Tabula Rasa

It all started under a pylon - a monstrous iron beast clawing its kinetic way out from the ground below - vast electrical wires floating in front of a devastating sunset that zoomed and zapped from the most southerly of planes. It all started with him. He knocked over an ashtray, split it perfectly in two. The spilled tobacco read like tea leaves. It said to him GO! GO, NOW! FIND A LIFE THAT ISN’T ANYTHING LIKE THIS ONE! He kicked it back over and screamed into the night! I DON’T WANT TO. I DON’T KNOW WHERE TO GO. It is here that he fell to his knees as an apparition of sorts, a golden goddess shrouded in glittering halos of light, descended before him. She reminded him of death, in the way it is written about in the most mythical of Greek tragedies. Do not be so quick to dismiss the signs. They are here to help you, to save you. Do not scream into the night when your lungs are on the brink of collapse. He wheezed, a smokers cough. The ashtray had been his, the leaves had been his. His message alone to hear and heed. As our goddess faded to a gentle glimmer of dust, his eyes focused and the wreck of a ship appeared at the tip of the dock. A life that isn’t anything like this one. The words swam about like cerebral soup. A wandering nomad, no tie to any community, he trusted the sign and immediately set to work on the shipwreck. He found that his tired hands knew exactly how to fix a damaged hull, how to strengthen a keel, how to set a propeller in motion. Using scattered items of debris from the dock, patching and constructing like it was second-nature, the ship was ready to sail the seas once more. The days of construction had caused an undeniable stir in the town, and by the time the work was done, he had picked up three new crew members: Barnacus, Swetha, and Jas, fine folk who would help him in ways he couldn’t imagine. Sweeping off the final layer of moss, they uncovered the ship’s name. Rinascita. Rebirth, indeed. It was time. They set off to the west, chasing the sun’s trajectory. He learnt quickly of Barnacus’ past, of his strange ability to foretell the weather based solely through the notes of that day’s fish. FIFTY NIGHTS OF THUNDER, Barnacus raged, after a particularly boney cod. Lo and behold, fifty flashing nights lay before them. BLISTERING SUN, Barnacus sobbed, halfway through tuna that dissolved like a moth’s wing. At once the rain stopped. The thunder ceased and the crew were sucked barren of all their bodily moisture. Within moments they craved the delicate lashing of the storms pouring down. Swetha connected to birds in a way that rang positively inhuman. She was able to keep the ship on course, seek out the better fishing spots, send word home to her family, all through the chattering of beaks. When he deemed their progress to be too slow, Swetha clicked her jaw in a deeply alarming manner. Before long the gulls were deep-diving with such cadence, such choreography, that a slipstream was created. They cut through the water at brand new speeds, thrilling him, passing island after island in the click of a beak. And Jas, the youngest, the most fretful of the crew. He spent the majority of his time with Jas, ensuring their safety, teaching them the ways of the sea. Barnacus warned of devastating winds that would knock us off course, yet Jas held the helm like it was a toy. They propped the mast up as if it was a tent pole. Their strength was immeasurable. Pulling up to the isle of Praia to replenish the stock and feel the stable hold of solid ground beneath their feet, the ship gained a final crew member - me. I had spent my life on this minuscule island, known for nothing, yearning for everything, constantly seeking my people. Seeing him step off the side of this strange vessel, I couldn’t believe my luck. He saw me and asked no questions. There was an immediacy to our camaraderie, so much so that I didn’t even need to ask to come aboard. I spent as much time with him as I could, and he willingly used every moment of our voyage to tell me the stories of the ship’s origin, of the apparition, the tobacco leaves and the fury of that pylon. That pylon that ripped the earth in two and tipped him into a moment of madness. I understood his loneliness, his need for something more. He told me of the crew, their abilities, the trajectory they had followed. It was otherworldly. It was everything I had ever wanted. We’re heading home, he told me once the stories had been relayed in their fullest. He had found the community he was seeking, they all had, they needed the sea no more. While I understood, my heart somewhat sank, immediately fearful of losing what it was that he had gained. My people. Pulling into the dock where it all began, I watched him, not too far off, as he stumbled over something at the edge of a tall, beastly shadow. He crouched down, frowned, then peered up and caught my eye, smiled and carried on walking. Rushing over to the spot of the stumble I saw an old ashtray, one perfect hairline crack running down the middle. Tobacco leaves strewn across the floor - a random display to any regular onlooker, but I was able to understand the sign. A LIFE THAT ISN’T ANYTHING LIKE THIS ONE. DID YOU FIND IT? Looking up, I saw you. You to whom I now tell this tale, the first member of my own crew. I turned back to the ship. Rinascita. I had done it. I had found my people. I had found my rebirth.

Pursuit of another story brought me to the dismal town of Cox's Cove which clung with grim determination to the barren coast of west Newfoundland. Nothing more than a cluster of low, squat buildings around a small harbour, fully exposed to the caprices of the unforgiving Atlantic Ocean, Cox's Cove was a bleak and desolate place. I had arranged to stay at the local pub, which I now realised served also as postoffice, store and police station. It was 3pm when I arrived, and the light was already beginning to fade, but none of the buildings were illuminated, which stuck me as odd. Being a fishing village, where the days start early, most trawlers are back and the sailors home this time. When the owner arrived, I enquired about the dearth of lights and he explained many had left town due to some unsettling circumstances. The scent of a story in my nostrils I pressed for more details but he bade that I wait until evening when I could hear the tale first hand. I assented and went to my room to rest after a long journey. That evening I returned to the main room for a meal and to nourish my ravenous curiosity. A savage wind hurled itself against the windows as I was introduced by the owner to a swarthy man who went by the name of Rugger who, after his tongue was lubricated with sufficient whiskey, told me of the events of the preceding month. Rugger was the captain of a trawler, catching crabs and lobster just off the coast. The previous month he and his crew had encountered a boat drifting about a mile out which, from the insignia on the hull, appeared to hail from Norway. It did not respond to repeated radio calls so they approached and used their crabbing hooks to haul the boat alongside and climb aboard. Once on deck they saw that the ship must have got into some distress with broken fishing equipment littering the deck. Entering the wheelhouse they saw blood smeared on the walls and many of the navigational charts and implements strewn about the small room. The pattern of devastation followed down into the crews quarters and the galley, with blood and shattered equipment strewn across the rooms. There was, however, no sign of the crew. A large cabinet had been flung across the door of one of the cabins and after heaving it back they pried open the door and were hit with the foetid stench of humanity. They saw the figure of a man, slumped in a corner, caked with blood and detritus. They approached and found him to be alive, though barely - his heartbeat was weak and fluttering and his eyes rolled back. They took him aboard their own boat and brought him to shore, towing the other boat behind. Snow came in hard and they arrived in town late, too late to attempt to drive to the nearest clinic, so they tried their best to feed him some water and thin soup and set him up in one of the rooms here for the night. The man burned feverishly and occasionally muttered in a language they could not understand. Concerned he may endanger himself if he stumbled out the room in a feverish dream they locked the door from the outside. The owner joined us now and took up the story. He described how we went to see the man early the next morning to find that, when he unlocked the door, the window had been smashed out and the man was gone. The snow, which had continued overnight, covered any sign of tracks. They organised a search party and scoured the town and the surrounds but could find no sign of him. They also inspected the boat further and they found human remains in the man's cabin, which had evidently been partially eaten. They surmised that perhaps the boat had been caught in a storm, causing multiple injuries of the crew and perhaps washing them overboard, while knocking over a cabinet and trapping the two men in the room. After a long time at sea, the man they found had been forced to eat the other. By this juncture in the story a few of the other locals had joined us and nodded solemnly along with the retelling. A middle aged woman picked up the thread saying that they searched for a few days but found no sign of the man and therefore called it off - given the weather a man in his state would be dead by now. However, since then there had been a number of incidents in the town. A few days after the search was called off, Janice Katlin's dog had been found dead, it's throat ripped open like it had been savaged by a bear. Janice had not heard a thing in the night. One of the Peterson boys had gone hunting and never returned and several of the town's inhabitants had sworn to having seen a figure moving amongst the tree line at the edge of town. At this point, as the collective telling reached a heightened pitch, the door to the pub slammed open and the wild gale whistled in with a flurry of snow. I am not ashamed to say I jumped at the sound and I noticed even the stalwart locals looked unsettled by the sudden noise. The owner swore and strode across the room. Gripping the door firmly he began to force it shut against the violent night but paused before it was fully closed and peered out. He then let go of the door which was flung back brutally by the wind, shouted something which was lost to the tempest and strode out. We stared dumbly as as the violent night desecrated our sanctuary with it's bitter winds, not realising that was the last time we would see him alive.

None of us could really remember a time when the three of us hadn't been sitting in one straight line staring out across the street. We had been sitting like this for so long that we no longer spoke. Everything to say had already been said; anything we saw we all saw; every thought we already knew. We sipped atay as the tides of humanity rose and fell before us. We sipped atay as regimes waxed and waned. We sipped atay as the world ebbed and flowed. Rocks impervious to the froth and surge of life which washed by, ignorant. The worlds gaze, worn dull by our ubiquity, no longer saw us. But we saw them. We watched the first sermon of the false prophet Zayd al-Hadi, who shouted defiance. We watched the sultanah, on the morning of her wedding, slip quickly from the house of her servant. We watched a young man die, bleeding in the gutter as the sky blackened from thick smoke. Then, one day, the world stared back. She was the daughter of the bookseller who had left the city to study at university. Her gaze, sharp from study and honed by absence, caught and snagged on every piece of the scene. She locked eyes with us and smiled warmly. It started with her mouth, curling upwards at the edges, then spread to her nose which began to wrinkle before reaching her dark eyes which radiated compassion and love. We did not smile back, we had forgotten how. --- The next day, when we arrived at our seats, there was a small basket on the table covered with a cloth. Inside was a small mound of Kaab el Ghazal. We each took one, gingerly. They were warm and radiated compassion and love. She left the shop at mid morning to run some errands and looked over at us, smiling again. Something tugged at the corner of our mouths; hairline cracks progagated across stone. --- Each day we came to our seats and each day there was a fresh basket of pastries which we chewed ruminatively as we observed the world. We saw young children run excited to their schools and teenagers meander in love. We saw the baker slip some extra khoubz for the woman carefully counting her change. We gazed at starlings murmurating against the evening sky. Each day she would smile, warming our petrified bodies with her love. --- Eid came and we sat and we watched as decorations were put up and fires were started and lamb turned slowly on spits. Evening fell and the fast was broken and there was music and there was dancing and we watched. Her hand slipped into ours, cool and soft, and she raised us from our seats and we remembered we were men and we danced and we danced and we danced.

It was an annual tradition, a game for a niche but dedicated sub-community of gamers dotted across the country. The aim of the game had always been incredibly simple - take a seat and remain the last one seated, no matter what happens. Whatever shit comes your way, you keep yourself planted to that chair until everybody else has gone. Every year was the same - a small crowd kicks off, and one by one they chicken out, or get hungry, or their boyfriends or girlfriends threaten to leave them if they don’t get their act together and grow the fuck up. Every year was the same - eventually, it was the three of us sat in one straight line, staring out across the street. One of us three would walk away the winner, once more. You, Erin, some kind of paralegal clerk from the south (we never held that against you), with a fierce tenacity that was rare in this day and age. Over the years I discovered you came from a wildly religious family, and when life took you in one direction, that family chose not to come on the adventure with you. I wonder what it must have felt like to be that alone, and understand why you are here. Him, René, handsome and foolish. Never committed to anything for long, except this game, the only thing that ever feels natural to him. Jobs, never held them down. Men, women, never held them down either. Yet year upon year he returns to this one road, his one seat. A life’s work upon four rusty legs. And me, Joseph, average in all the ways you can think of. Eternally seeking something that exists just outside of my periphery, a periphery of my own making. Held back by demons that nobody else can see. My solace is this place, these two days, these two people. A sudden trickle of deep nostalgia. A tinge of mourning that I hadn’t been aware of before. “Remember 2003?” “That summer was the fucking worst - we sat in that downpour for hours.” “I lost the feeling in my toes for weeks after that one.” “Yeah, it was rough.” “Nowhere near as rough as the heat wave in 2015.” “Yeah, right. Hot, wet, cold - we’ve kind of seen it all together.” “Hey, the others cleared out pretty early this year, don’t you think?” “There weren’t that many to begin with.” “No, you’re right. Way less this year.” “Thinking about it, last year thinned out quick as well.” As the realisation of age, of purpose, of the passage of time settled gently in their weary bones, the three looked at one another in turn. What they saw in each other’s faces was not decades of competition, some lifelong obsession, but the faces of friends. Without fear, without disappointment, they understood that this would be the final game of its existence. They stood in unison, shook hands, and turned in their own direction, homeward bound.

While flattering, two things struck me as strange about this invitation. Firstly, I only ever see the ambassador on the final business day of the month, each and every month. Falling outside of this cadence seems at odds with our long-standing arrangement. I was hired by the State as an Accountant, thirty seven years ago, and since my very first day the ambassador has always liked to run through the month-end reporting. Crunch the numbers, and all that. It’s pleasant in the business sense but has never been anything more. Not once a hint at pleasantries outside of those office walls. Secondly, I have never seen him eat. His entire trunk ribbed like a topographical map, a xylophonic vertebrae that rolls out a haunting tune each time he painstakingly unravels his spine to meet the eyes of anyone sitting across from him. I felt certain that his diet consisted entirely of dusty paperwork and jet black coffee, and couldn’t imagine what a dinner invitation might look like. Colour me intrigued. January 11th and I could hardly sit still, overflowing with excitement and raging curiosity. All day I expected an apology letter to land on my doorstep - a clerical error, so sorry. This invitation was intended for the other, more ambitious Accountant, biggest apologies. My nerves could hardly take it. I buried myself in mid-month reports but by the end of the working day, my invitation had still not been rescinded. It must be a genuine, intentional offer. Then, as happens with the standard chronology of time, January 12th was upon me. The day itself was unremarkable, a Saturday spent as usual - crossword, brisk walk to keep the heart rate up, a hearty lunch for fear of the evening’s potential starvation. Circa 4:47pm I slowly dressed and drove myself over to the address on the invitation. Driving felt sensible, assuming no alcoholic beverages would be imbibed, and it allowed me a slow lap of the perimeter before driving up the gargantuan driveway. Clearly it paid well to be an Ambassador of the State - I noted at least three fountains on the lawn, several many hedges perfectly coiffed into a rainforest of exotic creatures. I parked to the left of the front door, nose pointing homeward, noting with somewhat interest the seven other cars that were already stationed outside. My finger was barely at the bell when it opened. My hand barely at my racing heart when I noticed the banner, the balloons, the cacophonous explosion of party poppers. “SURPRISE!” The chorus rang loud and clear. I looked to the banner once more. “HAPPY RETIREMENT!” At the foot of the stairs, our host, the creaky gremlin himself. A strange glint in his typically lifeless eyes. My mind raced over the past few months, the reports we had gone over together, the numbers we had crunched. My findings had become more and more peculiar. I had asked something about the value of a lie, the price one pays for truth.

January 14th - As expected, ambassador wants a seance - wants to communicate with dead spy, find truth. Told me to prepare and come in the 'utmost secrecy', clearly scared of them finding out that he is breaking their laws. Told him my price and that he will need to find the offering, I will prepare the rest. Scheduled for the new moon. Will have to go to the market for the stuff, will visit Viktor for the rest. January 15th - Picked up candles, salt, honey at market. Will travel to Viktor tomorrow for remainder. Got word from the ambassador that he is willing to offer his niece, told him that was sufficient. January 16th - Snowing so travel to Viktor's slow, staying in village near his tonight before seeing him tomorrow. Sent word with a local boy, had to be paid double to go after dark. Dark atmosphere in common room after they heard reason for stay. Will warn Viktor, seems they are starting to suspect - don't want another Besgovia. January 17th - Saw Viktor and got mugwort, wormwood, incense and 3 vials. Warned him of atmosphere at inn, seems unconcerned. Told him about plans, happy to clear out if no contact in a few days. Weather cleared so made it back home. Will see ambassador tomorrow to make some preparations then seance following evening. January 18th - Went to ambassadors and made preparations in room to be used. Met niece under pretence, seems sweet, will do nicely. Will be 3 or 4 there tomorrow. January 19th - Heading to ambassadors now. Viktor, if you are reading this the rest of my diaries and supplies in chest by desk, burn them all. God have mercy on us. January 20th - Seance a disaster. Setup good, ambassador solemn and willing but one of the gentlemen (Lord Halsworth?) with him very uneasy. Began incantations, made connection with gatekeeper, made bargain but when niece brought it very hysterical, gentleman mentioned tried to intervene, drag her away but bargain already struck. Gatekeeper incensed, screams about reneged deal, possesses Halsworth and does deed himself. Room much agitated but bargain fulfilled so spy summoned, converses with ambassador. Halsworth (possessed) makes a mess of the girls body. Ambassador finishes conversation and hurries away, looks concerned. I conclude, banish gatekeeper and seal room. Gatekeeper took Halsworth soul. Will deal with bodies tomorrow, cold so no hurry. Much commotion after session so could not move them then. January 21st - Returned to ambassadors but ambassador not there. Let in by staff. Halsworth body gone, ambassador must have moved him for cover up, sure will see story in papers about suicide. Collect pieces of girls body and clean up as best I can, will take to Viktor tomorrow. January 22nd - Cannot contact ambassador. Concerned no story about Halsworth yet, very high profile don't want people investigating. Will speak to Viktor about it. January 23nd - It would appear we are now at war.

The camp we were in had been abandoned, our captors fleeing as they learnt their war was lost. Our freedom therefore was not granted exuberantly by some foreign saviours but by our gradual realisation that the watchtowers were empty. Reasoning it was another cruel trick we took a full day to venture from our quarters into the main yard. Even longer before we felt brave enough to break into the kitchens and the guards quarters. It took a week before anyone thought to venture beyond the barbed wire. It was Johnson who did it first, standing dumbly on the other side of the fence while we watched him silently, waiting for the fearful crack of a rifle that never came. We joined him. We gazed wide-eyed at the expanse before us. That land we had glimpsed, dissected into small digestible squares through the chain link, overcame us in it's vastness. Slowly, one by one, we returned back to the camp. Freedom, it turns out, is an acquired taste; highly seasoned and confronting to bland senses. For us who had never sampled it's rich and heady nature, it was simply unpalatable.

It was something sweet. Nectarine, or peach, on the lips of souls desperate for satiation. Ripe, and delicious. We stepped one foot in front of the other, awash with potential, with possibility. The streets here whisper excitement, they scream safety. We four aliens drawn into a sudden sense of home. Yet home was once a space of obedience. We each had our distinct place - our raison d’être. We simply woke up one morning full to the brim with the certainty of purpose. Sasha, the eldest, was the doer, the one with gumption. Xavier, the perfect companion when working out complex puzzles. I, Rosco, held a knack for culinary flair. The youngest, Amelie, felt the vibrations of the earth and had the most beautiful ability to connect with anyone and anything. We had never strayed from these roles, for the fear of what could happen. Here, that fear was sure to disappear. We could feel it. We all looked to Sasha, ready for the first command. Our excitement grew as we watched their chest expand with strong and solid breath. “I don’t know what to do here.” Our faces fell as we looked out across streets suddenly losing their glow.

"Are you sure?" The woman scanned the list again. "Yes, I am very sure. Perhaps they have you on the books downstairs?" "I was just down there, they sent me up here." "Hmm, that is unusual." The woman scratched her chin with the end of her pen. "Well, I am sure it will all get cleared up soon." She smiled warmly and looked over his shoulder to the next person in the queue. The person behind the man dithered awkwardly, waiting for him to move aside. He didn't. After a moment, the woman smiled at him again, "I really am sorry, I'm just not allowed to let you in if you aren't on the list." She pointedly looked at the person behind who moved forward brusquely. "What do I do now?" The man asked. "There is a waiting room over there," she said without looking at him, gesturing vaguely to the right. He turned around and saw a doorway with a faded sign above it. WAITING ROOM. He entered and sat down on one of the wooden benches, looking around. There were a handful of others in there looking dejected and bored. 'What now?' He thought.

I booked it, I know I booked it. I’m sorry, there’s nothing on the system with that name. Don’t you have the confirmation email? No, you know I delete emails as soon as I get them. Well do you see now why that’s wildly unhelpful? I do, yes, thank you. Let me just think for a second. Wait, I have the credit card charge - look, here’s the hotel and here’s the amount. Is this the booking number? It should be. One minute while I check… Ah, yes, here you are. The name on this booking is Theobald. Is that you? You booked using your married name? I must have done. But you’re not married anymore. I didn’t do it on purpose - it must have been on autofill. Right. Okay so you’ll be in room 308, lifts are just off to the right. Okay. Thanks. *** Dinner was tense. It wasn’t anywhere fancy, just the bistro next door, there wasn’t an air of pomp or ceremony, but there was certainly an expectation. An expectation of me, I imagine, after the fiasco at the front desk. Just tell me if you’re seeing him again. I sighed. What’s one more lie?

The older you get, the less significant each moment becomes. Much like how a £10 note is a princely sum to a begger, but to a rich businessman it's a pittance. To one such as myself, a year is a trifle; a man's lifetime is a barely worth considering. When you have lived through aeons, you escape mankind's scratching and clawing obsession with pain and suffering and mortality. Any such state is so brief as to be meaningless. The enlightenment of a vast perspective allows you to realise that in the grandest scheme of things humans are none too different from insects. Protest, revolution, rebellion - noting more than an ant mound erupting in fury. Within a moment the government will fall, the strident revolutionaries will be forgotten, the cycle will continue. Nothing is unique, there is no pressure of impermanence, a thousand more like this will come. However, much like how the millionaire who grows tired of opulent meals will never know the sweet taste of an iced bun in the mouth of a guttersnipe, this freedom comes at a price. I tried to savour our love but in an instant it was gone.

Time, space, energy - so plentiful, so rich even when in absence. As a transcendent being, I feel an endless universe of possibility before me. Yet sometimes, when on Earth, the simple mortal act of sitting feels too much, feels too guilt-ridden and shame-shrouded. I know I must. I must recoup, recharge, realign my spiritual self. So I sit. I allow myself the time to think. Introspection is such a rare and valuable gift that so many of us take for granted. Yet today, in giving myself that permission, I have reached a monumental decision. One that has been weighing heavily on my soul. Today I have decided to finally die. It is time. I have seen too much of this earth and the horrors that each generation brings in a never ending attempt at conclusive domination. It cannot exist, and I can no longer bear to witness it. This is a decision that has been playing on my mind for millennia. Then we met, one visit, and we spoke, and everything clicked itself into place. It is here, in this place of sitting, that I can see, with such clarity, that there is no longer a need to hold on.

The host of the party, having made the introductions wandered off with a vague hospitable murmur. I squinted at the woman before me, trying to place her wry smile - I paused for too long. "You don't remember?" She pouted her lips in mock disappointment. My wife appeared at my elbow. "Hello love." She touched my arm and I glanced down at her, she looked towards me expectantly, awaiting an introduction. "Ah, yes, Clarissa, meet my wife, Mary." Clarissa's raised her eyebrows at me almost imperceptibly, before turning to my wife and offering her slender hand. "So how do you two know each other?" Mary asked, eyes darting. The real question lurked beneath the surface. I paused again and Clarissa's half smile slightly widened. "We met at a conference a few years ago, in Paris." She answered. A tingling heat spread across my body and perspiration instantly prickled. Paris. We stayed at the same hotel, shared a cab, it was late, I offered to transfer my slides, her room, plausible deniability and the smell of her perfume. She thanked me, touched my arm, lingered. The taste of her body and cheap champagne. Mary nodded slowly.

Initially I had tried to delicately shrug Clemence off, feigning ignorance and turning sharply away, but there was little room for negotiation in their statement. While petrified, I stiffened my upper lip and stared the man down, aware of the tangential journeys I could embark on. I could come across as bewildered, befuddled and utterly loopy, or an all guns blazing offensive maniac. I settled on the former with the latter safely stowed in my back pocket. “MR JIMINY!” His face slowly shrunk in horror. “MY GOOD LORD COULD IT BE YOU?” “I, er…” “Oh, wait - no, I’m sorry, good sir, my father was Mr Jiminy. You must be Saint Yves.” “I believe…” “Or are you from the third rank? Please do refresh my memory?” “Come to think of it, I must have been mistaken,” he quickly backtracked. “I’ve never been so confused in my life.” Against my hip, the weight of the revolver lessened. Keeping just a slight twinge of crazy in my left eye I allowed myself to exhale and release the tension in my neck. Believing myself to be safe I turned away once more just in time to hear the click of the safety release.

I caught myself inhaling to the cadence of the breeze. Berlin hadn’t treated me well - it had tested and pulled me, lulled me into false states and destroyed me in seconds. I was going to leave. It was you, really, who pushed me to go. To head back home. I had sold everything. Every last item in that tiny Kreuzberg apartment now belonged to somebody else. I messaged, ‘Final walk along the Spree?’ ‘See you in ten.’ We headed westward through Uferweg, that lingering summer sun floating with a blissful buoyancy. I realised how much I would miss you.

The cicadas nightly vigil started with their ululating drone, paying tribute to the passing of another day as the horizon burnt orange. In the grass two lovers lay, their bodies entwined; faces luminescent in the afterglow. No words were spoken for between them existed an eternal silent understanding. A beam of light swept the grass. The cicadas stopped abruptly; jarring silence. The couple remained still, hiding in the grass from a world which did not want them. The detective nudged the arm of the man with his boot, dislodging a cloud of flies who resumed the chorus.

Peering over they could see their reflection far below; a foetid smell rose. The reflection broke as the bottom of the bucket skimmed the surface - but rope was at it's limit. She cut it from the spindle. He grabbed her waist as she stretched over, rope in hand, dipping the bucket beneath the water. She turned; a furrowed brow. Her lips parted to explain; her body wrenched suddenly over the side. He tried to grasp her but she was gone; a guttural scream and the slap of dead weight hitting water. His head a silhouette in reflection.

The aim was to catch The Thing. “Go on, Tigs, a little further.” Tigs did as instructed, feeding the rope until a thud rang up the well in slow circles. The darkness hit her before the realisation of deception. *** Regaining consciousness, Tigs watched yellow eyes prise themselves apart. “Welcome,” it said. “You are The Thing now.” Its talons scaled the wall, transforming back into a man with each spindly grasp. Tigs looked down at her own hands, now covered in fur, claws protruding. It ate a rat from the bucket as the delicious patter of mischievous children above drew close.

"What is it daddy?" They stared at the crest of the hill through an upstairs window. "I'm not sure poppet," he frowned. Disquiet oscillated; resonating. The lights went out. She clutched his shirt, anchoring herself to his beacon of stability; he smiled reassuringly. "It's ok, it must be a big digger doing some digging - if it get's too loud we might have to leave!" He joked, emptily, "Better pack our bags!" Vibrations could be felt through the floor now and panic stirred within, stretching it's noxious wings. He grabbed a rucksack and began to stuff in clothes.

From their peaks emerged a train delicately dancing along the rough topography, losing the race against the first rays of morning. As it gathered speed Seth tightened the scarf around his neck, preparing his body for flight. Then, that familiar step behind him. “Mads, you came.” The briefest of silences. “It’s not Madeline, it’s her Mother.” Seth tensed. “I found your letter.” The ending he had feared most. As the train pulled into the station, Seth turned and caught Mother’s eye. As stern as he’d expected. “The baby?” “No longer your concern.” Announcements, beeps, a wounded departure. Mother’s devilish grin.

Water lapped at the side of her boat as she searched the strange firmament. Nothing. Her charts failed to render these points of light into waypoints; these stars did not exist. The air was cool after the storm and her sodden clothes chilled her skin. It had come out of nowhere; a gust caused the boom to swing and she was knocked to the floor. When she came to the storm had passed, leaving a clear but unknown sky. A rope creaked nearby and she turned; another boat. Her brother smiled gently across the water and she cried.

They echoed back to me a heavenly overture that sounded terrifyingly foreign. In that moment I felt the visceral, turbulent weight of fear. Try to see something beyond stars, beyond atoms, beyond anything of disbelief. “Mum?” I whisper to the phosphorescent multitude of bulbs above, knowing full well you were not there and you could not hear me. One day, my son. Keep whispering my name and one day I shall respond in the way you truly need me to. Gleaming abstractions transform and catch my eye until suddenly a constellation I recognise. Something resembling home. Beautiful. Devastating. Empty. Home.

The final battleground, so it was told. The fight that could save us. The Seven Gods descended, presenting their battle scars, brandishing their monolithic weaponry. I stared them down, the weight of my world hanging heavy in my empty fists. I gathered all my might as the first blow landed.

An unmistakable metropolis, rising from a hunk of rock, silhouetted against our great ball of fire. Over the years we sent messages via every medium we knew how; there was no response. Silently it propelled itself towards us. Today we heard from them at last and the world went mad.

The detective frowned, "You said there was no-one else home." "I... must have left the radio on." She uttered, flatly. A wrong key. A pause. Thee Blind Mice started again. "Paperwork?" Her head shook. He lent to his radio, "We have a suspected 374, unauthorised possession of a child."

They answered on the second dial. “Mr Baptiste…” “It’s happening again.” “Mr Baptiste there is nothing we can do about nocturnal ivory tickling.” “You make it sound appealing.” “Sounds beautiful from where we’re sat.” I hung up and headed straight for the broom cupboard. I’d had it with that piano.

"Do you promise?" He asked, gazing out to sea, his fingers worrying a splinter of wood free. "I promise." There was a heavy throbbing joy in his chest, the exquisite leaden pain of love. A car pulled up nearby. "That's me." Lips brushed his cheek and she was gone.

Southport Newquay Every Saturday morning, Gus and I dreamt of faraway places the boats were venturing. Lowestoft Newhaven Today you were nowhere to be seen. John O’Groats I scanned the fluctuating waters. “HEY! JOHNNY!” Disbelief. “GUS! WHERE ARE YOU HEADED?” Waves muffled your voice. Stavanger “WHERE!?” Waves again. “Please stay.”

I must be brave for I sense a presence troubling. I must be wise for I do not know their cunning. I must be gentle for I fear they are not loving. I must be cautious for I see my end becoming. I must be quick, I must start running.

Don't look for me, that is what they want. Don't waste time mourning. Our work must continue. I have uploaded my research to the usual place. The artefacts we uncovered at the dig are real. Everything they've taught us is a lie. Tell Molly I User Disconnected.