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There she lay

Published by Sandra Lloyd Lewis on May 27, 2025

By Sandra

There she lay, under the pink eiderdown, her face slack, cheekbones hollowed, mouth open. For a long moment Amy thought she’d arrived too late, but then she saw the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the chest. Still alive, then. Leo had said she’d be too late if she left it any longer, but no, the old bag was still going and would probably keep them all waiting on her, if history was anything to go by.

Well, Amy wasn’t going to wait on her; she had made that decision an age ago and the small matter of her death was no reason to change that in her mind. Amy tapped her fingers on her leg and sighed, ‘Well. I came, I saw and all that. I’m off.’ Leo turned from the bed, her face showing the shock she plainly felt, ‘Amy, you only just got here.’ She stood up and crossed the small bedroom, her long floral dress and white cardigan, fitting in seamlessly with the flowered wallpaper, and Lladro ornaments on the bedside table.

She took Amy’s arm and gently ushered her out the door. In a soft voice, she said, ‘Mum is dying, Amy. I know you had your differences, but…’ she began.

‘Differences,’ Amy said, and gave a broken laugh, her voice mocking, ‘is that what we are calling it? It’s called narcissism in my book. Not exactly mother of the year, was she?’ She flung her arms up, frustrated as always whenever the subject of Sherri -she didn’t deserve the moniker mum or mother– came up.

The Missing and Found – Part 2 ish

Published by Janet Johnson on May 27, 2025

By Janet

The terrified girls clung to each other until the dazzling, bright light disappeared, and blackness surrounded them. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they made out the shapes of stone structures emerging from a vast, open rocky landscape of dry scrub bushes and dusty, sandy soil. Overhead, the ink-black sky was filled with twinkling stars, and a white moon loomed large and round. All was quiet, apart from the occasional high-pitched howling sound of a wild animal in the distance and the rustling of insects, which unsettled them.

“Where are we?” Jess whispered panickily.

“I don’t know,” Hannah replied, trying to be calm, suppressing her own panic to reassure the younger girl, “but we need to find somewhere safe to wait until morning.”

Keeping close, the girls moved slowly and quietly towards the skeleton of a house, careful not to draw attention to themselves; they didn’t know what was out there watching them.

“We’ll shelter here until light,” Hannah said, “hopefully, we’ll be able to get a better idea of where we are by then.”

Inside the derelict structure, crouched into a sheltered corner, they huddled together, wrapping their waterproofs around them to keep out the cold. Like this, they slept fitfully until the first rays of sunshine penetrated through the open roof of the house, gradually warming them.

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Some Peck & Noah Scenes

Published by Jason Davies-Redgrave on May 27, 2025

By Jason

Scene 1: This scene is from the start of the story – we’ve meet Peck and Jynn for the first time and this is a memory/flashback scene of Peck in school where she first experiments with tainted/atonal music.

Scene 2: Peck is unconscious after the clock shop attack, this a dream sequence where she speaks to The Many.

Scene 3: Peck is in the Circle, S’Uba is holding court. We have had a scene with Emyr’s point of view in the Circle, this is Peck’s turn…

Come Home, Mister Amlos

Published by Martyn Winters on May 23, 2025

by Martyn Winters

Part 1

Landing Town looks shabbier than usual today: worn name-hoardings over the shops, and a wash of baked soil across the walkboards, which kicks up into dust with each footfall as I amble up Main Street, thinking to myself I need a good steak and a beer to rid me of the taste of the farm. And that, for the time being, is my plan.

“Heya, Ianto,” calls a shrill voice. Tom O’Malley waves from a tub of muddy water sitting in his yard. His hair, a riot of ginger, is the only real colour to be found here, unless you count brown.

“Hey Tom,” I call back. “Goin’ down the square. Wanna come?”

“Nah. I’m going to keep cool here,” he says, splashing the brown water.

This is the most sensible thing someone of Tom’s colouring could do right after Spring-End Downpour. The next few weeks will be hot, as Visram’s star bakes the ground hard again. It’s too hot to work, but soon, as the summer rays fade behind the high clouds and fresh winds gust in from the ocean, I will be back in the fields, digging the ditches washed away by the rains. Old man McMichael will then haul out his planting machine and sow the crop of Steak-plant, which we harvest just as the rains start again. Then we’ll load up his old truck and haul the protein pods to the market.

Glass Memory by Sandra

Published by Sandra Lloyd Lewis on April 29, 2025

The cube was clear green grass, the smoke inside moving slowly. Now here was here, he was didn’t want to open it, but Mint was waiting by the door, huddled in her thick coat, and he could sense her impatience. He had come here after all, against her better judgement.

‘That’s why we put memories in boxes, Tor. So we can leave them behind.’ She had stroked his arms softly as she spoke, gentle movements that calmed him, but it wasn’t enough.

They had said the procedure was one hundred percent successful. In most cases. But in some, like him, the procedure left a sort of psychic residue. The online forums called it the Aftertaste and that was exactly what it was like, the unpleasant taste of something repeating on you. He couldn’t remember the memory itself – that part at least had worked – but there was a constant sense of disquiet, that he couldn’t shake off. His mind kept trying to work out why he felt it, and, like a newly removed tooth, he couldn’t help probing the missing hole.

The Missing and Found

Published by Janet Johnson on April 29, 2025

Sarah sipped her strong, black coffee and stared out of the kitchen window at the mizzle shrouding the garden. She hadn’t slept well, the black crows nesting in the large fir trees, waking her from her dark, fitful dreams in the early hours with their hoarse coos, caws, rattles and clicks. She’d always been suspicious of crows ever since her grandmother had told her that they were bringers of bad luck and death, shooing them away from her small cottage garden at every opportunity. A dark despair crept over her, reflecting the greyness of the clouds and the symbolism of the crows. She didn’t notice the police car at first until a slight movement caught her eye. She watched as a tall, black-suited man, followed by a young, immaculately uniformed female police officer, opened the gate and made their way to the front door, their faces serious with the news they were about to deliver. Finally, this must be it, Sarah thought to herself, the moment she had been dreading and anticipating in equal measure for the last five years. She hesitated at the sound of the doorbell, its cheery chime so inappropriate at that moment. Time slowed as she went to open the door, her legs dragging as if she was walking through quicksand.

Sirens on the Move.

Published by Jason Davies-Redgrave on April 29, 2025

Scene 1

The oldest music is birthed in the oceans, both earthly and celestial.

The sentient races of the universe knew that their oldest songs come from the ancient oceans. From the expanses of water that continuously shape each of their worlds and the vast celestial ocean that holds these worlds in their orbits. Even today, some of the women of these sentient races, the Sirens, can still hear these symphonies.

Symphonies that swell and blossom and grow in the cold depths. Shifting rhythms born where the masses of fresh water collide with the swirling salt waters of the far north. Melodies waxing and waning in the gravitational forces that pull at the very heart of the sea. Creatures from the depths find new chords and notes hurl them to the surface so they burst through and dazzle atop the churning waters like flecks of burning light.

The oldest songs are about crossing the sea. The Sirens have never lured sailors to their deaths. That’s just patriarchal nonsense. They have more important things to do than that. The Sirens are custodians. They herd the songs; they keep them alive and in motion. For a still song is a dead song and will soon be forgotten. Occasionally, if called to by the Five Families or some other need, the Sirens can add their own song to the tides…

At the scene of the crime

Published by Martyn Winters on April 29, 2025

Borough Market is a series of enigmas. It sits on an artificial island in the middle of the Great Lundeinjon Lake. Built from lost shoes often found at the side of the road or hanging from overhead wires, it is the destination for the long barges travelling in aquatic caravanserai across SPOWK, carrying goods of uncertain provenance to traders of ambiguous means, piloted by Elves of unclear status, with even more recondite motivations. Few know how the Elves of the barges are compensated for their labours, some say they do it for the fun of sailing the seas, crying “Arrrr” and “Jim lad” from their forecastle perches. Even fewer know who Jim might be, and no one knows why wires are strung from poles, often in the middle of nowhere.

Love in the Air: A February Tale

Published by Zin Shandi on April 29, 2025

Greetings and salutations!

Oh no, not this again! February, can’t you let me sleep in peace? Tella pleaded, tossing and turning. February lingered in the dim light, a ghostly presence drawing ever closer, pressing her to unveil the secrets of her heart. “Do you love me? Because my admiration for you knows no bounds.”

“Shush, February! Don’t muddle our connection with human emotions. You are perfect just as you are in my mind. You never hurt me; you love me in my quiet, awkward ways,” Tella rebuffed. “Now, please, go get busy. I’d like to catch some Z’s.”

But February chortled softly, “You know my duties begin the moment you drift off. My thoughts of you keep me awake; I only want your happiness and protection. But…”

“But what?” Tella snapped, her irritation flaring.

Walker by Sandra

Published by Sandra Lloyd Lewis on April 1, 2025

The road this time is long, wet and so dark I can only make out the faintest glimmer of light reflecting on the wet tarmac ahead. The man walking beside me stares straight ahead fixing his eyes on some distant object. His mind is difficult to read, but we push on together. I am not sure what I expected but it wasn’t this. You can usually tell what you’re going to get, or as near as damn it, so this is a surprise. There is a deeper darkness than usual from the space either side of the road, a sense of something there, that doesn’t wish us well, and I shiver. This is not going well, why the hell did I take this job? Apart from paying the rent and buying food, and feeding George, I was fine. Really. And I’ve done plenty of jobs like this, so this is no different. Except I have the uneasy feeling this is very different. The road has never been this dark, for one thing and for another, Mr Fink is a closed book, like he is keeping a very tight rein on his thoughts. And he’s walking so fast I feel like I’m in some army march and an irate sergeant will bellow, Move yer arse, yer lazy worm. He’s walking like he is being chased by the hounds of hell. Why am I thinking of the word Hell over and over? I take a deep breath and refocus ahead, listening to the sounds of my breathing. Mr Fink’s chest is rising and falling in panicked breaths, and I hear a moan from him. I start to sweat, this is not good. The darkness on either side of the road has thickened into a wall of seemingly solid black and I sense dread from it. Mr Fink’s eyes are now darting left and right to the dark and ahead I see a small white flesh shape emerge from the gloom. As we come closer, I see what it is and my scalp crawls: it’s a child’s hand, bloodless white, and wrinkled, as if the owner had been in water too long. Mr Fink is eyeing the hand out of the corner of his eyes, as if to look directly at it would cause its owner to come out…

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