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Phase Two

Peter heaved himself off his back and shifted his considerable heft onto one elbow. He felt the raft bob beneath him as he finished the chocolate bar he’d stolen from Councillor Bill. The sound of laughter drifted towards him from the shore. Picking the honeycomb from his teeth he wondered if Camp Shady Acres had ever heard the sound of children’s laughter before.

A couple of the boys were already in the cabin when Peter got there. Victor sat cross-legged on his bunk attacking a giant jar of M&Ms. He put a protective arm around it as Peter walked past, his little eyes following him all the way.

“Were you swimming?” asked Victor. “Why were you swimming?”

“I was just out on the raft,” said Peter, grabbing his towel.

“We got into the pantry,” said a weak voice. Peter looked over to see Tim lying on his bunk with his eyes closed. He rubbed his stomach gently and stopped as it gave a loud groan. Opening his eyes, he slowly lifted himself from the bunk and shuffled through the door. Peter was about to say something but Victor raised a hand and cocked his head. The sound of vomiting drifted in through the open door and Victor dropped his hand, laughing.

“Thats the second time in an hour,” he said. “He has no self control, the fathead.”

Peter threw his towel around his neck and leaned back against his bunk.

“So,” he said. “I was thinking…”

Victor raised his eyebrows, almost losing them in the roll of fat that folded over them.

“It’s just, we were wondering,” said Peter.

“We?”

“Me and Mindy, well mostly Mindy. She’s worried.”

“You’re not having second thoughts are you?” asked Victor. “Cause its a little late for that.”

“I know, I was just thinking, but its nothing.”

“Good,” said Victor. “See that?” He pointed to the back wall of the cabin. Their master plan was still tacked up, “Phase One” written in bold letters along the top.

“It didn’t take us long to come up with that did it? And look how well that worked out. We have plenty of time to figure out the next step.”

Victor was right, it hadn’t taken them long to devise Phase One, and that had been a complete success. Appeased, Peter began digging through his clothes.

“Unless you want to end things now,” said Victor. “Cause we can do that, we can go get them right now if you want. Councillor Alice will have us right back in the regime before supper.”

Peter shuddered at the thought of her last workout. He had learned a lot about his body that day. He’d learned that his pudgy arms weren’t built for flipping tree trunks around a field. And he’d learned just how much vomit his stomach could produce. If he hadn’t felt so awful he would have been amazed at the volume and ferocity with which it had left him.

“No,” said Peter. “We’re not going back to that.”

Satisfied, Victor turned his attention back to his M&Ms.
#

Peter stacked the crackers, marshmallow and chocolate by the light of the campfire. He was so engrossed in the construction that he didn’t notice Mindy until she sat down on the log beside him. She threw a quick longing look at his food and Peter felt torn. A gentleman would offer her the treat. He looked from the smore to her face, and her eyes softened. Nobody ever looked at Peter like that. Back home when people looked at him they did so with distaste. Holding his gaze, she smiled. Peter stuffed the food into his mouth, looking away guiltily as he chewed. Mindy took an orange from her pocket and began to peel it.

“Theres tons of real food,” said Peter, his mouth gloopy with marshmallow.

“I shouldn’t.”

She put a segment of orange into her mouth and seemed to sigh with every chew.

“Theres no point being here if I’m going to cheat,” she said.

“I guess not,” said Peter, gripping his smore tightly.

“At this rate everybody will go home fatter than when they got here,” said Mindy.

Peter looked at the rest of the children around the campfire, greedily stuffing their faces.

“Why is there so much chocolate here?” he asked. “The pantry was full of banned food.”

“Its all the stuff people tried to sneak in,” said Mindy. “Almost everyone had something, I guess thats where they put it.”

Peter feigned a cough and wedged some more into his mouth.

“I was thinking,” he said, swallowing. “About what you said earlier. And I don’t think you should be so worried.”

“Is that what Victor says?” asked Mindy.

Peter didn’t answer.

“We’re all screwed,” she said. “Even those of us that didn’t do anything.”

“You won’t get in trouble. Even if we get caught, I’ll make sure they know you weren’t involved.”

Mindy looked away and began biting her thumbnail. Peter noticed Mindy’s friend Jessica picking at a limp salad nearby.

“I guess not everybody is hungry,” he said.

“We’re all hungry,” said Mindy. “Its just some of us are holding out.”

“Holding out for what?”

“To be thin.”

Thin, he thought. God, he wanted to be thin. The chocolate seeped through his fingers as he shoved the rest of the smore into his mouth.

#

Mindy was gone the following morning.

“Maybe she was homesick,” said Jessica, fiddling nervously with one of her ginger braids.

Victor’s face darkened as he scraped at the ground with a stick.

“She didn’t go home,” he said. “She’s gone for the cops, we all know it.”

Peter and Jessica swapped looks. Victor stopped scraping and tapped his stick a few times.

“She can’t have gone far,” he said. “We’ll find her. And when we do, she’s gonna be made an example of.”

“An example?” asked Jessica. “Who made you the boss?”

Peter shook his head, trying to warn her off with his eyes.

“It was my plan,” said Victor, his voice getting quieter. “I came up with Phase One. I got everyone in on it. I made sure it happened.”

“Well you can’t tell me what to do,” she said. “You’re just a fat kid with a big mouth.”

The stick swished as it arced round and bounced off Jessica’s face. The skin on her cheek opened in a red line and she clapped a hand to it in surprise. Victor prodded the stick slowly into Jessica’s belly.

“This is our camp now,” he said. “And I’m not going to let any stupid girls ruin this for me.”

Jessica stepped back, her hand still pressed to her face. Tears began to form but she blinked them away angrily. She looked accusingly at Peter as she backed away from them and turned towards the cabins. Victor exhaled, whistling as he did.

“Women, huh?” he said.

“Victor,” said Peter. “What are you doing?”

Victor looked at him quizzically.

“You hit her with a stick. And you’re going to make an example of out Mindy?”

“Don’t white knight me now fathead,” said Victor. “This was your plan as much as mine.”

“Yeah, the takeover, but not this.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Victor. “We’ll find Mindy and once we deal with her we’ll be back on track.”

Before Peter could tell him exactly what he thought about that a noise interrupted him. The door of the Councillor’s Cabin banged shut. Jessica leaned next to it, folding her arms defiantly. Councillor Alice stood at the top of the steps, a mess of unkempt hair and smudged eye makeup. One of her wrists was still bound with rope. Her fists opening and closing tightly as her gaze landed on Victor and Peter.

“You,” she bellowed, pointing a shaking finger at them. “You’re dead.”

Holding Jessica by the ankles, Councillor Alice dipped her, head first, into the bucket of coke.

“Drink,” she said. “You love it so much, drink.”

Jessica gurgled and gasped as Councillor Alice continued dunking her in and out of the bucket.

“You little dirtbags,” said Councillor Alice to the rest of the campers huddled in the clearing. “You lousy little dirtbags.”

She lifted the girl clear of the bucket.

“Refreshing, isn’t it?”

Without waiting for a reply she released her ankles, sending Jessica tumbling to the ground. Knowing better than to hang around she quickly scrambled into the safety of the group. She had given up trying to plead her innocence hours ago. She bumped Peter’s elbow on the way past and he winced, cradling his ear gently. He wasn’t sure that it was still fully attached to his head. He had definitely felt something crunch as Councillor Alice had twisted it.

From above them they could hear a whimper from Tim, who was still stuck in the branches that she’d thrown him into.

“No tears allowed at Camp Shady Acres,” bellowed Councillor Alice.

Head cocked, she waited for the tears to get gulped back and become hiccups. Satisfied, she began pacing.

“Turning your councillors into prisoners,” she said. “How did you think this would end?”

She stopped in front of Victor and prodded his shin with her boot.

“Huh Lardass? what was the plan?”

“It was just a joke,” he said, his nose crooked, and bleeding.

“We were tied up in there for over 24 hours,” she said. “And you know about Councillor Bill’s bladder problem.”

She rubbed one of her wrists, which was raw and still embedded with slivers of rope.

“The stench,” she said, delivering a sharp kick to Victor’s shin. He yelped and shuffled backwards

“Well,” she said. “The fun’s over now. The regime is back on, and you little tubs of lard still have a full summer ahead of you.”

The boy sitting beside Peter produced an inhaler and Councillor Alice batted it away.

“We’re going to have some…interesting times, I’ll tell you that.”

But before she could expand on this a siren sounded in the distance. Peter felt the breath catch in his chest, Mindy! Councillor Alice heard it too and eyed the campers suspiciously.

“You’re screwed now,” said Victor. “You can’t explain this.”

“I’m screwed?” she asked. “How are you going to explain my rope burns? And Councillor Bill is still tied up in there, try hiding that.”

“Big deal,” said Victor. “So we get in a little trouble. What you did is way worse. You’ll go to jail.”

“A little trouble?” she said, and laughed.

“Kidnapping and Imprisonment? Thats juvenile detention buddy.”

She hunkered down in front of Victor, ignoring the siren growing closer.

“Oh the boys they have there. What will they make of you?”

Peter thought of the tough boys that went to his school. The ones that made his life a misery. They were teddy bears compared to the ones in juvenile detention.

“Ringleader,” said Councillor Alice pointing at Victor.

“Ringleader,” she pointed at Peter.

“Ringleader,” she pointed a finger in the air at Tim.

“And everyone else? Phone calls to parents, social workers involved, there’s plenty of fun to go round. We’ll all tell the truth and we’ll all enjoy the spoils.”

The clearing took on a blue tint as a police car crunched up the road and into the camp.

Peter and Victor shared a look.
#

The grey haired police man told Victor to hold his breath as he clicked his nose back into place.

“I understand that boys need to let off steam once in a while,” he said. “But you boys gotta take it easy. Stick to the body. Punching and grabbing at the face? That’s gonna leave marks son.”

He rested his hand on his holster and looked at them.

“Now, I did the best I could, but thats probably gonna heal crooked.”

Victor touched his nose gingerly.

“Don’t worry,” said the cop. “It’ll add character.”

He turned back towards his squad car.

“Thats all I need,” said Victor. “More character.”

Councillor Alice and the younger cop stood next to Mindy.

“Its hard being away from home,” he said. “And I’m sure its hard being at fat camp.”

“Fitness camp,” said Councillor Alice. “Only positive F words allowed.”

“But telling lies Mindy? Wasting police time? You can’t do that honey. You understand that right?”

“Its ok Mindy,” said Councillor Alice. “We all make mistakes.”

A rustle was followed by a thud as Tim dropped from the tree he had been wedged in.

“Tim!” said Councillor Alice. “So thats where you’ve been.”

She grabbed his cheek and pinched it.

“This one,” she said to the cop. “This one loves to climb, don’t you Tim?”

Startled, Tim nodded.

As the patrol car pulled out of camp Mindy turned to Peter.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Oh shut up Mindy,” said Councillor Alice. “You’re in big trouble.”

“Me?” asked Mindy. “But I didn’t do anything, I went to get help?”

“You left camp without permission.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes seriously,” said Councillor Alice. “Now go to bed, we all have a big day tomorrow.”

They turned to leave.

“And for God’s sake, someone go and untie Councillor Bill. Its going to smell like a homeless shelter in there.”

Peter caught Mindy’s eye. She studied him for a moment before a familiar look spread across her face. Distaste. As she brushed past him he felt a great shame settle on him, twisting his stomach.

Or maybe that was hunger.

Darling
Remember that time you told me I had no heart? I can’t remember the exact circumstances now, though I am sure you do. What we were, twenty? God, that seems so young. Hard to believe we have known each other this long, and we are only getting around to doing this now, isn’t it?

But yes, that moment, that moment when you slipped from the clipped tones you were learning to polish at university back to the ones that had kept you safe and sheltered on the streets, protected from the bad boys of the borough. I don’t remember what it was I had done that upset you so; left the toilet seat up perhaps, or regaled you with stories of excessively joyous drinking when you had stayed in studying the night before. Or perhaps it was something more serious, a kiss maybe, with somebody else, drunkenly in the corner of a nightclub, that I could shake off as nothing, but you could not. The context of your words melts in my brain now, its texture sodden in the ocean of time that’s passed since, but there is one thing I remember, as if it happened every morning without fail and how I wish it actually did.

You weren’t shouting you see, like you used to when you were angry. You were quiet and bitter, your voice low in the littered kitchen you then called home. Gosh, to think of you living in such a state now, well – I can only chuckle. I remember every detail of that morning, the way your hair dripped slowly onto your fluffy shoulders, jet black in the wake of showering and slicked like a 1950s greaser. You had no make up on and your skin was almost translucent in the early morning light (whatever was I doing up that early at such an age? Perhaps it had to do with whatever it was that upset you, I shan’t ever remember, but it is strange nonetheless). There was a faint dust of purple under your eyes, that I would soon come to learn was a permanent feature, but until that point I had never seen you without make up and I assumed only that you had spent the night studying, though I look back now and wonder if in fact you were crying.

You are probably wondering why I am reminding you of all of this, now of all times? We are supposed to be happy, don’t bring up that ѕhit you’d say. Maybe you’d slip back into a bit of Hackney. I’d like that you know. I always liked who you really were.

But that’s not the point, that’s not what I’m trying to do. Not quite. What I was – am – trying to tell you about, in a round about way, is the moment I loved you. I mean that I knew I loved you. I’d fallen in love with you before that but I was always a pragmatist, wasn’t I, and I said yeah, I love her now, but we’re young and these days will pass, and the feelings will drift with them. So you see now why I was a bit lazy in those early months of dating; I expected nothing from it, nothing but a bit of fun with a pretty girl and an excuse to be distracted from my studies. But that morning, that frosty November morning when you slipped back to your roots, glaring at me with those almost oriental eyes and hissed, ‘You bastard. You ain’t got no heart. Not a fuсkin ounce,’ I came alive inside. It was the part of you I had been waiting for, the part you promised now and then, with a little slip of the tongue, the odd word here and there that wasn’t quite right. You were beautiful right there and then, a raw, fierce sort of beauty that some would not see or quite get, but I saw it and I got it, and I knew in that moment I would never let it go, because I loved you. I really loved you.
Do you see why I brought this up now? I hope it holds no truly bad memories for you; this is to be a special day, and I do not want to spoil it. So don’t take from it the memory of what I did or said to make you so upset; take from it the fact that in that moment, the four or five seconds after you uttered those words, that I loved you.

The heart that you said I lacked exploded in my chest; it couldn’t handle the joy, the worry, the remorse. It struggled with confusion, wildly trying to escape its cavity to see what was going on, scrabbling furiously up my throat to get a glimpse of the women who tormented it so.
But I swallowed, and pushed it back down.

That was a long time ago now, wasn’t it? God, how we’ve changed in the meantime. I remember the jeans I wore that very morning, still have them in fact. I haven’t fit them for at least ten years, but they hang there in the wardrobe, next to the dress you bought the following week that didn’t fit you either, though you swore it would in two months. It never did.

Think of all the things that have happened in the meantime; we grew up. We stopped partying every other night, we stayed in on work nights and took to soaps and football. Do you remember when we travelled? That was the best time we ever had together, in my recollection, even when you got Delhi belly at the hostel in Tehran and spent two days sprinting between my shoulder and the bathroom, ruining my brand new shirt with your mascara.

You said the other day you were happiest when we got our first place, our first jobs, and we moved in together, playing at husband and wife, fuсking like condemned lovers. Each to their own I suppose.

It’s funny, isn’t it, that it’s taken us so long to get here? To this point, that so many lovers come to long before us, that our parents thought we’d come to long ago, hoped, probably.

I am glad we didn’t do it the way of other couples. There, that is my confession for the evening. I hope you won’t dislike me too much for it – I know how you always wished for the white dress, and the flock of cherubic children – but I must tell you now. It wouldn’t be fair to go through with this without telling you that when that doctor, the one I swore to you was a woman in another man’s flesh, so loose and baggy did it hang on it his delicate frame, came to tell us the sad news, I admit darling, I was more than a little relieved.

There. Do you hate me now? Please do not hate me. What I meant was only to tell you that I was happy, you were enough for me, too much sometimes. I did not want to initiate some other person into the world we had so cosily made our own. I wanted no disruptions, no distractions. I wanted you all to myself and when that dry said those words it was as if God himself was vindicating my position.

But – another confession. For I have since wondered what it would be like, and even wished. I pictured a boy, tall like me, with your thick black hair and the accent you always affected that was the thing I hated most. He would be called William, or Richard, or something equally Norman and dull, and he would play football and cricket and rugby and swim on the weekends. He would play the piano, or possibly the violin, and attend extra French from very young, just to give him an edge on his peers. He would be witness to our lives when we were gone, to the love, the hatred, the fights and the ambivalence, the startling moments of tenderness and most of all, he would be there purely to fulfil our vanity.

So I am glad he never came along, nor a girl either, for I can see she would only have been insufferable with a mother like you.

No, I am glad we did not do things the way of our peers. We took the courtship, and the wooing, skipped the marriage and the babies. We took up the fights and the loathing, we brushed them off and started back where we began.

And now we are here.

I hope you are looking forward to it, though I dare say you’re not really. You’re scared, aren’t you? You always were, when things got serious. But you won’t back out of it, I know you won’t. You can’t.

I thought I’d make the place nice for you, as a surprise. I cleaned – imagine that! – and tidied, laid out your favourite table settings and lit up candles like romantic people do in the movies.

Last night, my mother asked me why I am doing this. She had tears in her eyes and terror in her heart. Imagine that love! Well, she is OK now, I made sure of that, allayed her fears as best I could, though doubtless they’ll always be there, hanging in the air like a bad fart no one will own up to.
You look beautiful, you know. Almost as beautiful as that night all those years ago. Your eyes glisten beautifully in the soft candlelight, black as your hair used to be. It’s dim in here, so I’m not sure if they questioning or pleading, nervous perhaps, or simply tired. Perhaps they are asking me, in that silent way we once used to communicate – what are you doing? This is not you my love, that’s it, that’s what they say. All of this – this is not you.
Ah, I shall tell you, but people change. They do, I believe it. You did. You were a pretty little punk once, rough around the edges, broke but not broken, educated but edgy. Where did you go?

So that’s why, I’ll say. Once, many years ago, you told me I had no heart. But I have loads. I always have. You can rage and you can nag, but I when I have ever been untrue to who I am? I have not sold my soul for the sake of a mortgage, given up my love to make a “living.” It is you, my love, who has been the traitor. And do not pretend you do not know the price of treachery. I have put it off this long. They always marvelled that we never part, and secretly wondered when we would. Well, they can have their satisfaction now.

I am not sorry to do this. Well, I am, but not in the way you would think. It will be satisfying, and you will thank me for it later, trust me. I’ll be as quick as I can. I’ll make it sharp and throw my body into it and you won’t feel a thing, though part of me wishes you would.

Because it sticks you know? Sticks in the mind. The moments we treasure, the ones we never forget.

I ain’t got no heart you said. Well now, darling, neither do you.

Spider of Destiny

A stench interrupted Mike. It was Monday he last had chicken.

The scrapes of the knife crossing the canvas comforted him. His mother painted the same way. Those sounds lulled him to sleep as a child. Her perfume entered his memory, a unique blend of Coco Channel No. 5, Cigarettes, Red Wine and Oil Paint. Mike loved that smell. Spread, filling as much of the couch as his five year-old body could fill he joined the dots on her jeans and inhaled the atmosphere.

He dreamed of being close to her when she worked. She never asked him to leave the studio. She would move the easel to the couch so that he could make pictures on her clothes. As the paint was scraped on, Mike would doze off.

Occasionally he woke when she was on the phone. He would pretend to be asleep. He knew that Colin was bad. Her voice would tremble.

Mike met Colin once.

Eight spiders with eight legs each spun eight webs. The webs were silky and reflected the bathroom light through the crack over the bedroom door. Mike was scared. He was six the day before. He got nothing from his mother. He was reminded of this when the spiders started singing:

Mike got no presents.
Mike got no presents.
What did Mike get for his birthday?
Nothing, nothing at all.

The spiders all turned towards Mike and their big red eyes burned their stares into him. They laughed and laughed and laughed. Mike jolted from his sleep. He didn`t even touch his army tank which was his entire toy collection. He ran straight to his mother.

There was someone in the bed with her. He climbed over the lump and held his mothers neck tightly. Mike heard the mans voice screaming at his mother, “take the little ѕhit out of here right fuсking now, you fuсking cow. He should be locked in the room if he`s going to be up at night.”

Mike`s whole body was shaking, and that lump stared at him just like the spiders. Another lump developed in Mike`s throat and he didn`t know if he should cry or shout out. Mike felt thirsty.

She lifted Mike up and cuddling him she walked through the landing making "ssh" sounds. She gently placed Mike in his bed. She kissed him, and through his panicking voice he asked her to stay. “I can`t,” was her reply. Mike noticed a tear sliding down her left cheek. He could see the track it made. Just like the snail track he followed that day. He squashed the snail when he found it. Mike wanted to kiss her on the tear. He wanted to tell her to be happy.

A shadow blocked the illuminating slither of light from the un-shaded bathroom bulb. The footsteps that followed were loud and unfamiliar. One jerk of his arm reached her and grabbed her: She was gone.

It was brighter than normal when Mike`s eyes opened. He thought of playing in school with Tommy and Nora. Mike wanted breakfast. He touched his army tank and then pretended to put on a dressing gown. He imagined going downstairs to the family on the corn flake ads. “Mom,” would be squeezing orange juice forever smiling. “Dad,” would be joking with his little sister in the high chair while trying to keep his shirt clean using the newspaper as a guard. Mike thought that this “Dad” would be reading about money stuff because they lived in a house with more than two bedrooms.

Mike turned off the bathroom light. She never forgot that before. Mike walked slowly downstairs. His imagination repaired the hole in the front door glass. The square of corn flake box taped over it to keep out the breeze would never be needed again. Mike saw a thick wooden door. The hall was bigger too. There was room for a bike on a stand. The stains on the wall were gone and there was even some carpet. Her perfume was strong. He had a look in at the studio. It was a sitting room really. He took a deep breath of her.

He ran into the kitchen. She was not there this morning. Bottles and bottles of drink crowded the table. An overflowing ashtray vied for space with her bra. A hold-all bag slouched from the chair.

Mike counted the bottles: two of his mothers red wine, one small white one, one big white one, one big bottle of cola and fourteen brown ones. There were five empty packets of cigarettes; two were what she smoked and three were different.

Mike ran upstairs to her bedroom. She was lying on the ground. He ran over and saw a big bruise had grown on the place where the tear was. Mike remembers it took a long time to wake her up. Even then she sounded like she was still sleeping. She groaned a lot and when Mike hugged her neck she screamed. Mike cried like never before. The tears flew down his face as fast as racing cars.

Mike remembers being on the street outside his house. A guard was holding him. The ambulance men took a long time in there. The guard was asking Mike if he had any aunts and uncles. Mike didn`t know.

Mike needed to scrape more paint on. He was happy.

The stench interrupted once again. Monday he thought. Chicken. He counted the days in his head. Monday was Chicken. Tuesday was Pasta. Wednesday was drinking the dole, Thursday was a blur, Friday was cans at Anna`s house. Saturday he couldn`t remember. Mike wondered if today was Saturday.

He spent another 15 minutes scraping paint before he went to investigate the stink. He saw his phone near the bin. It was never charged, no one rang him anyway. He plugged it in and had to attach the piece of blue tack and sticky tape to the charger where it forms a union with the phone. Male and Female connectors, it`s all about sex or money he thought.

He dazed at the kitchen. It was a tidy kitchen, however the bin was full. He focused on switching on the phone. Mike took two attempts to enter the pin.

He continued to the bin. He moved the pile of potato skins that littered the top of the bag. When did he have potatoes last he asked himself. As his hand moved deeper he felt the sharp rim of the tuna fish can on his finger and knew that it would cut him again if he didn`t employ his other hand to help negotiate a safe release.

The phone beeped indicating a text message arrived. Mike smiled to himself and hoped it would be from Una. He lifted out the tin. He always washed the tins but never recycled anything. He wondered about that. He let the tin fall and picked up the phone.

The text read:
“Hi Mike. I`m running an exhibition of local painters on the 5th of next month at the library. Would you like to submit a piece? Please let me know ASAP. Una.”

He checked the date of the message. The phone told him it came in 5 minutes ago and that was all. He opened the calendar to see today`s date. Tuesday September 25.

He wrote a reply.
“Hi Una, Thanks I`d love to. Where is it on? What size space would I have? And how are you? Mike”

He pressed send and returned to the bin. Instantaneously the message beep rang out. That was quick he thought. Dropping the potato peels this time he rushed to the phone.

With excitement Mike opened the text:
“This message was not sent. Please top up your account to avail of our services”

The light from the fridge was blinding as he took out a can of beer. Mike knew why the chicken smelt bad. Today was Tuesday. He wondered how he had spent the last few days. He couldn`t remember anything after Anna`s house.

He sat on the couch in front of the space where the TV used to be. He looked at the wall. Spying a spider scurrying along the floor he considered the eight legged creatures. He had that dream about spiders when he was a kid. He never called it a nightmare. He wondered why after nearly thirty years he had the dream again. Mike thought it might be time to paint that dream.

He leaned his head back and tried to remember all the families he lived with since that night. The Murphy`s were the nicest. He spent the longest with them. The Wickham`s were the worst. Mr Wickham had a collection of skinny branches that he called the police. Each member of the Wickham Police had a name. Mrs Wickham never knew. The Devereux`s were kind but the older boy used to beat Mike. He stopped remembering now.

Mike decided to walk outside and take deep breathes of air. It might wake him up and he needed credit.

He strolled past the school and he created an image of Tommy and Nora playing without him. He never met them after that night. He leaned on the wall and imagined what his life would be like if Colin had never met her. He often wondered if Colin was his father.

Mike thought of the first day he met Una. He was totally transfixed by her eyes. He loved her from the first smile she gave him. He must contact her. She lived in a house with a thick wooden door.

When he reached the shop the star shaped day glow stickers were replaced with a new window sticker for the lotto. Billy is modernising. Mike stalled at the row of newspapers. Every front page carried the same photo.

“Butcher released” stated The Sun.

“Killer roams free” said The Mirror

“Ireland`s first convicted serial killer released from prison: Legal technicality makes Colin Williams a free man.” Claimed The Irish Times.

Friendly Little Finger

Long, long ago in a land far away,
A pair of strange boys were born the same day.
Their features were curious and defied laws of nature,
For they were smaller than most and tiny in stature.

The first was no bigger than his poor father’s thumb,
Tom he was called and a star he’d become.
Frank was born next and named for a singer,
He never grew taller than the old man’s baby finger.

Brothers they were who would part very gladly,
Tom being bold and quite mean and wily,
While Frank was too meek and kind to a fault,
Always lending a hand when his brother would not.

And when time had come to leave their small nest,
Armed with a needle, Tom went to the west.
But wee little Frankie, fearing all beasts,
Mounted a pigeon and flew to the east.

Tom lived a life that was full of adventure,
Killing and maiming and refilling his pitcher,
While Frank toiled and worked until he was spent,
Earning barely enough to pay for his rent.

All he would greet with a smile and a wave,
But all looked away with long faces grave,
Shielding their children and muttering low
About the famed tiny lad who belonged far below.

Frank soon found out that making one’s name
Would be no simple task and no easy game
With a brother like his who was known far and wide
For princesses bedded and livestock defiled.

And so Frank worked on until one fateful day
When his path in the forest went too far astray.
Fatigued and exhausted he stopped by a river
Then wound up head first in the cold rushing water.

Swept up by the current the poor little man
Could not swim to shore and failed to reach land.
Fish bait he’d be as a result of his blunder;
He gave a great kick but was only pulled under.

Sometime thereafter our man stirred awake
To find that his life was not saved but at stake,
Trapped as he was in a giant’s huge hand,
Doomed he was sure to a meal he had planned.

When the giant insisted he was not foe but friend,
Frank was relieved not to meet such an end.
He was welcomed to stay in his new comrade’s home;
The pair those two made: the giant, the gnome.

All was quite well in our short little story
Until a witch came along in a terrible fury
Over the giant’s default and taxes unpaid
In a share of his harvest and a few newborn babes.

On the giant she cast a great sleeping spell;
At the base of a tree he succumbed and then fell.
But wee little Frankie the witch left intact
And flew off on a broomstick before he could act.

Amid the great snores Frankie faltered and wept
Though he knew he would help for he owed him a debt.
A bowl full of berries he ran out and got
For let the man starve, he would certainly not.

Not too long after, who came by that way
But Tom on the back of a field mouse all grey.
He stared as his brother crushed up a berry
To give to the giant like some misguided fairy.

When Tom saw up close the giant’s great feet,
He let the mouse go and said ‘What a treat!’
For seven-league boots he had heard much about
But seen them in person of course he had not.

And so he entreated his poor little twin
To agree to the plan he laid out with a grin:
A good price he’d get for such a fine boot;
He’d even give Frank his fair share of the loot.

Frank flat out refused and told Tom to go.
The man was his friend; of course he’d say no.
But Tom knew just how to belittle his brother,
Laughing he called him the runt of the litter.

Perched on the giant, wee Frankie felt swell
A feeling of hate he could no longer quell.
Leapt onto Tom and saw nothing but red,
Punched him and kicked him until Tom had bled.

To a long empty burrow Frank retreated in anger,
Chopped off Tom’s hands and snapped every finger,
Then ground it all down to a watery paste
To feed to his giant with none gone to waste.

Once to the giant his brother was fed
Something went wrong in Frank’s little head.
He took Tom Thumb’s name and the boots as his plunder,
And wee little Frankie was friendly no longer.

The Radio is Broken

Alan’s family sat around the radio and listened intently, as they had done for the last half hour. He still marvelled that even they could sit quietly without arguing for this, every day. None of the usual squabbling, yelling, chattering, for one peaceful half hour.
“Well folks I think we can skip the weather forecast today!”
They smiled dutifully; he still cracked this joke every so often.
“Our correspondent in the North – thanks, Ger – tells us conditions are still the same. The official groups are still working to restore supplies and suits to families and are making their way slowly down. There is no reported shortage, and so we are still asked to wait patiently while they do their jobs. Yesterday’s report covered what we can expect when they arrive, and tomorrow we’ll talk about how we can manage on the outside. It’s been a long year for most of us, but there is light at the end of the tunnel. But remember: do not attempt to go outside without proper protection.
“And for the end of today’s news, we have a few birthday announcements.” He reeled off a list of names. “Happy birthday guys! Remember to give me a shout if you want your name called out too. Same time tomorrow!”
“I wish we could do that,” muttered Ruth yet again. “Why didn’t we get a two-way radio? It was my birthday last week.”
“Don’t start, Ruth, we’ve had this conversation before.”
She kept grumbling and stalked off to read a book. Alan wondered how she wasn’t tired of reading them. Her younger brother was already buried in his games again. He’d remind them about their homework later.

Kate turned to him, looking thoughtful.

“Do you really think they’ll come?”
“Why wouldn’t they? You heard him, he tells us what’s happening out there. We’ll be out of here before we know it. All those families we’ve heard about have been able to get out there and live again, and so will we. There’s all sorts of equipment. You don’t have to live underground if you have the right stuff. The worst of the animals will be gone by now, he said.”
She shook her head. “We’ve been so long in here, I don’t know what it will be like. Cold all the time. Wearing strange protective suits.”
He grinned. “Fewer arguments from the kids, I reckon. Peace and quiet.”
She smiled and went back to sitting under the UV lamp for the usual 20 minutes.

They had a similar conversation more often, now. They’d spent the first months in uncertainty, not able to go outside and not knowing what was happening. They’d heard about the pending impact, been told quietly to get into their shelter, avoid any riots, avoid any aftereffects. The tv had stopped working almost immediately and their phones had no signal inside. The radio was their only contact with the outside world, and all they could do was listen and hope.





“Why isn’t the show starting? It’s 3pm?”
Rob rolled his eyes. “It’s not even switched on, Mum.”
She blushed and turned the dial as they all shared a laugh.

Nothing happened.
“I only put fresh batteries in last week.” She tried replacing them again, but it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t switch on. Alan began to feel a small creeping dread in the pit of his stomach. He grabbed the radio from Kate, examining it impatiently and urgently. It was definitely stone dead. He slammed it down angrily.
“I bet you broke it, Rob, stole the batteries for your stupid games!”
“Shut up, I did not! You’re the one always complaining about wanting a two-way radio!”
They began to descend into their usual bickering, until Alan roared at them to shut up.
They all stared at him with huge eyes. It wasn’t like him to yell.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. The dread was spreading through his body, cold tendrils gripping his bones. They all looked solemnly at the radio.

“They’ll come for us anyway, won’t they, Dad? I mean, we don’t need the radio to know that. They’ll come for us sometime, and then we can go out again.”
“That’s right, Rob, they will. It’ll be ok. We’ll just have to get by ourselves for a while.”

Strange, what one little radio show could do for them. He never realised before how much they depended on that small contact they had. Without it, they were truly alone. The room suddenly seemed a lot smaller. He went to lie down.

Kate followed him and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his hand.

“Alan, you know it’ll be fine. They’re still going to come, whether we can hear the progress reports or not. You told me that yourself, yesterday.”
“I know,” he whispered.
“So what’s wrong? It’s just a radio, one half hour from one person each day. Nothing will change. It’s a nuisance, we’ll try to fix it, but if we can’t….” She shrugged.
“It’s just us now. Us alone in the world. Never talking to anyone else. Maybe they won’t come. How long will it take? We’re stuck here, in this small place.”
“Alan, you know it’s not just us. What’s come over you?” She frowned.
He closed his eyes and turned his head away. He heard her get up, sigh, and walk away.


The rest of the day passed in a daze. He sat there staring at the radio the next day, 3pm on the dot. They’d been unable to fix it at all, and given it up as impossible. The whole family was unusually subdued, though not as bad as him. There was no more arguing, only quiet talking when necessary. The tension in the air was palpable.
It continued on for another week, getting worse. Even Kate was becoming visibly strained. Alan sat and stared.

Ruth finally snapped and announced she was going to go open the door. “I’ve had enough of this. We can’t cope and I want to see what’s outside. It’s probably not even that bad.”
“Don’t be ridiculous and sit down, Ruth.”
“Why? Nobody is going to come and we don’t even know what’s going to happen anymore. What if they told us it was ok and we didn’t know?”
“Ruth, I’m getting a headache. Sit down and stop this nonsense about going out, please.”
“What, sit down and look like Dad?”
Kate slapped her, before clapping her hands to her own mouth in shock. Tears welled up in Ruth’s eyes and she ran to fling herself down on her own bed. Kate sat with her head in her hands. Alan sat and stared.




“Mum, wake up.”
“What? Rob? What time is it? What’s wrong?”
“I heard Ruth getting up. I think she’s going to try open the door.”
Kate grabbed her dressing gown and ran for the main shelter door. Ruth was covered head to toe in her heaviest winter clothes, had just managed to swing the heavy door open and was walking outside.
“Ruth, STOP!”
But Ruth kept walking, and then suddenly stopped. Kate had been so focused on her that she didn’t see anything else when following. Now she too stopped and looked around. Their house was gone. They had just walked into a large building, white and sterile, full of machines. There were no windows.
Two strangers were staring at them. They were dressed normally, and seemed nearly as shocked as Ruth and Kate. The man cursed. The woman shook her head at him. “2 more months, you said.”

“What… where’s our house? What’s going on?” asked Kate, uncertainly. Ruth was taking off her coat and hat; it wasn’t cold.
The strangers looked at each other.
“Why isn’t it cold? We were told it would be extremely hostile, not to even attempt to step outside. Are you the group that are giving out supplies? Did you build this?”
Ruth spoke in a dead flat tone of voice. “There was no impact, Mum. There wasn’t, was there?” She addressed this last to the man and woman standing in front of them. The man shook his head and looked nearly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” said the woman. “This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon… well. Here we are.”
“I think you owe us an explanation,” replied Kate coldly. Her arm was around Ruth. Alan and Rob had followed and were standing behind them.
“Your daughter is correct. There was no impact. We’ll work on restoring your memories shortly. You were volunteering for the first Martian colonies. Given their extreme isolation, we need to ensure all candidates can cope psychologically.”

“But the radio…” ventured Alan.

“There was no radio show, of course. He was just an actor.
“I regret to inform you that you’ve failed the testing. You were close, but recent observation indicates claustrophobic tendencies …” – she glanced at Alan – “…overall near breakdown, and you’re simply not suitable. Especially since you broke the test early.” She frowned. “You weren’t doing so badly until that radio broke, but all candidates will need to cope with situations like that. Normally, we inform the candidates a bit more gently at the end of the testing, if they manage that long. We thought you’d make it to the end. Of course, the fee will be in your accounts for the time spent… well, you’ll remember all that later. Don’t feel bad about it, roughly sixty per cent of the candidates fail. Now, if you’ll follow my colleague….”


“There was no radio show,” whispered Alan. He had felt like part of a community, listening to it every day. Hearing the stories about other people trapped in shelters, celebrating when they heard that some of them had been able to move outside again, hoping for their own turn. Laughing at the jokes. Felt so isolated without it. None of it was real.

Head down, he shuffled along behind his family as they walked together out the door.

Just finished re-reading these. I've voted for 1,6 and 10 and will comment a little later.

1. One of the better stories in the contest. It takes a careful read, or even a re-read to get the whole story but the sparing use of descriptive prose is actually key to the success of this story.

2. A decent story with a few technical flaws but the strong ending elevated it above the mediocre. It's thought-provoking without being heavy-handed.

3. Strong writing but the ending seemed telegraphed and there wasn't much of an actual story in this.

4. Self-indulgent and although it tries desperately to force a story out of disconnected ideas and prompts it ultimately fails as a story. Perhaps took the Zappa challenge too literally.

5. I wanted to like this but something felt off about it. The end seemed sort of tacked on, dissociated from the rest of the piece. I might have missed some pertinent detail in two readings but I felt it let itself down. I did love the 'police' image.

6. The sense of panic is well formed with the increasingly vague time stamps in the diary. It's bleak and not hugely original but a solid enough piece to get a vote from me.

7. A brave effort. Writer sets him/herself a tough challenge and almost rises to it. Sketchy rhyming the last line of most stanzas makes me wonder if this might have been better all round with a less rigid poetic style. The story itself is a nice subversion of a fairy tale.

8. If the ending had lived up to the beginning, this could have been a great story and was for the first 80%. Instead it's a case of what might have been. A shame, as the title and the story allowed for limitless possibilities. The naming convention for the characters is fantastic.

9. Personally, I couldn't get into this one. It's hard to fault it but on some level it just didn't appeal to me. The idea was good but maybe if the ending was written in such a way as to make the reader realise at the last second what was going on it would have worked better.

10. This is kind of the opposite - on the face of it not a particularly original or well-crafted story but something about it just hit the spot.