Contents

 

 

Lonely Stories

 

An Anthology of Short Tales

 

By Xavier St. John

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For those who know I couldn’t have done this without them

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contents

 

One - The Beast 

Two - The Ballet Dancer 

Three - Date 

Four - Kevin and Cthulhu 

Five - The Trek 

Six - Palace 

Seven - The Companion 

Eight - Revolution 

Nine - The King’s Men 

Ten - Betrayal 

Eleven - President 

Twelve - Singing in The Rain 

Thirteen- Heaven Sent 

Fourteen - Hell Bent 

Fifteen - A Starry Night 

The Beast

 

 

 

The Beast

 

The cliff was full of crags and outcrops. These juts of solid rock made the footpath up it as treacherous as the winds that swept the broken twigs off of it, and fitted in with the colour of the hill – black. I looked up at the place I used to love, the old mansion sitting atop the mountain, and looked back down at the dusty path in front of me, constantly being peppered with the dark splodges of rain. Even the sea seemed shadowy by the cliff edge, a swirling pit of lurking beings and the volcanic sands were the colour of dried blood. I never remembered it to be like this. The sea always seemed beautifully tranquil whenever I looked out of the window in the mornings, coffee in hand and the smell of eggs and bacon in the kitchen. Now, it was an angry ocean. I climbed up the first length of steep path, constantly thinking of the shouts at me when I walked along the beach. Screams of warnings, obscenely foul words shot at me concerning my destination, children crying after their parents took them hurriedly away from the man who used to live up there, ‘the Mansion’s Madman.’ I didn’t understand why the fear of the mountain made everyone afraid of the home on it. I grew up there, it was an incredible place. My footing slipped, I found myself tumbling back down the steep incline of a path I had spent the last.... I wasn’t sure how long it had taken. How could I not know? This was not the place for wishful memories, the cliff seemed resentful to visitors. I returned to my climb, careful to stop my head wandering again. It might just get me killed if I thought too much. Anyway, thinking about past memories is not what I came to do. Getting to the top, on the other hand, is my priority for the time being. The rain hadn’t stopped. Everything was wet, and cold, but still rough, like it was actively hurting me. This wasn’t the friendly childhood home I missed. I stood atop the cliff, raw hands and emotions, watching the waves crash and drag the sand back into its pit. The sand almost sounded human as it wailed against of rocks, inevitably succumbing to the tug of the ocean.

Turning back, I stepped around one of the boulders that greeted me like a doorman and saw the lights were on. Whoever lives there now must be in, or just wasting light for the fun of it. I started walking, and suddenly realised my leg throbbed from the fall earlier. No matter, I can go slower, there is no rush to burst in on them. Maybe a lot slower. I didn’t realise it was that bad. I loped back behind the boulder again, and looked at the floor behind me. Blood was streaming down to my rear, creating a river of red, and mixing with the muddy puddle to form a gruesome concoction. To my dismay, the pool was running off the cliff, pulling the sickly colour across the dark rocks. The rain should clean the ragged edge. The grass was wilting under the torrent of water, and mud caked everything. The lights were looking more appealing by the second. For a second time, I manoeuvred around the boulder. The wind pulled at the trunks of the trees. I watched as the doorway seemed to stretch away from me, further with each step. The storm was loud. My feet were hitting the ground with a resounding thump, resonating through the mud. The lightning flashed above. The lights glimmered, and through the window I could see the chandelier. The waves crashed against the sand. I lurched into the window ledge, peering through the window to see nobody in the room – my vision tilted, spinning.... The rain hammered against the floor, and then after a minute of spattering, relented and stopped.

I woke up. It was still night, but the rain had stopped and the storm must have moved on. I didn’t remember lying down or sleeping, and realised where I was. The mansion. I pulled myself up, grabbing the window ledge, and went to the door. I saw it was slightly open, letting light flood from the house to the dark I found myself in. Entering the hallway, I turned to my left, into the room with the chandelier, and saw a set of stairs leading away in the corner. Careful not to touch the table, I followed the beckoning of the stairs. Ascending, I found myself on a balcony around a central dinner hall, overlooking a family eating dinner in a room lit by another glass chandelier and candles. The smell of roasted chicken and buttered potatoes filled my nostrils, and I found my tongue lolling, even dribbling a little. It smelt like perfect food. Suddenly, the boy at the end looked up, and screamed. His sister, next to him, followed his eye line upwards to the balcony, and knocked her chair backwards.

The room descended into chaos. Screams of a monster, lights popped, the boy crying, parents rushing out of rooms. Panicking, I limped with them, diving into a room and slamming the door behind as a jerk of pain shot up my leg. I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs, a broken child yelling about a beast to his mother, with her desperately trying to calm him down.

“Please mummy, don’t let the beast find me. It was here mummy! Please mummy, please oh please oh please oh please....” The child was a wreck, blubbering against the oak door I was jamming shut with my back against it.

“We need to get out of her darling. Please stop crying, PLEASE! It can hear you. Please, just stop...” The mother trailed off. I looked out of the window to see the daughter and the father running, with wide eyes pleading at me, screaming for everyone still inside to get out. I talked softly through the door, ‘You don’t know who I am, and I can’t explain now, but please just let me out of here.’ I heard another lightbulb pop outside, and the son and mother screamed as the shroud of darkness descended on them.

 

I heard footsteps on the stairs, sliding, desperate to get down, and the slam of a door with the mother and son running for their lives. It was just me left here now. Me and the boy’s beast. I sat, crying, against the door, with no idea how to get out of here without dying. The fall was too far from the window. And the monster will reach me, especially with my leg in the state of disrepair. I pulled the bed across the doorway to block it, and sat in the far corner. I pulled a blanket off a mirror to sit under and await death, and caught my reflection.

A monster stared back at me. With a cut on his leg.

 

 

 

The Ballet Dancer

 

The Ballet Dancer 

 

This was it. I looked up at the looming curtain, its red folds beckoning me closer. Brushing one of the many folds across my body, I opened a small gap, revealing the bright lights of the stage. I glanced at the audience. None of them were looking. They were all too busy talking, proud mothers boasting about their angelic daughters, competing for the verbal victory as they interrupted each other with stronger and increasingly obscure achievements their angels had won. As my single eye brushed over the faces, a smiling grandma caught my stare and her face dropped as though she had been hit by a spade. Quickly, I darted back behind the crimson barrier, my heart pounding out of my chest. Everybody else behind the curtain was lining up, their perfectly balanced tutus hanging gracefully from their waist as they stood there silently in their pearly slippers – It was now or never. 

I remember my first lesson. I was a late starter, so was a few years behind all the other ballerinas. Most had been training since they were 3 or 4, their parents hoping desperately that with enough tireless practice and eloquent dresses that their little girls would blossom into Prima Ballerinas. The walk to the studio was not the most calming; it was 3 miles of being dragged along by my mother in the downpour of the century, across 2 playing fields and past a decaying oak tree. Subsequently, by the time I had arrived my shoes were caked with mud and tangled in my hair were knotted clumps of leaves. Thrusting the door open, my mother gave me a last small smile before lightly pushing me across the boundary, into the studio. The only way to describe it? White. The walls, the floor, the pristine ballerinas slipping on their delicate ballet slippers: all of it the colour of an eagle’s feather. After the door slammed shut behind me, I was greeted with stares as dozens of eyes tracked me as I made my way along the edge of the room, trying to keep my muddy feet from touching the central space, the dancing plateau I supposed. I skirted towards a tall and elegant lady, who I assumed was in charge, and lightly tapped her on the back. As she turned, I saw her face contort into a gasp, but quickly turn to a smile. Not a proper smile, mind, one of those pretend smiles that you wear for the other person’s benefit, but a smile nonetheless. She greeted me, sizing me up as she strode off to find clothes that fitted my large frame. As the other girls watched, the lady quickly returned, announcing with a flourish that I would be the newest member to the ensemble. A single, loud, piercing gasp filled the air, quickly shut off by the person from whom it had escaped. From that point on, for the rest of the lesson, the only person who looked at me was the tall lady, still flaunting that fake smile she had forced herself to wear the moment she saw me. 

Time passed, and slowly the troupe began to notice that I was there with them. Even though I was always last to be picked when joint exercises were conducted, the fact I was picked at all gave me a small solace. As they bloomed into strong and graceful dancers, I began to sprout, the rods that once hung at my sides slowly becoming malleable enough to move and bend when I was dancing. Of course, I was nothing compared to the others, just a blade of grass whistling in the breeze as they strutted past like flamingos. 3 years after my first session, as I performed alongside the 8-year olds, the instructor slowly began to evolve. That smile, the quiet smile that was devoid of any actual emotion, had shed away to reveal a vibrant face, full of happiness and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. With each pirouette, each jump or even step I took onto the white, I was greeted with a proper, real smile. Although it did still rain occasionally on the way to the lessons, I never seemed to get muddy – I was untouchable, a ballet dancer that the old playing fields didn’t affect any more. Besides, the oak had died long ago, it was merely a stump that I could stand on now. We weren’t allowed to do any proper shows until we were all over 10, or in my case until I was 13 (something about child protection) but that didn’t bother me. If anything, it gave me more time to hone my skills, to perfect the split jumps and the dreaded tip-toe staggers (you don’t know pain until you’ve tried them).  

However, by the time I was 13 I had entered the terrible years of secondary school. It was a playground of cannabis, alcohol and idiots, to put it bluntly.  And bullies. A lot of bullies. When word got around that I was dancing, I was mocked, food was knocked out of my hands and I was locked outside my form room in the rain as my so-called friends watched and laughed through the window. But when people found out it was ballet? Well, I’ll let your imagination wander. Put it this way, it wasn’t fun. However, although my fear stemmed from the dancing, it was also my release. I could let go of everything when I was in that studio, it was my safe haven. So, I continued. I sucked up the abuse and kept going, rehearsing over and over and over until finally, the announcement was made. The smiling lady sat us all down and told us we were booked into our first ever show – open to the public. Anybody and everybody could come and watch. As cliché as it sounds, my stomach filled with butterflies and my heart exploded, and for the rest of that day I struggled to wipe that glowing smile from my face. 

The curtain dropped to reveal us, and we darted across the stage in silence. The audience stopped. They stopped everything. Talking, smiling, blinking – they just stared, directly at me. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, my ears heating up like roaring fires, but I just smiled weakly at my instructor, who gave me one of her real smiles back, a proud smile. As jaws hung loose and eyes boggled at me, I smiled a little stronger – after all, it’s not every day a boy can captivate an audience like this. 

 

Date

 

 Date 

 

Tonight’s the night. I'd seen pictures of him online, and he looked vaguely interesting - normal, but just about different enough to recognise in a crowd. I'd been told to meet him in a pub, about a 20 minute walk away from my place. It was a bit far, but apparently it was one of his favourite haunts. My eyes panned across my wardrobe, searching for that special something - understated, but still stylish. An hour slipped by whilst I jammed myself into tighter and tighter clothes until I finally settled on a dress - black and flowing, all mysterious. Hopefully he'll like it. 

I locked up my flat, turned, and faced the stairs. My stilettos clicked along the concrete bricks below me as I walked away from my front door. The first step down the stairs is always perilous - I gingerly lowered my tiptoe onto the step, and carefully aimed the sharp heel to prevent me tumbling. I'd made it. I hoped down the rest of the steps with grace, nimbly leaping from the third step to the floor in one smooth motion, landing perfectly on tiptoe. Swanning out of the building, I smiled at the old lady in the lobby. She winked back, sending a silent 'good luck' to me for my evening endeavor. 

The night was beautiful; there's something magical about a slight cold wind on a dark evening, with all the stars smiling down on you from above. I almost wanted to just stay and walk around London for a while, but I didn't get dressed up for nothing. The bar was in sight. A small flock of butterflies erupted from the very bottom of my stomach, swarming upwards and multiplying by the second. I took a deep breath and walked up towards the front windows. The smell of alcohol instantly assaulted my nose, almost sending me reeling across the road. As I stepped closer, drunken laughter tumbled into the street as the patrons chugged their drinks. The glare spilled from the windows onto the cobbles in front of me, illuminating the old, mossy stones slicked with the rain from earlier. The doorway was sitting there, waiting patiently. Tonight's the night. 

I stepped across the threshold and onto the rough, matted doormat. It was made from coarse fibers that clung to your every step, some kind of animal hair, and was emblazoned with the word 'WELCOME' in block writing. As I made my first steps across the mat, my left foot caught in a loop of the fiber. I stumbled, barely keeping my balance as my foot slipped into its side - SNAP. I looked down, and saw the slender spike of the stiletto caught in the mat, with a jagged tip where it had snapped off my shoe as I tripped. Flushing red, I quickly bent down and picked the stiletto up. I couldn't walk with just one. Slipping both my shoes off, I left them by the doorway and made my way inside the bar barefoot.  

My eyes panned from left to right, searching for his face. He was sitting at a table littered with empty glasses, guffawing as he drank another pint of beer. He was maybe 10 metres away. I began confidently strolling over. He still hasn't noticed me. I shifted my stiletto in hand as I walked the last few metres towards his table. He looked up, his eyes partially glazed over and a permanent drunken smile filling his face. I locked eyes.  then walked past him, I circled the back of his chair.  

I plunged the stiletto shard into his neck. 

In one swift motion the shard slipped back out of his neck as I continued walking back towards the doorway. He sputtered in shock behind me. He garbled something, unintelligible words spilling from his mouth, but it was lost in the sea of noise at the bar. His table groaned as he tried to force his way up out of his seat. I reached down, picked up my shoes, and stood at the doorway. I glanced over, watching him struggle to his feet with his dying breaths. His eyes were filled with terror as he clutched his neck, the wound throbbing with blood, and he collapsed onto the floor. 

As I entered the lobby, I saw the old lady standing beside the stairs. Smiling, I showed her the shard of stiletto soaked in blood. She toothlessly grinned back, and as I walked past pressed a photo into my hand. The man in the photo was kind-of cute. He'd be even more fun to deal with tomorrow. 

Kevin and Cthulhu

 

 

 

Kevin and Cthulhu

 

It had been a long day, like every other. Boring, but Susie was back after her recent illness so at least there was one upside. Plus, tomorrow was the trip day – marine biology at its best, out in the field and potentially discovering new life. Cold winds, chapped lips and a tiny tugboat – I can’t wait. The clock ticked away in the corner of the lab, counting the seconds until 4:00 and the subsequent rush of tired, overqualified technicians desperate to get home to their pot noodles or their families, or sometimes both. Working on weekends was looked down on, but she worked them too, and, especially on a such a cold day out, this could be my chance of a lifetime!

Silence dropped like a mist. All focus was on the clock. The second hand was nearing the peak, slipping closer each moment. Glancing backwards, Susie was zeroed in on the clock like a sniper until she noticed me and flashed a quick smile. I turned away faster than lightning; warmth rushed through my face as I reddened and refocused on the clock. 10 more seconds. 9. 8. 7. I hadn’t actually checked if Susie was on the boat tomorrow with me. 5. 4. She probably would be. Hopefully. I should have asked. I should have asked! The last second slipped away. As the room erupted with the scraping of chairs and scramble towards the door, I turned and dived to my left, dodging the chairs strewn away from their desks in the frantic rush. Susie was taken by the tide of people, swept towards the door. I tried to push through, met with frowns and shoves - there seemed to be an endless barricade of sweaty old men between me and her. I would never get through. Dejectedly, I watched her get dragged through the doorway with the herd, the final slam of the door heralding the end of the stampede. I was alone in the room. Susie had better be on that boat tomorrow.

The alarm buzzed rhythmically on the bedside table, which had been nudged so it rested against the leg of the bed. This caused my entire body to shake as I lay atop my sheets which were now vibrating with the force of an exploding volcano. Not only did this convince the neighbors once and for all that me and that pizza girl had something going on (we didn’t) it also convinced me for a brief moment that the end was nigh (it wasn’t). Smacking blindly to my right, I stabbed myself with a drawing pin before finally thumping the off button. Opening one eye, I read 6:00 in orange, neon numbers before checking to see the damage to my hand. The pin was embedded in my palm, a blue monument jutting out of a red sea. I jumped out of bed as some blood dripped onto my sheets – that’s going to be hell to wash out. Still half-asleep, I ripped the pin out of my hand, allowing a geyser of blood to erupt. Frantically sucking the wound, my eyes darted around the room as I searched for plasters – there were none. Great!

The docks were busier than I thought they would be. Even at 8 o'clock on a Saturday, they had the hustle and bustle of a shopping mall as crates of fish swept past, leaving a stench that choked the air behind them. I could see the little red tug, its new paint glimmering in the early morning sun, yet there was no Susie. Not even any other biologists. As I walked further towards the boat, a stack of lopsided wooden pallets became visible. Upon closer inspection, the pallets were also snoring. An old shoe stuck out from the corner behind the pallets. Slowly, I made my way round to discover a happily drunk man sitting in those shoes and a pile of vomit, fast asleep as the fishermen were running forwards and backwards around him, hoisting their cargo and singing and laughing. Must be blissful to be that oblivious. Shaking the man awake, I knelt down to try and support him as he tipped over sideways and faceplanted into the vomit, which of course splattered. All over me.

After a few hugs and a small conversation, the man was on his feet and stumbling around the docks. Swaying like a pendulum, he lurched into the side of the crimson tug and dragged himself along the handrail until he got to the boarding plank. That was when it hit me; this was the man who would be keeping me safe at sea.

This day gets better and better.

Once upright and aboard his boat, the captain smiled at me and beckoned me up with a wobbling finger and a grin. No sooner had I stepped aboard, my vision suddenly turned yellow - I grabbed at my face and clawed at the damp cloth, muttered a thankyou to the captain and made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the sick from my nice trousers I was wearing in hope of impressing Susie – who still wasn’t here. I followed the drunk up the stairs and into the cockpit of the tug, which had more dials than you could count and twice as many levers. How anyone could control this, no less the drunk man I had found sleeping in his vomit 15 minutes ago, I had no idea. Brandishing a clipboard, the man swirled around melodramatically, slipping slightly as he did so and overbalancing onto his control panel with a crunch. He recovered, cleared his throat and asked:

“Kevin?”,

to which I replied

“Present.”

“Good, we can get going quickly then.” My head swam with confusion, then filled with worry and finally hit with the gut-punch of realization:

“It’s just me?”

The captain nodded, smiled and tottered back out of the cockpit. I was alone. Again.

The beginning of the trip was largely unremarkable. A few gusts or wind and a light shower greeted us as we sailed out of the docks, but even the weather seemed to be avoiding this incredibly boring excursion. If only Susie was here! She's probably having a much better time than me, probably sleeping or eating pancakes or something better than this. Our destination, should we reach it before death from boredom, was the middle of the Channel. This was the furthest point from land, so theoretically there should be a plethora of marine life waiting for us – theoretically. I turned to watch the captain drain the final drops from his bottle, glancing at the land slipping away behind us as we headed into the depths.

“Kevin! You got a camera on you?” yelled the captain. Brandishing my Nikon, I jogged across the deck, trying to guess what it might be. A school of fish? A very lost dolphin? Maybe even a jellyfish if we’re really lucky? Leaning over the side and following the pointing of the captain, I stared into the murky sea, searching for some life – there was nothing. The only thing that really stood out was a strange rod protruding from the water, half-rotted and green with algae.

“that, my friend, is a shipwreck.”

The captain did his best to hold the ship at its position – no anchor was long enough to reach the seabed here. Quickly rifling through the navigational charts, I finally found the area we were in. We were almost at the dead centre of the Channel. The map also marked the routes of ferries to prevent any collision between small boats like ours and the supermassive people carriers. Peculiarly, the routes all seemed to bend around this point, snaking away and then back again like tracing the outline of a circle with us at the centre. Checking the shipwreck catalogue (yes, there really is a shipwreck catalogue), there was nothing marked here at all, in fact a distinct lack of shipwrecks compared to the other sections of the sea. I went back up on deck to find the captain steering in very slow donuts around the post, churning the water into a frothy storm around us. I showed the captain the charts, and he brought the boat to a sudden halt.

“Kevin, this doesn’t make any sense. The shipwreck isn’t on the maps.” he said.

“Maybe the maps are out of date?”. The captain shook his head, flipping the map over to its front and pointing at the sticker.

“The map was made this year,” the captain murmured. His eyes widened, and he ran to the cockpit.

“Wait!” I shouted, chasing him over the soggy wooden boards and up the stairs. Shouldering the door to the cockpit, I found the captain, desperately flicking levers and pressing buttons in a frenzy.

“It’s too deep to weigh anchor,” said the captain with wide eyes and shaking hands clutching the ignition.

“So?”

“A shipwreck sinks to the bottom of the seabed. Why can we see this one?”

“oh.” I stuttered. My second realization of the day smacked me square in the face.

“Something is holding it up...”

I looked out to the mast, poking up from the deeps as white foam crashed over it aggressively as though the ocean itself was enraged.

I turned to the captain and asked him quietly,

“We’ve stopped, right? We aren’t moving, our propeller isn’t turning?”

He nodded.

“So why is the water still frothing?”

 

The pole began to rise.

 

A tidal wave erupted from below the tugboat. Knocked violently sideways as the boat tilted vertical, a deafening cracking filled the air. Grabbing blindly, my left hand found a lever and I clung on, channeling all the strength I had in my body through those fingertips. We were high in the air, half our boat sticking out of the sea like the pole. My eyes locked onto the source of the noise assaulting my ears, and through the broken glass of the cockpit window I saw what was left of the other half ship, the shards of wood and lumps of deck being clawed down into the sea by dark tendrils as long as the tug was. The captain lay against the door as I dangled from the control panel, flailing like a fish out of water above him. The door’s porthole began to crack as the oak groaned. I met eyes with the captain. The door exploded below him and the captain fell, screaming until he crashed against the water. A shadow grew around him, rising from the deep. The man swam furiously away but he couldn’t outrun the shape below him. Two ebony outcrops jutted out of the dark either side of him. He opened his mouth but, before he could scream one last time, the white juts snapped shut around him. The monster rose out of the sea, revealing a beak atop a humanoid body, tentacles swarming its skin and latching onto the boat. The ship jerked towards the creature. My hand slipped from the lever. I fell. I hit the water with a crash and saw the beast towering out of the ocean, the remnants of the shipwreck on his shoulder and a new one in front of him.

Time slowed as the monster bent down, its beak sliding open to engulf me. I realized one final thing as the darkness within the monster’s mouth filled my view. One final little thing as the tips of the beak pierced the sea I floated on. A faint smile blossomed across my face as the jaws closed around me.

At least I'd discovered something new.

The Trek

 

 

The Trek 

 

The tree whistled in the wind, its branches bobbing gracefully to every bounce of turbulence. Of course, all the leaves had been lost after the seasons had stopped. The tree was now just a hollow spine of wood jutting out of the earth, a lonely spire which was the last foothold of nature, the only landmark near the hill. The tree was thin but large, with roots flowing deep into the barren soil and it would once have been beautiful in bloom. Once. 

The tree root that jutted into the heel of his boot was painful. Grunting, the Nomad looked behind him, checking the train of followers were still in eyesight. He had always been known as the Nomad, ever since he first started his long voyage across the barren sands, keeping to the eye of the unstoppable megastorm. Nobody knew him. Even he had forgotten his name, because what use are names when you are walking? Walking. Walking his whole life. And he couldn't stop now. He couldn't lose any more. The winds were howling, a sure sign that the group were falling behind, but they had no choice but to keep walking. The hundreds of people, treading in his footsteps, could not drown out the howls of the storm with their cries. After the hill, the valley should keep them safe from the winds, and the Trek could finally stop; but until then, the Nomad could not stop. He had never stopped before, which was why he was still alive. 

The baby's cries could be heard down the hallway. He was crying for food. Everyone was, but you couldn't hear it when the adults cried, as they had learnt that crying just wasted water. The corridor was old and worn, and home to the refugees who had once lived in the city, in their big mansions or sky-high apartments. Unfortunately, the baby would be crying for a long time. Food was running low. Dangerously low. Low enough to kill. Many had tried to go outside, but that was effectively the easy way out - once you step out of the hotel, you would die. The death would be quick, but unavoidable. No human could walk through the winds, not at hurricane force. 

The tree was bobbing faster, with the occasional twig snapping under the constant wind pelting from the east. The tree was dying. Slowly, a branch tilted to follow the howling wind, pulling the tree down with it. The roots fought the earth to stay upright, but the earth was powdery now, not wet and fresh like soil was once. The tree wouldn't last long, and the winds were getting ever stronger. 

"KEEP IN THE EYE!" thundered the Nomad. He wasn't sure if anyone heard him. Still, the followers were keeping up with his increased pace, even when they were climbing the hill. If he risked stopping when they were so close to the edge of the eye, the Nomad knew he would lose more than he could bear. As he began his ascent up the hill, the sand slipped beneath his feet, a slow cascade of ground marking his path. 

 "THE VALLEY IS OVER THE HILL." boomed the Nomad, and he could feel the spirits lifting, up into the gale winds. Soon, he would be safe, but the wind was strong enough to rip his clothes, clawing him back down the hill. The Nomad kept climbing.  

The hotel was once a massive complex, with a swimming pool and a buffet breakfast. The buffet had run out once the refugees settled down, almost in the first week of The Storm. Cable TV in the rooms didn't display channels anymore, but instesd each screen just displayed a continuous reel of text: "<The Storm is at Catastrophic Levels. Stay Indoors>". After the water began to run out, some of the smarter inmates in the hotel had tried refining the chlorinated water in order to make it drinkable - after their attempt, nobody dared enter the green fog to remove the semi-dissolved bodies, but instead locked down the lower floor. The rooms were full, the hallways full and everywhere you stepped a human would be hunched, malnourished and praying for their lives. Everybody inside knew they would die, but at least in the hotel they wouldn't die alone in the wind. 
 

The tree was leaning dangerously, and the roots were tearing the ground. Gradually, the tree slipped further and further, completely unanchored from the ground and fell with a boom into the rough earth. The tree was dead.  

 

The hotel suddenly heaved and shuddered. All the dirty heads lifted up, craning to see what caused the noise, but all scared. Then the screaming started. It started at the bottom floors, and got louder. Nervous shuffling was all around, but nobody had the energy to move fully. Then, the stairs turned green. A cloudy green. And the air was choking. Choking, like hands closed around your neck, the cold hands which pull you down and burn you to the ground. The baby stopped screaming. 

The Nomad summited the hill first, with his followers shouting over the wind, begging for a description of the green valley that would save them from the storm.  

"What do you see! What can you see!" 

The Nomad turned, with tears of despair in his eyes, and answered: 

"The Coast." 

Palace

 

Palace 

 

As I walked along the polished floor, the faint echo of whispers bounced down the hallway. It was a very wide hall, with equidistant chandeliers glittering from the ceiling and windows opening onto the lawn in a continuous strip to my right. My shoes clicked against the floor as I made my way towards the murmur. A door, as tall me, was coming up on my left, breaking the regular pattern of panelled oak wood on the wall. Facing it, the oak door had an iron handle, which I looped my hand through and twisted - the door opened silently. I stepped into the room, marvelling at its beauty. It was obviously a lounge, shown by a large fireplace encircled by reclining chairs at the centre of the far wall. The fireplace roared as orange flames licked the wooden logs. Above the fire, a marble mantle decorated with small statuettes also harboured a clock. It ticked, it's hands slowly spinning around the cracked face as time slipped away. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The mumbling wafted down the hallway again, and I wandered out of the room, my feet keeping time with the ticking clock. 
 
I followed the muffled voices as the hallway stretched on in front of me. Another door to my left, with a strangely un-cyclopean set of spy-holes at head height, was locked, so I continued on, nearing the corner at the end of the walkway. The corner was decorated by a large piano, glistening as the sunlight poured through the window and reflected off the deep black surface. On the holder above the keys there was no sheet music, but as I sat on the plush piano stool I noticed a metronome to my left, swinging rhythmically from side to side as it beeped a slow beat. The voices were louder now, coming from around the corner. 
 
Turning as I stood up from the stool, I saw the room in front of me. It was enormous, with a large gilded staircase leading up to the second floor as a red carpet cascaded down it, pinned by long golden rods. The floor around the base of the staircase was marbled, a cacophony of whites, greys and blacks spinning randomly across the ground. The mumur were spreading down from the second floor. As I stepped off the wooden floorboards and onto the marble, the scent of roast chicken and buttered potatoes swept through the air. The captivating smell was bursting out through an open doorway across the marble floor, inviting me into the small side-room. Tapping along the polished rock, I walked towards what I could only assume was the kitchen.  
 
Inside the kitchen, pots hung from racks against the walls and stainless steel counters rose out from the floor. A microwave beeped from the side insistently. Meandering between the counters, I couldn't find the actual source of the smell, instead only seeing spatulas and pans left idly on cold hobs. The kitchen was illuminated by rows of LED lights which had burrowed themselves into the ceiling - they buzzed quietly, about once a second, due to some kind of electrical fault. A loud bang ricocheted from the floor above, and I quickly left the kitchen and began walking up the stairs.  
 
The mumbling was very close after I summited the staircase. The landing of the second floor continued with the red carpet of the staircase, and the oak banister twisted round the perimeter to form a handrail. I turned to the left, running my fingers across the pristine wood, and saw the grandfather clock. Its pendulum swung with a deep, resonating whoosh, and the tick almost drowned out the whispers. Beside the towering mahogany contraption, an open doorway beckoned me closer. 
 
Glancing into the room, there was a small bed below the window. The blue covers were the same colour as the sky, and the remaining walls were lined with boxes, the odd doll poking out through the lid. Upon the bedside table, a digital alarm clock beeped steadily. A voice, almost audible, dragged my attention back out of the room and I walked closer, towards the end of the landing. 
 
I walked towards the source of the noise. The staircase, leading up from the floor below and directly away, echoed with voices as I drew closer. Standing in front of the large brown door, I could hear the voices on the other side. I pressed my ear against the wood. A pulsing beeping suddenly resonated from the room with the voices, drowning their words in a metronome of noise. I stood back and tried the iron handle, but the door wouldn't budge. As I tried again, pushing the door with both palms, the beeping grew louder. The voices were slipping away, becoming quieter as I backed away. Running up, I rammed the wood with my shoulder, trying to force it open with brute strength, but the door remained locked as the beeping crashed around me. 
 
The doctor hastily picked the clipboard he had dropped off the floor. 
"She's stable, but there's no change," he said, playing off his error with confidence as he turned to the nurse. The nurse nodded as the doctor ticked a box on his clipboard and put it back on the sideboard where it lived. The nurse took a closer step towards the patient, lying in bed. 
"Is she getting better?" The nurse asked hesitantly. 
"Hard to tell. She definitely can't see. Some sound may be bleeding into her dreams, but she's still vegetative," he replied.  
The nurse took the clipboard from the sideboard.  
"Still 60 bpm?" she asked, pen in hand. 
The doctor checked the machine beside the patient and nodded. The nurse scribbled on the clipboard, gently placed it on the sideboard again and walked back out of the room with the doctor in tow. The patient lay, comatose, as her heart monitor beeped into the silence.  

The Companion

 

The Companion

 

I always felt like I was being watched. Everywhere I travelled to, I could feel the beady eyes scanning me, but as soon as I turned to face them they would melt into the wall, disappearing - until I turned my back. Even when I knew I was alone I could feel them; they were my constant companions.

I'd tried all the treatments. My psychiatrist told me it was just my imagination, that because I'd managed to convince myself they were there, my brain would try and force that idea onto my reality. However, she didn't seem quite so convinced about my placebo once her desk collapsed under her moments later. The second psych told me to try and ignore it - something about human hunting instinct, the usual nonsense that you pay $150 a session to hear... Well, that was until they went home after a hard day's work to find her door coated in some kind of slimey substance, the colour of mould. Funnily enough, I couldn't find a psychiatrist after that.

I'd never been the smartest or hardest working child growing up, and I seemed to attract trouble. Things would go wrong when I was around. The fire alarms would go off if I walked past them, showering the faces of the other innocent children with cold water, and, of course, I would get the blame. Messages would be angrily sent to and from home, my parents screaming in block capitals at the school for mistreating me and bullying me worse than the other children did (which was true in a way, the other children tended to stay away from me after the fire alarm fiascos). As the days grew colder and snow fell onto the school field, the meticulously carved snowmen would all melt overnight - aside from mine of course, which stood with a menacing smile, watching us all day through our classroom window. Sometimes when I waved at him, I could have sworn he waved back, but it must have been the wind wobbling his branches.

When I was 18, I moved to university. It was different to what I expected, a lot whiter and cleaner, but I didn't mind. At least there, I wasn't shunned by the other students. It felt like all of us were effectively social outcasts, the parts of humanity that were left on the cutting table, but somehow we could all form our own little strange community together. Smiling to the others as I strolled past them to get to my dormitory, every evening I was greeted by more smiles and waves, an almost visceral cacophony of happiness. Unfortunately, not everyone smiled - some of the staff seemed permanently grumpy, waiting in the corridor with arms crossed across their body for us to go to sleep. However, I felt like I fitted in, and the eyes that watched me weren't pretend any more, but they were real.

My course was long. Every day, I would meet for a 1-to-1 session with my professor, and we'd discuss at length the vast field of veterinary practice. Most of the time, we would also chat about ourselves, how we were doing; I cherished the idea that he actually cared about me, as well as how I did in my exams. His notepad was always full of scribbles, a sea of blue ink, but I never saw what it actually said. I assumed it was just notes about our course, areas that I needed to practice or go over at a later date, like he told me they were.

 When the exams drew nearer, I thought that it would be quite useful to have that notebook, so that I knew what to revise - after all, it's quite hard figuring out your weaknesses. One night, after I heard the staffs' keys clink in their pockets all the way down the corridor, I opened my door and slinked out of my dorm. I knew exactly where the notepad would be. Keeping close to the wall, I darted along the tunnel, turning left at the end to face the second wing, where the Professor's lessons took place. Crouching along the floor, I slipped my slender frame past the door and into the quiet room. The small lamp that hung from the ceiling was still on, illuminating the white desk in front of me. Sitting, in pride of place, facing the professor's plush chair, was the notepad. Grabbing it, I rushed back out of the room, clicking the door shut behind me before plunging down the corridor, sliding to turn right and ploughing into my dorm room, quickly shutting the door behind me.

My chest heaving, I checked my prize, making sure it was my book. My name was on the front. Phew. I'd never seen the front of the notepad before. Emblazoned on it were the words:

"Broadmoor - Schizophrenic Wing".

What a funny name for a university.

Revolution

 

Revolution

 

I woke up surprisingly early. Unlike the frantic rush of waking up late that I was all too accustomed too, I lay in shock at my punctuality, too afraid to see what the world actually looked like before 9am. One at a time, my eyes opened to a chaotic room, my little sanctuary where I reigned supreme – messy and disorganized, just how I liked it. The smell of burnt toast was wafting up the stairs, causing a begging gurgle from my stomach, hungry for any scraps of food. I grabbed blindly at the floor beside my bed, still half asleep, until my hand brushed a crisp wrapper. Reaching inside, I took a fistful of Doritos, rammed them into my mouth and turned over. Curling the duvet around my toes, I was beginning to drift back off when I heard the gentle throb from outside.

Sleepily I grabbed a pair of trousers and a t-shirt from beside my bed and dressed myself. Carefully treading across the sea of wrappers, clothes and long-forgotten forms, I made my way to the window and peered through it. Nothing looked different - if anything, it was a bit too quiet outside for a sunday morning. By now there would always be a few people wandering up and down the street, heading for a coffee or going to the square to open up the market. Today, there was nothing.

A rhythmic drum beat pulsed in the distance. Squinting at the rising sun, I tried to place the sound in the city – it sounded close to the park on North avenue, but I couldn’t be sure. The cause was most likely some drunken idiots. I turned to stagger back towards the warm comfort of my bed, yet upon making the first step an explosive sound pierced the pulse of the drum. Swooping upwards, the flare filled the sky with a red glow, catching every edge and sinew of the clouds as it blossomed into a fiery effigy.

Turning my back against the ghostly red illumination, I started towards my door. As I waded through the rubbish swamping my floor, the chorus of wailing flares grew in strength. I lurched towards the handle, my fingers brushing the cold brass as I slumped into the door, my shoulder slamming against the wood. I jerked the doorknob, shouldering the door to open it, yet it would not move an inch. Frowning, I rested both palms across the door and pushed, but was met with the same resistive force. I took a step back, braced myself and hurled my shoulder at the door, smacking it with an audible boom but still without moving the wooden barrier. As I struck the door, a faint, resonating ding emanated from the other side of the door. Upon further experimentation, I concluded the grandfather clock outside my door must have fallen and was barricading the door. I was stuck here, in my room.

Whilst I made my discovery about the door, the situation outside had escalated. The drumbeat was like a tremor through the ground, every beat vibrating the floor as it continued its slow, relentless tempo. Thankfully, the flares had stopped, and the gentle yellow hue of early morning had returned; the wailing noise, however, had only evolved. Instead of the shrieks of rockets, the clamor was replaced by shouting and chanting, inaudible yet repetitive. Nothing was yet visible, but outside on the cobbled street people were sleepily drifting out of their marbled houses and peering in the direction of the drum. Below the opposing window, the front door burst open and a figure sprinted out of the house, clutching an overfilled bag as she ran down the road in the opposite direction. Behind her, a trail of clothes and money flew from the open bag, following her as she ran, ran away from her husband. A breadcrumb trail following our Ruler’s wife.

My gaze followed her as she slipped away down the street until her high heels and fur coat rounded the corner at the end. Now, individuals could be heard in the chanting, the drum beat drowned out by a thousand voices piercing the air. The red and orange flashes were now behind the houses opposite my window, and bottles sailed over the rooftops before crashing back down to shatter against the pavement. The street below my window was too quiet now. Scouring the road for movement, my eyes panned across the panorama of silence and found nothing except the whisper of wind against the window. The wave of projectiles behind the opposite houses was moving along to the right, and the discordant shouts diminished slightly as the herd moved away. A tiny movement caught my eye from across the street. In the house opposite, a curtain slid across to allow morning light to spill into the darkness, illuminating a shadowed figure against the window, his head in his hands. The darkened man looked up and stared at me, before slamming shut the curtain - I was alone again.

The drumbeat stopped. The metronome had been relentlessly beating all morning, a constant in the chaos, but now it had been snuffed like a candle. Craning my neck to look at the end of the street, I waited, heart-pounding, bracing myself for the inevitable.

The droning chants paused. A moment of calm.

The end of the road erupted.

Bodies surged forwards, carrying lurid banners above the wave of humanity as they crashed down the street. Red-faced skinheads formed the vanguard of the horde, screaming as they marched closer. In their hands flailed smashed bottles, bricks, even a broomstick or two. The makeshift army juddered forwards in disorganised unity. As they moved closer, the chanting grew louder, a crescendo of panic between the beautifully marbled houses and upon pristine cobblestones. The crowd's stampede slowed to a halt as they reached my doorstep.

Screams. Fists. Hate. The air was filled with one pulsating message of anger, throbbing through the walls as they continued their warcry. I watched as across the road, gingerly, the curtains opened. The figure, shoulders drooping, shuffled to the window. No sooner was he visible did a brick sail through the air, crash through the pane and smack the figure square in the jaw. As the man crumpled to the floor, a cheer erupted whilst the glass rained down upon the crowd. Flares hooted and a red glow covered the street as the crowd ripped at the door with fingernails and hammered against the walls. A second brick flew through a lower window. As soon as the shards of glass hit the ground, the crowd poured through the hole, an infestation surging into the marbled house in a primal rage. In the broken window of the upper floor, multiple shadows writhed through the bedroom. A piercing scream ripped through the city as a man, bloodied and bruised as his jaw hung slack from his face, was hoisted up by uncountable hands. He locked eyes with me across the road. Glistening against the crimson, tears coated his cheeks, and his arms flailed uncontrollably as he was dragged closer to the window. Silence dropped across the road like a mist, thicker than the blood-red smoke from the flares. One final shout slipped from his lips as he tumbled through the smoke, creating beautiful swirls and eddies within the fog. When he hit the cobbles, the red flattened and crashed outwards like a wave, colliding with more smoke and creating a tapestry of fumes, formed by the hooting crowd and their victim. It was horrifying. It was grotesque. It was inhumane.

And yet, somehow, it was beautiful.

 

The King's Men

 

The King’s Men

 

The wood of the cathedral door audibly splintered as it was slammed open. A fat man strode in, a squad of bodyguards brandishing pikes scuttling behind him as he menacingly stamped along the stone. At the other end of the cathedral, the Archbishop looked up, his eyes widening as the vanguard closed on him. Other priests and monks bowed their head, eyes boring holes in the floor, but the archbishop stood his ground in front of the altar until the fat man stood, inches from his face. The pikemen filed out in a semi-circle around their leader, protecting him with a wall of spikes. The man looked straight into the quivering archbishop's eyes.
"I want a divorce," growled Henry VIII, King of England.

The Archbishop led the king through a stone arch and down a side-passage. As the keys rattled in the archbishop's shaking hands, the king barked orders at the pikemen. In unison, they formed a human shield across the opening to the archway, barricading the King and the Archbishop inside together. The wooden door finally creaked open as the Archbishop hastily tucked his keys away beneath the folds of his vestments. Hurrying inside, the clergyman tripped over the threshold, the King guffawing as he followed him inside the room.
"So Thomas. What do I have to do?" Henry asked, locking the oak door behind him. Thomas More bristled slightly. Henry repeated the question slowly, taking a step towards the Archbishop.
"You can't! It's not allowed, especially not for your kind!" he squeaked. The King's eyes narrowed, and he lumbered towards him, knocking parchment and quills off the desk as he came closer.
"Catherine knows. She'll shut up, but I need a new wife," Henry said coldly. Thomas walked backwards until he bumped against his desk, knocking ink across dozens of delicately written letters.
"But to get a new wife, I need to divorce her. What do I have to do?" asked Henry, a hint of malice creeping into his voice. The Archbishop slowly reached behind his back, his hand fumbling across the desk silently.
"Nobody can divorce, the church won't allow it. You're stuck with her. You can do your sinful activities, but you can't remarry," said More quietly as his hand finally clasped the feathers of a quill. Henry grabbed a Bible from beside him.
"I am your King!" he bellowed, brandishing the holy book like a brick as he grabbed Thomas by the neck. A bead of sweat dripped from the Archbishop's forehead onto one of Henry's sausage fingers. As the King's hand constricted around Thomas's neck, the quill from the desk was scribbling a shaky note onto a forgotten piece of parchment.

After a few seconds Henry released Thomas and paced the room, slamming the Bible back onto a table as he passed it.
"If your church won't let me, my church will," the King muttered. Thomas laughed nervously.
"You can't make your own church. Besides, what would you do when the next one inevitably finds out?"
Thomas's hand shook as he finished writing, and dropped the quill. It thunked against an inkpot with a resonating ding. Henry turned to him and stared.
"Divorce her. Or kill her. Depends if she can keep her mouth shut," he replied. Thomas paled and a shiver ran along his spine. He knew. And his mouth wouldn't be shut for long.

Henry unlocked the door and yelled into the hallway. The pikemen charged into the study, flanking either side of Henry.
"Grab him," the King ordered. Fear filled the Archbishop's body as the men marched towards him, hoisting him up under his harms.
"I promise, I won't tell! I'll tell them it's because she didn't give you a boy!" Thomas shouted as the bodyguards dragged him through the doorway. Henry watched stonefaced before turning to the desk. He stalked over, searching amongst the split ink-pots and broken quills. Finally, he saw the note. Grabbing the parchment from the desk, Henry read it:
'LET IT BE KNOWN - THE KING IS IN LOVE WITH MEN. THE SINNER WILL BURN'.
The king sighed, balled up the parchment and slipped it into his pocket.
"Because she couldn't have a boy..." he murmured.
"That's not bad."

Betrayal

 

Betrayal

 

I sat, crying, in the oval office.

‎"I love you." I mumbled down the telephone. Static was all I heard in reply. My crimson tie was tight around my neck, constricting my throat like a noose, and my crisp white shirt was soaked with sweat. A single thread of light limply slipped through the window, the ray it cast across the floor slowly shrinking and losing ground to the growing dark; even the sun was running from me. Wiping the invading tears from my face, I slowly moved upwards, twisting my body so I could glimpse the door. Behind the oak gatekeeper, I could hear shouting and the occasional thump, but the chest of drawers in front of it prevented entry. Quickly, I darted back under the desk, breathing in, out, in, out, short and laboured. I shut my eyes, hands clasped tight in a desperate prayer, and opened my eyes again. It was just as dark. The sun had escaped. And suddenly, a blinding white light filled the office...

The camera flashed, and I greeted the reporters with a smile. An ocean of questions and comments flooded the room. The man to my left stood and raised his hand, stemming the flow of noise from the audience - silence ensued.

'The new President of the United States and I will take your questions now. One at a time please."

The Vice-President sat back down, glancing back at me with a knowing smile. This was where he belonged and thrived, calm and collected, with perfectly sculpted answers to every question. His hands lay on the table, passive and friendly, whereas mine lay under the desk on my lap - nobody could see the way they shook there...

A tremor ran through through my body as my face was illuminated by the powerful electric light, which was accompanied by a strange thumping noise. Raising a hand to my face, I staggered to my feet, my face buffeted by the wind screaming through the open french doors. A booming voice cut though the darkness.

"Mr Steele, this government is no longer under your control. You are now a prisoner of the State."

I couldn't see where the voice was coming from, the light was blinding and the black enveloped all behind it. A single glimmer of reflection in my peripheral vision caught my eye. Glancing sideways, I saw the picture of my daughter and wife...

"Daddy!" shouted my daughter. Smiling to the telephone, I watched the sun slide closer to the horizon as I listened to her rave about her day at school. However, my thoughts were pre-occupied. The education bill was to be debated tomorrow, and the Vice President had not entered the White House all day. How could he miss today, of all days? Still speaking on autopilot to my daughter, I wondered where he was. He must be ill. Dragging myself back to reality, I re-entered the conversation with my girl:

"And today, at school, Sam said I was pre-"

She stopped abruptly. A muffled noise followed for a few seconds, and was then replaced by quiet.

"Hello?" I asked questioningly, worried that the phone had been cut off - it wouldn't be the first time after all.

"Mark, get out of there. Now." My wife was speaking hurriedly and breathing heavily.

"It's a coup. The military. GET OUT."

The room spun. I lurched out of my chair, wrenching open the door to the office as I ran into the corridor - the building was unchanged. The hustle and bustle of the White House was still there, telephones ringing, until - BANG. A gunshot. Screams. Turning, I ran back into the room, slamming the door and ramming the chest beside it in front. Grabbing the telephone, I opened my mouth to speak...

"I will not surrender my c-c-country." I shouted. The white light shut off, and suddenly it became very clear where the voice had come from, and what was causing the strange noise. A large, black helicopter hovered in front of me, side doors open and cockpit flooded with red light. I noticed the noise from behind my door had stopped - shouts turned to silence. My hair was swept back, buffeted by the wind from the propellors. I stood my ground against the mechanical beast, beads of sweat sliding across my forehead.

"A-A-America will survive. My country will not f-fall." I shouted, louder this time.

"I'm sorry sir." boomed the voice. Was there a slight hint of sadness? The blood-red light seeping from the cockpit suddenly cut off, and was replaced by a single red dot, shining alone in the dark. Pointing at me. I looked down, following the path of the light though the black, and realised too late that a laser dot had appeared on my shirt. A laser dot poised over my heart.

Bang.

President

 

President

 

Nervous excitement filled the air as the crowd watched the small television eagerly. The sun was just rising outside, illuminating the lawn with shreds of light running across the grass. As the news presenter pointed to the blue and red sections of the map, he suddenly stopped, audibly gasped, took a moment, and turned to face directly into the camera. The room hushed. Absolute silence, all concentration focused on the small man and what he had to say. Sam leaned forward, hoping, praying to God that all the work was worth it and that it was true. The presenter smiled at the camera, and announced:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Democrats have a majority. Sam Turner will be the next president of the United States.”

The crowd erupted, drinks flying as arms crashed into each other in a merry jig. He’d won. Congratulations and celebrations spilled across the room like a tidal wave, sweeping everyone into a hysteria of happiness. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, leant back and enjoyed the chaos.

The inauguration was impressive. Due to the large majority achieved, an incredibly high turnout had appeared to watch Sam swear himself in and wave at the crowds. The cheering was enough to give Sam a throbbing headache until the next morning, but of course he welcomed the public and their affection for him. 3 years ago, Sam wasn’t even a politician – just a washed-out salesman who was fed up with his country. After one cocaine-fueled night out that had inevitably ended up on a street corner, Sam’s epiphany struck. He would change the world. He would fix the country, support those who need it instead of those who want it, care for the many and not the few. The following year, he ran for the Democrats in Missouri and won; the headlines alone propelled Sam to infamy, currying public favour until eventually becoming a presidential candidate. The fairytale was now complete.

First day. The White House was busier than Sam expected, phones ringing and suited men running from room to room with mountains of paperwork. Theo and Omar, the two other frontrunners for the Democrats, stuck to Sam like glue, obsessing over every detail of his day and directing his every action. The “sign here” and “tick these boxes” filled his desk to the point of overflowing, sliding down into the waste paper basket beside the mahogany. His eyes had already glazed over with talk of repelling bills and senate adjustments that by 3 o’clock he was ready to go home. Striding out of the door, Sam nodded to the two puzzled interns who were walking the opposite direction.

“Mr Turner! SAM!”

The President of the United States turned to see Theo running after him.

“Where are you going?”

Sam walked back towards Theo and told him he was going home. The second that tiny word was mentioned, Theo guffawed.

“Home? At 3? Mr Turner, you’re president. I get home at 7 if I’m lucky, you’ll be here all night.” laughed Theo.

Begrudgingly, Sam breathed a sigh and turned around. Theo and Omar couldn’t see the scowl on his face, but Sam’s quiet frustration ricocheted around the lobby as he stalked off in silence. Being a president wasn’t such an easy ride after all.

Months passed without a hitch. Sam’s acquaintance with Theo and Omar grew into a friendship, and the country ran like clockwork. Yet, for Sam, something was missing – as the nights shrunk and the days grew longer, the mindless paperwork and bureaucracy of the presidency began to overwhelm him. The job began to take over Sam’s life, sapping his energy whilst devouring his free time; it wasn’t fun anymore. One soggy April morning, following a hastily eaten honey sandwich on his balcony, Sam worked his way through the forms piled on his desk, cramps rife through his hand after writing his signature the first hundred times. Then, after an excruciatingly painful meeting about corn farming, Sam was walking back to his office when his phone rang. After a terse conversation, he found himself agreeing to stay and work the next 2 nights to debate the tax on corn. Stay, and miss his son’s second birthday. Briskly walking up the stairs as tears welled in the corners of his eyes, Sam wrenched open the door and slammed it behind him. He sat, alone, in the Oval office. Seconds later, Omar burst in with a blizzard of paperwork to find his president sobbing into the mahogany.

“Sir? Are you feeling okay?” asked Omar, tentatively stepping towards Sam.

Wiping away the tears, Sam slowly looked up to meet the gaze of his friend.

“I can’t do this anymore,” whispered Sam. “How do I quit?”

Omar sighed as he rested a caring hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam, you’re a golden boy. You can’t just quit. Think of the damage you’d do to yourself, to the Democrats, to America! I’m sorry buddy, it’s not possible.”

As Omar gave him a final comforting smile before dumping the papers on his desk, a glimmer of light swept through the room as the sun rose above the buildings. Sam turned to face the sun, Letting the orange glow wash over him as the tears dried against his cheeks. When he opened his eyes, Sam noticed a small bird on the balcony. The pigeon meandered across the floor, darting from crumb to crumb as it explored the floor. Unbeknownst to the bird, a leftover crust was stuck to its wing, the honey gluing the two together. Hopping up to the edge of the balcony, the pigeon jumped, but instead of gliding away it flapped in a panic, trying to throw the crust off as it began tipping, the weight dragging it down. The bird travelled about a metre away before crashing down to earth like a stone. A faint smile grew on Sam’s face. Even though he couldn’t quit, there was nothing stopping him from bringing himself down.

The next morning, Sam’s beeping alarm woke him like normal at 5:30am. Thumping it quiet, Sam rolled over and drifted back to sleep with a smile on his face. Some time after 9, Sam waltzed into the White House, expecting a furious Theo to greet him. Passing the front desk, Sam caught Theo’s eye from across the hall as his aide rushed towards him.

“Mr President! I thought you were brilliant this morning!” gushed Theo. Sam paused as his brow furrowed.

“Sir, you made such an impact at the meeting. Your stance on those amendments was as clear as crystal, even if you did do it unconventionally. I guess actions speak louder than words, and not turning up sure did rattle them!”

This career suicide was going to be a little more difficult than Sam anticipated.

That night, following a missed parents evening, the cogs in Sam's brain began to whir. He needed to do something bigger. More spectacular. He needed to get noticed, for people to start to wonder if he really was the man for the job. Sitting in his distinctly boring bedroom, which was only furnished with cream walls, a modest bed and a desk, Sam grabbed a notebook and began scribbling. The world would wake up to a madman in power tomorrow.

"First order of business - Presidential decree. Sam?"

The committee fell silent as Sam rose from his chair and rested his palms against the table.

"I'd like to try and push for a new law. The law in question: We ban all paint colours except cream."

Mouths gaped and eyes stared as the heads of state tried to make sense of the words their president just uttered. A pen thumped against the floor, breaking the silence.

"Cream just looks better. It's probably better for the environment or something too, spin the law however you want to. But I am adamant, this law will pass."

Congress received the peculiar decision warily. A month of deadlock passed, each bill narrowly missing the mark by one or two votes. Sam’s aides were constantly picking up the phone to bewildered democrats begging for an explanation. Theo and Omar were under strict orders to say nothing except that they should vote for it. Sam ordered a decorator to repaint the oval office cream, and a permanent grin sat on his face as he knew his time of ticking boxes would soon be up - after all, abuse of power is grounds for impeachment.

The day finally came. In mid-May, the Paint Bill was passed, and the public backlash was immense. The media questioned the sanity of the president and protests were kicking off within a week of the announcement. The White House, now renamed the Cream House, was buzzing with reporters desperate to talk to Sam, and the President welcomed them with open arms, conducting interview after interview until the news networks stopped as they had exhausted the questions. Everything was finally clicking into place.

On the first of June Sam was woken by a phone call. Sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eye, he glanced at the clock – 6:30. Whoops. Picking up the phone, Sam began to apologize for being late but was soon cut off by Omar.

“Sir! You’re a sensation!” shouted Omar excitedly. Sam frowned down the phone. The protests didn’t exactly say ‘sensation’.

“What are you talking about?” said Sam, his wife stirring from her sleep beside him.

“The Paint Bill? A work of genius sir. How did you know?”

Sam’s wife rolled over and murmured something sleepily.

“Omar, slow down. Know what?”

“The carcinogens. The colourings in the paint were carcinogenic sir, all except cream. You’ve potentially saved millions of lives, and cancer figures are already dropping. The scientific report was released this morning!”

Sam hung up. He crashed back down to bed, boring a hole in the ceiling with his stare. His wife looked at him questioningly. Sam ran his fingers through his hair, before turning to face his wife.

“What’s the most stupid thing you can think of?”

 

***

2 years passed. After the Doritos Ban and the abolition of Thanksgiving, both of which made a noticeable difference to the obesity crisis, Sam was widely regarded as the best president to ever grace America in terms of healthcare. The sudden declaration of war on Canada was initially met with some resistance from the public and the military. This was quickly reversed after the nationwide terrorist organisation, of which one member was the Prime Minister, was uncovered and the nuclear weapons poised to destroy U.S. cities were deactivated. The destruction of the Statue of Liberty managed to almost double tourism in New York – after all, ruins are quite rare in such a young country. The abolition of currency also had a positive impact; after the initial week of anarchy, the people seemed to settle into a rhythm and worked wonders in terms of motivation due to the lack of financial stress the population now had. Now, inside the Cream House, Sam was surrounded by the ministers of state once more.

“What’s all this for, Sam?” asked Omar, slightly muffled. He waddled to his chair, the oversized shoes impeding his walk somewhat. Sam had enforced the strict new uniform of welding masks, lederhosen and clown shoes last month, and the staff had welcomed the change due to the sense of equality amongst them and the relaxed atmosphere.

“I want to make a constitutional change.” said Sam.

This announcement was followed by rapturous applaud from the staff until the very walls of the dodecahedral office (Sam had it reshaped; the new shape actually had much better acoustics) were vibrating.

“I would like to add a paragraph somewhere that says the following words, with no alteration: ‘The President automatically resigns from office if he willingly eats a Hawaiian pizza within the dodecahedral office. No exceptions.’ Is that clear?”

The ministers nodded and whispered amongst themselves, until Theo broke the murmur.

“Well Sir, that is now an official part of the constitution, since the Congress granted you absolute power. Congratulations.”

Sam nodded, beaming at the welding masks that represented his country.

“Bring in the Pizza!” Sam shouted.

A gasp erupted from the ministers. An intern lurched towards him, a pizza held high on a silver platter. Sam took a piece, smiling at the pineapples covering it, and took a massive bite.

Time stood still.

“Does this mean... you’ve resigned?” stammered Omar.

“I guess it does. Oops.” replied Sam.

The room applauded. Sam frowned. He hadn’t been expecting such a happy response – after all, despite trying to be the worst leader ever, his popularity was almost unanimous across the country. 

“It’s time!” whooped Theo. “Sir, if you’d like to just wait here for a minute, we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sam sat and watched as the ministers walked out of the room, staggering in single file as they tripped over each other’s shoes. The door closed and Sam was alone. He looked down, and realised his hands were shaking. He had no idea what they were preparing. A party? An electric chair? He paced the office, hands fiddling in anticipation until he heard the floorboards outside his door creak. He ran back to his chair, slumping into it just as Theo re-entered with a laptop. The other ministers followed him, each brandishing a laptop, tablet or mobile phone, and laying them on the table so the screens faced Sam. On each screen was a world leader.

“Hello Sam, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” said the British prime Minister.

“This might be a bit of a shock to you, but this has been almost a year in the planning.” added the German Chancellor.

“Sam, your aides and ministers have just informed us you are resigning. Is this correct?” asked the Japanese emperor.

“Uhhhhh.... yeah....” mumbled Sam. The world leaders collectively sighed in relief.

“So, all the paperwork is done. The laws are passed, and the entire world is in agreement. You start now.” the Brazilian president said.

“Start what?” asked Sam, a dreading sensation filling him. Surely not. They aren’t that stupid...

“The job. You’re President of the Earth, Sam.”

Singing in the Rain

 

Singing in the Rain

 

The Hebrides are cold. The Hebrides are wet. The Hebrides were the last place on earth you would want to live, so obviously my family thought it would be a great idea to live here, hence why I’m stuck in this hellhole. I figured I should start writing some notes on life to keep myself sane and sell for millions when I’m rich and famous, so, to whoever reads this, welcome to the exciting life of Sally Gildford.

It’s been a miserable day like normal but we got an hour of sun so in my opinion, it’s been above average.

Wet.

Wet.

Wetter.

STILL RAINING.

EVEN MORE RAIN.

I got bored of counting raindrops on the window after the third day of rain. Didn’t realise that there was more than one type of water torture.

Dad’s been complaining about the rain all day. Apparently the storm is bad for the tug, so we’ll have to do the whole ‘DIY repairs’ thing again. The amount of wood we’ve used to fix that boat, I’m starting to suspect we’re the current principal threats to the rainforests.

Storm’s over. Fixed tug with dad as best I could. Hope it doesn’t sink, he’s the only one who’s good at cards, mum and gran are terrible. Need another pen cos I’m running out of ink, but dad said he’d get some stuff from a few islands over when he next heads out fishing.

Gran’s birthday, gave her the fruitcake we got a few months ago from our holiday to the mainland. She looked happy but hard to tell. Pen about to die, so might have to stop writing for a bit. See you guys on the other side.

--

Hi. Sorry. Got a new pen. This is gonna be weird. Dad didn’t come back the next day like he was supposed to. Mum got hysterical and sad too, and I didn’t know what to do so just hugged her for a while. Then, a day late, dad came back. Jesus Christ it was weird. He wouldn’t let us go on the boat and help him unload, he did it by himself for a good couple of hours. Would have taken a third of the time if he let us help. After I went to bed I could hear them fighting but not sure what over, couldn’t make it out.

All hell has broken loose. Mum slammed door and hasn’t come back yet, and we have a visitor. Dad said she was on the rocks of an island he was passing and there was blood. He anchored and swam onshore, risking his entire life in the process, and grabbed her. Nearly drowned a few times when trying to swim back to the tug. Hes an idiot, the new woman wont talk, and shes not normal. She obviously wasn’t wearing much after being half drowned at sea by dad, so her feet were out. She has webbed feet. Like, properly webbed. I know there are jokes about incest in the Hebrides, but seriously, they are like flippers. Normal sized flipper feet. Hopefully she’ll actually talk and tell me what the hell they are.

Mum’s back. She came back late last night but I was asleep. Grans been pretty much oblivious to the whole thing so far, satistfied with the crumbs of her fruitcake. The rock lady is talking now. Not in English but talking, so at least that’s good. She keeps saying ‘soren’ and pointing at her so we’re calling her that. Dad’s pretty sure it’s a name and we’re not being idiots. Soren seems to like fish so we’ll probably get along fine.

Rain’s back.

Gran had a fit the other night, mum said it happens when you get old. Soren saw her and looked uncomfortable, but its not our fault we have an old, dying gran. Dads been teaching Soren English when mum’s not around, she knows our names and a couple of sea-related things now, which is good. Still, going to have to wait a while until I can ask about the feet and get an intelligible answer.

Rain’s relentless, but taught Soren to play go fish. She likes it I think.

Soren is not normal at all. I woke up last night to the thumps of gran having another fit, but dad and mum were still conked out so I went to help. Soren was there with her. Just sitting there. Not helping. Her face was pressed against Gran’s, and her mouth was moving, whispering in her gibbering language. Gran was properly fitting by this point, her spasms crashing against the bed as the floorboards moaned under the strain. Then she saw me. The second soren locked eyes with me, gran stopped and slumped back asleep. I slammed the door and ran. I don’t want to tell dad, he’ll think im crazy. Soren’s been following me all day, just looking. I don’t like it.

Gran died in the night.

The rain stopped. If the ground dries today we can bury gran tomorrow, she needs to be out of the house. Soren keeps following me.

Everybody is nuts. Gran DIED, but I swear I could hear mum and dad doing the thing in the night, the ceiling above me was shaking from it. We buried her in the morning, and mum cried. Soren looked really uncomfortable when mum did that. Not guilty, just almost puzzled, like she was figuring something out. It was weird. I don’t think Soren should stay. Dad said we’ll go fishing tomorrow.

Im writing from a tugboat somewhere between the mainland and my island. Don’t go to my island. Don’t go back. Soren is a psychopath. She dug her up and ate her. Mum and dad went out to stop her. Through the window I could see Soren’s mouth moving, and mum just broke down. Sobbing into the rain. And the rock… dad and me scrambled down to the tug after, trying to get away, as far from that monster as we could. We cast off and sailed as fast as we could, but of course she has those damn flippers. She launched herself at dad, tangled around him as he slid onto the slick deck. Her mouth moved again but this time it didn’t make them sad, it made him crazy for her, like how he was for mum the other night. When she jumped back in, he jumped after her. Now its just me. Im scribbling and I don’t know how long I have but don’t come to the islands in the rain, or let her see you.

Please, stay away from the rain.

Heaven Sent

 

Heaven Sent

 

On my fourth birthday, my parents bought me a model plane. It was bright red, with a white stripe running across the centre of each wing, and housed a small, nondescript pilot complete with aviator goggles. To me, the plane was not just a model, but a fully-fledged aircraft - I spent countless afternoons running up the stairs, swooping the plane in my hand left and right, dodging enemy fighters and winning dogfights. After years of drawing bombers and running around playgrounds with my arms stretched wide like my very own wings, it had become obvious to my parents that planes were the key to my imagination; with them, I could burst through the grey clouds surrounding real life and soar through the vast blue skies that hid above. Childhood slipped past me whilst I was lost in a world of aviation. Realising my whole life was ahead of me, I visited career fairs at secondary school, searching for something that offered more than the lonely office cubicles my classmates aimed for.

That was when I discovered the RAF.

Military training, squadron drills, simulators, red faced sergeants – these obstacles led to my eventual integration into the Royal Air Force. I ended up flying Eurofighters across the channel, escorting any foreign fighters that had strayed too close to English territory back to their respective homes. I had a squadron – a family of sorts – who would all laugh and drink together on our nights off. Life was good. Better than good. I found a place where I could do what I loved, surrounded by people who thought like me. Everything was perfect.

One hot summer day, a jet popped up on the channel radar. My squadron buddy Chuck and I were scrambled into the air to intercept it. Flying into the unknown brought a unique kind of rush – not adrenalin, but excitement. After eight minutes, the jet was visible. It looked like a Russian plane, but you couldn’t be sure from that distance. Chuck and I were joking across the Coms system, ready to fly the interloping plane home. Normally, the planes would have turned around by now – the jet facing us was still heading straight. The gap was closing. A nervous laugh passed from between my lips. I realized I was sweating – must be the summer heat. My hand rested on the Bible I kept in the pocket of the plane door – just in case. The jet still hadn't altered course. I may not have been able to see the pilot, but I could feel his grimace from my seat.

That was when he opened fire. When my left engine exploded into a fiery ball of shrapnel. When my plane flipped over, spiraled to the ground, red lights flashed and a cacophony of beeping flooded the cockpit.

I woke up in a cold, dark cavern. Peculiarly, I was still wearing my headset from the plane... albeit without a wire connecting back to the cockpit. My clothes were still soaked with my grimy sweat. Then I saw him: a large, elderly man, draped in a billowing white toga that rested below his long, curly beard. He radiated an aura of power, but his smile wasn’t quite right. I knew who he was - I had a book about him that I kept in the cockpit, which I foolishly thought would bring me luck in dire circumstances.

He was God.

“Am I dead?” I muttered. God laughed and knelt down to see my face. His toga swept dust from the ground behind Him, leaving a maelstrom of dirt in his wake. Slowly, je nodded.

“Where... where am I?” I asked. He laughed again. However, this time he didn’t stop, his face stretching to accommodate his booming fits of laughter that filled the cavern. His eyes met mine, and jis bellowing abruptly ceased. The, he took a step back, regaining his full height, and opened his mouth to speak.

“You are dead. After you die, heaven awaits you.” God’s smile was not one of happiness or excitement, but one of something I couldn’t quite place – it looked like pity. I nodded.

“wrong.” said God. I stopped. I must have misheard. Chuckling to himself, God offered me an empty smile that hung across his face.

“Wrong. All of you have got it the wrong way around.” I creased my brow, shaking my head as I tried to decipher what God had said. The wrong way around? How could that be possible? But that must mean...

“Yes. Your time in heaven is over. Welcome to life.”

 

Hell Bent

 

Hell Bent

 

The man staggered up the sand dune, the air whistling past as the desert snatched his breath from him. Heavy with exhaustion, his feet left large footprints, cutting deeper with each step. His eyes were barely open - the sand was being whipped into a storm by the wind, blinding him to the sea of yellow that stretched on to the horizon. He slumped onto the incline, his feet still driving forwards lethargically as his eyes began to close. The night was clear and cold; his hands were completely numb as they grabbed at the sand in front of him, and under the full moon they were as white as bone. With all his strength he dragged himself up to the top of the dune, the coarse grains seeping into his raw skin as the storm grew stronger. On his hands and knees, he outstretched his arm in one final grasp before he collapsed, alone, in the desert.

"MORTAL."
The man, slowly waking, squinted with one eye. It was still dark, yet the wind had subsided and heat radiated from in front of him. All he could see was yellow, red and black. As his vision focused and he opened his other eye, he saw the sand dune and a figure, illuminated in the darkness by a throbbing red. As the figure stepped closer, the horns on his head became visible and the man's eyes widened as he propped himself up. Looking down on him as his tail idly flailed from side to side in the sand, a voice pierced the air.
"Hello Damien," said the devil.

The bargain went simply enough. In return for his soul, Damien would receive 5 favours. The devil would grant these to him without question, and at any time of Damien's choosing. In order to summon the devil, Damien was given an ivory needle. He was told that when he required a favour, he was to plunge the needle into his finger and the devil would appear before him. Damien took the needle without hesitation, tucking it into the pocket of his ripped cargo shorts.

The bargain was cemented with a blood pact between the two parties - atop the sand dune, the devil and Damien stood facing each other. A brief moment of silence passed. Suddenly, the devil's tail whipped around and sliced a gouge into Damien's hand. He screamed in agony, crashing to his knees and clutching his palm as blood poured from the deep gash. The devil smiled, and, as he held it out, his demonic hand spontaneously began oozing a red sludge. As Damien's face contorted in torment, the devil grabbed Damien's bleeding hand and pressed it against his own. A loud boom reverberated through the desert as a wave of wind hurtled past Damien's face. The sand around him began to rise. The gale whipped up a tornado encircling the dune as they stood in the storm's eye. Spears of sand jutted inwards from the edges of the sandstorm and blasted against the two hands until a writhing ball of sand covered the ungodly handshake. Damien looked up at the devil's face, which was painted with a mixture of glee and madness as the tornado grew stronger and the wind sped up.
"GOODBYE, DAMIEN," bellowed the devil, locking eyes with him. The spinning walls of sand exploded inwards, and Damien instinctively threw his hands up to protect his face. When he uncovered his eyes again, the devil and the sandstorm were gone. The pain from Damien's hand quickly evaporated, and upon inspection the wound was now a long, jagged scar from his index finger to his wrist. Looking around, there was nothing but sand. Delirious, Damien's eyes rolled back as he thudded against the dune, unconscious.

Damien woke with a cold sweat and the hairs on the back of his neck on end. Staring at the ceiling of his bedsit, he took a shallow, shaking breath and sat up. He was at home. His grubby room was the same dingey grey, and the smell of cigarettes and cannabis hung in the air. He dressed himself, ready for his day job, and his boring, dead-end life continued as normal - with just one small difference. Beside the stacked pile of Nuts and Sports Illustrated on his desk, a small needle sat, ready and waiting.

Months passed, yet the dream of the desert clung to Damien like a parasite. It plagued his mind as a constant afterthought, worming it's way into his life again and again - it was unbearable. Nothing felt real. He was trapped in a cycle of spending money, getting drunk and feeling nothing, and each night Damien became more numb to the world. After a long, lonely night, Damien crashed back into his bedsit. Gripping the table-edge, he lurched towards the bin in the corner and threw up on the carpet beside it, spraying chunky vomit into the mottled fabric. Drooling into the mess, his eyes began to shut as he slowly drifted forward. His forehead smashed against the wall as he slumped to the floor, face-down in his sick.

"Well that was disappointing," said the devil, a seething anger behind his soft words. "We didn't even get a chance."
A lava stream seeped from high above the devil, pooling at his feet. Molten rock poured across his brogues and spattered against the bottom of his crisp dress trousers. The lava oozed towards the arc that had been sliced into the rock by his swinging tail, bubbling and steaming along the volcanic floor. At head height, the flow was unnaturally warped, providing a bubbling image of Damien in the lava. the magma gurgled and spat a glob out of the stream and onto the devil's black waistcoat. A boiling hole forming on his chest, the devil swiped the lava away with a talon. His jaw clenched as his companion cleared their throat. Beside the devil, a tall, pale human, his silver hair hanging across a long, dark robe, peered at the shimmering image of Damien asleep in vomit.
"Surely this isn't the end?" asked Dracula. Damien murmured into his sick one final time before his body went slack.
The devil nodded, his teeth gritted as his clawed hand slowly closed into a fist. The ground shifting as a tremor shook the floor. Dracula stumbled slightly, losing his balance as the earthquake intensified. The devil's clenched fist suddenly released, and the tremor stopped. The devil, his black eyes fixed on the image, growled:
"You're going up."

Damien's eyes opened. He blinked a few times, furrowed his brow and looked left and right. It was white. All of it. The fluffy, cotton wool floor, the three doors, even the air - all the same, pure white. Looking down at his hands, Damien's jaw dropped. They were semi-transparent, with a pale ethereal glow. Through his left hand, he could see a dull green spreading through the cloud below him. The needle, now covered in some green goo, sat there at the source of the contagion. A flash of the desert filled Damien's head. He bent down, reached out for the white ivory within the gunk and missed it. He went for it again, and missed again. He was sure his hand was in the right place. Frowning, he knelt down, rummaging with both hands, but still couldn't touch the needle or the goo. He stopped and stared. Slowly, he stretched out his index finger and pushed it towards the palm of his other hand. His finger went straight through.
"Hello there!" a voice said cheerfully from above him.

"Welcome to the afterlife. I see you have something to declare! That's rare..."
The cherub, whose golden wings bobbed him gently up and down, had a friendly smile and clipboard in hand.
"I see you are... Damien?" The cherub said, his angelic features furrowing as his finger traced his way down the clipboard.
"You've got a strange mark next to your name. Let me get my manager."
There was a sudden pop, like a balloon bursting, and the angel disappeared. Damien blinked, his jaw slack as he knelt beside the needle's green infection. Moments later, a second pop echoed around him and the cherub sprang back into existence alongside a man in a toga.
"See, someone's overruled it!" the cherub explained to the toga. The clipboard was exchanged, and after careful inspection the man looked at Damien. He had a young face, with curly brown hair and a small beard. His toga was white, slipping over his arms and shoulders with effortless grace all the way down to his bare feet.
"W-what's happening?" stammered Damien.
"Oh boy... Do you want to take this?" said the cherub, turning to the young man. The man sighed, turned to Damien and spoke.
"Hello. Normally this is a lot more streamlined, and we're sorry for the hold-up - this time will be taken off your time in purgatory. It's an administrative nightmare. The long and short of it is, not only have you somehow brought contraband through, you've also been re-routed straight to hell. I'm sure this is a mix-up or the devil's work, both of which are not your fault."
Damien's mind boggled as he absorbed the words.
"But... but... Who are you?" asked Damien.
"Oh, I apologize, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Jesus."

Whilst Jesus escorted Damien to a pristine oak bench, the cherub popped out and popped back in with a full-body orange hazmat suit, complete with wing protectors and a pair of tongs. Carefully picking up the needle, he held it at arm's length and popped a third time. Damien winced as a sharp pain raced through his head, images of sand and red figures invading his thoughts. The sky rumbled, and Damien's mind cleared. Jesus looked up nervously before offering Damien some bread and fish from thin air, both of which he politely declined. The cherub rematerialised, panting and sweating as he quickly flew to the bench.
"He's coming sir," he gasped, breathing heavily.
Damien's head swung around.
"Who's coming?"
"Sir, we don't have long. What do I do?"
Jesus stood up, re-adjusted his toga and ran a hand through his hair.
"Let me do the talking," he commanded.
"Who's coming?" Damien asked again, louder and more forcefully. The Messiah turned, pale-faced, and offered Damien a weak smile.
"Just don't say anything. It'll be okay, I promise."
As the final word left his lips, the white ground blackened and evaporated as a robed figure ascended through the cloud.

"Dracula! How nice to see you!" Jesus smiled, holding out a hand to the vampire. Dracula's eyes scanned the area and narrowed when he saw Damien. He strode towards him, ignoring Jesus and the cherub. As the vampire passed him, Jesus put a restraining hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks.
"There's no need for that. It was a filing error, he's one of ours."
Dracula's head snapped round as he stared at the Son of God, his eyes boring a hole straight through his skull.
"He signed a blood pact. He's ours now." the vampire rasped. Damien's eyes widened. Jesus wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, and let out a nervous laugh.
"Of course he didn't! Right Damien? Right?"
Damien stared at Jesus, a horrifying conclusion reaching him as his stomach dropped. Jesus looked at Damien, then back at a grinning Dracula, then back at Damien. His weak smile evaporated.
"Oh God..."

Dracula stalked over and grabbed Damien by the shoulders. Damien snatched at the bench, his hands passing through the wooden slats, and writhed desperately as he was dragged along. The cherub's mouth hung open in shock and Jesus looked away as Dracula heaved Damien towards the three doors. Flicking his long, white hair out of his face, Dracula squinted at the doors and muttered angrily to himself. He hauled a struggling Damien to the door on the left, and opened it. A heavenly chorus of trumpets and angelic voices erupted from within. Dracula rolled his eyes and slammed the door, abruptly cutting off the beautiful melody and closing the gate to Heaven. Eventually he made it to the door on the right with his prize. The vampire prince glanced back at Jesus, offered him a wicked grin and dragged Damien through the doorway.

The air hit Damien like a truck. It was scalding hot, chokingly thick and black, like a thick smoke. Dracula closed the door behind them, and the room was plunged into darkness. A slow snicker echoed around Damien, growing louder and louder until it was a hysteric cackle. A white spotlight suddenly burst to life. Damien instinctively raised his arms to cover his eyes and found his hands were manacled together. Squinting at the bright light, Damien could make out a flat steel table in front of him and a small white object atop it. A small movement in his peripheral vision caught Damien's eyes, and a shadowy shape against the darkness of the room stepped out in front of him.

"You are not to talk. You are to listen. Do you understand?" said the grey shadow softly. Damien nodded profusely.
"Good. You're lucky Dracula was so convincing, or Satan would've come and met you here himself."
Damien frowned. Almost as though it sensed his disapproval, the spotlight intensified, making him wince.
"Not only did you do a deal with the devil, which is unbelievably stupid, you also died before you could enjoy the price of your soul."
The table began to glow red and Damien's palms exploded in pain as they burnt against the metal. The metal centre of the table melted, and a geyser of lava erupted through it.
"You were apparently even destined for heaven, but no. You sold your soul for nothing. This is where I had to step in," said the shadow as they walked forward obscured by the gooey pillar of billowing lava. As a rumble resonated through the ceiling, lumps of rock crashed onto the silver table and the lava shrank back down into the ground. Across the table, a man covered in old, brown rags smiled pityingly at Damien.
"My name is Saint Paul, or Saul for short. We're going to kill you properly."

A wave of panic hit Damien until he realised, he was already dead. A tsunami of confusion followed, and Saul could see the vexation written across Damien's face.
"Right. In short. I am Saul." the man said slowly pointing to himself.                                                            "I did some bad things, but also some very good things - hence why I am both a saint, but stuck in hell. Have a Google sometime. Dracula contacted me - he's never really been that evil," said Saul, sensing the requirement for explanation. Dracula shrugged in the corner, looking at the steaming ground.
"He was worried what the devil would do to you, so told me you needed safe passage out of hell. However, Dracula also needs to seem evil, so the devil doesn't torture him either, hence the subterfuge." Damien's mouth opened and shut a few times like a goldfish.
"The plan is, I'll do a quick miracle, get you back up to the cloud and the devil won't notice. Besides, he can't do anything once you're there, he doesn't have a way up - holy land, one-way doors, no demonic items etc. Okay?"
Nodding, Damien's eyes panned around his surroundings nervously.
"Let's go then," Damien whispered. Saul smiled and grabbed him. Pop.

Saul and Damien reappeared back on the cloud, beside the oak bench that sat a few metres from the three doors. Keeling over, Damien retched hoarsely, covering the pure white with a thin layer of green. Saul paced around, looking up and down the enormous floorspace before turning to Damien with a relieved grin on his face.
"Looks like nobody saw," he announced.
"Pop through that door in the middle and you're safe. Hope you don't have to wait too long." the double-agent cheekily saluted the vomiting Damien before blinking back out of existence. Coughing out the last of the contents of his stomach, Damien wearily glanced up at the door. A few metres separated him and safety. A few metres containing a small ivory needle.

Damien pushed himself into one knee, a thin line of drool drizzling from his lips. The needle began faintly glowing a demonic red. Damien's eyes widened as he scrambled to his feet, staggering to the side as he recovered from Saul's miracle. The needle was now daubed in a bloody colour, and humming, louder and louder. Damien took a step towards the door, and the needle exploded into a thick smog. A clawed hand reached out from the fog, and a deep voice boomed:
"I PAID FOR YOU!"

Damien lurched to the left as his vision spun, the devil rising from the now volcanic floor a metre in front of him. Loping around the hellish creature emerging into reality, Damien collapsed onto the white ground outside Satan's ashen circle. The devil was now at full height, and grinning manically at his prize. Damien dragged himself towards the central door, his knuckles rapping sluggishly on the white as the Devil began stepping towards him. A screech of pain shattered the pristine atmosphere. The Devil's foot, after making contact with the fluffy cloud, was dissolving into granules. Bellowing as he stepped closer to Damien, his other foot began disintegrating into sand too as he moved further out of his domain and into the light. The white door opened. A monotone, bored angel immediately began reading off a clipboard.
"Hello, welcome to purgatory - the time of your afterli-"
He was cut off by the howl of Satan himself, closing distance on a crawling Damien as he fell to pieces from the bottom up. The angel gulped and dived down to Damien, dragging him through the doorway. The devil raked his claws at Damien, a scything slash of black talons - cut short by a slamming door. One last primal scream emanated from the hallway, and then there was silence. The angel looked at Damien, sprawled across the floor, and stammered
"S-so... That was one hell of a ride."

A Starry Night

 

A Starry Night

 

Johana's toes curled around the sand, creating tiny mountains that rose and fell under her feet. She lay with her feet closest to the sea, facing the stars above. Smiling into the darkness, she briefly scribbled notes in her journal before lying back down and refocusing on the shining sky above her. This was her world - her special spot at her special time, just the night sky to keep her company. The waves rolled gently, a quiet metronome of peace in an otherwise silent moment. Nobody else was awake. In the city behind her, the tall tower blocks were dark and the only lights were those that dotted the streets, illuminating the old roads for the night wind to blow down. Johana picked out a constellation in the darkness - she identified it immediately as Gemini and noted it down. An engine hum grew behind her. Cars at this hour were rare, but not unheard of - it could be a police car, or perhaps a tourist lost in the sprawling mess of Havana, on the wrong side for the airport. Johana's thoughts drifted back to the stars as the car drew nearer. Lost in the sky, she was still utterly captivated when the hum evolved into a throbbing growl beside her. Suddenly, the beach was drenched in light as a car door swung open behind her. She was no longer alone in the night.

Arlo woke suddenly to two bangs on his front door. Rubbing his eyes, he mumbled a reply as his legs swung out of bed and he sat up, peering at the rising sun that was slipping through his shutters. Swaying as he lumbered towards the door, an impatient fist rapped again, louder and stronger. Arlo yelled at the doorway, still half-asleep, and sagged against the wall beside his shutter. He yanked it inwards, opening his apartment to the outside world, and was greeted with a distraught woman pounding on his old wooden door.
"What do you want?" Arlo muttered sleepily, his eyes still shut as he learnt against the concrete. The woman turned to him, tears sliding down her cheeks as she cried, her hand slack against the door. Arlo's eyes snapped open, and without hesitation Arlo turned, unbolted his front door and swung it wide. The woman crashed into his arms sobbing, and Arlo hugged her as the morning sun rose across the street.

"I'm sorry, I know it's not much," said Arlo quietly as he cooked an egg and a slice of bacon.
"I used to have more, but I lost my ration card and the black market is expensive."
The woman was unresponsive, staring at the concrete floor as she sat on Arlo's bed. His apartment was small; it was a concrete rectangle, 10 metres wide and about 12 metres across. His bed was pushed up against the wall, exactly opposite to the door, and a cabinet ran all the way along the wall, behind his pillow. On the cabinet, a pressure cooker, hob and kettle lived, and the rest was covered with pieces of paper and acrylic paints. Running along the opposite wall to the cabinet was a washing line, filled with paintings haphazardly swinging all the way along it. A small, low coffee table was placed in the centre of the floor, with a yellow plastic chair beside it. The kettle whistled and Arlo poured the steaming water into two mugs filled with instant coffee, stirring it with a spoon as he walked over to the woman and offered her one. Looking up, she wiped her face and faintly smiled, taking the coffee as the bacon sizzled and popped. Swearing as he ran back to the hob, Arlo switched off the gas before slicing the bacon off the pan, as it had welded itself to the bottom, with a slightly rusted spatula. He added the fried egg to the plate and returned to the woman, handing her the small meal. Arlo grabbed an open box of Coco Pops, pulled the plastic chair to the bed and sat facing the woman, munching cereal before pursing his lips and speaking.
"So... My name is Arlo, Arlo Perez. What's your name?"
The woman, struggling to cut the burnt bacon, looked up at him.
"My name is Valentina Rodriguez," she said with a strong, south American accent.
"I live a few houses down."
Arlo nodded.
"What happened?" he asked carefully. Valentina stopped eating, put down her cutlery and met his gaze, with tears welling in her eyes.
"My Johana... She's gone."

Arlo paced the room as Valentina stood beside the washing line of paintings.
"And you say she's always come back before?" Arlo ventured.
Valentina nodded vigorously, her hands shaking slightly as she gripped them behind her back.
"She's always home before sunrise, and I looked at the beach. I couldn't see anything." Valentina moved closer as Arlo circulated around the door.
"Sir, please help me. I've heard about you. Find her like you found those boys. Please." Valentina's eyes pleaded with Arlo as he shook his head.
"I only found them by luck, all I wanted to do was paint the cave. I didn't know they were in there," he said, an air of sympathy and reluctance clinging to his words. Valentina slumped back against the far wall, head in her hands as she began crying again. Arlo's pacing stopped and he rushed over to Valentina. His hand on her shoulder, he said asked slowly:
"Which beach?"

Arlo's car was an ancient red Chevrolet, a miracle on wheels. One of the perks of living in a government-controlled state - old, beautiful cars all round. It crunched into life as Arlo shifted it into gear and accelerated out of his front yard, onto the road. After 5 minutes, they were there. The beach, Playa de las Hermanitas, was long and sandy, the ocean lapping at the shore as wave upon wave crashed down. The road followed parallel to the sea, still about 300m from the watee itself, but nothing separated the roadside from the sand. The tide was out, and the shoreline stretched on for about 200 metres in either direction until it was cut off by cliffs. Arlo stepped out of the car, which he had parked at the roadside, and onto tarmac. Hopping out of the passenger side, Valentina's feet immediately hit the sand.
"Where did you park when you looked?" Arlo asked, his eyes digesting the landscape. Valentina pointed to the left.
"About 100 metres from that cliff, on the sand. It's where she likes to lie, the cliff helps block some of the light pollution. Why?"
"Just good to know everything," Arlo murmured.
Trudging off towards the right, the two scanned the beach. Nothing at all was out of the ordinary. A few footprints here and there, but that was normal - the local Cubans were known for frequenting the beaches for early morning swims. Valentina was gradually growing more exasperated with the search.
"Johana! JOHANA!" she yelled.
Arlo ignored her, carefully combing the last few metres of sand. Valentina, still shouting, met him with a look of despair. As they walked back towards the car, Arlo suddenly stopped before striding forwards, faster than before. Valentina hurriedly jogged after him.
"Sir! What is it?" she asked, slightly out of breath. Arlo continued his stride, speaking without turning to her.
"I think I may know where the tracks are."
Valentina's eyes widened and she ran alongside him as Arlo walked towards the cliffs.

"This is where you parked?" Arlo asked. Valentina gasped as she looked down.
"Y-yes. How?" On the sand, the outline of Valentina's tyre tracks outlined the mass of footprints on the sand, nucleated in a small patch.
"Luck. You accidentally parked on the evidence, which is why you couldn't see it." Valentina knelt down and traced the footprints with her fingers.
"Where do they go? They had to leave somehow, but I can't see any more footprints."
Arlo pointed at the tyre tracks and grinned.
"Valentina, your car does not have 8 wheels, no?" The tyre tracks, although very close together, were not one but two sets of individual tracks. Arlo grinned as he began following the tracks away from the shoreline.

The two tracks diverged about 50m from the main road. Valentina pointed at hers, which drove off the main road in a straight line onto the beach. The other set drifted off to the right, almost parallel with the road but slightly angled so they would eventually meet it. Jogging alongside Valentina, Arlo's mind whirred as he followed the track. Arlo swore at the ground and stopped running. The track had suddenly ended, joining the road and leaving no further mark - after all, tyre's don't sink into tarmac. Breathing heavily, he rested his hands on his knees as he bent over and his eyes flitted around. On his left, the road was normal for Cuba - potholed, very wide and covered in a grey tarmac. Past the road, a small souvenir shop was just opening up, it's owner a wizened old man with a cane who was struggling with the corrugated shutter. On his right, a large bush was growing with a large palm tree sprouting from the shrubbery. Coconuts littered the floor, creating a mosaic of green, brown and blue within the bush. Valentina patrolled the roadside, sniffing around for anything that could help but her search was ultimately fruitless. Arlo stood to full height, turned to help her - and stopped. He swiveled on the spot, looking at the bush again. Blue?

Arlo braced himself, and dived into the bush. Valentina, hearing the snapping of branches and rustling of leaves, turned to see the painter wading through the foliage, scrabbling at the floor.
"What is it? Have you seen something?" she shouted. Arlo replied, but his response was muffled by the bush between him and Valentina. The bush shook violently, and his head appeared from the undergrowth.
"Found it," he said triumphantly, clutching a blue journal.

Sitting in the Chevrolet, under Arlo's instruction Valentina slipped the wooly gloves on before carefully turning the journal over in her hands.
"It's definitely Johana's. It's got all her notes in it."
She shut the book and motioned it towards Arlo, who took the journal with his index and thumb, holding it in the corner.
"We should dust it - that's what they do in the movies." said Arlo.
Valentina nodded, and Arlo put the car into gear. The red fossil sputtered away, throwing black smoke behind them as the two sped back to Arlo's.

After shutting the front door, Arlo immediately began rifling through his cupboards. From what Valentina could see, they were mainly bare - the odd tin of beans here, a box of Cheerios there. Muttering under his breath, Arlo opened the cupboard above the pressure cooker and sighed with relief. A proud grin across his face, he darted over to Valentina clutching a box of corn starch. She looked at him quizzically as he slammed it down onto the coffee table and wandered over to the washing line, his hands waving in the air as he tried to place where an item hid in his messy room. Arlo's eyes lit up as he was struck by an idea, and he knelt down, scouring the bottom of the washing line. Rising again brandishing a small paintbrush, he smiled as he made his way back to Valentina. Handing her the brush, he opened the Corn Starch and poured it all over the front cover of the journal. Valentina immediately understood. After a few minutes of brushing the corn starch until it was a fine layer, a large, definite fingerprint was visible. Arlo whooped as he ran to the counter, grabbed a roll of sellotape and stuck it to the print. Then, after isolating the print he stuck the powdery tape to a long roll of black paper he had been saving for a rainy day.
"There they are, plain as day," he said. Valentina grinned, grabbing the paper and staring at the whorls and arches in powder. Arlo quickly snatched the roll from her, poured a small amount of corn starch onto where she was gripping it and began brushing.
"Hey! What was that for?" Valentina said indignantly.
"Checking for cross-contamination on the book..." Arlo mumbled as he stuck a layer of sellotape across Valentina's fingerprint. The two prints were obviously very different. Valentina's was in a rarer pure whorl formation, spiralling around a central point, whereas the other print was much more arched. Valentina stared at Arlo. There was a long pause.
"Aren't you going to do yours?" She asked. Arlo sighed, muttering about careful contact and gloves before ramming his finger angrily against the page and dusting it.
"Oh..." he said, flushing red. It was an exact match. Valentina turned and grabbed Arlo by the collar.
"What have you done with her! Pig! Give her back to me!" she screamed at him. Panic written across his face, Arlo stammered at her.
"It-it wasn't me! I g-grabbed it when I got it from the bush, I wasn't w-w-wearing gloves! I swear, I will find her!" Valentina pushed him away and released his collar, fuming silently. She turned to him.
"You better find her quickly."

Arlo sat in his yellow chair as he examined the pages of the book. It was a diary, each page dedicated to a single day and the whole book spanning a few months. Valentina sat on Arlo's bed silently, her emotions slowly lowering as the painter read through Johana's journal. Each page was not filled with idle notes about the day - they were instead bursting with constellation diagrams, logs about the planets and notes on the stars. Turning to today's date, Arlo was met with a worrying lack of writing and drawing. Besides a single note about Gemini, there were two ringed numbers - '28' and '14a'. Nothing more.
"Valentina," Arlo called out.
Rising from the bed, Valentina walked over to join Arlo by the coffee table.
"Do these numbers mean anything to you?" Valentina stared at the numbers, searching for some kind of meaning, but found nothing.
"Maybe they mean something to Johana. I can show you her room if that might help."

Valentina unlocked her front door and Arlo stepped into her house. Inside, the first room was awash with colour. A yellow, blue and red flag flew on the back wall, and a carnival mask sat in the corner of the kitchen tabletop. Arlo's eyes leapt around the room in amazement.
"How... How do you have all this?" he asked, dumbstruck by the decor. Valentina shrugged, replying
"We're Colombian immigrants. We came into some money, and moved."
Valentina opened a cupboard to reveal it fully stocked with food, and Arlo's jaw dropped. She grabbed two packet of apricots, tossing one to Arlo before making her way towards the stairs. Arlo stood, rooted to the ground as he looked around at all the items he couldn't possibly afford. He slowly looked down at the apricots, ate one and followed Valentina.

There generally weren't any doors inside Cuban houses, and Valentina's was no exception. It was entirely open plan, concrete walls dividing the rooms on the second floor. The left hand room was Valentina's - the right hand was Johana's. Grimacing, Valentina stepped across the threshold into Johana's room, Arlo following close behind. The bedroom, maybe half the size of Arlo's entire living space, was beautiful. Glow in the dark stars littered the walls, and a planetarium stood guard in the centre of the room, ready to cast the night sky onto the ceiling. Below the closed shutters, a desk was nearly organised, a large book central to it with pens and rulers arranged around the edge. Arlo searched the room, checking under the bed and in the wardrobe, before rejoining Valentina.
"She always loved the stars," said Valentina, stifling her tears.
"She would go out to the beach when it was clear and watch her ceiling when it was cloudy. She was the same in Colombia."
Arlo offered a sympathetic smile and moved closer to the desk. Valentina smiled back.
"Her dad got her that book when she was very little. It had all the constellations in it, she would read it all the time and memorise every word. She was a smart kid," Valentina said, sniffling slightly.
"What happened to her dad?" asked Arlo softly, picking up the book. Valentina's back went ramrod straight at the mention of him.
"He mixed with the wrong people. We had to move without him."
Arlo nodded silently and opened the book to it's contents page. There, each constellation was quoted with its official number, as were the planets and other celestial bodies. As Arlo read down the list, he sharply inhaled as a realisation smacked him in the jaw.
"Valentina, the numbers. They're constellations."

Valentina grabbed the book and flicked through the pages until she reached constellation number 28. It showed a large stick shape, like a chevron with a tail coming outwards from its point. Above it was it's name - 'COLUMBA'. Valentina grabbed Arlo around the arm, breathing quickly as she pointed to the title.
"Arlo, she's telling us something. Columba? Colombia? It can't be a coincidence."
Arlo agreed and flicked back to constellation 14. The lines joined together to form a wiggle composed of 4 stars. It read as the constellation 'CAELUM'. Valentina turned to Arlo.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
Flicking through Johana's journal, Arlo pointed to the circled numbers.
"14a, not 14. Maybe she doesn't mean the constellation," he suggested, looking back at the double page spread in the book.
"There!" he exclaimed, pointing to the other page.
"The Alpha star of Caelum - star A, named Caeli. Does that mean anything to you?"
Valentina paled, and responded
"Yes. Yes it does. Cali was where we used to live in Colombia."

Arlo sprinted back to his house to pack a bag. When he entered, he was severely disappointed by the inside in comparison to Valentina's beautiful house. Rushing over to his bed, he wrenched a rucksack from under it and rammed in his passport, his piggy bank and whatever clothes were closest before running back outside to see Valentina waiting beside his car with a rucksack of her own. Arlo slammed his door shut, locked it and hopped in the driver's seat as Valentina jumped into the passenger's. The Chevrolet rumbled down the road, heading straight to Havana Airport.

Arlo and Valentina got to the airport at around 2 o'clock. They ran straight past the arrival's board and up to the information desk.
"When's the next flight to Cali, Colombia?" Arlo breathlessly asked, crashing into the desk and making the employee jump.
"Umm... Sir, the next flight leaves in 20 minutes," she replied, slightly startled.
"How much for tickets?" Valentina begged, her eyes welling up as the information desk shuddered under Arlo's heavy breathing.
"Um... 200 pesos and you're both on it." She answered.
 Arlo turned to Valentina with a look of despair. That was about how much he made each year. Valentina rummaged around in her rucksack and slammed the money down. Before the information desk began printing the tickets, Arlo grabbed her and quietly asked
"How much to get past security?"
The girl met his eyes, bowed her head and replied in a whisper
"100 more pesos."
Arlo looked at Valentina. Valentina growled and slammed down the extra money. The attendenr quickly took it away from the desk, checking nobody noticed, and pointed at a closed door by the side of the airport. Arlo and Valentina thanked her before striding towards the door, shutting it behind them and sprinting down the service tunnel.

Just as the plane was making its final call, Arlo and Valentina boarded. Their seats were together at the very back of the plane, and no sooner had they sat down did the staff begin the routine safety demonstration. Valentina tapped Arlo's leg.
"How did you know she would let us through?" she whispered. Arlo smiled.
"You obviously haven't been in Cuba long. Everybody's corrupt if you pay them enough," he replied quietly as the seatbelt sign lit up. The pair strapped in, and readied themselves for the flight ahead.

They arrived in Cali at roughly 6:45 local time after a 5 and a half hour flight. They rushed into arrivals when Arlo stopped and sat on a metal bench by the doors. Valentina grabbed him, trying to drag him through the doors, but couldn't lift him.
"What are you doing!" she said angrily.
"Thinking." was the reply from Arlo.
Valentina rolled her eyes and tried dragging him away from his sedimentary position again, but was unsuccessful.
"Why are you wasting time thinking when my daughter is out there?"
Arlo looked up at Valentina.

"Bear with me for a moment," Arlo said. "Why were you scared of Cali?"
Valentina shifted uncomfortably.
"My husband. He was involved in a gang. 'El Mono Dorado', they called themselves, 'The Golden Monkey'. They were mainly drug trade," she said in a hushed tone.
"Ok. Good. They must be the kidnappers. Why would they be angry with Johana, you or your family?" Arlo asked.
Valentina sat beside Arlo on the bench, and leant over to talk to him quietly.
"When I ran away with Johana, I took some money. To live on," said Valentina.
Arlo raised his eyebrows, remembering the comparatively extravagant house of the Colombians in Cuba.
"It was bad money, dirty money, but they wouldn't be happy with me. But Johana, she isn't involved. Enzo always said, there was a rule in El Mono Dorado - family stays out."
Arlo frowned. Suddenly, a brainwave struck him.
"What does she look like?" he asked, a quiet confidence slipping into his voice.
"Similar to me. Same height, brown hair, about the same length, brown eyes, tanned. Now she's an adult there isn't much difference," replied Valentina as she stared into the distance, remembering her daughter.
A grin blossomed across Arlo's face.
"Maybe so similar someone might mistake her for you?"

Valentina was at a loss for words. Arlo punctured the silence.
"I think it happened like this. The gang wanted their money back. They sent some people to get you, maybe with a picture or something. They saw Johana, thought she was you and bundled her into the car. Johana must have heard where they were going, but couldn't write it out, it would take too long - besides, she knew how to write faster. She wrote those numbers and tossed the journal out of the car window. The gang then flew her back to here, Cali."
The summary was coherent, and Valentina nodded in agreement.
"So how do we get her now?" Valentina asked. Arlo looked around, watching passengers walk in and out of the airport as they went about their individual lives.
"What did you say the gang did? Drug trade?"
Valentina mumbled a yes, and Arlo tapped his leg as the cogs began to whir again in his brain.
"They'd find out Johana isn't you, wouldn't they? Someone would be able to tell?" enquired Arlo.
Valentina laughed.
"I'd hope her father could tell, yes," she responded.
"And her father wouldn't kill her... But they're a gang, they wouldn't cut her loose..." Arlo murmured to himself.
Valentina's head snapped round.
"They'd mule her."
"What?" said Arlo, slipping back into reality as Valentina continued.
"They'd mule her. Use her as a drug mule, carrying contraband on planes. They always need more mules, Enzo used to complain about it all the time."
Arlo and Valentina locked eyes, and  simultaneously exclaimed:
"She's in the airport."

Valentina and Arlo rushed towards departures.
"Let's hope she hasn't already gone." said Arlo as they barreled through the large doors.
"I'll check the right side, you check the left," ordered Valentina.
 She sprinted over to the entrances on the far right. Arlo spun on the spot and ran the opposite direction, scouring the crowds of tourists for someone of Johana's description. They waited, checking the crowds for the missing daughter - nothing. Arlo checked his watch: it was just about to turn 7 o'clock. As the second hand spun around the clock face, a squeal ricocheted through the departures lobby. Arlo turned, and saw Valentina with her arms wrapped tight around her daughter.

The mother and daughter were reunited. After depositing the suspicious, black bag Johana was nervously clutching at a quiet street-corner in Cali, Arlo began walking back to the airport to introduce himself to the girl. The sun had set, and the night sky was watching down on the painter as he walked through the city. Arlo looked up, but could only make out one formation - the constellation of Gemini, the identical faces smiling at him from the stars.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.08.2019

Alle Rechte vorbehalten

Widmung:
To those who know I couldn't have done this without them.