Green Sky, Blue Grass.

Tweet

Emma smiled. Her eyes sought a light she could not see, and her brain whirred with a hyper-capacity beyond normality. To the outsider, it would seem as if Emma was in seventh heaven, or some variety of it. To the outsider, they would see a tall, slim girl with a halo of dark hair and large blue eyes slightly glazed over, laughing at some unknown joke.

Emma’s laughter was a shield. Emma was on one side of the shield, and the rest of the world was on the other. In Emma’s version of the world, everything was white and gold and transparent. She saw only the truth as it was told. She believed only what she heard and could tell was true. The other side of the shield was false, like an ultimate reality Emma would never be able to reach.

A group of lanky teenagers wandered past where Emma knelt on the ground, by the flowers. Emma tilted her head, but didn’t look up at them; instead she seemed to focus on the ground. On the green, green grass. A colour she didn’t understand. She heard their idle chatter, felt their normality and envied it. She envied the fact that they had friends and could exchange pleasantries on the colour of the sky – blue or grey or black with impending thunder – or how they had done their hair.

Emma felt their footfalls pass, and looked up, under a fringe of black hair. She seemed to watch the sky. Birds swooped and looped and pirouetted gracefully in arcs and Catherine-wheels; the trees danced and serenaded passers-by with their branches; the wind toyed with people’s hair, lifting it and brushing it across their foreheads – Emma could see none of this.

Emma smiled. Her brain began its vigorous sprinting once again. To the outsider, she would appear to be a graceful, kneeling girl, watching the insects play with the flowers. To the outsider, she would seem happy, or at least, content.

Untrue, it was all untrue. To Emma, the sky might as well be green. The grass might as well be blue. Emma was blind, and her world was white and gold and transparent. To Emma, everything was not as it should be.

~H

F - Frumentarius

Tweet

3. October 165 CE: Entry 702

I am at the end of civilisation. Nothing but the dismal knolls of this barbaric land enclose the recently commissioned settlement of Luguvalium; the timber is plentiful here, yet the ground is as untamed as its inhabitants. Our cohort is already displeased with the place. Though I know they are courageous, their morale has decreased due to the rumours passed back from the Wall. Rumours of the painted ones pulling our soldiers from their posts, and butchering them like savages.

Regrettably, dealing with them is part of my task. I have been assigned to the Luguvalium cohort of this Legion, which is based at Eboracum. We have one vexillatio posted here, comprised of roughly a century and fifty auxilia. I am told that we have held a fort here for 31 years; however, the former fort had become weak and required rebuilding. No difficult task for us of course; part of a legionary's training is building a palisade, among other things.

Legatus Regulus Gurges came to visit today. The last time I had seen the man was back in Eboracum, in the same circumstances; still surrounded by his Praetorian Guard, dressed in his tired centurion armour and glorious plumed helmet, undercut with the scarlet tunic. The man was a Praetorian himself as was required by a legatus; he had even served as one of the Emperor Hadrian's bodyguards. He had reminded me of my mission, but dealing with these militaristic tribes is impossible. It appears that all legionaries are to be killed on sight, which would mean a disguise. What an affront to my honour. Even if I were to disguise myself like a common spy, I have it on good word that the guerilla groups are watching our camp built atop this hill. The natives can disappear and reappear like spectres. This place is nothing like our pure-blood state; the sun never appears to us here, rendering our tunics insufficient for these climes.

I had to inform the Legatus of the loss of one of our vexillarii, Aelius Structus along with some of our recruit legionaries as they were ambushed by a party of tribals. The tribals were repelled and many came back alive. Though our losses were few, the Legatus was furious. Apparently the centurion bore the brunt of the Legatus' almost divine wrath, of which I had not encountered but heard much about.

It appears at first glance that nothing can be done about these primitive Britons. But the Roman army always finds a way; the liberti can testify to that.

Taken from the diary of Ignatius Corvus, frumentarius with the legion Legio VI Victrix

Vocabulary:

CE – synonymous with AD (Anno Domini)

Luguvalium – name of a Roman fort; now known as Carlisle. The fort was built atop Stanwix Hill, but present-day Carlisle Castle was built on the site of the Norman castle established by William Rufus in 1092.

'The Wall' – the famous Hadrian's Wall, built along the Anglo-Scottish border.

'Painted ones' – the local tribes would often coat themselves in a pigment named woad to intimidate enemies in battle.

Cohort – a group of men separate from the rest of the Legion.

Eboracum – present-day York.

Vexillatio – refers to part of a Legion broken off from the main force as a vanguard or garrison.

Century – a 100 legionaries.

Auxilia – simple warriors; fought in much less compact formations than the centuries.

Legionary – a member of a legion. Elite infantry.

Legatus – often anglicised to Legate. Equivalent of a modern-day general, and the highest rank of command obtainable in a Legion. Legatuses must have obtained Praetorian rank in order to become one.

Centurion – the commanding officer of a century. Notable for their plumed helmets.

Praetorian Guard – highly prestiged infantry commonly used as bodyguards, frumentarii, torturers and other roles.

Vexillarius – (pl vexillarii) standard bearer.

Liberti – freed slaves. Often enslaved as a result of the conquest of their tribe.

Frumentarius – The Early Imperial secret service. Many were also of Praetorian rank. Sometimes acted as an ambassador to conquered (or soon to be conquered) tribes.

Legio VI Victrix – The Victorious Sixth Legion. Posted in present-day York at this time.

>-S->

E - End

Tweet

“Keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I had grabbed the sentry as he was passing by. Such a secluded location seemingly allowed no chance of an intruder. Intelligent, I thought, but not intelligent enough. My gloved hand was held tight over the sentry's mouth, though not too tightly as to incur lack of consciousness. I held a combat knife to his back, the slightly curved blade delicately close to lacerating a nerve in his spinal column. I imagined the steel must feel like an icicle in these inclement conditions.
“Do you know the best thing about snow? It muffles your screams.”

I flipped him round to face me, the knife now curled around his throbbing carotid artery. He was shaking violently.

“Even try to cause something I'll disagree with, and I'll cut your spine and leave you to die paralysed in the snow. Understand?”
The sentry nodded fearfully. I removed my hand from his face, still keeping the knife firmly at his neck.

“How did you-”
“Silence. I'll be asking the questions.” I glanced down his uniform; he'd pissed himself. I couldn't restrain a smile but I hid it as a grimace. “Hand me your blade.” Struggling against the force I applied to his neck, he pulled the knife from his chest strap. I snatched and threw it into the blizzard. Impatiently, I pulled the MP-443 from his holster. Backing away, I told him: “Give me your rifle.” Slowly, he slung the AK-74M from his back and threw it on the ground. Cautiously, I edged towards the weapon and grabbed it swiftly. I removed its magazine and hurled it into the snow. By this time I could see that the blizzard was easing up. Excellent. At this point I brandished a black, leather-bound suitcase I had brought with me, the only weapon apart from my combat knife.

“Get changed into these,” I ordered. The sentry's eyes widened at this peculiar demand.

“But-”

“Now!”

The sentry was now dressed in civilian clothes. Clothes which were inadequate for the weather, but distinguished him both from snow and friend alike. For reasons unknown to him, he had been ordered to return to base by his captor. He had soiled himself in his uniform; he was at least spared that embarrassment from his comrades. He carefully descended the snow-bound slope of the hill leading from the mountain-face. He decided his superiors must be told. He looked towards the ridge where he knew a sniper was posted. He wondered if the sniper could see him. Then he heard the call: “Freeze!” and seen the soldiers aiming AK-74Ms at him, closing in.

“Get down on the ground!”

I had watched the entire event from the vantage point atop the hill. It was all I needed to know.

16 minutes later, I had mirrored my captive's behaviour. I had tread the snow down to the facility; I had been caught by the garrison posted there. I was now in the middle of a compound yard, with 8 soldiers scattered unevenly around guarding me. My objective was behind the officer interrogating me; a circular titanium cover sank into the ground. I scanned left and right. At least 6 soldiers to the left judging by the steaming of their breath. 3 to the right. One either side of me.

Begin.

MP-443 right.

Draw from holster.

Semi-automatic pistol.

Hold to hostage.

1 bullet one life.

Officer goes down.

16/17.

1 bullet one life.

Soldier left.

15/17.

Confusion ahead of me.

Grenade on jacket.

Pull pin.

Push forward.

1 grenade four lives.

Three hostiles.

2 o'clock.

Retrieve AK-74M.

Fully automatic assault rifle.

17 bullets three lives.

13/30.

Eight hostiles.

9 o'clock.

Find cover.

Storage crate.

Hostile gunfire.

Strafe sideways.

13 bullets-

Click.

0/30.

MP-443.

5 bullets three lives.

10/30.

Diversion.

Left into building.

End.

I was now deep in the bowels of the nuclear beast. I kept moving despite the angered shouts behind me, my steps resonating louder than I would have liked; except there was nothing but the siren and the fiery glare of red light.

I found myself in the control centre, in the computerised cortex of this juggernaut. It appeared everyone had abandoned their stations – yet...

ICBM LAUNCH: 0:00

LAUNCHING

I had failed. For the first time I had failed. All I could do was auscult to the hissing of the hydraulics. Feel the fall. And observe oblivion.

>-S->

The Siege: Part One

Tweet

There I was. Waiting. In the first large courtyard of Hungate Castle. This courtyard was the closest one to the Badlands, which is where the enemy loomed. Just outside our castle walls there was an army only distinguishable by the terrorising war-horns and the echoing drums from beyond. Trying to intimidate us. I stood proudly at the top of a column of soldiers; my soldiers; my garrison; I was in charge of roughly fifty men that held a sword in their right hands and a shield in their left. They looked so scared. Dressed in predominantly metal armour, but with flashes of red cloth from underneath they obeyed my every command without hesitation. Looking around I see identical columns of troops standing adjacent to mine, there’s at least twenty, all standing, waiting. Every single soldier had one word rattling through their mind like an unwanted pest scraping on the inside of their worried skull: Defend.

It was tense when the officer rode up on a large brown stallion; the officers’ name was Sir Pasco. Wiping sweat off of his brow with his gauntlet he boomed,

“The King has issued the order, do whatever necessary to defend your homes! Do whatever necessary to defend your family!  And do whatever necessary to defend your King!” to which every swordsman, archer and spearman exclaimed dedicated cheers, including me. “King Rulf has made a mistake by trespassing within our lands with his weak army!” continued Sir Pasco. “They will not be alive to make that mistake again! May the Gods prove this battle, short, easy and casualties a few. Best of luck my brave men!” He ended his speech and rode off back in the direction he came from, wading through loud cheers and war cries.

I turned to my men, gave them a long and trustful stare then shouted, “Onto the walls!” and with a point of my gleaming blade lead my fifty-few up a narrow staircase onto the first defensive barrier between us and the enemy. On the stone wall stood archers, each at their own crenel overlooking the fearsome Badlands. I stopped and shouted, “Take position along the wall and fend off any ladders that you encounter. Any enemy that makes it onto the wall, kill them!” I strode over to the crenel as an archer moved one step to the left and saluted me. Looking out was a sight I would never forget, an uncountable number of men stood about eight hundred metres from our castle walls, each garbed in a dirty green colour with cheap chain mail torso’s, sword in one hand, shield in another. Among the army were various contraptions including catapults, trebuchets, battering rams and ballistae that would tear down the walls we were stood on like it was scissors going through paper. The archer gave me a worried look when I patted him on the shoulder and wished him luck. Further along the wall I spotted one of our own ballista sitting upon a formidable looking square-shaped tower, it was basically a giant crossbow that sat and fired giant bolts over a great distance. Not far until the enemy will be in range for them to impale the dogs. I thought.

Giving my sturdy men a reassuring glance I sat and waited for a mere seventeen minutes before the enemy drums stopped, the war-horns creased and the emanating sound of ugly shrieking exploded from eight hundred meters away and drowned any possible sound from escaping anyone’s lips, every green dressed soldier ran at the feeble walls crying one single word and holding the note until it formed an uniformed scream: Attack.

>G

The Philosophical Passtimes of Penguin Phil

Tweet

Penguin Phil was a penguin. Obviously. Also, his name was Phil. Likewise obvious. Penguin Phil lived in the South Pole, for, as I’ve mentioned, he was a penguin. Called Phil. As David Attenborough has time and time again showed, the South Pole was not an overly pleasant place to live; it was indeed overtly cold. So, times weren’t always easy for a penguin. Especially ones called Phil. For Phil, who was, as I’ve laboriously stressed to you, a penguin, had asthma; asthma is trait rather unbecoming of a penguin. Such as Phil. As penguins need to waddle and swim and fish and whatnot, indeed, one could say, that the life of a penguin was a rather active one – not to say on par with that of an Olympian, but compared to a sloth for instance, they were practically Michael Phelps. So, as you can see, asthma was hardly a benefit to a penguin like Penguin Phil. Although Phil wasn’t in as poor a state as he might’ve been if he was something other than a penguin, a puffin for example. Although it was a great annoyance to penguins, particularly Phil – because he had a drink problem – that they remained perpetually grounded on terra-firma, whereas puffins could fly and glide and swoop as they wished, Phil couldn’t deny that he was hardly a prime candidate for that excess movement. For he had asthma. And was a penguin. Called Phil.

Life is rarely easy for penguins, including and especially Phil – because he was after all a penguin. Called Phil – especially when one lives in the South Pole. The snow is all consuming, the cold is all engulfing and, to be honest, there’s not really a lot to do. For penguins, of which Phil was one, don’t have electricity – as they have no means of building or inventing, as they have no hands, merely flippers, as they are, you must remember, penguins. So Phil, a penguin, couldn’t idle away his hours watching TV or playing on Assassin’s Creed (which was a shame, as, despite being a famed asthmatic, Phil was a fan of free-running) so he had to otherwise occupy himself. Phil was quite content to whittle away his hours, sitting in front of his igloo – for the very best penguins, like Penguin Phil, do of course live in igloos – contemplating many a thing: why is Pi such a long number? What colour does a Smurf go when you choke it? And what is the meaning of life? Phil was a contemplative penguin.

Yet, one day (Penguin Phil didn’t recall which, because penguins aren’t overly good with dates. And Penguin Phil was a penguin. Called Phil) contemplating was no longer enough for Penguin Phil. That day, of which Penguin Phil didn’t recall the date (because he was a penguin. Called Phil) was the day that he decided he was going to get a job. And that’s where this story ends, but the story of Penguin Phil goes on

Penguin Phil will return in the Perplexing Profession of Penguin Phil!


WJ

D - Deterrence

Tweet

“We require your help, 0.”

The words resounded around the unlit building like a metallic war drum, calling me to aid them. The relaxing cold darkness kept me from view as I inhaled, the acidic taste of rust prominent in my mouth. I would not have it any other way; I am obscure, the last thing they never see. I am the shadow of every room, with a thousand guises.

I raise my head to speak, “Why should I do this for you?” The suited blonde man tilted his head, a mirthless bitter laugh escaping his pale lips. His façade was unconvincing; I saw that his hands were pale and shaking.

“Why? Because if you don't, the entire world will fall into ruin,” his wrinkled, ice-blue eyes stared blankly into my cloak of umbra, as if he were trying to pinpoint me. I considered this point – the time was mine to spend.

“Tell me Mr Craynor, do you have a family?” It meant nothing to me on a personal level, but I believed there was more to the man.

Mr Craynor sighed and bowed his head, “Yes, a wife and two children.” Always an ulterior incentive.

“Surely you have been allocated a place in a shelter?” A glint of defiance scintillated in his callous eyes.

“Yes, but a post-apocalyptic wasteland is nowhere to raise a-”

“So, you would rather have me do this for you for your family, than in a professional sense for your superiors?” I had shaken his core.

Mr Craynor's gaunt face reddened in shame, even in the brumal conditions: “Yes.” He took a step towards me, “We will pay-” then froze as the click of a hammer being pulled back echoed harshly in the warehouse.

“Do not insult me, Mr Craynor.” I lowered the handgun which was pointed directly at his carotid artery, just south of his neck. “I am in no need of your money. Why, I could walk away right now. You would never track me down...”

“NO!” Craynor's loud voice had startled the bats, summoning an uproar of distress. “No...” he sank to his knees. This man put on a good show, but underneath, he was simply a cheap jack crying his wares.

“I told you to be truthful with me from the start, Mr Craynor.” I said quietly. “Stand up.” Craynor stood ramrod upright, using one leg to push the other. I gave him a moment to gather his thoughts in his sunken head, then asked a question.

“Mr Craynor, why should I do this for you?” His head snapped upwards to face me – unsure whether I was visible to him, he glared directly at me nonetheless. His face was a reflection of passionate desperation, fuelled by an engine powered by a nugget of hope.

“For my family,” he begged, his smooth voice wavering, “Do it for my family.” I glanced disinterestedly at the two jet black suitcases lying on the ground.

“Leave the money. I will contact you.” Mr Craynor's heartbeat was audible, pulsing like percussion. Soundlessly he about-turned and walked away.

>-S->

Winter Is Here.

Tweet

The morning frost sat on the grass, awaiting ruin.
A silent landscape of cool. Icicles graced to branches, unweilding to the weak attempts of the pallid winter sun.
"Winter."
Clouds of air followed my deep breathing. Inhaling hurt my lips, the cold like tiny needles poking at my flesh, searching for a weakspot. My hands, too, were suffering: mutilated ice cubes inside my deerskin mittens.
In my left hand I held a spear, hand-crafted, moulded to fit my grip. It shivered in my hand, finely attuned to my movements. It knew I was waiting. Waiting...

...A twig snapped to my left, shattering the icy perfection of the still winter world. Prey was comeabout. I moved panther-like towards the sound. My footfalls were quiet, my breathing shallow, my scent downwind, my hair tied back from my face in preparation.
A doe nipped at the frozen greenery. Her delicate bone structure was blatant to any observer, her quiet beauty as subtle as any mammal's. Deer were among my favourite animal to hunt. Their grace was uncompareable, their challenge worthwhile.
It was a game, the hunt. A game which I won more often than I lost.
She moved towards me a little, falling into a false lull of peace as she searched for an edible patch of grass. Her hooves left dainty imprints in the snow, nice to look at, but to be destroyed soon enough.
I bent forward, judging the distance between my spear and her flank. Doable.
I hefted my spear forward slowly, no sudden moves at to alert her.
And the spear was off, soaring through the air like a bird in flight, choosing its landing spot and sticking true to its course.
Another day, another meal.
A quiet prayer to send the doe into a better place, and I could return to my hearth to feed my sisters.
"Winter."
It still sounded the same, even after I'd killed her.
~H

My Kindgom.

Tweet

I wipe the blood of his cheek, skin like leather, rough, bruised. He snarls, eyes locked on mine, his face showing the fury of a thousand dead warriors. There's nothing more he can do. I spit on him, asserting my authority. Then kick his chest forcing him to the ground, my foot still atop him as he pants. The two guards stood behind him follow him with their blades as he falls, just another victim of our kingdoms immense power.
He splutters, "I remember, When there was freedom in this land" I push my foot down, "And I remember when the people used to deserve it" I spit on his face in disgust. I lean over him more now, my face less than 20 centimeters from his. My hand moves over his face, I shut his left eye with my index finger. Then, in a moment of rage at his doing my fingers lash down into his socket. A yelp of pain, thrashing, there's nothing he can do to stop us, we have the power to do anything we wish.
Lined up, one by one, I watch as he stands beside others of his kind. They're all scum, worthless. Then I wonder, am I truly any better. Thought like these are shaken off within seconds. I'm a man of power, power comes to those who earn it, I'm more than these could ever be. I stare content as each of them are hit in the gut with a club, bringing them to their knees where they'll be given their desert. I grin. Power crazed, knowing I can do what I like, no consequences. In my position I could take the world. I will take the world. I give each man a final stare as their heads are taken one my one.
One day they'll know who is truly in charge. Not their god, their father, their kingdom. Me.

~S

Narcissistic Being

Tweet

There I sat, chained down, in my chair, overlooking the faces of my executioners. Their faces contorted by my horrific deeds. They viewed me as evil, that’s their choice, but what I did was heroic and I would do it again if the chance arose. But it won’t. I will not get to do it again because these people are taking “An eye for an eye” a bit too seriously in my opinion. They’re going to kill me. I sit in this death-chair awaiting my obvious onslaught, it’s quite tedious. The people in white coats shuffle around me, keeping their distance and shooting me looks of disgust occasionally, I don’t care, I did what I had to, I did what I wanted to. I’ve decided that I don’t belong on this planet, this rock. My mind is too complex for these lesser mortals to fathom so I’ll gladly take my place next to the fiery throne that Satan sits upon down in the depths of hell. Perhaps there are people there who understand me.

All except from one of the white coated lab-rats leave, most of them stand in view behind a pane of glass. The single man puts a contraption on my head, a sort of helmet with colourful beads and metal prongs on the inside, they poke my temples, it’s irritating. The man attaches metal clamps to my arms and legs and stares into my soulless eyes, he gives a sympathetic look and mouths “I’m sorry”. Then he leaves. He’s a weakling.

They give me a few moments to gather my thoughts and memories. I’ve nothing to gather. There are no people that love me, I have no family, and I still regret nothing. I only have one wish. I wish that I was devoid of instinct, because I am about to be executed and my entire body is repelling against it. It wants me to stop letting this happen. But as I’ve already established, I let nothing get in my way, not even my own flesh. I get comfortable, close my eyes and give a mocking thumbs up to the men behind the glass as white hot electricity surges through my veins, through my heart and through my brain, allowing me entry to heaven within hell.

>G

Ill Omens

Tweet

It is a strange day. The clouds bubble as though boiling, and the wind rushes in convoluted patterns, unable to decide in which direction it ought to be blowing. The sun is as weak as it always is in this god-forsaken land, barely breaking through the tumultuous clouds, and casting only a scant light across the bleak landscape. Nearby, jackdaws cackle from treetops, sounding nervous, as if before a storm. The trees themselves look gaunt, their black limbs knotted as they twist towards the watery sun in a desperate search for life. The brown grass that grows in a meagre sprawl across the plane stands still, oddly unaffected by the wind. Then, almost inaudible above the buffeting gale, a lone wolf howls in the distance, a lonely, rending cry that splits the air, silencing the agitated jackdaws. The call came from the clutch of mountains that stand on the horizon. Seven great monoliths rest there. The people of this land have named them all: Krag, the shortest, Rond, Klin and Daw, after which the native jackdaw is named. F'Adlon, Onto and the great Nolnar, whose snow-capped peak stretches above the clouds. Those silent sentinels reach into the heavens, their atramentous bulk oblivious to the sufferings of the land. The river Nin flows from the smallest eminence, Krag, its waters murky. It labours across the planate landscape not, as one might expect, providing life to its surroundings, rather it seems to drain it away, the grass and trees nearest the embankment being utterly devoid of life, as though the river were poison. I have met few people, and those I have barely deserve the definition. They speak in a crude tongue, consisting of croaks and other such guttural sounds. From what I have been able to learn, they call this land "Uk'Nond" - No Life. Their actions are as base as their language, many moving about on all four limbs as comfortably as they do on two. What little food they scrounge is never cooked, but is eaten raw, if not alive. Relationships are a simple affair, the harsh conditions leaving little room for love or other such indulgences. I have been with them for six weeks now, long enough for me to see that their life is a constant struggle for survival. They are as disturbed by the weather as I am. They tell me the skies are an ill portent, that the wolf heralds disaster. They are a feral race, deeply superstitious, but nonetheless I begin to wonder whether or not this expedition was wise, and if I will ever see my homelands again.

 -Excerpt from 'Ill Omens', written by the Great Traveller, Olno Seerman, circa 1194, the Winter Rotation.

~J.L.

You're my snowflake...

Tweet

Stood side by side, I feel your hand reach out and wrap itself in mine, in unison we blush neither of us wanting to speak to break this precious moment, a quick glance at each other then out again, then you let out a little giggle and I join in. “I…” we both try to speak but then tail off into a giggle again. It begins to get colder and I shiver, so you turn to me and wrap your tatty scarf round my neck with your icy soft hands with hardly any moment and you just grin, the creases in your face made more prominent with the cold surging through your body. You offer your coat but I just shake my head and we return to standing side by side, an idiot walks by and has his music on too loud you give me a look as if to say “what a dolt” and I just laugh.
A snowflake fall and lands on your nose and you just sneeze then look at me apologetically; I offer my tissue to which you refuse. You start to rub your hands together as the cold is cutting off the circulation and turning them pink, I cup them in mine and you just look at me, a look that I had seen before but never up close and never when you knew I was looking, your jade green eyes cut through me like hot stones in butter and I just melt at that moment and without us noticing the snow gets heavier, you hug me close and enclose me in your warm coat, I wrap my arms around your waist, I hear your heart beating next to my face and I feel the breath on the back of my neck, I close my eyes and just listen to the hypnotic rhythm and the pound of your heart that was moving my head back and forth, a moment I had often dreamt about and it was happening nothing could wipe this smile off my face. I reach up and put my hand on your face it was like ice, I run my thumb over your lips and edge closer the warmth of your breath on my face, our faces now parallel you put your mouth next to my ear and whisper “You're my snowflake...” you lean in a press your lips against mine we close our eyes and for 30 seconds its as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist, at this moment a snowflake lands on your nose again and I wipe it off and again you just grin, I whisper "perfect..." and you hold me close to your chest again which put me in that same hypnotic state, we both smile. “I don’t want this moment to end…”

- R x.

Innocent Looks

Tweet

Innocent looks

I couldn't remember when it was, the last time I felt my heart race to the extent that I thought it would jump out then and there, his chocolate eyes beamed at me and melted through my body, I felt weak like I may collapse. Before I could stop myself a goofy smile appeared on my face and I felt my hand rise to give a little pathetic wave.
Days followed and that moment kept running through my head, what a prat I had made of myself, why couldn't I just gain the courage to walk over and say "Hello" it's not hard to do people talk everyday but one glance at him and I loose all basic human abilities.
How this one boy have such an effect on me?

- R x.

The Sentient Duck

Tweet

Dedicated to Gibby.


He didn't know when it was he gained the gift of thought. He knew for a fact that he hadn't been born with it. It had grown on him. Like hair on your head grows on you or I. Just as you never really notice it until it's long, or in need of cutting again, so it was with Michael. One day he'd simply realised that he was thinking and wondering. But he remembered very clearly the first day he had a conscious thought. He'd been watching a small child playing along the edge of the lake, and he thought how funny it would be if the child were to fall in. Sentience came with a sense of humour, apparently. Michael became frustrated after his initial excitement wore off. He considered his intelligence more of a curse than a blessing. It was wasted; he had nothing to do with it. Surprisingly, there were very little educational opportunities for ducks, no matter how smart. This left him with no other option than to swim around the lake, looking for food, admiring she-ducks and taking the occasional flight. He thought a lot, but there were only so many times you could wonder why there were waves, or why bread crumbs floated, before you became completely dissatisfied with your existence. And so, Michael the duck lived his life in a state of intense boredom. He eventually married, but even this failed to lift his spirits when he realised his wife was totally devoid of any intelligent conversation. Nor did his marriage do anything to alleviate his sense of loneliness. Feeling the need to talk, and having a sentient mind but nobody to share it with was awful. She was nice to look at though. Michael died at the duck-age of fifty-four. The local avian vet put the cause of death down to asphyxiation.
Michael had often wondered, before his untimely demise, whether he could have been doing more with his life.


~ J.L.

A new year, right?

Tweet

Every year. EVERY SINGLE YEAR I swear to abide by the fundamental laws of New Year Resolutions. No more. I have finally stopped caving to the peer pressure of making them, and have simply given up. And it's surprisingly sweet, an almost tangeable relief.
I'm not going to promise to 'stop biting my nails' or to 'lead a healthier life' or to 'stop punching my sister when she steals my clothes'. Or 'stop hitting my brother' for that matter. Because, there is no way I'd be able to keep those promises.
And when people say to me: 'HEY, WHAT'S YOUR NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION?"
I don't have to make my chin jut out proudly or stick my chest out to mask vulnerability, because I can simply say: "I didn't make any."
I'm breaking with tradition. New year, new me, and all that rubbish. Nobody ever keeps that principle, me included, but we can try, can't we? Yeah, it's futile-no point in trying to argue that, but making a promise you know you're not going to keep is simply a let down to yourself. Because deep down, you know your self-control isn't that good. Nobody's is.
We're only human.
~H

Final moments.

Tweet

The wind blows his hair. He bites his bottom lip. Grinning, hiding it. His feels himself touch her face, fingers caressing her features. His stomach burns. He pulls her into him, his hands fiddling with the hair at the back of her head as she nuzzles into his neck. A single tear, happiness. Her breath is warm on his neck, her hold body is warm against the harsh cold of the wind. She shields him for a while before he allows her a slight freedom again now standing opposite her, one hand on her waist the other stroking her cheek.
He feels such strong feelings. He craves her body again, her warmth, her love. A second tear, and a sharper grin. He moves forward, lips meeting hers softly. The breath flooding from him, relaxing his hole body. For a short moment he is completely free of every thought. His heart beating fast.
His head drops the weight of it too much for him now. The wind once again thrashing his face. He chokes, coughing, his eyes opening wide at the end. Alone, In the rain, atop the highest building for miles. His eyes close and he leans into another kiss, moving further forward than before. The air brushes past him, trying to hold him up. His body completely relaxed. Eyes shut tight. Once again tears in his eyes. Then he feels it. He can be back with her now.