience. The blaze from the many lanterns particularly vexed him. They were burning more tallow then he would in a lifetime. Even in the depths of winter when he kept the hovel warm by insulating it with a flock of sheep. Another vexing thing was his wife's open enjoyment of her 'Nabo con Gachas Viejas'... whatever that was. It was foreign and therefore it had to be foul and laden with food-poisoning bugs.

After the meal came the exotic cabaret. Some gaudily-garbed musicians arrived bearing dried gourds on sticks filled with something rattley, carved wooden flutes and stringed instruments of painted wood. The sound they made was discordant to Thrubb's ears. Nothing like the jolly melody of clashing badger skulls and nose whistles from the village virtuosos Barney 'No Ears' Mutt and Todger Bigge the Gurnsmith, who called themselves The Rhapsody Brothers when performing.

Things improved for Thrubb when a buxom female dancer in an unfeasibly tight red flouncy dress strode haughtily into the room. He had not seen such fine curves since admiring the shiny, well-muscled buttocks of his master's prize mule. The dancer was accompanied by a wiry little man of indeterminate age who pulled up a stool and sat beside her.

Thrubb was head down, mulling over his turnips when the noise of a tortured creature in agony rent the room, causing a cave troll's aunty to choke messily on her gruel.

To Smelda, the sound was wonderful, inspirational, a heartbroken lament from the depths of the singer's soul. A song of love-lorn grief as old as the hills. Her enjoyment turned to disgust as the peasants began booing and pelting the singer with lumps of hard rye bread. The dancer swore at them colourfully in her native tongue and stomped off, dragging her partner, still on his stool behind her.

The evening ended with the tourists singing raucous, bawdy songs from home like Munge Barkin and His Mighty Carrot, The Windgnarler's Daughter and Come, Bounce on My Buffocks.

The morning dawned bright and clear. The Thrubbs made their way to the beach, not knowing what to expect. Along the promenade that led from the harbour to the beach, they were pestered by locals selling souvenirs. The sight of so many straw hats and donkeys made Thrubb glower at the waste, again; properly steamed and fermented for a few months, straw made a passable tipple. Well, almost. Lost for words, he growled his displeasure as Smelda bought a wonky straw donkey – one that was missing half an ear – because she felt sorry for it. Women! All thoughts of her money-wasting folly were lost when they arrived at the beach.

The largest body of water they knew was the village sludge pond and the vastness of the sea was bewildering and alarming. As was the expanse of white sand adorned with heavily clothed and sullen blobs, their fellow tourists. Their faces reddened like radishes, they huddled under bright-coloured umbrellas and complained about sand getting in their crevices. Thrubb took his place under an umbrella and prepared to have a bad time.

A group of half-naked, lithe limbed young locals carrying an inflated sheep's bladder arrived on the beach and began to play, throwing it to each other with much laughter. Thrubb's eyes and something much lower down grew huge at the sight of the long tan limbs and pert breasts of the women. He had never seen Smelda unclothed in all their married life and he doubted that under her layers of sackcloth and winter goose fat, she would look as luscious as these local ladies.

Oblivious to her husband's leching, Smelda felt that rising excitement brewing again. It became unbearable, an exotic, seductive siren song that lured her soul into rebellion and reckless folly. She stood up and unpeeled her clothing layer by layer like an onion doing a striptease until she was proudly clad only in a breast bandana and loincloth, her maggot-pale body already blushing from the heat of the sun. She didn't care. Throwing off her wimple and letting loose her lank dirty blonde hair, Smelda ran to join the bladder players with a giggle of sheer joyous abandon. For the first time in her life, warm air caressed her body, soft sand trickled through her toes, her giggle grew to a full-throated peal of laughter and she was sure one of the local men pinched her bottom. Bliss.

Smelda never went home. She settled with the kids in a little village in the mountains above the Costa where she met and married a dashing local sheep shugger called Ernesto de la Cabra Verde. She called him Ern. Smelda cast off the tired old sackcloth garments forever and grew golden-limbed and flaxen haired, blossoming in the bright sun. Many children soon followed and she was happy until the end of her days.

Deagus Stanley Thrubb returned to his village and once he had devoured the straw donkey, nearly starved to death until he overcame his sulk over Smelda's desertion and learned how to cook turnips.

He never met Vinnie Grimes again so couldn't get a refund or sue for compensation. Nor could he understand how all the peasants who went on holiday had rebooked for the Costa Lotte package for the next year.

He wouldn't even risk a trip to Grimsby.

Toads, Exorcised  
For Robin, on his early retirement. After Philip Larkin.

By Mike Farren

It's a lesson taught by time  
to accommodate the toad,  
to call him harshest names  
until they start to sound

like those rough, locker-room jibes,  
like the banter that we share  
with companions of our lives  
so that our love is safe to bear.

While it squats on our back, it tweaks  
our view of those who live outside  
as the stupid, damaged and weak,  
because those who refuse to be defined

by time spent in their office cage  
the toad-envenomed do not care to see  
as anything but unfathomably strange  
and can't acknowledge they may just be free.

When the toad seems our grudged friend,  
faute de mieux, our comfortable cell,  
the gruesome nurse whose hand  
we clutch, our own familiar hell,

I say, Squash the bastard, bleed  
it dry and fuck right off. There's more  
to life than constant servicing of need.  
Leave it behind and do not let the door...

you know the rest. Beyond the office gate  
lie moorland footpaths, salmon-brimming rivers...  
I'll take your hand, old mate,  
I'll help you down the road that leads wherever.

Ocean's Gift

By Catherine Looser

It was a glorious summer's day, with the bite of autumn in the air. Theo, sixth earl of Carafon, looked down at his father's grave and wondered why he felt nothing.

The gods only knew, the fifth earl had not been an easy man to love. He had not been cruel, but rather hard and inflexible, holding everyone around him to the same stern code of morals he lived his own life by. A cold man, without a shred of human warmth and compassion, he nonetheless was possessed of an unbending sense of duty and justice. No one liked him, but it was impossible not to respect him. The earl's tenants and servants knew that as long as they carried out their work faithfully and well, their lord would ensure that they were looked after. He might never stop for a friendly word, and certainly would not forgive slipshod work and idleness, but neither would he allow any of his people to suffer through genuine misfortune.

As his heir, Theo had been held to impossibly high standards and had lived the majority of his life with the knowledge of his father's disappointment.

Standing now by the freshly turned earth, as yet still dark and soft, that shrouded the fifth earl's mortal remains, Theo simply felt empty. It seemed somehow impossible that someone as strong and certain as his father could have been subject to the usual frailties that afflicted the rest of humanity. Glancing around at the other faces grouped around the grave, he saw the same emotions reflected in them all. Not sorrow, but a sense of bewilderment and loss as profound as if the ancient church itself had wandered off in the night.

Theo lightly touched his mother's shoulder. The dowager countess, looking absurdly young under swathes of black fabric, turned and smiled at him.

"I think we'll be fine, if Hodgkinson goes down to the lower greenhouse."

Theo blinked, Accustomed as he was to the butterfly dartings of his mother's mind, this statement still took him by surprise.

"Pardon, Mother?"

"The wake, dear," she said, as if this should have been obvious. "I was wondering if we had enough to feed everyone, and then I remembered that there's still plenty of salad in the lower greenhouse."

Later that afternoon, when the last of the mourners had departed, Theo sat alone in one of the smaller sitting rooms with a stack of estate papers in front of him. Unsurprisingly, the fifth earl had left everything in perfect order and there was really very little for Theo to do, but he needed to keep busy.

A hesitant tap at the door heralded the arrival of his estate manager, a cheerful middle aged man currently looking rather uncomfortable in his Sunday best, his top hat held loosely in one hand as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

Theo smiled at him. "Hello, Frizinghall. I hope you don't mind meeting in here."

"Not at all, my lord, I quite understand."

Theo thought that Frizinghall probably did. The library had always been his father's domain, the place where a young Theo was summoned to face discipline, and even now he feared to enter it and see his father's ghost eyeing him disapprovingly from behind the great mahogany desk.

"Frizinghall, there's something that's been puzzling me. I keep finding records of something called Chance. As far as I can tell it seems to be a place, but I've never heard of it. Surely it isn't part of the estate?"

"Ah yes, Chance is a small island off the coast to the west. It came from your mother's family and therefore isn't really a part of the Carafon estate, which is why you haven't come across it before. I believe there was once a small manor on the island, but it was abandoned when the direct line died out and the island has been uninhabited ever since. The old earl did visit it once, shortly after his marriage, but I don't think he saw any value in it. He certainly never went there again."

Theo nodded. "That certainly explains it. I'm only surprised he didn't sell it."

Frizinghall cleared his throat. "I fancy that he wanted to, but the countess wouldn't have it."

Theo grinned. "I think I shall pay a visit to this Chance myself. Can you arrange it for me, Frizinghall? As soon as possible please."

"Of course, my lord, I'll see to it straight away."

As the sun rose, the island of Chance loomed like a dark monster of the deep, its rocky shores taking form against the pale waters. From the shore a small boat came skimming across the sleeping sea to land on the flank of the leviathan. Theo hopped nimbly out of the boat, his feet crunching on the sand, and took a deep, satisfied breath of the salt-laden air.

He dismissed the boatman with a cheerful word, hefted the bag containing his lunch and set out to investigate his new domain.

Chance wasn't a large island, barely more than five miles across, but Theo took his time exploring and it wasn't until late afternoon that he came across the abandoned manor of Chance at the end of a small gorse-fringed loch. It was still beautiful, even after years of neglect, and as Theo stood in its courtyard he could feel all the little knotty patches in his soul slowly unwinding. He leaned against the sun-warmed and dusty wall and briefly closed his eyes.

"So, Father saw no value in you," he murmured. "That's something we have in common, I think."

A liquid ripple of falling sound came to his ears and, startled, he glanced up, thinking for one wild moment that the house itself was laughing at him. He caught his breath in wonder. There, perched atop the filigree iron of the lantern above his head, was a sea martin. These tiny birds, lovely and elusive as a dream of spring, had been immortalised in song, story and myth for thousands of years. It was said that they carried the souls of those lost at sea and that they could bring a ship safe through any storm. They were often found around lighthouses, where they were greatly valued by the keepers. It was even said that keepers would refuse to man a tower without resident sea martins, calling it cursed. Ocean's Gift, they were called, and Sea King's Lanterns.

The bird chirruped again, flipping royal blue wings into place to reveal the multi-hued blue and white shading of its breast and belly. It peered curiously down at the intruder below, black eyes bright and intelligent, before it suddenly took fright and flew, a patch of white at the base of its tail gleaming like a star.

As dusk gathered heavy and soft across the sea, the boatman returned to the island to fetch his waiting passenger.

"You're in luck, my lord," he greeted Theo, perched on a rock close to the water's edge. "The sea is kindling her lamps tonight."

At Theo's look of confusion he gestured out across the waters, smooth and still as sunset-coloured silk, to where something moved and flickered in the twilight.

The sea martins were returning, their wings outlined with a ghostly shimmering phosphorescence. They whirled overhead in a great spiralling cloud, a glittering constellation of spindrift and witch lights bewildering in its complex dance.

Tears poured unashamedly down the boatman's cheeks. "They always bring us home," he whispered. "Out there on the wide trackless ocean they find us and carry us back. It is the ocean's last gift to those who love it."

Even a day earlier, Theo would probably have responded sceptically, but here, in this charmed and peaceful place, with his mind and spirit more tranquil than they had been in months, he found that he could believe he was looking at something beyond the borders of the mortal world.

He knew his father would have scoffed at the idea, calling it a peasant superstition. If there was one thing Theo had always dreaded more than any other it was turning into his cold, flint-hearted father, becoming little more than an efficient, unfeeling machine. He had begun to fear that it was coming true, but as his heart swelled within him at the joyous dance filling the sky above, he found that he still had the love for life and magic and laughter that his father had tried so hard to crush from him.

The fifth earl's ghost would continue to stalk the rooms of Carafon, but Chance had restored to Theo his freedom and his soul, and it would still be here to sustain him through the long years ahead.

The Call

Rae Bailey

Three met at the horns of the crossroads,

In the Indigo Lands, in the old country,

Bidden by the old rule to commit here,

Weary as they were from their labours

With heaving cattle, elusive fish and

High borne fruit. Herders each one.

They turned to the fourth, riding up,

Sun behind, flamboyantly lit,

On a a white socked strawberry roan.

They waited. They knew all praying,

All pleadings, all pleasings were done.

The sign of the plague had risen and their

Stock would be dispersed. Hoarders each one.

Hedge Knight

Written for Rhubarb's 'Message in a Bottle' event, Saltaire Festival 2019

By Lauren K. Nixon

With one last, heaving strike, the knight cut through the last of the thorns. It had been hard work, labouring under a cold sun, the damp of the morning working its way between cracks in the armour and encouraging irritating squeaks and creaks.

Straightening, the knight took in the task ahead.

It was not quite what they had been expecting.

The local wizard had woven a tale of a lost prince, sleeping for a hundred winters, hidden deep within a tower at the heart of the dense thicket of bramble and blackthorn – the peasants' faerie tree – so broad and impenetrable that it had taken three days to ride around. Many had tried to win the prize at its heart, but none had thus far succeeded. Several had never returned, and those that had refused to speak of it. The tower was visible for miles around – tall and foreboding; hard to look at for long periods, so sinister was its aspect. Great, evil beaked birds lurked in the dark shadows of its eaves and the sky took on a bleak aspect, roiling with clouds even on clear days when there was nary a breath of wind.

Here, though, on the inside of the thicket, was a great oak, its branches shading a pleasant meadow; its roots drinking greedily from a winding stream. The sun was shining gently upon it, as it had been on the land the knight had left a few hours before. They squinted back along the gloom of the tunnel they had cut through the vicious vines and branches. The outer world was just visible as a bright disc of green, the back leg of the knight's horse cutting it in two.

They looked up at the tree: it seemed fairly ordinary, save for its size, and the bright blue door at its base.

The knight was beginning to wonder whether the wizard had been pulling their father's leg.

Still, Father – who was a stickler for tradition – had insisted that it was time for the knight to come into their own; to marry and take their place at the head of the manor, whether the knight liked it or not. (And honestly, the knight preferred their own company, or that of their friends, to that of any paramour.)

Hence the quest. As a knight, they could not refuse the command of the lord or lady to which they were bound, not without relinquishing their title – and that was their father's intent: to have them back beneath his heel.

They had worked hard to prove themselves – and that had been against the old man's wishes, too. They weren't about to give it all up now.

The knight sighed.

There was no helping it. Hoping that the tree would be empty, the knight strode up to the door, and – because the strangeness of the place was no excuse not to be polite – knocked upon the it.

It opened with a creak, and apparently under its own agency.

Sword still drawn (polite didn't mean unwary, after all), the knight went within.

There was a stack of mattresses against one wall, tall enough to almost reach the ceiling, a small pile of leaf litter on the floor, and nothing else. Not even behind the door. Perplexed, the knight put their sword away. Everything smelled musty and disused, and when they climbed the mattresses to see what was on top, so much dust rose up into the air that they were left coughing and spluttering. There was a pile of jewels on top of the uppermost mattress – enough to set the knight up nicely for life, far away from their father – but there was no dust on these at all and they knew a trap when they saw it.

The leaf pile, then: carefully, the knight brushed away the top-most leaves, then sat back as the pile gave a shake. For a moment, there was no sound in the chamber save the chirping of crickets beyond the door, then the litter gave another shudder, and out thrust a long, slim snout.

Surprised, the knight watched as the little pink nose gave a sniff; the snout was followed by a fat, round body, all covered in spikes. It looked quizzically up at the knight for a few seconds, out of beady, jet black eyes.

"Hello," said the knight. "Er..." They thought for a moment, about what their father had said about fulfilling promises and traditions, and how a thing had to be followed through, no matter what. They thought, too, about the way the old wizard had smiled when the knight explained their quest. Then they laughed.

The hedgehog took a tentative step forward.

Pushing off their helmet and shaking out long, auburn hair, the knight smiled. "I was told to rescue whoever was in this place and marry them, but I'm not sure you need rescuing – and I think neither of us would be much interested in getting wed. I can promise you a big pile of leaves, though – and as many crickets and meal worms as you can eat. What do you say?"

She offered the hedgehog her hand, which it sniffed, and then clambered onto.

"I suppose," said the hedgehog, and she tried not to stare. "I quite like being a hedgehog, though. You would have to promise not to try to change me back. Being a prince is rubbish. The only bad thing about it is not having any books."

"On that you have my word, little friend," said the knight, and, content, the hedgehog climbed up to her shoulder. "And you can read mine. I built myself a library last winter. Father doesn't approve of them, but that's his problem, now. I'm Eloise."

"Toby," said the hedgehog, curling into her hair.

The knight left the thicket with a spring in her step that hadn't been there on the way in. Her father would have to keep his word – and that was fine with her.

Place

By Lizzie Nolan

"Come on girls, keep up!"

"Ugh, Dad, can you not?"

The man's sandy hair bounced enthusiastically against his flushed scalp as he strode across the tussocky ground.

"Isn't it glorious?"

A few steps behind, a woman followed at a more sedate pace, trailed at a substantial distance by two blobs that could, in time, resolve themselves into human figures.

Odd patches of cloud raced each other through the buttery sunshine, muting and dappling the tans, ochres, chestnuts and purples that blanketed the rising slopes. Buzzards mewed over the snap-crackle Rice-Krispies pop of the seedpods exploding in the gorse that overhung the dusty path.

It was, in fact, glorious.

"Fuck's sake Dad, there's not even any 3G."

"Watch your language, young lady!"

"Well, there's not. No signal for the last hour, no 3G, can't Snapchat, can't Whatsapp, can't even text. Like, what am I, a fucking caveman?"

"She's right, you know, Dad."

"Girls, you know this is important to your Dad. Could you try just a little bit harder?" The woman passed out bottles of water from the big rucksack on her back. "He's right. It's a lovely day. Enjoy yourselves. Look, up there!"

Hundreds of feet above them a herd of deer picked their way over the lip of the corrie, flickering in and out of vision against the scrub and outcroppings. The stag stood for a moment, sky-lined against the blue over the plateau.

"Mum, some of us have lives, you know. People will be wondering where I am."

"Me too!"

"No, they won't. Who would you even be messaging? I've seen your Story, it's crap, and you've got nobody on Twitter."

"What do you even know? Who even uses –"

"Girls, this is your heritage, too," their father admonished at an unnecessary bellow over the muted sound of the wind.

"You're the reason we've come here. I know once you're out here, once you soak it all up and feel and smell and run in this place, that you'll understand. You're so disconnected back home, in our brick boxes and iron towers. You'll understand what you're part of."

"I'm part of a squad that's at ice skating right now, without me, is what I am, Dad."

"Yeah and I have things, too –"

"No you don't –"

"Yes I –"

"Girls! Look!"

They rounded a hillock and the glen opened up before them. The ground rose sharply and haltingly between huge flung erratic boulders, and a burn cascaded down to join the main river in a series of leaps and drops.

"Here we are, girls, didn't I tell you?"

"It's... it's wonderful, dear. Look, look at it!"

The water hurled itself over edges and round corners worn into luge tracks and marble runs by sheer force of nature, stone striped greys and browns and blues by minerals and geology. It swerved and widened out into pools like Jacuzzis, like expensive concept bathrooms in hotels you hate-browse on your office lunchbreak.

"Okay, I'm going in."

The air around the man shimmered, and another shape faded in, like a double exposed photograph. Nose lengthened, head heavy, ears pricked with excitement. He ran on four horse legs through the shallows where the rivers met, shifting seamlessly to lithe long inhuman bipedalism as he sprang up waterfalls and rapids.

"DAD! Dad! Fuck's sake Dad, there's people here. Like, actual human people!"

The man whinnied a laugh.

"A mile away at least, sweetheart, and come on. You know your old man. Nobody's seen through my glamour since I was your age!"

"Yeah, okay, so they just see a fat saggy middle-aged freak flashing his hairy arse in the middle of fucking nowhere! Stark bollock naked, Dad!"

The woman gathered her husband's scattered clothes into a careful pile and added her rucksack, broad-brimmed hat and light rain jacket to the heap. She shifted, considerably more decorously, given her level of preparation. It wasn't easy to find a modest skirt in a sensible colour that fitted both a human shape and a horse, not at this season.

"Come on, both of you. It'll be good for you. You barely spend any time loose anyway; it's not good to be always glamoured."

The water was icy on hot horseflesh, crystal clear and tangy with peat and iron. The sun and wind flashed licks of heat and cold over exposed knees and elbows flung up on corners, sleek tough hide slipping easily over sharp rock and smooth.

The central channel twisted and turned in water-park curves as young bodies flew off falls and crash-landed in pools whooping and shrieking. The ravens circled and scattered overhead mocking kindred spirits below.

The woman brought out a packed lunch and they ate scrambling over the dry side of the falls, looking down over weird parched sculpture and black pools under overhangs eight feet deep or more, blood trickling down to join sediment stripes and track the courses of flash floods future and past. They threw steak fat and scraps to the flocking ravens, croaking and cavorting in enthusiasm as raw as the meat and joy as bright as the sun, and concluded, screaming, laughing and naked as the day they hatched, that celebrating one's heritage might not be so bad. Sometimes. In the right place and time.

Tallahassee Golem

By Laura Sinclair

When at last they came to check, when it was all nearly over, they discovered everyone alive and well and playing cribbage.

The old folks' home had been near the center of what the authorities liked to refer to as 'the event'. It had been months since anyone had been able to return to it, and check for survivors. It had been too toxic.

Yet, Samuel looked up from his game with the other men and women around the table, as the hazmat workers came into the care facility, and waved. "Welcome," he said. "There's coffee on the credenza, and pastries too, help yourself."

Mark, who was the main lead, took out an instrument, to check the air. He had not radioed back that he had found anyone alive yet, because he wasn't sure if he and his crew weren't suffering a mass hallucination. The readings were normal in this room. Did he dare to take off his helmet to see if these people were really alive, after all this time?

Bea, behind him, grabbed the instrument, and waved it all around. She stuck it back in his hand. "It's clear," she said, and pulled off her helmet.

"There's enough for you all, if you like," Samuel said, getting up, with a bit of a grunt, and pointing the way to the kitchen, which looked as though it had been cleaned moments before. "Have a cruller. Can't get those for love or money these days."

Bea took out her own instrument and tested the pastry he was pointing to. It was just an ordinary bread-based product, made with regular flour, according to the readings. She picked it up with gloved fingers, shrugged her shoulders, and took a bite. It was the most flavorful thing she had ever tasted, full of hints of cardamom, and cinnamon, such as those that her gramma used to make, back in the day. She had only meant to take one bite, but finished it off, and would have licked her fingers, if she hadn't been wearing gloves.

Fred ran the scanner through the kitchen, then took off his helmet. "Weird," he said. "Could we all be hallucinating, like that group in Miami did?"

Mark, who was scanning the room where the cribbage was being played, came into the kitchen. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. It doesn't make sense. I mean, I don't want anybody more to die, but, hell, they should all be dead. There should be nothing alive here. There are no attendants."

"Yes, well," Samuel said, from behind them. "They never came back. We waited for them, but after a while, we figured, eh?" He shrugged his shoulders. "No loss."

"When was that?" Bea asked, putting her mic' in front of him, just to record what she hoped would be of interest to Main Control.

"Months ago," Ruth said, coming up behind them, with a tray of black coffees, as though she was a waitress in another life. She began to hand them out, and Bea expected her to say "Here hon'," like her grandmother used to, but she did it only with a smile. "Less and less were showing up every day. And those that remained at the home, well, they started getting really sick, early on. They were the first to not return."

"How?" Mark said, waving his hand over the room. "How did you do it? If you never went outside? How?"

Ruth and Samuel exchanged one of the looks where they say things with their eyes. Mark watched them, as they debated, obviously, how much they should tell. Finally Samuel nodded his head. "Is it over?" he asked. "Is it safe to breathe outside? Is it all clear?"

Bea shook her head. "Not for a while yet."

"Then come back when it is," Ruth said, guesting with her hands, towards the door. "Come back when we can breathe outside again."

"But," Mark began, "we came to rescue you," he said, though everyone knew this was not true. If they had, if that had been their intent, they would have come sooner.

"No buts," Samuel said. "See you when it is all over," and he shooed them out of the building.

Once the door was closed, and Ruth, who was checking from the window, saw that they had packed up their gear, and body bags, and all their stuff, and driven away, did the golem come out of his hiding place.

"They did not wish to stay?" he asked, holding the tray of coffees that Ruth had brought out, but that no one had touched.

"They had other places to go to," Samuel said.

The golem nodded and looked out the window after them. "The air is still contaminated," he said. "It would have been death for you to follow them."

"I know," Ruth said.

"Hey," one of the players who had not gotten up from the game shouted out at Samuel, "get the lead out. We don't have all day. You gonna finish the game, or not?"

"I'm in," Samuel said, shuffling back to the table.

"Do you need any help, hon'?" Ruth asked the Golem, who was carrying the drinks back to the kitchen.

"I am here to serve," he said. "Please, continue with your amusements. I will protect you as I have always protected you and your ancestors."

"Thank you, dear," Ruth said, rubbing the creature's gray, cold arm.

It was months later when the hazmat people finally returned, when the air was finally clear, and life was somewhat back to normal. On that day, Ruth, with tears in her eyes, rubbed out the letter "Aleph" from his forehead, to return him to his former state, leaving the word "Met": death.

Once the golem had been physically made, one needed to write the letters aleph, mem, tav, which is emet and means 'truth', on the golem's forehead and the golem would come alive. Erase the aleph and you are left with mem and tav, which is met, meaning 'death'.

Things That Last

(Terra Amata, Nice)

Previously published in The Blue Nib

By Mike Farren

Ash from the hearth;  
a hoard of knapped flint;  
a seven-year-old's tooth; the print  
of a foot that slipped in the mud  
of the stream from a long-dry spring;  
and the song that their DNA sings  
in our bones.

Homeward

Rae Bailey

Heather sprig on the dashboard

Haze in the rear glass

To the left, warm toes curling patterns

To the right, a thyme breeze flows

Cerulean blue ahead to where

Lemons lie, sun-warmed on pear wood.

Love, Liberated

By Kim Hosking

The train jerked forward and then its motion smoothed as it gathered speed.

"This train is for Leeds, the next station is Church Fenton," the cool female voice informed the packed carriage.

Harmony sighed and tucked a stray strand of auburn hair that had been tickling her cheek for the past ten minutes behind her ear, unable to stand it anymore. She squeezed her arm back between the two gentlemen pressed against her and held firm to the smooth rail once more.

Just what had possessed her to take the slow train, she mused, on this weekend of all weekends? Glancing around as a bead of sweat rolled down her neck she decided she had probably had the same thought as all of these other travellers: to feel the thrill of liberation.

And what a thrill it was!

Outside, the sky was azure blue, without a wisp of cloud anywhere in sight and the sun shone brightly down on the fields racing by. Everything seemed so bright, so gloriously Technicolor. For the last three months, all Harmony had known was the inside of her flat, and the occasional trip to the supermarket. The world had been locked down, frozen in time as the virus surged across the globe. At first she'd been going to work, then she'd worked from home, until finally the work had dried up and all that was left was for her to pace her small flat, her emotional pendulum swinging between frustrated tears and restless anger.

But to look upon these fields now, divided by their streams and hedgerows, it was as if her mind had activated a reset function; everything was being absorbed at once in all its beautiful glory. She felt as though she'd never truly seen the world before. This was the first weekend after the lockdown was lifted and, no doubt like everyone else around her, she only wanted to see one thing – her loved ones. She'd seen their faces as images on her computer screen during video calls, heard their laughter, read their letters, but she missed their essence, their closeness, their touch.

"The next station is East Garforth."

"Come on," Harmony muttered, bouncing on the balls of her feet as if that would speed up the train. More people had got on at Church Fenton and she felt the sweat prickling her brow. It was so typical for the service to be this packed when she wanted to look her best; Luke was meeting her in Leeds and she wanted to dazzle him. It'd been three months, after all.

Her heart thumped painfully in her chest: three months! She looked down at her outfit, critically analysing it: a floral pink floaty dress and brown sandals, decorated with colourful beads. What if he didn't fancy her anymore? Three months was a long time and without exercise she'd put on a little, here and there.

She shook herself, she did not and should not worry about such things, after all, he'd organised the meeting. As soon as the government had lifted lockdown he'd rung her phone, breathless with excitement – otherwise she'd been prepared to wait a day and play it cool.

"The next station is Garforth."

Could this train go any slower?! She didn't like to admit it but in her darkest lockdown moments Luke had been the anchor on a stormy sea, the candle in the window calling her home. All she thought about was seeing him once more, and the last time they'd met. It hadn't been anything fancy, they'd gone for a walk up Malham Cove and basked in the sun while eating flapjacks, joking around about Harmony's fear of heights as he dared her to go near the edge. A small smile lit up her face, he was always so brave. Then they'd returned to his house to eat pasta bake and snuggle up before an action movie, her head resting upon his chest, hearing his heart beating. Two days later and the Prime Minster had locked down the country.

"The next station is Cross Gates."

She'd wished since that she'd paid more attention to every detail that weekend, but she hadn't known then it would be three months. Who could have? She'd have to visit her family next weekend too; it'd been longer since seeing them, they'd all been so busy before this hit – her sister with her house move and her parents with their on-call shifts. Time had always seemed to slip away from them.

A reset, that's exactly what the world had needed. Now, it felt odd to have strangers pressed up against her on a train, when social distancing had been observed for so long. Thank goodness they hadn't checked tickets, there was barely room to swing a mouse, let alone a cat!

"The next station is Leeds, our final station stop. Please make sure..." The end of the announcement was lost in a flurry of activity throughout the carriage, as if a bolt of electricity had surged through the passengers. People were attempting to retrieve luggage, and squeeze into jackets – though Lord knows why, it was hot enough already!

The tall flats and skyscrapers of Leeds came into view, as did the dazzling river weaving between them. Harmony's heart skipped a beat and she suddenly felt nauseous. Luke. She closed her eyes. One... Two... Three... Four... Five... You're going to be okay. Six... Seven... It will all be fine. Eight... Nine... You're good to go. Ten. She reopened her eyes and released her breath slowly as a shadow passed through the carriage. The first iron beam of the roof of Leeds train station passed overhead.

The train slowed and stopped, everyone waited impatiently for the series of bleeps to announce the doors were open and then Harmony was carried forward by the surge. The press of humanity tripped up the steps and over the bridge, the down the steps on the other towards the ticket barrier. She'd just retrieved her ticket from her purse when her world stood still.

There he was.

She was trying to look casual but at the same time she wanted to drink him all in; he was wearing the black shirt he'd worn to their first date, but this time had paired it with jeans, rather than formal suit trousers. He was peering over the heads of the crowd, trying to spot her. She was through the barriers before the crowd thinned enough for them to lock eyes, her hazel ones to his brown, and suddenly it was as if she'd slipped into her daydreams.

Around her, loved ones were greeting each other; children were laughing and messing around, tirades of gossip spilling forth, the occasional exclamation about lockdown hairstyles and joyous tears. She'd promised herself she wouldn't be like the women in the films, but upon seeing him she'd begun to run and she didn't care.

He took her in his arms and she breathed in his cool, musky scent and as she kissed his lips she knew it'd all been worth it, for this!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, the Superstars are a community - spread across the globe - of delightfully weird and disparate folk, who have in common the inescapable writer's itch. Putting together an anthology like this cannot happen without the numerous hands, eyes and minds of a dedicated bunch of creative and practical people. We have also been joined, for this volume, by several of our friends and fellow creatives, whose work has helped make this collection a reality.

Firstly, no anthology could be created without the authors themselves, all of whom have stepped up to the mark, providing a wonderful variety of writing. Similarly our artists and photographers have pulled out all the stops for us. Thank you all for offering up your scribblings and images, tolerating my editing and letting me nag you when needed! I'd particularly like to thank those of you who are not regular Superstars, or who are putting forward their writing or art for the first time. It means a lot for you to trust us with it.

The lovely cover was created through the creative wizardry of James at GoOnWrite.com - thanks again, James!

I could not have got this much done in so short a time without my co-conspirator (or should I say, co-curator), G. Burton, who cross-edited the lot with me, and helped me work out a structure that did people's talents justice.

Many thanks must go to Amanda Stowe, who kindly looked over the front matter, acknowledgements and introductions. Also to the hard-working last-pass editing team, Rae and Izzy, who double checked everything for typos.

In terms of compiling the anthology, this would not have been possible without the troubleshooting abilities of Niall Fleming, who has a way with computers that seems like an island of calm in a library of chaos, and makes the perfect 'cuppa tea'. He may also be slightly magic.

I need to give huge thanks to the Superstars' in-house media and marketing team, without whom I would go mad. Well, more mad. Also to Iain, who put together our launch festivities on spectacularly short notice!

\- Lauren K. Nixon

(Chief Curator)

Everyone involved in this project would like to thank their family and friends for their encouragement, support and patience, occasional meals and numerous cups of tea.

We would also like to offer our deepest thanks and gratitude to all the healthcare professionals, teachers, key workers and volunteers out there, who are keeping the world turning and quite literally saving lives under very difficult circumstances.

Fiona Angwin

Wales, UK

Also known as The Yarn Spinner, Fiona was born and brought up on the Wirral Peninsula and has been addicted to books, animals and theatre since she was a child. This has led to a rather varied career. She and her partner moved to South Wales a couple of years ago, settling in a beautiful valley about twelve miles from Abergavenny.

She did a zoology degree at Liverpool University, followed by drama training, and has juggled acting, writing, directing, theatre administration, being a bat rescuer and environmental educationalist, and working as a zookeeper/presenter at Chester Zoo.

From these, she has morphed into a storyteller and puppeteer with an interest in mythology, building a lot of the puppets she needs for her own work, as well as commissioned pieces.

She has published a number of books - currently four novels and a book of folk tales - and is working on another.
Rae Bailey

Pennine Chain, UK

I used to make marginal notes in books, but now verse scribbles in me in its margin. I am more substantial than my shadow, but less substantial than my reflection. My roommates are both hairy and lovable, but neither are human.

I am not a one-eyed seller of garlic.

Sorry about the verse, it just happens. It has happened in a recently published volume, Hey Kid, and will again in the forthcoming Echolocations.

Naveen N. Bhat

Aachen, Germany

Naveen is an aerospace, mechanical and materials engineer by education. When he isn't obsessing over cricket or complaining about the lack of biryani in his diet, he is usually busy being obnoxiously patriotic towards his motherland (India) or passing snarky comments on world politics.

He secretly loves being addressed as 'Batman' by his friends, but will never admit it because that'd be breaking character.

Naveen likes pencil sketching and photography, but it does not mean he is good at it. Despite it being a mere hobby, he is passionate about his creations.

Find more of Naveen's art at deviantart.com/naveennbhat
Helen L. Bourne

West Yorkshire, UK

Helen L. Bourne is a Kentish woman who has adopted Yorkshire as her home. She likes playing the ukulele, drinking wine and cuddling her cats and/or husband.
G. Burton

West Yorkshire, UK

G. Burton is a working professional from Yorkshire who writes. Her writing has bubbled up from a love of literature and a lifelong desire to put words to paper. Despite occasionally flying into the realms of fantasy, she is currently working on the first novel in a trilogy of pulse-pounding contemporary crime thrillers.

She is also the custodian of the Norse God of thunder, in his present eccentric incarnation of a medium-sized affectionate cat.
Alison Clare

Yorkshire, UK

Alison Clare is a natural light family photographer based in Yorkshire, who also dabbles in images of the natural world. She particularly enjoys capturing emotion and character!
Jessica Grace Coleman

Staffordshire, UK

Jessica Grace Coleman is a dog-loving, cider-drinking, tea and cake-devouring country music fan who edits other people's words by day and writes her own by night. For her day job she owns and runs Coleman Editing, where she gets to indulge in her word nerd ways, as well as illustrating her deep, profound love for the Oxford comma. She also self-publishes her own novels, such as the Young Adult Little Forest paranormal mystery series and the dystopian Downfall series - when she can find the time. Other than that you can find her frequenting tea rooms all around the UK, travelling to far-off lands (usually to buy more tea), and squealing in delight at every single dog she comes across.

You can find out more about her writing services at www.colemanediting.co.uk

and about her own books at www.jessicagracecoleman.com.
Mark Connors

Yorkshire, UK

Mark Connors is an award winning poet and novelist from Leeds, UK. Mark has had over 180 poems published in magazines, anthologies and webzines. His debut poetry pamphlet, Life is a Long Song was published by OWF Press in 2015. His first full length collection, Nothing is Meant to be Broken was published by Stairwell Books in 2017. His second poetry collection, Optics, was published in 2019 by Yaffle. His novels, Stickleback and Tom Tit and the Maniacs, were published in 2016 and 2018. Mark is also a compere, a literary facilitator and a managing editor at Yaffle. His photographs have appeared on Yaffle covers and promotional leaflets for the Ilkley Literature Festival.
Raven Dane

UK

Raven Dane is a UK based author of dark fantasy, award winning steampunk novels and horror short stories. Her short stories have appeared in international anthologies including Crystal Lake's Tales of the Lake 2, Stoker award finalist Frightmare and Dark Horizons for the 40th anniversary of the British Fantasy Society.
Izzy de Bono

Nottinghamshire, UK

The most Hufflepuff person you've ever met.

Musicals and chocolate enthusiast.
Fiona Evans

New Zealand

International lady of mystery.
Mike Farren

West Yorkshire, UK

Mike Farren's poems are widely published. He has been 'canto' winner for Poem of the North, runner-up in The Blue Nib's Chapbook Contest and shortlisted/commended in various other competitions. His pamphlets are Pierrot and his Mother (Templar) and All of the Moons (Yaffle).
Liz Hearson

Yorkshire, UK

Churchyard Wanderer | Scared of Ghosts
Kim Hosking

Home is where you set down your trowel, UK

Kim is an archaeologist who dabbles in writing stories. When not scribbling away, or getting muddy in a trench, she can often be found cocooned in a blanket, cradling a cup of tea, fully immersed in a book.

She longs for the day science - or magic - will give us dragons, and she can take to the skies.
Catherine Looser

North Lincolnshire, UK

Born and bred in rural Suffolk, Catherine has migrated north and can now be found in the wilds of North Lincolnshire.

Her mother always says she wasn't born with a book in her hand, but grabbed one pretty soon afterwards. In between books, she spends her time drinking copious cups of tea, pottering around her garden and dealing with the demands of the local wildlife (fiancé included).
Slithey Malice

UK

Slithey likes making pieces on the first try, without planning or warm-up ideas, developing them as organically as possible. He prefers watercolour and ink pen for the speed of transcribing ideas, and he loves mistakes. Unexpected elements to work in bring everything to life.
Minerva Delphi Mannion & Family

Yorkshire, UK

Minerva and her mummy are embarking on their home education adventure! They focus on kindness, wellbeing, nature and experiences, as well as having oodles of fun!
Wayne Naylor

West Yorkshire, UK

A former media, film and animation student, Wayne was born - and has lived - in various parts of Bradford, currently settled in Shipley. He aspires to be an author of Fantasy, Science-Fiction and Horror novels, with the aim to write for a variety of ages and to de-clutter his mind of all the ideas that have taken root over the years.

With far too many hobbies to fill his time, he still refuses to accept that he is, in fact, 'busy'.
Lauren K. Nixon

West Yorkshire, UK

An ex-archaeologist enjoying life in the slow-lane, Lauren K. Nixon is an indie author fascinated by everyday magic. She is the author of numerous short stories, The Fox and the Fool, Mayflies and the Chambers Magic series, along with various attempts at poetry and a largely accidental play. When she's not writing or curating The Superstars, trying to think of something interesting to read at Rhubarb - the local poetry club - or supporting other writers in various places in the real and on the internet, she can be found gardening, singing, crafting, reading, watching documentaries, researching weird stuff online, making miniatures, laughing uproariously, annoying the cat, playing the fool with Shipley Little Theatre and playing board games.

You can find out more at her website: www.laurenknixon.com

Or check her out on Instagram (@laurenknixon)

Twitter (@LaurenKNixon1)

Facebook (@IndieAuthorLaurenKNixon)

Patreon (www.patreon.com/laurenknixon)
Lizzie Nolan

Yorkshire, UK

Lizzie was first published in a school magazine at the age of six, where she quickly gained notoriety for controversial limericks about guinea pigs. Not much has changed.

Heather E. Page

Washington, USA

Heather Page is an artist, mother, and lover of cats. She grew up in Southern California and now lives in Eastern Washington with her husband, four children, and three cats. She has always loved art and continues to explore different mediums. She especially enjoys oil painting, watercolor, and charcoal.
K. Palomar

West Yorkshire, UK

K. Palomar is a mother of two children and two cats, as well as a West Yorkshire based actor. She is always keen to write her own material for various acting projects. When she's not writing, she loves cooking and listening to music - anything from Nirvana, to acid jazz!
Hannah Russ

County Durham, UK

Hannah is a self-employed archaeologist who identifies, researches and writes about animals in the past, especially fish! Her work is published across a range of journals, books and online platforms. She loves sharing her knowledge with others.

You can find out more at www.archaeology.biz
Iain Shaw

Hampshire, UK

Iain Shaw is a writer, director, actor and podcaster from Southampton. He has become a successful blogger, writing online reviews for KryptonRadio.com and IndieMacUser.com, and got his first comic book short published in the anthology The Age of Savagery by Deadstar Comics.

He has also written, directed and starred in a series of audio dramas for charity every Christmas for his podcast Gallifrey Stands under the stage name 'Doctor Squee'. As well as Gallifrey Stands, Iain also co-hosts the podcast Due South by South East. He is now working on short story submissions and a long-form book. Iain also hosts live panels at conventions and events.
Jo Shoebridge

Durham, UK

Keen on Travelling, Talking and Tea, ideally simultaneously.
Laura Sinclair

California, USA

Born and raised in captivity in Southern California, Laura escaped to the Santa Cruz Mountains of Northern California where she is free range, as are her 20+ chickens. She does a weekly radio show on KKUP-FM, and runs a Graphic Design Business, and tries to find time to write in between all that. She has one published book, on PageMaker.
Ariadne Thayne

Canberra, Australia

Ariadne Thayne is a linguistics student and perpetual creator of elaborate daydreams. Accompanied by her cat Galileo, she loves rainy days, crosswords, second-hand bookstores, chocolate, and old buildings.

For now, between odd internet research tangents and rants about politics, she writes short stories to analogise and comprehend the bizarre world we live in. In the future, she looks forward to working on some historical fiction and urban fantasy ideas currently percolating in her mind.
Heather Thompson

West Yorkshire

In Heather's school reports the teachers almost always stated that -Heather needs to contribute more in class'.
E. L. Tovey

Staffordshire, UK

E. L. Tovey currently lives in the pleasantly green yet inclement countryside of England. It is here that she followed her passion for languages, gaining a First Class degree in Linguistics at Manchester University. She went on to write and direct two highly acclaimed plays and teach English Language and Linguistics for five years, but it was not long until her passion for literature led her into a head on collision with a new career in librarianship.

By day she lives in books, by night she writes them, and during her time off she can be found almost anywhere in the world. As a person distilled by her curiosities, she has travelled to 41 countries and 18 states of America, where she has met cannibals, slept through a stampede of zebras, and accidentally belted a reindeer in the wedding vegetables.

E. L. Tovey maintains a steadfast position that Wednesdays are wide and orange, and will be happy to explain to you why bell peppers are a misleading fruit - she may also be happy to explain why she has photographed far more than the rational number of lampposts. Her passion for linguistics continues through her ironic obsession for creating fictional languages that nobody else can pronounce or understand.
Yvonne Ugarte

West Yorkshire, UK

Yvonne is 60 years old and wrote her first poem at the age of five. She had her first book published in 1987 and her work has appeared in many different anthologies since then. She is also a songwriter and wrote the lyrics for a charity single four years ago.

She is a well-known performance poet in and around the Leeds area and has recently been involved in the local Lockdown Challenge, where activity packs were sent out to families; she has been asked to submit a creative writing challenge within this project.

Yvonne also runs her own weekly online writing session, recently adding another session at the request of a local charity for people in self-isolation who need a creative outlet.

Writing is like her additional life-force.
Dean Wyrre

Scotland

Dean* is a mature (in years), keen amateur musician. During Dean's time as a bass player in his last rock band he was inspired to write a number of songs, several of which were worked up for public performances, but alas the band folded - don't they always? He tends not to write 'happy' songs and will often use his music to reflect upon the dark side of human behaviours. When Dean is not writing or performing he likes peace and quiet, the great outdoors and malt whisky.

(*Not his real name).
Little Red Wolf

UK

Little Red Wolf is an artist who loves delving into what an unusual medium could turn into. Over the last few years she has learnt that not only is creativity and experimentation within an artistic medium integrally important to the state of her wellbeing, but it is also something that she can share the results of, with the view to helping others with their mental health, too. Sharing is caring, guys!

