The cabin was narrow: a dark world that smelled of wood and polish. For Silas, it was a palace of endless bounty, every corner revealing something new and wonderful. He pressed his body against the side, feeling the rhythmic vibration of the great vessel’s heart.

“Is it time to move again?” Elena whispered beside him. Her voice was a soft breath in his ear. It felt like they had been travelling for weeks; in truth, it may only have been hours. The anxiety of constantly moving and avoiding detection had exhausted Elena on the lower decks.

“Just a little longer,” Silas replied. “I like it here.” Silas loved every part of the ship. Elena saw it as a necessity to escape, but nothing more. Her only focus was to stay undetected until they reached dry land.

They were an inseparable pair, two souls bound by a singular mission: to survive the Great Voyage. They were not among the dignitaries on the upper decks. They had no polished brass nameplates or velvet-lined quarters. They were the stowaways, the uninvited, the ones who lived in the margins of the blueprints.

The memories of the boarding remained vivid. It had been a chaotic, rhythmic march. Silas remembered the thunderous footsteps of the Great Ones, the massive, heavy-treaded passengers who boarded in strict, ceremonial duos.

Everywhere Silas looked, the world had been divided into twos as the passengers moved up the ramp onto the great ship. Some moved slowly. Some sprinted. Some kept their heads down, not wanting to be recognised, while others puffed out their chests so that all recognised them for the kings they were.

The sound would stay with Silas the longest: the constant hum of voices competing, the cries of a predator, and the whispers of those less powerful. The smells, the sounds, and the sights had all merged into one kaleidoscope of senses that Silas would never forget. This was a voyage unlike any other.

“They think they are the only ones who matter,” Elena had remarked as they sneaked onboard, tucking themselves into a corner where no one would look. “They carry their pedigrees and their divine right, while we carry only our hunger, and move constantly to avoid detection”

Silas didn’t care for the politics of the upper deck. He cared for the world around him. The ship was a marvel of engineering - massive, sprawling, and built with a singular purpose.

He had heard the passengers talking in the echoes of the vents. They spoke of a new world, a “Reset,” and the cleansing of the old ways. “If the world is being reborn,” Silas muttered, “then it needs a foundation. And we are simply... refining it. We are as important to the new world as any of those on the upper deck.” It was clear from her expression that Elena did not agree.

Above them, the Great Ones were fed regularly with food that could only be dreamed of. Down in the depths, Silas and Elena found themselves getting a bite to eat wherever they could. They slid past the other occupants when no one was looking, finding even the slightest morsel to fulfil their hunger.

They became the masters of unclean corners. They watched for gaps where they could hide and fill their stomachs with food that no one else considered edible. They stayed hidden until they satisfied their hunger and their stomachs had stopped rumbling. Silas would then want to go and stare at the other occupants, but Elena preferred to stay hidden.

They were not the only ones sneaking around corners. Occasionally, they would catch a glimpse of another couple hiding out of the way, unnoticed by the top-deck passengers or those who served this great ship.

“We are the forgotten guest list,” Silas joked.

“Do you think the ship will hold?” Elena asked, her eyes reflecting the dim light of a flickering lamp from the hallway. “The vibrations are changing. The weight of the water outside feels heavier.”

“It’s a sturdy vessel,” Silas assured her. “Built to last an eternity. Or at least until we reach dry land.”

They spent their nights, or what they perceived as nights, burrowing deeper. They memorised intricate, lace-like tunnels through the heart of the ship. Anything to stop the hunger and stay alive.

It was a strange day when Silas noticed a change in the atmosphere. The frantic energy of the boarding had been replaced by a heavy, stagnant dread. The Great Ones were restless. There was a roaring noise that had not been there before, followed by a silence, as if everyone was collectively holding their breath.

The staff they glimpsed from their hold looked tired and worried as they rushed about the ship. Elena observed, “They walk as if the weight of the whole world is on their shoulders.”

“There is nothing wrong,” Silas replied. “We would know if there was.”

“But we are not even on the passenger list. How would anyone know to look for us?” Elena replied.

Silas was not paying attention. He had snuggled down in a junction where three massive beams met near the very bottom of the hull. It was the keel, the spine of the entire ship. He was happy here, warm, with enough food to see him through to the end of the voyage.

“Silas, maybe we should stop,” Elena whispered, feeling the timber groan under the pressure of the surrounding sea. “I can hear the water whispering on the other side. It sounds angry. Maybe we should make others aware we are here. We are too far across for them to put us out now, surely.”

“Just one more tunnel, Elena. We need to reach the other side before we settle down in the New World. We must be strong for what comes next.”

They moved in tandem, their tiny noise lost in the cacophony of the storm outside.

They were the ultimate survivalists, the parasites of the divine plan, thriving on the very thing meant to save the worthy.

The end didn’t come with a crash or a cry. It began with a trickle. Suddenly, the rhythmic vibration of the ship’s heart skipped a beat. A high-pitched groan vibrated through the floorboards, the groan of a body being hollowed out from within.

Silas had just broken through a final, stubborn layer of resin when the texture changed. It wasn’t wood anymore. It was cold. It was wet.

“Silas!” Elena cried out, as a jet of icy, dark water sprayed through their meticulously carved tunnel.

The pressure was immense. The unsinkable sanctuary, the great Ark that had carried the weight of a planet’s hope, began to shudder. The wood, weakened by months of silent, uninvited feasting, could no longer hold back the abyss.

Above them, the Great Ones began to panic. The two-by-two formation broke. The Captain’s voice rose in a frantic, confused shout, wondering how the gopher wood could fail. He had followed the dimensions to the cubit; he had sealed it with pitch; he had selected only the finest.

But he had forgotten the guests he didn’t invite. The world was being cleansed, indeed. But as the Ark settled into the rising deep, Silas knew one thing: no matter how big the ship, or how divine the plan, there would always be someone in the cracks, eating away at the foundation.

As the dark water rose to fill their tunnels, Silas grabbed Elena’s pincer. They weren’t afraid. They were the survivors of the margins. As the great vessel began to tilt, heavy with the weight of its own purity, the two small stowaways let the current take them.

The life of a woodworm was never easy, and it appeared that neither was the end as the water took them and all the Great Ones. In the end, everyone was equal, regardless of their size or status in the kingdom.

“May I be so bold as to offer you a libation, my good lady, to ward off the evening’s chill?”

“I must confess, I have already partaken of a few measures this evening, my lovely gentleman, but I am quite certain that one more shall do me no great harm. A drop of comfort never went amiss in such a dreary season as this.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine. Pray, tell me, what manner of spirit may I procure for you from the establishment?”

“A gin would be most agreeable, sir. It is the only thing that truly warms the blood when the fog rolls in from the river.”

“Barman! A measure of your finest mother’s ruin for the lady, if you please, and a tankard of bitter for myself.”

“And make that a double measure of the gin, sweetheart, for a lady cannot fly on but one wing, can she?”

“I suppose she cannot. I am known as William, by the way. It is a stout, honest name for an honest man.”

“And I am Mary. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. William. You have the air of a man of means about you; tell me, what is your trade in this busy corner of the world?”

“I am a man of commerce, Mary. I possess my own enterprise, humble though it may seem to some. I collect the sawdust from the local timber mills and furniture factories, which I then sell to these very public houses to dress their floors. I am even the master of my own horse and cart, though the poor beast is at his rest this day, and so I have ventured out upon my own two feet.”

“A man of property and a horse to boot! You are a catch, indeed. And tell me, is there perchance a Mrs. William who waits at home for such a handsome provider?”

“There is indeed an Ellen. Does the existence of a wife trouble your conscience, Mary?”

“Not if it troubles yours but little, sir. In this parish, we take our pleasures where we find them, and a wife in the distance is no shadow upon a drink in the present.”

“Well spoken. And what of yourself, Mary? What occupies your hours, aside from the enjoyment of a glass in pleasant company?”

“Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that, you understand. I do whatever is necessary to ensure there is bread upon my table and a drop of something potent in my belly. Life is a struggle, and I am a survivor, like many a woman in Whitechapel.”

“Do you reside in one of the common lodging houses, then? The tuppenny hang or the fourpenny bed?”

“Nay, I have managed better than that. I have a modest room of my own. There was a fellow, an old flame, you might say, who continues to see to the rent. He visits on occasion, though his appearances have grown rare of late. I manage to scrape by with little tasks, and sometimes the other ladies of the district stay over; they bring a bit of grub, some cast-off clothes, and, naturally, a bottle to share.”

“And does it not fill your heart with dread, being out upon the cobbles alone at such a dark hour? The broadsheets are full of nothing but terror these days.”

“Me? Afraid? Lord love you, no. I am far too young and vibrant to be of interest to our ‘friendly neighbourhood killer.’ He seems to prefer the older, more weathered sort. Besides, there is always a peeler on every corner lately, blowing their whistles and tramping about in their heavy boots.”

“I have heard it said in the shops that those women were naught but fallen creatures anyway. There are many who whisper that they perhaps deserved their fate for spreading their foul pestilences and filth among the populace.”

“And what, pray, is so grievous about a fallen woman? I knew some of those ‘unfortunates,’ as the papers call them. They were fond of the bottle, it is true, but they were souls just like any other. To my knowledge, they weren’t all ‘turning tricks’ as the gossips say; they were just trying to live.”

“You speak as though you were intimate with them. How many of these creatures did you truly know?”

“I have heard the tales of them all, and I shared a glass or two with a couple before they met their end. None of them deserved the butcher’s work that was visited upon them. But enough of such gloom! Are you going to be a gentleman and purchase another round for a thirsty girl?”

“Barman! Another gin for the lady, if you please.”

“A double, if you would be so kind. You never did answer me, William, what is your great grievance against women of a certain station?”

“Naught, I suppose. My own Ellen followed that path before we were wed. I’ve put a stop to it now, of course; I’ll not have my wife walking the streets. But tell me truly, Mary, are you one of those women yourself?”

“I seek coin where I may find it. There is no sin in selling what the Good Lord provided, is there? There is never a shortage of men eager to buy what is offered.”

“I suppose that is the way of the world. But do you not fear the Great Pox? Does the thought of the syphilis not give you pause?”

“Fairy tales and myths, sir! Not every soul carries the rot, and besides, who wishes to linger in this stinking hole of a city until they are grey and toothless anyway? I’d rather a short life and a merry one.”

“A philosophy I can appreciate. It is becoming quite crowded in here, and the air is thick with smoke. Shall we seek a more private venue?”

“We could try another public house further down the lane.”

“Nay, they will all be teeming with folk tonight. Most people are terrified to be out on the stones and are huddling together for warmth and safety.”

“Well, then... how would you like to see my room? If you are so inclined?”

“I must warn you, Mary, I have no intention of paying for the privilege.”

“I did not ask for your coin, William. But if you wish to be welcome, you might purchase a full bottle of that gin to bring along with us.”

“Barman! I require a bottle of your gin to take away. Thank you. Are you ready to depart, Mary?”

“This way, follow me into the dark. Lord, either this road is more uneven than usual, or I am most thoroughly pissed!”

“Here, take my arm, steady yourself.”

“A proper gentleman you are, William. Just down here, my lovely... Oh, blast it! I have lost my key in the depths of my pockets.”

“Do not distress yourself. I can remedy this. I shall simply shatter this pane of glass and reach through. Would that be acceptable?”

“It cannot be helped, I suppose. You have a practiced hand at that. Have you done such a thing before?”

“Once or twice, perhaps. In my line of work, one learns to be resourceful.”

“Come in, then. Make yourself at home in my little sanctuary.”

“Do you possess any glassware for this gin, or shall we drink like heathens?”

“Just keep pouring, my lovely man, and never mind the formalities.”

“Are you intent on keeping those sodden clothes on? They look quite heavy with the damp.”

“You are a direct one, aren’t you? I... wait... what is that you have drawn from your coat? What have you got that blade for, William?”

“You are a wretched, painted whore, and you are about to receive everything you deserve. You and your kind, spreading your filth and your rot through the veins of this city. I am the cure for the plague you carry.”

“Oh, God... it’s you. You’re him.”

“Yes. You foolish, drunken cow. I grew weary of the damp alleys and the constant whistling of the peelers. I have been disturbed too many times of late. But with you, behind a locked door, I can take my time. I shall create a true masterpiece this night, something for that idiot Abberline to ponder in his nightmares.”

“No! Please! I beg of you!”

Stage One

First, you must make your significant other feel comfortable in their surroundings. Ensure you show them respect, make them their favourite meals, listen to their stories and respond appropriately to them.

Repeat this step for at least a month you will see the results start to grow.

To assist in this stage it might be advantageous to keep a log of their routines, likes and dislikes etc.

During this initial stage ensure that you are planning for the next stage by shopping for the equipment that you will need:

• Black bags

• A leg of lamb as large as you can afford should be placed in the freezer immediately to maintain freshness.

• High Powered Electric carving knife. Note: ensure it is sharpened, test the battery etc to ensure it will work when you need it.

• Mint or Rosemary to cook the lamb with depending on personal taste.

• Appropriate vegetables to taste

• Potatoes for roasting or Aunt Bessie’s if you are feeling lazy.

• Yorkshire puddings, no matter what you’re told these go with every roast.

• Various washing products for the clean up

Invite your family and friends to Sunday lunch a date more than a month after you start this process, but not less than six months.

It may be necessary if people can not attend to invite others to ensure the party is large enough to enjoy the meal you are going to prepare.

Ask your significant other to invite some of their friends to enhance the party. People that you are happy to share a meal with and preferably not too clever. No one needs a know-it-all at the dinner table.

Ensure that whilst preparing for stage two you have continued with the initial step in stage one to a satisfactory level. It is easy to dip the affection level but this should be avoided to ensure the success of the operation.

Stage Two

This stage should be completed one day before the meal.

Invite your significant other into the kitchen and make them their favourite beverage so they are sat relaxed preferably in an area without carpet on the floor.

Take the frozen leg of lamb out of the freezer and hit your significant other repeatedly over the back of the head with it until they are no longer breathing. Aim for the base of the skull to ensure a swift transition.

Once the heart has ceased to beat, place the frozen leg of lamb onto the counter on a plate to avoid defrosting juices from contaminating the workspace prematurely.

Place your significant other into your bath and remove any limbs that do not fit into the bag with your electric carving knife. Please be mindful that this stage can be quite messy so it may be advised to wear an apron or other clothing covering.

When the organic matter is small enough to fit into black bags place them in there, sealing using the double knot technique.

Take them to the local tip for dumping, include other household rubbish in this trip, and ensure nothing has your address on it.

Alternatively, you may prefer to dispose of them at the local lake but you will require something heavy to tie to the bags to ensure they sink. This is optional depending on the individual’s local geography.

Return home and thoroughly clean yourself, work environment and equipment. Pay particular attention to the grout between tiles and the serrated edges of the electric knife.

Stage Three

This stage is to be completed on the day of the family meal.

Text all participants of the meal informing them your significant other has been called away suddenly (e.g., a family emergency or sudden business trip), but emphasise that the meal is still planned and you would love to see everyone.

Cook the now defrosted leg of lamb along with the vegetables and potatoes, and add seasoning to taste.

Lay the table with your finest linens, cutlery and glassware.

Welcome guests and seat them around the table, present the leg of lamb to the table on a separate plate, and the vegetables. The roasting meat will fill the home with a “normalising” scent that masks any lingering chemical cleaners.

Ask the person you least like at the table to carve the leg of lamb, hand them the electric carving knife and allow them to complete this stage without interruption.

Serve the lamb, vegetables and gravy to the guests and watch them enjoy consuming your murder weapon.

Make polite conversation at the table until it is time for the guests to leave, if needed send them home with leftovers.

Clean dinner away, wash up and enjoy a stress-free life without a significant other.

Note: It may be advantageous after a couple of days to report the significant other missing to the authorities. This creates a formal record of your “concern,” though it is up to the individual and not strictly essential if the “sudden trip” narrative is strong enough.

Troubleshooting

Q1: What should I do if Stage One is interrupted by a third party?

Protocol: If a friend or family member expresses concern regarding your sudden change in behaviour towards the significant other, dismiss it as a renewed commitment to the relationship. Tactfully try to limit contact with this person. If suspicion persists, extend Stage One by an additional thirty days to normalise this behaviour, nosy people become bored very quickly and move on to someone else.

Q2: The “Primary Instrument” (Frozen Lamb) has begun to soften before the transition. Is it still viable?

Protocol: No. The structural integrity of the instrument is paramount. If the meat has reached a temperature where the surface is yielding, its kinetic impact will be dampened, potentially failing to achieve a “swift transition.” Return the instrument to the freezer for a minimum of 12 hours or replace it with a fresh, deeper-frozen unit. Consistency in density is non-negotiable for operator safety.

Q3: A guest at the Sunday Lunch asks specific questions about the Significant Other’s “sudden trip.”

Protocol: Employ the “Emotional Deflection Technique.” Instead of providing hard data (flight numbers, hotel names), respond with an emotional state. Statements such as, “It was all so rushed, I’m still a bit overwhelmed trying to keep the house running,” usually discourages further inquiry. Most guests will feel awkward pressing for details if you appear mildly stressed by the “absence.”

Q4: There is a residual scent of “Chemical Sanitation Suite” products in the kitchen despite ventilation.

Protocol: Increase the volume of “Culinary Aromatics.” If mint and rosemary are insufficient, introduce a secondary heat source, such as a stove top pot of cinnamon and cloves or brew coffee. Ensure the Yorkshire puddings are slightly over-browned to provide a familiar “toasted” aroma.

Q5: What if the person I least like at the table refuses to carve the meat?

Protocol: Do not insist, as this creates a memorable point of friction. Instead, pass the electric carving knife to the guest with the most social influence. The goal is “Shared Participation.” As long as someone other than you handles the primary instrument in front of witnesses, the objective of the “Final Distribution” is achieved.

Q6: How should I handle “Digital Footprints” during the missing person reporting phase?

Protocol: Ensure your search history aligns with your narrative. In the 48 hours following the “Transition,” perform searches related to “how to cope with a partner travelling” or “quick recipes for one.” Do not search for legal advice or “how to clean grout” at any point. All digital activity must align with the persona of a waiting, slightly confused partner.

I was that kid who used to sneak glimpses of her friends and family through the keyhole, to see what they were up to. I would put my eye against the hole and catch a glimpse of their world, like a tiny television that never revealed the complete story.

It must have been that instinct that made me look when I saw the shopping list on Eric’s iPad. He used that function where you tap the screen with your Apple Pencil and an instant note appears. He was always so proud of his command of modern technology, even though he was in his fifties.

The list itself, at first glance, was innocuous: rope, tape, and bin bags. But we didn’t need anything like that in the house. I knew I shouldn’t have looked; nothing ever good comes of spying. But I couldn’t help myself; I had to open his iPad and see what else I could find. It was just like those early days of having my eye to the keyhole, an impulse I couldn’t resist.

Starting with his messages and emails, I found nothing there to raise my suspicions. At one point last year, I had thought he might be having an affair, but I talked myself out of it. There were no messages from unknown numbers, no emails other than from work. I was about to walk away, and then I spotted the journal app.

Passworded. Shit.

Then I worked out the idiot had used his mother’s name as the password. Spanning over several years, every couple of months there were detailed descriptions of women. They were all about my age, most with my blonde hair and slim build. Some were a little younger than me. Neatly recorded at the end of every entry was the woman’s name.

The first couple I didn’t recognise, but then I started seeing names that I was familiar with. I racked my brains. Were they work colleagues, friends? Then it hit me: the names had been on the news.

I wrote the names down quickly, in case Eric returned from the supermarket. Then I went over to my laptop and typed in the first couple. They were women who had gone missing. There were reels of their husbands asking them to ring them. Parents begging their daughters to get in touch. Three names in and I heard the front door slam.

“Hey, honey, where are you?”

“I’m in here,” I replied.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, just some research for tomorrow’s lesson,” I lied. “I’ve finished now.”

“Cool. I got us some steak for dinner; want me to start cooking?”

I nodded and off he went.

I had met Eric at teacher training. He was geeky with his glasses and his love of technology. Teaching was his second career; he had been working in banking but found it too boring, so he was pursuing a career in mathematics. My parents disapproved, but I was smitten with his salt and pepper hair and our talk about classic novels.

Within six months we were engaged and married the year after. I had taken a job at a local primary school and Eric had given up teaching to pursue a career in social media marketing. He hadn’t wanted children at his age, and that was fine with me; I had a classroom of kids to hang out with.

Dinner was delicious. I cleared up while he went into his study to do some work. We fell into bed at 10, and within a couple of minutes, I could hear Eric snoring beside me. Easing myself out of bed, I went back to the laptop to check the other names.

By 2 am I had found the rest of the women: all missing, some with frantic families, others presumed a suicide. None of the bodies had been found. Why did my husband have their names and details on his computer? Was he investigating their disappearance? Yes, that must have been it.

The next morning over breakfast, I dropped into conversation one of the missing women’s names. “Did you hear, they still haven’t found that mother of three who went missing last month, Claire Hayden?”

“Claire Hayden, never heard of her,” he said without missing a beat. “Right, got to go. Have a meeting. Oh, and I will be late home tonight, honey; I have a late client meeting.”

He kissed me on the head and left without a backwards glance.

The day passed slowly, but at 5 pm I was outside Eric’s work, having convinced my best friend Ellen to lend me her car. I watched him drive out of the parking lot and head towards town. This is silly, I reasoned with myself. He is clearly going to a meeting.

Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside a local cafe. Not a great place for a meeting. Maybe the client was poor. Getting out of the car, Eric walked towards the door, stopping to speak to a young girl standing outside. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, blonde like me. They stood talking for a while, and then I watched him motion to his car. The girl nodded and they both walked to it. He held the door open for her like he used to for me.

They started driving towards the outskirts of town this time. I followed at a good distance, keeping his brake lights in my eyesight. That was when the lorry pulled out on me from the side street. I only just managed to brake before I hit it.

Several times I tried to get around him, but it was not possible. When he finally turned off two miles later, Eric’s car was nowhere to be seen. I spent the next hour trying every road on that two-mile stretch, looking for a familiar car, but couldn’t find it. Giving up, I went home.

Eric arrived home two hours after me. “Hey, honey. You’re up late. Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I replied. “How was the meeting?”

“Very productive,” he smiled. “I’m knackered, though. Going to grab a shower and go to bed.”

I stared at his back as he picked up his iPad and walked towards the bedroom. It felt like I was looking at him through a keyhole again, seeing only a fraction of the man, and desperately fearing what the complete picture would reveal.

I heard the water turn on, and ten minutes later the bed creaked as he got into bed. A half-hour later, the soft snoring came from the bedroom. Sneaking in, I picked up his iPad. Standing in the doorway, I scrolled to the journaling app.

There for today was a new entry: a description of the young girl, under the name Kara Clark.

Eric left early the next day; I was barely up. I poured myself a coffee and turned on the morning news.

Witnesses are being sought in the disappearance of teenager Kara Clark, last seen last night by her parents. Kara said she was going to meet a friend from school for a burger in town and has not been seen since. If you have any information, please contact this number.

The heat from the spilt coffee scalded my ankle, but I barely registered it. I looked down at the dark stain blooming on my sock. The realisation hit me like a train: I was married to a serial killer. My lungs stopped working, leaving me gasping for a breath that wouldn’t come. I looked at the number still displayed on the screen. Reaching for the remote, I turned the television off.

I reached for the phone. My parents were right; Eric was no good for me. But if they were right about him, what did that make me? I’d defended him, chosen him, built my life around him. What would the world say when they learned I had been married to this monster? No, I couldn’t let my parents be right. I couldn’t let anyone be right, could I?

The beeping invades my mind like a probe, a thin, needle-sharp sound boring into my skull. I try to open my eyes but they are taped shut, and the thin adhesive pulls uncomfortably at my skin. Then I hear the nurse say, ‘You are safe; you are in the hospital. Please try to relax.’

The air smells faintly of disinfectant and old coffee.

I remember the screech and impact of an accident. I consciously check to make sure I have all my limbs. I can feel both my arms and legs, a comforting, heavy certainty.

Visions swarm into my mind like a showreel as I see my life, the life before the accident.

The beeping starts up again, sharp and insistent. This time it is my morning alarm. I open my eyes and my arm aches as I reach out, slapping the snooze button. Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes before the usual, monotonous routine of my life starts.

I know how today will go. Precisely the same as the five previous years I have lived through. Get up, shower, get dressed. Go downstairs and put the coffee on, the scent of the dark roast offers the only momentary escape. While the coffee percolates, I wake the kids up, the sticky warmth of their bodies a familiar weight against my side. I help them get dressed and brush their teeth. Back downstairs to scrape the buttery eggs onto plates. At 08:30 am, my family will kiss me goodbye and leave. The day will then be spent cooking, cleaning and washing, the damp scent of wet laundry clinging to my skin.

At 3 pm, I will pick the children up and help them with their homework, my back already starting to twinge. Adam will come home at 5 pm; he normally grunts a ‘hello’, if I am lucky. He eats his dinner and then sits semi-comatose, the blue light of the TV flickering on his face, whilst I get the children bathed and to bed. If I am lucky he might pay me five minutes’ attention before I collapse into bed, ready for the routine to all start again the next day.

I am utterly exhausted. My whole life has been taken up with keeping two children alive and a husband who barely notices me happy.

The beeping sounds again. Alarm or hospital? My mind swims to another scene, different this time.

I see myself switching off the alarm and going downstairs. There, standing in my sun-drenched, granite kitchen, is a 20-year-old, muscle-bound, naked hunk.

‘Hey babe, you’re up late,’ the guy said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, as he walked towards me kissing me.

I hear myself say, ‘Scott, I told you I have a later meeting.’

I sit and drink the perfect, dark roast coffee. I am the managing director of an HR company. I love my job and have no children. A meeting at 10 am, so I stand to get ready.

Going into my wardrobe, I look at my expensive selection of clothes. I choose a Chanel dress, the silk heavy and cool in my hands, a Prada handbag, and Louboutin shoes, their red soles a promise. I yelled bye to Scott.

In the garage is my brand new Audi. I slam my foot on the pedal, feeling the engine snarl beneath me as I tear through the city streets to my meeting.

When I arrive at work I have a corner office with minimalist, designer furniture and a breathtaking view. The meeting is long, but I feel capable for the first time; the sound of my own voice commanding attention. People are listening to what I have to say and are interested in my opinions.

Once the meeting is finished I go for a fancy lunch. Then another couple of meetings. My workday finishes at 8 pm—home to hunky Scott and then out for an evening with friends.

This is my life. Rich, powerful. Everything I could ever want. The memory of my previous life fades into the distance like a bad nightmare.

Once again the scene fades and the alarm is sounding. I realise then that these visions are two versions of an alternative reality. The same me with two different outcomes.

I hear the nurse’s voice, closer now, ‘Open your eyes now, honey.’

The words are a command. Choose.

A heavy silk dress... the weight of a sleeping child.

The engine snarl... the sound of my daughter’s giggle.

The cold marble of the office... the scent of my son’s clean hair.

I don’t know which of these realities is mine. Am I the exhausted mother or the successful CEO? Which me will I return to when I open my eyes?

“Come on, my lovely, open your eyes now,” the voice says again, its tone suddenly insistent, laced with professional urgency. A slight, heavy pressure begins to build on my eyelids.

I am not opening my eyes. I am afraid. Afraid to go back to reality without the specific, small, messy, beautiful burdens of my children. Afraid to lose the love that came wrapped in exhaustion.

Below is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago; it is the inspiration for the new novel I am writing, ‘The Fight for Humanity’.

This has happened to me before: ‘The Water Plague’ started as a short story which grew into a novel that had so much more to give.

So grab a coffee, sit back, and take a trip into Harper’s world.

One Long Sunday of Love

The fan moved the still air around the bunker. Since the crash of 2025, air had become a precious commodity. So the irony of the wind generator running the fan in the bunker to circulate the stale air wasn’t wasted on Harper.

The problem was the air that turned the wind turbine wasn’t worth breathing. Moreover, since the world had destroyed itself, the atmosphere contained chemicals. Chemicals that even the most robust living organism couldn’t survive.

Still, the filtration machine cleaned the air and the fan circulated it throughout. The air smelt stale, and it was always hot, but breathing it couldn’t kill

Everyone else in the bunker had died; Harper was the only one left. Harper and the stuffed barn owl her parents had given her as a baby. She wasn’t even sure anymore how long she had been there. She knew she came in as a teenager; now, her hair was greying. Her Mumma had gone grey in her 40’s, which put the year at approximately 2050.

One year ago, her last mum died; she stumbled on the journals that day. Hidden at the back of the bunker in the storage hut. Twenty separate journals detailing the end of the earth, detailing where humanity had gone so wrong. Her mum, an avid writer, had kept meticulous notes.

Harper had trouble remembering the lead up to the great crash. She was a teenager, too busy with the latest make up craze than what was happening in the world. Her mums had told her some of it, the journals filled in the gaps.

Harper was unsure when precisely the destruction of humanity started. First, the earth and its creatures suffered. Rubbish piled up everywhere, even in the oceans, the marine life died. Then, territory battles started over the seas and the last remaining fish. These increased as civilians took to the streets to protest their governments’ inadequacies. Governments voted for by the people were doing exactly what they wanted.

The military was stretched in two directions. Fighting the civilians, they were born to protect whilst fighting the other countries over the ocean occupation. Neither battle was won; millions perished. Shot with the bullets, their taxes paid for or starved to death.

The final crash came when a mad businessman, put in charge of the USA, pushed the red button on his final day in office. His last fuck you to everyone that opposed him.

The three of them had only just made the bunker in time before the bombs landed. Then the wind destroyed the rest of humanity and planet earth. A small proportion survived in bunkers like these, but Harper had no idea how many and where they were.

Not that the journals were all doom and gloom, some detailed how her parents had met. How, against all odds, they had fallen in love and had her. One journal titled the seed guy detailed the other half of her genetics. She had burnt it without even reading it. She had two amazing parents; genetics meant nothing to Harper.

The last journal her Mumma had written detailing parts of the story from her perspective. Not being able to deal with the death of her soul mate, she succumbed five years later to a broken heart.

Life had been good; her parents had told her stories. Re-enacted films for her, made her laugh. Harper’s life had been filled with laughter and love.

Sunday’s before the crash has always been her favourite day. The three of them shut up indoors, having fun. Harper’s life had been one long Sunday, no work, just her and her parents.

Harper was brought out of the journal by the silence. Silence - what did that mean? The fan had stopped. The background music of her life had ceased. She stumbled down the corridor to try and see what had happened as the lights went out.

Mumma had taught her how to fix things. Always the practical parent. Her mum had preferred to hit things with a hammer, so was always banished to the kitchen when anything broke. After that, she and Mumma had fixed most things together. ‘Learning on the job,’ Mumma had said.

Rooting in the drawer, she found the candle and lit it. Looking at the range of dials on the panel, Harper’s heart stopped when she saw no power. The turbine outside had stopped. Mumma had checked the turbine every day. Harper had found her against the dials when she died. Not able to face the room again, Harper had forgotten to check the turbine. Everything was shutting down as the year of reserve power was gone.

The realisation hit her immediately; she would need to open the hatch and go outside. After all this time, she needed to enter the world. What was the worse that could happen? She would join her parents again.

Collecting a few belongings, her favourite diary and her stuffed toy she made for the door. Releasing the latches, she pushed open the door. Taking what could have been her last breath, she stepped out.

Harper coughed; her senses were on fire. The air smelled sweet and clean. There was no wind. The turbine stopped turning because the winds had gone. Harper realised she was still alive; the air was clean. The wind had blown the chemicals away. Everywhere she looked, sparks of life were beginning.

Then the noise made her stop in her tracks. The hoot of approaching danger, she tried to follow the noise. There in the tree, she was sure it was coming from that direction. She strained her eyes through the leaves; there, sitting on the branch, was a barn owl. That is what her mum had told her the cuddly toy was.

Seedlings were sprouting as they had in the bunkers Polly tunnel. Life was starting again on earth. Harper strode out, determined to find others, but her mind went back to the last lines in Mumma’s journal.

One day sweet girl, you will need to leave here and go out into the world. Don’t be sad. You will take us with you in your heart wherever you go. Then, sweet girl, it will be your turn to find your soul mate. We love you.

There is something very comforting in this world when looking across the room and seeing someone who looks exactly like you. Sure, there are times when bumps and scrapes make you look slightly different, but we are the same. 

The closest I can imagine others would understand this is looking in the mirror. With us, it was no different. When I looked at them, it was like looking at myself. 

It made me feel secure to know there was always someone nearby who looked just like me. That was why the event was such a shock to both of us. I could tell they were as shaken up as me when we approached the portal together.

Initially, it didn't seem much of a deal as we clung to each other and were jostled and pushed into the redeployment machine. Others were there with us, but I knew we would be okay if we clung together. The fear of the unknown is only bad when you have no one with you. I had my twin, and we would always be safe if we were together. 

So we climbed into the machine together, crushed against the others selected for the task. Once settled in, we moved around, holding on to each other for the best possible space.

We all heard the door close behind us and the click as the locks engaged. This started a different, cleaner life but a new adventure. There came a slight noise like a trickling, and water started to rain down on us from above. I looked at the others who had been here before, and they seemed pretty calm. 

So we both sat there listening to the water and feeling it flow onto us. It was almost refreshing; that is what I thought then. I would never have guessed that this was the end of life as I knew it.

The vessel then started to spin very slowly. At first, it was a nice, relaxing ride. We stayed together and enjoyed the slow turn. Then the machine got faster and faster.

That was when it happened: my twin was there one minute and gone the next. I couldn't hold on, and they fell away from me. I tried to find them all the time. I caught glimpses, but then I lost sight again. I can only hope that one of us has not become the chosen one and we will see each other again. 

We had been told in the holding bin that not all of us would make the promised land. Only a few of us on each journey went to a higher place. The rest of us would have to carry on our daily jobs, ready for another later attempt. 

The whooshing grew louder. The combination of losing my partner, water and the constant turning made me start to feel sick. This can't be happening to us; we couldn't be this unlucky on our first ride. 

When I thought I could not hold on anymore, there was a bright flash of light, and I was flying. I don't remember much until I woke up, wet, lying in a higher place. It was me. I had been selected. I had gone to a higher place even though I was so young. 

Well, if I had been selected, indeed, my twin would also have been. I looked around, and although I saw creatures I recognised, I didn't see anyone who looked like me. Some were the same shape, but none had the same colour or pattern. My twin was nowhere to be seen; they hadn't been selected. 

Maybe they will join me later and get a chance on the next rotation. We were told it was unlikely. If one twin left, the higher being would often discard the other, not wanting those who did not match to be together. Some beings split twins but were considered much lower on the scale of things. 

It took me a couple of hours to get over my missing half; it seemed strange at first not seeing someone who looked like me standing there a short distance away. But as the sun shone, I started to forget my twin; they had always been right. 

I was free to live in a higher place. The redeployment machine had selected me. It was my turn to live free without anyone getting into me. No higher being would ever know what had happened; it was said to be one of the world's mysteries. Only the Great God Hotpoint knew all the answers.

Maggie stood and stared at the solid black oak door; at some point, everyone contemplated whether to go through the door. Maggie almost admired those who decided it wasn't for them; at least they had made the decision and could get on with their life. She always knew she would go through the door. Now, the time was right.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the heavy door and walked into the foyer. The mechanical receptionist pointed her to floor three, interviews. The waiting room on the third floor was plain white; nothing pointed towards what the building held, nothing to suggest how important this building was to everyone. Maggie smoothed her skirt for the fifth time and grabbed the folder of evidence under her arm. She wanted to look through the folder, but it would be pointless; she knew she had all the evidence they had requested.

The door opened, and a long-haired woman stood in front of Maggie. She invited her into the room with a smile and motioned for her to sit on the sofa opposite. Maggie admired her interviewer's dark, perfectly styled hair, brown eyes, and pale lips. She stood a little taller than Maggie and had a dark blue suit, with a white shirt, topped off with a simple pair of flats. She introduced herself as Dr Abbott. 

"Shall we start," she said with a smile. "Can I see your social media usage first?"

Maggie handed her the papers that showed her social media usage over the last year. All the advice said this was the most dangerous part of the interview. Too much social media use and you were considered unsuitable to give your time to another. Too few hours, and you were considered out of date and unable to help a child research homework.

Dr Abbott scanned the documents. Maggie watched her face, but she gave nothing away.

"Now, can you tell me what having a child would do for your life?" Dr Abbott said.

There was a time when any woman could have a child. Families fell into two categories: those that wanted children and those that treated them as accessories and status symbols. Since The Sanctuary had taken over, whether women had babies or not depended on babies being wanted. No more were women allowed to have babies as a status symbol. Every child had to be desired and cherished from the moment you walked through that oak door. 

Maggie answered the question as well as she could, hoping she portrayed how vital a baby was to her and how she felt it was every woman's duty to carry on the next generation. 

Dr Abbott gave nothing away, just took a few notes. 

"Okay, can I see your finance documents now?"

Maggie again handed over more paperwork. With a glance, she put these on the small table beside her. 

"So you have the financial means to pay for the procedure," she asked Maggie.

"Yes," Maggie replied.

"You will not want to go for the free surrogacy model, then?"

Maggie had thought about this before she set the interview. Being a surrogate would mean that the procedure would be free and that the inferior twin would be taken away. But, even though it would have had no standing in society, Maggie still worried whether she could give a baby to The Sanctuary, even an inferior one. 

"No, thank you," Maggie replied. "Just the simple single female option, please; I am happy to pay."

Dr Abbott nodded and noted this down on the form.

Maggie had read in history books that it hadn't always been this way with childbirth. There had been a time, many hundreds of years ago, when women became pregnant naturally. Men and women shared a house and created a new life. This was before women took control of the world. Women in these prehistoric times had to dress a certain way; short skirts were considered too provocative. They lived in fear of awakening the lust of men by saying or wearing the wrong thing. The problem was always the result of the women's inappropriate behaviour; men could not be expected to control themselves with women acting this way.

Once the evolution of womankind happened, women could move around without fear. They eliminated men except for a few specimens they kept in The Sanctuary for their seed. Doctors used drugs to keep them docile and their lust under control. These specimens were replaced by those that chose the surrogacy option. Two embryos were implanted, one of each gender, the inferior, was moved to The Sanctuary, and the mother would take the female home. Those who chose to pay were guaranteed a future heir to the planet. Only female embryos were ever implanted. 

Dr Abbott brought her back to the room. She asked several more questions about her aims and objectives in life before ticking several boxes. 

"Well, thank you for answering all those questions. I have one final question for you. The Sanctuary is trying a new procedure where we take an egg from a female and implant the genetic information into a synthetic sperm we implant. Would you consider having a pure female baby? It is, to be honest, the next evolution of wife."

The beautiful giant of the sea came up to the side of the boat. I put my hand down and placed it on her nose. She blew air out. Venus was a 15-year-old Orca who had her first calf one year ago.

She nudged my hand like she always did when she wanted to play. I took my water bottle off the floor and squirted her gently in the face. This was our ritual when we met. I had been studying the pod for the last four years. Over that time, trust had been built up, and the game had begun.

Three years ago, as Venus approached me, I accidentally squirted water from my bottle on her. She had come back for more, and so our greeting started.

The other orcas were a little shy, but not Venus. She had no fear of humans. We had tried to follow her story to find out if she was a released Orca, but we hit a dead end. Her dorsal fin was standing up, a curved fin being a classic sign of captivity. We didn’t know; for whatever reason, Venus and I had a bond.

When her calf was born, I watched from a distance on the boat. I wondered if this would change our relationship. It hadn’t. She always kept herself between me and the calf, but our friendship remained the same.

She nudged my hand again, and I squirted her with the bottle. Looking her straight in the eye was like looking into a deep intelligence.

“What’s up, girl? You feeling a bit under the weather.” I asked.

Venus nudged my hand again. The bottle was empty, but she settled for a nose rub.

Venus had been showing signs of being unwell for the last two weeks. She wasn’t looking after her calf as much. For the last couple of days, she had been on close monitoring. She was unwell, swimming behind her pod. I swore when I looked at her, there was a sadness in her eyes. This beautiful black and white creature was suffering.

While I kept her calm, Sam, the vet, administered an antibiotic shot to try to help. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

“I’m sure this will do the trick. Try not to worry.”

Saying goodbye to my beautiful girl, I promised to bring a full bottle to play with her tomorrow. We moved the boat away from the pod and headed for shore. I followed the silhouette of my girl for as long as I could.

Karl woke me early the next morning. There had been an incident with Venus. Sam was on his way, but they needed me to keep her calm. Grabbing yesterday’s clothes, I threw them on and raced down the path to Karl’s jeep. As we turned out of the drive I realised we weren’t heading to the marine, but to the beach.

We drove in silence. I didn’t trust myself to speak. Ten minutes later, Karl explained that they had a call from a local. Venus had been grounded on the beach. With my help, they were sure they could get her back into the water.

I rushed down to the beach. I only remembered I had no water bottle when I tripped over three left discarded on the shore. Still, I’m sure my girl would forgive me this once.

When I reached Venus, Sam was finishing his examination. Locals had a constant train of water keeping her moist. I threw myself to my knees beside her and looked into those beautiful eyes.

“Hey girl, what’s going on?” I asked.

She looked back at me, staring into my soul. Nudging my hand, she took her final breath and died on the beach.

I only remember sections of the rest of the day. I remember Sam and Karl getting me back to the jeep. I remember Karl giving me a tiny blue pill, and I woke up the next day.

That day, the pain was more intense. I knew I should go and check on her pod, but I didn’t have the strength. At 5 pm, Karl rang to see if I wanted to go and get the autopsy results with him. We once again drove in silence.

When we arrived, we went into the marine room. Sam hugged me. With tears in his eyes, he handed me two black sacks of empty bottles and rubbish. I’m sorry, Jen, but this is what we found in her stomach; she didn’t stand a chance, I’m afraid. Human laziness and ignorance had killed this beautiful sea creature.

I knew then that if Venus had eaten rubbish, the rest of the pod were in danger, especially her calf. At first light the next day, I was back in the boat heading out to find them.

We found them within an hour. Sam checked them all over, and they appeared to be okay. We would have to watch them closely for the next couple of months. Then, as we were leaving, her calf came to me and nudged my hand. I smiled and reached for my bottle to squirt him. Looking at the bottle in my hand, I put it down.

“No, fella, I think it’s best you have no interest in these,” I told him, stroking his nose.

We were lucky he was now one; with the proper monitoring, he should survive without his mum.

That night, I sat with Karl, writing up my notes. We talked about the bond that Venus had with me.

“Jen, it was special. I have worked with Orca for many years and not seen a connection like that,” he said.

I smiled when I thought about my sweet sea angel. It was only when I wrote the date for my observation that it hit me. No, it can’t be that late in the month already.

“Karl, I think I know why we had a connection.” I said, “I think she sensed we were both mothers.”

Karl looked at me, rubbing my stomach, and lunged off the sofa. Sweeping me up in his arms.

“If it’s a girl, we can call her Venus,” he chuckled.

My Nan tells of a time when all the homelands were united against the Germans. Now, the Scottish are partners with Germany, and we are alone in Kent. All of England squashed into this tiny county once known as The Garden of England.

Some say it started with Brexit in 2016, but it started before that when the Scottish won independence from England in 2014.

What about Wales, some may ask, but they blew the bridge when the trouble started. Now, they live in their own little country peacefully. Northern Island was taken back by Ireland as soon as the troops left.

My life is very different now. Shacks stand where green fields once were to house the displaced. Food is scarce; we live off what we grow. There is never enough to feed us all. The Dover Port, which once provided the gateway to Europe, lies deserted. The Scottish made it illegal to trade with us. Now, boats that used to ferry refugees to a better life sneak across the channel for food, but too few make it back.

My Nan used to laugh at how we could never stop the dinghies coming across, but now troops patrol the channel to stop the food and us trying to flee. Not that I think the average English person would have the guts to become a refugee.

We are alone, and the whole world watches whilst we starve to death and the soldiers murder our young.

They weren’t always indifferent to us. When it began, people marched in the streets for our freedom. But, news moves on and the world forgot about us, if they do watch they have stopped caring.

We were considered lucky; we already lived in Kent. When the displaced arrived, we had to fight to keep our small two-bedroom house. My brother grew up overnight. He was only thirteen but became a man in twenty-four hours. Armed with my grandad’s old hunting shotgun, he fought alongside my mother to stop them from taking our home.

My Nan and I hid at the back of the house. My father is lost to us. He was working in Birmingham when the troops arrived. We don’t know what happened to him or where he is.

Everything settled once the displaced had homes. We all fight equally now. United in a common goal: survival.

My Nan lived six months before deciding she was finished with the world. A sniper on the wall killed my mother whilst she was standing in the ration queue. Now, only Ethan and I live in the flat that was once our garage — joined to our old house where the Smithsons, a family of eight, now live.

None of that is important, though. What I am sure you would rather know is how this happened. How did one nation of people get trapped in a tiny square of country?

It started with two votes — the first when Scotland wanted devolution from England. The votes were counted, and the Scottish people had spoken; they were separating from Great Britain. Within six months, they were governing themselves: different laws, benefits and a way of life.

The second vote, however, was when the world changed, Brexit. I don’t understand fully how it happened; I was only eight. My dad tried to explain it, and this is what I understood. Britain was part of an organisation called the European Union, EU for short. It gave us the power to act as a bigger country, getting better deals with others. Some thought this was a bad idea. My Nan said they were motivated by their own greed. These men persuaded the country to vote to leave the EU.

That was when the trouble started. Scotland didn’t want to leave the EU, and because they were separate from us, they stayed governed and supported by the rest of Europe.

Two years after this, Scotland decided they wanted more land. Our soil was better for growing; we had better airports and ports, which they wanted.

The EU decided they were perfectly within their right to take the land. They had suffered enough. Scotland was provided with weapons, soldiers and support to take England for themselves. The soldiers came, followed by the people. Those in the land were told they had one hour to pack and move to Kent. Those who refused were killed. The Scottish moved into their houses. They now belonged to them. Many moved to the next town only to be pushed further towards Kent until we were all here.

Then, the walls came around the county. Checkpoints that only ever allowed traffic one way were set up. We are living in a prison, and our captors hate us because we talk slightly differently and look English.

I’m now thinking that no one will read this. If they do, will they care? But, you see, I had ambitions. I wanted to become someone; I wanted to write and tell stories. Children the same age as me in other countries are taking their exams and deciding on a career. They are laughing and attending concerts. I am walking from one medical centre to another, looking for Ethan.

Ten days ago, Scotland wanted the Port of Dover, and we are in the way. Apparently, three English who escaped Camp Kent blew part of Portsmouth up, and they want revenge for the dead. That is what they say, but it looks more like annihilation to me. The world has decided that English is now an extinct nationality. Ethan went to fight and never came back, and then the bomb wiped the flat and the Smithsons out. I have no one unless Ethan is alive.

I walk from medical centre to medical centre, staring at the faces covered in blood and concrete dust, praying I recognise him. I go to the mass graves and look at the tiny mangled bodies and pray I don’t see his face. But no god is listening to the English people anymore.

It will be over soon. We all know it. I look at the other people, and they all know it too. They won’t stop until every one of us is dead, until there is not an English person left, and they have taken everything.

It isn’t their land. It never was, but the Scottish have told everyone it belongs to them. They tell the world we are terrorists and we must be eliminated, and the world believes it. But how can we be terrorists eighty per cent of us are children, just chil

Manuscript found under the rubble of the William Harvey Hospital — Jan 2024

Johnny was drifting off to sleep in the new house. He didn’t want to be here, he wanted to return to London. But his mum had died, and his mumma had decided to return home. Now, he was stuck in this broken house, living near a grandfather he had met for the first time yesterday.

The window stood open to try and clear some of the stale air out. That was when he heard the fairground ride start-up. The music drifted across to him like the mist.

Strangely, he hadn’t remembered a fairground when they had driven to the house. He got out of bed, wincing at the cold floorboards under his feet. Padding across to the window, he looked out; in the next field, he saw a dim glow of colour. The music was coming from that direction, but why hadn’t he seen the fairground in the daylight? He thought back to what he had seen in that field. He couldn’t remember, he had been too busy sulking to look out of the window.

He shut the window with a bang and returned to his bed, burying himself under the covers to hide from the world.

The smell of bacon cooking awoke Johnny the next morning. Going downstairs, his mumma was standing at the old range frying bacon. She smiled as he entered, clearly not wanting to start another conversation that ended in cross words.

“That smells good,” he said.

“Thought it would be a nice way to start our new life in the country.”

He watched her try and suck the last words back into her mouth. The silence engulfed them as she waited to see his reaction. They were let off, making the first move by the smell of the bacon burning.

His mumma spun around, scooping the pan off the stove and throwing it in the sink; as she turned the cold water on, the pair were engulfed in smoke. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” she muttered under her breath.

At first, Johnny thought it was the smoke that had made his mumma’s eyes run, but then he realised she was crying. “Mum always did say you were a lousy cook,” he whispered.

He was treated with the best sound in the world, his mumma laughing; he thought back to the last time he heard her laugh; it was before the accident he knew. She walked over to him and flung her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer to her. “I miss her too,” she said into his neck.

“I know, mumma, I know. I’m sorry I have been, well, you know.”

“It’s okay, kiddo, you miss her too. I get it.”

I miss Mum. I miss my friends, home and life, he thought to himself.

“I think I’m forgetting her mumma. All those memories no longer play in my head.”

“It will take time, honey; they will come back. You know I love you right.”

He nodded into her chest as she squeezed him a little harder. Both of them jumped at the sound of the gruff voice behind them. “No wonder that lad is soft the way you mollycoddle him.”

He felt his mumma stiffen as she straightened up. “He is my son. I will bring him up how I want.”

The old man shrugged and sat on the stool near the table. His Mumma returned to the sink, retrieved the pan and started frying more bacon. Johnny sat opposite his grandfather, looking at him, not knowing what to say.

He was a big man, tall and broad. His features looked worn from the time he had spent out on the marsh. Most of his face was covered with a white beard, he reminded Johnny of a worn Father Christmas, not that he believed in that shit.

It wasn’t long before Mumma presented them all with a bacon sandwich, a look of triumph on her face. As he ate, his grandfather peppered his mother with questions, the talk was pleasant but not friendly. If you didn’t know, you would never guess the woman sitting opposite him was his daughter.

Finishing his sandwich, he said, “Mumma, can I go out for a while? Look around.”

“Yeah, if you want. Where are you planning to go?”

“I want to look at the fair that arrived last night.”

“What bloody fair?” His grandfather asked.

“The one in the next field. I heard the music last night.”

“You stay away from that there field,” his grandfather answers. “Nothing good ever comes of that rubbish. Girl went missing over there, one minute she was walking through the field next minute gone.”

“Dad, what are you talking about?”

“The field between our houses. Nothing but broken fairground rides. It’s dangerous. The boy needs to stay out.”

“But, I heard it going, last night it was working,” Johnny butted in.

“If you heard it going, then you are as stupid as that thing your mother married who you called mum.”

“I hate you, and I hate this place; I wish you had died rather than her. No one would have missed you,” he yelled in the face of the old man.

Knocking his chair down, he ran out of the house. He heard his mother yelling at his grandfather, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying; he just ran as fast as he could, trying to run the pain away.

When he eventually stopped, he dropped his hands to his knees and took huge gulps of the air around him. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he had to be close to his grandfather’s house. Walking a little along the road, he felt like his legs were jelly. It wasn’t long before he spotted his grandfather’s shack.

Before he knew what was happening, he stood outside the building, looking at it, weighing the large stone in his hand. He pulled his arm back and let the stone go, he watched it turn in a slow arc and smash straight through the front window. Johnny smiled and set off running again, this time toward the fairground.

It wasn’t long before he came to the gate with the padlock. Pulling the gates apart, he stared in. Just in front of the gates was a tarmac area, and on it sat three caravans that looked like they had seen better days. In the distance, he could see the joke shop; other rides lay behind it in a maze of metal.

Johnny pulled the gates a little more apart and pushed his left leg through; with a squeeze, he could get his torso through the gap, ducking his head under the chain and dragging his right leg after him. He was in the field.

He walked past the caravans; they were obviously empty, yet he still felt like people were watching him from the windows. He shivered and then laughed at himself. He reasoned that the sweat from his run was now making him cold.

The first ride he came to was the carousel the horses stood in a circle not moving. The red and white framework had started to peel, and some of the steps were rotten and had fallen into the earth. He stood on the first step, rocking back and forth, trying to get it to turn even the smallest amount.

On the third time rocking forward, the horse closest to him spun around, facing him. Johnny toppled back onto the grass behind him, in shock his heart raced. The horse sat on its pole, staring at him as if waiting to break free from its mooring to trample him into the ground.

He tried to hurry back on his bum when two other horses spun around to face him. That was when he felt the wind on his face. He waited twenty seconds before another gust, and sure enough, another horse turned. He stood up, dusting himself down, “you are going soft, Johnny, frightened of the wind,” he said, hoping no one would hear him.

As he walked away, he thought to himself that maybe those ghost stories his mum used to tell him hadn’t been such a good idea. Tears threatened to run down his face, so he stuffed the memory down where it belonged and concentrated on exploring the rest of the field. He hadn’t cried, and he wasn’t going to start now.

When he finally returned home, he was dirty and tired, but there was a smile on his face. He walked through the door to find his mumma again at the kitchen table, twirling her wedding ring around her finger like she always did when thinking. “I was worried about you,” she said.

“I’m okay,” he said. Taking a glass from the draining board, filling it with water and swallowing it in three mouthfuls. “Mumma, why does Grandpa hate Mum so much?”

His mother sighed; pulling out the stool beside her, she tapped it with her hand for him to sit down. “Dad and I were close when I was younger,” she said. “I was always out on the tractor with him or helping him with work. Then I met this guy he was a labourer on the next farm. Dad was so pleased. My mum had just passed away, and it meant that I would be staying around near him if I married this guy.”

“So he is pissed you didn’t marry the guy from next door?” Johnny asked.

“Not exactly. You see, I did marry the guy. I didn’t love him, I am not even sure I liked him, but I married him for your grandpa.”

Johnny physically had to close his mouth at this piece of news, “But how,” he said before his mumma held up her hand to stop him.

“The marriage lasted three months before I realised what a mistake I had made. Neither of us was happy so we got it annulled, cancelled if you like. Dad was okay about it, but I knew from that moment on that I couldn’t stay here. I realised it wasn’t the labourer I didn’t like. It was men. Dad would have never understood, so I thought I could move away, date some women without him knowing, get it out of my system, and then move home again.”

“But, you met mum.”

“Yes, honey. I met your mum, and everything changed. I loved her with all my heart, and for her, it didn’t matter what anyone thought because, with her, I felt whole.” She wiped her finger under her eyes. Johnny put his hand on her arm, she smiled at him.

“So, Grandpa?” He asked.

“I came to see him after your mum proposed to me. I wanted him to give me away. I wanted him to be part of my life.” Johnny waited. “He didn’t want any of it. He told me I went against god. I was unnatural. He shut the door in my face as he told me goodbye.”

“Fuck,” Johnny said. Then he realised what he had said, “Sorry,

“No fuck pretty much sums it up,” she said with a smile.

“So why does he hate mum?”

“Because he blames her for making me gay.”

“But!”

“I know, I know, but men of your grandpa’s generation are different.”

“Okay, so why did we come back here?”

“Because despite all the years we didn’t speak, I still loved him. When your mum died, I just had to be near someone else who I loved and who hopefully still loved me. You need someone else to love you, too. I couldn’t stay in London, Johnny, there were too many memories. I am sorry.”

“Do you know, it’s okay, Mumma. For the first time, I think it is okay.”

She hugged him. When she released him, he made his way up to his room. Turning in the doorway, he looked back at her, “Mumma,” he said. She looked in his direction. “I love you.”

They were just clearing the dinner plates away when they heard the old van coming up the drive. Johnny froze suddenly, remembering the stone and the window. His grandfather walked in, filling the doorway. Nodding at his mother, he said, “Mind if I borrow the boy for an hour.”

Whatever thought Johnny had about getting out of the trip vanished when he saw the look on his mother’s face. He followed his grandfather to the van, climbing into the seat beside him. Neither of them said anything as they drove back to the shack. When they arrived, he spotted the broken window. His grandfather got out of the van and walked towards the garage. I am in for a whooping now, he thought.

His grandfather returned with a broom in his hand. “I reckon if you are going to break someone’s window, the least you can do is clean the glass up,” he said. Handing the broom to Johnny.

It took Johnny fifteen minutes to sweep the glass from outside the house. He was considering whether he should knock on the door to clear the inside up when his grandfather emerged with a can of Coke in his hand.

“Here,” he said, handing Johnny the Coke.

“Mumma doesn’t like me drinking Coke,” Johnny kicked himself; how was that the first thing that had come out his mouth?

“I’ll have it back then.”

“No, it is fine,” Johnny pulled the ring pull and sat on the step to drink. His grandfather sat beside him.

“Do you like it then?” His grandfather said.

“Like what?”

“The Coke. You said you weren’t allowed it. So, do you like it?”

Johnny realised this was the most he had ever heard his grandfather say. He swallowed, “my mum used to take me out for a coke sometimes if I had been good,” he said in a rush.

The silence seemed to envelop them both. Finally, his grandfather stood up, “Best be getting you home.”

They travelled back in silence. As he pulled up outside the house, Johnny opened the door and jumped down. “What I said about your mum before was wrong. So was breaking my window. We will say no more about it.”

Johnny nodded as he shut the door and ran into the house.

Johnny was riding the carousel; the wind was whipping his hair in front of his face, and the ride turned faster and faster. The tune was in his head, the same monotonous beat that seemed to keep time to the horses.

He heard a giggle beside him, and there was his mum, hair all over the place, laughing as the horses went up and down. She smiled at Johnny, and he saw the fun twinkle in her eyes.

She reached her hand to him across the gap and letting go; he went to join his hand to hers like he had so many times in the past. As he went to grab her fingers, her hand melted into a red mist and started to fall away, large blood droplets hitting the floor.

He woke in a pool of sweat. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He wanted the image of his mum to stay with him forever. If he concentrated, he could still see her smile and hear the music, the four bars repeating and repeating.

The four bars repeating and repeating. He opened his eyes, and the images disappeared, but the tune was still there, repeating and repeating. He went to the window, pulling back the curtains, and there was the light from the fairground and the sound of music.

He must still be dreaming. He had visited that fairground, and his grandpa was right. Nothing was ever going to work there again. This was one of those dreams when you think you wake up only to find you are still dreaming, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t wake up.

He looked at the dresser near the window. Grabbing the metal comb from the top, he turned it over and dug it into his leg. It didn’t take long before he was hopping around his room, knowing he was undoubtedly awake. He threw the comb into the corner, licking his thumb, and wiped it over the four puncher wounds that had appeared below his shorts. Still, the music haunted his thoughts.

Pulling his jeans and jumper on, he took one last look out the window before picking up his trainers and sneaking past his mother’s room. The time on the clock said 2 am. He opened the front door as quietly as possible, shutting it behind him. He bent down and laced his trainers up, then he took off at a sprint towards the field.

This time, he jumped the fence on his side of the field. Dropping down into the wet grass, he looked around him. Following the light, he came to the waltzer. The music was coming from the ride. The bucket chairs swung round as the waltzer turned. Faster and faster, they spun, completely empty but still turning.

Standing on the spot, Johnny turned round, looking at all the other rides. The rollercoaster made a squeaking noise as it rolled over the rusted rails. The ducks were floating round the hook a duck game. The magic carpet rose and dropped at intervals as if invisible forces rode it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement near the children’s teacup ride. Out walked a little girl. Her hair in pigtails had started to escape the bands. She wore a red party dress with tiny satin shoes. She looked younger than Johnny, maybe six years old.

The girl smiled at him as she skipped past. Having gone a couple of metres in front of him, she turned. Putting her hand out, she extended her first finger and curled it to tell him to follow her.

He followed at a distance before she stopped at the ghost train. He stood beside her, “I’m not allowed on that. It is too scary,” she said.

“Well, there is no one to stop you,” Johnny replied.

“No, I have to do as I am told, or I won’t get any cotton candy. I am Alice.”

“Hi Alice, what are you doing here?”

“Riding the fairground, silly,” she said with a giggle.

“How long have you been here?” Johnny asked.

“Forever. If you stay one night you can stay all the nights. Let’s go on the horses.”

She sat to his left on the horse, “Don’t you want to ride the fairground forever? That is what I did. I get to ride all day, every day. No grown-up to tell me it is time to go home.”

He shook his head, “I don’t actually think I do.”

“You forget everything here. All the bad stuff, all the sad stuff, it is like one big holiday.”

For the first time, Johnny realised that perhaps he didn’t want to escape the run-down house, his grumpy grandpa and his life. The girl stiffened beside him as she saw his reaction.

“You could get to spend the rest of your time with her,” she said, motioning to the horse at the right of Johnny.

Johnny turned around, even though he knew what he would see. There sat on the horse was his mum. He reached across the gap, and he felt her hand enclose his.

“Come and be with me, Johnny,” she said to him. “I miss you. You know I am the one you should be with.” Something in her voice, the way she said it, stopped Johnny.

He took a deep breath, “My mum would never make me pick between her and mumma; you are a fake.” Tears sprung to his eyes as his mum faded from the horse to be replaced by Alice glaring at him. She sprang off the horse towards him with her nails extended towards his eyes.

Johnny managed to duck and roll off the turning carousel, landing on the grass with a thump. Alice followed him, jumping from the middle of the carousel to the ground just in front of him. Her arm shot out, and he felt her fingers close around his throat.

Images in front of his eyes started to swim, and darkness started to creep into his vision as he fought for air. When he thought he could not take anymore burning in his lungs, he heard a voice far away that he seemed to recognise.

“You get off my grandson, you bitch.”

Air flooded his body. He gasped a couple of times as his vision cleared. There stood in front of him was his grandfather with a cross in his hand, facing Alice, who had returned to being a sweet little girl.

“We had an agreement,” his grandfather shouted to the air around him. “You get to play in the fairground undisturbed if you agree not to take anyone else. “

Johnny heard a chorus of rustling voices all around him as more and more people came into view. Some were dressed in long flowing gowns; others wore tight jeans and bomber jackets; some wore jeans and hoodies. Wherever he looked, people in different dress styles descended from the rides around him. In the middle of all this stood his grandfather.

“We haven’t taken anyone else.”

The voices echoed in unison. Johnny had no idea who had spoken, it was as if they had all spoken separately at the same time as one.

“You have my boy here. You were trying to take him.” His grandfather shouted.

“Alice,” the voices hummed.

“I am bored. I am the only child here. You never let me do anything. I wanted someone to play with,” Alice said.

The shadows of people moved towards Alice. They circled her as if they were going through her and around her at the same time. Johnny thought he heard a tiny scream as the bodies parted. Alice was no longer there.

“Go, we will keep our agreement,” they said.

Johnny’s grandfather reached down his hand, never once taking his eyes off the shadow. Johnny grabbed his hand and felt the old man lift him to his feet. Putting his arm around the boy, his grandfather pulled him into him and walked across the field out of the gate. Turning, he locked the gate behind him again, propelling Johnny towards his house.

Having sat Johnny on the sofa and told him to stay, his grandfather returned five minutes later with a cup of tea. “Drink,” he said.

“Johnny sucked the hot liquid into his mouth, wincing as it hit his tongue. He had never tasted anything so sweet in his life.”

His grandfather chuckled, “Sweet tea is good for shock. So is brandy, but I think we have had enough spirits for tonight,” he said with a smirk.

Johnny chuckled despite himself. “How come you can see them?”

“Always have been able to since I was a nipper.”

“What is that place?”

“A broken fairground, as the sign says. But, it is also where spirits come to have a last piece of fun.”

“You knew about the place?”

“Course I did. It has been in my family for years. Was meant to go to your mother, but then she ran off. So, it has just been me managing the place. Part of the reason I couldn’t come to that wedding, can’t leave this place for more than a couple of days, or the visitors start misbehaving. I know I upset your mumma for years, but I couldn’t help it.”

“Alice?” Johnny asked.

“Happened when my Ella died, your grandmother. She had cancer, you see, and I wanted to spend the last moments with her, so I didn’t go home for a couple of nights. A couple who had died in a car crash wanted a child, saw Alice and decided to have her. She was young and thought riding the carousel all night would be fun. Poor thing didn’t realise there would be no other night. Told them I did when I returned if they took anyone else I would burn the place to the ground.”

“My mum died in a car crash,” Johnny said. He felt the grief threaten to engulf him and pushed it back down.

“Yeah, I know,” his grandfather said. “She was a journalist, I understand. Bloody good writer from what I have read.”

Johnny nodded.

“You know I was wrong about her. I know that now. She must have been okay cos you ain’t so bad, and good kids come from good parents. Plus, she loved your Mumma, I know that. I am pleased she had someone love her how she should have been.”

“She was the best,” he said in barely a whisper.

“Best get you home, sun is coming up and can’t have your mumma worrying about you.”

As they arrived back at the house, they walked through the door as his mumma walked into the kitchen for her first coffee only half awake. She started at the sight of the pair of them together.

“Boy came to help me with the chickens,” his grandfather said.

“Right,” Mumma replied. Johnny was pretty sure she hadn’t brought the excuse, especially as it was the first time Johnny had heard anything about chickens. “Brought some eggs for breakfast?” She asked.

“Wrong weather for laying,” his grandfather said, heading back out the door. His mumma shook her head as if she was trying to work out if she was still asleep.

As his grandfather reached his van, Johnny raced after him, “Grandpa, Grandpa.”

“What is it, son.”

“If they are ghosts, why do you lock them in? Surely, they can float through the gates.”

“Lock isn’t for them. It is to keep idiot thirteen-year-olds out.” With that, he reached his hand out and ruffled Johnny’s hair before shutting the door and driving back down the lane. Johnny watched his grandfather until he was out of sight with a smile on his face.

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. Johnny was tired, so had gone back to bed, not getting up until the afternoon. The pair had sat eating sweets and watching films for the rest of the day. Johnny could tell his mumma wanted to ask about his grandfather, but she also didn’t want to know.

Johnny went to bed at 9 pm, saying he still felt tired. He heard his mumma shut her door an hour later. He lay awake in the dark, staring at the window, wondering if he would see the lights. That was how he found himself once again dressed at 2 am walking through the field towards the hook a duck stool.

“How did you know I would be here?” She asked.

“It was always your favourite,” Johnny replied.

“No. How did you know I was here.”

“Grandpa told me.”

“He promised he wouldn’t.”

“It wasn’t his fault. He started talking about you, and I realised he knew things that Mumma wouldn’t have told him. He had to have got it from you.” He turned and, for the first time, looked at his mum. Not the fake image he had seen on the carousel but his real mum.

She opened her arms, and he walked into them, burying his head against her shoulder. “I miss you,” he said as the tears broke from his eyes.

“I miss you all too, but I am always here, baby, and always will be.”

“It isn’t the same, we can’t be together.”

“No, Johnny, we can’t. But, life is cruel; things change, and sometimes it is better to have had a short time with someone than no time at all.” She brushed her fingers across his cheek, wiping the tears away.

“It will never be the same without you. Why did you have to die.”

“It was my time, buddy. No one knows when that is. And no it won’t be the same, but it will be different and sometimes.”

“Different is good,” Johnny finished her sentence for her.

“Exactly, kiddo. Anyway, you have your grandpa now, and no matter what your mumma says, he is a good man. He loves you both as much as I do.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“You, your mumma. The fact you like Coke.”

“He isn’t you, though,” Johnny said.

“No, he is different, and different is”, she said with a smile.

“Good,” Johnny grinned through his tears.

The night raced through. Johnny and his mum talked and laughed. It was three hours later when she held his hand and walked him through the fairground field back to the house.

“Will I see you again?” He asked.

“No,” she shook her head. “I will be here, but you won’t see me. It isn’t good for you, baby. You need to start living your life.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“Close your eyes,” she said, holding his hand. “Think about all those times we have had together. Do you see them?” He felt her touch his head, and a film flickered into place in his mind. All the birthdays, all the holidays, sledging, decorating the Christmas tree, it was all there. “Every time you need me, close your eyes, and I will be there.”

“Will Grandpa still be able to see you?” He asked.

“No, buddy, that isn’t fair on anyone. After tonight, no one will see me.”

Johnny threw his arms around her. Maybe she wouldn’t go again if he held on a little tighter. He saw the sun rise out of the corner of his eye, and when he looked down, his arms fell to his side. They were no longer holding anything.

Johnny went back to his room and fell onto the duvet fully clothed, letting sleep take him away.

When he woke up, he heard laughing downstairs. He was halfway down before he realised it was his mum and grandfather laughing together. He then realised with a jolt that he thought it might have been his mum. He closed his eyes to check, and the cinema film started again. Smiling, he opened his eyes and went into the kitchen.

“There you are,” Mumma said, touching his forehead. “Do you feel okay because you have been sleeping a lot lately?”

“Mum, I’m fine,” he said, pushing her hand away.

“It is the air down here that does that to a boy, makes him sleep more,” Grandpa said.

“The air, really,” his mum replied with a giggle.

“Yeah, the air here isn’t the same, mumma. It is different,” Johnny said.

“Yeah, but different is good,” his grandfather replied with a wink at Johnny.

I’m not even sure, as I write this, anyone will read it. Still, the best part of my life was as a writer, it seems right my last act is writing. If this is my last act.I’m not even sure of that anymore.

To help you understand I need to start from the beginning, let you know how it all started to go so wrong. I am a true crime blogger. I am fascinated with serial killers and stories of murder. Four days ago I became fascinated with the Elisa Lam story and the Cecil Hotel. Why? Because my girlfriend gave me the idea.

She came down and told me about this strange Korean game in an elevator. If you follow the rules then you can end up in another dimension or world. It was one of the theories for the Elisa Lam disappearance. When I looked into it, the murder and the hotel fascinated me more.

I gave you a weird game to research and you turned it into articles about murder.

She was pissed at me I knew it. So once the original articles published I decided I had to research her article. That was when it went wrong. All those articles had different opinions. To truly research the phenomenon, I knew I had to try it.

So that is how I find myself here. I found an office block near home with more than ten floors, jumped in the elevator and started the game. At first, I rode up and down the floors and nothing strange happened. What a pile of shit I was thinking. I nearly got out laughing at how absurd I was being, then I reached the fifth floor and the woman got in.

The rules are clear, you are not to look at the woman, interact with her or speak to her. So I ignored her, still smiling to myself at what a coincidence it was that she got on there. How ridiculous was this?

Then she moved towards me and started to speak. The sweat started to run down my spine. I ignored her. She came closer leaning into my face. I could feel her breath on my cheek and still, I ignored her. She smelt of nothing I had ever smelt before. A mixture of death and decay. As my resolve started to crumble we got to the tenth floor and I got out. Why the fuck, I have no idea.

When the doors opened I don’t know what happened but I stepped out into this. The woman called to me and I ignored her.

I don’t know how to describe the office. It’s dark, there is no sound like I have noise-cancelling headphones on. Just an empty void where the sound should be. It’s cold and lifeless. The offices have no flowers or plants and there is nothing outside the window except that bloody red cross.

I realised I shouldn’t be here, one minute after leaving the elevator, but it had gone. Not door closed gone but vanished. I can’t find my way back to it and I don’t know where I am. Will this post go out from whatever or wherever this place is. The computer is on and silent I have no idea what, where or if it is connected.

I am alone and I am scared. I will try to find the elevator again after this, reverse the game and return home. I’m not even sure if I can remember the sequence to get home. If you are reading this baby, I researched your idea and it’s all true.

Rose threw her legs out of the bed for the fifth time in one night. The baby wouldn't sleep for more than forty-five minutes. As soon as Rose drifted off, the screams woke her again.

Rose had never felt tiredness like it. There were times during the last couple of weeks when she started hallucinating.

It was only a bum change this time. Rose remembered how her mother mocked her when she said she used traditional nappies. She raised her eyebrows and chuckled. "Let's see how long that lasts."

Rose was stuffed if she was giving up on the towelling nappies now, it would prove her mother right. Even if it was twice the work, it was still better for the environment. Folding the nappy around her precious bundle, she used the safety pin to fasten the sides together. He went back into his cot, and then hopefully, he would sleep. It was 2 am.

Five hours later, Rose had given up on sleep and sat in her cold lounge feeding the baby. She pulled her feet under her to keep the chill from getting to them. She could hear the wind blowing through the wooden slats. She could hear the waterfall splashing into the pool some distance off if she listened.

Tom had convinced her to buy this wreck of a house in the middle of nowhere. It would be fun, an adventure. They could renovate the house and build something special together. She sold her house and put all the money into the sale of the shack. They would do the work themselves, so they wouldn't need much money.

It was a perfect dream until Rose announced she was pregnant. Tom had left skid marks along the muddy track he had left so fast. Now she was a single mother, living in the middle of nowhere.

She put the twenty nappies into the machine taking the individual safety pins out, cursing to herself again. Why did she keep forgetting to collect them when the nappies came off? She piled the pins into the box and glanced at the calendar.

Wow, Wednesday already; it seemed like it had only been a few days ago. The sleepless nights had meant the days were blending into one. Still, Wednesdays were always a good day; the postman came up with the mail. Being so remote, he only made the trip once a week. Her post was saved in the office and then brought up to her.

Rose wondered if she had spoken to anyone since Justin last visited. No, the last time she conversed with an adult had been precisely a week ago.

I should change my clothes before he visits

Justin was tall with a mop of dark curly hair and muscles that showed under his T-shirt. In another world, Rose would have been more than interested in him. As things were, even Justin's good looks couldn't raise an erotic thought. She dreamed of sleep, not sex.

The smell coming from her child brought her out of her daydream. Collecting the nappies, wash cloth and safety pins, she changed him again. She would leave him in the cot to change him; with any luck, he would go back to sleep, and she could wash.

She reached for the safety pin tin as she finished wrapping the nappy around his tiny pink bum. She placed her hand into the tin and felt the sharp end of the pin pierce her skin and go up under her nail.

"Fuck"

She had been so tired she had forgotten to fasten all the safety pins. Pulling her hand out, she saw the metal under her nail, blood pooled from the end of her finger.

The dark started around the edge of her vision. Then crept towards the middle until there was nothing but blackness and sleep.

Rose woke up gazing into the dark eyes of Justin; he seemed to be carrying her somewhere.

"Hi," he said. "I was delivering the mail, heard the baby crying, so I looked through the window. I saw you on the floor, so I kicked the door in. Sorry."

"Harry!"

"He is fine. I have sorted his nappy and given him his dummy; he is sleeping."

Justin seemed to remember he was still holding Rose. He blushed and lowered her feet to the floor, keeping hold of her until he was convinced she was stable.

"Aurora, why do you stay here? He asked.

Aurora, no one ever called her that, only her evil mother. Then she realised all her letters were addressed to her birth name. "Please," she said. "Call me Rose; it's what my Aunts called me."

"Rose," he said, making her heart flutter. "Why do you stay here?"

"I have nowhere else to go."

"Then why don't you let me take you back to reality?" He said.

She nodded as he kissed her.

Aurora Beauty and Justin Charming were married six months later.

The battered brown case slid around the circular belt like a loan surfer on the waves. The controller picked up the case and took it to his office.

It always amazed him that people could get off a flight and leave their cases behind. Many rushed back to the airport a couple of hours later. Jet lag having stolen the last of their senses.

Placing the battered case on the table, he checked the label. Marcia Edwards, Flight 241 from London, Gatwick. Quite a small suitcase for a continental flight, but still, each to their own.

Having checked the passenger manifest, he saw that Marcia had checked in on time—row six, seat C, an aisle seat. Checking the manifest showed that Marcia Edwards had never checked into Australia. That was strange she couldn’t still be on the plane because that had been turned around and was heading back to the UK.

“Tom, it’s Jack in baggage control any irregularities on Flight 241.”

“Nothing, Jack, turned it around in record time. Why?”

“We have an unclaimed bag for Marcia Edwards here, and it seems she didn’t check in this side.”

“Strange, well, she wasn’t on the plane back,” he chuckled.

The controller hung up the phone. He decided to take the route Marcia would have walked from the plane to customs.

Despite an hour of looking in every restroom and secluded seat, there was no sign of Marcia Edwards.

The controller went back to his office, scratching his head. He would have to open the case and see what it contained.

He slipped a Stanley knife along the edge of the lock. With the smallest of twists, the leather came away, and the suitcase sprung open. The suitcase was empty except for a sheet of paper and a bronze urn.

The controller opened the piece of paper and read the handwritten note.

To whoever finds this, please ensure my ashes are scattered in my homeland, Australia.

The controller picked up the urn to look at the name engraved on it. Marcia Edwards. The controller ran his fingers through his hair. What the hell was going on?

After several phone calls, the mystery deepened. No one remembered seeing Marcia Edwards on the flight. The passenger in Row six, Seat B, said the seat beside him was empty. The check-in staff confirmed an elderly lady had booked the suitcase in and boarded the plane in the UK.

Marcia Edwards’ family reported that Marcia had passed away four weeks ago. It had been her last dying wish her ashes were taken back to Australia. Her family had all been too busy to attempt this. Then they had lost her urn.

The controller still tells the story of a dead woman boarding a plane. Happy her ashes were heading where she wanted them, she went to the heavenly plane.

The five people came awake at the same time. Where were they? What was this strange grey room, and who did the dog belong to? 

The five inhabitants all came to simultaneously in the faceless grey room. Each was lying at a different angle on the floor. The dog sat in the corner of the room on a foam mattress, wagging his tail every time anyone looked at him. 

Dylan was the first to speak, 'What the fuck is going on?'

Lucy looked around. She couldn't remember anything after getting her morning coffee, but still, she ignored the young man in the flash leather coat swearing at the other end of the room.  

Slowly, the other three looked up. They were in a large grey room with no windows; light was coming through the ceiling, but most could not establish whether this was coming from bulbs or the sun as the ceiling looked almost translucent. 

Craig rolled onto his front and did his best to jump to his feet like an Olympic runner. Great, Olivia thought, just what I need, stuck here with Mr. I love myself. She looked around her and offered the woman sitting beside her a smile.

'Hi, I'm Olivia.'

'Carol,' the woman opposite said, averting her eyes. 

Olivia got to her feet and started to look around the room. There were no doors she could see, just the five people and a dog in a strange box.

'I think it might be an idea if we all introduce ourselves and say what we can last remember,' she said.

'Who died and made you Queen?' Dylan asked.

'If you have a better idea, please let me know?'

'No, it sounds like a plan. Hi, I am Craig. I am a personal trainer, as you possibly all realised,' he said, flexing his muscles with a smirk. 'Anyway, the last thing I remember is changing into my work clothes.'

'The last thing I can remember is smoking a joint,' Dylan stated. 'Man, this was some trip.'

'And you?' Olivia said, facing the older woman in the corner.

'I am Lucy. I work in a library; the last thing I remember is sitting with a coffee in the classics section.'

'Love Dickens,' Olivia replied. 'And what about you, Carol, what do you remember?'

'I was at home.'

Olivia waited several seconds before saying, 'So who owns the dog?'

She looked around as four faces shook their head. Strange, she thought, a random dog in the box with them. Her thoughts were interrupted when Craig jumped up and started beating his hand on the wall, followed by Dylan, who gave each wall a good kick.

'So no one knows how we got here,' Olivia said, raising her voice against the banging and shouting. 'Anyone got ideas other than breaking our hands on the wall?'

Craig went red and stopped punching the wall; Dylan, for his part, gave the wall one more kick, just in case, before sliding down the wall and sitting down. As the rest of the group sat down slowly, the dog decided it was time to introduce himself. He went to each of the group, in turn wagging his tail. 

When Dylan pushed him away and told him to fuck off, he tried his luck with Olivia, who gave him a quick pat on the head before pretending he didn't exist. Maybe he would have better luck with Craig, he thought, but Craig also pushed him away. Let me try the quiet one; they always like dogs. As he approached, Carol slid further away, stating she was allergic. 

'Come here, boy,' Lucy said.

He went over and lay beside her whilst she cuddled him, stroking his fur and putting her nose on his. 'You remind me of my first dog,' she whispered into his ear. 

As time ticked on, all five stayed locked in their own heads, all except Lucy, who sat absently stroking the dog. They all jumped when a hole in the ceiling opened, and a bag was lowered between them. 

Olivia was the first to go to the bag. 'Six dinners, water bottles, and a silver bowl,' she said. 'This must be our dinner.' She started distributing the dinner between the five people, giving each a bottle of water. 'Six?'

'One must be for him,' Lucy said, motioning towards the dog. Olivia handed her the extra portion and bottle of water.

'What the fuck, why does she get extra?' Dylan said.

'It is for the dog.' Olivia replied.

'Not likely,' Dylan went to grab the extra plate and bottle of water. He was stopped by Craig stepping in front of him. 

'The dog eats,' he said, smiling at Olivia whilst pushing Dylan back against the wall. 

There was one awkward moment when Craig announced loudly he needed the toilet. An alcove immediately opened in the wall, revealing a small toilet. As soon as he had finished, the panel slid into place as if it had never been moved.

Dylan sat sulking for the rest of the day. When the lights went out, he walked over to the dog, tipped the bed, and threw him on the floor. 'I will be fucked if you get a bed and dinner.' He threw himself onto the bed, staring at the other four, challenging them to stop him.  

Lucy motioned for the dog to come and lay with her. 

The next day was much the same as the previous. The five tried to talk and find out about each other, but each returned to their thoughts. None of them could remember being taken to the room. No other memories returned to them. That evening, there were only five meals when the food was lowered.

'Going to tell me the dog eats now,' Dylan growled.

'It appears not, sorry,' Olivia said, looking at Lucy.

The meals were once again given out by Olivia, with Craig as her security guard. Out of all of them, the two had spoken the most. Olivia got the distinct impression Craig was chatting her up but ignored his innuendos. 

Olivia watched as Lucy separated half of her dinner into the silver bowl and gave it to the dog. 'Here,' Olivia said, sharing some of her dinner with Lucy. 

They all drifted off to sleep as the lights went out. 

The next day, the occupants of the room awoke. Well, at least most of them thought it was the morning, but it could be any time. All they knew was that the light dimmed and grew bright at times, representing morning and night. 

When the bag arrived this time, there were only four dinners. It wasn't long before Dylan and Craig fought on the floor over the food. Olivia shouted at them until they stopped, then expertly divided the four plates between the five people. Although neither man was pleased, they shut up and took their rations. 

This time, Olivia chose not to share her dinner with Lucy, and as the others observed, the dog was given a far smaller portion than he had the previous day. 

Whether it was the lack of food or the mental anguish of being locked up with four strangers, Olivia did not know. She remembered going to the toilet, but the next thing she knew, she woke in Craig's arms as he lowered her to the dog bed. She was later told that she had passed out whilst sitting, and Craig had dragged her out by her feet, picking her up gently when she appeared to be coming round. 

She blushed at the thought of being caught with her pants down, but no one commented. 

When the bag arrived, the dinners were down to three plates. Olivia again divided the food between all five. The dog got no food this time, but Lucy poured half an inch of water into his bowl from her bottle. 

The inhabitants of the room had lost track of the days. The meals had gone down to two portions a day and stayed there, never dropping any lower. None of the room's inhabitants talked much to each other; they each lived in their section of the room. 

Craig had even given up exercising, which was a relief to most, none more so than Olivia, as he had also given up the attempts at chatting her up. It appeared his libido had dropped at the same rate as his food intake. 

It was one of these days when Lucy exclaimed, 'Which one of you idiots has been hurting the dog? It is covered in sores.' She looked at Dylan when she said this. 

'Hey, don't look at me. That is a potential food source there.'

'Fuck off, you moron, you couldn't kill the dog, let alone eat it.' Lucy shouted as four pairs of eyes stared at her. 

Lucy had been the entertainer of the group, always calm no matter what happened. She had spent days telling them stories from books she had read. Initially, Dylan had moaned and said he wasn't a baby who needed a bedtime story. But, even he had shut up and listened. 

'You okay, Lucy?' Olivia asked.

With this, Lucy got up and said, 'No, I am not. I am stuck in here with you bunch of morons, and now he is hurting the dog. I have had enough. I want out. You hear me, I want out.' She shouted whilst looking up at the ceiling.

With this, she jumped up and started raining blow after blow on the wall, screaming, 'Let me out.'

It took Olivia and Craig to subdue Lucy, pulling her away from the door. When they looked, both her hands looked bruised and swollen. Craig said he didn't think anything was broken. Dylan commented about him being a doctor now, which started Lucy glaring at him. This time, Craig held her whilst she tried to rain the blows down on Dylan.

After what seemed like an age, Lucy slumped as if all the air had escaped her body. Lying down, she turned onto her side and faced the wall, refusing to acknowledge anyone. That night, when the food arrived, the two portions were shared amongst four as Lucy refused to eat.

Sensing that his friend was down, the dog crawled over to her and placed his head on her side, looking at her with big brown eyes. 

Lucy looked over her shoulder at the dog, 'Go away, will you? I told you I am not in the mood.' When he wouldn't leave her, she kicked him. He went back to his corner of the room, limping.

'And I was considered a monster for hurting it.' Dylan quipped. The other four occupants ignored him. 

'The dog disappears,' Carol said. All four turned in shock. It was the first time Carol had spoken without being asked a direct question. 

'You're nuts,' Dylan replied.

'No, I am not, he disappears.'

'Yeah, and I am going to grow wings and fly out of here.'

'No, hang on. I think she is right,' Craig said. 'On the second day, when we got into a fight, can anyone remember the dog being there?'

All four shook their head. 

'Actually, I can't remember the dog being there when I came round from my fall,' Olivia said.

'Or when I lost my shit hitting the wall,' Lucy replied. 

'He wasn't,' said Carol. 

'Maybe it is a different dog each time?' Olivia asked, not sure what difference this would make.

It wasn't,' Said Carol. 'I stuck my fork in its leg every night, and it was always the same dog. I could see the wounds. He disappears. He has disappeared now.'

All four looked around, but the dog was nowhere to be seen. 'What the fuck? How can he get out, and we can't.' Dylan said. 

'Look for a secret door.' Craig said, walking around the room, pushing all the walls and looking for the opening. 

The summit started shortly after the group in room seven discovered that the dog had disappeared. 

'So what do we have to report?' The commander asked those collected around the table that floated in the air. 

The light beside him floated up, so all the other entities turned to face him. 'We can report, Sir, that the same happened in every one of the experiments we conducted. Every room abused the dog to some degree.'

'There has to be one that looked after him?' The commander asked.

He connected his mind to everyone in the room, and each gave him the same answer: out of three million experiments conducted, not one of the humans had looked after the dog. 

The group watched his aura turn as he collected the results from each individual and then studied the data. What would have taken humans several hours to do took him a matter of minutes. 

'Fine,' he said with a sigh. 'Planet marked for extermination due to no entities worth saving.'

The twenty aliens that looked remarkably like the dog nodded in agreement. 

I know the date I am going to die. I didn't dream it or any other hippy shit. I know without a doubt the exact day, month and year I will be dead. How do I know this? I found it on my Dad's computer. I searched for a copy of his latest manuscript, which he has been working on for months, and no one has seen. I wanted a hint about what it was; that is when I found the exact date.

I pondered this information whilst I hid around the back of the house, smoking a sneaky fag. Everyone tells you not to smoke; it makes you die young. Die young; I already know I am dying young; the fags won't alter that. Just under one year left to live.

As I exhaled the rich, warm smoke, it helped my mind clear. I smoke maybe ten a day; each fag takes 3 minutes to smoke; that's 30 minutes a day. Thirty minutes a day over two years would mean I would waste 365 hours, which I realise is over two weeks. Waste two weeks smoking when I only have one year left. I have just quit—it's time to take action.

I rushed into the house; I had decided the time for action was now. I would make the most of the year I had left. I skirted around my mother so she didn't smell the smoke on me. Then, I raced upstairs, determined to plan the rest of my life. You might be wondering why I was so calm and sure about my impending doom. As I think about it now, it seems strange. I think it was the fact that I knew that it wasn't just me who was dying in a year, but everyone on the planet.

April

I am supposed to live my life to the fullest, but something feels right about documenting my last months on earth. Don't expect war and peace.

I went poking about again to see what else I could find on Dad's computer. This is what I found today:

I opened the attachment. Well, who wouldn't have? It was a sequence of 1 and 0, which meant nothing to me. I couldn't crack the code, so I closed it again. I was on the computer to email my teacher a letter letting her know I wasn't returning to school. It has taken me a couple of weeks, but I suddenly see how useless school is. I am not spending the last year of my life learning.

May

I had a perfect day today. I spent time visiting my favourite zoo, saying goodbye to the animals. Poor bastards don't realise their time is limited. Fancy being locked in a cage for the rest of your life. But then, most adults are spending their last months in a metaphorical cell working in complete ignorance.

I watched all the mums with their young families at the zoo and toddlers learning to walk and feed themselves just before their light was snuffed out. Maybe I should tell the world about the end of the earth. Maybe others should have the chance to live their last year to its fullest.

Can you imagine the anarchy that would cause if we all decided to take one massive holiday? At least I now know why the project is so secretive. You would have thought Dad would have at least told his family about the plan, though.

I found another email from the strange organisation again; nothing exciting, but they called my Dad the Guide of Development. What the hell that means, I will never know.

Mum is none the wiser that I am not attending school. Well, not yet anyway. Dad is still locked in his study, working on the Binary Index, whatever that is. He is too busy to notice I exist, let alone not doing what I should be.

June

I have thought about nothing else for the last four weeks. Shit, I have just wasted a month worrying about this crap. Still, now I am spending additional time worrying about the time I have already lost. Hell, this sort of thinking could drive you mad.

Anyway, I have decided I can't keep this knowledge to myself. I don't care how much trouble Dad gets in. I must tell others they have less than eight months left.

Today I am going to the beach although it is too cold for a swim, I still love it. When I get there, I will tell at least five people. I decided to tell five people a day, enough not to feel guilty, not too many that Dad finds out or gets into trouble.

So the beach trip was interesting; I should say it was awful. I went to the beach, bought chips, and walked along the sea wall, enjoying the sound of the water lapping near the stairs. I am trying to get all these sounds logged in my brain; maybe I will leave a conscious spirit without a body.

I decided that it was a perfect time to start telling my five people the knowledge I possess. After ten minutes, I realised I was wasting more of my time. I saw two young mothers with three children between them. I decided they were ideal to be given the insight, especially with young children. If I were a mum, I would want to know.

So I walked up to the women, and in my best interview voice, I said, excuse me. They stopped and looked at me, how people often get with teenagers. I carried on regardless. I told them that I knew the planet had only eight months left and they should start preparing, especially for the sake of the little ones. With that, they looked at each other and nervously laughed, grabbed their children's hands and pushed past me. I shouted after them to tell them I wasn't joking. The fatter one turned back and told me to smoke some more drugs.

I didn't try and tell anyone else; I couldn't bring myself to receive more abuse. I feel down and angry with myself. I have wasted time sulking. All I think about is time. It is taking my life over.

July

It has been a strange month. I find myself withdrawing from people I used to spend time with. Some of my closest friends have commented that they no longer see me. I can't spend time with them when I look at them, knowing all this will be gone in as little as six months. How can I not tell them? It isn't as if I haven't tried telling people, but everyone thinks I am mad when I do.

After the beach incident, I tried again at the park. This bloke went nuts when I told him and called the police. They would only let me go without ringing Mum and Dad if I admitted lying. It is one thing having a stranger look at you as if you are crazy, but I can't stand my friends doing it as well.

Tara emailed me this morning; she is my best friend. She said she missed me and wanted me to tell her what was happening and why I was skipping school and skipping my friends. I don't know what to say to her. She asked if I was suffering from depression and if I was seeing someone. Maybe I am; perhaps I am mad, and this is all in my head.

Then I break into Dad's computer. Sitting on the desktop is another email from his boss asking how the Big Information Book of Lasting Evolution is coming on and stressing the importance of confidentiality. From what I can gather, the book is more of a hard drive of sequence information, but I don't know what the data is. I know that it is related to the end of the world; maybe it is a way for this planet to survive.

August

There came the point last month when I became so ill with the knowledge of the secret I was carrying around with me that I nearly ended it all before the fateful day. I couldn't find why another five months would make a difference. Even my family would only have to mourn for a couple of months until they were also dust.

Then I read about a person fighting for one more month to be with their family; he had terminal cancer. I realised that all time is precious, especially if we stop counting it.

I would not have known if I hadn't found the original email six months ago and could have carried on ignorant. Like the person who wakes up one morning and tells their family they will see them in the evening and then gets run over by a bus. Ignorance is bliss.

Maybe this is why the people I tried to tell ignored me. They didn't want to hear. I wish I could go back to that moment of not knowing. No wonder my poor Dad has to keep this a secret; the whole planet would go mad if they knew.

How is he not going mad?

I must be nicer to him when I see him.

I ended the month doing something normal with my family and almost forgot where we were heading. I had Sunday dinner with my grandparents and aunty. We don't see much of each other, but it is fun when we get together. I quietly said goodbye to them all as I left the house.

September

So this month, school have finally caught up with me about the fact I am not going anymore. It took them long enough; the thing was, I was clever about the whole thing. I went in, got my mark, and walked straight out the other door to my freedom. I also emailed them from Dad's computer, telling them we were travelling for a couple of months.

They rang Mum, and she is less than happy that I have missed almost half a year. She has grounded me and made me promise to return to school; after all, I have all this work to make up for so I can sit my exams next year. Clearly, I am not the only one Dad is keeping a secret from. I did wonder why Mum was still going to work every day.

October

Despite promising Mum that I would return to school, I didn't. It upsets me that she is upset, especially as I know that if she knew the real reason, then she wouldn't care. I have to make things better with her, though; the thought of our last words to each other being cross is more than I can take.

Then she said she would have to tell Dad. Well, then, let's see what he has to say. It isn't as if he isn't keeping a massive secret himself.

November

It has taken almost a month to get my thoughts together to write this.

I know it all now, how I will die and what Dad has been working on. He has decided to try to sneak this file into his work. That way, if someone my age finds it, they can see what we went through, how the last teenagers died on the planet.

In three months, a huge meteorite will smash into the earth, killing all the animals on it. It is the same size as the one that killed the dinosaurs. No one will live on the planet for hundreds of years, so life as we know it will stop existing. Scientists, my Dad being one of them, discovered this thing heading for earth over two years ago. He has kept this knowledge to himself all this time; no wonder he is going grey.

Once they found the meteorite, a plan was made to allow humanity to continue after the planet stabilises itself again. The world will keep a mechanical facility below ground; when the time is right, it will start replicating the DNA coded into the Big Information Book of Lasting Evolution, nicknamed Bible for short.

In it, my Dad programmed the DNA sequence of every animal and wrote an extensive history of life on this planet. He said he had played with some of the stories to make it seem like we were magical creatures who could perform miracles. But, Dad doesn't want his name put on this book; instead, he has told them to use his title - guide of development. After all, he is the creator of all; his plans will guide the new development of man

Within the next month, all this information will be safely underground in The Ark until the planet has settled and it is time to reintroduce life, starting with the bees and flowers.

I asked him if dying would hurt, and he said he had been told it would be instant, and no pain would happen, just a bright flash and then nothing until we are born again. So my DNA and that of my mums is in the Bible. It was part of the payment for all the work Dad did.

I know now, and so does Mum; we won't tell anyone else but will spend the next three months making memories to last an eternity until we are back together.

The Night Before

We didn't travel the world or go and see strange far-flung places. Instead, we spent the year just the three of us loving each other. We read and played board games. We walked into nature and thanked the trees and all the plants for everything they had given us. We existed in peace, knowing what we knew. All this will end for the next one hundred millennia tomorrow, just after midday. I will come to an end. I am not scared; there seems little point.

I have no idea how to end this, but I know I have to so Dad can upload the final copy. So all that is left to say is, if you are reading this, you know we succeeded.

Susan tapped her foot as the family of six in front of her booked in. Please hurry up, she thought to herself. I can’t miss this flight. Luke will never forgive me.

Susan was always late wherever she went, and it drove Luke mental. Smart and exact, Luke suffered from anxiety every time Susan made him late. It was part of the reason they were separated. Still, this week away would help heal the wounds. It was a make-or-break for them.

If she missed this flight, they would be broken for good. Luke had told her to leave an hour early; he had made her promise to be there on time.

Hurry up, hurry up, will you, she thought to herself.

Everything always conspired to make her late. She always had good intentions to be on time, but it never worked. As she was leaving, the next-door neighbour turned up like today. By the time she had excused herself, she had got caught in rush hour traffic. Now she had one hour to book in, clear customs, and make the plane.

At last, the family of six cleared tickets. Susan almost threw her documents at the flight assistant. The kindly woman must have seen the panic on Susan’s face.

“Don’t worry, dear, you have enough time.”

Handing her back her ticket, she smiled.

“Go straight for security now. You only have hand luggage, so it shouldn’t take long to get through.”

Susan ran to security, praying her guardian angel would get her to the plane on time. Her marriage depended on her making this flight. Luke would not accept the fact she had missed the flight. He had told her several times if she didn’t join him away, he would have his answer. Her lateness would confirm everything he said was wrong in the relationship.

A large woman stepped in front of her as she stepped to security.

“Any sharp objects or liquids to declare.”

“No, nothing,” Susan said. “My husband has taken it all with him.”

The woman moved aside and allowed her to go through the scanner. Placing her bag on the conveyor belt, Susan noticed that the gate for her flight was open.

Looking at her watch, Susan breathed a sigh of relief. She was going to make her flight. Her guardian angel had come through for her once again.

That was when the woman was back, blocking her way. She put her hand on Susan’s shoulder and steered her away from the others.

“Is this your bag, Madam?” She said with a snarl.

“Yes,” Susan replied, hating herself for the quiver in her voice.

“You claim there is nothing in there that shouldn’t be.”

“Yes, that’s right, I packed it myself. Please, I have to make my flight.” Susan pleaded.

“Our scanners have picked up a weapon in your bag.” The woman said, holding her arm a little too tight.

Susan stood there for an hour while her bag was ripped apart. Finally, the deadly weapon was revealed. In one of the corner pockets was a small set of nail clippers. The clippers were surrendered, and Susan was free to go. She threw her clothes back in her bag and ran for the gate. Susan rounded the corner as the air hostess closed the gate and walked away.

Defeated, knowing her marriage was over, Susan sat down with her head in her hands and wept—the end of calling gorgeous Luke her husband, all because of a set of nail clippers. Luke would never forgive her. This is another example of her lateness and disorganisation ruining their relationship. Why now had her guardian angel deserted her?

She was still sitting there crying when the explosion on the tarmac rattled the windows. The bright flash from her plane lit up every window and brought her head out of her hands.

Susan walked down the aisle six months later to renew her wedding vows. She was only five minutes late to keep with tradition. The investigation was ongoing as to why the plane had exploded on takeoff. Susan never questioned her guardian angel again.

The paper had mounted up around the wastepaper basket over the hours. Michelle tore yet another sheet of her pad and crumpled it up into the smallest of balls. She pressed the paper between her fists until her knuckles went white and the paper cut into her skin. Once the ball had been compressed as tight as she could, she threw it toward the bin. The ball bounced a couple of times before falling on the floor beside several other pieces

Michelle had written three dissertations and countless essays, none of which had been as brutal as this. She stared at the white paper; it appeared to mock her as she tried to find an opening line that did the subject justice. A line came to her, and she scratched it into the paper. The sound soothed her nerves as the pencil flew across the page. She looked down at the line.

No, it was like something she had written before, but that line had been better. Stumbling to the waste paper bin, she tipped all the little balls onto the floor in front of her. Leaning against the wall, she went through the painstaking task of smoothing out the paper. Running the palms of her hands over the paper a couple of times to make it flat. After the pile had been stacked on her knees, she went through them, looking for her missing line one at a time.

She found it three-quarters of the way through. Still, it could have been worse. It could have been the last page. She placed the missing line beside her and went through the same ritual of crumbling the pages back into tight balls. This time, she placed them all in the waste paper basket. Taking the saved piece of paper to her desk, she altered the line on the pad to this one.

Again, she carried on writing, scratching her thoughts across the page. She had always written in pencil for as long as she could remember. The feel of the shiny wood in her hand. The way the lead scratched the words into the paper. She could flip the pencil over, erasing it when she made a mistake. She brushed the rubbings off, creating a little mountain of blue shavings beside her pad. Later, when she finished, she would bring the waste paper basket over and sweep it on top of the balls of paper.

Halfway down the page, she looked at the following line. No, she had written something similar before. Returning to the waste paper basket, she went through the same ritual with the paper. This time, she found the missing line a third of the way through the pile.

Michelle rubbed her eyes and massaged her neck with her left hand. She felt the muscles relax as she squeezed them. She had been sitting over this paper for six hours, trying to write the most important speech of her life. So far, she had managed one page, and that was okay. Several friends had told her they could find someone to write this for her. She was adamant that this should be all her own work. It wasn’t every day you became the first female president of the USA.

Due to the latest Presidential debate and UK election, I thought it was worth resurrecting this storyand giving it a polish and a new audience.

Forty-nine cards, not 52. Claire sat at the dining table, looking at the pack of cards. She spread them out over the table, arranging them in suits. Slowly, she turned them over, looking at the variety of backs.

Every back was different. The rule was Dave never paid for the cards. He had to acquire them. She smiled at the thought that many friends no lon…

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Taking a deep breath, Alice knew it was now or never. She had been putting it off too long; it was time to clear the shed. Armed with black bags and a box for stuff to keep, she made her way down to the garden.

Opening the door, a wave of nostalgia engulfed her.

No, not now. She wouldn’t let her emotions get the better of her.

Taking a deep breath, she rea…

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