The Oceanic Dead

 Our dreadful harm was our enemy's regret, our tender skulls split like oysters.

We lay there on Japan's shore, my sister and I, assaulted and aggrieved, our blood foaming in the surf, a scarlet ebb of unfathomable loss.

The hated progeny of our Mother's secret love, we were plucked from her forfeit belly by the baleful Emperor Blood, before he slit her throat and threw her beautiful empty form off the bluff.

She flew in the wind, a hollowed flag, twisting, turning until she fell onto the crags far below our step-father's castle and broke.

Mother, children, all separated, all damaged, all alone, perhaps to trudge the endless wastes of the dead for all time among the tattered souls of the samurai and crying painted angels.

But within that salted biome our new-born sinews stretched and muscles fired and like pulleys of flesh we sat together in the water, staring at our twin faces and caressing our rent heads.

Sanderlings flocked around us, our slim movements unnoticed by the hundreds of birds probing for worms. We probed too with our tiny hands and wrenched wriggling things up and slopped them in our mouths and smiled.

Naked, my sister and I began to crawl along the eternal sands, a trail of red left behind. We were slugs feeling our way through day and night among the crabs and bladderwrack, devouring beach fleas as we went. 

We slept on beds of kelp and drank from sea squirts, warming ourselves as winter loomed within the giant corpses of rotting whales washed up onto land, lost ronin robbed of purpose and reach.

Our hair grew long, thick and black, which helped shield us from the prying frosts as October left for November. The days were dark and the nights darker still, a world of intermittent ink, through which we both  crept like tiny brushes pushing for the terrible edge of the scroll.

For a year we traversed Japan's shoreline, our heads misshapen, but we lived, sustained by the larder in our hands. Our long black hair was our coverlet and we learnt to walk like crabs, our great companions on our pilgrimage: to find our beloved mother, to avenge her death and bring calamitous closure to our step-father, the murderous Shogun, Emperor Blood.

Encrusted in salt and cohabited by commensal beings like fleas and sea flies, our crawl's end came that December 1592, when we jostled over the smashed boulders at the base of the castle bluff to find our semi-rotted mother supine at its foot.

She lay there crucified. 

Oceanic. 

The salt and the winds of Hokkaido's sea had kept her skin, strengthened by a carpet of barnacles filter feeding in the sprays. Her innards were partly gone, devoured by our friends the crabs and other hungry things, but it was no matter. We slid inside and filled her up again, re-connecting nerve-ends and synapses with our own, re-blooding her vessels and migrating our two little brains to occupy her waiting skull.

Tidal, together, total, we got our mother to stand once more and stagger over the stones to face the castle wall. Craning, we stared towards it's summit; high, so high, ensnaring the clouds like prisoners.

 We began to climb, along with a raft of crabs, who were following us.

A whole day passed into night until we reached the lip of the sewage sluice near the ramparts. We slipped in and levering our Mother, we crabbed the tilted chimney to the castle yard, where we secreted through the grate and into darkness.

Slinking on and up the towers and stairs, our crustacean clan close behind, my mother, sister and I at last came to the Imperial chamber, where the Emperor Blood was sleeping with his enslaved concubines.

Wanting to scream, the slaves' mouths were gagged by pincers and ushered out to safety. We had no quarrel with more poor souls, only the recumbent wretch before us, our hateful step-father, his bloated giant paunch bare above silken sheets, protruding like a rising dough.

Deftly sprawled atop his form, the terrible noble woke. 

"Hello my dear." Whispered Mother, her lips like starfish quivering in heat.

Her husband now wide-eyed, she smiled and kissed him, her rancid tongue ripping his own from it's roots and sucking it down to fill our open mouths.

"Oh My Lord!", mother sighed,"You appear to have lost your tongue!"

So dumbed, the huge man gargled his own blood and deploying the Emperor's own tanto, the three of us sliced open his hideous gut from loin to neck, upon which it opened like a cupboard, a cupboard in which our faithful carpet of crustaceans leapt into and vigorously emptied it of all it's meat, saving the succulent brain as a soft milky pudding at the end.

The creatures snipped and sheared and dragged out his skeleton and, husked as he was, our friends filed out of the enormous wound, matted in gore and patting their shells with satisfaction. 

We guided our Mother's body inside the Emperor's own sagged bag and tucked her limbs and head into the vacated spaces of his well-fed skin like a dressed crab.

Our Emperor-Mother rose, with us inside.

She donned the imperial garb and stepped out into the castle's fresh day, smelled the air and we laughed, all three.

Seawater pooled where we walked and all bowed down before us at the dawn of our reign of Hokkaido, a reign not of blood but of salt, ruled by we inside the Emperor's skin, the crab-fed babies and our mother, the queen of the oceanic dead.

The Wrath of the Centuri

Jerome came down from the high moors knackered and as muddy as a sheepdog.

"Cuppa Tea wouldn't go amiss Glenda!"

The cafe was chock full of walkers and climbers all wanting hot drinks and sandwiches.

"Good ramble Jerome?" Asked Russ the old hiker

"Ay, I went up the top fen first thing, over the grand moor to the scar road."

"My, that's a fair trek and then some. Never been that far up missen. Not many folk have. Scary place. See anything up there?"

"Ay,  I did. There's a strange iron cone on the side of the high road, all rusted up, as big as man."

"My, that is odd. A rusty cone and that big. Wonder what that is like!"

A man sitting at the next table leant forward and spoke with a Continental accent.

" Excuse me, I couldn't help overhearing. Did you say you've seen a rusted cone as big as a man?"

Jerome stared at the stranger and took a massive swig of his tea.

"Ay, I did. What's it to you mister?"

"Ah, well, you see, I'm originally from Italy, a bit of a history buff you might say and I've been researching a old wives tale, which has brought me here to these parts you see."

"What kind of old wives tale?"

"Oh, just a rumour among scholars like myself really, a whiff of ancient skullduggery up there in these hills".

"Such as what," persisted Russ.

"Well, an atrocity really. A Roman atrocity."

"Roman!" scoffed Jerome.

"Yes, Roman of all things. It's been a long held theory of mine, one I developed myself I might add whilst studying lost scrolls in Italy, that a centuri of Roman soldiers were slaughtered on the high fen on what you call the Scar road."

"Romans! Bollocks! There were no romans here mister. Its a well-known fact they missed us out!" Countered Jerome.

"Ay, on account of us being so damn good-looking!" Howled Russ, Jerome laughing too.

"I understand your resistance to the idea of Romans here gentlemen, all the literature points to their absence I agree, but it has been my long-held view, borne out of years of scholarly research in archaic libraries, that a single centuri of one hundred men crossed the high track for whatever reason and there met a sudden and terrible death."

"What kind of death!" Asked Jerome.

"The fatal kind!" Roared Russ but this time Jerome didn't laugh quite so loudly, his curiosity piqued by this awkward Italian egghead sat opposite.

"Go on mister, please," asked Jerome.

"Ah, well, according to ancient texts and tomes that I have risked much to access over the years, the centuri got as far as the scar, stopped and on that path there suffered total and absolute immolation."

"Immo-what?"

"Immolation. Demise. End." Explained the man.

"But what I do not know to this day, despite every effort to ascertain it," he continued, " is exactly where the massacre occured. I think what you saw earlier today is a clue ."

"What did I see?" responded Jerome trying desperately to keep up 

"The tall rusted cone of course!" Exclaimed the man.

"And just what's your angle in all this then Mister?" Asked Russ guardedly. 

"Nothing more than research for a possible history book. I happen to believe that the truth does indeed lie up there somewhere on the moors. More to the point I would pay handsomely for a local guide to take me to the top."

"How much? How much would you pay?"

" One hundred pounds to the top path, another hundred pounds to bring me back down."

"Two hundred quid all in eh. OK. I'll do it for that, sure," beamed Jerome, smelling a fast buck. He'd get them lost and up the price en route.

"And settle the bill for our breakfasts too eh, Italian fella." Said Russ, pointing to his empty plate.

"Of course. My pleasure!" Agreed the man.

"You OK in the morning mister?"

"Yes, that would be fine. Say 8am?"

"Yep, no worries. Oh, and what's your name?"

"Vindicta. Just Vindicta."

"OK, Vindicta, see you in the morning, 8 sharp.I don't like being kept waiting." Grouched Jerome, now bored with the Italian.

The following day Jerome met up with Vindicta and having moodily checked provisions and waterproofs set off on the long hike to the high path.

It was a hard slog and the Italian historian Vindicta wasn't the fittest. He stopped many times to both take some water but also check his notes regarding the rumoured location of the Centuri massacre.

Resting for the tenth time Vindicta looked at Jerome.

"Do you think you can recall the exact spot of the rusted pile Mr. Jerome?"

"Pretty sure. Let's just get up there shall we. You didn't tell me you were a complete wuss! What's with all the rests! You not had spaghetti?" Chuckled the local man, anxious for the Italian's cash and more where that came from.

"It is true, I am tiresome, but will be forever in your debt if you get me to the path and the rusted mound Mr. Jerome. And you're spaghetti gag is a most humorous jibe," replied Vindicta.

They trudged through moorland and bog for the next four hours, stopping many times, until at last the horizon supplied a vista of the high path.

Jerome was furious as the constant delays had prevented him from getting purposefully lost and conning the Italian into handing over more cash.

"We're here Vindicta and we would have been at least two bastard hours ago if you hadn't been such a wimp and stopped a million times!" 

"I do apologise Mr.Jerome. Perhaps the sight of the one hundred pounds in cash for the return trip will give you cause for amiability. I would be grateful if you could show me the rusted mound."

Recieving the cash with a recalcitrant grunt, the guide took the historian around a rocky bluff and there on a small plateau was a rusty cone of metal about five feet tall, so completely fused together that it was impossible to say what they were.

"Ah, splendid, truly splendid Jerome, thank you so very much. I can tell you what they are if you're interested?"

"Yeah,well, I fuckin found them didn't I. If there's money to be made then I get the lions share!" Fumed Jerome showing his true colours here at the peak.

"Of course, of course, you will get what's coming to you for certain. Now if I may," replied Vindicta, who touched the top of the pile with his hand.

Immediately it began to become clearer and the rust dissolved in seconds, leaving a gleaming tower of small but robust swords stacked in tapered layers and ending in a single one.

"This is of the noble Gladus Mr. Jerome, the preferred blade of the Roman soldier, ideal for cutting and incredibly strong."

"How the fuck did you do that? Clean 'em all up like that? That's just weird that is!"

"Yes but you see I am if you will returning these Gladii to their rightful owners, the poor Centuri who were slaughtered whilst they slept on this very spot by Hades himself, for the Centuri were hunting his hound you see, the dreadful Cerberus the two headed beast, the bloody scourge of Rome who lair is on this moor."

"What the fuck do you mean returning them?" Shouted Jerome.

"Well, I am the direct descendant of the Centurion who lead the one hundred soldiers. His name was Aurelius Vindictus, a noble leader of great stature, who had entrusted the work of guiding his troops up to the high path to a man local to the area for a considerable sum, equivalent to two hundred pounds of your money.....

.... The local guide's task was simple, to show the Centuri the way, which he succeeded in doing and then, more importantly, watch over the Centuri, whilst they slept for one night's rest before the battle here by the bluff. This part of his labours he failed completely to do as, born of weakness, he himself slept whilst on watch, the most heinous of all crimes within the Roman military ......

....... As such, the troop was caught off-guard that night by the baleful Hades, God of the Underworld, who through cover of darkness on the stygian moor, smote them all with his terrible Bident and threw their violated limbs to his faithful hound Cerberus to loudly feast on, all the while the local guide cowardly hiding behind an outcrop, whimpering, unseen by the devil ....

..... I have long held the belief that it was cowardice that drove that guide to stack the Centuri's Gladii in a pile, a cairn to assuage himself and his descendents of any guilt for his unforgivable neglect of duty".

"You, Mr. Jerome, are a direct descendant of that weak and treacherous local guide and for his terrible weakness it is you who must pay in the ancient way."

" And.. and what.. what is that?" Stuttered Jerome.

"Death by Centuri and their hundred swords!"

"Wh .... what?"

"Turn around Mr. Jerome."

The hapless local man turned and to his absolute terror stood facing a troop of one hundred Roman soldiers, grimacing and holding their Gladii tightly, bent on hellish revenge.

At the head of the soldiers stood the proud centurion Aurelius Vindictus. He turned to Vindicta.

"We salute you noble Historian!"

He stepped forward toward Jerome and roared.

"For Wrath! For Honour! For Rome!"

Without hesitation he raised his solid blade, swung with supernatural force and hacked off the arm of the astonished Jerome.

The man looked at his shoulder stump, blood gushing in gouts out like Roman wine and screamed for his very life, the signal for the whole Centuri to reduce him to mere bloody shreds of meat, bone and sinew. 

He continued screaming, a pitiful torso, until the Centurion Vindictus himself severed Jerome's lolling head.

"Vengeance is ours!" Yelled the Centuri and bowing to Vindicta the ghosts of the Roman hundred marched away into the mist of the moors and to the eternal slumber of the vanquished.

Vindicta gazed as they receded from his view and slowly set off back down the scar road on the hillside to return to Italy.

The cairn of swords was gone and as he walked away he was certain he heard Cerberus growling and gnashing, as it hungrily devoured the remains of the traitor's kin in its moorland lair, the bloody wrath of the Centuri. 

Fucked, Stuffed and Shafted

Bastion was so cheesed off with his customers it wasn't true. Moan, moan, soddin' moan.

He wouldn't mind, all they bought off him were balloons for Gods sake!

His wife Gabby didn't help either. 

Nag, nag, nag, all day flamin' long.

And then there was his lazy arse teenage step-son, Robin. 

Couldn't be bothered to go to college or get a job, so he stunk the place up lying in bed all day watching porn and shite on You Tube and pissing around on games all night. 

Total waster and no help at all. Slobbin bastard robin! 

Bastion blamed his real dad, that cocky pillock Stan the Chimney Sweep Man, another knobhead he couldn't stand.

There was no escape from all these idiots because he worked from home. 

His customers pestered him on the laptop and his Missus was all over him like a rash. Then there was his loutish step-son lying in his own crap and his proper annoying dad coming round to see him whenever he wanted!

Do this, do that, get Robin up take the bin out, get some milk, where's the remote, tidy up, hoover, when are you going shopping, nag, nag, nag. 

Gobby Gabby he called her!

His customers were worse though and really did his tree in.

It's not arrived. It's the wrong colour. It's the wrong shape. There should have been two. I ordered water bombs, bleat, bleat, bleat! It never stopped. The twats were never satisfied!

What did they expect from an eBay trader selling balloons from home, the crown soddin' jewels?

Bastion had really had enough. With the whole lot of them. A bunch of tossers! 

Recently his ebay feedback had been dropping too.

Negative complaints were flying in. Nothing was going right. His business was falling apart and he knew it.

He needed a new product and quick before everything he'd done went down the toilet.

Something amazing and fresh. 

A balloon that would blow their socks off!

But there was nothing. His mind was blank, scrubbed clean by nagging and bleating and god damn moaning.

He went for a shit upstairs. 

Bollocks! No toilet paper! His idle twat step-son had used it all and pissed off back to bed!

Leaving his trousers in a heap, Bastion burst into his room in just his Y-fronts and stood there agape, his jaw dropping to the floor.

Robin was naked on his bed face down, a plastic pipe up his arse attached to a hot water bottle, whilst watching a You Tube show called My Enema is Your Friend.

"What in Christ's name are you doing Robin?"

"For God's sake Bastion you bastard, get out, GET OUT!"

Robin flung his arm upwards showing him the door, unwittingly launching a wad of toilet roll toward Bastion, thickly covered in coffee and shit.

It landed smack in his face with a splat and shite juice dribbled into his mouth.

It was quite simply the last straw and something snapped in Bastian's brain.

Snapped. Like a twig.

Bastion quickly ran downstairs and grabbed a tank of helium.

Back in Robin's room he roared like a mad man.

"You want something up your arse do you! Well try this sicko!  - 

You're FUCKED!"

Bastion ripped away the hot water bottle and attached the pipe to his tank and yanked the screw to open.

"Bastion! Noooooooooooooooooo!"

His step-son's scream tailed off in a high pitched whine and suddenly stopped as the gas completely inflated his entire body, his pale skin stretching and expanding and slowly but surely his body beginning to rise off the bed.

"Jesus, he's floating .... Like a god-damm balloon!"

Bingo! Fuckin' hell, It was Bastion's eureka moment!

"That's my new product right there! A Lazy bastard Robin balloon! Yes!"

He unplugged his step-son, who by now had stopped saying anything. Bastion wasn't sure if he could still him with his tiny piggy eyes in that massively pumped-up head, but he couldn't care less. At long last the idle swine was doing something for his family business. 

Bastion tied him to the bed post with string and his step-son bounced around in the air.

"God damn! This is great! Human inflatables! Why didn't I think of it before!"

Taking a sneaky swig of gas himself for the hell of it and rushing to his laptop in the back office, the excited eBay trader was desperate to list his new super special airated product.

It was whilst standing near the back lounge door that he heard some loud and distinct groaning.

Groaning of a sexual nature. 

He walked in the room.

For the second time that day Bastion was speechless. His eyes bulged out of his head! 

On the sofa were his wife and Huff, his Evri package collection guy, shagging like dingoes in the doggy position.

They hadn't noticed Bastion standing at the door.

"Jesus Christ, is everyone in the goddamn house getting some action today. Now Huff and my Missus!"

He smiled like a maniac.

Bingo again!

"Yep, you two are really gonna rise like a couple o' ..... Pies!"

Bastion, giggling, left them humping and grabbed another bottle of helium and a double pipe, which he dipped in a mazola bottle in the kitchen for lubrication.

He quietly crept up to Huff and shoved one pipe right up his arsehole and pushing him aside, shoved the other pipe up his wife's too!

"Now you're both really STUFFED!"

Bastion frantically turned on the gas hardly able to contain his excitement.

The two lovers wailed in agony as the helium filled their every nook and cranny, pumping them up to hideous sizes.

"Well Huff, it's  well and truly up your chuff now!" Howled the demented Bastion. 

" And Gabby, you'll be pleased to know I'll sell you and your Robin at totally inflated prices! Ha, ha, ha!"

Having tied up the ballooned couple, he left the door open so that he could take photos of his three human inflatables and list them on eBay. 

"Unique, one of a kind opportunity to buy prototype life-size human balloons. Made of a special material hard to tell from real skin. Ideal floating by the pool or the gate. Amaze your friends. Top-up gas tank and pipe thrown in."

Bastion was thrilled with his listing and the bids started to pour in.

"Fuck, it's a goldmine! I need to find more ... Hmmm, Inflatables! Ha, ha, ha!" 

Rubbing his hands together and completely round the bend, Bastion picked up a gas tank and was about to go see his Grandma when the door bell rang. He took a quick swig of helium.

He answered it, his Y-Fronts coming down, scratching his bollocks. 

It was Stan, Robins real dad, the Chimney Sweep man. He was still at work so had his sweeping rods slung on his back.

"Howdy Bastion, I've come to see my boy".

Both men hated each other but for the sake of sanity they'd always kept the peace.

Sanity was up the duff now and Bastion had a glint in his eye. He still had hold of a tank of helium, gas hissing out of the pipe. 

"He's, he's tied up Stan. Yep, tied up," whistled Bastion in a high-pitched helium-induced voice, eyeing up Stan's mouth intently, wondering if his pipe would slip in easily.

"Well he texted me earlier and said he'd be in mate." Replied Stan aware that the other man looked slightly nuts today.

"Nope. He hung around for a bit and split", responded Bastion chuckling, aware of his own comical double entendres.

Just at that moment there was a springy, squelchy, slappy sound as the stairwell behind Bastion got darker.

Something was coming down the stairs .

Or more precisely, floating. 

Robin's inflated body had got loose and was bouncing between the wall and the banister making it's way slowly down.

Stan saw his son, stretched like a drum, bobbing towards Bastion in the doorway. 

"What the fuck have you done to Robin you fuckin mental case!"

Bastion felt the ballooned boy bounce off him, looked straight at Stan and grabbed his neck, violently attempting to force the hissing gas pipe down his throat. 

"Oh no you fuckin don't you deranged moron!" Yelled Stan, a black belt in Judo, and threw the astounded Bastion over his shoulder with a perfect Ogoshi. Like a Samurai warrior he took out one of his long chimney rods holding it low like a spear. His fury was palpable.

With the inflated Gabby and Huff having come free too and wafted into the hallway as well, all three human balloons jostled Bastion towards the enraged Stan with his prone rod.

It only took a split second for Stan to shove it deep up Bastian's sweaty arse and along with the three balloon people watch the bristle head come out of his mouth and re-open like a shit-flecked flower.

Attaching further rods, Stan hoisted the google-eyed Bastion higher and higher and impaling the free end into the lawn the skewered balloonist waved about in the breeze for all and sundry to see.

Stan held onto his Robin's string and they both looked at the swaying man.

"Well son, you might say your step-Dad's been well and truly SHAFTED!" 

Howling, Stan, walked off holding his boy, as Gabby and Huff floated off together into a bright red ring of wilting sunshine before popping and dropping onto  a passing Evri van.

Rosy Teas Invite

With the Summer break looming, Cynthia bent down and blew out the candles.

She silently made her wish.

"I just want my fuckin' sister back."

Standing up straight she stared at her workmates, who were all slurping coffee staring back at her.

From nowhere came a single whispered reply. 

"Soon."

Cynthia stiffened and the hairs rose on the back of her neck.

"Did you hear that?"

"What?" Replied Linda finishing her cup. 

"Someone said soon. Was it you Mand?"

"Me? No. I don't hear anything Cynthia."said Mandy.

"You OK girl?" Asked June, holding Cynthia's arm.

"I'm fine thanks. Just not keen on birthdays".

"Jesus, I must be hearing things. For fucks sake, get a grip woman," she thought to herself.

She sighed loudly.

Cynthia's life wasn't going the way she had wanted. 

The kids were a pain, the husband's a total dick and her ancient dad was up living in her attic like a hermit.

God! Where had it all gone wrong? 

Her job as a teaching assistant at Benton Primary took it out of her and then she had to go home to that zoo! Even though it was just a village school it was still knackering work. The kids were all bonkers.

Still, it was her birthday and the girls had bought her a new toaster.

"Don't singe your muffin doll!"

They'd howled at Birdi's joke.

There were a bunch of cards too.

One from June, Birdi, Sharon, Mand, Linda and Sar.

All very funny. 

But then she noticed another one.

The envelope had Cynthy on it, in rough red crayon, which was still lying on the desk next to it.

No-one ever called her Cynthy.

Except her little sister Ida.

And she was dead. 

Well, presumed dead.

She'd been missing for forty five years.

Forty five years since all those terrible times in the village.

The anniversary was tomorrow. Always the day after her birthday.

Back then, God, it had been terrible. Those had been the darkest days for sure and she was glad they were buried in the past. Well, at least most of it.

Her Mum and Dad had been in a bitter family feud with the Higsons next door. 

It had all started over nothing really, a couple of cat whistles from out-of-work Mr. Higson to her Mum when she'd been hanging out the washing that spring in a skimpy dress.

Problem was, her Dad had heard. 

Down on his luck, he was enraged and confronted Higson over the garden fence. Insults were thrown and mud was slung and from then on the two neighbours had hated each others guts. 

It got worse too. 

Tit for tat jibes at each others' expense, car tyres knifed, social services falsely called, friends warned off on arrival, Christmas decs vandalised and the dole office alerted to over-claiming.

That had messed things up for Cynthia's family good and proper and her parent's benefits were slashed.

They'd gone on the breadline, the kids were hungry but all her Dad could think about was Higson, that "fucking twat next door!".

So on it went. The feud. It became part of their thin, sorry lives. 

It was in the summer that Cynthia's kid sister vanished, along with the Higson girl, who she knocked about with, despite all the mean adults telling her not too. 

"They're only five for God's sake Mum! They're little girls!" Cynthia ranted at her Mother, sick of the constant battling with next door.

It was fantastically hot that August 1st and school had finished early for the summer. It'd been roasting in the classrooms. 

Ida had been out playing in the street with other kids. Cynthia was ill after eating too much jelly and cream on her birthday the day before, so stayed in bed, otherwise she might well have stopped what was going to happen.

Times were so tough back then and loads of people were out of work, pissed off and very angry with the Tory government.

It was just a matter of time before it all exploded. The relentless heat was just the fuse everyone needed to blow.

That day at the start of August riots broke out in all the major cities.

Shops were looted, fire engines stoned and police attacked. It was a huge mess and the politicians branded the rioters as jobless thugs on the telly, which just made things worse.

In Benton, the vandalism was later centred on the local Tory club, tolerated up to that point on account if it's fabulous full-size pair of snooker tables, but with the current febrile climate that became the target.

It went up in flames. 

But that wasn't the first fire in Benton that afternoon. Rosy Teas went up too.

Cynthia was sick as a dog that day. Mum was scrubbing the step. Dad was down the Social club as usual.

It was Mum who pointed it out, the cafe. She could see it from her daughters' tiny shared bedroom window when she came to see Cynthia.

"Jesus, that looks like Rosy Teas! It's on fire!"

The loud too ta ta of fire engines filled the air and half the village came out to gawp at the slow destruction of the only cafeteria still open in Benton. All the rest had shut in the downturn.

After the evening's mayhem, the fires at the cafe and the club, everyone seemed to pause and falter and simply went to bed dreaming dreadful things like where would be next in this summer of destruction.

It was the following morning that Dad said that Ida wasn't in her bed. Cynthia said she'd probably gone to the holiday club to get some of the early free toast and everyone agreed that was it.

As time went on it became obvious that Ida was missing and the longer it took the more certain they all were that something dreadful had happened to her and the Higson kid.

Days became months and months ...

Well, years and years, and they dragged by like rotting dead souls.

Their sweet Mum died and Cynthia knew it was Ida. It had broken her heart when she went. It was just awful after she vanished.

Not much improved in the village over the decades either.

Jobs were still hard to find and the post office closed. No-one wrote letters anymore. Even the milkman packed in his route round Benton. Not enough demand. New snooker tables found there way to the Labour club and no-one had any real prospects but everyone had a mobile phone. Deliveroo did Benton so that was OK.

But Ida and her friend were never seen or heard from again. Never. 

The family had had a funeral a year after the violence but they'd just been absorbed into thin air. Those two little kids caught up in a riot.

The primary school stayed open. There were still babies in Benton because the poor would never stop having kids, which meant eventually Cynthia got a job there as a TA. About the only thing she could do and here she was now 55 years old, exactly 45 years on from Ida's disappearance.

For Cynthia time was frozen and she was stuck in the ice of the hateful past. She'd built a dam around her heart. To keep the devil out. 

But, it had all come flooding back seeing Ida's nickname for her again.

Cynthy.

Her reverie was broken when the school bell sounded.

" C"Mon guys, breaks nearly over, we gotta get back to class." Said Sarah.

"Yep! God! There's not even time to take a pee on my birthday in this place," complained Cynthia but she was still thinking about the strange whisper and her c name in crayon.

If she was being honest with herself her missing sister was always on her mind.

"Ida" she whispered and stuffed the envelope in her jacket. 

She'd read it a lunch. There was no damn time now.

Lunchtime arrived with the peel of the bell and Cynthia nervously opened the envelope. Inside was a card. 

An invitation.

It read: Rosy Teas Cafe, Late Afternoon Cakes, Just for you! 4-6 PM, 1st August, 1970, Benton High Street Corner.

Why on Earth would someone leave her an invitation to Rosy Teas from 1974? 

And from the 1st August!

The day it burnt down!

Today, 45 years ago .....

With Ida's writing on the envelope!

A dreadful feeling came over Cynthia as if someone had poured cold water over her head. 

It couldn't be.

But there it was. 

An invitation.

From Ida. From beyond the grave. 

She felt compelled to go.

Come what may.

Cynthia hurried from school clutching the invite tightly and made her way to where Rosy Teas had once stood, demolished some 44 years back after the terrible fire. All had escaped thank God but the building was a ruin afterwards, a reminder of the dark times and pulled down. They'd put a park there.

Panting she walked through the playing fields to the High Street. Her heart was pounding as she squeezed the invitation.

On reaching the end, she turned the corner and could not believe her eyes.

She stood transfixed with her pupils wide and her mouth agape.

Instead of the new park.

There it was.

Rosy Teas.

Just as it had been all those years ago, a bright colourful cafe full of vigour and noise.

In the window was a poster just like her invitation. 

Special Afternoon Cakes, 4 till 6pm.

It was 5 'O'clock. Plenty of time.

Disbelieving but believing, Cynthia stepped through the door.

She was immediately transported back nearly half a century to when she was a little girl.

The cafe was bustling with families and old dears. She knew them all.

Mrs. Drobson and her son Benny from up Peddars Lane, the old Jones couple from Edgerton Road, John Clifton the local snooker champ who'd popped in for a cuppa between frames no doubt and Mrs. Florence and her children, Barb, Rene, Steve and Eugene, all tucking into cinnamon toast, muffins and lemonade floats.

A soft melody came from the kitchens where a radio played Seasons in the Sun.

"We had joy, we had fun ....."

It was a charming scene, full of local life from a time beyond time before the darkness came.

But the dark seemed nowhere today, shunned, invisible. The forces of good ruled this place and the sun was the summer king.

Sat sitting there idly reading the menu, Cynthia realised after some time that no-one could see her. The people in the cafe did not know she was there.

She was a bystander to what was happening, an onlooker, a witness.

She was mesmerised by the song on the radio as it grew louder and louder until:

"Goodbye Papa it's hard to die, when all the birds are singing in the sky."

It was then Cynthia saw Ida and her friend, the Higson girl.

She froze, her heart seemed to stop and her breathing ceased.

Everything else in the cafe did too. All movement ended and the people's outlines faded.

All except Ida and her friend.

They were sneaking past the kitchen with some cakes and into a passageway beyond.

"But the song and the wine like the seasons have all gone."

The tune descended into a dreadful growl as if the radio was melting. 

Cynthia rose and walked through people's ghosts to see where Ida went.

Down a staircase she ran after her, into the cellar packed with phantom food cans, through a tiny hidden steel hatch in the floor and down, down into a dark secret hole, where Ida and her friend were eating the pilfered cake.

Ida looked up.

"Cynthy! I knew you'd find us. I always knew Big Sis." 

"Ida. Ida! Oh my God, my sweet Sister. You were here all this time!"

Cynthia stepped into the hole to rescue the two small girls and Ida looked into Sister's tearful eyes and smiled. She held onto her friend, their fingers sticky with cake and both stood up to take Cynthia's hand.

But Ida and her friend stopped dead.

"It's here Cynthy! It's here," She whispered.

Suddenly the hole filled with thick choking smoke and Cynthia felt the children's' fingers slipping from her own.

"No, no, no, no!" She yelled.

"Tell them where we are Sis, tell them where we are".

The metal hatch slammed shut.

"Idaaaaaaaaaa!" 

The smoke now filled the entire cellar and flames had begun to appear on the staircase. The whole place was going up.

Cynthia, sobbing uncontrollably, ran up the steps towards the back door.

" I will my sweet Sister, I'll tell them all."

She burst through the door to the back yard of the cafe, where the summer sunlight made her squint.

It was through her half-closed eyes that she saw movement by the oil store next to the building. 

She peered with her palm and saw her Dad and the neighbour Higson fighting by the drums. 

"What?"

They were belting each other, fags in their mouth, really going for it. 

"I'll fuckin kill you Higson you fuckin wanker!"

"We'll get on with it then you ugly bastard, I need to get back and bang your wife, seeing as you can't get it up anymore!"

"You fuckin scrawny twat!"

They flew at each other like bears and it was at this moment, this precise second that their cigarettes flew into an open oil drum and set it alight. 

The fire was instantaneous as the fuel caught, the flames spreading like a roaring monster over the whole cafe. The two men heard children screaming from the cellar but ran off, telling no-one.

Cynthia was witnessing the past.

The atrocity's spark and the first of the fires in the riots to follow.

Seeing who was to blame for this, the beginning. 

The baleful start.

The crime of their Fathers, the hellish summation of violence in one irretrievable act of blind hatred projected by Ida for Cynthia to see.

And she saw.

"I'm so sorry little sister. For your friend too. So so sorry. They could have saved you. Your Dads."

The following day Cynthia informed the police that she had new evidence as to the missing girls' whereabouts. 

Her Dad was dragged from the attic cowering in his own hole. He couldn't look at Cynthia as the Police took him away, but she knew it had been all true what she'd seen. Just one look at his face told her.

Higson was arrested too and thrown into the back seat with her Dad. The two together again. Hatred come full circle.

At the site of the old cafe the Fire Service had located the hidden metal hatch under the new park lawn and after being closed since that terrible afternoon, opened it once more.

A half-century's innocence and sorrow breathed outwards over the assembly, as the plight of these two small lost children was revealed at last.

"The sins of their Fathers," whispered the lead Detective to himself.

The forensics team were next but before they moved in, the Detective allowed Cynthia in the tent for one last look at her little sister Ida and her friend.

"Thank you," she'd said.

Under the bright spotlight, deep in that secret burrow, where she had spoken to their spirits the day before, Cynthia could now see them clearly, through her tears, as they really were.

Two little skeletons curled up and facing each other, each with an invite to Rosy Tea's Afternoon Cakes held tightly in their hands.

-

For Iain

The Thing in the Christmas Tree

Cuthbert first noticed something was different when he returned home one December night from the practice.

It had been a particularly challenging day with many patients displaying symptoms of an aggressive influenza, for which there was little he could do except advise them to drink copiously and retire to bedlam till the New Year. 

This somewhat lacklustre counsel had been met with derision by most, who, the working classes at their lowest ebb, expected something of a cure-all from the good Doctor.

Alas, he wasn't a quack proffering elixirs and potions from the rear of a cart, but a trained general practitioner facing the worst outbreak of flu in decades. 

Medicine was still at a loss and so was he.

And so it was, resigned to the hopeless situation, he ventured to cheer up his wife and himself by bringing some much-needed cheer and modernity to their parlour that Yuletide.

He had that morning ordered from the market stall that fashionable trinket, Prince Albert's new toy, the Christmas tree. It was to be delivered that afternoon.

"Cuthbert dear, is that you darling?"

His beautiful, diminutive wife of five joyous years came bounding down the hall and threw her arms round him.

"Why, Mavis, my dear, to what do I owe the pleasure of such an amicable welcome?" Laughed the doctor as he pecked her on the cheek. 

"It's gorgeous, it's gorgeous! Come see, come see!"

Mavis dragged her bemused husband into the living room, where standing next to the burning grate was a fabulous and tall, green fir tree, garnished with garlands, bows and glistening glass kügeln. 

Wondrous to see inside the house, the tree was indeed quite magical.

It sparkled like a jewel in the firelight and Cuthbert, like his wife, was overwhelmed by its simple but natural glamour.

"Don't you think it's marvellous darling?"

"I do dear, I do. The market holder's done a fine job indeed. It's really quite splendid, I agree."

"Oh thank you, thank you Cuthbert, I cannot wait to entertain our friends. They will be so impressed with our royal tree! It will be the talk of the crescent!"

Cuthbert poured two glasses of sherry and offered one to Mavis.

"A toast my darling, to Prince Albert and Queen Victoria and their glorious inspiration for our new Christmas ornament."

They raised their glasses to the tree and so began a most benevolent weekend of visitations from family and friends all eager to view their Yuletide Spectacle.

"All we have is a meagre Christmas log Cuthbert!"

"Yes, our house has but a paltry wreath of mistletoe Mavis!"

All agreed the new regal toy was a marvel and everyone enquired as to where they might purchase one.

"I'm afraid this was the last one on the market my dears. The Royals had caused somewhat of a mad dash I suspect. Theirs was German of course. Ours is patriotically British, although we will indeed go Teutonic next year as well I expect. We must support our Prince and Queen must we not."

"Here, here, Cuthbert!"

"Good show Mavis!"

With a warm glow on their countenances from the weekend's reverie, the working week began once more and Cuthbert was as usual busy with his city GP practice and Mavis attending to the household, with the help of Winnifred the servant girl.

Sadly, the weekend's joy quickly faded as the newly sick turned up in droves at the surgery, all in the throes of a dreadful influenza. The reception clerk, Miss. Dobbs, was completely overwhelmed and the practice had to be temporarily closed for a day, much to the utter disgust of the aggrieved patients who hammered on the locked door and spat at the windows.

Besides, Miss. Dobbs had already alerted the doctor to her own sniffles and the next day she sent a boy round confirming that she too had succumbed to what was now being called the Russian flu.

Doctor Cuthbert did the best he could without Dobbs, but in the end, having run out completely of quinine and other medications, all as it happens proving wholly useless against this viral onslaught, he closed the practice early until fresh supplies arrived, but even those would be pointless. 

Returning home he noticed that the London streets were virtually empty, a most unusual occurrence given the proximity to Christmas proper and realized that the flu outbreak was far worse than even he imagined.

On the corner where the market stood he saw the stall holder who had sold him the tree coughing violently and vomiting into the gutter, before mounting his cart and quickly driving away from the now empty stands.

"It's dreadful out there darling, really quite awful, far worse than I'd thought. It's unstoppable!" exclaimed Cuthbert to Mavis as he handed his coat to a worried-looking Winnifred.

"Never mind my dear; Come, sit by the fire and I will bring you a glass of sherry and a slice of the seasonal cake I've baked. It's been really quite a pleasant day at home I must say".

Cuthbert did what had been suggested and slowly the benevolence of the household began to seep into his mind and body and he sat back admiring the new twinkling tinsel and baubles with his drink.

It was then that he first saw the thing in the Christmas tree.

It was hiding in the shadows at the rear, where the firelight was weakest and clinging to the trunk. 

Cuthbert peered into the branches and the thing coughed and spat at him, cursing and chuntering as it crouched on all fours. It glared at the doctor intently with black eyes, but despite its apparent malevolence, he felt pity towards it, as it was clearly lost.

Holding out his hand in a gesture of kindness and goodwill, the creature crawled out of the fir and onto Cuthbert's open palm. 

It was indeed a strange creature, all but six inches in length; dark purple in colour, without any fur, a bulbous bald head, it's face mostly made up of a huge mouth with but a few large molars, slit nostrils and spindly legs and arms capped with wiry fingers and toes. Betwixt his stringy thighs was a bloated scrotum and long thick phallus, altogether out of kilter with the rest of the the slender thing. 

It hissed and grimaced at the doctor, gnashing it's teeth and slapping his palm, eyeing him up all the while. 

Cuthbert continued to pity the beast; most certainly far from home, he began to consider whether it might be some form of miniature monkey or mandrill escaped from the zoo.

Looking closer the creature suddenly stood up on his palm.

"You think me hideous do you not?"

The doctor very nearly jumped off his chair. Indeed, his sherry glass went flying, as did the remains of his wife's new cake.

"You can speak!"

"Well, of course I can. I just had to listen to how you did it. "

"You're copying how I talk?"

"Yes, but that's not the best of it."

The small being sat cross-legged on the arm of the chair.

"I have a proposal to make, which will be of mutual advantage to us both I wager."

"A proposal? What kind of proposal?"

"The kind where you and your pretty wife stay healthy and alive, along with your family and friends. That kind!"

"I beg your pardon! Do you mean you can protect us from the flu pandemic?"

"Why yes, Doctor! by Jove, think you've got it! Not only do we spread the sickness, we can stop it!"

"What! Preposterous! But let me humour you for a second. What exactly would you want in return for this for miraculous service that not even the medical profession can provide? "

"A small thing really, of no great import. I wish simply to sleep with your wife every night between Christmas and New Year."

"My wife! Mavis! You want to sleep with my wife!"

"Yes, Mavis. I want to have my way with her. Winnifred too but that would be a bonus. What do you say good Doctor!"

"No! Absolutely not! It's outrageous! Besides which I shall be returning you to the London Zoological Garden on the morrow!"

"I'm not a monkey Doctor. I'm a sprite!"

"A what?"

"A sprite, a woodland imp, a sort of goblin. We spread disease, lies, rumours. You name it. The opposite too if the mood takes us. And yes, I came with the tree. That blaggard of a market trader raided the ancient wood and brazenly cut down twenty firs including mine! .... I'm livid with that greedy pig. It's the breeding season and I'm on heat but here I am. In your house, so let's make the best of it. I can help you. But remember, I'm not to be trifled with Doctor! Heed my words, if you do not accept the terms of my offer then all hell with break loose in this rather lovely household and you, your wife, your servant and all your circle of friends and family will die an agonizing death, drowning in your own snot, piss and shit, as sure as millions of other poor idiots already are doing.  Do you understand?"

"Yes! You damnable devil, it's a terrible deal you broker, a scandalous heathen suggestion and one I shall never forgive myself for accepting. But, goblin, remember, I shall never forgive you either."

"Of course, of course, one day you'll wring my scrawny neck and feed my balls to next door's Doberman! I've heard it all before Doc. But when you and everyone you love are still enjoying rude health, when the lethal outbreak wilts in the new year you'll be thanking me for having done nothing but simply bone your wife and servant every night."

"So be it, wretched imp! When does this heinous pact commence?"

"Tonight! Christmas Eve! I'm horny so why not celebrate and invite all your friends and family to a sumptuous party? I guarantee an endless supply of the finest provisions for them all and as long as they're near to me every evening for a week, until the morning of New Year, they'll all remain well. You shall want for nothing. I vow it."

And so Cuthbert and Mavis entertained their entire circle over the festive days, partying till the early hours with all the aplomb that Mavis always brought to such occasions, but this time with a seemingly unlimited supply of fresh produce delivered to her door everyday. 

There was wine, claret, sherry, sweetmeats, chocolates, pralines, fruits, capons, truffles, cheese, hams and a turkey, amongst a myriad other delights packed in beautiful hampers and all, as Cuthbert assured her whilst hugging her more tightly than ever before, yet unable to look her directly in the eye, that the Christmas bounty was simply the result of their hard work, fastidiousness and sheer good fortune. 

Mavis, a truly remarkable hostess it was agreed by all, retired to bed exhausted every night. With the gaslight off, it was during her tender yawning and stretching that Cuthbert kissed her gently but profusely on the neck and sensitively and gradually summoned her to complete arousal. With a tear in his eye and an unbearable burden on his soul, at the climactic moment he would secrete the goblin into bed and thus, engorged as it was, allow it to industriously pleasure his wife whilst he feigned his own attendance with moans and groans.

His wife would scream with pleasure as the pounding imp brought her to climax, all the while believing this unbridled and new-found artistry to be that of her dear husband, who, she reasoned, had simply tapped fresh reservoirs of passion for Christmas. And thank heavens he had! The whole of London was sick as dogs and they were eating like Royals and rutting like rabbits! It was heaven and just maybe a growing family to boot! 

It was New Years Eve when Cuthbert faltered. A day too soon.

He simply couldn't stomach any more of this immorality in his home. He'd had enough. The sprite had to go. No more. Not one more night. He was done. He would not let his beloved wife be ravaged by this boggart again!

And so it was that night, as the partygoers left the house for the final time, Cuthbert walked an overly exhausted Mavis to the sofa in the second parlour, where a fire was blazing in the darkness. He laid her down, draped a blanket over her and kissed her goodnight.

After a detour to the kitchen he stole himself upstairs, turned off the lamp and got into bed. It wasn't long before the goblin crawled from it's tree and clambered up the stairs, where it found the Doctor already heated up. 

Climbing into bed, the imp mounted Mavis and began it's furtive humping for the final time.

"One last rodeo Doc and we're done!"

The little devil held its quarry firmly and peaked dramatically with a great deal of noise. 

It slapped Mavis's white plump rump, only then noticing that it was considerably smaller than the previous nights. 

Suspicious, the creature threw back the covers and in the moonlight, shining through the crack in the curtains, the panting pixie could plainly see what it had been boning.

A large uncooked turkey from the pantry.

Outraged, the sprite roared with fury, but before it could remove itself from the bird, Cuthbert swiftly and deftly wrapped up both it and the turkey in the bedsheet, tied a tight knot and threw it outside in a sack onto the rubbish heap, together with that damnable Christmas tree.

The New Year bin men would be along any minute to take them both to the city's tip!

"Good riddance too! And to hell with the Royals!" He laughed.

Ringing his hands with the joy of certain victory he shouted almost hysterically at the sack wriggling on the pile of bones and bottles.

"Not so clever now are you, you heathen rut monkey! You didn't see old Doctor Cuthbert coming with that did you! No! There'll be no more Mavis for you this Chrustmas, she's mine, I tell you, mine!"

"Be it on your own head Doctor! I warned you you fool. Our deal is off. You reap what you sow. And oh, my little gift, it's all yours! Enjoy!" Came the reply from the sack, the creature chuckling away.

At this, Doctor Cuthbert, mucous bubbling violently from his nose, went back inside, slamming the door shut. He quietly entered the second parlour, where to his absolute horror, he found his beloved Mavis sprawled on the floor racked with pain, dripping wet with a lethal fever, her nightdress sodden with gore. She tore at her jolting loins when a sudden broth of hot fluid gushed out. She spasmed and died screaming, vomiting spume and blood into her husband's shocked face.

Winnifred then burst into the room yelling in agony as she was consumed by the grip of the hateful infection and she fell head-first into the blazing grate.

Holding his head in his hands and sobbing uncontrollably, Cuthbert heard a pounding on the front door. Opening it, all his and Mavis's family and friends fell into the hallway shrieking in pain, a parody of human life, as they convulsed on top of each other, snot and piss lashing everywhere as the influenza cooked their ragged lungs and bowels.

Death, carnage, mayhem, havoc. Just as the imp had promised, it was all around him.

He smiled like a lunatic through blackened gums, as he imagined the fires of Hell indeed burning brighter that New Years day in London town. 

And as the now-delirious doctor, himself corroding with blistering sickness, staggered back to his dead wife, it was then he saw the egregious thing shambling across the rug from between her bloodied legs;

A baby goblin staring up at him, smiling and mouthing three terrible words:

Happy New Year!

F O R A Y

It was late December and the office party was in full swing.

It had been a full-on mad year at the research institute. In a world sick of burst AI stories, Smart Nature was the new hot potato and funghi of all things had hit the news. A heady mixture of good and bad headlines about wild mushroom murders and new clever superfoods had sent reporters and bloggers foraging for earthy stories like truffle pigs.

Becks was one of them, a hungry investigative vlogger aching for a scoop about just what the Government's secretive and old Fungal Research Institute was up to on the island and somehow she'd managed to blag her way onto the premises and into the Christmas ball. A proper foray Becks reckoned. 

Disco lights were swirling round merry shoe-free dancers in the boardroom and a well-stocked bar had been set up in the kitchen next door, where woozy PhDs chatted each other up and the senior staffers loosened their ties and enjoyed the big buffet.

Everywhere the lamps were dimmed and Christmas lights were draped across the portraits of past Institute presidents, the official fun guys as they were known; doctors all and in the festive flickering glow looking more and more like the shaggy ink caps and fly agarics they'd prodded and diced for centuries.

Becks stared at them and wondered just how brainy you had to be to get to be president of a place already stuffed with brain boxes.

She had taken her pumps off and held them in one hand, a glass of bubbly in the other, her second, already feeling its festive fuzzing effect. 

In the twilight of the party no-one had really noticed her being there and besides, partners had been invited so she could have been any one of them. 

Despite the finger foods and champers going down a treat and the choice of disco dance music surprisingly good for stuffy boffins, Becks hadn't found a single story to sink her teeth into. 

Not for want of trying either, she'd engaged in several monotonous conversations by the fridge and the photocopier with a few tipsy scientists, but nothing meaty came out of them, except a new stain on her skirt from a creamy mushroom vol-au-vent. 

Just a load of old morels keeping HER in the dark. No hint of clever puffballs or death cap dinners. Deffo no magic. Not a damn spore.

Sensing the chances of her much-needed scoop fading away and the whole trip to the remote island complex being a potential waste of time and money, Becks decided to throw caution to the wind, sneaky off from the ball and explore the rest of the Institute.

Having filched an access key card from a drunken dancer's jacket, she put down her empty glass, mentally refused another and set off down the dimly-lit corridors of the Institution, leaving her shoes on someone's desk. 

"I'm Cinderella!" She giggled.

Pausing at the first door she hesitated.

"C'mon Cinders, this is just what vloggers do. We go and find the story!" She told herself and the vastness of the building began to dawn on her, corridor after corridor spanning our from the party, now a faint thumping noise in the distance.

No-one had seen her slip away.

As she tip-tied down corridors, the titles of funghi began to appear on the lab signs like:

DEATH CAPS

AGARICS

BRACKETS

STINKHORNS

INK CAPS

These gave way to specialisations like:

TOXICITY

BIOMES

HORTICULTURE

SUPERFOODS

And at the very end of the farthest lab wing:

INTELLIGENCE:  VERY RESTRICTED ACCESS

Becks's curiosity was piqued.

"Intelligence? very restricted access? What the hell are they doing? Brainy porcini?"

She swiped the door lock and bingo! Luckily the drunken dancer had been someone high up.

She was in and the big door automatically closed slowly behind her. 

It was dark. Very dark, save for a dim green glow at the far end of the lab.

"Damn this darkness. Still, I suppose they are just mushrooms and no doubt get fed a lot of bullshit! .... Just like me!" She chuckled.

There was no light switch anywhere, so she made her way gingerly to the green glow. She could sense deep tanks all around her, the boxy shapes becoming more visible as she neared the sickly light. There was an earthy smell too, like humus or compost and maybe ..... iron.

When she reached the glow she could see the large tanks, which were indeed filled with some organic substance, which Becks guessed was a growing medium of sorts. She gently touched the surface of one and it felt crumbly between her fingertips, with some underlying stickiness too.

Remembering she had her phone, she cursed her dumbness and switched on the torch.

Shining it at the nearest tank she could now see that the substance was a kind of red and not green. It glistened in the white light as if it was wet. Throughout the material ran thousands of thin white strands interconnecting with each other, as if a huge cobweb had been spun inside. All the strands seemed to lead to the denser centre of the tank, where she couldn't see. 

Staring closer at the surface Becks swore that something moved.

"Fuck!"

She recoiled in disgust and shone the torch around her.

"Don't be alarmed".

The voice made Becks jump even more and she let out a scream.

Shaking, she spun round and shone her torch in the direction of the voice, which was where the green glow had been.

"Don't be afraid", repeated the voice in a sort of softly-spoken, almost filmy way.

Becks steadied her phone and standing in front of her was a tall man dressed in a white lab coat. He wore glasses and had thick dark hair. His hands were in his coat pockets and the green lamp cast an eerie verdant glow over his subtle, if not child-like, face.

"Who are you?" Stammered Becks.

"I am Dr. Weaver. This is my lab. I apologise if I startled you. I work the night shift".

"Why is it so dark in here?" Stuttered Becks "I couldn't see you!"

"Oh yes, sorry again, it's dark so the funghi can grow properly in their mediums. They do best in darkness with a little green glow to assist their ...... dreaming".

"Dreaming?" Blurted Becks.

" Yes, it's my word for the state they get into at night, when the mycelium are calm and best connected to talk to each other."

"Talk? Mushrooms can't t -talk!" Scoffed Becks, her interest in this whispering, odd boffin now sparked 

"Oh but they do Miss...?"

"Becks"

"Miss Becks. They do. In fact they clamour there's so much talking going on. It's like a telephone exchange in there, a data bank with tongues!" Explained the Doctor.

"Really? I didn't know that. So what are you actually studying here?" Inquired Becks fumbling in her pocket to set her phone to voice recorder. 

"We are looking at how the threads of the mycelium spread and co-exist with plants and animals, neither of which they are, funghi that is. They are something else, something older, something altogether more primeval."

Becks caught a strange look in Dr.Weaver's eye as he said this.

"Come Miss. Becks, sit down here and I'll tell you more if you want. It's quite fascinating once you see the scale and scope of the fungal internet".

The Doctor sat on a small settee for two beneath the green lamp and Becks joined him. She felt slightly off sat down, maybe a little woozy, which she put down to the earlier champers.

The green rays above Becks' head made her vision blurry and looking out across the whole lab it seemed as if all the big tanks were made of hazy moss like huge mounds in an ancient fairy-tale forest. 

"Yes, the wood wide web, as it's known, is a superhighway of organic strings linking everything underground. It can nurse, nurture, defend and protect the natural world. It can even think."

Weaver's words began to sound fuzzy as they flowed from his mouth in a mist of whispers enveloping her mind. She blinked and shook her head.

"Maybe he's hypnotising me somehow?" She wondered to herself, "Maybe he's a Prince and I'm really Cinders!"

She smiled as if she was dreaming.

"Think? Did you ... Say.. think?" Becks forced this out trying to sound normal but she was definitely beginning to feel decidedly drowsy under that sick-coloured light.

"Oh yes," continued Weaver in his mellifluous voice, "thinking comes easy to hyphae. That's the name you've given to the filaments beneath the fruiting bodies. It's walking that's really hard."

"W-walking?" Stuttered Becks, a sort of sweet country sleep descending over her like candyfloss, her eyes half closed and a warm feeling oozing across her feet and legs.

"Yes", replied the Doctor, almost hissing, "walking is a miracle humans and animals have mastered, a wonder you really take for granted. OK, slime fungi can move a bit, a sort of wet crawl I guess, but despite their heroic efforts, it takes them forever to get anywhere. Walking was the answer, the answer we've perfected in this lab Miss Becks!"

"I don't under .... stand," whispered Becks, now barely able to speak. The warm feeling had spread across her entire body and she began to feel her face heat up and her skin soften, as if someone had poured hot snow over her head and into her mouth.

"You will Miss. Becks. You will."

Weaver stood up and pointed the green lamp directly over the now comatose girl. He gently stroked her hair, the only part of her that hadn't changed. 

"We leave the hair you know, it's so much like us already", he explained to his guest, but Becks wasn't Becks anymore.

A layer of mossy fur and white strands had covered her completely from head to toe, a green, brown and soily suit of roots, which had climbed onto her legs gradually like a vine from the mat of thick mycelium carpeting the lab floor.

Doctor Weaver removed his white coat and trousers to reveal his own organic fruiting body of threads and strings, his face now reverting to it's natural fungal state. 

He stopped and whispered into the Becks-thing's ear hole.

"Stand".

The new Becks obeyed and rose from the earthy settee she had sat on, spare roots tearing away as she stood in front of Weaver.

Behind them more fruiting bodies were slowly rising from their tanks of moss and blood and stepping out to join the new member of their kind, their wooly footsteps squelching softly as they moved.

They all touched her.

They all kissed her. 

Feeling their fingers, the girl once known as Becks was now something else; a forest being, a humus child in a wild loom of intelligent dominion.

Her core remained, her mind, even her soul, but it was now changed utterly, composted and connected to the gazillion fungal threads, which spanned across the globe, in the towns, in the woods, in the jungles, in the oceans and in the trees. Even in the rain, a legion of dreaming spores pouring over the earth. It was their time.

Like millions more in labs everywhere sequestered to mycelium, that real AI, she was lain in her own tank to sleep, gain strength and join the ever-growing walking web: the sporing of another destroying angel secretly waiting to open her eyes and walk.

Baron Dunkel's Son

My Father had inherited Dunkel Hall from my Grandmother, Baroness Dunkel, the renowned seer.

I never cared for it, the Hall; a dishevelled crumbling shadowy edifice worrying the eponymous tiny hamlet in the lee of the massive Finster Hills. I always dreaded coming back to it's unlit corridors cloaked in dark fortunes and the place where my beloved mother died.

In short, I detested my Baronial home, its rain-soaked towers gagged with thick choking gothic unease and the atrocious memory of my mother's death.

I kept my distance from it and the vast county of Finsterland, where my family had ruled for centuries, albeit in relative peace and prosperity, where the Dunkels and their subjects, mostly farming folk, were free from the ubiquitous burgeoning unrest sweeping the world and always retired to quiet bedlam with bellies full.

I had been gone a long thirty years, sent away as a child to board school in far Mainz by my father.

Thirty years was indeed long and against my better judgement, to avoid forever the awful humour round that baleful pile that so forcibly kept me away, I now felt oddly summoned to urgently return to Dunkel Hall that Christmas.

Notwithstanding malicious civil feuds breaking out across the nations, exacerbated by a virulent pest, together killing hundreds of thousands, my new life in a modern city was, or certainly had been, entirely to my satisfaction, in which I had procured a handsome position in a bank as a Baron's son and adequate and airy lodgings by the Park. 

And so it was on the occasion of my Father's 80th birthday, after three decades absentia, that I found myself sat on the gloomy steam train from Frankfurt, that ironclad wonder of the age, upon which I was heading home to Dunkel after so long away.

It was a freezing late December Sunday as I left the grand financial metropole caressing the River Mainz, the locomotive's billowing smoke and steam coughing into the frigid blue sky like the thick incense I remember my Grandmother burning incessantly as she read her beloved Tarot to me, often hiding a singular card beneath the table as she foretold the household's doom. 

I handed my ticket to the ancient conductor, at which he peered over his glasses and spoke.

"You travelling to Dunkel Sir?"

"Yes"

"Ah. There's been a very heavy snowfall in those parts. On Finster's slopes. It'll be real hard going once you alight."

"Very kind of you to tell me Conductor. I shall take extra care. In any case, my Father's carriage shall be waiting for me".

"Your Father? I see. Would that be Baron Dunkel?"

"It would. Do you know my Father Sir?"

"I met him once. On this very train. He was travelling with his daughter. A lovely girl".

"His daughter? My Father doesn't have a daughter. I, Sir, am his only issue, of that I'm certain!"

"Ah, well, it's none of my business Sir. He said she was his daughter."

"When was this?"

"Oh, I should say about a year gone. I remember, as he said he'd turned seventy nine that very month and wished to do right by his companion before he reached eighty.  It was at this time of Christmastide and I recall he gave me a most generous monetary gift."

"His companion being ...."

"Yes, his daughter. Awful quiet she was. Pale too. I remember her scratching her hands, which were dreadfully wartsome, her nose was blistered and she appeared malnourished. I thought she might have been ill. Your father wore a large sword as well, which seemed odd, together with the black horse in the animal car, but then again, given the times, perhaps not".

"The times? You're referring to the tensions across the globe I take it?"

"Aye, so many dead already, the Generals stifled by corruption and the pox ravaging herds everywhere. Hundreds of thousands of cows slaughtered and burnt. A disaster for the farmers, all bankrupt, the farms lying empty. Starvation looms across the world."

"Yes. Of course, I felt the impending disaster in Frankfurt too; trouble at every corner and empty shelves in the shops. But there's no struggle in Finsterland I believe."

"That's correct Sir. Not a single outburst of violence or plague as yet. Very, very fortuitous for the farms thereabouts, but also ........ very strange too, Sir". The conductor stared at me for a second and turned away.

"Yes indeed", I whispered as he walked off.

The conductor busied himself elsewhere in the carriages and left me alone. Through the window I could see fires burning in the distance, the ravages of militant skirmishes and the acrid smoke of hundreds of charred cattle fingering it's way into my car, a truly egregious smell and I was glad to cross the border into my home county of the Finster.

For the next two hours I dozed fitfully until at last we reached my stop

"Here we are Sir, Dunkel."

"Thankyou."

I stepped off the train with my case, the steam clouding in the darkness of the tiny station like an apparition.

"Give my regards to your Father and ..hmm, his daughter".

I nodded to the conductor and shuffled up the snowy ramp, to where, indeed, a horse and carriage, where waiting for me.

Dripping candles burnt at either side of the driver's seat, affording the horse and vehicle an eerie funereal glow. 

"Young Baron?" Inquired the elderly coachman.

"Yes. Thank you"

"I'm Krendel, you may remember me. There's an awful nip in the air Sir, it'll be the end of you. Here, let me take your luggage and warm yourself in the cab. There's a flask of brandy and a glass inside"

I gladly drank a shot and braced myself for the rendezvous with my estranged Father, a half hour's ride away through thick snow. Three decades was a lifetime to have been absent from my family home, but the phantoms of the past, those despicable hurts, came slowly and inexorably crawling back.

My beloved mother had died in the Hall's stable in a most heinous fashion, inexplicably kicked fatally by her favourite horse, normally of placid demeanour, but on that tragic morning a malicious beast, which pummelled and mangled her body beyond recognition.

My Father had run into the vile building, where he smote the giant mare such a terrible blow with the huge Baronial blade that he cleaved the animal clean in half, it's two sides opening like a gored book. My Father then cursed the scene with unworldly incantations and scattered foul-smelling liquid from a phial across the creature and my mother. Still muttering strange utterances, he finished his raging by thrusting his sword deep into the stable's  crimson earth, directly through my mother's skull, upon which a baleful growl erupted as if some fell leviathan had been spurned. 

Although I never entered the hateful stable again, I sensed that the sword through my mother's skull remained there, erect and terrible, until the day I left. The only thing in the universe I wished not to die, if I could jolt the gears of heaven and smite the angels to undo it I would.

Upon reaching Dunkel Hall I was suddenly aware of otherworldly shadows scurrying in the darkness, which, as my spirit waned, I fancied them to be imps, sprites and boggarts here to welcome me back to my own personal Hell.

I felt no love for my Father nor any semblance of affection normally associated between Father and Son. My parental bond lay impaled and bloodied in the decrepit shed. 

And so it was that when finally meeting my Baron Father in the vestibule, no warmth nor emotion ensued between us, save a strange reaction my Father displayed at my return.

"It is upon us Klaus!" He said solemnly and grasped my shoulders tightly.

"I have returned to see you Father, nothing more. After thirty long years, I want for nothing else but to see you".

"Thirty years! Is it really that long. No matter, it is time now. It feels but a single day has passed since that terrible morning in the horse shed. I have been so numbingly alone since that day and so dreadfully exhausted by my constant vigil since".

My Father looked broken, a husk of his once regal self, a shadow in his own terrible Hall. Yet a flicker of something else, something otherworldly ignited in his eyes as he stared at me.

"Come, Klaus, let us remove from this dank  threshold and warm ourselves by the study's fire, a glass of schnapps perhaps".

I followed my Father's shambling figure draped in his tattered greatcoat until we entered the toasted air of the study, where a large open fire blazed in the grate, projecting fantastical swirls and flicks of light around the mahogany walls.

Krendel, the familial butler and coachman for nearly a century, furnished us with two glasses of weinbrandt and a tray of small crackers, caviar and tartar with diced onions.

I had not realised just how ravenous I had become, having abstained from food all day on the long train journey across the South.

A second tray of entrees was supplied, after which I sat back and enjoyed the fiery tang of the brandy and the orange warmth of the blaze, a pleasant but albeit fleeting sense of arrival coming over me. 

"So, how is the City Klaus? I trust you have prospered among its vaults of gold and the corrosive violence of our time has not harmed you?"

"I have Father and now enjoy, at the age of forty, a generous stipend from the mercantile bank and a kindly life for now in Frankfurt, despite the growing mayhem of civil disobedience".

"I am glad to hear it I am, after such awfulness in your tender years, that tragic accident, that mad horse, the loss of your mother at such a fragile age. I remain truly sorry. I hope you have escaped further anguish my Son. Tell me, do you still suffer from uncontrollable bouts of murderous fury, to which you were born?"

"Sorry Father, I don't understand. I have never suffered from such a malady. It is you I recall raging in the house, battling my Grandmother's claim of looming armageddon."

"Ah, you do not remember do you. It is to be expected in such a young mind that wanted so much to shut down. I forget that I sent you away almost immediately. It was you who stormed into the stable that hateful day and rent the berserk horse in two, alas too late, your helpless Mother dead. You raged  and in your grief, impaled your mother's head with the family blade, growling all the while like a devil."

"Me?"

"Yes, you my son. I arranged schooling in Frankfurt to avoid any scandal and to keep you safe until the time was right for you to return to take your rightful place at my side as the time approaches."

"I'm sorry Father, I don't know what your talking about. My rightful place? I have returned simply for Christmastide. I do not plan to stay beyond that."

"You will. Once you meet your sister. You will."

"My sister?"

"Yes, Klaus, you have an older sister. Monika. Also sent away at an early age like you, before you were born. But now she is also returned to her home, rested and restored, to become what she must."

Despite some foreknowledge of this from the conductor, in which in all honesty I had placed very little stock, my head reeled from my Father's revelations. For thirty years I had believed that it was he who dealt the fatal blow to my Mother and that I, Klaus Dunkel, was his only child. The two firm pillars of my existence came crashing down and left me bereft of sense or feeling.

At this juncture, Monika, my unknown sibling, glided into the study and hugged me.

"Brother, it is truly a joy to meet you after these decades of secrecy. I cannot wait to ride with you by our Father's side in glorious splendour!"

It was too much. How can it be that my life was such a brazen lie. I staggered and swooned, whereupon my newly appointed Sister caught me and helped me to my bed upstairs.

I slept fitfully dreaming of artillery and carnage; amidst the tumult I visited my Mother's skull pinned to the ground and grasped the hilt of the sword, whereupon my Mother spoke:

"Do not be afraid my Son, I may have lost my way, gone too soon and replaced by Krendel, but I shall ride with you in spirit as you cut a swathe in the fields of limbs and lead the four to the dusk of Time!"

I awoke, sat upright and shuddering, sodden from feverish perspiration.

I looked out of my window and saw fires and shelling exploding in the distance, the moonlight illuminating the clouds of smoke like collosal and terrible titans. The civil battles were raging and the gunfire was so much closer as the pox now drove even Finsterland's ordinary subjects to madness and murder. It seemed like it would erupt into monumental catastrophe any minute.

Outside in the Hall's yard I could see figures in the darkness busying themselves around the old stables in the shadows beyond the moon's grasp: my Father, Monika and Krendel. I was certain I could see them on horseback, the three beasts' breath billowing in the frosted dark as a fourth riderless horse reared. The night seemed to envelope it like a curse. 

It was midnight on Christmas Eve when I stepped outside into the freezing yard, the air stinking of gunpowder and cordite, the sky bruised by canons and shelling, as if Gehenna itself had opened it's gates.

And then I realised, it had.

Waiting for me at the snow-caked steps were the three horse riders. The mares: massive, winged, fire-strewn, snorting: the enormous figures brandished colossal swords, their helmets aflame above eyes blazing like the pyres of Hades. 

Rearing up, the central rider spoke with a voice that shook the very earth and boomed like thunder above the encroaching militias and the guns.

"The end is truly nigh, for we are three of the chosen Horsemen: Krendel Conquest, your Sister Famine and I am War."

My Father War raised his lordly blade up high, whereupon in chorus the fell beings three beckoned to me and roared: 

"We bid you join us and make us four, oh Mighty Death, Lord of Destruction, the Desolate One!"

"It is nigh!"

At once my city clothes fell away in flames sizzling on the icy ground. I grew in stature, my sinewy arms lengthening like vines, my face stretching on its contorting hooded skull and I was garbed in an ancient black sail and armed with a scythe forged for a titan.

It was thus that I alighted a huge dark steed, it's nostrils flaring with the fires of Hell as we, the four Horsemen, rode yelling into the desperate carnage of all-out global war and insanity.

And so it was that I became the Great Leveller and together with the three, as was foretold, we destroyed the living and brought all existence to a deafening close and ceased the gyres of the Earth until nothing in this world remained but the ...

Final Apocalypse.

Lip Service

Carly heard it on Duk Duk first. She was a dedicated Duk Duk fan and especially of Sharlene's show, Body Rob.

Body Rob was one of those modern Gen Z beauty specials, where Sharlene gave her avid followers all the top tips, new trends and hot goss about having a glamorous body.

Yes, Sharlene was influential and her spot attracted thousands of watchers, both girls and boys, all hoping for that one secret that will propel them into a world full of gorgeous people with drop dead bodies. Sharlene did it all with aplomb, conviction and the odd bit of comedy thrown into the vanity bag too.

But there were rules: her sponsors had insisted on full exposure, not just lip service, with just a few clear red lines to protect them from the nutters, to save face and save all their precious skins should it all go tits up.

Sharlene, on account of these top sponsors, stuck to these edicts fastidiously. She promoted her sponsorships without fail and stayed well clear of the more outlandish styling methods surfacing now on the crazier vlogs like botox baths, acid enemas, eyeball washing and re-bleeding. 

No, a bit of exclusive nail varnish, a smattering of prestigious Hollywood mascara, a soupçon of the very finest foundation and the latest hip hair styles on the choicest Manhattan streets were what Sharlene offered: these were the reliable, safe and reassuringly dear bread and butter of Body Rob, in which ' You too Can have that Face and Body!'.

Carly lapped it up and sat entranced on her phone as Sharlene heralded ever-newer paths to corporeal perfection and facial nirvana.

It was Carly's face she was especially concerned about. No amount of the dearest concoctions could satisfy her, no thickness of the most expensive filler could make her feel that she'd reached that glorious zenith she felt Sharlene was instructing her to attain. 

A particular irritant was her bulbous mouth. Carly had spent a small fortune on her pearly whites in an attempt to emulate the rarified dentistry seen on Body Rob.  Sharlene had an angelic mouth forged in Heaven itself, her magnificent teeth the crisp silky curtains to a marvellous world of rude health within.

Carly wanted the same.

It was the morning of April 1st when the show first aired the idea on Duk Duk. Sharlene, sat in her usual position, behind a table piled high with fresh products for immaculate beings sent from her sponsors.

She picked up a pair of boxed scissors sent in by newcomer Jess Ter Fashions.

"Well body robbers, what have we here? I'll unwrap them and read you the blurb ....

"Lip Snippers! the Precise Tool for thinning your grin and routing your pout. When your mouth goes south use Lip Snippers!"

"So, there you are followers, I'll certainly be trying this myself tonight and I can't wait to show you the results on tomorrow's Body Rob. I've got just one more pair of the Jess Ster Lip Snippers to give away today and once it's gone, it's gone. First come, first served!"

And that was it, the gorgeous Sharlene, with a big wide smile, gave a little wink to the camera and moved onto some new paper socks from Micky Take Solutions.

Carly was visibly moved.

 This was it! 

Those new scissors were the answer she'd been waiting for and she was certain that Sharlene meant that wink to be for her, a personal nod to her number one fan to get in straight away and claim those fabulous snippers.

Bingo!

She got them! 

Carly was indeed first to call and the utensils arrived by courier that afternoon with compliments from Sharlene herself and today's show sponsor Jess Ter.

That evening Carly stood in front of her bathroom mirror with her minty new product in her hand. She'd read the instructions several times over and was now totally ready to reveal so very much more of her beautiful teeth, just like Sharlene would be doing too.

Having applied a generous rubbing of numbing agent she'd had in the cupboard and tentatively holding out her top lip, Carly began to cut it off. 

It was surprisingly easy with the large and ultra-sharp Lip Snippers and felt like she was cutting up a chunk of stewing steak.

The whole upper lip came away and she dropped it in the sink. Blood poured out of the curved wound in gushes and her teeth swam in hot ferrous gore.

She smiled widely with scarlet molars but wasn't finished yet.

Pinching her bottom lip with her fingers she snipped it away in a single piece too, again, letting it fall into the blood-soaked sink.

Carly put down the scissors and admired her handiwork. 

Where once her lips had been was now a huge bleeding ragged hole, her teeth and gums completely exposed. 

She smiled again and her new lipless slit stretched open across her visible jaw.

"Beautiful!" She whispered, "Truly Gorgeous!"

The next day, after drinking a pint of numbing fluid and wiping away a mass of coagulated blood from her new mouth-hole, she waited patiently for today's Body Rob show. She was shaking with anticipation over how Sharlene would look.

The show began and Carly's earlier anticipation very quickly turned to bewilderment.

Sharlene looked the same! 

Full lips, normal mouth, nothing cut away!

" You haven't done it like you said you would!"

Carly shot up off the bed and stormed round her room sweeping away all the Body Rob products from her dressing table top.

She was incensed!

How could Sharlene lie like that!

Cleaning her teeth of a thick layer of dried-up blood, she washed her red gash mouth, got dressed and headed out.

To Sharlene's house, where she filmed her show.

Carly found her outside chain-smoking several cigarettes by the door.

Carly stared at the fag butts on the ground and confused looked up at her idol.

Sharlene jolted and when she saw Carly's terrible parody of a mouth she screamed.

"You liar Sharlene! I trusted you! I always have! But you haven't used the Lip Snippers like you said you would! How could you do that to me, you're biggest fan!"

Sharlene gathered herself and backed inside her kitchen, where she secretly reached for a weapon of any kind.

"You stupid fuckin cow, it was a joke! The Lip Snippers were an April's Fool! C'mon, you must have known that for fucks sake! Or are you a complete fuckin' moron!" Mocked Sharlene, trying not to look at the atrocity that was Carly's dreadful mouth.

Carly stuttered.

"I didn't know that Sharlene! I didn't know it was a joke! I believe what comes out of your mouth. I always have but not anymore. Your mouth isn't to be trusted is it really. Your fans need to know that underneath all that phoney glamour you're really just a big-mouthed liar and I'm going to show them!"

"You fuckin' what! You're a total fuckin' nutjob! You should have taken more of your butt-ugly face off, then I wouldn't have to look at it!"

"Ah, now that's a good idea Sharlene. Let's get you up to your studio for part 2 of the show. It's going to be a live special, a practical demonstration of using Jess Ters Lip Snippers for the complete treatment!"

Injected with a sedative and pushed upstairs at scissor-point by an increasingly excited and violent Carly,  Sharlene sat terrified in front of the camera for the second half of her show.

Wholly incapacitated with the drug, Sharlene was motionless as Carly proceeded to cut away her entire face, which she dropped onto the table liked a popped balloon.

"Blootiful!" Blurted Carly to the live audience and howling insanely walked out of the house.

With blood seeping in gouts from her flayed features, Sharlene began to laugh uncontrollably too, with her new lipless maw, as her sponsors' show rules came into her head.

Her entire jaw visible through the gaping mess, Sharlene slowly mouthed them over and over to the camera until she stopped mouthing anything at all.

"Ha ha ha ha ha!"

"Give us full exposure and not just lip service Sharlene."

"Those red lines will save face and save our skins!"

"Ha ha ha ha ha!"

"Not just lip service!"

The End

It blew in from the North. 

An Arctic wind.

No-one really noticed.

But this was it.

The End.

In the pristine frozen wastes it had been awoken, a calculus of doom, a formula of nothing, an unending sum of collapse.

For Millennia it has slept, locked in the ice, trapped deep in the strata, a sediment of entropy sewn into the veins between epochs, the interstitial marshall, the tyrant from the crevasse, the mad berg.

No particular thing stirred it into life. It was just time that's all. Enough clocks had stopped for a reappearance. A comeback of sorts. Like Elvis the Destroyer. This time there'd been films too. A nervous prescience. Comets, storms, earthquakes, floods, even numbers and raptures about God.

But it wasn't Hollywood. No big neon sign here. Simply an undoing, an arresting, a stoppage of all that was alive, an erasure done without cameras or crowds or opening nights. A finish.

This was the end once again. A stutter in time, a spring clean, a full wash, a big scrub. Like last time. And the time before.

For all life on Earth.

It's here.

Extinction.

I Sit in the Tree and Wait

I've been sat in your tree all week. I've been before. I went away last time. This Christmas I need to stay I think. 

You're so busy too. It's confusing. You're so incredibly alive. I expect with Christmas on the way you would be. The birth of Jesus. A God no less. Wow. Maybe that's it. Hanging on like a shining star in spite of what the medics say 

Yep, so active. I can see you in the loft through the dormer. It's that big box of Christmas decorations you lugged up there last year. Oh dear! Time to get it down again. Up and down the creaky ladder. A cycle of gracious work. An eternal determined toil. A bit like mine really. 

What about the tree? Ah yes, you buy a real one don't you. I remember. I would too. It's that resinous piney smell. Hypnotic. The very essence of the season. An ancient perfume wafting back in time, an echo of the wild wood when your world was younger and so was I.

It's dark now and I see the kids arrive from school. They throw their satchels on the settee. Jumping, cheering, laughing like you all do when your overjoyed. It must be their last day at school. Schools out! Oh! what a day. You all cuddle and you you can't let go.

Hot chocolate and ginger biscuits now and some music. It's getting better already. The full fathom of family life, it's glorious infectious reach. I for one am hooked.

Sometimes ghosts stop by but not today. They're travellers who knew the place or the people. Curious and mesmerized, I'm glad they can't see me. They're still linked to life a little and that's not my business. Life. That's the other lot, the creators, our industrious mirrors, the flip.

You pop outside for the metal tree-stand in the shed and brush off those pesky cobwebs. Your breath testifies in the cold. 

"Help me decorate the tree soon kids! Dads on his way home with one from the farm".

I would too, really, decorate the tree, if I could, but that's your job I'm afraid. Once given life to create a world; to guide the disparate bright lights together and make a happy whole. And what a great job you've done. One that'll last I think. I hope.

Dad's home. I see him drag the fir from the car and take it over the threshold like a bride. The marriage of myth and a modern family. A really pleasant moment and I'm glad to be here.

Trees up, garlands are on, more mythical beings conjured: the fairy lights, the angel on top, the primeval forest spirit dressed in red, sons of Gods. All old. But not as old as me, nor as certain. They may fade but I won't.

The worst bit is having to touch you. It's mandatory. It's how it works. For all of us everywhere. It's the same. Touching you is crucial to make things happen. I know, I know, it's a bit gross but that's the rules. Wars are the worst. Plagues too. They're messy and sad. So many at once. 

For me though, families like yours are even worse, especially the sudden dispatch where there's love in the home. I sense the grief, the loss, the outpouring of pain like a rip in time. It's dreadful to be honest, but once I'm sent in it's irrefutable. All the love in the cosmos couldn't stop it.

I personally try to avoid too many seeing it happen. We're all different. Have our own house style. I really try to keep it away from the kids if I can. Usually it's a sorrowful act that spreads in intensity round the living and kids don't understand. How can they. For the chosen themselves, when it finally comes, the decision, when I touch them, it's quick, a fast full stop, a date stamp.

I see you coming out of the house for a cigarette. You stand right in front of me, in front of the tree where I'm sat. My legs are swinging just above your head. I could touch you now and get it done here in the garden with nobody around except you and me. We have some leeway though, a few minutes, and when necessary, sometimes hours either side, so doctors can work or those you love can gather or farewells whispered and mouthed and tender promises vowed.  But I don't want you out here alone in the cold. It's not the cigarettes either. You've other problems that can't be solved. Your husband knows but not the children, which is a shame, it will be such a shock to them, but even if they never comprehend, I understand.

I see your husband in the kitchen making tea. The kids are upstairs. This is it. The moment. I get down from the tree and follow you in. You both hug in the mellow light and wish each other a merry Christmas.

You smile.

It's time. I have to I'm afraid. 

I reach out and touch your hand, whisper 'don't be afraid' in your ear, watch you fall, bow my head and quickly leave.