A response to the Bovine Love story

On the student Cafe forum of the creative writing course I'm doing on the OU I received this response to the stroy I'd posted up 'A tale of Bovine Love' which I posted previously on here. I had to share it with as many folks as I could because it just made me laugh and then smile for hours. Here you go then.

Hi Richard

I'm standing in a wilderness here, looking for a cow, and there are none to be seen. I have to tell you Richard that that there have been times in my life when I have been so desperate and low, that any old cow would have done; I fortified myself with the notion that I didn't even have to love the cow, because Richard I can confide in you that love is a concept that has brought chains to my soul. Love stands you on the edge of an abyss and says jump these chains will hold you firm. But RIchard the number of times I have hit the bottom of that abyss breaking myself into a thousand bloodied pieces of grizzle, bone, and torn skin, and yes, vomit, and I'm not ashamed to admit that, and yet the only thing that was still in tact, still gleaming in the few rays of daylight that filtered down, were those chains. They were untouched by the fall. They still cut into my broken heavy soul, and Richard I knew that the weight of those chains would never let me climb back up to the sunlight. I knew that if I was to save myself I would have to abandon my chained up soul. I would have to leave it where it lay, in chains, in the dark, abandoned forever. It had become too heavy for one person to bear alone.

Richard I have been inspired by your allegoric tale of Sapphic Love. However by the posts I fear that you may have encoded it a little too much because a lot of people really do think that you are writing about cows. Yes Richard I know what you are thinking, you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. And I am sorry to have introduced new elements of the bovine, which may confuse them even more.

However I digress, I note with delight that not content two test one of the sexual taboos of middle class England, you have successfully catered for the sado-masochistic community with your description of barbed wire cutting deeply - I reread that line several times as I found it deeply satisfying, thank you.

Your next triumph was the metaphysical reference to the futility of birth, bravo. With your natural economy of language you have encapsulated one of lives great mysteries; why are we born? By turning the van into a womb, from which new life is disgorged, and that new life is already close to disgorging its own new life you have squared the circle of life, excellent.

Finally you have had the courage to comment on the pathos of Sapphic entanglements when you took the moral high ground and demonstrated that true love will only ever be achieved in hetrosexual communion when you symbolically had the Man walking off with the cow/sapphic partner and in a perfect biblical flourish you write of silence as man and cow are reunited in perfect harmony. Richard take a bow.

Strangely, your best line was not to be found in your piece, but consigned to a post script. I prefer cows to people you get into a lot less trouble eating them. I could not have put it better myself.

Regards John

A bovine love story

This was written for cafe three zero as a bit of an excercise, don't ask where it came from I have no idea.


The silty streambed pulls at my feet, I have to pull hard against the vacuum to keep moving. It feels as though the ground itself is trying to stop me getting through. A loose strand of barbed wire snags my shin, pulls a deep cut but the only thought I have is to get to her, look into her eyes and know I am loved.

I use the term love so you can understand some of what we feel. I heard the Man and his Mate talking about love a few moons ago. They had been by the gate, on the other side. She had stopped her car and stood, a defeated look about her. The bond between them had been growing steadily weaker over the last few weeks, you could see it in the way he didn't follow her with his gaze any more. You could see it in the way she followed him with hers but it was his back that bore the heavy weight of her silent need. Sometimes the soul becomes too heavy for one person to bear on their own, she longed for some lightening of her load but he didn't see it.

She stopped the car and stood waiting, he finally acknowledged the power in her stare and was drawn to her, she said something and it was as if the weight she had borne was transferred to his back. She wasn't happy yet but she was unburdened. She drove slowly away down the hedged lane, his eyes never left her.

Since then he has treated us differently. The care has gone from his heart, replaced by that image I think. She had said 'You don't love me any more. You say you do but... but I don't think you still know how to, or why.' Love was what she had called the bond they used to have. We don't name it, we just know it.

She had arrived the day after the Man's mate left. She'd stumbled into our field from the van, already pregnant and obviously terrified. I'd run over to her to give her the usual tour; 'That corner has the sick grass, this bit of the bank by the stream is slippy, the farmhouse up there at the top of the stream is where the Man lives. This is where our food comes.' but as I reached her I looked into her eyes and was lost. We were sistermotherdaughterloverfriend. I took the weight of her fear and she looked back into me, thanking me silently. From then on we were together. We ate, lowed, played and slept together. Her children were mine and mine hers, we were the same cow and our lives were so much the lighter for it. The others understood. It is rare for this to happen but it does and no-one could be unhappy for us. Except the Man. I think he felt it and was jealous. Over many months he treated us gradually more and more differently to the others, we were always the last to be fed, first for tagging. Finally he seperated us. Put us in adjacent fields. If anything it strengthened our bond. All we ever needed was to be able to look into each other's eyes and we were bouyed up again.

This afternoon he took her.

He came for the Annual collection and took her. It wasn't her time. They only take the old ones but he couldn't live with the love we had and he took her. We all know where they go. The shed by the stream. We hear them lowing until we don't hear it any more. This time he left them for hours. I could hear her over the others. My one spark of hope. One by one the other voices stopped. All the while I ould hear her, comforting me. I called back. Eventually hers was the only voice left. He came out and looked over the fields and I know he was looking for me. I called to let him know where I was, to tell her we would always be joined. He turned his back and walked to the shed.

Now I'm walking up the stream, calling, calling so as not to hear the silence. The others watch silently knowing I only see her eyes.

Published Author.

Woohoo. Am now an officially published Author. Tales from the Cafe Volume One. Published by Cafe Three Zero is now available from all good ebook sellers including Amazon, smashwords and itunes. Less than 5p a story. We need reviews please if any of you lovely people would be so kind.

Halloween Pranks

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Coming in to land

A bell like sound wakes me. My throat’s dry from the recycled air so I pull my bottle of Evian from the elasticated mesh attached to the seat in front of me and drink. As I suckle at the sports cap I notice that the seatbelt signs are lit. The plane banks a little and I realise that we’re coming round to land. I raise the plastic blind, and press my nose to the cool glass. A golf course archipelago passes below us, crosshatch fields, then come the houses.  A Richard Scarry town, brightly coloured and wooden. Finally the buildings give way to what looks like moorland as we descend on Keflavik, a short trip from here to Reykjavik. Journey’s end, and it had been some journey. The flight itself was only three hours but my journey started twenty three years ago.

 The flight attendant bustles past checking that all our trays are in the upright position and belts fastened. She flashes me a smile as she passes and her hand alights on my shoulder. As she leans in, a look of concern on her face, the sweetness of her perfume mingles with the stale coffee and mint on her breath. ‘Is everything ok?’ I just look back at her, confused. She tries again. ‘You’re crying, I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.’ I touch my face not quite comprehending and my fingers come away wet.

‘I’ll be fine.’ I mutter, ‘it’s been a long week.’ She nods in tacit understanding.

‘We need to buckle in for landing now but if I can get you anything when we’re down…’ She lets the offer hang. I smile, thank her and return my attention to the window. It’s just as Dad had described it. As I stare at the rocky coast below a shudder runs through the aircraft. The landing gear is going down. My ears pop in spite of the boiled sweet I’ve worried to a razor sharp edge.

As the ground gets closer it seems to move faster. Dad would have used that as a metaphor for life. He would have told me that I spent too much time above the clouds looking down. That even though life goes quicker on the ground, close to people,  that’s where you have to be to get the most from it.  The engine noise increases and I feel the nose of the plane lift slightly. The background conversation is stopped as collectively we hold our breath for…there. The bump of the wheels tells us that we are safe this time. The engines scream as they go into reverse and we coast to the terminal. The clicking of a hundred belt buckles heralds the planes arrival. 

I hold tightly to the cold metal of the stair railing with one hand. With the other I grip my rucksack. As I reach the ground I hoist it up and fold the now familiar shape of the urn inside into my arms. ‘We’re on the ground now Dad.’ I whisper, ‘You’re home.’

Welcome.

Welcome to any recent followers and thanks for following. I'll try to make sure any further posts are more entertaining. Given that the course is just starting then I would think there'll be penty to come over the next 9 months.

Write a piece of fiction using only 140 characters. This challenge is designed to make you think about your words, your letters and your punctuation. Write something that will allow your reader to fill in the blanks.

Remember, this is not ‘up to 140 characters’ – it is exactly 140 characters!


God leans back to survey creation. Something feels wrong. Omnipotence reveals a garden paradise, an apple core and a middle fingered salute.

The Warning

Forgive this if it's a little rough around the edges, It all came out in one go.

The fresh snow underfoot makes custard powder squeaks as I tread my weary way home. The high factory walls, awash with the sodium arc glow of the street lights sparkle with the frost as if a child were making a Christmas card and has liberally glittered the whole scene. I'd been working 'till twelve at Benito's Italian restaurant, missed the last bus and yes we'd stayed behind for a couple of drinks after work and yes that probably made me slightly less steady on my feet than I would usually be. I slip of course. And not just a little slide and stumble, maybe one knee down and wet. Oh no. My feet fly out from under me, they shoot into the air as I scrape the fingers of my left hand down the wall seeking purchase, knowing it's going to hurt and all the while a little mantra at the back of my mind is going, 'ohshitohshitohshitohshitoshit.'

 My head hits the ground with a squeak and a thud and the night explodes into the brightest light, then to black and then just to pain. I lie there for a moment and assess where it hurts. I'm winded, I've torn a finger nail, my arse hurts and then there's my head. I try to turn it but it feels like my brain is swilling round in the back of my skull where it touches the floor. Thank god for the snow otherwise that would have been pavement my head hit....but then again I probably wouldn't have fallen in the first place....oh crap...time to try standing.

I lever myself up onto my elbows, get my feet back under me and slowly stand. Blackness blossoms and I lean on the wall heavily, eyes closed, until my head clears and the urge to vomit is gone. I open my eyes slowly and realise I must still be unconscious because extending away from where my head rests in foot tall green letters is my name. I push away and the visceral dizziness and nausea convince me that I'm still conscious. Gingerly stepping backwards I see that my name isn't all that's written here. Underneath is a number and the words 'call now'. I look around to see if I can spot whoever it is that's messing with me. Probably Dan from the restaurant, just his kind of thing, bloody chefs. I can't see anyone but that doesn't mean they're not watching, pissing themselves at the added bonus of me falling over. I'm not going to give them the satisfaction though. I photograph the evidence and head home.

Warm and out of my wet clothes I pour myself a large slug of Jack and sit at the kitchen table. I pull the phone from my pocket and inspect the photo. Time to find out whose brilliant idea this was. I dial the number. I can hear it dialling and then it takes what seems like an age to connect with endless clicks and strange buzzes. Finally it rings...and rings. Just when I’m about to give up, bored of the joke, it's answered. Two words are all the voice says. Almost intelligible. Through the static, a whisper speaks two words and then is cut off and my mind is sent reeling. The words are 'The bus'. But the voice. The voice is mine and I sound terrified.

I don't get a lot of sleep that night. How could it be my voice? Why just the two words. I'd tried calling again but just got dead air. I eventually slept just before dawn and had interesting dreams.

I wake the next day running late. Barely time to dress before running to catch my bus to work. I'm nearly convinced now in the harsh snow glare of day that the call last night had been a hoax. A clever impersonation or something and yet..... As I approach the bus stop a sense of wrongness comes over me. For some reason I don't join the queue as I usually would. I stay a meter or so back from the stop, leaning on a low garden wall. The usual suspects are there waiting for the twelve fifteen. The old dear on her way to the post office in town. A couple of kids listening to something tinny and repetitive on shared headphones. And then there's Jennifer. One day I'll get up the courage to ask her out. I'll probably have to get to know her real too. Jennifer's the name I've given her and in my mind she earns enough money that I won't have to keep working either. She manages to look gorgeous even bundled up against the cold with her red nose and long dark hair showing from beneath her woolly hat. She turns and catches me staring. My heart skips and a warm glow spreads over my face. And then she smiles. She smiles....at me. Of course it's then that the bus comes round the corner and things slow. I'm smile dazzled but can also see the driver's face. A grimace of not yet panic as he fights with the wheel to stop a skid and the despair as he realises it's too late. Jennifer sees something of this reflected in my face, the smile falls and she starts to turn but too slow, too too slowly. The old dear has seen but can't react quickly enough, the kids don't even look up. The bus, in a full slide now, hits Jennifer first, crushing her body back into the shelter. With the sound of shearing metal the shelter is torn loose, concertinaed around the other three. I'm frozen to my spot on the wall as the squealing mess of metal and plastic and hurtles past me barely a foot away. I see the terrified faces of the passengers framed in the widows like paintings. Some screaming, some eyes shut, others slack jawed, lost. As it passes me the bus hits the wall further down, the air shakes with the impact, the bus tilts and falls onto its side and continues on its way. Somewhere amongst the noise is something incongruous. A phone ringing. Even amongst all this something is telling me that the phone is important. And I realise. I wouldn't be here now if I hadn't warned myself last night, somehow I'd managed to find a way to save my own life. I had to answer and warn myself again. the sound's coming from my left. Somehow, there's a mobile on the wall next to me. With shock greased fingers i fumble it into my hand. I stumble down the road to look for survivors, see if I can help. My mind is whirling, full of images I don't want, hoping that there aren't more people hurt and now I'm wondering why I didn't tell myself enough to save the people at the bus stop, at least Jennifer. I will this time. I thumb the button and put the phone to my ear. 'The bus...' I say. And that's when the car hits me.

Publishification

How exciting is this? Am soon to be published in an anthology published by Cafe Three Zero. They also have a facebook page and can be found on twitter if you want to know more.

Flash fiction nonsense

All was well in my world; the kettle was gurgling, a pristine packet of choccy biccies nestled in my hand and the opening theme of 'Loose Women' wafted in from the sitting room where a comfortable chair awaited my ample bottom.

I left my bottom on the chair and went to rescue the kettle, it had fallen in the sink and was being held down by a gang of teaspoons.

‘the trouble with you lot’ I said as I upended the kettle ‘is you’re always stirring up trouble’ The biccies purred their agreement from my free hand.

‘And some use you lot are’ I told them ‘as soon as they start stirring, you go to pieces’. The purring stopped and the biccies took wing and settled on top of a magnolia scented cupboard. Peering over the top in disapproval.

‘You might well hide up there, I’ve seen the mess you’ve left in my bed. Jings, I’ll be finding bits of you for weeks in there.’ They turned their back on me and started preening.

As I left the kitchen having settled the kettle back down with a cosy to keep it company and a dishbrush for protection I noticed the barometer was falling.

Bad weather was on the way.

I went back to the lounge and stooped to pick a buttercup, sorry…to pick a buttock up first one then the other went into my running shorts which I’d caught earlier that day trying to head off with my jogging bottoms. The buttock weight would keep them there for a while. My training shoes however were trying to organise all the other footwear to attend a seminar. Suddenly an underground mineshaft collapsed, I looked round and just saw the kitchen sink, those damned teaspoons always causing trouble.

A vampire story

There’s no pain any more. Strange that.  I can feel the gaping hole in my neck, hear the wind whistling through ruined pipes, but it doesn’t hurt. That’s a blessing I suppose. Oh God, the blood, so much, how can so much blood come from one person. My arms, gore gauntleted, lie by my sides. I’m propped up against the sofa in our tiny lounge, its floral gold and green now scarlet and mauve. Eastenders is on the telly. I don’t watch soaps normally but I can’t feel my fingers to change the channel.

 Jen’ll be home soon. I feel a tear roll down my cheek. She shouldn’t see me like this. We loved each other so much and now she’s going to lose me. My tears are for her loss not my own death. I can feel it numbing me and almost welcome it. I should have fought harder, you always think you won’t go without a fight but I did. But they were so strong and so fast and now I’m bleeding to death with Dot bloody Cotton. I’d laugh but I get the feeling that my breath is precious.

 This is Manchester for Christ’s sake not the fucking twilight zone, this shouldn’t be happening. I’ve got to hold on. Jen’ll be able to help me when she gets back. Just have to hold on. Stay awake. Keep breathing. In and out and in and…..

Shit. I passed out, how long? Can’t really focus on the screen but I can still hear Dot’s cigarette rasp.  

So fast, how can they be so fast and strong? I recognised one of them from the pub. He’d stood out from the usual crowd, he dressed well, proper designer stuff no gaudy labels we’d chatted about things. He was funny, and at some point I’d said he should come over for a game of FIFA one night, I guess he took that as an invitation because suddenly there he was in my front room, switching my telly on. Flicking through my cd’s.

 I open my mouth to say something but before I even inhale I feel myself lifted and thrown to the floor from my repose on the couch, my book flies from my hand, a ‘rough guide to anatomy’ spinning in slow motion. Through the shock of sudden motion and impact with the floor I look up and see the girl, she’s tiny, flame red hair, vintage leather jacket and dead eyes. I’m flying again and feel my shoulder loosen from its socket at the wrench, until now I’ve made no sound except for the percussion of back on floor. With the dislocation comes the first intimation of pain and I scream but my mouth is already covered by her alabaster hand and I’m slammed back down. Something snaps, a bone or a floorboard, either way pain flashes up my spine. Then she’s astride me and for a crazy moment I think she’s going to kiss me but as she bends in I see her teeth and my only thought is ‘Vampire’ and I know I’m dead.

It’s only her that feeds on me; I guess that’s what vampires do, feed. All the while he just sat there head to foot in Armani, watching, and crazily, with her teeth in me and hand on my mouth, I’m getting turned on. Even as I can feel my life pumping into her, I want her.

In a blur of movement he’s over us, ripping her from me, a half grin from him, a low moan from her and they’re gone. So fast. Less than five minutes to shatter my life and leave me to try and stem the flow.

No strength left to hang on. Just want to sleep, I’m barely breathing, vision fading. I hear her come through the open door. My name catches in her throat when she sees me. She cries out and runs to me, her uniform staining red with the last of my blood and from the way she cradles me I know there’s nothing that she can do. Her nurses training tells her what mine told me minutes before. I try to tell her I love her and it’s ok but don’t have the breath.

I stop breathing, my vision flashes bright with my last heartbeat and everything is beautiful, the colour of blood and tears, my fiancé’s skin and the smell of her, a glimpse of Armani and a half smile behind her and I realise something.

I’m hungry.

The Editor

With shining sword

With Hack and slash

Through adjective jungle

He cuts a path

Even the beauteous florid prose

Is cut from lines on which it grows

His vorpal blade

Snickers and snacks

Through cliché

Valued like old brass tacks

Until the moribund tale is found

Wet, scratched and blinking on the ground

The fledgling plot

Eats twisted roots

‘til he decides

Which genre suits

Each growth line is carefully tied

So the tale, it grows both deep and wide

And then the day

Comes all too soon

When full grown saga

Seeks a boon

A gift to tell him from another

And so he gets a hardback cover

Early Winter

The petals, once glorious in scent and hue, were now blackened and shrivelled, now powder blowing in the white hot wind.

 I saw my roses returned to dust with eyes that couldn't bear the sight, thankfully they were taken from me before I had to witness the greater horror.

It was a Saturday in October. We’d cleared the time reddened leaves from the lawn trimmed the last of the summer’s growth from nature itself and prepared for the snuggle of winter. Padded coats were donned against the morning’s frost, breath hung in the air like ghosts of words that were never to be said.

My man and I had finished the grunt work and now were busy with the joy of play. Our offspring ran and shouted and flung mown grass. We made leaf angels for the want of snow. We brushed the paths clearing the last of the warm wind borne dust.

In this morning we’d forgotten the news reports, the turmoil in which the world had found itself. The Arab spring had given way to a summer of extremists, believers strapped death to their bodies and destroyed the unfaithful in an extasy of light and sound. There had been whispers of weapons grade plutonium going missing. We in the west had closed our eyes and ears and waited for Halloween.

The horror came early.

I was inside, at the kitchen window, watching my man play with our young. The radio was on. My ears not really believing what they heard. ‘a series of attacks throughout the country…..homemade nuclear devices…..whole cities wiped out.’ A numbing heat spread through me and in that moment I knew true fear.

A flash in the distance.

I put my hands to the glass and whisper goodbye.

Anticipation

Anticipation

‘Don’t get up too early.’

Is it late enough?  Ben peered again towards the window, heart beating, brown hair still sleep tousled. Had he been? He could discern the orange pattern on the curtains by the glow spilling through the part open doorway, the handles on his wardrobe glinted gold in the shadows and on top of his desk on the far wall the faint outlines of Ed-ted and Don-din stood fluffy guard, not giving away the time. He listened, holding his breath, for any sign that his parents were awake but the only sound was water in the pipes and the occasional muffled crack of a settling house. Then there was just the sound of his own ears straining.

 ‘Don’t wake your sisters.’

He knew that if his youngest sister Beth could be woken then she wouldn’t be able to help waking his parents in her excitement but there was no sound from across the landing.

 His nose gave lie to the deep warmth beneath his bedclothes. The air outside was cold enough that he could feel the shape of his nostrils as he breathed. Hints of cinnamon and nutmeg laced the chill, mingling with something else he didn’t recognise. And still the all-important question burned. Is it late enough? Ben couldn’t tell how long he’d been asleep and though he was desperate to throw off the covers and run down the stairs he knew he shouldn’t until mummy and daddy were up.

‘Don’t go downstairs on your own.’

 Last year, Ben had woken up and crept downstairs, only wanting to see if he’d been, but when he saw all the sparkling red and green laid out beneath the tree and  lit by the dying embers of last night’s fire, he couldn’t resist and surely just one wouldn’t matter.

 He’d been found three presents in, clutching a pot-pouri gift set with a tearful combination of guilt and disappointment on his face.

 Leaning forwards he pulled back a corner of curtain and peered outside but the sky was still dark and last night’s snow, had transformed his world so that nothing seemed familiar, especially this morning, where the darkness, thick with magic, was slow to loosen its grip. He closed his eyes again willing himself to sleep but all that came was a question, had he been yet? What was waiting downstairs? The house felt different this morning, as if it had a huge secret to tell.

‘The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner it’ll be morning’

Ben put his head back on the pillow.

There. A sound. Surely.

And again, that was a definite bed-creak, but from where? He pushed the covers back, too excited to feel the cold and crept as lightly as he could to the door. Not even breathing now he listened, and heard a whisper and there, one in reply. His sisters were awake.

Lemmi vs The Swan

These are versions of the same story told from very different viewpoints. There's an interesting story and huge coincidence to do with their creation too. which I'll have to tell at some point.

THE SHOT

Lemmi put his eye back to the scope and dialled it in tightly on the swan’s sleek white head. There was a shot there but not the one he was here to take. With one mittened hand he reached down and unscrewed the lid from the brushed steel thermos at his side. Steam rose as he poured the coffee, the dark nutty aroma filling the canvas hide. Adjusting position carefully, he steadied the tripod, held the cup in both hands and raised it to his lips. The steam condensed in his blonde moustache. He wiped it off before it could freeze.

He huddled, jacket bound in a winter camouflaged hide. This in turn was secreted under the pines at the edge of the freezing lake just outside Rovaniemi. In the blue tinged twilight a light snow was just starting to fall.

He’d been watching this pair for a few days now, knew their territory, their routines, their relationship. Around the same time every night, the female, he’d dubbed her Tuonela, took flight for an hour or so. Her partner, kala, remained on the lake his lonely cry echoing over the water and ice, through the low mist which was forming, guiding her home.

In his hide Lemmi scanned the sky. There. Low across the tree tops. He got her in the crosshair of his viewfinder, wings extended, slender neck stretched forwards. As she crossed the horizon where the sun lay she was silhouetted, black, against the watercolour sky. He took the shot.

SWAN

As we round the shale outcropping, taking care to clear the shallows, she moves to the air, two beats of her magnificent wings and she soars, her graceful neck pointing her upward, we cry out for the joy of the wind.

 The lake is ours. It tells us in ripples and breezes. It shows us our sky. In summer it warms and feeds us. In winter it turns our calls to clouds and gives us shelter. Yet we understand the lake has more than we can take and so we allow others to stay for a short time.

Through her eyes and mine we can see that the Fettered one still hides here. He is devious, but we have seen many come and go, and this one means no harm. I sound to her to tell her that the lake is taking the form of a shroud to disguise our movements. She tells me the clouds are crumbling to cover our tracks later when we take to the land for sleep. I call again to hear the echoes form the trees and rocks. The sound clear in the sharp air.

There are movements from the Fettered’s hiding place. I feel that she is returning. I cease my movement and turn my head to see her and in that moment as she spreads her wings to embrace the Lake, framed against the waning light and crumbling sky I lose myself again for though we are two halves, she is the greater.



Chest Pains

CHEST PAINS

He put his knees up on her chest getting ready to pull, tilting the pliers, angling them so he could get purchase before twisting.
‘Please be careful.’ She managed to say, turning her head so as not to see. He regarded her with baleful eyes, how did she think she could hide this from him? As he looked at her his disgust grew as the tears welled in her eyes.
‘You stupid bitch.’ He hissed, wrenching the pliers as he spoke, ‘did you really think I wouldn’t find it? Do I look Fucking stupid’ Spittle flecked his lips as his rage grew. Laura had seen this anger before, too many times.  She seemed to be a magnet for it.
 This one, Daniel, wasn’t the first, somehow they seemed drawn to her. Sometimes she thought that it was something in her that brought it out of them. People said it was low self-esteem talking but she was a confident woman. They always seemed nice at first, but then the jealousy set in. Cheating wasn’t in her nature but they thought it anyway. When it ended up like this, who needed more than one at a time?
So first was jealousy. Next they’d think she was hiding something. They’d search her house secretly at first. Then become more and obvious. Somehow they always found it.
 It was in the loft this time.
She’d been to the shops. When she came home the ladders were down and there was a light on. she’d climbed the ladder into the loft space. Before she’d even got her shoulders through he’d grabbed her by the hair and pulled her bodily through the gap. She’d let her body drop to the floor and watched as he dragged the leather hinged chest into the light, all the time berating her for trying to hide something of value. Then he’d grabbed the pliers.

‘Don’t. You’ll hurt it.’ She cried
‘It?  Hurt it?  It’s a fucking wooden box.’ He yelled. ‘I’ll show you hurt in a minute’ With a massive wrench and a grunt he pulled the hasp away from its surround.. Grinning he got his fingers under the edge of the lid and went to pull it open.
‘Please don’t. Stop. Stop.’ She breathed. A half smile played across her lips.
The lid opened.
Daniel’s smile froze in place. A low buzz filled the room, growing steadily in volume. The sound had a physical presence, it vibrated everything at a basic level. As Laura watched, she saw Daniel’s eyes widen and his smile melt away. She knew what he was seeing and she envied him. It was the ancient sea. Eternal. Infinite. Half glimpsed things moving beneath the impossible blackness. Her sisters and brothers. Daniel’s head turned, incomprehension edged with madness in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry’ he mouthed. She felt a tinge of remorse. Perhaps this one was different? She almost went to close the lid. Before she could, something quick wrapped itself around his waist, there was the smell of burning flesh mixed with something older, rotten and before he could scream Daniel was pulled in. Now she moved and looked in thinking to catch a last glimpse but he was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.