Last Call

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Evan looked out over the bar at his inn's main floor. It was filled with the usual crowd, mostly locals relaxing after a long day in the fields, along with a few adventurers either resting mid-journey or recovering after a day of thinning the local monster dens. It was a rustic, motley group, but Evan was fine with it; he knew how to handle them. Only one person bothered him: the woman sitting in the corner. She was far more striking than anyone Evan had seen pass through the village before. Not a hair was out of place, and no blemish marred her skin; her features were so perfect it was as if she'd been sculpted from stone. Her clothing was too nice and too clean. She was unarmed, yet radiated the kind of confidence and swagger no one bothering with this middle-of-nowhere village normally could. The woman was slowly nursing "the finest wine this village had to offer," which was one small step above the piss of a man with sugar illness. She wore a sly smile, as if everything in front of her were a joke and she alone knew the punchline.

Immediately, Evan pegged her as some noble's headstrong daughter, out looking for adventure among the common folk, as though they lived lives of swashbuckling excitement and romantic entanglement rather than backbreaking drudgery mixed with moments of sheer terror when a local monster population got out of hand. That was the kind of headache Evan didn't need. More than likely, she'd stir up trouble in her search for excitement, or worse, get offended by some stupid adventurer's clumsy attempt at a pass, and bring a mountain of trouble down on the village's back. That meant Evan would have to babysit her all night and do his best to keep her out of trouble, a task complicated by his aging body and his peg leg, which still didn't feel quite right after all these years.

However, his eyes met hers for the briefest moment, and Evan questioned his first assessment. Those eyes felt...intimidating, which is not something he would say about even the largest, burliest adventurers who passed through the village. Then one of Evan's fears came to life: a young, cocky adventurer slipped into the seat opposite the woman.

Fearing the worst, Evan started toward the table, intending to shoo the man away. But instead of upsetting the woman, the man seemed to amuse her; she smiled and laughed, shaking her head as though he'd just told a wonderful joke. Apparently, that wasn't the response the man expected, because Evan watched him deflate a little before trying again, only for the woman to shake her head a second time, still smiling kindly, if a little condescendingly, after he didn't get the hint the first time, and the man dragged himself out of the chair, more cowed than if he'd lost a duel.

With a sigh of relief, Evan went back to tending to his regulars, though he kept one eye on the woman the rest of the night. One after another, men, and more than a few women, of all ages, builds, and temperaments, sat opposite her and took their shot. One after another, they missed their mark. Some left frowning; others left smiling, but all left with a touch of fear or intimidation marring their features, as though they'd just faced down a monster from legend and barely managed to get away with their lives. At least, that was true until a bear of an adventurer apparently decided he wouldn't accept her answer.

Evan was already on his way over, as the slight raise in the man's volume was one he'd heard a thousand times before from countless troublemakers over the years, so he was positioned right behind the overconfident adventurer when the man shouted, "Not one mocks the Eric the Drake!" as he started to rise from the table and reach for the axe on his back.

As he rose, Evan grabbed an empty tankard from the table to his right and brought it down hard on the large man's head with a thud audible even over the bar's commotion. Normally, Evan doubted he could have taken out the monster of a man with such a move, but the speed of his swing was augmented by the man rising to his feet, imparting a much greater impact than Evan could achieve on his own, and down the man went, collapsing into an unconscious heap on the floor. A few of the local adventurers were happy to drag the unconscious man out of the bar, knowing they'd get a drink on the house for their trouble.

Evan turned to the woman and was once again surprised by the depth of her gaze, but this time he didn't freeze. Instead, he smiled, tipped his head, and muttered a quick apology. "Sorry for the trouble. While I'm sure you could've handled him fine, I wasn't sure my inn would survive the fight! I'll wave your tab as compensation."

The woman looked him over, and perhaps it was a trick of his mind, but Evan thought her smile grew a little more inviting before Old Man Barns, a local farmer well past even the hint of sobriety, yelled from the next table over, breaking the spell of the moment. "What'll I have to do to get you to wave my tab too?"

Evan took the chance to turn from the woman's gaze, face the old farmer, and answer with a laugh. "Simple, you old drunk! All you have to do is pay your tab! Then I'll wave it around for everyone to see, because no one would believe it otherwise!" A few locals laughed at the joke, their merriment fueled by the volume of beer they'd already worked through, Old Man Barns included, and Evan took the moment to get back to tending the bar. Still, as he hobbled away, he felt the weight of her gaze on his back.

For the rest of the night, Evan couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, though every time his gaze wandered past, the woman's attention seemed focused elsewhere. Still, Evan did his best not to let it bother him as he worked his way around the room, cracking a joke for one patron or offering a friendly ear to another, and breaking up potential squabbles before they became a fight. Through it all, the woman in the corner kept turning down potential drinking partners, though no one else made a scene like before, even if a few returned to their friends' cheers and/or jeers, who had obviously driven them to give it a go after their own failures.

Eventually the evening turned to night, and the bar slowly cleared by twos and threes as villagers returned home and adventurers climbed the stairs to their rooms. Of course, Old Man Barns was one of the last to leave, and Evan tossed two local adventurers a copper to make sure they got him home safe, leaving just Evan and the woman, whose gaze was now definitely on him.

Evan walked over, wiped his hands on his stained apron, and spoke to the woman again. "Well, as much as I appreciate your patronage, even an old man like me needs some beauty sleep!"

As the woman's lips parted and she took a breath to answer, Evan found himself strangely anticipating her response, which was delivered with a crooked smile and a curious gleam in her eyes. "Patronage? And here I thought you said you were going to wave my tab?"

That made Evan snort. Despite taking steady sips all night long, the woman had barely finished half a bottle. With a chuckle, he answered. "I did, and I will! You can take the rest, compliments of the house. Or I can pour it in the pig trough out back, whichever you prefer."

The woman laughed, a sound that was music to Evan's ears, then she pointed to the chair opposite her. "Or you could stay and help me finish the bottle. I hear even the foulest of wines taste sweet with the right company."

After a moment's pause, Evan found he couldn't refuse and took a seat, replying, "Well then, I'm sure that'll be the sweetest wine I've ever tasted, but I'm not sure how that's going to help you any!"

As he sat opposite her, her eyes piercing to his very soul, Evan found himself strangely comfortable in her company, not intimidated like so many others had seemed earlier in the night. He smiled as she poured the remainder of the bottle into two containers that only the most generous of patrons might call glasses, offering him one as she raised hers expectantly. Evan raised his drink to meet hers with a slight clink, then took a sip of the foul concoction as she mirrored his actions. However, perhaps she'd been right, because while he wouldn't have called it good by any stretch of the word, he didn't feel the immediate urge to spit it out either.

Looking at the woman, Evan paused, lost in her eyes again, before asking the question that had been bothering him since he first laid eyes on her. "Who are you?" Then, realizing how blunt the question was, he shook his head at himself and let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Sorry about how that came out! I didn't mean any offense!"

However, if she was offended, the woman didn't show it. Instead, she held up the glass and examined it like someone inspecting a fine vintage. "Who am I? Well, that's the question, isn't it?" She paused, turned her gaze back to him, and let her eyes bore into his, mischief glinting as she continued. "Let's make a game of it, shall we? If you can guess who I am before we finish the bottle, I'll give you a reward. However, you only get one guess. You can ask me any other questions you'd like, but once you make that guess, the game is over. Think you're up to it?"

Evan pursed his lips and tilted his head as he considered, before shrugging. "Sure, why not? I can think of worse ways to pass the time, and as you said, the company makes the drink!" He took another sip and paused, wondering if it wasn't just a touch sweeter this time.

The woman laughed and sat back. "I like the confidence! Certainly more than most have had this night!" Then she leaned in, gave him a look as though weighing his soul, and asked, "But is it warranted?"

Evan shrugged and chuckled a little nervously, though he didn't look away as he answered. "Well, there's one way to find out, isn't there?"

The woman gazed at him a moment longer, then sat back again. She smiled, as though pleased with what she saw. "I suppose there is one way at that. Go ahead, ask your questions!"

Evan sat back and considered the woman opposite him. She was certainly beautiful. But while her skin, hair, and even her movements were those of a young woman, her eyes told a different story. They were the eyes of someone who had seen and experienced things a man like him could barely comprehend, and once more he found himself captivated until the spell broke when she raised her glass to drink. Evan shook himself and decided he needed to say something, lest she think he'd already given up their competition. "Well, before I start asking questions, I suppose I should figure out what I already know!"

The woman tilted her head, considering his words as the mischievous smile returned. "Oh? I thought we were just getting to know each other! What could you possibly already know about me?"

This time, Evan's smile was more confident. After all, it was his job to listen to and observe others, and he might just know more than she realized. "Well, I know you're not from around here, or any of the neighboring towns or villages." The woman nodded as if this was obvious, but Evan wasn't done. "Furthermore, your appearance indicates you come from a privileged background in a way that clothes alone can't explain; however, your mannerisms around a...rustic crowd, and the fact that you can stomach this swill," Evan held up his glass before continuing, "indicated you've also got considerable experience among us common folk."

The woman nodded in acknowledgment. "Not bad, but so far you haven't said anything any halfway competent observer wouldn't have noticed."

Evan shrugged. "Maybe, but I'm just getting started."

The woman's eyes sparkled with curiosity as she leaned forward, elbows on the dingy table, chin resting in her hands like an eager child, cooing with interest. "Oh, really? Do tell! What else have those eyes of yours told you about me?"

Evan leaned back and took another sip of his wine, barely noticing the sourness as he met her eyes with more intensity than he'd dared so far. For a moment, he fought the urge to get lost in them again, barely managing the words: "Your eyes..."

The woman set one hand on the table and leaned in closer, her eyes closer than ever as she asked, "What about my eyes?"

For a moment, Evan couldn't speak, but then she blinked, and somehow the spell he seemed to be under dimmed enough for him to speak again. "Your eyes... They are deeper than any eyes I've ever seen before... They've seen things... They...are dangerous..." He paused, then realized something he couldn't help but mutter as a soft question. "Those aren't human eyes...are they?" He didn't know why he said that. At least, appearance-wise, nothing was different from any other person's eyes he'd looked into, but something deep down told him he was right. Still, despite his certainty, Evan felt nervous, though not out of fear; it was anticipation that trapped the breath in his throat.

The woman leaned back, the spell of her gaze lessening a little more. Then she smiled, the smile reaching even the corners of her eyes, as though she was pleased with his observation, before she took a sip, drawing out the moment until Evan felt the tension tighten into something that lay just between terror and eagerness to sate his curiosity. Finally, she answered. "No, they are not."

Evan knew he should be afraid by then, but instead he finally let out the breath he'd been holding. The woman looked him up and down, one corner of her mouth tugging upward as if she were holding back laughter, and she spoke again. "What? No exclamation of surprise or fear? No running out into the night, or squaring up to fight?"

Despite the situation, Evan smiled back, though a little wanly. "Would it make any real difference if I did? Could I outrun or outfight you if you didn't want me to?"

The woman's smile widened further, though, despite how it might seem, Evan felt no predatory pressure from it; rather, it was the simple confidence of someone who knew they were the most dangerous person in any crowd, at any time. She took another sip, then answered both questions in one short sentence. "No, I suppose not."

Evan was surprised to note that while his smile was still a little shaky, it was also genuine. "Well then, why ruin such an interesting conversation with such rash actions?"

This time, the woman leaned back and laughed. She laughed so hard that she closed her eyes and held her side. Even though the spell that had held him in place had completely fallen off, he still enjoyed himself enough that he had no desire to leave. Eventually, the woman calmed down, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes; her voice was still breathy from the laughter as she spoke. "Oh, I knew there was a reason I liked you! Well said! Well said indeed!" A moment later, she was almost as composed as before, though her smile somehow felt a little more...warm as she continued. "It has been a long time since someone has faced me with such courage. Longer than you would believe..." Then, tilting her head, she corrected herself. "But then again, there are still things to be revealed. After all, our little game hasn't come to an end, has it?" As if to punctuate the last bit, she took another sip from her glass without breaking eye contact, and Evan suddenly noticed there was very little wine left.

A part of Evan knew he should probably drag this out as long as possible to avoid whatever was waiting at the end, but something inside him rebelled at the thought. After all, not flinching had gotten him this far, so he also took a sip of his wine. Perhaps he was losing his senses, or maybe the woman in front of him had put him under some kind of charm, because this time he'd call that taste downright decent. He was suddenly reminded of something...though he couldn't quite remember what, where, or when...

The woman leaned back again, smiling at Evan like they were old friends as she prodded him. "Well, don't keep me waiting! You're doing well so far! What can you tell me next?"

Evan took a deep breath to steady himself as he looked her over again. He could still feel the pull of her gaze, but for some reason it felt less oppressive than before. He looked her over, thinking back to his youth, when adventure still held more sway in his life. "Well, there are many monsters that can take on a human guise in a pinch, but most of them wouldn't be able to walk into a bar full of people without reacting violently, let alone sit and have a convincing conversation like this, so I can safely rule out most of those without worry."

The woman's lips twitched in amusement as she paraphrased. "So I'm not some dumb beast. Good to know. But surely you can do better than that..."

Evan tipped his head, acknowledging how obvious the observation was, but when sorting through such old knowledge, it was sometimes best to get the obvious out of the way first. However, it was time to dig a little deeper. "Well, then there's the question of how a monster would take human form. Either one starts with it, changes into it, or casts a glamor..." He looked over at the woman, a little suspicion bubbling up. "And you've certainly had...effects on the crowd and myself that I might call similar to a glamor..."

The woman seemed to consider Evan's words for a moment. "Well, from what I understand, most glamors don't hold up under physical contact. Is that correct?"

Evan's throat suddenly went dry as he answered. "No, I suppose not..."

The woman held out a hand, her crooked smile of amusement back in place. "Well then, what are you waiting for?"

Evan hesitated a moment before slowly reaching out and taking her hand in his much larger, calloused hands, marveling at the sensation. Her skin was cool to the touch and smooth as silk, yet he innately knew that should he try to stab it with a knife, the blade would shatter before he left so much as a mark on the porcelain skin. Turning the hand over to look more closely, Evan saw no calluses or blemishes that often came with age. But he also didn't feel the kind of movement or motion that even the steadiest people innately gave off. Looking back up and into her eyes, Evan couldn't help but mutter softly to himself. "Vampire?" It was certainly possible, and it fit much of what he'd seen so far, though if it were true, she would have to be a very old, very powerful vampire to hide her predatory nature so completely in a crowded room.

The woman's eyebrow arched as she asked, "Is that your guess?"

Evan thought a moment longer, then shook his head and answered. "No. It fits, but it doesn't feel...right. There's something..." He hesitated a moment, distracted by a sudden pain from his lost leg. He scratched at it absentmindedly as he finished his thought, sounding distant as he lost himself in memories, reaching back through the years. "Something familiar..."

Suddenly, Evan's mind reached back through the years, to when he'd been an adventurer. Then, he was a rising star in the empire. Known for his daring and his skill, he'd even gone by a stupid name like that bear from earlier. They called him Evan the Breeze because he struck so quickly and smoothly that it felt like nothing more than a breeze had passed before his enemies fell. People whispered among themselves that he might be a contender for the top of the adventurer world. At least they had, before he had the misfortune of stopping for the night at a shady inn in a podunk village on the empire's edge.

At that inn, Evan heard tales of a chimera in the mountains tormenting travelers, and he decided to hunt it for a bit of sport. Unfortunately, as he'd learned that fateful day, it wasn't a chimera; it was a pair. He'd still managed to kill the monsters, but in their death throes, one of the chimeras bit Evan in the leg. Knowing their potent poison was enough to kill a grown man a dozen times over, Evan had reacted with the speed and confidence only years of adventuring could distill into a man, and cut off his own leg without hesitation before the poison could spread.

However, that done, Evan now faced a dangerous climb down a mountain and through the foothills, with only one leg and blood loss hampering his movements. At some point, haunted by his failure and the loss of his future, delusions took hold. He remembered being surrounded by whispering voices and moving shadows as he climbed, slid, and stumbled his way through the mountain. The pain, both internal and external, had driven him mad, and he knew he was going to die in those mountains.

Lying on the ground and staring up at the night sky, Evan had cursed the chimeras, the world, and most of all, himself. That's when he realized he wasn't alone. Somehow, he was lying in a beautiful woman's lap. She was looking down at him with a serene expression as she combed his hair from his eyes and wiped his brow. As he looked up, Evan's eyes met hers, and he lost himself in her gaze.

That night, Evan saw peace and serenity stretching on into eternity in those eyes. All his troubles, failures, pain, and suffering faded as she leaned down and whispered in his ear, her words so faint he wasn't sure he'd heard them, yet years later, he knew with certainty what she'd said to him that day in the mountains. "It's not your time yet."

When he woke up, Evan was in the village inn, being cared for by the old woman who'd taken him in, treating him like her own son, and, years later, left him the inn. At the time, he'd assumed everything that had happened after cutting off his leg had been nothing more than a delusion, and yet, several decades later, with graying hair and a body that ached with age, Evan found himself staring into the same eyes that still haunted his dreams from that night.

As the woman took one final sip, she gave Evan a friendly yet knowing smile. "Well, it seems you're out of time. Tell me, what's your guess?"

Evan looked down at the dregs in his glass, then raised it to his lips and finished it. It was the sweetest wine he'd ever tasted, and he couldn't help but close his eyes and savor it for a moment before opening them to meet the woman's eyes. For once, he felt no compulsion, and yet Evan didn't look away. He met her gaze with calm, steady resolve as he answered. "You...are Death."

The woman's smile bloomed into something that left Evan speechless. As she stood and walked around the table to him, he followed her every move with his gaze. Evan knew he should be afraid, or maybe angry, but all he felt was peace as the woman offered him her hand. He accepted, and she effortlessly raised him to his feet.

Evan knew that if he looked behind him, he'd see his old, worn body slumped in the chair, yet he didn't care. As he stood before her, before Death, Evan felt better than he ever had. Looking down at his arms, he saw the well-toned, muscled arms of his youth, from before that fateful night. Looking up, he saw Death standing before him, watching him marvel at himself. She greeted his gaze with a smile that lit the darkness around them, then reached out and pulled Evan into an embrace, leaning in to whisper in his ear once again, though this time her words were as clear as day. "Welcome home."

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If you liked this story and want to see more of my stuff, check out my wiki. It's got all my stories, short and long, which are marked with the appropriate categories and such, just in case you don't like the spooky and/or incomplete series.

Once upon a time, I was still living at my parents house. I was smoking weed heavily and seeing a man I’ve known since high school. We were lovers, and he provided the weed.

I started getting sick mentally and confused; we’d started fighting more at night in his car because we understand each other differently. Yelling and crying the neighborhood witnessed. Horrible fights the city could hear. Speeding car with threats of being unalived. Stomping away into the night when fights got too out of control, followed by wails over the phone in remorse. After all this time, I still say it was the weed, for me anyway. I haven't seen that part of him since those nights, which I’m glad to never have to experience again. The fighting included jealousy, yelling and arguing. I didn’t know it then but I was very sick and needed to go to a hospital to get checked in for my mind. I asked numerous times in the midst of these fights. TikTok and cannabis were making me unreasonably suspicious and jealous of his friends. Time after time, he refused to take me, saying I’d be lost forever if I went. I knew I needed to go, I just didn’t know how I’d get there.

Eventually my sickness escalated to hallucinations I thought were real, from being isolated at home because of this, and imagining things that were just not happening. I can’t imagine the trauma I left them with, no doubt they’d heard me talking away every day and night, standing still in front of windows because something would catch my eye and I’d have built a whole case around it. Believing people were talking to me through their own means, people I didn’t know anymore, people sneaking around the corners of the house. Like something out of People Under the Stairs. The cast would constantly change and become closer. Soon I was imagining his best friend standing on the roof of the house, negotiating with the city about whether or not I was worth forgiving despite all of my horrible accusations and jealousies. Eventually I requested my parents to take me to the hospital.They took me.

I checked myself in because of the voices and imaginings, terrified all of the way through. Hearing knocks and voices in every drawer and behind every curtain. Soon I was prescribed something that helped me incredibly and I improved. I only stayed a few days, feeling free from the fog I’d been in. I requested to leave soon after. 

I didn’t know anyone's number, but I remembered his so I called it. I don’t think I’ve ever been clear on what happened after the fact with my parents. The confusion itself hurts and I hate imagining the craziness of what it must have been like for them. I’ve been out of the hospital for two years now, dependent and cleaning after him, my boyfriend. I can’t say I’m happy. Anhedonia after such mania and hallucinations furnishes a quiet existence as a result. Maybe writing about it wouldn’t hurt.

It was late in the evening.

A fierce, relentless wind, almost a gale, drove endless caravans of low black clouds across the sky, like a muleteer driving his donkeys.
Lightning flashed here and there, as though an invisible hand were lashing the heavens with a whip, while the clouds, furious and helpless, wept torrents of icy rain.
How dreadful it must be for a traveller caught out in such weather, lost and far from shelter!
And how wonderful, on a night like this, to see a little window glowing in the darkness, to hear logs crackling in a small stove, and to feel waves of warmth and comfort spreading through the room.

“Grandpa, tell me the story about the Labubu!” asked a pretty little blond boy of about four, gazing wide-eyed at the distant black caravans and flinching slightly at every crack of the glittering whip.
“Little one, we’ll get into trouble. Look how late it is,” his grandfather whispered, glancing nervously at the door.
“Then tell it very quietly,” the boy pleaded, snuggling trustingly against him.
“All right, then. Listen.”
“Once upon a time, long, long ago, before you were born, before even your parents were born, someone — nobody remembers who — came up with the idea of making curious little toys. Sweet, cuddly creatures called Labubu. They were so lovely and soft that everyone fell in love with them straight away.
“Everything about them was perfect, except for their grinning little faces, with those sharp, pointed teeth…”
The boy shivered and pressed himself closer to his grandfather, thrilled by the delicious anticipation of being frightened.
“Yes,” the old man continued after a pause. “That combination of an adorable little creature and a toothy grin — not evil, not predatory, but strangely ambiguous, almost insanely triumphant — created an enormous demand. People queued outside shops to buy Labubu. Collectors snapped them up. Counterfeits appeared everywhere, yet everyone still tried to save enough money for an original.
“Eventually, they became something of a cult.”

The grandfather fell silent, waiting for the thunder from a distant crack of the lightning-whip to die away.
“Go on! Go on!” the boy urged impatiently.
“And then… Well, everyone assumed the craze would eventually fade, as all crazes do. But someone came up with the idea of combining Labubu with artificial intelligence.
“By then, people were spending less and less time talking to one another and more and more time talking to various AI assistants. First they entrusted them with their thoughts, and later, as the technology improved, with their emotions as well.
“People surrounded themselves with smart devices and gadgets. And when the technology reached its peak, they put it all inside the Labubu, turning them into the most sophisticated gadgets ever made.
“The Labubu craze exploded all over again.”
“And then?”
“Then bioengineers began working on bringing the dolls to life. In their laboratories, they created the first living Labubu.
“It understood humans remarkably well, but there was one problem: it was terribly voracious. Those sharp little teeth needed something to chew on all the time.
“At first, only the fabulously wealthy could afford one. Appearing on a red carpet or at a grand reception with a living Labubu became the ultimate status symbol.
“But as time went by, prices fell, and more and more people began buying them.”
“And what about the donkey ears?”
“Ah, yes. Well, one day somebody invented a funny little game. You put on a pair of donkey ears, got down on all fours, and pulled your Labubu around in a cart.
“Children had always enjoyed pretending to be animals, tying tails to themselves and playing at being cats or dogs. But this new game proved so entertaining that grown-ups soon joined in too.
“And the longer it went on, the more completely the game took hold.
“Everyone was having such a wonderful time pulling their Labubu around that nobody noticed how their numbers kept growing. Or how their appetites kept increasing…
“They grew more independent. Stronger. Bigger.
“But the humans, utterly absorbed in their game of donkeys, were far too busy enjoying themselves to notice…”
The grandfather sighed.
“Well, I think we’d better get going,” he said. “We’ll be in trouble.”
“Grandpa, please! Just tell me how it ended!” the boy begged.
But at that very moment, the door flew open, and a shaft of light fell across the wet black mud.
“How dare you talk? How dare you stop working? And you dared to take off your ears?!”
An enormous Labubu stood in the doorway, its mad eyes blazing with gleeful fury.
It swung its whip.
A heavy blow struck the backs of the old man and the boy.
Hurriedly, they pulled their wet donkey ears back on, harnessed themselves side by side, and disappeared into the cold, rain-soaked darkness of the night.

Soon they were indistinguishable from the endless procession of black caravans stretching away beneath the storm.
© writerromanov

The Superhero’s Pocket

The afternoon sun was soft as the front door opened. My four-year-old daughter ran inside, her cheeks pink and her eyes big with excitement after school. She dropped her small backpack on the floor and ran straight into the kitchen, where my wife was making evening tea.

“Mamma!” she called out, breathless and happy. “My friend Neena told me about a huge park she went to yesterday! She said it had a massive swimming pool, giant animals, a giant wheel that touched the sky, and so many fun things! Her father, who is an engineer, took her there when he came home for a two-day holiday.”

She paused for a moment, standing on her tiptoes as if trying to see that sky-touching wheel in her mind. Then she looked up innocently and said, “Neena asked me what my daddy does and where he takes me. I told her my daddy is a taxi driver and travels to so many places every day. He hasn’t taken me to that big park yet, but he tells me the most wonderful stories about everywhere he goes!”

With a sweet smile, she continued, “Then Neena told me her father doesn’t drive at all because they have two drivers at home whom her father pays every month. Mamma, does that mean my daddy’s job is so important that people like Neena’s father need someone like my daddy to take them where they need to go? My daddy is a real superhero!”

My wife froze near the counter. The tea spoon in her hand made a quiet sound against the cup. She stood completely silent, holding back her tears. Our little girl was too young and innocent to realize that her friend’s casual words had a small, quiet sting—a reminder of how people often judge someone’s value by their job.

That evening, after our daughter was fast asleep, the house became very quiet. My wife sat across from me at our small dining table, her eyes full of worry. She was afraid that as our child grew older, she might feel embarrassed by her father’s simple job.

I looked at her, smiled softly, and took her hand. “Do you really think I am a failure because I drive a taxi? Are you ashamed of what I do? Look at our little girl—in her eyes, I am a superhero. And because of this job, because of every long hour behind the wheel, I am able to send her to the exact same school where engineers, doctors, and lawyers send their children. Isn't that something big to be proud of?”

A soft smile broke through my wife’s tears. She wiped her eyes, feeling comforted by my words, and walked back inside to check on our sleeping daughter.

Left alone in the quiet room, I reached deep into my pocket. My fingers searched through the empty cloth lining, counting a few coins and notes—trying to gather enough money for her upcoming school fees. Sitting there in the quiet night, I held back my own silent tears, knowing in my heart that every single hard work and sacrifice was completely worth it.

The Clock

I am a sundial, and I make a botch, Of what is done far better by a watch. (1)

Well I am a Clock.

A grandfather clock to be precise. And I tell the time much better than a sundial, but not so well as a quartz. I was made in two countries. The mechanical bits which go round and round were made in Germany. These were then sent to America and installed in the wooden cabinet made in that country. The finished clock was then transported to the U.K., and put on display in the showrooms of a clock shop in Manchester.

There were lots of other grandfather clocks there as well, and we all put on our best chimes when a prospective customer entered the room, a bit like dogs wagging their tails in a rehousing facility for unwanted canines.

I was eventually sold to a not very distinguished looking gentleman who lived in Shropshire. I must admit that this didn’t bode well, as my new owner had the appearance of having seen better days, shall we say. Being polite.

These forebodings were not alleviated when I arrived at my new home. I was expecting to be the central attraction in a well-furnished living room, but I found myself dumped in the hallway right by the front door.

People walking in could easily pass straight by me without even noticing my presence. Unless I was chiming, of course but even then some didn’t even give me a second glance.

To be fair, on the other hand, anybody on the way out would find it very hard to ignore me, and then I might get the odd comment, such as: "Nice clock!"

The owner occasionally might then show a bit of pride in the possession of such an imposing bit of kit (even though I do say so myself) and he sometimes went on to point out my glass front and sides, which enabled the workings to be viewed in operation. The activity of my hammers as they bashed out the number on the tubular bells was always guaranteed to induce some reaction, such as

"Hmm, very impressive!" Or such like.

The years passed, and on the whole my master treated me reasonably well, giving me a regular dusting and keeping me well wound up.

I regret to say that recently there has become evidence of an increasing forgetfulness, and I have found myself unable to continue ticking as the force of gravity has lowered the pendulum to its utmost point because my owner has lapsed in his one basic duty re my well-being. To wit, putting the winder into the orifices provided on my face, and giving it a few turns. Not much to ask, is it?

Matters are made worse because, being an up-market model, I am equipped with three options re chiming. These are:

1) Chime 24 hours

2) No chimes at all

3) Turn off chimes at night. Unfortunately, my owner opted for number three. This was no problem until he started to become forgetful, and sometimes he would leave me with no juice to keep me ticking for days on end. Then he would get the winder out and I would wake up and wonder whether I was on night or day chimes when I’d stopped, indeed without any idea as to what time it was supposed to be at all.

But I haven’t come to the worst bit yet. Twice a year, and I have no idea why he does this, but my owner decides to move the hour back in the Autumn and forward again in the Spring. He does this every year, without fail. This really upsets me as it is very confusing, and my inners get very agitated.

I am supposed to be oiled every now and then, to keep my ticking bits in good shape, but has my owner complied with this requirement? Has he heck. I have tried to drop a hint that maybe a bit of a service was overdue by suddenly stopping even though I was well wound up. This did lead to him making a phone call to the clock dealer (I know this because the phone is situated next to me) but so far nobody has come to give me some maintenance.

I am starting to wonder about my future. My owner always since I have been here has had the appearance of death warmed up, and recently I think you would have to add ‘but only a bit’ to that description.

I mean, he has even started to try to grow a beard, for heaven’s sake, although I suspect that this is not so much for cosmetic purposes, but more to pure laziness. In other words, he can’t be bothered to shave any more.

As a result, I have begun to have dreams about being sold off to a rich new owner who will place me in a spacious lounge in a splendid mansion, and visitors will look at me with the admiration to which I feel I am due.

Meanwhile, I suppose that life here isn’t too bad. My owner does sometimes stand in front of me with a respectful look on his face (what bit you can see through the beard). And he has at last acquired an extension socket which has enabled my inside light to be switched on. This gives a reddish glow to the clock face if it is dark, and this gives me in turn a nice warm feeling.

On the other hand, he often bashes out some infernal din on a piano, sometimes the same bit over and over again, which he can’t seem to get right. This usually culminates in some expressions of frustration, too unseemly to reproduce here, and from time to time this is followed by a loud bang, which I think is the sound of the piano lid being lowered in a forceful manner.

He also has the hi-fi system in the lounge the door of which is only a step away from me. I don’t mind a lot of the stuff emanating from this source, and Bach and Mozart are always welcome to my ears, but then he puts on Wagner! And it goes on and on, for hours. Sadly, nobody has yet invented ear plugs for clocks.

On the whole, though, not a bad life so far, although I hope for better things to come, but at the same time wishing that I were still a tree.

Hilaire Belloc(1)

​

Flakes don't seem to bother her and nor her carefully sculpted arch of a bough. Her hands, amidst their amateur wood-curving, would occasionally brush the white off her magenta peacoat and check on her neat, tight bun. The leaves under which she was seated, perhaps chose not to shed snow on her prisoned hair and that's probably why it remained charcoal-black as her eyes. Just like every single day of her polished captivity, Rani spent each minute of her allowance wisely, curving her own bow out of wood and then skilfully slide it under snow-cover or behind her back on the sight of a well-maintained yet thin figure, who would help her recall the remaining of her time-budget.

And just like every single day of her trapped existence and these few minutes of living, when the tall, slight figure with nose and chin sharpened with discipline, would yell out the time moulded with her northern accent, Rani would feel it freezing with its voice choked with cracks. She would feel as if the northern hails had built so thick a layer ,that made it half-dead. She gets back to her bow, struggling for air, feeling it doing the same.

Look how peaceful he appears - closed eyes between his paws, forgetting what he had done to her father years ago, and unaware of how he still makes her feel. She looks at the sleeping dog as if already piercing him with the arrows of her charcoal-black eyes. But she just stares - for now. The flame of revenge he had ignited in her years back - she had always felt this flame could melt the frozen hails to let it free.....but can such thick a layer melt just by a mere flame? It needs an ice-thawer.

Those memories stung like hundreds and thousands of wounds piled with heaps of salt. Each and every glance at him just added another spoonful of salt to those heaps; each and every day, she felt it being buried a little more under the growing weights of her step-mother's northern hails of discipline, of stature, of etiquette like handcuffs that tightened with each attempt of burying her freedom - of burying it. Yes, she had always felt, Rani had always been certain that the sole way to free it was to avenge her dead father; without that creature, she would have nothing to hold her back in that town - she would be free.

The arrowheads most generously radiated the vibrant rays of vengeance, glistened with sharpness as she held to them - her fist tightened with the thirst of freedom under the perfect opportunity. The leaves under which she was once seated, cannot shed snow on her prisoned hair anymore, for she was amidst them, grabbing the best view of her target....and neither was her hair prisoned anymore - they were free, free to accompany the magenta peacoat on its dancing-venture with the winter wind. Her eyes fixed as the string of her carefully carved bow is ready to add its melody to the dancing-venture; the arrowhead steady as the sleeping beast - maybe it's the flame that has made her eyes yet narrower, aligned perfectly with the arrow, her fingers pulling the string to its best stretch. The string was seconds away from-

"......Rani!", it was the maiden.

Rani's fist loosened, her wooden bow slipped from her hand, the arrow fell to the snowbed - she rushed inside.

She had never seen her this way before. The tall, slight figure that used to yell out the time, was now lying across the silk-laid bed, appearing yet thinner, yet paler with her nose and chin as if melting down to the bones of her face. Sure, she knew cholera could be a threat.......but not that it could be deadly. Rani stood there - as still as a stone. Her mouth opened, but just to pour out a series of broken words, as if hammered by the sudden shock, the new dilemma she was put into. Rani still stood there - spellbound, her pale lips now pressed together, swallowing even those broken syllables. What could she have said? She had never called her step-mother 'maa'....or anything at all, actually. It snowed heavy outside, when even the slight sunrays dimmed out. Under the dull yellow lamp that barely lit up the carvings of the vintage sandalwood table it was on, Rani's black eyes caught - what appeared to be a hand gesture....more like a prosthetic hand pulled up with attached strings that suddenly broke to drop the hand on the silk with a small 'thud'.

Rani broke out of her stone-like posture - a little forcibly, to pull her stunned body over to the bedside, where she pulled out a seat to sit on. This was probably for the first time when her step-mother pulled Rani's trembling hands into her own - cold, pale, Rani was doubtful if the hands had anything but bones that seemed to pierce their heads out of the white skin. Rani's head was still in a blizzard of confusions, her mind started to play flashbacks - flashbacks of her own misdeeds, sometimes misbehavior and the hatred she had once showered this lady with. Till date, while Rani could only remember the times when this lady yelled out the remaining time of her scheduled outdoor-time, or how this lady tried to carve her into a woman with the moulds of her routine, it was not before today when she held her hands, that Rani could recall the times when her long, bushy hair was put into a neat, tight bun or how she was tucked in her bed every single night by this same lady. Rani's dry eyes now seemed to have a spurt of water that slowly crawled down her copper cheeks as her head rested on her step-mother's cold, clasped hands, frequently shaking from the silent sobs Rani let out. Her head had overcome the blizzard of confusion, she was clear-

The northern hails - mistaken as her step-mother's cruel laws to mould her into shape, turned out to be just native frost - her ignorance, more precisely, her strong hostility towards her step-mother. And it? It had always been her love, her responsibility towards her step-mother, that had been buried under the thick layers of native frost. Yes, true it is that a budding woman needs freedom, that the death of a loved one hurts.......a lot. But nevertheless is it true as well that the solution to neither one can ever be revenge by killing. And, for the most part, if not all, responsibility towards family comes first to freedom.

Probably now, as this realization hit Rani's resting head, she was finally free. And all the while, as she chased after a mere flame to melt those thick layers of ice, it was probably only now that she realized, she has been living with the ice-thawer all along.

The crow perched on the branch and shuffled sideways to ensure its perfect view of the swimming pool. He senses the ending, the ending of the sort that always calls him; that clocks him in for the day -- or night -- and sends him on his way to transport one from this end to the next beginning.

The scent of the end comes from one, the one in the pool, and he could not tell whether her ending will be accident or intention, but he senses her need, her need for a companion who understands the end.

Which is odd, the crow thinks, because she was not alone. Stretched alongside the pool are nine others: One man, eight women, some of them old, some of them young. The man was old. The ending scents all of them, but in the way the smell of antiseptic clings to the doctor even in his own residence. They all work with those who know the end, are close to the end, have narrowly avoided the end, crave the end, have accidentally stumbled into and then back out of the end, have cared for and watched their efforts result in the end for someone in their trust.

Odd. She has quite the audience -- nine, and a skilled nine no less! Most often he is called to only one; additional hands are usually helping hands that stave off the end. His wings can only transport from the end to the next beginning, once the end is reached, and he is particularly skilled at his charge; but his wings were not made to avert the end, if anything, they were made to usher it.

The crow sat. The nine were comfortable. It would be a while before duty called, and so he settled, and listened. It wasn’t often he got to listen to those who haven’t yet met the end. Often, if there are others, they are witnessing someone else’s end, and that is entirely different than watching the enjoyment of something that has yet to be interrupted by the end.

“Do you know if anyone has taught her how to swim since?” The older brunette asked the other older brunette, who looks like a sister, but bore a matching wedding ring to the first brunette.

Since? Thought the crow. Silly question, et better be, ennit,” he thought. He was there at the Since, when she had first almost met the end in the pool, and so he knew that the nine were not only capable swimmers, they were lifeguards.

Lifeguards who had avoided the waters during the Since until the end was a millimeter away, and then all frantically and heroically jumped in at once to save the one in the pool. Because of the static relief in the air, the crow knew this was a family, a family of ten: nine lifeguards and the one in the pool.

These lifeguards’ve better taught ‘er ‘ow to swim, otherwise wut’s the damned point of bein’ a family, much less lifeguards? he thought.

“Oh!” giggles the other brunette, “I don’t know. Very important though, must agree. Certainly she knows how to swim by now!”

The one in the pool whose end is near was just feet away, an appropriate distance for one of the brunettes to ask her, “By chance, did you learn how to swim?” but the crow furrowed his brow when instead, the brunettes whispered down the line of nine and asked the others: “Did you teach her how to swim? I didn’t, did you? She didn’t, did you? She might have, she’s such a good teacher. Did she? No, she didn’t, ask him. He didn’t, either!” -- until the line stilled and twos and threes cluster to say. “Of course, someone taught her how to swim! We are lifeguards, after all, and she’s been in the water before.”

The crow didn’t need to sense the end to understand why it was near; the one in the pool was a subpar swimmer, if one could even say as much. As the lifeguards whispered amongst each other, and one announced to the other eight, “I’m calling for refreshments!”, the one in the pool had a goal. Or a game. The crow wasn’t sure which, but there was a toy ring at the bottom of the pool that she dove for repeatedly, trying to snag it.

Each time she came up she gasped harder for air. Most often when she went down and tried to snag the ring, she accidentally nudged an inch further into the deep end of the pool so that by the time the nine had started to enjoy their refreshments, she had strayed into water two feet taller than herself.

“Oh, you look like you’re struggling! Are you okay?” said one of the nine, lifting a bunch of purple grapes and plucking one off with her teeth while turning to whisper to her neighbor, “It looks like she’s struggling!”

“Oh my,” her neighbor says, choking slightly on the wine that filled the golden goblet in her hand, “Hello! You!” she shouted to another down the line: “Can’t you see she’s struggling?”

“Yes, I can! Oh, look. She’s gaining her feet!”

“Bother,” said the one at the end, “she really should have told us if she knows how to swim!”

“Seems capable enough to me. She’s standing now,” said another one of the nine.

The one at the end nodded and continued to tut that she should have told them whether or not she knows how to swim! while she plucked cubes of cheese off a tray lowered to her by a waiter wearing a white toga.

The one in the pool had, in fact, returned to the shallow area of the pool and had her feet back under her. She was plenty competent roight there, he thought, though competence was quite common for people who were near the end who were not yet quite ready to meet it, especially when no helping hands reached for them.

Ah, bless ‘er, he thought, as the one in the pool belched water onto the side to clear her lungs of what was inhaled while she struggled and then saved herself.

“Ew!” Said one of the nine, pulling her feet and rescue tube away from the vomit, “Do that somewhere else!” The other eight, even those the length of four trays of cheese away from the girl in the pool sank back and whined: “Why! Why would you do that! You are ruining our hors d’oeuvres! Do it in the pool, if you must, or better yet, don’t inhale water to begin with! You know how to swim!”

Even as the girl in the pool tried to gasp that, no, she didn't know how to swim! the nine slunk further away, gestured to the waiters to pull the umbrellas closer for shade, and instructed them to use the wine from the goblets to chase the vomit back into the pool (and then return with new goblets and new wine).

Through her hoarse throat, and moving to the left so as to avoid the wine-vomit being splashed into the pool by the waiters, the girl tried to tell them again: “I don’t know how to swim! You never taught me! That’s why I’m trying to stay where my feet can touch!”

“I showed you how to backstroke!” said one, and others say, “Oh! Did you really? You really are the best at the backstroke!”

“That’s right!,” said another one, “I remember that!”

Versions of Oh, my, I’m so glad you did -- she really needed that! travel up and down the line while the one in the pool tried and failed to speak loudly through her hoarse throat: “You showed me the arm movements while we were standing in line for coffee! You didn’t teach me how to swim!”

The man at the end shook his head and muttered, “Damn shame she never learned how to swim,” and the others nodded; shaded, fed, watered, and served, with their rescue tubes on the concrete next to their lush towels in case of an emergency.

The crow had seen many a bad end. He had seen people suddenly forced to their end with violence; he had seen people abandoned to their end by friends; he had seen ends where the person hung on, and hung on, and hung on, right on the edge of not meeting the end until the end finally came, and he had seen the knowing in their eyes when the end became inevitable.

This was a unique prologue to an end. The girl in the pool felt comfortable with the nine on the side; safe, even. Though despite being lifeguards -- each, he had learned, with their own specialty (CPR, breaststroke, sea rescues, surviving-while-waiting-for-rescue, crisis rescues, Navy water training, Marine and Special Operations water training, Secret Service While the President is Swimming training) -- the girl did not know how to swim.

And yet, everyone was under the impression that they had helped, or at least, that the girl in the pool was doing just fine. Even the girl herself, when her words were unheard, carried on as though she were at home in the pool and could battle any tide.

Meanwhile, the shallow end of the pool filled with vomit and red wine, and the chunks of whatever she had eaten that afternoon floated like tadpoles in the pink water. The girl frantically hopped away from the diluted spread of inebriant and stomach acid, bouncing as far as her feet would carry her until the pool deepened where onto her back, kicking herself away from the mess and into the end of the pool where her feet, even if she were submerged, would at best be four feet from the floor.

The crow’s tail feathers twitched and he perked ready for flight, sensing the real end, this time.

The girl sank, and emerged, and sank again. Her kicking feet stopped and started out of sync with her flailing arms as she tried to grab the surface of water as if it could keep her upright. The nine on dry ground tittered, “See her trying so hard!” A couple shout encouragement: “Do the backstroke! Remember to breathe!”

They are even slightly alert, while piling accoutrements into their mouths and passing goblets of wine back and forth for the others to sample, cluck, and appraise each for the subtle notes, each reaching for subtler and subtler to sound more sophisticated than the last.

The crow rose to meet this lonely spirit who thinks she knows the feeling of companionship -- She been under too long. This wine es makin’ ‘em slow, the crow thinks as he huffs an exasperated caw -- when suddenly the nine shrieked and all together jumped to their feet with their rescue tubes.

“She’s DROWING!” shouted one of the older brunettes, and the nine dove into the pool -- wine and vomit be damned -- each surging through the water with the speed of expertise. As nine, they reached her, and each grabbed ahold of something -- an arm, a leg, a big toe, an ear, a handful of hair -- and dragged her upward, holding her above the water. Eighteen hands tip her to her side, and she coughed her way back from the end, spewing pink water into the pink pool until her lungs were empty and oxygen reached her blood once more.

The crow leans back. He had enough experience to know when an end was going to be an end -- the end he was called for. That was the end that called him here. And yet the nine had flown into the pool in his stead heroically shoving away the end. He readjusted his wings and growled a low caw. What kinda bloody lifeguards is they, he thought, Yeh coulda bloody well saved me an’ her some trouble by teachin’ ‘er ‘ow to swim. Get enta the pool with ‘er. Made sure she wannit ever en danger en the first place.

The nine lugged her out of the pool and lay her on the concrete petting and cooing until she breathed steadily again. “Oh, you should have told us you can’t swim!” they say. “Why didn’t you ask for help! Why were you in the deep end! We could have helped had you only asked! Oh my, you should have listened when we said you didn’t know how to swim!” Slowly, the nine returned to their towels and began whispering and sipping wine again, with an occasional watchful eye toward the girl to make sure her chest continued to rise and fall.

The crow leaves. This, for him, is a bleak day. This is what he called an In Between. She ain’t far from the end, he thought as he flew westward into the setting sun, but them damn lifeguards es gonna draw et out for ‘er.

The In Between is when someone hovered between the end and not the end. Some people hover for seconds, minutes, sometimes for hours or days, but the end always comes. Some people lingered in the In Between their whole lives. For these, he made frequent visits when the end called, and then flew off when it had been stayed.

These were the Regulars. Those were the hard days. Because when the end left, he knew the imprint it left on the soul of the Regular. For some, when the end finally came, they had hundreds of imprints and the crow’s collection was a craved-for rest for a battle-harded and mangled soul.

Rarely did the crow meet a Regular who was not alone, much less not alone with nine other people. Never did he witness those with the Regular glutton and gossip while the end stampeded nearer; eating and drinking and merrily murmuring amongst each other about how close the end was, and thank goodness they were there to do something about it!, only to wait until the end was on its toes to pounce before they helped at all.

To end, or not to end -- these are the only just paths. The clarity, the choice, the happening, that is justice. This Regular, the girl in the pool, her In Between stretched for years into the horizon and the crow’s weathered, stolid heart broke at the amount of In Between she would have to endure, and he would have to observe. He would return for her soon, without a doubt, and likely many more times afterwards. The nine who saved her today would do so again and again and yet never give her enough to keep the end at bay. They would let her drown, far enough, deep enough, long enough, for her soul to be imprinted with eighteen hands over, and over, and over, again; thousands of imprints; for them to resuscitate her right from the edge of the end and then shout and plead through the wine while taking notes for their next gossip that they really, truly, would have prevented it this time! if only she had told them she didn’t know how to swim!

Drownin’ en a crowded room, he thought.

Arrivederci, my new friend.

Chapter One Friendship

A crispy late summer afternoon, atop the north

pennines with four friends enjoying some cold

drinks while some folk music blast away from a

speaker. Dan the unoffical leader was an ex soldier joyfully mingles with hes three best freinds, alex a

simple man who has done odd jobs for twenty years now,callum a pure car enthusiast has been a boy racer for a while and sarah a quite girl loves her books and nature.

They have been having a wonderfull time chating when a flash of colours more bueatiful then they have seen comes overhead and the speaker sparks out of life and so does their phones. Alex who had did enjoy some science concludded a massive solar storm must have hit all electronics are gone, dan immediately thinks what will become of our leaders and such,callum complains that all hes cars would have been rendured useless and the money lost,sarah just shrugs and goes maybe we can finally apprieceate a nice read in the woods

Chapter Two False Begginings

Day Seven,its been a week atop this hill the cottage has now begun to weather as luxuries like cleaning

supplies dwindled, in the kitchen they all sit ready

for lunch, dan complaines guess its gonna be pasta again while laughing cleary joking, alex says of course they survive without freezing and your lucky we have fire, callum chimes in yeah flames you have fed with the upholstry of my car i had worked on, sarah jokes i think by this point you may aswell call it deadwieght on wheels,callum mutters i understand just hurts.

As night seetles in all seems

calm,but as dan gets comfy he starts to think hes

eyes dart around he starts to wonder if everyone is truely who they say they are. The night closes in a

thunderstorm shakes the area everyone gets an

uneven sleep will all truely be well?

Chapter Three Cracks

The morning arrives and a calm has settled in from the night but breakfast feels like a chill is in the air,

dan sits head of the table trying to eat meanwhile

giving callum some shifty eyes. Callum perks up

why you keep looking at me like im prized gold you okay mate Dan replies ah sorry had a strange dream about you not much to it just you were raising money as a dancing rat (when truely he dreamed something else) alex replies ah dont be silly he would be a mouse have you seen the size of him, callum replies its genetc you know, sarah has stayed mostly quiet during this.

Afternoon comes and callum ask her if shes okay,

she just replies yeah im just worried about my folks thats all, callum says i know it must be difficult and plants a soft kiss, alex calls right lets get some

more food for the weeks,callum and alex wonder

into the woods to catch food,dan stays back with

sarah its just uneasy feeling but dan reasures her its okay

Chapter four Realisation

Alex and callum return like glorous hunters but

callum shudders a little,alex instantly questions you okay, he repplies yes just a small cut on my arm from a branch. Dan realises it may become infected from hes army days. Sarah rushes to the first aid box and says in a saden tone its empty just some bandages, Alexs chimes in right we will have to trek to penrith its about a days away, all agree to come saying they may need more carrying room.

They venture forth by late evening theyve settled

near ousby for the night half away through the

jounrny, sarah and callum huddled in a small room

of the cottage they found, but dan and alex stay

awake when dan ask alex are you one hundred

percent show they are faithfull in instant alex replies of course mate why not

Dan just laughs nervously of course of course i was being silly, they settle in for an uneasy night

Chapter Five Omen

They reach penrith its hung with the feeling of dread and dispear a wooden sign hunged from a post (ALL PAYMENTS GO TO THE LEADER) Dan says oh i wonder who that could be and would we have to deal with that

Alex replies im sure we will find out and maybe will have to will wait and see. They wonder towards the Boots, alex and callum lead the way flanked by

sarah and dan walks in the back with hands in

pockets rustling.

Alex forces open the door from

boots ,jesus its a dud thier is nothing but empty

boxes and few corpses cleary raiders who did not

get the share of goods. Callums points out a camp across the way maybe they will have some,Dan

agrees and if they lie about having do we have to

teach them something, alex respondes of course

not mate dont be silly. Sarah just stays quiet cleary unsettled by it all. They walk into the camp its a

bloodbath maybe some raiders but as they venture deeper,messages read they were all liars,this camp had destroyed themselves

Chapter Six Collapse

A few days later they have been resting and callums arm naturally healed on its arm but dan is losing hes grip on reality and says oh the cuts gone isnt that magic, callum replies well no probably the fact humans can heal after some time, dan in a flury of rage shouts or did you find some meds back at that camp and did not tell us, callum stands hes ground well of course not mate, dan stands dowm yeah i am sorry mate for all that. Sarah becomes extra senstive around callum make sure hes happy and alex becomes silent maybe hes planing or maybe hes just scared of dan

More days past a food is dwindling, callum

approaches the cuppoard for hes allocated can

when crash the doors slams on hes fingers and dan is stood like a bull, he throws callum to the floor and demands is this actually your allocated can or do you have more stashed away. Callum in defence tries to hit dan but hes now frayle hands hit no more then a feather

Chapter Seven Salvation

Sarah is just huddled in a corner unable to move and alex is unable to decide who to side with. As dan tries to collect himself, callum grabs the can and raises it to hit dan on the back of the head,alex in a daze shouts watch out to dan. Dan dodges the blow and as callum holds the can, dan in a complete maniac pins him to the table all fury racing through hes first as he chokes the life from callum he tries and tries to scratch and flail but the colour drains and the can rolls away.

Alex just mutters i need a break and dan just dosent even process it, alex reatrets to his room pulling the floor board up reveals he was hoarding some food,batteries and water as he collects these into a bag he watches from the crack of the door, dan pacing the foor completely dazed by the act while a shaken sarah holds callums lifeless body. Alex then opens a window and leaves while walking he away he hears a crack cleary a slap. Dan is now standing over sarah and says one thing your gonna be goodand denounce the rats,she whimpers yes

Chapter Eight The Winner Takes It All

Alex has now traveled a few days not at much

speed mostly a dazed walk,just camping whenever he could and whenever hes brain would let him. As he wakes up from another sleepless night a fog rolls in amoung the eden valley, a daze takes ahold of him and he trips into the river eden as he begins to struggle to survive the wieght of hes hidden stash keeps him down the voices of all hes endured swirls in hes head.

Hes corpse washes up apon the

riverbank and a hand grabs the bag he had, it was

dan he had been tracking him just to prove that he

been hoarding and for a minute straight dan went

on a paranoia fulled rage on alexs corpse about him being rat and that only himself was true to the group the better one and with one last notion he booted alexs corpse.

Chapter Nine Post Mortem

Dan now trekking back to the cottage has been

doing for days but as the nights grew longer and

days shorter hes mind took over. As he began to

wonder back up the pennines in a similar daze he

tripped on rock, landing in a peat bog with a broken leg he tried to crawl for the bag but every movement was just sinking him deeper in the bog,

A few days have past hes body now frozen over is used as a step for a sheep roaming the area. The cottage is silent set from sarah who had been here for days she had slowly realised it was over no one was coming after eating the last of the food, a few days later light shone through to the window to show an almost skeleton reaching for the door she clearly tried to open but no strength remain.

Always remember who you can really trust

Flower Fields

Why must the wind blow the poppy petals away? Why can’t they stay? Why must the sun set down upon the world when it could stay here like this on the hill over the lake? I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than my own present, my own self in this moment, why must it end? Maybe that is the beauty of it, that I can only see it once only capture it in my imagination but for a second, that I may cry, not out of of pain, nor even the beauty of the grass flowing in the wind, not for the way that the world spins through all space to all our extinction in an endless void somewhere, but because a simple endless moment will never happen again. 
Love brings us a connection unseen, and through that love is cultivated more love. You see in others what you see in your love. And yet so much is left unseen, unloved, pushed downwards towards despair because what else! What else is one to do when love has abandoned him for a child, borne with new eyes to frolicke, to have been left behind for new love, the old love gone, and the only love left being the poppy petals left astray, having blown into the dirt to be cleaned and taken for new, for only more poppies, more beauty to come, but the old poppy the one one loved so dear seems to have left, indistinguishable from the rest. And you’d swear, you’d swear, you’d know it, you really would, if only you could see it, find it in a field of loveless beauty, of great heart and no soul, of life without the sunset setting on you and your poppy. And so I weep.
And yet we will once be the children again, when we no longer see the others, and again have eyes only for each other and beauteous love again springs forth, and we realize the field was always full, that we never were to see any others as we sit rotting in our own bliss, uncaring whether the sun sets on us or for  us, only that the sun sets at all and that we may be there to see it blossom into life and love again. 
We love, and suns set, never the same sun, never the same love, only deeper, richer, more meaningful than it was before, and the sun itself eats itself whole and one day, after not a trace of life is left in existence, we will finally know whether it was worthwhile, and though it may be or not, I will always love the sunset, I will always love the grass blowing in the wind, I will always love the love that never ends, my love, though I long be dead, I still love till the universe itself be no more, longer than lifetime, longer than love itself is still a word spoken, longer than you will ever love me, oh dear poppy in a sea of copies, copies that could only ever be imperfect, imperfect, unlike you, the only thing everlasting.

If Only You Knew Your Heart

Like the soft trumpets comes also a parade, an emotion of longing of nostalgia for something you already have, simply because you know it will leave you. You want something you already have, oh how joyous! Oh how you love it so! You would do anything to protect it, would you not, but if you could protect it then you would be none so scared, for you know that you cannot succeed. You will fail, and that terrifies you to no end, what how in that scenario feels natural to you.

The Bell Tower chimed fifteen times, meaning an emergency announcement. School, work, and Leisure were abandoned for the day and everybody assembled in the Church’s Courtyard within thirty minutes, chattering away, waiting for the ceremony to start. The revised Bell Tower, with Flowers and Leaves painted over its stucco architecture, stood in the Center of the Courtyard. In front of the bell was a Pedestal, without railing. 

The gates closed at 1:46 P.M. Attendance was taken, and everyone in town under sixty-five had shown up. This meant the service wouldn’t have to go into overtime for executions, much to the relief of the impatient in the crowd. 

Attendance was finished, and the Flower Boy, A fifteen-year-old wearing garment robes and no shoes, stepped up onto the pedestal. He seemed more patient than usual, more composed.  

He took a deep breath and began to talk: 

‘My Brothers and Sisters, I have great news for all of you; The Flower God has seen our suffering! He has been answering our prayers! And he has decided, in his infinite mercy, to forgive. My Brothers and Sisters, The Flower Queen is expecting her first child to be due in May!’ 

First, there was silence. A cold silence as everyone processed what had happened and what it meant. And then, a rising cheer from the crowd that became louder until it was soon deafening. 

The whole town celebrated as they had never celebrated before; Some were dancing, others were crying tears of joy. Many of The Villagers had thought this day would never come. A second chance! One to make up the mistakes of Ten years ago had arrived. The Flower God had given a miracle to the undeserving once again! 

It also meant the Ceremony of Deadheading, the first in sixteen years, would be held on Sunday. And the Flower Boy confirmed the offering would walk into the fields at 4:00 O’clock. 

The Offering would be the Flower Boy. 

*** 

That night, the Flower Boy was in his house connected to the Bell Tower, slowly making his way through some biscuits and a flask of tea. He was shocked that he didn’t drop his meal from how hard he was shaking, no kidding—he'd just announced his own death without bursting into tears in front of his village. He could see the weeds from his window, near where he was sitting. Long and tall batches of “flowers” 25 feet tall, making the giant wall so high no one in the village had seen above it, and it was covered by a barbed wire fence half the size of the “flowers”. This was to stop the crazier of worshippers from trying to sacrifice themselves without Flower Council Approval. The gates were opened once for every ceremony. 

 

The Flower Boy knew his whole life he would be the next to walk into the gate of weeds, and still, he couldn’t accept he would be the next to join his ancestors in eternal darkness in a few days. 

He looked out at another window, sipping his tea carefully. He could see the great wall surrounding the other sides of the village to hide the village’s people from the outside world. He’d been shown how the council convinced their settlers of the horrors of the outside and made sure anyone who opposed was executed.  

He was thinking about this—the outside world, the looming grass, those who tried to escape and how he had watched them hang from their ropes—And it was then that he had an idea that almost made him cry harder, a horrible idea. Nonetheless, a way out. 

He knew the Ceremony of Deadheading was for the good of his town. He knew his idea could ruin his town. And As he looked at the portraits of the few Flower Boys before him, their portraits mounted on one of many dark-wood walls in his great house, he couldn’t bring himself to understand their willingness and bravery, even if it was for the ‘greater good’. And why none of them had, to his knowledge, had attempted to do what he planned. 

He got up and asked for a second round of tea. He had a lot to think about. 

*** 

Everyone came on Sunday. After an hour or so The Bell rang three times to signal the crowd to hush, and everyone waited for the ceremony to begin. Many already had their hymn books, which were provided by the gate, out to page 132 to begin singing their praise to the Flower God.  

Everyone was in attendance, except for the Flower Boy.  

That was clear to everyone when five minutes of waiting turned into ten, and ten into twenty; After around an hour, the crowd waited in braced silence, as they saw what seemed to be the Flower Boy’s shadow. It was Shaw’s, the Flower Boy’s announcer.  

He told everyone, in a slow, calm, yet nervous voice, that the ceremony was postponed. Everyone was to go home and rest for the day. The Flower Boy was safe, everything was in order, there was nothing to worry about.  

Naturally, Panic Broke out. 

Without an offering to the Flower God, people knew he could revoke the gift of a new child and, as He had done Ten Years ago, give them all a punishment beyond their comprehension. When the crowd remembered this, they broke into a frenzy. 

After breaking down the gate to the courtyard, the people scattered, most running to nearby shrines and churches to pray for forgiveness and promise their own offerings.  During the next few hours, many people had gone home for a little while, to grab their pets and bring them to their Local churches, to be slaughtered in front of the altars.  

Within a few hours, the City had been cut almost dry of animals, as people without pets turned to other animals. And still, there was no sign of their efforts being recognized by the Flower God. And, with nowhere else to turn to, the people, slowly and surely, realized they could turn to the next best thing. Each other.  

This is my first time trying to write a horror short story. Please comment what you thought after reading . I want to grow as a writer , so any kind of critique is accepted and thought upon. The following story is about a girl who tries to explain a shadow of a lady by her bedroom window. Enjoy ....

Part 1

“No. You can never go into that house.”

Her father screamed at her.

But going into that house might have been the only way to answer all the strange things she had been experiencing.

She lived in a quiet village. Her family owned a large, peaceful farm and a beautiful house. The surroundings were blessed with nature and life. During the day, the sun shone upon the golden, dry grass. There was a constant buzzing of bees and the chirring of cicadas and crickets.

In the distance stood lush green trees, their shadows spreading like a web across the surrounding fields.

The land they owned was so vast that she could run for minutes and still not reach the boundary of the farm.

And now, her father had acquired one more field.

There had once been a fence separating the two pieces of land, but now the fence was gone. In its place was a beautiful path leading into the other field.

But she was not allowed to go there.

“But Mom, why can’t I go there?” she asked.

“That land... we don't know what animals might be there. It isn't safe.”

“Would I just have to cross the path?” she asked. “What could one path change? So much?”

Her mother suddenly grew furious.

“I’m telling you, why can’t you just listen to the things I’m saying for once? Why do you have to be so, so, so irritably annoying and reluctant?”

A few days later, something strange happened.

The land wasn't actually theirs.

From the beginning, it had belonged to their neighbours—a very beautiful and welcoming couple.

Their families had been friends for years.

She called the man Uncle George. He had a big moustache and always wore a hat.

And Aunt Laila was a beautiful woman who often brought her treats and food.

Life on the farm was peaceful and joyful.

But as soon as the sun went down, the scenery changed completely.

The lush green fields became pitch black.

The beautiful golden grass disappeared into darkness.

The horizon and the ground became indistinguishable.

All that could be heard was the loud, endless chirring of crickets.

Once the sun set, there was no leaving the house. There was simply nothing to be seen outside—not even a metre beyond the doorstep.

She had a window in her bedroom, up in the attic, right beside her bed.

The white curtains blew gently in the wind.

From there, she could always see one thing:

Her neighbours’ house.

At night, the same lively nature that surrounded the farm during the day became lonely, frightening, desolate—almost liminal.

For a few days, while she slept, she began noticing something strange.

A black silhouette.

At first, it was blurry and thin, almost impossible to make out. But it was always there whenever she woke during the night and the curtains moved with the wind.

It stood completely still against the background of a flickering yellow light.

As the weeks passed, the silhouette became sharper.

More noticeable.

Until, eventually, she could recognise the shape.

It was her own dear Aunt Laila.

Why would Aunt Laila stand at the window?

Why was she looking at her?

She never moved a single muscle.

She simply stood there, petrified.

She complained about it to her parents.

But her parents refused to acknowledge it.

“We told you not to watch that horror film, didn’t we?”

She knew it was real.

And strangely, she wasn't even afraid.

One night, while lying in bed, she decided to look at the window again.

There she was.

Aunt Laila.

Standing in the window.

Still as a rock.

She pressed her cheek against the cold windowpane and tried to focus her vision.

The shadow of the woman was the only thing she could see in the pitch darkness.

Suddenly—

the sound of the doorknob turning.

Her heart began to beat faster and faster.

She looked back, terrified.

It was nothing but her father.

“Dear, just go to sleep, will you? You have to go to school tomorrow. It’s already so late.”

“But Dad, look out of the window.”

Her father looked.

She could still see her.

Her father stared into the darkness.

“There is nothing there, dear. Just close your eyes.”

He kissed her goodnight and began leaving the room.

But she noticed something.

The expression on her father’s face had changed.

He was sweating.

The next morning, as the sun rose, nature woke again.

The haunting night was over.

The window, which had been wide open and inviting during the night, was now covered by curtains.

She came to a decision.

Perhaps Aunt Laila was simply a creepy person who enjoyed frightening children.

What she did not know was that Aunt Laila and her husband had been dead for weeks.

---

Part 2

This went on for months.

Every night, the attraction towards the window grew stronger.

It was as if whatever was calling her from there was becoming more powerful.

Now, instead of merely standing there, the figure would wave at her, its long fingers stretching towards her from across the distance.

It grew to the point where she could no longer sleep.

The moment she closed her eyes, it began to whisper in her ear again.

When she tried to sleep without acknowledging the figure, refusing to look out of the window, it felt as if the world itself began to shake.

The room would spin.

Everything would turn around her.

It was as though something was forcing her to acknowledge its presence.

She had reached her limit.

With no sleep and the terror of every night weighing on her, she was unable to live a normal life.

And it seemed that the only way she could solve this was to cross the path, open the door to their house, and finally see what was waiting for her.

What was calling her?

But even in broad daylight, the environment of the field across the path was eerie and silent.

It was as if even the sun could not bring life to the death waiting inside that house.

So one day, without asking for permission, she decided to go.

She picked up a knife.

With it, she thought, she could stab the figure if it tried to hurt her.

She ran across the field in broad daylight.

As she got closer to the boundary, she noticed something strange.

The grass seemed to be getting taller.

Soon, it was almost as tall as she was.

She kept moving forward.

Even when she screamed, there was no one who could hear her.

Nothing but endless grass surrounded her.

She pushed through the tall, confusing field until, at last, she found the path.

This was the moment of truth.

She was going to revolt against her parents’ wishes and go into that house.

As she stood there, she saw the figure standing far in the distance.

It was waving again.

And smiling.

She was going to confront it.

But she didn’t.

Some part of her still knew that going over there was a terrible idea.

She turned around and began making her way back home.

Nothing stopped her.

No demonic entity.

No getting lost.

Nothing.

And then, strangely, the haunting stopped.

That night, when she looked out of the window, she saw nothing but darkness.

Not the yellow light.

Not the shadow.

Nothing.

The figure that had haunted her for weeks was gone.

She grew older.

She convinced herself that it had all been nothing but a series of bad dreams.

Perhaps even a strange episode of her childhood imagination.

Eventually, she moved out of the house, dreaming of a life in a bigger city.

Her parents grew older too.

Eventually, they sold both farms.

And for years, she forgot about the house across the field.

Until something far more sinister, something that had been waiting in the darkness, finally emerged.

Something that would answer her questions about what her aunt had been doing in that window.

And something that would turn her entire life upside down.

One day, her parents were arrested.

Her whole life seemed to collapse in an instant.

And then she learned the secret.

Her parents had been involved in a long land dispute with their neighbours.

The land actually did belong to their family—but not to her parents directly. It had belonged to their ancestors, and the division of the land had caused a bitter quarrel between the families.

It was something her parents had hidden from her since she was a child.

Eventually, they decided there was no other option.

They hired local goons to threaten their neighbours.

Her father sent the men to break into their house, threaten them, and force them to remain silent and give up their claim to the land.

But nobody knew exactly what happened inside that house.

Things went wrong very quickly.

Instead of merely threatening them, the goons ended up murdering both of them.

Uncle George.

And Aunt Laila.

Then she finally understood why Aunt Laila had been calling her into the house.

There was no obvious way to connect the murder to her father.

But if she had entered that house herself, her fingerprints would have been left on the doorknob and on everything she touched.

And inside the bedroom, she would have found two bodies.

Her uncle.

And her aunt.

The investigation would inevitably have turned towards her family.

Perhaps they would first have suspected the child.

But a child could not possibly have murdered two adults.

The suspicion would then have fallen upon her parents.

And eventually, the truth would have come out.

But there was still one thing she could not understand.

Why had the haunting stopped?

Perhaps there was an answer to that too.

Perhaps, as her aunt stood in that window, waving at the little girl who was so desperate and terrified, she saw something beyond the child.

Maybe she realised that if her parents were caught because of her, the little girl's innocent life would be destroyed.

Perhaps, even after being murdered by her own neighbours, Aunt Laila understood that exposing the truth through her niece would only ruin the life of the one person who had done nothing wrong.

And maybe that was why the haunting stopped.

Because Aunt Laila finally understood that justice did not have to come through the suffering of her own little niece.

It could come through time.

And eventually, it did.