by Tim Lebbon
The first of them reaches with impossibly long arms, clacking twigs together and rumbling in its chest. A chuckle? Hunger? I cannot stay to find out.
I lift myself up and roll back, tumbling to the ground behind the wall once more. For an instant I hear the gruff chuckling continue, but then it fades and is replaced once again by the sounds and smells of what will be.
My heart is racing, and I think I'm going to be sick. But there is a spread of bluebells around me—flowers I know and love—and suddenly I realise that this bluebell spring will not be my last.
"We're both staying," Cordell says. Jessica is beside him on the bench. Her face is red and puffy, her eyes distant, but she still gives me a small nod. That means a lot.
I sit opposite, glancing back at the wall.
"What did you see?" Cordell asks.
"Things changing. Has Michael spoken to you?"
"Yes, both of us."
I nod. "Good. Good."
Cordell drains his pint. "So what now?"
I smile, pick up his glass and stand. "What's yours?"
THE END
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