The Mystery of Ravenoak - Raven's Call over the Moors

 by Mizti Danielson-Kaslik, 

Black Forest hot chocolate

As night drew closer over the moors, it came to me that I would either need to find an adventure in the next few minutes or return to my room at The Raven Inn back in Ravenoak Village for the night. I had to find the cabin soon. All the maps the villagers had presented me with suggested that the it was around here, but it’d be very hard to see once the darkness of the autumn night had completed corrupted this place. A harsh cry of a bird emanated all around, ricocheting against the hard stone of the rocky surrounding mountainsides. Darkness was drawing in closer as the wind began to die down and the copper leaves on the trees grew still with no breeze to move them. From what I had been told, I didn’t want to be on the moors after darkness as I may become one of the death statistics of Ravenoak and indeed there was something unsettling about the moors as a strange cry seemed to hang on in the air, though there was no sound other than that of the bird. Perhaps it was that the silence was uncomfortable. By now, the sun disappeared completely behind the hills and the clouds vanished, though no stars corrupted the darkness of the sky. The call of the bird sounded again, splitting the air as a mirror shattering upon the floor. Perhaps I should turn back, come back in the daylight. I didn’t like this place. Nothing good could come of my being here and I could barely see anything. But all the murders had happened in the hours of darkness, if there was going to be any movement from the cabin, it would be as midnight approached. A final call sounded as the white moon emerged from behind the mountainside and held itself proudly in the inky blackness of the sky. The call seemed to die away before it was complete. And then there was nothing. Simple silence. Undisrupted and pure. It was as if the sound had shattered against the lake ahead of me and become the tiniest ripple upon the dark opaque surface of the large body of water below. The lake seemed to stop in motion, as if caught in time, as the pure light of the full noon shone upon the facet. The water appeared endlessly deep with a thick black swirling mist swimming a few meters down. The mist seemed to move as smoke in the inky darkness until it diffused throughout the lake. The blackness of the lake could easy swallow any unfortunate swimmer deep into its unfeeling depths.

Preceding the lake, the plane of land which I was standing upon seemed to almost rock as force came upon it. Sickly sticklike brownish grass grew in little tufts from the cracked dry earth underfoot, small weeds seemed to sprout from between the tufts with darkened discoloured petals. Nothing good could grow here. A long wooden planked deck stretched out from the small island over the waters to the centre of the lake. The wood was dark in colour and seemed almostcompletely untouched, other than one small footprint deeply intrenched in the pine. The wood had not rotted, though it was obviously used. I stepped on it gingerly, well aware it could collapse at any moment. The deck stretched to another tiny island in the lake; no more than a few square meters in size. A small wooden structure stood proudly in its centre with a ramshackle roof, topped with protruding nails and small circular windows, partly obscured with little red drapes within the cabin’s walls. A faint light filtered through from behind the red door of the cabin. This was the cabin on the map. A soft sound of whispering emanated. I stopped. Tiptoeing now, I slowly came closer to the door. This was a stupid thing to do. Why hadn’t I just accepted Mrs. Meredith’s offer of hot chocolate and read my book for the night? It was cold. I wanted a blanket. I reached into my pocket and took out my silver flask. Damn. It was empty. Even a drop would have made this situation more pleasant. Slipping it back into my pocket, I noticed the door was open slightly. I reached to knock. Reaching. Reaching. I knocked once and immediately wished I hadn’t. A deafening scream came from within. Without thought, I shoved the heavy door ajar with both hands. There was silence inside the cabin. 

“Hello…” I gulped “is anyone here?”

There was no answer. The cabin was completely silent. Until an old sound of thick liquid in motion sounded very softly beneath my feet. I looked down with a start. The sight shocked me. A body. The throat slit. Convulsing its last on the red carpet. I gasped and dropped to my knees. The body spoke with a thick stammer as the blood gushed out onto the floor; “Tell them it’s… it’s…”. The body’s cold pale hand clutched my forearm harshly as it attempted to speak. 

I was lost for what to say. The hand relinquished its hold on me. The person had died. Murdered upon the moors. A fountain a hot tears camee from the corner of my eye. I looked down at the body’s eyes, intending to close them. They shocked me. They were totally black. Soulless. Lifeless. I gasped again, believing my own eyes were deceiving me. The tear fell upon my left hand, which it came to my attention was covered in blood. Then I realised. If that had just happened, the murderer must be here. I stood up and ran from the cabin, my heart beating as a drum. But there was nothing. No murderer. There was total silence. The call of the raven sounded once more, and I ran back towards the village to tell the villagers of what I had seen and about the eyes. The lifeless black eyes. I swore never to return to that place again in darkness.

The House of the Rising Sun Awakening

by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

warm cherri

I woke up. My eyes tired fatigued and weary, though I knew I had slept for hours. I was laying on the ground, face down in my lace white night dress. The ground felt oddly crisp beneath my form and it was not long before it came to me that I could not be in my bed anymore. There was no light streaming in from the cracks between the threadbare midnight blue curtains and he was no longer beside me so it could not be my bed; our bed. Perhaps he had awoken early if it was dawn to have a cigarette or if it was still the middle of the night, perhaps he hadn’t yet joined me in bed. But then it came it to me that it certainly didn’t seem like either dawn or the middle of the night, in fact, the light that swam into view around me was neither light or dark; it was an odd grey. Opening my eyes wider, I realised that the floor beneath me was cold and crisp in a way I had never felt before and was in fact comprised of bones. Old bones which, though not decayed and pearly white, were evidently ancient by how filthy and dry they were. I gingerly rose to my bare feet. It took me a moment to fully understand my surrounds; tall trees unlike any I had ever seen before; a yellowish grey sky which somewhat resembled a sunset; and it did not take me long to notice that the flooring of bones stretched for miles around. What a perplexing place to find myself. I stepped on the unsteady ground carefully, fearful it’d fall in at any moment towards the largest of the leafless trees which stood, stretching to the heavens before me. Then it dawned on me: was I dead? Was this the afterlife? Had I been taken in the night? 

Wiping these thoughts from my mind, I reached out a shaking hand to touch the tree, wondering if it felt as it did in the garden of The House of the Rising Sun. Oddly, it did. The twisting bark was cold beneath my finger tips and gnarled up and up for dearth than I could see with my tired eyes. It was then that I realised there was no sound until this moment as the call of a raven shattered the cold silence with the pieces laying on the floor. Though I could not see the bird it’d emanated from. As I ran my hand over the tree trunk, I noticed a change in the wood, from the wood of the tree to a different lighter wood with a soft finish that glistened in the light. It was a door, with a bronzed lock and raven’s head knocker. What was it doing in a tree? If this was a tree. I reached to pull the door open but found it was locked. I then knocked on the door with the ring hanging from the raven’s mouth sharply three times and to my surprise, the tree which held it stooped down and cast a branched hand over the lock. The door opened towards me without a human touch and possibly against my better judgement, I stepped through it and onto a crimson carpeted floor. My glance fleeted across the carpet and I realised as I looked up the ceiling was high and the corridor stretched, as the bones had, forever. I couldn’t be inside the tree. Turning back, I noted that the door had vanished and in its place was a black and white photograph with faded blurred edges of a young woman in a long dress and hat outside a small chapel with a sign marked Little Woods Lafayette Chapel. Her hair seemed to blow in the wind, frozen in time. She reminded me of someone and as I looked at her smile, I realised it was my mother. She must have been young in that photograph. I hadn’t seen her in so long and I wondered if I ever would again. 

Did she keep her smile or did I take it with me? 

Looking back to the corridor, I realised that there were many wooden doors with raven knockers all along the cream walls. The wall paper was familiar, it was the same as in The House of the Rising Sun. Looking closer, I realised the carpet was the same as the carpet of the staircase. I tiptoed along the corridor. “Hello? Is anybody here?” I called into the nothingness. There was no response. I edged along the corridor until I came to the first door. Rapping on the door nervously, it opened before me at once and I saw my mother, older now than she had been in the photograph brushing the dark hair of a little girl beside a sewing machine. Me. Her first daughter. She looked happy. I closed the door and the room faded away and the door vanished from view. Second door opened to revile her holding a baby who was crying. I was nowhere to be seen. Behind the third door was a girl, older then the little brunette in the first room studying quietly. Alone. She looked sad though she was clearly engrossed in her work, thinking it best not to disturb her, I closed the door quietly and preceded to look behind the next door, perplexed as to the purpose of it all. It was a rather more upsetting image of my father leaving the apartment. He never came back, I didn’t need a door to tell me that. Assuming that was behind the fourth door, I passed it. Opening the fifth door, I saw myself as a teenager in shorts and an old shirt beside a big top at the Willows Carnival. I knew when this was, it was the day I met him. And sure enough, he walked into the image with Alex and Parker beside him in their leather jackets. He was seventeen. Not that it mattered. As the vision moved I saw as talking alone and him telling me his address so we could write to each other. I smiled to myself. I didn’t want to leave this vision. But it disappeared regardless. The next door held a bedroom with me hurriedly writing letters. This couldn’t have been long before I had come to The House for I saw my school rucksack packed to leave under the bed. 

Was I here for a reason or just to look back through the strange memories and broken fantasies?

If this was someone’s idea of a joke, I’d like them to stop now. It wasn’t remotely funny. I didn’t want to continue along the corridor as I could be sure of the events that followed but some unknown force compelled me. Perhaps it was the same unknown force that silently blew the leafless trees. Continuing down the path, I opened the next door and was in no way surprised by what I saw: myself in my school uniform on the train to The House. I looked happy and dewy eyed, my rucksack on top of my lap. A new vision swam into view as the train chugged out of view; him. Picking me up from the station. Hair slicked back and dressed in his suit, though he didn’t have his blazer because it was May. The car drove him and me to The House. I remember the first time I saw the house; gothic and eerie yet oddly comforting, it represented a dream of love and adventure. The gates were always open and this was the first time I had passed through them. I wanted to join that vision, it was perfect. It was the first time in my life for a very long time that I had been happy. Truly happy. But as I began to step towards the gates, the force pushed me away and the door slammed. The next vision was of a wonderful party with twinkling lights and a carousel in the gardens of The House. The moths – guests- came and went from the sparkling champagne tables and desks lined with canopies and cocktails in brightly coloured outfits and there was me, drinking quietly as he played cards at one of the circular tables. He had a cigarette in his hand as he always did. The loud sounds of music and of idol gossip tore through the air and I had found myself needing him to protect me from the night. I didn’t want to see this anymore. I slammed the door shut. The next was of me and Him intertwined in a passionate embrace. That was one of my favourite visions.

Unfortunately from this vision on, the scene turned much more sour with Grace fighting with Alex and Parker telling me of all the things that have happened in The House of the Rising Sun. I was so disbelieving when Parker had told me of the gambling and drinking that’d happened there and I was almost brought to tears as he told me of how Alex had ruined the old curtains fighting with Grace after he found out about what she’d do with Jordan and I began to wonder if the monsters that live in The House were really Gods at all. As the scene changed again I saw myself staring blankly into the future. Grace hung there. Motionless. In a small clearing a few minutes away from The House of the Rising Sun. she was suspended into the nothingness and it did not take me long to realise that she was dead. Daniela-Gracie was dead. Or she was going it die. At seventeen. I shook this vision from my head and it changed to Him holding my still and the rest of the scene was too awful to detail. I screamed. I screamed again but no help came and suddenly, everything was gone. I was back in my bedroom. With Him. Alone. He was sleeping. It had all been a dream. But then it was clear why I had visited the kingdom with the bones and the doors and the trees. It was instructions. I must leave The House of the Rising Sun. Put one foot on the train and go back to my mother in New Orleans to wear that ball and chain.

Weblines

by Emma Lee

a stiff whisky

​

Patsy opened the middle drawer of her chest of drawers and took out a pale yellow cot-sized blanket. Her hands were shaking now.  The removal of the blanket revealed a small pink suede box.  She raised the lid and picked up the tiny bracelet with the name Corina engraved in a flowing script.  She placed it on a piece of tissue and softly polished it.  Then replaced the bracelet.​

#​

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I was scrolling through the messages I’d received - I maintain a website, http://www.bipolar-association.org - to check no one had posted any crackpot theories about manic depression being down to an imbalance of vitamins or a sin in a previous life.  Because of the levels of prejudice some of our members faced, the chatroom was never live.  Instead people emailed messages to me and, if not offensive, I posted them on site.  Then a new message from my e-friend, Jen, who maintained a site that offered support for family and friends of people who had cancer, popped up:-​

​

Hi John!  Wanna run something by you.  Recently we had some mails from someone called Trisha whose daughter, Carla, apparently had leukaemia.  I say apparently because this Trisha used words like ‘fatigued’ and no one says fatigued unless they’ve swallowed a medical textbook.  I left the first one, but took off the next two, because they were strange, but I can’t say why.  Like she was talking about herself and how much care and nursing she’d given, but not about Carla.  Most parents mentioned their children’s favorite TV show or what their last wish was.  But there was nothing like that from Trisha.  I have to give her the benefit of the doubt, don’t I?​

​

Yeah, you do, I guess, was my first response.  Couldn’t you check out hospitals? I asked out loud, there’d be a record of treatment somewhere.  ​

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Bad habit of mine talking to the computer.  Realising the smudge I was seeing on the screen was actually dust on my glasses, I took them off and cleaned them.  I pictured Jen as a female image of me: short chestnut hair and dark eyes.  Only she’d be about six inches shorter and have a nicely curved figure.  Of course, I had no idea what she actually looked like and hesitated about asking.  We’d begun our correspondence via a site for a TV cop show we were both huge fans of.​

​

I put my glasses back on and hit reply to sender and suggested this Trisha was maybe a bit shy so was hiding behind terminology and to give her the benefit of the doubt.  Then I suggested a date.  That always cheered Jen up.  She was in Ohio, I was in Nottingham and neither of us could afford the air fares.  ​

​

There was a new message for me on the site email address:-​

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Hi, I’m Patricia.  Wondered if anyone could give me advice.  My daughter Clare’s always been precocious and hyperactive, complaining of school being boring.  But teachers turned a blind eye to her attention-seeking tactics as she’s always scored A pluses.  But I’m at my wits’ end.  I always knew something was wrong: the struggles I’ve had getting her out of bed some days, the risks she takes with no consideration for my worries.  Like my nephew’s wedding when she turned up late in jeans and ripped tee shirt and gave this really funny speech when I just wanted to die with embarrassment.  My GP, counsellors and therapists have accused me of being over-worried about an intelligent daughter.  But finally, finally, Clare’s now been diagnosed as having bipolar affective disorder.  Finally!  She’s 15.  It was such a relief someone finally took me seriously.  The consultant mentioned lithium, but refused to prescribe.  Can anyone help?  Why not prescribe?​

​

The email address was at one of the main ISPs, which didn’t tell me anything about its origins.  It seemed a straightforward enough description of atypical bipolar affective disorder so I decided to post it.  The chatroom regulars would explain that lithium’s also toxic so not usually prescribed for teenagers.  It did seem odd to expect a teenager to think about whether she was embarrassing her parent though.​

#​

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Patsy typed in ‘cystic’ then clicked on the search button.  Yawning, she bookmarked a couple of sites that mentioned chatrooms and decided to check them out later.  She hung up her internet connection and walked towards the bathroom.  A wall mirror reflected her slightly overweight figure.  She sighed.  She ran a hand through her mousy hair that was losing its perm.  Then hesitated by a closed bedroom door.  She saw posters of popstars covering the walls, the pile of CDs on the floor, the make-up spilling over the chest of drawers.  Patsy sighed and touched the door handle, but then let her hand fall back to her side.  She’d contact those chatrooms tomorrow.  Now she wanted to catch some sleep.​

#​

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A week later, Patricia sent another message:

Thanks for all your advice.  I understand about lithium now.  But I’m still struggling with my daughter.  We went to a restaurant.  She had slapped on make-up and looked about 18.  At a nearby table a middle-aged man sat on his own.  After our meal I went to the cloakroom.  When I came back, she was chatting to this man!  He phoned for her yesterday.  I asked him how old he thought she was.  He said she’d said she was 22 and we were sisters.  I told him her real age and told him he couldn’t see her.  Then had it out with her.  Suddenly her mood switched.  She’d been happy and amicable.  Then suddenly she sank on her bed in tears, said she hated me, hated herself and wanted to die.  She refused to get up this morning.  Said she couldn’t face the world anymore.​

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Sudden, extreme mood swings could be normal, but only a actor could produce tears on demand like that.  I posted it anyway.​

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Hi John!  Feeling better now.  Trisha just posted to say Carla had died.  So I left it on site and passed on the sympathy messages.  I’m also getting over a bad cold so wonder if I was being ungenerous.  I’ve just sent a bundle of advice to a guy in Boston who’s adding a chatroom to a cystic fibrosis site.  He’s not asked me for a date yet.  Jen.​

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I asked her for the new website’s address.​

#​

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Patsy clicked on to her second bookmarked site, http://www.cystic-friends.com and quickly read some of the recent messages.  Then typed, Hi I’m Patsy.  My daughter, Colette, has CF and I was looking for some friendly advice.  Her consultant doesn’t think she’ll live to see 16, but she’s so calm I worry she’s in denial.  It’s difficult.  How can I make sure she really does understand?​

#​

​

It took Jen a couple of days to come up with the site address.  I guess I could have gone through the search engines, but there was no guarantee they’d be a “made in Boston” label on the site.  ​

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Another message came in:-​

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Hi.  Patricia again.  I think I’ve just been through hell and am only just coming back.  I’m only typing this now because I finally persuaded a doctor to give her a sedative so we could both get some sleep.  She refuses to eat.  Refuses to do anything.  Doesn’t she realise I’m only trying to do my best for her?  How on earth do you cope?​

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It bothered me that for two messages now Clare had lost her name.  I cut Patricia’s last message from the website but kept both messages in my email box.  Patricia could be two doors or two continents away.​

#​

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Patsy typed quickly, Hi.  Thanks for your comments.  Turned out I was right to worry.  Colette was in denial.  This morning she threw her breakfast across the room, in a really bad tantrum.  Then began calling me all sorts of names, blaming me for her CF, telling me I should never have had a child, that I should have terminated my pregnancy...  But how could I?  I really wanted to do the best for her.  I’m her mother.  She’s threatened suicide.  How on earth do you cope?​

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Patsy clicked send and minimised her mailbox.  She then clicked on her favorites icon and chose http://www.bipolar-association.org/chatroom and began scrolling through the messages.​

#​

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Hi John.  Check this out!  I clicked on the address Jen had given me and looked at the messages.  It’s a bit uncanny, isn’t it?  Have you any odd messages?.​

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I got up and went to wash my face.  I’d talked a close friend out of suicide.  I’d known people believe they could fly, known someone get so angry they wanted to literally destroy their house with a sledgehammer and I’d known irrepressible cheerfulness that was infectious enough to make the most miserable of crowds want to party.  But none of these people had wanted my sympathy.​

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I returned to my PC, opened my favourite search engine and typed victim.  ​

#​

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Patsy scrolled down the messages but couldn’t see the message she’d been looking for.  Someone would have replied by now.​

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She scrolled through her favorites, looking for the leukaemia support site she’d found.  The messages she’d left there had disappeared too.  Then she clicked on http://www.cystic-friends.com and scrolled through the site.  Her messages there too had disappeared.  Patsy frowned.  ​

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Patsy opened a new message and clicked in the address, mail@bipolar-association.org from her personal address book.  Then stared at the blank message.  She got up and walked to the hallway, stopping in front of the closed bedroom door.  Her hand felt cold and she realised she was holding the brass door knob.  She opened the door.​

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She walked over the pale carpet and drew the green curtains, darkening the room.  Then quietly walked into the neighbouring bedroom.  The double bed was neatly made with a floral quilt cover and single pillow.  She lifted out the suede box.​

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Tears welled as Patsy forced herself to replace the box.  She sank onto the bed and let her tears flow.​

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When the sobs subsided, she blew her nose and washed her face in cold water.  As she was drying her hands, she noticed the white mark where her wedding ring had been didn’t stand out as much as it used to.  It was now as marked and lined as the skin on the rest of her fingers.  ​

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Patsy returned to her PC and moved the mouse to get rid of the screensaver.  In the blank message, she typed, Can you help? and clicked on send.​

#​

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A new mail icon flashed.  My first reaction was to type No, see a pro.  But I deleted my message.  Instead I typed, Before I can help I need to know what the problem is.  I will do what I can, and pressed send.  Once it had moved into ‘sent items’, I re-read it.  It seemed very abrupt and not very helpful, but, hey, I’m only human.​

​

I emailed Jen, Not had any odd messages to site.  But I think I’ve found Patricia/ Trisha or rather she found me.  Don’t want to frighten her off but will update when I find out more.  I padded out the email with some chitchat.​

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By the time I sent it, there was another incoming email.  ​

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My husband left, was all that it said but the address was the same as the Can you help? one.​

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What made him leave? I prompted and sent.​

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I waited a few moments: nothing.  I left the PC on while I went and showered.  As I was drying myself the new email icon flashed.  I cleaned my glasses before reading.​

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I was pregnant.​

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So there was a child, I thought.  Then noticed the scroll bar on the side of the email and scrolled down a blank screen before reaching more text.​

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I wasn’t my fault.  He didn’t want children.  I did.  But I didn’t do it deliberately.  It really wasn’t my fault.  It wasn’t.  He left.  I wanted our baby.  I wanted...  Anything I’d have done it.​

​

More blank spaces, as if she’d leant on the enter key.  But no more text.  I deleted the excess spaces whilst re-reading the message.  There had to be more than that: her reaction was too extreme, even he had been a complete bastard that had left her at a vulnerable time.  And the baby? I tried.​

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I wanted the baby.​

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Not the most helpful of responses.  Something happened to the baby?  There was a long pause before the next email.​

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I heard its heartbeat.  I felt it move.​

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Quickly I typed, Patricia, you don’t have to share this with me if you don’t want to.  You’ve made huge strides forward getting this far.  It was obvious she’d lost the baby.​

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No, I want to continue.​

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OK, I replied.​

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I guess you’ve guessed my baby died.  There, I’ve finally said it.  I’ve always said the baby before.  Now, I’ve typed my baby.  It was my baby, wasn’t it?  My baby.​

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Good, you’re taking ownership, I spoke to the screen again.  Yes, it was your baby.​

​

The cancer nurse helped me sell all the baby things.  She said I should get rid of it all.  Stop reminding myself.​

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Woah!  Where did the cancer nurse come from?  I banged my forehead with the heel of my hand.  Assuming the messages pulled from the three sites were from this same woman, then she’d started at Jen’s leukaemia site.  I needed Jen’s help.​

​

You’ve come through a hell of a lot.  And believe me, these few emails really show you’re getting to grips with it.  That’s positive, really positive.  I hoped that was sufficiently placatory or at least sufficient enough to buy me time to get to Jen.​

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Jen.  A quick message for a quick response?  It seems a woman lost a baby, then had cancer treatment which I think has left her infertile.  Suggestions for bereavement guidance?​

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I got up, paced my hallway.  Returned to the PC and clicked onto Jen’s site.  Should have done this before, but you never think straight when you’re tired.​

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Do you really think so?  It was from Patricia.  No one’s said that before.  No one’s let me talk about it, they all hurry me on to something else.​

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oYes, I really think so, I began.  I copied in some links from Jen’s site.  Hope these might offer some support.  Keep in touch.  I don’t know where you are but it’s late night here and I’m tired.​

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I clicked send, wondering where the hell Jen was.  At this time she was usually on-line and responding in seconds.​

#​

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Hi John.  Nearly didn’t respond.  Didn’t you look at my site?  Thought we had a case of Münchhausen’s by Proxy: this women trying to get sympathy for herself via a non existent child.  At least there was one.  I couldn’t do what you do.  I know you’re going to try and help her.  I still want to kill her.  Best of Luck.  Jen.​

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I’d wanted to kill her too.  It’s sick using an imaginary child to gain others, sympathy.  But she needed help and didn’t find it.  That doesn’t excuse what she did, but help should have been there.  Maybe, if she understands that, she was entitled to help then but it wasn’t forthcoming, so her problems have been allowed to fester.  She’s allowed victimhood to take over, demanding others give her the victim status she so desperately wants because no one listened, no one gave her support when she needed it, so it’s become a black hole and consumed her.  But if I can get her to understand her problem can be solved if she wants to solve it.  Just maybe it’ll work and she’ll see she can’t keep demanding help because she’s overwhelming, she needs somewhere to start and someone to provide a walking stick to help her make those first steps.  I’ll do it simply to get her off our backs and stop her doing this to others.  And if this email doesn’t make sense: I’m sorry, I’m tired.  It’s late.  Fix a date, another time?  If I can get her to stand up, you’ll help, won’t you?  John.​

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Let me calm down first.  But I’m with you.  Jen.​

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#​

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About the author

Emma Lee's short stories have been published in anthologies and magazines including Fairlight Books, Gentle Footprints (Bridgehouse Publishing) and Extended Play (Elastic Press). She was runner-up in Writing Magazine’s Annual Ghost Story Competition. Her most recent poetry collection is Ghosts in the Desert (IDP, 2015), The Significance of a Dress is forthcoming from Arachne in 2020. She is Reviews Editor for The Blue Nib, co-edited Over Land, Over Sea: poems for those seeking refuge (Five Leaves, 2015) and blogs at http://emmalee1.wordpress.com​

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The Front Lines

by Luke S

  nice comforting hot chocolate

I slumped against the muddy wall of the trench in the cold; my fever was not treating me well at all, especially when I was staying here, hungry and having not slept in a very long time. It was 1916 at the Somme; it had been two months since this tremendous battle had begun. My lieutenant cap was askew. I closed my eyes, wondering if I would survive and get home. A short and plump soldier with black hair wearing a dirty battle bowler ran up to me, “Sir? Sir, are you alright?”

I slowly opened my eyes. The soldier looked about eighteen years old. He was carrying a large dust sheet and looked quite worried. 

“Oh, good, you’re alive, here take these,” he said passing me the dust sheet. “They’ll keep you warm and hopefully help your fever a little.” 

I took the dust sheet and wrapped it around myself. I closed my eyes again and muttered, “Thank you, trooper.” 

I pulled some of the dust sheet behind my head so that I didn’t have to rest it against the muddy wall behind me. I was thinking about my family and eating my grandmother’s homemade pies, when I remembered about my best friend Wallace. I hadn’t heard from him in ages and apparently he hadn’t sent letters back to his mother. I opened my eyes and started to get up. 

The trooper put out his hands to push me back down, “Sir, what are you doing, you need rest, no, sir you need rest!” he said as I struggled against him to get back up. 

“I need to find a friend.” I said through gritted teeth. 

The trooper looked at me. 

“Who is he?” he asked, finally letting me stand up. 

I grabbed the dust sheet in my hands, “Sergeant Wallace Hull.” I replied, putting my lieutenant cap straight. 

The trooper thought about the name for about ten seconds and then said, “Oh, yeah, him, I’m pretty sure he’s on the front lines, sir.” 

I immediately started walking, 

“Sir, wait.” 

I stopped. 

“I don’t think going to the front lines will help your fever, sir.” 

I looked back at him and said, “I don’t care.” I turned around and carried on walking. 

The trooper followed me; I thought he was going to tell me to turn back again but instead he said, “If you’re going then I’m going.” 

I looked back at him and nodded, he nodded back. I looked forwards again and plodded on, faster than before. After about ten minutes of speed-walking, the trooper and I arrived at the front lines. I looked around for my friend franticly. I moved forwards more to try and spot him. Suddenly, many German soldiers arrived at the top of the trench, aiming rifles and flamethrowers.

The Germans started shooting their weapons, the soldier and I ran back the way we came, keeping our heads down, soldiers were being shot down and set on fire behind us. The screams rang in my ears; I did not dare look back. We turned around a bend and saw Germans at the top of the trench there; luckily, there was another straight passage that we could go through. I tugged the soldier so that he would notice the passage. We sprinted down it, mud flying on our uniforms. When the passage ended, it was not a pleasant sight; there were men, drowned in an enormous pool of their own blood and around the outside of that pool, there were dozens more dead soldiers, almost cemented into the mud. Reluctantly, I walked forwards through the blood, my socks now extremely wet. I collapsed; I needed rest if I wanted to go on with my trench fever. The soldier pulled me out of the blood. 

 “I can’t go on without some rest,” I said weakly. “Find him for me.” 

The soldier put the dust sheet that I had dropped on the mud when I collapsed over me, “No, sir, I have to stay with you.” replied the soldier. 

I looked at him, “That’s an order.” 

He stood up slowly and reluctantly then nodded at me, “Yes sir.” He turned and walked away through the passage. I closed my eyes and started to drift off. I dreamed about being at home with my family, no fever, no war, eating a delicious Sunday roast. I heard fast footsteps coming to the house. Germans smashed through the walls with rifles in hand and started shooting down my family. 

“Sir! Sir, wake up!” I awoke, the trooper was crouched down in front of me. “Sir, we have to move; Germans are coming this way on the top of the trench.”

The soldier helped me up and I picked up the dust sheets. We walked through the blood and into the passage, crouching a little. Suddenly, a shell went off a few metres in the air above us.  We fell to the ground and I dropped the dust sheets, mud splattered all over my face, making it more dirty than it already was. We started crawling, hoping that the Germans wouldn’t spot and kill us. The soldier and I heard a sound behind us; we looked to see what it was and saw yellow mustard gas coming towards us. ,

“GAS!” shouted the trooper. I fumbled around frantically for my gas mask. I found it and put it over my head; the trooper did the same. We waited and eventually, the gas disappeared. I crawled to the end of the muddy passage, the trooper behind me. We stood up and I ran back through the rushing men to where I was before the Germans attacked. I saw a random trooper standing at a ladder that soldiers were climbing up. I turned to him, “Have you seen a friend of mine? He is Sergeant Wallace Hull.” 

He looked at me, “Yeah, he just went over the top,” he said loudly so that I could hear him over the noise. My heart skipped a beat. I had to go and find him. I started climbing the ladder. 

“Sir, you can’t go over there! You’re unarmed and have a fever!” shouted the trooper that had given me the dust sheets. 

I stopped and turned my head around, looking him directly in the eyes, “He would do the same for me.” I climbed up to the top of the ladder and then clambered into no-mans land.

Chaos; Shells were going on left and right. I ran as fast as I could, trying my best to avoid bullets. My fever couldn’t take it; I threw myself onto the mud, wishing that none of this had happened. The air was horrible.  It was a mix between gas that had faded, pollution, blood and the stench of dead bodies. I turned my head and saw a man that had been blown back from a shell and hit a sharp branch from an old, decayed tree that had stabbed him through the chest. Everywhere around me, there were dead bodies. Loose coils of barbed wire lay scattered around the land. Suddenly, I heard Wallace call my name; I scrambled around to look where it came from. The noise could be because of my head from the fever but I didn’t care. I crawled through the mud. My ears had never taken this much noise at once.  All I could hear were screams of pain, the rattle of machine guns and shells going off. I could feel bullets ripping through the air past me.  “WALLACE?” I cried out. My light brown hair now looked black from the mud that entered it.  “ARE YOU OUT THERE? WALLACE!” I slightly heard a call that sounded like him. I immediately started crawling to the place where it had come from. Before I could reach the place, however, a shell exploded a few metres in front of me. It blasted me backwards into a lump of mud and my leg got trapped in barbed wire. I yelled in pain. My vision went blurry and then I passed out.

I woke up slowly; the material underneath me didn’t feel like mud or rock, it felt comfortable. I fully opened my eyes. A ray of sunshine beamed through a window at my eyes and stung them because of how much darkness I had been in through the past two months. Where was I? My eyes finally stopped hurting and I looked around; I was in a lovely, clean and white room with luxurious comfortable beds lying around the room. I finally realised that I was in a hospital bed. I heard a voice, “Peter? Oh goodness, you’re awake!” I looked to my left and saw my fiancée crouching down next to me. Her smooth brown hair was done up perfectly into a bun. I sat up suddenly and she held me in a tight embrace. I had survived. 

Suddenly, Wallace jumped into my mind.  “Wallace…” I muttered, “Amanda, where is he, where is Wallace?” I started to try and get out of the bed to look around but Amada stopped me.

“Peter, Wallace, he…um… well he didn’t make it.” she said. I couldn’t believe it, my best friend, the man I had been with for almost all of my life, he was gone? A tear slowly rolled down my cheek, “It’s ok Peter…” Amanda said, “You can rest now.”

Talia and the Jinn

Mason Bushell

scotch whiskey as it burns like the Jinn

Enough was enough for Talia, she was done being the victim. She was done getting beaten and bullied every day. The cherry blonde sat cross-legged on her bed, wearing her nightdress. Her emerald eyes shone as she took in the effigy of a creature of myth. A terrifying horned creature of fire, upon a talisman in her hand. The fire demon would make things right. Talia pressed the coin between her palms and uttered the summoning spell. At once her cool room became muggy warm. An orange hue came over the blue walls. Her computer screen blinked out, and the mouse crashed to the floor.

“You summoned me,” said a booming voice, one that sounded quite fed-up. Talia looked about her room, seeing nobody. Shuffling along to her desk, she let her bare legs hang off the bed. They felt warm like the desk was on fire. “Well, what do you want me to do?” said the voice. This time Talia saw him. A figure whose mighty muscles appeared carved from granite. He was fiery orange, dripping in flames. Even his hair was aflame rather like a candle, with him being just five inches tall. 

“I was expecting you to be taller, and more frightening.”

“Huh, they all do, but nobody ever summons me right.” The Jinn folded his arms and looked up to Talia, sat like a giant before him. “You must do the spell when you’re angry, and with destruction in mind if you want the demon to come and burn your bloody house down.” 

“Sorry, I didn’t know. I hoped you could go to my school and take care of those who bully me.” Talia sighed. “But you’re too small.” 

“Really.” The Jinn unfolded an arm and pointed it at her. At once she squealed as her nightdress burst into flames. She was forced to pull it off and stomp it out, revealing her bruised body.

“That was unnecessary, you’re supposed to help me, not torch me.” Talia padded to the wardrobe and pulled her dressing-gown on. 

“Well, now you know I’m diminutive in size but not power.” The Jinn began pacing, his footsteps causing the desk to smoke as he moved. “So, let me get this straight. You want me to go to your school and what, burn it down with the bullies inside?”

“No, I wanted you to find those who hurt me, and burn their homework, punish them and teach them a lesson.” Talia picked up her coffee, and put it down at once, it was cold. The Jinn touched the mug, it was the same size as he was. Inside the brown liquid became to bubble and steam, leaving the girl smiling at him. “You still have uses though.”

“Watch it, I’m not going to be your bloody butler.”

“Touchy, aren’t you?”

“Hundreds of years getting mis-summoned for stupid vendettas does that to a Jinn.”

“So, you won’t help me then?” Talia sipped her coffee, her eyes on the fiery figure, now melting a rubber pig he was leaning on.

“I can’t.”

“Sure, you can, you burned my nightdress.” Talia kicked the still smoking garment with her bare toes.

“Burning a bully’s pants off won’t make them stop hurting you.” The pig suddenly collapsed pitching the Jinn off his feet. “Oh, I wish I could turn my flames off,” he complained while getting up. Talia giggled at him. 

“You’re funny.”

“I’ll be on stage every night at the comedy club.” The Jinn snorted and paced again. “Look bullies attack people because they’re jealous of them, or because they’re the weakest in class. You must figure out which and confront them.”

“Charlie and Paulette are just horrible though. You saw my bruises.”

“I did. I trust your tutors do nothing?”

“They give out detentions. Missing a lunch break never stops them. In fact, it makes them worse.” Talia felt tears prickling her eyes. If the Jinn wouldn’t help what more could she do?” 

“Hey, no tears, that’s not going to beat those bullies. I want you to go to school and catch Charlie and Paulette on their own. I want you to get in their faces and demand to know why they attack you. Let them see you’re not scared, and that you’re going to start swinging for them if they don’t quit. That should stop them.” 

“If it doesn’t, then what Jinn?”

“Well.” The Jinn smiled at her. “If it doesn’t, I’ll go and torch their homework and burn their pants off.”

Family Ties

Family Ties

by David Gower

sloe gin on a slow day

Marjory’s excitement when telling all to her sister in law, Vera, was evidenced by her hurried words. They tumbled from her lips with hardly a pause for breath.  

“It was all such a shock. Coming in to the office to find the back door smashed and things rifled. Papers thrown everywhere, cabinets forced,  drawers upended and the petty cash tin on the floor. Not that there was much in it apart from some stamps and receipts. I was never able to balance it properly, I hated doing it and...”

Vera interrupted “But what happened? Was there anyone there? Did you disturb the thief? It must have been awful for you.”

Marjory attempted to answer as best she could. “Well, I ran next door and called in Mr James. He rang the police and so we felt brave enough to go back to looked for any burglars. Of course, not a sign of anyone except a muddy footprint and some blood on the broken glass. We never touched anything though.”

Vera almost squealed with excitement “Clues! Just like on the telly!! I’m glad you are safe but you must admit it is exciting. What did the police do?”

“Oh Vera. They made more mess than the burglar. That fingerprint powder is everywhere though the policeman said he expected the burglar had socks on his hands.

I said “Socks? I thought they always wore gloves”. He explained that was what thriller writers wrote. He reckons they often find young people who cannot explain why they have spare socks in their pocket!”

“What about the blood Marge? Was there much? Did you have to clean it up? Who cleans it all up when this sort of thing happens?”

“Funny you asked about that. They noticed I had cut my hand and it had a plaster on it. I told them I did it in the kitchen but they wanted me to give a DNA sample. Me! I made it quite clear that I am a respectable member of this community but they said, as politely as they could, that I was a suspect until the blood was tested. The nerve of these people. Anyway, after I calmed down they did one of those cotton bud things inside my mouth as a swab to ‘eliminate me’ from inquiries. Eliminate indeed. That’s why I was hoping to talk to Roger. As the current Mayor he needs to know how innocent people are treated when things like this happen! I told the officer that my brother is the Mayor but it cut no ice. I’d like to see his face when his Chief Constable gets a letter from the desk of the Mayor.”

Vera sympathises “You only just missed him dear. He went to the allotment but left his phone in the kitchen. He is so careless with these things but sometimes I think he does it deliberately to avoid calls from residents. He spends so much time doing his Council duties but never seems to get any thanks.”

Marjory continued being outraged - unwilling to play second fiddle to her sister in law “The policeman told me they have all this forensic equipment and laboratories. I said to him “in that case I would expect you to solve more crime”. He didn’t like that one bit. You would think when they go on about it so much they would catch more of these people and lock them up.”

“I think you have watched too many thrillers, dear,” came Vera’s reassuring voice. She continued “I am sure they have lots to do and not enough time like the rest of us.”

“You may be right, Vera, but it was an insult to be viewed as a suspect on top of being a victim of an office burglary.” Herr tone changed to a more thoughtful one. “I wonder if there was a political reason behind it with the local elections coming up? You know how much my brother has been campaigning for law and order.”

The Mayor was a self-made man. He had worked his way up from poverty and made good money. Now he did his best to represent the electorate, even those who disagreed with his political views. Digging the allotment was relaxing. It allowed him to be outdoors, talk to his neighbouring plot holders, donate some of his harvest to the community and be seen as an upstanding member of the community. An example to others. He felt strongly that his voters should see him stand up for law and order.

Back home to Vera from his afternoon of digging, a broad smile on his face and a bag filled with the fruits of his labours, he listened with growing interest to Vera as she recounted his sister’s phone call. His office burgled. Probably only for petty cash by tearaways who should be locked up. There could be some useful press coverage.

At the very least it would be a good photo opportunity. He could release a statement to the media backing law and order. It was almost as if he had prayed for such an opportunity.  Turn a setback into an opportunity was his motto. A chance not to be missed. His mind raced to come up good phrases to strengthen his campaign.

His manner changed when Vera told him about the blood sample taken for testing. Vera’s voice faded into a dull noise and fear gripped him.

Her DNA would tie to his.  His DNA – unidentified so far – waited patiently on the police cold crime database to be recognised. That unwitnessed spur of the moment action that he had long ago put to the back of his mind came back with cold clarity. Witnessed by no one except him and the victim. His hand carried the scar from where he had cut himself on the blade. All his work to climb away from who he had been long ago would be for nothing. 

Justice would be done…just as he had always argued for since entering politics.

Closing the Door

by Melissa Maney

whiskey

The once unattainable had become decrepit. 

Faded hair dye, skinny body, sloppy kisses, stripper money. Jameson and cigarettes on her breath. That was all that remained of her. She was not the same woman I had fallen in love with. This was a stranger. 

Five years ago, she was at her best in every capacity. But now, her health had declined and her spirit had dimmed. She was struggling, suffering, and barely surviving.  She had chosen this life for herself.  

I wish she hadn’t.  

 “I want you,” she said, with almost a sad, slurry choke. She touched my face. 

Her words left a bad taste in my mouth.  I didn’t want to hear it. In my head, I kept screaming, “Stop, stop, STOP.” 

“You’re drunk,” I said, with a nervous laugh. 

“Only a little,” she responded, smiling. “Can I tell you something?” 

I nodded. 

“I think there’s a reason we keep coming back to each other.” She paused. “I still love you.” She looked deep in my eyes. “Do you still love me?” 

An immediate “no” popped in my head.

“I don’t know,” I answered aloud. 

She was saying everything I had always wanted to hear, all of these years later, and in that moment I discovered how much I no longer wanted it.  I didn’t want her love. I didn’t want her mind, her body, her sex. I didn’t want her. 

“I think you should go now,” I said, looking away from her.  

“Why?” she responded, hurt. 

“Something doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel good,” I said. 

“Let me try to make you feel better,” she said. She came up behind me and kissed my neck. 

I shook her off. “That makes me feel worse.” 

She stopped, confused. 

Suddenly, my discomfort turned into anger.  How dare she come crawling back to me. Now that she had no one, including all of the lovers she had cheated on me with, she was trying to get back together?

“You have to go now,” I said sternly. She looked at me with sad eyes. It broke my heart all over again. Maybe I did still love her. 

“Please,” I said, looking away. 

She slowly got up from my bed, gathered the only few things she had, and walked out, closing the door on any possibility of “us” ever again. I wondered if I had made a mistake.  I reopened the door to watch her leave.  

Finally, I closed the door.