 
# Holes

An Indie Author Anthology

Masterworks by:

Tom Benson, Rebecca Bryn, Lesley Hayes, Nico Laeser, Eric Lahti, Angela Lockwood, Penny Luker, R.A. McCandless, S.E. Meyer, Ian D. Moore, Katerina Sestakova Novotna, B.L. Pride, Paul Ruddock, and Sarah Stuart

Holes: An Indie Author Anthology

All stories are copyrighted by their individual authors

Purpose: Copyright © 2015, B. L. Pride

Holes Full of Dark: Copyright © 2015, R.A. McCandless

Can We Go On The Bus Now?: Copyright © 2015, Angela Lockwood

Faith, Hope, and Charity: Copyright © 2015, Tom Benson

Loophole: Copyright © 2015, Eric Lahti

Weeping Roses: Copyright © 2015, S.E. Meyer

Just Another Hole In The Wall: Copyright © 2015, Rebecca Bryn

Pin, Pot, A**e... and Friends: Copyright © 2015, Ian D. Moore

The Secret of Hagia Sophia: Copyright © 2015, Sarah Stuart

The Critic: Copyright © 2015, Nico Laeser

Lady of the Woods: Copyright © 2015, Penny Luker

The Legacy: Copyright © 2015, Lesley Hayes

Well It Ain't My Hole...: Copyright © 2015, Paul Ruddock

Three Sacred Orifices: Copyright © 2015, Katerina Sestakova

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover Illustration: Copyright © 2015, Nico Laeser

Cover Design: Copyright © 2015, Eric Lahti

### Foreword

The anthology you're reading represents the work of fourteen talented authors from around the world who all met on Facebook in the Indie Author Support and Discussion Group.

Anthologies generally have some theme associated with them. We bantered around some ideas and finally came up with 'holes'. It may not sound like the most exciting subject matter in the world, but in the hands of some creative people holes can become more than just empty spaces. In this anthology you'll find all manner of holes, loopholes, talking holes, memory holes, emotional holes, and other special holes.

Should you wish to know more about an author, at the end of each story you'll find a short bio and some links to blogs, twitter accounts, web sites, and Amazon Author pages. Please do feel free to check those places out.

A quick note on grammar: since this is an International group of people working together I decided to leave the regionalisms alone rather than just trying to shoehorn everything into American spelling. Thus, you'll see colours as well as honorable mentions. Certain standards, such dialog quotation marks, were left intact as well. The American convention of double quotes is represented as is the British convention of single quotes.

Enjoy, and thank you very much for reading this, it means a lot to all of us.

-Eric Lahti

# Contents

Purpose by B. L. Pride

Holes Full of Dark by R.A. McCandless

Can We Go On The Bus Now? by Angela Lockwood

Faith, Hope, and Charity by Tom Benson

Loophole by Eric Lahti

Weeping Roses by S.E. Meyer

Just Another Hole in the Wall by Rebecca Bryn

Pin, Pot, A**e... and Friends by Ian D Moore

The Secret of Hagia Sophia by Sarah Stuart

The Critic by Nico Laeser

Lady of the Woods by Penny Luker

The Legacy by Lesley Hayes

Well It Ain't My Hole... by Paul Ruddock

Three Sacred Orifices by Katerina Sestakova Novotna

# Purpose _by_ B. L. Pride

"The weather's terrible," Gareth said quietly, trying to break the tension and dispel the impenetrable silence between them.

Lynn refused to take notice of the things he was putting on the table, just as she had been ignoring him for almost two weeks. She had been fighting off all his attempts to talk to her, even when it meant she had no one else to talk to. With the corner of her eye she noticed something odd, something that didn't look like the usual grocery. It was standing out, calling her, teasing her, demanding her to steal a glance and check what he had brought, but she would never, never admit her interest in what Gareth provided for her. Never. Because it was simply disgusting, she reminded herself. He was simply disgusting.

"The radio said that the wind would become even stronger," Gareth reported through audible embarrassment, and Lynn wondered what was causing it. Or what was making him talk to her in the first place. What the hell was making him bother?

"Thank God I'm somewhere warm and safe, huh?" she grinned, letting sarcasm spill across the small room and deepen the silence of their non-existent relationship.

"I'm sorry," said Gareth, and Lynn saw his feet turn him from the table to where she was sitting on her bed. On her bed. How grotesque was that? "I don't know what else to say. I apologized a million times. I told you everything. Everything. At least I tried to. I promised to fix it. Make it better again. I did and I will. I just need some time." Desperation colored his voice and drew Lynn's eyes up to his face. But she stopped herself in time and kept her gaze somewhere in the region of his chest.

A tiny part of her remembered the moment she had seen him for the first time, but the memory was cut short immediately, mercilessly trampled on by the here and now.

"I only did it to protect you," Gareth tried the same old line again, making her snort with venomous bitterness she had never known before. "I did," he repeated passionately, almost too loudly, and she flinched with fear. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he hurried, his voice careful and remorseful, swearing there was nothing to be afraid of. "But it's the truth, Lynn. Even if you don't want to admit it," he added.

Most of the time, Lynn still couldn't believe what had happened. Not even after all this time. Sometimes it seemed as if her inner world and the world she lived in were two separate realities, two different realms of her all-embracing, overwhelming misery. Distinguishing between good and evil was impossible in the given circumstances. Believing and doubting became one single notion. The room she had been inhabiting for twenty-three days and counting was an isolated melting-pot of everything her life had been for thirty-one years.

For the first few days, she was convinced that her life would end at any moment. She was going crazy, her panic attacks and hysterical outbursts causing quite some damage to the room and the modest furniture. But days were passing by one after the other in a strangely comforting rhythm of seclusion, and Lynn soon realized that she hadn't been brought there to be killed or harmed in any way. If that had been Gareth's intention, she would have been dead, beaten up, or raped a long time ago. But she hadn't been. She was doing perfectly well, provided with everything she could possibly wish for. Except for freedom, of course. She was a prisoner, and nothing Gareth could say or do could change that fact. She was a prisoner. Kidnapped. Taken from the side of her husband who defended her so fiercely, fought so wildly, but failed. Or did he?

Accepting one of Gareth's numerous suggestions and talking about it would probably be the best idea, but Lynn simply couldn't make herself do it. His fragmented attempts to tell her what he wanted to made her feel so humiliated, so double-crossed, and so defeminized she couldn't even think about it at first, convinced she would never want to know the truth. Yet, for the last week or so she had kept thinking about it over and over again, fighting off the urge to get to the bottom of it. Terrified of getting to know the real version of the past, the real version of her life as a matter of fact, she kept convincing herself that there was nothing to be discovered, nothing to be revealed.

But every day that had passed since that awful moment when her life had been smashed into pieces was distancing her from her old self and posing unpleasant questions that demanded to be answered.

Every day that passed was filled with words and actions no psycho would ever be capable of. Or would he?

In need of the truth, and at the same time terrified of it, Lynn was spinning in circles of doubts, planning schemes she wouldn't pull off and tricks she knew wouldn't work.

"How many times have you told me that?" she asked his boots, and saw the motionlessness her question had caused. Ridiculously empowered by his embarrassment she answered her own question. "I have no idea. How many times have you actually told me any facts? Never."

"Because you didn't give me a chance," he countered calmly, but he didn't fool her. Lynn heard anxiousness and insecurity shake his voice.

"Ha!" she mocked him. "Like I had choice! Don't tell me you were afraid I'd walk away or something?"

An unsure step brought him a little closer, resonating throughout Lynn's system in a way she didn't understand. Her body was a mess of too many mixed signals and her heart filled with way too much apprehension to defy the insecurity and excitement.

"I couldn't get you to listen," Gareth said. "I can't even get you to look at me."

It was true. Lynn knew it and had no intention of justifying it, although his words caused an idiotic stir somewhere inside of her. A stir she would never admit.

"It's been twenty-tree days, Gareth," she whispered, suddenly afraid her voice would fail her. "Twenty-three days since you've brought me here. Sixty-five days since we met." Two months. Only two months. "It feels like a lifetime. I'll listen. But I want the truth."

Gareth pulled out a chair and sat down, facing the table, so Lynn took the opportunity and looked at him. He was sitting there so devastated, so sad, and so fragile, despite his enormous body that had scared her profoundly that awful day that she... No, she had to stop herself.

"I don't even know where to begin," he said and buried his face in his hands.

It was extremely unpleasant and incredibly painful to ask this, but Lynn knew she had to. It had been haunting her ever since. "Our encounter in the park that day... That first day... Was it a coincidence?"

"No." He shook his head, his face still hidden in his hands.

Lynn's heart stopped. Although she had felt it somehow, hearing it was something completely different than suspecting it.

"Then I think you should begin there," she barely found the strength to say.

*****

"I have to find her! You have to find her! I want to know what you're doing in order to find my wife!" Seth Break slammed his healthy hand against the desk.

"Mr. Break, please." His attorney put his hand on Break's shoulder.

"But it's been twenty-three days!" Seth Break bellowed desperately. "Someone has to know where they are! Someone has to know where she is!"

"Mr. Break," police inspector Laid spoke up, silencing the raging, grieving husband. "We got an interesting piece of information three days ago and we have good reason to redirect our investigation to..."

"What is it? Do you know where Lynn is?" Seth Break was on his feet in an instant. He wanted to know everything, but got nothing except police inspector Laid's assurance that they would do their best to find his wife. Somehow, his assurance didn't seem to make Seth Break happy, though. He insisted on getting the information that the police had, while police inspector Laid insisted that police business was no business for anyone else.

Finally, Seth Break gave up and let his attorney convince him the best thing to do was to leave and 'take care of himself and his health as well'.

"Let me know as soon as anything comes up, police inspector," he implored at the door.

"As soon as we find her, you will be the first to be informed, of course," police inspector Laid nodded understandingly.

Seth Break thanked him again and started leaving, but then he turned back once more. He had to ask it, he simply had to. "Do you..." he let his voice shake a little. "Do you think Lynn is still alive?"

Unbelievably piercing brown eyes gave away nothing, no sign, no signal, no doubt, and no assurance he could try to interpret. All he got was the police inspector's dry, "The information I mentioned earlier suggests she is."

Seth Break stopped dead. He had to do his best to react and when he finally did, his, "Thank you, police inspector Laid," was just as confusing as everything else about him.

*****

"I met Seth in one of the underground fights," Gareth began.

"Underground fights?" Lynn repeated the expression she had never heard before, especially not from her husband.

"Yes." She saw his head bow a little more. "Illegal fights."

"Illegal fights?" Neither of the words was compatible with her husband. He was a stuck-up stick-by-the-book manager who never did anything but work. Not to mention that she had no idea what illegal fights were. "What are they? And who fights whom? What for?"

"There are two groups of people involved. The gamblers and the fighters." Gareth's voice sounded calm and resigned. "Gamblers fight for money, while fighters also fight for their lives."

It still didn't make any sense to Lynn. "And Seth? What does he have to do with it?"

"Well, he's not a fighter, that's for sure," Gareth smirked.

No way. No freaking way.

"If you're telling me that Seth's some kind of a gambler or something..." she started saying, defending her husband without being sure whether he deserved it.

"Lynn," Gareth didn't let her finish, "I'm not telling you he is some kind of a gambler. He is one hell of a gambler. He must have been for years. No one ever comes to the underground fights if they didn't try just about everything else before."

Impossible.

"And you?"

"I'm... I was a fighter."

Which made much more sense than Seth being a gambler. Or not. Her head was spinning, images she had forgotten or repressed a long time ago creating a maze of life, lies, and truth.

"Was?" She wanted to say so many things and ask so many questions, but somehow she seemed to be unable to produce more than a word or two at a time.

"I'll do whatever it takes to get you out of here, Lynn," he said, without answering her half-spoken question, and continued. "Anyway, I met Seth about three months ago, after one of the fights. He had been putting his money on me for a while, and he asked to talk to me that night. He told me he had a proposition for me. At first I thought he wanted to sponsor me, but that wasn't it. He... we went to dinner and he... he showed me your picture. Asked me what I thought of you."

A strange, surreal feeling of nausea and adrenaline started rising in Lynn.

"Why?" She hoped to sound controlled, but she didn't. She sounded awful.

And so did he. "He told me he wanted to get rid of you. It was supposed to have something to do with his gambling debts, but I wasn't particularly interested in his stories, to be honest. I was too... messed up. I was disgusted and tempted at the same time."

Gareth stopped and waited. She had no idea what he was waiting for, but she waited too. Waited for her nightmare to scatter back into the dimension of nothingness. She waited for Gareth to say he was joking. For the world to stop turning. For the millions of images devastating her to stop attacking her mind and soul, making her doubt, making her suspect it was true.

"I can't believe that," she fought against it instinctively, while memories kept flashing before her eyes.

"That day at the park." He didn't try to convince her or debate about whether or not it was possible, but went straight to the day they first met. It made her wonder if it was because he'd decided to let the facts reveal the truth to her. "Do you remember it?"

Lynn couldn't answer. She remembered every single moment, every single voice, every single word. She just nodded, although she knew he wouldn't be able to see her.

Her silence stirred his body and he turned around to look at her. She averted her eyes just in time not to let his gaze touch hers. "Do you remember?" he asked again. "I told Seth I wanted to meet you." She could hear a hint of a smile in his voice. "I guess I knew I would never be able to do it, but I told him I wanted to. He was against it, but I insisted. Eventually I convinced him that I needed to study you in case anything goes wrong. For a selfish, heartless, disgusting bastard he really is a naïve sucker. I guessed it was because he was used to getting things his way. So we arranged our meeting in the park."

The early morning was just beginning to stir as Lynn entered the park near her home. She looked around and unleashed Dimmy, who couldn't wait to be free. He raced forward while she followed steadily, avoiding the most popular paths and anyone who might complain she didn't keep her dog on the leash.

Their favorite morning spot was empty and Dimmy was there long before her, waiting for his routine round of fetching the ball and going crazy. But suddenly, his attention shifted along with his gaze. Before Lynn could react, he sped across the clearing and as she followed him, she saw what had caught his attention. An enthusiastic race of two excited dogs began, making Lynn smile with affection and frown because there was no owner in sight. Finally, a figure appeared on the other side of the clearing, and headed toward her.

It was a man. A ridiculously handsome man whose approach instantly reminded her of her lack of makeup, sloppy braid, and clothes that gave a whole new meaning to the word casual.

" _Good morning," he nodded, looking... At first she didn't know what his expression signified, but then she realized he seemed embarrassed. Whatever his reasons might have been. "Is this an Otterhound?" he followed Dimmy with his eyes and smiled the way a dog-lover smiles at the sight of a happy dog._

Lynn liked him immediately. Instinctively. And she wasn't exactly one of those people who like everyone they meet. She was the careful and reserved type most of the time.

" _It is," she smiled, motioning at him and blurting, "Are you a cynologist?" She couldn't believe her own words. What in the world had gotten into her?_

" _No," he shrugged, his eyes defying his embarrassment, and his face trembling between seriousness and a smile. "Just a fan."_

" _They're getting along great." Lynn tried to look the other way but her eyes kept flashing back to him. She had never seen him before, she was sure of that. Most of the dog owners knew each other around there, and he was not one of them. "Are the two of you new around here?" she asked, and had to congratulate herself on her skills of saying all the wrong things. Maybe she should have just said 'I'm sure we've never met before, because if we did, I'd probably be standing here in heels'._

It took him a couple of moments to answer. As if he needed to decide what to say.

" _We are," he finally nodded, and blushed._

What was that about?

" _Did you move here?" Lynn's barely existent chattiness kicked in only to make the situation even more awkward. What was she? The park investigator?_

" _Temporarily," he shrugged, and added, "At least I thought so."_

Lynn smiled, not sure whether there really was a hint in his words or whether she was just imagining things, but then she said something more, he asked another question, she commented on another topic, and what had started as one of the most awkward conversations Lynn had ever had, developed, grew, intensified, and lasted.

It lasted much longer than her usual walks with Dimmy, and ended with a half-spoken promise of meeting the next day.

On her way home, Lynn kept analyzing everything that had been said, reconstructing their words, and regretting her acute lack of originality. Gareth. She had no idea why, but in a way she felt like she had arranged a date. Was she having a totally non-date-like date tomorrow morning?

" _Lynn?" Seth's voice checked from the bathroom. Who else could it be?_

" _No," she yelled back. "It's just me, Dimmy. Lynn stayed in the park."_

In a way she really did.

Gareth stood up and paced back and forth across the room. Once. Twice.

"I liked you the moment I first saw you." He stopped in front of her but Lynn refused to look up. "And the very next moment... I think I liked you the moment I saw you in that picture he showed me. You seemed so gentle and fragile."

"Impossible," she said. She would keep telling herself that over and over again until this all would go away.

"Why?"

"Things like this only happen in movies," she said.

"That's what I thought at first. But they don't. And you're not the only one who's desperate, Lynn."

Was he kidding?

"Are you kidding?" She grinned viciously, hoping her voice would be eloquent enough to balance out the lack of her pissed off glare. "Are you fucking kidding? I'm not the only one who's desperate? I'm not the only one who's desperate? Yeah, I bet you have to suffer like hell! You brought me here, locked me up and disappeared for two weeks! Two weeks! I was waiting here for something to happen, for someone to appear and..." She couldn't even say it. "I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I was terrified! I was convinced I would die! I hoped I would, because dying wasn't the worst option by far!"

Gareth tried to cut in a couple of times, and he finally bellowed, "I had to leave, for God's sake! I had to go on with my life and pretend nothing has happened. Seth couldn't tell the police I had anything to do with it, because that would automatically make him a suspect. I knew he would come after me on his own, so I made sure he stayed in the hospital for two weeks. Just enough time for me to take care of everything, cancel the scheduled fights in time, and appear far from suspicious in case anyone should suspect me. Which was not to be expected. As long as Seth was in the hospital and the police were doing their job their way, I guessed I was pretty much off the hook."

It all seemed so surreal most of her brain shut down automatically, performing only the most basic operations and allowing her only the most logical thoughts.

"Why didn't you tell me about Seth? If what you're saying is true, you could have told me. You should have warned me."

"Do you think I didn't think about that? Do you really?" His voice was changing from the initial calm to deep agony. "What could I have said? Tell me! Tell me what would have worked, because I wasn't able to figure it out!"

Was the pause an opportunity for her to say something? Or maybe even a silent expectation of her answer? Of the solution he had tried to figure out but couldn't? Lynn didn't say a thing. She just sat there, staring at his boots and fighting off the need to lose control.

"I was scared shitless, Lynn. I wanted to tell Seth I wouldn't do it, but he... I decided to contact him and tell him the deal was off, but he called me that very day and started pushing the deadline. He said he could get someone else to do it if I happened to change my mind, so I told him I was in, of course. I tried to stall, but he was getting impatient and I knew I had to act as soon as possible."

"What about going to the police?" Her question was supposed to be a challenge, but came out as a pathetic, resigned murmur.

"Oh, I've been warned in advance, Lynn. If I did that, Seth would expose the underground fights, the organizers, the gamblers, the fighters, everything... and spread the word that I was the snitch." Lynn wished she could object, doubt his story and the details, but she couldn't; she knew her husband well enough to know what he was capable of, even without the particulars to mapping out his dark side to the smallest detail. The gambling and the debts only helped a couple of things to fall into their place. Seth's outbursts, his unaccounted for late-night activities, his rage, his apologies, his deepening lunacy... it all clicked, assuming its meaning and dispersing the shadows that had been obscuring her view for years. But apart from that, it was still impossible. It was impossibly sad and disgustingly sick.

Lynn finally felt alive again. Alive and worthy of something good. Meeting Gareth was the best thing that had happened to her, and the fact that there was nothing going on between them, nothing but an incredible, breathtaking amount of energy and the best endless conversations ever, wasn't even important. She could live without setting free the embarrassingly obvious lustful energy, as long as she could enjoy their mornings, their walks, and his devoted attention. She could live with that. Actually, she did live for that.

Living with Seth was a completely different thing, on the other hand. Lynn could hardly still endure his tantrums that would explode without warning and for no obvious reason, blaming her for just about everything one second and taking it all back the very next moment. If she ever encountered a maniac in her life, it would have to be her husband.

"If I went to the police," Gareth's voice brought her back from her memories, "I'd end up in prison, and Seth would get someone else to... do it."

"I can't believe it," she whispered. But it wasn't the story Gareth told her that she couldn't believe. She couldn't believe how blind she had been.

"That day..." she started, struggling to find the strength and the words to say it. "Was it planned? Did he... Did he know what would happen?"

A part of her was still naïve enough to hope Gareth would say no. She was an unprecedented fool.

"It was planned." Gareth broke the last shred of hope that there was something decent in Seth despite all. "I mean, we arranged the time and place. Everything else was carried out according to my plans."

Lynn lifted her gaze to his face. For the first time in weeks she let their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and flinched at what she saw. He looked a thousand years old, tired, frightened, and... and disappointed. With what? Life? Her?

Seth's idea to take her to dinner was a nuisance and a joke, but Lynn didn't refuse. He would make it look like she was avoiding him, twist her words against her, and start another one of their useless fights that would end with his despicable apologies and empty promises. So she agreed without thinking about it, convinced there was no way she could enjoy his company, but she actually did. They had a great time, and for a change, Seth was not the choleric stuck-up asshole. They talked about their friends, about their travels, about things they had been through, and left the restaurant hand in hand, laughing and relaxed.

" _A good thing we parked so far, huh?" he smiled at her. "I could use some exercise after all the food."_

Yes, you should run to the gym immediately, Lynn thought to herself, but said nothing. She simply smiled and let him interpret it as an act of kindness, not of sarcasm.

A strange sensation crawled up and down her spine, and she glanced back. There was no one there, but the sensation of being watched, followed, actually, didn't subside; it intensified together with Seth's nervous fidgeting.

" _Is something wrong?" Lynn asked, her husband's eyes looking down to her and failing to mimic his deceitful mouth's smile._

" _Why would you..." he started saying, when a powerful force hit him from behind and knocked him down._

" _Seth!" she screamed, as a male figure lurched itself at her husband, giving him no chance to defend himself. Or her. Although she seemed to be in no direct danger. The attacker was all over Seth, a trained professional for sure, dancing around a helpless victim._

" _Enough, man! Enough!" whined Seth, and a part of Lynn thought how her husband really wanted to order everyone around – even a mugger. But this attacker was not one to be told what to do. He punched Seth a couple of times more, and turned to her._

She probably should have run for her life, but Lynn froze where she was, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to function. The huge, ski-masked guy reached her in an instant, grabbed her and scooped her up like a baby, the strength of his body amazingly familiar, his smell comfortingly homely, her head a mess of wild panic and confusion.

" _Everything's okay, Lynn. We're getting out of here," a voice she knew murmured, as the attacker sprinted down the alley carrying the weight of her shocked body effortlessly._

A part of her knew she was not in danger, but it was a tiny, weak part of her, the deepest and the most repressed element of the maze that was her being. Everything else in her, everything else she was, rebelled. Fought. Went crazy. Scratched, screamed, cursed, kicked, and did just about everything else no matter how often the masked guy told her it was okay. She freaked out and couldn't, wouldn't calm down no matter how many times the masked guy assured her he wouldn't hurt her. And his decision to tell her who he was only made it worse. She flipped out and got herself sedated, which would only make her more enraged if she was conscious.

"How's Seth doing?" Lynn asked, not sure what she wanted to hear.

"Better that he deserves," Gareth growled. "He's looking for you. Everybody is. So, if we've managed to... clear the air a little... we could... decide what happens next."

She believed. She did. She just couldn't believe it.

"I need to think about all of this. Alone." A relieving, hope-inducing thought crossed her mind. "Not here. Definitely not here. Can we leave? Can we go somewhere else? Can we leave now? Right now?"

The thought of leaving the room that had been her prison for twenty-three days was invigorating and it made her jump to her feet, enthusiastic and crazed with a sense of defiance and vindictiveness. She wanted to go out there, go straight to Seth and knock his teeth out. She wanted to go to the police and... talk to police inspector Murray, Seth's high-school friend, or maybe have a chat with chief Fallon, Seth's cousin.

"Have you ever heard of Edward Murray and Fred Fallon?" she checked. This wasn't a movie. Why would Gareth know anything about them?

"Murray and Fallon? They brought Seth to the underground fights, I think. They've been there longer than me."

This wasn't a movie. It was her life. And Gareth was... her ally. Her best friend. Her savior. And a bunch of other things she had no concept of. If everything he said was true, there was only one more thing she needed to know before she would let her heart reset her life, her soul, and her brain.

"Why didn't you tell me everything when you brought me here?" she looked him straight in the eye and let her gaze reveal whatever there was to reveal.

"Because," he smiled the smile that had mesmerized her when she had seen it for the first time, "I might be professional fighter, but I don't have a death wish. And you were fierce. Besides," he grew serious again, "I was running late and it was crucial that I follow my schedule. And I left you a note. A letter, actually."

As on cue, they both looked around, scanning the claustrophobic room.

"I didn't find a letter," she frowned.

"Well, I'm sure I left it," Gareth shrugged. "You... you blew off quite some steam in here," he smirked. "Maybe you ripped it apart. Like the magazines and stuff."

Lynn blushed the reddest shade of red. "Maybe," she said. "I was really desperate, you know."

"I know," he nodded.

*****

"I'm getting desperate here, police inspector!" blustered Seth Break and shifted in his seat nervously.

Two more days had passed and nothing happened. Which was both relieving and alarming. Gareth had disappeared without a trace only a day before he had been released from the hospital, and no one knew where he had gone. It seemed he had mentioned moving west to a couple of people, but it might well have been a trick, and Seth Break was fucking going crazy. The scumbag beat the shit out of him and took his broad. Fucking loser. Fucking, fucking asshole!

"You have to understand that we cannot reveal any particulars of our investigation to anyone, not even to you, Mr. Break." Police inspector Laid shook his head with fake sympathy. His mind was somewhere else completely, analyzing, combining, deducing, and planning. The units were smoothing out the tactics for the following morning that very moment, and he was wasting his precious time with this creepy, self-important prick.

"But Chief Fallon..." Seth Break started applying some additional pressure.

"Chief Fallon himself emphasized the importance of handling this matter as carefully as possible in order to achieve the optimum efficiency," police inspector Laid countered with a well-tailored version of truth. "And now, Mr. Break, if you'll excuse me..." He stood up.

As soon as Mr. Break and his attorney were gone, police inspector Laid hurried to the rest of the team, mulling over the events that had led to this point. The suspect had been identified on the grounds of a composite sketch, which was done after a surprisingly efficient talk the forensic artist had had with the injured, distressed husband. Police inspector Laid shared the forensic artist's amazement about the detailed, certain description the victim was able to provide; after all, Seth Break couldn't tell them any specifics about the attack and it was amazing that he could have memorized the face of the attacker so well. But the composite was obviously more than efficient; after sixteen days of silence, they got an interesting lead. A man fitting the description of the composite started appearing in a local store of a small nearby town. Buying things that the shop assistant classified as women stuff: magazines, cosmetics, things like that.

Police reacted immediately, identifying the suspect and monitoring his activities, determining that there was, in fact, some kind of felony (most probably kidnapping) involved.

"I'm sorry, Tom, can I have a word with you?" Chief Fallon's voice stopped police inspector Laid. Great. Some more pressure and telling him how to do his job. Goddamned herd mentality.

Tomorrow. They would take care of it tomorrow.

*****

Two more days passed. Two more days of living in the claustrophobic room, squeezing in the tiny bathroom that hardly deserved the name, and flicking through the magazines that failed to entertain her or keep her mind off her personal drama for even a second.

But these two days were nothing like the ones before. In a strange, unimaginable way Lynn felt... liberated. Free. Free at last. Seth Break was a part of the past. A dead man. Nothing. Nothing but a piece of shit. All she had to do now was to make the final leap. _Take my hand and we'll jump together_ , Gareth said last night, before he had to go to work. Lynn smiled at the image her memory conjured before her. Gareth's face that first morning in the park. His eyes lighting up the murky mess her life had became. His soft, careful touches that never managed the courage to last. His fleeting, sweet smiles and the line of his shoulders when he was leaning down to her unknowingly.

She would take his hand. She would jump. Today.

*****

Four civilian cars were strategically arranged around the building, attracting no attention whatsoever.

Another five police cars were forming the second line.

Two men were holding their position on the roof of the building just across the street.

Another two men were positioned on the roofs of the adjoining houses.

Police inspector Laid felt his palms sweat. He felt... He wasn't sure how he felt. Like their operation was on the brink of a disaster.

"Hold your fire. I repeat, hold your fire," he barked, as soon as the suspect's car turned onto the street. It stopped in front of the building and the suspect stepped out with a smile on his face. But the smile dispersed the second he stood outside, and the suspect turned around, scanning the street carefully. Sixteen pairs of eyes followed his every move. Did he feel their eyes on him?

*****

Lynn heard the approaching footsteps and hurried to the door, fighting off an unpleasant sensation that there was something else other than happy excitement dictating his tempo. And his knocking. Five short knocks, quiet, different than the ones yesterday or the day before. She turned the key Gareth had given her, and there he was.

"Finally," she smiled and touched his face to make him look at her. Her stomach clenched painfully. "Is something wrong?"

"I think I'm just freaking out. Very ladylike," he grinned and ran his hand through her hair. He didn't fool her. He was freaking out and he didn't find it amusing. "Are you ready? We've got two hours drive to the airport." He checked his watch. "And we're right on schedule."

"I've got everything I need in here." Lynn shrugged and motioned to her bag. The patchouli scented shower gel he had brought her three days ago, just to make her feel a little better, was there too. "Oh, and I have a confession to make. I found your letter," she blushed. "Yesterday. It must have fallen all the way under the bed."

"Oh," Gareth seemed a little embarrassed. "That's great. Then we're good?"

"We are."

"There's something I want to say, Lynn. Before we go out. I'm not expecting... You don't have to... stay with me, I mean by my side, once this is over."

"Do you have any other... plans?" she squeezed through a mixture of surprise and disappointment.

"No," Gareth shook his head and leaned a little closer. "My plans are hoping and waiting for you decide I'm not bad company."

"I know you're not," she whispered.

Gareth's face lit up. "And I can cook, you know?" he grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, you told me that before." Lynn laughed and held his hand. "So I guess we know who's cooking dinner tonight."

"Deal." He kissed her hand so naturally it took her breath away, and said, "Okay, let's go."

The stairs that led up from the basement were narrow, the hall was dark, and the air was unpleasantly damp. Compared to that, the room Lynn had lived in was luxury.

She felt Gareth's hand grip hers with increasing strength, while her heart raced and echoed in her throat.

*****

Police inspector Laid looked at his watch again. What was taking this guy so long? Getting in, unpacking some groceries, and getting out again; that was the standard kidnapper routine. What was taking him so long? What was he doing? Chatting about politics with the neighbors?

The door started opening.

"The suspect is leaving the building," he barked. "I repeat, the suspect is leaving the building. Hold your fire!"

*****

"Are you ready to breathe in some fresh air?" Gareth turned to Lynn just before he pushed the door open.

"I don't know," Lynn surprised them both and then smiled, reaching her free hand up to his face.

He was one of the handsomest guys ever. His eyes closed as her fingertips travelled across his temple, down to his cheek and neck.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"My life was a useless mess until I met Seth Break," he said without opening his eyes. "Only then it got a purpose – taking care of you."

"Well, in that case let me tell you that you are serving your purpose in a highly amiable way," Lynn chuckled.

"After you," he laughed, opening the door, and followed her, his arm around her.

*****

"The victim's out! Hold your fire, I repeat, hold your fire!" bellowed police inspector Laid.

*****

A strange sound crackled through the air. "Put your hands up! Put your hands up! This is the police speaking. Put your hands up!"

Lynn turned around. She needed to see Gareth. That was her only thought.

"Put your hands up and get down on your knees! This is the police speaking!"

Everything slowed down. Lynn saw the purest dread in Gareth's eyes, veiled by his attempt to conceal his desperation. She couldn't react and it seemed neither could he. They just stood there, staring at each other's eyes, guilty of nothing, feeling doomed.

The voice repeated the crackling order and Lynn could sense movement everywhere, like the motionlessness of the street had panicked and started crawling, spilling its fear from within.

"It'll be fine," he said.

Suddenly, the door behind them started opening, causing an irrational, purely instinctive reaction. They both turned back, franticly trying to prevent an innocent passerby from getting into trouble.

"Don't move! Keep your hands where we can..." bellowed from the police speaker, but at the same time a bang cut through the air. A shot. Just one.

One too many.

Gareth was down.

Lynn dropped on the ground next to him, next to her savior, next to the only one, feeling completely and utterly empty. She knew pain would come crashing, burning, ripping apart, and tearing her to pieces, but right now, right in the very center of the disaster, a deafening silence reigned her heart and soul.

The guns were down, the paramedics came rushing, some people in uniforms and suits surrounded her, asking all kind of questions, but nothing, absolutely nothing could make her take her eyes off him.

Self-control was not a choice, it was merely a coincidence, because she might as well lose it and flip out, but she didn't. She couldn't.

And when she saw _him_ , she knew what was empowering her.

Escorted by a couple of police officers and his attorney, _their_ attorney as a matter of fact, her husband was hurrying to meet her; limping, his arm resting in a sling, his face frowned with wild worry.

"Oh, my God, Lynn," he moaned as she gathered enough strength to look into his face. "Oh, my God, thank you, thank you." Only a few more steps were separating the husband from his wife. "You're alive, oh, my God." He looked terrified. Anyone observing the situation would see nothing but the deepest, the wildest fear of losing his beloved wife. Lynn saw everything but that.

She smiled. Her life just got a purpose.

Seth took her in his arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I couldn't... I couldn't take care of you," he stammered, humble, faking bastard.

"It's okay, honey," she smiled again. "It's my turn to take care of you."

Yes, her life just got a purpose.

### About B. L. Pride

It's quite hard to write something unambiguous about B. L. Pride. She was born in Maribor, Slovenia, went to a particular high school, chose a university that seemed more or less interesting, and now she does completely different things. She's a teacher and a freelancer. She's got two different men and four children. She's full of opposites but has one great passion – books. Confusing? She's actually an avatar of two best friends and a symbol of their lives' project.

When the author Barbara Pristovnik finished her first novel that was originally written in Slovene, she never dreamed of sharing her lunacy with the rest of the planet, but the other half of the team Lea Dežman put her foot down and decided to translate it into English. Two absolute beginners were swirled into the overwhelming world of self-publishing and took their Sunday coffee dates to a completely different level. Much has changed since. B. Pride started writing in English, and L. Pride works on translating, proofreading, editing, and all the other million things.

### Links

Website

# Holes Full of Dark _by_ R.A. McCandless

With grunts and gasps that would have made a High Street prostitute proud, Alissa pulled and scratched and forced her way down the thin drainage pipe. It had been designed to move water and waste—shit and piss mostly—but not a human. The ammonia stench burned her nose and the back of her throat, and made her gasp for air in short, quick gulps. The combination of continued use by the prisoners above, the passage of time, and a recent rain had created a slick, grease-like amalgam that helped ease her down the small, stone tunnel.

"Keep moving, Duchess," she told herself. "You're almost there."

Alissa wasn't nobility. Her successes running in the Summer Games were enough renown that she'd found service as a high lady's maid, which was how she came to be in the employ of Duke Jared Elan and his daughter, Nitta. Nitta, with whom she'd had an instant and shared affinity, gave her the nickname "Duchess"—a private joke between the two of them, whispered against the pillows and body-warmed sheets.

Whispering it now, against the darkness, gave her a bit of extra strength. Not the stuff of Fairy legends, but it firmed her resolve to continue forward.

"Meet in Toulon," the note had told her, but not how. Nitta was always romantically short-sighted. She'd probably thought Alissa would hire a carriage, board a passenger motive train, or maybe just appear through sheer force of will in the depot town. Money was a secondary consideration for her—an afterthought, if it came at all. She willed things to happen, and often they did.

Pretty, silly, beautiful Nitta.

Getting through the drainage pipe, while horrific, was only the start. Once Alissa was free of the debtor's prison, she still wasn't out of Duke Elan's grasp. Soldiers, the Duke's men, and possibly the Brazen Seraphs would be sent after her. Of the three, the clockwork soldiers, all battle-hardened armor over clever gears and military-grade springs were the worst. They lacked the finesse to handle firearms, but were more than efficient with heavy bladed weapons and bludgeons. They'd proved that in the last peasant uprising, beating and stomping down the rebels with brutal efficiency. Now, every noble of note had Brazen Seraphs to patrol their lands, guard their tax collectors and remind the peasantry of their proper place.

If the Brazen found her, there would be no show trial with a paid judge and a predetermined verdict. It would be a quick death and an anonymous grave in the wilderness. Nitta would never know what happened to her.

There was nothing for it. Alissa couldn't stay in the drainage pipe indefinitely. She had to move forward. She reached out her right arm. Instead of pressing her fingers into the filth of a dozen generations, she found the slick, hard edge of stone, stained by the constant flow of the pipe. Alissa used the new leverage and pulled herself forward. A moment later, her head popped free of the shaft's constraint and into the cool, clean night air. Her right shoulder slipped out followed by her left.

"Gods," Alissa muttered. "It's like being born. What a horrible memory."

She wiggled and pulled until her left arm was clear. Without the pressure from her shoulders wedged against the stone, her weight combined with the downward slope of the pipe and the slippery grease of human waste made her suddenly slip. She slapped both hands against the stone, but her slime-covered fingers streaked outward with no purchase. Alissa flew through the chill autumn night air and slapped against the small, greenish-brown pond fouled from the trickle of refuse from the pipe. She plunged like a stone through the scum on the top of the pond and down into the soupy darkness. Her breath caught her throat. Steel bands of cold wrapped around her chest and constricted her lungs. Knives of ice sliced and stabbed at her most vulnerable and intimate parts. Her eyes went wide under the murky water, but she couldn't see anything through her shock.

Alissa flailed with clumsy arms against the solid-seeming water around her. Her legs felt like lead weights. In the confusion, she couldn't tell if she was swimming up to the air or down to her death. Alissa pulled with arms that worked like stiff rods, while her lungs protested the strain. A small, distant buzz filled her ears and started to grow louder and louder. Her fingers felt like she'd grabbed hold of hot coals and held them. She screamed. A stream of bubbles ascended through the dim water. She followed them. A few moments later she shivered and gasped for air, half of her body on dry land.

Tall, sentinel trees, dusted with yellows, reds, and purples surrounded Alissa. Her breath puffed in the early morning air, and she shivered uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered until she was certain everyone for a league around could hear them. She twisted herself around, pulled her legs out of the cold water, and looked up at the rough, mortared walls of Greengate Prison. It had been a lord's family castle, but at some point the Hamill kingdom had confiscated it, probably to compensate for unpaid taxes, and turned it into a debtor's prison.

A perfect circle.

Alissa coughed and spat up some foulness. Most of the muck from the pipe had washed off from her impromptu bath, but she could still smell the stink in her tattered dress. She shivered in the cold night air and wrapped her arms around herself, although it did little good. As she got slowly to her feet, the warning klaxons from the prison sounded high above her. It was like a metal chicken in pain. The sound was like a starter's pistol at the Summer Games. Alissa ran, not completely certain of her direction or immediate goals. Her bare feet slapped against the hard pack of the forest floor, across a carpet of fallen leaves, and picked out the small, hidden stones lying beneath them. She hadn't run barefoot in years. The hard, calloused soles of her feet had weakened, but the memory of chasing down brightly-dappled trails rushed back to her.

Running was something she knew and understood. Despite the cold and the dark and the smell of the sewer, Alissa smiled. She smiled and ran.

Her path was roughly north, as indicated by the lightening sky to her right. The trees around her made a dim tunnel, dark and foreboding. She had images of wolves and krawkin, the packs and the solo predators, following her with hungry yellow eyes. For a dozen strides, she pressed herself harder and faster. Her breathing became ragged and her chest burned with the exertion.

"Easy, Duchess," she told herself and she dropped into a more moderate pace. "You've a long way to go yet."

Running through the thin forest gave her courage, strength and renewed will. Behind her, the klaxons cut off suddenly and left the world quiet as a grave. Alissa strained against the distance, as if she could hear the plans the Greengate guards were making, or the messages being sent by clacker-wire to Duke Elan not far to the west. She couldn't run all the way to Toulon, and time pressed against her.

Alissa was one of the fastest distance runners in the whole Hamill kingdom. She'd earned the gold wreath twice in three attempts, and with it Duke Elan's patronage, and his daughter's heart. A duke's daughter wasn't supposed to cavort with lesser gentry just shy of being peasants themselves—they were supposed to be pretty, quiet, and marry for the influence it gave their fathers. Alissa had been charged with making certain Nitta's virtue remained intact as suitors came to court her and negotiate with her father. It seemed like the only oversight Duke Elan had ever made, as he advanced his name among the other high noble houses of Hamill. The scandal alone, if it ever got out, would make Nitta nearly unmarriageable. Duke Elan's anger when he'd discovered them was understandable in hindsight. He was, after all, the man who'd developed the Brazen Seraphs and used them to squash the last popular uprising in a mere two weeks. It wasn't fair, but it was the way of the Hamill—the noble houses controlled the kingdom and the men controlled the houses. Nitta was only a pawn in his schemes.

As she ran, the sky grew lighter and the tunnel of darkness through the trees began to brighten. The air around her warmed, although she'd hardly felt the coolness of the autumn season since she began running. The effort had dried her tattered dress, leaving a ring of perspiration around her chest and stomach. She longed for her leather shoes and the flat soles meant to protect her feet but not weigh her down. They would have been perfect for this mad race.

Alissa figured she had covered about three leagues in under four bells when she panted up to a tiny stream. She slowed her pace, trotted to the side of the running water and stopped. Her breathing was harsh in her ears, but measured. She dropped down, made a cup with her hands, and began to drink. Too much water was bad for a runner in the middle of a race, especially one for her life. Alissa swished the cool liquid around her mouth to moisten every corner before she swallowed. She was about to take a third drink when she heard the tell-tale clomp-clomp-clomp of bronze armored boots. They resonated with a hollow-thud like a forge boiler being struck with a hammer. A Brazen was nearby and headed in her direction. Alissa couldn't see it yet, but it wasn't far. She froze where she stood and looked around frantically. Surrendering to the prison guards was one thing. They were at least human, even if they had little sympathy for the prisoners. A Brazen would be merciless.

_Run! Run!_ her mind ordered.

Alissa scampered across the small stream, barely feeling the cold water against her tired feet. She pumped her arms, and forced her legs into her pace, rather than the panicked sprint her mind told her to adopt. The Brazen meant Duke Elan wanted her dead. They were implacable and unstoppable.

Her arms and legs burned from the effort, as she dashed along the forest floor. Her bare feet slapped against the fallen leaves, slipping every third step. The sound of the Brazen's footsteps faded into the background, but didn't disappear. She'd heard rumors that the clockwork men could track like bloodhounds. If it was true, the Brazen certainly had her scent now, and there was little chance of escape.

Alissa crested a small rise, her calves burned from the effort, and nearly collided with a stationary Brazen. The clockwork had waited just below the ridgeline, and she was moving too fast to stop or avoid the attack. The clockwork soldier looked like a suit of oversized armor—larger and exaggerated in all respects. Huge half-sphere shoulders extended into massive, rounded forearms, an impressive torso and large, powerful legs. All of the armor was scuffed, scratched and pitted with a goldish-brown patina. Thick rivets rimmed in green stood out along the joints. Heavy gears of dull gray peeked from beneath the metal, but gave no hint of weakness. In one gauntleted fist the Brazen held a thick, heavy falchion—more like a giant meat cleaver than a sword. The other gauntlet was wrapped around a stout, metal-encased club studded with heavy square nails. The Brazen held the heavy falchion ready over its shoulder. When Alissa came over the hill, the blade sliced toward her head.

As she tried to save herself, her feet slipped on the moist dirt and grasses, her bottom slammed hard against the ground and she slid directly beneath the Brazen's blade, past its thick leg and several feet beyond. The clockwork soldier turned with a scrape of metal and thundered toward her, its boots making the same hollow boom she'd heard near the stream. A high-pitched whistle vented steam from somewhere on the Brazen's back, some kind of signal to the first one that had been chasing her.

"Do not fear," the Brazen said. Its voice was a deep sound that echoed inside its helmet and sent chills through Alissa. It lifted the huge blade over its shoulder.

Alissa scrambled to her feet, and lurched into a run. She could feel the Brazen behind her, its armored boots made a perfect rhythm as it rushed in pursuit.

Air brushed up along her back and through her hair. The Brazen had slashed at her with its heavy falchion but missed. With a small cry, she pushed her tired, abused body harder, forced her legs to stretch and pull her across the ground faster. The Brazen sounded its whistle again, and this time there was a response not more than a quarter mile away. Alissa gasped for air as she drove into a full sprint. Her feet tore against the ground in her haste and she cried out softly against the pain.

Alissa dashed among and around the trees and leapt over shrubs that snatched and snagged her. Her hands pushed off from dark gray and deep brown trunks in her desperate attempt to get away from the Brazen. The second set of clockwork boots caught up to the first and two whistles sounded in near unison. A thrill of fear ran down her back at the sound.

"Do not fear," they said together, their voices almost exactly the same.

She cried out in frustration and panic. There was no escape. She could only run for so long on her human legs. They were metal and wheels and gears. They would never grow tired. They only had to keep after her, keep pressing her, and eventually she would stumble, fall and they would kill her.

Another brush of air and she felt the back of her dress catch and tear as the Brazen's blade ripped through the tattered cloth. A new line of pain scratched into the back of her left calf as she kicked away, the very tip of the Brazen's falchion had caught her. Alissa's breath was ragged and her lungs burned from effort. The strength flowed out her arms and legs like water from an overturned cup. In moments they would have her.

She fought her way up another small hill and scrambled down, half falling as she struggled to maintain speed. Alissa rounded a large tree trunk and a thin ravine gaped open before her.

"Go, Duchess," she heard Nitta tell her. "Go!"

Alissa dug deep, used the slant of the hill and pushed her abused body to gain as much speed as possible. A part of her mind told her she'd never make it—the gap was too great. She ignored the warning, and drove herself to the edge and up into the air. The open space of the ravine yawned wider. A jagged pile of rocks loomed beneath her. She wind-milled her arms and legs, as if she could somehow push against the nothingness and thrust her body forward a few precious inches. The edge of the far wall drew closer, almost within reach. Alissa started to fall. The sharp, coppery tang of fear filled her mouth. She reached out her arms and willed the edge into her hands.

Her chest slammed against the brink and she heard a harsh crack in her ribs. The air whooshed from her lungs with an explosive grunt. Alissa scrabbled at the cold, wet dirt, desperate to find a grip. Her nails dug and tore furrows into the ground. None of her attempts were deep enough to hold her. She slipped, her own weight dragged her further off the edge toward the ravine. Her left hand caught on something, a small root or stone. She grabbed at it, and her slide down stopped.

The sound of the pursuing Brazen cut off abruptly. A clang sounded and a moment later a pair of metal boots thumped into the edge of the ravine only a stride from where she clung to the wall. The impact from the Brazen rattled through the wall of the ravine and Alissa's handhold. If she hadn't been clinging desperately for her life, she would have leapt from her skin in fright.

"Do not fear," the Brazen told her and lifted its falchion for the last time.

Small stones and a cascade of dirt flowed from the rock wall under the Brazen. The ground gave way beneath the clockwork soldier and the huge metal body slipped smoothly down into the ravine. A good piece of earth followed, leaving a semi-circular crater where the Brazen had stood. The Brazen careened off the rock wall, slammed into the jagged rocks below, bounced between two boulders, and smashed down a final time. Steam hissed from several new rents and splits in the Brazen's armor. Its arms and legs shot straight out from its body, shuddered and jerked like a boiler under too much pressure. Burning oil, overheated metal, and something like cooked meat wafted up from the ravine. A small, steady glow, like a thin beam of white light began to shine from the center of the Brazen's armor. It split into two beams and then again into four—white, violet, blue, and green. The beams flickered against the ravine, as if they were searching fingers. After a few moments, the lines came together in a sudden, brilliant stream that shot like an arrow straight into the sky, and left the Brazen dull and lifeless.

Alissa looked up from the dead clockwork to the one that stood on the opposite edge. The dark shadows behind the helmet showed nothing, but she had the distinct impression it stared directly at her. There was something familiar in the way the Brazen Seraph stood, as if she was in the presence of someone she knew, but couldn't remember their name. She stared back, caught by the imagined gaze. The Brazen might have been a statue, but Alissa couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity.

A shriek from the Brazen's whistle cut through the relative quiet. The sound broke the spell.

Alissa pulled with both her arms and kicked her feet until her chest was halfway over the edge of the ravine. She grunted as gasped as her ribs, broken and bruised, pressed against the unforgiving ledge. The whistle shrieked a second time, but there was no distant response. She gritted her teeth and tears streamed down her face. Her arms burned and at least two of her ribs ground together. Waves of pain and nausea radiated through her. Alissa struggled and clawed until she hooked her right knee over the top. She extended her leg, rotated her hips and half pulled, half rolled away from the sheer drop. The vision of the falling Brazen was motivation enough for her to fight through the pain until she lay on the carpet of fallen leaves, panting and sweating from the effort.

Alissa stared up at the bright canopy above her, the riot of beautiful colors at odds with her own position. Yards away was a machine that was ordered to kill her. When her breathing slowed, she turned her head and looked across the ravine. The Brazen hadn't moved. It might as well have been an empty suit of armor, left stacked up and forgotten. She got slowly, painfully to her feet, her left arm wrapped around her, hand clutched against her side. Fresh lances shot through her chest as she took three stumbling steps. Running was out of the question. She could barely manage a slow hobble.

"Damnit," she muttered to herself.

"Do not fear," the Brazen said behind her.

Alissa turned to look at it, though pain shot up her side and made her grimace.

"Go to hell," she said softly. She didn't even know if the thing could hear her.

The clockwork turned its torso away from her, then its legs, and launched into an impressive stride away from the ravine. For a moment, Alissa thought the Brazen had decided to abandon her for some reason. A score of strides and the clockwork made a slow arc, rounded several trees, and came back toward her. Panic rose up, a crush of fear that ran down her spine and made her body tremble. She couldn't get away now. If the Brazen made the leap over the ravine, she was doomed.

Alissa scoured the area for any kind of weapon to defend herself. A pile of broken branches, possibly from an old deadfall, lay nearby. She moved as quickly as she could, and grabbed a likely looking piece of wood. It came free easily enough, but the wrist-thick branch fell apart, leaving Alissa with only about three feet of club.

The Brazen thundered toward the ravine with speed that impressed Alissa. The heavy, armored boots pounded the ground. Alissa measured the distance and forced herself toward the edge of the ravine. She kept the branch behind her body, not knowing if the clockwork soldier would even care if she was armed with so little. The Brazen smashed down the last two strides and leapt into the air. It didn't seem possible that the heavy thing could jump so high or so far. It made a single, perfect arc, its body still without the wild flapping Alissa had used.

As it completed the leap, she smashed the branch down into the Brazen's head. The makeshift club careened off the right side of its helmet with a dull thud and slammed against the metal shoulder. The vibration from the impact sent a shock of pain through her arms. Her mouth came open and her fingers went numb. She wanted to drop her branch, but instead she swung it back up behind her head, and hammered it against the Brazen's helmet hard and fast. She wasn't even certain if the helmet held anything vital to the thing's clockworks. For all she knew, she should be hitting the back of its left leg, but she kept swinging.

Alissa's arms burned from hammering at the Brazen and she panted with the effort. She smashed the branch again, as she became aware the clockwork hadn't moved since it landed. The dented helmet skewed to one side. There was a brief shower of sparks that shot out around its waist. Alissa stared at it, uncertain what had happened or what to do. A pitched whine started from deep inside the Brazen's chest, like heated metal slowly twisting out of shape. The sound rose and grew louder with each passing moment until Alissa dropped the branch and pressed her hands over her ears in actual pain.

From the Brazen's chest, a dim, golden glow appeared. It was different from what she'd witnessed when the first Brazen had fallen into the ravine. The light was as if the bronze armor had been polished and caught the noon sun. A low wet hiss escaped from the armor, and a black, oily smoke oozed out from the crevices and joints. Alissa backed away from the Brazen.

A shudder ran through the Brazen's entire body until she thought it would shake apart. It slowly subsided until the clockwork stood still. Alissa was about to consider the thing dead, like the first one, when it raised its hands up to the helmet. The thick metal fingers of the gauntlet tapped across the metal, paused, and found what they were looking for. Three clicks sounded on either side and the Brazen lifted the helmet clear. Alissa gasped as a face appeared. A human face. A face she knew.

"Duch-ess," the face said, the voice hollow and metallic.

Recognition and horror were immediate.

"No," she whispered. "It's a trick. No, no."

It was her. Nitta. The Lady Nitta Elan. Her head was shaved bald, all her beautiful tresses gone. Alissa would never push her hands through that thick mane of hair again. Her skin was unnaturally pale, bloodless, except the lips which were a deep purple, so dark they were nearly black. A ring of small, angry red sores circled her forehead and temples.

"Nitta," Alissa sighed her name.

"You are . . . I know you . . . you are . . . Duch-ess," Nitta told her, as if she had stumbled onto the fact, but didn't know what it meant.

"Yes. It's me," Alissa said

Her words sounded as hollow to her as the voice of the Brazen. The Brazen Seraphs were supposed to be clockworks, complete constructs of metal and gears. To find not only a human inside, but her own love, left her breathless and gasping.

"Duch-ess," Nitta repeated. Her voice still echoed slightly, but she sounded more certain.

Alissa starred at the face she had gazed down on with affection and desire over so many months previously. The small scar under the left eye was barely visible, but still there. Nitta stared back at her, and a distant, half-remembered smile creased her face and dimpled her cheeks. Tears immediately began to flow from Alissa's eyes. Her heart ached at seeing Nitta again, and broke at seeing her like this.

"Nitta," she said. "Oh Nitta, darling, what happened? What happened to you? Why?"

Alissa didn't ask who had done this. That much was clear.

"Nee-tahh," Nitta said, her voice shaky with metallic tones. "Ni-tah. Nitta."

Nitta cocked her head to one side, a quick motion that seemed wholly unnatural. She turned it as quick to the other side, her gaze fogged with confusion. Her head went back a third time, so fast and hard that Alissa thought it would hurt Nitta's neck.

"I am Nee-tah," she said, almost as if it were a question. "You are Duch-ess. My Duch-ess."

Nitta placed one metal leg in front of her and dropped into a perfect curtsey as she might for nobility. The movement put them mere inches away from each other. Alissa's heart caught in her throat and she starred at Nitta's bald head. She reached out a hand, fingers extended to touch Nitta and hesitated. Up close, everything looked worse. Tears streamed from her eyes, and made it seem as if the world was underwater.

_It's not real_ , she thought. _It can't be real. Please, let this not be real_.

Alissa reached out her hand, fingers stretched, as though over a stove—feeling for the danger. A few inches above Nitta's shaved head, she hesitated, as if she might be burnt. Nitta remained still as a statue with her head bowed. It couldn't be real, but she had to know. Alissa forced herself to put her hand on Nitta's too-pale skin. She was warm, hot, as if she had a fever. The soft stubble on her head felt like tiny bristles. A deep, black hole in the center of Alissa's chest opened where she had imagined the warmth of her love for Nitta to radiate. It throbbed with the pain of her broken heart.

Alissa ran her hands down the back of Nitta's head and forward to her chin. Her fingers touched the cool, smooth metal that encased Nitta's jaw. She tried to lift it, so that Nitta would look at her, but the other woman remained as she was. It was impossible to move her head.

"Please," Alissa said, her voice cracked, and she sobbed. "Please, Nitta? Look at me."

Nitta's head rose in small jerks, like the wind-up automatons rich children played with. When their eyes met, a shudder went through Nitta's entire body. Her metal chest, arms and legs rattled. The convulsion created a small, discordant symphony that grated on Alissa's bones. Through it, she held Nitta's face in her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she kept her gaze locked onto Nitta's soft, green eyes.

"Oh, gods," Alissa gasped. "Oh, my precious darling."

Nitta lifted her metal hands and placed them over Alissa's. The metal was warm where it touched her skin. With a sudden jerk, as if Nitta had been startled and every muscle in her body had tightened, the spasm stopped.

Nitta looked at her, and recognition was clear. She closed her eyes, and leaned her head against Alissa's hands with a soft moan.

"Duchess," Nitta said. Her voice still hollow and metallic, but it was no longer stilted.

"What happened?"

Nitta opened her eyes, her gaze distant. It was as if she saw through Alissa.

"The process," Nitta told her. "They need your mind broken. The food. The water. Poisoned. Not enough to kill. But enough. Enough to make you want to die."

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

"They said you were dead, Duchess," Nitta told her. "They said you didn't love me and that you killed yourself from . . . from the shame of being with me."

"No," Alissa. "No, no, no. I was coming. I was coming to be with you in—"

"Toulon," Nitta interrupted. "They found me in Toulon. I sent you a note, but then they caught me."

"Who?" Alissa asked, although she was certain of the answer. "Who found you?"

"Fa . . . fa . . . fa . . ." Nitta tried to say, but the words seemed stuck.

Nitta gave a small yell of shock. Her face jerked to the right repeatedly, out of her control. A click came from behind her head, and the spasm stopped abruptly.

"Duke Elan," Nitta said. "The pain. Oh gods, the pain."

She lightly touched the side of her head with her metal fingers where the red pock marks were.

"Gears and wires," Nitta said. "It . . . it . . . it glowed. Violet, blue, green. He put . . . he put . . ."

Nitta looked at Alissa. Her eyes pleaded and her mouth worked open and closed as she tried to find the words.

"Smoke?" Nitta asked.

"Smoke?" Alissa repeated back, uncertainly.

"Yes," Nitta said. She nodded her head once. "Black. Oily. Alive."

"The smoke?"

Nitta's gaze hardened again, but this time she saw Alissa.

"Gods, Alissa. It rode me. It rode me like a horse. No, worse. A horse still has the sense of itself. It rode me like motive train. I was the engine. I couldn't leave the track, or speed up or slow down. Nothing. It ran me. It pulled my levers, made me stop or go. Made me . . . It's gone now. I realized it was you. You were . . . you understood me. You didn't judge me. You loved me. Even if you don't anymore, you did. I thought you were dead. But you were here. The emotions . . . I felt the control ease. I . . . I grabbed a lever back from it. I let you hit me. I'd rather die than let it ride me anymore. It fled. When you broke the helmet, it fled completely. It knew I was going to let you kill us. It ran and I was free."

Nitta's heavy, metal hands clamped Alissa's shoulders. Alissa gasped as pain shot from her broken ribs, but Nitta didn't notice.

"He's doing it to all of us," Nitta said. Her voice had a frantic edge. "The smoke. He puts it in all the prisoners. His process. It takes away our will and makes us soldiers, killers. Living clockworks."

She lifted her hands from Alissa's shoulders, and smashed them against her own metal chest with a solid thump.

"He cut us, Alissa. My arms and legs. If I couldn't be of use to him as a woman," Nitta raved, "then I'd be used as a soldier. That's what he told me. All of us. All the men and the woman. The debtors from the prison. All cut. Just a head and body and the heat of the bronze and the smoke. It's like being trapped. Trapped at the bottom of a deep well."

Alissa stiffened. The smell of the sewage from the drain pipe wafted through her nose.

"He . . . he cut you? Oh gods, Nitta."

"It was . . . it was . . ." Nitta began.

The remembered pain in her voice made Alissa cringe. Squeezing out through a tunnel of shit was nothing compared to this. Alissa could forget the smell and the taste with time. Nitta would never be able to forget the torture. Every time she looked at herself, even for a moment, she'd be reminded.

Alissa leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Nitta's neck. She pressed her face close to the other woman's. Nitta's skin was hot, feverish. Alissa didn't care. This was still the girl that she'd loved and laughed with and worked so hard to find—her reason for running, her reason for trying. Nitta's metal arms engulfed Alissa. She stiffened for a moment in fear that Nitta would hold her too tight, but that didn't happen. The embrace was awkward, but gentle.

As they held each other, Nitta began to sob against her shoulder. Alissa made shushing noises, and softly kissed the other woman's cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Duchess," Nitta mumbled. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Hush, hush," Alissa said. "Duke Elan did this, not you."

A sudden flush of anger filled her. The duke was pragmatic, to the point of seeming cold and uncaring. But this went well beyond. Nitta was no longer of use to him as a daughter, the scandal might even have ruined his chances to rise to further power, but he hadn't just exiled Nitta or killed her quietly. He'd tortured her and turned her into a soldier so she could continue to be a tool.

"Alissa," Nitta said, her voice hollow and choked. "I don't . . . I don't want to live like this. I don't . . . I . . . Please, Alissa. I don't think . . . I don't think I can . . ."

Alissa moved back from Nitta and looked her in the eyes.

"Nitta," Alissa said. "No.

"I'm a monster, a half-thing. Please, please. I can't offer you a life."

Alissa's mind swirled and stumbled from denial to denial. It seemed she could think of no argument, until she locked onto the one that might save Nitta.

"What about me?" Alissa asked. "What about us?"

"Us? Us?"

Alissa stroked the side of Nitta's face. Her pretty, silly, beautiful Nitta was still there.

"Of course, us," Alissa replied. "We'll . . . we'll go to Toulon, like you wanted. We'll escape across the border, as we talked about. We'll find some quiet corner of the world and make our lives there . . . we'll . . ."

"Like this?" Nitta said, and looked down. Alissa followed the line of gaze where it met her metal arm. "People may not mistake me for a duke's daughter, but they also aren't going to mistake me for a woman. I'm a machine, made for war and death. How can there be an us when there's not even a me?"

Alissa's world slide sideways. The hole in her chest grew larger and the pain burned. She'd hoped and fought and run so hard to be back with Nitta and now there was no Nitta.

"But we . . ."

"No," Nitta repeated. She grabbed Alissa's hands in her metal gauntlets and pulled them away from her face.

"He's taken it all from me," Nitta said, anger rising in her voice.

She rose up on her metal legs with the soft whir and hum of gears. Alissa's arms fell away from Nitta's neck. Nitta had been only a little shorter than Alissa, but now she was head and shoulders taller—a giant.

"He took everything," she said.

She slammed her fist into her open palm. The sound was like a hammer striking an anvil.

"Everything!"

Nitta slammed her fist again, the ring of metal on metal a clear, pure sound in the cool autumn morning.

"Not me," Alissa said, her voice soft and small in her own ears.

Nitta looked down at her.

"Not you," she said, but there was no smile. Her gaze was hard as she stared into Alissa's eyes, her face firm and set. It was like Nitta's thoughtful look, when she concentrated on a problem, but this was new—more intense, more powerful. The seconds ticked by and Alissa was helpless, small and alone in front of Nitta the Brazen Seraph.

"Huh," Nitta said as she arrived at a conclusion. The sound between a grunt and a laugh. A small, wicked smile passed across her lips. She gave a second short, clipped laugh, "Huh-huh."

Nitta grabbed Alissa's hand, small and delicate in the big metal fingers.

"Alissa, I need you," Nitta said. Alissa's heart warmed immediately, and a smile broke across her face. "My fa—Duke Elan, he's made me a monster, but he didn't take everything. He didn't take you, though he tried. He made me the instrument of his own destruction. I need you, if I'm going to help the others."

"Others?" Alissa's smile faded away from her face.

"Us. Like me. The Brazen Seraphs still trapped, still being . . . ridden."

Alissa could hear the small sparks being struck in Nitta's voice. Coddled, aided, given fuel, it would grow. She tried to pull her hand back, but Nitta's grip was firm and unyielding.

"There's also the other nobles to deal with. They know, or guess," Nitta said. "Either way, the nobles are complicit. They see the advantage of the Brazen Seraphs to maintain their hold on power. They'll control the peasants and the merchants through fear."

Alissa's own fear and doubt filled her heart. Her feelings were etched on her face—she couldn't hide them. This was not at all what she wanted. Nitta was further away from her than ever.

"I'm his daughter—the Lady Nitta Elan," Nitta said, her voice feverish. "My name is known. My face is known. They won't be able to deny me, or what he did to me. What he's still doing to others. He's not just cruel and cunning. My father is evil and he's plotting. He's using the nobles and the people and . . ."

Nitta's eyes focused with resolve. It was as firm and fixed as the armor of her new body.

"He needs to be stopped," Nitta said, her voice solid, like a steel on iron. "He has to be stopped. I need you to help me."

Alissa opened her mouth but no words would come out. Her world had fallen into a pit, the top sealed shut with no escape from the darkness. She was back inside the drainage pipe, except this time it was endless, with no hope for escape. She swallowed, stared hopelessly at the girl she had once loved, and tried again to speak.

"H-how?" Alissa asked. "How can I help?"

"It only takes a spark," Nitta said. "That's what my fa—Duke Elan—always said. The peasants are always angry, the merchants have money and the nobles are scared. It only takes a spark in the right place. I'm that spark. I'm the embodiment of all their fears, of all the evil that they believe the nobles are capable. They'll rise up, but they'll need a voice. One of them, or close enough. They'll never follow a metal monster, but they'll follow someone with renown, with the strength and dedication they want to see in themselves. They'll follow a hero, someone who defeated two—two—Bronze Seraphs already, and turned one of them to her cause. That's the stuff of a leader, Alissa. The stuff of a legend."

"No," Alissa whispered. "I can't. I'm not—"

"Yes, you. I need you," Nitta said, and Alissa felt what little resolve she had crumble. "More than ever, I need you. Help me? Please? I was dead, Alissa. He killed me. But you, you broke me free and brought me back. Your love. I'm going to destroy this evil. I'm going to free the Brazen, and I want your help. I _need_ your help. A spark—two sparks—in the right place will turn the kingdom into a blazing inferno and burn Duke Elan to the ground."

"We'll be burned to cinders as well," Alissa said in defeat. Nitta willed things to happen, and they did.

Pretty, silly, beautiful Nitta.

### About R.A. McCandless

R.A. McCandless was born under a wandering star that led to a degree in Communication and English with a focus on creative writing. He's the author of the urban fantasy "Tears of Heaven" winner of the 2014 Best Science Fiction and Fantasy Preditors & Editors Reader's Poll and a 2015 EPIC eBook finalist. His shorts have appeared in "In Shambles" (with Kevin J. Anderson) "Gears, Gadgets and Steam" and "Nine Heroes". His next book, "Hell Becomes Her" will release in 2015. He continues to research and write historical and genre fiction, battle sprinklers, and play with his three boys.

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# Can We Go On The Bus Now? _by_ Angela Lockwood

_I must be dead to feel this good!_ The last thing Gary Sanders remembered was the car spinning out of control on a dual carriage way and the lights of a truck looming large. Black ice on the surface meant a horrible accident was unavoidable and then everything went black.

He felt no pain. He didn't seem to be in hospital. The room he now stood in reminded him a lot of his primary school classroom.

"I'm sorry you're joining us Gary," said a female voice in the front of the room.

Gary blinked to adjust his eyes, the room was very bright. The shape came into focus and he recognised the woman.

"Miss Baxter? Where are we?"

He was very confused, what was he doing back in Miss Baxter's classroom? She was the woman that taught him to read and write. But that was over 30 years ago.

"You're back in my classroom. We're just waiting on the others to arrive, and then we're going on a bus."

"Yeah, in about forty fucking years if you're lucky," said an angry teenage voice behind him.

"Language Jonathan!" said Miss Baxter shocked.

Gary turned round to see a teenager sitting on the ground. The boy flipped her the finger and then he went back to lethargically bouncing a ball against the wall. He went over to the teenager and asked him what he meant by the forty years.

"We are all waiting for the rest of the class to arrive. Three down; twenty one to go. Whoopty fucking doo!"

"I remember you. You're Jonathan Bauer. You're the kid that drowned."

"Yep, it's true what they say, that river is dangerous, "answered Johnathan with a wry smile.

"We were all very sad, I remember going to your funeral. All the girls cried."

Gary had never been to a funeral; at fourteen he'd never come in contact with death. That someone of his age could die made a deep impression on him. Jonathan wasn't a close friend, but at primary school they'd often played together. He had been very upset.

"That was 22 years ago and you've been here all this time?" asked Gary, but before he could answer a small voice piped up, "I've been here longer."

Gary looked around to see who else was there. He spotted a small pale boy at a desk, busy with some crayons. He stopped his colouring and was looking at Gary with so much rage and frustration that he took an involuntary step back. He had never seen that look on a face so young. He didn't know this child, but they must have shared a class.

"I bet you don't remember me?" said the boy and Gary wondered if he was reading his mind.

"I was only there for a week, before I got too ill. I died a few months later from Leukemia."

Gary had been only seven when the boy died. He vaguely remembered going to church with the whole class. They looked at a small white coffin and were told the boy they barely knew was now an angel. When you are seven you take things in your stride and don't fully realise what 'becoming an angel' means. By the time Jonathan died he had forgotten that he'd been to a funeral before.

"I'm so sorry, I was only seven, and I can't even remember your name."

"Tim Harris and I've been here for thirty years!"

"Look at the great work Tim has produced, he is a bright little student," interrupted Miss Baxter cheerfully, pointing at the walls bedecked in colourful drawings.

"We do have a lot of fun here," she added even chirpier.

The look on Tim's face said otherwise. It spoke of a deep hatred that can only develop over a long period of time.

"So what about you Miss Baxter?" asked Gary to break the tension, "How long have you been here?

She stared at him blankly. Gary was puzzled, he didn't remember her dying and he could swear he'd seen a much older version of her in the high street the other week.

"She's a robot or a hologram. Go on! Punch her!" urged Jonathan with relish. He must have tried and found it futile. He wanted Gary to have a go in the hope of a more satisfying outcome.

"I'm not punching Miss Baxter!" he said outraged, "even if she is a hologram, it doesn't seem right."

"We'll see," said Jonathan while exchanging a knowing glance with Tim.

Miss Baxter just stood there taking it all with a smile.

"If you aren't the real Miss Baxter, then what are you?" he asked her.

"I'm your teacher," she said smiling as if he'd just asked the dumbest question in the world.

Gary looked around and spotted a door. He pointed at it and asked, "Can we not just leave?"

Again the two boys exchanged glances. Gary walked over to the door and pulled it open. It opened easily enough, but then it just disappeared and a new door was in place. It was the same with the windows. Even if you threw something at them, the item would bounce back as if the glass was made of rubber. The same blue skies, over green fields, with some sheep ambling around in the distance, stayed in view. After having tried all the options to get out of the Classroom, Gary sat down on the floor next to Jonathan, he felt exhausted.

"What is this place?" asked Gary exasperated.

"We don't know. That bitch just gives us a blank stare if we ask her," said Jonathan, "I think it's what they call purgatory. We have to wait here until the powers that be have decided to let us go to heaven."

"I'm not very up to date on religion, but isn't purgatory a place of suffering where you have to atone for your sins?" asked Gary while looking at Tim, "What could a little boy have done to warrant thirty years of suffering?"

"We don't know. It seems terribly unfair, but here we are, waiting."

Gary couldn't understand any of it. _Maybe this is just what happens when you die. You have to wait for all your classmates and then a big bus takes you up to heaven._

After a brief silence Jonathan asked shyly, "So did you ever do it with a woman?"

Gary stared at him. He realised that both boys never experienced anything adult. Sex, work, and growing old, it was all denied to them. He sighed, overcome with the pain of the two young lives that never got to flourish into adulthood, but also with the pain of his own loss. Gary didn't mind dying. But the thought of his distraught wife, his young son and the chaos he left behind, now gripped him.

"I am married and have a six-year-old son, Kevin, so yes Jonathan, I have done it with a woman, and more than once," he winked with a tear filled eye.

He sat in quiet reflection for a while, but he could see the two boys staring at him. He could feel their urgency in wanting to know everything there is to know about being an adult male. _I'm going to be here for a long time, I might as well tell these boys every single thing that has happened to me since the age of fourteen. They are going to be my only friends for many years, so warts and all Gary!_

He started telling the boys about his first kiss. It was autumn 1993, the year after Jonathan drowned. A group of Italian kids had come to their school on a six week exchange program. To him, the girls looked so exotic with their olive skin and dark hair. Gary told them how he was quite smitten with Gianna from Verona. It wasn't until the goodbye party and dance, that he picked up the courage to talk to her. He couldn't believe his luck when she agreed to dance with him and that at just that moment, a slow song came on. As they shuffled along, they became lost in each other's eyes. The kiss that followed was like the most natural thing in the world and he felt that they were the only couple on the dancefloor. Then the harsh lights in the hall came on and they just had time to say goodbye, before they all got ushered out. The next day, Gianna went back to Italy. They wrote to each other for a few weeks, promising that they'd meet up next summer, but they never did.

"Did her parents not let her go? Why didn't you try and see her in Italy; didn't you love her?" asked Tim, implying that he thought Gary let the love of his life get away.

"I was fifteen and I barely got to know the girl. Her English wasn't that good, so it was a bit like corresponding with a five-year-old. After a while I just stopped writing."

He didn't tell them that he'd started fancying another girl in his class. It never led anywhere, but it pushed Gianna out of his mind.

"So when did you first do it?" asked Tim.

It disturbed Gary that a seven-year-old boy asked him this, but then he realised that Tim was the same age. He'd just been stuck here and not aged physically.

"I was sixteen and she lived next door."

Both boys shuffled a bit closer in anticipation. Gary took a deep breath and told them about Susan. She had been nineteen and home for the summer, after finishing her first year at university. She had never given him the time of day before, but now he had grown into a handsome teenager while she'd been away. She eyed him up with new interest, when he watered the plants in the back garden, dressed in just his shorts. Both sets of parents were away, so she invited him in for a glass of Coca-Cola. When he came into their kitchen, she pulled him close and started kissing him. Gary didn't mind at all, he'd a secret crush on Susan for as long as he could remember. For a moment he thought he was dreaming when she led him upstairs. She showed him what making love was all about.

"It was the best summer ever! Every time we were alone, we went up to her room and shagged each other silly," said Gary, smiling dreamily at the memories.

"Is this the girl you married?" asked Tim.

"Oh God no! Susan was just bored. She couldn't care less about this sixteen-year-old kid that lived next door. She went back to University and the next holiday she was back to her usual self. She actually told me, 'do not talk to me child!' when I approached her."

"What a bitch!" said Jonathan angrily.

"I didn't mind. She got what she wanted and I had the best summer of my life! Love and sex aren't always the same things."

The boys looked a bit puzzled at this last statement, so Gary tried to explain by telling them about all the other girls in his life, before he met Lisa. There had been some heart breaks, but nothing he moped over for longer than a month. But he wasn't ready to talk about Lisa yet, no matter how much the boys urged him, it felt too raw.

*****

Gary could've quite easily forgotten about the passing of time, but Jonathan made a point of each morning writing down the date on the black board. It was quite strange how time passed. At the end of the day, the bell would ring and the next thing, he woke up, sitting at his desk. They were a bit small for Jonathan and Gary and the two of them spend most of their time sitting on the floor or on top of the desks.

Gary now understood why Miss Baxter was here. Her inane cheeriness acted as a lightning rod to the boys. Tim especially got very frustrated with being locked in the classroom. He would pummel his little fists through his teacher and scream at the top of his voice. She never got upset or angry; she was just a personification of Miss Baxter, put there to keep them sane. She would give them tasks to do if the conversation stopped. Little things to keep their minds occupied and pass the time.

Gary found he had a gift for telling stories. If he didn't want to talk about himself, he sat down and wrote some fiction to amuse the boys with later. Miss Baxter also introduced him to drawing with pen and ink. He spent hours illustrating his stories with fine line drawings of dragons and other mythical creatures. Gary never realised he had this talent.

Weeks turned into months. Gary had told the boys absolutely everything about his life. About three months in he felt ready to talk about Lisa. He told them how they'd met at university. They were in the same year, studying law.

"It was really very corny how we'd met. She dropped her books. I stopped to help, and then our eyes met. I asked her out for a coffee and this gorgeous blonde girl with bright green eyes said yes. We talked for hours and agreed to meet up again the next day, after class. Soon we became inseparable." Gary told them.

He explained to them how it felt to be head over heels in love and how perfect it was to feel this love returned. Gary and Lisa got married after they'd graduated from Law School. They both found well paid jobs and life was good. When Lisa got pregnant a few years later, they were delighted. The couple were financially and emotionally secure and could offer a child a good future.

Gary had promised himself that he would make the boys privy to all his experiences, but he was not prepared for Tim going into hysterics, when he described childbirth to him. He sat rocking back and forwards on his chair, with his hands clasped over his ears, muttering, "Stork, cabbage, stork."

Jonathan just looked disgusted, but urged Gary to go on. He told them all about his boy, Kevin. His first tooth, his first steps. Afterwards Gary sank into a sombre mood for a number of days followed by an embittered rage.

What frustrated Gary the most was the uncertainty. Not knowing how long he'd have to wait before he could leave this stupid classroom. The two boys and Gary knew absolutely everything about each other. Miss Baxter was so chipper each day that even Gary eventually snapped. He picked up a desk and threw it at her, when she suggested he should make a nice drawing. He'd been staring out of the window feeling depressed. The desk passed right through her and bounced off the wall with a loud thud.

"Can you put that back please, Gary," she asked him still smiling.

"No!" he shouted irked and picked up a chair to hurl at the teacher.

He felt the anger bleed from his system as he threw items at the smiling hologram or whatever it was. A pile of desks lay at the front of the class room and Gary felt a little better.

"Sorry Miss Baxter," he said apologetically while he went to retrieve the desks, to put them back in their proper places. The two boys whooped and applauded, grateful for the moment's distraction and pleased that calm serene Gary had finally cracked too.

"So how did you die?" asked Jonathan once Gary had been in the class for a year.

"I was driving home from work and hit a patch of ice," replied Gary surprised. He'd told them this story before and didn't understand why Jonathan would ask him again.

"It's been a year Gary, Tim and I know everything about you, except the truth."

"I told you, I drove back from work and I lost control of the car."

"We know when you are lying!" said Tim his blue eyes piercing into Gary's

Gary sat back, stunned. He'd bared his soul to these two children. He'd left nothing out apart from the last year of his life. He couldn't even admit to himself what had gone wrong. He wanted the year before he died to be forgotten. Now these two boys were prying into his soul. They wanted him to dig up the final nasty chapter of his life.

Gary began describing the year that led up to his death. He was aware of the boys' stern looks and realised they'd know if he lied.

"After the birth of our son things changed between Lisa and me. The boy took a lot of energy from both of us. Our lovemaking became less frequent as we were often too tired. My career had taken off and I was working long hours. Lisa was resentful about taking time out, and seeing her career lagging behind mine. She started to do more hours too, hoping to put her career back on track, and we saw even less of each other. I initially thought this was normal; we were both professionals and sacrifices had to be made. We often had rows about household chores and she thought that I was far too lenient with Kevin."

He paused and smiled, "The little man made me laugh, she probably was right; he did get away with a lot. Before when we had rows, we would make up a few hours later and rekindle our love for each other in the bedroom, but now Lisa flinched at my touch. I was hurt and became suspicious of my wife. She was distant and once I caught her hanging up the phone when I came into the room. A few months before I died, I confronted her and asked her bluntly if she was having an affair. Lisa denied it. For a while she tried to be a loving wife, but I knew things were not the same and that her mind was elsewhere. That fateful day I waited outside of my wife's office. She'd called me and said she'd be working late. I saw her and a man leaving the office at 6pm. I followed them to a nearby hotel. My worst fears now confirmed; my wife was having an affair."

He paused again, looking for some compassion from the boys, but they looked stony faced.

"Go on Gary," urged Tim in a way that made Gary feel very cold. He got the feeling that the innocent boys he had opened up to in the past year were somehow gone, and he was sitting across from something else.

Maybe like Miss Baxter, they aren't real.

He continued, "When I drove home my mind was in turmoil. The thought of her leaving me brought me to tears. I was going too fast and my vision was blurred with tears. The car skidded on some ice, but I regained control, and then in a moment of madness, I let go of the wheel and let the car run into oncoming traffic."

"You killed yourself?" asked Tim.

"Yes," admitted Gary finally.

"You are still lying to us!" said Jonathan, his eyes wide and dark in anger.

"I don't know what you mean?"

"We gave you a year, to come clean with us," warned Jonathan.

"Where was Kevin?" asked Tim.

Gary felt the bile in his stomach creeping up to his throat. _Oh god Kevin!_

"It... it... was a spur of the moment thing," stammered Gary, "When Lisa called and told me she had to work late, I didn't call a baby sitter. I put Kevin in the car seat and rushed to her place of work."

He paused to wipe the tears from his face.

"He'd fallen asleep. I was too wrapped up in my grief and anger. I... I.. I'd forgotten he was there."

The boys looked at each other. Gary realised Tim and Jonathan were his judge and jury and he had failed to confess. The boys nodded to each other in agreement and soon after the door opened and a man drifted in as if he was a leaf on a summer breeze. Once his feet touched the ground, he stood and opened his eyes. Gary recognised the man and his heart filled with dread. The man was in his forties, but Gary could tell he hadn't changed since their school days. _Neil bloody Winston!_ He'd the same cruel smirk and arrogant stance.

"Fud! Fuddo! What the fuck are you doing here?" asked the man once he'd taken in his surroundings and noticed Gary staring at him.

Can you kill yourself if you're already dead?

"Welcome to purgatory! Four down, twenty to go!" said Jonathan, welcoming the newcomer with a dramatic bow. He'd returned to being a surly teenager again.

Yes, Purgatory, not quite hell, but pretty damn close!

Neil had given him the nickname 'Fud' in the last year of primary school. He'd pointed out that Gary's forehead was rather large, much like Elmer Fudd's. Neil was the classroom bully. As a boy he'd made Gary's life hell at times. Not only with that stupid nickname, which had become truly embarrassing once they knew the other meaning of 'Fud', but also by being a vicious thug that liked to pick on the weaker kids. Memories of his school days flashed before him. The wedgies, the dollops of soggy chewed cotton wool spat against his back and the dead frog that Neil had placed in his school bag. There were the rather rough PE sessions and Gary involuntarily rubbed his arm that he had broken at age eleven. Neil had bounced him off the ball and into the gym wall during a game of football. Now he was here, looking like an even more unpleasant adult version of his classroom tormenter. Gary had admitted his crime; now his punishment could begin in earnest.

### About Angela Lockwood

Angela Lockwood-van der Klauw was born in the Netherlands. She learned her trade as a jeweler and gemologist at the Vakschool Schoonhoven before moving to Edinburgh as an apprentice jeweler. There she met and later married her husband Adam. Angela ran her own jeweler's shop in Edinburgh for ten years before she and her husband moved to the south of France in 2011. Angela prefers the climate there, but often thinks about the town she left behind and its people; Scotland continues to be an inspiration.

Language in the Blood was born in the spring of 2013, a very wet spring during which Angela found herself climbing the walls, frustrated that she couldn't go out and have her usual long walks along the seafront. Seeing his wife's frustration, Adam suggested 'Why don't you write a book?'

Angela thought about it for a few days, then switched on her laptop and started writing. Language in the Blood (Book1) was her first book. She has since published two more titles; Blood Ties, language in the Blood (Book2) and Something Short.

### Links

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# Faith, Hope, and Charity _by_ Tom Benson

Africa's mid-day heat was forgotten by the teacher and children when they heard the gunfire. It was the deep, thudding sound of Kalashnikov AK-47s, and they were close.

All the eyes in the room opened wider. The dimples faded and some of the young mouths hung open like those of stunned fish. The woman at the chalkboard rallied the youngsters.

"Go children!" Miss Henry shouted and pointed to the back door. "Run. Run to the caves!" Her heart pounded, but she retained her composure for the sake of the children. She noted how the innocent youngsters remained silent as they formed an orderly file. Some of them glanced back nervously at their teacher before stepping out into the heat. Miss Charity Henry watched through the back window as her charges dispersed and disappeared into the greenery.

Jojo, a handsome lad of 14 years, started to follow his classmates, but then hesitated inside the doorway. They'd performed the drill just as they had practised, but on this occasion their teacher had remained by her desk. Charity saw the oldest boy stop and turn.

"Miss Henry," Jojo pleaded, "you must come too."

"Not this time Jojo," she said and walked towards the boy. "You go now and take care of the children for me, please." She held his face in both hands and saw his eyes glistening. "Go, now Jojo."

Jojo blinked several times, then turned and ran.

*****

Although Charity's eyes were moist, she would not cry. She had first witnessed the terror of village attacks when only nine years old. Her father had been murdered that day. The mental scars never faded as the little girl became a teenager. When Charity got the opportunity to go to the big city, she promised her mother that she would return to teach. She also paid a visit to her father's grave but made a promise of a different kind.

Charity Henry had been born in Terengi village, situated 50 miles from the nearest town. As a 15-year-old, she had left home to study in Nairobi. She excelled in her chosen path, returning to visit her family only twice a year until she graduated as a teacher. Charity's permanent return home had caused mixed feelings.

The village people were delighted to see one of their daughters returning to educate the children, but not everybody felt the same. Gravestones represented Charity's father and two brothers, so her mother begged her to find her way in the world.

' _Go and live somewhere safe in a distant town_.' Her mother had pleaded. ' _You are only 23 years old and have your life ahead of you_.'

Charity had explained that she wanted to come back home to teach the generations that had been born after her. She wanted to give them a better start in life than they might otherwise have.

Uppermost in Charity's mind whilst studying was always the urge to teach, but lurking under the surface was the burning desire to make a stand and to avenge the deaths of relatives and friends. While she had been a student, Charity had made contact with people who could help her in her private cause.

Another burst of machine-gun fire invaded the normally tranquil location. The sound was louder than before. They must be in the village, Charity thought as she glanced at her watch.

Perspiration started to form on Charity's flawless ebony skin. She looked through the gaps that served as windows on the northern side of the tiny mud and straw schoolroom. Less than 20 metres away the brush grew dense as it reached out into the wilderness. There wasn't a child to be seen. Charity's lips merely twitched when she attempted a smile.

It had been at university that the idea of an emergency evacuation had occurred to her. Now looking around the empty classroom reminded her of the effectiveness of a disciplined exit during fire drills.

Volleys of gunfire overlapped each other as the invaders finally arrived in the centre of the village. Shouts turned to screams. Women ran onto the dusty track to gather up terrified, traumatised toddlers. Six women raised their arms to beg for mercy, but three of them were gunned down where they stood. There were no men to run to their aid or defence because any men capable of doing so had been murdered in previous raids.

In the school hut, Charity swallowed hard and turned to open the book cupboard. She pulled away a secret wooden panel she'd installed, and lifted out a canvas satchel. She checked the contents before slinging it over her left shoulder. As she reached into the cupboard again, she lifted out the hidden AK-47 assault rifle and three magazines.

Even as she set the large Russian-made firearm down on the desk it caused a cold shiver to run through Charity's body. She lifted each magazine in turn and just as she had been taught, pressed down on the top rounds to ensure that the device was fully loaded. Each magazine held 30 rounds of ammunition.

Pressing down rounds in this way was a simple technique that also checked that the spring mechanism was working. Charity clipped the first magazine onto the rifle and placed the other two into her satchel.

The enormity of what she was about to attempt struck her full force as she lifted the heavy gun. For a moment, her legs wouldn't move. She focused on the task in hand. Charity became conscious of steadying her breathing. Her heart raced and her lips and mouth were dry. She was confident when it came to shooting at a harmless wooden target on a firing range. Charity now wondered about her ability to shoot a living, breathing human being in the same way.

"Forgive me God," she whispered. "Please guide my hand for what I must do. Keep the children safe." She pulled back on the small cocking handle, and the rifle was ready. As she walked away from the cupboard, she lifted her bright coloured headscarf and stuffed it into the satchel.

Charity glanced through the front windows and saw two pick-up trucks disgorging armed men. As she assessed their numbers, it was easy to recognise the red, green and white of their bandanas. The men were members of the Marawi terror group whose colours stood for blood, earth, and the purity of their deadly purpose. Genocide was the international name for it.

When the time looked right, Charity stepped halfway into the main doorway, raised the assault rifle into the aim and fired two short bursts of deliberate fire at the windscreens of both trucks. She then riddled the front tyres with two more bursts.

In the few seconds of disbelief that followed for the men, Charity sprinted across the dusty street and followed a rehearsed route between the village huts. She carried the rifle across her athletic body as she ran, ready to stop and fire at any point. Charity could hear men shouting but was relieved that there was no more gunfire. She knew the surviving men must be giving chase.

*****

Charity reached the perimeter of the village and took cover behind a large tree while she assessed her next move. She could hear muffled shouts. The terrorists were moving from one hut to the next searching for the lone woman who had dared to stand against them.

In a small area of woodland about 100 metres from the village, a movement caught Charity's eye. She stared for a moment and realised it was her grandfather and an old friend of his. They had both been seriously wounded in a previous attack, and despite their efforts to defend the village several women had died. The two old men had imposed on themselves a life on the fringe of the village perimeter because they felt their honour had been lost.

Charity had visited her grandfather and his friend on her return from Nairobi. At that time, she had told them what would be required if this day ever came. Both men were in their 70's, but still felt the need to make a stand. The pair had considered the pretty young daughter of the village an avenging angel. They'd looked at her with sympathy as she explained her plan and handed them loaded automatic pistols.

' _If they come to harm us, my elders_ ,' she had said. ' _We will fight them together_.'

She gave them a lesson in the use of the modern handguns and knew that a sense of belonging and guardianship had returned to the two men.

*****

It took Charity 15 minutes to arrive in her temporary sanctuary of heavy scrub, trees and the occasional rocky outcrop. She regained control of her breathing, glanced up at the gradient ahead and then started to climb. Charity carried her rifle in her right hand and used her left to grip and pull as she ascended via her chosen route. She climbed, pausing occasionally to listen for her pursuers. Charity couldn't help thinking about the beginning of her dream, to be a teacher in her village.

Like many such villages across the vast continent there existed a need within the local community to believe that they had a wonderful tomorrow. For some, it was a belief stronger than religion that kept them strong. It was this same faith that had driven Charity.

When she was 10 years old, an international mission had set up the village school and a pale-skinned English woman in her mid 20's had been the first teacher. The pretty white woman was a font of knowledge, teaching the children everything from English and history to simple arithmetic and geography. By the time Charity was 11, she wanted to be a teacher, and through sheer effort and desire, had achieved her goal.

*****

At one point, when she paused in her climb, Charity looked down through the crevice between two large rocks. Except for the men she'd managed to injure in the dusty street, all of the others were chasing her. Charity nodded with satisfaction and pulled out her second magazine. It was full, which meant she had in excess of 60 rounds remaining.

A wry smile played over her lips as she thought back to university. When some of the other students went off on day trips or attended social events, Charity attended a shooting range. At first there was no chance of her joining the club, then she befriended Kenny Osagi, the 25-year-old son of the Chief of Police. When Kenny and the other members saw Charity's prowess with a weapon, she became the darling of the shooting club, and its first black female member.

*****

A series of pings sounded as bullets bounced off rocks up ahead. One of the armed thugs thought he could scare her out of hiding. The gunman's spray of rapid fire merely served to waste ammunition. The bullets ricocheted from the sun-baked surfaces of the rocky outcrop and flew off harmlessly into the scrub below.

Charity glanced upwards and noted the silent scavengers in the sky. Overhead a vigil was being undertaken by vultures as they glided effortlessly on the thermals. The birds' eyes peered from bald, pink heads which were themselves protruding from white feather collars and black bodies. Like much of Africa's wildlife, vultures seemed to sense when a meal might be forthcoming.

Another spray of bullets thudded and bounced from the rocks into the air. Charity shook her head at the lack of discipline as she used a small space between the rocks to observe her pursuers. "You might live to regret such a careless act," she whispered as she caught sight of a gunman fitting a fresh magazine. Charity paused to lift her headscarf from the satchel.

The avenging angel controlled her breathing, lifted the rifle, took aim and fired a single shot. There was a scream of pain, which was good because there had been no question of killing the man. Apart from her shooting practise, Charity had learned that it was better to seriously wound the enemy. It would take another man to care for each of the wounded, meaning that each bullet worked twice as hard.

The man Charity had shot had a bullet in his upper thigh and was howling with pain. The sound echoed across the land and Charity knew it would reach the ears of the villagers. Even as the thought came to her, she heard four single, evenly spaced, low-velocity shots from the direction of the village huts far below the escarpment. Pistol shots!

*****

Following the shots down below, the men on the hillside started to shake their heads and wave their arms at each other. One man stood up like an alert meerkat; head turning this way and that, counting his team. They had left four injured comrades down in the village; which was full of women and children.

Another mystified man stood briefly to try a head count, but a single shot from Charity's rifle high above forced him to reconsider his priorities. When he was hit, he rolled around in the dense brush screaming in agony.

Three of the terrorists opened fire at once, spraying gunfire across the rocky hillside above them. It was a futile gesture, serving only to relieve their frustration and chip sections of the rocky outcrop.

Charity waited until after the final ricochet and then fired a long burst, moving her aim steadily from left to right. As she reached the end of her burst of fire, she got the result she'd wanted. Charity had removed three more men from the fight - permanently. She knew she'd already injured two men in the front of each of the two trucks and two on the gradient.

From her vantage point she could count the men following her. However, apart from those easily seen, there was a man in deep cover on the hillside. The elusive man gave himself away by popping his head up when Charity fired a steady burst. Unlike his comrades, this individual understood tactics. He was at least 50 metres to the group's left flank. Charity could see that his intention was to edge further out of her line of fire to try to sneak up to the side of her position.

Within the rocky fortress, stage by stage, Charity climbed higher. She had performed rehearsals many times, in both daylight and darkness, so she was as comfortable here as she was in the tiny classroom.

There was a position above that she knew to be ideal, giving almost 360 degrees of visibility, but with sufficient cover to protect her. She checked for the terrorist who was on his own, but although she spotted him once again, he remained in cover whenever possible.

Charity paused during her ascent and looked back. One man had left reasonable cover. Charity knelt behind a rock, took aim and shot the man in the shoulder. He dropped his weapon, spun around and rolled down the hillside, crying out for help. There was a muffled command and two men ran through the scrub. One went downhill and stopped to tend to the wounded man while the other man continued uphill and out to the right flank. When he unhitched the large weapon from across his back his intention became clear.

The terrorist who had been dispatched to deal with Charity was carrying a rocket-propelled grenade launcher (RPG). Charity knew it was a superb weapon in certain circumstances, and this was one such occasion. The RPG, originally designed as an anti-tank weapon had over more recent years been adopted by terror groups as a general purpose mini rocket-launcher.

It took less than a minute for the handler to remove the two-metre long launcher from across his back. At the middle, it had a wooden pistol grip and trigger mechanism similar to most rifles. The back was an open tube to allow for the back-blast. At the business end the grenade protruded. What could be seen at the front was similar to an egg, except with a pointed rather than rounded end.

When the handler squeezed the trigger, the grenade would launch. It would be at that point that a set of fins would be un-sheathed from the tail-end of the grenade. Even if the missile missed the target by a few metres, the resulting explosion would create a rocky grave for anyone hiding amongst the ancient rugged forms.

Until the terrorist moved out of cover to aim, Charity was capturing only glimpses of the opposite ends of the RPG. She knew when the handler finally showed himself, she would have to react quickly against a small target.

Charity knew from watching newsreels that the grenade travelled slowly enough to be tracked by the naked eye. It would be an unsettling spectacle for anyone. The conical nose of the grenade lifted clear of the large rock and pointed towards Charity.

She held her rifle in the aim, closed her left eye and focused on her target. A deep breath, an exhalation and then Charity's body adopted a frozen posture. During the next few seconds, it was imperative that the only part of her body that moved was her trigger finger.

The conical shape of the RPG moved a little as the launcher barrel was rested on the rock. Charity watched the man move his head slightly to the right to use the rubberised telescopic sight. She saw his lips twist into a smile as he looked back at her high above.

In the instant before she fired, Charity saw the man's right forefinger started to curl slowly around the trigger. Charity held her nerve and squeezed her trigger finger back slowly. A small metal projectile travelling at 700 metres per second zipped downhill. It found its target, tearing through the telescopic sight, right eye, and right side of the terrorist's brain.

Charity had fired first.

As Charity expected, the man trying to outflank her took his chance and began a long and hopeful run up through the bushes away from the main assault. He got within 100 metres of Charity's location before he paused, got down behind a bush on one knee and raised his head to gulp in air.

Charity saw the barrel of the man's rifle lift through the branches of the bush. The weapon was being raised into the aim, but the gunman would have to lift his head to ensure he was looking at his target within the rocks.

Charity smiled as she realised how obvious a target her bright coloured headscarf would be. The gunman never had time to register the flash as the bullet with his name on it left Charity's rifle. The bright-coloured headscarf continued to flutter in the breeze, still attached to a rock a metre to Charity's right.

Three men of exceptional courage, or possibly exceptional stupidity, ran uphill in a zigzag fashion. A single long burst emptied Charity's first magazine and ended the impulsive assault. The bodies of all three men convulsed like electrocuted marionettes as the heavy calibre bullets thudded into them. Charity replaced her magazine with a fully loaded one, watched, and waited.

Charity's resolve was bolstered as she thought of the children. She was prepared to give her life to maintain their safety. Jojo knew what he had to do if his teacher didn't make it to the secret cave by nightfall. Charity's eyes misted as she considered that possible outcome. It was a heavy responsibility for the boy to shepherd the younger children across the country to safety.

*****

Unless she had missed somebody in her body count, there was one very careful opponent still concealed in the bushes downhill to her front. As she concentrated and scoured the brush for the hidden man, it occurred to her that he might be the ringleader; happy to send others to their deaths.

A movement caught Charity's eye, and she looked towards the village. From her canvas satchel, she pulled a pair of binoculars and focused on the scrub between the village and the hillside. Two old men were ascending the gradient. Their honour would be regained. Charity watched as her grandfather and his equally old and frail friend hobbled uphill. For the first time in the entire battle, a tear rolled down Charity's cheek.

Much closer to her position, there was a rustling sound and a man stood up in full view from behind a bush, a little to Charity's right side. His position meant that she would have to turn her entire body to aim and fire. Charity saw the man's gloating smile as he raised and aimed his rifle, but Charity rolled onto her back. They fired at the same time.

Charity squealed in pain as a bullet tore the flesh from the outer part of her left shoulder. She watched and sighed with relief as the terrorist leader fell backwards silently to roll down the hill. The man's eyes still open, though unseeing.

As Charity regained her firing position, she heard a series of five or six shots and lifted her binoculars to take a better look.

Towards the bottom of the hill, the two attackers she'd injured were dead, and so too was one of the men sent to give them aid. Nearby, one of the village's old heroes was lying in a patch of blood-soaked sand. The other old man stood defiant, unarmed and bleeding heavily from a shoulder injury. He stood unsteadily, as a terrorist advanced towards him wielding a machete.

Charity dropped her binoculars and, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, took aim. The man with the machete dropped the weapon and fell face forward. The old man collapsed, but Charity hoped he would live to tell his tale over a campfire.

*****

By the end of the day, Terengi looked a little strange because Charity had summoned and briefed the villagers. There were no bodies in the dusty street. The terrorist's bodies had been dragged on litters far out into the bush to feed the hungry, but it would be the wild hungry.

The bodies of the dead villagers had been taken to the local burial site. It was a consecrated area a few hundred metres away.

At about 50 metres from the west end of the village, the burnt out shell of a terrorist pick-up was located. Tied at the back of the cab were two damaged assault rifles in the form of a cross. A similar sight greeted anybody arriving from the east. There would be no misunderstanding of the symbolism. The wooden stocks of the crossed-rifles on both trucks bore a crudely engraved message: ' _With Faith, Hope and Charity_.'

### About Tom Benson

In 1969 at the age of 17, Tom left his native Glasgow to join the British Army. Tom's military career spanned from 1969 to 1992. He followed this with a career in Retail Management, in which he was employed from 1992 to 2012.

Tom has been writing since 2007. He has published four novels, two anthologies of short stories, and a series of five anthologies of genre-based poetry. He is presently working on three novels, and two more anthologies of short stories. Tom is also a self-taught artist.

### Links

Tom Benson Author

Tom Benson Creative

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# Loophole _by_ Eric Lahti

The flashing lights wink and twirl like ballet dancers on a week-long meth bender. There should be some predictability to the spinning, but thanks to the marvels of modern science and the club's desire to be absolutely cutting-edge, the movement is mathematically random.

Spotlights complement the pulsing beat of dance music and everything is coordinating an attack on Sally Anne's head. As soon as she walked into the club her head began throbbing to the beat of the mish-mash of Gravity Kills, Rob Zombie, and Beastie Boys remixes. The music would normally pick her up but it's been a long day and Sally Anne would prefer a glass of wine and Nick Drake's Pink Moon.

She sighs, leans back in her bar stool and looks out over the crowd. The flashing lights make it hard to pick up on details, but her eyes are incredible and can find minute things that others would miss. There's a guy in the corner wearing what's left of a suit. He's taken his shirt off and has his arms wrapped around a cute blonde whose outfit seems to consist of dental floss. His arms are around her, pulling her mostly naked body against his torso. Her eyes are rolled back in her head and her hands are guiding his all over her body. The bulge in his pants says he's enjoying the moment.

Part of Sally Anne wonders what it would be like to feel his hands all over her body, but the other wonders who will be picking the couple up after they overdose on heroin. Both of them think they're being clever with her makeup on their arms, but Sally Anne can clearly see the track marks dotting their veins.

It's not technically a sin, but addiction that leads to death borders on it. A clever lawyer could easily relate an overdose to suicide and that is a sin. Of course, a lot of what lawyers do is a sin, too, and that makes them somewhat less than trustworthy.

Sally mentally checks the time and realizes she has fifteen minutes. Behind dark Wayfarers her eyes scan the room to make sure the man hasn't left. Vasiliy is right where he was when she walked in; leaning back in a booth with a couple pretty young things on either side of him.

"Another bourbon?" a voice behind her asks.

The bartender is cute enough in an "I like to think I'm tough" kind of way but Sally Anne prefers her men to actually be tough. His brown eyes twinkle when she flashes him a smile with her ruby lips.

She turns toward him and pushes her empty glass across the bar. His hands are steady as he pours the drink and tops it with a flourish and huge, toothy grin. Sally Anne realizes he's hitting on her and chuckles inwardly. She downs the drink in a single gulp and passes the empty glass back to him.

"You might want to go easy, miss. I can't serve you if you're drunk and that would make me one sad panda," he tells her.

"Why's that?" Sally Anne asks.

He pours more of the amber liquid into her glass and smiles shyly. "You've got a great smile," he tells her.

_More flirting_ , she thinks. _If he only knew_.

"You don't need to worry about me," she says. "We drink much stronger stuff back home."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks. "What do you drink?"

Sally Anne ponders how to answer that. The truth probably won't hurt in this case. "Tears of Heaven," she says.

The bartender frowns and furrows his cute eyebrows. She can tell he's debating what to say. Will it be an insult to his skills to admit he's never heard of the stuff? Or will he fess up?

"Never heard of it," he says. "Is it some kind of whisky blend?"

Sally laughs and he goes up a notch in her estimation. Not a lot of guys in his position would admit they've never heard of a drink. "No," she says. "It's quite literally what it says it is."

He starts to say something, stops, starts again, and finally ends by shaking his head. His brows furrow together. Doubtless he's wondering if she's crazy. She downs her bourbon and pushes the empty glass back to him. "Think of it as a kind of corrupted ambrosia. It's thick and heady and tastes like bad dreams."

"I think this should be your last one," he says with a chuckle as he pours her drink.

"Would it help if I prove I'm not drunk?" Sally asks.

Some guy with slicked back hair and too-tight jeans starts snapping his fingers at the bartender. Sally Anne glances at the kid, puts a finger to her lips and says, "Shush. We're talking." Over the noise of the club the guy would never hear a normal person, but slick hears Sally Anne clear as a bell. The guy shoots her a glare but decides to move further down the bar rather than risk getting kicked out.

The bartender leans forward on his elbows and puts his face down on Sally Anne's level. A young woman with black hair, red lips, and a pair of dark Ray-Bans stares back at her from his eyes. For a moment she's taken aback, wondering who the stranger is before remembering that's what she looks like now.

"How would you prove it?" the bartender asks.

"Prove what?" Sally Anne asks with a sly grin.

"That you're not drunk," he says with a laugh.

"Oh, that," she replies. She closes her eyes, reaches her right hand out as far as it will go, picks up her drink with the left hand, and proceeds to down the bourbon and touch her nose at the same time. "Will that work?" she asks.

He laughs. "It's not regulation, but it will work."

Sally Anne mentally checks the time. A few more minutes before it's time to get to work, may as well enjoy them. "What do the regulations say?" she asks.

"You're supposed to juggle four kittens while facing west," he says.

"That's a tough test; my record is only three. What happens if I fail the test?"

"I'm supposed to cut you off, but make sure you're safe."

"Oooh," Sally Anne coos. "And how would you keep me safe?"

_It's a good thing Jack's not here_ , Sally Anne thinks. If he's off one of his damned-fool errands, she can have a little fun before she's back on the clock. _No harm, no foul, right_?

"Well, ma'am, I'd probably have to see you safely home," the bartender says.

"In that case, you'd better give me another drink," Sally Anne tells him.

He pours the bourbon and sets it gently down in front of her. If it weren't for Jack she'd probably play this little game out to its logical conclusion but promises were made and promises must be kept. Besides, Jack may be a mountain of ugly, hairy, muscle, but he's _her_ mountain of ugly, hairy muscle.

She shoots the bourbon back and hands him the empty glass. Their fingers brush when he takes the glass from her. "Another?" he asks.

Sally Anne nods.

He passes another shot back to her. "Where are you from?" he asks.

"Down south," Sally Anne says with a smile. She downs the drink and calmly sets the empty glass back on the bar. According to her internal clock it's two minutes to midnight and that means it's time to get to work. She reaches down the front of her dress and pulls out a roll of bills. Paper money still weirds her out and she's not sure just how much to put down. In the end, she drops the whole roll on the bar and says, "Thanks for the chat. I've got an appointment to get to."

He looks crestfallen and asks, "Are you going to be okay? That was a lot of bourbon."

She stands up smoothly, touches her nose again and smiles. "See," she says, "I told you it takes more than bourbon to knock me down."

"You know where to find me," he calls out. She blows him a kiss and works her way through the crowd of sweaty bodies.

The music is still too loud and frenetic for Sally Anne's taste; a remix of some old Gravity Kills song is blasting through the concealed speakers. She's not sure how anyone can dance to industrial music, but all around her people are swaying to some rhythm she simply cannot find in the song. It's not like it's a bad song, it's fine for what it is, but it's not exactly dance music. Sally Anne has heard it before but can't quite remember the title. It's from when the band was still big, before they split up.

As she moves through the crowd the name of the song keeps eluding her and it's frustrating. Frustration leads to anger and anger leads to the deathly calm of getting the job done. All pretense of innocence leaves her as she walks. Her steps become stronger, more focused. Without realizing they're doing it, dancers move out of her way.

_What was the name of the song?_ It's right on the tip of her tongue but she can't tease it out of her brain.

It's almost midnight and she picks up the pace slightly. It's important for the game that she show up exactly at midnight. The song will have to wait; Vasiliy is less than twenty feet way. She can catch glimpses of the fat, guilty, bastard as the dancers drift through the club.

_Ah, yes. Guilty is the name of the song. Appropriate_.

He's sitting at a big table in the back of the club, far enough away from the crowd that they don't bother him, but close enough that they can all see him and know he's important. Two bodyguards stand in front of Vasiliy's table, keen eyes watching the dance floor in case some idiot decides to cause a problem.

The closer she gets, the more Sally Anne can hear of Vasiliy's conversation. His deep voice carries well even with the unnamed song still blaring. "Almost midnight and Vasiliy is still here!" he yells. The girls on either side of him giggle and stroke his arms.

Vasiliy is _bratva_ – Russian mafia – and going out of his way to live and look the role. His accent is thick and exaggerated. He tends to add an extra 'ye' sound to some words so instead of saying 'midnight' he says 'meyidnight' like he's not only Russian, he's desperately Russian.

Sally Anne can't figure out who's more pathetic, Vasiliy for thinking the girls on his arms have any interest in him or the girls who are just looking for a free meal with a toad like him. She's shaking her head in disdain as she sneaks past the guards like a wraith in a tight black dress.

At exactly midnight she appears in front of Vasiliy's table and flashes a toothy grin. "Good evening Vasiliy," Sally Anne says brightly. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting but I had more pressing concerns."

The guards hear her voice and move in on Sally Anne. They've got their hands inside their suit jackets and their lips are pursed. She can tell they're pissed off that she managed to sneak past them so easily, but really they weren't very good at their jobs. Back home their punishment would have been severe for such a failure. Of course, back home guards aren't wasted on toads like Vasiliy.

Sally Anne readies herself for them, notices the guard on the right is closer and prepares to attack the guard on the left. It will be unexpected and let her create some distance from the other attacker.

Before the situation can explode Vasiliy Ivankov Slokavich holds up his hand and motions his bodyguards back. At five foot five inches tall and looking like she weighs in at a buck ten at the most, Sally Anne hardly seems like a threat to the self-professed King of the Underworld.

_King of the Underworld_ , Sally Anne thinks. _That's funny_.

The rolls of fat under his chin ripple as Vasiliy looks her up and down before a huge smile crosses his face and he laughs out loud. He slams his fist on the table and laughs out loud, his whole body shaking with the fits of laughter. "And who sent you to Vasiliy?" he asks, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"An interested party," Sally Anne says, enjoying the game.

"Vasiliy is interested to know who sent a pretty girl to him."

The girl on his left wraps her arms tightly around the Russian's arm. The other leans into him, wrapping her arms around him and snuggling her face into his sweaty neck. He wraps his arms around them and leans back in the booth with a smile that says he thinks he owns the world.

"Do you always refer to yourself in the third person?" Sally Anne asks.

Vasiliy cocks his head to the side. A look of confusion crosses his face.

"The third person," Sally Anne says again. "Referring to yourself by using your own name."

He happily slams his fist down on the table again and points at her. "Vasiliy likes his name. The more people that know Vasiliy's name the more power he has."

Sally Anne has to suppress a snicker at that statement. She keeps a straight face and says, "Your power comes from a different place than your name, Vasiliy."

"Indeed!" he says boisterously. "Vasiliy's power comes from his money, his soldiers, and the many beautiful ladies who love him so much."

"And?" Sally Anne asks.

"And what?" Vasiliy asks.

"Your power is derived from someplace far different than your money, your thugs, and your whores," Sally Anne says.

A dark part of her soul laughs as she watches the blood drain from his face. She reaches across the table and snatches the glass of vodka in front of him. A quick smile and she drains the ice cold distilled potatoes. Not for the first time tonight she wishes there was something stronger, something worthy of her in this place.

"Why?" Vasiliy mutters.

"Are you sure you want to discuss business with so many untrustworthy ears, Vasiliy?"

He pulls his arms off the girls and gently pushes them away. They try to pull close to him again, wrap themselves around him but his gentle pushes turn to shoves. The strange push-pull dynamic continues until Vasiliy's face turns bright red and he yells, "Bitches leave!"

Sally Anne raises an eyebrow. She has a lot of leeway in how she handles tonight and yelling about bitches isn't exactly enamoring him to her. The girls slink away like dogs that have just been kicked off the couch and can't understand what they did wrong.

"What about your guards?"

Vasiliy's face hardens. "They stay."

Sally Anne smiles her most innocent smile. She's sure if there was a mirror somewhere nearby the sheer sweetness would shatter the glass. "Don't trust me?"

"They say your boss is a great liar."

"The father of them all some would say."

"So, _nyet_ ," Vasiliy says. "I trust you like I trust the plague."

"Oh, Vasiliy, don't be silly. You can always trust the plague to do what it says it will."

"I still don't trust you," the big Russian says. "The guards stay."

"If you say so," she says with a roll of her eyes. Sally Anne looks around for a chair and realizes the only seat is the booth next to the bear. She shoos him over and scoots into the booth.

From Vasiliy's private booth they both have a spectacular view of the club. It's an ocean of sweaty bodies colored red, green, and blue in the randomly swirling lights. The sound is muted here but she can still feel the pulsing bass of whatever song is playing.

The guards are watching Vasiliy and Sally Anne closely, hands still close to their guns. "The threats are out there, numb nuts," Vasiliy says with a wave of his hand. They reluctantly turn around and watch the dance floor.

"Well, then. What shall we discuss?" he asks Sally Anne.

She stretches and twists on the booth to face the mobster. "Our organization."

"Organization, pah!" Vasiliy interrupts.

"Our organization," Sally Anne continues, "granted you certain capabilities in return for certain promises. We made an investment in you and you have been failing to deliver on your end of the bargain. The rules were followed, our end of the agreement was met; we even went so far as to send notice that you had until tonight to hold up your end. We almost never send notice."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. Most people in your position would be living out the rest of their lives with their balls in a clamp and raped by gorillas," Sally Anne says. While she's talking she keeps scanning the dancing throng. Although she knows the greatest threat in the club is sitting right next to her and the only real threat he poses is to her sense of decency.

Vasiliy downs a shot of vodka with lipstick on the glass. He tries to act cool and collected as he fills two glasses but his hands are shaking slightly. The first glass slides in front of Sally Anne and Vasiliy holds up the second to toast her.

"You can't poison me, you know," Sally Anne says as she lifts the glass.

" _Da_ , I know," Vasiliy says. "It's just rare to find someone else who knows how to deliver pain. I like to toast to my own kind. _Za vas_! To you!"

" _Za vas_ ," Sally Anne replies and clinks her glass to his. The vodka wasn't poisoned, which is a bit disappointing to her. She was under the impression that she was dealing with a professional. "So, Vasiliy, how are we going to rectify this problem? My guess is you think you've found a loophole in the agreement and I'm here to plug that loophole. We were promised a dozen souls and you have failed to deliver even one. By the terms of the agreement that means you forfeit yours."

Vasiliy pours another drink and waves his hand across the dance floor. "I can walk out there, among those sweaty idiots and provide you with your dozen souls."

"Those are innocents and you know it. The bargain was power for a dozen tainted souls."

"Innocent?" Vasiliy asks, stunned. "Look at them groping and rubbing each other. I personally bought cocaine in the bathroom from a man who still had cum on his chin."

"Drugs and sex won't taint a soul, Vasiliy. We need the kind of souls that have murdered their own children or raped their siblings. The truly bad people. Like you."

" _Da_. In this day and age it is more and more difficult to find those people before the authorities do. Once they're in jail I can't get to them," Vasiliy says with a frustrated sigh.

"That's not really my problem," Sally Anne tells him. "We had an agreement."

"So they send a little girl to take care of the problem? What would you do if I told you to just go piss up a rope?" Vasiliy asks. He pronounces 'little' as 'leetle'. The vodka and the cocaine are making him bold.

Sally Anne contemplates this sudden change in attitude the same way she contemplates everything else. Scenarios flash through her mind; most them focusing on tearing Vasiliy's throat out, killing his guards and disappearing into the crowd. It wouldn't be hard, but her mission parameters were specific: twelve souls would be preferable to one and the rules of the Universe are clear: you can't take a soul if _you_ kill the body. Vasiliy has to die naturally – or someone else has to kill him – but there are no rules that say he has to live out the rest of his life peacefully and comfortably. Besides, he might still come in handy if he can be convinced to play ball.

"Let's keep this professional," she tells him. "What are you going to do to get us our twelve souls?"

"You want souls? Vasiliy can get you twelve souls tonight."

"There's also the matter of an act of contrition."

"What is this 'act of'... how did you say?" Vasiliy asks.

"Contrition," Sally Anne answers, rolling her eyes. She speaks very slowly and emphasizes each word like she's talking to a child. "An act of contrition."

"What is act of contrition?"

Sally Anne sighs and slumps in the booth. She had never thought it was a good idea to sublet out soul collection; it means they're far too reliant on independent contractors for what they need. She also hates dealing with the stupid ones and Vasiliy is looking like he's none too bright. "Did you read the contract before you signed it?"

" _Da_. I read the part where I get power and only have to kill some people. I would have killed the people anyway. Is win-win for Vasiliy."

"But you haven't delivered on your end of the bargain, Vasiliy. We need those souls and an act of contrition tonight or you forfeit everything. All your power, all your money. Those girls will leave you in a heartbeat as soon as you have nothing."

"Bah!" he exclaims. "Women are like pocket change; some may be worth more than others but all in all they don't amount to much. Vasiliy can always rebuild."

"Let me make something crystal clear to you," Sally Anne says, getting frustrated. "When we're done with you there will be nothing left for you to rebuild. You'll be a broken shell of the pathetic man you are now."

Vasiliy leans forward and puts his sweaty face close to hers and for a moment she thinks he's going to kiss her. His breath reeks of vodka and caviar and his body reeks of nervous desperation. For all his bravado there's still a hint of fear in his sweat and it smells sweet to Sally Anne.

"When we're done," Vasiliy says, "you'll be begging me to fuck you, just to take the pain away."

His hand reaches up to trace her cheek and Sally Anne slaps it away. "So it's come to this, then," she says.

"It's come to this," he tells her. Vasiliy slides away from her and snaps his fingers.

The guards spin around, their guns drawn and immediately open fire.

*****

As soon as Vasiliy slid away Sally Anne knew what was coming. She kicked the table over and slid off the booth just before the guards started firing. The table was thick plastic that splintered when the bullets started tearing into it, but at least it held steady.

She can hear screaming over the gunfire. Even over the loud music the sound of automatic weapons – and the muzzle flash – is obvious. The crowded club erupts into chaos. The people nearest Vasiliy's goons are the first to see and hear the guards firing. As those people start running for the exit they startle other people and soon the club is a roiling mass of bodies seeking any way out of the club.

When the shooting stops, Sally Anne pushes the pitted table forward and charges the nearest guard. They weren't originally targets, but no one shoots at Sally Anne and gets away with it. Small, but strong, she hits the guard with an enormous amount of force. He tumbles down the dais and she immediately turns her attention on the other guard.

He's fumbling with his gun – some kind of small automatic like a MAC-10 – and something seems to have jammed in it. His face doesn't show any worry, just a deep focus on fixing the problem, as Sally Anne turns to face him.

A low growl escapes from her lips. Something about the growl speaks of horrors and strength and nightmares where even the covers won't save you. The guard clears the jam and has the barrel up and pointing at her before she can get to him.

Her hands automatically go up. The guard smiles and steps close to her. Close enough she can feel the cold steel of the guard's gun pushing into her forehead. She can seem him grinning. When he winks at her, she moves. Stepping slightly to the left, Sally Anne reaches out and grabs the gun. Her right hand punches the guard in the face, rocking him back slightly, before joining its sister under the frame of the gun.

The guard is still reeling from the punch when Sally Anne steps close and bends his elbow down. Her hands tighten on the gun, using it as added leverage as she steps back and twists his arm down and around. It happens so quickly she barely hears when his tendons rip and his shoulder pops out of its socket. She continues twisting, pulling on his torn arm until his balance breaks and the screaming guard goes flying.

To his credit, the tough Russian guard rolls to his feet. His destroyed arm hangs limply at his side and he grimaces when his shifting feet make it swing. He reaches behind his back and under his jacket with his good arm and pulls out a nasty looking dagger. Even through his pain Sally Anne can see a wicked grin.

She's so focused on the tough bastard in front of her that Sally Anne doesn't notice the first guard sneak up behind her. A sound like staccato thunder rolling across the plains reminds her of home before the pain in her back further reminds her of growing up.

The bullets are small but fast and all thirty find new homes in the middle of her back. It feels like getting punched over and over. Sally Anne staggers forward, straight into the guard with the bad arm. His good arm slashes out in a short arc and a flash of silver streaks across her face. The knife cut feels like a pinch on her left cheek. The guard doesn't waste any time slashing at her again. His knife finds her throat and slides across the side of her neck effortlessly.

Sally Anne's legs give out underneath her and she drops to her knees in front of the guard. Her back is throbbing where the bullets slammed into her and her cheek and neck sting. She looks up in time to see the guard with the knife getting ready to plunge into her eye socket.

" _Nyet_!" Vasiliy yells. "I'm not done with her yet."

The guard nods at Vasiliy and steps back slightly, making room for the fat bastard in front of the kneeling Sally Anne. "Your knife," Vasiliy says, holding out his hand.

He holds the knife in front of her nose, so close she can smell her own blood on it. Sally Anne keeps her eyes locked on Vasiliy's and doesn't flinch when he drags it slowly across her other cheek.

"You were warned," Vasiliy says with an evil grin as he brandishes the knife in front of her face. "Vasiliy told you he would bring you pain."

"I gave you a chance little man. You could have walked out of this relatively unscathed."

For all his bulk, Vasiliy can move quickly when he really wants to. The back of his hand stings her cheek and sends her reeling to the floor. Sally Anne lays gasping and holding her cheek, impressed by the ferocity of his blow. "I can't wait to taste your pleasures," Vasiliy tells her, knife in one hand while he rubs himself with the other.

Her cheek stings, but not as much as her pride. Sally Anne considers herself a professional and she's still mentally kicking herself for letting that idiot guard get the drop on her. Honestly, she's kind of surprised Vasiliy had the balls to attack her in the first place. He knew the score and he knew what he was up against and took the shot anyway. _How very odd_ , she thinks, _but it's time to finish this_.

While Vasiliy stands over her, rubbing himself, Sally Anne's leg lashes out and her heel slams into his knee. His leg collapses under the force of her blow and he collapses to the floor, holding his leg and grimacing.

The guard with the gun aims at her but she started moving before Vasiliy hit the ground. Bullets can't kill her but they don't feel good. Her dress is shredded and she can feel the steamy air of the club all over her body. A flap of skin is hanging off her cheek, revealing bright red flesh beneath.

Sally Anne doesn't hesitate or dwell on her wounds. She shoots forward into the guy with the gun, driving her elbow into his chest. He staggers back and she presses her advantage. A half fist hits his throat and she follows up by putting her thumbs in his eyes. He hits the ground blind and gasping for breath, still alive but no longer a threat.

Sally Anne pulls off her glasses and glares at him with literal fire in her eyes. She spins around just in time to catch a downward slice from the other guard. The knife cuts her from her shoulder blade to her opposite hip. Sally Anne reaches inside the wound and pulls back the sliced flesh and dress, revealing bright red skin underneath. The guard stops his attack, fascinated and horrified at the woman who's currently pulling her skin off in the middle of the club.

Her flesh comes off in huge strips until a five foot five inch devil woman stands naked and glorious in the flashing lights. A long tail with a heart-shaped tip wraps around her right leg, flicking back and forth impatiently.

"What the fuck are you?" the guard asks.

Sally Anne's tail unwinds from her leg and lashes forward, embedding itself deep in the man's eye socket. At first he can't believe what just happened but soon the pain hits and his hands grasp her tail, desperate to pull the tip out of his eye. She enjoys watching him struggle, loves the erotic look of pain on his face, but the mission still has to be finished.

With a pop the tip of her tail pulls out of his eye socket, pulling the eyeball with it. The pain overwhelms the bodyguard and he falls to his knees screaming. That's the wonderful thing about eyes; some people can train themselves to take a shot to the groin, but there is no way to toughen up eyes.

She turns her attention to Vasiliy. The mobster is trying desperately to struggle to his feet but his knee won't support his bulk anymore. Each time he tries to rise, his leg gives out and he collapses to the ground again.

"Time's up, Vasiliy," Sally Anne says. "Time to pay the piper."

To her surprise, he laughs at her. A chuckle filled with madness and brimming with perceived power. "You think you've won here?" he asks.

"You're on the ground. Your guards can't help you anymore. You've lost," she tells him.

"Those guards?" he asks. "They are nothing but window dressing. Vasiliy has something much better."

Sally Anne hears a thumping sound coming from somewhere in the club. Heavy footsteps crash into the club's floor and something shoves tables and chairs out of the way. She gets a sinking feeling in her gut. The footsteps are familiar and very bad news.

"Your people," Vasiliy says with an evil chuckle, "are so easy to bribe. A child here, a virgin there, and soon Vasiliy has powerful friends who were happy to give him a new toy."

At the edges of the club something huge is moving toward her. In the flashing lights Sally Anne can make out the bulk of a monstrosity heading toward her. A glimpse of horns is all it takes to be sure: a Titan. Ten feet of knotted muscle and bad attitude is bearing down on her.

Titans are what Hell uses when it wants to go to war. They're the tanks of the unholy battlefield, walking monstrosities with no purpose except to crush everything before them. Glasses rattle on tables as it stomps toward her. The Titan's glowing red eyes scan the club, searching for targets. Hell's tanks are designed to seek out and destroy any targets of opportunity on the battlefield.

Sally Anne drops low, knowing full well what the creature is capable of. She doesn't bat an eye as it finds a guy cowering under a table and tears him in half. She doesn't flinch when the tank stomps on a woman trying to scramble away from it on all fours. She calmly dodges the table it kicks at her.

When the Titan is almost on top of her she hears Vasiliy laughing, a deep and guttural sound of joy. "It's going to crush your bones. Vasiliy just hopes it leaves that pretty mouth of yours alone."

She casts a quick glance at the fat man on the floor and grins. A crackle of energy catches her ears and she turns back toward the Titan. In its left hand it's holding a sword made of flames, the legendary Uriel's Edge. The Titan has found its target.

The flaming sword arcs through the air spitting sparks and screaming an earsplitting yell. Sally Anne casually dances away from the sword. For all their strength, all their power, Titans are designed for a packed battlefield. Against a densely packed group of opponents Titans are devastating. Against a single, agile opponent all their power is largely wasted.

The creature howls a frustrated yell and swipes at her again, this time a huge horizontal strike that she easily ducks under. The sword moves close enough that she can feel the heat of it on her face and worries it might set her hair on fire.

After the sword passes Sally Anne darts forward and slams the tip of her elbow into the Titan's chest. She's small but fast and her elbow concentrates the whole force of her rapidly accelerating body into an area slightly over an inch square. The Titan staggers back slightly but quickly recovers and swats her aside a like a bug.

She lands in a roll and comes back up easily. Sally Anne may only be a kind of muscle for Hell, but she's not without her own set of skills. The Titan doesn't waste any time and the flaming sword nearly cuts her in two. A duck and roll brings her inside the monster's sword range. A glowing dagger appears in her hand and slides easily into the Titan's ribs.

A howl that shatters the windows echoes from the Titan's lips. Most people soil themselves at the sight of a Titan. Scare the enemy half to death and your side doesn't have to work as hard. But like everything else the tanks have their weaknesses. Since they were designed for large-scale combat they were geared primarily with offensive capabilities. Most people – the ones who survived the sword, anyway – who get too close a Titan will freeze up and find themselves crushed.

Sally Anne has insider information, though, and knows the weakest spot on the giant is right above its hip bones. On the battlefield that spot is heavily armored, but this isn't a battlefield and the Titan isn't wearing armor. She keeps her head and controls the whole fight from beginning to end. The Titan's eyes look almost intelligent shortly before it dies, collapsing in a huge mass that sizzles and crackles as it self-destructs.

On the floor, Vasiliy is staring in wide-eyed wonder at the red woman. Sally Anne smiles and kicks him in the head.

"Where'd you get the Titan?" she asks.

"Fell off the back of a truck," he replies.

"Your guards are dead. Your toy is dead. Even the local security buggered out of here. Where'd the Titan come from?"

"Fuck you," Vasiliy says, holding his head.

"You think you've found a loophole, some kind of way to get out of your contract, but there is no way out. You signed in your own blood. Someone convinced you to do this and gave you a Titan, I want to know who."

Sally Anne kicks him in the ribs and feels one break under her bare red toes. He doubles over in pain, clutching his side but refuses to make a noise. She squats down next to him. "Tell me what I want to know and I'll make this easier on you," she says with a warm smile.

Vasiliy glares at her but refuses to speak. His eyes start locked onto hers but soon drift down to her naked body. Like most of her kind she finds the human affection for clothes to be puzzling, but is even less impressed with their tendency to stare. Even in Hell there are rules of acceptable behavior and leering is definitely on the naughty list.

She slaps him hard across the cheek and grabs his nose between her index and middle fingers. He forgets all about his broken rib when she starts to twist his nose. "Tell me what I want and I'll just shake your hand," she tells him with nonchalant malevolence in her voice. "Don't tell me and I'll gleefully break off parts of you until I get what I want. And then I'll shake your hand."

"The cops will be here soon you fucking psycho," Vasiliy cries out. Her fingers are cutting off the air through his nose and his voice comes out high pitched and hollow.

Sally Anne looks around the empty room. Far in the distance she can hear sirens. "I can take you downtown if you'd prefer. I can't really take your life, which is why I'm not harvesting that black pit you call a soul right now, but there's no rule against making you hurt."

Vasiliy gasps. Her expression is dead-pan serious and those flaming eyes don't look at all concerned. "Vesuvio," he says. "It was Vesuvio who told me."

She tightens her grip on his nose and twists it until she hears it start to crack but he doesn't offer up any more information. She doesn't know who Vesuvio is, but Hell is a big place and even a gadfly like her won't have met everyone.

Her fingers leave his nose and Vasiliy doesn't waste any time caressing his broken nose. She can see tears in his eyes, but the tough bastard never did cry out. "See, that wasn't so hard now, was it?" Sally Anne says. "Now, give me your hand and I'll shake it. Then we're done!"

She pauses momentarily, thinking, before she continues. "Well, we're done until your body is dead – shouldn't take long from the look of it – and then I'll personally come harvest your soul."

Vasiliy holds a shaking hand out toward her and she grasps it firmly in her smaller right hand. There's a blur of movement and Sally Anne's dagger cleanly separates Vasiliy's hand from the rest of his body.

He finally cries out and clutches the stump to his chest, eyes wide with fear and grudging kind of awe. "What was that for? You said you'd shake my hand." All his fluff, bluster, and fake bravado have left him. The broken mobster has even stopped referring to himself in the third person.

Sally Anne picks up a napkin off the floor and wraps the severed hand with it. "I will shake your hand," she says. "I'll shake it anytime I want because I'll keep it in a box by my bed. Now, are you going to try to find loopholes to weasel out of your contract again?"

Vasiliy shakes his head over and over and tries to scoot away from her.

"Good boy," Sally Anne says, "because I've had a long day and I really don't want to come back here. You have until 6am and don't forget you still owe me an act of contrition." She glances down at his crotch and grins. "You can cut it off or I can come back and tear it off, your choice."

For the first time tonight, Vasiliy whimpers.

The sirens are getting closer and she doesn't feel like dealing with Terrestrial cops. In the morning she might think differently, but for now she's tired and all she wants is a glass of Tears of Heaven and her favorite slippers.

On her way out, she finds the cute bartender cowering behind the bar. "Thanks for the drinks and conversation," she tells him.

His eyes peek up over the bar top, look her over and disappear again. The sirens are right outside the main door but her keen hearing manages to pick up the bartender's faint, "No problem."

She realizes he's far too scared to worry about right now. Her hands come together and expand outward. As they expand, a purplish glow shimmers in mid-air. A little finessing with the portal and she's got her ride home. A quick check around the club reveals a disaster area; aside from Vasiliy and the bartender the place is devoid of life. There's a pile of ashes where the Titan died. The Russian mobster is lying on the ground cradling his stump and the bartender is still hiding from her. Sally Anne feels a pang of sorrow that the man she was casually flirting with is now terrified of her, but some things can't be helped.

Vasiliy probably won't be a problem anymore, but with people like him it's impossible to really tell. It still leaves one problem back home, though. Who in Hell would side with the likes of Vasiliy against her boss? Someone's making a power play and Sally Anne has a sneaking feeling the whole ticking time bomb will wind up in her lap soon enough.

The bartender peeks his head over the bar top again and she blows him a kiss before stepping through the portal to deliver her report and find a box for her new hand.

### About Eric Lahti

Eric Lahti stumbled into writing purely by accident. He was playing Saints Row The Third for the nth time and decided it might be time to write down some of the stories he constantly made up about the world. He's a programmer, a martial artist, and a fairly nice guy once you get to know him.

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# Weeping Roses _by_ S.E. Meyer

Rosemary Mooney looked down at the timepiece hugging her wrist. _Where the hell is Rick?_ she thought, through the clanking of silverware and the smell of Moo Shoo Pork wafting off the buffet line.

Impatiently tapping her pink nails on the worn oak table, Rosemary scanned the paper place mat in front of her. The twelve animals of the Chinese Zodiac danced around its border, encircling a Chinese calendar.

_Year of the Goat. That's my birth year_ , Rosemary remembered from her last visit. _And I think Rick's is the Rat._

Her gaze drifted over the birth years for the 'Year of the Rat' and found Rick's. _Yep, he's a rat. And he'll be more than that if he doesn't show up_ , Rosemary thought, momentarily glancing at her watch again. She continued to drum on the image of the goat that sat beneath her fingers.

The front door to Woo's Pagoda opened and a tall, athletic brunette walked in, scanning the red booths and tables through over-sized sunglasses that hid the top of her face.

Rosemary stiffened then slowly shrunk into her seat, causing the faux leather upholstery to squeak beneath her jeans. She raised her hand and placed it across her brow. _Oh please don't see me._

"Rose!" the woman yelled out, wiggling her fingers in Rosemary's direction.

Rosemary slouched further into her seat, but knew it was too late. Cheryl had seen her. The same Cheryl that lets her dog do its business on Rosemary's pristine lawn every morning without a thought of cleaning it up. The same Cheryl that dug up Rosemary's prized rose bushes the summer before when Cheryl had a swimming pool installed along their shared lot.

"Rose," her annoying neighbor called out again.

Cheryl seemed to have a new man in her life every other Tuesday and loved to talk about it, only making Rosemary's fifteen year marriage to Rick seem more mundane.

Rosemary sighed and then took her hand from her forehead. Looking up, she forced a smile.

"Hey Jackie O," she teased.

Cheryl removed the dark round lenses from her face. "What, Jackie who?" she asked with a wrinkled brow."

"Never mind," Rosemary replied, shaking her head.

"What are you doing here?" Cheryl asked with a bright smile as fake as the leather seats.

"I'm meeting Rick for lunch. What are you doing here?" Rosemary asked, trying not to wince.

"Oh I saw your car in the lot while I was driving by, so I thought I would stop in. Isn't this lovely, getting a chance to meet up and have lunch together?"

Rosemary's stomach turned. _Much more of this woman and I'll likely lose my appetite._

Cheryl donned a more serious expression. "I've been meaning to tell you. I met someone."

Here we go, Rosemary thought, subconsciously rolling her eyes. There goes the appetite.

"I think he just might be the one," Cheryl chorused.

Rosemary bit into her lower lip. "Well that's nice," she replied with a smile. _I think that's the sixth Mr. Right this year. Or is it the seventh?_ She pondered, tilting her head to one side.

"You know, I don't usually come to these places. These buffet's. It's hard to find anything gluten free," Cheryl explained, patting Rosemary's hand while scanning the rows of buffet tables.

Rosemary groaned in her head and then glanced back towards the front door. Rick appeared in the doorway. He was a burly man with a portly gut and a full head of jet black hair, other than a few gray strands that wove through his temples.

Rick looked around a moment before seeing Rosemary and Cheryl. He frowned briefly and then smiled as he made his way over to where they were.

"How are you ladies doing?" he asked over the sound of fresh plates being dropped onto the buffet stand. Rick didn't bother to sit. Instead, he turned and headed straight for the food.

*****

By the time they finished eating, the restaurant had become as empty as the calories they just consumed. Rosemary allowed her gaze to drift along the rows of shelving that ran around the room's perimeter. The shelves were littered with collectibles, while the ceiling glittered with paper lanterns and crimson tassels hanging in rows.

An oriental man appeared through a narrow doorway in the corner of the restaurant. His black silk robes immediately caught Rosemary's attention. They were peppered with small red dragons and flowed out behind him as he walked. The man turned and made his way to where the trio sat.

"Must be the bill," Rick said. "You got your purse Rosie?"

_Of course, the gentleman couldn't possibly bring his wallet to lunch with his wife, could he?_ Rosemary thought as she let out a sigh of disappointment.

"And the fortune cookies," Cheryl chimed in. "Oh, you can have mine Rose. I know you don't really care how you look, but I'm trying to watch my figure."

Rosemary ignored the insult, distracted by the Chinese gentleman gliding towards her. As he came closer, the restaurant began to shimmer. It grew dim and then brighter as the sun played peek-a-boo with a line of storm clouds rolling in. As the man reached their table the clouds overtook the sky, changing the ambiance of the eatery in an instant. The sudden silence of the restaurant cast an eerie feeling over the trio's senses.

You could hear a chopstick drop.

Rosemary trembled. She crossed her arms and tried to rub the goose bumps away with her palms.

"May I help you?" the man asked with an Asian accent while looking directly into Rosemary's eyes. She looked away, momentarily mesmerized by the miniature dragons dancing along their midnight background below the man's waist as his robes finally caught up with him.

"Pardon me?" Rose asked.

"Sorry, English not so good. What I meant to say was, I may help you." He slid his hand into a large pocket and produced a small tin box. He held the trinket out through bony fingers for the group to examine.

Rosemary's eyes grew wide with excitement. "Ooh, what is that?" she asked, finishing with a nervous laugh. She made eye contact, then looked away from the man's wise eyes, the only indication of his vintage.

"My name is Woo, and this is Chinese dream catcher. Here I brought one for all of you," he explained, fishing two more of the shiny metallic chests from his robes before setting all three on the table.

Rosemary reached out a trembling hand and wrapped her fingers around the cold metal box nearest her. She continued to stare at it in her hand, glowing in silver and blue streaks through the dim light of the restaurant. She knew at once that she must have it.

"Do you know how to use it?" asked Woo.

"Um no," Rosemary replied while Rick and Cheryl looked on.

"There are only three rules. Very easy," Woo nodded and then continued slowly. "First, you must write your heart's desire onto a piece of paper, sign your name, and place it inside the box." Woo reached across and opened the lid, making the hair on Rosemary's neck stand up. "Second, you dig a hole and bury the box, and then your wish will come true."

Rosemary placed a hand to the back of her neck, absentmindedly brushing away the eerie tingling that had taken hold there.

"I thought you said there were three rules," Rick said, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"Yes," Woo continued. "Third rule is very important. You must be very specific with your wish. Understand? Very specific. Yes," Woo nodded again. "Very important," Woo explained.

"Yes, okay, got it. Be specific. How much do I owe you for it?" Rosemary asked, her gaze still focused on the box in hand.

"Oh, that is not for sale."

Rosemary's heart jumped. "What?" she replied with a frown, snapping the lid shut and closing her fingers tightly around its smooth edges.

"No, that is free gift to you-" Woo smiled.

"Oh thank you," Rosemary interrupted, as her grip on the box loosened ever so slightly.

"I was not finished yet," Woo continued. "Free gift for you. Just be careful what you wish for," he warned, giving Rosemary a concerned look, then turned and exited the restaurant through the front door.

"What a load of crap," Rick said as a waiter came and dropped the bill on the table. He picked up the box and turned it over in his hand.

"What's the matter Rick?" Cheryl asked. "Are you too chicken to try it?"

Rick frowned. "No, I just think it's a waste of time, that's all."

The group made their way to the register and Rosemary paid for her and Rick's lunch. As they left the building Rick made eye contact with Rosemary.

"I'm going to head back to work. Make sure you have dinner ready as soon as I get home tonight Rosie."

*****

Rosemary burst through the back door of her and Rick's ranch-style home, which was nestled in a quiet neighborhood just outside the city. Her arms were full of art supplies and in a hurry to get supper started, she absentmindedly closed the door behind her, flattening the roll of canvas that was tucked under her left arm. She re-opened the door and watched the dented roll drop to the bird's-eye maple floor at her feet.

"Oh dear," she said, in response to both her forgetfulness and the sound of Rick's truck pulling into the driveway. She quickly stuffed the art supplies into the entryway closet and then jogged to the kitchen.

Rick walked in just as Rosemary was placing a large spoonful of shortening into a cast iron frying pan. "Chicken will only be a few minutes," Rosemary reassured her husband.

"What? Supper's not done? Dang Rosie, how many times have we talked about this? After working all day, a man needs to eat as soon as he gets home," Rick scolded, then opened the refrigerator door with a grease-stained, calloused hand. He fished out a beer, popped the top and took a long drink. The entryway closet door suddenly burst open.

"What the hell was that?" Rick asked, turning in time to watch several loose paint brushes rain down on top of the tubes of paint that were spinning across the floor.

Rosemary winced.

"What the hell Rosie?" Rick demanded. He turned to face her. "So you think you're an artist again? Remember what happened the last time you thought you could paint? Nothing got done around here, and the house was a mess. We're not going there again." Rick waved his hand in the direction of the supplies littering the floor. "Clean this mess up, I'm going to take a shower. Supper better be ready by the time I'm done."

Rosemary picked up the supplies and threw them in the trash can. One by one, she took out her anger and hurt on the tubes of acrylic paste, slamming them into the garbage. _I just wish I could do what I want. Something for me. Something I enjoy!_ She contemplated through stinging tears.

*****

Rosemary had set the drop leaf table. As she pulled the fried chicken off the stove, Rick entered the kitchen in blue jeans and a fresh shirt. He strolled by the kitchen table, loaded his plate with three of the four golden brown pieces of fried fowl before grabbing a fresh beer from the fridge.

"Oh Rick. I thought we could eat in here, at the table. You know like a normal married couple?" Rosemary urged.

"Aw Rosie, but the game's going to start," Rick replied over his shoulder as he made his way to the living room.

Rosemary let out a long sigh, shaking her head. _I wish things were different_ , she thought, then slid out a chair and sat down. She lifted the lonely chicken wing Rick had left her, and ate it in quiet solitude. By the time she cleaned up, fresh tears began to well in her eyes. She dried her eyes and hands with the kitchen towel that hung on the stove before going to the living room. She sat down on the couch next to Rick, wearing a sheepish expression.

"Rick?" she murmured. "Rick, why don't we do anything together anymore?"

Rick continued to stare at the television. "Okay, yep, in a minute."

Rosemary's pulse throbbed as her temper flared. "Rick!"

"What?" he finally replied, turning to look at her.

"Why don't we do anything together anymore?" she repeated in a more urgent tone.

"What do you mean? We're sitting on the couch together right now."

"That's not what I mean Rick. I wish we could do things that other people do. Like the things we used to do when we first got married," Rosemary explained. "Do you still love me?"

Rick noticed the tears filling Rosemary's eyes.

"Aw, of course. You know I love you Rosie. What's all this you're going on about now?" he asked and then placed his arm around her, but turned his attention back to the television.

"That's what you tell me, but a woman needs to _feel_ it. She needs to feel loved, Rick."

"Uh huh," Rick replied with a nod. Then added, "What?"

"Oh never mind! You don't listen to anything I say. I don't think you even see me Rick!" Rosemary yelled.

"Of course I see you Rosie. You're sitting right there."

Rosemary's pulse throbbed more vigorously in her neck as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. She got up off the couch and headed toward the kitchen.

"Rosie," her husband called in a sincere tone.

Rosemary turned around to find her husband looking directly at her. _Wow, he's actually looking at me. Must be a commercial running on the TV_ , she thought. _Or maybe he did hear me?_

"Rosie," her husband repeated with a sincere expression on his face, tilting his head to one side with raised eyebrows.

Rosemary smiled and then headed back towards the couch.

"Yes, Rick?" she answered with a hopeful expression.

"Grab me another beer?"

Rosemary's heart sank with disappointment as she went to the kitchen and brought back a bottle of beer for Rick. "I'm going upstairs," she said, her tone colder than the beer she placed in front of her husband.

*****

Soaking in a steaming tub of water, Rosemary's thoughts drifted to the Chinese restaurant and the box the man had given her. The experience of her visit was still fresh in her mind, but her confidence in the Chinese dream catcher was waning. She knew it was silly to think a wish could come true just because it's written down, stuffed in a box and buried in a hole.

Rosemary picked the ornate box up off the bathtub ledge and held it up to the light. The vibrant hand painted colors came to life before her eyes as an electric tingle ran up her arm. The small tin chest evoked a powerful feeling in her mind that anything was possible, melting away any doubts that remained there.

Rosemary got dressed into a revealing nightgown and then sat at her dressing table. She spent the next hour brushing her hair and putting on makeup.

Taking one last look at herself in the mirror, she dabbed a few drops of perfume on her wrists and rubbed them together. "There, that should do," Rosemary said aloud, adding another drop of perfume to her neck, just to be sure.

She sat on the bed just as Rick came into the bedroom. He began to disrobe without even looking in her direction.

"Oh Rick," Rosemary cooed.

Rick let go of a thunderous belch. "What is it Rosie?" he asked, dropping his pants before crawling into bed.

Rosemary wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Look at me," she said.

Rick glanced in her direction. "What?"

"What do you mean, what? I got all dolled up for you," she replied.

"Oh that, yeah, you look nice," Rick replied with a forced smile and then rolled over with his back to her.

Rosemary's cheeks began to flush. "So I'm so disgusting you don't even want to have sex with me anymore Rick? Is that it?"

Rick didn't move. Instead, he let out a long sigh. "No, it's not that. It's just I'm tired and I got eight beers in me and..." he trailed off. "I'm just tired Rosie, that's all," he finished with a yawn.

Rosemary shook her head. "I'm tired too Rick. I'm tired of being in a loveless marriage," she explained as the tears began to well up inside her once again. "I'm tired of being at your beck and call. I'm tired of you always yelling at me, controlling me. I'm tired of your demands. 'Where's my dinner Rosie?' 'Dinner's cold Rosie.' 'You burnt it again Rosie.' 'Get me a beer Rosie.' I've had it Rick!"

A low rumbling snore erupted from Rick's throat. It rose in volume until Rosemary thought she heard the bedroom window rattle in its jamb.

"Ugh!" she growled. "That's it. It's time I do something about it."

_It might be silly_ , she thought. _But I'm going to do it. I'm going to make my wish._

She rose from the mattress with a confident nod. _It's not like I have anything to lose._

Rosemary changed into sweats and a t-shirt before going downstairs. She took one more look at the shiny metal box in her hand. The silver blue streaks glowed in the darkness of the kitchen.

Rosemary shivered. The tingle running up her spine found the base of her neck, making the hair there stand on end. She grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from the entryway table, slipped the box into her jacket pocket, and then headed to the garage for a spade.

The night air was crisp as she walked across the lawn towards the back end of the yard, dragging the spade behind her through the dew-laden grass. The droplets sparkled, reflecting the high powered beam coming from the yard light behind her.

Rosemary dropped to her knees at the edge of the lot where her and Cheryl's property line met. Her right knee landed in something soft as the smell of fresh dog shit filled her nose.

Rosemary fumed. _I wish that dog would just go away_ , she thought, shaking her head. _Or maybe its owner will._

Rosemary lined up the spade and aimed it with shaking hands. "First, dig a hole," she yelled through clenched teeth and then pushed the tip deep into the soft soil with a grunt. The damp sod gave way easily, as Rosemary tipped the handle and pulled the spade out, leaving a melon sized hole in the lawn. She took out two more scoops to be sure the hole was big enough and then let the spade drop to the ground.

"Next, write your heart's desire onto a piece of paper," she recited retrieving the pen and paper from her pocket with dirty hands. Rosemary turned towards the light. She placed the paper in her left palm and began to scribble with her right hand. Remembering to sign it, she folded the note and tucked it neatly into the tin box before snapping it shut and dropping it into the hole.

A fierce wind picked up as Rosemary finished burying the box, patting it down with both palms. "There," she said, standing up.

A twig snapped in Cheryl's yard.

Rosemary stiffened as she peered ahead.

"Hi Rosemary!" her neighbor called from the shadows.

"Oh Cheryl, you scared me," Rosemary replied with a hand over her heart. "What are you doing out here in the dark?"

"I saw your yard light come on. Then I saw you through the window, out here with a spade, and couldn't help myself. I figured you either finally did it, you know, killed the oaf and now you're burying him in the back yard or..." She trailed off for a moment before continuing. "...you were making your wish."

Cheryl's dog ran up to Rosemary and began tugging on her pant leg. She kicked out sideways trying to detach herself from the jaws of Fluffy, a poodle of the tea cup variety.

"Either way, it's none of your business and can you please keep your dog in your own yard?" Rosemary asked, still holding her leg out to the side and levitating Fluffy off the ground. The dog finally let go his death grip and dropped to the ground before running back to the house.

"You're not going to tell me what you wished for?" Cheryl asked.

"Good night Cheryl," Rosemary replied and turned to go back to the house. She dropped the spade inside the garage and then after a thorough washing up, went straight to bed.

*****

Rosemary awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. Neither the events from the day before, nor Rick's snoring kept her from getting a sound night's sleep. She sat up in bed as the smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon filled her nostrils.

Rose wrinkled her forehead and then twisted her lips together in contemplation. _What the hell is going on?_ she thought.

The bedroom door slowly swung open to reveal Rick carrying a tray of dishes.

"What on earth?" Rosemary asked.

Rick set the tray onto the bed. "It's breakfast in bed," he said, smiling.

"Since when have you ever cooked anything for me Rick?"

"Well, I was thinking about what you said last night and, well I thought it would be a nice gesture." He leaned in and kissed Rosemary on the forehead.

Rosemary settled into the mattress and smiled. "It was sweet of you," she replied.

Rick looked her in the eye, holding a serious expression. "I love you, Rosie."

"I love you too," Rosemary replied through a mouthful of toast.

"Oh, and Jim called this morning. I think my luck's changing Rosie. It looks like I might be getting that promotion after all." Rick explained with wide eyes. "I'm going to be gone for a few days. The new equipment is in at the home office, so I need to go down there for training. Should only be a day or two."

Rosemary finished her breakfast and headed downstairs. She found Rick in the kitchen with packed bag in hand, getting ready to leave.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" Rosemary asked, glancing around the kitchen at the lack of dirty dishes. Even the frying pans had been washed, dried, and put in their proper place.

"Yes, I'm fine," Rick assured her, and then smiled.

"I don't know if I've ever seen you look so happy," Rosemary replied.

Rick moved closer and kissed her on the lips. He embraced her with both arms. "Are you going to be okay here for a few days by yourself?" he asked, pulling away to look her in the eye.

"I'll be fine. It's good to see you looking so happy, Rick."

"Thanks, Rosie," he said, still smiling. "Okay, I better get going then. See you in a few days." Rick gave her a peck on the cheek and headed out the door.

By the time the truck pulled out of the driveway Rosemary had flopped down into one of the kitchen chairs. She let out a long sigh. _Well that was a pleasant way to wake up_ , she thought. _Maybe my wish is coming true._

Rosemary suddenly laughed out loud.

Silly, she thought to herself, shaking her head slowly.

She got up off the chair and peered through the window into the back yard.

There was still a chunk of turf standing off to one side of the freshly dug hole from the night before, but the dirt Rosemary had patted down was now raised above the lawn in an obvious mound. Rising from the small dirt mound was a bush.

Rosemary sucked in a breath. "What the Hell?" She said out loud. _Someone has been messing with my hole._

Rosemary ran out of the house and into the back yard, her gaze trained on the intrusive shrub. It was growing right before her eyes as she got closer, and by the time she made it across the lawn it had bloomed altogether, sending out an array of the most beautiful purple roses.

Rosemary stared in disbelief for several minutes as the rose bush continued to explode with new blossoms, their rich lavender hues coming to life in a blaze of color. She bent over and inspected the nearest rose more closely. The intoxicating sweet aroma of the flower filled her nostrils and enveloped her senses. She reached out and ran her finger along the satin edges of its outer ring of petals.

Rosemary breathed in deeply. _What a beautiful rose bush_ , she thought.

Small drops of water suddenly appeared along the top of each rose, forcing the flowers to bow from the weight. As they bent like monks in prayer, the drops of liquid rained from the bush, splattering the ground at Rosemary's feet.

Movement behind the bush caught Rosemary's eye and she turned to get a better look. It was Cheryl about to get into her car.

"Cheryl!" Rosemary called, waving. "Cheryl!" she repeated, finally getting her attention. Before Cheryl had made it half way across the back yard Rosemary began interrogating her.

"Did you plant this here?" she asked, pointing to the weeping rose bush.

Cheryl shook her head. "No, didn't you? Listen, Rose, have you seen Fluffy? I can't find him anywhere."

"No, I planted a Chinese dream catcher, not a rose bush. And no, I haven't seen Fluffy."

"Speaking of dream catchers," Cheryl paused a moment. "Has your wish come true yet?"

"No, not yet. Although Rick was in a rare good mood this morning, and he's going to be gone for a few days, so maybe it's working." Rosemary smiled thoughtfully. _Not to mention your dog is missing_. Rosemary tilted her head to one side. _It's turning out to be a pretty good day, really_.

"Well enjoy your quiet time, I need to find Fluffy." Cheryl explained.

_This really is turning out to be a great day_ , Rosemary thought, turning her attention back to the rose bush at her feet. She had a sudden urge, as she watched the blossom's layers unfurl before her eyes.

She just had to paint it.

Rosemary jogged back to her house and threw the door open. She pulled her easel out of the basement storage closet and fished a few tubes of paint from the trash can. Rosemary looked out of the window as she gathered her things and noticed another rose bush, identical to the first, had erupted from the lawn.

She sucked in a breath. _Now there are two?_ Rosemary thought, hurrying to where both bushes sprung from the lawn. She sat down, set up her easel and began to paint. She painted like never before. Like a savant in a trance, she went on uninterrupted with meaningful broad strokes. She matched the colors and detail perfectly and after several hours of non-stop painting, Rosemary had finished an exact replica of the two rose bushes.

She leaned back, admiring the painting. It was better than anything she had ever painted before. Rosemary would never have thought her paint-speckled fingers could produce such a fine piece of work.

_I need more supplies_ , she thought, not able to fight off the urge to keep painting. She grabbed her keys and drove into town, heading straight for the art supply store.

The store was just down the road from the Chinese restaurant, tucked between a coin laundry and a struggling coffee shop. Rosemary glanced through her car window and a splash of color caught her eye. There on the sidewalk, basking in the sunshine in front of a small shop, was another rose bush.

Rosemary slammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt.

_What the hell? Another one?_ she thought, through labored breathing and an incredible urge to take it home with her.

Rosemary parked the car and then walked back to the potted rose bush. She found herself standing in front of a wind-torn canvas canopy, perched above a wooden door in need of fresh paint. The only visible signage was a small symbol, carved by skilled hands into the red-oak header above the door.

The store front sent an eerie feeling through Rosemary's bones. She nervously pressed a fingernail into her lower lip before grasping the patina door handle. With wrinkled brow and white knuckles, she twisted the cold metal knob.

The latch gave way to a rigorous jingling from a cluster of bells that hung above the door, echoing inside Rosemary's ears as she entered the petite emporium. Her senses came to life with the sweet smell of tea leaves and incense as the door of the small shop slammed shut behind her.

Rosemary jumped. "Jeez," she said aloud, then glanced behind her with a frown as if to scold the paint peeled jamb for such a raucous reunion with its mate.

As her eyes began to adjust, Rosemary took in her surroundings.

It was a small room decorated with rich Chinese décor. Lanterns hung from the ceiling like giant pumpkins and several paintings depicting a Chinese landscape littered the walls.

"Hello, can I help you?" an Asian gentleman in silk robes asked from behind the counter. Rosemary recognized him right away as the man from the restaurant the day before.

"Yes, well, I hope so. I was wondering if you sell those rose bushes like the one out in front of your store?" Rosemary asked, pointing in the direction of the door.

"I'm sorry, but I only have the one. It has been in my family for many generations." The Chinese man's eyes lit up as he recognized Rosemary from the restaurant. "Ah, it's you. Did you make your wish yet?"

"Yes," Rosemary nodded. "Now I wish I could get my hands on more of those rose bushes."

The Chinese man's face grew solemn. "You want _more_ of them?" he asked. "Which means you already have one?"

"Actually I have two in my yard, and I just love them."

"Oh, this very bad omen. Yes, very bad."

"Why do you say that?"

The Chinese man held up a thin index finger as he slowly began to explain. "When a rose bush like that one grows, it means your wish has already come true, but it also means something very bad is going to happen."

Rosemary felt her heart leap in her chest. "Like what?" she asked apprehensively.

The shop owner shrugged. "Don't know, but beneath each bush there lies a dream catcher. Dig them up and maybe you will find out."

*****

Rosemary raced home and ran to the bushes in the back yard. Falling to her knees, she dug into the soft soil with her hands and wrenched out the second rose bush that bloomed that day. She found the small box and fished it out of the hole before opening the lid. Rosemary dug out the piece of paper she found inside and felt a lump swell in her throat as she read the wish.

_What the hell?_ she thought, standing up. "Cheryl!" Rosemary yelled as loud as she could, running towards her neighbor's house. She climbed the front steps and began to beat on the door, slapping it hard with her dirty palm, leaving smudges on the white paint. "Cheryl! I need to talk to you about this!" she yelled, still holding the crumpled piece of paper in her other hand.

Rosemary descended the steps and walked around the rear of Cheryl's home, trying to peek in the windows. As she made the corner, Rosemary almost tripped over a rose bush, identical to the two in her yard. She stared down at her feet feeling the anxiety creep into her chest. _There's another one?_

Rosemary wasted no time. She bent down and began pulling on the bush, loosening its grip on the soil. She thrashed at the tall stems in a panic as the thorns tore at her forearms. Finding the box hiding below, Rosemary pulled it from its hole. She opened the lid and pulled the scrap of paper from inside. As she read the crumpled note, Rosemary swallowed hard, her features screwed up in a confused expression.

*****

"Woo!" Rosemary yelled from behind the counter as she dropped three soiled scraps of paper onto the display case in front of her. "What have you done?"

Woo came around the corner with a look of surprise. He scanned the notes, one at a time, then nodded slowly. "Ah, you see. All three wishes are about the same person. You all made same wish. Very bad omen."

*****

"Mayday, mayday," the captain repeated, yelling over the sound of screams echoing through the small cabin of the charter aircraft. "Birds ripped through our engines. We have lost power and are attempting an emergency landing. I say again, this is Papa, Yankee, Whiskey, one-niner. Mayday," the captain spat into the radio. He gripped the yoke with white knuckles, trying to maintain control of the airplane, but knew it was futile.

Rick reached across his seat and gripped Cheryl's hand tightly. They stared into each other's fear-filled eyes in a panic as the aircraft gained speed and tipped downward. The two held each other in a final embrace as the plane crashed into the mountainside, completely entombing itself in a landslide of wind-worn rock and stone.

*****

Rosemary allowed her gaze to drift across the hand written wishes in front of her. She read them again, one at a time in the dim light of the shop. The first was Rick's that had been buried next to hers in the back yard.

'I wish I could leave Rosemary and be with Cheryl for eternity.'

Next was Cheryl's wish.

'I wish Rick would leave his wife so we could share our love together for infinity.'

Finally, Rosemary read her own wish.

'I wish Rick would just go away and leave me alone forever.'

Woo made eye contact with Rosemary. "Yes, very bad omen when three wishes are so close to the same. The forces beyond us that controls our fate gets confused, you see?" Woo explained with an apologetic smile. "But at least everyone's wish came true."

Rosemary stood quietly in thoughtful contemplation. After several moments she lifted her head high and confidently stood up straight.

"Are you going to be okay Miss Rosemary?" the Chinese gentleman asked.

Rosemary slowly nodded, a new sense of purpose filling her eyes. "I think so Mr. Woo. My asshole husband just ran off with my annoying bitch of a neighbor; and I think this is the best I've felt in a long time."

"What are you going to do?" Woo asked with a wrinkled brow.

"I think I'll go and buy some art supplies," Rosemary replied with a nod, as though coming to a conclusion. "I have some painting to catch up on."

### About S.E. Meyer

Self-employed author and researcher, S.E. Meyer lives in the Chippewa Valley of western Wisconsin. Meyer enjoys gardening, campfires, traveling, fishing and anything to do with the outdoors. Additional hobbies include reading non-fiction and fiction as well as spending hundreds of hours thoroughly researching the multifaceted topics in his books.

### Links

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# Just Another Hole in the Wall _by_ Rebecca Bryn

The girl has long blonde hair and a pretty smile. She opens the green faux-leather book at a page and reads. 'Maggie's Journal. Saturday April 26th: The blackthorn hangs heavy and snow-white with blossom. Primroses and wood anemones peep shyly from beneath the damp debris of autumn and, today, I saw the first orange-tip butterfly of the year. On the footpath above the valley, red admirals, peacocks and small tortoiseshells cavort with the lamb-jumping joy that only spring sunshine can evoke. Lacy ferns uncurl their tight fingers to reach for my passing hand. Today is a good day.' She smiles. 'See, Maggie? Today is a good day.'

In the questioning silence, the memory of my home above the valley fades and the walls close in around me: a faintly-disturbing green that is neither the fresh youth of spring nor the heavy maturity of summer. I frown. 'The swallows are late. Last year they were here on April the first. Have you seen a swallow yet?'

'The swallows left last week, Maggie. You remarked on them gathering on the wires outside the window.'

Did I? I feel foolish, annoyed with myself for forgetting summer is almost over. 'What happened to spring?'

The girl laughs. 'You are a one, Maggie.' She looks at her watch. 'Tea and a biscuit?'

My stomach rumbles. 'Did I have lunch?'

'Yes. Shepherd's pie. Your favourite.'

'The cabbage was overcooked. I hate overcooked cabbage... the smell hangs...' I didn't use to complain but, when my world shrank to these four walls and this one of many anonymous faces with varied conversational abilities, cabbage, the cooking to perfection of, becomes the centre-point of one's day.

The girl puts the book down and I pick it up. Thoughts may migrate through my mind like the missing swallows, too fast for me to write them down anymore, but I can still read.

Sunday April 27th Saw a... bird... reddish chest... white flashes in its wings. Why can't I remember what it's called? Some days, my mind is like Swiss cheese... or a colander, or a dry-stone wall with all those little crevices and holes, where things lurk and hide and die unheard and forgotten, unless a worm or a nosey stoat brings them back up to the light of day.

What was it called, the bird? Not a bullfinch. A chaffinch! I raise my head higher at the small victory of remembering. Chaffinches are common here, but back when we lived in the old house, they were rare and it was house sparrows that were common. Simon used to feed the birds. I can see him now, throwing seed and breadcrumbs. I take a deep breath as if I can breathe in the memory, the smell of him, the warmth of him, the silky-soft hair on the back of his neck, and let it fill me and nurture my damaged mind. Odd how these memories are so strong. How it's so much easier to lose oneself in the past, to relive the lost moments and make them real again.

The unnatural-green walls fade and I'm thirteen again. He's walking up the steps from the girls' playground towards the science block. He's tall and dark: serious but good-looking. Mum says he looks like Cliff Richard. He looks back over his shoulder at me and smiles. I smile back, flick my sun-bleached pony-tail and my heart misses a beat. A week later he asks me out. Of course I say yes. One's life changes forever on the toss of a coin, a left or a right, a yes or a no... a gamble. I never did know my left from my right, or know how to say no. I didn't know this was the gamble of a lifetime.

The rattle of a tea-trolley and the walls are back. A badly-painted landscape hangs crookedly on the disturbing walls: I'd straighten it if my knees would let me. China cups and saucers. A large catering teapot. Plates of biscuits and ginger cake. Didn't we have chocolate cake yesterday? Or was that the day before?

'Tea, Maggie?'

I nod and smile.

A cup slops tea onto the table beside me.

'Biscuit or cake?'

My stomach grumbles again. 'Did I have lunch?'

'Yes, Maggie. Shepherds' Pie, remember? You had two helpings.'

'I'll have the cake.' The cake is a bit on the dry side and the tea is too milky. The trolley moves on. The ginger cake is popular. Connie take two slices. I should have taken two while they were there, to make up for missing lunch. Back to my journal. It's better than staring at the crooked landscape.

Monday April 28th Chaffinch. Why couldn't I think of that yesterday? I shall know next time, because I've written it down, now. I had to look up the names of the butterflies I saw on... Saturday to tell John.

Tuesday April 29th Saw an otter on the river bank. I daren't tell John I got lost on my way home or he won't let me out by myself, again. He worries about me. He says I have a mind like a sieve. I followed the stream and lost my bearings: went the wrong way, that's all. But I'll carry my mobile with me in future, just in case.

Wednesday April 30th I think I'm going doolally. I know I shut the windows before I went shopping. I know I did.

Thursday May 1st I think it's May 1st when the first thing you say in the morning isn't 'white rabbits'. My grandmother told me that when I was about five - 'The first thing you should say on the first of the month is white rabbits, except on the first of May.' Funny the things you never forget. I wonder what you are supposed to say, today?

Friday May 2nd Sue's birthday. See, my memory isn't so bad. Except I forgot to post her card. I'll phone her when I get back from the doctor's. Not looking forward to what he might say.

Saturday May 10th The doctor suspects I may have the beginnings of Alzheimer's. I'm not entirely surprised: it's why I started a journal about a year ago. It will remind me about my life, in case I forget. It's a terrifying prospect, forgetting who you are. Still not sure I'm coming to terms with it. Dead-headed the daffodils. No frog spawn in the pond yet but I saw five young frogs. Must be last year's. The polecat had the adults last autumn.

Sunday May 11th John and Millie have been talking. They think I don't know what they're saying. I know they're worried about me... about the future. I told them to put me in a home and get on with their lives when I don't know them anymore. Millie cried. John went out to his shed. This wretched disease is already ruining our lives. Note to self: John is my husband. Millie is my daughter. God, now the page is all wet. I hate this.

Who wrote this rubbish? John isn't my husband. I'm married to Simon. I was nineteen and he was twenty-one. I'm so happy, so proud. We have two boys and a lovely home, a stone cottage with roses. Garth and... Garth and... blue eyes, like Simon... but blonde. Where did he get his blonde hair? What is his damn name? The scent of the roses fades to be replaced by the stench of overcooked cabbage and I grieve the loss of my memory all over again. How can I forget the name of my own son? Why hasn't Simon come to see me? I turn a page. My son will be here; Simon will be here, somewhere, along with the answers to all my questions. I wish I could rewind and replay...

Monday May 12th Glorious sunny day. We've bought a small canal boat and have moored it near Brecon. It's something we've wanted to do for a long while and if we don't do it now, it may be too late. The medication seems to help a bit. We may have a year or so... maybe more. If Penelope wassername and Timothy White can do it. Or was Timothy White a menswear shop back in Northampton in the sixties, and Scales... but not Penelope? Damn – another hole in the bloody wall for my life to disappear into.

The boat, yes. She's a Wilderness Beaver, made in 1989, and we call her Afanc: it's Welsh for beaver. The planks of the staging reflect in her newly-polished sides. Ducklings are swimming past, all brown and yellow and fluffy dabbling their bills in the canal. I can see the reflections of alder trees leaning across the shimmering water, and hear the low putter of engines and the bleating of lambs, but I can't picture Simon and the boys there. Prunella, wasn't it? Scales? And East... or was it West? And I don't have a daughter.

'Nurse... nurse...' Girls walk past but none of them pay attention to me. One of them must work here. 'Nurse...' A wet warmth spreads between my thighs and tears prick my eyes. Too late now for anything but the pitying smiles of the nurses, the wrinkled noses of the more sensitive visitors, and the humiliation of not being able to change my own pants. It's the buttons and zips... my fingers don't seem to know how to do them anymore. I do try... Maybe no-one will notice. I flip some pages. The one I stop at is fingered and creased, the writing blotched and smudged.

Sunday September 3rd The leaves are beginning to turn yellow and gold. Wasp-ripe plums hang from the trees in abundance. I shall make a plum pie, and bottle some like Gran used to. I used to love looking in her store cupboard and seeing all the jars of jam and bottles of apple, pear, plum and greengage. I always feel slightly sad at the turning of the year. It's like a loss of youth and an impending downward spiral into the anonymity of old age. I must write down the things that matter, about the people who matter, while I'm still able. Simon and the boys, Garth and Jake. I love them so much it hurts, but they're gone now and the pain is unbearable. Shock can cause the onset of this awful disease, apparently. Maybe it was the fire and losing them that did it. I must never forget my beautiful twins.

The fire... my heart breaks yet again. Why did I have to write this down? Why couldn't I have let myself forget them? But Simon survived, even if he couldn't save our sons. Not his fault. Where is Simon? Why doesn't he come?

The blonde girl sniffs accusingly. 'Have you had another accident?'

What's she talking about?

'Let's get you a change of clothes, shall we?'

Now the humiliation of the hoist, strapped to something that looks like a trebuchet. Maybe they'll wind the handle and twist the ropes tight, and catapult me through the window and out into the fresh, clean air away from all this. I'm lifted, swung round towards a wheelchair, lowered and pushed along a corridor to my room... my cell. A nurse pulls and pushes at my trousers while I watch the face in the mirror. I smile and the ravaged face smiles back. Who is that woman, that shell of a human being? What good is she anymore? I've always been an advocate of voluntary euthanasia... Now would be a good time except I need to speak to Simon.

I'm made acceptable for human company and wheeled back to the long room with the picture windows and offensive not-the-right-green walls: back to my chair. To sit somewhere else would cause consternation amongst the other unfortunates. We're creatures of habit, you see, and our own bit of familiar world is precious to us. I can't remember the name of man on my left, who stares through the window all day every day and never speaks, or the woman to my right who repeats herself with mind-numbing regularity. She's rabbiting on about her daughter, Judy, whose husband is big in electronics. The girl picks up my journal and places it in my lap, patting my arm as she does so as if I'm a dog. I almost expect her to say _there's a good girl - stay_ and throw me a biscuit.

I close my eyes and let the walls fade from my mind. The sound of rustling trees and the babble of the stream near my home fill my head and I breathe in the warm smells of the earth. Simon is there. We're at the old house. He's there with Roxy Mitchell, from Eastenders, and loads of children. How do they find the space for so many? I'm not going to let the bitch get away with stealing my man.

'The children can stay...' They're innocents in this.

'What about the baby,' a small girl says.

'He can stay, too.' My voice is reassuring. 'Your mum's done nothing wrong.'

Ronnie Mitchell smiles, half in thanks and half an apology for her sister. 'Simon's upstairs with Roxy.'

I climb the stairs as if going up a ladder to the scaffold. Roxy backs away in the face of my anger. How can I compete with her long blonde curls? Simon turns to face me. He looks so lost.

My heart disintegrates, as it does every time I see him. 'I love you more than anything in the world. I always have and I always will.'

Simon smiles gently. 'Perhaps, not always.'

A prick of guilt: I could have shown him how much I loved him and none of this would have happened. Too late for regret, now. 'Yes, always, whatever you may think. I want you to be happy, Simon.'

He looks at Roxy with love-sick, buying her sugar mice and playing their song, eyes. 'I am happy.'

Part of me wants to scream _but I'm not_. I can't bear to cut the ties that bind me to him. 'You'll come back and see me sometimes.'

'I will.'

I move closer and rest my head against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. I breathe him in, luxuriate in having his strong arms around me, a moment that has to last a lifetime. 'And if it doesn't work out... you'll come home.'

'I promise.'

It was all I'd wanted to say... all I wanted to hear. I can die happy, knowing he knows I still love him. That we didn't part on acrimonious terms. I don't ever want to move from his embrace.

A shrill voice destroys the moment. 'My daughter Judy's husband, George, is head of Elect-Euronics Inc in Brussels, you know.'

I open my eyes. The old house is gone, and Simon, Roxy and all the children with it. I feel for a tissue to blow my nose. Why Roxy Mitchell of all people? Odd things, dreams. The feeling of loss lingers, an emptiness that is more than hunger. Hunger can be satisfied.

Supper is ham and salad with chips. Judy's mother sits opposite me at a table for four. If she goes on about George I may lump her one on the nose. We reach for the salt at the same time. Normally, I'd pull back and let her go first but this evening I'm feeling fractious. She has grey hair, dyed blonde, and her pink lipstick reminds me of Roxy. I close my fingers round the salt pot and grip it hard. I get a certain satisfaction from seeing the look of surprise on her face as she draws back her hand. I take my time over carefully applying more salt than I would usually need to places that I've never felt the need to add salt to before. Connie... her name's Connie, is brimming with impatience. I suppose her salad's getting cold?

Dessert is caramel cheesecake. I grab the last slice for seconds. Thingy opposite doesn't seem pleased. Do I care? I think she's messed herself... or is it me?

No, it's her turn for the trebuchet. With luck and a fair wind she could make it all the way to the river.

'You have a visitor.' The girl with blond hair smiles as she wheels thingy away to her doom.

A man and a young woman sit beside me.

'Simon?'

The man's face crumples. I've said the wrong thing? 'It's John, Maggie.' He waits, and his face rearranges itself, anxiously expectant, but I can't get Simon's name out of my head.

It's as if my lips are pre-programmed. 'Simon. My husband.' Who's John?

'It's Dad. You must remember, Mum.'

Mum?

The girl's eyes search mine, though what she's looking for, what she's finding there... 'It's Millie... your daughter. Please say you remember.'

'I don't have a daughter. I have twin sons.'

'Oh, Mum.'

'Where's Simon?'

John rubs a hand across his forehead. The gesture is familiar, as is the face, vaguely. 'Maggie, please try to remember.'

'John?'

His face lights. 'Yes, John. Your husband. This is our daughter, Millie.'

I reach out to touch Millie's cheek. Soft like down. 'You're very pretty.'

Millie smiles. 'They say I look like you, Mum. You do know me, don't you?'

I smile and nod. It seems to appease them. I've no idea who they are. Who did they say they were? It's gone, like the caramel cheesecake. Just another hole in the wall. I wish I could have another slice. 'Where's Simon? Is he bringing the twins?'

The man takes my hand in his. His face is wet. He raises my hand to his lips and kisses it. 'Do you need anything, Maggie?'

'Only Simon.'

He nods as if he understands, but how can he? 'Simon can't come, today. I'm here instead.'

The young woman is shaking her head. 'I can't do this, Dad. You have to tell her.'

'I can't.' He lowers his voice, but I'm senile not deaf. 'It'll break her heart.'

Tell me what?

'Simon left you, Mum. Years ago, after the fire. You met Dad and got married again after the divorce. You had me. Mum, you have to remember, please. We can't keep doing this. Simon isn't coming. Not ever.'

But he promised, didn't he? The words are there on the tip of my tongue and I can't stop them. 'But he promised.'

The woman is angry now. 'He divorced you. He doesn't love you anymore.'

'Millie, for God's sake.' Now the man is angry. 'This isn't your mum's fault. She can't help it. It's this damn disease.'

The woman wipes away a tear. 'I know. I'm sorry... it's just... so damned hard.'

There's something pulling at my heart. Something I need to know. I can't bear the empty pain, the unfinished conversation. The things I should have said. 'Where's Simon? When's he coming? There's something I need to tell him. Something I didn't say.'

The man squeezes my hand. 'I'll ask him to come, Maggie. I'll see you at the weekend, as usual. Okay?'

As if I have a say in anything. Holding onto the salt pot was my one small achievement for the day. They leave. They didn't stay long. I don't get visitors. Who did they say they were?

I return to the journal. It's someone's life, but I'm not sure whose. It falls open at a page.

February 29th Our wedding anniversary. Simon laughs about only having to remember it once every four years. We'd have been married twenty years. The boys would have been eighteen this year. I wonder what they'd have been like. Handsome like Simon, I expect. They'd have girlfriends, maybe going to university, now, their lives ahead of them. I shouldn't dwell on the past, but it's hard not to. I thank God daily for John, and the gift of Millie. How would I have survived without them? Millie's fourteen in a couple of weeks. She wants a pony. Takes after her mother.

I'd forgotten the pony. Sunset... a glorious chestnut. Sweet-natured thing. Was that John and Millie who just left? Why didn't they stay longer? I expect they're busy. Millie's grown into a beautiful young woman. How old is she now? I try to count the years but they evade me.

'My daughter Judy's husband is head of department in a big electronics firm.'

'My daughter, Millie, is studying genetic medicine at...' The name of the university escapes me. Another thing to disappear into a hole in the wall along with Millie's age. Why didn't she and John stay longer? 'Have we had supper?'

'You should know.' Her voice is sharp with resentment. 'You ate the last slice of cheesecake.'

'What cheesecake?'

'The one at supper.' Her voices rises and rasps in my ear. 'It was my slice.'

The salt pot wasn't my only achievement then.

_February_ \- crossed out. _March 18th The daffodils are glorious. My favourite flower, and yellow is my favourite colour. It's cold though... looks like snow._

Why do they insist on playing old-time swing music when most of us were sixties' rock chicks and even the oldest amongst us would prefer Bill Haley and the Comets, and Rock Around the Clock?

Millie and John have gone to feed Sunset and check her rugs. She's not a young pony and needs looking after. I must go and put dinner on. They'll be hungry and perished when they get in. Note to self: John's favourite meal is roast beef and Yorkshire pud. The recipe for the pud is in the Oxo Book of Meat Cookery. Bottom shelf, right-hand side. Millie likes Toad in the Hole. I've had that book since I was fifteen. It's worn and well-thumbed, like me. Where have the years gone?

Gone, like the shards of my mind, into that hole in the bloody wall along with Millie's toad. I wonder what toad tastes like? Some days I realise what I'm losing, piece by painful piece... those aren't the good days, like they tell me they are: the days when I remember who I am. The good days are when I don't know what I've lost. When I'm happy to stare at the walls that are a particularly horrible shade of... that colour, and the wonky picture of... fields and things. 'Did we have supper?'

'George is a big cheese in a huge electronics firm... you know, computers and things. He's very clever... Judy says...'

I shut her out. Is today Monday? Not that it matters, one day is much like another, except maybe at the weekend Simon will come.

Note to self: I mustn't forget them, any of them. Simon, Garth and Luke may not be here anymore but we were a family once and we were happy. Life doesn't always play out as you expect. You have to grab each day and run with it, make it count. Not waste a second of it. Tomorrow may not come. John and Millie are my family, now. I always wanted a little girl, a sister for Luke and... Luke and... dammit, dammit, dammit. I'm losing them, aren't I? But I wrote it down. I must have written it down. Garth... Phew! I have photos of them I must keep safe: the boys at the park. Simon and me on our wedding day. The twins' christening. No, the photos were lost in the fire. I have to keep their faces in my head. I must. I must. Fair hair, blue eyes, cherubic smiles and plump cheeks. His name's Jake, not Luke. Jake and Garth. Oh God, please don't let me forget them.

'Is John coming today, Maggie?' The girl with the blonde hair puts a cup on the little table at my side. I knew her name yesterday. She's Polish. 'And your daughter?'

I look up blankly. What's she talking about? 'Is it Monday?'

'No, Maggie. It's Saturday. John comes on Saturdays.'

'Is Simon coming?'

She tilts her head to one side like a little bird. 'Who's Simon?'

'He's...' I concentrate on his face. 'He's my husband and I have to tell him I love him while I still can.' I should have told him years ago. I need him to know. I shouldn't have let him run off with Roxy Mitchell.

'I thought you were married to John.'

A man walks through the door. I know him, don't I? A nurse looks my way and points in my direction. 'Maggie?'

His voice sends shivers down my spine and makes my heart race. 'It's you. It is you. You came.' I want to feel his arms around me, just once more before I die. 'Simon... I...'

He raises his eyebrows. 'John said you might not know me. He said you wanted to tell me something.' He looks uncomfortable. 'How are you?'

I pat the chair beside me. 'It's been so long. I wanted to tell you... I need to tell you...'

'What, Maggie?' His voice is gentle but his eyes seem distant. He doesn't move to embrace me. 'What's so important?'

His coldness throws me. It isn't how I imagined it would be. 'I knew what it was. Wait... please wait. It's important. So very important. I can rest easy then, once you know.'

He nods and smiles. 'It's all right. Take your time.'

'I wanted to say... I needed to tell you...' My mind has gone blank. I said it in the dream, but the dream has faded and gone. I look up, suddenly confused and anxious. 'Who did you say you were?'

### About Rebecca Bryn

Rebecca lives on a small-holding in West Wales with her husband, rescue dog and a flock of sheep. A self-taught artist, she paints the stunning Pembrokeshire coast in watercolour and has worked in private collections worldwide. She began writing thrillers with a twist about ten years ago, and loves to write stories within stories about subjects that challenge her and get her blood racing: common themes are injustice, love, loss and forgiveness.

Contributing to charity anthologies is one way she can give something back to society and her readers whose reviews she appreciates very much.

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The Silence of the Stones

Touching the Wire

# Pin, Pot, A**e... and Friends _by_ Ian D Moore

Have you ever wondered where holes come from? Have you ever considered why they just seem to randomly appear? Psssssst! Lean a little closer, bring my cousin (your ear hole) a little nearer. I shouldn't tell you what I'm about to – I'd get proper filled-in if they knew.

You can call me what you like; there are many species of us holes. Me? I'm a Nomadic Hole – not fixed, you see. Let me educate you some... what do you say?

There are generation after generation of your kind that believe in the evolutionary scale, where definite times had definite effects. Bacteria evolving, early amoeba, jelly-like fish that began to grow legs, plant life that changed with the forming planet. The first primitive fish, animals, the dinosaurs and eventually early humans – I'd tell you what the missing link is, but that's for another story, and another time.

We inhabited this space rock you call Earth _long_ before you humans could even crawl, let alone walk upright. We have evolved you see, and adapted, splintered into our own hierarchy as the hands of time have moved ever forwards.

Ask a scientist why space is so black? That's because it's the inside of our creation, we were _born_ from the very place in which planet Earth floats.

In reality, my kind aren't so different from the human race. We have different roles, different places in space and time that are required to retain balance – equilibrium, if you prefer.

Take the common Pin Hole for instance... To some of your kind it's a useful appendage to the top of a needle (the eye), and without it, those coverings you adorn yourselves with wouldn't stay put. From another angle, the common Pin Hole can be a nightmare, appearing in a pressure pipe or in the support tyres on your vehicles perhaps. You'll find them in tea bags, in air filter systems and in places you wouldn't even think of – like the pores of your own skin. Teeny, tiny, minute holes that your race couldn't live without.

Are you with me yet?

Let's throw a curved ball in before I get down to the crux of it:

Black Holes.

Yup, those gigantic bottomless places in space that suck everything in. Places where the laws of the human race's conception of physics simply don't apply. Not that you guys can prove otherwise, since the nearest one is _still_ billions of light years from here.

They balance the forces of the humungous box that you refer to ignorantly as 'The Universe' – like that's all there is. Oh boy! You people are in for one hell of a surprise one day in the future – that is, if you can look after the planet long enough.

Those huge space vortexes have the best and worst of everything: _in_ balance, they have what matters _and_ what anti-matters. Excuse the humour – I don't get to communicate with humans too often. They are like huge cosmic toilet cleaners, getting rid of some of the rubbish and growing exponentially as they absorb it.

Does your head ache yet?

Ok, enough of the science stuff – let's get back to Earth and a few derivatives of my kind. Let me see, how about Pot Holes?

You wanna know a secret about Pot Holes?

Now, to my knowledge and understanding of your language, a Pot Hole is one of two things. You refer to the huge, deep and often dangerous holes you'll find in the side of craggy hills, or sometimes remote moorlands, as pot holes. They actually aren't. They're air holes, through which your planet breathes. What? You didn't know it was a living organism? Jeez, where have you been throughout your evolution?

I can see this is going to take some time.

Ok, we'll come back to that, maybe. Let's take a look at the standard Pot Hole for a while – give the old grey matter a rest, eh?

Pot holes come in various shapes, sizes and locations, but this is no coincidence... oh no, most certainly not! You see, sometimes these holes appear in certain places on purpose. Do you remember a little ways back I mentioned that we holes play a part in maintaining a certain degree of equilibrium? Well, we do.

You travel to work most days using the same road you always have and then one day, a hole appears, seemingly out of the blue. There was no previous indentation, no apparent debris – just a hole where a hole never used to be.

Now, you may think there is no reason for this, cursing it under your breath for the diversion you now have to take while the road crews repair it. What if I told you that hole may just have saved your life? It could have been me. As I touched upon, I'm a Nomadic Hole. Sort of a freelance Pot Hole – if you like. I/We have the power to move space and time although not on any great scale, (we leave that to the Universal Holes) but we can appear in the strangest of places at the drop of a hat. Why? I hear you ask...

In your universe, one of the fundamentals of life is balance. That means good and bad, light and dark, wet and dry—you get the idea. Specifically, what we do is balance life and death: without one there cannot be the other, in a way that keeps the balance, and vice versa. However, all things have a place in space/time; it has to be that way to maintain the equilibrium you see.

Our primary purpose as Nomadic Holes is to steer death away from those that are living, not least because it may not be their time just yet. We appear, the road gets closed, you take a different route – thus avoiding your otherwise head-on collision with The Reaper himself. Job done.

That's why, when they have filled the offending Nomadic Pot Hole in, it never is perfectly flat – because there was never _really_ a hole there to begin with, it just _looked_ like there was.

On the other hand, there are times when our roles are reversed and we have to intervene to... shall we say... give Death a helping hand. That's a little grim and not for the faint-of-heart but, sadly, a necessary part of my existence. Take the Bermuda Triangle for instance. No, it's not actually a triangle; it's just that the geographical location of the much wider Temporal Hole that encompasses it happens to cover three known points which, to humans, makes it triangular.

The 'Triangle' is one of, if not the oldest Temporal Holes on the planet. It's basically a void to nowhere into which planes, boats, even parachutists have wandered, never to be seen again. Inside that particular hole are the forces of both matter and anti-matter— the making of all things. You could say that everything that went into that hole is still there, except that it is now everything else.

Reckon you'll be needing a drink right about now, eh?

Ok, time out... what about something a little easier to digest? Let's try your everyday common or garden Sink Hole. These are relatively easy to explain since most of them have absolutely nothing to do with our particular symbiont species. Ahhh! I let that slip you see; now you're catching on.

Indeed, 'holes' as we are primarily referred to, despite our very distinctive variations, are in fact living in perfect symbiosis with the human race, not to mention every other living thing on the planet – including the planet. And you thought this was going to be simple, huh?

Anyway, I digress. Sink Holes. These are primarily a result of the ever changing environment, which has little to do with the myriad of life forms, but much more to do with the fact that planet Earth is still _evolving_. Us, you, the birds, fish and mammals, we're all just along for the ride. Some of these Sink Holes are manmade though; a result of decades of mining and of course, natural erosion.

You may be asking yourself: how come we haven't taken over the world? But think about it just for a minute. By existing as we are, we have purpose, just as humans do. We have our place here on this planet just as we do on other, shall we say... less hospitable planets.

This doesn't mean that we are ungoverned, far from it. We have a hierarchical structure just the same as humans do, with laws, rules and enforcement. Any hole, anywhere in your known universe and beyond, that breaks the laws of our kind is subject to severe penalty. I only have to think of the consequences and it makes me well-up with water.

You see all holes are graded. Just as I'm a Nomadic Hole, my heritage is Nomadic Holes and because I've been dutiful in my existence, I remain free to roam as long as my quota is met in the quest to retain balance. Now, were I to miss my quota or neglect my duties as a Nomadic Hole in the prevention of human death, or the instigation of it, then I'd be 'in a bit of a hole' – to use one of your phrases.

Punishment for those of us that break the rules ranges from an enforced reduction in size—we get filled in slightly, to the most severe punishment of all. That sends a ripple through my void, believe me. The elders of our kind, those that have been around since time before time, have the power to change our 'status' as it were. They can alter our paths of existence, and in doing so change our reasons for being holes.

The minor offenders are changed to manmade holes, things like bolt holes, windows, doors... that sort of thing. They become static you see; fixtures to solve a problem, like how to keep the wheels on your vehicle, or how to enter a dwelling... you get the idea – nuts and door frames. There are other types of fixed holes though, essential to the human race and again, there to serve a purpose. We know them as: Anatomical Reversible Self Ejection holes (ARSE) – the very mention of the name makes me contract!

You can imagine a lifetime of servitude, damned to being an Arse Hole, is a fate worse than filled-in for any self-respecting hole. It's not just humans, oh no... any living thing that eats and... well... poops, needs an assigned Arse Hole. These are taken from the less obedient of our kind, the creature or creation they are assigned to is determined by the severity of their crimes against equilibrium.

It could be that the offending hole hasn't saved lives that it was supposed to; it could equally be that souls due to depart this world were left to roam free, thus increasing the workload of the ever present Reaper. Still with me? I can almost feel the question undulating in your grey matter. Go on... I know you're itching to know.

"How come they are reversible holes?" asked Mick.

" _See, I knew you'd ask it. Hey, Mick... you might want to watch where you're putting that road drill buddy, that's going to hurt like a bitch if you drill through your foot!"_

"Shit! How the hell am I s'posed ta work with you jabberin' huh?" Mick asked.

" _Oh, and quit looking around like a lunatic, your buddies will think you've lost it... I'm in your mind, not next to you."_

"What, and I haven't already? You been jabberin' away for the last twenty minutes. Why you tellin' me all this stuff for?"

You'll see, soon enough... now... where were we?

"Arse 'oles!" Mick chuckled.

" _Ah yes, that. Well, that's really quite simple. You see, our kind exists in symbiont harmony with many different species. When it comes to humans – and certain other mammals, for the most part at least, the Arse Hole is a means to eject waste. What changed the perception of it was, shall we say... the human desire to insert objects into the same aperture and in that; your species is not alone."_

Mick smiled as he lined up the jackhammer.

" _In a nutshell, this is why it has to be reversible, to allow things to pass in... as well as out. There's a little more to the science and biological side to things but if all goes to plan, there will be time enough for a better explanation in the future. Keep looking as though you're working Mick, the gaffer is on the prowl."_

"You're gonna get me fired at this rate. How'm I s'posed to concentrate with you wafflin' in my 'ed, huh?"

" _Do your best Mick, you'll thank me for it later..."_

*****

"Oi Mick! How long is going to take you to hammer out that hole? You've been bashing away at it for the last hour and barely touched the surface. Crack on fella, eh? It'll be snap time before long." The foreman yelled.

"I'm on it, yeah."

"So how come you holes don't take over the world then, eh? If you're so smart and all powerful? Answer me that one!"

"What you say Mick?" asked the foreman, who looked at him quizzically.

"Ah sorry boss, not you... I was just thinkin' out loud is all."

"Are you feeling alright? You look a bit peaky, old son..."

"Yeah, I'm good. Jus' stuff on my mind is all," replied Mick, rapping his knuckles on his hard hat.

Mick took off his headgear and wiped his forearm across his brow, the perspiration dampening the thick hairs on his skin, slicking them almost flat. He looked at the foreman with a half-smile before casually replacing the safety helmet, set back slightly from his brow.

"I reckon the sun's getting to you, you know. Ok, another half hour then pack up for dinner," the foreman instructed.

"Gotcha, boss!" Mick said, apologetically.

" _That was close, I told you to make like you were working. So now you ask me why we don't take over the world... ok. But then, why would we need to? Since we have no sense of physical feeling, no ability to touch, no physical sense of reproduction and no requirement for food – at least not in the sense of most existing entities in this world, all we really need is a place to exist. If we holes only existed in space there would only be one of our species, since space is one infinite hole, with lots of things inside it. Are you with me?"_

"Infinite? How can that be? All things end..."

" _Not all things Mick... only the things that humans know about. Have a think about that while you jack-hammer that macadam."_

Mick shook his head, slightly confused at the concept of something not coming to a definite end. With thick arms braced and both huge, powerful hands gripping the 'T' style handles of the pneumatic hammer, he pulled back on the start lever and began to vibrate furiously as the hardened steel, spiked head battered its way into the Earth.

"Mick... Mickey! Oi, Miiiicckkk!" A hard-hatted labourer yelled.

"What... Wassup?" Mick asked.

"Chow time mate, are you comin'?"

"Yeah, I'll just make safe and pack up, be right there. You go on ahead, tea wi' three and a bacon 'n' egg Craig, yeah?"

"Thought it was your round today?"

"What day we on mate?" Mick asked.

"Today's Tuesday, Mick, you feelin' alright?"

"Ah, my round." Mick said dejectedly, "I wish people would stop askin' me if I'm feeling alright!"

Mick reached into the pocket of the thick, grime covered jeans he wore and pulled out a crumpled tenner.

"And I want the change this time!" He smiled.

"Yeah, yeah ok." Craig winked, before walking towards the row of shops on the other side of the site.

" _Oi Mick, yes, I'm still here inside your head. You best go get your snap now eh?"_

"I'm goin', I'm goin'. What are you, my mother?" he joked.

*****

Mick jiggled the heavy road drill to free the bit head from the ground, lifting the cumbersome piece of equipment before laying it to rest. He disconnected the high-pressure air line for safety reasons. After ensuring that the Battenberg safety barriers were in the correct positions surrounding the road works, he set the beacons flashing away merrily to warn the oncoming traffic. It was a very fast and busy stretch of road - despite the posted speed limit of 40mph. Mick took off his gloves and began to walk towards the small site hut to join his workmates for a bite to eat and a cuppa.

The road crew settled down for a break and awaited the return of the 'gofer' bearing sandwiches and drinks. Today, it was young Craig whose turn it had been to fetch the sandwiches from The Butty Bar café, a short walk away. It seemed to be taking some time. Mick slurped on his hot, sweet tea, from a mug that had seen many a building site since it was first fired. He laughed and joked with the other men; it was what they did on break times. There were debates about which football team would win the next game, which would be champions this season, and a general air of camaraderie between the road crew workers.

It was the blaring sirens that intruded on the usual site banter, criss-crossing over one another, and heard long before the high- revving of what sounded like a very well-tuned engine. All of them stood and stepped outside into the sunshine of the summer afternoon, looking for the culprit responsible for the commotion. Mick noticed Craig on the other side of the main road, distracted by someone asking him what the road works were for as he desperately tried to hang onto the numerous sandwiches and snacks.

Craig wasn't paying too much attention to the rising incident as he stepped off the curb to cross the road. A metallic blue, high powered BMW hurtled through the main street, the front tyre rapidly deflating after contact with the stone curb at speed.

Mick shouted a warning to Craig before making a run towards him, in front of the speeding driver now struggling to maintain control of the vehicle. The car slid sideways and began to lurch towards Craig but Mick was fast enough on his feet to dive into the youngster. The various snacks, drinks and sandwiches flew high into the air as Mick crashed into his colleague. The two men crashed to the ground, just out of the path of the out of control car which clipped the curb where, just a few minutes earlier, Mick had been drilling into the ground.

The car flipped and came down hard on its roof, flattening the pneumatic road drill and surrounding barriers as police cars screeched to a halt at the scene of the devastation. Mick stood, quickly turning to make sure that Craig was ok. After dusting themselves off, the two men stared in disbelief as the realisation of what had happened began to dawn upon them.

"Yuh, you saved my life Mick... you did." Craig babbled, still in shock.

"We were both lucky mucka, look at the mess. He's gotta be dead or at the very least, seriously 'urt. We should go and try to 'elp."

The police wasted no time in calling in the paramedics, and soon there was a sea of blue and red flashing lights, blocking the main road. Fire crews desperately tried to cut away parts of the wreckage to free the driver in the vain hope that he was still alive.

For Mick and Craig, their working day was over, chaperoned by the police to a waiting car for witness statements to be taken in great detail. Road Crash Investigation teams turned up, which backed the traffic up for miles. For the following five hours, diversion routes were utilised—to take the traffic away from the accident investigation scene, amid hordes of on-lookers.

The Site Foreman gave them permission to finish early once they were released by the police. Craig came and shook Mick's hand heartily, and thanked him for his actions—which had surely saved his life.

As Mick made it to his car, he sat for a few minutes in the driving seat, staring blankly through the windscreen.

" _Pssst! Mick, can you hear me still?"_

"Jeez, not you again! I'm guessing you 'saw' what happened?" Mick asked.

" _Yes, I saw it. Lucky you went for your snap when you did huh?"_

"Wait a minute... you knew didn't you? You knew it was going to happen... but how di..." The sentence trailed off as the bombshell revelation sank in.

" _Do you remember that I told you our purpose is to maintain balance, Mick? Equilibrium? Do you remember I said that we sometimes steer The Reaper away from those souls if it is not their time yet? Well, it wasn't your time then, but it was for the driver of the car. Goodbye Mick."_

### About Ian D. Moore

I have a condition, it's incurable, sometimes terminal but always eventful, yes, I'm a writer amongst other things.

I live and work in Selby, North Yorkshire but originally a Midlander, born in Sutton Coldfield, Birmingham, West Midlands.

At 44, I'm a father to two boys and a step-dad to a boy and girl, all of whom I love dearly. My first self-published work, Salby Damned, celebrates its 1st birthday on 20th August 2015. Alongside that, I have since helped to create You're Not Alone: An Indie Author Anthology which raises money Macmillan Cancer Support.

### Links

Salby Damned

 Ebook

 Paperback

You're Not Alone

 Ebook

# The Secret of Hagia Sophia _by_ Sarah Stuart

I should be in an office on Canary Wharf, where I've spent almost every weekday for thirteen years, and then dutifully visiting my family for Christmas. I'm not at work and I'm staying here until January, alone.

"Keep following the lollipop, and do remember I'm number _nine_."

Our guide to one of the most fabulous buildings in Istanbul waves an imperious hand. An hour from now, maximum, he'll be guiding another group and inflicting the same boring lecture on them.

You gather from that I dislike guides? Right. If I want to know something I can read a leaflet or Google when I get back to the hotel. This guide has already said the Hagia Sophia has the second biggest dome in Europe, or was it the world? Half the time he's drowned out by guide number five. Anyway, I cricked my neck admiring the way the dome seems to hover over the nave, sunlight reflecting on the floor. And I already knew the Hagia Sophia was a Greek Orthodox basilica and then an imperial mosque, until somebody or other decided it would trap more tourists as a museum.

I can see that the mosaics are wonderful colours and it's obvious what they represent. What I want to find, if I can remember the exact location, is a hole. Not any old hole: this one grants wishes if you put your thumb inside and twist it through the full three hundred and sixty degrees. That isn't easy.

You don't believe me? Consider the evidence. Last time I came to Istanbul I heard the story of the thumb hole from a couple equally intent on escaping their guide so they could wish for a grandson. Not having children, never mind married children, or offspring with partners, my wish was for a Kindle Fire. Surprised? No. Why would you be when you like reading books?

A Kindle Fire is exactly what Dad gave me for Christmas, with none of the usual nagging for a list of desirable gifts. That Christmas I didn't write a list. I sat in my flat talking to the family on the phone, ostentatiously praising my ancient Kindle that shows book covers in shades of grey. Sarah, a bored train commuter since university, wanted a Kindle Fire? No way.

There are a lot of columns inside Hagia Sophia. - It means The Shrine of The Holy of God, in English, if you were wondering. - I suppose they're there to hold the place up though they're carved like works of art, or most of them are. The one I'm looking for is fairly plain, probably because it isn't on view and never would have been sought out by any but the nosiest worshippers, Christian or Muslim.

Oh glory! I hope that guide can't count. A lot more people have heard about the Wishing Column: there's a queue, a long winding queue, and no way am I going to be walking out of the exit when guide number nine expects me to leave.

How shall we pass the time? Any ideas? No? Fortunately I have: we'll both take a guess at what each person desires most in the whole world.

You want to know what the first one looks like? Of course you do: how can you guess when you can't see them? It's a shame I can't ask them if either of us is right, but everybody knows if you tell somebody what you wished for it doesn't come true.

The Wishing Column is so big even a man with arms that resemble a gorilla's can't clasp them round it. The chap at the front of the queue just tried and you don't need to know what he looks like, apart from he's hairy perhaps. It's his two children that want to wish, not him. It's going to take ages. Listen, their mum's grumbling about time.

"Brad, if you plan on waiting while both of them twiddle their thumbs, which looks impossible to me, you'll find me in the Grand Bazaar."

Bearded, long-haired, Brad, frowns. "Where in the Grand Bazaar?"

Mum looks down her nose at him. - Yes, it is possible. – "The shops that do all the handmade table linen."

"Maria, some of it costs a fortune!"

"If you'd had more patience yesterday, I could have got the tablecloths I wanted then. I brought all the measurements, in centimetres and inches."

She marches off, leaving Brad spluttering. Making stuff to measure, using your choice of the handmade patterns, only takes two hours, but Brad's right about the price. With luck, he'll lift up those children for their goes quickly. He's telling them to stop chasing each other round the column. "Come here, Jed, and don't you go wandering off, Rosie."

Brad perches Jed on one arm. What the heck do you suppose the boy's full name is? He's about eight, I'd say. Fair hair, snub nose, grubby hands: not much to go on, but I'm not clairvoyant. Based on what he looks like, my guess is a computer game. Yours?

"I've done it, Dad. I wished for an Xbox for my birthday."

He won't get it, unless Brad wanted ideas, but I wasn't too far off.

Let's try Rosie. She's older: about ten, long pink sundress, matching hat dangling down her back, and she's a true ash blonde. I bet she'll be after a princess costume, or maybe not. She's no little lady; the only way she gets her thumb through three hundred and sixty degrees is with Brad turning her upside-down. No, telling you the colour of her panties wouldn't help but it does say Tuesday on them. According to the rhyme, she's full of grace. Make what you like of...

I thought they'd finished! Brad's having a go. I think we can agree on his wish. If he's too late to stop Maria ordering made-to-measure tablecloths, he gets to the Grand Bazaar before she reaches the jewelry section to while away her two hours spending money there.

Next? I can describe him in one word: phantom. No, be fair, Sarah, five words: The Phantom of the Opera, one eye covered, cape, the lot, or almost. He's up to no good, unless he's in love again. I suppose he might be and he's probably wishing for five gold rings. No, that's a line from a Christmas song. It is almost Christmas and on the cold side for a holiday in Turkey.

" _We three kings of..._ " Sorry, I can't even sing Happy Birthday in tune. Helped me no end when the music teacher wrote _satisfactory_ on my school report. Mum didn't believe a word any teacher said about me, ever again.

Whatever the phantom wished for, he's gone. I wonder if he put the evil eye on the next couple. It sounds like it.

"Hurry up, Eve. Have you forgotten I booked dinner on a boat down the Bosporus?"

"Gregory! I thought you were joking."

Sorry, reader, I ought to have told you Gregory's about twenty years older than Eve and he looks very rich: bespoke suit, platinum tiepin, Cartier watch...

"I promised you the first meal of our honeymoon would be a romantic river cruise."

"That's not a river! It's got waves on it. We saw them from the bridge."

"I chose Istanbul because the part of the city on this side of the river is in Europe and the other is Asian. Where else would you find a city on two continents?"

"You chose, Gregory. I agreed because you went on about buying me a necklace at the Grand Bazaar."

That bazaar has a lot to answer for... and Eve's shoved in front of Gregory to twist her thumb.

You still reckon she's wishing for calm water or a necklace? My bet is she's thinking of a fire at the solicitor's office where they signed the prenup. It's Gregory's go now and he looks worried. It can't be about paying for two romantic dinners, or a necklace. A fast response from the fire brigade before she takes him for half his worldly goods?

I wish there was somewhere to sit. My feet hurt. It's all very well for you, reading in a comfy armchair, or lounging on the sofa, or in bed. I'm the one in the queue.

Next? Okay, okay. Patience. She's Japanese. No kimono, but half-close your eyes and you can see one. Turquoise, with sequins, and boy is she slim. I wish I hadn't eaten all the chocolate I bought at the bazaar. No, I haven't wasted my wish: there are still about twenty people in front of me, though maybe some of them are here to watch. This girl makes me feel fat, untidy, and too tall. How the heck is she going to reach? If Brad the gorilla was still here she wouldn't be so undignified as to let him turn _her_ upside-down...

I don't believe this! The next chap in the queue is on his hands and knees, and she's standing on his back. Either he fancies his chances with her or his feet hurt too.

What could a beauty like her possibly want?

I do wish you'd think _louder_. You're leaving me to do all the guessing. She's on her own. True love? Whatever it was, she's turned her thumb, and if that chap spends much longer brushing dust off his trouser knees he won't see which way she goes. He must want something else.

Right, think Elvis and you've got him. Did you know there's massive rock by the side of a road from England into mid-Wales with Elvis painted on it? You didn't want to know? Fair enough. I'm dithering now. Is he wishing for a trip to Graceland with an Elvis look-alike included, or his own karaoke machine? Neither? Just to be able to sing like Elvis? You could be right. In my dreams I'm the next Celine Dion.

"Every night..." Sorry, though perhaps if I did sing these people would decide to come back tomorrow. What do you mean, it would spoil the game? Never a thought for a girl's sore feet, or it being cold! Rosie must have been frozen in that sundress.

Get on with it, Sarah. Elvis has gone and this chap must be eighty if he's a day, the one twisting his thumb now. He'll dislocate it turning it that slowly, but you do see what I mean? As long as your thumb is twisting through three hundred and sixty degrees in that hole - not any old hole, if there are more, that one - you can think, and what you wish will come true. I could have made Mum buy me the Kindle Fire if I'd believed this worked. I did it for fun so I had to keep quiet about presents. The tag on a flat oblong gift read _Happy Christmas, Sarah. Love from Dad_.

The eighty-year-old has coat sleeves with worn leather patches on the elbows and he can't be as tall as me. He's on tiptoe and his shoes need soling. No, I didn't realise you could have new soles applied either. They do it in the Grand Bazaar.

Does he want a new coat, new shoes, or both? Yes, he does look Turkish. How did you guess? You must be thinking louder, and making sense. He's only just found out that in the city where he's lived all his life is a column that could grant him riches. _That's_ what he wants, comfort in his old age... he was ogling Eve earlier. He could have her; it would save her worrying about whether the fire will consume the prenup before Gregory's fire engine arrives. She must have guessed about the fire brigade. Now what? Even I don't know what happens if two people make conflicting wishes.

Okay, we've got him sorted. See what you think of this one. Is he Turkish too? Yes, definitely. Fortyish and... you'll never guess in a million years. He's got a wooden lollipop under his arm and the number on it is _nine_. Start praying! No it doesn't matter which God you believe in. If you don't believe in any of them, borrow Zeus: he's the Greek God of Thunder... harmless, unless you get struck by lightning.

What am I panicking about? I'm not panicking. I never panic, except when my party guide gets to make his wish before me. Suppose he wishes everyone in his group would file out right now and never come back? He's hated us from the start.

Keep praying. He's gone, and my feet aren't hobbling towards the exit. They still hurt. I think it's the boots I bought in the... yes, the Grand Bazaar. What do you mean, I must be missing somebody? I started this game, like a sort of _I Spy_ , to pass my time, not yours.

Her name is Patsy-Ann, or she's borrowed a friend's rucksack: that's the name on it, and she's American. Of course she is; who else could wear a baseball cap back to front and still look like she should be on the front cover of Vogue? Not enough evidence? Okay, I cheated. Her passport's sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans. She's with a group of friends, but she's the only one who queued to put her thumb in the hole. That was quick! Three hundred and sixty degrees, no problem. It's taking her longer to hoist that rucksack onto her shoulders. They've all got them, and loads of bags from the bazaar. My best guess is she wished for a night in a spa hotel for her and her mates, not that they'll spend much time there. The nightlife in Istanbul is too lively.

Two teenage boys, and they've got massive backpacks hung about with frying pans and all sorts of other camping gear. They'd like a night in a hotel, sure to. No? Only if it's the same one the girls picked. You could be right. Keep thinking loudly; it's more fun, and I might need you to pray again.

Who's next? I know who's joined the back of the queue: hairy Brad and spendthrift Maria. They've bought Rosie a coat, matching hat, gloves, and winter shoes. Either she wished for them or she was shivering with cold. If they both wish to find a stash of money they'll bang their heads together bending down to grab it: they're still arguing, but not as much as Eve and Gregory. I expect Brad and Maria will stay married. I hope so. Rosie's a sweetie, and who'd adopt a boy called Jed if neither of them wanted him?

Next to put his thumb in the hole, impatient reader, is a Frenchman. I don't need to see his passport: his girlfriend is with him and she's talking.

" _Pierre, ne se dépêcher. J'ai mal aux pieds_."

French was a subject my teacher was honest about. _Sarah must try harder_ , but I'm pretty sure pieds are feet and mal is bad. I bet her feet hurt. She's wearing boots just like mine. The man at the Grand Bazaar said they were a one-off, unique. I thought his English was good, knowing a word like unique.

Pierre is twenty-five, twenty-six maybe? Drop-dead gorgeous. Some girls have all the luck. She looks like a Vogue model too, so he won't wish for a replacement. If I thought he might, I'd ask you to pray. It would be worth learning French to spend one night... never mind.

Will he wish for stardom? I wonder if he can sing. He might wish to be in films... he is in films, and if I move to ask for his autograph I'll lose my place in the queue. He's wishing for a holiday without a single fan bothering him? I expect you're right. He's come to Istanbul because it's the only place that has a wish-granting thumbhole.

I think the girl behind him recognises him too. I'm sure she does: she's found a pen and paper. She's close enough not to lose her turn if she asks for his autograph, but she isn't saying a word. Unless you thought of the same wish for Pierre as me, I'm one up. I was definitely right.

What's she like, the other thwarted autograph hunter? Pierre's age, roughly. Long brown hair, hazel eyes, what looks like a fur coat that I hope is fake, and boots like mine. How long does that wretched man wait before he puts another _unique_ pair on his stall? If I didn't need my wish for something else I'd use it to make him design every single pair of boots differently. If her feet feel like mine, and Pierre's girlfriend's "pieds", she'll wish the cheating hawker down among Istanbul's sewer rats.

Next, here in the Hagia Sophia, is a private queue. I was hoping only one of those four intended to make a wish. Oh no, they all want a go. Meet Valery, Linda, Jeff and Todd. I don't have to describe them individually. You can tell from the names which ones wear skirts. Fiftyish, dyed hair, dark with grey roots, specs - not that there's anything wrong with specs: they picked the wrong frames - overweight but wearing denim jackets and jeans, or skirts as appropriate, only they're not appropriate: they're stretched like a second skin and the first can't be good. The best wish for them? A month's stay in a boot camp. If you've any idea what their real wishes are, think louder.

The Hagia Sophia closes at five o'clock. Running out of time is getting more worrying than the cold and the state of my feet. I wish I hadn't dumped my comfy old flatties in a litter bin. It's okay; that wasn't a wasted wish either. Until I put my thumb in that hole it doesn't count, and I'm not taking pity on Brad and Maria and letting them go in front of me. If I wanted to, I think the people queuing behind me, and in front of them, might turn violent, especially the lady who I've just noticed is wearing _unique_ boots. If they fit, the nails will be sticking in her feet. Mine are, and it isn't far from the Grand Bazaar to the Hagia Sophia: it just feels like ten miles across a plantation of miniature cacti.

Another boy, three or four: I'm not an expert on small children. I hope he isn't called Jed and his parents don't want wishes too. He's being lifted but he's okay with the thumb twist. I wonder if he wants an Xbox.

"I wish that bump in Mummy's tummy was a boy not a girl."

Well, we know, but so do his parents, who very likely thought they were on their way to completing the perfect family. The only way that wish could come true is 'Mummy' having twins, but it won't: he said it out loud.

Next? I thought it was a couple. They are a couple, but the man sports a padded sling on his front. You're not going to believe this, or maybe you are given the other lunatics. Dad holds a tiny baby up to the right height, and Mum guides the nearest thumb round the hole. Rosie could have told her that doesn't work. Dad turns _it_ \- yellow clothes instead of pink or blue so I can't tell if it's a boy or a girl - upside-down.

Mum does the talking, aloud and not even a whisper, in a squeaky voice. "I wish for a holiday in New Zealand with Grandma and Grandpa."

Dad hisses at her. "Mummy, you... _Wayne_ forgot to say Christchurch! We could land on North Island, not South."

"It's okay, Daddy. Wayne's... My thumb has another inch to go. Grandma and Grandpa live in Christchurch."

I'm not heartless, truly, but it looks like justice: Wayne is being sick all over the pair of them.

Hang in there, reader, not much longer to wait. Have a coffee... I wish I could have a frothy hot coffee.

Next is a Jenny Agutter look-alike. Not quite as young as she looked in the original _Railway Children_ film, but with that same mix of innocence and understanding: the archetypical elder sister, only without any children needing to be turned upside-down. After Rosie's Tuesday panties and the projectile vomiting I'm pleased about that; I'm getting close to the thumbhole.

She – let's call her Jenny, it suits her - is lovely, young, and alone. I'm not sure how safe Istanbul is for somebody who's any of those things, never mind all of them. The doorman at my hotel issued _awful warnings_ about taxies. I can't remember exactly what; I didn't intend to take one. The romantic in me is screaming love for Jenny's wish, but it could be absolutely anything. Very likely a good wish for somebody else, or am I muddling her with the film character? Probably.

One more person, and he looks nice in a laid-back way. Not a man to buy a girl unique boots. If he doesn't disappear while I'm making my wish I might bump into him, accidentally. It's not until now I realise that while I've been talking to you, he's been watching me.

"Maybe, this time..." Quiet Sarah, and concentrate. This reader, who's been thinking hard, and praying, deserves a chance to guess what my nice, laid-back man is wishing for. It won't be dating me that's for sure.

Do you think, loudly please, that it might be? That it very likely is? Your trouble, reader, is being a romantic softie, and you don't know the real me.

He's gone, and it's my turn. My thumb is in the hole, turning very slowly...

Janus Tyler, this is my wish for you. Propose to a girl and promise her a new beginning. She will accept, but leave you standing at the altar. You will feel rejected, unlovable, ugly, embarrassed, and like your world just ended. Apt, for you're named for the Roman God of beginnings and endings. On New Year's Eve you will come to Istanbul. At midnight, you will walk beside the Bosporus but you will not see me until it is too late and you are falling backwards into the icy water. You cannot swim and you will scream "Sarah"; you know I could save you, but I will not. You will die in your own month of January, my two-faced erstwhile lover.

You didn't guess my wish, did you? I didn't say a word. I even thought quietly. You did, but you don't believe anybody will drown in the Bosporus on New Year's Eve; it's just a story and nobody's wishes will come true. Where is your evidence, dear reader? Visit the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul and test it for yourself: the thumbhole is there, in a column less ornate than many others.

Oh, before you go, remember the old saying, _be careful what you wish for_.

### About Sarah Stuart

Sarah Stuart lives on the edge of a quiet English village where wildlife sightings are common: the subliminal theme of her novels is a plea for animal protection from exploitation worldwide. Her other passions are the theatre, of which she has extensive insider knowledge, music, history and travel, and these all come together in her Royal Command series of adult romantic suspense novels. Book one, Dangerous Liaisons, was a Finalist in the Independent Author Network Book Awards 2015. Book two, Illicit Passion, increases the element of danger and makes these books challenging: hence a comment from one reviewer "a dark and compelling read".

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# The Critic _by_ Nico Laeser

The Devil is in the details. He is also in my apartment, breathing hot, sickly smelling breath down the back of my neck while I write this. He stands around eight feet tall, adorned with matted fur, and complete with the demonic appendages that I would usually attribute, although only figuratively, to _all_ of Annabelle's many critics. My anomalous guest says that I am to act as both narrator and stenographer during the course of his visit, for what may be my last few minutes among the living.

My name is Paul Dresden and I am a writer, but not one that you've probably ever heard of. Right now the beast is leaning over my right shoulder, telling me that this will likely be the last thing I write before he takes me to Hell to endure an eternity of fire and torture. He says that there's too little time for my _magnum opus_ , but I'd better make an effort if I'm to be remembered for anything other than the trashy romance novels written under my pseudonym, Annabelle Summers.

I've asked him if having a demon loom over me, snarling, drooling and barking threats of never-ending fire and torture is supposed to act like some kind of conduit for creative juices. To this, he laughed an ingenuous laugh between his boar-like teeth and replied, "Actually, the majority of people excrete the same creative juices that you typically use, instead of ink, when they first encounter me."

I will omit from the devil's replies, the intermittent snorting and grunting, but for the purpose of any retelling, you can add one or both after every third word.

"Shit usually flows so easily from your inner narrator's communicative sphincter. You spray and smear it across page after page, masquerading bullshit as literature to be distributed and consumed by the ignorant masses. You are the paperback patient-zero in an ensuing pinkeye pandemic," _he_ , or _it_ , says.

"Surely, being a trashy writer isn't an offense worthy of eternal damnation?"

He growls _his_ response. "Weak writers don't necessarily find themselves in hell, but weak people invariably do, and you just happen to be weak both in your prose, _and_ of character."

"It's not fair; what choice did I have?" I say. "It's not like anyone was interested in anything I had to say."

The eight foot, live-action _Gruffalo_ stands erect, looking pensive. "If you can write one honest thing, from your heart, not your bowels, I may let you live."

He's leaning close, whispering spittle into my ear, and there is a pungent wet-dog and burnt hair odour. "You have 231 words left to redeem yourself."

_Damned word count_.

Prose by any other name would smell just as stale. I wrote as Paul Dresden and each piece was rejected multiple times. I wrote short science fiction stories as Timothy Bradshaw, and Nigel Steinway, and all were rejected.

I sat day after day in the same coffee shop, surrounded by other aspiring/wannabe writers with their thick rimmed glasses, _sans glass_ , watching that vertical line taunt me, flashing on, off, on, off, daring me to type out another long winded request for yet another rejection letter.

It was at that coffee shop that I saw _her_ sitting there, and I asked _her_ that same question that always drives me crazy. "What are you reading?"

On my way home, I stopped at the bookstore and picked up a copy of the same trashy romance novel that _she_ had been reading. I had to fight through the embarrassment, like a teenage virgin buying pornography or condoms, unable to make eye contact with the sweet girl at the cash register, or with myself in the convex security mirror on the way out. I flicked through it on the bus-ride home. For the first time while reading published work, I thought, _I can write better than this_.

The first Annabelle Summers book was written, picked up and published within six months, and it sold. It sold out. They asked for more and I churned them out one, then another, thinking that I could ride that money train until I made a name for myself as Paul Dresden, best-selling fiction author. I was so busy keeping up with the demand for trash that my _serious_ work was put on hold indefinitely.

The truth is, I never returned to my serious work because I was afraid of going back to constant rejection. I had transformed into that best-selling junkyard dog, pigeon-holed and cowering behind trash, but still king of the heap. I wrote for _her_. She was my intended reader, my target audience. I wrote myself into a corner, and I wrote myself off.

The devil is staring at me as he picks my phone up from the desk. It looks like a toy in his clawed fist. "You're way over your word limit, but there's still time to edit. Consider this as your first draft," he snarls.

He places the phone back down on my desk between the empty pill bottle and the depleted whiskey bottle, and I hear a small voice say, "911, what is your emergency?"

I try to speak, but what comes out is a slur. I'm suddenly very tired.

Minutes later, as the screen of my laptop fades to black, I realize that I am alone, and I can hear sirens calling from somewhere far away.

### About Nico Laeser

Nico Laeser is the author of Skin Cage (Published 2015) Infinity: An Anonymous Biography (Published 2015) and one of the contributing authors of You're Not Alone: An Indie Author Anthology (Published 2015. All proceeds donated to the McMillan Cancer Foundation)

He is currently working on the first part in the Harmonic series, which is set for publication near the end of 2015. When Nico is not writing fiction, he is writing music, producing artwork or spending quality time with his beautiful wife and two rambunctious children.

He lives and works in the Pacific Northwest.

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# Lady of the Woods _by_ Penny Luker

Adrian shouted, 'Where are you boy? C'mon Rusty. Time to go,' but the Springer Spaniel ignored him.

He walked towards the scrabbling sound and saw Rusty in full digging mode. Earth was flying into the air with abandon, so Adrian strode over to the dog, leaned down and hooked on the lead. As he went to pull Rusty out of the hole, the dog turned his face towards Adrian, with a bone in his mouth. There was no odour of decay or whiff of death, just the pleasant smell of freshly turned earth. He took a deep breath, pulled one of his gloves out of his pocket and put it on.

'Sit,' he commanded.

Rusty sat.

'Leave.'

Rusty lowered the bone to the ground, but his black eyes watched Adrian the whole time. He made a low growl as Adrian picked up the bone, tossed it at the dug over earth and said, 'Walk.'

As Adrian made his way down from the mound he headed towards the town to report his dog's find of a human bone. Rusty bounded alongside him without a care in the world.

*****

Inspector Winsford cursed as the telephone cut into his dream where he was back at his old house, having dinner with his wife and children. He snatched up the phone.

'We've had an anonymous call from a phone box, sir,' said his Sergeant. 'The caller said that there's a body in Viking Woods. It's near the top of the mound but off the path to the right. He said his dog dug up a bone - looked human.'

'It's probably an animal but we'll have to take a look. Find out which phone box and get any CCTV footage. Why didn't the caller want to give us his name? I'll meet you in half an hour at the scene,' said Inspector Winsford and slammed down the phone.

_Curses_ , he thought. _Why do I get a body on a Friday? I'm not working this weekend no matter what happens. I'm going to my ex's barbeque to have time with my kids and nothing is going to stop me. I've lost my wife, but I'm certainly not going to lose my family._

He left his car in the Woodland Car Park and handed his keys to Constable Staples to park it.

'Morning Sir.'

'I'm glad you think so,' snapped Winsford, but smiled. He liked Constable Staples. _Always straight forward and reliable_ , he thought.

He went to pick up his protective suit and gloves from the van. Doctor Morgan joined him as the group started walking up the hill. She was a tall woman with an athletic build. He was pleased she chose to walk beside him and glad that he'd finally given up alcohol. He was losing the plumpness from his waist and he was fitter than he'd been in the last seven years.

'Why is it always dog walkers and joggers that find the bodies?' Inspector Winsford asked by way of making conversation.

She smiled. 'Someone get out of bed the wrong side this morning?'

'Not really, but don't you get tired of dealing with all this death and misery? There'll be some dark tale behind all this that we'll either get to the bottom of, or not.'

'The way I look at it is, the person who died has a story they want us to know about and we're helping them finish their story. If it weren't for the likes of you and me, the dead would lose their voice.'

_Very commendable_ , he thought. His positive outlook had gone walkabout since his wife left. Fundamentally he agreed with Helen Morgan, but just lately he'd been struggling with seeing the point to anything. As they arrived at the taped off area they stopped and put on the plastic overshoes. He could see his eager sergeant there ahead of him.

'I found the bone the dog dug up and secured the area. Otherwise I've not touched anything sir. I thought I'd best wait for the forensic team,' said Sergeant Willis.

'Well done Chris. We'll let them get on with it and we'll take a walk round the mound and take some photos.'

*****

It took over two hours to recover the body from the ground. A lot of surrounding earth went with it.

'Anything you can tell me, Dr Morgan?' he asked as they were leaving.

'Not much Inspector. Female, around five foot four. There's some remnants of material and this necklace.' She held up a silver necklace in an evidence bag, which had a leaf shaped pendant.'

'No identification?'

'No, but the good news is she has teeth, so we should be able to trace her identity through local dentists, if of course she's local, otherwise it may take longer. Also we should be able to extract DNA. You're going to have to be patient with this one.'

He nodded and turned away to answer his mobile.

'Nick, I'm just checking you'll be there tomorrow. I don't want the kids disappointed at the last moment,' said his ex-wife.

'Hi Jess, I'll be there. Promised didn't I?'

'And you're going to be polite to Gerald or you're not welcome.'

'Of course I'll be polite. Whatever I think of him, Charlotte and Will love him. I'm not stupid you know. I blew my marriage because I worked all hours.' He took a deep breath. 'I'm really looking forward to it Jess.'

'O.K. then but let's not play games. You blew your marriage because of the drink. Anyway that's in the past. See you tomorrow.'

Inspector Winsford looked round for Sergeant Willis and they started to walk back towards the car park.

'Let's get some food when we get back to the station and then set up the information board.'

*****

When he returned from the canteen, the photograph of the body and the photos of the nearby area were up on the board. Chris also had images of the material and the necklace.

'We know she was murdered because she was buried, so it can't have been a heart attack while out walking. I thought I'd get a couple of officers out visiting the jewellers in case anyone recognises the necklace,' said Chris.

'Good idea and include the catalogues and online stores that sell jewellery. It was silver but it didn't look too expensive to me.' He moved along the board. 'Who's this guy?' said Inspector Winsford, pointing to a young man who hadn't been 'labelled' yet.

'Just getting to him, sir. Constable Burton traced the phone box and CCTV images and this guy's our best bet for the anonymous informer. Nobody can identify him so far, so I thought I'd get this image out to everyone. Probably has nothing to do with the murder but there must be a reason he wouldn't give his name.'

'Excellent work Sergeant. I hope you've had some lunch,' Winsford said as he walked towards his office. 'I'm going to search for a map of the area and look at ways that the murderer could get the body up the hill. Who's working on the missing person list?'

'We were just waiting for the Doc. to tell us how far to go back,' said Chris.

Inspector Winsford turned before his door. 'Let's go back ten years and get on with it now. We can change the search later when we get more information.'

'I just thought as the body's been in the ground a while it would be more economic to make a more precise search.'

'I understand your view Sergeant, but there are parents or children waiting somewhere for news.' He went into his room and closed the door.

'She's been dead for years. A few more days won't make any difference,' Chris muttered under his breath, but he went to arrange the missing person's search.

*****

It was at ten to six when Inspector Winsford received a call from Doctor Morgan. 'We've identified our lady of the woods. She's Anne Curry of 17 Park Road. Last seen by the dentist on 3 May 2011 and so she can't have been dead more than four years. Bit of luck - he was the second dentist we called. Have a good weekend. Anne Curry will wait for justice.'

Nick Winsford picked up his briefcase and coat and went into the incident room.

'Stick this information on the board and we'll visit this address on Monday, first thing.'

Winsford went to leave but Sergeant Willis called to him, 'Shouldn't we go now or at least tomorrow? Aren't there parents or children waiting for news?'

'Good point sergeant,' said Winsford with a wry grin. 'But before we go blundering in I want to know who lives at that address now, whether she was reported missing and any other background information on those at this address. I'm not working this weekend. I'm over in Bankiton visiting my children, so if you've any spare time...' he held his hand up in a wave as he left the room.

Chris shook his head and started to pack up his things.

*****

The next day was sunny and bright. There was little breeze to ruffle the warming heat of the day.

'Your dad's here,' Jess called to the children, who were at the other end of the garden. 'And wonder of wonders you're on time and presentable,' she said to him.

'I promised,' he said handing her a bottle of good wine, which he hoped was an acceptable gift.

She took it without looking and plonked it down on a nearby table. Will ran up and gave Nick a big hug and Charlotte strolled towards him smiling and planted a kiss on his cheek. _When had she grown up?_ he thought.

'Hi Nick,' she said.

'I'm not Nick to you, young lady. I'm Dad.'

'Gerald says we should call him Dad as he's doing the father role and you're more like a distant uncle.'

Nick Winsford could feel anger rising up through his body. He'd kill the little squirt.

'Charlie, he said no such thing. You shouldn't wind people up.' Jess turned to Nick and smiled at him, 'He will never take your place as their dad, nor does he want to.'

He breathed slowly and smiled back, 'Of course he wouldn't,' relieved that he hadn't actually done anything to regret.

'Charlie's always doing that. Thinks it funny,' said Will.

'No, I don't, snapped Charlie.

Nick didn't want the day to start with a squabble, so he said, 'Right you two, lead me to the food. I haven't eaten in three weeks.'

They laughed and grabbed his hands.

He loved being with his children and if being nice to Gerald was the price he had to pay then he'd pay it. Charlie was almost as tall as her mum these days and had the same stunning looks. Will was small and wiry, unlike his dad, but there was still time for a growth spurt. Gerald was doing the cooking. He shook Nick's hand warmly.

'Good to see you Nick. Now help yourself to the salads and then you can choose what you want to go with it.'

'Great Gerald. It all looks lovely.' Nick did his best to smile. This sleight, ineffectual, pretty man was all that stood between him and getting back with his wife. As this destructive thought entered his head he knew it wasn't true. The years of neglect and grumpiness he'd inflicted on his wife were what prevented them getting back together. What a fool he'd been. Still he'd turned a corner and he was going to enjoy today.

With plates piled high they made their way to a quiet corner of the garden. It was a lovely afternoon. The sun was warm, the food was excellent and he and his children were enjoying catching up. He looked away when he saw Jess kiss Gerald by the barbeque, but before he did, he noticed that they were the same build and similar height. She was no longer having to put up with a giant, slightly uncoordinated oaf. She would always be his wife, as far as he was concerned, but Winsford knew he must be grateful that she was allowing him back into the family. Lots of their old friends came to say hello and even her mother spent half an hour with them.

Then his telephone rang. It was Sergeant Willis.

'You got a minute, Sir?'

'Not really Sergeant.'

'This is important. A Gerald Hake was a former boyfriend of Anne Curry. They had a row in a restaurant in 2010 and the police were called. Isn't that your wife's new partner?'

'Thank you for letting me know, Sergeant. We'll have a chat about it on Monday.' He stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

'You O.K.?' said Will. 'You've gone all white.'

'I'm fine son,' Nick said and put his arm round the boy's shoulder. 'It's so good to be here,' but his mind was in overdrive. Was Gerald dangerous? Would he harm his wife and children? What should he do? He couldn't warn them and he knew without doubt that someone was going to have to interview Gerald. The garden was emptying and Jess walked towards him.

'I'm glad Gerald treats you well,' he said to his children. If there was anything wrong surely they'd contradict him.

'Oh he's O.K,' said Charlie.

'He's nice,' said Will, 'but we'd rather you still lived here.'

Nick struggled up from his seat to greet Jess.

'Looks like we'll be packing up soon,' she said.

'Oh yes, of course. I've had a lovely day and thank you both so much for inviting me.' He went to kiss her cheek, but saw her back away, so he awkwardly held out his hand.

'Thanks again.' He hugged the children and went to say good-bye to Gerald.

*****

On Monday Winsford had many things to sort out. After the briefing session in the incident room he and Chris grabbed their notes and headed for the car.

'Right, we're heading for Gerald Hake's office,' said Inspector Winsford.

'That's really not a good idea Sir. I strongly advise you not to be the one doing that particular interview. If you discount him as a suspect, people will think it's because of your connection to him and if you think he's in the frame, then people will think you're jealous. I know it's not my place to say, but you should've informed the Chief of your connection.'

Inspector Winsford continued to walk in silence to the car.

Chris Willis tried again, 'I think we should visit 17 Park Road and speak to this Adrian Curry. Why didn't he report his mother missing? He might be able to answer the question of who the latest boyfriend was. There might be someone more likely as a suspect. I mean Gerald Hake's not got a record and the row in the restaurant was reported by the owner who was worried about losing customers. There's no evidence of any violence.'

Winsford held up his hand. 'O.K. Sergeant you win. Let's go and see Adrian Curry.'

*****

Number seventeen was an end of terrace Victorian house with a small square of garden at the front. Although not well kept, it was reasonably tidy; there was a lack of both flowers and rubbish. As soon as they went through the gate a dog started barking. The door opened and Inspector Winsford introduced himself and Sergeant Willis as they held their cards out for inspection.

Adrian held the dog's collar, while they made their way through to the kitchen at the back of the house. There were several candles stuck on saucers and in the corner was a single camping gas stove with small cylinder. It looked like the main utility services weren't being used.

Inspector Winsford looked at Sergeant Willis and could tell that he recognised that Adrian was the anonymous caller.

'Now son, sit down. I'm afraid I've some bad news for you.' He waited until Adrian had pulled up a stool to the kitchen table. 'A body was found in Viking Woods and has been identified as your mother Anne Curry. I'm so sorry.'

Adrian's head drooped. 'I wondered where she'd got to.'

'You didn't think of reporting her missing?'

'I couldn't. Anyway she was always going off.'

'Why couldn't you report her missing Adrian,' asked Sergeant Willis.

The boy looked up at him, 'I was fifteen when she scarpered. They'd 'ave taken me into care. I'm eighteen now so no-one can touch me.'

'That's right. No-one can put you in care now son, but we would like some help in catching her killer.'

'I don't know nothing. She went out to see 'er bloke and she never came home.'

'I don't suppose you know the date she left. It's a lot to ask you Adrian after all this time,' said Sergeant Willis.

'Yeah I do know. It was 14 February 2012. I think she was going out for a romantic dinner with that guy from the garage down the road, Mick something. He 'asn't seen her though 'cos he asked me where she'd got to.'

'That's really helpful. Did he ask on 14 February or was it later?' said Inspector Winsford.

'Later. I don't know when.'

'So, this Mick from the garage, was he the latest boyfriend, Adrian?' said Sergeant Willis.

'She had two blokes on the go. There may've been more. The other one was a poncy git, Gary or Gerald. Something like that. He had a nice car though.'

'Did this Gary or Gerald know about Mick do you think?'

'How the hell would I know!'

'Just one more question before we go son. Did you get on well with your mum?'

Adrian looked Inspector Winsford directly in the eyes. 'No, she was a shit mum. After dad left, there were all these blokes she brought home. The house only got cleaned when a new one came. There was never any food in the house and I couldn't bring friends home as she was always as high as a bloody kite on something or other. No Inspector, I didn't get on with her.'

'And have you lived here on your own since she left, with no help?'

'Yeah. No-one knew and no-one cared.'

'I care,' said Inspector Winsford. 'Are you all right now? Have you got a job? Enough food?'

Adrian sneered at the two men. 'It's a bit late now, but since you ask, I'm fine. I work at the supermarket. I get cheap food and I manage. I guess this house'll be mine now.' He smiled.

'I'd like to send round a family liaison officer to keep you company. It might help as you've just lost your mother.'

'No way. I 'aven't just lost her. She's been gone three years. I cope by relying on me and I don't want some do-gooder sticking their nose in. Just leave me alone.'

'O.K. Adrian, but you could go to citizen's advice about the house. They'll help you sort it out,' said Sergeant Willis.

'What about your dad? Does he visit?' asked Winsford.

'Oh yeah, he drops in every now and again, but he doesn't stop long. I ain't seen him for awhile.'

They turned to leave when Inspector Winsford asked, 'Just to rule you out, where were you Friday morning? Walking the dog in Viking Woods perhaps?'

'No, I was on earlies at work.'

*****

Back at the car, Chris Willis said, 'Poor little sod. Fancy being on his own at fifteen. It's disgraceful that no-one noticed.'

'I agree with you Sergeant. He's only a couple of years older than my Charlie is now. Gives me the shivers,' Nick Winsford said. 'And while we're chatting, I didn't appreciate you telling me what to do this morning, Sergeant, but I've thought it over and you were right, so thank you. We'll go back to the station and you can take someone with you to interview Gerald Hake. We want to know what the argument in the restaurant was about, whether he knew about Mick and whether they'd split up, etc. Be discreet where you question him but any form of non cooperation, bring him in for questioning.'

'Yes sir and are you going to see if you can find Mick from the garage?'

'Hmm, yes,' Winsford said as he pulled out to join the traffic.

*****

'Can we talk while I work?' said Mick Andrews when Winsford arrived at the garage. 'I've got a shedload of work on at the moment.

'Sure,' said Winsford as he pulled up a stool and sat down close to where Mick was working. 'Can you tell me when was the last time you saw Anne Curry?'

'Not for ages. It must be years, 2012 or was it 2013? No 2012 I think. We were meant to meet up on Valentine's day but she never showed.' He slid out from under the car. 'Why're you asking?'

'I'm sorry to tell you sir, but she's been found dead in Viking Woods.'

'Well that's a real shame. I thought she'd just gone off for a bit. She was always doing that. That poor kid used to be on his own a lot. I bought him pie and chips a couple of times.'

'Calling social services might have been more helpful.'

'I don't interfere. He was doing all right. I saw him go to school and get work. So what happened with her?'

'We're just trying to establish that. There'll be DNA at the crime scene. They can get trace DNA nowadays but it'll take a few days. We'll get the person who did this. Now were you her only boyfriend at the time of her disappearance?'

Mick pulled a face. 'We didn't have that sort of relationship. We were mates. We got together, if you know what I mean, when we'd nothing else on. I really never knew what she was up to. Didn't bother me.'

'Tell me about 14 February 2012. Take me through the day.'

'Normal as far as I can remember. We were going for a meal that evening, at the Italian on the High Street. She phoned me the day before, said she'd come into some money and she'd treat me and she'd tell me her plans.'

'Where did the money come from and what sort of money?' said Inspector Winsford.

'No idea, but I reckon it was quite a few bucks. She was well pleased. Happy like I hadn't heard her before.'

'Did you ever meet a Gerald Hake?'

'Not so as I remember.'

*****

Back at the station, Chris and Nick sat down with mugs of coffee and compared notes.

'So from the son, we found out that his mother didn't look after him after the dad left. Also that she had boyfriends in the plural. Mick Andrews confirmed those things and added the motive of money although we don't know where it came from,' said Nick. 'We also learned there is a Mr Curry, who's around now and again.'

'And from Gerald we've learned he was unaware of other men in Anne's life. They rowed over Anne's use of hash and only went out for a couple of months and then split up. He claims to know nothing about any money,' said Chris.

'We need to go back to Adrian and ask if he knew about the money and get onto her bank and see whether it's there.' At that moment Nick's phone rang. 'Excuse me,' he said as he walked into his office.

*****

'Nick, how could you try and frame Gerald for murder of that girl? And after we've tried to be decent to you,' said Jess.

Oh he didn't need this. 'Now Jess, you were married to me long enough to know that people known to the victim have to be interviewed and that I couldn't discuss it with you.'

'Rubbish, we were married for fifteen years. Of course you could tell me. We welcomed you into our home.'

Nick took a deep breath. It was his home. He'd paid the mortgage for all those years but he knew better than to say that.

'I know you're cross with me Jess for being a lousy husband but when you've had time to think this through I think you know I'm a good, honest, straight copper, for all my faults. I haven't fitted Gerald up and I never would. I need to get on. Give my love to the kids.'

It was at times like these he really felt the need for a drink, but he'd have to settle for a strong black coffee. Making his way back to the incident room he met up with Chris, who looked at him sympathetically. _Great_ , he thought. _He must have heard me through those flimsy walls_. He needed to get back to work.

'We need to find out where Adrian's dad is living. He needs questioning. Come on. Let's go and visit Adrian again and see if he knew about the money and bring that picture of the CCTV footage,' said Nick.

Chris nodded. 'Do you think Adrian killed her, Sir?'

'If he did, he's held it together extremely well since for someone so young, but maybe he knows more than he's told us.'

*****

As they pulled up to the house they could see the dog wandering around the front garden. He greeted them enthusiastically, as they made their way to the front door.

Inside, the house seemed untidier than the previous time.

'She never had no money. I should know,' said Adrian, when they questioned him. 'There was never any food in the house.'

'On the day before she disappeared, she told Mick from the garage, that she'd come into some money,' said Inspector Winsford.

'Well she never told me. Where would she get money from?'

'Fair enough, but there's one more thing you can help us with Adrian,' said Sergeant Willis. 'On the morning your mother's body was found, you told us you were at work early.' He pulled out the picture of the caller from his pocket. 'So this image we have of you coming out of the phone box, where the anonymous caller informed us of a human bone being dug up, isn't of you?'

Adrian took the picture and stared at it. 'Look my dog Rusty dug up the bone. I just didn't want the hassle of talking to the cops. No law against that is there?'

'Well son, it's a bit of a coincidence you being related to the body you found. I think we need to finish this interview down at the station,' said Inspector Winsford.

'Don't worry about Rusty, we'll make sure he's taken care of Adrian,' said Sergeant Willis.

'Look I hated my mum. She was a right bitch, but I didn't kill her. You don't kill your own mother, whatever she's like.'

'Can you tell us your dad's whereabouts? We do need to talk to him.' said Inspector Winsford.

Adrian's eyes flickered towards the stairs. Nick nodded towards Chris but before he could move there was a thud, thud, thud sounded as someone started to come down the stairs.

'Who's in the house with you, Adrian?' said Sergeant Willis.

'I'm his dad,' said the stranger, who appeared in the doorway. He was tall and strong with a large belly and stank of stale beer and sweat. 'Jonathan Curry.'

'How long have you been here?' said Inspector Winsford.

'I just arrived a few hours ago, but I've been visiting on and off for the last three years. Yeah, since my wife died. He didn't know about the money and yes it was a coincidence he found her body. That's all it was.' He sat down on the grubby sofa. 'I left Anne when he was a little un. I was a useless dad, but I saved a bit, so he could go to college. I put it in her name 'cos I didn't want him wasting it.'

'Your son is a major suspect in the murder of your wife. Is there anything you want to tell us Mr Curry.'

Jonathan Curry sighed. 'The day I brought the passbook round I went to the loo and I heard Anne on the phone to her bloke. She said she'd come into some money. I didn't save it for her. I just lost it.'

'Before you continue Mr Curry, I'd like to caution you,' said Sergeant Willis. When he'd been duly cautioned Inspector Winsford said, 'Please continue.'

'Sorry Adrian, I didn't mean to kill your mother. It was over in a minute. I took her up to the mound in the woods where we used to go before you were born. Thought she'd like it up there. The pass book's here,' he said taking it out of his back pocket and placing it on the stained coffee table. 'Adrian never knew anything. I just turned up again and told him I needed a bed but I didn't want the world to know I was back. I tried to be the parent I never was, but I never managed to stay long.'

'And how did you get her up to the mound?' said Inspector Winsford. 'There's no way a car can get up there.'

'Well I had to get her out of the house before Adrian came back from school, so I wheeled her up there in my mother's old wheelchair. I stuck a blanket round her and scarf and anyone looking would've thought I was taking a sleeping old lady for a walk. I waited up there until it was dark and then dug a hole to bury her in.'

'Time to go, Mr Curry and we'll need a statement from you tomorrow Adrian. Will you be all right? asked Sergeant Willis.

'I did it for you,' said Mr Curry, looking at his son.

'No, you did it because you can't control your bleeding temper. You're worse than her. At least she weren't violent.' Then he turned to Inspector Winsford. 'I'm going to be fine. Get that bastard out of here.'

He picked up Rusty's lead. 'C'mon boy. Let's go for a walk.'

Inspector Winsford followed the lad and his dog out of the house.

'You know son, whatever type of mother she was, she didn't desert you. Perhaps that's something to hold on to.'

Adrian paused, leant down and patted Rusty, 'Yeah, maybe.' He almost smiled as he strode away towards Viking Woods.

### About Penny Luker

Penny Luker is a writer of fantasy fiction, short stories for adults and children's fiction. She lives in Cheshire, England with her husband. Penny enjoys playing the piano and ukulele and she's also doing an art course this year. You can read more of her writing on her blog.

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# The Legacy _by_ Lesley Hayes

Daisy never really knew her father. He had become a vague, distant figure by the time she started secondary school, and had retreated from her radar progressively in the years that followed. She had begun to think of him then as a timid creature of the forest that shied away from any hint of human engagement. In adulthood she had barely had a whiff of him and his spoor had become increasingly difficult to track. Eventually she had more or less given him up as a lost cause. The yearning to sit on his lap and be soothed had never quite gone away, however inappropriate that seemed now that she was a grown woman.

He had kept in touch only minimally during his later years, and she had got used to receiving the occasional random postcard rambling on about something largely incomprehensible. He had managed to avoid giving her his address for at least twenty years now, although she could tell from the postmarks he was still living somewhere in England. She had been grieving for him for so long that when a letter from him arrived two days after his solicitor had gravely informed her of his death, she was strangely elated.

Someone else must have posted it on his behalf, of course, according to his prior instructions. Daisy thought that in a way it was touching that he had, at the end, finally wanted to make some contact.

"There is a Mrs Dumper..." he wrote. "I'd be grateful if you would see to her for me. It seems I'm on my last legs and shan't be able to much longer..."

There were no explicit instructions about what 'seeing to' Mrs Dumper might mean, and Daisy could only guess. Her father had for so long been a far-flung, longed-for missing piece of her internal jigsaw, and he remained inscrutable even in his passing.

Mrs Dumper arrived barely a week after the letter. She was apparently fresh from the funeral to which Daisy had not been invited, wearing damp looking boots, a voluminous black coat, and a plastic rain bonnet over her tightly permed iron-grey hair. The thick prescription lenses of her spectacles were flecked with spatters of rain.

"Cold front from the Atlantic," she announced abstrusely, as if some trade wind had inadvertently tossed her to Daisy's shore. "Never rains but it pours."

_Well, that's true enough_... Daisy thought.

Mrs Dumper bustled in. She looked about her in the questing way of a bullet homing in on a target before she located Daisy's spare room. Daisy had not yet recovered from the shock of receiving her father's letter after so many years of silence. She had distracted herself from feeling anything further about it bytrying in vain to work out her father's intentions regarding Mrs Dumper. As a result she hadn't had time to think things through logically or adjust to the idea of Mrs Dumperas some stray piece of flotsam floating in the wake of her father's demise. And she definitely hadn't anticipated the actual presence of Mrs Dumper to materialize so soon, if ever. It had therefore not occurred to her to make it a priority to clear all her paraphernalia from the spare room – a fact which Mrs Dumper clearly found disagreeable, though she quickly dealt with the matter with an astonishing degree of aplomb.

Daisy waited for an explanation, but Mrs Dumper seemed unaware that this was expected or necessary. She unpacked her reassuringly small suitcase and deposited her possessions in the chest of drawers. Then she eased off her sober shoes, and with an audible groan of relief replaced them with pink fluffy mules that allowed her bunions to spread.

"A stitch in time saves nine," Mrs Dumper said.

Daisy sought in vain to see the relevance of that.

She made Mrs Dumper a cup of tea, and wondered where she could now put her friends when they came to stay, until such time as Mrs Dumper left. Watching Mrs Dumper pour tea into the saucer to cool before slurping it, she decided it would probably be as well to ease off on socialising at home for a while.

"Did you know my father well?" Daisy inquired politely, hoping to establish the exact nature of the relationship. Mrs Dumper had been her father's housekeeper, perhaps? Surely not a friend? Or – more horrible still – a lover?

Mrs Dumper looked mysterious. She put her cup and saucer on the table with meticulous precision, as if about to disclose some menacing and monstrous truth. Then she pursed her lips and pushed her specs so far up on the bridge of her nose that her eyes seemed to bulge suddenly behind them like a bull-frog's.

"Least said, soonest mended," she said knowingly.

Daisy's father had initially abandoned his family to live alone in a remote Welsh cottage when Daisy was ten – an extremely impressionable age. Daisy's mother had created something of a song and dance about it. She was as loud and voluble as Daisy's father was noise averse and reticent. She had screeched at Daisy from morning till night, complaining and ranting about patriarchy and the government. At the age of thirteen Daisy had concluded that she was exactly the kind of woman who gave feminism a bad name.

Daisy was about this age when she first speculated on training to become a vet. She had come to the quite reasonable conclusion that animals were infinitely more rewarding than people, who were not to be trusted or relied upon. She felt putting one's faith in human nature was a mug's game. Her mother confirmed this view by running off to Tuscany with a neighbour's husband several years later.

Daisy was then assigned to the care of her strictly religious maternal grandparents in Norwich, a punitive sentence that was to last until she had passed enough exams to escape to university and the pursuance of her career. During this monstrously dark lull in her life, her parents had turned up separately on a few unmemorable occasions, to check on her progress as a human being. They had never passed comment, nor given Daisy any reason to suppose she was worthy of their affection. And yet somehow she managed to glean from her brief glimpses of her father a tender, unspoken admiration. From such crumbs do we all gather our fragile self-esteem.

Daisy had contrived each time they visited to seem as much like a large black Labrador as possible. This was her idea of the most perfect creature alive, until at least the age of twenty. Twenty was when she discovered men.

These days she was happy in her small flat and her shared veterinary practice, and she felt not the slightest lack of family. She was amazed at how swiftly the years had galloped past. Had she received a Christmas card from Tuscany last year? Perhaps her mother had also done the ultimate bunk to eternity? It wasn't callousness but a mild and quite understandable indifference that made Daisy contemplate this possibility without heartache.

Mrs Dumper's all too persistent presence caused Daisy to dwell on her father unwillingly. She didn't care to remember her early, formative rejections. She hadn't asked questions about him, nor considered until now what kind of man he might have been. However, Mrs Dumper provoked puzzlement.

What had her father expected Daisy to do for or with Mrs Dumper? She seemed to require very little, apart from a base in which to squat and make her weather reports and prognostications, and her inappropriate maxims. She uttered these as if she had access to some esoteric store of hidden knowledge about Life.

Daisy began gradually to believe that Mrs Dumper must have had some mystical, integral function in her father's life – why else would she have been important enough to bequeath to Daisy? She watched Mrs Dumper, and waited for revelation.

After about a month Daisy could no longer hold back the spring tide of her need for social interaction. Having told Mrs Dumper earlier in the evening of her intentions, she brought her friend Bernard home for coffee after they'd been to the local cinema. Bernard was a large, blond, lumbering, gentle sort of bloke, if a little slobbery. He assumed he'd be staying the night, as usual. Daisy was very relaxed and instinctive about her sex life. It probably came from dealing a lot with animals.

Mrs Dumper was sitting stolidly in the armchair, staring fixedly at the TV screen. She looked like a Quiz Show contestant on the verge of pipping the rest of them to the post. The intensity of her refusal to acknowledge Daisy and Bernard there in the room was unnerving.

"Coffee, Mrs Dumper?" Daisy suggested.

There was an almost imperceptible rapid shake of the head. Mrs Dumper folded her arms across her bulky chest more resolutely. Her spectacles seemed to flash with the effort of her concentration.

"I don't think she likes me being here," whispered Bernard – loudly enough for Mrs Dumper to dispute the point if it weren't so.

"Don't be ridiculous!" said Daisy, rather more loudly. But the mood was spoiled. Bernard left, and Daisy banged a lot of doors on her way to an empty bed.

"Your father was a solitary man," Mrs Dumper said at breakfast next morning. "He liked his own space and he kept himself to himself and others at a respectful distance." This was so far the most she had said about Daisy's father, and Daisy would have liked Mrs Dumper to expand on it. But she wouldn't be drawn any further, retreating instead into a detailed account of the day's forecast as given by the weather man on the TV ten minutes before.

"Ne'er cast a clout till May is out!" she warned Daisy, who was about to flounce off without her jacket. "Don't worry about the dishes. I'll do them!"

This irrelevant amount of washing up was about the extent of Mrs Dumper's willingness to help. If she had been Daisy's father's housekeeper, she was certainly taking a long holiday from such activities now.

Daisy did all the cleaning and cooking, and Mrs Dumper ate her home-cooked meals with gusto, belching afterwards with unrestrained zeal. Daisy reminded herself that it was deemed good manners to do so in certain parts of the world, and created some fiction in her mind that perhaps Mrs Dumper had once lived abroad. She wanted to feel generous towards Mrs Dumper because she was all that was left of her father, and he had instructed Daisy to take care of her. That was what he had meant, surely? How else was she to interpret his dying words?

What she found hard to fathom was how her father had tolerated Mrs Dumper, with her evident digestive problems and the resulting noisome sounds and smells. But you could grow used to anything, or so Daisy comforted herself, wondering if she would ever be able to have sex with Bernard or anyone else in her own bed ever again.

Daisy thought more and more that Mrs Dumper must hold the key to the crux of her father's very private personality. She had put him out of her mind for years. Now she found that she kept remembering, with the painful thrust of clarity, childhood episodes in which he had figured. Always, he was the dim, shadowy shape whose motives for such bewildering behaviour couldn't possibly be guessed.

Daisy remembered once being whisked off to the top of a hill to watch a sunset, and on another occasion taking part in a feverish race of supposedly highly trained spiders. She had completely forgotten about the spiders until now. She recalled that her father had sung lugubrious lullabies in a cracked, rasping voice as he polished his shoes to a chestnut gleam. He used to sit on the back doorstep, the brush going back and forth across the leather, gazing out – Daisy had known even then – not at the unprepossessing view of the back garden but at the dreams inside his head.

He had been a man of few words, and had often paused mid-sentence to cogitate for long, breathless moments on what he should utter next. Young Daisy would sit rapt with attention, not daring to make a sound lest she break his concentration. The infuriating thing now was that she couldn't remember any of those precious bon mots, if indeed that's what they had been. She reflected on those times when she had sat in awe beside him, and wished she had kept a notebook handy, to record his statements. She would have had plenty of time to write things down as he sifted through his thoughts for exactly the right piece of wisdom to impart. If in fact it had been wisdom. There was a frustrating gap in her memory, like a fluffy nimbus cloud obscuring the important part of what had occurred. All she could retrieve was that image of her father, lost in contemplation, and her own avid fascination with him – then, as now.

If her father had been a man of few words, Mrs Dumper was a woman of a sizeable number of utterly pointless and predictable ones. She had taken to reading aloud to Daisy the entire front splash and editorial pages of the most loathsome of her habitual daily newspapers. If Daisy attempted to move out of her range, Mrs Dumper would follow her, continuing to share the vile travesty that was the newspaper's version of current events. She seemed impervious to Daisy's obvious disinterest. Daisy tried to tell her in the kindest of terms that she preferred not to hear it, but Mrs Dumper simply shone a look of disbelief at her, smiled to herself, and continued reading.

On other issues she was not forthcoming. It was as if she didn't have an original thought in her head, Daisy thought uncharitably, reproaching herself immediately. Mrs Dumper must also be mourning the loss of Daisy's father, and perhaps this was her way of avoiding or moving through it. Who was Daisy to judge? But the less Mrs Dumper said of any real value, the more Daisy suspected that she secretly knew. Eventually she came to suppose that there must be some dire, arcane enigma at the centre of her father's life. He was like an invisible black hole at the hub of the universe, towards which she felt irrevocably drawn, and which only Mrs Dumper could locate and expose. Daisy felt like an astronomer, gazing blankly at the night sky of her father's life through an inadequate telescope with a broken eyepiece.

Was there some message he had hoped at the end to impart, by wishing Mrs Dumper on her? Did she contain the kernel of that tiny truth about the man which, knowing it, would utterly change Daisy's life?

Oddly enough, as more time passed Daisy got used to Mrs Dumper being there. A strange kind of numbness seized her in which she became deaf to the sounds and impervious to the rank odours that initially had so assaulted her sensitivities. Mrs Dumper wasn't a bit of trouble, really, she told herself. She was like a smelly old dog that occasionally barked inappropriately and wasn't the most house-trained of animals, but which lent a pungent air of familiarity and companionship to her home. And if her social life and her previously somewhat active sex life were hampered, Daisy hardly noticed any more. Her mind was now set on other things. She was a woman on a mission. She wanted answers.

"Did he talk to you much?" Daisy asked Mrs Dumper. "Did he speak about me?"

Mrs Dumper looked thoughtful for a long time. She sucked the soft, tea-soaked biscuit from her teeth, and prodded back the specs on her stubby nose with her spatulate finger. At last she looked Daisy in the eye.

"Not a dicky-bird," she said. "Still, there's many a slip..."

Daisy felt, for a moment, like screaming. But it passed. She moved from ardent interest into obsession – a subtle line to cross but a profound distinction. She didn't believe Mrs Dumper. She thought she was keeping something of vital significance from her. After months of living in Daisy's pocket Mrs Dumper had become familiar and yet unknown. If Daisy was honest, and waded through the miasma of sensory apathy that had set in, she couldn't stand her funny little ways, her appalling table manners, her loud uninhibited and unapologetic flatulence, and her eloquent silences. Something more than lethargy and politeness prevented Daisy from throwing her out into the void from whence she had come, but she couldn't quite define it. She began to feel, with a creeping, chilly dread, that she would be stuck with Mrs Dumper forever.

"I dare say there'll be a hard frost by the state of that sky," predicted Mrs Dumper one Saturday morning. She then proceeded to read aloud Daisy's horoscope from each of the ghastly tabloid papers she had regularly delivered at Daisy's expense.

" _A short trip brings unexpected excitement_...That's nice," Mrs Dumper said. "Strike while the iron's hot, is what I always say."

"Yes, you do, don't you?" agreed Daisy, through gritted teeth. Mrs Dumper extended her mottled, vein-knobbled legs even closer to the maximum blast of the fan-heater she was hogging, and gave one of her rare and awful smiles.

It seemed to Daisy a good time for a brief excursion along a motorway or two, and without thinking too much about the consequences, she set off straight away. It transpired that her father had, in the end, moved back into the remote Welsh cottage to which he had first escaped, so long ago. He had lived there for the past fifteen years, apparently. When the solicitor had informed her of this Daisy had felt a rush of anger mixed with pain, realising she could have tracked him down after all, if she'd tried hard enough.

All the time she was driving there the anger and pain kept arguing within her chest until eventually she realised the rain obscuring the windscreen was in fact her tears. She pulled over to the hard shoulder and sat weeping and wailing for a while, honouring the sorrow that had overtaken her despite her best efforts. Her father had hidden from her all his life and she had never had enough courage to seek him out. That was the truth of it.

Regret is a bitter pill to swallow, she mused bleakly. A cliché worthy of Mrs Dumper, she added as an afterthought. She was more of a pernicious influence than Daisy had realised.

The cottage, when eventually she arrived, was locked up as securely as the solicitors had informed her when they passed on the keys. That, and Mrs Dumper, had been his only bequests. It was late afternoon, and the night was already sending grey dusky tendrils through the trees on either side. A more fanciful person than Daisy might have imagined the shade of her father lingering there, but if she conceded the possibility at all she shrugged it aside as she opened the door and stepped inside.

The electricity had been disconnected, of course, but there was a plentiful supply of candles, and several oil lamps. Perhaps power cuts had dogged her father's twilight years, or perhaps he had simply neglected to keep up his payments to the suppliers. In any event, Daisy applauded his forward planning. She too kept to hand a plentiful supply of alternative means of warmth and light, and recognised a kindred spirit. She was clutching at straws, she knew, but as Mrs Dumper would have put it, any port in a storm was better than none.

All night, in flickering candlelight, Daisy searched through dusty drawers and cupboards for the clues Mrs Dumper had denied her. Where was her father's ghost? There wasn't even as much as a photograph amongst all the trivia. There were seed catalogues, receipts, invoices, twenty years' worth of Railway Modeller magazines, and a library book about penguins that had been due back two years ago. _Penguins_? she thought.

Finally, she spotted gold among the silt at the bottom of the stagnant pool of information. This was not in the big, over-stuffed desk, as she might have expected, but at the very back of the larder, underneath several boxes of mouldering dog biscuits and what could have been budgie food. _Dogs? Budgies?_ Had her father had _pets_? And if so, where were they now? It was a small footnote doomed to remain, like so much else, a mystery.

Daisy's heart began to pound, nevertheless, as she saw the treasure she had been seeking and reached out to trawl it in: a plastic carrier bag of yellowing notebooks.

As she examined them they seemed to be the remaining batch of a set of diaries. The earlier ones had been placed elsewhere, she supposed, for safe keeping. There was no announcement at the start of the initial entry that it was a venture newly embarked upon. The first notebooks were dated about seventeen years previously, and they covered several years, ending abruptly halfway through one notebook.

Daisy flipped through them chronologically, and found that her father had recorded the most mundane of events in painstaking and miniscule detail. It was all so boring she almost fell asleep.

It was only at that final, poignant entry that things began to hot up.

" _I received a letter from old George, who died only the other day..."_ her father had written fifteen years before, in his wavering, spiky script: _"It's most curious,"_ he went on. _"It has come to light that there is a certain Mrs Dumper due to arrive. George's last request is that I should look after her..."_

And here, with an intriguing suddenness that made Daisy shudder, the diary ended.

### About Lesley Hayes

Having had two decades of success as a published author from the age of 17, Lesley Hayes made the choice twenty-five years ago to do something entirely different with her life, so she trained and built up a thriving practice as a psychotherapist in Oxford. However, five years ago the muse had waited long enough, and insisted that she heed it once again, and the unwritten novels from those years began to pour out of her. Amazon Kindle was the obvious first choice for publishing in the 21st century, and since 2013 she has published three novels, also available in paperback, and four collections of short stories. She says of her work: "I want to understand the darkness in us, and what motivates and makes us choose the people we do and the paths we follow. Are we each of us what we seem to be? And if we aren't, then who are we really? It's a theme I return to again and again in the fiction I write." You can read more about her books, and her life, on her website, in her blog, and find links to all her books on her Amazon Author Page

### Links

Website

Blog

Amazon Page

# Well It Ain't My Hole... _by_ Paul Ruddock

The man from the council stood looking at it, scratching his head in a stereotypical fashion that so perfectly betrayed his utter bewilderment. This was surprising because if there was ever anyone who knew about holes it was Adam Wiggly; what Adam Wiggly didn't know about holes could be written on the back of a postage stamp, but this one had him baffled.

"Well it ain't my hole." Adam said.

"Nor mine," agreed Karl, the man from the gas board. He too was scratching his head, almost in sync with several others who were standing around, all with about as much idea what to do as a eunuch in a harem.

"Could be one of Smiffy's I reckon. I mean, it's hardly the biggest I've ever seen." Karl suggested.

Adam sniggered at the tail-end of Karl's remark, but on this rare occasion resisted the temptation to say something crude in reply. "Nah, not his style, I've seen Smiffy's work, this ain't one of 'em."

"What? What d'ya mean, not his style? It's a just a friggin hole for Christ's sake!"

"Nah, ain't no such thing as just a hole, each one's different, got its own character, like."

Karl turned towards him with one of those 'what the f...' looks.

Adam continued. "Like I says, they're all different... ya got yer belly holes, slit trench type holes, and then there's the sort of hole yer get from an entry wound from a small firearm, which is quite different from the hole it leaves the other side. There's a real science to it, like."

Karl shook his head in feigned disbelief, though inwardly acknowledging the absurd logic in what Adam was saying. He quickly dismissed the thought from his mind for fear of actually getting sucked into what was fast becoming a ridiculous conversation on the topic of the character of a hole. By now of course, one of the local plod, Police Constable Bill Witherby, had also turned up, equally puzzled but determined to bring a semblance of order to all the confusion.

"Stand back, stand back please, nothing to see here, it's just a hole in the ground," the young plod was declaring to anyone bothering to listen.

"I'd hardly say that mate, I mean, there's no paperwork for it, and the council know sod all about it, not even a B41 stroke 252 for it," Adam replied.

"And you are?" Asked the plod.

"Adam Wiggly, Chief Roadside Excavation Officer."

"What he means is, he watches and stands around, drinking tea and scratching his arse," Karl added by way of explanation of the important sounding title. "Other people dig the holes, and then he tells 'em what a shit job they've made of it."

Adam turned to give him a scouring look. He would have preferred punching him but there was already enough animosity between the council and the gas board as it was, so had to content himself with the curt response.

"Ya fookin' twat!"

The plod had now been joined by a second plod, Police Constable Hilary Jenkins. Adam and Karl both switched their attention to the shapely young lass. The uniform really suited her, Adam thought, reminding him of a fantasy he had about Angie Dickson, the actress who played 'Police Woman' in the TV series.

"Soz about the language luv," Adam hastily added.

Karl smiled, feeling smug at Adam's obvious embarrassment, unaware that it was due more to a 'below the waist' reaction than his having sworn in front of a female police officer. "No need, me dad was Navy so there's nowt you or anyone could say that I ain't likely to have heard... or seen... before," PC Jenkins replied. To emphasise her point she gave Adam a sly wink and a smile while momentarily glancing down at his crotch area.

For some reason Adam's face now resembled a beetroot. "Now, what's being done about this 'ere 'ole then?" PC Jenkins asked in a gruff voice that was totally at odds with her small but shapely stature and good looks.

"That'll be for me to decide," said the latest arrival at the scene, a short squat little man wearing a cheap ill-fitting pinstripe suit and a Laurel and Hardy style bowler hat.

Karl and Adam just sighed, knowing exactly who he was: "I'll take charge now, now stand aside you two so I can assess the situation," the bowler-hatted little man demanded with about as much authority as a toddler demanding an ice cream.

"And your name is?" Asked PC Jenkins, her tone making it clear she had no intention whatsoever of letting the little man take charge.

Taken aback by the petite looking blonde haired PC's authoritative manner, the little man partially delegated his response to Adam Wiggly in the vain hope of soliciting some support in asserting his imagined importance.

"Mr. Wiggly here can confirm my identity and status, I'm Mr. Dibble... Dibble of the Council."

It was hard for anyone in earshot not to piss themselves laughing at the pomposity of the way in which he declared it. It brought to mind the likes of Gideon of the Yard or Scott of the Antarctic... and now added to those illustrious names... Dibble of the Council. Somehow though it didn't have quite the same ring to it.

Adam and Karl shrugged their shoulders in a half-hearted manner, nodding in the affirmative, though their disdain for Dibble couldn't have been more obvious, something the pretty young PC picked up on.

"Well, Mr. Dibble," PC Jenkins replied, adding as an afterthought, "of the Council... What exactly do you intend doing about this 'ere 'ole?"

"That'll depend, first thing's first..." It was a typical Dibble response, to say a lot but mean absolutely nothing, particularly when he was out of his depth. Given that he'd probably be out of his depth at the shallow end of a toddler's paddling pool, that was more often than not.

"I don't get it?" Karl said.

"Get what?" Adam asked. "What you on about now?"

"Y'know, what Dibble said... 'First thing's first'... what's all that? I mean why would anyone say that? It's not like you might decide to go with second thing first or third thing second. It don't make sense."

Everyone turned to look at Karl, baffled as to what he was rambling on about. Knowing however that the subtleties of the English language weren't likely to be one of his few strong points, no one really felt up to the job of trying to explain.

"And that first thing is, Mr. Dibble... of the Council?" Asked PC Jenkins.

"Assess the situation, establish the facts, and decide on a course of action," Mr. Dibble replied, ignoring the obvious sarcasm in the PC's voice.

In the meantime, a couple more plods working under PC Jenkins' direction were doing exactly that rather than just talking about it. Barriers were being erected to divert traffic from the busy junction close to where the hole was, while the first officer on the scene busied himself with keeping back the growing number of curious onlookers, many of whom had their own thoughts on the matter: "What a carry on, I wonder if it's one of those hidden camera shows?"

"Nah, can't see any."

"Well you wouldn't would you, not if they were hidden, stands to reason."

"Ha ha, I hadn't thought of that..."

"Maybe there's a serial killer on the loose and they're looking for bodies?"

"What? You think someone's been digging up the road, tarmac and all, burying bodies then fixing up the road again, and all without seeing or noticing owt, nah, don't be so bloody daft."

"Reckon it's a remake of that film, you know, the one where a load of inept workmen make idiots of themselves, oh what was it called again..?"

"Uh?"

"You know, the one with Eric Sykes and Tommy Cooper in it and all them others..."

"Oh I know the one you mean, yeah, what was it... The Plank!"

"It's the aliens, same ones as that keep making them there crop circles," suggested yet another. Admittedly it was the most far-fetched of the speculations, but it was probably the most justified considering the old fella spouting the latest theory was pissed as a newt.

*****

With all the attention the hole was getting from all and sundry, no one seemed surprised when the TV guys appeared in one of their vans. First thoughts were that it might be some sort of news crew. Already the assorted parties were jostling for position, for their five minutes of media fame should they be approached for their thoughts on the mysterious hole that had appeared from nowhere. Maybe the theory that someone was filming a remake of The Plank wasn't that far off the mark after all...

"Hi guys. So tell me, what's the story here?"

Adam was about to speak up, well, that's what Adam did most of the time, speak a lot when not filling his gob with beer that is. He was quickly silenced by the interruption of his bowler-hatted boss.

"I'm the one you'll be wanting to speak to on that matter I imagine," Adam's bowler-hatted boss declared. "Mr. Dibble's the name, Dibble of the Council."

Adam and Karl, and even PC Jenkins couldn't help but snigger at the repetition of how he introduced himself. Mr. Dibble ignored them, pretending to be oblivious to their contempt.

*****

No one noticed the approach of the tweed-jacketed, corduroy trouser wearing man wheeling a bicycle. Had he still been riding it as he approached the police barriers no doubt he would have been stopped, but the crafty bugger had dismounted by then, and stealthily approached unchallenged in a manner your average rucksack carrying kamikaze terrorist could only ever dream of hoping to get away with...

"Ermm... Hello. Might I enquire what you're all doing standing around and trampling through our excavation site?" The latest addition asked.

"Your excavation site? You mean this is your bloody hole?" Adam exclaimed.

"Well of course it's mine, well my department's I should say."

Once again, it was the little Napoleon Dibble – of the Council – who sought to take charge, shuffling his way through the assorted workmen and other departmental officials. I say shuffling on account of his lack of height and presence preventing him from barging his way through in the way he would have liked, and genuinely believed his imagined importance should have allowed. In reality he was forced to apologetically plead to be allowed to pass and squeeze through the crowd in much the same way some suited civvy might try and squeeze unnoticed through a bunch of drunken squaddies to get to the bar...

"Which is... and you are?" Dibble of the Council asked.

"Henry Michaels... of the Ministry for endangered indigenous species and habitats."

It was at that point Adam and Karl nearly spat out the tea they were drinking from the polystyrene cups they were both clutching. It was yet another illustrious name to add to Dibble of the Council, Gideon of the Yard, and Scott of the Antarctic – Michaels of the Ministry no less.

"This has gotta be some kind of fookin' Candid Camera prank," Karl was saying to Adam.

"Nah, can't be. They'd need a F69 stroke P Form for sommat like that." Adam replied without a trace of irony. The only thing that even came close to what Adam knew about holes was his almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the myriad of paperwork needed to dig one within the borough limits. Karl was more inclined to think he was taking the piss and probably making it up as he went along...

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Michaels of the Ministry said. "This hole is definitely not a television prank. It is a serious endeavour to preserve the Lesser Spotted Peat Bog cockroach. The creature was long thought to be extinct until its albeit yet to be confirmed rediscovery when the electricity board were laying some cables here."

"That's all very well but who gave you permission to dig the entire street up? My department never authorises anything bigger than a six by eight hole without a committee meeting first." Mr. Dibble replied in his haughtiest tone.

"I can assure you Mr. Dibble, my department did acquire the emergency requisite permissions as per Form B209 stroke 4b."

Mr. Dibble was now glowering and his cheeks were turning crimson. For once Adam came to his rescue without any need for prompting.

"Ahh right," Adam interrupted. "Yeah, that would allow the excavation of a hole this size, but only over the weekend or a long bank holiday. What you actually needed was a D59 dash 3b Form to cover weekday emergency excavations." Adam explained, delighted to embarrass his boss with his superior knowledge of council rules and procedures...

"Which I would have had to authorise... If I decided to!" Mr. Dibble added, determined not to be outdone by his subordinate.

"Hey, I've just had a thought," Adam piped up.

"Really?" Remarked Karl in mock surprise with a sly grin sprawled across his face.

Adam once again felt a desire to punch the little git for the implied sleight on his ability to think, but since it was probably no different to what everyone else was thinking, he decided Karl could wait, turning instead his attention to Michaels, the man from the Ministry.

"No offence mate." Adam said. "But ya don't exactly look like the sort of fella who earns a living digging holes, mate?"

Michaels of the Ministry laughed: "You're right, I didn't dig any holes personally, I just arranged for a more specialised firm to take over from the original excavation, though I can't for the life of me remember who was in charge of that?"

"Actually, that would be me," yet another new arrival to the merry band announced.

"Smiffy's the name, Arnold Smith if we're being all formal."

"Ha! 'Ello Smiffy, you ain't gonna tell us this is down to you are ya?" Karl said. "Ya see Adam, I told ya it might one of Smiffy's but oh no, you knew better, reckoning it were too big or weren't his style or some other bollox." Karl added, eager to take the opportunity to prove Adam wrong.

"Yes and no is the answer to that." Smiffy answered.

"Uh?" Adam grunted.

"I might have known the electricity board would be at the bottom of this!" Mr. Dibble huffed.

"If I may," PC Jenkins interrupted, "If you could shed some light on this, I'm all ears?"

"Sure," Smiffy said. "Me and my crew were called out on a rush job to replace a faulty cable last night. Not long after, some fella walking past stopped and told us he'd spotted some rare insect or bug I think he said, scurrying up along the sides of our hole. They just looked like regular bugs to me but what do I know?"

"About entomology? Probably about as much as I know about digging holes I suspect." Michaels of the Ministry said.

"Ento...Uh? What was that?" Asked Smiffy, not being used to that many syllables in an entire sentence let alone a single word.

"Entomology." Michaels repeated, "The study of insects."

"Could start with taking a look at Dibble them." Adam chipped in.

Karl did his best to supress a snigger. Dibble on the other hand wasn't so amused.

PC Jenkins took a deep breath. "Can we please let Mr. Smith continue with his account?"

"Ahh right." Smiffy said, forgetting all about entomology. "Well, next thing I knew, half a dozen official looking bods were crawling all over the site, ya man here included. Before I knew it they were in charge with their own diggers, hence the ruddy great fuck off hole we got now."

"And why wasn't I made aware of all this earlier, and where have you been in the meantime, we could have had all this cleared up ages ago," Mr. Dibble said.

"Out of my hands now, speak to the organ grinder over there," Smiffy answered, pointing in the direction of Michaels of the Ministry.

"That's absolutely right," Michaels agreed. "This entire area is now under the jurisdiction of my department."

Needless to say, Mr. Dibble took umbrage at seeing his authority and control of the situation fast disappearing: "Make no mistake," Mr. Dibble said. "I shall be having words with the mayor about this I can tell you!"

As per usual, despite his official position in the council, no one was paying much attention to the officious Mr. Dibble, and even less so when Adam made his latest observation.

"Eh up!" Adam announced. "Can anyone make out that bit pointing out at the bottom at the far side of the hole, it looks like some kinda shell..."

Silence descended on the collective chatter for a few moments as the seriousness of the last statement dawned on everyone.

"It might well be," said PC Jenkins as she stepped to the very edge of the hole and peered down at where Adam was pointing. Strangely enough the others were more inclined to edge themselves in the opposite direction...

"When you say a shell Mr. Wiggly, are you saying it might be some sort of bomb?" Michaels of the Ministry asked, who oddly enough now seemed to have lost some of his authority and confidence. Suddenly people were taking a little more notice of the oafish Adam.

"Yep, that's exactly what I'm saying Mr. Michaels... and you there Miss, PC Jenkins, might be an idea not to be getting too close."

"Yes, I agree, perhaps we should all move a little further away and pass this onto someone better equipped to deal with the new situation." Mr. Dibble urged. For once, he and Adam finally agreed on something. If truth be known, Mr. Dibble was probably more worried at Adam later being credited as the first one to alert everyone to the danger and acting decisively in the matter... Mr. Dibble had no intention of letting Adam challenge him for his job on the strength of that...

"Way ahead of you guys," PC Jenkins replied prior to getting on her radio to report the latest development.

"Ermm, Mr. Wiggly, if it is a bomb, or even just a suspect one, what's likely to happen now?" Michaels of the Ministry asked.

"Controlled explosion of some sort I'd guess," Adam replied.

Karl nodded his agreement with Adam. "Whoa, now let's not act hastily, there's already way too many people involved and contaminating the site." Michaels of the Ministry said.

"Contaminating the site? It's not a crime scene you know." PC Jenkins interjected.

"I know that but this site has been designated as a one of special importance. You do know the Lesser Spotted Peat Bog cockroach hasn't been seen in over two hundred years, and that the ones residing in this hole might be the last living specimens in the world."

Everyone's jaw just dropped at that, including Mr. Dibble's. Until that point he had been unrivalled in his capacity for stupidity, but Michaels of the Ministry's concern for some rare bugs over all their safety eclipsed even his capacity for coming out with complete and utter bollox.

"Err, hello up there, but I think something's ticking down here." Called a voice from just a few feet away from where Adam had first spotted what he was now sure was an unexploded shell, probably a souvenir of the last war.

Whilst they'd all been discussing who the hole belonged to, and then the current danger, some of Michaels of the Ministry's lab staff had clambered down into the hole to take soil samples in the hope of collecting some live specimens of the rare bug Michaels was so excited about...

"Sorry, false alarm, it's stopped now..." The voice called again a second or two later.

"I don't care, you guys get yourselves back up, now!" PC Jenkins shouted down at them.

"PC Jenkins." Said Michaels of the Ministry. "Let me remind you I'm in charge here, and I won't have you or anyone jeopardising our preservation work here." Before she could respond, Michaels had already turned his attention elsewhere: "You chaps down there, carry on collecting the samples I asked for."

"Suit yourself, on your head be it then." The pretty PC answered.

"Might be an idea if you and your lot get everyone cleared from the area, luv." Adam said. "If that thing down there's started ticking once, it might start again, what with them twats down there with their digging and whatnot," Adam was telling PC Jenkins.

Again, Karl was nodding his agreement.

"Well we don't know that for sure, and they did say it was a false alarm. And yes I think it needs to be investigated, but I'm not going to authorise a full scale evacuation of the area just on the say so of a council hole-digger and a man from the gas board." PC Jenkins replied.

"Chief Roadside Excavation Officer, if ya don't mind, luv." Adam corrected her.

"Gas Infrastructure Site Surveyor." Karl added.

This time it was Adam's turn to give Karl a 'what the f...' look, knowing damned well he'd just made that up.

Mr. Dibble was staying on the fence on this; he didn't want to openly agree with PC Jenkins just in case she was wrong, but he thought Adam and Karl were probably exaggerating the danger and he didn't want to share in the bureaucratic fall-out by endorsing their advice if that turned out to be the case.

"Thank you PC Jenkins, a voice of sanity at last," Michaels of the Ministry declared. He was relieved that he and his team could continue their bug collecting and that no one was going to deliberately blow them up, or at least not until they had enough of their precious specimens.

"Sod this for a game of soldiers." Adam huffed. "I'm off to the pub until the bomb disposal mob declares this a safe zone, you joining me Karl?"

"Too bloody right mate, this lot are off their heads, mate." Karl agreed.

"Hold up, wait for me." Smiffy shouted after them. It wasn't that he was worried about being blown up but he knew the local pub served a mean bacon buttie.

They really should have listened to Adam and Karl. They were both ex-military and knew only too well the dangers of an unexploded bomb.

*****

It took seconds for the immediate surroundings to feel the full blast of the explosion, though it took considerably longer for the resultant fires to be put out and for the dust to settle. Any life within the immediate vicinity was now toast. The one exception was the previously thought to be extinct colony of Lesser Spotted Peat Bog cockroaches, who were now happily scurrying away to find another hole to enjoy a well-deserved nap in after having been kept awake by a lot of silly humans. Considering cockroaches will probably still be around long after the last of the human race has been irradiated under an atomic mushroom cloud, Michaels of the Ministry really shouldn't have been too worried about them.

Adam and Karl, who had sensibly decided they'd be better off supping a quiet pint in a nearby pub rather than gabbing away around a ruddy great hole with a ruddy great bomb at the bottom of it, continued where they'd left off in their previous discussion on the character of a hole...

### About Paul Ruddock

Born in London, the United Kingdom, Paul Ruddock has in his time been a soldier, studied psychology at Middlesex University, worked in accountancy, and is now employed in the rail industry. He currently lives in the UK, dividing his time between London and North Wales. A widower, middle-aged, with one grown up son, and in his own words, the most adorable grandson in all the world.

When not writing or working he is a keen outdoor enthusiast, enjoying nothing more than walking, climbing, wild camping, and cycling in the British countryside.

In addition to his first short story anthology, he is also a prolific blogger and book reviewer. He is currently working on a further two books. One is a comic Sci-Fi novel, and the other is a dark comedy/thriller.

### Links

Echoes of the Pen

Paul Ruddock's Website

# Three Sacred Orifices _by_ Katerina Sestakova Novotna

Things sometimes become monstrous because their parts don't fit together rather than because those parts would be corrupt in themselves. Unusual combinations of things may result in freakish creations. If the parts of such freaks are incompatible, they sometimes mutate into bizarre formations that are as far away from the original purpose as can be.

While some monsters are freaks of nature, others are freaks of man's doing. This is a story about a scary combination of conservative Christianity and extreme feminism.

Oh God please, may my theology professor be a man!

Jana prayed, waiting with other students for her first theology class to begin. She would drop this one unless the teacher was a man and add another class instead, hoping to end up with a male teacher.

Jana studied business administration at a Jesuit university in New York. The introductory theology course was mandatory for all new students, no matter what the focus of their study was, so a version of the same theology course was taught by many different teachers at many different times. Some of those professors had to be men, Jana felt. Unfortunately, she could not know which ones because she had just transferred from another university and did not know anyone who could tell her. The class schedule she received at the registration desk contained only the last names of theology professors, so it was not very helpful.

She found it annoying that it was not possible to tell whether a person was a male or a female from their last name. In the Czech Republic, Jana's homeland, women's last names had different endings than men's. In most cases you just added "ova" as a suffix to a man's last name to turn it to a last name appropriate for a lady -- an equivalent of the English way of suggesting that the woman in question belonged to either her father or husband, depending on whether she was still single or married.

But in the US one seemed to blur differences between men and women in more respects than just last names. It was still Jana's first year in the US, but she was not totally unfamiliar with the culture anymore. She had already spent the first semester at another American university. She knew that American women were generally more independent than women in Eastern Europe.

Jana was not an independent woman at all. Neither did she want to become one. She proudly depended on her charm and on men's response to it. As a matter of principle, she never studied for her exams as long as her teacher was a man. She was tempted to open her textbook a few times because the cover looked intriguing, but she always fought off her urge to study. Had she studied hard in addition to focusing on her appearance, it would have been cheating in her personal game. Her goal was to prove her feminine power against all odds and dispel all doubts about it by excluding other possible explanations of her good grades.

Deep down Jana was aware that it was not fair to use her charm as a tool of academic success, but was it fair that some people were born with better brains?

It had always been rather easy for Jana to hook her male teachers -- even back in high school in the Czech Republic. The tricky part was getting rid of them after. Many of them expected sex from her, which she was not willing to provide. At least in most cases. She was usually just a tease.

Jana's American professors were more helpless than her Czech teachers used to be. The Americans were taught that only an explicit yes meant yes, yet it was so easy for Jana to create an expectation without promising anything.

Even if a teacher could see that Jana was just leading him on, he should feel somewhat flattered by the fact that she regarded and treated him as a healthy and properly-functioning man rather than a genderless robot. He was also in a more vulnerable position than she was because of the sexual harassment policies in place. This situation made it very unlikely that her professor would enact any retaliation.

Jana was not afraid of her male teachers. The only people Jana was slightly afraid of were the girls in her classes. Back in the Czech Republic, they were often in the same boat, though few of them were so brave that they would not study at all just to prove their charm in spite of charm being the main goal, or at least a useful tool, of many Czech girls. At worst they represented competition, but no serious threat to Jana's intentions.

In the US, most girls wanted to show that they were not only pretty but smart when taking exams. Yet no matter how hard they tried to suppress their primal female instincts to play dirty, they were women, so they could easily recognize Jana's intentions as something familiar yet undesirable. They even looked at her suspiciously when she was asking around whether anyone knew if Prof. McKelvie, their theology professor, was a man or a woman.

*****

The students were all seated in the largest room of the oldest university building, which had been built at the end of the 19th Century. The room was sometimes used as an assembly room so three hundred students could easily fit, but only about fifty students were waiting for professor McKelvie's class. The University tried to keep the introductory theology classes reasonably small; this was good in Jana's eyes as it made the class more intimate. Everyone was sitting close to the teacher's desk, leaving the back of the room empty. Only a grey pigeon, which had somehow gotten inside, was seen strutting around in the furthest dark corners.

The stone floor, the high ceiling, and the decorative windows with colorful glass made Jana feel as if she was sitting in church. Not much of the bright daylight filtered in through the iridescent window panels and there was only one chandelier in the center of the vast room. The lighting seemed poor for reading and writing, but perfect for seduction.

*****

Finally a forty-something man entered the large room. He was stout -- but not in a bad way. He was wearing a black shirt and black pants. Jana immediately noticed a heavy brass cross on a thick chain necklace. Its size made it look more like a crucifix one would place on a wall than around one's neck. It was clear that the man was making a statement about his faith. Jana guessed he was a priest. The cross matched with the brass chandelier, the body of which was shaped as a cross, too. Prof. McKelvie must have felt at home in that ancient classroom.

Jana sensed that her theology professor could be a wholly new experience since he was held back not only by the school sexual harassment policies, but also by his Christian faith. She would tease the hell out of him and it would still be safe for her to withdraw anytime. All she would have to do was appeal to his notion of sin. Perhaps just pointing to his massive cross was going to be enough. The poor man somehow reminded Jana of a dog chained to a cross sculpture. One could get close to the creature and play with him to the point of torture without risking anything.

Prof. McKelvie looked stern and solemn, but there was also something comic about him, which Jana was unable to identify. He was neither handsome nor repulsive. He was decent enough to flirt with at least.

Jana tossed back her long blond hair and looked Prof. McKelvie boldly in the eye. He smiled. She lowered her eyes and then smiled appreciatively, bending a little to give him a glimpse of her cleavage. He blushed and looked away.

This was going to be fun, Jana thought.

*****

It turned out in the following days that Prof. McKelvie was a very peculiar person, even for the city as crazy as New York. He was a fanatic Christian and a feminist at the same time. Both eccentricities were quite common in New York, but they rarely afflicted the same person at the same time.

Professor McKelvie thought that to be a Catholic priest was one of the greatest privileges someone could be granted. At the same time, he constantly complained that women were denied this privilege.

He claimed that the best book of all books was the Bible, but he also said that it was a sexist book: "The Bible says that a man was created before a woman was created, but she sinned before he sinned. And the Savior is a man. What shall we do about it, girls?"

Jana found it strange that Prof. McKelvie was addressing girls only while half of the students were boys. But who would expect boys to reply to such nonsense, anyway. It soon turned out that Prof. McKelvie did not even speak to all girls.

"Perhaps," said Alice, one of the most conscientious students in class, "we could start to think about Mary as Jesus' co-savior." Prof. McKelvie ignored her eager reply.

"But was not Jesus rather feminine, Prof. McKelvie?" Lara, a black student who was also a passionate feminist, suggested. Jana saw that she tried hard to be as open-minded towards Christianity as their professor was.

Professor McKelvie seemed not to hear them, although they seemed to be quite in tune with his own way of thinking. He paid all his attention to Jana, who said nothing. She only played with a button of her blouse.

Unlike Jana, neither Alice nor Lara were beautiful women by conventional standards. While Alice was an obese girl with zitty skin and greasy short hair of brown color, Lara was a woman with a big Afro and a stringy body. As much as one of the girls lacked any hints of feminine curves, the other one's had grown into an overflowing mass of blubber.

When Professor McKelvie ignored their remarks and chose to stare at Jana instead, he only confirmed that he was an easy target for her. Despite his best intentions not to be sexist, that's exactly what he appeared to be.

"We will rewrite the Bible together," Prof. McKelvie announced with a touch of urgency and solemnity in his tone. "Jana will be the group leader of our project. We will delete all the sexist passages. Our Father will become our Mother. We won't perpetuate the myth that the penis is something divine and superior we ought to worship - believe me, it is not. We will reverse the whole thing and create something infinitely more beautiful."

Prof. McKelvie continued to watch Jana closely as he spoke about his new and improved vision of the Bible. He spoke as if she had been his inspiration, his example of divine feminine beauty, though it was clear from his confidence and determination that he must have entertained these thoughts long before he first saw her.

_What a freak_ , Jana thought. Why could he not like her in the simple way most men did? Why mix it all with his strange views of God and the Bible? And with his even stranger understanding of feminism!

Yet at the same time, Jana felt flattered by the special attention Prof. McKelvie paid her. She had no interest in rewriting the Bible, but it was clearly an honor to be in charge of a project Prof. McKelvie considered to be so important.

*****

"I am so angry at Prof. McKelvie," Jana overheard Alice complain to Lara in the cafeteria. "I cannot understand how such a good teacher can favor Jana."

"Yeah, Jana is a stupid bitch," Lara nodded.

Jana was slightly annoyed when the girls gave her their nastiest looks. But she was used to such treatment from less attractive women. They were just jealous. The girls did not care that Jana was listening. They obviously wanted her to hear their smashing judgement.

"I can't understand how Prof. McKelvie can like her at all," Alice continued. "She is the total opposite of her."

Jana found it somewhat weird that her classmate referred to Prof. McKelvie as she. It sounded so silly, but Jana knew why Alice did so. She must have heard Tom, a British student, speak the same way about Prof. McKelvie. Tom always talked about him as if the professor had been a woman, in the same way Prof. McKelvie encouraged them to speak of God. Tom had a good sense of humor and he was showing how absurd and confusing this kind of thinking and speaking was. Everyone knew that God was not a woman, just as Prof. McKelvie was not. Alice must have confused Tom's sarcasm with a good gesture of genuine respect for the professor.

"Prof. McKelvie is a compassionate person." Lara followed Alice's example. "She must be sorry for Jana. That's why. She cannot really like someone so stupid."

Interestingly, Prof. McKelvie seemed to be rather conservative in all other respects than gender issues. He admired the Old Testament a lot, but he was slightly skeptical about the New Testament, speaking of its content as something too revolutionary and still to be tested by time.

"It was probably a good thing that Jesus defended an adulterous woman when they wanted to stone her to death," Prof. McKelvie admitted with a hint of hesitation in his voice during a class discussion. "But it was a good thing for a different reason than most people think nowadays. The decision of the people to punish the bad woman was not wrong in itself. She broke the law, didn't she?"

Professor McKelvie paused for an effect, as if he had been waiting for an answer.

"They could have executed her," he continued after a few seconds of solemn silence. "But the problem was that they could not execute the adulterous man, too! It was not possible for some unknown reason, so Jesus wanted them to let the woman go as well. He was the first feminist."

Jana was not the only person in class who found Prof. McKelvie's interpretations of the Bible crazy. She often wondered how a Jesuit university could let him teach an introductory theology course. Was it not meant to present young people with the Church's most fundamental teachings rather than entertain them with unusual theological anomalies? She soon learned that it was Prof. McKelvie's first semester at that university, too. This fact made Jana feel somewhat closer to the man.

Jana enjoyed her theology classes, but she did not work on the project of rewriting the Bible at all. She gladly let Alice replace her.

*****

Jana started skipping classes occasionally. She spent many nights with her new boyfriend, Alfonso. She was always too exhausted to get up when sleeping at Alfonso's place. Since Theology was Jana's first class in the morning on Mondays and Wednesday, it made sense to not go there sometimes.

Alfonso often insisted on driving Jana to school before going to his office, which was only a few minutes from the campus. Unless he was in a hurry, he even parked his car in front of the university entrance and volunteered to walk Jana to her classroom. It was certainly a sweet gesture, but Jana did not appreciate it.

Alfonso always placed his arm around her shoulders when they walked. She suspected he was trying to show that she was his girlfriend to all her potential suitors at school. It did not always work because Alfonso looked more like her grandfather. He was thirty-nine years older than Jana. He often tried to talk to anyone who said hello to his girlfriend, so many students knew that they were dating. Alfonso was very possessive.

The idea of running into Prof. McKelvie with Alfonso all over her did not appeal to Jana. She could not prevent it completely, because Alfonso sometimes waited for her after her last class on campus, but she at least tried to minimize a chance of such an encounter. It really made sense to skip Prof. McKelvie's morning classes whenever Alfonso had enough time to accompany Jana to school. She usually asked him to go shopping with her instead, which was much more useful since Alfonso did not mind buying her expensive gifts.

*****

Jana knew she could get away with skipping her theology classes. Prof. McKelvie had a weak spot for her so Jana did not think that he could give her a bad grade. No matter what. He liked her. And she sort of liked him, too. Who was she to judge him for being a little bit weird?

Jana missed her midterm theology test. Prof. McKelvie was so generous that he did not even ask her why she had missed it and only told her to take it another time -- during a regular class. He was not so benevolent with others. He requested a written document from a doctor when Tom claimed that he missed a test because of his illness. Jana was a special case, and she knew it.

But this was still not enough for Jana. She had not studied for the test at all, so she did not want to take it. Why should Prof. McKelvie test her at all? Why not test him instead? Why not test Prof. McKelvie's dedication and loyalty?

"I would prefer an oral test, Prof. McKelvie," she suggested shamelessly. "I will please you. I promise."

Prof. McKelvie swallowed in disbelief and his nostrils started to tremble. Jana was not sure whether they trembled with excitement or anger. She almost regretted her words because the man understood the innuendo all too well for someone so pious.

She was being too rude. She had not meant it that way. Jana wanted to look sexy but innocent. She wanted Prof. McKelvie to think that his own mind was so dirty that he heard erotic suggestions in her words although there were none. But he seemed to see through her. He studied her quizzically for almost a minute.

"See me on Wednesday during my office hours, please," Prof. McKelvie sputtered. He then left the classroom.

*****

Jana was a little nervous when waiting for Professor McKelvie in front of his office. She suddenly realized that she had a little crush on him. She imagined how it would feel if he kissed her in his office instead of testing her. It would be so romantic, she thought. But kissing was not a part of her game. It would just complicate her situation if she became too close to her professor. It always did.

It was too dangerous. Jana did not want to think about what could happen if Alfonso found out about her cheating! Her shopping sprees would probably come to a swift end.

Her sudden desire was confusing. She had just wanted more power. If she let Prof. McKelvie seduce her despite her plan, she would certainly lose some of her power. At the same time, Jana still felt quite powerful since her power over the pious man's mind seemed greater than the power of omnipotent God. He was evidently obsessing her.

She felt so special.

Jana was there a few minutes early and Prof. McKelvie was nowhere to be seen. But the door to his small study was open, so Jana peeked in. The first thing she noticed was a statuette of Jesus on her professor's desk. It was shaped like a huge dildo.

Jana felt guilty at the thought. It was one thing to have inappropriate notions about her theology professor, but a totally different matter to think of Jesus in this way. She had been raised a Christian and it felt wrong to perceive an image of Jesus as a sexual toy, but she could not help it since it was indeed shaped like that.

Yet the more Jana looked at the statue, the more obvious it was to her that her eyes were not playing tricks on her. The thing looked like a ten-inch realistic dildo over which a skillful artist painted an image of Jesus with his hands clasped together in prayer. The artist did a great job in disguising the shape by drawing people's attention to Jesus' ascetic face and devout posture, but the shape was unmistakable.

Prof. McKelvie could not possibly be aware of the phallic shape when displaying the object on his desk. He was so naive and innocent! A mischievous student must have given it to him, Jana guessed.

Her curiosity was piqued and she wondered what the statue was made of. She could not tell from merely looking at it, because the surface of the statue was covered with paint. She stepped closer to give it a touch. Her intuition was telling her that it was silicone, not ceramics.

"Sorry to be late, sweetheart," Professor McKelvie said. Jana was still standing in his door and staring at the statue, and nearly jumped at the sound of McKelvie's voice behind her.

"No problem," Jana replied in a coy voice, turning her head a little to almost face her professor. She did not turn her body though, wanting to keep Prof. McKelvie behind her a little longer. It felt more sensual this way. Then she looked away again, giving her professor a chance to study her figure without being caught. Jana wore a short pink dress with white dots, barely covering her underwear. It was a gift from Alfonso. She was blocking Prof. McKelvie's way to his office, so she had to dodge and face him after a few seconds.

When Jana finally faced her professor, she could not believe her eyes. Prof. McKelvie was wearing a skirt! A long grey skirt which would have been a very conservative skirt for any lady to wear, but it looked totally insane on the man. Jana had already gotten used to Professor McKelvie's unusual obsession with everything feminine, but it was too much for her to see him in a skirt. How far did thet clown want to go? Was he trying to impress her with his solidarity with women or understanding of ladies fashion? Did he try to look like a woman just to discourage her from flirting with him too much?

Prof. McKelvie offered Jana coffee and decided to have a little chat with her before testing her. After he fetched two cups of coffee from another room, they both sat down at a small table in his office. The room was tiny and their chairs were very close together. Prof. McKelvie's chair was much higher than Jana's because it belonged to her desk, while Jana's chair was only a low stool that Prof. McKelvie had drawn out from under the coffee table. Jana suddenly felt tiny.

"You are a strong young woman Jana. I like you a lot. When I was a girl I was a lot like you."

At that moment, Jana finally realized what was going on. How could have she been so silly and blind? Prof. McKelvie was a woman! Jana felt so foolish.

Jana's erotic feelings for Prof. McKelvie were gone in a flash. While Prof. McKelvie had been a decent-looking man, she was a repulsive woman in Jana's eyes. Jana had entertained erotic fantasies about women a few times before, but those women always looked like women. The idea of getting intimate with someone who was neither a man nor a woman in the real sense seemed monstrous to her.

Jana felt a huge relief. It was now clear that she was not in danger of being seduced by Prof. McKelvie. She did not have to worry of what Alfonso would do if they met Prof. McKelvie together. She felt much safer than before, though a bit disappointed, too. At the same time, Jana was not prepared for the test and suddenly realized the trump card she had relied on was useless. Now she could not even keep flirting with the woman, or could she?

Prof. McKelvie was still talking to Jana about how similar she had been to her as a girl. She was also talking about the role of women in general. Jana was not listening to Prof. McKelvie at all; her mind was busy, trying to figure out a way out of this awkward situation.

As if Prof. McKelvie sensed Jana's lack of attention, she suddenly said something that woke up Jana from her reveries.

"I can piss while standing, darling."

This was so absurd and so rude that Jana was not sure whether she had heard correctly, but Prof. McKelvie had her full attention now. She sat upright, eyes wide open, and stared.

"Once you start with equality, everything is possible," Prof. McKelvie continued. "There is not a single thing a man could do that you or I could not. I can piss while standing without wetting my panties." Prof. McKelvie pointed to her crotch.

"I swear that this is true, Jana." Prof. McKelvie was grasping her brass crucifix while talking. "Isn't this remarkable? It takes a lot of practice and determination to learn this skill when you are a girl, but if every stupid boy can do it, why should a woman with a Ph.D. fail? That's what I kept telling myself when I was still trying to learn."

Prof. McKelvie went suddenly silent. It was clear that she was very proud of her achievement and waited for some sign of approval, or even admiration. She was staring into Jana's eyes and grinning the strangest of smiles that might have meant anything.

"This is the highest summit of feminism, Jana. Can you see that? Would you like to learn that?"

Jana did not know what to say, but Prof. McKelvie did not seem to mind.

"I really can do anything a man can do." Prof. McKelvie's eyes started to twinkle with even a greater excitement. "Do you want me to show you? Look at me, honey."

Jana was looking at her shoes, too scared to look at her professor. She knew that she had to look up at her eventually to see what the woman was up to. Her eyes slowly wandered up Prof. McKelvie's grey skirt. The older woman giggled.

Suddenly Jana noticed the statue of Jesus in Prof. McKelvie's hand. She was swinging it rhythmically while her lips whispered something Jana could not make out. It sounded like a prayer. Prof. McKelvie was in some sort of trance.

Jana wondered whether this was not just a bad dream. Before she could pinch her cheek to see whether she would wake up, Prof. McKelvie pinched Jana's thigh. Unfortunately Jana did not wake up. She flinched a little and forced a nervous smile. Offending her professor by being too unfriendly was the last thing she wanted. Yet she was now afraid of more than just the test.

Prof. McKelvie smiled back. Her smile was unusually naughty for a person as solemn as she always tried to be.

This cannot be happening, Jana thought. Even though she was not dreaming, she was dazed and paralyzed by her shock.

"But first, I'll give you a lesson, honey," said the professor. "Do you know why women are superior to men?"

Jana shook her head absent-mindedly and desperately searched for any excuse to leave the room.

"Men have only two orifices in which God can enter and leave their bodies: their mouth and their anus," Prof. McKelvie said. "They can successfully engage in Eucharist, because they have mouths; that much is obvious. They can also fart in a spiritual way."

Jana looked up at her professor, unsure whether the woman was trying to make a sick joke or was just completely crazy.

"Don't give me the dumb look, Jana. You are a smart woman, aren't you? Have you never read the Bible? _Wherefore my bowels shall sound like a harp_ \-- have you never heard these words? Isaiah 16:11, Jana! Check it out."

Prof. McKelvie was waving her hands around, the Jesus dildo almost hitting Jana's face a couple of times.

"But this is not what I am trying to point out right now," Prof. McKelvie said and nodded. "Even men can fart."

Jana nodded, too, not knowing how else she could respond.

"But women have the third orifice. Our bodies are therefore more complete, more perfect as temples of God. All three aspects of God can enter them at the same time: the Son, the Father and the Holy Spirit. Male priests try to hide this truth from you to maintain their earthly power. That's why women are not allowed to become priests. It's all about control and power."

Prof. McKelvie looked thrilled. She took a deep breath and then went on. "The third orifice is also a door through which Jesus came into this world more than two thousand years ago. Only once did a woman manage to conceive a child without a man's contribution, and the child was divine. Isn't it clear that men just always screw up everything?"

Jana was becoming more and more afraid of this mad woman. For some odd reason she was still sitting there like a cardboard cutout, listening attentively and hoping irrationally that her professor would just let her go after revealing all those esoteric secrets to her. She felt like hypnotized by a serpent.

"The feminine nature is Trinity, and so is the nature of God. That is why we should refer to God as Her. This is the secret of secrets. Something I cannot teach in class without being fired. But let me show you more."

This was so silly, Jana thought. Why was this happening to her?

Prof. McKelvie looked at the statue of Jesus and then at Jana. She stopped talking and watched Jana, grinning.

Prof. McKelvie's sudden silence scared Jana more than her crazy words.

The student came to her senses, jumped from her chair, and knocked over the small table with the coffee cups, running away as fast as she could.

"You tease, I will get back at you!" were the last spiteful words Jana heard behind her.

*****

Jana skipped her theology class for the next two weeks. She was not ready to face Prof. McKelvie again. She never would be. Jana was afraid that she would fail her class. She knew that nothing was as dangerous as a woman scorned. The fact that she looked like a man did not help. Jana could not force herself to see Prof. McKelvie, let alone to think of flirting with her again.

Maybe the professor would pass Jana out of mercy or for good memories of their best times in class, but Jana doubted that. Her scholarship was now in danger, too.

Jana heard a rumor that Professor McKelvie became close with Lara and Alice. Tom told her that the trio might have even been in love -- that was at least how it looked to others. They met after school and spent a lot of time together, allegedly rewriting the Bible, but who knew what they really did. Jana could only hope that being in love would make Prof. McKelvie happy and more generous. Only the most desperate people held grudges against those who rejected them in her opinion. Perhaps Jana could even return to class now.

At the same time, Jana knew how much Alice and Lara disliked her. They might have encouraged Prof. McKelvie's resentment towards her instead of stifling it. She did not have the courage to go to class to find out. She was spending her Monday and Wednesday mornings shopping with Alfonso. He was so kind that he bought her some beautiful dresses and other lovely items. He even bought her a new pair of red Gianvito Rossi heels.

*****

In the meantime, Prof. McKelvie and her two now-favorite students were busy with more important issues than Jana -- who was perhaps too vain and self-centered in assuming that she was still on their minds. They wanted to make the world a better place. They could see how unfair it was towards women in so many respects, but Prof. McKelvie emphasized it was a good idea to focus on one thing at a time. They were still rewriting the Bible, but they also started to have doubts whether this was really the best thing to dedicate their time and effort to. They did not know how many people would read it.

One day, Jana heard that Prof. McKelvie was deeply moved by an experience she had encountered on her way to school. It was an unusually hot day for May and she was sweating in her shirt when she met a shirtless man on a subway train. She was not jealous, at least not in her own opinion, but she felt deeply offended by the obvious injustice. Why could women not ride shirtless, too? This was unfair and hurtful to all other women, not just her. Prof. McKelvie neither said nor did anything at that moment, because she was a thinker who always needed to think things through. But by the time she reached her classroom, she had a plan.

"This is so evil and unjust!" Prof. McKelvie argued passionately when relating the incident to her students. "Men can display their disgusting hairy chests anytime, but our beautiful smooth breasts must be covered! Our breasts are much more important than men's breasts because they have the potential of feeding babies! Why should we hide them as something shameful?"

"I personally would not mind if women showed off their breasts," Tom said.

"And you know what?" Prof. McKelvie said, smiling at Tom, "Let's do it! Girls, let's ride the subway shirtless! Let's fight for our human rights and freedom!"

Tom agreed almost immediately. Lara and Alice were at first a little bit reluctant, but they decided to join their professor after a short reflection. No one else wanted to participate. They did not say so directly, but everyone claimed to be too busy.

"You are such cowards," Prof. McKelvie choked, swallowing her tears of disappointment. "Once in your lifetime there is a cause worth fighting for and you all back off!"

The class was silent, which only confirmed Prof. McKelvie's conviction that they had no good arguments.

"But I'll tell you one thing." Prof. McKelvie started to shout, pacing back and forth. "If you don't participate, you will have to write thirty pages about our protest ride instead. I cannot imagine how you can write about it anything valid unless you are there and participate. You'll probably fail the class unless you go with us. Do you understand?"

The class stirred a little. A few students started to whisper to each other. While they usually ignored their professor's eccentricities, they did not like to be threatened. Fortunately the class was over soon, so they could scatter for their other classes.

Only Alice, Lara and Tom agreed to help Prof. McKelvie with her big plan.

*****

It was the strangest subway ride they, and everyone who met them that day, had ever undertaken. The three women had to face incredulous and amused stares and hear many sexist comments.

"These are not breasts but dried plums!" a man said pointing to Lara's chest. Then he turned to Alice. "You are so fat I could swim in your bra if you were wearing one!"

Then the rude man looked at Prof. McKelvie, wanting to comment on her muscular chest as well. He was not sure whether she was a woman or a man, so he staryed to ask, but Prof. McKelvie gave him such a knock-down look that he did not say a word. She had that kind of power.

Tom was initially shirtless, too, but soon put on his t-shirt since Prof. McKelvie did not seem to care either way in his case. On the one hand, she appreciated his support, but she kept saying there were enough shirtless men on the subway already, although they did not see a single one that day. Tom decided to blend in with the crowd and behave more like an observer than a participant of the shirtless ladies protest ride.

No one seemed interested in the reason why the three women were exposing their breasts, no one bothered to read the text they had meticulously written with colorful markers over their bare chests.

They took the Seven Train, a very long route that went from central Manhattan way out to Queens. They intended to ride back and forth until dark, but after six stops, the women were arrested. Tom was not, which was very sexist again in Prof. McKelvie's eyes.

The worst thing was that it was a policewoman who pulled Prof. McKelvie from the train and tried to check her ID on a subway platform. The two girls obediently followed a policeman who was there with the female officer. Unlike Prof. McKelvie, they did not resist the authorities.

Professor McKelvie did her best to make a scene. She did not resort to physical violence, but she screamed as loud as she could. She also kept jumping inordinately and grasping at her crucifix. She scratched her chest frantically with the crucifix until she was bleeding. The slogans written on her bare chest were soon covered with blood.

"We are martyrs!" Prof. McKelvie shouted. "We are like The Maid of Orleans! Don't give up, my heroines!"

As soon as the policeman told them to cover their chests, Alice and Lara put on their T-shirts, which they had been carrying in their backpacks. Prof. McKelvie absolutely refused to do such a thing.

"Traitors!" she cried. "You deny that you know me the way Peter denied Jesus!"

It was a busy late morning, so many passers stopped to watch the spectacle. Their attention seemed to cheer up Prof. McKelvie.

"Your fear won't stop me from my holy mission! God will judge you!"

Prof. McKelvie turned to the woman in the uniform, who was still trying to handcuff her. While neither the protestor nor the woman of the law were violent, Prof. McKelvie kept moving and rolling in totally unpredictable ways, which made the other woman's attempt to restrain her extremely difficult.

"Why don't you want to be free?" the shirtless woman addressed her opponent. "Don't be a slave! Take off your jacket and shirt! Take off all your clothing! You are a temple of God, our Mother! Don't be ashamed of your third orifice, silly woman! God loves you!"

Hearing these words, the policewoman finally lost her patience and became much rougher. She brusquely used a few martial arts punches and grips, submitting and handcuffing Prof. McKelvie successfully. With the help of her partner, they transported the three women to the police station. Since Alice and Lara were cooperating and quite reasonable, they were released shortly with only a small fine. Prof. McKelvie was transferred to an asylum.

*****

Alice and Lara willingly told their story to their classmates, playing victims, as they were all waiting for their new theology professor. "She was nuts. You should have seen her on the train!" Lara said.

"I cannot understand why they did not fire her earlier. Her behavior was so inappropriate." Alice added.

Tom was the only one who seemed to think that Prof. McKelvie was quite cool.

Jana did not share her own experience. She was not listening to the chatter around her, either. She had already moved on. She was sitting there in her new Gianvito Rossi heels, curious who her new theology professor would be. She was a little bit nervous. She kept telling herself that the room really looked like a church. Jana was staring at the cross-shaped chandelier for a while before she started to pray.

Oh God please, may my theology professor be a man!

### About Katerina Sestakova Novotna

Katerina Sestakova Novotna was born and raised in the Czech Republic. She lived in New York where she went to college. Currently she is living in Hawaii. She holds a Masters in Philosophy; her specialties are ethics and comparative philosophy. She has written numerous essays on those subjects. Her collection of dark stories "Hawaiian Lei of Shrunken Heads" is available as an amazon kindle ebook. Her new novel "How Missionaries Destroyed a Paradise" (an unconventional love story set on Bikini Atoll in the 1950s) is in the pipeline -- expected publication by the end of 2015.

### Links

Katerina's Amazon Page

I hope you enjoyed this collection of short stories. For more indie books, please check out the Paul Ruddock's website where he keeps a catalog of excellent authors.

Check it out here.
