Ship Four

We come now to the fourth ship of the five. We come to a ship whose crew revelled in the storm. The night before, when sailors from all five ships had descended upon the taverns of the harbour, it had been they who had drank the most, bedded the most, sang the loudest, and fought the hardest. This was a crew that longed for adventure, who knew their lives were fleeting things, and would fill the precious moments they had with stories to tell or be told about them. As the storm filled the horizon before them they rushed onto it eagerly, outstripping the other four ships and laughing as they did so.

   The storm was fierce, but they matched it with their own ferocity. The ship did not ride the waves, it tore through them. The laughter of the crew grew into shouts of defiance, animal roars of the living against the untethered power of nature. Whatever the other ships were doing, however their crews were faring did not cross their minds. They were behind them, the storm was in front of them, and their eyes only looked forward. This was why these men set sail, why they found it so hard to stay on dry land. They needed the jeopardy, to contest the natural world and find out if they matched up or not. The life expectancy for any who stepped aboard this ship was never long and this storm would surely reduce it drastically for some. For those who perished they would drink to their memory and tell the tales they weaved during their lives, before continuing to create more stories. Soon they would have their greatest tale.

   Dear reader you know well already that this is no ordinary storm. The men aboard this ship could sense that too. To start with though they could not imagine how far out of the ordinary it was. They did not know the strange planes of existence the winds blew from, or depths the currents disturbed, and the dark hidden things that were awakened in ancient seas. The storm on the surface that they could see was only a part of the full scope of the storm. Like an iceberg there was far more hidden below. Chasms in the ocean floor, like doors to another world that had no more interaction with those above than to accept the corpses that drifted down, were caught up in these strange currents, as were their denizens. Primeval caves, sealed as the world was still forming were ripped open, and prisoners of a different time poured out. Above it all our ship rode the storm.

   The crew of the ship were grateful for the storm. They thought of it as a good test to start with on their voyage, a reminder of the dangers of the sea. They had not sailed on seas such as these before. Another wave reared up in front of the ship, lightning flashed, and illuminated a great many eyes looking back at the crew. As the wave descended onto the ship so too did chaos.

   Creatures from the depths were unleashed by the storm upon the crew. An array of monsters with no love for humans attacked the unsuspecting sailors with claws, spines, and stingers. They found themselves now in a battle not only with the elements but with these ocean dwelling terrors also. Off the ship the sea boiled with the writhing of fins, flippers, and tentacles. Great gods of the dark corners of ancient oceans rose up out of the calamity and fought with enemies from eons past. Back on the ship the crew fought and killed anything that came near them that was not human. Eyes came out of the water to loom over them and were stabbed out before the form of the beast could be revealed. Tentacles that wrapped around man or ship were hacked at viciously until they released their prey or were hewn. Some of the crew were dragged or thrown into the sea, others were run through by horns or spines as great as lances. One fearsome creature, with a claw as big as a man, roamed the ship removing limbs and heads from the sailors with violence and precision. As it continued its path off death across the ship one unsuspecting sailor was snared by the creature’s claw about the waist. Without hesitation the claw tore through bone, muscle, and organs and split the man in half. Brave though the sailors aboard this ship were how could they hope to survive these monsters?

   For a group of men such as those aboard this ship to coalesce and function as a unified crew they need a leader. This leader needs to have an iron will, a ruthless determination that sets them above the rabble of would-be heroes, the intuition to dominate a crisis, and that special unseen force that compels others to follow. They had a leader such as this. While the adventures of their ship had taken them down a path that many of their fellows had fallen along he had survived all, such that there were none now left alive who could say how he had taken the captaincy of the vessel. This only added to his legend. In every story of their exploits he was there, often the one to raise the sinking ship and deliver them from doom. He was with them once again. As the torso of the sailor fell to deck from the merciless attack of the great crab, and it seemed defeat and despair would overwhelm them, the captain found a split in the monster’s armour and drove his cutlass into the gap. He dragged the blade through the soft tissue under the hard exoskeleton and spilled its insides out.

   While the aura of the captain held the crew together his cutlass gave them a symbol to follow. It was not just a part of his legend; it was the legend. None could agree how the captain had come into possession of the ship, but all agreed that the cutlass was wrapped up in it. Some said he had won it in combat from the previous captain, others that he had come back with it after a forgotten adventure in a sea that did not appear on any map. Others still said that it had been bequeathed to the captain by a god of the sea. Well now there were gods of the sea battling in the storm around the ship, and if the captain was holding their sword aloft catching lightning in its blade, then he did not seem far removed from their ranks.

   Their victory should have now been assured. As we have seen many times though this storm did not care how things should have been or should not be, and it was still in its rage unleashing the hidden horrors of the deep.

   Silent in the cacophony of the storm the mer-people rose up out of the water on their tails, surrounding the ship in a ring of cruel leering faces, and strong arms wielding fearsome tridents. The crew did not stand a chance. The mer-people unleashed such violence upon them that few born on land have ever witnessed. Men were skewered from all angles and torn apart. They could not touch these monsters of the deep as they moved as fast out of the water as they did in it. It was as if they swam through the air, so fluid was their movement. The captain proved his legend one more time as his cutlass slashed through the confusion and cut first the arm and then the head of one of the mer-people down. All this did though was to focus all of their attention upon him. Tridents pierced the captain from every angle, holding him steady in his anguish, and allowing for the mer-king to look him dead in the eye as he used his great trident to tear the captain from the right side of his waist to his left shoulder in one cruel move. The mer-king let the remains of the captain fall to the deck but took the cutlass in his cold hand with an evil smile.

    With their great prize secured the mer-people left the rest of the crew and so too did the storm. The remaining crew aboard the ship watched as the swirling chaos of wind, water, lightning, beasts, and gods carried on a path of destruction across the ocean. They were bloodied and beaten. They had no idea where they now were, and as for the other ships, well, if they had barely made it through that alive then the others had surely perished. Even if the other crews were still sailing it did not matter. They had a new mission now. The mer-people had slain their captain, had taken his cutlass, and fled, hiding behind an unnatural maelstrom and dark gods from the deep. The crew agreed this would not be enough to protect them.

   While they were still bandaging themselves and repairing their ship they set off in pursuit of the storm not wanting to waste a moment. There was a hunger in the eyes of the men now. They were ravenous for retribution, for the return of the cutlass, and for the adventure. All they could think of were the wild sights they had seen in the storm, the creatures no other man had ever seen, colossal beings no other man could imagine. The mer-people! They were their greatest enemy yet and had tested them, bested them, like no other foe had. The crew would follow them to the ends of the oceans, to the bottom of the sea.

   Some force propelled the ship across the sea to the storm. They hurtled over waves and crashed through others with reckless abandon. Once again the storm filled the horizon and soon after they tore straight into it again. The storm was feeding on the ocean and anything else in its path. They could feel it had grown in strength. Wind whipped across their faces. Waves grew to ridiculous heights and fell like an avalanche. All around them they could see the shadows of unfathomable beings and they could hear the cacophony of their battles. As they delved further into the storm they saw another fleet of ships that had been captured by the storm. Some had been upturned or ripped apart by the storm or the great beasts, a few were still holding on. The crew of the ship saw that they were battling with the inhuman monsters the storm had scooped up. There they were! The mer-people! Their revenge was at hand.

   The ship flew into the fray. This time it was they who caught the mer-people off guard, and they killed many of them before they knew what was happening. All too quickly the mer-people rallied and returned with their own slaughter.

   Whatever darkness had raised the storm and the creatures of the deep clearly sought to protect them. Once again the storm continued on and left the ship behind. The crew gathered themselves again. From the other ships that had been attacked they found a few stout warriors who also desired revenge against the mer-people. Replenished, the ship set off after the growing storm, the mer-people, and the cutlass.

   So it went for days that were not counted. The ship caught up with the storm in strange seas. The crew did battle with the mer-people and felled some of their number. Always though more of their brethren were slain at the cruel tridents of the mer-people, their leering faces offering no mercy, their scaled tails quivering with excitement at the violence.

   They battled far and wide as the storm continued unimpeded. They fought across ships the like of which they had never seen before that were caught in the maelstrom, gathering more sailors hungry for the blood of the mer-people to replace their fallen. The storm took entire islands into its maw, and they fought as trees, huts, entire towns were tossed around them. They fought as more gods of the ocean rose up out of the deep into the madness that was all around them. They witnessed the destruction of several of these gods, their immense bodies crashing down, causing tsunamis that wrecked fleets and sank islands below the brine.

   On and on the storm raged, and always within it the wars between gods, men, and monsters. Though the ship was constantly replenished with men and women seeking revenge against the mer-people, the number of those who set out at the beginning of our tale ever dwindled. There came a time when there was but one left who had seen the cutlass not in the hand of the mer-king but wielded mightily by the fallen captain. He was now the captain of this ship, with a ragtag crew made up those who had lost their ships and crews to the storm and those within. Despite their varied origins the crew of the ship still possessed that incessant desire for adventure, to fill whatever few moments of life they had with glorious purpose. The only difference was that now this wild ambition had been honed by revenge. For them the cutlass was also a symbol: one of death. It had been used to slay many of their fellows, and they would see it taken from the dead hand of the mer-king.

   Once more the ship caught up with the storm, once more the world around them descended into madness, once more the battle against the mer-people commenced. By now they were all well educated in the art of killing those hateful beings. It was dangerous work even still and many fell on both sides.

   The new captain, the last remnant of our original crew was wily now and held back from the fray. He would only have the mer-king himself. It was time to make an end of this. The captain stood at the wheel of the ship steering through the storm expertly. After spending so much time within the storm it felt more natural than a calm sea. They came over yet another great wave and there was the mer-king, he too was holding back, waiting for the ship to come to him.

   The captain steered the ship right down the mer-king’s throat. The old foes saw in each the desire to finish the fight and were equally happy to oblige. They clashed with fury tempered with respect. While all around them gods fought battles that had lasted eons for reasons beyond mortal comprehension, they fought over a cutlass, and yet it seemed almost a dance. As they twisted and turned, and whirled faster, almost mirroring the storm they seemed to reach a crescendo and then finished as the captain pierced the heart of the mer-king with his sword. As the life left the great body the cutlass fell from his hand, landing in front of the wheel of the ship, almost exactly where its rightful owner had been slain. The new captain picked up the cutlass, holding it aloft for his crew of misbegotten miscreants to see and realise they were victorious. The mer-people saw this too and saw their king had fallen. In despair they claimed their king’s body and fled back into the deep.

   The storm carried on, leaving the crew behind, but this time they did not follow, and watched as it disappeared over the horizon. In the calm seas there was a feeling of emptiness. The purpose that had driven them all for so long was now gone. What would come next? The captain still gazing upon the cutlass saw in it his reflection and knew what was next for him. He charted a course, and they were on their way.

   Several days later they came upon the port the captain had left a long time ago. As they came in the captain told his crew he would be leaving them here. The ship was theirs now to do with as they pleased. All he asked was that they let him take the cutlass with him. Though confused and saddened none of them objected. Standing at the top of the gangway he told them the ship was built for adventure and though it had seen many it would always hunger for more. Should they ever find their way back to this port again they were to tell him about those adventures and help keep their legends alive.

   It was an old man that disembarked the ship, wrinkled and grey, cutlass in hand. He had seen a lifetime of adventure which he would never have imagined. He had seen much along the way and lost many. But he would never forget them, and though he may live his remaining years in peace, and though the cutlass would no longer be wielded in battle, but would rest above a warm hearth, he would make sure the legend of him, his crew, and the cutlass, would live on.

Ship Three

The storm ballooned into existence in front of the third ship. To most of her crew it looked like hell, but to one of those souls doomed to descend into the chaos it looked like the man she loved. Clouds billowed and undulated and formed the rise and fall of his forehead, eyes, cheeks, the curve of his knowing smile. Lightning flashed and he was gone again. It was another sign she was on the right course.

   Waves and wind threw the ship as if it was a child’s toy in a bath, and the men aboard were not worth much more than children in that moment, whimpering and wailing as if their toys were being taken away. She did not have time to waste expressing her disgust at these sorry excuses for sailors. Her husband had been, was, a real sailor, and would never have countenanced such behaviour.

   It had been three months since they had married, three months since he had set sail the morning after their wedding, three months since a messenger bird had flown back from the ship to give word on their progress. There had been only silence since, and pain. This was compounded when a month ago flotsam washed up near the port, flotsam that had definitely come from his ship. Everyone was so sincere with their condolences. But that was the risk of marrying a sailor they all said, and anyway wasn’t she still young enough to marry again. They were so quick to forget the past and rewrite her future when she could not even accept the present. No she told them all. No she would not remarry. No she would not mourn. How could you mourn someone who was not dead? No to all of it. She would find him.

   Seawater gushed over her as she clung desperately to the ship. She knew it would not be easy to find him. It had not been easy just getting to this point. Easy made for dull minds and dull stories, and sailors like those around her that could not cope with adversity. First of all she had simply asked captains to take her aboard their ships and take her out to sea. The kindest had simply refused. Others had laughed in her face. After this she had tried to stowaway but was found and thrown off each ship rougher every time. In her desperation she had even tried to steal a ship, just a small one. She was not even able to cast off before she was dragged back on land screaming. The harbour master made it very clear this was the last they would tolerate from her. If she was seen anywhere near any ship she would be thrown in jail. Clearly she would need to try harder.

   The ship was falling apart literally and figuratively. Masts came crashing down crushing sailors before the waves swept men and mast into the depths. The captain of the ship was caught in the face by a barrel that had come loose. Concussed and barely conscious, the rolling of the ship sent him overboard too. Through it all she remained calm. All she had to do was stay alive. As long as she stayed alive there was still hope she would be reunited with her love. It was as simple as that even in the face of the ruin of the storm. As the ship was split in two and the angry waves eagerly consumed the wreck, it did not seem simple at all.

  Finding her way aboard a ship had after all that been incredibly simple. The voyage of the five ships had filled the harbour with sailors, chaos, and possibility. She used the raucous sailors as a cover to get close to the harbour where eyes tried in vain to keep watch. She was just one of the many sailors, merchants, beggars, peddlers, pickpockets, whores, and anyone else who saw a chance for some coin, who converged on the harbour. After that it was just a matter of finding a sailor who was roughly the same size as her. Luckily she found one that was as close a match as she was ever likely to find, and that was deep into his cups. It was not hard to lure him into an alley for what he thought would be quite a fun time. Instead what he got was instead a rather hefty whack with a baker’s rolling pin between the eyes. The clothes were uncomfortable, did not quite fit, and the smell was not worth comment, but now she did at least look the part of a sailor. Looking at the unconscious man she could not help noticing his bushy beard and decided a little more to the disguise would be needed. She sheared him of his facial hair and would glue it to her own face later. Her cover was complete and in the morning she was allowed onto the doomed ship with no question or suspicion.

   When she awoke, and she was surprised enough by that, there was no sign of any remnant of the ship, not even a plank of wood. Nor was there any sign of anyone else who had been aboard. It was as if the sea had consumed everything and everyone on that ship except for her.

   It was no small miracle she was even alive, but she did not seem to be injured in anyway. There was not a scrape or a bruise anywhere on her that she could see. She had woken up on a beach with waves lapping at her. It was early morning with the sun just starting to rise. She must have spent several hours in the water, yet she had not coughed out any seawater when she awoke, nor felt like she had swallowed even a drop. She did not even feel hungry or thirsty. Her life was being fuelled by her determination to find her husband.

   Next she had to find out where it was she that had washed ashore. It did not look anything like where she had left. It was far greener; with trees she did not recognise. The beach was pure white and traceless, as if hers were the only feet to have ever troubled the sand. Was she the only one who had ever set foot here? She had survived that terrible storm when she was sure none of the others had. More than that she had survived without a scratch on her and found safety in the middle of the ocean here, on an island large enough she was sure that could provide for her. If she could wind up here unscathed after all of that it had to be for a reason, and if there was any reason for her to be here…

   Immediately her aimless wandering turned into a wild sprint. Her love was on this island somewhere. She was more certain of it than the air she was breathing. Running as if she could escape from the longing in her heart she forced her way around the entire island. In the hours it took, her desperation did not fade so neither did her speed as at every moment she expected to see her husband emerge from the forest, or from around the next bend, coming to meet her as she called his name. As the sun began to set, and she came upon her own tracks, the only tracks spoiling the pristine sand, she realised it had been in vain. Her mission continued onwards, only now she was stranded on an island, constrained by the sea. It would still not stop her. Cover the world in an ocean, she would swim it all for him. Bury her at the centre of the Earth, she would dig her way through mile after mile up to him. Beat her to the ground she would stand back up every time for him.

   Thankfully she would not have to swim to get off this island. The forest was thick and lush, with much to provide. She set off into it. There were streams, fruit, and many small animals and insects. Someone else could have survived and lived a long happy life here. She could not. It lacked the one thing her life truly needed. Still she was able to acquire what she desired right then to get closer to what she needed. Soon she was back on the beach laden with branches and leaves. The sun was setting once more so she did not have any time to waste. With the speed that could only be fuelled by a fire burning in the heart she assembled a crude raft. Its basic nature did not matter. All it had to do was carry her a little further. As the sun went down, and the world went as dark as it felt to her without him she rowed out into the ocean, small, exposed, unaided, and undaunted.

   For hours she rowed hard to get away from the island. The starlight did not give her much idea of what direction she was going but it would not matter if there was light to guide her. She had no direction other than the pull of her heart and trusted that she could follow that. Her arms felt as if they were threatening to rip from her body but until they actually did she would force them to keep going.

   Exhaustion took her as it had to eventually, and she fell into an uneasy sleep. Even in her dreams she could not rest. Her head was filled with dreams of her chasing someone she could never quite catch up to. She came close enough to place a hand on his back and woke with a start. In her sleep she had begun to slip off the raft. The cold sea water brought her sharply back to reality.

   A mist had rolled in. The sea was gently bobbing her and the raft along. The air felt still. It made her uneasy. She turned and was confronted with a strange sight. A rope hung there in the air horizontally, it’s ends hidden in the mist in both directions. Before she had much time to ponder why or how it was there the rope creaked and shook. From the mist where one end of it disappeared into, she heard the water sloshing as something moved through it. A ferry broke through the mist that did not seem much more stable than her raft. Onboard there was one lone figure, hooded and cloaked in black, pulling the ferry gradually along the rope. She watched as he drew the ferry up beside her raft and stopped, waiting. All her searching had brought her to this ferry which had no right to be in the middle of the sea. She understood then why the ferry was there and who the ferryman was. Most importantly she understood it would take her at last to her husband. Without any further thought she stepped off the raft and onto the ferry.

   In silence the ferryman pulled them along the rope. She stood there calmly knowing that her search would soon be over. While she waited she wondered how many of those who had made this journey on the ferry had done so as willingly as she. Surely many had looked at the bent, slight, cloaked figure and thought to pull the ferry back the other way. It was unlikely any ever succeeded though.

   In what could have been hours, weeks, or minutes the ferry came through the mist to a shore, dazzled in the light of a pure sun rising behind it. The ferryman bowed and gestured for her to disembark. She smiled her thanks at the ferryman and squinted into the sunlight unable to see anything else before her. A moment later a figure emerged from the light that she well remembered, and she ran to it. The light did not fade but her husband grew brighter still in her eyes as they wrapped their arms around each other. His eyes were like all the stars in the sky brought together, and her smile, her first smile since their wedding day was warmer and brighter than the sun had ever dared to be. There were no words between them yet, there did not need to be when two souls such as theirs that had been kept apart were returned to each other, and entwined so that they would never be separated again.

   Back on the ferry, the ferryman once again departed that most distant of shores that he would never set foot on. Leaving the light and the lovers he smiled knowing that they were where they were meant to be and were together. So strong was their love that even Death would not come between them.

Ship Two

Now comes the second ship in these tales, though it is the first among the fleet. This is the flagship, the lead vessel. The men aboard her are not convicts. Her crew is made up of the best of the best. Tried and tested men who have spent years at sea, encountered legends and monsters and come away victorious every time. There is not a foe they fear. Another crew may strive for perfection, for them it is the minimum requirement. Their captain was entrusted to lead this mission for there are none who are his equal on the sea. When the crowds gathered to cheer the leaving ships it was this ship, this captain, this crew they were really celebrating, such was the reputation and admiration they garnered for their exploits and actions.

   It will be important to remember it is men such as I have just described that entered the storm aboard this ship for what we will see befall them to be understood in its full horror.

   As the flagship approached the oncoming storm the captain did not even have to give an order. His crew snapped into action automatically. It was a storm. They had been through many before and would go through many more. It was an expected part of being on the sea. They would not concern themselves with this any more than they would a gust of wind.

   While his crew busied themselves the captain looked to the other ships under his command. Slow, they were far too slow in their preparations. While his crew would calmly make their way through this storm the others would be tested far more. They were also sloppy. It did not bode well. As rain began to lash down he sent up signals via flags to try and exert some command over the amateurs.

   Before too long flags were no use to anyone. They could no longer see any of the other ships. Not that it would matter if they could. Capable as this crew was, this storm was proving to be a test for them. Their training and confidence prevented them from becoming frantic, but concern began to creep in, and they were reminded that the sea was always the master.

   The storm stopped. One moment it was roaring all around them, the sea, and air, and sky, and clouds, and rain all blending together in a terrifying release of energy, the next it seemed to sigh, and ceased. All became still. The ship came back down from being thrown, and rocked for a few moments, causing the only ripples that could be seen now on the calm sea before it too came to rest, and the sea became a sheet like a grey mirror.

   The clouds which had been swirling came to a stop. But they did not clear. In fact they seemed to grow, dropping down from on high, filling the air around the ship, muffling all sound, suffocating the light, cutting them off from the world. In the heavy silence they struggled for breath, the drawing of which felt as unacceptable as talking during a funeral service.

   How? How had they gone from a fearsome, calamitous storm, to utter stillness in a breath? The answer was not forthcoming so professionalism would have to do. They still had a mission to complete. First off they had to locate their other ships if any of them had survived. Lanterns and flags were useless in this fog. They could barely see from bow to stern. The captain blew on his whistle hoping for a response, but the sound seemed to die in the cloud around them, and there was nothing in return.

   Instinct told the captain that the other ships had not fared well in the storm, that they were dead and destroyed, or at the very least hopefully off course. He could not assume this though. The responsibility of his position and mission told him he had to wait a little longer: put prudence before his pride. If any of the other ships were still afloat and near them they may soon cross paths. Even better the fog could lift. They would wait.

   Unease crept through the crew. The silence was as thick as the fog, an oppressive weight on the mind of each of them. Every sound they made seemed heightened and heinous, as if it would wake some unseen horror within the fog. A rope creaked and was held fast. Keys jangled and were stilled. Even their breath was held to not disturb the silence. Still the fog did not lift. The captain looked at his crew, each of them to a man steadfast in the face of many a peril and he saw them shaken. This would not do. They had waited long enough and now it was time to go. If the fog would not lift then they would just have to escape it. The captain went to look at his compass when he smelt something. Burning. Could it be one of the other ships had caught fire? They would have to find out. But where was it coming from? The captain and crew tried to search for the source of the smell when one of them spotted a faint light coming from within the fog starboard. It was a fire. Somehow one of their other ships was ablaze. The crew was roused by the call to action. The weight of the fog was lifted from them. They moved with all speed to aid their comrades.

   Through the stillness came the sound of screams. The crew of the ship must already be burning. They doubled their efforts. Gradually the light grew and took on a more recognisable shape of a ship on fire. Which one from the fleet was it? Soon they came close enough to see the ship properly in spite of the fog. They could even see the shapes of men moving frantically on the burning deck. They could see that those men were on fire too. Why did they not leap into the sea? Confusion increased when it became clear this was not one of their ships. The design was foreign to them. Where had this ship come from? It did not matter they would still offer what help they could. The screams from the burning crew were terrible, completely replacing the heavy silence of the fog.

   They drew the ship up to the burning one as close as was safe. The captain and crew ran up to the side to get a proper look and see what could be done. What they saw was haunting. The ship was old, very old. The wood was blackened by the flames and appeared skeletal as the fire consumed it. The inferno raged on the deck, a storm of fire that concealed those aboard as it had grown. The sounds of pain from the burning crew escaped the fire and told them they were too late. The terror of the situation held their gaze though there was nothing they could do about it. A hand appeared out of the fire, so burned it was skeletal, and grasped the side of the ship. After this came they rest of the man, if man it had been. The burning person howled in pain. Other burning hands and people appeared. The fire seemed to die down and revealed more of the deck and crew. They were still on fire, but they just stood there, screaming. Were they screaming? No. No they were not screaming. They were laughing, laughing in a hideous mockery of joy. Laughing terribly all the while they burnt and did not heed the fire.

   While this horror was revealed the crew of the ship could do nothing but stand aghast. Whatever their experience of the sea had taught them it was not how to do deal with a burning ship that enjoyed the flames. Worse, a burning man was now at the wheel of the burning ship and was turning it, turning the burning ship to point straight at them. This was not a fight they could win, only escape and so they set about fleeing with all their energy. They had no more thought for any of the other ships in their fleet. All that mattered now was not burning. They fled into the fog and did not stop for a long while, until there was no hint of light or smell of burning. All there was was the fog and the silence.

   How could the fog still be here? Surely they had travelled many miles now. Still, the fog was preferable to the fire. The captain resolved that they would just have to continue until they had escaped all of this. No fog could last forever. They would soon get beyond it. The crew were shaken, the captain could not blame them for that. They needed to see sky once more and feel a fresh breeze on their faces to help blow away the terrible memory. The captain galvanised them to seek the end of their nightmare.

   Hour after hour went by and still the fog remained. The silence grew more powerful and overtook all thought. The eyes of the crew nervously flitted around checking for light within the fog. Several times the silence was broken by one of the crew loudly sniffing fearing they had caught a whiff of smoke, causing their other crewmates to prepare for an oncoming horror. Surely they could not long continue under such tension. It proved terribly so. One of the crew who had been especially jittery yelled in the silence, grabbed an unlit oil lamp and smashed it at his feet, spilling the oil over the deck and himself. From his pocket he grabbed a tinder box and began to spark it. His crewmates attempted to wrestle it from him and in the chaos he tipped overboard. Before hitting the sea a spark took to the oil he had doused himself in, and as he plummeted he became a ball of flame. The captain was incandescent and insisted that the ship make all haste and abandon the burning man lest his madness or his fire take in the rest of the crew. The ship carried on deeper into the fog, leaving their crewmate burning, and laughing in the sea.

   They became single minded. All that mattered now was escape. All their energy was put to moving the ship as fast as it could out of the fog and away from the burning. There seemed no end the miserable cloud. It was like they were in another world that knew only the enveloping darkness, where no subtle breeze or beam of light could penetrate. In this despair they were reminded what light could mean. From the midst of the fog there was a sickly glowing, and the smell of burning. The cursed ship was chasing them!

   Now they were truly desperate, maddeningly so. Arguments erupted. The discipline and training of an accomplished crew was gone. These were mortal men being chased by a nightmare. Some called for them to stop and fight, others claimed they should split the crew into the lifeboats. Surely some of them would be able to escape. As if in response to this flash of hope another light appeared, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then another. Like the heads of a hydra their number grew as encompassing as the fog.

   The crew slumped. There was no escape. Chaos ensued. Some leapt to the lifeboats in a last desperate attempt to flee. Some attempted to grab their comrades to make one last stand. They drew swords and muskets to fight. There was a crash from behind them as another of their number smashed another lamp on the deck and lit the oil. A musket shot to the chest set him flying overboard. The remaining crew grabbed all the water they had left to put out the flames before the whole ship was ablaze. Too late! They turned from this fire to see that the mast was a burning pyre, piled around it were barrels of gunpowder. They exploded showering the deck and crew in flame.

   Finally now the fog lifted to reveal the endless fleet of burning ships, the nightmare of the hellsea, and one more vessel for the armada of death. As the fire took the captain and his eyes came away from his new fleet he wondered when the match had got into his hand.

Five Ships

These are the stories of five ships. Five stories for five ships.

   Now these ships set sail together as one. They shared a common purpose, a common country. The night before they set sail the sailors shared bread and beer together. They shared stories of their previous journeys. The destination of these five ships was to be the same. Fate had other ideas.

   The reason these five ships have five different stories written about them instead of just one is that shortly after setting sail they encounter a storm. It is here that we also first encounter these ships and those sailing upon them. Now this is no ordinary storm, no mere weather formation. This is something different. It scatters our five ships further from each other than any of those aboard would have considered, to five completely different fates.

   As we will see though the ships set sail with one purpose in mind the men aboard those ships were there for many different reasons. Well if adventure, exploration of the unknown and unseen was one of those reasons dear reader, well they got it, and so much more.

   We begin with sea all around, and the storm upon the horizon.

Ship One

The first ship we shall encounter did not need the approaching storm to cause tension aboard. There was already enough of that. This ship was manned by sailors from the navy, soldiers from the army who were there to police the third, and largest group, the convicts. Whilst the rest of the crews celebrated their upcoming journey in one tavern or another, they were kept silent behind bars, staring out at the calm sea in the night.

   The captain of this ship stared at the oncoming storm and sneered. He saw it as a challenge, one which he would overcome. With luck he thought it may even claim some of the scum he had aboard his ship. They might be hoping for freedom at the end of their voyage, he was more than happy to free them from the bonds of life should any of them step out line on his ship. The prisoners knew this too. The sailors knew this. Now the storm was whipping up the sea.

   Also watching the horizon was the first mate. He viewed proceedings with more trepidation than his captain, for he had seen what was to come. Before they set sail he had been exploring the old town above the harbour having never been there before. He wound his way through narrower and narrower streets as his feet carried him as if guided by some unseen force, until he stepped into a dark room. In this dark room sat an old man, bent with age, skin wrinkled and dry, eyes milky. The old man did not seem surprised at the intrusion, in fact he seemed to be waiting for the first mate. He offered the young sailor a cup of tea as he stepped through his door and with the tea he offered to tell his fortune. The first mate had barely agreed when the old man sprang from his chair faster than a young man would have been able to and tapped the first mate on his head. Images flooded his mind. He saw the five ships ready to sail, he saw the captain and the convicts aboard the ship, heard the cheers from the crowds as they set sail, felt the sea air on his face as they left the harbour, saw the storm, and what came next. When he came to the old man was gone and the sun had set. He left the room and retraced his steps, burdened now with knowing what came next, and that he could do nothing about it.

   The storm hit. It was terrible. The captain yelled over the roar of the storm. The ship was a whirlwind of activity. Sailors, soldiers, and convicts alike ran here and there securing what could be secured. The captain yelled another order, and a convict was too slow to respond. The captain tipped him overboard. Everyone moved faster.

   The first mate was calm in the storm. He knew he survived this. Nothing would change that. Otherwise he would have been terrified as the others were. Waves towered above the ship and came crashing down on them dragging men away here and there. Where were the other ships? No one could see any of them. It did not matter to the first mate. He knew they would never see any of them ever again.

   While wind, rain, and seawater slapped viciously at his face, and the ship rocked and rolled, sometimes seeming like it would tip straight over, the first mate moved with ease to and fro, securing this or that rope, grabbing a sailor or convict’s hand before he was thrown to his doom. It made no difference, he knew that. What was he to do though in the midst of all this terror and destruction? The storm roared in his face, and he was too feeble to muster anything significant in return, and so he continued as his training had taught him.

   A noise split through the cacophony of the storm like thunder. The mast had split. It seemed to topple in slow motion at first before it came crashing down on the ship like a hammer. This was it the first mate knew as the mast fell and darkness came over all left aboard the ship.

   The storm had been an assault of cold and water, so as the first mate came to it was the heat, and how dry it was that he first noticed. His hands clutched at sand as he stirred. Slowly he opened his eyes to the blinding sun of a desert. Where waves had risen to touch the angry grey clouds now sand dunes met an endless expanse of blue, and sun at its centre.

   Whatever force had transported them here had tossed the first mate from the ship which lay broken on the desert a short way from him. His fellow shipmates lay scattered around the ship and were also now rising in confusion. After gazing perplexed at their new surroundings they looked instinctively to the ship where the captain stood now, scanning the horizon, searching for some suggestion of the sea he knew so well. The captain’s face moved between disbelief, anger, and reluctant acceptance. He looked at the mess of sailors, soldiers, and convicts below him on the desert floor and sought to reclaim the unexplainable situation. He began to bark and scream orders until a knife was drawn across his throat. The captain’s blood cascaded from the wound down the side of his ship and into the welcoming desert. One of the convicts had crept up behind him and now threw the dying captain from his ship to the desert floor.

   It was a call to action for those who had been transported to the desert. Before long more blood watered the dry desert which drank greedily. Some simply ran out into the desert seeing this as their only chance now for freedom. A group of convicts surrounded the first mate who had barely got to his feet. It did not matter that he was not the captain, that he had not treated them as the captain did, the captain was now dead and he received his mantle and all that came with it. The convicts beat him viciously until his blood mixed with the captain’s and fed the grateful desert.

   The first mate could not say how long he lay there in the desert. When he awoke the sun was still high in the sky, the only presence there, haughty in its dominance. Did it ever leave? There was no one left standing as far as he could see. Those who had fled were beyond his sight now. Several bodies littered the desert around him including the captain’s, now a mere husk. The desert had drank it’s fill of his blood and life.

   Shakily, the first mate raised himself to his feet, and set to walking. What else was there to do? He had to try and outrun the sun and the fate he had seen.

   So walk he did. Those who had escaped the ship already had ransacked it for everything of worth. He set off with only the clothes on his back. The sun hung there ever present, like an axe above his neck. Surely he had been in the storm only a few hours ago? That had been a storm of water, this was a storm of heat, strikingly different to the observer, being in it though he could only feel the similarities. The aggression of the world around him assaulting his senses, his life. He could drown in heat as easily as the sea.

   Staggering through the sand he began to see the results of disagreements. As the hours went by he passed one body after another, dry and consumed. The desert was thirsty.

   Through mile and mile of desert, up and over dune after dune the first mate persevered, rushing to outrun fate. He fell exhausted down the side a monumental dune, the sand burning and tearing his skin as he fell, tossing his body carelessly. Once he reached the bottom he picked himself up again. Dusting off the sand he looked up to see something on the horizon that was not yet more dunes. It was a city. He had seen it already. His desperation and determination grew. Here came fate. Not if he could help it. The first mate set off with as much vigour as he could muster, trudging through the sand that felt like it was trying to drag him down.

   There was a wildness to his gait now, like a wounded animal fleeing a predator. The number of bodies around him was growing again. The desert was also desperate not to let any meals escape. The first mate wondered if anyone had made it to the city. Between the relentless weight of the heat and the desert rising beneath him there was the sensation of being crushed. His eyes were growing dry so that even blinking felt like an effort. He focused on the city in front of him as his vision began to fail him. All he could do was keep his legs moving.

   He came close enough to the city that ever through his blurred vision he was able to make out some details of the city. He could see the differences in the buildings, the suggestion of their design, trees between some of them, the hint of sounds and smells extended cautiously out into the desert to him. He fell as he knew he would, on the cusp. As the desert began to drink him he looked up from the sand and saw how close he had come. No closer than he knew he would ever come. Just as he had seen in the old man’s house. It was as it ever would be. He had tried though. He had really tried.

We Live In Ruins

We sit underneath shattered rooftops and gaze out into a cosmic ceiling. The grandeur of this ruined place can now only be guessed at. Tonight, under the full splendour of the celestial sky it seems even more cowered. These crumbling buildings are like a sickly, rotting creature, meekly hiding from the potent glory of a much nobler being. As more stars appear in the night, and it seems as though the hand of god paints across the sky, I find I am all the more disgusted with my decrepit home.

   For this is my home, mine and who knows how many others. Certainly, there are not many of us. Not for a city of this size, not for what there must once have been. We are few and scattered; the thin, dry soil a drought leaves on once fertile land. We skulk from one skeletal shell of brick and wood to the next, searching for food and shelter, fearing anything else. We are as defeated and broken as the grey waste of the city we call home. How fitting it is that the greatest pleasure in my days now comes hidden in the darkness at the end. Just like the city, I too only exist at the end, in the deep, bleak night.

   What can daylight shine on here? Rubble, ruin, the remnants of a cataclysm. All here is fallen into disrepair. Every wall, every roof, every stair that has not already disintegrated into ash and waste is not trustworthy. Frequently the quiet, grave-like silence of the city is broken by the toppling of a roof or tower. There is a scream or yelp as a stair gives way, the crack of stone on stone, or bone, followed by the return of silence as dust rises into the air. This place is a torn and bloodied wedding dress, a cracked diamond. It is beauty carelessly maintained and withered by callous age. To all here it is obvious there was once greatness, but what is left now is so diametrically opposed to that as to render that history meaningless.

   So, who would live here? The unfortunate, the lost, the neglected, the shamed. People for who life was never meant to be good. Some of us may be the last remnants of whatever people it was who built and inhabited this place in its days of glory, now grown as mean and wasted as the city their ancestors once built so splendidly. Others have fled here from somewhere else. The horrors they must have left or created can and should only be guessed at if they were driven to this decaying corner of the world for solace. Most are like me, unfortunate enough to have simply been born here. No question, no choice, no hope, just the doom to live out our days in these tumble down remains and broken streets. Our lives are as fractured as the buildings we shelter in, our histories as forgotten as that of the city. Whether my parents were descended from those that built this place, or if they retreated here from some other unknown tragedy, or if they too were cursed to be born in this city I do not know. All I know is I was born in this place; I will die in this place. It is really as simple as that. The wheel turns and I cannot steer it, I cannot escape it, I can only be caught beneath it. There is no other choice for those who live in the city.

   The night is deep now. The darkness in the city is thick and close like smoke in your lungs. The lights of the cosmos are there only to taunt us. That’s alright. I have no need for light down here. I wear the darkness like armour. It protects me from the world around me, my world. With the decay around me hidden my mind can rise above it all and wander in pastures green. I can soar above all of this to wherever I will. I can walk in streets still paved and maintained, where the buildings and people stand tall and proud still, or I can traverse deserts that continue endlessly through time and space, uninterested in the whims and fortunes of people. In the dark I can be anywhere but here.

   Here. Here only ghosts now walk these streets in the night. Not just the ghosts of the people, the men women, and children, but also the ghosts of their hopes and dreams. In the air you hear whispers of the ghosts of conversations and laughter. The ghost of music dissipates across the years like the thinning sands of time. The ghosts of dogs and cats, horses and rats bark, whine, and whinny underneath the feet of the ghosts of their masters. There are the ghosts of shops and warehouses and the ghosts of the work done inside them. The ghosts of markets and commerce. The ghosts of laws wander unheeded through the ghosts of the streets they once policed. The ghosts of revolutions and wars lie forgotten with the ghosts of speeches and treaties. The ghosts of struggles and desperation are buried underneath all the struggle and desperation that has come since. Above all the ghosts of buildings stand watch over the ghost of this city that is dead but not gone. It remains in a shadowy, liminal, ghostly space the living should not tread.

   Leave the ghosts where they are. Whatever they do, whatever they want it is not for me to know or help. It cannot be anything good for me. So I leave the ghosts in all their forms to their business, and I keep mine, here in the dark, alone. Here where I am hidden and safe, no ghosts, only imaginings and dreams, and the tiny smouldering belief that that is enough to make a life worth living.

Sweet Dreams

There’s a ghost haunting me. Not my house: me. I don’t mean metaphorically either. This isn’t some jilted lover or a relative I wish I’d patched things up with. This is… Well I don’t really know what this is. All I know is there is a ghost in my head, and I am terrified.

   Yeah that’s fine, take a minute. It’s a lot to take in. Believe me I know. The fact you haven’t run off or laughed at me yet just proves I was right to tell you. I know you must be thinking about it though. Perhaps you’re thinking something even worse. I wouldn’t blame you for that either. I must admit I’ve thought worse myself. No you’re right. I’ll start from the beginning. That’s the only way any of this will make sense. But you must remember this ghost is haunting me. Nothing else. It is with me everywhere I go.

   So I haven’t always been haunted. No this is a recent career change. I have no idea when exactly it happened. It could have been 3 months ago when I woke up with a sudden chill in the night, or a couple of weeks after that when I walked passed that flooded church, when the ground in the cemetery shifted and all those bits and pieces rose to the surface. I just don’t know. There was no defined moment where I felt myself become haunted. The realisation came gradually. It was the nights. The dreams. I say dreams, they were more like a twisted form of memory of times and places I have never been. But they were so real in my mind. You know those dreams you have sometimes that are so vivid that when you wake from them you have to make an effort to remember who you are, where you are, and what’s real. It was like that but every night. Every day I woke up and didn’t recognise my room. I didn’t even recognise my face in the mirror. It was like I was standing in a stranger’s body. It was only when I stood there for a few moments, verifying it was me moving and making faces, only when I’d dragged my own memories to the fore that I felt settled. The first couple of days I laughed it off as some weird trip. After a week of that I was getting pissed off and a little worried to tell the truth. So I stopped drinking. Ha I knew you’d look like that. Cross my heart I haven’t had a drink since. God knows I’ve wanted to though. I really thought I’d drunk myself insane. So I stopped. But the dreams didn’t. The waking nightmare didn’t. It got worse.

   I’ve always been fascinated by lucid dreaming. Always wanted to do it. The drinking always messed that up for me. Half the time I’d be so pissed I couldn’t dream or just enough so that I didn’t think of any of the techniques you need to do it. But this was different. In these dreams I didn’t need to ground myself. I felt like I was walking on solid ground. I was walking on solid ground. I knew I was dreaming. Still it all seemed so real. Anyway every “dream” was the same. I was in a house I have never been in, a very old house. You could feel the age emanating from the timber and antiques it was filled with. It was night in the house as well. A dark night. Candles were poor wardens against the darkness. They gave just enough light so I could walk slowly around. As I went I heard sounds, muffled like they were always coming through from the other side of a wall, and sort of ethereal, fluid like when you’re about to pass out. They were the sounds of laughter and conversation, the scrape of cutlery on dinner plates and the clinking of wine glasses. It was the sound of a party. There was a violin, or some type of string instrument being played. It should have been a cheerful sounding tune but the strange effect on the sound made it sound mockingly mournful. I did my best to get away from that sound and explored the rest of the house. It was all dark, cobwebbed, dusty on the floor, the furniture was all covered with dust sheets. It was the same everywhere in the house. Every night I wound up there. Every night I walked through the same corridors and rooms. I got bored with it truthfully. So one night I decided to see where the party was. I really wish I hadn’t done that.

   I walked with determination at first, through the corridors before I came to the entrance hall with its grand staircase. I immediately slowed my stride as I took the steps down. Uncertainty crept into my heart. I could hear the laughter and music, so warped and unsettling getting louder. It was one of those times when your legs and brain don’t want you to keep going. “Stop!” they say, “don’t do it! This isn’t right, this isn’t safe. Just turn around before it’s too late!”

   I don’t know if it was bravery, or defiance, or rebellion that kept me going. Maybe I was just bored of seeing the same dusty corridors and rooms every night. But I kept going down those stairs, turned at the bottom, walked right up to the big double doors, the only room I hadn’t been in, where all that strange noise was coming from. The laughter, the music, the clinking of plates and glasses all got louder and louder as I approached the doors. Too loud. It surely wouldn’t have been that loud even if I’d already been in the room. It made my breathing heavy and my heart race, but by this point my course was locked in. I stepped right up to the door with the sound swelling to a crescendo. As I touched the brass door knob the laughter became an ear-splitting scream. I turned the knob and the door swung open with ungodly force and I was thrown away. It happened so quickly I didn’t even see properly into the room. All I saw was the ceiling, bathed in the orange light of a fire, shadows writhing and frantic, and blood. I saw the blood, splattering so high I could see it even as I went flying backwards.

   As I landed the doors whipped closed again. I was thankful they did. I had no intention of ever going in that hall now. Not after the brief look at the scene I had been shown. For a few moments I just lay there, petrified, all the wind had been knocked out of me. In those moments I had completely forgotten that this was a dream, forgotten everything about me. I just lay there trying to breath and not cry.

   It was good for me that I didn’t make a sound as I lay there. As I was flung from the open door, unable to see properly what horrors were unfolding within I had not realised that something had come out. I lay there silently; all I could hear was my own breath and the thud thud thud of my beating heart until another sound shattered that uneasy quiet. A footstep, heavy on the creaking would. I turned my head and saw it…the ghost! Tall and shrouded in a muddy and torn cloak walking away from me. Every footstep it took rattled the world around me. At its side it carried, with as little care as you or I would carry our shopping, an axe, dripping with blood, coated with hair and bone and other unrecognisable pieces. The ghost rounded the corner and only then did I move. I wasn’t bored any longer. I wasn’t wandering the house hoping to find something interesting. I was terrified and I moved to stay alive and keep away from that terrible creature.

   When I awoke the next day the return to my own life was even harder. I couldn’t reconcile the room I was in, the life I was in with the thoughts, feelings, and experience in my head. The door to my room frightened me. How could I open that? What would I let out? Eventually though I did. For good or bad the ghost was in my head and not out here I convinced myself. I pulled myself slowly out of that house and back into my life.

   Until the night-time and it started all over again. I had hoped that perhaps the ghost would not remain released, would somehow be trapped in that hall again. But once it’s out it stays out. My night was spent sneaking around, checking corners, and hiding in rooms, praying the ghost would not find me, then waking and having no idea who I was or where I was.

   I know this all sounds like it’s just bad dreams. It’s not. I feel it. I live it. That house, that ghost, they’re in me. And it got worse. Like I said every night I spent trying to avoid the ghost as it wandered the house. After a few nights though it felt like it wasn’t looking for me but for something else. Again my curiosity became too strong and rather than avoid the ghost I followed it, watched it as it walked slowly around the house. The axe was still there. Its steps were heavy, far heavier than it looked like it should be as if it was weighed down by more than it’s physical, or metaphysical form. Why do I call it a ghost if it seems to have a physical impact? Death. The stench, the feeling, call it what you will but some sense of death emanated from it. Just as the age of the house was such you could feel it so to was the death from this ghost. It was dead, and it had caused death. For me a living creature it felt like a combustible and volatile element, like matter coming into contact with anti-matter. I just intrinsically knew the deadness in this ghost.

   Anyway, I followed the ghost, careful as I could be. It was searching for a way out. I saw it every night go to the front door, a large wooden exit with a heaving looking handle. The ghost reached out with a still shrouded hand, twisted, and tugged at the handle. But the door never budged. The ghost let the handle drop with a heavy clang and walked off silently. It tried other doors, windows but it was always frustrated and continued to search those halls every night. Until I made a mistake.

   I’m sorry give me moment. It’s just this is where the terror gets too much, it’s too much. And now you’ll really think I’m crazy. Bad as all of this was at least it was contained. I only had to deal with it at night and then drag myself back to reality in the morning. I messed up and after that it all spilt over.

   Again I followed the ghost on its fruitless search for an exit to the house. God damn my curiosity and boredom. If you go searching for something the universe always provides, even if it’s not what you were expecting or wanting. I wanted something more than just nights spent following a ghost and I got it. I saw it go into a room and tiptoed behind it at a safe distance. As it pawed at the window I crept slowly into the room as well, which I had not done before. When it went into rooms I would wait at the threshold. I inched my way into the room staring solidly at the ghost, not seeing the table and covered vase next to the doorway. I knocked into the table, heard the vase wobble, and ran. As I fled down the corridor I heard the vase smash and footsteps, heavy, rapid, searching footsteps. The ghost knew it wasn’t alone anymore.

   I spent the rest of the night hidden inside a wardrobe, clenching the wood so hard chips of wood stuck under my fingernails. The footsteps of the ghost rattled around the house as it looked for me. I stayed in that wardrobe until I woke in my bed the next morning. It was the hardest it had been yet to bring myself back to reality that morning, even more so had there were chips of wood under my fingernails. Even later that day when I remembered who I was and where I was I could still see chips of wood from an ancient wardrobe on my bed where I had pulled them out from under my fingernails.

   Now I carried the weight of the ghost with me everywhere. As I went about my day I heard a constant thudding of footsteps as the ghost searched around my head. If I became distracted and daydreamed the world in front of me seemed to morph into a corridor from the house. I had constant headaches like something was trying to burst out of my head. I spoke to doctors, to therapists. They did tests and scans, gave me pills and advice and nothing worked, nothing changed. I got so tired. So very tired. Every night my sleep was spent running and hiding, terrified. My days I was so tired and on edge as the world around me and the world in my head blurred. I was reaching my breaking point.

   The house was a maze, and I was exhausted, I was bound to slip up. I had fled from the ghost almost catching me to where I thought was far from it and would allow me to find a room to hide in for some respite. I came to the end of a long corridor which was not empty. Stood tall and grim at the other end was the ghost, the axe by its side, cloak covering all apart from its face. My god that face. Hideous, rotting, malevolent. It stared me down and instantly understood its predicament, what it was and where it was. I have never run like that with such abject desperation. The footsteps pursued behind me shaking the house, my head, and my heart.

   That was it. From then I saw the face of the ghost everywhere. Even when I was awake if I closed my eyes it was there. If I looked in a mirror I saw it staring back. The ghost knew me, it recognised me. I don’t know how or why. It seemed pleased to know me, as if this gave it great satisfaction. Which of course is even worse. I can understand the ghost evil as it is delighting in torturing anyone. But why should it recognising me provide it with added pleasure? I don’t deserve this! I’ve not done anything wrong, never hurt anyone, not really, certainly not this ghost. I’ve never done a thing to this ghost. I’ve never done any- Oh my god your face it’s just like-

I wake screaming from another bad dream. For a few moments I forget myself, who I am and where I am. The sight of my own chambers terrify me. Soon though the contents of the dream are fading, even if the feeling is not. I try to capture the imaginings of my dream in my waking memory. It is all so disjointed and strange I cannot make sense of it. It is a dream about dreaming, and there is fear, and a ghost, and something about a face which escapes me. There are places I have never been and contraptions and clothing the likes of which are so strange I cannot even hold them in my mind, and they are already gone. One part that does stick is my family home, only not as it is. In the dream it is older, decrepit, covered in dust and disuse. The splendour I remember of it is not there. As I look around my chambers I am reminded of how things actually are and forget the dream. That’s all it is, a bad dream. Never mind I have been having a lot of them recently. I look to one side and see the near empty carafe of whiskey. “That explains it,” I think. I look to the other side and see my brother’s naked wife still sleeping. “That also explains it,” I think, the guilt returning once more so I reach for the carafe.

   I ruminate on the situation as I lay there sipping whiskey and stroking her bare back. Of course I feel guilty. I am no monster. It is just unfortunate that he is elder really. Tradition demanded he be given first choice of everything, that he would be the head of the household and demand only the finest in everything as befit his position. If he is a dullard, a dimwit, a drain on any who come in contact with his faulty personality then really for the good of the family and all involved it is only proper that I step into the breach and step up where he has failed. Still, I do feel guilty that it need be done.

   Slowly, as the whiskey eases me and the bad dream fades, I remember that today is my birthday and there will be a party later in the great hall. As the thrill of this lifts me and my brother’s wife rolls over and on top of me I begin to think that today will be quite the day after all.

   The party is a raucous affair. The room is abuzz with chatter, laughter, the clatter of glasses to many a toast, and music that swirls around as fast as one bottle of champagne after the next. Best of all it seems that my brother has decided against coming back from his hunting trip for the party. Naturally I do not do anything openly with his wife at the party. But if my hand lingers a little, or I make a risqué comment or two there is no one to see or hear about it who cares.

   It is late in the night. The fire is burning low so that there is an orange glow across the room and the outside seems all the darker for it. My guests are still dancing but after the flow of wine they are rather more writhing and unrhythmic in their revelry. I am looking for my brother’s wife as I felt it was quite late enough to sneak off with her when I see her, or rather I see her head roll across the floor to my feet. No one really seems to know what has happened. Those that have are so drunk and shocked they just stare as my brother stands there tall and wild, covered in his hunting cloak and rain and dirt, an axe dangling at his side, a terrible, wild look on his face. For some reason the violinist keeps playing.

   I cannot say a word, nor does anyone else as my brother starts swinging his axe, severing a limb here, splitting a face there. The violinist keeps playing. Now people start screaming and trying to run. I back up slowly, unable to run. I can hear in the entrance all my guest’s fists hammering on the front gate, he must have locked it.

   My brother strides up to me and knocks me down and through the doorway to the great hall. Lying on my back his cloaked form fills my vision. As he lifts his axe so easily above his head the shame of what I have done, and the fear of what is going to happen overwhelm me. My brother laughs. “Sweet dreams, brother,” he cackles, “sweet dreams.”

Sing In Hell

How terrible it is to destroy a dream. How callous and perverse to take that which has been held and pursued for so long, that which has been nurtured and cared for, that has dragged nations and generations onwards and upwards, and corrupt it. We dreamed such a beautiful dream, didn’t we? But that precious flower was not protected against the storms of our own lesser desires. It was torn and mutilated into something ugly. The dream came true as a nightmare, and the taste of victory was like ashes. We are human and we should have remembered that when we went into our dreams and out to the stars we take all that it is to be human with us. Perhaps the heavens should have been closed to us until we have learnt to leave all that shames and degrades us in our past and remember to take with us only that greatness that we have created and won through long hard roads, and that beautiful flame we have been intrinsically blessed with. Perhaps, this is just another stop on the way down that road, and I am just unfortunate to have been taunted with the possibility of the dream coming true. As my life leaves me, I will choose to believe this is only a temporary darkness and that the dream, so dearly paid for already, simply required a little more sacrifice, so that it might finally come true. I will believe this. I have to.

   The dream had swooped into reality on whirring drones that filled the skies above cities all over Earth. They covered the open spaces, the parks, lakes, squares and riversides, and filled the narrow gaps between skyscrapers in the largest cities. As images started moving on the huge screens the drones formed, and music filtered down from them on high the planet stopped.

   The world watched as a procession of the history of exploration and flight was played to us accompanied by a soft, lilting melody. We watched as boats and canoes spread across the Earth and civilization followed to all corners. Next came the Wright brothers, Amelia Earhart, and Yuri Gagarin. Man walked on the Moon and the music was cut through by those famous words we all knew. The images flashed by faster, and the music matched them, and the tempo and intensity picked up. There were flags of nations on Mars, Venus, and the moons of Jupiter. Pictures of the deep blue of Neptune, taken not by a drone or probe, but by a camera held by a human being not ten years ago filled the screens. The music soared as we saw the recent video of the Sun taken from the surface of Pluto. Pictures and videos sped across faster and faster as we saw figures in space suits jumping up and down on the surface of Kuiper Belt objects, taking space walks amongst the rings of Saturn, and on the scorched surface of Mercury. The music built and built. This was incredible we all thought as one. We felt like conquerors.

   The crescendo came with an artificial, though still inspiring image of the Solar System as a whole, with the planets, dwarf planets, and other features exaggerated in size to fill the picture. The Sun and all the rest became stylized, gold on a black background, a logo no one had ever seen before. In gold lettering underneath came the words “SOLAR CORP”, which then faded out to be replaced by the phrase “the dream has become the reality”.

   The music faded out, the picture turned to black, and the screens pulled back to reveal the thousands of drones which glided off, leaving behind blue skies or clouds or the night depending on what part of the world they were in. All over the planet people were suddenly withdrawn from the revelry they had been held in and confronted with reality again. As they stood gawking up at the sky which was the same as it had been only a few minutes ago they wondered as one what this new reality was.

   It was all anyone could talk about for days, for weeks. How could it not be? The instant after they gathered themselves everyone had taken to their phones, tablets, and displays to find out anything and everything they could about Solar Corp. It was astounding. The richest, most powerful people in the world had been working together for years, pouring finances and resources into space exploration. All the major expeditions and discoveries that had been ostensibly under the banner of other companies or nations had been actually directed by them. They had wanted their results to speak for their movement so that their goal would not be scrutinized and imperilled by public opinion or “false theories”. That goal was quite simply to make the dream of humanity travelling and living beyond the bounds of Earth’s atmosphere a reality.

   The first steps had already been taken. Astronauts had spent months, years even on space stations, the Moon, Mars, and on trips to the furthest reaches of the Solar System and back. But this was different. Solar Corp was not talking about sojourns or expeditions. They wanted nothing less than colonization, for us to take our civilization out into the stars. People openly wept at the prospect of being pioneers, the first of our species to live beyond the bondage of our planet’s atmosphere. The “too good to be true” sceptics were swiftly silenced as governments and world leaders, activists and celebrities announced their support for the project. They said they had been shown the proof by Solar Corp that this was not pie in the sky but very much possible, and many announced their intention to apply.

   The application was the only factor that tempered expectations. Firstly, it would be limited, at least in the first wave, to ten thousand applicants, which was a miniscule drop compared to the ocean of billions who wanted to go. Solar Corp though promised places for millions in the coming years. Secondly was the cost which although not astronomical, was substantial. For some it would be pocket change, for others it would be their life savings. The promise from Solar Corp was that even if it took every penny you had it would not matter as they were intent on building a new society, where the currencies of the past would no longer matter, and you would have a whole new opportunity to prove and build your worth.

   The final sticking point was the terms and conditions, which were voluminous. Some points stuck out and were seized upon. You could not bring any belongings with you, nothing, not even the clothes on your back. Solar Corp would provide you with everything you needed. This was still the early days of pioneering you had to understand, they said. Space, weight, even air was at a premium on these infant colonies. There was no need to worry though, Solar Corp would hold and look after all of your possessions and in the future, when it would undoubtedly be possible, they would return them to you. As for contacting those you left behind, Solar Corp assured that they would provide means of communication with the home world themselves.

   There were numerous other minor points and phrases which raised some eyebrows, but they were quickly dealt with by Solar Corp. The world was satisfied. This was happening, and I wanted so badly to be a part of it.

   I watched the first rockets taking off, bitterly disappointed not to be going with them. “Next time,” I thought.

   The next time the rockets took off, so many more this time, I was even more disappointed. A hundred thousand went this time. People I knew had been chosen in this ballot. Tariq who owned the corner shop, and Vanessa who I had slept with once and worked in a little pub in New Cross. The cruelty of random choice. I hoped it would work to my benefit the next time.

   Imagine my disbelief reading the email. I had been chosen! I was going! I just stared at the email for ages. A week from then I would be shooting off of this planet to a new life in the asteroid belt. I poured over the pictures of the spacious space station. There were hundreds of happy faces of every age, race, and gender, all living in harmony in this new space society. A paradise for the outcasts and the accepted equally. Humanity as it should be. It looked like a cross between a shopping mall and one of those gentrified sections of London, clean, and spacious. The one small difference was the huge, windowed ceilings that looked straight out into space.

   After that came a strange feeling of limbo. Nothing else I had to do on Earth felt like it mattered. I quit my job, said farewell to the few close friends I had, but assured them that I would speak to them again as soon as I could. I hadn’t been close to my family since I had come out, but I let them know I was going anyway and tossed their short, perfunctory reply in with the rest of the emotional baggage I carried from them. After that all I could do was wait. Solar Corp would take care of everything else.

   The coach Solar Corp sent was nearly full by the time it came for me. Dozens of people, some smiling, some crying tears of joy, some singing, some praising their god or gods. I cried softly and silently, then loudly with laughter as I watched the video they played showing previous applicants arriving on one of the colonies. How blessed I felt.

   It was a short drive from the London suburbs out into the Kent countryside where the rockets were waiting for us. There we were greeted by happy, smiling Solar Corp employees who directed us where to go to change into the approved clothing and store our old clothes. Taking my Earth clothes off felt like stripping off an old life.

   There were thousands of people leaving just from the UK. The ballot this time had selected over a million people across the planet to go. There was a buzz in the air of excitement from the selected. Inspiring music played from speakers across the huge site, and Solar Corp staff talked loudly and excitedly about what to expect when we arrived.

   In less than an hour we were ushered onto our rocket. We were fastened into seats and told cheerily that once we had left the atmosphere, we would be able to get up and walk about the rocket and be shown our quarters for the weeklong trip to the asteroid belt. Giddy excitement sizzled throughout my fellow passengers. There was shouting and singing. I looked at complete strangers and beamed at them imagining our lives together.

   The Solar Corp staff backed out of the rocket smiling and waving. The doors closed behind them.

   Everything changed.

   I was just being silly I told myself. I was nervous and excited. Of course, the lights went off. I didn’t know why they did but there had to be reason. Red lights came on painting us in a terrible glow. Something felt strange in here now. All the branding and comfort I had seen in all the other Solar Corp advertising was missing.

   I did not have long to think about this before we took off. The g-force pulled at my body and organs. Some people passed out; others vomited. Soon though it settled as we left the atmosphere. Relief flooded the room. We waited patiently to be unbuckled or to be told something, anything to do next. But nothing happened. People started shouting and screaming. The man next to me ripped and pulled at his harness. I cried again but not softly and not for joy.

   That week was hell. Our cries and screams went unanswered. Tubes descended twice a day for each of us to be fed and watered, and twice a day our seats opened for our excretions. The smell was soon horrific. After a day or two, who could tell, I heard a rumour that someone had died. A day or two after that the woman next to me did die. I thought we all would.

   Eventually, at the point when I did not know if I was alive or dead, there was a judder that went through the room. We had docked. The doors opened and light poured in. I thought it was God. Hope briefly flooded my senses that the dream would begin anew and that all of this had been some terrible mistake.

   An emotionless voice rang out. “In a moment, your harnesses will be released. You will stand up and walk out to the assembly area and stand in line to await further instruction. Failure to comply will be dealt with severely,” the voice announced. Several of us fell as we used our legs for the first time in a week and had to almost crawl out of the rocket. One man struggled valiantly to his feet and lolloped as fast as he could out and screamed, “what the fuck is going on?” A slight hiss was made by something and the man dropped to the floor clutching his neck, not moving. There was a dart embedded in his flesh.

   Numb, the rest of us fell into line with body lying at our feet. The voice spoke again. “By now you will have realized you have been deceived. This deception was necessary to ensure our work can be completed, and that you play your part in that. Humanity is going to the stars, that much is true, and inevitable. But for that dream to become true much sacrifice is needed. Civilization must be built from the ground up. Homes, infrastructure, agriculture, manufacturing will all be started from scratch in far harsher conditions than on Earth. It is for this reason you have been brought here. You will create this new stage of human society with your own hands. The vast, untapped resources of the solar system will be your tools. We will provide you with access to them, you will provide the rest of our species and descendants with a manifested dream. Failure to comply will be dealt with severely,” the voice finished abruptly. A door opened, and we walked through it.

   It was a prison pure and simple. They could try and dress it up as a noble, necessary sacrifice for the species if they wanted but all we were was prisoners and fodder. In fact, it was worse than that. Any prisoner on Earth had some hope of escape across land or sea. Out here escape led only to cold vacuum. At that point I did not seriously consider that escape.

   We worked all the time. Disembodied voices guided us through our tasks on factory lines, refining chemicals and minerals, and operating machinery with no training. Accidents and fatalities were frequent. We were allowed breaks only to ensure the labour force was not killed off entirely too quickly. That was still not enough for some and day after day I saw body after body removed by silent, wheeled drones that swept them up with the rest of the dirt and debris.

   Death was ever present. It hung low like smoke filling a burning building. The phrase “failure to comply will be dealt with severely,” was heard constantly, as was its enaction. Not a day, hardly even an hour went by without hearing that hiss and someone would drop dead, a dart in their neck. Hidden hands passed swift judgement on us from somewhere, absent, and above our pain and terror. We were “dealt with” for almost any reason: working too slow, putting down tools to often, acting surly or insolent, weeping, fighting, hugging; the definition of “failure to comply” was broad and cruel. I saw an old man struggling to his feet fall back into his chair with a dart in his neck. A teenage girl had her arm crushed in a machine and struggled manically to continue to work for almost an hour before she fell and was swept away.

   After a few weeks I realised a new layer to the horror. Often during the “night” you would hear screams that you could guess the reasons for. Stories went around of the rapes of women that went unpunished by the darts, and in our fear we were aghast that this crime was apparently the only one not punished. How could this be allowed yet, when I saw two men consoling and kissing each other they were cut down with a dart each. It seemed this broken place was beyond the comprehension of knowable evil. My realisation came after I had seen three pregnant women instructed by the voice to go through a door that was closed the rest of the time, and that no one else went through. They each came back days later, childless. Crimes could be permitted if they would add to the labour force. Love could not be allowed if it were not efficient.

   I withdrew into myself, drifting through each day, fooling myself that hard work and meekness would be rewarded. Gradually this forced optimism was replaced with the grim, base need for survival. There would be no reward but there might be rescue. Of course, thoughts of release also drifted into my mind. It would be as easy as standing up from my workstation and a dart to the neck would set me free. I saw that happen often enough. The simplicity, the finality of it was so appealing. It would be over, I would be over, and hope would die with me. Another would replace me, and the wheel of cruelty would keep rolling. If the only revolt I had against the tyranny of greed was the beat of my heart then I would use it. I would consider every breath a victory even if I were the only one to celebrate it. If my death would not be regretted, and was even expected, then my life was all the more precious to me.

   I could not become numb to the pain and death of this place. But I had become used to it. The revulsion was still there but the shock was gone. My mind was able to wander again. I wondered if the people we were building this civilisation for would care, if they would even know, that it had been built upon our blood and bones. I thought about the civilisation I had been a part of. How deep down did the blood and bones go?

   How many months had it been? Could it have been years? There were few if any faces from when I had first arrived. But there was a steady stream of new ones to replace them and die as their predecessors had. Lights came on and then went off and that was the only measure of time in this windowless box. My face would surely tell the toll of however long it had been, though I had not seen it since I had come here. I wondered if I would even recognise myself now.

   Distracted by my musing’s tragedy struck. My hand was caught in a piece of machinery I was feeding materials into and mangled. I pulled out the wreck of my hand and stared at it and then looked around my prison. A strange calmness I had never known before settled over me. I had been true to my resolve and not given in. Fate or luck had decided to free me. I could almost feel the dart aiming at my neck. Unburdened of all the horror and the weight of the fight I can only think how there is no music here. Even in hell there should be music I have decided in my delirium. One last act of defiance. One last attempt to stop the wheel of cruelty turning. I dreamed such a beautiful dream and I choose to continue to dream it even if I am shaken violently awake. I will stand and sing the first song in hell and give voice to the dream in the face of the nightmare. I have to.

The Tragedy of a Hangover

The hangover would kill him, he was sure of it. If not, he was already dead, and this was hell. Focussing his eyes on a single image took so much effort he considered the achievement of this a major success. Gaining verticality was positively a triumph. As the pounding in his head became incessant, the hungover man decided this would not do and set off to change this sorry situation.

   Entering his kitchen, the fridge shone like a treasure chest. He decided to ignore the devastation of his kitchen, that would be a problem for his future self. The most pressing matter was bacon! He opened the fridge and was met with a terrible sight. Butter, milk, cheese, Thai curry paste, strawberries, “fucking peppers!” he exclaimed with more venom than the vegetables deserved, but no bacon. This really would not do, his survival depended on the consumption of bacon. He reached a terrible conclusion. He had to leave the house.

   With a sense of dread, he dressed with no consideration for fashion and went out into the world. It was an arduous journey. The morning was late and there were lots of people about and they all wanted to say hello. Nevertheless, he ploughed on with great determination. In what must have been a record time he went to the shops, bought some bacon, and made it back home safely. Everything would soon be alright.

   With an eagerness that would have scared a serial killer, he tore into the bacon. He opened his cupboard for his frying pan, and found nothing. Memory rushed back. He would never be able to say why he had drunkenly given away his kitchenware to his friends, barely holding back the tears, he prayed they hadn’t disconnected his oven again.

Chasing the Sun

Come with me on a journey through light, and darkness.

   I was born with the sun high in the sky. It stood there tall and immovable every day, shining light down upon us. Our land was bathed in this cascade of light, clean and vital, like a polished jewel. Trees grew lofty, reaching up to the life-giving sun, with branches thick and strong to hold the load of rich and full fruit they grew. This fruit was like mouthfuls of the sun itself. Every bite you felt course through your body and spread the light into your soul. There were fields like oceans that flowed across the land, and for every field there was a great store house for the bounty they brought us.

   It was not just the crops that flourished under the sun. My people prospered too. Every day we woke with the sun as it began its determined ascent to the pinnacle of the sky, safe in the knowledge it would shine down on our lives nourishing us and blessing our lives. Every day we feasted and danced. When we tired of dancing we feasted, and when we were full from feasting we danced. When life is so blessed what else is there to do but celebrate it? We celebrated our fortune, our security, and most of all we celebrated the sun, the source of all of our blessings. The sun had always been there and it always would be. Even the ground beneath our feet could be torn up, taken away, and changed. The sun though as much as it was a beacon of life, was a symbol of permanence. Just as our ancestors had lived, loved, and danced illuminated by its rays, so to would our descendants. We took this for granted. It was not even considered that there was an alternative. We were so sure our paradise would last eternally. Just as anyone who becomes blinded and coddled by certainty, the revelation that we were wrong was made even more shocking.

   One day when I was ten years old, I woke with the first licks of sunlight lapping at my face through the open window the same as every day. Except today something felt wrong, and I did not know what. I tried to shake the feeling but could not. As I went about our town, I realised everyone felt the same. No one could pinpoint why but something felt off. The day went on and as the sun carried on rising as normal, and no reason for the strange feeling became apparent we carried on. The next day was the same, a strange feeling with no obvious reason and no real problem. The day after followed the same pattern, and those that followed that. The feeling of foreboding became stronger and harder to shrug off until it became a permanent worry. The sun kept on shining but a cloud of suspicion fell over us. The dancing stopped. The feasting ceased. Still nothing happened. No problem meant there was no solution that could be sought and the gloom in the light deepened.

   Weeks passed us by without cheer and left us in a maddening state of in between, neither day nor night, no future and no past. At long last the reason became apparent. As the sun had given us life it had also controlled our lives. Its permanence was a guide, and a comfort. Every day it rose and set. The path it followed never changed. Every day was as long as the next. It could always be relied upon. Except now it seemed it could not. The days were getting shorter. That was why we had all felt so strange. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. At the start it had only been only a few minutes difference. But it may as well have been hours. Even such a small change was as fundamental as up becoming down, we just had not been able to recognise it. Now after weeks had passed and we had lost over an hour it was undeniable. In short order worry became blind panic. There were only more unanswerable questions: why was this happening? Would it keep getting worse? What would happen to us if it did get worse? No answers, only new days with new fears.

   One day, if it could even be called day anymore, I sat gazing up at the sun willing it to give me answers to what was happening. Its silence was as infuriating as its brightness. It was still the same sun! It still shone down upon us with brilliant life-giving light as ever it had done. Why then did it now speed across the sky in such a hurry as if it wanted to get away from us as quickly as possible? Had we done something wrong? It was silent. The sun carried on shining as ever and moving, imperceptibly so, further and faster away. What had once seemed like a benevolent and selfless well was now cruel and indifferent. My own small worries and anger did nothing to stop it on its speeding path down beyond the mountains that marked night.

   Life stopped. My people had always risen with the sun. As it rose later so too did we, losing more and more time to sleep, and avoiding our new reality. When we did rise it was not the same. Before we had grabbed each day with the warmth and energy one greets a friend, and moved forward confidently. Now lethargy sapped us all. Fruit still grew on the trees. The fields were still bountiful. We left them that way though. Why bother? Those that could muster the will or energy to leave their houses wandered like sleeping souls, lost in the world of waking. We had become ghosts that did not belong. The quiet of a graveyard permeated the silence, the sound of feasting and dancing was already long forgotten. Worse still, the days grew ever shorter, speeding up the cycle of misery. More days passed, and they only grew darker.

   Gradually the sun seemed to tire as much as us. It no longer rose high and proud across the sky. Now it slinked lazily, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps tired, low and impotent. It streaked passed us a shadow of its former self. I still looked at it every day. My earlier anger and frustration had been replaced with pity. The sun had blazed a glorious path, dominating the sky, the jewel in the heart of the crown. Now it was like a wounded animal, limping off to die. With all my strength I urged it to remember its strength, to recover the majesty that had given it the power to give life to us. I wanted it to fight. It seemed like it was just giving in to whatever was happening. I couldn’t believe that. I could not allow that. Sadly, it seemed like I was the only one. Everyone else was being dragged down the same as the sun. They woke later and later, they slept earlier and earlier. While they were awake they were as limp and impotent as the sun. No one even talked about what was happening, let alone what could be done about it. Surely something could be done about it?

   Clouds began to gather, and once they came, they did not leave. The days became even darker. It seemed every time we thought it could not get worse it did. The clouds compounded the nightmare we now lived in. Some feeble light still managed to crawl through their suffocating barrier, but it brought no warmth, no life. Our world which had become sick was now dying. The fields and trees that had been lush with colour turned black and died. In a bitter twist of irony these hateful clouds seemed to rise from beyond the distant mountains, those same mountains behind which the sun sank at the end of every day. What malevolence was in those mountains that could give rise to poisonous clouds and sap the sun of its strength? The question begged an answer, and there was only way to find that answer.

   No one even raised an eyebrow as I prepared for my journey, let alone said anything. They were just corpses waiting for their coffins at this point. Some were in coffins. Death seemed to permeate the air. The cloud only grew thicker and the sun weaker. Day and night bore no importance any more, neither could be distinguished from the other, just black turning to shades of grey, and my people with it. But I still remembered dancing until my feet ached. I remembered eating so much my whole body felt warm with satisfaction. I remembered the light so dazzling and brilliant it called to your soul to live! I still remembered what this world could be, what it should be, and while I could remember that I would not let it go.

   It was early in the morning when I set off. At least I thought it was, though it could just as easily have been in the afternoon, who could tell anymore. I was scared, of course I was. I had no idea what I would find at my journeys end, or if would even make it to my journeys end. In the deepening night there had been noises beyond our town, hideous wails and howls that were bone chilling. I could only hope that whatever monsters lurked in the dark world left me alone and missed my tiny presence. In spite of all my fears I felt better than I had since the sun had started failing. The prospect of action, an attempt at affecting change, spurred me and lifted my spirits. It might all be for nothing but that did not matter. I would not be an impotent bystander to this calamity. I would do what I could, and that would be enough for me.

   I slipped out like a ghost among ghosts. No one noticed no one cared, apart from me. Hopefully they would care when I returned. If…

   My buoyant mood soon faded as I went out into the world. Death and decay were everywhere. It wasn’t that I was expecting it be otherwise. But to see so much, and for it to continue unrelenting as I went, it weighed on me. The enormity of the crisis was impressed on me more and more as the miles went. I began to wonder if the world was not dying, but already dead. Was I going to try and seek a cure for a disease, or to attempt a resurrection? Everywhere was brown and black. Rivers and streams if they ran at all were sickly trickles of poison. Trees which had once grown full with fruit, their branches bushy with leaves and life, were now stripped bare. They stood empty, cruel skeletons, with thin, scratching branches that reached down at me like claws. This world had become harsh and dangerous, and anything that survived in it still had become so too.

   What progress I made was hideously slow. All my short life I had lived marching to the beat of the sun. It rose early and set late, blazing gloriously, firing life. While I was more determined than anyone else from my town, I could not change the habits of a lifetime so easily. If the sun now rose late, so did I. Its light was so weak that it often did not wake me as it rose, and it was late into the short days before I stirred, with only a few hours before it set again, and my energy also waned. This was not good enough. The days were still growing ever shorter, and I began to fear and expect the day where the sun would not rise. I needed to get to the mountains before then. If I continued like this I would not and I would be lost wandering blindly in the dark. The sun set and I kept going. My body and mind cried out to stop in the darkness. But I kept my feet going forward, a few more miles every night in spite of every instinct telling me it was wrong. The next change was even harder as I forced my body to wake when the sun had not even risen. Every part of me rebelled against this. I felt ill. My people just weren’t meant to exist without the sun. As terrible as I felt, as hard as it made it to continue this only spurred me on more. How could it not? These hardships which I was going through only proved how necessary it was to save the sun. I was struggling to survive like this, and I still had the luxury of a few precious hours of poor sunlight. When the sun did not rise it would mean the end for everyone I knew and loved. So, I carried on. I shouldered the burdens knowing that the alternative was far worse.

   The world of night was a terrifying place. My eyes were now useless as I wandered blind. I relied on my hands and feet, feeling my way along the miles, just trying avoid tripping over a root or falling into a pit, not always successfully. When I could see in the half-light, I could not trust my sight as every tree became a murderer standing over me with a knife, and every boulder a snarling monster. The bats were the worst. They came flapping out of the darkness to hound me, sending me running and inevitably falling. Without my sight every sound became more noticeable, and more terrifying. Wind blowing through the trees was translated by my ears as the fearsome rush of an attack. The rustling of leaves signalled some banshee was floating towards me to steal my soul. Eventually the mental and physical strain would be too much and I would collapse in some hole or crevice, left at the mercy of this cruel world I found myself in. But I would wake every day, not quite safe, not quite whole, yet still able to continue. So, tired, alone, and terrified, I did continue, because I had to.

   At long last I reached the mountains. The ground began rising up to meet them. I looked back towards my home, but it was already lost in the night. The sun was somewhere behind the clouds above me and would soon slink away behind the mountains again to leave me in complete darkness again. This was an evil place. The shadows here were longer and darker than I had seen anywhere else. Nothing good grew, there were not even the sickly remains of trees that had prospered when the sun was at its full strength. Where had I come to? The mountains stood over me leering. I felt like a mouse caught in a trap.

   The next day (what a thing to call it!) the sun did not rise. I woke in darkness which by now I was growing used to even if I was still not comfortable with it. The dark did not stop me though and I set to walking, well climbing now really as I entered the mountains properly. Even in this terrible place something felt especially wrong. I looked back the way I had come for the pale sickly light of the failing sun, and saw nothing. There was only darkness wherever I looked. I spun around in a panicked frenzy. It had happened. What I had feared all along. The sun had not risen. It would never rise again unless I found a way to make it rise. As I span, I fell. My face was buried in dirt. My hands and knees were scraped and bloody. I lay there crying. It was too much. There was darkness everywhere and I was lost in it. In that moment I felt such a failure and that all of this was my fault. Who was I to think that I could save anyone? Better it would have been if I had just stayed back in the town and given up there. At least I would be more comfortable than I was now. Thinking about the town I thought about my people who had become grey spectres, living but not alive. I thought about all the trees that had withered. Then I thought about how it had been before. Vibrant people who laughed and shouted at their neighbours with good cheer and danced in the streets. I remembered all those feasts and finding delicacy after delicacy that maintained my appetite for hours. I thought of how all of it used to be. How good life could be. I hated this darkness around me, the mocking mountains, the poisonous clouds. How wrong it was that these horrible things should inhabit the same world in which so much good had flourished. I could not allow that. With new determination I raised myself to my feet. I had come this far; I would go further.

   Somehow, I made it through the mountains. Don’t ask me how I did it, or how long it took. I stumbled and crawled my way blind through hidden passages and crevices. There were times I was thankful for the darkness as my hand met slimy somethings, some of which moved as I touched them, or when I heard a hiss or a snarl and would surely have fled from whatever creature was there. This place would have sent anyone mad if it was illuminated. It was not meant to be seen. As much as I fell, and bumped into walls of rock, however many days and nights I wandered lost in that place I never stopped. I couldn’t. If I had not kept moving, I would surely have been eaten by some foul creature. By remaining mobile I kept those blind terrors from me, and left them to their own dark haunts. Every part of me ached, every joint was sore. I began to accept that this was how my life would end. Until I saw a light.

   As a starving man would eat anything offered without question, I ran to the light. It was faint but it split the darkness nonetheless, a glow in the distance. I scrambled my way to it as fast as I could, not questioning what it was, not thinking about the anger that was in this light. After so long in darkness I would take whatever I could get. As I reached the summit of the mountains and looked down into the other side I wished for darkness once again. The mountain side was burning. Fire was everywhere. Flames reached up to a smoke choked sky like arms raised in praise to some evil god. I had never seen such destruction. This was where the toxic clouds that had covered the sky all the way to my town had come from. Seeing their origin, I realised they were even more terrible than I had imagined. They were death. The smoke burned my eyes and my lungs, I had to get away from here, but behind me was only darkness and somewhere out here was the sun. I leapt over the final stony outcrop and ran at the fire. As I came closer to it, I realised there were corridors between the burning that I could get through safely. I charged through one of these as quickly as I could.

   The burning stopped. There were flaming torches set up around that illuminated the blackened ground, thick with ash. Everything else that had been living here had been burned, or been used to make the settlement I saw a little further way off. Finally, it seemed like I was getting somewhere, though where that was, I was still in the dark about. I approached the town with caution.

   As I came closer to it, I realised that this was not a town, nothing so permanent. This was a camp, full of tents and simple wooden structures made from whatever had not been burned. There were fires and torches dotted around to provide some light. There would have to be in this world of permanent night or else all would be blind. I guessed that it was night proper now as no one was moving about. They must all be sleeping I thought. Still, I didn’t let my guard down. A part of me, a naïve part, after spending so long alone with nobody to help me wanted to run into a tent and ask for answers, surely these people would want the sun back as much as me? Luckily, I ignored this. I had spent a long time alone, being cautious, seeing monsters at every turn. It would have been nice to run into a friendly band of strangers who had the same goals as me. That would be too good to be true in this world where even the sun could not be trusted. They had burnt everything on the mountainside which I found incredibly suspect, and needlessly cruel. Until I had a good reason, I knew I could not trust these people.

   Creeping about the camp was easy as I stuck to the numerous shadows left by the small fires. My journey here had taught me to be quiet so I passed through the camp like a shadow. It took hours. The camp was huge. There were hundreds of tents and there must have been thousands of people in them. This camp was vastly bigger than my town. It was as if an entire civilisation had migrated. I was confused pondering just what was happening here. As the minutes ticked by, I seemed to be finding only more tents, but no answers about the people in them, or what had happened to the sun, until all of a sudden, I did.

   At the end of one of the rows of tents I noticed the glow of a fire that was larger than any I had seen so far in the camp. I sped towards it excited and ran around the corner, and almost straight into the thick legs of a man. Thankfully I had remained silent as I ran, and dived straight into shadow. The man looked fierce, and ugly. He was covered in foul metal and leather, and in his hand and was a hideous looking metal implement like I had never seen before, covered in spikes and sharp edges.

   For a moment I feared for my life and counted my heartbeats waiting to be discovered. Apparently though I was safe for now. The man carried on standing there, snorting through his nostrils, and oblivious to me. As I calmed down, I became intrigued. Obviously, this man was here to guard something, and I was sure it would have something to do with my purpose here.

   Past the man was an area clear of tents. At the end of the other paths between the tents that led to the clearing were other guards clad in the same repugnant way as the one nearest to me, all with equally cruel looking implements. Around the clearing was a great concentration of burning torches, lighting this area more than any other part in the camp, and lighting what all the guards were there to guard. It was a cage. A hideous metal prison. Inside the cage there was a person crumpled on the floor. I looked around to all the guards. They were all facing out away from the cage. Clearly, they expected any threat to be stopped coming down the roads. Well they hadn’t been expecting me then, I thought as I emerged out of the shadows, and ran openly but quietly to the cage.

   The crumpled figure inside of the cage was a woman. I pitied her instantly. She looked completely defeated, brought so low it was as if she was collapsing into the ground because her own weight was too much to bear. The dress she was wearing may have once been beautiful but was now muddied and torn. Her knees and elbows were scraped and bloody, and around her limbs were strange rings of bruises and burns. I realised strong, rough ropes must have been used to subdue her. There were so many of these wounds. She must have fought hard for all of them to be required to subdue her. There must have been a time when this woman was strong and proud. Despite how thin and frail she was now, I could see that she was tall, and though she was only skin and bones, those bones were broad. At her full strength she would have been queenly indeed.

   I stayed quiet taking in all the wreck of her body. I had never seen such cruelty inflicted on another before. In spite of my sadness I needed to talk to her. I was pondering what was the best, and kindest, way to engage her, when her head snapped around to look at me. The suddenness nearly made me jump back, and an involuntary breath leapt out of me. Every other detail about her became instantly unimportant. From within a drawn and sallow face her eyes gazed out at me, and they glowed! This was not a metaphor to hyperbolise the impression they made on me. They literally glowed. Not only that but as soon as those eyes looked at me, I felt a warmth come over me that I had not felt in months. It was the same warmth I used to feel every day as I danced and feasted. With my heart pounding and my hands shaking I asked the woman in a whisper, “Are you the sun?” The woman’s eyes looked sadly down and away from me. As her gaze left me, I felt their glow and heat fade, like when the sun goes behind a cloud. The night seemed to grow around me, the fires loomed, and I looked around with renewed fear at the guards. I needed to hurry. “I’ve come to rescue you,” I said to her with as much hope as I could muster. She smiled at me sadly as if to say “that’s very kind of you, but futile”. She had to believe I would get her out of here. “I’m not with these people!” I impressed upon her. “I come from a town over the mountain, far that way. Everyone else there gave up when you disappeared. But I didn’t. I came all this way to find you, and set you free.” The sun looked at me more intently. She seemed to be saying “You travelled all this way? Through all that danger? On your own? But you’re only a child.” I stared back at her defiantly. “How do I get you out of here then?” I asked simply. The sun stared back as if weighing up her chances with me, and then looked to the lock in the door of the cage and then at one of the guards. So, I needed to get a key to unlock the cage it seemed. “Right then,” I said. “I’ll be back soon,” and I headed towards the guard she had motioned to.

   I crept slowly and silently toward the brutish guard. If he turned around and saw me, he could squash me with one stomp off his heavy boot, smash my face in with the giant axe he carried, or squeeze the life out of me with one hand. All these horrible fates and a hundred more sped through my mind as I approached him. With great effort I silenced my own mind, and focussed on taking the next step as quietly and carefully as possible. Soon enough I was close to him, and far too soon I could smell him. Trying my best not to breathe I came even closer until I could see dangling from his belt was the key. With great care, slowly, slowly, I slipped the key off the loop, and into my hands.

   Relieved with my success I sped back to the cage and set the sun free. Perhaps I expected that to be the end to this story, and for the sun to shine bright and high in the sky once again straight away. There was still more to be done though. The sun had sat up and watched as I retrieved the key and struggled slowly to her feet when I opened the door. She took a few shaky steps forward, and stood swaying slightly, holding my shoulder for support. “What now?” I asked. The sun looked off into the distance. It seemed there was something over there that we needed to get before the sun could return to her powers. We snuck off, keeping to the shadows in between tents. Soon we had left the guards behind. That did not make me feel safe though. The sun kept striding gallantly, but she was clearly in pain, and leaned heavily on me. On top of this I could hear people stirring in the tents.

   A horn sounded from behind us and it was answered by many more. I looked back in terror. The sun carried on looking ahead though. We had found what we needed. Straight ahead of us in another clearing amongst the tents was a cage far bigger than the one the sun had been imprisoned in. Inside of the cage was the most impressive animal I had ever seen. It was a horse, though it must have been at least three times bigger than any horse I had ever seen, and folded at its sides were wings! Attached to the winged horse was a magnificent chariot. Perhaps it was made of gold or just shined with some magic, either way even in the low light of the fires it was dazzling. My awe was short lived though as a dozen angry guards approached us. Defeat seemed inevitable. The sun looked down at me and motioned for me to cover my eyes. Confused I did so. Even with my eyes closed and covered by my hand I could tell there had been an incredible flash of light. As darkness returned, I opened my eyes to see the guards writhing on the floor in agony, their hands covering the bloody holes where their eyes had been. The sun slumped down on me even more. She had used the last of her strength.

   The horns were growing even louder, and closer. We had just shown to everyone where we were. There was no more time to waste. I let the sun collapse gently to the floor, and ran over to the guards to look for the key to this cage. After I found it on one of the blind guards, I opened the cage. The winged horse was held in place by cruel ropes. Using the smallest weapon, I could find on the guards I cut them off. Time seemed to be speeding up as my heart beat faster and faster. As fast as I moved it felt like we had been there for an hour. Surely, we would be caught soon. The majestic creature did not take much coaxing to leave the cage, and trotted straight over to the sun. There were terrible wounds all over the horse. Where one of the wings joined its body there was an open wound. Someone had tried to cut the wing off! The sun looked up and smiled to see her companion come to her. She crawled, with my assistance into the chariot. Being inside of it seemed to reinvigorate her, and she stood, taller and prouder than I had seen her yet. As I climbed in with her, I saw a mass of flames and metal glinting in the fire light coming at us. The sun’s face twisted in contempt as she took the reins and the winged horse leapt into the air.

   The rush was incredible. I gripped the side as tightly as I could in my shock at how quickly we moved. The wings of the horse had unfurled and were each at least twice as long as the horse itself. As they flapped, they beat huge gusts of air enough to rip tents from the ground, and send them tumbling over each other. Some of the onrushing attackers who had got closest were also sent sprawling on the ground which made me and the sun laugh. I was amazed at the change that had come over them both. It seemed like being together increased their strength.

   We flew in circles gaining altitude. I hoped this would mean that we had left the danger behind. But it seemed I was wrong. Rocks and other missiles were being hurled at us. Some landed in the chariot with us. Luckily at this height the ones that struck the winged horse just bounced off of its side and only seemed to anger it more. What did seem dangerous though were the great machines they were rolling out. They looked like giant sideways bows. One of them shot us. We narrowly managed to avoid the rope it shot, and I saw the curved spike it had on its end. We had to get away from them.

   As we got higher still the only light I could see was the glow from the sun’s eyes, and from the huge fires beyond the camp. The sun looked intently and we began flying towards them. We cleared the camp and came over the fire. Even from the height we were at I could feel the incredible heat it made. As I looked at the fire something terrifying happened. The fire rose up to us! Surely it would engulf us. Wonderfully, that did not happen though. The fire was absorbed by the sun, the horse, and the chariot. They all began to glow, and then shine brilliantly. It was miraculous. The wonder of it all did not stop there. As the sun consumed more of the light her wounds seemed to disappear, her thin and wasted frame grew full and healthy. I looked at her in awe, and felt summer returning to the world.

   The chariot jolted, and the light faded. The fire spilled back down to the ground. We had come so close! From the edge of the chariot I looked down. It seemed like the camp had emptied. There were thousands of figures down below eagerly waiting for us to fall out of the sky. The sun collapsed as the strength was drawn from her. I was frantic. How could this be happening? Faintly I heard a voice rising up from the crowd, speaking words I did not understand. Searching for the source of the voice I eventually saw in the middle of the crowd a grand looking figure. It was taller than the rest, and rather than the ugly, dirty leather the others wore, this one was in a black robe. With one hand it gestured angrily at the sun, in the other it held a great book. It was speaking some terrible magic. Surely this was the one who had caused everything to go wrong. Only foul magic could have plucked the sun out of the sky. Only such wicked cruelty could have destroyed the lives of my people and set me on this journey. All the pain and hardship me and my people had endured was because of this hateful figure and that book! In my anger I picked up one of the rocks that had landed in the chariot and launched it as hard as I could at that evil wizard.

   The rock whistled through the air, arrow straight, and made an especially satisfying “thunk” as it bounced off the middle of the wizard’s head. All of the assembled crowd looked at the wizard as he stopped speaking, stood for a moment confused, before falling straight forward to the ground.

   Panic shot straight through the crowd. They began screaming and falling over each other as they ran in fear. The sun, released from the wizard’s spell absorbed the rest of the fire, and shone brightly. I laughed as I soaked up the light and our success. The horse flapped its wings with ferocious strength and we soared high above the mountains, above the clouds, and sped over the lands I had crept so slowly across in the dark. Weariness overtook me and I sat down in the chariot exhausted. So much had happened. When was the last time I had slept? It had been such a long night. The longest night there ever was I thought as I fell asleep, with the sun smiling down at me.

   I awoke with the sun high in the sky. Brilliant light washed over the world, and I blinked in amazement. As I got used to the brightness, I realised I was looking at a familiar sight again. It was my town. The sun had brought me home and not wasted any more time before ascending to the heavens again. I smiled up at the sun. We had done it! We had come through darkness deeper than any before, overcome black magic, and now all was light again. Already the trees seemed to be standing tall and bushy. Rich, vibrant colours had replaced the dull decay that had been everywhere before. As I looked around, blinking now through tears of joy, I heard a sound which brought the warmth of the sun to my heart. There was laughter and music drifting over to me from my town. My people were feasting and dancing again. They were living. Without waiting a moment longer, I ran down to join them, and celebrate a beautiful day.

Working Class Hero

A man called Dave approaches a pub. He’s wearing work gear: steel toe capped boots, sandy coloured worn cargo trousers, and a tatty t-shirt. Plaster and paint coat him. He is as rough looking as his calloused hands, callouses built from twenty years of hard work. He’ll work at least another twenty years, if he lives that long.

Dave was working earlier, of course he was. He can’t remember the last time he had a whole day off. He’s always doing a bit. It’s better than the alternative. Today he’s been putting in a new bathroom. The sodding apprentice dropped the sink and cracked it, the dozy prick. Luckily his mate can get him another one in tomorrow. But that’s for tomorrow. Now he’s striding with purpose and desire to the pub. A few hours to forget about the rest of the world, everyone in it, and all the problems. Dave throws the door open with one of his big hands, turns the corner and he’s in. Alan, Steve, Tony, and Steve are already there. Alan’s playing the fruity, Steve is shouting at the footy on the telly, Tony’s got a wink and a smile for this girl (maybe she’s eighteen), and Steve is getting a round in, that was good timing. Everything is right with the world.

“Oi oi,” booms Dave at the boys. They greet him and Steve shouts down the bar at the bar maid, “Oh and chuck a Foster’s on for Dave as well, ta love.” It’s louder on the other side, and she seems in a hurry, darting up and down the bar with barely a glance at them, and a steely, uninviting expression on her face. Dave thinks she seems pissed off and wants her to be happy. “Cheer up girl, it might never happen,” he booms. She looks at him for a moment as she places his beer down, still expressionless and then hurries off. For a moment Dave wonders what’s the matter with her and thinks maybe he should ask, but only for a moment before he thinks “Na daft cow”. He’s got enough to worry about.

The boys are taking their usual seats. Dave takes that first glorious sip of the cold lager, and downs half the pint in two gulps, and smacks his lips together. “Ooohhh I needed that,” he booms appreciatively as he joins the boys. It’s good to sit down and put his feet up. He’s been on the go since half five that morning he booms to anyone and everyone. His feet need the rest and soon he’s relaxed. But his shoulders, his back, his knees, they always ache, always hurt. The damage is done, and keeps being done. Dave can’t moan though, he can’t stop, can’t slow down. He can’t. He’s a man. Soon they’re all booming about the day’s work. They all have to boom. One booms, so another booms louder, so the next booms louder still. You can’t be outdone. Anyway, everything’s fucked. This was fucked, that was fucked, it was all fucked. But they made it less fucked. Tomorrow, they’ll make it fucked a little less still. It’s alright that its fucked, though they don’t say it, because if it wasn’t fucked what would be the point in them?

In an hour they’ve all had four pints, just like the night before, and the night before that. “Looks like a bit of a sesh don’t it?” Alan says with a grin, just like the night before, and the night before that. He feels alright now does Dave. His back and everything else still hurt but he doesn’t notice it now. Just like all those other problems that had been swirling around his head all day, all week, all year… He gets another round. He’s smashing them back and getting funnier with each one. The bar maid is still moody but oh well he tried didn’t he. Didn’t he? Doesn’t matter.

The conversation moves from the ordinary day to day to the big issues. Steve mentions what he saw on the front of one of the papers today that one of the politicians apparently said. “Yeah but he is a lefty twat,” Tony booms. Dave agrees. Lefty means soft don’t it. They’re all pricks. He’s seen the papers. “I don’t know I think he made some good points to be fair,” Alan says, not quite booming.

“What are you gay or something,” Tony booms and laughs at his own wit.

“You wish I was gay you fucking poofter,” Alan booms back, going on the offensive (defensive).

Dave notices his phone ringing, and all at once feels the weight of the world on his back again in spite of the seven pints he’s drunk. “Fuck sake,” he booms. “It’s her,” he mutters to the others looking at him. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he booms and wanders off to the smoking area, shrinking as he goes. He looks at his phone and the word “Sandra”. His blood is boiling and freezing at the same time. Why is she calling him so late? Why is she calling at all? He knows but he can’t accept that. He just can’t.

“Hello. Yeah, I was wondering why you called me. No, I’m not with him anymore, I can’t afford his rates if you must know. No, I haven’t got anyone else yet. No, he’s not forwarded on your messages. Listen what’s this all about.”

Time stands still and the world falls apart.

“But I haven’t seen them in six months. We agreed this date in court. You can’t just say no at the last minute. THEY’RE MY FUCKING KIDS.” Dave is apoplectic yelling down the phone. Some drunk teenagers stumble out into the smoking area laughing and shouting. “Yes, I am ‘at the pub again’. What am I not allowed to have a beer now? And don’t change the fucking subject! They’re my fucking kids Sandra! I just want to see them for a weekend for fuck sake! I’ve already got cinema tickets and food in for them. I’ve been waiting months for this; you can’t do this to me! They’re my fucking kids Sandra! SANDRA!” She has hung up.

It’s not fair it’s just not fair. All he wanted was one weekend with his kids. He hasn’t seen them in six months and barely at all over the last two years. This had been keeping him going. His reason for getting up in the morning. Why he went to work breaking his back every day. The legal costs had bled him dry. The divorce had taken just about everything. He’d given up what little else he had to provide for his kids. She had been his fucking world and then she’d gone off with that other bloke and ruined his life. But at least there were his kids. The one good thing to take from it all was the kids. Now she was taking them away from him as well. It just wasn’t fair. Dave wanted to shout wanted to scream wanted to break everything. He couldn’t change any of it. There was nothing he could do. He was five years old again in the supermarket and he didn’t know where his mum was. He was seven years old again and his dad had just died. He was thirty-four years old and his marriage was ending. It was just not fair and he didn’t know what to do about it. One tear rolled down his face.

Steve, Alan, Tony, and Steve barrelled out the door laughing and lighting fags. “Alright mate? You’ve been out here for twenty minutes,” Alan booms. Dave quickly wipes the tear away so they never saw it. “Na she’s just giving me trouble again. That bitch is nothing but aggro,” he booms as if she had just called asking for a score. “You’re better off without the slag mate,” Steve booms wisely. “And she’s got the kids as well so you don’t have to deal with their bollocks. You’ve got it pretty good mate.”

“Yeah,” says Dave simply as his mind twists, turns, and spirals out of control. He takes a long drag on a cigarette. “Tony have you get any packet on you?”

“I thought you was off that stuff?” he asks.

“I was yeah, but fuck it”

“Love that. Course I do. It’s out in the van I’ll go grab it in a sec.”

The rest of the night and the early morning are a blur. At some point they stumbled out of the pub and stumble into Alan’s place. At some point after that Dave stumbled out of Alan’s place and into his own. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth all night and he felt fucked. Fuck it all though he thought. As he walked through his front door he nearly fell over a leaflet about male suicide. “Fucking thing,” he boomed as much as he could boom his throat was so sore, and threw the leaflet away.

Dave shuffled into his room and dropped straight onto his bed. The sun is coming up. He won’t go to work today. Fuck it. He stares up at the ceiling and thinks about his kids. It’s just not fair. He feels pain all over that has nothing to do with work and then passes out.

A week later Tony drops dead of a heart attack. A week after that Steve’s wife leaves him and takes the kids. The following month Alan is found by his sister hanging in the garage. A week after that-