The main problem with defending him, the defence lawyer thought, was that neither of them would say anything. No matter how you approached it, or what you asked them or told them or threatened them with, the only thing they seemed capable of doing was gazing into each other's eyes and smiling. Not a harsh smile, or one of victory or smugness. Just slow, warm, dreamy smiles that became quite disarming should one pluck up the nerve to observe them for any length of time. Her best strategies and points were incapable of working if the defendant and the victim did not communicate with her.
They hadn't said anything since they had been found, and pried apart. They ignored people around them, but allowed themselves to be moved from place to place, just so long as they could always see each other. The defence lawyer had spent many nights preceding the trial trying to think up some way of breaking through into their seemingly impenetrable trance, to ask them just a few vital questions. But nothing had worked. And now the girl was being led to the stand, walking backwards and staring into his eyes. The uniformed guard was gentle, her hand in his, trying his best not to lead her too fast, lest she stumble and fall. To have such a thing happen in front of the whole court would constitute assault, despite the fact that it would almost certainly have been an accident. It would have added greatly to the defence's case. But she did not fall; her movements remained controlled and graceful, and now she stood on the raised wooden floor looking out over the hundreds of people gathered to witness the case, seeing only one.
Someone by her side was trying to swear her in, to bind her to truth. She realised this but placed the thought aside in her mind, labelling it as trivial and unimportant. The voice by her side became persistent, and she felt a tap on her shoulder. The girl thought of looking over to see who it was, curiosity billowing inside her mind like steam, but that thought too was dismissed as unimportant. The voice beside her gave up and said something to someone behind her. She did not know what was being said, and did not care. She had to get her priorities right. And listening to the vague voices trying to decide her fate - judging her life and future - was something she did not consider very important.
The prosecution lawyer seemed to dance in front of the girl, throwing questions at her like so many stones. The judge frowned at him from his tall box, and half-heartedly picked at a sticky label his fingers had located underneath his desk. He bent cautiously for a moment to remove a large flap that was proving particularly troublesome, and a few people in the jury noticed. He quickly drew himself back up again, feeling a mild streak of embarrassment, though it quickly passed. The prosecution was leaning on the witness stand and half-shouting something at the female now occupying the little wooden box below him. The defence objected, and the judge decided, in his wisdom, to overrule the objection. The shouting continued.
Hours had passed, and the boy had sat next to the strange woman - who smelled strongly of perfume and slightly of garlic - for long enough. A conclusion formed in his mind. He rose slowly, instantly drawing the attention of the entire court to himself. But he could not see them, they were as dreams to him, and he walked slowly and carefully to the end of the aisle and started towards the witness stand, where the girl and her deeply hypnotic eyes watched him, turning slightly to face him head on. He walked across the black and white chequered marble floor towards her, feeling her presence surround him, capturing his soul like a fish in a net, holding and binding both of them.
The defendant was walking towards the witness stand, where the victim gazed gently at him. He moved, the judge thought, as if he was out for a casual stroll in a dark forest. The wolves that howled about him were afraid of his self-assuredness, his lack of fear. Like a stinging nettle grabbed by the ruthless hand, he analogised thoughtfully. The judge appeared to be the only person in the room - excepting the two who were drawing closer together and seemed quite wrapped up in themselves - who did not have his mouth open. Even the defence lawyer, who had spent a considerable if rather unproductive amount of time with them, was aghast. Her hands clasped her cheeks and her expression was one of disbelief mixed with admiration. The prosecution lawyer looked like he was going to faint.
The girl extended her hand to the boy, and he took it. She stepped down from the box, glad to be rid of it. And then they embraced, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, and the stress of the box that had built up inside of her drifted away like mist in a stiff breeze. She looked over his shoulder at the empty room, perceiving many voices, some angry, others afraid, but she could not hear them. She was aware of the presence of people, but all her instincts and senses told her she was alone, totally, unequivocally alone. Except for him. Like the wind, she thought. She felt his hair brush her neck, rough and soft, and the feeling comforted her. Hours had gone by since she had felt this, and now she wanted to get away from this large, stuffy room, with its little prison box and rows of seats, all in order, all in lines as dictated by some unknown body or standard. But she wasn't used to standards. He wasn't either, they spent most of their time together running away, trying to find a better place, somewhere they could be accepted. Or at least left alone.
Why won't people leave us alone? The boy thought about it a lot, wondering what they might have done to the people that caused them to pursue them endlessly, trying to force them to conform. But they never would, he knew that. They could try forever and all they would accomplish would be to bring misery and unnecessary suffering to them both. He had taken her away, hoping that he might find somewhere. He didn't know where, but it would be better than this place, this city, this building, this room that they were walking out of. Maybe someday he would find the place, somewhere that things worked as they should, and then they could be happy again. He thought of his parents, memories of their caring ignorance stabbing him like a pincushion, the way they had cared for him and taught him. It made him sick to think of it, the memories became nightmares and haunted him in his sleep, so that he often woke up and wondered where he was, lying on a dirty blanket behind someone's garage. Breathing her breath. But as soon as the realisation hit him, he was happy again. Night was a good time, there were few people around and nobody tried to force them to do things they didn't want to do. So he would wrap himself around her sleeping form, her skin warm and smooth against his, and think tentatively about his past, and her past. Sometimes he would stay awake all night thinking about it.
The judge ordered the guard to go after them, but the guard did not move. He decided to try again, but still he was ignored. The man stood in his smartly buttoned blue uniform and silently disobeyed. The judge felt a sudden panic spread within himself as he realised that when it really came down to it, he had absolutely no control over anything.
He was looking at the floor now, because the two were gone. And in many ways the floor was a lot more interesting than the unimaginative, soggy thoughts of the people that he worked with and talked to and was surrounded by. His thick blue uniform felt stiff and suffocating now; claustrophobia struck him like a hurricane. He suddenly felt very ashamed of who he was, and stared at the floor even more intently, trying to block out the raised voices that pounded him from above; feigning indifference. They would never learn, he thought. But then, surely he had learnt? Perhaps, he hoped, perhaps someday they might see the error of their ways and change it all, make it better. But he couldn't tell them; he was incapable of it. He wasn't good enough with words, or notable enough in his actions, to make them see. There was nothing, just nothing. And that was all there was left.
"Is it curable?"
"Hello again."
"...What are you doing?"
Why did they like the rain? She pondered the problem thoughtfully, trying to spy frogs hopping in the sodden grass below the sill. She could not see any, but she kept looking just in case. The bulging white metal of the conservatory's radiator warmed her front as she craned her youthfully supple neck in her urgent quest to find frogs. But there weren't any. She supposed it must be the wrong time of year for frogs to be out, they must all be hiding in their frogspawn. Kristy liked frogspawn. It looked soft and white, like cream. Her parents had given her strict instructions never to eat any, but her curiosity was gradually overcoming her. When the rain stopped, she would sneak out the house while her parents weren't looking and visit purple pond, the glorified puddle in the small park nearby. Maybe she could find some frogspawn there.
Kristy liked the park. There weren't very many other children there, only Jamie from next door, and Alison who sunbathed there sometimes. But it had swings and a slide, and it was a wonderful place for parties, her mother had told her. She would have her seventh birthday party in it, she supposed. The rain continued, flaky drops of liquid snuffing themselves as they impacted against the sweet embrace of green lawn grass.
She remembered her parents, and glanced behind her guiltily, almost expecting to see her mother and father watching her, whispering conspiratorially to each other, wearing expressions of worry and stern disapproval respectively. But the rug-clamped hall was deserted - only Pippy the hamster was moving, and he was in his cage and could not (as far as she knew) tell her parents that she had been naughty. Pippy was sweet, she thought. A warm fuzzy handful, trusting her so completely. Sometimes she would lie on the sofa and let him walk on her face, and on a few such occasions he had gone to sleep and had to be lifted off. He was chewing sawdust as she watched. It seemed to be a very hamster-like thing to do. Kristy hated sawdust. It didn't taste of anything, and it was too dry.
Kristy returned her attention to the rain, which by now had ceased altogether. She swung the door wide, jumped outside, closed it quietly, and squealed at the thought of finally being free. She squelched happily to the gap in the heavy wall, following her planned route with an air of surprise that it was so easy to get away from her parents, when they normally watched her so closely. The grass faded into dirt - which had morphed into mud from the torrents of water - between the wall sections. That was it, she thought. She was outside her house, out of her garden, heading for the park all by herself. Her tiny body shook with excitement, and she ran down the dirty path to get there quicker, long-grass spinning by on either side in a world of dew-drops and thick spiky bracken.
Perhaps she fell asleep, the father thought lazily. Perhaps she...
His train of thought was interrupted abruptly as images of a famine in some far-off country were projected into his eyes. Horror upon horror poured out the curvy screen, filling his unimpressed mind with vague, distant feelings of guilt. Nothing serious, he thought. Just another famine. They probably brought it on themselves.
The edges of the picture began to blur. It annoyed him, but he didn't do anything to stop it from happening.
Jamie had stopped too. He lugged himself to a swing and fell heavily into it, gasping for air. The two regarded each other, smiling at themselves. Eventually Kristy stood up straight and made her way over to the swing next to Jamie's.
The seat was wet, but she didn't mind. The two friends sat for a while in mutual silence. Eventually, Kristy remembered the reason she was there in the first place, and told Jamie to follow her to purple pond, which lay on a smooth incline in the far corner. He did as she bid him.
The black fabric floated over the ground, carried away from the wooden fence, skirting round it, by a swiftly moving Stranger.
Purple pond had got its name from the time some children from the town had dropped one of their purple spray-paint cans into it by accident. The water had been a thick sloppy purple for months after. It had faded now, and oxygenating algae had made the water clear. Kristy could see the bottom, where mysterious green weeds grew. She told Jamie to help her look for frogspawn, and again he followed her instructions. The two friends peered cautiously under the overhanging bank, examining the shiny brown mud for the white frothy substance. Kristy's long hair touched the water; single strands floated on top, held up by surface tension on the sheet of water. Small clumps sank down a short way, creating tiny expanding ripples that added to the general turbulence the wind was causing.
Scarcely had they been looking for three minutes, when Jamie's Dad strolled through the park entrance, calling his son. Jamie looked up, frowning, and then scampered off towards him, throwing an apologetic look to Kristy. She frowned back, watching him go. It was cold and bitter; grey clouds swept past above her. She was supposed to still be at home. Traces of guilt crept into her conscience. She began to feel lonely.
The enveloping black cloak sifted its way through the air, round to the entrance. It sailed inside like a menacing dark scream, concealed itself behind the shiny metal slide, watching.
Kristy was still searching, her head deep under the overhang, touching rocks and weeds, fingers locating tiny wooden treasures.
Stranger shuffled around, eyes fixed on his prey creature.
Kristy sensed something moving behind her, and turned to find out what it was. The park was empty, but fear rose in her heart now, quivering like some ice-covered blanket inside her. Then she saw movement; a tiny black flick near the slide. But it was gone. Perhaps it had never been there. Nervously, she pretended to continue searching, secretly watching behind her by looking through the gap between her legs. She tried to keep her thick raincoat from hanging down and getting in the way.
He checked the girl - she was searching again, oblivious. Stranger leapt swiftly from his hiding place and made for a bush, tacking his way towards her. Soon he would perform the rush, and she would be his.
Kristy caught her breath as she saw the jet-black figure speed away from the slide, drawing closer to her. It stopped behind a bush, but its cloak peeked out the side. She gasped in fear, and stood up to watch it, mouth agape.
No! She had seen him! But it was too late now. He must have her.
Kristy screamed. She cried and screamed as the ghostly black form, cloak trailing like a shadow, leapt from behind the bush and floated towards her with terrifying speed, seeming to grow larger and more terrifying as it sped in her direction. She edged backwards, ready to run, and nearly fell in the water. Waving her hands in the air, steadying herself, she saw Stranger reach her, and a pale white hand pulled her within the darkness. Kristy fainted.
Kristy rubbed her head. It hurt; she tested a bruise on her left temple gingerly, then inhaled sharply as it sent streams of pain through her, making her sob. She buried her face in her arms and cried, unsure where she was or what she was doing there. Cold drafts worried at her feet, chilling them like slabs of meat.
Stranger entered the cell and sat in the wooden straight-back chair he had placed there earlier. He produced a key and leant over to lock the door. He had removed his cloak now, and wore a black silk shirt and tight leather trousers on his disturbingly skinny, slight frame. He pocketed the key and sat watching the girl with his chin in his hand, leaning on his knee. An expression of mild interest manifested itself on his face as he saw her moving. He grinned to himself as she started crying, and decided to leave her to it for a few hours. He got up and, forgetting which pocket he had put his key in, slipped through the bars, grunting a little as he squeezed his bone structure out of the cell.
The woman wore a grey long-sleeve T-shirt and blue jeans. Nothing special, she thought, as she pottered about the cupboards and drawers, looking for vanilla flavouring to make a cake for her daughter.
Amanda liked cooking things. She took immeasurable delight from mixing ingredients together, moulding, crafting them, cooking. It had been quite some time since she had really indulged herself.
She remembered where the vanilla was - in the living room. Blair liked to sniff it - he said it made him feel good. She was sceptical, but did not try to stop him. She loomed near his seat, a shadow in the flashing darkness, and took the half-empty bottle of vanilla from the table. Blair didn't even look up.
Returning to the kitchen, she gathered the rest of the ingredients she would need, and then flipped to a suitable page in her cookbook. Smiling, she glanced at the half-full vanilla bottle. She had made this grey cake so many times before; she didn't need instructions from any book.
Before long, a tall man of skeletal frame and scarred face approached her prison. She drew back from him, uncertain what he planned to do with her.
She was so young.
The man moved into the cell - he slipped straight through the bars! Kristy had tried to escape using this tactic earlier, but it had proved fruitless. Her chest wouldn't fit, and neither would her hips. She eyed the man carefully, cowering in the corner, wondering if she should say hello or try to shake his hand.
Stranger drew a length of chain from within his shirt.
But he was obsessed with her. He stamped some life back into his feet and folded his arms, thinking of her. She was so perfect - her eyes that shone in the snow's light, her hair that floated lazily behind her as if only vaguely associated with her; something that trailed her like a fluffy white cloud. He glanced at his feet, and placed a gloved hand against the bulging stone wall beside him as he scraped sticking snow from his shoes. His toes were numb. They felt so cold that he imagined they might never be warm again.
The other children were not aware of his obsession; he didn't talk to anyone about it. Except himself, sometimes, when the nights at home dragged on and on like they would never end. He would lie in bed with the lights off and close his eyes and will her to be lying next to him, holding him, keeping him safe. But he was the only one who knew about it. About how he felt.
Tommy returned his attention to the road beyond the school fence, and his heart shook as he saw her approach, wearing a blanket of eager friends - a shroud of protective good will. She walked carefully, making certain not to slip as she chatted with various friends about this or that. From his ever-exposed hiding place, the boy sighed. It was like this every morning. Soon she would pass through the outer gate, and tap daintily up the steps just as the bell rang. Its shrill cry seemed to warn the school that she had arrived.
But for now, she was still on the approach, her breath misting in the air and mingling with that of her friends.
But she tolerated them, because to do otherwise would be impolite. Besides - she genuinely liked a few of them.
She stared ahead at the school gate, the thin metal fence. The grey building. And for the first time in her life, she saw him standing there. She stared at him, and stopped walking. The crowd around her surged forward a little, then duly sank back a little to accommodate her halted progress, surrounding her again. People started asking her why she had stopped, but she dismissed them with a wave of her hand. She was looking at the boy who was peering round the side of the school building. She hissed into the nearest ear:
Now she was pointing at him; discussing something with a friend. What could they be talking about?
The subject of his obsession drifted forwards again. Tommy took a deep breath and prepared himself should he be allowed to meet and talk with her.
The boy was edging from foot to foot uncomfortably. She could see he was nervous.
Tommy swung his bag over a shoulder and plodded after the two girls, unable to tear his eyes from Ruth. So that was her name, he thought. He supposed he had been rather silly to think about her all these years and not even know what her name was. His shoes scratched and crunched over the patchy snow. In the path ahead, he noticed a section that had no snow on it at all, and headed for it, thinking it to be easier to walk upon. He regretted the decision the moment he trod on it, however; transparent ice had coated it thinly, and with a shock he felt himself slipping. He began waving his hands around to steady himself. His bag fell off his shoulders and brushed the side of his leg, nudging him off balance. Tommy fell hard on the ground, rolled over on his back.
Sally and Ruth stopped and turned round to see what all the noise was, and saw Tommy as he fell. They stood staring at him for a few moments, making sure that he wasn't hurt. Then they began to laugh. They laughed and pointed at him, and joked with each other.
Tommy picked himself up, tears materialising in his eyes. Ruth was laughing at him. So was Ruth's friend, Sally. The whole world was laughing at him. What a stupid thing he had done! He had scarcely been introduced and already he had made a fool of himself. The tears were streaming from his eyes, now. Ruth and Sally were laughing even more at this sign of weakness.
Shame flooded through him. His vision had gone blurry with tears. He felt disappointed with himself, and destroyed. Without stopping to collect his bag, he turned and ran - not caring where he ended up, just so long as it was far away from this place. He ran and ran, skidding on more ice but not falling this time. He rounded the corner of the building as the laughing faded, and struggled over the fence, sobbing. Tommy tipped himself over and fell in a pile of snow. He rolled and stood up, then staggered off into the forest.
Wordlessly, Ruth started after Tommy. She ran around the corner and saw him darting away through the trees in the forest. She called after him:
She shook her shoulders free of her schoolbag and looked for a gate through the fence; there was none. She sensed Sally behind her. Ruth shrugged, took the metal between her hands and started climbing. Sally shouted something at her but Ruth did not hear. She needed to find Tommy.
Tommy put his hands on his knees to steady himself as he tried to get his breath back. The silence was broken only by some muffled birdsong. He hissed at the birds to be quiet. But they didn't listen.
She twisted through the tangle of trees, dodging boughs, catching up with him steadily. He was moving quite quickly, despite an obvious stagger. Ruth jumped over a fallen branch and dodged an old tree stump, pursuing her quarry like a fox.
She was close now - she could hear his rasping breath, the crunch of crushed snow beneath his feet. She shouted her apology again, to no avail. He was ignoring her.
Ruth watched him as her breath flowed over his face, and his breath over hers. The thought of breathing the air he had breathed wormed its way into her mind; she felt a sudden pang of intimacy towards him.
Tommy's head was bleeding, she noticed. A tiny cut gushed unnerving amounts of blood into an ever-growing clot that stuck in his hair. Strands of red that had escaped the clot stemmed over his face, ending at his chin, or the corner of his mouth. With a pearly white finger, Ruth smeared the lifeblood liquid onto a finger; regarded it curiously. Tommy watched her, shocked by the perception of her touch. The girl looked into his eyes, searching the deep blue pools for signs of meaning, emotion - anything. She licked her finger.
Muffled birdsong floated across the forest.
Ruth bent towards Tommy, eyes closing, gently pressed her lips to his.
Ruth was approaching from the road beyond the fence. She had only three friends with her. One of them was Sally, who had later apologised to him countless times. The others he did not know. He had no desire to meet them.
She chatted idly with Sally, keeping the other two pretenders in tow as if they were attached to her surreally floating hair. She glanced at the corner where the overhang lay, and saw him. She watched him waiting for her while she conversed with her friend.
Tommy swung his schoolbag over his shoulder and began to walk towards the school gate. A flicker of a smile crossed his soft face as he passed the point in the path where he had slipped that winter day. Ruth was smiling at him; he smiled back, allowed her and her alone to see him glow, and his true self shone through like the sun glinting off sheets of ice on a cold winters day.
Sarah sat by the fire, roasting nuts. She didn't like the taste of them - she just enjoyed the process of roasting, and then meticulously cracking them open, removing the brown, slightly furry skin contained inside. She completed a nut, and arranged the warm wrinkled mass adjacent to the three she had finished already. Her hand wavered over the basket, ready to select a fresh nut, but then she changed her mind. She felt her small, slight body stand up - her head rushed and she nearly fell over again. Someone on the other side of the room laughed and asked her something. A plastic smile flashed across her face as she waved a hand dismissively in the direction of the voice. She recovered from the dizzy spell, and scanned the room slowly, looking for Lynsey. Her gaze met with her own reflection as she finished her sweep and found herself facing the balcony doors. As she was watching, a guest pulled back the doors from the outside and entered the room. Sarah stood for a moment, then picked her way gingerly across the carpet of small bodies, the life beneath her convulsing occasionally in streaks of laughter. The reflection in the shiny metallic glass grew closer, and she stepped into the cold night air, closing the door behind her.
Lynsey was leaning on the black metal rail on the edge of the balcony, watching the sky where the sunset had been, as if examining it for scars. She made to look round as the footsteps approached and the door was pulled shut, but stopped herself when she recognized the rhythm of the paces. She could detect Sarah's presence unlike any other person. It was as if the two reacted when in close proximity, producing a kind of subtle, altered heat. Her elbows pressed into her sides as she stood crouching over the sky and the cityscape before her. Slowly, she allowed her gaze to fall to the concrete car park below her, fifteen stories down. Long brown hair framed her view as she remembered the pain in her past. Sarah did that to her - feeding her memories. The girl was like a drug. Lynsey often wondered if she had the same effect on her companion.
Sarah snaked her arms around Lynsey's shoulders and held her gently, following her gaze to the ground. After a minute of contemplation, she brushed her lover's hair over her neck and tried to look into her eyes.
The happy people laughed behind them, oblivious, their voices distorted by the glass barrier.
"I would." she breathed. Lynsey looked at her sadly for a while, then returned her eyes to the horizon. The night and its darkness enfolded them.
Water flowed through arches in the bridge, eddying off rocks and pebbles in the water. Grass lined the sides of the river. Soft grey clouds swirled west overhead.
Sarah glanced nervously at Lynsey. They were sitting on the edge with their legs hanging over, leaning back against the spiky black metal rails. The other girl returned her stare, her face torn by tears.
Lynsey produced a small stone from a pocket, held it up for Sarah to see. Then she dropped it, and the girls observed it impacting the water. It was a long way down.
She sniffed heavily and shuffled forwards a little. Sarah followed suit. They kept sliding themselves forward until they could go no further without falling.
The ripples of the splash Lynsey's rock had made faded, and the river continued its life with no memory of what had just taken place. Lynsey looked over at the form beside her, hair waving in the breeze. The eyes faced each other. And they mouthed the words, too quietly for anyone to hear. But evident nevertheless.
I love you.
They slipped themselves over the edge and fell.
"Hello there! Everything all right out here? Oh, goodness, it's chilly, isn't it?" The two girls looked round and saw a guest grinning stupidly at them from the light-filled room. Warm air washed over them. Sarah nodded from her chair, and forced another smile. The guest looked bemused, and carefully nodded and withdrew. The doors slid shut, and the cold gripped them again. Flute noise permeated the darkened glass.
Lynsey sighed deeply and crept over to Sarah's chair, curling up on her lap. She half-heartedly tried to sleep. Hands teased strands of her hair out of her eyes, her face. A siren sounded somewhere in the light-speckled blackness of the gently breathing city.
They were both thinking about the day when they had jumped off the bridge. Initially, Sarah had blanked it out, but when she was eventually reunited with Lynsey, it had all come flooding back to her. Countless sleepless nights had been spent like this, only not on a balcony, rather staring at a television screen that could have been blank, could have been displaying something. The greasy grip of insomnia had held them for years - they were nearly over it now. But Lynsey always looked and felt tired.
Sarah's fingers glided over Lynsey's face, feeling the curvature of her eyes behind their soft warm lids, her breath flowing across her skin and around tentative fingers. Wordlessly, they synchronized their breathing.
The freezing water swallowed Lynsey like the stone she had thrown into it. She sank a few meters before impacting the riverbed in a cloud of silt. Her head hit against a rock and she lost consciousness just as she registered Sarah's entry into the murky depths.
Sarah landed in the water, sank a short distance, and thudded against the bottom feet-first. Her left ankle twisted sharply and snapped - pain erupted within her. But she was still conscious. Panic rose in her chest, and she tugged at the currents urgently, pulling herself upwards. The surface parted in her path and she gasped and threw her head back, crying out. The flow of the river started carrying her away, and her strangled voice echoed off the inside of the stone bridge.
Five minutes passed before Lynsey awoke. She was being pressed into the bridge between the arches by the current. Desperate for air, she clawed her way up the stones that stuck out here and there and broke the surface. Her breathing started once again, though it was shallow and erratic. Lynsey stayed there for a while, recovering gradually.
Sarah extended an arm and grasped the muddy bank, heaved herself out of the water. She rolled over into the grass and stared at the sky, panting. Struck by a thought, she sat up and looked around for Lynsey. But she was nowhere to be seen. The stony bridge loomed through gathering mist, and Sarah realized that she was finally alone.
It was nearly a week before Lynsey started remembering what had taken place that day. Little things returned to her first; the feel of the wind between her toes as she sat on the bridge; the image of Sarah's lips. She had to stay in hospital because of her head injuries, and when she realized that she was finally alone, she had begged the nurse to let her die. When the nurse, whose name was Hannah, had explained that euthanasia was illegal, and her injuries were not life threatening anyway, Lynsey had sunk back into her customary state of depression.
The glass doors opened again and Hannah stepped into the cool night air. She handed something to Sarah, spoke words that Lynsey couldn't make out, and silently departed again. Fingers brushed against her lips, and Lynsey opened her mouth. A warm nut was pushed inside, and she chewed it gratefully.
Three years after the bridge, Sarah finished work and began to make her way home. She was employed in a supermarket stacking shelves. It was a boring job; it didn't pay much either. Sarah had found herself stuck in the rut of working to pay bills, never advancing anywhere. Her thin coat offered little protection from the swathes of rain, and she stepped in too many puddles. Sarah's pavement was always grey.
Ripples danced on the puddle's surface, sitting in the depression in the filthy gutter. Feet splashed through them, no longer caring. And dripping Sarah spotted the small figure across the road; it was shivering. After staring for a while, she cautiously crossed to the opposite side and bent to examine the crouched figure.
It was a woman.
Sarah kneeled in front of her, and saw through air and dress the dark nature of this sorry creature's profession. She bent forwards and lifted the face by its chin. As the eyes turned towards her and looked into her own, she caught her breath in a stuttered gasp as Lynsey returned her stare.
Lynsey woke from her half-sleep with the taste of nut still tainting the taste of her mouth. She sat up, found herself on the chair Sarah had been sitting on. A chilling wind was blowing into the alcove of the balcony. The party sounds had died down; the younger children (who were also the noisiest) had all been put to bed. Lynsey stood up slowly, looked around her stiffly, sniffed gently. Her love was gone.
She crossed the tiles to the rail and peered over. Trees below her obscured the ground, sticking from the concrete like pins in a pincushion. She could be down there, Lynsey thought. She could have jumped… just to prove she would do it…
Almost without thinking, she found herself gently climbing over the rails. Her left leg slipped over, her arms, the rest of her body followed. She gripped the rail and leant backwards, feeling wind between her toes. She tilted her head back, and extended her arms so that she was hanging backwards into the air, and all she could see was the stars. And as she was watching, she noticed for the first time how much more blackness there was than light in the night sky. How much more evil, she considered, than good. Impure than pure. Insane than sane.
Warm hands pressed over her fingers. Lynsey forced her head up again and saw Sarah standing on the other side of the railings with Hannah - who looked worried - positioned behind her. Sarah had assumed a cheated expression. The two gazed at each other, so glad that they had caught themselves.
"You would kill yourself just to attract attention" Sarah whispered. And Lynsey thought and hurt and thought, and sighed as she felt herself being pulled back to safety, ready to continue battling the blackness.
Between them they got the engine ticking over and before long they were speeding across the glaring whiteness, cutting a sharp trail across the virgin snow. This was the first hunting trip, of sorts, Man had ever been on. In his own way, he was excited at the prospect. The slight element of mild danger made it all the more fun – they were headed into prime wolf country. The game was best there, and Angelo intended for them to eat good, solid, blood rich meat that night. Man wasn’t so keen on that idea, but he went along with it anyway.
The two friends reached a large snow drift by a glittering hillock, and Angelo cut the engine. Man jumped off first, and collected a shotgun, gun-belt and extra furs. He gazed around at the bleak landscape, and saw the village fading in a fog-saturated horizon. Angelo left the key in the ignition and turned to the nearby rise in the whiteness, motioning Man to follow. Man did as he was bid. The climb was only a few metres, but the friends were exhausted by it, weighed down by the extra clothes and their weapons. Man was about to ask Angelo what they were doing there, and why hadn’t they started hunting yet, when the villager pointed a heavily gloved hand at a dark spot five-hundred yards away. Man looked. It was an animal. Big game thought man. The creature was too far off to see, but Man was aware that it had been startled by the noise of the Skidoo’s engine. Angelo slid down the hill, the way they had come, and Man did the same.
Crawling round the mound of glittering snow crystals and towards the animal they were hunting, Man found much cold snow was seeping inside his clothes at the neck, and tried to keep his head just above the snow level. It was exhausting, but they managed to get within firing distance of their quarry. Angelo grinned and indicated that Man should fire first. Man was uncertain, but he removed the gun from his shoulder and laid it level on the ground. The barrel faced the prey, the butt burrowed into Man’s shoulder. He took careful aim, and then slowly squeezed the trigger. The gun bolted in the snow and streaks of deep red erupted from wounds on the creature’s flank. It staggered momentarily, then fell to the ground, wheezing. Angelo stood up and cheered, delight all over his chubby blue face. Tiny icicles were starting to form on his bushy brown eyebrows.
Man stood up and staggered towards his first victim of the day, and felt a flash of pride at his pinpoint accuracy. Any normal person would have missed, even with a shotgun. Between them, Man and Angelo man-handled the leaking corpse to the vehicle after piloting it to the scene of the killing. They deposited it in the back and congratulated each other on their work, for it was a very heavy creature. After a quick soup-break, they jumped onto the Skidoo again to look for a new spot where the game had not been alerted by the resounding gunfire. Man liked the feel of the hot soup sloshing around inside him. It had tasted nice too.
They stopped, at Man’s suggestion, by a small clump of dark looking trees. The village was out of sight now, hidden from sight by thick banks of rolling fog that spread their floating tendrils from the west, carried by a stiff wind. Angelo trudged towards the forest, and Man followed him, a few paces behind, shotgun at the ready. They had been walking through the trees for twenty minutes or more when a harsh growl interrupted them. Angelo stopped dead in his tracks, listening hard. Man stopped too, and stared warily around him. Then, again, a rough, throaty growl, this time followed by a high pitched whine. Angelo stared at Man, greatly unnerved, and Man stared back for a few seconds. A barely audible crunch could have been one of the friends shifting his weight, or it could have been snow under paws. The forced breathing sound might be one of them, or it might not.
Man spotted the wolves first, and tugged at Angelo’s sleeve to warn him. Angelo saw them too, and motioned for the two of them to back out of the forest. So the two friends slowly backed out, but the wolves followed them, silently, and never seeming to move. They would just suddenly be there, waiting for something. The growls were all around them now. Wolves were everywhere. Man studied their eyes, and saw that they were green, not red like some stories made them out to be. Wolves were very threatening in real life, he thought. Man and Angelo were in very real danger.
They reached the edge of the forest, and Angelo backed slowly towards the Skidoo. Man stopped ten yards away from the tree-line, and waited. A fierce growl revealed the presence of a sleek, grey wolf, teeth bared and staring at Angelo. Angelo halted his progress and swung his gun round to point at the wolf. He squeezed the trigger. The cartridge popped out the side. No bang. A misfire. The poor villager couldn’t believe his misfortune, and feverishly loaded another cartridge into the shotgun. Man didn’t move. Man watched Angelo as the wolf came closer, ironically wary of attack. Angelo finished reloading and pointed the barrel loosely at the ash-coloured carnivore. He squeezed the trigger. Click. The cartridge popped out the side again. No bang. Angelo was backing away again, and he pulled out a cartridge and checked it in obvious panic. There was nothing inside. The cartridge was filled with sand. He threw it down and gave Man an imploring look; Shoot the wolf! Man did not move. The wolf jumped forwards and caught Angelo on the foot, tearing through his snow boots with frightening ease. Angelo fell with a terrified cry. He turned his pained expression and mouthed the words; Help me. It was a sentence, a brief request. Not an order, and command or an exclamation. Angelo was at death’s door, and he could see the other doors slamming in his face.
Like an immense grey tide, the pack descended upon the villager’s body, and he was engulfed in a swirl of bodies, engulfed by the instincts of feeding frenzy. Man walked, very slowly, past the carnage that was being wreaked, and opened a small blue duffel bag in the back of the Skidoo. He pulled out a piece of laminated white paper, and re-read the contract. To be certain its terms had been satisfied, he thought to himself. He eased himself into the Skidoo and started the engine. The wolves were oblivious to him – there was easier food to be had.
Man thought about Angelo for quite some time after. He remembered the dying gesture; the final request that would not be met. The people of the village were devastated, apart from a few. And man decided against eating the good, solid, blood rich meat that night. It would be unfitting, he decided.
The fluid around him was frothing slightly from the cold, so he instructed his onboard computer to pass it through the engine ducts as a way of warming it. The summit of the compost heap loomed and he floated over it like some great bird flying south for Winter.
It was Winter here now; snow congregated on the ground in shifty patches like huddling gangsters. The air was fresh and clean and crispy. The whole length of the garden spoke – or perhaps whispered - of gentle menace on this harsh, stark, pure morning.
He gathered speed as his tiny form slipped across the silence – unbroken by the timid birds, or his quiet engines. Losing altitude, he zipped in amongst the grass blades towards the house in which he must have been staying the night before. The garden was long, almost twenty metres of dew-coated greenery to cover. He could see a glass door near to the ground that would be easy to shift through, and so he entered the house by carefully touching a few controls in his bubble-ridden sopping cockpit. The door presented no challenge.
Inside it was warmer, his sensors told him, and there were people moving around. He looked around him, noting a small front room laden with the remains of a modest party. Partly empty bottles lay scattered on the floor; partly full bottles sat proudly on the low tables. A small sofa facing the television was covered in popcorn, which adorned the patterned blue fabric like sticky gems. The light was off, and had no shade on it. Morning shine spilled in through the length of glass across the front of the house. A door had been left ajar; he floated through it.
As if the front room was an antechamber, this grand living room sprawled across many metres, with chairs scattered about and assorted party detritus covering the long wooden table. Carpeted stairs led upwards through an exit to his right. He followed them.
Partway up, whilst transcending through realms of pictures which hung on the wall like great broad windows into another reality, a sensor gave a cheery blip, registering that the movements had stopped. He paused for a moment to see if they would continue. They did not. He gingerly completed his journey upwards and hovered uncertainly in a short hallway with a door at each end. He scanned each door in turn; one was empty, the other contained two major life forms. His tiny rounded bulk swivelled to face the door and tipped towards it gently. He fingered the shifting controls and passed through the wood with a soft sliding sound like sand being poured.
Inside there were clothes scattered on the floor. It was warm in here, with a gentle sleeping smell permeating the air. An empty wooden desk, painted black, lined the far corner. To his left a window admitted morning light. The roof curved down in front of him; this room was at the top of the house. Below him, in the far right-hand corner, two people lay embracing each other, apparently recovering from something.
It floated closer to better observe them. They held each other delicately; their eyes closed with lids like shutters. The drone watched them carefully, noting with a degree of respect the infinite grace, the tragic beauty, of their post-coital repose. Such honesty incarnated, this surely must be. How lovely it was to see two people so desperately trusting each other, it thought to itself. How touching to see this, on an early morning which in effect was just like any other. But to these people it was somehow more than that; it represented a significant date in their history, although little of note was happening.
The drone set itself down on the end of the bed and thought about the two people. It sat and thought, until one of the sleeping lovers stirred, and it scampered back through the door and out the house into the freezing air like a bad memory turned to the wind.
Thankyou.
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Belief
"Why do you believe?"
"I need a God."
"What for?"
"I need one to..."
"What?"
"I need a God to impress."
"I'm afraid not."
"Oh."
"Babe, I'm so sorry."
"Don't call me that."
"What do you want me to call you?"
"By my name."
"What's your name?"
"I'm not telling
you!"
"Well then."
"Oh just fuck off will you? I'm the one with the disease here - you're normal. No-one ever shouted 'freak!' at you whilst you were walking down the street! Did they?"
"I'm sorry."
"I should want you, and your body, shouldn't I? And I don't. Which makes me a freak. I should want your body. Oh, the irony..."
"You're not a freak, you just have a disease."
"Without a cure."
"Well... actually they did mention one thing..."
"What?"
"It's been tried a few times, it even worked once - for a while..."
"What?"
"Calm down! They tried injecting the... sufferer."
"Injecting them with what?"
"Oestrogen. Female hormones."
"What good would that do?"
"I'm not really sure, maybe something to do with getting the body accustomed to it, so after the treatment stops the body needs the hormone and... fills in the blanks, so to speak."
"You think I should try it, don't you?"
"I think it's worth a try, at least."
"Okay then."
"So you'll try it?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Hiya. When did they finish?"
"Last Thursday, thank God. I feel like a goddamn pincushion!"
"I'm not surprised! So how do you feel?"
"You mean am I ready to fuck you yet, don't you."
"Well, um, not in so many words..."
"No, I'm not. I feel terrible actually."
"Well it was worth a shot, wasn't it?"
"Not really."
"Well it didn't have any permanent effects, did it?"
"Maybe."
"What do you mean,
maybe?"
"I..."
"What? Please tell me!"
"I've started growing breasts."
"Oh..."
"Yes. Oh."
"I'm so sorry."
"No you're not."
"I am! Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because you're normal. I don't make any difference to you, do I? You'd as soon step on me as give me the time off your watch."
"I..."
"It's true, isn't it? The world doesn't need people like me."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this."
"Believe it. You and your woman's body, I envy you so much, you can't even begin to comprehend it. It's not fair. Ow! What was that for?"
"You were hysterical. Come on now, sit down and drink your coffee. Let's talk about all this."
"I don't feel like talking."
"Well just listen then."
"I won't hear anything you say."
"I don't care, I'll say it anyway. Now then..."
"Hanging off the side of the bridge, what does it look like?"
"Um..."
"You got something to say, bitch?"
"I..."
"Does my language offend you?"
"A little."
"Have you never heard that word before? Does it really make any difference whether you hear it said or hear it in your mind? Essentially it's the same thing anyway..."
"Please stop talking in riddles."
"Look at the stars. Aren't they beautiful?"
"I... um, yes, I suppose they are."
"I sit on the park bench at night sometimes, and stare at the stars. There are so many bright points in the sky... so many dark places in between..."
"Where is all this leading?"
"...Nowhere. It leads nowhere, my religious friend."
"Please get down from there."
"No."
"Please."
"It was nice commiserating with you. Goodbye."
"Wait. NO!"
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Chain Link Rain
Kristy Dulver was six and almost three quarters. She was very little, standing lower than most peoples' hips. At that moment, she was standing at the window, gazing out at the wind-crushed hedges in her parents' luxurious house. Kristy was thinking. About frogs.
A hundred years after those thoughts had slipped through her mind, it was two hours later. The rain had eased off tentatively, and Kristy skipped through the front hall in her assorted coats and hats. She kneeled by the double glass doors in the front room, eagerly eyeing the path she would take; through the gap in the heavy stone wall, down the hill to the road, and then onwards to the park.
Jamie was swinging when she arrived. He was standing up too, something Kristy knew his parents had specifically told him not to do. He noticed her walking past the wooden fence and into the park, and bent his knees sharply to slow himself. When he judged himself to be moving slowly enough, he jumped off and landed precariously on the edge of the mysterious black padding, almost tumbling onto the grass. He scolded himself silently - he had forgotten to bend his knees. Upon picking himself up, he was greeted by the sight of a slightly wet Kristy looking rather sorry for herself.
"Hiya Kristy! Why are you all wet?"
"Car splashed me", she replied forlornly, examining his shoes. They looked new.
"Oh... dear..." Jamie crooned, after a moments consideration. She guessed he had been deciding whether to show sympathy, or to mock her like some of the town children did. She looked up at him, grinning suddenly.
"Kiss me then!" she teased.
"Ugh! No! Get away!"
Laughing, she chased him round the park. She kept close behind him, but made sure she never quite caught him. She dreaded the day he would stop running.
Blair Dulver sat in his living room watching the news. His beautiful - but fading - wife, Amanda, sat in the chair next to him, legs stretched out cat-like to rest on the fluffy green footstool. They stared and stared, content in the unusual silence, broken only by the blabbering of the flashing box.
Kristy slowed to a walk, then stood still, panting. She brought her hands to her knees and leant on them, supporting herself. Her light-blonde hair whipped her face in the oncoming wind. She tried to brush it out the way with a finger, but it just flopped back again. Floppy hair, she thought.
Stranger watched as the two little ones scampered towards the water-filled hill. With a critical eye, he viewed them, trying to conclude something. The boy, he thought, could fight back. He looked strong, both in body and mind. It would take too long to break him. The girl, on the other hand, was perfect. She looked shy and vulnerable, even in her confidence. She would be an easy target. She was his, now. Although she didn't know it, she was already his.
Purple pond was quite big that day. It had swollen from the rain, and a ring of slimy grass had been submerged beneath it. Kristy approached it and dipped her fingertips in tentatively, recoiling from the cold as soon as it hit her. Jamie stood behind her, wondering what she was going to do.
And now the boy was running off home! Oh, happiness, this was going to be easier than he had at first thought.
Still darkness. Motion. Nothing. Numb.
Back. Where now? Here. Where? Here. Black, dead, ash.
Light now - she could see light. What was it? She couldn't tell. The movement had stopped. Her eyes adjusted slowly, a poorly lit room's dimensions swam into view.
Amanda Dulver was getting mightily sick of game shows - not to mention her slob of a husband. She picked herself up daintily and padded from her chair to the kitchen, delighting in the multiple awnings and exquisite architecture of her beautiful house. Her house. Not his. It belonged to her. She looked after it, all he did was live in it.
Kristy woke up, and dragged herself upright, touching her cheek where she had lain on the freezing stone floor during her blissful escape from the real world. Rubbing some warmth and life back into it, she looked around her, and was appalled to see oppressing stone walls and black steely bars blocking her escape. Staggering a little, she stood up. Her shoes had been taken, as had her socks and coats and hats. Her dress was lying on the floor next to her; she pulled it on, shivering, trying in vain to reach behind her back to do the buttons up. The drafts were still there, floating through the bars (which, she noticed, were tantalisingly far apart, though not so much so that she could fit through them) and chilling her to the bone. The dusty grey stone wall opposite the bars was broken by a single window framed in steel, which admitted a little light from the grey sky outside, and was host to numerous spider webs, which in turn played host to a thousand unfortunate insects that had flied into them. Those thousand holes in the light shook in the draft as if shivering with her.
Aha! She had seen him, and recognised what he was here for. She surely must know of the Great Purpose that the Entities had told him about. They were the ones that told him to do it, the spoke to him, sometimes in his sleep, when nightmares coursed through his consciousness. Occasionally they talked to him in the daytime, interrupting his gibbering mind and setting straight his insanity. They were the ones - if any - who would be held responsible.
The skeleton man stood at the bars, watching her, grinning, revealing a gold tooth and about five or six normal teeth. The rest were missing. One of the teeth was black, and had a large lump in the gum directly beneath it. She winced at the thought of the pain of losing so many teeth - Alison had lost two of her teeth already, and each time it happened there was such a fuss over her that Kristy assumed it must be exceptionally painful.
And suddenly! a movement in the corner of the room. It was she, he could see; the mind flies could not distract him now. And he would have her.
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Cold Winter's Day
Tommy lurked under the stone overhang at the side of the school. He waited for her like this every morning, shivering, watching his breath stream out into the freezing air like steam from a kettle. He shuffled his feet around uncomfortably as he waited, watching the diagonal criss-cross of metal wire that made up the fence, seeing through the gaps. The road beyond was icy, and was covered in snow. The snow had been broken up a little by children walking in it, and scraping quantities of it into their hands to hurl at each other. Some had built two-foot high snowmen. Tommy didn't enjoy playing with the other children. Tommy was 'different', as the teachers put it. 'Silly', as the kids would say.
One by one, she dispatched her 'friends' queries and questions. Had she seen this TV programme last night? Had she got that present for her birthday? It made her want to scream and physically push them all away from her. They crowded around her like maggots in a wound, suffocating her.
"Who is that boy over there?"
The ear belonged to Sally. She peered over the heads, craning her neck to see where her friend was pointing.
"Oh, that's Tommy", she said, her voice filled with scorn.
They watched him for a while, then started moving again.
They had stopped! What was going on? Had she seen him? Tommy realised that she must have. She was looking at him now, staring straight at him. The dark-haired boy tried his best to meet her gaze. Her eyes seemed too powerful at first, and he struggled to face her. But gradually they came to soften imperceptibly. He stared straight into her eyes, small though they seemed from the distance between them. Tommy felt his breath quicken.
She reached the gates and lost most of the crowd as they vanished up the steps to the classroom. Sally made to follow them, but changed her mind and accompanied her friend, walking behind her, wondering what might be about to happen.
"...Hi. What's your name?"
She had asked him a question. He had to answer.
"Tommy", he pronounced, voice faltering a little.
"What's yours?"
"Ruth", she replied casually.
The two stared at each other for a few moments, uncertain of what to do now that they were past the formalities. Eventually, Ruth decreed that they should get to the classroom as they were already late. Sally and Tommy agreed, if rather reluctantly.
Ruth stopped laughing. Tommy was genuinely upset, she could see. He was running away from her. He skidded round the corner and disappeared. Sally laughed a while longer, then stopped and looked mildly embarrassed.
"Tommy, I'm sorry." He didn't hear her, or at least did not react.
Panting, he stopped. Looked around him. Bleak here. Trees everywhere. The black bark contrasting with the white snow.
Ruth landed in a mound of soft snow, sinking into it slightly. It felt like a blanket - it wrapped around her and was warm and yielding, despite its temperature. She wanted to lie there for a while, but she could not. Her little hands pushed the snow away from her and she broke free, so that she could follow Tommy to wherever her might lead her. The school boundary faded slowly away, and there were no more boundaries to be seen.
Tommy checked behind him as he ran, and saw Ruth following him. Again, his heart shook. He had supposed that it should leap, but it seemed to have something wrong with it, and merely shook when he saw her. Groaning between sobs, he redoubled his pace, trying to evade her.
He had seen her following him. Ruth shouted after him:
"Tommy! I'm sorry!"
But it had no effect.
She was right behind him. How could she move so fast?! Tommy risked a glance behind him, saw her worried face, her soft breath pumping into the atmosphere. He looked for too long, and ran into a tree.
Tommy had collided with a tree and fallen. Ruth skidded over to him; he was lying with his head and back against the thick black trunk. She knelt beside him, held his hand in hers.
"What are you DOING?" she screamed violently at him.
He gazed up at her, terrified and hurt. She stared at him desperately for a moment.
"I'm sorry." She almost whispered it.
The boy's tear-streaked expression remained unfazed. He gazed up at her, his chest heaving from his exertions, blood pumping through his head, pounding the sides. His small body still convulsed in the now silent sobs, weighed down by Ruth, who was sitting lightly on his legs.
Tommy lurked under the stone overhang at the side of the school. It was spring, now. The snow had melted.
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Happy Smiley People
Music flitted across the room, punctuated sporadically by giggling children. Candles were scattered in places; some balanced precariously on the Christmas tree. They illuminated the apartment nicely. Hannah's daughters were putting on a show, playing flute, recorder and tambourine respectively. They stood clustered around a music book, staring intently at the marks on the page, reading them. Hannah lay on the couch in her husband's arms, chatting to the guests. They were having a small party. Light from the fire and candles made her face appear to glow.
"You aren't thinking of trying again, are you?" she asked, troubled by the morose attitude on display. Lynsey's eyes closed as if she were fighting some inner battle.
"No" she replied, and looked at Sarah with her head tilted sideways.
"You wouldn't follow me this time anyway." They blinked at each other for a moment - Lynsey expectant, Sarah shocked. The arms slipped free from their resting-places and Sarah stepped back, mouth opening and closing, trying to force words to come out. After a moment she fell back in a chair and put a hand over her eyes.
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Mansoul
Man watched Angelo as the villager loaded his gun-belt with the rounds that Man had prepared for their specific purpose. He pushed the final shell into its niche in the belt and threw the leather strap into the Skidoo next to the shotgun. Angelo was a local, born and bred in Tibet, and over the month Man had been here, they had become good friends.
Angelo had slept in that morning, which was why he was still getting ready for their hunting trip. But Man had been up early, getting ready for the big day. He had even been looking forward to it, until the departure time loomed near, and the adrenaline started pumping. Man watched Angelo as he struggled with the snow-covered vehicle, trying his best to start it. After a few minutes, Man trudged through the slush to lend a hand.
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Pure Morning
Note: This story was written for a competition (which, incidentally, I lost) that had a requirement of it being set on the first day of the new millennium.
He woke late that morning, dizzy with the activity of the previous night. It was light already. His transporter had set itself down in someone’s back garden, evidently attempting to conceal him after he had passed out. The machine buzzed into life as if to welcome him awake while his organs gradually began functioning again. The thick, ringed tube behind his ear pulsated as it fed him earlymeal. He peered groggily through the viewport and started to guide his vehicle – essentially himself – out from his hiding place.
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More stories will be uploaded as I write them. If you've read them all, and have something you'd like to say about them, please
e-mail me
.
Luke
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