Words to Tie to Bricks

by Claire Hennesy

  Alive. Lung-breathing, heart-beating, blood-boiling, mind-whirring, jaw-clenching, back-arching, eyes-smiling, properly, truly, alive.

  There are no words. There will never be enough words to express any of what I need expressed.

  But I don’t care.

  You’re alive.

  ‘You,’ I choke. Choking. Gas mask must be leaking. Don’t care. You’re alive.

  ‘I’m throwing you a Com,’ I whisper, voice oddly broken. I take the small black thing from my pack and drop it as gently as I can. I don’t hear it hit the bottom.

  A voice flickers from inside my mask. ‘Can you hear me?’

  And I am a child, staring wide-eyed at the sun. ‘You.’

  ‘Me,’ you agree.

  This is too much. This is much too much. This isn’t what’s happening. I’m on the rock. My mind is broken. I tossed the mask off in despair and these are the hallucinations that come as I am poisoned to death. It would explain why I’m shaking so much. This isn’t allowed. Nothing this beautiful would ever be allowed to happen down here. Not ever.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m here. I heard you screaming. Are you okay?’

  I try to tell you that I’m fine, but I’m shaking, like the tops of those mounds where the poison in the earth’s veins would burst out. We saw plenty of them earlier on, on the plains. You always got advanced warning, they were shaking so much, and then gas would radiate outwards. The gas concentration was far too high to be filtered.

  Neither of us could remember how we knew that.

  But, those mounds.

  That’s me.

  You’re the poison.

  I don’t know what the explosion will look like.

  ‘Are you okay? Why were you screaming?’

  You’re concerned, I know, but there isn’t, I can’t, I couldn’t begin ...

  ‘You,’ I manage.

  Barely.

  And I don’t know what to do or what to say or how I feel, because you don’t let anyone mean anything to you down here, because it all gets taken away, and it’s not worth it, and I know that, I do, but, I just, you.

  ‘Where are you?’ I ask, trying to shake the thoughts out of my head, like releasing bad fumes from the mask when they build up.

  ‘Underground. A tunnel caved in. I can follow it.’

  ‘Or I could follow you.’

  ‘You’d die. I fell with the cave floor. The harsh rocks and splintering rafters broke my fall.’

  I smile. You’re joking. You’re not making sense, so you’re joking. ‘That’s not how falling works.’

  ‘My leg is broken.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My leg. I can still go on. I’ll follow this tunnel, give you directions, you follow me above. These are old mining tunnels, I can tell from the wooden supports. They’ll reach the surface somewhere. We’ll just keep on walking.’

  Not joking. ‘Your leg? Broken? Can the medi–’

  ‘Irreparable. It doesn’t matter. We’re already at the end. It’ll be fine. I’m starting.’

  The light dies out. You’re putting it to work underground, now.

  ‘Start walking forwards. I’ll tell you when to turn. Can you do that?’

  I can, and I do.

  There’s relief, and concern, and confusion, and a bundle of other emotions our language hasn’t been kind enough to name, all bubbling inside of me and I don’t know what the end result is supposed to look like. So I think about that for a time.

  And then I do something else:

  ‘Your leg. Does it hurt?’

  Another silence. Not so long. ‘Of course it does.’

  Of course it does. How could it not?

  But something’s wrong.

  ‘Isn’t it ... bad?’

  I don’t have words. I’m sorry.

  ‘I’m not going to let it slow me down. I can forget it. I can keep on walking.’

  I know you can. That wasn’t what I was trying to say. ‘I don’t want you to forget.’

  What was I trying to do? I was just talking. What do these words even mean? Pain is everywhere, all the time; it’s a necessary part of life. Why should it be any different? Give pain too much power, it’ll slow you down. I know that. We remember it from somewhere, both of us do. I appreciate that you don’t say it.

  ‘Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s nothing important.’

  ‘We need to turn left now.’

  We do.

  ‘What you think is important, you know. I want to hear it.’

  I have a lot to say and no way to say it all, but you’re here, and you’re listening, and that’s as good as it gets. ‘You don’t have to forget. We forget so much. If you hadn’t survived the fall ...’

  I don’t know what I’m trying to say. But I think, somehow, you do.

  ‘Pain is different. It’s not useful. It’s better to forget.’

  ‘It’s not about what’s useful. It’s about what’s important.’

  ‘Living is more important right now. We need to keep on walking.’

  There’s a silence. Not a bad one. Comfortable. Room to breathe. A quiet, comfortable cave to sleep in, rather than a dead, barren, barely-survivable desert.

  There’s the wind. There’s the sea. There’s the scuttling. There’s the shifting of the gas. And there’s the oddest hissing noise, too, seemingly coming from my mic. Again, the readings say I’m fine, and if the readings are wrong, then there’s no point in worrying. It’s too late by then.

  In the distance, there are shadows moving on the hills. Big, fearsome things, things that dive for the weak and devour the defenceless. We aren’t worried. We are not strong, and we are not defended, but they’re at the hills.

  We keep on walking.

  We’re walking, but not together. Talking, being with one another, but apart. Our hands are held, but not. The air rustling through my open fingers is ruining the illusion. I need you again soon.

  We walk past a hill and suddenly the sea is behind it, and the tunnel is leading to a small island. It’s not on the way to where we need to be, but we’ve got time, and no other real choice, so we walk along the narrowing path to where we’re sure the old mining tunnels would have been.

  This bridge is no more than fifteen metres across at its widest, and it’s made of jagged rock; sharp, brittle shale that’s tough to walk on. We’re not walking overly quickly, so I break a few pieces off and toss it into the sea. The second it’s out of my hand it’s black rock over black sludge through black gas, and it may as well be invisible. The sea swells.

  ‘Were there other people with us, before?’

  You don’t break the silence forcefully, but I still jump when you do. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Did we set off with just the two of us, or were there others?’

  I shrug. Then, realising you can’t see, I say: ‘I’m not sure. I don’t remember.’

  ‘Me neither, but that isn’t exactly worth much.’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  A stupid question eats at my head. I try to drown it, but I remember what you said earlier, about being important. ‘Why do you ask?’

  And the second I say it I know for sure it’s stupid and worthless and that you think less of me, but before I can do anything self-destructive about it, you talk: ‘Your scream, earlier–’

  A pause. A long one. You never pause.

  Something’s wrong.

  ‘What is it?’ I bark.

  ‘Something big, and scuttling, and –’

  Your voice is getting fainter. You’re running to the tunnel’s exit. I follow.

  And as I do, I notice something.

  The ocean doesn’t roll, and the waves don’t break, not like our language and the metaphors we end up using seem to imply that they once did. The ocean is toxic and acid and unstable and bubbling. But not now. Something’s in it. Stirring.

  And then, like a mole sticking its head above the surface of the earth, there’s a shiny black carapac
e in the waves.

  And then another.

  And another.

  And then they constitute an ocean all of their own.

  Big things, fearsome things, things that thrive on weakness and fear and pain.

  Why here? Why now?

  I turn to look at the mainland.

  Oh.

  I can’t remember what a dawn looks like. No one can. But I know what it’s supposed to look like. The sun, a great ball of fire, would creep over the horizon, and all its light would spill over the hills and bathe the green countryside in amber and red and everything would be alright and the forces of evil would scream, scatter, steam, melt, and the heroes would rejoice and it would be glorious.

  Well, this is like that. Except, instead of the sun, there’s black, and instead of the green countryside, there’s black, and instead of amber and red rolling into view there’s black. Like the hands of an angry god, reaching for me, the ant it could never crush, the disease it could never purge, the stain it could never remove, and I can see its face in this hellish sunset and I can see it smile in triumph.

  I am not in awe. There is never a time for that here. Awe is just waiting for death.

  I turn on my heels and run.

  You’ve already left. The things wouldn’t let you wait.

  I keep running.

  It’s a rock. It’s a high, steep rock, in the middle of the ocean, with a thin shale bridge. That’s what we’re on. And all around us is a sea of toxic sludge, or a sea of sleek, strong, hungry things. It doesn’t look good. It looks like death.

  I think about what brought them here. What could have been loud enough, alluring enough, to attract this amount of these things? Whatever it was, it must have sounded horrifically wounded. Easy pickings.

  I don’t curse my luck. I don’t care enough to. The worst that can happen is I die.

  Not quite.

  The worst that can happen is that you die.

  And then I’m off the bridge entirely and I’m shouting in my Com for you and I don’t see you or hear you and there isn’t any exit in sight and then there it is, just a hole in the ground and you run out and you twist and then there’s that thing in your arms, I remember, from so long ago, that long, thick, heavy metal thing, I can’t remember what it does.

  And then there’s a flash of red and the hole is collapsing in on itself and I remember.

  And then I’m running to you.

  And then I’m screaming for you.

  And then you turn to see me.

  And then I’ve run to you.

  And then I’m staring at you.

  And your gas mask is staring back.

  I want –

  I want a lot of things. And all of them are you.

  But there aren’t words for this, there aren’t actions, there isn’t any way to convey and if there ever has been I can’t remember and you get one chance to make your gesture down here, and I want to make mine count, but I don’t even know how to begin.

  ‘You,’ I start.

  You shake your head. ‘No. You.’

  And then there’s death behind us and we’re running, and you’re limping and you’re turning and slowing and I grab your hand to pull you along but you’re just aiming and then there’s red and the things scream as they die and you throw your weapon away and I’m guessing it’s either empty or you know that we can’t fend off this many and then we come to the edge of the island, the edge of the rock, the end of the rope and the end of the line and the end of the end of the end.

  We stop.

  And we look down.

  And there are rocks below that would kill us before we could dissolve in the sludge. A painless death, that. As painless as they come, anyway.

  I look at you.

  I don’t want to die.

  I don’t want you to die.

  But – ‘Looks like this is it.’

  You nod. You’re staring at what’s coming. I can almost see your face through the visor of your gas mask. I’ve never tried before, but if I focus, I can almost see your –

  I look away. ‘We were so close.’

  ‘Close to what? Why can’t this be it? Why can’t this be where we were headed?’

  ‘This?’ I shake my head. ‘How can this be it?’

  ‘Neither of us can remember, anyway. It may as well be here. This is as good a place to end up as any.’

  A pause, before you continue.

  ‘You do realise why they’re here?’

  I don’t.

  ‘Your scream.’

  And it makes sense.

  And it hurts.

  It does.

  Screams never go unanswered here.

  But before I can say anything: ‘No, don’t be sorry. I’m glad. It made me remember.’

  I’m still holding your hand, from before.

  I’m not going to stop.

  ‘Do you remember my name?’ I ask you.

  You shake your head.

  ‘I don’t remember yours, either. It doesn’t matter. Names aren’t important.’

  And I close my eyes. And I breathe. This. This is important. This matters. This, right here, is the moment where everything falls into place. This is where everything becomes defined. If someone picks up my gas mask in the distant future, long after my body has rotted away, and they wonder, briefly, who I used to be, then I want this to be the answer.

  ‘You.’

  Your hand squeezes mine in thanks.

  And then –

  ‘I could take the mask off, if you like. Do you want to see my face?’

  I know what you’re saying, and I know what you’re saying it for. The gas doesn’t matter anymore, so neither does the mask. This is an offer you could only make at the end.

  But no.

  ‘I don’t need it to need you.’ I say. Honestly. ‘It’s a beautiful gas mask. You should keep it on.’

  You nod. I nod.

  And here it comes.

  Here comes death.

  And we turn from whatever’s behind us because it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re facing the writhing sea. And our hands are together. And we are together. And everything we know is behind us and death is all around us but we’re standing and we’re hand in hand and this is right, this is it, this is how it happens, this is perfect.

  Well. Almost perfect.

  I grab your hip, and I pull you in. Your arms fit around my neck. And we –

  We melt together.

  And as we melt –

  We drop.

  Three Balanced Meals

  HANNAH O’BOYLE

  For breakfast I had pills

  washed down with sorrow.

  Later on, I feasted

  on my own self doubt.

  I finished off the day

  with a cool descent into lunacy.

  (I am not starving myself,

  I am just feeding my sadness.)

  Little World of Faith

  EMMA SHEVLIN

  THEY’VE STARED AT THIS WINDOW so many times before. The glint of sunlight switching colours as it shines through each separate piece of glass. Someone’s mother nudging them to get up for Communion because they are holding other people up, slowly trudging up and down to receive their little piece of God. Desperately trying to remember where their seats are.

  When you’re in this large stone building, you’re in your own little world of faith. No-one notices him sneak in the back. No child there comments on his odd appearance and twitching eyes, and not one person notices the gun.

  Off-piste

  HANNAH-ROSE MANNING

  I USED TO LOVE SKIING. The feel of soft snow gently whipping against my cheeks, the exhilaration of shooting down a mountain at top speed and landing in a dishevelled heap at the bottom. I used to feel invincible, as though nothing could touch me, my problems lifted away like a feather floating in the breeze. Now I know better, now I know the dangers of the woods ...

  It was the eighteenth of May, exactly two months ago. My par
ents were away on one of their ‘special and exclusive’ trips that they go on every month and fail to include my sister and me in. Every time the door of our house closes against us, I see my sister’s bitten lip, useless tears filling her eyes and her whole body shaking as she begs them to return. I’m fifteen, however, almost a grown up. I’m used to these things and I simply shrug my shoulders, not knowing what else I should do. I have no words to comfort her, nothing to excuse my parents for my vulnerable, seven-year-old sister except, ‘Let’s go skiing. We’ll see them soon enough.’

  We grabbed our gear and set off. I live in Colorado, the snowy state, where there is not much to do but ski and ski and ski. Luckily for us, there is a ski slope right beside our huge, majestic house. It is always filled with ornaments and grand furniture, but never with people.

  The snow was beautiful that morning, soft and smooth, as the first skiers were just beginning to glide on the thick blanket of snow that draped over the ground. My sister headed immediately for the moderately easy slopes, her dark blonde hair billowing in the mountain air and her chubby cheeks sparkling with the cold. I agreed to meet her at the chairlift and went over to my favourite slope, a challenging, steep, bumpy slope that is the best in Colorado. I flew down it, glancing every now and then at the woods that draw me to them every time.

  I did not give in, remembering my parents’ last words: ‘The woods are dangerous, Maria, more dangerous that you would ever imagine. Sinister things lurk there. You would not be wise to go in, no matter how experienced you think you are. Avalanches and sharp rocks can kill.’

  As I mulled over my parents’ last words, I felt a sharp burst of anger and defiance spread over me. Why should I follow their advice? They’ve never been role models to Melissa and me. They leave us every month – they don’t even care what we get up to as long as we ‘don’t go into the woods’. And what, may I ask, is so wrong with the woods? They’re magical and enthralling and my skiing is of expert level.

  I’ve skied every boring little mountain in Colorado, why can’t I ski this one? ‘Because,’ a tiny little voice chimed in my head. ‘You don’t know what dangers lurk there.’ I angrily brushed the voice away. I was going in the woods and no one was going to stop me – not Mum, or Dad, not Melissa and certainly not myself!