Tabula Rasa

The smell of salt and places that don't exist anymore. Warmth radiated from rough hewn stone. He stood reluctantly and noticed tight skin; closing his hand into a fist he relished the briny dryness. Bare feet traversed smooth flagstones as he walked back towards the small town; inky silhouettes against a bruised sky. Conversation and laughter drifted on the breeze and mixed with the lapping water. The church bell tolled and he was jerked from his reverie; he was late. He quickened his pace and realised for the first time the goosebumps on his skin. He pulled his shirt over his head. As he entered the main square of the town he suddenly felt starkly out of place, incongruously casual amongst the denizens of the night emerging in their finery; he wove through the crowds feeling dirty and unkempt, trying to avoid brushing his briny body against their brilliance. A feather soft punch. Her smell. Nausea and hope. Sorrow and joy. He scanned the crowd frantically but they wash around him like a waning tide; time flowing against a rock lodged in the past. She is gone. She is gone. His world darkens myopically. He finds himself at his hotel room, key in hand. The door opens and his wife is there, dressed for dinner. She looks at him blankly; she will meet him downstairs. He showers, washing off the memories of the day. Washing the ocean from his hair. The warmth of the sun from his skin. Her smell lingers. He dresses quickly and joins his wife. They choose their food in silence and drinks arrive. She asks about his day, but he cannot express the vastness of the ocean beneath the blue sky; the sight of a small fish darting around his toes; the smell of sunscreen and cheap novels; hot sand; plunging deep into the cold water and becoming microscopic in inanity of the human endeavour against the profundity of nature. He grasps at their amorphous forms and returns with hands bare. It was really nice, he says. She talks about her plans for the next day; a small chapel on the hill. He listens. He doesn't listen. A velvet hand grasps him by the throat. Her laugh. A wisp of golden hair disappearing around a door. He stands abruptly, jolting the table and spilling his beer. His wife watches him as he mumbles something and moves towards the entrance. She is there with her back to him, waiting for someone to pay the bill. He strides towards he and spins he round, grasping both arms. She yelps. He stares at her face. It is all wrong. She looks at him, afraid, and wrenches from his grasp. A sickening weight presses down on his chest; his throat; his heart. He apologies and stumbles away, back to his table. Beer drips slowly onto an empty chair. She is gone. She is gone.

His hand swims lazily, effortlessly, a bird floating in mid-flight. Dipping and diving with each neverending gust. He has survived his first Melbourne winter. It was perfect. Crisp, soft, sodden in all the right places. Something that felt a little like home. Kind. Unexpectedly, somewhere along the way, his heart had been broken. The loss of a companion held most dear. In the moment it had throbbed with an acute, blinding rage - a tremor in his chest that he had never experienced before. Today it aches with majestic consistency. The poem written for the funeral had come easily, for it had been for her. Daze-fuelled and full of naïve denial, its content felt entirely imaginary, intangible. He reads it now, slowly. It stills feels imaginary, and he wonders if the words will ever be anything more than just that. Soon he is aware that his hands are empty. He gazes out across the Ranges, hoping that someone, somewhere, finds that scrap of paper and that they themselves get lost in a vision of a person they wholeheartedly adore. The melancholic chill walks him home. Late September, something echoing numbness swims all around. This year brought with it the return to lands once roamed together. They feel like different landscapes now, things have moved, shifted. The colours are all wrong. Buildings seem so much heavier. Skies of nothing but sleet and charcoal. There was time before, and now there is time after. He can make sense of neither. Late September, a life that screams of loneliness. Somehow things have gotten worse. Books will catch him by surprise. Silly films will reduce him to tears at the most inopportune moments. Discovered lines will never be shared again, it is a realisation of devastation. Late September, sleep deprivation and pure disbelief. Children have walked through the door. His life is different, it is experienced in a way she will never know. He is so angry at her. He is so sad for her. Late September, the eternal scent of something burnt. His head is somewhere else entirely. He cannot concentrate. He cannot contain his rage. He fears that he is spiralling. Late September, space. His eyes are fixed on the hills in the distance. He has come here for himself. For her. For everything that they were and will always be. It has been a difficult month, September always is, but this one feels more poignant than most. Five years. It is unfathomable. He thinks back over these past five years and the pain they have brought. The unbridled joy and agony he has felt. Grief is a creature of wicked tricks. Sneaking attacks and incomprehensible blows. It is time to put her somewhere safe. His heart is ready. The sun dips to that magical place and its rays suddenly explode throughout the sky - delicious pinks that somehow transform kaleidoscopically all the way to deep, dense blues. Rose to sapphire. Pastel. Soft. Entirely heartbreaking. ‘There she is,’ he thinks. ‘Happy Birthday.’

They had arrived at the party shortly after one another, so he had watched the host lift the fine coat off the Councillor’s shoulders and place it on a hook near the door. The fabric gleamed subtly in the light, like the coat of thoroughbred racehorse. It looked substantial; heavy. The Councillor glided into the party, and the host turned to Andrei, murmuring welcomes and lifting his coat from his shoulders. Andrei’s coat had no sheen; no substance. The host folded it over the arm of a chair where it draped pathetically. He proceeded into the stifling room where the department staff were talking and sipping cloying mulled wine. Perspiration pricked Andrei's brow as he transitioned from the cold night air, and he watched as party members rushed to greet the Councillor and shake his great paw. Andrei joined the throng of sycophants. “…Certainly, the Bureau of Essential Non-Essentials is pioneering the concept of mandatory compliance in our optional regulations overhaul…” the man orated to his acolytes. Tension built within Andrei. “…Indeed, the Department of Redundancy Department has approved the penultimate preliminary final draft of the infinite sustainability loop initiative…” They nodded approvingly of his accolades; Andrei’s knuckles whitened. “…the Committee for the Streamlining of Complexity has just expanded its mandate to include the minimisation of maximalised minimals…” Andrei’s body quivered. “Councillor,” he nearly shouted, cutting the man off abruptly. The bulging eyes of the neophytes swivelled towards him in disgust. “Councillor,” he said in a near whisper this time, sweat trickling down his neck. The Councillor gazed down at him, “Yes, Andrew?” “Andrei,” he half-choked. The Councillor nodded. “Councillor, I noticed your very fine coat when we came in. Tell me, where did you get it from?” A glimmer of annoyance flushed across his warm face, and his expression imperceptibly tightened. The crowd looked on, feeling sick with indignation at Andrei’s interruption. “My coat? J. D. Callaghers.” He spat out at Andrei like a piece of gristle, and turned back to his disciples. “It must have cost quite a bit,” Andrei retched. The Councillor glanced at him with a cold eye but did not engage, resuming his homily, ”…our cross-functional task force on unilateral multilateralism is revolutionising the paradigm of synchronised desynchronisation…” Andrei was squeezed from the ranks as they closed in to catch the Councillor's words. Lightheaded and clammy he staggered to the hallway for some air, vision foggy. He closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as his iron bound chest would allow. His eyes opened to the gentle sheen of the Councillor's coat. Andrei moved across to it and touched a cuff. The fabric was soft to his touch, almost creamy, and the blood drained from Andrei's face. He lifted the coat and donned it, feeling it's beautiful weight engulf his meagre frame. Cold night air stung the sweat on Andrei's brow as he stepped out the front door.

‘That’s my peg,’ Manny thought, eyes bulging, neck craning, his great annoyance filling the room. ‘It’s a peg that belongs to me.’ He held his own camel trench in one hand, suddenly unsure of where to place it. He opted for the peg directly to the right of his own. Unoccupied. Vito would be out for the next few years, it felt like a safe place to place it. Manny looked over at his peg once more. Very standard issue. Silver, thick, a delightful 90 degree bend upon another 90 degree bend at the bottom of the thing, causing a ‘lip’, or a ‘hook’, depending on which way you were inclined. A smooth 45 degrees up top to allow for the bulkier items to be stowed. As bulky, apparently, as a councillor’s coat. Manny entered the office with gusto. “Councillor? I beg your pardon… councillor?” Manny allows the room to breathe one breath before the interrogation continues. “What? The fuck? Is your coat? Doing? Upon my peg?” The councillor turns. A smarmy bastard. All fat, no fingers. Clearly a body riddled with hair - sideburns that know no end, jowls that scream for freedom. Yet a charming quality to his facial befuddlement. A visage of endearing confusion. “What makes you think I’m a councillor?” “I don’t see how that’s any concern of yours.” “It is indeed of my concern in its entirety, as the council in question is concerning moi, yours truly, me.” “So you are?” “I am what?” “Indeed.” “How queer.” A stand off, apparently. Great annoyance, for certain, but also mystery. Intrigue. Another tactic may be needed to crack this nut. “Chancellor, I feel great annoyance and I demand an explanation.” “Councillor.” “I beg your entire fucking pardon?” “Councillor. You referred to me as chancellor.” “And there is it.” “Well played, squire.” A beam of celebratory enjoyment emanated from Manny’s hairless jaw. “So, councillor, I shall ask a final time. Your coat - explain to me why it hangs from my peg.” “Oh yes, quite right. As established, I am in fact a councillor.” “Yes, that has been established.” “And do you know to which council I belong? The fine people whom I represent?” “Now that I do not know. Enlighten me, I beg.” “Pratt’s Bottom.” The smirk leapt forth before Manny had a chance to catch it. “‘Tis not a laughing matter, ‘tis in fact a matter of grave consequence that has landed on my doorstep. And I’m afraid to say, it has landed on yours, also.” Annoyance and intrigue rapidly transform into uncertainty and self-consciousness, with a palpable undertone of devastating anxiety. Manny pores through the moments of illegitimate business transactions. The fraud. The solicitation. Which one has finally bitten this Pratt on the Bottom? ‘Turn the interrogation into charm.’ Manny told himself. ‘Flirt your way out.’ “Oh, dearest, fuzziest Councillor, representing the finest citizens of Pratts Bottom, whatever seems to be the problem?” “These pegs.” The stomach dropped. “They are not. In fact. Standard issue.”

It started when Phillip arrived, already half cut. My wife shot a glance at me which I interpreted, correctly as I later found out, to mean “Why did you invite him you fucking idiot?” I tried to convey silently that I hadn’t invited him and he must have heard about it from someone else in the village, but which she interpreted to mean “Yes, I am a fucking idiot.” It was after 9 and our party was already in full swing, or at least the fullest swing a middle class soiree will achieve. “Tony old boy!” He shouted across the room. The general murmur of conversation dipped as heads turned and I quickly moved to intercept him. “I brought you this.” He held out half a bottle of scotch. “Great, thanks Phillip, how have you been since, well…” I trailed off. “Brilliant! I’ve never been better.” He said automatically, eyes scanning the scene. “Great, good, can I get you a drink? We’ve got water, non-alcoholic beer…” I started hopefully. “A scotch would be great if you have any.” He delivered with his gazed fixed, swaying slightly. I nodded, fetched him a glass and returned to find him still staring across the room. “I suspect Angela has been talking about me.” He blurted, looking at his ex-wife. “Ah, well no, not…” He cut me off. “I suspect she’s been talking non-stop about it.” “I’m sorry, about what?” “My penis!” He hissed like an exasperated teacher explaining something to a particularly slow child. I paused. “Why would she be talking about your… you know…?” He looked at me, uncomprehending, before a slow sneer spread across his face. “Oh I see, you’ve all been talking about it have you? That’s probably why you got this whole party together isn’t it? A chance to get together and really lay into my member. Don’t lie to me Tony, I can see straight through you.” He downed his drink in one. “Some friends you are, I’ll show you!” Before I could respond he turned and climbed up onto the sofa, and then the arm and stood there unsteadily for a while. Conversation in the room tapered off as people noticed and turned around expectantly. My wife looked at me in horror. I looked in horror at his dirty shoes on our cream sofa. “Now I’ve got your attention haven’t I?” He admonished the room. “I bet you all thought that I wouldn’t know about it! I bet you thought old Phillip wouldn’t know what you have all been talking about!” Spittle flew from his mouth and the room watched him awkwardly. “Well, if you’re all so interested in it, then you might as well get a good look!” Before I could stop him he had pulled down his trousers, revealing himself to the room. “Oh blimey!” A voice cried out “It’s even smaller than Angela said!”

Firstly, the fairies. Those pesky little fairies. They had never stayed so long. Yet, tonight - tonight, they truly outstayed their welcome. At first they were no bother, causing such a gentle patter on my cheek, so soft and so slight that my unconscious mind dreamt of cotton-legged creatures leaping through the clouds. Soon, however, their boredom grew and they ramped up their nocturnal bullying. Extremities and pointed limbs became involved in a most aggravating way. Their spindly toes scratched at my exposed flesh. Their fingers, with a death-like grip, tugged at my eyelids. They shook their sparkly little bottoms in my face. Such mischievous creatures. Flying upwards in total formation once I was finally coming to, they cast a series of twinkly lights thinly across the skies of my room. “Drrring?” “Prrring!” “Trrring!” After all these years I had never been able to understand their jingles. Always a sense they were plotting something against me. Always a sense that I would never be alone again. I gave up my attempt at comprehension and watched them glow. And then there was the moon. Now fully awake, there was nothing to do but gaze doefully out of the open window, the breeze causing the curtain to flutter peacefully. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but then I couldn’t look away. The giant nightlight hanging in the pinnacle of the sky above was shapeshifting at somewhat of an alarming rate. Crescent. Eclipse. Full. No wonder the wolves and the waves were so async. My family were all sleepwalkers, always had been. Slowly combing my way downstairs, their semi-conscious presence was unsurprising. Their energy, however, was entirely aligned to one another in an incredibly choreographed way. A slow collective groan slipped from their lips and I allowed them to filter out into the street. Synchronised swimming along the avenue. Dipping and diving alongside one another under that controlling crescent moon. Then there was you. The third piece of my midnight trifecta. The front door, now somewhat ajar, was calling my name. Smooth like candied sugar it opened itself fully with one tiny blow from my mouth. There you were. A vision before clandestine constellations. I wanted to dip you in honey. We made love under the watchful eye of the waxing, waning, vanishing, blue moon. Our bodies became one another. I consumed you in your entirety. My jaw unlocked as I howled at the sky. Rain commenced. The earth swelled around me and I felt myself rising to the Heavens. Engulfed in crashing waves, the world ceased to exist. Tsunamis and thunderstorms enraptured me. Upon the final crack of thunder, my eyes snapped open to the string of fairy lights above my bed. I felt a yearning ache inside of myself. Yet my body was satiated. My thirst quenched. “Drrring?” I called out to the dark. No mischievous jingles echoed. No scrapes along my cheeks, my knees, my back. My jaw, perfectly aligned once more. An altogether odd night indeed.

It surprised us. Its sudden presence caught us off guard. We blinked and rubbed our eyes twice before believing the glare. We had to ensure it wasn’t a deception of the foggy morning mind. But when our eyelids lifted, every wall remained illuminated, not a single shadow in our presence. This heavenly glow. So phenomenal and new. We allowed ourselves a moment to breathe in the change. A shuffle of feet all around us meant our children had also been awoken by this new light. We shared a glance. “Your turn!” I quipped, before they even had a chance to open their mouth. Sacha rolled their eyes and then rolled off their side of the bed, readying themselves for the demands the small ones would bring. Breakfasts, games, stories they were desperate to be told. The routines and moments that energised and exasperated us all at once. The knowledge that one day they would no longer be required was enough to carry us through. As Sacha drifted from the room I tilted my head back and pondered the shift in climate outside. This year had been our harshest summer yet - scorching winds, barren lands, soaring temperatures that we had never experienced before - for so long the snow hadn’t fallen. We had longed for its delicate flurry. Its chilling cloak. The descent of the snow meant something. It symbolised something. Now it was here we knew the new season was almost upon us. I threw open the curtain and was so blinded that I had to throw my gaze skyward. There I was met with an endless sheet of deep sapphire blue. It was clearer than I expected. Sharper. Not a single smudge or blemish perforated its perfection. Clouds nowhere to be seen. A seemingly scorching sun was creeping up over the easterly horizon. It was earlier than I thought. Neither confusion nor doubt had a moment to cross my mind before the scream invaded my ears. “JEM, COME QUICK.” Hurtling downstairs I saw my partner gripping the doorframe with an intensity I hadn’t seen before. I hurtled to their side, holding them with all the safety I could muster as they slid downward. Their eyes were locked onto the street. When I glanced in the same direction, what I saw wasn’t snow. It was the illumination of floodlights. The devastatingly blinding glare of police cars. My eldest child in handcuffs. Their head low. A gentle drip drip drip falling from their fingers all the way down to the barren ground below. A set of unmoving legs. Had it been snow we would have seen a slow crimson seeping into the crisp whiteness. Harsh little stings of imperfection, following their steps towards the back of a car. Had I not seen their anger? The extent of a malice I didn’t know was there. A father’s ignorance. A child’s mistake. I stared at the little drops on the ground and wondered if my child would ever experience the snow again.

That is the line I was referring to when I said I was puzzled. Let me recount again the events as I know them and perhaps you can help me solve it. As previously noted, the events unfolded around 7 January, 1934, based on the limited resources available to me. The description of the white light and fresh snow comes from Mrs. Pemberton's diary, written on the evening of the 7th. You might find this intriguing—why would a woman in her situation think to record the colour and intensity of the morning light? Nevertheless, this is the best primary source I have to set the scene. Mrs. Pemberton is said to have risen and rung for her maid, who promptly arrived with a cup of tea ("white, one sugar, uncommonly strong," according to the maid's notes). Mrs. Pemberton inquired about Mr. Pemberton's sleep—they had been sleeping in separate rooms since the birth of their fourth child—and was informed that he had not yet risen. Seemingly this was unusual, as Mr. Pemberton often woke at dawn, a habit, I am told, he had unable to shake even years after leaving the military. Mrs. Pemberton instructed the maid to let her master sleep undisturbed and then went downstairs for breakfast. After breakfast (muesli and fresh fruit) and perusing the papers (The Times, The Independent), Mrs. Pemberton returned upstairs, dressed, and then headed back downstairs to Mr. Pemberton's room. ("Well, this is getting ridiculous. George will waste the whole day,” according to the maid) It's worth noting here that Mr. Pemberton, contrary to tradition, slept on the ground floor due to a knee injury that made climbing stairs difficult. The maid, two gardeners, and the cook all attest to hearing a scream around 10 a.m. when Mrs. Pemberton entered her husband's room. The maid was the first to arrive in the room and recounts seeing Mrs Pemberton clutching at the hand of Mr Pemberton who gave all appearances of being merely asleep, with just his upper torso and head outside of the bedding. However, as the maid drew closer she says she saw a large red patch staining the bedsheets. From the interviews with the staff (who all promptly rushed to the source of the scream) we can ascertain these facts about the scene of the crime. First, it would appear that the window had been left ajar suggesting the perpetrator left by that way, but we are frustrated in that direction by the nights fresh snow. Second, it was noted that despite the open window the room was not unusually cold. Third, the maid noted that despite the blood on the sheets there was no puncture evident upon them A case most intriguing I am sure you will agree dear ___. I am catching the first train to London this afternoon so we can discuss further in the club. Until then, yours faithfully, Arthur P. Shanksbury, Detective

I looked at the painting for a long time; probably too long. I could feel Eduardo's eyes watching every flicker that crossed my face. He was an amiable sort, albeit somewhat intense - though which artist isn't? I'd spotted some of his watercolours at a second rate gallery and could immediately see his talent, so I brought him into the scene: introduced him to a few people, got him a studio space and set him up with his first few shows. After that, he barely needed me. He had become the hot new thing on the scene, fresh blood - everyone wanted one of his pieces. He was always very grateful to me, sometimes obsequiously so. I think he sometimes forgot that I didn't bring him onto the scene out of the kindness of my heart but because that was my job - finding new talent, setting them up, making a killing on some first editions if they blow up. Technically his new piece was very good and the mundane subject matter was reminiscent of Van Gogh but this wasn't what was making me pause. "Eugene," I said, "How do you know what my bedroom looks like?"

It wasn’t this way when I left. Marion? Marion? Yes, honey. Sorry. It’s just. I don’t remember leaving these trousers. Marion? Wait a second, I’m coming. What is it? Sorry, I-, I’m sorry. I don’t think these are mine. I don’t remember them. Sweetheart. I know, I’m sorry. Sweetheart, I promise I’ve not touched a thing. Okay, sorry. Okay. I’ll be normal again soon. I’m sorry. It’s alright. I’ll finish making tea, okay? Okay. We pan across a painfully stark room. Some would describe it as minimal. We are going to describe it as bleak. It sets a more realistic tone. Having panned the room, we know what there is. We will never truly know what there is not. What has been lost. What has been forgotten. We might never know if our narrator is reliable, if his memory is solid, or if he was ever lucid. Perhaps he is not. We observe his face. We witness a few different streams float along his features. Confusion. Bewilderment. Something that borders betrayal. Visions of battle? Memories of one type of ward or another? Are you comfortable not knowing? Of filling in the blanks? How much do I need to tell you?

“You’re back,” I said flatly. He pulled his head out of the drum and turned around, his long hair stuck to the sheen of perspiration on his face from working in the humid room. “Oh, hello,” he said sheepishly, extracting himself fully from the machine and standing. “Why didn’t you call to say that you were back?” I shot at him, more aggressively than intended. Softening after a pause, I added, “We needed you.” He spread his hands sheepishly and looked around the room of machines. “I have been helping people here…” he trailed off, “A lot of people need my help,” he finished forlornly, the weight of their expectations clear. “I was going to,” he added slightly pathetically after seeing I didn’t think that was an acceptable response. “You stopped calling anyway. I thought you didn’t need me anymore,” confused concern played across his features. “You never responded!” I shouted in exasperation. “But I always listened to the messages! I wanted to respond, but I get a lot of people reaching out. I’m sorry.” He was downcast now, clearly troubled he had hurt me. “Jesus, you need to accept you just can’t help everyone.” The son of God sighed.

It had been a long night of searching and my feet were sore, a dull ache pulsing along with my elevated heartbeat. Looking through the glass of the laundrette window, frosted from years of fluctuating heat, slow moisture and unnatural chemicals, I saw him lit in the most heavenly glow transcending from the glittering fluorescents above. I sighed with relief. Stepping through a metal door in a loose metal frame, I was overwhelmed by the smells. Hundreds of detergents all battling for first place at the back of my throat. How could he bear to be in this space for so long? My lungs immediately yearned for a freshness that wasn’t artificial, that didn’t come scooped from a tub. As I edged closer I had to take a pause. There was something sweet about him, soft about the edges. The way he was poised, the most careful and delicate crouch that I’d ever witnessed. I could see the muscles in his shoulder moving and contracting. Such strength. Such power. I said Come on baby, you’re coming home with me. He looked up, blinked, cocked his head to one side and turned back. He continued working away at that broken machine.

Darkness rushed in with a blinding silent roar, pressing up against their faces, deafening their vision, smothering them in oily blackness. It stuck to their skin; their clothes. The shadows that had been held at bay by the meagre light gained confidence and leapt forward. Hints of movement, traces of motion tugged at the corners of their useless eyes. Writhing, twisting, awful creatures danced around them grotesquely. The five survivors pressed together, the warmth of their physical touch the last bastion against the horrors of the obsidian sea. Submerged in the icy waters of raw terror, their already pitted resolve began to rust. A whimper escaped the lips of one of them, the physicist, and they felt the invisible attentions of those incorporeal creatures coalesce around his form. Together they could withstand. Alone they would fall. The physicists body shook with the exertion of staying still while his primordial instincts screamed at him to flee. Unable to hold back the natural reaction of his physical form he bolted into the nothingness that surrounded them. Moments later they heard his guttural scream as he was overcome. The remaining scientists huddled closer, cowering against what God's creatures were never meant to find.

That perpetual breeze, such relief during the heat of a summers day, was starting to destroy my night. I let out a gentle sigh and looked to my trembling hand. The pack was almost exhausted and I knew I had one final chance. Lighting the last match I held it against the wick, waiting, willing for the flame to take hold. Watching the golden spoke rise and fall, teasing and tempting my hopes, I briefly lost myself in the moment, forgetting why I was in front of that candle to begin with. Flame had always been my vice. Something of a calling but something so destructive. Chants behind me seeped back into my consciousness and I snapped into action. With the candle safely lit, I glanced down the row of fuses to my left. There were seven. Looking down once again at this delicate, vulnerable candle, on whom I placed so much expectation and hope, I willed it to hold out. For the perfect firework display, all seven had to make it into the sky. Six down, I dared to breathe as I held my flickering candle against the final wick. I looked up and I waited to be dazzled.

Hot, gritty wind whipped against my face as I took my tatty map from a saddle bag, orienting myself against the sun and what few landmarks remained. Jagged ruins of buildings jutted out of the sand, the only evidence of the city buried below. I packed away the map and headed deeper into the desert. The harsh climate and the crumbling buildings made venturing into the sites of the old cities dangerous - weakened buildings could collapse under the weight of the sand and drag you under. The price people would pay for old-world relics made the danger worth it though. After a few hours crossing the hot sand I saw what I was looking for, large red letters stuck out of the sand - 'tfield'. As an old trading post, it had rich pickings for relic hunters like me. Securing a rope I lowered myself into the cavernous main hall, the whistling sound of desert wind fading as I descended. Sand and broken glass crunched under my boots as stepped onto the floor and cast about for what I was looking for. There - a Ven Dingma Chine, filled with the most previous artefact of all - uncontaminated water.

It was astounding. Something mesmerising. For a moment I forgot what I’d done - I had walked out on Rafe, for the final time. But really final, this time. His snakeskin charm does not work on me like it used to. Snakehips. Rattlesnake. Slap of leather. Banish him from your mind, Lila. Fill a suitcase - small, chic, potentially international - fire up the Subaru and hit the open road. Within minutes the jitters come over me. The nerves. The slowing of adrenaline and the peaking of anxiety. Calming those nerves seemed sensible. It seemed that all women of intrigue and mystique dabble in light alcoholic flair. I turn off the freeway and allow my liver to guide me. “Martini. Dry.” How incredibly chic, I allow myself to think. “Rafe on his way?” I should have driven further. “Not this time, Hank. Not this time.” Repetition, suave. “Sure he is - just came through the door.” The clack of a snakeskin boot. Snakehips. My loins drop at the same instant as my stomach. Confluence. Two deeply opposing feelings that have dictated most of my waking days. I turn. Slowly, in my swivelling stool. “Sweet cheeks.” Wetness. Immediately. Goddammit, Rafe. “Goddammit, Rafe.”

Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, his favourite. She adjusted her position and scanned the crowd, looking for that familiar face. There. Second box. Stage right. She'd done this a thousand times, but always felt nervous. Breathing slowly, she calmed her body as the symphony thundered on - her cue was coming up. She rechecked the contraption in her hands, now feeling unfamiliar in her clammy grasp. Raising it up, she felt it's cool weight upon her shoulder. The soaring music engulfed the room and she saw the percussionists preparing for the crescendo - her cue. Cymbals crashed and she squeezed the trigger.

It was a ruckus. A cacophony of garbage. Timing, rhythm, melody, every facet of this symphony lacked harmony. Mismatching sounds filled my cranium until I could feel my synapses starting to sizzle. “Again.” More of the same ruckus. “Again.” Misery. The call had promised an audience of ten thousand. Promised a televised spectacular. ‘Big break.’ Finally my name in lights. While unexpected, it had felt legitimate, yet this was the shit show that the production company sent my way. I looked at the email again. That name. A name I recognised. I fell cold. It had all been a trick.

"No no no, of all the shipments, not this one." The doctor muttered to himself under his breath, shattered glass crunching under his feet as he walked towards his cargo. The cart transporting them lay nearby, a broken axle having caused it's contents to be strewn across the country road the previous day, much of it now looted by locals. A groan snapped the doctors attention to a farmer propped up on a nearby boulder, clutching a near empty bottle in his hand. Cold sweat pricked the doctor's brow as the farmer began to convulse. "The transformation is beginning."

January 11th. Every morning, another joins the line. An unwritten rule. July 23rd. Summer was warm, a young couple stops by en route to their final destination. Ambling along, unaware of the 204 bottles lining the highway. “Wine. Cold.” “Tough day?” “Sí. Sorry, yes.” “You know what to do?” International idioms were increasingly bizarre. July 24th. Curtains twitch at the sound of the ignition. Doors open as wheels crunch on the gravel driveway. 204 bottles. The townsfolk double count. The Sancerre clinks in the backseat as the hairs on the back of their necks leap up in a sudden breeze.

It should have been very nondescript but it's sheer unremarkablility made it somewhat remarkable. It was just a dirty, white, regular transit van - but it looked like someone had read about ordinary dirty white transit vans in a book and had tried very hard to nail the details. It bellowed mundanity; screamed banality. Every Tuesday at 3pm a man would slough off the front seat, light a cigarette with excruciating nonchalance and lean on the bonnet of the van gazing painfully idly at the sky, finish and leave. Today however, was different. Today, his lift arrived - from space.

It is a tidy village, one filled with kind and generous folk. Stoic houses sit alongside one main road, featuring a grocery and a taverna. My homestead sits at the edge of this village, on the meandering road that twists around the mountains. Our language isn’t shared with the visiting drivers, but we make do with gentle signs of the hand, of implied terms through open faces, uplifting tones. Today, an unfamiliar face disembarks, yet the words that slip from their lips are understood by all. “My dear children.” This Tuesday will go down in history. The return of salvation.

She looked at her watch - 10:37. She looked at her dead husband lying on the living room floor, and wondered what to do. The Jeffersons would not stand for this. The Andersons, maybe, but definitely not the Jeffersons. She attempted but he was too heavy to move. After a moments more thought she started pulling cushions off the settee. --- "How very chic Carol! You say this is how they do it in Morocco? On cushions on the floor? Trés a la mode!" Cried Mrs Jefferson in delight. Mr Jefferson shifted uncomfortably on his large, very lumpy cushion.

That always struck me as rather late, but by now I knew to not question the seemingly questionable. Instead, I kept myself to shadows. Tonight, an anxious buzz of activity bubbled up all over the place, in every over-laboured corner. Dust clouds billowed as curtains underwent their monthly parting. Yearning pillows sang as they were pinched to perfect plumpness. My ears twitched and flexed at every whisper, attempting to unlock the secret of this late night rendezvous. For years I sought the truth of those dinners. The underhanded dealings. The solicitations. A cult? The mafia? Supper club for insomniacs, apparently.

As a room we flinched - bodies wound tight with disparate fear as we watched the TV footage of a blurry shape hovering above the ocean. Birds had begun to drop from the sky on the day it appeared. I feared my call had been answered.

She’s at it again Who That old Mother Nature Ain’t no mother of mine Slap Mind your mouth Slap Mind your hands Pause Touché Jeanne and Jean listened attentively to the thuds on the roof. Jean and Jeanne thought those thuds were raindrops. They were not. Raindrops do not thud.

Sunday, mid-October, winds starting to whistle. As our eyes connected, they turned into an almighty howl. A pack of passing wolves, deep into chase. We were married by late February. Two children. A life together. Some Octobers later, the winds picked up their howls once more. We braced ourselves, uncertainly.

Sloughed were the important burdens I carried, now irrelevant trinkets. The thread of time pulled taught as a thousand possible futures wove together into one, my path through the labyrinth obvious. As you lay at your mother’s breast I understood what it is to live.

Everyone followed its serpentine coils. It dazzled with astounding intricacies. “Wait.” Looping fibres, clinging to one another. “No.” A complex weaving that seemed to debunk all common misconceptions of gravity. “It wasn’t me.” I couldn’t believe the way it all connected. A not-so subtle break. This little puppet of mine.

In slow jerking motions the slack was taken in until it became a taut line from my harness to the edge of the crevasse where it disappeared down into the swirling snow. My heart thumped violently - she was alive. I fumbled for my knife and began to cut.