Yesterday

I'm really glad you put me in this situation, I am. What a lovely way to start my existence, but the weight of thoughts you happened to burden me with, I'm not so sure. I know that I will only ever exist for these 24 hours, part of some sort of clinical trial, that we all shall only exist for this one day, but really, did you have to shove all of this into my head, these memories, this history, these neuroses and inadequacies, the fumbling and tumbling, the hopes and failures, whilst I wake up happy I feel so small.

I had a dream before I was born, I dreamed a life prior to my waking, and in the life I dreamed I went to bed and slept and had a dream, a dream that the trains and buses were cancelled and I wouldn't have to go to work. All these ideas, these notions, placed into my brain by you, whomsoever granted me this perception of a life lived prior to this moment. Why did you give me this need to work, or, at least, this obligation to not let them down, to arrive on time, to wake up early and leave something fun and exciting and electric, to keep my passions in check. Why should I do that? After all, this is the only day I will ever exist, this is the only day you will ever exist, this is the only time any of this will ever be here.

I would say that tomorrow it will all be gone, but there is no tomorrow, tomorrow is part of the perception that you have implanted into my head, this idea of past and future it's all make believe, made by you, otherwise what would I be? I'd be a confused baby, my own limbs a puzzle that I have to decipher and by the time I do time is already up.


How I wish I could seize the moment, take this sole day of my existence and truly live it, throw absolute caution to the wind and not to go to work, it doesn't matter, because tomorrow they will be gone and before today they never knew me. But this, this present happiness, the one thing that would make being alive for a day worthwhile, I casually, nonchalantly, walk it outside and bid farewell.

In this dark, gloomy winter morning I marvel at the world and all its detail, impressed by how much effort has gone into this fleeting reality. Are all your realities like this or is this one just here for me? Either way, today, my one day, I'd like to say thank you.

As I take my train to work I wonder whether the things outside of my immediate awareness continue to exist, now that I'll never see you again does that mean you're gone for good? I've been conditioned to remember a phrase about thinking oneself to be the centre of the universe, but knowing what I know, I imagine that to be true. It's a phrase that was created in order to make the idea of being the sole focus of your attention seem arrogant, but, it's accurate. Like a character in a video game that I've never played but remember playing the world only exists as far as I can see it and beyond that there is nothing, an emptiness ready to fill with colour and shape as I head toward it.

For the most part though, on this singular day, the designs are simple, I move from a box to a foggy street (the fog hides the fact that the distances I only have memories of have not been generated) into another box that travels along a track, my view carefully obscured, I change into a box underground, so need for detail in the dark, and find myself stepping into the next box and taking my seat, and I will spend a third of my day sat here, waiting for that moment when I get to do my journey in reverse.

I feel like I should challenge the universe, stand up from my desk and unexpectedly walk outside and then run, run down the alley out into the street, run up the street towards the park, race through the park, my desire making me ignorant of my sweat, my lack of breath, who needs such things when I am but a fleetingly improvised man, the faster I run maybe I can out-run the universe, find the point where reality ends, where you lose track of me, you forget to keep creating and I dash beyond the world that I only believe has existed for millions of years, the Earth that I blindly accept will be here tomorrow and that I shall always, in some form, be attached to, that this sense of self, this chemical perception that sits behind these eyes telling me I'm me, that I am forever, I am eternal, and not, as sometimes I have told myself I wonder, merely a moment, a thing that can never truly exist, because each single second is gone by the time I have realised it was there, and that with every single one that passes I edge closer to tomorrow, to the day where I don't exist, where nothing exists, but by then it'll be too late and all this worry about what tomorrow brings will be unable to take shape, you will have closed the lid, filed it away, done your studies, that was interesting, but I have other things to do, goodbye.

So I sit, I wait, I send emails to people who I only assume exist, I answer the telephone to the disembodied voices and take their messages, I perform these tasks in the hope of earning enough to keep me in some form of comfort, such pointless hopes, when I, this very morning, denied myself the one thing that might have made this one day worthwhile.

Eventually the sky will grow dark again, such a neat bookend, I will rise from my seat, leave this box, go to the station and make a mirror image of myself, return to my home, climb back into my bed, this time alone, draw the sheet around myself and remember this morning, though now I am not sure whether this morning even existed at all, I have come on too far, the past is just a memory, there is no evidence of it ever having been other than my own unreliable recollection, a thought that could have been placed there to excuse the fact that tonight I die and shall be born again tomorrow.

Good night.
 

A Man Appeared In Court Today...

You know that dream where you're naked in class? I thought I was having that dream, but for some reason I didn't wake up, and the chill on my skin felt most undreamlike. A teacher screamed and one kid quickly grabbed a coat from the rack and threw it at me, whilst another kid shouted 'Not my coat you knobber!' I also remembered that before this I hadn't been in a classroom in nine years.

I walked sheepishly home, the small child's coat wrapped as best I could get it around my nakedness, trying to figure things out in my head.

The reason I thought it was a dream was because I had been asleep, I had been asleep in my bed at home, I had been naked in bed, so if I had sleep-walked all the way to this school it figures that I would have been naked there, but this school is four miles from my flat, surely a man can't walk naked through the streets of South London and stroll starkers into a school, depositing himself into the middle of a geography class without someone noticing and, more to the point, preventing him?

That was what struck me as most odd, that the time - according to the clock on the wall in the assembly hall of the school that I noted as I dashed out of the building - was 9.45am. Class had clearly been in progress for some time, yet I had also managed to place myself in the centre of the room, on the floor between two desks, and had only been noticed once I had arrived there.

Behind me I could hear a car slowing to a crawl, I knew who it was before they said a word, so I stopped walking and waited for the policeman to speak.

I was tested for drugs and alcohol, I was hoping there'd be some residual presence of the jagerbombs we'd done last night, because I figured if they found neither they'd just assume I was a paedophile. They asked me if I had been drinking, I told them about the night before, and I lied, told them I didn't remember how I got home, in the hopes that their Holmes-like brains would incorrectly assume that I'd drunkenly broken into a school and fallen asleep in the classroom.

Eight hours later I was released without charge, but lots of stern warnings. I returned home where I had to implore a neighbour to let me use their phone so I could call a locksmith, I had to write out an IOU to them saying I would reimburse them for the phone credit used, when I asked for a cup of tea they added an extra 70p to the IOU.

I went to my room to get dressed, sat on the mattress, it squelched under me and I leapt back to my feet. Cautiously placing a hand onto the bed I could feel a sloppy dampness, as if it had been glazed in egg yolk, and holding my fingers up to the light I could see a thin, gloopy substance with small crystals, kind of like hair gel.

After six rings Jessica answered the phone, she was still in bed, though she was awake and watching a documentary about hippos.

"How's your head?" she laughed.

"Fine, I've been in the police station all day."

"What!? What did you do?"

"Nothing... Well, I... You remember last night, right?"

"Sure, I wasn't that drunk."

"We shared a taxi, me, you and Rich, and I was dropped off first..."

"Yeah, but, why were you at the police station?"

"So, you saw me go into my flat, you saw me go home?"

"Yeah, well, no, but we saw you get out of the cab outside your flat. What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything, but I definitely went home, I got home, I went in, I went to bed."

"What happened?"

"I woke up in a school."

"What!?"

"My old secondary school, I was in class, naked."

"Are you sure this wasn't a dream?"

"If it was, then it was a very long and rather boring dream involving eight hours in a police station and two hours locked outside my flat."

I repeated the day's events to Jessica, enjoying her laughter and slightly embellishing certain details for her amusement. Last night we'd been out at the Frog & Bucket, it was supposed to be a quiet drink, just the three of us, but a group of city boys were in the pub having an arrogant, swaggering piss up and I couldn't help but swipe some shots from off of their table. A combination of the crime going unnoticed and the dizzying rush of godawful sambuca helped send us giddily from tipsy to smashed.

Shortly thereafter Rich was humouring the city boys at the bar and Jessica had gone to the bathroom, I decided I need to go as well, and Jessica and I passed on the small stairway down to the toilets, her going up, me descending, we had to place our backs to the wall to pass, our middles brushing close, Jessica beamed and said "Oh, hello!" in a Carry On-like fashion, and then we just kissed, both instinctively just leaning forward and we kissed.

After a short while we stopped and carried on our respective journeys. Nothing like that had ever happened between us before, it was so unprecedented I didn't even really hit me until later that night, in the taxi home, I felt silly and childish, like I did after my first kiss with Melanie Woodman behind the canteen building at school, we were both in top set geography together, we used to sit in the very classroom I woke up in today, at the very desks I was between.

That had been what I was thinking as I fell asleep, I had been wondering about Melanie Woodman, remembering her sneaky little grin when we'd glance at one another in class.

At the end of my conversation with Jessica I was confused, she'd laughed a lot, and I'd said things like; 'So last night was fun...' I wanted to mention the kiss on the stairs, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, what if she was embarassed about it, and I didn't want to treat it like a joke, because it wasn't a joke to me, it felt like something, it could be something, couldn't it?

I woke up in pain, I was at an angle, it was dark still, I was on a cold tiled floor, but the floor was stepped, there was a chemical smell, detergent and mop water. I didn't need to open my eyes to know where I was, I was on the stairs at the Frog & Bucket.

I stood, my back cracking from the awkward position I had found myself in, my naked skin kissing off the gloss, hurrying up the stairs I could see early morning light in the sky outside, but the pub, understandably was shut. I searched, carefully and quietly, for a set of spare keys, but no luck.

However a thought that yesterday would have seemed ludicrous had begun to enter my mind. I climbed into a booth, lay down on the soft padded seating, got as cosy as I could and tried to go to sleep.

"Oi, mate! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

I opened my eyes, it was bright, I hadn't slept terribly well and now this voice had brought me out of what scant slumber I was in. But worse, I was still in the pub, still lying naked in the booth, except now the bar manager was staring at me and he was holding a broom in an aggressive stance.

The same policemen interviewed me, they gave me the same withering look that my mother would give me whenever I inevitably hurt myself after a stern warning not to be so boisterious.

"Drunk again, were we?"

"Well I was in a pub." I replied, a little too quickly and sarcastically, I instantly regretted saying it, I apologised. "No, I hadn't been drinking, I... just... um..."

"How did you get in?"

"What?"

"Into the pub. There were no signs of a break in."

I lied to the police again, "One of the windows was open."

"I see," the policeman with heterochromia said whilst making a note.

Then they sat there for a bit, the two of them, just sort of staring at me, figuring me out and I stared back, feeling a bit cheeky that this is the second time they've had to loan me clothes in as many days.

"You'll be pleased to hear that Derek doesn't want to press any charges. But listen, if this happens again you'll be spending a night here, all right?"

I bothered the same neighbour, made another IOU, called the same locksmith, waited the same two hours for him to finally arrive, and shamefully entered my flat and went to my bed to find the same icky matter staining the freshly laundered sheets I'd put on yesterday.

Out of concern for my health I ran my hand along the bed cover, gathering as much of this slop up as I could and deposited it into a tuppaware container.

It was early afternoon, the police had treated me with more haste today, though I undoubtedly believed that if I wound up there again tomorrow they'd really take their time with me, and I was certain they'd stick to their word and shove me in the cells, at least for one night.

But, more than anything I was crestfallen. I had been certain of my hypothesis that sleep had been the cause, perhaps I hadn't been thinking about my own home hard enough, maybe that was why, or the discomfort of lying naked in a pub had kept me on edge, I hadn't been able to enter a deep sleep. Yes! That must be it. But, I needed to find out.

Fortunately there was a half used box of Nytol in the bedside drawer, remnants from two ex-girlfriends ago, I figured it'd be fine to take one, though it felt strange doing so at two in the afternoon. I decided to set optimum napping conditions, I went into the front room, lay on the sofa, put on the telly, it was some asinine homes show, the guests were nattering about a cottage in Porthmadog, I popped a pill and cosied up. I thought about my bed, my bed just upstairs, I tried to picture it clearly in my head, its position in the room, the feel of lying in it, where I like to lie, the right hand side, stretched out, one hand under a pillow, my bed.

I woke up, the sun was either setting or rising, I couldn't tell, but what I could tell is that the sky I could see was from a window that shouldn't be in my room, which meant I was in a room that wasn't my room, and standing I could see I was in a lounge, immaculately decorated, with a view of a bay, it was the house from the television show, the cottage in Porthmadog.

Despite falling asleep in my clothes I was naked again and I didn't know whether to first go to the telephone or to t ry and find something to wear. I crept around the rooms, the cottage to seemed to be reassuringly vacant, but I still winced with every unexpected knock and squeak as I tip-toed through the dark, expecting, at any moment, a set of keys to jangle toward a lock, or a light to suddenly illuminate my nakidity. On the plus side, I thought, if I do get caught, at least it'll be a different pair of policemen giving me a bollocking.

I found a bedroom, there were various items of jewellry strewn on a cabinet, so I assumed that this cottage did have inhabitants but they just weren't here, and, as I then discovered, they were of a size rather larger than I.

With a dressing gown almost double-wrapped around me I slunk back downstairs and picked up the landline, suddenly realising that I don't know Jessica's number off by heart, nor any number bar my childhood telephone number which my parents had made me memorise in case I was ever lost, but that was no help now as they'd sold the house to be bulldozed and developed into a supermarket over ten years ago.

Then the foolishness of my situation struck me, I wouldn't need to phone anyone at all, I would just have to fall asleep and think of somewhere safe, and do so in an environment where my thoughts could not be distracted by reality television. The only catch now being that I didn't feel at all tired and, after scavenging through their cupboards, couldn't find any kind of sleeping pills or sedatives.

I didn't much fancy hanging around until I felt naturally tired, the Nytol had done a great job and I felt rested and refreshed.

What I did find though was a large bottle of vodka, and I figured that desperate times call for desperate measures, in this instance, quadruple measures, with a splash or two of orange juice to take the edge off.

I knocked back the first glass in one go, the after taste was horrendous, like being punched in the stomach and having some spray deodorant in your mouth at the same time. Fortunately, as is usually the case with alcohol, the second and third glasses tasted progressively more palatable, and by the fourth my brain was starting to sway uneasily in its casing. I staggered, lop-sided around this cottage and found myself, for some unknown reason, re-enacting the reality show that I had fallen asleep to earlier.

"Oh, look at the exposed beams!" I cooed to my imaginary husband (I was playing the wife), "Such character! Yes," the husband agreed, clearly not interestested in exposed beams. "If you'll follow me up the grand eshcalier," the host joined in, "to the master boudoir." I don't know why I made him so camp, he wasn't like that at all in the show, but I was giggling to myshelf now asssss I mayyde my whhay upppp d' stairsh and, y'know, I'm luuuccky, I really am, and, and I got this power, I could go anywhhhhere, yesssh, I, well, I, they tried, if they try to lock-ock me up in d'at cell, well, I'lllll, yes, I'll laugh in their facesh, ha ha, in both those poleeeshhhman's faces...

I woke up, I could hear the silence and I could sense a presence, and I opened my eyes to see that I was about three feet off of the floor, lying on a desk, my face pressed against some papers, the rest of my bare skin amongst various items of stationery and, as I arched my body round to survey the situation, the now entirely expected faces of the two policemen stared with a mixture of disdain and supressed laughter.

The Day I Invented Time Travel

People always ask me about time travel, and about how, if I go back in time, reality doesn't collapse in on itself. You know, if you do something in the past, that changes the future, surely you should unmake yourself or something.

Well, it turns out that all of reality is actually entirely subjective, all the people who think they're the centre of the universe are right, every living being on the planet is its own universe and the reality which we perceive is the only one that - technically - exists.

Therefore, if you travel back in time you are only changing your perception of reality, and you can't go back and change something in the past in order to directly effect the future and unmake yourself, because the past is only a memory, and the past or future you may travel to is merely an alternate present.

In fact, the thing about time travel is that you aren't travelling into the past or the future, you are always in the present, it is just your perception of the present that has changed.

So, I invented time travel on a Wednesday, at about three in the afternoon, but by the time I realised what I had done it was five years earlier, same day of the week though, but now it was four in the morning. I was sat in the same place, except now I was staring at myself instead of the boggle-eyed cat clock hanging just behind my head.

I was scared, naive at this point, that seeing myself would cause some sort of paradox, but that's impossible, because that me is composed of different matter, pieces of the past if you will. But, it was at this point that I realised the true nature of time travel, because, if going back would alter the future then I would have always had this memory of having met myself in the past, but I didn't, this was unexpected. Now, if I were to travel to tomorrow, the me I would meet then would of course remember meeting me, but only because yesterday has always happened, and if I travelled further forwards to meet the me sat at that kitchen table on the day I invented time travel then he probably wouldn't be there doing what I did when I did it, he's a product of a now alternate future, something that never existed in any form prior to my journey into the past, yet my past, the past where I invented time travel has and always will exist.

Now, I'm not saying there are a series of parallel yet alternate universes and realities happening simultaneously, and even if there are I do doubt that we could travel between them, I think that's where your paradoxes and science fiction starts to occur. But, this singular perceived reality, the reality of my head, can be transformed as much as I care, heck, I could go all the way back and kill every organism on the planet at the dawn of creation and yet I would still exist, I'd just be real lonely for the rest of my natural life.

You see, once you do something in the past the only way to undo it is to then go back before it happened and change it that way, kind of like going back and stopping the guy from walking under the roof slate about to fall on his head, then, when you go forwards again you can see the reality that follows.

Once this clicked in my own brain I tried to think about what I would most want and how best to achieve that in a way that would benefit me, the time traveller.

You see, the problem is now that I have shifted my present off of its linear course I don't particularly exist, the only space where I think I can continue to exist is in the time after I first vanished. I haven't been back there yet, but, like I said earlier I may have altered things in my perception of reality to mean that I don't time travel on that day. Therefore I will be ambling about, doing my thing, and I don't want to have share a continued linear existence with a duplicate of myself.

As I age I keep track of where, in the present I was born and grew into, I would be. It's not Wednesday anymore, it's four months later, a Friday evening, though I currently exist one hundred years ago in a French cafe.

One day I plan to go back and pick up my life where I left off, but I need to do it silently. If anything I hope that some sort of quiet accident happens to me in the future and I get there to find my dead body, which I can secretly get rid of and just carry on as if nothing changed. But I don't know if I can leave this to chance anymore, and the more I wait the more I worry I'll go back and find out I died in some terrible, public way that means I can no longer be myself in the time I am accustomed to.

Or what if I get married, have kids, a career, but they are all different to that which I had planned for myself, and I have to sit there, once I resume my life, like a prisoner, married to a woman I don't love, with children that aren't mine and a job I despise.

But then I realise that I am not a time traveller, and that this is my life, and I look away from the computer screen and drink my coffee, time travels forwards at a rate we are all accustomed to, I am not the centre of the universe, and I can't go back and change a thing.

Kismet

I met a girl in a bookstore, we knew it was special when we both reached for the same copy of 'How to tell if they're the one.' We held each others gaze, but had to let go when our palms became sweaty. I told her my name was Gary, which it isn't, I guess I was overcome with emotion, maybe that's why she offered me a tissue? She took my number, I'd forgotten to take off my prison overalls, and said "If we're meant to be together we will meet again." With that she left, the store detective caught her and asked her to either return that to the store or pay for it.

A day later I received a text from her, it read 'Don Quixote', after it had finished that fine novel, it told me that she had transplanted her brain into the body of a cat, and that I should do likewise. I did so, which made working my job as a bus driver almost impossible. They let me go, but luckily when I hit the floor I landed on my feet, perhaps it wasn't so bad being a cat after all.

I roamed the streets looking for her, staring deep into the eyes of every cat I passed, believing that that mystical connection would shine back at me regardless of the form that contained it.

I searched for her for 10 years, unfortunately in cat years that's 57 years, but I found her, she was standing in the very same store where we first met, except this time she was stuffed and mounted advertising a reprint of Breakfast At Tiffanys. I tried to buy a copy, but had forgotten my wallet, and my opposable thumbs.

I sought solace in a bar, Solace wasn't there, but his brother Comfort was. I told Comfort my tale of woe, Comfort said "Woah." I said "No, woe." Comfort said, "I see." I said, "Well it is the winter." Comfort said, "No, I understand." But I don't think he did.

Four months later a year had passed and I was on my death bed, I knew it was pessimistic of me to buy a death bed, but it had a memory foam mattress, ironically though I had started to become more forgetful. As I lay there dying I stained my sheets with all the inks I was using, but the t-shirts sold well amongst the hippy community and I finally made my fortune.

I was interviewed by a fashion magazine and they asked me if I had any regrets, I said my only regret is that I don't have any regrets. They asked me if I could turn back time whether I would? I said no because then all my clocks would be wrong. Finally they asked me where I saw myself in five years, I said I'd be 23 years older.

I can't say I've lived a terrible life, mainly because of my stutter, but, it does make me sad to think that the only girl I ever loved had her pussy stuffed by someone else.

The End

It's not that I haven't been writing, it's just that I forget to put my writing 'out there', well, I wrote this just now, so, enjoy...

The End

When do you first realise you're psychic?  I guess it's something I always knew, or, at least, suspected.  Something would happen that earlier I had anticipated, I'd jokingly say to myself, I must be psychic, but think no more of it.  But, as it happens, I am psychic.

As my awareness of my ability grew my ability improved, and now, here I am, able to see the end of all things I endeavour to do even before I have begun them.

When I meet somebody new I instantly know how our relationship will end, therefore, I wonder, why bother starting anything?

To begin with I was naive enough to imagine that, knowing the outcome, I could change the course of fate, but my prediction anticipates my reaction, and, therefore no matter what alternate course I try to enact it is, in fact, the course I already predicted.  It is impossible for me to achieve anything other than that I have already imagined.  It's like reading the last page of a book, no matter what those pages say inbetween that ending is set in stone, those inevitable words 'The end'.

So, what is the point in continuing along any course if the conclusion is clear before the journey has begun?  I think that I could just ignore the person, forget all about them, but I know that isn't possible, I have seen our future and it is what shall always come to pass.  There is no escaping it.

One can tempt fate, that's the only joy I can find in any of this, that if I meet someone and see the tearful conversation that will draw a curtain on our acquaintance, I see the room it takes place in, the kind of people present, I can then try to find myself in places that do not fit that description and see how fate will engineer it so that I inevitably end up in that place, the place I most avoided.  I could go to the very ends of the Earth if I wanted and still find myself somehow, inexplicably, located in whatever beige coffee shop my perception had pictured.

On the one hand it seems unreasonable, but it has only served to reinforce something we are all ignorantly aware of.  All things must end.  Everything is only temporary.  Each moment is temporary and memories will fade.  Knowing the future is no worse than living to see it.  I can blur out my forethought to some degree, caught up in the distraction of happiness, I, like you, can be joyfully ignorant of the temporariness of it all.  What flimsy lives.

It's a treat, in a morbid way, to see the shock and sadness cross the face of those faced with the inevitable conclusion.  'I'm sorry,' I say, repeating the lines like a bored actor, 'it had to be this way.' 'Why?' they sniff back, their performance seems genuine, they must have convinced themself of the permanence of things.  But the question always stumps me, why indeed?  Could I not defy fate and in that very moment snatch spontaneity back, change my course and create a new future?

I know I couldn't, fate would find a way to bring me back here, to this same conversation, and upon repetition I would be resigned to its force.  All things must end, it will say silently, resoundingly.

There are no new futures, no parallel realities, there is this and only this and the certainity of limitation, of one fate, one beyond our control, one that invariably leads us to these losses, these sad eyed conversations, these defiant hearts that believe in magic.  How wrong we are to hope for anything that lasts.

In some ways, knowing all this, I think I am freer than anyone else, having seen the path, the plan, I can enjoy the journey with a mind utterly unburdened with concern for the tiny, inconsequential details, safe in the knowledge that whatever is present is undaunted until the now becomes the then, we catch up to the future and it all must end.

My abilities continue to grow, it is like walking a step behind a spectre, merely echoing the actions.  There, duplicated in my vision, a never-ending series of replications, each a moment ahead, like holding a mirror to a mirror, and every action I will ever take is predicted before me.  I don't even have to think anymore, I just fill the spaces, and yet those around me laugh and smile and fall in love as if I were taking any effort to be this person, but I am not, I am just fulfilling my destiny, and I am all too aware about how meaningless it will all become.

No longer do I just see my future, I see the future of everyone, the certainty of every action, and life continuing out beyond my own, and the legacy of my life, its ultimate demise, the end of all things, the nothingness beyond, where all echoes end, the blank future, the time when there is nothing left to remember or forget, the greatness of it all, there is no memory, no destiny, no greater meaning, it makes me smile to know that everything we are doing is utterly without purpose, it makes me smile to know I am worthless.

Mrs. Halsey's Journey

Mrs. Halsey had just returned from doing an early morning shop at the twenty four hour supermarket, she thought she'd surprise her husband, Andrew, with breakfast in bed. She arrived home just as the postman was walking away from her door.

'Good morning, Mrs. Halsey,' the postman nodded.

'Lovely day,' Mrs. Halsey replied.

On the doormat were two letters and a postcard. She put the letters aside to admire the picture on the postcard; a cold, icy scene, rich with blue skies. She flipped the thin card over in her shaking hands, and smiled.

Hello Mum!

Things are going great here, the research is coming along wonderfully. Hope all is well with you and Dad. I've met a lovely man here called Yann, I think he could be the one! Looking forward to coming back for Christmas, not too long to wait. Missing you terribly.

Love from Annie.


Mrs. Halsey wiped her eyes, which glistened with eager tears. She pinned the postcard onto the corkboard before filling the kettle and turning on a couple of hobs on the oven. She fried some tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon, sausages, a slice of bread and cooked some beans, popped the post and the day's paper under her arm and carried the two platefuls upstairs on a tray with two steaming mugs of tea balanced carefully alongside the squeezy ketchup bottle.

Andrew was just stirring as she placed the tray down at the foot of the bed; she climbed in next to him and kissed his stubbly cheek. He smiled at her and took the mug of tea that she held out for him, then they rested the tray between the two of them and took their plates. Andrew unfolded the paper beside himself, and glanced at the headlines in-between mouthfuls. Mrs. Halsey picked up the remote control and turned on the television to Good Morning, Great Day, setting the volume low enough so that it wouldn't disturb her husband.

After finishing her meal, Mrs. Halsey stacked her plate underneath her husband's and deposited them, and the tray, on the floor. She picked up the two letters and nestled her back into the pillow. Andrew lifted the paper onto his lap and held it out broadly in front of himself.

The first letter proudly exclaimed that Mrs. Halsey had won a prize in Good Life magazine's £1,000,000 prize draw; all she had to do was send off for subscription and choose her free gift. The food blender looked most tempting to Mrs. Halsey that morning; she'd always enjoyed those fruit smoothies that Annie had bought in the summertime. She put the form to the side and opened the second letter. The paper inside felt expensive and it was headed with a neat little logo emblazoned with the letters B.P.C.

Dear Mrs. Halsey,

We regret to inform you that your existence has been scheduled for nullification. You have twenty four hours in which to inform any friends and/or relatives of your termination. Arrangements have already been made at your place of work for your convenience. If you have any questions regarding the process of your nullification do not hesitate to call our service-line on 44-555-0129.

Regards,

Leonard Brooks

Board of Population Control


Mrs. Halsey sat upright; she had always feared this day since the Population Act was passed, but that fear had been quashed as she'd never known anyone who had been nullified. She wondered if it would hurt. At the foot of the paper was a small note that read:

Mrs. Teresa Halsey - 5th March - 0100 hours.

The 5th was tomorrow, she was pleased these letters were accurately delivered. At least, she imagined, it hadn't become lost in the post. She looked at her husband, now shaking his head as he read the football results, and thought it would be best to show him the letter as opposed to telling him herself.

'Well,' he said after a few minutes contemplation, 'that's a blow.' He put an arm round his wife and rubbed her shoulder slowly, just how she liked. 'Well dear,' he asked, 'what would you like to do today?'

'I think we should go and see Annie.' Teresa replied, 'We should go and see her in Iceland, and meet this new man of hers.'

Andrew kissed his wife on the forehead and got out of bed, he took down a suitcase from on top of the wardrobe and said, 'I'll pack for both of us, you have a nice bath.'

'No need to pack me anything, dear,' Teresa said, 'I'll wear what I've got on.'


After her bath, in which she used some salts she'd saved from two Christmases ago, Teresa went into the front room and took down a small porcelain pot from off of the mantelpiece. Rolled up inside, and folded over into a tiny square, was £500, she put the money into her pocket and met her husband at the foot of the stairs.

'That was quick!' Teresa smiled.

The wait for the cab was awkward, the couple's eagerness to be in motion rendered those fifteen minutes the longest of their life. Andrew, it must be noted, was feeling awkward already, he had never known how to handle his wife in difficult, most probably emotional situations, and had often avoided the matter altogether or just made her a mug of tea. Teresa was feeling oddly calm inside, though her hands were shaking more than usual, she wondered if it had anything to do with the process of nullification, but more so she wondered whether it would hurt.

Finally the cab pulled up outside to take them to the airport, the driver waited with an air of impatience as Andrew struggled to get the suitcase into the boot.

'The airport, please,' Teresa smiled, adjusting a brooch on her jumper.

'Going anywhere nice?' the cab driver asked with a sense of duty.

'Iceland.'

The cab driver had nothing to say on the matter and subtly tried to adjust the volume on the radio so he could hear the football results.


The airport, to which neither Andrew or Teresa had ever been, was a large, flat, white building, that had a sloping art deco design to the facade. It busied with people hauling large suitcases in every direction, they moved at great speeds with expressions of confused determination, and every other second came a clipped voice announcing departures and arrivals and lost luggage and illegally parked cars. They had to ask an almost identical collection of staff members to find the correct ticket desk, but when they did it wasn't long before they had bought their seats.

The small plane that housed their journey was quiet though the flight was full. The stewards went from seat to seat, silently handing out the foil wrapped trays of food, the scolding plastic cups of coffee, and the taut, starched pillows. Teresa rested her head on her husband's shoulder and slept through the flight.

It was three in the afternoon when they arrived; the airport in Reykjavik was plain as well. Teresa had half expected something exotic and magical, an organic airport, but it was the same. The air however had a fresh taste, spiced with the excitement that bubbled under Teresa's skin, her heart stuttered eagerly. Taxis were waiting in a row outside and they made their way to the front most one.

'Mosgerdi, please,' Teresa said taking her seat, keeping the door ajar for Andrew as he battled with the suitcase and the boot.

'English?' the taxi driver asked them as they set off.

'We're from Maidenhead.' Teresa smiled.

'Ah,' he replied with a complete absence of feeling.

'You have your headlights on.' Andrew said.

'Yes.' the taxi driver replied.

Mosgerdi was a street like any other, and the buzzer on the door made the same sound as they do in England. Teresa rubbed her arms as they waited on the step, after a while a man's voice came over the intercom.

'Oui?'

'Hello, this is Teresa, Annie's mum, we...'

Teresa was cut short by the dissonant hum of the door being unlocked electronically; Andrew held it open and hauled the suitcase in afterwards.

The flat was sparsely decorated, a few prints here and there, and one rug made little attempt to cover the rough, wooden floorboards. The man who had answered the door, Yann, smoked on a scruffily rolled cigarette and wore a olive green dressing gown. He took the suitcase from Andrew and put it against the hall wall before directing them towards the lounge.

Annie was slumped on a beige sofa, briefly livened by a hemp throw, her eyes lit up when she saw her mother and she immediately leapt from her lethargic repose to wrap both her arms round her mum as tightly as she could. She flailed her left hand until she managed to catch her dad's shoulder and pull him, awkwardly, into the embrace.

'It's been so long!' Annie grinned.

'Hope this isn't an unpleasant surprise.' Teresa asked.

'Not at all, mum! Don't be silly.' she stepped back from her parents, 'Why did you come here?'

Again, Teresa thought it would be best to let the letter do the talking, but Annie, ever the emotional type, lacked the composure and stoicism that Andrew seemed to possess in spades. For what seemed like hours she nestled onto her mother's lap sobbing helplessly. She soon wouldn't have enough breath for all the tears and found herself gasping desperately, spluttering and choking. Teresa rubbed her daughter's hair and looked at Yann, who stood by the window he had cracked open in order to relieve everyone of his tobacco's dry aroma.

'There, there.' Teresa said, investing the words with an emotion that did nothing to allay their meaninglessness.

'Why?' was all that Annie could bring herself to croak, and she asked it over and over with no reply.

'I thought,' Teresa said, 'we could go down to the river later, and then out for a meal. Wouldn't that be nice?'

'How will they do it?' Annie wheezed, sitting up to paw at her reddened eyes.

'I don't know, 'nie. It didn't say on the letter.'

Annie picked up the now crumpled sheet of paper and stared at it, dreaming that the words would change places; re-write themselves into something less despairing. Teresa stared at the paper and remembered that subscription form she put aside and the blender that caught her fancy, she'd remember to tell Andrew to send off for it before she was nullified. Andrew looked around the room and saw the television set stood innocently in the corner, and wondered if they'd be showing the match here, in this strange country, tomorrow? Yann watched his smoke vanish into the air outside the window.


That evening, after Yann and Annie had changed their clothes, everyone walked down to the river. Annie kept her arm linked tightly round her mother, whilst Yann and Andrew walked silently, side by side, behind them. Afterwards they went to a restaurant and had a nice meal which Teresa insisted upon paying for herself, the waiter was rude and disinterested but Teresa still tipped him with one of her fifty pound notes. Later, when he picked up the cheque tray the waiter would roll his eyes as he would have to go to the foreign exchange in order to use his tip. Once the meal was over they walked back alongside the river.

When they got back to the apartment Teresa tried to stifle her yawns but had to admit that she was feeling very tired. Though Yann went to their bedroom Annie insisted on staying in the front room and drifting to sleep on the pull-out bed next to her mother.

'Mum,' Annie quietly asked, 'are you scared?'

'Of course dear,' Teresa replied.

'Mum,' Annie paused again, 'don't go.'

'I have to.' she said with optimistic resignation.

'Mum,' she began to stammer as her eyes stung with the gathering tears, 'I love you.'

'I love you too, Annie.' she kissed the crown of her daughter's head and looked up at the ceiling, 'Don't you worry your little head.'


The next day, when Annie awoke, just as the sun shone through the window, her mother was no longer in the bed. Her father lay looking at the spot where his wife used to be, his hand reaching out, his legs tucked up against his chest and tears streaming down his face. Annie took her father's hand in hers.

'She went peacefully,' Annie smiled.

Her father nodded.

'She went peacefully,' Annie said again, but this time she knew she was lying.

Mrs. Halsey's Journey was first published in the 2009 Sussex University Write Club Anthology. (c) Owain Paciuszko.