Boy, 18, Missing 3 days.

In hindsight I realised that Tobias had probably been sleeping there all night. The soil, dry and loose like ashes, had crept into his hair and smeared itself chalklike down one side of his face; infantile, he lay curled in an impossible tangle of elongated limbs and crumpled clothing. As I approached he stirred from apparent hibernation, but from the mechanical theatricality of his somewhat convenient revival I deduced that he had been awake for some time, covertly enjoying my attention. Stretching, his smug eyes met mine in a horribly knowing fashion hastily converted to unconcern as he registered my irritation. I brandished a bread roll by way of greeting, and received a gracious invitation to sit by way of regal gestures not dissimilar to those offered by royal personages, and drunks. I felt as though by not conforming to the conventions of ordinary human transactions I had somehow pleased him; I was being offered a treat.

Disconcerted, I settled myself on the floor beside him, decomposing and crackling leaves piling up behind me as I pulled myself awkwardly back against the tree trunk. Tobias languidly reached for the roll and ate, meticulously tearing small pieces of soft white flesh from the inside whilst leaving the crust intact. The process was somewhat absorbing to watch and we spent the next few minutes in silence, both of us immersed in our own thoughts. Occasionally a leaf would drift down from the blazing canopy and Tobias’s attention would flicker, watching the leaf’s journey to join its companions on the mouldering floor with distracting intensity. I took these fleeting moments to furtively inspect him, avidly devouring each change of expression as they danced across his eyes and pulled mischievously at his obstinately immobile mouth. He looked more tired and uncertain than I had ever seen him, or rather less guarded. There was something tribal in the contrast between the dirty gossamer white of his skin and the stark, vivid green of his eyes, rimmed with a sick purple sheen like bruises. Soft fall light stained the frayed edges of his auburn hair crimson and gold, with one half plastered flat whilst the other defiantly thrust itself into the air. The overall effect was one of uncharacteristic yet strangely endearing dishevelment.

And yet there was something cruel in the smile that lingered on his small, cracked red mouth as he regarded me, desperate to break the silence that hung thick in the air between us. Intangible flurries of thought, possibilities ranged across my mind but all the while I was conscious of the impossibility of it all. Impossible not to just sit here, dizzyingly close. In the distance, a gunshot fired. Tobias leaned across, and gently pulled the scarf from my throat. It scratched roughly against my stubble as he loomed closer, overwhelming my immediate area with his personal aroma of stale aftershave, spice and brandy; having pulled the scarf clear he withdrew swiftly to a safe distance. Tobias wrapped the scarf tightly around his own bloodless neck and walked out into the light.

By Kirsty Judge

Antipathy

Loretta considered him cadaverous at best. At worst, whatever remained to be coughed from the primordial ooze of a gene pool his particular “fine” family secreted could not possibly have been more horrifying than the frankly spectral man before her. The thin light seeping sluggishly from between slatted blinds carved out a silhouette faintly aquiline, but in profile Loretta plainly and painfully identified the rarely seen toucan-human crossbreed known as The Lesser Spotted Nasally Well Endowed. Across the table, a similarly unflattering analysis was taking place. Signalled by a slight twitching in the man’s left nostril where it blended with his upper lip, Loretta watched fascinated as the two adversarial body parts battled their natural reflexive sneer. Eventually a truce was declared and Fortnum Gregory Saint-Claire was left indelicately lumbered with an indecisive twist of expression common to most born snobs, that of the superior individual sucking on a lemon whilst simultaneously endeavouring to perform dental surgery with one’s own tongue. A brief silence ensued during which they both waited for the other to speak.

In the absence of their master’s avid attention, sparse dust motes gleefully flung themselves across the barren desk like tumble weed. Loretta, locked in a stare-down worthy of the most ridiculous of westerns fought the urge to shout “DRAW!” in a last ditch attempt to release herself from the grip of the suppurating orbs of perambulating gristle which represented the windows into Saint-Claire’s turgid soul. Eventually she admitted defeat. A spasm of ridiculous, pathetic triumph wriggled its way across the victors face and he began.

“There his little point in me informing you of this for the eighteenth time, I believe, Miss Carr, but I feel it is my duty to remind you that…”

And the flat, nasal voice bored into Loretta’s skull, peevishly overemphasising every word which Saint-Claire believed gave him some meagre advantage. “Miss Carr” indeed. Loretta lazily transferred her attention to the bland potted cactus that she considered to be (excepting herself) the most sentient being in the room. A weak “bloop.” from an aged laminator in the corner of the dismally bleak room renewed her attention to its owner. Apart from the skeletal physique wreathed in gratuitous flaps of grey clothing, there was little to distinguish Saint-Claire from the conservatively retrograde machine. Or even the interior of his office. Loretta speculated that years of searching had finally led him to his natural habitat in which he was capable of camouflaging himself against any predator, merely through the merit of being almost entirely grey. His skin, tautly stretched between each angular bone, had seemingly absorbed the colour of an over-washed sheet- a sort of yellowish grey at best.

Light flecks of spittle were beginning to emerge from Saint-Claire’s thin lips as he realised that she was no longer listening; the muffled flutter of clothing could be heard as he trembled with righteous agitation. Loretta watched with a kind of detached horror as his ears emerged from the furrows of his neatly combed (and grey) hair as angry distress beacons, flaring red in the insipid light.

“And it is at this juncture that I believe that I will show you the door, Miss Carr. Do not return.”

by Kirsty Judge

The Honey Carnival

Susie had fallen down and cut her knee badly and John was bored and poking the Newspaper man’s dog with his stick which was a sword and we all wanted to go home, because the parade was over. All the dark men in dark suits had come and filled the space, treading on all the confetti with shiny shoes like grease and Susie was sad saying “I’m poorly, I’m poorly,” and picking at her plaster with sticky candyfloss fingers. The parade was gone. I went round the corner of the street to see where with all the lights and colours but a bear was in the way. Sat next to it was a little old lady cracking nuts which she fed to the bear like a baby.
“Don’t step on a crack now, you hear?” She had a laugh like wicked witches in the Christmas play, rough and crackly.

I saw them three times that week and never again, there were three performers and one bear and the bear had a big chain on its neck which went clank clank every time it moved. It was slow and heavy and clanked away after the music stopped but sad like it never wanted to stop dancing, never never. (All the people here now are fast and hurry but Don’t Step On A Crack, because the bears will get you but no one here seems to care not like me and Suzie).
“He loves all the lights and cheers, you see.”
“The bear?”
“Yes, Tomato lives for it! Strange in a bear but not all animals are wild in the same way, you might say. Or I might.” Venezuela was old and odd but we liked her smell of nuts and paint.
Tomato the bear could ride a bike, peel an orange and stand on his feet, and I couldn’t. The first night we went we watched him dance too, but only with Venezuela’s whistle, and the second night we brought him honey in a big jar, Suzie and me.

He danced first this time, big feet thudding with clicking claws and his front paws that were like hands held out in front, still sticky with honey from the jar. The bike came next, with Tomato bowing before getting on and cycling backwards, and forwards, and THUNK. The man behind us began to laugh, hawing like a donkey. Tomato looked up and after that he never ate nor cycled nor danced not once.

The third time I saw them I was on my own and I am glad- they had no shoes, or bike, or chain, and they sat sad and thin at the bus station. Tomato was very still, and slow, dark like brownish black and smelling strong of old meat or maybe mouldy leaves. Venezuela, Arabian Beauty of the Night curled close to him but Tomato looked dead. In a week he was, and 5 men with a truck had to take him away in a green plastic cloth. In four days Venezuela Arabian Beauty of the Night went with him, like the most normal thing in the world.

by Kirsty Judge

Mattress

Golden sunlight streamed through the slats in the badly painted shutters, leaking light onto the perforated mattress that lay forgotten in the dust. The mattress, which was a suspicious shade of grey, had long since been used as a dumping ground for dirty plates and audacious, semi-naked women, waking up to find their money gone and only their host smirking down at them. Although the bedroom itself was grubby, the rest of the house was almost palatial, decorated in only the finest and most fashionable styles.

Turtle Sachet

Prologue

Happiness is just a lick away.

It was a cold dismal night and the streets were desolate; as always. Towering abandoned skyscrapers - skeletons of what they once were - perforated the clouds, casting a permanent shadow onto everything. It never got completely dark or light in this place - the sun was old now. Everything was old. Once beautiful mirrors, now just shattered shards. A dark shifting fog crept its way between the buildings, watching the world. Watching everything.

Eddie gazed up at it all, his back against the damp pavement, and quietly sung a song he’d once heard at the dock. Wind, bitter and frosty trickled down his neck, forcing him to pull his coat higher around his ears. He’d gotten used to the cold; there wasn’t much heat anymore without the sun and with oil in such scarcity. It had come to the bit in the song where you whistled, but Eddie couldn’t whistle, he didn’t have any teeth, and so he just hummed.

Back at home his mother would be wondering where her son had gone and if he was ever coming back. She would be drinking her way through a bottle of whisky and crying because she couldn’t remember his name or her own and because she was a bad parent and she knew it. It wasn’t that she meant to be neglectful; she just couldn’t focus her mind on any one thing at a time anymore. Eddie brought food for the both of them by looking in the bins behind the fast food restaurants. If he had something to leave in return, he occasionally borrowed from those better off – he knew stealing was wrong.

Gobdang, it’s baltic here. He reached into a pocket and retrieved his final sachet, wondering if he was making a mistake by opening his last one. It would be a while until he could get another. With a shiver, he disregarded the future and tore it open.

A small turtle crawled out of the sachet and up his arm to his shoulder. Once there, it turned and smiled at him. He smiled toothlessly back. It licked him and within moments the lifeless alleyways contorted into indefinable shapes disintegrating into nothingness. The world was black and warm and wet. It was comfortable. It was happy.

1

Mr. Jitsu

“It’s a disgrace what’s happened to this world. It’s gone to shit.”

When no response was received, he continued.

“Just look at that throbo there. Out of his head on sachet. I should get my SA80 and do the world a favour.”

Nathan thought that there was probably a reason the grubby man was lying in the street and felt a hint of sympathy toward him. He mentioned no such thing to him though.

“Well, boy?”

Silence.

“Are you listening to me, boy?”

The back of a hand.

“Well?”

“Yes, Sir, those junkie scumbags make me want to puke my fucking brains out.”

There was a startled pause during which Nathan’s father seemed to consider if his son were mocking him.

“Good, good. Me too, son. Me too.”

He glared at all the little windows high above him, furious that they had to walk through this part of the city. His face was contorted through the years by his lack of comfort with anything he encountered outside of his box. His features were almost as harsh as his views and in his view almost everybody should be shot. The man on the floor was smiling and singing to himself. He looked happy in a half-starved kind of way. Nathan doubted the man had eaten in the past few days.

“The problems really started when they legalised sachets. They sell them in vending machines now, did you know that?”

Nathan nodded, paying little attention to anything except the man with no teeth. He looked so cold. He looked up suddenly, straight at Nathan and grinned. It wasn’t an unfriendly grin, but with the lack of teeth it made him look ghastly. Nathan subconsciously shrunk back as the man slowly got to his feet and dragged his way through the streets, stumbling occasionally. He was still singing.

*****

The sea of cardboard boxes and plastic sachets filled the deserted wasteland like a rubbish tip in summer; a surreal Tartarus. Grey dust fell from nowhere in particular onto nothing in particular, making everything look dead. Clive just gazed at it all; at his empire, his universe. He was the inventor of the low-budget accommodation now used throughout the world to house those living in penury. Some (generally low status celebrities and pretentious students with too much money) lived in the superior alternative which was lined in bubble wrap - cold, but “fashionable”.

Clive despised fashion, and completely failed to see the point in it. He did, however, see the point in making money and “off the wall” housing estates were proving to be very lucrative indeed.

A female voice emitted from a small machine on his desk.

“Mr. Gilliam – a client here to see you.”

“Who is it?” There was a pause.

“Mr. Jitsu.”

Clive was silent for a moment or two. He sent a quick prayer to God, Allah, Vishnu and Satan, realising that now was probably not the time to become polytheistic.

“Tell him to wait a moment.”

“He’s already on his way.”

Cursing, Clive opened the window to his office on the 42^nd floor and leapt out.

Emo Nation

He stood by the window gazing into the deserted grey street. Nothing was moving and everything was grey.

Grey and bleak.

Grey and bleak.

The only colour was of the tiny yellow flower in his hand. Clouds swirled around the rooftops like a wolf. Searching and hunting for its prey.

Searching and hunting.

Searching and hunting.

For some reason he could spend hours just staring out into the empty fields beyond, looking for something that could tell him why he felt like this. Why he felt so empty. But nothing ever did. Every day was the same. The same high, the same lows. And there were a lot of lows. He could never quite put a finger on what he loved so much about the way the sky seemed to just open up whenever he looked at it. He wasn’t sure if it did this to other people. He didn’t care. Sighing, he walked away and sat on his floor, staring up at his fairy lit ceiling. They danced around like drunken dragonflies and span on their toes. He didn’t mind them doing this, it made him feel strangely calm. He liked this calm. The calm that flows over you like a huge black blanket pulled over your head. You’re told not to worry because it won’t make any difference. And he was used to it now anyway.

“Get up.”

He did so reluctantly and walked to his chair where he sat down heavily.

“Yes?”

“He’ll be here soon.”

“Oh. Right.”

The door shut and he was left alone once again. He never properly understood why his parents married if they didn’t love each other. Glancing towards a sharp implement, he knocked it in a drawer.

I hate myself.

It was true. He did. He hated everything about himself. Everything from his fake coloured hair to his addiction to self-harm. Everything.

I’m so, so sad.

There was a knock at the front door, which he ignored. Somebody downstairs answered it and called him down. Dragging his legs behind him, he stumbled to the kitchen. His mother stood next to a tall dark-haired man.

It’s true what she said. Everyone does go through life silently scared.

*****

“I don’t like talking about myself. Otherwise I’d tell the truth when I say I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Crap small talk isn’t it? ‘Hello, how are you?’, ‘Oh well, you know, I’ve tried to kill myself every night for the past 3 days, not much.’”

The Story of David the Butcher Boy

Once upon a time, in a place not all that far from where you live, was a village called Felbon. You may have heard of it and you may have been there. Felbon is a very small village with only a few families who live there. Among them was a family with the last name ‘Peach’. Remember this family, as this is the family this story will be about.

Now, along with the few families who lived there, there was also a butchers shop and it is this butchers shop I will be basing this story. The butchers shop was not very large, but rather small, with only two counters; one for meat and one for cheese and bread. Now, if you will kindly remember back to the family with the last name ‘Peach’ and I will tell you about their family and how they lived in this very butchers shop.

Firstly, there was Daddy Peach and he used to cut meat but nowadays mostly dealt with the complicated things like money.

Then, there was Mummy Peach and she was big and strong and handsome and all the men loved her and thought her very beautiful.

Simon Peach was big and strong like Mummy. He didn’t have a lot of hair and he always wore chequered shirts and silly ties.

David Peach was the specialist Peach and it is David Peach this story will be focusing on.

David was a little man who looked a lot like his brother in that he didn’t have very much hair and always wore chequered shirts and silly ties.

*****

Once upon a time in Peach’s butcher shop, David was bored.
“Mummy, I’m bored” David cried.
“Here, David” said his mummy, “take this plate of sausages round to the cheese and bread counter.” David, being the good boy he was, didn’t want to say that he didn’t want to do something boring like that, so he did as he was told and took the plate in both hands. As he left the shelter of the meat counter, he noticed a new face behind the cheese and bread counter. A suspicious new face.
David decided he didn’t like this new visitor, whoever he was. Why should this new visitor be allowed to serve customers when he, David, was 45 and still not allowed?
“Hello, you must be David,” said the suspicious new face.
David didn’t return the greeting in case it was a trick, so he carefully slid the plate of sausages onto the counter.
“Thank you, David,” the suspicious new face said with a smile.
“Who are you?” David asked.
“Well, I’m Steve” said Steve.
“Oh,” replied David.
“Would you like a maple and pecan slice?” asked Steve.
“No,” said David, taking three.
“Are those for Mummy?”
“Yes.”
David padded softly back to the meat counter, the maple and pecan slices tucked safely in his butchers pouch.
“Shut up, will you?”
“Oh, look, I’m Simon!”
“I do not have my sleeves like that!”
“I have big muscles and I’m all strong.”
“Stop it! My arms don’t fit properly, these sleeves are too small.”
“My arms are too muscular for sleeves!”
“STOP IT!”
David was shocked. There were some men behind his counter.