The long, lonely wait

The golden locket never did suit Eliza, she was much too modern to be swept away by such foolishness. Still, he was charming, intelligent and frankly, a bore! I mean who could even begin to think of a life well lived with him? She sat on the veranda of their sprawling plantation home dreaming of more. The ball was thrown directly at her, the assault on her thoughts almost felt intentional. She sat up with a jolt, and what she saw seemed too good to be true. Was this what she had been waiting or all those long, lonely years?

Gone

George never thought going to a ball thrown for celebration would bring the end of all whats left of his family. It was almost midnight when gunshots filled the ballroom. Amid the chaos of people trying to escape and save their lives. George was frantically searching for his family. “George!” He heard a cry coming from behind, searching for the voice he saw his mother lying on the floor, blood covering her dress as his sister desperately trying to stop the blood. Hearing another gunshot, he trying pulling her away only to watch his sister fall down to her death

Black like ash, black like clouds

Drowning out Achilles’ pleads, my chariot dashes forward. As long as the helmet covers my eyes, the men underneath me run away.

In the midst of battle, I notice a crack in that god-forsaken wall. I dash – a silver arrow corrupts my view, and stumbling, Hector sweeps a clean gash through my stomach. He throws off the armour like throwing a ball, a ball to catch. I lose my locket; I am naked.

When my body returns to camp, there is a swift-footed dash, warm tears that coat my chest. Close to my ear, Achilles lets out a blood-piercing scream.

To Find Her

I weave among the guests, the bedazzled folds of my dress swinging. They think that throwing a ball every month is just another show of power- however, the real reason is purely emotional.

I want to find her.

To at least see her, after all this time.

Would she hold herself high? Would her hair be an unruly mass of mahogany like mine? The last time I saw her it was only a soft tuft on her fragile head.

And there. My breath catches as I spy the twinkle of an all so familiar locket resting around her neck.

The season's lost

The guest arrived in carriages, mothers anxious proper for the ball, the excitement bustled around. After all, it wasn’t every day when the season opened with the queen wearing her iconic locket.

As suitors stalked the hall making idle small talk the girls scurried around the entrance, fixing up every little detail. She was a harsh judgement, yet they were exuberant. Dressed in the finest debutante gowns around, sparkling vibrantly whilst one stood out. A single locket, no one worn those except the queen. Quickly a maid came, "this will not do", and there went the lost locket. Unfound, forgotten, stolen.

Desperate

The ball travelled back and forth across the room until one of them failed to throw it again. Exhausted, they both slumped down onto the stained floor, their sunken eyes pleading her to act. The prospect of any job was doubtful, and so, standing up, she kissed them both and disappeared through the door. Outside, the English wind nipped at her as she walked to the back of the house next door. Climbing up to the window, she surveyed the interior of the extravagant bathroom, her eyes finally resting on a golden locket. Depression was a certainty. Hesitation was minimal.

Gone

The rain fell from the lonely sky, clinging relentlessly onto the roofs of 1939 Munich. People were quick to empty the streets, not unlike when the scary men came. I don't notice them anymore, mum said we were fine.

Feet pattering, I sprinted towards the mane of red hair.

‘Anna!’, I yelled. She smiled. Throwing the ball, we lapsed into comfortable routine.

We heard the men before we could see. Anna stiffened at the chorus of wheels, suddenly embracing me. ‘See you, kid’. Something was wrong. Her locket clasped to my hands. She was gone before my tears could fall.

Chuckaboo: only art can make us see...

I thought he was my Chuckaboo. And he mine. Archie gifted me a locket to mark our friendship of one year. Inside, a miniature hand-painted image of him throwing a ball to his beloved dog, Fido – a scene reminiscent of a Sunday we spent together just last month, by the lake. Sweet. It was only when I returned home and honed-in on his signature under the light of my oil lamp that I realised the significance of the gift. Instead of his signature, Archibald MacLeish, there was a phrase that said so much with so little: Ada Hitchcock: je t’aime.

The Locket

The Locket, it was my mother’s you see. I would always admire it and loved the way it shined in the sunlight. I was always so curious of how she got it, but she loved it and never took it off. Mother would always throw a ball with me before she taught me lessons. It made me feel special. This was all before my mother died. Mother died of that stupid bonnick plague going around, it killed my father and siblings too. Now i’m the only one left, waiting, for someone to throw my ball back.

Moonlit Escape

The glass panels of the shopfront windows allowed shards of moonlight to decorate the floor. The still silence was disturbed only by the soft stirring of a blanket under the decorated ritual tree and a constant whirr. As it arose, it shuffled, and struggled to its feet.

Now, a little figure stood and gazed around the empty mall with a hopeless, lost expression. He wandered curiously through the darkness, perplexed. He approached the exit, but the automatic sliding doors were motionless. The boy crept toward the continuous whirring, and it was an escalator. He cautiously rode it towards a light.

Clackety-clack.

Alice’s daily ritual. Peering between peak hour legs. Dad’s hand holding hers as she launches onto the timber treads of Wynyard’s looming escalator. She rises ever upwards, soaring on this magic wooden carpet to fly home.

Clackety-clack.

A handkerchief unleashed between the coats. A glint of blade. Stained metal sheathed by pocket. A suit slumps, conveyed ever upwards by the moving hand rail.

Alice’s tug can’t break her Dad’s work day trance.

…

Her gaze falls to metal treads below her feet. Timber gone. No red stains.

Clunkety-clunk.

Did anyone hear her small voice decades ago?

Lucky Break

The train station was unusually quiet as Wendy rode the escalator to the ground floor. She tapped nervously on the hand rail. As was her ritual before an important meeting, she had worn her lucky earrings. What she had forgotten to bring was her portfolio of sketches for the summer capsule. It was too late to turn back and get them now. Wendy realized her armpits were damp and she felt sick. She frantically rehearsed what she was going to tell Jenelle. Pulling at the heavy doors to the design studio, she felt her stomach lurch. “CLOSED” the sign read.

The unlighted corridor

It was the type of coldness that reached her bones as if her heart was left open to the icy wind. Rosemary went up the escalator, and walked into an unlighted corridor. She’s here for her nephew’s birth ritual, but she felt uneasy about the ominous silence hovering over the building.

A man was sitting at the front desk, staring past her. “I’m here for Thomas Jackson’s ritual.” Rosemary’s voice was barely audible as she moved closer, her hands sweating. Then with horror, her mouth fell open as she perceived the truth.

She was looking at a lifeless body.

The greatest love of all

Clair arrived right on time, her impeccable hair tied back fiercely, sipping her skim cappuccino ritual. “Going all environmental on us are you, Clair?” mocked her boss as she placed her lidless takeaway on the counter. She ignored him and moved to help the morning lovebirds.

Valentine’s day normally hurt Clair the most, a spinster watching couples laughing up the escalator on their way to impress who-cares with their Tiffany ring. Not this Valentine. Despite a day of saccharin gushing and over-priced purchases, Clair left work suppressing the smile on her face, carefully clutching her now cold sparkling coffee.

Occupational Hazards

Watching her has become his ritual. Every morning on his way to work at the laboratory he sees her going up an escalator. He sees her again and again. He becomes obsessed. Who is she?

It is not until he follows her that he finds out. What he doesn’t know is that she sees him. He is the one being watched. Not obsessively but professionally.

His work has upset many people, she tells him. “It’s just a job” he says – which is exactly what she says to him as she does what she has been paid to do.

London's Magician

Somewhere in the distanced big ben chimed. Fifteen minutes till midnight. The streets of London where empty, illuminated by lamppost’s that gave the wet cobbled roads a golden shine. A man was walking along the streets. His hands in his trench coat and his eyes to the ground. Another pair of footsteps started echoing throughout the streets. The man in the coat stopped and turned around to face a shadow. The shadow was shuffling a deck of cards before stopping and showing a card to the man. “King of spades. Not good at all.” The shadow said softly.

“Hello Alex.”

Interrogation

“I swear, I didn’t show her!” I cried.

Who knew Uno cards could be so terrifying?

The Blue Skip twisted his moustache, while the Green Pick Up Two slammed his fist on the table. “Well, she’s found our deck, and she’s shuffling it right now!”

“What about Yellow Reverse?” I objected, “She wasn’t at her post yesterday!”

Yellow drew herself tall, sweat shining on her border. Green and Blue turned to stare at her. Yellow stared back.

“Why?” Blue asked in disbelief.

Yellow pointed to the black-watch stilettos resting on the floor far below.

“I am loyal to my mistress.”

Renaissance magic

1503.

Laying down his brush, the artist is satisfied. The portrait radiates passion, energy, joy.

The subject’s husband enters the room. Florence’s wealthiest merchant – trader of fabric and human lives.

My light will never shine for you, Lisa vowed at 15, his bride.

The merchant approaches the easel to view his latest acquisition as his wife wills the paint to honour her vow.

Her unreadable expression reminds him of his own poker face, adopted when the cards are shuffled.

Renaissance Man looks from the woman he loves to the enigmatic smile he doesn’t recognise and for once has no answers.

Cost of failure

The mist swirled through the camp and the horses shuffled nervously.

The orcs crept silently towards the tents, daggers drawn, for they knew that Rangers were always alert. But the reward for a successful raid would be treasures beyond belief.

As they approached, the sound of shuffling cards, the clinking of coins, the mummer of conversation came from one of the tents. That was their target, and they stormed the tent to find a solitary Ranger shuffling cards and mumbling to himself, a sound which became laughter as the orcs whirled to see the shine of swords surrounding them.

You Chose Wrong

Eyes narrow and gaze directed by the invisible trail of her fingertips. Her movements were sleek, but the eeriness creeping around the dimly lit room was nothing but unsettling. I fidgeted in my seat, fearfully watching as her fingernails shuffled a deck of playing cards.

“Choose” she spoke. Eyes meeting mine in a cold stare, shivers creeping through my veins. Hesitantly, I reached my hand out. I couldn’t tell if the sudden trembles were from the sheer cold of the dark, candle lit room or nervousness.

I examined, unsure, but the shine from one card enticed me.

“You chose wrong.”

Vision

I watched as the prophet shuffled the cards, golden threads of magic weaving through her fingers. I glanced around nervously at the faces of unseeing passersby. After a decade of darkness, I was the only one who'd woken up this morning no longer blind. The sun made my eyes water. I turned back as the prophet placed the cards down on the table. How did she know that my sight had returned? A subtle shine radiated from the cards: the essence of the seers magic.

There were six cards, each had one word.

Don't tell them you can see.

The City: Above

The world underneath was invisible to them.

“Ugh, what is that noise? Turn the volume up.” A manicured hand from the passenger seat slid over the panel. A pulsing beat washed over the pair inside the car.

“Thanks. I really can’t stand them.”

Dazzling buildings passed in the windows as they made their way across the sky. Each skyscraper was a mirror, reflecting artificial light from above, neon signs and flashing colours climbing like ivy down, down, into the murky depths below.

The dim spotlight of muddied neon illuminated faces of misery below, but they drove on.

Planet R2-e9f

Planet R2-e9f came into view from his bathroom window aboard Space Shuttle 01. He floated around the mirror to stare at the planet and smiled, this would be his new home, the New Earth. The voyagers on SS01 were the last of the humankind; the survivors, the saviours, man’s only hope. But Mission: New Earth would come to be a failure, as when he leant over to turn up the volume on his speaker, SS01 entered the atmosphere, and began to burn up. Man’s hope died with the rest of the crew. Because they never made it to Planet R2-e9f.

The Last Survivor

The stolen police car sat on an isolated dirt road.

Inside, a woman frantically switched between radio frequencies on the old walkie-talkie. She prayed someone, anyone, would be listening. Please, she thought, let there be others.

The radio crackled and static filled the air. The woman froze. She tried to turn the volume down, but the noise only grew. It was too late.

Heart pounding, she dared to glance in the rear-view mirror. In the distance stood a lone figure. Slowly, deliberately, it raised one arm, stretching it’s long, spindly fingers in a macabre salute. It had found her.

Some things are unchanging

I'm dead. Not in the “I’m so tired” dead. Like legitimately a corpse. It has been 1200 years since my death. Currently I am in a display case in the “Museum of Earth” A small child walks up to my case, he has a small device that links to his ears. I watch him turn up the volume. He presses it to my case. I squint into the small mirror. He’s watching my movie on Lions. I’m Glad children still like Walt Disney, I never wanted them to forget me.

Will you catch me when I fall?

“Mirror Mirror on the floor,

Will you catch me when I fall?”

She snapped back to reality. Who was that?

She turned the radio up, but the chanting got louder.

“Mirror Mirror on the floor,

Will you catch me when I fall?”

She walked to the mirror in the corner of the room. Not yet upright after the recent move.

“Mirror Mirror on the floor,

Will you catch me when I fall?”

She felt the words leaving her mouth as she took a step into the mirror.

Falling. Twisting. Screaming. Trapped.

The girl in the mirror watched the world burn.

Mama

At that moment, she said she was leaving. It was hard, hard to be honest, hard to be heard.

Here, where the wind blows, and takes you away. Forever. Here, where it’s raining, where there’s no one you can trust.

My mama didn’t raise me to be silent today.

The white sheets, the candles, as the cake is devoured. The darkness, the wilting trees.

Her last embrace, her weathered cheeks, fragrant curls. My mama didn’t raise me to be quiet.

Don’t wake me, don’t wake me, Mama! Don’t remind me of the ones I didn’t save.

The ones like you.

Friendly Neighbour

No one was going to find the body.

Rope. Gloves. Soil. Mrs Brown fixed her garden as darkness descended upon the neighbourhood, a poster sweeping through the yard. Another missing child in Willowbrook. Timmy - last seen eating cake in the park, ten years old, blonde curls. Kidnapped. Most likely to never be seen again.

They always said it happened at night. Because it was dark and no one could see a thing. Because it was when no one could hear a heartbeat.

Not even the children’s under Mrs Brown’s garden.

No one was going to find the bodies.

Red

The girl chewed slowly. The red velvet cake was good, she thought, but the garish red icing tasted metallic.

“Catelynn, why does the icing taste metallic?” she asked.

“I added extra… nutrients,” Catelynn replied. Of course she believed it.

“I’m gonna go. If you see my cat, bring him over. He has a blue collar. He’s missing,” she said. Catelynn’s lips curled into a smile, but her eyes had a devious glint.

“Of course, sweetie.”

After the child left, she pulled the collar out of her pocket. “Metallic indeed,” she mused. She thought of blood red icing, and she smiled.

A Party

The pretty pink wrapping paper of his present goes soggy in his sweaty palms.

“E-Emilie?”

She is sitting at the end of the gleaming jet-black table, eyes closed as if sleeping. A plump cake sits in front of her, blood-red jam oozing over curls of bone-white cream.

“Emilie, w-where’s everyone e-else?”

Her delicate silver lips curve upwards. Suddenly she flies towards him, her eyes open and glowing red- claws slice at him and suddenly he is not there anymore.

Emilie sits smiling back at the table; she slowly places a thin slice of the cake past her glistening red lips.

The Sadist

I watch her eyes light up at the sight of the cake, dripping with chocolate. Her chubby hand shoots out, grabbing a slice, showering me in fine brown dust. She giggles, and I watch as she starts eating cake. She chews, and suddenly, her eyes dilate in fear. She slumps forward, her blonde curls hanging listlessly. Outside, a crow sings it's haunting call, a single, eerie warning. I slide the syringe in and inject the clear liquid. A stream of bright blood trickles down her chin. The floorboards creak as I survey my handiwork. A throaty laugh escapes my mouth.

A Mugshot with a Wild Twist

“Next up.”

I grab my placard from the desk and stand in front of the backdrop. The shame of the situation brings a flush to my face. To buy time to remove the redness, I crouch down and tie my shoelace.

I stand up for the photo. Involuntarily, I close my eyes in sync with the flash. I keep them closed, waiting to be scolded.

Silence. I open my eyes and my surroundings have changed. I am in a crowded saloon. The presence of a sheriff makes me shudder. Our eyes meet. Immediately, he knows that I shouldn’t be here.

The good, the bad and the clumsy

Antonio staggered into the White Elephant Saloon, falling to the ground with a heavy thud, face first. Metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he lifted his head to look for Eleanor. Her slender frame was leaning against an old mahogany desk, a gun hanging loosely in her hand. Sheriff Rosco’s body was on the floor beside her, covered in blood.

“You’re late” said Eleanor sternly.

“I’m sorry, I was tying my shoelaces. They keep coming undone”, mumbled Antonio.

“You idiot!”, Eleanor pointed the gun at Antonio, “you should have tied a double knot”, and she pulled the trigger.

Released

The smell of leather floods through my nose as I tie the laces on my boots. A key clicks into the jail cell, the rusty barred door creaks open. A large man covered in dust and with a smoke in his mouth, blocks the cell's opening. A gunshot is fired off in the distance. The man grabs my shoulder, he rams me through the exit, I hit my knee on a corroded shank. The wooden desk ahead is overflowing with documents and paper, a guard sits patrolling. Another gunshot is fired, louder this time. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain.

You're a monster in my head

They called him a monster. He would travel through the windy deserts of the west, arriving in villages as the sun scattered its last rays, leaving by dawn. Those who were weak in mind, who had secrets that wasted them from inside, would come to him in the dark and rid their souls of guilt. The price? To never feel the warm sunlight, or hear saccharine melodies ever again. They say he donned a cloak, weaved from secrets and regrets, that he was cast from heaven. That he was created from a child’s imagination, as they were tying their shoelaces, breathing his first breath hours later, as the child placed their laptop on their desk, and typed.

Shoelace Showdown

They held their gaze, anger seething between the two rivals. They quickened their pace, looping and knotting at breakneck speed until one of them hollered in victory, taunting the loser. The other infuriatingly approached him, his unbound laces stalking behind. He struck his fist against the winner’s jaw, and from there, it was a battle for carnivorous pride. The damage kept increasing, consuming– until an ear-splitting crack deafened the crowd. The sheriff spat her gum onto a nearby desk as the focus displaced to her. She pivoted on her heel and made her exit, leaving the pub in ominous silence.

A better Future

The horizon shifts and folds, curling and twisting in the throbbing heat.

The thirst is a knife in my throat.

The dusty land cracks under the weight of the horse’s hooves as I peer through my wavering vision.

The memories appear in flashes. Standing behind the scratched desk at the pub, fingers fumbling as I sealed a sack of coins with a tattered shoelace. Mounting my husband’s horse, my blue dress catching on the saddle.

A better future is out there. One where women are more than frilly skirts and powdered noses.

This is no mirage.

The outlaw's boots

He sauntered up to the owner, full of whiskey, smelling like horse and wanting a bed for the night. He adjusted his hat and looked down, hiding his face. A poster behind five playing poker listed his crimes.

The room was filled with smoke and vulgarities, but the faint sound of a gun being unholstered could be heard.

Noticing his laces, he staggered, fumbling as he tried to make his fingers loop the cord and pull it through. A thud followed the loud shot. The owner slumped over the desk.

A voice whispered “them’s funny looking boots Mister, lucky you!’

Loose Ends

Rusty was a scoundrel.

In Cripple Creek, townsfolk didn’t take kindly to cheats, scumbags and used car salesmen. Rusty was all three.

He’d recently sold a dodgy pick-up to Dale, a man of little intelligence, poor decisions yet reputable for his ability to turn misfortune around.

Dale and his cousins, his cousin’s cousins and his Ma, were known to get their ‘comeuppance’.

Sitting at his melamine desk, Rusty realised to escape Dale’s vengeance he needed to take a long jump down the gold mineshaft.

The last thing Rusty ever did, was tie his shoelaces.

He never left loose ends untied.

A Second Chance

Trust is handing someone a gun and expecting them to not pull the trigger, I never expected this bullet to penetrate so deep. I rush through the wrought, iron gate, my black cloak moves with every swift turn I make. The train station is a ghost town at this time of night. There is only a single, flickering, dim light that prevents this place from plunging into darkness. The train doors open as I try to hold back my tears. I get ready for my second try, my new beginning only this time, I won't ever let my secret out…

Departure Gate

Carriage 4. Seat 26A. Be calm. Don’t draw attention.

I sit, reach into the seat pocket. Damn! Where is it? I did as they said – the ransom in a Subway bag discarded casually in the bin near the gate. Gate 9.

I look through the window trying to gather my thoughts. The engine shunts into life. A movement catches my eye. A worker with ladder and hammer fixing the loose gate number. Gate 6.

As the train gathers speed, I wonder at my luck. A perfect excuse to be rid of a frankly tiresome partner. Worth every penny I’d say.

Freedom

I desperately need to get away. I didn’t know where I was heading, but I quickly took a sharp right towards the train station.

Absolutely terrified, I kept looking over my shoulder to see if he was following me. When I left our apartment and ran out the gate of my once treasured home, I knew that I would never return.

As the train starts moving out of the station my nerves are on edge. I keep expecting Jason to walk through the carriage doors. Why has this happened? What next?

The train picks up speed. I am finally free.

Train to Freedom

The gate opens and I lunge through the station, into the closing doors of the train. I wave to my pursuers as the train pulls away towards my freedom.

In the empty carriage I strip off my orange prison jumpsuit and slip on jeans and a t-shirt to blend in. For my ‘crime’ I’m now wanted dead. I hear yelling and the train grates to a stop.

I dash towards the windows. The police storm onto the train and bullets pierce the metal walls around me. I smash the window, leap into the nippy winter air and run.

All Aboard

Through the ticket gate, down the steps.

Doors closing. Please stand clear.

The carriage was nearly full, as expected. She managed to find a seat near the door. On the opposite seat were four people: a 30 something woman in a grey pant suit reading the Penguin Classics edition of ‘Emma‘, a pair of chatting teenage girls sharing earphones, a balding tracksuited man picking at his nails.

On her side was an elderly man in a knitted jumper whose mouth twitched every now and then.

None of them knew it was their last train journey. Last journey.

Ever.

She smiled.