Category: fictionissue19

In a small town in the far north, and Harley Iskranovich is going on an adventure.

Polyarnyy is a naval town, it always has been. Harley has lived there her whole life, on the curb of the arctic, where temperatures reach only about as high as 20 degrees in the summer and -5 in winter. It’s not a fading town, though some parts of it show their age. There are the famous Kirovkas, renovated over and over again, five stories of cheap, tight-knit apartments – she knows all her neighbours. Unfortunately, that doesn’t include that boy from a few blocks down that she wishes she knew better. 

The mountains and hills that’re dotted with lumpy bushes and grasslands – not many trees, the permafrost makes it hard for them to grow – lumber around the settlements humans have eked out in this frigid environment, ships awaiting defueling and disposal rot in the ice waters. A quiet town with not much about it but the wind and water and the motherland somewhere thousands of miles south, far beyond anywhere the Kola Bay leads to; past the hills and mountains in the distance, somewhere after the White Sea and Lake Lagoda. 

Harley is an unusual name for someone here, truth is she was named after the motorcycle. Her Dad loved his, her Mother was taken by the uniqueness of the name (and how quietly soft her Father was after the suave biker attitude. Even if it was likely by default, since he was probably the only biker in the entire Murmansk oblast.) 

The waters sometimes carried faces, images of things long past. Polyarnyy had only been founded in 1893, so there wasn’t much in the way of legend, though the people out in the hills knew better. Harley had little in the way of interacting with them herself, but she been hearing a voice from the hills that she felt like she should probably investigate. It wasn’t urgent, it was always something that could be ignored. But it was like an unreturned shopping trolley – no one’s forcing you to, but for sake of politeness, it’s not something one should ignore.

She was going off to find the voices in the wind, to see if she could see what head they belonged to, see if they could speak, if their eyes contained any memories. 

The ground was hard and firm, it was a warm (by Polyarnyy standards) spring day. A walk would, by any means, be a nice break from the usual procedures. The sun sparkled on the lakes as she left the main road to march down the general direction of where she’d felt their call, the waterfowls wearily watching her wander past them. Foxes watched from their bushes, ignoring the hares who stared with them. 

As a frog were to a boiling pot, Harley didn’t notice the eyes that were building up along her back, nor the shadows whose gestures followed hers. Every creature, living, dead, and inbetween, that lived beyond the naval yards and the touch of man, was keenly aware of Harley Iskranovich, except for Harley Iskranovich. 

They were the ones that’d called for her, the vehicles that had been used to deliver a message for her ears only. It was a whisper carried on the wind, a signal broadcast from the branches of trees that didn’t sprout. How nature could communicate what was incommunicable was a difficult feat, and a good number of people had the mind to ignore her, but Harley had answered – or at least seen the message. 

The Earth is a creature far more complicated and ancient than humans perceive. Beneath its crust lies secrets which never have and probably never will be looked upon by human eyes, and its spirit moves and influences all around it far more than what it is given credit for. A slumbering giant in a permanent REM sleep, aware of activity on its surface, but just unable to wake completely. It could feel Harley’s steps. But Harley couldn’t feel it – though she could see.

Before her, stood.. something.

She wasn’t sure what even was there. What she was supposed to have been looking at. A creature, like a curled up dragon, seated similarly to eastern statues of dogs or other guardian creatures, sat before her, a blue swirling mass in its clawed hands, cackling with some kind of power. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before – not in real life, anyway. 

The hairs on her skin stood on end as she slowly turned, and jumped, startled by all of creation there staring intently at her without any concern for their neighbours. Their glassy eyes, their dim expressions. Nothing they could say or do, the dragon following with the-

Harley jerked her head around. Closed her eyes. Opened them. The dragon statue was still there. Still- what was it, stuck to her eyes? She could see it just as clearly with her eyes closed than if they were open. It was like it was burned into her, a floater stuck on her retinas, and nothing short of an atomic incision could separate it. It got closer the more steps she took, regardless of back or forward. Harley started to panic, her heartbeat rising, not helped by the forest watching her from behind, and not in the least bit aided by the flooding realisation of what was happening, at least, as far as she could tell it; only wanting it to end, clutching her head in a panicked scream until-

S t o p . 

She stopped. 

Everything stopped. The world froze completely still, though Harley, now separated from it, could still think. She could still see, without moving her eyes; and could still hear, though not in the usual way. 

G o .

Time restarted, Harley fell over. Shocks and shivers ran up and down her skin, a pins and needles sensation that ripped strength from her legs and sanity from her mind, her poor brain already struggling to comprehend what was happening. The dragon was gone from her sight, but then she happened to jerk her gaze up to the cliff’s edge in front of her, where there had been a forest pathway laden with trees just seconds before; and there it was again, waiting, patiently, for her to approach it, all the while it burned its image into her eyes once again.

C o m e .

Harley took one step forward, and hesitated. It had an almost magnetic pull to it, the swirling blue, white and dark purple mass it held like an alluring gem, one that Harley obediently felt the need to obtain. She took another step forward, if not to obey the voice that shook her very soul at its majesty, but for herself, for power, for intrigue, for-

Her fingers traced the mass.

The world turned off. She touched the magic swirling ball, and the earth around her disappeared. She did not fall.

She did not vanish. The void suspended her in its chasm. The dragon stayed, as did the ball, but the earth did, at least, as she knew it. 

It was impossible to describe what took its place. A psychedelic dream-like state of being beyond time and space. Beyond what the mind could understand. And yet, it did. And it spoke.

Harley looked back to see herself reflected in the stars, her twin holding the ball as she did.

A r e  y o u  e n j o y i n g  y o u r s e l f ?

Harley couldn’t speak. Even if she could, there was nothing she could say. Reasoning it was her twin speaking, she shook her head slowly. 

Y o u  s h o u l d .

Her twin let go. The ball sank in her hand, a thousand times heavier than she could have possibly imagined, and yet, her body, her hand, did not move – and neither did the ball. 

Y o u  a r e  n o t  g u i l t y , the Earth said, B u t  f o r g i v e  t h o s e  w h o  c a n n o t .

Harley didn’t understand. There was no possible way she could understand. What could it possibly mean-

E s p e c i a l l y, the Earth said, her reflection approaching her forehead with an outstretched finger,  y o u . 

The space fired. Stars and cosmic wonders, that was the closest she could ascribe to it, like a screensaver or a travel through time montage, all of it whirling past her mind through eyes that couldn’t see and ears that could not hear. It was everything and nothing, so much information to store, none of it possible to keep. Her brain was not capable of processing such data. 

A million and one lifetimes in the blink of an eye, a billion in a second, for all time, as the earth had seen and would see immemorial-

“Hey!”

The world returned. And so did Harley. Shaking, sweating, her mind beating a million miles a minute as she tried to comprehend what the hell had just happened – and not to forget.

Tears ran down her face.. Or was it sweat? Had she been running? She couldn’t remember. She felt sweaty. Her knees were shaking, and her palms felt damp. Maybe it was the sun.

“Hey, you there!” 

That voice was back again. Harley blinked, and managed to reply, “y-yeah?”

“You okay? You’re standing awfully close to the edge,” a concerned man’s voice called out. Harley looked down. That was indeed the edge. She backed away instantly.

“I, um,” she swallowed, looking for words. Her eyes darted across the ball.

Wait. What?

She was still holding the ball. A bright blue ball with a white swirl and some kind of magical pulse to it. 

She spun around. The animals were gone. 

Enough of it came back for her to keep her sanity – perhaps the earth was being merciful. She stuffed the ball in her backpack. “Yeah, I, uh, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” the man asked again. “You looked like you were in a trance.”

“Well, we all are, sometimes,” Harley answered awkwardly. 

The man gave her a weird look from his spot at the bottom of the cliff. 

Harley didn’t care. She had bigger monsters to deal with.

Theia lies sprawled across her bed, surrounded by the pillows and blankets that haven’t yet fallen to the floor. Her phone is blasting its ringtone, waking her from what would have been a nice dream. A frown squeezes her eyes shut as she pathetically slaps her sleepy arm on the bedside table trying to find the source of her disruption.
‘Williams, I need you working today,’ barks Chief Ericson over the phone.
‘Sir, this leave was approved weeks ago,’ murmurs Theia, wiping the sleep from her green eyes.
‘You’ll get double pay, I need you over here right now.’
Theia looks over at the double underscored “Lunch with Mum – 1:00” on her calendar, and sighs ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll be over in half an hour.’
‘Texting you the address.’
‘Happy holidays to you too, Chief,’

The phone beeps as Ericson hangs up. Groaning, Theia sprawls out into a pained stretch before rolling out of bed.
Theia mutters as she texts her mother that she will have to cancel their plans.
As Theia walks through her apartment, she notices the soreness in her shoulders and legs. Making a mental note to not skip any more personal training sessions, she pushes down the kettle switch and waits as the water begins to boil. After she wolfs down a mere few slices of toast and her coffee, Theia ambles over to her closet. With a huff, after failing to get some jackets over her shoulders and skirts over her hips, she settled for some more casual clothes. Maybe missing her mother’s usual critiques wasn’t a bad thing. Taking some time to search through her messy apartment and wondering where her work clothes have disappeared to, she finds her keys, wallet, and badge. Hastily walking out the door, Theia heads down the long staircase to the garage. Scratching an ear as she walks up to her new pride and joy, a shiny new Yamaha sport bike. As the engine purrs like a tiger, she puts on her helmet and races off towards the new case.

*

As Theia storms into the apartment complex, passing under the yellow police tape, the first thing that hits her is the dreadful smell. The disorientingly horrid stench of rotting carcass fills Theia’s nostrils causing her to take a quick step backwards, reeling from the painful odour. An aged, angry voice snaps Theia back to the task at hand.
‘Williams!’ Chief Ericson coughs through a cloud of out-of-date cigar smoke.
‘Sir.’ Theia nods as she addresses her boss.
‘Some kind of animal broke in, tore up the place, ripped these people apart,’ Ericson mutters as he gestures around the room at the multiple shredded corpses. Three bodies lay in pieces, their dried blood seeping through the floorboards.

‘An animal big enough to do this, in Sydney CBD?’ asks Theia, glancing over with a raised eyebrow towards Ericson who shrugs.

‘What did the lab say about the results?’ Theia asks while crouching down to look at some fur.

‘Bite marks suggest some sort of canine, the claw marks suggest a bear or big cat, paw prints suggest canine again,’ Ericson explains while reading out the report before handing it to Theia.

Skimming over the information about the lack of witnesses and the strangeness of the encounter, until something catches Theia’s green eyes.

‘Aren’t these victims members of that drug ring we busted a few weeks back?’

Sitting down in a left alone armchair with a grunt, Ericson replies, ‘Yeah, just some of the ones who managed to skip getting locked up.’

‘What about the ones in prison?’

‘Completely fine. Nothing touched them, or even came near them.’

‘Right, okay,’ Theia takes a second to look at some organs that have spilled out of one of the dead dealers, ‘Are there any rival gangs that have fighting dogs?’

‘Not that we know of. I don’t think any of them would be dumb enough to unleash a pack of them into an apartment, and then take them back.’

‘Is there a local animal expert or something? I’m just trying to wrap my head around this, Boss.’
Ericson looks out a window grimly. ‘Heh, we even called up Taronga. They have no reports of an animal escaping, and apparently no bear or wild dog is going to walk eight Ks without being seen – let alone walk into a random apartment building, tear these dung heaps apart, and march themselves back home!’

Ericson’s beet red face begins to cool down as he fetches some pills out of his pocket. Another officer hands him some strange Hydralite knockoff to swallow them down with. Theia wonders in disgust why the Chief has to swallow things so loudly before she sits down to take some notes from the police and lab reports.
After pondering her notes, witness statements, and references from a canine expert, Theia’s stomach begins to growl.

‘Jesus Williams, you’ll lose those beautiful biceps if you never feed yourself properly. Go take a lunch break and then report back to me,’ Ericson demands before walking over to discuss something with officer Kent.
Quickly nodding, Theia hops up onto her feet and hurriedly leaves to go find something to eat. Thinking about the Chief’s comment, she finds herself feeling the muscles in her arm thinking that her workouts must have been paying off.  Noting the time as Theia enters the elevator, she quickly texts her mother, ‘Hey is it cool if we still meet up for some food?’

‘Having lunch with Arianna, who remembered my birthday.’

‘Hey, work screwed me over.’

‘Why not try getting a nicer job then? Sarah is doing quite well for herself.’

‘I don’t want to be a lawyer Mum.’

‘Why not? It pays much better, and besides, aren’t men intimidated by police officers anyway?’

Letting out a sharp breath through her nose, Theia closes her phone and tucks it away in her jacket pocket before barging into the greasiest Hungry Jacks she can find.
After tearing through three entire burgers in between grumbled curses directed at her mother and sister, while gathering some concerned onlookers, Theia leaves in a huff. Reminding herself to stop skimping on breakfast, she stomps back towards the crime scene.

*

‘Ah Williams, good,’ Ericson states in between a heavy breath, ‘I’ve been going over your notes, what do you think happened?’

‘Well, according to local animal shelters and experts, there is no missing animals or animals that would intentionally seek out and murder these people.’

Looking down at the trampled remains of a kitchen table Theia continues, ‘However, I do find it strange that a rival gang could let loose some sort of black market animal in here, and then be able to recapture it, but it does account for the bite and claw marks.’

‘Hmm, it’s a little far-fetched, but I can’t think of anything else either. So, we don’t really have anything else to go on,’ Ericson grumbles.

‘Sir, I am still trying to figure out who would go to these lengths and I would like to look into other known associates of the victims.’

‘Before you get onto that, another site has been reported.’ Ericson says, pulling up his phone which is far too small for his sausage like fingers before showing the recent messages.

‘The representative of Haymarket?’ Theia’s heart begins to quicken.
With his shoulders sagging, Ericson continues, ‘Mr Clark has been reported dead as of a few minutes ago, when his assistant checked on him at his apartment. I’ve managed to stop the boys from messing up the place because I want you to have a look while it’s still fresh.’

Lightly stamping a foot Theia interjects, ‘Sir, wasn’t this the creep who did everything he could to obstruct the drug ring’s prosecution?’

Slowly sighing, Ericson hands over an aged set of keys, ‘Yes, so I want to see what you can sniff up, and I’m hoping this doesn’t get turned back on to us.’

Within minutes Theia is racing across Sydney CBD on her motorbike, thoughts rushing about in her panicked mind.
‘What the hell is going on!? Who or what is targeting these people, is it someone in the police force?’

*

Theia arrives at the older styled apartment complex, a refurbished abandoned mansion. The few apartments scattered about, all house affluent individuals who seek to live in some memory of a forgotten age. Looking up at the aged brickwork and wood features, Theia spots a shattered window. Heading to the broken window, Theia passes by the police guarding the entrances, arguing with the other occupants of the building. Ignoring the familiar noise of complaints, she crouches down to take a look at the remnants of the window scattered amongst the perfectly sculpted lawn. Glistening with crimson against the midday sun, the shards of glass are stained with dried blood. Amongst the disarray lies a few small clumps of long black fur. Whistling over to the nearest officer, Theia says, ‘Get these blood and fur samples over to the lab right now.’

While the attending officers begin to meticulously gather the DNA evidence, Theia strides into the old building. As she walks through the hideously decorated staircase, she feels a drop in temperature as though the solemn paintings are leeching heat from her body. Approaching the busted door of Mr Clark’s apartment, Theia pulls out her notepad.
‘Door has been forcibly opened, marks indicate the same animal has been used to damage the door enough to be opened.’
Walking past the splinters, Theia enters the remnants of the apartment. A table and chairs are scattered amongst the room, and a couch is digging half into a wall. Trails of blood litter the apartment, leading a trail to the horribly damaged corpse of Mr Clark. Flesh torn in four clawed segments, large bite marks that ripped through skin and crushed bone. The remains of a corrupt politician now scattered about, as his dried blood stains the expensive carpet.

Theia chuckles to herself, ‘Smells a bit like a butcher’s shop.’
Among the disrupted room lies an expensive looking cricket bat that has been shattered in half, with some team’s signatures a little runny due to the blood splatterings. To Theia’s left is a cool breeze, and looking over she sees the expansive shattered window. From the base of the window leading back through the apartment is a trail of blood. Treading carefully around the smattering of blood and broken furniture, she follows the blood into what still exists of Mr Clark’s office. A computer that looks to have been smashed on the floor a few times and then had its insides ripped out lays strewn across the floor. A filing cabinet has had its drawers torn apart, paper lays shredded around.
‘Whatever this was, they were looking to destroy Clark’s work.’

Tracking the rest of the blood trail into a suffocating room with no windows, a few small chairs, a filthy glass table, and a completely smashed suitcases that has bags of white powder scattered about.
‘And that’s why the warrant to search this place was always denied.’
After taking some notes and strolling around the rest of the apartment, Theia returns back to the living room. That is where she finds it, staring directly at her with big green eyes. The thick black fur covering the hulking musculature all the way down to the long, razor sharp claws. The long, snarling snout filled with teeth threatens to tear her to pieces. But it doesn’t. The ferocious creature just stands there breathing, and staring back at her through the fireplace mirror.
Theia glances down at her clawed hands, her clothes laid in tatters around her feet. A burning feeling in her chest goes off as she sprints across the apartment, and leaps out of the broken window. Landing in the lawn, Theia salivates and begins her next hunt. The poor police officers carrying the blood samples don’t even notice the feral beast charging at them on all fours, hungry for bloodshed.

I present this fictional story with acknowledgment of the Guringai and Darug people, the Traditional Custodians of the land on which I set my story and have enjoyed much inspiration. I pay my respects to their Elders past and present. I extend that respect to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people reading my work.

There are footsteps in the damp leaves. One human. One on paws. I hear them only because the frogs and night critters have suddenly ceased their moonlight racket. The sound of the Hawkesbury River lapping against the shore becomes clearer and I can hear the chiming boat masts down at Parsley Bay. I reach for my oyster-shucking knife. My fingers rub the familiar salty handle, which is warm from sitting by the almost extinguished fire. I slide out of my sleeping bag and retreat up into the darkness of the sandstone cave behind me.

‘Euch!’ A squeal is stifled. A hand swats skin. Sticks crack in surrender to clumsy boots and loose earth slips beneath them. They are heading directly toward me. My camp is not hard to find. I am well hidden behind a boulder and surrounded by shrubs. It’s the blue tarp hanging above me that is the giveaway. It usually doesn’t matter. The locals shout my name to let me know they are coming, and the day-tripping bushwalkers move swiftly past as if homelessness is catching. Occasionally it is the bad sort, coming to cause trouble.

A dog gives a low bark. ‘Settle down boy,’ whispers, to my relief, a kind young man’s voice. I stow the knife in my trousers and jump down from my hiding spot just as they enter the clearing. ‘Well, hello there,’ I say.

The young man stands before me like a frozen pilchard, startled by my sudden appearance. His doe-eyed Golden Retriever barks. I chuckle and cross my arms. ‘Now, now, I was just keeping myself hidden in case you were here to ransack my camp.’ The young man is around eighteen years old. Tall, but lanky, not yet having shed the awkwardness of teen years. He has a mop of orange hair. He is sickly pale, and his lips are dry. He tries to smile but his brow remains furrowed. The dog approaches me cautiously, and satisfied the fright is over, gives me a good sniff.

‘Oh, h-hey. I’mDanny, this is Raffy.’ Danny pushes the mop of hair self-consciously off his face.

‘Barry,’ I say.

Danny holds out his hand. I shake it because, well, no one ever offers to shake my hand anymore. His palm is hot and clammy.

‘Best sit down, mate. How long have you had the fever?’

I gesture for him to take a seat. I need more light, so I throw kindling on the fire and start to fan it with a copy of The Big Issue. Danny scratches his legs, which flake in scales of dead skin that fall to the ground like dandruff. Fresh blood trickles down from where he has just scratched.

‘You’re going to need an antiseptic cream,’ I say. ‘Paracetamol. Plenty of fluids. You like Billy tea?’

‘Uh yeh, thanks.’ He looks around at my camp, and I see the doubt on his face. He pauses then says, ‘you’re a doctor… I didn’t expect… but they say you’re a bit of legend.’

My throat tightens.

‘Used to be, mate.’ I clear my throat. There is a long, awkward silence. I notice that the frogs and night critters have started up again.

‘I’d just started med school,’ Danny offers, breaking the silence.

‘Oh.’ This catches me off guard. ‘What kind of doctor do you want to be?’

‘A geneticist, I think. I uh, heard you were Brooklyn’s GP for many years, Dr Barry.’

My right eyebrow involuntarily moves up. ‘Just Barry will do. You are new around here, aren’t you?’ But you seem to know a lot about me, I think.

‘I am.’

‘Why did you come all the way out here to me, Danny? The Doc in town could have helped you with your erm, illness.’

‘Yeh, I did see Dr King. She told me to see you and tell you you’re needed at the clinic. I’m the third case this week.’

‘Oh, I see now.’ The penny drops. ‘You’re my wife’s messenger.’

‘Your wife?!’ Danny looked around at the camp again. I thought to clarify ‘separated’ but didn’t. ‘She said you knew the most about this. You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?’ Danny points to his legs. I nod.

Raffy walks over to my sleeping bag and settles in for a nap. My mind is taken back to the day Pip and I bought it for a camping trip. She wore a green silk top that brought out the green in her eyes.

I focus back on Danny, who is glaring at me. There’s building desperation in his mannerisms. ‘It’s a nasty virus,’ I say, knowing that will not be enough.

‘A virus? I’ve turned into a fucking part-time merman Barry!’ He shouts. Then he hangs his head and mumbles, ‘sorry Barry. I’m upset. I’d hoped… ’

‘That’s understandable. I call it fish flu. I’m not sure if it is a virus, but that’s my best guess. A few people around here have caught it over the years. But there is somewhat of an outbreak this year.’

‘Is there a cure?’

‘Not that I know of. Submerging your lower half in the river will help with the discomfort though.’

‘Right,’ he said sceptically. ‘Why isn’t this in the news?’

‘It’s a local phenomenon that we keep to ourselves. Some people want to transition. They see it as a rite of passage and use their new abilities to protect the area. Others do not, and that’s ok. Brooklyn is a sacred place with many mysteries, we all try to fit into and protect it in our own way.’ I stand and stretch my back. ‘I’m always here if you need help managing symptoms, though Dr King is more than capable.’

I could see Danny was unsatisfied with my answers. He stood as if to leave. He hesitated, then stiffened, looking past me. I slowly turned to follow his gaze. I had thought it was too dark to see. The ancient carvings looked alive in the flickering light of the campfire. Two women with fishtails swam across each other. Their mouths open as if screaming.

‘Are they Aboriginal carvings?’ He exclaimed.

‘Yes.’

 Danny walked over to the cave. He raised his finger as if to trace them, then stopped. He moved to inspect the circles within circles, that looked to represent bodies of water. Then moved on to the single line that flowed around the figures, a string, with red ochre paint visible in its deepest cracks.

‘Has this virus got something to do with the Guringai? Or the Darug?’

‘Not directly, no. There are stories of mermaids in Arnhem Land, but that is a long way from here. There are merpeople stories from all over the world. Homer had his sirens. The Scots have their selkies. Merfolk from ancient Greece. There are stone age carvings and so on. But the saltwater mermaids in Arnhem Land, the Ji-Merdiwa, are not permitted to be carved, so it does not fit here. I’m working on a theory that this is Guringai documentation of the arrival of fish flu in the Hawkesbury.’

‘Where do you think it came from?’

‘Europe. Though I don’t know how it spreads. It only seems to happen in Brooklyn.’

‘Dr King said if anyone can cure it, it’d be you.’

I felt a familiar tingle run through my chest.

‘You can tell Dr King that I’m working on it!’

*

A few days later, I watch Danny from my lookout. He is staring into the whitewash, where the waves caused by the postman’s ferry collide with the glistening, jagged rocks of the shoreline. His rubber thongs are useless on the slippery algae, so he holds one arm out as if ready to catch himself. I wonder what he can see. I have seen a red string float to the surface here before, at a low tide. Just like how it is depicted in the carvings. He leans forward as if to jump.

‘Danny!’ I yell and bush bash my way down through the gums.

He turns and narrows his eyes at me.

‘What’s this red string?’ He shouts.

‘That red string might see you drown, so leave it.’

‘How would I drown with a fish’s tail for legs?’

‘Well, you could hit your head on the rocks, for one!’

‘What happens if I get in the water here?’

He scowls and moves to get in the water. I lunge forward and grab his arm.

‘No!’ He pulls back, slips and falls into the water.

I see a flash of silver fishtail, but he doesn’t resurface. I dive in after him.

A spiral of bubbling water surrounds me. Waves throw me in every direction. I am disorientated. I need breath. I see Danny’s tail spinning at a distance from me. Red string wraps itself around me. I grab it, pulling it from my neck. Then I cannot hold on any longer and all light withdraws.

*

I cough out ocean and suck in air, filling my aching lungs. Danny has a fist full of my hair, holding my head above the water.

‘Let go! I’m good mate.’ I start to tread water, my clothing heavy in the water.

Still coughing, I look around. Clear turquoise water sparkles around us and seagulls squawk overhead. Amber-coloured cliffs hug the familiar shore of white sand and olive trees heavy with fruit. A woman standing beneath one of the trees spots us. Her basket drops to the ground, and she shouts.

‘Monstro marinho! Monstro marinho!’

‘What’s she shouting?’

‘Sea monster. You’re seen, now it’s time to go mate.’

*

We had quickly returned the way we came and now sat around my campfire, drying off and looking out to the river. Danny looked like a stunned mullet.

‘You think the virus comes through that portal?’ he finally asked.

‘That’s the leading hypothesis.’

‘Where were we?’

‘An island off Portugal. The exact opposite side of the world to where we are now.’

*

Danny is peering out the window as we trundle along in our train carriage. We’re on our way to his university lab with the hope of slipping in unnoticed and running the virus genome. He looks troubled and violently tries to scratch his legs through thick denim. I stare at my reflection in the glass. I barely recognise myself. I’m showered, shaved and dressed in clean clothes. The old Barry glares back at me. He’s curious. Happy to see me.

‘How much longer am I going to itch like this? I feel like I have a family of mozzies living in my jeans!’ Danny asks.

‘It should be backing off soon. Did you try a good soak in the river?’

‘Yep. Tried that.’

He sighs and returns his gaze to the passing scenery. ‘That lady was right. I’m a freak now. A monster.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. What’s a monster, anyway? You’re not hurting anyone. Look for the silver linings. I’ve seen people grow to like and accept the change,’ I offer. ‘You can use medical science to help people. You may even make a scientific breakthrough! And the ladies… they love a self-assured merman.’

Danny grunted, unappreciative of my humour.

‘It is the psychological challenges that are hardest to overcome,’ I conceded. ‘I’ve had my fair share… The important thing is to reach out.’ I think of Pip. If only I’d reached out.

‘Do you miss her?’ Danny asks to my surprise.

‘What? Who?’

‘You’ve got a crap poker face, Barry.’

‘You should reach out. She lit up when she talked about you.’

‘Really?’ My heart leaps.

‘Really,’ Danny smiles, ‘And you’re looking good… you should drop the test results over to her. I’m sure she’d be interested.’

Diane is a lover of storytelling and sharing the curiosities of science. As a Macquarie University Arts (Creative Writing) and Medical Science (Genomics) student, she enjoys finding ways to combine her two interests. Slay Park was her first published fictional work in The Quarry. Fish Tails is the seedling of a much longer story, so watch this space! 

TROUBLED WATERS RECIEVED A HIGH COMMENDATION FOR THE QUARRY’S 2022 FUTURE LEADERS WRITING PRIZE.

Moreton Island used to be widely known for its beaches and coasts. You couldn’t go anywhere without stepping on a tourist’s beach towel or ruining their selfie by mistake, but that all changed when that Facebook post made the late-night news. There was something hiding in the golden sand and crystal blue waters, and it seemed to be searching for prey.

The regional council had to make a public announcement to reassure people that there were no sea monsters on the island, and that the whole thing was an online hoax. Some residents and tourists packed their bags and left the island, while others tried to search for the sea monster using sailboats and scuba gear.

*

‘Do you really think that there’s something near the old lighthouse?’ Remy groaned as he carried the camera and its accessories. ‘There hasn’t been any new stories or sightings, and I heard that the whole Facebook thread was meant to be a new ad campaign for tourists.’

‘That’s because everyone’s looking in the wrong place!’ said Carmen, who had been humming Beyond the Sea. ‘The old tourist never saw the sea monster in the water, they said that it was somewhere near the rocks!’

The two had known each other since their university years, though you would’ve thought that they were brother and sister from how they talked. Carmen loved doing photography and photo imaging, and she ended up making a name for herself from her go-getter personality and skills. Remy, on the other hand, had done business and finance, but he worked with Carmen to create a photography service that was ‘on the go’.  Their newest client had asked them to take photos of sergeant majors, wideband anemonefish, and shipwrecks – and that’s where they were now.

‘I still can’t believe you rented a boat for this. How much did you pay for it anyway? It looks like it’s seen better days.’

The motorboat that Carmen rented was old and worn down, and there was a damp, mouldy stench coming from the wood. She had also promised that she read the boat manual ‘back-to-back’ before she started the engine, but it was practically taking its last breath from the way it stalled and sputtered.

‘…It was about two hundred dollars.’ She said contritely. ‘I mean, the seller said that they’d get the boat in the water for free, and that they’ll throw in the manual as a bonus!’

‘Wait hold on, did you buy the boat? What are you going to do with it when you’re done using it?’ He tried not to think about how she was driving a boat without a licence, but the sound of the starting and revving engine drowned out his rationale.

‘I don’t know, I guess I can sell it to someone else! But what are you waiting for Remy? I don’t think this old girl is going to last for long!’

Remy sighed when he saw some Victoria Bitter bottles and Coca-Cola cans left on the beach. He’d love to go back to the resort and pay his mini-fridge a visit, but that wasn’t an option at this point. Carmen didn’t like backing down from a decision, she would do anything to get the perfect shot of an animal – and sea monsters were definitely a step above fish, dolphins and whales.

‘Okay, okay, I’m coming…’ He rolled his eyes and walked towards the motorboat, the camera gear in tow. ‘But if anything happens, I’m not taking the fall for it!’

It was a small boat trip anyway, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

‘It can’t be, do my eyes deceive me?’ Carmen gasped, pausing for dramatics. ‘Or is a certain someone doing research on sea monsters?’

‘What? No, I was… I was looking at the Facebook page.’ Remy stammered, as he closed Google Chrome and opened the other app.

‘Uh-huh, that’s definitely what I saw…’

Carmen was doing surprisingly well as the boat’s captain, though she had to read the manual a few times when she didn’t know how to change gears.  And while she was busy steering the boat, she made Remy the navigator – which meant marking their destination on Google Maps and letting the app do its job.

Their families would have heart attacks right now if they saw what they were doing. They assumed that Remy and Carmen were taking photos of people at weddings and birthday parties, and that was better than telling them that they worked with animals. It was common for birds and small animals to attack and steal their camera gear, but it was worth the final shot and payment.

Remy didn’t think this was worth the trouble. They weren’t getting paid to take photos of a sea monster, they were supposed to be taking photos of colourful fish and shipwrecks. And if they shared the photos on Facebook, people would think that it was edited and their business’s reputation would fall.

But how would they get out of this alive? They didn’t know whether the sea monster was a kraken, leviathan, or something else that was dangerous. What if there was more than one sea monster? His heart started to pound when he held onto the side of his seat, and it was getting harder to breathe.

‘Remy, are you okay?’ Carmen asked. She stopped the boat’s engine before he could answer. ‘You don’t look good, what’s wrong?’

‘Sorry I… I think I’m seasick or something…’

They hadn’t been out at sea for long, it’d been fifteen minutes at most.

But that was long enough for Remy to overthink.

He could taste the sea salt when he tried to breathe the open air. He could reach the moon and stars when he touched the water’s reflection. There was no telling when he’d fall into the deep darksome abyss. The cries of drowned seafarers and travellers came in the form of harsh waves and wind, as they said one thing, over and over.

‘Don’t let your guard down.’

And the thought of a sea monster causing their deaths formed a pit in his stomach.

*

‘You have arrived.’

Remy had completely forgotten about the Google Maps app until he heard its computerised voice. It scared the life out of him, though Carmen laughed as she lowered the motorboat’s anchor and stepped onto the rocks.

‘Finally! I thought that was going to take forever!’ Carmen sighed, stretching her arms and back. ‘Can you be the boat’s captain on the way back? It’s pretty much the same as driving a car!’

The boat held up despite the spilling waves, though Remy had busied himself with carrying the camera equipment back to ground. His legs were trembling, and he held out one hand to steady himself before he dropped anything.

‘I think that’s the last time I’m getting on a motorboat, or any boat in general…’

‘It’s okay, I’m sure you’ll feel better when you start walking on solid ground!’

She didn’t hesitate to take the equipment and carry it over one shoulder, though he had a feeling that she had done it for his sake rather than hers.

The two took one last look at the boat before they slowly walked across the beach rocks and cobbles. The Google Maps app said that they were close to the lighthouse, but its rays of light were out of reach, and the sound of the waves hitting the shore reminded them of the sea’s lingering presence.

And before Remy could use his phone’s flashlight, his phone popped up with a system notification.

‘Carmen, did you bring your phone? My phone’s battery is low.’

‘Of course, I made sure to charge it before I left!’ She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen, but it didn’t turn on. ‘Wait, I could’ve sworn that I charged it…’

The sound of crumpling plastic stilled them.

‘…Please tell me that you heard that too.’

It was hard to make out anything in the dark, but the pit in his stomach grew larger as his eyes started to adjust.

And it wasn’t a kraken or a leviathan, it was worse.

Remy and Carmen were no more than thirty metres from what appeared to be the sea monster. It had the colossal body of a man, but it used fins and tentacles as its arms and legs. Their eyes were hollow and disproportionate, and they possessed a wide gaping maw that could swallow small boats and ships whole. They were practically an amalgamation of sea animals and beasts that crept out of Davy Jones’ locker, and there was no telling what it could do now that it was out in the open.

‘I don’t believe it… it’s real.’ Carmen murmured, as slowly approached the thalassic chimaera with her DSLR camera.

‘You’re risking your life for a photo op? Really?’ Remy whispered. His heart was pounding, and he considered tossing the camera into the sea. ‘The safest option is to call the regional council and get back to the boat!’

‘It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity! If I take at least one good photo, I’ll be the first person to document a living and breathing sea monster.’

He tried to pull her back, but it was too late – the sound of the camera’s shutter echoed throughout the rock-strewn shore.

And when the camera’s flash went off, she screamed.

What was supposed to be a sea monster was revealed to be a dying dugong.

The creature raised its head in response to the camera’s shutter and Carmen’s screaming, but it couldn’t move its body. It was surrounded by garbage instead of seawater. The sound of crumpling plastic came from the blue disposable bag that was dumped on its back. Its thick skin was dry and cracked from being exposed to the sun, while its mouth was left filled with green nylon nets and fishing line.

Remy called the regional council as Carmen removed the bag from the dugong’s body, but she cried when she heard it groan weakly. There were brown shards of glass embedded in its sides, and its left flipper was trapped in an old can of soft drink.

It didn’t take long for the wildlife rescue team to arrive. They got lectured by the leader for driving an unregistered boat and exploring at night.

‘Sea monsters aren’t real,’ they said, ‘they’re an old sailor’s tale.’

But their definition of a sea monster was outdated – there were other monstrous beings that dwelled the Earth and its Seven Seas, and they would live for hundreds of years.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The fake Facebook thread and text messages were created using zeoob.com and edited using Microsoft Paint. The Facebook thread images were taken from my personal photo gallery, while the text messages’ images were taken from Pexels.com and Imgur.com.

The Google Search was taken from Google before it was edited using PicsArt – the question and answer were written and edited by me. The low battery screenshot was a screenshot taken directly from my OPPO A74 phone and edited using PicsArt and Microsoft Paint.

The dugong photos were created using crayon.com, an AI image generator, and were edited using Microsoft Photo Editor.

Trinity Rosas is a Creative Writing and Philosophy student at Macquarie University. She started writing stories at a young age before she posted them online, and Troubled Waters is the first work she’s published under her real name. She has plans to make a text-based game in the distant future.

I stared at her until her features turned into mush. It was always that way in the dark, her face inches from mine, and so much larger, her breath soft and warm on my face. I’d squirm there in the dark, neurotic about how heavy my head must feel on her arm. Sometimes I’d quietly move it out of guilt, but other times I’d leave it there for hours to see if she would say anything. But she never did.

I stare at her until her features turn into mush. It was always that way in our living room, harsh yellow light sharp against her skin. Her features swirl around in the pool of her face, the glimmer of sweat on her forehead a souvenir from her walk home from work. The last few months of manning the local bakery had started to set in, leaving her cheek with an almost permanent flour stain and caking her dark hair with a penetrating doughy smell. I could feel the leftover croissant bags she walked in with eyeing me from beside our front door, witnessing how our two figures studied each other from opposite ends of the room.

My gaze was returned, and I could see she was biting at the insides of her mouth, every so often taking a breath as though to say something, before letting it out in abrupt sighs and gritting her teeth.

I try to look at her eyes, but it appears they were already looking through mine, sticking out of her skull like apprehensive vultures, perched on the caves of her dark circles, bursting to swoop in, claw out, chew up. The nose between them protruded, equally as condemning. It sat at the edge of its seat, waiting to sniff out, drill in, burn up. Her nostrils were flared, and I could see her collarbones rise and fall with every breath, shaking the small cross that hung from the chain between them. The pink goo behind my own eyeballs began to spin.  

Some nights, as I lay there in the dark, I’d grow exceedingly aware of how small my body was relative to my mother’s. We’d be lying, one next to the other, and my feet would only just about reach her shins, my head tucked underneath hers.

I remember the nights she took me in like that and pulled me close, under the covers, to make sure I was warm and cosy. Protected. Snug. Nurtured. Untouchable… But it was the middle of summer. It was 40 degrees; I didn’t need to be attended to like that. Sometimes, it felt like she was trying to suffocate me. Sometimes she did, and I felt stifled and had to emerge, wake her up, arouse her from her slumber, stop the stifling warmth, pull the cover way down —below my belly button— and secure it in place with both my arms pinned on either side of my body. And I’d breathe again. And I’d sigh, realising how hot my cheeks are, how red my face must be, how it glowed red in the dark, a bizarre pearl in the womb of my room. She’d pull me in again, gentler this time, letting me be —so long as it was under her care. She’d always reach for me in her sleep, her massive limbs swallowing mine, almost hiding me completely. I can’t have been older than five or six.

When I first started school, we’d spend the first part of our mornings lined up and leaning against a fence, withering in the sun like dead flies on a windowsill, uniformed and still in our crooked single file. And there was my mum, across the playground, absolutely beaming, lingering long after all the other parents had left, to make sure I made it to my first class on time and that I was settling well.

She was the first to sign up for every parent-volunteer role imaginable. She never bothered anyone, and I often forgot she was there at all until I’d turn around mid-lunch when someone would point out how the canteen lady who suspiciously resembled me had been staring at the back of my head for the last twenty minutes.

Not even uni could stop her. If she couldn’t be there to make sure I was staying out of trouble, she made sure her warnings rang clear in my head no matter what. I’d collated a series of horror stories against everything —drinks from strangers, drinks from friends, drinks at all… It extended to dressing warm too, of course, and Covid only exacerbated this.

‘Put on a damn jumper, Jamilla, at the very least —please. You’re only hurting yourself.’

But there was a funny urgency in her voice I wished to further acquaint myself with, so I resisted. A jumper wasn’t going to stop me from catching the virus the same way her freshly squeezed orange juice every relentless morning wasn’t going to stop me from trying the drinks she’d vetoed years ago. I had a car now; there was no stopping me. I may have only driven about ten minutes away for a seventy-five cent soft serve, and I may have caught the leprosy she dreaded from a wholly different source many weeks later, but I’d set a new era in motion.

A new era that came crashing down when she decided what’s mine was hers the same way what’s hers was always mine —virus or not. She brought me soup in bed and regularly laid her hand on my forehead, breath held in anticipation, inner thermometer calculating, lips crocheting a soundless prayer. It was my first time seeing her cry. My forehead had told her fingers a number they didn’t like, and they took the heat and spurned a fire she contained until I was asleep. I woke up to the sound of her sniffling at the foot of my bed. I was so taken aback by this, I didn’t know what to do, and so I did nothing at all. I shifted slightly, feigning stirring, buried my head in the pillow face-first and went on pretending to be asleep…

So now I look at her. And now she looks at me. I don’t even really know what we’re fighting about, to be honest with you. This isn’t really about getting the job, or keeping it if I land it, or the late night shifts, or meeting Aidan again, or how he’s just like Thomas (and Thomas was just like dad), or how I didn’t consult her about either —or even about how I didn’t so much as tell her about them at all until they were both gone and I became a soppy, sobbing, wilting heap on my bedroom floor. I feel the distance swelling. I feel the distance between us grow, and I feel the distance between me and something else shrink, and I often can’t tell what it is. I can’t tell whether it’s my demise or my destiny, or whether either of those broad, vague terms really mean anything at all. Sometimes I want to scream and wrench myself away from her, leaving her empty, leaving her claw marks on me, claws severed finally, leaving nothing more than stumps, with deep, ever-raw gashes that bleed onto everything I put my own hands to. My bloodied hands. Literally red-handed. They’ll leave my fingerprints in the ink of her blood wherever I go, a stamp sealing the time the pearl broke the oyster that carried it so close. Warm and cosy, right? Protected? Snug? Nurtured? Untouchable? I vow to carry this guilt with me wherever I go.

But where to, big girl? I don’t want to go. Where else will I go? I can’t escape the thing I need to escape into the most —far, far from the beast that is this world, with its roaring engines and obscene fluorescent lights advertising cheap vanilla poison and charming, broken boys who flash their fangs at you in a smile and, in the next instant, are seen and heard no more, their faces foggy memories you could’ve easily conjured up one boring high school class you’re not sure you ever attended.

I used to think dying was the ultimate escape, but I now see how that isn’t an option for me. If the only memory I’ll live in is hers, I might as well live out here instead. I’ll live out here in a face like hers, with a nose like hers and hands like hers. We are the same down to our pinkies; they share the same swollen knuckle, the same inward bend. I’d hold onto hers with my own on the nights I’d been shaken awake with nightmares. They don’t feel that long ago. The nightmares certainly haven’t stopped, and they make me question whether I ever really grew past five or six.

I stare at her still. I look straight into the mush. There are signs of ageing in the mush, signs I’d never really noticed before. I let my eyes travel from the neck that never sagged like this to the lines on her forehead that only seemed to surface now. I did this to her. I did; I gave her one (just one, Jamilla?) too many nights of crying into her, one (are you sure?) too many arguments that ended with me getting my way anyway, one (million or so, it seems) too many heartbreaks when I’d look her in the eye and knowingly push her away. She never said anything then the same way she never said anything those summer nights as a child, when my head would get too heavy for her arm, when it would block the blood from flowing freely into her fingertips, when her entire arm would go numb but she’d stay silent so I could sleep comfortably.

At least she has laugh lines, right? She’d complained about those before, but I never really looked at them enough to scrutinise what she’d described as her face turning into leather. Seeing them now, I think her laugh lines are the most beautiful thing about her. I think they tell the brighter side of a darker story, like how laughing at her own horrible puns carried us through the ‘car-tastrophe’ that almost killed me last year, nearly robbing her of all she had. Seeing them now, I wouldn’t change a thing. I wouldn’t change the deep craters she has for dimples, or her thick dark brows that shoot up when telepathically communicating with me, or the warm brown of her eyes that she hated in her younger years compared to her sister’s bright viridian. I want to tell her that now. I want to speak into the mush I made of her, to tell her I’m sorry I’m the reason her eyes are more hungry than they are brown, even if it wouldn’t change much. Her eyes are not vultures; and they never were. Her eyes only ever looked in my direction to give. Her eyes withstand the pins and needles. Her eyes are glimpses across a crowded high school cafeteria. Her eyes are soup in bed. Her eyes are… flooding.

I don’t need the world to see that I’ve been the best I can be, but I don’t think I can stand to be where you don’t see me. And autumn comes when you’re not yet done with the summer passing by—*

And here comes winter too. And after it will come the spring, and yet another summer, and the temporary absence of warmth never meant there was none to begin with. It doesn’t mean there isn’t more to come.

Her hungry warm brown eyes continue to swell, and the distance between us shrinks. I take her in under the harsh yellow light of our living room, and I tuck her head under mine. She lets me feel the weight of her head on my shoulder, and I hold still, inviting the paresthesia… Mama, I don’t think I can stand to be where you don’t see me. The pink goo stops spinning.

*Lyrics are from Mitski’s ‘Francis Forever’, from her album Bury Me at Makeout Creek, released by Warner Chappell Music, Inc, 2014.

Karoul (Carol) Riyad is a second-year student doing a Bachelor of Linguistics and Language Sciences & Bachelor of Arts with a Major in Creative Writing at Macquarie University. Her piece ‘My Mother’s Daughter’ was considered ‘Highly Commended’ for the Future Leaders Writers Prize 2022.

This story contains themes of sexual abuse

‘The first time I saw the woman, she was standing across the carriage from me. She was gripping the yellow railing of the train. I remember because she looked dishevelled, and her hand had turned white from her grip. Her hair – fire-engine red – looked like she had been tugging on it. There were little fly-aways everywhere. When she saw me, she kind of tilted her head to the side and maintained eye contact. It was a bit creepy, to be honest. Her eyes had these giant bags that made her look like she had been punched in the face. It was her eyes that haunted me the most, I think.’

*

This train will stop at Lidcombe, Auburn, Clyde, Granville, then all stations to Edmondson Park and Leppington.

Lila was obsessed with the automated voice that sounded across the crowded carriage. She loved the way that it somehow managed to sound both like a woman and a robot. The way the female timbre mixed with something distinctly mechanical never failed to capture her attention.

Lila shuffled her feet on the stairs, accidentally knocking the man squeezed on the step beside her.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured. The train was so full that Lila almost wished she were brave enough to shove people until she could create a space for herself. Clenching her book against her chest and keeping her eyes planted on her feet, she tried to huddle closer to the stair railing instead.

Lila mentally ticked off the stations. Twelve stops to go before home. She would see about getting a seat by Yennora, and then there would only be five stops to go.  

This train will stop at Lidcombe.

Lila watched people shuffle about to let others alight. The man beside Lila slid to stand on the step directly behind her, letting a stream of people push past them. A large woman’s handbag slammed into Lila as she crashed down the stairs, a man with a satchel descending quickly behind her. Through it all, the heat and smell of the man behind her was uncomfortable. Having sprayed on too much deodorant, he smelt strongly of stale spice. The smell left a sour aftertaste in her mouth. Please move away.

As the passengers rushed off the train, Lila counted one, two, three, four people rushing up the stairs to fill any gaps that the exiting strangers had left. She squeezed one hand on the railing, the other mutilating the cover of her book. Please move away. But the man stayed pressed against Lila, moving impossibly closer to her.

Doors closing, please stand clear.

The doors slid shut, the train slowly pulling away from the station with a small jolt. She waited one, two, three, four, five, six seconds but the man made no move to slide back into the vacant position beside her.

Lila forced herself to loosen her grip around her book and take one, two, three shallow breaths. She wished that she were the kind of girl who would pull herself away. The kind of girl who spoke up for herself. The kind of girl who wasn’t afraid to tell people like track star Michael Blake to back-off, get out of my space. Lila felt a light brush of something warm against her backside. She sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

Behind her eyelids, large hands stroked, squeezed, and cupped. The hands swept across her back slowly, trailing down to test the waters. In that faux darkness, the train became the equipment storeroom. Lila had wanted to know the secrets that Michael had promised to share with her, but she hadn’t wanted to do more than make-out a little. She hadn’t wanted that.

No. She wouldn’t let her mind go there. She wouldn’t. The hand was just an accident. There were a lot of people in a small space, and everyone was frustrated about the ongoing train strikes. It was normal for people to brush against each other. The man was standing so close behind her that she probably imagined it. He wouldn’t do that to a stranger. It was fine. Perfectly fine. Then the swipe came again, firmer this time. The hand trailed teasingly from her bottom to her waistline, inching around her sides…

Lila’s eyes bugged open, her hand shoving hard against the railing to catapult herself across the staircase. Her side slammed into the wall with a thump. Dozens of eyes moved in her direction, but Lila found herself returning only one person’s stare.

Standing across the train, the woman’s brown eyes met hers without confusion or curiosity. Her eyes were black, as if she hadn’t slept properly in weeks. With just a small cock of the head, she stared back at Lila, taking in her heaving chest and damaged book. Their eyes only met for three seconds before the woman turned away. Loose strands of her bright red hair masked her eyes as she dropped her gaze to the floor, avoiding Lila’s own stare. Lila felt it was a dismissal and a condemnation all at once.

‘It’s just that your boundaries are so unclear, Lila. It’s hard to know what you want. If you were clearer, it wouldn’t be like this.’ That’s what Michael had said as he pulled up his running shorts. It’s what he had said when he saw her in the school corridor later that week. And again, when she was timing his races. It was what ran through her head when he had asked her out a month later in front of all her starry-eyed friends. Lila felt tears gathering behind her eyes. She swallowed once, twice, and pushed them back. The crowd had returned to their screens, ignoring her once again.

This was now, in a crowded train. Michael wasn’t here. Lila swallowed, running her eyes over all the people crowded together. All the eyes that had been staring at her just a moment ago. If she moved again, would they stare at her again? Would they know? Would they care? That woman even looked away. It was nothing to her. If it was nothing to her, it would be nothing to Lila. She couldn’t even blame the man, could she? It was probably an accident. He probably wanted to get off the train at the next stop, that’s all. It was nothing to be concerned about.

Doors closing, please stand clear.

Lila glanced to her right, but the man was gone. She glanced around the train trying to spot the man, or the small woman with severe, blackened eyes and fiery hair. But both were gone.

This train will stop at Clyde, Granville…

Lila tuned out the mechanical woman. She knew there were ten stops to go. Ten stops and then she could go home. Ten stops before she could wash today’s events away in a boiling hot shower.

Ten stops.   

*

‘I saw her over and over again for the next few years. Each time it felt like she stared at me for longer and longer. I would go home and have a shower, but I could never seem to wash away whatever it was she was doing to me. I would think about her, and then I would think about Michael and then I would ask myself “what is true?”. Was what Michael said true? Did I really bring it on myself? Let me tell you, the more that someone tells you that everything is your fault, the more you start to believe it. Over and over again I would convince myself that Michael was right – that that woman was right to turn away from me. But then I’d think about it some more and convince myself of the opposite. I felt like I was splitting apart, and I don’t know what it was about that woman that gave her the power to do that to me. To put me in that state. She never even spoke to me. Not until that last time.’

*

Lila strode onto the train, scaling the stairs in one, two, three, four steps. Quickly scanning the carriage for an empty seat, she slipped into the last row, eyes catching the woman that had followed her up the stairs. The woman swept past Lila, ignoring the seat left beside her. Lila placed her bag on the seat next to her, hoping that it would deter anyone else from sitting beside her. She kept her gaze away from the other passengers and was just pulling out her book to read when she heard a pointed cough.

Lila swung her head up to the person next to her, instantly meeting familiar brown eyes swamped in black. The bags under the woman’s eyes never failed to jolt Lila. Lila swept a few fallen pieces of hair back into her bun as she squirmed on her seat. The woman stared at Lila’s constant movement, refusing to look away as she usually did. Lila met the woman’s gaze, noting the red lipstick that had smudged onto a tiny tooth that had been ground down into almost nothing. The woman’s mouth twitched in response to Lila’s attention, and Lila could feel her own tongue sweep across her teeth. Still, the woman did not look away. Instead, for the first time, the woman began to speak.

‘My ex-boyfriend used to play this game, you know. He’d come home from work and he’d tell me all these stories. Some were true, some were not. Most of the time they were both. It was my job to figure out which parts were real and which were not.’ The woman tilted her head to the side, mirroring Lila’s perplexed expression. ‘But the asshole could never keep a story straight. How am I supposed to know what’s real when he can’t even stick to a single narrative?’

‘I-I d-don’t know. How?’ Lila’s heart slowed down in her chest.

‘You can’t!’ The woman cackled.

Lila shrunk back into herself, unable to take her eyes off the woman who seemed so dishevelled; like she was splitting apart at the seams. 

‘He didn’t like when I pointed that out. I was wrong he insisted. Wrong! If I got it right, all would be forgiven. If I got it wrong, he would walk out. He said it was to give me “space” to figure out my mistake.’ The woman’s face shut down now, lips stretching down into a frown, eyes flattening back into a dead expression. ‘Maybe I should have been smarter. Maybe I should have known he was lying.’ The woman paused, her eyes misting over as she finished softly, ‘I wish I hadn’t believed him when he told me that it was my fault. That my boundaries were unclear.’

I wish I hadn’t believed him when he told me that it was my fault. That my boundaries were unclear. Lila couldn’t breathe.

‘Hey! You’re scaring my kids. Go get help if you can’t help talking to yourself!’

Lila’s head whipped around at the raspy call. A broad woman on the other side of the train was sneering at Lila, her large hands forcing her son to look away. Her voice had sounded loudly across the space, turning heads in Lila’s direction. Lila’s chest started to burn at the attention of so many people.

Flicking her head back to the woman beside her, Lila was greeted with empty space. There was no one sitting next to her. Just her own reflection in the glass window, her own messy red hair, her own panicked brown eyes staring back at her above dark bags.

This train will stop at Granville.

Gemma Sandblom is an aspiring writer who spends her time reading, daydreaming, writing and studying – in that order. Her writing spans genres, but more often than not, it finds its home in fantasy, where she questions realities. You’ll find her patting her cats and listening to music.