Alex Pearson - Year 2 - How Much is too Much?

She drags herself into class, lower lip doubled and bleeding.

Her shoulders are bowed inwards, and her boyfriend’s oversized hoodie only just hides the rose petal shaped fingerprints staining her skin.

You and the rest of the class fall voiceless and watch as she takes her seat.

You make like owls; with wide eyes and swiveling heads, exchanging silent queries.

Do we say anything?

No.

Of course not.

It’s none of your business.

You’re sure it was an accident.

A one-time thing that got out of hand.

You’re sure of it.

The teacher will say something when he sees.

It’s none of your business.

You tell yourself this when class is dismissed.

When the teacher looks away as she walks past him.

When she shrinks impossibly smaller.

You tell yourself it is not your problem.

Her feet protest movement as the subway train jostles her lightly around.

She feels herself crumple slightly, the stress of her day like chainmail on her overly tired body.

Settled for a few moments of peace, she does not notice when a swaying man places himself behind her.

It is the stench of stale beer and sweat that catches her attention.

But by then it is too late.

You watch as he presses himself against her, trapping her by the train doors.

He mumbles something drunkenly and grabs her wrist.

You faintly hear her say no, and duck away when her droplet-scattered lashes finally rise to you.

She’s the canary and he’s the snake, and everyone is just observing nature, right?

There are other people on this train.

Surely someone will help her.

It doesn’t have to be you.

It’s none of your business, after all.

When he follows her off at her stop, you remind yourself this.

When her stare welds fault to you like a brand, you remind yourself.

What can you do? You’re just a normal person.

It’s not your problem. 

Her head snaps to the side as her father’s knuckles catch her cheek.

She blinks away the pinprick tears building under the new abrasion and lowers her gaze.

He raises his hand again, only to worm his corpulent fingers into her hair and pull her closer so he can whisper into her ear.

She releases a barely-there whimper, which only seems to echo in the shadow of her father’s brutality.

A snarl curl’s his lip and you watch as he assaults her with threats and obscenities, teeth gnashing like a wild animal.

You see new tears in her eyes, these ones more stubborn than the last.

You meet the stares of those surrounding you, and they mirror your own, equal parts horror and understanding of an unfair truth.

Yet nobody moves.

And so, neither do you.

Because it’s not your business.

You aren’t her parent.

Who are you to get in the way of an obviously personal matter?

She could always tell the police.

Or she could run away.

There are plenty of ways to escape.

You tell yourself this until you read the newspaper the next week.

When you notice a familiar face under the obituaries.

When you see that her face is more purple than peach.

But it wasn’t your problem, right?

Your sister comes home late again, her wine-colored nails gripping her latest boyfriend’s arm like a vice.

He smiles politely at you and waves as she pulls him past and into her room.

An hour later you hear a voice raised and slick with venom, so you leave your laptop to check it out.

From a tiny crack in her door you see your sister looming menacingly over her boyfriend, who is huddled on the floor clutching his face.

She spits vicious words at him, makes sure to mention that he would be better off dead.

He trembles in his place like a frightened deer, and lifts his head to reveal a wine-colored gash falling from his temple.

From your place by the door she catches you, and slams it in your face.

Your head runs through the transformation from the polite and quiet boy you met to the petrified and beaten creature you saw.

And how your own family was responsible for such a decaying.

You return quietly to your computer, trying to pretend you didn’t see anything.

It’s not your business.

How she acts in her relationship has nothing to do with you.

He’s a man; he can take care of himself.

He doesn’t need anybody sticking up for him.

You’ll just forget it happened.

Forget his expression of self-destruction.

Forget who put it there.

It’s a Friday and you’re looking forward to seeing your friends.

Everything was planned to be perfect.

The party was set, the whole house filled with booze, music, and good food.

When everybody gets here you say your hellos and get drinking.

The day only improves when he shows up.

Suddenly you are sixteen again and your first crush is the world entire.

You find your skin warming and pulse quickening, excitement tingling your fingertips.

A couple hours in and you are sitting on the couch with him, first drink still in your hand.

You glance away for just a second, to say hi to someone, or tell someone else not to break anything.

When you look back he is smiling at you and you feel ecstatic.

You continue talking and drinking, until your head begins to ache.

Your body grows slack and you can barely feel it when his hand slides up your leg.

Through a half-lidded eye, you see him smirk and your heart falls to your feet.

You wish you could run back in time.

Back to when having a crush was just a metaphor and not an invitation.

You survey the room, trying to find someone, anyone who will help you.

Eyes meet your own, only to sweep quickly away.

It wasn’t their problem after all.

You liked him, so it should be alright, shouldn’t it?

Even if you didn’t want it.

But it wasn’t alright.

You knew this.

Everyone knew this.

But it wasn’t their problem.

It wasn’t their business.

So nobody helped you.

Liam Acornley - Year 2: Workshop week 3 - Boneyard

I always wonder how such a beast comes to die, what can pierce its skin and armour and bring down a goliath of this size. I suppose I’ll never know, the beasts that come here, to this graveyard do so by their own accord. I’ve seen them countless times, they arrive under the guise of night and slowly glide down from the skies, then as they are swallowed by the premise of death they never flap their wings again. They land, or crash, sometimes a combination of the two and lie still until the light fades from their eyes and their loud monotonous breathing stops. More often than not, the ones that come here to wait out their last moments are old, battered, bruised, chunks of flesh missing from their bodies, large scratches and gashes; a crevice of bone and sinew. This one though, this colossus of a beast that lies unmoving in front of my unbelieving eyes, it looks almost young. Unburdened by the trial of time that grinds even mountains to dust, yet it waits here amongst the bones of its kin to await the same fate that the rest entailed by coming to rest in this graveyard.

Assuming I am not the first to get to it, the Cutters will arrive and piece by piece they shall dismantle the beast, ripping chunks of carrion and flesh, peeling away the corpuscles leaving naught but the bones that bake in the sun; every now and then they leave a morsel or two behind that is quickly snatched up by another band of vultures. I am no Cutter however, I respect the hunt, and these beasts are my prey. I do not kill them directly, my role involves nothing but to harvest from their remains the things necessary to live on, I bring home the bacon so to speak.

Even after my years of experience, I still have to wait dumbstruck before I begin, captured by a sensation of awe as I stand mere meters from the ever decaying body. I place my hand against its skin and steel myself for the wave of pensive anguish to wash over me. Every damn time. I don’t know if it’s the disbelief that this beast, as large as a skyscraper can fall and bend the knee to death, or the lack of cognizance that now renders its memories and mind null and void. Regardless, I’m letting my emotions get in the way of my work; professional as always. I extract the las-scalpel from my belt pouch and begin to cut a way inside of the creature.

I have been inside a great deal of beasts like this, however, this one was unique, perhaps it’s due to the young age that I do not recognize the intricate paths I can take to journey around the body. Maybe it is of a different genus, rendering my knowledge useless, or maybe it’s just a new kind of creature. I have to stop every five minutes or so to ensure that I am going the right way. The organs are the most valuable and being as young as it is I assume its heart is in fairly good condition, I cut into a vein and dodge out of the way of the black sludge that spills forth, the gore splatters against the floor, slick and jet in colour. However the small trickle of claret that continues to weakly pump throughout the body shows me I’m heading the right direction; satisfied I continue.

On the way to the beast’s heart I begin helping myself to the copper nerving embedded into the tissue walls, what was once the organ used to transport commands, stimuli, and electronic signals from the brain, now lay within the confines of my backpack weighing me down both physically and emotionally. I didn’t like my job, but my god if it didn’t pay well. Mechanics, the Cutters, scrap-merchants, there was no trouble in finding a buyer for these parts, however those willing to gather it were in short supply. Many of us worship the beasts, myself included, so finding those of us who were able to stomach the idea of cutting into a god; well, let’s just say I don’t rest easily at night.

It’s hard to determine how long I walked through the body, attempting to find that which pumped life into the creature, no natural light and a miasmata that gave me a splitting headache didn’t help. Yet sooner, or later, in the fullness of time I arrived at the heart. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would sound like if the beast was roused, perhaps it would sound like a waterfall careening through the body as gallons of fuel sprouted off in every direction. Would each pump emphasise and praise the strength and sheer size of the creature? Regardless, in death much like how the rest of us will end, it is nothing but a derelict mausoleum housing the promise of a past.

I decide as I pull bits and pieces from their roots, that perhaps I should think in a less sombre tone. True, if something as grand as this being cannot survive in this universe then what hope is there for the rest of us? But then again perhaps….shit.
Being distracted in my solemn thoughts I didn’t notice the jut of bone, and looking down to my arm I wince at the cut I sustained, you’d think an organ once known for bringing life would have more sympathy towards you but that is clearly not the case. A quick dressing of tape and I’m ready to continue stripping small globules from the heart. My bag is soon too heavy to carry so satisfied I took the juiciest cuts, I look over the heart one last time. I wonder if this is what my heart looks like, cold, grey, but just as breath-taking, at a smaller scale anyway.

As I retrace my steps to my initial incision, I hear, faintly, a voice. Low gothic tones and a guttural dialect give away the Cutters, the muffled renditions of their voices however, give away that they are sat outside the beast. I slow my walk, rectify my posture and outstretch my hands ready to catch myself in case I trip on a vein, a stray nerve I didn’t already plunder or a great many other potential hazards. While Cutters are not inherently violent they are very territorial, I doubt they’d both let me live and take with me the spoils of this hunt. More likely than not they’d confiscate my bag, give me one or two swift punches into the stomach and warn me never to come onto their ‘turf’ again before removing me from the premises. They would then over the course of the coming weeks forget my visage and when they catch me the next time the cycle would repeat itself, a self-fulfilling idiocy on my part.

What disturbs me about the Cutters above all else is how they treat the fallen beasts. Take for instance my involvement with the cadaver, I enter with minimal damage to its lifeless form, I do not disturb the age-old skin, I do not strip away at its tired and weary flesh, when I am finished with my job it still stands as a monument to the beasts life; a proud testament of a rich and vibrant existence. The Cutters though, they show the same respect a locust would show to an ear of corn and the result is all too similar as well. When I first discovered the graveyard I almost wept to the sight of these half-dressed skeletons. The disdain these grandiose creatures sustained in their final moments of existence horrified me, all they could leave on this world were their bodies, I expected people to respect that, most do, not the Cutters though. I knew it would be mere hours before the flesh was carved away, chiselled and hewn from the remains to be taken back to the Cutters den, a veritable slaughterhouse.

Finally after what felt like hours I find an exit, the eyes, the Cutters enjoy the plumpest cuts first and so they will be distracted by the midriff of the beast, however it won’t be long until they are upon me. Through the eye I can see the Cutters are already chopping away at the poor graven being,
I say a prayer to the beast, and ask for forgiveness before vaulting through his eye. I fall, shattered glass tinkling and shining in the setting sun’s light accompanies me to the ground; I crash to the earth. A particularly large shard has embedded itself in the soil next to me, and I see my reflection in its aspect. I look so old, so tired, exposed wiring, rusted joints, my left eye clearly dislodged by the fall is hanging to my face by a single cable, and its socket begins to spit sparks from the disturbed wires. I clamber to my feet and sprint away, intent to leave. One day I’ll find the parts I need to fix myself, I’ll have to try again when the next beast falls.

‘On the Path of Beasts’ by Adam Archer : Year 2. A short piece of flash fiction inspired by the work of Annie Prouix

That squalid lad, hands worn and feet raw, good shoes left atop the shelf, clothes ragged as hair, knees bruised and bent like spoons, quick footed, short breathed; a boy who knew the value of footwear – his life spent on the run – who knew not of friends nor family, only creatures from afar, Creed’s mind now set on what to eat; his final meal, that crucial choice, so much at stake.

When butterflies should come to rest upon the path of beasts, their boneless bodies shan’t withstand the gnashing of the teeth. The snapping of those untamed jaws, their minds on naught but flesh.

Upon this path many have died, no turns have been presented. They join the crowds; the dead now stand, humanity descended. These flies take home on flesh and bone, and lay their wretched eggs, the dead now stand, no hope at hand. Creed walks with living death.