#no clue what shoes they even were i just remember they were bulky and bright red and had spikes. dude got the zhao shoes but in red

[kcamberart]

swear to god i saw the coolest guy ever while i was leaving work

#no clue what shoes they even were i just remember they were bulky and bright red and had spikes. dude got the zhao shoes but in red #realistically he could have been anyone but he was leaving a law office so in my head he was Sonic the Lawguy

[sometimesstorieshappen]

Silent Words

Eric sat on the bench, his fingers fumbling with a small mass of paper in his hands. His rounded face was obscured by a pair of thick black glasses, white cheeks dotted with freckles. His uniform, once black and proud, had faded to a sombre grey, and his dark red tie was tattered. His shoes were shiny, at odds with the rest of his uniform, and his hands were covered in brightly coloured sticking plasters. His fumbling fingers eventually revealed the collection of paper to be a book, a rather large one. It was in pristine condition, and despite his clumsiness he handled it with care. He caressed each page, gingerly removing his bookmark before shutting out the world. But the world did not let go of him that easily, for only a few moments later his bubble was shattered by the sudden intrusion of a football. It knocked into him, almost dislodging the book, and a fleeting look of panic ran across Eric's face. However it soon faded, and with an almost nonchalant action he kicked the ball back into the playground, to the delighted cheers of other schoolchildren. Or at least Eric assumed their cheers were mirthful. It had often occurred to him that mirth and derision were two sides of the same coin, sometimes hard to distinguish between, and he did not mind admitting to himself that he could not often tell which was directed at him. With one hand moving up his face to adjust his black-rimmed glasses, he turned the page and let the words wash over him.

*

"Samuel"

"Here sir"

"Emily"

"Yes sir"

"Vishnam"

"Yes sir" A smattering of laughter followed the heavy Indian accent of the boy called Vishnam, who was standing at the front of the classroom.

"Lawrence"

"Yeah"

"Eric"

"Yes sir"

"Good, that's everyone. I'd like to introduce you to Vishnam, he's just moved here and I'd like you all to make him feel very welcome." The teacher indicated in the direction of an Indian boy who had been laughed at moments ago. He was short, with clipped black hair and a dark complexion, and he had an air of worried nervousness about him. He looked around, thought about attempting a smile and then faltered halfway through, giving the overall effect of a grimace. Having somewhat fumbled the introduction, he went to his seat and sat down, taking in the classroom. It was a dull grey box, although various attempts had been made to brighten it up with colourful educational posters, times tables and word definitions. Even these had faded with age however, once vibrant colours now soft and weak. A large round table dominated the room, lit up by a fluorescent light giving off a sickly yellow glow. Chairs were dotted around the table, and one side of the room was taken up by a screen on which a map of the world was displayed. The room seemed to lack consistency: each poster displayed a different subject, and the uniforms of each student were marked with personal preferences, such as badges or jumpers, or in the case of Lawrence a hoodie. Eric glanced up at Vishnam for a moment, his glasses reflecting his rounded face and immaculate uniform, before his head dipped back down into the book. Vishnam meanwhile looked around, carefully assessing each person in turn. Lawrence's grinning mask, the pink glitter of Emily, the top of Eric's head, each was given a small amount of time, and each was classed as friend or foe. His shoulders seemed to slump as the size of the foe section in his head grew and grew with each person.

"Vishnam here has moved from India, so I thought we'd kick off this geography lesson with a bit of work on India. Can anyone point to it on a map?" Vishnam's hand shot up, a single active limb amongst many idle ones, and almost immediately after he put it down again due to a wave of laughter. "Anyone except Vishnam?"

Samuel sat up a little and put his hand up. "Is it about there?" he asked, gesturing towards an area roughly underneath Russia projected on the board.

"More or less. It's actually here, this little triangle shaped land. Now can anyone tell me what it's like there?" Once again apathy was driven away only by Vishnam, and once again he was rebuffed by albeit a slightly weaker wave of laughter, the joke wearing slightly thin. "Eric, what do you think?"

"Me?" A snicker wormed its way around the room. He quickly scanned the board, looking for any clue as to what he had been asked. "I didn't quite hear you."

"What is India like?"

"It's quite hot, there's a decent amount of sand and it's generally....quite..." He tailed off. Vishnam was staring at him intently, his dark complexion an inversion of Eric's pale one. "...interesting..." Eric watched Vishnam for a moment, waiting for him to look away. But he didn't, and eventually Eric gave up and went back to his story. Vishnam stared at the top of Eric's head for a moment before looking away.

"Nice to know you've been paying attention Eric." The teacher sighed and began to talk about India again, but Vishnam wasn't listening. He knew it all anyway, and his enthusiasm to share his knowledge hadn't gone down well with the rest of the class so far. Instead he focused on the one person who interested him the most. Eric seemed a bit reclusive, a bit more mature than the rest of the group. Vishnam knew the feeling of being alone. He knew that pain, the pain that forced you to grow up before your time. Sitting in that classroom, Vishnam felt a connection between him and Eric, even before a word had been exchanged between them. He resolved to approach him as soon as possible, for without a friend he felt that a big red target would be painted on his chest.

Eric opened the door, his hair plastered to his head with rain, and sighed in relief as a wave of warmth washed over him. He dropped his bag on a trunk on the left of the corridor and walked into the kitchen. His mum was working over the hob, and a smell of cooking meat wrapped itself around Eric. "How was your day Eric?"

"Good." He went to the fridge and after a small amount of rummaging extracted a can of coke. Prize clutched in hand he exited the kitchen and went up the stairs to sit in his room. It was reasonably small, but literature dominated every available space. Bookshelves covered the wall, and on them row after row of titles shouted out at him, begging for their turn to run the show. Fiction was most prominent in the room, for Eric was far fonder of it. The truth was all around him he reasoned, so why read about someone else's truth and waste the opportunity to discover something far more interesting? In reality the reason was somewhat darker: Eric read to escape. His room was his spaceship, his sanctuary, his church. In here he could do everything and nothing at the same time. It was also in his room that he thought about the day, reviewed it in his head. It was an odd habit, but he loathed his inability to remember everything and tried to hold on to as much of the day as possible. Today it was more difficult than normal, largely due to a single event that charged through his head over and over again. The boy Vishnam. Eric couldn't quite figure it out. Many people often thought he was busy reading and not listening in class, but years of reading had developed in him an ability to observe the surroundings while reading, an ability he valued and used frequently. He had observed Vishnam closely under the cover of reading, and obtained absolutely no knowledge about what he was like. He seemed nervous, but Eric knew that was a temporary reaction to new surroundings and did not reveal his personality any more than jumping at a loud sound reveals a phobia. Perhaps, Eric thought as he pulled his book out of his bag and carefully removed the bookmark, he was shy. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. Things would reveal themselves soon enough, all he had to do was be in the right place to observe it. He fiddled with his glasses for a moment before turning the page.

*

"Watcha doin?" Lawrence came sauntering over to Eric's bench. Eric looked up for a moment. "Yeah, I'm talking to you. Watcha doin?" Sniggers were beginning to flicker through a crowd that was now forming. Eric sighed quietly. He knew how this would go if he put up a fight, and his best option was to simply go somewhere else. He closed his book carefully and stood up.

"I was reading. Excuse me." He began walking away, but as he did Lawrence reached over and snatched the book from his hand.

"What is this? The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn? Awww, that's a cute little baby book you're reading." Laughter blasted Eric, grated against his hard exterior. He knew it was foolish, but he couldn't stop himself from making a grab at the book. Lawrence simply held it up above his head, making use of his six-foot one frame. He was a large boy, not bulky but not quite lanky, with a head of curly brown hair. He wore uniform trousers and black shoes, but this clashed with his bright green hoodie and a red cap that he wore at a slightly tilted angle. The hat was a style icon in the school, and had been copied several times by various people, which contributed to Lawrence's rising popularity. It also gave a clue to the most prominent aspect of his personality, which was that he simply didn't care. He breezed through school simply thinking about the immediate future, and his carefree attitude was viewed with a sort of admiration. Watching Lawrence was similar to going to a zoo: a lot of people would crowd round to watch something that was animalistic, a behavioural style that they would never attempt themselves but was perfectly possible had society been different, more forgiving perhaps. All of this information however was not in Eric's mind at the time, for he was for once thinking about one thing: his book.

"Give it back!"

"Say please."

"Please!

"Pretty please?" The crowd was in hysterics.

"Pretty please!" Lawrence dropped it on the floor and laughed.

"You sell yourself out so quickly. Have some integrity and grow up a bit." Lawrence walked off and the crowd walked off with him, leaving Eric to gather up his paper and dignity from the floor. Eric closely inspected his book, but aside from a scuff mark where it had hit the floor it was undamaged. His bookmark had fallen out, but Eric had remembered the page anyway. He sighed, both in relief and in sadness, and slowly he went and sat back on his bench. For a moment he looked around, and caught the eye of Vishnam in the distance. For a moment they looked at each other, separated by an immeasurable distance of space, of social standing, of circumstance. Eric looked down at his book, adjusted his glasses, and...stopped. He looked at the page, held in his fingers, a thin doorway to another world. His face screwed up for a moment, and he shuddered for a second. Desperate for nobody to see, he turned the page and left the tears behind for the real world to deal with.

*

Eric closed the door. He pulled a can of coke out of the fridge. He moved towards the stairs.

"How was your day sweetie?"

"Good" Eric closed the door once in his room, and sat on his bed. He thought. He went over the day's events, and of course only one stood in his head. He couldn't blame Lawrence for what he did. It was the natural order, the food chain. There are those born to be predators and those born to be prey, and it happened to be bad luck that he was on the bottom end of that. But as Eric thought about Lawrence, it went deeper than that. The truth was he hated Lawrence. He hated him uncontrollably, a burning fire. Seeing the image of Lawrence in his head provoked a horrid reaction and it scared him. It made him tremble to think that he could be possible of such anger. In the solace of his room, his church, he asked himself for forgiveness. He let out the emotion, purged the tears from his body, rebuilt the hard shell. Eric didn't just hate Lawrence, he hated himself. It was his mistake that he let his composure slip. His error. If he showed emotion it would be punished, he knew that. In here, in his prison, he could allow himself to be vulnerable; he could allow the tears out for their taste of freedom before locking them behind iron walls once more. In his bordered land, he rebuilt his fortress. He took a deep breath, and rubbed his face for a moment. His motto was that his problems were his own, and to let his mother see him while he was vulnerable would be unforgiveable. He would not involve her, he never would. But it was so hard. Sometimes he wondered how he could do it, how to deal with everything life threw at him. But that was life he reasoned. And so Eric dealt with it the only way he felt he could. He adjusted his glasses, and he turned the page.

*

Vishnam was watching Eric again. The same crowd, the same people. The same grinning Lawrence holding a book high over his head. Eric seemed different today, more composed, simply sitting on his bench and watching Lawrence trying to goad him. What Vishnam didn't know was that Eric had been prepared for a repeat of the previous day's events, and before Lawrence came up to him he had hidden his book in his bag and obtained another tatty, unused one, the same book that Lawrence was now waving in the air. Vishnam watched, but he didn't do anything. How could he? What could he do? He was ashamed to think that actually there was plenty he could do. He could run in there and be the hero. He could win over Eric with a brave rescue. He didn't believe in religion, but he had heard many stories of deities saving innocent people, performing miracles for the ordinary. Vishnam believed the true legacy of these people was not the religion they created but the action they inspired. To be a deity was not to be good at something, but to be able to inspire others to imitate you, he had told his mother. Standing by the main school block, watching the nearby crowd, he felt the wind prickle the nape of his neck. He looked to his left. The school squatted, a grey box planted into the middle of a concrete field. Vishnam gazed at it for a few seconds before turning back to the crowd, and suddenly saw Lawrence push Eric to the floor. And immediately he saw himself, back at his previous school in India. A boy called Prandeet had often pushed him in the same way, and one day he had pushed him to the floor and broken his arm. The pain had broken something in Vishnam, something more than just bone. He had stood up, his arm twisted at a weird angle. Prandeet had pushed him again, and the scream of agony he let out as he hit the floor with his broken arm had scared everyone. It was not a human sound, it was animalistic. But Vishnam had not given in to it.

He had gotten up, tears streaming down his face, and stood. He had said nothing, because his body said everything for him. It said enough. It spoke of repressed people, of broken bones and broken wills, and above all of unbroken spirit. He stood there, with his body twisted and his heart whole, and not one of the people around had dared touch him. Prandeet looked at him with fear, and for a moment went to push him a third time. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Vishnam saw Prandeet, and he saw Lawrence, and he saw Eric on the floor. His body moved on its own, and he rushed into the crowd and pushed Lawrence. Eric was shocked. Vishnam had run into the crowd and simply shoved the larger boy. Lawrence had stumbled but not fallen, and was looking at Vishnam with apoplectic rage. Vishnam just stood there.

"What are you doing? Stay out of this!" Eric shouted at him. Vishnam simply looked around, a sad, determined look on his face.

"I've stayed out enough. I've done nothing for far too long. It doesn't matter what happens to me, I couldn't just stand there and watch anymore. I've been there. I know what it's like. And nobody should have to go through that alone." Vishnam looked back at Lawrence, who addressed him angrily.

"You really think you're gonna change anything? Once you're lying on the floor everything will be just as it was before, only you'll lose a couple of teeth!"

"That's not the point of this. Doing something well isn't important, it's doing something that can be followed. That can be imitated. Besides, I've seen worse than you." The laughter that rippled through the crowd was different, it mocked Lawrence. He looked around and saw everyone laughing at him, and in that moment something snapped. He socked Vishnam around the face with a vicious right hook, and the crowd fell silent.

"You think you're funny, huh!?!" He punctuated the last word with a kick to Vishnam's chest. The boy was on the floor, blood beginning to drip from his nose over his face. He looked to be unconscious. "Think that you've seen" –kick- "anything" –kick- "worse than me!?!" He kicked Vishnam again, and suddenly the crowd was broken up. The teachers had arrived and immediately they pulled Lawrence off Vishnam, one holding each of his arms. Several other teachers crowded the scene. They were shouting something, words, Eric didn't know. The chaos faded into silence, a tinny whine. Eric crawled to Vishnam's side and just stared. He looked at the bloody face, at what he had caused. He felt the shell crack, and he could do nothing about it. For once he couldn't. He let the tears come, let the shell shatter. All around chaos reigned, and in a bubble of pain Eric wept for the boy he now called a friend.

*

Eric left the hospital. Ever since the incident a week ago he hadn't been in school, instead spending his days reading and visiting Vishnam's hospital bed. Every day he read a little to him, whether he was awake or not. He didn't know if Vishnam liked it, for he still didn't have the energy to speak, or even nod his head. He sat there, bruises and cuts on his face, his chest covered in bandages, and in his glassy eyes Eric saw accusation. He saw those eyes in his room, in his sleep. They questioned his apathy: why had he not done anything? Eric lay on his bed and held his head in his hands, but he couldn't get those eyes away. They watched him, and they pointed in only one direction: Lawrence. He had been suspended from school for a while but Eric didn't care. The eyes didn't care. They wanted only revenge. They burned with a fire and an anger that had terrified Eric before, an anger that he had experienced before. Only this was stronger. Eric was afraid, and as his fear of those eyes grew, his hatred of Lawrence grew, until suddenly Lawrence wasn't his enemy. It came in a flash. His fear had come from what Vishnam would say to him when he could speak again. What he would say to Eric when he found out that nothing had been done to avenge him. What brutal revenge he would enact, what awful violence he would bring upon his enemy. His damnation and his salvation therefore were one and the same. Lawrence. It all revolved around Lawrence. The eyes would leave once Lawrence was dealt with, Eric was sure. What else could stop them? It would be like putting down a wild animal...Eric stopped, shocked at what he had just thought. But then he saw the eyes, and he felt the hatred, and the fear overtook him again. It would be like putting down a wild animal. What was it the bible said, an eye for an eye? Lawrence had taken everything from him, and Eric would therefore take everything from Lawrence. Again, he stopped, shocked. He couldn't do this. Kill Lawrence? He couldn't kill another person, no matter what he had done. Eric tossed and turned, and in his head war raged. It tore into his mind, cut the threads holding it together. Eric felt it, he felt the strain of an impossible decision tearing him in half, and so he searched for something to hold himself together. He scanned his room in a frenzy. Title after title, bound volumes of unimaginable treasures, yet none could help him. He pulled one out, looked at it, and threw it onto his bed. Another. Another. Soon his bed was covered in them, and still more flew from the shelves. Eric gave up and lay back on a pile of impossible places, separated by a grey wall. His glasses fell off his face and onto the bed as the battle raged in Eric's mind.

*

Vishnam looked at the school. It was the first time he had been back here in a few weeks, and his bandaged ribs were getting a few stares. He noticed Lawrence now had an assistant, a teacher watching his movements, but for some reason that didn't make him feel any safer. Lawrence was also sporting a black eye, which Vishnam didn't remember giving him. He didn't care though. He wasn't going to be staying here for long. Vishnam's mother had immediately removed Vishnam from the school and called for the head teacher's resignation, and now Vishnam had until the end of the week to say his goodbyes. In a way it saddened him to leave, for he felt as though he had just made a friend, but it didn't surprise him. He knew he could never come back here again, not after what had happened. It was then that he noticed Eric, or rather the top of his head. Once again he was poring over a book, and Vishnam smiled. It seemed as though his friend was the same as ever. He went over to say hello, and as he walked over Eric looked up. Vishnam stopped, and simply stared. Gone was the careful demeanour, the methodical intelligence. His hair was messy, and greasy, and his face was gaunt. But worst of all were the eyes. They were surrounded by dark purple rings, and they were full of fear. They darted from place to place, not quite focusing properly. Vishnam realised this was because he was not wearing his glasses. He wondered how he was reading, and then when he looked at Eric's hands he realised he was not holding a book but rather a notepad. And drawn on that notepad were eyes. Pages full of eyes, all staring out. Eric was not a good artist, and the eyes were somewhat strangely shaped as a result, but it was clear they were all staring out from the book. For a moment those haunting eyes held Vishnam's, and then he looked up into a matching pair on Eric's face.

"Oh Eric, what happened to you?" Vishnam said sadly. "This is my fault. I should never have done anything so reckless." Eric's wild eyes darted to his and for a moment they focused. A sigh left Eric's body.

"I haven't slept. All I think about is what you would say when you saw me. What you would expect me to do. And the truth is I haven't done anything. I've done...nothing." Eric scribbled for a moment more. "I thought seeing you would make them go away. But it hasn't. It's not about you anymore. It never was." Vishnam sensed a note of coldness enter his friend's voice as Eric continued. "It was me. I let my guard down. I let you in. I began this whole chain of events, and now the eyes won't let me alone. They demand appeasement. I can't escape them Vishnam, I just can't, and they terrify me. What Lawrence did I just can't understand, and unless I do there's nothing else I can do."

"What is all this about the eyes?"

"After it happened, I saw your face. I saw your lifeless eyes, and they burned themselves into my head. They remind me of that time, of what I felt, and I can't forget them. I won't. I've made my way through this world by looking at what's around me and understanding it. I look at a book and I understand what emotions it triggers. But what I felt on seeing your face, I... I couldn't explain. I couldn't understand. I don't know if I ever will. But until I do, those eyes will always be with me." Vishnam looked into Eric's face, and for a moment he saw into his mind. He saw a once golden palace, shining, encompassing a thousand different treasures. It was now black, festering, almost gone beneath a tide of foul sludge. And eyes, everywhere, watching. On every wall, in every crevice, full of... Vishnam couldn't tell. Desire, but for what? Revenge? Then it was gone, and Vishnam was left staring at that awful face once more. He sighed, for he knew there was nothing more he could do to help his friend.

"Well this is goodbye then. I just want you to know that I never expected you to do anything for me. That wasn't the point. All I ever wanted was for you to accept me, and the moment you did I was torn away from you. So I don't blame you for feeling off balance. But that doesn't mean you can't fix this. Can you forget all of this? For me?" Vishnam's pleading face was met with the top of Eric's head once more. Another eye was slowly being brought into existence, gored into the paper to stare along with its brethren. Eric breathed deeply as Vishnam sadly walked off, silently repairing the cracks in his shell.

*

Eric stared into the distance, not so much thinking as daydreaming. All of his thoughts seemed dominated by those eyes. Lawrence was looking at Eric with a tired look, as though the past few days had worn him down. His left eye was a violent shade of purple, and slightly closed. Eric's notepad lay open on the desk, and he was industriously scribbling away, entirely focused.

"Alright that's it for today." The teacher shut down the computer, and with a final glance around the table, left the room. Lawrence grinned tiredly, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left the room soon after. Eric stopped writing and looked up to check Lawrence had left, then slung his bag over his shoulder and followed him out. He felt as though he was walking in a dream, and his lack of sleep had begun to affect his vision. He saw Lawrence walk through the gate, into the darkness behind, and he followed. Each step echoed, the sides of the pavement dropping away into nothing. The moon was bright, and yellow, and repeated at regular intervals. The houses gaped at him, sick coloured mouths and glassy eyes that watched him, eyes everywhere. Lawrence was ahead of him, a shining light at the end of the tunnel. The figure turned left and with a moment's fumbling, entered the mouth, which clamped shut behind him. Eric approached the face, and in the eyes he could make out silhouettes. He could hear voices. They sounded loud and abrasive, and their harsh words seemed to snap him back into the other world. He looked at the shapes in the window, silhouettes behind the curtain, and while he could not distinguish the words, they were clearly angrily directed at Lawrence. Then he saw the bigger figure strike the smaller one, and even on the street he could feel the impact in his mind. Eric looked at the window, looked into the eyes of the house, and remembered whose eyes plagued his mind. Why they infested his head. Suddenly those eyes had a face to go with them, a bloodied face lying on the floor, a face staring out at him from that house. Eric looked at the house. Looked at the mouth. Knocked on the teeth. After a moment the door was answered by a surly looking man with a slightly unkempt beard.

"I'm here to see Lawrence. I'm a friend of his. May I come in?"

The man stared for a moment before replying. "Yeah alright. The fool's in his room." Eric walked past him and up the stairs, until he reached a door. He considered knocking, but after a moment's hesitation he simply opened the door and walked in. Lawrence was crying, his face buried in the pillow. He was half changed, his t-shirt hanging on a peg by the door, and his bare chest was a patchwork of scars and bruises. His face had a large bruise on the right side, matching his black left eye, and seemed strange in complexion. Upon closer inspection Eric realised that there were many more bruises and scars on his face, hidden under some sort of plaster. The room was similar to Eric's in size, most of it taken up by a bed, but the walls were covered in posters of heavy metal bands. People at the extreme end of the spectrum of humanity. One side of the wall was taken up by a dressing table, and on this was make-up. Products of all kind, designed to hide blemishes and spots. Lawrence noticed Eric for the first time, and made a muffled, scared sound.

"What are you doing in here? You're not supposed to see this! Get out!" But Eric didn't move. He didn't even speak. He simply looked, and understood. Why Lawrence acted as though he didn't care about anything, why his actions were so violent. The truth was he wasn't acting. He truly didn't care about what happened to him because nothing could be worse than what was already happening to him. Eric looked into his eyes, those fear-filled eyes, and he saw what Vishnam saw in him. He saw something broken, driven by fear, only in Lawrence's case he had no way of dealing with it. He couldn't use books to transport himself to another world, so instead he transformed himself. He painted his face, like a clown, and sought to entertain those around him, to gain the favour he could not gain elsewhere. And in that room, confronted by the person whose very name kindled an alien feeling of hate within him, Eric felt a connection. He looked at the eyes, and knew that they held no more power over him than Lawrence did now. For Eric knew what it felt like to be here, in this place of vulnerability and hopelessness. He had been there.

"Just...leave." Lawrence's voice wavered, but did not break. Eric nodded, and with a swift spinning motion he walked out the door. For a moment he stopped, wondering if he was doing the right thing. But he could stay no longer without arousing suspicion, and the man with the beard was already watching him closely. Eric left, and behind him floated the familiar sounds of humanity strained to breaking point.

*

Eric sat on his bed and looked at his notepad. The eyes stared at him, but they seemed different somehow. He had done something, though what it was he was not sure. He knew why Lawrence was how he was, and while he had not actively done anything to change him, he knew that simply by understanding something would be different. The veil was pierced, and now it could never be repaired. In a way Eric felt disgusted at what he'd done. He knew what it felt like to have a shell, how much he valued it and how vulnerable he felt without it. To have someone enter that space, to see him weakened, would be unforgiveable. And yet if there was anyone on this planet who would be allowed into that sphere, Eric felt it that right now it would be Lawrence. He understood what he had done, and would not have changed it had he been given the opportunity. Eric suddenly felt a flash of disgust for himself. Here he had been, thinking his life was horrible, and hating Lawrence for making it worse. And Lawrence had been living that for...well Eric didn't know how long. Judging by the state of his body the violence had obviously been going on for quite some time. To take his mind off it Eric looked at his hands, for some reason expecting a book to read. Instead he was greeted by his notebook, the eyes looking out innocently. He stared at them for a moment, and then in a sudden fervour threw it into the corner of the room. It was a memory of a dark time, and he wanted nothing to do with it. And in the act of throwing away the book, he realised he had fulfilled Vishnam's wishes of forgetting about it, about everything that had happened. He took a moment to think, not of anything particular at first, but gradually his attention turned to Lawrence. He would have to face him tomorrow, and he didn't know what to do. No. He did know what to do. He slowly looked around, and sheaf after sheaf of paper whispered the answer in his ear.

The bench had a ring of clear space round it. Eric sat on his own, physically distant from the others but also mentally distant too. The book lay in his lap, and Eric poured his attention into it, letting it absorb him. Vishnam had left two days ago, and since then nobody but Eric had come anywhere near the bench, or rather the "crime scene" as it was informally known within the school. The memories of such a violent incident had not been forgotten, and the students avoided it for reasons beyond their comprehension. It was almost primeval, the fear that surrounded the bench. Eric sat in the middle of it all, the eye of the cyclone, calm and collected. The truth was Eric was in turmoil. His way of concealing it was to put all his attention into the book, compress his feelings into the pages. That way he could maintain his shell without fear of it cracking. It was not that there was a need for it, because nobody would even go near him anymore, but more because he felt uncomfortable without it. After so long with his defences up he doubted whether he would ever be able to take them down, at least around other people. It was then he noticed Lawrence. His usual swaggering demeanour was in place, and in a way Eric admired that. Seeing him put on his mask and go out there again, after all that had happened and all that was probably still happening, Eric could appreciate that. In a way Lawrence was stronger than him, for he propped himself up with literature, whereas Lawrence had no such help. Eric watched him come over, holding his swagger until he arrived.

"Nothing changes does it?" said Eric. Lawrence was silent. "After everything that's happened, everything I know about you, the world forces us into the same positions as we were in before. Vishnam tried to change that. He tried to alter the world, and when he came up against an immovable force he pushed against it."

"I'm sorry about all of that. You know how I think when I'm here; everything is like...like a game, a test, ya know? It's a matter of appearance, appearance is everything. Appearance is how I deal with things, and yet it is the one part of me-"

"You're sorry? Is that it? You think you can just say sorry and it'll fix everything? I know exactly what you're going through and I know that doesn't excuse what you did!"

"It wasn't me that did that." Lawrence held his hands up.

"Then who was it!?"

"It's difficult to explain." Lawrence dragged a hand down his face. "That person who injured your friend, that wasn't me. Lawrence isn't me, Lawrence is... a mask, you know? A...what's the word?"

"Façade?"

"Yeah that. One person is at my house, battered and broken. And one person is here, confident, popular. Lawrence is here. I am Lawrence, but here." Eric was silent. "The only part of me that I cannot keep secret anymore is my appearance. How do you do it? How do you hold it together?"

"Hm." For a moment Eric was silent. "I deal with it in my own way." Eric reached into his bag and pulled out a second book, an old one. "I think you need this more than I do." Lawrence slowly took the book. It was in perfect condition except for a slight scuff mark on one cover, as though it had been dropped. Lawrence looked at Eric, surprised that he had shared such an intimate part of him, but Eric had already retreated to his own world. Lawrence looked at him.

"What do I do with this?"

"You entrust it with your secrets, and it will hold them for you." Eric looked at Lawrence, and the two boys shared a look. "We can't change our surroundings, but we can change ourselves so we perceive them differently." Eric gestured to Lawrence's book. For a moment Lawrence just looked at Eric, the silence heavy between them. Then he rubbed his eyes with his fingers, and as society forced the wall between them, the moment of companionship was gone. Lawrence simply left, just as Eric had left Lawrence last night. Eric didn't watch him go. Instead he took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, and turned the page.    

#old uni application thing #actually not bad

[fluorescentmythicalbeastie-blog]

Fantastic Eggs and Where to Find Them - Chapter 6: Gathering Clues

Aaaaand we’re back with some more of FEAWTFT! In the following chapter, there will be mention of a Mrs. Esposito. I couldn’t figure out if her name was Mrs. Estosito or Esposito (or something else), so PLEASE correct me if I’m wrong. Enjoy! 

Chapter 6 - Gathering Clues

Newt never really believed he’d have to be stuffed into a closet with Jacob, but once he was, he realized it was no easy task. Coats fell from hangers and shoes were crushed underfoot as Jacob and Newt stood belly-to-belly. Mrs. Esposito knocked rapidly on the apartment door. Queenie rushed to answer it.

“Hello, Mrs. Esposito!” said Queenie pleasantly.  “I heard a loud noise.” said a somewhat grouchy voice. “Oh yes, we have a nasty Boggart in the drawer of that table. It knocked over all our pictures!” said Queenie with a skillful hint of drama to her tone. Newt peered through the small crack of the closet door, daring for a peek. He could see Queenie bending down, picking up the pictures one by one. Mrs. Esposito, her back to Newt, was hovering over her. She was a short woman, slightly stout and obviously suspicious. Her wrinkled hands clung to her hips while she examined the messy floor. “I’ll have someone remove it, then.” said Mrs. Esposito. At that point, Newt was sure he’d be panicking, but, despite her unique personality, Queenie was as sly as a fox. She lazily assured Mrs. Esposito by saying “Tina can handle it!” and herding her landlady out the door. Newt straightened back up, inadvertently locking eyes with Jacob. “Who put a pool stick up her craw?” said Jacob, a goofy smile spreading across his lips as he jabbed his thumb in the direction of Mrs. Esposito. Newt didn’t understand what he meant, but he joined in the laugh.

 The night passed in jovial conversation between Queenie and Jacob. It was stifling and very awkward for the third wheel (namely, Newt). Occasionally, Newt would interject a word or two before sinking farther back into his dining chair. The food was piping hot and deliciously fresh; he enjoyed every minute of it. However, after nearly two hours stationary, he excused himself from his company with the intent on checking on the dragon egg. Jacob misunderstood Newt’s standing up and immediately followed with a cigarette pack in his hand. “Do you smoke?” he asked Newt, a hopeful glint in his eye. “Ah, no. I have to—” Newt tossed a pleading look at Queenie who giggled in amusement “—shower. I have to shower.” said Newt. Why would I be showering? Newt wasn’t very good at thinking up excuses on a dime. Jacob hadn’t asked how Queenie knew Newt and wouldn’t want to cast doubts across his mind, just in case he wasn’t yet aware that they were friends. The two, Jacob and Queenie were very much interested in each other. That was a fact. Thankfully, Jacob simply sighed and laughed in his charismatic manner. “Me neither. My Pop gave me these for my birthday and I don’t know what to do with them.” said Jacob, motioning with his pack of cigarettes. Newt hurriedly excused himself, leaving a bewildered Jacob.

         Newt felt like he was coming off a day-long rush. Every piece of furniture in his workshop looked like a cozy place to sleep. His stomach was full of delicious sustenance and the egg still appeared the same—whether that was good or bad, Newt did not know. Soon after pushing a heavy wheelbarrow into the Erumpet pen and dumping a load of smelly slop (it was her favorite), Newt collapsed onto the sofa outside his workshop. The enchanted sky glittered above his head and a heavy fog drifted across the floor. The Graphorns were moving dutifully across the horizon, the young trailing after the adults. Newt felt a stirring of pride as he watched the beasts; they were the last breeding pair in the world. Amongst all the lands that Newt held in his suitcase, connected by a series of ramps and small curtains, he felt most at home in the very heart of them. He had a worktable set up in the center where he ground herbs and sketched in his notebook. It was the place where Newt could hear the sounds of every one of his creatures and still call it peaceful.

         Drowsiness swiped at Newt. He was sprawled out on the couch now, still staring dreamily at the sky. Why does this couch smell like flowers? It was a question Newt never had cross his mind. He quickly remembered that Tina had been the last person to sleep on the couch. Remembering Tina, Newt felt a pang of loneliness. After all, it had been nice to have someone nearby to talk to… to look at when Newt needed advice and ideas. He rolled onto his side and allowed himself to be overcome by exhaustion. His eyes slowly shut and his brain began a reel of dreams, each one becoming more confusing than the former.

         Swirling mist parted to reveal the same, fiery scene of terror that Newt had feared would infiltrate his sleep again. The bellowing of a dragon shook the ground, accompanied by flashes of flame against hex. Newt was glued to the ground again, still unable to move. He was behind the same broad-shouldered figure. This time, the details were subtly clearer. Newt could make out the shaggy head of the person in front of him, signifying clearly that it was a man. He could make out the figures of fellow wizards around him, clutching ropes and wands in their hands. It was a nightmare that wouldn’t relinquish its hold on Newt.

         The image shifted—but only slightly. Newt didn’t remember taking any steps, but suddenly he was close enough to touch the man in front of him. An iron head spear materialized in the man’s hand and his breathing became labored with anticipation.

CRASH!

Down came the body of the giant beast, wrapped in enchanted ropes that refused to loosen. Scales clashed against bare rock and screams filled the air as a torrent of fire was spat into the distance. Wizards dropped to the ground and attempted to extinguish themselves. Despite the intensity of the situation, the man ahead showed no sign of running. Instead, he raised a large fist into the air. Action ceased. A buzzing silence filled the air. The dragon (its breed indistinguishable through the bleary trance) became unsure. It made a terrible blunder and became still, allowing its head to come in clear shot of every evildoer. Try as he might, Newt could not scream the dragon back into action. The bulky man leaned back, his muscles rippling below his arm as he readied his spear. He launched it with startling accuracy. Newt watched it whizz through the air, its shining point aimed directly for the dragon’s weakest point—its eyes.

Thunk.

         At first, Newt believed it was his sweat-soaked body that brought him from his night terror. It wasn’t until he was sitting up that he realized a figure was standing before him.

“Tina.” he said weakly, getting to his socked feet. Tina’s tired form backed away to give him space, her eyes wide with concern. Newt’s two top button to his shirt were undone and his hair felt like one giant knot. According to the sofa cushions strewn across the ground, he had been physically terrified during his unconsciousness. “What time is it?” asked Newt. The sun was nearly whole in the sky and the area was unusually warm. Even as Newt thought this, the temperature began to lower to adjust to his preferences.

“It’s early morning… I-I’m sorry for waking you.” said Tina, gratuitously apologizing. Newt shrugged it off and quickly returned his buttons to their rightful place.  He imagined he looked quite haggard, but Tina might’ve looked worse. Instead of her usual tall self, she looked short and out of energy. She clutched a folder in her one hand and her hat in the other. Her hair was messy and shadows loomed under eyes. She was absolutely exhausted—and she did it all for the egg? She’s a criminal catcher! Of course she wants to see Igor locked away… The dream attacked Newt’s mind like a parasite. He openly flinched, but played it off as itch on the back of his neck.

         The two assembled in the Goldstein kitchen, accompanied by Queenie. Tina brewed a cup of coffee for herself and a cup of tea for Newt, all while filling Queenie in on the past events. Queenie would occasionally gasp or look to Newt with admiration, to which he would shy away, but she otherwise remained wordless. Finally, after the pair seated themselves around Newt, Tina began to relay her own discoveries. “I wasn’t on the investigative team for Igor Orgnuk—his background goes a lot deeper than I realized. Just look!” Tina opened the folder and drew out a thick group of pages stapled together. The papers were full of typed names under the list of “Frequent Contacts” Each one also had an updated bio next to them. Most of them were in prison. Newt scanned the names, immediately recognizing a few as notorious beast breeders. “He’s been abroad for years, but he’s originally from the Soviet Union.” Tina revealed yet another page, this time listing the known locations of Igor during his travels. Newt stood and began to pace the apartment while listening. His mind was focused heavily on Smidgens, but his train of thought was successfully broken by the reappearance of a picture frame. Its contents played in a never ending loop. Tina and Queenie stood shoulder to shoulder, young in the face, but still bright in the eyes. The significance of the picture belonged to that of a boy. He stood closely at Tina’s side—very closely.

“Newt?” Tina called from the kitchen. He redeployed himself to the case.

“There’s a pattern here.” Newt announced, approaching the table and running his finger across the locations on the map. “He’s visited all the places where dragons have habitats.” To this, Queenie sighed and shook her head in dismay. “Well, we already know he’s a well-known dragon hunter.” Yes, this was true, but there was still something more. Newt remained silent while Tina flipped through other papers, shooting off exclamations at the size. Newt looked up at the two, suddenly asking “What if he’s doing more than hunting the dragons? What if he’s hunting their eggs and illegally trading them on the side?” Tina and Queenie exchanged a brief look of suspicion before they both nodded at each other. Sister ESP, Newt thought with amusement. “It makes sense, but how would we prove it?” said Tina. Newt leaned back in his chair and idly fingered the leather handle of his suitcase. A creature or two rattled around inside, but he paid no attention to them. There was a piece of evidence lurking somewhere… he could almost grab it…

“Do you have a full list of all the dragon he’s hunted? If we were to prove they all had eggs...” Newt cut himself short. He barely knew that Smidgens had eggs and he considered himself a bit of an expert in that field. How were they supposed to know if dragons twenty years prior had eggs? Tina tried her best to accommodate him. “We do for the last five years, but any more than that is pretty spotty…” she said, tossing a terse glance at a clock on the wall. The clock chimed loudly, revealing to the apartment that is was now eight o’clock in the morning. Queenie was next to speak. “Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do.” she propped her chin on her hands and looked to Newt and Tina expectantly. Newt allowed his pale green gaze to connect with Tina’s poignant brown eyes. She, too, looked confused. “We have to find out who he sold the eggs to.” said Queenie, tugging a document loose from Tina’s grasp. It was the contact list. They’d have to comb through the entire paper. Fueled by tea, coffee and hot breakfast biscuits, the trio began their search for the possible buyer of Smidgens’ eggs.

*Feedback is appreciated!*

#newtina #newt scamander #Porpentina Scamander #tina goldstein #fantastic eggs and where to find them #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beasts spoilers #fantastic beasts movie #jacob kowalski #jakweenie #queenie goldstein

[kelpiesedge]

Our winning entry is...

Congratulations to Chloe Higgins, the winner of our Trespassers fan fiction competition!

We asked Ferryman fans to write a piece of fan fiction telling the story of another soul ferried by Tristan. You can read author Claire McFall’s favourite entry below. Chloe will receive copies of Ferryman and Trespassers, signed by the author.

Thank you to everyone who entered!

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Tristan Orlando Fraser, Attorney at Law.

Nice ring to it, not that Tristan cared, but his attention to detail came as naturally as breathing. Work that one out, he thought wryly. He was dressed in a smart but not overly-expensive looking charcoal suit, crisp shirt, background tie. His shoes were the same nut-brown as the attaché case he carried, both formal and professional, yet neither flashy or new. You would place him at around forty, tall, broad. Physical looking enough to command respect, yet not so bulky as to pick a fight. His sandy hair, flecked with the odd strand of grey, fell closer to his eyes than was fashionable around southern U.S courtroom corridors, but it relaxed his look, and besides, he liked it.

He was ready.

---

Buzzing. Low, persistent. Maybe more like humming, droning. The noise gradually asserting itself further into Dante’s subconscious until he was awake. His rather random first thought was that some screw must have ruined their lunch- there was a strong smell of burnt toast. Or could it be bacon… Keeping his eyes closed against the bright overhead lights, he ditched thoughts of food and tried to make sense of the last few hours. Flexing his wrists and ankles revealed no restraint or pain. Surely…? He forced his eyes open and blinking looked around. Empty, just like the room he could see through the window opposite the chair in which he sat. This is weird, man. Slowly getting to his feet, he was suddenly aware of a figure standing in the periphery over his shoulder. Turning to face him, the suited man was already taking a step and extending his arm in offer of a handshake.

“Dante Prince? I’m Tristan Fraser. I’m a lawyer. Your lawyer, as it happens…”

Dante returned the shake tentatively. “What happened to Edwards?”

“He’s been replaced.” Pity it wasn’t sooner Tristan thought, the man’s reputation went before him even to the afterlife. “I’ve got good news. The final appeal was successful. If you’d like to come with me there’s some business that needs taken care of with the governor…”

Dante’s black skin seemed to blanch at the mention of the man and he nervously raked a big hand over his freshly shaved head.

“Don’t know how much you know, Mr Fraser. But that man had it in for me from the beginning. Can’t see how any business we have with him can be good”.

“He doesn’t have ultimate jurisdiction. I can imagine you’re keen to be out of here. If you’d like to follow me, we can chat on the way. I’m sure you have questions”. Tristan kept his tone relaxed, confident, willing the young man to trust him.

It was a fine line for those who had been executed.

Denial was strong, and if the sentence had been administered humanely enough the victims often had no memory of it. That wasn’t always the case, and Tristan was all too aware of times where the trauma had been so severe it was impossible for the soul’s subconscious to create any kind of calm in the wasteland. Those journeys were practically over before they had begun, so it was vital to keep this one sweet and get him on his way as soon as possible, before reality dawned. Tristan smiled gently and raised his eyebrows, nodding slightly towards the door. “Shall we?”

Dante looked numbly into the lawyer’s face. His mind was reeling. There was so much in him that wanted to believe he had finally gotten that reprieve, that truth had prevailed and he had been found innocent after all. Back at his arrest he had been confident of that outcome, but slowly as appeal followed trial it had become more and more apparent that not only did people WANT him to be guilty, they NEEDED him to be guilty. What once was certainty slipped into the dream that had driven out nightmares on death row, but was now a far-fetched impossibility. Or was it? What if this lawyer guy had somehow managed to pull off a miracle? Granted enough amnesty types had tried (and failed) over the last few years… Maybe this dude had just gone and cracked it. He looked like he might have a clue. Dante blinked and shook his head slightly, as if banishing doubt. Hell why not? It’s not as if walking out of here could land him in any more trouble…

“Ok Mr Fraser, let’s get out of here.”

The short journey out of the high security prison, fresh in Dante’s mind, went without hitch. Tristan had unearthed some “documents” and had instructed Dante to stay silent behind him whilst he presented them. Gates and doors had opened and before long the pair were standing on a dirt road on the far side of the 3.5m high wire-topped prison fence. The only time Dante had said anything was when they were passing the prison health centre. Through a bar-lined window both men had noticed a grey-haired woman working at a file-covered desk, tears silently splashing the papers below.

“That’s Dr. Brooks” Dante told Tristan. “She’s the best, she’s kind to all of us you know? She always believed me. I hope she’s ok. I’ve got to go see her, tell her I’m getting out…”

“There’s no time” Tristan interrupted “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll see her again. Wouldn’t you rather it was in a nicer place?” he encouraged, finding himself hoping that this would be the case. Odd, he didn’t think much about life beyond the line, didn’t usually care about the emotions of the souls he was ferrying. He almost felt a connection with this one, and was resolute about seeing him through.

“Fair enough” Dante had mumbled. “Just hope she’s ok.” And without another word, dropped his eyes and continued to the exit.

The dirt track lead away from the prison into a flat expanse of desert. In the distance Tristan could pick out the first safe house, slightly hazy in the heat. The hardest part of the day was over, he surmised, and he was confident they would be in for the night long before the wraiths started roaming the sandy plains. Truth could wait until then.  Exploiting the last bit of denial gripping Dante’s subconscious, the Ferryman turned to face him. “All right, Mr Prince” he said, gesturing into the distance “You see that cabin? I have a satellite office there. I suggest we start walking, it won’t take us long and by the time my driver gets here, well we could already be sitting enjoying a cool refreshment, toasting your freedom.” Tristan turned and began striding purposely towards the cabin, hopeful that Dante would follow him. A few beats later, after starting to question whether he might have gone too far and laid it too thick, he relaxed as he heard heavy footsteps falling into line behind. The sky was still and bright. So far so good…

The closer Dante drew to the “office” in the desert, the more he was conflicted. Dazzled by the brightness of the sunlight, dazed by the day’s astonishing events, he was acutely aware that he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was also GLAD that he wasn’t thinking clearly. This hazy, simple task of following the lawyer was comfortable, easy. Facing into the fact that nothing the man had told him in the last thirty minutes added up was much more difficult. And difficult was something he could do without. Difficult pretty much summed up his last decade and more of life. But difficult was difficult for a reason, and difficult was starting to line up the facts on the cusp of his consciousness. And he wasn’t going to be able to ignore them for much longer.

FACT. He had been found guilty of the rape and murder of Ann McKenzie.

Tristan looked up, alarmed by how suddenly clouds had drawn in and darkened the horizon.

FACT. Every. Single. Appeal. Had failed.

The sky instantly became black, heavy, ominous.

FACT. He lived in the state of Alabama.

The temperature dropped, and there was an uncomfortable buzzing in the air.

FACT. Earlier that afternoon, he, Dante Prince, had been strapped to a chair, and by the power of the state of Alabama, electricity had been passed through his body until he was dead.

Lightening ripped through the sky with such ferocity Tristan could never remember seeing such a storm.

“RUN!”

He immediately circled behind his charge, attempting to push and drive him forward. But the man remained rooted to the spot.

“DANTE! MOVE! NOW!”

The wailing and moaning of the gathering wraiths could be heard even above the raging of the storm. The safehouse was only a couple of hundred meters away, but might as well be lightyears going by the rapid turn of events and the soul’s unwillingness to move forward. Tristan was at a loss. Rarely had the climate changed so quickly. But he was damned if he was going to lose this soul to it.

“Come on Dante,” he begged, getting close to his soul’s ear. “You’ve got to get moving. A few more metres and we’re done and I can explain everything.” Dante raised his head and looked him in the eye, wordlessly questioning why he should accept any explanation that might be offered. Tristan nodded curtly in reply. “I know. But if we don’t move now it’s all over. Do it Dante. Do it for Annie…” The sky exploded at the sound of her name, lightning bolt crashing against lightning bolt. The last sentence was the cliché to end all clichés, but it worked, and the man was off and running, running towards the safe house at a pace with which Tristan struggled to keep up. In a matter of seconds both were arriving at the cabin door, Dante reaching there first, but it was Tristan who opened the door and ushered his charge inside. Throwing off the wraith that had caught up and was clawing at his ankle, Tristan struggled into the pool of light offered by the cabin door and slammed it shut. On the other side, Dante was standing tall, looking more together than Tristan had ever seen him.

“So I’m dead, yeah,” Dante stated, matter-of-fact, “What’s with all this then?”

Outside the lightening stopped, the storm receding. Calmness overtook and even the lurking wraiths seemed to quieten. Tristan relaxed, perhaps this might be ok after all. Gesturing for Dante to sit on the corner of a narrow bed, he propped himself on the arm of the thread-bare chair opposite.

“You are correct. You did die today. All this- “he gestured around, letting his hand return pointing back at himself, “It’s part of your journey. I’m your Ferryman. I’m here to escort you, escort your soul, across the wasteland to the world beyond.”

Dante’s eyes widened and a smile grew on his face. “I’m REALLY dead. But I’m still here. Wherever here is. I’m somewhere. I still exist- I DO exist, don’t I Mr Fraser?”

Existence. That was a topic Tristan himself had had plenty of time to mull over, and he hadn’t really reached a conclusion. “You exist.”

“This is so cool! What’s the deal with you taking me to the pearly gates or wherever? I can’t go myself I take it?”

“No. You don’t know the way, and the noise you hear outside? Those are wraiths, waiting to devour you.” Way to lay on the drama Tristan, he thought to himself.

But Dante was unperturbed. “My momma says you can’t get to heaven on your own. Looks like she’s right. She was the last face I saw,” he remembered, a tenderness coming over his as he swung his long legs round and lay back on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling. “She wasn’t all that worried. Last thing she said to me was that she was happy for me, my time of being framed and wrongly accused on death row was over, and I was going to spend eternity in the arms of baby Jesus.” With that thought he quickly turned his head towards Tristan “Is that where I’m heading?”

Tristan almost shrugged. “It’s not for me to know, or tell. You all have your own journeys, we just help you along a section of them.” 

Dante wanted to ask more about this Ferryman of his, but he was suddenly feeling weary. Pleasantly weary. It seemed like this was the first time he had been able to relax in over a decade. He was a free man. Free from death row, free from the constraints of life. And free to find his Annie again. He wanted to ask Tristan if she would be there, wherever he was going. If HE existed after death, surely SHE still existed too. But he was under, slipping deeper into his subconscious, into a place where he could see Annie standing beside him. As sweet and beautiful and as alive as ever. Tristan watched him smile as he slept. Souls didn’t need to sleep, of course, but the habit was deeply ingrained, an echo of life that the subconscious held on to. For a time, anyway. But on this first night, Tristan was sure he’d have a good eight hours to sit alone with his thoughts. Outside the night remained still, the wraiths subdued. Never had he known a soul to be so content, no, so happy to be dead. Clearly life before death had been grim for Dante, but more so he was desperate to be reunited with his Annie.

Annie. Tristan didn’t know anything about her, other than her boyfriend, his most recent soul, had been wrongly executed for her murder. But something was starting to grate with him. He didn’t know their story, shouldn’t know their story. Over the next few days as Dante travelled towards the line, Tristan knew from experience he would no doubt be privy to an account of the dead man’s life in gory detail. But what was grating, even chilling, was that Tristan felt in part that he knew their story already. Annie… Dante… DANTE! How could he have forgotten that name? One of Dante’s mother’s biggest regrets was the fact that she had named her first-born and only son Dante. This was before she met the Lord, of course, Tristan had been told with amused affection. She wished she had had the foresight to call him Joshua; that was a name to be proud of. A name like Dante, well you were pretty much destined for the silver screen, or pro football. Or prison… The conversation, over a decade old, back played clearly in Tristan’s mind. He knew their story because he had already been told half of it. By Annie herself. And he knew how devastatingly it ended.

Dante sighed a contented sigh, smiling again in his sleep. Across the room his Ferryman was stricken. How were they going to make it through the next few days?

#Ferryman #Trespassers #Claire McFall #Fan fiction #writing #competition #winner