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.
Read MoreMother 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.
Read MoreI 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.
Read MoreI 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.
Read MoreI 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.
Read MoreA 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.
Read MoreJasper 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?
Read MoreThe man with a slightly unbalanced pace is back in the room again. Tracy glances to her right, at the
drawer where her belongings are kept, then impatiently lifts her wrist to check the time. This is the
third time she has looked at her watch in the past ten minutes.
Read MoreHe 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.
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