It's me again, but you knew that! There's a few things you should probably know.

When I searched for this blog to see if google would pick it up, I saw a Youtube video called Skinnie Minnie. I just wanted to make sure you knew it wasn't my video, or things could get confusing!

Friday was the second Chocolate Friday! Yay! This time Leena brought the chocolate. We listened to a German song called "Nur fur Dich" (only for you) in German. Everyone claimed they thought it was really lame and then the next day everyone's phones were singing it! Hmmmmm........

I might be starting Tennis classes instead of trampolining. I like trampolining but I'm not really getting anywhere with it and I won't forget anything I've learned. I went shopping at an outlet village this morning. Mum and I were in a china shop and I saw a man by the counter. A very glamorous French woman was rushing around the shop, saying "Can we have another one of those? And one of these?", and the man said yes every single time! They bought the equivalent of our entire plate and bowl collection, plus a gravy boat, salad bowls and lots of other things. Everything took about ten minutes to run through the checkout, and the bill came to £350.00! I was mega-impressed-o-rama. I have never seen anyone spend that much before. They're so lucky to be able to!

While my mum was paying for her things (a candelabra for her friend's wedding present), we heard a deafening sound from outside. The guy behind the till thought it was a giant kazoo band, but it wasn't. It was an entire samba band, marching through the shopping centre! I took pictures on my phone. You don't expect to see that do you?! I took Rich with me when I took the photos, and we saw some army cadets collecting money for a charity. They were standing there holding buckets for the money, and the band marched in so they got ignored!  I even saw an army cadet march along pretending to be in the band to get more money. It was so funny!

I wish you had been there. Maybe you were!

Skinnie Minnie xxx

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Welcome to Richard Clarke’s Weblog.

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This blog was created as a space for my writing. I do hope you enjoy the stories, please feel free to leave a comment and I’d be grateful if you would forward a link to this site to everyone you know.

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May this blog find its way ...

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The Great Hope

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A mass demonstration against a looming global conflict descends into chaos as a supernatural event bursts into the crowd. Ferocious anomalies are striking down thousands on a daily basis across a vast and powerful country, pouring fear into the hearts of a proud people.

As the political leaders bay for blood and the military prepare to attack the enemy massing on its border, Agent Tian Brooke frantically investigates the events while battling disturbing and intoxicating visions ...

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Published here are the first two chapters of the story that perhaps one day will find the right agent and the right publisher. I have completed the first four chapters of what will become an eighty thousand word novel. I am pleased with the progress I am making and with the way the story is shaping up. The beginning is complete and the first two chapters are a taste of the piece. I am thoroughly enjoying the work of writing the middle, the meat of the story, and I have a marvellous end in mind with a twist I am sure no-one will see coming.

I would love to become a published novelist. It has been my wish since I started writing in 1995. For me, Meridian is the great hope of perhaps one day realising that dream.

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All material is copyright © Richard Clarke

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Tian stayed low and remained calm, as he weaved passed a woman in a billowing purple dress who blew a large silver whistle. Passed a man who angrily shouted and jumped, his scarlet shirt ripped. Passed a woman with pigtails and a bereaved look on her face, her mouth gagged with a black scarf. Passed a man in a green and brown military jacket who threw a black sphere in the air, the sphere popped, and thick, pungent yellow smoke blanketed the crowd.

Through the undulating, rowdy mass, between the banners with hand painted slogans, brightly coloured flags and fluttering streamers, Tian caught sight of a wall of men in black. The road ahead forked, and the left fork was blocked by shielded, baton wielding police. He could not work out how deep their ranks were, for the air was heavy with a haze that stung his eyes. Someway down the left fork, though, the corridor of tall buildings was filled with shimmering red and blue flashing lights that extended back at least a block.

Grey police airbees throbbed above him in the grumbling, leaden sky; their lights incessantly flashing, their cameras and monitors trained on the marching river. Within the comfortable confines of one of the floating vehicles was Daxa. Ahead and behind Tian was the densely packed, steadily flowing crowd. To his left and right were pastel four storey buildings, their plaster and brickwork chipped and broken, their dark wood window shutters rotten, their glowing, flickering advertisements hung askew.

“Lauren,” Tian shouted above the clamour, as his breathing quickened.

“I’m here.” He felt the Chief tug the back of his leather jacket.

“They’re pushing them away from the Village.” He pointed towards the shimmering shield.

“Arandene?”

“Princess Park’s in Arandene.”

“It’s a possibility, but the park’s not big enough to hold a crowd of this size,” Lauren said. “There must be a hundred-and-fifty-thousand people here.”

“More to the point, you said the Village.” Tian caught a blur in his peripheral vision, he instinctively covered his face as a bottle bounced off his head. It clattered on the ground off to his left.

“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.

He nodded sharply and rubbed his stinging scalp. The bottle was one of dozens sailing overhead toward the police. The armed, uniformed men were protected by a clear, shimmering concave shield that extended between the shabby buildings to a height of two floors, it completely blocked the narrow road at the left fork. The troopers shifted from foot to foot as bottles, streamers, smoke spheres and fire crackers were thrown at them. As the objects bounced off the shield ripples emanated across its surface, like stones thrown in a still pond.

“Daxa,” Tian said, looking up, his hand to his ear.

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“What’s going on?”

“The march is being diverted away from Parliament Village. Police have blocked all the streets leading into the quarter. I’ve word they’re to guide them from where you are in Tanamary Street through Arandene and on into Princess Park.”

“Their aim was the Village,” said Lauren.

Tian began to make out the low, dull drone of the shield generator as they approached the left fork. Its humming harmonics pitched up and down with every missile that hit the glistening surface. A large, oval stone bounced off the shield, to a raucous cheer. It was quickly followed by another, the trickle of stones and then bricks soon became a flood. The police tightened up, closing their ranks.

“Daxa, what’s going on ahead of us?”

“Sir, the protestors are probing the shields set up at the ends of all the roads intersecting with Tanamary Street which lead into the Village. Two are buckling though all are presently holding. The police are attempting to reinforce the weaker shields. The Royal Guard at General Kalaman Barracks are being deployed in support.”

“We’re at the end of General Kalaman Avenue, the shield’s still solid here.” Tian said, as he looked up. The sky was darkening. “What’s happening at Woolfe Street?”

“The shield is buckling, sir.”

Tian ducked again as another bottle clipped his head, then shattered on the pavement. He turned to see the man in the ripped scarlet shirt yelling, his face was contorted with anger, spittle flew from his mouth. The woman in the purple dress shouted profanities and shook her clenched fists, her eyes were bloodshot and bulging. The woman with the pigtails and gag covered her ears with her hands and sobbed. Petra tossed her hair and laughed as they danced. Tian stumbled and fell, his black trousers ripped and his knee scraped along the concrete. Lauren gripped him by the arm and dragged him back onto his feet.

“Tian?”

“I’m fine, it’s nothing.” His heart pounded, as he quickly brushed his trousers down. He dabbed his knee and felt grit in the wound. Perhaps he had done more than just graze it. He straightened up and looked at his hand, there was blood on his fingers. A heavy droplet of water landed on his index finger, diluting the blood. The crack, crack, crack of weapons fire punctured the air, followed by a wave of screaming.

“Agent Brooke.”

It was Daxa. “Yes?” Tian replied.

“Sir, the Woolfe Street shield has collapsed. The protestors are surging into the ranks of police, they’re brawling and throwing missiles. The troopers are fighting back, they’re firing warning shots, using their batons and firing pepper gas into the crowd. The police are being pushed back. The Royal Guard are being rushed in behind them.”

He turned to Lauren. “It fits?”

Lauren nodded sharply as he pulled a black felt pouch from his leather satchel. Tian stood on his tiptoes straining for even a glance at the breach. He caught site of a thick white fog flooding into the protestors from the end of Woolfe Street. The screams of hundreds again filled the dead still air. Droplets began to fall as the air cooled rapidly. Tian was pushed in the back as the crowd began to surge.

“Damn it,” Lauren growled, as he tripped over himself, his palmtop spilling from his hand.

Tian dove forward and caught the monitor before it smashed on the ground. He gripped Lauren’s arm and thrust the silver device back into his hand.

“I’ve got you, Chief, keep at it,” he said, as the flow increased speed and urgency. “Daxa.” A high pitched screeching blasted into his head. The two men wrenched the wireless receivers out of their ears. “Hell fire.” Tian craned his neck upwards, the clouds were rupturing and rain was cascading. The airbees sparkling red and blue lit the low hanging weather; the sky was a bruised canvas.

“Tian.” Lauren tugged his sleeve and pointed to his palmtop. The tiny instrument displayed a glowing map of the immediate area. There was an eruption of golden light emanating from the junction of Woolfe Street and Tanamary Street, pulsing from the centre of the clash.

A single fork of lightning blazed from the furious sky and struck the road at the junction. A crashing boom pounded the air. Glass shattered in a wave from the centre of the strike outwards. Tian grabbed Lauren and wrenched him to the shaking ground, covering him with his body. The coffee cup was a simple, white ceramic affair which suited the quiet café. He clamped his eyes shut as white noise howled. In a slow and deliberate manner, he lifted the wide rimmed cup to his lips and savoured sips of the deliciously sweetened milky drink.

Tian absently gazed beyond the vacant wooden table before him into the wild gardens beyond the open bay window. The abundant flowers burst with vivid colour, their lush scents gently drifting in with the cool spring air; their fragrances a pleasant contrast to the heavenly aroma of bubbling coffee and freshly baked pastries. If only the gentleman sat behind him would stop rustling his broadsheet newspaper and the two teenagers to his left stop publicy engaging in their lust, all would be well.

His legs were casually stretched out under the round table, instead of tightly tucked under a cushion-less metal chair. He held a thick brand-new paperback, instead of a fifty-page report in need of review by yesterday. He thumbed a battered postcard of the Mia Rille range, instead of urgent, red-lit pagetabs. His body pleasantly ached with a contented tiredness that seemed to ooze out of him in long, lazy waves. His head slowly lolled forward, his mind pleasantly unruffled, his eyes steadily closed.

The scraping of wood on tiles jolted him.

A slim woman in a little black dress sat down at the table opposite.

Tian sat upright, awake.

She blew a long lock of light blonde hair away from her face, as the young uniformed waiter delicately placed a coffee cup and a tall glass of iced lemon water before her.

“Thank you,” she said in a low, warm voice, her face lighting up as she smiled.

The waiter bowed at the waist, an almost imperceptible gesture, and quietly withdrew. The thin sprinkled layer of dark chocolate mixed with the creamy foam, as she slowly stirred her coffee. Her hand was slim, smooth and unblemished, she had long fingers and manicured, unpainted nails. He could just make out fine hairs on her tanned, bare arms. The slope of her shoulders were a delight, the elegant curve of her neck, her sensuous, full pursed lips … she stared at him, her eyebrows raised.

Tian promptly looked down, and, despite having only just started the novel, he opened the book midway through the last chapter. He fixed his gaze on a single word and held it. What was he playing at: gawping at a stranger? Why didn’t he just drool down his shirt as well?

He had to steal a peek, despite expecting thunder. His anxiety was transformed into elation, for she was smiling kindly, and, it seemed to him, knowingly. He involuntarily brought a hand to his cleanly shaved face and cleared his throat. A glob of grit-laden phlegm landed by his side. His body felt broken and beaten, as though he had been in a street fight that he had badly lost. Her beautiful pale blue eyes sparkled with gentle humour. He was lying on top of Lauren, soaking in the freezing rain, his head fiercely pounding. With his palms on the asphalt, he forced himself to his knees and winced as sharp pain shot through his wound. He screwed his eyes tight and ground his teeth. As his laboured breathing and the smarting subsided, he shook shattered glass from his jacket, and slowly sat up.

He stared numbly at a long, dense river of prone bodies haphazardly draped with banners, flags and streamers. Here and there, one or two people silently raised themselves up on their hands and knees, their faces blank and unmoving, like mannequins. The woman with the pigtails and the gag lay directly in front of him, stiring. The man with the ripped scarlet shirt and the woman in the purple dress lay beneath her, unmoving.

None of the street lamps were lit, nor were any of the advertisement hoardings or the rooms in any of the buildings, nor were any of the walls splashed with the primary colours of flashing police lights. The air was filled with powdery dirt, billowing grey, black smoke and thousands of sheets of fluttering white paper. And the only sounds he could make out were the crackle of flames, the teeming of rain and the rumbling in the sky.

As Lauren noisily cleared his throat and spat, then began the struggle to sit up, Tian trained his gaze upward to the shadowy buildings beyond the haze; the glass in every window had shattered leaving only jagged shards in the window panes. Further up and a police airbee had crashed into one of the dilapidated roofs, its power dead, its engine grid hung precariously over the edge of the building. Broken red bricks and smashed slate had spewed out into the street and rained down onto the prostrate crowd. He looked further up still into the growling, imperious weather; the sky was empty of traffic.

He pushed himself onto his unsteady feet, his aching body bent at the wiast, his hands gripped his legs. As he stood upright, and with cautiousness he felt reserved for a man twice his age, he turned to the silent, static river behind him. Another airbee had crashed into a building on the opposite side of Tanamary Street, while one had smashed into the middle of the street itself; the vehicle must have slammed into the protestors.

“Daxa,” he whispered. He had to get over there. How many had died, how many were injured?

The air roared with thunder, a shockwave reverberated in his bones, sheet lightning blazed across the wrathful clouds. Night became brilliant day and screaming tore through the stillness. Tian whipped his head back toward Woolfe Street, pain throbbed through is neck. The street was again filled with murky darkness, though he needed no light to know the anguished cries were coming from the epicentre of the event.

“Come on.” He dragged Lauren to his feet.

Shooting jolts pulsed up his legs as they picked their way through the sprawl of tangled bodies. He gripped Lauren’s arm, guiding him through the uneven carpet of twisted limbs, as the Chief shook his dead palmtop. A bony, shaking hand reached up to him. Tian looked down at the woman’s contorted face, tears fell from her terrified eyes and blood dripped generously from her temple. Pushing thought to the side, he forced himself to press on, as pain slid up from his heart and gripped his throat. He simply couldn’t allow himself to stop. Now was not the time.

His skin tingled and his scalp was suddenly cold. “Can you feel it?” he said, rubbing the goose flesh that had sprung up on his arm.

“Yes,” Lauren replied. “Can you hear them?”

Tian closed his eyes: there was a distant wailing. “Sirens?”

“I think so.”

So, the pulse hadn’t knocked out the entire city, then. If sirens were closing, then police, troops and the Royal Guard would not be far behind. He pushed his leaden limbs into a run, and though he desperately tried not to, he couldn’t help but kick legs and step on arms as he jumped over clusters of inert bodies, and side stepped the waking who tugged at his trousers and reached for his sleeves.

A hand grabbed his ankle. The air was forced from his lungs, as he slammed into the rain and blood drenched concrete, narrowly avoiding glass. Ahead was a dead man in a dark blue shirt and brown trousers lying on his back. Tian inched closer, his nostrils flared as his breathing raced and his blood ran cold.

Suspended in the air around the body were thousands of tiny pieces of blue and brown fabric, little clumps of flesh, soft tissue and globules of blood. Each element was being drawn to the body. He focused on a fragment of cloth as it settled into a gap in the shirt, like a missing puzzle piece, leaving no trace it had ever been removed. In a few brief seconds, the display had ceased and the corpse was whole.

“Lauren, tell me you see this?”

“I see it, I see it,” he replied, crouching next to Tian.

“We have no recorders?”

“Everything’s dead.”

Tian looked up toward Woolfe Street. An old man was on his knees, his head was in his hands as he rocked back and forth, his gaze on the body in front of him. Another man stood motionless, another turned in slow circles, his eyes darted from one body to the next. A woman screamed and pulled at her grey hair, as the eyes of a silent young girl sat next to her were fixed as wide as those in the sockets of the dead face she stared into. Had they all witnessed the same event?

The air throbbed with the thump of approaching airbees, the clanging sirens from above overwhelmed the cries of distress on the ground. Shouting was then added to the discordance, as police and troops poured into the street, belting orders, their weapons were trained.

Tian pushed himself to stand upright, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a thick neck chain, his leather backed ID hung from it. As the shiny badge came into view, he was bathed in a translucent, golden cigar shaped tube of light. He ran a soaked hand over his face and scratched his beard. As his breathing leveled out, he allowed himself a brief glimpse into his punch drunk mind, he found only incomprehension. He looked to Lauren through the Chief’s tube of light, his friend’s mouth was covered with his wet shaking hand, his eyes glazed over.

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]]> http://richardclarkestories.wordpress.com/?p=172 Sun, 06 Jul 2008 09:54:36 +0000 richardclarkestories http://richardclarkestories.wordpress.com/?p=172 ~

As the agent jumped from the battered armoured carrier onto a slimy surface of glistening mud and machine oil, Tian lowered his eyes and listened. He was just able to make out the low-pitched thump of engines close to the carrier’s position; their air cover flew with sound dampened and without running lights. The agent looked up into the downpour, electricity popped incessantly within the thick, rolling blanket of pendulous black cloud.

Tian’s arms were tightly folded, his limbs locked, his gaze firmly ahead. His crisp shirt’s stiff mandarin collar dug into his skin. For once, he did not mind in the slightest for there was comfort to be found in the orderly lines of uniform. The form of his brilliant white shirt was levelled out by blood red epaulettes with shiny gold piping. Trams could run on the creases in his freshly pressed black trousers, and his black shoes shone as brightly as they did on his passing out parade.

Ahead of him, dozens of helmeted troops in desert colours and body armour, with belts of ammunition slung over their shoulders, fanned out from five personnel carriers, and ran toward South Bayoun’s white stone gatehouse, their utility packs slapped against their sides, their bulky weapons trained ahead of them. Off to the left, just beyond the secure compound’s high stone walls, roving cameras, sensors and elemorphic fences, lightening forked to the ground. The belting crack of thunder was immediate.

The agent turned, looking back toward the stationary vehicles. Tian’s team of three in black followed closely behind, they were weapon-less and lugged heavy-duty cases through the foul weather. The troop’s lieutenant marched ahead, erect, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, seemingly oblivious to the lashing storm and the stupidity of his manner. A tight phalanx of six soldiers guarded the officer and Tian’s people as they made their way through the thick mud to the open arched doorway.

Tian squinted, beyond the squat gatehouse there was the vague outline a vast facility hidden in the shadow. Lightening blazed and the hulking, angular building loomed out of the pitch black, as thunder reverberated through him.

“Lieutenant Chance, thank God you’ve arrived,” a Corporal said, as he strode out of the gatehouse into the sheeting rain.

The Lieutenant stood at ease before the drawn soldier. “Has discipline broken down here, Corporal?”

The Corporal snapped to attention and saluted, his hand shaking. “No sir, my apologies, sir.”

Chance casually returned the salute, a gesture that appeared to be laden with sarcasm. “Name?”

“Goodman, sir.”

“Are you the highest rank here?”

“The-the only soldier of rank left, sir.”

Tian stepped forward, his shoes squeaked on the smooth, black reflective floor. He glanced at a display by his feet for her name. “Agent Nyah.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent replied, as Tian’s view of events dipped down to the mud.

“Time is ticking.”

The facility’s locking mechanism popped with a booming clang that echoed around the compound. The great, black iron doors sluggishly opened, their metal wheels grinding on their metal runners, sparking in the rain, screeching like forks in a hundred pans. Lieutenant Chance waved the soldiers in. Each soldier quickly inspected their wrist power meters, a snatched last check to ensure their helmet mounted cameras were filming, power to their weapon mounted torches was stable, and cooling to their assault rifles was activated. Then, slowly, one by one, they stepped into the South Bayoun facility.

An array of virtual windows appeared at Tian’s feet. His eyes flitted from display to display. For a moment, he followed the soldier on point as he made his way into the cavernous, darkened training arena. Another display tracked a soldier stepping toward a smashed console, shards of glass littered the rubble strewn floor. Another soldier came across scattered weaponry, several handguns and a couple of assault rifles; it appeared from the shell casings as though some of the weapons had been discharged. Another soldier came across one of the hundreds of wide, wall mounted holographic projectors. The ceiling-to-deck device he had found was dead. Even offline and without a power feed, there should have been a dull, rainbow glow emanating from the optics.

“Agent Brooke.”

“Yes, Nyah?”

The agent moved back and to her left. A scuffed black combat boot came into view, followed by another lying next to it. Agent Nyah panned her camera up to reveal legs clothed in desert colours. Tian’s chest and stomach tightened, as his breathing quickened. Nyah zoomed in on the head resting in the dirt, eyes that had once held life were wide and glassy, and a mouth that once passed breath was dried out and locked agape. Another dead body was face down in the filth, arms spread, fingers gripped the trigger of an empty rifle. Another body was face down in a dusty corner. Another was curled tightly in the foetal position.

Tian lowered his head. “Badge seven-seven-three.”

Dozens of beams of crystal torchlight bounced off the curved frosted mirrored walls and the labyrinth of floating, symmetrical gleaming floors lit low through coloured gels. Police in dark slate-grey uniforms with green peaked caps inched through the thick haze of stage smoke, silently picking their way through a sea of motionless bodies that appeared to be afloat on the undulating fog.

The agent turned away from clear shimmering platform shield and the troopers below him, and continued to slowly make his way across a wide golden octagonal floor, broken glass crunching under foot. He gingerly stepped over a slim, pale arm decorated with sparkling rings and bangles, past a pair of twisted legs in fine heels and hosiery, and then shone his black pencil torch ahead of him. The torch’s sharp focused beam picked out seven golden steps that led up to a large silver circular level. Two semi-clad male bodies were slumped on them, face down. To his left were another seven golden steps that led down to a lower silver circular level. An almost identical pair of male bodies was slumped on them.

The agent ducked below an idly spinning glitter ball and slowly climbed the creaking steps, careful to avoid disturbing the dead. Once at the top, he placed both hands on the golden drinks bar rail. Shattered bottles lined the bar’s smashed mirrored walls and coloured liquids had run down the gleaming surfaces and pooled on the floor. Tian gave the scene just a quick once over, for his vision was taken by the agent’s hands; he had gripped the rail so tightly his knuckles were white, and his laboured breathing filled Tian’s cold chamber. He looked again to the display for the name of yet another new addition to his mushrooming department.

“Nice and slowly, Fields,” he said quietly, reassuringly. “There’s no hurry.”

“Yes, sir,” came the rasping reply.

Fields stepped down into a secluded alcove and crouched by a long corner sofa with a leopard-skin print. The body of a tall man with a glistening bare muscled chest lay across two cushions; his eyes were wide open and glazed. The body of a petite woman in a fitted red dress lay across one of the arms, red high heeled shoes dangled from her slim feet. As Tian’s view of events dipped to the floor, he caught sight of Fields’ right hand. It was shaking. He had to get him out.

“Agent Fields, you may go offline.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The image froze. The only sound to remain in the reflective black chamber was the low, soothing hum of the air conditioning. Tian took a step forward and crouched in front of the unmoving three-dimensional image, mindful of his knee dressing.

“Pull back to time index seven-thirty-four-spot-seven-thirty-nine.”

Torchlight starkly lit the pale face of the dead woman in the fitted red dress. The pain he saw locked in time behind her solidified corneas spoke to something terrifying. Every single corpse he had observed from these wretched events had that same naked fear etched into the fabric of their passing.

He stood sharply, turned his back to the sofa, and fixed his gaze on the smooth, dust-free floor. The constriction in his throat eased a little as he massaged his temples. Thank goodness his stomach was empty. He raised his head, stood perfectly still, and tried to drop his thoughts, tried to find a moment, a space within which he could rest, a gap hidden from him but where he was certain ease resided. He compelled himself to breathe slowly and steadily, to stand with his spine straight and his hands firmly by his sides. Form locked.

What was he doing? Who did he think he was? What made him think he was qualified or experienced enough to handle this ridiculous situation? To say he was out of his depth was the understatement of the century. How was he expected to sit before Croft and give a rational explanation for something he barely understood, for something that defied logic? He saw the symptoms but was blind to the cause. But then, they all saw the symptoms as plain as day. He huffed loudly and slumped.

Ahead of him, a hairline crack appeared in the dance floor. A smooth sliding door quietly hissed open and Gates Lauren stepped in. The Chief’s tanned skin did nothing to mask the heavy black bags beneath his eyes, nor did the chamber’s dim light mask the fact they were bloodshot. His frame was hunched, his face set, his jaw locked. Tian took Lauren softly by the wrist and led him to three silver chairs by the door.

His Investigative Chief sank onto the metal and looked down; his hands lay in his lap, his fingers tightly interlaced. His head lolled forward, and thick shoulder-length hair that had been grey for as long as Tian had known him flopped before his face. Tian slowly sat down as Lauren looked up, his pale blue eyes flitting.

“I … I didn’t think it would actually happen to us.” Lauren’s voice was low and scratchy. “I thought by knowing it so precisely that somehow it would just be prevented.”

Tian sat forward, his elbows on his legs, his brow furrowed.

“It’s ludicrous, now I think of it.” Lauren shook his head rhythmically as he looked ahead. It was not the first time they had been dumbfounded by events. Tian patted the Chief’s knee lightly and forced a smile. It seemed to work, for Lauren’s face cracked a little and a faint smile curled upward.

“We saw it,” Tian whispered.

“I know.” He sat up and stretched his shoulders. “But, what does it give us?”

Tian sat back and raised his hands. “Well, we now know it is a molecular disruption that is causing death.”

“We don’t know that, though. Fine, we’ve always believed a molecular disruption of some description was taking place, but we don’t know what’s causing it. And I tell you, I don’t even know how to begin to explain the kind of molecular disruption that took place after the blackout. That, to me, was a magic show. Not to mention the fact the source of what you call ‘intel’ that led us to Tanamary Street in the first place is leaving me increasingly agitated.”

“I understand.” His head was beginning to ache; pain was steadily building behind his eyeballs, pressure was forging its way to the forefront of his attention. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, hard, his eyes closed. It helped a little. What he really needed was to reacquaint himself with the bottle of single malt tucked away in the back of his desk drawer. “We need to talk about that further, I know, but now is not the time and this is not the place.” He looked back into the Chief’s eyes, it seemed that fear had replaced bewilderment. Why did he say that? “Look, Gates, I’m sure you and I would both settle for a simple explanation for the cause of our intelligence. Frankly, though, right now, I’m just grateful we have it. Don’t let …”

The door slid open and a tall, immaculately dressed officer entered.

“Ouch,” Tian said, grimacing, as he stood and pointed to the white patch on Will Daxa’s forehead. “Are you all right?”

“Sir, I have a lousy headache,” Daxa replied, in his long, warm eastern drawl. “I could do without the nausea as well.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Sir, I remember the pulse, I remember the sudden and complete loss of power in the vehicle, and then, I don’t remember a great deal. My airbee landed on a roof and, I’m told, I smacked my head on a panel. We fell only a few feet, and we all walked away from it with just a few bumps and bruises. We were the fortunate ones. The crews that hit the deck were not, nor were the people beneath their vehicles.”

Tian could not think of it. Not right now. “Should you even be here?” he asked, the last thing he wanted was to exasperate the lieutenant’s injury.

“Probably not, sir.” He pointed to the scene. “This morning’s event?”

“Yes,” Tian replied, slowly, as he cautiously turned back to the sofa.

“Do we have a count yet, sir?” Daxa asked.

“No, not for the whole of Jeradine, but as we stand, Tanamary Street is in the order of ten-thousand dead. And so far, today, there have been seven other events.” He pointed to the nightclub. “This was actually the first.”

“Where is it?” Lauren asked, as he stood.

“Silk Mills tucked away in Holdale. I understand it’s a rather fashionable establishment, even considering the lack of content.”

They stood side by side and faced the leopard-skin sofa. Tian and Lauren folded their arms as Daxa clasped his hands behind him. Motionless, they breathed steadily and quietly, and stared at the dead. For once, a certain stillness surrounded Tian, and, surprisingly, the lull in the chamber’s noise and activity was reflected in his head. The turbulent, swirling dust had suddenly settled with the silence. It was as though his outer and inner environments had merged. They were both like a flat calm. It wasn’t a profound plane of peace. It was just a momentary glimpse of quiet, for which he was grateful.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Daxa’s head turn to him. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me.” Tian nodded almost imperceptibly, his vision on the dead woman in the fitted red dress. The lieutenant paused for a moment longer, then about faced, his shoes squeaking on the floor, and marched out of the chilly room.

In the aftermath of events, Tian often stood still in the centre of the unnerving, frenetic chaos, soaking in the charged atmosphere that followed the ferociousness that flared for an instant and caused horrific pain and appalling damage. He could describe the smells, the tastes and textures of each scene they had investigated in exhaustive detail. They had all meticulously analysed and catalogued thousands of images, sounds, samples and readings. They had written hundreds of reports which ended with colourful impressions and theories but precious few conclusions of any substance. They had looked upon the desperation of the dead again and again, and it seemed no amount of skill, effort or luck could begin to explain what was causing such outlandish and spectacular anomalies that killed in such frightening numbers.

Lauren placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it tightly. The Chief glanced back at Silk Mills, sighed, then turned and left. The door hissed closed.

He looked upon the woman’s smooth face, his throat again constricting, for her and the fact he had no answers. All he asked for was a clue, a sliver of something behind the facts, a toe-hold on the inside of what she had seen and what had caused her to die. She blinked. The solution had to be there, right in front of him, glaring at them, and despite what Colonel Croft incessantly ranted, this was not Yarcatzn. She blinked again and smiled, as the teenagers kissed and played with each other’s hair. Tian hid behind his book, his head shaking, a wide beam creeping across his face.

“Can you remember a time when you were so uninhibited?” she asked.

“No, ‘uninhibited’ is not a word I know too well.” He looked down into his half full coffee cup, not quite believing he had just replied so frankly and effortlessly.

“That’s a shame.”

Glancing up, he caught a mischievous smirk. “I really wouldn’t know.” He cleared his throat as he felt his face flush. He needed something, anything at all. “So, you sound like you were born in the city?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, from behind one of the mustard facades in West Palentine.” She held his gaze, as her smile transformed into a grin. “You were not?”

He looked away. “Ah, no.”

“I’d say you’re an east country lad, Yaltran maybe.”

“Further east, Black Barn.”

“Really?” She frowned. “You hide it well.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

“My name is Petra.”

“T-Tian. Tian. Tian.” He coughed. “My name is Tian.”

~

Coming ...

~

Nevertheless, Richard left a year later to go to Berlin, where he studied briefly before securing a post as assistant conductor to Hans von Bülow, taking over from him at Munich when von Bülow resigned in 1885. Richard's compositions around this time were quite conservative, in the style of Robert Schumann or Felix Mendelssohn, true to his father's teachings. Richard's Horn Concerto No. 1 (1882–1883) is representative of this period and is still regularly played.

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But with many, we do get around to reading them eventually. And one such case in point is, for me, Richard Matheson, American screenwriter and author of, amongst other things, the wonderfully crafted novel I Am Legend.

I had always intended to read Matheson. Many of the writers I grew up reading, whose work I then admired, cited him as a major influence and it seemed ridiculous not to go back and see "where they came from". So his name got added to the ever-growing list and, sure enough, in time he was taken over by (positively drowned in) more "important" writers.

Until recently when Mike happened to mention his name in passing (I think in relation to the new movie version of the book -- which, by all accounts, bears little resemblance to the original product.) My memory jogged, I went along to Amazon immediately and popped a copy in my shopping basket. It arrived months ago and I'm ashamed to say I've only just made time for it (if I'm truthful, as a way of avoiding War and Peace, which was slated as one of my summer reads but which may have to stay on the "to read" list well into the autumn!)

In many ways, I'm kind of glad that I did leave it this long. If I had read it in my youth, I may simply have seen it as yet another vampire novel -- albeit a highly accomplished one -- and if I had plunged straight in when the novel arrived, and whilst I was still up to my neck in writing Children of the Resolution, I may have been too distracted to lose myself completely in its subtleties.

I Am Legend is more than just a horror/SF novel. A clever, well paced study of isolation and loss -- of how personal standards, beliefs, motivations and needs mutate in ways that we might not have imagined -- it entertains and makes the reader think... more than that, Matheson makes it incredibly easy to empathise with the protagonist, Robert Neville. The stages and crises of character development are perfectly honed, crafted with a finesse that most of us can only dream of. The unbelievable becomes palpable, beyond question or doubt, and this more than anything makes me know that I will not be leaving the rest of Matheson's fiction on the list for too much longer.

Based on this, all those more "important" writers don't even come close.

New evidence supports the now decades old notion of the selfish gene.

In studying genomes, the word 'selfish' does not refer to the human-describing adjective of self-centered behavior but rather to the blind tendency of genes wanting to continue their existence into the next generation. Ironically, this 'selfish' tendency can appear anything but selfish when the gene does move ahead for selfless and even self-sacrificing reasons.

On to the where. Getting to and from the island is obviously hard work. The island could be anywhere or any..when(?) in the world. So first you have to locate it, which is notoriously hard, it took Charles who knows how long to find it. And the only reason Penny found it was because of the Swan implosion/explosion, and by tracking Desmond's phone call.

There are some that we know did get on and off the island. We know Ben has been off the island, hence all the passports and the notoriety at the Tunisian hotel. We know Mr. Friendly (Tom) has been on and off the island. And Richard, Ethan went to pick up Juliet. Also Charlotte has apparently been looking for where she was born so she can be added to the list. Daniel too seems to have some insight as to whats happening with the island.

So here goes. I am having a very hard time coming up with a theory about this, and I'm sure I'll have another go at this before season 5 starts. I propose that Ben needs the help of one of two other people to find the island. He might even need the help of both of them (and it just happens that these are two of my favorite characters).

He'll need someone from the island, to invite him back. Since he turned the Frozen Donkey Wheel he won't be able to find the island again, he's essentially banished. I believe the person to invite him back is Richard. Richard, as you may recall, has been on and off the island in the past, he visited Locke as a child (I am assuming he lived on the island at that time). Richard also went to pick up Juliet. When he went to get Juliet, they said they went in the submarine, the same submarine that Locke supposedly blew-up (I don't believe that he did, but I also don't think that's how they get on and off the island). We don't know exactly how the trip went because Juliet was asleep during the journey, Ethan just said in a suspicious way that the last leg is always a little bumpy, maybe he's talking about the fact that people usually go crazy when the come to the island, I'm supposing otherwise. The fact that we don't know exactly how they get back leads me to believe something special happened. And I don't think special things could happen on the submarine. So what I think is that they didn't get to the island on the submarine, they only used that as a prop so as to not scare Juliet, and they used other, more exciting means to get there, why else would you sedate the person you were transferring. So let's say there are paranormal means to get on and off the island, why not use such means with the man who has likely used them the most, Richard.

But what if the answer is more science than fiction. In that circumstance Jack and Ben will need someone smart. Someone who understands the phenomenon of the island. Maybe someone who seems to know a lot about Dharma and their experiments. A person who's good at lateral thinking. Who could that be? You're right! Good ol' Daniel. I think that Daniel coming back in season 5 will be just what Jack and Co. needs to get back. If there is something that Ben can't figure out, Daniel would be the ideal candidate to make sense of it. And if the island did move in both time and space it will be very hard to find, and likely it would take some serious calculations, calculations that someone like Daniel could do in a heartbeat. (Note: if Daniel did come back to find the island this would be a perfect chance for him and the writers to explain the Icosahedron Theory.)

The problem with these ideas is that the main characters in them are no where to be found. Richard was definitely on the island when it left, and I doubt he's going to come running to Ben when he has Locke on the island. And poor Daniel is who knows where. Since it seems to me that the island has jumped in both time and space and Daniel was halfway out to sea when it happened, poor Daniel could be anywhere. I've talked about all of this in this post. It'll be quite an undertaking to find the island but I'll bet Daniel and/or Richard will be involved in the return.

Come back on Friday when I kick off my season 1 reviews.  After that I'll have three reviews a week on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

- Izi

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Most of us look at the word "suddenly" as used in the Bible as an adverb and we pass by this word thinking it is just describing an event and adding a little color to it. But, oh! Nothing could be further from the truth! When a "suddenly" happens in the Bible, I have recently beheld this word as a noun, and a powerful one at that. Of course, this discovery will ruin anyone's comfort zone "peace", but if you can handle it, believe me- you are up for one of life's greatest adventures.

When I was young and immature, I did things suddenly out of an anxious spirit, and I had been taught by my elders to always carefully plan. When I entered into the corporate world, I soon realized that the greater my responsibility became, the more long- term planning was required to get the desired results. The first year we began our film festival, we had a 3-month lead time. A month after the first festival was over, we all realized that we needed to start the event planning and implementation much earlier, so we incorporated a 6-month lead time. Then, in the third and subsequent years, it became apparent that we needed to start planning the next year's event a month before the current year's event was over. So this, in effect, gave us a 13-month lead time. Oh, how wise I thought we had become. Of course, all of this lead time made any spontaneous change that God might want in our schedule a very difficult and uncomfortable thing to accomplish. Then this year 2008, God tells us, "Don't plan anything." We start getting calls from filmmakers, "Are you guys having the event?" Our answer is, "Yes", but we can't do anything about it until the Lord initiates something. (To understand this concept, please refer to my previous blog, "Alpha and Omega" on our wysiwyghome.com website. It describes our making it a prerequisite that everything we do must first be initiated by God, the Alpha). So this year we asked the Lord, "Do we start the planning?" and He clearly said, "No, wait. I will do something suddenly." Wow! This is exciting, because whatever God is about to do is going to be mind-blowing, At the same time, it seems a little silly or even uncaring to be doing nothing when you know the event requires a lot of organizational effort. Or then, does it? What is God planning?

Most of you leaders I'm writing this to are very familiar with the importance of lead time. It's just a necessary detail that must be in place for complex adventures to happen smoothly. (Well, at least according to conventional wisdom.) Recently I have been running in conflict with the will of God and I've realized that He would like to do that which is incomprehensible, and cannot be accomplished by normal human endeavors.

This seems to be what the whole mystery of "suddenly" is about. So, for a moment, let's look at what the prophet Isaiah said nearly 3,000 years ago about this word, '"suddenly". "I have declared the former things from the beginning and they went forth out of my mouth and I showed them; I did them "suddenly" and they came to pass. Because I knew that thou art obstinate and thy neck is an iron sinew, and thy brow is brass." Wow, wow, wow! Think about this for a moment. God chooses to do something in a "suddenly" way because we are locked like iron into something else and God knows this, so He drops these super-fast, incredible actions upon us in ways that are just totally incomprehensible.

The more I walk with God and see His divine actions, the more I am experiencing the necessary use of His "suddenly." I was recently brought into a beautiful relationship with a group of businessmen who were told to put together an event from scratch in less than four weeks. The most amazing part of the experience was the ad campaign. The event was to be held in Bangkok, Thailand, and they were capable of handling over 20,000 people. It was called the "Carnival of Joy" and it would be two days of celebrating the joy of Jesus. There was to be no preacher/evangelist, just pastors sharing short testimonies of His word and 19 worship teams from churches all over Thailand. The complete event was mostly fun. Slides, jugglers, clowns, fireworks- but every hour, the shofars would blow and the Christians were told to bless someone nearby them and if the opportunity was there, to lead them to the Lord Jesus Christ. Well, a week before the event I was asked, along with my daughter's worship team, to fly to the event and to bring our team to pray and prophesy over people. This was really a "suddenly". But I can tell you the event was completely stress free and full of the Glory of God. The Buddhist government of Thailand was so impressed that they offered to pay for up to 50% of the expenses next year. It was really something to see a government official receiving a prophetic word from an American teenager. God opens doors in such profound ways, and the doors that He opens always hold wonderful surprises. Of course, the "wonderful" is according to your response, because almost every time the wonderful will turn out to be different from what you were expecting. As time passes, you will discover how wonderful it really is because the Lord "maketh rich and addeth no sorrows with it".

Now consider this, my business friend. You put all of your planning aside and instead, you depend solely on God and His "suddenlies". This, in effect, is putting your neck out on the line. It is putting you in a position of "hurry up and wait"! The waiting is actually you dangling your whole life out on a limb. It took a long time for me to realize this was the position that God wanted me to live in, not to just visit occasionally when I'm in a desperate situation, but to actually live there! Now those of you that are not familiar with this spiritual dynamic might say, "Oh, you're talking about poverty, wherein you are dependent upon God for everything." No, no, no! Not at all! I'm talking about flying first class and eating at the finest restaurants while putting yourself and your corporation on the thin, dramatic line of trusting God to show up and do what His prophetic plan is for your life. Otherwise you may be crashing and burning in a public humiliation. In the second chapter of his book Habbakuk says, "Write the vision so people can run." But then he goes on to say, "When it tarries, wait for it." Obviously, the running puts you out on the limb. The tarry, or waiting for, exposes you for public criticism. I would like to propose that in this position, sitting out on the limb and exposing yourself to everyone, is actually found the element of greatest attraction. When God performs the "suddenly" upon you, you become the best spiritual entertainment and revelation that people can possibly see. Wow! Isn't that a cool place to be? Why not? You've got just one life to live. So why not live that life out on the limb of risk and experience the immeasurable joy of a "suddenly".

Richard Gazowsky pastors a church in San Francisco called The Voice of Pentecost, and is also president of Christian WYSIWYG Filmworks. He has directed the films, “Guardians” and “The Roman Trilogy.”

Coming ...

~

~

What if you woke to find you had unlimited power?

~

Tia Green is having a very bad day. The rain has soaked her to the skin; she has battled another muggy rush hour only to arrive late at the office, forcing another run in with the lecherous thug known as her boss. Her self esteem has never been so low, her fantasies of a carefree life never so vivid.

That evening, after stumbling upon her boyfriend in bed with her best friend, Tia’s suffering spikes to new heights. In its aftermath, she discovers a magical change in the fabric of her existence: she can do anything, she can be anyone and go anywhere. High on her newfound power, she ditches all that holds her down in favour a fabulously rich and indulgent lifestyle. The veil of glamour soon fades, her insecurities quickly return, those who have trodden on her wander her mind, and those who irritate prick her senses. Her unlimited power leads her to choices that carry unforeseen and terrifying consequences ...

~

I wrote Tia Green in 2004 in a blur of inspired frenzy. The original work was in need of some crafting and I have spent the last few weeks redrafting the piece. It is a story in six parts and chapters one to five are now available. I have chapter six to finish and will publish it as soon as it is redrafted …

~

The story is inspired by, ‘The Words of My Perfect Teacher’, by Patrul Rinpoche.

~

All material is copyright © Richard Clarke

~

One

Sparkle

Tia Green stood in the hammering rain in the middle of a street. She looked to the side of the road; the footpath was a few feet away. There was no-one around, there was no wind and no sound. She had no idea why she was there. A moment ago she was at work.

The rain stopped. The sun came out. The birds began to sing.

She was wet, almost to the skin. Why hadn’t she put up an umbrella? What was going on in her head, it was pathetic. She hadn’t been at work, she was going to work. It was first thing in the morning, a little after eight. Hadn’t she left home on time?

Her heart sprinted as she looked up and then bolted for the footpath. What a ridiculous bloody idiot. As she trudged towards the train station, her feet squelched in cold, scuffed shoes, her teeth chattered, shame filled her burning cheeks, her head was hung low. She must have lost her marbles to be standing vacantly in the middle of the street for all to see.

A woman roughly pushed past her.

“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly.

Wait a minute, the woman hadn’t pushed past her, she had rudely pushed in front of her. Who did the old bat think she was? She should say something, stand up for herself. Instead, she dug her chipped nails into the palms of her hands. What would be the point in making a scene? Stupidity was something she excelled at, why encourage it.

She looked at her black plastic watch, but was unable to see it properly, her glasses were wet. She hunted for a tissue, even a torn, scrunched up used one would do. Her train was going to be here any second. Come on, come on. The man at the front of the queue left, latte in hand, and ran for the platform. Was that wheel squeal she could hear in the distance?

“Erm, now, let me see,” the woman who had pushed in front of her said loudly. “What do I want?”

A poke in the eye? A stamp on the foot? A dig in the ribs? Take your pick.

“Hmm, yes, I’ll have a skinny cappuccino.”

The doors slid closed with a resounding thud just as Tia was about to jump on the packed, graffiti-ridden train. Damn it. As the train pulled away, she caught sight of the rude woman, stood by the door, sipping her cappuccino. Perhaps she’d burn her throat.

Fifteen minutes later, and five minutes late, another train arrived. She glared at her watch, willing the second hand to slow down. Maybe things would be fine, there was still time to be on time. The train doors slid open with a pained screech and a groan, and a dozen tired, sullen faces glanced wearily at her. A couple of boys listened to mp3 players turned up to eleven, workmen in their dusty and paint stained t-shirts and ripped jeans sat on rusty tool boxes, while sharply suited men and women strained to read newspapers, or just stared blankly at the carriage’s grubby, wet floor, masterfully avoiding each other’s glances. Well, it didn’t matter how many were on the train, she had to get to work.

The doors slid closed and trapped her black raincoat. A quiet, still voice in the back of her mind knew that giving it a good hard tug was not the thing to do, and the material ripped loudly as she did so. Oh, now that was just wonderful. She couldn’t afford repairs; it was days until payday, and even then, she couldn’t afford it. It was muggy, she was wet, the people around her were wet, the person next to her had seriously bad breath, she was perilously close to running late and now her coat had long tear in it.

As the train inched painfully slowly towards the filthy city, she glanced up and stared at a tall man’s greying nasal hair.

The train slowed to a stop.

“Sorry for the delay,” the driver said, “this is due to …”

The sound faded to silence. It didn’t matter what the driver said, for it meant only one thing, she would be late. Her teeth clenched as she stood rigid, her breathing racing.

It was eleven minutes past nine. She furiously shook her umbrella, yanked the door open and just as she was about to pelt it into the office, she saw Nick marching toward her. What possessed people to invent open plan offices? Why couldn’t there be just a little room for her to duck into so he could simply wander by without noticing her, but no, little rooms didn’t exist anymore. It was a conspiracy. Now the weasel would see for sure she was late.

Her glasses promptly steamed up as she stepped into the overheated office. She glanced over the thick lenses and could just make out Nick’s pursed lips and exaggerated a stare at his bony wrist. Perhaps if he shook his head a bit more vigorously it would fall off. Wouldn’t that be fun?

“I’ll talk to you later, Tia,” Nick said. He should have been born a drill sergeant.

“That bloody man,” Tia spat, as she took off her dripping coat and held it in front of her, the rip was a good ten centimetres in length. “All I wanted was some coffee.”

“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to just say a few words and have the whole world understand you.”

“Michael, I’m sorry.” She turned to her colleague. “Some geriatric idiot pushed in front of me in the coffee shop and made me miss the train.”

“Why’d you leave it so late?”

“I ... I hadn’t.” Even if there were eight or nine people in the shuffling queue, she had always managed to buy a cup of steaming coffee and be on the platform for the train a good five minutes before it pulled up to the platform.

She looked at Michael and shook her head in bemusement. He smiled at her, kindly, warmly. He had a gorgeous smile and a beautiful face. Actually, come to think of it, he really wasn’t that good looking at all: he had a funny chin and thick eyebrows, but there was something seriously hot about him. That cute little ass, maybe. No, stop it, now. He had a wife. Not to mention her boyfriend, Craig, was in her creaky bed sleeping off his night shift.

She sat, sighed, and turned to her aging computer.

“Yes, is that the I.T. helpdesk?” Tia asked, cradling the slim phone against her shoulder. “I can’t get into my email again … It won’t open … It just won’t open … No, I don’t know.” If I knew what was wrong would I be phoning you? “I just can’t … okay … right.” Double click on this. “Yep.” Double click on that, and, well what do you know, zilch. “Nothing, once again.” What was it with her and machines? “Reboot?” How original.

“Bloody hell,” she spat, as paper jammed in the ancient printer … again.

Another file was dropped in her overflowing in-tray.

She knocked a plastic cup of water over her keyboard.

Inside, she screamed and screamed until her head exploded.

Her gaze was on the indifferent white tiling, as she absently stirred her instant coffee. The hell with it, she added another heaped teaspoon of white sugar. And then another. Loving sickly sweetness, how could I not adore you? If only everything could be sweetness. But then, why was it everything she loved was so terribly bad for her? The hell with it, with each sip, she relaxed another delicious degree. Caffeinated sugar was a wonderful way to calm the mind.

“So -” She jolted, spilling coffee on her arm. “- why were you late?”

Pain charged through her. Was that really necessary? Her hands shook as she slowly and carefully placed the mug on the counter and turned to Nick, who stood tall in the tight doorway to the office’s confined kitchen, arms folded, exit blocked. The stinging gave way to throbbing.

“Well?” he asked.

Her breathing steadied as she wiped the cooling coffee from the sleeve of her white blouse with a tissue. “Look, I’m sorry. I missed my train, I didn’t mean to.” Just don’t ask about the keyboard.

“With this much work to do you will make an effort to be in on time.”

With this much work to do why aren’t you out there doing some of it?

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been late this month, is it?”

Her cheeks burned as she looked up at him, shaking her head vigorously. That wasn’t true and he damn well knew it.

“You’re appraisal is due tomorrow and I’ll be the one writing it.”

Her heart pounded, she felt sure it was threatening to leap out of her chest. “Yes, I know.” She couldn’t face another year without a pay rise or a bonus. She desperately needed to get her credit card bill cleared, and she worked as hard for the damned company as anyone else. And that included the office tramps that regularly dropped their designer pants and miraculously received healthy pay rises.

Nick looked back into the corridor, and then stepped into the kitchen until they were toe to toe. His face softened.

“You do know it’s not me, it’s the pressure Rita puts on me.”

She nodded her head as she backed into the kitchen counter. He ran his hand over her arm, his fingers skirting the damp patch. It was as though every cell in her being had locked.

“I want to give you a great appraisal.”

She wanted to shove a red hot iron in his face.

He smiled crookedly.

Huffing, she slumped back in her chair, her face dropping into her hands. Her brow creased and her stomach tightened as a lump promptly grew in her throat. No, no and absolutely no to public displays of pathetic weakness.

It was one twenty. Well, she was damned if she was going to work through another unpaid lunch hour. Cooling air was needed, a brisk walk to clear out the rancid energy from her veins. Actually, what she really wanted was a little therapy, or perhaps even a lot.

She held out the short black skirt before her. It was perfect, divine. She had just the pair of delightful, strappy party heels to go with it. All eyes would be on trim Tia as she danced sensuously on Saturday night, her trusted girlfriends from way back would admire and complement her taste, and chiselled men in elegant suits would but her cocktails and ask for her number. Rubbish. Even if it was black she’d look fat in it. It would certainly show off something: stumpy tree trunk legs that stuck out from below a giggling mountain sized arse covered in black material stretched to near tearing. Not to mention the fact she couldn’t afford it. A tin of beans would be luxury.

God, if only she was a size eight. And while on the subject, if only she was a tall, curvy bombshell instead of a bumpy, little thing in desperate need of some serious exercise. If only she had light, bouncy blonde hair instead of the boring straight brown mess lumped indifferently on top her itching scalp. If only she had luscious full red lips and crystal green eyes instead of pale thin lips and sagging black bags under mud coloured eyes. A sprinkling of faint freckles over silken skin would be nice as well, instead of thick cheap make-up to hide the three huge spots that were on the verge of erupting across her face. A cute, little heart shaped bum to go with her full, well shaped …

Who or what was she kidding? Her wardrobe was ridiculous, pitiful, and she certainly didn’t have flash strappy heels for a foxy skirt. Why did people think shopping made them feel better? Did it make her trains run on time? Did it solve the fact she wanted to rip Nick’s throat out? Did it make Craig treat her any better?

Her mind’s eye saw her workload piled higher than a skyscraper. She grunted and hung the apparently gorgeous skirt back on the rail.

“Hiya hon,” she said to Miranda. “Oh, I just need to chat.” She stared at her monitor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb. Are you in tonight?” Her brain was slushy, sloshing mush. “It’s just work and, you know, stuff that grinds.” What was she doing in this deathly dull job? “All right, sweetie, I’ll call you later.” Refusing to put the receiver down meant not having to look at the spreadsheet. It was elegant logic.

“I know,” Marie said, to Tia’s right. “I said to her, Liz, he’s not going to like it and she said, well, I don’t care and I said, well you better, there are girls here that don’t like it when you’re flirt with their boyfriends and she said ...”

“I know, I know,” Julie interrupted, stood next to Marie. “Have you seen her after just one glass of wine, she’s all over them like a rash with her tight tops and her skirts that look like belts? I tell you, John wouldn’t stand for it if I was like that. Not that I care about what he thinks. He can go and …”

“Don’t get me started on men,” Anna said. “My Jason’s as bad as you’re John. Four pints of larger and he thinks he’s God’s gift. I tell you, when he’s drunk, if his thing was half as enthusiastic as he is I’d have no complaints.”

It wasn’t laughing; it was the cackling of gnarled witches as they were about to fly off into the night hunting prey. Tia glanced at the gossiping girls from the corner of her eye and saw them with the years piled on, their skin slack, mottled and wrinkled, white hair in plastic curlers under worn and faded headscarves, their taste in decency long gone, still wittering on about so and so and what he or she had done and when and how and why it was so terrible because they had said and behaved in such a way and, I know, Martha, tell me more, more, more rattling, prattling, rolling bloody noise, for God’s sake why wouldn’t they just shut up? Why was this endless conversation over glossy magazines full of pictures of perfect teeth, perfect spouses and perfect lives so fascinating? Why couldn’t she connect? Why had she been born a mouse?

Aloneness prowled the backdrop of her mind as emptiness echoed through her. She stared at her screen, the spreadsheet had become a blur of colour and random characters that vaguely formed letters and numbers.

“We don’t see her very often …” No, no. “It gives me great pleasure …” Not quite. “She graces the covers of our …” Nope. “Truly one of the brightest stars in the galaxy today, and we don’t see her give interviews very often, so, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the enigmatic, the vibrant, the dearly loved, Tia Green.” The audience goes wild, as she gracefully enters from stage left and throws a little wave, casually dressed in a designer silk blouse, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Another file landed on the top of her in-tray with a sickening thud.

There were fifty copies of a thirty page report to copy and bind. The melodic sound of the grey behemoth soothed her mind; finally she stood restfully still as the photocopier happily munched its way through a rain forest. It was a pause in which peace had managed to make an entrance through a side door. She smiled.

Nick’s hand lightly brushed her buttocks as he walked by.

Bastard.

There was a bang and a puff of acrid smoke from the photocopier, followed by the lights going out with a moan as a groan rippled across the office.

In the semidarkness, she picked up the phone and dialled home. They had been forced to sit at their desks twiddling their thumbs for over an hour without power. The gossiping girls revelled in Nick and Rita’s distress, as they acidly commented on their attempts to sort out the loss of electricity. The line connected and bleeped in her ear. Engaged again. What was keeping Craig on the phone?

Michael sat down opposite her. She couldn’t help it, she smiled broadly. It was criminal the way her heart lit up when he was around.

“Well,” he said, “I think Rita’s going let us go.”

Her feelings were ridiculous.

“Oh?”

Would he be kind to her, gentle?

“Yeah, I managed to catch her in the corridor; she’s been on to head office.”

Did he make love slowly, tenderly?

“Uh-huh?”

Or would he be passionately rough with her?

“Maybe in ten minutes or so.”

Either would be fine.

“Good.”

She fanned herself with a cardboard file, then picked up the phone and dialled home. Engaged again. And besides, married or not, his wife with child or not, Michael would never want her, not in a million. What would possess him to be interested in a short sighted, unfit, boring, almost thirty, size fourteen data processor? I mean really, she was just so desirable.

“If I may have your attention, please.” It was Rita, the office manager. She always avoided Rita, even though she appeared to be a kind person. How did that explain Nick? “We’re letting you go. I would like volunteers to come in early tomorrow. We have a lot of work to catch up on and the sooner we get started, the better. Overtime will be paid.”

She shook her head, of course she’d come in; the credit card wasn’t going to pay itself. It was three forty. Well, at least she’d be home early for a change.

The door alarms bleeped loudly as she sprinted for the train. She stepped into the filthy carriage just as the doors slid shut with a hiss and a slam. Perhaps her day was improving. There were only a few vacant seats left in the newspaper strewn carriage.

She slumped into an empty seat and gladly closed her eyes. Wave upon wave of tiredness seemed to ooze from her limbs. True happiness would manifest in the stillness of the suburbs. A muddy boot brushed her tights. She looked down; well of course they’d laddered at her ankle. The culprit was a stick-thin, spotty teenager with greasy, brightly coloured hair. He wore smudged sunglasses even though it was overcast and looked like rain. He bobbed his head and murmured off key, his mp3 player blaring at full volume. A young woman sat next to him in a black business suit, she read the early evening paper while eating a thick, glistening burger. It stank like rank sweat.

In her mind’s eye a giant snarling, scaly monster, with acidic drool dripping generously from its blackened, six inch fangs, leapt out of her body and bit the heads off the teenager and the business woman. She turned her head and looked out of the scratched window, trying not to laugh.

She shook her umbrella and stepped into her building. Not one drop of rain while she was on the train, and then, just as stepped from the carriage onto the platform, the heaven’s opened up and emptied a freezing ocean on top of her. Bloody typical. She kicked off her sodden shoes and tiptoed down the corridor, then stood before her front door and hunted for her keys. They were undoubtedly in the deepest, darkest corner of her ancient handbag. Ahh, there they were.

She froze. Now that ‘Ahh’ was in her head, right? Except for the rain battering down outside, there was silence. Her paranoia knew no bounds these days.

“Ahh.”

There was no way on the face of any earth that those groans were in her head. Her breathing bolted off the blocks as adrenaline flooded her body. She knelt quietly and slowly lifted the letterbox lid and listened.

“Ahh.”

There were two people in there and one of them was without question female. She ground her teeth as rage tore through her bones radiating anger to the hairs on her skin. She forced the key into the lock and burst into her flat to see Craig climbing off Miranda.

It wasn’t true. She couldn’t believe it, didn’t believe it, desperately needed to deny to it. But reality forced its way onto her retina. Her boyfriend and her best friend were naked, beneath her sheets, staring at her, horror on their glowing faces. No, no, it simply couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. It must be a terrible mistake. It had to be. He surely wasn’t … she surely wasn’t … they weren’t. Her stomach clamped tight.

Her body went numb in a lightening wave from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. Then, there was constriction in her stomach and a tickle in her throat. The remains of lunch would soon be on her carpet, which, she saw, was strewn with clothes.

She dropped her bag, shoes and umbrella, turned and ran.

“Sweetie,” Miranda whispered.

“Tia,” Craig called.

There was no direction, just down one street and then down the next. Her feet were soon bleeding, her tights long destroyed on the concrete. Still, she ran and ran, as the cold, sheeting rain lashed at her face. She didn’t feel it. She was soaked to the skin, her suit likely ruined, she didn’t notice. As energy began to haemorrhage from her, her jog drifted down into a walk, her limbs grew heavy. She stopped, dead still, in the middle of the street.

Pure, blissful peace washed through her, cleansing her, lifting her. She felt herself shrink into a miniature ball of white light, untouched and unstained, as though she was in her mother’s womb. The ball exploded into blazing fire.

The bastard. The bitch. How long had they been mauling each other? How many ‘sleep ins’ had he used to cheat on her? It was unbelievable. She wanted to push Miranda into a corner, to stare her down, to yell at her, slap her around a bit, rip at her clothes and call her a slut, a liar, a filthy betrayer. She wanted Craig on his knees, his head low, begging for pity. She wanted to kick him in the teeth and then grab his crotch and squeeze and squeeze.

The coursing storm dissipated and she laughed out loud. A moment later, she howled with laughter, her cheeks and her sides hurting. It too subsided as quickly as it had arisen and she slumped to the ground, curled up into a tight, foetal ball and sobbed.

They’d been together for almost a year. He had only just moved in with her. She trusted him. And as for Miranda, they went to school together.

She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, to find herself drained, and her mind perfectly still, without even a single thought to ruffle the placid surface of her mind. It was as though she were a blank sheet of paper, like the future was suddenly wide open to endless possibility. Clear light surrounded her; it was warm, loving, all pervasive and endless.

She forced herself to her feet and stood in the hammering rain in the middle of a street. She looked to the side of the road; the footpath was a few feet away. There was no-one around, there was no wind and no sound. She had no idea why she was there. A moment ago she was at work.

The rain stopped. The sun came out. The birds began to sing.

She was wet, almost to the skin. Why hadn’t she put up an umbrella? What was going on in her head, it was pathetic. She hadn’t been at work, she was going to work. It was first thing in the morning, a little after eight. Hadn’t she left home on time?

Frowning, she turned through a slow three hundred and sixty degrees. Her handbag hung from her shoulder, her unopened umbrella was in her left hand, shoes were on her feet and her tights were smooth and unbroken. She looked down and opened her palm. A sparkle of curling, flickering, diamond light danced in her right hand. It tickled.

Looking up, her heart sprinted as she bolted for the footpath. What a ridiculous bloody idiot. As she trudged towards the train station, her feet squelched in cold, scuffed shoes, her teeth chattered, shame filled her burning cheeks, her head was hung low.

She must have lost her marbles to be standing vacantly in the middle of the street for all to see.

~

Two

Freedom

Tia stood stiffly in the long queue for coffee, her heart madly banging in the tight confines of her chest. No matter how forcefully she imposed scenes of still ponds, quiet summer days or plain old silence in a dark room, her breathing would not slow down. She should be in her home, soaking in a deep, hot bath generously sprinkled with soothing lavender crystals, not stood waiting in the cold for poor, lukewarm coffee hoping to goodness she wouldn’t miss the train to work.

She wiped her glasses again and looked at her watch for the fiftieth time in five minutes. It was a little after eight. The grubby white clock that hung askew on the train station wall matched her watch. And even if both her watch and the station clock were somehow wrong, the arrivals and departures monitor had her morning train listed as being due to arrive in one minute. And even if the monitor was somehow broken, the station was full and everyone around her was rushing toward the platform. It was without a doubt first thing in the morning.

A woman roughly pushed past her.

“Sorry,” Tia said, quietly.

Wait a minute, the woman hadn’t pushed past her, she had rudely pushed in front of her. Who did the old bat think she was? She should say something, stand up for herself. Instead, she dug her chipped nails into the palms of her hands. What would be the point in making a scene?

The man at the front of the queue left, latte in hand, and ran for the platform.

“Erm, now, let me see,” the woman who had pushed in front of her said loudly. “What do I want?”

A poke in the eye? A stamp on the foot? A dig in the ribs? Take your pick.

The woman screamed, doubled over, hopped and then held her face in her hands. Tia’s hand darted out to help her.

“Don’t you touch me,” the woman shouted hysterically.

“What?” Her blood ran ice cold. “I … I didn’t do anything.” She shook her head vigorously; her eyes locked wide, as she slowly backed away, turned, and bolted for the train.

Tia wrapped her raincoat around her and tightly folded her arms as the doors slammed closed, sealing her in. As the train pulled away, she caught sight of the rude woman stood on the platform, shaking her fist and shouting; her face red and contorted. Tia couldn’t help it, the laugh formed like a bubble in her stomach and burst out of her mouth. The old witch shouldn’t have pushed in.

She turned and faced a dozen tired, sullen faces glancing wearily at her. A couple of boys listened to mp3 players, workmen in their dusty shirts and ripped jeans sat on tool boxes, while suited men and women strained to read newspapers, or just stared blankly at the carriage’s grubby, wet floor, masterfully avoiding each other’s glances. Oh, this was joyous, she was wet, the people around her were wet, the person next to her had seriously bad breath, she was perilously close to running late and … actually, no, she wasn’t going to be late. She had in fact caught the train and she was in fact going to make it to her desk on time.

A faint aroma of fresh mint filled the carriage.

The train stopped.

“Sorry for the delay,” the driver said, “this is due to …”

The sound faded to silence. Her mind’s eye saw Nick marching toward her, a giant watch the size of a tractor wheel on his wrist, each tick of the second hand a hammer blow to the head. Her fingertips tingled.

It was eleven minutes past nine. She furiously shook her umbrella, yanked the door open and just as she was about to pelt it into the office, she saw Nick goose stepping in her direction. She jogged into the office, her head hung low, and ducked out of sight into a little, tucked away room. As her glasses steamed up, she prayed the weasel hadn’t seen her.

The door was wrenched opened. Nick pursed lips and exaggerated a stare at his bony wrist.

“I’ll talk to you later, Tia,” he said.

“Sure,” she whispered, her hands held in front of her, feet side by side.

The door slammed closed.

“That bloody man,” she spat, as she shook off her coat.

“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to just say a word or two and have the whole world understand you.”

“Michael, I’m sorry.” She turned to Michael, lovely Michael, hotter than hot Michael. “It’s Nick, he’s such a ...” She took in a long, slow breath. “I don’t want to swear.”

Michael smiled at her; he was always warm and kind with her. Why wasn’t Craig like him? Actually, Craig could go to the deepest depths of blazing hell and so could Miranda for that matter. In fact, tonight, she was going to have a clear out. Her wardrobe had absolutely no need for size ten shoes, crisp white double cuff shirts or trousers that needed dry cleaning. Her building’s bins had just been emptied; she felt a delicious urge to fill them to the brim. Actually, no, come to think of it, that wouldn’t be at all fair on the other residents, her dear and charitable neighbours. Ah well, she’d just have to have a wild bonfire instead.

She grinned, broadly. The thought lit her chest with a glow that took her back to the deliciousness of morning coffee. Now there was a story she could not wait for Michael to hear. It was just as outrageous as the one that included graphic details of what she would do to him given half a chance and an empty bedroom room. She squeezed her eyes closed, as an image of Miranda climbing off Craig flashed across her mind. Her throat constricted as she slumped resentfully in her seat and turned to her computer.

“Yes, is that the I.T. helpdesk?” Tia asked, as she cradled the slim phone against her shoulder. “I can’t get into my email again … It won’t open … It just … erm ... actually now it’s working.”

All the documents she needed printed out smoothly. Her in-tray was close to empty. She knocked a plastic cup of water over her keyboard. Her heart remained untroubled.

“I mean really,” Marie said, to Tia’s right. “What does George Christian see in the tramp? She’s only been in one film and that was some foreign, subtitled rubbish ...”

“I know, I know,” Julie interrupted, stood next to Marie. “I even heard he’d been with that slag model, Lia Bright, the one in the shampoo ads. She’s only had half of Hollywood in her bed …”

“Yeah, but you know what,” Anna said, nudging Julie, “if I had her figure and looks and George Christian between my sheets, I tell you, I certainly wouldn’t kick him out bed if I’d heard he’d been with a few tarts ...”

Tia sank in her chair and rubbed her temples. The grating noise was loud and unrelenting. How could they go on so without pause? A smile lazily curled upward as she imagined Marie, Julie and Anna talking domestic politics with as much zeal.

“Yes, but darling, if he did in fact divert the funding to health,” Marie said, “I feel sure the public would be deeply grateful. Our health system, that which belongs to you and I, is far more important to the nation than a new motorway.”

“Honey, I do genuinely see your point,” Julie interrupted, her hand held politely aloft. “But the Chancellor’s proposing to cut funding from not just one perhaps isolated project, but from three major expansions of the network. Surely, if one doesn’t recognise the need for greater road capacity now, this will impact on an already fragile economy in few short years.”

“You know, ladies, it may not be considered an election winner,” Anna said, “but I sense a shift in the public mood. I feel that higher fuel and health duties to pay for these and many more highly valued projects to come would win support. The state’s infrastructure at all levels needs to be maintained with the utmost care.”

She stared at her screen. She was not looking at the spreadsheet. Her phone rang.

“Tia Green.”

“Sweetie, it’s Miranda.”

She slammed the phone down and fled from her desk.

Black coffee dripped onto the white tiled floor as it spilled over her mug as Tia vigorously stirred it. She paused suddenly and laughed hesitantly, her eye twitching, as she then added another two spoons full of sugar, then another two, and another two. She sipped the coffee, rhythmically, over and over. It was so good. Sugar on the brain, what a wonderful way to erase the image of Craig climbing off …

“So -” She jolted, spilling coffee on her arm. “- why were you late?”

Pain sped through her, her breathing raced as she slammed the mug on the counter, and slowly, deliberately turned to face Nick. He stood in the tight doorway, his arms folded. She rubbed her sore arm as wrath torn her apart.

“Well?” he asked.

“My train was delayed. It was not my fault,” she said, in a low measured voice.

“They’re always conveniently delayed, Tia. It’s an old tale. With this much work to do you will make an effort to catch an earlier train.”

She ground her teeth.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been late this month, is it?”

Her face flushed.

“You’re appraisal is due tomorrow, I’ll be the one writing it.”

She hated him.

Nick looked back into the corridor, and then stepped into the kitchen until they were toe to toe. His face softened.

“You know, it’s not me, it’s the pressure Rita puts on me.”

She nodded her head as she backed into the kitchen counter. He ran his hand over her arm, his fingers skirting the damp patch. It was as though every cell in her being had locked.

“I want to give you a great appraisal.”

An image of Nick running through the office naked popped into her head. He was slapping his buttocks, making train noises and lifting his knees up high as he ran. Nick stood back, slipped out off his crumpled jacket and dropped it on the floor. He pulled his red pencil thin tie loose and unbuckled his trousers.

Tia stared agape. “Nick, what are you doing?”

He quickly pulled off his white shirt, kicked off his shoes, comedy socks and trousers. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his faded shorts.

“Nick.”

She turned away as his shorts landed on the floor.

“Woo, woo, woooooo,” he hollered, turned, and ran through the office toward the main door. He slapped his buttocks and lifted his knees up high as he ran out into the street and disappeared out of sight.

Tia’s body was numb as she slid down the kitchen counter and sat on the floor, staring at the little pile of Nick’s clothes.

“It’ll be all right,” Rita said quietly, as she handed her a clear plastic cup filled with freezing cold water.

She gripped the cup with both hands and gulped at the water, spilling much of it down her chin.

“Would you like some more?”

She nodded sharply, her gaze low and fixed on her senior manager’s untidy desk.

“Maggie, would you?”

“I’ll bring two,” Rita’s secretary replied, as she left the small office.

Tia looked up into Rita’s warm hazel eyes. Her boss had a weather worn look about her, but instead of it giving her an air of the bitterly defeated, which she had always assumed was the case, it had in fact shaped her into a soft and beautiful woman. There was genuine compassion emanating from her. How had she not seen or felt this before?

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded again. “Have you … found him?”

Rita sighed. “No, we haven’t, but I just received a call from the police for they have.” Her brow furrowed. “He just took his clothes off in front of you?”

Tia looked down at the threadbare carpet, her cheeks burning. “Yes.”

“What would possess him to do that?” Rita leant back against her desk back, shaking her head. “In all my years I’ve never seen the like.”

Flashbacks. That was plausible, wasn’t it? Was she seriously going to suggest this? “Perhaps …” No, she couldn’t. Could she?

“Tia?”

Maggie quietly pushed the office door closed and handed her the cups of water.

“Thank you,” she said, and gulped one of the cups dry. No, her mind was made up, she simply could not. It wouldn’t be right. Things were bad enough without her heaping more manure onto it.

“Tia, what were you going to say?”

“I … well, I read somewhere that sometimes people who have taken ... say drugs, can have sudden flashbacks and do strange things.” There, it was done.

“Yes, you know I’ve heard that too,” Maggie said, as she stroked her chin.

“I’ll have to mention it to the police when they get here,” Rita said.

“Maybe they would test him anyway,” Tia said. “I mean, if it’s obvious to us then it must be to them too.” That had to be true, didn’t it? That made what she had said okay, right?

“Still, it’s certainly worth a mention. Tia, the police may need to talk to you, but after that, would you like to go home?”

She shook her head sharply. Right about now Craig and Miranda would be mauling each other beneath her fresh white linen. Her brow creased, she put her head in her hands as emotion rose in her throat. Why had they betrayed her? She wanted to curl up in a ball and howl. No, no and absolutely no to public displays of pathetic weakness. She needed some air, a rest, a walk … actually, what she needed was a little therapy.

“Maybe I could just take an early lunch.”

Rita smiled warmly. There it was again, that wave of compassion.

She held out the short black skirt before her. It was perfect, divine. She had just the pair of delightful, strappy party heels to go with it. All eyes would be on trim Tia as she danced sensuously on Saturday night, her trusted ... oh, come on, even if it was black she’d look fat in it. It would certainly show off something: stumpy tree trunk legs that stuck out from below a giggling mountain sized arse covered in black material stretched to near tearing. Not to mention the fact she couldn’t afford it. A tin of peas would be luxury.

God, if only she was a size eight. And while on the subject, if only she was a tall, curvy bombshell instead of a bumpy, little thing in desperate need of some serious exercise. If only she had light, bouncy blonde hair instead of the boring straight brown mess lumped indifferently on top her itching scalp. If only she had luscious full red lips and crystal green eyes instead of pale thin lips and sagging black bags under mud coloured eyes. A sprinkling of faint freckles over silken skin would be nice as well, instead of thick cheap make-up to hide the three huge spots that were on the verge of erupting across her face. A cute, little heart shaped bum to go with her full, well shaped …

Her clothes went baggy. She dropped the skirt on the floor. And then fainted.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Sweat poured from her temple. She clung to the edge of the sink, her knuckles white. A nail broke against the porcelain. Oh God, no,