Home

Gather pine needles.

Make a nest. Flock

with feathers, strands

of hair, swaths of cloth.

it’s a constricted sensation deep within my chest

I doubt my ability to name it as it settles —

living and breathing and growing

sickening each lung in turn until oxygen feels liquid and I choke. 

The mud is holy. The house is haunted. The stinging nettle loves the blackberry, as much as any plant can and my therapist says I must ask my parents for the money that is owed me.

I am out with lanterns looking for myself 

amongst thorns, leaves and old bean bags that rot out

behind the shed – look there! My childhood watches

me on my hands and knees, scrounging and bleeding.

My heart has started missing beats

I think the Thing is taking them

from where it mouths the muscle 

with its rigid,

Within my body there is an egg

It is covered in cracks

My grasp weakens again on the merciless rope 

that the crowd ahead of me is tethered to

Plodding to the incessant beat of time that deafens my sensitive ears.

Even when my eyes are closed, I am haunted by yours. 

I ache for sleep and yet you’re still awake, forever in my mind

Looking at me, staring and studying and searching for

Something.

Scanlines on TVs used to pose a technical challenge

Editors would create imperfect images

Then corrected by the technical limitations of a TV

The ghost of the stationmaster is sleeping rough

in the Winding House shell - its arched eyes gape,

the wind surges through him.

Let me in

Clawing at the ribs,

those polished white candlesticks

pretty red tassels decorate.

The train whistle rips his thoughts, taunting 

the papermaker as he leaves the sleek, concrete 

bunker by the sea where he makes his paper now.

Here, nature is tame.

Fences and bushes and well-cut paths.

Nothing like the wild walks of home

I will remain myself, myself always;

these restrictions will not inhabit me,

never in a month of Sundays.

Behind the usual things 

there is something else.

You and I, changed by chance,

late to our own party,

Morning by your side:

Small hand

Grasping my finger.

You messaged me to say:

Have you seen

The students on their surfboards

I get older and learn to give away desire

Hand it off at the charity shop as unwanted junk but

Struggle to pick out something I could keep

May the bird find my opened palm,

Feathered breast thrumming fast.

Imagine you’re barefoot, and the floor is covered in CDs in their cases that you’ve collected ever since your heart broke last. Bossanova, Pink Robots, the Bridget Jones soundtrack;

summer is sinking her teeth into my bones, like I am a rotten fruit in the mandibles of a bug. my peach fuzz skin lies broken open on the sand, the sea breeze slowly cooling my insides.

He grasped the picture tightly to his chest, a tear trickling down his cheek. A sharp wind prickled the tips of his ears, turning the end of his nose a soft crimson. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he jumped off the wall, kicking a rock across the sand. Ahead of him, the tide moved in a constant rhythm, moving backwards and forwards.

I put my pencil down and hastily washed away the graphite from my hands. It was their anniversary in 2 days, and the drawing was supposed to be a surprise. So I thought, naïvely: There’s always tomorrow, I guess. 

I looked at the peeling paint on my ceiling, a faded mural of flowers mom had done when I was little. I pressed my head into her chest so I could hear her heartbeat, and tried to imagine who she could have been. 

It was a seductive fragrance that gently wrapped me in its spell.

Since I was little, I had earned the reputation of being a child with a big imagination.

The day, far buried in the past, which started - and ended - everything. They remember the pain that followed in the days and years afterward, the pain that still rolls through on the first day of spring and cold winter mornings and September nights spent on park benches.

A Woman writes on Paper. That Paper rests on a Board. She writes a Poem.

In her inscription, she articulates her hatred for the Moon.

Soon the stage would fill, Kathleen thought, soon the lights would change and with this change of light the tables would turn. The watchers would be plunged into silent darkness, taciturn anonymity, and the authoritative, organised, silencing cacophony of the opening overture would reign in the hall. 

I need to be alone. I need to be on my own with my ghosts. I can feel them around me now, shifting among the streetlights, dancing across the faces of deserted windows. I can hear them whispering too, confirming half-truths that I am desperate not to believe. 

Though there is a funny thing about a life as quiet as this. You realize that the silence has its own little sounds that it keeps to itself, but is willing to share with those who listen. Like a sound such as you.

“I was told that I could find something of value here.”

“I see.”

“Was I deceived?”

“Arthur wanted to say he’d miss sunrise runs and playing her favourite songs on the piano. The way her nose crinkled when he offered her peanut butter, and the sound she made when he beat her at tennis for the first time. The crack on her front tooth.” 

TW: Blood, Death

My first order of business is to make a sandwich. After asking Freddy what he wants for lunch, I make my way to the kitchen with a new goal in mind. It is my preferred activity to fixing the radiator, the first of two  tasks my parents entrusted me with earlier today. I was made aware of a screw that was bulging out of the radiator, which could cut the skin or catch the clothes of whoever passed it, but that isn’t my priority.

This is it. The sailors gather around you, some jealous, some admiring, some fearful. Only a few have gone down in the bathysphere, but never to the depths you’re going. You can only hope the bathysphere is as infallible against the ocean as it is on blueprints. The captain salutes you and reminds you of your orders. When you hit 500 fathoms, you’re to observe any geological abnormalities as predicted from the unusual currents that emanate here.

Some expect you to give a final speech before you descend. Perhaps a thanks to the crew or a witty remark. Any final wishes if something goes wrong. A last chance to repent your sins. You offer nothing. Instead, you climb into the bathysphere, giving the crew a thumbs-up through the observation window. The hatch locks. You ready yourself as you’re hoisted above the ocean, deep and murky, and are dropped in.

Your breathing increases as choppy waves slosh against, and eventually over, the bathysphere. You feel like an acorn, dangling on a string, waiting to be cracked.

The lights switched on with a dull buzzing noise, the meeting room awake with their fluorescent glow. Six employees filed in, walking towards the central table. They sat upright in their chairs like a set of matching graphite pencils, ready to underline the importance of finance in a dying world.  

The director walked in last, the door clicking shut as he sat at the head of the table. He shuffled his papers as he looked around the room like he wanted to organise his employees into a neat stack as well.  

“All right, let’s make a start,” he cleared his throat, “it has come to our attention that  DMB, the firm’s biggest competitor, are being praised for their sustainability in becoming a  paperless office.”  

Shock rippled across the employees in a wave of grey. “So as director of marketing, I wanted to take a deep dive into how we too can be a ‘sustainable’ company. Does anyone  have anything they’d like to contribute?”  

West Sands Beach, St Andrews.  

The sky, sublime, is blanketed with heavy, dark clouds rolling out to meet the water, as cruel and cold as it is. The sand is littered with as much debris as the last time, shells and seaweed discarded everywhere, rejected by the sea. 

I was with you when I was here last. You pocketed the seashells you thought most beautiful, to give to me before I left – though you forgot to give them to me. When I did leave, their absence in my pocket only twisted the knife that was my absence in your arms. You’re absent today, too. It’s been a long time since I loved you. 

You’re sitting on an armchair, a mug of tea beside you, your child on your lap. She’s holding a book. She keeps asking where you got it from. You don’t recognise it.

Before you, a blank expanse stretches out, bleak and never ending. There’s nothing in sight that can jog your memory, because there’s nothing in sight. At all. It’s just empty and barren, devoid of anything whatsoever, just you and nothing, just you in nothing, and if you’re the only thing left doesn’t that make you nothing, too?

‘Dad?’ She’s looking at you with big eyes, waiting. As you turn to look at her, you notice something at your side. Something that can make the nothing go away.

Did you know that all these stars are dead? Isn’t that amazing – that they can shine for so long after they’re gone? And what came before them? What do the stars look up to? 

I thought about that for a long while, my gaze searching. In the distance, a bonfire was spitting tongues of smoke into the dusky blue, its warm breath gusting over us. You gripped my hand a little tighter, and that warmth was bone deep. I figured then that it wasn’t so strange at all for stars to shine for so long; you’ll be smiling down at me forever.

Perfect 

  /ˈpəːfɪkt/ 

Having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be. 

‘What does red feel like?’ she wondered. ‘White is light. Grey is thin. Blue is closeness. Black is there, all around my naked self.’ 

But she had never felt the colour red.

Life is exhausting.

That was all she could think as she paced along the desolate seafront, the wind and rain at her back, the steady hum of nature disturbed only by distant groups of drunk men shouting nonsense to each other. The late autumn night was as peaceful as it was distracting, both allowing her to relax and find comfort, and offering enough background noise to block out all the emotions she was too scared to feel, let alone express. She knew this wasn’t the safest place to be, but at least it wasn’t there. Being there was too much right now. 

Russet apples were the jewels of my grandfather’s garden. They came in the autumn and left him poor in the winter – a feeble caretaker of hollow timber. My grandfather was a jovial man, as men often are when they grow old and bury their wits. He would mumble and grumble with the airs and graces of an inventor or a prophet, despite inexperience in either profession. There was wisdom to him though – wisdom that comes from dead acquaintances that whisper memories in his ear and goad his tongue to flick and click and speak truths. He would look upon us with eyes that were not his own and stone us with old wives’ tales and stoic idioms.

The house, now empty, holds its hill in wait. Its garden rises too unevenly – a broken mower lies there, rusting well – and shaggy grass obscures the earthen scalp. A pathway reaches down, parting the weeds, and from the pavement points to the eager door. It’s red. The walls are white. Their paint-pores drip with rain.

We hide, clutching each other in the dark. The sounds of men on the other side of the door cause us to shake and hide our faces in each other’s dresses. The ground is cold and hard, my position uncomfortable, but I cannot move. One of my sisters leans on me and I hold her tight, both for her and for myself. Her body is warm and soft, reminding me of the nights we would lie with the others, talking until Selene in all her beauty has crossed more than half the sky. 

Mother was leaving again, as she always did when the lights in the house were switched off early. It meant that Mother and Father weren’t talking and that the child was awake in her bed when she heard the soft creak of the floorboards beneath Mother’s feet. As her bedroom door was eased open, she stepped toward her, leaning down to whisper a soft goodbye. The child lay still, her eyes remaining closed. 

Mother had left three times before she learned to stay awake, to fill the hours waiting for her inevitable goodbye with the plastic stars scattered across her ceiling. She’d watch them until their shapes blurred and stretched, distant figures swirling into a silent dance made for her tired eyes alone. Sometimes she longed to pull them down, loosen their hold on the ceiling so she could watch them from the palm of her hand. They swayed to the rhythm of her thoughts, a constant hum of Mother always returned. Even if she never said it outright.

I was sick when I stole Dad’s headache medicine. I’d had the Thursday and Friday off with a fever but now that it was Monday, Dad had suggested I was fine to go back to school. Mum had nodded, finishing a bottle of wine.

I used to be a much more troubled man than I am now. Not that I’ve got it all sorted. But it was only three years ago that I let such a good thing fall apart, and everything had to be built back up from scratch.

It was the week after I’d spiralled again, except that time I really didn’t go back. Instead I’d found this place not too far out from work, and they were letting me stay for pennies. Oakwood Apartments was the name. It’s funny how they decided on that. I’m sure the whole thing came out the arse end of a cement mixer.

I often dream of killing my father. Not always in the most sensible way. Sometimes he stands there as I drive a knife through his neck. He doesn’t move, but he does scream. And I cry when he dies in my arms. I tell him I’m sorry. I ask for his forgiveness, but he never says a word. Sometimes he is already dead, a simple concept I am stuck trying to bring back to life in one way or another. Either through making a deal with the devil or pouring him into a mould, trying to shape him back into being. I always fail. And though I cry and apologise, he’s not there to listen. He’s dead. I call out to the heavens, full of anger and hate. I beg for them to give him back, but in a dream there is no one but myself to listen.

A drop of sweat fell against his cracked lips—lacing them with the barest hint of pain and taste of salt. Or perhaps it had been some stray droplet from the sea. It didn’t matter to him, as his eyelids began to flutter shut. In his drunken stupor, he thought he saw shadows moving below the surface.

Jasper was finding it hard to tell illusion from reality.

Some things were easier than others. The dog definitely didn’t have twenty-two tails, and the sofa didn’t grow wings and flap around the room every evening. And of course, the microwave didn’t have a mouth, so how could it talk to him?

INT. BATHROOM - DAY 

A small family bathroom. Grey light from the narrow window highlights the clutter of bottles and toothbrushes arranged on the bath ledge and sink. 

GEMMA (10 years old) sits on the floor, her back against the door. She wears a jumper and leggings. 

She holds a battered smartphone close to her face.  

She’s watching a video tutorial showing a variety of ballet positions. 

GEMMA’s eyes move across the screen, taking in the movement. 

The ballerina in the video demonstrates a Développé Croisé Devant. 

KATHERINE:

(slowly walks away from the crib and picks up a wine glass):

I hate the word perfect. I don’t know why, but there’s something about it that makes my insides ache. And I especially hate it when you add ‘family’ to the end of it. The ‘perfect’ family. People automatically assume that if you live in a nice house, have a stable and well-earning job, are happily married to a man and have two children, one son and one daughter, you represent the ‘perfect family’. But what if having all that isn’t what you’d call a ‘perfect’ family? What if, truthfully, the thought of having all of that makes your skin crawl? 

INT. - BEDROOM - DAY 

An almost emptied bedroom: a bare mattress on a simple wooden frame, a wooden chest of drawers next to it and a mirror on top of it. MILES, 18, tall, scrawny, in a baggy shirt and trousers, is folding clothes into a big suitcase. 

JANE

It’s great, thank you. 

Jane picks up her backpack from the floor and puts the keychain on the zipper, alongside another one Sofia has given her. They are the exact same.

SOFIA

Oh. I didn’t realize I’d already given you one.

JANE

Doesn’t matter. This way I have a spare. 

SOFIA

Right. I’ll get you a plushy next time.

ALISON

Is he okay? 

GARY

He’s quite upset but as far as we can tell, he’s alright, yeah.  

ALISON

He said there was someone in the house?

GARY

Yes, we had a look, we can’t see anyone, or any signs of forced entry. 

ALISON

Okay, good. He suffers from dementia so I–

GARY

Yeah, we thought so. That’s the closest Lucy’s been able to get to him - he flinches when we touch him. 

BRIAN

The dead drop is in the peacock’s nest…

BRIAN winks badly. HECTOR seems confused.

BRIAN

I’ll cause interference, giving you approximately three minutes to pick up the package and exit the establishment as planned. Make sure you’re back for bingo at 5pm sharp matey. Oh, and tell Jane that I miss her choux pastries.

HECTOR nods and checks his watch. 

HECTOR

I will. Thank you so much chap. Just one quick question on the whole operation –

BRIAN

Of course.

HECTOR

What kind of distraction have you got planned this year? Are you going for the classic?

BRIAN chuckles.

BRIAN 

I think the paramedics might catch on. Don’t you worry Hector; I’ve cooked up something brilliant! 

The oil sizzles in the wok as VANESSA (45) gives it a hearty shake. They both laugh as EMILY (20) rushes over with the clean rice and pours it into a saucepan of boiling water. 

EMILY 

I wouldn’t call that dancing, mum. Here try something like…

EMILY pushes herself away from the stove, elegantly spinning, and dipping into a pirouette. She unbalances with a squeal and grabs VANESSA for support. 

VANESSA

I see all those ballet lesson paid off, didn’t they?

EMILY (20) pauses to answer the question, her lips pursing. 

EMILY

Yeah, I suppose they did.

GEORGE

You smoke now?

SAMANTHA

Only on special occasions.

GEORGE

What’s so special about today?

SAMANTHA

I bumped into you, of course.

GEORGE

How cute. If I buy you a drink, will you stop lying to me?

JOSH

I wanted to give a speech today.

HARRY

Yeah?

HARRY is staring at the cigarette.

JOSH

I had one written down. I was going to give it, but...

JOSH flicks the ash off his cigarette.

JOSH (CONT’D)

I couldn’t do it. I just wanted to give Dad a proper send-off, but... Fucking coward. I couldn’t do it.

JOSH stamps his cigarette out. HARRY looks at it, crushed on the floor.

RHYS: Give me a dare. Go on. Anything, I’ll do it. 

JAMIE: Anything? 

RHYS: Yeah. 

EMMET stands looking unsure, JAMIE looks around and focuses his attention on the houses around them.  

JAMIE: Alright. Dare you to hop the fence behind you and bang on one of those windows. 

RHYS: Which one? 

The boys look toward the houses through gaps in the wooden fencing. JAMIE points to one in particular: an unkempt looking house with yellowing England flags and draped inside the windows.  

JAMIE: That one. 

RHYS: Easy. 

CARL

You've never been disappointed? 

GABRIEL

No. I guess it's because I've never hoped. 

There is no reply. He walks back into the centre of the room. As he looks around the cabin he catches sight of his reflection in the large mirror. He flinches.

He walks towards it, confused and afraid. Reflected in the mirror is not his own image, but that of the man. John moves his head slowly from side to side and the reflection follows this movement.

MAN(REFLECTION)

Of course I’m here.

Kira
Being so far out in nature, it really makes you think.

Finley
(not paying much attention, has his eyes closed)
Oh yeah? How so?

Kira
(glances down at him, nervous)
Well, summer is almost over. Some of the leaves are falling already. You can't help but wonder how much longer we're all gonna be here.

1 INT. EDITH’S LIVING ROOM - EVENING 1

A ring tone plays as a conference call loads. The call connects.

EDITH (77) is too close to the camera. She has her ear to it as though she is taking a telephone call.

EDITH

Hello?

SKYE

Hello, Edith.

EDITH

Hello? Who is it?

SKYE

Edith, you’ve got to move back, love. It’s a video call. Look at the screen.