

of Altered States

an anthology

volume one

Edited by Alan Gowing  
Co-edited and formatted by Victoria Ð. Griesdoorn  
Cover design by Gary Bonn

Smashwords Edition

Version 2.0

This of Altered States anthology is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
With thanks to all contributors

who made this project happen

'Checking LAD 2.0' copyright 2012 Areli Lopez  
'LAD 2.0' copyright 2012 William Sauer  
'LAD 2.0' copyright 2012 James Dickson  
'Broken' copyright 2012 Cherry Wright  
'Don't Cry, Please Cry' copyright 2012 Gwyn Ruddell Lewis  
'Rhea' copyright 2012 James Dickson  
'Rhea's Lemons' copyright 2012 Julie Erwin  
'The First Doughnut' copyright 2012 Kerryanne Koops  
'The Making of Danny' copyright 2012 William D. Webb, Jr.  
'Lace and her Scarab' copyright 2012 Kerryanne Koops  
'The Glass and the Lotus' copyright 2012 Colin F. Barnes  
'The Glass and the Lotus' copyright 2012 Jake Race  
'Last Days' copyright 2012 Magdalena Lewinowicz  
'Last Days of the Roman Empire' copyright 2012 Cath Murphy  
'Ain't That A Beaut' copyright 2012 Hong Duong Do  
'Abide' copyright 2012 Patrick Høiseth  
'Abide' copyright 2012 Victoria Griesdoorn  
'My Son, The Posturing Fool' copyright 2012 Veerle Haemels  
'A Posturing Fool' copyright 2012 Stephen Godden  
'Lemon and White' copyright 2012 Boglárka Gleichauf  
'Lemon and White' copyright 2012 Michael Ross  
'Having A Bad Day?' copyright 2012 Emmy Sollien  
'Lepidoptery' copyright 2012 Nathan Hawthorne  
'Lepidoptery' copyright 2012 Ren Warom  
'Mixed' copyright 2012 Cherry Wright  
'Steps by George' copyright 2012 Shuna Meade  
'Off The Rails' copyright 2012 Alan Gowing

#   
Contents

About

Checking LAD 2.0 by MissAL

LAD 2.0 by Bill Sauer

LAD 2.0 by James Dickson

Broken by Cherry Wright

Don't Cry, Please Cry by Gwyn Ruddell Lewis

Rhea by James Dickson

Rhea's Lemons by Julie Erwin

The First Doughnut by Kerryanne Koops

The Making of Danny by William D. Webb, Jr.

Lace and her Scarab by Kerryanne Koops

The Glass and the Lotus by Colin F. Barnes

The Glass and the Lotus by ggutu

Last Days by Magdalena Lewinowicz

Last Days of the Roman Empire by Cath Murphy

Ain't That a Beaut? by Koyomel Doughnut

Abide by Patrick Høiseth

Abide by V. Ð. Griesdoorn

My Son, The Posturing Fool by Veerle Haemels

A Posturing Fool by Stephen Godden

Lemon and White by Boglárka Gleichauf

Lemon and White by Michael Ross

Having a Bad Day? by Emmy Sollien

Lepidoptery by Nathan Hawthorne

Lepidoptery by Ren Warom

Mixed by Cherry Wright

Steps by George by Shuna Meade

Off The Rails by Alan Gowing

About

This book is the result of the first year of collaboration.

Early 2011 we had the idea to start a fiction project that would bring together a group of writers and would result in a series of short story anthologies. The one you're currently reading is the first edition.

This anthology has been produced in its entirety by the _of_ Altered States contributors. This includes the fiction, artwork, cover design, editing, book formatting and distribution, but also our website, Twitter feed and Facebook page. In all ways this is an independent project.

Six months ago we released this anthology as a fiction-only edition. But since then we were joined by several visual artists and together we decided to re-release this first edition fully illustrated. In future, all anthologies that we'll release will be full-artwork fiction editions. We also hope, in due time, to stretch out and offer self-contained narrative art, whether this is photography, full-page illustration, or short graphic stories and comics.

This fully illustrated re-release includes a bonus Choose Your Own Adventure story by one of yours truly, Alan Gowing.

For now we hope that you will enjoy this re-release of our first edition of _of_ Altered States. And we look forward to bringing you more art and fiction in future.

If you are experiencing problems with how our e-book is displayed on your device, please request a free hand-formatted replacement copy via the contact form on our website. To do so, visit us at URL www.ofalteredstates.com.

Your editors,

Alan Gowing  
Victoria Griesdoorn

July 2012

#

LAD 2.0

# by Bill Sauer

Ilya keeps his eyes shut tight as he reaches with one hand across the tussled bedding and finds it empty. Without lifting his face from the rut he's worn into his pillow he considers the consequences; the nightmare will go on another day. Marisol will not be back. He remembers pain, the false hope and bitter disappointment. He remembers the slow fade, the apathy of her doctors. The funeral. It presses down on every nerve as if it happened the day before.

At least he hadn't brought another dancer back to his miserable little apartment. He might be spared any uncomfortable morning-after games.

He turns his head and fights against the stickiness sealing his eyes shut. He needs to see that he is alone. The sheets and blankets are a jumbled pile at his feet. It's hot. The humidity is oppressive. Harsh sunlight streaks through vertical blinds spaced too far apart for his liking. An illusion of shadow and light across the empty half of the bed reminds him of prison bars. The king-size bed came with the apartment; once more he promises himself he'll replace it, downsize it.

Ilya rubs the remaining grunge from his sight, blinking his eyes into focus. On the nightstand an old picture frame lay face down, a faded photograph of them both in full pirate costume. The only relic he has left from their life together, taken on a Halloween night a lifetime ago. He usually sets it down like that when he doesn't want Marisol to see him with strange women. As evidence of a night not spent alone this doesn't bode well.

The cloying essence of stale coconut clings to his palate, threatening to take up permanent residence. He can't make sense of it. He's a beer man; he doesn't drink fruity, tropical concoctions. He thinks, trying to grasp something from the night before. The incessant drums of a DJ's nonstop dance mixes begin to pound his clouded memory, taking on the form of a hangover throb rocking his consciousness down to its darkest depths. Drums, dancing and drink; that is all he can remember. He slides across the bed to reach the picture frame and feels the grit of sand in the sheets.

"What the hell?" He mutters. "Not again."

He picks up the picture and takes a long look.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he whispers, setting it back down. He rolls over onto his back to rub his eyes some more, this time with both hands.

Drums, dancing and drink. What day is it? Drums, dancing and drink. The words run through his mind like a mantra. He reaches back to the bedside table and forces its little drawer open. Feeling around he locates his tattered moleskin notebook and a tiny stub of a pencil. Drums, dancing and drink. Committed to paper, the words stop bullying him and he casts it all aside.

Ilya sits up, finally able to negotiate pain-free vision despite the morning sun's relentless judgment. Or the afternoon's, Ilya can't be sure, he'd smashed his latest alarm clock two, maybe three days prior.

Had she been there, Marisol would be inviting the sun in with a cheery little tune and toss of the blinds. Ilya wants nothing to do with it. Maybe this would be the day he simply boards himself in for good. A yawn and a stretch later, he realizes he has his sole pair of pajama bottoms on, which does bode well. Not waking up naked means less chance for regrets later. Maybe he is alone after all.

He swings his legs to the opposite side of the bed, turning his back to the light. Ilya hopes the day will take the hint but knows it won't. At some point he will have to face it. At some point he will have to smile and nod and play well with others. He stands and a wave of nausea nearly topples him. After steadying himself he takes a step toward the closed bathroom door. The shower on the other side pops on, causing him to pause. He looks back to the bed and finally notices the bikini halves strewn across the floor, interspersed with distinctly feminine, sandy footprints. The evidence of another "beach" party up on the apartment building's roof, brought home to his bed.

I'm so sorry, baby. I hope it's Brooke, at least. Please, god, don't let it be Quinn.

He stumbles backward into his desk chair and pops open his laptop. Thirty-eight new e-mails later, thirty-four of them deleted without reading, he logs into his blog, _Life After Death 1.0_ , and pauses to rub his eyes one last time. He begins to type.

LAD 1.0  
September 17, 2009  
Drums, Dancing and Drink  
Well kids, it looks like I've done it agai...

His phone rings. The I.D. reads "Alex".

"Hello." The word claws its way past syrupy drink phlegm, rattling around his throat like a dying man's last gasp.

"Jeezus, Ilya, did I wake you up? It's almost noon."

Ilya yawns, resting his forehead on his palm, closing his eyes again. "Noon, your time. It's almost two here. So?"

"You were up partying all night again. Why are you still doing this?"

"What? Last I checked I'm an adult."

"A year ago you didn't even drink." Alex's voice is even and calm. Usually he would be getting louder by this point in the conversation, the older brother instinct coming out. Ilya doesn't know how to read him this time.

"Are we going to have this discussion every time you call?" he asks.

The shower stops.

"Baby, you awake?" calls a female voice. "Get in here with me."

"Shit, it's Quinn," Ilya says aloud, though it wasn't his intention. He pulls the phone away from his mouth.

"I'm on the phone. Just give me a minute," he calls, trying to sound sweet and sincere. The shower pops back on. He sighs, hoping she hasn't heard his curse. He slouches down in his chair, letting his head fall back so he can stare up at the ceiling fan.

"Say what?" asks Alex. "You have company again, don't you? You don't sound happy."

Ilya sighs a second time. "Quinn."

"Isn't she the one with the really big—"

"Yes, that's her," Ilya interrupts. "But she ain't pretty, she just looks that way."

"When are you going to stop punishing yourself? Marisol didn't abandon you, she died. It's been a year and a half."

Ilya grits his teeth and wrinkles his nose, hesitating, fighting to suppress a stream of expletives. "She was taken. And I'm not punishing myself. To punish myself, I'd have to believe I'd done something wrong."

"You're trying to punish somebody, that's for sure."

"You've been discussing me with your girlfriend again, haven't you? Look, I didn't ask for it, but it's mine, my anger. I claim it. It sustains me. Did you call just to freakin' lecture me?"

"Jeezus, Ilya, can't I worry about my brother? Listen, I had a conversation with the creative director at our agency. I convinced her to take a look at your online portfolio."

Ilya straightens up again.

"She wants to hire you. If you just show up for the interview you're in. You just need to get your ass down here."

"Tucson? It's too hot. Besides, I don't need a job."

"You might not need the money, but I know you need to work. And if you keep spending what you have the way you are, you're gonna wake up one day really needing a job after it's too late. It isn't bottomless. Seriously, Ilya, think about it. You can live with me until we find you a place. I'll even spring for a storage garage for your stuff. Call it a 'deal sweetener'."

"Is she pretty?"

"Who?"

"The creative director."

Alex's voice rises half an octave. "I'm trying to be serious here, Ilya. Just think about it, please."

The shower shuts off again, followed by the rattle of the door handle.

"Okay, I'll think about it. I gotta go, she's coming out."

Alex's turn to sigh. "Call me later. You need a freakin' reboot, kid. You need to do this."

The line goes dead without a goodbye. Ilya turns back to the laptop and hits delete.

"Aren't you comin' in, baby?" Quinn's voice reminds Ilya of a car in need of a new fan belt. Her head appears past the doorframe, long brown hair dripping water on the hardwood floor. Ilya begins to type again.

LAD 1.0  
September 17, 2009  
Altered states: Drums, Dancing and Drink  
Kids, have you ever wondered why...

"I'm getting cold."

Ilya turns his gaze to her. Quinn stands in full view, naked and wet with her bottom lip pushed out in a girlish pout. Ilya takes her in, marveling for just a moment at the perfect twenty-something body, at the powder-blue eyes pleading for his attention. He smiles and turns back to his laptop, hitting delete. He begins to type again.

LAD 1.0  
September 17, 2009  
Altered states  
Once upon a time, I had...

Damp, soft warmth presses against his shoulders and neck. A delicate hand slides down his bare chest, stomach, slipping under the hem of his pants. He can't stop the reaction as she whispers her intent and her fingers curl around him.

He turns to face her; their lips engulf one another for several minutes.

"Okay, okay, get back in there. I'll be just one more minute."

Quinn withdraws slowly, deliberately, before traipsing back through the door with a seductive shake of her flawless backside. Ilya hits delete again. Her head appears once more.

"Then you're gonna take me shopping, right? You promised me shopping last time."

Ilya smiles at her, though his thoughts do not warrant it. He nods, whispers "sure" before turning back to his computer. The shower turns on again. He stops for one more sigh, logs out, closes the top and heads into the bathroom.

***

Satiated, clean and dressed to go, Ilya is at the desk again, hands on the lid of the laptop as he considers how much time he has. Quinn primps her hair one last time as her cell phone rings.

"What? No. Really? You can't get anyone else? Seriously? What about Noelle? Fine, I'll be there in an hour."

"What's up?" asks Ilya, without taking his eyes off his hands.

Quinn leans into the doorjamb of the bathroom with a dull thump. Arms folded and bottom lip poked out again, she waits until Ilya looks at her before speaking.

"Anthony needs me to work a double tonight. Can you give me a ride home, and then to work?"

Ilya suppresses a smile and puts on a false pout of his own. Dodged a bullet there. Another 40 minutes and he'll be free, instead of five more hours of shopping and buying dinner.

"Really? Sure, no problem. You ready to go?"

"Yup. I'll finish my make-up on the way."

That means no need for conversation in the car. Joy. Ilya turns to grab his keys and lets his smile loose while she can't see.

"You're gonna come see me tonight, right, and give me a ride home?"

Ilya's teeth clench to keep the expletive inaudible. Still smiling, though no longer genuine, he turns back to her.

"Sure. Is today Thursday? That means 2 am, right?"

"Yeah, but you're gonna show up early and see me, right? Like midnight?" Again, the pooching of the bottom lip. Ilya takes her chin in his hand and nips at her mouth. Engaging her lips means she has to stop talking, and she takes the bait. Another long kiss satisfies her, and they are out the door.

***

Ilya waits in his car watching the door to the club close behind Quinn, wracking his memory for any hint as to exactly what he'd said the night before. Something caused a drastic change in her, from a casual, arm's distance, 'the sex is great, maybe I'll see you later' attitude to a clingy, wanting him around all the time sort of relationship thing. His attention is drawn by the snap of a door latch and opening creak. A petite, curvy brunette with a short haircut and a plethora of tattoos slides into the passenger seat.

"I see the bitch has you driving her around now," she says. Her voice is at the deeper end of the female range, raspy with cigarette smoke and sexy beyond reason, at least in Ilya's mind.

"Hi Brooke."

"So, you gonna kiss me, or just sit there staring at my boobs?"

Before he can answer, she's on top of him, her tongue working into his mouth. There is no resistance; this is the woman he wants to waste his time with.

"You're not working tonight?" he manages to exhale when she finally allows him some air.

"No, I called off. That's why the bitch had to go in early." Her smile is wicked, verging on diabolical.

"What are you doing here then? Anthony will bust you if he comes out for a smoke. We should go."

Brooke scoots her lower half back to the passenger seat, but keeps her face close to his. "Yeah, let's go get somethin' to eat."

Ilya turns the ignition. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

Brooke's lips move next to his ear, whispering. "I caught her following you home last night, so I tailed her. Bitch only wants you 'cuz I told her to stay the hell away."

Ilya pauses before throwing the car into gear, torn between the urge to get her talking about everything he can't remember, and not wanting to know. Around the corner, down two blocks to a stop sign, Brooke finally sits back.

"You're not freaking out. Does that mean you love me best?" She rolls down her window and lights a cigarette. Ilya hates that, but he's intrigued by her question, can't help smiling.

"I fucking knew it!" Brooke shouts. "You can't get enough of my ass, can you? Stupid, girly bitch ain't got nothin' on me."

"I thought you two were friends."

Brooke leans back into him, whispering again. "We are. It don't mean I have to share you with her."

She sits back again. A huge fan of Shirley Manson, Ilya has a playlist of Garbage tunes playing at random on the car's radio. _#1 Crush_ comes up and Brooke starts singing along. He finds her voice pleasant, her pitch accurate, her delivery sexy. The lyrics, full of obsession and longing and angst, set off an eerie sense of déjà vu in Ilya's mind, of serendipity gone awry and timing far from coincidental.

Six blocks from the club, Ilya pulls into the parking lot of a Super Duper Mart, stops the car far from the main pack of shopper's vehicles.

"What are you doing?" Brooke gets the wicked smile again. "Here, in the daylight?"

"Okay," Ilya says. "I'm going to be honest. I don't remember much of anything after we hit the roof last night. What the hell happened?"

Brooke laughs, tosses her cigarette butt out the window. "She's that good, huh, you don't even remember doing her?"

"I remember this afternoon pretty well."

She punches him in the arm, hard. Hard enough to show she means business. "Fuck you, Ilya, you didn't have to tell me that. Fucking little bitch. I warned her."

"Ow, Brooke, seriously. I've been foggy before, but never like this. Help me out here. And to answer your question, yeah, I like you best, I guess. I just never really thought about it until today."

"Well aren't you so fucking romantic," she replies, grinning again, moving her face to a fraction of an inch from his. "Kiss me." He obliges, she grabs his hands and slips them under her tank top. She's braless, firm, and obviously aroused. After a few minutes, she draws back again.

"You took me to the party," she says. " _Me_. Bitch just showed up after her shift, when you and me were both already pretty trashed. You went downstairs to pass out, I wanted to keep dancing. I told you I'd wake you up to fuck me later."

"How nice of you."

"Bitch followed you down, and she obviously didn't know I saw her. She let herself in 'cuz you were too lit to lock your door. Lucky for you, she couldn't get you to wake up."

"Lucky for me?"

"I was lit. I would have cut it off if I caught you with it in her. You know how I get."

_I do know how you get_ , thinks Ilya, in an unexpected moment of utter clarity. _How the hell did I ever get here?_

"We had a discussion, I told her to stay the fuck away from you from now on. She said she had to stay and watch out you didn't die, like she cares or something, and threatened to call the cops. I left so I didn't do something bad to her. Yet."

"So how'd you know she never left? You didn't hang around and wait, did you?" Ilya regrets the words the moment they stop, not wanting to know one possible answer and not wanting to suffer the consequences of the other. The consequences manifest as another punch to the same spot.

"Fuck you, Ilya, I ain't some crazy stalker bitch."

"Ow, Brooke, lighten up." He rubs the rising bruise with his left hand, notices Brooke is facing away, her right arm dangling out the window. She turns back to catch him looking.

"Well, you weren't answering your damn phone, so I called Kayla and she said Quinn never came home. Said she called from your place around noon."

"Quinn and Kayla are roommates now?" Ilya says. He adds a smirk. "You guys all move around too much for me."

Brooke's tight brow and squinty eyes open. Her turned-down mouth rounds out, evolving from murderous scowl to quizzical, then to pondering.

"I'd stay in one place long-term if I had the right incentive," she says, never shifting her gaze from Ilya's face. "You offering?"

How the hell did I ever get here?

Saved by the ringtone, Brooke's phone goes off. She's still staring at Ilya.

"You going to get that?"

She looks down at the phone. "No. It's her. I swear to god..." She answers anyway, her voice dripping with honey and molasses.

"Hi Quinn. What's up?"

Ilya can't quite make out Quinn's reply, but it's loud, and definitely spiced with the forceful cadence of expletives. He picks up his own phone and holds it near his lap, staring down at the blank screen.

"It's my time," answers Brooke, still calm and sweet. "I got cramps like I wanna die. No, I haven't talked to Ilya yet today, have you?" The treacle is now completely replaced with brimstone. "Really, you left him passed out? I thought you were gonna stay 'til he woke the fuck up." She glances at Ilya, rolling her eyes. "Well, you have a nice fucking night too, bitch."

She snaps the phone shut. "Lying asshole bitch."

Ilya's phone rings.

"Don't you fucking answer that Ilya."

He sets it back in its hands-free cradle. "It's my brother. It can go to voicemail anyway. You still hungry?"

"Tell me you're done with her first."

Ilya looks out his window, sighs. "I'm supposed to give her a ride home tonight."

"Ilya..."

He turns back to see Brooke lighting another cigarette.

"I can't leave her stranded."

Brooke snatches the cigarette from her mouth, forcefully exhales smoke.

"Swear to god, Ilya, I'll break her pretty little fucking nose."

"Fine. You win." Ilya returns to staring out his window.

"Just keepin' my eyes on the prize, baby," she says. "Look, Kayla's working a late shift, too, so the bitch'll get home safe." Her arms wrap around his neck and pull him toward her. She bites on his earlobe. "Now take me to your place and fuck me 'til I'm screamin' your name. Then we'll go eat."

***

Ilya doesn't bother opening his eyes. He runs his right hand across the tussled bedding without lifting his face from the rut he's worn in his pillow. His fingers find warm, pliable skin. Brooke stirs slightly but doesn't awaken. He's never spent so much time with her sober, let alone in bed and sober. He's torn again, between the unprecedented, euphoric experience of the past several hours and the realization that when he's not drunk, Brooke might not be the woman he wants to waste his time with. She'd insisted the picture go into the drawer this time, that he should move on. He wanted to tell her to leave, that she needed to move on, but the warmth of her skin and the longing in her eyes proved too much for his anger-wearied will to resist.

He turns his head to his right and opens his eyes. Harsh moonlight streaks through vertical blinds spaced too far apart for his liking. It's bright; almost a full moon. Hot too. Once his eyes are accustomed to the dark, an illusion of shadow and light across Brooke's naked body reminds him of prison bars. She's lying on her back, head turned to her left with her left hand near her mouth. He marvels for just a moment at the perfect shapes and curves, the decorated flesh, her face seeming so innocent and beautiful in slumber. As carefully and quietly as possible, he rolls out of the bed and shuffles to his desk. He needs the time validation he can acquire from his cell phone.

It's 1:12 am. There are eleven text messages from Quinn, running the gamut of the playful 9:33 pm _Miss U. U miss me 2?_ to the 1:03 am _Where the fuck are you?_ Alex has left two voice messages, to be retrieved later, out of Brooke's presence. A dull ache in his stomach reminds him he hasn't eaten anything in a day and a half.

"Il-ya?"

Brooke. The syllables are extended dramatically, her tone scolding. Ilya is sitting at his desk with his back to her. He notices the phone is illuminating his hands and face, figures she probably sees him in silhouette.

"You're not texting the bitch are you?"

Ilya drops his chin to his chest, exhales with his cheeks puffed out and his lips pursed. "No, just checking the time. And my brother left two messages. Go back to sleep. I just want do my blog. I never wrote anything today. Or yesterday. Or whatever."

"Oh yeah, get your nerd on." She yawns. He can hear the bed shift as she sits up.

"You still haven't read any of it yet, have you?" His chin remains on his chest as he raises the lid of the laptop.

"You know me. I hate reading. Hurry up. I'm starving. Come fuck me some more, then take me to breakfast."

Ilya closes his eyes and shakes his head several times before raising it and logging in. There are several dozen new comments waiting for him, the faithful wondering why he missed a day. He never, ever misses a day...

LAD 1.0  
September 18, 2009  
Altered states and Altering States and How The Hell Did I Get Here?  
This will be my last entry for a while, kids. I'm moving to Tucson.

#

Don't Cry, Please Cry

two stories

# by Gwyn Ruddell Lewis

###

1. So It Goes

William read the final page of _The Great Gatsby_. Bitter, long-cold coffee, alone, placed on the table — untouched. Cupping the small change of meagre tips in her apron, a waitress glanced at her watch, looked at William and shook her head. Refills refused and with her shift close to finishing she may as well give up any hope of a tip from the lone reader. After hours of hurried reading, William took a slow breath. In. Out. The slowed down tick of a clock. A pause before the final sentence: " _So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past._ "

William sat suddenly straight, checking the other chairs at his table. For a moment he was surprised to be alone, expecting his wife to be there with him. He imagined losing her, not once, but over and over with him stuck repeatedly unable to save her; a _rea_ l purgatory of unchanging, never-ending past.

Shaken by the intensity of this thought, his breath became blued with a nervous edge. Anxiously exhaling, vibrating uneasily. His eyes blinked quicker and quicker until they were almost closed. In an attempt to stop the coming tears William squeezed his eyes shut. Focused suppression, teeth clenched and jaw bone protruding. Swallowing, a sob leapt out and the tears escaped. Other people were aware of his crying, awkwardly straining their necks to see the man sobbing alone. With a brief look of uncomfortable concern on their faces they turned back to their friends, shrugged their shoulders and quickly returned to their own conversations. Unable to hold back his guttural sobs William left the cafe.

By the time his wife got home William was still crying. He rationalized why he had started crying but could not explain why, five hours later, he was still crying. "It could be worse, you could never cry," said his wife.

***

Alone. William read the usual unsympathetic nonsense from his brother. With fingertips he felt the dotted embossed cells at the end of the letter, "It could be worse, you could be in Dresden, K."

William wept, eyes swollen shut and salty sore from decades of crying. Having consulted experts, medical and psychological, diagnosis was elusive and the only useful advice he ever received was to drink plenty of water to prevent dehydration. There were no explanations and no treatments.

He had cried, as always, when his wife died. Tears perpetually pouring down his face, he could not cry especially for her. With no physical change in him, family and friends could not see his heartbreak; their sympathy somehow blunted by years of seeing him cry. In sob-broken sentences he explained the void and complete loss. Family and friends increasingly stayed away. The only contact he now had was the unwelcome and worrying rants of his brother, a lonely conspiracy theorist recently obsessed with the Second World War bombing of Dresden.

Alone, in the dark he often recalled his wife's face, preserved young by his blindness. He _saw_ her face and wished the tears would stop so he could start crying again.

### 2. Borne Back Ceaselessly

This is cycle number... I don't know anymore. I kept count at first, but then I slept and the counting became difficult. I once worked out that if I did this for fifty years, at 519 seconds a cycle, I would complete 3,038,159 cycles... Strange how some things stay with me. Three numbers I remember: 519, 3,038,159 and 26, my age when the cycles started.

Bright, clear blue-sky day. I lay on my back, enjoying the sun through leaves of a shading tree. She lay next to me, on her side, arm across my chest.

I turn to her and say, "I can't."

She seems taken aback by this. She's puzzled. "But..."

"I can't. How can you expect me to?" Sitting up, I'm agitated.

"I thought you felt the same. We just delay the journey for a couple of years..."

"Yeah—so you can put yourself first. Fuck the fact I've given a lot up for this."

"I don't... You know what this means for me. For us." She's pleading.

"I know you... This is fucking typical." I'm becoming hysterical.

"You know that's not true. I lo—"

And I lose it. "Fuck you. I loathe you too. I don't know why I've put up with this for so long. I'm going. I can't believe what a fucking bitch you're being. Hopefully I'll meet someone- Oh. Here come the waterworks. Typical." I'm in complete isolation to her. She gets up and walks away.

Everything goes black. The cycle finishes. I return to lying on my back under the shading tree.

That was the first cycle, or first few cycles, when I was still angry. That, and the confusion, stopped me from seeing it any differently for some time. The first cycle was unique. It was the only one where my mind and action were the same. Every single other cycle I'm observing; view confined by what I saw then, experiencing the same actions. Cycle after cycle I live the same scene, unable to change a thing.

Cycles passed and I saw things differently. No longer angry, I could focus on what she said, I could listen. I remember the first time I noticed it. I remember it because it feels the same every time. She tried to save us; before I lost it she laid herself bare—a simple explanation, a plea for me to understand. A sudden loss of pressure in my lungs. I no longer have physical sentience but that's the best way I can describe the drop as she says, "You know that's not true. I love you."

After that first realisation I no longer see tears of cynical manipulation. Her face melting—bottom lip heavy, drops; eyes, sore, flooding, tears leaving red streaks down her cheeks. Her face, heartbroken, haunts me. With every cycle I see it anew and I feel the drop. I can't close my eyes, I see what I saw the first time. I can't escape that face. Eyes open, I sleep and see her. I never know how long I sleep for, but I know I go on seeing—exhausted from the repetition I never wake refreshed.

I've tried distraction, screaming, straining to look away. Nothing gets me away from the scene. It forces its way through. The only way I can manage the guilty fatigue is through narration. The relief is slight, a small degree of separation. I thought of telling stories, something other than the scene, but when I try I have nothing to say and I'm fixed silently watching.

Relief is strongest now as I see the sunlight filter through the leaves, revealing their workings—cells turning light into life. The relief is short-lived as once again I hear my voice getting louder and louder and...

...I dread the heartbroken face coming.

Once in a while I see new subtleties in the scene, like the white specs of paint on my trousers. Recently I've seen new details, only to remember later I'd noticed them before. I no longer recall her name. My mind is deteriorating; I must be getting older. I hope I've only a lifetime of this. I remember a book I read once, when someone died it said ' _So it goes._ ' If I'm getting older, mustn't I die? Will I get my ' _so it goes_ '?

I hope she isn't stuck in this cycle too.

The brief darkness approaches, marking the end of one cycle and the start of another. I wish one thing, that I could feel tears pouring down my face.

#

Rhea's Lemons

# by Julie Erwin

Geoffrey barged in through the front door. Rhea listened from the kitchen to gauge his temper; the slam-rattle of the letter box, his footsteps, his cough, the way he scratched his head. A staccato rubbing— _he's annoyed_. Her shoulders moved a fraction closer to her ears, her teeth clenched. She didn't notice.

"The traffic was fucking awful. Thank God it's Friday."

She turned from the battered chopping board to face him and watched as he rearranged his underwear and contents, oblivious to the slight curl of her lip. _He'll be picking his nose next_. His hand went from down his trousers to the kettle.

Ugh.

She reached for her gin and tonic, poured before she'd even taken her coat off.

"I'm gasping." He slammed a mug onto the worktop, crashed, clattered and clunked the tea canister, sugar bowl and milk bottle. He switched the kettle on with one hand and scratched his arse with the other.

"You started already?" He nodded at the gin and tonic. "Which of your huge culinary repertoire are you delighting us with tonight?" The joke didn't quite work.

Rhea—the glass at her lips—stayed her hand, caught by the bubbles buffeting the anaemic lemon slice. She placed the glass on the table, watching the lemon bouncing a little. She fancied she heard a derisory hiss.

Was that in my head?

"One of the usual; spag bol or chilli. Which one do you fancy? Mild with pasta, or spicy with rice?" The heavy monotony dragged her head towards the board; she could smell a marriage-worth of onion juice, rotting in the grain of the wood.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

_Did I say that out loud?_ She grabbed her gin and gulped down a huge mouthful. The bitterness shrivelled the insides of her cheeks and burned to acid on the way down.

"What's wrong with you? Is it something you've eaten?" He had his back to her, rummaging in the cupboard for something to tide him over until the meal was served. He turned, unwrapped a chocolate biscuit and stuffed it whole in his mouth, crunching as he waited for the kettle to boil.

_What would you do if I said you make me want to vomit?_ She stared into his face, searching for a shred of connection, as he picked at the crumbs in the wrapper.

There's nothing there.

"Perhaps it was the chicken I had on my sandwich?" Rhea tried to draw a response from him. He hitched his shoulders forward by a millimetre and let them drop back.

Not worth the effort is it?

She gave up and continued her chopping. It hadn't been much of an attempt to engage really, she didn't have the energy any more. Geoffrey must have taken that as the signal that normal service had resumed and so stood picking his nose waiting for his tea to brew.

"Spag bol, nothing spicy, my guts are still playing up. I'm sure they don't clean their beer lines properly at the White Bull."

Nothing to do with your disgusting personal habits then?

***

She waited until the front door banged shut before opening her eyes to the early Saturday morning light. Feigning sleep meant she didn't have to look at him.

Can't he do anything quietly?

Angling. She had come to love it despite the smell of fish guts in the utility room and glassy eyes accusing her from the fridge.

_It keeps him away from me for long periods of time_ _._ She caught that thought, barely acknowledged until now.

I really don't like him. What am I going to do? I can't stand this anymore.

She stumbled to the bathroom and sat on the toilet with an arm on the side of the bath; bracing herself against a rush of despair. Their kids had left home, nothing held them together but security for her and, she guessed, convenience for him. _I'm an efficient housekeeper who occasionally lets him fuck me; no more than a tame prostitute. I need to leave._

...I don't have the strength.

She sat up straight and pulled his shaving mirror towards her face and wiped away the condensation of his shower. She hadn't looked at herself for so long. Not really. Yes she'd followed the mascara brush as it coated her lashes and guided the floss between her teeth but when did she last gaze into her own eyes? When did she really see her own face? _When I was a teenager, trying to work out who I was. And I still don't know._ The desperation there held her in thrall until she admitted she could no longer afford the cost of security. _I'm dying before I ever lived._

A sound from the kitchen, a gleeful kind of sniggering, crept in on the tails of a whiff of citrus. _I'm going mad. I need to go and see the doctor._

***

"Rhea... Rhea, what's the matter with you? You're very quiet today." Sara nudged at her friend's elbow. "And you've hardly touched your—what's this thing called?" She consulted the sticky plastic cocktails menu, "...your 'stiffy between the sheets'. Come on, you're letting the side down." Sara wriggled her ample bottom into a more comfortable position on the velour banquette, stained with old food, in the mock-Brazilian cubicle. Once a month they met on a Friday after work for an "early birds" meal with cocktails. Sometimes it got very messy.

"I'm going to have to leave Geoffrey." Rhea twirled the plastic day-glo palm tree in her drink. The pale crescent of lemon, wedged onto the lip of the tall glass, grinned at her.

"What? Why? What has he done? Is it another woman?" Sara fired the stream of questions. Rhea almost laughed as Charlotte's mouth hung open, her eyes—heavy with mascara—wide.

"Never! You two are so together." Justine even put down her drink. "Now if it was Sara and Jason, well that'd be different. We all know what a waste of space _he_ is..."

"I don't love him anymore. I can't remember when I last did." She pictured him slumped on the sofa, remote control in his hand, dead fish eyes reflecting a flow of pictures and sounds as numbing as a good hard liquor. A rare comment passed her way during the commercials.

"Well what's that got to do with anything?" snapped Sara, unfazed by Justine's indictment of her husband. "Love's for kids, stupid teenagers who don't know any better."

_Where did that come from? Why did I tell them?_ She flicked her gaze to the lemon wedge, suspicious.

"There's got to be something more than this, hasn't there?" Rhea circled her head around the booth.

"Oh God, it's just a mid-life crisis thing. Finish your drink, have another six and by tomorrow you'll have forgotten all about it." Justine picked up her glass again.

"You're probably right." She surrendered to the group camouflage, the voluntary delusion. _There's no point saying anything here_. A weight settled on her chest; one she'd not noticed before.

***

Rhea left the girls to their carousing, claiming a headache she didn't have. None of them protested too much. _They want fun, not soul searching. If I take out my dirty laundry in public it's harder for them to ignore theirs_.

"Geoffrey, are you home?" No answer. His car was in the drive.

He must have gone to the pub. It's a nice evening to walk down there.

She stared at the bowl of lemons resting on the kitchen table, the vivid yellow lit up the space around, as if calling out to her " **Scratch** me, **scuff** my zest, and **drink** in my tangy smell. **Bite** me, **feel** my tongue-shrinking sourness, the sudden flood in your mouth."

The colour pierced her, broke through the Plexiglas numbness pressing down on her. In that moment she felt more alive than she ever remembered. How had she managed to spend the last forty something years not seeing the yellow of the lemons? She shook her head. Her eyes ached at the influx tearing away the deadening security blanket. Rhea staggered to a chair and dropped onto it before she fell.

"Wake up! **Wake up**!" the lemons seemed to shout.

"But it hurts," she wailed, slapping her hands to her face to block out the penetrating colour. This sharp, not-to-be-denied yellow, ignore-me-if-you-dare yellow pushed at her, pulled her along; dragged her attention to the hole in her life where her heart should be.

I'm going mad. Lemons can't do this. My mind's playing tricks on me.

The beads of moisture condensing on their knobbly surfaces reflected or absorbed, according to their angle, the early evening summer light from the window. The messy burst of her feelings overwhelmed her, at once wonderful and terrifying. She felt too small to contain it all, breathless at the possibilities.

"It's too much, I'm going to die," she moaned. The certainty of death had her slumping over the edge of the table.

"Then **die**." The lemons held her down. "But not before you've tasted our lemon nip. **Die** to the blandness that is your life; **die** to the cloying comfort. It too is a kind of death, without ever having lived."

She reached forward and wrapped her ragged, practical fingers around the fruit furthest away from her. The one teetering on its pointed end, cantilevered over the edge of the crafted wooden bowl. The skin, Braille to her fingertips, held a message too.

" **Stroke** me, **feel** me. **Drag** your fingernails over me and feel the citrus."

"There's no time. I've got things to do!" she protested, trying to pull herself up and away from the grip the lemon had on her.

Desperate, she grabbed the precise knife lying at the table's edge, her fingers warming to the imprint of a thousand handholds. She drew the lemon forwards, parallel to her body and sliced hard and fast through its belly.

"Yeeessssssss! Ha."

The zing hit her nostrils even before the rasp of the knife had died away. She jerked one half to her lips before her mind could intervene and licked the moist surface, bringing water to her eyes and a painful burst of saliva from the insides of her cheeks. An impulse fired and she chomped down hard, wincing at an explosion of memory—a childish need to hurt, to put every ounce of anger into a bite. She shuddered as the cutting juice and bitter pith clenched her body in recoil. She licked again, and felt the scratchy chequered rug underneath her thighs from a misplaced, illicit afternoon.

" **See** , that wasn't so **bad** , now was it?" her heart whispered. The lemons released their grip and left her floating at the edge of a new shore where her body, her senses, reclaimed Life from the grip of Mind.

***

"For goodness sake Rhea, what _are_ you talking about?" Rhea's mother had that look; the one she'd used for years. Her stare cut, as sharp as broken flint, as did the hard voice that took Rhea back to when she was three years old. These Saturday afternoon visits to her mother wore her down. She picked the sliver of lemon out of her gin and tonic and sucked; remembering, feeling.

"Don't play with your lemon!"

"I'm an _adult_ , mother... And I'm leaving him." The statement landed solidly in her belly. It gave her a base, a solidity she'd never had before.

"Is it another woman? That's easily dealt wi—"

"No, it's not another woman. He hasn't got the balls for that."

"Rhea!"

Disgusting balls, which he's invariably fondling.

Her mother hated coarse language almost as much as being interrupted. Rhea had had many a slap for that. She guessed that her mother itched to supply the old remedy.

"Well, what then?"

"I can't even stand being in the same room as him."

"So, stay in different rooms. It works for me and your Dad." Her mother's supreme indifference didn't surprise Rhea. It reinforced her conviction. _God forbid that I should end up like her; dead to everything but smugness_.

"That's not enough for me."

"You'll have to give up all the little luxuries, you know. No more foreign holidays, no more smart handbags. You'll have to go back to full-time work."

What smart handbags?

"I can live with that. What I can't live with is betraying myself anymore."

"Have you been to see the doctor? You don't sound right. What kind of a thing is that to say? You've been reading too many of those stupid books—"

"I'm leaving him and you can't change my mind." Her mother's face tightened again.

_She really does hate being interrupted. She doesn't get enough practice_. Rhea worked hard to keep the smirk off her face as she pictured her Dad with his head down, saying nothing until her mother had stopped talking, and not even then often enough.

"Well, what does Geoffrey say?"

Like you ever paid any attention to what he said before.

"It doesn't matter what he'll say. It's my decision."

"You haven't told him?" Her mother's eyebrows almost reached her perfectly trimmed fringe. Her mouth retracted to a tight sphincter.

"No. I tried talking to him—so many times. He always made what I said seem so stupid. Then I just stopped trying." Rhea heard the wistful child in her voice like a slap across her face. _Enough!_

"Well, I think you're being stupid. Give it a few days and you'll have changed your mind again, just like when you were a kid."

"No, Mum, I won't change my mind. Not this time; not anymore. Not for something so important. It's not like I'm trying to decide between red or black shoes." _And the only reason I changed my mind as a kid was your bullying_. "I'm going to look at flats and houses next week."

"Well, I'll come with you then, if you insist on making the biggest mistake in your life..."

"No, Mum, I'm doing this by myself... And by the way, I won't be here next Saturday."

***

Rhea walked into the living room, took the remote control from the armrest beside Geoffrey and turned off the television. Her boss had jumped at her request to go full-time; she'd been trying to persuade Rhea for months. It had taken her two weeks to find the right house at the right price. And Geoffrey hadn't even noticed the collection of bags and boxes in the spare room.

"What? What did you do that for? I was watching that." Geoffrey lurched forward from his sofa slouch, kicking his feet briefly like an upended beetle trying to right itself.

"I want to **talk** to you." She stood in front of him, blocking out the t.v. screen from habit.

He slumped back down and his face closed into his "yes dear, no dear" look.

"I want a divorce. I'm moving out in a week."

"What..." The shock wiped everything else from his face; the most emotion she'd seen from him in years. Then his eyes changed, naked hatred sharpened them to a point.

"You'll never cope on your own. You _need_ _me_." The venom didn't quite cover the wobble of fear in his voice.

***

The Yale lock clicked as it slid into place. Rhea turned, leaning back against the closed front door and stared at the cardboard boxes on the threadbare living room carpet.

I can put a rug over that.

She strolled through the tiny, rented house; two down, three up and an attic. A box or bag or two sat in most rooms.

I could leave these unpacked if I really wanted to.

A slow smile lit up her face. The delight of being entirely her own master trickled down between every cell in her body. The sense of having no one else to please cracked open the brittle casing of control around her ribs, letting her breathe.

For the first time in my life.

Back in the kitchen she opened the fridge door for the bottle of cheap Cava Justine had given her before waving her off. Rhea allowed her fingertips to re-test the bruise under her make-up, Geoffrey's parting gift.

"He upped his game from mental to physical," she'd said to Justine, standing on her doorstep. "I didn't see it coming. He's never hit me before."

"Oh God! Come in, come in, let's get some ice on that. You can stay here. Have you brought your stuff? No? I'll take the day off tomorrow and help you get everything."

Rhea reached towards the Cava, stopped, withdrew her hand and shut the door.

No. That's the old way. I don't need that any more.

On the drop leaf table, a bowl of bright lemons had pride of place; the first thing unpacked.

#

The Making of Danny

# by William D. Webb, Jr.

The funerals were the hardest part. Getting close to someone like Stephen, knowing he would die eventually and that you would have to stand there and throw dirt on his head and start all over again with someone else.

"I'm here," she said, alone at the podium, a crack in her voice, "to bury my ex-husband."

Mary glanced over the sparse gathering of white-haired youths in either dark suits or long pleated dresses. Many had thin jade bands around their neck, which bothered her. She sniffed the warm breeze and cast a look at her tall suitor clutching an old white guitar and staring back at her with deep blue eyes. Danny smiled.

"This is really hard," she began, giving the eulogy for a dead husband as the next one urged her on.

"Go on, babe," Danny mouthed to her. "S'okay."

"No, it's not okay," her eyes lit up like two flashlights. "I can't do this. I'm sorry everybody." Her once white hair glowed a dull yellow. She turned away from the black coffin laid out before the mourners. "We're here to bury him, so let's bury him already."

Not a single person frowned, no hushed disappointment or whispers of discontent. Two solemn young men grabbed either side of the dark coffin and walked it the few feet to the grave. With little effort, they laid it on the lift.

Mary slid next to Danny, flipping her hair off her collar. A wrinkled priest mumbled to himself and signed a cross as he flashed bright eyes at the casket. The coffin slipped downward. Stephen was gone. Mary patted Danny's arm and left him standing alone. He didn't seem to know what to do with his guitar, tapping it nervously. She snatched a handful of dirt from the pile alongside the grave and let it slip through her fingers.

"Do you wish to bury your wedding bands?" asked the Priest, pointing to his neck.

Mary closed her eyes tight, the question stung. "We... uh," she said and wiped a tear, "we didn't connect, Father."

"Oh dear," said the father, "I should have known."

Mary took in a deep breath. Danny played a soft lullaby. One by one the mourners tossed dirt. One by one they kissed Mary on the cheek, thumped a hand to their chest and laid a finger on her heart, a sign of endearment. One by one they walked off in silence.

Mary flashed an annoyed glance at Danny, still strumming away as the ceremony came to a close.

"Stop it," said Mary. "Let's go."

***

Danny had sweat rolling off his forehead as he pulled off his favorite cowboy hat and sighed.

"Hey, you okay?" He sniffed his armpits and scowled at the huge sweat marks under his silky blue shirt.

Mary wagged her head and continued to stare out at a sea of lights rolling down to a black sea. She spoke to the warm breeze as much as to Danny. "Do you know how many friends I've buried? How many lovers?"

"Should I start digg'n a hole now?" he said, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"I'm serious."

"No, _I'm_ serious," he said pulling his shirt over his head, angrily tossing it across the vast bedroom. "You missed the show, again."

"Yes," she said.

"You never come to mah show," he grumbled, brushing his long brown hair out of his eyes.

"No."

He tossed his hands in the air. "Shoot, man, it's one word answer time, is it? Babe, I'm too tired for this crap." Danny scowled. "I killed tonight, you should'a seen."

Mary's eyes flashed a yellow light and then faded like a lantern that had run low on oil.

"Babe, s'been two months, Stephen's gone, man. He was a old dude anyway."

"Yes."

He growled at her. "I can stan' it. I may be selfish ya know, to want you to enjoy what I do, you know evr'y now and then." He sighed. This was not getting him anywhere. He wasn't the angry type. "What's really bother'n you?"

"So many dead people, too many," she whispered. "Friends, soldiers, I loved them and lived with them and mourned them all but none," she turned to gaze at him, her eyes pulsing light, "have me as conflicted as you."

"Conflicted? What in hell does that mean? How's 'bout confused?"

"You want to know what's bothering me?"

"You think?" He snatched a towel from the dresser and mopped his face.

She cracked a thin smile but it faded just as fast. "Honey, you don't understand, I can't truly protect you if you're not a member."

"Oh Christ, again with the Nation bullshit. You know that do'n bother me. Who wants to live that long?"

Her face drooped. That was the wrong thing to say.

"Ain't it 'nough that every time we touch I get dizzy," he said, hopeful. "Well?"

"We're connected, that is a fact, a scientific fact."

"We're in love, right?" It was a serious question. "Tha's essential, scientifically speak'n."

"Yes, we're connected and in love, and I care about that a lot...," she said, but her voice trailed off.

"And?"

She turned to him, eyes ablaze, hair rippling like flames in a fire.

"And that makes the thought of watching you die..."

"Already plan'n my wake?" He groaned. "Can you live like today?" Danny threw his head back in disgust. He had grown weary of all her negativity.

"Sorry, honey, I can't shake this feeling."

"Is this 'bout me? Or 'bout you?"

He hit pay dirt. Her eyes darkened. She tapped her neck. "I fear my glands have dried up."

"So?" Danny kicked off his boots, sending them flying over the bed. "So you can't make me one of y'all. I'm cool with be'n ord'nary."

"But you're _vulnerable_ ," she blurted. His nostrils flared.

"And without that I'm what? Just another mark on yer bedpost?" He turned his head the other direction.

"Danny, no! People know who I am, what I do. They could use you to get at me."

He winced because he hadn't considered that angle. Dejected, he plopped on the bed and scooped up his old white electric guitar. His fingers danced over the strings. A soft melody, a sad, tinny melody leaked out of wall speakers.

"So how many lovers have you buried? Huh babe?" he said icily.

"One?"

That calmed him down. He took a moment to himself, playing as he spoke. "Listen, babe, I love ya like crazy, but you know I do'n understand all this Bezurn Nation stuff, the symbiotic, DNA mumbo jumbo. It's voodoo if you ask me. It ain't my game; I play the guitar."

"And the piano," she said, flashing him a demure glance. "I like it when you play the piano."

He returned the smile. "You mak'n it hard to stay mad."

She sighed, her eyes glowing again from somewhere behind the irises. "I'm a bundle of insecurities these days. I am... I feel... inadequate."

The music stopped. He laid the guitar back into its stand by the bed. "What can I do? Can I help? Gimme somethin' to work with."

"You are so sweet." She stopped when he shushed her. He never could stay mad. Standing, he laid a hand on her shoulder, "I wrote ya a song, want me to play it?"

"That's part of my problem. It's like you're making love to it." She paused as he curled his lip at her. "It's why I can't go to the shows." She rubbed her forehead with her palm. "God I need help."

"The music's all I got to give."

She frowned. "I'm losing it, I can toss a car over the 405 Freeway, but I can't figure this out." She bit her lip. This was going to hurt him. "It's your _songs_ , they're beautiful. I'll hear them long after you're gone. People will still play them."

"Quit beat'n yerself up!"

"Danny!"

He jerked his hand away. "Okay babe, wazzzup? What did I feel?"

"I have something to tell you," she said. He glared at her sideways. "No, it's not bad. I need some time to think. I might take a trip."

"I know this one," he grumbled. "Heartbreak city."

"No, listen, I just need some time. I'll come back, I promise, just a short jaunt."

He nodded. He knew her job. "Where you gonna go?" He pointed to the sky. "Home?"

"No, no," she shook her head, "not there. I've already been."

"Gonna get shot up again?"

"No, that I could handle. I'm just going to see Father Pedro."

"What you gonna see the priest for?" Now he was worried.

"The medics can't help. I've been to the best, they say nothing is wrong. But I can't work it out."

He laid both hands on her neck, a warm feeling flowing between them, but underneath there was fear.

"You know I do'n like it, but you do what you gotta do."

She smiled. "What are you going to do?"

"Me?" He shrugged, feigning bravery. "Well, since I got me a limited time offer on this life, me and the band still needs a title track for the new album. And a title for the new album, and songs for the new album." He laughed. "But other'n that we got it wired." His tone got serious. "Got me plenty o'insp'ration for a sappy 'love gone wrong' song."

"You can be really mean when you want to."

"That happens when my heart's a snappin' like a twig." He shook his head at her pout and sniffed in the night air. "I'll miss ya, ya know," Danny caressed her neck. "Ya leave'n now?"

She turned and kissed him, "Maybe in the morning." She sniffed his neck. "Or after you shower."

***

Mary pushed the old wooden doors apart and poked her head into the bright, but very small building. A few rows of dusty pews led to a single dark table. A large silver cross hung behind the table, providing the only symbol to indicate this was a church.

"Hello?" she called out. "Father?"

She jumped as the old priest tapped her from behind.

"Ah, yes," he said, smiling. "The scientist. A social visit?"

"Spiritual," she said confidently.

"Ohhh! A challenge. Come then, I'm fixing the Harley. We can talk there."

He led her around the building to an old stucco garage where a shiny motorcycle frame lay in pieces on a lift of some sort. He wore overalls beneath a face like a garden gnome, gnarled and jovial at the same time. He snatched up a wrench and winked at her.

"I do enjoy debates, but if that's not why you're here, out with it," he said. "I got me a total rebuild on this puppy and I need to get it down before I die." He laughed.

She smiled, unable to speak.

"Uh oh, I know that look," he said, twisting a bolt. "Longevititus I'm guessing."

"Excuse me?" said Mary, waking from her stupor.

" _Longevititus_. You've lived too long. Am I right? S'all over your eyes."

"How do you, know? It's not that, it's... my glands... it's the glands. They've dried up."

He smirked at her and held a dirty palm to her neck just under her cheek. She flinched.

"No, they're fine," he said and turned back to his work.

"Well, they aren't working," she said, crossing her arms like a belligerent teenager.

"See a medic."

Mary dug a toe into the floor. "Been there, you know that."

"So?"

"So they suggested I talk to you."

The wrench clicked and whirred.

"And what did they say that I would say?"

Exasperated, she stomped the cement. "Crap. I don't know! This is a waste of time."

He laughed to himself. "Time is the issue, isn't it?"

"Would you please stop speaking in riddles!"

"Would you prefer parables, I was there you know, for most of them. Let he who has ears...."

"Please Father, I can't figure this out alone," pleading with her eyes.

"Aha!"

"Aha what?!" She was angry now, her hair moving in a wave over her shoulders.

"Figuring is where you got it wrong," he said wiping grease from his hands. "It's not intellectual."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He laughed, inflaming Mary even more. Sensing he had gone too far, he shook his head, an apologetic shake. "Okay, I've had my fun. Sorry, about that. Priest to scientist: you think too much. I bet you know all about symbiotic physics so I'll spare you the lecture on the function of the ZT33 strain and how it does blah, blah, blah. And I bet you even know that a biophysical connection, a DNA match for those scientists in the room...," he winked at her again, "...can only be triggered by desire, by passion, by endorphins and pheromones, and some chemical brain stuff." He looked her in the eye, blue sparkles amongst white light. "By love."

"But I love him," she said, desperate.

"I'm convinced," said Father Pedro, "I felt it. Now convince yourself."

She glared at him. He shrugged.

"Feel it yourself, stop thinking about it."

"HOW?"

Father Pedro shook his old head. "When I felt your neck, when you thought I checked your glands, which I wasn't doing by the way, what did you feel? Anything?"

"Me? I...um...oh." She lapsed into an awkward silence.

Father Pedro turned his back to her. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"We are?" she said, her voice hoarse.

Father Pedro seemed agitated by her answer, tossing a rag on the ground. "Do you have any idea how many scientific pontificates I have sitting in those pews? They ask me what the meaning of life is like they're the first to wonder."

Mary stared at him, wild-eyed.

"You need me to spell it out? The DNA modifier changed our bodies, I don't think it changed our souls."

She failed to move, but he seemed satisfied. Flipping a wrench into his palm, he pointed to her car.

"If you don't mind tossing a few bucks in the till before you leave, the congregation would appreciate it."

She drifted, dream-like out of the garage and fell back into her car, defeated. The tingle of a phone made her frown. She tapped the steering wheel.

"Hi," she said, holding back the tears she knew were about to explode.

"Babe, that was the weakest hi ever," said Danny, "Babe, I been thinkin', if it's 'bout lose'n another man to the grave."

"Danny don't," she squeaked. "I know what's coming next."

"Well maybe we ought to..."

"Please don't say it, please. I'll figure it out."

"Take a longer break. You know tha's the truth, babe. I know your job. It's how you're wired, sweet stuff."

"I don't want to be alone!"

"Is that the only reason I'm here, to keep you company?"

Mary fumbled for her words.

"Oh crap," he said. "I'm sorry, babe, I'm hurtin' bad. This's my fault."

"Danny?"

"I got the wrong genes."

"No it's me," she said, practically pleading with him.

"Babe, I know why Stephen walked. He got old and could'n take it. Me either, 'cept I ain't a wait'n. I'll always love you, but I ain't watch'n you suffer. I ain't watch'n you feel sorry for yerself for like fifty years. And I ain't watch'n you watch me die."

For that she had no answer.

"Do'n lose my number, 'k, call me if you need me."

And the phone went dead.

She squinted hard, her eyes welling when another tone rang through the car. She didn't want to take this call, but she had little choice. She tapped the wheel again and heard a stern female voice.

"Mary, you got your ears on?"

"Oh cripes, General, that saying left the colloquial language last century," she said, sniffling. The last thing she wanted to do today was a job.

"I see you're in the high desert and we have a situation in Barstow, a hostage situation, heavily armed and not negotiating."

"I'm not in the mood!" she grumbled.

"Are you crying?"

She thumped her head on the headrest. She couldn't ignore this one, no matter what her emotional state. "Fine. Nut job Alpha Romeo to the rescue," she said.

"Excuse me?" said the General. "Don't you drive a Porsche?"

The car roared to life and she rumbled out of the dirt lot. "Never mind, I'll be there in twenty minutes," she said. "Just so happens I'm in the perfect mood for bullets."

***

Mary stood on her balcony, overlooking twinkling lights, fingering the many bullet holes in her blouse.

"I just bought this," she mumbled.

She pulled a piece of mangled lead out of her hair, shivering at the memory of her last conversation with Danny. After the 'job', she had driven aimlessly across the desert, unable to will herself to come home. And now that she was here, the house echoed with silence.

No music.

Yawning, she staggered upstairs to the bedroom and kicked the door open, saw the empty bed, the couch where she and Danny used to cuddle, his shirt still draped over the mirror.

Her gaze fell upon a yellow rectangle on the pillows, partially covering a tiny black square. A note. Her heart leapt. In one leap she was on the bed and reading.

So you don't forget, Love, Danny.

She yanked open the nightstand drawer, fumbling blindly until she flipped out a thin square box with a pair of red headphones dangling off it. With shaking hands she slid the rectangle inside and squished the ear plug into her ear. A lone guitar played to her, Danny's voice, his beautiful voice, sang to her.

She listened and she cried, and the answer landed on her hard. Music. It all made sense. The meaning of Father Pedro's message flowed through the song. A single emotion surfaced. Danny's feelings. For the first time, she felt him.

She shuddered, the emotion overwhelmed her. The device dropped to the bed.

She fondled the ear plugs before smashing them back in her ears. She meant to listen to the songs again, to replay them over and over, but a hint of light caught her eye.

"Danny, oh baby, you left your Stratocaster," she slid off the bed, lifting it with reverence, hugging it to her chest like a teddy bear.

"You'll be back," she said, a lone tear splattering over the polished wood. She turned it over and on the back she blinked at her own handwriting.

For you, Love, Mary.

Her eyes lit up. Her heart missed a beat because her fingers tingled from the old guitar. How? Maybe his sweat held molecules that — she shook her head violently. No thinking, no more thinking.

For you.

In a trance she crawled on the bed, wrapped her arms and legs around the instrument and listened to his songs again. She was barely able to keep her breath in check from the rushing, the longing, the heart-pounding desire. The music consumed her.

She had no inkling how long she lay in a lover's embrace with an old guitar and sappy love songs, but she had started sweating. Glistening droplets streamed down the strings. Why was she so hot? Laying the Strat back on its stand, she wiped her brow, checking her face in the mirror. A red glow reflected on the wall behind her.

Jumping up, dripping and nervous, she strained to see behind her. There it was, a red streak on her neck.

"My glands," she said to the mirror. "They work?"

And he wasn't here.

"Oh you _fool_!" she screamed at her image.

She thrashed around the counter until she found a hand mirror and angled herself so she could see behind her. The thin red streak ran from the base of her skull down her neck and disappeared beneath her blouse. Her body was manufacturing venom for her suitor, for Danny. The music did it. She could make him live 1,000 years.

She jogged down the winding steps to the front room and punched her phone, not even waiting for the other person to say hello. "I need a containment unit. And a medic. And transport," she paused and took a deep cleansing breath. "Sorry, I don't mean to make demands."

"What's the emergency?"

"I'm glowing, you moron!" She took another breath. "Sorry again."

"Perfectly normal under the circumstances, we get that all the time...wait...a transport you say? Isn't the suitor present?"

Her neck throbbed and growing bulges pulsed under her cheekbones.

"No... we had a fight," she groaned, the pain building, "I'll have to... _hngh_...call him, or something."

"Well, it isn't necessary for him to be present during the extraction. We will be at your door within three minutes."

"Thank you."

A short silence had Mary wondering if they had hung up. Relief swept across her face when the voice returned. "A transport has been scrambled," said the voice. "We need to know where to send it."

"Oh God I don't know!" she screamed.

She clicked numbers, sweat pouring off her cheeks, the room nearly pink from her glowing spine. She wrestled the receiver to her ear. It rang...fives times...ten times.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, please pick up," she said, eyes blinking.

She wanted to apologize, to beg, to make him come back. She longed, but her mind couldn't organize it all. She was glowing.

"Wazzuup!" said Danny, clearly drunk.

"Danny? Danny? Oh thank God."

"Mary, Mary, s'up babe, is like two in the morn'n."

"Danny! It's happening!"

"Wha's happ'n?"

" _Arrgghh_!"

"Mary? You work'n or som'pin? Ain't messin' yer good duds, are you?"

"You gotta come," she shouted into the phone, decorum and reconciliation would have to wait. "Now!"

"'K, but I'm toashted, baked to a del'cate crunch."

The room became blurry. Her temperature had to be rising because her forehead burned. Not much time.

Mary composed herself. "Danny, you said to call. You left your Strat."

"I only play it, hic, for you, any who."

"Danny, the medics are on there way, where are you?"

"Wishconsin, I think."

"Wis...CON...son!" She nearly fainted from the shock.

"Relaksh, I can be in LA in like fifty hoursh, give or take a day."

"DANNY. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?"

She flicked sweat off the phone.

"Geez, Flambeau Flowage," he said, temporarily coherent, "you been here...wit me. Member? The cabin."

"Don't freaking move!"

"Tha's not gonna be an issue, I'm lamb bashted, shmoked. I been in mourn'n," he paused, the coherence dissipating. Mary could almost hear the gears grinding in his head. "Um why not, I shouldn't move?"

"Do you love me?"

"Oooh, now we's getting to the point. Course, I do. Been drunk since...what day ish it? I ain't...never shoulda left. Dumb ash. Wrote four or five shongs." He broke into a low melody, " _I met a girl in dream,_ got two good tracksh. _"_

"I heard them," she whispered, the memory fresh.

"These're new."

"Shut up you...," and she felt it again. Her chest pounded and her neck ached. "...you goofball! Just don't move. They'll come for you."

"They who?"

"My friends. Our friends. If you still want to...you know?"

A long silence made her quiver. What if he didn't want to?

"Only if you want me to."

"YES! Don't play with me, please."

"Not play'n, just mak'n sure," his voice dropped to whisper, "I'm a tad on the washted shide."

Her head flipped around at the banging on the front door.

"It's open," she said.

A blond-headed medic burst into the room wearing a fluorescent red jumpsuit. He ran to Mary's side. She staggered. The phone slid to the floor.

"Arrowhead Resort, Wisconsin, just off County FF, fetch my suitor, please," she said, collapsing onto the couch.

"We'll have him here in a couple of hours or so," said the medic.

He cradled her like a baby, picking his way up the stairs to lay her limp body on the bed. Passing a white tube over her forehead, he said, "165 degrees. You're fairly well along. Once you hit 180 it'll happen."

"You know," she said, eyes weaving and trying to focus on the red medic's multiplying heads, "I really wanted to be awake for this, for him."

"178 degrees," he said, "You'd better sit up. You don't want to swallow it, you'll puke for a week."

She gave him a meager smile and shimmied herself up on the headboard. The medic rummaged in his bag and pulled out a long metallic tube with a mouthpiece on one end and a syringe on the other. Mary lurched forward and bit into the mouth piece. She screamed a muffled cry, an agonizing moan. The red glow subsided and the bulges in her neck shrank.

The cylinder beeped. "How long," she wheezed, "will it stay good?"

The medic smiled. "Don't you worry. I do this all the time."

She nodded.

"You're going to fall sleep," he said, wiping her mouth, "pass out actually, but I'll take good care of him."

She smiled, yellow liquid seeped out of her mouth.

"Danny. His name is Danny," she mumbled, and then she saw no more.

***

"Mother of all hangovers?" said Danny, his eyes still shut. "Is it over? I ain't remember a thing."

"Shut up." Unable to contain her joy, Mary hugged him tight.

He opened his eyes. He was hungry.

"You've been out for days," she said.

"Need food," he said, licking his lips. "Do I smell flapjacks?"

He propped himself up on his elbows, blinking at the bright sunshine pouring in from the balcony. She kissed his cheek.

"So did I get any smarts outta this deal?" He touched the thin, jade band around his neck. Mary touched her band too, her wedding band, blindly grabbing a plate of pastries from behind her. "You're smart enough."

He regarded his bandaged wrist, still throbbing from the injection and eagerly bit into a doughnut. "Ain't 'bout me."

That was too much. She leapt, knocking him into the middle of the bed, squeezing him for everything she was worth. She broke off and her voice whispered in his head even though her mouth didn't move. Their jade bands glowed.

Welcome to the Nation, Danny.

#

The Glass and the Lotus

# by Colin F. Barnes

Lace crouched under a thin section of the wreckage of the Falcon 10 orbiter. All 5 of her crew perished during the crash ten days previous. As far as she knew, she was the last human on Earth.

The image of watching the gas cloud from their orbit, ten days ago, consuming Earth never went away. Even now, hiding from the hazardous chemical rain, she remembers the gut wrenching fear. They watched that super-heated gas come from space, between Mars and Earth and cover the planet within minutes. A few seconds later, satellites, and communications went down. All contact was lost.

What miracle, what huge odds it must have been for them to be in the right orbit to miss the cloud's annihilation. Lace was a scientist with little faith, but in the light of the odds, she did wonder at times if there wasn't some external influence.

The guilt gnawed at her. Why her? Why did she survive? For three days she and her crew continued on their journey around the planet, waiting for the cloud to clear, waiting for some contact from anyone; but there was nothing. It was Lace that decided to return to Earth. They would have died in space if they didn't; surely it was the right choice to take the chance, to risk the conditions on the planet surface?

Her crew agreed with the choice, she wasn't entirely to blame, and yet the guilt still ripped at her. So she buried her crew, gave them each a proper funeral, or as proper as one can give in the forever wet conditions. But it still didn't feel like enough. Somehow she had to make contact with someone, tell them of the brave actions of her crew. Find some meaning.

Hugging a flight jacket, her only piece of civilian clothing, she pondered on her next course of action. She finished the last of the ration packs 4 days ago and had barely enough water for a few more days. The rain was too toxic to drink. _I can stay and die with my crew, but no one will bury me with them. Or I can walk, go find something, or at least die trying. I could try._

Lace decided to go east because she saw the tips of the Egyptian pyramids as they flew by in a westerly direction during their disastrous descent. The thing that struck her the most was the glare. It was like they were made of crystal. She also noticed that the ground was scorched and glossy. The gas cloud turned the sand to glass.

She took one last look at the soggy mounds of her crew's shallow graves and said a silent prayer: _you'll be remembered; I'll make sure of it._

***

Lace adjusted her breathing mask so that the tiny rivulets of moisture were moved from her vision. She couldn't see beyond more than a few meters as the monsoon drove at sharp angles on grievous winds so she just looked down watching her steps. She hobbled eastwards amongst pools of rich chemical soup that swirled with myriad gasoline colours and ran down the undulations of the scorched earth like viscous oil. Slow and determined they sought a destination.

She rubbed and pulled at her sodden flight suit, which clung like a leech and chaffed against her skin, making it feel like it was on fire. She daren't take it off completely and expose herself to the rain. She made that mistake shortly after the crash. Wishing to supplement Falcon 10's water supply, and in the grip of surest delirium, she danced out into the rain. Head up, mouth open, she swallowed deep. For two long days she curled like a foetus, gripping her stomach as the poison ravaged her body. _Never again. I'd rather rub my skin off than poison myself again._

Lace shuffled her way across acres of barren land, wishing for the heat and dryness of the sun. The light was nothing more than a monochrome blanket of foreboding grey.

She stopped and wiped her brow from underneath the flight jacket that she held over her head. She struggled to recall what a sunny day looked like. Wondered if it ever existed. Sighing, and feeling the weight of loneliness course through her, she pondered if anything at all still existed. For all she knew she could be a figment of the imagination of the beetle that crawled across her foot. Its shell metallic and covered in twisted, rainbow colours. Wait—something alive! Her hopes repelled the onset of depression and she bent down to it to get a closer look, not convinced she wasn't hallucinating. It was large, and resembled a scarab beetle, or dung beetle. She preferred the former, more regal.

"Hey, there little fella," she mumbled. Her voice muffled by the mask. "Do you have any friends? I'm awfully hungry. I bet there's some meat under that pretty shell of yours? I shall name you Mr Biggleswade." She didn't know why, but it seemed a fitting name for a beetle.

Something formed, sloth-like, in the spongy organ she once considered a brain; only it had ceased to work as a fully functioning brain for some time. But this new thing was real: an honest to god solid thought. It tried to relay some important piece of information. And then it came.

Food! There must be a food source if this bug is still alive. How it survived the gas cloud she couldn't guess, but it was here, moving and alive, and it promised hope. With all the rational thought of a desperate woman she decided to follow it.

The beetle, with its twitching antennae, moved some distance in front of her. Its shell the perfect camouflage to the toxic pools. She began to lose sight of him in the dense rain.

Twisting her head side to side, she couldn't see him, a tremble broke out and she felt like crying. _Where's he gone? Don't leave me!_ She hobbled forward as fast as her legs could carry her. Had to find Mr Biggleswade, the little beetle-bug. Where was he?

The glint of metallic colour caught her eye. There he was—in a pool of rain, struggling.

She fell to her knees and bent over the pool, ensuring the flight jacket covered her. She reached into the water and scooped the little fellow out.

Lace put Mr Biggleswade back down, rubbed her hands against her clothes, and watched as he continued his path to some mystery place. She felt affronted, not even a 'thank you'.

Hunching under her jacket against the wind, Lace continued forward into the harsh weather, pushing into the falling folds of deepest grey. She mused that if she could just keep going, keep following Biggleswade, that she could eventually push through that curtain of despair and maybe find someone, something; anything.

***

For two straight days, with no sleep, and twisting thoughts of a thousand reasons for her predicament, Lace followed that brave beetle as he travelled purposely towards something. His unwavering fortitude gave her the will to continue. She never came to any conclusions as to why; it was so damned illogical. So she just continued.

She never saw another beetle. Never saw anything else alive.

Mr Biggleswade stopped at the edge of a deep decline that stretched down into a wide basin. Numerous pools of mud and grime littered the black glossy ground. Lace approached the edge, dizziness threatened to topple her down into the basin. Ghost sensations thrummed through her legs from the endless plodding on the mulched ground. Even standing still she felt like she was walking.

The beetle opened his shell plates into insect wings. With a brief faltering in the harsh rain and whipping wind, he flapped harder and flew away into the gloom.

"No, don't leave me!" Lace shouted. Dull pains of grief brought tears to her eyes. She didn't like crying, it was a waste of water, but the tears flowed for her little steadfast companion. She watched him fly like a fully laden bee as the wind buffeted his chunky form.

It was at that point, after clearing the tears from her eyes, that she saw it. Felt it.

The sun. The God damned sun! Its yellow rays cut a swathe through the grim atmosphere, slicing through the half-light. Lace's gaze followed the ray of light from beyond the black clouds, through the hazy barricade of rain, to a point far across the basin where it glinted off something flat and reflective.

Lace blinked, not understanding what she was seeing. High ridges of semi-translucent material jutted from the land and stretched out in giant folds of silica dunes: unbelievable, but completely understandable. She had seen in the lab sand melted before, but to see it on such a scale took her breath away.

Just beyond this sea of glass she observed the same thing she saw during her descent: the specular ray of light from atop a triangle—the pyramids.

Her head swam, making her feel sick. She gasped for air as vertigo gripped her and sent her sliding down the slippery basin wall. Her tatty, wet flight suit bunched up around her as she descended.

Too weak to scream, she just let herself go. Let gravity drag her down the slope, ever increasing in speed. She closed her eyes and held her breath as she felt herself slip and slide downwards.

Lace opened her eyes and felt herself breathe again. She saw the bottom get closer. The slope flattened out and she began to slow. She pulled her arms and legs in and hugged herself waiting to strike the muddy ground.

She hit the bottom of the slope considerably slower than her descent and she rolled over before wrapping herself inside her jacket. _I'm alive, I'm still alive._ She breathed slowly trying to slow her heart rate. The adrenalin of the slide coursed through her body and she trembled. _Another shock like that, and my heart is likely to give up._

Her backside, thighs, and lower back were raw with pain.

She wanted to stop. Just lie down and let the pain take her. The temptation was to give into the fatigue and sleep forever. Forget the nightmare; forget the tragedy of the gas cloud and the unknown reasons why it came. Just forget it all and let herself go.

_I owe it to my crew, their memories. Keep going. The pyramids are close._ What she thought she would find at the pyramids she had no idea, but it seemed to call to her like a beacon. Just keep going, reach them, and reassess. She wasn't ever a quitter, not during college, not during astronaut training, not during her parents divorce and subsequent funerals, the split seemingly too much for them. Throughout all her struggles, one thing she never did was quit.

Standing tall and stretching out her back muscles, she rearranged her clothes, and stared at the tip of the pyramid. _I'm coming for you, you bitch!_

***

A familiar chattering noise came from above her. She stared up into the rain. It was Mr Biggleswade! The loyal beetle had come back for her. Awe and relief overwhelmed her, and she began to sob as she watched him take flight in graceless circuits. What was it about this beetle? _Why are you here?_

His arcs widened to ellipses and his trajectory took him farther away from her. She could have sworn that he turned mid-flight and beckoned her with his legs. So she followed.

Lace walked for a further day following him. Lightning bolts fired through her nervous system and fire burned throughout her body's sore muscles. Every step was like suicide. She lost him again, but continued onwards until she saw him fly around the tip of the pyramid. Its massiveness dominated her field of view. A sick feeling of vertigo vibrated within her and she wanted to sit down, or vomit, or both. But she closed her eyes and counted to ten. _Get a grip girl. Breathe, you're nearly there._

The translucent crystal triangle wasn't quite right. She mused that it resembled something Dali would paint: angular, but melted. Stoic in form, but at some time gel like.

_It's not surprising things are looking a little bit off._ She couldn't remember when she last ate, and as for water, she doubted there were many deserts with lower water content than she, after drinking the last few drops, what seemed an eternity ago. Delusion was probably firmly ensconced; but she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Lace thought she saw something moving: a dark shape surrounded by fire, deep inside the crystal pyramid. She squished her face against its wet glassy surface and absorbed the warmth while she stared into the depths.

It was definitely flame. It cast a yellow lambent inside a chamber while something shuffled about inside. The distorted surface of the pyramid amplified the strangeness, and Lace wondered if it was real or just a mirage of a sick mind. _Only one way to find out._ Lace dragged her unresponsive body around with sheer willpower and curiosity. She wanted to take off her mask and scream into the sky with the wracking pains that sparked with each footstep. But she didn't give in. Lace thought back to all the PT training she had endured at the space agency; this was just another test and she would be damned if she wouldn't make it while she her heart still beat inside her chest.

An hour later, and Lace rounded the last corner and spotted a familiar sight. Sat at a small curved aperture, Mr Biggleswade looked towards the dark entrance, his antennae flicking erratically.

Lace bent and picked him up and placed him on her shoulder. It reminded her of how pirates used to carry a parrot. She thought it was fitting that 'pirate' and 'parrot' sounded similar, and that was all the logic she needed. She laughed out loud and blood dribbled down her chin. She spat more of it on the glass floor, and everything went black. But not before she heard a deep moan from deep inside the pyramid.

***

Lace felt five years old again being carried downstairs by her father on her birthday. The stairs felt like they went on forever. Warmth penetrated her cold bones like a gas torch, and threatened to melt the marrow right out. She worried that her father would slip on the wet bone juice. "Be careful!" she shouted.

A deep, resonating voice answered in some unknown language. It sounded like _'Balamasha'_.

This wasn't her father.

She wasn't five years old either. She felt older than the stars.

The salty sweat on the skin of the thing carrying her stung against her wounds.

It was strong though, seemingly carrying her with ease. Through her thinning skin, she could feel the striations of this thing's muscles. Real flesh, firm muscle, it was full of vitality, but how?

The smell of wax and dry rot filled her nose. She wanted to heave, but her body refused to comply. So she remained quiet like a corpse in those strong arms and listened to the deep mournful breathing as the thing placed her down on a hard surface.

It grunted ever so slightly.

It must have been close to her face because she could taste the warm air of its breath. Lace wanted to look at it, but was unable to open her eyes; the sleep was too strong.

Stirring, she tried to move her arms but was held within a narrow space; her elbows rubbed against smooth depressions in what felt like stone. Her hipbone and spine sunk into a time-worn furrow.

Low, rumbling tones ebbed in the echo-filled chamber, lulling her to sleep.

It was so quiet now, and she was surrounded by utterly nothing. Maybe she had died; the idea blazed in her unconsciousness like an exploding star. She thought she was falling and she was waiting tohit something, but it never came. She just floated, and then she heard a voice.

"Usha, risha," it chanted.

She dreamed of a tall, bald man, seemingly made of bronze. He was laid on a slab. A group of men wrapped him in cloth and bandages. A series of stone urns were placed on a raised platform to the back of a chamber behind an ornate sarcophagus. Bags of grain, urns of water and bales of reeds were situated in neat rows inside the small room.

"Usha, risha," the men chanted as they continued to wrap the mummy. A pharaoh!

***

Lace's lips cracked as cool water flooded over dry cuts. Lapping at the drips like a cat, she felt the pure joy of unspoiled water moisten her dehydrated mouth and throat. Her stomach cramped at the invasion, even as the water quenched her thirst. The hunger for life overpowered the questions of how, who and why. She drunk deep from the offering, but kept her eyes closed not wanting to reveal the source of this miracle, not wanting to break the good fortune. She still wasn't sure if she was dreaming, but she drank anyway.

"Usha, risha," he said.

"Good evening, Sir," Lace said. She realised it was absurd, but felt she needed to say something. Her natural curiosity got the better of her and she opened her eyes with a gasp.

Lace pushed herself backwards, scrabbling her legs on the smooth stone surface of her cot. Only it wasn't a cot; it was the very same sarcophagus that she saw in her dreams. The face staring down at her from a sharp angle was the bronzed, bald visage of the man wrapped in cloth—the mummy from her dreams.

A piece of yellowed material flapped from his wrist. He held out a wooden cup, its wet rim glistened from the fire light of the oil torches held in braziers. She cradled the cup in shaking hands resisting the urge to down it in one gulp.

Lace's attention was drawn to an amber light shining above her. She looked upwards and stared through the distorting transparent layers of the pyramid. Rays of first light hit the side of the building and penetrated through the exterior to the otherwise cold, grey insides of the glacier-like structure.

Water trickled down a narrow channel cut through the glass and sandstone. The gas-cloud only managed to turn the uppermost of the structure into glass. The earth protected the deep sandstone tomb. Lace found it both wonderful and bizarre to see the material turn from transparent to opaque in infinite gradations.

The tomb itself was larger than she saw in her dream. Water from the channel fed a reed bed, which was at least thirty foot long and which she assumed was responsible for filtering the poisonous rain. Running directly parallel was a strip of leafy corn stalks. Behind her position in the sarcophagus were hundreds of containers. The lid was ajar on one of them. It looked to hold seeds of some kind.

The levels of forethought shook her to her bones. The man before her, holding a plate of some steaming, soup-like substance, had the charisma of a Hollywood legend. His thick, dark eyebrows and trimmed beard made her want to reach out and stroke him; to feel the hair with her hands. She wanted to feel his bald head, so smooth it gleamed with specular reflections. To touch another human again, to feel alive, made her want to weep. _If he's human._ She thought. _Who knows what's going on?_ All her scientific upbringing hadn't prepared her for the complete breakdown of explainable, logical events.

Taking the steaming soup and a carved, golden spoon from his graceful hands, Lace nodded her thanks and let the hot liquid fill her belly. Warmth quickly spread and she was grateful for the simple broth. How good it felt to have hot food! She wanted to weep with joy.

***

For three weeks, the pharaoh, calling himself 'Djet', fed and looked after Lace. Every morning he would wake her and cook together the corn and some unknown beans from one of his urns. It wasn't disgusting, but it wasn't exactly eating at the Ritz either. Lace was always appreciative however. Between them they managed to establish communication; Djet seemingly more adept at learning English than she was at understanding ancient Egyptian.

"All this," Djet said, spreading his arms wide to include the trappings of the tomb, "was seen long before my rebirth." He moved to the back of the tomb and picked out a couple of tablets, which he brought to Lace, now sitting on his throne. It was made of gold and seemed to radiate with a majestic energy; it pleased Lace to sit on that throne and imagine herself as a pharaoh queen.

Lace took the tablets and traced the hieroglyphics with a finger while Djet, becoming ever more confident with the language, translated.

"In the year of the consumption, my palace was to turn to crystal, and the rain would cleanse the earth. Ra's fury would boil the seas and transform the ground. And I would be delivered a queen."

"A queen?" Lace choked on her corn soup and had to restrain a laugh. His puzzled expression made her melt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. Please, go on." She gestured at the tablet and nodded.

"Yes. A queen." Djet bowed before her, his forehead touching her feet. Lace had an overwhelming urge to reach out and pat his head. The schoolgirl inside her delivered up a giggle and she watched in horror as she did indeed reach out a hand and pat his head, twice.

His head was hot and coated in a very fine film that felt like oil.

Djet stumbled back, his eyes wide.

_Oh crap, I've insulted a god_ , she thought, now feeling like an unruly child who had been sent to the headmaster's office to be disciplined.

Djet stood up, easily over 6 feet tall, and brushed the sand from his wrappings. He glared at Lace with abyssal dark eyes. He placed both hands on his hip, lent backwards, and let out the loudest laugh she'd ever heard. It boomed inside the tomb with such resonance she had to put aside the tablet and place her hands over her ears.

Djet held out a hand, "Come, my queen, it's time for us to reseed the earth."

Djet led Lace through a system of tunnels deep under the earth until they came to a set of subterranean steps leading up to an ancient looking clay door. Djet took a key from his wrappings and after considerable time re-bored the hole for the key and turned it. Deep within the structure gearing whirred and clanked and the door opened an inch. Blinding light burst through the gap. Lace held up a hand to protect her eyes. She could smell fresh air, delighted in tasting it on her tongue.

The door reluctantly creaked open. Dry rusted hinges bemoaned the disturbance, but Djet heaved the door wide, flooding the dark tunnel with golden light. Lace's vision became a blinding white sheet after spending so much time in the dark chamber. Djet had no such problem and strode out into the open. He breathed in deep with an audible inhale followed by an equally boisterous exhale.

"It is a good time to sow the seed. Soon the lotus will rise from the renewed rivers, and we can build a new empire."

Lace stumbled out into the light, hands shielding her eyes. She noticed, for the first time since returning to Earth, it was no longer raining. Was it over? The deluge and torrential flooding had finally ceased? It seemed so, and she smiled wide, taking in the warmth of the sun for the first time since she returned to Earth.

Djet stood in silhouette at the edge of a plateau. She took a step forward and looked down. Below her was a dried riverbed. In the far distance a silver streak ran down a tall cliff face. Djet pointed to it and spoke without looking at her. "Even now, the waters return to me."

Lace wondered just how Djet intended to build an empire. Toxic rivers, albeit new ones, wouldn't support a goat let alone an empire. Reeds can only filter so much.

"It is a good time... the earth will be renewed."

"Sure it will," Lace whispered under breath. She knew she was recovering from her ordeal well, because her familiar cynicism grew stronger. Despite this man, this pharaoh reincarnated, she still doubted him. _Not surprising given everything I've seen_ , she thought.

It took a further three months before the dried riverbed filled. Even then, it only recovered half of its capacity; the rest of the run-off from the rain sought other avenues. The highly desired lotus didn't appear despite Djet's cries to the gods while he climaxed inside her. 'Reseeding' clearly meant more than sowing corn and wheat.

Although thankful for being saved, and although his very existence was a miracle, Lace grew weary of her new life and secretly wished she'd died in the basin. Each day she would eat the same crap, drink the same reed-filtered water, be treated as a vessel for his seed. Even against her will. He didn't understand she wasn't even capable of conceiving. Each of her attempts to put him off, or delay the inevitable, just made him grow ever more fierce and demanding. Bruises on her arms and legs and inner-thighs were more common. Yet he continued.

"When will there be a child?" he boomed at her after she bled for the third consecutive month. His face pinched tight and he stood over her, sweating with impotent frustration. But he was out of time; Lace had seen and done too much to be overawed. Part of her reminded herself that the very fact he was alive was beyond anything she thought possible; but another part couldn't care less and was already bored with the novelty. There were only so many violent demands one could take before snapping, and this was her point.

"Maybe you weren't meant to have a new empire after all," Lace retorted, pushing past him and heading to the tunnels. He spun her around and yelled at her, coating her in spittle with his rage.

"I'm Djet! It is written. You dare question me after everything you have seen?" The flustered pharaoh stamped a sandaled foot into the dusty floor of the chamber, sending a plume of sand and dust into the fetid air, stinging Lace's eyes. She ran through the tunnels, one hand clearing her eyes, the other hand tracing a way along the walls and eventually up the long, steep subterranean steps.

It was too much, she had to get away, get some distance.

The floor rumbled with heavy, sprinting steps and before she had time to register his proximity a hand grabbed her hair and yanked. She reached out to grab the door, but missed and hit the floor with a hard thud. She screamed as she was dragged backwards. A slick slurry of blood and sand grated into her skin as the rough, stone-steps cut into her.

"I am your King! You will provide me with an heir," he shouted as he dragged Lace back down the steps, her spine cracking onto every step, sending a fresh burst of pain at each impact.

Lace thrashed her limbs and caught him in the face with an elbow. His grip released and she scrambled to her feet. Before he could react she dashed up the stairs to the open door.

Lace made her way out on to the plateau and stepped towards the edge. The riverbed was barely covered this close to the mountain's edge. She had planned to jump into the water, but seeing it then she realised it wasn't deep enough to accommodate her leap of faith.

"You will take my seed, or die!" Djet stood in the doorway blocking any escape back into the tunnel. His robe was ripped, and his firm phallus stuck out between the folds of the cloth. His face shone with sweat and swelled around his eye.

"Fuck off, freak." Lace edged back another step and Djet followed, a puzzled expression on his face. They were words Lace hadn't taught him yet.

"You were sent to me, it shouldn't be like this," Djet said. "Clothed in three eagles the prophecy said." He pointed to the small, embroidered emblem on her flight jacket. Djet walked forward and closed in on her. Lace circled him so that her back was to the doorway, ready to turn and run.

Then it dawned on her. It wasn't her jacket—it belonged to Mary, one of her colleagues from Falcon 10. "I shouldn't be here, at all! Oh my precious King, I'm afraid you've been woken up for nothing." Lace began to laugh; everything seemed so absurd. There he was, a reincarnated king with a throbbing erection demanding a child from an infertile woman who should be dead. On their way back to Earth, Lace and Mary had swapped seats—due to a superstition on Lace's part about being near the window when they landed. Was fate really that fickle that it could be thrown off course by a simple superstition?

Djet looked even more puzzled and his face reddened with fury.

"Look, calm down, it's just a misunderstanding. Maybe you can find someone else?" Lace looked around the barren land. "Ok, so maybe that's not going to happen, but look on the bright side. You're alive."

Djet screamed with such anguish that Lace could almost feel sorry for him—almost. One can never really surrender feelings for a rapist and control freak.

The angered pharaoh reached for her jacket and pulled her close. He was still raging and he shouted in his ancient, dead language. She pulled back, trying to get away from his grip. A tug of war broke out over the jacket, and each time the pharaoh pulled, Lace yanked back with equal fury until the jacket ripped. By this time, the pharaoh was standing with his back to the edge. He pulled harder and ripped a sleeve from the jacket. The momentum sent him falling backwards, his arms pin-wheeling for balance. His sandals slipped in the sand, and he pitched off the edge of the plateau.

The pharaoh's scream receded to silence. A loud splash into the water followed.

Lace moved towards the edge; her body shaking with the earlier effort and subsequent shock. She saw Djet's broken body wash up on the dried part of the bank. She knew she should feel some empathy for him—after all, he waited thousands of years for the earth to perish so he could come back—but all she could think of while his body laid there was how she was glad he was dead. The only human she knew existed, gone. She tried to convince herself that she should feel something, but she didn't. The savagery of the gas cloud and its effects on the earth had seemingly stripped away her humanity, and she accepted it. _I'm the only one. Again._ She smiled.

A familiar buzzing noise broke her away from her thoughts. "Mr Biggleswade!" The beetle flew about her head and sat on her shoulder briefly before landing on the floor and moving off towards the tunnels. "Where are you taking me now?" Lace asked as the beetle chirped and continued to cut a new path through the mountains.

Lace packed supplies from the tomb chamber and followed him out of the pyramid and towards the West. Thankfully, it still hadn't rained. She had no idea where she was going, what she would meet along the way, if anything, but she didn't care anymore. In Mr Biggleswade, she had faith.

#

Last Days of the Roman Empire

# by Cath Murphy

Nine in the morning and Jozo's getting shitfaced in front of the tv. Holds a coffee cup but I can smell the Wild Turkey in it. Should know better than to ask him can I watch cartoons. I dodge when he flings out an arm and tells me shut my whining mouth.

Mama says don't speak to him like that and Jozo says it's my trailer ain't it? You don't like it you know where the door is. Baby Lavonne starts crying and Mama jiggles her and says can you hold her for me Taylor? I need to go pee.

Baby Lavonne is heavy. I sit on the chair furthest from Jozo and dandle her on my knee. She has a crust around her mouth from her cereal and sleep grit in the corner of her eyes. I brush the grit away and she smiles at me.

Guy on the tv says we'll be right back after these messages. Jozo don't want to hear about ab trimmers or how if he buys a pressure cooker he can get a free set of comfort grip peelers thrown in. He picks up the remote and flicks, lands on one of them God channels where some guy with a tan and shiny hair is talking. Jozo picks up his cup for another slug. It's empty so he goes to the cereal packet where he hides his booze to fill it, takes the remote with him in case I take leave of my senses and try to pick something me and Lavonne like, so I listen to the guy with the shiny hair who is talking about looking after those weaker than ourselves and how Jesus said blessed are the piecemakers and how we all have to fight the good fight and suffer the little children and while I listen Lavonne calls me tay-tay and tries to put her little fingers in my ears, until I blow a big fat raspberry on her neck and she laughs so hard she gurgles.

Jozo plumps back in his LaZboy, coffee cup in his fist. He flicks some more until he finds Monster Trucks. Lookit that Taylor. Now Jozo is my buddy all of a sudden. He is working up to something. One truck rolls over another one and squishes it flatter than a bug. Ain't that a beaut? He gives me a side-eye. Listen Taylor. That lamebrain buddy of yours—he got those pills?

Jozo is talking about Stewie. Stewie has a Problem with Concentration. That's how Mizz Gonzales at school says it—like it has capitals. Stewie's Mama has insurance on account of she works in the chicken plant and that means Stewie gets pills for his Problem. I told Mama this over our potpies one night and Jozo's ears pricked up like a bird dog on a scent. He been after them pills ever since.

I reckon he does. I jiggle Baby Lavonne more and she giggles.

You get them pills for me and I buy that baby something nice.

Mama comes out the toilet and I hand over Baby Lavonne. Someone always got to be holding her because there ain't nowhere but her crib for her to be in the trailer what with all our stuff. Mama says she'll straighten it all out once she gets ahead a little bit and Jozo says like that'll ever happen lazy bitch and Mama says why don't you go out and play Taylor?

Outside it's hot as a skunk with the squits. Stewie is by his trailer jumping and poking a stick at thin air.

What you doing?

Being a gladiator.

Stewie has been stuck on gladiators ever since Mizz Gonzales put on that film at school instead of teaching us history. It was about a guy who was a soldier but got on the wrong side of his boss, a crazy fella who made me think of Jozo except better looking, and the boss tried to have him killed but the soldier guy ends up fighting in the big arena with tigers and chariots. It was a good film, but like Mizz Gonzales says when Stewie starts waving his sword about in the classroom, it was only a story Stewart and we need to remember the difference between reality and fantasy.

I remember the difference. I can have fantasies about how it was before Jozo came along, but reality is we live in his trailer and he asked me to get something for him.

You going give me them pills? I stand over Stewie the way Jozo stands over me when he is going to whip me six ways from Sunday.

Stewie's face folds in. I need them for my Problem.

What if I got something else? Something better than the pills?

I think about it. Like what?

Buried treasure. Stewie's eyes are shiny and huge. He is a certified grade A flake. But those words make me curious. I make a big deal of chewing it over. Show me and we'll see.

We are at the trailer gate when Arnaldo sees us. Where you guys going? He waddles over. I swear when Arnaldo goes on the Biggest Loser as their heaviest ever contestant, they will need a dumptruck to deliver him to the Ranch. Twelve years old and three hundred pounds. I told you before. Jozo wants them.

Beat it Arnaldo. You can't keep up.

Arnaldo! His Mama is at her trailer door. She has arms like two hunks of cream cheese. Your pizza ready—come eat while it hot!

We leave Arnaldo and go under the plastic arch at the gate. Mr Wever has put fake flowers in it to make it look nice but that must have been a century ago because now they about three of them left and they faded to almost grey.

Where are we going? I want to know this before Stewie drags me off on some fool chase to nothing.

It's up in the chaparral. Other side of the freeway.

You better be real about this Stew. Or I'm a pound you flatter'n roadkill.

Stewie blinks. He thinks I will do it and I feel bad for a second. Scaring Stewie is like pulling the tail on a puppy. It's real, he says. I swear. Buried treasure.

We head over the dirt to the freeway and Stewie tells me stuff about the Romans. They conquered everything. They were all over the world. They had circuses and fed Christians to lions. They had banquets and ate so much they had a room for throwing up in. Then it all went up shit creek with the Romans and they ended up as Italy, says Stewie. Too much eating and drinking and gladiators I say. Funny how Stewie sounds like Wikipedia but can't tie his shoelaces. I stop and tie them for him, before he trips over them and knocks out his other front tooth.

At the freeway the traffic is screaming. Big trucks pulling loads to Reseda. The arroyo runs under and we cross that way. The other side, we climb the bluff. It so steep we keep slipping and kicking up dust.

This better be good Stewie.

At the top I spit dirt from my mouth. The dust from the freeway makes a red cloud like an army coming. We walk down the other side of the bluff and aways further. No one ever comes here except maybe couples looking to get laid or high. Stewie ducks down another arroyo, stops at a heap of big stones. Here he says.

He wrapped them in a Wallmart bag. Found them buried in a pit with a dried up old piece of leather he says was a sandal. In the bag are black discs, size of my thumbnail. Coins. I scratch one and a face appears. Long flat nose like a boxer. Leaves on its head.

See. It's Roman. No one ever knew they got this far. Stewie's voice is thin and excited. It's a real find Taylor. Museum'd pay for these.

His face is all lit up like someone has shone a torch on it. I hold those little black coins in my hand and for an eye blink I remember that film and how the gladiator fights everyone and wins. How all the other soldiers he fights with thinks he is the man and how he rides and rides to get to his wife and his little boy before the boss's men get to them first.

Stewie is staring at me. His face is all trusting and hopeful like the other soldiers look when the gladiator helps them to fight in the arena. Stewie thinks I am the man, that I'm going to take the coins and let him keep his pills. That's what the gladiator would do. He wouldn't get fat like Arnaldo or pretend he had an injury and sue like Jozo. He would be straight and true and protect those weaker than himself.

Then I remember the rest of the film. Gladiator gets to his wife and boy too late. He fights the good fight but in the end he dies too. It's just a story, Stewie. I picture Jozo's face when I dump the coins in his lap. Suffer the little children said the man on the God channel. So far, Jozo has never touched Lavonne. If I don't bring him what he wants, he'll suffer me and probably her too.

I throw the coins as hard as I can towards the freeway so the red cloud swallows them up.

Give me the pills Stewie. Won't ask you twice.

Jozo's coffee cup is in pieces on the floor when I get back. He has the Wild Turkey bottle jammed between his thighs so it won't spill when he falls asleep. His eyes are little and red. Baby Lavonne is wailing in her crib and Mama is at the stove, with her face held away from me.

I got the pills.

Jozo rattles the bottle. That's the fella. He picks up the remote, flicks to another channel. Wrestling. Fat guy shined up like a fresh deer turd stomps on another guy's head.

Lookit says Jozo. That's what I call entertainment.

#

Abide

# by V.Ð. Griesdoorn

I feel less like 'the most gifted woman in the university', or whatever idiotic laudation the dean lavished back in the day. I stand here, looking at my former research building and my windpipe restricts. Every day before I go into my new place of work, I stop across the street from where I had been happy. And look. Every day I feel less like a scientist.

Today is more painful. Three years ago my professorate was taken away from me. I was dismissed from where I built my career, from where I thought I was meant to be. The Redefine movement calls the human state of mind elevated, but I call it fantasy and fallacy, madness.

The university hospital complex looked as all such campuses did in the day. Medium-high, concrete buildings stuffed to capacity with treatment facilities, patient wards and labs. The scarce, purpose-built research buildings used to be the exception to the drab rule. Now the buildings surrounding me have modern facings added. Glass conceals stone. All of them have splotches of coloured design. Either the glass itself is dyed or the buildings have shaded shutters. Some of them have odd panels that distort the original cubical or rectangular shape. My former building vaguely resembles a pineapple.

The interiors haven't changed as dramatically since the alleged elevation of existence. But all buildings are clean and have been repainted. Entrances and stoops are decorated with plant pots and flowerbeds. Where the buildings didn't have stoops, the roads have been redesigned to make space. The streets look immaculate.

My hands rest on a waste bin. It's high enough to lean on comfortably. The hard plastic supports me. From my coat pocket I take the letter of dismissal from the dean, the one that ruined my career. People walk by. They must wonder why I'm hugging the bin like I am. They avert their gaze when I look at them. They think I'm losing my marbles.

When I crumple up the letter I see a flash of the letterhead, the university logo in a header of yellow and red. The address details for the dean's office. With a yelp I throw the letter into the darkness of the bin where it sticks to a bit of cellophane and chewing gum.

The nervousness gets to me. If I leave the letter there to be thrown out, I won't have any proof of what happened. My breath stutters. I need that letter.

I reach into the bin, up to my shoulder. I touch what feels like a banana peel. I can't see what I'm doing, my own arm obscures my view. I peer in, past my elbow. A very faint smell of rot fills my nose. At least the Redefine movement makes sure the bins stay immaculate, an improvement over old times.

"Dr. Hearn." I recognise the man's voice behind me. The realisation makes me jump. "Dr. Hearn, have you lost something?"

"Tanya, what are you doing?" A younger voice. John.

I clutch the crumpled paper, just in time, and retract my arm from the bin. I stand there for a moment, unmoving. I accidentally drop the wad on the floor and stare at it a moment before the bantam man offers an offence.

"Dr. Hearn. Littering ruins the world for all of us."

My heart sinks. I stoop to pick it up and straighten the creased paper out. I return it to my coat pocket.

The man stands there, a faint grin around his mouth. John looks at me with a look of alarm, a note of pity. Then looks at the man. I follow his gaze.

"Professor Treffert." I watch him unwavering, my defiance returning. "How are you?"

"I should ask you the same." The man's grin turns to a pucker, his eyes still sparkling.

"Are you all right, Tanya?" John looks at me, probing.

My face breaks into a smile. "I'm fine, John, thank you. I threw something away, which I later realised I needed. Silly."

"You shouldn't make that a habit," Treffert pipes up, "people will start to think you odd."

Like they don't already.

"But since we're all here," Treffert continues, "I wanted to personally congratulate you on your education of this man." Treffert lays a hand on John's shoulder. John pulls the corner of his mouth down and looks at his shoes. He's embarrassed.

Oh, yes, here we go.

"Since John left your employ, he has had a very successful three years working in my lab. I think he'll do well." Treffert releases John's shoulder and John faces me. He is still uncomfortable. "I think he'll be offered tenure soon."

"That's excellent news. Congratulations, John." I smile a genuine smile at him. It isn't John's fault his new boss is a hobgoblin. John smiles back. His shoulders relax, his unease lightening.

It is time for me to make my escape. "I really must get inside."

"Of course," Treffert says, his eyes probing, as if to see if I am rattled.

"Good to see you again, John." I reinforce the sentiment by reaching out and squeezing John's forearm. "Prof. Treffert." I nod to the goblin, before taking my leave.

The walk inside isn't a walk of shame exactly.

***

21 months earlier

"Excuse me? Are you Dr. Hearn?"

A young, curvaceous woman in blue work overalls stands at the entrance to the lab.

"I came to measure the dimensions of 4.02 and this one..." She looks at her work order. "Uhm... 4.03," she says, while arching her back to check the room number. She makes the 'uhm' sound like it starts with an 'h'. "You're in that office?" She points at the room's number tag over her shoulder.

"I am." We look at each other for a moment. "Don't you have building plans already?"

This last blurt might be taken as uninviting, so I compensate for it by walking over and stretching out my hand. "Tanya Hearn."

The woman looks sheepishly at my hand and shakes it briefly, with a half-hearted grip.

"May I?" She holds up a small grey cube with what looks like a mounted LED. "Only takes a second."

"Really? That fast?" I give myself another mental reprimand. If I need to slap myself in the face for all the times...

I point. "Just mind the chemicals' shelf. The rest is fine."

It really only takes ten seconds. The woman walks over to a lab bench, one just off-centre of the middle of the room, and places the cube on the shelf above it at eye level. When she depresses the top of the cube it comes up off its spring, spins a laser beam across the room's circumference and blinks the LED once.

"Nifty." I say, surprised.

"Your phone's ringing."

I look up from the cube. "What?"

"I think your phone's ringing," the woman says, pointing over her shoulder.

I dash to my office across the hall. "Extension 4234." I get to the phone on what I estimate must be the fifth ring.

"Professor Hearn. This is Da Chung Wong, the buildings' manager in Facilities. I am calling you about some room measurements that are going to be taken today."

"It's Tanya. Or Dr. Hearn if you must." I grit my teeth, inaudible. "I have no claim to the title of professor since the reorganisation." The memory pains me.

"Oh, I'm sorry." The man doesn't sound it. "You're still listed as professor in the directory. I'll let HR know to change it. Anyway, there'll be someone round today to measure your office and lab space."

I look at the woman in the blue overalls. She stands idly, trying not to give the impression she's listening, instead looking around the lab with partial interest. "She's already here."

"Oh, I'm sorry again," he says, this time more sincere. "We should have told you before we sent our crew out."

"Is this a general survey?"

"No," he says, extending the word to phrase length. "The former biosciences building that you're in has been reallocated to the social sciences. Since you now officially fall under the medical school, you're going to have to move to that building."

I don't believe it. "And my work?" I'm pretty sure reallocation isn't the only reason I'm being kicked out of biosciences.

"How do you mean? I would assume your equipment is going with you."

"My equipment, yes. But what am I supposed to work _on_? Am I to work in the medical sciences?"

The man hesitates. "Your work... I guess... Well. You'll have to ask the dean or whoever your boss is," the man says, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation has taken. The man didn't say it outright. But he's right, it's not fair to blame the messenger. Or jump down his throat for that matter.

"Thank you for your call," I say, giving him the chance to bow out of the conversation.

"No problem," I hear, before a prompt disconnect tone.

I see the woman-filled overalls hovering in the hallway, the woman in them is peering at me.

"Sorry... Can I measure this room now?" The woman perfects a look that spells she's glad the call hadn't gone on much longer.

"By all means," I say, while I walk briskly past the woman and back into the lab.

***

9 months earlier

To procrastinate from doing actual work, I visit Leo, the receptionist. Leo is an older man who has a look to him that suggests he was muscular in the past. A mover or a fisherman or something similar. The years of the sedentary life have caught up to him. Leo has accumulated some extra weight.

What I like about spending time with Leo is the chance to follow the day's events on the little screen at his desk. Not being a hugely busy receptionist in a building with regular staff and only the occasional visitor, Leo takes to changing one of the security displays to a network broadcast.

I lean over the reception desk. "Hey, Leo."

"Professor." Leo inclines his head. I wink and focus on the tiny T.V.

' _At the biweekly address, the Prime Minister confirmed that the projection for the fossil fuel terminal consumption remains at fourteen years...'_

I look up, Leo is watching too. "Anything new today?"

"Nope. What we know already. Fuel's running out, headless chickens taking over."

I smile. "If only we could find the heads." I round the reception desk and sit down in Leo's spare chair to watch.

'... _remains confident however that renewable fuels will be able to take over as a source of energy for private and corporate use. The Jierao automobile company remains to do well after it cut use of fossil fuel from their production process last year.'_

The Jierao company is the first of the global multinationals to become entirely independent of fossil fuels. "Not so headless after all, it seems.

Procrastination break over. "Is there any post?"

Leo points at the mail slots, only a few feet away. Most are not emptied very regularly, mail protruding from them. I take my items from my slot. The stack is mostly cellophane-wrapped nonsense.

And a letter from the dean.

I cross reception and walk through the double doors into my office corridor. I enter my office while extricating the missive from its envelope. The letter itself is printed on university letterhead and signed with a flourish.

'Dear Prof. Hearn,

I am writing to you to inform you of the reorganisation that will be initiated in the School of Biosciences. It has come to our attention that the majority of the programmes running in our school are performing under par and it has been our difficult decision, in the current climate, to cut some of the programmes and merge the whole of our school with the School of Medicine.

Unfortunately, it is my duty to tell you that the chair of human genetics that you currently hold will be discontinued under the new organisational structure. This will take effect as of the coming academic year.

Please feel free to contact us for more information, or to hand in your letter of resignation.'

Seething, I crumple the letter and stride over to my little office bin. I grab it with a fury and hurl the letter in. I fling the bin across the floor, bouncing it into the filing cabinet. The metal reverberates with a dull hum.

I lean against the door and rub my forehead. I stand there for seconds, blinking against tears.

I walk to collect the bin and take the letter back out. I stand for a moment and straighten the letter out, before refolding it neatly and placing it in my coat pocket.

***

5 months earlier

"Hey, Tanya," says a male voice, with a rising cadence as if it's a question. I look up, John stands in my office doorway. I hadn't heard him approach.

"Can I talk to you?"

John is a confident young man with soft features and a good brain. He's been my post-doctoral researcher for the last fifteen months. My right arm.

I put my pen down. "Of course." I gesture to a chair across from my desk, his usual seat.

"Yeah... I'll just tell you outright," John says as he grabs the chair back. "I'm quitting the project."

I feel my eyebrows rise. John looks at me for a while before sitting down.

"You're resigning?"

"Yeah." John avoids my gaze, I can see him biting the inside of this cheek and balling his fists. "I know you're going to be incredulous, but we've talked about it many times and I think there's something to the Awakening. The Redefiners are right. I feel..." John raises his hand into the air, as if about to proclaim something. "I don't know." He moves his hand behind his head, scratches it. "I feel everything is different somehow. The world is changing." John rubs his eye, still looking down. " _I_ have changed. We should be focussing our research on the future, or at least the present. I'm not sure about the project anymore." John's gone into a ramble. "If it was more medical science, I would be happy. But using human genetics just to know the past, I'm not sure it's the type of research I want to work on, where I want my career to go." He pauses. "You know?" John looks up, looking me in the face for the first time since sitting down.

My stomach drops. "I see."

"Please don't say it like that," he interrupts with a sigh, raising one hand slightly and letting it drop to his knee.

I snort. A feeling of derision bubbles. "Well what do you want me to say?" I take my glasses off and perch a hand on my forehead. "Listen. I'm not going to pretend I understand. We _have_ had this conversation before and I'm sure you've thought it through."

That didn't come out as I wanted.

John looks at me with a tortured expression, partly guilt, mostly hopeful. A dark feeling settles in my core. I put my glasses back on, smiling. "By all means, if you want to quit and join the circus, you don't need my blessing." I pause and lean forward, folding my arms on my desk. "But leaving a post-doc position? I hope you won't regret it."

"I won't," John says, his posture emulating mine, his eyes bright. He gets up. "I'll be here until my notice runs out," he says with an almost undetectable grimace. The thought must be unpleasant.

John turns and walks out of my office.

With a sigh, I sit back in my chair. I can picture the letter of resignation now. A formal one. ' _With this I give notice of resignation... bla, bla... don't feel the project is a correct fit and want to take the opportunity to redirect my career and personal development with a better suited line of research._ ' Yeah.

With sadness firmly settled, I put the mental letter aside for filing.

***

28 years later

"Mum."

I look up from the celebrity-filled waste of paper on my lap. My daughter stands at the sitting room door. I can still remember her hiding behind that same post when she was a little girl in a cotton sun dress. "Professor Anih is here," she says, smiling the same smile at me.

"Let him in, love," I say, forcing my words with a shaking gesture of invitation.

A man walks in. He is tall with a dark complexion. He has a large, rounded black beard. He has plenty of hair, even if he is thinning on top. Such a shame to go balding so young. He can't be half my age.

"You are nicely on time."

Anih takes a few steps into the sitting room and places his hands on the back of a tall arm chair that stands next to mine. The movement reminds me of my own habit, although the man doesn't need the support.

"I don't want to waste it, Dr. Hearn." The man's accent has a faint exotic hum to it, a lilt the Western cultures could never master. "No doubt you are a busy woman."

I snort. I haven't been a busy woman since I retired.

"Please sit down." I gesture to the seat he is holding.

Anih takes a seat on the couch instead, as close to opposite of my chair as he can. The professor sits back and unbuttons his suit jacket, resting his right arm along the back of the seat with his legs crossed.

He gets right to the point. "I would like to talk to you about your research."

I suppose I have no reason to be surprised, but I am. Anih was vague about the reason for our meeting when we first spoke and in this era the past is not often spoken about. But since the man works at the university that once employed me I should have expected it.

"What would you like to know?"

"You were a professor of human genetics, were you not?" He gives no hint as to why he started with a question we both know the answer to.

"I _was_. But unlike you, I haven't maintained that position. I held the chair for seven years, before the reorganisation made the post redundant." This answer doesn't perturb his features in the slightest.

"Do you know why the university decided this?" He turns this into an impersonal question, as if the 'university' ever decides such a thing. The question bothers me.

"As far as I am concerned I never got a satisfactory answer to that question," I say after gathering my thoughts. "Why you are asking me this?"

There is a knock at the door. My daughter places a tea tray on the table in front of us. I gesture for Anih to help himself.

I continue. "Would it not be more logical to ask the former Dean? I believe the man's name was Brunswick."

Anih leans in and pours himself tea. He raises the pot toward me but I decline.

"What did you do after your line of research was discontinued?" The question comes without preamble.

"The chair was discontinued, but I continued my research." I permit myself a small smile, remembering the sense of entitlement I felt in those days.

Anih waves his empty hand in the air as if to clear something away. "I apologise. I meant later, when you were relocated from the former biosciences' building into the medical school. Your research was discontinued then, was it not?" A bland, paternal smile graces his face, out of place. I start to feel nettled.

"Excuse me. How do you know this?"

"It is a matter of university record." A wave of the hand again.

The man knows more than he lets on but I'm curious where this conversation is going.

"You were relocated and agreed to a new line of research within medicine, based on the records in the Deanery." Anih sits forward, puts the tea cup back on the tray. "But you still pursued human genetics?"

It was a question only for form.

"There were, and are still, numerous genetic disorders to research. As you very well know, the hospital never ceased any of its operations. A substantial part of diagnostics has always been based on genetic typing and I believe new methods are being developed to this day. In fact, with the development of a host of new methods and treatments, the curing business has been on the increase and the hospital's site of operations has only expanded." My face tightens into an ironic smile. "There was a banner hanging over the main building entrance. 'Let us cure!' "

Anih smiled his bland smile in return, his elbows now on his knees. He must realise that I won't admit to anything in so many words. Especially when not knowing the illegality of operating private scientific research on the side.

"How did you find the latter half of your career?"

At this question, the man folds his hands, reminding me of a priest I knew as a child.

"I felt disheartened going to work. The days of competing pharmaceutical companies and small biotech start-ups were over. All of the materials I needed to perform basic genetic diagnostics were still available, but the days of trial and error with custom-made antibodies and protein structures were gone. No more hunches, no more epiphanies. Research became purpose-built."

"Really?" This seems to pique the professor's interest. I ponder my words just spoken to detect whether they admitted to anything.

"There was no more backing of the type of research that made me decide to pursue a career in science to begin with. Nor the approaches I had come to love."

"Let me try a scientific epiphany of my own." His eyes shone, his finger moved through the air as only seen in bad TV commercials with worse sales people. "We are no longer _Homo sapiens_. All that have been awakened are _Homo elevatens_."

I snort once again. "Nonsense."

"Are we not different from what were once were?" He is genuinely smiling now.

"There is no evidence to support that theory."

He bobs his head in surprise. "Our society has drastically changed, has it not? Even the scientific community agrees."

"Social sciences, yes," I placate. "I have read the publications. They support the current opinions shown on the news." I change tactic. "I believe people became 'wise after the event' as the proverb goes."

Anih's eyes narrow. "No longer reliant on fossil fuel or farming of animals. Impressive reduction in disease and famine. Almost complete eradication of war. Steps have been taken to reverse the adverse effects of humanity on the environment." He lists them as a matter of fact. "Would you not say this is significant?"

I dismiss the notion and with it patience. "Of course, it's admirable. But the classification of progress as a new species is mere arbitrary human _conceitedness_." I cannot prevent myself from going into a scientific debate with this man.

"You have researched the validity of the claim of human elevation of existence, or on-going human evolution?" He does not relent.

"As I said before, there is no scientific proof whatsoever—"

The professor abruptly moves forward to the edge of his seat. He seems to have gotten what he came for. He carries a curious expression. "You, Dr. Hearn, are the only known scientist with this opinion."

My heart drops into my intestinal lining. My mouth goes dry.

"What, precisely, is your field of research, Professor Anih?"

"I am based in the social sciences. I have an interest in human classification of species. Or more precisely, I have a particular interest in evolution of modern humans and the perception thereof. It now seems my research has led me to the last line of _Homo sapiens_." He looks triumphant. "And it seems, at this time, my particular focus of research will shift to documenting the extinction of the species."

This is the moment I ask him to leave.

#

A Posturing Fool

# by Stephen Godden

Manically revving my body I throw myself forward into the life I left behind, ripped through with accelerants and pieces of eighth. Hypersonic, driving forward, accelerating time past its sell-by date. Looping stone mad on a carousel of primary colours, I burn in reflected moonshine.

She breaks me open. "I love you."

I mumble some inanity and hide behind a half grown tree. Hand curled around skinny bark.

"Come back to me."

The heart of madness is resolution. The world resolves in shaded light. Nothing hidden. Nothing taken away. Nothing forgotten. God doesn't know as much as me. The electric cat purrs by. I track its blue progress and lose godhead in its trail.

She touches me.

I scream.

Lights go on in the house across the way.

"What's going on down there?" Megavoice calls, shrill and sleep laden.

"It's okay," she shouts, anxiety etches her voice. "I'm taking him home."

"I'll call the police," Megavoice warns.

"Fuck the police," I scream. "Fuck the police, fuck you, and fuck the milk float you call a life."

"Come on, baby," she says. "You took too much."

"Get him out of here." Megavoice's disgust washes over me.

I shiver. Reality takes, holds, and draws me back. I was supposed to be off this shit. I need to come down. I need to find peace. "I need a joint."

"Yeah," she says sadly.

***

There are burn-points in memory. Places which you cannot leave, cannot lose. You can throw yourself off a cliff and the last thing you will remember, as the rocks rush towards you, will be the smoky whispers of what you're trying to escape.

When the doctor asked, 'what do you want?' and she replied, in the voice of an old woman, 'euthanasia', I broke.

I had been strong, a rock. No tears carved grooves down my stoic cheeks. Strong. For Mam. For Da. For my brothers, my cousins, my aunt, my uncle, my family. Rock-like, reasoned. But my strength was only a cloak. I didn't believe it would come to this. Couldn't believe it would come to this.

Imagination had shown me what was coming, so I shut it down. To be strong.

Strength that broke against that single word whispered from my mother's blue-tinged lips. My mother, the centre of the family; the warm loving fire we all basked in.

Euthanasia.

I ran from the house in terror of being heard. I ran doubled up, holding grief like an open wound. I ran to the trees and let it burst. A gut-wrenching roar of pain that couldn't control. Once released, tightly held control cannot be regained. I staggered to a wet log on a wet night and sat my wet arse down.

How long did I sit there blubbing like a child? No idea, but lights flicked on across the way and manly pride flicked off the volume. Without volume, I could return. Tears were nothing, fitting the night, but sobs would upset my mam. She would be upset that I was upset and I didn't want to take away from her pain with my own. I didn't want people fussing about my tiny insignificant hurt while my mother asked to die.

I walked back to the house. My youngest brother, my oldest friend, out on the road looking for me. Guilt crashed as I saw him. I sought to avoid attention and called attention to myself.

I raised a hand in greeting. Enquiries after my health as I entered a house filled with death's stayed hand. I smiled, I think, but I cannot be sure. Making them calm, settling their fears, being strong once more.

***

She rears above me, breath hissing through her open mouth. Her legs quivering as she pulses around me. One hand, one thumb, I press deep between our bodies, against the nestled juicy pebble of her clitoris. The other hand, one finger, behind, pressed against the sweet spot. Helping her see the light that quivers within me.

Never go back. Always move on. Pay the price of a death measured in decades while the world changes around you. I'm a dog-faced infantryman in the war against reality. I'm a casualty of boredom and lethargy. I'd rather be lifting the glass, holding the vial, snorting the pain, smiling the smile.

I've tried sobriety: it's vastly overrated.

"I love you," she says, breaking me again.

"Love hurts," I reply. "It only lifts you high enough to smash you in the fall."

***

My father died by inches. A tube down his throat as we clustered around to pray to a god we didn't believe in. Numbers change on monitors. This was good, because the doctors and nurses looked happy; bad because they wouldn't meet my desperate gaze. I've a quick brain, a curse in such a situation. I'm not a fool, but I allowed the doctors to fool me again.

So many conversations with grave-faced men playing at godhood. So many chances taken away with the words 'He's not strong enough'. He was dying! How strong do you have to be to take one last throw of the dice?

I couldn't watch him die when we finally agreed to withdraw care. I couldn't watch those numbers click downward. So I went outside and smoked the same poison that had killed my father...

... and tried to pick a fight with a doctor.

***

I lie against her. She runs a hand though my hair.

"I'm not doing that shit again," I say.

"Yes, you will," she replies. "You're too good for this world."

#

Lemon and White

# by Michael Ross

**B** **y the close** **of 1918 the killing fields of the Western Front were inhabited by millions of brown and black trench rats whose dietary requirements were comfortably met through their scavengings on the detritus of war. Both sides in the Great War had long given up trying to control the rats' numbers. It wasn't worth the effort when just one pair of rats could produce over eight hundred offspring within a single year. This was a battle only the rats could win.**

**Ninety years later whilst strolling around those same meadows and lanes of France —no matter how hard you look you will rarely see a rat. Over time they have successfully migrated to the easier pickings of the cities. Paris, Rome, London, even Cardiff...**

Gut wrenching; Sammy's hands pull away from his stomach. His wet eyes take in the sight of gluey chocolate-red blood clotted around his waist, dribbling to an ominous puddle between his shaking legs.

_All for the sake of a Blackberry phone_ _._ Why had he stumbled down this alley in the first place? _No-one with a brain walks that way after midnight._ How many times had he heard people say that?

He struggles to stay conscious as an agonising shard of ice knifes through his body. He screams. The throbbing pain cuts across his memories like a rip in the canvas. He wants his time back again, he wants to lean into the cot and smell Jacob's skin, to tell Emma that he's sorry and that he didn't mean what he said when he stormed out. He's only twenty-two and wants his old life back, the life he had four hours ago. He tries to clear his throat and gags on the bitter taste of his own blood. Sammy wishes that he had attended church once in a while, wishes he knew the words to some sort of prayer. More than anything he wishes someone else would be dumb enough to walk down this alley. Is it too much to ask? Everyone around here knows it saves three minutes when you're in a hurry to get to the bus station.

The pain lifts, he becomes aware of a light scratching to his left-hand side and swivels around to see a large brown rat sniffing at a crumpled newspaper, still half full of chips.

Their eyes meet, the rat seems to acknowledge him.

Hi—having a bad day?

A panic floods through Sammy's thoughts, hitting him with the bitter realisation that he can't hear anymore. A dark curtain falls over his sight. The alley turns as black as death, and then for a few seconds Sammy can hear and see again; his world is surrounded by the loud and terrifying clatter of gunfire and behind squeezed eyelids he watches lemon and white flashes lighting up the sky.

The rat has seen enough and waddles away.

***

It takes an enormous effort for David Morgan to move his neck, and a voice inside his head mumbles _is it worth it?_ His eyesight, having never been brilliant, now receives only a dull milky sense of shapes and colours. He can guess who will be there with him, and more importantly those who are too busy, or not interested enough to visit. Of his own children the girls will be there, comforting each other, fussing around and keeping busy, because they know from experience that dying is a busy business. Thomas might be there if he can organise people to run his business for the day. John and Edward will be available at the end of a phone.

Of the grandchildren, the ever dependable and loving Sammy will definitely be there, sitting quietly within arm's length, so David's arm reaches out to touch his favourite grandchild, however several lines and leads interfere with his efforts, making it impossible to make this simplest of gestures. He lies back on the pillow and tries to remember how many grandchildren he has and his memory fumbles between two and nine. It is so easy to confuse grandchildren with great grandchildren. Regardless, there are many, many seeds of his love for Dorothy. How many years ago did she pass away? He remembers the year. 1991. Over forty years together. It passed by so quickly. David has no idea of the current year and doesn't really care. He knows that all around him people have been constantly talking about planes, buildings and a terrible tragedy, but it doesn't make any sense. He thinks that they are possibly confused.

Twenty-six. It comes to him suddenly. I have twenty-six grandchildren and great grandchildren. His feeble ancient heart flutters with pride. He is feeling quite settled, peaceful even, but is shaken to his core as he watches a rat scuttle across his bedroom floor and snuggle under the chest of drawers. Twitching its nose it makes itself comfortable. _That cannot be right_ _._ He needs to close his eyes for a while.

"Hi Dad. How are you feeling?" He feels Monica's butterfly touch on his arm. He is not sure if his face smiles at her, but inside he responds. _She is so much like her mother._ Monica takes a tissue and wipes a tear from under her father's right eye. _Don't worry about me_ , he seems to be saying.

Not knowing why, David's mind drifts back to his childhood where he can picture his eldest brother Tom, spick and span in his Sunday best. Tom is lifting David up effortlessly into his arms. It's just before Tom said that final goodbye. Clearly visible, tugging at Tom's trouser leg is their brother Bill. Still a baby, he is overwhelmed, tearful and confused by all the fuss around him.

David tries to open his eyes to tell Monica about seeing his brothers, and then he wonders whether his eyes are open but there is nothing to see. Gently his thoughts ease away, he relaxes, drifting away into a new world which is cloaked by a dark brooding sky, that is shockingly eclipsed by a scattering of lemon and white sparks. Everything then is shattered by a fearful noise; the dreadful insistent monotonous clatter of gunfire.

Monica sobs and clutches her sister. "He's gone."

***

Bill Morgan is incensed at his own stupidity. _What a bloody stupid day to do something so bloody stupid._ He'd had trouble sleeping all night because he'd been looking forward to rising early and getting down to the newsagents when they open.

The whole street was buzzing; a chance to put one over the Germans. Bill had felt slightly guilty at leaving Jane asleep in bed without taking her usual cup of tea. Instead he'd avoided their daily routine and rushed down the street. The Daily Mirror were printing a World Cup Souvenir Special today and he couldn't wait to get home to read it from cover to cover. He just could not wait.

Which is why he had not been concentrating, why he had walked out from behind a parked van straight into the path of a beige Ford Zephyr. He had known pain in his life, but nothing like this.

"It's OK. There's an ambulance on the way." A young woman's voice flutters huskily in his ear. It is a pleasant voice but it is not Jane's. He knows Jane'll be furious with him when she hears about him. _It shouldn't be like this_ _._ _Not today of all days_ _._

"Can you move your legs?" The wrong voice asks.

He can't move anything. His head wants to get a message past his throat, but it's jammed with an awful taste of old pennies. Without being told he knows it is the taste of his own blood. The young woman is holding his hand but he cannot feel her touch, and fails to understand why his head is screwed in her direction. If their baby had not died so very young she would now be about the same age as this girl.

What were they going to call her? Helen, yes that's right. Helen.

The woman's eyes keep darting back and forth to her watch, as if that is going to protect her from the sight of death.

He wonders if he can exercise his brain, surely that will help him hang on. Count backwards from 100, or even recall his date of birth. How old is he? Fifty-six. Not a bad innings but not good. Jane's birthday next week. Not what she was expecting. _Ahhh_ _!_

"Sorry."

The woman seems horrified at the pain caused by her simple touch on his shoulder. Bill tries to focus on her face, her features soften before his eyes but she still somehow understands his question.

"Gillian. My name's Gillian." He had so hoped her name was Helen.

People are gathering around them and Bill feels guilty, embarrassed and hating all the attention. Then something catches his eye. If he could speak Bill would tell Gillian not to be alarmed, but if she turned around for the last two minutes she would have seen, sitting patiently in the gutter, a large brown rat watching them both with great interest. But no words will leave Bill's mouth.

A bitter rancid chill shudders through his body and Bill realises he cannot win this fight; there seems no point in trying. He closes his eyes for the last time and is surprised that his thoughts turn to his brothers, David; solid, reliable, patient—a friend. And then strangely a clear memory of eldest brother Tom, who's been dead for the best part of fifty years. Tom would have liked to have watched the football with him.

Slowly the sky darkens, the clear ceramic blue sky fades to a grubby grey graphite only to be rudely disturbed as lemon and white fireworks light up the sky. All around the High Street he can hear nothing other than the thundering roar and clatter of gunfire.

Gillian looks at her watch.

***

Four a.m.

_If it's No Man's land_ , Private Tom Morgan thinks, _why do we need to charge across it today? Leave it for now, let some other boys have a go._

His treasonable thoughts force an uncontrollable sob to well up from his gut, forcing him to turn his back on the other men. He does his best to cover up his embarrassment with an exaggerated coughing fit.

There are fourteen men crouched in this soulless gully with him. In fact they all noticed, but none of them are bothered—they appear to be locked up within their own thoughts and fears.

Two weeks of constant rain has left the trenches knee deep in filthy mud. The latrine lines have long since failed and the stench is overcoming. Vile. Only the rats survive with all the food and comfort they need for a satisfying winter. Long gone are the days when the men found the presence of their rodent neighbours disturbing. They are a fact of life, and the soldiers no longer have the energy left to lift a leg and swing a boot at them, as they scurry about their business. The rats skip easily away from bayonet thrusts, and firing bullets at them is as good as a mutiny in the eyes of the Sergeant Major.

Tom taps at the face of his watch, a present from his proud father when Tom signed up for this "War to end all Wars" only three months earlier. That bright cheerful August morning now seems a lifetime ago. At the railway station his father had placed a comforting arm around Tom's mother; her face frowned and freckled, his beaming with pride and confidence.

"Look after yourself, Tom. Give Jerry what for!"

If only Dad knew. Surely if he knew the living hell that this war was... But maybe it's better he doesn't know; for what Tom has seen in these last two weeks he would not wish on anyone, least of all his family back home.

Four fifteen a.m.

There is a quarter of an hour left before we attack. Not much more than fifteen minutes left to live. A sliver of time left for me to find some sort of peace within myself. To extinguish all regrets from my heart.

I've never slept with a woman. Most of the men here have been with the street girls back in the town, not caring a jot if they catch a dose of the clap. I didn't bother, saving myself for a special one I'll never know.

There's been no piss-taking today.

To get this far we've hobbled along a makeshift walkway eighteen inches wide, with all sorts of shit either side of us, trying not to look, trying not to think, before catching sight of half of a ruined body with a family of rats gnawing at its guts. Not getting a fuck doesn't seem that important now.

I haven't heard the sound of human laughter today.

Four twenty eight a.m.

God in heaven be with me.

A whistle shrieks through the air. We are dead men clambering up through the mud. Over the top boys! Whatever thoughts or feelings that fire through our minds, one thing is certain; orders must be obeyed. And it is over too quickly.

So beautiful, the view is breathtaking as lemon and white fireworks sparkle and illuminate the sky. My hearing is shattered as gunshots clatter in and around me like the bells of hell. My death takes less than a minute, and I spend that precious time praying that the rats will leave me alone.

#

Lepidoptery

# by Ren Warom

Clear as glass, the egg-shaped Carrier lifts to the sky. My stomach tips over. I curl my hands to fists. Watch as trees shrink to toys, the Holding to a doll's house.

The Carrier's strong but looks brittle as candy. It flies only with their thoughts, an invisible strength. Bodies held within glass, glass held within the air. If they stop thinking, even for a second, we'll all fall.

I saw it happen once, last summer I think. I get confused because every day feels the same. The Carrier smashed to shards like a mirror. The bodies inside broke apart. Burst. Painted the Carrier shards red as Christmas.

I squeeze my eyes, try to wipe the memory away before it sets into my head. There's too much in there I can't forget. Too much noise. Too much ruin. If we fall, I'll burst and it'll cover the earth like a storm.

Outside the Carrier, clouds draw in close. Like curious blank eyes, staring in at us. The sun lights them from within. They float just as we float. A sky full of floating. I'm floating too. Inside.

All those soft bits, heart, lungs, stomach, are bags of air in water, rising in my throat like sick. I'm scared they'll choke me. I keep swallowing, as if that'll make any difference.

We're moving so fast I'm getting dizzy, brief flashes of the ground through the clouds at my feet reduced by distance to a blur of green. I can't stop looking.

The Carrier bursts from thick cloud to bright sun. It stings my eyes. I blink away tears, stare out of glistening Carrier glass. And I see it. Rising in the distance. A huge building, one of their living places, so much more elaborate than the ones we call Holdings. I wonder if that's where we're going.

Tall towers, fingers of silkstone, stand intricate as lace against a white sky. Ghosts haunting the morning. I feel a ghost myself. Makes me wonder how death will feel. If that's where they take us I won't have to wonder long. I know, as everyone knows, that this flight is the last I'll take. Those who leave the Holding never come back.

I wipe my hand through the tiny drops of misty water covering the curve of the glass; look up to watch the Moths as their minds carry us. There's no sign in their peaceful flight of the violence they carry us toward.

These Moths aren't the tiny things that used to flutter to bulbs and burn their wings, or tangle in your hair. They're flying giants, larger than blue whales, I know because I went to London once, and I saw the model in the room at the Natural History Museum. Their wings swallow the sky. Each flap rocks the Carrier, makes my stomach tighten, ache.

Their bodies are vast. It reminds me of being in London, feeling too small and scared. In the bright sunlight the swirls of autumn colours shimmer on their wings; the diamond glitter of frost crowds close as dewdrops on a crazy mix of colour cells.

Hard to describe, the only word that fits Moths properly is beauty. They don't fit, do they?

Tess reaches out and grasps my fingers. "What does it look like? I can't move enough to see properly."

Tess is small, slight. Unable to properly digest the nutrients we were given she's never grown much beyond the size she was when we first met each other in the Holding.

Both of us only ten years old. Kids from different countries who'd just lost everything we knew. So had all the other children, all we had left was each other. That's still how it is, even now so many of us are gone.

Those we leave behind today will try not to think about where we're going, I know because I've been there, we all have. And now I'm here, leaving, I know I can't think about anyone I leave behind. It hurts too much either way. I didn't want to know this, but very little of what I know has been anything I wanted to.

I squeeze Tess's hand.

"It's a cathedral made of milky glass, a castle built from opal, it's magical," I tell her, because I can't lie. Even the world they've built over the ruin of ours is beyond beautiful. Like a dream.

Her fingers clutch. Hurting. "I'm so scared, Leela."

I grip her fingers. I'm scared too. "It's just like sleeping," I say, "but it lasts forever."

Her fingers tremble in mine. "Forever's such a long time," she says.

"Not really," I say, and try to smile. "Because you'll be sleeping."

"But I won't wake up," her lips begin to tremble; the glassy shine of tears rises on the lids of her eyes. They fall one by one. Mini Carriers. But these ones hold only hurt.

"Then it won't matter that you're asleep." I sound more certain than I feel. A sharp pain hits my throat, a bursting bag. I think I might scream, so I swallow hard enough to hurt and say to her. "Perhaps we dream when we're dead. We could dream of each other."

"But what if they're nightmares?"

My head empties. Water down a plughole. I've no idea what to say. What if she's right? So I squeeze her fingers again, force a smile because I don't want to upset her. If Tess loses it then I'm going to as well.

Tess was always sensitive. One of the kids who never managed to cope with all that happened. She still cries in her sleep every night. I cried only once. The day it happened. The day they came.

My memory of it's too clear. Like a jewel, but with a brightness that burns. One moment the sky was blue, drifted with fat clouds, then it was filled with wings. Such gigantic wings.

Kaleidoscopes of autumn in red, gold and orange, they whipped huge cream clouds to drifts of rags and mist. The sound of their beat upon the air would've drowned thunder.

For a moment that felt like forever, they hovered above us. I stood holding my mum's hand, tight, so tight. I remember how everyone in the street just stared. Watched them float there like it was a dream, not anything real.

I thought they must be angels until they dived toward us. Their eyes glowed; red fire against black fur, and I knew then that they weren't angels at all. I remember that I couldn't stop looking, even though I wanted so badly to run.

My memory of the screams is clear as my memory of a sky filled with wings. Mum screamed for both of us. Those screams are the last memory I have of her.

She was torn from me. My hand suddenly empty and aching, the wet of blood spattered on my face like tears. I ran then, fast as I could, hid under a car, held my empty hands to my chest and cried so hard I thought I'd die from it. I was nine years old. I haven't cried since, and I'm sixteen today.

If there were any day I should be allowed to find my tears again, it should be today. But they won't come.

I look down at my hand. Full of Tess's small, pink fingers. Look out again at the towers of purest white. The Moths have settled into a glide and we curve through the air past windows of the same pearly sheen as the Carrier we travel in.

They're like blind glass eyes, those windows. I see nothing in them. Not my face. Not their wings. Just emptiness. It reaches inside me, fills my chest. I wish there was something solid as a hand to replace it with.

***

We land in silence. Gliding is like a sigh, so very different to the sound of beating wings. We live in a world of sighs and thunder. I find myself staring out the Carrier, I feel shrunk. Lost. I don't know what I am anymore.

None of this feels real to me. The last time I think I felt truly real was in those moments before my mother's hand left me. I keep hold of myself because of kids like Tess, who can't do the same. But my grip is slipping.

The courtyard here is too large, even for the Moths. It's filled with the curious trees they've grown here. Great silver trunks, tall as towers, with an ashy cascade of velvety grey leaves. We call them ghost-trees because, until you touch one, it looks as if it isn't there.

I feel close to those trees. In the hot season they bear large fruits, like hearts, blood red. Their scent reminds me of something, though I can never remember what it is. It comforts me. In summer I stand beneath them, my eyes closed, and drift away on that smell, right to the clouds.

Tess clings to me, huddles close as we leave the Carrier. I wish I could comfort her but I'm drifting now. I don't understand any of this. How could I? The Moths are impossible to understand.

Like now. There are five of them for twelve of us. So silly. It takes only one Moth to kill a thousand humans. So why are there five for twelve girls? I shouldn't waste time wondering about it, time is something we don't have anymore. But I can't help myself. It's so strange it's funny.

I laugh, can't help it. It scares Tess; it's an odd laugh, too high, a little out of control. I clamp a hand over my mouth but I can feel it there, bubbling behind my palm, in my throat, my belly. It won't go. Fear floods in under it, so fast, a cold wave.

I don't know how to contain this. I'm so frightened.

The five push us toward the tower. A funny nudge at the back of us, like hands, but not gentle, not patient. An order. The tower rises so high that trying to see the top makes me dizzy. It makes the Moths look tiny, and they are as big, bigger, than the biggest jumbo jet I ever saw as a child.

I travelled in it from my home in England. For two weeks of sun, a trip to Disneyworld. What part is worse? That I can't go home or that I never saw my dad again because he didn't come with us?

I didn't go to Disneyworld either.

We have a new fairy-tale made real, with Moths big as giants and their milk-white castles rising to the clouds. And just like a fairy-tale, there are bad things waiting to happen to children. But there's no one to save us. We can't even save ourselves. There are no happy endings here.

I stare up at the Moths as I walk between them. They're so graceful, so still. Once the war was over and the world stopped burning, they moved among us vast and mysterious as the clouds they first whipped to mist. Never growing familiar. Always beautiful, terrifying, alien.

"I wish my mum was here," Tess whispers into my shoulder, she's holding my hand so tight I feel her bones grinding into mine, two hands merged into one. I smile, because I can't cry and because there's no way to tell her without screaming that I'm thinking the same thing.

But I am. It's all I can think. It spins round and round in my head, getting louder and louder. It's so loud I'm worried they must hear it. If they can move us with their minds, maybe they can see into ours. Will it make them care that I'm screaming for my mum, knowing she can't hear me?

We enter the tower and it begins to vibrate with sound. A low hum that comes from everywhere, all at once, drowning the noise in my head. Tess screams, grabs my arm hard and won't let go. Some other girls scream too. I won't open my mouth. If I do, I will burst and everything I have inside will come out. I need to be strong.

As we move through the tower the hum grows louder. I notice the wings of the Moth nearest to me flutter fast against its back, a blur of movement. I look at the others and they're doing the same. I think it's them making the tower sing.

"They're singing for us," I say to Tess, because I think that if she knows what the sound is she might not be so frightened and I need to feel like I'm doing something, anything, to make this better for just one of us.

I hear her breath suck in hard. "Why would they do that?" she whispers, I hear the tremble in it and know I haven't made any difference. Something in me cracks, just a little, and what leaks out hurts so much I can't find the air to answer her. So I don't. I just carry on walking.

We walk out of the tower, into sunlight, and the hum slowly fades. Ahead of us, flanked by another five Moths, is a group of twelve boys. I haven't seen a boy my age in years; they separate us young.

I think of Caleb, and my heart jumps. He was a good friend to me. I wonder how he is. I look for his face amongst the twelve but he's not there. My heart stutters, goes quiet.

I don't recognise any of these boys, no familiar features or eyes, nothing. They must be from a different Holding. That screaming in my head begins again, louder, whirling round and round so fast it makes me feel sick. I shake it out, block it, refuse to hear it. I will not give in to this. I have to be strong. I have to be.

Besides, it's silly to expect to see Caleb, it's what a child would expect and I'm not a child. I'm like a mother. I've raised so many children. I had no choice, none of the older children have a choice. We don't hate it, it just is. We have no parents, no help, only the Moths. So we help each other, and we learnt to enjoy it, to live as big families. To matter to each other.

Leaving is losing a family all over again. I've known every single one of the youngest children since they were babies. I think of them coming here, to the end, and that's when I feel a hot mass build in my chest, feel the hard prick of needles in my throat. I hold onto it tightly, smother it like a flame.

Trust this to come now. I need to be strong. Not to break. Not now.

As we reach the boys, shadows cover the courtyard. They move in circular patterns. Come closer and closer until we are lost in darkness and Moths spiral to land at the edges, the wind from their gliding whips our hair. I count them as they land. Fourteen. Fourteen Moths. That makes twenty-four Moths in total. A Moth for every child, or a child for every Moth?

They're all looking at us. Seeing us. I wish they'd stop. Their gaze is so very cold. It covers my brain with frost, lines my veins with ice. I stare around me, heart pounding, skin shivering even in the heat. But I see no way out.

I look into the eyes of the other kids waiting here. See my own misery, anger, helplessness, looking back at me from faces I know and faces I don't. It doesn't matter who we are, what Holding we're from. We're all in this together. That makes me feel strong; it also makes me feel weak.

Tess is behind me. She has her arms around my waist. She's buried her head in the space between my shoulders. Her head could be my heart. She's crying. I want to cry too but I've locked tears inside me.

The air changes then. It gets that odd bristle that comes just before big lightning. Then one of the Moths on the courtyard edge moves. It crawls toward us on those great furred legs. I hear the rustle of fallen leaves, the clicks of stones and then it's towering over us, smothering the light with its shadow.

Time stops. Air stops. Even the slow thump of my heart fades to a faint murmur. The Moth leans down, lowers those long, graceful feelers and begins to touch us. We all freeze as feeler ends drift over our faces, our limbs. They've never touched us before. Its feelers are soft as the leaves of the ghost-tree.

When I close my eyes, they feel like my mum's hand.

It's only when Tess begins to scream that I open them again. I didn't even feel her arms leave me. That's how strong the Moths are. Even their minds are stronger than our bodies. I look to see her floating away, arms outstretched, trailing behind that Moth. I don't know why I didn't notice before, but its wings are splashed crimson and white, like blood on snow.

I run toward Tess. All I can see is the wide red hole of her mouth as she's screaming. Then I'm with her. I reach for her hands, she reaches for mine. Our hands slide across each other. Over and away. Fingers straining, palms empty. We try again, but the Moth won't let us touch.

Something wild tears out of my mouth. The sound is a shriek. Dark. Terrible. It sparks such fear in Tess's eyes but I can't stop. I won't stop. It just keeps coming. It becomes words. They say...

"Let her go!"

Terrified of what will happen if I don't fight now, I force through the weight of its mind. Like swimming against the tide. I'm tired in seconds, my legs heavy, hurting, my arms filled with pain. The whole time she's moving away from me and I'm following. I'm following. But I can't reach her. Can't touch her.

I'm shrieking so hard it cracks in my throat. Begins to sound more like a roar. Harsh and deep. I'm so tired. I hurt so much but Tess's eyes pull on me like hands. Drag me across the ground. Faster. Faster. Not fast enough.

"Don't let me die alone!" she screams at me.

"I don't know what to do," I scream back and those bags of air in my throat begin to burst one by one and something deeper in me, something hidden, locked away where nothing could reach it, snaps apart. It feels like my spine has split in two.

Tears drench my face like hard rain. "I won't leave you," I shout to her, but it's a lie.

A soft flutter moves down across my face, soft as a shadow. Warmth surrounds me, suspends me within itself. I leave the ground. A rush of panic cramps my belly, my head swims, everything blurs, and then I'm moving away from her, though my feet still try to run toward her.

All I see are her eyes as she's taken from me. Blank. She's given in. Lost all hope. They're still pulling at me and I want to go to her. Then she's gone, and it's too late.

And I'm screaming at the Moth. Fighting. I punch out but hit only air. I shout, but there are no ears to hear me. Everyone's chosen, everyone's left. The courtyard's empty of everyone but me and the Moth who chose me.

And that's when I give up too.

***

The world glides past me. Blurs to streaks of colours like the view through a rain-soaked window. I know I'm still crying. I can't stop. I've curled to a ball and the Moth carries me along in that oddly warm enclosure of thought. I don't care where; I just want all this to be over.

A breeze flows into the warm bubble I'm floating in. The thought holding me upward changes shape and I begin to sink back down. As I reach the floor my legs are unfolded. I don't resist, I don't care anymore, and my feet touch the ground so gently. I'm held there softly until I can stand without falling.

It hurts something inside, that gentleness, that softness. It's so far from what I'm expecting. Hurt of any kind is such a relief. It feels real. I connect to it like a plug to a socket. Awareness floods me and my tears stop falling.

I raise my eyes. Look around. I have no idea what I thought I'd see, but it wasn't this. We're in a tall, vaulted room. Light and breezy. There are the long, angular shapes of windows but they're without glass. A gentle wind, soft as a touch, winds in and out, brushing hair back from my face, drying the tears to tight salt streaks on my cheeks.

I lift my chin to the breeze, let it flow over me. Outside, clouds drift past, floating continents of hazy white. The sun ripples across their surfaces. Transforms them into a liquid pearl sea. I turn to the Moth. My Moth, I suppose, although I'm more likely its human.

"This is a good place to die," I say. My voice sounds like I'm speaking from somewhere out on the clouds.

I think I'm surprised. I expected my death to be as raw and violent as my mum's. I thought I needed it to be. I thought I needed to be angry to face this, to be strong when all I needed was to give in. To let whatever happens happen.

The Moth stands utterly still, so close I could reach out and touch it. Something I've never done. Those great wings stretch to the ceiling way above us, they fill the room. The colours are hypnotic, great swirls of butter yellow around deep wells of black, all rimmed with varying shades of pink and red.

Its body is slender, covered in deep red fur. It's probably not fur but it looks furry. I suddenly remember being small, when moths were small too, when they were just bugs, and we were the giants. I saw one in the bathroom in the morning, flared out on the ceiling like a fan, and called it a furfly.

It made my mum laugh and I called them furflies all summer just to hear her laugh again and again, to see her delight. I thought I'd never forget her screaming for long enough to remember a laugh. I feel that laugh right down to my toes. Such peace fills me, it's like she's here, with me, just when I need her most.

"Okay," I say to my Moth, "I'm ready now."

It hears me. Something flashes in its eyes. Cool fire. Yellow and orange. It climbs the wall until it hangs upside down, flares its wings wide and hangs there above me. I close my eyes tight, waiting.

The cocoon of mind-warmth encircles me again. My feet leave the ground and I decide if I could witness my mum's death then I'm brave enough to witness my own, especially as I know my death will take me back to her. I believe that. I do. So I open my eyes.

When I reach its head I wonder if this is it. Though how a Moth eats a human I don't know, they have no mouths, at least not any I've ever seen. It lifts me higher, right to its chest. I'm so close to it.

I reach out with a hand. My fingers sink into the thick fur on its body, right up to the wrist. Silken fur. Luxuriously soft. I lean in and let it brush over my face. It smells like heart fruits. So warm, so familiar. I suck in a breath, a whole lung full.

"I know you," I say, and there's wonder in it. I can feel laughter bubble up in me.

The air fills with the sigh of wings in gentle movement. I turn to look and cry out surprise as those great wings split apart and, in a movement I thought impossible, fold inwards to wrap us tightly together, my Moth and I.

The warmth of mind fades. I'm left in the gentle heat of its body. I sink my arms into the red fur and place my cheek against it; the smell of heart fruits fills me to bursting. I can die like this. I haven't been hugged by something bigger than me in forever.

My breathing slows in response, just like a baby's when you rock it against your chest. I think I'll sleep. If I die in my sleep then I'll dream of Tess, of Caleb, of the family I've left behind, so many hundreds of familiar faces.

I'll dream of my mum and my dad, whose faces I can still just about build in the shadows of my mind. That'll be a good dream. It won't feel like death at all.

***

I wake to a warm, liquid heartbeat. A tiny whisper of memory flutters in my mind, like a moth trapped in a glass. I've heard this sound before; it's everywhere all at once; fills me up and holds me, like arms.

My arms are no longer around the Moth. There is no Moth. Just a wet mass that surrounds me, heavier than water, silky as Moth fur. Glutinous. I think I should be choking on this, suffocating. That's when I realise I'm not breathing.

I know I should panic right now. But I don't. Not even when I realise that my arms aren't around the Moth, not because there's no Moth, but because there are no arms. I've got no arms. No anything, I'm liquid.

And then I feel it. Curling on the edge of my senses. It's like the light on the surface of a cloud. I think it must be the Moth, because it's not me. A presence, one I can understand. It's asking permission. Without understanding what it is I'm agreeing to, I say yes.

The other mind doesn't seep in to mine, it floods. But it doesn't drown me, it melds itself to me, expands everything I am into itself. Our shadows have merged. There's no light between us, no darkness. We're not lost, we're found. I've been searching for her forever and I've finally found her.

Memories flow through me. An enormous hot planet stuffed full of gloriously scented blooms and trees. Billions of Moths flew there. Whole civilisations living in their magical white cities. All was peace, prosperity. Then the plants began to die from a disease that shrunk them to greasy black rot.

And Moths began to die with them.

Billions became only millions in such a short space of time. Great mounds of winged corpses, black and stinking in the heat, too many to bury, filled the courtyards of their white palaces, their ivory cities. Those remaining, the sick and the well, saw an end to everything they were and gave in to terror. They took seeds, stored them for safety, and they flew from death in their millions.

The power of mind and wing carried them from planet to planet but everywhere they went, death followed them. Until they found us, found hope. Their seeds would flourish here in the rich earth, disease free, and they saw in our genetic code dormant markers that would cure them of the disease that still ravaged their numbers.

They hid their existence from us. Floated in the atmosphere protected by their minds. First, they tried taking humans, extracting the markers. It failed and gradually they began to understand that the only solution was to somehow merge our two species on a molecular level.

They tried it with some of the humans they'd taken but it failed again. Adult DNA did not survive the transition; it fell apart, disintegrated to useless mush. So they took a child. A Moth of vibrant purple hued wings was drawn to that child and the first melding achieved. It became the first of the hybrid beings.

They knew we'd not happily share the riches of earth with them, would not give our children without a fight. But time was running out for them. So in their desperation they acted just as we would and took what wouldn't be freely given.

When it was done they herded us children into Holdings to protect us until melding time. I wish I could say it helps to know that. I wish it helped to know how precious we are to them, what we mean. But it doesn't.

I should hate them. But half of what I am has become her, has become Moth. And I see it all with only sadness, with the beginnings of understanding. An understanding I don't want but can't seem to run away from. But there's more to it than that. It's as far from simple as it gets.

My essence floats within hers. I know her. She has no name, only a scent, but it's one I've known for as long as they've been here. How could I know her smell, recognise her, before I even understood what would happen here, how we would join together? But I did. Just as she knew by touching me that I was hers.

There's more here than I can understand or make sense of. But I'm not alone. She doesn't understand either how it is two species, drawn together by need and violence, are so well matched that we come together as if chosen for each other. There's something magical in it. Unknowable. It amazes us both.

We lie in silence, the pieces of our puzzles slowly building to one complete picture, wondering at how all of this is possible. Then I think of Tess, and the part of me that used to be my heart explodes with such deep emotion I couldn't name it, there's no word I know that even comes close.

I ask her, my other self, what we do now, because I'm impatient to be out amongst the clouds looking for the Moth with wings of crimson and white, looking for the Tess within it. So we can share this. Wipe away the pain of sharing our death, the death of those we loved, the years of not knowing.

My Moth half speaks to me without words, it's how they talk to each other, how I'll talk from now on. A mixture of emotion, imagination, thought, that makes speech look like the first babblings of a baby.

She tells me to sleep, to have patience. That one day soon we'll step from this cocoon, spread our wings to the wind softly filtering through the high, arched windows of this chamber, and launch into an ocean of white and blue. Into a new life, a new being.

So I let myself drift into her, drift into dreams. And in our dreams we spread our wings, let the wind take us. There's no memory, no thought, no longing for an old life long since lost, only the sheer joy of movement. Of being alive.

#

Steps By George

# by Shuna Meade

There are 14 steps leading up to the front door. I know this coz I counted them the first time I came here with Sarah and Pepper. I don't have to count them—I see them just fine. I count lots of things. There are 46 steps from my room to the dining room.

Counting the steps going down is more important. If you are counting you don't have that funny last step down when you think there's a stair and there isn't one and it makes you thud on the ground. I don't think the ground likes it when you thud on it.

I've been in my new place for 8 days and I know all of it. With the numbers in my head I can run downstairs without even looking at my feet. And today was the first day I didn't have to hold on to the banister. Tomorrow I'm going to try the jump from the second to last step. I used to do that at home, but I've moved and that means new numbers.

Stairs can be tricky. How can you trust stairs? They go up _and_ they go down at the same time. Sometimes they try to trick me. Sometimes the space you have to step down isn't the same. This happens a lot in old places, like in the castle I went to one time. I must be pretty smart coz I'm 42 and I've never fallen down stairs even in the castle. I like pretending I'm a Slinky, shhtink, shhtink, shhtink all the way down.

It takes _con-sen-tray-shun._ That's the biggest word I know—Dr Sarah taught me how to say it in 4 easy parts. I like big words so I use it a lot. Sometimes I just say it to myself over and over when I'm doing something really hard. Sarah says I have to consentrayt when I think about things. It keeps everything in the right place in my head so I don't forget and think about something else.

I have to consentrayt with food too. I have to keep each kind of food seprate on my plate. That's another word Dr Sarah taught me and I probly use it the most. As soon as the food comes, I have to break it up or there's a fight. They even fight over who gets eaten first. It can get quite loud and people don't like it when I join in.

"Choose me!"

"No, me first!"

"Sprouts were first last time..."

So I have to say, "Hey be quiet, I can't hear anything if you all talk at once." Just like Miss Soden used to say at school. She was my teacher, and she had to say it every day. Most days I have to do that with the food. But they don't put their hands up or anything. Not like we used to, stretching up as high as we could, like trying to touch the sky, sometimes with both hands. Everyone saying, "Miss, me! Miss, Miss, choose me!" In school Wait, wait, wait. Consentrayt.

The most quietest food is stew. That's when all the different foods are mixed in together. If they get cooked together then they're happy together. Maybe they make friends when they're bubbling in the pot. There's never a peep out of food then.

One time I was in a fancy restaurant with Sarah. The tables were just like Mum used to do at Christmas time. White tablecloths and three knives and three forks all laid out like soldiers guarding your plate. I know you have to start from the outside ones and when they take them away you get to use new ones. By the end of dinner, you've used them all up. I was glad I didn't have to do the washing up! Sarah laughed when I said that. I used to do the washing up at home when Mum cooked.

Sarah said we were sellabrayting, that's like having a party, but there were just two of us. I really like it when there's just two of us so I can talk to her all the time and I get to listen to her voice. I like the way she talks. She's very kind. She was happy coz she wrote about me in a medicle book. No wait, journal, that's what she called it. That's different from a book or a magazine. Sarah is very clever—she's a doctor. She knows all about me. She says I'm special.

We had wine with dinner. Why is wine always seprate but the food isn't? Red wine goes in the biggest glass, the one that's round and deep. Dad taught me all about wine glasses so I could help him lay the table at Christmas. I love Christma Wait, wait, wait. Consentrayt. White wine goes in the smaller glass. When drinks are mixed up, that's when the things go wrong. People mix their drinks and get angry and they shout a lot or cry. You have to stick to one kind to be happy. I remember Dad saying, "I'm a single malt man, George." And no water, oh no. Water would be mixing.

When the waiter handed us the menus, I asked if I could see pictures. Pictures are a big help coz then I can see if the food is going to be fighting. Sarah smiled at the waiter. I really like it when she smiles. "He's just playing," she told him. She reached over and squeezed my hand. It felt nice. She leaned in closer—she smelled of flowers. "Trust me, George, you're going to love this place." I love Sarah, so that's all I needed to know.

Sarah said the food was Noovell Kwisine. I'd never heard of him before, but I like his cooking. The food came on a big plate and it was all in little piles with loads of space between. There were 6 piles and they were all different things and nothing touched anything else. I'd like to visit Noovell one day and show him my trays.

"This is great," I told Sarah. "Let's come here again. This is my favritest place ever." She gave me the same smile she gives to Pepper when he wags his little brown tail and licks her hand all over. We never did go back there. Sarah said it was a special place for a special okasion. She's a doctor and she's very busy.

So, I learned something new: I love Noovell Kwisine. I saw someone on TV say they hated it coz the porshuns were too small and the price was too high. Well, you have to pay for that kind of space on a plate. It's like houses. If you want to live in a house without any other houses touching you, it costs more money. It's the same thing with food.

That's why I love flying. On a plane the food comes in trays. Everything has its own place. Some things are even wrapped up in their own plastic. That's the way I like it best. And guess what? I've kept some of those trays. I snuck them into my bag. When I got home, I washed them and I use the trays over and over. I think Noovell would like them for his food.

Meat goes in the biggest part, potatoes in the next biggest. I always put the vegetables in the smallest space. It looks like I'm eating a lot of them coz it's full up but I don't really like veggies. Mum always said I had to eat them, if I didn't I'd end up fat and pasty-looking like Mr Gordon.

The potatoes are always last, coz potatoes are the things I love the best. I like baked potatoes coz other food can touch them and they don't mind. They have thick skins and they don't fight. Ever since I was little, I've loved potatoes. My mum used to call me Spud, even when I was a grown-up. I liked it. Except I didn't like it when the bully at school—Mike the Spike I used to call him coz he always poked me with his pencil when he sat behind me in class—I didn't like it when he heard it. He called me Spud-you-don't-like. He's one of the mean people.

Spud-u-Like used to be my favrite takeaway place coz that's all they had—spuds. It was like being in an ice cream shop and looking at all the flavours and having to choose one. Every time, I tried a new thing, except when I found something I really liked then I'd have it more times. It took me 23 days to try everything on the list. I didn't go every day. My favrite was grated cheese. A giant baked potato filled to the top with grated cheese!

I don't like it when they fill the potato so full it spills out. I told them, "When you put things in a potato they have to go inside, not outside." The potatoes don't mind it but the fillings do. I tried to tell them that at Spud-u-Like. But they didn't listen. Sarah says they don't consentrayt. I stopped going there the time I found green beans mixed in. Maybe they used the same spoon or something coz there were bits of green bean in with the grated cheese. I heard them fighting even before I opened the lid.

492 steps to my building. I remember a lot of cars splashing through the rain and making me all wet. I was glad to be inside, but I forgot about the door and it made a big clunk when it slammed shut. Mr Gordon stuck his head out of his door. "George? How many times do I have to tell you not to let the door slam?"

I was all wet, the paper bag was all wet. "Sorry, Mr Gordon," I told him. My tummy was rumbling so I ran up the stairs, holding onto the banister with one hand and the box in the other. "19, 20, 21—"

There are 36 stairs up to the 3rd floor. The beans and the cheese were fighting the whole time. I told them to be quiet but they didn't listen. I had to shout really loud, "Be quiet in there." It was funny how my voice bounced around inside the stairs like those bouncy balls I used to play with when I was little. Ping, zoom, zigging and zagging all over the place. It was pretty noisy.

I saw Mrs Peterson and old Mr Johnson poke their heads out of their flats. "It's the green beans," I shouted over the noise. "I'll have them seprated as soon as I get home." But I didn't have the chance coz the bag burst and the baked potato fell on the stairs and the cheese and green beans were all over the place. It was a big mess.

It was the beans. That's why I had to move. Mr Gordon said there'd been complaynts about my shouting. That means people didn't like it. I thought he was crazy, speshlly when I told him it wasn't my fault. He looked at me with his piggy eyes and said, "George, you have a month to find a new place."

I got cross and told him he was just like a vegetable. He said that was the last straw and called Dr Sarah.

I told Sarah what happened. I told her how Mr Gordon was on the green beans' side and how he mixed his drinks too. "This morning I saw 2 empty bottles of blended whisky, not single malt like Dad used to like, and 16 cans of beer. They were in a box outside his door." Sarah came to see me later with Pepper. Having Pepper around makes me forget all my problems. We played together. It was fun. I told Pepper what happened and I showed him the green beans. It turns out he doesn't like green beans either.

Now I'm here in my new place. They cook for us and they know how I like all my food to be seprate. Sarah found this place and she told them everything so they let me use the airplane food trays. The trays were the only thing I brought with me from home, and the photo of Mum, Dad and me. I look at it every night before I go to sleep. It's been 137 days since they died. I miss them.

The people who work here all have nametags so I won't forget their names. They're friendly and kind. I really like it here. There are 16 of us in this great big house and a lot of them are like me. So I feel right at home, just like Sarah said I would. She even brought Pepper for a visit. He likes it here too. He ran around. It was funny to watch his paws scrabbling on the shiny floor like in the cartoons when their legs go round and round and they don't get anywhere. His tail was wagging and he licked everyone he met. He was a big hit. Next time I'm going to ask if he can stay for the weekend.

I have lots of new friends here. I'm not alone any more. And there are loads of things to do like reading, writing, painting and crafts. My new friend, James, he said they even let us do cooking sometimes. I don't know about cooking. The kitchen is probly really noisy. I don't want to have to shout.

Mrs Peters asked me to write a story about why I came here and what my favrite things are. She said people will read it and they will know all about me. It's like when Miss Soden asked us to write a story about what we did over the summer holidays, so I know what to do. I even did a picture of Pepper. See? He has big teeth and his legs are going really fast, so is his tail. There's even a green bean hiding somewhere.

There are 2,369 words in my story. I know coz I counted every single one of them.

THE END by George Hampton

BONUS

This is a Choose Your Own Adventure Story.

Follow the hyperlinks to the indicated sections to

discover your chosen story.

#

Off The Rails

# by Alan Gowing

1

You wake from your nightmare with a start, eyes flicking around the inside of your skull like a confused burrowing insect. You straighten up in your chair and an open book falls from your lap onto the mud-splattered carriage floor. You scrabble around for a moment, confused by the tilt in the ground underneath you which you mistake for the sensation of the world collapsing.

A train, I'm on a train you realise as your vision pushes itself back into focus. To your right is an empty seat, and beyond that is the central aisle. Across the aisle there are people talking, emerging from their woollen cocoons to trade warm air with each other. To your left is a window, beyond that are snow-buried fields interspersed with tufts of hair from a buried body that up close could be mistaken for trees in winter.

A ticket inspector wearing the uniform of a middle aged woman with tired eyes and a smile chiselled to her face enters the carriage through a door 30 feet ahead of you. Passengers shift in unison,their dialogue stilted and their manner furtive as they rummage though their pockets.

If you search through your pockets for your ticket turn to

If you retrieve your book from the train floor turn to 
**2**

You squirm in your seat as you check your clothes. You liberate several receipts for a pharmacy near your home, all for sleeping pills. You find a bunch of keys, many to homes you left a long time ago; one in particular stands out as the small rusted spike that unlocked your diary as a child. You smile and frown, your mouth taking the form of a sine wave as you progress through the iterations of your youth. You remember how impossibly large, how all encompassing your mother and father appeared to you when you were small and still building your body. You wonder how you look from a newborn's perspective, whether you are as much a god to them as your parents were to you.

Next you find a small deck of cards, the kind that is rarely bought but instead found in a gift bag, a lucky dip or a Christmas cracker. It's a game of chance after all. You've been using these cards as notepaper, words scrawled on them in smudged ink. They include the lyrics of a song you overheard and can't remember, and part of a sentence that is beautiful to your eyes... or would be if you could complete it.

One of the cards is missing, to find out what it says turn to  and return immediately to this entry.

...are you back? Thank you.

Finally, in the pocket closest to your heart you find a small box. Inside that box is a silver pendant with white marble inlay. A locket you realise, as you press it between your fingers and watch it spring open. Inside the locket...

...inside the locket...

...inside the locket is a picture of you, dead. You are lying forward in a pile of glass and twisted metal with your face in profile. Your one visible eye stares out like a fish in a supermarket freezer cabinet and your right arm is crushed and staining the sleeve of your coat red.

You clasp the locket shut.

The ticket collector is almost upon you, you have no ticket.

If you get up and walk down the aisle to avoid notice turn to

If you close your eyes and feign being asleep turn to 
**3**

You retrieve your book from the floor. The pages are yellowed and curled though age. The smell of the leaves is overpoweringly smoky, you can't help but to press it to your nose and take in the scent of old book. Trying to recall where you found it, you open the book and scan the title page. Sure enough you find your name written near the bottom, following a trail of previous owners all crossed out. Above you is Claire Connor (who wrote her name in purple glitter), above her is Adam Drury (who double underlined his name, perhaps to show that he was adamant in possessing this tome). Above this is Sara Milworth, who writes her 'o' as a heart and above this is a picture of a bird stamped on in blue ink (also crossed out). Finally there is Suzannah Bryant, written without flair or any remarkable notes save for the fact that she was first. In the middle of all of this is the book's name, If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, as well as the name Italo Calvino. Again, an enterprising owner has crossed through these words.

You leaf through the pages, drawing your past readings out of the ether of your memory and back into your current iteration of thinking. It is a frustrating act to find your place as much of the text is in the 2nd person; an unusual conceit found most commonly in magical realism and children's books.

You sigh, all too aware that the thoughts in your head are being planted there by someone else and you promise to yourself that you will save the story for a tired evening when you are more susceptible to suggestion.

As you close the spine (wondering how you will ever find your place again) you find a piece of card jutting out as an improvised bookmark on one of the final pages. Your attention seized, you pull at the card and identify it as your train ticket. You hold it up to the light and the inspector passes by your periphery with a curt nod. As you pocket it you realise that you have lost your place in the story and worry that you will have to start from the beginning.

If you do, close your eyes, open them and turn to

If you decide to get up and stretch your legs turn to 
**4**

...patience...

Return to

Return to 
**5**

You stand, feeling a pop in your right knee as you do. It spikes in pain for the briefest of moments and you put your weight on it as if to crush the pain.

You are not alarmed, this is normal.

It soon passes, and you stumble quickly out into the aisle. You walk away from the ticket inspector at a brisk pace and stumble head on into another passenger, almost toppling him.

You scream in reflex, almost choking on the novelty of the sound. You stumble back, looking at the man that almost toppled you. He is tall, no, thin. His slender build makes him appear tall, and he arches over you like a Dickensian villain.

He murmurs as he steadies you with a firm and bony grip. He smiles with a set of perfect teeth on a gaunt face and slides past you almost effortlessly. You feel cold as he passes and get a strange sensation of familiarity...

Your foot scrapes on paper. You look down and see a notepad lying open on the floor. At the same time you hear a panicked cry for help further down the carriage.

If you follow the cry for help turn to

If you pick up the notepad turn to 
**6**

You dim your vision and lean your head back against the chair, letting the regular rhythm of the rocking carriage relax you. Your arms grow heavy and the greying glow behind your eyelids swims around and loses cohesion. Soon the images flow and regain colour, matching an errant idea you once had about abseiling from a plane in flight, you realise that you are starting to dream.

You begin crawling, pushing against grass leaves that tower over you and are warm and moist to the touch. After saying goodbye to someone following you, you begin cycling, and the flashing of the spokes on the tires is a cooling breeze in your hair that carries you to the shore of a beach overrun with pebbles and crabs that drag fish onto the shore to eat them. You pick up a crab that (after some gentle squeezing) fits into your ear for safekeeping and as you walk over the ocean waves of concrete form at your feet and a wingless plane slides in front of you. As you step inside you see a man called David who you remember as a child in school but have never met as an adult. You sit next to him and ask him what he's been up to and he responds by chewing on your shoulder and whispering with your mother's voice. A voice warns you of impending destruction and (as is typical for dreams) you feel a sudden sensation of falling that will surely kill you...

Turn to 
**7**

You walk briskly along the aisle, there is an elderly woman screaming for help, gesturing at the door to the next carriage.

In the swinging, carapace-lined space between carriages you find a slumped figure, a man in his early 30s at the eldest. You kneel beside him, putting a hand to his face which is now red and swollen from blood and fear. He is shaking and choking out words as you try to unbutton his shirt to help him breathe. You're not sure what else you can do. What else can you do?

You look into his eyes for a moment. They've become wet and tearful. You can see your face in them. He struggles to speak; you lean in close, closer. You are so close that the reflection in his eye is of your eye... and something altogether unexpected happens.

Turn to , but return here immediately.

And like that...

...he is gone. Dead eyes shine at you; a small gathering surrounds the doors now. You get up and leave, your hands are shaking and your breathing has become rapid enough to whistle through your teeth. As you pass into the next carriage you can hear the elderly women sobbing and calling out to you, but you ignore her.

Turn to 
**8**

It is a small notepad; the corners are slightly frayed as if it is accustomed to being placed in a small pocket like the one near a person's heart. The cover is dark brown leather with a picture of a stylised set of scales sewn into the centre, and it springs open in your hand so easily that you wonder if you have read it before.

The spine parts to a well worn page, yellowed and rough. On it is a list of names, many of which are crossed out. Oddly enough though, some are scored through as if they had once been crossed out but have since had the line removed.

Including your own name.

You feel a wave of déjà vu. You risk a glance along the length of the carriage, half expecting a shadowy figure to be watching you from a nondescript seat. You hear the calls for help becoming stifled sobs and see an elderly woman enter the carriage shaking her head as she collapsesin tears.

You follow several other passengers past the crying woman and see a man, in his early 30s at the eldest, slouched and still on the floor. A crowd is milling and those closest to the body murmur of a heart attack.

You step back, unsure of what to do. Feeling uneasy, you remember the thin man that walked past you just a few moments ago and wonder if the notepad you found was his. You open it again to look at it.

The name above yours, Adam Drury, has been crossed out since you last read it.

Turn to 
**9**

Hi.

My name's Adam Drury, I think I'm dying.

Two weeks ago I killed my best friend. Her name was Claire Connor, we'd known each other since we were seven years old. We met on my first day at Crisham Primary. I didn't know anyone, I was scared. She gave me a piece of chalk and made me help her draw a dragon on the footpath near the bike shed.

She was fat, a couple of older kids picked on her, called her 'Panda Claire'. I found out later that one of the bullies was her sister.

When we were sixteen she told me she loved me. I loved her but I couldn't make myself say it. Sometimes people laughed at us when we were together. I was a horrible friend: the last gift I ever gave her was a book I'd bought from a second hand shop. I'd already read it.

When we were twenty-four she was diagnosed with cancer. It was treated quickly, but two years ago it came back.

Claire came to my house late one night crying. She looked tired, she was wearing a beanie cap to cover her scalp because she'd lost some of her hair from chemotherapy. When I opened the door to let her in she didn't say a word. She just hugged me around the hips and buried her face in my chest quietly.

I took her to bed. She was nervous and felt queasy but she asked me to stay. She undressed in front of me. She pulled off her large woolly jumper, then undid her belt and pulled off her jeans. Soon she was wearing nothing except her beanie cap. She'd lost so much weight; I'm embarrassed to say that I thought she had a sexier figure now that she was being ripped apart inside. I'm sorry Claire.

I stripped too, with Claire staring at me the whole time until I was naked. I wasn't... I wasn't ready yet, not until Claire took off the cap. I saw how much hair she'd lost. How beautiful she looked from the neck down and how dead she looked from the neck up.

I got hard. Really hard. I... What the fuck's wrong with me?

It took a while for us to get it over with. She wasn't turned on. She was a virgin. I don't think she liked it as much as she wanted to and we had to stop a few times to try and get ourselves back in the mood. She slept on my sofa afterwards and got a taxi to the station in the morning. We didn't talk about it after that.

A few days later I checked in on her to see how she was. She lived alone. She made some tea and said she was looking into staying in a hospice when things got worse so she could have some company. She kept glancing at me as she said it, saying that she needed company, I mean. She was trying to ask me to move in with her, or to move in with me, I don't think she would have minded which. But she didn't ask the question, and I didn't want to admit how... how scared she was making me when I saw her now. I just said "I think a hospice is a good idea."

I'm a fucking cunt. A hospice is where you go to die, and I told her it was a good idea to live in one. I hate myself so fucking much right now.

I finished my tea and left. That was the last time I saw her. Two days later her sister, her bitch of a sister called and told me that Claire had killed herself. She'd died alone.

I went to her funeral earlier today. I recognised a few people, some old school 'friends' were there. The ways they sobbed and consoled each other made me want to walk over to their seats and break their faces. There was someone else, a skinny guy with a bony face and big white teeth. He was like a skeleton, no one else paid him any mind but as the service went on I couldn't look anywhere else. He must have been from a support group; he was this horrible sickly reminder of what had happened to Claire, what more would have happened to her if she hadn't ended it herself.

I'm on my way home now. I'm thinking about sticking my head in the oven when I get there. At least that was the plan, but a few seconds ago that thin man walked past me on the train. My chest feels wrong, like a hiccup in the wrong place. It hurts.

I guess that's it. Thanks for being here. I don't know who you are, I'm just glad I'm not alone.

Return to 
**10**

You stumble along the carriage, shaken by what you have just felt. You trip on a suitcase left next to a seat but pay it no heed. Ahead, you are blocked by a young couple's hands as they hold each other from across the aisle. You barge though, breaking their connection. You pay them no heed.

As you approach the toilet, the door slides open and a young, tubby boy with sad eyes walks out. He stares resolutely at the floor as he scurries by. You look in and see that the toilet is blocked, and appears to have been used by 3 or 4 people since that happened.

You throw yourself at the sink and vomit, quickly coating the small basin. The sharp, car battery tang mixes with the foul musk in the air and only encourages you to retch further. After a few more heaves your stomach becomes tight and painful and the effort required pushes you to delirium.

You slum to the floor, dizzy, caught between a tired desire to stay still and a marked revulsion at your surroundings. You realise, with a shade of embarrassment, that you are now hungry.

If you leave go to

If you remain where you are and rest turn to 
**11**

The crowd starts to disperse as a serious looking man steps through with a professional bearing and asks for people to make room. Not wanting to hang around, you follow the herd in a courteous exodus from the dead man's carriage.

You find a vacant seat opposite a tubby, young boy with sad eyes. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He smiles back and then (with the appropriate etiquette for public transport) promptly ignores you.

You bring your attention back to the notepad, to the list of names that has been scratched over and rewritten several times. You trace your finger over the contours of your name, the cursive slants make it seem alien to you . You scratch at the paper a little and are suddenly hit by a wave of fatigue. Your head slumps, following the book as your hand slumps to your lap.

Maybe this is a bad idea you think to yourself as you reach into your pocket. You find two small pens and as you retrieve them several small playing cards spill out onto the floor. The tubby boy looks on as you bring the pen to paper and go over the line of your name, making it clearer and sharper. You snap to attention and you toy with the notion that this book is like an hourglass of your life. You also wonder if you are losing your mind and that writing your name is simply a novel application of a placebo, but that would be crazy now.

Wouldn't it?

Waving the pen around the page, you wonder what would happen if you crossed out one of the names on the page...

If you cross out a name turn to

If you cross out your own name turn to

If you go to the bathroom turn to

If you are hungry turn to 
**12**

An emptiness in your gut drags you from one carriage to the next, your feet pulling the world past you until an onboard bar comes to a stop around you. You stare at prices and packaging, at dead flesh and chemicals. You remind youself about the concept of money and you make some appear in your hand. Throughout all this a thin man with perfect teeth and bad skin watches you.

You buy hot soup and cold wine and you drink it in, not caring which is which. One warms your stomach as the other warms your head, soon you feel like you are filling up with cotton. It reaches all the way up to your throat and you choke up a tear.

You have never felt like this before. You buy more. Again.

Across from you the thin man gives you a smile full of teeth, lips peeling back just enough to show the gums. You nod courteously. His laugh is like the last sputter of air from a bicycle wheel. Thankfully he places a bony hand to his mouth as he giggles, sparing you from his overwhelming grin.

His teeth remind you of a well-kept cemetery, like the one you stepped gently through just a few hours ago on the way to meet a friend. You remember walking, stumbling, hands reaching out to grab at you and finding nothing but the wind...

You hear a sharp hiss underfoot. The train lurches, almost making you lose your footing as calls of panic spread throughout the carriage. You place a hand to your heart, trying to find a small book you keep there. It is gone, skidding across the floor of the train as the world comes to an end.

Turn to 
**13**

You sit with your head against the bathroom door, shifting a hand under your clothes and pressing it against your aching stomach. The cold touch feels good against your skin and the press of your hand helps to steady your breathing.

Your head slumps, you feel close to sleeping. For the first time you notice the mottled, eggshell pattern of the floor. You follow the patterns of black spots on cream lino, fancying yourself able to pick out a constellation or two. Your sense of direction becomes muddled as you mistake the ground for an open sky, a sense of dizziness returns and brings with it a queasy feeling. You lie to one side and rest your head on the floor, and as you do so you see something paper-thin and curled on the ground. You reach out for it and as you pull it closer you see that it is a playing card, a joker. A word has been scrawled on it. To see what is written (re)turn to  and come back here immediately.

You are snapped from a brief reverie by a panicked knocking at the door. The train lurches, suddenly, and you hear screams outside.

If you leave the bathroom to help turn to

If you are sick of this nightmare and wish to wake up turn to

If you sit still turn to 
**14**

You look at the list and, with far less fanfare than is appropriate, cross out the first visible name you come across.

Congratulations. You've just become a murderer. His name was Dan Henstridge, but once he was old enough to choose he asked to be called Daniel. He graduated from De Montfort University in 1996 with a BA in Psychology, which he loved to talk about but never used. He worked for seven years in the legal department of the nearest Sainsbury's Superstore before he quit and opened a shop selling musical instruments. He'd planned to expand the store to a larger and busier location but held off when his girlfriend Tina found that she was pregnant. He used the money to cover his girlfriend's maternity leave and (after the birth) a modest wedding, putting his plans back several years. He was at a staff party with his colleagues, toasting the new premises at the same moment that you scrawled across his name, and as you did he keeled over from what would later be identified as peritonitis from a ruptured appendix.

However, you remain unaware of this fact, having simply crossed a name from a list. Seeing no noticeable effect, you cross out a few more.

You look up, staring into the face of the strange, thin man you bumped into earlier. He looks quizzically at the notepad in your hand and gestures for you to follow him.

If you follow him turn to

If you remember turn to 
**15**

"You have done this before."

Turn to 
**16**

You get up and start walking down the aisle, skirting around a pushchair with a crying child in it. As you walk on a little further you wonder where the parents are, but rather than dwelling on the details you make your way to the bathroom and slide the door shut behind you.

The moment you step away from the door the train lurches, smacking you into the wall and as quickly to the floor. Fluid from the toilet sprays across the tiled surfaces and you slide around on the sewage-smeared floor in a panic. You hear screams just outside the door and as you try to scrabble to your feet the train shifts, twisting gravity and flinging you towards the mirror. The contents of your coat escape and fly around the room with a false sensation of flight as you smash from surface to surface. As the room spins ever faster you are bombarded by loose change and playing cards.

Turn to 
**17**

Twenty-nine people have died in a train derailment on the Western line of Camberleigh Station.

The incident took place when the front carriage came away from the rails 3 miles outside of Camberleigh near Grovers Field.

Railway officials said the accident occurred late on Monday when it was snowing heavily. At least 30 other people were injured, 10 of them seriously.

Rescue operations are under way and a relief train has been dispatched to the site.

The cause of the crash is not known.

You are found lying forward in a pile of glass and twisted metal with your face in profile. Your one visible eye stares out like a fish in a supermarket freezer cabinet and your right arm is crushed and staining the sleeve of your coat red.

You are dead, frozen in time like a memory. Frozen like a worn photograph in a locket.

Turn to

18

Then you know what comes next. You feel a pain near your heart as twenty-eight names start to burn away. It could be twenty-nine. You blink, and the notebook is in your hand again, hot enough to burn the flesh from your hand leaving nothing but the bone.

You are not alarmed. This is normal.

If you keep the book turn to

If you throw the book away turn to 
**19**

Twenty-eight people have died in a train derailment on the Western line of Camberleigh Station.

The incident took place when the front carriage came away from the rails 3 miles outside of Camberleigh near Grovers Field.

Railway officials said the accident occurred late on Monday when it was snowing heavily. At least 30 other people were injured, 10 of them seriously.

Rescue operations are under way and a relief train has been dispatched to the site.

The cause of the crash is not known.

You lie in a puddle of filth, groaning. You stare through one good eye as the other tries to push away the blood from a cut on your brow like rain on a windshield. Your right arm is sore and as you roll onto your side to push yourself up, a pulse of pain shoots from your wrist to your back.

You struggle to your knees, dizzy as you lose your sense of balance and quickly realise the ceiling and the floor have traded places.

You bang weakly at the door which is bolted shut and set in the wall above you. You try to slide the bolt lock back but are unable to do so. You grit your teeth and place weight on your right arm as you kneel in the broken and foul smelling box of a bathroom in order to get better leverage.

The bolt slides a little, but something keeps it stuck. An unexpected weight on the door perhaps, a shift in forces as gravity betrays you.

You call out again, hearing distant murmurs, sounds of glass breaking and of sobbing. You call out once more and hear a shift in tone in the nearby voices, footsteps getting closer. You grab the bolt lock of the door and throw your weight against it, desperate and close to tears.

The bolt slides back, you hear a knocking on the other side of the door and a deep, tired voice calling your name, or possibly just calling you 'dead'. You squeak out words almost as a cry, pushing up at the door with your shoulder as one of your legs buckles. Sure enough, the door slides open and a pair of hands reach in for you.

You are dragged out headfirst, covered in a smear of red and brown and crying like a newborn. An elderly man who looks more like your father than you care to admit wrenches you to your feet and pats you down, noting the wince as he touches your knee.

You nod in thanks as he lifts you up and out though a door in the upturned carriage and you take a breath of cold air as you clamber on top of the train.

You look down at the elderly man as he starts to walk out of sight and you call to him. He disappears from view.

You glance around, seeing other passengers on other carriages, all struggling to climb off of the train and onto the snow-covered ground around them. Some fall poorly, hurting themselves even more in the process. Others take timid steps and help each other as one person is lowered to the ground and (in turn) catches other passengers.

There is no one nearby who can help you. You look at the wrecked carriage and then out at the wintery fields ahead. You take a step back, willing yourself to make the leap...

Have you left anything behind?

If you have missed anything turn to

If you are ready to leave turn to , but make sure that you have seen everything that you can before you do so: once you leave you cannot return.
**20**

You hit the snowdrift along the tracks, kicking up a powdery blast in the impact that settles around you like specks in a snowglobe. You pull your coat tight around you, coughing, as the cold air turns to moisture in your mouth, you take in the scene around you.

Further up the line you see the front carriage lying on its side across the tracks. A few people gather underneath the exposed wheels to shield themselves from the falling snow while several others form a line as they lift bodies out of the train and lower them onto the snow. You see an elderly woman standing over the bodies, teary eyed and solemn as she rifles a dead man's pockets and takes his wallet.

You limp toward the elderly woman with a fierce glare as she stumbles away from you, leaving behind a walking stick. You pick it up and lean on it as you carry on.

Among the bodies you find Adam Drury, who died of a heart attack before the crash. A young, frail looking girl dressed in baggy clothing is sat beside him, smiling sweetly. You kneel down beside her, putting a familiar arm around her as she starts to cry. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve, and as you reach into your pockets for a tissue you find a novel that has passed from person to person like a body dragged from a train. This novel has your name in it, but it once belonged to Claire Connor, who was given it by Adam Drury, a man she loved but who was too ashamed and scared to love her back. You hand the book over to the young, frail looking girl and leave wordlessly.

You look out at the empty space in front of you, taking a few unsure steps through fresh snow. The crunch of your feet sound like a jawbone in winter, like boots treading on a hill of teeth. You take a few steps more, and a few more after that, and with each passing footfall you make less of a sound and less of an imprint underfoot.

A raspy voice calls out.

You turn back and see the thin man trailing clumsily behind you. His narrow frame and the crisp clarity of the cold air give the impression of a man looming over a derailed train like a scarecrow in a field. In truth, you suppose, he is just a tall man that is near to you, but how near is difficult to say. You shake your head, walking away from him. You hear his footsteps behind you, a snarl as he gains ground. Not looking back, not stopping, you hold up a dark brown notepad, a list of names, and you ask a question.

And with that he falters, spitting at the air. And as you wander further from the train, off the rails, your footprints start to fade into the parchment of the ground until all that follows you has faded.

And all that follows you has faded.

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