Blue Eyes Green

Black. White. Eyes open and the light is bright.

Your eyes are closed, but they are all I can see.

Open them, let me gaze upon your dilated sight,

regard upon my scope, you may examine me,

let me witness you behold me in your ogling.

Identify and descry any distinction in our focusing.

Detect the lust in my eye. Open your eyes and let ‘em

advertise the chastity from your optic in my vision.

Uncover the gluttony of my gaze. Look upon them,

and permit me sight of your temperance for revision.

Stare into the wrath of my peeper. Use your ocular

enlightenment to praise forgiveness Mary mother

of Jesus. Of Muhammad. Of God. Of Allah. Eight.

Four pairs. Brown pupils, blue eyes, green eyeball.

Some variation between colour, but all hate.

Oh, wait. No – not hate: love. Love. Above all,

love each other deeply, because love covers over

a multitude of sins. It is not the eyes that are blind,

but the hearts.

Forward

I could forgive

you if you

said sorry, but I

will not forget.

I will not

be mad,

I will not

be sad.

I won’t

fight the lad

or pretend

to be glad;

I will look

forward

and I will

walk.

The Wanderlust Lyric

Look over at the horizon, see the

shadow haunting me. See it stalk behind

three miles; crossing forests, swamps and sea.

I can not turn back. My path is defined.

Will it follow me like this forever?

And where shall we find? Are we journey-bound

like blood to a hound, treading wherever

boots tread – or will it tread me underground?

More running from my demon won’t solve this,

but for now, running will do. But one stride

from the edge is a stride for the abyss.

Oh, if I could stride skylines by your side

without afearing the death in your eyes

to wander into the splendid sunrise.

Buried (poem)

Buried


I lie alone in darkness,
shrouded with black sand and fishing rope.
I watched you walk away and forget about me.
You let go of me, but I’m still
held down. I will fight until my last sharp breath.
I will struggle as the ropes soak
and the sand bows down into my breast.
God, hold back the tide.
I can not get up, but I will not stay down.
Heaven hear me, I won’t wash into the nothing.

In an ocean of darkness,
one moonlit woman with cold dilated eyes
lies with me as if a word would change the tide.
Take my hand, she told me.
Those were your words on our last summer’s day.
We bathed in light and laughed
until our cheeks burned and eyes cried.
Oh, I am not proud.
All is lost now, the waves are taking over.
I always said you took my breath away.

I’m trapped by darkness,
leave me to time and tide, I don’t care any more.
I’d feel my legs begin to buckle, if they weren’t numb.
Take my hand, she tells me,
I can see you starting to break, open your eyes,
light up the sky and I’ll keep you alive.
I force my hand out, up into hers.
I feel her slipping away, come back to me!
I cannot hold on.
Don’t leave me in the dark, show me the way.

'Mind and Matter', by Aron Woolnough

Mind and Matter

Grey hairs betray me, hitting the warm floor.

Shall I begin to shave away the rest,

would it not be until my roots are sore

and I am balding before we know best.

Tourniquet tied around my life too tight,

perhaps my veins will pop under the stress,

bleed this poison over my skin tonight

into the cracks and heal, but I digress,

my arm attacked by a single needle,

victory tubes connecting to blister

packs full of deadly venom by treadle.

A pound self-shaving station at Lister

asks if I will handle the blade myself,

and ceasefire against my terminal health.

'No Walking Stick', by Aron Woolnough

No Walking Stick

Green bag by black and white umbrella,

held by an old looking fella in his left hand,

moving with purpose, marching proudly

back and forth, patrolling the safe platforms.

Ladies laughing up in arms observing overtly

the old man in sights on stage for the freak show.

Middle finger flicks past a barrel to trigger

a chain reaction of bright flash to a startled mass.

-

Yellow Hi Vis eating pie with thumb and finger

between lunch and dinner he’s not getting any thinner,

but he is waiting, with a return ticket to the capital;

for labour under moonlight at the construction site.

From the darkness in a high vis harness,

a mighty meaty, awfully sweaty, hot and heavy,

figure uncertainly steps forward and into a

shining bright, focused tight flash light.

-

The train is on time spitting gas one minute away,

the freak is falling to the tracks. Piss leaking

all over the rock and roll soldier, of an era immersed

with engine grime, dry blood and cooking grease.

Sharp pebble in his eye, but the guy was half blind before

the cackles cease and the ladies look down at the freak

who tries to stand with his umbrella, but breaks it.

He holds up an empty hand, but no one takes it.

-

Rich white trash see a train coming about to crash.

The massive yellow body boldly steps forward

with wet sticky fingers that slide into the palm

of the fragile freak and burns the muscles in his arm.

Two Ds, three Es, an F and a pass

he’ll never be more than working class,

with second hand jeans showing his arse,

but distinction in the master class of decency.

-

Six more months of marching, one medal down,

Saluting his five foot, seventeen stone saviour.

Looks him up and down through a bloodshot eye,

inspired by why his brothers chose to die.

Standing Stones - Poem review by Stefan

Standing Stones by Aron Woolnough - poem review

"The poem 'Standing Stones' signifies a playful short story written with an inspiration for a lady captured in a magnificent nature and surroundings. It is written in a simple yet catchy style filled with metaphors. Descriptive enough to cover the nature of the thoughts and actions as well as the location in which they happen , it is a short romance story aimed on how love can play with our minds sometime towards a person in a perfect scenery.

The mood of expression as well as the style in which this romantic poem is written is close to the traditional British poetry scene that introduced us to the traditional emphasis of imagination and experience - yet it is modernized with rich vocabulary presenting the scenery impeccably well, so the reader feels the emotions and the idea behind in a positive and easy mood.

The desire for the lady which is the main object of this romantic poem is the emotion that keeps the reader lustful - describing her in a lively mood while contemplating with the writer's feelings towards the image of the lady.

The writer's preoccupation with the object of the story - the beautiful and mystical lady focuses on an indefatigable search for the increasing desire, whilst with a focus on the literary form perfectly resembles the female beauty in 3 short verses.

Vintage enough to represent the emotions with the scenery whilst personal and engaging in describing the emotions and thoughts in the writer's head, the motions are well structured within the verses creating a continuous structure of the story - describing a thought-provoked time lapse from the beginning to the end.

With optimism in the very end and lustful feelings, the story wraps up with hope for the future of the two people engaged in a platonic yet real love. This short poem resembles how romance doesn't need much to be expressed within its three verses - filled with rich emotions and thoughts inspired by a woman's beauty".

Thank you Stefan for this review. If any other readers would like to submit their reviews (good or bad), comments, their work or any literary reflections, please e-mail them to me at aron.woolnough@gmail.com or leave a comment below. 

Aron

'THE FINAL DOOR', by Aron Woolnough

THE FINAL DOOR

Aron Woolnough

There is a promise, passed from cave painting to camp fire; granting an answer to a burning question: what is our meaning, our purpose? A promise that has found its way into our stories and religions, appearing as Eve’s Fruit or Pandora’s Box, but the stories and whispers are so far removed from the truth. There is one bloodline that passes the authentic promise from father to son through every generation. Injecting the original text into the skin across their shoulders. They believe the closest modern translation is: ‘The Final Door, behind which, you will find the end’. Curiosity breeds with every retelling. Every son at some point seeks out the door, attempting to quench their thirst for knowledge. It was no different for James Reed. His thirst crossed oceans, peaked mountains and touched the skies.

A million steps in sandals on a pilgrimage in Mecca to Ka’aba, a granite cuboid surrounded in black stone, in the centre of the largest mosque in the world. James scratched at his unshaven cheeks. He wore two sheets of white unhemmed cloth, with the top cloth flung over his shoulder, covering half his tattoo, and the bottom fastened with a white sash. Hours passed and his skin endured the radiating sun while the crowds crept forwards.

Squeezing through the crowd, James entered the mosque and saw a glimpse of what he had traveled so far to see. Inside the mosque were thousands praying towards the centre and in his entire life, James had never expected to think of a large black cuboid as beautiful. The moon mercifully pushed the sun from the sky and the pilgrims began to shuffle out of the mosque. There were ushers and police filtering people out between giant pillars. James stepped out of his sandals and silently moved across the dusty ground. As an usher approached, he hopped out of view, moving around a pillar unseen. James spotted an ideal hiding place, a small market stall, only, two policemen were resting their elbows on it. He reached in under his garment and there were two knives taped to his body, one big and one small, he pealed the larger of the two off and carried it in his hand. He moved within running distance of the hiding place. James raised the knife behind his head, aimed it, squinted his eyes and flung it forwards.

The knife spun through the air and clashed onto the ground, far away from the policemen, both of them saw the dust cloud it left behind. They cautiously stepped forward and called out into the darkness, shining their torches as they investigated. James then ran over and then ducked under the stall. He watched as the dust cloud he had left behind settled and the policemen picked up the knife. They shone their torches at it. Suddenly, both men looked back at the stall and their bright torches dazzled James. He moved out of sight and rubbed his eyes, their footsteps approached him. Taking a large breath, James curled up and restrained himself into the shadows. There was a thud above him. James and the entire stall vibrated. He clenched his mouth and nose with his hands, smothering his whimper. One of the policemen walked around the stall and James could see his ankles under the brim of a tattered sheet. James’ eyes widened as one of the policemen’s torches invaded his shadows. There was a grunt and then a spit. Both policemen and their torches stomped away. James released his breath.

After finding the courage, James came out of his hiding place and stood up, still shaking. The arena was silent and empty. The hairs on his arms stood on end. He gazed around, everything was enormous and he felt tiny. The cold harsh winds whipped against his burnt skin, but his attention was captivated by the Ka’aba. James paced toward it. He reached it and slid his hand across the black stone, embracing every imperfection under his fingertips. He closed his eyes and smiled. A warmth grew inside him, a sense of achievement and mild satisfaction. He felt at ease. When he flicked his eyes open, a small, stout woman, with all but her face and wrinkled hands covered in black cloth, stood in front of him. 

“You shouldn’t be here”, she croaked,

“I could say the same for you”, said James. He looked back at the Ka’aba, and felt a primal desire to enter it. The woman stood between him and the door, “Why are you here?” asked James, but she did not answer. Instead, she sat down in front of the hard wooden door. “Can you move, please?”,

“You can’t get through this door, whether I move or not”, answered the woman, “It is locked”.

James smirked, “There isn’t a lock I can’t pick”,

“Can you pick the lock, quicker than I can get the guards?”, said the woman. James stood in front of her, he felt as if the door was begging him to open it. Then he felt his shoulders ache and the words of his ancestors conquer his every thought, “This is it”, he began, “I have found it, haven’t I?”, he reached out for the door and continued, “This is the door, this is the place, my destiny”.

The woman stood up and slapped his hand away, “Stay away, you crazy boy, this is not your door to open”. Her small hands pushed into James’ chest, he grasped her wrists in his hands, “I don’t want to hurt you”, James said. She scratched at him and he let her go. “I don’t want to hurt you, either”, she said,

“What is it you want: food, money, shelter? I can give you all of that and more, just let me through that door”, James said. She shook her head at him and sat back in front of the door. James began to breath quick shallow breaths, tensing his entire body. The door captivated his gaze. There was a fury in his eyes, it consumed his mind and she knew it. Her bottom lip trembled. His fist clenched. She shuffled her way out of the door and saw the tensed muscles in his arms relax.

James stepped forward and looked through the keyhole, there was only darkness on the other side. He felt his heart racing as he pulled several hairpins from the back of his head and fed them into the lock. He clicked and flicked the tumblers around. His hands shaking from the adrenaline. The woman chuckled, watching his efforts. With a sudden dread and frustration, James realised he could not open the door. “This lock is different, like nothing I have ever come across before”, he said as he retreated the pins from the lock and put his hands on his side, “There must be a way through”,

“There is only one key, boy” said the woman,

“Tell me your name”,

“This is not the door you seek”,

“Why else would you be guarding it?”,

“My name is Eden, and I have watched this door for a very long time, because I must – It is my destiny”.

In all the stories James had heard, all the passages and the clues, there was only temptation, never restraint. He had prepared for over whelming knowledge, changing his perspective on life, the universe and everything – but never anyone in his way. “Why guard the door? If the promise is true, behind that door is the end, to curiosity, to confusion, to death”

“Heed my words, boy,” said Eden, “you are right, behind that door is immortality, eternal knowledge and the end. The end is exactly what you expect it is, it is the end. Once you look through the door, you will be gifted with some knowledge and immortality, never enough to satisfy, only enough to make you want to go through the doorway and know it all, and end it all – but what knowledge could be worth the end?”, James took a moment to reflect on what she had said, but remained confident he could handle the temptation of greater knowledge. “You’re not listening!” Eden said, “It is over-whelming, you will not be able to resist the temptation and I am not strong enough to pull you out”.

“You’ve looked through the door? And been pulled out?”, asked James,

“The greatest mistake anyone could ever make”, she said and then took a step toward James and looked him in the eyes, “I was lucky that my husband had the strength to save us, I have seen a hundred life times, happy people and hopeful people – living and praying – the world does not need what is on the other side of that door”,

“But, immortality”, said James,

“Is a curse”, Eden raised her hands and embraced him. James held her tight and felt a rush of disappointment and sorrow burn through his soul. She felt the disappointment in him, and he felt a thick key on a chain around her neck.

            James smuggled a hand inside his garment. He winched as he ripped the tape from his chest; he pulled out hairs and skin. Three strikes into Eden. Then James dropped the small blade onto the ground, along side her collapsed body. He took the chain from her neck and broke the key off it. “Stop”, roared Eden on the floor, “You have to stop”. She rose from the floor, the wounds were gone. James rushed the key into the lock, Eden rushed at him.

“One step closer and I’ll turn the key”, said James, and Eden stopped in her tracks, “You really are immortal” he continued, “this really is the Final Door, for thousands of years my family has searched for this, exploring pyramids, jungles and ancient wonders – if only we had read the Quran sooner”, James couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

            “You want answers? I have looked through the door, I can tell you whatever you want, just please, don’t open it”,

“Best start talking”, James said as he turned the key ninety degrees.

“This is not real. None of it. It is just a story and it will end”, she said, “when you turn that key and open that door, the story is over, it is the end”. James looked at her and laughed, “You’re gonna have to do better than that”, he turned the key again and felt the lock resist against him, she looks at half of the tattoo on his shoulders,

“You bare my late husband’s words on your back, he passed them onto my son and my grandchildren, that was meant as a warning, not a challenge, not an invitation – Son, immortality means nothing when you end everything immediately after gaining it”,

“You said immortality was a curse”, said James,

“James, listen to me”, said Eden,

“I never told you my name”,

“I have the knowledge – James said this, James said that. I can read it. I know all about you and what you think is on the other side of that door – trust me, dear, we’re family. You have to trust me, it is just a story and going through that door will end it”, Eden fell to her knees, tears filled her eyes. James looked between her and the door, “If this life isn’t real, if we’re not real, then what? Why protect it?”, James asked,

“It is all we’ve got”, Eden crawled forward and grabbed his leg, “Don’t go in, promise me you won’t”. James froze for a moment, keeping his breath steady and his hand still. His throat was dry and his heart pumping fast. He turned the key again, and the lock resisted again.

            “This isn’t the key”, James thumped the door, “open it, open it now”. Grabbing her throat and forcing her neck into the door, James growled his teeth to her ear lobe, “open this door, now, or I will make you regret you inability to die”. She said nothing, but then he slammed her head into the door. She let out a whimper. He did it again and her eye became blood shot, again and her tooth fell out, again and her jaw snapped in two. Moments later all healed, but the pain fresh in her mind. Eden placed her hand on his chest and tried her best to speak, “Ignore the anger”. He slammed her head into the door again and then dropped her to the ground. The door was splintered where he had struck. He smiled and Eden screamed out for help. James rammed into the door and ripped off the top hinge. He grabbed the handle in one hand and the corner in the other, shaking the door back and forth with all his might and fury. His muscles burned and throat ripped a part as he let out his rage verbally. There was a crack and Eden stopped screaming. No one was hearing her cries. James stopped and let go of the door. Every breath felt like shattered glass in his chest. He looked at Eden, tears streaming down her face. He did not take her eyes off her when he pulled the door from its place and let it flop onto the ground. James saw terror in her eyes and smiled. He turned and looked through the door.

            Nothing happened, he only saw darkness. Eden burst out into laughter, “Your face, you should’ve seen–ah-ahh” she continued to laugh and roll onto her back on the floor, “But, I stabbed you and you were fine”, James took a step back from the door and looked down at Eden. He shook his head and then walked through the door. His eyes adjusted to the light, but nothing else happened. Inside the room was a bounty of jewels, treasures and idols, a sight any other man would be over come with joy for seeing. “You never heard of a false door, boy? How foolish are you, you really thought you had found the final door – ha!” Eden got up from the ground, James clenched his fists. He let out a roar and threw his weight against priceless artifacts, precious statues and fragile crystals a like. He thumped the wall until his knuckles bled. Glass smashed and things cracked as they hit the floor, “Ooo-that sounded expensive”, Eden cackled,

“I felt it”, said James,

“Poor boy, you didn’t feel anything”,

“But, I did, I felt it, it is here, it has to be, it is my destiny”,

“Oh, don’t be so pathetic, before it was funny, but now its just sad. Face it, you’ve lost this round, boy”, Eden moved to the doorway, concerned. James searched through the wreckage. Eden took another step forward, “Stop wasting your time, let me take you away from here”, but James continued. Eden raised a hand, “James, dear, look at you, you’re a mess, stop”, he ignored her, “now, James, stop”.

His hands fumbled over an idol and it gave him an electric shock. He grabbed the idol with both hands and launched it into the wall. It smashed and a red dust exploded out of it. The dust collected in the air and formed a tall stripe from the top to the bottom of the room, “No” screamed Eden, she ran outside and looked for the small blade on the ground. James put his hand around the red stripe and pulled like a handle. The Final Door swung open and illuminated the room. James could see everything inside it. Eden dropped to her hands and knees outside. James’ mouth dropped as he gazed through the Final Doorway. There was a bounty of knowledge pouring into his mind, he revelled in a moment of pure satisfaction and understanding, greater for every second longer that he gazed. Eden fumbled around on the floor. She found the knife and picked it up. After stumbling to her feet, she ran back inside the cuboid. The knife was held out in front of her and she charged into James. He felt the blade slide in and out of his back, but it did not hurt and it did not injure him. “I understand, I have some knowledge, but never all of it on this side”, he said, “I cannot live knowing what I know, without knowing more. You feel the same way, but you’re too scared to go through”, James smiled, “I’m not scared, this is my destiny”, he stepped forward through the Final Door, leaving Eden alone.

THE END.

'Chasing the Night', by Aron Woolnough

Chasing the Night 

By Aron Woolnough

With a gentle knock on the door, “Sir, we are approaching the Anchorage Base now”, Grace entered the room, a fair haired woman in a suit that hadn’t been washed in 4 days. She looked over at Milton Augustus, who calmly drank his last bottle of whiskey in the sitting room,

“Thank you, Miss Wilbur, which room are we meeting in?”

“Mister Oxford requested the dining area, the best plans should be chewed over, he said”,

“Can you ask the Chef to prepare some sandwiches? If it isn’t too much trouble”,

“Certainly, Mister President”, said Grace and she closed the door behind her. ‘Mister President’, Milton smirked, as the words circulated around his mind. He was still getting used to the absence of Vice from that title. Any sense of pride was diminished by the morbid circumstances in which he became President. Not worth thinking about, Milton finished his glass and looked at the bottle. Half empty. He placed it back into the cupboard and left the room.

                Down the corridor, Milton passed a hundred small round windows; all covered apart from one. He looked out onto the night sky and watched the wing of the plane soar over grey clouds. His fingers gripped a small beaded chain, he pulled it, and a cover dropped over the window. He looked down and continued to walk towards the dining area. An intercom buzzed, “This is Co-Captain Cornwall, we are expecting to undergo some turbulence as we approach the base. ETA 20 minutes, thank you, Cornwall out”. Outside the dining room was two suited men, with firearms in their belts, “Ford, Wells”, Milton nodded towards them both,

“Mister Vice President”, Wells saluted.

“Doug”, Ford elbowed him, “Sorry, Mister President”,

“Not a problem, at ease gentleman”, President Milton said.

Wells said nothing, his cheeks lit up red. From down the corridor, Bradley Oxford rushed over, “Sir”, he said to the President. Ford opened the door.

                Milton entered the dining area, with Bradley just behind. Everyone stood; Milton waved his hand down at them. They sat at the table, Oxford beside Father Stephenson, who nervously toyed with his cross, and the President next to Engineer Adams and General Orwell, who was holding court, “6 miles away from the base is an industrial town, we should send a group there to gather supplies and look for survivors”,

“Don’t hold your breath”, said Bradley, “We have seen this time and time again, any survivors are not human anymore, they’re savage, broken”,

“We are all broken, Son”, said Father Stephenson, and Bradley folded his arms. Then, Secretary of State, Annemarie Becket entered with Captain Aaron Raider; they took a seat at the table. General Orwell gave his attention to the Captain,

“Touch down in 15”, a judder shook the room, “turbulence is expected”, he looked over at Engineer Adams, who passed over a sheet of paper with his notes on it. “Primary objective at the airbase is obviously fuel and the following parts”, he passed the notes over to the General, “Cornwall will recognise those parts, so he will go with the President’s detail into the main facility, and Adams and I will focus on the refuelling”, with that, Engineer Adams and Captain Raider left the room.

                “How long will we have?” President Milton asked,

“No more than 4 hours to be safe”, answered Annemarie, “the splinter group, they will need to be back before then, or we go without them”,

“I will go”, said Bradley Oxford, “As fun as being Chief of Staff is, I will feel more useful on the ground, Sir”,

The President nodded. Two servers placed down platters of sausages, carrots and peppers, with an array of dips and creams for the meeting to graze from. Father Stephenson brushed back his greying hair with his hand, wiped it on his trouser leg and then dipped a carrot stick into a pot of sour cream.

“If I may, I would also like to accompany Mister Oxford”, said Father Stephenson as he munched into the carrot. The General and Oxford shared a glance. The President was fixated on the platter, no sight of sandwiches anywhere.

“Are you sure, Father? It might be dangerous”, said Oxford,

“Quite sure, breathing the recycled air in this plane for a week straight can’t be healthy for a man of my age, stretching my legs and helping is exactly what I need”,

“Very well then, Mister Oxford, Father Stephenson and Jason Ford to travel into the town and bring back food and other essential items”,

“Wells”, said the President, “Have Douglas Wells accompany the Splinter group, I would prefer it if Ford remains on my detail”,

“Very well, Mister President” said the General.

                President Milton left the room and walked towards his secretary Grace Wilbur, “I asked for sandwiches”,

“No bread, Sir”, she said, “I’ve added ingredients for it to our supplies request, but bread goes off very quickly in the moist pantry above the engine room. I didn’t list it as a priority, better to focus on long-lasting food”,

“I am happy to bake it as and when I desire it, add flour to the top of the list”, Milton said,

“Yes, Mister President”, said Grace, with no intention of amending the list, “Your wife asked to see you before landing”.

                Back in the dining room, General Orwell and Annemarie Becket consulted Bradley, “You have to understand, it is not that we wish ill will on him, or that we want to get rid of him, we just can’t take much more of this. Every day and every night, he is like scratching fingernails down a chalk board, please, speak to him and get him to mind his own business or something”,

Bradley agreed and went through to the crew quarters and entered the Ambassador’s lounge, “Oxford!” a cheery cheeked British man squeaked, “Fancy you dropping by my quarters, how may I assist?”

“Nothing for the time being, I just wanted to speak with you about the General and Secretary of State. I’ve read reports of you interfering with their work and getting in the way”,

“Hogwash! Those chums keep me chipper, sure, that is not to be confused with anything else. Tell the staff members who have made these reports that friendship cannot distract, only encourage, chap”,

“It was actually the Secretary and General themselves who asked me to speak with you, please, take a step back from their affairs and when situations arise, take a step back and let them do their job. That is all.” Oxford was firm, but fair, he was hard on everyone and you only had one chance with him, no second chances was something he had learnt from childhood and it had never failed him. Though he had respect for the ambassador, his cheery moral-driven ways could not distract from the objective leadership required in times of distress. The ambassador nodded faithfully and whistled, as he flicked through the two week old paper, “Stuck on the Sudoku?” asked Oxford,

“Blasted thing, I’ve nearly got it”,

Oxford smiled and wished him luck.

                Milton entered his bedroom, and his wife, Miriam, sat on the edge of the bed. She looked down at a photo frame in her hands. She was crying. Milton approached her slowly and extended a hand to her shoulder. She placed the frame on the bed, it was a picture taken four years ago at their son’s graduation, “We should have found them, made them board the plane and come with us”, she said tearfully,

“No one could have predicted these solar anomalies”, said Milton, unsure if it would comfort her,

“Bullshit and you know it, your office ignored reports for years about this; from depleting ozone reports, to the radiation spikes. We could’ve stopped this; we could’ve saved our children”.

“It isn’t our fault, we gathered the best intelligence we could. President Gently bet his life on it. We were convinced”, said Milton,

“We were doubtful enough to get on this plane, to fly away from the rising sun and chase the night around the globe”, Miriam took a breath and hugged him, “I’m sorry, just thinking about them,” she whimpers, “burning, the sun scarring them and pain radiating throughout their body… I only hope they died quickly, it is only a curse to survive that”,

“The last time we touched down, there were signs of survivors, living underground. We couldn’t locate them, but it might be possible, to live underground. Billy could’ve made it to the subway. Jessica to the lab’s basement”, he looked at his wife and smiled, “there is always hope”,

“Tell that to your bottle of whiskey”, she sniggered, and then apologised again.

                The plane wobbled and Captain Raider sat in the cockpit with Co-pilot Cornwall, “What do I call the president? Are you sure I should go in with them to the base? I might not recognise the parts under pressure, it would be better if I stayed and you went”,

“Cool it”, said Raider, “You’ll do great”. The plane’s front wheels extended out and clicked into place. Cornwall flicked the switches above his head and grabbed the intercom, “Prepare for landing, fasten seatbelts”, he said. Raider glided the wings down with precision, like threading a needle through the winds. Everything jolted forwards as they pressed onto the runway. Cornwall engaged the landing breaks and Raider eased the plane to a stop. “Landing successful”, Cornwall said as he disengaged the outer door lock.

                Oxford met with Wells and Father Stephenson, they prepared themselves in the arsenal. Wells offered Oxford a gun and he put it into his belt, then Wells offered Father Stephenson a gun, but he refused, “Father, it is vital for your protection that you hang onto this”,

“It won’t be necessary”,

“I can’t let you go, if you’re not carrying a firearm, it is too dangerous otherwise”, said Wells and he forced the gun into the priest’s hand. Father Stephenson took the clip out of the gun and slid it into his pocket, and then placed the gun in the front of his belt.

                President Milton kissed his wife and told her to get some rest. He left their room and was greeted by Ford. They joined Grace Wilbur and Johnathon Cornwall in the docking bay.  The splinter group came in afterwards and mounted a Jeep that they had recovered from their last operation, “Watch the clutch on that one, Wells” said Ford,

“Aye, aye”, yelled Wells as he hopped into the drivers’ seat. Oxford sat beside him and Father Stephenson sat behind the two of them. He held his bible in his hands and whispered a pray for safety and success on their missions. Engineer Adams walked over and opened the docking bay doors, “Four hours and these doors close and we take off, with or without any of you, set your watches now”, Adams said and then watched them all check their watches, apart from the President. The Jeep stalled and Wells forced the handbrake on. Ford turned to him and repeated, “Watch the clutch” and Oxford laughed. Wells carefully positioned his foot on the pedal and then drove out of the plane. Co-pilot Cornwall stood beside the President and quietly said, “It is an honour, Sir”,

“The honour is all mine” said Milton.

                The first group stepped off the plane into the Alaskian cold on the air base. A United States flag blew in the wind up-side-down on the flag pole. A clash from the gates as the Splinter group’s Jeep drove through the series of padlocks and the headlights headed east to the town. Ford looked at Grace and the President, “Stay close”, and they walked towards the hangar. Engineer Adams also got off the plane and attached a fuelling pump to the plane’s exterior fuel injector. He stayed in radio contact with Captain Raider, who had both his feet up on the console as he watched the tank’s capacity dial.

                The Jeep drove down the road and almost immediately, they picked up a distress beacon coming from near-by, “Mayday, Mayday. We have lost our lab to civilians. We were unable to protect the equipment.” It repeated on loop, once in English and then again in Russian. Oxford took the radio and broadcasted, “This is Bradley Oxford of Air Force One, our plane is in bound and can provide assistance, do you copy?” there was silence, “tell us your location and we can help you”. The moon shone brightly in the sky, Father Stephenson lent forwards and asked Wells, “Is the moon safe? After all, it is the Sun’s rays reflecting off of it”,

“All reports have indicated that the radiation reflected off the moon is too weak to reach Earth afterwards, we’ll be fine”, Wells smirked, “We’ll soon find out if I’m wrong”. Oxford still hadn’t received a reply. He left the radio on his lap.

                Jason Ford reached the main door to the facility, “It’s locked, stand back”, he kicked the door open. Ford shone his torch forward and quickly located the light switch, but it didn’t work. “Finding parts in the dark, how fun”, said Cornwall,

“Once we’ve found the storage area and Ford here has cleared the building, we can ask for more assistance from the plane to help search. Keep an eye out for flour too”, said Grace, and the President smiled. Usual protocol wouldn’t allow a public figure to participate in this sort of operation, but due to great losses and persistent requests to help, Ford made a judgement call which allowed non-secret service agents to participate in the operations. Ford shone his torch forwards and the others trailed behind him. With a fast swipe from his right, Ford thudded to the ground. Grace screamed and Cornwall ran in front of the President.

                A sudden explosion in the road ahead, instigated Wells to slam on the breaks. He was captivated by the mass of orange in front of him, feeling warmth on his skin that he had missed from the absense of the Sun. To their side, three men approached, all scarred and burned on their skin. “Freeze, all y’all” yelled Chalk to the Splinter Group. His two followers, Mac and Donny aimed guns at the Jeep. Wells rested his hand on the gun in his belt. Father Stephenson put his hands in the air and stood up. He faced them, “Violence won’t be necessary”, Father Stephenson began,

“A gun in his belt” bellowed Mac, Donny shot. Father Stephenson’s neck ripped open and his cross fell from the chain around his neck. Wells pulled out his weapon, as did Oxford. Wells shot towards the bandits, winging Mac, and revved the engine at the same time. He began to drive away and Oxford shot at them, his bullets flying everywhere but the target. Quickly he was out of rounds and struggled to reload. Chalk took the rifle from Mac and aimed it. He squeezed the trigger and shot Wells straight through the back of the head. The Jeep swerved off course and into a large rock. Oxford’s forehead slammed into the dashboard. In a panic, he shoved Wells’ body out of the car and restarted the engine. He heard shouting behind him and Donny ran over to the Jeep. Oxford stalled it. Donny pulled the trigger.

                Engineer Adams got the message from Raider, the tank was full. He pulled the pump from the plane and secured the fuel injector. He dusted himself off and turned around. Walking towards the plane was President Milton Augustus with his hands on his head. Three men stood behind him, one held a gun to the back of his head, “You can call me Moscow, this is Novogorod and Samara, you fail to listen to me and your President dies”,

Adams nodded. Grace was bloodied and being held behind Novogorod, he gripped his fist into the roots of her hair and spat at her. Cornwall and Ford were nowhere to be seen. Adams radioed up to the cockpit. Then he stepped forward,

“I have told them, we can negotiate, what do you want?” asked Adams,

“Your plane” spat Samara and he turned to Grace and shot her knee cap. She screamed.

“Get all y’all outta there and we board it. Simple” Samara spat again.

“You and the pilot stay on board, we’ll need you”, said Moscow to Engineer Adams,

“Please, we can accommodate you and us, we can live together”, pleeded Adams, just then the Jeep returned and Chalk was at the wheel.

“It isn’t just us three”, said Moscow. The Jeep pulled up to them and Donny jumped out. Mac sat in the back and held Father Stephenson’s cross in his hand. Suddenly Adams heard the docking bay doors close behind him. He gulped and the plane’s engines started. “No, we got the President, you can’t leave” yelled Novogorod in desperation.  President Milton looked at Grace and then at Adams, “It has been an honour to serve you, to serve my country… God, have mercy on my--”

'Through the Glass', by Aron Woolnough

Through the Glass

By Aron Woolnough

I can’t shake this smell of strawberries, haven’t eaten any, or anything. My fingers don’t smell of them, I don’t know. Sometimes it goes away when I scratch my beard. But not every time. Even if I scratch it a lot. There are no strawberries about, I’ve looked for them everywhere. Even tried swapping fags and favours for them, but no luck. Not even Dee-Dee has some, and I once saw him with a live rabbit. No joke, honest, a live rabbit. Didn’t even kill it, just liked stroking it – relaxed him, he said. I thought he was going to eat it when I first saw it, he’s French, so I wouldn’t put it past him. The ass didn’t have one single strawberry though, when I asked Doc about it, he just made notes and grumbled in his usual grumpy voice. I don’t think he understands me, even though he is really clever, and he is really clever, he’s a doctor, they have to be really clever for like 10 years before they can be a doctor and then they get to look after people, so I’m not saying he isn’t clever, just that he can’t look after me.

I’m not like most people. No one else can smell the strawberries, I’ve asked. I don’t even remember ever eating a strawberry, but when I smell it, I know it. I don’t remember anything before getting here, just like sleeping before this routine of lights on, breakfast, stare at a wall, dinner, pills and lights off. I think this is even my first visitation. Weird that I had to come so far. Can I see you again tomorrow? I think I should be able to pencil you in, between ‘stare at a wall’ and ‘dinner’, if you like. I don’t care, I don’t. I said I don’t care. I really mean it, Doc said it might be a side… affect or effect, I never know which one to say, I usually just say ‘fect’ and let Doc fill in the blank. I suppose no one can really tell the difference, or gives a crap. Can you hear that? I wish the guard would stop tapping on the glass. Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it now! I said. Sorry. I’m sorry, honest, I’m calm. They have to put us in here with the glass between us, I don’t think I’m allowed in the normal area. I’m not normal, they say. I don’t hurt anyone though, just a danger to myself Doc says, but I don’t think that’s right. He doesn’t understand me, he’s clever and all, but he doesn’t understand me.

Those two brought me here, put me in cuffs and in the back of some guard van. They drove me out of the slammer and down a very long road. There were no windows in the van, but I could hear roadworks, and then silence, I think some birds singing and a plane went over head once, but then we got here, to this big fancy building. They got me out the van, probably with strawberries in their pockets, I couldn’t check with hands cuffed behind my back, and they brought me into this giant metal thing. Just me and the two guards, all the lights went funny and there was this big moaning sound like the room was giving birth. I was fine, felt completely fine, but both the guards seemed a bit off. One of them said they’d never done this before, which is odd, isn’t it? Guards should do visitations all the time. But it made me feel better that this wasn’t just my first time, this whole set up. Like when I first had to take the pills, I was hesitant, I think, but I knew everyone else was in the same boat as me, some even their first time too. So we lined them up together, me and Dee-Dee and you know, like Oscar and probably Goaty, is that what they call him? So lined them up, like shots on a bar, one of those bars like a cowboy movie, where the bartender would slide them down and then the cowboy would take a shot. So, yeah, like that, we lined them up and downed them all together.

The guard stopped tapping on the glass, right? You can see that too. So where is the noise coming from? Never mind, doesn’t matter. You’re the silent type, I’m not a big talker either, not usually, well sometimes, when you get me started I can’t stop. Phil says I’m annoying and Jules thinks I’m annoying too, but he won’t admit it. Silly really, I don’t care. Those two call me a murderer, no, killer. They call me a killer. Go get ‘em, killer. Time for pills, killer, they say, the guards say it too every now and then. Doc said that they wouldn’t say that, doesn’t happen, but what does he know. He wasn’t there. Never is. Being annoying doesn’t bother me, but that name does. My name isn’t Killer. I haven’t even killed. Besides everyone has done wrong, here in particular. Not me though, I haven’t done anything wrong, I just am wrong. That’s why I have to swallow twice a day. I’m getting better though, used to be three times a day. I’m not really answering your question, am I? Sorry. God-dammit. Excuse me. Can’t you smell that though? Okay, focus. I’m ready.

Back when I was sleeping, before the routine. I’m supposed to ‘construct’ my memories, I think. Like remembering dreams, but more important. So I don’t know if any of this is true, because I don’t even remember it, I’ve just constructed it with Doc and whats-her-face. There was a struggle, broken glass everywhere. I remember looking through the glass and seeing my reflection mask the person I was talking to. Like I was talking to myself. It must’ve been darker on their side of the glass, that’s how it works. I was right then. I mean, not ‘wrong’, I didn’t need anything but food and water. I think Doc said this sleep was a ‘trauma’ really, some bad thing happened. Or, the trauma woke me up, but during, or just before; I was there to find out information, to solve a puzzle or a problem. There was definitely lifeless walls and sterile floors – like this place. I worked a lot. Up every morning and home late at night, I was always getting my hands dirty. I remember this was a big opportunity and that it was too clean. I could go see someone who I could ask one question to. It was a really big deal. Like I needed to be in this fancy suit, like yours, and we had to rig up this big machine to bring them to me, like they were quarantined or something. Doc thinks it could’ve been a private plane, but it was bigger than that and I don’t remember it moving much. So, I was on this mission, right, to investigate, like to stop something bad from happening, but a fight broke out and the glass shattered and everything went badly. Horribly. Traumatic.

I didn’t cause the fight, my reflection did. The man through the glass started it, he was very angry at the question I asked, as he answered, he got angrier and angrier. I don’t know why. He smashed it, used the shards. That’s why I got the scars on my back and my hands. I think in the struggle, someone got hurt, that is why I’ve got cuffs on and we’ve gotta talk through fragile glass.  But, that is all a metaphor see, said whats-her-face, like the glass represents something like my mother and the over-sized machine is like a stand in for, I don’t know. She is the worst, twisting my words and making me look like a right idiot. Who is she to tell me what I mean? I know what I mean, god-dammit. She doesn’t know. She can’t even smell the strawberries. Even when its really strong. Can you please stop tapping? It must be you, put your hands on top of the table, please. Stop tapping your foot. Stop it, I said. You want to know something I never told that bitch, whats-her-face. In this re-constructed dream. It was only a reflection for a little while, but then I saw.

Where are you going? We’re not done. I’ve got ages ‘til dinner. Stay, please stay. Erm, I’ll tell you more, it gets better. Don’t go, don’t. You can even tap, I don’t mind. Thank you. I’m sorry my life is boring, but it is what it is. Wanna hear an interesting story? I’ll tell you one, no two, if we’ve got the time. Did you hear the one about the Lady from round the corner and her two dogs? They can jump really high, she is training them up to jump in here and steal, everyone has their hobbies. I have hobbies, other than searching for strawberries and constructing dreams. I read a lot, like all these books, about time and space. One where this man right, like a scientist, smarter than Doc, saw a star vanish in the sky. Vanish, gone, but he didn’t take a picture, or film it. Or at least, he tried to, but couldn’t. So he had to use like a worm hole to get really far away, like backwards in time, to see it happen again and managed to film it. Isn’t that amazing, if you run away really, really far and really, really quickly, you can rewind time. I wish I could go backwards in time, to see if I’m right. Maybe I could even do it so I don’t wake up. I like it here, but I miss the peace and excitement from my dream. I’d like to go back to that life. I’m not annoying you, am I? Its just that, as good as routine is for me, it’s a bit repetitive for my liking. I wish I could break through this glass and swap places with you.

I prefer constructed memories to actual memories, don’t you? They’re like a puzzle, I like solving puzzles. There are little gaps and leaps of logic, but it always seems to make sense to me, at least, no matter what crazy theory I have to come up with about a worm’s hole or whatever I can think of, just to tell that bitch whats-her-face to shut up. Shut up, I’ll tell her. Stop being stupid, stop twisting my words. My theories don’t make her shut up though, they only make her talk more about my subconscious and stuff I don’t know about. The only thing that makes her shut up and go away is when I get angry, so I get angry. Ouch. Oh, I’m sorry, it was me tapping the glass this whole time, I didn’t even notice. My finger is bleeding, I must’ve cracked the glass or something. Glass can be very sharp, use it like knives, or you can get it really thin, as thin as a hair pin, and use it to pick the locks on handcuffs. As useful as it is, it is fragile, like a mother giving birth. I could use my chair to break through this barrier between us, cos I’m rougher than you, seen a few more bar fights in my time. The pills are supposed to make me calm, so I don’t care, but I’m angry. I didn’t take them today. I can smell you through that crack, a sweet aroma from you, a strong perfume that surrounds you. Not yours though, surely. A lady’s then. Yes, yes, a blonde lady, with reddish lips and that perfume. A new piece of the puzzle: Strawberries.