VOAT 15 - Magnetic 69 - READ & VOTE HERE

Das Kitty

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Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

It’s shortly after Dawn. The infamous ethereal fog has descended over San Francisco. I hope it doesn’t lift. Uncover the horrors left behind. Horrors we created. Horrors I helped create.

‘Come back from San Francisco. Please come home,
Please.
Claire.’

The last words she said, or rather wrote, to me. Three years now. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. Not yet.’ A raspy voice whispers from somewhere deep in my mind. Said aloud? I’m not sure. Tears unbidden moisten my cheeks. Memories unbidden are their catalyst - memories both wanted and unwanted. They bring a smile to my face and a hollowness to my heart.

‘Quit your ****ing moping.’ A gruff voice greets me with an even gruffer kick to the kidneys. ‘It’s late’

I groan and smile simultaneously. ‘**** you Mick, you ugly looking ****!’

He grins back a gap tooth smile. ‘I’m getting prettier by the day though. That’s what has you worried.’
‘There’s not enough money in the world for me to let you near me with that limp dick.’

‘There’s not enough world left in the world.’ He mutters, briefly morose. ‘Jesus Christ your pissy mood is infectious. ’
We make a quick breakfast of porridge on a primus stove, drink down some water. Heft on our gear and equipment – rifle, pistol, knife and a backpack of assorted essentials. We set out in companiable silence.

I remember reading about the First World War when I was young. The hardest of hard fought wars. Cruel. Slogging it out in trenches, heavy artillery fire, tanks, trenches and gas. Screaming men, dying in droves in the name of their country, fighting for God only knows what. This ‘war’ has been the antithesis, but still its own special brand of cruel. Entire cities that were, and then simply….weren’t. People laughing, joking in plazas, fighting at home, walking hand in hand down the street. These people had no cause, no agenda and no say. A bustling metropolis. Then silence. And from the silence emerged something different. A different race of human. It sometimes seems like only the scum of the earth survived. The human equivalent of cockroaches, dirty and spit upon by anyone with a shred of moral decency. Or maybe they were decent people before, and only the husk of a human being remained. Whatever happened, Mick and myself, we’re the last remnants of the clean-up team.

As the morning fog clears, and birds should sing while the sun should light up boulevards, instead the grim mood of the no – rise city continues. As usual, it’s me whom it falls upon to end our standoff. ‘What breaks when you say it?’

‘My ****ing peace of mind and sanity.’ Say one thing about Mick, say he’s sharp as a tac.
‘Hilarious. It’s silence. Silence breaks when you say it.’
‘Same as yesterday so. And the same again tomorrow.’
‘Aye.’
We lapse out of conversation again. Well, if our as our sophisticated back – forth could be labelled as conversation. Again, my mind wanders. The San Andreas fault. Almost ruined the city on 1906. But they regrouped and rebuilt, the citizens of this city. Maybe there’s only so many nocks the human condition can take- as an individual or a collective. This war has broken this city, just one amongst so many others with similar bleak stories.. On the surface, I presume it now looks similar to the aftermath of that great of event of 1906. As we walk, we scale entire buildings, giants striding – and sometimes stumbling – across skyscrapers reduced to rubble. The landscape puckered with crevices and craters. Buildings can rebuilt, holes can be filled in, but on the inside, the city has lost its soul. A pitiful creature on its last legs. Needing to be put down.
As we stalk across the cityscape, I wonder. How much longer of this drudgery? Scouring the city for all traces of humanity. And then ending that humanity. Killing my own.

‘You hear that?’ Mick whispers, suddenly tensed, coiled like a snake.
I listen. It’s funny how you learn to differentiate between human noises and that are just natural shifts or movements of precariously placed rubble. We veer to our right, picking our way quietly and carefully towards the source of a rustling and scraping sound.
‘Sounds like multiple persons’ I whisper. Getting closer. An overhang from a ruined two story house looks like the probable location. 20 yards and closing.
‘Oh ****! Smells like it too. ****!’
‘Ssshhh.’ Idiot. It does smell gruesome though.

We step in through a shadowed doorway, I go first. I’m greeted by a scene which I can only describe as guttural. Three skeletal children, ages five through twelve roughly. Covered in faeces, faces look up gaunt and stretched across thin skulls. Crazed eyes look at me. Hungrily. Which doesn’t make sense because they are feasting on the bloated remnants of a human body. I presume it’s their mother. Her eyes are missing, empty sockets see straight through me. The rest of her looks days – maybe up to a week – old. How do the children stomach it? I stop myself from retching as a fat maggot drops out of the mother’s nose.
All this registers in the time it takes Mick to say ‘Christ.’
I smoothly draw my silenced pistol, aim, fire. Aim, fire. Aim, fire. With each recoil, I recoil inwardly. What have I become? Three demons crumple to the ground, or at least that’s the lie I tell myself. They are no longer human, less than they were before. Beyond help.
I’m startled as beside me, Mick falls heavily to the ground. I look down at him, and he’s bleeding. Heavily. The cause of which seems to be a sharpened lump of steel protruding from the base of head. Just where the neck meets the head. It’s as if that thick San Fran fog has descended over my mind. My jaw literally drops, with a thud as audible as the one Mick’s body just made with the ground. He’s not moving. Why? What? Confusion overrides years of instinct, years of training. How?
And then I feel a sharp pin prick at the base of my skull. When did I start to sweat? When did it get so chill? A presence at my back whispers something to me. I don’t hear. Whoever it is drowned out by Claire’s pleading question.

Please come home. Please.
This morning’s tears rear their head again. Hot this time.
‘I’m sorry baby.’

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

“Call an ambulance. It’s your father.”

The phone is already in my hand, a supplier on the other end of the line, waiting for me to sort out a purchase order. I stare at Liam while a nasal voice rambles on about product codes.

“Ambulance,” Liam says calmly. This is not the office jokester. This is the volunteer firefighter, and he’s serious.

“I’ll call you back,” I say into the phone as my heart plummets. I hang up, then put the phone back to my ear and start dialling, my fingers punching 9-9-9. The display shows 99, then the phone clicks uselessly. I try again. 99, click. 99, click. I drop the phone and push away from my desk.

Ciaran’s office is two cubicles down. He swivels around in his chair as I storm in.

“Take your mobile. Call 999. It’s my dad.”

He pulls his phone out of a drawer, dials, and holds it out to me. My hands shake as I take it. It’s ringing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Liam rush into the kitchen and return seconds later with a damp towel. My brother Matt leaves his office, throwing a quizzical look my way.

“It’s Dad,” I say, my voice trembling.

Matt takes off around the corner to our father’s office. I hurry after him.

Dad is slumped back in his chair, the damp towel draped across his forehead. Liam moves from one side to the other, placing his fingers against Dad’s wrists, then his neck. He shakes his head at me and says something about not finding a pulse.

“999, what’s your emergency?” says a woman’s voice in my ear.

“We need an ambulance at 650¬–”

“I’ll need to transfer your call,” says the woman. “Please hold.”

A small cry escapes my lips. Transfer the call? No, there’s no time for this. It rings and rings and rings. Finally, another woman answers and I cut her off to give her the address and ask for an ambulance. She asks for specifics, confirming the town, asking whether it’s a business and what the name is, and requesting my phone number, which I manage to give without too much bumbling.

Meanwhile, my father struggles for breath, his mouth moving strangely as though he might swallow his own lips. His hands are curled under. Tremors shake his body.

“My hands are numb,” he says between gasps.

“How old is he?” asks the 999 dispatcher.

“Sixty-three.” But that’s my mother’s age. I search my addled brain for Dad’s age, trying to do the math – he’s younger than her – but the dispatcher has already moved on.

“Is he breathing?” Her voice seems far away and I have to strain to hear her properly.

“Yes,” I reply. “But not well.”

“Does he have chest pain?”

“Dad, do you have chest pain?” When he shakes his head no, I relay the information.

The dispatcher asks me a steady stream of questions I can barely keep up with. Between answering in a semi-coherent manner and trying to keep up with what Liam is telling me about my father’s pulse being too fast, my own heart is racing and I stammer over every second word.

“Gather his medication, don’t give him anything by mouth, and keep him comfortable,” the dispatcher says. “Due to the number of calls, it could take up to sixty minutes for the ambulance to arrive.”

Before I can gather my thoughts enough to protest, she hangs up.

“We have to wait for an hour,” I say, staring down at the mobile in my hand. I look up at Liam, whose fingers are still on my father’s wrist. “Should we take him ourselves?”

He shakes his head, takes his mobile from his pocket and opens the timer app. Matt holds a bag of ice on Dad’s head. I stare at my father, trembling violently in his desk chair, in the office I used to visit as a child, in this business he’s poured his heart and soul into.

“Maybe it’s my blood sugar,” rasps Dad as he tries to sit up. He gestures to his desk drawer with a trembling hand. Liam opens it and pulls out some glucose tablets, then helps Dad with the packaging. I watch from the doorway as Dad chews first one tablet, then two, then three. Only when he pops the fourth one in his mouth do I remember the dispatcher telling me not to give him anything. Too late now.

And shìte, I forgot to tell her that Dad is diabetic. I look down at the phone in my hand, wondering if I should call again.

“Call your mother,” says Dad. “But don’t worry her.”

I stare at him blankly for a moment. “What am I supposed to say that won’t worry her?”

“I’m all right,” he says, and it’s true that the shaking has subsided, and he’s no longer struggling for breath. “Just tell her what happened.”

I return Ciaran’s mobile and grab mine, which I now have the presence of mind to find under a rogue file on my desk. All my colleagues have mobilised, moving furniture to make room for the paramedics and doing the same in the car park. One of them asks for my car keys. My hands are still shaking so much I have trouble taking the key out of my coat pocket. I drop it in his palm, and as soon as he disappears, I duck into my brother’s empty office to call my mother.

When I tell her what happened, she’s surprisingly calm, saying it must be his blood sugar and the nagging cold he’s been fighting since last week. He’s been complaining of headaches and sure it’s nothing. She tells me she’ll drive to the hospital and wait for him there.

Then I have to call my brother Sean, who’s due back any minute from an appointment with a client. As I check out the window for his car, I see the ambulance pull in. No sirens. No flashing lights. No emergency.

Three paramedics hop out with bags of equipment. I hang back as they come in, pacing and swallowing back tears, then follow them to Dad’s office. The youngest paramedic takes the lead. He pulls out a notebook and starts asking Dad questions while the other two set up their equipment.

“How old are you?” asks the paramedic.

“Sixty-one,” replies Dad. I make a mental note to remember that.

When they hook him up to a heart monitor, I leave the office again to call Sean. I don’t want him to pull in and panic over the ambulance parked by the door.

“Where are you?” I ask him when he answers.

“Be there in about five minutes,” he replies, the rushing sound high speed driving in the background.

“Okay. Don’t panic. There’s an ambulance in the car park.”

“Why?” He drags the word out, but I can hear the tension in his voice.

“It’s for Dad. He’s okay. The paramedics are with him now.”

“What’s going on?”

I tell him what happened as best I can. I think I’m in shock. I can’t seem to remember the chain of events properly. A huge knot has settled in my stomach.

“I’m coming,” he says with a loud sigh. I recognize it as the one he uses to calm his anxiety.

He arrives a few minutes later, just as the paramedics are escorting Dad to the ambulance. He’s able to walk on his own, using Liam for support, and Matt and I follow him out. Sean joins us as they help Dad onto the stretcher. The heart monitor is still attached to the wires on his chest. He looks at the three of us and swallows.

“I’m grand,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.” And the doors close on him.

***

My grief is quiet. Muted, like a rock song played on acoustic guitar. It should be louder. It should drown everything out, like the crazed beats of a heavy metal concert or the shrill cries of opera. Instead, it strums softly in the background, an accompaniment for the sobs my mother stifles in a handkerchief and the minister’s sombre voice as he speaks of the meaning of life and death.

My father’s urn sits on an elegant table next to his photograph. He looks exactly like he did when he left in the ambulance, with better colouring perhaps. Healthy. Not sick enough to die.

The doctors threw around explanations with varying degrees of certainty: aneurysm, heart condition, complications due to diabetes. We declined the autopsy. We know that his heart stopped in the ambulance and it couldn’t be started again. That is knowledge enough.

My mother and I are sandwiched between my brothers. At the last funeral I attended – my grandmother’s – my father had been sandwiched between us, his presence a solid comfort with his wide shoulders, one strong hand clasped around my mother’s, the other passing me tissues as my tears soaked into my blouse.

I haven’t shed a single tear yet. The numbness came when the ambulance doors closed. It engulfed me when we walked into the hospital to find our mother collapsed in the arms of a nurse. It has been a constant companion through the funeral arrangements and the never-ending stream of emails and phone calls with family and friends. It’s certainly kept me calm while repeating the same shìte over and over.

But the true grief will come. It will find me in a quiet moment, unexpectedly, as it always does. It will be deafening. It will destroy me. And I will welcome it.

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

When Trevor asked me to marry him it came with one condition. I had to get rid of Andy.

“You’re almost thirty, Amy” he said. “It’s time.”

He was probably right, thirty is a little old to have an imaginary friend.

When I was nine my brother died. After the first few weeks the callers stopped calling, the food parcels stopped arriving, and my friends didn’t know what to say to me. The Spring turned into a long, hot, quiet summer of closed bedroom doors, and eating alone. Then one day Andy showed up. He wasn’t real, but that didn’t matter. I sat down at the breakfast table one morning and there he was, a little older than me, with a black eye and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“You can’t smoke in the house,” I said.

“Who’s going to stop me?”

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. I finished breakfast and we went shoplifting. Sweets for me and cigarettes for him. We sat in the old run down section of the graveyard and gorged ourselves. He blew smoke rings, and I ate so much chocolate that I had to get sick behind a headstone.

“This is fun,” I said, when the queasiness subsided.

“You’re such a square,” he said. “This is nothing, tip of the iceberg kid.”

We spent the rest of the summer ringing doorbells and running away, borrowing boats, throwing stones at passing trains, and shoplifting so much that the corner shop ran out of Mars bars. The day the police brought me home I expected the worst. Shouting, punishment, but nothing came. Just a resigned shrug from my mother that didn’t even break the silence that had taken over our house.

“You’re lucky,” said Andy. “I’d have gotten a hiding.”

“From who?” I asked, “You’re imaginary.”

“You can be such a bitch sometimes,” he said.

I didn’t see him for a week after that. I began to worry that I might never see him again. But he turned up, he always does.

I should have grown out of him. Kids normally do. But I hit my teenage years with a bang, and he was with me every step of the way. Always happiest when we were up to no good. Fifteen, with the windows down, music pounding as we drove my father’s borrowed car as fast as we dared on the narrow country roads. Every corner causing me to hold my breath, not knowing if it was with excitement or fear. When we pulled in beside the river my hands shook. We sat on the bonnet, not caring about the cold.

“You and me are the only ones really alive in this place,” said Andy.

“Are you taking the piss?” I asked. He narrowed his eyes, but let it go.

There was a disco that night, some kids from my year were going. I could have gone too, I nearly did. I was all ready to leave when something stopped me in my tracks. Something cold and hard growling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t leave the house, I couldn’t leave my room. I sat on my bed and felt the room begin to spin slowly around me. My heart began to thump faster against my chest, and then I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Hey kid,” he said. “Trouble brewing?”

I closed my eyes, my pulse slowed down.

“You,” I said. “Always you.”

“Lets go for a drive,” he had said.



College was better. Or if you were to believe Andy, college was boring. I spent too much time with other people, doing the things other people did, like going to lectures, or hanging out with people from my course.

“You’re becoming boring,” he said one night as I was getting ready to go out. He lay on my bed watching me putting on my makeup.

“Normal Andy,” I said, trying to concentrate on not smudging my eyeliner, “I’m becoming normal.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “Get it out of your system will you? Then we can go back to having actual fun.”

“I am having fun,” I said. “If I’m too boring for you maybe you should leave.”

“And go where?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Wherever people like you go.”

“People like me?” he asked, with a surprised look. But Andy could never keep a straight face when he was pretending to be shocked. He giggled and picked up a magazine from my bedside locker. “Don’t be stupid. I’ve nowhere to go kid, you’re it.”

He began flipping through the magazine.

“Can you be serious a minute?” I asked. He eyed me over the top of the magazine. “Do we really need to do this anymore? I mean, I don’t think I need you.”

He put down the magazine, eyebrows knitted, concerned.

“Maybe you should leave,” I said.

He sat up.

“But,” he said, and searched for the right words. “We’ve been together forever. You can’t really mean it.”

“I’m just too old to have an imaginary friend,” I said. “We should have done this a long time ago.”

“Wait…” he began, but I closed my eyes tight and he stopped talking. I counted to ten. When I opened them he was gone.

He stayed gone.

I got on with my life. I finished college. I got a job. I met Trevor. I’d met a lot of men over the years that had described themselves as nice, they never were. Trevor wasn’t nice. Trevor was kind.



I was surprised that it took my mother as long as it did to kill herself. She’d lived such a half life since my brother’s death that I’d always imagined that she’d just continue on in that haze forever. But I guess at some point she figured enough was enough, and fifteen years after her world ended she finished the job herself.

Its funny how these things work. By all rights I should have been a mess, I should have been upset, or angry. But I felt nothing. I felt nothing when I arrived home to my father’s blank, lost face. I felt nothing when I saw the coffin in the living room. I felt nothing when neighbour after neighbour gripped my hand and told me how sorry they were. I floated through it all and none of it touched me. After the funeral Trevor dealt with feeding people and I drifted up to my old bedroom and shut the door. As the door clicked shut I leaned back against it and watched as a black fringe encroached on my vision. It expanded until my room seemed very far away from me. My legs decided that they could no longer support my weight and I sank slowly to the ground. A weight I never knew possible began crushing in at me from all sides. I tried to scream but no sound came out. I don’t know how long I lay there. I just know that one moment I was in the darkness and the next I felt a familiar hand on my shoulder.

“Is it you?” I asked,.

“Its me,” said Andy. “Always me.”

The darkness evaporated and finally I could cry.



We moved in together. Me, Trevor, and Andy. Although Trevor thought it was only the two of us. Andy and I would sit up late after Trevor had gone to bed, watching bad TV, making fun of it. We would mute the very worst shows and provide our own dialog.

“I don’t get what you see in him,” said Andy, one night. “He’s nothing like us.”

“That’s exactly why I like him,” I said. “The last thing I need is someone like us.”

“But we’re awesome,” said Andy slyly.

“We’re idiots,” I said.

Andy drove to work with me every day. We would spend the entire commute home talking about my day, making fun of my co workers. By the time I’d get home I’d be all talked out. Trevor began to get suspicious, and asked me about it over dinner one evening.

“Are you seeing someone else?” he asked and I laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I answered. “Just the turn of phrase.”

He tensed his shoulders and pushed the food around his plate. I put my hand on his.

“I’m not having an affair,” I said. “You’re the only man in my life.”

Across the table Andy raised a sarcastic eyebrow and I struggled to keep a straight face. Trevor saw this and pushed his chair back. I stopped him.

“There is something,” I said. “Something I haven’t told you. But its not what you think.”

He took it a lot better than most people would. Its not often you find out that your significant other still has an imaginary friend. He said that my reliance on Andy probably stemmed from all the difficult times I went through. That I obviously needed something and this was much healthier than some of the other crutches I could have used. When he held me I sank into him and closed my eyes. I imagined Andy rolling his eyes at this show of sincerity but he was a dick.

When Trevor proposed it was time for Andy to go. For good.

On the day I planned to kill Andy I packed the car with a picnic and the two of us headed for the coast. We rolled the windows down, turned up the music and sang along badly.

“We never do this anymore,” he said. “Its like old times.”

He propped his feet up on the dashboard and closed his eyes as the wind ruffled his hair. I felt a pang in my stomach, knowing that I would never take another journey with him again. Never listen to his bad jokes, or sarcastic comments. Never feel his hand on my shoulder. I blinked away the tears and focused on the road.

We parked the car and climbed up to the clifftop picnic area.

“The top of a cliff,” he said. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were planning to push me off.”

I didn’t answer him.

“Oh for ****s sake,” he said. “You’re going to push me off, aren’t you?”

“Help me set up the picnic,” I said.

We spread the blanket on the grass and emptied the basket of its contents. Seagulls circled above us, waiting for scraps. We ate the sandwiches in silence, Andy eyeing me darkly throughout.

“I thought you’d like it,” I said, eventually. “Its a pretty good way to go out don’t you think? More epic than just blinking out of existence.”

“You can’t just get rid of me,” he said.

“I’m nearly thirty,” I said. “I’m too old for an imaginary friend.”

“But you need me,” he said. The tears forming in his eyes.

“I need to learn how to stand on my own two feet,” I said. “If I keep depending on you I’ll never grow up.”

“But we’ve been together forever.”

“Not forever,” I said. “Just since…”

“No,” he insisted. “I’ve always been with you. You only saw me when you needed to.”

His face swam in front of me as my eyes filled. I looked away and took a deep breath before standing up. I held out my hand, still refusing to look at him. It felt like an age before he took it, softly. He stood up and we walked towards the edge.

“Are you going to push me?” he asked.

“I can if you want,” I said.

He squeezed my hand, before releasing it. He stepped to the edge, the wind whipping his clothes and his hair. He turned back to look at me, one last time, and then he was gone.

—

Does your life flash before your eyes before you die? No idea. Mine didn’t. Not all of it. Just flashes. Moments in time. Driving down pitch dark lanes at night, daring death to catch us. Nicking sweets and fags and running so fast we thought our lungs would burst. My hand on your shoulder when you thought your world would end. Puking, and laughing, and smoking, and crying, and you kid, always you, always you.

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

Rosie White gazed out of the living room window, her bony hands clasping and unclasping as she tried to contain her anticipation. Charles was on his way, she was sure of it this time. Today was the day he would bring her to Arizona, to see the Grand Canyon. What was keeping Michelle with her suitcase? She knew they had a plane to catch.
Ah, here she was.
'Michelle, my suitcase? Is it in the hall? Did you remember my talcum powder? And that book by my bed, it's a lovely read. You can have it when I get back.'
'Back from where, Mam?'
'America! Sure your father will be here any minute, I'd say he's just stopped into Ryan's for some petrol'
'Oh, okay. Mam - ' Michelle hunkered down beside Rosie and looked at her with kind blue eyes, like her father's. 'Mam, I don't think Dad is coming for you today. He... he's got the flu. Maybe next week.'
'No, no, no. It's today, he said so. He's got the tickets and all. We're going to stay in the Travelodge tonight'
'Dad's not well, Mam. He says he's very sorry'
'Right. Well I'd better make him some soup for his tea then'.
'Okay Mam'.
Michelle left her mother sitting in her armchair by the fire, with the lunchtime news murmuring in the background. On her way out, her father's Mass card caught her eye on the dresser.

Rosie's diagnosis had come six years ago now. The signs were unmistakeable anyway; the inability to remember acquaintances' names, her reading glasses in the freezer and switching to Velcro fastenings on her shoes as she hadn't wanted to admit that some mornings, her laces were getting the better of her. Rosie had tried to conceal her symptoms, but she wasn't fooling Michelle or James. For all her little lapses these days, Alzheimer's was one word she wasn't having trouble recalling, yet.
It had been decided - not by Rosie, at any rate - that it would be for the best if she went to live with Michelle and her family. James lived nearby too, so there would always be someone around. Rosie resented feeling overborne and watched, but as time went on, her grasp on reality became more and more tenuous.

She had first set eyes on the Grand Canyon nearly sixty years ago in an encyclopaedia, on one of those rare occasions when Sister Frances had allowed the older girls in the convent a glimpse into the outside world. The photograph was in black and white, but it captivated Rosie regardless. 'Created by natural erosion, a must-see for any visitor to the American west coast'. Rosie could never imagine simply visiting America; in her day, when someone went to America they went for good. She might have too, had it not been for Charles White.
When Rosie left the nuns, it was to work as a shop girl, and she was lucky to get the job too, as Sister Assumpta kept reminding her the week before she left. It wasn't long before young Charles, her most handsome regular with his shock of black hair and his deep blue eyes, was pestering her to go to the pictures.
'Ah go on, Miss Clancy. Don't leave a poor fella lonely on a Friday night'
'I don't know Charles, I might be busy!'
From that Friday night on, they were inseparable. Rosie had never known what it was to have someone want to spend time with her. She had been with the nuns all her life, born to an unwed mother and an unknown father. But although she couldn't put her finger on why, she knew that Charles White was something else.

He was speaking to her, right now. They were eating chips on a bench one warm sunny evening, telling each other their life's ambitions. Charles had draped his jacket over the back of the bench and Rosie was considering kicking off her shoes.
'So, if you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?'
This one was easy. 'The Grand Canyon'
'Why? Is it not just a load of rock?'
'Yes I suppose, but it just looks brilliant. Like you could walk around it for days and not get bored'.
'All right so. Rosie Clancy, if you agree to marry me, then I'll bring you to the Grand Canyon someday'
She nearly choked on her chips.

'Rosie, it's dinner time'
She snapped out of her reverie. The sky outside was darkening, and someone had switched on the lamps. A man was standing in the doorway, holding a spatula in one hand and an oven glove in the other.
'You're not Charles. Michelle, why is there a strange man in my house?' Her voice began to rise.
'Rosie, it's okay, I'm Ian, Michelle's husband. You live with us now, don't you remember?'
Michelle hurried in, and for a split second she looked tired. Rosie appeared aghast in her chair, and was starting to shout: 'Where is Charles? He was supposed to be home ages ago, I'm going to send Mark out to look for him'
'Mam, please...' Michelle's voice cracked. 'Dad and Mark aren't here anymore, you know that. Mark had the accident, and Daddy - '
'I don't believe you, you're lying!'
These stand-offs were becoming more frequent. Rosie yelled and yelled until she collapsed into her chair again, exhausted. Michelle was merely grateful that she hadn't tried to make a bolt for it again, in search of one of her ghosts.

'But I'm just me, I'm the only me and you used to love me that way...'
Charles rolled his eyes and nodded towards the ceiling. 'I don't know where he got that voice, Ian, but it wasn't from his mother's side of the family!'
Their grandson Darragh was singing before he had any words to sing, and his musical tastes were becoming more and more eclectic.
'Don't I know it, Charlie. He's mad to see this band, The Magnets or something'
'Well I think it's marvellous' Rosie chimed in. 'It's good for young ones to have a passion for something'.
'If only he had the same passion for his homework!' Michelle's voice rang out from the kitchen, where she was making tea. 'Singing morning, noon and night won't help him pass his exams'.
Later that evening, Charles turned the car into their drive. He turned off the ignition and rather than getting out to open the front door, he turned to Rosie. The brevity of their earlier conversation had left his face.
'Rosie, I've been to the doctor'
'I know'. She waited.
'It's my lungs. The cigarettes have caught up with me'. A pause. 'I've got cancer'.
That night, he held her for hours until the tears stopped and sleep took over.

'Oh my God, he's going to fall off that thing if he goes any faster!'
'Relax, love. Sure look at his face, he's only made up with himself'
Charles draped an arm over Rosie's shoulder as the two of them observed their raven-haired son racing the neighbours' kids around the housing estate on his new red bicycle. Charles had arrived home with it that evening, much to his eldest son's delight.
'He won't be grinning like that when he comes crying to me with a split knee'. But Rosie's retort was accompanied by a playful dig in the ribs. Charles White might break her heart at times, but his young family never wanted for anything.
Michelle toddled up to her parents on unsteady legs, finding purchase on her father's trouser leg before she toppled out the door. Charles swung her into his arms and she cackled with laughter.
'What do you think, Shelly? Are we going to have another Shelly or another Mark?'. Charles pointed to Rosie's belly, slightly rounded under her housecoat.
'A me!' Michelle beamed, pointing a pudgy finger at her own belly.
At first, Rosie was too preoccupied with her daughter to notice Mrs. Conroy's young lad running towards their house. He was panting, his eyes wide with panic.
'Mrs. White! Mrs. White! Mark's hurt, missus. He fell off, I tried to get him up but he - '
She felt the blood drain from her face. Without thinking twice, Charles had darted from the doorstep, still clutching Michelle in his arms. She lurched after him, swallowing back nausea.
By the time she reached them, Charles sat on the ground clutching Mark's floppy form. Michelle had been passed to a neighbour while another sprinted to his house to ring for a doctor. His face was blanched, except for the trickle of blood dripping from his temple to his mouth. The red bike lay strewn a few yards away, near the curb that connected with Mark's head.

Michelle sat beside her mother's bed, listening to the hum of the ward and watching the stream of nurses and visitors pass their bay. Rosie lay in a fitful sleep, occasionally murmuring under her breath. The pneumonia had come on swiftly and hard, barely four months after she became convinced Charles was bringing her to the Grand Canyon. Her memory was deteriorating by the week now, her vocabulary disintegrating and her moods becoming less violent, more apathetic. Michelle dared not allow herself to cry. Not yet.
'Water. Want drink'.
'Sure, Mam'. A raised cup her to mother's lips. 'Did you get some sleep?'. A barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders.
'Mark. Here?'. There was a flash of hope in her eyes, the closest thing to a smile that Michelle had seen in weeks.
'No, Mam. James is coming tonight though, to see you'
'Yes. James is nice'
'He is'
Rosie appeared frail in her nightie, propped up by pillows. Her once chestnut hair was now white, and many lines surrounded her green eyes. Perhaps it was for the best that her memory had failed her; she had too many bad memories for one person alone. More than her fair share. The world inside her head was one which brought her peace; forcing her to relive her losses everyday was more than Michelle, nor James, could bear.

James sat in his car, watching the clock tick towards 7pm. Visiting hours. His mother hardly recognised him now; more often than not she called him Mark. It wouldn't hurt quite so much if her two sons had ever met. However, he had long given up correcting her. These days, her mind was caught between the living and the not, and the latter was drawing her further away still.
Rosie had fallen asleep again by the time her youngest son came to visit. James settled in to the chair beside her bed. Even if Rosie never knew he was there, he wanted to be there. Even if she didn't know who he was anymore. From the time he was born, his mother held him fiercely close. If she had had her way, he would never have crossed the threshold of their home. It wasn't until his twelfth birthday that she finally relented and allowed Charles to buy him his first bicycle. It was a blue one.

Rosie couldn't believe that her James was getting married. As much as she adored Deirdre as a daughter-in-law, it pained her to think that he wasn't her baby anymore. He had bought her a double string of pearls for the big day, surreptitiously handed to her the night before when they had a moment to themselves in the kitchen amidst the chaos and excitement. As beautiful as they were, she was finding the clasp a little fiddly.
'Having trouble, Mam?'. James had popped his head around the door, noticing her fumbling.
'No no love, not at all.... well, actually...'
He strode across the room and fastened the necklace, and she settled it against her powder blue jacket lapels.
'There. Now, I'd best get my suit on. I don't think it's the done thing for the groom to be late, is it?'. His eyes twinkled playfully; James had never been late for anything in his life.
'Don't keep the poor girl waiting, whatever you do. Your father will have you strung up!'
'Don't I know it. Mam - '. A pause. 'I wish that Mark was here, you know'
'I know. Me too'.

Rosie stirred ever so slightly, enough to draw James' eyes up from his newspaper. He leaned in closer, ready to pour some water or call a nurse. Her eyes flickered; she was barely awake really.
'Charles?'
'No Mam, it's me, James'
But she wasn't really seeing him or hearing him anymore. She only just felt James' hand on hers, for something distracted her. Charles was but a few feet away from her, exactly as she remembered him from their wedding day, down to the shine off his new shoes. He held out a hand to her, and the one that she stretched towards him was unlined and unmarked by liver spots and age.
'There you are, love. I've been waiting ages for you!'
'Well I'm here now, aren't I?'
'And looking gorgeous as ever'. He flashed two tickets before her eyes. 'Are we going to this Grand Canyon or what?'

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

The first time the man came into Father Patrick Hennessy's confessional, he stayed silent for some time. Hennessy was not perturbed however; he understood that people found it difficult to unburden their consciences, or to verbalise that which they most wanted to relieve. Even within the silent gloom of the little box, Hennessy could see a steely coldness in the mans strange eyes.

“It’s ok. Take your time, and when you are ready, you can tell me what is on your mind.”

Eventually the man spoke. He did not start with the usual ‘bless me father for I have sinned’, but instead told the priest that he came in here to atone for things that the church believes are mortal sins.

“I notice,” said Father Hennessy. “That you said that that the church believes that they are mortal sins, indicating that you yourself do not.”

The man did not answer.

“Tell me what is on your mind.”

“First of all, Father. The church is not good to me.”

“In what way?”

“I am a homosexual, Father.”

Hennessy nodded and felt terribly bad for the man. Certainly, it could not be easy for him. He cleared his throat again, and spoke softly and measuredly.

“I apologize that the church has caused you pain. I believe that you are the way God made you. I hope in my heart that we can change, and I am praying that the Pope will someday catch up with the rest of the world.”

Strangely, the man stood up and said:

“Goodbye Father!”

With every Wednesday that passed, the man returned, never involving himself in the ritual of confession, yet always adding another mortal sin that he had committed. He framed them in such a normal fashion. He said that he had watched on the news the pictures of the dead refugee children washed ashore like rubbish on the strand, and had said aloud that God was evil, and in doing so had committed the sin of blasphemy. He said that he had wished great harm upon people who had wronged him, and that he lived in constant envy of other people. These, he said, were all sins that would send him to hell, yet never once did he look for absolution.

As the weeks went on, the man’s sins become more amoral and depraved. One Wednesday he told Father Hennessy that he was committing adultery with his neighbour’s wife, and fornicating with her daughter, which was obviously contradictory to his earlier confessions. Soon, Hennessy began to see the man for what he was; a deft antagonizer.

When the man showed up the following Wednesday, Father Hennessy was in no mood for him. Not only had the man’s mockery offended him, but he had been suffering from blinding headaches all day, which wore his patience down to a razors edge. When the man stepped into the box and told the priest that he was finding himself attracted to livestock, Hennessy rolled his eyes and told the man to stop wasting his time. He told the man that until he was seriously requesting absolution, that he was not welcome in the confessional. Upon hearing this, the man stood up and said, in his usual tone:

“Goodbye father!”

On his drive home from the church that evening, Father Hennessy pulled into the shopping centre on the ring road to attend the late night Pharmacy. His headache had gotten worse, and he had broken out in a cold sweat. Yes, he was sure that he was coming down with something very severe. After purchasing his medication, he made his way back to the car. As he drove home, he couldn’t put his finger on why the man’s mockery of the Sacrament of Confession had annoyed him so much. After all, unbeknownst to everyone around him, he himself had severe doubts about his faith, having witnessed his mother’s slow death almost six months previous.

She was the finest woman that ever lived, and had been a great mother to him and his sisters. She had shielded them from their abusive drunkard father, and had worked tirelessly and selflessly to provide for them in every way. And she was always quick to laugh, despite the bad turns she had in life, suffering poverty, abuse and poor health. Ten months ago, her health left her completely, replaced by malevolent growths in her lungs.

As the sickness increased its grip on her, Hennessy sat by her bed every day, and saw her body break down into a wretched imitation of what it once was. He watched her struggle through immense pain to leave her bed to pray. In the early days, he admired her for her faith, her strength.

As time went by, she fell further into the abyss. Unable to stand, or even raise herself up, for some strange reason she had decided to refuse pain medication. All she wanted to do was pray, and for her son to pray beside her. One night, after hearing for hours the pestilential wheezes of her breath, she awoke and beckoned him to her with a weak moan. She wanted to pray. He blessed himself and leaned toward her and looked into her hopeless painfilled eyes. The story in those eyes, glassed with flaxen dew, awoke in him a surety that her prayers were futile, for there was no God to help her. He winced when he had realised what he had thought, and cast it from his mind.

But alas, the thought had left a seed. Over the following weeks, as she deteriorated further, that seed began to spout, not upward into a tree, but downward in long tangling roots which invaded every cavern of his mind, and broke through all his walls of surety, spreading doubt wherever they went. He could no longer find meaning in anything he did, and he began to view the world through strange eyes which were not his but were his own entirely.

Still, he stayed and comforted her with prayer. In the end he dutifully officiated over all of her funerary proceedings, but through all of it (along with the sadness he felt at her death), he had to contend with the gaping hole of meaninglessness that doubt had carved out of his heart. He knew a crossroad had been reached; would he stay or resign from the priesthood? Grudgingly, he decided to remain for a year and see how it went. The memory stayed with him of the comfort he had given his mother in her final days, and he knew that with faith or without it, he would find it very difficult to turn his back on the parishioners who needed him. Although it frightened him that his vocation may not be fueled anymore by his faith in God, he hoped instead that he could use his own sense of self sacrifice and charity as fuel. Time, he knew, would tell him all.

He switched off the car in his driveway, his vision blurring under the strength of his headache. He struggled into the house and filled a glass of water and swallowed two of the tablets, they would knock him out for sure. He ascended the stairs and undressed and went to bed.

In the dead of night he awoke confusedly, his body shivering with cold and his skin slicked and feverish. Meaningless words obliterated his thoughts and scattered them haphazardly about in his mind. He heard footsteps in the doorway, and the creaking of the floorboards out on the stairs. He felt presences in his room, standing over him, watching him. Voices spoke in the darkness, the voices of his parishioners.

“Glory to you, O Lord!”

He had regular sensations that he was falling from great heights. Oh this was a fever, and although his dreams were trying to take him, the world would not let him go.

He heard a voice then, so vivid. It was the man from the confessional whispering to him.

“Father, I have a confession. You should know that I have a gun.”

Hennessy’s eyes bolted open. He couldn’t see the man through the darkness, but he knew that he was standing over him. When he heard the hammer click, a great wave of shivering coldness and fear swept over him.

“Father, do you feel that you are closer to God?”

“N-no.”

“Oh Father, if only you knew, for as you look into the darkness, you are looking upon the face of God!”

“Thanks be to God!” said the parishioners.

“What is God, Father?”

“God is love. God is light.”

The man laughed. “Isn’t it true that God is everywhere?”

“Yes.”

“And that He alone is the Truth?”

“Yes.”

“Is it so that Truth, in its very being, is constant and unchangeable? That truth can only be seen when all lies have been stripped away?

“Yes.”

“So in the absence of all lies, what we have left is truth?”

“Yes!”

“And doesn’t it say in John 8:44 that the devil is the father of lies?”

“Yes.”

“I am a scientist Father. I do not believe in all you say about God. I do not believe that he cares about what we do, who we love or hate, or where we go on a Sunday. All those sins I told you in the confessional – they are ridiculous. Preposterous. Surely you can see that religion is the conjecture of man. But as a scientist, I can educate you on truth, and from that truth I will show you the face of God.”

Parishioners: It is right to give Him thanks and praise!

“You told me, Father, that God is light. This cannot be, as you also said that he is Truth. Truth, Father, is constant and ever present. Light, however, is fleeting. It is so fleeting; it is the fastest speed measurable to man. Darkness, on the other hand cannot be measured, because it is always there. And just as truth is what remains in the absence of lies, so too darkness is what remains in the absence of light. God is not light, unless you are telling me that God is a lie.”

Parishioners: We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, …

The man spoke at length about other truths and lies. He said that all sounds and words were not truthful, for they too were fleeting and measurable, and in their absence there was one immovable and ever present truth, the truth of silence. Similarly, heat and warmth were lies, and the truth that remained in their absence was cold. Father Hennessy's teeth began to chatter.

Parishioners: Holy, Holy, Holy God. The God of power and might…

“You told me Father, that God is love. This cannot be. God cannot be love Father, because God is truth. Just like light, and sound, and heat; love is a lie. As is hate, envy, humour. All of our emotions and actions are lies, Father, because they are a part of life, and life is the biggest lie of all! The only truth regarding life; is death as death is the constant in the absence of life. Therefore, if God is the truth then God is death. As John 8:44 says that the devil is the father of lies, then so too is the devil our father, as he is the father of life and of everything we see and hear and feel, including love. Do you see the truth now Father? Can you open your eyes and see God for the nothing that he is?”

“Yes,” said Hennessy. He was crying and he was afraid.

Hennessy heard a click and closed his eyes tightly; he knew his time was at hand. A loud bang filled the room, but Hennessy did not feel the bullet. Instead, he heard the body of the man wallop against his bedroom wall, and collapse onto floor.

“And also with you!” said the parishioners.

The room again fell still, leaving the priest alone with darkness, silence, and death. Hours passed.

Hennessy's breath left him in pitiful wheezes. He saw in his mind’s eye the face of his mother, the face that she had had as a young woman, looking down at him. He himself was no longer an adult, but a baby in the crib. Gently, his mother placed her soft hand on his torso. She was feeling his little chest at it rose and fell, and the warmth of her hand was palpable and reassuring. She spoke to him in soft whispers, and softly she began to sing. After all the proofs that had been made, and all the beliefs that he had amassed and lost in his life, he looked up into his mother’s eyes, wet with love, and looked upon the face of God.

*

In the morning, Father Hennessy awoke anew. The long night was over. Having washed and showered, he entered his room again and dressed himself. Walking over to his dresser, he picked up his white collar and studied it.

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

My husband Philip is the sort of person who knows stuff. Not useful stuff, just stuff. Trivia, I suppose you’d call it. The sort of stuff the rest of us google or get by without knowing he keeps in his head.


He likes to get home from work in time to watch The Chase before dinner. I see him counting the answers he gets right in the cash builder on his fingers. He nearly always needs both hands, usually getting £6,000 or £7,000 of imaginary money. I see how he is disappointed with himself if he only gets £4,000 or £5,000 even if it is more than the contestant gets.


I tell him he should go on it but he shakes his head. “It’s easy sitting in an armchair. It would be a different matter standing there under the lights. I wouldn’t remember my own name.” That is the thing about Philip. For somebody so clever, who knows so much stuff, he has no confidence in himself.


He doesn’t have a lot of patience with people who know less than him. In the real world he hides this well but in front of the TV he can express himself. I see him shaking his head when The Chase contestants get a question wrong that he knows the answer to. If it is a particularly bad miss he tuts or says to me, “Even you would know THAT.”


I don’t take offence. He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds. I know that he is the one in our marriage that knows stuff so while we were having dinner out for our anniversary I asked him, “Where’s Lansing?”



It wasn’t that I particularly cared but I wanted to give him the satisfaction of telling me something that he knew and I didn’t. It didn’t work out like that because he didn’t know either.


“Never heard of Lansing. Why do you ask?”


“It’s in that song that’s playing. Be we in Paris or in Lansing, Nothing matters when we’re dancing.”

He began to listen to the background music in the restaurant. “It might be a made-up name to rhyme with dancing,” he suggested.


“Maybe,” I agreed, like I usually do, “but it sounded like a place.” Then the song was over and we talked about the food, the children and the neighbours. We said how nice it was to get out and that we must do it again soon although both of us knew it would be our wedding anniversary again next year before we got around to it.


When Philip was checking his emails that night, as he always does before he goes to bed, he looked up from his laptop and announced, “Lansing is the capital of the Michigan. It’s a good choice to contrast with Paris. Probably one of those depressing industrial cities with high unemployment. Funny, I would have said Detroit was the capital of Michigan.”



“That’s what I would have said too,” I agreed although I had only a vague idea where Michigan was. If Philip said Detroit was in Michigan then it was and since even I had heard of Detroit while neither of us had ever heard of Lansing then it did seem a more likely candidate.



“You learn something new every day,” said Philip, satisfied that he knew more than he had that morning. I would forget it before I got to bed but Philip would file the information away along with all the other stuff he kept in his head. Someday it might come up in The Chase. Bradley would ask, “Which of these is the capital of an American state, Cutting, Piercing or Lansing?” and Philip would know when the contestant didn’t.


The chaser would know the correct answer of course, adding casually that it is the capital of Michigan. They are about the only people who know more stuff than Philip does. That is why he admires them, especially The Beast. Usually he would be critical of somebody weighing twenty stone plus, asking why he didn’t go on a diet, but he never mentions the size of The Beast. He only sees the brain, not the body.


That is why when I figured out that he was cheating on me I knew it wouldn’t be somebody younger and prettier than me but somebody smarter. It took me a good while to realise what was going on. He went to this astronomy group on a Wednesday night. He was going for years and hardly ever missed it. Then I started to notice something odd. He used to tell me about what they saw or what they discussed, although I had never paid much attention and flatly refused to go along, but he suddenly stopped. If I asked him what happened he gave evasive answers. He could have told me a pack of lies and I’d never have noticed but telling me I wouldn’t be interested after years of happily telling me stuff he knew I wasn’t interested in was highly suspicious. In the end I couldn’t stand it anymore and drove over to the community college one Wednesday night. Sure enough there was no sign of his car. I drove home and waited for him.


I wanted to confront him but I hadn’t the nerve. What if he admitted everything and left me? While I pretended I didn’t know he seemed willing to go on as before. He came in as usual and threw his coat over the back of a chair.


“Did you do anything exciting tonight?” I asked.


“Same old,” he replied. “Nothing you would be interested in.”


“I might come along next week,” I said. “I could do with a new hobby and it would be nice if we could do something together.”
He didn’t even blink. You think that when you’ve been married to somebody for over twenty four years that you know them but the liar putting on the kettle could have been a complete stranger.


“The class is full,” he said, although there hadn’t been more than half a dozen cars parked outside it, “and you always said it wasn’t your thing. Maybe we could take up something else. There is a beginner’s French class on a Thursday night. They say learning a new language is one of the best ways to keep your brain young. It builds up new neural connections. I’ll enquire about it tomorrow.”


So we started going to French classes. I had done it at school and although I hadn’t spoken a word of it in over thirty years it started to come back to me and for once there was something I was better at than Philip. I still didn’t know what he was doing every Wednesday night and the not knowing was driving me crazy. I confided in my best friend Alice. She didn’t believe me.


“You are imagining it. Philip would never cheat on you. He isn’t the type.”


“There isn’t a type. For the last seven weeks and god knows how many more before that he leaves here on a Wednesday evening, doesn’t go to his astronomy group, then comes back as if nothing’s happened. I have to find out what he’s doing.”


Alice, who fancies herself as a bit of a Miss Marple and who was convinced they was a perfectly innocent explanation, even if she couldn’t think of one, offered to follow him and see where he went to. The next Wednesday she did and reported back.


“He didn’t go to the community college.”


“I know that much already.”


“I’m trying to tell you,” she said. “He drove to the other side of town and stopped outside a house in Ashbrook Rd. A woman let him in.”


“I knew it,” I said. “What did I tell you? He’s a lying cheat.”


“Hold on. There is no way he’s having an affair with her. She is old enough to be his mother. Maybe he is doing some sort of voluntary work, visiting the elderly.”


“Then why lie about it? I’m telling you that her age or appearance wouldn’t matter. I’ll bet she’s a professor or something. Philip is fed up with having a dull, stupid wife. He needs somebody as smart as he is.”


“You’re not stupid,” Alice said. “Why would he have married you and stayed with you all this time if he thought you were stupid?”


“It was different when the children were at home. We never had time to talk to one another. He probably didn’t notice. What will I do? I can’t live with a lair and don’t know how I’ll live without him. He’s always been the only man for me.”


“You’ll work it out,” she assured me.


I didn’t think we could. I went straight to bed. When Philip came in I told him I had a cold to explain away the red eyes. He brought me a hot drink and was full of false sympathy.


“You have to get better before the weekend. Remember we’re going away for our anniversary. Who would have thought twenty five years could past so quickly and you are still as beautiful as ever.”


That was the final proof. Only a guilty conscience would have him doling out compliments. The next thing he would be buying me flowers. I didn’t feel like going away but decided I would confront him when we got to hotel. It might be easier on neutral ground, not in the home we had shared for so long.


On Friday morning Philip was very chirpy, obviously looking forward to the weekend I was dreading. He was humming along to the radio when I noticed he had taken a wrong turn.


“You’re going the wrong way,” I said.


“No. We’re going to the airport. A weekend down the country is all very nice but a silver wedding anniversary deserves a little more than that.”


“But I don’t have my passport,” I said.


“No worries.” He tapped his breast pocket. “ I have it.” I didn’t know that he even knew where the passports were. I look after all those sorts of things. He knows the stuff and I do the stuff. Now everything was upside down. He was making arrangements and I knew something he didn’t suspect I knew.


“Where are we going?” I asked.


“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said.


At the airport he went to the check in desk for Paris Charles de Gaulle. The city of love. The city he knew I always wanted to visit. I didn’t know what he was playing at. I barely spoke on the journey. He put my silence down to shock at his surprise and seemed very pleased with himself that I hadn’t guessed what he was planning. I was beginning to wonder if I knew him at all.


He had booked a dinner cruise along the Seine. It was magical. The band began to play.



“Would you like to dance, Ma Cherie?” he asked.


“You don’t dance,” I said.


“I do now. I’ve been taking lessons for ages when you thought I was at the astronomy group. I found this great teacher. She’s retired but she still gives private lessons. ”


He held out his hand and led me to the floor. He made some gesture to the band who started another tune. The singer came onto the floor beside us and he began to sing, “Dance with me my old friend.”

“Sorry I couldn’t get you to Michigan,” said the man I now loved more than ever and we sang along.
“Be we in Paris or in Lansing. Nothing matters when we’re dancing.”

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

So I haul my hairy ass up to the nature preserve, smiling at the memory of my father standing on his head. Most days he would just open the door and start work as normal; but at least once a week he would lead us to this door, and then stand on his head. It was his way to let us know it was playtime, not worktime. Short and strong and upside-down-silly, he would ask the same question "Neat trick, eh?", and we would have to hoot and say "No dad, it's awful". He would then fall on all fours, peering happily at us from under his heavy brows, and we would all recite together; "Smokie! It's not just awful, it's godawful!", even though he was the only father figure we had who could do that trick.

I pause for a moment, and fancy I can hear the raucous screech of his laughter drifting down the years to me, but I soon realise the hoots and gibbers are coming from my charges inside the Pierre Boulle Nature Preserve. I drag myself in through the entrance, and get ready for my shift, thinking of the next part of the play day ritual. One of us would say, "You're just not funny Smokie!" and he would grin and say "It's my sole flaw, I assure you".

The musky, meaty smell from the primates is strong this morning, their heavy scent mingled with rotting scraps of food. I think this comes about due to their sleeping habits as well. They like to nestle together in the same places, in the same pairs, using the same bedding, with scant regard for social niceties. After a few cycles of the moon, the smell becomes a tangible, almost visible thing. Smokie used to call it "the sweet and sour smell of scrotal sweat". If Tammy overhead this, she would bare her teeth at him and say "must you always paint a vulgar picture?", smiling but tense at the same time, hinting at the currents of a longer, deeper argument.

I fold my body into the regulation harness, cinch, fasten and strap myself in. I know the pockets and holsters are essential, and I value keeping my hands free, but I can never get comfortable in harness. If it was up to me, I'd lumber about the place naked as the day I was born. I suspect the others feel the same, but we have all learned to value the shock-sticks and communicators when we walk on the wild-side.

Leaning back, stretching my spine out, I gauge by the sun that I still have a bit of time before my shift starts. I move towards the habitual nesting place for my three best girls, looking out for Omnia, my current favourite. She must have sensed me somehow, and she approaches me standing on her hind legs, doing her best to look me right in the eyes. She's trying not to look greedy, but we both know what's going to happen. I take out a banana and show her how to peel it, pinching the top, and unwrapping it one, two, three. I eat the nana in a single toothy move, and catch her eye for just a second, before I eat the peel as well. She hoots at that, in a good natured parody of laughter. I open a hole in the tangle field, and drop in three bananas. Still on her hind legs, Omnia swoops smoothly down and gathers the fruit. Grinning, she peels one nana the wrong way, takes a bite, and tucks the peel away neatly. I know that Amor and Vincit will do the same with their nanas, and my thoughts drift to Jimmy Cinder.

Jimmy was the alpha male who figured out what the primates were doing with the banana peels. It turns out they were crafting layers of banana peels into a hollow container and running their drinking water through it. Smokie thought they just liked the taste of nanas, like we all do, but Jimmy Cinder thought differently. He reasoned they were filtering the water. They would wallow and play in their pool during hot weather, splashing and paddling like you would do yourself, but they would rarely drink the water directly. When we supplemented the nanas into their natural diet, some form of starchy tuber, they would hoard the nana skins and eat the tubers whole, wrapping them in the broad leaves of the wild cabbage plants. Every few days, they would dump the water container, and craft a new one. It's hard to figure out the hierarchy of these primates, but it seems like they all work together to gather the drinking water, even if they are not normally sociable and engaged with the others. Jimmy became the alpha male shortly after Smokie got his name, when he tried to convince the other males that he saw the primates burning vegetation and inhaling the fumes from the nanas, and eating the burnt skins and flesh of tubers. He described a bizzare scene where they gathered together despite the fire, plucking the fruits and vegetables from a "smoky pit". After this outlandish tale, and his banana-water theory, Smokie lost some status among his peers, but he was still one of the alpha male gang, you know? Even when we teased him about the "fumes from the fruity fire", he tolerated it with incredible patience and good humour. We were careful never to push him too far, respectful of his status, and his strength.

Omnia has been joined by my other best girls. She does her trick of standing tall on her hind legs, holding out her forelimbs, fully extended to each side, offering a nana to the others. The three of them huddle together, heads almost touching as they vocalise and eat at the same time. Smokie used to love to listen to them, he would say their noises were "almost like conversation". I crouch by the tangle field for a moment, lost in my thoughts, before I remember my shift and the call of duty. I am gripped and driven by a wordless, nameless, urgent ambition to become an alpha male here. I feel so strong and alive, I feel the promise of power and status at my fingertips. Once a callow and hairless youth, I now stand almost as tall as the primates I guard, though they are larger in body and heavier of limb, with their oddly curved and angular faces. Unlike us, their society, such as it is, is based on an alpha female. Much like Smokie and Jimmy Cinder on this side of the fence Omnia and her peers appear to be leaders for the primates, based not just on strength and leadership, but also on what I have to call intelligence. They seem to plan for the future, and ensure that harmony reigns amongst their troop.

I ponder idly on my plan to improve my status. Like Jimmy Cinder, I have made a discovery. The musky scent of the primates changed a few weeks ago, and I spotted scraps of fur and bone in their waste pits. It appears the primates have been somehow catching and eating smaller primates found in the enclosure. The current thinking is, like us, that they eat fruit, vegetables, nuts, and insects only. If I can prove my observation that they also eat flesh, I may well climb the social ladder. It could be a new distinction between us and them. I shudder for a moment, considering the possible taste, smell and texture of flesh. I know our cousins in other lands eat meat occasionally, but they are considered primitive and not worth talking to or thinking about. With my thoughts turning sour I decide it's time to move on.

As I lean on my knuckles and start to rise, I see the girls have finished their food, and are shredding the peels, ripping the soft yellow skins into a pulpy, fibrous mass. I think of the difference between their hands and ours; they have opposable thumbs on their forelimbs, and vestigial talons which are small, but can be sharp enough to draw blood during their occasional disagreements. Their thin, fragile skin and slender fingers are very agile, and seem to play some part in their communications. Jimmy Cinder used to posit that their lack of physical strength and bizarrely fluid social structures encouraged displays of aggression and conflict. Their hoots and gibbers ("almost like conversation") would give way to shrieks and loud cries. If there was a lot of tension in the group, or a increased lack of harmony, they could attack each other, pulling at hair, scratching and biting in a bizarre and violent parody of grooming behaviour. Instinctively, I know that such behaviour would never be tolerated on this side of the tangle-field, not for a moment. We all know our place. It's the natural order of things.

I wander around the perimeter of the enclosure, away from where they like to nest, and towards where they relieve themselves in shallow pits they scrape out with their forelimbs, sometimes using small branches almost like tools. I wonder if they use the same branches to capture the smaller primates? The stench from the soil-pits hits me, bracing, fetid and pungent. I see pieces of pelt, and gnawed bones that have been stripped clean by small and delicate teeth, and I am oddly happy that Omnia and her peers are getting to eat meat regularly. Almost as happy as I am for myself, hoping that this discovery will promote me from walking the beat, and perhaps closer to leading the troop someday. I record the scene from every angle, adding my thoughts and reasoning, for presenting to the alphas at the end of my shift.

I amble back to the primates, who are now lolling in the water, preening themselves and chattering away. I note they are all in the water at the same time, with no sentinel posted, as if they have no concept of danger. The urge to show off strikes me, and I leap up and down outside the tangle-field, slamming my limbs on the ground and raising a cloud of dust. When I am sure they are paying attention, you can tell when they are trying to hold your gaze, I decide to try Smokie's trick, and balance on my head. Let me tell you, if you've never tried it, don't bother. Unless your head is flatter than mine, you are not going to last too long, no matter how good your sense of balance is naturally.

The girls appreciate the effort though, and make a good humoured attempt to reward me, by standing on their hind legs, and striking their forelimbs together. Feeling five feet tall, I stand up straight as I can, knuckles held high off the ground, and I bound on out and around the enclosure, making sure that everything is in order, just the way Smokie showed me how. I think fondly of how Smokie used to show the younger males how to behave, how to pay attention to the hierarchy and to know our place in it. I remember how he defused situations with gentle humour, and how he maintained the custom of generating names for those of us who are best suited to patrolling and policing the enclosures. When I was smaller, and paler, and much less hairy, he explained to me how I got my name, for being completely helpless in most primate situations.

Making sure that no-one is looking, I crane my head over my shoulder, to see if I have become a silverback overnight. I am only a little dissapointed to find out that I have not. My time will come.

I knuckle down again, and carry on with my work. As I move away, I see Omnia gazing at me, calmly and regally. For a brief moment our eyes meet, and I can feel some level of shared thought between us, almost like conversation. So different, and yet so alike, I bid her a respectful and sincere goodbye.

redser7

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

It was tough to choose among such a strong collection. Here's my top 3, I'll post my feedback on the others later. Well done everyone.

Story 7: I Can't Touch You Anymore
This is my number 3 story. It was well crafted from someone who knows what they are doing. It held my attention right to the end and provided a couple of great surprises. The fact that is was such an easy read says it all about the skill of the writer. Well done.

Story 9: Boa Constrictor
This is my number 2 story. I liked the edginess and confessional nature of this one. The narrator is a well-defined character with a real voice and personality on the page. The imagery was always sharp (Wes Craven would be proud of the snake showing through the gap in the plaster) and the details are always well defined. It was well structured and written and skipped happily along with the missing snake creating great tension and suspense. It was also fun to read. The reveal at the very end was held off nicely. I just finished Thomas Morris' collection of stories and it reminded me of some of the everyday and sometimes humorous shenanigans he writes about. Great story.

Story 4: My Only Friend
This was my number one. A good story always holds your attention and seems to fly by and this one does that. The first line hook is great. All the exposition you need is there in the first few lines. The supernatural/psychological aspect gives the story an edginess that holds your attention. I was rooting for Amy right from the start hoping it all works out - hoping she gets over the brother (and other issues) but then sort of hoping she doesn't as their relationship is so entertaining and interesting, so nice tension there. There was a lovely touch of humour throughout in their constant ribbing and banter and plenty of nostalgia mixed in too. You see the ending coming but it is not disappointing when it does, it just feels right. Apart from that it was just very well written, clean as a whistle. You make it look easy.

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

A great bunch of stories!

The three that got the nod from me:

Story 2 - I Shatter

Some gorgeous language in the beginning with the scene setting, and then the slow unfolding. The suspense was perfectly handled, and the eventual reveal was unexpected. Gripping stuff.


Story 7 - I can't touch you Anymore

Again, another story with great suspense and a slow reveal. Possibly a few too many characters to keep track of, but I really really enjoyed the main character voice.


Story 4 - My Only Friend
This one really drew me along. I love the characterisation of narrator and of Andy. Very strong and distinct voices. The prose flitted along nicely. The only thing that tripped me up was the point of view change at the end. I didn't know it was Andy until the last few words and already I had stopped to think whether it was the narrator, or her dead brother. It's only a minor thing though.


I'll give feedback on the rest once the results are in.

trout

Story 5: Grand Canyon

I've read all the stories. I enjoyed them all, bar my one (which sux).

For me, the standout is #4. I am in awe. Seems almost like a play - narrative, not so much descriptive language. Read really well ... I could "hear" the conversations.

Hrududu

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

I thought the standard was really high. So many really well crafted, well written stories. I ended up reading the stories over a number of days due to work etc so only getting a chance to finish them and vote now.

My vote went to Boa Constrictor. Just a really enjoyable story. Their imaginations putting the snake into the walls and keeping them silent and always on the alert was conveyed really well.

RIP Fluffy

Rubecula

Story 5: Grand Canyon

Fantastic effort by everyone. Loved it all, thank you to to everyone who took part.

Ilyana 2.0

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

I should preface my feedback by saying I'm a complete amateur, so my thoughts are just gut feelings on the stories

Strange eyes: I felt this flowed very well, and it wasn't overly descriptive. I liked the religious/philosophical aspect too.

My Only Friend: This one had good pace, with great emotional impact.

Queen of the Savages: An unexpected take on the theme, and I liked how observant and descriptive it was.

Mine was crap by comparison :pac:

Leafonthewind

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

What a great selection of stories. It wasn't easy to choose. Here's my feedback on the stories I voted for. I'll post the rest later.

Story #1 – I was immediately hooked. The writing flowed excellently and set the tone. I was a bit let down by the ending, probably because I’m zombied out (if I’m interpreting that correctly), but the strength of the writing and characters set this story apart for me.

Story #2 – The setting and characters were described wonderfully, and the twists were unexpected and kept me on the edge of my seat until the end. At times I thought the line of questioning was strange, but it all made sense with the reveal at the end. The dialogue could have been broken up with a bit more narration, but it was great storytelling, with hard-hitting subject matter. It left me feeling so sad for Siobhan and Daniel.

Story #9 – I loved the tone and humour of this story. The writing flowed well and made for an easy read, and the story was well-constructed. The narrator’s voice was natural and any exposition was worked in seamlessly without bogging the story down. A fantastic story with plenty of meat on its bones.

Mr E

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

I went for:

#3. The story just reeled me in, and I loved how it tied into the acoustic guitar theme. The last section was very powerful. I thought the plummeting heart near the start was odd, was that the intended word?

#4. A great story, well written. Loved the last line.

#9. The whole story just breezed by, a lovely read.

Honourable mention for #10, I just loved the style.

Mr E

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

Well done to number 4 (and Andy) for a great story.

redser7

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

Congrats, great story number 4! Who is Andy?

Mr E

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

The imaginary friend (and the reason the story was so compelling)

redser7

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

Mr E wrote: »

The imaginary friend (and the reason the story was so compelling)

Doh!

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

Well done Story 4. An excellent read and worthy winner.

Hrududu

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

Great stuff everyone. I love an auld VOAT.

Achillles

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

Well done to all, especially story number 4, congrats.

In the end, my favourite was story number 7. Well crafted story, with an intriguing central character and a good plot twist. Heart wrenching stuff!

My other two votes went to story 6 and story 10. I liked the writing style in story 6 and as someone else said the philosophical tone of it is something I enjoy reading.

Story 10 was a really interesting take on the title and I liked how it unfolded - just a nice complete story.

Mr E

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

Thanks Achilles, #7 was mine. Fun story to write, one of my favourite pieces so far I think.

So who wrote the mysterious #4? And who wrote the others?

Leafonthewind

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

Congrats to #4!

Here's the rest of my feedback:

Story #4 – The premise was interesting, but I had trouble connecting with Andy. There was an element missing for me, something to make me feel attached to him, and as a result, I felt rather indifferent to his fate. It didn’t hook me, but it was a great story nonetheless.

Story #5 – I definitely connected with Rosie’s plight. The confused stream of memories was realistic, but I wanted them to be less filtered or explained by the narrator. I wanted to get pulled into Rosie’s head more. Still a well-constructed story with a strong theme.

Story #6 – I would have liked a better description of the man’s strange eyes. The chunk of exposition in the middle about the mother and his crisis of faith messed with the pacing, but I really liked the image of the seed sprouting into roots. Some great lines in there, and though the confrontation between man and priest ran a little long, I can appreciate its purpose.

Story #7 – This was a great story. Sad and sweet, with a few twists to keep the reader hooked. I especially liked the ending, with the significance of the names.

Story #8 – Philip’s character was nicely developed, but a few bits were explained a bit too heavily (i.e. “If Philip said Detroit was in Michigan then it was and since even I had heard of Detroit while neither of us had ever heard of Lansing then it did seem a more likely candidate.”) The mystery of where Philip was going on Wednesdays kept me guessing until the end, and the reveal was sweet and satisfying. Also a great use of the prompt and the song.

Story #10 – Some great writing here, but I felt the story could have been shorter. It lagged a bit for me, but I enjoyed trying to figure out which side of the fence the narrator was on.

Mine was #3. Up until the ambulance doors closing, it's exactly what happened to me on the day I got the prompt. I had to get the story out and face the alternate outcome. My dad is okay, thankfully, but it was terrifying. The doctors said it was a weird virus that probably messed with his glucose levels. They also said diabetics don't necessarily have the classic signs of heart attack, so that's something to keep in mind. I'd strongly recommend everyone find out how their local emergency services work. I was very surprised to have the call transferred, which really threw me off and made me feel more panicked, and I didn't expect all the questions they asked. It's something we should be better prepared for. As for the plummeting heart, I suppose I meant that my heart dropped, but in that situation, dropped just didn't seem strong enough

redser7

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

Mine was #2. Thanks for the votes and comments.
Step forward #4 ...

Rubecula

Story 5: Grand Canyon

I too voted for 4 but without my computer (had to go back again) could not take part. Well done for the entries.and thanks to DK for a wonderful VOAT/

Hopefully this will not stop me from making a fool of myself next VOAT

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

I'm outing Hrududu as the author of number 4. Talented fecker doesn't deserve anonymity!

Mine was 9 with the fluffy snake.

trout

Story 5: Grand Canyon

Mine was #10 ... I listened to the song a few times, though about all the themes, and then tried to shoehorn them ALL into 2000 words.

Also, I watched Dawn of the Planet of the Apes last month with mini-me ... and we had fun for a few days literally monkeying around the house ...

Next time I'll try not to amuse myself so much, and write a better story.

#4 is top class, I want to read more! Well done!

echo beach

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

Congratulations to everybody on what I reckon is the best VOAT yet in terms of both quantity and quality. There was huge variety but not a single weak entry. Thank you to DK for taking on the work of organising, putting it together and keeping the pressure on. A word also to those who for whatever reason weren't able to get an entry in. I know how frustrating it is but if you only wrote a couple of hundred words before abandoning an idea it is better then nothing and there will be other times.

I enjoyed all the stories and these brief remarks are not meant to be critical but intended to help people develop their writing.

No 1. This was well-written but it isn't really to my taste and I found it hard to relate to the characters.

No 2. This got my second vote. The writing was impressive, drawing you in then turning you round and finally catching you out. The only fault is as others have said that for a piece of prose there is too much unbroken dialogue. It would work well on stage. It only needs two good actors and a few props. The author should consider this.

No 3. This is a good idea but perhaps needed to be a longer story or even part of novel. I felt it needed something more, maybe between the brothers, if it is to stand on its own.

No 4. This was my favourite and a deserved winner. It is proof of the importance of a good opening line. I'm curious if the start came first or if it got added later. It was totally believable, allowing the reader to sympathise with the character and forcing you to question your own ideas about what the dividing line is between mental illness and a coping strategy.

No 5. This came close to getting a vote from me and in a less crowded field it would have. It certainly didn't deserve to be overlooked. There was a good understanding of the difficulties of dementia.

No 6. I have to say I didn't really get what was going on here and was confused by what was dream and what was reality but the priest was well written and believable.

No 7. This got my final vote for getting under my skin. I loved the ending.

No 8. This was my own effort. I'll make the usual excuses of rushing it and not leaving time for a proper edit. I found the theme difficult but it forced me out of my comfort zone and that is no harm. Thanks to Leaf for the kind words.

No 9. I found this an interesting one. The conclusion was good but I wasn't totally convinced that after so long she would have admitted what happened.

No 10. Last but by no means least. This was well put together but I felt that more interaction or some dialogue would have broken it up more and given a more gradual realisation of what was going on. For some reason it seemed longer than the others and the ending didn't have the impact it should have.

redser7

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

Thanks for the comments echo beach! The first draft came in at around 3000 words and did have more descriptive writing but I had to make a decision and strip it out from the actual interview. I'd love if we could remove the word limit altogether. I think a story just wants to be the length it is rather than restricting it to a target word count. But that's a separate discussion and certainly not a moan

Ilyana 2.0

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

The stories were all fantastic and a joy to read, it was hard to pick my favourite out of 3-4 strong contenders.

I'll raise my hand in shame, mine was #5. Looking forward to another VOAT to improve my writing though.

Hrududu

Story 10: Queen of the Savages

echo beach wrote: »

No 4. This was my favourite and a deserved winner. It is proof of the importance of a good opening line. I'm curious if the start came first or if it got added later. It was totally believable, allowing the reader to sympathise with the character and forcing you to question your own ideas about what the dividing line is between mental illness and a coping strategy.

Thanks for the kind comments. The end actually came first. I liked the idea of saying goodbye to an imaginary friend and then shifting perspective to them.

The standard of all the stories was really high. Even when a plot wouldn't be my cup of tea the quality of writing in each story was terrific.

Thanks Das Kitty for organising.

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

As promised, feedback for the stories that didn't get the vote.

Story 1:
I quite enjoyed this nugget of a story. I liked the imagery and the language was wonderfully evocative. It did feel more like part of something than a story in its own right. It felt like it could have done with a couple more edits too. It could be expanded into something incredible. Would definitely like to read more of this world.

Story 3:
I really liked the great detail here. Knowing now that it was a recent real life event makes sense. It feels very immediate and the emotion is strong. From a fictional short story point of view I think it may need a thread that ties through. Some unresolved issue between the narrator and her father, that will give extra drama. While the descriptions of the funeral and grief are wonderfully done, I don’t know if it’s the right ending here. I felt that the ending should have been with the doors closing, and the reader could draw their own conclusions.

Story 5:
A very touching story. It really got me in the end. I had a little tingly moment when she went. I thought there was a lot in it, more than the scope of a short story. A whole life condensed like that. It deserves a novel.

Story 6:
This is a story which I can appreciate the craft and I know how good it is, but it didn’t grab me personally. Hands up, it didn’t get the vote due to my own personal taste. Objectively it’s masterfully written. Great suspense and growing dread. Then ending in the form of mass is really well done. I suppose to me, it felt a little didactic, it was telling me something I already know. HOWEVER, as I was reading it I was thinking to myself, that it would make a brilliant short film. Would the author consider converting it into a screenplay?

Story 7:
Very strong characterisation here. It was perfectly evocative of that time of life when a couple are comfortable with each other. Too comfortable! I do think the narrator would have been more hurt or angry or irrational. She seemed a bit passive to me. It hurts to feel like you’re being betrayed, and I wanted to feel that with her. I also thought that Philip might feel hurt that she thought him capable. I nicely rounded out short story, I enjoyed it.

Story 10:
I am completely in love with the narrator in this one (the narrator, trout, calm down!!). What a great and unusual voice. It only missed my top list due to the fact that I got a little bit lost at times. The language is top class, perfect for the subject matter. And it was brilliant energetic fun. If I’m ever put in a zoo, I’m sharing my nanas with nobody. Got it!?



Mine was number 9, and in my normal fashion, my story came out of my own dirty mind. My first idea was all about a misunderstanding about a guy's dick being a snake, and I couldn't fully let it go, hence the opening. :pac:

echo beach

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

redser7 wrote: »

The first draft came in at around 3000 words and did have more descriptive writing but I had to make a decision and strip it out from the actual interview. I'd love if we could remove the word limit altogether. I think a story just wants to be the length it is rather than restricting it to a target word count.

I agree that a story may have its own ideal length but there are all sort of limits in life, not least that of readers' patience and attention span. Can you honestly say that the original was 50% better than the final version? The skill is in knowing what to cut and you certainly managed to keep the essence of the story.

Das Kitty

Story 8: Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

echo beach wrote: »

I agree that a story may have its own ideal length but there are all sort of limits in life, not least that of readers' patience and attention span. Can you honestly say that the original was 50% better than the final version? The skill is in knowing what to cut and you certainly managed to keep the essence of the story.

Writing to a word count is something you'll always have to do. It's a skill and it's worth working on. The vast majority of short story submission guidlines have a cap of 2,000. It's not just arbitrary, it's a nice satisfying length for a short story.

Now I have plenty of stories that went off into the realm of no-man's land between short story and novella. And I do stand by them being the right length for the stories they are, but I can see why someone wouldn't be bothered sitting down to read them when they see the word count.

Sci-fi short stories can be good and long. In fact the feckers don't tend to like them under 5k words.

FWIW, redser, I think your story was the perfect length. It fit its bones. If there was more description at the start I may have switched off as a reader. The real real meat was in the dialogue, and it was such a joy.

When it's here, it's hard to ask readers to read and vote on huge big stories. I know the last arena challenge, it was tough to get time in the 24 hour period to read, process and vote on the two stories. We'll be keeping the word limits here.

trout

Story 5: Grand Canyon

I'm just flummoxed that no-one got my latin joke, after all the effort it took to work it into the story ...