How I Lost My Girlfriend on Christmas Day

thethemeis: Christmas

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   It was our first Christmas together, so when I took Jen round to my parents' house I was filled with just as much apprehension as excitement. I knew Jen well enough to know that she wouldn't judge me by my insane relatives, but I had no idea how far they could go before she would be so weirded out that she wouldn't even want to be in the same room as them anymore. But there was only one way to find out, so we set out to do so.

   When we got there, my granddad was standing in the hallway with a hose in his mouth, which led up to the top of the stairs, where my fourteen-year-old cousin (who had stayed the night so that his parents could have their annual Christmas Eve swinging party) was pouring ale into a funnel at the other end. When he finished one can, he'd wait for my granddad to give a thumbs-up before popping open another and starting to pour that down the tube. I didn't stick around to see if he finished the six-pack my cousin had at the top of the stairs, but I've seen the eighty-two-year-old drink a lot more in one go, so I can only assume so. My mother greeted us, and instructed us to shimmy around the old man into the kitchen, where the rest of the family were wetting their throats with gin and Baileys like they'd been three weeks without a drink.

   'Son!' My dad screamed, stumbling toward me in a Christmas cracker hat, arms wide, ready to embrace Jen and me in a big whiskey-stinking hug. 'I haven't seen you two for so long,' he said, playing with Jen's hair with one hand and slapping my face with his other. Oh, and lying, since I'd seen him two days previously. 'My god, she's beautiful. How did you get her, you ugly little bastard?'

   I laughed and went to the fridge to get a couple of drinks. My nan was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space and half-singing, half-mumbling a Christmas carol I hadn't heard before, with lyrics about violent outbursts and shepherds and male strippers. When I asked the room if she was alright, my mother replied, 'She's been like that ever since your brother showed her around upstairs. I think he must have given her a cheeky swig of that absynthe he keeps up there.' When I leaned in to kiss her, my grandmother stank of gin and marajuana.

   My alcoholic uncle and his wife who still thinks it's the seventies arrived shortly after, and my dad and his brother proceeded to swordfight with the carving knives in the centre of the kitchen while their wives laughed and my granddad stumbled back into the room holding onto the walls for support and Jen huddled into my chest, scared that a stray knife might embed itself in her pretty face. I told her this was a yearly tradition that had only claimed one toe in the fifteen years I'd seen it occur, but she was having none of it.

   Dinner passed in similar fashion. My brother and my nan had the munchies, so they had to eat three platefuls each before they were satisfied; my dad and uncle spent the whole dinner arguing over the score of a game of football they had played in their early teens; their wives silently attempted to drink each other under the table, devouring two bottles of wine each before the turkey had even been carved; and my granddad insisted on sitting next to Jen, so that he could share all his terrible jokes with her and flirt in his shameless old man way all through the meal. Bless her sweet heart, she sat there smiling politely the whole time, despite clearly being utterly creeped out.

   After dinner, my nan fell asleep with her head on the dinner table. As she snored loudly, my brother, cousin and granddad decided to play a game of Frisbee in the living room, while the rest of us played cards at the table in the connected dining room. We played Rummy and Chase the Ace with the sounds of 'Fucking yes mate!' and 'Couldn't catch that one, could you, you little shit?' coming from my granddad in the other room. I was even starting to relax, sure that the craziness was almost over, until the window smashed and we all noticed that my granddad was halfway out of it, laughing his drunk head off.

   'Oh, you utter bastard!' My mum screamed, jumping up and helping him out of the hole in the wall.

   'Don't worry love,' my dad replied, downing another glass of whiskey, 'we'll just take it out of Robbie's pocket money.' My brother protested for a while, before storming out of the room. After shuffling the cards, my dad grinned and said, 'Right, who wants to play Ring of Fire?' And that's when we left.

   'I hope you didn't find that too painful,' I said to Jen in the car on the way home.

   'It was fine,' she lied. 

   'I know it wasn't,' I said, 'but in exchange, I promise to do anything for you. Whatever you want, I'll do it.'

   'Okay, you can not moan when my mum serves up a vegan dinner tomorrow, with no alcohol,' she replied, smiling sweetly.

   'What?! You didn't tell me she was a vegan!'

   'She is. That's why I've avoided having you eat at my parents'.'

   'Fuck that, I'm moaning all I want, and we're getting a McDonald's on the way.'

   And that's how I lost my girlfriend on Christmas day.

The Beauregard Wishlist

thethemeis: Material World

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   ‘It says here that the world’s first ninety inch television has just gone on general sale, Geoffrey. Have we ordered one of those yet?’

   Geoffrey sighed inaudibly, twiddling his fingers behind his back as he eyed the bald spot on his employer’s head. In all the years he had been serving Humphrey Beauregard, he had never known his master’s memory to be as bad as it had been since that little dog Scuffer had died following a mouse into the open fire.

   ‘Yes, sir; it was delivered last Tuesday, and now takes pride of place in its box in the Technology Room.’

   ‘Excellent, Geoffrey. Most excellent. Did we pay a good price?’

   Geoffrey juggled the consequences of lying and being honest in his head for a few seconds before realising that whatever he said, he would receive the same response. The old man didn’t care how he obtained any of the things he owned, or how much he paid for them; he just cared that he owned them. Without that, his life was worthless.

   ‘No, sir; we paid much more than we should have, because supply was limited and you wanted to receive it before the royal baby was born. You said you wanted to watch it live, sir,’ the butler replied, honestly.

   ‘Excellent, Geoffrey. Most excellent.’

   The aging billionaire was riffling through a catalogue of shiny new things that any fool with too much money and not enough sense would desire within seconds of seeing; only, it was a mystery to the patient butler how the old man was seeing these things at all – the eye that hadn’t been irreparably damaged in that hunting accident two decades ago was so myopic that it was basically a decorative marble. The butler had to do everything for his master these days, from clipping his curling yellow toenails to changing his outfit every morning and evening. But that was all part of serving the Beauregards.

   ‘Oh, look, Geoffrey! A new Jaguar!’ A chubby, wrinkly finger poked the page of the magazine resting in the old man’s lap, and the butler didn’t even look down before he replied.

   ‘It looks just splendid, sir.’

   ‘I must have it. Do we have space in the garage?’

   ‘We do not, sir. We bought a Fiat 500 in every colour and pattern, because you saw the advert for them on the television and thought that it would be nice if the two of us could drive around with such flair.’

   ‘Have we done so yet, Geoffrey?’

   ‘Not yet, sir.’

   ‘I see. Well, if you could, please arrange for another garage to be built, and order one of these Jags. There’s a good chap.’

   The butler sighed again. He knew that to order the Jaguar and to build the garage would not be in his master’s best interests, but he knew also that it wouldn’t hurt an old man to get exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted it, in the final years of his life. If Humphrey Beauregard had the means and the will to waste money on extravagances time after time, who had the right to deny him that privilege? With that in mind, the butler turned on his heel and made to leave the drawing room and make preparations. As he reached the huge double doors of the room, he was halted by his master’s call.

   ‘Oh, and Geoffrey?’

   ‘Yes, sir?’

   ‘What of love?’

   ‘Love, sir?’

   ‘Yes, love. Can one buy that, yet?’

   ‘No, sir. Not much has changed since we last enquired. Love still cannot be bought.’

   ‘I see,’ replied the old man, his disappointed voice barely audible above the cracking and popping of the fire.

   ‘Would we like to order a prostitute until the situation changes, sir?’ Asked the butler, knowing the answer he would receive, since the two men had had the same conversation every other night since the passing of Mrs Beauregard in the early 80s.

   ‘Excellent idea, Geoffrey. Most excellent.’

Reliving The Future

thethemeis: The Fast Lane

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   They told me that there was a cliff just off the motorway past Staples Point where you could travel back in time, if you drove off of it at exactly midnight. I laughed at them at the time. I laughed and I told them to stop being so ridiculous. That’s not even possible, I said. But that night, there was nothing in the world that could have kept me from finding that cliff, and driving straight off of it at top speed. 

   That’s where I was going when I was weaving in and out of traffic on the M46, blasting my horn at the slugs crawling along in the fast lane, and the speed cameras just after the Fairbrook Interchange caught me travelling at 116 miles per hour. That’s where I was headed, when the lights down the centre of the road stopped and I was driving into blind blackness with just the three metres ahead of me visible, lit by my headlights, and the fox’s eyes appeared off to the left and I was travelling so fast that I had no time to react so I ploughed through it but I heard no impact so I don’t know if the fox was a hallucination or it just turned to mush in my grill. That was my destination, when that first police car caught wind of my kamikaze journey and slotted itself into my slipstream, sirens shrieking and lights blazing, and called its two friends to join the chase.

   The speed I was going by then, they had no chance of catching me. Even the helicopter bathing me in a heavenly spotlight as I ripped my beeline in the chilling night air was struggling to keep up. Without regard for my safety, on a mission to put my life and body in jeopardy just to see Jenny again, I pushed the car past 150 miles per hour on that pitch dark road, searching for Gatsby Services, where the metal barrier that I had to smash my way through sat waiting for me.

   When I reached it, I lost the two most cowardly police cars along with my front bumper and headlamps as I demolished the aluminium fencing with my jet black BMW. The third panda car continued its pursuit, following me onto the rocky path to the cliff, through the shrubs and the wildlife I murdered on the way, until its driver worked out where I was going and skidded to a halt. Left alone to meet my fate, I ploughed on through the debris to my glorious destination.

   Haloed by the light from the police helicopter, my front wheels left the cliff edge at exactly 23:59, and I went into freefall.

   For the first few seconds, time stopped and started like I was living inside of a strobe light, as the rocky beach below and the waves that broke against it drew themselves closer to my windscreen by the millisecond. I experienced a soul-crushing disappointment, as I realised that I had gone on nothing but a suicide mission, believing a rumour that was never designed to be truth. I was falling to my death at terminal velocity, and there was nothing I could do now to atone.

   But then it happened. At first, too quickly to control, the images flashing past my eyes with such disorganisation and confusion that I wasn’t sure whether I was experiencing some kind of pre-mortem highlights reel or just fitting in panic; then, as my brain tuned in to the blurry images more accurately, bringing it all into focus, more slowly and easier to affect. I soon realised that I was being transported to all of the moments in my life where I had done something that I regretted. All of the times I felt guilty or wronged or like my life had taken a wrong turn, they were rushing before my eyes, begging to be tweaked.

   Wetting myself at primary school. Cheating on tests and being caught. Cheating on schoolyard girlfriends with meaningless kisses. Arguments where the smartest, most biting retort had only dawned on me the morning after, over breakfast with my parents. Jokes I had tried to make in front of rooms full of new people, only to watch the joke fall flat and those strangers give each other pitying looks. It all zoomed past, as I disregarded the chaff to get to the crux, so that I could change my past, and in doing so, change my future too.

   I saw her face before I realised I had progressed that far through my life, and the stream slowed right down as I took her in. Here she was: Jenny, my beautiful ex fiancée, grinning at me with her thin nose and large eyes and full lips revealing paper white teeth. The face I hadn’t seen in two years had appeared in my eyes again and took my breath away with its beauty, almost making me forget what I was even doing here, physically falling through the air at a million miles an hour, but spiritually reliving a past I yearned to correct.

   I lived in that past for the entire duration of the relationship we once had, changing everything. The way I treated her, the way I thought of her, it was all renovated by the knowledge of what I had, which was only informed by the fact that in my previous future, she was gone. Every morning, I told her she was beautiful. I hugged her and I kissed her and I slept next to her with complete and utter contentment, worshipping her for being the most beautiful human being I had ever chanced upon.

   Where before I had criticised her taste in music or literature purely for the sake of contradicting her views, which I thought of as overconfident and ill thought out, this time I agreed wholeheartedly. I grabbed her hands and danced with her around her bedroom to Paramore songs and kissed her neck while she read cheap crime books, because I realised then that life was too short to disagree over such trivial matters; and also because if I was honest with myself, we shared so many of those tacky tastes anyway.

   I took back all the times I had been snappy and uptight. When the urge overcame me to shout at her or cut her down nastily in the middle of one of her uninformed rants, I chose this time to resist it. I heard her out, I let her finish, and then I grabbed her shoulders and kissed her mouth and told her that I loved her because that’s all that matters and heated debates are made for ponces in suits, not young lovers. I never told her she was wrong even when she was, I never took her for granted, and I never let her think she was anything other than perfect.

   And most importantly of all, I stripped away all that jealousy. All the insecurity I’d felt at the time, weighing me down like the world’s heaviest gelatine chainmail, I deemed to be completely useless, and left it locked in a time capsule in the past. I let her talk to whoever she wanted to talk to and flirt with whatever she felt like flirting with, because I knew that deep down, she was devoted to me, and everything she did was for me all along. Having the gift of hindsight made it infinitely easier to watch her throw herself around the dancefloors I could never navigate, and our relationship blossomed under the sunshine I allowed it to bathe in, as I blew away the clouds I had manufactured the first time.

   After we made love on her birthday, Jenny dressed in one of the kinky costumes she always loved to wear for my benefit in the bedroom and I burning with desire and love for her stronger than I had ever felt, after that, I felt that my work in the past was done, and decided to fastfoward to the present day, to my new future that awaited me like a light at the end of the tunnel. I relinquished my hold on the past, and let the images zoom past once again.

   But they went too fast. The memories that I couldn’t remember because I hadn’t lived them yet, they sprang past my eyes like an elastic band pulled too tight and suddenly released. I lost a grip on the past, and it all passed me by, until I woke up in a car, falling off of a cliff.

   I had changed nothing. Or at least, what I had changed hadn’t mattered. It had all ended up exactly the same. At some point, it had all gone wrong again, despite all that I had edited out in the footage of my lifetime; and I had ended up right back where I started: falling through the air, headed toward a cold, hard death on a pebbled beach. But this time, I felt a warm satisfaction as I drifted through the beam of the police helicopter’s spotlight toward the rocks and the waves, because I had seen Jenny again, and fixed it all. The fact that our love had eaten itself alive sometime since and left me just as distraught as before was a shock that was easily assuaged by the knowledge that this time, I wasn’t completely to blame. I had loved and been loved, and to feel that again was all I had needed.

   With my soul still swimming in this feeling, my body disintegrated against the beach, along with the scarlet Audi it had arrived in, leaving only ashes and smoke in that helicopter’s beam.

Erica

thethemeis: Erotica

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   Now, she haunts my dreams.

   Erica, the girl who once spoke endlessly of how one day she would live on the banks of the Nile or in the very centre of Hyderabad or in an apartment with a clear view of the Golden Gate bridge (if she could ever break free of these chains), she now inhabits the dark space in my mind only visited in sweaty bouts of unconsciousness. Trapped inside my subconscious, she keeps her stranglehold on my thoughts, my actions, my entire being, despite that she has had no real contact since that one night.

   That one night that plays in my dreams, on repeat.

   I sit there on the edge of the bed in my grotty flat, my head wading in a shallow pool of Glenfiddich, desperate not to give in to lusty temptation this time, but to talk her out of her decision and persuade her to faithfully surrender herself to the future I have planned for the pair of us. ‘Erica,’ I whine, ‘give it some thought, please. You don’t have to do this your whole life. It could be so different. We could move anywhere. We could be in love. I know you want that, even if you won’t admit it.’

   My dingy bedside lamp reluctantly half-illuminates the room, trying its hardest to hide the blemishes that litter my walls and the drink stains that crazy-pave my carpet in a shroud of shadow.

   ‘Aaron,’ she replies as she leans against the door that links my bedroom to the stained old bathroom from whence she came, her voice a rich sauce of years of cigarette smoke and an immitigable childlike femininity, ‘you don’t even know for sure that my name is Erica. It could be Rebecca or Jessica or… Roxanne, for all you know.’ She slinks across the room toward me.

   ‘I know you like to pretend that you’re keeping me at arm’s length like you do all the others,’ I rest my head against her bare stomach and close my eyes, as she stands in front of me in frenchies, a push-up and fishnet stockings, and I try to block out that stunning view that always seems to make the best arguments in my favour crumble around me, ‘but you’re translucent to me. I see through the act. You care about me, and that’s why you told me your name on that first night we met, that first time.’

   ‘You think you have it all figured out, don’t you, Boy Genius.’

   ‘I do.’

   She kneels between my legs, which she has pushed open with her petite, manicured hands. Her sharp nails draw lines up my thighs and her large brown eyes meet mine, her plump, dark red lips creeping into a cheeky smile as my heart stumbles over itself to get to a dancefloor inside of my ribcage.

   ‘Well, Freud,’ she whispers as her slender fingers walk their way up to the zip on my trousers, ‘if we’re going to elope, can we do it later? I have other plans just now.’

   ‘But – wait –’ I grab her hand, pull it away from my crotch.

   ‘Aaron, I love our chats. I really do,’ her fingers do their signature strut once more, up my stomach to my chest, as her other hand continues freeing me from my trouserous prison, ‘but I do find it tiresome. Can’t we save it? Hold the thought and drag it back out, say, post-coitus?’ With that, she pushes me back onto the bed by the sternum, and my resolve dissolves in an instant.

   Like it does every single time with Erica, the air around my newly freed thighs and pelvis feels strangely magical, making my heart flutter like the first time all over again. The loss of innocence is a recurring theme in the feelings mustered up by thoughts of Erica, and no matter how many times one spends the night with her, it never fails to feel new.

   Her kisses creep up the inside of my thigh, those soft, moist lips planting promises of something altogether more pleasurable slowly in a pathway to my throbbing penis, which she reaches in seconds that feel like hours, and slides into her warm, wet mouth. Her black glossy fingernails dig grooves in my thigh as her tongue slips softly up the length of my erection, the softness and warmth of her mouth enveloping me until my arm hairs stand on end. 

   I run my fingers through her jet black bob, clenching a handful as she begins to nod with more enthusiasm, swallowing me deep into her mouth before sliding out far enough that I think she’ll let go. She begins to build speed, lapping me up until the tip of me reaches the hot, dark back of her whisky-stained throat and then withdrawing to tongue my throbbing end as if licking a flesh popsicle. Faster and faster, deeper and deeper, she sucks and kisses and licks until my back arches and my skin quivers and my brain swims in an electrical storm that takes my breath away. I grab the hand she has rested on my chest and squeeze her tiny fingers and the pressure builds in my head and the blood rushes to my crotch and my penis throbs in her warm wet mouth and she laughs and I gasp and every muscle in my body clenches to prepare for an explosion and then… she stops. She takes me out of her mouth, and those round brown eyes blink innocently at me as he finger wipes saliva from her bottom lip, which creases into a sly grin.

   ‘Where next?’ she asks, as she stands and places her knees on the side of my bed, straddling my hips as my legs dangle over the side of the bed. I struggle to gain my breath back, my head spinning and my heart drumming in my chest, as I lift my upper body from the hard mattress and pull her to me, kissing her stomach and breasts and neck with the vigour of a shark on a blood high. She cackles and grabs my hair for balance, as I go temporarily insane with desire and throw her onto her back on the bed.

   She kicks her legs in playful resistance, as I wrestle the panties off of her pins and throw them to the floor. Her tiny feet, with matching black nail varnish and tattoos of song lyrics that mean nothing to no one, slap my shoulders and hands, keeping me away from the prize I desire, until I grab one and tongue it, shoving her big toe into my mouth as I stroke a finger up her shin to her thigh. My tongue follows closely, drawing a line from the sole of that perfect foot to her knee, that knobbly dimpled lump that she hates and I love, where I plant a kiss that brings forth another beautiful giggle, before proceeding to kiss my way up her inner thigh.

   Sigh, she sighs, as I breathe my frantic breath against her smooth leg skin and lock my fingers in hers. I kiss her clitoris softly, a peck that is over as soon as it began, and she sighs again, her legs hinting at closing before I delve my head between them once more. I kiss her again, longer this time, and harder, and she gasps. I repeat this twice more, taking my time, building the anticipation until her head lifts from my pillow and she growls with frustration, grabbing my head and pushing my face into her crotch.

   I begin to lap slowly at her clitoris, licking her up and down, as I slip a finger into her hot, wet hole and massage slowly inside of her. I draw circles with my tongue and my hand simultaneously, one way and then the other, clockwise and then anticlockwise, until her breathing reaches a pace that tells me that she’s ready for the speed to be built up. My left hand creeps up the smooth skin of her thigh and tummy until it meets her hand that rests there, which I grab and hold tightly; and my right hand works another finger into her, pushing in and out gently to the rhythm of her fast-beating heart. My tongue does its own dance, drawing the letters of the alphabet and the numbers from one to nine and ancient hieroglyphics and whatever the fuck else I can manage on the tiny pink face of her clit. Faster and faster I lap, suck and gently gnaw at her until she writhes on her back like one electrocuted and her fingers squeeze the blood out of my left hand. As her other hand pushes my face closer and closer to her, not allowing me a moment’s air, I slip another finger in and push into her hard and fast, sucking her clitoris into my mouth and running my tongue along it in slow, long laps. Her back arches, and as I pound my aching hand into her the final few times, I feel her quiver all over, her muscles convulsing involuntarily, as her grip on my hair relaxes and her vagina pulses intensely around my three fingers, still knuckle deep inside of her. FUCK, she screams, and her legs clamp shut, narrowly missing my grinning head.

   She lies motionless for a while, still holding my left hand, eyes still closed, breast heaving. When she does open her eyes, they meet mine immediately, and she sits up to kiss me on the mouth, with both of her dainty hands wrapped around my neck. ‘I want you inside of me,’ she says, ‘and I want it now.’ She lies back, dragging me with her by my bottom lip, which is clamped between her teeth.

   We’re like scavengers that have found fresh meat. We’re insatiable as we collapse together onto the bed, she scratching lines into my back that almost draw blood and I biting her neck, her shoulders, her ear lobe, so that she gasps from the ecstasy. We fuck like sixth formers in an empty house, carefree and youthful and so full of love and lust that no amount of orgasms could ever satisfy us. I pump myself into her from on top as her left leg sits on my shoulder and her right sits at my side. She smokes a cigarette which she puts out on my chest as she sits on top of me, massaging her breasts and crying out for God to help her. I lick beads of sweat from between her soft round breasts while I push myself into her as far as I can and kneed her buttocks in my hands. From behind, I pound her so hard that she clutches onto the headboard for stability and can’t utter a sentence from her clumsy cumming tongue. She lies down flat on her front, and I straddle her, entering her from behind and pushing as far into her as I can while pulling her hair just as much as she likes. Then, we do it all over again.

   Finally, after all of the breathlessness and the sweating and the cigarettes and the fucking and the pouring whiskey onto each others’ searing skin and the fuck me harder, fuck me harder, I want to feel you fuck me harder, I reach a blissful, serene orgasm that silences the entire world. Troubles, issues, debt, duty, sin and evil crumble away to leave me in a heaven of my own creation, as Erica lies there underneath my exhausted body, panting and giggling and asking me what has happened to me tonight. We kiss, we embrace, and everything that was ever bad about life disappears as I lie there with my one true love.

   And then I wake up.

   I wake up in a new town, in a new city, in a new country, with only the cigarette burn scar on my chest to prove that that dream was ever a reality. 

   I know how the dream would end if it played on. It would end with me begging her to reconsider her life choices to accommodate a life spent by my side. I’d tell her we could find a way to pay off whoever was running her. I’d tell her we could run away, start a new life, and she’d never have to do any of this to anyone else again. I’d say all these things, and she’d just smile at me as she redressed and took money from my wallet, before purring, ‘I’m leaving the country tomorrow. If you can find me again, I’ll marry you, Boy Genius,’ and walking out of my life forever. 

   That’s why I wake alone. That’s why I’m constantly on the move. That’s why no one else will ever do. 

   Because I am forever searching for Erica. 

To Wish For Empty Skies

thethemeis: The Unexpected

theauthoris: Ben Hayes

   We expected to find hyperspace.
   We never imagined what we would find there.

   In 2203, humanity finally cracked the interstellar travel problem. The discovery of sixthspace, and the Cao-Mulciber drive allowed us to make trips of hundreds of lightyears in just a few days.

   With space suddenly so much smaller, we found human-habitable planets. Not many, but enough. Within decades, our species was at last proof against sudden extinction, no longer at the mercy of Earth's fate.

   What we did not find, was life.
   There were no intelligent aliens - no interstellar federation waiting to welcome us, no rogue AIs lying in wait to subjugate us, nothing but the occasional bit of native fauna.

   And we wondered why.
   Why, on all these worlds, worlds we knew could sustain life, we found none other.

   And then the first ship vanished.

   The Sanssouci, a bulk transport ship carrying food, medicine, and three-and-a-half thousand souls. It left Earth bound for Guangzhe colony, dropped into sixthspace eight days out, and was never seen again.

   We didn't realise. Didn't guess what had begun.
   Three more ships vanished, before we finally understood.

   The recording is historical, and not one person has forgotten the moment they heard it.

   "This is the Los Rheas. We jumped from Nuevos Angeles, en route to Grace's Shore. There is... we were attacked. There is something in sixthspace. Do you understand? Sixthspace is not empty."

   Two days later, the colony on Grace's Shore was gone.
   All trace of it, every person, every building, every dropped crisp-packet. They made no transmissions, and there was no warning. They simply vanished.

   It didn't take long for us to guess what had happened.
   Something had followed the Los Rheas, divined its destination. Something terrible.
   The government ordered an immediate moratorium on sixthspace travel.
   People panicked. Trying desperately to get home to their families, they hijacked ships, bought passage with smugglers and black-marketeers. And in doing so, they made a trail.

   Earth was lost almost instantly. It was too large, too well known. People flocked there in droves, and it must have burned like a beacon in the vast, grey expanse of sixthspace. Billions upon billions of people, gone. The great colonies, too. Lincolnsheim. Albion. Tien-sha. All wiped clean, as people led fate to them.

   And so we are come to this, a last few scant handfuls of humanity, clinging precariously to our most distant and most desolate worlds, the places to which no-one wished to flee.

   We left no traces, no Ozymandias amidst the shifting sands. In eons to come, if explorers of another race should ever land upon our birthworld, will they too wonder at its emptiness, and think themselves alone among the stars?

   We know now why we found no other life.
   And every day, we watch the skies and pray that no-one comes.

Scud

thethemeis: The Unexpected

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   Scud Presley has a tooth missing where it just never came through in the top right hand corner of his smile, and he tongues the hole where it should be as he struts from his black imported Mustang to the door of the greasy spoon café just off the M1. His car bleeps twice as he presses the button on his key fob without looking back, and he grins as he strides through the door into the humidity of the café because today has been a good day. Every day is a good day for Scud Presley, and when you look at his pockmarked face with its smug grin and its frame of slicked back hair, you know it without having to be told.

   The door closes itself slowly behind Scud, jingling for a second time on its journey back towards its frame, and Scud takes a seat at a table by the window. He doesn’t realise that this isn’t the kind of place that does table service, or he just doesn’t care, as he slouches in the seat and engrosses himself in a newspaper that lies on the table. With his eyes glued to the page, he lifts his left hand above his head and clicks his fingers loudly.

   The young girl behind the counter, Sandra Batten, chewing gum, remains behind the counter. She raises an eyebrow at Scud Presley that is not heeded.

   At least a minute passes, and Sandra begins to inspect her nails once more, as she stands with her hip leaning against the counter in the café that is empty but for one man reading a newspaper in a lumberjack’s shirt open to the belly button and jeans so tight that the outline of his penis would be visible a hundred metres away. Noticing that he has no tea, coffee or food in front of him, the man clicks his fingers again, this time lifting his eyes from the page to meet Sandra Batten’s, grinning his holey grin.

   ‘Any chance of some service, love?’ He asks, ‘Or are you too… busy?’ He gestures sarcastically toward the other empty tables in the restaurant.

   Huffing loudly, Sandra pushes herself away from the counter and drags her feet around the work surface and across the linoleum of the restaurant floor to reach the airspace beside Scud Presley’s table. She stands filing her nails and not looking down at the man, who even from this distance reeks of supermarket-bought cologne. Despite being desperate to order ten seconds ago, Scud seems not to be so hungry now, chewing his gum noisily and staring at the page of his newspaper like it holds the answers to all his problems.

   ‘Look, do you want to order anythi–’

   ‘Would you look at this?’ He holds the page up so she can see the picture. ‘This kid is fourteen years old, and he’s broken the hundred metre world record. Do you know what the hundred metre record is? Well, it’s about nine seconds. But this kid does it in eight seconds. Eight seconds. They’ve had Guinness in and everything; he really does it.’

   Sandra just watches his face, popping her gum. He grins up at her.

   ‘I like your lipstick. What is that, Blood Red? Midnight Maroon?’

   Sandra Batten raises an eyebrow.

   Scud’s smile doesn’t drop. 

   ‘Would you like to see a card trick?’ Scud Presley lifts one buttock from the hard seat of the café booth to fish in his back pocket for his pack of cards. ‘Sit down.’

   Rolling her eyes and sighing loudly for just about the millionth time, Sandra takes a seat opposite Scud in the booth. As she sits down, the apron she wears folds unflatteringly so that her chest looks flat and her stomach appears to bulge, but Scud has already seen that even in her standard-issue dinner lady scrubs and paper apron, her body is shapely and has curves in all but some of the right places. Smiling his smile at her and tonguing his gum, he splays the pack of cards between them.

   ‘What’s your name? Do you have a name?’

   Sandra masticates a little more, then pops her gum.

   ‘Sandra.’

   Scud’s hands open up like a bowl between the two, begging to be filled with more information. ‘Sandra what?’

   Sandra’s eyes narrow, and she chews some more before replying, ‘Sandra Batten.’

   ‘Look at me, I’m Sandra B…’

   Sandra B rolls her eyes and allows them to fall on an indeterminate spot outside of the window.

   ‘My name’s Scud Presley,’ he continues, displacing and replacing the cigarette behind his ear, ‘and I’m very pleased to meet you, Sandra Batten. Pick a card.’

   Sandra takes a card and shields it from Scud’s view. The card is the five of diamonds.

   ‘Do you have a pen?’ Asks Scud, tapping the edges of the rest of the cards in the pack and leaning across the table as if part of him wants to peek at Sandra’s card or look down her top or something. Sandra just stares at him with one eyebrow raised, as she reaches into the pocket of her uniform and pulls out an eyeliner pencil. ‘Right,’ continues Scud, ‘I want you to write something on that card. Your favourite line of poetry, your address, your bra size, something like that. But don’t let me see it.’

   For the first time, Sandra smiles a toothy smile at Scud, and doesn’t take her eyes off him as she jots something down on the face of the playing card.

   ‘Now fold it up, so I have no way of telling what you’ve written. Fold it right up.’

   He rolls up the sleeve of his right arm.

   ‘Like this?’

   ‘Exactly. Hand it back to me.’

   Fishing his lighter from the same pocket as the cards, he lights up his cigarette before taking the folded card back from Sandra and pressing it to the inside of his right wrist.

   ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ Sandra drones, ‘it’s against the law.’

   He holds his finger up at her, and she falls quiet. With the folded playing card still resting on the soft skin of his wrist, he takes the cigarette from his mouth. Grinning at Sandra, he drives the hot end of the cigarette through the playing card and into his wrist, where it hisses and streams grey smoke up in ribbons around their faces. Sandra winces, watching him burn the paper and his wrist skin.

   When the fire on the card and the cigarette has died, he rubs the card with its burnt hole in the centre up and down his wrist, so that his skin is blackened by the ash. Sandra’s face is contorted into a shocked grimace, unsure of whether she wants to spend any more time sat opposite this obvious psychopath.

   After eating the burnt playing card and the cigarette in one gulp, Scud blows the excess ash from his charcoal wrist, revealing words written in deep black across his skin. The words read FUCK YOU, in a womanly scrawl.

   ‘Is that what you wrote on the card?’ Scud asks.

   Sandra nods, her eyes wide but her mouth back to the same old cow-chew rotation.

   ‘And your card,’ says Presley, stroking his chin and tonguing the hole where his tooth should be as if trying to taste the identity of her card, ‘was the nine of clubs.’

   ‘…No.’

   ‘Oh. The six of hearts?’

   ‘No, it was the –’

   ‘Don’t tell me. I’ll get it.’

   While he tongues his hole and feigns deep thought, Sandra’s amazement wanes, along with her interest. 

   ‘Look, mate, do you want any food or what? I’m gonna go and sit back over there now.’

   ‘I’ll have a fry up. The works. Everything you’ve got. Oh, and a tea – strong and dark, like me.’ Scud winks, and then grins. 

   Sandra shakes her head and chuckles to herself as she walks back to the till, and Scud can’t be sure if she’s laughing at him or with his astounding trick, and he doesn’t care either way. All publicity is good publicity.

   ‘Oh, I’ve got it,’ he shouts, clapping his hands together, as she reaches the counter.

   She doesn’t need to hear his guess – she has already spotted the playing card on the work surface. Unfolded but still wearing its creases, intact but still sporting four holes with charred, black edges, it sits there staring at her from the counter.

   ‘It was the five of diamonds, wasn’t it.’

   Sandra nods, not taking her eyes from the burnt up five of diamonds.

   ‘God, you’ve got a nice arse. I mean, even in that ugly outfit. I just want to pound it.’

   ‘What?’ Sandra’s eyes dart from the five of diamonds to the king of sleaze in an instant.

   ‘Nothing.’

*

   Sandra B places the all-day breakfast plate in front of Scud with a clink, and sets his tea down next to it. He grins up at her, but she doesn’t pay him even the tiniest morsel of attention. She stares out of the window that he has his back to, watching the cars speed past on the motorway a couple of hundred metres away. After she has delivered his meal, she lights up a cigarette and stands at the window looking out, her left arm across her stomach and her right leaning on her left, holding the cigarette. For a while, the two people coexist in silence, their soundtrack the hiss of the piping hot chip fat in the kitchen behind the counter and the scrape of Scud Presley’s cutlery against his plate.

   ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to smoke in here?’ He finally says, his mouth full of fried food. ‘I thought it was against the law?’

   Sandra’s eyes mope from the window to Scud’s pupils as she sticks the fag into her mouth and sucks on it hard, illuminating the end and sending a stream of grey, sweet-smelling smoke into the air around her head.

   ‘It is.’

   Her gaze returns to middle distance beyond the café’s glass façade.

   ‘Is that your car?’ Sandra asks, blowing smoke through her nose and pointing at the black Mustang parked outside. Scud turns in his seat to look at the car she’s pointing at, knowing fully well that the car park would be empty were it not for his car.

   ‘Yeah. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’

   ‘It’s a she?’

   ‘Aren’t all cars? Isn’t everything? Who run the world? Girls.’

   Sandra smiles at Scud – a false, empty smile – and crosses the floor to stub out her cigarette on the side of his plate.

   ‘Are you finished?’

   He grins at her while still chewing the last of his food, relishing the game they’re playing with each other. Once again for Scud Presley, this has been a cinch – at the click of his fingers, they’d be doing the no pants dance. ‘Yeah,’ he replies, wiping his hands with the one-ply napkins that the box on his table provides, ‘thanks.’

   As she walks back toward the counter, Sandra speaks to Scud at a barely audible mumble, as if he were a voice in her head. ‘So how could you afford a car like that?’

   ‘I have rich parents. They gave me money for university, so I spent it on the car. Then they gave me money for university again, and I spent it on insurance for my new car, and clothes. Next time they give me money for university, I might go to university.’ Scud has rolled up the napkins he used to wipe his hands into a tight ball, and he bounces it on the table in front of him as he leans forward to project his voice across the café.

   ‘Hm,’ Sandra chuckles, short and sharp, as she emerges from the kitchen where she has dumped the dirty plate into the dishwasher. She returns to her stool and continues to file her nails. ‘So you’re university age, are you? Like, eighteen, nineteen?’

   ‘I’m twenty-five.’

   ‘Wow.’ Sandra’s intonation says wow like this news has impressed or surprised her, but her eyes widening and rolling around in their sockets before returning to her nails tell a very different story.

   Silence descends upon the room.

   ‘Oi, Sandra?’

   ‘Yeah?’

   ‘Do you want to fuck?’

   Sandra’s jaw drops, and her eyes fix on Scud’s. ‘Excuse me?’

   ‘I said: do… you want… to fuck?’

   ‘Okay.’

*

   ‘Okay, let’s do it here,’ Sandra says, still chewing her stale old chewing gum and pointing at the edge of the deep fat fryer.

   ‘Won’t you get burned?’ Asks Scud, undoing his belt and still grinning his brainless grin.

   ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. I have the shelves to lean on, anyway.’

   The deep fat fryer is basically a big metal sink with a thick rim and scalding hot contents, incessantly fizzing and crackling like how one would imagine one’s face cooking in a forest fire. There are three shelves above it, bare but for a few metal mugs, a colander, three ladles and a box of rat poison pellets. Standing in front of it, Sandra drops her panties to the ground without revealing even a square inch of buttock below her skirt, and spreads her legs a little as she bends forwards slightly to lean on a shelf. 

   ‘Yeah, this’ll work,’ she says, without turning her head back to Scud.

   A television on the counter that Scud hadn’t even noticed before this precise moment begins to play a song about frigidity from the musical Grease. He grins at the box and grabs his member with his tattooed hand, feeling its weight and thickness and remaining very impressed with himself, as he steps forward and lines himself up with the gap between Sandra Batten’s legs. 

   ‘Oh, wait a second,’ Sandra sighs, as if ruing her forgetfulness, just as Scud’s tip makes first contact with her soft, warm flesh.

   Scud grins, assuming Sandra wants to remove her clothes or hitch up her skirt further or open herself up wider for his girth. Women.

   Sandra, however, takes a metal cup from the shelf that her fingers have been gripping, and dips it into the molten chip fat. Her cup full of hissing, popping heat, she turns to Scud, and grins back at him. She winks, kisses the air between them, and pours the searing fat all over his erection.

   As Scud screams in pain and writhes on the floor of the kitchen, unable even to climb back onto his knees, Sandra pulls on her knickers, returns to her position behind the counter, tosses a new chewing gum into her mouth, and continues to file her nails.

The Heroes Law

thethemeis: Heroes

theauthoris: Luke Stephenson

   Alison picked up the Hero Blade. It was short, more akin to a dagger than anything else. It shone brightly in the light cast through the temple roof, as if it were made of diamond; which of course it was - partially. Most of the blade was folded steel, but the last inch or so that formed the edge was diamond. Alison gave it a twirl to feel the weight and balance; her movement was clumsy as the balance of the Blade was very different than her son’s wooden one. Still, she didn't cut any of her limbs off, so that was a start.

   “Very nice,” said a voice from below. The tone was sarcastic. Alison glanced down the altar’s stone steps to see the middle aged clerk pausing from his notes to observe her. Like all Hero Temple clerks, he was a priest from the local church, given this work detail in order to complete his mandatory ‘community’ hours for that week. He was beginning to grey, and his face was covered in lines; caused in equal measure by forty years of brow furrowed in annoyance and raised in judgement or disapproval. Alison rolled her eyes and sheathed the Blade, before slinging the Hero Shield onto her back and donning the Hero Cap.

   As Alison descended from the altar, the surly priest rolled up the parchment he had been working on and dripped onto it the wax from a nearby candle, forming a crude seal. “Take this writ to town hall,” he said, presenting the scroll to her. “The clerk there will fetch you the Hero Journal from the library. Add to it as you need to.”

   “I will be sure to treat it with the respect it deserves,” Alison said.

   The priest scoffed. “Then you’ll be paying for the new one.”

   Messy stacks of armour were visible on the rows of old, splintered racks behind the clerk. There was no elaborate decoration or even any signs of particularly skilful craftsmanship, but there were all kinds of pieces  here to suit warriors of any size, strength and discipline. It was Hero Armour. Following her gaze, the priest took a new piece of parchment from the pile at the side of his desk. “You want some armour then?” he asked.

   Alison nodded.

   “Five sovereigns.”

   She looked at the priest in surprise, trying to gauge his expression. Could a man of God be trying to cheat her? “You charge for the Armour?”

   “Absolutely,” he said sternly.

   “You would charge the Hero for her Armour?”

   “Don’t speak of it with such ill deserved reverence,” the priest spat, waving his hand dismissively. “There is nothing whatsoever in the prophecies regarding armour. Diamond tipped sword? Yes. Shield? Yes. Hat? Absolutely. The Seer dedicates an entire chapter to getting the hat right. But not a single florid verse about armour.

   “What you see here is bought and paid for by the town treasury, to aid the Hero in the Quest. His Lordship used to provide it for free, but a few dishonest heroes and half our stock had been sold to travelling merchants. So now we charge market prices. Five. Sovereigns.”

   He made a point of speaking more slowly and clearly for the last two words for emphasis, leaning forward and looking Alison firmly in the eye. Sighing, she broke his gaze and held her hands up, defeated. “Fine,” she declared in exasperation. “No Hero Armour.”

***

   It was a nice day to begin the Quest. Hooves clopped on the cobblestones of the main road, their wearers pulling a wagon piled high with straw on the way to one of the new roofs being thatched near the fields. A faintly sweet aroma drifted on the breeze, most likely from the freshly baked bread being prepared for market; a pleasant - if brief - respite from the smell the farms would produce once the heat caught them in earnest. Alison descended the steep temple steps, smiling as she heard a familiar laugh from nearby. “Got you, demon!” the voice cried.

   A young dark-haired boy stepped out from the shade of the temple, his arms folded. “No fair,” he complained, “my sword broke. I woulda beat you otherwise.”

   “No way!” the first voice said, joining his friend on the road. “My mum’s the Hero! You know what that means? It means God’s watching over us, so we can’t lose at anything!”

   Alison ruffled her son’s short, already scruffy hair. “Now Rupert,” she said, “you know that’s not how it works.”

   Rupert grinned, showing off a missing tooth caused by one of his more recent duels where the Lord’s attentions must have been elsewhere. “Well,” he said, “it’s either that or Billy has to admit I’m a better soldier than him!”

   The other boy stuck his tongue out. “I’ll just have to beat you next week then!” He ran off in the direction of the fields where his family would be working. Rupert took his mother’s hand as they began to walk, eyeing the dagger with scarcely concealed awe.

   “Are you gonna kill demons with that?” he asked in a high pitched voice.

   Alison nodded. “If they come, but they haven’t in a while.” She waved to a couple passing the other way, and some townspeople would touch their caps as a mark of respect as she passed; one of the farmer’s wives even gave her a loaf of fresh bread from her basket, and similar offerings followed in the form of eggs and milk. It was nice being the Hero.

***

   Derren set three grubby tankards on what remained of the old table; withstanding years of fights and constant use by heavyset farmers, smiths and masons had taken its toll, leaving the legs odd lengths and the surface cracked and uneven. It had been a long day working on the roof of a new house; he was covered in sweat and his muscles ached something fierce, so the prospect of a few drinks with his workmate was a welcome one. The third tankard was for someone who wouldn’t usually be found in the tavern once it was dark, lest the drunken men leer and grope, but doing something like that to the Hero was likely to earn a sore night in a jail cell.

   “So,” Alison began, wincing slightly as she sipped her ale, “what was it like for you?”

   John rolled his eyes as his friend grinned beside him, eager to tell the tale for the hundredth time. Perhaps the demons would come this week, and somebody else could finally claim the bragging rights for besting them.

   “I got a knock on m’door about... three months ago,” Derren said, scratching his scruffy black beard as he tried to organise his thoughts. “It was one of them chaps from town hall, who works for Lord Tellop. Tells me it’s my turn on Hero Duty! I’ve never picked up a sword in my life, but I go to the temple, grab the stuff and part with a couple o’ coin for the armour-"

   “Hang on,” Alison interrupted, “How much did you say the armour was?”

   “Er, two sovereigns I think.”

   Annoyance and amusement fought for dominance in Alison’s mind, resulting in her making the sound of something in between that was neither chuckle nor curse. “I knew that shady priest was scamming me,” she said.

   John shrugged, hiding his smirk behind his drink. “Got to pay for those fancy windows somehow.”

   “Anyway,” Derren said in his deep voice, obviously annoyed at the interruption, “them demons hadn't shown up in almost six months right? So I weren't expecting much. But then on the third night, I start hearing  screams from down by the bakery, and smoke too.

   “So I get over there sharpish, right? And there are these creatures there, right? You’ve probably caught glimpses of ‘em at least during one of the attacks, but they’re just like the priests tell you about: tall and thin, covered in fire, curly horns, pointy tails and these long claw things that shred skin ‘n’ bone like it were straw. They’ve even got them legs like on goats.”

   Alison’s skin crawled at the description, she had never actually seen one of the demons herself; she’d heard rumours but never expecting to hear they were true from a man who had actually fought them. Derren looked her in the eye and spoke softly as he continued.

   “As soon as they saw me, all of ‘em - to a man, if you could call ‘em that – come right for me. Snarlin’ and screamin’ and swingin’ them claws around in a frenzy. I just stand there in a cold sweat as they run my way. I ent never held a weapon before in my life, and I’ve no idea what I’m doing. The first one comes close, and I just swing. Don’t think about aim or gettin’ a good stance – I just swing, and this thing’s head comes right off. The next one claws at my armour and barely scratches it, so I kick it hard in the belly, and it slams against a wall and breaks its back.”

   Alison had edged forward on her seat, eyes wide as she hung onto Derren’s every word, captivated. John was absent-mindedly nudging at a ladybug that had made its way onto the table. Derren took a drink and leaned back on his stool before continuing.

   “There’s about a dozen of them,” he said, “all just swarming me, and I just swing like a madman... but they can’t touch me. See this?” He pulled the matted hair back that was hanging over the left side of his face to reveal a long scar close to his ear. “That’s all they could do.”

   “How?” Alison asked in a stunned whisper.

   “God or somethin’ ennit?”

   “It’s destiny.” John cut in, catching Alison’s eye. “You ever read the Seer’s prophecies?”

   Alison shook her head. She had heard of the Seer, the prophecies and how they were somehow attached to the way a new Hero was selected for the town each week. But the contents of these prophecies weren’t widely known; Hero Duty was the law, and you followed the law or went to prison - simple.

   “Well, me neither,” John said. “And they don’t like to talk about it at church – seeing the future supposedly being a sign of the devil or some such like that. But I have heard about it from someone who has.”

   “And?”

   “The Seer lived a few hundred years ago, and started writing down his predictions. Really precise stuff as well, exact days and names of folk involved. To start with no one took him seriously, but eventually, they started coming true – every single one.

   “Now, I dunno if he were possessed or had some kind of divine power, all I know is that his power was real, and one of his predictions spoke of demons plaguing the land. Every so often for two hundred years they would come, and a Hero would rise to aid the people, slaying the demons and saving the town. The prophecy described the Hero’s weapon, shield and hat – and as long as the Hero lived, the town would be safe.”

   “But, nobody could live for that long.” Alison said as John paused to finish his drink. Derren grunted in agreement as a serving girl brought him another tankard – she had been doing this since the first round and he was beginning to acquire quite the collection.

   “Of course not; which is exactly why Lord Tellop is such a genius. He realised that as long as the prophecy was never contradicted, the town would always be safe. One hero may live for sixty years; become a strong and wise fighter and save the people from demons. But he could also be a danger, install himself governor by force, and would eventually die and leave the town at risk.

   “Have a different Hero each week, on the other hand, and you keep the town safe indefinitely. When fighting demons the Hero is protected by God or fate; when they grow old and die the town is still safe. That’s why Lord Tellop passed the Heroes Law.”

   The table shook with a small thud as Derren slumped onto it, dribbling slightly and beginning to snore. “God Almighty,” cursed John. “This is why I don’t usually talk much. Let his lips still for more than a moment and they’ll be slurping half the ale in the land, and twice as much as he can hold.” He downed what was left in his own drink before standing up and slinging his friends arm over his shoulder, pulling the sleeping Derren onto his feet.

   “Best get the lad home,” said John. “His missus’ll kill me if I let him have any more.” He smiled at Alison as he turned for the door. “Take care this week, love. If you see any demons, just keep calm. They can’t do a rutting thing to you.”

***

   Alison set down the Hero Blade. The sun was out again, but the steel and diamond did not shine. She had cleaned it the best she could, but she had waited too long after the fight, and the blood had dried. But no matter - the temple clerks would take care of the rest.

   She set down the Hero Shield. Fresh claw marks cut deep into the metal, and almost the whole top third was missing where a demon’s head had struck. A new one would have to be wrought quickly; until the shield matched the prophecy, the town would be unprotected. Hopefully it would be many more months before the demons came again.

   The Hero Cap was more or less untouched. There had been one terrifying moment when it threatened to be knocked from her head, but it had resisted. Alison wondered whether fate would still consider her the Hero if it had fallen. Would she still be protected by God’s hand, or would she have been slain as those terrible claws finally struck true? The thought made her feel nauseous.

   In the end, everything had happened just as Derren and John had said. She couldn’t decide if she was doing her part to realise destiny or to trick it; either way she had stood her ground against a demonic horde, and won. She had swung and moved wildly, bearing naught but a few scratches and a broken shield as wounds. She didn’t feel heroic though; heroes didn’t panic and scream. Heroes didn’t cry once the villain was slain. She was a hero because some force she didn’t understand and some law had magically kept her safe.

   But as she laid the Hero Cap upon the altar and left the temple, the surly priest from her first visit smiled at her and bowed. He had been close by when the attack came, and her presence had kept him safe. Rupert awaited her outside the temple doors, smiling his gappy smile – safe, thanks to the Hero. At that moment she was content; it didn’t matter if she felt heroic or not. It didn’t matter if it was due to skill, providence or God. The demons were gone; her town and her son were safe.

   And that was enough.