Part Three: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

In the following series of blog posts, you can find the stories from the shortlist of twenty. This particular post will feature the stories from Fiona Salter, Kathleen Taylor, Jayne Thickett and Rebecca Saunders.

Batman by Fiona Salter

It wasn't just the brown smears on the bathroom door that made me think twice about the rental house. Or the washing up dating from 1982, or the turbid green fish tank. It was because there was someone living in the attic.

“Mr Floyd?” I said as the door opened. “Floyd,” he said. “Just the one name, Floyd.”  And so we,  my three year old daughter and I,  began another tour. It was late afternoon, the last of four houses we'd looked at that day. Earlier, in the estate agent's office, a listless woman with smudged eyeliner had pulled out details of a place on a neglected estate on the western edge of town, lodged between rail tracks and noisy A- road. “You have to use your imagination with this one,” she said “it’s bit, messy.” She looked into the middle distance as if recollecting a past hurt. I was tired, and my daughter was beginning to make a noise like a detuned radio.  Blue and purple outlined the clouds.  To say this house was messy was saying someone with plague was a little under the weather. Come to think of it the current tenant looked as if he might have nursing a buboe or two. But he'd learned to live with them.

We'd passed the fish tank filled with green viscous scum smelled like a soul's death and upstairs to the bedrooms.

Floyd pushed back his dusty dreads as he shouldered the door open, he was rebuffed by a physical mass of stuff. He suggested I look round the door.  I peered at the earthquake within and couldn't imagine how anyone could ever have slept here. Maybe someone was still asleep there. It was difficult to tell. Broken toys, unwashed clothes, cables, lagging, a pair of dirty pigeon’s wings, an outboard motor. The mess seemed to have a life of its own and had coagulated into a physical organism. Floyd was unequal to the struggle and gave up with a shrug. I sensed he was the kind of guy who didn't like a challenge.

The bathroom suite was what used to be known as avocado. But more accurately it looked as if a horse had recently bathed there. Unable to manage the taps with its hooves it had simply left them dripping and trampled a new floor of towels as it trotted on its way. There was something brown smeared right across the door, but I didn't allow myself to think about that too much.

Who would live in a house like this? Lloyd Grossman's voice insinuated itself in my head..

My daughter provided answer:

“The devil!” she squeaked.

I sighed.

“Shhh, I've told you before, different is good. People can look different.. it’s colourful and .. Jesus!”

A cheery horned devil’s head leered from the wall. Above the children's bunk beds.

The late afternoon heat, the satanic head and house's personal ambience was beginning to get to me. It wasn't Floyd's own aroma – a medieval mix of musty fabric and patchouli - but a different atmosphere. An underground – underworld miasma. I'd smelled it before in a cave in Spain, a prehistoric cave dank with dripping stalactites.  “If you don't mind me asking, what's that smell?”

“Ah,” said Floyd, “I was saving the best to last.”

“We have bats.  A colony in the roof space. Man, we have some cool bat parties. In the summer we invite a few friends, a few smokes, he winked exaggeratedly. “Warm nights we just watch them fly. Just a couple at first,” his brown hands fluttered and voice dropped to a whisper “Then hundreds, swarming out. Man, it’s a sight, just kick back and watch those crazy little buggers soar.”

I tried to envisage myself, kicking back. Was I the kind of person to kick back? “Hey,” I imagined myself saying, “I'm having a bat party, nothing fancy, you know just a few friends a little weed, and  the bats.”  Did I even have bat-friendly friends? I tried to imagine them, but failed.

The house was cheaper than anything else I'd seen. Maybe I should take it. It would be quirky thing to do, our 'thing', we'd be the family with the bats. My children would study them, they'd become wildlife experts, in touch with the natural world. My son could be a real batman. My beautiful, troubled boy. God knows he needed something to boost his standing in his new school. Son of the school’s only single mother was probably not the brand identity he'd hoped for. Real bats – now that was sure to bring the other children round. Think of the Halloween parties we'd have.

Then another vision imposed itself...the more likely outcome. My daughter squealing in her sleep, 'Devils, mummy, devils!’.  My son sleepless, damson smudges under his eyes from incessant demonic twittering, the pervasive smell of ammonia.

People would stop dropping round, children wouldn't be allowed for playdates. Gradually we would find ourselves pulling the curtains earlier each evening. Webbed fingers would be discovered during the school swimming gala. One morning I'd see the children's milkteeth had been replaced by little, sharper ones. Rummaging for something to wear in the morning, I'd settle for black. Again.

And maybe, I would find it more agreeable to sleep upside down.

This last thought to me back to my last brush with the inverted. A time in my early 20s, looking for a house-share in a drab south London suburb. ‘Professional non-smoker, female preferred’. I climbed the echoing communal stairs heavy-footed and knocked at the door. I heard a muffled groan, then 'Come in, it’s open'. My prospective landlord was there in the kitchen doorway. A thirty-something professional, casually attired in t shirt and loose running shorts. And he was upside down. Hanging by his feet from a metal bar fixed to the door frame. Or lintel. Or architrave. I searched for the correct architectural term, a type of self-soothing as I struggled to maintain composure. He was horribly, understandably, purple in the face. It wasn't only that he was inverted, but his penis was clearly nosing out of his shorts. ‘Female preferred’ the ad had stated. Even my Olymipian naivety was pricked by the remembrance of  it. I stiffened with apprehension.

And so, it seemed, did he. He stretched his hands up towards the bar to get himself down. It was a gargantuan effort. “Can you push me up please” This a strangled plea. I rushed over and shouldered him until he managed to reach the bar and release his feet. It took, I thought, an unnecessarily long time.

“I have a back problem, this helps stretch out the vertebrae,” he puffed “plus it’s great for expanding consciousness. Blood rushes to your temporal lobes unleashing untapped creativity.” Not the only thing unleashed, I thought.  We wandered from room to room. Like all the men's apartments I'd seen that week, it was sparse, piles of magazines in corners, a dispiriting lack of detail or decoration, over-large speakers and some electrical equipment cables trailing, but nothing that spoke of creativity set free. And like all the men who owned those apartments, he asked nothing about me.

Opening another door, I met with a stale, airless atmosphere and an enormous wheel. It looked and smelled like the home of a giant hamster.  “Oh this is my anti-gravity wheel.” he said nonchalantly. I nodded mutely and tried to imagine myself living here, the creaking of the giant wheel at night, saying to visiting friends “Oh, the upside-down guy? Yeah, he's my landlord .”

“I just strap my hands in so,” he continued “and pull this lever and .. hoopla!” The wheel made a tortured creak. “I can just flip myself over like this, uh-huh, and just, you know, chill.” This last comment was breathlessly addressed to an empty apartment. It was the 'hoopla' that did it. I fled.

A glint from Floyd's gold tooth flashed in the corner of my eye pulled me back to the moment.  Twenty years later, here I was again politely sleepwalking around another doomed abode, the only difference this time was I had a child in tow. By now we were in another room, stumbling over a glacier of dirty sheets spilling out of the closet. Bizarrely someone had taken a Polaroid of the mess and stuck it on the door – crime-scene style. Why had they done this? To remind themselves just how they like it?

“Protected in't they. bats,” Floyd continued “You can't use pesticides or cleaners or any of that shit near them.” The idea of Floyd cleaning anything out was so laughable I snorted then quickly knitted my brows to show that I, too, disapproved of chemical shit.

“It's great, it's like this special gift – as if the bats have chosen this house - a kind of privilege and honour – something from spirit world coming to share ours.” We were silent for a few moments. He  smiled and his tooth warmly reflected the last of the sun.

Floyd was leaving because the landlord had put up the rent again. This time too far. I felt sorry that the only man who could happily coexist with the bats was being forced to leave them, so that an avaricious landlord could try his luck.

Romilly tugged at my leg, eyes fixed on the gleaming canine – “why's that man got gold..”

“Shhh.” 

“Does the tooth fairy bring them?”

“Well, thing is, Floyd, the bats are great, really original. But this place - it's just a bit far from station.”

A bit far from the station. Listen to me. Could I be any more bourgeois? Floyd gave me a shrug and an old fashioned look. Square. He seemed to be saying: 'Carry on looking for your little suburban box, your neat privet hedge, your pine-scented bat-less little semi. Where's the fun in that?' He was right.

We picked our way out of the bat house. “Can I have gold teeth mummy when I grow up?”

Outside, by the discarded mattress we looked back at the house.

Under the eaves a little blackness was seeping. An absence of colour and light, then the inky void took form and fluttered into deepening blue. Someone had tossed an old black glove into the air, then another. And another. A drawer-full of gloves was being thrown by a frenzied haberdasher until they filled the sky. Tiny peeps and trills reached us on the breeze. My daughter and I watched them, her small hand in mine, we didn't flinch as they swooped teasingly over our heads and traced demented circles in the air.

After a time, I pulled out my mobile and dialled the  number. I could hear the phone ringing in an empty office. I left a message. “Number 66,” I said, “I'll take it.”

Freedom by Kathleen Taylor

Alright mate? You on the tour? Welcome to the department.

I'm Alfie.

Ever been inside a brain before? No? That's unusual, not many people start their visit here.

Fully booked, eh? Don't apologise, mate, we're used to it.

People wanna see the bits they've heard of. It's all, "Ooh, can we go to the prefrontal cortex?", like that's the only department that matters.

I tell you, mate, without us those guys in prefrontal would be twiddling their dendrites and rotting.

Yeah, they don't half play up to it though. You'll see 'em later. All that, "Oh yes, it's a great responsibility", and banging on about their dopamine levels, as if the rest of us

never get a sniff of dopamine. They don't half try it on, that lot. They're just passing messages, same as the rest of us.

Load of posers, if you ask me. Don't tell 'em I said that.

Anyway, welcome to the Thalamus Department. Here in the LGN section –

Sorry, mate. Lateral geniculate nucleus. Bit of a mouthful.

Geniculate, yeah.

Dunno, that's just how it is. Anyway, come and meet some of the gang. Alan, Albert, Alec, Fred, Algie, Alistair, say hi. And this is Sue.

Yeah, we're neurons, she's an interneuron.

That means we pass messages – yeah, to them upstairs mainly – and she keeps us from getting overexcited, don't you love? Soothes us down, tells us when to cool it.

Rules us with a rod of iron, does Sue.

Upstairs? Blimey, mate, you didn’t get the briefing, did you? Visual cortex, that's our output department, where we send the goods.

Yeah, they come in here, we process 'em and send 'em on.

Each of us is in charge of a group of retinals, see.

Retinals? Retinal cells, mate. In the eyes. The frontliners, the ones that turn light into messages.

Blimey, I wouldn’t say that in front of them. They reckon they’re the ones who do the proper work, the rest of us are just bloody bureaucrats.

Anyway, they report to us through those synapses there.

Yeah, on our dendrites. You got it. We process the messages.

How? How long have you got, mate?

Yeah, course I could tell you, it's not like it's classified. Just gets a bit technical for most people.

Right. So we process it, shovel it into our axons – yeah, these long things here – send it on, and deal with any feedback from up above.

All the time, mate. Never stops, I tell you. I'm on special dispensation here, the other lads are covering my retinals.

We take it in turns, see, the guidebook bit.

Food? Eat on the job, mate, direct from the blood supply.

Yeah, like I told you, it's 24/7 here. Slackens off a bit once the eyelids come down, but even then we've still got

stuff to do.

Holidays? You what? We're neurons, mate.

Well, we're all doing similar stuff, but each of us gets different inputs. It depends on your retinals. Me, I like vertical stripes best, but I'll take spots, splodges, whatever really.

Colour? Nah, you want the parvo lot for that, next door.

Parvocellular. Cos they're titchy bastards, unlike us magnos. Magno means big, see, parvo means small. Us big cells, we handle shapes and movement. Colour, that’s fancy stuff, the parvos deal with that.

Nah, we're all pretty friendly here. Been doing it for years, see. Makes for, whatcha call it, camaraderie. Now, if you're talking about upstairs, or downstairs for that matter, that's different. Here in the thalamus we're stuck in the middle, so we get it in the soma from both ends.

I mentioned feedback from upstairs, did I? Feedback! They never stop whingeing.

Filter this, amplify that, too much noise, too quiet … Don't half give us the runaround.

Sue's worked off her feet, mate, keeping us from going nuts.

Downstairs, nah, that’s not the retinals, they’re good lads mostly. It’s the other lot.

Blimey, they’re worse than the prefrontals. Something comes in from the brainstem or amygdala, and it's right lads, drop everything, jump to it, like it's the bloody army.

Mostly it's a false alarm. Sue reckons nine out of ten times it wouldn't do 'em a bit of harm to wait a bit and ask nicely, but you can't say so, they just scream even louder.

It's not too bad, mate. I get a bit creaky at times, who doesn’t, but we manage, don't we lads?

Touch of amyloid, I reckon. Slows me down a bit.

Yeah, course it's a problem. If it builds up enough it'll kill you. Nasty stuff, amyloid.

But I reckon I'm good for a few years yet.

Everyone's gotta die some time, mate. I'm lucky compared with some. In some of the departments upstairs there's loads of neurons going off sick with amyloid poisoning,

apparently. So Sue says. She hears stuff, Sue does. Very well-connected.

Yeah. You don't come back from that kind of sickness.

Not so bad here, no. It's a good department, the thalamus.

We get wind of pretty much everything, and the work's pretty constant. Keeps us busy.

I reckon that's part of it. You sit idle, before you know it your synapses are dying off.

See, without synapses, you can't talk to no one. And I ask you, what's the point of a neuron that can't communicate?

Yeah, you don't want to overdo it either. All things in moderation, mate.

Bored? Nah. We grumble, course we do, but none of us'd give it up, would we? It's good work.

Don't I ever feel like doing something else? Did you hear that, mates? You sound like Sue on a bad day, when she gets stressed. Blimey, it's 'What's it all for?' and 'What's

the point?' till the rest of us are shutting off transmission right, left and centre.

I know, love. You can't help it. You do a great job, we all reckon you're the best in the department, never mind the nucleus. Sorry, mate, what was that?

Course I could stop if I wanted to! That's not the point; why would I want to? Let down all my mates? Someone would have to cover the extra inputs. Look at Fred

there, he's sweating ions like anything cos it's all kicking off in our quadrant and his retinals are going ballistic. I couldn't just say cheers and bugger off, now could I?

And I'd miss the company. Blimey, without their backchat I wouldn't know where I was! Nah, mate, you can keep your freedom.

Yeah, so I'll die in harness. What's wrong with that? Like I said, everyone's gotta go some time. Even if you do everything right, keep an eye on your proteins, make sure

your DNA's tidy, keep the glia sweet and all the rest of it, chances are you'll get a blood vessel burst in the neighbourhood, or catch a sodding virus.

What I'm saying is, some stuff you just can't do a thing about. Anyway, I'd much rather go from a burst than from amyloid.

Slow and lingering, mate, and bloody painful. No thanks.

Bursts? They didn't used to be, but from what I hear they're getting commoner. There was one upstairs just the other day. Their local vessel got blocked up. That's what

triggers it, usually, unless there's trouble among the epithelials.

You know. They man the blood vessels. Keep supplies flowing properly.

Fat deposit, they said. Horrible bloody great lumps. They get carried in with the food supply, and sometimes they're too big, so they stick, and then stuff can't get past.

I dunno why they let it through, mate, it don't make sense to me neither, but it's not my department.

Anyway, all the neurons downstream started yelling, cos of course they're not getting enough supplies, are they?

Meanwhile the blood pressure's building up, and the

epithelials are feeling the strain, so they're yelling for the glia too …

Glia? Ain't you met any glia yet? Sorry, mate, didn't realise.

Glia's the cleaners, technicians, emergency services, that lot. Keep the place running, they do.

No, mate, we don't have no hierarchies here. Up in prefrontal, they think they're the masters of the bloody universe, they've got hierarchies all over the place. Silly

bastards. Without the glia they wouldn't last a day.

You're not wrong. They're well happy to lord it over the rest of us until something goes pear-shaped. Then it's panic, and yell for the glia to sort it. You know how it is.

And do the poor overworked buggers get any thanks?

Down here, we say thank you when someone's done us a favour.

Yeah, there's a good feel to the place. I wouldn't swap, not if you offered me a year's supply of glucose. Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah, the burst. Sue told us, she heard it from a friend who was on the edge of the death zone. It's a nightmare. Everyone's screaming, then they start shutting down from

lack of fuel. The glia did their bloody best, but fat, you know, it's nasty stuff. Pretty much impossible to shift when there's a massive lump like that, there just ain't time.

Before the blood pressure gets too much and the epithelials can't cope, mate.

Then you get a burst. Blood everywhere, neurons choking, everyone yelling for help, then it all goes quiet.

Yeah. They reckoned it was several thousand last time.

That's nothing. You get a really big burst, it can take out millions.

Nah, we haven't had anything like that yet. But it's only a matter of time. Everyone's getting on, you know. The epithelials aren't as limber as they used to be, let's face it,

none of us are.

Stoic? I dunno about stoic. Don't have much choice, do we?

Yeah yeah. That's all very well, mate, but it's not very realistic, if you don't mind me saying. I'm not going to bloody emigrate, am I?

Where would I find a job as good as this? I'd be lost without the work, mate, and that's the truth.

It's not a bad life. Yeah, we live on the edge. But so does everyone, when you think about it. That’s what Sue says, and I reckon she’s right.

Like I said, at least a burst's quick. Not like amyloid. Bloody agony, that is. If my amyloid levels get too high, I'm telling you, I'm heading for the exit.

Apoptosis, mate. It's a procedure we neurons have, for if it all gets too much.

Suicide, yeah, if you wanna call it that.

Don't see why you're shocked. You're the one's been banging on about freedom. What could be freer than choosing when to die, eh?

Look, mate, if you've had a good life, what's the problem?

I've worked hard, I've lived on good terms with my neighbours, I've done what I was put on earth to do. Far as I'm concerned, what diffs if we was all wiped out tomorrow?

Except I'd miss the chat. And the taste of real fresh oxygen.

Nothing like it, mate. Nothing like it.

Yeah? Well, you'd better head off then. Don't wanna be late, not with that lot.

Been a pleasure. Not everyone makes it down here.

Yeah, let's hope so. Years and years. You too.

Cheers, mate. Enjoy the rest of your tour.

Portraits Of Strangers by Jayne Thickett

   Charlie MacAvoy finished his shift at Rhona’s Bar and Grill and started down Sherbourne Street. A light snow was falling. He stopped and held out his hand. Snow? In August?

A woman wearing teeny-weeny shorts and a cropped white vest wobbled past on preposterous heels, yammering into her mobile, oblivious to the freak weather.

A flake landed in Charlie’s palm.

It’s not melting.

Charlie looked up at the cloudless sky.  Across the street, a plume of smoke rose from the top of an apartment block. Ash spiralled into the air, and fluttered down like confetti.  

His stomach growled. At home, in the fridge, cold chicken and a bottle of beer waited for him. He never ate at Rhona’s after his shift ended, like the others did. Bacon drowning in grease and pancakes soaking in maple syrup tempered his appetite. He glanced up at the roof and reached for his mobile, and then changed his mind. This wasn’t a 999 moment. He thought again of the contents of his fridge, and his leather recliner. A little longer wouldn’t hurt.

Charlie crossed the street. Outside the door, at the top of the concrete steps, he ran his finger down a list of names next to the intercom. Okay, Miller, of the top floor, let’s hope you’re unfamiliar with Kraskowski on the first.

He pressed the buzzer next to Miller’s name, and there was a click, followed by static. No one spoke, but he felt them there, listening.

“Uh…hi, this is Kraskowski, I forgot my key--” the intercom buzzed and the door clicked. Charlie grabbed the handle and pushed inside.

 A stone staircase spiralled upwards out of a small, square lobby. There didn’t appear to be a lift. Great.

 As he climbed, he listened for the sounds of doors opening or footsteps descending. On the fifth floor, he was glad to see a roof sign with an arrow pointing up the next flight of steps. 

   At the top, a wedge of sunlight painted the wall. A sand bucket held the door to the roof open. Charlie slipped outside.

 A utility shed stood to his left, to the right a couple of wooden sun-loungers. Someone had placed tubs of flowers in between. Smoke spiralled up from behind some air-con units, and he made his way towards them.

The fire was contained in a metal dustbin. Orange flames licked the edges and bits of flaming paper twirled on the smoke. A woman poked at the fire with a pair of long-handled tongs. She wore cut-off jeans, and a sleeveless, white cotton shirt tied above her midriff.  Her wheat coloured hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail, and her skin spoke of long summer days outside. She reached into a box at her feet and drew out a large pile of papers and books, and fed them to the fire.

Charlie stopped ten feet away. He was going to startle her, so best not to get too close to someone wielding white-hot utensils.

“Um...hey. You made it snow.”

She turned her head and became a girl, really. Maybe nineteen years old, her eyes swam in rings of running mascara. If he’d startled her, it didn’t show. Instead, she went back to the business of burning, and Charlie took this as an invitation to move closer.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He tried to see into the box, but her red-varnished toenails distracted him. Her feet were long, slender, and her big toe gripped the corner of the box.

“Have you ever wondered how we know who we are, if we don’t know where we started from?” She looked at him as though it was perfectly natural for him to be stood on this rooftop, by her side. Charlie wondered if she was crying at all, maybe it was the smoke. Her lips were the colour of cherry blossom petals.

She reached into the box again, and Charlie watched as she lifted a black and white photograph of a smiling man. His shirt collar suggested the sixties. The girl slid the print into the dustbin and it curled and bubbled before joining the others on the breeze.

“What are you doing?” he asked, because he could think of nothing else to say to her.

“I am erasing something that never existed. Would you like to join me?” She pushed the box toward him with the side of her foot.

Charlie dropped to a crouch and lifted out several photographs. He sifted through them, a smiling man and woman, and a baby growing bigger, more familiar with each photo.

“Is this you?” He held the picture in front of her. A chubby, blonde infant in a pink romper suit sat in the lap of a dark-haired woman on a swing. The little girl had her fist in her mouth, but it could not hide her smile. Behind them, the man held out his palms, ready to push them again.

“Perhaps. Who can say? They say it’s me, but how can I be sure?”

“It looks like you.” Charlie looked at the picture again.

“All babies look the same, don’t you think?” She dropped another pile of papers into the bin. “What are you looking at?” She poked the picture with the tongs.

 “Pictures? Family portraits, I suppose.”

She threw her head back. “Ha!” she yelled at the sky. When she looked at him again, Charlie decided she was crying.

“Family portrait! What does family mean to you, Mr Roof Inspector? Does it mean swing-sets and smiles?”

“I was an only child and my parents are dead, so I suppose I’d settle for that, yes.” He stood, feeling the sting of his own meanness. He dropped the picture back into the box and pushed his hands into his pockets.

“But you knew who they were?” The stack of papers slid from her hand and spread like a puddle around their feet.

“Well, yes. I was nine years old when they were killed.”

“How?”

“In a car crash. Snow and ice on--”

“No, no. How did you know who they were?” She made an indefinite shape in the air with her hands.

“I…well, they were Mum and Dad. I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m sorry.”

She knelt and gathered the pictures. The downy hair on the back of her neck glinted in the sunlight. He kept his hands in his pockets.

“I covered all the mirrors, until someone can come and take them away. Maybe you could do it?” She stood and threw the pile at the flames, and the fire splashed out of the bin before falling on its prey once more.

 “Why did you cover all the mirrors?” he asked, carefully.

She smiled at him and he saw the tip of her tongue, pink between straight, white teeth. “Don’t you know? You can be anyone you wish without mirrors.”

“And what’s wrong with being you?”

“I told you,” she explained patiently, “I might be anyone. I have no idea where I started from.”

“But that’s you…in the pictures. Isn’t it? You and your parents? That has to count?”

“Does it? This morning, when I got out of bed, I was Caitlin Morgan.” The box lay forgotten, between them. “I turned eighteen while I slept. Mum and Dad were waiting in the kitchen with my birthday present. Want to have a stab at what it was, Mr Roof Inspector?”

“Charlie,” he told her. “Keys to a convertible?”

 “You’re a scream. Actually, it was my birth certificate.”

“Okay…”

  “According to my birth certificate, I’m Samantha Greenwood. Apparently, Mum and Dad thought it would be an amazing gift. Of freedom.”

“They changed your name?” Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. The sun was beating the sense out of him. 

“Yes, right after they adopted me. They gift-wrapped my birth certificate, if you can believe it. One second I’m me, and before the toast popped up I’m someone else, and I’m living with total strangers.”

“But they’re still your parents.”

“So why’d they tell me? Why give me this wonderful gift of freedom?”

Charlie didn’t know what to say.

“I stole Samantha Greenwood’s life.”

“You are Samantha Greenwood and Caitlin Morgan.

They’re only names. You’re still you.”

“But all these lies…” She gestured to the box.

“They’re not lies, not at all. They still raised you.”

“But they’re not who I thought they were. I’m not who I thought I was.” Petulance was creeping into her voice.

“Well, congratulations on knowing up till this point. I quit medical school after two years. I work in Rhona’s, across the street. I have no idea who I am or where I’m going.”

“But you knew where you’d come from.”

Charlie held out his hand. “So, come with me.”

“Where?” Her voice trembled, but she slid her hand into his.

“Anywhere. We can go down those stairs, turn left and just keep going.”

“Or right.”

“That’s right, it doesn’t matter. You get to choose, Samantha or Caitlin. Or both. Today is where you started from, and you will always know who you are.” He was ready to go.

“You’re crazy,” she told him, but didn’t let go of his hand. Her smile wasn’t hidden by a fist this time and it dazzled him a little.

“I know.” He pulled at her, and she followed him down to the street. “Which way?”

“Left,” she replied, straight away.

 A good choice. Home lay to the right. Best not to look back. They set off running, but Charlie stopped, and she stumbled at the end of his arm.

“So who’s it going to be?”

She stared at him for a couple of seconds. Her face lit with understanding. “Samantha. I think she deserves it.”

“Very well. Pleased to meet you, Samantha.” He pumped her hand twice, and they set off.

Saturday by Rebecca Saunders

 You brought me tea in bed on Saturdays. In all our nineteen years together I never told you I preferred coffee. You tried with me, I’ll give you that. I was the one who wanted to change things. I wanted our love to be on fire, I didn’t want our feet to touch the ground. Sometimes you would just want to sit down and relax together, be bored together, eat biscuits together. “Isn’t it nice to do this sometimes,” you’d say. I’d nod, sat next to you straight like a broom, hands by my side. Love with you was a non contact sport. It was tag rugby; it was a game of chess.

 You sat on the end of our bed and read me the headlines. I hated your voice. It was too loud, too coarse. I sipped my tea in silence and hugged the mug for comfort. My mind wandered to when I’ll finally say, “I’m leaving.” I almost said it that day. The words got caught and turned into a cough. “You okay?” you said, over the top of the paper, reading glasses on the bridge of your nose. “It’s raining tomorrow.” Always raining, I thought. I don’t think it rained anywhere else in the world except above our semi detached house. A grey cloud followed me, rain with a small chance of thunder.

You bored me. Your routine, shower, shave, read the paper to me. Your jokes. “I’ll have a pint of Guinness and a red wine. Not in the same glass mind.” I laughed at that one once. Nineteen years ago when I was drinking Snow Balls with my friends.

Friends. What are they?

 We went shopping, food shopping. Not clothes. Nothing fitted my pear shape and it would always end in tears that you didn’t know how to comfort. I stuck to food, I knew where I was with it. There was no such thing as a tight cream cake. I waited at the door, thirteen hundred hours, military precision.  You were running late, rushing around to find your other shoe. I tapped my foot and checked my watch. I liked to be on time even when there were no limits. You were slow, old, tired. I still had my energy, my get up, my go.

 We didn’t argue out loud, you thought it was uncouth. I argued with you in my mind every time you did one of your irritating habits. Like when you cleared your throat before every sentence, or how you sing along to songs that you were too old to know. In the car, on the way to the supermarket, I wondered why we were still trying. How did you not know I was unhappy? Before long we would have creaky knees, bus passes and knitting on the go. Who would want us then? Maybe that internet bride or the Turkish guy down the chippy who’s after a visa.

     You pushed the trolly and I walked along the sides throwing things in. “Watch out love, you’ll break the eggs.” You said that every week. I’d never broken an egg. I’d like to have thrown a dozen at you while you browsed the spices pretending that you were going to cook up something special. I’d rather them hardboiled, I thought. Then I saw Denzel.

Denzel. You saw him too. Not that you noticed him like I did. He was the black guy, broad and big- but not fat. Far from it, all muscle under that crisp white shirt, I thought. You might remember him as the man whose trolley you bumped into. “Watch out,” I said. When you said sorry, over and over, he said: “No worries, it’s fine.” His voice was soft and delicate.

 “Excuse me love, do you know where I’d find the beach towels.”

      “I’m sorry, I don’t work here.” It was that shirt I had on, the one I wore to work sometimes, big grey ugly thing. Remember? I looked around to see if you were there. You must have gone off to find your cereal.

 “Sorry,” he said. I smiled.

“That’s okay. I think they are down the holiday isle, just past the clothes.”

“Cheers.” He winked at me and I blushed. “Hey you should work here; you’ve been the most helpful.” I wanted him to be my dirty little secret. I looked again. You were still gone. I slipped him my number in a moment of confidence. He took it and said he’d call. I didn’t care if he didn’t. I just thought that I might die if I didn’t have something to look forward to.

How was I to know you’d had a cardiac arrest? Were they out of stock of bran flakes? Was it the shock that caused it? Unlike you to display an emotion publically. But there you were crying for help in isle twelve. Then came the blue lights, the flashes of hospital doors, through this one, through that one. They swung behind your trolley. Were you still alive then? Did you watch me check my phone to see if Denzel had called? How inconsiderate. Could you hear my wicked thoughts that your death could be my easy way out? I wouldn’t have to choke on my words anymore. God would forgive a widow but not an adulteress. Without you I could wear my hooker heels and do my shopping on a Sunday. Did you hear me think those thoughts?

 I just think we were a waste. A waste of years we can never get back. I will try and relive mine, bring me the minus nineteen years back. Because Denzel called. I’m only sorry that I couldn’t cough up those words sooner so you might have had someone better, someone less like me.

So I leave you this note, this note by your graveside, to say sorry that I hated you for nineteen long years. I know you didn’t care for daisies. But I got you them anyway. 

Freedom by Bethonie Waring

“Silence lives here. Everyone is given two thousand words at the age of eighteen, out of the kindness of our Ruler’s heart. Once you use them, you have to pay. It’s a simple case of food or words. We just stay quiet.”

Saying it aloud, Oliver realised how bad it really was. The hologram of the girl was disgusted, like Oliver knew she would be.

Maggie was an Outsider who claimed she wanted to help, but all Outsiders were the same: ignorant. Sure, they knew of places different to their sheltered world, where restraints on the freedom they abused existed, but Maggie, like all Outsiders, couldn’t imagine these limits existing in a world similar to her own. Never in a country like Luitainium.

“Why don’t you just leave?” Maggie suggested.

Why didn’t he just leave? Oliver smiled at her naivety.

“There’s no law against it. No restraints on the boarders going out. Coming in is a struggle, but going out isn’t a problem. Not on the legal side, anyway.”

A young waitress brought Oliver coffee, trying not to look too curiously at the hologram transmitter. Nobody was allowed H.Ts, but nobody here would grass him up.

“So where is the problem?”

“War.” Oliver said grimly. “Luitainium is surrounded by countries at war with themselves. It’s the only safe place around here. We have the freedom to leave, but we’ll die if we do.”

“You might not.”

“Yes, there’s a slim chance we might not die.”

“Then why don’t you take it?”

“Because people will do anything to live in peace.”

“Even give up their freedom of speech?”

“Oh, we have freedom of speech.” Oliver drank from his coffee, but it was still too hot and burnt his throat. “We can say what we like as long as we have the money. By a shocking coincidence, the poor aren’t a concern of those with the money to speak. And the Ruler can only listen to people who he can hear, and he can only hear those who speak.”

Oliver smiled at the simplicity of it.

“How many words do you have?” Maggie asked.

“Two thousand. I’ve not spoken since I turned eighteen.”

Oliver grinned, “Except in here.” Decaux buildings, like the café, were speech safe houses which the audio scanners could not detect. Owners asked small entrance fees, but they were worth the unlimited speech. It was dangerous, of course. Decaux were raided every day, but Oliver had been coming here for years. He was sure it was safe.

“Life without speech is easier than you’d think.” Oliver answered Maggie’s stunned silence.

“But don’t you want change?”

“Of course I do.” He sighed, “But there’s nothing I can do. The Ruler makes millions from speech, and only the same amount of money will make him listen. Nobody with that much money cares.”

“But he signed Honours. He has to listen to leaders from the Outside.”

Wow. She really was that innocent. “Your leaders don’t care about us, Maggie. It’s going to take a lot of shouting to make them listen.”

“Well, people shout loud out here.”

“Even if you can shout loud enough, it probably won’t work.” Oliver admitted. “If there’s talk of war, people here will deny anything.”

The shock on Maggie’s face proved she didn’t understand a thing. Fear of war gripped people here. They had already escaped the horror that existed beyond the silent land.

Where did anybody get the right to ask them to live through that again?

Before Oliver could explain this, the café was raided.

Troops stormed into the small café, firing guns that shattered early screams before Oliver even knew what was going on. Blood spilled from ragged bodies, the smell of it filling the air. Something smashed when the young waitress fell nearby, knocking the still hot coffee onto his lap. Up until then, he’d been staring, numbly, at the destruction, but the burning woke him. Before his brain even reconnected fully, Oliver grabbed the H.T, but the strong fist of a troop knocked him out cold before he could escape.

Nineteen hours, fifty minuets and thirteen, fourteen, fifteen seconds later, Oliver was vurled up in the corner of a small cell, staring at the grey wall.

He had not slept, but was not tired. He had not eaten, but was not hungry. Oliver was scared, more than he’d ever been before.

Winds carried whispers about those unfortunate enough  to be caught stealing speech. Torture, death and forced insanity awaited those who survived the raid. Nobody knew if the rumours were true, but nobody doubted them.

In the eighteen hours, fifty six minutes and seven, eight, nine seconds he’d been awake, sounds from around him had tortured him. Shrieks echoed around the prison, and around his skull. Streams of babble crawled from their mad man source and into Oliver’s mind. That was why he was not tired. Why he was not hungry. He’d been left this long, listening to everyone else’s punishments, and he was waiting for them to reach him.

As Oliver’s imprisonment ticked over to twenty hours, the solid metal door opened and two people entered. The first was a troop, only to be expected. On a normal day, the size of the troop would have made Oliver sick, but today he couldn’t feel any worse than he already did. It was impossible.

Or so he thought. Then Oliver saw the face of the second man.

Everyone in Luitainium knew than ace: the merciless eyes and the hope crushing smile. It only meant one thing: this was never going to get any better. And it wasn’t going to end quickly.

The heavy door slammed shut, and then there was silence.

The Ruler looked down at Oliver, his trademark grin stretching his goblin face. He knelt down in front of his prisoner, forcing Oliver’s eyes into his own.

“Well, well, well, Ollie. Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into trouble, eh?”

Oliver glared at the Ruler, but the Ruler’s smile only grey.

He stood, and Oliver’s sunken eyes followed him to the table and chairs in the middle of the room.

“Why don’t you come and sit down?” he suggested. “We need to talk.”

Oliver shook his head, trying to push himself through the wall.

“Oh, your words,” the Ruler turned to the troop. “Give him a band.” The troop clasped a tight band around Oliver’s wrist, numbing his already cold hand. “There,” the Ruler sat down at the table. “Everything you say will go uncharged with that. You won’t be wasting your words.”

“Not that you’re going to need them when we’re finished.” The troop hissed.

“Leave him, Fader. Poor Ollie’s already scared enough.”

The Ruler kicked his feet onto the table. “Come and sit down.”

“I’m fine here.”

Fader dragged him by his neck into the chair opposite the Ruler. The Ruler pulled his feet off of the table and grinned, placing the confiscated H.t onto the table. “What’s this?”

“A hologram transmitter.”

“What was it doing in your possession?”

No answer. The Ruler’s smile dropped slightly.

“Who were you talking to, Oliver?”

No answer.

The Ruler leaned forward, his face inches from Oliver’s. “It is by my mercy you’re even alive. Without me, you would have been blown to pieces in that bloody waste land I rescued you from. Without me, you’d be the exact same as your father. Dead.”

“I never asked you to.” Oliver muttered.

“I’ve gone everything for you, but, still, you betray me. I won’t let you ruin the peace we have here. Why did you get the Outside involved? Everyone is happy.”

“Nobody here is happy.”

“Nobody is dying.” The Ruler snapped. “Nobody but traitors.”

For a moment, Fader disappeared and returned grim faced.

“There’s someone here to see you, sir.”

“I am busy.”

“It’s Leader Mains.”

The Ruler glared at Fader.

“I’ll be back for you, Oliver.” He said, “I wouldn’t be optimistic, if I were you.”

“Maggie, what you’re saying is awful. Of course I’m appalled, but there’s nothing I can do. If that’s how the Luitainium Ruler wants to run his country, that’s his problem.”

“You’re not listening to me.” Maggie hurried after her father. She’d forgotten to mention to Oliver that her father was a leader on the Outside, not wanting to get his hopes up. “I saw the police shooting people. That isn’t right.”

“They were breaking the law, Maggie. You were assisting them. You’re lucky you’re not being punished, too.”

“They don’t know I was there. But, if you don’t do anything, I’ll tell them.”

Maggie’s father stopped in his tracks. “Don’t be stupid. If what you’ve said is true, you’ll be treated the same as them.”

“I’ll tell everyone.” Maggie threatened, “Someone will listen. You’ll have to do something. Those people vote for you, Dad. You have to listen to them.”

Maggie’s father stared at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. When had she become such a liberal? He’d missed that one.

“Alright. I’ll see what I can do. But no guarantees. What happens in Luitainium is nothing to do with us.”

“Those people have rights, Dad. They need to be protected.”

“Not by us, Maggie.”

Oliver was sat for hours, waiting for someone to come and cut his throat open. Insane babble whirled in his head and Oliver tried desperately to keep it there. If even a whisper slipped through his lips, it would be over.

After what felt like days, the Ruler returned, red faced and angry.

“You are lucky.” He hissed.

Maggie stepped out from behind the Ruler. Shaking, she stepped towards Oliver, but the Ruler stopped her.

“Oliver.” She whispered. Fright drowned her voice. “I came as soon as I could. You were right, you know. Nightmare trying to get in.” She laughed, nervously.

Oliver stared at her, crying. There was an Outsider in front of him, making small talk as if words were free. He was mad. He had to be.

Oliver scared Maggie. She’d never seen anyone so broken.

“I brought my dad.”

On cue, Maggie’s father stepped into the room.

“Eric Mains.” Maggie’s father offered his hand to Oliver.

Oliver stared at it with panic filled eyes and Eric backed away. “I’m a leader on the Outside. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

“We’re taking you somewhere safe.” Maggie said,

“Somewhere you can speak.”

“You need to help them.” Oliver whispered. “The screams have stopped and I don’t know why.”

“Dad, what’s he talking about?”

Eric turned to the Ruler, who shrugged, innocently.

“He must be mad.”

“Oliver, it’s ok.” Maggie said with a wobbly smile. “You’re safe.”

“But the others?”

“There’s nothing I can do about any other.” Eric said,

“Unless, of course, we invade Luitainium.”

“No!” Oliver cried, desperately. “No war.”

“Oliver!” Maggie cried.

“There can’t be a war.” Oliver said, sternly.

“Well, then, I can’t do anything for them.” Eric said. “I’ve had to pull a lot of strings to get you out of here. I’m trying to help.”

Oliver glared at them all. “You don’t understand. You can’t. I’m not going to just leave them. You can’t just save me and leave the others to die. That’s not helping. That’s giving you a guilt free conscience. You’re no better than him.”

Oliver nodded towards the Ruler, who’s smile was gradually returning.

Eric sighed. “See, Maggie. They don’t want out help. They don’t want freedom.”

Chocked with anger and fear, Oliver watched as Maggie followed her father out, tears trailing down her face. They didn’t understand and they didn’t want to, either. They didn’t want to help. They already had rights, why did they need responsibilities as well?

The Ruler grinned down at Oliver. “I knew you’d come around eventually, Ollie. You’re happy where you are, aren’t you?”

Shaking uncontrollably, Oliver nodded. What choice did he have?

If you enjoyed reading this, you might like to try:

Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

Part Two: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

Part Four: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition