All stories

Edgbaston twisted the crystal goblet in the light overhead. With one eye closed he squinted through the other, glowing warm inside as the light danced from gold to amber and back and again. Whisky so fine, older than him, and it didn’t matter if you were counting the numbers since his birth, or his stasis sleep age. He set the glass down in order to plink in a single cube of ice. After a month of stasis sleep the crick crack sound of the ice cube fracturing was glorious music.

Welsh said, ‘That is a travesty.’

Edgbaston smiled. ‘When all that’s needed is a single drop of water to bring out the real depth of flavour.’

Welsh snorted. He was shaking his head. ‘Every time. Every time you do this. We teeter, trapped on the edge of the anomaly, not enough power to break free, but just enough to stop us being pulled down.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘And you sit there sipping whiskey, squandering our precious energy to make your ice. Power that could drive our engines a moment more, power that could-‘

Edgbaston snorted his disdain. ‘I worked it out, remember? Each cube of ice buys us point nought nought nought nought three seven seconds of extra time not being pulled into the black hole.’

Welsh slapped the table.

‘It’s a day of power for a stasis pod! Your precious ice is a day of someone’s life.’

‘Of someone’s sleep. Their dreamless sleep.’

‘It’s their right to life, that you steal.’

Edgbaston raised the glass to the light once more. He was not addressing Welsh as he softly said, ‘It’s the least of what I steal.’

Welsh nodded, and sat, and the anger slowly drained from his face.

‘Fetch the dice,’ Edgbaston said. ‘Let’s get this over with.’ As Welsh hesitated, Edgbaston smiled wryly. ‘All this power for the lights and the heat, all this precious power? Isn’t that days and days of someone’s life?’

Welsh shoved back his chair and stumbled across to the storage locker. He came back with the metal cup and the pair of dice. He shook the cup with vigour, over and over and over as Edgbaston sipped at his whisky. He had once taken crumbs of pleasure in needling the fool, but all games wear thin after too many turns.

Welsh slammed the cup against the table. ‘Damn your eagerness.’ He lifted the cup and read the dice. ‘Eleven.’ Edgbaston wrote it in the log. Welsh rolled a seven, another eleven, and finally a two. Edgbaston wrote them all down and then turned the pad for Welsh to read it out loud.

Ship section eleven, deck seven, deck section eleven, pod two.

Ten thousand souls, and together their stasis pods drew a month’s worth of engine power. Ten thousand souls the price for another month teetering on the edge of the black hole that had snared them. Edgbaston rose and took himself over to the Stasis Runtime Computer to enter the command kill the power to pod two. He raised his glass a moment before he hit the execute button.

Ten thousand souls. Surely they could spare a cube of ice.

“Stay aboard”, “Control your pirates”, “Bring down the arrr number” said the bright yellow signs visible across the Spanish Main. The second of these was problematic for the Captain Bradleigh Salterton, who as you may recall, usually struggled even to control his own toddlers.

With lockdown in full flow and ransacking, plank-walking and keelhauling banned until further notice, Salterton and his crew were soon out of condition and, upon failing to fit into his favourite silken pantaloons, he decided something must be done. His new parrot which arrived direct from The Amazon (Prime), liked to be known as “Youtube Work-out Sensation Joe Wicks”.

The feathered fitness freak was a hard task master. Every morning he led the crew in a savagely difficult work out which involved extremely tough exercises interspersed with jolly banter. “Lovely bunny hops Able Hands, where you from? Penzance? My nan’s from Penzance!! Bruv we’re neighbours!”

Soon, not only could Salterton fit snugly into his britches but his crew, once renowned for weediness, had become the buffest buccaneers on the high seas. It was no accident that they sailed past the ship belonging to Fakebeard and her all-female crew as closely as social distancing would allow, showily applying sun lotion to one another whilst Barry White played on a loop to copious wolf-whistles and swooning.

Rumours of Salterton’s new parrot and sexy crew quickly spread across the Caribbean and soon the wives of the crews of Blackbeard, Bluebeard and Eggbeard were demanding that their men get into shape too. Plenty of doubloons were offered for the parrot, but the skipper was not for selling.

The parrot became so important that he wanted for nothing, now instead of grog the weekly shopping list contained superfoods and tracker bars, “The white chocolate ones, not the muck you bought last time” the demanding psittacine would add.

Salterton’s only concern was how tired the parrot himself seemed to have become, and when a passing seagull dropped on an envelope as well as poop on the poop-deck, his suspicions were aroused. The envelope contained a calendar featuring Blackbeard’s bare-torso’d crew, looking if anything, more chiselled than Salterton’s own. Even the famously obese Israel Polzaeth, now resembled Michalengelo’s David.

That night Bradleigh decided to keep watch on the bird.

As soon as the crew went to bed, the parrot flew off in the direction of Okracoke Inlet where Blackbeard’s ship was moored, not to return until dawn from where Eggbeard had recently cast anchor. He was flying slowly and looking exhausted, in his beak was a new pair of parrot-sized gold Air Nike trainers.

At noon the treacherous Toucan teetered on the edge of the plank, wings tied behind his back looking down into the water as Salterton listed his crimes. “Your excuse that you were flying at night to test your eyes, is ridiculous!” he declared, “While I can forgive your disloyalty I cannot forget that you broke the lockdown rules endangering the lives of our crew and those of all the ships you visited. Sadly you must walk.”

Salterton turned away and waited to hear the splash, this was the sixth parrot sharing the name of a tv expert, he’d consigned to Davy Jones’s Locker.

He resolved that his next bird would be called Polly and possess no notable skills whatsoever.

Teresa felt that at heart she was a psychopathic spree killer. In actuality, she wasn’t a spree killer or a psychopath, but she felt very strongly that she could be given half a chance. She had been walking a line between a socially acceptable life and a righteous bloodfest as long as she could remember.

Theresa’s place in the world was ill defined but not without merit. Her family loved her and she had friends. She held down a job and got on well enough with her colleagues. She was not a loner or an incompetent. She usually looked nice and did well with her slightly lumpen body shape. She was not a virgin and had been engaged once. There was a man she met regularly and had sex with. She never really had arguments, enjoyed a laugh and lived a perfectly acceptable life. This facade was maintained at no small cost. Theresa was a jangle of nerves, hyper-vigilance and self-talk, all required to prevent the violent outburst that beckoned.

Her strategies were well rehearsed. She went most places with her headphones in, listening to music that drowned out the thoughts. She had learned mindful breathing, which she could do without anyone noticing whenever some fool irritated her. Such as at her desk when hearing the patronising tones of her manager’s Kardashianesque vocal fry - “So, this is what we want moving forward Tree..OK lovely?”. Theresa’s bile gorged even at the thought.

But she knew it was a precipice she traversed and that it was getting harder. As she aged she became more bruised by the daily onslaught of irritation and grievance. Once it had been famine and drought that sparked her ire, now it was the way that some people drank from water bottles with their lips around the outside of the neck. She suffered many slights and felt that the time to wash the scum off the streets was nigh. To this end she carried a pair of sharpened nail scissors in her bag.

Today was a difficult day. It was hot and she was sitting on the No 36 bus as it inched its painful way up High Street, fighting against the commuter traffic, the double parking, the bikes and people on those funny little motorised scooters. The girl in front of her was shouting intimate personal details down her phone whilst her baby screamed. The girls long lank hair swung over the back of her seat invading Theresa’s space. She felt like she was staring over the cliff and jumping seemed to be a way of getting free. She could stop her calm breathing, take out her earphones and let the bile out. It would be so easy.

She removed the nail scissors from the front zip of her bag, the cold steel in her hand promising silence and release. With a ninja’s stealth, Theresa picked up a strand of the girl’s hair and snipped it off. It dropped to the floor amongst the dirt and there Theresa left it, attached to a glob of gum. The girl carried on talking unaware, but Theresa knew and sliding the scissors into her bag floated transcendent from the bus into the night.

What happened at the Walkers’ pool party will be one of those things we talk about for the rest of our lives.

I guess it started when Mrs Walker opened the second bottle of prosecco, and got that look in her eye.

I say ‘we’, I mean ‘they’. They’ll talk about it every time a few of them get together, I don’t imagine I’ll be there. I was only at the party in the first place because mum wouldn’t let my little sister go on her own.

It was one of those parties where it’s really for the adults to indulge in some day drinking, but the kids get to ask their friends over too, so they can make out it’s some sort of wholesome suburban event. My sister was invited because she’s mates with the Walkers’ daughter. I’m actually in the same year as their son, but, well, we don’t really mix.

Who he did hang out with was Chris Duncanson, sixteen like all of us, but he looked older. He looked like he’d been going to the gym since he was four.

It’s sort of frustrating that when they tell it, they’ll go straight to the punch-line, while I saw all the build up too. It’s a story to me, it’s just a result to them. Though I guess that’s what happens when you spend ten hours at a party, and the only time you speak to anyone is to ask for a glass of water.

I saw Mrs Parker as she became less and less concerned about pretending she hadn’t noticed Chris, pretty much in direct correlation with each empty glass. I’m fairly sure I’m the only one who noticed her encouraging him to drop some JD in his coke, just as she switched from the skinny wine flutes, to the fishbowl gin glasses. To his credit, Chris was pretty subtle about it all.

It was a bit of a relief when the light started to fade, not just because it meant it was getting closer to the end, but because, with the music overtaking the sun, I started to feel less of a fool, sat with my feet in the pool, very obviously on my own.

Mr Walker was oblivious to anything, switching his attention between the barbeque, and playing football with the nine year olds and a couple of other dads. The few times his wife did try to speak to him, he seemed less than enamoured, probably because she wobbled as she did.

Well, he was oblivious until it happened, obviously. His attention was very much grasped when his daughter suddenly shrieked, having spotted her mum sat on the corner of the pool, tongue fully intertwined with Chris Duncanson’s, as he bobbed up and down in the water before her.

The party ended very quickly after that, and they didn’t host any more that summer, which I couldn’t help but be grateful for. Still, I guess they’ll be talking about it for a long time yet.

Kenneth sat in a leather seat with his head resting back and let out a deep exhale. A harness from above began to descend with a slight buzzing sound. Closing his eyes, he slowly breathes in and out.

“Thank you for you service “, a woman’s voice floats out from the walls, “You’re helping people around the world with your gesture”, the woman`s voice has the hint of French accent.

The harness pushes down and clamps into place, soft padded cushions smelling of disinfectant nestle around Kenneth’s neck and shoulders.

Once again the voice “Please relax as your new journey new life is about to begin. If you would like to hear the sound of thunder say 1, to hear water trickling say 2 or if you prefer say the name of a song you would like to hear. To sit in silence please say nothing”.

Kenneth preferred the silence, it`s such a rarity in life to sit in silence, the world is always so loud be it notifications from devices, banging from neighbours, planes overhead or the relentless buzzing sound from an army of mutant murder bees. No silence was the perfect prologue to his journey.

The lights in the room begin to fade. Despite the comfy seat and the silence, he could feel his heart rate rising.

“ Your journey will begin in T minus 5 minutes Kenneth and we would like you to know that you are loved very much by the Grand Empress Beatrice” the voice was sultry and almost felt like it was licking his ears. Warm air began to be filtered into the room starting at his feet and working its way up his naked legs.

“T-minus 4 minutes Kenneth, you’re a national…no worldwide hero”.

Kenneth imagined the French lady sat watching him lips ruby red mere millimetres from the microphone.

A small jab on both his arms as two needles injected a yellow liquid into his bloodstream. They said they should not be any side effects; in fact, some had claimed it was quite calming.

“Kenneth your inoculation injections have been administered. T-minus 60 seconds to your journey begins”.

The heat washed all over his naked body, his heartbeat began racing, the sound of her voice…. he was on the edge of greatness. The sound of the ceiling hatch opening made Kenneth look up, the light rushed in on him a spotlight of fame shining his way. Kenneth sat their smiling semi erect ready to welcome his destiny as the air around him became filled with a buzzing.

Mildred sat behind the safety scream sucking on a cigarette and watched as the mutant murder bees swarmed into the room stinging Kenneth all over. Slowly as Kenneth’s screams of agony faded into vomiting and bowl evacuation Kenneth’s vital flatlined and he fell silent.

Mildred loved the silence so much more than the screams. Then in her fake French accent she muttered into the microphone “Bee sting inoculation 386 failure. Resume testing”.

The last time I saw Charlie he was playing the fool as usual, doing his absolute best to wind everyone up as usual and succeeding as usual. He was doing everyone’s head in As usual

There were three of us in those days. Me and Charlie and Will. Home time was hours ago and we all knew that the longer we left it, the angrier our parents would be.

“Fuck ‘em” said Charlie “we’ll be in shit anyway, we might as well get as much fun out of it as we can before we are.”

How can you argue with that?

So we went to the quarry to watch the sun disappear. It was still hot, as only childhood summer evenings can be. And dusty, that dry, red dust that billows around your ankles and coats your legs and shoes in pinkish dirt.

We were alone in that liminal space between things; Saturdaying families had packed up long ago for tea, bath and bed, couples left to cosy up together at home. We could have been the last three people on earth

The quarry was disused and had been filled with water years ago, since before we could remember. The surface was flat and still as usual, ebbing gently blue, then kindling to soft pink, before catching fire in oranges and reds and black as the sun sank below its surface without even a ripple.

We took it all for granted and ignored the beauty that raged all around us as if it were our due and nothing more.

The sides of the bridge were high and boarded up so you couldn’t see the water when you stood there, but with enough of a push you could lift yourself up to sit or walk along the edge. With a grunt Charlie had hauled himself up to stand up there, skinny and dirty, balancing precariously in the twilight.

His t-shirt was torn and grubby, his jeans had holes that showed his scabbed knees and a fine crust of green snot decorated each nostril. He sniffed thick trails of it back up every few minutes or wiped the back of his hand roughly across his face to catch the excess.

I looked down at my own freshy white trainers and scuffed them in the dust, to make them more like Charlie’s knackered old daps.

He was walking now, balancing now, arms outstretched and whistling something fast and tuneless, standing on one foot then the other. Being the karate kid, jumping, hyper, showing off.

And then suddenly he wasn’t.

It happened so quickly and with such little fuss that it seemed almost like nothing had happened at all. Will and I stared up at the space where Charlie had been. We both expected him to reappear, a little scuffed, a little bruised but generally fine, as usual, even as we heard the deep splash of him hitting the water and the following telltale silence

By the time we pulled ourselves up to look, the water was black and still again as usual, almost like Charlie had never been there at all.

You’d think having a car would be a teenager’s main priority, but I always got around well on my feet. I never saw the need to spike my blood pressure because the guy in front of me didn’t press GO with his foot the moment the light turned green. As much time as adults spend driving, they should have figured out a better system for keeping cool by now. Even after I got my license, I still walked everywhere. Especially with Evelina. That’s just how teenage girls get around in League City, Texas. Call me a hillbilly if you must but that’s the game down here.

What I lacked in wheels I made up for in sweaters. I learned to make my own clothes when I was eight years old, after my mom bought me a sewing machine and put me in a summer fashion camp. By the time I was a junior in high school, I was knitting comfy sweaters for all of my friends. Charged ‘em cheap, too. I gave Evelina a yellow pull-over with a cute purple heart over the breast for high school graduation last summer. She was wearing it the day the world changed.

We were half a mile east of the charred remains of the church, following Clear Creek toward the larger waters of the bay. Above the creek, the world was burning. We didn’t dare risk taking the streets to get to Christie’s place, as they were flooded with stalled vehicles and the zombie dead. Whatever virus that rampaged the church was no longer contained inside its walls.

We could hear music playing from a stalled car on the road, and I poked my head over the embankment to judge the danger. The music was coming from a beat-up red sedan, back passenger door open. A blonde-haired toddler twisted in a car seat, mouth open wide, blood spilling down its tiny chin as it gobbled on the family pet in the backseat. Looked like a Terrier. The dog, not the kid. The mom was shrieking in the front seat, kicking the crazed father in the face as he attempted to bite through her shoe.

“Fools. Everyone knows a car is the worst place to be in a zombie apocalypse,” Evelina said, dipping below the embankment and continuing to trudge through the dank, thigh-deep swamp toward Crab Bay Restaurant.

“Come on, Kat. Let’s get this over with. Christi should be at work by now.” Evelina took my hand as we waded deeper into the waters, the screams from the streets above drowned out by our own heavy breathing. The sun was above the trees now, the moon a silver sickle on the opposite side of the pure blue sky. In this tiny slice of pie that makes up my world, the end was coming. I just didn’t know yet whose end it would be...