‘ Ee lie! ‘Ee lie as thorn in thine ears, Lord!’

‘SILENCE the witch!’

‘My Lord Thorne, the plaint ‘afore ye be that ‘o this Woodwife—’

‘—A WITCH! SHE BE A WITCH!’

‘SILENCE afore the county court or the Bailiff shall ‘ave ‘ee in irons!’

‘Ahem—be that ‘o this Woodwife that ‘er ‘usband, Elias Thorne, was took from life unjust by thine own Poachgarde—’

‘'A man alone in the Devil’s darkness? In thine woods, Lord Thorne, with sack and stave and cord? Can be for but one purpose: POACHERY!’

‘SILENCE AFORE THE COUNTY!’

‘Woodwife. Approach your Lord. I shall hear you, for this my court be a just one.’

‘LET IT BE KNOWN! LORD THORNE BE A JUST LORD!’

‘My name, Lord. I wish it be known that as honour to my departed ‘usband…’ee that lie afore you Lord…Ee that, as the landlaw require ‘as took ‘is Lord’s name in fealty…I wish it be known that my name be Elias Thorne, as bestowed ‘pon ‘is own son, Elias.’

‘And what be your ‘plaint. Let me here it from thine own mouth and sworn true before God.’

‘Lord, I swear ‘afore God, and true as the blood of Elias was true, blood which annoint this very floor. ELias was a Woodman, tenant and tithe of my Lord. The claim of poachery is false. Elias walks the woods at new moon to gather Valebane Lord. All know ‘tis best took at night. The cord to bind the bushel and the sack to carry it.’

‘Ely Prycke. Poachgarde. What say you to this?’

Pretty word’s Lord. Beguilements and lies of a Witch. The Man was caught fair! ‘Is hands red with blood of a nine point stag caught fast in ‘is own trap iron.’

‘Tis lies! Where be the stag? The wounds on ‘is body tell the truth!’

‘Ely Prycke - Poachgarde - before God, before me, your Lord…how came the man by his injuries?’

‘Lord…why…’ee would not yield, Lord.

‘Lord! Where be the foot of my Elias! Lord Thorne, a Woodman may hold only the iron of his axe and the teeth of his saw. The trapiron be thine own!’

‘SILENCE! SILENCE ‘TIL THEE BE CALLED TO SPEAK!’

‘Poachgarde. Approach. Tell me, why has this body no foot?’

‘Lord…’ee was caught, and would not yield. As he turned to flee, my blade—’

‘The wound is ragged Lord!’

‘SILENCE! STILL THY TONGUE!’

‘And the blows to his head?’

‘Lord…’ee would not yield.’

‘Lord Thorne…no man would die from the loss of a foot alone!—’

‘SILENCE!’

‘—His face, once fair, is broken beyond knowing. The truth is plain:—’

‘SILENCE WOODWIFE!’

‘—my Man was innocent caught within the trap, and trapped was helpless ‘neath the Poachgarde’s cruel cudgel blows.’

‘BAILIFF, TAKE HER OUT!’

‘AYE! Take the witch out! Still her slithering tongue!’

‘—‘T’was murder, Lord. Not justice.’

‘Men of the Court. I have thought long upon this, and had long to gaze upon the wretch whose blood stains these stones. The man cannot speak to the charges in defence—for it is defence to the plaint of the Woodwife we have heard, not a charge of poachery brought and claimed. Therein lies weight we must measure.’

‘Magisters…what say the three of you?’

‘‘Tis not disputed he was in the woods, at Devil’s darkness with sack and cord…’

‘Tis law that the word of a man counts twice against a woman’s tongue…’

‘Tis said she is a Witch…’

‘Elias dear heart, son of your father fair, watch thy mother’s hands and work the pot as she has shown. We shall bring right back to the world and justice for your good father. Now, as I speak its name, lay it within the cauldrin.’

‘Yes mother.’

‘Eyes of eel and ‘t’horn of ass.

Tongue of lark, scale of wrass.

Oil of shade and ichor-burn.

Blood of he that ‘aught return.

Vengeance bring and justice earn’

This story was brought to you as part of the ‘Thousand faces of Elias Thorne’ collaboration and the cunning mind of

They don't all have to be good

The Thousand Faces of Elias Thorne

Listening to Print Run last night, I learned that LLMs are hallucinating a character named Elias Thorne across platforms. I’ve since learned some other Substackers have written about this phenomenon (Linda Carol, Daniel May) and it’s even bee…

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4 days ago · 64 likes · 68 comments · Ian Patterson

put out a call for British writers to write specualtive Sci-Fi pieces about the future of our nation.

The world seems an insane place now, more insane that at any time in my 57 years.

The madness and horror swirling around us makes the terrible times of my youth - The Cold War, Thatcherism, The Falklands, AIDS…seem almost trivial by comparison to what we are enduring and facing now…

Fascism, Genocide, Global Wealth Inequality, Billionaires, Drone Wars, AI, Robots, Deep Fakes, Surveillance State, Data Harvesting, Palantir, The destruction of Global Norms and Treaties, the Collapse of International Law, Nuclear Proliferation, Subversion of Democracy, Obesity, Pandemics, Privatised Everything. Flagrant Corruption, Corrupted Media.

All of these things are a terrifying noise that is drowning out the relentless horror that is climate change. This is a scientific certainty that we have known the truth of for the last FIFTY YEARS. Truth that has been attacked by Liars serving their own Corporate and Individual interests. Not the interests of the people and all life on this planet.

After we finished shaking with rage and fear about all of this, 24 of us answered the call - 24 different but overlapping stories: our visions of what future Britains could be. Here is a snippet of my vision - my story is (currently) going to be called “Facial Recognition.” I shall say no more.

If you would like to support the project we have a crowdfunder here - drop in and read more about the project and if you feel you can help, that would be grand.

Future Britains

You can support us and also choose some goodies - There is nothing better than being part of something bigger than yourself and I am delighted that some of my very best most talented substack friends (as well as our driving force ) of the sci-fi world are also beaming down: to name but a few.

We are all aiming to finish our final edits for 1 June and get to the next stage of the Project - excitement is the flavour.

Hope to see you in the future…

“ALL THESE PLACES WILL BE LOST IN TIME…LIKE TEARS…IN RAIN”

Gimic BRISTOL PUNK ASS FIENDS are a Bristol based punk band and they rock. Not gunna lie, Ma Couzine is the singer and she is fantastic and I get some undeserved vicarious pride that I am related to her and she is a musician and a songwriter and a punk and has great banter. I have no earthly right to claim any such vicarious pride or glory, but I’m going to because my life is about as rock and roll as the cushion under my arse and my long haired butter-dish-pissing cat.

My Bruder writes ass kicking brain bending stories and made we want to actually write my brain out too ( I refer you to my previous posts) and do a substack (you are balls deep in it now, my friends) - READ JRBs STORIES

but my point is this…

Seeing Ma Couzine on stage giving this performance makes we wish I never sold my cream tokai stratocaster and peavy amp way way back. Not because the geetar would be cost about £1000 now and I paid £90 for it in 1987, but because she SOOOO makes we wish I had been in a band just once, just briefly, just ever. Her power shines. She is doing it.

We all need to get our punk spirit on and DO IT WHATEVER IT IS

Anyway - we - Ma Couszine and I - barely know each other really -we are part of a big amazing but quite distant, really, family - weddings and funerals are pretty much the only time we meet up now these days EXCEPT when I got chance to see her perform at the LUBBER FIEND a full on dirty music venue in my home town - it was AMEZZIN.

She also performed (performs? dunno) as DogEyed - also superb, and more melodic but excellent in a different way - looky here dogeyed vibes awesome

Anyways - give GIMIC a punk ass welcome to substack and checkem out and get some punk into you blud.

Keep screamin’ Ma Couzine xxxx

It looked heavy. It looked wrong, the orange plastic bag. Where it was, what it looked like it might have in it, but most of all, the colour of it. You didn’t see a bag like that at the side of the road, on the verge, just off the roundabout where your car speeds up out of the corner and you’re going almost too fast to notice…almost.

A bag like that, the size of it, the heaviness in it? How it sat like someone had placed it just exactly where it was, precisely where it needed to be…to be visible, but not quite. Not dumped, not blown there by the wind to somehow take root and settle. Not thrown from a car window, guiltily, stuffed with road-trip lunch scraps which would escape, piecemeal, on a scavenging wind. The sliproad verge was not a place for dog-walkers, and the bag was orange. It was not black or green like dog shit bags. It was not hung from a branch like those feculent low-hanging fruit, for all that it was the very colour of an orange.

Day after day it was there, catching his eye as he accelerated out of the roundabout’s curve, the flash of orange in the weeds turning his head like he was nodding good morning to it. Litter was transient –it came and went, but the orange plastic bag remained. It showed no sign of moving on and whatever was within it –dense and shapeless–seemed to hug the ground like home.

Shapeless. Was it shapeless?

Another week; it was still there, winking at him now from between the tips of lively spring grass. You would miss it if you didn’t know it was there; but he did. A shape was forming in his mind, a shape of something that might be in the orange plastic bag, but it was getting harder to tell, amongst the grass. He asked his wife, “When you go to your pilates, have you ever noticed that orange plastic bag, just off to the right when you come off the roundabout? No? Why? Oh, no reason. Just…annoying. Bloody litter louts.”

He didn’t realise that he’d begun to come off the roundabout a little slower each day on his commute, trying to snatch a longer, more revealing glimpse. He was thinking: “If I rode my bike here, I could stop…” when the shiny audi, overtaking on the outside lane, clipped his rear wing and made him stop anyway. Angry voices, apologies and insurance details were exchanged. “Just a ding. No need to call the police.” The shiny audi sped off, but like the orange plastic bag, he remained.

Leaving footsteps in the dew he approached it. Somehow it seemed larger, close-up, but it was just a plastic bag, the sort you get in corner shops, the ones you’re never sure will take a six pack and a pint of milk, the ones you need to double-bag. Except those ones were always white, not orange, like this one at his feet.

How can you tell something’s heavy, just by the look of it?

He didn’t know how, he just knew it would be, even before he picked it up by the handles, knotted and bow-tied, poking up like hare’s ears. Four handles –it was double bagged, whatever was inside, the heavy thing that had a shape now. It definitely had a shape, even through two orange plastic bags. And after he swallowed down the dryness in his mouth and took hold of the handles and started to lift it, he felt the resistance of the thing inside to being disturbed. Its inertia yielded to him, reluctantly, because it was a heavy thing –the thing inside. Heavier than you would think. The shape of it pressed through the tightening orange plastic as if it yearned for the ground.

He set it down. The bag rustled gently. The hare’s ears drooped and the contours of the thing inside softened, receded into the orange plastic.

He needed air. He swallowed spit in strands. He had to sit down to call the police; the grass was wet but he didn’t feel it. He sat with his back to the orange plastic bag, the morning traffic passing behind, an oblivious rhythm. He saw a crow sidling back to its breakfast, further up the slip road. He saw a crocodile cloud in the sky. He saw a stream of ants trickling up the grassy bank into a scraggy line of trees, where, in the gloom beneath there was another orange plastic bag.

This story came to me because for weeks I have been seeing an orange plastic bag just on the verge coming off the roundabout on my way to work…and I can’t stop thinking about what might be inside it.

Given all the hoo haa about the “Snake in the Grove” “She could make benches turn into men” etc ., piece I decided I needed to check if my writing might look like AI if anyone checked me out - so my weird folk fable Who Looks Inside Awakes“ was subjected to a co-pilot assessment - and I am pleased to say

I PASSED THE TURING TEST - convincingly human

here’s what co-pilot had to say…

“This is a strong piece—and importantly, it does not read like typical AI-generated writing. I’ll break that down clearly so you can see why.

🧠 Overall verdict

Leans strongly human-written.
If it was AI-assisted, it’s been heavily edited or guided by a skilled writer.

🔍 Key signals I looked for

1. ❌ Lack of “AI smoothness”

AI writing (especially unedited) tends to be:

• overly balanced and clean

• logically consistent but emotionally “safe”

• repetitive in structure and rhythm

Your piece is the opposite:

• jagged pacing

• abrupt sentence fragments

• tonal shifts

• deliberate disorientation

Example:

“The innards stretch impossibly far. To left and right: men.”

That fragmentation is very human stylistic control, not typical default AI output.

2. ✅ Distinctive voice (hard for AI to sustain this well)

There’s a very specific voice here:

• mythic / folkloric tone

• slightly archaic masculine language (“Brother”, “the Man”, “them ‘aint the rules”)

• physical, visceral imagery

AI can imitate this style—but usually:

• it becomes exaggerated or cliché

• or it drifts inconsistently

Here, the voice is:

• consistent across a long piece

• controlled rather than overwritten

3. ✅ Symbolic coherence (this is the big one)

The story has a clear symbolic engine:

• arm wrestling → struggle for identity / masculinity / need

• “Doctor” → numbing / intoxication / trauma

• hands → agency, violence, choice

• yielding → resolution / growth

AI often produces symbolism that:

• feels decorative rather than structural

• doesn’t resolve meaningfully

Your ending:

“I will yield.”

That is a thematically earned inversion, which suggests intentional authorship—not just pattern generation.

4. ✅ Risk-taking and imperfection

There are choices here that real writers make but AI usually avoids:

• Slight over-description in places

• Odd phrasing:

“tick-tocking cogitations”

• Structural risk (long middle section with escalating surrealism)

AI tends to:

• smooth these out

• avoid “mistakes” or unconventional phrasing

Here, those rough edges actually add authenticity.

5. ⚠️ Minor AI-like traces (but not decisive)

To be fair, there are a few moments that could raise suspicion:

• Occasional density overload:

“Waves ripple out from shimmering muscles as they tremble and shake power into the air.”

• Some slightly “assembled” phrasing patterns

• Repetition of motifs (ghosts, arms, men) in a way AI sometimes does

But crucially: 👉 A human writer can do all of those deliberately
👉 AI usually does them without control

Here, it feels intentional, not accidental.

🧾 Final judgement

✅ Likely human-written because:

• Strong, sustained voice

• Controlled symbolism with payoff

• Structural and stylistic risk-taking

• Non-generic phrasing and rhythm

❓ If AI was used:

• It would be as a drafting or idea tool, not the final author

• The piece shows clear human crafting and editing

👍 Bottom line

This reads like the work of a confident, stylistically experimental writer, not raw AI output.

If you want, I can also:

• highlight the strongest passages stylistically

• suggest edits to tighten it

or compare it against known AI writing patterns more technically (burstiness, entropy, etc.) ”

With continuing thanks and admiration to for this challenge, to which I am failing to rise, like a bromide-dosed lag, here is my entry to Leg 4 - the Play within the marvellous - Fictionwocky parts 1-7 here

Leg 4 – The Play Leg: Write your piece as a short play. Use dialogue format and character names ]

Suspended. Animated.

[CURTAINS OPEN TO A PITCH BLACK STAGE. THERE ARE THE SOUNDS OF JUNGLE INSECTS FROGS AND OTHER THINGS. FOR AT LEAST TWO MINUTES. ]

AKIN: (begins to cough and groan)

SHEARMAN: You’re alive then.

AKIN: (continues to cough and groan. Groans become louder.)

SHEARMAN: I said: “You’re alive then”, as in: you are alive and I am also alive.

AKIN: (voice weak and feeble) Oh God! My head hurts.

SHEARMAN: Have you any idea where we are, Akin?

AKIN: (voice hoarse and frantic) Jesus! I’m bleeding, something’s bleeding. I can taste it.

[THRASHING NOISES AS AKIN STRUGGLES]

SHEARMAN: Akin, for God’s sake man, will you calm down.

AKIN: Calm down? Are you having a laugh?

SHEARMAN: We’re alive aren’t we. Infinitely better than—

AKIN: —I knew this was going to be a fuck up. I told you, didn’t I?

SHEARMAN: That’s hardly fair, Akin. Nobody could have predicted this.

AKIN: What? nobody could predict that rusting tin can might fall out the fuckin’ sky?

SHEARMAN: The pilot was highly recommended.

AKIN: By who? Johnny Walker?

SHEARMAN: By our friends, Akin. Our friends in the Ecuadorian Government, Akin. The ones that grant us the licences we pay so much for.

AKIN: The guy was hammered, A.O.

SHEARMAN: He took a five foot arrow through his neck, Akin, if you recall. Booze was not the problem. (grumbling) He was the one pilot that could get us to Bameno, too.

AKIN: Like why did we even need to go there? Isn’t that what we pay the paramilitarios all that wedge for?

SHEARMAN: We go for the visuals. Akin. We go for the receipts. Yes we went ourselves. Yes we monitored the drilling operations. Yes we respect the indigenous peoples. No we didn’t see any human rights violations. Yes here’s the sworn affidavits.

AKIN: Well we ain’t getting any of that shit, now, are we Shearman. Christ my head.

[THERE IS SILENCE BETWEEN THEM WHILE JUNGLE NOISES CONTINUE. FAINT LIGHT BEGINS TO BREAK.]

SHEARMAN: Have you any idea where we are Akin?

AKIN: Well we’re still in our fucking seats.

SHEARMAN: I’d gathered as much, Akin, but—

AKIN: —and it sounds a lot like we’re in the fuckin’ jungle.

SHEARMAN: You know what I mean Akin, stop being so ob—

AKIN: —I don’t know where the fuck we are, Shearman. I can’t see shit all but leaves.

SHEARMAN: What do you mean you can’t see anything—

AKIN: —I mean I can barely see my hand in front of my face…

SHEARMAN: Yes…

AKIN: …and all I can see is leaves.

SHEARMAN: Leaves?

AKIN: And branches. There’s branches.

[SILVERY LIGHT BEGINS TO BRIGHTEN THE SCENE. THRASHING LEAFY SOUNDS AS AKIN MOVES IN HIS SEAT. WE SEE AKIN AND SHEARMAN IN SILHOUETTE IN AEROPLANE SEATS SUSPENDED IN A TREE. AN ARROW IS PROTRUDING FROM AKIN’S HEAD. NEITHER OF THEM NOTICE.]

AKIN: (starts to laugh)

SHEARMAN: What is it.

AKIN: I know where we are, A.O. old bean. We’re up a bloody tree! Maybe there’s bananas…

SHEARMAN: What?!

AKIN: Yup, can’t you feel the swaying?

[RUSTLING SOUNDS OF LEAVES]

SHEARMAN: Oh God, stop it man, stop it.

AKIN: And there was me thinking it couldn’t get any worse.

SHEARMAN: How high up are we? (Akin begins to whoop) Can you tell? AKIN WILL YOU STOP THAT!

AKIN: You’re no fun, A.O. No fun at all. Anyone ever tell you that?

SHEARMAN: There is a time and a place, and we are not currently in that place.

AKIN: Oh, I don’t know.

[MORE VIGOROUS LEAF THRASHING NOISES]

SHEARMAN: FOR GOD’S SAKE MAN! WILL YOU STOP THAT, YOU’LL KILL US BOTH.

AKIN: Ohhhh Excuse me, but I think you already done us, boss.

SHEARMAN: Look, we’re alive and we survived a plane crash. It can only get better. We just have to get down from this tree. Do you think you can climb down?

AKIN: I got a better idea. (removes a phone from pocket and the screen illuminates his face) Shit! No signal.

SHEARMAN: You have your phone?

AKIN: Wait…it was on airplane mode….Shit. Nah…no bars. Fuck that then.

SHEARMAN: Isn’t there an emergency thing?

AKIN: You still need bars, you dick. How d’ya think they work? magic moonbeams? For CTO you are thick as mince sometimes.

SHEARMAN: Does it have a torch? Can you see how far up we are?

AKIN: Sure (torch light flicks on and light flicks about)…aaah huh.

SHEARMAN: Well?

AKIN: Pretty high.

SHEARMAN: How high?

AKIN: Like…dead high.

SHEARMAN: Could you climb down?

AKIN: Maybe, but like, why would I risk it? Up here, right, if rescuers come lookin’ for us, they can see us, right? But down there? There’s like, wild beasts. Tigers. And there’s like your loincloth lot with the painted faces and the five foot arrers and…oh my days!”

SHEARMAN: What.?

AKIN: You’re gunna want to stay still, A.O. Dead still.

SHEARMAN: What! What is it?

AKIN: Just be quiet, mate. Stay still.

SHEARMAN: AKIN, what is it!

AKIN: Just…something, ok. Just… relax. Stay still. Trust me.

SHEARMAN: Akin…Aki-i-i-i-n. Is that you touching my head.

AKIN: Fraid not.

SHEARMAN: What is it? Oh God, it’s on me it’s on me. What is it.!?

AKIN: ahhhh…it looks a bit like a snake.

SHEARMAN: Akin…it’s wrapping round my head, Akin. Akin, do something!

AKIN: I’m not fucking touching it! What if it bites?

SHEARMAN: Just grab it and pull it off man! AKIN, AKIN, its wrapping round my neck. DO SOMETHING.

AKIN: Look, mate, it’s a tree snake right. It’s a snake, it’s up a tree. They eat mice ‘n, birds, right. Just let it crawl by. You’re not a bird. You’re not a…mouse or nothing. Just keep still, keep quiet and it’ll slither off.

SHEARMAN: (whispering) AKIN, it’s squeezing my head.

AKIN: So it’s not biting right. It’s not a biter. That’s good. Just keep still. It will crawl off.

SHEARMAN: (his voice becoming muffled) AKIN, it’s crushing my head, Akin. Please do something.

AKIN: It’s actually pretty big! It’s one of your long ones.

SHEARMAN: (voice completely muffled) AKIN! GRFF IFF RRFFRME. GRRRFF IFF URFF!

AKIN: Shit, it’s got your head totally covered mate. Must be one of those…constrictors right? (muffled screams start)

AKIN: A.O. Look, they’re cold blooded right, snakes. Maybe it just wants somewhere warm? Maybe that’s it. Maybe just keep still, keep quiet and when the sun’s up it’ll…(screams get louder and then abruptly stop)

AKIN: Shit! Lighter! (fumbles in pockets and pulls out a zippo lighter, flicks it open and strikes a flame.)

AKIN: Shoo! Shoo snakey, shoo! (Akin waves lighter at snake, snake begins to slither away from flame.)

SHEARMAN: Good lord.

AKIN: There you go! Told you it’d bugger off. You alright?

SHEARMAN: I can see… I CAN BLOODY SEE!

AKIN: You what?

SHEARMAN: The bloody snake! It crushed my head and somehow my sight has returned!

AKIN: You sure? Didn’t that thing with the –you know–in the swimming pool? I thought it was game over.

SHEARMAN: I can see damn it Akin! I know what seeing is, when I see it!

AKIN: How many fingers am I holding up then?

SHEARMAN: Two, you cretin. Of course I’m sure I can see. I never thought I’d be so happy to see your ugly face again, Akin, but I can see you clear as day! I can…(stops abruptly)

AKIN: What? You can what…what is it?

SHEARMAN: Akin…you know you said your head hurt…

AKIN: Yeah.

SHEARMAN: Now, don’t panic —it’s obviously not serious…

AKIN: WHAT!

SHEARMAN: There’s something ahhh…sticking out of your head. Akin.

(Akin screams and frantically checks head with right hand, grasping the arrow protruding from the right hand side of it.)

SHEARMAN: Don’t touch it, Akin! Don’t touch it.

(Akin keeps screaming and pulls at the thing in his head)

SHEARMAN: No, Akin! NO! DON’T—

(Akin pulls the arrow out, stops screaming and holds it in front of face. Stares blankly at it.)

SHEARMAN: —pull it…out…whatever you do…Akin? Are you alright? Say something.

(Blood seeps out of Akin’s nose. His eyes glaze and a rictus grin forms on his face.)

AKIN: Doesn’t hurt a bit mate. (the zippo lighter falls out of his left hand)

SHEARMAN: Oh thank God! You had me worried for a second!

(A whumphing noise from below is followed by a ball of fire briefly engulfing them)

AKIN + SHEARMAN: both shrieking and flapping out flames.

SHEARMAN: Am I out!? Am I out!?

AKIN: Yep. Bit singed but you’re ok. Fuck me! Burning to death…my worst nightmare. Thought we was toast then.

SHEARMAN: OK. OK. I’ve got a plan. The plane must be down below us, There’s a transponder or a black box somewhere on it. When we don’t arrive, they’ll come looking for us. So, we just wait here. Give it 24 hours and then if nobody has come, well, we can think of plan B in the meantime. What do you say?

AKIN: Sounds good.

(voices waft up from below)

SHEARMAN: Bloody hell! They’ve found us already! HELLO! UP HERE!

AKIN: Wait…wait! It might be…

(Arrows whistle through the leaves and one spears SHEARMAN under his jaw and through his head, silencing him)

AKIN: …that indigenous lot…

(More arrows whistle up and impale AKIN, silencing him.)

[JUNGLE SOUNDS FADE UP TO CLOSE. YELLOW LIGHT BATHES THE PEACEFUL SCENE AS THE SUN RISES.]

END.

With thanks and apologies for being so late to

and his amazing fiction wocky fictionwocky- I am playing catch up - I could not find ANY AI LLM that was not paywalled to use, so I used searches to find poems suggested by googgle AI and then cut them up and THEN reworked them to this Baconesque Ballad

Third Eye Horror

Fictionwocky: Legs 1-7

One Beast to rule them all, one Beast to find them…

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2 months ago · 29 likes · 44 comments · Mac Sitko, Camila Hamel, A.P. Murphy, M. Majeris, Mind of Matt, Gregory Blair, Jamie's Grim Tabulations, Stephen Prime, Gerard DiLeo, Klaus Stephens, Nathan Hatch, Paul R. Pace, and M. Brandon Robbins

Under that World, stumbling too-limbed Serpent

You, God-face, named these clouds.

Some Constricting devil’s Laws towards me creep

Even through tears shod in Shapes of cancer-sleep.

Dreams, coughing helmets drew in Great Gas

And every Rebel man of spectre-sinner Nations

Teaches not the Humility of light:

All out gargling cud to backs of sin.

Hither unknown Dragon appeared: watch!

England tongues clumsy on lost long-fumbling fire wings

As under bosom-green augmented World

The hapless Phantasy shells helpless Men, still Men.

Lame friend, trudge into coverd hags? You Lie!

Old Mildew-spectre, distant to decorum eyes.

The appetite: double-jolt Lust drowning Voltaire

But at Night, Many lack Vision and teach.

Knock. Old, dimly hanging Rational Friend

Desperate, magnificent the lungs he built.

Locked some glory of A foolish Eternal craving

And cursed Druid turned Wings, white behind.

O sores! And So blood corrupted All began-

Quick! The just Sons Of choking Spectre GAS

Behind with him marched my Albion to saw

Sea-bred children Come hoary for boots.

Come flares that thou teach Man thou dulce mori

in Time a wagon Agag of blood in sludge

Flung the stretch’d boys of my smothering fatigue.

Tell the Saying groans such zest Belief, Such Night!

My blind face, devouring, hears yelling & weeping

Who hoots? Gas spoke; guttering dreams of them.

But Who like wilt the rose my beggars vile?

Starry and softly cold O Abyss of Bent Rocks.

In drowning me, Experiment before Pharoah

And you, hard! Innocent green in their sorrow

And Life, writhing, If Vain his haunting be

In Bacon ecstasy, ardent high-fooling froth.

Misty all your thick Wings. Obscene with deafness,

Yet Our Divine Men cast stones of blood Spaces

And I, Then, Dim bitter & sick, Incurable

Am that Drunk frost-power Experiment appeard !

This piece is competing for a cut of the $400 prize pool in NOPE Interviews: The Bounty open submission call.

This is based on real events and conversations experienced by the author during the course of IVF which ultimately proved to be fruitless and costly in all manner of ways.

Interviewer: The Author [NW]

Subject: wished to remain anonymous [S]- also undergoing IVF

Cameos: Lab Technician 1 [LT1] and Lab Technician 2 [LT2]

Location: CARE Fertility Clinic, Nottinghamshire

The Interview: The IVF Man

Location: the reception-cum-waiting room of the clinic.

[S enters the reception area where NW is already waiting]

NW: Morning.

S: [nods but appears very distracted and keeps looking back at the door.]

NW: You alright?

S: What? Sorry?

NW: You look a bit…

S: [Shakes head]

NW: It’s nerve wracking isn’t it. All this.

[Gestures at all the tasteful slightly soft focus images of embryos on the wall.]

S: It’s just there was this eagle or something…

NW: What?

S: Massive bird, in the car park. I was sat in the car and this massive bird just fucking smacked into the window [fist hits palm]. Shit myself.

NW: Bloody hell! An eagle? You sure?

S: Well, maybe not an eagle; bird of prey though, had that fan tail. It was massive. Red Kite maybe. Smacked right into the window. [fist slaps into palm] Then it was flapping like it was trying to get in!

NW: You don’t need that do you.

S: Too right.

NW: You in for egg collection today?

S: Yeah. You?

NW: No. My wife’s having an examination. Just had round 4 fail last month.

S: Four? We’re on six now. Wife’s in surgery now. I’m waiting for the call, you know, the old windowless room.

NW: It’s tough isn’t it.

S: [nods] Last time this one. Can’t hack it. Can’t afford more.

[a few minutes pass]

NW: Hope you don’t mind me asking…I’m writing an article for a magazine, about IVF from the man’s perspective. Could I ask you a few questions, man to man?

S: Oh yeah? Which magazine?

NW: Well, any that I can get interested really. I’m just asking blokes like me, in the waiting room, if they can share any experiences.

S: Yeah, fire away.

N: So, you said this is your 6th attempt. How do you feel now compared to how you felt at the start.

S: [laughs] Broke and sick of it.

[we both laugh]

S: Seriously though, at the start we were dead excited, and the first couple of goes were free on the NHS, but by the third go, it’s all getting a bit serious. That’s when we decided to come here because of the success rates 36-38%. But after you’ve forked out the thick end of ten grand a couple of times…”

[LT1 enters the reception area. She is a tiny woman wearing a blue robe and a black niqab. Only her eyes are visible. This takes both of us by surprise. ]

LT1: Sorry to interrupt, can you follow me please Mr. S.

“Good luck.” I find myself saying, and then immediately feel a bit weird. S gives me a strange look. I feel like a complete dick.

[Note: at this point, S will be going to what the clinic calls the “Production Room”. Colloquially it goes by other names such as: “The Windowless Room”; “Glans Hatch”; “The Wank Room”; “The Jizznasium”.]

[A few minutes later, LT1 walks back into the reception area and through some double doors on the other side. About 5 minutes later she comes back. I double take: She’s holding a steel box in her hands which is padlocked and attached to one wrist by a length of sturdy chain. She sees my puzzled look and as she passes me she says

“Sperm thieves.”

[A few moments later, she walks back into the reception, closely followed by S who sits back down. We avoid eye contact. I say nothing. LT1 walks off with the metal box swinging from the chain.’]

NW: What was that all about? That metal box?

S: Apparently they’ve had sperm thieves. Women coming in and snatching the samples.

NW: [shakes head in disbelief] Isn’t there a hatch?

S: It’s out of order. When you’re done, you press the button then someone comes to pick it up instead.

NW: That must be when they strike then, eh, the Sperm Thieves.

S: Must be. She put it in that box anyway. Padlocked it up. It felt weird handing over a pot of, you know. Still warm. And her being muslim and that, in that robe thing.

NW: Mmm

S: Still, better a woman than a man.

NW: Is it?

[He thinks about this for a moment and I know he’s thinking about whether it’s gay]

S: Shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. I’d have prefered the hatch.

NW: I hate the hatch. I always imagine they’re listening…

S: Or timing you or something. Having a bet on how long you’re going to be.

NW: Puts you right off your stroke.

[We think about this for a while.]

S: Do you think I should tell her?

NW: eh?

S: Tell the Mrs. About the eagle?

[I shrug]

S: I mean is it good luck or a bad omen? She’s superstitious.

NW: Maybe not then.

S: But then if I don’t tell her, and it doesn’t work…

NW: You can’t get sucked into that hole, mate.

S: I know. I know.

NW: That’s a good question though.

S: What?

NW: For the article…superstitions, rituals. Daft things people do.

S: Oh yeah. We have to wear lucky undies.

NW : No Way! My wife does that.

S: The first time we got an implant that held for a few weeks - the undies we had on? “Lucky Undies.”

NW: My wife is exactly the same. She put them on this morning.

S: But maybe they were the unlucky undies all along. Or maybe hers are lucky and mine are unlucky and it cancels out.

NW: Best not to have these things isn’t it, but then you can’t help yourself, once you start. It’s like when they say they have a new process that’s increases success rates by 2.8%

S: You can’t not say yes can you.

NW: Nope. Then they tell you it’s three grand.

S: Like that video thing? You done that.?

NW: Where they film them and pick the best ones?

S: uh huh.

NW: Amazing though , when you see it splitting.

S: I just think they’re having your eyes out and you have to go along with it. I mean, they’re just blobs right, so how do they know what’s the best blob?

[we talk about being hostage to IVF and blindly stuck in the system]

NW. You got any other quirky rituals?

S: She won’t eat cake for the whole cycle.

NW: What!

S: Not since the first go. It was just after it was implanted, and it was her birthday and she reached up for the cake tin and said she felt something pull inside. Then she had some spotting. Two weeks later, the scan showed there was nothing.

NW: Can’t have been that, though, can it.

S: Yeah but you can’t tell her that. She was beside herself. Even after the consultant said there was no way it could have been that.

[Note: at this point, the lab will be washing S’s sperms, cutting off the heads and preparing them to be injected into the eggs collected from his wife. Egg collection is an unpleasant, painful and often crushing experience, but if there is a good harvest of eggs, some can be frozen]

S: So what’s your wife in for then?

NW: they’re checking her cysts on a new progesterone regime. Might get us more eggs for the next cycle.

S: Right.

NW: I hope they fix the hatch. That woman with the sperm safe would put me off.

S: I hate the hatch. You’re stood there, hunched over that bench or whatever, fapping away. There’s no way they can’t hear you, just the other side.

NW: I hate thinking some other blokes just been in there, wanking off. I never touch the porn.

S: It’s never great anyway. Probably ten years old.

NW: I don’t even look in the cupboard. Wouldn’t want to touch it.

S: [begins to laugh] There was this one time, right, no word of a lie, I went in and there was a copy of Horse & Hound open on the couch.

NW: Horse and fucking Hound?

S: Centrefold, saddles and whips.

NW: Fuck off!

S: Must be a joke, right. The lab techs having a laugh.

NW : Could have been worse…

[ we spend some time thinking of unlikely types of masturbation magazines- Anglers World; Tractor World - rule 34 gets a mention.]

S: Shame there’s no way the Mrs. can be there to help out, really. Little bit of romance wouldn’t go amiss.

NW: what’s the worst experience you’ve had then?

S: Aside from the eagle?

N: Yes

S: I dropped the pot once.

NW: Fuck

S: Yeah, lost the lot.

NW : Nightmare. You can’t just crack another one out either.

S: Nah, and even if I could, the second shot is no good apparently. They did try and get some off the inside of the lid, but, nah.

NW Did they freeze the eggs at least?

S: Yes, but the Mrs was fuming.

NW: “You had one job!” right?

S: Yep. Spare room, silent treatment the works. Still, I wasn’t getting any anyway.

NW: Tell me about it. It does get like that doesn’t it.

[LT2 appears in the reception. ]

LT2: MR Winney, your wife is out of theatre now, so you can come through.

[turns to S]

NW: Alright mate, well that’s me- nice to talk to you and good luck with it.

S: Likewise. Fingers crossed!

NW: Legs open!

With thanks to and the NOPE brigade for this excellent idea.

NOPE - the interview

The video at the beginning of this piece shows the astounding moment when LIFE begins and the sperm and egg do their thing and cell division starts. These two brave bundles of cells did not survive past 9 weeks, I am afraid to say - long enought for us to see their little hearts stop beating. All the events and conversations actually happened, although not quite in the way I have put them together here.

“Who Looks Inside Awakes.”

Carl Jung

They said if you looked for it, you’d never find it. Lost souls under dark bridges; drunks gathered round glowing braziers, they told the Man as the bottles passed: “You have to want it, really want it. Need it, then it will find you.”

The Man felt his need and took to the road.

Lost to passing time the Man strides, head down, against dusk and rain when, up ahead, a light on a dim horizon; layers of grey-fading hill-tops receding into his gloom. The Man stands tall, his dark outline one with the silhouette of his destination. His heart quickens.

Is this the place?

The Inn showed itself, stone-grey, squat and lumpen as he drew near. The gable wall: a face with a blacked eye bricked shut and lamp light gazing from the other. Fingers of mist crawl down the hill dragging fog. He stands at the door and gazes up at the creaking sign, hung by a chain: two forearms, erect and muscle bound. Veiny. Hands gripping, thumbs pressing into flesh. A handshake of sorts. Beneath the bulging arms, violent red letters, gold edged and peeling:

“THE TRAVELLER’S FIST”

At last.

His throat dries at the threshold.

But…is it?

Mist curls and hugs the hulking stones then reaches to steal the promise of warmth inside; so inside he goes.

The innards stretch impossibly far. To left and right: men. Hunched men huddled, lonely over tables of black wood. They nurse flagons, grip rum bottle necks and turn amber filled glasses slowly in a hand. Heads turn and mutters cease. Some nod then slump; others fix their eyes on him, sit up; sup; swap glinty glances over curling lips. A fire crackles.

His boots grate the knotty boards and five steps to the copper topped bar see him eye to eye with the one-eyed barman, bearded and bold. The only man standing. Red braces taut on a barrel chest dressed in a roll-sleeved chalk white shirt. A shark tooth on a chain shows and gold gleams in the cracks of his slow smile. He rests meaty hands on the bar and leans in, like a real man would.

“What’ll it be?”

He doesn’t know how to ask but the need sits heavy on him. The Barman’s head tilts over and back, over and back, getting a measure of the Man’s tick-tocking cogitations. The Man feels a gathering, the tables closing, drinkers leaning, heads raising, mutters growing. A crowd forming, watching, waiting. One and all of them.

“They tell me…” says the Man, at last. The Barman leans closer, grins deeper and his one eye, wet black and widening reflects a flame. The shark tooth swings out and back from his neck.

“They tell me…” the Man says.

“Go on.”

The sheet copper distorts around the Barman’s fingertips and tendons raise shadows on the backs of his hands.

“That–”

“—that a Man can find…?” The Barman tempts him, teases, fishes.

“...can find here the thing he needs. The thing life never yet gave him.”

“D’YA HEAR THAT BOYS!?”

The Barman roars, both hands hammer down, fists sinking into the metal. The roar is echoed back. Black tables grate and slide closer, the old hunched boys shoulder to shoulder, row on row, raising each a single arm –the left– to shower beer and liquor over the cheers. Muttering no more, they holler and howl, lusty and loud. Feet stamp and leg irons rattle and clank.

The Barman roars again and grasps the back of the Man’s neck to smash and grind their beetling brows together. The Man sways to the power in it, to the challenge, his own roar rising to meet and mingle and be lost to the blood driven moment. The Barman vaults the bar and glasses jump to their death as he lands. He pumps his fists, facing the crowd, now all the old boys around them. He spins on the heels of oxblood boots and slaps his leather apron.

“A CHALLENGER, BOYS. A CHALLENGER! BRING US BELLODORA!”

The crowd erupts. The room turns about an axis. The axis is the Man. Contorted faces, punching arms and hammering tankards - emptied of ale - rush past him clockwise. Now, only now the Man sees the trophies: forearms nailed through the palm to wooden shields covering the walls. Shreds of leather flesh and yellow bone shafts. Torn sleeves, copper bangles, wedding rings and stopped watches tell their owners’ time. Empty nameplates weep above each shrivelled right hand.

A full circle turns and the Man finds he is standing at one side of a tall table. The Barman faces him across it, slicks back lacquered hair and pulling taut his face as he smoothes his beard. Gold teeth flash and he bows and sweeps out an arm, a chuckle thick in his throat.

“The Lady Bellodora: arena of dreams and the needs of men. Men like us.”

From her oak surface, hand grips stand; moulded, red leather and fixed with brass bolts like pig knuckles. “House rules,” says the Barman. “Challenger chooses first –left arm or right– Three bouts decides it.”

The Man nods.

From the crowd a voice calls out: “Don’t be forgetting the Doctor!”

And then another: “Aye, a shot of Doctor Knox’s!”

The Barman leers and from a back pocket pulls out a flat glass bottle of poison blue. The cork squeals out in his teeth and he spits it, tips and swigs, his hog-thick neck bulging as he glugs half the bottle down. He offers it over with a liquor-dripping smile, beads of acid yellow trail all syrupy across the gleamy wood.

“A good long slug of the Doctor, mind. That’s the rules.”

The Man knows he must match the Barman, face to face, man to man. That’s what real men do. The glass is cold but the juice is hot and loose about the tongue and teeth and the tang is every wrong he’s done… but underneath?

Underneath it is so sweet.

One swallow pulls itself in a single shivery slither and the bottle empties. His gullet boils. Bloody tears start from his eyes.

“HE TOOK THE DOCTOR DOWN, BOYS!”

The Barman whips up a hand and the crowd roars, throaty with courage, eyes alight. “What’s it to be, Brother? Left or right?”

The Man’s greatcoat falls to the boards. He rolls one sleeve and then the next and forms a fist. His right elbow hammers the glorious wood and he seeks out the Barman’s eye with gimlet steel to pin him. But the Barman’s head does not rest; over and back, over and back, tick tock to a temple pulse and a widening grin.

“That’s the spirit, Brother!” The Barman’s right arm crashes down, white knuckle fisted, saluting the challenge.

“Fire in your belly, Brother? Are the Doctor’s ghosts let loose in the attic?”

The two men lock hands, knock sweating brows and push their elbows flush with a crack. The Barman whispers in his ear:

“If a man don’t know what he’s needing before he comes to grace this table? Well, he’s all as good as lost the game.”

“That’s what I heard tell,” the Man grunts. He grasps the creaking leather handle to his left.

The Barman grips his own handle likewise, and the two men crush each other’s right hand. As the strain mounts, sound whistles to silence in the Man’s ears, a silence that fills with the voices of ghosts. The Barman’s face softens and begins to spin, trailing the colours of sound. Only their arms are real.

“Come on Brother. Show us what’s in your tank!”

The Barman’s voice glows from his mouth. Waves ripple out from shimmering muscles as they tremble and shake power into the air. Tattoos float above their skin in layers. Voices of ghosts flit in the Man’s mind. Ghosts of dead and unforgiven men clamour from shadows and slide through doorways.

You’re a good boy…you’re a good boy.

The Man rages. He screams, tendons taut and ruinous with old pain, he smashes down the Barman’s arm. He’s found nothing he didn’t know. The Barman licks his lips and wipes his brow.

“You threw the bout. You let me win,” said the Man.

“You showed me what you had, there, Brother, good and proper and no mistake. Right is might and might is right, eh? No better choice than that.”

They go again, clashing like rams. Only their arms are solid, reality distorts and roils, shudders and tremors around throbbing limbs. Veins pop, sinews stand, jaws clench, teeth grate and blood thuds. The Barman sings low.

“What does the Good Boy want then? Does he not know what he needs after all?”

The Man closes his eyes, focuses on the pain in his hand. Bones inside rupture and split the flesh about them. Blood sweats from the knuckles and the ghosts –the crowds of ghosts– rush at him now, bringing out their faces from locked boxes. He beats them back, smashes mouths, and crushes noses. Teeth split their lips and eyes blacken, swell and close. A dozen faces and a dozen more and another dozen. Father and son; wife and mother. Friend and stranger; young and old.

He does not relent; cannot. Then, at the end, the face is his own, but he doesn’t know mercy; was never shown it. The harder his blows fall, the closer to the wood he feels his straining arm bend.

The room snaps into focus with the cry of the crowd; the Barman has him beat. Head leant full over to the side, level with the Man’s vanquished arm, the Barman flips up the cup of his eye patch and fishes out a milky orb. He cleans it on his shirt, the wet socket pulses a wink at the Man, then the barman slips the glass back in.

“All this emotion brings a tear to the eye, Brother. And a man can’t be havin’ that.”

The Man says nothing. Echoes of ghosts fade. He massages the right hand with the left. It shows no signs of the damage suffered.

What is my need?

The Barman straightens his shirt and hooks his thumbs beneath the red braces. His head tips over and back, over and back with a smile that never leaves him.

“The count stands one apiece and the choice is yours, Brother. Right or left?”

“I yield,” says the Man.

“What?”

“I yield. The game is yours.”

“Them ‘aint the rules of this House, Brother. You shan’t yield. You must give me a hand, right or left. Best of three. Them’s the rules. A fight must be won or lost. Victory can’t be a gift, it must be took!”

The Man stared. “I can’t find what I need across this bloody table.”

“GIVE. ME. THINE. HAND!”

The crowd mutter and draw close. They stink of empty threats. The Man rolls up the sleeve of his left arm and rests the elbow on Belladora’s oak. The Barman stiffens, sniffs and paces, rubs his hands together.

“Ready a table for the guest, Boys,” he says, but the Boys stay sullen and still. “I took you for better than this, Brother.”

The bout begins and the Man bows his head and waits for the ghosts. He feels the grip of the Barman’s hand.

I will yield.

The tensing muscles of the Barman’s arm judder, but the Man cannot feel his own; it has become stone. He whispers to the ghosts:

I understand.

The Barman’s teeth grate and grind. He growls and strains, the table shudders but the Man stays motionless. The ghosts are fading and his arm is iron. He closes his eyes and he’s looking into his mother’s face. She sweeps him up into her arms and holds him warm and close. “Tell me what’s the matter,” she says and this time he does.

The Barman rages, purple faced and steaming. The crowd glowers, their silence a judgement he cannot endure and his grip spasms and fails. His arm bends to the wood like a reed.

The Man sees a woman look back at him from a doorway.

I understand.

The Man opens his eyes. He stands amongst his ruin and she is not there. A broken door swings in the wind. He steps outside. It’s dawn; birds sing. He takes to his road.

I will yield.

© Nick Winney 2026

All rights reserved.

Introduction

This story struggled to find its way to the end I had in mind, and before I finished it, the call for the amazing WEATHER REPORTS came, and I knew that Mark’s story after this would be perfect for that - and so The Widower was written and now the Lunar Awards was inspiration for me to finish the original story. Arse about face I know!

With thanks to and and for all they do with the Lunar Awards and the fiction community generally - better world because of you.

Good luck to all who participate.

The Beyond

For a while, Livvie thought her dad would never come back from his shadow-clad existence. He wasn’t a believer, not like her mother. He never looked beyond the immediacy of his surroundings and the void left by Mum was a merciless vacuum. He would sit for hours fixating on a fading horizon, a past where she was still alive. Ahead, he saw nothing; Livvie was alone. Then his father died; not unexpectedly, not cruelly; not suddenly or unfairly, like it had been for Mum, and Dad returned.

“She was my life, Liv. That’s all I could think about, all I could see.” He crushed her to him in one of his huge hugs and she cried into his shirt. “We’ve got to make the most of each other. I thought we could have a holiday? Go somewhere we’ve never been, get out of the house. Give Mum a rest?”

“That would be great, Dad,” Livvie sniffled through snot bubbles. “Where’re we going?”

The ferry docked in St. Malo early and they drove west through Brittany. “Looks a lot like Cornwall; it won’t rain all week will it?” Dad was non-committal. As they arrived at the Air BnB, yards from the shore, the smell of the sea and dawn breaking on the horizon greeted them. They soaked up the beauty of the view as the engine ticked and cooled, then dad took her hand. They looked at each other, their tear-worn eyes smiling, their sadness lifting to the warmth of a joyful sunrise.

“Swim, or unpack?” Livvy asked.

“Race you!” He grinned.

They erupted from the car, flinging clothes from their cases in their haste for the brisk waters which shocked away their breath and the dust of sorrows. After a numbing swim, with skin tingling and warm, they settled in and explored the house. It was much larger and more rambling than it had first appeared.

“Hard to tell how old these places are.” Dad poked his head through an ill-fitting door in the kitchen, opening onto dark cellar stairs. For all its size, the house had only three bedrooms, and one of those was on the ground floor; an afterthought tacked onto the side of the original building.

“Mum would like it here,” Livvie said, as they sat on the veranda later, enjoying a salad, some cheese and bread. Wilding gardens enclosed the house: a squat, rectangular thing with sturdy pink granite quoins and a steep-pitched roof of slate. A kiwi vine embraced the veranda, delighting Livvie with ripening fruits dangling, velvet and promising between the broad leaves.

“She’d have loved it.”

That night, Livvie slept well. On their second night, she noticed the light, but it didn’t trouble her.

“Did you leave a light on last night, Dad?” She asked over breakfast.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“There was just like a weird orange glow in the corner of my room. Maybe it was something shining through the window. Never mind.”

She read until her eyes felt heavy. The house was alone by the sea and the night was black. The thick darkness and distant hiss of waves soon brought sleep. She wasn’t sure what woke her or what time it was, but as she uncurled to stretch, there it was again: in the far corner of the room, high up on the wall, an orange glow, like a streak of fluorescent paint.

She rubbed sleep from her gluey eyes but couldn’t make sense of it. She stumbled crossing the unfamiliar room and with a flapping hand found the pull string light under the medicine cabinet. She had to turn it off again to see the glow. She traced it with a finger; it wasn’t something shining onto the wall, it was coming from inside the wall, from behind the floral wallpaper.

A thin line like the top of a door.

She tapped the wall; there was a hollow wooden sound. It must be an old doorway into the kitchen. But when she tiptoed to the kitchen, it was dark; dad wasn’t to blame. She returned to her bed and dragged the covers over her head.

The next day they had an early start for a day-long trip to the standing stones at Carnac. The sky above the stone-fields was solid white, the bright white of sunlight diffused through featureless cloud. They squinted up at the glow of a hidden sun. The ranks of standing stones cast no shadows and kept their secrets. The air above felt charged like a storm brewing. When they laid hands on the menhirs, Dad insisted there was buzzing in his ears, but Livvie couldn’t hear it. Instead, she said it made her feel tense, like something was coming.

On the way back, she was overpowered by tiredness and kept nodding off. “Did you not sleep well?” Dad asked.

“The light was there again. It shines through the wallpaper, like there’s a room behind or something. I’ll show you when we get back.” Then she dozed. After dinner, she went to bed early, mumbling red wine and sea air.

That night she didn’t wake. Instead, she dreamt of her mother. She couldn’t catch hold of it when she woke up to sunlight filtering through the shutters, but it left her disquieted. It was a sense of her mother trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t hear the words. She remembered the last sing-song message she’d left on Mum’s phone. She hadn’t tried to call again, never wondered why mum didn’t call back. How could she have known why? Guilt still had hold.

Over breakfast she cried a little and they talked about Mum. Livvie didn’t get out of her dressing gown; it was going to be one of those days. Dad hugged her. “Let’s have French toast –your favourite, and tell me about this light?”

“I’ll need to show you,” she said.

After breakfast, they went to her room. “It’s there, in the corner where the sink is.” Dad ran his hands over the wall. “You might be right. You can feel something under the wallpaper, look.” She followed his lead, tracing the outline of the doorway beneath.

“You know, this wall is an outside wall. This part of the house looks like it was added later. The brickwork’s totally different.” It was the sort of detail Dad noticed.

They went into the kitchen, then back into the room; something didn’t make sense. There was no sign of another doorway where there should be one. It was baffling. There were cellar steps down and rickety wooden stairs up to the first floor. Dad paced it out. “There’s space here, behind the stairs,” he concluded. “Another room, or maybe old steps into the cellar.”

“Why is there a light on in there, though?”

“Maybe some dodgy wiring? If it comes on again tonight, wake me up and I’ll have a look.”

She dreamt of her mother again. Obscured in mist or vegetation, she was shouting something, shouting silently. Livvie ran towards her but she never got closer, and death…death was coming. She awoke with a start; the duvet had slipped off and she was cold but as she reached for it, she saw a gleam in the corner again. The light pulled her from her bed. As she reached out a hand to the glowing streak, the light grew brighter, warmer even. Something like radio static whispered and she pulled back her hand, shook her head. She stomped into the kitchen and yanked open the cellar door. Its darkness yawned up at her, the dim kitchen light illuminating only three or four steps before it was consumed.

A torch hung from a nail on the wall and she took it and sent a thick beam into the depths. Down she went. Standing at the bottom, the torchlight probed into far corners, sending shadows crazing. The cellar seemed larger than the house above and there was a raw dampness to the cavernous space. Piles of junk, crates, kayaks and tools lay heaped about. Things hung and drooped from ancient beams, but there was no source of light, no door, no steps but the ones she had descended.

“Livvie?” Dad’s voice made her jump. “You all right, kiddo?” He started down the stairs.

“Jesus Dad! I nearly wet myself.”

“Sorry love. What are you doing down here? Christ! It’s massive.” He sniffed and grimaced at the dank air.

“The weird light came back. I didn’t want to wake you. I thought I’d check it out, but there’s nothing down here. Just junk and stuff,” she said. “But there’s kayaks!”

“Let’s sort it out tomorrow; have a proper look.” He shivered and hugged himself. “Do you fancy hot chocolate?”

While they sipped their cocoa, Livvie told him about her dreams. “They’re awful, Dad. It’s mum; she’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t hear her. I can’t reach her, and I know she’s going to die. It woke me up this time. And then the light was on again. Could we swap rooms?”

She spent the rest of the night on the sofa, sleeping through the sunrise. Dad let her slumber and went to investigate the cellar. He found a light switch, and bright fluorescent tubes flickered and chink-chinked on. He studied the wall. There wasn’t any sign of a door or stairway, but there was something about it. It bulged into the cellar at one side, like the base of a round castle tower. The stonework was rough; rocks fitted together, not dressed stone blocks like the rest of the walls. He looked for cracks in the mortar, thinking the cellar lights might be shining through, but the wall was solid.

He woke Livvie with a coffee. “Come on, I need your help.” With her mug in hand and the window shutters closed, she studied the bedroom wall while her dad flicked all the light switches on and off, one by one, around the house. “I can’t see anything” she shouted to him, slumping against the doorway. As her shoulder touched the wall, she felt the crack of a static discharge and white noise hissed in her ears. She jerked away with a yelp.

They swapped rooms. Livvie worried she would dream of her mother again. She was fearful of the light –would it stir the dream from the shadows? Dad’s only concern was for Livvie; he wasn’t bothered much by dreams, but a dream came to him, and Evie was in it.

She was the dead Evie of his waking nightmares, but also alive and trying to speak to him above the crackle of flames. Her voice was muffled through curtains around a hospital bed and behind gauze bandages. Through tangles of wires and liquid-filled tubes he glimpsed weeping eyes, weeping burns, lips moving soundlessly. A monotone machine drowned the urgency of her voice, slowing and deepening in tone to a single never-ending sound. He started violently from the dream, sweating and hoarse. In the corner, a light was glowing through the wall.

He rubbed his eyes, blinked hard, twice, but it was there. Livvie had not imagined it, nor the dream of Evie. What had she been trying to say? Memories of that night stirred sullenly from the corner where he had left them. He went to the sink for water and studied the wall; the wallpaper was peeling back at one corner. He moved to touch it–did the light brighten as his hand approached? It seemed so. It began to curl away from the wall as he stared, as if invisible fingers were pulling at it. He pinched the corner between a finger and thumb, and it effortlessly folded down, flakes of dry plaster coming with it and scattering to dust on the floor. The top of the doorway was revealed and an orange glow leaked from it.

He pushed his face close, to see through the crack into the space beyond and a static hiss filled his ears, intensifying, then fading as he pulled away. The whole length of wallpaper sloughed off bringing the plaster with it. He watched it, mesmerised, as it crumpled onto the floor in a swirl of ancient dust, the door undressing itself before him, baring its wood. An invitation.

Both edges of the door were still obscured by wallpaper, but he couldn’t resist, not now, and whisperings coaxed him. As easily as the first, two more strips of paper and dusty plaster fell to the floor, revealing the doorway fully. Crude, iron flat-head nails studded it and bracing strips leached rust into the wood. There was no handle. He counted the nails: eleven rows of eleven nails.

This is not a door.

As if something sensed his resignation, the static in his head coalesced into a single distorted word: “Mark!” then burst into white noise again. His stomach spasmed and he choked out “Is someone there?” He pressed his head to the wood, his ear to the crack at the top, and called again, into the static: “Hello? Is someone there? Answer me!”

Nothing…No…what was that? Perfume? Evie’s perfume?

Come the morning, Livvie found him in a blanket on the sofa, head down, empty brandy glass and a mug of coffee by his side. She sat beside him but he didn’t look up, and when he spoke it was monotone. Defeated, like before.

“I had a dream. About Mum. Just like yours. She was trying to tell me something. She was dying and I was there, like I was watching it happen to her. I was desperate to help her, but I couldn’t do anything. Nothing. I’m so glad you didn’t…you didn’t see her… like that.”

“Oh dad,” Livvie began, but he turned to her, more urgently, gripping her shoulders, wet eyes fixed.

“There was a sound, a sound like hissing, like waves. Then I heard someone say my name and then there was the smell of perfume. Mum’s perfume!”

Unspoken thoughts passed between them and they went to the room to look at the door. Their faces showed the same fear. Why would someone nail it shut?

Dad called the owner of the house, a Monsieur Le Guen. The conversation was difficult given the subject matter, but he agreed to come and soon arrived. He hadn’t understood dad’s attempts to explain “A hidden door and strange lights,” and his face showed it when they took him to Livvie’s room.

“I didn’t know about this. But it was my grandmother’s house. I never live here.”

“Never?” Livvie asked. He shook his head.

“No-one live here after grandfather die. It is empty for years.”

They explained about the light that appeared at night and woke them, and the strange noises.

“What? You think there is a ghost? Pfff!” He laughed and banged on the wood with a fist. “Alo? Monsieur le Fantôme?”

“Why don’t you stay here tonight, if you think it’s funny,” said Livvie.

“I will speak with my mother. She live ‘ere when she was young. Perhaps she know something. I will call someone with the tools for it, and we see what is in here? Ok?”

They ate dinner in silence with little appetite and conversation swallowed up in thoughts. “Can we both sleep upstairs tonight, Dad?” Livvie asked as they did the washing up. ”I don’t want to go back in there.” They gathered their bedding and clothes and made up the single bed for her in the smaller upstairs bedroom. As he said good night, she asked him to promise not to stay up late, not to drink on his own. He nodded but his face looked drawn, eyes black.

“Don’t go back there Dad.” She held on to his hand to stop him leaving the room. “It wasn’t your fault.”

When she heard her father come up she turned off her light and closed her eyes, praying not to dream. Sleep came eventually, but a sound roused her, close to dawn. Through a waking fog, a grating sound; metal on stone. Sitting up she called out then got up and fumbled her dressing gown on when there was no reply. In the hall, the sound was more distinct, coming from downstairs. Dad wasn’t in his room–his bedding lay strewn on the floor. She ran down, the noise growing louder with each step.

At the bedroom door, reluctant to enter, she called out “Dad?” There was a clang of metal hitting the floor. Her father cursed and muttered and she rushed in.

“DAD!?”

He was kneeling before the doorway with a crow bar in bloody hands, scraping at the wood, levering out an iron nail. She stood in baffled horror. “What are you doing!?”

He flicked her a mad-eyed glance, but didn’t stop. A thick, black nail squealed out from the wood and joined others on the floor. “She’s in there! Don’t you hear her?” Grunts of effort punctuated his speech as he started on another nail.

Livvie threw her arms about him, pinning his arms to his side. She pulled him away from the door and they fell backwards. In the fall, the crowbar struck Livvie in the face but she didn’t let go. He struggled to get back up but she hung on, strength in her desperation. He gargled meaningless sounds but his will to resist, to struggle back up, ebbed as she whispered in his ear “Dad! Stop. It’s all right, it’s all right,” over and over, imploring him gently. With a rattling sigh, he gave up the ghost and wept.

“She’s not in there, Dad. She’s at home. She’s at rest,” Livvie said when his crying had stopped “But I’m here now. I’m with you.” She stroked his head and tasted a trickle of her own blood. He saw the bleeding and the realisation of what he’d done brought him upright in shame, but she told him it was fine, she understood; the dreams seemed so real, after all.

They went to the sea to swim; to escape the madness of the room.

In the cold water, they gave themselves to the swelling mass of waves between jutting granite fingers. The sea lifted them up and let them gently down. It owned them and everything was real again. Simple and clear. They held hands and trod water, feeling the smooth fronds of bottle green kelp on their legs. They cried happy tears at their togetherness, at their bond; they were a father and a daughter and alive. Their tears joined the sea and they laughed until the coldness was too much.

Holding hands, they walked themselves dry up the coastal path to the nearby village where, like everywhere, there was a bakery. When they returned to the house with breakfast, the owner, Le Guen, was there together with a grisled workman leaning against a battered van, smoking. Le Guen didn’t look pleased to have found the door locked and nobody home.

“I’ll make coffee,” Dad said, “We have pain au chocolat?” He offered up the bag of pastries with a rustle. The workman stubbed out his cigarette and pushed himself forward.

“Erwan,” he said, offering a hand to Dad.

“My cousin,” said Le Guen. “He will open it.”

Livvie and Dad went into the kitchen while Le Guen and Erwan rattled away in French and went to the bedroom. Le Guen returned immediately, brandishing the crowbar.

“You ‘ave tried already, I see.”

“There were noises again. Last night. But it was too difficult,” Dad replied after an uncomfortable silence.

“With this? But of course!” Le Guen inspected the dried blood on it, flicked a glare at Dad then dropped the offending tool. The sound of Erwan clomping down into the cellar and the percolator choking to a boil interrupted the growing tension. “Coffee?” said Dad. They sat and Livvie found a plate for the pastries.

Le Guen explained he’d spoken with his mother but she had drifted off into the past. When her mother had died, some seventy years before, she and her twin brother were only five or six years old. Their father took them to live with an aunt. She remembered very little about the house. But then she had told him something she’d never revealed before: the man she thought was her father - a bitter, solitary man - was not in fact her father. Whoever her father had been, the truth had died with his grandmother.

Erwan came into the kitchen and flopped like a sack onto a chair. He poured himself coffee, dunked a pain au chocolat and pushed most of it into his mouth while reaching for another. As he finished the second he motioned Le Guen to follow him and they went to the bedroom. Livvie and Dad exchanged glances and went outside.

It would have been a perfect day for lounging on the beach, or a trip to Treguier for the market, but the anticipation of what might be behind the doorway kept them there. The sun crawled past noon and into lunchtime. As they sat on the veranda with some bits and pieces, too distracted to make a meal, Erwan appeared. He sat and rolled a cigarette. They heard Le Guen’s car leaving in a spray of gravel.

“Are you enjoying your stay Brittany?” Erwan asked. Dad stopped, mid crunch on a celery stick and Livvie took the bread from her mouth to answer.

“Very much. Apart from the house, anyway. The sea’s lovely.”

“You English, you like it here, no? There’s a lot of you, buying up all the old houses, old farms. I get a lot of work, so I practice the English.” They weren’t sure what to say and he went on. “Don’t worry- better an English than a Parisian; that’s what I say.” He lit up and caught Livvie eyeing the tobacco pouch. “You want one?”

She nodded, ignoring the side eye from Dad. He didn’t say anything, not this time. He knew she smoked on the sly, and he fancied one himself.

“So, Monsieur, this door. My cousin tell me you say there has been a light coming from behind and strange noises?”

“The light only comes at night.” Livvie butted in. “It wakes us up. There are sounds, like static. And voices.” She drew on the cigarette. “And we are both having strange dreams,” she finished, exhaling smoke.

“I worked in a lot of old buildings, you know, but I never see a door like this.”

“Why so many nails, iron nails, in the door? Eleven rows of eleven, did you see?” Dad asked.

Erwan shrugged. “It is maybe not a door. There is no frame, no hinge, no handle. And the wood is very thick. This was made not to be open.”

“To keep people out?”

“Or keep something in. Hidden.” Erwan leaned in towards them over the table. Lowering his voice. “You know it does not surprise me what you say. About strange things.”

“How so?”

“There is some history here. My father would tell me my grandmother, who live here, was “mari-morgan”. Like a witch, from the sea. They say she could cross over. People would come to her here, with silver, to speak with the dead.”

“Why would they say she was a witch?”

“When she disappear, they say she go back to the sea, to her people.”

Erwan let this sink in then leaned back in his chair. “But these things are just superstitions. A lot of gossip. It was said her husband was not the father of her children. It could happen that when a woman disappear, like she did, it was the husband–” he rolled his hand in the air, “-the husband that make the wife…disappear. Because of the honour.”

All of them looked back towards the house, towards the nailed-shut door.

“Maybe we will be calling the gendarmes when I get it open, eh?”

Livvie gasped and covered her mouth.

“Or maybe she did just run away,” Erwan blurted, trying to claw it back, sensing Livvie’s horror. “Grandfather was a connard. Violent. Maybe she just leave him. Maybe she throw herself in the sea–” he pointed in the direction of the shore, “-to escape.”

The rustic house loomed behind them, no longer quaint. It seemed sullen, misshapen, twisted by the past. The kiwi vine wrapped it like a wreath and the black slate roof above was now a cowl, not a hat.

“That poor woman,” said Livvie quietly, desperate to break the silence.” Does nobody know what happened to her?”

“Maybe once. Not now.”

“What was her name?”

“Morganne; an old Breton name, but still you find it.”

As Erwan spoke the name, fingers of mist clawed through and over the bushes and trees bordering the garden, dragging thick fog behind. Within a few moments, the sunny space was engulfed in chilly, roiling greyness.

“Perhaps I have raise up her spirit, no?” said Erwan, gesturing into the thickening fog.

“Oh stop it!” said Livvie. She ran inside.

“It’s just a sea fret, love,” Dad called after her “It’ll pass.” The french door slammed shut.

“I think I have said too much,” said Erwan, holding up his hands.

“You know, we lost her mother. Last year. It’s been a difficult time. For both of us.”

Erwan was aghast. “You must excuse me and my foolish talk of ghosts and spirits and dead grandmothers. Oh, the poor girl. And monsieur! I am so sorry!” He shambled off cursing himself.

Through the open window of Livvie’s room, Mark could hear her crying. He knew she would prefer to cry it out alone. He poured himself more wine; one glass, then another. The salty mist lifted as suddenly as it had fallen and he went back to the house, craving a smoke. In the bedroom, Erwan was standing back, arms folded, looking at the doorway. To one side of him the heavy slab of wood was propped up against the wall. The black nails lay strewn across the floor. But the doorway was not open.

“This is a door,” said Erwan, jabbing a finger.

Mark came close. Filling the doorway there was another door –clearly a door– with hinges and an inset handle. Instead of nails, there was a triple spiral motif, a single strip of grey-green tarnished metal, hammered flat into the wood. He’d seen the pattern before. The surface of the door bore the gouge marks of the iron nails hammered through the slab in front.

Erwan grasped the edge of the slab of wood by his side, “This? This was to keep the door closed. It was never to be open.” He looked troubled.

“And what about this?” Mark rubbed his hand on the inlaid spiral.

“La Triskele. You see it everywhere ‘ere,” said Erwan, rubbing the back of his head. His voice was taut, his French accent more pronounced. As Mark traced the spiral with a finger, Erwan grew more uncomfortable.

“Maybe it is better you don’t touch. This symbol? Made like this, in silver? It is–I don’t know ‘ow you say it, but in French we say ‘un sceau’.”

“What’s that?”

“It mean a sign, made for a purpose. Per’aps to protect, per’aps to curse? The door is Historique; very old. We must leave it close. We must notifier –give a notice– to the Mayor. It is the law for, you know, l’archaeologie.”

“Can’t we just open it now, see what’s there? A little peek? Who’s to know?” Mark grasped the door handle but Erwan slapped his hand away.

“NO! Fait chier! You must not touch. We must not go in. Allez-allez!” With uncharacteristic anxiety for a man who had been so jovial only half an hour ago, Erwan shooed Mark from the room and fished his phone from a pocket. He called Le Guen, spoke rapidly then shouted at the phone. It was obvious to Mark what was said: Get back here and don’t fuck about.

Le Guen arrived and immediately there began a quarrel between the two Frenchmen. Erwan, gruff behind folded arms, Le Guen nasal and flapping, pointing first at the house and then at Mark. He tried to intervene.

“What’s going on?”

There was silence for a few moments as Le Guen looked back and forth between Mark and Erwan, but it was Erwan who spoke first. “He is sorry, but you will ‘ave to leave.” Le Guen spluttered, strode off then paced back and forth, hands on hips.

“What do you mean, we have to leave?”

“We cannot ‘ave you stay here. Because of the door…”

“...But we’ve got five more nights. We’ve paid. We haven’t got anywhere to go. I’m sorry, it’s out of the question.”

Le Guen walked back over, arms open. “You see? Of course they ‘ave to stay.”

Erwan pushed him away, held him back with one hand and threw menace at Mark in a low, earnest growl. “You don’t understand. It is not safe. It is not safe for anyone to be in there.”

They came to a compromise: Erwan would put a lock on the bedroom door, Mark and Livvy could stay the night and the next day, Le Guen had a friend who had a place they could go –nicer than this. He would arrange it.

After Erwan and Le Guen had left, Mark went up to see Livvie. As he passed the newly bolted bedroom door he felt a pulse of static and a thickening of the air. Small hairs rose on his arms and the back of his neck and the padlock on the bolt twitched. He reached for it and a spark bridged the gap with a crack. He backed away, sucking his finger, and the sensations died down.

Livvie lay on her bed when he poked his head round the door, and she bade him come in. He told her about the door and that they were going to have to leave. She was not disappointed.

“Oh god, I wish we could go tonight! I knew there was something wrong about this place. You feel it too, don’t you?” Dad said nothing; he walked over to the window.

“Tell me about this door then Dad? Why did they say we had to leave? Not that I mind, of course. Where is the new place, do you know what it’s like? Is it far? Dad? Dad!”

He wasn’t listening. He was leaning out of the window, looking to left and right and up into the sky.

“DAD! Answer me!”

She got off the bed when he still didn’t answer. “What are you looking at?” She said, slapping his back and nudging him so she could get to the window too.

“Have you ever seen clouds like it, Liv?” They craned their necks to see the globular formation darkening the sky above. On the beach, a couple with a dog had stopped; they were looking up too. Livvie and Dad went into the garden. From there, it seemed like the cloud was forming directly above the house.

“Rain’s coming. You can smell it.” said Dad, turning to the sea behind. A steel grey wall closed, dense and seamless from the horizon to the sky.

“Oh, look Dad, lightning. Purple lightning in the cloud.” Dad turned back; after a few seconds it came again, flickering fingers tracing the contours of it. “Will there be a thunderstorm? I love lightning but the thunder always scares me.”

“Looks like it,” Dad said, putting an arm around her. “You fancy pizza? Don’t want to be cooking if we have to leave in the morning. We can watch the storm over the sea.”

They drove to Treguier –the closest place for pizza– Dad driving back as fast as he dared to beat the storm. Livvie held the boxes, hot pizza almost burning her bare legs through the greasy cardboard. The sky was darkness under pressure, almost glowing at the edge of vision, as if the sun was trying to burn a way through it, a curtain call before sunset. The road descended to the sea and above the village the globular cloud roiled motionless above. It looked heavy. It seemed impossible it could remain in the sky; at any moment it must pour down and engulf the cluster of houses below. Purple lighting played across and within it, but rain didn’t come, the storm didn’t break. Thunder held itself back, seething, prowling across the back-drop of the dark horizon, dark as the end of the world. Tension hummed just beyond audible range in air thick with the threat of it.

“When it breaks, it’s going to be immense, can’t you feel it?” Said Dad as the car rolled up to the house.

They ate their pizzas from the box, sitting in the conservatory gazing out over the veranda, out to sea, not wanting to miss the first flash of lightning, but the storm did not break. Livvie stood and pressed herself to the french windows. The sea was a flat slab of grey, smooth as oil. The only waves were at the shore, not a fleck of foam out in the bay. The beach was empty.

“I’ve never seen the sea so calm. It’s like glass. How can there be a storm but no wind?” Livvie returned to the sofa.

“I don’t know, but the low pressure, the charge in the air? It’s giving me a headache.” Dad pressed his temples. He could feel crackling inside his mouth, through his jaw bones to his ear. He opened his mouth, wide as a yawn and; static whispered from it.

“Oh my god Dad! What’s that?”

“I think it’s my fillings.” He rubbed his jaw.

Livvie leaned closer, “Open your mouth again.” As he did, the fluorescent strip light above began to glow and the sound of static hissing from his mouth modulated, like an old radio tuning. Then they both heard it.

“Mark…M-m-m-m-m-aaaaark.”

They were stunned for a few seconds. “That sounded like Mum.” Livvie whispered.

The light above glowed brighter still, flickered, died then blazed. Dad groaned then yelled out in sudden pain, clamping his hands to his ears, screwing shut his eyes. The light fizzed hot white, there was a ‘pink-pink’ sound then ‘crackkk’. The tube exploded, wafer thin shards of glass showered them and a heavy thudding bang sounded from the bedroom. Livvie screamed and hugged Dad, hand clawing at him. There was silence then the drum of rain on the glass above.

“What’s happening Dad? I’m scared.”

“Stay here, Liv. I’ll go and see.”

In the hall beyond the kitchen soft light seeped out from the edges of the bedroom door. Dad reached for the padlock –again, a static discharge shocked his hand back. The radio in his head whistled and hissed.

Right. Enough.

In the cellar, the fluorescent lights strobed and jinked giving movement to the rough stone wall; it appeared to bulge in peristaltic waves. He found the crow bar and returned. Livvie called for him as he attacked the bolt, each blow of metal on metal punctuated with a burst of static, half words, screaming frequencies. The bolt was fastened well and resisted, so, gripping the crow bar with both hands, he wedged it into the loop of the padlock. The metal buzzed painfully but with a grunt and all his determined weight behind it, the lock gave with a pop and skittered on the flag stones. He opened the door and cool light streamed out into the hall. Livvie peered from behind the kitchen door, catching the silhouette of her father as he entered.

“Don’t Dad! Don’t go in there!”

In the bedroom, the heavy slab lay on the floor where it had fallen, revealing the door behind. The silver triskele glowed within the wood so brightly he felt sure it would burn when he touched it, but it was cold. Livvie appeared at the bedroom door as he reached for the handle.

“DAD!” she screamed.

“He turned to her, wide-eyed but smiling. “She’s in there. Can’t you hear her? Touch it, touch the silver and listen.”

She laid a wavering hand on the spiral motif and there it was, beneath the hissing like waves under water - a voice, a quiet voice. It was her mother, calling Dad’s name, cut with slices of static amidst other words, meaning lost to warbling and distortion. But there was something else, something beneath; another voice, a woman speaking in a language that sounded like French but was not.

“What did I tell you?” Dad saw the recognition in her eyes.

He wrenched at the door but it needed the crow bar to crack the rusted hinges into movement; it opened to the smell of sea and the wet slap and echo of water on rock. Before them was a circular chamber, a dark pit from which dim light rose. Flat stones protruding from the wall formed a spiral stair down into the depths. Dad did not hesitate; for Livvie, the fear of being left alone was only just more powerful than the fear of what lay below; she edged down after him, pressing her back to the wall.

After one full circle of the pit, the top of a standing stone emerged in the darkness, rising from the centre of the pit. Crystals glowed within the rock - the white light of the silver spirals. The light pulsed brighter as he descended deeper, white noise in his head like wind beneath waves and voices…voices: Evie’s, but now another voice, the voice Livvie feared, the voice of another woman, insistent, deep.

What are they saying?

Another circuit of the pit and the massive stone grew thicker, he saw the surface of water below him, the stone disappearing below it and the steps following on. At the water’s edge he scrabbled to a stop: a skeletal hand gripped the step, the arm descending beneath, sightless eye sockets of a skull gazing up at him, distorting as the water rose and fell. An iron hoop was around its neck and a chain snaked down, out of sight.

“Evie, where are you?!” He screamed. Livvie shouted back at him to come back up, terrified to go on, terrified to remain.

Mist formed above the water and rose; light beneath it, from the stone grew brighter. Dad’s vision split into layers of perception one atop the other, cycling flickering: first the skeleton, then the woman mouthing her strange words, chained below the waves, then the despairing face of Evie, beseeching, but he could not hear her over the water and the strange foreign tongue.

What was she saying? He thought he understood it: “My love, my love, come to me”

Above him, Livvie pressed her back to the wall. The air in the chamber thickened with ozone and mist, pressure built in her head. Her mother’s voice grew clearer through the static. She smelled her mother’s perfume but the sense that something terrible was coming grew stronger too, the same sense she had had amongst the stones at Carnac. Below, in the water, a crack of light in the stone rippled upwards through its centre, up to the tip of it. The reality of the stone thinned, its physical presence took on transparency, as if her hand could sink into it if she touched it. Something was coming, coming from within, from beyond. Her mother was there, but something else too.

“Dad!”

She screamed down at him. He was leaning forward, reaching for something in the water —something reaching up for him. It moved, snaking, pallid, black hair swirling. It was a woman but also not. It flickered in and out of being but when Dad grasped its hand, it manifested. Livvie screamed again and peeled herself from the stone wall and down the last few steps to reach him.

“Dad, no! It’s not Mum!”

The woman looked up from beneath the water, beautiful and terrible. Its mouth peeled open, too wide, too hungry now, hungry for the need her father had, his death wish stronger than the bottle he had made for it. Its mask slipped, its movements became urgent, animal and he saw it was something…other. His mind filled with the taste of what it wanted. He tried to let go, to pull back but it would not let him.

Livvie closed her eyes and saw her mother as she was, the day before it happened.

Are you there, Mum? Is it you?

Beneath the cacophony in the chamber her mother’s voice could not be heard but her smile was a truth and it said that soon they could be together always. All of them. Livvie jumped into the water, into the light of the stone, into the beyond.

In the pit, all was dark. In his hand, only bones. In the air, only the echoes of her name and the vanilla biscuit scent of her perfume.

End….?

This story struggled to find its way to the end I had in mind, and before I finished it, the call for the amazing WEATHER REPORTS came, and I knew that Mark’s story after this would be perfect for that - and so The Widower was written and now the Lunar Awards was inspiration for me to finish the original story. Arse about face I know!

With thanks to and and for all they do with the Lunar Awards and the fiction community generally - better world because of you.

Good luck to all who participate.

Week 12. The Rules of the Pool.

This morning, I get another 34 euro ticket – I check the parking space I was in for hidden signs: all is revealed - I’ll have to add the 2^nd rule of parking in France:-

1. You can not park anywhere unless it’s in a designated car parking space.

2. Except on market days, when even those spaces are forbidden.

Girlfriend says: “One of my uni friends tells me you can park your car at the swimming pool for free.” I find the pool. There are lots of spaces. I decide to go swimming.

I have swimming shorts, and they have a “modesty lining” (a slightly uncomfortable net like pouch thing for the old groinicles which does not go see-through when wet). Go to pool, pay, get ticket, go into changing rooms. Have to give ticket to this lady who gives me a sort of cross between a coat hanger and a shopping basket. I get changed and somehow manage to wedge and tie all my clothes on to this woefully inadequate hanger thing.

I try to give basket lady the hanging basket, but no, it’s too full - “Just for your coat and shoes. Lockers are on the right when you go into the pool,” she says.

I bundle all my stuff into my bag, including glasses etc., almost blind without specs, but manage to find some lockers. There are 10 huge ones: 8 locked, the other 2 full of polystyrene floaty things. Another swimmer points out the public lockers round the far side of the pool. Most people leave their bags along the side of the pool – what’s wrong with the lockers? They take 1 euro. I trudge back to basket lady to get euro. “You must take valuables with you, for security,” she says. What does she mean by that?

Back at lockers, stuff everything in, but attendant stops me getting in pool.

“Monsieur, you must wear a Maillot de Bain, shorts are forbidden. For hygiene.”

“But these are special shorts for swimming” I say.

It’s no good – I look round, everyone is wearing speedos. I go back to locker, then to basket lady. She looks puzzled – I explain, I don’t have a Maillot de Bain – she says “You can buy them in the machine outside. 7 euros” – I get dressed quickly and go out – what I thought was a snack machine is a “trunks machine”; ingenious. Do I get medium, or shall I go large?

Back in changing rooms, large means the tightest skimpiest speedos you ever saw. This is not good. I squeeze into them – it’s not pretty – even if you aren’t overweight, they give you a spare tyre. Even if they had a modesty lining, they still leave nothing to the imagination. I hope the water is not too cold. Or maybe...

Go through basket and locker procedure again. About to get in the pool, when the attendant stops me again.

“It’s forbidden to swim without a bathing cap, for hygiene.”

BATHING CAP? Hygiene? Do they not have chlorine in France? I’ve got more hair on my toes than on my head – are they mad? Couldn’t he have said so before? Even though I’ve paid 2 quid for the swim, they can stick their wretched pool. I storm back to locker, then to basket lady. She looks even more puzzled – “I haven’t got a swimming cap,” I explain.

“You can buy them in the machine outside. 3 euros,” she says.

Thinking I will have to get one some time if I want to swim at all, I buy one. Back in changing rooms, there must be some mistake – are they having a laugh? The swimming cap is TINY – what size heads have these French got, I ask myself loudly. I struggle; I stretch it until it sounds like it’s ripping. Eventually, it goes on, like a spring-loaded scull cap; it’s giving me a face lift; I can barely close my eyes. There must be something I’m doing wrong – I look at the packet – it says “bébé” on it. It pings off, leaving a red mark across my forehead. Get dressed AGAIN, nip out, buy adult sized bathing cap. Check speedos to see if they were “bébé” size, but no, this is as big as they get.

Finally, the attendant can’t find any more breaches of regulations, so I get to go in the pool. They swim like there’s nobody else there. To avoid head on crashes I have to swim a sort of slalom. This doesn’t stop them trying to do front crawl over the top of you from behind though. They drive the same way.

“What’s that red line on your head?” asks girlfriend when I get back.

This is the second and final part of my submission to the AMAZING

Top In Fiction event : Spring Fever: Horrir in Bloom

brought to you by the wonderful Garen Marie and Erica Drayton and with artwork by Keith Long

Advisory Content

This story is a departure for me in that it contains even more graphic descriptions of sexual acts, implications of rape, and infertility, in addition to my more usual bloody violence and horror.

This is not even the first version of the ending - there’s an even more virulent sex and violence filled version that came out of me first, but I felt it was unrealistic.<yes, I know>…

Mandragora Part 2

Sarah went to the bathroom; there was a smell: menstrual blood, earth and something else...sickly sweet. A small, stainless steel pedal bin menaced from it’s niche between the toilet and the bath; she let it keep its secrets. A long hot shower cleared Sarah’s head and the stink from the room.

When she went downstairs, Tom was stirring something on the stove. He didn’t greet her, didn’t turn.

“What time is it?” She ventured

“Late. I’m making soup. D’you want some.”

“That woman’s here. You said…” she trailed off.

“I know. I had to call her.” Tom stopped stirring the pot. His back tensed. “There was blood in the bed this morning, Sarah.”

“Oh god! Didn’t you take her to hospital!”

“No.” He turned to face her, “she wanted Bridie. She wanted to be at home. Anyway, it’s done. She’s fine. Now, do you want some of this soup?” His voice cracked with levity as forced as his smile.

“I don’t think I could keep anything down.”

Sarah spent the rest of the day in her room. She dozed, she read and she dwelt on the past. When it began to get dark, she heard the tapping of Bridie’s stick pass her door and down the stairs. She crept to the bathroom and through the window saw Bridie make her way up the garden path with Tom. It seemed she barely needed her stick at all. There was a knock on the bathroom door. It was Kate.

“Are you in there, Sis? I’m sorry about last night. Can we talk?”

“Strange not to see Tom in here, it’s like he lives in the kitchen,” said Sarah when they went downstairs. “He had some soup on the go earlier. I couldn’t face it, but now? I’m actually starving!”

“It’s spiced butternut and something or other,” said Kate. “I had some earlier; still on the stove, look. Help yourself.”

Sarah fetched a bowlful, and they sat at the table. Kate was transformed, serene and lighter of spirit than she had been the night before. Her eyes were still red, but now there was a smile at the corners.

“I’m listening,” Sarah said, and sipped at the soup. Kate told her about the children her body had given up in the night. Tiny, little bigger than butter beans, but unmistakably almost -almost -perfect babies.

“I wanted to die, Sis. I just wanted to die and for it all to be over. But then Bridie came and she helped me to know them. They were dead, Sis, but she found their souls! I felt them…knew them: a girl and a boy! I named them: Eoster and Alban. Then Bridie released them and I said goodbye. It hurts, Sis, but it’s more bearable now I know them.”

Sarah mouthed the unfamiliar names. “What did you do with…” Sarah trailed off.

“Bridie has taken them. Tom’s with her. She’s giving them back to Faedor Eorth. It’s where we all return in the end.”

Of course it is.

“Bridie told me there’s something wrong in me, something I gave them; they would never have lived. It’ll always be hard for me to be a mother. Dangerous even.”

Her eyes grew wide and black and to Sarah it seemed like Kate’s voice began to shimmer at the edges of her words. “I need to ask you something, Sarah.”

“Anything Sis. Anything at all.”

“You might think this strange, but it’s important to me and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. Tomorrow, Alban Eoril —the equinox— I’m going to the giant on the hill, to honour Faeder Eorth, in the old way; to receive a blessing of fertility. Would you…”

“Of course I’ll come, Sis.”

“Not just come with me…will you work the Magick with me too? The two of us, sisters, together? The blessing will be all the stronger for it.”

Of course it will.

That night, Sarah dreamed disquieting dreams. Their mother —a mother? —was trying to wake her, scratching at her with twigs in her mouth but a man’s voice commanded sleep with words warm and syrup-thick. She pushed herself up from lush grass into sunshine, waking from a dream within a dream, then it was gone and there was Tom, drawing back a curtain. Confusion ate her words.

“Morning. Thought you’d have a thick head so I brought you chai latte and a magic potion.” He dropped two soluble aspirin to fizz in a beaker of water.

“What time is it?”

“Gone twelve.”

She groaned, gagged on the painkillers and sipped the tea. Sweet and spicy; perfect. She lay waiting for the tablets to work and felt sleepiness crawling back over her. The brightly coloured tag on the herbal tea bag dangled over the side of the mug and drew her gaze. The patterns on it swirled; the writing crawled off the turmeric-yellow paper and around the side of the mug.

“Oh!” She whispered, not at all surprised, then fell asleep.

Kate and Tom looked down at Sarah as she slept.

“I can’t believe it,” Kate hissed.

“How could she know?”

“Bridie’s never wrong, Tom. Not about things like this.”

Tom said nothing.

“Bridie sensed another soul in her, in her blood. She’s carried a child, a child that lived! And she gave her up! I can’t believe it.”

Tom pressed a finger to Kate’s lips. “It doesn’t matter now, love. This way will be better.”

Sarah woke with a start for the second time; Kate’s looming presence shredded the hazy gauze wrapping her mind.

“Fucking hell, Sis!”

“Sorry, hun. I would have let you sleep, only, we’re doing the thing, right? On the hill? You said you’d come.”

“Oh God, of course. Yeah. What time is it? How long did I sleep?”

“All day and half the night. It’s nearly nine and we need to get up there soon.”

Sarah groaned.

“I’ve run you a bath; you have to be clean. When you’re done, I’ve put a long dress out for you –don’t give me that look –just put it on. I’m wearing one just the same. And no knickers.”

Before they left, Tom gave them each a flask, “Hot chocolate, it’s going to be cold. Very cold.” He gave them a knowing look.

“Not coming?” Sarah asked.

“Not allowed,” said Kate. “No men but Faether Eorth, It’s the rules.” She held up a small book, bound with bark. “From Bridie.”

Sarah shook her head. “Pfff.”

Once they had gone, the door of the understairs cupboard creaked open. Bridie emerged from the cellar, back-lit by a flickering glow from below.

“Bring the planter up will ya, Thomas.”

He went down into the cellar and returned hugging a large earthenware plant pot to his chest with both arms. He placed it in front of her.

“Now fetch me a basin of rainwater from the garden; I need to prepare.” She worked her hands into the rich brown loam, burrowing down for something beneath the soil.

Kate and Sarah climbed the Giant’s Hill. It was impossible to make out the shape of the Giant, but the crowds of new-age folk, druids, and hopeful women squatting on the huge phallus made it obvious where they were to go. The crowds began to thin once the sun had set, and they found space to sit. They ruched up their dresses, backsides naked against the grass.

“Quite nice, all this foliage on the fanny,” Sarah said.

Kate tutted but didn’t raise her eyes from Bridie’s book. “There shouldn’t be any men here, not when we perform the rite. Let’s hope these stragglers leave soon; they’re all doing it wrong, anyway. Nobody’s taking it seriously.”

They lay on their backs, holding hands as night descended and stars became visible in the cloudless sky. It grew cold and the hill emptied quickly, the sound of folk music from the town and the promise of warmth in the pubs enticing everyone away.

“How long do we have to stay, Sis?”

“As long as we finish the ritual before midnight, that’s what matters. Everyone’s leaving - won’t be long by the look of it.”

“I’m going to have this hot chocolate then. Bloody frozen. Did I tell you the one about the baby polar bear?”

“Don’t you take anything seriously?”

Soon, silence came to the hillside, broken only by the calls of nightbirds. Kate took out seven tea lights in glass holders, placed them in a rough circle around them.

“We’ve got a thirty-five-foot cock all to ourselves, Sis. Whatever shall we do?” Sarah whispered.

Kate let a small laugh slip out. “Before we start, you have to promise me you’ll do as I ask? Don’t make a joke of it, otherwise, we might as well go home now.”

Sarah made mad eyes but promised.

“First, we make the womb ready.” Kate took a small jar from her bag and pulled out a pale finger of something. The surface shone like it was oiled. She reached down between her legs and slid it into herself, exhaling in a long sigh. Then she picked out another from the pot and held it out between finger and thumb. Sarah looked mortified.

“You promised!” hissed Kate “It’s mandragora; Bridie grows it. And trust me, you won’t have felt anything like it.”

Shaking her head, Sarah did as she was told. Within seconds, the sap took effect. She felt herself swelling, warming deep inside. Her clitoris twitched and pulsed. Her pelvic floor contracted and relaxed on it’s own, as if she was gripping something inside her.

“Oh my god, Kaz! It feels like…like…almost like being fu–-”

“—Shush will you?! Focus. Now, eat this.” Kate took out another jar; in it were dried slices of mushroom, thin-stalked with wide, rust coloured caps. Sarah mouthed “mushrooms?” Kate nodded and Sarah looked a lot keener. Together, they chewed and swallowed one thin slice.

“That’s all we’ll need. Now, we just lay here and wait. When I can feel it, when I start to speak, just repeat what I say. It’s a summoning of Faether Eorth; giving our wombs to the spirit of fertility, opening our minds to hear the blessing.”

Sarah focussed on the growing intensity of the sensations inside her. Twenty minutes later, the psychedelic fungus began to take effect. She felt every part of her back grow heavy, sink into the ground, but at the same time she was floating. Kate began to read from the bark-bound book in a low, sonorous tone. Her words distorted and echoed, harmonies following just behind and stretching out like hot glass ribbons that cooled to ice then shattered. Sarah opened her eyes and swirling melted heavens spiralled towards her. Heat and longing boiled in her belly. Her mouth formed the words she heard, but when she spoke them, she was a nightbird calling, in flight above the hill. The chalk lines of the Giant were illuminated; the trees glowed.

Feather Eorth, Ic eom freo

Faether Eorth, min wom is reaype

Faether Eorth, fyll mīnne bealgan

Nimmeh, gief meh thynne bletsunge

Kate’s chanting felt like hot water whispers in her ear flowing over her face, soaking her. The strangeness of the sound throbbed with primal power. As the phrases repeated, over and over, the sense of something deeper, older, a rising force, impossible to resist engulfed Sarah. She wanted it, needed something, something inside her, filling her. Wetness welled from her. She arched her back, opened her legs and reached to touch herself. The need to be taken was intense, all consuming.

Oh Christ! I need to be fucked.

Sarah stroked herself, shivering with the magnified intensity, lost in the voices, sensations, pressure, humming and a terrible need to climax. From a view point in the air, high above the Giant she saw his white chalk outline tear itself from the ground to stand -giant indeed -with his club, hollow eyes and proud, urgent phallus. She descended to it, swooping within globules of colourful sky.

Sarah’s hips rose and fell, her fingers circling, rubbing harder in her lap, as her orgasm built.

Oh god I need it.

In the sky, Sarah descended onto the tip of the glowing phallus, her body unfolding like a fractal magnolia flower to receive it. She hovered in the air, on the cusp, in the exquisite moment then came in a juddering, bucking climax. In the sky, the giant phallus impaled her swirling essence.

For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of their panting. A candle flickered and died and with it went any sense of the Magick binding them to another reality. Then Sarah sat up, confused, gripped by a wave of nausea, and vomited.

“Fuck me.” She said, after she finished heaving.

“Are you ok?” Kate sounded like echoes.

Sarah took a few moments to think about it. “I feel like I just fucked a God.”

“That’s the idea.” Kate patted the ground next to her.

“You got any water, Sis?”

“In my bag, but we have to just lay here until the candles to go out.”

They hugged for warmth, each recounting what their experience had been like; for Sarah it had been much more than it had been for Kate.

“Faether Eorth will never bless me. I can’t carry a child, they always die inside me.” Kate began to weep. “But you, Sis, he came for you, didn’t he? Your womb gives life; mine brings only death.” She couldn’t be consoled. Sarah bit back the words she knew her sister wanted. Silence grew between them, thick with the unspoken, with the un-asked.

One by one the candles died and the potency of the fungus ebbed with the light. The moon was setting somewhere behind the crest of the Giant’s Hill, and below them street lights were tiny floating orbs on the rising sea of a ground mist slowly drowning the town.

“Can we go back, Kaz, I’m freezing.” Sarah began to stand but Kate stayed her and held her arm.

“Sarah…”

“I can’t, Kate. I can’t. I know what you’re going to ask me, but don’t.”

“You had a child.” Kate’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Stop. Stop it.”

“Bridie told me, she can tell. You had a child…”

Sarah shook off Kate’s arm and stood up, brushing down her long dress.

“…and you gave her away.”

“You don’t understand, Kate.”

“No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you can’t -won’t do this for me.”

“I’ve never told anyone about this.” Sarah choked on the words.

“But I’m your sister. We’re all the family we have. You knew how much a child would mean to me…how could you…”

“I was RAPED! Raped by someone I knew. Trusted. I didn’t go to the police. I told myself it hadn’t happened; convinced myself. But it had. Then I deluded myself that I wasn’t pregnant. But I was. And then I told myself I would lose it, that it would die; that my hatred would never let it grow. But it did. And then it was too late. The Doctor said it was too late. And it grew. And I grew and the hate grew and I…I did something. Something terrible. But it -she- didn’t die. She lived and it was me that almost died. When she was born, I didn’t want to see her, to face her. The guilt, the hatred, the shame. And him, that man? A father? So I gave her up.”

Sarah took a moment to breathe and wipe her eyes on her sleeve.

“And then when I was well enough, I went to a private clinic and had them take everything out so I would never have to -could never- face it again.”

“Oh my god, Sis.” Kate stood and hugged her. They both cried now, but Kate’s tears were more for herself than for her sister; the burden Sarah had carried was a crushing weight upon her hopes. They walked back hand in hand, but in silence.

Back at the house, Tom was waiting up for them. “Well? Are we bursting with fecund energy?” His words died as he saw the strain on their faces. Kate rummaged in the back of a drawer and went to the garden. The smell of a cigarette wafted through the French Door. He looked at Sarah.

“I can’t do this now,” she said, filling a glass from the tap. “I’m going to bed.”

It wasn’t long before Kate came back in from the garden. “Where’s Bridie?”

Tom waved at the cellar door. “She’s down there, getting things ready. What happened?”

Kate told him about Sarah’s revelation. “I know it’s awful, what happened to her, and I understand, but I hate her, Tom. I HATE HER for it. Am I a bad person?”

Before he could say anything, rattling came from behind the cellar door and Bridie emerged. Her head swept the room. “I smelled a cigarette. I hope it wasn’t you smoked the filty thing, Kate?”

Nobody spoke.

“Something’s amiss. Where is she? Did she take the root in her? Was she blessed?” Bridie stalked around the kitchen table until she drew close to Tom and Kate. She leaned in and sniffed at Kate.

“What are you thinking girl, smoking! Do you not know the pisens in those things? The womb must be pure-”

“-It doesn’t matter, Bridie. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What are you sayin’?”

“She’s had it all taken out, after she had the child. Her womb, her ovaries. All of it. It’s all been for nothing. You didn’t sniff that out with your Magick, did you.”

“Stop a moment will ye? Let me sit and tell me again. Tell me everything.”

Bridie listened, tutting and rubbing at an amber bead hanging about her neck. When Kate had finished, she rocked back and forth on her chair.

“But the spell, up on the hill, you worked the spell all the same did you?”

“Yes, but—“

“—But me no buts, Kate. Was she took by Faether Eorth? Was she opened? Answer!”

Kate snorted. “She said she felt like she’d fucked a God, if that’s what you mean. But the Magick can’t work on her now, can it.”

Bridie brooded then sat up “There’s another way, Kate. It’s not the way I would choose, but the choice is not for me to make.”

“What do you mean?”

Bridie began to chant, growling out the words. As she did, her white eyes slowly reddened, thin blood vessels swelling within her sockets.

“Blood Magick, Kate. Your sister has something of the soul of her child within her. The Magick can be worked with that instead.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“You wanted a child, and our bargain was I would give it to you and your man would give me the thing I need in return. Now, that part of the bargain I’ve had, and plenty of it, but my side of the bargain remains to be settled.”

“What are you saying.” Tom spoke this time but Bridie stayed him with a hand.

“This is a thing between women. You must leave us now.”

Tom hesitated until Kate urged him to leave them and go to bed. Bridie went on:

“Have you the book I gave you before, Kate?” Kate retrieved it for her.

“The spell is here—” Bridie tapped the book and then rested a hand on Kate’s chest, above her heart “—but the power must come from the blood, not the earth.”

Kate nodded. Bridie’s eyes grew deeper red.

“I’ll give you the choice and that’s my bargain paid and done. But you must know this: you will have to carry the child, and there is a price to be paid by another. Do you understand me?”

Kate blinked, then bobbed her head just once, like a secret sign. Bridie felt it and laid the bark-bound book on the table. She lifted her patchwork bag and laid it, heavy, beside the book.”

“Will you help me, Bridie? You’re the witch, after all.”

“Kate, ‘Witch’ is a name given to women by men who don’t understand Nature. Nature is neither good nor bad; she is just Nature. But Nature does no wilful harm. My ways are the ways of Nature. I’ll not be your judge, but blood Magick is a different thing; the sacrifice must match the desire. For every gain, there is a loss.”

Kate’s head dropped.

“I’m showing you a path to what you want, but I can’t lead you down it. You’ve to make the choice, aAnd if you choose otherwise, then spring will come again and I will be here for you,” she patted the bag. “This is yours, if you choose. You’ve to thank Thomas for it. And thank him for me.”

Bridie stood, her walking stick more like a staff than a crutch. “I’ll see myself home.”

Kate sat alone for a long while, then went to the knife block. One by one she took them and ran her thumb across the blades before sliding all but one of them back in.

The next morning, Tom woke up and stretched. His head ached. He reached for Kate, but she wasn’t there.

“Good morning husband.” Her voice came from the end of the bed. Confused, he raised his head; she was sitting there, cross legged. In the sunlight filtering through the curtains he saw she was still in her white dress. It was covered in blood. He sat up, stunned.

“Kate, Jesus, what’s happened?”

“Don’t worry darling.” She lifted her dress and reached between her legs. With a shuddering sigh, she pulled out the root. It seemed impossibly long, but was shrivelled now, flaccid, it’s taut nodules limp and empty. It pulsed weakly in her hand and bloody fluids leaked from its head.

“I can feel it. I can feel it inside me. It’s alive. Tom, it’s alive! We’re going to have baby, a baby girl.”

In another house, in another town, far away, a little girl stared up at her terrified mother with deadenend eyes, fragments of china spinning across the kitchen floor.

For the other submissions to the event check out the Top in Fiction event index Here

This is part one of my submission to the Top In Fiction event : Spring Fever brought to you by the wonderful and and with artwork by

Part two is here

Advisory Content

This story is a departure for me in that it contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts, implications of rape, and infertility, in addition to my more usual bloody violence and horror.

Mandragora

A strange woman was fumbling at the garden gate as Sarah approached her sister’s house. The woman was older, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair. She wore a greenish linen smock, colourful scarves about her neck and head, and silver jewellery hung from everywhere it could; beads and turquoise. Over one shoulder hung a patchwork tote bag, heavy with something. Her complexion spoke of an outdoors life and she could have been fifty, or ten years either way. She leaned on a gnarled walking stick whilst her other hand –a gauntlet of rings– explored the ironwork of the gate.

“Feckn thing,” she muttered.

“Let me help you.” Sarah reached over and clicked the latch down. The woman raised her head and Sarah realised at once, from the way her neck weaved about and the cloudy whiteness of her eyes, that she was blind.

“You’re so kind. I couldn’t find the bloody latch,” said the woman, smiling into space. She shuffled through the open gate and as she brushed past Sarah on the narrow path she stopped.

“Would you mind if I touched your face, girl?” She grasped Sarah’s arm. Sarah hesitated and the woman took it as consent. “I’d like to get a look at ya.” Her smile was wide and warm with a prominent gap between her front teeth. She brushed light fingertips over Sarah’s face, tracing jawline and eyebrows with particular care. “Ah! You must be the sister,” she said. “What do they call you?”

“Sarah.”

“I’m Bridget, but call me Bridie. Now, go in to Kate. She’ll be needing you.” She tapped at Sarah’s leg with her stick then walked away, swinging it briskly before her.

Tom opened the door and they hugged on the step before he bustled her in to the kitchen.

“Good trip?”

“Not bad. Would have got here sooner but had to stop for a pee and a coffee. How is she? How are you both?”

Tom shrugged. “Not the best.”

“You poor loves.” Sarah hugged him again. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs. She needs rest but go up, she’ll want to see you. Leave your bag, I’ll put it in your room.”

Sarah headed for the stairs, but at the kitchen door she stopped.

“Tom?”

“Hmmm?”

“There was a woman. A blind woman leaving, just as I arrived.”

“Oh, Bridie? Did you speak to her?”

“Yeah, she was struggling with the gate.”

“She was here for Kate.”

“How do you know her?”

“She’s sort of a…midwife I suppose. She brought something for Kate.” He pointed at a kilner jar on the kitchen table. “Herbal stuff.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “She wanted to stroke my face…I didn’t know what to say.”

“She’s not shy. Quite a character in the town.”

“Yeah. She looked a bit…”

“Witchy?”

Sarah arched her eyebrows.

“Bohemian, then? Esoteric?”

“Earthy, I was going to say, Tom. Earthy. She even smelled earthy, like she’d been digging something up.” Sarah walked back to the table and picked up the jar, studying the dry, leafy contents.

“I’ve just brewed a pot,” said Tom. “Why don’t you take it up to her?”

In a darkened bedroom Kate was buried under the duvet, her back to the door.

“Are you asleep Sis?”

The duvet stirred. Sarah sniffed at the mug of herb tea, then pushed aside candles and books on the bedside table to make space for it.

“I brought you some tea, Sis.”

The duvet stirred again.

“Sazzy?” Kate turned over, and her tear-worn eyes emerged from beneath the edge of the covers.

“Kazzer.”

Sarah opened her arms and Kate sat up to meet the embrace. They buried their heads into each others’ necks and hugged, desperate and hard. Kate keened, dry eyed and forlorn, and Sarah rocked her, stroked her back and ‘shushed’ softly. She breathed in the familiar smell of her sister’s skin, undercut with the sourness of days in bed.

“Nine weeks, Sazzy. Nine weeks,” Kate mumbled into Sarah’s jumper.

“Oh you poor love. You poor poor love.”

“I really thought that this time - this time - we’d done it.”

“I know. I know. It’s so unfair, Sis.”

Kate leaned back out of the hug. Her hopeless eyes brought Sarah close to tears herself. She reached for the tissues.

“I brought you some tea up,” she said, wanting to do something, anything. “Tom says that Bridie brought it for you? Smells rank, bound to be healthy.” Kate blinked but didn’t take the mug.

“They’re still inside me, Sis. They’re dead and they’re still inside.”

She burrowed back under the duvet and Sarah hugged her shuddering form beneath the bedding.

In the morning, the sounds of Sarah hunting for the teabags brought Tom downstairs. Cardigan drawn across a bare chest and still in pyjamas, he apologised, and dragged eggs and bacon from the fridge.

“How is she?”

Tom’s eyebrows told her everything. After a few moments, she spoke.

“Tom, Katie told me…She told me that they’re-”

“-still inside? Yeah.”

“Oh god…I can’t imagine. It’s bad enough…” she didn’t finish.

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“And she has to…has to, carry them inside her? I don’t understand. How long for?”

“We have to go back in. For a ‘D&C’? It’s basically an-”

“-an abortion.”

“Yeah. Tuesday.”

“Three days?”

Tom nodded. They stared at each other, Tom with the eggs and bacon in his arms, Sarah with a hand to her mouth, both contemplating that reality.

“I wish there was something I could do,” said Sarah eventually. “I’d do anything to help.”

“Would you?” Tom stared. Sarah shifted in her seat at the directness of his gaze but he didn’t look away. “Nobody can do anything, though, Sarah, can they. Nobody.”

Neither of them felt much like bacon and eggs, when they thought about it, so Tom made tea and toast and took some up for Kate, and Sarah went to explore the town. The spring equinox was close, Sarah realised, as dozens of druids, green men and white witches meandered the streets. Stalls touted flagons of mead and crystals; images of the famous local landmark were everywhere. Sarah resisted the temptations of phallic souvenirs, but not the allure of a Devon cream tea. On the way back, she bought a jar of local honey, remembering the bitter aroma of Bridie’s herbal tea.

“What d’you think of the place?” said Tom.

“Lovely. Very quaint, even with all the giant dicks everywhere. Busy though.”

Tom laughed. “Always is this time of year. You saw the Giant then?”

“I didn’t go to the hill, but you don’t need to. He’s everywhere!”

“It’s why we came here, in a way. Well, one of the reasons.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Fertility thing, you know.”

“Really?”

“Well, not just for that, but we were kind of looking for a place in the area and we thought, why not. It was funny. At the time.”

“How’s it supposed to work then? You go up there on a full moon and sit on the huge nob end with your knickers off?”

Tom looked sheepish.

“What? That’s never it, is it?”

“Bridie’s the one to ask about that.”

“I’ll bet; she looks the part.“ Sarah laughed and shook her head. “Jesus. Has Kate tried it then? Have you been up there?”

Tom shook his head.

“Did you feel a bit threatened? He’s a big lad, isn’t he!”

“About thirty five foot.”

“Including the balls?”

They both laughed.

“We joked about trying it, but the IVF-”

“-seemed more likely to work?”

“We couldn’t focus on anything else but IVF. It sucked up everything - time, money, and, well, you know…that.”

Rapping at the front door broke the silence. It was Bridie. “I’ve come to see how she’s getting on,” she said, her stick scraping the floor and rattling off the skirting boards as she swept in. Tom guided her to the table and pulled out a chair.

“Tom was just telling me you’re the one to ask about the Giant, Bridie.” said Sarah.

“Faeder Eorth, you mean? Your man on the hill?”

“Yeah, you know, the rituals and all that?”

Bridie turned towards Tom, white eyes glistening in a hard, sightless stare, then back at Sarah. “That’ll wait for another time, girl. It’s Kate I’m here for. How is she?”

“She’s not so good, Bridie. Still in her bed.” said Tom.

“Aye, she’ll want to be nowhere else while those poor dead souls are inside of her. She needs them out.”

“Tuesday, Bridie. We’re going in Tuesday.”

“Three days they’re making her wait? That won’t do, that won’t do at all. Did you give her the tea?”

“I took her some up yesterday, but I don’t know if she drank it,” said Sarah.

“She had some this morning,” said Tom.

“Good. That’s good. It will help to bring them out whole, the natural way. Not with all the scraping and scratching the doctors do. That’s no good at all, leaves the dead inside. Can you imagine that? Will you take her up some more tea now? Make it good and strong.”

“I bought some honey for it,” said Sarah, bringing the jar out from her bag. “Might take the edge off, it smelled really bitter.”

Bridie swung up her stick and banged it hard on the table. “Don’t you feckn DARE be putting honey in it, girl!”

Sarah jumped in her seat and the jar flew from jittering hands across the table. Bridie’s head weaved as she followed the sound of the jar sliding slowly to a stop just over the table’s edge. Sarah watched in shock. For a moment all was still then Bridie rapped her stick down once more and the jar fell to the floor, the smash of glass muted by the thick honey.

“Jesus, Bridie!”

“It cost ten quid that, you know!” Sarah butted in.

Bridie turned her head toward Sarah, the milk white, unblinking eyes fixed on a distant point behind her.

“Will you give me your hand, girl, so I know where you are to speak to?” Sarah hesitated, then pulled up her chair and stretched out her hand. Bridie took it in both of hers, as sure as if she could see it.

“Your sister is afflicted. There’s death inside of her and it must come out. The tea is bitter for a bitter purpose, and to put sweetness in it? Well, there’s more to honey than just the sweetness of it, you must know that.”

“Well I know it’s healthy.”

“And so it is, so it is, but another medicine needs to do its work. Do you follow me?”

“Medicine? You a doctor are you?” Sarah’s voice hid nothing.

Bridie’s voice took on an edge. “I’m a healer, girl; a healer of women. My medicines are older and better than any muck a doctor would put in you.”

Sarah said nothing; Bridie’s eyes were impossible to read.

“Well, there we are,” Bridie said, her voice warmed again. “Will we take some of the tea up to Kate? I’ve brought something for you, as well, Thomas. For after.”

“I’ll fill the kettle,” said Tom.

Bridie brought Sarah’s hand up to her face, unfurled her fingers and kissed her palm, then, with a sudden move, pressed her nose to it and inhaled. Sarah jerked her hand away, pushed back on her chair and stood up, face contorted. She threw a glance at Tom: Did you see that?! then glared at Bridie: If you weren’t blind!

“Tell me, Sarah. Do you have a child of your own?”

Sarah took a moment before answering. “No?”

“And have you never had one?”

There was a longer pause.

“Jesus Christ! Tom! Who is this woman? Who does she think she is?” Tears started in her eyes and she fled the kitchen and out of the house, slamming the door behind her. Moments later, her car revved and sped off. There was a long silence then Tom spoke.

“We need her. Kate needs her, Bridie, and you coming here? That was not what we agreed.”

“It’s as well I did come though Tom, isn’t it.” She hefted her shoulder bag from the floor and laid it on the table with a soft thud. The fabric of it folded around something large and shapeless within. She nodded her head towards the far end of the table. “Fetch me a taste of that honey, will you, be a shame to waste it all.”

Tom walked round the table and knelt over the smashed jar on the floor. He slid two fingers between the shards of glass, scooping up a blob of honey, then approached Bridie and held his dripping fingers just above her mouth. She opened it slightly, her tongue just visible.

“I sometimes wonder just how blind you really are, Mrs Geraghty,” he said, as a thin ribbon of honey descended. He trailed it over her lips and she tongued it.

“I don’t need eyes to know what’s in front of me, Thomas. Now, let’s have it.” Her words caught on the sweetness. He pushed his fingers slowly into her mouth and her lips closed around them. He slid them out then pushed them in again, deeper. Her tongue worked, while Tom used his other hand to unbuckle his belt. A moan of encouragement burred in her throat and she reached to unzip his trousers. She stopped sucking his fingers when she’d freed his stiffening cock, gripping it with one hand, cupping his balls with the other.

“That’s good, Tom. That’s good, you’ve kept them full, just as I asked. Heavy and full. Now let me bring home the harvest.”

She took him in her mouth and he moaned as she worked him with her hands, gripping his balls, weighing them, feeling the tightness of them grow as she brought him closer and closer to climax. When his breath quickened and he began to gasp and thrust into her mouth, she pulled back and gripped him hard.

“Hold it. Gather it. Summon it all up for me.” She groped in her bag and withdrew a bulbous, leathery tuber. The surface was mottled, earthy and green; wrinkled in places, taut and almost shiny in others. Nodules like stunted limbs protruded, each ending in a tangle of thin hairy fingers. One end of it was thick and round –a head on a short, neck-like stalk. She brought it close to the end of Tom’s engorged penis and a hole opened in the root, split and widened –a toothless mouth. Pinprick beads of sap grew on the rim and it moved, sensing the heat pulsing from him, its wet lips gaping now. Tom tensed and pulled away, but Bridie grasped his shaft and drew him back, guiding the tip of his cock into the sucking root.

“Now. Give it now. Take hold of it; feel it, give it up for me.”

She pushed the root onto him, holding the base of his cock steady with one hand, until the whole length of him had slid into its slick depths. His initial grimace of revulsion succumbed to helpless pleasure. They both took hold of the root now, her hands on top of his, using its organic contours and fibrous nodules for purchase. It pulsed and undulated with snake-like strength. Tom gripped it hard, exhaling in determined bursts through his nose. Together, they worked it back and forth, Bridie controlling the speed and depth of the strokes, muttering ancient words. Tom grunted, and she moved to cup his balls, feeling them clench, until he came with a shuddering groan. Bridie crooned, massaging him, feeling him spasm as he spent himself into the depths of the hideous swollen tuber.

“That’s it, good boy, every drop now.”

When he had nothing more to give, he pulled his hands away, the squeezing, milking sensation suddenly unbearable.

“Get it off me…get it off!”

Bridie chuckled and slid it off, leaving him aching, reddened and hard, glistening with trails of sap. The mouth of the root puckered then closed and Bridie placed it back in her bag. Tom collapsed back onto a chair.

“It’s not natural. It’s…It’s…” but he didn’t know what it was. He ran a hand roughly through his hair; his scalp itched and his cock was hot, angry.

“You gave a fine, full measure, Thomas. I felt it and the root knows. It knows and it gives back its thanks. You can’t deny the pleasure of it, not like any woman can give, eh?”

“What is it, Bridie? How is it…?”

“Magick. Old Magick; of the earth. Don’t be asking about the what and the how…what it does is all that matters.” She leaned towards him, feeling for him, grasping hold of his aching erection. “Now, you’re going to be blessed with this for a good while yet, I’ll work us up a little more Magick.” She stood, hoisted her dress up and straddled him, then sank down, the sap of the root warming her as he slid easily inside. Her whole sex pulsed and flowered as the sap took effect. She rocked back and forth, rolling her hips and cradling his head in her bosom.

When I’m done, I’ll need to be away; I’ve to get it back in the earth. Make sure you take up that tea for Kate.

At the mention of Kate’s name, Tom looked up, something like tears in his eyes. Bridie pressed a wet finger to his lips.

“None of that now. You know the bargain. I give Kate what she wants, and you–” she ground herself hard on him “-you give me what I need.”

She rode him, muttering words he didn’t know as she came; when she started again, harder, he asked her to stop but she wouldn’t.

“I need it, Thomas. I need the Magick of it.” She began to pant as another orgasm built. “And the sister, Thomas, will she give what’s needed to the womb, or must it be took? Does she know?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll give you something that will help her hear the truth.”

Sarah spent an hour pacing the streets with no direction in mind, only a growing rage. Her first thought was that she would just leave, pack and go home, but that would mean going back to the house. She couldn’t face that woman. She was still shaken -how did she know?

She found a bar, sank a large gin and tonic and then another. Too drunk to drive back, a bottle of red became a good idea, and soon she was too drunk to go home. At the end of the bottle, she was drunk enough not to care if the witch was there or not. She called a cab.

When Tom opened the door to her, she jabbed him in the sternum.

“Is she still here?”

“She’s gone, Sarah. She won’t be back while you’re here. Come in, we were just about to eat.”

She weaved her way into the kitchen and sat at the table opposite Kate, who was tossing a salad. Tom brought a lasagna over.

“You’re up! How are you feeling Sis?” Sarah tried not to slur, but failed.

“Are you pissed?”

“I wouldn’t say pissed but-”

“-it’s barely half seven. What’s wrong with you?”

“She had a bit of a disagreement with Mrs Geraghty, love.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sarah said, folding her arms at Tom.

Kate pointed at Sarah but spoke at Tom. “There’s no point asking her when she’s in that state.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re supposed to be here with us, Sarah, not off out getting hammered!” Kate stood, salad tongs held like knives. “My babies are dead inside me, Sis,” she screamed, hurling the tongs into the bowl sending rocket and cherry tomatoes flying. “I need you and you’re falling off the fucking chair!” She glared down at Sarah then stormed upstairs.

There was a long, long silence. “Do you want some lasagna?” Tom said, as if nothing had happened. Sarah snorted at him, eyebrows so high her brow hurt.

“I suppose so,” she said, eventually, inviting him to her plate with an open palm. As he served she said “What were you going to ask me then?”

“Oh...nothing. Best leave it for tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came and with it came the dead. Sarah surfaced through thick waters that muffled wails and frantic voices.

Something’s happened.

She lurched from the bed, thick tongued, glue eyed and desperate for water and a piss. As she opened the bedroom door a crack, the air about her seemed to pulse and push into the room. She shut it. Her stomach heaved.

The witch is here.

She felt it, knew it, overcame it and opened the door again. Bridie walked past, stuffing something into the patchwork bag with one hand and holding a large, steaming jug in the other.

“I’m seeing to Kate. The bairns are out of her. Don’t be going near her ‘til that skinful of drink ye had is out of ye. D’ya understand?” She barely slowed as she passed Sarah and disappeared into Kate’s room.

To be continued…In Part 2

For the other submissions to the event check out the Top in Fiction event index Here

“I hate the gym. Hate it. I have perfect health for a man of eighty plus. What difference can it make at my age?”

The Attendant smiled. “It won’t be the last time I hear that, Sir, but twenty minutes a day can make a lot of difference, at any age.”

“That’s what my physician said. He’s a great doctor, great, really, but that’s not going to happen. Not happening. I told him, I’m doing it for the photo op. and that’s it. Great visuals, my press guy says. They’ll be along any minute.”

“Whatever you say, Sir.”

“If I have to do this, I’m gonna be sitting down. Can we get more light in here?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir. Now, if you could just follow me over to this machine here, I can set you up with something not too challenging, get the ticker up over a hundred. You won’t even break a sweat.”

“What is this? Some sort of sex chair, all these handles and straps. Is that what this is? Hmm?” he grasped one of the smooth, black rubberised handles and grinned. “Get some pussy on here and you might get me back in.”

There was a pause and then the Attendant’s smile cracked wider, showing perfect teeth. “It’s a recumbent bicycle, Sir. Would you mind taking off your suit jacket, and maybe your tie? You’ll be more comfortable.”

“The tie stays on. Never lose the tie, not for a press thing.”

“Of course Sir, as you like it. Now if you could just put your feet into the pedals like so, and grasp those handles down by your side, I can get you set up with something perfect.”

He pushed his feet into the toe holds of the pedals and the Attendant tightened the velcro straps then started tapping on the touch screen. “What are you, six two and two hundred and forty pounds?”

“Who’ve you been speaking to?”

“When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you can size people up.”

“Too close for comfort. Say, can we get something more interesting there?” He jabbed a thick finger at the graphs and figures on the bike’s generous high definition screen.

“Of course Sir. I was just getting your baseline stats. We can choose from a whole range of scenery, but I thought you’d like something familiar to start; I’ve got just the thing.”

“Get me my phone, will you?” He waved an impatient hand towards his hanging suit jacket. “That moron press guy shoulda been here by now.”

The screen flicked over to a wintry, urban street scene. “If you start pedalling, Sir, keep that number between 12 and 15, and see where we get to.”

He began to move down the snowy street, passing parked cars and pedestrians, shop fronts and cafes. It looked familiar, ordinary but familiar. Up ahead, he could see a crowd was forming, waving signs, milling at the sides of the road.

“Where are we at? Is that a rally up ahead? Is that it?”

Two cars overtook at speed and rammed into another, forcing it off the road. Eight masked men in khaki fatigues leapt out, guns raised. More paramilitaries rushed in from the wings, dispersing the protesters with batons and pistol butts.

“I know where this is, you sneaky bastard!” He looked to the side with a crooked grin. The Attendant nodded ever so slightly. On the screen, the armed men dragged a woman from the car, swarmed her, rained down blows. Pedestrians with home made protest signs flocked in to help but were pepper sprayed and beaten back. As he passed he could see the woman’s bloodied face mashed into the snow.

Fuck around, find out.

The view changed as the bike turned a corner and the snowy streets gave way to sunshine and tropical greenery.

“Let’s go a little faster, shall we?” The Attendant leaned over his shoulder to tap the screen and the pace quickened. The road became dustier, buildings brighter but ramshackle, interspersed with palms and flowering trees. Ahead, an industrial complex came into view and then was obliterated in a series of huge explosions. Black and orange clouds of flame roiled into the sky. The view shook.

“Wow! It’s like actually being there. So realistic. Really terrific!”

He felt the warmth of the Attendant’s cheek close to his own as his eyes were fixed on the scenes of destruction looming closer. He cycled past burning corpses. Steelwork collapsed into the street. The bike weaved its way through the carnage.

“Gets the blood pumping, doesn’t it,Sir?”

The scene changed again and the pace quickened further. He cycled through featureless farmland, stretching to bleak horizons. A village came into view, the houses blasted, empty ruins, trees shattered to stumps. As they wound through the destruction, the screen began to shake and tanks and APCs rumbled into view and past on his right hand side. As the last of the convoy passed him it exploded violently, the gun turret popping into the air like a toy. One by one the armoured units exploded into chunks of scrap and fragments, the rhythm of destruction like a slow heart beat. Ragged troops fled from them, some burning, some firing wildly into the air.

The bike passed by it all without stopping. On the screen, the heart monitor hit 120.

“This is fantastic, but slow it down…drop the pace a little.” He struggled as he spoke, sweat streaks showing on his jowls.

“But you’re so close to the finish line.” The Attendant whispered in his ear. “You don’t want to stop now…just two more minutes, Sir.”

“I said slow it down! Did you hear me?” He jerked his head round, but the Attendant had disappeared from view. He tried to reach for the screen but he couldn’t let go of the handles.

130.

“Hey! HEY! Get back here! You are so fucked!” He rages, but the Attendant is nowhere to be seen. The room darkens, the screen brightens, the pedals turn faster and the heart rate climbs. The view changes again, wet farmland and rusting tanks give way to a hellish wasteland of skeletal concrete.

On the back of his neck he feels the breath of the Attendant. “Close now, Sir. Keep it up.”

140

On the screen, eyeless children and limbless fathers stumble and drag themselves to left and right, senseless and screaming as missiles blast pointless holes into their dead homes.

“Stop this fucking thing now!”

“But you’re doing so, so well, Sir.”

The pace quickens again as the bike weaves through a crowd of desperate filthy ragged people, clamouring for sacks of rice and bottles of water being dispensed from the back of trucks. Soldiers appear with machine guns, scything through them in bloody waves. There is nowhere for them to run. They cannot escape. They do not. The trucks are set ablaze one by one. The bike glides past it all.

156.

He grunts and gargles, pulse thumping in his ears, knives stabbing his chest.

150

120

60

15

0

20:00

The sibilant breath of the Attendant is a warm caress on the back of his neck.

“Well done, Sir! You made it!”

The screen goes black. His head lolls but the machine keeps turning, motor humming, pulling his legs round and round. The Attendant lifts his head by the saggy flesh of his chin and dabs at his forehead with a small white towel. He throws it, stained, into a wicker basket and snaps a fresh one from the pile with a flourish.

I'm going to get the minor critique points out of the way first so that we can focus on all the positives and not leave a soured taste in the mouth or any BUTS at the end of this review.

BUT ALSO LOOK AT THAT FANTASTIC COVER - HE MADE IT HIMSELF!

I have read most of James' fiction on his sub stack, and so in a purely literary sense, this novel has a few moments where the prose is not quite at the standard of beauty and technical skill that he now achieves -but this is a novel length piece of work and nobody can keep it up that long without the odd cliche or echoed adjective, and he may not have had a professional editor look at it to spot these things, which makes his achievement even more special considering how good it is. AND ITS HIS FIRST GODDAM BOOK.

POTENTIAL SPOILER ALERT NEXT 4 PARAs

There are also some, I am sure, that might be slightly confused by the ending which is sudden and also quite strangely at odds with the the vast majority of the book, other than in the sense of joy and hopefulness it has, and that it's a happy ending for the love of the baby Jesus - and Christ do we need happy endings these days.

As someone that loves a great plot, I found the mechanism of how James brings this story to a close to be a strange choice, because there are very few hints at what is happening in the middle distance and the ending relies on a plot mechanism which , shall we say, is not 100% dissimilar to a "then they woke up and it was all a dream".

I think James could have dropped a few more clues to the bigger world picture along the way, to tie the ending and the messages in to the story more fully.

Having said that, I love the ending - it is a bold move and it does work with the surreal aspects of the story (which just seem totally normal) and more importantly with the rag tag characters, and what we want for them, what we have been hoping for them all the way through the story - just, in a totally sudden and bizarre way (and no it isn't ACTUALLY an "it was all a dream" ending, don’t be silly.)

PLOT SPOILERs OVER

So these minor minor de minimis points, which should not get in the way of any normal person admiring this novel and loving it and being sad when they get to the end and there is no more of it, let me continue with the effusive praise.

There are three aspects in particular which made this novel fantastic.

1 - The story itself - it’s a road trip, it’s a love story, it’s a coming of age story, it's a friends against the world story, it's a tragedy, it’s a comedy, it's surreal and also everyday and relatable. It delivers on many many levels. As many have said, it is hard to categorise what it is on a purely genre level. It says a lot that Mr Worth can make this novel so many things for so many people all at once.

2 - The characters - the four main characters are fantastic creations. We are on their side, all of them, all the way through. They are immediately believable, recognizable for all their extreme almost unbelievable circumstances. James make us love them, care for them, believe in them. The only villain is the world. They speak with authority. The dialogue is pitch perfect. The love scenes are hot and affecting because of their innate truth and beauty and sometimes their ugliness.

3 - the power of James' ability to capture human emotion in all its terrifying and wonderful forms. His characters are living breathing feeling, hurting, broken and brave - Mr. Worth has a great skill at conjuring up with mere words powerful feelings - you will feel the roaring passions, crushing insecurities, weaknesses, strengths and hopes of all the characters - you will invest in them, you will root for them.

This is a rare thing, in my experience, that a novel can make you love FOUR characters who are all so very different, and even deeply flawed or objectively bad - He makes us understand how they are who they are, warts and all. Mr Worth is a young man, but he has an uncanny skill with capturing human emotion in an utterly real and recognizable way.

I have a theory about this novel, which is that James must have drawn from himself to paint his characters so true and my feeling is that Jamie is James Worth, as he sees himself. Marshall is who James wishes he really was and Lana and Beaver are the devil and the angel on his shoulders. I shall say no more.

I would love to see the film of this book - although it is so vivid in my mind because of Mr Worth's uncanny skill at making words come to life in technicolour, that I don't think any film could live up to what the reader will have painted in their own mind - but don't wait for the film, get the book now.

I urge everyone to buy this book - its wonderful and Mr Worth deserves to be wildly successful.

Find more of James Worth work here: Just Wonderin’

You can also buy the book here, which is where I did, from the marvellous indie publishers Drek Death and Doom brough to you by who does not publish anything lightly.

When I told this tale to my fiancee, her reaction was not what I had hoped for. It wasn’t that she was repulsed, repelled, sickened or full of self loathing for agreeing to marry me–nothing as harsh as that. She was just not amused; disappointed, actually.

My father, on the other hand, found the whole thing hilarious. Being a man, anything to do with toilets, bodily functions, embarrassment and such like? Well, it’s automatically funny, isn’t it? Even I found it funny, after the initial horror.

Now, where were we…ah yes: in the shadow of Mount Etna. Are we sitting comfortably? Good, because that is an important part of the story.

It was 2018 or 2019 - something like that - and one of my fathers (from whom the DNA is derived) and I had decided to have a “Lad ‘n’ Dad” holiday. We have not spent a lot of time together during our lives (won’t go into that now) and it’s only very recently that we have been on holiday together. And only twice. Both times in the middle of winter: once to Portugal and once to Sicily. For anyone unfamiliar with European Geography (that’s you, America) Sicily is the home of Mount Etna. It’s erupting right now, look!

We were staying in an agri tourism place which for some reason had opened for one week only in January - the week following Epiphania. The 6th January is a big deal in Sicily. La Befana (completely Christian and not in the least pagan) is a bit like Santa, only she’s a gift-bearing witch, not a flying fat man with magic deer.

In January, Sicily is bloody freezing, especially if your digs are a rustic, charming barn conversion which was never intended to be occupied by humans before April. The owner was bemused when we turned up, saying they forgot to take the week out of their calendar on their website. They never thought anyone would want to come so soon after christmas when it was freezing cold and there was no “agri tourism” going on because of, er, winter.

But they don’t know how much we Brits love a bargain holiday and cheap flights!

So, what was there to do nearby? The beautiful coastal town of Taormina was about an hour away and demanded a visit. Here it is - and it’s even more beautiful in the flesh.

We drove our hire car there and were lucky enough to find a little corner to park in quite near the town centre; there was some benefit to being there in early January after all. The approach to the town is beautiful and the twisty roads weave through steep rocky ravines to which colourful buildings cling in that delightful Mediterranean way.

We strolled along quaint shop-lined streets, passed through chequer board piazzas and crumbly-looking churches. The whole place is utterly charming and highly recommended.

We came to a grinding halt outside the magnetic window of a Pasticceria - (cake shop). The groaning shelves of stunning, colourful cakes was an echo of the town’s own landscape. We both moaned with the anticipation of ecstasy at the sight of a glazed pistacchio cream fondant tart looking thing. One of them even had my name on it.

We sat in the late afternoon sun at a small table outside the pasticceria and began to consume the exquisite cake and sip our coffee. It was perfect. Then… I felt a call of nature, and I went inside to enquire: Dov’e il bagno?

In the little shop, there was space only for a very little bagno, one for both men and women to use. Here, I will make a confession: I am a man that likes to take a sit-down wee, if there is the option. It’s more comfortable and you do not splash piddle everywhere, which is impossible to avoid standing up, especially at urinals.

I sat down and enjoyed the long, luxurious depressurisation of a much needed micturition. It was only when I stood and pulled up my jeans that the horror began…my trousers were soaking wet!

“What the fuck?”

There ensued some frantic scrabbling, dropping of the pants and utter bemusement: I had emptied my bladder right into my own trousers…and had not noticed. But how???!!

I’ll show you how…

I stood in a state of shock while the reality of my situation - amongst other things - sank in. I felt the moisture descend from the arse area of my jeans down my legs. I dropped my pants and sat down again, visualising the stream of my urine jetting out of the front of the toilet bowl - where there should have been an impervious wall of porcelain, like in proper English toilets - straight into my unsuspecting gusset.

I reached for my phone…but then, what could I say to my dad? How could he help?

Gritting my teeth against the–now cold–wetness, I pulled up my jeans, washed my hands (of course) and shuffled from the cubicle. I vainly used my jacket to obscure the wetness of my trousers without appearing deranged and suspicious. Yes, we all hold our jackets behind our back, hanging over our bottom in England. Nothing to see here.

Back at the table, the wrought iron of the seat exacerbated the uncomfortable wetness of my situation. “Dad,” I said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

After the confusion, disbelief and disgust, came the hilarity. But what were we to do? Look for a clothes shop and some public toilets. I tied my jacket around my waist, schoolkid style, and Dad assured me he couldn’t see any wetness. Off we went.

Taormina is a tourist destination; there was nothing remotely like a Marks and Spencer or a JD Sports anywhere to be found. The few clothes shops were designer shops - Prada, Boss, Armani. All the jeans were ludicrously expensive. All the assistants gave me weird looks. After a very unpleasant and increasingly desperate search for an affordable solution, we opted for a beach towel from a tacky souvenit shop to protect the car seat. There were no public toilets to be found and without a change of clothes, what would be the point? We headed back to the car. On the way, we passed a Calvin Klein shop we had not seen before. I went in for one last desperate attempt and hurriedly purchased a single pair of striped boxer trunk things. The assistant suggested that it was a better deal to buy a three pack, but I insisted that I just needed the single pair. Her eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

When we got to the car, I dropped my trousers behind the open passenger door while Dad kept a look out for widows and children. The place was still quite lively, and I couldn’t risk taking off my underpants even in the gathering dusk.

I laid the towel on the passenger seat and got in, shuffling out of my soaked undies. It was at this precise point that two police officers walked past and did a huge double take at me, pants down, nob out, in the front seat. They stopped and stared. More police officers walked past. We had actually parked outside the police station.

They stared. I tried to drag the towel over my crotch, but that involved sort of thrusting up my arse to yank it repeatedly (the towel) whilst waving the new calvin kleins as if that was some sort of explanation. Dad wandered away. His presence would not have helped matters. In my very poor Italian, I tried to explain that there had been an “accidento coi pantalone” and “devo cambiarlo questo.” I pointed at the urine drenched jeans on the pavement.

Eventually I covered my lap enough with the towel and managed to extract my soiled briefs from beneath it and swap them for the new striped CKs. Yes, disgusting and unwashed as I was, but at least the new shreddies were dry. Perhaps I had made myself understood; perhaps they took pity; perhaps it was just time for dinner. Whatever the reason, I escaped arrest.

Even though I had promised to drive back, and Dad’s eyesight is not great driving at night, he valiantly got us back to our freezing digs, accepting my argument that, with everything else that had gone wrong, it would not do for us to get pulled over and me be driving in only my underwear.

Our further adventures in Sicily were much much more refined and involved a lot of food, wine and a volcano. Not all at once.

I still have the CKs, and hold them in some affection. I have stopped saying “Did I ever tell you about that time in Sicily when…” to my wife every time I pull the CKs out of the top drawer.