By: Craig Forshaw
Title by Graham McKnight

How do you become smarter?” repeated Uncle Bart, rocking backwards and forwards on the legs of his chair, and gazing absently upwards at the study roof. In one hand he swirled a glass of sherry. His jumper was moth-eaten, despite his wealth. His hair was grey, and wild. “How do you become smarter?” he repeated again.

Finally, he slowly lowered his chair back to the floor, smacked his lips together, and patted the seat next to him to motion for me to sit by him.

“Dear boy, the only way to get smarter is a healthy diet of pure smarts. That is the only way. You see, it is actually knowing things which gives a man an encyclopedia of resources to draw on from his own, as it is, grey matter.”

“But how do I do that?” I asked, then coughed. The air was musty in this cluttered old house. Books were piled up against the walls, making wallpaper an exotic sight.

“The body likes to absorb vitamins and minerals, dear boy, and water. But there is a way to get it to absorb the knowledge, too, but you have to trick it. When you get your vitamin supplements, you crush them into powder, and pour then into the blender, with water. Then, get a few pages a really clever book, and throw them in, too. Hit the switch, open wide, and swallow the whole concoction.”

I looked at Uncle Bart, incredulous. He was insane.

By: Finlay

C. sat back in his grandfather’s chair with a sigh, and looked at the ceiling. Why settle for Imperial Tomato when one could have Crystal Pineapple for the same price? It made one want to vomit, and one knew that was not a good thing.

As the scholar thought these thoughts, his fingers tapped indecisively at a battered page on his desk. Upon the downward facing side were some inconsequential discussions of the nuances of charity law; but on the back of this were penned, in a scrawling hand, letters of blood red.

Pyrogenic invocations had been inflicted upon the document, so that the greater part of it was illegible. All that remained were the stained and fragile words:

To my Lady Enigma, in expectation of eternal confidence.

By: Craig Forshaw
Title by Steve Clarke

It is funny, the things that people forget that they had and then lost during their lifetime.

She thought this as she lay on her death bed.

For that matter, a death bed is a funny idea. What is it that really changes when the person dies? In life they were weight on its back, and in death they are just more of the same. Death doesn’t change a bed; only the living do that.

Her thoughts became idle for a moment, and then, with some anxiousness, she began to muse on her original line of thought: things possessed, prized, and lost, forgotten.

But how could she muse upon such things, when to forget them is to have them ripped from your mind and cast into the black abyss of history?

She reached over to the bedside, to an old photo, and looked at herself as she had been in her twenties. A body full of the power and passion and personality of youth. It was but a dear shadow now, and she was but a dried husk, a skin to be shed, the final peeling coat of paint.

Then she saw her lips, and she wondered for a moment.

Because those were not her lips. When did she lose those lips and forget about them? Once she had been so proud of those lips. Where had they gone to? How could she have treated them so badly?

She leaned back, and drifted into a ponderous slumber.

By: Tess

He could feel it wrapping itself around him, nudging at the parts of his body where there were fewer layers to protect against the chill. It tried to seep into his skin, to reach his bones.

He removed one of his gloves and held his hand up in the unreal blue air, tinged with the pink sheen of gathering snow clouds above. He took a step forward, and felt his foot crunch the crisp coating of snow.

The fields and the trees around him seemed devoid of all life. It felt like he was the only one left alive. The only living soul in this ethereal world.

She had loved this walk. They both had. As soon as the first snow had fallen they’d run like teenagers to the wood, forgetting any twinges or aches that the increasing years had inflicted upon them. It had become a ritual almost, they had done it since their very first Christmas together all those years ago. He could still remember the warmth of her skin amidst the numbing bite of the snow and, for a moment, he was sure he could feel her hand in his again.

A tear slid down his creased face, freezing before it reached his chin. He pulled his glove back on his crumpled hand. Gingerly picking his way through the snow with his cane, he set off in the direction of home.

Better to have loved and lost, he reminded himself, blinking back more tears. Better by far.

By: Tess

There was only one reflection. And it didn’t even belong to her.

It belonged to a girl her family preferred. No, that wasn’t right. It was the only her they knew, so there could be no issue of preference. But she knew they wouldn’t want to see the real her and so every Sunday the Manolos and cocktail dresses were put aside in favour of the trusty shirt and skirt combo that they seemed to approve.

Despite the recession work was good, she thought as she scooped up some diamond earrings from the nightstand. She pushed them firmly into her jewellery case; she didn’t want to lose them, they were irreplaceable vintage and her favourite.

Nudging aside her chosen, tempting scent she sighed as she sprayed herself liberally with a much lighter, fresher perfume. She glanced in the mirror again, completing the outfit with the perfect smile, eyes just wide enough to convey the right amount of innocence.

After all, appearances were everything.

By: Tess

‘Again? Not surprising. When aren’t there problems with Kingston Marsalis?’

Taylor took a drag on the cigarette clutched in his shaking hand, and stared at his superior. He raked his free hand through his hair.

‘I’m running out of ideas. I don’t know what to do any more.’

Lash shrugged, not really listening.

‘I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Just don’t expel him. We need him here come May.’

Taylor frowned slightly. Four months previously his brow had been as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom, but now lines were etched into his weary skin. He was pretty sure he’d aged about six years since September.

‘Why? Why do we need him?’

Lash clicked her teeth in irritation at her own verbal clumsiness.

‘Look, I didn’t tell you, right? But something’s going down in May. A bit like an insurance job, or something. Anyway, we need him here then.’

Taylor glanced at her, not sure what to say. Despite how much he disliked the kid, his brain was still clinging on to the remnants of his sense of justice that his overt hatred had not yet eradicated. On the other hand, the idea of never having to see that sneering face again was appealing.

Lash was studying his face carefully. Leaning forward she kissed him lightly on the lips, before collecting her underwear from the foot of the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

Ah, sod the brat. Taylor leant back, contented, and took another drag on his cigarette

By: Tess

There it was, a crude red biro ring surrounding it as the paper lay abandoned on the carriage seat offering its wares to tired passengers, and printed with ink that would not come off on your hands, no less.

She audibly gasped as she saw it. If anyone could have looked into her soul at that very point they would have offered the same advice. Insisted the same course of action must be undertaken.

She pursed her lips determinedly and nodded, oblivious to the amusement it caused for the bored businessman sitting opposite.

Glancing out of the window she nestled back in to her seat and smiled to herself. It didn’t matter what her friends had been telling her for weeks, Fate had now provided her with a pointer and clearly that was much more important.

By: Tess

And lo! There was a darkness. A shadow amongst the brilliance of the white that drowned us as we sped past in the metal carriage.

Out the cutting we came and one shadow became two, became three, became many. The echoes of the shrouded trees punctuated the silver of the air.

There were only two colours that day. Darkness and snow.

By: Hugin

Looking into a broken reflection and shedding a tear that seemed to fall forever but never land. Below, tumbling waves heralded the water that stretched on forever.

Water had brought him to her and had snatched him away with as little warning.

Smeared painfully across her life, he was gone now but his voice remained. He was the wailing cry of the seal, the soft song of the sea.

He was calling her through the whispering grass on the cliffs as it moved in the wind. She took a step closer to the edge, just one step closer to him.

By: Wishdokter

Self immolation is the term for the act I’m about to carry out. I walk to the park, the same route I do everyday, this time though I am looking at all their faces, noticing their expressions, seeing the dead eyes seeing nothing. I’m not noticd.

The park green is empty. People congregate at the café and cling to the edges of the park where the benches are.

I stride confidently to the middle and sit down crossed legged. Unscrewing the top of the canister seems harder that I thought it would be, but I am deliberate and mindful of my actions.

I lift the heavy canister above my head and smell the petrol as the liquid runs down my face and chest. I am not aware of anyone else now.

I slip my hand into my breast pocket and pull out the lighter.