Simon Huggins - Stories

“Did you cut the pigtails off my daughter’s hair?” I look at the outraged Mother, and wonder whether I should just make her fall asleep. It would be so easy, but also just a bit obvious. If the question hadn’t been asked as an indignant screech worthy of a parakeet, then maybe. But people were looking. And making half a plane of witnesses fall asleep attracts attention. So I sigh, and shake my head. ...

Alax climbed onto Mayka, his winning steed, settling into position. He clicked, and the beast moved forwards, towards the patch of light ahead of them. He sometimes felt he had a connection with the animal, almost like it was human. He could look into the animal's eyes, as he petted its head, and he sometimes caught what he thought looked like a glimmer of intelligence in those deep, brown pools that seemed to catch any fragment of available light. Even when he was cleaning the animal down in the gloom of the stables. He had inherited the beast when its last owner had developed an inappropriate relationship with the animal. At least that was what he had been told. It turned his stomach to think that people could take advantage of a creature in that way. But then, animal life seemed so cheap these days. Even one with such a rich and heroic history as Mayka. It was increasingly expensive to keep a fighter like Mayka stabled. Creatures like him needed a decent amount of heat to keep them alive through cold winters, as they could only stay alive within a narrow temperature range. Some thought the creatures an ancient abomination that had no place in the modern world. Such people let fear rule their thoughts. Alax shielded his eyes momentarily as they emerged into daylight. Mayka didn't flinch, and bore his Master past the entrance from the tunnel, and onto the awaiting dusty pitch. Even when the crowd roared as the duo became visible, cantering into the arena, Mayka was unfazed. Even when, as they came to a halt in the centre of the great expanse of dried earth, a huge black animal and a snarling man that straddled the beast, approached from the opposing entrance. Mayka stood his ground, silently. Alax and Mayka were reigning champions. Mayka had the war wounds to show for it, but it never seemed to affect him mentally, as it did most animals that Alax had worked with. But then, Mayka had seen action in the Belargian wars. Took a spear to the side, but he ploughed on, his Master wreaking havoc on the enemy as his steed held him firmly aloft. Never wavering. Mayka grunted, and Alax patted his side. Easy, boy. I know you want to get going. Your old Master would be proud. The animal shifted its weight slightly, seeming uneasy at Alax's words. Sometimes, it seemed that Mayka understood what he said. But that was just anthropomorphic thinking, of course. As though the creature had feelings about how its original Master, Savyo, a decorated war hero, had been executed at the orders of Drarkon. As if the memories of that night continued to haunt the beast. Drarkon, a corrupt government official who had seen the public popularity of Savyo and his powerful war steed as a personal threat. Nobody could trace the quiet night-time assassination of Savyo back to Drarkon, but everyone knew. Savyo's steed only survived because he had escaped his stable somehow, and had beaten the assassin to a bloody mess when he had emerged from Savyo's residence. The assassin was unrecognisable as human, they had said, by the time Mayka had finished with him. Such was the beast's love for its master. The assassin's steed, normally trained to deal with such surprise confrontations, had disappeared into the night. The roar of the crowd brought Alax back to the moment once more, as they came to a halt in the centre of the pitch. The past was the past. He doubted Mayka even remembered the incident. Alax punched a fist into the air, and the crowd roared. He did so for the sake of the sponsors. They liked that kind of thing. As though it connected him with the unthinking masses in some way. As if they mattered to him. Mayka's opponent beast and its rider reared up in front of them, coming to a snarling halt fifty feet away. The beast swung its head up and down, impatient for battle to commence. Mayka stood, impassive. Damn, thought Alax. If Mayka was human, he would make a great Poker player. Alax heard his opponent's thoughts try to calm the beast, but it didn't seem to hear. Of course it didn't hear. It heard through ears, not thoughts. Humans had lost their hearing and vocal speech many generations ago. Some said that this took some beauty from the world. But when you can hear the thoughts of humans, animals, plants and even the rocks around you, what use was the blunt instrument of hearing and the raw vibrations of the vocal cord? Once, it had been that eyes only saw a narrow waveband of light, and were restricted to the head rather than being distributed over the entire body surface. What a limited world that must have been. It seemed inconceivable for sight to have been such a localized phenomena. How could people have lived with such an impediment? But, he guessed, they must have been barely conscious. Barely human. The beast that held him aloft was a visceral connection to that old world. It gave Alax a sense of the base nature of man, that could never be wholly evicted from his essential self. The nature that had two gladiators and their beasts facing each other off in an arena, as thousands of privileged individuals crowded into the stands, and a few highly placed government officials occupied the Royal Boxes that gave the best vantage point of the arena. Billions watched from surrounding planets and star systems. Such was the draw of the primal. There was a flash of light that seemed to engulf the entire arena. Once more, the fight began. Alax was almost pulled from the shoulders of his steed as Mayka powered towards the two opponents. Alax had just managed to draw up his spear when Mayka seemed to drop down, and slide to one side of their opponents. Alax was momentarily confused, but then saw what his steed had somehow seen already. This creature with but two eyes had seen a slight discrepancy in gait, where his opponent's steed had a weakness. Alax could see a slight raising of the skin where a scar had formed. But only just. How could an animal see something so subtle in advance of an evolved human like himself? Alax lowered the angle of his spear away from his opponent's chest slightly, in preparation for the first and final blow. He saw his opponent's spear raised, aimed squarely at Alax's exposed chest. But Alax and Mayka were three steps ahead. Mayka kicked out sideways at the old scarred injury on the opponent's steed, levering them both from this manoeuvre to swivel sideways. The animal cried out in pain. No time to think. His opponent's spear was down, and the steed was keeling over to one side. Mayka dug into the ground to give his Master extra force, and Alax's spear found its mark squarely in his opponent's chest. The man's chest exploded outwards, hot blood raining fom the fatal wound. The crowd were up on their feet, a deafening wall of sound that enveloped Mayka's consciousness. All except for a pinprick of deafening quiet. As he jumped from Mayka's back to allow him to finish off his opponent, Alax glanced up at one of the Royal Boxes, furrowing his brow. His attention was drawn back to the fight, as Mayka advanced with zeal upon the fallen beast. The defeated man's steed received no mercy. Mayka's fists pummelled into the opponent beast with a rage beyond anything Alax had seen before. It had no chance. The crowd roared in raw glee. Slowly, he calmed Mayka by tentatively stroking the beast's head as bloodied fists bore down on its opponent again and again, gradually slowing. Mayka finally quietened, shaking as he knelt over the remaining meat of his opponent. Alax noticed a change in the crowd - a movement in the consciousness where there was a hole: a pinpoint of white hot fury. A man in the royal box was standing. Alax felt dread as no opponent in the arena had ever made him feel. The man standing in the box was Drarkon, the man who had ordered the killing of his steed's former master. An unknown, and yet familiar voice whispered into the edges of Alax's consciousness. Every sensory pore over his body became atttuned, as a beast might widen its eyes. It couldn't be possible. The point of fury that was Drarkon turned and left his royal box. Alax turned his attention to his steed, who stood before him, looking into where, many centuries ago, his eyes might have been. It was then that Alax realized the reason for Drarkon's fury. And for the fury of his steed. Lying, broken apart by Mayka's fists, was the missing animal that had borne the assassin to kill Savyo, Mayka's former Master. Drarkon intended to finish the job he had started, which meant that he, Alax was now a target too. Alax walked over to Mayka, and rested a hand on his shoulder. You may have two arms and two legs like us, and you may even look like some ancient form of human, Mayka. But God, I sometimes wonder if you think like us too. Alax shuddered at the implications of that thought. To think a beast like Mayka, a mere homo sapien could have the same emotional, rational and psychic range as a human was heretical at the least; a sign of the madness that years of fighting had brought upon him. Perhaps it was time to be done with this insanity, and retire. As they walked back to the gloom of the stable, Alax couldn't shake the echoes of the voice that had whispered into his consciousness in the arena. He killed my master. Simon Huggins, 27th March 2017

Evangeline could feel the sweat pouring down her back, the cotton of her pretty white dress now starting to stick to her back. She wanted to stop. Oh, how she wanted to stop. But she knew her Mummy was watching at the bottom of the hill, and if she paused - if she had to come up the hill after her, there would be trouble. Her foot slipped on the dewy grass, and she almost toppled over. Her heart pounded as she righted herself again. She kept on pushing, not daring to look back. Her pretty white dress showed a spot of blood now. Either the sweat or the exertion had opened a wound inflicted on her last night when she had tried to protect her little sister. The sister that her Mother hated. She looked at the little girl, who peered back at her from the pram with beautiful deep brown eyes. She was so quiet. Evangeline loved that look - where her sister relaxed, the fear gone from her eyes when she was left alone in the locked room with her Mother gone for the day. Evangeline would crawl out of the window, and edge down the drainpipe, unknown to her Mother, where she would say Hello to Mrs. Chaudhary from next door, who would give her a slice of funny tasting cake, or a little bit of whatever she was cooking. She liked Mrs. Chaudhary. She was kind, and she had lovely dresses with lovely patterns. "It's Floral - like flowers in the garden" Mrs. Chaudhary has explained one day. She could tell from how Mrs. Chaudhary looked at her that she knew something wasn't quite right, but she never asked further. But she always gave her food and water to go away with. Evangeline didn't have to ask - she would always get a little bit more for her sister. She would wrap it up in a plastic bag that she had found blowing among the flowers one day. And then she would crawl back up the drainpipe - back to her sister in the room, and close the window, as though she had never left the room. But now she must push, like her Mother said, all the way up to the top of the hill. A small form ginger form was waiting for her at the top of the hill. Evangeline smiled. It was huge fluffy ginger tomcat that would often rub itself around her when she went for a walk with her Sister to get things for her Mother from the man who lived across the park. Evangeline wondered if she ran down the hill and out of the park with her sister to the man now, maybe he would help her. But she knew that he wouldn't. And he didn't like the way he looked at her and her sister, as if he had plans for them. Finally, she was there, at the summit of the hill. Evangeline almost collapsed with the exertion, but instead, she clung tightly to the pram, bent down, and stroked the fluffy ginger tom cat, who purred, and rubbed himself around her legs. She heard a voice shout from the bottom of the hill. "I can't see you, girl. Do what I told you to do. And do it now." Tears welled up in Evangeline's eyes. She looked into her little sister's eyes, who was smiling now, waving her arms at her, as if she wanted to be picked up. Instead, Evangeline, picked up the ginger tom cat, and showed him to her little sister, and smiled sadly, as the little girl gurgled with happy delight. "He's so soft, isn't he, my sister?" said Evangeline. Her smile fell, and she looked down the hill. Where the busy main road bustled, and the park, against all reason, had no wall to protect against errant balls being kicked, or… anything else. - * - Evangeline ran down the hill, and just as she reached the bottom, she heard the sound of screeching brakes and the crash of metal on broken metal. "You're a wicked girl, Evangeline. And I'll make sure everyone knows about it," her Mother said, and turned, walking back towards home, Evangeline following behind. Tears should have been there, but she couldn't make them come. Maybe she was bad. Maybe the pram wasn't badly damaged. Maybe it would be alright. But Evangeline couldn't forget those eyes peering back at her from the pram. Loving, trusting eyes. - * - Two days later, there was a knock at the door. Evangeline had been locked in her room, but this time her Mother had added to the punishment of her wickedness by handcuffing her to the radiator, and leaving her without food. Evangeline thought she would probably die, but also thought of her sister, and realised that maybe that was okay. Maybe she deserved it. She could be with her sister, at least. There were two loud bangs and a crash from downstairs. Evangeline pulled her legs towards her, and wrapped her arms around them Maybe, just maybe, something worse than her Mother would find her, and punish her. Maybe, if she was small, they wouldn't find her. Evangeline heard the sound of three bolts being pulled back, and she looked in terror at what would come. It was a policeman, and a lady with a gleam in her eyes. Angry eyes. Horrified eyes. "Oh my poor dear," the woman said. She reminded Evangeline of Mrs. Chaudhary. Her heart sank. She hoped Mrs. Chaudhary wouldn't find out what she had done. - * - Evangeline never saw her Mother again. Once they had wiped little sticks in different places around her and put them in little bags, the nice lady had given her a big hug, and told her that nobody would hurt her like that again. Evangeline didn't really know what she meant. She was taken to a place where she met other boys and girls, some of who were very mean and very sad, some very quickly were her friends. But the best of all was when the nice lady took her to a room, where she found a cot, and inside the cot, a little baby who smiled the moment she looked down at her. Evangeline was so, so happy. She had her sister back. She looked up at the nice lady, the question clear in her eyes. The nice lady smiled. "Evangeline, somebody found your little sister on top of the hill two days ago - just after the car crash with the pram." Evangeline looked down, sad again. "What's the matter, Evangeline?" "I'm sorry. But I am not allowed to lie. My Mummy asked me whether I had done what she asked. She told me she knew I loved my sister, but that I must push the pram down the hill so that I lost a little bit of love in my life, because I'm evil and I don't deserve love." The nice lady looked shocked, and angry again - just like when she had first seen her in her old room. Evangeline took a step back, suddenly scared again. "It's Okay, Evangeline. You didn't do it, did you? So you are good." Evangeline looked unsure. "I loved that lovely cat, so I pushed him down the hill, and lost a little bit of love, like Mummy said to. But I left my sister on the hill, so that maybe she could find someone else to love her." The nice lady knelt in front of Evangeline. There were tears in her eyes. "Evangeline, You are the kindest little girl I know. You did what you were told, but you also did what your heart said was right. That makes you a good girl, I think." Uncertain, Angeline said, "Do you think so?" The kind lady nodded. "And no cat was found where the pram was hit by the car, Evangeline. So I guess he just jumped out." Evangeline looked hopeful. "Can I go look for him in the park?" The kind lady made a face. "Evangeline, you can't go back there anymore. There are a lot of bad people who might hurt you." Evangeline looked sad again. She loved the big ginger tom cat. - * - After the court case where she had told a lady about out all the things her Mother had done, and all the people her Mother had known, it turned out somebody was very interested in looking after Evangeline and her sister. "Could I have a little more, please?" asked Evangeline. "You are so polite, child. Of course you can have some more," said Mrs. Chaudhary. Evangeline scraped out the last little bit out of the jar with the little plastic spoon, and laughed as her sister made it come out of her mouth again with her tongue three times before she would finally swallow it. "There you go - Flora," said Evangeline. Mrs. Chaudhary had let her choose a name for her sister, as she had never had one before. Evangeline named her after Mrs. Chaudhary's dress, because it was beautiful. Evangeline always wondered what became of the ginger tom cat, but it wasn't too bad, because Mrs. Chaudhary, even though she said she didn't like cats, let Evangeline have two little ginger kittens - one boy, one girl. So that was alright. - * - Once, when the three of them were on a holiday, Evangeline had a piece of fruit cake from a little cafe by the sea. But Evangeline didn't like it. It tasted funny compared to the sponges her Mummy made. Simon Huggins, 1st March 2016

The last one in a jar is always the trickiest. Last Halloween, when she had deposited all the candy into a lockable jar, there was one bubble gum wrapped in a tattoo transfer remaining. Her hands, like balloons festooned with sponge fingers had no chance of entry into the glass kingdom. So there it lay, at the bottom of the jar, engorged by the curve of the glass that made it look, in a convex kind of a way, bigger and more petulant than it really was. Sure, she could have turned the jar upside down, but that would be proving the point, wouldn't it? Proving the point that no children had arrived at her doorstep to take her candy, scared of the sausage-fingered lady with the scary flaky face. So she had finished the sweets in one sitting. Except that last one. New year's eve, that last solitary bubble gum in its yellow waxed wrapper, still peered transparently out of its jar, atop a shelf in the kitchen. Reminding her of her fingers like - well, like ten of the dozen finger donuts she had just consumed. -*- She took the last out of the jar, and put it into her mouth. And put the jar beside her on the bedside table. And lay down to sleep a peaceful sleep, happy at last. - * - When they had taken her away, cleared the furniture, and removed the bottle of pills from the bedside table to analyse the contents, the cleaning team had to strip the carpet. The body fluids had gone through the mattress and soaked into the floorboards. It was an awful stench. Even the boards had to come up. As the crew left, the last of them noticed a solitary sweet in a jar, sitting atop a shelf in the kitchen. Shrugging, the last man said, "Ah well, she won't be needing this now," and turned the jar upside-down into his hand, stripped the gum of its wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed down on the sickly sweet gum, he noticed the little insert inside the wrapper: A tattoo transfer. He smiled, and rubbed it onto the back of his hand, peeling it off carefully so it didn't flake too much. On the back of his hand was a little red heart. "A heart," he thought, blowing the gum up into a balloon. "A little bit of love." Simon Huggins, 9th February 2016

Warning: This scene is a gratuitously sexually explicit rendition of sex with a future form of human being that currently doesn’t exist. But give it fifty years or so. Don’t read it if you are easily offended, or embarrassed by the explicit, coarse, or indeed the downright odd. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. N.b. The terms Schee, scher and herm refer to the indetermine sex of the character Parmar. ...

Pinja lives his Biology. He walks to school this morning, watching the birds swoop from rooftop to treetop, marvelling at the well crafted machinery of feathers and their beautiful engine that perfectly balances the Physics of the planet - the chemical balance of the air, the gravitational pull attuned to the mass of the planet, and the ability to consume food and turn it to a fuel that feeds the muscles and sinews that drives the skeleton of aerial perambulation. Pinja lives his Mathematics. The Sun does not rise, he knows. The sun is at one of the two foci of an elliptical orbit that the planet on which he stands carves through space, fuelled by its rotation that gives the impression of a daily birth and rebirth. Pinja lives his Music. The screech of tyres on the road makes him wince, but then in his mind, the sound replays to become a Soprano in an Operetta of daily living. Birds form a chorus, the call and response a conversation that drives an audienceless plot towards an unseen resolution. The people, shuffling along the street, sharing a sudden laugh with a friend, with others' engines thrumming a background, as their players remain encased and voiceless. It is an eternal Symphony both complex and elegantly simple in its patterns of counterpoint. Pinja lives his Logic. Boolean algebra - will the person cross the road or not? Decision points in a moment balancing safety vs four more minutes until reaching a destination. The probabilistic model playing a split second as the lights are on the cusp of changing. The mathematical parabola of that swooping biological bird as it makes its way from the tree back to the Engineering marvel of a roof top again, Logic and Probability dictating that it had been an effective place to call once before. And the Music starts once again. Pinja feels a hand on his shoulder. He slows, stops, and turns. "Are you a Minjak or a Sintab?" Asks a young man. Pinja sees the slight relief of a blade behind the jacket, and he knows that his life lies in the balance. He closes his eyes, and drinks in the Music for a few brief moments, before he is asked once again. "Are you a Minjak or a Sintab?" The man sounds a little more impatient. Pinja opens his eyes, and can see the outline of a balled hand under the jacket. He will not be asked again. Nobody will react either way. They will pass around his fallen body like ripples of water around a stone, or he will walk on to school, and tell nobody of his encounter. The world's Symphony of Subjects seems to quieten momentarily. "I am Sintab," Pinja says. There is a moment, when the man searches Pinja's eyes for deceit. There is none. The man relaxes, and takes his hand from his jacket. "I saw you watching the path of the Bird. It is like Aflar flying to perch on a Star and look at the whole of mankind, is it not?" Pinja knows this is a test. "You mean the moon. Aflar perched on the crescent of the moon. Although I am sure he could have perched on a Star had he wanted to." The young man smiles. "I am sure you are right, young Mataar." He ruffles Pinja's hair, and walks on his way. The Symphony swells, and Pinja walks on his way too. The Subjects seems less distinct now. The Bird just flies from the chimney to another tree, and cars and conversation enmesh in a whole of nothing much important. Because Pinja has discovered his heartbeat. He has never felt it nourish him so completely, as it fills his ears. Pinja realizes that not only is he part of the Symphony, he is also Pinja with a music of his own. Simon Huggins, 1st January 2016

"Oh, go on, Mum. You've never said before. Was there anyone before Dad? Was he your one true love?" Mirabel looked down, shaking her head. "Love, why do you ask such things? He was your Dad, that's all that's important." Still, Jessie went on, cajoling, never letting up. She had been like that as a young lass. Never letting up. It used to get her into trouble. Finally, Mirabel broke. Enough was enough. "You cross the line, sometimes, Jessie," she said quietly, still looking down. When she looked up again though, Jessie was quiet. She had not seen the steely determined look in her Mother's eyes for many years. Since the day that Dad started sleeping in the spare room. "You should be careful what you ask, Jessie. You might not like the answer." Mirabel could see the fear in her daughter's eyes now. Good. It was about time. "Girl, the answer is no. He was never my one true love. He was the make-do after Geoff, my one true love. I was Geoff's mistress. He was my savior. And he died when he went off to fight in Aden. Three weeks after he was shipped out." She paused for the shocked silence to reverberate in her ears, and drew another, haltering breath. Slowly, she said, "They tied his wrists to a rope fixed to the bumper of a car, and dragged him through towns, until all that was left was a bloody stump. But you know what? They say he never screamed. Not once." She lowered her eyes once again. "Not like your Dad, who blubbed his eyes out when I caught him messing around with Cath. Cath from Bath, who got my wrath." Mirabel snorted. Maybe like a pig? She snorted again. No, like a Mother whose time was overdue to be a woman once more. "Look, Mum... " Jessie started. But there was no stemming the flow now. It was time for Jessie to learn about consequences. "Jessie, I'd like to say you're a good girl, but you're a chip off your Father's block." Jessie's eyes flared now in anger. "That's easy to say now," she started, her voice raising in pitch and volume. Her hands were clenched now, as if spoiling for a fight. But they weren't really. They were straight by her side, clenching the truth and trying to hold it down so it couldn't escape into the moment. Mirabel laughed. A hearty laugh. A hearty, snortless laugh. A laugh more free than she had experienced in many years. "Right, Jessie. He's dead, so we should honour his memory. I honour my life that I have back, now. I honour the man I loved, who died this Day, fifty-two years ago when I was only twenty years of age. My God, he was a man who honoured me. Why shouldn't I honour him? I thank God for the short time I was allowed with him. It is more than many get in a lifetime. And why should I honour a man who grasped me from a solitary emptiness, to give me an emptiness with a family and a lady who was there but not there. What, Jessie, do you suggest I honour about him?" There was a crackling between them. Maybe enough was enough. Maybe she should let it lie, let things return to how they had been. Let the lies and deceit prevail? "No," Mirabel said quietly. "No what?" Jessie responded curtly, her arms crossed now. "No you can't have a holiday home in the Bahamas. The ones you have been bookmarking on your computer over the last month are far too expensive for what you'll get from me." Jessie's mouth fell open, a real life caricature of a shocked cartoon character. It was almost funny. "How?" Mirabel voiced for her daughter. "How do I know what you've been bookmarking since I let you know I was dying of cancer a month ago?" Her daughter had the grace to look downwards. She certainly was her father's daughter. "The same way I know what you've been doing with Mr. Vibrating bunny rabbit while you have been looking at lady pictures." Mirabel shifted her tablet to angle the camera towards the naked figure of a twenty year old man sitting besides her in bed. "Gorgeous, isn't he? A hacker and a lover. Isn't the internet great? Would you believe he's called Geoff? He makes me snort like a pig. That's something your father never took the time to find out I did when I actually got pleasure from sex. Worth everything I'm spending on him." "Hi Jessie," Geoff said, waving at the shocked woman on the tablet before him. "Nice body you've got, for your age." Jessie squeaked. "You've hacked my computer. How? What - you - you've been watching them as well?.." Mirabel laughed. Oh, the joy. "Jessie, Jessie. Not just Geoff, my dear. I've made good money posting those on several sites. You really are an adventurous girl, aren't you? Happy thanksgiving, girl. And goodbye." And with that, she turned off the tablet, put it down, and turned towards her new lover. Geoff smiled, and stroked a strand of Mirabel's hair. "Why did you tell her you pay for me?" he asked. Mirabel ran her hand, brown-spotted, paper-thin with age, over Geoff's bare chest, and sighed. "Geoff, every time we make love, a year of my old loveless life is shorn from me. I have become twenty again. Twenty when I had no money, only love to give." Geoff looked confused, but listened attentively, as he always did. "One day, I will be as I was when I was born. My last breath will be like my first. With all the fire of life. You give and take my life, Geoff. But at least finally, I have a life to give to someone who understands its value." Geoff nodded, and lay his head down beside her. "That's good. Granddad would have been pleased. It means he didn't die in vain." Simon Huggins, 13th June 2015

I grew up here. My family moved away twice, but each time some circumstance drew us back. Each time we moved away, I can remember a tragedy would occur: First time, I remember my grandmother expiring as she read me a bedside story of witches with poisoned brew. Just as they gave the chalice to the doomed lover, she gave a little rasping gasp, and stopped breathing. Second time, I remember finding my first true love, only for her to disappear after our initial brief liaison. When we next returned, I waited until I was old enough, and escaped as far as I could to college, only to have my favourite college professor hang himself shortly after lending me some random book of poetry. On my return from college for the summer break, I found the second love of my life awaiting, to consume my thoughts until graduation. And so she drew me back once more. She had also escaped to the city once, only to be drawn back years later after being left destitute by an errant husband. What is it that draws us back to our place of birth? Like the silver cord that ties our mortal souls to our bodies, is there an earthly cord that ties us to our place of birth? But then there is the history of this wretched county. More murders per square mile in its history than any other place in the country, I was once told. Who would have guessed from a place of farms and villages dotted by the occasional industrial town? And so I was pulled back once more. I was not happy to return. But I was in love. We were of course married, and I found a job here, making a little more than a meagre existence. We struggled by. Daily, I walked past the phone box in which a woman was raped and strangled when I was fifteen, to wait at my bus stop to work. I would pass the entrance to the woods where by early day and in the evening, I would walk our dog. I remember the two women who had once been buried there to be found later by an over-zealous dog. Poisoned, apparently. The killer never found. Buried with their dogs. And yet I saw no evidence of this rich and dark history in my every day life. To me, it was the home I knew. Full of the usual detritus of growing up - friends and romantic entanglements, gained and lost, neighbours about whom we pondered their source of income, but didn't ask too many questions. Children played in the street, the younger brought up by the older ones as their parents went to work for a meagre subsistence, or drank themselves to oblivion before daytime television. One night, no more than six months ago, I was out walking our dog amongst the trees in the twilight hours, the smell of nearby woodsmoke lulling me into a demeanour of nostalgic lethargy. I love woodsmoke. I was awoken from my reverie by my dog's barking. I could see flames through the trees, so I went to investigate, fearing a forest fire. I came to a clearing, where there were three women, sitting around a fire pit on felled logs, each with a dog beside them. They were staring into flames that flickered glimpses of their faces to me. One looked up, and I recognised it as one of those past entanglements. I felt a dart of cold pain run through me like a weakness. But I felt unable to say anything, nor move a muscle. She seemed to look through me. Cara was her name, I remembered. That sweet and bitter name. Cara of the three days. My first true love. On day one, I had found her walking through these same woods alone, and had a conversation with her about our respective dogs. On day two, I had found her there again, and we sat and talked as our dogs tugged at our leads to continue their journeys, but we denied them with our rapt attention on each other that lasted until darkness. On day three, we met at twilight without our dogs, denying them their familiar walk. We certainly did not deny each other under the trees by the three logs. We left with a kiss, lingering into the night. And when I turned to go, I felt her arms wrap around me, and her lips kiss my neck. "I love you front and back," she said to me. My soul quivered. On the fourth day, she was gone. And on the fifth day. And each day afterwards until I left that cursed place for college, the sting of her sweet memory dulling through the years. "You look just the same," I said, looking into her eyes. Still she seemed to look through me. There was a sudden look of fear. She was focused on something behind me. I turned to see a shadow masked by the dark backdrop of tree trunks and shrub. Twilight was fast becoming night time. "Hello?" I said, the warmth of the fire on my neck. The shadow moved slightly, and came towards me. I recognized the shadow - my wife. My second love. "What are you doing here?" she asked. As she approached, I could see she was shivering despite the warmth of the fire. The dark pits of her eyes became glints, and in those glints I saw fear, and she looked nervously at where the fire was raging behind me. And then I too felt the cold - the warmth of the fire was gone. Spinning around, I could see there was nothing but three tree trunks and a pit that perhaps once housed a fire, but was now overgrown with grass and weeds. *** I heard some years later that they had found some bones in that old wood by the three logs. Another woman and a dog. By then, my wife and I had drifted apart. It seemed as though that night had somehow poisoned the lifeblood of our relationship. I still walk through those woods at night, hoping that maybe, I'll be able to feel the warmth of the fire on my neck once more. The only thing I ever find is three small patches of clover just in front of each of the three logs. And the chilled echoes of the fire of that night imagined on my neck. Cara's lost kiss. Simon Huggins, 17th April 2015

I grew up here. My family moved three times, but each time some circumstance drew us back. I escaped as far as I could to go to college, but found the love of my life here, and so she drew me back too. She also had escaped to the city, only to be drawn back years later after being left destitute by an errant husband. What is it that draws us back to the place of our birth? Like the silver cord that ties our mortal souls to our bodies, is there an earthly cord that ties us to our place of birth? But then there is the history of this wretched place. More murders per square mile in its history than any other place in the country, I was once told. Who would have guessed from a place of farms and villages dotted by the occasional industrial town? And yet here I am again. I walk past the phone box in which a woman was raped and strangled late last year. Past the entrance to the woods where by day, people walk their dogs. Those not being assaulted or the two who had been been buried to be found later by an over-zealous dog. Poisoned, apparently. And yet I have seen nothing of this. To me, it is the home I know. Full of the usual detritus of growing up - friends and romantic entanglements, gained and lost, neighbours about whom we ponder their source of income, but don't ask too many questions. Children playing in the street, the younger brought up by the older ones as their parents go to work for a meagre subsistence, or who drink themselves to oblivion before daytime television. I am not happy to be back. Except for her. On the day we returned to this damned town, I was out walking our dog amongst the trees in the twilight hours, the smell of nearby woodsmoke lulling me into a false demeanour of nostalgia. There were three of women, sitting around a fire pit on felled logs, staring into flames that flickered glimpses of their faces One face looked up, and in the orange flames, I recognised the face as one of those past entanglements. She seemed to look through me. Isla was her name, I remembered, but how did I know her? Isla of the three days. Of course. On day one, I found her walking through these same woods alone, and had a conversation with her about our respective dogs. On day two, I found her there again, and we sat and talked as our dogs tugged at our leads to continue their journies, but we denied them. On day three, we met a twilight without our dogs, and denied no-one. We certainly did not deny each other. On the fourth day, she was gone. And on the fifth day. And each day afterwards until I left that cursed place, the sting of her sweet memory dulling through the years. "You look just the same," I said, looking into her eyes. Still she seemed to look through me. There was a sudden look of fear in her eyes, still focused behind me. I turned to see a shadow masked by the dark backdrop of tree trunks and shrub. Twilight was fast becoming night time. "Hello?" I said, the warmth of the fire on my neck. The shadow moved slightly, and came towards me. I recognized the shadow - it was my wife. "What are you doing here?" she asked. As she approached, I could see she was shivering despite the warmth of the fire. The dark pits of her eyes became glints, and in those glints I saw fear. And then I too felt the cold - the warmth of the fire was gone. Spinning around, I could see there was nothing but three tree trunks and a pit that perhaps once housed a fire, but was now overgrown with grass and weeds. *** I heard some years later that they had found some bones in that old wood. By then, my wife and I had drifted apart. It seemed as though that night had somehow poisoned the lifeblood of our relationship. I still walk through those woods at night, hoping that maybe, I'll be able to feel the warmth of the fire on my neck once more. Simon Huggins, 30th March 2015

After the first frantic ten minutes or so of screaming and clawing at the insides of this tiny enclosure, I quickly realise that all this accomplishes is to make me more aware of the increasingly warm, close moisture of the dwindling air. I furtively start tapping dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot: *Save Our Souls* in Morse code. Nobody responds. Nobody rescues me. So I lie back, and quietly await my fate. The musty smell of exhausted oxygen fades slowly as I begin to lose consciousness. There is a pang of guilt with the emotion this inspires in me: Relief. I hear a noise to the side of me. A spark of hope. Rescue, maybe? The scraping of wood against wood above me, and the rush of cool air. Part of me screams *Run* but I know it's hopeless. I am too weak. It is still dark. My eyes have no light to adjust to. Then I see a tiny blue light flicker on - off - on - off from beyond the edge of the casket, and a small vibration. I sit up, and look for the source of that flickering light. A flashing LED. And when it flashes, I can see the smooth glint of glass: A phone. I reach down, my fingernails scraping against cold concrete as I scoop up the phone. A finger seeks out the 'on' button and the room is suddenly lit by the light of the phone. I ignore what is on the phone initially, using it as a torch to survey my surroundings. It is a concrete floored room with wooden rafters above, surrounded by red brick, a metal door inset into the bricks ahead of me, and the glint of something by the door. Sitting down in my casket once more, it feels like my place of safety in this unfamiliar territory. I read what is on the smartphone screen: *Welcome, William.* *You have had many, many opportunities to better yourself in your life. You have squandered each and every opportunity, in order to retain a life of ease but devoid of meaning.* *If you have no real use for your life, I suggest that you may as well be released from its burden.* *Did you greet impending death with welcome arms, or did you fight to your last breath?* *Don't tell me. I know.* *So I give you three choices. Press the appropriate button for the enactment of your choice.* This is surreal, but I read the options, a feeling of dread creeping over me: *1. Lie back in the casket and you can drift back into a gradual death, with no more choices to make.* *2. You may leave unscathed but the cost will be the head of your first child, Saul. The one that fulfills all of your untapped potential you were never brave enough to surface. The one who lives the life of promise that you chose to throw away.* *3. An axe sits on the floor by the door. Remove completely your right hand. You will never play your precious guitar. But does that matter - you never did fulfill your potential to play in a band.* *But you will have your conscience.* *Nobody but you will know your decision. I am watching.* *Now you must choose how you will live the rest of your life.* I think for a moment. Only a moment. And choose. It's no decision, really. Taking a deep breath, I clamber from the casket, using the phone's screen to light my way to the door. A flash of metal near the door - I make my way towards it. I lean down and, when I try to pick it up, the hatchet slips forwards in my hand. Unbalanced, it is arrested as it embeds one corner of its heavy blade into the brickwork with an alarm-like *ting* that echoes through the walled silence. The blade must be very, very sharp. I tug the hatchet from the wall, stumbling back a little, and take a step to the door. Tentatively, I give a little push. A line of light assails me, and I put my phone hand reflexively in front of my eyes. The door shuts. It is dark again. This time, I push harder, and follow through with my body, squinting through the warm rays of sun to look for danger, the hatchet raised to strike. There is nobody. Only a battered old car with a door open, waiting silently for me on a dirt track leading through trees. Behind me is the newly built shack from which I have emerged. There is even a half empty sack of powdery cement by the door. All this for my benefit. Who would do such a thing. Why? I turn again, and walk towards the car, stop, and put the hatchet down on the seat. There is a key already in the ignition, with a picture of my boy's eager face on a keyfob hanging down, still gently swinging. I look nervously around. No movement. No sound. Nothing. Tentatively, waiting for a new hidden fate, I turn the key in the ignition. It sputters and fails to start. I take a deep breath, and try again, wincing when the engine catches and the car putters into life. The fuel gauge climbs to full. I smile weakly, and look at the hatchet, and nervously around again. Nobody. Nothing. There is a buzz in my pocket. *Just do it - don't look* I don't look at the phone. Not yet. But now, I have things to do, a life to live. One thing left to do. *** After the interviews; After the counseling; After the horror of those around me dies to the dull ache of everyday life; After the months of nightmares, and unanswered questions; After the marriage breaks down and I am left alone, parted from my Wife and children, depleted. Life finally goes on. A new start. I now do what I always should have done, and live my life as I had once dreamed. I have reformed my old band, so I can play lead guitar once more, and sing with all the torment of a soul possessed with guilt and grief. Next week I will accept my first Grammy award, and I will thank my fans, my manager, my band-mates. But ahead of everything, I will thank the memory of my Son, Saul, who gave our music soul. Simon Huggins, 26th March 2015