Year 2 Formaldehyde by Sophie Holmes

Sorry if this is slightly long! It's longer than I had planned it be!

Formaldehyde

When Ivy told me that her mother wanted to buy her dress, I was shocked. Ivy’s mother barely had a penny to her name and there was no way she could afford to buy a wedding dress. “But babe, my parents said they’d pay for the whole thing, your wedding dress included. Your mother doesn’t have to spend a penny.”

“She wants to Archie, and anyway neither of us think it’s fair that your parents pay for everything. You know there’s no arguing with my mum.” Ivy rises to her tiptoes, giving me a swift kiss on the cheek before she exits the house, swinging the door shut behind her. I sigh, how can a morgue assistant who works three days a week afford to buy my Ivy the dress she wants and deserves?

I wake up on the morning of the wedding to my older brother Andy, jumping on the end of the bed. “Come on baby bro! Get up, you’re marrying that hot piece of ass today, don’t wanna keep everyone waiting!” He practically shouts into my ear. I push him off the bed, watching as he thuds onto the floor. “Don’t you dare call my wife to be a hot piece of ass. Only I can say that. Come on man, she’s gonna be your sister-in-law.” I scold him, wondering why I have to be the serious one. “Okay, we better stop fucking around, I got to get to that church before my bride.”

The church is filled with guests when we arrive, family and friends. Everyone is mingled in together to mask Ivy’s lack of family but that doesn’t matter, soon my family will be hers too. I take my place at the top of the aisle, Andy standing slightly behind me. He is actually taking things seriously now, holding on to the rings with all his life, he knows I’d kill him if he lost them. The room is alive with constant murmurs and the occasional cough, and it stays like that for about ten minutes, until the organ begins its chorus. Almost immediately, the room falls quiet.

I take a deep breath and look at the door, trying my hardest not to smile as it slowly opens. The first thing I see are her feet, two silver stars poking out from a sheet of ivory. I slowly raise my eyes, taking in the sight of her dress, it fits her perfectly, hugging every curve and highlighting her breasts whilst not revealing too much. It looks expensive, I can’t help but wonder how her mother bought it. But I push that thought to the back of my mind as I look at her face. Glowing a nervous pink, she slowly steps closer and closer to me. Everything is moving in slow motion.

Her meadow green eyes are twinkling, holding me in a breathless trance. Her lips are painted in a soft pink, shaped in a smile as captivating as her laugh. Her copper hair falls in thick ringlets around her shoulders, I wonder if it smells as good as it looks. But as she makes her way up the aisle, the light seems to distort her image. Suddenly her face seems pale and shallow and her lips are moist and slightly white. She is only half way up the aisle. I think something is wrong.

Just as I reach out to her, Ivy falls forward with no one to catch her. Her limp body crashes to the floor. I fall to my knees beside her, cradling her head in my lap. “Ivy, Ivy sweetie! Can you hear me? Ivy?!” My voice comes out in a broken panic. She isn’t breathing and I can’t find a pulse for the life of me. A sulphuric smell attacks my nose but I ignore it in desperation. “Someone call an ambulance! Please, someone do something!” I can’t lose her, not today, not ever.

“Mr Kennedy, your fiancé, she died of something called formaldehyde poisoning. It’s very rare. I’m sorry to have to ask but do you know how this could have happened? Does your wife work with dead bodies? Has she had prolonged contact with a dead body?” I look up at the medical examiner standing before me, he is a little man with oversized glasses perched on his nose. I’m hearing his words but I just can’t take anything in. I look to Ivy’s mother for support.

“I’m Ivy’s mother, Melissa James. Ivy never came into contact with a dead body, that’s my line of work. My Ivy was a lawyer.” She speaks with a strange conviction in her tone.

“Hmm, okay Ms James, did your daughter wear anything from a dead relative perhaps? For the wedding, you know the old, ‘something borrowed, something blue- “

“You bitch! What did you do? Where did you get that dress from?” I throw my words at Melissa, letting all my anger out. The medical examiner looks mildly confused, it was rude to interrupt him but I don’t care, this bitch did something to her own daughter, my Ivy.

Melissa sits down, head in her hands. “I didn’t know it would kill her”, her voice is barely a whisper. “I wanted so badly to be the one to provide Ivy with her wedding dress, I’m her mother for God’s sake. I couldn’t afford one, I tried my hardest, I really did.”

Again, I make an interruption. “I said, what did you do?”

“I stole the dress, off a dead body that came into the morgue for cremation. The lady was in her wedding dress, the service was over, I didn’t think any would know. The dress was perfect for Ivy. It was the best dress I could have gotten.” Melissa looks up, black tears staining her pallid cheeks.

“How long was this dead lady wearing the dress for?” The medical examiner looks thoughtful.

Melissa shakes her head. “A week? I don’t know.”

“That explains it then. I won’t tell you the all technical stuff, now isn’t the time. But what I will say is, Ms James, the dress you gave your daughter killed her. The dress itself would have had traces of formaldehyde from its previous owner’s corpse. Your daughter must have breathed these traces in, meaning her body couldn’t process her natural levels combined with the added levels from the dress thus poisoning her. There was no way of knowing this was going to happen, I am deeply sorry for your loss, Mr Kennedy, Ms James.” He shakes my hand and walks away, leaving me with Melissa, the one person I hated most in the world.

“I don’t want you to come anywhere near my ever again. You killed the best thing that ever happened to me. I will plan the funeral and the wake. You will turn up and then you will disappear from my life forever.” My words are perhaps needlessly harsh but I can’t bear to deal with this bitch anymore. Melissa sniffs and nods, a fresh wave of tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Archie, I’m sorry, I really am. I never meant for any of this to happen, I was trying to help. I should have just let your parents buy the stupid dress.”

I walk away from my former mother-in-law-to-be and walk straight into funeral planning. On the day of the funeral, I once again find myself standing at the top of the aisle. Everything feels so different this time, everyone is silent, looking at me with eyes filled of sympathy. No one makes a sound when the door opens. This time, only one thought crosses my mind.

This time, she made it up the aisle.

Year 1: Escapism by Jonathan Foster

Roses are red, aren’t they? Roses are red?

Violets are blue. Can’t be? Violets are blue?

Am I dead? I haven’t a fucking clue

Take your medicine said the bitchy nurse

This is my fear, and my fear is my curse.

I’ve got a father, but mother is dead

She was killed by an evil bitch he swore

My marked face, ugly to look at, a sore

Leather belt streaks that never fade-away

twice per day, once per night, pay I must pay.

It’s just a game, head, shoulders, knees, toes, dick?

Wait? Mummy I don’t like this, stop it I cried

Pose, smile, stand for awhile, it’s just a pic

Fingers here, lips there, give a gentle bite

Once per night, twice per day, for her delight.

How do we do it? Taut rope? Sharp knife? Pills?

Are you okay through the door? Fine we lied

Jump from high, use a car, that thing that kills

Does it hurt, is it messy, do we care?

We can’t stay, not another day, not here.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, a target he must find,

In the dark awaits a man that is kind

Bright eyes, sharp smile, sharper blade, hello miss

Iime Bottoms, Large breast, dont stop – keep running

Too late, opened throat, red moon, blood’s coming.

BITCH!!

Who? Me you he she we us they them, it?

I’m confused, did she die, was her throat slit?

Hang on, is he me? Is she? What is this

Nurse! I need to leave, I do not belong

What is going on, it has all gone wrong.

Take your medicine said the bitchy nurse

Trapped in walls, behind doors, it could be worse

[Seven] Love bites, purple scars [Eleven]

Can’t stay, run away, run away, no more

Rejection made her the first blonde at ten.

One day, pink roses turned red drinking blood

Daddy said. Slash, he hid her in the mud

Who knew, I love you meant here comes death too

Stop: Daddy said I’ll sell the little whore

She has friends, what must a little boy do?

Dark shadows, come and goes, red lipstick stains

Stop! Shut up! Let me speak! Chronic heart pains

Goodbye, hello forty-five, this was fun

Holy fucking shit Jon, is that a gun

BANG! – Onomatopoeia.

Where’s the fucken’ metre gone?

Doesn’t matter, should I use polyester or nylon?

With never closing eyes, what can they see?

Stuck between life and death, let myself be.

I have lost my mind – Schizophrenia.  

Year 1 - Echo by Monika Piotras

             

            I didn’t want him to leave. I was slowly examining every part of his face. One by one. Touching every spot, each mole, his thin cheeks, red marks. Trying to memorise as much as I possibly could. Blonde hair fell on his pale skin hiding few pimples.  He was lying on my lap looking at me with those big green eyes, the same way as he did when we first met. His eyes were filled with happiness back then, not watering, not looking away. He didn’t realise that I was already missing him terribly.

I kissed the red, heart like looking mark on his forehead and looked at him smiling. He was holding my hand. Slowly pressed my palm to his mouth at the same time showing “always&forever C²” on his wrist. The tattoo he got few nights ago. I told him that was stupid of him to mark his body for his entire life just because of a girl he met in a store, but now I felt happy about that. A quick sight escaped from my lungs. My heart got stumped with millions of needles at the same time. Slowly falling apart, drifting away from each other and neither of us could do anything about it. I bit my lip trying to say something, but remained silent. It was so quiet, almost calm. His eyes closed. Looking so vulnerable, so innocent. I knew it. No-one had to tell me about it, explain… He knew it as well.

We had spent a wonderful three months lying to each other.  Living an illusion that would soon disappear. Just like him. It was clear and understandable - he wouldn’t stay with me. We would never settle down. Maybe we would meet one day. Different. Being strangers to each other, knowing so much about ourselves.  Hugging instead of casual greeting, getting to the same club as we used to, he would introduce me to his new girlfriend secretly gazing if I still had that ring. I would smile seeing a little tattoo on his wrist, which used to mean so much. We would talk about those few years when we were not keeping in touch, maybe we would even go out together. Just the two of us. Just like old, good friends trying to catch up after months. And again I would laugh at his jokes. But in the end he would not be the one on whose lap I would be sitting on in a pub. He would not get my name tattooed on his forearm,  nor would I be the one kissed on the forehead by him. I wouldn’t dance with him, he wouldn’t say anything about how nice I was looking like. I knew it and I was also sure that it had to be like that. Was I about to do anything with it? No. I didn’t want to hold even a single minute of those months. Trying to remember only good things about him. About us.  

Everything has its end. Ours came way too soon. Just as he came to my life, quickly, without saying a thing, not asking for permission, he would disappear the same way. Leaving me in an empty kitchen sitting on an old, dirty sofa that once used to be brown. Saying how much he loved me, that I was the one and would always be. Kiss my forehead and leave. What about me? I would stay and not even a single tear would go down my cheeks. I would not feel sad or alone. Nothing would change. Next morning he would seem so distant to me, as if he never existed, as if we never met. Only once would I sit alone crying. Maybe one day I would forget about that guy who could always cheer me up. After years I would probably forget his name. Not saying hello when seeing each other in a public place. Remembering would be just too painful, too many lies had been told already, we didn’t need more of them. 

I could feel his breath on my cheek. Slow and controlled. I had enough. Somebody had to stop this, end the illusion. I stared at his luggage for a minute, then I got up and briskly came to the doors. That was it, it was his time to go and to never come back. He got his bags and came to me. My hair was stuck between his fingers. My breath stopped for a second. Sudden warmth came through my body one last time. His eyes reminded me of flooded meadows. No flowers could be rescued. Not this time. And then… there was just an echo, old, dirty sofa, broken microwave and a cup of unfinished coffee. Still warm. It seemed to be so empty although the room was filled with furniture and electrical equipment. He left me. Quick. Quiet. Without any sign of regret. Without a single word. He left me and we were supposed to never see each other again. 

Year 2. Investigator G Walker, By Alexandra Clifford

Mary-Anne watched as the tall man sat upon her bar stool. He wore a suit and placed his top-hat on the counter next to him. It was unusual for her not to recognise someone in her own tavern. The man ran his fingertips along the wooden bar top, eyes drifting from one jolly person to the other. “Ello darlin’ fancy a pint do ya?” The man looked up to the woman behind the bar taps. She had a mess of blonde curls on the top of her head, and her nose was too big for her face. She wore a dark green dress, cinched in at the waist by a corset. Her cleavage was a little too much on display, and her perfume nearly choked him.

“No thank you.” Mary-Anne smirked a little before leaning her elbows on the counter, her breasts were now harder to ignore. “Ah, I see. You after somthin’ else then my love?” Mary-Anne licked the inside of her parted lips with the tip of her tongue. The man cleared his throat and sat up a little taller.

“I’m afraid you have misunderstood. I’m Investigator G. Walker. I’m here to talk about Penny.”

“What you ‘eard about Pretty Penny?” Mr Walker twisted the end of his moustache and leaned forward ever so slightly. “I think you know Mrs Butcher.”

Mary-Anne shifted empty barrels of ale from one side of the cellar to the other, keeping herself occupied. “She was just one of me workin’ girls. She’d not been workin’ for me long. Only a few months or so. Next thing you know, dead as a rose in winter.” Mr Walker looked around the room, running his fingertips on top of surfaces. “Just turned seventeen the poor soul, engaged to be married, she ‘ad such a pretty face, course that’s why everyone called her Pretty Penny you see.” Mary-Anne paused with her hands on her hips catching her breath. She felt a steam train thumping through her chest. “I didn’t do it, if that’s why you’re ‘ere, Mr Walker.” Mr. Walker didn’t reply. Instead he rubbed his finger and thumb together and analysed the tacky substance he had found. Too thick to be alcohol. Too thin to be adhesive. He knelt down to get a closer look at the inch of crimson dew that had hardened on the staircase. “Mr. Walker? I’m telling you I didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t say you did Mrs Butcher.”

Penny Parker’s body was found in the early hours of Tuesday, December 10^th, 1889. Mr Butcher, aged 45, found the 17-year-old girl laying in an alleyway behind the railway arms. Mr Butcher claimed, ‘I was shocked to see her laying in the gutter.’ He continued to describe the body. ‘She had a bump on her forehead… blood down one side of her face.’

“Ah, Mr Butcher. There you are.” Mr Butcher turned around to see Mr Walker standing with a newspaper under his right arm, and a big umbrella in his left hand. The rain was falling heavy, creating slaps upon the cobbled pavement.

“I already spoke to the papers.” He shouted through the rain, “I ‘avent got anything else to say.” He tipped a metal bucket over a drain, releasing dirty water. Thunder crackled in the distance.

“I’m not a reporter Mr Butcher.” Mr Walker watched as fat raindrops rolled down Mr Butchers face. “I’m Investigator G. Walker.”

Inside was warm. The fireplace crackled as Mr Butcher threw on fresh logs. It was early morning so the tavern was not yet open. They sat opposite each other. Mr Walker sipped his black coffee. “You said you found her there?”

“I was takin’ out the dirty water, like I always do after I’ve mopped the floors, there she was. I checked her pulse. Freezin’ cold she was. Must have been there for hours.” Mr Butcher stared at the dancing flames. “To think if it was my little girl, layin’ out there.” He shook his head unable to finish.

“Your wife told me she was engaged to be married. Is that correct?”

“Yeah that’s right. To our Willy, my sister’s boy.”

“And William did not mind she was a working girl?” Mr Butcher shook his head from left to right.
“No no, she stopped all that, soon as she met our Willy, you see.” Mr Walker put his cup and saucer down on the coffee table in front of them. “Mr Butcher, I think it’s in our best interest that I speak with your nephew.”

Year 1 - The Bull and the Butterfly, Pt. 1: Cadillac - Paige J Mader

This is the first part of a two part short story. Please keep that in mind while reading. Ta!

* * *

            

The day the Rhodeses moved in was the same day Emily moved out. Not the exact same day. Emily had already been gone three years by the time Fiona and Robbie took over the little house at the end of Orchid Road. It was a day of mourning for me – I never got tired of self-pity.  For everyone else on the block, however, it was a day of immense curiosity.

They came in a custard-yellow Cadillac followed by a moving van. I could see them from my kitchen window – my eggs going cold as I watched. Out of the driver’s seat of the Cadillac emerged a man, thick and towering. Aside from his sheer enormity, there was something unsettling about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He made me nervous – even from the safety of my own kitchen.

            

After him, out of the passenger’s side, a small woman climbed out. She wore big, dark sunglasses, and a scarf over her head. She looked like a toy next to the man – although she didn’t seem to see it that way. She emanated excitement, almost bouncing as she moved and flailing her arms in a hysterical way. As they were approaching the door the man lunged and picked her up off the ground. My stomach lurched – for some reason I immediately feared I would be privy to some sick, violent act, but the man raised the woman above his head and swung her around in a playful circle.  Her laughter pierced the panes of glass through which I was observing them. Then, he replaced her on the ground and they shared a short, but affectionate kiss. Moving men emerged from the van carrying boxes and various pieces of furniture, and then the very large man and his little woman disappeared into the house.

            

Across my kitchen the telephone rang. I picked it up, put the receiver to my ear and lit a cigarette. I heard a soft chuckle on the other end of the line.

            

“The chicken has flown the coop.” It was Marjorie, just as I had anticipated. There was no need for hellos.

           

“Not today,” I said, exhaling a stream of smoke. I’d always wanted to learn how to form those nifty little rings. “I don’t feel like it.”

            

“Emily?” she asked.

            

I didn’t answer.

            

“Come on. It’s been three years. And Sheldon’s only going to be out an hour.”

            

Puff. Puff. Puff.

            

“Just pretend I’m her or something. I know you’re lonely in there—”

            

I slammed down the receiver, no.

Two minutes later I was across the street in the bedroom Marjorie shared with her husband.

            

“Finally,” She said, taking off her dressing gown. “What took you so damn long?”

            

“Had to finish my cigarette.”

            

She came up from behind me as I was unbuttoning my shirt, spun me around, and kissed me. “And a whole bottle of whiskey, apparently.”

            

“It was a single. Had to save the rest of the bottle for the feelings of regret I’m going to need to drown in approximately,” I pretended to look at my watch, “twenty minutes.”

            

“Shut up,” she said. “You can barely last five.” She pulled down my trousers and pushed me onto the bed. “And besides, you always come back.”

            

She was right I did always come back. But only because she kept calling.

            

Marjorie was a somewhat plain girl, but sex with her was out of this world. Fucking interstellar. When she wasn’t playing stupid games.

            

“Come on, daddy,” she slapped my rear. “Show me what you’re made of.”

            

“Knock it off, Marjorie. You know I hate that.”

            

“Good. Maybe you won’t get there before me this time.”

            

“I never get there before you.”

            

“Why are you lying, daddy?”

            

In hindsight, who got there first this particular time around is of little relevance. I lay back on the pillows when we had finished and lit a cigarette while she replaced her stockings.

            

“Don’t do that in here. Sheldon will know.”

            

I rolled over to Marjorie’s side of the bed and put the cigarette out in a half empty glass of water on the bedside table. I let it float on the surface.

            

Marjorie gave me a look. “Nice.”

            

I changed the subject. “Know anything about the new people moving into Mrs. Hattie’s old place?”

            

“That’s the Rhodeses.”

            

“So you do know.”

            

“I know they’re from the city. He’s got some salesman-like job and she’s… a crazy person.”

            

“How do you mean?”

            

Marjorie shrugged.  “That’s just what I heard. Apparently she did time in the rubber room.”

            

I chewed on that. Marjorie sometimes had a fantastical way of putting things, but her intel was rarely wrong. I thought about how funny it was – how we could so easily conceal things about ourselves with some nice clothes and a smile. The woman I saw outside my window hadn’t looked crazy. But who was I to say what a crazy person looked like? For all I knew I could have encountered hundreds of them without even noticing.

            

Marjorie interrupted my thoughts when she threw my pants at me. “Come on. Sheldon will be home any minute.”

            

I obliged. Sheldon didn’t scare me. I could take that guy in a fight, easily. Probably partly why Marjorie preferred having sex with me than him. But disrupting the sanctity of marriage wasn’t something I was all that interested in. And anyways, Marjorie and I both benefited from my silence.

            

It wouldn’t be until the next weekend that I would finally encounter either of the Rhodeses. For the first little while I would only catch glimpses of them as they were coming or going from their home.  I don’t imagine anyone else on the block interacted much with them either, but regardless there were plenty of rumors and stories surrounding the mysterious pair. Most of the older folks didn’t seem to like them that much simply on principle.

            

“City people,” the widow Whitman lamented when I ran into her on the street. “No sense of modesty or decency. They’re all animals out there. All of them.”

            

More similar to Marjorie’s initial theory, others simply contributed that the woman, Fiona, was some sort of head case.

            

“George Burgess mentioned he heard shouting and glass shattering coming from their house the other night,” Sheldon told me when he was returning my sweater to me. Apparently I had left it there when I went over to help Marjorie fix a leaky faucet. “Either they’re fighting in there or they’re having some really wild intercourse. What do you think?” Sheldon chuckled. Of course he thought intercourse was funny.

            

Well, I didn’t know about any screaming, and I certainly didn’t know about any intercourse. And when I finally did meet Fiona I didn’t get the impression of craziness. She was a wild thing, certainly, but not rubber room material I didn’t think.

            

It was a Sunday afternoon. I was in my living room, lounging on the sofa, escaping the sun, waiting for the day to end. I heard screeching tires and, not long after, a crash that sounded suspiciously close to my front door. Weary, I got up from the sofa and out to the porch. What I saw was the Rhodes’ custard-yellow Cadillac parked right on my bright blue begonias. It was the young Mrs. Rhodes who climbed out of the driver’s seat.

           

“What in God’s name?” I exclaimed. I wasn’t upset to the point of lividness. More just confused, and curious as to how she’d managed the feat.

           

“I am so sorry!” She was apologetic, but half giggling.

            

I walked down from my porch to survey the damage. I could already see my flowerbed was basically destroyed.

            

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

            

“It’s fine.” I came off saltier than I had intended. I decided to reorder my priorities. “Are you alright?” I asked – although the woman looked more than alright. Almost giddy.

            

“Better than your flowerbed I’d imagine.”

            

“It’s ok.” I said it begrudgingly. I hadn’t even planted the flowers. Emily had. I hadn’t the heart to uproot them.

            

“What the hell happened?” I asked. Orchid Road was in a quiet neighbourhood. There was hardly any traffic and certainly no reason to go even a smidgeon above the speed limit.

            

“Oh, I just drifted out,” was her response.

            

I gave her a questioning look.

            

She elaborated, “I was just thinking about something else and I lost track of what I was doing.”

            

I took a brief moment to wonder what she could possibly have been thinking about that could have prevented her from successfully parking in her own drive, but she was quick to move on.

            

“How about I make it up to you?”

            

“There’s no need for that. It’s probably better those flowers are gone anyway.”

            

“No, no. I insist. Robbie and I are having a housewarming next weekend. Swing by and I’ll make you a drink. I’ll make you ten!” I could see she wasn’t going to take no for an answer because she was already mostly in her Cadillac before I could even try to object. “My name’s Fiona, by the way. And Robbie, that’s my husband. We live at the end of the road, just over there,” she pointed, though she hadn’t needed to.

            

“Nice to meet you.”

            

Fiona started the engine but made no other move to leave. Instead she sat there, peering at me over the dark lenses of her sunglasses before she finally said, “Well, you’re not going to make me leave without telling me your name, are you? Because I’m not going to have a stranger at my housewarming.”

            

I told her my name was Jack. And she said, “Nice to meet you too, Jack.” And then she backed her custard Cadillac out of my annihilated begonias and drove back to her curious life. 

Year Two- A Father's Action by Shelley Abbey

The King raced through the ferocious shower

His cape desperately covering his newborn son.

Death had claimed its mother in the 9th hour

For Faustus, the battle had only just begun.

To climb the rugged mountain was the hardest test

But it had to be done to reach the mystic oracle 

upon seeing Faustus, it asked “ What is your request”

To which he replied, “ For my son, is death probable?”.

The oracle, hidden in the cave, was draped in a black shawl

“ If he dies, a male heir, you will never see.

If he lives, many men,women and children will fall.

Saving requires sacrifice, and you will one day pay the fee”.

“You must decide whether you will put your needs, before your peoples

What you're requesting is really not an easy feat.

Because when your son reaches adulthood, he will see no equals.

He will meet his match, when the sea quivers, upon the arrival of the Spartan fleet”.

“Anything you desire, you shall receive,

Time is not on my side, I am an aged man”.

For hours, Faustus pleaded, no energy to grieve

 “Get up. He’s healed. I have revitalised his life span”.

12 years had passed for Faustus’ heir, 

Cassius, and he would undergo rigorous preparation

in climate conditions, too brutal to bear

So that one day he’d be fit to rule the Greek nation.

Faustus embraced his son 

fearing for his unknown fate in the wild 

because when all was said and done

Cassius was his only male child.

Upon seeing his father’s sadness

the boy looked to him and declared

“ When I return a man, I will put an end to this madness

No enemy within Greece will be spared”.

Unsettled by his words, his father stood with concern

The words of the Oracle, rang through his ears, as his cities fate became unknown.

Unsure of what type of man return would return

and whether he would be fit for the throne.

Year 2: Stumbling on a Child Size Grave by Kevin Kissane

My foot stumbles

on a child size grave

moss laden

here in

the high grass

where sharp,

autumn leaves pile.

Toadstools spot mark

the ground

where air is

wet with damp.

Snails trailing

on the cold tombstone.

Carrier bags drift nearby

like jellyfish

tangled up

in the underbrush,

and a condom

still wet with sludge

dangles on a weeping branch,

a victory banner.

I unravel my scarf,

wrap it around

the neck of the grave.

Cardinal red

feigning blush

off the stone,

while a brisk wind blows.

Year 2 - The Lens of Obscura by Lydon Colston

Staring down the barrel of a Zeiss Super nettel 1 viewfinder, Spectre searched for the slightest imperfection that his bedroom wall contained. But all the groves, dents, and stains seemed to form a perfect shot – they didn’t seem quite as imperfect as he wanted.

With a sigh Spectre got up from the position he’d been lying in, smoothing down the crease’s that appeared on his bed sheets as he did so. Things were not going according to plan. He rubbed his left eye in a tired manner as the ocean in his eyes became surrounded by vicious red sand; he hadn’t slept in days.

It was hard to sleep with the voices and each day was getting progressively harder. Camera always in hand Spectre avoided sleep. This made the ringing in his ears louder and louder and louder. The voices would scream at him to let them out; the voices were sad.

With each passing day Spectre's will to live progressively deteriorated and the fish knife in the sink looked like a promising option, as did the curtain draws. However, with a satisfying click and a bright flash a voice would be repelled.

Drained of all his energy and exhausted, Spectre didn’t bother developing the film anymore. He knew what would appear on it – the owner of whichever voice he’d now snuffed out in some horrifyingly contorted position. Even the viewfinder scared him of what he might see. But still he would continue to stare through it. Trying to find any imperfection to prove that this world can’t be all that’s left for him. To prove that his 17 years on this earth had not been a painful build up to this.

Left with nothing else to do, Spectre lazily pulled himself up from his bed and let his clothes almost fall off as he made his way to the bathroom. Steam filled the room as water gushed from the shower head and drowned out some of the white noise that attacked his eardrum. Ferocious droplets of water trailed down his abdomen and glided past his thigh – all in an attempt to be rid of his presence. 

Standing there Spectre looked almost like a corpse; his body felt numb. The voices had started singing the lullabies, ushering him to go to sleep.

Slowly a faded orange towel grazed over the delicate parts of his body, and his eyes drooped to the base of a full body mirror that resided in the corner of the bathroom. Mirrors had become an object of terror for Spectre, every unfortunate gaze into one would provide him with a revelation of what was there, what was causing the voice and whispering into his ear. He’d need his camera just to silence it, and that meant facing the grotesque image that awaited him at the other side of the lens. Putting up with the voices just seemed like a better option.

Time had become distorted for him, and since this everlasting nightmare had begun the onslaught of rain had refused to withdraw from the battle grounds around his small house. Whether or not the rest of the world was like this he didn’t know; whether time had ceased altogether he didn’t know.

With no courage to snap his neck with tightened rope, or to attempt a self-disembowelment – all he had was his camera. Asphyxiated with constant fear and a dripping sense of self-hatred he awaited the day that the voices physical form would tighten their hands around his heart and close the rift between his residence in the world of living, and place him in the miasma of the other side.

Left in an agonising state of hesitation Spectre went back to his lying on his bed, and let the lullabies rock him gently to sleep. He hoped tonight would be the last nightmare – he’d lost the will to fend it off anymore.

A chiming bell filled his ears and - no longer on his bed - he slowly fluttered his eyes open. New markings had etched themselves around the lens of Spectre’s camera and schizophrenic crackling filled the decrepit room of sliding screens and burnt china dolls. Despite everything being warped with age and painted with mould, a blue tinge of glistening frost burst from the trespassing moonlight. The voices were louder here and floorboards creaked from the pressure of false footsteps.

Clasping onto the one possible chance at surviving this ephemeral place that he’d spent forever exploring each time his mind shut down - his camera - Spectre placed the viewfinder up to his eye and slowly took a shaky breath in, closed his eyes, exhaled, opened them again and let the sight of multiple blood stained hands charging towards him fill his sight.

Police arrived at Spectre’s small house after reports that nobody had seen him in over a month, and complaints from neighbours due to strange noises. Limbs twisted like a child’s toy that had been tossed aside in the heat of happiness, and a calm face lay awkwardly on Spectre's bed, a black outline covering the sheets. Bending down an inspector examined his camera and asked some underling to get the film developed and see what was going on, for a brief moment he swore he saw Spectre smiling at him through the reflection of the lens. But Spectre’s body would never move again. 

Year 2 - Empty Shell by Claire Fraser

Since I've never really had a stab at poetry before I thought I'd give it a go.

Empty Shell

Cracks form, memories seep out,

lost in a sea of decay.

Do you wish you’d embraced the fire now, my love?

Nameless and hidden you stay.

Respect lost for the living,

leaving the dead to wander.

The last mark of your presence now a mangled mound,

engraved in stone, no longer.

Your crippled carcass now lay,

upon a bed of stale bones,

as fortunate fools dance on rotten cadaver,

breathing their moralless moans.

Your porcelain skin, broken,

a lifetime since felt by hand,

now a lonely empty shell, entombed and soulless,

nothing but food for the land.

Year 2 // Untitled Poem by Josh Ferguson

Any suggestions for a title would be much appreciated! :)

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You stood upon that roof
with shaking legs,
untameable and unable
to be moved.

And we watched you fall,
from above and below.
The ground greeted you
and said goodbye.

Yet here I stand,
clutching your cold, paper hand
in front of the screaming
yellow car.

Year One - Anisha Dupree, Unnamed

All I could hear were my footsteps on the pavement as I quickened my pace to sprint away. Adrenaline had flooded my body, my muscles tensed under the pressure. I didn’t dare to look back. My mind desperately searching for answers. I was weak. I stopped running, reaching out for the nearest support. I doubled over in pain my lungs screaming out for oxygen as I gasped at the cool air. I rested my head against a tree and collapsed, biting back my tears. 

The harsh breeze tickled my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. I was finally alone. The moonlight illuminated the deserted street as I stare at my hands in horror. Crimson red liquid dripped from them. I reached my hand up to my neck wincing as my fingertips grazed over the fresh wound. My blood. My eye widened at the realisation. 

A bloodcurdling scream fled from my throat causing my mind to jump out of my nightmare and back into reality. All I could feel was the stabbing pain in my chest as I gulped hungrily at the air, I could feel my body shaking beneath me, the rapid beat of my heart ringed in my ears. My body was still in shock. A bead of sweat started to roll down my forehead; I reached up to wipe it away with shaking hands. It was just a dream, I thought to myself. I continued to chant the phrase over and over again until my muscles started to relax and my heartbeat started to decrease. I was now in full control of my body, I finally had piece for a little while. 

I focused into my surroundings, looking towards the windows, I stared as a dusty bar of light danced throughout my room, it made the bleak appearance of my room almost look whimsical. I laughed at the thought, feeling surrounded by a mystical presents. The idea filled me with warmth as I snuggled deeper into my sheets, now completely lost in my own world of bliss. 

I glanced at the digital alarm clock that sat on my bedside table. It was almost 7 o’clock. Knowing my alarm was about to go off, I decided to leave the warm embrace of my bed and face the outside world and the unknown. 

Reluctantly I started to crawl out of bed, ripping away the sheets that enveloped me. My legs felt like jelly as I waddled to the bathroom, hoping that my body would spring back to life very soon. I didn’t feel carrying like dead weight around all day, I already had enough textbooks to weigh me down; I didn’t need my aching body to add the equation. 

I peeled off my pyjamas throwing them into the washing basket. The cold air sent Goosebumps down my neck to the tip of my toes. I pulled back the shower curtain silently praying to any god that will listen that the hot water was on. I stepped past the threshold, hesitating as I reach out to turn to shower on, hoping that my prayers were answered, I turned on the shower. 

“S**T!” I screamed as my skin burned under the falling water, it felt like someone had just poured a kettle over my head. “Idiot, idiot... idiot” I muttered to myself as I frantically shuffled away from the downpour, slightly cursing at the sky because my prayers were answered and then some. I’m not the type to swear but on this occasion, I made an exception. Reaching out once again the burning water grazed my skin as I quickly changed the showers setting. The water trickled down my bare skin; I lifted up my chin to feel the warmth against my face. After daydreaming for what felt like hours, I realised I can’t hide from reality in my shower, I’d look like a raisin.

I wiped my hand against the frosted glass of my mirror and stared at the figure looking back at me. Looking at my reflection I assessed the damage from last night. My fingertips grazed over my under eye bags, no amount of concealer could ever cover up those bad boys. My fingertips travelled further down my face towards my neck and brushed over the pink scar in between my neck and shoulders, I cringed under the pressure. Removing my hand, I flipped my dark hair over my shoulder. Leaving the scar hidden under layers of cascading hair. My eyes lingered over the covered scar for little longer, a panic started to flood me. I bit down at my lip hoping that the pain would keep me calm and distract me for a little while. 

I gazed back at myself in the mirror, behind my pretty face; I could see the sorrow within my eyes. If eyes were windows to my soul, my soul would be an abyss of darkness. My onyx orbs became part of my allure. They were striking and deadly, but still beautiful. I didn’t have a bewitching appearance that could capture the heart of men any man, but what I did have I was happy with. 

Glancing up at the clock in the hallway I noticed how much time I’d spent in the shower. I ran to my wardrobe throwing on a pair of jeans and a navy jumper. I inspected my final outfit choice and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I looked presentable, maybe a little rough around the edges but presentable nonetheless. Grabbing my backpack, I headed down the stairs preparing to be scowled at by my mum who would notice I was running late for college. Stepping into the kitchen I noticed a note taped to the fridge. 

Rose, 

Me and your father are both working late tonight so there is a lasagne in the fridge to heat up when you get home. 

Love mum.

A sigh of relief escaped my lips when I realised I escaped the danger zone. Grabbing my keys of the counter and a chocolate bar from the cupboard I made my way to the bus stop. 

The crisp spring wind rustled the leaves in the trees; I closed the eyes and let the soft whistles of the breeze fill my ears with sweet melodies. It felt like I was one with the world. When I reached the bus stop I glanced at my watch, I was only going to be ten minutes late, let’s hope no one noticed my tardiness. 

Hopping onto the bus I took my favourite seat. It was right in the middle and I would sit next to the window. I was in between the little old ladies talking about the good old days and who won the bingo last night, and the teenagers in their hoodies talking about how much they hated their parents. In the middle seats I can get lost in my own world away from everyone else and their thoughts. 

My imagination is what makes me feel alive. The world that surrounds me is bleak, all colour is gone. I see the world through a black and white television screen. The fantasy world is one filled with conquests, brothers in arms that fight to defend their loved ones. My reality is the mundane day to day routine at constant battle with my mind and the thoughts that deceive me. The colours of my childhood have faded away, now a distant memory. I lay awake at night craving the constant buzz of being young without responsibilities’, and how it would it fell to truly feel free again. Never being able to experience anymore firsts in our short lifetime. Will I create an impact on this world or will I become an unknown ghost that haunts the ground I used to walk upon. I plague myself with question  don’t have the knowledge to answer yet, but crave the answers so much I’d ruin myself to know. 

I grabbed my favourite book out of my bag. My eager eyes darted across the pages as I fully immersed myself into its world. The Children of Morrow, by H.M. Hoover is a book I’ve read from cover to cover since I was little, the edges of my copy were frayed and the pages torn but it just added to the magic. It gives the book a story of its own. 

Leaving the bus, I looked towards the building that stood in front of me. My college wasn’t the nicest looking building with it looking more like a prison than a college. But to me a text book is where I escape. 

(Year 2) Beth Ashley - Remembrance

I didn't know what to write so I wrote something relating to my last submitted piece :p 

Remembrance

The rumble of gunfire in the damaged dark hauled Georgia from her sleep and dropped her into a disturbance. She shook in horror at the dilapidated buildings, the decrepit town, her destructed world. She silently shook her gaunt family, who lay beside her disorderly in the dirt, screaming for a response from their limp bodies.

Georgia jolted back into consciousness, with a sickening feeling in her stomach. ‘How many times will I have this same dream?’ she thought. 

She sat up in her worn clothes and listened to the distant birds. She pushed her fingers into the dirt and felt the wet grass between her fingers. Lemon coloured light burst through the clouds and hung over her, overpowering the distant horizon.

Jack was staring at her worryingly. She tried to be nonchalant. 
“’You okay?” Georgia asked him, leaning back on one arm. 
“You were twitching and talking in your sleep,” he said. 
“It’s just bad dreams. I’m sure you get them too,” Georgia replied, trying to brush it off like it was nothing. 

But the memories of that particular day had tortured her nightly since she’d been taken. She remembered that day all too vividly. Over time, nausea had worsened, the tremors, the stereophonic screams. They had already exiled their country, and dispensed people via interment trains, disposing of the evidence. And now, they were all that was left; them and the “uppers”. 

“Sometimes I relive the day I was taken, over and over,” he said quietly and reached to rest his hand on her leg. 
“Sympathy doesn’t suit you,” Georgia snapped. 

This was not the time to be bonding over our unfortunate situations, especially when neither of them had eaten or spoke to anyone other than each other for days. 

“We still need to find a town. That’s our best option.” He clasped his palm with Georgia’s and pulled her up to a stand. He walked away from her, beginning to plot their path, knowing she would willingly follow this time. 

Jack’s steps slowed down while he relived the memory of being pulled from his beloved home and family. He concealed his upset by wiping the evidence away with a dirty sleeve. There was no point in inviting her to snap at him again. Georgia peered at him, and he awaited grief. But instead, she held back from her usual sarcastic commentary, knowing he needed to break out some emotion privately. Pretending not to have seen him cry, they continued toward the cottage.  

The area itself could have once been beautiful, containing large trees that used to grow fruit, now as grey and bleak as any other in the decaying world. It was a vast dullness, shaped by decades of destitution. It was odd to think that the government feared lowers, as scattered, divided and leaderless as they were. Surely, they deemed them incapable of revolt. How they portrayed such a sense of anarchy while maintaining a level of order was remarkable.

The pair found the smell of the cottage before the building itself. Death’s hot odour had become as much a part of the building as the four walls and roof that formed it. It seeped between, behind, and under everything. Deaths of lowers had been increasing and they supposed it was only a matter of time before they came across lowers who’d been attacked in their own homes. And they further supposed it was only a matter of time until it affected them too. Still, they huddled inside quickly, as it nonetheless provided refuge from the icy breath of night. They soon came across the bodies, two large and one of around four feet, which had been positioned at their family dinner table as though they’d died naturally, but the bullet holes in their faces triggered no questions. Suddenly, the cottage resembled more of a casket, than a safe-haven. Rug sacks sat slumped beside the table legs, where the family had bundled their scarce belongings of a now-alien world and had clearly planned to get away. Georgia’s spine rattled with trauma.   

“It would have been incredibly dangerous, Georgia, especially with a child. They’d have had to run from uppers, from and criminals.” 

“I know, I know,” Georgia replied. “They’d have died either way, but it doesn’t make it feel any better.” 

Jack started to rummage through the rug sacks, as well as the close-by cupboards. 
Georgia was outraged. 
“What the hell are you doing?”  
“We need food” 
“They’re dead, Jack.” She paused and looked around their home. “They were like us.” 
“And we will be too if we don’t feed ourselves.” He looked over at the bodies, now soul-less mounds of spoiled flesh. “…I don’t think they’ll miss any of it.”  

Georgia nodded reluctantly but didn’t assist in scavenging. She instead watched Jack coldly as he stuffed several tins of food, bags of bread and blankets into the available rug sacks.