He rode a dying gelding into the camp, dismounted, and shot the horse through its beating eyes. Men stirred in the early morning light, casting pails of filth into the mud and chuckling amongst themselves as they bartered bread for tobacco. They did not react to the gunshot, instead casting hostile eyes at the epaulettes on the man’s shoulders. The Grande Army of Napoleon Bonaparte were used to the unnecessary cruelties of their officers.
Read MoreGarry sat on the curb of the grey pavement, watching the morning traffic. The cars inched slowly along, coughing out exhaust fumes into the cold morning air. Behind him was Planet Organic, just opening up for the day. Next to it was Dunns bakery, releasing the warming scent of freshly baked bread. As Garry sat on that curb he could hear many things. Among them the hum of the cars as they trundled along and the nine tolls of the church bell announcing the hour.
Read MoreSarah was just about to pour herself a glass of water when she noticed the pair of glasses left unfolded on the kitchen table. There was nothing unusual about that; both her parents wore glasses, and her mum had an annoying tendency of leaving them absentmindedly about the house and then asking Sarah or her brother to find them for her at the most inconvenient of times. Normally, she would have just ignored them, but today something seemed off.
Read MoreIt has grown cold here. And dark. I try so hard to tune out my senses, but they always seem to come back, nagging away at me like unanswered prayers.
I am hungry.
I am tired.
I am lonely.
I hear others shuffling around sometimes – muffled grunts of pain and dirtied rags trailing along the floor. It does not matter whose. It does not even matter who is left.
My fire is small, scarcely more than a candle, but I nurture it as though it were the Sun. I dare not add more kindling, though there is nothing else around me but ruins. I do not want the others to see. They will take my tiny flame, try to steal it for themselves, and they will fight and squabble over it until they are simply fighting over ash.
Read MoreMost of the time, he was angry. Two decades - perhaps more if he dwelt on it for too long - he’d worked his way up to this. Research grant secured, carefully curated team on board. And now, he’d lost it all. Through no fault of his, either. perhaps it was his own biology laughing at him for trying to decipher it.
Read More“Write it.”
“I’m…trying…”
Your voice is hoarse and weak. You don’t remember when you last drank. Or ate. Or slept. But adrenaline propels your fingers against the keyboard. You suspect the sun has set, but you daren’t look up and check.
They will be waiting if you do.
“He isn’t going fast enough,” one of them whines, “I’m hungry!”
“We have waited too long. We must be released.”
“He will finish soon.” You feel her icy glare on the back of your neck, and suppress a shudder, “If he knows what is good for him.”
Read MoreIt awoke in the dark heavens between matter and non-existence. A fragile crust of ice on a pulsating metal sphere, hurtling through nothingness. It witnessed the death of light and the birth of galaxies, and felt indifferent to these acts.
I am alone.
Read MoreEven the sound of a microwave oven terrified him. This was why he had avoided microwave cooking for just over a week. All he had to eat in his house was a shoe cupboard full of boxed meals, all of which were, necessarily, microwaveable. How daunting the quantity in which they had accumulated, these microwaveable meals. He had to put one of them in the microwave, and eat it. His ribcage was showing. He was wan and thin, sickly in frame and stare.
Read MoreThey had been a happy family for many years. There was an uncle who lived in a dark cupboard: he didn’t wear clothes anymore and walked about on all fours. His eyes had turned inwards from not needing to see for so long, so when he looked at you there was no iris, only a lens of grey albumen. The only time he saw the sun was on his weekly walk to the playground, leashed: so he couldn’t attack the mothers.
Read MoreYou do not remember what life used to be like. Or rather, you remember it, but it is hazy now, as if you are seeing it through a curtain. Some mornings you wake up and think you can feel seafoam on your skin, waves pushing against your breast. Some mornings you wake up with a smile on your face, but it is not yours. It belongs to some past you, some other you. And you are not her.
Read MoreMessing with the machinations of mortals was fun, until it got you stuck with them in a stolen fishing boat in the middle of the Ionian Sea.
Read MoreHow many hyperactive, irresponsible boys did it take to mess up Rachel Garrett’s immaculate kitchen in five and a half hours? Jessica would say… two. The first being her eleven-year-old twin brother, and the second? Her forty-two year old uncle.
Read More
