BAD BLOOD, Brendan Hore-Thorburn

Lorrenz sat alone and unseen. He looked out over the fields of frost covered grass that spread down through the shallow, wide valley below Castle Argostine. The sounds of drinking and shouting forced their way up to his solitary perch in the attics above the great hall. He couldn’t bring himself to join them. What was there to celebrate? The whistling winds that fell from the mountains above helped him block out the sounds of merry making but neither could distract him from the dark shape he watched on the horizon. The winds danced and slipped between the walls, towers and halls of the great squat castle at the head of the valley. He had spent much of his youth in these less frequented reaches of the castle, trying to avoid the constant work that his father forced upon him. The King siring a bastard was bad enough, but an idle bastard was a recipe for disaster. Far in the distance great dark shadows grew as they snaked their way over the crumbling roads that lead up the valley. He wouldn’t have long before he would be forced out of his father’s stronghold. He had been found out.

Despite all the care he had taken they had discovered the truth about his rise to the throne. He paced back and forth over the creaking, splintery floors of the attic. How much the lords knew he couldn’t tell, but they knew enough to have already rallied their bannermen to war. Their first real action since the succession wars that saw his grandfather crowned. The lords of the Argos valley were not skilled diplomats nor feared warriors, their long peace was born out of having been forgotten by the wider world. Their pettiness and division kept them out of the thoughts of greater powers. Perhaps his false prophecy about the beast that stalked their lands had set the groundwork for this union that they now brought against him. He shook his head in frustration and the crown shifted out of position slightly. He knew that they would blame him for everything. They would ignore their own part in crippling the kingdom. They never learned. They refused to.

The King, Lorrenz’s reluctant father, had raised him out of a half hearted guilt that he felt towards Lorrenz’ common born mother. Who knows what his bastard fate would have been if she hadn’t saved the King some embarrassment by dying so soon after his birth. Occasionally out of some vague paternal instinct the King would drunkenly pass on useless advice but always followed it quickly with a boot or a cuff out of instinct. Beyond that their relationship was purely one of king and subject.

Lorrenz looked at the large, brass hand-bell that rested on the floor of the castle’s attic. He couldn’t sound the alarm yet. If he did, the mercenaries he had garrisoning the castle would grab what they could and run for the mountains. No. He could only wait until it was too late for them to escape. He wouldn’t give them the choice. They only stayed for his promises of more gold. They drank and celebrated in his name and yet he couldn’t bring himself to join them. Years of thankless service in the shadows and the one feast at which he was welcome seemed so hollow. He didn’t deserve it. But none who wore this ill-fitting crown ever had. Lorrenz had watched his father let power slip through his fingers; he watched the lords grow bold and the land fall into disrepair out of laziness and greed. All this they simply ignored as long as their bellies and beds stayed full. The dark columns of their drab uniformed soldiers inched slowly closer over the crumbling roads, past empty unworked fields.

Perhaps a second prophecy could cement his rule. If only he hadn’t strangled the ragged priest he had brought down from the mountains to deliver the first. He wasn’t proud of what he had done, but he had no regrets. Sebastine had been the man’s name. He had walked the streets announcing the prophecy of the beast for three days and three nights before Lorrenz put an end to him. He couldn’t have the foul tempered old man wandering freely, knowing that there was no beast dwelling in the woods; he would have sparked questions about Lorrenz’ half-brother’s death. The nobles had all wanted the bitter old man’s story to be true. It was kinder to them than the truth that they caused the kingdom’s sorrows. Sebastine had been consumed by his resentment for the world that had forgotten him up in the mountains. Tending to his shrine that none ever visited. He had jumped at a chance for revenge. A bag full of gold and a chance to fool them all… he had looked so scared when he realised that Lorrenz was going to kill him. That was how Lorrenz knew it was right. The priest had lived a bad life. He feared his death because he knew his soul would be found wanting. His disappearance had just added to the mystery of it all, which suited Lorrenz perfectly.

Those long dark nights out in the fields dragging animal carcasses around to leave evidence of the beast, the risks taken sneaking gold out of the keep to pay the mercenaries to be ready to support him when his time came and the endless hours of mixing and testing poisons to find the right one for his father. It had all been with the people’s best interests at heart– he hadn’t once thought of himself. Things couldn’t go on as they had; someone had to take action. The beast had been the story that the lords had wanted to hear. They just shut off and ignored anyone who blamed them for mismanaging the lands and not planning for harsh winters. The people died and they waited in their holds, warm and merry. The beast deep in the woods spreading pestilence and corrupting the earth around it was the convenient tale; it aligned with the lies they told about their ancestor’s heroic deeds and they saw their chance for glory that the painfully long peace had deprived them of. When the true prince, his half brother, brashly jumped at the task of hunting the great beast, their own sons were spared. No-one examined the situation too closely. They had no interest in seeing the truth. It had all gone perfectly. Yet here they were, that grim host that should know no master but him, come to clumsily grind him into the dirt to repay his regicide. Maybe he should go and enjoy the fruits of his horrible labours, even just for a few hours. Was that so wrong?

He once more adjusted the crown that sat awkwardly atop his head, always weighing heavily upon one or other of his jug handle ears. He removed the gloves he had taken to wearing to hide the burns and sores on his hands from exposure to his own vile concoctions. He pressed the cool metal of the crown against them once more, to dampen their constant pain. He was shocked by how grotesque they had become. It must have been penance for the cowardice of his actions. He hadn’t even been there to watch his father die, he had gone to lay an ambush for the returning prince rather than bring him back to be crowned king. He was sure that his vile younger brother watched him now from his shallow grave deep in the woods. The crossbow bolts in his back twitching from the shudders of his dry corpse laugh as he saw Lorrenz’ hard work come to nothing.

He couldn’t deny, even to himself, that his brother’s death wasn’t a more personal matter. He may have gone on to become a good king. But Lorrenz didn’t have it in himself to forgive the brat who tormented him daily knowing that his bastard status forbade any retaliation.

For so many years Lorrenz’ only focus was the throne and what he could do for the people once he was there. But what had he done? What was his legacy? To have bled the coffers as recklessly as his father to keep his mercenary muscle loyal and ready. Emptied the larders, even taking from the villages to keep his army strong. He told himself it was only for a season, but what end was there in sight? Nothing had changed. Maybe time wouldn’t be enough. He wasn’t enough. So far he had preyed upon the people just as much as those who came to dethrone him.

The columns of soldiers were now clearly visible, bristling with ranks of rusty spears and surrounded by their scattered horsemen who scoured the valley for resistance. He deserved whatever fate they felt was just for his crimes. Noone else should have to suffer for what he had done.

He rang the bell as violently as his thin arms would allow, his body vibrating as its peals echoed through the stone towers and high walls before letting it fall out into the courtyard below, clattering and bouncing off slate roofs and cobblestones. He wandered numbly down the winding staircases in the wake of this sound. The merry making turning to panicked shouts as awareness dawned on the mercenaries. They still had a small window of time to try to grab what they could and run for the mountains. They dashed to and fro below him trying to decide what would be worth taking but the effort was farcical. Once Lorrenz was among his mercenaries they continued to rush past him in their mad scramble. He was as invisible as he had always been in this castle, just part of the furniture. The crown askance, his hands raw and throbbing, Lorenz stumbled through the halls of chaos to the mighty oak doors of the entrance. He took the crown, now robbed of meaning, and hurled it so that it bounced along the pavers ringing with long loud notes; quickly snatched up by one of the mercenaries before it had come to a stop.

Lorrenz crossed the shadowy courtyard that the sun could not yet reach over the walls and made for the still half open front gate of the castle. No-one had taken the time to close it: they had no interest in a siege. Once out in the open beyond the walls he was bathed in the pale light of the autumn sun through a thin screen of clouds. He could hear the faint rumble of hooves striking the hard ground over the soft crunch of his boots on the frosted grass. A few minutes passed as he walked onwards between the sparsely scattered trees in front of the castle. Their branches well on their way to wintry nakedness, only holding onto the occasional red or brown leaf. How could he think that he could truly be king?

The column of soldiers crested the shallow rise before him, their hollow cheeks and tired eyes filled Lorrenz with pity. At the column’s head sat Count Orlands with his many chins poking out over his ill fitting chest-plate. His displeased look lingered on Lorrenz for several seconds as he grasped at foggy memories of the boy. None came to mind as he had spent his time at the castle feasting with his back turned towards the bastard prince, except shake his silver goblet above his head rather than verbally demand more wine. He couldn’t waste time emptying his vast and busy mouth.

‘Come to do the right thing have you?’ Orlands asked with surprising nonchalance.

‘Yes.’ he said solemnly, knowing that he was signing away his life. He had gone too far.

‘Good, can’t have a bastard running about when the king and heir are dead. Could have a bastard on the throne if we’re not careful. It’d be an abomination… Go’on string him up.’

They didn’t know about any of what he had done. He was being killed for being born. Lorrenz was dumbfounded. The crowd of soldiers before him showed no interest in his death. Only a handful bothered to watch as he kicked and thrashed, hung from a straggly birch barely able to hold his weight. They could at least have hated him, the way they had hated his beast. But no. Instead they would remember the beast that was never there and continue to kneel at the feet of monsters.


Brendan Hore-Thorburn is an emerging writer who focuses on otherworldly fantasy and science fiction. He is studying a bachelor of arts majoring in ancient history and minoring in creative writing, has published in Macquarie University’s The Quarry and has been highly commended for the Future Leaders Writing Prize.

THE FACTORY FLOOR, Harley Kendrick

Francisco Goya
Saturn Devouring His Son
1819-1823

The dim glow of the lighter was the only thing guiding her through the darkness. Her bare feet with their hardened soles tread softly, the thrashing of heavy machinery deafening in the night. Hammers striking hard and fast, one after the other a line of echoes stretch far throughout the factory town, through its walls and out into the wilderness. The only thing that comforted her in their trek was knowing that each step was pushing the echoes further away. But still, she knew they had to be careful.

If the Workers were still firing the machines then that meant no one knew they’d escaped the cage yard yet. The Janitors would stick to the perimeters of the workforce as long as there was no word of an escape. It was only the Hunters, they needed to fear. They could be anywhere, their lanterns cutting through the darkness like a knife to a sheet. Traps were still laden everywhere, with the low light they had to watch their steps. The cold metal floors were scarred with deep reaching gashes, travelling for several metres in length.

Holding the lighter arm’s length ahead of her, Alex led her sister forward. Their cold hands clasped together tightly, interlocked with the intention of never letting go. They trod on gingerly, seeking a safe place to rest. For the moment, their world was the few feet of light in front of them. It’s in the maw of the darkness that you can get lost. But it’s in this darkness that you can also hide from them.

Moving past tall, jagged, columns and large pieces of fabric scattered along the way Alex and her sister came across an old workshop. Like a graveyard of huge anvils and dead furnaces, their hearts long since extinguished. Large pipes wobbled and groaned in great effort to stay together, pinned piece by piece with rusted bolts.

Water fell from the sky, but it wasn’t rain, there was no sky anymore, there was the space between the ground and the ceiling, a ceiling that dripped and leaked. Sometimes pouring gallons of water or only small drops. As though the head of a tap was spinning out of control.

The drips picked up as the metal floor became colder, wetter. Where footsteps soon turned into splashes and the water falling down would make distinct splashes on the floor and a particular thwack against their coats. Rising now to their knees the water kept growing higher as they walked further. They’d come to the edge of a huge lake, and there was no telling how deep or how far it reached into the darkness. Her feet stopped when the hand she was holding stopped moving with her.

‘Alex’ a short whisper reached out. She stopped to turn to her sister. A tired and pleading face was what she was met with. Watching her sister, her gaze cold and tired she nodded in agreement.

‘We’ll turn around. Set up where the floor isn’t flooded. We’ll try and cross tomorrow’ Alex’s eyes softened at the relieved smile of her sister. Taking the lead, they backtracked away from the lake.

Alex knelt down by a large piece of discarded cloth, almost large enough to be the sail of a ship, it must have belonged to a Janitor. Right beside it was a split piece of timber. Tugging the cloth as flat as they could the two picked a side, lifting it up together they squirmed underneath while carefully pulling the timber in after them. Once underneath they stood the timber up to form a makeshift tent.

Alex ignited the lighter. Seeing her sister’s face, she smiled.

Kaylie’s long blonde hair spilled out from her hood, the bright blue eyes stood against the dirt covering her face. Freckles were buried somewhere under the grime. The leather jacket clung to her snuggly, a bit too small for her now, but that was all they had. Standing it would hang down over her thighs, exposing the tears and cuts across her knees. Sitting cross-legged the scars on the base of her naked feet were plain to see.

‘What?’ Alex returned to her sister’s eyes. A small smile crept across her lips. She reached out with her hand,

‘Come here Kaylie.’ Kaylie accepted the invitation and lent towards the hand.

‘You’ve got something on your face.’ Alex softly wiped at her cheek with her thumb. This received a light snort from Kaylie as she smiled back. Pulling her hand away she had left behind an oddly out of place smudge among the filth burying her sister’s face. She kept watching her sister as she adjusted herself, her smile. Reminding her of how it could be, once they reach ‘The Grasslands.’

‘Alex, you ‘kay?’ Alex sighed as she realised a frown had crept across her lips. The girl laying down in front of her looked worried.

‘I’m fine,’ she said curtly.

‘Oh… Okay’ Alex reeled slightly at the disheartened voice of her sister.

‘Hey,’ leaning closer to grab her sister’s attention Alex added ‘we’ll be fine too’

‘Will we though?’ Kaylie‘s voice trembled,

‘We’re running out of food- rats keep getting caught in the traps made for us. And what if we end up like Mum, Dad and the others. Y’know, all it takes is one Hunter’ Kaylie glanced down, dodging her sister’s eyes. Alex sighed. She gently pet the back of her sister’s head, moving to the top as she looked back up.

‘No Hunter is going to find us. Being hungry doesn’t bother us. We’re going to get to The Grasslands.’

‘Were Mum and Dad telling the truth? About The Grasslands. Y’think it’s real?’ Kaylie didn’t have a chance to blink,

‘Yes, yes it is. And we’re going to make it there.’

Leaning further forward, ignoring the muck Alex lightly pecked her sister on the forehead. With a flick of her wrist the lighter snapped shut.

*

After waking they set back out into the lake. They had been walking deeper and deeper into it, up to their waist in water. It had been over an hour of dredging through the lake. Hands held together the lighter led them forward. Their chilled limbs were stiff and hard to move as they heaved each step forward. Alex felt a sudden jerk at her hand as Kaylie suddenly screamed. The scream shrill and piercing, Alex threw her palm over the parted lips. Seconds went by and Kaylie was holding her breath. The only noise to come next was a whimper of a whisper,

‘Leg.’

Alex followed with one word, ‘Breathe.’ Kaylie’s hand was over her mouth as tears cut lines into her dirt ridden face. Alex flicked the lighter shut with a quick, sharp, but quiet snap. The darkness enveloped them immediately. She knelt down. Feeling along her sister’s leg she found what it was, a spiked rat trap had clamped around her leg. She stood back up and gave a reassuring squeeze of Kaylie’s hand.

They sat still. Breathing. The water calmed. Their breathing slowed. The echoes slowed down. The hammers slowed. Creeping to a halt entirely. The echoes trailed off, the last one boding the finality of a bell ringing.

The quiet air was filled with the pitter patter of dripping water against their coats. Lungs constricted with fear rattled with each breath as they continued to listen. A sound. It rushed toward them violently. A roar far in the distance. Sounding like a strained breath it screamed out. It kept screaming for several seconds, its own echoes catching up to each other with every fresh breath of anger.

The moment they ceased there were huge, heavy reverberating thuds. Soon after these thuds the machines fired up again, their burning hum building a symphony with the hammers as they restarted their beatings. The thuds didn’t stop. They got louder, louder still. Alex and Kaylie dared not move, too afraid to do anything they stood perfectly still. Statues in the lake they waited, unanimously and wordlessly they decided not to move. Everything was so still, almost as if the air and water had agreed with them, as though fear was struck into every inch of the factory. They kept getting louder, and now a light shake of the scaffolding could be heard as it lightly rattled. Then, a new sound.

Crack.

Crack, like a joint popping.

Cracks.

Cracks, like multiple joints popping. The cracks sent shivers down Alex’s spine as Kaylie’s grip tightened around her hand. The creaking bones were moving, they were doing something, as they shook the scaffolding. Ripples. Ripples. The girls could feel ripples. Without thinking Alex carefully ignited the lighter with one clean stroke. In unison they lowered their eyes to the water around their waists. Now they could see ripples. Whatever it was had carefully- and quietly, lowered itself into the lake from the scaffolding. It was in there with them, it was in the lake… looking for them.

Almost as quickly as she had opened it, Alex closed the lighter, pulling the two back into darkness. The shifting water bent and wrapped around the girls. Weak waves bouncing off of them in response. In spite of all her instincts screaming at her to hold still, in spite of everything she had learned and taught herself, in spite of what was best for survival, she tore herself away from her position. Uprooting her feet with all the strength she had. She tugged on Kaylie’s arm with the intensity she would rouse a baby from its sleep. With a shivering gasp Kaylie eased away. The refusal to move spoke volumes. Alex persisted.

She knew that if they stayed put they’d get caught, she could feel it deep down. No Hunter could climb down from scaffolding that high. There was no light either. A Hunter always had its lantern, even Janitor’s carried torches. But there was no light. This was something different.

She heard it, a small splash, the ripples were getting more intense as well. Crack. A slow deep breath made a horrible gargled whistle, as though the air it drew in was dragging along its throat, trying to claw its way out. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. Its hand was right there, fingers outstretched and feeling around.

For no other reason than intuition, she pulled out the lighter and flicked it on without a sound. This thing didn’t need light, why? What illuminated in front of her was a huge grey hand with wrinkled sagging skin, the purpled fingernails larger than her head. It leered over her.

Naturally she sank down into the water, creating as much space between her and the hand as she could without letting it know she was there. Kaylie followed suit. It moved forward. Hand going over them the length of its arm kept going with dark brown sleeves. It had crooked bends and points, as though it had multiple elbows. The sleeves met a heavy overcoat, it wasn’t as tall as a Hunter, closer to the average Worker, its arms were excessively long. Its face. Heavy grey skin drooping down and swaying with its movement. Its lips were hung open exposing the lower row of shark-like teeth. Its eye sockets empty spaces where extra skin sat, cradled by the gaping holes.

Suddenly it clicked, she had never seen one like this before, and it was also able to command the Workers, this must be the Foreman that her parents had told her about. The one who runs the Workers. Alex lightly tugged on her sister again, this time slightly to the side so that the Foreman could pass. They moved over ever so slightly. Kaylie stumbled. Ever so slightly. The trap. A tiny splash is all it made. And all it took. The Foreman grunted as it quickly lashed one of its hands at the noise. Perfectly slamming into Kaylie.

Her shout was muffled as she was driven underwater. For just a moment. Soon she was being lifted all the way out. Now she was screaming as much as her lungs would allow. Their grip only tightening as Alex was now being pulled out of the water too. She yelped at the realisation. She kept holding on tightly crying out,

‘Everything’s going to be okay! Don’t let go!’ their grip was slipping. Tighter still she tried to hold on, abandoning the lighter she grabbed on with her other hand. She still couldn’t hold on. The Foreman was using its other arm to pull itself back to the scaffolding. Her hands slipped and she fell back into the water.

Coming out of the water she gasped as she called out ‘Kaylie! Kaylie!’ There were no other sounds, Kaylie had stopped screaming. Alex froze in the moment. Tears began to roll down her face as she couldn’t control her sobbing. And that’s when she heard it. Crack. Leering just behind her. Fingers outstretched. She could feel it. Ready to grab her. She closed her eyes, Kaylie’s face came to mind.


Harley Kendrick is a writer based in Sydney Australia. The fantasy genre and its sub-categories are his favourite forms in terms of the stories he tells. Exploring unique and special worlds through the eyes of the characters he creates, readers are able to experience his creative visions.

SHARDS OF GLASS, Lauren Grzina

The sinking sun casts golden light across the porch and front door. It makes the door seem haunted or spectral like it’s some gateway to another world. But it’s not; it’s just an old wooden door splintering at the hinges that creaks when it’s opened.

Without pausing I toss my bag into the living room and make my way into the kitchen. I open the fridge to find it almost empty. There’s three cups of my mum’s low-fat yogurt and two bottles of my dad’s expensive wine half-drunk that I’m not supposed to touch. I grab a yogurt cup.

Leaning against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island I find a small envelope with my name in my mother’s neat handwriting across the front. I untuck the note from the envelope:

We’ve gone to Melbourne. Back in 3 days.

No ‘love you’. No ‘sorry’. No warning. Just gone.

Rage heats my body and makes my head hurt. 

I open the fridge and without reading the label choose a wine bottle. I bring the bottle to my lips and down half its contents in three big swigs.

Something snakes its way up my leg. Long fingers that feel as thin as flower stems but as strong as chains. I look down and almost miss the shadow holding my leg. I try to tug my leg away from the shadows. It doesn’t budge. I grip the counter and with the violent intensity that could bring down a grown man, I kick my leg. The fingers around my ankle never slip, just tighten.

With just a swift tug it has me on the ground. The bottle shatters, scattering shards of glass across the kitchen floor around me.

It takes the opportunity to rapidly ascend my leg and wrap itself around my torso, like a boa constrictor. It drags me so quickly through the house that everything—the walls, the floors, the furniture—blends and folds together. I feel the kitchen tiles, the wooden flooring of the dining room, the shaggy rug in the living room. Above me the white ceiling blurs with the yellow hue of the lights, making a murky, streaky mess.

My thrashing only makes it tighten its grip around my waist and legs until I can’t breathe. My hands try to find a purchase on the shadow, but I can’t grasp it. My fingers fall through it like it’s not even there. But it is. It’s all around me, smothering me, crushing me.

It’s black and translucent and it’s pulling me towards an inky black hole in the middle of the living room, the depth of which I cannot tell. As it pulls me closer, I resist more, and it tightens more. My heart is galloping. The harder the shadow squeezes my waist, the more I feel like my heart is going to be squeezed out of me like a sauce packet.

Then I’m going down the inky black hole. Down. Down.

                                                                                                Down.

                                                                                                            Down.

                                                                                                                        Down.

                                                                                                                                    Down.

                                                                                                                                             Down.

I enter my house; the door opens with a long creak. The door closes behind me shutting out the noise from the streets, leaving me in silence.

Sometimes I think my house is haunted. I always feel like I’m being watched even when I’m alone. Like there is something tucked deep into the blackness of the shadows cast in the corners. The shadows seem to breathe, slightly expanding and contracting in intervals. Something was there, I was sure, coiled in the shadows waiting for a moment to spring.

I toss my school bag in the living room and go to the kitchen.

My parents’ note from the previous day is still sitting on the kitchen island. Shards of the broken wine bottle were scattered across the floor, but I fail to remember why.

I grab a yogurt from the fridge and sink to the floor, my back resting against the cabinets. Loneliness is a heavy feeling. A seed as heavy as a stone in the pit of my stomach.

I place my empty yogurt cup on the ground beside me, accidentally cutting my palm on the shards of glass littering the floor. I press my thumb against the wound which throbs against it. 

I rummage through my dad’s liquor cabinet filled with gifted spirits and expensive wines for a suitable disinfectant. Using one of my dad’s unopened bottles of alcohol as disinfectant would definitely piss him off when he gets home. 

I grab a vodka bottle from the depths of the cabinet, and I pour only a couple of drops of vodka on the wound, but the skin still burns and screams.

I examine the bottle, toying with the idea of trying some. I’ve tried sips of my dad’s wine or beer when I was younger, but I’d never had vodka.

Quickly I grab a shot glass from the cabinet’s top shelf and pour myself a little vodka like I’m expecting him home soon. Tentatively, I taste it. I savour the taste on my tongue.

I polish off the glass like it’s water. I like the way it burns. I pour my second. Third. Fourth.

Something nudges my heel, creeping up the side of my foot, rubbing against it and grasping my ankle. It is nothing but the shadow of a vine but has the strength of steel.

The thing from the shadows had finally made its move. Its eyes were on me, but now it is ready to attack.

It races up my leg. I try to kick it away, but it never budges, it just coils around tighter and tighter.

With its iron grip, it pulls me to the ground, wrapping a second arm around my other leg as it pulls me quickly down the hallway. The house goes by in a blur, I feel the terrain beneath my back change from tile to wood to rug. 

My phone slips from my dress pocket, I manage to grab it before I’m pulled away. I squeeze my phone in my hand as the shadow squeezes me harder. It moves further up my body and wraps itself around my chest, so I can’t breathe. I panic as I see a large hole opening up in the living room floor. The hole is so inky black I cannot tell its depth. I try to thrash against the shadow, but it doesn’t matter it still tightens and tightens and tightens.

My vision starts to spot, colourful explosions in front of my eyes and then the spots get bigger, and the house turns black and white.

With the palm of my hand, I accidentally activate the flashlight on my phone. Despite my failing vision, it burns my eyes, I turn it away and—

The creature recoils, just enough that I can breathe. I suck the air in like it’s water, and I’ve just journeyed the desert. The creature is still pulling me, but slower, almost cautious. 

I flash the light on the shadow again and it recoils again. So, I hold the light closer to the shadow and it jolts, detangling itself from my leg.

I get up off the floor, waving the flashlight towards the shadow like I’m wielding a sword. The shadow curls up on itself and slowly shrinks in size, as does the inky hole behind it.

I don’t wait to see them disappear. I run upstairs to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

Sometimes I think I’m haunting this house. Haunting my parents

I could stomp down the stairs, loud enough to shake the photo frames on the walls and they’d barely even take notice. It’s like any frequency of noise I make they’re not tuned into. When I come into the room my father will flick his eyes over me with the same disdain he regards the politics page in the newspaper with, but nothing else will move. When my mother has guests over, she doesn’t even look at me. If I make a noise and her friends look at me instead of her, she says, ‘Oh, just ignore her’, and laughs, high and shrill like silver bells. Like I’m just some poltergeist living in her walls.

So, I decided today I’m not going to go to school. My parents’ note was still in the kitchen, along with the glass shards. I saw them every time I went to the kitchen hungry only to remember there is no yogurt left. I ate it this morning, while I mulled over whether I should go to school.

The hunger pangs are sharp now though, so I wander into the kitchen and open the fridge just to be reminded there is still nothing.

I slam the fridge door closed and pull open every door and cabinet in the kitchen, pulling out glasses, bowls, plates, and cutlery to the floor on the hunt for any bit of food my parents’ might have hidden.

I eventually reach the bar cabinet and sift through all the labels in my father’s alcohol collection. I pick the Melbourne-themed souvenir shot glass—a toast to my parents perhaps—and the vodka bottle from the back of the cabinet.

But by the time I slug my fifth shot, I can feel something crawling up my leg and pulling at my ankle. I jolt backwards and the vodka bottle falls from the top of the cabinet and smashes around my feet.

The thing pulls me again, I look down, and see only a thick strap of shadow wound up my leg. I try to shake it off, but that only encourages it, as it wraps tighter and tighter and up and up my leg.

My heart thar-rumps. My face is flushed. I reach down to shove the shadowy creature, but my hands just can’t connect. With every kick and flail the shadow creature fights back harder and faster.

It gives one swift, hard tug and I fall on my back, my dress pockets emptying on the floor beside me.

I wildly search for something at my side to help me and my hand grasps at the little lighter. I flick the trigger and put the flame against the shadow. It jerks back. I go at it again, dragging the lighter across as much as I can reach. It rapidly detaches itself from my leg.

We stay apart for a just a breath. I close the lighter flame. It jumps at me and before I can react it wraps itself around my face. I can see and hear nothing except darkness. I try to scratch it off my face, but my hands can’t grasp it. I can’t breathe, the shadow covers my mouth and nose. I struggle to ignite the lighter flame.

I try once, nothing.

Twice—nothing.

Thrice and the flame ignites. I assume it touches the shadow, because it jumps back, so the spilt alcohol is pooled between us.

I touch the lighter to the puddle and it erupts into flames. I turn and run.

*

Ash falls like rain around me, speckling the street. The emergency vehicles cast red and blue hues over the neighbours’ houses. But nothing reflects off the blacken, razed mess of my former house.

Even with the air polluted with smoke, it was the first time in a long while I could breathe. The heavy smoke-filled air couldn’t hold me down. I felt light, my heart was soaring. I could barely feel my feet against the ground.

A taxi containing my parent’s perfectly manicured figures in the back pulls into the street. They jump out of the taxi before the taxi could come to a complete stop. From their frantic gestures, I can tell my mom was crying and my dad was angry. They only looked at the house though, they didn’t search the crowd for me. With the mess of people, vehicles, and equipment, it’s easy for me to slip away. I bet nobody will even realise I’m gone.


Lauren Grzina is a Sydney based writer. She was published in the 2018 KSP Ghost Stories Competition Anthology, Night Works, for her story The Midnight Creature. Lauren has also been highly commended for the Future Leaders Writers Prize. Lauren is often inspired by fantastical stories and otherworldly creatures and has a soft spot for morally grey characters.

DEATH COMES AROUND LIKE CLOCKWORK, Ahrya Reddy

Alvara’s father had always told her about the chest of gold coins buried within the sands of Selle island. He had intended it to be her inheritance one day. He had long since given up pirating but had kept a map to this last vestige of treasure that he promised to gift her come her twenty-first birthday. After his death, Alvara had not been able to find that map anywhere. She had lost both her beloved father and the promise of a future fortune that she’d dreamt about since she was a child.

Until one morning when she was walking through the fading night-time darkness along the solitary streets of Freywood harbour. Opposite the harbour, hidden in the alcoves of Dahlia Street stood The Dead Helm—a tavern bustling with travellers alongside villagers, mercenaries and the occasional guild meeting. Alvara worked there most mornings, heaping bowls with soup of stewed meat and vegetables. She plated the steaming piles of food and placed them on the stained wooden countertop and continued with the next batch of food. She heard of a docked pirate ship at the port and surveyed the room, a rowdy bunch of pirates sat at the centre of the room sculling tankards of beer.

She overheard a man wearing a long gold-threaded coat, she assumed he was the Captain, rambling to his crew. ‘It’s East of Selle. That’s where it’s buried, not West.’

‘Ay,’ The crew jeered.

She stopped ladling soup into bowls at the words of a foreign location. It was not so foreign to her. Selle’s coordinates were ingrained in her head.

Isn’t this the map father spoke of?

Alvara flung the ladle back into the steel pot and approached the congested table of pirates. She slapped the bowls down. There was a moment of startled silence at her intrusion, accusatory curses murmured from the crew.

Self-righteous pricks, she thought to herself.

The man who had been addressed just now as ‘Captain’ turned to his seatmate questioning the map’s presumed written clue.

Wandering and tumbling down the hills. The weeping willow sat still, she repeated in disbelief at the words spoken aloud. Father left it for me.

Alvara collected the empty tankards and returned to the kitchen, bumping into others on the way, ignoring their stares. She frantically placed the tankards amongst the organised chaos.

How did those low lives get my father’s map, Alvara wondered.

There was only one explanation, she decided as she buried herself away back in the kitchen. They murdered him. Alvara clutched a knife and buried it into the ingrained oak table.

She breathed in and out, not understanding the weight of her emotions. A grin curled on her face as she snatched the barman’s loose shirt, trousers and belt before she made her way out of the tavern.

She had a plan in mind.

*

Alvara scurried along the dockside in her loose attire, searching for the Captain’s vessel. She came upon a grand Brigantine ship, its beige sails billowing above its black hull. The vessel’s figurehead was a veiled skulled woman, a guiding eye for the men at sea.

Revenge of the Damned, she read on the ship’s side. Alvara continued and walked the gangplank onto the docked ship, surveying her surroundings.  She stood along the deck at the bow, a cool draught of air blew errant strands of her short onyx hair. The breeze howled in a low whistle. The ocean breathed, the surface rising and falling with rhythmic ease. The waves echo of the souls kept safe in its cradle of brine.

The only woman allowed on this ship is a dead one, Alvara threw her head back in frustration.

A commotion arose from the docks as the rest of the crew began trailing their way back onboard, the wooden floors creaked. Alvara winced. She reclined onto the beams and huffed.

‘A boy, Captain Warwick! Aboard our ship.’ Murmurs of confusion encompassed the crew as they saw a petite figure aboard their vessel.

Men were shoved to the side as the Captain ventured closer to Alvara. ‘What are you doing on my ship?’

‘To join your crew.’

‘You? A puny boy like yourself.’

 ‘I can pull my own weight,’ Alvara pushed off the beam, ‘I assure you, Capt’n.’

A man stood behind the Captain with the leather map grasped between his hands. Alvara viciously eyed it. Silence surrounded the deck in anticipation of his decision.

‘Fine boy! You can join. ‘If you slight me in any way,’ the Captain gesturing to the figurehead, ‘I’ll skull you like Old Ada over there.’ Captain nodded to the man by his side. ‘Fletcher here will tell you of your duties. Do you understand, boy?’

Alvara stared blankly at him. ‘Yes, sir!’ she mockingly asserted.

‘Captain, best be on our way to Selle now,’ Fletcher interjected, ‘You. Need to get you to work.’

Alvara’s mouth twitched at the Captain’s agitation. She hoped his head would soon get decapitated by a broken mast.

He wrenched his intense gaze off of her, turned to Fletcher and tore the map from his grasp. ‘Set the sails!’ he bellowed.

The crew flurried at the Captain’s instructions. Alvara stared at the leather bounded map clasped in the Captain’s hands soiled with dirt and remains of an early morning supper.

‘What’s your name? Or I’ll keep calling you boy,’ Fletcher interrupted Alvara’s thoughts.

Ace? That’ll do, she thought. ‘The name’s Ace.’

‘You’re the new Deckhand.’ Fletcher brought Alvara over to a bucket and mop. ‘Welcome aboard Ace,’ he pushed the mop into her chest, fixed his spectacles and left her with her duties.

Above, the clouds settled low and dark in the sky; a storm was making itself known.

Bloody four-eyed bastard. Alvara hauled the bucket, water splashing uncontrollably. She dipped the unruly mop into the bucket and got to swabbing the deck.

*

With rough waves ahead, the crew worked hard to rig the ship whilst Alvara was hard at work scrubbing the deck of dirt and build-up of salt. Her bones ached and creaked like the panelled floors she mopped.

‘Eh, boy over here. Over here,’ one of the riggers pointed to the front-left of the deck, ‘You missed a spot.’ He spat. The rest of the riggers laughed alongside him.

Useless, she kept swabbing the deck. Piece of shit. Up and down in a row. She tossed the bucket and strode to the rigging crew with the mop in hand. She tossed it in the air, caught it by the bottom and swept it under the offender’s legs.

THUMP.

She sneered. The crew stopped laughing, the rigger swore at her while the Captain watched from the upper deck. ‘Boy! Watch it.’

Alvara swivelled her smirk now a grimace. ‘I…’ Darkness engulfed Alvara, a storm of fury quelling her rebuttal.

‘Sails down. NOW.’

As they struggled against the gale, the gulls are tossed paper in a storm, flashes of white amongst the grey. Beneath them, the sea rises as great mountains, anger in the form of water, turbulent and unforgiving.

‘Ace! Continue swabbing,’ shouted Fletcher.

The crew began furling the sails, brine water crashed on the deck. The ship was rocking side to side like a baby’s cradle in the ocean’s palms. There was no end in sight. While the men around her ran around screaming orders or yelling desperate prayers, she found herself moving in slow motion. Not even a life-threatening storm could wrench her away from her revelation and grief, reliving the moment she had realised these men were her father’s murderers. She felt almost as hollowed out and hopeless as she had when she’d first come across her father’s cold body, so still and lifeless. Another wave crashed against the starboard side and sent another pirate crashing into her. Alvara managed to break their fall by bracing herself against the boat side railing. She was about to savagely rebuke the pirate when she noticed a golden coin dangling from his neck, hanging off a black thread. The shiny metal glinted in the moonlight. Her heart stuttered and she felt herself move headily past grief and into a mind-numbing rage. That was her father’s necklace. She remembered it as clearly as if it were yesterday.

She pounced forward, the pirate her prey as she clutched the necklace between her slender fingers, ‘Where did you get this?’ she hissed. She coiled the cord around his neck, restricting his airways, suffocating her prey every time he breathed. She straddled his slumped body on the ground, all his colour drained. She tore and draped the necklace around her own, fingers dragging against the engraved coin with her initials. The necklace reminded her of good memories amongst all the cruel ones she had.

They killed him. Alvara choked back her tears. Her bloodthirst was still unsated.

A hand clawed outside of the ship, another man dangled from the starboard side screaming for help. Alvara’s rage destroyed her from the inside, an inferno of emotions erupted as she dragged herself to the starboard in front of the screaming man. Her hot rage became a cold smoulder of suppressed anger. She plucked each of the man’s fingers off the railing—one, two, three…until he was engulfed by pacifying waves.

The ship battered and bruised from oncoming waves, the ocean poured countless tears at the feet of men onboard before calming at the arrival of nightfall. As the ship sailed on through the night, Alvara watched on in silence, her nails cutting into her palms, drawing scarlet blood from beneath. 

*

At dawn, the ship docked on the island of Selle with fewer men than they left with. Alvara trailed behind the Captain, the rest following behind, except for Fletcher who stayed on the ship.

‘Keep up the pace,’ the Captain said. He held the map tightly in his agitated state. The trek was long and his agitation grew with each failed attempt at locating the treasure.

Alvara and the entire crew followed through tangled roots and broken vines, winding their way through the jungle into an open space. The sun blinded Alvara as she stepped into patches of golden sand. The Captain procured a brass compass out from his coat. He located the East of Selle and trekked towards the awaited gold. Palms waved in the breeze as the crew strode between each massive tree. They came to a stop in front of boulders piled on top of each other, trickles of evergreen moss clinging to the crevices.

‘It says the treasure is here. Start digging.’ The Captain shut the compass and grunted in anticipation.

Alvara bounded over and started digging with the others.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The crew dug with intensity, spades filling up with wet sediment, sand and rocks. Again, and again. A repetitive flow of digging continued, until, a sharp sound of metal slammed against a chest. Alvara looked on in shock. The Captain pushed through, tossed the map onto the ground and tugged the chest from below with the help of the crew. He grinned in glee as he unlatched the hook revealing gold coins, jewellery and a hardbound journal. Alvara’s eyes widened at the fortune. Her anger flared.

My father didn’t disappear.

Alvara’s hands tremored as she arose from the pit.

They killed him.

She grabbed a curved splintered rock as she approached the Captain from behind. ‘Do you know a W.H. Leighstone?’ she whispered. 

Before creeping up behind him and bashing the rock against his skull. He fell to the ground in pain, ‘You little shit.’ Warm blood trickled down his forehead.

‘You killed a man, Captain,’ she crouched down to be level with his gaze.

‘I’ve killed many men, boy,’ he croaked.

‘You killed my father. I’ll avenge him for it,’ she didn’t let him speak, ‘You got another thing wrong. I’m not a boy.’ She held him and impaled the rock down into his chest, repeatedly stabbing him in her rage, painting her face with his splattering blood.

The crew watched in horror at her wrathful vengeance. The Captain’s indistinguishable face was nothing but a battered carcass of flesh and bones. Alvara stood and faced the crew directly with blood dripping down her face, she grinned menacingly at them. She made her way back to the ship with the treasure in tow.

The Captain’s body was left to rot.


Ahrya Reddy is a poet and writer who is inspired by her culture and experience of being a South Asian woman of colour. She is passionate about exploring and celebrating queerness, mental health, and feminism within her writing. Outside of writing, Ahrya indulges in book-hoarding tendencies and excessive daydreaming.

Yellow, Aylish Dowsett

Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash

You’re nervous.

You’ve wiped the sweat from your palms three times now. Yet your hands still shake. A little tremor. Nothing too violent.

You choose the powder blue shirt over the others, matched with silver cufflinks. They’re scratched, but they do just fine. They’re your lucky pair.

You readjust your shirt as it sticks to your back, the scent of lemon seeping from your skin. She bought you that. You liked the smell.

I would’ve chosen the burgundy shirt. Gold cufflinks. But I am merely an observer. A silent spectator if you will. My favourite quote about me says

“the trouble is

you think you have Time.”

Buddha was correct. I am limited. I have no control, just as you do when you are born. And when you will die.

You look up, squinting against the fading light. The bruised sky watches you back. As do the trees, the cedar wood bench and the swings in the distance. A couple hurries past you, umbrellas swinging from their arms. You’ve chosen a good spot. You’re proud.

The bruised sky grumbles and you reach for your own umbrella. Blue plastic fans out over you like a protective shield. The rain begins to fall, tapping lightly, like tiny excited feet. You wait.

But it wasn’t always like this for you. You’re happy. If I take you back, it won’t be that far. Let’s start off with four years, shall we? The shadows of your past are still a part of you, after all. Isn’t that what you humans say about me?

.

It was cold. Dark. Damp. Mould clung to the air as cockroaches do to food. The wallpaper was peeling, curling over like long, overgrown toenails.

You hated it.

You didn’t want to live there.

But you did it for her.

For the both of you.

You were moving the last of the boxes from the van. Beads of sweat rolled down your forehead, so you used your t-shirt to wipe it away.

Navy, with white edges.

She appeared at the back door, with gloved hands and grass stains on her golden, bare legs. A grin shone across her face. Your eyes slowly grazed her body as she walked towards you and took your hand. Her yellow dress melted into your blue. You smiled.

.

But remember the first time you fought? I know it’s unpleasant to recall.

There was shouting.

Crying.

Puffy eyes.

You broke your favourite bowl. You’d made that together.

She stormed out.

You didn’t follow her.

And then you did.

That was three years ago.

You got through it.

.

Now, what about that time when you performed on stage? I remember it clearly. It was dim and smoky. Hundreds of hunched eyes watched you.

You only did that because of her. Because she pushed you.

Believed in you.

Gave you the courage

to believe in yourself.

She squeezed your hand, her dark eyes sparkling as you went on stage.

And my, what a performance it was. You brought the house down, as you humans would say. I knew you had it in you. I always did.

That was two years ago. My, how you’ve grown.

.

We can go back further, you know. I may be limited for you, but for me, I am eternity.

I promise you this won’t hurt. Only a little.

This was before all of it. Before her.

You were sitting at the back. You were slouching, with your feet slung over the seat in front of you. Arms folded. You wore a jumper, with the hood pulled over your face.

Cobalt, with frayed drawstrings.

The room began to fill up. People sat with their friends. Chatted. The air became thick with it. But you stayed back. Kept your arms folded.

You wanted to be alone.

It was better that way.

Everyone fell silent as someone approached the stand. You were having a guest lecturer that day. A student from another university.

You rolled your eyes, preparing to absorb yourself in your own thoughts. Your mind was not a bad place. It just hurt. Memories seared the edges.

But as you began to drift away, you stopped.

The guest lecturer.

Her pale, yellow blouse seemed to shimmer as she spoke. Her voice carried across the theatre. Powerful. Fiery.

You were hypnotised.

You’d never seen so much

passion

and beauty

from someone before.

As the lecture ended, people drowsily got to their feet. Some ran. Others stumbled out the door.

But not you.

You could have walked past like everyone else.

Out into the sunshine.

But you chose to wait.

You walked slowly down the stairs,

waiting for people to leave.

She gathered her things.

Smiled at other students.

And then you walked straight towards her.

My, were you brave.

You said you loved her lecture. You stuttered. She smiled.

And you walked out into the sunshine together.

It was that moment in Time that changed it all.

Changed everything for you.

For both of you.

You took a chance.

Lived in the moment.

Time changed. Your life shifted.

.

The rain thumps on your umbrella and it is now dark. A golden streetlamp glows nearby. The lights of cars flicker behind the trees.

You’re nervous.

You slide your hand into your pocket, pressing the outside of a small box to your skin. You hope she likes it. Loves it.

And then you see her.

She rushes towards you, her dark curls tucked under her hood.

She laughs when she sees you. Saying how cold the rain is. She forgot her umbrella.

You cradle her against you, her wet cheek nestling against your blue shirt. You smile and kiss her forehead.

You

are

yellow.

The Girl Who Knew Too Much, Aylish Dowsett

‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

So is a lot.’

Albert Einstein

Okay, I know this looks bad. And very much illegal. But really, what else was I supposed to do other than to whack it on the head and drag it here? Don’t roll your eyes at me like that. It saw me; and we all know what could happen if the humans ever found out we still existed. Poof, gone, we’d be wiped out before Bob ever became anyone’s uncle. And is that? Urgh, ew, it’s bleeding. Human blood is so gross. You can pull that face all you like, but I’m not touching it again. Yes, I could’ve just let it go, but then what? I really didn’t want The Order to find the human and then they’d have found out about…well, you know. Not that I’m hiding anything. Why am I telling you anyway? I bet you’re just another filthy human, prying into, no, invading everyone’s business like usual. You should really take a good long look in the mirror, idjit. You’re the monster, not me.

But seriously, why the fuck is it so cold down here?

Jinx tugged at her jacket, the wool from her gloves snagging on the brass buttons. Great.

This was why she never came down to the cellar. Aside from the fact that, well, it was a freezing shithole, she could’ve sworn she’d seen a pair of eyes, glinting from the jade bottles that lined the walls. It must’ve just been from the dust that choked this place. Hallucinating on dust was the least of her worries right now though. She had…that to deal with.

Jinx grimaced, her eyes gliding over the human’s wilted head. Copper curls hung meekly down its arms; the hair having twisted itself around the metal of the chair. Freckles decorated its cheeks, along with smudges of thick, sticky blood. The lingering stench of damp and blood made Jinx want to gag. It was a Fae’s worst nightmare all right.

‘Is she…can I…is she awake yet?’

A blonde head slowly peered around the nearest door, his sheepish eyes darting from the curly mess to Jinx. He seemed to whimper at the sight of her, as though he might collapse under her gaze alone.

Jinx rolled her eyes, extending a gloved hand towards him. ‘Hand it over Seb,’ she sighed. ‘If you’d taken much longer, the Queen would’ve been dead and buried by now.’

Seb’s tawny eyes widened. ‘Oh yes, yes, I have it. It’s just,’ he scurried through the door, ducking under its frame. ‘It’s just, I had to…had to make a few alterations.’

Jinx looked at him blankly and snatched the burlap sack from his bony fingers. ‘I hate looking at its face,’ she said, screwing her own up. ‘At least now,’ she stepped forwards, throwing the sack over the human’s head, ‘we won’t have to, and I can actually think.’

The sack did not land with great accuracy, and instead, sat horribly slanted with what appeared to be

‘What are those!’ Jinx swivelled to Seb who recoiled instantly, shielding himself with his teal overcoat. The sack stared at them; two large cotton eyes were stitched in the middle, with a matching, happy, but wobbly mouth.

‘I did-did say that I made a few alterations, there were quite a few hole-holes in it, in all the sacks.’ Seb had faltered against the wall now, his fingers clutching the crumbling brick. ‘I think a family of moths had been enjoying it, perhaps a little too much,’ he mumbled, barely audible. ‘Maybe they smelt the potato residue? Did you-you know that Gypsy moths can lay up to one thousand eggs per—’

‘I don’t care about the ruddy moths Sebastian, fucking hell!’ Without warning, Jinx swung around and punched the wall behind her. The dusty bottles, thankfully empty, tumbled to the floor and clattered into silence.

The two Fae paused, the stillness engulfing the space between them. Seb gulped. Jinx examined her bleeding knuckle. And the sack gawked stupidly.

‘Well don’t just stand there!’ Jinx snapped back to Seb, her pupils tiny. ‘Fix the damn sack and pick these bottles up! Why do I always have to do everything? Why did I get stuck with a fledgling rather than a real healer?’

Seb had paled to the colour of sour milk, his lip quivering slightly. ‘If you allowed me to heal her, Jinx, she would recover. It would take a m-mere few minutes.’ He side-stepped to the sack, adjusted it gently over the human’s head and skirted around her to the fallen bottles. ‘She’s b-bleeding Jinx. We need to alert The Order.’

‘We’re not leaving Sebastian and it’s not going anywhere. It stays until I figure this out. I’m thinking a Gravel Grot could wipe its memory? But they charge a fortune…’

‘But if we—’ He grabbed a bottle, wiping its dusty body on his sleeve. He was avoiding looking at Jinx, studying the bottles instead with deep concern. ‘If we took her to The Order, they could erase her m-memory.’

Jinx glared at him, kicking a nearby bottle with a booted foot. ‘Yeah, and I’ll be striped of my ranking for having ‘maimed’ a human. Fat chance of that.’ She took a step forwards, leaning towards the unconscious girl. ‘No, I’ll deal with it myself. This piece of filth will go straight—’

But then the sack twitched. And Jinx practically flew straight into Seb. Seb, admirably, caught her, but she shoved him back hard, leaping away with a growl.

The human began to thrash around now, nearly toppling off its chair with a scream. But Jinx was there, her hand stuck out in its direction, tensing. It stopped moving instantly, but that didn’t stop its muffled cries.  

Seb had retreated into a corner, clutching a Rosé bottle desperately. ‘She’s awake, she’s awake! Ah! What do we do? What do we do?!’

‘Will you shut up!’ Jinx spat. Her hand trembled, still pointing at the very-much-awake human. ‘I don’t know! I was hoping it was dead! These things are so fragile! I thought a good whack on the head would’ve killed it, but apparently not!’

Seb’s eyelids fluttered in disbelief. ‘But you said it was an accident. You said you didn’t mean to hit her. That you panicked. What were you doing Jinx?’

‘None of your damn business fledgling!’

‘I HAVE A GUN! YOU TRY AND LEG IT AND I’LL SHOOT YOU, WHOEVER YOU ARE!’

The pair froze, their eyes jolting towards the stairs to the cellar: the only way in and out.

‘If you’ve hurt my sister, I swear I’ll kill you!’ cried the mysterious, quivering voice. It was getting louder. ‘DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!’

Jinx and Seb looked at each other then, both equally as terrified as the other.

Oh fuck.

The Wedding Eve, Alison Graham

Altan had hardly expected to enjoy the day of the pre-wedding celebration, but things took a significant downturn after the rehearsal.

One of the girls had decided to ask him a question.

‘Shouldn’t you be with your future bride?’ she asked, teeth bright in a cheeky smile. She was a pretty thing with large blue eyes, cinnamon skin and unusually bright auburn hair. Her question sent a ripple of giggles undulating among the other girls surrounding the prince, glittering butterflies orbiting a single bright flower.

Altan stifled a scowl, glancing at the figure in the corner of the ballroom.

His betrothed cut an embarrassing figure. She was too slight and pale, garish in a puffy purple gown in the style of her homeland. She was rarely dressed in such finery, and it showed in how her calloused fingers tugged uncomfortably at her ruffled hems and pulled at the brocaded waist. Flowers had been woven into her glossy dark braid, but its beauty did little to offset her perpetually red cheeks and nose, and she hunched awkwardly over the glass in her hand. He knew she sipped at it to keep her hands and mouth busy, to hide the fact that nobody was talking to her.

Next to him, they made a bizarre pair, so he preferred to keep his distance. Altan was lithe and dark, with fine features. His mauve kaftan skimmed his figure perfectly, comfortable as a second skin. His jewellery was carefully placed, each link of gold painstakingly measured, garnets chosen in just the right colour to match his orange eyes. He was better suited with one of the glimmering courtesans currently surrounding him, but they lacked the power or lands that better piqued his mother’s interest.

He swallowed these thoughts, deciding instead to deflect the girl’s question. ‘My bride and I will be spending plenty of time together soon enough,’ he said, sliding an arm around the girl’s waist. Her cropped blouse and the gap left by her draped sari meant his hand travelled along bare goosebumps. ‘Are you ungrateful for this limited time left with me?’
Another peal of giggles dispersed through the group, and the auburn-haired girl flushed.

As the laughter settled, Altan felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and found himself facing the hard stare of his mother’s advisor, Odval.

Odval’s eyes were the cold hardness of amethyst, and even on this occasion she hadn’t traded her simple black abaya for anything more festive. Only a jeweled chain headpiece over her hijab gave any indication of her rank, and her face was as stern as if there was nothing to celebrate.

‘Your mother would like a word, Highness,’ she said in a low voice. She tilted her head, and Altan’s eyes followed the direction. Sure enough, his mother had sequestered herself by a gilded fountain. She was barely a shadow from his distance, but her golden-eyed gaze was clear across the hall.

He sighed, extricating himself from the auburn-haired girl. ‘All right, Odval,’ he said, following her as the dumpy-silhouetted woman led him through the throng towards his waiting mother.

The queen of Baliqas greeted her son with a lengthy sigh. ‘Altan, sun of my stars,’ she said, taking his hand. Her gold-lacquered nails pricked his palm. Where Odval was plain and utilitarian, Aigiarn was bright and effervescent with jewels and colour. She’d worn a purple gown that consisted of so many sheer layers that she seemed to float more than walk, and her long inky hair was woven with pearls and gold chains. A gold ring made a feature of her regal nose, and gold paint along the rims of her eyes accented her dark skin.

‘Mother,’ Altan said. ‘Odval said you wanted a word.’

‘I see you’ve been enjoying your rehearsal ball,’ Aigiarn said, eyes scanning the huge ballroom.

‘It seems all have been merry, except for one very key reason for the revelries, sweet.’

Altan fought to keep his expression neutral. ‘She seems to be enjoying herself just fine.’
‘Altan,’ Aigiarn stated. ‘Sascha has been hiding in the corner by herself since we finished the ceremony rehearsal. She looks utterly despondent, watching her groom flirt with every young person in the room but her. Would it torture you so to even smile at her?’

Altan’s hand clenched ever so slightly on his mother’s grip. ‘I’ll have all the time in the world to smile at her after tomorrow, Mother,’ he said carefully. ‘I’ll be the happiest prince alive once we’re wed, I can promise you.’

Airgiarn’s glittering eyes narrowed. ‘I take flattery and dressed lies from many, child-of-mine, but I won’t take them from you.’

‘So you know, the truth is I don’t want to marry her,’ Altan hissed, dropping his voice so low he wasn’t sure even his mother heard. ‘That’s hardly a surprise to you. We’ve never gotten along!’

‘You’ve never given her a chance,’ Aigiarn murmured, steel in her voice.

‘And what chance was I given? You dropped a little girl I’d never seen in front of me one night when we were both six years old, and you told me to be nice to my future wife. Did you really think I’d do just that?’

Aigiarn took a deep breath as if to speak, then paused, exhaling slowly. Her eyes still darted across the room, never ceasing to monitor the guests.

‘I’d always hoped you’d grow to care for each other eventually,’ she said softly. ‘I expected resistance – of course I did, Altan. You’re my son. But I’d hoped you’d inherited some of my… I don’t know. Romance? I thought you’d at least feel sorry for her, this poor princess taken to a foreign realm where nothing is familiar. I saw long ago I was wrong.’

Aigiarn paused to straighten and square her broad shoulders, flashing a quick smile at a passing courtier. ‘Nonetheless, the marriage is necessary,’ she reminded Altan. ‘And you know this well, otherwise you wouldn’t bother putting on a show. You know what this means, both to our nation and hers.’

Altan looked across the room again, at the forlorn girl in the corner. He knew exactly what was at stake and what he needed to do, but it didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. He dropped his mother’s hand.

‘I’ll be all smiles and blissful marital delight tomorrow,’ he muttered. ‘I promise. But at least let me have fun tonight.’

Aigiarn pursed her lips. ‘I wish you’d see her from a different perspective, Altan.’

Altan turned away. ‘Enjoy your night, Mother.’

He could see the girls as he’d left them, no worse for his absence. But as he approached them, another hand landed on his elbow. Scowling, he pulled away and turned to face whoever now demanded his attention.

Huge brown eyes looked at him, jarring over an unlovely face and downturned mouth.

Oh.

Sascha.

‘What?’ he asked.

She was little; at her height, she had to look up at him, like a child. She hesitated, chewing her lip, and Altan’s frustration flared. She was so timid. ‘Get on with it,’ he snapped.

Her milky cheeks filled with colour. ‘I just wanted to ask how you were,’ she said in a low voice that mirrored his exasperation. ‘I saw you’d been speaking to your mother. You looked unhappy. I wanted to see if everything was alright.’

Altan reared back. ‘If I needed comfort, I wouldn’t seek it from you,’ he said.

Sascha blinked slowly, breathing in deeply. ‘Forgive me for my concern, Highness,’ she said, and turned to walk away.

As she left, the auburn-haired girl peeled away from the group to greet him. ‘I think you need a moment in peace,’ she said, grinning at him and taking his hand.

She led him out of the hall and outside, into one of the quiet courtyards littered across the palace. This one was mercifully quiet, with only a light breeze and faint birdsong accompanying the pair. The sun was low in the sky, painting a pale sunset behind the palace’s white marble.

‘You seem troubled, Highness,’ the girl said, skimming a hand over Altan’s shoulders. ‘I am surprised a prince would have woes on the eve of his wedding.’

The orange light lit up her skin and made her blue eyes appear to glow. Altan smiled and caught her hand.

‘No woes,’ he said. ‘Merely concerns. Political marriages are not all bliss.’

‘Your bride seems less happy than you,’ the girl said, raising her eyebrows. She pulled Altan over to a seat bordering a little stone-bounded patch of greenery, a fine maple reaching over bright flowers and shrubs. Altan obliged her and sat, ignoring the cold stone for the girl’s warm skin.

‘I am sorry for her,’ the girl continued, twining a finger around a lock of Altan’s blue-black hair. ‘She seems so lonely. How long has she been here? Enough to make friends?’

‘Twelve years,’ Altan said. ‘She arrived here when we were six. She made friends, but…’ Altan waved a hand in the air. ‘Palace staff, pot-scrubbers and guards’ daughters.’

He could envision them so clearly – the woman who taught the pair to ride, lovingly easing Sascha into the saddle while unceremoniously dumping Altan onto the back of his lioness. The sword master who left him covered in bruises, while Sascha’s fair skin remained unblemished. A young cook who’d sneak up to their chambers to share leftovers with Sascha, the two of them giggling when Altan grimaced at the homely food.

All people who could not be invited to the wedding festivities. Altan didn’t know if he should have felt guilty or smug when he saw Sascha alone.

‘Did you never try to befriend her?’ the girl asked.

Altan could not hide the wince he made. ‘We are very different people,’ he said.

The girl laughed. ‘They say opposites attract, Highness.’

‘There is such a thing as being too different to be compatible.’

‘I don’t know,’ the girl said. ‘I think sometimes it’s a matter of perspective. Do you view a person’s differences as flaws, or as unique attributes?’

‘I don’t know,’ Altan said, starting to feel irritated. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted to come out here just to talk about her. Of all things, she’s the last person I want to think about tonight.’

The girl’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a shame for you to be so cruel to her, Altan. I would have liked to think you’d give her more of a chance.’

Altan blinked, shifting away from the girl. ‘Did my mother send you to talk to me?’

‘Your queen?’ The girl laughed. ‘She’s in no position to order me around, I’m afraid. No, I attended because I wanted to see how the wedding would play out. I didn’t realise the Baliqan prince was such an ass towards his bride, though. She seems nothing if not sweet.’

Altan’s mouth fell open. ‘Who do you think you are to speak to me like that?’ he demanded.

The girl sighed, smoothing a hand over her face and hair. As her palm passed over her features, they shifted. Her skin became as green as a sapling’s leaves, and her ears grew long and pointed. Her nose and cheekbones were sharper, her shapes harder, becoming too strange and beautiful to look directly at. Wings flashed kaleidoscopic colours as they shimmered into place. Only her hair, clothes and eyes remained the same.

‘My queen is interested in the dramas of your court,’ the fairy said. ‘She sent me to collect gossip for entertainment – I’m no spy. She won’t be entertained by a spoiled prince’s arrogance, though. I will need a better story to tell her, so… I think it’s time you had a change of perspective, dear Altan.’ She laid a slender, gentle finger on his chest.

A sharp pain bloomed in Altan’s stomach, a ripping sensation that spread outwards. He grunted. The pain surfaced, sending jolts of it over his skin, not unlike pins and needles. He looked at his arms; his clothes were melting into his skin. He stared in horror as the silk sank in, morphing; turning into gold-orange scales the same colour as his eyes.

The pain enveloped him completely, as his bones scraped and popped and groaned and changed. His lungs tore into shreds, and he felt long gashes slice across his ribs.

His fingers fused, his hands flattening and becoming translucent, the same occurring to his legs.

He gulped for air to scream, only to drown.

He felt himself being grabbed, and thrown. He splashed against water. The impact stung, but at last he could breathe. He gasped, sucking at the water. He tried to kick, but found he couldn’t move his legs. He couldn’t move his head to look at himself.

He drifted motionless for a moment, registering the new form of his body. There was a tail, and fins. He wriggled the tail, and could swim forward.

He looked up, and the fairy was grinning down at him, her face distorted by the surface of the water. He swam up and broke the surface. She smirked. ‘Welcome to your new home, prince,’ she said. ‘I hear goldfish make wonderful companions.’ Then with a flutter of her glittering wings, she was gone.

Altan looked around him. He was in a stone pool, with algae-covered rocks at the bottom, several plants, and other goldfish. They swam in lazy circles around the pond, apparently oblivious to the newcomer.

Altan propelled himself upwards, pushing himself out of the water. If he pushed hard enough, he could glance out of the pond for moments at a time. The pond was in the centre of a circular courtyard that now seemed gargantuan, bounded by trees and a tall iron fence. Large glass doors led in to what appeared to be a bedchamber.

He knew where he was.

These were Sascha’s chambers. She had a large pond in the courtyard outside her bedchamber, filled with bright little goldfishes that she cooed and chatted to. And now he was one of them.

There was a bang, like a door slamming. He heard footsteps, and the rustle of crumpled fabric. Someone came into view, slumping by the pond. He looked up to see milky cheeks blotched red, soft brown eyes watery. Tear stains tracked down the cheeks of a face he’d known for twelve years, that he’d never seen so close, or from below.

‘You’ll never believe the night I’ve had,’ she sobbed to the fish.

Altan sunk low into the pond as she raged and wept and lamented her many frustrations with him that she never voiced in his presence.

New perspective.

Right.

Brief History of the Blood Curse, Celine Perczynski

It was commonly known that the Curse was not well thought out. There was humming, not shouting. No licking of stones or puppets. Though the ingredients were ground into thin powder, they were snorted not swallowed. Nothing was done properly.

Still, it was not a complete disaster.

Instead of turning into crows, women bleed once a month.

Another Sense, Eilish Hendry

My father once told me he knew something was wrong the moment I was born. He said I cried too loudly. They couldn’t take me anywhere: shopping malls, parks, the more people there were, the worse I became. I would scream and cry and fuss; nothing could make me relax. He said I emerged from the womb determined to spite him—that I had always hated him. But I didn’t, how could I? I was an infant. It took me years to accept that he would never love me. He’d decided against it the moment I uttered my first words because he could never understand them:

‘Too loud.’

The world was just too loud for me.

Eventually, I adjusted to larger groups of people. I didn’t really have a choice. When my kindergarten teacher said I had socialisation issues, my mother defended me. She insisted it was because I hadn’t been to preschool. If only it were that simple. It would take me a long time to learn that there were certain things I shouldn’t say out loud—things that would make people angry.

‘What do you mean you don’t like anyone, Ella? You just said you like Billy.’

‘What’s the point of silent reading if everyone’s still talking?’

‘Oh, Jeremy stole your chocolates, Miss. He’s laughing about it right now.’

My classmates called me a tattletale, my teacher labelled me a compulsive liar. But Mama refused to believe them; she pulled me from that school and found a new one. But the teacher there accused me of cheating. Soon, I was changing schools every six months. Somehow things just kept getting worse.

When I was eight, Daddy told Mama he was going to work, but he told me he was going to a hotel with Helen. I didn’t know who she was, so I asked him about her later and he got mad. He told me he didn’t know what I was talking about, but when I mentioned the name of the hotel he almost looked scared. He begged me not to tell. He told me that I wouldn’t understand, that my mother wouldn’t understand. He took me out for ice cream and that made Mama smile, so I thought it was okay.

I didn’t tell her the truth until he left us for good. Mama had no words when I finally admitted it, but by then she didn’t have any tears left either. Pretty soon after that, she told me we were going to a doctor. At first, I was happy. I thought the doctor was for her; I knew how sad she was, I knew what she smelt like, so I thought she was getting help.

‘No Sweetie, the doctor is for you.’

My father was a doctor, so I’d never been to anyone else, let alone a psychologist. I was sitting on a beanbag surrounded by stuffed animals, while Mama sat on a rickety chair, listing my problems for at least an hour.

‘She’s a very sweet girl, very smart… But I know something’s wrong. Her teachers’ say she plays games with them in class. She’ll say she can’t work out a problem but the moment they sit down with her she knows all the answers. She can’t go to school assemblies or the park. I thought it might be sensory overload, so I bought a few books. But it doesn’t seem to matter how loud a place, she just can’t handle it.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Alexandra please, we’re here to be honest with the doctor. You know you don’t like—’

‘Mama I didn’t mean what you said. I meant what he said.’

‘Excuse me?’ the doctor said, face crinkled with confusion, ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Yes you did,’ I told him. ‘You said it’s Asperger’s. I read Mama’s book and I don’t think I have it.’

I still remember feeling like I was the only person in that room that was making sense. Mama seemed happy when I spoke up, not because she agreed with me, but because the doctor had just witnessed what she’d never been able to explain. It took three sessions for him to finally admit I was right. After that, he didn’t seem to have anything else to say. We went to see at least twelve more doctors, and a priest, before Mama finally gave up. She used to say that there had to be an explanation. She’d say it over and over like it was the only thing binding her to this Earth. She needed something—something to make me make sense.

One doctor was convinced I was schizophrenic, another said I was an autistic savant. They threw around every personality disorder they could think of from borderline to histrionic. They tried ADD and ADHD but nothing could explain me away. One doctor said I just had a wild imagination. He said that this is what happens to children raised by single mothers. Mama didn’t hear the bad word he called her, but I did. I hit him for that and we had to leave. But she needed answers, far more than I did. Every misdiagnosis made her shatter like the glass that surrounded her.

She needed someone to tell her that it wasn’t her fault. That I wasn’t her fault. But it was too late, too quickly it was too late.

It was loud that day. I could hear her in the next room, screaming for someone to answer her. I went to check on her and she was lying in bed, dry-eyed and staring at the ceiling like she had been for days. I asked her if she wanted to talk about it, but she told me she was fine, she just needed some rest. I didn’t blame her, neither of us had slept in three days. She didn’t because she couldn’t, I hadn’t because she hadn’t. She promised me everything was going to be fine, but I could still hear her pain. I couldn’t ignore it; it hammered into my skull and my heart screamed like a wounded anvil. So, I checked on her a second time, then a third. I didn’t check a fourth… I should have checked a fourth. But instead, I stuffed my ears with tissue paper and prayed to every god in existence for it to be silent.

And then it was.

Everything felt cold and for the first time, it was peaceful. I could still hear the whispers of the world, but they were so far away. I cried because all of a sudden, I could breathe. That night, I slept more serenely then I ever had in my life. And when I woke up, it was still quiet. And that was beautiful. There was a part of me that thought that this was what control was. That maybe it had finally stopped. There was something that could make the world go quiet, I could be what my mother needed me to be. A normal child who didn’t need doctors, who could make friends. A girl who couldn’t hear what no one had said.

I ran to tell my mother the good news. To my surprise, she had slept peacefully too. All she needed was a bottle of pills.

My father didn’t take me in after the funeral—he refused. He told his new wife that he didn’t want me getting into her head or their baby’s. He had a new daughter now, so he set me up in a crappy apartment and never looked back. He paid my rent remotely and wouldn’t take my calls. He told me that as soon as I turned eighteen he wouldn’t be legally responsible for me anymore. At fourteen, he was counting down the days until he could be rid of me for good.

I can’t tell you how loud that apartment was. There were fifty people just on my floor and they all just seemed so busy. My neighbours were nice to me at first, they’d bring me leftovers and offer to help me with my homework. By then I had learnt to only respond when I could see someone’s lips moving. But it’s impossible to catalogue what someone has and hasn’t told you. I started to wonder if it was even right for me to hold back. I knew their pain, their struggles, their grief. Why should I let someone suffer in silence when words might make the world a little bit quieter?

The landlord came to see me, he told me to move out. The other tenants complained, he said. I was disturbing them, he said. I had never been more desperate in my life. I knew my father wouldn’t take my calls even if I was homeless. It was like there was something buried in my chest, something alive and thrashing. Maybe it only came into being in that moment or maybe it had always been there, threatening to burst free. That was the first time I saw true fear; it burned in my landlord’s eyes and his mind descended into howling chaos.

Yet somehow, I made it go quiet.

I told him I wasn’t leaving and he agreed. I told him that the people complaining about me should be evicted and they were. Suddenly, I had someone who was incapable of turning me away—who couldn’t tell me no, who couldn’t hurt me. That was all I’d ever wanted. For the first time, I had a voice in this screaming world and now one wasn’t enough. One of my teachers was next. Then a classmate, then a neighbour, then anyone who tried to silence me. I couldn’t win anyone over with affection or kindness. I had tried loving the world and it did nothing but break me to pieces.

The very thought spread through me like wildfire because I knew its source. I knew the one who had begun it, who had stolen my voice—It was time to take it back.

‘You’re going to tell me the truth, Father. I’m tired of your lies. You knew what I was and you prayed for it to destroy me.’

He stared back at me with those big brown eyes, the one’s strangers used to tell me I’d inherited. Seeing him look so trapped was a joy I had never expected. He was so flustered, so panicked. For once, I had the upper hand and it was a power I never knew I craved.

‘Alexandra, you need to leave now,’ he tried to sound confident, but his voice shook with every word, ‘My family will be home any moment. They know to call the police if they see you.’

I could hear his mind racing at a million miles a minute, desperate for me to accept his lies. He couldn’t figure out how I’d found his home, let alone how I’d made it inside. His eyes were locked on the safe on the wall, wondering if he could make it in time.

‘Your new wife and daughter went to the Hamptons for the weekend. It’s so sweet you bought a little summer home for them. It was Mama’s favourite place, remember?’

‘No, they’re at Cassie’s dance class,’ he spluttered, suppressing a gulp, ‘They’ll be right back—’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ I snarled in a voice I didn’t recognise before I walked over to his safe and began turning the knob, ‘You don’t think I can hear it? Your mind’s in a tailspin because you know no one is coming for you.’

The safe clicked open and from it, I pulled out his gun, ‘Lexi,’ he breathed, as all hopes of escape melted in front of him, ‘Put it down, let’s talk.’

‘Okay.’ I smiled, even as I began loading it with gloved fingers. ‘How about you tell me about Uncle Michel? We never got to talk about him.’

He repeated the only thing he had ever said about him, ‘my brother was sick.’

‘Sick? Sick? He was just like me and you know it.’

I could smell his sweat as I flicked off the safety, ‘I thought that he might be, but I didn’t know for sure. He—’

‘Hung himself, in a mental hospital. Was that what you were hoping I would do? Is that why you cut me off? So I would kill myself like your brother? Like my mother?’

‘Lexi—’

‘Stop calling me that, you gave up that right when you left.’

‘…Alexandra, just because I’d seen it before, doesn’t mean I knew what to do. I couldn’t help you, I felt like a failure, so I left and I’m sorry but—’

‘You let my mother think it was her fault,’ I hissed and the gun cocked with a sickening snap. ‘It was your genetics, you’re the reason I am what I am. It had nothing to do with her but you told her “it’s the mother’s responsibility to take care of the child,” while you busied yourself with your work and your affairs and your life outside of us.’

‘I couldn’t have known she—’

‘I don’t care! You don’t get it, do you? You still haven’t figured out what I am, have you?’

He spluttered and I couldn’t help but laugh, ‘I’m not a freak, I’m not a monster. I am evolution incarnate and I’m not alone. Mama’s last gift to me was making sure I knew that. You’re a doctor, maybe you’ve heard the stories? There was this guy in Yokohama, absolute sweetheart, called his grandmother every day but she’d been dead for three years so they locked him away.’

I stepped closer and he shuddered, ‘Did you hear about that fifteen-year-old in Siena? She was living twenty years in the future, there’s no telling the good she could’ve done. But instead, she was ridiculed until she ripped her all-seeing-eyes out.’

I grabbed his chin, wrenching it upwards until he was forced to look me right in the eyes. ‘Or the six-year-old, just over in Pittsburgh. He liked to make his teddies dance, but he didn’t need his hands to do it. You remember him, Daddy?’

I was standing so close to him now, that I could see the sweat being crushed in the wrinkles of his forehead, he was silent so I spoke again, ‘He starved to death… during his fifth exorcism.’

His mind became quieter and quieter, every thought grinding to a stop as I ensured he could do nothing more than to listen to me.

‘And what about me?’ I asked, before beginning to recite the explanation he had tried to rob me of, ‘Alexandra Priam, nineteen. Hyperthymesia. Telepathy. Mind Control.’

His breath quickened, his knees quivered, and for a moment I wondered if he was going to faint. ‘Wh-what?’

‘Didn’t know that last bit, did ya? Why do you think you haven’t run away? Why you haven’t called for help?’ a laugh escaped my throat, yet I didn’t know what I found so funny. ‘It’s because I removed the idea from your head. I mean, think of the possibilities, I could cure addiction in seconds, break apart toxic relationships, rewire criminals. I could hand my father a loaded gun and tell him to pull the trigger.’

‘Please… Please don’t…’

‘It’s my people’s destiny to replace your kind. What I want you to know, is that this is just the beginning. There’s a storm coming, we won’t be silenced. We won’t let people like you control us. It’s almost a shame you won’t live to see it because let me tell you, the new era of humanity is going to be beautiful.’

Download a PDF copy of Another Sense

The Shadow, Suzin Lee

 

The first time Alex saw him, she was indifferent. In fact, if it wasn’t for the minor incident, she probably would have brushed past him. The murmur of the supermarket was monotonous in Alex’s ears; her mind was fixated on the broken wheel of her trolley. Rattle, rattle. Rattle, rattle. Alex sighed. She wondered if Dad had ever helped Mum with the shopping. Not that it mattered, now. She reached for a loaf of raisin bread, then hesitated at the thought of Mum’s tantrum the other day.

‘I’m sick of eating this crap!’ Mum had shouted as she threw the freshly buttered toast against the wall. ‘If your Dad was here—’

‘Well, he’s not. And this is all we’ve got in the pantry, so you can starve,’ Alex had snapped as she walked out of the room with the empty plate.

Her hand hovered over the beckoning bag of bread before she threw one, then another, and another, into the trolley. She smirked.

With the trolley piled high with groceries, Alex wheeled it down the health food aisle towards the checkout. Then, they collided. The details of his appearance bypassed her memory except for one small feature—his glasses. Thick-rimmed with additional shades, one side of the frames were wrapped with a Band-Aid, holding them together. They fell off his face and clattered onto the linoleum floor as Alex swerved her trolley, barely missing them.

‘Oh! Oh… I’m so sorry! Are you okay?’ Alex said as she picked up the glasses.

She handed them over to the man, who hesitated at her gesture. He took them, observing her with alarm. Slowly and silently, he walked away.

Alex noticed that other people were staring at her with the same expression on their faces. Any other day, this might have struck her as weird, but she realised the time—Mum had been home alone for longer than she should have been.

 

 

 

The plastic bags rustled as Alex treaded carefully into the dim house. She closed the door gently and when the lock clicked, turned quickly towards the hallway. Silence.

Quietly, she opened the blinds of the living room. A shrill ring broke the peace.

‘Shit!’ Alex muttered, as she clambered over the sofa reaching for the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Alex, is that you?’ An English accent crackled through the bad reception. ‘It’s Auntie Sue. I just wanted to check in, how’s your Ma going?’

‘Oh! Hello, Auntie Sue. Mum’s alright, the same old.’ Alex fidgeted with the cord in her hand as her eyes nervously watched the hallway.

‘Would you like me to fly over?’ asked Auntie Sue.

‘Oh no! That would be such an inconvenience!’ Alex pulled a face. She couldn’t think of anything worse than to have Auntie Sue fussing around.

A door creaked open down the hallway. Alex perked her head up.

‘I better get going now. I think Mum is awake,’ Alex whispered hoarsely.

Alex watched nervously as the ghost-like figure appeared along the passage. Her hair was disheveled, eyes vacant, and her face was as pale as the silk nightgown she was wearing.

‘John?’ Her shrill voice quivered, echoing off the walls.

‘Mum, it’s just me,’ Alex called out.

Light footsteps pattered on the floorboards.

‘Oh, Alex…’ Mum’s voice was soaked in disappointment as she observed the empty living room.

‘Mum, remember Dad is—’

‘I know.’ Mum stared at the bouquet of flowers on the kitchen bench. A card with the word ‘condolences’ peeked through the leaves.

Alex watched Mum walk back into her room with her head hung low. You could see her bones protruding through her nightgown. Alex wanted nothing more than to get Mum out of her room, to open the windows and curtains and change the bed sheets. A pungent smell had started to arise from in there; a rotting stench that seemed to infiltrate Mum’s grieving body. Alex wrinkled her nose. It was getting worse.

 

 

 

A week later, Alex’s feet were crunching through the autumn leaves as she made her way to the bus stop. Three weeks felt like a very long time away from work. She missed the buzz of computers inside the busy office. A cold gush of wind sent a shiver up her spine; it felt like a breath of fresh air. Alex had never been a patient person, she knew it was only a matter of time before she would snap. She had begun to throw away the condolence cards and sometimes left the phone unplugged. But no matter how hard she tried, the memory of her Dad’s death seemed to taunt her. Even the crowd of black coats at the bus stop triggered memories of his funeral. Alex released a dramatic sigh, receiving side-glances from the people near her.

When the bus appeared around the corner, the drowsy crowd started to stir. Feet shuffled as everyone hungrily inched forward in hope of getting a seat on the bus. Alex had seated herself comfortably and was drinking coffee from her thermos when she saw the man jump onto the bus; the same man from the grocery store. Alex held her thermos in mid-air as she eyed him. He hasn’t paid for his bus fare, maybe he is poor. He took out a notepad and started scribbling. Every time she looked up, she felt him glance away. Alex felt the hairs on her arms stand on end—it was as if he knew she was watching him.

When her stop approached, she carefully made her way down the aisle, seeing him fold the piece of paper as she drew nearer. The closer she got, the more she noticed a pungent smell, and scrunched her face in disgust—it was the rotting smell that had started to infiltrate Mum’s room, and it was coming from him. She covered her nose and looked around madly, but no one else seemed to be bothered by it. Just in time, the doors opened and Alex flew out. She stared with a gaping mouth at the bus as it continued on.

 

 

 

By their third encounter, Alex felt an uneasy dread. She had organised to meet Toby for a date night, which they hadn’t done in a while, since the passing of her Dad. Waiting in line at the movies, Alex felt restless being in such a busy space. All the noise of people chattering seemed to echo in her head, and the smell of the buttery popcorn made her stomach churn.

‘You alright?’ Toby asked as he put his arm around her shoulders.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Alex replied, her foot tapping impatiently.

The two of them waited in line behind a big family; a toddler wailed in a stroller and another two ran wild. Alex crinkled her nose.

‘I think that baby’s nappy needs changing,’ she whispered to Toby. ‘It’s making me feel really nauseous.’

Toby raised his eyebrows and shrugged sympathetically. Then one of the children bumped into a person waiting in the queue, making them turn around. It was him. Alex froze as the man turned in her direction. Their eyes met for a few seconds—an icy shiver ran up her spine. His face was expressionless, not a flinch nor a flicker.

‘Toby…’ whispered Alex.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Do you see that man? The one in front of the family?’ Alex’s voice trembled.

‘Where?’ Toby inclined his head.

‘There, don’t you see him?’ Alex tugged Toby’s shirt in desperation.

‘There are many men in this line, Alex. Which one are you talking about?’

The man walked away as Alex watched in horror.

‘I keep seeing the same man,’ she said.

Toby looked at her quizzically before stroking her hair. ‘Does he look like your dad?’

Alex shook her head, ‘No, it’s got nothing to do with that.’

‘You sure? I think it might be.’ Toby gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘It’s okay, Alex. You haven’t even had a proper chance to mourn, with the way your Mum has been.’

Alex shook her head again. ‘I told you, it’s got nothing to do with that.’

Toby nodded and gave her a light kiss on the forehead, as if politely dismissing her behavior and worries as a figment of her imagination, a mourning strategy, or a cry for attention. Alex bit her lip.

Yeah, maybe I’ve gone fucking mad as well,’ she said.

‘Come on, Alex. You know that’s not what I mean.’ Toby tilted his head to the side.

‘No, I think that’s exactly what you mean,’ Alex muttered through gritted teeth as she pushed Toby away from her and started running.

Weaving through the crowd of people, Alex was determined to confront this mysterious man. I’m not crazy, she repeated in her head. Her eyes darted from left to right across the bustling food court. I’m not crazy. Sure enough, there he was standing in the far corner, staring at her as if he knew she would find him. Alex made her way through the people, drawn to his stare.

‘Alex, stop!’ Toby had grabbed her arm and turned her swiftly around, ‘Where are you going?’

‘He’s there! I need to talk to him,’ said Alex, pointing at the man.

‘Okay, where? Where is this man?’ asked Toby.

‘Just there, in the corner!’

Toby paused, staring intently, ‘Alex, I don’t see anyone standing in that corner.’

She jabbed her finger in the air, ‘Look! He’s right there!’

Toby looked again, then shook his head silently. He pulled her towards him in a tight embrace. She looked past his shoulder and watched the man walk away, slowly disappearing into the crowd.

 

 

 

That night, as Alex lay awake in her bed, she could hear her Mum’s muffled sobs in the room next door. It wouldn’t be a surprise if I was going mad too, she thought. Toby had suggested they book an in-home psychiatrist for her mum. He was worried about her condition, but Alex knew that his underlying agenda was really Alex. She hugged her pillow tightly as she listened to Mum’s whimpers softening, until there was finally silence. A soft breeze rustled the autumn leaves outside whilst a storm brewed in Alex’s mind. She imagined herself barging into Mum’s room, shaking her frail body and shouting, ‘No more, Mum! No more! I can’t handle this anymore!’ Alex’s body shuddered. She didn’t feel like herself anymore.

 

 

 

The next day, Alex received a text from Toby saying that he had booked an initial consultation for a therapy session at 6pm.

‘Just for your Mum. You can listen in if you want, up to you,’ he added.

When Alex arrived at home at exactly 5:45pm, the lights were on in the living room. Strange, Alex thought as she fumbled with her keys. She was greeted with warm air as the heater had been turned on, and she could hear her Mum’s high-pitched chuckle. The house had come alive again. Alex frowned, disturbed by the sudden change.

‘Mum?’ Alex called as she made her way to the living room.

‘Oh, Alex! We have a visitor!’ Mum called.

That smell hit her before Alex could see him. She covered her nose and froze in shock at the sight of the man. He rose onto his feet, pushing his glasses up.

‘He said he was an old friend of your Dad’s. High school friends, did you say?’ Mum looked over at him in admiration, then at Alex quizzically, ‘Why are you doing that?’

‘I… I… ’ Alex mumbled behind the hand blocking her nose.

She edged her way toward Mum. What the fuck is going on, she thought.

‘Mum… you can actually see him?’ Alex asked cautiously.

Mum frowned, ‘What do you—’

The man cleared his throat. ‘May I have a word with your lovely daughter?’

‘Oh, yes of course!’ Mum sprang to her feet. ‘I’ll just make some more tea.’

‘Sit down, Alex.’ The man gestured. His voice was low.

Alex shuddered as she sat in the furthest seat away from him, her trembling hands gathered in her lap.

‘You know me, I presume,’ he said.

‘I’ve… seen you around,’ Alex replied, avoiding eye contact.

‘Which you shouldn’t have.’ The man peered over his glasses. ‘I knew something was wrong when I first saw you at the supermarket. Normally, people like you can’t see me.’

‘What do you mean?’ Alex’s eyes were wide.

‘It means I have prolonged my stay. My job here proved to be more, well, complicated.’ The man paused for a moment. ‘You see, the fact that I am starting to be seen means that I need to leave this planet as soon as possible. But the problem is, my job is not done. I had a list of people to select from, and I selected you.’

‘Am I going to die?’ Alex whispered, her voice trembling.

‘Yes,’ the man replied, ‘because that is the fate of all humans.’

He took out a clipboard and started scribbling notes indifferently, as if he was sending off a parcel.

‘And it seems you have already become very sensitive to death,’ he said, nodding.

‘The smell…’ Alex mumbled.

‘Like a rotting corpse, or simply, the fragrance of death.’ The man shrugged. ‘It’s an acquired taste.’

‘But… I can’t die,’ Alex said. ‘What about my Mum? What about—’

‘No one gets to choose their death, Alex. Death is a natural occurrence whether it be sudden or expected,’ the man said as he peered at his clipboard, ‘and yours will be… sudden… the result of a natural cause.’ The man put down his clipboard, ‘I’m ready when you are.’

Alex felt an adrenal surge of mania rush through her blood, as if all the anger and frustration that she had contained was finally bursting. She stood up abruptly, looking around for something to aide her escape.

‘Stay away!’ she roared, her arms in front of her in defense.

‘Please, don’t resist. It never works.’ The man stood up.

Alex threw a vase of flowers at him and the glass shattered on the floor. The man shook his head. ‘You can’t cheat death, Alex.’ He halted at the sight of blood tricking down his injured arm and growled. ‘And it seems that I am really running out of time.’

Alex watched as the man threw his glasses onto the floor—the same glasses that had clattered onto the floor of the supermarket, the same glasses with the Band-Aid wrapped around the side. All of a sudden, he looked different; his eyes looked darker and his face hollower. A Grim Reaper, hungry for life.

He lurched and grabbed hold of Alex’s arm, covering her mouth with his other hand.

‘You won’t even know it’s happening,’ he whispered.

Alex’s eyes widened as she watched a golf club rise up behind the man. It hit him square on the head. He swayed on his legs, as if confused by the pain, his mouth opening and closing in silence. Alex watched in horror as her Mum swung with all her strength. Swoosh, thud. Swoosh, thud.

‘Over. My. Dead. Body,’ she growled through gritted teeth, between each forceful stroke.

It was the sight of a madwoman. She didn’t stop until the man had buckled over into a limp heap. Unconscious. Dead. Mum was panting, with sweat running down the sides of her face.

Alex was screaming.

‘Shush!’ Mum hit Alex lightly on the shoulder.

‘Mum, are you insane! Why did you do that? How did you do that?’ Alex blundered over her words.

Mum tucked her hair behind her ears as she tried to find her composure. Her chest was still heaving.

‘Whether it be a man or a ghost or some weird shit like that, I’m not losing any more people. Now get the shovel.’

 

 

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