Jackmonkey Games and Media

Author: Fiction Fairy

  • Flowers For The Lady

    Flowers For The Lady

    A new horror story by the Fiction Fairy, Fey Cosmo.

    TRIGGER WARNING: This contains confronting themes and is recommended for those aged 15 and up.

    Dear Reader: The serial, “Brethren of Judas” is on a mental health/research hiatus, as the topic of coercion right now is a difficult one for me. Please enjoy ‘Flowers For the Lady’, a one-off story of cosy, modern horror.

    NOW

    When I was eight, in the old country, my grandmother died while my mother was carrying her from the bath to the bed.

    She had been fighting cancer for seven years, after being told she had only months to live. The story, told so often I can recite it from memory, is that the doctor gave her the bad news and she gave him the finger and walked out calling over her shoulder, “I’ll see you in Hell”.

    Maybe they met down there, or maybe in Heaven, but I know she’s back tonight.

    THEN

    Mum was fussing over our clothes obsessively, as she always does when we’ll see Tia Rica. That’s not her name, by the way, just what we call her amongst ourselves. She married a butcher, so she’s as rich as anyone in our family can possibly hope to be, in our part of the world. Her children, our cousins, always have fashionable new clothes while we dress like awkward little scarecrows sponsored by the Salvation Army, or Lifeline.

    My family is a sad joke to them because we’ve only been in this new country for three years. They have what we crave, their own house with no landlord, a terrifying word, a house that no one can kick them out of. Two cars, like millionaires. A Nintendo with Super Mario on it, that they play on a TV in one of the boys’ rooms. We only have one television in the living room, and no console, and one car and our cousins lord it over us like pompous little kings of Mario Land. They don’t need the cheat codes for games, they have money, the ultimate power-up in life, and they never let us forget it.  

    Truthfully, their comments make me nervous, and being nervous activates my terribly weak bladder. I turn red easily, or I laugh or cough too hard, and suddenly I’m as wet as a sponge. I’m not too close to my period, in fact, I’m a little scared of it, but I already wear pads on special occasions to avoid the smell. But not every occasion is a pad occasion, because they are expensive, and today mum skips it. In the back of my mind, I know we’ll both regret it when the accident occurs, and the smell follows. But it won’t be the sighting of the ghost that causes it, ironically.

    The ghost won’t even have a cool name, his name was John, and he wasn’t a friend, more of an ever-present nuisance in our class. He was naughty, loud, and never paid attention. He was a puller of braids and a thief who stole chip packets. Over the two-week holiday between term 1 and 2, he and some friends broke into the local high school to play handball. Someone, we don’t know who, threw a tennis ball too high and it landed on the roof of the school hall. John climbed easily onto the roof, easily fetched the ball, then easily stepped on a skylight. It couldn’t hold him, so he fell through and died.

    We were shocked, I mean we were only eleven and in year 5, but we were familiar with death. Hayley, a sweet, shy girl from our class had found her father hanging in the closet one day and we heard all about it. Diva and Prisha had watched their grandfather collapse while gardening, and I… well… I had the Shadowman, but I hadn’t shared that one like the others had. But now 5H had something binding us together, from the quietest, weirdest nerd like me and my friends, all the way up to Candice and Stephen, the coolest kids that we all wanted to be. John’s death had glued us all together as he was still playing handball in our thoughts.

    We snap back to the ugly reality of driving to see Tia and her unbearable children when dad pulls over in front of her house, reminding us to walk carefully through her garden. Her flowers and plants are fancier than anything we have because we cannot afford much. Mum and dad can barely afford to feed the giant, constantly hungry German-Shepherd cross breed dog who guards our house, but we keep her because she’s terrifying to the neighbours. They haven’t stolen anything from our yard since we got her, but it could just be a matter of time till they need money and then our lawnmower will disappear. Carefully my sister and I pick our way through the path in the dark, up to the fancy, large white house with the polished wooden floors. In defiance of everything we’ve been taught, Tia’s lawnmower sits brazenly in the open, not locked up or hidden away.

    She kisses our cheeks with the same disdain as normal but fusses over her half-brother, my dad. Mum once drank just a splash too much at a BBQ and cattily sneered that Tia may have the fancy house, but she didn’t have everything, meaning my father. Sure, her fancy butcher-husband and our “Uncle” Ronald made them rich, but he wasn’t funny at functions like my quick-witted, charmer of a dad. Meanwhile, my brother was seated right next to my father while the whole family admired his good looks as my father’s clone. I didn’t know at the time, but the strange visitor I would later see was already there, observing. Maybe that’s why they spoke to me.

    Tia always had good meat, so at least we ate well. Leaving the noisy dining room, I went to the peaceful living room and “home theatre”, where Ronald’s collections of videos lived. They also had tv you had to pay to watch, which was mind-blowing to me.  I curled up next to my sleeping sister, who could fall asleep at the drop of a hat if she was full, even on the couch with me. I had my bookbag from school because once the adults started talking about the old country, the war and politics, there was nothing for me to do. My brother would get to play Nintendo with the cousins, easily accepted into the secret male cabal of gaming that we girls were banned from.  I took out my horror story compilation and got comfortable.

    I loved reading, and the library, and borrowed anything with a remotely creepy looking cover. Ever since I first woke up screaming about the Shadowman, my mind has been comforted by the idea that the dark is not empty, its just waiting to reveal itself. Even in this new country with a different history and heritage, there is still darkness. It had only been a few weeks since John had taken his tragic steps and his organs had been donated and that fascinated me. This story, the Tell-Tale Heart, seemed to be all about the beating noise from under the floor and the sickly white eye of the old man. I loved the idea that the heart was separate from the gift of life itself and that somewhere, a little piece of John lived in someone else.

    “You have sauce on your cheek, mija. Here.”

    Barely looking up from my book, I took the delicate white handkerchief and wiped around my mouth. I was a greedy little eater, even at an early age, maybe because we were never sure how much money we were going to have, and I had wolfed down the steak leaving tell-tale smears. Wipe, wipe, wipe, then back to the Tell-Tale Heart. I went to hand back the handkerchief and mumbled, “Thank you, Tia.”

    “De nada, mija, you can keep that.”

    Now I was FORCED to engage. Tearing my eyes away from my book, I looked over to Aunty, prepared with the adult-created script of, how are you, how is your arthritis, your house is so lovely, we love it when you invite us. But I couldn’t deliver my lines because I didn’t recognise the beautiful lady beside me. All I could do was stare.

    She was tall, taller than mum and Tia, maybe as tall as dad, and she smelled strongly of flowers, wax and soil that was just turned over. On her head was a crown of orange roses, and her long black hair tumbled free and thick. She wore a beautiful mask, like the ones I grew up seeing for Day of the Dead. It made perfect sense, after all, that’s why we were here. Technically, this party was not about meat at all, it was a celebration of all our dead. We’d readied ourselves without looking in the mirror because they were all covered, lest we see the dead standing behind us. Mum had lied for so long about loving her father more than anything, but I think she was scared to see his face behind her in the mirror, so she was very careful about covering them. Maybe she was worried she would see him.  He’d be reaching for her hair to pull it from her scalp, telling her that lipstick was only for a puta.

    This Lady, whoever she was, was not afraid of that word as we were. We’d been told that a puta was a woman who slept with men, which was wrong, because a woman is meant to be a mother and not a pretty display for men. But this Lady was beautiful and alluring, despite her strange clothes. She wore a black corset with roses on it over pale skin and a full black skirt. I could not see her smile, but it radiated out of the eyeholes of her colourful, painted skull mask. The fabric of the skirt near her feet seemed to tell a story. There was a boy with sandy hair, tennis balls, a man lying in a garden, a closet, a bathtub, a bottle, a baby blanket and two hands, smeared with something. All of those had to mean something, but I couldn’t piece together what. I wanted to ask her who she was, but something told me not to, so I just stared.

    “Are you having a good fiesta?” she asked. Her voice was slightly muffled by the mask, but it was a real question. She pulled out a fan from the many folds of her skirt and delicately fluttered it around her, waiting for an answer. “Yes, its lovely,” I lied.

    “You don’t need to lie to me, mija. What do you really think?” Again, I could hear the smile.

    “It’s boring when the adults talk for hours, so I bring my books. But the food is good, and mum and dad are having fun talking, so its fine.”

    “I like books too. Do you like the way I’m dressed?”

    “Absolutely!” I gushed, a bit too enthusiastically. I had seen Beetlejuice and I loved the goth aesthetic without even knowing what the word aesthetic meant. “You look amazing! I love your skirt!”

    “I like my skirt too. Your mother, she follows the old rules about the mirror, yes? And the offerings?”

    “Of course. Our tata, grandfather, he loved apricots, so they’re at the table at home, along with roses for grandmother.”

    “But you have forgotten someone, mija. There is no gift for your friend.” Her voice held a note of sadness, but I also felt the chide for what it was. She waved her black-gloved hand to one of the empty chairs in the deserted living room and John was there, waving. He looked as he’d always looked and although it was a little startling to see him there, I waved back. Maybe I was asleep, having a dream like my sister.

    “And what about this one?” The Lady waved her hand again, and I saw my grandmother as I had never seen her before, strong and upright in the seat next to John. She was knitting a shawl and beamed at me, making me beam back.

    “I’m sorry, I …”

    “No apologies, the night is short. You will go into the garden and bring back lots of flowers for your grandmother and me, and a ball for John. It is the right thing to do. I will watch your sister and hold your book. Go now, this is important,” she said.

    As I snuck past the adults, who probably thought I was going to the toilet, I thought of my school principal and realised the Lady had the same strong, soft voice that you dared not challenge. Some people do not have to scream to impose their will, because a mere whisper has behind it the force of pure steel. I dared not disagree.

    Sneaking past the dining room where my father and aunty held court as mum resentfully watched, I entered the hallway and stopped. Tia was too modern to cover her fancy, gold trimmed mirror and I was suddenly terrified to walk past it. I had to, to get to the yard, but I didn’t want to see what was there. I got as close as I could, then pushed myself against the wall opposite, closing my eyes and pressing my face to Tia’s fancy wallpaper, barely daring to breathe. I felt eyes watching me from the cold mirror world and I knew there was more than one figure pressed up against the glass. Something told me there was a man with bloodied hands watching me. There was a woman in white, maybe a nurse, with guilt on her face, because she gave someone medicine that killed them by accident. And there was another figure, younger than the others, who held a bundle, like the shape of a baby, but the child was dead. They were watching me from the world of reflections on this, the Day of the Dead, but I would not turn to face them.

    I made it outside and my eyes were grateful for the darkness. In the distance was the outline of our car, because the driveway was for their cars, particularly Tia’s Lexus. It was the height of elegance to us, even the name, Lexus, was beautiful. We had never been inside it. Next to it was a Landrover, belonging to Ronald, Tia’s Australian Butcher Husband. She was so fancy, she had married outside of the genetic pool of lost Latino people that my family constantly hung around. We didn’t fit with the white people, so we found other lost ones and made them our friends. Tia was better than us, because she had married a native, with his own business and a boat. But I had a mission and began to search for flowers.

    I didn’t know where to start so I left the front garden and retreated to the back, past the metal gate and big tree that separated the fancy front of the house from the more mundane yard. I didn’t expect my cousins to be playing on their swing set at night, or that my brother would be perched on the top of their slide, watching them swinging like a demented pendulum that rocked the metal frame, standing up, while the other pushed. Their playground was an out of place relic of when they were younger, but at night it became menacing, especially as the boys were too old and big for it, swinging hard. There was something about their laughter that scared me. “Hey, its Rosa, you want a go on the swing?” called Caleb, pushing Taylor as hard as he could. “No thank you,” I said politely.

    They scared me, they always had. Something about being half-Australian, with Australian names gave them an armour I would never be allowed to wear. They were born here, not over there and they were older and richer, things that made them BETTER, like an invisible tattoo of success. “Come on, it will be fun,” said Taylor, leaping off the swing with confidence. His sneakers, Nike of course, had made the seat of the swing dirty and now they offered it to me, smiling their shark-smiles. “No no, I’m ok thank you,” I said, and tried to go around them.

    Then Caleb grabbed me and sat me on the swing, hard. Barely fourteen, but twice my size, and a million times my confidence, I’m pretty sure he could have killed me and received only praise for being so strong and efficient. They were bullies to us, the two of them, only accepting my brother because he could be moulded into a mini-them, and of course mum and dad didn’t believe me. We were cousins, just playing. It was all part of the game. I held the chains on the side of the swing for dear life.

    It could have looked innocent because I didn’t scream, I was too scared. It just looked like two cousins, pushing a girl on a swing. But it was so hard, so fast that as I went feet-first, flying into the darkness, my bladder betrayed me, and I started to cry. Taylor noticed the pee and pulled the swing to a stop, pushing me out of it. “Ew, she’s peed on it, you fucking baby, get inside and clean your arse.”

    “Yeah, your arse, your arse stinks,” parroted Caleb. From atop the slide, my brother watched. He was only seven, but old enough to not break the unspoken boy-code. I ran to the second bathroom, blazing past the mirror with my cheeks burning with embarrassment and fear. It took me a long time to dry myself and the familiar urine smell wouldn’t leave without a wash, but at least I looked presentable. I snuck past again, determined.

    Back in the safety of the front yard, I delicately pinched every wayward dandelion I could find and then moved on to the thin, weedy daisies, but it was not enough. Tia, like my mother, had geraniums in every colour she could find, so I took one of each, binding them into a small posy. It looked colourful and less pathetic now, so I began to search for the ball. I felt very infantile and a little silly, but I eventually found one on the veranda and I sighed with relief that the Lady would be happy. Composing myself, because my dad hated to see frowning faces at a party, I crept past the laughing parents and went back to the couch.

    My sister was still there, but the Lady was not. My book lay undisturbed where I had left it, but there was no sign of her, or the others. But I was used to following orders, so I walked over to the perfunctory offering table Tia had for HER family, where a mango and a cockatoo feather sat in honour of some Australian ghost and added my posy and tennis ball. I stared at them for a sad moment then turned back to face my chair and she had returned.

    “Que bonito! Come sit down mija,” she said, her voice still smiling in tone and muffled. The smell of candle wax and flowers was stronger now, as if she’d been walking and her skirt had brushed past them. I sat silently, respectfully as I could. I wanted to apologise for taking so long and smelling like urine, but that didn’t seem right. I don’t think that’s what she wanted to hear. So, I said nothing, I just gazed at her politely and murmured without thinking, “You’re so beautiful.”

    Embarrassed, I looked down, and heard her sigh. “Thank you mija. I like to look nice when I visit, so I can remind everyone that they will all meet me eventually. Like her, and your friend,” she said, gesturing at my re-appeared grandmother and John. “But you are sad, mija, porque? Tell me.” Again, the silent insistence of her tone blossomed into a burning need to tell her every worry I had. Would we be poor and unfortunate forever? Why could I see her and no one else seemed to? Did dying hurt? Did my grandmother suffer? Did John suffer as he fell? Am I going to suffer too? Every question that my tiny mind held, all at once was buzzing like hornets trapped in my head to get out. I gasped, overwhelmed, the words not coming.

    Sensing something, her black gloved hand pressed her handkerchief into my hand and I felt the burning reality of something greater than me, than Life itself. The hand of the Lady of Death was bones under her lovely glove, that much was clear. I could feel bone, hard and unyielding without skin, holding me with power from beyond.

    “The Shadowman, the one who stands at the base of your bed, the one who your sister cannot see? You must wave this at him next time he appears, and he will not bother you again. He is lost and too stubborn to come to me so he bothers the living. You sleep in the room where his wife died. Just wave the handkerchief and do not forget to put out the offrenda for your loved ones, yes? Remember they aren’t gone, you know they aren’t, as long as you remember them.” She leaned forward, eyes peering hard from behind the white mask, and I wondered what held her eyes in place if there was no skin, no muscle. One bony finger poked the spot over my heart and said, “They live in here.”

    And when I looked up, she was gone.

    NOW

    Tonight, my Australian husband and I are going to the neighbourhood Halloween party, which falls on the same day as Day of the Dead. I married a native too, so now I really belong, and while he is dressed as Chewbacca, I am wearing the same outfit as the Lady. We will leave the house without checking our reflections, because the mirrors are respectfully covered, and the offerings are all in place. Among the costumed people, I will see my grandmother and John, and who knows who else, living, or dead. And just in case I run into the Lady again, I have her flowers ready.

  • The Sounds of Little Grove

    The Sounds of Little Grove

    A new horror story by the Fiction Fairy, Fey Cosmo. This story is lovingly dedicated to D and M… you know who you are

    TRIGGER WARNING: This contains confronting themes and is recommended for those aged 15 and up.

    Dear Reader: The serial, “Brethren of Judas” is on a mental health/research hiatus, as the topic of coercion right now is a difficult one for me. Please enjoy ‘The Sounds of Little Grove’, a one-off story of modern, suburban horror.

    He still walks them down the street, every evening. They’re still a snarling, horrifying mass of teeth and muscled, sleek bodies wearing studded collars. But now Killer Jap wears a scrappy, red bandana around his neck, and I dream about them. 

    My name is Brodie Marie Regan and I’m 14. This is not my story, it’s a story about a friend of mine called Ginevra Grace Rhodes. I’m taking a course for “Promising Young Athletes”, and this is the for the project, “Who Inspires You?” I know we were probably supposed to write about someone famous, but she Ginevra really inspired me, so here’s the story.  

    I should mention, our names are important because I’m pretty sure that’s why Mrs Halbrook put us together in kindergarten. Mrs Halbrook loved alphabetical order, and Rhodes followed Regan. I remember very clearly when she, Ginevra, walked in because she wasn’t wearing a uniform, she was wearing pyjama pants and a top that looked similar, but not quite part of the uniform. Mrs Halbrook would have said something, like, ‘This is Ginny, Ginny this is your class….’ or something like that, but then a small, precise voice corrected her. “Excuthe me pleathe, Thuthanna Halbrook, my full name ith Ginevra Grathe Rhodeth

    Tylar Scott, who would later become the biggest jerk in our year screamed at the teacher, “MISS IS YOUR FIRST NAME SUSANNA? THAT’S A DUMB NAME!” The whole class laughed but I remember Ginevra (not Ginny) scowling, like she wasn’t 5 and a half like the rest of us. She frowned like an impatient grownup.

    Soon this strange, pyjama-wearing, alien-acting girl with a giant lisp (lithp) was sitting next to me and unpacking with great care. I didn’t know what to say, she just kept pulling out lead pencils until there were about 8, all unsharpened and with their little white rubber ends completely clean. “How many do you have?” I asked in surprise. “Eight. I like the number eight,” Ginevra replied, in that same calm, precise voice. I would learn later that Ginevra really liked the number eight. In fact, when she liked something, anything, she Liked it with a capital L. 

    A few days later, Becky Roehampton was moved from our table of six girls because Cheryl came to our class. Cheryl was always around when Ginevra was in class, except for sport, and we simply accepted her as an adult that got paid to help kids in general, but especially to help Ginevra. She didn’t need help for schoolwork because she was very smart. But Ginevra needed help fitting in and doing the right thing. When Ginevra finished primary school with us, Cheryl was replaced by Mr Paxton, who did the same thing but in high school.

    It’s funny to remember now, how much I seemed to see of Ginevra.  I remember her always being there and then I couldn’t imagine school without her because she was my Friend. Friend with a capital F because she was very good to be friends with, because she always told the truth and always looked at you when you talked. Some people didn’t like that, but she looked RIGHT AT THEM, right in the eyes I mean. Sometimes other people would look away. But I didn’t mind, because it was nice to feel that when I spoke, Ginevra was hearing every word, like I was important. After a while I realised it was a bit of a privilege to be her friend, because she chose me, all because of my dad making me an egg sandwich for lunch. 

    My dad and me are the only two people in our family, unless you count Fancy, our poodle. Dad makes me lunch every morning and carefully trims off the crust and cuts the sandwich into neat triangles. Ginevra saw this as we opened our lunchboxes on the first day and for her at least, this made us BFF’s for life, as she TOO had an egg sandwich cut the same way. She was already sitting next to me, now we were eating the same food too. Little did I realise she ONLY liked egg sandwiches and would eat the same thing for lunch every day. Of course, the difference was who had made it, as Ginevra very precisely informed me, “My mother Doctor Thabrina Faith Rhodth made thith. She ith a doctor.” I replied that my dad Mick made mine, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t a doctor down at the factory. 

    Mum left when I was 2 and I don’t remember her at all. Dad tells me she got ‘fed up’ and just flew back to the UK and now it’s like she was never here at all. He always says, “Don’t worry love, she got fed up with me, not you,” but I’ll never know. I’ve seen a lot of two-year olds and they’re pretty annoying. Maybe I would have felt fed up too. I mean, look at my name! Dad was so sure I was going to be a boy he used the boy name he had reserved already. Thank GOD mum gave me the middle name of ‘Marie’ for one of her relatives. This confused my teachers growing up, as they expected to see a BOY when they called out “Brodie Regan”. But now I kinda like my name, especially when you say all three together, in a row, like Ginervra always did. To her I was never just ‘Brodie’.

    A lot of people didn’t like that about her though. I know primary school wasn’t easy for her because I was there for all of it. I was there when Tylar Scott cut some of her hair off and she screamed for two hours until her mum picked her up. I was there when Morris Melunga (in year 6!) thought it would be funny to steal her Munchables right out of her lunch box, because he knew she’d scream about it. That time it wasn’t two hours though, because Dr Rhodes, Ginevra’s mother, got smart and moved to a closer doctor’s office. In our class, we learnt the term, “meltdown” and why Ginevra needed her space when it happened. Cheryl even taught me to look for “triggers” and I saw that before any “meltdown”, Ginevra would scratch her head uncontrollably. When she was calm, and older, she said it was like her scalp was on fire from the tension inside.

    I started to see a lot of Ginevra’s family when she invited me to the Horse Party. In year 2 Ginevra absolutely LOVED horses. Everything had to be horses. She invited me and Sandra Lauren Thompson, but Sandra didn’t show up. The rest of the guests were her much older cousins, but Ginevra and I had a great time. Dr Rhodes had hired two ponies and we rode them around the yard for hours, even after the sun went down. At first Mr Rhodes tenderly led Ginevra around but in her normal, blunt manner, she quickly told him she was ok on her own, in her little pink cowgirl hat and pyjama pants. Eventually dad showed up looking for me, but he stayed for a cup of tea when he saw how much fun we were having. I remember having a super sore butt and thighs for days after because Ginevra just wanted to go round and round on her tired, brown pony. It’s a nice memory. 

    I remember very clearly when we were both nine that I started to get good at netball, and I was almost not Ginevra’s friend anymore. We learnt netball in sport and for the first time in my life I was good at something. Not a little bit good, but pretty good, and I was fast too. I got a spot on the under tens team and suddenly a lot more people wanted to talk to me. Dad was proud too. The only person who was not happy was Ginevra, mostly because she wasn’t very into sport. I mean she could throw a ball and run and everything but very quickly she would lose interest and want to go back to reading or drawing or counting or Maths or whatever else she had in her bag to do. I remember now, that at this time it was the closest I came to Ginevra not being my friend, until the day I invited her down to the court and she found something new to Love. 

    Love gets a capital because when Ginevra LOVES something, she loves it hard. Like in year 2 when she LOVED horses. After that it was Fantastic Crew, the tv show about the boy and his super-cat that go on adventures. Then it was computers. Then Netball rules, not the playing but the RULES. Then it was laws when we got to high school. I blame Sergeant Sam. 

    Sergeant Sam was a police officer who came to our school to talk about ‘Safe Fun Over the School Holidays’ because there’s a lot of crime in Little Groves. A long time ago, when the very rich ‘Little Family’ owned the land, they named EVERYTHING after themselves. Little Grove Public School. Little Grove Road. Little Lane. Little Street. Everything is called Little, even the netball courts, which are new, are called ‘Little Recreational Park’. Sergeant Sam told us about this and explained something called urban decay, which I didn’t understand, but I can remember the words on the screen of his presentation. They looked like graffiti. Sergeant Sam explained about all the things that were ‘illegal’ and ‘against the law’ and Ginevra was fascinated. I think all her life she wanted to learn about how things work and here was a way to understand the whole WORLD.  Sergeant Sam smiled and looked kinda cute for an old guy and we got to ask questions and Tylar Scott wanted to touch his gun, but Ginevra was not content just with his explanation, she wanted to know more. After this she was away for a few days and when she came back, she seemed to have learnt a LOT about different laws. It was pretty impressive. “Thargeant Tham was the tip of the itheberg, Brodie Marie Regan. All the good information ith online,” she said. 

    I didn’t mention at the beginning… Ginevra had a really bad lisp. It never went away- no matter how much she saw “Mithuth Mulheron” (Mrs Mulheron), the special speech-teacher that stayed with her till year 5. I think they just gave up after that because they realise it would never change. To me, it was just a part of her, but a lot of people teased her. Mr Gretchen, the casual teacher, laughed when he heard her in year 4. Being a teacher who laughed at her made it ok for the kids to laugh at her, until Cheryl said something. But I remember I was so, SO angry. I tipped his coffee all over his stupid laptop when he wasn’t looking. I saw the wallpaper of the race car, the icons on the screen and the cup of coffee and I just DID it, tipped the whole cup over the keyboard. He deserved it, and he never came back to our school. 

    I don’t want to write what happened next, but this is part of a bigger project, and it should be “from the heart”. This is about as “from the heart” as I get. And I promised my dad I’d let him read it, so I must finish it. He took on extra shifts at the factory to pay for me to do this course, so I owe him big time, what with his back being messed up and all that. Here we go… 

    The very first time Ginevra came down to the Netball courts she sat and watched us play for only a few minutes, then she was on the iPad for a while. Then she tried to speak to Melinda Sanders, our coach. Melinda was only in year 12 but she was a bit of hero to us because she had a car and a part time job at McDonalds. When she wasn’t working the drive-through, she was coaching the Little Grove Under-15 Gems, as she was the Goal Defence in the senior Gems. One day I wanted to be just like Melinda and have a car and a job, but maybe not her gross boyfriend Anton. He was creepy. Ginevra and Melinda had never met but I heard their entire conversation. 

    “Excuthe me but I think Brodie Marie Regan and Thamantha Rawlingth should thwap plathes.” Melinda looked stunned and then slowly replied, “What did you say?” “I wath reading a netball thrategy on making of the motht of your playerth and thince Thamantha ith taller, she should be Goal Defenthe, not Captain. Bethides, Brodie Marie Regan ith fathter.” I learned to listen around the lisp and understood her right away, but  I really didn’t want Melinda to think I set it up. Yes, I was taller than Samantha, and a faster, better player. But it was a big deal that Mr Rawlings, owner of “Rawlings Fine Meats”, regularly bought the netball club items that they needed. When you wear the logo of a person’s livelihood, they own you, unofficially.

    But Ginevra didn’t know that. In her world, which was a little black-and-white, there wasn’t room for the very grey situation between Mr Rawlings and Melinda, who kept his daughter in the best position on the team.  Melinda, who was never quick on the uptake, took a moment to consider this and said, “No, Samantha’s dad sponsors the team through his business, and he wants her to stay Captain. Thanks, but.” 

    Looking back, this may have set up the animosity between Melinda, Ginevra and by extension, creepy Anton. Anton’s deepest, darkest secret was that his dad was the scariest person in Little Grove. 

    Everyone who lived in the area had seen him. They lived near the border of where Little Grove became Ludersfield, on a property that occasionally had a horse, or a really thin goat, but mostly was the home to car-skeletons. To guard these precious, broken-down cars Anton’s dad, Mr Brumdel, kept his dogs.

    There were four in total: two darkish German shepherds, a cattle dog with one eye and a white pit bull terrier who had the privilege of being named ‘Killer Jap’. Apparently, Mr Brumdel was in a war or something, because he really didn’t like anyone Asian and was always threatening to ‘sick Killer jap onya’ if you came too close or looked at him wrong. And it seemed EVERYONE had looked at him wrong at some stage. He’d walk these four horrifying dogs twice a day, once first thing in the morning and the other just as the sun was setting. So there were times when we’d be leaving netball and he’d be walking down East Little Lane, filling the path with four insane dogs that were only BARELY restrained by a thick silver chain. 

    Everyone was terrified of the dogs because they always appeared to be just barely within the control of skinny Mr Brumdel’s tattooed arms. Anton was the only person they never seemed to bark at, of course, but everyone else refused to go near them.  I had seen people turn around or cross to the other side of the street in front of cars to avoid being near them.

    Except, of course, for Ginevra. 

    She approached him for the first time last year, in year 7. She told him that his companion animals weren’t “thafe” to walk around the neighbourhood and that dangerous dogs could be put down if they attacked someone. I was a few metres away because I didn’t have the courage to get any closer than I needed to. Killer Jap was snarling at me, and I remember Ginevra staring hard at Mr Brumdel, the way she looked at everyone.  I will never forget the hateful slew of words he spewed at her, but it didn’t dampen her spirits. Despite Anton being Melinda’s boyfriend, Ginevra was writing to the council email after email about Mr Brumdel’s dogs. She was determined to see it through and kept telling me, “The law ith on my thide.” 

    Last school holidays, the Rhodes family took Ginevra to Moree to see her aunt’s family. Ginevra apparently spent the entire summer (thummer?) swimming in the yellow-watered dam until they had to drag her out at nightfall. She also would have ridden around with her cousins Jacob John Rhodes and Harley Elaine Rhodes. Even when I met them, they weren’t ‘Jake and Harley’, I always thought of them by their full names. The Rhodes of Moree presented Ginevra with a beautiful woollen red beret, which she instantly loved. I remember when she wore it to school; sometimes she would rub it on her cheek, or on the sensitive skin on the back of her hand, or on her neck.  It was SO not part of the uniform, but the teachers were always very kind when Ginevra HAD to do something, like wearing her soft pyjama pants in the school navy colour, even in summer. The beret clashed, but she loved the texture of it.  

    She was wearing it the last time I saw her, around 5:30 on a slightly chilly Thursday. We had been training hard after school and Ginevra was happily sitting among our bags reading and occasionally looking up, when she had a phone call. Her mum was going to be quite late to pick her up and dad was still at the studio in the city, so she wondered how Ginevra would get home. Most parents might not have bothered to call but sweet Doctor Rhodes knew that her daughter, my friend Ginevra, would not be ok if there was a change in routine. I knew as much when I saw Ginevra stand up and start tapping the side of her head opposite to her phone. I’d seen her do that for most of my life, it meant she was upset and needed help. I signalled Melinda for a break, and she rolled her eyes and blew her whistle. Like I said, Melinda never liked her. 

    I jogged over and Ginevra was hitting herself harder now, so I looked her right in the eyes and said, “Let me help.” Still hitting, she passed the phone to me, and I heard Dr Rhodes trying to soothe Ginevra over the phone. It was strangely intimate, breaking into the conversation like that, but I knew them well, so I thought it was ok. “It’s me,” I interjected, and Dr Rhodes soothing voice stopped.

    “Brodie thank goodness. Can you walk her home? All the way home?” I knew what she meant, I lived in East Little Grove, the bad part, maybe two minutes away. But the Rhodes family had a lovely, large house just outside of our area, in the much nicer suburb of Barstow Falls. The walk would be at least 40 minutes, maybe more if Ginevra felt agitated. 

    But I didn’t care. Ginevra was my Friend with a capital, and in that moment, I felt very protective of her. I remember the way she spent her entire savings on the gold ‘Best friend forever’ necklace she gave me, the only gold thing I owned. Sure, Dr Rhodes had tried to pay for it, but Ginevra had insisted loudly that I was HER Best Friend. I ran a finger over the half-heart on the golden chain at my neck and nodded, “Of course I will Doctor Rhodes, of course I will.” She hung up and I reassured Ginevra that everything would be ok. She gave her head one last tap and I did “deep breath”- a gesture we had learnt from Spectrum Awareness Week, and we both took one. She was ok. 

    Melinda tried hard to get us back on form after that, but our rhythm was gone. Ginevra was fine but it was as if the whole team had been given bad news, so ten minutes later Melinda dismissed us. We were all out of shape she said, and it was true. Six weeks of hard rain had flooded the local sewers, and this was the first day when there wasn’t a slippery, fine mud on the court. Made sense that we should be in poor form. 

    So, we started walking. I can’t even remember what we talked about, only that it got very cold and dark very quickly. For a while it was nice that it started raining, because I cooled off, but very soon we were soaked. What I DO remember thinking, not for the first time, that I wish my dad didn’t always take the double and be home on time occasionally, but with a pang of guilt I remember that his overtime at the factory was the only thing between us and moving in with my nan in Mollymook. We were poor, there was no other way of explaining it. I always knew there was something different about us, especially compared to my dear friend and her large house. Dr Rhodes would drive me home later and I would be in her beautiful BMW, a very different car to my dad’s rattly old ute. I was deep in these thoughts when Ginevra stopped walking suddenly, because she heard the barking long before I did. It was Mr Brumdel. 

    Standing in the lane between some of the poorest townhouses in Little Grove is not where you want to be when there are scary dogs nearby, so we started running. It was the worst thing I could have done because I lost sight of Ginevra between streetlights when she ducked into an unfamiliar alley. I started screaming her name, but she had bolted. She’d never been to that part of Little Grove, and the moment we were separated she began to cry this low-pitched sobbing I knew would lead to worse things. Still screaming her name, I started to sprint my hardest. In my running and fumbling, I reached for my phone and dropped it straight into a puddle. I picked it up, barely caring, because her sobbing was like the build-up before a massive crying fit and my heart ached for my scared friend.

    I tried to follow the noise, but we were coming up to the massive storm water drain that ran under Ludersfield Road Bridge.  It ran behind the dodgy, decrepit houses and I hoped Ginevra had the sense to stop running before she got there. It was where kids when to shoot up or have sex on disgusting, abandoned mattresses that only barely avoided getting soaked by the run-off water. Then my heart stopped when I heard the barking intensify and a terrible scream split the night sky. 

    I had heard Ginevra scream many times and for many reasons but this scream, the scream from my nightmares, was unlike any of her other screams. It was wild, terrified, and animalistic. Louder than anything I had heard before from her and somehow more desperate than a normal scream should sound. I was breathing so hard, still tired from netball. I needed my asthma puffer, but I forgot to pack it. Then I collapsed to my knees, holding my head as the barking intensified to snarling and the screams abruptly stopped. 

    I was told I lost consciousness because I somehow passed out. In the moment when Ginevra needed me the most, I collapsed into my own fear and failed her.  I just don’t remember how I got there, only that I came to in the hospital. Maybe I hit my head, or just tipped over from shock, between two houses, just meters from the opening of the storm water drain under where the cars pass. There was still a lot of water from the recent rains, and it was flowing as fast as a river. That’s right where they found me, but they did not find Ginevra.

    The Rhodes family were very kind and moved away immediately after the funeral. The entire school attended but I wanted to slap them all. They never knew her, not properly but there they were, enjoying a day away from maths because my precious, special friend was now gone. They said she was an angel taken from us in the funeral and tried to draw attention away from the fact that my dear friend was not in the small white coffin. She was nowhere. 

    These days I have a ‘recurring dream’ that my psychologist (who is free of cost thanks to the school) helps me deal with ‘trauma’. I’m sceptical about it all since I don’t remember, but I have a new fear of being caught in the rain. When its about to start coming down, I hear sounds that I can’t really place, screaming, definitely screaming. Also, the sound of dogs snarling and eating, then the loud splash as something falls, and the laughter. Mr Brumdel laughs in my head, and I hear, “Get her Jap! On ya Killer Jap!”

    But it’s only a dream. 

    He still walks them down the street, every evening. They’re still a snarling, horrifying mass of teeth and muscled, sleek bodies wearing studded collars. But now Killer Jap wears a bit of scrappy, red bandana around his neck. 

  • Rois: A tale of medieval horror

    Rois: A tale of medieval horror

    TRIGGER WARNING: This contains confronting themes and is recommended for those aged 15 and up.

    Dear Reader: The serial, “Brethren of Judas” is on a mental health/research hiatus, as the topic of coercion right now is a difficult one for me. Please enjoy ‘Rois’, a one-off story of medieval horror.

    We walked out of the village together. I stomped furiously ahead, but it was not good enough because my mother could easily berate me from behind. “You can walk faster than that Rois, right now a cloud could out pace you.”

    I didn’t answer. I was still very angry she was taking to the tower with her. I had demanded to walk ahead to avoid looking at her back the whole time as we crossed the field. She carried the bag of rabbits without complaint, and it made me hate her more.

    Sensing my annoyance, she walked on, and I cursed her for thinking that the Tower at Abhainn was more important than me, her eldest daughter, her only girl. Hate, hate, hate her.

    Croi and Una watched as we went by, tending to the barley while murmuring about us. It’s none of their business but they love to talk, bitches, the pair of them. “It’s an honour, you know, not every woman is allowed to walk choisant with the men. We must protect the village, it’s our duty, are you listening?”

    “I am, and I know. You’ve been saying it all day.”

    “Well, maybe if I keep saying it, you might actually start to listen. Your grandmother Eithne and your great grand mother Clodagh walked choisant as well, it is your birthright.”

    A million times, maybe more, I’d heard of Clodagh, who was pulled from the river and charged with this “honour”. She had been saved by some old woman for this, but I had no interest in it.

    “I know, they walked choisant, mother, I know.. you’ve said…”

    “That’s why it matters. We’re an unbroken line of protection.”

    I couldn’t feign interest, I‘d been hearing about it too long to care as my first blood had come earlier in the day, and it was worse than mother had said. When I was eleven she started talking about the blood and here it finally was, a full two years late. She’d watched me like a hawk and insisted I tell her the moment it started, no matter what I was doing. She joked once that she could be halfway through birthing Brawley and she’d still drop everything and check on me.

    This morning, she was checking the rabbit traps when I woke and found the disgusting puddle. She was already half kneeling when I told her, but she dropped further and insisted I kneel too, and we prayed to Cernunnos, not Brigid. I wanted to ask mother why she chose him to thank, but tears of joy were rolling down her cheeks. It was just another annoying part of the day adding to the feeling that nothing made sense.

    Mother walked on and I tried to ignore the painful cramps and sore back. She was still rambling about our responsibility, but at least I could see the Tower of Abhainn ahead. “There are raiders, bandits, you know this. Our village is too close to the sea and the river, and with that comes good soil, yes, but also the greedy thieves. They only know how to steal; think of our cattle, the crops, our homes. Tonight, we go to the river ford and wait. You will see.”

    I was so angry at her tone I snapped, “See what? There is nothing to see! We waste the night wading in a ford while my belly hurts and for what?”

    She turned then and I stopped, having gone too far again. Narrowed eyes, flaring nostrils and wild, red braids streaked with some white, my mother was a sight to behold. I thought she’d slap me, and I would deserve it, but she didn’t. After a heartbeat, she just shook her head and said, “You’ll see tonight.”

    We didn’t speak again till a guardsman hailed us at the rampart to the tower. He called my mother’s name, Orlagh and she replied with surprising pride, “Aye, and with Rois!” That drew forward all the men and they poured out, stopping the repairs to the partially collapsed wall and coming down the tower itself. There were at least eight strong men to walk choisant with us and I wondered what two useless women could do. But they beheld us with respect and almost a sense of awe.

    “With Rois? Already?”

    “Wonderous! We are blessed indeed!”

    “With Rois here, we will crush them like mice!”

    They gathered around us and one of them took of his helmet to inspect me more closely. I was astounded at their respect to my mother and instantly suspicious. Their reaction made no sense at all, what was happening?

    “Rois, dear, show them the torc,” my mother suggested gently.

    “The torc! She can wear it, of course!” One of the men called out to the others and they leaned in. Never had my skinny neck been shown so much interest.

    I hesitantly lowered my tunic to show a little of the new torc mother had placed on me that morning and they gazed at it with wonder. “Orlagh, what a wonderous sight, thank you Cernunnos.”

    My mother, blushing a little, thanked all of them men individually and produced the bag of rabbits from this morning. “We will take them to the stone as an offering and then… I will show Rois.” One of the oldest men in the guard, Old Carrig, came forward to take the rabbits and beckoned for my mother. While watching me, he kissed her hand and said, “Remember Orlagh, I was there when Eithne brought you, remember Orlagh? Now I have lived long enough to see Rois as well!”

    “Carrig, dear Carrig, I am so glad you’re here to see her. She will make us all very proud, by Cernunnos, you will see. She is wild, this one!”

    “The wilder the better!” Carrig laughed and shuffled away with the bag. Mother actually put her arm around me as we walked down to the stone together, but I removed her arm and hissed, “Are you going to tell me what’s happening?”

    “I cannot, till tonight. Evening will be upon us soon and we must thank Cernunnos for his blessing. Can you not see what joy you have brought to the men? Trust that your mother knows a little more than you, and soon, very soon, you will understand.”

    “Why will you not tell me?!” I half-shrieked.

    She smiled her infuriating smile and I wanted to bite the arm around me. “A part of me wants to see you angry and rage-filled. There can be no fear tonight and no better way to learn than to feel.”

    “You tell me, or I’ll run home!”

    She finally slapped me then. Her hand cracked hard across my raging red face and tears exploded into my eyes. “No, you must remain and be present in the ceremony, but I want you to remember how much spite you have right now.” She pressed my arms at my sides, hard and seemed to growl. “You have only to wait till nightfall and you will have your answer. But for now, be the river. Soft and bubbling on top, hiding deadly currents beneath. Remember that Eithne used to say that? It is carved above our doorway. Be the river, Rois.”

    I was shocked at the force of her slap, but more so that she remembered about the river, and what Eithne used to say before she died. Eithne never chastised Curran, even though he was three years younger than me and extremely mischievous and she didn’t live to see Brawley the menace. No, they were never told about the river. As the oldest, she was stricter with me than the boys. It was as if she wanted me to keep the anger inside me. When she struck me for dropping an egg, or for not watching the boys, she would chant, “Be the river, Rois. Soft and bubbling on top, deadly currents beneath.”

    It worked; I was calm. For so long I’d learned to push my anger into the dark river in my mind that it was easy. Even with my guts on fire and my sore back, I could push the rage down. Mother watched my face till I was calm and then, unexpectedly, kissed my forehead.

    “You already make me proud, Rois, but tonight, you will see.”

    At the ford, the men waded in and cleansed themselves and mother copied them, so I did too. The sun was lower in the sky now and the water was cold but it was just at this small dip in the valley that it was shallow enough to stand in without tripping and drowning. When it rained hard, it was impossible to pass.

    They merrily cleansed their hands, face and chests while Carrig respectfully smoothed water over a large, flat rock. The guards were in excellent spirits, cheerful and jovial, and I wondered why. They had a difficult night of guarding the ford from invasion and a huge responsibility was on their shoulders, but they were light, almost cheerful. Finally, the horse play ended, and they made a circle. I was horrified when the men all knelt, but mother and I remained standing in the middle of them. I felt their eyes on me. I watched, shocked, as they sang to thank “Great Conall”, which I had never heard before. Further horror filled me as mother and Carrig cut the rabbits throats on the large flat stone. So much for eating, I thought, mother had only let me have water today. Then my empty stomach churned as the guards began to smear their faces and armpits in the dead rabbit’s blood.

    It was awful. I watched, eyes wide with horror, as the men were painting themselves with sticky, strong-smelling blood. They rubbed the dead bodies on their necks, their armpits and all over their faces. The smell was overwhelming. My hand went up to my nose and mother batted it away like a fly. Only Carrig did not smear himself and I longed to ask why, but I could not interrupt the solemn singing.

    But the horror worsened when mother removed her cloak, even though it was cold, and the sun would set soon. She released her braids from beneath her hood and signalled that I do the same, so I started to. Then I watched in horror when she removed her smock, then began to undo the tunic closest to her bare skin. I stood, cold in my smock, still wet from the river, refusing to remove my tunic or shoes. She stood, white skinned and still a little wet, but the men did not look at her, they continued singing and deliberately looking away. Her torc, like mine, was the only thing she left on. I wanted to cover her, but I knew I was supposed to be undressing. Why was my mother naked? Did I have to be naked too?

    Suddenly it was as if the spell was broken and my mother dropped to her knees, her body covered by her hair. She called out, “Carrig, to the tower!” but I could barely hear her, it was as it her voice was not her own. Frantically, I knelt to check on her, but when she lifted her head, she was not my mother anymore.

    A red wolfwoman stared back at me, then roared as the rest of her began to change. Her hands extended into enormous red paws and from somewhere, I saw a tail appear. I stepped back too quickly and fell, feeling a burning all over my skin. I half fell, half tripped as my legs bent into powerful wolf legs and I tried to rake my hands, or paws, over my burning skin to stop the itch. Fur. It was fur bursting out of my skin.

    The tips of my fingers burned as sharp, long claws forced their way out of my fingertips, but it only hurt for an instant. I landed on my back and rolled my fur against grass, scratching and squirming.  It was happening so quickly, the sun in the distance was almost finished setting and I saw the glorious moon rising as I twisted to scratch my back with my paws in the air. Then I caught sight of the moon, the giant eye of Cernunnos and it held me, transfixed by its beauty. Staring at the silver orb, I felt no pain, only joy.  

    My mind was a blur of animal impulses with only a memory of who I had been just a moment before.  I could suddenly smell so many wonderful things, as if the nearby river and trees were bursting with life. I squatted to clean my paws and was surprised at how easy it was to lick what used to be hands. As I crouched, I felt the wolf-headed torc around my neck and I marvelled that I still wore it. Did it change, as I had changed? Is that why mother and I wear them? It did not bother me, I decided, as I licked my paws and shook myself from head to toe. It felt as natural as breathing to groom my new form.

    Mother, because I recognised her, nuzzled my face gently. With a firm snout, she cleaned my ear, and I heard her voice in my mind.

    Do you see now, Rois my love? I could not spoil the surprise for you.

    I love it mother, I didn’t know it would feel so good! How long will I stay this way?

    Every night of your blood time you will change. I will be there with you when we are aligned and we will run through the fields together, my dear. Above all things, we protect our village.

    I felt more like myself in this form, and I wanted to tell mother that. She was beautiful as a woman and even more stunning as a wolf. I watched her smell the air, and I could smell the rabbit’s blood on the men. Instantly, I knew not to attack them. That was why they had soaked themselves as if their lives depended on it. It did. If not for the rabbit blood as a warning, I wouldn’t know who was friend or foe, or would I? Turning my head, something sharp and distant drifted into my mind, a smell I did not like.

    I smell them too my dear. Let’s go.

    And do what?

    We’re going to kill them, darling.

    She led, astutely keeping low and I marvelled at her movement. Like me, she looked completely at home as a wolf, with the same red, brown fur that was her hair, down to the silver streaks. I longed to see myself, but the smell was overwhelming me.

    Keep low, they are in the trees. I will go this way; you go to the other side.

    Then what mother?

    Be the river, little one. Don’t think, just attack them. Use the anger I know is there.

    She slinked into the long grass and bushes and seemed to vanish, but I could still smell her. I could also smell their weapons and some leather armour, but mostly I could smell the sweat on their flesh, practically humming with their pulse.

    I walked silently, padding closer to a group of three men and I saw my mother on the other side of where they hid, watching the tower. I realised why mother had not let me eat that day, only drinking water had given me an appetite. I could see more clearly in the dark as a wolf and I realised I was much, much larger than the men. Where my extra strength and muscle had come from was a mystery, but I felt I was longer and larger than before. The fur on my body bristled and lifted with pride as I silently stalked the men, as mother did the same from the other side. When I saw her leap, I let appetite and anger move me.

    My mother bit the exposed throats of the nearest man and I copied her and leapt, landing paws first on his shoulder, then burying my face into the white skin beneath his jaw. My rage poured out of me, guiding my paws to scratch and rip, my teeth to snap and bite. Rois, the girl not allowed to show anger, was unleashed as the men screamed.

    His voice called uselessly, his yells just vibrations I could feel in my teeth as I bit. The weight of my wolf form pushed down, heavy fur and strong bones and muscles stopping him from taking in air and when he tried to hit me, I tore off his hand with ease.

    Dying from all the bleeding, he looked at me. The last thing he would have seen was his hand being eaten, the flesh of the thumb going first.

    Mother had killed the first man already and saw the third was trying to run. Rearing up onto her hind legs, she knocked him down. Her powerful jaws locked onto his chin as he fell, then she tore out his throat too. I was immensely proud of her, but also of myself.

    There was enough meat on the three men for a whole pack of us, so we left a lot uneaten.

    Full, and pleased with myself, I followed mother out of the trees and went back to the guards at the tower. I assume they were somewhat frightened by our faces and paws being soaked with blood, but they allowed us to sit nearby and rest.

    Will it be like this tomorrow, mother?

    I don’t know what the night will bring, my little love, but we will run together. We will protect the village, like we’ve always done.

    She nuzzled me tenderly and lifted her nose to the sky, then let out a long, strong howl. I joined her and our wolf voices, our true voices, filled the night.

  • Promise: A Tale of the Past and Present

    Promise: A Tale of the Past and Present

    Dear Reader: The serial, “Brethren of Judas” is on a mental health/research hiatus, as the topic of coercion right now is a difficult one for me. Please enjoy ‘Promise’, a one-off story about the horrors of the past.

    TRIGGER WARNING: This contains confronting themes and is recommended for those aged 15 and up.

    The world of Katherine was last “real” when she dropped off Gerald, and he sprayed himself with cologne right before his date. She wished him good luck in hooking up with this random, beautiful stranger, and laughed when he replied, “I don’t need luck, I’m adorable!”

    The droplets carried the scent and dried it onto the seat until she turned on the heating. The smell drifted into her nostrils soon after and unknown to Katherine, triggered the present to melt into the past. Bad memories, normally banished to the dark closet of the unconscious, drifted to the surface level of her mind as she fumbled for lip-gloss, still driving. But as her hands gripped the wheel, she saw a man entering the convenience store holding a gun. Reality was still there, but somehow driving was the background movie to the all-too-real imposition of the past playing before her eyes. She knows to stop and ground herself when she has an episode like this, but there is a pane of glass now between the real act of driving and the voice screaming, “Put the money in the bag, bitch.”

    Control has left Katherine’s hands, although she grips the wheel there is no power to the movement. The speeding car does not move smoothly down the road, the driver is too busy reliving the man leaping over the counter towards her. He lands smoothly and shoves her down, smiling under his balaclava. Katherine is still behind the wheel, but all she sees is the man lying on top of her reaching up to the condoms behind the counter. His other hand holds the gun to her temple, and he fumbles to open the packet. Inside the car she is screaming to get off, take the money, but no one can hear her. She can barely hear her own voice as the memory overwhelms her further, her foot flailing as if knees are holding her legs apart. 

    The car barrels towards the two pink blurs crossing the street, the woman and her dog equally surprised at the erratic machine coming for them. Leash, raincoat, and the dog’s raincoat are all in the same shade of Barbie pink, designed to stand out but also protect from the elements, like the rain that threatens from the gray sky this afternoon. The squeal of the tyres cuts through the silence and the moist autumn leaves are scattered by the fishtailing swerve, but it is not enough to stop the car, just to slow it. There is a thump and the wheels struggle over something, but the driver does not stop. The man on top of her stopped only when he was satisfied and pulled off the dripping condom with the satisfied flair of a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat. 

    Still high on meth, the thief runs away with a full backpack. For him, this robbery went better than he anticipated, and he genuinely wanted to high five someone as he deftly ran down the street. Katherine remained on the floor of her memory, but also in the seat of the car. She stopped the car as reality appeared through the fog, overwhelmed with nausea. Vomit lurched up her throat, then onto her shoes. With nothing left in her, Katherine blacked out against the cool metal exterior of the Saab. Time passes. 

    ****

    When my niece Katherine clattered noisily into the house, she began to empty her pockets of the soil and stones. I wanted to ask why but she was scooping her pockets frantically, unaware I was watching. Sometimes I hate how unpredictable she’s become, and I forget that she’s sick, but I’m sick too damnit. Still, I made a promise to her dead mother.

    She looked dishevelled, more of a mess than normal. That may sound high and mighty for a woman who shits herself regularly, but before the stroke I was perfectly groomed, thank you. As she finished raining debris onto the front hall table, she looked at me and remembered we live together. Her eyes were wild, the first hint of the low. No person who weighs as little as her should be sweating, but she was, I remember it. 

    “Aunty Jules, it’s just a small dent, I’m sorry. It’s probably nothing but I thought if it was the dog, I should bury it, I mean, I was going to bury it, that’s why I started collecting rocks and dirt to cover it up, but I couldn’t find it. There’s just a bit of blood on the broken headlight and some pink fluff. I didn’t see them I swear. I think I lost some time. I can’t stop shaking. I’m going to sip some of your brandy, just a little, I’m so cold and shaking.”

    She hit something with my car. My blood’s running cold.

    The clock reads 9:32 at night and my former self would have asked her what the hell took so long. Yes, my first response is anger because I still have feelings damnit, and it was MY car. I don’t recall her spacing out behind the wheel, but she might have. 

    True to her word, she goes to my liquor stand and pours herself too large of a helping of my brandy. Developed a taste for it after moving in, despite the effect on her blood sugar. Life thought it would be funny if her parents died while on holiday, making the black comedy of “Aunt and Niece” for the amusement of… who? The God of Unlikely Housemates? Tune in next week in Aunt and Niece, when a 19-year-old with no job, prospects or income moves in with a stroke victim. 

    Katherine reads me messages from her “Stroke carers support group”, where we’re all called survivors, instead of victims, but I can’t correct her terminology, can I? My stroke killed off the part of my brain that can connect words to my tongue, but I can still think. Right now, for example, I want to scream at her to change me, because I feel I’ve wet myself, but I can’t do it, can I? I’m a victim to the way my body feels now, the uselessness of areas that died off when I blacked out at work. I didn’t know I had the clot, let alone the heart attack that dislodged it. So, I don’t love the term survivor, because I want to do more than to have survived and I’m constantly disappointed I can’t do more with myself. Like, right now, watching her pour a second drink and down it. I bought that brandy in Yamazaki, damnit, and she’s drinking it like Pepsi. 

    For kicks, and to stave off insanity, I nicknamed my stroke, “George”. Same as my first husband, an arsehole I married when I believed in happily ever after, who left me for a cadet journalist who sauntered into our newspaper one day. She sauntered out only 6 months later, leading my husband away like she had a leash around his dick. George, the stroke, not the man, robbed me of a lot of things, but at least I’m still alive, even if that means taking in my pathetic niece as my carer. 

    But who’s caring for who, really? All her life, Katherine’s been thin skinned, a vulnerable little flower of a child who was upset by everything and coddled pretty hard by my sister Sam. They were never meant to have her; Sam and Keith I mean. Eight rounds of IVF and a tonne of money went into cooking up Katherine and for what? This bundle of nerves on legs staring at herself in my mirror like she’s forgotten who she is? I think she’s spacing out again. 

    She might have forgotten; I know that’s a possibility. I’d love to just ask but she’s so in her head now she wouldn’t be able to tell me. I know why, of course, she needs a bit of time to come back from whatever shook her so bad. The dog she did, or didn’t hit, with my car. 

    If I had my strength, I’d have checked my Saab myself. Actually, if I had my strength, she wouldn’t have moved in with me in the first place, no way. After Robert (husband number two, for those keeping track), I was enjoying my descent into cat lady solitude, until Sam and Keith took their ‘trip of a lifetime’ and drove off a cliff in the Knysna Forest. 

    I remember when Sam came over to tell me about their ‘trip of a lifetime’. Katherine was getting better, she said, so Sam and Keith were finally going to South Africa for its 4 X 4 driving. He was a mad outdoors man, that Keith, so he was gonna drag my sister to yet another wilderness adventure with nothing but water and a Jeep. She’d looked at me slyly, and I knew why, it was part of the bragging. They had the daughter, the adventure, the house almost paid off and what did I have? I have a good job, yes, but also a dead husband and no prospects. We lived in the city, and I still rented the same overly large townhouse I could barely afford as a widow. But I wasn’t moving damnit, because that would mean admitting Robert was dead and not just traveling somewhere. No way was I going to go into his office, his sanctum if you will, and dismantle it. 

    Turns out I didn’t need to be so precious about it. Katherine took his office as her room while I was recovering from the stroke and got rid of everything. And because I can’t speak, what the hell can I do about it? So, either good will or the rubbish tip got my treasures. 

    Katherine gets the crazy directly from Keith, I’m sure of that much. She’s looking for something in the fridge now. Now she’s moving to the pantry. She takes out a box of macaroni and cheese and shakes it, like she doesn’t quite recognise its contents. I can tell she’s spacing out, bad, and I watch her hands. Sometimes when she spaces out, she mimes filling the bag with money from the cash drawer. At night, I’ve heard her urging me to take the money, don’t hurt me, get off me. I’d run and comfort her, but like I said, can’t move. 

    He did hurt her, the guy who robbed the store she was working at. He didn’t need to rape her, in fact that’s how he got caught, but he got greedy, I think. In the instant he waved the gun at her, she gave in and would have handed over anything. That’s the point when he got cocky. It would have taken all of two seconds to realise he could get more than the store’s takings. 

    I cried with Sam when it happened, it shook us all so badly. Seventeen years old, first job, saving up for a car, and then that goes and happens. I tried to joke that it was the shitty luck of the Laylor sisters, but Sam pointed out neither of us are Laylor anymore, she’s a Kruger and I’m a widowed Price. She made me promise, right there and then, that if anything happened to Katherine, I’d be there. Sam added, because she was no fool, that if anything happened to her or to Keith, it was up to me.

    Oh, that Keith. That’s also where Katherine might have inherited her diabetes, but unlike Keith, Katherine is not very careful with it. We liked to joke that Keith was a modern-day Viking, all muscles and hair with his strong outdoorsy spirit and extreme care for his diet. When Katherine remembers to eat, it’s probably not the right food for her to start with. She leaves it everywhere and literally forgets she made it and I can’t even clean up the cups of tea she leaves lying around the house. And it’s my house.

    Like now, she’s absent mindedly munching on some cereal from my pantry, just a handful of it. Did she have her insulin? Christ, it’s not my job to remember, I’m in a wheelchair and I can’t speak, how can it be my fault? And yet, I feel I should try to do something. I’m low on battery though, and I’d rather she change me out of my wet clothes. She’s wobbling, like her legs aren’t working. I want to scream TAKE YOUR INSULIN DAMNIT, but all I can do is grunt and throw my hand against the knobs of the chair to make it lurch a little at a time. I’m grunting and drooling with frustration as she stares blankly ahead. 

    I’m trying to manoeuvre into her sightline, but I can tell she’s in deep. I could grunt, but when she stares forward like this, she’s fully in it. I remember Sam telling me about Borderline when she first got diagnosed and it certainly explained a lot, but since she moved in with me I can really see it. She doesn’t get mood swings as much anymore, thank you mood stabilisers, but she’s prone to spacing out like this. I mean what a combination, a lifelong diabetic, then a personality disorder on top? Shitty sprinkles on a shitty sundae.  

    Suddenly she makes eye contact and is walking over to me.

    Taking my wrist for attention, she murmurs, “The lady walking the dog was also in pink, Aunty Jules. Like they were matching. I didn’t see them. What were they doing in the middle of the road? I stopped and went back when I realised what I’d done but there was blood on the lights, and they might have fallen in the embankment. I think I lost some time!” Her hands are chest high, and I see she’s holding the invisible steering wheel. 

    “What if it was the lady?! What if it wasn’t the dog, but the lady? Did I kill her? I can’t remember! I spaced!” Her fingers were clammy, and she seemed weaker by the second. She slid into a chair at the kitchen table like she was half melting and called out, “I don’t remember what happened, there was pink, the dog… I’m…” 

    She put her head down on the table and her fists continued to hold the steering wheel that only she could see. Panic reached into my chest and grabbed my heart with its claws. If she lost consciousness, what could I do? Could I get her insulin? My chair was running low on power, and my forearms don’t work much, but she needs it to live and might be going into a low right now. She’s been in a coma before, but I thought we’d all learned our lesson. I can’t inject her; all I can do is call an ambulance, so I start to steer to the phone. 

    Three meters away from the phone on the table, the battery is finally drained and the chair stops. Katherine is not great at remembering to charge it so normally I keep an eye on it, but I can’t manoeuvre my hand around the cable to plug it in, I need her. I turn my head and see she looks asleep but pale on the table. What now? What the hell do I do now? I’m turning my drooling head to both sides, looking for a way to move myself and realise the last thing I can do is going to hurt, but it needs to be done. 

    Heaving my mostly useless hips to the side, I throw myself out of the chair and land heavily. It hurts like a bitch to land but we’re running out of time, and I need to get to the phone. I wriggle as fast as my useless body lets me, barely moving across the floor. When I get there, I can’t reach up and get the phone, so I knock the table legs with my shoulders. If I can get it to fall, I can dial it. The landline, a relic of an older time that my sweet Robert insisted on keeping, finally clattered to the floor beside my neck. 

    I mashed the keys with my face until it rang. All I could do was grunt, but that would be enough to get the ambulances attention and hopefully trace my address. No point in wishing I could speak, so I just lie still and hope they run to her first. Besides, I only fell a little and despite all my complaining, I made a promise to look after her.


  • Part 2: Esther’s Interview

    Part 2: Esther’s Interview

    Dear Reader: This is part 2 of “Brethren of Judas”, which is becoming a bit of a serial work. It is written as an interview, where only the answers are supplied. so the reader must think of the questions. Please read this AFTER part one and not in the wrong order!

    Answer: I will start by stating how much I resent this being forced upon me. It is wrong to make us speak to Romans about matters of faith, but I intend to do my utmost to help our Prophet be cleared. 

    Answer: I, Esther, am a humble woman and proud to talk about the path of the righteous alongside our Prophet. I am carrying his child right now and I previously bore him three others. My womb has been fruitful for him and I have nothing to be ashamed of. 

    Answer: Pardon, how did I come to be here? Well, the sinful world of the Romans was not for me at all, I was lost until I found the Family, so what does it matter?

    Answer: Fine, I will explain. To the Family, all of you are sinful Romans. The true betrayers of Christ were the Romans because they could have listened but instead chose to mock. I believe that is what is happening here, to me and the others you have spoken to.

    Answer: I was sixteen and I had run away from home. It was 1984 and I tried to stay with my aunt, a sinful woman who was constantly drunk because my cousin had taken his own life. At the time, I was sad and missed him, and I thought she would benefit from my company, but now I know better. She was so weak. There was no one strong willed in her line at all and my cousin had succumbed to the pressures of the Roman world without a role model, typical. Why else would he hang himself? He could have been a fine man under the right guidance. 

    Answer: I was staying with her when I heard the Prophet speak. He was preaching in the open at the park with a small crowd around him and I was mesmerised by his beautiful message. Do you realise, you filthy Roman reporter, that he is just trying to help people? Those who are lost are the ones who need to listen the most! So, yes, take my words to your corrupt judges and lawyers, see if we care. We’re the only ones on the side of what’s good and clean and we are the future of this country, you’ll see. You’ll ALL see. 

    Answer: Pardon? No, he didn’t ask for anything! He offered his help, don’t you see that? 

    Answer: I will tell you, if you stop interrupting. 

    Answer: He has the answers. He is being destroyed by your misleading media whores because he dares to tell the truth and that’s why I followed him. The gathering around him was called “The Rally for the Righteous” and those who are too stupid to hear the truth can all just walk away. I mean, a lot of people did, but when he was speaking, I felt like he was just talking to me, and it was perfect. A perfect message, just what I needed to hear. 

    Answer: I’m TELLING you, may I speak? Thank you. 

    Answer: He was very confident. At that time, he was wearing his hair shorter, it was blonde and neat. The way he moved his hands and his voice, it drew us to him and if you had an open heart and a clever mind, you’d realise this man was the only one who could save us and our country. I was only sixteen and he was, I think, in his mid-thirties, but he has the wisdom of his previous life and the Angel of the Lord spoke straight to him. He can take us back to a better time when people looked after each other and family was everything, before all the violence, moral decline and damage to the children began. Don’t you see? That’s why we were encouraged to have his children, he is an amazing father! Look at the Kaye’s, look at the boys! Hard working, smart and respectful to their elders! That’s how it SHOULD be, before girls started dressing like boys and shoving metal rods through their noses, but look who I’m telling. You think you’re impressing me, wearing your hair all purple like that? It’s unnatural! And you wonder why you don’t understand, the chemicals probably damaged your mind! 

    Answer: Excuse me? I don’t have anything to apologise for. 

    Answer: Well, I’m sorry you took umbrage at what I said, but the fact of the matter is, you are wrong. It is not my fault that you weren’t raised to respect your elders. 

    Answer: Fine. I will keep personal remarks out of it. 

    Answer: After I saw him, that day in the park, I took a pamphlet with me and I really thought about it. It made a lot of sense so I went the next time, to a different park, bigger crowd, and I told him my name and he invited me to the circle meeting and it was beautiful. We talked for hours, we passed around a joint and he helped remove the wool that had been pulled over my eyes and I realised, this was what I had been looking for. I didn’t even know people like the Prophet and his followers even existed, it was beautiful. It was like coming home to a family I didn’t know I had. They understood me and gave me the gift of the truth about the world. All the answers I’d been searching for, about life, the world, people, I had them handed to me by the Prophet and he asked for nothing in return. Not a single thing. So, of course I followed him. I would go to the ends of the Earth for him. 

    Answer: I don’t like that question, I don’t think you should call our beautiful Family a cult at all, you have no idea what it’s really like. 

    Answer: I’m not defensive, you’re just wrong. 

    Answer: May I continue? Thank you. Such good manners for a Roman. 

    Answer: I went home to my aunt and packed my things, that’s what I did. It wasn’t really any of her business, like it isn’t any of yours, but I went straight there, to the farm, to make myself useful. You wouldn’t know what… never mind. I took a bus to the nearby town and walked there, with my suitcase and they opened the gate and I was welcomed in. The Family can tell who the quality folk are because we listen with an open mind and we don’t descend to your level of mockery. I went into the dorm and we were happy, that’s that. I fell pregnant about a month later and I couldn’t be prouder of the two Kaye’s and Benjamin. They’ve grown up smart and strong, surrounded by people who love them, away from your world of violence and pedophiles. 

    Answer: We don’t separate our truth into core and non-core, truth is truth and the sacred numbers the Prophet uses from the Bible spell it out good and clear. The truth has been hidden from the majority of people for a long time, until it was uncovered by our Prophet in “The Trial of Christ”. Everything you were taught at school is wrong. Judas was no traitor, he was doing as he was told. In the Family, we do as we are told by the Prophet and we are the new Brethren of Judas, we are faithful and do not question, as Judas did not question. There is so much to learn about the world that you do not know and if you would just listen to me, you would realise that the Prophet has the answers. The Prophet explained that Judas had free will and used his free will to follow the path of righteousness. The betrayal is a lie. In fact, I can prove…

    Answer: What crimes? Our Family has committed no crimes. 

    Answer: Day to day? Well, there’s a lot to do, it’s a farm and there are a lot of mouths to feed. We all work together, grow our own food, wash, clean, organise, maintain and in the afternoons, we gather to listen to the Prophet speak. Little boys like my Benjamin learn from the men, wood working, digging, y’know, manly things. The little Kaye’s learn sewing, cooking, raising the smaller children, all the skills of keeping a home. There’s a lot to learn if you’re not arrogant and assume you know everything. 

    Answer: It’s not a drug the way you describe it, its marijuana, plain and simple. We do not call it that, though, we call it Maria the Sacred Herb. We grow it, use it and make money selling it, it’s grown in perfect conditions, and it was put on Earth to be used by God, so I don’t see how you can call it a drug like it’s a bad thing. 

    Answer: No, I deny that completely. It is certainly NOT freely available, in fact only the chosen Elders like myself and the Prophet and a few select others are allowed to use it. It’s for the visions. It is SO ignorant to say we’re harming the children, that is just ridiculous. It’s used to reduce pain and to assist in our visions, nothing more. 

    Answer: I do not know what happens to the surplus, if you can even call it that. What are you implying? I do not know how much we produce, that is men’s business. We trade openly with the outside world by selling our wares, there is no shame in that. We have to participate in your shameful world to buy medicine and supplies but we do NOT need you. Your world and its trappings means nothing to us.

    Answer: The role of sex, as you put it, is for procreation in our Family. All the women look after each other carefully, we are the future. Our sacred wombs are producing the next generation of the Family and we do not take that duty lightly. We, the older women, are limited in the number of children we can bear for the Prophet, but as soon as a girl has begun her sinner’s bleed, she is fit for the Prophet’s seed. This little one I am carrying will be my last, but I still assist the younger girls when they participate in the Laying. 

    Answer: I am growing tired of telling you, but I will repeat myself: your rules do not apply to our Family. On our land, where our Family has lived for years, your rules do not exist or apply. I understand the word consent, I do, but in our Family, that is not how we apply it. Ultimately, the Prophet has authority over our bodies and all the Family members have to use their self-control. There is nothing illegal about what our Family does, no matter how you see it. 

    Answer: I believe I HAVE answered your question about that, but since you are so interested in it, I will clarify. The girls do not earn a name beyond Kaye until they bear a child. After that, it is the will of the Prophet that the men should enjoy women’s flesh, if she is in agreement. The men approach and request relations, the women say yes or no and the rest is their business. But the honour of producing children is the Prophet’s alone.

    Answer: I do not have to tell you who I shared my flesh with, that is none of your business. But I will clarify again, only the Prophet is to bear children, the men are not permitted to. All the men, every single one of them, have been treated to make their seed ineffective, as this is the will of the Prophet before they can join our Family. 

    Answer: Yes, when my Benjamin is of age, he will be sent away to have his operation as well. I am proud to say that. He is an important member of the Family, certainly, but the honour of procreating belongs to the Prophet alone. The Prophet was anointed when he was still in his mother’s womb, just like it was written in Jeremiah, and will continue to lead our church until his body expires and he will be born to one of his women, us. Not me, but maybe one of my daughters will have that supreme honour. 

    Answer: Because the Prophet is the only person in this country, possibly in this world, who knows the truth. Everything you have been told is a lie and my Family, who have been granted the wisdom, are the only ones who will be saved. No one else can save us like he can, he is the only one who can do this noble work of spreading the word. That’s why he’s been defamed by your media and its lies. They are threatened by him. He is not a drug lord, pedophile, womaniser or any of those things you have said. His accusers are the guilty ones. We are just a humble Family who want to be left alone in our farm, why are you trying to ruin that, and what does that have to do with missing children?

    Answer: That isn’t true, the Prophet has never harmed a child. He is a great man.

    Answer: If you cannot understand why it is an honour to bear the child of the most important man in our recent history, I do not have enough words to explain it to you. There aren’t enough words in the world. You have proven you think we are a joke and a cult, but we are not. We are smarter and stronger than you realise and when the time comes, there will be a great uprising and it will not be us on trial, it will be you. All the horrible lies you have spoken about our Family and all the rubbish the media has fabricated will be exposed, pure and simple. We are the only ones doing the right thing now, but no one will listen. The signs are all around you and you don’t see what the Prophet is trying to do. 

    Answer: No. I have nothing more to say. 

  • Part 1: Anna

    Part 1: Anna

    There is no other way to begin except where it started for me, with my grandparents in their youth.

    Please understand that this is their story, as well as my own, because, if not for their decisions, I would not have been born into the Brethren of Judas. I am recording this account in the dormitory of the only home I have ever known, the Manse Judas, where I have spent my whole 19 years of life. I am called Kaye18July, as I was born on the 18th of July. We do not earn our names until we have borne the Prophet a child, and I hope to be known as Anna. 

    Our Prophet, John Brayshawe Reborn, was gifted with a vision by an angel of the Lord. The message was that the original John Brayshawe Kaye, had spoken the truth about Judas and that his message needed to be passed to a new Family of believers. This was written in 1909 as a warning before the first World War, but his brilliance was not recognised at the time, and the writings were lost. 

    Until, that is, the angel came to our Prophet. He had been partaking in the sacred herb Maria and was led to a store that held lost tomes of great knowledge, all discarded by their owners, and there he came across the writings. As I have lived at the Manse all my life, I cannot believe the Godless Romans are so wasteful with their possessions that they have enough to give away, especially books. That is where our Prophet found these glorious truths: he read them and the word sang to him and that night, the angel visited. 

    I can almost see it now, as I describe it to you, because our Prophet has never wavered from the retelling, and we are not allowed to change the words when we repeat them. The angel appeared through a haze of the Maria smoke and told him, “Tell the chosen, John Brayshawe Reborn, that Judas was no traitor. He did only as he was told. Fill the world with the believers who will come from your seed and know that you are this great man, reborn. In your hands, you have the words you wrote before and now you must complete the mission, great Prophet John.”

    When I was younger, I was almost moved to tears by the beauty of this vision and wanted more than anything else to see an angel for myself. I often thought of this during the times the Prophet lay with me and it took all my fear and doubt away. 

    My grandparents met the Prophet very soon after the message of the angel, at what has been described as a great gathering for lovers of music. Music is very beautiful. I have heard Brother James play his guitar many times during Devotion, so I can easily imagine music lovers like my grandparents coming together to hear it. They explained adorning themselves with flowers and spreading the message of joy and peace, while the sacred smoke of the Maria billowed around them like a beautiful cloak. Through that, the smoke parted and the Prophet found them and lay with them amongst other Believers. It was the First Miracle of the Prophet, as they were sustained by nothing more than the mud beneath them and the message of the misunderstood Judas of the Bible. The Truth resonated with beauty and meaning to my grandparents, who were divinely blessed to have their eyes opened by the Prophet himself. They followed the Prophet to his parent’s farm, and renamed it Manse Judas, and here I am. 

    I repeat this to you as it was told to me, so you can understand that our Prophet is not a bad person and I would never wish to hurt him, or the others who are Blessed. But a feeling has set in me, a conviction down to my bones that I must leave the Manse and see the world beyond and this urge is impossible to ignore. I am planning it with great care, as I have no wish to become a traitorous Roman. 

    We live in a beautiful place and I have lived well, with no mistreatment, except for punishments for when I have stepped out of the lines of obedience so clearly outlined to me, so I am not running away. All of the women of bleeding age have the sacred duty to produce more children for the Prophet, as it was decreed by the angel himself in the vision, but Kaye8May always resented this. She began to bleed sooner than me, possibly because she was plump and bonny, so she had to begin the Laying ceremony before me. Although it is sinful to speak of others without their knowledge, she told all of us in the dormitory when she returned. We were meant to be asleep, but curiosity had made us rebels, and in our nightgowns we listened with wide eyes.  

    She moved strangely, with an odd walk, as if in pain. She did not lie on her back but rather on her side, as if to alleviate pressure on her rump. Kaye12November went straight over and demanded to know everything, claiming she was a traitorous Roman if she didn’t share. 

    “It was, well, it was not quick. The Prophet had to look at me for a long time before he was ready and Esther used her hands and mouth on his organ,” she relayed. She gazed off to the distance, remembering, and continued as more of us approached to hear. I was mortified to be hearing about the male organs but also wickedly inquisitive at that moment, like Eve must have been about the fruit of the tree. “Then he turned me over and put me on all fours and Esther stood in front of me, so he could see her. He put my rump in the air and looked at Esther. She took off her clothes!”

    “What?!” A younger Kaye looked horrified at that, she practically screeched. “Yes, she played with her chest and he was watching when he put his organ in me and it hurt a lot. It was so unexpected, I screamed. It was like, it was like… remember that time you ate three bananas and had trouble going to the bathroom, and it was hard and horrible? It was like having one of those, sort of, but going into you.” 

    We gazed in horror at each other and at Kaye8May, but urged her to go on. “It still hurt, but he had to keep going, and he was looking at Esther the whole time so it was as if I was not there. I saw all of Esther, she has a lot of hair on her….place.” At that, we laughed. All the Kaye’s bathed together and so did the older women. We were unfamiliar with the older female body until we would begin to see ourselves changing into it. The Prophet did not like us to know too much, or feel too much like we owned ourselves. We had been born for the glory of the Prophet’s message, not to be looked at. 

    As she finished her story, Kaye2September walked over, looking sad. She knew all about this, she was 6 months into her pregnancy and as soon as she gave birth, she would be in the other dormitory with the mothers. She had already chosen the name Jemima but had not been bestowed it yet. With care, she sat on the bed as we made room for her, an honoured space for one already carrying a new member of our Glorious Family. For someone so blessed, she did not look pleased. 

    Jemima, though she was not yet called that, rubbed her stomach and said, “And when he finished, he said, Glory to Judas and you had to leave?” Not moving, Kaye8May nodded and frowned. “It hurt when he bit me, but he said I should make no sound, so he hit my rump. Then there was a strange, wet feeling and he said, Glory to Judas, and I had to leave.”

    “I remember,” Jemima said. She was lucky to be carrying the seed of the Prophet, but she did not look especially happy. During gardening, a few days later, I tried to tell her to think of the vision of the angel, but she snapped at me to return to my work. 

    Having heard what we wanted, the others went to their beds but I remained with my dear friend, Kaye8May, who loved copying bird calls and once wove me a crown of daisies. My friend seemed so sad and pained. I asked if there was anything I could do. She thought for a moment then said, “Can you lie behind me, so I don’t roll over? My whole rump area hurts and we have washing to do tomorrow.” I was only too happy to help and she let me press myself right behind her, so my face was in her hair, and she could not turn. I stayed there all night. 

    I shared that moment from my memory to explain that I was Kaye8May’s friend until the very end. She had to continue visiting the Prophet until she would come away carrying his child, but something kept going wrong inside her. Other Kaye’s visited him and were found pregnant in weeks, but not my dear friend. It was taking her a long time to fall, and it was clearly her fault as the Prophet is without blame. It was that, I believe, that made her escape. That, and what she heard.

    There are a lot of jobs to do for the Family and the Kaye’s must earn their plate of food and shelter like anyone else. There was always gardening, regardless of the season, or washing, or cleaning, always something to benefit the Family so that in the afternoon, we could gather after dinner and listen to the Prophet speak and read from the Bible. The Lord made me fidgety and restless, so I am often running here or there doing errands or filling in where more help is needed, but Kaye8May was not impatient, she was a dedicated gardener and helped in the fields. 

    That is how she saw, must have seen, the truck that drops off the supplies. I know what a truck is, our Family has two that we use to sell some of what we grow and make, but this truck was from the Godless Roman world beyond the gates and it always frightened me just a little. It would come up to the gate playing Godless music that sounded like a machine. And the men who drove were constantly transfixed by small, flat items in their hands that showed them images. We knew the outside world had machines, but they were Idols and we were forbidden to touch them. Still, when these men came to drop off boxes of supplies for us, or take boxes from us, Kaye8May always found a way to observe them. 

    She had always wanted to ask people from outside the Family questions and this seemed to be her best way to get information. Not content with being told that the world was made as the Lord willed it, and only the Prophet spoke to the Lord, she arrogantly wanted answers for herself. It was prideful, but she had always been curious. Naarah, who has blessed the Prophet with three children, always laughed at Kaye8May with her questions and called her Little Eve, warning her that thinking too much is very bad for women. I agree with this, as I now have problems caused by too much thinking, but that is another matter. 

    So it was more “Little Eve” than Kaye8May who followed a strange girl into the truck that came one day. There had never been other children with the man in the truck and it was repeated that he said something like “Skoolhorriday” to explain her presence, but he largely ignored her. I heard from witnesses that this girl was completely different to us in every way and obviously walked with pride down the path of the Damned.

    The girl was dressed in trousers, to begin with, and her hair was short and uncovered. It was a strange shade of pink, like a rose, and she had jewels in her eyebrow and nose. She, the stranger, was also transfixed by the strange, flat box machine that the Godless all carried, but she seemed cheerful when Kaye8May spoke to her. Only the Lord and the Prophet know what passed between them, because the next time I saw my dear friend, she was running past us to where the older women were cooking and raised her voice at her mother Leah. 

    “YOU LIED TO ME MOTHER! YOU LIED TO ME! HOW COULD YOU LIE TO ME?! IS IT TRUE? AM I TOO YOUNG TO HAVE A BABY? WHAT IS…”

    We were understandably distressed at the horrid way her voice came streaming out of her, so it was no surprise that Leah and my own mother Delilah clamped their hands over her mouth and led her away. She had lost control of herself, as the Bible says happens to women when they are given too much knowledge. I was transfixed by the sight of her shoes, kicking air as she struggled. 

    She returned only briefly, my dear friend, and I think it was only to speak to me. We were all going to bed after dinner and she arrived late and was put straight in between the covers by Leah. I slept next to her, which often allowed us to whisper conversations, but that night I pretended to be asleep. I clamped my eyes shut tightly, facing away from them. When I turned to look, I saw Kaye8May was asleep and limp as a ragdoll. But the peace did not last. 

    I woke with a hand over my mouth and Kaye8May next to me, urgently whispering to be quiet. She was in her work clothes and I felt her feet had boots on, in my bed.

    “Don’t make a noise! You’ll wake the others and I think there’s someone outside!” Her hiss pierced my mind with fear and I felt tears welling.

    “They’ve been lying to us! The girl told me! They know what happens in here, the girl wanted to meet someone from the Family and tell them! They called us something, a cult? It rhymes with adult. Did you know we’re ….” 

    Then in the darkness a voice called out, “She’s awake!” 

    Seconds later, Leah, Delilah, Esther, Deborah and Sarah and a few others I could not see clearly were pulling Kaye8May away from me. My own mother pressed her face to mine and hissed urgently, painfully, “Don’t listen to her my dearest, she’s very confused. This is the power the Godless have! They are trying to hurt us! Pray with me, pray with me my darling, we can pray the evil away!” 

    And as I had done since learning to speak, I repeated the prayer of Judas. 

    “Praise to Judas, Judas the brave

    Only to him, was the mystery explained 

    Praise to the one who turned from the world

    Praise to one who’s grace we will earn

    Praise to the Prophet, blessed to know all

    Ever our shepherd, never to fall

    May we listen

    May we obey

    May we remain

    Humble, his Family, blessed every day

    Faithful to Judas and his Holy Name”

    Always, the words had brought me comfort, but this night, as Kaye8May was taken from our room, my peace did not last. My mother remained a while and left me repeating the words of the prayer as she comforted other girls who were woken suddenly. They went to sleep easily, not knowing what had happened. 

    It was not until morning that they saw she was gone and a week later, we were told she would not be returning. 

  • PULSE: A new sci-fi story

    PULSE: A new sci-fi story

    Lovingly dedicated to the real Brett

    When the first flesh-to-fibre implant was going to be released for the public, my darling Brett was one of the hundreds who slept on the street to be at the front of the queue. As a healthy 35-year-old with an interest in computers and a love of new tech, he was the perfect test subject to see how effective this new form of browsing and gaming could be. If he’d had a fuller head of hair and less crooked teeth, he could have been one of the poster boys, he was THAT enthusiastic about it.   

    The media was as frenzied as sharks with chum: this was the breakthrough of the decade and was touted as the start of the new age of ‘smooth computing’. There had been opposition from various church groups, of course, but ultimately the desire to not just USE the computer, but BE it, was too strong. Since the first neural implants became accessible for medicine, the lawyers had foreseen a time when they would have to defend the right to choose an implant when it wasn’t strictly needed and had been quietly preparing in the background. It was about the freedom to choose what you want for your body- and allegedly, nothing to do with the fortune to be made.

    The implant didn’t just make it possible to browse the internet without a device, it also allowed for a totally seamless integration of the conscious thoughts and a personal, impregnable computer. The line between artificial intelligence and its users had been blurred for many years, but this device, the Verstand model 4, destroyed the line all together.  Through a six-hour operation, the implant would be connected into the occipital lobe with delicate fibre optic nodes coated in an artificial myelin sheath grown from the body’s own proteins and fats. Any thoughts or sights you wanted recalled forever could be captured with flawless clarity. The users were told to imagine being able to watch content projected as an overlay of their own vision or being able to stream an entire day of adventuring, hands-free. Many of the people in the line wanted the Verstand4 purely for the promise of recording every moment. Not Brett. He couldn’t wait to play computer games without controllers, as the implant promised. 

    For many years, the German company that made the Verstand was the world leader in prosthetics, so when the prototype for Verstand1 was tested and it returned all the functions to the stroke users it was tested on, the leap from spinal cord to the brain was an easy one. They took a financial hit when Verstand2 was too closely positioned to the amygdala and gave the subjects regular panic attacks. Naturally, Verstand3 was moved and refined and finally upgraded enough that Verstand4 was deemed commercially and medically viable for users who met the criteria. 

    He sold his vintage car and put down the deposit for the implant the day he was given clearance to have the surgery. My sweet Brett, all he wanted was to run around a version of ancient Greece, slaying digital monsters. 

    To even be able to stand in the line there was a whole process. The testing was arduous, and to me, cruel. Users were not permitted to have any form of previous mental health condition that could tarnish the interaction of the implant with the brain. Some very important celebrities were declined clearance on mental health grounds, so there were lawsuits filed for discrimination. Ironically, when Brett had his accident, they were still tied up in the courts. Users couldn’t be colour-blind, be on the autism spectrum or even have any limbs missing, for fear that the implant would not know what to do with phantom limb impulses. Candidates also needed a relatively high IQ because it was honestly believed that the stupid bell curve of “human intelligence” could determine if a person would know the difference between reality and what the implant was showing. We had an argument over this during the application process and I remember how I made a big deal out of moving his pillows to make him sleep on the couch. It boiled my blood to think the implant would ONLY help a limited number of very lucky people- not those who would really benefit from the assistive aspects. Brett had sneered that I was jealous because my depression excluded me from even applying. He walked out after saying that, realising he’d gone too far.

    I lay in our bed, boiling with rage that night. I was still a full-time teacher and had met many students who would do wonders if they were allowed more access to this particular technology. I didn’t see the Verstand as a blessing then, and I certainly don’t now, but at the time I was up on my high horse about how they should not be thinking about how to help the elite applicants have even MORE benefits that regular people couldn’t access. All I saw was how the technology would have helped those who really needed it. I left early the next morning after the fight and went straight to see dad. 

    Harrington Gardens was only five minutes away, but it still felt like driving to another country. It was such a carefully regimented, moderated environment that it didn’t feel like a care facility; it was run like a prison for those who dared to age with money. Dad was in his room, which was set up almost identically like home had been. The goal was to ease the transition, but it was still little more than a childcare centre for the elderly. There were photos of mum and me everywhere in case Dad thought she was alive again, or maybe to remind him that I was nearby and didn’t visit nearly enough. He was having a sharper day than he normally did and greeted me warmly as I put my hand on his. 

    “That magpie I like to watch hasn’t come to the tree yet,” he said, staring past me at his window. 

    “How’s the knee, dad? Are you warm enough?”

    “I want to do something about the weeds: you can’t get the help, you know, no one wants to work anymore.”

    “Are you hungry, dad? Do you want a cup of tea?”

    “He hasn’t come yet. He likes to sit right there where I can see him, and he’s got good eyes.” 

    “Dad, I had a fight with Brett.”

    “I left the remote control somewhere, see if you can find it for me, will you…”

    There was no point of course. I could have been any carer or nurse, or even the cleaning lady, the conversation would be the same. And if I’d shown up in the evening, I had no idea what side of him would come out. He would be confused, that much was certain, but it could be about anything, and he might not even speak to me. I kissed his forehead and left to cry quietly in the car. 

    I apologised, of course I did. It was silly, we’d already sunk thousands of dollars into his application, medical testing and all the other legal requirements. Thanks to our collective efforts, my precious Brett was on the short list by that stage. He could practically smell his spot in the line with the other frantic fans. He would be with the others- all the tech influencers, posers, and people with too much money who simply HAD to have something that so few people had access to. Brett was not like them: he was a regular, wonderful man who just wanted to play whatever version of his favourite city builder game was available. Making whole new places rise out of the ground like the conductor of a gaming orchestra, waving his hands as if he was there in person: the unquestioned God of Brett town, with the fate of thousands of digital dots at his fingertips. Despite all my boring, high-minded rhetoric and moral objections on the matter, I adored his child-like, innocent desire to play. 

    The irony of the events to follow did not escape me. 

    He had a month of joy where I barely saw him, because he was playing and browsing so much. All the leave from work that he had available to him was given over, so he could fully immerse himself in every function Verstand4 could provide for him. At first, he was diligent about trying everything, but eventually it was just games, games, games. He’d always been very fond of simulators, and he went head-first into them like never before. A couple of times I had to remind him to sleep, eat and bathe. With the excitement of a child coming home from the first day of school, he talked to me about the amazing possibilities for me as a teacher. Imagine all that I could learn! But I remained “his little luddite” and kept the experience at arm’s length. I still loved his company, but it was hard to compete with the entirety of the internet, his new mistress. Yes, I was THAT petty. But I missed when his attention was shared between us more equally. 

    My bitterness, now, feels like a permanent rotten taste in my mouth after the Pulse. 

    I no longer teach history or literature, because I am a part of it, and it’s interesting that I mentioned my jealousy, as the terrorists have come out and expressed the same thing as a sort of excuse for what happened. They wanted what they couldn’t have, pure and simple. It was more damaging than gluing themselves to the road outside the headquarters or padlocking themselves to trucks carrying parts. It was misguided activism, yes, but a part of them simply coveted the experience of the lucky users. Those who orchestrated the Pulse were not just impatient to experience Verstand4: they were angry it wasn’t available for everyone. I understand because I thought similar things. 

    My beautiful Brett was nearing the end of his leave time and was using Verstand4 to find us a place to visit for our anniversary. It was a big deal to us, we’d made it ten years after my own sister had given us a year, tops. He wanted us to revisit the small island we’d honeymooned on and was exploring the facilities that morning. At least one of his last, cogent thoughts was of how gorgeous it would be to snorkel through the water and lie on the warm sand dunes as the sun went down. He was telling me we’d both need new bathing suits when he suddenly fell over. 

    I didn’t understand it at the time, but the activists, who were really terrorists, had broken into the headquarters where Verstand4 was manufactured and specifically targeted the server where the users were encouraged to store their memories. They were backed up, but it needed just one blue screen of death for all the users to simultaneously lose access to it. My sweet Brett had once joked that he might freeze up and must be reset. He had laughed and said, “You’d have to find a way to turn me off and on again.” I had poked him in the belly and chased him around saying, “reset”, before we’d collapsed onto the couch and made warm, laughing love. That was a mere week before he had the implant installed, but now that he HAD blue-screened, it was no longer a joke. 

    I’d seen seizures before, of course I had. I also knew CPR, which is how I kept him alive until the ambulance came. But I couldn’t stop parts of his brain dying, the delicate synapses were instantly and totally deprived of oxygen rich blood by the implant setting fire to his mind. The carefully engineered cerebrospinal fluid conducted the pulse throughout the brain: a bolt of lightning burning through every axon that it could reach. He twitched horribly and moaned, contorting his limbs as if grasping the air for help. His mouth opened all wrong, to the side, and his eye drooped like he couldn’t hold himself up. He tried to say my name, I know he did, but he no longer controlled his own tongue. His crotch thrusted sharply, and I saw a pool of urine appear on his trousers as his leg kicked randomly. I tried to hold his hands and stabilise his movements, but his fingers became misshapen claws I no longer recognised.

    I only left for a moment to ring the ambulance in a half screaming, half crying voice and that’s when his heart stopped. I said though, that I knew CPR, so I used it. First time ever I had to use it, but I was glad for my mandatory training then, because it saved him. We’re now world famous, because only three people survived the Pulse attack, and my amazingly tough Brett was the oldest one. 

    It was international news within minutes and the internet damn near exploded with conspiracy theories and misinformation. Was it a malfunction or a coordinated attack, how could this happen, blah blah blah. Whatever was being said never reached me until months after, because those first two weeks were only about keeping my dear Brett from dying. The doctors outdid themselves trying to help and blessedly, thankfully, they did not demand that I leave him alone to rest. Eventually, I was told it was a sort of digital stroke, and he had no chance of recovery. The Verstand4 had a power source and it overloaded, thanks to the terrorist’s commands. Despite that, my hand was practically fused to Brett’s, even when he slept. When he was able to drink, I was there to hold the straw. When he was able to eat, I fed him. 

    Selfishly, I needed to be there. I needed to see for myself in real time how much of my husband, my darling, was left to me. That is all I could think about. Whether his eyes would still sparkle when he laughed at one of my terrible puns. Whether he would remember the dates when we met, kissed, and married. Whether he’d remember how to mould his body to mine when we were intimate. My need to recapture what was left was all that drove me and all that moves me still, because I live in the hope he will return. 

    Verstand5 will not happen for a few years, that much I know. There are too many bugs to work out and although the consumer demand is there, the world cannot forget the faces of all of those who died and worse, the contorted, damaged faces of those who lived. The company have paid for everything Brett and the other two need, but the three survivors remain a pebble in the shoe of progress, because no one can guarantee that an attack like this will not happen again. 

    Where is my precious Brett now? He is in the custom-made bed the company has provided, watching a documentary about ancient Greece. He is drooling slightly, and I will be feeding him later. He cannot speak, see out of his left eye, move his limbs, or use the bathroom alone, but he is still my darling husband. Inside his damaged body, there is still the boy I fell in love with, who gazes at me now, stroking a toy figure of Hercules. 

  • The Witch Delivers: A New Tale of Horror

    The Witch Delivers: A New Tale of Horror

    I was sewing the strings of the rabbit heart so carelessly, that I did not notice when I laced my own thumb through the fabric. Into the sticks of the doll, blood pooled and the white feather rapidly drunk the red into it, rendering it useless. White, it had to be WHITE for the innocence of the babe… white, a hundred curses, I would need another dove.  Maybe a goose? No, a dove to abort.

    In my left ear, the voice of the singing girl child continues, and it soothes me as I rummage through my collection of magical components. A focusing stone clatters to the ground, as if it trying to leap off the table would mean I’d let it escape.

    You won’t be going back to the river, stone, you’ll be crushed and drunk by a maiden. 

    I will return to the river, the stubborn rock replies. 

    Of course, it talks back to me, it’s a naughty river stone, I think to myself, as I scoop it back into my pocket and silence its voice. 

    On the table, the maple leaves rustle urgently beneath my fingers, wanting to be rolled into a crown for the Summer King. I rummage further, past leaf and fur and feeling for the dried, soft tips of the dead birds’ feathers. If my eyes had the strength of my youth, this would be a lot easier. 

    There, the child sings, beneath the tusk of the boar, and accordingly, my nail brushes it. 

    Yes, thank you child.

    With the new, white feather strung into place and no blood to distract the spell, I start again to hum the song of Death and I feel its magic pouring out of me. The words will soar through the night and travel to the belly of Sara, pious and young, and loosen the embrace of her womb to the babe.  My vision varies between my home and her bedroom, a cottage near the town square where her family lives. Father, mother, brother, and grandfather.

    I see her sleeping and a handprint on her wall glows with life. The outline of the mans hand glows with the ghost of his seed, and I realise the Mother is showing me he continues to visit her in the night, even when she carries his child.

    Louder, I sing to the Mother the song of mortality and trade, life for life and I feel as Sara feels for a moment. Her deep, rhythmic, sleeping breaths fill me as I stand in my home, singing death.

    Inside, her walls will tremble, and the cord will tighten and the babe will struggle. 

    Between her legs, blood seeps as fluid builds, rushing onto the sheets. Now, the babe twists.

    Wakening now, the pain burns and leaks at the same time as she confusedly reaches for something to help her see the sticky moisture in the darkness and the babe wrenches free. She is so young; she has only felt him enter her in the silence of the night and now something that feels a similar size is trying to slide out.

    Now, her hips rise as my voice soars, fire, and fury through the night, involuntarily thrusting and arching as the babe passes through the mesh of life and death so easily, too easily. 

    Then I hear the scream as sound mixes, her fear, and my song.  Life is traded, given over to my hungry Moon Mother and Sara, a child herself, delivers with a wet sound. Between her bloodstained legs there lies a dead baby boy.

    He is red headed like Grand Sergeant Jarvis, the only man whose hair burns like the sun, the only one to have lain with Sara, his grandchild. A lying hypocrite tasked with enforcing the laws of man by day, while at night he seeks the flesh of his own kin and tells her she is beautiful for allowing him to caress her. The connection to Sara is broken but I feel with lingering disbelief that she blames herself for his violation of her innocent body. When he was between her legs, the atrocity of his attention made her feel special. I feel ill.

    My vision returns to my home, but the handprint of his seed on her bedroom wall remains in my mind.

    No more do I sing, nor does breathe the child of incest and they should thank me, but I know they won’t. 

    No, they won’t, replies the child on my shoulder. They don’t appreciate us, she hisses. 

    No, they don’t, I feel, as I roll my head, the magic heat leaving me with a headache as always, and I almost blindly reach out for the jug to put out the fire. When the channelled energy leaves I am old again, feeling every moment of my life in a diaspora of pain throughout my body.

    I pour the jug out, almost unseeing as the exhaustion hits me, with the last traces of Mother’s power leaving my wretched old body and my damned ancient knees almost give way. I reach for my cot and throw myself at it. 

    I fixed it, I think, as the sleep begins to take me, and with a whisper the child reminds me that I left the branches of the charm on the bowl, over the fire on a dish instead of burning it. 

    Burn it, the child urges. 

    Too tired, I groggily think. 

    Damn you Magatha, you burn it now, you fool. 

    Sleep, my brain replies, as the last of the traces of the spell leave my cottage, along with my waking awareness. 

    -*-

     The next morning, I did not awaken until they threw the water on me, and I realised I was bound to a chair and could not move. 

    It seemed the village was in my hovel, but then I realised I was in a God-fearing house when I saw the image of the Jesus man on a painting next to a cross. There were also a lot of rows of benches, and I realised the fools had taken me to their meeting hall. I tried to speak but there was a gag between my remaining teeth and all I could do was drool like a mastiff.

    “The witch awakens! Not a word from you, foul witch, or we’ll string you up without a trial!”

    I heard someone speaking next to me, but my left side is age-blind and the rope around my neck meant I could barely turn my head. It was one of the Mary’s, the one with the harelip because her mother was a liar. 

    “This is so awful,” I heard her weep. Weeping! Like I meant something to her. She looked down at me and I felt in a rush that she pitied me.  What had I done to inspire these feelings? Maybe she was kinder than I gave her credit for being. Her lips were trembling and she burbled in a thick voice, “Gentle sirs, please spare her, she is so old and confused. Just leave her alone, please, she is no witch.”

    She placed a cold, small hand on my shoulder and I saw she had bitten her nails to almost nothing and had gnawed some of the skin away. “Mercy, have mercy for the poor old dear.”

    “FOOL!” The deep male voice from ahead of me boomed and I saw Stephan the Just loom into my failing vision looking like a fat woman in his robe and wig. “Move her away, the witch must have none standing by her, now MOVE her I say.” His voice boomed as if projecting a spell to the treetops and I was envious of his volume, his youthful power. Such power and vitality was wasted on zealots but the crowd around him loved it. Their collective energy screamed with enough power to summon a forest fire, but it was being lost as they misdirected it to me, the fools.

    Mary was suddenly wrenched away and something hard and wooden was slapped against my shoulder, which flowered instantly into a dark rose of sharp pain down my whole right side. My head lolled forward for a moment, and I watched my feet come into focus and then become dark blurs again. Ha, I thought, I’d fallen asleep with my shoes on, yet again. 

    “Magatha Thorpencroft, you are accused of the crime of witchcraft.” Stephan the Just boomed, hand raised as he read from something. I could barely see him ahead of me, but he had on my table a few of my things, like my precious boar tusk and a pelt I had skinned. A hand pulled down my gag and with it, a mouthful of drool dripped down. “Do you have a reply to this charge, daughter of Satan?”

    “That’s MY tusk, I’ll be needing it when this is done,” I replied. 

    For a moment, there was no reply, and then Stephan the Just exploded in a bluster of noise and pomposity. “She does not deny it! She wishes the return of her…. her TOOLS of the DEVIL! Did you all hear that?!” 

    Around me, murmured assent rumbled from the company of fools they had gathered. If I could turn and see in focus, I knew I would see all the hypocrites gathered: Will Wheeler, married but cheating with his best friend Phillip. I would see Mary-Martha Grantly, who steals things from the homes of her neighbours and then burns them in her fire. Maybe I would even see little Simon Porter, only seven, who has a fascination with breaking the necks of small animals.

    These are the people brought to judge me, what a joke. 

    My mind’s eye throbbed for a moment as a Vision was granted. I saw the silver moon of the Mother appearing before me, like a pool or a window and I saw my feet hanging. The shoes I had gone to bed wearing were hanging in the air, like the rest of me, and it would happen later this day. Well, if that was to be, it was the will of the Mother, and as the vision faded the child’s voice said all will be well. 

    I repeated it softly, no more than a whisper, but I realised my mistake a second later.

    They did not hear my, “All will be well”, but they panicked at the spell I might have cast. I heard someone collapse. It was a woman who gasped and as she fell, Thomas Welling tried to catch her by the breasts. My sighted eyes did not see, but the sight of the Mother granted me a snippet of the future, like light reflecting in water. His hands touch her breasts more in the future, and they would need to hide their forbidden love that started today, as she fainted. 

    There is panic and from behind, someone pulls my hair and takes advantage of my upturned chin to pull rope across my mouth. If I had more teeth I could bite it, it was so tight, but instead it itched and pulled against my mostly bare, red gums. My mouth filled with saliva but the rope was too large, too dry for spit to soften it. 

    “Take her away, take her now, before she hexes us again!” 

    “Someone please help, she’s fainted!”

    “Magatha Thorpencroft, I sentence you to be hung by your neck until you are dead. If you have one, may God have mercy on your soul.”

    The voices of the villagers suddenly intermingled with my own internal whispers as their thoughts also came to me, as they sometimes do. 

    Another hanging! How exciting! 

    Ah, better stand to the side, I do not know why the damn sight of a woman hanging hardens me, but none will notice. 

    Why does father cheer when we’re going to hang the witch? Is magic real?

    Ridiculous behaviour from these ridiculous people, but a small part of me was amused that they had taken so long to find me, the real witch, among so many they had hung before me. Like Elizabeth Greely, whose only crime was being so beautiful that all the women in the town hated her. Or like Constance Doyle-Frig, who was too simple to realise her sister was setting up accusers so she could be an only child.  Poor, simple fools.

    In the seconds since the announcement that I would die, my hands and feet had been untied and we were moving. I was carried along by my blurry captors, who smelt like donkey shit and practically threw me like a bag of flour. A whole procession of gasping idiots was parading towards the gallows they had erected in the town square. I realised they meant to hang me immediately, no time in a cell or to talk to Father Markely, just the noose. Unless they removed the gag, they’d never know I saved them all. 

    Well, saved is an exaggeration, came the voice of the Mother. It HAD to be done, she reminded me, as I was dragged along. The future vision I was granted showed a time without the child, but also with, and left it to me to choose.

    If Sara had given birth to the incestuous child of her own grandfather, the town would have been in turmoil. Her father would have left and with it, the last miller we have. The people would have strung up Grand Sergeant Jarvis for lying with his grandchild, and he would never have a chance to pass on his lands to his nephew Percival, the only clever man in the village. Percival would then never build the shining, tube with the magic eye to see the stars, a contraption with glass that the Mother had shown me, a thick rod that makes stars larger in the eyes of those who use it. The Mother willed and wanted the cylinder of unimaginable genius, it would show the face of the moon to the world. It would bring dangerous knowledge and tempt humans into flying into the blackness beyond, where magic comes from. 

    These events would not happen if not for me, and of course, for the loss of one child. 

    There was no sense of proportion, no chance of an apology, and as I walked up the wooden steps, I hoped the Mother had kind parents in mind for my soul’s next birth. 

    I listen, and amidst the chaos I hear some blather being repeated. It was something about punishing my wicked soul and divine justice, as they remind themselves how righteous they are for my obvious sin. At the same time, they pray their hidden sins are never revealed. 

    I did not accept a hood to be placed over my face, but I realised that the blurred sea of villager’s faces would be the last things I see with these tired old eyes. I sighed and tried to cough but the rope just burned, gagging me. An off-colour joke is shouted, I can tell more from tone than the words, as they begin to secure the noose. The crowd laughs despite the fact I am soon to die. Of course, I am a wicked daughter of Satan, so that makes it all honourable and divine. 

    I have never thought of the Mother’s magic as coming from Satan, I think to myself, and it is one of my last thoughts before my feet are kicked away from something. All the weight of my weary body is suddenly pushed into my thin, old throat. I am too heavy for myself.

    Death is black, like I’m returning to the womb with its warmth and lack of light. 

    -*-

    In 100 years, when a girl-child is born to a fisherman and his wife by the sea, the parents will wonder how their first born came to be holding the tusk of a boar, small, shiny and curved. Was it the first thing she grasped as she was taken from her mother’s passage and laid tenderly at her breast? Or is there the chance, no matter how slight, that the excessive pain and bleeding that came with this girl, happened because she was born holding it?

  • Pieces of Her: A tale of horror

    Pieces of Her: A tale of horror

    The legend says that most of the city was ash when the temple of Ishtar finally fell, but the legend could be mistaken; after all, no one who was alive then, is alive now. 

    But imagine you are, as the Gods are, and can see between the clouds. She could have calmly been going about her duties as a temple priestess, ignoring the invasion by the Gorgian savages. As the rest of the city burned, Gheralda might have been sweeping, tidying, or even washing the tunics of her Sister Priestesses. She simply refused to leave her temple, her duty. 

    The legend states all the priestesses of Ishtar were renowned for their strength: that was, after all, why they were called by the fearsome Mother Warrior, who was in equal parts fearsome and fertile. She is a paradox of burning sexual energy, maternal love and rage in battle while defending the home and hearth. Not every woman could bow to Ishtar, but the one named Gheralda, with “h” for ease of repetition, did. She was chosen.  

    See her now, as the Gods see her: She is tall and statuesque. A whole two heads taller than other women with long, strong legs, arms and feet. Her body nurtured two children before she heard the Song of Ishtar and was compelled to join the Order. Although one side, the caring and loving side, screamed ‘mother’, there was another side, in her strong hands and firm chin that bellowed, ‘warrior’ with white-hot rage and pride. Her astute eyes were framed by brown spiral curls, kept short for practical reasons, but known to dance when she laughed, and she laughed often. To laugh was an act of rebellion in the face of obstacles. Make no mistake, she could have cried too, but to turn, smiling and defiant towards the buffeting winds of chaos was a greater insult. In private, she cried like any other woman and her tears were cleansing, cathartic drops. She was all woman, every woman and no more extraordinary than you, reader. But what set her apart on this blood-soaked day was that when all others chose to flee, she remained. 

    The Gorgian savages were ransacking and burning what they could not carry for hours before the temple was in any danger. It was presumed the forces of Caradri would drive them back with tactics or force but the presumption was wrong, so the city would fall. The young acolytes and older Sisters went first, by the secret tunnels and Gheralda was instructed to leave also and almost, almost did. 

    The legend said she was walking past an old statue of Ishtar when the crescent atop the head of the Goddess began to glow, and Gheralda kneeled, hands out, face bowed. She was told to stay, stay in the temple, because Ishtar remained and it was her will that Gheralda should be there too. So she stood, bare of foot and humble of heart. There was no question of disobedience, she would do as she was told and remain steadfastly at her duties. This was a woman who had given her Word, her Vow to Ishtar and would not go back on it. 

    So, there she remained. Minutes passed since the glowing crescent vision and a strange peace settled around her, her shoulders were proud and firm, strengthened with the perfect cape of calm that was Ishtar’s request to remain. She would have heard screams, smelt smoke from the burnt buildings and could not help but taste the soot of her burning city but none of this deterred her. The legend states she would waver for a moment, but it was not then. 

    Caradri’s pride was its downfall that day. The city had sat like a glowing gem in the desert, gleaming with trade and treasure that the Gorgians could not resist. They were not the type to settle and make a great city: they were invaders, constantly mobile and respecting nothing. They had no roots to settle them to a part of the Earth, no foundation of faith in Gods and only lived in the immediate, the here and now. They could not have known the joy of heritage, of tradition, because there was no past and barely any future, only the hedonistic ecstasy of the here and now. Caradri was their anathema and their envy in equal parts and that is why they burned all that they could not steal. 

    Gheralda knew this and remained. With the tranquil Song of Ishtar in her head, she worked on until they were at the gate and she could no longer ignore them. They used a battering ram and poured in from all directions like black flames. Some ran straight to urinate on the sacred Ishtar fountain, just to watch the water stain with their impurity. Others ran from room to room looking to pillage and plunder, thinking only of the value of the metal and not of what it was shaped to resemble. There, in one of the rooms, was Gheralda. 

    The legend is used now to frighten women with the worst of what men can do, but the legend leaves out the worst of the events. Not what they did to Gheralda, presuming she was a virgin, as many others were, but how they treated her after. She was violated over and over again, caked in their wildly squirted juices and treated as the fountain had been. When there was no part of her that was not moist and bruised from their sick desires, the legend says the commanders cut off her breasts and cooked the sliced flesh with a torch in front of her, then fed her pieces. How she swallowed is a mystery. It is whispered that two men inserted their thumbs into the tender ball of her eye and pushed, competing to see which would pop first. The winner then slid his fingers into the fleshy socket as the others laughed, holding her down. She was no longer a pillar of virtue, she was a woman of broken faith and this was her lowest point, this barrage of humiliation and agony. If she had screamed, the whole city of Caradri would have heard it, but they had stuffed her mouth with feces and closed it with a rope. Her body was a canvas of suffering, a toy for cruelty and boredom. She bore the brunt of them not finding enough firm, ripe, young things to rape. Unsurprisingly, her body gave out and she died. 

    And that is where the mere cautionary story turns into legend, as Ishtar intervened. The Gorgians left, having finished a torment that to them, was mere sport. The pieces of Gheralda were scattered around the room where they’d killed her and she lay, splayed like a puppet with its strings cut, with a ceremonial spear sticking out between her legs. Ishtar appeared, looked around, and gave life to her servant again. 

    The form of Gheralda awakens, readers, to find her limbs scattered and blood sprinkled like rain. Infused with the strength of Ishtar and feeling no pain, she picks up the pieces of herself and beholds them with curiosity as she remembers where they go. Glowing with the Light of the Crescent-Crowned Goddess, she puts herself together again from fleshy pieces. She is able to stand and call the wriggly slivers of muscle and sinew back together where they reform into a deeper perfection than before. Wherever there was torn skin, the point of fusion was a golden thread holding new life together. With a grunt, she removes the spear from herself and uses it as a walking stick as the bleeding ebbs like it was never there. She glows, still broken but painless and transcendent and her faith returns with frightening strength. 

    This was meant to be. 

    She’d lived through a pupation of pain and was emerging into a new form as her back split, revealing golden wings that brushed the ground. Her skin was marble now, threaded with the yellow memories of every injury the Gorgians had made, but there was no agony. There remained only the roar of self, the idea that she could triumph over anything. In her hand, where every finger had been removed and eaten, they returned and wielded a sword. And when Gheralda felt the strength return completely to her knees, she took to the air, as light and easy as a bird. 

    The legend ends there, with Gheralda the emissary of Ishtar, flying over the crumbling remains of the city to guide her Sisters to establish a new temple. She would exist another thousand years as the temples herald and protector and through her, thousands found strength in their times of darkness. Any time she was seen flying overhead, women would remember the hideous pain of Gheralda, certainly, but they would also see the unstoppable strength that transcends all tribulation. They still whisper the legend of the woman, once ordinary, made extraordinary by sheer will. No one alive now was alive then, but the story is like Gheralda herself, unconquered. 

    For if a woman can rebuild her entire self from mere pieces, we can all become more than we once were.   

  • The One Who Waits: A new tale of tragedy

    The One Who Waits: A new tale of tragedy

    The grieving family arrived too close to closing time and were forced to say hello and goodbye almost in a single breath. When you live at the cemetery, you learn that the face of sadness can be a mask of confusion when you simply don’t know what to do. These people moved with characteristic indecision, not sure if they wanted to express grief or mask it.

    I watched them from behind a nearby tree, noticing everything, as is my habit. The mother held the toddler, confusing the girl with her stifled tears. I see the father, hands in pockets, his posture screaming with reluctance. Only the teenage boy interested me as a curiosity, as he, and only he, bent over to brush debris off the headstone.

    I bent low, fascinated now at how these four very different beings moved over soil where their relative was buried. Focusing my senses on them, I probed for answers, and the pictures formed in my mind. The man 6 feet down had been her father, the crying older woman, and I sensed he had never liked this husband she had chosen. Ironically, I felt the same stalwart stubbornness in him, a bonus feeling from being one of the dead who still gets to walk the Earth. Stretching my senses further, I gleaned a wave of guilt from her; she felt she didn’t visit enough, talk enough, do anything quite enough, and now here she was. Too little too late, he would have said, with his taciturn honesty.

    Inwardly I rode the wave of guilt she was thinking about, and it crashed to its natural conclusion; she had done all that she could with her children, husband, and job. Even as she silently stared at the grave, the little girl squirmed and began to babble. In the guise of comforting her, the mother buried her face in her daughter’s hair and wept.

    The teen boy had been dusting the grave with his sleeve and now traced his finger over the delicate letters and numbers. He did some math. I felt he wanted to confirm that longevity ran in the family, but when he turned to look at his mother, he thought better of it. Instead, he commented to his father that it was a nice headstone and Poppa would have liked its elegant, simple look. He had an eye for detail, that boy.

    The father set down the yellow roses and awkwardly comforted his wife while sneaking a look at his watch. Even from my concealed position, I could tell he felt cold and uncomfortable. I resented his lack of interest and focused hard on him, reading as hard as I could. His lifeline was not as long-lived as hers, and I saw many hours in a lonely hospital before he passed. Then, in his final days of half-awake sedation, he would crave his wife’s attention and wonder why his daughter and son do not visit. Something in the vision showed me their divorce and it seemed fair, apt even.

    They left soon after, the mother having taken a moment to say something I did not care to hear. When she approached alone, having handed the toddler to her husband, I wrenched my senses away and gave her privacy. It felt wrong to invade that moment, and I will never know what caused her cathartic sobs.

    He would never hear it: her father, I mean. Part of my power is seeing where they go, and for this man I sensed a golden, warm light. He dwells in the hereafter I have not yet been to.

    I watched the family walk down the hill and back to the car while I drifted to the other part of the cemetery to make a visit of my own.

    Since I am neither fully dead, nor fully alive, I have my own way of looking at events like this. Part of me dislikes the empty spectacle of visiting now, when nothing more can be done. But a wiser part of me envies their continuing quest to make something right and repair what is permanently broken. They know it’s futile, but they do it to soothe a part of themselves, the visits being the public balm to private wounds.

    I lived long ago, but grief has not changed. These days, people seem to need an audience for everything, and they’d rather connect through their devices than in person, but that was the most notable of changes I had seen. They still wept as they had before. If anything, there was more regret now than I had previously seen and I would know: regret could be my middle name.

    I float past graves and markers, stones growing ever older in time from one end of the cemetery to the other. They continue to pass on but there is only so much room for the dead amongst the many buildings for the living. Will the living ever reach a point past polite decorum and insist that burial is too decadent? I do not know how much time I have left, but I observe more and more who chose to be ash in the wind rather than in the soil. Not that I had a choice.

    Proceeding to the oldest part of the cemetery, death becomes more grand, or at least the monuments do. She is near the ostentatious angels and gaudy mausoleums families used to be proud of. She could not afford an angel when she died, but the one next to her cast enough of a shadow that she could enjoy that borrowed glory. As is my custom since I found her, I focused my corporeal energy and cleaned the dust from her name plate.

    Helen Dorothy Pleasance

    13th December 1902 to 5th March 1944

    We cherish her always

    She was my mother, dead at forty-one and laid here. For many years I wondered about the bird flying out of a basket, so carefully carved by skilled hands on my mother’s headstone, and considered the reasons it was put there. To me, it represents her humble origins, as we were always poor, and how the family worked hard to make something of themselves. But that is one of many questions I would ask if she was still here, the way I seem to be.

    Somewhere behind me, the cemetery is closing its metal gates and I sense an impatient guard reluctantly ambling amongst the headstones, but he would never spot me. I let myself fade just enough that he would mistake me, overlook me, and I could continue my version of mourning.

    When I lived, from 1922 to 1930, I was one of two happy children, but as the oldest, and a girl, I had to be sold when the family was at its poorest. The farm, once a source of food and life, had turned to dust and my parents were desperate. I remember a vague argument about having land, precious land, but unless the children could eat dirt, there was no value in it.

    I was only eight. My brother was merely two years younger than me, but he was the greatest achievement of both my mother and father—there was no chance he would have been made to suffer—that’s not why golden boys are born. No, when The Gentleman took an interest in buying me from my mother, there was only a brief hesitation and then, I’m sure, relief.

    My mother and father worked it out and I was sold for an envelope full of money. Is it good that I do not know how much I was worth? If I could sleep, it would be harder to close my eyes at night knowing the paltry amount. Better that I just remember the moment I stood with a wooden box of possessions on the front step. Then he takes my hand and leads me away. I realised too late that I will not be going back.

    Certainly it could have been worse, I know that. I was never a big talker; instead, I listened, and many times I heard maids and cooks talking about children sold to be playthings of older men and women or sent to work in dangerous factories to be horribly mangled. When I lived with my parents, I saw my mother burn her hand on the stove and to me, that is all factories were: giant stoves that could sizzle the skin right off the bone. At least I was not sent there. I spent a lot of cold nights in the servants’ quarters and went to bed hungry, but yes, it could have been worse.

    I was fortunate to have become a maid and companion to the Gentleman’s daughter Marjorie Elsemore, until we were playing in a river and I drowned on a spring afternoon.

    We’d been playing, squelching in mud, pushing each other happily and daring each other to go further and further toward the middle of the river where our feet no longer touched the bottom. I was winning because I was taller, but I could not fight the strange pull that dragged me under when I went just a little further in than Marjorie had. I crowed with joy that I was braver, “Queen of the River!” I yelled, but then I lost my footing and the game ended. Well, the river had been playing its own game and I lost that day.

    I knew something was wrong when an instant later (it seemed), I was looking at my body from the edge of the river. I could see myself floating down the river as Marjorie screamed herself hoarse and eventually, someone came to get me. Confused, I tried to touch my hands, my hair, the water, but my fingers passed through as if I was made of air. Marjorie could not see me, but I could see them, all of them who came to help. I had never in my life been so popular as I was moments after death.

    They tried to shield Marjorie, but bless her, she cared for me and was very upset. When I concentrate, I can hear her howls clearly. Over time, I’ve watched her grow into a fine woman who made her family proud. When I am not here, I visit the facility for older people where she lives, my dear friend, and I try to watch her without giving her fright. She is still as elegant and stately as ever, age having not taken her dignity yet, and I feel a strange pride for having been there when she was just a little girl.

    Her family honoured my passing by burying me in a quiet corner of the Elsemore gardens, amidst deceased pets of Marjories, near a stone bench she would often sit at. It is a beautiful place I have only visited once. It is full of life now and constantly busy as the house has been turned into some sort of hotel. People have even been married at the river bank right near where I died and if I had a voice, I would laugh.

    So, dear reader, why do I come here? When the world is available, why keep returning to this cemetery and its tidy rows of strangers?

    I will answer, as I sit as before her grave. I am waiting for my apology.

    I will wait until the day Helen Dorothy Pleasance returns from her personal, golden heaven and says, “Sorry for selling you.” I want to hear her say, with tears in her eyes, that she was wrong to trade me, because I was not a commodity: I was her child.

    I wait, and I wait. I have waited more than the fifteen thousand days she lived. 

    I am determined to remain until she returns. In my mind’s eye, I see her running towards me instead of walking away. I hear her calling me to her open arms instead of turning her back to me. And rather than accepting politely with downcast eyes, she proudly spurns the money. “No amount of money is greater than my love,” she will say, and she will wrap me up in herself as only she could, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

    The moon will rise and find me waiting, patiently upon the spot where her earthly remains rest and I wait for the afterlife that is the sound of her voice.

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