Analecta Issue-3

ANALECTA
Issue 3

Issue 3 of Analecta, a Fighting Words Publication
Published in March 2024
Editor: Natalie Madden
Cover Design: Megan Luddy
Printed by: Central Press, Bray, Co. Wicklow
Fighting Words
Behan Square
Russell Street
Dublin 1
www.fightingwords.ie
Is supported by D/TCAGSM under the Decade of
Centenaries Programme 2012-2023.

Fighting Words is a creative writing organisation
established in 2009 by Roddy Doyle and Seán Love
in Dublin. Our aim is to help students of all ages to
develop their writing skills and to explore their love of
writing. All programmes are free of charge and offered
in locations all over Ireland.
The following anthology is part of the 100 Years Project.
The 100 Years Project is part of the Decade of Centenaries initiative
during which Fighting Words is organising creative writing workshops
and projects with school students at primary and post-primary
levels. The aim is to contribute to the Decade of Centenaries
objectives regarding reconciliation, understanding of shared history,
reflection of identities, and responding to historical context in an
interesting and apolitical way.
You can find out more about other events related to the 100 Years
Project at our websites:
https://www.fightingwords.ie/ and https://www.fightingwords.co.uk/
3

Contents
Introduction
Author
1 The Demons of our Folly
Noah Cooper
2 Parallel Lives
Fighting Words
3 Below
Timothy McIntyre
4 The Wanderer
Amélie Nolan
5 My Twin Poems
Leonie Hanan
6 Aftermath
Sarah McGuire
7 One Change Always Leaves Way
Seán O Donnell
8 Sparks of Beauty
Kaila Patterson
9 Leap of Faith
Stanka Dudek
10 The Flower Upon my Window Sill
Saoirse Lavery
11 White Mice
Ben Lynch
9
15
23
27
35
41
47
53
61
65
69

12 You Don’t Belong Here
Daniel Molyneux
13 Back to Hell then to Heaven
Crystal
14 Leap Forward to Leap Backward
Ishaan Thakkar
15 Beloved
Stephen Meehan
16 Paper Butterflies
Lily Rose Boss
17 Defiance of Fate
Isabella Murphy
18 It’s a Leap of Faith
Jack Leahy
19 October 19th 1888
Laoise Finnerty
77
83
87
91
97
105
111
121
20 Mars
Conor Savage
127
21 I Wish I Could Go Back
Ruadhán McDonagh
22 Hunter the Hunted
Jaimie O’Connor
23 What is a Void
Chloe O’Flaherty
24 A Blue Glow
Fighting Words Write Club
133
141
147
149
i

Introduction
by Hazel Hogan
People dream of time travel for exactly the same reason they read
stories: to see what happens next. We’re fascinated by the past
because it led us here. We want to know what the future will be like
because that’s where we’re headed.
But the thing about the future is, it won’t be like anything until we
get there. And if we want the most distant future predictions, we
have to ask the very youngest members of our society.
Don’t worry, we’re in safe hands.
I write for young people because I’ve always believed that teenagers
have much more ambitious goals, higher ideals, and greater integrity
than adults, so I was excited to see the future they would create for
this anthology, and to see the past through their eyes.
Young people have always been the ones to look at the state of the
world with fresh eyes and refuse to accept it. They challenge the way
we do things, demand better, refuse to let us get too comfortable.
So I’m not at all surprised that this anthology is bursting with
creative ideas, strong opinions, boundless energy, a deep concern

with fairness, and a sense of perspective that is much longer than
100 years, much wider than ourselves, our families, our country, and
even our world; in short, all the things I love most about teenagers
and all the things we should be learning from them.
As ever, I’m hugely impressed by the writing here. One of the
reasons I love working with the teenagers at Fighting Words is that
they constantly make me want to up my own writing game. Their
talent and passion is truly an inspiration.
Most of all, I love how they put themselves on the page so fearlessly.
So many of these pieces have the courage to call out the darkest
problems. And yet the darkness is never allowed to win because there
is an equal determination to find solutions and solace.
And so often, solace comes in the form of writing. In these pieces I
found a deep faith in the power of writing to make our lives mean
something, to communicate with a future we won’t live to see,
to deal with trauma and even to keep those we have lost with us.
Whatever our future, we’re going to need young people with creative
vision, and those young people need outlets like Fighting Words to
let them channel that creativity.
Young people come to the page with enormous bravery, and these
pieces demonstrate that. There are stories about war and violence

and how they affect children. There’s a desire to put this right and
to try to make sense of it. (To which I would say, don’t try too hard.
Wars don’t make sense. Violence can’t be rationalised. These are the
lies adults tell themselves to justify wars, but we’re born knowing
better. Hold onto that wisdom for as long as you can.)
There are stories of political corruption and personal grief, there are
philosophical questions about the meaning of our existence, what
we’ve inherited and what we’ll leave behind. To have even taken
these things on is an impressive accomplishment and the answers
they come up with give me faith in the future.
But if teenagers are brave, they are also fragile, and when we asked
them to think about the future, one emotion comes up again and
again: worry. If these stories reflect what our young people are
preoccupied with, it’s worth noting that climate change comes up
more than once.
When I was a kid people talked about what the world would be like
in “The Year 2000” (you have to read it like the guy who does movie
trailers). It didn’t matter that The Year 2000 was only a few years
away, it was “The Future” and there was no arguing with that –
every sci-fi movie ever is set in a year beginning with a ‘2’.
My own vision of The Year 2000 was fairly utopian: clean streets,

enlightened attitudes, teleportation, hovercrafts, the works. I don’t
know why. I knew all about Save the Whale, Ban the Bomb, Cancel
the Debt, Preserve the Ozone Layer. I was boycotting products,
signing petitions, attending marches, going veggie, and pushing Fair
Trade at my bewildered family until they were sick of me.
And yet this optimism persisted. Probably because children grow up
expecting adults to sort things out. All I had to do was make them
aware of the problem and they’d fix it, right? And sometimes they
did. When I was 14 no one had heard of Fair Trade and now it’s in
every supermarket. When I was 14 you couldn’t get a vegetarian meal
in a Belfast restaurant to save your life. Now there are vegan options
in your local petrol station. CFCs are gone. Ethical fashion is a thing.
I had every reason to be optimistic about The Future.
But these days, thanks largely to young people on school strikes,
adults are already completely aware of the problems the planet is
facing. They’re just not doing much about it. Worry seems like a
completely valid response to that, so I don’t want to patronise these
young people by saying, don’t worry it’ll all be fine.
But at the same time, I really don’t want them to worry so much.
When I was young all my petition signing and badge wearing and
leaflet distributing seemed so miniscule and change seemed so

frustratingly slow. But today lots of those things are miles better,
and I look back with pride that I and my friends were part of those
changes. We did that. And we did it with nothing more than the
accumulation of millions of miniscule gestures.
If a project spanning 100 years into the past and 100 years into the
future can teach us anything, it’s that things can change and do
change. And when change seems so slow and so small you want to
scream, scream on the page because that’s all part of the change.
Avalanches are made up of nothing but snowflakes. You have to just
trust that these snowflakes, these poems and stories, will change
things, even if it’s only one mind, one vote, one behaviour. Let
that alleviate your worry. You’ve done something today. You’ve
contributed your snowflake. Keep going, keep writing, one day one of
those snowflakes is going to bring down the mountain.
Having read these brilliant, brave, creative, skilful, hopeful,
inspirational pieces, I have every faith, and I can’t wait to see what
happens next…

The Demons of Our Folly
Noah Cooper

“I had to keep running. There was nothing else I could
do. I couldn’t help anyone but myself anymore. Why was this
happening to us? We never did anything to hurt another - and yet
here we are, chased by the demons unleashed by human error. I
remember seeing it in the news, “unknown species discovered in polar
ice caps” was the headline. That was two years ago today. Since then
humanity has done nothing but forge new wars, kill our kind, kill
our lands, kill our life. And now it is life’s turn to kill us, and we
can do nothing but watch.”
That makes for a decent first entry, he thought to himself, closing
the notebook. This was one of the few things worth salvaging
from the shopping centre, or at least what was left of it. Survivors
can only go during the day, because none of the lights work and
the silence of night makes it so walking in a place like this is like
holding up a sign that says “please kill me”. There was an old
school supply store, so he grabbed a few pens and a notebook. This
was the closest he could get to human interaction. He wasn’t exactly
an expert survivalist, and it showed on the scars across his body,
his tattered clothes from many a close encounter. He had covered
the first page of the journal with nothing but his name on repeat,
just in case he forgot it. He looked at the page and all he would see
9

is just the words, “I am Damian Redgrave”, written over and over
like a detention from the nineties. Life since the downfall has been
somehow quiet yet violent every day. As he walked along the once
bustling roads, it was eerily peaceful. There was little noise, save
for the wind and the occasional but rare bird chirping. No warmblooded
creature was safe from the bacteria. That reminded him,
should his writing ever be found by anyone, they should be given an
idea of what happened. So, he began to write a new passage.
“The downfall began when scientists discovered a new type of
bacteria frozen deep within Antarctica. Due to the freezing cold
climates it originated from, everyone believed it could not survive
in warm-blooded creatures, and so nothing was done. That was the
problem, that was every problem - nothing was ever done because
all the old men in their seats of power were only set on making
more power, no matter the cost to everything else. And so, with
global warming only getting worse and worse, the bacteria began
to mutate into strands capable of enduring greater temperatures -
temperatures like the human body’s. Everyone thought it was just
another small issue, and the media mostly kept quiet. But then they
started to get more aggressive, started to attack people. Those who
were affected longer were easy to make out, because they barely

even look human anymore. The bacteria multiplied so impossibly
fast that it literally forced their skin off, and what was left in
its place were rock hard cysts formed by the bacteria dying and
hardening, making the longer infected ones very hard to kill.”
Once finished, Damian got up and resumed walking to try and
seek out where he would sleep for the night. After a few minutes
he came across a building that had a section of the roof caved in.
He elected to stay here, as he wanted to look at the stars while he
slept. The stars had always given him a small comfort – sometimes
he wished he could leap into the pitch-black void. As he lay there,
there was an odd sound coming from the other room, but he was
weary and little attention - however when it was just mere feet
away from him he was on full alert. After a minute of bracing
himself to move he sat up, and saw an infected just on the other
side of the room. Fortunately, the majority of its head was covered
in cysts, including its ears, making it unable to hear him. He had no
choice but to dash, but was stopped when a section of the roof came
down in front of the doorway. The feeling of it striking the ground
was more than enough to alert the infected, which immediately let
out a shriek that sounded like screeching metal, and went on the
attack. Damian dived to one side, and landed hard on his shoulder.
11

He ran in a circle around the room, trying to avoid it in such a
small space. He scooped a broken pipe into his hands and turned
on his heel to strike – he hit it with such force that a stinging pain
surged through his hands. The creature however barely faltered as
the pipe struck the iron-like lumps on its head. Thinking quickly,
he drove the broken, sharp end of the metal pipe into its eye, one
of the only sections of its head that remained human. He forced it
as far as possible - if he could get to the brain then he could kill
whoever was unfortunate enough to end up like this. Somehow, the
bacteria kept their hosts alive because it relied on a host so that it
itself may live. It let out its final, raspy cry, before going limp, its
corpse sliding off the pipe. Damian stood there panting, before he
collected himself and all his supplies. Dawn was approaching, and
it wasn’t like he was going to get anymore sleep. So, after a minute
or two of trying to exit out of the roof, he clambered out and hopped
down to the ground. As he resumed his trek to hopefully find a nicer
place to stay, he thought to himself, this will make for a remarkably
interesting next entry.

13

Parallel Lives
Fighting Words

I stood on the roof, wondering whether to take the
dive. I could see a group of people poised below me, waiting in
anticipation. “COME ON TOMMY BOY!” shrills one of the crowd
members. I stumble backwards as though I have been shot by a
bayonet, raking nervous hands through my dark hair. Take the dive,
the voice in my head challenges. Take it, do it. I step onto the ledge
so that everyone can see my pale face, tears frozen on my cheeks.
I breathe into the cold London weather, seeing men and women
mill about. All of a sudden, I see a familiar face in the crowd. Miss
Atkinson (although she insisted, I call her Lily on the first day of
our job) stares up at me, her dark eyes wide. “Lily!” I scream, my
voice hoarse, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have….” I am cut off. I feel a
push from behind and I am falling, falling, falling… until I collapse
into her arms. “Tom?” she asks, my name a talisman on her lips,
“are you quite alright?” I shake my head. I am shivering from
sheer terror. “What happened?” she inquires, one eyebrow raised.
Her deep ochre skin is darkened from the summers abroad, an
undertone of pink clings to her skin like a burr. “I…. I was afraid,”
I manage, the words pouring out in a tumble of terror. “What were
you afraid of?” she queries, her gaze as unflinching as always.
“Loving you,” I reply. “I-I was worried that you would choose
15

your fiancé over me.” Lily hooks an arm through mine. “You utter
bluenose,” she says fondly, as we walk through London’s snowy
streets, “how did you ever think I’d choose Alex over you?”
DEVON, EXETER, ENGLAND- 1461.
Edward was sure he was doing something idiotic. In complete fact,
he knew it was moronic, yet he did it anyway. That was the trouble
with Edward Crawford, he never used his head. Limbs shaking
with terror, he stood atop one of the village’s thatched roofs, so
that he could observe the happenings of Exeter. “GOOD PEOPLE!”
he yelled, cupping his hands, “I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO ASK LADY
ELIZABETH ANDRY FOR HER HAND IN MARRIAGE.” Out of the
corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth drop the basket she was holding;
her fruits and vegetables tumbled out in disarray. The early morning
sun illuminated her dark blonde hair, making her seem like a Greek
goddess, perhaps Aphrodite or a Naiad. “Did you truly mean it?” she
asked, keeping her voice at normal volume. By this time, Edward
had stepped off the roof with help from his loyal friend Terrence
(who had piled up some boxes, which allowed him to easily step off
the building). “I did,” he replied, taking her hand. “I meant every
word.” Elizabeth’s eyes were like a frightened doe’s, yet she covered

his hand with her own.
London, England-1925.
“I wanted to give you something,” Lily says, startling me out of
my reverie. I look up to see her with a cup of tea in her hand and
her dark hair neatly combed back. “What is it?” I enquire, one
brow raised. She smirks, crossing her legs. Bending over, she pulls
out a box, marked with the initials E.C & E.A. “Edward Crawford
and Elizabeth Andry,” she says with a bitter twist to her mouth.
“They’re my aunt Diane’s great-great-great…however times over
grandparents from 1461. And, as Atkinson stories go, this’s the most
normal one by my standards. It tells the story of Edward Crawford,
a penniless young man from Exeter, and Elizabeth Andry, a young
noblewoman of French descent. They fell in love and Edward tacked
on his mother’s surname to save face which was Atkinson…turns
out I was related to them. I didn’t believe it at first when Aunt
Diane first told me, because of their different last names, but then
she expanded the story a little.” Lily beams, wider than I’ve ever
seen and the thought that goes through my mind is, she’s like the
sun; the very sound of her laughter warms my soul. She stands up,
smiling. “Now,” she says. “What shall I tell you of the Andrys?
17

whose motto is ‘flemus cruentas lacrimas’? Or the Crawfords, whose
motto is ‘domus, officium, honor’. In translation, these mottos
mean ‘she is cut off, we weep bloody tears’ and ‘family, duty and
honour’ which seems appropriate”. “But what about us? I say “or
the normal people, forced to work off the backs of these rich people?
My family doesn’t have a house nor a crest. We don’t even have
money and the Atkinsons, your family, don’t even…” Lily reaches
out and hits my face. “My family has honor,” she hisses. “Which is
more than I can say for you, Tom Lynch.”
London,U.K 2022. Scotland Yard.
“Oi, Rosh!” announced Violet McNeil, sailing over to Roshni’s desk.
The former scowled at her friend, who merely grinned. “I found
something,” she proclaimed and the Shah girl raised an almost
imperceptible eyebrow. “Oh?” she inquired inquisitively. “What’d
you find, Vi? Because I swear to God if it’s another laughing sheep
meme” Violet raked a strand of sugar-blonde hair out of her face
and stared into the other girl’s dark eyes, her hands raised in
surrender. “It isn’t,” she stated quickly. “The fact that you would
accuse me of such a heinous crime, Roshni Kritika is astonishing!”
Laughing in mock horror Roshni held up a hand and strode ahead to

the storage room. “I found this,” Violet declared, busting open a box
to reveal a series of letters, each marked with the date 1925 and each
written in a midnight-blue ink. Roshni stared incredulously at the
documents. “Looks like a series of divorce papers,” she breathed,
her friend raised both eyebrows. “You don’t say,” she stated dryly,
before frowning. “It seems they split up over an argument over
honor,” she snorted. “Ridiculous, Apparently the woman Lily
Atkinson had great-great aunts from the 1400s…...wait a second…”
she paused, scanning the typewritten words. “Tom Lynch, her ex
husband was your neighbor, right, Rosh? Or, rather, your great great
grandparent’s neighbor. Legend has it he was murdered one night
and wasn’t his ex-wife there to witness with their two children in
1930?” Roshni’s eyes widened from behind her circular glasses. “So
that’s why Dadi had to get a new carpet, cos of all the blood on it!”
She pumped her fist. “But..” Violet’s blonde eyebrows furrowed.
“Who murdered Mr. Lynch?” Rosh chewed on her lip, eyeing the
document suspiciously. “It lists a Mr. Alistair Carlisle aged fifteen
as the main suspect and a Miss Vanessa Royce as another suspect.
Her age is unknown, but..” she swallowed. “The culprit would
have to be ‘very nimble and acrobatic’ (to fit through those window
bars) which Mr. Carlisle fits to a tee.” She held up a monochrome
photograph of a tall, lanky boy with high cheekbones, ice-blue eyes
19

and unusual white-blond hair. Violet stared at the photograph. “He
looks like a Targaryen from Game of Thrones,” she remarked and
glared at it some more. “Carlisle fits the bill,” she went on. “He’s
nimble by the looks of him-very acrobatic looking- but he’s so
young.” Roshni worried at her bottom lip, her eyes like soup plates.
“Which means that he couldn’t have pulled it off on his own, so
he’d have to bag an accomplice.” She snatched up the photograph of
Lynch’s body. “Look, one wound to the back of his head and another
to his chest-. The head wound looks like someone hit him with a
bat, whilst the chest wound looks more careful, like someone did
it with a scalpel of sorts.” She paused, sneaking a glance at Violet,
who looked to be on the same wavelength as her.
“Vanessa helped him do it!” they chorused and Roshni suddenly
looked stricken. “We’ll have to notify Sarge, won’t we? That a cold
case was right under his nose and he didn’t do anything about it!”
Together, the duo rushed to their boss’s office, accidentally bumping
into their freckle-faced coworker Steve, who scowled. Ignoring his
yells, they scurried to Townsend’s office, where the man himself sat
at his desk, pondering over some papers. “Sir,” announced Roshni,
“we’ve got something to show you..”. He took one look and his face
turned as white as snow. He knew something! They just knew it.

21

Below
Timothy McIntyre

Time slows my rapid breaths to a pulse
A gentle wingbeat, like the birds with whom I now fly
Under the kiss of the sun, above where the truth is blurred by the
false
Feeling the breeze run free and fast past my cheeks, eyes to the sky
At peace by myself, my loss, my pain, my grief;
Something I couldn’t grasp, when I stood on the ground beneath.
In an instant, my thoughts turn to seeing your bright face
Your warm eyes, your joyful smile, as we reunite in another place.
And then of the past, of those whose eyes will never meet
With mine, who I could have seen before I took the leap
When the ground still touched my feet.
My problems are clear as the bluest of skies
As I feel the rush of wind, my screaming breaths, silent,
A blink. A second. A chance, gone, that can’t be undone
As everything and anything that was wrong falls to one.
A truth, a fact, learned too late
I didn’t know
I didn’t want to go
23

I didn’t mean to fly
To be so high, to fall so slow
As eternity releases her hand, releases me to the ground below.
I didn’t know, I didn’t want to go
As I lie between the sky, before the gentle eyes
Of the quiet void that pulls me deeper inside
Further from the light, caught between
The distant sky, and the ground below.

25

The Wanderer
Amélie Nolan

One step
Existing may be painful, but the agony of half-existing is so much
worse.
Two step
Imagine the agony of crouching in front of a crystalline creek of the
finest water in the universe—the perfect balance of hot and cool;
sweet and soothing. And you go to slide your aching hand through
its top, only for each longing finger to pass through, misting with
a ghostly essence. For though you know it’s there, you cannot ever
feel it.
Three step
Imagine the agony of wandering the same bright, dew-kissed forest
for more years than there are stars. Drifting past velvety, pillow-like
oiscious leaves, plump, blooming flower clusters in each
nook and cranny, or youthful, springy saplings full of love and life.
And you merely pass through each one, the ghost of held-back joy
snaking up your non-existence.
27

Four step
The agony of having traveled enough miles to walk through a galaxy;
of having seen a billion people, of knowing you are to meet a
billion more, but never knowing how long it is that you have suffered
for.
Of not knowing for how much longer you must suffer.
Five step
The agony of hearing again and again the way they talk about you
as though you are but a sneaky poltergeist in search of harm and
chaos. ‘He who walks without legs,’ they say, ‘Who sees all without
eyes.’ The way they utter these words like a curse, while you’re
forced to watch from inches away, stuck in a silenced scream.
An agonized plea for someone to save you.
Six step
The agony of being known as ‘The Wanderer’ when all you wander
for is a reason to keep on living. To never be able to experience
the same excitement of scars or the joys of discovery as a wanderer

should.
For the joys of a wanderer are the scratches, risks, and wonders, but
with no hands or feet nor tongue or soul, you cannot make a blunder.
The only wonders you will ever have are that of wondering what it
is like to feel.
Seven step
Imagine the agony of standing on the precipice of love, your heart
tethered to ethereal threads of longing. Condemned to a life of
non-existence where you can never truly feel her, see her, or love
her with the entirety of your heart as you have seen millions others
do, the profound sorrow of your incomplete existence pierces your
soul.
Or, it would if you had one
Soar
Have you ever felt the agony of feeling for the very first time in your
non-existence? Of a monstrous force pulling you, dragging its claw
through you like a rag doll. You have no choice but to follow in its
path, stumbling through the viridian canopies to an opening in the
great trunks.
And suddenly, it halts, and you can see a short jut in the cliffs edge.
29

No more than seven steps, until you soar, free as a bird, from everlasting
agony.
You can sense her silently begging for you to turn back, offering her
hold and home to you, but the slight pull of the feeling’s encouragement
makes your mind grow fuzzy, like sheep’s wool.
One step
You think of the agony of half-existence.
Two-step
The agony of never feeling.
Three step, Four
The agony of suffering for unknown time.
Five step
The agony of silenced watching, and of being deprived of all joys.
Six step, seven step
The overwhelming, wrenching agony of being just out of reach of
the one you’d treasure to your very end.
Soar
And with a final step that brushes low-cut blue stalks, the air
catches your feet, and the soil says farewell, as your body soars like
a bird with the soft breeze.
* * *
It may have been a second, maybe a million years, but at some

point, my eyes burst open against the harsh, slapping wind. A
stone-strewn solid ground is found rushing to my face and panic
courses through me. I try in vain to move my legs, to get some
semblance of reality back in my body, but my feet only slam against
a jutting metal edge, pain cascading through my nerves.
There are few people around, but those that walk by don’t bat a
single eye at the figure of a man falling from impossibly high before
them. I accept the knowledge that the ground will, in seconds,
ricochet against my body in a tumble of tarmac and tendons. As the
rough stones break contact with my outer layers of skin, my entire
reality ripples like even waves of a skimmed stone; like everything
around me was warping into wavelets that held me, floating, defying
any laws the universe herself had ever imagined. I felt lost in an
in-between realm of serenity I had never experienced before flowing
through my body.
The rippling realm seized in on itself in a sudden, gripping motion,
flipping into a ball of energy in only a moment that burst my being
into reality. This new reality that I had been launched into. That I
existed in.
31

That I existed in.
It took a hand chilled by the season on my nape to seize me back
into the moment, but when I did, I felt. I felt every stitch of cloth
on my skin, the dust in the air, the repulsion of people; it’s such an
overwhelming feeling to feel for the first time. Everything rushes
over you like a tidal wave and it feels so repulsing. It’s a cage that’s
encroaching in on your being and dragging you down like a wet
stone.
Even the breath of the gentleman above me who speaks with false
earnest snakes is feeling down my neck. Repulsive.
“Sir? Sir?! Are you…” Dead, he assumes, though no blood pours
from me. I grunt; I try to. He has need not pretend to care.
Getting up feels like a blur, my head spinning with an unfamiliar
ache. People, shops, rodents; it’s all so… organized. So unlike the
world I was in.
People are asking my health as I stumble past, and how I wish they
would just shut up. They don’t care. They only care when it’s fortunate
for them, or for those they love. Shouts of ‘sir?!’s and whispers

of ‘scum?’ spin through my head, and I must look like a lunatic,
grabbing out at the empty air. Looking, yearning for something that
isn’t there. Or that… only half-exists.
‘Those they love.’
My love.
To the sky I look, arms spread wide and head hung back; defeated.
I’m lost. Not in an unknown realm or turns and turmoil, or a world
of new wonders and whispers. I’m lost because the only thing keeping
me found has been consigned to oblivion.
Half-existing may be painful, but the agony of existing alone is so
much worse.
33

My Twin Poems
Leonie Hanan

the past
I stand behind bars.
On top of a home,
that carries scars.
It’s for sale now.
I feel the past’s presence.
Behind me.
It offers no repentance.
It’s for sale now.
I step; the past steps (so it’s never far away).
Don’t let me get too close to the edge.
Don’t let me see through the cage.
But it’s for sale now.
I’m a trapped bird,
inside this cage,
35

with the ability to fly but not the knowledge.
I step; and this time I’m further from the pain.
I feel fear; but it’s not mine anymore.
My stomach clenches.
It’s for sale now.
I hold myself there,
so the past can catch me.
Falling away surely would not be freeing.
Yet with falling comes the chance of flying.
It is unknown.
But I’ve known for far too long:
I do not belong here.
I do not belong inside the bars of this cage,
that was built for me.
I fall into freedom.
The world may not know how far I’ve come,

and how much of a risk I’m making,
but I will always know.
Will my future catch me?
Yes, it will.
It’s for sale now.
the future
I thought it would be safe out here.
Where the past isn’t talking off my ear.
Here there is comfort to the fears,
because my hydration came from tears.
When one had a home built on pain
one searches for the same.
Should a home be forever?
37

Should a home be beautiful?
Now that I am here,
with the choice,
I do not know where to go.
I should have a path, a plan, a promise.
But I don’t.
I am lost in the freedom,
because I’ve never been free before.
The only thing I seem to have to trust,
is the uncertainty of the future.
Is the future not forever?
Even time has a limit, doesn’t it?
Is the future not beautiful?
Surely it is scary, isn’t it?
But in a world where there is little to trust,
can I not trust that?

The future will always be its own promise.
I suppose you could say on your last day you won’t have a tomorrow,
but that is one day out of 27,375 days.
27, 374 tomorrows.
Each one promising the beauty of change.
You will be different to the past, and you will become the future.
And I have a home in these promises.
39

Aftermath
Sarah McGuire

You didn’t paint during the war. You said you couldn’t. We both
knew why. Neither understood it. Whatever drove you to the canvas,
sparked the itch that only the brush in your hand could satisfy,
whatever put those iridescent visions of divinity in your mind, had
disappeared as the country turned upon itself. Instead, you read the
papers with unholy fervour, devouring every scrap of news of the
chaos raging beyond the far stone wall, keeping us in, keeping them
out. Perhaps it was because you knew you couldn’t fight; the Great
War had made sure of that. You couldn’t fight, you couldn’t paint,
some mornings you could barely hold you head up long to say your
prayers. The neighbours always asked about you, our great artist,
the pride of the village. Always the same story, working away,
busy as ever. The commissions dried up, few wanted their portrait
painted when they were too afraid to leave the house for fear it
would not be there when they returned. Yet, I knew you couldn’t
stay away forever. You couldn’t deny your own life blood.
The war was over now, in a way. What came next? The aftermath.
That was where people like you became essential, letting the light
in on the horror, picking up the broken fragments of life and
fashioning them into memory.
41

Yet you could not paint.
The two of us stumbled on, play acting normality. We were young
still, neither felt it. Thirty years spanned the fall of man three times
over, with each rebirth I was less sure of our lingering humanity.
Still, I couldn’t know the things you had seen. Not as if you would
ever say, words could not capture such horrors, not the way paint
could, although you never tried to paint them, to exorcize the
memories. Your work, though beautiful, focused instead on the
land beneath our feet, your love for it. A hint of something sinister
covered up neatly with the shiver of an imagined breeze, gently
coaxing the painted leaves. Friends of ours swore by the islands out
west, we planned to visit them, talking eagerly of all we would see,
the wealth of inspiration they would provide. They were the best of
us, one said. They who knew how to live in the old way, untarnished
by modernity’s iron grip. That was before the war, of course.
A year after the order to dump arms, we lay in bed. Sunlight slipped
in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating your sleeping head,
a halo of early morning. Birdsong mingled with your soft flutters of
breath. You awoke, brought out of a dream into the room, our room.
You turned to me and kissed my brow, promising a good morning,

a good day, whatever that meant. At breakfast, as I took my place
opposite yours at the table taken from my mother’s house, no
longer standing, you told me would you start the piece. The Piece.
Finally. The work that would define your career. You said you could
feel it in your bones that this was it, this would be your masterpiece.
How you knew, I could not say. Art, you said, was like taking a
great leap into a void, trusting that you would be return again,
knowing you would be irrevocably changed. You always possessed
such astounding faith. Maybe that was why you were the artist and
I was the confidant, the keeper of secrets, the giver of advice. The
person that cycled a mile to source your particular type of paint, not
a single moment wasted on the thought of my on my own safety as
I darted past the barracks, empty now. The soldiers have gone, the
memory lingers, so too does the fear.
You drank your tea and told me you were ready. Certain. The idea
had been festering for some time, taking root in your brain, giving
colour and shape to well worn images. Would it be about the war?
Yes, you said.
Which one?
43

All of them, every bloody one.
What did you need? How could I help?
Let me go. Let me leap, alone.
After a week of sneaking glimpses into your studio, laying trays
at the door, slipping you notes reminding you of life beyond the
canvas, you finally let me in.
You pulled away the paint-stained linen, there it was. Alive in
spectacular colour. This new phase in the life of a great artist.
Embracing the chaos. Gone was the neat pastoral. This was splinted,
raw, imbued with all the pain of civil war. It was a boy, feather
boned, as delicate as a wish. You could reach out and crush him
in your palm. It was a bird, looming wings, a shadow of charcoal,
a darkening halo. Twisted antlers or barbed wire, I could not tell.
It was nothing. It was somehow everything we both experienced.
Unlike anything I had seen at the academy. A canvas demanding
attention, stealing away the breath from my chest, the shock of the
new, the modern.

It’s called aftermath, a little on the nose, but fitting. You laughed.
What do you think?
What could I say? You eyed me, suspicious, searching my face for a
sign. I resolved not to give myself away. Behind the marble façade I
raged, torn between a scream and some deep throated sob. The boy.
I knew him, young as he was, not how I remembered him exactly.
He haunted my imagination as much as yours. My brother. Your
brother. Brother in arms, comrade. A memorial to him, to all the
lost souls. This was your masterpiece. We both knew it would never
be understood, we struggled ourselves to understand it. Staring
down the void of the aftermath. The crumbling ruins of a country
ravaged by war, and war, and civil war. With you, daring to take the
first step, towards healing, towards remembering, and I, by your
side. Always.
What do you think?
I think it’s the truth.
45

One Change Always Leaves Way
Seán O Donnell

Waves. Floods. Tsunamis coated Josh’s brain. Pulses of unforgiving
tides, swallowing every morsel of thought that dared to breath in
the chambers of his intellect. No matter how hard he fought against
the angst of malicious screams that reverberated around his skull,
they would not fade away.
“Josh, turn off that alarm before I throw you out of that bed
myself!”
Startled, Josh came to a quick wake. The demons of his past sleep
slithered away from the outers of his eyes, and instead chose to now
reside in the soul-shuddering sound of his phones alarm, which at
this stage was ringing at a deafening level. “Sorry Matt,” moaned
Josh, amidst his grogginess trying to form a sense of empathy
for his roommate, who loomed at the end of his bed menacingly,
brandishing a box of cereal and a can of deodorant. “Jesus Josh,”
Matt spluttered. “Four times in a row. How are you this tired all
of the time?” “I said I’m sorry, Christ,” whinged Josh, dragging
himself out of bed. He flopped with the composure of a limb fish
47

onto the ground, groaning at the thought of having to face another
day. “I’ll be in the kitchen, making breakfast,” muttered Matt.
“Meet me in there when you wise up,” he mumbled under his
breath as he left the room, brushing the door gently closed as he
went.
Pulling a pair of crumpled jeans and a t-shirt that lay strewn across
the floor onto himself in an attempt to look presentable, Josh stared
himself in the mirror. What happened last night? Why was this
re-occurring? No matter how much medication he took, Josh’s
schizophrenia-induced insomnia haunted him, nightly. “Focus,
Josh.” Assuring himself, he reached for the medicine cabinet that
lay behind his mirror, and grabbed for his small container of tablets,
his “saving grace”, as the doctors said. Not that Josh knew what
they did, or what they were even called. He just took the pills and
let the visions go away for a while.
“This has to stop man, I can’t be waking up every morning to a
bomb going off next door, for God’s sake!” Matt’s voice came into
presence as Josh strolled into the kitchen. “Ah yes,” Josh smirked,
“because I love insomnia.” Matt chuckled slightly, but there was
an edge to his smile, a certain fake nature. Neither Josh nor Matt
knew what was going on, and it scared the both of them. Filling a
glass of orange juice, Josh threw two multi-coloured pills into his

mouth. Drowning them in the ocean of orange, Josh let out a breath
of relief. “Might skip breakfast, Matt.” Josh pushed himself away
from the chair he was leaning on and stretched his arms as wide as
he could. “Wouldn’t want to be late for philosophy.” “Fair enough,”
dribbled Matt, midways through stuffing himself with toast.
Josh slammed the door of his college dorm room, saluted by the
faint gargling goodbyes of Matt. Grabbing his bike that lay against
the frosted bike stands, Josh felt for a moment a feeling of clarity
in his mind. His cycle to his first lecture of the day, philosophy,
was that of a monotonous one. However, this did not change Josh’s
opinion on philosophy, as it was one of his favourite classes of the
day. His mind was painted with vivid pictures as he cycled down
the road. As Josh cycled across a zebra crossing, Icarus flew over his
head into the rising sun. Josh felt warmth as he saw these visions as
a break from the terrors of the night.
“Okay, class,” droned Josh’s lecturer. A small and stubby man,
he stood with an exhausted posture at the front of the class.
“Today, we will learn about an extremely famous philosopher and
diplomat.” Josh sniffled from the cold of the hall and opened his
copy. “Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli, and his key belief; the
ends justify the means.”
For forty minutes, Josh was left in awe. At the cruel nature of man,
49

and the lengths that some people would go to for glory, only to
justify it all in the end. Unusually, for some strange feeling, instead
of being repulsed, Josh felt a, eerie attraction to the ideology.
Rushing out of his lecture hall, Josh bumped into several people, but
instead of feeling guilt or shame, Josh felt better than he had ever
felt before.
Frantically pedalling down the road back to his dorm room, Josh
noticed that the zebra crossing was no longer filled with the beauty
of ancient mythology, but instead, the creatures that haunted him
in the deep of night were almost, in a sense, envisioned on the road,
slithering to and fro. Josh no longer felt afraid of them though, and
now felt an unnatural urge to be like them. To cause harm, and
fulfil what he needed to fulfil. After all, it was a human’s purpose to
fulfil their duty.
Josh crashed through the door of his college dorm. “Jesus, ever
think of knock-” “Shut your stupid mouth,” spat Josh, an
undeniable tone of pure malice in his voice. “Josh, would you ever
get over your-” “I SAID SHUT IT!” shrieked Josh, all calmness
eliminated from his voice. Out of nowhere, Josh flung his fist,
almost uncontrollably, and it connected with a crack to Matt’s jaw.
It was as if the room froze in time. “Josh, what the hell is going
on!?” Matt stared at Josh so intensely with such betrayal that it

would break even the worst soul, but Josh was inanimate at this
point. Then, with a final air of malevolence, Josh managed a few
words. “Do you ever learn?” Reaching for the cultlery drawer, Josh
drew a large kitchen cleaver. All blood drained from Matt’s eyes,
as his eyes sparkled in the dim reflecting metal. “You … you don’t
have to do this.”
Josh closed the door of his dorm gently behind him. All was quiet.
All was silenced.
Silence at last.
51

Spark of Beauty
Kaila Patterson

There was beauty in the nothingness. A void of wonderful
emptiness, without the slightest hint of a sound or the spark of a
star. When I stared at the blank ebony around my body, I wondered
whether I was trapped inside my own consciousness. It reminded
me of shutting my eyes and seeing a void. Perhaps I was destined to
float around this space-like place for the rest of eternity.
I was not alone. That I quickly understood, as a warmth tickled my
skin resembling a figure walking past, and a low chuckle sounded
so wonderful among the silence. My heart throbbed. A thick sense
of a presence lingered all around. While I could not see this force, I
knew there was a new existence.
“Is this the future?” I whispered.
“Not quite,” a dark voice mused, their words settling in the
atmosphere, yet no face becoming clear. “This is your pathway to
it.”
My brow wrinkled. My human heart was brimming with curiosity.
“Am I dead?”
“Half and half.” Their chuckling continued. “Let’s say, for now,
you’re in a void.”
“It does feel that way.”
“Indeed.”
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I gulped. “So, can I see what the world will become?”
“If you wish,” the voice began. Perhaps this higher power rules our
existence, I thought. “Firstly, I recommend that you consider the
past.”
“How did I get this power?”
“I don’t know.” They seemed to reflect on this. “You’re probably
some writer’s superhuman protagonist.”
“That doesn’t explain how I can time-travel.”
“It’s fiction, they get away with it.”
As I began to argue, vibrant blobs appeared before me. Visions of
the past. Explosions of colour flashed ahead with sparks of indigo,
lemon and periwinkle. Historical moments were unveiled before my
present gaze.
One depicted soldiers with roaring-red faces, slashing swords
against one another. Splashes of crimson flew out of the blade.
Unearthly screams echoed through the silence, crackling for decades
as they faded out of existence. Their weapons sliced with brutal
swings, battling without mercy in the boiling heat of war.
Another vision appeared. It showed tears spilling onto a path in
an endless river. They splashed against the ground as gleaming
droplets, the built-up sorrows of all of humanity seemed to flooding
the world at once. A throb of grief struck my heart, seeming to split

the organ in two.
A third vibrant dot came into focus. It showed the Earth crumbling
to a fiery crisp, melting icebergs dissolved to haunting glittery
streams, and forests swallowed by starving flames in a tragically
eloquent dance. Our planet became nothingness.
“Do you see the past?” the voice asked, startling me a little. “That
is only a snippet. You do understand, don’t you? Human beings
ruined themselves. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust that they will
treasure the future.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Why would you, then?”
I thought. “There are good people.”
“Oh, yes.” The voice scoffed. “As evidenced by how they
slaughtered each other.”
“Why are you being mean?”
“Why are you being delusional?” It chuckled once more.
“Humanity has failed many times over, through war and grief and,
quite frankly, by crushing their own planet. What makes you put
faith in the future?”
My brain felt wrecked for an answer. Instead, I reflected on my
memories. Indeed there was horror lingering throughout the
world - unforgivable acts occurred every day and surely time was
55

slipping out of our hands. However, I recalled thousands – even
millions – of people campaigning for the future of our world. There
were human beings that lifted a child with a sore knee, hugged
a friend when they needed it. Even in the darkest of times there
were, albeit rare, decision makers shaking hands for peace to fill
nations. It would be foolish to disregard the ache of humanity, the
sadness overflowing the world and the bitter reality of society. Yet
somewhere, perhaps tucked in the deepest crevice of my heart, there
sat my love for the sparks of beauty in each day.
“I want to visit the future,” I declared.
“Are you sure?” Shock filled their voice. “You do know the world
has been cruel?”
“Yes.”
“Wicked.”
“I know.”
“Unforgivable.”
“That is true.”
They paused. “What makes you think the future will be any
different?”
“The world has beautiful elements too, I think.” I reflected. “Yes, it
does.”
“Such as?”

“Love.”
“Quite rare.”
“Peace.”
“Occasionally.”
“People.”
“Albeit bad.”
I shook my head. “I will take the leap into the future.”
“Why?”
“I trust the goodness of humanity more than I should, I think. I
firmly believe that somewhere, somehow, there are good people
with good souls and good intentions. Maybe the world will still have
evil in the future. Actually, that’s for certain. I’ll take the risk for
the chance of goodness, too, though.”
“You’re a fool.”
“Maybe so.”
My foot nudged forward and I realized, as I stared at the swirling
blackness beneath me, that I was standing on a ledge. Through the
darkness, I could not see what would become of me. What would the
future hold? I did not know. Yet I knew people, I knew love, I knew
that a spark of beauty might exist just beyond the ledge. That was
good enough for me.
I leaped. My feet kicked aimlessly around as my gut dropped and
57

I felt my body tumbling into the void. The future, a hundred years
ahead of us. No glimpses of this unknown realm were revealed to
me, yet the faith in my chest was bright enough.
Would the future be devoid of goodness?
Somehow, I doubted it.

59

Leap of Faith
Stanka Dude

Blake’s vision is blurred, the wind howling in his ears as he speeds
fast on his bike, trying and failing to reach the street where it
happens.
Every morning, at 7:42 am on the dot, the same man falls - not
jumps - from the window of an eight-storey building, a wide grin
on his face as he collides with the pavement below, leaving a brutal
masterpiece of red.
How, you may ask, is this possible?
Time has always been a fickle thing for Blake. Never-ending for
him, and now, it is forcing him to repeat the same day over and
over.
Always a second too late, no matter what he does, to ever find the
killer. He knows there is a killer; too many deaths under the same
circumstances for it not to be.
Almost there, just a bit more to go till he reaches the place where it
all unfolds.
A faint static starts in the back of his mind, a sign that the loop is
61

going to collapse soon.
Blake finally turns the last corner and reaches the street where
it happens. He speeds up, almost flying past the building in his
blurred rush to get there. He ditches the bike on the sidewalk the
second that it’s safe enough to stop. Looking up at the tall building,
he doesn’t see the falling man, in his failed imitation of an angel.
A shot of relief floods through his veins, somehow he has managed
to arrive earlier than every previous loop. He doesn’t spare a second
thought on what could have possibly caused the change.
Just as he’s about to enter the building, a sound echoes through the
alley on the other side of the street. Blake turns back to see what
has caused it, right as his vision falters and momentarily goes black.
He walks into the building, ignoring the people who try to question
why he is there. He ignores their cries of protest as he continues
forwards, an air of determination around him. He runs into the
stairwell, heading up to the by now familiar floor. The seventh floor,
to be exact, a deadly drop. Just what he needs right now. The man,
the murder victim, is standing by the open window.
Blake smiles eerily at the man before calmly walking over to him.
The man doesn’t notice until it is too late, and he is already falling
out of the window, an unsuspecting smile on his face. It has all
happened so quickly.

Blake turns away, using the horrified commotion of the other people
in the room as a chance to escape from the building. His vision is
already fading as he runs down the stairs, before he blacks out again
as soon as he gets outside.
Blake blinks, feeling a bit dizzy for some reason. Not seeing
anything in the alley, he turns back to the building. He notices the
crumpled, blood-soaked body of the man. He is once again too late.
The static in his ears grows to deafening volumes again as the loop
restarts once more...
63

The Flower Upon my Window Sill
Saoirse Laverly

I see this flower every day,
Perched upon my window sill.
Every day its beauty enchants me,
Leads me to believe in its immortality.
Though one day
I enter my room,
Glance towards the beautiful flower,
And notice the slight hue of brown in one of its petals.
Day after day I water the flower,
But my efforts are futile,
As it starts to wither and die.
Eventually one day I enter my room,
Gaze towards the once beautiful flower,
And see that it is but only a brown heap of petals,
Lying on the surface of my window sill.
I take a few steps back and look down.
I notice below it,
Photographs displayed in frames on my bedside table.
Photographs of myself:
Age three, age five, age nine;
65

And I think to myself “Someday, I too shall wither away as this
flower has. No being has the power to escape time.”
I left that room that day and started living.
Though before any living could take place,
I wandered back into the room,
Scooped up the petals (they were as fragile as glass due to the life
having left them) into my hand,
And threw them out the window,
Into the cool, fresh, morning air,
Setting them free.
Forget-me-not
In the field,
Swaying in the breeze,
You walk by,
But you forget me.
I talk,
Though no one listens.
Why must everyone forget me?
I work the hardest I can,

On the brink of perfection,
Though through it all,
I still receive rejection.
I make myself pretty,
For the hope of recognition.
I bloom, I blossom,
But receive little affection.
Am I not beautiful,
Am I not smart,
Do I not have a
Kind heart?
Though, one day,
A woman stops on the spot,
“Oh what a beautiful flower!”
Forget me - not?
67

White Mice
Ben Lynch

He walked in the snow ridden air, heading towards where the white
mice were told to be. Lunging brutishly forward he could not accept
his sluggish speed. His movement, so unlike that of the snowflakes
which allowed themselves to fall and float wistfully through the
air with tranquillity and grace. Today, he had no time for such
imaginings, he had to keep advancing to find the elusive white
mice.
in a place where all other colours were extinct, nestled inside snow
crystals the white mice lived. Creatures rich with red, black and
purple, bulging curved cells and articulate systems inside, on the
outside were invisible white, like the rest of this place, dead to
his naked eye. But they were there, breathing in and out in sound
unheard to anything else with ears. An inhale of breath, that only
they could understand. The man walked a few paces more and
looked out for the white willow tree that had been prescribed for
him to find, where the mice were most commonly found. Very few
had ever been caught. He’d catch one - he’d be added to the listwith
clenched teeth and eyes still sensitised to this dire brightness,
and heaving thumping boots to the ground, the ground like him,
had shock to its normality. Black boots pounding its usually
untouched surface.
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‘I saw the outlines of it once- of that, I’m certain, its little head
graced the snow like lily pads on the lake dear boy.’
‘Did you catch it though?’
His eyes dropped, almost as if white had replaced his blue pupils.
‘No. No I didn’t. I spent hours, leaping, clawing my hands through
the ground, it was like trying to grab a fly. Well, eventually I got too
cold, my hands felt nicked with blades of glass. I made my way back
home.’
‘You could have known the future! Yet you just gave up from some
cold hands!?’
‘Easy there son…I know. I tried. Alas, what can I say? My bones
went cold and I knew it was time to rest’
‘And you never returned?’
‘Oh I did- a few times more. Unfortunately, I never saw such
outlines again, the first time was when I was the closest.’
‘So how many people have caught one, dad?’
‘Only three accounted cases: the first, a great explorer, the one
in our book, just up there son, he discovered them. He saw mice
that many before him had missed. Travelling through that wintery
terrain he was hungry and spotted one. By mere chance I’d think, he
simply picked it up and cut it up to cook- it was then that he looked
into its purplish glow inside and was transfixed to see his whole

future before him.’
‘Wow. The other two?’
‘It was more than a hundred years after. A man from Kentucky, a
very rich man; He had brought thirty men with him, after weeks
of hunting, eventually one of his workers caught it for him.
Apparently, he ripped it in half with his two bare hands.’
‘What did he do then, after he knew his future?’
‘Money, money, money, son. and then died of a heart attack a few
years later, haha.’
‘haha.’
‘And the third, well he’s locked up in the looney bin now. A few
years ago, not too much information on him. He was arrested for
obstructing public buses all over the city one day. He’d board them
and scream at drivers to stop driving, knifing tires, even standing
on the road in protest. He was taken in of course. It was said that a
few days later his son had been hit by a bus and died.’
‘If he knew that was going to happen? Why didn’t he just tell his
son to stay home to prevent it? Surely that would have been simpler’
‘Most people don’t believe in the white mice. He must have not.
You don’t have to if you don’t want to, son. It’s only the people who
want to, that do.’
‘I want to.’
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‘Haha, me too.’
‘To finding the future!’
they both exclaimed.
Propped down between nothingness and nothingness, the tall
and wise willow tree, with its colours clear and crystal, white like
ice with large, fibrous spider cobwebbed roots, reaching from its
slender branches. He sighed out into the icy air, how beautiful, but
before he could take in the moment he realised the mice were there
to be spotted- he must concentrate- not be wandered away by the
willow’s elegance. Wandering like the snowflakes that have such
lightnes- He stamped his foot, ignored the distractions, squinted
and fell to the ground to try to reach their level. Where be these
magical mice?
The hours fell and the ground grew heavier on his freezing knees.
His eyes were painted with bare whiteness as they desperately
wished to shut and see sleep. Every bump or crevice he saw, he was
tricked into thinking it was a mouse.
His bones went cold.
About to fall asleep,

He soaks in the feeling of tiredness for a moment and although
things are not panning out the way they’re supposed to, his tired
eyes rest under calm dancing snowflakes by an ancient willow tree.
His eyes slowly re-open, he feels the subtlest twinge on his chest.
No it can’t be. He must be dreaming. A small white mouse lays
resting on his chest, using him for warmth. It’s tiny pebble nose,
slowly moving in and out. And it’s dainty shut eyes like little pencil
marks.
The man urgently drops his hands onto his chest, crushing the
sleeping mouse with a little squeak.
‘YESSS!’ he screams.
He grabs the knife from his pocket, deeply inhales and cuts it open
to see…
Purple…dread…and horror. Death and crying, tears upon fears.
What has he done?
The future is now everything, its horror clouds the once clear sky.
And suddenly, he wished that he had lain there like a tree or a fallen
73

snowflake, looking at the mouse as it slept, letting it live.
But now he knew the future,
And the present moment was no more.

75

You Don’t Belong Here
Daniel Molyneux

“Ganil Steele, you have been found guilty of high treason against
Great Reikean. You attempted to destroy this very building and
trigger a mass jailbreak. The virtuous people of the world have
named you a traitor to the Supreme Humanity, corrupted by the
Inferiors.”
The Cleanser recited the Final Message, the words that marked the
end of my life in this world. Dirty, bloody steel gripped my body, not
caring for the skin that had been whipped, electrocuted and burnt
from the days in the Cleansing Facilities’ holding cells.
The metal arms pulled me ever closer to the portal, ethereal,
shapeless, colourless. It warped and pulled the light around it, like a
black hole. I was past its event horizon.
The Cleanser turned to me again. Even through the black helmet,
I could tell he was smiling. This was his favourite part of the job.
“You are a vile abomination to this universe and your sickness will
be punished without mercy. You don’t belong here.” The arms
pulled back, ready to send me through. I shut my eyes tight. “Good
riddance.”
The arms swung violently and let go. I was flung through the portal,
into another world.
77

Cold air hit my face and for a moment, while my eyes were still
closed, I felt… weightless. Only when I heard shouting did I open
them.
I was levitating over a street of men wearing hats and suits. Some
rode trams and carriages. Dozens of heads were pointed up at me,
eyes wide with concern, and unblinking with morbid curiosity.
The light from the Cleansing Chamber was still leaking through, and
I was suspended two stories high. It was only a few seconds before-
The portal shut and gravity took me in its brutal grip. My stomach
lurched. The ground raced toward me, and I braced for impact.
Three men leapt out of the crowd and caught me. The bystanders
clapped and cheered for them as I was set down on the cobblestone
pavement. I sat there, eyes closed for a few seconds, but I smelled
something putrid.
I’d smelled death before. At the time, I thought it was the worst
stench possible. I was deeply, undeniably wrong. What assaulted
my nose was similar to the coppery, nauseating smell of blood, but
it was inescapably potent. It was as if the horrid air was seeping
into my skin. More than that, it felt like it was entering my mind. It
infected my thoughts with a single message.
You don’t belong here.
You don’t belong here.

You don’t belong here.
I looked down. The cracks between the cobblestone pavement
were oozing, bubbling a festering red. It stained the puddles and
corrupted the air. I looked up again. The crowd of people were
frozen in place. Staring at me.
I saw their eyes.
They were completely bolted on me, almost bursting from their
sockets, bulging veins red as the liquid oozing from the ground. In
their gaze I saw a deep, suffocating hatred, so overwhelming they
couldn’t move or even think. Their breathing had turned to a silent
choke. Every muscle trembled with rage.
It wasn’t just the crowd, either. Everywhere I could see, people
stood twitching, all their attentions fixed onto me. Horses stopped
pulling their carriages and stared. Birds glared from trees and
lampposts and rats came out into the street in hordes.
The blood bubbled more ferociously, turning scorching hot. I jumped
up to avoid being scalded. It leaked into my prison shoes though,
burning at my feet. I cried out in pain, but everyone else stayed
silent. They started closing in on me, and I scrambled backwards
into the wall. Desperately, I pressed myself against it, wishing
I could phase through it like a phantom. The smell invaded me
further.
79

You don’t belong here.
You don’t belong here.
“YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.” The horde screamed at me in perfect
unison as they approached quicker.
I pressed my hands against the wall and felt a knob. I ripped the
door open, rushed through the building and clambered up the stairs.
When I reached the top floor, I ran into the first room I could find.
There was someone there.
They stood in front of the window, already staring at me, like they
knew exactly where I was the whole time. Seething, they started
towards me.
The window’s open wide enough.
I threw myself at them, pushing them to the other end of the room,
just next to the window. They clawed at me, tearing off skin and
I slammed them against the wall with a horrid crack. They dug
their teeth into my shoulder and drew blood. I grabbed them again,
turned them toward the window and shoved them off their feet
through the opening.
They landed on their back in the lake of blood. As if in retaliation,
the ground spewed red geysers and turned so blisteringly hot that
the person’s skin melted instantly, like a pink puddle on red dirt.
Fiery air hit my face, and I ducked back behind the window,

shutting it to prevent birds from flying in. The horde was already
melting outside. They weren’t going to get me. There might still be
people in the other rooms. I blocked the door with all the furniture I
could find.
The blood wasn’t going to stop rising, and the other people would
probably be able to break down the door anyway.
So that only left me one option.
I sat on the floor and prayed.
If there is a God somewhere, please, please take me back. I’d do
anything. Please, have mercy.
Some intuition told me that someone heard my prayer. They had a
message for me, spoken in a garbled, piercing voice distorted with
rage, as if every being was screaming at once.
YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.
81

Back to hell, then to heaven.
Crystal

It’s been eleven months since Freya died.
World War Two ended a few months after she sacrificed herself. But
none of it matters.
We were running. Running through the halls and the alleyways of
the prison. The guards were coming after us but her hand was in
mine and I was sure we would both escape.
But when we reached the gates, she let go and grabbed the lever to
close the gate.
“Hm Freya! Come on!”
She smiled sadly.
“They need a distraction, Annika.”
“But-“
“Live on, ‘Nika.”
I screamed her name as one of the grownups dragged me onto the
boat out and I watched them yank my sister away. She was still
smiling.
And now I stand on the rooftop of one of the buildings they planned
to use for finances. It’ll be bulldozed soon. The only possession I
had when I left that place was a cross. I kept god with me on my
way out of hell. I made it. I’m in the real world. And I don’t find
it any better. I find it worse, only because my sister is not there
83

for me. I hold the cross up to the sky and the light shines off of it.
Passersby might look up and see me. So see they the act of cruelty
which they let go on for so long, that which will rage on, even if war
has ended.
As I stand on the dead edge of the building, I turn it upside down
and let it slip through my fingers. If heaven has mercy in my soul, I
will arrive in heaven before the cross shatters. I tip my body forward
and let the wind carry me down so that I may be able to touch the
golden crucifix before we meet death at the end of this journey.
Back towards hell, and then a quick turn upwards. I really hope I go
upwards.
The last sound is of shattering metal and bones cracking. And then
darkness.

85

Leap Forward To Leap
Backward
Ishaan Thakkar

I stared at the portal.
It yawned at me, calling me to it.
But I knew it didn’t exist.
It was virtual. A dream, a wish.
I would break my legs if I tried falling into it.
And yet its persuasion didn’t fail.
It would bring me back, to whenever I wanted.
To when I wished to take action the most.
I couldn’t tell it myself.
It was stubborn. It would read my mind.
It knew more about me
than myself. I obliged to its calls.
I leapt.
I leapt forward to leap back.
Back in time, before the grief.
As I fell, I pondered to when I would reach
the time where I could do what I should have.
To say what I wanted, to act and to cherish the time
87

that was left. Before it was too late.
Before I regretted doing nothing before.
Before I valued it after.
Before the tears were spilt and existence ceased.
Before I could no longer hear the voice laugh
ever again. I wouldn’t let the opportunity go.
I leapt forward to leap back.
To lessen the pain of the sand that I helplessly watched
slip through my hands. The portal neared me.
I couldn’t contain my disappointment.
When I landed on it.
Rather than through it.
It was fake. I knew as well.
The portal wasn’t the one persuading my mind to jump
It was me.

89

Beloved
Stephen Meehan

“She feels some ghastly Fright come up / And stop to look at her”
Emily Dickinson, The Soul has Bandaged moments”
I stared down at the bottle, the liquid inside as shaky as
I was. The warm feeling of a tear streaked down my face as I
reflected on what I’d done up to this point. How I had fallen so far
from where I once was. I had a perfect life. A family, friends, even
a lover. Yet that all has been burned away. The person I had loved
so much, Charlie, had been taken from this world, from me and in
my grief, I destroyed everything else I’d held dear. I had lost the
white light of my life and it had been replaced by this endless black
darkness. My remaining loved ones tried to help me, but I hurt
them. Maybe because I felt someone deserved to hurt as much as
I did or maybe because I didn’t feel I deserve the love they tried to
give me. I wanted to fall down into endless nothingness and drown
in apathy for life. When I put the bottle to my lips and tried to
swallow the tear-filled drink, I couldn’t stomach it and spat some
of it out. I always despised the taste of alcohol but I would rather
drown than feel the scars that encompassed my soul. But time
91

wouldn’t wait for me to find my feet. I had to try to stand despite
everything in my body begging me not to. My bones ached and I felt
as my stomach churned all over again. I collapsed over the toilet and
felt the weight of my choices flow out, unsure if this was because of
the drink or because of my mind refusing my feelings. I had barely
spoken or even thought in days. All I could think about was the
memories of what had happened. The guards arrived at my house to
inform me that Charlie was dead, hit by a drunk driver and ripped
away from my life and replaced with this blackness that consumed
me. I remember my family trying to console my pain and my
lashing out at them, driving them away and saying terrible things
to them that I wouldn’t repeat even to myself. I just wanted it all
to stop. I wanted my mind to just switch off and to fall into endless
blackness. No-one trying to save my soul. Peace at last. I considered
it for the briefest of moments, leaving this world, but then I heard
them. Charlie.
I rose to my feet. I noticed that my feet never left the ground yet
somehow I still moved forward. I ran in fact, for the first time in
what felt like forever I wanted something. I wanted this to be real
and not one of the dreams that haunted me at night. I moved to my
living room, the place that we’d shared the most with each other.

Somehow, my beloved sat there, awaiting me. I longed for this to
be real, I took a seat next to Charlie and took their hands, and felt
a warmth that I had missed. A warmth that brought me home and
returned that peace I had ached so long for. It brought me calm. I
tried my best to make words, to tell Charlie all I wished to say to
them. I spoke but the air remained ever still. But somehow Charlie
understood the silence and cut me off
“It’s ok” they said with a look that made me think it would be. “I’m
here now”.
How this was even possible wasn’t something I really cared to
think about, I just longed for it to be real. That by some miracle, my
beloved had returned to me. We embraced each other and only then
had I realised how black and white things were. Unnaturally black
and white, like an old photograph. I remember this night. It was
the night I realised that I loved Charlie. I had thought I was going to
lose a close friend and Charlie was there, reminding me that it was
ok. They reminded me that the people that we lose would want us
to keep going to honour their memory. They would want us to keep
fighting. To keep trying.
Then Charlie let go and looked at me in the way I had missed for so
long. The look they had when they wanted me to do something for
them and this time, I knew exactly what they wanted.
93

“Time to wake up now”
With a simple snap of their fingers, the colour returned, Charlie
was gone and I sat there, alone again. But I now understood that
I couldn’t just sit in my pain forever, regardless of how much I
wanted to. I rose to my feet and left my home for the first time in
as long as I could remember. I was going to do what Charlie would
have wanted me to do and heal. It wasn’t going to be an easy path
and things weren’t going to be how they were before but I have to
try. I have to honour Charlie, my beloved.

95

Paper Butterflies
Lily Rose Boss

Leaping… falling…no definitely leaping. But leaping into what
exactly? There is nothing to be seen here, and no direction to be
sure of.
That is until I awaken to a bright light, spewing needles from above.
I wipe tired, dusty eyes and bend forward, I’m in a wide room with
green and yellow marbled walls and laying on a bed of various
papers, the majority of them yellowing with neglect, ink written
and…floating?
I looked up again (with a cautious hand this time.) to notice a
slowly moving spiral conjured by even more letters, each one
transfigured into small delicate butterflies gliding around each other
until they sprawled out into the bright light.
I stood up carefully, hoping not to rip any sheets as I moved. I began
to walk around the room, realising the pool of paper expanded to
the edges of the walls that I noticed were also intricately decorated
in a language I could not read.
There was also a small desk and chair in a tight corner that I almost
hadn’t found with numerous envelopes covering its view.
97

Upon the desk was a quill and ink pot, a stamp, a letter opener and
two trays, one saying ‘Lost’ and the other saying ‘Found’.
Each item on the desk was littered in a symbol of a butterfly with its
wings spread wide, whether it was the desk having the insect carved
throughout or as a topper for the letter opener there was a clear
obsession to whoever actually owned this place.
‘Where have I gotten myself to now?’ I wondered.
Sitting down on the chair (also having wooden butterflies swarming
the legs in the same motion as the paper ones) peering at the only
thing that remained void of anything interesting other than what
was probably inside: one envelope staring directly at me, beckoning
me to open it.
I continued my glare, so did it, neither of us breaking eye contact
until,
“Okay, okay, you win.”
I grabbed the letter opener and could’ve sworn the blank cover
smirked at me when I turned it over as if to say ‘Told you I would
win.’

I drove the blade through the letter in one swoop when the
realisation of
‘What am I doing looking through people’s post?’ set in.
My guilt stopped me from going any further, my hand barely
touching the letter. I turned the letter back around and sat back into
the chair, only for me to lurch back forward in pain.
“What?” I managed to get out, an enormous pain erupted across my
back, pulsating throughout my entire body.
My face now pressed against the letter on the desk, the paper
bearing a blank expression as it watched me wither around.
My legs finally gave way and dropped me down onto the soft
ground.
“What?!?” I asked again, screaming so they wouldn’t claw my back
open to rid the pain.
My back broke open, I think, and I let out a cry that took me a
moment to realise it was my own.
I fell flat on the floor once more, this time on my stomach, the pain
slowly dying out, as tears flowed down my face, smudging some of
the writing on an off-white letter, making the words barely legible.
99

“So…” I heard a playful voice from above me, “You’re the new
Butterfly?”
Somehow, I managed to lift myself from the ground enough to see
a masked figure wearing a white rubber coat that came to their
ankles.
“Butter…fly?” My voice was raspy now “W-who?”
“You of course!” They said full of delight, clasping their hands
together. “Just look at your beautiful wings!”
“Excuse me?!?” I yelled, adrenaline beating fatigue as I noticed
the corners of two enormous wings in colours of cobalt and violet
swirling about like watercolour paints.
The masked figure’s arms now crossed behind their back and leaned
down to me
“Well, you brought this upon yourself didn’t you?” They asked,
serious.
“The envelopes can be enticing but I still couldn’t believe you
actually opened one.”

They stifled a laugh that could’ve become manic.
“You did end up falling here though, Realm Jumper.”
“Leap.” I corrected through clenched teeth.
“It’s all the same really.” They countered, tone becoming angrier
with each remark.
“I really hope you don’t decide to accidentally fall into another
Realm too soon though, this part of the prison is really understaffed
right now.”
They crouched down to my level, grabbing my jaw. “Don’t worry
now, it’s an easy enough job, all you need to do is read the letters,
stamp them and decide if they will become lost works or be found
and read by whoever they are for.”
They got up and walked towards a wall, a hand reaching up before
stopping in their tracks to look back at me,
“If any letters come to you talking about the prison, make sure to
put them in lost. We wouldn’t want the word to get out, and yes,
there are consequences for you too by working here, so if they are
found…”
101

Their voice suddenly got chipper. “Well I don’t know, No other
Butterfly has ever attempted to do such a thing.
With that, they knocked on the wall, which opened up only to close
abruptly as they stepped into a white room.
Where had I leapt to?

103

Defiance of Fate
Isabella Murphy

The ground shook below me, the earth itself trembling as it
activated. The machine began to glow, wires and metal sheets
illuminated with a glow that grew brighter, brighter, consuming
everything around it in its blinding light.
And there I was, standing before it as it worked, watching as the
run-down building began to crumble around it, ready to collapse at
any moment. But even if the roof caved in within that very second,
it would not stop what had started. Nothing would. It would not
matter if this planet was cut clean in two, because the machine was
already in motion, an unstoppable force that I had made with my
own two hands. And wasn’t that an amazing thing, to know that
I had made something like this all on my own, a defiance of fate
itself.
Fate had failed me, had failed everyone, and so with rusted metal
and tangled wires salvaged from the ruins of cities, I had made
something that would save us all.
105

There was nothing left for me here, in a world with cities reduced
to rubble, with still bodies splayed across cracked streets, with
nobody alive for millions of miles. There was nothing left for me at
this time. But hope had bloomed for me despite it all, like the most
resilient of wildflowers, shooting up from the ground and growing
whether it must pierce through soft soil or concrete, and I began to
create. I took parts from anywhere and everywhere that I could, and
at last, I could go back.
There was nothing left for me now, but that would not matter if I
was not in the present.
The light only grew, searing my eyes until I was forced to close
them, and yet even then it shone so brilliantly that my eyelids could
no longer shelter me from the near-painful light. It was as if I had
brought the blinding light of heaven to stand before me, and yet this
was all my own creation. To call this a miracle would be an insult.
No, this was not a miracle, but the culmination of blood and sweat
and tears, of years alone and miserable, and, most of all, of hope.
As the light became nearly unbearable, I felt the earth tremble once
more, the very ground I stood upon shuddering with anticipation,

and then, in an instant, that very ground seemed to disappear from
below me. There was no wind to rush past me, no gravity to pull
me down, only the white light that beamed through my eyelids and
the feeling of my clothes and bag as I vanished from the time that
had once held me.
There, within time itself, I felt it as my body was pulled, not to a
place, but to a time, a feeling that I could describe to you as much
as I could describe color to a blind man. I could speak of it for
hours, but you would never understand it without first feeling it
yourself. Noise came and went, always in reverse, and the light
began to fluctuate as well. At times I heard voices, their speech
reaching my ears in reverse just as every other sound did, sounding
to me like a foreign language, and some of it likely was.
The world reversed around me for what felt like hours, yet I wasn’t
sure I could measure it in time, not when time was the thing I was
hurtling through backwards. I wondered idly how long it would
take, how far back I would go. I would go far enough, of that I
was sure, but when would I end up? I had little knowledge of that,
only that I would not go too far to help. It took what could have
been minutes or days for me to realize that I was slowing down.
107

The reversed noises slowed with me, becoming a long, deep hum in
my ears, and I braced myself, waiting to land in the time I had sent
myself to. The light faded into a warm glow, and I finally dared to
open my eyes.
The sky, which stood behind a vast forest, was dim, pink and orange
hues following the sun as it hid beneath the treetops. It had been
so long since I had seen this many trees. For an instant, the sun
seemed as if it was rising, the sky brightening, but I knew that I
was still going backwards in time, watching the sunset in reverse
for the last moments of my journey. I took a deep breath, pulling
fresh air into my lungs as I stood in the clearing.
And the sun began to set.

109

It’s a Leap of Faith
Jack Leahy

I’m trapped inside a cylinder. I can’t remember my own name. I
have no idea what the f*ck is happening.
“Help! Anyone?! Let me out!!!” I bang on the thick plate of misted
glass trapping me.
No response.
Taking in my surroundings, they feel… familiar. In front of me, a
rectangular glass plate, and all around me, smooth white material.
There are a few small holes on either side at neck height, but
pressing them and shouting at them doesn’t seem to do anything.
There’s also a rectangular indent above the glass, and pressing on
that does do something.
The glass flashes blue, and instantly becomes transparent. Beyond
it, I see a room. There’s an elevated cushion thing in the centre, and
the opposite wall seems to be made of solid, natural rock. The right
wall is a cool green colour, and the left wall seems to have a floor
111

to ceiling mirror. The roof emits a warm, calming light. I am not
calmed whatsoever, and hit the glass again.
It opens.
Falling forward, I have a few moments to accept my fate. No… more
than a few moments. I’m falling much more slowly than I should
be. I feel lighter, almost like the sensation you get when you’re in
freefall. I hit the ground softly and lift myself back up, then look
around.
The weird room doesn’t seem to have an exit. The mirrored wall,
upon closer inspection, has a glowing blue circle midway up the
glass on the left side, roughly the size of my fingertip. I press it.
What can I say, homo sapiens have a natural instinct to press glowy
screen things.
“HELLO!” a cheery, disembodied voice fills the room, and a bright
“:D” icon appears on the mirror-screen, startling me. “WOULD YOU
LIKE CLOTHES?”
It then occurs to me that I am, in fact, not wearing clothes.

“WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO PROVIDE YOU WITH CLOTHES? :)”
“Wh-what?!”
“I AM SORRY IF I FRIGHTENED YOU. I AM A COMPUTERISED
ENTITY. MY JOB IS TO ASSIST YOU. FEEL FREE TO ASK ME
ANYTHING. :3”
“Oh… ok.”
“SIGNS INDICATE THAT YOU ARE IN A STATE OF SHOCK OR PANIC.
I AM SORRY. WOULD YOU LIKE HELP?”
“N-no, just tell me what’s going on.”
“OF COURSE. COINCIDENTALLY, A LETTER WAS RECENTLY
DELIVERED HERE, ADDRESSED TO YOU. I BELIEVE IT WILL
CONTAIN THE ANSWERS TO YOUR POSSIBLE QUESTIONS.”
A rectangular hole opens in the green wall, and out slides a large
tray carrying a set of nondescript clothes, an odd-smelling cup of
tea, and a wax-sealed letter.
113

“And why is this information being conveyed to me in the form of
an old timey letter?”
“OH. WE THOUGHT THAT IT WOULD BE THE MOST
COMPREHENSIBLE FORM OF COMMUNICATION FOR YOU.
HOWEVER WE MAY HAVE… SLIGHTLY MISCALCULATED THE
COMMUNICATION METHODS USED IN YOUR TIME PERIOD. WOULD
YOU LIKE IT TRANSCRIBED?”
“No, it’s fine— Wait, my time period? What?”
“AH. I THINK IT WOULD BE BEST FOR YOU TO READ THE LETTER.
SAMEKH HAS A WAY WITH WORDS THAT I LACK.”
I almost ask who this Samekh person is, but decide to shut up and
read the letter.
“So… so… I’m like 975 years in the future? That’s… that’s a lot to
take in.”
“CORRECT.”

I draw in a shaky breath.
“Ok… first of all, what’s Quaoar? What’s the Kuiper Belt?”
“ARE YOU NOT GOING TO ASK ABOUT THE NIGH IMMORTALITY
THING?”
“I-I think that for the sake of my sanity, I’ll just… ignore all of the
crazy shit for now.”
“OF COURSE. AS FOR YOUR QUESTIONS, QUAOAR IS A DWARF
PLANET, AND THE KUIPER BELT IS A RING OF ASTEROIDS AND
DWARF PLANETS SURROUNDING OUR SOLAR SYSTEM.”
“Huh… I think that’s also going in the crazy-stuff-to-ignore box.”
“YES, IT WILL PROBABLY TAKE TIME TO ADJUST. :)”
“And what about the ‘states, capitalism, and hierarchical social
structures don’t exist’ thing? What does that mean?”
“AH. THIS IS WHERE MUCH OF THE ADJUSTMENT MIGHT BE
115

NEEDED. SIMPLY PUT, ANARCHISM IS THE MOST COMMON
POLITICAL SYSTEM IN THE SOL AND ALPHA CENTAURI STAR
SYSTEMS–”
“Wait, anarchism as in looting-destruction-chaos anarchy?”
“NOT REALLY. ANARCHY AS IN DIRECT DEMOCRACY, A FOCUS ON
COOPERATION AND COMMUNITY AND MUTUAL AID. :0”
“Huh.”
“MAYBE THAT IS ALSO SOMETHING TO PUT IN YOUR
METAPHORICAL BOX?”
“Yeahhhhh.”
*
The next two days pass relatively quickly. I get used to the weird
low gravity and try to fend off the existential dread that arises from
being stuck on a tiny planet suspended in a dark void, with everyone
I’ve ever known presumably dead and everything I’m familiar with

erased forever. Just the usual stuff.
I begin to remember small aspects of my past life. I remember the
cryosleeper program, the reason for all this. I still don’t remember
my name.
“HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY? :D”
“Okay-ish.”
“I HAVE GOOD NEWS! SAMEKH IS HERE.”
“Oh?”
The mirror-screen flickers and displays an image of the world
outside. The dark sky is filled with stars, one of which is a bright
blue, and much larger than the others.
“THAT BLUE SHAPE IS THEIR SHIP’S FUSION DRIVE, POINTED
TOWARDS QUAOAR FOR DECELERATION. HOPEFULLY IT DOES NOT
IRRADIATE US TO DEATH. ;)”
117

“Wait, what?!?”
“THAT WAS HUMOUR. DID I DO IT RIGHT?”
“Hmph. So, what’s Samekh like? Are they the leader of your
cryosleeper fanboy community?”
“THE COMMUNITY DOES NOT REALLY HAVE A LEADER, BUT IF
IT DID IT WOULD NOT BE SAMEKH. AS FOR THEIR PERSONALITY,
THEY ARE… UNIQUE. ECCENTRIC BUT HUMBLE (SOMETIMES).
RECLUSIVE BUT WELL-KNOWN (INFAMOUS?). PLAYFUL BUT
KIND. THEY ARE AN ADVENTUROUS INDIVIDUAL, YET THEY ARE
PROBABLY THE BEST PERSON TO HELP YOU INTEGRATE INTO
SOCIETY.”
“They’ll arrive in like an hour, right?”
“CORRECT. YOU HAVE BEEN ASKING ME WHAT TIME IT IS EVERY
FIVE MINUTES.”
“I’m-I’m nervous.”

“OH. WHY ARE YOU NERVOUS?”
“It’s just… it’s so much to take in. I don’t know anything or
anyone, and I understand basically nothing about the world now.
What if I go insane? What if this doesn’t work out?”
“AH. I DO NOT THINK I HAVE A GOOD RESPONSE TO THIS. ‘DON’T
WORRY’ DOES NOT FEEL RIGHT, AND ‘IT WILL BE OK’ FEELS
DISINGENUOUS. ALL I CAN SAY IS THAT IT IS A LEAP OF FAITH. I
CAN ASK YOU TO TRUST ME, BUT IN THE END, IT IS UP TO YOU. IT
IS YOUR CHOICE.”
“Alright.”
119

October 19th 1888
Laoise Finnerty

“Why don’t we see him, why don’t we see him, why don’t we see
him?!” she screamed, her mother’s wedding dress in shreds behind
her.
Her mother looked up from her newspaper, startled. The paper
was lain flat across the table and she was bent over reading it, eyes
frantically skimming the headlines.
There was a reason they didn’t see him. But her mother couldn’t tell
her that. It wasn’t right. Or fair to the girl. After all, she was only
12.
The child’s eyes burned with fury, bulging out of her sockets,
red-rimmed and full of vengeance. In her right hand was a pair
of scissors and she was drowning in white fabric, the frayed ends
trailing onto the floor. She breathed fast and heavily, her chest
heaving and her eyes darting back and forth maniacally. Her mother
Ada worried for her. She was, Ada thought, destined to be just like
her father.
Ada breathed out and attempted to talk to her daughter. “It’s
okay,” she said, in a soothing, tender tone, gently walking up to
her, abandoning the newspaper open on the page it was left at.
“Would you like some tea? I’ll boil the water now.” She attempted
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to take the scissors, but the girl snatched her hand away, staring
at her in unrestrained anger, the conflicted emotions visible on her
face. She should, her mother thought to herself, have been sad to
see her wedding dress go; but she was not. She was numb to it all
now. Anyway, it’s not supposed to be good to become too attached
to anything that belonged to a murderer. Even if all he did was hold
onto it after he put the ring on her finger.
Ada’s fingers edged towards the scissors; she had to try, even now,
for her daughter’s sake, to make her presentable and well-liked,
the opposite of her father. The girl’s attention was diverted, eyes
trained on a spot above her mother’s head. Ada lunged for the
scissors and, just as her fingers grazed the air beside it, a bucket full
of metal came plummeting down towards her head; Ada just about
managed to sidestep before it made contact.
The girl laughed evilly, her mouth stretching itself into a crude grin,
exposing her teeth before she realised Ada had evaded the bucket;
then her daughter frowned in disappointment.
Ada glared at her daughter with her iron gaze and walked into the
kitchen, her every step threatening. Her daughter followed.
“Sit,” Ada commanded.
Her daughter obeyed.
“I need you to understand,” Ada said, her voice almost a whisper,

“that there is a reason…” She swallowed. “...we don’t see your
father. I can’t explain it to you now, but I will in the future.”
The girl looked up with wide, innocent eyes. “But I want to see
him,” she said. “He promised he’d come back to me.”
Ada squinted at her. “What? When did he promise that? And how
would you remember, he left when you were five!”
“He came back,” the girl declared. She noticed Ada’s face growing
paler.
Ada trembled a little but attempted to cover it. “When, sweetie?”
The girl shrugged. “Two days ago.”
“Did you write and tell him we’d moved house? Are you sure it was
him?”
Her daughter shook her head. “No, I didn’t tell him, but it was
definitely him, we have a sort of... connection.”
Ada’s face tightened. “Please tell me you didn’t see your father.”
The girl cocked her head sideways, examining her mother, in the
way Ada often did to others.
She supposed she had been a bad influence on the girl too, though
in a miniscule way compared to her father, thought Ada.
“Yes, I told you I did, why, don’t you like him any more?” The child
frowned. “The girls at school are saying all sorts of things about
you, I’m not sure if I believe them.”
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“What are they saying?”
She smiled. “That you’re a monster, that you never leave the house,
that you don’t feed me properly. They even say…” She paused,
taking a breath. “...that you’re a murderer. But I don’t believe them,
I say, my mother’s too soft to ever kill anyone.”
Ada blinked, looking at her daughter in frozen silence.
“Why didn’t you name me, Mother?” the girl asked. “He did, didn’t
he?” she persisted. “Why didn’t you let me take the name he gave
me?”
She leaned closer. “What did he do?”
Ada remained sitting in a stony silence, her eyes fixed on a point
somewhere above her daughter’s head.
There was a thud outside; the girl turned to look. It was just one of
the carriages broken down.
She turned back to her mother, but Ada was gone.
She frowned and wandered over to the newspaper, curious to know
what her mother had been reading.
‘SUSPECTED MURDER BY JACK THE RIPPER: Ada Anderton’s body
found mutilated similarly to his earlier victims in the backyard of
her home in the East End of London.’
Her heart racing, the girl read the newspaper date: October 19th
1888, exactly two days ago. The day her father had told her that he

goes by Jack the Ripper now and that he was coming for her.
The girl turned and looked at the walls streaked with red, the tornup
wedding dress in the middle of the hallway.
And screamed.
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Mars
Conor Savage

Base commander Nikolaos stared up expressionlessly at the
ginormous screen before him. Two astronauts were in frame, and
they were patiently awaiting confirmation on their orders. They on
another planet, and Nikolaos was watching them from the hive of
activity that was Greek space command.
The astronauts’ mission was to reach the summit of Olympus Mons,
the tallest volcanic mountain in the entire Solar System. Located on
the surface of Mars, even if it had been Everest-sized, it still would
have been impossible to climb. This was clearly due to the fact that
no one had ever survived climbing up Mt. Everest in a full spacesuit.
Nikolaos had tried to send a specifically designed climbing robot
up the volcano, but every prototype that they had constructed had
crashed and burned while testing it. Nothing of an artificial mind
could ever handle the vertical traversal.
Fortunately, Nikolaos had come up with the bright idea to land on
the pinnacle of the humongous mountain and skip all of the futile
rock-climbing.
Before the astronauts could step outside the inner doors of
their alabaster spacecraft and into the airlock, everything had to
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e checked. The suits, the ship, the tools. Nikolaos and his team
relayed information back and forth on the comms channel that
detailed the precise reliability of all the materials and equipment
that the astronauts would be using up on Olympus Mons. They
confirmed that if the astronauts needed to eject from their
spacecraft, their suits would protect them from the resulting fall.
Both astronauts buzzed back curt responses about the state of their
equipment. Nothing of any magnitude had gone wrong during
the launch and landing on Mars, and yet Nikolaos still ardently
persisted with analysing everything one more time.
The astronaut suits were state-of-the-art built by a company based
right here in Greece. Locally sourced Arcadian polymers, Athenian
cooling tubes, and Cretan spandex. Nikolaos had adamantly insured
that he had spared no expense and that there had been a sufficiently
long deadline to get all the materials properly processed before
assembly and testing and then before launch day. Only the most
diligent had been selected to work on their space programme.
Nikolaos smiled along with everyone else, but his eyes never left
the screen showing the astronauts in all their glory. It seemed to
now loom down on him. He shrugged off the trepidation just as he
ignored disagreeable interns, but some worry clung on.
Nikolaos was very much a man of science; he was not a frequenter

of ecclesiastical grounds. But since safety was so paramount to
space travel, the base commander felt the obligation to make a few
prayers. He prayed to the Christian God to ensure that his men
return home alive, for good measure, he carried over his prayers to
a few other gods from a few other divine denominations. Nikolaos
put a particular emphasis on the prayers to the Greek Gods because
he reasoned that if they did in fact exist, he would be the one most
used to listening to a Greek person.
‘Gods, whoever it may be out there, give my astronauts protection. I
expect nothing less of you, so do your damn job.’
The words of the prayer were whispered between his tongue and
teeth, like a church bell tingling. He clasped his hands, and he
closed his eyes; his own meditation ground out the anticipation and
chattering all around him. All was still, and Nikolaos found himself
tranquil. Whether it had been St. James or Athena, now Nikolaos
was more than ready to give the go ahead.
His affirmation to begin buzzed over the intercom, buzzing all
throughout the radio stations throughout the Mediterranean Sea,
and buzzing all the way up to Earth’s blistered sister planet and into
expectant ears of the astronauts.
Clear directions were buzzed back and forth between Sparta and
Mars. Both astronauts entered the airlock, and the aluminium doors
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shut to the spacecraft behind them like a clam shutting it shell. The
door to the outside desolation steamed open and the two spacemen
stepped out.
The fall lasted only a few seconds, yet everyone in the base
commander’s room did hold their breath. Time seemed to slow
down as Nikolaos watched the astronauts descend. When the
astronauts’ boots hit the ground, his senses flooded back into him,
and he heard the roar of clapping all around him.
The astronauts dropped down on to the rocky red slope. The peak
was as flat as anticipated - a house could have fit in snugly without
problem – or a even church. The slope led up to a path between
two rocky protrusions that now upon closer inspection appeared
to be black pillars stained with wrapping rocky veins of blood. The
astronauts looked up at the top of the looming pillars and reported
back saying that the sides were also studded with obsidian.
The astronauts ventured up through the pillar pass and up to the
pinnacle. They moved slowly and carefully up to the pinnacle, as if
they were part of a religious procession.
Boots were grounded across thick Martian gravel as they stopped
at the highest point in all the Solar System. If things had been
different, they could have looked out across the spectacular view
of the corrugated crimson badlands for an eternity, and, with their

cameras, could have captured the serenity of the seemingly lifeless,
sprawling landscape. They were now the Greek Edmund Hillarys
and they could have return home to Sparta to be celebrated as such.
But no. That was not to be.
Base commander Nikolaos felt a great shock.
For sitting cross legged atop the heavenly Olympus Mons was a
humanoid figure. The figure’s irises were damning flaming ruby
rings surrounded by a white-hot sclera. His mouth was closed, and
he had scarred scarlet lips.
The god from a time long past raised its hand and gestured for the
two astronauts to come closer, a challenge on his rough lips.
131

I Wish I Could Go Back
Ruadhán McDonagh

I did things I regret. I hurt people that I didn’t want to hurt.
But that’s just how life is, I guess. It tastes bitter now. Now I
know what I did. I did wrong. I told people to forgive me-it was
a mistake. But, forgiveness is earned. It’s like punishment in that
way. Except I deserve punishment. My punishment is coming.
I’m tearing up now. I’m disgusting. I don’t deserve tears. Not after
what I did. I don’t deserve to cry for her when I’m the only reason
she’s anything to cry about…
But I didn’t blame myself then. I still cried. I remember.
“You shouldn’t have gotten in my way!” I sobbed, as the blood
exploded out of her. “Why did you do that?”
She was dying, rapidly so. I didn’t want to be blamed. I didn’t want
people to know of my disgusting crimes, or, as I called it then,
my accident. So, I dumped my sister into the void. It was stupid,
looking back on it. I need to pay for it.
I told nobody.
I kept solidarity.
Then, my father died of grief.
It tore my mother apart. She lost two people dear to her in the space
of a couple weeks. She stopped eating. Stopped talking. Shortly, she
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also stopped breathing.
I remember my sister’s face.
Her green eyes wide is shock.
Her shoulder-length red hair sprayed with blood.
I killed her.
The world is strange place.
Gravity moves different ways.
Each building floats above the void, the outside as firm as any
ground we would have once stood on, before the void.
I was on the roof.
My building was being raided.
I had a gun.
I was safe.
Nobody would hurt me. Nobody would hurt my family.
I wanted to believe that.
I managed to hurt both.
I heard somebody running up the wall. I thought they were raiders.
I readied my finger on the trigger, and my sister’s head popped up.
Before I recognised her, the trigger was squeezed.
I’ll never forget it.
She flew away.
Time slowed.

Her blood exploded outwards, splattering everything as I realised.
I yelled.
I shouted.
She stayed silent.
She couldn’t speak.
Of course she couldn’t.
I shot her.
I was supposed to protect her.
Time moved again.
She fell.
I screamed.
I didn’t want her to die.
“You shouldn’t have gotten in my way!” I sobbed. “Why did you do
that?”
Stupid.
I was such a stupid idiot.
And what did I do? How did I mourn my sister’s passing? I threw
her off the building that I killed her atop, into the void.
Who did I blame for that? My sister. My poor, sweet sister, who
wanted only to see that I was alive? And I didn’t even have the
respect to tell anyone until my parents’ passing.
And then I blamed her again.
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“My poor sister,” I said. “If only she had been more careful. Her
lack of attention killed her.
I hate myself.
I’m the one that deserves death.
Not my sister.
“I should die,” I whisper.
Louder. Let them know what you did, you sick person.
“I DESERVE DEATH!” I screamed. “NOT HER!”
My voice, like my sister, explodes outwards, but eventually falls to
the void.
Nobody shushes me.
Nobody tells me I’m right.
Nobody tells me I’m wrong either.
People are scared to walk on the outsides of the buildings. The raids
are…problematic to say the least. They barely leave for essentials,
of course they wouldn’t leave to talk to a depressed early-twenties
murderer, feeling remorse at long last.
I look in the deep blue void, watching it’s glow pulse eerily.
My sister is somewhere in there.
She died there, with nobody comforting her.
Nobody told her it was going to be ok.
I just threw her.

At least I tried to comfort my parents.
I didn’t try with her.
I was shell-shocked.
Terrified.
Sobbing.
My sister was dying.
Poor me.
Not poor sister.
I didn’t think of her.
Why would I?
I am the most self-centred person you’ll ever meet.
The void is strange.
We don’t know much about it.
For all we know, time could work differently there. It could bend in
another way. My sister could be alive. Maybe-if the old wives’ tales
are true, my sister could be healed, if reality doesn’t work the same
there. My breathing is fast, adrenaline-fueled. I have nobody left.
Nobody would care if I died. I plan to take my life anyway, after all I
had done. So, what do I have to lose? I stand up on the wall, looking
straight on at the void.
“See you soon, sis,” I whisper.
I jump.
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My fall is graceful, and I shoot for the abyss, the blue light glowing
blindingly. This is not for me. I don’t deserve it. This is for her, to
save her from the fate I gave her.

139

Hunter the Hunted
Jamie O’Connor

My name is Hunter Callaghan, I’m used to a proud member of one
of the most feared gang of outlaws in America, and now, I can
say, this world isn’t what it used to be. Back in my times we were
promised glory, fame, romance and freedom. All I got left is the
fading candlelight of a dream, one last chance at that dream we had
10 years ago.
The Wild West is in her Twilight Years, civilisation is starting the
seep into even the most barren wastelands, means the law is too.
When I used ride with a gang we were fierce and feared, now I’m all
that’s left, a sheep on the run. The law, looking to end this bygone
era once and for all, sought to bring down my gang and me for the
crimes we had committed. The lawmen chasing me down knew me
as a criminal, a dangerous man whose hands were tainted with the
spilled blood of others. I couldn’t deny the accusations; my past
isn’t that of any saint nor do-gooder, but now, I was a man running
from a reckoning, a coward.
I lived in peace for years since our gang split after the botched train
heist back in 1895, 3 of them ended up in the slammer, with one of
them ending up in the gallows a month or two later, and 2 of them
died at the scene of the crime. As for the ones who were left, we
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decided it’d be in our best interests to go our separate ways. Haven’t
heard from them, best I can assume is they’re all stowed away
somewhere in Mexico or Canada, or rotting in a hole somewhere
if they didn’t have an ounce of instinct or foresight on them. I
decided to take what was left of my earnings and settle down in
a little ranch house off in the prairie off of a village in a state far
from my past. It was a quaint life for sure, but it kept me going for
another few years. That was until the law came knocking.
Despite my mostly peaceful life after the split, I was still a wanted
man, $5000 for my head alone. I knew that, I just didn’t expect
them to find me so quick. I heard the rumbling and yelling as the
posse of policemen came bolting up the hill towards my house.
I had to get my horse, my guns and my money and leg it out my
back door as fast as I could, my horse, a fine thoroughbred Arabian,
though fast and strong, I couldn’t imagine it’d be able to outrun a
bullet, and I didn’t want to stick around and find out. That night
was when everything changed, my life turned on its head, as I leapt
ungracefully from one path of life to another. As I rode through
the long grass, and the sunset glimmered on the puddles on the
road, took one last good look at what I had, and where I’m going.
Gunshots could be heard crackling through the peaceful night, and
the thunder of the hooves of a dozen horses created a load drone in

my ear., though I managed to lose them. I took rest at an orchard
after what felt like an eternity of riding, thus here I lay, my new
life begun, nothing to my name but a couple hundred dollars, my
revolver and my horse. So much for civilisation.
I can’t say I never expected to be on the run by my lonesome, what
with the lifestyle I chose, I just always hoped it’d never come to
this. I escaped for tonight, but who knows what’ll come of this.
Now that there’s cities springing up every twenty feet it feels like,
I’m never too far from the law, I’ll need to keep my wits about me
if I want to make it any distance without being sprung. I got to
say though, if it weren’t for the price on my head and the statewide
hunt put on me, this new life wouldn’t be the worst , kind of
peaceful out here, grass swaying in the wind, cockerels from nearby
ranch houses knelling in the new day. I don’t plan on staying here
long though, I need to set back off before sunrise, I can mask myself
better under the low light. I can hunt better once it’s daylight.
I’ll need to find a way to get myself some food, one thing I didn’t
consider while setting off. I’m already set for hell once I reach my
time of reckoning so I always have the option of simply taking it,
though I don’t quite feel like risking my life venturing too close to
the towns for nothing but a tin of beans. Leaves me no option but
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to procure, we’ll say, my own food. Wild Deer and Horses are in
abundance out here in the wild lands, though to catch one is easier
said than done, despite my reputation as the sharpest shot in the
west, I was never particularly good with a rifle. After a few hours I
managed to land a clean shot on a fine specimen, a young buck that
I could live off for a couple of days. Though I am making it for now,
I’ll need to sharpen my survival skills if I’d want to get anywhere
close to making it out to a safe place.
Hunting wasn’t my only problem, I also needed to make sure I
couldn’t be tracked, going though rivers to break a trail, not leaving
anything behind at my campsites, I was being very overcautious
some might say, but I didn’t want to find out what would happen if
I didn’t.
Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and I was still out
there. I managed to get to another state and here I got a job as a
ranch hand, herding cattle and such, not the glamourous life I once
hoped for, but I have somewhere to hide and a roof over my head.
You’d think at this point I would’ve stopped sleeping with one
eye open or not going out without my bandanna on, but I fear the
law’s hard and unforgiving hand, but I still start sweating bullets
whenever a lawman comes near the ranch.
This is the life I had laid out in my destiny when I joined that gang,

and years later, I’m a man who ran from reckoning, I’m coward and
a I’m yellow for not standing up for myself, and now I’m paying for
that decision in spades.
145

What is a Void?
Chloe O’Flaherty

An empty space
looming at you,
leering you in,
chasing you out
Is it a nice void?
Is it lonely?
Does it want friends
Or to be left alone?
It’s probably scary
to reach out
but it is important to know
that it’s okay
to leap into the unknown.
147

A Blue Glow
Fighting Words Write Club

Water filled the fishing boat and flooded the floor. Through the
panic, Saoirse tried to fix the engine while Paddy scooped water out
with his boot. Meanwhile, Maeve tried to keep it together, staring
into nothingness, almost crying, through the flashbacks.
Suddenly, a wave crashed into the boat, and it rocked before they
were all thrown overboard. The cold ocean water filled their lungs,
and they froze.
An empty swashing muffled the sounds of screams before it all went
black.
The first thing that Maeve heard when she woke was a low
humming. Then, an eerie groan in the distance. Staring out at the
water, a beautiful, melodic, haunting voice sang to her.
“The war is coming… RUN!”
“RUN!” Maeve ran as fast as her legs could take her, her Dad just in
view, sweat dripping down his face.
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“What are doing?” Paddy screamed, his hand outstretched. Maeve
snapped back to reality.
“Why did you swim all the way over there. Let’s just back in the
boat before the kraken gets ya.”
“Hahaha,” the laughter died in Maeve’s throat. She bobbed on top of
the water, her legs kicking rapidly.
Saoirse struggled to tip the boat over, her breath heavy as she
shrieked in frustration. Maeve swam over to help. Clutching the
sides, the voice still rang in her ears.
Just as they managed to tip the boat, a deep, resonant clamour
washed over them as surely as the waves. They looked behind them
into the thick fog that crept closer. A faint blue glow pulsed.
“What the heck is going on in this gaff,” Saoirse said.
“Oh, snapper doodles,” Paddy muttered.
“What on god’s green earth is that?” Maeve whispered.

“Uh, does it look like it’s moving closer to us?” asked Saoirse.
A fluorescent bright light shone into Maeve’s face, almost blinding
her. She struggled to breathe, grasping, wheezing. The shore lapped
at her feet, her Dad crying into her neck with relief.
When Maeve came to, something large and slimy wrapped around
her waist. She looked to Saoirse and Paddy who were also in its grip.
It pulled, constricting. They went under, some panicking, others
swallowing water.
As the bubbles cleared, there were two giant eyes – bigger than
them – looking at them sharply and hungrily. The light resolved
in a towering monolith of metallic scales and dark, callous eyes.
A lantern hung from a protrusion at its snout, brilliant blue. Its
roar stung the air with a stench of seaweed and death, revealing
thousands of sharp teeth and bones lodged between them…
Breaking News: Another three teens fall victim to the Bermuda
Triangle, leaving behind mothers, siblings, and friends.
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