Brina looked at her watch. It read 05:32. She should be back by now. She should have been back ages ago and would have been too if Marcus wasn’t so damned elusive. She’d been searching the streets for him every night this week to no avail. She wished he’d just come out and fight; but no, he seemed to have gone into hiding. He was planning something, she could tell, and whatever it was it was not going to be good; not for her, not for the humans, not for any of them.
Fang growled beside her. He knew, as she did, that they couldn’t stay much longer. Dawn was coming, she could smell it, feel it. Daylight wasn’t for the likes of them. Theirs was the night. She preferred it that way now. For the first century or so she had missed the sun. Now she wouldn’t have it any other way. She was good at her job and liked it and the perks that came with it. She’d been brought into this life abruptly and against her will but she had settled into it quite nicely. Sure, there were down sides but all in all she was… well maybe not happy exactly but she was content… ish.
She had been, at least, until Xandra had gone and dumped Waylan on her. Sometimes she hated that bitch. Why did she have to play babysitter when there were hundreds of others who’d do? Others that would be far better at it and who actually liked people. If she’d learnt anything in her one-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty-something years it was that you couldn’t trust people.
She hadn’t always been so sceptical. There had been a time, a rather long time ago… But no, she wouldn’t think about that, couldn’t think about it. Even now the betrayal still cut her deeply. Yes, things were far better now. The only person she could trust was herself. The past held nothing but bad memories and she couldn’t let herself be distracted by them, not when there was a crazed murderer on the loose. The sooner she killed Marcus the sooner Waylan would be gone and she and Fang could get back to their old life.
Fang gave her a little nudge as if he agreed with her. She smiled down at him. He really was magnificent. His dark grey pelt shimmered in the moonlight and his eyes sparkled with intelligence. He padded along beside her, his huge paws making not a sound. She loved her wolf. She knew that he wasn’t really hers. He stayed with her out of choice and she wouldn’t be able to stop him if he ever did decide to leave. But she loved him all the more for that.
A cry echoed in the night. She felt Fang go tense beside her. His ears were pricked and he had his hackles up. He bared his teeth and gave a low growl before sprinting into a dark alleyway. She was right behind.
The darkness was near complete, the buildings either side blocking out the light. A human would struggle to see more than a foot in front of them but Brina had no trouble seeing in the dark.
A muffled sob came from the end of the alley. Swift and silent, the pair headed straight for it. They were there in seconds, her inhuman speed another of the advantages. She could make out four, no five figures – two human, three not. The humans appeared to be in their late teens; one male, one female. Of the others, the vampires, she recognised Lorcán who seemed to be the leader of the trio. A toned six foot eight, he had long black hair, pitch black eyes and a love for cruelty that was matched only by his lust for blood. He was the cruel, powerful and frighteningly intelligent right hand man and most trusted adviser to Dante, the self-proclaimed ruler of the vampires. Between Lorcán and Dante, which she hated more was a tough choice.
Monday, 29 March 2010
Rachel Baker: The Coup
“Saffire! Aren’t you coming out to the parade?” Hana tugged at my arm, causing me to drop the saucepan. It clanged heavily against the stone floor. Grinning, Hana picked up the pan and presented it with a flourish.
I put it away and smoothed my skirt, trying to brush away the stains along with the crumbs of the bread that I had been baking. “Sure, but don’t moan at me for money. Everything is so overpriced.”
Hana rolled her eyes as she skipped to the door. She tapped her foot impatiently while I shoved on my old, comfortable shoes.
We stepped into the crisp, autumn air, barely feeling the watery sunlight. Hana’s teeth chattered. I could see the flags over the tops of the houses, the bright colours against the grey sky.
I expected to be greeeted by neighbours who were also on their way to the town square. Usually they smiled and nodded when they saw us, and sometimes gave little wrapped sweets to Hana, but only a few even acknowledged us; the rest had distant, far away gazes. I wondered if it was something I had done.
Hana was skipping quite a way in front of me now, and I had to jog to catch up. The mood in the square was oddly subdued. I remembered last year’s festival – the excited crowd, the carefree, joyous atmosphere.
“Can we please have a look at the horses?” Hana tugged the sleeve of my blouse, her face looking hopefully up into mine.
I wiped a smudge of dirt from the side of her face, and nodded. We jostled and pushed our way through the crowds, to where the livestock were penned on market days. Hana let out a gasp of dismay. Usually, there were at least twenty horses on show. This year there were five scattered around. Hana forced herself through the congregation at the fence to take a better look, and I stood to the side.
The stable master was talking in a hushed voice to a young woman, who hung over the edge of the fence. I sidled towards him. Normally people in the town didn’t keep secrets.
“I heard it’s today,” the stable master was saying, “I wouldn’t be surprised if riots break out.”
I quickly turned towards the horses, but the stable master had seen me staring and their conversation stopped.
Hana leapt over to me and grinned. I smiled back, the feeling of anxiety weighing me down, and we walked back into the crowd that was forming into two lines along either side of the main track.
The procession was coming – all bright colours and flamboyance. The dancers were first, whirling and twirling in their floaty costumes like petals skimming across the wind on an autumn day. Hana, who loved the dancers, was the most enthusiastic member of the crowd, cheering and clapping.
Drums then boomed through the air, and the clapping stopped. The cheering changed to lowered whispers and small gasps. The flags that had been fluttering in the breeze abruptly stopped. The soldiers clomped their boots for the final beat. Their weapons flashed menacingly in the sunlight and the crowd shuffled backwards. Silence smothered the square.
I put it away and smoothed my skirt, trying to brush away the stains along with the crumbs of the bread that I had been baking. “Sure, but don’t moan at me for money. Everything is so overpriced.”
Hana rolled her eyes as she skipped to the door. She tapped her foot impatiently while I shoved on my old, comfortable shoes.
We stepped into the crisp, autumn air, barely feeling the watery sunlight. Hana’s teeth chattered. I could see the flags over the tops of the houses, the bright colours against the grey sky.
I expected to be greeeted by neighbours who were also on their way to the town square. Usually they smiled and nodded when they saw us, and sometimes gave little wrapped sweets to Hana, but only a few even acknowledged us; the rest had distant, far away gazes. I wondered if it was something I had done.
Hana was skipping quite a way in front of me now, and I had to jog to catch up. The mood in the square was oddly subdued. I remembered last year’s festival – the excited crowd, the carefree, joyous atmosphere.
“Can we please have a look at the horses?” Hana tugged the sleeve of my blouse, her face looking hopefully up into mine.
I wiped a smudge of dirt from the side of her face, and nodded. We jostled and pushed our way through the crowds, to where the livestock were penned on market days. Hana let out a gasp of dismay. Usually, there were at least twenty horses on show. This year there were five scattered around. Hana forced herself through the congregation at the fence to take a better look, and I stood to the side.
The stable master was talking in a hushed voice to a young woman, who hung over the edge of the fence. I sidled towards him. Normally people in the town didn’t keep secrets.
“I heard it’s today,” the stable master was saying, “I wouldn’t be surprised if riots break out.”
I quickly turned towards the horses, but the stable master had seen me staring and their conversation stopped.
Hana leapt over to me and grinned. I smiled back, the feeling of anxiety weighing me down, and we walked back into the crowd that was forming into two lines along either side of the main track.
The procession was coming – all bright colours and flamboyance. The dancers were first, whirling and twirling in their floaty costumes like petals skimming across the wind on an autumn day. Hana, who loved the dancers, was the most enthusiastic member of the crowd, cheering and clapping.
Drums then boomed through the air, and the clapping stopped. The cheering changed to lowered whispers and small gasps. The flags that had been fluttering in the breeze abruptly stopped. The soldiers clomped their boots for the final beat. Their weapons flashed menacingly in the sunlight and the crowd shuffled backwards. Silence smothered the square.
Rachael Booty: Red Eyes
“Honey, what’s wrong? Have you been crying?”
“Mummy, the kids at school won’t talk to me. Why do they hate me?”
Mummy picked me up off the floor and placed me on her lap. “Michelle, honey, they don’t hate you. They’re just told to hate you.”
Sniffing, I replied. “Told to?”
“Because of your eyes.”
I climbed off my Mummy’s lap, and looked into the mirror by my bed. Red irises stared back at me. “What’s wrong with my eyes? Daddy used to say they’re beautiful, just like his.” I glanced at my Mummy for a moment.
She was finding it hard to keep the tears in, choking them back before replying. “Yes they are, Michelle, but they’re… different from most people’s.”
“Different?”
Mummy gently touched my shoulders. Her own deep blue eyes battled with tears. “Yes. But always remember this, my love. The children at school may be afraid of you, the adults may be afraid of you, but I’ll never be afraid, because you have a beautiful soul, and I’ll always love you, no matter what colour your eyes are. Okay?” She gave me her best smile.
I found myself giggling, jumping into her waiting arms. She always had a way of making me happy. “I love you, mummy!”
“I know, and I’ll always love you.”
“Even If my eyes turned green?”
Mummy laughed, which was a rare sound for me to hear. “I’d call you my green giant.” She led me to the door. “Come on then, let’s go and make some dinner.”
While we were eating, there was banging on the cottage door, and chanting.
Mummy ran to the window. Her body began to shake violently. I remembered the day I watched Daddy being hanged. Mummy looked back at me. She ran and grabbed my shoulders.
“Michelle, listen to me. It’s not safe here right now. You must leave, and only return when the sun rises. Do you understand?”
I stared into Mummy’s eyes. “Will you be leaving with me?”
She smiled. “Of course I will, I’ll be right behind you.”
I turned and ran for the back door. My feet led me to the hill behind the cottage. Behind me I could hear the door breaking, and the chanting, as flocks of men and women pushed through the house. For a moment, it was completely silent. I thought there was a hope that they were listening to Mummy, and that maybe they would agree, and leave the house alone, and accept me.
But this was only a prayer, a tiny thought from an innocent child. Reality was never that kind. I knew then, as I heard the gunshot, that my Mummy had broken her promise, and I would never see her again.
“Mummy, the kids at school won’t talk to me. Why do they hate me?”
Mummy picked me up off the floor and placed me on her lap. “Michelle, honey, they don’t hate you. They’re just told to hate you.”
Sniffing, I replied. “Told to?”
“Because of your eyes.”
I climbed off my Mummy’s lap, and looked into the mirror by my bed. Red irises stared back at me. “What’s wrong with my eyes? Daddy used to say they’re beautiful, just like his.” I glanced at my Mummy for a moment.
She was finding it hard to keep the tears in, choking them back before replying. “Yes they are, Michelle, but they’re… different from most people’s.”
“Different?”
Mummy gently touched my shoulders. Her own deep blue eyes battled with tears. “Yes. But always remember this, my love. The children at school may be afraid of you, the adults may be afraid of you, but I’ll never be afraid, because you have a beautiful soul, and I’ll always love you, no matter what colour your eyes are. Okay?” She gave me her best smile.
I found myself giggling, jumping into her waiting arms. She always had a way of making me happy. “I love you, mummy!”
“I know, and I’ll always love you.”
“Even If my eyes turned green?”
Mummy laughed, which was a rare sound for me to hear. “I’d call you my green giant.” She led me to the door. “Come on then, let’s go and make some dinner.”
While we were eating, there was banging on the cottage door, and chanting.
Mummy ran to the window. Her body began to shake violently. I remembered the day I watched Daddy being hanged. Mummy looked back at me. She ran and grabbed my shoulders.
“Michelle, listen to me. It’s not safe here right now. You must leave, and only return when the sun rises. Do you understand?”
I stared into Mummy’s eyes. “Will you be leaving with me?”
She smiled. “Of course I will, I’ll be right behind you.”
I turned and ran for the back door. My feet led me to the hill behind the cottage. Behind me I could hear the door breaking, and the chanting, as flocks of men and women pushed through the house. For a moment, it was completely silent. I thought there was a hope that they were listening to Mummy, and that maybe they would agree, and leave the house alone, and accept me.
But this was only a prayer, a tiny thought from an innocent child. Reality was never that kind. I knew then, as I heard the gunshot, that my Mummy had broken her promise, and I would never see her again.
Yung-Lu Lau: Two sonnets
I
Yellow topaz hair and your sea blue eyes
Over the jewel which makes one swim and fly
Underneath the midnight sky, stars and sun.
So little speech yet it is so much fun.
Although it’s weird you seem to always stare
Round the corner. I ask, if I dare
What you stare at. But though your mind,
How far it is, acts so strangely but kind
Before you fall fast, back down to the Earth
Really stunning, never hitting a nerve.
How hard it is for anyone to know
What one thinks when they see you shine and glow.
Now that I know, I cannot say, as such
Everlasting a rose can say so much.
II
Within the pale, soft, tender lips of yours
Which grant, that I know, that I’d never touch
The same way we play dreams in our games.
Although you hold, ever more, ever less,
The keys to the truth, the lies, and the rest
You may lie, or speak of only lies but
No matter how deep the truth of the lies
I will find, the only wisdom within
One self, to find the heart, to break the locks
The locks of the dreams, the locks of the Games,
Only to find my rest, to find my peace,
The only place, which has my truth, my lease
To my mind and soul, held by the soft lips
Of yours, binds me to a solar eclipse
Yellow topaz hair and your sea blue eyes
Over the jewel which makes one swim and fly
Underneath the midnight sky, stars and sun.
So little speech yet it is so much fun.
Although it’s weird you seem to always stare
Round the corner. I ask, if I dare
What you stare at. But though your mind,
How far it is, acts so strangely but kind
Before you fall fast, back down to the Earth
Really stunning, never hitting a nerve.
How hard it is for anyone to know
What one thinks when they see you shine and glow.
Now that I know, I cannot say, as such
Everlasting a rose can say so much.
II
Within the pale, soft, tender lips of yours
Which grant, that I know, that I’d never touch
The same way we play dreams in our games.
Although you hold, ever more, ever less,
The keys to the truth, the lies, and the rest
You may lie, or speak of only lies but
No matter how deep the truth of the lies
I will find, the only wisdom within
One self, to find the heart, to break the locks
The locks of the dreams, the locks of the Games,
Only to find my rest, to find my peace,
The only place, which has my truth, my lease
To my mind and soul, held by the soft lips
Of yours, binds me to a solar eclipse
Grace Roffe: Four Poems
Into a brittle shell a yoke is growing
Into a brittle shell
a yolk is growing
The golden protein from books
daubed with another's blunt musings
My mouth hosts an odd charm
Folded and Whipped
a different tongue-
like a child weaned from a spoon
Aerobic noises
Cream vowels pouring,
Sounds- foreign to taste
become my own.
Through cold chewing and trial and trial
take and stay
make home
Surrogate
Oh Galileo
with your forbidden science
Poison me slowly
The Devil's creed
Holy, Catholic, Apostolic
and all that
Nail your nails
where you started with your teeth
Am I someone's
sunlit dream
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me
Oh embryo
knitted and known
a group of cells
that are not my own
Image of God
Homoerotic to the last
Love me
Subjunctive Thomas
Ever doubting
Diligence forgotten and
wisdom denied
Lost numbers to quantify
love
a small dagger
in a sword's case
Soap on a rope bishop
Soap on a rope bishop
with a gun in her mouth
found alive + well
will spend her death in heaven
As she lived her life in hell
Wrong profession for liberation
Preach the drool of hate
abstention
drill a phobia with the mother's milk
OH HELL, how i forgot you loved me
Opulence carved into her left arm
The church laps up her blood
to pass on
its disease
HIV positive- me
And now the anger softens
And now the anger softens
Like their pretty boys
In their cruel chastity
Run
Like antelope into the lions paws
Gripping, Helplessly- Numbered
Oh Love
You curled up to the world
Before life itself was begun
A bud of petals
Taken and split and spread
What did you see?
What did you see for? Me?
Boy- your insight
has been taken
Your portrait of sin
Is no more blackened
than my mother's mind
Virgin Queen sets sail
Into a brittle shell
a yolk is growing
The golden protein from books
daubed with another's blunt musings
My mouth hosts an odd charm
Folded and Whipped
a different tongue-
like a child weaned from a spoon
Aerobic noises
Cream vowels pouring,
Sounds- foreign to taste
become my own.
Through cold chewing and trial and trial
take and stay
make home
Surrogate
Oh Galileo
with your forbidden science
Poison me slowly
The Devil's creed
Holy, Catholic, Apostolic
and all that
Nail your nails
where you started with your teeth
Am I someone's
sunlit dream
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me
Oh embryo
knitted and known
a group of cells
that are not my own
Image of God
Homoerotic to the last
Love me
Subjunctive Thomas
Ever doubting
Diligence forgotten and
wisdom denied
Lost numbers to quantify
love
a small dagger
in a sword's case
Soap on a rope bishop
Soap on a rope bishop
with a gun in her mouth
found alive + well
will spend her death in heaven
As she lived her life in hell
Wrong profession for liberation
Preach the drool of hate
abstention
drill a phobia with the mother's milk
OH HELL, how i forgot you loved me
Opulence carved into her left arm
The church laps up her blood
to pass on
its disease
HIV positive- me
And now the anger softens
And now the anger softens
Like their pretty boys
In their cruel chastity
Run
Like antelope into the lions paws
Gripping, Helplessly- Numbered
Oh Love
You curled up to the world
Before life itself was begun
A bud of petals
Taken and split and spread
What did you see?
What did you see for? Me?
Boy- your insight
has been taken
Your portrait of sin
Is no more blackened
than my mother's mind
Virgin Queen sets sail
Yung-Lu Lau: Terza Rima
The vast amount of great knowledge you give
And the greatest joy for me that you are
You give me, everyday, the joyful life
For without and with you, my mind is far
Far in the distance which I discover
High in the midnight moon sky like a star
For saddened I am, for I'm just a book lover
As though your pages grow wide, thin and small
It is amazing for what your words uncover!
And that I will always be trapped, within your wall.
But let me hope, that cause of you, my mind won't fall.
And the greatest joy for me that you are
You give me, everyday, the joyful life
For without and with you, my mind is far
Far in the distance which I discover
High in the midnight moon sky like a star
For saddened I am, for I'm just a book lover
As though your pages grow wide, thin and small
It is amazing for what your words uncover!
And that I will always be trapped, within your wall.
But let me hope, that cause of you, my mind won't fall.
Adnaan Tyabji: Free-wheeling
The bike rushed down the hill uncontrollably. The brakes were not responding to my touch. There was a low spiked fence at the end of the cycling path. This was the only thing that was going to stop me, I was sure of that. The fence was sprinting up to me. I was preparing myself for impact. I began to panic. I shut my eyes. If there was a god, then I was really going to need his help this time.
The next few seconds were not uploaded into my memory. One moment I was about to hit the fence, and the next I was crouched over it. I couldn’t stand up straight. I was somehow connected to the fence. My eyes turned in their sockets, trying to locate this secret connection. There was a trickle in my throat, like warm milk flooding my mouth. Then I knew what had happened, and yet I had an odd sense of calm. One of the spikes had embedded itself in my neck. I kept spitting out blood. It was flowing more quickly and becoming harder to get rid of. I tried to reach round to check if the spike had gone all the way through, but I couldn’t use my arms. My legs felt weak, as though they were going to buckle, and I couldn’t utter a word. Still there was no pain, but I knew that when it came I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I couldn’t utter a sound. A sudden rush of desperation and helplessness washed over me. I felt cold and clammy.
I could hear my parents’ words in my head: wear a helmet – it will protect you. Well I don’t think a helmet would have done much for my throat. Inwardly, I smiled at this thought. Physically, I didn’t have the ability to smile. I tried to look at my life and take hope from it. Would this be the end for me, stuck on a fence, blood filling my lungs, unable to move?
I couldn’t tell how much time passed, but I felt myself getting weaker. Darkness was hazing my vision, inviting me. I closed my eyes and let myself slip into unconsciousness.
The next few seconds were not uploaded into my memory. One moment I was about to hit the fence, and the next I was crouched over it. I couldn’t stand up straight. I was somehow connected to the fence. My eyes turned in their sockets, trying to locate this secret connection. There was a trickle in my throat, like warm milk flooding my mouth. Then I knew what had happened, and yet I had an odd sense of calm. One of the spikes had embedded itself in my neck. I kept spitting out blood. It was flowing more quickly and becoming harder to get rid of. I tried to reach round to check if the spike had gone all the way through, but I couldn’t use my arms. My legs felt weak, as though they were going to buckle, and I couldn’t utter a word. Still there was no pain, but I knew that when it came I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I couldn’t utter a sound. A sudden rush of desperation and helplessness washed over me. I felt cold and clammy.
I could hear my parents’ words in my head: wear a helmet – it will protect you. Well I don’t think a helmet would have done much for my throat. Inwardly, I smiled at this thought. Physically, I didn’t have the ability to smile. I tried to look at my life and take hope from it. Would this be the end for me, stuck on a fence, blood filling my lungs, unable to move?
I couldn’t tell how much time passed, but I felt myself getting weaker. Darkness was hazing my vision, inviting me. I closed my eyes and let myself slip into unconsciousness.
Giselle Marise Jones: Locked in
I’m engulfed in darkness. I can’t see the stars any more. Where have they gone? They were there just a moment ago…weren’t they? Where am I? What’s happened to me?
I hear footsteps and low voices, coming closer.
“How’s Natalia? Will she remember anything, Nurse?”
It’s my brother, Carlos. But why does he sound so panicky? It’s unlike him. I mean, he never worries about anything. Carlos can’t be bothered with worrying. He’s seventeen. He has better things to do.
“I’m afraid Natalia’s still in a coma but her condition is stable. We won’t know anything else until she wakes.”
But I am awake, aren’t I? What is this woman on about? Why is it so dark?
“Can I see her please?”
Carlos is never this polite. He does what he wants, always. Why does he sound so worried? What’s happened?
“Yes, of course. But she may not be able to hear you.”
I can though. I can hear both of them, Carlos and the nurse. I just… I just can’t see them.
“I’ll turn on the lights.”
There’s a faint click. The light flickers on, just for a second, and then off again.
“Maybe this switch doesn’t work.”
But… there was light, wasn’t there?
“It doesn’t matter really, I just wanted to….”
“I’m sorry, I’d better go and report this to maintenance. I’ll be right back.”
Again the light flickers. My head is filled with light, just for a second, then darkness. And again the light comes. It’s so beautiful. It reminds me of the stars, the bright stars and… and… I’m sure there’s something else. Perhaps if I can just concentrate, I might be able to remember. But my head hurts. It’s a drum kit. It gets worse with every flicker of light. ‘Make it stop. Make it stop. Oh please Lord, make it stop.’ Can they hear me moaning, I wonder? I can’t hear Carlos anymore. Where are you Carlos? Carlos?! If my head would stop throbbing, I might be able to hear him. Darkness comes over me. It’s like taking a cold shower after being burnt by the Sun. A pleasant coolness: relief. Then it all comes back to me – how I got here. The hiss and the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. The explosion of heat.
I hear footsteps and low voices, coming closer.
“How’s Natalia? Will she remember anything, Nurse?”
It’s my brother, Carlos. But why does he sound so panicky? It’s unlike him. I mean, he never worries about anything. Carlos can’t be bothered with worrying. He’s seventeen. He has better things to do.
“I’m afraid Natalia’s still in a coma but her condition is stable. We won’t know anything else until she wakes.”
But I am awake, aren’t I? What is this woman on about? Why is it so dark?
“Can I see her please?”
Carlos is never this polite. He does what he wants, always. Why does he sound so worried? What’s happened?
“Yes, of course. But she may not be able to hear you.”
I can though. I can hear both of them, Carlos and the nurse. I just… I just can’t see them.
“I’ll turn on the lights.”
There’s a faint click. The light flickers on, just for a second, and then off again.
“Maybe this switch doesn’t work.”
But… there was light, wasn’t there?
“It doesn’t matter really, I just wanted to….”
“I’m sorry, I’d better go and report this to maintenance. I’ll be right back.”
Again the light flickers. My head is filled with light, just for a second, then darkness. And again the light comes. It’s so beautiful. It reminds me of the stars, the bright stars and… and… I’m sure there’s something else. Perhaps if I can just concentrate, I might be able to remember. But my head hurts. It’s a drum kit. It gets worse with every flicker of light. ‘Make it stop. Make it stop. Oh please Lord, make it stop.’ Can they hear me moaning, I wonder? I can’t hear Carlos anymore. Where are you Carlos? Carlos?! If my head would stop throbbing, I might be able to hear him. Darkness comes over me. It’s like taking a cold shower after being burnt by the Sun. A pleasant coolness: relief. Then it all comes back to me – how I got here. The hiss and the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. The explosion of heat.
Friday, 26 March 2010
Hannah Agbeyegbe: The day I was born
I remember the day I was born. I was crying my eyes out, and then I felt the warmth of my mother holding me in her arms. The nurses bathed me in warm water, soothing my bloody skin. My parents said they would call me Lauren. As my father wheeled my mother back to his car, she held me close and whispered a sweet lullaby to my ear.
Suddenly my throat started to burn. My heart was beating faster and faster by the minute. There was a rush of feet and the chair swivelled round. I was taken back to the hospital ward, where the doctors immediately attached tubes to my mouth and nose. They listened at my chest. I became scared and started wailing.
My mother was told she was not allowed to come inside and comfort me. The machine was pumping rapidly like my heart. It was unstoppable, uncontrollable – an unthinkable nightmare.
The day I experienced life was the day I very nearly experienced death.
Suddenly my throat started to burn. My heart was beating faster and faster by the minute. There was a rush of feet and the chair swivelled round. I was taken back to the hospital ward, where the doctors immediately attached tubes to my mouth and nose. They listened at my chest. I became scared and started wailing.
My mother was told she was not allowed to come inside and comfort me. The machine was pumping rapidly like my heart. It was unstoppable, uncontrollable – an unthinkable nightmare.
The day I experienced life was the day I very nearly experienced death.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Harriet Horn: After the Accident
The smoke could be seen for miles, but the true impact only from a short distance. There were two teenagers. The boy was cradled in the girl’s arms. They were lying in a pool of blood.
‘Liv…it’s time,’ the boy said. ‘Let me go.’
She trembled, bringing her hand up to his battered face. ‘I can’t, Sam! What will I do without you?’
But there was no answer. He was already dead!
I sit on my bed, panting and gasping. My pyjamas cling to my back. I stare up at the photos of Sam and me, a wall full of memories.
I make my way towards them, thinking, ‘Was it my fault?’ and ‘Why did it happen?’ I gaze over the wall, stopping on one photo. It was taken a year ago; I can remember it well. We were collecting our exam results. The August sun was shining. I’m looking up at Sam and his arm is around me. Facing the camera, he looks like a Greek god, dusty blond hair sticking out. He had this habit of running his hand nervously through it. His blue eyes sparkle with excitement. I look like Medusa – eyes weirdly green, my copper cropped hair frizzy, stuck to the back of my neck and curling behind my ears.
Rain smashes against the window and I’m knocked out of my trance. I think about the window shattering into a million pieces. I take one last look at my photos, and with all the force left in my body I rip down every one of them, every memory.
Realising what I’ve done I smack my back into the wall and flop to the ground; my voice cracks and I sob uncontrollably. For an hour I sit there in silence, just thinking; listening to the dreary rhythm of the rain.
I make a decision. I need to be somewhere safe, familiar. I speed down the stairs, head spinning, eyes unable to focus. I head straight for the door, remembering to pull my trench coat from its peg.
‘Olivia…where the hell do you think you’re going! It’s 7am for goodness…’
I slam the door, cutting off my mother’s voice. I rush down the street. All I can hear are the raindrops hitting the pavement.
Reaching my destination, I open the iron gate and stumble up the path, past the church to the grassed area full of stone slabs. My body takes me to the most familiar one.
Sam Linley
Born 16th May 1992
Died 13th March 2009
Beloved son and brother
Taken too early
May he rest in peace
Taking in a deep breath I start to talk. ‘Hi Sam, sorry I haven’t visited lately but I’ve been really busy… packing and stuff. Mum thought it would be a good if I stayed with Aunt Carrie for a couple of weeks while they redecorate my room. To be honest I think it’s ridiculous. I mean why can’t I help? It’s my room, after all. But they want me to have a change of scenery, to be relaxed before school starts again. Apparently I’ve been ‘too moody’.
The other day I went to the cinema with Katie and Chloe. It was a good film – a cheesy comedy – but it wasn’t the same without you. Remember when we used to sit on the back row and throw popcorn at the people in front. When they’d turn round we’d duck out of view. They were good times… I wish we’d had more. We could have had more.’
I feel a tear trailing down my cheek. Looking up towards the sky, I see the yellow sun breaking through the clouds. Smiling softly I turn back to his grave.
‘How am I going to survive, Sam? You were my life, my soul, my equal. But I will cope, I know I will. I promise I’ll visit you as soon as I get back and I’ll bring flowers next time. See you soon.’ I Lean forward and place a gentle kiss on his bed of rest. ‘I love you,’ I murmur.
‘Liv…it’s time,’ the boy said. ‘Let me go.’
She trembled, bringing her hand up to his battered face. ‘I can’t, Sam! What will I do without you?’
But there was no answer. He was already dead!
I sit on my bed, panting and gasping. My pyjamas cling to my back. I stare up at the photos of Sam and me, a wall full of memories.
I make my way towards them, thinking, ‘Was it my fault?’ and ‘Why did it happen?’ I gaze over the wall, stopping on one photo. It was taken a year ago; I can remember it well. We were collecting our exam results. The August sun was shining. I’m looking up at Sam and his arm is around me. Facing the camera, he looks like a Greek god, dusty blond hair sticking out. He had this habit of running his hand nervously through it. His blue eyes sparkle with excitement. I look like Medusa – eyes weirdly green, my copper cropped hair frizzy, stuck to the back of my neck and curling behind my ears.
Rain smashes against the window and I’m knocked out of my trance. I think about the window shattering into a million pieces. I take one last look at my photos, and with all the force left in my body I rip down every one of them, every memory.
Realising what I’ve done I smack my back into the wall and flop to the ground; my voice cracks and I sob uncontrollably. For an hour I sit there in silence, just thinking; listening to the dreary rhythm of the rain.
I make a decision. I need to be somewhere safe, familiar. I speed down the stairs, head spinning, eyes unable to focus. I head straight for the door, remembering to pull my trench coat from its peg.
‘Olivia…where the hell do you think you’re going! It’s 7am for goodness…’
I slam the door, cutting off my mother’s voice. I rush down the street. All I can hear are the raindrops hitting the pavement.
Reaching my destination, I open the iron gate and stumble up the path, past the church to the grassed area full of stone slabs. My body takes me to the most familiar one.
Sam Linley
Born 16th May 1992
Died 13th March 2009
Beloved son and brother
Taken too early
May he rest in peace
Taking in a deep breath I start to talk. ‘Hi Sam, sorry I haven’t visited lately but I’ve been really busy… packing and stuff. Mum thought it would be a good if I stayed with Aunt Carrie for a couple of weeks while they redecorate my room. To be honest I think it’s ridiculous. I mean why can’t I help? It’s my room, after all. But they want me to have a change of scenery, to be relaxed before school starts again. Apparently I’ve been ‘too moody’.
The other day I went to the cinema with Katie and Chloe. It was a good film – a cheesy comedy – but it wasn’t the same without you. Remember when we used to sit on the back row and throw popcorn at the people in front. When they’d turn round we’d duck out of view. They were good times… I wish we’d had more. We could have had more.’
I feel a tear trailing down my cheek. Looking up towards the sky, I see the yellow sun breaking through the clouds. Smiling softly I turn back to his grave.
‘How am I going to survive, Sam? You were my life, my soul, my equal. But I will cope, I know I will. I promise I’ll visit you as soon as I get back and I’ll bring flowers next time. See you soon.’ I Lean forward and place a gentle kiss on his bed of rest. ‘I love you,’ I murmur.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Sarah Schute: Before the Dawn, chapter 1
He needed to pee, badly. Trouble was he couldn’t remember where the bathroom was and he couldn’t find a light switch. The house was pitch black and deathly quiet. Unnerved by the silence he headed in what he thought was the right direction, trying not to make a sound. In what he took to be a corridor he tripped on a rug and slammed his head on the corner of a piece of furniture. Cursing furiously he rose and steadied himself against a wall, rubbing his head.
He paused, listening, but the house remained silent. Good. He hadn’t woken her. Relieved, he leant back against the wall and felt something digging into his shoulder. Finally, a light switch! He flicked it on and found himself in some sort of study. Now he could clearly see what he’d hit, an oak desk. Stained a dark brown like the floor it was large and old fashioned, and quite beautiful. There was a high-tech computer sitting on it, some paper and a printer. An old, wooden bookcase stood in the corner filled with various books. Peculiar ornaments were dotted about.
He found the door he’d been looking for staring at him from just across the hall. He sighed in exasperation as he made for the bathroom. Once he had satisfied his bladder he examined his injury in the mirror. It was already turning purple. Grimacing, he prodded it gingerly. That would hurt tomorrow; in fact it was hurting now. What he needed was some ice.
He found the kitchen, tugged open the freezer and pulled out a pack of frozen peas. They’d have to do. He turned to go but found that he was hungry. As long as he was here he might as well have a snack. Clutching the bag to his head he began to raid the fridge. He found a single slice of apple pie, his favourite, hiding at the back. There was a note attached.
Keep your hands of my pie or I swear I will feed you to Fang.
The hand with the pie in it froze half way to his mouth. He was afraid of her, and he was definitely afraid of Fang. Something about that wolf unsettled him, besides his enormous size, claws and teeth – something in his eyes, a look that spoke of abnormal intelligence, of an ability to understand every word you said. It gave him the creeps. Neither of the two had any love for him. Better not to eat the damn pie. He didn’t need to give them another reason to cast him out.
Carefully replacing it he settled instead for a swig of milk and cold slice of pizza and closed the door. Only then did he see the other note. Stuck to the fridge door by a magnetic letter X it read:
Gone to kill Marcus. Be back by 05:00. Stay in the house. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t go in my room and DON’T touch ANYTHING you don’t know how to use. Not that I care if you get hurt but I really don’t want to have to clean up the mess when I get back and then have to explain to Xandra why you are missing an arm. So I repeat, stay where you are and try not to get yourself killed. Brina
Frowning, he looked at the oven. The clock read 05:32. She should be back by now.
To be continued...
He paused, listening, but the house remained silent. Good. He hadn’t woken her. Relieved, he leant back against the wall and felt something digging into his shoulder. Finally, a light switch! He flicked it on and found himself in some sort of study. Now he could clearly see what he’d hit, an oak desk. Stained a dark brown like the floor it was large and old fashioned, and quite beautiful. There was a high-tech computer sitting on it, some paper and a printer. An old, wooden bookcase stood in the corner filled with various books. Peculiar ornaments were dotted about.
He found the door he’d been looking for staring at him from just across the hall. He sighed in exasperation as he made for the bathroom. Once he had satisfied his bladder he examined his injury in the mirror. It was already turning purple. Grimacing, he prodded it gingerly. That would hurt tomorrow; in fact it was hurting now. What he needed was some ice.
He found the kitchen, tugged open the freezer and pulled out a pack of frozen peas. They’d have to do. He turned to go but found that he was hungry. As long as he was here he might as well have a snack. Clutching the bag to his head he began to raid the fridge. He found a single slice of apple pie, his favourite, hiding at the back. There was a note attached.
Keep your hands of my pie or I swear I will feed you to Fang.
The hand with the pie in it froze half way to his mouth. He was afraid of her, and he was definitely afraid of Fang. Something about that wolf unsettled him, besides his enormous size, claws and teeth – something in his eyes, a look that spoke of abnormal intelligence, of an ability to understand every word you said. It gave him the creeps. Neither of the two had any love for him. Better not to eat the damn pie. He didn’t need to give them another reason to cast him out.
Carefully replacing it he settled instead for a swig of milk and cold slice of pizza and closed the door. Only then did he see the other note. Stuck to the fridge door by a magnetic letter X it read:
Gone to kill Marcus. Be back by 05:00. Stay in the house. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t go in my room and DON’T touch ANYTHING you don’t know how to use. Not that I care if you get hurt but I really don’t want to have to clean up the mess when I get back and then have to explain to Xandra why you are missing an arm. So I repeat, stay where you are and try not to get yourself killed. Brina
Frowning, he looked at the oven. The clock read 05:32. She should be back by now.
To be continued...
Geoff Keeling: Candlemass
The story of how I died begins in my dormitory. I am lying on my bed. I’m not reading: I’m waiting. Vlad should be here in half an hour; one thousand, eight hundred seconds to go. I set the timer on my watch. Half an hour ticks by. He’s late – twenty seconds, thirty seconds, forty seconds late.
The door swings open and Vlad strides in, casting his rucksack on my bed. He tramples mud across the carpet: that will need sweeping up; along with his un-neat hair and un-ironed clothes.
I don’t know why we’re friends. I’m in the top maths set. He does useless subjects like Art.
“Do you want to go to the woods?” Vlad asked.
The woods were forbidden, off limits to students. I didn’t want to go to the woods; I didn’t want to get dirt on my shoes.
“Come on, let’s go.” He wasn’t going to drop it – I knew that. It was just going to be quicker to give way.
We climbed over the wooden fence into the woods, crossing from order into anarchy. I was disturbed by the tall trees that spun off in every direction, also the singing of the birds and the free lifestyles of the rabbits and other creatures.
“Ever thought about being an animal?” Vlad asked.
“No.”
“What would you be?” he continued.
“I wouldn’t.”
“I’d be a dog or a wolf.”
“That’s lovely, Vlad.”
“So you’re saying you’ve never even thought of it.”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you should.”
“Perhaps.”
“So if I had the ability to make you become one, you would?”
“I suppose…”
“Let’s do it, then,” he concluded. And we crept back to boarding house.
Vlad told me to have a shower. “Washing away the old life,” was his justification. He had an answer for everything. He pointed out that it was the day of Candlemass. Also the full moon. Rubbish, I thought. Superstitious nonsense.
We’d planned to watch a film – our Wednesday night routine. Instead we were going to expose Vlad’s lies. He began pulling items from his rucksack – a stick that he called his wand, a book called ‘Dogma et Rituel de la Haute Magie,’ which he had clearly put together himself, staining the pages with tea. The title was in French, but the words were in some dead language.
He took out a bedsheet stolen from the school laundry; cast it down on the floor as if this were his studio. He had a can of spray paint. Such antics! So messy!
He began to paint strange symbols. He said they were runes. He drew a circle with a large star in the middle, decorated with pictures of men, eyes and pyramids. It took him seventeen minutes and thirty seven seconds.
I predicted that it would take ten minutes for Vlad to confess that this was al nonsense.
Instead, inexplicable things began to happen. There was chanting and praying. The language Vlad spoke reached my ears as a distorted blur. What I was seeing, I couldn’t believe. There was a smoky fog spreading from beneath the bed sheet. Vlad’s circle held me with invisible arms. I looked at my chest of drawers, neatly packed with clean clothes. I looked at my books lined up for the next day. Vlad swerved around and swept them off. They were consumed by the colourless fog that hung where my room had been. Towering above me, it seemed, was a strobe, which sent out flashes of light. I saw everything frame by frame, like child’s doodles from a flick book. Vlad approached me with a blade in his hand. Another flash passed and he took hold of my hand. Another, and he straightened the fingers. Another and the knife snaked across, leaving a channel of blood, which dripped into the circle.
Coughing and spluttering, I fell to the floor. Vlad watched me. I could see the grin on his smoke-masked face. He knew what he was doing. A human figure rose from the smoke, screaming as it released itself. ‘Wepawet’, Vlad called it. It spoke a single word, “Lycan”. I heard it as a command. It looked down on me as if I was an infidel.
The image broke into fragments…. I woke up, sweating. I was in bed. Everything in my room was in order.
My hand throbbed. I pulled it from beneath the covers to reveal a fresh cut across my palm. Not a dream, then… I took in a deep breath, it smelt good: rabbits, trees, birds, nature. The colours around me drained into a sepia shade. I didn’t care, and I didn’t need to. I sniffed, and tasted my way to the other side of the room, saw myself in the mirror, changed.
The door swings open and Vlad strides in, casting his rucksack on my bed. He tramples mud across the carpet: that will need sweeping up; along with his un-neat hair and un-ironed clothes.
I don’t know why we’re friends. I’m in the top maths set. He does useless subjects like Art.
“Do you want to go to the woods?” Vlad asked.
The woods were forbidden, off limits to students. I didn’t want to go to the woods; I didn’t want to get dirt on my shoes.
“Come on, let’s go.” He wasn’t going to drop it – I knew that. It was just going to be quicker to give way.
We climbed over the wooden fence into the woods, crossing from order into anarchy. I was disturbed by the tall trees that spun off in every direction, also the singing of the birds and the free lifestyles of the rabbits and other creatures.
“Ever thought about being an animal?” Vlad asked.
“No.”
“What would you be?” he continued.
“I wouldn’t.”
“I’d be a dog or a wolf.”
“That’s lovely, Vlad.”
“So you’re saying you’ve never even thought of it.”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you should.”
“Perhaps.”
“So if I had the ability to make you become one, you would?”
“I suppose…”
“Let’s do it, then,” he concluded. And we crept back to boarding house.
Vlad told me to have a shower. “Washing away the old life,” was his justification. He had an answer for everything. He pointed out that it was the day of Candlemass. Also the full moon. Rubbish, I thought. Superstitious nonsense.
We’d planned to watch a film – our Wednesday night routine. Instead we were going to expose Vlad’s lies. He began pulling items from his rucksack – a stick that he called his wand, a book called ‘Dogma et Rituel de la Haute Magie,’ which he had clearly put together himself, staining the pages with tea. The title was in French, but the words were in some dead language.
He took out a bedsheet stolen from the school laundry; cast it down on the floor as if this were his studio. He had a can of spray paint. Such antics! So messy!
He began to paint strange symbols. He said they were runes. He drew a circle with a large star in the middle, decorated with pictures of men, eyes and pyramids. It took him seventeen minutes and thirty seven seconds.
I predicted that it would take ten minutes for Vlad to confess that this was al nonsense.
Instead, inexplicable things began to happen. There was chanting and praying. The language Vlad spoke reached my ears as a distorted blur. What I was seeing, I couldn’t believe. There was a smoky fog spreading from beneath the bed sheet. Vlad’s circle held me with invisible arms. I looked at my chest of drawers, neatly packed with clean clothes. I looked at my books lined up for the next day. Vlad swerved around and swept them off. They were consumed by the colourless fog that hung where my room had been. Towering above me, it seemed, was a strobe, which sent out flashes of light. I saw everything frame by frame, like child’s doodles from a flick book. Vlad approached me with a blade in his hand. Another flash passed and he took hold of my hand. Another, and he straightened the fingers. Another and the knife snaked across, leaving a channel of blood, which dripped into the circle.
Coughing and spluttering, I fell to the floor. Vlad watched me. I could see the grin on his smoke-masked face. He knew what he was doing. A human figure rose from the smoke, screaming as it released itself. ‘Wepawet’, Vlad called it. It spoke a single word, “Lycan”. I heard it as a command. It looked down on me as if I was an infidel.
The image broke into fragments…. I woke up, sweating. I was in bed. Everything in my room was in order.
My hand throbbed. I pulled it from beneath the covers to reveal a fresh cut across my palm. Not a dream, then… I took in a deep breath, it smelt good: rabbits, trees, birds, nature. The colours around me drained into a sepia shade. I didn’t care, and I didn’t need to. I sniffed, and tasted my way to the other side of the room, saw myself in the mirror, changed.
Bruno Knights: Kama Chowdry, Lord of Healing
The razor blade slides through the skin on my palm like a fish through water. The blood oozes out of the gash easily, sliding down my hand, gravity taking it.
I watch as the cut begins to close. The skin seems to pull together, the cut sealing in seconds. I press the razor across my skin again, and again. Every time it heals. Every time without a scar.
I feel the pain. The sharp sting as the blade goes in. My body for some reason is trying to protect itself. I’m glad for the pain. It makes me feel more substantial. If I felt nothing, I’m afraid I would slowly fade away like the cuts on my hand.
I like to push my body to extremes. I’ve cut myself many times. I’ve set fire to myself. My clothes burn off in seconds, my skin goes red and raw – until the fire stops and I start to heal, naked in a pile of ash.
I wonder if I can catch diseases or drown. What would happen if I went into space with no astronaut suit?
Sometimes I scare my parents. I don’t exactly act like a normal nine year old. I have aged far beyond my years. Even though with my ability I could impress my friends, that sort of thing doesn’t interest me. Instead, I test my body.
I get up off the couch, slide the razor into my pocket and walk out of the flat. My parents think I’m fragile so they insist on home schooling me, except this week my tutor is on holiday, so I have the whole day.
The lift in the flat building is wood panelled, and has a large mirror on one side I like to pull faces at.
The bell dings and the doors open. I step out of the lift, stroll to the door and out of the building. Automatic doors open and close as I pass through like a king – King Kama Chowdry, lord of healing.
I prance down the road to the tube station, swipe my oyster card and ride into darkness.
I always feel sleepy on trains. The noise and vibrations are like a lullaby to me.
I fell asleep once, and my ipod was stolen. I haven’t made that mistake again.
The air is warm, hot even. The lights in the carriage are yellow. The train is speeding through the ground from station to station, taking people to work. But I’m not going anywhere, just drifting.
You need friends in life, a support system. I’ve never really had that.
I look around the cabin. Men in suits and women in black skirts.
The train stops. The platform looks so much freer than the stuffy carriage. I decide to get off. The platform is empty. The train makes its noise and is gone.
It feels menacing. The empty paths are wider than usual, the shadows darker. I look at my watch – eight-thirty in the morning. It should be rush hour. So where is everyone?
As I walk, the air grows warmer, slowly at first. Then suddenly the air is on fire. Gagging, I run up to the surface.
The cement floor is groaning and cracking. The heat is so intense, my skin is blistering and reddening. What is happening?
The ticket booths are empty, the gates wide open. I reach the steps. The air feels solid. I fall to the ground, grasping at my throat. The heat is unbearable, as if a flame is being pushed down my mouth and up my nose.
I’d burnt myself before, but this time was different. This time I was scared.
I was scared, because I knew I could die.
I watch as the cut begins to close. The skin seems to pull together, the cut sealing in seconds. I press the razor across my skin again, and again. Every time it heals. Every time without a scar.
I feel the pain. The sharp sting as the blade goes in. My body for some reason is trying to protect itself. I’m glad for the pain. It makes me feel more substantial. If I felt nothing, I’m afraid I would slowly fade away like the cuts on my hand.
I like to push my body to extremes. I’ve cut myself many times. I’ve set fire to myself. My clothes burn off in seconds, my skin goes red and raw – until the fire stops and I start to heal, naked in a pile of ash.
I wonder if I can catch diseases or drown. What would happen if I went into space with no astronaut suit?
Sometimes I scare my parents. I don’t exactly act like a normal nine year old. I have aged far beyond my years. Even though with my ability I could impress my friends, that sort of thing doesn’t interest me. Instead, I test my body.
I get up off the couch, slide the razor into my pocket and walk out of the flat. My parents think I’m fragile so they insist on home schooling me, except this week my tutor is on holiday, so I have the whole day.
The lift in the flat building is wood panelled, and has a large mirror on one side I like to pull faces at.
The bell dings and the doors open. I step out of the lift, stroll to the door and out of the building. Automatic doors open and close as I pass through like a king – King Kama Chowdry, lord of healing.
I prance down the road to the tube station, swipe my oyster card and ride into darkness.
I always feel sleepy on trains. The noise and vibrations are like a lullaby to me.
I fell asleep once, and my ipod was stolen. I haven’t made that mistake again.
The air is warm, hot even. The lights in the carriage are yellow. The train is speeding through the ground from station to station, taking people to work. But I’m not going anywhere, just drifting.
You need friends in life, a support system. I’ve never really had that.
I look around the cabin. Men in suits and women in black skirts.
The train stops. The platform looks so much freer than the stuffy carriage. I decide to get off. The platform is empty. The train makes its noise and is gone.
It feels menacing. The empty paths are wider than usual, the shadows darker. I look at my watch – eight-thirty in the morning. It should be rush hour. So where is everyone?
As I walk, the air grows warmer, slowly at first. Then suddenly the air is on fire. Gagging, I run up to the surface.
The cement floor is groaning and cracking. The heat is so intense, my skin is blistering and reddening. What is happening?
The ticket booths are empty, the gates wide open. I reach the steps. The air feels solid. I fall to the ground, grasping at my throat. The heat is unbearable, as if a flame is being pushed down my mouth and up my nose.
I’d burnt myself before, but this time was different. This time I was scared.
I was scared, because I knew I could die.
Alex Coates: Picture Perfect
This is based on a true story of a curator at the Louvre Museum in Paris, who gave up his job because the Mona Lisa gave her best smiles only to the visitors and never to him.
6.25am. The man’s shining black shoes tapped on the ground. He loped down the pathway and through a park. He turned and glared at the grass. He kept strictly within the boundaries of the path.
She doesn’t love you
… a shrill voice whispered. The man stopped. He glanced round but there was no one. He hurried on. He slowed as he reached the front of the grand museum. The glass pyramid shone and he blinked at it, his eyes not seeing, looking through and beyond it.
He entered the cream room. It was drab but suitable. There was a desk and a security guard. He fixed his curator badge, walked around the desk and through the door. The guard stared at his back until the door shut.
The man rolled his shoulders as he walked around the gallery. He saw ostentatious portraits, framed with gold. He turned to the glaring eyes and bared his teeth. He spun round, locking eyes with each.
We’re always here.
Blood and burning!
Save Your Soul.
He knows nothing!
He IS nothing!
Failure.
Pitiful, tiny man!
He clasped his head and stared at the marbled floor. He focused on the details while the voices faded. His shadow flickered and he backed away from it. He leant against a wall and dug his nails into his hands. He took a breath and stepped into the next room. He sighed and became calm.
He straightened himself, walked to the cloth barrier and stared at the oak window. He stared through and saw her, his love. Trapped behind bullet proof glass.
She sat almost sideways on, her left hand casually draped over her right, her elbows resting on either side, only her top half visible, her whole presence dripping calm and quiet over him. Her veil, her rich brown hair and deep shadows framed her smooth face. Behind her, rivers, paths and icy mountains lined the faint horizon. An insignificant bridge the only sign of human presence. She was beautiful. A goddess captured in a place of peace, frozen in the past. As long as she was still, nothing moved. Over 500 years there but not a day over 24. The ideal woman. She had no eyebrows, but that was the fashion.
‘I love you,’ he whispered. He loved her smile. That was why he came every day, to stand and bask in it. A tear seeped from his eye.
Then the visitors arrived and a change stole across his love. It was a new smile, a better one. The smile he got was a trickle compared to the flood that she bestowed on every one of these people. He nearly broke down, but only stood there, while his heart cracked and splintered.
I told you, she doesn’t love you.
She never has and never will.
Run, now.
But he just stood, a granite gargoyle. Everyone filtered out until it was only him. 6:35pm. ‘I love you,’ he whispered. And he felt her weak, gap-toothed grin. ‘I love you,’ he repeated. Her smile slowly ebbed away.
‘Do you love me?’ he asked. The reply echoed through every corner of the empty museum, a cacophonous silence.
He turned to face her. ‘Lisa Del Giocondo!, I love you.’ He listened and heard the reply, a silence falling on the granite heart of his chest.
Run
Save your soul
I see you!’
Blood and Burning.
Pathetic little man.’
Run!
And he ran. Uneven steps skittering like pebbles through the air. He ran past the guard at the desk and hurled his badge down. The guard gave an odd smile – to the blank space. ‘It was just a matter of time,’ he said.
6.25am. The man’s shining black shoes tapped on the ground. He loped down the pathway and through a park. He turned and glared at the grass. He kept strictly within the boundaries of the path.
She doesn’t love you
… a shrill voice whispered. The man stopped. He glanced round but there was no one. He hurried on. He slowed as he reached the front of the grand museum. The glass pyramid shone and he blinked at it, his eyes not seeing, looking through and beyond it.
He entered the cream room. It was drab but suitable. There was a desk and a security guard. He fixed his curator badge, walked around the desk and through the door. The guard stared at his back until the door shut.
The man rolled his shoulders as he walked around the gallery. He saw ostentatious portraits, framed with gold. He turned to the glaring eyes and bared his teeth. He spun round, locking eyes with each.
We’re always here.
Blood and burning!
Save Your Soul.
He knows nothing!
He IS nothing!
Failure.
Pitiful, tiny man!
He clasped his head and stared at the marbled floor. He focused on the details while the voices faded. His shadow flickered and he backed away from it. He leant against a wall and dug his nails into his hands. He took a breath and stepped into the next room. He sighed and became calm.
He straightened himself, walked to the cloth barrier and stared at the oak window. He stared through and saw her, his love. Trapped behind bullet proof glass.
She sat almost sideways on, her left hand casually draped over her right, her elbows resting on either side, only her top half visible, her whole presence dripping calm and quiet over him. Her veil, her rich brown hair and deep shadows framed her smooth face. Behind her, rivers, paths and icy mountains lined the faint horizon. An insignificant bridge the only sign of human presence. She was beautiful. A goddess captured in a place of peace, frozen in the past. As long as she was still, nothing moved. Over 500 years there but not a day over 24. The ideal woman. She had no eyebrows, but that was the fashion.
‘I love you,’ he whispered. He loved her smile. That was why he came every day, to stand and bask in it. A tear seeped from his eye.
Then the visitors arrived and a change stole across his love. It was a new smile, a better one. The smile he got was a trickle compared to the flood that she bestowed on every one of these people. He nearly broke down, but only stood there, while his heart cracked and splintered.
I told you, she doesn’t love you.
She never has and never will.
Run, now.
But he just stood, a granite gargoyle. Everyone filtered out until it was only him. 6:35pm. ‘I love you,’ he whispered. And he felt her weak, gap-toothed grin. ‘I love you,’ he repeated. Her smile slowly ebbed away.
‘Do you love me?’ he asked. The reply echoed through every corner of the empty museum, a cacophonous silence.
He turned to face her. ‘Lisa Del Giocondo!, I love you.’ He listened and heard the reply, a silence falling on the granite heart of his chest.
Run
Save your soul
I see you!’
Blood and Burning.
Pathetic little man.’
Run!
And he ran. Uneven steps skittering like pebbles through the air. He ran past the guard at the desk and hurled his badge down. The guard gave an odd smile – to the blank space. ‘It was just a matter of time,’ he said.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)