Baby Hitler

I've got a great idea for a short story. You know that facetious theoretical hypothetical question about being a time traveler, and whether or not you'd go back in time and kill Hitler as a baby?

Well, imagine there's someone, a University student, and he uses that question all the time, it's his go-to for when he meets new people, because he's the kind of numpty that thinks that sort of thing is deep, and this becomes a defining feature of him in a way, so he plays up to it, maybe people even start calling him "baby killer" or "the baby Hitler guy", some thing like that.

Now, years later he's grown up, he's met someone, and perhaps rather unexpectedly he's found himself fathering a child, a little adorable baby of his own, a cute apple-cheeked son.

So here he is, helping to nurture and raise this child, but slowly that question from his past comes back into his mind...

Sure, it's just a baby, but it does seem to scowl at him in a strangely threatening way, and it kicks at its mum - just as it did from the inside - and claws at her skin with surprisingly sharp nails. It seems to be possessed of - even though it can't possibly mean to - a single-minded determination to ruin the peace and calm of their lives in a way that, to him, seems unlike any other normal baby could.

As it grows older he begins to notice it subtly bullying other children, not understanding simple things like sharing, or that playtime shouldn't involve a wallop to the other kid's face, but, it's barely a toddler, surely these things are accidental? Surely...?

So, this guy starts wondering to himself again; "Maybe my baby is Hitler? Well, not the Hitler, but a Hitler equivalent and that, if left to continue down its path, it will inevitably become a genocidal monster?" He reassures himself that this isn't a question of bad parenting, he's positive of that, he doesn't treat his son badly or anything, he and his partner shower their love upon this child, they dote on it, they coo at it, they adore it, but still it seems that this child could  very well grow up to be the embodiment of pure evil.

Now, back in his Uni days he was always so certain, so sure of himself, of his answer to that question which he revelled in posing to every and anybody who happened to be down at the Varsity pub that evening. How he'd paint the scene; describe this adorable little cherub to them and then - he'd even mime this part out - place an imaginary revolver in their hand and point it towards that baby's head and ask:

"So, would you shoot baby Hitler?"

They'd say no. They'd say that maybe they'd try and encourage a better environment for the child. He'd argue back about the certainty of fate in this instance, that no matter what you tried to do this baby would become the Hitler of history, and that the only way to possibly prevent that would be to shoot this infant in the skull. Splatter its curious brains across the crib.

It was around now that people would either call him a sicko or ask him what he'd do, and he'd lean back confidently, announce how he'd definitely shoot baby Hitler, and take a swig from his bottle of cheap lager, satisfied with himself.

But, as far as he could tell, here, in the present, he was staring into the wet eyes of his own psychopathic offspring and he had now become the other person in his discussion, the one reasoning that things aren't so definite, that destiny and fate are nonsense, that nobody is born bad, that you can't know the future and that time-travel doesn't exist, so how could you ever know for sure, and even if you did know for sure why would murder be the answer? How could that possibly be the just thing to do?

So he didn't do it.

He didn't kill his son, even though that question kept returning to him over the years, as his boy moved from crawling to toddling to walking to running, passed exams, joined teams and clubs, got involved, developed a personality, became a person, became a man, and then...

Yeah, his son started a fascist group that brought about the deaths of millions upon millions of people, tens of millions actually. In fact, he was roundly regarded as being worse than Hitler. After him Hitler wasn't even the go to name for genocidal monsters anymore, no, it was his name they used, and when idiots in University towns posed the 'would you kill baby Hitler' question to friends and strangers they didn't say Hitler anymore, they said... well, yeah, you guessed it... him.

So, that's the idea for the story, pretty stupid really, and I'm not sure what the moral is... Is it; if you suspect your child might grow up to be evil then you should kill them? Or is it, more simply; kill all children, y'know just in case? I'm not sure, and I don't know if I could rationalise writing a story that seemed to justify either of those conclusions.

Hopefully it's more positive than that and does suggest that there is no absolute certainty with regards to the ultimate destination of our lives, but I think that's over-thinking it, anyway, not sure if I'll bother writing it, might do, one day, though it's not my top priority, besides I've got a new baby to look after...

O.S.

"No, you're not listening," Dr. Clementine had lost all patience, perhaps it was easier to do over the phone, but he did feel that the woman sobbing at him at the other end of the line was irretrievably stupid, hence his need to take control of the situation, "Your husband died because he'd routinely failed to update his firmware, we offer a reasonably priced firmware service at the clinic, or, as we always remind our customers, you can update at home if you connect to your wifi."

She blubbered something incomprehensible, then hung up, which was exactly as he had hoped, and, to be honest, he had half a mind just to put the phone down on her anyway.

He had two more calls to make before lunch, the first was to order his lunch, which he'd been daydreaming about during the preceding call, which is why he'd mispronounced the words 'heart bypass' as 'ham bypass' and 'insurance' as 'insandwich', she hadn't noticed, she was too busy crying.

The second call was to a notoriously difficult patient, Mr. Groan, who needed a new artificial rib cage.

"But why?" Groan bloated, "I feel like I only got it put in last month."

"It was three years ago," the good doctor corrected him, satisfied to be so readily armed with the facts.

"There's nothing wrong with it though, I'm in no pain..."

"But it's out of date, it's an old model, the CentriCage has moved on at least four generations since then, honestly it's embarrassing to think about you walking around with that old thing in there, not to mention dangerous."

"Dangerous? What do you mean?"

"Oh, those old models, liable to lock up after a few years, in some cases constricting upon the lungs..."

"Well, why the bloody hell did you put the thing in if that was the case?"

"State of the art at the time Mr. Groan, we wouldn't mess you around there, but all things have a life span, products need to be renewed."

"But I'm in good health, I've had my eyes, my brain, my heart since I was born, and they haven't failed me."

"Yet," added Dr. Clementine with a pleasingly theatrical air of menace. "Have you looked into our ocular replacement options, or our brain failsafes, guaranteed to extend functionality in the event of stroke, and we have a very good deal on artificial hearts at the moment, the PumpPerfect series comes with glowing customer testimonials..."

"No, I don't want you to replace anything else, I wish I had just torn up those gift tokens my son got me and never bought the pesky ribs in the first place. Now if you don't mind..."

"Mr. Groan, I do mind, I care very greatly about my patients and I must stress that the warranty on your ribs expires in two days and, you know how it is with these things, it'll be three days and that's when they malfunction."

"Malfunction?! They're ribs, not a bloody car engine, what could possibly... No, don't tell me, I don't want to know."

"A lot of people take something like their ribs for granted, they're surprisingly complex, you'd be impressed by the amount of research and development that goes into our upgrades, they're government approved and better than the real thing for a reason."

"How much?" there was a wearied, battled tone, very different to the strident Groan of earlier.
Clementine honestly hadn't anticipated this and stammered whilst he scrabbled for the appropriate paperwork.

"As an existing customer you do get a discounted price for upgrading, so, for the latest model it'd be £12,000 plus surgical fees, which we can discuss in more detail at your examination."

"But... That's a fortune... What about another model, not the latest one..."

"Oh, I'm legally unable to retail anything other than the most up to date..."

"Fine," Groan sighed.

Dr. Clementine smiled, impressed with himself, and heard the reassuring sound of the delivery drone dropping his ham sandwich off at reception.

Pay-Per-View

It's Friday, almost five, you clocked out of work in your head sometime just after lunch, a cheese and pickle baguette from the supermarket, some crisps you picked up to just try and fill the hole, a smoothie, a coffee, and a chocolate bar, you've gotta treat yourself, haven't you, and now you're listlessly scouring the internet for some form of distraction, because nobody can see your monitor, nobody knows whether you're actually doing any work or not, and - most likely - they're not doing any work either, so wouldn't grass you up if they saw you window shopping the internet for fear of retribution, I mean, who knows what you know about them.

There. Your eyes are drawn to an advert in the bottom right corner of a social media site, its dark black background giving way to a well lit photograph of a thin, emaciated body, translucent flesh bathed in an amber light that moves to teal, perhaps - you think - suggesting the passage from health to death, and you look into their eyes, cartoonishly weak and sunken, thick dark outline, might just be make-up to make the show look more attractive, they always dress up this premium stuff.

You check the listing, they're going in for an operation at 8pm, good slot, wonder who the surgeon is, hope it's Clementine, he knows how to work the insides for the camera, likes to step back, give you a moment to savour it, really drink up what's working on their innards, makes you itchy, like it's happening to you too, and he makes little observations, quips, you've got a t-shirt at home with "I've never seen that INSIDE a person before!" written on it, that was a funny one, just a stomach tightening but there was a miniature toy horse drifting around in there, maybe it had been there for years or maybe they just swallowed it for the broadcast, funny shit though, made you spit out your beer.

So, you think, looks like a last ditch operation, it's this one and then they're fucked, it's always nice booking a subscription to the post-op deterioration, and you get offered a cheaper rate if you watch to the end of the surgery, but this looks like a premium gig, might be costly and there's always a bunch of cheap streams of similar stuff, might not be as well produced but, y'know, ticks the boxes, right? Though that brain surgery you paid to watch last month, the stupid doctor kept moving right in front of the shot and nobody seemed to be monitoring the feed or the chat room, you were all-capsing your frustration, shit, everyone was and nobody did a damn thing. Still, was only a couple of quid, you pay for bronze you get bronze.

You click on the advert, proceed to the payment page and weigh it up, £70 for the night, that includes any pre and post operation stuff, broadcast beginning at 6pm, maybe you can convince some friends to come round and watch with you, split the cost or they can bring the beers, seems a bit cheeky charging so much if this might be their last operation, I mean, it's not like they're going to need the money to pay for future operations, right? In a way it feels more worthwhile to you to go and fund the smaller, grubbier streams because then at least you're helping them financially to go ahead and get more of the care they need, although they can always go to a bargain basement backstreet place, and you can watch pre-recorded uploads of that at Surgery Store, though there's something a bit tingly about watching it live.

Fuck it, you fill in your details, you pay for the night's stream and you resolve to yourself that you'll subscribe to the post-op stuff as well, because, chances are with this kind of condition they're not going to make it, and you've never watched anyone die on the stream before, that'd be something, and it's kind of nice to think that whatever comforts they might have, a nice bed and the like, they've got that thanks to your subscription fees, like you're looking out for them a bit.

It's pretty much half five now, might as well shut down and head home, get some snacks and text some people, your computer fades to black and you stand up, there's a pain in your stomach, but you don't want to think about it, this job doesn't pay so well and there's no health insurance, surgery costs are always rising, and you really don't want to have people watching some quack cut you up online, it's probably nothing, you'd know if it was something right, probably something you ate, that baguette seemed a bit stale, you hope it's just indigestion.

You hope it's just indigestion.

A Poem: If This Budget Bought You, You're Cheap...

I don't often write poetry, and there's probably a good reason for that as evidenced below, but I scribbled this down onto my phone on the way into work this morning and I wanted to share it with you.

(Here's a little bit of cringe-inducing context from someone who didn't expect the sugar tax annoucement yet happened to have motorbiked in to Westminster to dominate the airwaves: https://youtu.be/YX5hnGQE7N4)


If this Budget bought you, you're cheap
But look, here's Jamie Oliver dancing.

If you find it easy to fall off straight to sleep
Whilst upon the poor and weak Osborne softly creeps
Cutting help for the disabled
Taking food from off their table
And putting it all into banks.
If that means that you give thanks
Then all I can do is sadly weep
If this Budget bought you, you're cheap
But look, here's Jamie Oliver dancing.

He's dancing for the sugar tax
Though he likes to avoid the facts
About his own sugary past
He'd prefer the poor were forced to fast
As long as obesity rates drop right down
Leaving them a withered stick with a skinny frown
Because certain things escape the rates
And most of these are Jamie's mates
Whilst a diabetic counts the pennies
To save themself from Osbourne's levies
Jamie can comfortably rest
Knowing that he's done his best
For Dave and Ian, May and Hunt
Whilst low income families get the shunt
Yet corporations reap generous offers
Designed to stuff their greasy coffers
Tax for them is down some more
As bailiffs knock on tattered doors
To drag you from your one room shack
Paid for by work that broke your back
But they still said that you were fit
Though it hurts now just to sit
Once you got help with your healthcare
But thanks to their cuts it's just not there
And no new housing's going up
The trickle just fills the rich man's cup
Haggard from your lack of sleep
All you can do is sit and weep
If this Budget bought you, you're cheap
But look, here's Jamie Oliver dancing.

What now then for our next generation?
The one for which this was a "celebration",
Or at least that's how the Chancellor span
And dutifully what the press pack ran
If you can save just four thousand quid
You'll get a gift from Uncle Gid
But who really has that cash to spare
When every month you tear out your hair
To earn that much you worked for a degree
And found yourself with a hefty fee
Then the jobs they just weren't there
And the one you got did not pay fair
Whilst rents keep rising, so does your debt
You wonder how much worse can it get
Before other people start to see
The injustice and inequality
But you hear nothing, not a peep
And all you can do is sit and weep
If this Budget bought you, you're cheap
But look, here's Jamie Oliver dancing.

What is fairness? What is right?
What makes these people want to fight
And walk the towns with signs and banners
As our PM sneers at the manners
Of a good man's suit, of the knot of his tie,
It just makes me want to cry
And turn to strangers in the street
Why are you not here, up on your feet?
Because if you smile at what you've wrought
If this Budget has you bought
And those less fortunate are ignored
Because there's a bit more you can afford
Then I despair, I really do
At what desire burns in you
A selfish little petty grab
Who cares whose back you have to stab
I'm all right Jack, you'll blissfully blab
Tax their sugar, they've too much flab...
You'll get your pound of flesh, my friend
And I'll be there when it comes to an end
It won't last, this fabrication
Your idea of a "Great" nation
And I'll be happy when it crumbles
I'll brag then, I won't be humble
And remind you of who you were
The day the Tories made you purr
The day you were bought
and sold
nice and cheap

No longer will we sit and weep...

Look...

Now we are all dancing.


A doff of the cap to Barney Farmer @barneyfarmer for some inspiration on this one.

The Plague

The city is near desolate, newspapers blow idly along the roads caught for a moment gliding playfully on the swirl of a breeze and taken past empty shopfronts, past deserted cafes, untended public gardens, bins ripe with litter, shutters pulled down on pop-up food stalls, concierge desks staffed only by a vacant swivel chair.
     All those that are left have quarantined themselves inside, sometimes they stare out at the silent streets below, wondering what happened, where they all went.
     He turns from the window, back towards his desk, he's expecting a call from the Hong Kong office. On the computer screen the green orb blinks into action, the chirruping tones letting him know that Ivan is calling.
    "Morning, how are you?" he smiles, laying it on thick for the webcam.
    "Good good," Ivan leans back from his laptop, allowing skyscrapers to peek cheekily behind him as if they were the most extravagant embelishments on military shoulders.
    A woman steps into shot, places a coffee down next to Ivan before edging hurriedly away.
    His eyebrow is raised, he can't help it, "Your assistant?"
    "My wife," Ivan nods, dolefully, taking a first tentative sip.
    He sighs, an exhalation that confirms hopes dashed, fleeting silly hopes of a time not too far gone, a time when there were staff members who set coffees down for them both, of personal assistants who'd pop in to take lunch orders and book cabs, of cab drivers, tube drivers, baristas, dry-cleaners, all these things that now only exist as spectres in a memory that one doubts was ever real, and perhaps that was all but a dream and this morning they woke up to the truth.
    There was a cleaner who usually worked on his tube train in the mornings - this was a long time ago now, before he drove in - the cleaner's voice sang an alarmingly pleasant good morning to everybody as he took the discarded free papers, coffee cups and napkins from around the seating.
     Now that train didn't run, he'd heard they were still stood there, at the platform, like dogs waiting for master to return, and, before they all vanished, people used to sleep in them and walk the tracks to work.
    His car was parked on the street outside the office building, which sometimes he marvelled at, considering this was Cheapside just around the corner from St. Paul's Cathedral. The ease at which he could commute in now, sat at the wheel of his BMW, lacked a feeling of luxury, as he scoured the radio wondering if anyone would be there.
    He promised to send the growth reports to Ivan by close of business, the call had been useful, but formulaic, just the two of them going through the motions. He often wondered what it all meant, his work, just gathering things up like a stubborn child wanting to clearly demarcate their toys, whilst gradually fudging the definition of what they were entitled to, until finally they sit, cross-legged in sad wonder as the other children run off to play make believe, leaving them buried in a mountain of stuff.
    So it was. He'd drive in, make some calls, drive out, for some reason he'd do this five days a week, continuing the pantomime of what his life once was, and his colleagues did the same, they kept pretending that who they were, what they did, actually mattered.
    Had it always been this way? he often wondered, and had he been too preoccupied to see it, had the need to consult his own existence been shrouded in the distraction of little people attending to his every desire, of someone to look down on, as opposed to those empty streets five floors below. What did any of it matter now that he was free, and left to realise the vacuity of that which was both outside and in, of those around him, shoulder to shoulder, each hollow when they thought they'd been so full of power and importance, but that was all relative to an illusion they'd created and nurtured and, once their plague had been wrought, they were the stragglers of desolation, immune to its reckoning, and they had to walk the barren Earth, aware of all that they had done, looking for an echo in a vacuum.

Sleight Of Hand

Another 8th birthday party booking. They all seem to be turning 8 this year. Maybe that's also the age where parents finally lose interest in the novelty of their children's birthday parties, and decide to just book a magician.
Still, I shouldn't complain, at least work is steady this year. Means I'm putting in less hours at the petrol station.
Though it's Steph's birthday soon, should probably buy her something good, but it's not like the money is pouring in. She'll understand.
I get to the kid's house, forty of them, it's usually the whole school class and a few extras - cousins, friends from different classes, the token friends of any siblings, or children of the parent's friends. It'd be weird if parties later in life were attended in a similar fashion.
I go through the motions, I think half these kids have seen me before. I hear one whispering the conclusion of the trick to her friend. If I see her at another show she can be the "volunteer" for the custard pie trick. I always save that one for the little shits.
So, I do some giant size card tricks, a stuffed rabbit in a hat, the knotted handkerchief and a small scale swords through a box routine with the birthday boy.
Afterwards I loiter by the food, chowing down on cocktail sticks skewering pineapple and cheese chunks, and I have a slice of plasticky Transformers cake.
"Hey, great stuff," an overly enthusiastic father says, shaking my hand and placing a friendly mitt on my shoulder. "I loved the magicians when I was a kid, had one at every birthday for about five years running. Thought I wanted to be one, until I heard about investment banking!"
He laughs a big cackle. The howl of the well off.
"I got these big, ungainly hands anyways," he says. "Could never get the cards to stay wedged in there. My parents wastes a small fortune on magic kits for me. At least yours backed the right horse, huh?"
I swallowed my mouthful of sponge. "My parents don't know I do this."
"Shit, you are living the boyhood dream, huh?! Ran away and joined the circus, right!"
"They're dead."
His face turned sour and he quietly, quickly made some new friends on the other side of the room.
I tossed my paper plate towards the bin - though it failed to make its target.
After collecting the rest of my pay I packed up and left. Children's birthday parties are no place to hang out, though in my younger days I met some willing single mothers, and once one that wasn't single. Though Steph put paid to all that.
It's not that I yearn for it or anything, that stuff is far more exciting in theory than practice. But there is a certain frisson to those chance encounters now lacking in the inevitability of my days.
I know what bed awaits me, I know who's there, and this malaise comes from somewhere, but, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change things. Not between me and Steph.
I should try and think of something nice to get her. I think I've let her down these last couple of years, I'm sure she's already wondering how I'll complete the hat trick. But, and perhaps I'm ignorant, forgetful or complacent, I just don't remember what she likes.
I resolve to try and listen that bit harder, hear the clues in what she says. Maybe there's something that she keeps hanging out there, like a carrot for a mule, seeing if I'm going to putz it up one more time.
I drive home, passing the petrol station, unconsciously - I think - I slow the car and take a long, lingering look at the place. I've got the night shift there tomorrow, 11pm to 7am.
I take the next junction and, eager to have a drink and slip into bed, I press my foot down a little.
I look forward to the feeling of Steph's body pressed against mine before we fall asleep.
I see a flash.
It's dark. Sudden.
There's a thud, followed by an uncomfortable clatter.
I brake, look back, and see the body lying in the road.
Leaving the car I'm thankful that the street is quiet. A few houses, but not a light on in any of them.
Getting closer I see that it's the body of a young boy, dressed in an unhelpfully dark hoodie and jeans. His face is pale, about from the blood stripe across it. His eyes are wide, lifeless.
I look up and down the road, still noone around. I've been fortunate.
I crouch by the body, hold my hands over his most obvious wounds and I close my eyes.
His sharp intake of breath alerts me.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
He's bewildered, sits up and shuffles back.
"You should wear a hi-viz, or at least something colourful, if you're going to dash across roads at night."
The boy holds a hand to his chest, breathes deeply, as if ascertaining the veracity of the situation against his memory of it.
"You hit me? With your car," he finally utters, though doubting himself.
"Clipped you," I correct him. "Nothing serious, but you should see a doctor just to be sure."
"O-okay..."
I give him my card in case there are any problems. I offer him a lift home but he points to his house, we're right in front of it. I get in my car and drive away.
When I get home Steph is asleep, though she stirs and mumbles a hello as I climb in next to her, kiss her cheek.
As I lie sleepless in bed, I'm brought back to the vacant look in that boy's eyes as he lay dead on the road. That look which confirms the disconnection between body and spirit, or soul, or whatever.
Now I know that if I'm quick then that spirit lingers, as if taking one last look at its vessel and I can encourage it to take up its residence for just a little longer.
I wish I'd known that then, before I killed them.
I told Steph about the accident, sure I left out a few details, like my powers. But she insists that it was, as I say, an accident. But I know more, and I can never find forgiveness.
I've told Steph about that, though I've never told her how she died once. That we were putting up a painting, she was on a short ladder, missed her footing and her head collided with our kitchen worktop.
From somewhere within me came this urge, this futile rage, a seemingly impotent hope. I looked into her eyes, saw that the life had gone. I placed my hands on her, and then it was back.
And she never knew why I cried and held her so close, so tight.
That I couldn't bear the abyss of my life without her.
Yet I know that with every passing day the tide comes in, our lives must end, and it dulls the magic, it dilutes my hope.
Perhaps, I make excuses for myself, I'm so tired, so listless, because I love her so much. If I cared less maybe our eventual deaths wouldn't concern me.
Though I cling onto the idea that there is a soul, that it is that which I coax back to those vacant bodies, and if it were to roam free it would find a fitting afterlife. I can't help but think we are all doomed, and that is what I see in the eyes of those children as I reveal their card, as I pull the rabbit from the hat, as I push the pie into their face.

A Blarthgarrr's Best Friend

All Edwin remembered was pulling his car into a services off of the M6 at Salford, a bright light, and then finding himself inside a large cage.

It was Monntarq's hatchday and his progenitor took him to the showroom to get his first ever pet.
After looking at the more docile creatures - the cuddlefish, the octopig and the howling terror puppy - Monntarq became enamoured with the blokes. There were five of them all in the cage, but one inparticular ran immediately up to Monntarq waving its appendages in a delightful display of affection. Monntarq ticked its hairy chin through the mesh and turned to his progenitor.
"I want this one!" he insisted.
"Now Monntarq," came the considered reply, "it's a big responsibility looking after a bloke. Wouldn't you prefer a horstritch instead? Or what about a nice cute ginchilla?"
"No," he inflated his vocal sac in a strop, "I want this one!"
HIs progenitor looked carefully into Monntarq's glistening eye, nodded and conceded.
"Ok, but you've got to be extra good at looking after it."
Monntarq jiggled up and down with excitement, they called over a clerk who hoisted the bloke out of the cage and took it over to the counter for the sale.

When they got back to their dwelling, Monntarq was very eager to play with his new pet. His progenitor carried the portable case from the conveyance into the dwelling, closed the door to the main room, and carefully lifted the access panel.
Nervously, tentatively, the bloke stepped forwards, a sort of worried look on its little face.
"Come on," Monntarq cooed, "don't be shy."
Pressing its bare foot onto the ground, wiggling its toes, the bloke got a comfortable footing, let its hands leave the safety of the case and stepped, naked and alone, into the middle of the room.
Monntarq giggled excitedly, "It's so adorable! Look at it."
With joy Monntarq rushed forward and the bloke let out a yelp and retreated back into the case.
"Easy Monntarq, slowly," his progenitor said with a calm, soothing tone, mainly for the benefit of the trembling bloke.
Monntarq reached into a carrier bag from the showroom, removed a hard crispy orb and held it out, waving it towards the bloke.
"Here you are, it's yummy, come and have a bite."
Again the bloke made cautious progress, checking both Monntarq and his progenitor before leaving the case and stepping towards this out-stretched snack.
Uncertain of what exactly was being offered, the bloke sniffed at the maroon dusty shape, and then pressed its tongue against the side, licking it a little. Smacking its lips to contemplate the flavour, the bloke then took the orb from its owner and proceeded to noisly, and messily, crunch at the biscuit until it was all gone.

They decided to name it Flopsy, and Monntarq was good to his word. He took Flopsy out for a walk twice a day, though Flopsy did require some discipline at first. He fed Flopsy himself and washed him when necessary.
They took Flopsy to the vet to get neutered and chipped, and a lifelong friendship was formed.
Flopsy went everywhere with Monntarq and lived to the age of 8. After that Monntarq got an octopig.

Edwin had found himself placed in a cage with four other men, all naked, shivering and screaming in terror. Two were Chinese, one was Mexican and the other was from Wales, so it was only the latter than Edwin could understand.
"Where are we?"
"I don't know, but there are monsters out there... Monsters!" the Welsh man stammered, his eyes wide with fear.
"How long have you been here?"
"Not sure, it seems like a few days, but look..." The Welsh man held up a wrinkled, veiny hand. "I'm only twenty six, I don't know what's happening to me!?"
Suddenly the other three men all cowered into  a corner, the Welsh Man - looking over Edwin's shoulder - did likewise.
Edwin turned and saw a huge cycloptic creature looming towards their cage, it's one yellow eye staring intently.
Desperately, confused, Edwin rushed forward waving his arms; "Please, you must help me! I don't know what you want from me, from us, but I have nothing. I'm just a bank clerk."
In a booming voice it began howling gibberish and nonsense.
Edwin smiled earnestly, hoping it had understood and then a humongous wriggling tendril pushed through the wire and slapped him across the chin rapidly, leaving gloop and slime matted into his beard.
Another beast, this one twice the size, towering taller than a skyscraper, began bellowing at the first creature. Finally the small monster let out a piercing wail which seemed to bring about a conclusion to the discussion, and over Edwin's head a trap door was opened.

Why Not Me

I parked the car, eager to leave its stale embrace, and step out into the busy lot. The grey skies above made me reluctant, having forgotten to pack an umbrella, I was tempted to sit it out for a bit until things cleared up, though I was already running late.

Impatient, and excitable, I grabbed my bag from the boot, and dashed across the tarmac towards the reception, following the confusing sign-posts across the large car park towards a rather ramshackle hut.

To my surprise, and muted concern, the resort - from here - seemed like nothing more than a deserted air-strip, a few hangars and workshop-like barns dotted about the place. Somewhere you might imagine people would test-drive cars nowadays.

At the reception desk I was greeted with a glowing smile by a young man called Clark.

"Mr. Benson," he squeezed my hand to shake it eagerly, "it is an absolute pleasure to meet you. Did you have a good trip?"

"Yeah, it was all right, bit of traffic on the A22, but..." I tailed off, suddenly feeling like this was supposed to be part of it and I wasn't quite playing along.

"Well," he beamed, "I'm sure everything will be absolutely perfect from here on. Ah," his eyes discovered a short, neat young man standing just behind me, "here's your assistant, Mr. Kendrick."

Mr. Kendrick stepped forward, his face young and pale, his eyes wide and keen. "Sorry I'm late sir..."

"No, it was -" I began, but the expression on Kendrick's face suggested I change my tune; "That's quite all right."

"We'll take a car to the hotel, this way sir."

Kendrick lead me past the reception, down some steps and into - what looked like - a small parking garage. There was a discrete black car with tinted windows waiting, the driver stood by the door, holding it open, nodded his greeting.

I slid in and Kendrick followed.

As we drove he began listing a schedule to me, whilst reassuring me that everything was in hand, he offered me a drink, a virgin bloody Mary, which, when we reached out destination I was allowed to take with me.

A hotel bellhop got the car door for us, he smiled and wished me a good day, and Kendrick handed him a tip, which the bellhop thanked me for. I was ushered into the hotel lobby, Kendrick steered me away from the reception towards the elevator - having already checked in on my behalf earlier - and we emerged, after a quick ascent, in the exclusive penthouse suite.

Practically as soon as I stepped into the room, even before I'd had a chance to take in its luxuriant decor, a room service trolley had been wheeled in for me to enjoy a delicious brunch of eggs Florentine followed by Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries. I had a glass of champagne, which I drank standing on the balcony over-looking the city. The weather was cool and calm.

When I returned to my room a nervous looking young woman was standing next to Kendrick. She pushed a fallen length of hair back behind her ear and was introduced to me as Allie McCullough, a reporter for Marquee magazine.

She extends her arm, offering a hand, "It really is an absolute pleasure to meet you."

We talk for thirty minutes, I'm a little awkward myself, unsure of how to respond to some of her questions, but for the most part she's delightful and offers me all sorts of praise and compliments. At first I was bashful, blushing beetroot, but soon the wealth of compliments made me feel like, yes, I deserved them. Why not? It felt good, and she didn't seem sycophantic in her praise, just honest.

As our time together drew towards an end Kendrick stepped over and whispered for things to be brought to a close. I had a signing to attend, so it was back down in the elevator, into the car and off - a short drive - to a nearby record store, a large, yet cool, retailer that already had a queue snaking outside.

I was rushed in, to cheers and applause, down the aisles towards a small table that was set up with a large poster advertising my presence.

With coffee and cake at my side, and another assistant - a young woman by the name of Bea - I met hundreds of fans, people who were all smiles - some actually crying with joy - who just wanted to meet me, shake my hand, some asked for a hug, and everyone wanted a photo. It was overwhelming, and they shared their stories with me, how my work had changed their life, had spoken to them, made them realise something fundamental about themselves that - until then - they had never had a chance to really understand. It was humbling.

Afterwards I felt exhausted, even though I'd barely left my seat for two hours, and we drove to a charming little restaurant for lunch. A complimentary bottle of champagne was gifted by the manager, who said she was also a fan of my work and asked for an autograph.

We then went to a boutique fashion store so I could get a suit for a red carpet event I was due to attend that evening. I, at first, was apprehensive about being too extravagant with my choices but the manager of the store told me that it was all free as I was doing him a great service wearing it to the premiere that night.

"Just remember," he smiled, "to tell everyone where it came from!"

Then I got my hair done, a manicure, teeth whitening, everything.

And so that evening I went to the premiere of a new blockbuster film, but as I stepped out of the limo and walked the red carpet I was dazzled by a hundred camera flashes and the sound of people - both photographers and fans - screaming my name.

"Mr. Benson, sir, this way sir," the photographers seemed to shout in unison, making a little disorienting as to which way I should turn.

Kendrick had advised me to dictate, with my body language, as to which section I was posing for, though, he added, they'll probably keep snapping regardless of whether I was facing them or not.

I signed some autographs and then - nearer to the entrance - was a gathering of press, holding out microphones. I spoke to each one in turn, telling them about my clothes, my excitement to see the film, I didn't quite know what they wanted to hear so I just said how great everything was - which I guess was true - and then went into the packed auditorium to watch the film.

There was an afterparty, very elaborate, drinks and dancing. I didn't notice any other celebrities there, but people came up and told me they were producers and executives and all sorts, so that was pretty interesting to meet them and talk about their work. They all said how much they loved what I do.

Around midnight I was feeling quite tired, and, as if by magic, Kendrick was by my side helping me into the car so we could go back to the hotel.

Once I was back in my room, and on my own, I decided to have one last cheeky glass of champagne before bed. I stepped out onto the balcony to enjoy it, leaning woozily on the metal railing, soaking in the quiet ambience of the city at night, the distant twinkle of the stars, the murmur of traffic below.

As I lifted the glass to my mouth I fumbled my hold on it, sending it falling from the balcony where - a second later - it smashed on the top of a building that appeared to be across the street, but was - in fact - about a metre away, it then plummeted down thirty storeys in the blink of an eye, before crashing as gigantic shards of glass - towering over the miniature cars - on the street below.

I looked at the misproportioned carnage, too sleepy to care, they'll clean it up tomorrow.

Collapsing into bed I turned on the television, to act as some sort of lullabye, and the entertainment news was on, reporting from the evening's premiere, featuring my red carpet interview and some experts talking about my great outfit and how good I looked. When the piece ended it began all over again, playing on a loop as I drifted off to sleep.

The following morning I had breakfast in my room, read the paper, a large picture of me on the red carpet adorned the front page and there was a further feature in the celebrity section.

Kendrick came to let me know the car was ready, I finished my coffee, followed him down to the street and we rode back to the parking garage.

Leaving through the main reception, Clark, the young man at the desk, handed me a gift bag. I thanked him, shook Kendrick's hand, and walked back out into the confusing car park.

As I strolled back to my car I passed a woman glancing up and down from her booking form, she called over.

"Is that the main reception, mate?"

"Er, yes," I replied.

She didn't thank me, but she quickened her walk and hurried off to the reception excitedly. I slumped into my car, peered into my gift bag, which featured a DVD of the entertainment news report, a pristine copy of the newspaper and photo album of my day, along with some other knick knacks.

I started the engine, pulled out of the parking space, and drove back home.

A State Of Mind

I've asked them to check again, it seems so unlikely, but the results are the same. They're expression of confusion seems to be more a reflexion of my own than their own personal feeling. If anything, they seem more likely to feel somewhat sorry for me, but that emotion is buried somewhere under this current facade, bamboozled as to how I couldn't have known when my birthday was.
    I'd always made an assumption, unknowingly so, never having had any need to fact-check what seemed like an inherently true story. Not even a story really, it's just an accepted part of you, something that you would only jokingly lie about as old age eeked its way ever closer. Who would make up a fake birthday for themselves beyond the elderly and optimistic youths queuing for a nightclub?
    But, there it is, plain as day, I am, in fact, two years older than I thought I was.
    Perhaps I should just shrug this off, what does it really matter? This morning I was 29, now I'm 31. My partner Joan suggests - when I call her later - that I should have two years worth of birthday parties at once to celebrate, and make up for missing the big three-oh. If anything the things my mind immediately leaps to as retroactive miscarriages of justice are all pretty trivial; I could have gone drinking earlier, seen 18 certificate films, etc. Ironically I had my first drink in a bar when I thought I was 16, if I'd have known the truth I wouldn't have been so nervous about the whole thing.
    Has my age ever been a reason or an excuse for any of my behaviors? Whilst I've been taught - practically had it drummed into me - to respect my elders, I remember feeling inferior to kids in the year above me at school, despite actually being a year older than them. It wasn't my age that made me smaller, it was the hierarchy that had been constructed around it.
    As I dialled Joan's number, I must admit, I was nervous about how she would respond. She's 23, and I've felt a little of-a-different-time to her anyway, and now the distance has been pushed that little bit wider. Indeed, for some, the third decade can feel, to some, like such a huge, imposing barrier of age that even into their late-twenties people are reluctant to cross that numerical threshold, especially with regards to dating.
    But the age difference never seemed to bother me with Joan, we just clicked and, oddly, for the longest time we didn't really know how old each other was. We knew when our birthdays were, but not the year. I thought we were about the same age, and so did she.
    I have dated people who I have considered to be a bit too old for me, and now, adjusting the differences to compensate for the change in my own vintage, I realise that it couldn't have possibly - at least, entirely - been our ages that were responsible for the chasm that opened between us.
    Ultimately, at this point in my life, this change is meaningless, but it has a resonance, a curious and unsettling one at that. My perception of myself has been defined outside of my own control, through comments for me to "act your age" or to not "dress like a teenager", perhaps even moreso in the decor and ambience of the shops designed for me, the perfumed smell of the women's toilets, the doll that was tucked in with me as I slept, the wallpaper that surrounded me as a child, the idea that you're a little girl, a stroppy teenager, a young woman, an old hag.
    Have I ever been myself? Or have I just been defined by arbitrary modes of behaving and systems of numbering that have, quietly, insidiously, dictated who I am supposed to be?

Exformation

There was a note on his desk that read 'Late'. It was written in stodgy red felt tip, double-underlined so he assumed it was serious, but they'd used a post-it hastily grabbed from the pile beside his monitor. Surely if this was a really serious matter they'd have written a formal letter or, at least, just emailed. No, this move, passing by his desk, noticing he wasn't present, but, moreso, investigating to make sure he wasn't in the break room or the kitchen, and then returning to leave a statement like this, a confirmation that - yes - his absence had been acknowledged, this was a more concerning degree of seriousness. It was passive aggressive.
    He balled up the note in his hand but didn't want to throw it away, he wanted whoever wrote it to know that it had been read, and it had not been tolerated. So, he placed the little scrunch onto his desk, nearest to the aisle, and slumped into his booth.
    Sure, he thought, he had been late, he'd been late every single day this week, but that was one week out of hundreds, and he'd had problems with the trains. Admittedly he'd sauntered to the station quite lackadasically, but they weren't to know that, he'd sent a text ahead to say that there were delays and he'd be in by half past.
    He called down to the reception desk, Julian answered.
    "Good morning, reception."
    "Hi Julian, did you get my text this morning?"
    "Um..."
    "About the train delays."
    "Oh, that, yes. Yes."
    "And did you let anyone know about it?"
    "Er," the sound of a biro hollow tapping on the side of pouting cheek, "I don't think so, nobody asked."
    "Ok."
    He hung up, irritated that his boss hadn't thought to call in with reception for any news of his arrival time. He sneered, shook his head, opened his emails, expecting some sort of continuation of the debacle, but there was nothing. Just a few spam messages and a request for him to proof some copy.
    Frustrated he picked up the stained coffee cup that the cleaner had ignored, and trudged to the kitchen.
    Michael was in there talking to Hattie, they were giggling over the personal ads in the free paper, but their shared chuckle halted almost immediately when he walked in and switched the kettle on, its boil erupting the cosy, quiet of the small sterile room.
    Michael folded up the paper, "Well, I'll leave you guys to it."
    He watched him slip out of the door, giving one last lingering look to Hattie before he left. She was staring down at the tabletop, at her own empty cup, waiting for something that he couldn't quite fathom.
    "Well, I'm having a shit day," he announced.
    After an uncomfortable silence the kettle clicked off, he poured his tea and grabbed the milk from the fridge, giving it a quick sniff before adding it to his brew.
    She set her cup down with an audible clink.
    "Sometimes, y'know," he shook his head, weighing his thoughts and curling his lip, "I just want to walk into that big office, go up to her and just, I don't know, give her a piece of my mind. Don't you?"
    She sighed, "Yeah."
    "What?" He could tell she wasn't really paying attention, her eyes seem fixed on a point on the floor, but there was nothing there, nothing at all. He shrugged to himself, glancing around the room, his eyes lost, before he deflated and finally leant over to her; "What's wrong with you?"
    She looked up at him, her brow furrowed, confused.
    "Didn't you get my note?"

Nudge

Her eyes flickered open, prompted by the gradual illumination of her room. Despite facing to the south west, her apartment glowed with morning light generated by a meticulously "randomized" pattern of LEDs across the walls. With a contented, yet slumberous, sigh she shifted out of bed and walked down the hall, her bare feet padding on the easy-wipe linoleum.
    "You are ovulating. Excess caffeine detected," said the toilet.
    The spray from the bidet feature made her jump a little, as it always did, and she nestled into the warm air that followed, drying her off.

The dispenser buzzed harshly, she clapped her hand frustratedly on the side, but it continued to refuse. Defeated she continued to dress, checked the time, and left for work.

On her tab a travel alert popped up, she stretched it to fill the screen, two lines were down, but she didn't want to get the bus. As she left her building and walked onto the high street, she gradually moved herself into the yellow line, on the far left, for quicker pedestrians.
    She clipped the tab to her inVision unit and caught up on the end of the film she had fallen asleep to last night. In it the plucky heroes had finally broken into the capital and were about to bring down the evil empire.
    Stumbling suddenly, she glanced back and down, wheeled luggage being pulled tentatively across the lanes of commuter traffic by a wide-eyed young man, staring down at the map displayed on his phone. Having regained her footing, and with little time to spare, she picks up momentum and continues onwards, looking back to see another commuter - a tall man wearing a suit with trainers - berating the boy who seems to be lost in his words.
    Into the coffee shop, she stares bewildered at her options, the touch-pad having deliberately filtered out any caffeine products. She turns, desperately, to the customer queuing behind her, but his eyes are impossible to meet as they deliberately dart from left to right, and he jabbers away at whoever's on the other end of his head-set.
    Frustrated, huffing to herself, she presses for a banana muffin and a decaf caramel latte and proceeds to the collection point.
    Back outside, taking her first sip, she realises that the caramel shot hasn't been added.
    "Excuse me," she lightly pats the shoulder of the next in line to the service point, "do you mind if I cut in? I've just bought this and they haven't added my syrup."
    The customer looks down the line, as if asking permission, or - at least - judging the mood, and, buoyed on by nervous energy, apologises and sends her to the back of the queue. Her thanks are sarcastic, but the passive aggressive intent goes unnoticed.
    Three arduous minutes later she's back at the front of the line, the touchpad recognises her and beams: 'Welcome back, Katherine!'
    She pushes the button marked 'Help' and can hear the customer behind her sigh with deliberate volume.
    Having prodded the screen repeatedly, nudging through the tree of options, she finally finds herself at a window headed: 'Complaint'. With no specific button to press for her particular issue she chooses: 'Wrong item dispensed.' However, she's instantly informed - via a recording of the shop's doorway showing her leaving - that items cannot be returned once a customer has left the premises.
    Beaten, she orders another decaf caramel latte and makes sure she loiters around for it to cool so she can take a sip for certainty.

Reaching the terminal she throws her arms up, discovering that four lines are now experiencing severe delays.
    "Someone under a train," another commuter says.
    "Oh, for fuh-" mutters someone laden with shopping bags.
    She decides to take her chances, hoping others have been put off by the chaos. She takes a free paper from the stand and is beeped through the gates. The escalator down is packed, but, craning her neck, she can see that someone about ten steps down is standing on the left and wonders why nobody's asked them to move over.
    Once they reach the bottom she can pick up speed, and, over-taking, she notices that the person who was standing on the left is blind and she feels bad about having tapped her foot, groaned quietly and wanted for someone to give them a little nudge to move.
    The platform is quite quiet, she moves down to the area where the second from last carriage arrives, there are suggestions on the floor to encourage passengers to use certain carriages for certain stops. She always feels a little pleased with this addition, having signed an online petition for it about seven months back, now it's going through a trial on this line.
    On the first attempt to leave the automated voice comes on over the speakers; "Please keep personal items and belongings clear of the doors."
    There's a second attempt, a repetition of the annoucement, and then, when the doors finally close - no thanks to whatever obstruction it was - the voice adds: "Obstructing the doors causes delays. Respect your fellow passengers and keep the doors clear. If you see any unattended items or suspicious behavior please alert a member of staff or a police officer. Thank you for travelling with London Underground. The next station is Pimlico, alight here for the Tate Britain. Doors will open on the right hand side. In hot weather it is advised to bring a bottle of water with you on London Underground services. If you feel ill do not press the emergency alarm button, as this will cause delays. Instead, alight the train at the next station stop. We are now apporaching Pimlico. Delays are reported on the Victoria, Bakerloo, Northern and Piccadilly lines. There is a good service on all other lines. This is Pimlico..."
    And, as the doors opened, another automated voice joined in, adding a harmony of; "Please mind the gap between the train and the platform edge. Allow passengers to alight before boarding the train. Please keep personal items and belongings clear of the doors..."
    She never really took much notice of the announcements, they seemed to register on some level, as she would keep an ear out for further disruptions which often seemed to be slipped in, almost subliminally, amongst the barrage of information. Sometimes though, especially at the weekends or during the early hours, you'd find yourself walking towards a closed tube line without even knowing it, there being no indication anywhere that the trains weren't running until you found yourself up against a partition wall emblazoned with the words: 'Line closed.'
    Almost as soon as she thought this the train came to a halt, somewhere in the tunnels between Pimlico and Victoria. The lights dimmed a little, then there was nothing, not even the distant rumble of other stock moving along the tracks. Usually, the policy was for announcements about a delay within 15 seconds of stopping, but the voice wasn't there.
    She tried to check the service update, but her connection was out. Wireless was usually patchy during peak hours thanks to a rush on the service provider, the computer would just cut it if traffic got too high, and with all these delays it's not surprising.
    It was getting hot, the last splash of her coffee had cooled, but the caramel syrup had grown tart and unpleasant on the tongue. She wished she hadn't got it, but she was in a rush, she wanted something to start her day, and it looked so nice on the screen, she felt like she deserved a treat. The banana muffin had grown warm, squashy, and unappetising in her bag. She clawed out a chunk but it was dry and flavourless, she needed something hot to balance it out.
    To kill time she flicked through the paper, not reading anything in detail, just getting an overview of the news. Nothing much happening, nothing that really grabbed her attention, some conference of world leaders was taking place later that month and house prices were falling by the coast, otherwise it was the usual mix of human tragedy and celebrity gossip. She skipped ahead to the sports section, read the football results from yesterday and let the paper fall onto the vacant seat next to her.
    Someone got up, began pacing, he was dressed in jogging bottoms, but had a pressed shirt, perhaps on his way from the gym to the office. He went over to a panel by the door, hit the button marked 'Assistance'.
    "This service is currently unavailable," came the automated response.
    He dropped heavily back into his seat and asked if she was done with the paper.
    "Sure, it's all yours," she said, and he reached across to take it from next to her.

Twenty minutes passed before the train began to move again, crawling slowly into Victoria station, where they were herded off by police officers.
    "Out of service," they barked, waving passengers out of the carriages and onto the platform. There was no indication of when the next train was due, the overhead screens were blank, and once the train was clear and closed it was sent on its way, vacant.
    "Is there a problem with the line?" the man in jogging bottoms asked a police officer.
    "Technical difficulties," she responded, before turning away and speaking into her communicator.
    "Technical difficulties," he reiterated, nodding at Katherine. "Engineering works I think, those workers always leave something to fuck things up on a Monday morning."
    She nodded, people at the office had complained about similar things, so it must be.
    "Where do you work?" he asked.
    "Just down from Warren Street."
    "Me too, fancy spliting a cab? Might be quicker."

He hailed a taxi, having found where an available one would be via an app. He had designed it, his team worked in mobile technology, with a focus on solutions to make the everyday easier. She told him about her company, branding and market recognition. They exchanged information.
    They shared the cost, selecting the highest percentage to tip the driver, who had remained entirely anonymous behind their screen for the journey.
    "Well," he smiled, "have a good day. Hope, after all this, the elevator makes it to your floor."
    She laughed, shook his hand, they parted.
    Inside the building she was beeped through the security gates - knowing that her presence would be alerted to her P.A. who, hopefully, would start brewing her a coffee - she stepped into the elevator, the doors closed, and it began to ascend.

Saudade

Nobody ever tells you something's wrong until it's too late. Then you blame them. It wasn't your fault, somebody should have told you.

At first it was little things, trivial things, a phone bill quietly mounting up because the phone company never told me that I'd exceeded my price plan for the month. Then, when I get the bill, I stare in disbelief and think; Why didn't anybody tell me?

The bank had done it to me before, I asked them; Why don't you let me know when I'm going past my overdraft limit?

I'd cynically sneer that it was because they wanted money, it's greed. That's how I'd justify it.

When it's gone, when the bill comes, when the bank charges, you're so helpless and you waddle, metaphorical cap in hand, and hope for kindness, for a change of heart. "But they were legitimate charges," they say, and you know they're right. Why are you so incapable of looking after yourself?

I've been sad for years and I've never come to terms with it. I'm waiting for everything to change, and things to go back to how they were before. Because I know it's possible, that's what we were trying to do, we were trying to change the world.

She had stepped into the coccoon, closed the hatch and blew me a kiss.

Then the machine was propelled into the sky and somewhere, up in the atmosphere, I saw it evaporate, sent on its journey through time.

We had calibrated the machine to send her back to the 1960s, a time where we knew she would be able to find the means to return. Where she could find open-minded and understanding people who wouldn't lock her up in some ward, a loony with wild ideas. It was the safest destination for a test drive.

And it worked.

I saw her in a photograph, looking through a book called Brighton In The 1960s, there were images from a student protest in June 1968 and she was there, smiling into the camera, as if smiling out at me, a knowing look that confirmed; "I've made it! It worked!"

Even though she probably knew the outcome of the protest she was still there, still holding a placard, fighting for their rights. Is it worth fighting a battle that's already been won? I wondered.

At the same time I reflected upon the now; that every day I was seeing things I cared about slip away, the malevolence of their disappearing only evident by its silence. As the government tip-toed in and gradually, quietly, dismantled that which made us great. Yet I sat wallowing, thinking it'll all work out, I mean, if it was really going to be bad somebody would tell me, right? Somebody would give me that slap around the chops, warn me.

She never held back from me, that's why I loved her. She'd call me out on every bit of apathetic complacency I seemed to couch upon. Snuggling into ignorance, like a wrongly convicted prisoner who's given up and grown so used to their corner of the jail that - with revolution raging outside - they don't trust a suddenly open cell door and miss their chance to escape. Then, when the revolution has passed, they find themselves - with no fanfare - locked away to be forgotten. A victim of cowardice.

That's why I let her volunteer, we were both capable of manning the craft, both capable of operating the controls. But I was afraid, ultimately selfish, that something would go wrong and I would be hurt. How cruel of me, how cowardly.

Yet how wrong I was. If anything the success has been worse. Knowing she's out there, somewhere in time, and she doesn't want to come back, because if she did she'd be back by now.

And I cannot accept it, even though it has happened, I don't feel like this is what I deserve, this debt, this pain, this loss, even though I earned it by stepping back and doing nothing. I never loved her enough. I only loved myself.

Maybe, in that photograph, she does know that I can see her, but maybe she's smiling because she doesn't have to see me?

We cannot get something back when it's gone. We thought we could go back and change things, undo the mistakes we had made in our lives. In a sense that is what she did, and left me to pay the price for my own.

A Coupling

"It'll just give rise to people marrying their pets or farm animals!" cried Harold Wiest MP, flapping unrelated papers that he clutched in his chubby fist.

This was when social media went into an expected frenzy, people posting memes of a hastily cut-n-pasted Wiest as the groom in various bestial weddings.

Crol held hir brain pod in hir suckers and despaired. This is what shhe had feared this debate would become once it finally reached the parliaments of Earth.

For all their perceived progress, hir progenitor had told hir, humans are unflinchingly irrational. Shhe was resilient, believing that most people are good. Besides, shhe had fallen in love with one of them.

Love, for hir kind, was a - no pun intended - alien concept. Crol had come to Earth to study philosophy, shhe enjoyed the dilemmas that Earth thinkers would pose for themselves and it opened hir mind to analysing hir own kind in a different light. Though, at first, they had felt superior in the regard of being a species that lacked gender, and therefore lacked any inequality between sexes, they soon discovered that they shared many similiar forms of exclusion and repression familiar to humans and, in instances where the two species were incompatible, new and unique forms of division.

Crol experienced this at a young age, with certain regard to hir fascination and obsession with humans. They used to call hir a dirty gene pool, taunted hir with lurid gestures and doodles of what hir mutant offspring would look like and hir ugly, hairy partner.

If anything this ultimately made Crol reluctant, to the extent that shhe began to try and suppress and deny hir feelings as shhe found hirself falling for one of hir fellow students. Shhe was ashamed, shhe thought he would undoubtedly be repulsed by hir because of who shhe had lead hirself to believe shhe was. Made incapable of looking beyond the torment of cruel, narrow attitudes.

He didn't reciprocate hir feelings, though he spoke so eloquently in class and seemed so reasonable and understanding he was also unable to transcend the superficial differences that had been created between the species.

We, humanity, had thought we were such an understanding and enlightened species, having fought for centuries to eliminate racism, sexism, homophobia, ableism, discrimination of all forms. It became obvious to those who had been blissfully ignorant that many of these are battles never truly won, that blinkered tolerance is not the same as true unconscious equality. These beings that came to our planet reawakened a wealth of dormant prejudices that embarrassed us as a species.

People would hold up examples of protest from our seemingly distant past, people picketing against integration, against mixed race couples, against same sex couples, and they would say; "Look how foolish and short-sighted these people seem now." As if that were enough to crumble the foundations of hard-wired bigotry.

It had been someone reaching out to hir in the end. Shhe had retreated, feeling admonished by his rejection, as if he were confirming hir worst expectations, what humans had shouted at hir in the street; "There's no place for your kind here."

When he was questioned about it by his friends they always, with a telling lack of sensitivity, leapt towards the most lurid of questions; "Yeah, but how do you do it?" Tact soon left him and he told his friends to "just fuck off", and this seemed to help them understand.

He had rubbish thrown at him as he walked down the street, names shouted from strangers, threatening letters sent to his home and his family, once somebody posted a dead squid through his letterbox with a note saying, in angry scrawl, 'Why don't you marry it?'

It was in part because they had become the figureheads of the campaign to legalise inter-species marriage, and it was on this subject that Harold Wiest MP was harrumphing like a stuck pig. Those people who bleated the rhetoric of marrying pets seemed to wilfully overlook the issue of mutual compliance and how "Meow", "Moo", "Baa" or "Quack" is no subsitute for "I do".

It wasn't even that he and Crol wanted to get married, they just wanted equality, we cannot live in a world where there's one rule for some and another rule for everyone else. We cannot put in caveats to the detriment, exclusion and alienation of others. It would drive them both insane that people seemed to be afraid of an unknown corrupting force, one that would make them - against their will - change who they are, becoming a prisoner of some imposed way of life that they fundamentally disagreed with. Oh, the irony, that others might be forced to live lives - against their will - that strangulate and confine them, make them behave the way people expect and want them to, to wear masks, to deny their right to be themselves.

"Do you ever stop to think," Crol said, looking towards Harold Wiest MP, who could not hold hir gaze, "what it would be like to not be the dominant kind?"

That's all shhe wanted to say, because shhe didn't enjoy confrontation and despite how much it hurt hir, how shhe trembled inside as shhe saw people trying to prevent hir from being hirself, shhe could never bring hirself to want to dismantle someone else's beliefs. Shhe just wanted them to afford others the same courtesy that shhe gave them.

Shhe wished shhe was a more aggressive type, then shhe'd snatch Harold Wiest MP from his bed and take him back to another planet, one intolerant - unlike hir's - of humankind. He'd be put on show, ridiculed, made to feel exactly how shhe feels when he talks - with no regard for anyone but himself - about putting restrictions on the freedom of others.

And other planets, other species, did hate humankind. They were amused, though wearied, by our enduring intolerance. It was outsiders who brought us interstellar travel, who brought us technology beyond our comprehension, things they were capable of because they had - long ago - moved beyond petty bickering over, what they considered, trivial matters. The ethnicity, the sexuality, the beliefs of others were almost irrelevant to what a unified planet could achieve. Whilst arguments will never cease it is at least more noble to argue for something worthwhile other than the constructed and perceived inferiority of one race or class or gender or persuasion to another.

Other planets thought us petulant, stroppy toddlers, and maybe it's because we're a young planet? A young species. But, still, these differences never really occured to many of them amongst themselves.

Shhe wanted to prove them wrong, he wanted to prove them wrong, they turned their love over as a willing symbol, an act of public defiance and whilst the voice of fear and hatred is often louder and more startling, the voice of hope and reason and love - though shy - is larger, and ultimately stronger. It just needs to push. It just needs to break through.

They held one another close, and waited for the votes to be counted, and waited for the voices to be heard.

The Time Machine

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know there's been some confusion, but let me explain. To travel through time into the past or future is impossible, and ultimately pointless. However, what we all need in our lives is more time. My time machine is capable of generating time. Time between time. For instance, I can split a second down the middle and place another second inside it.

"To an observer, as I will demonstrate, your perception of time remains unchanged. Whereas for me - FUCK YOU - I have an extra second.

"Now, my invention is not limited to a flimsy second here and there, by adjusting the dosage I receive I have inserted amounts of time up to..."

I stepped out from behind the podium, walked towards the audience, their faces drowsy with slowtime. I scan them all, one by one, taking in their expressions which, the last they knew, were looking at me delivering my lecture in front of them. Playfully I swap notebooks around on their desks, pull pens from hands and nestle them behind ears, I finish someone's coffee, take a bite from a cookie, wander the entire lecture hall and return to my podium.

"...ten minutes."

It takes a moment or two for them to realise things have changed, and the commotion is quite jolly and good-natured as they swap their belongings back, or discover other suggestions of my mischief.

"You see, time is relative and our ability to move within it is a construct of our perception of reality. My machine - implanted into the hypothalamus - and my formula directly effect the suprachiasmatic nucleus, which controls our circadian rhythms, and warps my perception of time. Depending on the dosage the more time stretches. I am able to move - at what you would experience as - faster-than-light within this continnum that I have created."

After the lecture I signed some copies of my findings, a quite vague essay that belied my reticence to reveal my invention and give the gift of time to everyone. The more people who would travel at slowtime, then the more slowtime becomes like normal time, and I treasure slowtime because it means I can escape.

When I was younger I'd say that I was born in the wrong time, I used to pine for the past, I had such hopes for the future. But I can never go back, and tomorrow keeps letting me down. If I could exist forever inbetween the moments then I think I'd be happy. If I could find a way to slow down time for me indefinitely then I'd be happy to grow old there, to live and die in the blink of an eye.

As the last of them shakes my hand, congratulating me on my work, I brush the hair from my eyes and move a pin to hold it in place. I could never afford to make enough formula to spend the next fifty or sixty years in slowtime, the only way I could would be to sell the patent, to give it to the people. Perhaps if the world became hooked on slowtime then I'd enjoy the days as they are? Rather than feel myself burdened, weighed down by each and every second.

Ten minutes, that's all I can make for myself each day. Ten minutes of time to myself. It would take me 144 days to save up enough for a day off. 52,560 days for a year away. There's never enough time.
My mind flutters with daydreams about how I could generate the formula itself within slowtime, meaning it would perpetuate more quickly. If there was some way of creating a pocket of slowtime that I could interact with in normal time, an ever-expanding bubble that I could use to harvest the formula. If there were a way to create a wormhole between moments, from the present via the expanded time between a second and then the present again so that as soon as the process begins the results are achieved.

I've always been impatient, most projects go unfinished because once I can visualise the goal in my mind I lose interest in the efforts required to attain it. This formula, this machine, it was an accident. A George's Marvellous Medicine concocted as I played mixologist with my prescriptions. I began to experience affected perceptions of time, but then noticed that it wasn't just perceived time that moved slowly, it was time itself and if my head was clear then my speed would remain at a constant whilst everything slowed down around me.

If anything it gave me hope, the meds had taken that from me. I'd been dulled down, too calm to care, and controlled by the wagging fingers that warned me of coming off of my medication. I wanted to die, that's why I mixed them, I wanted to go to the place where time doesn't exist, where my consciousness doesn't exist, I wanted to feel the nothingness. At first I thought it was a cruel joke, that I was a ghost stuck in a moment, and I had to haunt that frozen point in time for the rest of eternity.

Between time I'm free, I'm happy. Nobody really looks at me - they can't - and nobody is aware that I'm gone. It's like I become someone else, and each time I return to the same time as everyone else I have to remember who I am, what everyone thinks of me, their superficial perceptions and judgments, and I have to wait, wait for the next moment to escape.

Life Outside

I run a bath, tickling my fingers in the water, checking the temperature is just so. As the tub fills I pace the bathroom in my robe, daylight framing the closed shutters on the window. There's a weary glumness to the light inside the room, a sombre sadness to this early Summer afternoon.

Afterwards I try to find Tilly and the children, they're somewhere in the house, but with our wealth of rooms they could be anywhere, and my cries are swallowed up by the expanse. Eventually, I hear Margot's laughter coming from one of the guest bedrooms, and I discover, to their great amusement, that they've turned the bed's blankets and pillows into a fort.

"No Daddy!" Alex commands as I step forward to search for them, "You can't come in."

After a circular discussion in which I try to bargain my way into the fort I go downstairs to the dining room. Lunch has been served, and I ring the bell to let the family know, expecting the temptation to bring them running.

The kitchen staff have shyed away from me recently, since I dismissed Tiago - my last lunch chef - to the outside. They tend just to notify me once the meals have been served, and the waiting staff - at dinners - have perfected an almost invisible art of clearing plates and presenting the successive courses.

"What did he do?" Tilly had asked, removing her jewellry as we prepared for bed that evening.

I told her that he had this neck tattoo, a bloody skull, I hadn't noticed it before, and I'm sure it wasn't new. Perhaps, I posited, he had been covering it with make-up and it had slipped his mind. Tilly agreed that it was most inappropriate, not something we would want the children to be exposed to.

After lunch I logged into the office cloud, I had a meeting with the other MDs, each beamed in from their respective studies. I made sure that I was framed by my bookshelf in the webcam's view, father had told me that this would give off a positive and knowledgable perception, and I carefully noted what my colleagues had chosen as their backdrops.

There was a flat beige wall, a world map, a garden view, a Miro painting, and another had also chosen a bookshelf, though his was less impressive - mine heaved with hardback tomes, his was rife with paperback page-turners; I considered flagging this up to the Chief Executive as an item of concern.

More frustrating though, Alfred - who lives in a very pleasant pile near Haslemere - was clearly wearing his pajamas to the meeting, whereas the rest of us were in suit and tie. I scribbled a note, to remind myself of this.

After the meeting I went into the garden, the sun was at its apex, so there was a warm, flat light over the grounds. I enjoy this time of day best, since having the high walls installed I've missed sunrise and sunset, but in the summer especially this time of day is most pleasant.

Tilly had come out into the garden to, she was in a lounger by the pond.

"Were you kicked out of the fort?" I asked, strolling over and taking an orange from the fruit bowl besider her.

"The kids got bored, realised it was a lovely day and wanted to play outside."

I dig my finger into the skin, it resists my efforts to tear a chunk away and begin peeling.

"Where are they now?"

She looked up and scanned the garden, my eyes followed, and we found Alex throwing a dinosaur up in the air near the sandpit, and then Margot over by the guardhouse.

I was a little out of breath when I got to her, checked she was okay, and aside from a look of panic - probably a reflection of my own - she seemed fine. I stared up at the guard on duty, a short man, but broad, with a neat grey beard and round glasses.

"Afternoon, sir," he nodded at me.

"Please don't talk to my daughter."

"I hadn't, sir. She was talking at me."

I ushered Margot back towards her mother, standing my ground, watching the guard glancing at me but keeping his eyes fixed on the monitors that showed the perimeter, outside the walls, that showed the people idling around.

"Can't you do something about them?" I asked.

"There's a 10pm curfew in the summer months," the guard said reaching for his tea. "Other than that they can do what they like most afternoons. Got to give the inmates a bit of free time."

"But they could be made to work, do something productive."

"Ay, they do, eight until one in the afternoon, then lunch. Well, they try to. I was talking to a warden, he says it's getting harder to... Well, I shouldn't gossip."

"No," I sized the man up again, "you shouldn't." I tried to make the warning clear, he was lucky to be getting that.

I turned and made my way back to the house.

"Have a good evening, sir," the guard called after me. "Any plans?"

Perhaps it was the jovial tone in his voice, but something about his farewell crawled under my skin. I couldn't sleep that night, tossing and turning in the sheets, which felt damp and clammy against my body.

Tilly called to me from her bed, asked if I wouldn't mind sleeping in another room if I was going to be so restless.

"Are you going to report me?" I joked as I took my quilt and a pillow elsewhere.

I made myself comfy on the sofa, despite the guest rooms I rather fancied falling asleep whilst watching some television. I ordered a hot chocolate from the night staff and went to draw the curtains.

At the end of the garden, by the guardhouse, I could see a light - the tip of a cigarette - the audacity of that man! Smoking on my property without permission. I moved to the phone, but hesitated at the last moment, and I'm not sure entirely sure why, but I suddenly felt that - despite everything - I didn't want to send him away, I wanted to keep him here, this guard, this insipid stranger, as if something about that was a form of punishment.

I went back to the window, the figure had returned to the guardhouse. I drew the curtains, and when I returned to the sofa there was a hot chocolate steaming on the side table.

Turning on the television there was a high pitched whining, a test signal, and a card that read 'Due to unforseen circumstances all programming has been suspended', and behind that a spectrum of colour bars.

I lowered the volume so the whine was barely audible, yet its presence gave me a little comfort, I pulled the quilt over myself and snuggled onto the sofa, sipping at my hot chocolate, letting it softly warm me inside.

Flow

At the start of the day the data entry software would reward Masha when she completed 25 lines of information. A little bronze star would appear, a glittery sound would chime, and the star would drift into a little box called 'Achievements'. After about an hour, it would be for every 50 lines of information, then 100, 200, and so on with the colour of the star changing from bronze, to silver, gold, ruby, emerald with diamond as the ultimate - almost unattainable - crowning accomplishment if someone, somehow managed 12,800 lines of information in one working day. She'd known colleagues to arrive early and stay late in an effort to attain diamond star status.
    Nobody had, and nobody knew what happened if you did.
    That day she'd reached Blue Garnet (3,200) and didn't think Serendibite was within her reach. Colette, in stall 89, looked sleepless yet determined, when Masha glanced her way Colette yelled; "9,000!" A small crowd, Henry, Barnes, Petra, had gathered around her, cheering her on.
    Masha rolled her eyes, smiling, and left the office.
    On the way home she stopped into Cafe Zeno for a latte, she didn't really feel like a coffee, but she only had to get one more stamp on her card and she could have a free drink. She smiled as the clerk, whose nametag read 'Mikey: Caramel Latte with Chocolate & Two Sugars', under this he had two gold stars.
    "What are the stars for?" Masha asked, as Mikey took her charge card.
    "Customer service," Mikey smiled. "Could I take your name?"
    "Masha."
    And Mikey wrote Marsha on the paper cup, sliding it down to his colleague hidden behind the gargantuan hissing coffee machine. Masha smiled and followed her cup, reminding herself that - as far as her coffee was concerned - she was called Marsha.

At home, with her dinner on her lap, she opened up her TV Planner on the digibox and checked her completion levels on the shows she was watching. She was a little disgruntled to find that no new episodes had been uploaded, so she'd either have to find something new or just watch something again.
    Then she thought about Alex, maybe she should send a text or call, they'd had three dates, kissed a little, it wasn't out of place to do such a thing. But she wasn't sure exactly what she'd say, I mean, she hadn't really done anything all day and couldn't exactly tell her about the stars at work or the coffee card. Maybe she should ask for a recommendation of something to watch? It'd make Alex feel good.
    The text delivered, with a little notification saying 'Text sent 19:37', which Masha kept eyeballing until it changed to 'Text read 19:39'.
    With a growing ire Masha - at 19:57 - began to wonder what exactly could be causing Alex to dither for so long. Was this a hint, a sign that perhaps she had been getting her hopes up and Alex didn't feel as strongly about her? Maybe Alex was busy compiling an exhaustive list of great television shows to really impress her? Maybe she'd just forgotten that Masha had sent her the text, insipid as it was.
    Perhaps, Masha thought if she sent something better, something more enticing that would prompt Alex to respond. She began reminiscing about their dates, trying to happen upon some detail, some anecdote, that Masha could belatedly respond to. What music did Alex say she liked? Maybe one of her favourite bands has a gig coming up and she could suggest they go? Or a screening of a classic film?
    Or is that too desperate?
    Suddenly her phone buzzed, juddering excitedly upon her thigh, but it was a text from Barnes reading: 'Colette did it!'
    Strangely this gave Masha a sense of optimism, that anything is possible, and she immediately composed a text for Alex that read: 'If you're stuck for something good to watch too, maybe we should put our heads together?' Masha enjoyed the innuendo, and hoped that Alex would pick up on it.
    Afterward she replied to Barnes, 'What happened?'
    'Big diamond star. Longer tune. Now all future stars are +1 level.'
    'That it?'
    'Think boss got a msg, so maybe more? Don't know, finished pretty l8.'
    It was disappointing for Masha just to read, she can't really imagine how Colette must have felt at the end of all that anticipation just to get more of the same. Still, there's a strong chance that if the boss has heard of the achievement then she'll give Colette some sort of bonus or extra day off, some kind of recognition.
    Masha's phone buzzed again, it was Alex: 'Sounds fun. Your place?'

Feeling good about herself Masha claimed her free coffee that morning, striding quite proudly up to the counter and holding out the completed card.
    "Hi Mikey," she beamed.
    "Morning, free coffee today, good for you!" he stapled the card to the receipt and slipped it into the till, handing her a new, empty card for her to continue on with. "What's your name?"

Walking into the office, holding a cup with the word 'Martha' scribbled on the side, she craned her neck to try and see if Colette was in. She wasn't, but there was a balloon tied to her desk. Curious, Masha approached and written on the stretched peach rubber were the words: 'Congratulations on your diamond day. Everyone at DataPro.'
    "Hey," Masha called to Petra who was walking towards the break room, "did you get this for Col?"
    "No, the boss did."
    "That's it?"
    "That's it."
    Petra carried on her way leaving Masha to stare, quite judgmentally, at the hovering helium balloon jigging slightly in the air con's breeze.
    Colette had, according to Barnes who texted from his stall, come in before Masha got there, she'd seen the balloon and immediately gone home, calling in to say she'd had a migraine come on suddenly. Barnes wasn't convinced, neither was Masha, and both didn't feel so enamoured by the star targets any more.
    That afternoon though Ms. Radchec made an announcement, letting the team know that the rewards system was changing from stars to a leaderboard, with each employee's four weekly totals being totted up and averaged to see who was the most productive each month. The winner, Ms. Radchec said, would be rewarded. Barnes, under his breath, made a joke about her being full of gas, much like the reward would be, but it went largely unnoticed.

She'd felt a bit down all day, so had sent Alex a text seeing if she could come over after work, but Alex hadn't replied and, in an effort to stave off depression, Masha had picked up some ice-cream on the way home.
    She was sat, with her dinner on her lap, pleased to see that one of her favourite series had two new episodes now - a double-bill had been on - so she could watch those tonight.
    Her phone thrummed eagerly on the cushion beside her, she could see it was Alex calling, but she didn't answer, she didn't want to give Alex the satisfaction after she hadn't replied earlier. She kind of enjoyed this moment of being in control of the dispensation of happiness, besides she had her tv show and her dinner and her ice-cream.

The Short Story

Just over 10 years ago I started studying Creative Writing and English Literature at Aberystwyth University. The place and people were wonderful, the course was pretty disappointing. Here's the story I submitted for my first marked assignment on 10th November 2003.


The Short Story

Abbott put his arm around me, he kissed me on the forehead and kept his hand on my shoulder looking out at the road ahead.  We'd been traveling for about five days now, I didn't know where we were going really, but Abbott seemed to.  I looked at him as he drove, all around us was deserted and the sun sat right behind.  I leant over and nestled my head on his side.
    At that moment I felt my father's hand on my shoulder, prodding me.  Daddy didn't like it when we got cosy together in the car, I just liked having time with Abbott and sometimes forgot that my Daddy was even there, he always made sure he reminded me about it though.

My father had raised me by himself for about nine years now, since I was six.  He was very protective of me, always lecturing me about being a good girl, coming home on time and he wasn't fond of Abbott to tell you all the truth.
    I met Abbott after school, he used to be sitting on the fence by the field with the long grass with his friends.  I'd smile at him as I walked by, and soon he was smiling back.  One day he jumped down off the fence and asked if he could walk with me.
    “I'm not sure if my Daddy would like that.”  I grinned.
    “Fine,” Abbott nodded respectfully, and then he winked and said, “I won't walk with ya' all the way then.”  He walked alongside me, and I could barely speak, couldn't do nothing but smile.  “What's your name then?”  He asked looking down at me with his blue eyes, I remember how blue they were so well.
    “Tess.” I said.
    “My name's Abbott.” He stopped and held his hand out to me, I'd never had a boy offer to shake hands with me before and I couldn't help but laugh.  “Well, are you gonna shake my hand or aren't ya'?”

The car pulled up to the side of the road, the dirty ground crunching under the wheels.  Abbott leant on the door and looked up and down the long empty strip.  Then off we went again, this time the car began out over the ground leaving the road behind us.  I looked at Abbott like he'd gone and lost his mind, but soon we came to this little secluded place with trees and large dusty rocks.
    “We're stopping here tonight.”  He said getting out of the car and pulling his leather jacket off the back seat, “You wanna help me?”
    “Do what?”  I asked.
    “Get a fire going or something.” He exclaimed as if it was perfectly obvious to everyone but me.  “I'm going for a piss, try and see if you can find some firewood or something.”
    I went over to one of the trees and began shaking at its trunk, but it barely made a move, though I'll be honest with you I'm not exactly the toughest person in the world.  I leant back on the bonnet of the car and looked up at the tree, a wind blew through the leaves and my hair, it span dust up as if it were alive.
    “You look pretty with your hair down.” My father said from the backseat of the car, “Your mother always said you'd grow up beautiful.  You're starting to look a lot more like her, everyday it seems.”

Daddy didn't like Abbott, and he made no bones about keeping it under his hat.  First time he met him was about a week after he started walking me home, Daddy was sat on the front porch smoking his pipe and he saw me talking down by the road.  Abbott was practically begging me to go to the old barn down by the lake that night, some friends of his were having some kinda party, said they were starting a band.
    “I'll think about it.” I grinned tugging my bag back up onto my shoulder, I started to walk up towards the house with Abbott nodding and smiling.
    “I'll think about you!” He laughed pointing playfully at me, and winking.
    I could tell my Daddy was mad the second I could see his face clearly, but to be honest with you I didn't know why.  He had his hands on his hips and the pipe drooping sadly from his mouth, I looked up at him and plain as day he swore,  “God damn you Tess, what are you playing at?  Get inside the house.”
    Our house was one of the nicest one's around for miles, I always loved that place despite whatever happened inside those four walls.  Though I would've changed a few things about it, that's for sure.  My father and his father were proud hunters, and they had heads of all kinds of animals up over the fireplace and the like, deers and boars, they went traveling for weeks finding stuff to kill.
    Daddy sat me down at the dinner table, he turned a lamp on as it was getting pretty dark early now in the Autumn.  Daddy told me to put my hands on the table, about shoulder width apart and he struck the backs of them hard with his hand, it hurt but I didn't say nothing.
    “What are you playing at?”  He asked again sitting so upright I thought he'd locked his back again, I didn't say anything because I had nothing to say.  He rolled his eyes and looked round the house, “If your mother could see you now?  Holy Jesus, I don't know what she'd say.  She'd set you straight, that's what she'd do.  Tell you how blind you're being, how foolish!”  He took my hands in his and stared me straight in the eyes, “Now you listen to me, cause I'm telling you now not to see that fella...”
    “But, Daddy...” I began.
    “Lord have mercy!”  My father interrupted, “Aren't you listening?  Don't you hear me?  I'm commanding you my girl, my daughter.  I didn't raise no commandment breaker now did I?  You love your Daddy now don't you?  Now, say your prayers and I'll start dinner tonight, but it's to bed early today, you hear?”  He paused, “Tell me now, do you hear?”
    “Yes Daddy.” I answered.

Later that evening, it was about eight o'clock I reckon, I could hear this sound at my window and when I looked up there was Abbott stood outside, I didn't realise who it was at first and almost jumped out of my own skin.  Quietly I crept over to the window, slid open the pane and stuck my head outside.
    “What do you want?”  I asked in a whisper.
    “Come on, I came to take you to the barn, I figured that a lady shouldn't walk alone.”  Abbott said starting off into the dark almost immediately.
    “Well hold up!”  I called with bated breath, “I'm wearing my nightgown, I gotta get changed!”
    Abbott threw his hands up and stamped a foot, “I told you we was going to the barn!”
    “I'm sorry, b-but my Daddy, he - he said...” I could hardly speak now, and Abbott could see that he'd been a little rash so he came up and put a hand on my cheek.
    “Hey there, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at ya'.  I didn't realise.  Don't be upset now.”  Abbott's hand was so warm despite the cold Autumn air at night, and I practically nuzzled against it.  “Come on now,” he continued, “Get some clothes and shoes, stick a pillow under the bedsheets, you can wear my jacket if you want, it's real leather.”

“What are you thinking?”  My father asked me as I pulled a blanket up over me in the front seat of the car.
    “I was wondering why you used to hit me so much?”  I said bitterly trying to find some warmth, it was winter even in the desert!
    “You can be stubborn sometimes, you get that too from you mother.”
    I began to feel tears in my eyes on my skin thinking about her, “Why did she die, Daddy?”
    “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” My Daddy reasoned, but it never made any sense to me.

I was a little angry when nobody else showed up in the barn that night, later Abbott told me that they'd all gone out drinking and forgotten to tell him!  He didn't mind though he said, he told me that he was happy enough sitting here with me, and I was with him.  There wasn't anywhere to sit as such in the barn, barely anybody used it then, which is a pity because it was so beautiful there in the moonlight.  Abbott made us a bed of hay to lie on, it was all bailed up but Abbott tore through the cord holding it with his bare hands!  I'd never noticed how strong he was in all the time we'd known each other, and then how carefully he set the hay down on the ground, he was like an artist at work.
    That's the night I knew I was in love with Abbott.  It was getting late, we could see the sun rising up out in the distance across the lake.  My head was on Abbott's chest and I could hear his heart beating, and I felt so calm there with his arms wrapped around me.  I wriggled out of his embrace and looked him in the eyes, he looked down at me.
    “What?”  He smiled.  I quickly kissed him on the lips.  “What was that?” He asked.
    “A kiss.” I replied holding his gaze.
    “I know that, but why'd you do that?”
    “'Cause I wanted to kiss you, that's why.”
    Abbott raised his eyebrows and grinned, he looked around the barn as if he were surrounded by a thousand eyes and didn't care.  “Do you still want to kiss me now?”
    “I'm not so sure.” I teased.
    Abbott chuckled and put an arm round the back of my neck pulling me closer to him and he kissed me, his hands ran down my back and opening his hands his fingers practically wrapped round me.

When I left the barn the next day I pretty much floated all the way home I was so happy, Abbott didn't walk with me he had to be in town, to check on his friends.  I remember that the world had never seemed so beautiful before, the barn was a luminous glowing grey sat against the Autumn sky.  The grass around it was browning and captured in sunlight, and it didn't matter about all the moss, lichen and rust, because somehow on that day it was all perfect.  And I'd seen sunrises before, me and Daddy would stay up and watch them sometimes, we'd eat lamb stew with crusty bread, but this one was special.

Abbott came back looking white as a sheet, he stumbled over a rock in the dim dusk light and cursed quietly to himself looking up at me.  “Where's the Goddamn fire?”
    “There's no stick or nothing, and I couldn't reach up into the tree there.”  I pointed.
    “Jesus fucking Christ.”  Abbott muttered, it shocked me when he swore, he didn't used to swear so much, but you get to know people more and more as time goes on, that's what love's all about I guess.  He proceeded to swipe at the tree, but he kept swinging too wide and missing the branches, and eventually he just began kicking at the trunk, bark splintering and denting.
    “Are you allright Abbott?  Look like you've seen a ghost.”  I said getting out of the car and going over to help him.
    “I'm fine!” He snapped.
    “Are you sure?  Do you want some water or something?” I raised a hand to his side and touched him.
    Next thing a fist came into my face, it knocked me to the ground and I scratched the underside of my hand as I fell onto the rough desert floor.
    “I'M FINE!” He yelled, and then turned placing his hands on the tree, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
    My face felt numb and the bridge of my nose buzzed and hummed, it stung like when you crack your elbow on the table.  My face felt wet, like I was crying, but I wasn't and when I drew my hand back it had red streaks across it, I dabbed the tears with my finger and saw that it was blood.
    Abbott had slumped himself against a rock and was lighting up a cigarette, he seemed to be talking to himself but I didn't care neither way.  I got back in the car and found a handkerchief and held it to my nose, the white cloth was quickly blackening red with blood, I looked back to my father but he had got out the car.  Looking round I saw that he'd gone over and was stood next to Abbott, smoking his pipe.  He looked over to me and nodded, mouthing the words 'Go to sleep', and so I did.

When I got back home in the morning my father wasn't in, so I busied myself by tidying up the kitchen and washing the dishes from dinner last night, then I hanged the clothes out on the line and made the beds.  My father's bed though looked like he'd had a rough night, the covers were flung over the floor and I was growing concerned due to his absence.  Nevertheless, Daddy often goes out for walks and stuff, and anyways, he didn't know that I was missing school today and I was glad he didn't otherwise he'd probably strangle me!  In some ways I began to think that if Daddy didn't come home then Abbott could move in, and he could tend to the fields and the cows, and I could cook for him and he'd stay up late reading to me at bedtime.  To some extent I began to dream that Daddy wouldn't come home, and it's practically at that moment when he did.
    I never heard a door open and close so loudly before in my life!  I looked up at the clock and it was about lunchtime, so I thought that Daddy had come back in for something to eat, but he came straight up to me with a horrific look on his face, beads of sweat dripping off his brow.  Suddenly he struck me with the back of his hand across the face, and when I fell to the floor he pulled me back up by my collar and shook me.
    “I told you!” My father barked into my face, “I told you again and again.  What do you want?  Huh!?  You want me to hurt you?  Is that what you want?  'Cause I'll do it, don't doubt that I will!  Heaven above, don't you understand that I love you Tess?  Don't you see that I don't want you to be hurt?”
    I couldn't stop crying, tears burning my eyes I cried till I could hardly cry no more, I tried to wipe them away but he held my arms down and rattled me, I thought that he'd break my neck he shook me so much.  When I could finally see again I noticed that his knuckles were a mucky brown red colour, I looked up at my father and I could see it in his eyes that he'd gone after Abbott before he came to me.
    “Daddy what did you do?”  I sobbed.
    My father looked down at his hands and withdrew them, trying to wipe the stains off onto his shirt, and the moment he did I tore out the side door with all my speed, practically screaming for air as I went.
    I could hear my father yelling behind me, but he didn't bother to follow.  I ran so fast, I ran past the old barn, down the road and past the fence by the field with the long grass, and then towards Abbott's house on the other side of town.  I could tell that something was wrong because the door was hanging off its hinges, and glass from a window was scattered on the floor, it cut into my feet as I walked over it, I'd forgotten to put any shoes on or nothing, but I didn't notice 'til later.
    Inside the gloomy, sparse house was Abbott, slumped in a corner a hand to his face and as I stepped towards the shadows where he sat I could hear him sniffing, holding back the tears too.  I reached out for him and took his hand from his face, he moved his head forward into the light and I saw what my father had done. 
    Abbott's eyes were swollen, dark purple and puffy, with blood trickling out of the eyebrow and he'd split an eye lid open, Abbott could barely blink the poor soul.  His lip too was gashed and red with blood ran over it, he was scuffed with all kinds of dirt and splinters, but that wasn't the worst of it.  I tried to help Abbott to his feet but taking his arm in my hands made him holler in pain, I tried to help him again but he protested so badly.  Carefully I looked at his arm and realised the elbow was all awash with blood, it was damp and sticky, so carefully I rolled up the sleeve and saw that the arm looked odd, and then realised that the bone jutted out through the skin where it'd been broken.  I clasped my hand over my mouth, I could barely comprehend how my father did this.
    “Abbott,” I said running my hand across his cheek, but he winced away in pain, “Abbott?  Are you going to be okay?  Abbott come on, talk to me now.”
    “I-It was y-your father.”  Abbott managed to utter, his words wet and gargled, he spat onto the floor and I could see that he was coughing up blood.  “He came in raging, like a man possessed he was, I could barely speak, he just didn't let me...”
    “That's alright Abbott, you don't have to say anything.  You want I should get a doctor?”
    “No.” Abbott started, “You go home, I don't want you to get into any more trouble than you are already.  I think...” He caught his breath, “I think you shouldn't see me no more, Tess.”
    I bit my lip as I let his words fall upon me, but I could tell that he was just trying to be generous to me, “Abbott, I'm not going to leave you, I love you, and I will do anything for you...” I thought about what I was saying, the first time I really paid any attention to what I said or how I said it, but I did so because I meant it and I remembered something my mother used to read to me, “'You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.'”

My father walked back to the car and got in the driver's side, sitting on the front seat, he looked at me and blew jovially into my hair, it roused me from my sleep and I looked round, it was morning.  I turned my head all around and we were still in the desert, usually Abbott would drive off in the middle of the night and I'd wake up someplace else, but it was still that little secluded spot.  Clouds hung over us in patches, dark grey underneath but glowing fluffy white above, the sky was a baby blue and peeked through like pools in the air.
    “Morning.”  My Daddy beamed when I wearily blinked at him.

When I returned home my father was in the bathroom shaving, all was quiet in the house, strangely so, except for the sound of water being slapped around by his razor as he cleaned it off.  I crept quietly into my room and gathered up my clothes, placing them neatly into my schoolbag and throwing it over my shoulder.  I thought briefly about writing him a note, but thought that it'd be better for him to gradually understand as opposed to me trying to explain it myself, and where would I begin?
    As I moved through the front room, under the watchful gaze of the deers and boars, bears and other beasts I felt a sense of sadness for all the things I'd be leaving behind, but then again what were they but memories?  And now each happy memory lead to a sad one.
    I reached the door and then remembered that I wanted to take a book for Abbott to read to me, so crept back over towards the fireplace where my favourite books rested on the mantle.  As I dropped my bag to the ground I heard my father's voice behind me.
    “What are you doing?” He asked, yet he sounded different, sombre and remote.  “Where are you going?”
I turned and saw my father stood in the doorway opposite, his face hidden in shaving foam and the razor in his hand, he rested on the door frame and looked sorrowfully at me, his eyes large, blue, staring.
    “I'm going away Daddy.” I said, but then he began to shake his head slowly back and forth.
    My father looked up to the ceiling and sighed, smiling to himself and speaking up to the Heavens, “I tried, I'm sorry.”  He then looked at me and began walking over, and for some reason I was shaking uncontrollably I felt like my legs were going to give way I was so terrified, I just remember his hands, bloodied and dirty, I just remember Abbott's face as he cowered in the corner, and then I just remember the sound of gunfire.
    When I looked round again my father was lying on the floor back by the opposite door, his hand had dropped the razor and the other one was slumped across his chest.  He lay with his lungs breathing slowly in and out, getting further seperated by the second and as he breathed more blood pumped out of him, from a hole in his chest and a pool haloing his head.

I looked at my father sat in the driver's seat of the car, as I turned round I saw that Abbott had gone again, when I looked back my father had gone too and I saw the wind blow through the trees, it released some leaves that clung to the branches, and spun dust up into the air as if it were alive.