where pictures make prose

A Prayer for Winter

efa9691bae3d2dae3a2572ccc45e0a6bIt seems that I am always cold.

No matter how I stoke the fire or bundle myself in blankets, I cannot escape the constant chill that has crept into my bones and settled there as a permanent resident.

On most days I rarely leave my hearth, afraid to venture too far from it for fear that my very skin will ice over and the blood will freeze in my veins.

Part of this comes from my advanced years. My body has slowly shriveled and shrunken, flesh left desolate by the ravages of time the way it does to all living creatures, and that flame which once burned bright in my belly has faded to a sparse scattering of embers.

Still, there is more to this chill than the mere decay of my mortal form.

I can feel it when the fire starts to dim, closing in around me like some sinister serpent. Sometimes I swear that I catch a glimpse of its icy presence in the periphery of my vision, but when I turn to face it I find only the white smoke of my breath curling in front of me.

When my son comes to visit I try to explain to him that I am being hunted by the cold, but he just smiles and shakes his head as though I were a child whose imagination had gotten the better of him. He seems to have forgotten that it was not so long ago that I was sheltering him from the terrors of the dark and the monsters hiding beneath his bed.

On the mornings when the sun is out and my muscles do not protest my every movement, I sometimes take my cane and amble alongside the dirt road that leads into town. I still have a few friends there; men with withered limbs like mine, and noses full of broken capillaries born from nights spent drinking and thinking we would never be this old.

I asked my friend Ian, who I’ve known since we were both children, if he too was being stalked by this wicked chill?

“No, no, it isn’t the cold.” Ian said, adjusting the spectacles on his nose. “It’s the damnable heat. No matter what the weather is outside, I always feel like I’m burning up. Sometimes I think my skin is just going to melt away like wax and all they’ll find of me will be a pile of bones sitting in my rocker.”

“That sounds like heaven to me.” I said, sipping a mug of tea at our usual table in the corner. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t if I was in your shoes.”

“At our age we’re lucky to be feeling anything at all, hot or cold.” Ian said and laughed as he took a swallow of dark beer and began rummaging around in his pocket for his pipe.

We play chess and reminisce until the sun starts to dip in the sky and then we say our goodbyes, each silently hoping that it isn’t the last one. During the walk home I think of all the time Ian and I have spent in that tavern. The building has been there longer than either of us, but it looks no different today than it did the first time we set foot on its rough-hewn wooden floor and rested our aching backs against its white plaster walls.

My own home has not kept its youthful appearance and seems to creak and groan as much as I do. We shudder sympathetically when the wind comes whipping through the eaves or whooshing down the chimney like an icy blast from a longhorn.

I try to be grateful the way that Ian is, but I cannot see the cold as anything other than an enemy. Even on the warmest of summer days I can still feel it flitting around in darkened alleyways where the sun doesn’t reach, or waiting to usher forth from the sky as freezing gray rain.

It is late autumn now and there is almost no trace of warmth left in the land. We have not seen our first frost yet, but the leaves have already withered and blown away and soon winter will make its presence known and then I will be prisoner to my hearth once more.


My son has not come to visit me in many days. He has a new child and his wife has taken ill from the labor, making it difficult for him to venture far from home. Even if he could visit, there is nothing he or anyone else can do to rescue me. No man can ask another to battle his phantoms for him.

I felt its dreadful presence again this morning. It happened as I was pulling the kettle from the fire; a slender, icy finger traced its way along my spine and a terrible chill spread throughout my body and consumed me like a fever.

I awoke some time later to find my hearth completely extinguished and the room now a bitter, frozen tomb that caused my breath to catch in my throat and seep out in thin white wisps.

If the cold had been merciful it would have finished me while I slept, but I sense that this demon frost wants to witness my demise first hand and I know that I am powerless to stop it.

All my attempts to rekindle the fire have failed, and I fear that the next time my son comes to visit it will be to discover my icy remains.

Until then all I can do is wait and watch as the alabaster vapor of my exhalations curl themselves into writhing, twisted specters of smoke that give me hints of the frozen creature’s terrible visage.

Soon I will gaze upon its true face and stare into those cold, hollow eyes as they watch with wicked delight as the fire slowly fades from my own.

(Author: Peter Emmett Naughton. Story: All Rights Reserved. Image via pixabay.)

Would You Like to Come In?

5630090707_d6f3f9171f_nA man wearing an eye patch stood in my yard. I watched him through my window as I held a blind down, trying to be sneaky. He walked in circles with his nose in the air. He eventually walked right to my front door and rang the doorbell.

I was standing by the door before it rang and reminded myself to wait a few seconds before answering. I didn’t want him to get suspicious. I took a deep breath and pressed the wrinkles out of my shirt with my hands. I opened the door.

“Hello,” he said. “Is this my house?”

“This is my house,” I said.

“Is this 678 Elm Street?”


He looked up at the sky. With his nose in the air, he said, “This is my house.”

I said, “No. This is my house.” I started to shut the door, but stopped. I said, “Would you like to come in?”

“To my own house?” He asked. “Thank you,” he said.

He stepped inside, face to the ceiling, and started moving his head around in an exaggerated motion.

“Is it hard to see with the…” I didn’t want to be rude about his eye. But he had barged into my house thinking it was his own. He was rude first. I said, “Is it hard to see with that eye patch?”

He said, “Harder with the glass eye.”

“The glass eye?” I looked at him looking at the ceiling, always looking up, wearing blue jeans and pink shirt and that black eye patch. I asked, “Is the eye patch over the glass eye?”

He said, “No. I have my eye patch on the good eye so I don’t lose it. Watch.” He popped out his glass eye and held it out to me. “Try it out.”

“No thanks,” I said. “You thirsty,” I asked. I had been brewing coffee before I saw him walking in circles outside. “I have coffee,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “You changed my house around.”

“This is my house,” I said. “I built it myself.”

“Why is there so much junk everywhere?”

“Those are just memorables,” I said. “So I remember things.” Then I said, “How can you see all the junk?”

“By looking,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. I walked into the kitchen and pulled two mugs from the cupboards. I poured coffee. I thought about asking if he wanted creamer, but decided to put it in anyway. A man with a glass eye has enough bitterness in life.

“I have your coffee,” I said.

He wasn’t in the living room where I left him. I set the coffee down on the table. I looked in the other rooms but he wasn’t in any. I walked around the outside of the house but he wasn’t there either. I looked up at the sky and then walked around in circles thinking about where this man with the eyepatch could be. I walked up my porch and pushed on the front door.

It was locked.

I rang the doorbell.

I didn’t hear any footsteps approaching before the door swung open. The man with the eye patch stood in my house.

I said, “Hi.” I said, “This is my house.”

He said, “This is my house.” He started to shut my door on me but stopped. He asked, “Would you like to come in?”

(Author: Alex Gates. Story: All Rights Reserved. Photographer: Mislav Marohnić. Image: Some Rights Reserved.)

Blame It on the Lego Gods

BrickZoe warns him not to. He’s always wrecking her things and she’s had enough. There was the colouring book that’s now a scribble of various blues. There was her favourite marble, white and gold, last seen plopping through the grill of the drain. Then there was Tigger, hurled across the room, and how he ended with a splash in the potty. He’s been through the washing machine several times but has lost an eye, and Zoe could still smell pee.

She’s sure her brother does it on purpose, even though Mum leaps to his defence.

“Don’t be mean, Zoe. Let him play. He can’t help that he’s younger than you.”

But it isn’t his age that bothers her; it’s the stupid way he behaves. It’s the stupid way her mum acts when he’s around, and how Zoe always gets the blame.

She digs her hands into her new box of Lego and prays to the Lego gods. For once, please, please don’t let him ruin things.

Mum rushes over when she sees them side-by-side. “Zoe, you know he’s too young for those small pieces. I thought you understood that after the near miss with the marble.”

Zoe glares at her mum’s back as he’s whisked away.

She creates a makeshift Lego wand and waves it at the warm spot where he was sitting. There’s a swirl of blue smoke and a pop. A Lego boy appears, head, hair and blue top. No legs or arms, far too much trouble. At least this time she can blame the Lego gods. But she’s relieved he’s still smiling. She never means to be unkind.

(Author: Shirley Golden. Story: All Rights Reserved. Photographer: Natalie Bowers. Image: Some Rights Reserved.)


Hire PurchaseAfter the Crash, there were a lot of them. More than anyone thought, really. We called ‘em ‘Babies’ because even though they were grown adults, they seemed to only just be getting their bearings in the world. The cyber-addicts, the chatroom junkies, the guys who had been lining up to literally download their minds. They were an invisible demographic until there wasn’t any network binding them together, so we lost track of how many were really out there. A lot of them survived the riots and chaos of those first months, which seems crazy, but most of the fuckers were still just huddled in basements and attics the whole time, more or less paralyzed with the bleak prospect of life without their digital fix.

Most of the proto-cities had already risen and fallen before the Babies started trickling out. You’d catch a look at ‘em while you were out foraging – you’d these guys still wearing t-shirts for some old band and sweat pants or something; the sort of useless clothing people loved when they didn’t worry about the elements much. The Babies didn’t have packs or bags, didn’t have weapons…but they survived because they didn’t have anything worth taking, either. Some of ‘em got lucky and the glorious ‘Restored Republic’ picked them up on a sweep and brought them to one of the communities; but the RR pretty much stopped leaving that land they have in Florida after a few months. Plenty of ‘em died in the year or so after: exposure or disease or wild dogs or who knows what else. Fuck, plenty of ‘em probably couldn’t even manage to feed themselves if they couldn’t find a bag of junk food.

That’s what made it so crazy when we started seeing the scrawl. Everyone figured it was gang signs or something; you still had some roving bands that hadn’t settled into villages yet, but most of them had gotten over the bullshit ‘romance’ of the open road and chosen the whole ‘shelter and food’ thing. The Reclamation hadn’t started yet, but honestly that thing was a joke anyway. Even if we could get the power going in the cities again, no one seemed really interested in it. It’s like we made this subconscious consensus that our new shitty lives were better than what we’d had before. Gotta admit there’s a certain freedom to it all. Of course there’s a certain freedom to shitting in a ditch, too – so I guess we shouldn’t completely rule out goin’ back to the cities someday.

Anyway, the scrawl. We were still makin’ scavenging runs in the cities. Most of the buildings were burned husks but you’d find this and that sometimes; and honestly nothin’ impressed a girl like bringing her home something from a city. Nothing impressed them less than getting your ass damn nearly bitten off by a dog in the city either, just ask my wife. The scrawl was only on stuff like old digital billboards and electricity-hydrants and traffic lights and shit – it was like some kinda mush of graffiti and that ‘hobo code’ shit people started using when they would walk the rails right after the Crash. We ignored it, of course, but then we’d find electric stuff still working and covered in the scrawl. Crazy shit wired together out of car batteries and torn apart computers and even toys. They’d rig it up to make a stoplight start flashing or make a car alarm sound and once I swear to God I saw a fucking remote control car zipping around with a little camera on it. Well it wasn’t long later that the cities started getting dangerous again. You’d hear about whole parties just not comin’ back. You’d see lights, hear noises, all kinds of shit. Wasn’t long before there was electric fences and if you got too close these little red laser-sights would start followin’ you around. Started to be you didn’t just stay outta the cities, you stayed far the fuck away from the cities. The kids thought it was because they were haunted; but we knew better. Some of the Babies managed to grow up.

(Author: Rob Grim. Story: All Rights Reserved. Photographer: Dirk Knight. Image: Some Rights Reserved.)

Napkins, Teacups, Ribbon


Mel has chosen Union Jacks. She’s hoping they’ll say street-parties and bunting; maybe infuse the atmosphere with some goodwill and warmth. She folds each one and lays it on a saucer.

“You can’t make them like us, you know, Mel,” Rob says, watching her smooth out the tablecloth as he prepares to leave for work.

“I know that,” she says. “I’m not trying to make them like us. I’m just trying to make it harder for them not to like Jack.”

She’s sure that they would rather not be coming to her house today. But it was made very clear to her when they moved to the village that “the Britherham Village School Mothers’ Meetings are held in strict rotation.

So this month, no-one can deny it’s her turn.


When the doorbell stops ringing, Mel counts just seventeen. Which at least means everyone gets a teacup, and she won’t have to put out mugs.

Every woman milling round her living-diner is the mother of at least one at the village primary. They are all politely pleasant, and one of them gives Mel a noticeably genuine smile. “Hello there, I’m Steph,” she says, giving Mel’s hand an oversized shake. “Thanks for hosting. Here- I’ve brought cake!”

She passes Mel a huge jam sponge with a ribbon tied around it. It prompts a few ripples of “ooh!” in several conversations about how this child and that are doing this term.

No one asks Mel about Jack.

Mel goes to the kitchen to make tea, and stands staring at the small bottle on the high shelf while she waits for the kettle to boil. Her heart always sinks a little deeper when she sees Jack’s name on the label, looking so small next to 5MG TWICE A DAY.

And then she remembers Jack asking her if taking the pills will give him superpowers, and she’s smiling by the time she goes back to the dining room with tea.

There’s a sudden hush as she enters the room. Mandy, a mother from Jack’s class, is sitting with her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised. Mel sees Mandy’s eyes flit briefly to Jack’s school photo on the piano, as if checking that she hasn’t left her words behind on his face.

Mandy sees Mel watching her, and hastily rearranges her gaze onto the piano. “Erm- so who plays?” she says brightly.

“Jack,” says Mel, setting his name firmly in front of everyone along with the teapot. “He plays beautifully. His teacher says he’s very good for his age.”

Mel pours the tea. She tops up the pot. She pours more tea. And teacups are raised to faces, like bone-china masquerade masks.

Eventually Mel stops serving and hides behind her own cup for a while. She spots a chip on the rim, but it doesn’t matter. She knows that behind their masks, no one is looking at her. They’re looking at the little boy who disrupted the Class Assembly last week. Who once bit another child’s arm. Who has to be supervised in the queue for lunch.

Teacups clink on saucers, like awkward coughs in the silence.

And then:

“Bloody lovely napkins,” someone says.

Mel looks up. It’s Steph, the one with the genuine smile. She’s standing at the piano with a napkin in her hand.

“The Union Jack,” Steph continues, gazing at it thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t think it would work, really- all those stripes and sharp wedges crammed together, and all that fierce red and cool blue trying to share the same space.” She places her napkin on top of the piano, looking around at no one in particular. “But of course it does work, and it works very well. Just a little bit of space here and there, where it’s needed, and- voila! It’s bloody marvellous, don’t you think?”

Mel’s face begins to burn, and she stares down at her cup. It starts to feel like a small trophy in her hands.

And then someone says, “Well! Maybe it’s time we all had a piece of cake.”

And then someone else says briskly that “you know, we really ought to be gathering our thoughts for the Christmas Bazaar.” And there’s a gradual blooming of chatter, and a setting down of cups, and a searching of handbags for agendas and pens.

Mel smiles gratefully at Steph, and briefly raises her teacup in a small, silent toast. Steph winks, and then turns away to join a discussion about the raffle.

Mel walks over to the sponge cake on the table. She slips off the cheerful yellow ribbon and slices the cake, as generously as she can.


After they’ve gone, Mel doesn’t clear up. Instead she sits for a while just looking at what’s left: at her dining table, strewn with scrunched napkins and used cups.

It looks just like the table at 42 Pine Drive looked last month, and just like the table at 6 The Grove will look next month.

And for a moment, Mel closes her eyes, trying to feel just what it’s like to be them. No medication in her kitchen, no child therapists in her Contacts, and a sunny, clear future stretching before her like a yellow-brick road.

And then Mel’s eyes are wide open again. Because thinking that way doesn’t last long. It never does.

Mel hums as she begins to clear up the mess; stacking teacups, discarding napkins. The yellow ribbon from the cake is lying stretched across the table, climbing and twisting round saucers and spoons. Mel picks it up and carefully winds it around her fingers. She puts it in her pocket. She’s going to give it, she decides, to Jack.

She’s going to give it to him the next time that he’s running in happy circles round the village green.

She’s going to tell him to hold it up high as he runs, and to let it fly behind him, like a small, bright banner in the wind.

(Author: Jacki Donnellan. Story: All Rights Reserved. Photographer: Natalie Bowers. Image: Some Rights Reserved.)


UntitledClouds swept in from the west and the sky turned to soot. There was some thunder, a long way off, that sent part-timers squealing for the shore, for pubs and warm clothes. All the more surf for me. When the rain came, the surface drummed a frenzy of white and grey. It washed the salt off my face. I sat astride the board, swaying with the heft of the Atlantic, and waited for the next wave.

It took me a while to spot him, but someone else had stayed. Fifty metres away, he rose and fell on the swell of water, looking over his shoulder, waiting for a wave worth catching. When I caught his eye, I nodded. He nodded back.

The rain yammered harder, growing to a roar. The big rollers started to pound the beach. He and I rode wave after wave in the relentless rain. We gradually moved closer to each other, though we didn’t talk. He was grizzled, his grey hair cropped close. He wore a rash vest and trunks, rather than a wetsuit, though it was out of season and cold. He rode an old school long board. I hadn’t seen one like it for years. We surfed in silence for an hour.

The waves grew bigger as the tide ran out, sloping up and flooding into monsters. He was a good surfer. He was a great surfer. He caught the big rollers easily, and held his balance as if he rode the board on rails. The sea sluiced out beneath him, washing into foam, and he sank into the water, then turned and paddled back into the break, diving beneath the oncoming waves. I matched him, wave for wave. Sometimes we caught the same water, and I tried to ride it longer than him.

Then came the leviathans. Three metres, four metres high. Honestly, if I’d been alone, I think I would have left for shore. But the old man was fearless, and I was ashamed to be beaten. So I stayed and surfed the monsters. I was riding dragons. Each time I surfed the wave out, I kissed my tiki and gave thanks to whatever dark gods watched over me. Then, with fear and resentment in my heart, colder now and muscles aching, I turned and paddled back to meet the old man. He only grinned and caught another wave. We rode the sea into evening.

As it grew darker, I found myself scared of the surge, the power, the unstoppable catapult of ocean rising against gravity. The waves grew bigger, enraged that we had dared to challenge them. I barely cared about the old man. I rode in fear of my life, but couldn’t bring myself to leave. I was being tested by the ocean. As the light leached from the sky, the waves became black holes, sucking up the sea. I could only outrun them for so long. Eventually, they caught me. I fell, and the Atlantic closed around me in a vice.

I can’t remember much of being underwater. Only the headrush rolling undertow, tumbled and barrelled in a chaos of whitewater and sand. Wave after wave smashed across me, until I thought my lungs would split. When I finally fought my way to the surface, the waves were easing. Heaving for breath, I looked around. Somehow, the rain had stopped. As though appeased by my failure, the waves fell into a steady roll, measured and calm. Night had fallen. The old man was gone. The old man, the man who could surf it all. He’d fallen too.

And he hadn’t come up.

My first thought, God help me, was that I had won.

I searched. I swear I searched. I checked the water, then the beach. I looked for his longboard, his shirt, his body in the breakers. I couldn’t find a thing. I stayed out until the last of the light had sluiced from the sky and only the pull of the waves told me where the sea exhausted itself on the shore.

I meant to ask for him in town, but I never did. And after that, I always meant to move away. I thought I’d travel back to Spain, or get a dry suit and move to Thurso. But I stayed. I’ve surfed the same beach every day since. I can’t even remember how long ago it happened. Out there, embraced by the cold swamping of the sea, I’m no longer sure where I am or what I’m doing. I stand on my board, holding my balance, and lean into the surge of the swell. The sunset fades into a rime of colour. The water slops beneath my board. It sounds like there’s someone with me in the dark, although I know, of course, that I’m alone.

(Author: Simon Sylvester. Story: All Rights Reserved. Photographer: Billy Plummer. Image: Some Rights Reserved.)

Lost Socks

lost socksMy orange Bic lighter flared against the end of my Newport and my eyes flicked to an astonishing sight. Hung in the Virginia evening sky as if it were some big-butt clothesline was a cloud in the shape of a men’s athletic sock. I tugged on my cigarette, but my eyes stayed glued to that cloud.

To my right, the door to the Rinse and Roll Laundromat clanged open and I hoped it wasn’t a customer who needed change or dryer sheets. My break was short enough—fifteen crappy minutes—and I hated when they needed something when I was on my time. Mara came out then, hauling a basket of clean clothes to her Honda, the beat-up jalopy a lookalike for its owner with dings in the driver’s door and the right bumper scraped and separated from the rest of the car. She dropped the pile in the trunk, tightened her messy ponytail and waved. “See you next week, Deedee.”

I nodded back and blew a few smoke rings for entertainment. “Yup, next week. I’ll be here.”

Without fail, Mara did her laundry every Wednesday at five o’clock. She slammed shut the trunk and eased into the car, her ponytail slipping loose again.

Through the laundry’s window, I spotted a woman with half her body leaning into a dryer, likely looking for a lost sock. Did she think the machine had some hidden compartment? As if. She could have at it as long as she didn’t go all the way in, shut the door and take the machine for a personal spin. A group of knuckleheaded frat boys had done exactly that last Saturday night and only my bluffed threat to call the police got them to leave. Even with my scuffed Converses standing on the right side of the law, I didn’t want any contact with the cops.

My gaze shifted back to the cloud. The sock in the sky looked like the same kind that Daddy wore when Lulu and I were kids, the same ones that our dryer hungered for. He used to joke with Mother that the dryer only liked the taste of his socks and none of ours. That was back when Daddy cared enough to make jokes. Back when he still worked for Vandermass Furniture as their top salesman.

After Vandermass fired Daddy, he stopped joking.

A cool April wind wheezed through the parking lot and I rubbed my arm, the left one still crooked around the elbow after it broke when I was twelve. It was Thanksgiving, a few months after Daddy left the furniture company, and he had tossed me across the dining room like I was a rag doll. He said he didn’t like the way I chewed my turkey. Declared I did it in an ungrateful style. I told him that I didn’t know how to chew any other way. If I’d have kept my damned mouth shut, my arm would be straight today.

And if one of Daddy’s socks went missing then, Mother felt it all over her body. One time he got so mad, he kicked in the dryer door.

Eventually, he left us, taking his obsession with missing socks, his punches and fists, his anger at the world, and at us, with him.

“We’re better off without him,” I said to Mother, though my throat burned as if the words had been soaked in bleach.

My sister, Lulu, nodded agreement. I was the older of the two of us and back then she always went along with what I said.

Mother never agreed and was never the same after Daddy left. She blamed his leaving on many things; her most ridiculous theory was in thinking that if she hadn’t lost so many of his socks then he wouldn’t have grown mean and left us. When dryer sheets first came out, she ran over to my apartment, crying, too, and said, “If these had been invented earlier I wouldn’t have lost so many of Daddy’s socks.”

I told her, “Dryer sheets aren’t a cure-all. They make clothes softer. They don’t prevent them from going missing.”

“I think you’re wrong.” Her eyes were set on some far-off place where things would have turned out different. It was a place where she and Daddy would have turned out different.

Customers at the laundromat often wondered where all their socks disappeared to.

I blew smoke rings in the air and said to nobody, “They go up to that giant sock cloud.”

Then I laughed, the kind of good hard laugh that shakes your bones and makes your eyes water. I wondered what Mother would say if I told her I’d found all of Daddy’s lost socks.

She’d surely ask me if I was using again, her voice quivering with worry.

And I wasn’t. I was clean and had my six-month chip as proof. After a few more puffs it was time to go back in, my break was over. I ground the cigarette under the heel of my sneaker and headed inside to check if any of the customers needed anything.

Someone always needed dryer sheets.

(Author: Sharon Kurtzman. Story: All Rights Reserved. Image via pixabay.)

We Make Use of What We Have

CastleShe’s taken many soldiers down the line, but he is the first who can speak French so fluently.

“Studied it in university,” he smiles, accent gratingly perfect. “Along with Latin and literature, and I graduated at the top of my class.”

She doesn’t even bother to try out her English with him.

They sneak through the forest in a winding way, like two deer keenly aware that hunters could be behind any gnarled tree. As a child she would pretend that there were elves and monsters in the woods, bent on kidnapping her until her father beat them back. Now there are worse things, she knows, worse things that have snatched her father away and she is helpless to claim him back. She is helpless, but she can have some measure of revenge when she takes soldiers down the line.

She’s taken gruff men, rough men, and scared men to the castle, an old thing crumbling like stale cake left out much too long. Its walls are ancient and ugly, but they shelter from the wind and eyes. She used to think it was haunted, when she was young. Oh, but she would trade anything to believe in ghosts again!

“We’ll have to wait until Paul returns at first light. He can take you across the border into Spain.”

“Excellent,” he nods, adjusting his bloated pack. “I could do with a rest!”

She cocks her head to the side, curls bouncing with the movement. “You may miss the next boat at this rate.”

“There’ll be another. Besides, ha ha,” he says, grin sheepish, “it’s my fault we’ve dallied.”

“Yes,” she mutters, “it is.”

When they finally set up their provisions beside a stone wall, they each—to the other’s surprise—produce flask from jacket pocket. His has brandy, he says with a tone of pride, the very same he’d left England with. Hers is barely full with the dredges of a Bordeaux found, she explains, in an abandoned barn during her last trip down the line. The bottle neck had been broken and jagged, but miraculously upright. It had only taken cheesecloth to strain the glass shards away.

“Say, that was a good idea!”

“We make use of what we have, don’t we?”

They clink their flasks together.

“If you leave the parachute here, I can destroy it.” She eyes the cumbersome pack on the ground. “I’ll make sure the Boche don’t find it.”

“I’ll keep it, thank you.” He gives her another sheepish grin. “My daughter wants it.”

“She is in the habit of jumping from planes as well?”

“Not at all! She’ll make a wedding dress, she tells me.”

Her eyebrows lift. “That’s… very clever.”

“Gets it from her mother, I assure you.”

“This castle,” she says, looking about their shelter, “was a present as well. A father gave it to his daughter on her wedding day.”

“Oh, is that so? A fine gift.”

“But I think a parachute is much more practical, these days.”

“Ha ha, indeed it is!” He nods to the tarnished ring on her left hand. “And what did your father give you?”

Her smile falters. “Nothing. He’s buried somewhere in Charleroi, we think.”

“Ah. I see.” He clears his throat, lifts his flask. “Cheers, then, to your father.”

“To your daughter,” she sighs, raising her meager wine. “May she have a lovely gown.”

He takes a long drag, wipes away a brandy droplet with the back of his arm. “We make use of what we have.”

“Yes, we do.”

(Author: Kris Weldon. Story: All Rights Reserved. Photographer: Natalie Bowers. Image: Some Rights Reserved.)

The Promise of a Pink Moon

Pink MoonThe swollen sky was ribbiting out grit, stony purple patters against the thin, metal walls of the caravan.

Hazel closed her eyes, and pressed her face to the shabby suit hanging on the back of the closet door. She ran her fingers over the buttons, the lapels, taking deep breaths to ready herself.

A soft cough came from the bedroom, one that would soon grow, and gain, and fill the air like the baying, black waters that had swallowed their planet.


“The amazing paper skin girl!” Will read, uncrumpling the balled-up promo poster that had hit him on the shoulder. Hazel flushed –she’d been aiming for the bin- but he waved her ‘sorry’ away with an idle flick of his hand.

He reminded her of a fighter pilot from a romance novel; like someone who’d blow smoke in the face of the sun. He made her want to shield her eyes.

He smiled as he looked from her and back to the sepia photo he held in his hands. There, with her thick, spidery lashes and her Louise Brooks bob, a far cry from the wan-chewed-nail-wreck she’d become.

“So, you’re like a walking notepad?” he said, “You’re-”

“It doesn’t matter. I blew it,” Hazel said, thinking of the panel, of their stony faces as she etched a delicate lotus across her ribs with a hunting knife. Stupid to think that she’d stand a chance. “And what’s your trick?” She asked, tired of talking about herself; tired of herself.

“I hammer nails into my face,” he grinned. “I don’t have a specific talent. Hopefully being human will make me freak enough.”

He was right about that. They were the laughing stock of the cosmos; destroying their own planet and begging for quarter, now, in camps amidst the constellations.

“Well good luck,” she said as Will was called in, the words as empty as she felt. She’d lost her mother in the flood. Her sister. Everything. Luck was a brittle branch across a raging river, a tease, no help for the drowning.

But then the post arrived. An artist’s visa. A bunk on the circus steamer heading for Amaranth, the planet named after an undying flower.

And as she boarded – one amongst the buzzing dozens – she saw Will.


Hazel pulled her sword from its scabbard, and wrapped her fingers around the handle. On her knuckles were the words H.O.P.E and L.O.V.E; white welts on the pink of her skin, the letters plump as liquorice laces.

Will had engraved them into her hands a few days ago, using his nails. He’d been fit enough to sit up, then, and he’d tried to calm her as she raged on about how unfair it was.

“Of course it isn’t,” he’d said, grabbing her hands and making her promise as each letter took shape.



Both words the same.


“Tonight! Behold the marvels of the human anatomy! Her body a map, a canvas, a screen for the secrets of her soul!”

Hazel would raise her sword as the spotlight found her; use it to nick at her arms and her legs, her skin performing, blossoming, as soon as the blade touched it.

It didn’t hurt.

As careful as any calligrapher she’d etch her symbols, howls and whorls and primitive dots and dashes, then letters, words; the scratches of sound as humans clawed their way through history, transferred to the trunk of her being.

It didn’t hurt

The marks would have appeared with a nail file, let alone a sword, but Hazel knew about the thrill of the spectacle. She knew what the audience wanted as they sat crouched in the bleachers, their dim eyes fixed, their nacreous claws clacking and clapping together.

Will would massage her after each show, both of them squeezed into a tin bath around the back of the main tent, drinking smuggled hooch as the planet’s twin moons shone pink. The performance would make her memories bubble and blister, and Will would rub herb soap into her shoulders as she lanced them, keeping his mouth shut and his hands steady, even as he found the deep scars across her wrists; the ones that weren’t art. The ones that had hurt.


“One more time?” Will said, as Hazel knotted his tie and smoothed down her black dress. She helped him down the steps of the caravan, pausing at the bottom to loop the mask around her ears, over her mouth.

They’d known the risks about Amaranth before they’d arrived. Hostile environment. Adaptability. Storms. “A small percentage could be affected.”

It never occurred to Will to be careful. He thought the universe would change to fit him, even now, with his lungs full of ground-glass-dust that left him gasping for each and every breath.

Selfish, she’d called him, irresponsible. But she knew he was a chancer. He’d taken a risk on her; the strange sullen, girl who pulled away from him whenever he got too close. He’d coaxed her back into herself, reminded her that freedom – from worry, from self-protectiveness, from numbness – had consequences, but that it was worth it; that life was to be breathed in, lived, no matter what.


“You set me on fire, my paper girl,” Will said as she wheeled him into the empty marquee, trying to hold back the coughs that made his whole body buck.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hazel smiled, but it hurt her to see him looking so old, and weak.

“Well, some you win, some you lose,” Will joked, but Hazel could see that he was shaking.

“We won,” she said, understanding the inseparable pairing of joy and sorrow. One would die without the other. All or nothing, always. The odds Will liked best.

He smiled and pulled her forward; ran his finger across the skin over her heart; wrote her name there, and his. She kissed him on the lips, stood back as he bowed his head, waiting.

She raised her sword.

(Author: Nicola Belte. Story: All Rights Reserved. Photographer: lrargerich. Image: Some Rights Reserved.)


Hire PurchaseThe cameras revealed nothing out of the ordinary that day.

When the offsite video feed was reviewed following the event there were no unaccounted for deliveries to either the lobby or the loading dock and no persons of note seen entering or leaving the building. No unusual seismic activity was recorded by the geologic monitoring facility in the area. The foundation and primary structural supports had been inspected only eight months prior and reported as having no significant abnormalities. It was as if the edifice had simply collapsed in on itself for reasons neither the building owners nor the government agency investigating the incident could explain.

Jenn was on the forty-seventh floor when it happened.

She had stayed late that evening to finish up some work during the hours when the office was empty and quiet. It had been overcast and gray when she left her apartment that morning and by the time she arrived at the building the wind had picked up and a light drizzle had begun to fall. The afternoon brought with it a sudden about-face in the weather with the sky transforming to a brilliant, cloudless blue that reflected the sun making it appear impossibly bright; now the enormous golden orb was slipping slowly below the horizon line leaving streaks of deep orange and purple in its wake.

She loved being alone in the building. Everyone was gone now except for a handful of custodial staff and it felt like the whole place was her own private castle turret, as if she were some modern-day Rapunzel. She would wait for it to get dark and then walk up to the giant glass panes that looked out at the city. The lights from the high-rises glowed over everything and she would stare out from those massive windows and squint her eyes, letting it all bleed together until her head began to feel fuzzy and it seemed like she could just float away into that glow and let it carry her off across the night sky.

No matter how many times she witnessed this scene it was always magical. There was something so indescribably wonderful about it that it made her feel giddy; it was the way Christmas morning had felt when she was a kid, that flutter in the stomach after just waking up. She had actually tried to have her schedule permanently changed to an evening shift, but her boss wouldn’t go for it, though he never seemed to object to her staying late as long as he didn’t have to pay her overtime.

It was a little past nine o’clock and Jenn had finished everything she needed to do for that day and had even started in on the outline for a future project, though she had stopped herself before she got too far so she would still have a reason to stay late tomorrow. The night sky was so clear that she could actually make out several constellations, which was normally difficult due to the persistent cloud of smog hanging above the city, not to mention all that light pollution that she adored so much.

She stared up at Orion the hunter, shifted her gaze over to the big and little dippers, and then looked out at the golden towers of light all around her. Jenn wondered how many people were looking back at her from their own floors high above the street where the cars and pedestrians moved along in miniature.

Somewhere outside she heard the wind gust past the side of the building in a barely audible whoosh that sounded almost like a sigh and suddenly she wished that she could stay there in that moment forever. Jenn slowly closed her eyes until the lights began to stretch and bend, melding together and streaking into one another. The feeling came over her then, that sense of serene calm like the first moments of sleep where reality starts to slip and dreams begin to invade and take over.

She let herself slump to a sitting position, her knees gently buckling as her back slid down against the glass. She rested the side of her face against the cool pane and continued to gaze out, her eyes narrowed down to slits now letting in only tiny glimmers of light.

The last thing she remembered before drifting off was the whisper of the wind as it sighed past the building again and vanished into the radiant glow from her beautiful spires of light.

(Author: Peter Emmett Naughton. Story: All Rights Reserved. Photographer: Dirk Knight. Image: Some Rights Reserved.)