Category / Fiction

by Colette

Man’s Crisis

Written by Lost in a Dream

It was easy to become lost in a big city. Some days even he felt lost. It seemed that London’s perpetual grey sky and the constant buzz of noise was trying to dull his shine and muffle his wise words. A weak part of him wished he was not so important, then he could dissolve into the background like the lazy crowd around him.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in train doors before they opened, the weak thought instantly dismissed. Damn, he looked good. His new glasses drew attention to his eyes. He had always known that his eyes were his best feature. He had posted a selfie of his new look on Instagram last night and everyone agreed too. 576 hearts and 215 complimentary comments. Slightly less interaction than Tuesday’s workout picture, but more than the picture of his new vintage watch. But that didn’t faze him too much. He was something of a watch connoisseur, he doubted that many of his followers fully appreciated the value of his new time piece.

He boarded the train and sat down next to a plainly dressed woman. He clunked his briefcase with purpose on the table in front of them. He was sure he could see her admiring him out the corner of his eye.

The woman had her make up bag on her lap and a compact mirror propped up in front of her. With haste she was applying concealer to a trail of fading acne along her jawline. He found it disgusting. Surely, if she ate well and worked out like he did, she wouldn’t have that mess all over her face. As he pulled out his laptop, he shuffled his wrist subtly so that the woman could see the light from the window bounce off his watch and cufflinks. A swift gesture to let her know she was out of his league.

He mused to himself as his laptop powered up. There was something ironic in the way that, by trying to conceal her blemishes, she actually drew attention to them. He smiled to himself, his intelligence and insightful nature surprised him at times. He would include this episode in his autobiography.

He opened up LinkedIn. Another publishing house wanted to help him publish is autobiography. He enjoyed LinkedIn, it gave him a chance to show his academic and professional prowess. He liked the way it stacked up qualifications in a quantitative manner, made it easy to compare.

He was looking forward to the autobiography. He wanted to give depth to himself as a businessman. Material wealth and good looks alone did not do his greatness justice. He was truly extraordinary.

Lost in a Dream’s short piece was written on behalf of March’s Half Hour Challenge theme, Reflection, inspired by her daily commutes in London. Given the main character’s vanity and materialistic nature, we thought it fitted in nicely with April’s theme and is a great closing piece to the month. While we should always take time out to love ourselves, make sure arrogance isn’t part of the deal. If you enjoyed Lost in a Dream’s work, check out some of her other pieces too, such as “Procrastination” and “Star Talk ii“.  

Featured Image CC // Otis Blank

by Colette

Fractured Identity

Written by R. P. Brown

I’m a man about to crumble. A man unable to stagger forward. A man who thrives on others’ reassurances.

The aroma of failure constantly invades my nostrils, makes me sick to my stomach. I miss what I was with her: confident; free from my own judgement; myself.

These are my reflections.

The other night I had a dream I was on a flight to Northern Athens, that dead city where our future fell into histories that never were. It was time to confront you but I wasn’t ready. The bricks were not set and I knew one breath from those delicate lips would cause everything to tumble and fall.  I read as I normally do. A detective novel, with the tension building towards a disturbing conclusion. As my eyes followed the words, taking meaning from the sentences and absorbing the connotations; I could feel my anxiety rise to a panic.

I was not sure if the emotions I felt were channelled by the book or created by them. Do the words give rise to the feelings or do the feelings latch themselves to familiar words? This is the problem of literature. I can never tell if it’s a healthy pursuit of knowledge, or a self-destructive enlightenment. Everything leads to this singular ending, and when the pages end, I am left there. I continue. Life’s narrative doesn’t have a conclusion; just completely unrelated sequels.

The detective was a man who was driven by his curiosity and, perhaps, all good detectives are. Another man had shaken something within our protagonist and he had to find out what it was. He had become the other man’s shadow. Yet, as he did, his inner self fought against him, warning him not to shirk his identity in order to solve this stranger. The detective had taken on the greatest mystery of all, the nature of being. He could not resist even if he’d wanted to do so.

As I read, in order to give myself some relief, I would glance out of the window and thus step back into my own reality.  Both were equally as stressful, however, and relief was not to be found. The plane was shaking violently as though it were greatly unsettled.  Not far off I could see lightning. From where I was sitting, the red flashing lights on the wing looked as though the plane had caught alight.

The detective had followed his nemesis to the man’s apartment door. He went in beside him, still unnoticed. A great fear rose within the detective and, conversely, in me. We were seated. Our knuckles were white as we held on tightly, the words were shaking as the plane trembled. The object of our mutual turmoil sat in an armchair.

“Who are you?” we screamed.

“You should not ask what you are not ready to face.”

Escape was impossible. The door was locked, we were strapped to our seat and outside the world was battering against the windows.

So we persisted.

“Tell me. I need to know.”

“Look as long as you want but you cannot look me in the eyes. You cannot admit to yourself what you don’t want to know.”

A great strain was felt in our stomach. Our back was drenched in sweat. We both knew who this man was and yet we could not turn back. We needed to ask again, though we both knew that curiosity could kill.

“Who are you?”

There was another jolt. The sense of dread was almost incapacitating.

“I am you. The part you don’t wish to see.”

I managed to sever myself from the character at this moment and willed the plane into the ocean. Give up, plunge, plunge. How I longed for those lights to be all-consuming fires. As I looked to them, there was a flash of lightning. I caught my reflection in the window and with a jump I awakened.

The bed was mine but I felt no ownership of it. It did not hold any safety, just a sense of loneliness.

Her eyes had cheated me. They’d looked upon me with pity and fear, seeing only madness. Anxious, cornered as I was, I lashed out with my tongue. She tried to get in, pushed hard against me without love, just duty. I could not let her in.  She could not stay.

I left it and moved to the bathroom. In the cabinet mirror I saw the haggard face of myself in a dream, the one tortured by memories and reflections of a time gone by. I picked up my razor.

I cannot blame her. Who can love a façade? But I cannot love myself and so I can never let her in.

The blade moved across my beard and the coarse, rough feeling was pleasurable. Each cut was a welcome distraction, but the goatee I’d crafted was not satisfying enough and so I moved to my long, grease-ridden hair. Bit by bit I watched it fall to the floor and drip by drip, dark red rivers ran down the sides of my face. Then I was bald. I studied this new me in the mirror and I did not recognise myself, such a stark change had occurred. This man would not stammer and stutter.  I smiled lovingly and his blood-stained face smiled back.  I ran the razor in front of my lips and wondered if I could mould my soft smile into a sneer, embittered and mean. If I cut myself deeper, would the scars look strong and menacing? I wondered what I could become. Could I knock others to the ground and viciously stamp on their resolve?

No, I reflected. I didn’t have it in me. The weaknesses I loathed were different and could be seen all too clearly through the hole she left.  I’ll have to hide my insecurities, behind this mask I’ve created, the one in the mirror. I’ll hide them away from others and hopefully, in time, from myself again.

For now, I can create a character. But with a little scrutiny, a glance through the magnifying glass, and you’ll see what’s really me.

Taking his inspiration from Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy, new contributor R. P. Brown was fascinated by the exploration of one’s identity, penning this short story following a plane trip to Scotland. We love the tension he manages to create in this postmodern work, along with the superbly fluid trio of identities showcased. If you enjoyed R. P. Brown’s Fractured Identity, feel free to leave a “like” or comment below, detailing your thoughts. You can also view his other published work directly on his blog at ryebreadcreative.com. 

Featured Image CC // Christopher Blackburn

by Colette

Procrastination

Written by Lost in a Dream

Tired of walking and eager to escape the stagnant heat of the late afternoon sun, Rose entered the cool interior of the café on the corner. The name was written in twisted gold metal above the large window and was rendered illegible by the vines which snaked around the loops of the text. She tucked herself away on a table in the corner, next to the window.

A waiter in a black shirt, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, placed a large opened menu on the table. She gazed over the menu for a few minutes. Salads, pittas, seafood and other Greek dishes. Angry with herself, she closed the menu. She already knew what she wanted: coffee, a distraction-free afternoon and perhaps an ashtray. Once again she was procrastinating, like she had been this morning, like she had been all week.

The waiter returned, and Rose gave her order. She placed her heavy black bag on the table and rummaged inside until she felt the familiar touch of a notebook and a scrappy wad of paper. She laid the items out on the table as neatly as she could and salvaged a couple of pens from the abyss that was her bag.

It was a new notebook. Turquoise with an elasticated band in a matching shade, holding the pages shut. There was always something ceremonial about opening a new notebook accompanied by an unrealistic desire to avoid defiling the pages with her scruffy handwriting. Rose wrote the date as best she could. Again, procrastinating. She would never be able to maintain this neat writing for the rest of the notebook and why was she writing the date? What kind of title is that?
A different waiter placed a tray on the table with a black coffee and a carafe of water.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

Rose shook her head. She poured a glass of water and stirred a single sugar into her coffee. No, nothing else. No more excuses, no more procrastination. It was time she wrote down what happened. As long as it was in her head, it did not exist. Writing it down would make it real. True, she had a handful of documents and photographs. But they meant nothing without the connections in her head. She promised herself she wouldn’t care for grammar or style for now, she could fine tune it all later. What she needed now was to make a start.

She picked up her pen again, crossed out the neatly written date and wrote a new title in her signature scrawl.

Procrastination was written on behalf of January’s half hour challenge, Beginnings. Lost in a Dream’s short piece perfectly suited March’s Reflection theme, and it’s something we can certainly all relate to when it comes to writing. Too many times have I sat down to write a journal entry, particularly after a difficult day, and not known where to start. Sometimes all we can do is write, and hope for the best. If you enjoyed Lost in a Dream’s work, you can view more of her superb writing with, ‘Star Talk ii’ and ‘Closure’. 

Featured Image CC // Loren Javier

 

by Colette

Remembering War

Written by Rae-Chan

Bodies. There were bodies everywhere. They were strewn about the field like old, unwanted ragdolls. The gunfire was ringing in my ears, blending together with shouts in different languages and the screams filling my head, echoing endlessly.

I couldn’t see anymore, everything was a blur as the adrenaline took over and I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t feel the pain as a bullet grazed by leg. I didn’t see the bodies falling around me. I just ran.

My clothes were wet and cold as ice, clinging to my skin, caked with mud. I was shaking as I raised my gun. I couldn’t even tell who my enemies were anymore. I just shot at anything that moved. I saw one boy, barely a child, his eyes wide with fear. This wasn’t what war was supposed to be. This wasn’t a life of honour and respect; we were animals tearing at each others throats, and no one back home would give a damn how many of us came back in boxes.

The boy saw me. I watched his eyes grow wider as the bullet ripped through his body. He fell to the floor like all the others before him, not moving at all.

When I returned home, I could still see his face. It was etched into my mind; those terrified eyes, with large pupils, haunted my dreams. The scar from the bullet has long since healed but, even now in my old age, the screams echo in my head.

Remembering War was written on behalf of last summer’s Fiction Frenzy. While it didn’t win the coveted title, Rae-Chan’s haunting piece as fitted perfectly into our reflection theme for this month’s content. It may only be a short piece, but in that time she brings us in to the narrator’s terrifying dreams from PTSD. If you enjoyed Rae-Chan’s work, why not view her other works such as, ‘Ignite‘ and ‘Wings‘.  

Featured Image CC // Paul Gorbould

 

by Colette

Lift Girl – Part 2

Written by Fantasy Girl

She must have left work slightly earlier than usual as I didn’t see her in the lift. But our cars were the only two left in the car park as I stepped from the double glass doors of reception – her red MR2 parked next to my silver Nissan just like every day. She was struggling to start the car as I approached, so I stuck my head through the open passenger window.

“Need a hand?” I asked with a slight smile on my face.

“My stupid bloody car won’t start!” she growled back through gritted teeth as she tried again.

“Which way are you heading? I could give you a lift home, get a mechanic to look over it tomorrow morning?”

“I’m heading back to Colchester, if you know the area, just off Tufnell way?” she seemed hopeful.

I lived about a ten minute walk away from the street she mentioned. “Jump in,” I said. “Let’s get you home.”

The journey home was quiet, pleasurable rather than awkward. We both enjoyed the peaceful silence after a stressful day at work.

“Which road is it?” I asked as we turned on to Tufnell way.

“This one just here,” she pointed to the road sign that said ‘Axel Way’. “But I’ll get out here. Thanks for the lift, I really appreciate it!” And before I could protest, she was out of the car and jogging down the road.

I had to go down the road to turn around anyway, so I drove down, and sped back up the street to the house she was approaching.

“Who the hell is he?” shouted the man who was waiting at the door for her – a partner, I presume. She didn’t answer. Was he on about me? “Who is he? You stupid slut!” He back-handed her across the face, and dragged her into the house by a handful of her hair. He slammed the door behind him, but it bounced back open.

I scrambled out of the car, not knowing quite what I was planning on doing, but knowing I should be doing something. I heard screaming as I approached the door, she was begging him to stop. He didn’t. I crouched down by the door for what seemed like a lifetime, listening to his rhythmic grunts, and her constant pleas for him to stop.

I was in hysterics by the time it finally ended. I had let him do that to her, and I could do nothing about it… I let him rape her, this girl that I barely knew, and it was because of… it was because of me!

I heard her sobs as he moved around the room. Then a gunshot, footsteps. The door swung open and he spat in my direction.

“Enjoy the show did you? She’s a screamer!”, he said, with a sadistic smile on his face. “Well,” he continued after a minute of silence, “you’re welcome to the slut now. A right lot of good she’s going to do you though.” And he walked off, without looking back.

I couldn’t bring myself to move until he was out of sight – I was frozen to the spot like a statue, but then I rushed in, and followed where I thought the commotion had come from. All I could see was blood, a lot of it, akin to a horror film I’d watched the other week.

Lamps, paper, and other household items were scattered all over the floor. There was smashed glass on the kitchen floor tiles and the curtains had been pulled down. And her naked body laid there, in a pool of blood on her cream carpet. The body of the girl I had seen every morning for the last three years, so helpless, so vulnerable. Until today, we had never truly spoken, just a polite ‘hello’ in the lift or a meek wave, on my part.

It was a gunshot to the heart that killed her. Her body was covered in bruises, some old, greening as they faded; some new, purples and blues blossoming like flowers on her ivory skin.

She didn’t even know my name, I thought as I fell to my knees and cradled her head in my lap. I’m the only person here, and it’s because of me that this happened. I should have invited her for coffee, I should have taken her to my place to look over finance plans for the company. She wouldn’t be here – she wouldn’t be like this if I had… – this would never have happened, and it’s all my fault.

“I’m sorry!” I cried, stroking her dark hair away from her beautiful face. “Shiv, I’m so sorry!” And then was when I felt a very faint pulse through her neck.

“Dan,” she whispered as her eyes fluttered open. “Thank you.” And she went limp – her breathing stopped.

I checked for her neck pulse again and confirmed what I already knew.

She was dead.

Fantasy Girl’s second and final part concludes Siobhan and Dan’s tragic story. It’s heartbreaking, and we can’t help but feel a little stab of pain when she mentions his name at the end. Oh dear, better pass us some tissues! If you enjoyed the finale of Lift Girl, make sure you check out the first part which we published last month for the complete package. 

Featured Image CC // Peter Almay

by Colette

Sinners – A Brief Introduction

Written by Dizzy Dazzle

The nightmare starts like it does every night.

Dad’s hands, white as ice on the steering wheel. His fingers drum impatiently, while the crackle of the radio lapses into stony silence. The misty morning snakes in through the window, spreading like silk over the glass. I can almost feel the sharp breath of winter through my bones. Outside, the wind is playing its own song and the trees dance and writhe to the rhythm in syncopated harmony.

Tap, tap, tap.

The roads are alive. I can feel the tension and confusion in the air, clogging up the road. I can tell dad feels it too.

Tap, tap, tap.

There’s an opening in the roundabout and dad rams his foot hard on the pedal.
“Dad, I have something to tell you…”

The car rockets forward, and he glances over at me for a split second, his eyes wide and dark like two river stones.

“Willow.”

And that’s when the truck hits us.

There’s a real hushing moment that drifts over us whenever we read this story excerpt from Dizzy Dazzle. Though it’s a very brief introduction to her story, it’s such a remarkable beginning that we’re a little taken aback. Her piece just seems to lull us in and then throw us into the fog with no bearing on what may come. If you enjoyed Dizzy Dazzle’s excerpt from Sinners, make sure you check out her other notable work including poems, “Rain” and “The Humanitarian“. 

Featured Image CC // April Mo

 

by Colette

Snowflake

Written by Silver

It wasn’t the first time Skyla had seen snow, but it was the most she’d seen in a long time. Her father had been outside for the past hour shovelling it from their drive, working up a sweat in his new winter jacket and dusty work boots. As she sat by the window, Skyla watched her father with disinterest, occasionally adjusting her body warmer and the sleeves on her white Christmas jumper. She was fidgeting more than usual, her fingers twitching. Really, the snow would have been just fine, perhaps even amusing, if her dad wasn’t planning on a trip to Disneyland this weekend. With Skyla turning 12, it was meant to be a surprise for her birthday. But instead of sheer delight, she found the tang of bitterness. It was all around her, in the air, in her bones, in the stupid biscuit jar that she could never reach. And particularly after her mother had left only a couple of weeks ago.

Leanne had told Skyla she was leaving back in October. Ever since the accident, her mother had always blamed herself. Skyla supposed it was due to the fact she was driving at the time. But it was never her mother’s fault, it was the idiotic driver in the white van who wasn’t paying attention. Though Skyla had never voiced her opinions on the accident, Leanne always seemed to know the hidden truth. Skyla had pushed those thoughts far down inside of her. There was always hope that she would be able to walk again; a tiny spark that just needed to be ignited and tended to in the right way.

Her father was still shovelling snow. She desperately wanted to be outside, crunching her feet on the freshly laid powder. Maybe she would be able to one day, but paralysis was something that was very difficult to overcome. Skyla thought about the robotic legs the government was currently testing on paralysis patients; she hoped one day that could be her.

Snapped out of her daydream, Skyla’s father called to her – rather he mouthed her name through the window – and she wheeled over to the front door, skirting around the armchair.

“I’ve been calling you for ages, Sky.” Stephen said, shivering slightly.

“Oh, sorry.” Skyla cast her eyes to the ground.

Stephen scuffed his boots together and crouched to his daughter’s level. Taking off his gloves, he took his large, scraped hands and clasped hers, kissing them.

“Sky, I know it’s hard. And this damn weather is just frustrating as hell. But I’m going to make the most of this time with you.”

She looked up at this point, meeting his eyes. His face flushed, his nose a deep pink from the cold, but his eyes glistened. And there on his eyelash was the tiniest snowflake she’d ever seen.

“Dad, don’t move. Don’t flicker your eyelashes. Just give me a minute.”

The snowflake held its form for less than a second. But before it melted into her skin, Skyla saw the intricate pattern.

“I’ve just realised something, Dad,” she said as Stephen raised his eyebrows and fingered her blonde curls. “No snowflake is the same. They’re all different but eventually they come together to make a bigger picture. I think I’m a snowflake, Dad. My body’s now just a different pattern that’s all. Maybe I’ll get my old pattern back one day, or find a new pattern in electronic limbs. But the thing is, I still have a pattern just like that snowflake. And that’s what matters.”

Stephen smiled, “Well of course, honey, you’re named after the very sky snowflakes are born from.”

As part of the HHC for last month under the theme ‘Spark’, Silver’s short story is a special piece full of hope and determination. As a teenager, she feared she would be paralysed from the waist down following two horrible accidents. But luck was with her and recovered the feeling in her legs. However, not everyone is as lucky as that, with Skyla as a prime example. A heart-warming piece ready in time for Christmas. If you enjoyed Silver’s work, make sure you check out her poem ‘Spirit‘ and short story ‘Fraction‘. 

Featured Image // Julie Falk

by Colette

Love After Death

Written by Ricardo

“Where the hell is Nina?” Sam screamed at Paula, throwing her off and making her exert herself a little more to pick up the pace. “Where is she? Did she fall? Oh god, tell me she didn’t fall.”

Sam’s heart was already beating at an inhuman rate, but with the fear of losing Nina he thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. His legs gained an abrupt burst of energy and, in that moment, he felt like he could have leapt onto the far-off green planet they seemed to be running towards.

“No!” Paula shouted back. “Her heart rate is still on the system, there’s not many of us left,” she paused to get her breath back, “most of us fell, but she’s still alive. She’s probably going for the escape pods too. I just hope she can make it with that body.”

“She’ll make it!” Sam shouted, almost offended. The escape pods. That’s where they were heading. He didn’t need the map displayed on the screen on his forearm, he’d walked the length of this ship more times than he could remember. And right then what he hated most about the world was not the emptiness behind them, or even the thought that Nina could be down there, it was that the doors he had installed last year were the newest models by Archon’s Security. He’d tried them out himself before fitting them with his own Tarantula rifle. Nothing was getting through those. Thankfully the walls were still as shitty as ever though.

“Give me your pistol!” Sam shouted at Paula, who had drawn her sidearm and unloaded the cartridge with alarming speed. He took the cartridge and threw it overarm toward the wall they were approaching. He took the rifle from his back at the moment the cartridge left his hand and fired off a single shot. Sam was thankful he was still a little drowsy since, if he’d been on top form and as fast as usual, the blast would have blown him right back into the depths of space. Sam went first into the escape pod chamber, thrusting his shoulder into the honeycombed wall and breaking through, followed by Paula only a fraction later.

They were far enough ahead to take a second to gather themselves. There were two pods left, and besides Sam and Paula there were was only one person there – Khaj, the technician. Sam had an insatiable urge to shoot the useless bastard directly in the left eye. Why was he here rather than Nina? What reason did he have to live over her?

“Sam,” Paula knocked him from his wandering thoughts and grabbed his arm, pulling him into one of the pods. “We’ve got to go! I’m sorry, but we have to go.” Sam knew it. He couldn’t stay even if he wanted to, survival was all his body cared about right now. He’d have gotten into that pod whether he liked it or not. It was only when he saw the glow of Nina’s eyes through a slender gap in the wall that he jumped back out of the pod. Paula grabbed his ankles, forcing him to lurch uneasily and slam hard onto the floor.

“NINA!” he shouted as a small robotic feline leaped into the chamber and toward the pod, the silver metal paw landing in his palm as his fingers closed around it, with Paula pulling him back into the pod. The end of her tail caught in the door and scraped it slightly as it slammed and sealed shut. All forty thrusters fixed to the outside ignited at once, propelling the pod from the shell of Andromeda, Sam’s father’s space station turned space cruiser, and then his, and now it belonged to the infinite grasp of the universe.

In that moment Sam couldn’t have cared less. As he held Nina in his arms, tears slipping off the top of her shiny head, she consoled him with gentle words. All he truly cared about was safe and still real, still in his grasp. And as their shuttle hurled toward the distant green planet that he felt he could jump to, he knew he still had a shot at redemption. He could still make it to humanity’s colonies. He could still get Paula back to her home planet. But most importantly, he could still get Nina back to her old body. He could still make up for what he did. He could kiss her again, even just once more. He could get her back.

It was when he was drifting off to sleep with Nina in his arms that his fingers traced up and down the robotic feline’s right leg. That’s where Nina liked to be tickled – on the inside of her forearm. And it still had the same effect of making him smile like an idiot.

Then Nina whispered in her old voice, “I love you”.

There’s something chilling about Ricardo’s tale of love, death and hope. Maybe it’s because space is cold, or maybe it’s just because it’s an incredibly tense piece of work that gets us worked up in such a cold sweat. We’ve chosen a neat little excerpt from Ricardo’s ‘Love After Death’ as it’s gripping and pauses in just the right moments for great effect. If you enjoyed Ricardo’s work, make sure you check out, ‘The Start of Something Beautiful‘ and ‘Careful Driving‘. 

Featured Image // Sweetie187

by Colette

Fraction

Written by Silver

congo_light

Sometimes it only takes one moment for life to spring into action. Image // Andre Thiel

The summer haze was thick within the forest; drops of dew hung languidly from leaves the size of a small bird, while the hot mist clung to boughs of giant foliage, leaving it gasping for cool air. Even for the animals in the Congo it was a warm day, and many tried to find shade under a canopy of leaves, overhanging rocks, or their dens in the cool dirt. The promise of rain was still several days away, but you could feel it in the air. If you were lucky enough to see through a gap in the fence of foliage, the clouds were dense and ready to burst, and the Congo’s inhabitants were ready.

To travel through the Congo is a bid to lose all sense of time; a perpetual twilight. Daylight would come but once every so often and, when it did, it seared through the trees, settling into a patch of chalked dirt, where maybe a snake or beetle would bask and snooze. Soon enough, the light disperses and fades into the half-light the forest knows so intimately, and the animals shrink back into their comfortable abodes. When darkness arrives, a wonderful silence emanates from the Congo, only to be replaced by the night-lovers chirping moments later. Under a cloak of indigo and black, a hubbub of activity takes place. Insomniacs add to the noise with their shuffling and pacing, elephant calves disturb bushes with their fights and tantrums, while chimpanzees look for trouble and play games of ‘spot the forest insect’. Other restless sleepers toss and turn, while those that need shut-eye will snore and breathe deeply, ignoring the blend of nature’s sounds.

A new day dawns and, with it, the same pattern: a circle of time. But it is a day closer to the storms; they can feel it in the air. It ripples through the forest, hitting some more than others, depending on their fashion of habits. Newly born animals risk dehydration, the elders too are at risk but they are wiser to the Congo’s ways, finding dew drops hidden in the highest canopies or broadest bushes. The most intelligent – or, perhaps, luckiest – find a remote stream, where the soil is softer and the sustenance richer. But as the heat cripples the hearts of many animals, it also weakens the heart of the Congo.

For a fraction, time stands still. And in that moment, numerous events occur. The dense mist shrivels into the undergrowth, awaiting its execution. The languid dew drops quiver and shrink, pushing themselves off their veined homes, to explode into the cracked mud below. And the animals scatter. Elder birds urge their youngest to spread their wings and fly, while small apes cling to their mother’s fur as she runs through the thicket at remarkable speed. Elephant calves send out sharp chirps to their kin, making sure they don’t get left behind in the frenzy. Snakes slide out of their small dens with their babies, coolly taking their time, while insects crawl over their bodies in a hurry. With most animals gone, only the weakest are left behind, bearing the same fate as the colossal boughs and trunks.

The cries of the smallest are ousted by the roaring crackle of the heat. A fury, a blaze, a rainbow of different shades of orange and red join together and take the Congo minute by minute. It spreads quickly and consumes foliage, fruit, and those that are young or frail – condemning them to a brutal end. But not all are taken by the orange blaze. The grey clouds begin to crowd together, their anger evident through the grumbling in throats and their flashes of migraines, coming and going as the pain pleases. Grumpy and exhausted by the smoke, the clouds crack their knuckles and jab at the fire with yellow bolts, unleashing their biggest weapon: rain.

It flows freely and harshly into the centre of the blaze, extinguishing the licking flames at the clouds’ feet. The orange fury begins to abate but then a last stab of war comes forth from its raging heart, whipping at the foliage with all its might. But it is no match for the grey clouds and drowns in a sea of murky water.

With the fire extinguished, the floods arrive, and the animals flit back to their homes. Only a fraction of time exists in the Congo, but only when it is the most critical does life notice.

Written on behalf of a Fiction Frenzy challenge last year, Silver’s aptly named ‘Fraction’ takes us into the heart of the Congo, where the animals mostly live in peace. Inspired by a BBC documentary series which followed a number of animals, Silver’s piece works to re-enact what happens when the forest fires are imminent. It’s a perfect piece to reflect the very nature of our ‘Light’ theme this month. To check out more of her work, click the links for poetry such as ‘Fudge‘ and ‘ Spirit‘. 

by Colette

Diaries of the Gods

Written by Terrestris Veritas

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Is it so hard to just be at peace with each other? Image // Alisa Perne

You humans; all you ever do is fight. None of you can comprehend the destruction that you impose on that which is never at fault. You were a mistake…you were never meant to be.

A curse is a terrible thing. To be constricted to a single condition and never let free. The pain of that never lessens. But you’d know all about that. For you are but pieces of a shattered dream.

You were insignificant to us, we let you breed and run wild. Then we believed you had power over us. That was our mistake. You dragged us into your meaningless wars, made us watch as your hollow ambitions swallowed you all. And we thought we couldn’t escape you.

Time and time again you would annihilate yourselves only to rise once more from the debris. None of you could recognize your own faulty ways. All you ever did was build in order to destroy. Create to kill.

Money, land, politics and possessions. The four curses of your race. Each can easily be forsaken, only you didn’t know how to live without them. And that scared you, enough to turn on your friends and allies. But when you gazed over a burning land of death, you finally realized your foolishness. You did away with yourself, unable to live all alone with your four, foul curses.

Thus, the land burned. We thought you humans had learnt your lesson. But the years turned to centuries, which rolled into millennia, which eventually became eons. You were thought as a legend, as a fable as new people came to be. Then, they turned into the one we still call ‘you’.

A dozen times history repeated itself, the land suffering while only we could hear its screams. How deaf you all were, how obsessed you were with the frail “self”. Perhaps, this was your curse.

Regardless, you hurt us and the world. You even hurt yourselves but again you ignored it. You ignored the screams, the cries for mercy, the children that begged you to stop. And you killed part of us. Always using others, too afraid to look your enemy in the eye as you take their life. Instead, you are content to observe from afar, safe and warm, healthy in your golden frocks. While you slowly killed us.

You would never learn, but who could blame you? The eons were nought but dust, and soot and ash lend no lessons on life. You are the smallest pieces in this puzzle, this wretched puzzle, and you cost us our freedom.

Your part in the puzzle is done. So why do you still hurt us? Why do you still kill yourselves senselessly? You humans, not even content with just being alive. And the funny thing is; you’ve all but forgotten that you were never part of the bigger picture. Just a toy. Just a sad mistake.

Terrestris Veritas had labelled this piece as somewhat experimental, and he wasn’t sure where it would fit. We’re likely to call it a fantasy monologue featuring a livid God and his private thoughts. A reflection upon our society, ‘Diaries of the Gods’ lends itself to this month’s theme light – if only in a small sense. A light above the world, or below it, Gods and Goddesses will peer into the lives of men and women. Terra’s piece gazes upon such atrocities and documents them. If you enjoyed this short piece of fiction, you might like some of Terra’s other work, including but not limited to, ‘Race‘ and ‘The Servant‘.