the colour

At half past twelve she finally does so. We have been waiting since ten.
"Where the hell have you been?" Jaz asks.
Denna just smiles. She has this glorious smile that can take the edge off things.

//even if it's just three lines I'll still churn them out and write them down anyway. This is the grind.
 

At the age of twenty-one I am still looking for something. The Holy Grail of my life. Not too long ago I was under the delusion that I had found it, but it proved incorrect, as delusions tend to prove. Nowadays I ask myself, "How do I go about looking for someone, when I can't even find myself?" And naturally I have no answers to that question.

The time is 8:43 AM, according to the clock on my computer's taskbar. Two minutes, I think. Two minutes before the lines are open. And just as I complete this thought, the green light on my phone comes on, as though it is the most natural thing in the world. I sigh. Two minutes of sanctuary, snatched away by a system that is always too early to open the phone lines, and never too late to close, like a reluctant flower in the dying light. The indicator lights up, and the day begins.
"Which moron calls in so early?" I hear my colleague moan.
I have to agree. Which moron, indeed? I inhaled the recycled air. The gentle hum of electronics and measured typing fill the small confines. No one is making a move to pick up the call. Why me, I think. Nevertheless, in one practised motion I press the button, and after a pause, the voice of the moron comes into my headset.
"Hello?"
At the sound I freeze. Time stands still, for a moment, and in that moment I am transported to a field under a gloriously pale blue sky, with white clouds lining the horizon and afternoon sunlight radiating a soothing warmth, and there is the voice of a girl speaking next to me.

//The boy that couldn't cry.

I am at Clarke Quay, on a Saturday night. It is one of the most trendy and popular nightspots of the city, where people from all walks of life go to forget their real lives, even if it's just for a little while. I'm not like that, though. As I walk along with my two friends, I find myself wondering at the reason I came. And I realise that I do want to forget. The work. The way I feel like a fool, trapped in a corner. The panic I sometimes feel while at the office, from breathing the recycled air, from the lack of sunlight and warmth. The lack of human warmth. The constant gentle hum of electronics that makes me want to scream. No matter that it is a temporary job; the idea that this is a taste of what is to come is repulsive.
So I do have a reason. People change without knowing it. I was sure I had found myself, and then unknowingly I lost it again. "You always look very relaxed," Denna told me once. I wanted to shout at her that everything was a farce, but you can't do that in a city preoccupied with maintaining appearances. Truth is, I had thought myself very relaxed. That was when I still harboured the thought that I was whole, and I could just keep looking forward. But without knowing it I had lost myself, again. Things are coming to a crux, and walking down this street in Clarke Quay I grow terribly afraid, suddenly, that I will be lost in the ensuing storm.
"You okay?" Matt asks.
"No," I say, truthfully. "But don't ask me why. Because I'm not sure."
So we keep our silence, the three of us. They probably get what I'm thinking, anyway. We are used to silence as a companion, of the comfortable kind. When we are together there are times that we don't have to say much, and just inhale the same thoughts. And then there are times when we go crazy.
Now we are just waiting for Denna to show up.
 

On the second day, Timothy noticed the woods.

There was a crumbling fence separating fields and forest.

It was an old forest, that much was certain, stretching away for miles and miles on end. The trees grew thick and tall and dense, and the beginnings of a small dirt path was just visible. Timothy made a note to ask what kind of trees they were. Then, because it was getting dark, Timothy went home.

They lived in a village. It was a small one with few inhabitants. Father Thomas, who was a priest, or so he claimed, lived next door.

"Tim, Tim," he said, when Timothy first met him. "Do you believe?"

"Believe what, sir?" Timothy had asked politely. And the old man had looked at him in what was a queer manner, and left, mumbling to himself.

Then there were the two women who told fortunes. Her name, the younger of the two said, was Miss Daisy, "like the flower, dearie-ducks", while the other one was called Doreen. Miss Daisy offered him milk and cookies, although the milk was yellowed and curdled, and the cookies mouldy. Timothy put a few in his pockets and promised to eat them when he got home.

The Robinsons lived at the other end of the village, on a small hilltop. In the morning Timothy would never fail to see the silhouette of Mr. Robinson, a dark, burly figure against the sun, wielding his enormous hoe with ease as he ploughed the fields in huge, overhand strokes.

Timothy quite enjoyed walking across the fields to visit Mrs. Robinson, who was plump and jolly and very kind. On the first day she had given his family a basket containing, in order, two cartons of milk, a dozen eggs (each placed snugly in its cup in the egg tray) and a loaf of freshly-baked bread, because the nearest city was a day's walk away. They had two dogs, by the names of Rover or Spot or such. Timothy didn't like dogs much.

Later in the evening Timothy asked his mother about the woods behind their house.

"Never you mind that," she said.

He asked his father what sort of trees it was that could grow so tall and thick in mountainous regions.

"Go pester your mother," he said.

So Timothy was left to wonder by himself, and he wondered, and wondered.

---

Timothy enjoyed painting.

Because the village was small, and he was expressly forbidden to explore the surrounding lands ("Because you'll get yourself trapped in a rockslide, or eaten by wolves, that's why," his mother said, and Timothy agreed) Timothy spent much of his time painting.

He painted the sunrise, and the sunset, and the sun in its apex across the sky. He painted the fields, and the way the stalks bent in the swirling foothill winds. He painted the well. He painted Mr. Robinson at work, and he painted the farm dogs as they pounced and sprinted about the fields. He painted the scarecrow in the middle of the fields. He painted Mrs. Robinson tending to her extensive garden, and he painted Miss Daisy and Miss Doreen on their daily walk down the village street. He painted the tidy cottages, and the entire village, and the surrounding mountains, and he painted his father in his study, and his mother.

But still he did not paint the woods.

When the inks in his personal cache ran out, Timothy asked his father to buy him some on his next trip to the city library.

"Won't be soon, I'm afraid, Tim," his father said. "I'm rather busy right now with my current project, so if you don't mind." The only other person who made the trip was Mr. Robinson, although Timothy was, to be honest, quite afraid of him.

And then Father Thomas invited him to tea. He asked Timothy to bring along some of his paintings.

"Well, Tim, you've considered what I've said, eh?"

"About what I believe?" The old man nodded jerkily.

"I don't believe," Timothy said quietly. "Except what I can see and hear and feel, and smell and taste. And what I can paint."

Father Thomas smiled beignly over his cup of tea. Timothy noticed that there was a rather organic smell to the small cottage. It was vaguely pungent, although not entirely unpleasant, and reminded him of damp earth. Timothy could taste it in the tea, and in the buttered crumpets, and in the air. He noticed Father Thomas left very faint stains in the canvas of his paintings where he touched them, and he had the dirtiest nails he had ever seen.

"Some day, young Tim," he said, "you'll understand, what, that there's more important things out there. To believe in, eh? And worship in. More rewarding things," and he laughed. It was a strange laugh, a cross between a high-pitched giggle and a choke, and his eyes gleamed oddly in the gloom.

"Please, sir," Timothy said after a pause, "can you tell me about the woods behind the house?"

"Woods, eh? Bad things." He noticed the old man's hands began to tremble slightly, and his voice grew increasingly agitated. "Bad, very bad. Don't go near them, I tell you, and it ain't half the truth. Ask me no more, I say, ask me no more about them," and he lapsed into a fit of coughing, for which Timothy felt slightly guilty. "And now," Father Thomas continued when he had regained his breath, "I should like to see you paint, paint for an old man, how, what?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm out of inks." Father Thomas laughed again. "Inks, eh? Blast ye, young Tim, I can give you inks!" And so saying, he raised himself from his moth-eaten couch and crossed to the mantelpiece, half-hidden in the gloom. Timothy noticed there were no signs of any wood in the fireplace, although there were clods of dirt within. He could not quite discern what Father Thomas was doing, although there came some "krssh" noises, which reminded Timothy of things being crushed. Presently the old man returned and, cackling and leering, dumped several pellets into Timothy's hands. "Now you have inks, eh, what?"

And Timothy, who was becoming very uncomfortable indeed, was most relieved to hear his mother calling him for dinner. He thanked Father Thomas for the inks and left.

---

Timothy painted the woods.

When he was done, he laid the canvas carefully upon a flat piece of rock to dry. Then, against all common sense, Timothy entered the woods.

The small path was often lost in the underbrush and pretty soon the entrance was reduced to a tiny light far, far away. Timothy was bitterly disappointed. He had expected something more than scratches and insect bites. Surely the forest would fall into a sudden hush, or perhaps he would hear the susurrus of trees in their ancient tongue?

But nothing magical happened.

Timothy sat down in the gloom and slumped against a tree, dispirited. And then, without warning, Timothy fell asleep.

    ---

There was an incessant noise buzzing in his ears. He awoke, sandy-headed from a queer dream with an odd taste in his mouth. As in the way of dreams he could not quite lay a finger on any particular bits before they dissipated, leaving behind a vague sense of disquiet.

It was completely dark.

The back of his tunic was soaked. Then Timothy realised the noise was the downpour of rain against leaves, and now he could make out a spot of yellow light in the distance, that flickered and danced. Everything about him was cold and wet.

Eventually he made his way out of the woods. Rain was flowing in sheets down the hillside; the wind buffeted his small frame and, with a pang, he recalled the canvas he had left out on the rock. It was no longer there. Timothy cursed his own stupidity; he cursed his curiosity and the woods and for falling sleep.

His mother was outlined in the doorway by the light of candle flame. He couldn't discern her features in the night and the downpour, which threw strange shadows on her face. For a bemused moment, he wondered why the fireplace was unlit, and then she had closed the door and extinguished the flame. In the dark, she removed his wet clothes and bundled his naked body in a woolen blanket. He was tired; more tired than he had ever felt, and said nothing as she silently ushered him to bed, and tucked him in. And then she kissed him on his forehead, and he had half a mind to ask why she was so cold to the touch, before there was a soft murmur, and he was asleep.

---

Timothy woke up.

He half-expected the feel of rough bark against his back and was pleasantly surprised to find himself snugly in bed. And then he recalled the strange events of yesterday.

Timothy yawned widely, stretched, and tossed his blankets aside. The rain had stopped sometime in the night and the smell of dawn filled his nostrils. He glanced out of the window, half-afraid of what he might see, although he did not know what there was to be afraid of. The silhouette of Mr. Robinson swinging his hoe in great strokes made him smile.

Downstairs his mother was cooking breakfast. Timothy bounded down, uncharacteristically exuberant.

"Breakfast on the table, Timothy," his mother's voice came from the kitchen, and he paused. But the smell of food overcame all his senses, and he ate. He ate three strips of bacon, two eggs and a couple of sausages. He washed it all down with Mrs. Robinson's orange juice, which was delightfully fruity and tangy in flavour. His mother smiled as she came in and took the plates. She was wearing an apron, and Timothy had never seen her mother wear an apron before.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Timothy?" Again, he paused. Something was different. He brushed it aside, grinned and announced that he was going out.

He walked across the fields, with half a mind to watch Mr. Robinson at work. And then it occured to him that his mother had neither punished nor scolded him in the least.

He walked on. Odd. Mr. Robinson was wearing a hat, which was unusual.

His mother seldom woke up before dawn.

His mother disliked cooking for breakfast.

His mother never called him by his full name.

The sense of unease grew. He remembered how he had simply fallen asleep, and wondered.

His mother had smiled. What was it she whispered last night?

Where was his father?

Then he saw Mr. Robinson.

Great burly frame blocking out the sun, he swung his enormous hoe in a great arc. Mr. Robinson turned, and his features caught the sun. The blade swung down.

Timothy stepped back. Then he turned and ran.

Because Mr. Robinson's head was stuffed with straw, and atop it was a hat cocked at a juanty angle, and one of his eyes had fallen out, and his stitched mouth grinned widely at him.

Behind the scarecrow a black raven pecked at what remained of Mr. Robinson, Mr. Robinson with a wooden stick through him, its bloody tip potruding from his gaping mouth.

---

Timothy cursed as he ran. His heart was beating an irregular rhythm against his chest. He cursed as his father cursed while he pored over tomes in the dead of night. He thought he saw a few lumps lying amongst the grass some distance away, and he told himself the wet red stains were because of the dawn and the light.

Timothy was scared.

He sprinted all the way and stopped only when he reached the village street. Gasping for breath, Timothy stopped at his door, and hesitated.

The door opened.

His mother stood in the doorway. She smiled sweetly.

"Why, Timothy, darling. You're all hot and sweaty. Come in, I've prepared a bath for you." Timothy followed her in, and his mother wrapped her arms about him and pushed him gently towards the outhouse behind. He took off his clothes, which were wet with his sweat, and his skin felt unnaturally cold. The bath looked extremely inviting.

He dipped a finger in. It was hot.

He had locked the door, didn't he? He glanced across his shoulder.

His mother stood leaning against the doorway. Her eyes were on him, but they were not his mother's eyes, nor was that her tongue, which was running across the lips that was not his mother's lips.

"You're not my mother," he said automatically.

"Why do you say such things, Timothy? You know I'm your mother, and I love you."

Timothy shook his head. "You're not my mother." He began to dress, but his mother grabbed his arm.

"Stop it, Timothy. Take a bath. It's for your own good." Timothy stared into her eyes with pupils like green flames. Her fingers were gently stroking his chilled skin, and she was so close that he could inhale her scent, a sweet scent of rot and decay.

"Get out," he whispered. "Let go of me and, and get out."

The mother that was not his mother glared at him and for a moment he thought she was going to hit him. Then she smiled widely.

"Fine," she said, and left.

He closed the door, locked it securely and sank into the warm waters. He didn't stop trembling.

---

His mother was sitting cross-legged in the living room. She smiled at him again, and Timothy knew, with utter conviction, that it was not his mother.

"What do you want to do now, Timothy? Do you want to paint? Your things are right here, mm?" He remained silent.

"No? Look what I found, Timothy," and she displayed the painting he had made of the woods. "Why don't you put it up in your room, Timothy, like the others?" He took it and went to his room without a word. His art surrounded him, all framed and nice and neat.

"This isn't my room," he said aloud. "I don't put my paintings up. These aren't my paintings, and this isn't my house." The art was flawless. Every brushstroke was perfect, the paint smooth upon the canvas. He stared at the piece he drew of his mother. Her eyes were the green of flames, and she was smiling. He looked at the one of his father, in his study, and then he paused.

The eyes were alive.

    ---

His mother smiled at him.

"Did you put it up, Timothy? It's beautiful, isn't it?" As he watched, a single beetle crawled out from the curtain of her long, silken hair and scrambled across her face with a clicking noise. The mother that wasn't reached up and gently placed it upon her index finger, where it sat hissing. Her tongue forked out and began delicately licking the shiny, black carapace of the beetle, making throaty, slurping noises as she did so.

"I'm getting out. I'm leaving. You're sick. I don't know what you are but you're sick, and I've had enough. I'm leaving."

The slurping sounds and hissing stayed in his mind long after he left.

---

Timothy ran. He ran blindly, heading in the direction of the woods. The house loomed up in front of him. He stopped and turned. Again, he found himself running towards the house. His false mother wasn't letting him go.

Timothy stopped. He stared at the house. And because there was nothing he could do, and nowhere he could go, Timothy knocked on the door of the house across the street.

---

"My, what a surprise, my dearie-ducks!"

Miss Doreen sat at the table and did not say a word as Timothy followed Miss Daisy in. She poured him a cup of milk (curdled) and sat him down.

“You look queer, my dear. So pale, and trembling like a newborn lamb! What’s the matter, you poor duck?”

Timothy didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t know where to begin, or what to say. His hand trembled so terribly that he smashed the cup, and the milk was split all across the grimy table and floor. Miss Daisy clucked her tongue and bustled about like a great, overweight hen, wiping at Timothy’s clothes with a dirty rag and sweeping up the fragments.

“Be a dear, Dor, lay a spread for the poor boy, won’t you?”

Miss Doreen didn’t answer, but she produced a deck of cards from her sleeve and began shuffling in earnest.

“Go on, Timmy, pick six cards, and we’ll do a divination for you, hm-mm?”

Timothy hesitated.

“Go on… … ooh. Let’s see. Ahh… the Fool. Ever the explorer, your wanderlust shall lead you to a fate that you do not yet know, but will soon find out. Oho! … and next is… the Tower. There’s a great and unexpected change waiting to be sprung in your life, my little fish! Be ready for it, and be flexible, or else it could be very harsh on you, oh yes. Alright, next… … what… what’s this?”

For on the next card that Miss Daisy flipped over was written “The Dreamer”, and it showed the picture of the loveliest girl he had ever seen, asleep, and before their very eyes the picture dissolved and disappeared. Miss Daisy turned over the next card, and the next, and knocked the deck out of Miss Doreen’s hands. They were all blank. She rounded on Timothy.

“What have you done?” She shrieked. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Timothy replied truthfully.

But Miss Daisy hissed, and it seemed to Timothy, suddenly, that Miss Doreen looked quite the same as Miss Daisy, save that she was dressed differently, and that her hair was parted in a different fashion, and a hundred other little things.

Timothy knocked his chair over in his haste to leave, and as he ran out of the house he heard Miss Daisy scream a few words, and a voice, a new one, that said “Yes, mistress.”

Timothy didn’t wait to see. He understood, now.

---

He pushed past his false mother as he ran into the room, but she followed.

“What are you doing, Timothy?”

He didn’t answer. Abruptly, he grabbed a frame off the wall and smashed it against the ground.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, TIMOTHY?”

He smashed another. And another. He smashed them all, and he began to rip the canvas apart. With each tear his false mother wailed, and screamed, and hissed. Black beetles began to stream from every orifice of her body, as though she was disintegrating. Everything about him, Timothy noticed, was losing its shape and substance. And at long last, he held up the painting of his false mother and tore it into two. There came a last despairing wail from the writhing pile of beetles, and at the same time Timothy felt the world spin.

“It’s finished.” He thought. “It’s ove-

---

It was pouring. The rain blasted against the trees, and fell in great, sweeping sheets down the hillside. Wet pieces of canvas were scattered about by the wind, and soon even that was gone.



I want you to read this. I don't know why. I think you'll get me. It. But you don't ever come anymore. Do you? It's been so long. Maybe I think this is a curative. Maybe I remember those days. That were bad. I don't even know what goes on in your mind anymore. So why?

Alas the skies open up.
It is a sign. But there is Roger Federer.
There is nothing like live. That is why there is an audience in the hazy drunken bordering delirium hours of the morning.
However it is back to work tomorrow morning, and my mind needs to wake up.
Well, how quaint. I'm breaking my own taboo, for the third time? I am too easily influenced.
How sad.
Never more than ten. Well, the warm waters (I hope) await.

ONE

    Sophie secretly enjoyed commuting. It was a secret because she had never actually had to tell anyone about it before, and a secret it therefore remained. She loved commuting, and the way it felt when her skirt rubbed against her thighs, and the way the wind blew against her face. And the glow of the sun in her eyes, but that was always subject to the mood swings of the weather. For this was the city of ever-summer and sudden-rain. And she learnt to keep her umbrella with her, at all times, just in case. But the best thing she liked about commuting was the people.

    Sophie liked watching people. The city was populated by all sorts of people, and in the daily mayhem of irritated jostling and morning bleariness she would be there like any other schoolgirl. And the people that made the crowd would be there as well. They were the ones who had walked in their own steps for every single day, for as long as they could care to remember, and they had learnt the rhythms by heart. These were the ones who crossed the street while the traffic light lingered on red, who knew when the train was late, because they weren’t. On the other end of the spectrum she found the rich and the spoilt, who had been waited upon all their lives by chauffeurs, but not today, and she could see the panic as it rose in their eyes, in the way they gripped the edges of their seats as they tried to find their way. Or perhaps it was to be their first day, which had had them terrified all through the sleepless night before. They were the nonchalant young, and the resigned old, and they were the office-dwellers, who used money to keep score in the great game, and the price they paid to play in the digitalised world was a little of their lives, every day. They were the students. And they were the rough edges, who worked in the sun and the air, who earned less but were happier, although they didn’t always know it. They were the unconcerned and the stressed, the bewildered and the frustrated, and it was a crowd of grimness, of sullenness and pride and hate, of people of every kind co-mingling and giving colour to the lifeblood of the city. And then there was Sophie.

    A few years back she had been as tired and urgent as everyone else in the crowd, until she felt like she was being slowly dragged under. But then she had taught herself to breathe. And she had applied the same concept to life and to school, so that the boy she had desperately liked for three months was now asking the other day for her number and MSN address. And her friends kept asking her why she smiled. She stopped waking up an hour earlier to do her hair, or to apply painstaking adjustments to the length of her skirt, and she went from trying to be pretty to just being. Because everything seemed suddenly so inconsequential, that had once mattered greatly, and for the first time Sophie was relaxed, and happy.

    Lately she had taken to clubbing. She didn’t do it because it was popular; she needed the shots and the dancing, and for the night pretend that everyone felt the same way as her. The first time she had went in a simple t-shirt and shorts, and she had applied no make-up, and her friends had laughed and ridiculed her until they saw the way the other guys on the dance floor were checking her out. Then they imitated her, but Sophie knew they didn’t get it, because they only cared about how the others viewed them, and it was wrong.

    “How do you do it?” Sarah had asked her the other day over lunch. “Being so… awesome. Looking so good all the time? Getting the guys?”

    “I don’t get the guys,” Sophie replied tartly. “They’re the ones pestering me, aren’t they?”

    “Pestering you?” Sarah echoed incredulously. “Okay whatever, but listen, everyone wants to know how. You. Do it. What’s the secret?”

    “There’s no secret! You just have to be… yourself.”

    “Yeah, right. Like that isn’t the corniest line ever. We’ve all seen the new way you wear your hair. What’s so funny?” Because Sophie was laughing like a drain. “Is it the running? Maybe I should start running every night.”

    “Well yeah, the running feels good, but that’s not really it. You just have to relax, and just be yourself, and be content. With the world. Honestly. You know?”

    But Sarah didn’t.

---

    It was Saturday night, and Sophie was having the time of her life. The music was good, and the energy was good, and the night was still young and perfect. She had had a few drinks, and then several more, as did her friends, and her friends’ friends, like the guy Sarah had brought along, whose arms she was currently swooning in, because Sarah never did have a good head for alcohol, although under the circumstances she didn’t seem to mind. There were always the usual posers, at least so it seemed to her, who led the crowd with the ridiculous hand actions, and she hated those motions because they lacked imagination and were just plain silly. So Sophie, as always, gave herself up to the pulsating beat and started to dance.

    Then she saw, through the tangle of arms and faces, a girl of her age at the edge of the crowd, who was watching her. For an instant the girl held her gaze, and in her eyes there was a million things said to her, that she couldn’t understand, or hope to. And then a drunken couple came between them, and it was gone. Sophie wriggled past them, and she dodged an arm and saw the stranger still there, so she waved. The girl smiled. Sophie beckoned, but she just stood there leaning against a pillar with her arms folded. So Sophie squeezed through the spaces between the bodies until she was next to her. She had to tiptoe to put her mouth next to hers, and she shouted, “Hello!” She lowered her head and saw the girl smiling. She had long hair that fell to her shoulders, and a heart-shaped face and dark eyes that looked like it could tell a million secrets.

    “Hi!” She shouted back. She was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and they both looked black under the roving lights.

    “You wanna dance?” The girl laughed and shrugged. “Come on!” Sophie grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into the crowd. They squeezed into an available space and Sophie raised her arms over her head. The girl laughed again, and she was nodding to the beat, so Sophie grabbed her arms and raised them up as well, and they laughed together, helplessly. Then the music changed, and it was now playing “Love in the First Degree” by Bananarama, and Sophie screamed “Hell yeah!” And then, delightedly, “That’s my favourite!”

    “Yeah? I dunno it!”

    “You’re kidding me! Come on!” And they both danced, and the techno beat was like the beating of their hearts in their ears as it pulsed to their movements, and in the background the voice was screaming “guilty – guilty as a girl can be.” And when the girl danced it was like nothing she had ever seen before. It was sinuous, and sensual and elegant, and she moved in all the right places, like a goddess, and it was perfect. Then the song ended, and the next one was “Together in Electric Dreams”, so they kept on dancing. Sophie was exhilarated; she had never danced like this, and it was wild and rhythmic and free, as the beat moved her, and they danced like dryads under the pale moonlight, like Ishtar, who danced for the Gods; they danced like wildfire.

    They danced for hours, it seemed, but neither grew tired nor asked to stop, and it seemed like Sophie couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. But there was a man, suddenly, taller than the both of them, whose hand clamped abruptly around the girl’s wrist. And she took one look at his expressionless face and quailed. The man said something in her ear and she nodded, reluctantly, or so Sophie wanted it to be. She turned to her and mouthed, “I’m sorry,” and then the man began to lead her away.

    “Wait!” Sophie cried. “I don’t know your name?”

    “Clare,” she thought she heard her say. And then she was gone.

---

    Sophie was drunk.

    She had stopped dancing after Clare left, and she had found Shy-ann, who was looking extremely pissed off about something, which turned out to be the guy she had brought along who was now dancing with another girl. So they went over to the bar and had too many drinks.

    “So, Shoph,” Shy-ann giggled, like she had just said something incredibly funny. “What’s eating you?” She had just ended a drunken tirade on boys and the shit that they were.

    “That’s a secret,” Sophie said, rather unfocusedly. “But I’ll tell you… it’s girl trouble.”

    “Girl trouble?”

    “Nono… girl,” she paused, “trouble.”

    Shy-ann looked bewildered. “What?”

    And Sophie, who was very drunk by then, said, “Well there’s this girl, okay. And we were having great time and shejustupandleft, and I, I wanna be her friend but dunno where she got to…” she trailed off. Even in her drunken state it didn’t seem to make sense, and they both stared at each other solemnly for a few moments, while all around them the air was filled with smoke and alcohol and music.

    “What?”

---

    Later one of the guys tried to take her home, and Sophie said, “get lost,” and she said, “fuck off.” She remembered stumbling down the stairs in a stupor, and she left the nightclub through a side door. There was still a crowd outside, and the noise within and without was making her nauseous. She walked down a pavement for a little way, until she found a small alley, and she went in and retched until the stink filled the narrow confines. “Oh gods…” she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Eugh…” Then someone pulled her head backwards, and she felt the edge of something cold and sharp press against her neck.

    “Don’t scream,” a voice said, before she even thought to do so. It was soft and silky and dangerous, and it sobered her more than anything else could do. “Just relax. Or don’t. Suits me either way.” And the voice chuckled.

    She managed a shaky, “what do you want?” before her assailant turned her about to face the interior of the alley. She could make out shadowy figures that clung to the darkness, and then there emerged a heart-shaped face framed with long hair. “Cl-Clare?”

    “Clare?” The voice behind her sounded amused. “Nicely put. And I presume that is to be your last word uttered before I slit your pretty little throat?”

    “No wait!” The girl who had called herself Clare came forward. “She meant no harm, Edelweiss.”

    “And she won’t neither, when my blade has had a taste of her lifeblood,” Edelweiss growled.

    Did she say Edelweiss? Sophie thought, and then, insanely, what kind of a name is Edelweiss?

    “Let her go.”

    “You know full well we can’t have any witnesses. They are everywhere. And even if she is as harmless as you say, they will find her, and through them find you. And what will you have us do?”

    “I’ll wipe her. They won’t be able to find her.”

    “Wipe her? Wipe her?” The man called Edelweiss sounded outraged. “Have you gone mad, mistress? They’ll be on us like flies!”

    “Edelweisalan, I had no idea you were a coward,” Clare said coldly, and then when he looked to speak further, “You swore an oath to me, remember? Now unhand her.”

    “But to risk ourselves like this for a commoner girl,” spluttered Edelweiss. “Folly! Utter, pointless folly.”

    “We will do as we are told,” the voice of the expressionless man rumbled out from behind Clare.

    “Thank you, Quinlan. Please tell Sabein to get ready. We won’t have any time to lose.” And then she turned to Sophie. “I said unhand her, Edel,” she said sharply.

    Edelweiss released Sophie from his grip, and he went over to the entrance of the alley, muttering darkly. The knife he was holding was serrated and wickedly curved, and Sophie shuddered at the way the blade had seemed to writhe against her skin, when Edelweiss let her go. Then she felt a gentle hand on her cheek, and Clare was smiling at her.

    “Hi, again.”

    “I’m so sorry, Sophie.”

    “Wait. You know my name?”

    “I know many names, but that is not important now. I’ve put you in danger, Sophie. I’m so very very sorry. But after I wipe you they won’t be able to find you anymore. Alright?”

    “Um… you’re going to wipe my memories?”

    Clare laughed softly. “No, silly, you only see that in movies. This is real life.” Sophie wondered if she realised how ridiculous that sounded, in context. “I’m just gonna wipe away our traces on you.”

    “Who are you? Or should I say what?”

    “That is not important at this time as well. And you should forget that you ever saw us. Okay? I’m so sorry I got you into this. I shouldn’t have danced. But you got me carried away.”

    “It’s okay,” said Sophie, hesitantly. “I think.”

    Clare laughed again. She placed a hand on Sophie’s shoulder, and the other to Sophie’s forehead, and she said something unintelligible. “There, wiped,” at the same time as Quinlan said, “time to leave,” and Edelweiss, in a tight voice, “they comin’.”

    Clare nodded, and she gave Sophie a quick hug, and then she kissed her on the cheek, near the corner of her lips, and Sophie was very aware of the taste of vomit still in her mouth, and the feel of Clare’s long hair as it brushed her face. “I’m sorry. I had the most wonderful time. I’m sorry,” she repeated. And then they were gone, vanishing around the corner of the alley. Clare just stood there, dumbfounded. After awhile she went deeper into the alley, to the corner where she saw them disappear, but it was just empty walls on all sides. And somehow she wasn’t surprised.

---

    Rumour had it that Clarisalantha of House Ursa was on the run. It was whispered from one district to another, and the word spread to the desolate wastes of Lakeside, and to the far eastern reaches. It was whispered amongst travelers as they stopped by the Homely Inns for food and lodging, and it was whispered in the dark alleys and the underground, and throughout all the hidden places of the city. And the whispers were accompanied by fear of the Vanguard. Eventually the rumour also came to the ears of Clarisalantha herself, who had just a moment ago affirmed it to be true, in every literal sense of the term “on the run”. Together with her companions they strolled casually into the Clarke Quay MRT station, which was an acronym for Mass Rapid Transport, although they really were just ordinary trains, like trains all over the world except they were made to look a tad more sophisticated. Clare had come to observe a rather queer hobby of the city’s inhabitants, and that was their love of acronyms, second to their passion for looking and sounding sophisticated. In which they didn’t exactly succeed in, she found.

    At four a.m. in the morning the station was completely deserted. Well, almost completely, save for a prone form lying slumped against the barriers. Clare stared hard at it, and then she motioned to Edelweiss. The man moved silently towards the figure, like a cat, and she noticed one of his hands had disappeared into a pocket of his jeans, without her noticing him doing it. Then Edelweiss bent down and placed a finger to the man’s nose, and he leaned closer still and took a sniff. “Drunk,” he mouthed. Clare nodded. She turned to a door, designed to look like part of the wall – another attempt at sophistication, she supposed. The door was marked “restricted personnel only” and there was a keypad next to it. She swiftly punched in a series of numbers that corresponded to the letters “C-L-A-R-K-E-S-K-E-Y”, and the door swung open with minimum fuss. Within was darkness. Clare beckoned, and they entered, and the door closed soundlessly behind them. After a few moments the man lying against the barriers half-opened his eyes.

    “How interesting,” he said.

---

    “You should have let me kill him.”

    “Like I should have let you murder Sophie? The answer is no, as always.”

    “This merciful streak of yours is unbecoming of an Ursa.” At those words Clare whirled around to face him, and because he was a full head taller than her she had to glare upwards.

    “Do you doubt the Ursa blood runs in me?”

    Edelweiss averted his face. “No, mistress.”

    “Then you will serve me unquestioningly, as you have always served my House.”

    “You know I do.”

    “I cast aspersions on the unquestioning bit,” said Clare wryly, after a moment, and the tension broke. They strode down the narrow corridor in darkness, with the occasional blinking light in electronic panels illuminating their way. Clare paid no attention to them. There were cameras, but their passing would not be caught on tape, as it was for their sort. There was a sign in green fluorescence that spelt “EXIT”, and they passed under it and deeper in. Presently the lights grew fewer, and the low whine of machinery gave way to the sounds of something wet, like dripping water, or like the gentle lapping of water against something else. And their boots were crunching on something that was unmistakably sand. She paused at the top of a flight of worn steps and listened.

    “Quickly,” the voice of Edelweiss came from the darkness below, and he switched on his pen-torch. It was his treasured item, next to his knife, and a narrow but powerful beam of light illuminated the walls abruptly. They were no longer the cool, smooth walls of the station corridor but were now craggy, and damp, and they were walls of rock.

    “Hush,” Clare admonished, and in the silence and the lapping sound she heard what she was hoping for. “Okay, let’s go.”

    “Sabein?” asked the monosyllabic Quinlan.

    “Already there. I heard her.” Quinlan nodded, and they followed Edelweiss down the long, winding stairs. Twice Clare almost lost her footing on the crumbling steps, but always Quinlan’s hand would be there to steady her. At last they reached the bottom, and the path opened into a small cavern, complete with an array of stalactites hanging down towards the flowing water. The river shone with an unhealthy green glow, and by its light Clare could make out the tiny wharf where the path ended, and the boat that was tied to the dock. They hurried towards it.

    “Mistress,” a voice spoke in greeting, a girlish voice, and it came from the lips of a petite figure with an elfin-face that was framed by raven locks of hair.

    “Sabein,” Clare said gladly.

    “The boat is ready, Mistress.” Clare nodded, and the trio boarded the wooden vessel. Quinlan took the oars, and Sabein lifted the moorings and stepped lightly aboard. And just as she settled in a ball of liquid fire came spinning past the boat, missing it by a breath as it fizzled into the river. In that instant Clare realised the dreadful error that she had made, even as Edelweiss swore viciously.

    “Go!” He yelled at Quinlan, and then he was out of the boat and back on shore, his dagger gleaming wickedly in the phosphorescent light.

    “Edel!” Clare cried in anguish. But there was nothing she could do, and Sabein pushed her low into the bottom of the boat and tried to cover her with her tiny frame while Quinlan’s powerful muscles steered the boat away from shore and into the swift currents of the river. Just before they rounded a bend into a low tunnel Clare heard cries from the shore, and there were bursts of fire and flashes of metal and guttural cries, and then Edelweiss was lost from view.

    Clare was silent for the longest time, and when Sabein said hesitantly, “We should head upside and find a place to lie low,” Clare simply nodded, since she didn’t trust herself to speak.

---

I need an answer. To something.
The answers. They don't just come. Do they? I learnt that now. Outside the bus will always go past. It is the bus stop of memories. There always has to be a bus. It is a boring bus. But I just end up including it all the same. Don't I? The cars go on by. They mind their own business. It is a busy road, at all times of the day and night. Outside the palm tree continues to sway in the wind. I feel helpless.
Maybe I need to get away. So I get to see the larger picture. Maybe the answer is right there.
Am I being too cryptic? Even for myself. That's the way it goes, isn't it. I don't write for anyone or anything. No, that's a lie. I write in the hopes of recognition of my ability. Which I lack. Sadly.
I do feel so very helpless.
Everything is full of maybes, and possiblys, and youjustsuckadmitthefacts. I could go back to the dummies guide to accounting. That's not so bad, you know? Then I think of Namida and 2backka. I don't even understand what the word means? But I understand the song. It gets me. It gets me hooked. Or perhaps I should say got. That is me, I am him, the world continues to spin.
What I want and what I need is that spark, and maybe it will keep me going. You see. Again the maybes infest the sekai. Is that how one goes about spelling it? Why do I count my words and try to lengthen it. Do I evoke a lack of emotion? Why is it always so bland, and dry, and coarse. Is it years? Do I seek consolation in the hope that years matter?
Well, no.
Am I trying to find myself? Is there any point in finding if there is no ability to be found?
Wow, that's harsh. Hardly, actually. I lie. As always. I serve my own lies well, to myself, on a platter.
There's this guy, alright, he goes and tries to be a samaritan, incidentally I haven't the foggiest idea what exactly that means, and he falls through the cracks in the world, and ironically he finds himself.
Maybe I need a crack in the world. I came up with something. A thought. An idea. There's this maze that everyone runs through, and it's exactly like those mazes with the laboratory feel and the cold white lights and the greyness of the walls. But along the way all sorts of people fall off the main track, and get themselves lost in the dead-ends and the false turns. Because they believed in themselves and kept going and because they were sick and tired of always being with the main crowd and now these people are sitting in a corner and curling up and crying, because they can't find their way any longer. That's sad, too.
I'm one of those sitting down. It's a corner, and it's comfortable. I don't want to get up. Not really. I could sit here for the rest of my life, comfortably, and forget about the rest of the world.
I feel like I am constantly just regurgitating words that have been recycled through my fingers, and back to my mind, and out through my fingers, again, and over and over and over again.
What happened to the heartbeat? Meanwhile I just sit here and listen to myself talk. There is something wrong going on and it is happening right now and I can't do anything about it. Typically.
And ultimately, the question I need to ask. And the answer I really want. Is how to make something read like a novel. And more importantly a question, is whether anyone can. Whether I can. There is nothing so delightful as lyrical prose. There is nothing so delightful as ideas that work. But how? And who?

When he was young, Soran’s parents decided to enroll him in the School. It had been a decision made without consultation on his part, and although Soran felt it was really rather unfair, he chose not to make an issue of it. And so it was on a grey day, a windy day, that morning, that Soran found himself stepping out of the family carriage onto the cold, grey cobblestones of Stamford Street. The carriage rattled off at Eidamaan’s instructions, and the colours of the family crest, painted upon the carriage doors, offered sharp contrast to the dullness of the surroundings. And indeed, the crest was possibly one of the few vanities that Eidamaan permitted in his life. But Soran was unaware of this, or anything else at all, for his attention was wholly centred upon the grey walls of the establishment that greeted his youthful countenance. And in his heart Soran knew no fear, but only a sense of dreadful resignation. It must have shown on his face, for his mother, who he felt was the most beautiful woman to grace the land, admonished him to behave.

“But mother, I am behaving am I not? I have voiced not a single word of protest since I was told of this venture, folly though I think it must be.”

Radiya’s eyes narrowed in faint exasperation, but it was Eidamaan, smiling slightly, that spoke. “Not folly, but confidence, something you carry in abundance but which seems to have deserted you today.”

“Father, confidence is hardly a valuable commodity to carry, whereas humiliation we can ill afford to suffer, when word that I was tried for admission to the School and found wanting gets out onto the street.”

“You speak of value, but you fail to realise the weight our family name carries, that your sire worked so hard to attain for you.” Radiya interrupted sharply.

For himself you mean, said Saran silently. And for you. And I, as an afterthought. But he wisely kept his silence at the unspoken rebuke, and after a moment Eidamaan said, “Come, let us go.”

Soran fell into step behind his parents, and he walked in the same manner as Eidamaan carried himself, an action born out of habit rather than conscious emulation, for Radiya had taught her son well. I will go, father, because I have no choice in the matter, and I will maintain my peace out of respect and love for you and mother. But though I am young I am well aware that name and money count for nothing without birthright in this city. Especially not to the Enlightened. And your pride in your work has blinded you to the fact that beneath all the crests and carriages and house you are still of common blood.

The School had no actual title, none that it bore officially at any rate, although many had been given to it over the years by Enlightened and commoner alike, both aloud and unspoken. The Bastion of Enlightenment, some proclaimed it. The Institute of Higher Education. And there were others who called it the breeding ground for elitism, although this was only muttered under breaths and into tankards. And there was another common name for it – the Gun School. But to all purposes it was known simply as the School. The very late founder Jesola Valard, for reasons of his own had named it thus, and the Consortium had respected his wishes to leave it unaltered. The infrastructure had been drawn from the ground with great skill and delicacy, although the colours left much to be desired. The main steel gates were shut as Soran followed his parents past them to a side gate manned by a porter.

“Your purpose, sir?” The porter was dressed in a crimson uniform, or perhaps it was red, and the greyness of everything was playing tricks on his eyes, thought Soran.

“On behalf of my son Soran, I, Eidamaan of House Ursa wish to partake of a place in the School. I believe the Principal is already aware of my appointment.”

“A moment, please.” The porter made a gesture, and a bead of green light materialised in the air and sped off across the lawns towards the direction of the buildings. And it was a few moments, indeed, before another bead of light came streaking back towards the porter, whereupon it disappeared with a snap of his fingers. Another gesture, and another bead of light, yellow and larger than the previous two, came to hover in front of Eidamaan. The porter bowed.

“The Chief Clerk will be waiting for you, sir. Please follow the guide.” Eidamaan thanked him, and they set off across the lawns, the guiding light leading them at a sedate pace. Soran was aware of the trees that grew in neat rows along both sides of the path, and always the grey walls, and the grey granite benches and tables on the lawns. Of the students scattered throughout the grounds he paid little notice.

“That communicator was much more efficient than the one we have at home,” said Radiya.

“He is a personnel of the School after all,” Eidamaan replied pointedly. “Sevas does his best for the gold he is paid.”

“Then perhaps you pay him too much, for he is slow to send his messages, and is unremarkable in terms of range, and furthermore he is dimwitted and uncouth.”

“My dear wife, if I were to pay him less he would be more perverse in his duties. But I do praise my ancestors that I am more than made up by a wife whose silver tongue blesses my ears with words that are as elegant as her beauty.” Radiya laughed, and she took the arm that her husband offered her, while behind them their son trailed, all straight-backed and proper poise, his mood a reflection of the grey without.

                                                                                ---

The Chief Clerk was an Enlightened, Soran was certain. He was dressed in black robes and greeted them with a detached politeness that Eidamaan returned in kind. They were made to wait in uncomfortable seats, and Soran’s attention was drawn to a set of ornately carved doors of polished wood at the far end of the room. It was the carvings that Soran studied, for they were of a runic nature, and Soran assumed they were derived from defensive magic. And he fidgeted a little, as children all over the world do, and that was all. Presently one of the assistant clerks brought them through the doors into the Chamber of the Principal, and they were introduced, for the first time, into the presence of the Principal himself.

Soran was unfazed by many things, but now he felt surprise, for in appearance the Principal was not much older than the students he had seen without. Upon a chair he sat, and it was plain and ordinary, and yet he sat in it as a King sat upon his throne.

“Lord Principal,” Eidamaan bowed. Radiya and Soran did likewise. To Soran’s surprise, the Principal stood up and bowed as well. His robes too, were made of the same simple material as the Chief Clerk and his assistants, and coloured likewise.

“Lord and Lady Ursa, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.” Eidamaan smiled, and Radiya flushed slightly with pleasure.

“Please, sit. Ah, your son then? How do you do, Soran?”

Soran was nonplussed, but habitual upbringing responded for him. “If it pleases you, very well, my Lord.” Is this the Principal that everyone speaks of with such awe? Why, he speaks just like everyone else, and he is far younger than I pictured.

“Excellent,” the Principal said pleasantly. “And now to business at hand.”

Eidamaan nodded. In contrast to the Principal, his voice was a deep rumble. “I am sure you are aware of our purpose.”

“Just as you say. There should not be any difficulties, save one.” Here it comes. “I wish to ascertain the commitment that Soran intends to display in his studies.”

Eidamaan looked momentarily surprised, but not as much as what Soran felt. “If I may speak frankly, Lord Principal?”

“By all means please do.”

“I would think the issue of my family’s ancestry would come into question when it came to admittance into the School.”

The Principal smiled. “In times past, yes. But I am not like my predecessors, Lord Ursa. Changes are afoot, and I would think it not unlikely that an Enlightened in the weapons trade would serve the city well. That is, if Soran intends to follow in your footsteps.”

“Ah, but would the rest of the teachers think alike as you, Lord Principal?”

“As perceptive as I have heard it said of you, Lady Ursa. But if you do not have faith that your son will learn in spite of his teachers, then you have not taught him as well as you staunchly believe.” Radiya’s eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to speak, but the Principal cut her off. “No, you will not have my promise that I will coerce my teachers to go easy on a common. Soran must prove himself to be worthy of being an Enlightened regardless of prejudice.”

“But that is not fair on him!”

And that is what I do not want, Mother, said Soran silently. And I did not expect you to agree at all, Principal. Father, do you think I have no idea that you are trying to carve our name in history as the first common to become Enlightened? It won’t happen. I’m neither special nor particularly intelligent, nor gifted in any way. Even if I were admitted, I wouldn’t be allowed to pass.

Oh? Do you truly think that way? And Soran realised he was staring into the eyes of the Principal, and at the glittering intelligence swirling within the twin pools of blackness. So this is the power of an Enlightened.

Yes it is, and more.

I will never be what my parents want me to be.

Then you are truly the fool, for aspiring to be something for the sake of the image others have imposed upon you.

I am not a fool. I am a pragmatist.

Pragmatism has nothing to do with it. You are a fool and a coward.

I am not scared of you.

How well you prove my words, little child. You are a fool for thinking that I would have anything to do with you, much less frighten you. No, you are afraid even as you desperately try to convince yourself that you do not fear. If you cannot accept this then you are a waste of my time, for you are and always will be nothing.

“I am not nothing!” Soran burst out in rage. Eidamaan, in the midst of conversing with the Principal, glanced at him sharply, as did Radiya, and Soran realised with abrupt consternation that he had only imagined the Principal speaking in his mind.

No. Not imagination. Understand this, Soran. You will not be permitted into this school if you are not doing this for yourself. This is the way of the Enlightened. We are ambitious, ugly, and petty creatures and we do not give a shit about people lesser than us. And if you cannot stoke that ambition I see in you to strive for supremacy over everyone else, then you are wasting your time. All this passed through Soran’s mind in the time it took for the Principal to glance at him for the first time since the pleasantries were exchanged, and it left in his mind a very faint trace of bitterness, that faded before he was sure it was ever there.

“Can you, Soran?” There was a silence. Radiya moved to speak, but Eidamaan silenced her with a look.

Can I? I don’t know. It isn’t what I envisioned myself to be. No, a lie. It is what I want. What I need.

Then that is enough.

“Yes. Yes I can.”

The Principal smiled. “Good, that settles it. My clerks will send you the relevant messages concerning the details for your enrollment. Congratulations.”

And in this manner were they dismissed. As they thanked the Principal and left, Soran caught the secret glance that his father shared with his mother. Relief? No, pride. But I do not do this for you, my honoured father, dearest mother. Not for you.

And yet the experience with one of the best of the Enlightened had left him shaken. You are right. I do fear, but not failure. I fear what I will become.