

TALES FOR THE 21st CENTURY

By

W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

Tales for the 21st Century

Copyright © W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh 2014

Smashwords edition

ISBN: 9781311625083

Cover Design

by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

Cover Photo

by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,

organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

The End of the World

The Faithful Hound

Spirit of a Friendship

The Envoy

Next Door

The Truth about Dinosaurs, and Dragons

Sunday Roast

The Green Loch

Control

The Beast(s)

The Trees

Tequila after Dark

Army of Skeletons

Notes about the short stories

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My gratitude to my cats Xena and Halloween for being so patient with me

My grateful thanx to Bev Walton-Porter and Olivia Thetgyi who helped me to shape my words and ideas for some of these short stories

My grateful thanx to my great friend Jane Timm Baxter for always giving me honest feedback, and for being a true friend

My grateful thanx to my great friend Elyse Draper for her positivity and supportive presence, and for the blueberry muffins recipe

THE END OF THE WORLD

Part 1

I woke up to a vague smell of smoke and my first thought was that someone downstairs had burnt a toast again, or a neighbour upstairs had fallen asleep while cooking brunch after a nightshift. Whatever it was, this recurring occurrence felt boring. Daylight was peeking from behind the curtains. Now that my brain was shifting into consciousness, I realised that if no smoke alarm was screaming abuse into my ears then no food was being cooked to a cinder. My two Siamese cats, Twinge and Twang, that I could never differentiate, were staring at me nervously, a sure sign that I had to get up and check it out. I suddenly felt fully awake. Grabbing the headboard of my bed, I pulled myself up on my shaking legs. Every morning it took a while for my lower limbs to get some strength as fibromyalgia had a painful grip on my joints. With careful steps, using the wall as a walking aid, I slowly stumbled to the window, pushed the curtains and looked out. The view was its usual grey two-storey, semi-detached houses. I opened the window: the acrid smell of heat, smoke, and sulphur, greeted my nostrils. I looked up. A panache of smoke was darkening the sky, high amid a few small, round clouds. Twinge and Twang meowing with anxiety, I decided to check the other side of my apartment. I opened the bedroom door, my legs stiff and sore, and my cats ran over the threshold. I walked through my silent home. I glanced at my kitchen: it appeared normal in the 8-o'clock light with its usual pre-coffee disarray.

I felt a slight tremor shake the floor and my right shoulder hit the wall: I didn't need much to lose my balance. The feline sisters were already in the living room, sniffing at the bottom of the curtains that hid the French windows. I had always been sensitive to the changes in temperature: it felt slightly hotter in this room. I pulled the curtains away and stared in amazement, barely hearing the panicked meows, stunned by the uncanny sight: Beyond the last row of houses, behind the harvested fields of wheat, breaking the hilly horizon, a volcano was spitting fire at the sky. Lava was slowly flowing out from the newly-formed caldera. There had not even been a hint of one on the usual forested hills yesterday evening when I had driven home at dusk. Rivers of incandescent, melting rocks were now trailing through the Scot pines, burning conifers and deciduous trees, taking no prisoners. It was magnificent and devastating, flamboyant and deadly. Was the Earth at last rebelling against human treatment, cleansing itself by fire? And I thought this was just Glastonbury in Somerset.......

Another tremor shook the floor. This time I hung onto the handle of the French windows. I felt paws on my pyjamas: my cats wanted out. I granted their request and the second I opened the French windows a wave of heat almost choked me. Then I heard a shout, and a police siren. The spell broke, my mind started to wonder about the lack of official warning. All this science and these scientists, and no one had predicted the sudden eruption? Twinge and Twang were still panicking, running in and out. _Evacuation_ , I thought. _Cats, computer, guitar, car. Not enough time for coffee._ I grimaced at the last statement. I bent over to grab my cats, my face contorting at the sudden pain in my back. I tensed my muscles. My cats escaped from my grasp and swiftly ran back inside. I quickly shut the French windows. I needed to act fast. Ignoring the complaints of my body, I took to running, too.

I got the cat carrier out of the spare room. One cat simply jumped into it, the other one was defenceless against my determination. They huddled together, crying in harmony. Within five minutes I had thrown food and a toothbrush in a bag pack. Another five minutes and I had donned outdoor clothes, my joints screaming painful complaints, and I was ready to go.

_Water!_ I generally stored bottles downstairs in my garage. A loud banging at my front door. Someone was shouting.

"Yes! I know!" I shouted back, before freeing my hands and opening the door. "I'm in the middle of loading my car!" I was expecting a neighbour or a policeman in uniform, but I was looking at a soldier of not even 20 years of age.

"Ma'am, you've got to evacuate! Now!" I flinched at the address, controlled an angry retort about his automatic gender assignment; it was not the time to fight it off. When he looked at the cat carrier, I let irritation colour my voice, "Yes! I'm taking them!"

He suddenly looked lost, unsure what to do. I made a suggestion, "Has anyone gone to number 24? I can manage. They're elderly and they need help!" I could see no one banging on their door. He hesitated. "GO!" My shout propelled him. My cats were crying louder. I unlocked the door to the garage, grabbed my precious pets and my encased acoustic guitar. My Mitsubishi was always ready. My Warrior of metal, the most practical vehicle I ever had the pleasure to drive. This pick-up had a double cab that felt perfect this morning: cats on the front seat for now, guitar on the back seat.

I heard an explosion far away. My sense of hearing felt too acute. I ran back upstairs as fast as my uncooperative knees would let me. Pain flared in my right hand when I grabbed the laptop. I dropped it. I shook my hand and grabbed at my laptop again, this time with a more successful grip. I almost fell down the stairs in my haste. I threw my belongings on top of the hard guitar case. The two dozens bottles of mineral water were heavy, but not as heavy as my toolbox. I tensed my muscles and produced a long, loud exhalation of air when I lugged it into the truck bed. More explosions in the distance: the volcano was getting angrier. More shouting outside: my neighbours were on the move, egged on by the military. I pressed the electric switch of the garage door. And again. The electricity had failed. Manual opening was a painful nightmare for my fingers, but the constant crying of my freaked-out cats was fuelling my determination. The garage door eventually went up, revealing chaos and military vehicles on my usually peaceful street. The temperature was now too hot for my taste. If I was lucky, air conditioning would work in my pick-up. I thought about Sarah Connor pregnant in Mexico, the child taking a photo of her and her German shepherd in the jeep: dogs to sniff out robots, androids and other SkyNet creations. Back in the real world I had two frightened Siamese cats relying on me for survival.

"Evacuate! Evacuate!" A soldier screamed at me, waving me frenetically in the opposite direction of the volcano, away from the next Pompeii. The air was almost burning. I felt sweat on my neck. On the horizon the sky burst into flames. It was the end of the world, the world as I knew it.

I turned the key in the ignition and the 4-cylinder DOHC roared to life.

Part 2

I reached the veterinary clinic where I used to work just in time to hear Doctor Abby Sciuto argue with two soldiers, "They are my responsibility! I will not leave them! You won't let me abandon them like all the pets that were left behind in New Orleans when Katrina struck!"

"But, Ma'am!" The young men tried to argue, unaware of the impact the 2005 hurricane had had on my friend. They were no match for this determined womon, who smiled when I opened my driver door, then turned her attention back to them, "You should assist us!" Then back to me, "How are Twinge and Twang?"

"They're very agitated." My cats meowed a confirmation.

"Alfie, too. We better hurry!" The crying of a dog in the Toyota Hilux –almost a twin to my pick-up- a few metres away corroborated her statement. She didn't query about me, she knew I would brush it off like white lint on a black jacket.

At the very same time, the van of our local pet rescue charity arrived. Since the 2005 tragedy in New Orleans where so many animals had been abandoned and lost, we had organized an emergency network plan in the eventuality of a natural disaster. Of course, we had never expected a volcano to sprout overnight.

The night staff, one vet and one nurse, were busy in the lobby. Two of our patients were on IV, the others –half a dozen of dogs and cats- were scrambling in their individual carriers. Between the six of us it took only five minutes to load them along with some equipment and some food into the van that had already collected three cats from another surgery twenty-five miles away. Jeff was a keen driver and knew the local roads well.

A sudden volcanic explosion almost made us jump out of our skins. I had a quick thought about people and animals in Cornwall, on the other side of this new landmark.

Abby dismissed the soldiers who rushed off immediately. She was a tall and wiry womon with an active mind. I wasn't sure she ever slept. "Dave and Kate, have you got a motor or do you need a ride?" Kate had her old beat-up Vauxhall Corsa parked at the back. "Ok! Let's get going!" The volcano rumbled in agreement.

We set off onto the hilly roads, Abby's pick-up in the lead, my Mitsubishi Warrior in her wake, followed by Kate and Dave, and Jeff in the van. Speeding off when we could, but soon slowed down by cars after cars loaded with scared civilians, and a few military trucks. The air felt as hot as a mid-summer heat wave and despite a light wind taking its strong smell away from us, clothes were sticking to bodies. Twenty miles later we collected a few more pets from another small vet surgery, lengthening our rescue convoy with yet another vehicle. With the frightened abandoned pets we managed to catch on the way, the van was full by 10.30 am. Our mobile phones were silent and useless: networks were down. But the radio in my faithful pick-up was working and churning info on our volcano and one between Brighton and New Haven. In between titbits of general knowledge and the irregular progress of the planet's anger, my cats fell asleep. Then we were driven to a halt by the already slow traffic. Soon, one of the soldiers walking by the long caravan of newly dispossessed stopped near the Hilux and Abby stepped out. I joined her, leaving my driver door open, letting out the radio output of info.

While the soldier explained to us that we were going to be directed to temporary camps near Leamington Spa, a dog came out of a group of trees growing tall and leafless by the road. The Rottweiler stood for a few seconds on the edge before confidently trotting to us and opted to sit by my side after a quick sniff of our footwear. I looked at the deep brown eyes that looked back at me and saw the kind of trust I would have only expected to see directed at the dog's owner. Animals often seem to know the inner qualities of human beings. I stroked her head and felt her relaxed neck before gently searching for a tag around a leather collar. The name 'Georgia' was engraved there.

"Be careful with your dog," the soldier told me. "Keep him under control; we don't want him biting people."

"It's a she," I replied calmly.

The radio interrupted us with a sudden surge of speed in the reporter's voice: "It is official: Glastonbury is no more!" And in short order he went on to broaden our geography with international news: "Japan has just been shaken by an 11.1 magnitude earthquake! A giant landslide has pushed most of California into the Pacific Ocean and New York has just been overwhelmed by a tsunami! Hawaii's volcanoes are all active now. London is in the first wave of evacuation to make room to yet another volcano! The UK government is being moved to Glasgow, as Scotland doesn't seem to be affected yet, except by some early snow falls. Wales are getting storms and Bristol is partially flooded! The Salisbury Plain is being shaken by mild earthquakes and should be avoided!"

We stared at each other in stunned silence. It was not the end of the world as I knew it; it was the end of the world we all had known our entire lives.......

Part 3

The military had prepared a hundred emergency camps, cities of khaki tents, around Leamington Spa. Our group, animals included, were assigned to Camp 013 near the river Leam. It was my first visit to Warwickshire and the flatness of the area was not inspiring me any cheerfulness. The unseasonal heat and the semi-forced confinement were likely to create tension and instigate fights, but part of me was glad to settle somewhere as long drives could be torture for my knees.

Unsurprisingly a group of soldiers was running each settlement and we were fed the same rations. The radio was churning news of natural disasters almost non stop and governments were supposed to be on the case. Slight aftershocks from other parts of England would shake us every now and then. We tried to set up a daily routine for our animal corner in the south side. The camp was an unpleasant environment and I didn't like wandering away as people were either disorientated or aggressive. Georgia had adopted me and generally followed me around, intimidating the potentially unsavoury characters or people impatient with my apparently careless attitude. Twinge and Twang were quite happy to boss Georgia around, while preferring to stay in the tent we had been assigned to share with Abby and Alfie. The regulation army camp beds were far from comfortable.

On the second day soldiers started regular patrols after a fatal shooting. On the third day, two of the cats in our care gave up their fight for recovery. Abby didn't say anything, but we could read the frustration etched in her clenched jaws.

I was getting ready to tackle the fourth day in this increasingly crowded settlement and I had just tucked a green t-shirt into my jeans, when the earth shook under my feet with such a violence that it simultaneously rose in front of me and collapsed behind me. I slid down into the huge chasm and soon hit rocks, falling into darkness. After what felt like an eternity, all went still and quiet. I guessed emptiness around me. I called for Twinge and Twang and heard frightened meows next to me. They pushed against my left arm and I welcomed them in a one-arm hug. I called for Georgia and got no answer. I tried to move and became aware of pain in my lower limbs and a heavy, hard and irregular weight on top of them. I extended my right arm to explore the space between the rocks in front of me. My fingers touched a warm, furry body. Georgia didn't respond to my touch. I found her neck, wet and sticky, but didn't find a pulse. Twinge and Twang were harmonising discordantly. I opened my mouth to whisper soothing words, but everything shook violently again, harder, and I fell into unconsciousness.

Part 4

I woke up in an empty white room lit with artificial light, empty save for the bed I was in, a chair and....... Twinge and Twang?! There was no window, but a poster almost spanned the whole width of the opposite wall. It was a view of the Earth and the Moon as seen from space. I moved and my felines woke up, purring and apparently in good shape. I tried to sit up, but they rushed to my face and made me smile. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

The next time I woke up, I noticed the poster had changed, or maybe my memory of it was wrong: it was a view of the other side of the Earth. I sighed. My head felt like it had been wrapped up in cotton wool. My cats were eating from dishes under the poster. I sat up and felt sore. My left shoulder felt heavy. I touched a bandage with bandaged hands. One of my legs felt heavy. I peeled the white quilt off my lower limbs and stared at a white plaster cast on my right leg. I yawned as a door slid open on my right, echoing of the years I had spent watching Star Trek. A womon wearing a white lab coat, white trousers and white shoes, stepped in and smiled at me. Her eyes were bright behind her spectacles.

"It's a pleasure to see you awake!" I didn't say anything. She grabbed my wrist between two fingers to feel my pulse while looking at a pocket watch, her mind focused on the task. "Good pulse," she said after 15 seconds. She stared at my eyes. "Excellent!" I was still choosing to be silent. "You must be hungry. I'll get you a tray from the kitchen. Something light. You've been sedated for almost ten days."

"Ten days?" I eventually said, surprise clearing some of the fog in my brain. "Where am I?"

She looked at the poster. Something about it seemed slightly different. "If you're up to it, I'll tell you while you're eating." I noticed her smile had slipped when she stepped out of the room.

When she came back with a tray carrying a bowl of soup, she introduced herself as Elizabeth Greensleeves and queried about my identity. "Well, Hillary," she said. "The rescue team found you because your cats were calling out. Sadly, not everyone was so lucky."

I remembered Georgia. She had been my dog for barely four days, but we had bonded. "I know about my dog. Tell me about my friends."

"There are not that many survivors from your site. Do you know Abby Sciuto? She was found not very far from you."

"Yes."

Elizabeth smiled, "She woke up yesterday. You'll see her soon."

"So, where am I?" The soup was warm and tasted of carrot and broccoli. I noticed the poster had changed again. A giant computer monitor with a slow-motion screen saver?

"You are onboard Station Hiroshima VI."

"Onboard?" I looked at the spacescape again, suddenly wondering if it was actually a window........ Then, it would mean.......

"Yes, we are in a space station orbiting around the Earth."

"In a space station......." The Star Trek sliding door....... "But, which government has the power, the money and the knowledge to already have a space station in orbit?"

"None that you know." She smiled again.

"Where are you from?"

"Earth."

"This Earth?"

"Yes and no."

"I'm listening." The fog had completely left my brain.

"I'll start with an historical event as I learned it as a child. The last war ever was World War II and ended on the 6th of August 1945, after the American B-29 bomber dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima and killed at least 80,000 people."

I looked at her waiting for my reaction. I recalled being taught as a child that World War II had ended in Europe on the 8th of May 1945 and in Asia on the 15th of August 1945. I felt puzzled: alternate realities exists only in science fiction. What about the bombing of Nagasaki three days after Hiroshima? I looked out the window, I looked at the Earth, the planet mistreated by human beings. I was in space...... Eventually, I said, "How is that possible?"

"Time travel." Maybe I was dreaming and my subconscious was telling me to slow down on my favourite reading subject. H. G. Wells' novel. 'The Time Tunnel' TV series. "Yes," she said. "It is probably a lot for you to process."

"Where are you from?" I asked again.

"From the future. From your perspective, I am from an alternate timeline. From my perspective, your timeline was created after mine."

"What happened?"

"World War II ended after Hiroshima. Every government then signed an international peace and cooperation treaty a week later. Nuclear power was abandoned by every country in favour of more natural sources of energy. In my timeline, there is no famine, no poverty, no inequality, and I'd love to say: no crime. However, in the year 2090, my time period, ten years after the discovery of time travel and its application for scientific and cultural purposes, a time agent took an illegal trip and dropped an atomic bomb with plutonium on Nagasaki, thus creating an alternate timeline, an alternate reality: yours. Where war and famine, poverty and inequality, hatred and persecution, are rife. Where destruction is the name of the game."

Ah, yes, this was my world alright and I had never liked it, hence my career path. Animals have no secret agenda. We were now both looking outside the window; the surface of the Earth was hidden by clouds. To see it suddenly blow up wouldn't have surprised me, even if I had mixed feelings about the end of my world.

"So, what now?" I queried.

"Our time scientist is working on an algorithm to get back to our original timeline."

THE FAITHFUL HOUND

It was still early in the morning and no one had noticed the womon sleeping soundly on a bench. The sun was up, but fortunately the tall trees with long branches reaching over the path were spreading their shadows wide. Within a millisecond I was by her side and spreading my cloak over the suggestive curves of her naked body. One of the workers was standing next to a tree, his back to us, a mere ten metres away from us, contemplating the prospects of the day, I guess. How many funerals? I shook her awake and pulled her up, she didn't object and let me drag her to our sanctuary, an anonymous and unobtrusive crypt among the myriads of other crypts that had naturally mushroomed in the cemetery over time.

To be honest, I was getting bored of this crypt. By now, I fancied a plantation house. Even a small one would have suited my tastes. We were in the south of legends, after all. Or, if not of legends, of history. History filled with slavery (remember the triangle over the Atlantic?) and cotton fields. Without mentioning the Civil War and the Underground Railway. Let's not get too political. As I was saying, I was getting bored of our crypt. Diz was content about our premises. Diz was too simple-minded to be anything else but content.

You see, Diz was not your everyday werewolf. Your everyday werewolf was a human bitten by a werewolf -or lycanthrope- and subsequently turning into a wolf, not necessarily according to the phases of the moon. Diz was born as a wolf. She had been an inquisitive and lone wolf, who had the misfortune of being attacked by a werewolf. Just in case Lady Luck had not ignored her enough already, she was later on attacked by a vampire....... As a wolf, she was bright. As a werehuman, her boosted IQ was rather low. So, yes, actually, Diz was not even a werewolf, and I probably need an extra pint of blood and a day of rest for this misintroduction. It generally happens to me when spending too long in the same lodging. I am more of a traveller. Must be my Gypsy blood. Diz didn't mind wherever we were staying at. She had a follower-kind of personality.

She liked our cemetery for its green scenery and its Spanish moss. It definitely suited her lascivious nature. She didn't like clothes. I had once been fond of the statues of angels. I always disliked the crosses. Not to worry, they don't affect my existence, I am too much of an iconoclast for that.

I was only just over two centuries old and I still liked a jet-setting existence every now and then. If you thought it was that easy for a vampire, think again. We might be vampires, and some of us rather powerful, but we still have to do a minimum of work to gain luxury, even if born within luxury. And I was. But you cannot just stay in the same place with the same identity forever. Mortals, even if far from being bright, might notice the different aging process. Vampires do age, albeit without wrinkles or degeneracy of their faculties. Most of the time, we grow wiser. This said, I always had doubts about Diz.

And what was I doing in company of such half-wit? Ah, Diz was quite a dazzling sight, dancing in an evening gown in the 1890's. I still remember the layers of dark pink and midnight blue fabric revealing a white and sweet neck. Her protector had taste, but had not been in the near vicinity on that night. Shy and willing, she turned out to be an easy prey. Who could have resisted this otherness, this unique difference, this intriguing quality dripping from every pore of her perfect silhouette? She was the queen of the ball, and what vampire wants, vampire musts have. An eternity could be boring otherwise. I had to take care of her protector the next night of course, but he was young and impetuous, I already had a century of experience and wisdom.

My drink of choice in this cemetery was definitely the Satanists and other pagans playing rituals amidst the graves. There were also thrill-seekers who had heard of mysterious disappearances and wanted to check out their luck. Those, I disappointed by keeping invisible. Diz was not as discriminating. She drank their blood, and yes, occasionally ate their flesh. Strangely, she would feast savagely with great appetite and dismember with remarkable frenzy only when the full moon would grace her attractive shape.

Sometimes we fed together. I always enjoyed the look on the preys' faces, a mixture of awe and fear. Diz was such a majestic wolf. While all the stupid romantics and black hearts were staring with agape mouths and saucer-size eyes, I would grab a neck and bite. Yes, we owned the place. The cemetery was ours by night, ours to roam, ours to use as a feeding ground.

It is easy for a vampire to turn arrogant and careless, especially when born with blue blood. This said, even a working-class vampire will behave with insane confidence. It is in the nature of the blood-drinker. With the mixed heritage coursing in her veins, Diz was the exception confirming the rule.

And there we were the next night, rampaging the cemetery under a full moon, each on our own path, hunting for the easy preys that fed us and kept us powerful. A group of dark-clothed people with 19th century delusions were walking the central alley, with apparent purpose and giggles. Ah, young and stupid.

I gracefully jumped off the branch of an ancient oak tree clad in Spanish moss, the movement of my cloak adding the special effect of eeriness mortals go to movies to experience. They froze, silent and amazed. Then, they saw my eyes burning with thirst and heard the growl rising in my throat. They stared; fear, the thrill they were searching for. I moved one slow and deliberate step, and the group disbanded like a murder of crows taking flight. I'm only telling you this as humans see it.

Swiftly, I grabbed the slowest to react and delightedly bit into her tantalizing throat. I lost myself in the refreshing taste of a blood rich in iron and sweet in protein. Two hundred years on and blood was still the ultimate entertainment, the ultimate means of losing my senses.......

My mistake. I had grown over-confident and careless in my cemetery. A sharp blade ripping through my back shocked me back to reality. My fangs let go of the throat and blood spilled from the savaged jugular of my meal. What? You thought only a wooden stake could do the trick? Decapitation works, too. And so can blood loss....... The blade hit me again, nicking the side of my unbeating heart, and I fell to the ground, pain exploding through my body in relentless waves of agony, a pool of blood expanding around me. How many pints of blood in a vampire? I looked at my attacker, a mortal youth barely out of his teens. I saw his arm rise up once more for another fatal blow, he hesitated. With my mind, I reached out through the cemetery for Diz, desperately grabbed at her awareness, my will growing weaker by the second. We had a bond and the bond reacted. Before my attacker could finish me, Diz was on his back, naked in her half-human, half-wolf shape. He was dead by the time his body hit the ground.

Whimpering and hesitating, Diz crouched by my side, taking in the scent of blood and fresh corpses, confused, torn between instinct and loyalty. I grabbed at her mind again. She cocked her head sideways and slowly bent forward.

As you remember, Diz had been an ordinary wolf before being attacked by a werewolf. You avoid turning a werewolf into a vampire, they are too much of a wild card. But a werehuman? Too much of an attractive experiment, too rare an opportunity to be passed, actually something so unheard of. I was the vampire who turned her into a blood drinker, and thus she was mine, mind and body, life and blood.

She offered me her throat.......

SPIRIT OF A FRIENDSHIP

"Come on." Gillian was struggling to start the car engine. On that beautiful sunny day, the car was behaving as stubbornly as the womon reputedly could at any given time. Pine trees were as green as ever, and the crepe myrtles were far away from blooming. She turned the key in the ignition again with mounting irritation. "Come on!"

"Ok, where are we going?"

Surprised, she stared in disbelief at the smiling figure now occupying the passenger seat. "What the fuck?" And reasserted herself. It was not the first time her friend Jess was appearing to her, despite the miles spanning wide between their geographical locations.

"I doubt it somehow." After a silence, "You know, I like your car. It is definitely my kind of car. Four-wheel drive. Well, I like them a little bit bigger, but yes, it's got the right mass."

"What are you doing here? Are you dreamwalking? What time is it over there?"

"No. Not this time."

"Astral projection?" Frowning. She was used to her friend dreamwalking, but something felt off. The timing, for example, was unusual: lunch time....... Still shocked, Gillian reached out with her right hand, but Jess was not solid of consistency like she herself was and her fingers went slowly through the water-like resistance of Jess's shoulder.

"Nope. Didn't get around to develop that."

"Then, you......."

"Apparently so. But I have no idea why I'm here."

The womon in the driver seat looked away, straight through the windshield in front of her, both hands now resting on the steering wheel. Something inside her wanted to shout. She didn't want this reality. She badly wanted it to go away, to be just a bad dream. A knot was sorely building up in her throat. She asked before her voice get strangled, "What happened? What have you done?"

"I promise you I've done nothing. I was on a train, minding my own business. It crashed!" The ghost shrugged, remembering the mangled metal and the mangled corpses with no particular feeling. "Didn't get to feel any pain. The Universe has always been peculiar about my experiencing pain actually. Never gave me physical pain to teach me lessons. Well," grimacing at her prosaic realities. "Except when It decided that I should try out sciatica for size. Probably wanted me to learn that pain is not always glamorous. Anyway, no idea why I'm here. Not that I'd be complaining, but I would have expected to simply move on to my next life, or whatever is next for a spirit after death. Of course, the Universe might have other plans, as usual." The ghost sighed, watching the tears welling up in her friend's eyes. She speculated, "Of course, there is the theory that I could still be around because I have some unfinished business. No idea what that would be. I am as clueless in death as I was in life! Or maybe, ghosts do haunt the living and I elected you for my entertainment."

The womon still alive smiled weakly, "Or I couldn't let go......."

_Ok_ , the ghost sighed inwardly. _This is not about me._ "What do you mean?"

While Gillian seemed to be now lost in a world of her own, the ghost turned her thoughts to memories of the previous Hallowe'en, her first Hallowe'en in a southern state.

It was a peaceful and undemanding evening. Gillian's husband commented, "Not many children this year. They're growing up." They were waiting for them on the porch of the pale blue house. Gillian's husband would be sitting on one of the two chairs most of the time, while Gillian and Jess would be in and out, not necessarily at the same time. Gillian was the one handling the box of treats, while Jess would stand by the door, essentially watching, considering ideas for short stories she'd never write. She was forever reluctant to do most of her activities, the more important they were, the more reluctant she would become. The evening had this sweet feeling in the air that she could not explain, but would make her want to see this space-time last ad infinitum. The children were travelling in groups, or in the company of an adult. Jess was just watching and listening, something she had done most of her life, like a spy or a stalker. No, stalkers don't just watch, they haunt, pursue, harass and persecute. Spies observe secretly, they collect secret information and report them to governments. Jess was musing over the idea of being a vampire or some demon feeding on the virginal souls of children.

"Because good people are mighty hard to find," Gillian interrupted her train of thoughts.

"I remember you telling me that." _Not my most famous moment._ "As we know, the Universe is twisted."

They were now both staring down the slope of the driveway. No cars were polluting the quietness of the day; there was not even a breeze to disturb the trees hiding the house across the street. Once again, Jess noticed the absence of fences between the yards around each house. She wondered if anyone ever crossed the invisible boundaries, wherever they were. Gillian opened her mouth to reply at the same time as Jess felt a sudden urge to see pine trees, and the ghost found herself behind her friend's house, beyond the back fence, in the middle of the pasture where a few cows were contentedly grazing. The pine trees were there, several rows at the edge of a forest. Jess laughed. _Cool._ She turned around to look at the various trees growing haphazardly in Gillian's backyard and spotted her favourites. Two pine trees growing next to each other. As a photographer, Jess felt fascinated by the two trunks. Actually, it was how she had learned what pine trees looked like, and also how she had become fond of these evergreens.

"Jess?" Gillian's urgent voice sounded to the ghost like a summons. She was instantly back into her friend's car. "Where the hell did you go?"

"To look at the pine trees at the back," Jess smiled.

Gillian frowned, but didn't comment, aware of her friend's fondness for trees. She sighed.

"I was going to say, when you ran off, that it is unlikely to be that simple."

"Yep, I concur." After a moment of silence, the ghost queried, "By the way, you were on your way somewhere, weren't you. So, off to where?"

"The gym......." The womon with a heartbeat answered with an enthusiasm that would have been perfectly appropriate for a funeral.

"Let's go, then!"

"I can't now." Looking away beyond the trees, she sighed. "I just found out that you're dead."

"Yes, true, I am dead, but I am not gone, I am here! So, let's go!"

Gillian turned her head 90 degrees to the right and stared at her friend, almost frowning.

"Well," Jess reiterated. "Don't you have a trainer looking forward to torture you?"

The womon in the driver's seat let her face break into an amused smile. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do......." Then, with a look of horror, she exclaimed, "You're coming along to the gym?!"

"Well, why not! You summoned me, I'm gonna hang out with you!"

"You'll stay in the car." Gillian turned the key in the ignition with great determination and this time the engine started purring.

"Ok!"

At first, they drove in silence, Gillian focused on their route, Jess falling back into her innocent habit of watching trees along the roads. Then, Gillian switched the radio on, and Jess remembered another drive on that day of Hallowe'en.

On that afternoon Gillian was resting and her husband suggested to drive to the nearby scarecrow town a few miles down the road. Curiosity and sunshine made Jess agree and grab her camera. Trees were getting into full autumn regalia and she enjoyed the green exceptions. They started to see scarecrows before reaching the houses, standing in long rows across the fields, impersonating whatever professions their makers had thought of. The first ones they saw were hospital employees.

Scarecrows were everywhere, riding horses, singing like Elvis, and probably outnumbering the human population. Jess's favourites were the ones staging a murder on the first floor balcony of a white house with a porch running all the way along the front length. Scarecrows were everywhere.

On that day, Jess felt a strange peace, despite the sun at 6 pm reminding her of another place now far away in her teen years, in the south of another country. Jess felt at peace, maybe because she was in the presence of her friend Gillian and she thought her as impressive as a giant. She was impressed by Gillian's intelligence and wits. She felt safe in Gillian's presence, able to let down her guard and be herself, whoever she was, and simply be.

"Maybe there is a lesson you haven't finished to learn."

The ghost snapped back to reality and laughed before replying, "That would be many! And the Universe would want me to finish them as a ghost?"

"The Universe is twisted enough for that! Tell me, what is it like......"

"What?"

"Dying....... Being a ghost."

"Well....... One moment I was reading a vampire novel, enjoying an uncomfortable seat on the train; the next, I was floating over dead bodies. Didn't get time to study them or check out their blood types, because in the same swift motion I found myself in your car. Definitely more comfortable. I haven't got much experience at being a ghost yet, but, it's one fast way to travel!"

"Ok...... What do you think you were trying to learn in this life?"

"Maybe....... To be human. Maybe the whole spectrum -or quite a fraction of it- of life on the planet Earth. A friend once told me that this planet, here, wasn't meant for me. That my presence here is more like an accident."

"What do you think?"

"That the planet Earth should be renamed the planet Hell. Because it is mostly Hell. I'm grateful for the exceptions. I think that, maybe, this life is my first time on Earth, and, bloody hell, I don't know what to think of it, it is such a mixed bag!"

"It is a mixed bag for everyone, Jess."

"Each life is about learning, on whichever planet it happens. And the Universe sure knows that I'm a reluctant learner!" Gillian smiled. Jess added, "So, tell me. Why did you say you couldn't let go?"

The smile faded on Gillian's face while she parked her car by the building housing the gym. The engine stopped and she pulled the key out of the ignition, searching for her words. She looked at the ghost of her friend.

Jess felt a sudden pull, "What the.......!" And an unknown force ripped her out of Gillian's car and space.

"Jess!" But the ghost had evaporated in the spring air. Gillian put her arms across the steering wheel and rested her head against them, unwilling to accept any painful reality.

Somewhere else, in a different time zone, a rescue team were making their way through the mangled insides of a wrecked train. After removing a wide piece of seat cushion, their chief moved on to the next body under the broken pieces of a window. Blood was abundant. She gently reached for a tattooed wrist to feel for a sign of life. At first, there was nothing under her fingers. The skin felt cold. Maybe it was too late for that one. She persisted and slowly, almost like an illusion at first, blood started to pulse under her warm touch.

"Here!" She called out. "I've got a live one!"

The live one opened her eyes, unseeing. The rescuer wiped some blood off the forehead to get a better look at a gash just under the hairline. The eyes moved fleetingly, slowly focusing.

"You're gonna be alright."

The live one grimaced, trying to flex her neck. The rescuer noticed a sole earring on the left ear; she recognized a familiar silver spider.

THE ENVOY

An Envoy's existence requires regular time-outs. It's tough, it's unpredictable, it's demanding, it's all over the place. Unfortunately these days, free time is a luxury and we have to keep on call twenty-four hours a day, no matter what. The boss herself is working triple shift. We can blame it on the increase of the suicide rate.

So, there I was, enjoying the nice summer night in a biker café, looking forward to the main act (an uncompromising rock band going by the name of Never The Bride), and in the meantime enjoying the support act thrown as a sacrifice to the avid crowd of fans. Girls On Top were a very distinctive punk-rock outfit and the audience could only welcome the vociferous singer and delight in the infectious music.

When my pager vibrated painfully in the back pocket of my leather jeans.

I fished it out to check the number: 666. There was no escaping from that one. I gave the band a last wistful look and walked through the tight throng of mostly leather maniacs.

My Suzuki Intruder was peacefully waiting for me among like-minded motorbikes. Helmet safely fastened under my chin, I roared my proud machine into life, action and night.

When I walked into her office, Death looked up from a monitor with a harassed look blemishing her magnificent features. Dark eyes, copper skin, long raven hair. She hadn't had time to turn into a skeleton lately. Way too busy. Life, as blond as she generally chose to show herself to us, was standing by her side. A 666 that required Life's presence? This was serious business. They looked equally exhausted. My boss handed me a floppy disk over the ebony desk.

"Rikki, you'll bring her directly to me."

I read the name on the proffered item: Sid Wasgo....... I was put in charge of the legendary Sid Wasgo! Well, she is legendary among the Envoys of Death, believe me. Death and Life had been keeping her alive as long as they could. Death had even shown up before Sid's eyes a few times. Envoys gossiped about the connection between the mortal and our boss. Envoys knew it was not Sid's appointed time yet. So, could it be that eventually, Sid was succeeding where she had failed so many times: suicide, to eventually join Death.

Sure, there were many mortals head over heels for Death, but this Sid Wasgo was special, very special, to our boss. Who right there and then interrupted my train of thoughts, "All the details you need are on the disk."

And it was a red disk. Was she out of black ones?!

* * * * * *

I walked into the first available cubicle to transform into whatever programmation was required especially for Sid Wasgo, wondering why Death wasn't collecting this mortal in person. Stupid me, she certainly wanted to, but she was probably too busy cramming three hours into one. Busy to a point she had to delegate senior Envoys to recruit potential new Envoys. Back in the seventies, it was slightly easier. Just slightly enough for Death to show up before my heart stopped beating, and offer me the job of a lifetime. Yes, I was no stranger to suicide; this was how Envoys were recruited. A chance to do something, "Something" with a big capital "S". As a suicidee, I had nothing to lose.

And there I was, turning into the next best thing Sid Wasgo wanted to see in her dying moment: a tall 5'7'' with strong elegant muscles, green mohican smartly standing out, Haida-inspired tattoos down every arm and leg, Navajo designs on back and front, a Smirnoff tarantula on one side of the neck, and scars in place of breasts. I knew what was the real her and what was the ideal fantasy. She never had the money for a double-mastectomy and could never identify to any of the official genders, while still sticking to her political guns, painfully. The world didn't have to do much to kill her; she was too weak to survive.

I was provided with a black studded leather outfit fitting for a Hell's Angel, over a black T-shirt sporting a colourful Chinese dragon, a couple of thick chains criss-crossing around the hips, a matching belt, and biker boots with red flames eating at the toes. This writer had read too many books and not lived out enough.......

* * * * * *

Dusk, appointed hour to the wolves, is an ideal time for the collection of a dying soul. Especially one as contrasted as Sid Wasgo's. I parked my modified Suzuki Intruder in the paved front yard of the five-storey building, next to Sid's black Kawasaki Eliminator for company.

Locked doors, security or closet, were no problem for Envoys, we simply walked through them, immaterial. No, we couldn't fly. At least, not without a motorbike.

The stairwell reeked of sadness and damnation. It looked forsaken by cleaners. Someone had adorned a wall with a now indecipherable haiku. At the second floor, a door, whose anonymity was lost to my uninterrupted and purposeful steps. I heard a blues song ending in ad lib, "Track number five, she is yeah she is, the siren, never calling your name, oh you wan it so, you want her so, you want her so......."

I stopped to contemplate the Haida-inspired artwork on the bedroom door. The writer was also an artist. The song started again its perpetual loop, sharply biting my ears. Second Look was her favourite band. A band she had followed for a few years, striking friendship with them. Their music had kept her alive for a long while. She had also tried computer games, but depression was a deceitful illness. You never knew when it would hit you again.

Sid was lying on her bed, a hard mattress directly on the black carpet, wearing an identical twin of my T-shirt, vaguely tucked into faded blue jeans with worn-out knees. I could see the ends of her leg tattoos sticking out on her bare feet.

She had reopened old scars in her wrists and dug deeper. The blood had seeped out, drenching the tiger pattern of the quilt cover with a sticky red, and when her heart crawled to a full stop, her spirit saw me in the doorway. And stated, unfazed and matter-of-factly, "You're not Death."

I smiled slightly, remembering everyone's favourite bet that Sid Wasgo was a poker face with the sense of humour of a frying pan, and replied, "I'm her Envoy."

She studied me, she studied my flat chest, and sighed. Well, her physical body would have; now she was a disembodied spirit, who smiled, "I knew I could look great. If only I hadn't been so lazy."

It sounded like a joke, and no one she knew would have laughed at it. It was her self-appointed prerogative. I walked to her and held my hand out to Sid Wasgo's spirit. She accepted it and the spirit lifted itself away from her body. Sid Wasgo was now officially dead.

"Are you taking me to Death?" She asked me point-blankly.

"Yes, these are my orders."

She looked around her. The dark heavy curtains, the starry ceiling, the red and black shelves loaded with music tapes and CDs and books, the shiny black doors of the closet, the photos of Second Look performing in various venues around London trailing along the walls, the desk unusually tidy. This was the box she had shaped for her night dreams.

"Let's go."

* * * * * * *

Walking down the steps, I could feel the air getting thicker and thicker around us, cooler too, with a feeling of water. It meant that Sid was getting "deader and deader", as we Envoys called it, and this factor was letting us slide into a parallel realm, a spirit realm. She didn't comment on it, she seemed to understand.

By the time we walked through the front door, it would have felt normal to see fishes swimming by. Instead, we saw a Chinese middle-aged man looking directly at us, seeing us. Sid looked back.

"You can see me!" He exclaimed jumping on his feet, metaphorically that is, because he was a spirit that no one had collected after his successful suicide. "You can see me! My god, you can see me!"

Surprised, Sid had the good idea to keep silent. He had been left to wander until his Appointed Time. And there was nothing I could do for him. Believe me, you couldn't afford compassion for the spirits of suicidees, that would have been tempting Death's wrath and she was no joker.

"Please, help me! What is happening to me? Take me away! It's too lonely!"

Sid looked at me, her eyes querying an explanation. I looked at the man and stated flatly, because there was not many ways to tell him, "You are dead. Someone will come for you soon."

"Dead?"

He turned around, flabbergasted, and walked away, muttering to himself. I looked at Sid, "You're lucky."

Her right eyebrow shot up. She laughed, waving the statement away, then spotting my motorbike, she absorbed herself in its study for a minute or two, then shifted her attention to her own two-wheels, and with a wistful look at it, she commented, "In a way, I won't miss it. It was getting too heavy. Or maybe I was getting too tired." She shrugged her shoulders. Whichever didn't matter to her anymore. "The Suzuki, it's yours?"

"Yep!"

"You're taking me for a ride?"

I smiled, knowing she would enjoy this ride no problem!

* * * * * * *

As a dead, Sid Wasgo was definitely a happy camper. She started whooping and hollering when my Suzuki took off and left the ground: wow! And went on all the way. To humour her enthusiasm, I swerved and whirled every possible acrobatic all over her neighbourhood. Before really going for it, we shot through the Brixton Academy to check out the band gracing their stage that night, but "No way!" said Sid, the "Crocodile Shoes" singer was not her cup of cocoa.

* * * * * * *

When we walked into Death's office, two versions of Sid Wasgo, Life looked at us intensely and Death ordered, her eyes never straying away from a monitor, "Rikki, I wanna see you immediately after your debriefing."

Ok. I showed Sid an armchair –in Death's realm, everything is material and immaterial altogether- and took my leave.

When I came back later, looking my true self, Sid stared at me, shaking her head with amusement. Gone the green mohican and the Native American tattoos. Just a blond pony tail, a pair of green eyes, a tribal snake tattooed around my right wrist, the leather outfit I was wearing at the rock gig before being called on the job, and my unmistakable female shape. I was wondering if Death and Life would reset time for me and let me go back to the biker haunt and resume my audience participation. But Death looked at me, straight in the eyes, and that was quite mesmerising. Her voice deliberately broke the spell, "Rikki, I decided to promote you."

She got up and stepped around her desk, Sid's eyes following her every move. She smiled, a radiant smile, something no one had seen for a long time –too much work, even for someone who could stretch time. And then, she dropped her bomb, "This is your desk now. I'm going on holidays. Life will explain to you every detail you need to know."

NEXT DOOR

New York was a city where I never intended to spend a decade, however being the editor of a powerful news magazine paid rather well and an apartment overshadowing Central Park was another perk worth the inconvenience. The other tenants of my tenth floor were quiet and didn't sound able to retrieve their vocabulary beyond: Good morning, fine weather!" The businessman, the hectic surgeon, the retired headmistress, and the giggly girl next door. This neighbour looked barely seventeen, but when she was not cooing to her cats her voice had a mature tone. I had only seen one of her felines, a handsome black specimen with almost unsettling, green eyes. It had sneaked out one evening when the girl, sorry, womon, she was probably thirty something behind her youthful looks, when the womon had been getting a potted umbrella plant almost taller than her through her doorway. It had exhibited as much disdain as a Siamese cat while letting its gaze rest on me and the magazine rolled up in one of my hands. It was a rather tall pet. She had giggled and put down her load out of sight and had called the marauder back in with a high-pitched voice, using words I hadn't understood, but assumed were typical, nonsensical endearments for cats. I had then heard some meowing float out of her dark lounge. The cat had slid back in after a few seconds of more staring. She had giggled again with her wide smile, her dark brown irises barely visible through the slits between her eyelids, shrugged her shoulders in a cute way and retired into her apartment. Her small frame always made her look so fragile. I occasionally wondered which country she had left behind. I never really had the opportunity to query.

I seemed to always be in a hurry whenever our paths crossed. We would mostly exchange smiley, standard greetings and would keep going. I was certainly intrigued by her confident demeanour and her accent. However, I saw the same cat a second time. Well, I assumed it was the same cat. It was wandering in the corridor, occasionally sniffing the carpet, while she patiently waited by her door.

"Oh, hello!" I said after stepping out of the elevator. I contemplated the cat for a moment. When it reached my door I enquired, "What breed of cat is it? I have never seen such a tall cat!" Besides, a New York feline was more likely to have five toes on each paw.

She stretched a friendly smile across her face and replied, "It is a polydactyl cat."

"Poly.......dactyl?"

"Yes. The writer Hemingway used to have a few! Hence their other name."

"Ah! The Hemingway cat!" I then noticed the great number of digits on the front paws, giving the shape of opposable thumbs. The cat stared at me and I was not quite sure how to read the look in his eyes. After a few seconds he ambled back to his home and my neighbour and I wished each other a good evening.

Spring was now shaking away the snow, stretching the daylight inch by inch and inciting the New York trees to go green and alive. Green, the environment, ecology, their pros and cons were on my mind as the next huge feature for the magazine. How did you bring this to the New-Yorkers? New-Yorkers were cynics who had seen Spiderman in action. They knew their city would freeze day after tomorrow or a freak tsunami would engulf the Empire State building, where once upon a time King Kong had grabbed planes and broken them to smithereens like fragile twigs. They had survived the destruction of the twin towers, and kept on littering the streets, feeding the rat population from the sewers. Were green energy sources cheaper than fossil fuels? I didn't know much on the subject myself, but I was certainly willing to learn what more I could do besides switching to energy-saving light bulbs.

So was I thinking when I shut my door behind me, iPod clamped to my belt, ready for my morning run. I then noticed that my neighbour's door was half open. Only silence was drifting out of her apartment. Not a giggle, not a meow, not a sound of life. I was surprised and stood on my spot for almost a minute, waiting for this unusual occurrence to resolve itself, but silence kept on stretching. After the ineffective reflection I decided to be proactive and try a neighbourly approach. I walked to the doorway. Still no sound, but a wave of hot air hit me. She had her central heating cranked up rather high. I knocked on the door. No reaction from within.

I called, "Hello! Your door is open! Is everything ok?" Still not even a feline pattering. Maybe the cats had escaped. I turned around and contemplated the wide corridor: I was the only living soul there at that moment. I faced my neighbour's doorway again and, gingerly, ventured in, sideways. My head bumped into something that swayed back. I moved around automatically and bumped my forehead into something else.

The light from the corridor didn't reach, but my eyes, getting used to the dim light of candles scattered across and around the living room, identified....... Shrunken heads?! I stared at them in shock. They looked so real! _Probably fake_ , I rationalised. _Some people have morbid taste._ I tore my eyes away from their sewn eyelids and saw the handsome polydactyl cat that I had previously encountered. Totally ignoring me, it was conscientiously licking its left paw, surrounded by tropical plants. The next thing I saw shocked my breathing to a temporary halt. There was a human body lying on the carpet, in a dark puddle, in the middle of the room. A dozen cats as tall as the first one were wandering around it and over it. No, not wandering........ They were...... lapping the puddle of blood and feeding....... Horror was spreading through my heart. Was it my neighbour? Had the cats turned on her? I couldn't distinguish the colour of the flowing hair vaguely shining. The light from the corridor wasn't splashing that far in. I was too struck by the sight of cats munching and chewing on human flesh to evaluate the size of the corpse. Corpse. Its smell was still faint despite the slowly overpowering heat.

Suddenly, the door closed behind me. I turned around and stepped further into the room without thinking, my heart racing. My neighbour was standing there, a smile etched across her face, her short height strangely imposing. I noticed the gleaming kitchen knife in her right hand and stared at it with illogical fascination, my mind unwilling to interpret this detail.

She spoke with delectation, "They had their dinner, now it is time for mine."

THE TRUTH ABOUT DINOSAURS, AND DRAGONS

"There is a widespread belief that dinosaurs became extinct because they smoked too much," says the elder to the questioning child. "In actual facts, they became extinct because dragons quit smoking. As a consequence of this healthy choice, they became extremely ill-tempered and started picking fights with other dinosaurs and very simply barbecued them. When their usual food source disappeared, they started barbecuing each other. When only one cannibal was left standing, it starved to death because dragons couldn't care less about small animals and never saw any reason to change their mind."

"Where did they get their cigarettes from?" asks the curious child.

"Well, in the swamp covering the valley floor at the end of the Cretaceous period there were two cornershops where the dragons used to buy their cigarettes, and the occasional cigar. None of them smoked rollups, or the pipe. Rolling a cigarette was too delicate a job for their talons. And there was no factory to make pipes. Pipes would have been troublesome anyway. One cornershop was by the ninth monkey puzzle tree going north left, from the tallest giant fern; the other one was by the thirteenth araucaria (another type of conifer) going south east right, from the same landmark."

"Weren't there sweets in the cornershops?"

"The shops didn't carry sweets because dragons, and other dinosaurs, were renowned for their lack of sweet tooth. Besides, candy bars are a relatively modern invention."

"But, why did they quit smoking?" queries the child, puzzled.

"One day a dragon discovered that smoking was, in the long run, bad for their lungs. He shared the information with other dragons. Unfortunately while smoking could be bad for their lungs, it was beneficial for their moods and alleviated headaches, even in moderation. Dragons being the 'either-or' type, they quit smoking, with disastrous consequences. Fights became more frequent in the few pubs dotting the swamp and theses pubs quickly went up in flames."

"What about nicotine patches?" exclaims the child.

"There wasn't even one pharmacy in the whole swamp because everyone there was generally in good health, so there was nowhere handy to buy nicotine patches. Sure, some enterprising dragons went into neighbouring valleys in search of these elusive items, but they got into disagreements and more fights; the few that came back got into more disputes and stashes of nicotine patches went up in smoke during the skirmishes. The two or three nicotine patches left proved useless as dragon skin was covered with scales that were too thick for this option to work."

"That's a pity," sighs the child.

"And this is how the Mesozoic world ended, and the Cenozoic world started. There were no volcanoes involved, it was just a mild case of devolution."

The elder lights hir pipe; the child scratches her head, before coming out with another question, "Everyone is talking about the Mayan calendar ending on the 21st of December 2012. People say the Mayas predicted the end of the world for that date. Is it true? Is the world going to end?"

The elder looks at the child, takes a few puffs out of hir pipe and answers, "What is a world? Don't worry answering this purely rhetorical question. The Mayas never made predictions about the end of the world. The 21st of December 2012 will simply be an opportunity for human beings to take a different path. Winter Solstice is always a great time to make new resolutions."

"But, the Mayan civilisation was destroyed, wasn't it?"

"No, child, the Mayan civilisation wasn't destroyed. It was a very advanced civilisation, more advanced that our pompous one now. They simply chose to not renew their contract with the Universe."

SUNDAY ROAST

My girlfriend is a 3'4'' tall skeleton, carved in wood, imported from Bali, with whom I share my bed every night. Considering the infinitesimal number of visitors to my bedsit, no one has ever noticed this oddity of mine. But they certainly find other reasons to call me a weirdo. I live on Brixton Hill and work in Streatham. A small factory where we're six people putting together electronic components on circuit boards. It is only extremely boring. But I'm a temp, I'll move on to the next kingdom of boredom in a month or two. The other temp, a lively Jamaican womon who shares a council flat with a cat, makes me dumplings almost every day. With the energy left for my spare time, I fantasize about running in Brockwell Park, lifting weights at the Brixton Recreation Centre and swimming at the Lido. I sample all the junk food coming my way but don't dare to write the expert's ultimate book (it has been suggested). I paint colourful pictures, mostly of fruits and vegetables in various states of consumption, and hide the canvases in my humongous closets. I watch most of the American series shown on TV. I sometimes hang out in pubs, preferably the gay ones, and watch the pool players while my friends mingle with the crowd and pull. I'm too shy. And I don't see the point of the game, I mean, the point of flings and one-night-stands and affairs and whatever-you-wanna-call-it. I'd prefer to settle with a nice girl. There are certainly plenty of nice girls, I'm sure they are all nice girls, but they are into one-night-stands with gorgeous creatures, and I certainly fail to fit the profile. So, I just lose myself in the wallpaper and look on. Never mind, I've got Justine, my skeleton. She never snarls when I eat crisps in bed while watching "E.R." She never makes me feel inadequate when I stay in bed past noon. And she never, ever, comments on my habit of picking up food off the ground in the street, be it a sandwich, a croissant or half a chocolate bar. What? I'm alive, in good health, even if not kicking. You guess: I'm not gonna do the gay Olympics. Not that my parents mind. But they mind me not getting married, not dating men, eligible or not, and not having done time in university. For their track record, not mine. Actually, now that we're mentioning them, I'm on my way to Sunday roast. Mum's, not Nigella Lawson's, but her cooking is edible.

We are not the traditional huge Irish tribe. Actually, my three siblings and I weren't born in Bantry but in Kingston. Kingston upon Thames that is. Hence our accents being different from our parents'. I don't mind. So, there is Cameron the eldest, 31, well fitted in society with his scarecrow frame and degrees and City and Guild certificates. He's doing fine in his high-rising building office. There is Lorna, 29, her hair all lacked-up and highlighted, sure and subtle reminder of her day job. That includes the manicure. Then there's me, Karen, 27, a bit of a black sheep in this family, with my blonde hair, but I like that! Yeah, the troublemaker too for catholic parents, with my out-of-the-closet lesbianism. To tell the truth, they've given up on me. Their occasional complaints are just about keeping up appearances in front of me. I don't know why they bother. Anyway, after me there is Ross, 21, the youngest, the one they insist on denominating "our baby", and who insists on being called Elvis (he's got the hairdo and the complete CD collection). They don't buy it, it makes me laugh. He sticks to college so they're relatively happy, but that's only because they haven't got a clue about his Saturday nights gyrating his hips on stage.......

Hey, gotta get off the bus! A stop before their house, yes, because I like these supermarkets open on Sundays. This one's got an interesting shelf of "reduced price" items. It always gets me late for Mum's roast, but I would think they're used to it by now.

We've never been a Brady bunch. I think my parents are a bit too old for the roles anyway. Besides, we've never been the kind keeping a smile plastered across our faces on a 24-hour basis. The muscles would get cramps. The Sunday roast is mum's attempt to keep an overall normal look to our family. I guess she'll never realise that the Normal Family is just a myth invented by the mass media to sell even more washing machines and colour TV sets. But she won't buy the microwave oven. Kills all the goodness, she says. The Sunday roast is not my favourite moment of the week. I could do without it except that, considering my uncomplicated relationship with food, I cannot imagine turning down an already cooked meal. Or baked. So, here I am and here they are and I'm glad I'm wearing some vaguely feminine T-shirt because there's no way my mother will make me wear a skirt (I leave that to Lorna, she wears it better than I ever will, she's got the waistline for it) so, I compromise. For the sake of a Sunday roast.......

Everyone is yapping away, faking something as close as possible to happily-ever-after. And we're still quite far off the mark because Mum suddenly turns on my sister, "Why do you have to wear so much makeup? Do you really want to look like.......a......."

The word she is looking for is "whore" (too much American TV crime fiction for my mum), but the word would sully her tongue and burn her palate. Without talking about possible heartburn. Next, it'll be Elvis's turn, "Ross, you look a bit pale. Are you taking your vitamins?"

Yes, my Mum is a bit innocent at times. Then she'll move on to Cameron. She is always all praise for her eldest, he is doing so well, he is such a good example to us all misguided souls, oh yes, she is so proud.

She'll save me for last, generally eyeing my father with authority to order some support, because otherwise Dad wouldn't bother opening his mouth for anything else but eat the roast. If it was up to him, he'd be down at the pub with his mates watching football and getting all boozed-up. If.

I don't bother replying to her weekly suggestion to diet. I aim to target, "I'm going away next week-end."

"No, you can't! Your aunt Janice will be visiting."

"It's already all arranged and booked, I'm going up to Wales with a mate."

"You'll have to cancel." Snapping at her most definitive.

"I can't cancel. I've just said: it's booked."

Oh, this look. At me, then at Dad, urging him. A bit slowly and belatedly, he grumbles, "You should do as your mother say."

That's how the most amazing and full-blown row ever started. Do you really wanna eavesdrop on the variations in highs and trebles and the exact wording? No? I don't expect you to. You can figure out the gist. My Mum going on and on about she's always done everything for me and I won't ever do the tiniest little thing for her, etc, etc. Me shouting that I'm a free adult and blah dih blah dih blah. Lorna always enjoys this kind of match. She must be secretly counting points according to her own rules, whatever they are.

27 years of repressed anger suddenly breaking out, I shout at her an innovative punch line, "As far as I'm concerned, you're dead!"

That doesn't shut them up, that opens their mouths in perfect O's of flabbergastedness. I follow my statement by getting up in the middle of the sacrosanct Sunday roast, pick up my jacket and carrier bag from the supermarket, and slam thunderingly the front door. Yes, I'm leaving, without finishing my meal.

* * * * * * *

Cops don't beat around the bush, do they. I'm barely back from my Welsh weekend, still bleary-eyed and dizzy-brained from extended boozing with my mate Hillary, the only person in the world who can drag me out for long walks along the cliffs, even after a full night of partying. Thank god it's bank holiday, I cannot imagine myself soldering diodes and so on together today, not even with a basket of dumplings. I'm flat out on my bed, chomping on a huge chocolate bar, or what I haven't devoured yet, when the doorbell rings, too high-tuned for my sensitive ears. I grimace. Who the hell can it be? Hillary's got my key. I clamber back to an upright position regretfully and find my way to the entry phone.

"Police," a male voice answers my query. "Inspectors McLaren and Farrier."

I buzz them in with an unenthusiastic finger. When they get to my second floor, I'm waiting, door on the chain, probably looking suspicious. Who wouldn't be, in this day and age. Either they can understand, either I spend too much time with my TV on. A man and a womon, both white. His brown hair's got a very short cut, but looks harassed. She looks cute, the kind of cute that must be genetic, because according to whatever crime serial from the States, they never have time for healthy diet. They show their cards and expect to be let in. He is Farrier, she is McLaren. I relent.

There is nowhere where to sit in my bedsit but the bed, a wide mattress directly on the grey carpet. They stay up. I lean against a bookshelf filled with recipes, comic books, lesbian novels, crime books, and flyers I keep forgetting to flick through. Farrier talks,

"We've been trying to reach you since Saturday morning."

He spots an old-fashion answer machine on my table. There's a red light flashing angrily and reproachfully at me, blinking by tens. Angrily and reproachfully, not because it's red, but because I'm projecting. I haven't dared to answer my phone since my exit from the last Sunday roast in Kingston. He carries on, "There is no best way to deliver bad news. I'm afraid your parents died on Friday night when their house burnt down."

Shock doesn't register on my face, shock internalises itself; I'm frozen against the Ikea implement of furniture. I eventually articulate, "What about Aunt Janice?"

I know, it's absurd, but news of death have a reputation of changing people's personalities in a record jiffy.

"I beg you pardon?"

I think my brain hasn't processed the news entirely or properly yet. "Well, my aunt Janice was gonna come from Ireland to visit for the weekend."

"You mean, Janice Connor?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Luckily for her she cancelled during the week. She is being notified."

She cancelled but I didn't cancel my trip to the Welsh wilderness. That was the view from the B&B window. Silence ensues, heavy. The cops, they're in plainclothes, look around my tiny home. She looks at Justine, wooden skeleton serenely lounging on my continental quilt, probably refrains a reaction and looks further around. I still haven't heard the sound of her voice. I'm gonna wonder soon if she is mute. He looks at Justine, 3'4" of cynical silence, can't help blustering,

"Nice bedfellow! He probably doesn't kick in the middle of the night!"

"Actually, it's a she." I'm very collected on the subject of Justine. He isn't and retires into an embarrassed silence.

McLaren has finished looking around. Her voice sounds confident and surprises me. I had gotten used to the idea of her being mute a bit too quick.

"We have to ask you a few questions. It's normal procedure." She waits for me to react. I've done my theory practice for years, I know the drill and wait. She goes on. "The fire started on Friday night around midnight. Could you tell us where you were at that time?"

I look at her, trying to get a feel of her soul in the deep well of her green eyes. I sigh. "I was busy getting as boozed-up as possible up in North London."

"Could anyone vouch for you?"

I go back to the contemplation of her attractive green eyes, thinking, wondering. After all, there is no love lost in the Binch family. Lorna or Cameron could have easily come up with my historical outburst. Because, I do hope I made history. Trouble is, this history could now land me in mega trouble. Having told my Mum that for me she was dead or as good as dead or whatever my wording was, I could very well be a chief suspect.

"Do you remember where you were?" She presses on.

"Of course I do." A gay pub, Hillary's local.

"Then?"

"Some pub in Stoke Newington."

"In your interest, we need you to be more precise."

"Why? Am I gonna need a lawyer?" I can't help smiling.

Hillary always had a great sense of timing. She isn't failing me today. She is suddenly bursting in, a six-pack of beer hanging from her left hand, breaking the cops' momentum.

"Shall I introduce you to my alibi?"

Hillary's eyebrows briefly tense up enquiringly. She is my antithesis, tall and athletic. Farrier recovers his voice, "I am inspector Farrier and this is inspector McLaren. You are?"

"Hillary Buddy."

She hands me over a can of Budweiser. We've planned to keep on drinking until tomorrow.

"Were you with miss Binch on Friday night?"

Hillary and I both feel like squirming at the use of the Miss. But she answers with a hint of outrage, "If you mean her sister Lorna, I certainly wasn't."

Surprised, the cops glance at me then back at her. McLaren's mouth represses a twitch and her voice plays along, "We, of course, mean Karen Binch here standing with us in this room."

"Oh yes, of course, Karen! Yes, I was with her."

"The whole night?"

"I didn't follow her to the loo if it's what you mean!"

"But otherwise?"

"Yes." And suddenly adds, "I'll be happy to play her alibi from Friday 8 pm until tomorrow morning."

"Friday night will suffice." Is McLaren almost smiling? Maybe she thinks Hillary is funny. In truth, Hillary is. I would heartily laugh, except that I've just been told that my parents are dead. Dead as in dead, or dead as a dodo, or maybe, probably, dead as a burnt doornail. I'm not sure how to react. In doubt, I open my can of beer and gulp a swig of bitter amber. Do I look heartless? I wonder what the cops think. They probably know more than me about the behaviour of the freshly bereaved with all their hands-on experience. McLaren speaks, "We're sorry to put you through these questions, but we're suspecting arson. And......." She hesitates.

I complete, "My sister, or one of my brothers, told you about my shouting at my Mum last time I saw them."

"Yes. You said-," here she checks on a notepad I hadn't seen in her hands yet, "as far as I'm concerned, you're dead."

Yes, I said that. And I've been quivering with fear since. You see, my Mum is not the kind of womon you stand up to easily, especially if you're her daughter, and one who doesn't fancy the path she's chosen for you.

"Shite," Hillary whispers, and belatedly follows my example with her own can of Budweiser. You rave and rant about your parents, you wish them dead, you say the most unspeakable things about them, you wanna kill them, yes, kill them, slowly, with all the might of your anger. But it's just words. It's air on the wing of the wind. It's anger, rage, but it passes. After all, they're your parents. You've known them your whole life. I told Hillary, I told Justine, I told a few friends at the pub on Friday. They understand. Everyone understands. It's part of life. It's normal. But at the end, you still love your parents. Or do you? This is the love you never question. You've never been brought up to.

McLaren looks at my Balinese skeleton still cynically grinning at every human being in the bedsit, and her regular eyebrows knit briefly and neatly together. She shakes her head. But can't help leaving us with a parting comment, "You know, this neighbour of your parents, the Indian man with a mental disability. He is the one who saw the fire first. It took a long time for his carer to calm him down. He was raving about......." She sighs before finishing her sentence. "About some skeleton dancing around the burning house. A skeleton the size of a dwarf." She shakes her head again, like thinking the concept absurd and herself insane to even mention it.

The cops leave. Hillary and I look at each other and look at the maddeningly grinning Justine.

THE GREEN LOCH

Her face showing nothing of her various trains of thought, Jax walked into her local pub. Ten p.m. was early for The Green Loch. Most of the crowd would be there by midnight for the loud rock and punk bands. Alcohol, flowing faster, as fast as the bar staff could generously muster it, would turn the patrons into raucous and happy people. She generally left before saturation. But tonight she intended to push her sensible limits; she wanted to see the last band, a blues-rock outfit fronted by a fiery singer and driven by a demented drummer.

Still Velvet was a peculiar band name Jax couldn't get her head around, but she explained it with the now-abandoned habit of the band to cover Alannah Myles's unforgettable hit 'Black Velvet'. Nevertheless, Jax loved them to the point she'd sometimes go through phases of following them around their London circuit. She hadn't seen them for four months. They had been out of the country and Jax had been busy with her two mediums of creativity: woodcarving and keyboards. She'd even missed their homecoming gig. Still, she was fond of them like only a lonesome dyke could.

Her moods had more than a tendency to slide up and down the scales. Prescribed drugs would only get her out of control. She occasionally relied on alcohol to regulate her brainwaves. But tonight, she wanted to keep sober. Standing at the bar, which was decorated with various pictures advertising a diversity of beers, she waited for staff to reappear out of some secret recess. It never failed. Wolf was back within seconds. Sometimes she wondered if this skinny, shaved-head guy possessed a developed sixth sense.

"Hi, Jax! How's it going?"

Wolf was one of the rare guys more or less treating her fairly, by that she meant: like one of the guys.

"Cool. How is business?"

"Rumbling! What are you having?"

"Pineapple with soda."

"Sold any piece lately?"

"A big one. The Fire Dragon."

"Excellent!" Wolf's eyes shone behind his spectacles. He mixed Jax's soft drink in a pint glass with a generous scoop of ice. He smiled and gave another serving of his pure Scottish accent, "I guess you're here for Still Velvet."

"Yep," handing out a tenner, giving a last farewell thought to the Fire Dragon she had lovingly carved out of a piece of cherry wood a few months earlier, logically moving onto the Gargoyle finished only two hours ago. She only carved monsters. dragons, gargoyles, griffins, werewolves, elementals, fairies, elves, goblins, flying monkeys, and more. Too sensitive, too tortured, to carve the shapes of human beings, even fully clad.

Standing in the doorway of the live room, she sipped her fruity soda, keeping one hazel eye on the dimly lit room where the DJ had started a reggae phase that no one was there to pick up on yet. The other was on the pub room, the one she had dubbed dead room, where only four Goths sitting at a table were consuming beer. She didn't care if they sometimes glanced at her sombre silhouette. Her hair was bleached white and cut extremely short. She deliberately wore shabby, old, and almost torn, male clothing with huge boots, to deflect sleazebags' attention. She had five rings going through her right eyebrow and a smooth skin free of make-up.

For no reason she was aware of, her gaze swept over the bar. What she saw made her freeze. Correction: it was not a 'what,' it was a 'who'. A radiant womon, easily ten years younger than Jax, or apparently ten years younger, whom Jax had never seen. She instantly forgot her grammatical lapsus prompted by the Goths' energy filtering through her too-thin spiritual protections. The Goths' perception also told her the womon was good-looking, but it was something she couldn't see despite her sharp eyesight.

The energy she sensed was the sweetness that could forever make her melt if she wasn't careful. Oh yes, this dark-haired womon with grey eyes was the typical type who always attracted her, regardless of physical features. Apparent sweetness and strength of character. Jax felt a shot of smooth electricity lightning course through her being, accelerating the flow of her blood along her hidden veins. She couldn't see auras or read them, but she could sense energies and understand some, understand enough to survive.

The womon Jax had never seen before was radiating an intense and overwhelming energy, even while pouring a Michelob to a newly arrived customer. Jax tore her gaze away from the delicately chiselled profile. She didn't want to switch focus tonight. She was only at The Green Loch for the wild blues-rock of Still Velvet.

She wanted the singer to wink at her and the drummer to ignore her, as usual. They were her main fixation these days. She'd never go beyond "Hi!" with the men of the band, but the two wimin, the singer with the powerful voice and the constant chatter, the drummer with the crazy sticks and the quiet silence, were sisters to her, and lovers to each other. She had sensed the intense beauty of their entangled energies at the first Still Velvet gig she'd ever attended in her local pub. A performer herself, she knew better than to fall for either of these two wimin.

As the pub slowly crowded, Jax forgot about the sticky tables and the dirty floor. The first band was raving. She was attacking her third drink when her favourite musicians walked in with a bunch of friends. The drummer smiled at Jax, the singer squeezed her forearm, "Hey, how are you?"

The artist's face relaxed into a smile, "Okay! Good to see you! How was Canada?"

"Cool! Extra cool! We've got a bunch of new songs. I hope you're gonna like them!"

"I guess there's a great likelihood I might!"

The commotion of a clapping audience broke into the music background. The support band was done.

"I've got a gig soon. I'll email you," Jax added, before punters separated them.

The Still Velvet wimin were actually the two only human beings Jax had ever carved into wood. They didn't know. No one knew. No one could conceive the pain and tears generated by the sensuous curves. It was more insanity than the artist could deal with. Her carving knives and chisels had chipped and cut through her skin, too. She loved them too much. She always wore long sleeves. She kept these pieces of work secret, hidden in a closet. Still stained with her blood. She wouldn't look at them. They felt too real. As real as real bodies. And Jax had no right to touch their bodies, beyond a hand squeeze and a hug. No one would know; no one would ever contemplate the best artwork her feverish hands had ever produced. The wood was so alive. So alive. It was why she only carved monsters.

The pub was now full and noisy. She'd sleep late the next day and wake up refreshed, ready for more werewolves, or maybe a Loch Ness Monster.

* * * * * * *

Still Velvet was not of the standard ilk. They had come to Jax at one of her gigs the previous year. Well, two of them. "Hello," the fiery singer had said, "I'm Frankie. This is Den."

"From Still Velvet," Jax had completed with a soft smile, just about containing her enthusiasm. Frankie had the voice Jax had lost to a virus years ago. Den was as wild with her drum kit as Jax was with her keyboards.

Surprise and pleasure spread across Frankie's face, "You know us!"

"Saw you last week. Was impressed."

"Have a drink with us!"

A year on and Frankie was still doing all the talking. Jax didn't need anything else, didn't need anyone else. Her secret fascination was eating the loneliness in her life. They were inspiring her and instilling life into her life. She'd never told them. How could you tell someone, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me" without being misunderstood? Once again, Jax chose to shut up. She was good at it. She'd been practicing for years. But could she go on forever? She wasn't sure. She still had a soul, and her heart felt like stone.

She wouldn't have thought about the dark-haired womon from The Green Loch again if she had not popped by the pub for a quick word with the sound engineer about her next gig. The short pageboy cut happened to be on duty behind the bar, radiating her beautiful energy. They looked at each other. Jax turned away, trying hard to avoid her.

The sound engineer was busy, so she decided to be strong and grab a drink.

"Pineapple juice and soda, in a pint glass, with ice, please."

"You sure?" the barmaid asked with a smile.

"What?" Jax was surprised.

"The pint glass." Jax looked puzzled. The voice was soft, so quiet. "Never mind," and fixed the drink for the musician who wanted to hear the voice again. She spent her waiting time watching the grey eyes and long fingers working along the bar. Jax wondered about her name. At the same time, Wolf waved at her from the pool table and the sound guy walked into the dead room. He signalled for the still-nameless womon, who sometimes bit her nails in between actions, and asked for a pint of Guinness. Jax tried to ignore her and focus on special effects for her voice.

She went home to carve some more. Wondering "What's her name?" over and over. Jane, Kate, Marla, Anna, Catherine, Nicola, Liz, Maggie, Karen, Lana, Chloe, Phoebe, and why not Pru or Piper while she was at it? She was totally off the mark and she knew it.

She looked up from her behemoth and glanced beyond the blank wall of her front room, not seeing, but searching for answers she couldn't get. She knew how deep it cut. She was generally so good at sensing if a womon was lesbian or straight or whatever (bisexual vibes, when labelled as such, always unsettled her).

She didn't know anything about the womon who had settled in her mind. She couldn't sense anything. Her judgement was clouded. A quiet smoker rolling joints. She wanted to know more than her name, she wanted to know her. She wanted to know what she did when she wasn't working at the pub. What she had every morning for breakfast. What kind of books she liked reading. What kind of music she was into. What she dreamed every night.

She gently let the narrow chisel slide onto her workbench. She didn't know who she was anymore. She had withdrawn from the world to try to understand and heal. Would she dare to ask The Green Loch womon out?

* * * * * * *

Jax kept a diary on an almost daily basis. She had entered the nameless womon as Jane Doe. She didn't want to call her Jane Doe forever. She wrote about Jane Doe's long fingers combing hair back, sticking it back behind the right ear. Jane Doe was right-handed. Jax had noticed the stoop of the shoulders. Jane Doe was unconsciously embarrassed about her height. Three inches taller than Jax's 5'5'', probably.

Restless, the artist went to watch pool games at The Green Loch a few nights later. The pool room was alive and alight. Spider, another skinny, shaved-head man, was officiating at the bar. Wolf was shooting pool. Jax's intuition told her Jane Doe was not on that evening's rota, but it was worth waiting a bit.

She was about to leave the now-crowded and smoky pub, having reached extreme saturation by 11.30 pm, when Jane Doe walked in. Her pace was generally fast and knowing, when she wasn't just standing, fidgeting and undecided. She greeted Wolf and Jax smilingly. Because of the smile, Jax forgot about leaving, forgot about saturation, didn't even notice that Wolf had lost his game to chance. Jane Doe sat with them, drinking Dutch beer out of a green bottle. The next players were good, but Jax couldn't care less for the white ball's shenanigans. Wolf got up to order his next pint. Jane Doe was rolling a cigarette. Jax asked, "What's your name?"

Long Fingers looked up, "Nessie."

Jax could only stare back for the next thirty seconds, surprised by the name. Her hazel eyes were unable to tear away from the gentle grey eyes; she forgot to speak or look away. The name was Nessie. And wasn't she working on a Loch Ness Monster.

Nessie broke the spell, "I know your name is Jax." Jax's right eyebrow shot up, amused and questioning. "Wolf told me," Nessie explained.

The aforementioned guy chose that moment to come back with his new pint. They re-focussed on the current game. The green table was mostly red.

That night, Jax wrote in her diary:

Her name is Nessie, like the Monster of the Loch Ness I'm currently carving, but I have to remind myself it is no sign of anything and I have to hold my (Velvet) horses still, because I know nothing about her. She could be straight or she could have someone already. In my whole life, I've never found myself in circumstances where I would have to ask a womon out. If I had a friend, would I ask... but there is no one I can talk to, no one I can ask for advice. What do I have to lose? The line is simple (it is not a line). I can simply and directly ask: "Would you go out with me, like, you know, on a date?" Okay, sounds terribly lame. But I have nothing better. And nothing to lose. And if I don't say anything, the usual nothing will happen. I cannot keep on watching nothing happen. I gotta change my life, otherwise I'll die. I'm already dying a slow and boring death. I gotta do something. But what if she says no? If she says no, then . . . ."

* * * * * * *

Within The Green Loch, behind the friendly bar, in the back room and upper rooms, was hidden a secret. While some punters knew Wolf was originally from Scotland, they knew nothing of the Metanochs. Traditionally, these creatures were from the shores of the Loch Ness. Beyond that, no one knew. Nessie happened to be born in Bristol after her mother had moved away. The Green Loch was the first community ever started in London. Tradition had it that in their mid-twenties Metanochs would choose their adult name and undergo a rite of passage. Failing the rite meant exile and isolation. Metanochs, lacking sensitivity in their Metanoch shape, had no problem seducing and/or killing a human being, eating the heart and the brain, and—in some cases—the fingers. Nessie had chosen her name after a Metanoch hermit, who, according to legend, was fond of bones, skulls, and skeletons, preferably anthropoid, to the point of collecting them: N'Rek.

Obeying her mother, she moved to London and settled at The Green Loch where the senior Metanoch would choose a suitable victim for her rite of passage. Beowulf was his name, and his instinct constantly dictated him to keep his community safe. In his human guise he was a good man named Wolf. Behind his benevolent smile he hid worry: he had contemplated and admired the work of a talented local artist in a nearby shop. She carved monsters out of wood; her imagination was realistic and amazingly detailed. Werewolves were one remote kind; flying monkeys with blue faces were one step too close.

Nessie was a quiet and unconfident womon. She had grown up in Bristol, acquiring an accent unlike her mother's Scottish one, feeling wary of people, and biting her fingernails when she had nothing better to do. This didn't show on her Metanoch claws. Contrary to most of her kind whose furs were dark yellow, she had a mixture of black and yellow hair, the black as black as her human hair. Her fingers and claws were long, and her fangs were sharp and white. Her facial features were simian with slanted eyelids. Generally tall, Metanochs were asexual and endowed with senses of smell and hearing as acute as those of predatory animals. Their tails could lash and sting as swiftly as a scorpion's. Some could control their morphing, others could only slow it down. Beowulf was a master and encouraged other Metanochs to practice. It was about survival. N'rek was effortlessly as good.

* * * * * * *

Restlessly, Jax tried to work. Her mind wandered. She'd dropped by The Green Loch every evening. Sometimes Nessie was not there, sometimes she was. Sometimes Nessie would serve her, sometimes Wolf would spot Jax first. Sometimes there were so many patrons that Jax couldn't even exchange a few harmless and meaningless words with Nessie. But the artist was losing sleep. She had to do it—had to talk to Nessie, had to ask her out. It was three days before her gig. She had lyrics on her mind when she walked into The Green Loch,

Will she speak

Will she fall

She is waiting for you in her dreams

Will you be the key

Will you be the light

With or without you, she'll jump off the bridge

It was a quiet evening. Wolf was playing pool with an audience of a dozen patrons. Jax chose the dead room. Nessie walked up to her, pushing her hair back behind her right ear. Jax found herself suddenly asking for Schnapps. But there was no Schnapps. She asked for an 'Ice Smirnoff'. Nessie corrected into 'Smirnoff Ice' and brought her a bottle.

Jax felt shy, powerless, so non-confident. Still unaware of which way Nessie swung. She felt like the cat had gotten her tongue. She was exceptionally and deliberately wearing clean clothes. Well, still crumpled and shabby, but clean and free from the usual smell of Danish oil she favoured as a colour finish for most of her wood carvings.

What was she gonna tell Nessie? Could she just say, "Would you go out with me?" She realised she had unconsciously sped up her drinking and was slightly higher than her standard threshold. She dug a fiver out of a trousers pocket. Didn't say a word, didn't try to call out Nessie's name. She simply tapped the counter with the bottom of her empty bottle.

Nessie looked at her. Jax signalled with her empty bottle for a fresh one. But what she really wanted was to say, "Nessie, would you go out with me? Like, you know, on a date?" But she said nothing. She looked Nessie in the eyes, didn't even notice their shiny grey, the world had gone in black and white again. Nessie wandered away, while Jax thought about what to say and drank too fast for her metabolism.

This was Dutch courage, growing, building confidence. After the third Smirnoff Ice, the pub was still quiet and she felt drunk. What would be her line? Nessie was watching the pool game. She could say, "There is a point to my getting drunk tonight. This is called Dutch courage. If you answer my question by the negative, we can forget all about it afterwards. Would you go out with me, like, you know, on a date?"

Jax signalled for a fourth bottle. When Nessie put it down in front of her, the artist kept silent and watched her walk away. Unexpectedly, she felt centred and at peace with herself, free to sense. And she knew. Nessie liked guys, and therefore would say no. There was no point in asking her out, except if Jax wanted to feel like a fool. She swallowed another gulp of sweet vodka, hating the taste of lemon. Too drunk to feel sad. Nessie's gaze left the pool game and turned to Jax. Jax sighed slowly and walked out of the pub in a cloud of dejection.

* * * * * * *

"Will she speak

Will she fall

She is waiting for you in her dreams

Will you be the key

Will you be the light

_With or without you, she'll jump off the bridge_ "

The flanger had a nice effect on her voice. She was singing for Nessie; Nessie didn't know, no one knew. Her fingers were flying over the keys, wild tunes blasting out to the sparse, but enthusiastic, audience of The Green Loch. She was singing for Nessie, watching her through the wide-open doors. Unsuspecting Nessie behind the bar. Most patrons were under the spell of the weird performer. Jax was wearing what she called her Sunday best, as an ironic reference to the mother she had chosen to kick out of her life. An anthrax man's suit with a white shirt, a black tie, and a pair of assorted loafers.

Nessie was under the spell of the music, too. Jax could sense it, even if Nessie's face wasn't showing more emotion than usual, but she was listening. The song ended. People whistled and shouted. Jax's last number was a soulful piano tune with classical undertones.

After her set, Jax packed up her keyboards and effects unit, stored them in the back room behind the bar, and tried to ignore the patrons' attention and admiration. She was trying to be polite when avoidance would have been rude. The singer and the drummer from Still Velvet were otherwise engaged. Jax had no one to hide behind. In that regard, she was much like Den. She decided to have a drink and met Nessie's smile.

"You were great!"

"Thanx!" Slightly embarrassed, like after every gig. "I'd like a double tequila with pineapple juice in a pint glass. And ice."

"It's on me!"

"Okay." She didn't really have the choice.

She walked around in the pub, trying to unwind, trying to dodge admirers—especially the drunk ones. She was only successful at drinking her alcohol too fast. The pub sounded too noisy to her ears, but she didn't feel like going home yet. She would have loved to sit down with Nessie in a quiet corner and chat. But there was no chance of it ever; she had no illusion. There was no quiet corner at The Green Loch anyway. It was foolish to even think about it. Besides, she was too tipsy to care.

It was after midnight, and Jax didn't feel like listening to the next band. At the sound check they hadn't sounded good to her. As the sound engineer had told her: all the right moves, but nothing to show. She wanted people to forget about her, look elsewhere for entertainment, and talk about something else. The crowd was oppressive to her. Alcohol gave her space to breathe, but evaporated too quickly out of her glass.

* * * * * * *

She caught Nessie's grey eye and signalled for a refill. She was already too drunk to be surprised by Nessie's reply. Jax's feet followed the hinted direction to the door marked 'Private' next to one end of the bar. Jax didn't think. She was already through the door and long fingers locked it. They looked into each other's eyes. The grey eyes looked grave. The hazel eyes looked vague.

Nessie didn't smile; she secretly wished Beowulf had suggested someone else, but this was a rite of passage.

They were standing at arm's length from each other. Jax's eyes, fascinated, witnessed the controlled and almost silent morphing of Nessie's body. Slow and methodical. Selective. She started with her eyes. The grey irises widened and grew yellow flecks. Jax watched the rippling of the muscles, sinews, nerves, and veins under the skin. The fur grew a shiny mixture of black and yellow. Jax didn't see the tail come out of the lower end of the spine under the clothes. She was now staring at a simian creature of unknown origin. A Metanoch whose dark, thick lips shaped a rictus, revealing fangs dazzling with a definite hint of threat.

Jax smiled. She knew she was staring into the cold eyes of her Death.

CONTROL

It was an accident. I swear: I never intended to kill Sweet Jane.

She was always so quiet. With such sweetness in her eyes. When her blonde hair was not covering them, that is. She would have made my heart melt with just one of her smiles. I guess that's why I picked up my camera again: to collect her smiles, some of the greatest smiles on Earth. Yeah, ok, I'd do anything for a woman's smile; it's my greatest weakness.

With Red Reb, it was a whole different kettle of fish. It didn't mean I wanted Reb dead. No, I wanted her friendship. You see, we were so alike. E.g.: we were both drummers. But, she was the best. She was so wild on her drum kit, her red hair flying all over the place. Ok, maybe I was jealous. Let's face it: they were part of a successful band.

Don't blame me, or the hell with blame, it's too late now, I can't undo what I've done. Listen or read, let me explain. I'm not saying that life has been tougher on me. I'm saying that it's part of the package: I'm a genius with an IQ so high that I can't be bothered with Mensa. I've got the sensitivity to match. You know, or if you don't know, let me tell you: the highest incidence of alcoholism in groups is among Mensa people. What about drugs then, you ask? Call me a junkie. I've been on prescribed drugs for a year. I begged the psychiatrist to give me the antidepressants and she reluctantly agreed. I couldn't keep the beast within under control anymore. I was becoming dangerous, not just to myself, but other people, too. I told her only the basic spiel: various childhood abuses, various suicide attempts, lifetime depression. But the beast within, it's my secret. So, I am multi-talented, but in this world, talent is not enough. I haven't got the cunning of a businessperson. I can't be bothered with money.

I've seen their Cuban band so many times. I know: ten musicians in the band and I had eyes only for Sweet Jane and Red Reb. Call it obsession, I don't mind. Without them, my life would have been a bottomless void.

It all started six months ago with a friend's birthday. Karen was a great fan of Cuban music. She had seen every possible band of the genre around London at least once. Me, I can't be bothered with remembering names. Except for Panama Francis, a jazz drummer I saw once playing for Helen Humes back in the mid-seventies. Yeah, I was still a bit of a kid, but that's how I got into my mind that one day I'd be a successful drummer. Of course I'm a complete failure, and that's beside the point anyway because Sweet Jane and Red Reb played in a Cuban band.

Jane and Reb were best friends. Jane generally followed Reb's lead. That's why I most of the times got talking with Reb. She was cool. She was great. I had respect for her. Yeah, we got a lot into mock arguments, but, hey, it was fun!

So, how did I get into Jane's house? I can't remember. It's a complete blackout. Not the first one. How many mornings did I wake up in unknown parks, with dried blood under my fingernails, gasping for oxygen? It's not alcohol. It has nothing to do with PMT. And the drugs, well, despite my hopes, they don't help. I'm back to square one, or worse: a square before square one. The time before I learned to control myself.

As a child or a teenager, I'd lose control and get into a mad rage just like that, at the snap of two fingers. I think I scared many people, broke some noses and killed a few cats. I'm not sure. I'd get into a rage, would see so red, that when I'd come back to normal, I had no memory of it.

Nothing to do with the moon either. Like a wild beast inside, clawing at my ribcage to get loose.

At first, I didn't know.

By my early twenties I'd learned to control it.

But a lifetime looking out for 100% control with no hope of redemption is a bloody long time. It got bad again when I got involved with this young anarchist last year. She didn't want to commit herself, fine, the sex was great. Too great. My moods went on the rampage again. I had almost forgotten that I could hurt myself. That I could do worse than that. The young anarchist was a sweet and sensitive woman, too sensitive to see new scars on someone's body. We stopped seeing each other.

One ill-chosen word from a stranger could trigger the rage. The beast within. I turned to doctors for drugs. They have no clue.

I guess I've killed a few more cats lately. Or dogs. I'm not sure. I never remember. But sometimes I wake up in the morning with brown stains on my jeans. I know it's dried blood. I know the colour. I know the smell. And I know what it means when I wake up still wearing rumpled clothes.

I wake up that morning with a weird taste on my tongue. I keep my eyes closed for a little while longer, feeling the heaviness of my brain. Drat. Another drunken night. Bright light creeping through my eyelids. Then I know I am not at home because my bedroom is as dark as a tomb. I'm laying on something as springy as a sofa. Not comfy.

The smell suddenly hits my nostrils, and my brain translates. The tantalizing blood. Ripped flesh. A whiff of decay, like rotten cherries in a too hot summer. Sweet and sour Death. The buzzing of flies. My eyes swing open, meeting the intense glare of the sun rushing through the French windows. I blink. There is a garden outside. A fine garden. I can hear birds joyfully chirping. I gyrate my neck to the left. Wow, bad kink there. And I see. The tale-tell splashes on the white walls. I gasp for oxygen. I am the only one who could have done that.

I crunch my abdominal muscles and sit up. I look again. It is no hallucination. It is real. Harsh reality. I get up and my stiff legs take me to her corpse. The flies fly away in sudden panic.

I kneel down in the puddle of blood. I have made quite a mess out of Sweet Jane's body. I have broken a few ribs, ripped the chest open, punctured the lungs, and stolen the heart. Her clothes are in rags. I look around. So much blood and pieces of bones thrown about. Shit. I am probably still digesting the symbolic morsel. Her left leg is bent at an impossible angle below the knee.

I look at her face. Her blonde hair matted and brown-looking now, spread in every possible direction. I can see some clumps are missing. I guess the glistening skull where big shreds of skin are gone. And her eyes, her gorgeous gray eyes. One is still there, staring at me, not even accusing me, just staring and wondering. The right socket is empty and blank. Great. I eat eyes now. Deep cuts across both cheekbones, red and sticky. I decide not to bet, but I know the nose is in pieces. Dry blood like frozen rivers down both nostrils. Split lower lip.

My dirty fingers slide gently down her neck. There are purple marks across the still-skin-covered ropy tendons and strong muscles. I feel for her Adam's apple. It is crushed. I let my fingers fall down by my knees, into the gooey puddle of blood. How many pints of blood in a human body.......

I feel tears pricking my eyes and fight them back. I never wanted to kill her. What did I want then?

I have no memory of what happened. I look around. She has tried to defend herself. A glass coffee table is in shards. Music magazines marred with blood lay in disorderly heaps. A big flowerpot on its side, still spewing black soil and a gigantic rubber plant. She was strong, with all the working-out she used to do when she wasn't bending over some plants in her green garden or.......

Sweet Jane's warm and pulsating skin. A golden shade of suntan. The life animating her muscles. The determination and concentration in her fingers sliding along the fretless bass, blonde hair falling over her face, hiding her beautiful eyes. Sweet Jane, my shy muse.......

I have to go, leave the "scene of the crime" before anyone else turns up. I notice blood passing for messy brown stains on my black jeans and T-shirt, but really blood-looking on my skin. Where is the bathroom? I feel dizzy. Last night was the first time ever Sweet Jane invited me in. I gently close the eyelid over the remaining eye.

I look around, spot a set of wooden stairs and decide to climb up. It would make sense.

A huge mirror confirms how matching I am to the scene in the living room, just in case I don't know yet. I sigh and start to undress for a shower, thinking that her style of clothes will never suit me. See, I wear men's clothes, or unisex clothes, the baggier the better. Sweet Jane, even without going for the 100% feminine look had a very different approach to fashion.

After the Cuban gig as excellent as usual, we decided to go for a drink in the next street's pub. I liked this pub. Loads of punks hanging out there. I especially loved the huge metal spider hovering over the door, inside. And all the fancy skulls and heavy metal posters. Everyone went there so Sweet Jane was like everyone else. She was wearing a tight fitting T-shirt contrasting with her baggy blue jeans. Red Reb had on a black waistcoat over a white T-shirt and nice chinos. I had my usual punk, ripped black trousers, sleeveless leather jacket, and a few chains where I could fit them. I guessed we were gonna have a few drinks too many as usual. We'd talk to some wasted people from various genders, and we'd argue among us, especially Reb and me. It was a game.

I am ready to face the blazing of the sun, wishing happy naps to Jane's neighbours. I don my dark shades and pull the door open. Push it back immediately and run for a closet. Shit. Here comes Red Reb, walking up the pathway, blissful and wide awake, oblivious.

Oh no. Even better: in my hurry I have left the door ajar. I hear the hinges screaming for DW40. A step in. She calls out,"Jane! Are you in?"

Silence, as heavy as tons of tanker boats rushed over the shore by a tidal wave of angry ocean. After another step, louder, "Jane! Where the hell are you? Your front door is open!"

She walks in. I can hear the metal clicking of her cowboy boots. She passes by my closet. Then silence again. I open my door a tiny crack. I see her tense back. She is studying the mess I have left. She breathes in deeply and breathes out. Like a long sigh. Oxygen must be good. Out of a pocket she slowly gets her mobile phone. She dials an emergency number. I am feeling sad. Her voice is close to breaking, but you can always trust Red Reb to keep any situation under control. She asks for the cops. After a silence, she uses the word "dead", in the middle of a carefully constructed sentence. Suggests an ambulance, even so Jane looks dead. And is dead. Repockets the communication tool.

I open my closet door more widely. I want to get away before the cops get the echo of their sirens into the neighborough. The door creaks. Reb swiftly turns around and faces me.

"Kay, you're ok? What happened?" Stepping one step closer to me, then stopping, taking in the cleanliness of my skin. One of the things I like about Reb is that she's got a brain and knows how to use it.

I keep utterly silent, utterly frozen on my spot. I feel the fog rounding in my brain. I hear Reb's voice, soft, "Kay, what's the matter with you?"

Whatever happens next, I can't remember.

Five vodkas each and we were still arguing. Sweet Jane was unusually bright and sparkly. She was the loudest of our lot. Vodka drowning cranberry juice. Five was our minimum. That was, Red Reb's and mine. Five was more likely to be Jane's extreme maximum. She was rather bubbly and was not gonna be able to walk straight. But wasn't it her favorite joke: even sober, she couldn't walk straight.

The dizziness fades. I rub my eyes and quietly feel the evening light washing over me. Then I see the blood under my nails, down my fingers, eating at my hands, shiny and barely sticky. Again....... I look ahead of me and stare soundlessly.

The previous tenant of my flat was probably into s/m fun. The chains solidly fitted in the wall are mementoes of this time before my time. I had decided not to bother with getting them off and opted for a pair of heavy black drapes. The drapes are open. Red Reb is kneeling with the wall watching her back, her hair hanging from her bent head. Her arms up, not by choice but held up by the chains. I walk slowly towards her, feeling empty and doomed. There is blood on her jeans outfit, criss-crossing her white shirt.

I fall on my knees. Have I done it again? Have I killed Reb like I killed Jane? I glare at my bloody hands, my killer's hands, willing them to go away, far away from me. I feel pain swelling in my heart.

She slowly moves her head up, one eye closed, with eyelids so puffy that it will certainly take on many fancy colours soon. The other one opens and prods mine. I can see pain in the brown iris. Pain and questions.

"Kay," she sighs and gulps some oxygen. Her lower lip is split, with a trail of blood at the corner. "Kay, I'm asking you again. " Her voice sounds raw and slow. "What's wrong with you?"

Her head falls down again. I push it up with tainted fingers, a sob ready to explode out of my throat, and answers, with all the sadness of the world in my voice, "I don't know, Reb, I really don't know." She looks at me, tired and weary. I carry on, carefully, "It's like sometimes I am not myself anymore, and I don't know what I'm doing. And when I am myself again, I don't remember anything." With my other hand, I gently push her curly red hair away form her face. "Reb, what have I done to you?"

"You broke one of my shoulders and cut a few slices elsewhere. I'm not gonna mention the punches, they were just snacks, I guess." With the hint of a sarcastic smile twisting her mouth into a grimace. She winces reflexively. Did she cry out or is she the strongest woman on Earth as I have always imagined her to be? She whisper, "Kay, unchain me. Let me go. We are friends. I'll help you."

I let go of her head. Her hair falls down, following the down movement of the neck. And then I feel the change starting again.

"Kay?"

"It's happening again!" I almost scream. The dizziness is stronger than ever.

"Kay, fight it. You can beat it. Fight it, bloody hell. Fight." In a whisper.

I remember falling backwards.

"Our dear Jane is rather drunk!" Red Reb stated with a bright smile. "She's gonna need help to get home!"

"No! I'm not!"

"Hush, Child, let the adults decide, they always know better." I n a mock tone.

"Alright, alright, let me get a cup of coffee and it'll be my privilege and honour to be her chauffeur. If I remember where I parked my car!"

Red Reb, a tiny bit tipsy, too, burst into uproarious laughter.

In my next moment of consciousness, I discover it is too late for Red Reb. She is dangling from the chains like a broken puppet. A huge and red splatter marks the spot on the wall where I have smashed her skull open. Fragments of brain matters interspersed with her hair, fragment of brain matters soggily stuck to the wall, fragments of brain matters exposed on my red carpet. Blood red carpet.

Well, I have made quite a mess of my favourite friends within the last twenty-four hours. They trusted me and they loved me. Tears will never bring them back and there is no god to implore for forgiveness.

I spend the next hour sobbing, the flat is wonderfully soundproof. My neighbours will never know. They might start wondering about the foul stench in a while. Darkness is now all around.

I look at Reb, what I have done to her. I haven't destroyed her ribcage; even so she is covered with blood I can see that. I haven't touched it.

Then I know what to do. There is only one way, even if it is too late for my friends, I have only one possible way to get rid of the beast within. Forever.

There is a bridge in Bristol, the Clifton suspension bridge. I have been told about depressed students jumping off.

THE BEAST(s)

The two friends would often go for long walks at night, favouring dark backstreets. Pat, long blonde-haired, was, and had always been, the sensible one, the wise one, and the great listener. Gill, wild character with freckles and thick curly hair falling disorderly down her shoulders, was, and had never tried to be otherwise, the big mouth, the troublemaker, and an all-over-the-place kind of person. And they both liked the dark backstreets for their quietness and the possible dangers that always made their days and nights. Then, and only then, Pat would let her composure go, becoming as wild as Gill, and even more lethal.

They would walk and talk. Well, Gill would do most of the talking. Pat would make all the appreciative noises expected from her, occasionally pointing out the points Gill would miss almost deliberately, almost checking if Pat was still with her and not gone on a mind trip to a different planet. But Pat was always there, attentive and cunning.

They loved the full moon, even if they didn't really need it. The rounder the satellite, the more manic their behavior. Gill, increasingly bouncier. Pat, more tightly in control of herself.

It was such a night. Full moon, huge and round, filling up the whole sky with the sheerness of its size and its rings of light. So bright, so mad. They just loved bathing in its intense light. They felt almighty.

Cobbles running under the heavy soles of their New Rock boots. Lampposts hardly lighting the streets. Sounds resonating fantastically in the silence surrounding their conversation, Gill's constantly manufactured diatribes. Tonight she was on and on about the town policies on parks and playgrounds, locked up at night, from what? The subject was as good as any. Especially when walls and fences couldn't stop them.

Most of their nocturnal debates were as pointless as they were enjoyable. They would only stop when Pat would eventually point out their total pointlessness. Usually around dawn. She was, and had always been, extremely patient with her best mate. She knew better anyway than interrupting Gill.

A flask of whisky passed between them would add to the sharing and the specialness of the night.

Gill was rather bouncy, regularly shifting shapes. Which one was the real one? They didn't even know themselves. Pat was more contained. Her eyes were the only things she could never control. They had gone a dark and shiny black, intensity and brightness spilling out.

Gill croaked deliberately loudly before shifting back to her human shape. She loved this kind of acting out. She went back to her subject of the night, switching suddenly to the increasing daily presence of ravens in the aforementioned town parks and playgrounds. Pat grunted appreciatively. And both went silent. Their acute sense of hearing had isolated the still distant sound of a footstep. Like heavy boots. They looked at each other, Gill with a new, amused smile slowly raising the corners of her mouth, Pat with an eyebrow rising interestedly. She playfully made her shoulder joints click. The clicking was not human, even if she kept her shape. Gill swiftly turned into a majestic red-spotted green frog the size of a pony and leapt delightedly. Entertainment was on its way.

Entertainment? Certainly not the middle name of the human being approaching them. The frog leapt forward once. The human being kept approaching. Not taller than Pat. A blue mohican proudly erect, skulls and daggers bleedingly tattooed down the right arm, the left arm exhibiting scars, white straight lines from shoulder to elbow like notches on the handle of a cowboy gun, and then, two ugly jagged scars down to the wrist. Combat trousers, as dark as the night, two hunter knifes hanging from a studded leather belt. A confident pace. A female human with a crossbow in her hands. The sure shot caught the throat of the magnificent red-spotted green frog in the middle of the next leap.

Bewildered, the frog fell to the ground, croaking lamely. Fatally wounded. It slowly changed back, body swapping its heaviness for female hips. Blood came out of the no longer smiling mouth, life gone out of Gill's eyes. Pat was on her knees, a hand holding Gill's right hand, an arm under the motionless head. She looked at the stranger, shaking her head, "You killed her!"

"It's my job, sweetheart. I'm a bounty hunter. Werefrogs are dangerous monsters. She was about to attack you. You should be grateful!"

"She was my mate!"

The smirking bounty hunter, still bouncing with satisfaction on the balls of her feet, was now at touching distance. She never read the danger in Pat's eyes. The tail of the giant scorpion struck her between the eyes, lethal and unforgiving.

THE TREES

The trees were talking to her, whispering with the wind. The sycamores and the cedars, the fir trees and the weeping willows. They were singing songs in the mornings, murmuring dreams in the nights. They were giving her protection in the dubious streets of the city. But peace of mind was unknown to her.

She would pass by their lower leaves, they would give her high fives. Her arms would embrace their solid trunks, they would respond to her hugs. They all knew her, they all knew how much she sensed the life pulsing beneath their bark. They knew how fear never touched her, but burning pain dwelled in her heart.

The trees would watch her walk without smiling, her only weakness for them. She felt the vibrating energy emanating from the trees and would let it mingle with hers, welcoming it with relief.

She had come back to them in spring. The winter had been long with snow eventually falling, unseasonably, in early April. Within days, the trees had been screaming with vivid green, and she had started to breathe again, rekindling the connection of old she had strangely forgotten. They had felt the changes and the Ocean raging in her heart.

They knew her mind. Like them, she was not rooted within artificial boundaries, political abstractions. Her mind was simple, she could not understand games. She shared roots with the trees. She was of everywhere. But unlike them, she was alone.

She didn't belong to the human world, despite physical appearances, she belonged with the trees. She was not aware of it, there was a species gap. They always knew where she was. Their underground network would transmit her location all around the planet. Thus, when touching one tree, she was touching all of them. The piece of bark she had accidentally broken off when caressing a trunk, was a piece of each tree that she carried respectfully in one of her pockets.

One morning she walked into a grove, a green oasis in the middle of the city, an oasis of hills and trees. She sat down, leaning her back against a gnarled apple tree, feeling weary of life. The wind was strong enough to play with branches in a significant way. At the same time, in the Los Angeles area, near the north coast of Papua, Indonesia, in Poland and in Crete, faults of various parameters slipped suddenly. The friction of the edges against each other released energy in waves after waves and tectonic plates slightly moved apart around the planet. She didn't feel it at first, but the Earth always relieved its stress in several shocks of various magnitudes, spreading through the network of roots of trees everywhere. The apple trees in her grove waited for it with tremendous anticipation. She sensed oddness against her back, but before she could name it, the apple trees had gathered the energies and focused them, breaching the earth crust. The ground shook before opening up a chasm for her. She fell abruptly, hitting root after root, before resting unconscious, deep in the underground ramifications of the grove of apple trees.

The ground closed above her in a final motion and a deathly quietness. The roots gathered tighter around her, pushing against her skin, until her energy was so mingled with the apple tree's that there was no longer any distinction. Absorbing the water and nutrients of her physical body through newly grown, finer and finer, fine roots that invaded her through every pore, they made her one with them, and by extension with every tree all over the planet. Sighs of relief spread through the leaves and branches of every tree, they were all at one and all was well. Even if the apple trees had other plans........

While it was surely not uncommon for trees to assimilate humans empathetically linked to them, it was still a rare occurrence and the apple trees were generally doing the "taking". Were they evil or innocent? One previously sentient being, one who used to write in the shade of pine trees, had claimed that apple trees were bitches. As a consequence of her strong will, one of the culprits was sporting the brown of her eyes in the middle of its flowers.......

But apple trees in the city were never as strong as those growing in the countryside. As a consequence of trees' little experience in assimilation, the newly "taken" sentient being retained her consciousness of self, and the apple trees –by root extension every tree around the planet- developed ethics. Was it moral to wish for world domination and act upon this wish? They started to dream.......

TEQUILA AFTER DARK

It started like any other gigs. The usual groupies. The usual drunk punters. The usual late soundcheck. The usual kind of pub (music lounge at the back). This woman they had seen a few times, never drinking alcohol, not even smoking (as far as they could tell), never coming near touching distance of the stage, but always dancing like everyone else and apparently having a good time, a few rows of writhing bodies behind. She was non-descript: shortish, brown hair vaguely attempting curls, dark eyes, the thin and pale line of a scar across her left cheekbone, no tattoos to be seen, black jeans, black simple boots (Doc Martens?), red T-shirt, black jean jacket. Well, was she saving this outfit especially for the Leos? It was a case to make you wonder, or it wouldn't have been, if she had stuck to her usual behavior.

The ceiling of the music lounge was painted like a blue sky with vague and lazy clouds. Billie was making her way to the stage, greeting some long-term fans and friends alike, her progression punctuated by a rocky soundtrack and her wild, curly, red hair regularly falling before her green eyes, like following a three-beat rhythm of their own. Mel, always the quiet one, was a few steps ahead of her. Jo was fidgeting with her stool behind the drum kit. She had done it a thousand times only during the sound check. At safe distance from her music-possessed feet, two pint glasses were secretly containing pure vodka (the one with bison grass). Mel had three pints of soon-to-be-not-so-cool water on the ready by her techno-musical paraphernalia (sound effects, equalizer, etc) near the double keyboard whose undisputed master she always was. Her electro-acoustic guitar, gorgeous Ovation twelve- strings, was leaning peacefully just a foot before the back wall. Billie would be front stage with a microphone, level with Mel. On a narrow round bar table almost off the small stage, she had a few shots of Tequila ready for quick consumption, and two pints of water. She was used to sweat a lot on stage. Well, astrologically speaking, she was a wild Leo. Mel was Leo, too, but rising only; she was a favored and blessed Libra. Jo didn't care. Probably Scorpio.

The first thing Billie noticed when she faced the crowd to roar her greetings, while Mel was flipping switches and rotating buttons, was the non-descript fan breaking established habits and standing first row, touching distance, slurping a pint of non-identifiable, yellowish, sparkling drink, next to the usual, forever-cheering groupies, given away by their flamboyant Leos T-shirts.

* * * * * * *

Jan felt brave tonight. She wanted to stand first row, face to face with her idols, without any interference, just "Them" and her. Maybe it was this new antidepressant she was on. Prozac used to be fine, until she started puking every day on each hour. It was not a side effect she'd care to live with. This new medication, whose name she kept forgetting, made her feel different. She was not afraid anymore, whatever it was that used to frighten her so. She stood tall and proud.

The rock-music background died down and the singer with wild, red hair (was she Irish?) started to shout into the mic. The crowd of groupies shouted back with excitement. Jan was just standing there, arms crossed in front of her lean stomach, her head slightly tipped to one side, her eyes bright with fascination, barely the hint of a provocative smile on her delicately chiselled lips, her drink temporarily forgotten and resting at her feet. She could see that Billie had noticed her and she felt satisfied. She was standing there, looking at the singer, straightforward eyes, daring her, challenging her. But challenging her to what?

The powerful voice, reminiscent of Janis Joplin and Melissa Etheridge pulled into one, started its mad acrobatics on the first rock number of the Leos.

But what are songs about? Generally about love. Unrequited love, crazy love, desperate love, dying love, crying love, new love, begging love. _I would fall on my knees / I would make the sun rise / I'd walk on water / I'd tear the sky apart._ _Etc._ Well, a happy love rarely brings a song.

Jan pushed her glass towards the stage and let the wild rhythm of Jo's drum kit take possession of her, swinging her hips along tightening beats, undulating her body like a snake.

Between songs the singer would harangue the crowd, tease them, play with them, witty and flirtatious. It was her temperament. It also allowed Mel to programme the next song on her various machines.

Billie would shout at the crowd, asking them how they were doing, complaining about the plastic glasses she had to drink out of.

"They must have heard of us! I always break the glasses after drinking tequila, so last week I broke a window. It seemed to be the best surface to break my glass!" The crowd responded with noisy laughs. "That must be why they didn't pay us!" And added after quick consideration, "No, I'm sure the cheque is in the post!" And started on a rendition of "Take A Little Piece Of My Heart" Janis Joplin would have been proud of.

Jan had sipped her anonymous pint dry. She always was a fast drinker. She was dancing freely, alternating pogoing and mad swinging of the hips, her gaze regularly riveting itself to Billie's eyes. Billie was equally wilder on stage, screaming and roaring, her hair like the crazy branches of a willow playing in the wind.

Every next number was rockier than the previous one and the mischievous singer knew how to please her crowd.

During a relatively quiet pause, she accepted a tequila proffered by a roadie, placed the glass under her nose, took a good sniff of the alcohol through one nostril then the second and stated,"I don't know about you but my hay fever is suddenly feeling so much better!"

"Mine is on vacation!" Jan replied impulsively.

"Wanna have a taste?" Billie offered, good and charismatic performer, closing the distance between them.

"Why not, sounds like a good idea!" But a bit weary inside.

"Shut up and open your mouth!" Brash and sometimes macho, Billie was.

Jan obeyed. Billie poured the content of the small plastic glass onto the pierced tongue exposed in the process. Jan closed her mouth on the alcohol, a satisfied look on her face, savoring the surprisingly-not-so-burning taste. She bit into the lemon crescent offered by Billie.

Tequila was the trigger. Jan didn't know, but the Dragon knew. It would now take about two hours.

* * * * * * *

During the next two hours everything and everyone went wilder. The crowd, the singer, the drumbeats, Jan's dancing. Her eyes darkened, her elbows sharpened, the crowd gave her respectful space for her increasing foot stomping.

And when the band left the stage, after more of Billie's antics and a few encores, Jan was nowhere to be seen. Neither Billie nor the other Leos cared to even mentally comment about it. More fans to greet, more smiles to distribute and thanks to attribute, posters and t-shirts to sign, CD sales to watch over from very faraway. Everyone still so buzzed-out that unwinding couldn't be considered yet. Too good a gig to readily obey the security men of the pub urging to now leave the premises. It was some time past midnight and no one could really care about it.

When later on The Leos crew managed to eventually load their van, there was no warning. Barely a jet of fire, usual artifice, vague sideshow of a dragon's activity. Before Mel's and Jo's unbelieving eyes, the fantastic creature's claws grabbed an unsuspecting Billie by her jacketed shoulders and the creature flew off with her in their grasp.

Billie was no pitiful babe, she tried to fight back, kicking and screaming. But the claws were strong and uncompromising. High in the dark sky of London, the creature flipped her over, allowing her to face her kidnapper. Humanoid shape with the wings of a Dragon. The singer plunged her gaze into the dark eyes. Something unmistakably familiar. The challenging look. The line of a scar. It dawned on her as surely as the many sunrises she had contemplated. If the snout had been a human nose and a mouth, the nostrils would have shown a hint of tension and the lips would have been delicately chiselled.

* * * * * * *

A few days later, Jan, barely aware of another lapse in her memory, incidentally picked up a free local weekly rag. Vaguely leafing through it, her eyes caught a title: MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF A ROCK SINGER. The item started skeptically with an unknown winged creature breathing fire, claimed to have kidnapped the singer of rock band The Leos, and the latter discovery at dawn by some night worker, of her blooded and dislocated body. Wounds and breaks in the bones were consistent with a fall from great height, the police had said.

Jan first thought she would have liked to see the creature with her own eyes. Where was she at the time? She became aware of a blank. Then she felt a hint of sadness shoot through her heart. And suddenly, she moved on to intrigued, the odd fact that she couldn't remember anything after the tequila administered by the rock singer.

ARMY OF SKELETONS

It was all so typical for Taylor. She'd burst into my bedroom, regardless of the time of day or night. Me having nude company in my bed never unruffled her feathers. I was pretty sure that she'd checked first through the keyhole for any sound or sight of lust action. Now, don't get me wrong. Taylor is a great friend. Not the perfect flatmate, but that's ok. Whatever happened in her past, she'd never touch the drugs, and alcohol, even all through the night, would never take her off to the other side of the galaxy for a guided tour. And I owed her big time. My taste in wimin was as dubious as my taste in alcohol and Taylor had prevented my Rickenbacker to turn missing after many a mixed-up night. When I used to have just a battered, charity-shop electric guitar, it wouldn't have mattered too much. But a couple of times, it had been close. And a Ricky was, as far as I was concerned, the best I could afford and only once in this lifetime. So, I could certainly put up with Taylor's little eccentricities. There she was, standing tall and skinny, bald and brass, already two steps into my bedroom, "Morning, Sunshine! Fancy a coke?"

Appraising the scene dim lit by brave sun rays breaking around thick curtains, a can in each hand, "My, my! You had quite a night!"

My fitted boxer-shorts ("the Special") fitted pleasantly and upside down on the top mechanics of my Ricky proudly relaxing on its stand. My red and black combats were still crumpled where I had jumped out of them. Next to them, I made out the contorted shape of a pair of blue-jeans. I vaguely and absurdly thought, _T-shirts?_ I was for sure wearing only my tattoo suit and the rightful owner of the tattered jeans looked like she was wearing less than me under the zebra quilt. I spotted her tanga diminutive barely an inch away from Taylor's bare left foot.

"Does she drink coke, too? I'm gonna get an extra can."

And out of the room before my brain even considered focusing on the spanking, brand-new day impatiently waiting to grab me by the throat. My bed mate stirred and her warm body crept closer to mine, with an apparent intention to snug very tightly. My right hand naturally found its way to the dark, short hair while my left arm wrapped itself around the co-operative body. Co-operative? Only one night of lust, really? My foggy brain didn't get a chance to start up this dodgy path, Taylor was swiftly back, proffering the extra can. Virgin was her current fancy brand.

I noticed she was still wearing her pajamas. A men's cut she had got from some catalogue because they mistakenly and continuously addressed her as "Mr". She had never dared place an order over the phone, too afraid of terminally damaging their delusional fantasy.

"What's up?" My voice croaked.

"Well, are you gonna introduce me?" Referring to the peaceful and oblivious, naked womon wrapped around me.

I sighed, "She's still asleep."

"OK then." And handed me over one of the blasted cans.

Taylor was neither chemically bald nor close-shaved. She had boldly gone for total hair removal by painful electrolysis while I insisted on sporting a crew-cut which would have made Harvard and Yale universities proud and jealous.

Whenever Taylor barged into the privacy of my sleepy mornings, she'd be like a big baby, grown too fast like Jack's beanstalk. She had a lost look in her eyes. Damn! Where is Peter Pan when you need him to guide your best friend away from all the captain Hooks of the world.

The first sip of coke startled my brain cells into slow motion, the second sip jostled them into disorganised action.

I had met Taylor as a fresh-freckled and fresh-landed American in London (her, not me). The friendship had cropped up on the unlikely compost of mutual irritation. I admired her for her feverish intelligence and accepted that she could loose her marbles as fast as the snap of two fingers. I had learned to recognise her scars for what they were: sharp blades fuelled with unconscious anger. Her family spanned all over the British Commonwealth but she couldn't care less. She behaved like an orphan with no adoptive parents.

She was now sitting on my bed (a Swedish futon of course, it was the cheapest option; wooden frame, metal would be too hard to bang my head on). The square was reaching overcrowd. Where is this blooming sign 'too full for vacation' when you need it.

I studied her profile and her sudden gulps from the can. She was too silent for normal. I checked for telltale signs, but no, she looked unharmed.

Her lips jerked to the left quickly before her neck swivelled towards me and her voice quivered, "I got a letter from my mother."

I gurgled an extra sip of coke. The bubbles exploded in my throat and fired up a rocket into my brain. The comfortable weight against the length of my body prevented me from jumping through the ceiling.

"The Infamous One?"

"That One And Only."

"How did she get your address? She hired a P.I.?"

My left hand, oblivious to the new development above quilt level, had slowly started studying the pleasantly curved buttocks.

"She says so in certain terms." The Sweet Irma in full glory. "She says it's time to bury the hatchet and I should come home. She's got cancer. Not for cure." Full regalia.

Taylor stopped for breath. The aluminium can felt icy cold against the palm of my hand. I waited for a next statement. Taylor whispered, "I don't know what to do."

The mighty cornerstone of this genius's life. She could sort out the whole planet's and its entire population's problems in as many seconds as it takes to a chameleon to swat the nearest fly or insect driving by. Less than one. But her very own life? Her very problems? Bloody Irma, from the other side of the Atlantic pond was now inducing her daughter with acute muteness and I was too busy fuming in my head to comment with appropriate words.

In the ensuing silence, my nerve endings discovered a new anarchist turn. I caught my breath at the same time that I caught dreamy fingers slowly but dangerously sliding their way towards my pelvic area. My night guest shifted to an even more comfortable position and opened her sleepy eyes on Taylor whose facial expression sparked up with new life. I introduced Taylor and in the same brain motion it dawned on me that I had not a clue about the identity of this womon I had just spent the night with in such intimate fashion. Shaddock!

ARMY OF SKELETONS II

Shaddock? Yes, it's my name. Well, let me clear it out for you. I have nothing to do with pomelos and I'm no descendant of the ship captain of the same name who brought the first pomelo seeds to the Barbados. Years ago, Segur nicknamed me Shaddock after some French cartoon characters from the 70's. Something to do with pumping. The first time I ever met Segur, I was swearing obscenities at my bicycle for collecting one more puncture in front of an anarchist squat. Maybe I should avoid this neighborough? Segur made a joke and I told him to piss off, go to hell, get lost, sod off, fuck off, and some more. He laughed, his wavy, dark hair swaying in the motion, and walked his thin and effeminate frame into the squatted building, leaving me to my fate. He looked like this friend of Boy George's back in the early 80's, this singer who had named himself after the actress Marilyn.

As a matter of fact, Segur was a singer, too. I found out during one of these many squat parties I used to haunt with Taylor and a bunch of friends. Taylor, being so insensitive to the inanities of alcohol, was always in charge of driving us back home. She didn't mind. She actually thought it was great fun to corral us and shepherd us, no matter how drunk, how stoned. Anyway, that night I was performing with a few friends. Our short-lived band was generally very punk and very drunk. I was the guitar player. We had a bass player who couldn't bother tuning up. And the drummer, she had a tendency to speed up her rhythm, especially when on speed. We would all sing, preferably out of tune. We were called _Wasted_ and we were not serious. As a matter of fact, a while later, the bass player almost did herself in with too much acid and the drummer took herself back to Germany. But back to that night. Segur was literally glamorous and more feminine than Marilyn Monroe with a few Culture Club's numbers. He was the queen of the night and we were just a warm-up snack.

"Isn't it our Shaddock?" He teased me later, his smile full of pearly-white teeth. "You know, darling, your talent is wasted in this band. You're worth so much more than that!" The crowd and alcohol separated us.

A year later, after _Wasted_ got wasted and totally disintegrated into oblivion, we started to hang out together. He insisted on calling me Shaddock and the name stuck. He started to talk about getting a band together. "A real band". Something queer, something anarchist. "Oh, god forfend! We'll be stars!" He would exclaim, more queen than ever, tipsy with red wine.

Segur was simply obsessed with French culture. He had named himself after a countess from the 19th century who used to write children's books. Thus the name he chose for the band was no surprise: _Parques_. French word for the Parcae, the Fates of Roman mythology. He wanted me to be the mean lead guitar.

First, he introduced me to Epoxy, a talented sax player, focused sound engineer, and at the time pre-op transsexual, with nails varnished blood red. Segur and Epoxy enjoyed swapping cosmetic tips. Then later, it was the twins' turn to show up. I guess Segur was into looks there, because Will and Pete were just acceptable rhythm guitar and bass, with Adonis bodies that stopped most gay men in their tracks. Personally, I go for brains. When Will and Pete were not playing music, you were likely to find them shagging in some corner. They were obsessed with each other.

Last but not least, Segur discovered a drummer. She was a rare specimen of butch dyke, an American import fond of Southern Comfort and Cuban cigars. She'd never miss a beat. Her name was Gobo, named after one of the Fraggles, some characters created by Jim Henson, because of her thick, sandy hair and because "No one knows where Gobo goes when Gobo goes off the rail", Gobo dixit.

It took a year of on-and-off rehearsals for Segur to feel satisfied and want to test the hot waters of the London anarchist scene. Segur had cultivated a voice that sounded like a cross of Marilyn Manson and Boy George, with a sprinkle of special FX, courtesy of Epoxy. We went down like a treat. Maybe because we were one of the rare bands bothering with a proper sound.

Within the last two years, our star had risen bright in the sky of anarchist Britain.

This was how I happened to be at this huge squat party in Tulse Hill. We had been brilliant, of course, annoyingly brilliant, and I was now focused on sampling the various beers on offer at the bar. It was actually Red Stripe or Stella Artois, Stella Artois or Red Stripe. I was on Red stripe and Segur was, unsurprisingly, waiting for a Stella. I was actually feeling seriously tipsy. I wanted the _PARQUES_ to go on taking more musical risks but Segur was happy where we were standing. He wanted us to be the next Chumbawamba or Poison Girls or Nirvana.

"You need a girlfriend, my darling. Look at Gobo!"

Gobo was busy chatting up a thin womon with long hair and stilettos. Will and Pete were nowhere in sight and Epoxy, who by now was post-op, had lost herself in the noisy crowd. I was drowning my frustration can after can and couldn't care less if the music that made people dance was live or DJ-produced.

I was walking to the bar in the dim light when I bumped into a guy who was, of course, taller than me (I don't reach 5'5'') and tripping his own trip. I apologised. My ma would have been proud, you see, she brought me up to be polite. Anyway, the guy said not to worry, looked at me and enquired. "Can I give you a kiss on the forehead?"

I looked back, giving my best impression of 'What the hell is going on here?', not very thrilled by the prospect somehow, when a womon standing behind me, answered on my behalf, "Only on the forehead."

The guy had never waited for an answer, he was already giving me a kiss on the forehead and melting into the crowd. This was really all too weird. I turned to face the womon who had dared making such decision on my behalf. Coz, you see, I don't like that. Too many people tried to run my life, regardless of my desires.

So, I turned to the unknown womon and her smile had not trouble sweeping away my vindictive mind. I'll never remember what we exactly said, but we had one sentence each, the basic gist along those lines, "What do you want?" "I wanna kiss you."

The next thing I knew, she was kissing me. Sure, I was kissing back and my right hand had found its way to her neck. So, yeah, we were kissing. But all too soon she broke off and disappeared into the crowd, never to be seen again. So quick that I couldn't get a hold of her arm.

"OK," I thought, and resumed my trip to the bar, too tipsy to remember more than her smile and her dark, short hair.

Well, let me tell you: a kiss is always more than just a kiss, it's a snog.

ARMY OF SKELETONS III

I spent the rest of the night drinking more Red Stripe and trying to convince Segur to take a new musical approach, to not avail. Taylor, as sober as ever, drove me home, barely commenting on my vain attempts. I didn't mention the stranger with dark, short hair, nor the weird guy on a personal trip, it was all too typical of the life of South London. Well, at least on our scene.

I said so before and it had always been true for me: I go for brains. With just a snog I couldn't have a glimpse of her I.Q. Then how come, suddenly, I couldn't get this smile out of my mind? Besides, my memory has never been good at remembering faces, so, how on earth and in hell, would I ever recognise this womon if I ever bumped into her on the street or elsewhere? She could have been living miles away, just passing through London on her way to Africa. Yeah, sure.

And maybe it was nothing to her. Maybe she indulged in casual kissing and casual snogging like others do recreational drugs. Maybe I was better off evicting her from my mind, getting her taste off my tongue. But she was a tenacious squatter.

I tried to get on with my daily activities, but couldn't focus. My regular guitar practice simply went out the window and into the street. I started roaming the neighborough with the wild and absurd hope that perhaps, just perhaps, she was living next door. I had things to get from shops every morning and every afternoon, pubs were suddenly fascinating in the evening, and Coldharbour Lane, Coldharbour Lane was simply the most attractive piece of pavement.

At the end of this phase, with hardly any cash left in my pocket until the next giro cheque, I sat down at my computer and went on playing my favourite card game, my mind wandering the highways of London, scanning every borough, ticking off every squat, and missing out on combinations of red and black, 2 of clubs on ace of clubs, 7 of diamonds on 8 of spades.

"You forgot to move this king," Taylor pointed out negligently.

"You know what? This game is called Solitaire. Any idea why?"

"OK. I've got the drift. But, tell me something. Anything happened to you last time you were on Tulse Hill?"

Drat, Taylor always spotted changes in behaviour. This time, she had lasted 3 weeks before inquiring.

"Er....... Whadayamean?" Obvious, I knew.

"Nothing. I'm gonna get my skeleton. See ya!"

It took me half an hour to realise where she had said she was off to. Not that it was something extraordinary and wildly extravagant in Taylor's life. All the contrary. She collected all the Hallowe'en crappy plastic skeletons and skulls and they were like tinsels along the walls of her bedroom. Her bedroom! Is it gothic or is it medieval? The bed is an Abbey bedstead, a 'medieval gothic design with fleur-de-lys finials'. Black. Bedside table matching. The bedding was an assortment of black and burnt orange. Even the walls were burnt orange. The whole picture would have been sternly sober without the skeletons.

So, one more skeleton or one less, what's the difference? Well, the difference was that she'd never mention the arrival of a new one because it was just a standard procedure. Then, what was so special about today's skeleton?

The dragging outline of the cards on my computer screen suddenly lost their appeal, appeal that had already lost it to the memory of a drunken snog, and I started to wonder. While I was waiting for Taylor's old banger to cough its return down the street with the mysterious skeleton, a new thought on my obsession crossed my mind: what if I had it all wrong? What if I had been already beyond tipsy and relinquishing control to alcohol, to a point of delusion? Meaning: what if I had been the one initiating the snog with this womon, against her will? Wow....... That wouldn't be so good. That would mean she won't ever want to do that ever again and I was totally off my head.

Didn't get a chance to extrapolate on the potential disaster, I heard the front door slam open and Taylor hollered my name up the steps of our house, "Hey, Shaddock! Get the hell down here and give us a hand, will you?"

Oh, oh. Yeah, I wanted to see 'the' skeleton! Find out what was so special about it. Hang on, she needs help? How big is it!

Adult size actually, folded in a cardboard box that had seen better days. We carried the thing up to her bedroom, across the landing from mine and lowered it carefully onto the black carpet.

"I got it reduced price," Taylor was saying while slashing open the flabby container. "They say it is slightly damaged. I'm quoting. Broken pelvic bone. I guess I'm happy to have super glue somewhere in a drawer."

She pulled out huge handfuls of packing, padded-bubble plastic sheets and shredded lengths of paper, unveiling 'the' skeleton. Holly shit! The kind of skeleton gracing science classrooms and medical schools!

ARMY OF SKELETONS IV

And day by day I would carry on entertaining my delusional madness, spying on every womon, stalking each one with the short, dark hair. The thought crossed my mind that she might have bleached and dyed her hair since the Tulse Hill benefit. And what about her being straight or a nun on the run for that matter. A month had passed, without any gig but a few rehearsals with distracted guitar leads. Distracted. but innovative. Will and Pete generally silent spoke in unison, "Is it a new riff?" Whatever. Segur liked it.

The Tulse Hill squat got evicted and we waited for the next one. Spring put on a sunny face and pretended to be summer. One day I felt mad enough to suggest Segur the integration of one of Joan Armatrading's tunes into our repertoire.

"She is faraway from being political," he replied with a grimace.

"You can rewrite the lyrics. My point is: _Cool Blue Stole My Heart_ 's got a fabulous guitar lead. It's just great music wise."

"......," doubtful. "I've got time to think about it later. We're on next month for the Cannabis Festival. I'm going away next week and I want a few things sorted first."

Chapter closed. Where was he off to? The guy knew bucketfuls about french culture but never mentioned going there. He must have had. I wouldn't have passed him a few french loves on the side, but I have to say, at the time I couldn't care less and didn't even bother asking. Now, think about it. He had always avoided the subject. He was a clever one with words.

So, Segur went away and I kept on haunting possible bumping places. Beer had lost its appeal and Tequila had gained some potential, preferably pure. I wasn't impartial with coconut rum either. That's how on a Saturday evening I found myself in a club, one that used to be the legendary Bell, ─strange, in my memory it was bigger─, to meet up with some friends and enjoy music with more rhythm and more meaning than the average dance noise in clubs. The place had once again changed ownership and camels had started to graze the walls. 10 pm was still quiet and I found familiar faces in a corner.

"We just arrived," declared Billie with the blonde curls. "Want a drink?"

"Yep, a shot of tequila will do."

"Here is my friend Sam," motioning to the dark-short-haired womon sitting next to her. (Gosh, how many dark-short-haired wimin in London?!). "Get acquainted!" She got up quickly and rushed to the bar. Sam looked like one of the usual featherheads Billie seemed to forever fancy. They were a few more wimin gathered around the table, chatting above the music decibels. I knew most of them by sight, used to see them hanging around Billie. Most of them squatters. I decided to be polite and make my mother proud once again, not that she'd care, mind you, but, it's difficult to get rid of some upbringing.

"You live in Hackney, too?"

"Yeah. I'm in Billie's squat."

Ah, let me guess, "New to London?"

"Yeah."

Then Billie was back with the promised drinks. "Did she tell you?" Billie started after giving Sam a lager and sitting down with hers. She interrupted herself to light a cigarette. Ah, Billie in clubs, she gotta smoke and she gotta drink.

"What?" I prompted.

"She is an artist. She paints extraordinary stuff. You should see it!"

"She is exaggerating," the artist cut in before gulping a long swig of lager, blushing scarlet tomatoes.

"No, no! It's so brilliant! Sam's gonna have an exhibition soon!"

Sam shrugged her shoulders. Billie had a reputation for enthusiasm. She could even find something in what she called Taylor's skeleton extravaganza. Taylor had a tendency to ignore her. You never knew if Billie totally meant it or was speaking out of general insecurity around people.

Sam suddenly got up. "It's my favourite tune," she explained without looking at me or Billie, and walked to the dance area at the other end of the bar. Only a few people had started shaking their shimmy. It was somehow too early. I recognised a gay guy swinging his hips and flashing a toothy smile all around the place. Rufus. The tune was going back to 1990. It had been a hit and for once I had agreed. The voice of Black Box was powerful, expressive and felt real. Billie and I looked at each other. I smiled, amused.

"What!" She exclaimed, always a tiny bit sensitive.

"Nothing! I think you made her run away!"

"You sure it's me?" Catching up on the joke. "Could be you; it wouldn't be new!"

We shared a light laugh and she started one of her swirly tales about squats and anarchists in Hackney. The Dalston one was still going and wimin there were as active as ever. Sam came back a few songs later, probably a few more of her favourite songs. And Billie, as restless as ever, got up to disappear again. "I need the loo! Shaddock, tell Sam about your music!"

After the whirlwind's departure, a silence settled promisingly at the table. Oh, shit.

"You really a musician?"

I nodded the affirmative.

"What do you play?"

"Guitar. I'm in a band. I'm the lead guitar."

"Wow!"

Wow? Wait until I show you my tattoos. They're the ones getting the "wows" in summertime.

"What's the name of your band?"

"The Parques. It's run by a mad guy with more make-up than Lady Di used to wear."

"Wow! The Parques!"

OK. Sounds like tough competition for my body art. Shall I take my sweatshirt off? After all, I'm bound to dance later and sweat off all the Tequila.

"I hadn't realised....... Gosh!"

"Hey! Hey! Please, land! You're embarrassing me now!"

"Really?" Surprised. "Sorry." Silent now.

And me scratching the nape of my neck, precisely the flaming hair of a fierce Mexican skeleton dancing all over my back. Well, who said Taylor was the only one fancying skeletons, eh?

Here was Billie again, darting her green eyes from me to Sam and back. She gestured towards the dancing area. "Look at the growing crowd." Half a dozen unconvinced dancers, unconvincing except for the aforementioned guy happily shimmying his narrow behind. Billie was right. We knew the score. The music was always good, real crowd would be there soon. We signalled and waved madly to our table group. Some got up, some couldn't be bothered.

On the dance floor I could just forget about Billie's new friend (she always wanted to introduce them to me. Maybe she fancied herself a matchmaker. She had never been bothered about sharing her girlfriends or staying with them too long). Rufus, thin as a stick and not into growing bulging muscles, greeted me with his flashy, toothy smile, and later got me another Tequila. I was sure he and Segur would be quite a pair. I'd have to introduce them.

Around midnight, Taylor arrived with Gobo and her new girlfriend in tow. I knew Taz in her capacity of library assistant. By that time, I was enjoying the subtle effect of Tequila on my brain, but thought some water over my face would wipe away a bit of sweat. You see, Taylor and I are pogo mad.

By the way, have you noticed how peculiar meeting points toilets can be? So, there I was, contemplating my mirror reflection with water dripping like rivers down my face when this womon came out of a loo and stopped, like frozen, staring at my mirror reflection, too. I stared back, by mirror channel, taking in the details of her features, the brown eyes so deep, the skin smooth and slightly tan, the dark, short hair (yes, another one), the light, nervous tick of the lips (do I make her feel nervous?), the white, thin scar down her chin, and eventually turned to her. By that time, we were the only ones in the washroom. Was she from my table? Yeah. But. I enquired with mild interest and alcohol flowing warm in my blood, "Have we met before? You look familiar." Always use the word familiar. It immediately gives a personal touch to your conversation. Even if it's not really true. Besides, as a performing musician going out as often as I can afford it, I meet a lot of people.

"As a matter of fact, we have." She smiled shyly.

"Care to refresh my memory? I'm very bad at remembering faces."

Her left eyebrow rose up, circumspect. And then she made her move. I felt her lips on mine and her hand around my neck. It was more than a kiss, it was a snog and it tasted sweet and definitely familiar. I wanted it to last forever. But she withdrew as suddenly as she had started. We contemplated each other. I felt tongue-tied, her taste on the tip of my tongue. There she was, the womon I had tracked down all over South London, the womon who had eluded me for the last two months. And I was just standing there silent? A cat had got my tongue and was intending to save it for breakfast. I wrestled to get it back, too stunned to extract anything intelligent out of my relaxed brain. I was the one frozen in the eternity of the instant. The door of the washroom slammed open for a giggling womon with wild hair falling down before her eyes. My beautiful snogger used the opportunity to exit out into the dance floor. I didn't know what to feel: stupid or standing on sunshine? I rushed out in hot pursuit but the dancing crowd had thickened, reaching the end of the bar. By the time I reached our table, she was nowhere to be seen and Taylor called out to me with another Tequila.

ARMY OF SKELETONS V

I had her there, in my grasp (correction, she had me in her grasp) and I had let her go? Again?! What was wrong with this womon anyway? Now, this was no mistake of mine. She wouldn't have come back for second helping if she hadn't liked the first time. Then what kind of game was she playing at? Ok, Watson, what's next?

Next time, if there was a next time, and I hoped there would be one, I really wanted to get an understanding of her behaviour. That was the minimum I needed.

So, she was probably not on her way to Africa then. And she was not a nun on the run, well, at least not a nun, but on the run from me somehow every time. What about the 'straight' theory? Bother. Go figure.

As a matter of fact, a week or so later, I was walking back from the swimming pool after my usual 33 lanes (a mixture of boredom, meditation and physical exercise), a plastic bag of wet items dangling from my idle fingers, my skin perfumed with chlorine, when I suddenly felt the urge to look back and check who was walking just a few feet behind because the presence felt so strong. I did. Suddenly. And the dark, short-haired womon who was walking with her eyes staring at the tar, unavoidably bumped into me, jumped, started mumbling "sorry" and stumbled silent after only half the word. Her deep brown eyes took me in. I found my tongue functional and spoke, with a smile, "You're not gonna do a runner on me again, do you? Or do I have to beg you on my knees?"

She rubbed the nape of her neck, eyes squinting like victim of the strong sunlight, embarrassed. Her eyelids stopped dancing up and down. "Er......."

"Would you go for a drink with me? Please?"

"Er......."

"Ok. It's optional. I just wanna know....... But talking is optional, too."

She looked tongue-tied. Was she wrestling with a cat to get her tongue back? Ah, cats. You can never ignore them, they won't let you. I shrugged. Decided to walk away. I just couldn't deal with it. I felt a fool. I turned my back on her.

"Wait!" Her hand on my arm.

"What?" Without smile this time, with a stony expression on my face, hiding the faster beat of my heart.

"Yeah, let's go for a drink."

"You sure? You're not gonna bolt away from me again, just like that, with no warning?"

"Hey! You were the one about to do a runner this time."

"Well, I'm not the kind just standing there and waiting, you know."

"Maybe not." Her smile broadened. "But you were about to beg me on your knees."

My face let go of the stone. I tried to suppress a smile from blossoming all over. But her smile was not one whose power I could resist. Beside, I just wanted to get lost in the depth of her eyes.

"What's up now," she said. "The cat got your tongue?"

She had me there, beaming and defenseless, fascinated and....... Oh, stop! I cleared my throat, shook my head slightly like ok, ok, you've won, and sighed with delight in my heart soon to creep across my face. "Let's go for this drink then!"

Conveniently enough there was a coffee shop just there, one of these new-fangled shops that had sprouted during the last few years on Railton road. I had never been inside, even so a friend of mine used to have breakfast there every Saturday with her girlfriend. I was not really in favour of all the gentrification masterminded by the Lambeth council. I was more likely to haunt older places with character fathomed by years of local life. But, at that moment in time, I couldn't think about politics, I could just think that 'She' was there and in agreement with a drink in my delightful company. Delightful? Hopefully delightful enough!

I got a cappuccino and she got the same. We sat by the computers forever exhibiting flying screensavers. I vaguely noticed some paintings on the walls. I hardly noticed the quietness of the room; we had it just for us. No, I just wanted her to talk, I just wanted her to sit with me, I just wanted to drink her smile, I.......

"Do you live around here?"

".......yeah."

"I'm on Morval, the Effra end. What about you?"

"I'm on Barnwell, the Railton side. Wow! That's close! But I've never seen you around. That is, before today."

"Well....... I've moved recently. Only a few months ago. "

"I've been there for a while. Do you live alone?"

"No, I share with two dykes. What about you?"

"I share with a mate."

Silence. I heard a pop song, recognized the tune, named it as 'I put a spell on you' by Sonique, realized the radio was on, but didn't wonder about the radio station. The singer went on: "coz you're mine'. Was she mine? But the song was just one more song about unrequited love. I refocused on the deep brown eyes, on the smile so sweet, the voice so captivating. Every sentence was like another spell spun with her personal brand of magic.

"I'm a student," she said, answering my question on her activities. "Psychology. I used to be a nurse, but I didn't like it. You? Apart from music."

"Bits and pieces. Dole scrounging."

And on and on, cappuccino after cappuccino, while the sky stretched itself as blue as blue can be. She used to live in Putney but she didn't like it there. She found it boring and depressing. She felt so lucky to be able to move. She liked the life around here, the colourful characters who made Brixton so special. We swapped stories: squats, rioting demos, gay prides gone by, summer festivals, street parties. Oh sure, been there, done that, loved it up and will be back!

"I'm getting restless. Fancy a walk?"

"Yeah, let's go to Brockwell Park. They won't close the gates before sundown." Whatever time it is, who cares. If I could only dare....... We kept chatting. I couldn't say how 'Hellraiser' got into the conversation but we both preferred the second one for the architecture of the cenobites' world. That was grand.

Ah, Brockwell Park. Its hills, its trees, its runners, its dogs, its footballers, its green grass. Its expanse.

We talked non-stop, exchanging reactions, threads of discontent and roaring laughter. The foot and mouth disease, Buffy the vampire slayer (in comparison with Xena the warrior princess), the TV-license people, the Harry Potter website, Tomb Raider II, the three nail bombs (April-May 1999), vodka versus tequila, gentrification, riot grrrrls, and of course, _The Parques_. Why the name, the choice of songs, my musical frustration.

Trees were beautiful in Brockwell Park. I loved them like sisters. I loved caressing their rough bark. And I just wanted to gently push her against a large trunk and....... Well, with such a silence suddenly between us and such fire in her eyes, I wanted to let go and follow my impulse especially if our lips were so close....... But I pulled away and whispered, "Are you gonna run away again?"

"No, I won't," she whispered back.

"Are you sure? Can I really trust?" I smiled. "I think I'm gonna make sure you stay this time."

She let me push her gently against a gigantic oak, circling her with my arms. And then we kissed and kissed, again and again.

ARMY OF SKELETONS VI

"Imogen, my name is Imogen," said the womon sensually wrapped around my body, saving me from exposed embarrassing ignorance.

"Would you like some coke, Imogen?"

"Yeah, sure, thanx!"

Taylor handed her the can of cold caffeine. I thought maybe it would be good to add a word there and then.

"Taylor, why don't you leave us for now. We'll have our drinks and get up and can see you later in the kitchen."

"Sure, Shad." Shad short for Shaddock, of course. She got up with the same smile sparkling across her face and walked out. I sighed. So, my mysterious womon was named Imogen. Imogen like this photographer whose surname I'd forgotten, like Iggie in 'Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café'.

"Shad?"

"that's the short version of my name."

"?"

"Shaddock."

"Where did you get it from?"

"Oh," I sighed. "It's just one of Segur's weird ideas. More exactly part of his obsession for French culture. A TV cartoon from the 70's. Something to do with pumping."

She sat up and I started to wonder again about the whereabouts of our respective T-shirts. Maybe somewhere buried under the zebra quilt. It was amazing the things I could dig out from there sometimes. Not that I was in a hurry to get out of bed. As a matter of fact it felt quite cosy. It was just that I felt concerned for Taylor. But, at the same time, every nerve ending of my naked body felt very aware of Imogen's physical presence. I guessed Taylor would be alright for one hour or two. I put down my can near the futon, by the wooden chair I used as a bed table, spotted the T-shirts negligently rolled into balls under the chair. Good, we were not gonna need the bloodhounds after all. And looked into Imogen's eyes, as brown, deep, clear and open as the ocean was blue. She put her can down, too. What we did next happened under the zebra quilt.

* * * * * * *

Later that week I thanked my lucky stars for the friendly people running the coffee shop where I had so many cappuccinos with Imogen: they had found my wet swimming suit and wet towel in the plastic bag I had totally forgotten about, so taken I was with finding Imogen on my way.......

So, I went back swimming, that is, when I was not spending time with my new lover. I discovered that in her spare time Imogen made amazing spiders and delicate cobwebs by soldering pieces of metal together.

Most extraordinarily, Taylor met someone. A tall womon with blonde curly hair and green eyes behind thin, silver-framed spectacles, an interest in skeletons, too, and answering to the name of Kelly. I got to hear about a short story published in a 'penny dreadful' sometimes in the 19th century, the story of a count who made a deal with the devil (did I hear Faust there?). In exchange for eternal life, he would turn into a fleshless and totally helpless skeleton every night. In the meantime, the new womon in his life, whom he had brought back from the dead, turned out to be a vampire....... Honestly, what good was he to the devil, as a skeleton? Kelly couldn't answer that one. Or maybe didn't want to.

If I hadn't been so taken by you-know-who by now, I might have paid more attention and sensed the weirdness in Kelly. Well, by now, we're all weird, all together in this weirdness.

ARMY OF SKELETONS VII

A week later, I walked back home through the backstreets of Brixton, vaguely counting the many abandoned cars yellow-marked for collection. Flat tyres and broken windows, open bonnets and lights missing. Happily chatting with Imogen.

We found Taylor and Kelly in the kitchen. Taylor, who never touched the drugs, could be partial to pot once in a blue moon. It was blue moon time and she was stoned, waving at me a piece of parchment with rune-like symbols I had never seen before. Sadly enough, once every few blue moons, smoking pot had consequences for Taylor. And it was THAT blue moon. She looked so excited, so pleased with herself, that I wondered what kind of trouble she had landed herself in this time. Kelly was quietly smiling in her corner. While Imogen stopped smiling.

"Look! I found a way not to go to America!" Taylor was almost shouting. "This is a deal! I've got a miracle cure for my mother's cancer from this guy called Sho'or! Kelly works for him sometimes. All he wants in exchange is the use of my skeleton and my best friend's! You're my best friend. I'm sure you don't mind."

"Oh oh! Slow down and start again. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look!" Waving again at me the parchment. "It's a deal with Sho'or."

"Sho'or? What kind of name is that?"

"Never mind! It's a deal!" And she burst out laughing.

"Kelly? What's going on here?"

Kelly looked at her watch and got up, "Look at the time! I must get going!"

"Hang on a sec! What is Taylor on about?"

"Oh just a joke. We're stoned! I gotta go."

Imogen, standing between the exit and Kelly, didn't move. Her eyes were dark with a hint of anger. "You know better than that," she only told Kelly.

Kelly froze. I looked at her, then at Imogen. What happened to tea time? You know: you get home, put the kettle on, sit in the kitchen, and go on enjoying life. It was my master plan of the day. But, it looked like master plan or not, I had lost my day to something mightier.

Slowly, Kelly's face went pale and Imogen's eyes darker. While the sun kept on shining outside, oblivious of human dramas.

"Hey! What's up with you two?"

I calmly suggested to Taylor to sit down and she did. I looked at the two antagonists and asserted myself, "OK, could someone tell me what's up?"

Thankfully, Imogen broke the silence, "It's no joke."

ARMY OF SKELETONS VIII

Imogen had a secret. Kelly had a secret. Many people around the world had a secret. And now Taylor and I were sharing this secret.

Imogen's mysterious disappearances? The call of Sho'or. She only had time to exit whatever situation she was in before being spirited away and into the realm of Sho'or, to become one of many skeletons in Sho'or's army. And now Taylor and I would join their ranks. There was no escape, even for me. Taylor had signed the deal and I wanted to damn Kelly forever.

Imogen had joined less than a year ago. At the time she had been depressed enough not to care about anything anymore, depressed enough to consider sharp implements and Death herself. When she was offered a deal with Sho'or: the depression lifted and a new home in a better area. In exchange she would just have to lend her skeleton to his army. Sho'or always respected his side of the deal. Once she had agreed, she no longer had the choice. She was called and had to go. No one could resist the call. Mysterious death could be an occupational reward.

Kelly wanted out. The only way for her was to find a dozen skeletons before terminally breaking any bones.

To kill or to be killed. It was a merciless war.

And Sweet Irma was gonna get the miracle cure for cancer? Were they mad or was I out of my head? I didn't know what to believe. Suddenly I wanted Taylor to come down from her high and I wanted to be left alone.

ARMY OF SKELETONS IX

Skeletons. They were animal skeletons, too, Imogen had said. Some flying ones looked like pterodactyls, but were bats. Rather lethal. There were dogs. Some skeletons were surely not human, barely humanoid, from other worlds, parallel and otherwise. The other army? Skeletons, too. How did you differentiate your friends from your foes? You just knew.

I had started to wonder about Imogen's sanity. After all, for a quiet one, to kiss me twice without knowing me was rather daring. But I brushed aside my doubts. It had been love at first sight and I couldn't bear to doubt. I was hooked.

Was I being pessimistic or just down to earth when I started considering the possibility of being 'called' in the middle of a gig. Sure, I could certainly picture myself leaving the stage in the middle of a song...... Sorry, gotta go. The prospect was definitely insane....... My alcohol consumption increased and I gave Tall Guy, my ganja dealer, an extra visit. Just as well it was time for the Cannabis Festival.

* * * * * * *

On his return Segur had spilled the beans. He had been having a secret affair with some political, closeted gay guy on the other side of the English Channel. Now that it was over, he felt a bit empty, but "nothing that a few bottles of red Burgundy wouldn't cure".

* * * * * * *

Ah, the British weather! Monsoon at the approach of midsummer. Of course, everyone thought the summer was already over. The sky had been so overcast lately that it was definitely due for bursting. Despite being drenched, Brockwell Park had attracted a huge crowd of revellers willing to make a point: they wanted cannabis to be legalised, and they wanted it now. Dealers would just walk around between showers, calling out "Ganja!" or "Skunk!" or whatever they had stashed in their pockets, when they were not deliberately flaunting it under our very noses. I spotted the bare buttocks of some Naked Protesters in between two showers. I didn't have a clue what they were on about.

Our gig on the main stage felt good. We were _The Parques_ and we were great. Sho'or, real or unreal, left me alone. I noticed Rufus in the audience, wearing a very absurd black-and-pink-striped, plastic raincoat. But nothing to protect his head. That was Rufus all right. His eyes were literally glued to Segur's every move and Segur's perfectly smooth, shaved chest. I toyed with the idea of playing the matchmaker of the day.

We were about to empty the stage of our gear when Epoxy, clad in a ragged T-shirt and a glamorous sarong, looked up from her tiny mobile phone. She had just checked her voicemail, in case she had pulled enough strings, and the case was right, she had: Mardi-Gras wanted us. Not the main stage but, "Why not the main stage?" inquired Segur sharply. Because _the main stage was for the pop acts and the Popstarz Indie stage was_ , as spelled out in the very name, _for the indie bands_. Fifteen minutes. Segur didn't get a chance to really claw at this, Rufus was on the other side of the fence enclosing the backstage, calling out my name.

"You know him?" My friend innocently asked me, with a twinkle of interest in his green eyes (today they were green, tomorrow he might want them on fire. Amazing what you can do these days with contact lenses).

So, Segur had noticed Rufus. With such a raincoat, it was no surprise. Well, I had better get on with the matchmaking and get back to my personal love life. Imogen was quietly waiting on the side line. I just had time to wonder if it was 'coup de foudre' or only a bout of lust, before accepting the champagne and the smile offered by my lover.

ARMY OF SKELETONS X

Sho'or's first call caught me luckily enough on my doorstep. No tingling in the extremities or violent headache. Just a sudden knowledge. I walked into my house, slammed the door behind me and stepped into the living room. A collection of old sofas, peeling painted walls, and a shabby TV dating back to Methuselah. Taylor, slouched on one of the antiques, looked up, her eyes saying it all, she had heard the call, too. So, what now? How much time is just enough time to get out of the situation you were in? We were not in any specific situation, even if we didn't fancy going to war for a mystery guy. That's when the mystic started. A flash of light, like the too powerful flash of a camera suddenly blinding us, and a crashing sound as thunderous as Zeus' ire. Or, as I would imagine it to be.

There we were now, in the middle of a crowd of skeletons, anonymous skeletons, various sizes and builds. I could just about recognise myself thanx to a piece of metal doctors had installed in my right femur after I broke it into several pieces at age 10. Taylor knew about it, if she had not forgotten, and I had mentioned it to Imogen in what was at the time a very absurd conversation. Where was Imogen? How could I locate a non-descript skeleton in a crowd of non-descript skeletons? Taylor was not the only tall one. No clues. Besides, if we were just skeletons, just collections of bones, how were we able to think, move, keep alive. Nothing to do with Rodolph, this count guy who had made a pact with the devil and found himself with a vampire mistress. I was a skeleton, but my girlfriend was no vampire. Well, how could I be sure, now.......

I looked ahead, and saw who I assumed was Sho'or. Actually, was he male or female or other? How can you tell when a being is a complete network of bulging muscles, sweating blood (without ever drying out?!), with no fat at all and surely not any telltale genitals. No lips. We could see the teeth, regular and human, flashy-white with a faint hint of blood. I realised he was satisfactorily smiling. It was actually a very horrid rictus. He was negligently ensconced in a high-backed throne with finials shaped like skulls. These skulls had a very cynical look about them.

It dawned on me that my crowd was just a bunch of rookies, freshly arrived from wherever. I was not quite sure about some skeletons. They had spikes on their spines or down their arms, or empty sockets all around their skulls (the perfect spies?), or horns where I would have a nose. Some had massive and long hands.

Sho'or looked pleased, with himself or with us. Two skeletons were standing next to him. One human, the other I assumed to be a dog.

"I am Sho'or". The voice had a definite deep edge. "And this is my realm." With a flourish of his right arm. Great, the guy was right-handed. This fact would certainly be a great help. I felt extremely resentful, to say the least. With another flourish he introduced the skeletons by his left side, "This is the General of my army and her faithful hound. You'll obey her orders as mine."

I wondered if the femalehood of the general would make our pill-swallowing better. Sho'or went on, "We are up against a deadly enemy: The Wooden Man. His army is as lethal as you are, or will be, with your few chosen weapons. My victory and your survival are one and the same. You'll be given weapons. Your enemies are equipped in a similar fashion."

His smile faded. He signaled to the general with a bloodied hand. She didn't say a word, she just looked at us with her empty sockets, but I swear, I could see what her eyes would have conveyed. And she walked off, me and the rookies on tow, the hound's nose tip on the ground by our metatarsals, like sniffing, like memorizing our scent characteristics, trotting from one to the next, sometimes coming back, like for comparison. My metacarpals automatically reached to the top of the skull. With a swift move its nose tip went to it, sniffed and touched, like welcoming my offer of friendship. I suddenly felt silly. I was acting as if everything was normal, NORMAL. What an aberration! We were just our skeletons, walking to death. Death. I wondered about the concept: I was a dreaming skeleton.

Another human skeleton, same height, no particularities, had joined the general. The sudden knowledge of her army identity hit me, hit us, immediately. Female in my world, second in command in Sho'or's realm.

His realm looked like my world. Dirt ground, concrete building housing the armoury. We filed in through the door and contemplated an antique collection of swords, sabres, daggers, machetes, and more deadly blades I could have ever imagined. We were meant to help ourselves. Behind the shiny array, I spotted metal spiky balls hanging from the walls with their chains. Wow, we had regressed back to the middle ages.

ARMY OF SKELETONS XI

The battlefield was a desolated, flat area with rare stumps leftover from what I assumed used to be trees, occasional pieces of huge rocks and rare clumps of dry grass, in need of a cleaning team. Bones, skulls, and various pieces of skeletons were littering the whole landscape. No time to consider a clearing-out plan, the army of the Wooden Man were already rising from the horizon.

I remember wondering if these so-called enemies were like us at the end of the day, if their survival was synonymous with the Wooden Man's victory. They were raising the same collection of mismatched, medieval weaponry. I felt glad that catapults were not part of the arsenal and joined the fight, hoping for the best, knowing there was no 'best', and wishing to be among the lucky ones going home, sweet home, tonight.

My curved sword as loud as the next. Paring off spiky balls. Bumping into skeletons, knowing who to aim at and hit with all my might. Fending off with kamikaze bats diving from the sky. Lost in the writhing mass of bones on bones. Metacarpals, fibulas, ribs and vertebrae, flying all alike all over the place. Fighting for my life. Trying to keep my skeleton together. Dodging skully missiles.

For what felt like centuries. Sensing pain and fear rampaging all around. Hearing no cries. Feeling no fatigue ever. Just fighting. Endlessly and wearily. With no time to remember my friends, myself, my life.

* * * * * *

A skeleton half lying on the ground grabbed my metacarpals. Only half of the femur remained on its left leg. This one would die when returning to its world. Who was it? Someone I knew? Someone who knew about the piece of metal in my leg? Not tall enough to be Taylor. Imogen? I couldn't leave it to fate and lose her so soon. I looked around, searching for Sho'or. He was standing 20 feet away, looking almost sad, gazing at a silhouette on the horizon line at the end of the battlefield: the Wooden Man. What was the point of this lethal war? So many skeletons lying broken on the dirt ground. Bones and skulls mixed up. So many anonymous deads.

I looked at the empty sockets staring up at me. Empty, expressionless, but begging me. I was just a skeleton, a collection of bones mysteriously holding together, gifted with motion. I had no vocal strings. How could I shout out loud? I dropped my suddenly heavy sword, feeling anger building up inside of me. I shouted my thoughts irresistibly, as loud as I could imagine.

"SHO'OR!"

And again.

"SHO'OR!"

Sho'or's eyelidless eyes left their gazing and turned to me. His forever bleeding limbs took slow steps towards us. His eyes scanning the ground, searching through the bones. He picked up what looked like a few bones holding together to maybe shape something like a leg, or part of a leg, and kneeled down near Imogen. He fitted the two halves of femur together and put her bony hands around them, looking into her eyeless sockets. He didn't say a word. Was he willing her to hold the pieces together to survive the return to our world?

The next second I was back in my living room, eyeing Taylor sprawled over the old sofa.

"Imogen!" I exclaimed and ran out of my house, Taylor in hot pursuit. I ran from Railton Road to Effra Road, the hot sun pounding my head. I ran, faster than I knew I could, and fell on Imogen's door, banging so hard on the wood that it could have hurt and skin my knuckles, but I was too intent to feel the pain. One of her flatmates opened to me.

"Imogen!" I asked, breathless, beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead.

"She said she fell down the stairs. I called an ambulance."

I pushed past the blue-eyed womon, unable to care for anyone else but Imogen. She was lying at the bottom of the stairs, pain plastered all over her face, deeply embedded in her eyes. I could see a broken piece of bone sticking out of the flesh of her left thigh. Her hands were fastened around her leg, like holding on to dear life, still trying to keep the pieces together.

I dropped on my knees, put my arms around her shoulders. She let herself go into the safe haven. Taylor towering over us, over everyone.

I don't know how long we waited, hardly moving, like a 'tableau vivant', Segur would have said.

The screaming of the ambulance and the screeching of tyres pulled us out of our trance.

The male paramedics burst onto the scene, pushed me aside, assessed the situation, slowed down, fussed about, got a stretcher.

"I'm going with her. I'm her next of kin."

They shrugged. The caring profession didn't care.

EPILOGUE

Imogen survived and recovered well, just on time for Sho'or's next call. These days, she vaguely limps, it's the only sign.

We found out that Kelly, Taylor's would-have-been girlfriend, had lost her head. In a bit of a literal way. She was found lying in a pool of blood, her head between her hands, but no longer on her shoulders. The cops are still wondering how it happened exactly. She was halfway buying her freedom.

Sweet Irma, Taylor's mother, miraculously recovered from her terminal cancer. The doctors are still baffled and she still insists Taylor should move back to the States. Taylor disagrees.

Segur and Rufus are living the happy-ever-after kind of life. Lucky bastards.

Rumour has it that Sho'or's general is a dyke from New York, with an astounding IQ. Her second in command would be her girlfriend.

I think Sho'or likes us; Me, Imogen, Taylor. He always put us with his general, the general's hound and the second in command. It's a definite safety card: the hound will always help us to find our bones.

Notes about the short stories

Each of these short stories was written and published in the 21st century.

'The End of the World' was published in the anthology 'No One Makes it Out Alive' (edited by Hydra M. Star) in 2012

'The Faithful Hound' was published in the anthology 'Eclectica, the World of Shadows' (edited by Andrea Dean Van Scoyoc) in 2011, and in the anthology 'Blessings from the Darkness' (edited by Kelly J. Koch and published by Black Bed Sheet) in 2014

'Spirit of a Friendship' was published in the anthology 'Threads' (edited by Cassandra Lee aka Shawna-Lee McCutchon-Bell) in 2009

'The Envoy' was part of the novel 'Outsider' (published in 2012), but also published in the charity Project Spear's newsletter/zine in the early years of this century

'Next Door' was published in the anthology 'Out is the Word by the Word is Out' (edited by Anne Cooper and Hanne Lee) in 2012

'The Truth about Dinosaurs, and Dragons' was published in the anthology 'No One Makes it Out Alive' (edited by Hydra M. Star) in 2012

'Sunday Roast' was part of the novel 'Outsider' (published in 2012)

'The Green Loch' was self-published in 2012

'Control' was part of the novel 'Outsider' (published in 2012)

'The Beast(s)' was part of the novel 'Outsider' (published in 2012)

'The Trees' was published in the anthology 'Out is the Word by the Word is Out' (edited by Anne Cooper and Hanne Lee) in 2012

'Tequila after Dark' was somehow part (in an interwoven way) of the novel 'Outsider' (published in 2012)

'Army of Skeletons' was self-published in 2012

About the Author

Little is known about the apparently quiet W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh. The few unearthed bones are still disconnected: dreams, books, no gender identification, tattoos, wolves, invisible energies, permanent puzzlement. W would be (in alphabetical order) a versatile artist, a chocolate fiend, an independent musician, and a tree hugger.

The cats know more, but refuse to talk: one will stare you down, the other will fight you.

W is the author of the novel 'Outsider' (where "vampires and lesbians enjoy rock music in London"). W's writings have appeared in unknown, obscure zines and various anthologies, and more recently in the anthology 'Blessings from the Darkness' (published by Black Bed Sheet in January 2014) along with 29 other talented writers; in the anthology 'Ladies and Gentlemen of Fantasy 2014 (under the name River Wolf) (edited by Jennifer L. Miller, and published in July 2014). W will be featured in 'Ladies and gentlemen of Horror 2014' (to be published for Hallowe'en 2014).

