according to M.H. Abrams in A Glossary of Literary Terms, is a description of “one kind of sensation in terms of another; color is attributed to sounds, odor to colors, sound to odors, and so on.” Here is an example of synesthesia from Bruno Schulz’s Street of the Crocodiles: “Adela would plunge the rooms into semidarkness by drawing down the linen blinds. All colors immediately fell an octave lower [my italics]; the room filled with shadows, as if it had sunk to the bottom of the sea and the light was reflected in mirrors of green water.” Schulz describes a change in color by means of a musical term. Writers consciously and unconsciously employ this peculiar method to convey the irreducible complexity of life onto the page. Diane Ackerman (in A Natural History of the Senses) feels we are born with this wonderful “intermingling” of senses: “A creamy blur of succulent blue sounds smells like week-old strawberries dropped into a tin sieve as mother approaches in a halo of color, chatter, and perfume like thick golden butterscotch. Newborns ride on intermingling waves of sight, sound, touch, taste, and, especially, smell.” Use synesthesia in a short scene—surreptitiously, without drawing too much attention to it—to convey to your reader an important understanding of some ineffable sensory experience. Use “sight, sound, touch, taste, and, especially, smell.” 600 words.

Write a 500-word sketch of a scene in which a character has an experience that causes her to recall a startlingly similar past experience. Juxtapose the two scenes, the present one and the past one, on top of each other, writing, for instance, two or three sentences of the present moment, then alternating back and forth between present and past that way. Show the reader the remembered scene by use of Italics. Why would a character be haunted like this? Think of a convincing reason for the deja vu experience. Or don’t worry too much about convincing reasons—just let some strange set of events impinge on the present moment of your character. Be playful with the relationship. Simple advice to beginners: don’t be heavy-handed. It’s easier said than done, I know, but you can train yourself to relax and honor your readers with difficult and unusual human patterns of behavior. Always flatter your readers by proposing a complex and unexpected reality.

Write a 600-word first-person story in which you use the first person pronoun (“I” or “me” or “my”) only two times—but keep the “I” somehow important to the narrative you’re constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself or herself than in what he or she is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees a very interesting event in which she is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make him self-effacing yet a major participant in the events related. The people we tend to like most are those who are much more interested in other people than in themselves, selfless and caring, whose conversation is not a stream of self-involved remarks (like the guy who, after speaking about himself to a woman at a party for half an hour, says, “Enough about me, what do you think of me?”). Another lesson you might learn from this exercise is how important it is to let things and events speak for themselves, beyond the ego of the narration. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece, to realize that this is a first person narration. Show us quickly who is observing the scene.

Write a “conversation” in which no words are said. This exercise is meant to challenge you to work with gesture, body language (or, as a baseball announcer I heard once misspeak it, body English), all the things we convey to each other without words. We often learn more about characters in stories from the things characters do with their hands than from what they say. It might be best to have some stranger observe this conversation, rather than showing us the thoughts of one of the people involved in the conversation, because the temptation to tell us what the conversation is about is so great from inside the conversation. “I was doing the opposite of Freud,” Desmond Morris says, of his famous book The Naked Ape that first studied the ways humans speak with their bodies. “He listened to people and didn’t watch; I watched people and didn’t listen.” Because of Morris, according to Cassandra Jardine, “when politicians scratch their noses they are now assumed to be lying—and the sight of the Queen [Elizabeth] crossing her legs at the ankles is known to be a signal that her status is too high for her to need to show sexual interest by crossing them further up.” Autistic children cannot understand human conversation even when they understand individual words because they cannot read facial expressions, which is clear evidence of how important other forms of language are. 600 words.

Tape-record a conversation. It’s a tried and true method of understanding how people talk, but still surprisingly effective. Obtain permission of the people you are taping. Instruct your group each to tell one small lie during the session, only one lie. Tell them, if they get curious, that some philosophers think that deception was a crucial learned behavior in the emergence of modern consciousness several thousand years ago. You can participate in the conversation yourself, but don’t become an interviewer. Let the machine run for a good long while, allowing your friends to become comfortable and less aware of the tape recorder. Listen to the tape a day or two later. Play it several times. Choose some small part of the conversation to transcribe (the lies may be interesting, if you can spot them, but more interesting should be all the other stuff they say). Transcribe as faithfully as you can. Do not transcribe more than one page of talk. After that, fill out the conversation with information about the people who are speaking, giving us only details about them that we need to know. The final product should be no longer than two pages long, double-spaced.ould never do.

The stars had been warm and flickering when seen through the atmospheric haze of the planet below, their song beckoning to those on the planet’s surface to their embrace. Now, as Laen stared out through the orbital station’s viewport, they were cold and hostile, whispering cold threats of annihilation to the life of privilege Laen had known before. Even as the youngest son of the House of Toille, he had lived with no whim uncatered for, and no craving unanswered. The stars offered a life barren of these comforts.

The contrast between planet and orbital station was as stark as that of the clothed and naked stars. On planet, colours shouted and hollered for attention, sounds were bright and jarring; musical but discordant, leaving one giddy and disoriented. Smoke and incense whirled everywhere, the smells hot and heady. Here, the sombre tones were bland and steady, providing a sense of balance. Even the smell of the station was pale and unintrusive.

Laen wished he could remain in this halfway house. A haven from both the blurry cacophany of home and the sibilant threat of the stars. For the first time in his life, Laen felt as if he belonged. However, his birth denied him the option of military service, and therefore a life on the orbital platform, and the actions of his brother denied him the gaudy “comforts” of home.

Purple waves of nausea washed over Laen as he recalled the duel that had led to exile for his brother, but also for himself, as he acted as his brother’s second. Though he had long felt ill at ease in his life, it was the only one he had ever known. Heading out into the galaxy was a step into the unknown.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Laen jumped at his brother’s voice, “the stars, I mean. The light seems so seductive… it is almost purring, don’t you think?”

Laen nodded, though he did not agree. “When will we be leaving the station?”

Cuelo continued to stare at the stars as he spoke quietly, “We are booked on a transport three days from now. The trading company will provide all the comforts we require, quite unlike this drab and grey-smelling orbital. All we have to do in exchange is provide them with some glamour to impress their backwards customers.”

Laen gave a weak, citric smile, attempting to join his brother’s enthusiasm, but failing badly. “I shall miss this orbital,” his smile became somewhat more genuine. “I don’t believe I have ever had so much time to myself before.”

Cuelo laughed, “But brother, how can you enjoy your own company when you are so dull? Perhaps you really do fit in here!” Cuelo’s next laugh almost took the bitter sting out of the remark, but the taste still lingered. Laen was accustomed to the flavour of his brother’s quips, however, and the moment passed.

As soon as he entered the corridor, Cofar knew what was going to happen next. I know this, I know this… So why don’t I know this, damnit? Cofar was dragged down the corridor by inevitability, his feet walking forward without instruction from his mind. This has happened before, and is happening again. WHAT IS HAPPENING? The acrid smoke in the corridor was matched by a humming fog in Cofar’s own mind, the march of his thoughts were fixed on a path he could not control.

A ceiling collapsed behind Cofar.

(A ceiling collapsed behind Cofar. No help would be able to follow now. Nic, Huelo, they would never find another way in time. He must find the princess before…)

As soon as it happened, he had known all along that it would happen. No help would be able to follow now. What help? There is no-one else to help. Cofar shook his head, but the fog would not clear. He must find the princess before the hunters. The corridor turned left, and a panel cracked and split under his feet, as he suddenly had known it would. Cofar growled below his breath. I knew it… but I knew it a fraction too late. Concentrate. Concentrate!

Passing a window (Passing a window) a body of a crewmember floated into view (a body of a crewmember floated into view). Cold vacuum had ravaged the crewmember (the crewmember.) Tendrils of (Tendrils of frozen) frozen fluid (fluid) streamed from mouth (streamed from mouth and nose) and nose.

Almost! Cofar staggered, shaking his head. Almost… I can almost…

Emerging into the reception chamber, Cofar saw the princess (his princess, almost completely hidden behind) behind the edge of the curtain.

“Come girl,” said Cofar, “I am here to take (take you to safety) you to safety.”

The princess emerged from behind the (His princess emerged from the behind the arras, smiled at the sight of her grizzled old warrior.) arras, confusion flickering on her face at the sight of the strange, icy-hued warri… (a muffled sound behind Cofar caught his attention. As he turned, he saw the triumph on the face of the Duke.) Cofar turned. As he raised his own weapon, he saw the Duc’s look of dismay as his weapon caught on his cloak. (The muzzle flashed and Cofar fell, turning back to his princess as she fell too, screaming as she fell, burning.) The Duc fell, lifeless, and Cofar turned back to the princess. He fell to his knees.

Why could I save this one? Why couldn’t I save mine? It isn’t fair. Nic, Huelo, I couldn’t help her.

I don’t fink most of ‘em even notice when us cleaners are in their classrooms. So hiiigh and miiighty. Bloody stuck up is what they are! It’s like, last week, one of ‘em - that big fat one what looks like Phil outta Eastenders, right? Well, there ‘e was, tappin’ away at ‘is keyboard… like anyone ever done anythin’s important one one o’ those poxy contraptions! Anyway, so there he is, an’ in walks that new one, what thinks she is so damn special. Never says ‘ello to no-one, does she? Five times a week she gets her lab cleaned, and has she ever once said “‘ello”, or a “ta”? Has she bloody hell as like! Snooty cow. Anyway, only got eyes for the baldy one, she has, though he either doesn’t see it, or don’t fancy ‘er! Haha! He must have some sense about him. Now, she says to him, “Oooh, are you going to the staff party? Ooo-oo-ooo, whose table are you sitting at?” So, anyways, this lad’s got a bit more savvy about ‘im than to play Little Miss’s game, and he tells her that he ain’t goin’. It were just like that time in Corrie when Andy were tryin’ to get that cute half-caste girl who worked in the salon to go t’ dog track wiv ‘im, an’ she weren’t havin’ none of it! Haaar! Other way round this time though, weren’ it? The lad don’t wanna hear it from the bird. So anyways, she storms off in a proper huff, and no mistake! Like Bianca when she lost all ‘er money to that fella what was doin’ the scam at the bookies and convinced ‘er to let ‘im invest her money for her, and then Frank was tellin’ her what a divvy cow she was. So, twenny minutes later, and he wanders off, and she comes back in, bold as brass she was, and goes to ‘is computer, and starts just readin’ though his… whajumicallit, email thingies, and she starts getting the right hump. Hilarious, it was! “How dare he?!” she says, and, “Never let him get away with it.” Now, no surprises, but ‘e walks back in, and she is still sat there, and she turns around, all sweetness and light, like that two-faced cow Janine in Eastenders when she was tryin’ t’ con Alfie into lettin’ her run the Queen Vic for ‘im, and she smiles at him. “Is the printer working on yoooour computer,” she asks, all sweetness and light, like butter wouldn’t melt! Now, the Phil-fella, ‘e just says to ‘er upfront, like, that he were gonna go, then he weren’t an’ now he is, and how he’s gonna sit wiv’ all the English and Drama lot, but there ain’t no more spaces, and you shoulda seen ‘er face! She goes mental, just like that crazy bird in Hollyoaks what was Will and Dodger’s mum, but got put away in a mental bin by that bastard Headteacher, and she literally throws a board rubber at him and runs out cryin’. Poor little cow. Should be bloody interestin’ seein’ what happens at the Christmas party, if they both go. Mind you, I’ll not see it. They never invite the bloody cleaners, do they?

Echion sat hunched on his end of the low bench, nestled into the interior curves of the horse’s great wooden haunches. Dim light shone in through the thin cracks in the carved wooden planks forming the back of the great gift. Gently his left foot began to tap and he scratched the back of his neck.

Menelaus looked over at him and raised one eyebrow, frowning. When Echion returned his regard, Menelaus reached down and casually scratched his balls. Echion stopped tapping and grinned widely, bit his lip and swept an errant lock of hair from his eyes. Echion flexed his biceps and in return, Menelaus thumped his chest. Thoas, next to Echion, mimed a sigh and Menelaus grinned back at them both. Diomedes, on the other side, opened one eye from his apparent slumber, and promptly closed it again. Echion laid his hands gently on his knees, sinking more comfortably into his seat as he did so. Moments later though, he was alternating between rubbing at the bridge of his nose and biting his nails.

Menelaus looked over to Odysseus and frowned, then looked back to Echeion. Odysseus looked that way too, and scratched his temple. Making eye contact with Menelaus, he then looked briefly at Thoas and Diomedes, either side of Echion, then back to Menelaus. Odysseus nodded carefully, and Menelaus shrugged and returned the nod. Odysseus stretched his legs slightly, and disturbed the resting Anticlus opposite, who shuffled and batted away an imaginary fly, but returned to his original position.

The sounds from outside the great wooden horse had died down sometime earlier, but now the sound of a crowd returning could be heard. After a few moments, a hush descended and a voice could be heard calling out.

“Thoas? Thoas, are you there? It is I, Aphra, your wife!” Thoas sat up, and looked to from Menelaus to Odysseus, eyes wide.

“I am come all the way from Aetolia to beseech you to return home!” Odysseus dipped his head, but kept eye contact with Thoas and shook his head gently. Thoas shook his head fiercely from side to side, gritted his teeth and took to staring ahead.

Another voice called out, “Diomedes? Hear me Diomedes, I am here, it is I, Pria! The war has ended, won’t you come out and kiss me?” Diomedes, opened one eye briefly and quietly kissed his teeth before returning to whatever scene occupied the inside of his eyelids.

Now a good number of the Greeks were looking back and forth at each other. Podalrius and Sthenelus rolled their eyes at each other, and Teucer and Idomeneus closed their eyes and shook their heads, but other men but their lips and squinted before tears could emerge .

Then another voice called out.

“Anticlus? Anticlus, are you there?” Anticlus’s eyes shot open, and he gripped the wrists of Neoptelemus and Sthenelus either side of them so hard that their eyes widened and they glared at Anticlus. Anticlus, oblivious, took a deep breath

Odysseus’ hand shot across the gap between them and clamped on Anticlus’ mouth. A whimper escaped, but Odysseus held firm and raised his other finger to his lips.

After a pause, the voice came again. “Anticlus, is that you? It is I, Laodamia. My love, won’t you answer?” All eyes in the dim light of the horse were now on Anticlus and Odysseus. Anticlus’s eyes bore into Odysseus’, but Odysseus swept his head once, firmly from left to right. Anticlus ceased struggling, but held the gaze.

When a new voice came, it did not call to Anticlus, and his shoulders sagged. Odysseus took the hand from Anticlus’s mouth and laid it instead in his shoulder, gripping firmly, but kindly. Anticlus looked again at laid one hand on his heart, as a tear fell. Around the insides of the horse, thirty-seven other heads nodded slowly. Diomedes opened one eye, and closed it again.

The Final Lights: An exercise in Synethesia.

Everything was loud. Every sound bit deep into his ears, and stayed there, clinging with bitter intensity. He could not shake off the subdued ringing, nor clear the distorted and searing stabs of light that attacked again and again. A wall of white noise hit him again, and for a second, he managed to focus on the face it came from. No words for him. Just painful, burning noise.

He felt the earth tremble as a sudden darkness moved past and shook him, and as it passed, the screaming lights recommenced their assault. He raised a hand to block them off, hoping to crawl back into the quieter shadows, but it was no good; the change was just as jarring as the constant flashes, and the blue pain at the back of his eyes had yet to subside.

***

She watched him shy away from the window as the lorry shuddered its way past, and felt a stab of pity. So long he had been like this, a pale ghost of a vibrant life. He coughed a wracking cough, and with it came a salty brown odour, like decaying bread. She resisted the urge to recoil from the pungent smell.

It pained her to see him like this, a hunched, choking and faded shell of a man. So long it had been now, since it began. The sudden fall from the height of life to the long, slow deterioration that had made him this; a sickly, watery remnant of who she remembered him to be. A single tear snaked its way down her face.

He was dying, she knew that. It had been three months since they had known for sure, and ever since then the days had seemed ever greyer. Every sunrise had taken on a sour note like the last bars of a sullen lament, and it set each day with the weight of a thousand year’s pain. Each of his rattling breaths pierced at her heart like the slow point of a needle sewing the tapestry of her own dying moments on the fabric of time.

She reached down and lifted the white china cup to his greying lips and tilted it gently, taking care not to let the tea spill. He sipped weakly, drawing in only a tiny amount of the liquid, and a moment later, coughed again.

***

The pain was unbearable this time, burning and freezing, screaming in silence, dark and light. Waves of blue pain throbbed behind his eyes as orange-white agony burned them away. With every movement came a creaking, sombre ache, a note played an octave lower than was right. The dissonant crashes rose to a crescendo of colour and the world fell apart.

He had no idea how long this went on, a minute, a year, a lifetime; all were only quantifiers for the anguish. And then, all at once, it stopped. The light was no longer blinding, the sound no longer stabbing, and the hot-cold shudders of movement fell still. The stormy blue pain faded to reveal a calm and clear sky. Seeing again for the first time the face he loved, her eyes singing him into the calm, he knew. He knew it was over, the age of torture.

And with that sudden knowing there came a sweeter, softer light, calling him away with the songs he had been unknowingly waiting for all his life. He stood without moving, and walked, slowly, into this new place, leaving behind the body that had endured so much pain. He stepped into the song and became a part of it, a voice among thousands calling home the lost.

***

She watched his face change, from the wordless and soundless scream to the tranquil, bright peace, and she knew. She knew it was over, the age of worry. She took his hand but there was no warmth, no sense of life, only stillness. He was at peace now, and as the last rays of sunlight sung him away, her own heart joined the song, a lament and a prayer and an echo of younger days.

And as the last notes faded, it was over. For her too, it was over.

Last Ship to Mars/2117/Long Walk Home (an exercise in Déjà vu)

‘I need to get away’ was all he could think as he made his way through the meandering queue. Judging from the sprawling mass of human desperation before him, it seemed the sentiment was shared by thousands, maybe millions. The huge bulk of the starship, that last starship away from Earth, consumed the skyline that was once London, and that now served as the launch pad for humanity’s last chance.

“Your last chance” she said, eyes dangerously close to flooding. “You can go, but I’m not coming with you.” He took a step towards the door and then stepped back.

He stepped back as a grav-bike raced past, no doubt some adrenaline addict enjoying the last few days before Earth went dark. With the Martian colony having officially closed the borders, supplies were running dangerously low. Earth had less than a week left before the lights went out forever. The lights-

“The light’s going out, love. What are you gonna do then, eh? Sit around here and knit your way to the apocalypse? Hope that madman from down the street can feed the both of you? There’s no other way. This is the last chance.”

“Last chance!” a vendor called from somewhere along the road. “Real Earth baked taties. Get ‘em while they’re ‘ot”. The queue shuffled forwards another yard or so, as the vendor made his way back along. Clearly staying. No one wanting out of this madness would walk away from the starship. There was every chance-

“There’s every chance you won’t get a seat. Every ‘sane’ human, a term you so lovingly exclude me from, will be heading to that ship, and we’re half a country away. You’ll never make it there on time. Just stay here and wait. Come on, it’s better than walking all that way and not getting a spot.”
“I have to try, my love. I have to.”

“Try ‘em, sir? Real Earth baked ‘taties. Only cost’ya a penny.”
“I’ve not got a penny spare.” He replied grimly.
“Well that ring yeh’ve got there, that’s gotta be worth a few.” The vendor was desperate now, jabbing at the metal band on his left hand. He reached for the ring and-

“Fine, then. Just take this.” she handed him the ring. “Take this and remember me. Remember me.” he took the ring, the metal warm from the heat of her hand. He pocketed it, hefted his backpack again, and headed for the door, not waiting long enough to see her cry. Better that way.

- paused for a moment. The metal, cold in the night air, seemed suddenly heavy.
“No.” he said, “Just no.”
“Something special, is it?” the vendor asked, grinning like a madman at the apocalypse. “Surely can’t be worth more than one last taste o’ Earth? Not now. C’mon sir, last chance!”
“Yes. Yes it is.” His eyes found something in the distance, something he couldn’t see, and the ring went back in his pocket. “My last chance.” He stood a little straighter, waved the vendor away with an air of finality, and turned. “My last chance.”

“Come home.” was the last thing he head.

And he began to walk, one step at a time; the long, slow walk home.

Countdown (an exercise in Body Language)

The Somme, France, 1st July 1916

Corporal Smith watched as each of the men in turn got the news, the word of impending slaughter winding its way inexorably down the trench in a wave of panic. Men reached for rifles before putting them aside, and fishing in their pockets for trinkets and memories of home. Some curled into balls or sunk into silent prayer, and a few, just a few, just stood, resolute and unthinking, by the firing step, rifles in hand and faces vacant..

He made out Johnson and Robson among the mess of khaki and mud and dim light, and each of them gave a wordless nod, not meeting his eyes. Johnson nervously tapped a rhythm on the butt of his rifle, while Robson just went back to staring at that old faded photograph he had carried for so long. Smith knew that if he could see into Robson’s eyes, there would only be tears for youth wasted and love lost.

He checked his watch, that old watch handed from friend to friend that charted the course of this never-ending war. Marne, Ypres, and now the Somme. This watch had seen more than he had. As much an old soldier as any one of them, and now, counting down the seconds until…

Five minutes.

The hand seemed to move slower with each tick, counting the moments that took longer and longer. He felt a presence behind him, and turned slowly, still not pocketing the old watch, fingers sliding round and round the glass face in ever-decreasing circles.

He brought his eyes up to the sergeant, who made no sound, just proffered a hand which Smith shook, and moved on down the line. Wherever he went, men stood and salute; parade-ground manner marching its way into the battlefield. Smith rolled his eyes and looked back down at the watch.

Four minutes. Time passed, but so slowly, and he turned his gaze back to the waiting men, knowing it was becoming blanker by the second. He tried to force a smile, but it didn’t go far before it developed into a tick at the corner of his mouth, a grim contortion of a smirk. A ghost of a smile, waiting to die.

Silently his batman, Anders, approached and handed him his pistol. Out of nothing more than instinct, Smith checked each loaded round, tapping each in turn and then snapping the gun back up. The snap broke through the otherwise-silent morning like a gunshot, and every eye turned to him, suddenly alert. Then, one at a time, they went back to what they had been distracted from, and after a few seconds, there might well have been no sound at all.

Anders looked up expectantly, needing to know his job was a satisfactory one. Smith nodded, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough. Anders had done all that he could. As he turned to leave, Smith placed a hand on his shoulder and the batman turned, puzzled. Without a word, Smith unclipped the watch from his uniform, folded the chain, and pressed the now-cold metal into Anders’ hand. Anders looked back at him, understanding enough to know what this meant, and said nothing, did nothing. Then, wordless, he gave one last salute and crawled back into the dugout, a rabbit hiding from an oncoming storm.

With no watch to check, Smith began counting the seconds, one by one.

One hundred and nine. One Hundred and eight.
The beat Johnson was tapping increased in pace, building to a rapid-fire staccato, a hail of impacts in the early morning air.

Sixty. Fifty nine. Fifty Eight.

Robson lifted the photograph to his clean-shaven face, kissed it once, and folded it back into his pocket. He wiped tears when he thought no one was looking.

Thirty six. Thirty five. Thirty four. Thirty three.

The sergeant, a statue of discipline and correctness, suddenly seemed to wilt, his shoulders sagging and lip beginning to tremble. His fingers clawed at his holster like a rat, trapped in a cage.

Twenty four. Twenty three. Twenty two. Twenty one. Twenty.

Smith waved his pistol forward and the army moved as one, each placing a single foot on the firing step. There was a brief jostle around the ladders, men shoving one another aside to get to the spot they thought would save them.

Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Reyvos was falling. And he knew it. Jaron was running to the front. To the last stand. The final barrier. The razor thin edge between good and evil, life and death, victory and defeat. Men stood, shoulder to shoulder, as one. Guardsmen, Planetary Defence Forces and civilians, united by the fear of defeat. And fear there was. It hung in the air, rank and grey.

Jaron understood. Death was coming. But he was curiously calm. There was no paralysing fear of the inevitable, just clarity. He observed his actions in third person. Watching from a distance, somewhere above him. Somewhere safe. Somewhere where physical harm could not touch him. Forward he went. To the perimeter. Pushing though the grey fear and wounded men, he arrived.

He could hear them before he saw them. Challenging battle cries and crude machinery that churned and chugged. Orks. Resentment built in his gut. Then hatred. Then anger. He raised his lasgun, and shot. 1 down. 2. 3… ‘It’s not enough.’ He thought, as he looked down on the canvas of war from his heavenly safe zone. ‘We need grenades’. He glanced down toward a fading guardsman, whose sole interest was to cling onto the very last beams of the light of life. He shook through the pouches and rifled through the pockets of the dying man. When he found what he was looking for, he pulled it free. But before he returned to the tempo of battle, he took a last lingering look.

Death was ugly. Indignant. Unprejudiced. Dispassionate. The boy lay in the dirt, with sloped shoulders trying to take ragged breaths. But the more air he sucked in, the more blood wept through the cavity in his chest. Death was patient with this one. Sadistically offering him more time. Jaron lent in closer and placed a hand on the boy’s face. He gave him a look. A soft look. Almost comforting. They locked eyes. The boy smiled a wan smile. He understood the look. It said, with sympathy, calm and compassion, ‘Time to let go’.

Jaron eased himself back into the flow of battle. A shot here, a few snaps there. Then he saw it. The opportune moment. A dense cluster of about 8 Orks rushing forward, using pieces of debris as shields. He took the grenade, pulled the pin, glanced at his dead comrade, and threw the grenade. It was spectacular. A dance of light. A violent vibration of sound. More colour spread on the canvas of war. The smallest of victories.

From his seat in the sky, he could see a horizon of Orks. A dirty green replacement to the blissful green hills that had once owned the land before either of them. Now he felt the fear. As he slowly acclimatised to the ambiance of war, his heavenly position above faded. He was seeing the carnage through his own eyes. Doubting every move. Questioning every shot. The illusion faded. This was death’s trick. It’s final bit of fun. It liked to watch the panic slowly set in. Watch you claw and grasp your way out of it. But the truth is, it’s death’s decision. Occasionally, one would be spared. But in the feeding frenzy that is war, that wouldn’t be the case. Death was coming. For you all.

Jaron was recovering from the explosion. The shockwave send him to a knee. As he stood, it hit him. In the chest. Punching right through the armour, the fatigues, the skin… the heart. It took him. The pain, the intensity… the finality. It replayed in his head a thousand times before he hit the ground. There was no logic. No justice. No light. Only death, the end of all days.

Last Call (Phone Tag exercise)

Norfolk, England, August 1940

Stanley waited patiently by the phone, just as he always had, while Ella (he should really call her Miss Stapleton, but she never minded) made the call. As she spun the dial and asked to be put through, he sat in silence, sipping his hot chocolate and trying not to wince at the heat. He was nearly seven, after all, and it wouldn’t do for him to be upset by it. Not in front of Ella, anyway. She was a Grown Up, and never upset.

The call seemed to take longer than usual, and when the phone finally seemed to connect, Ella did not immediately hand it over like she usually did. Instead, she seemed to stiffen, and when she spoke, her voice that Stanley had come to know meant safety and strength suddenly seemed to say ‘help me’.

“’Hello? Hello?” she began, and Stanley leant forward to try and hear. He knew he shouldn’t, and that mother would think it awfully rude, but something wasn’t right. There was no ‘Hello, Mrs Wallace, can I pass you to Stan?’ or even the bright and lilted ‘How are you, Mrs Wallace? Good, good, I’ll pass you over now.’ that he sometimes heard if she was in a particularly good mood that day.

“Hello?” she said again, and then “Oh.” A long silence followed, in which Stanley could do nothing but wait, perched on the edge of the step.

“No, no, he’s here. But I’ll hear it first, please.” Stanley noticed that she was doing the cross voice that he only got when he was naughty.

“Right…. Right… Oh crikey… Oh God.” Ella paused for a moment more, swallowed, and seemed to calm herself.

‘Close your eyes and count to ten.’ Stanley wanted to tell her, just like she taught him, but he said nothing. It would be rude to interrupt, especially a Grown Up. Still, she managed to regain composure as he knew she would, and started speaking again, her voice even more ragged now than before, a tapestry fraying at the edges.

“Ok… Ok, I’ll tell… Oh God no. How did it…?”

Stanley began chewing his lip and tapping his fingers in patterns of four beats on the bannister, counting each and trying to understand. Why wasn't he allowed to speak to Mother? Or even Father? At the very least he would like to have said goodnight to them. Confused, he went back to listening to the call, fighting to understand. Like in the stories, Sherlock Holmes solving a mystery. Those stories always had a happy ending, didn't they? Especially when Ella told them.

“Right. Right. Both of them?” Another age-long pause. “Ok. So what will you do about… what will you do about him?”

Stanley noticed the pointed look his way that Ella must have thought he hadn't. His mind was flying now, running through idea after idea. Maybe they were coming to visit, and they were already on the way? Maybe they had gone on holiday away from the city? But why hadn't they told him?

“Right. Of course I will. Of course I will.” Ella put the phone down and stepped back as if it were a live snake, or a dead rat, or a monster from under the bed she always promised weren't there. “I’ll tell him.” She said hysterically, voice high like it went when she was singing, but not as happy. That voice made the world better, this one seemed to tear it apart. “I’ll tell him… I’ll tell him.” She stared into the distance at something Stanley couldn't see, but because he tried anyway, he didn't see the tears flooding her eyes.

After Time (he didn't quite know how much), he finally spoke up.

“Can I speak to Mother and Father now, please? Are they going to phone back?”

Ella appeared to evaporate before his eyes. She still stood there, not moving, but all the life and soul had left her like a sparrow flying south to warmer climes. She looked down at him, but not into his eyes, and finally, finally told him.

“They aren't going to call back…” She sobbed, sinking to her knees and clutching desperately at Stanley. “Oh God, Stanley, they’re never going to call back.”

Back to Life (A Backwards Story)

Robson was dying, he knew that. In the mud and the blood and the fire of the field so far from home. Killed in someone else’s war. He felt at cavity where the bullet had punched through his chest; he was no doctor, but he was certain there was no chance of survival. He had run across that muddy, ravaged field and it had hit him, and he had fallen and he had stayed down. His last thought as he lay there, dying in the foreign mud, was how it had come to this…

He burst from the trench, not yet daring to run, rifle in hand and cold. There was no clarity to the cacophonous sound and his vision was a blur, wave after wave of inexplicable sensations bombarding him, one after another after another. From somewhere there was a rat-tat-tat-tat-tat that was followed by screams, from somewhere else there was an explosion of blinding light that assaulted his eyes. And then there was that pain, that burning, searing pain as his chest was torn apart…

Another battlefield, and he was sitting in a different trench, German this time, smoking the last of the cigarettes he’d picked up on leave. His face was dirty but not bloody, and his rifle rested casually against the parapet. In his free hand was that faded photograph, a girl he could scarcely remember. She was just a name and a face now, but he still held on to that. A last token of home. What was home now? One day, when the war was over, he would find her again. He would find himself, too. When the war was over…

Robson stepped down into the trench, making sure to tread on the duckboards that were themselves sinking. Making his way along the muddy ravine, the world seemed to come apart, and everything he knew was wrong. This mud and squalor was not at all what he had been told to expect; nor had the constant sounds of distant guns and the screams from somewhere too far away to matter. But nor had he expected the cheerful smiles that greeted him from every face. There was something not right about those smiles, but it didn’t matter. Maybe here, he’d be one of them…

His first view of France was a grey line on the horizon, unremarkable and plain. Closer, he saw a green tinge to the coast, and made out hills and trees and a place where a river met the sea. Closer still, his first real glimpse of what they were fighting for. A small postcard village, picturesque fields that rolled over hills, the smiling faces as they came ashore. A hundred other men saw what he saw, and he was certain every one of them was feeling the same thing; ‘It can’t be that bad.’

Robson took one last look back at the three of them as he stepped on the train. Father, beaming and saluting, Jeanette’s face glowing with admiration for her very own soldier, and Mother, crying and making no effort to hide it. He wished she would, as it was spoiling the moment. At the very least, she could pretend to be a little proud. ‘Come back to us.” He heard her call as the train moved off. I will, he promised himself. I will…

“Name?” said the officer, and Robson stammered something unintelligible. “Name?”
“Robson. Anthony Robson.” He said again, clearer this time, and the officer nodded. Robson wrung his sweating hands and waited for the next question.
“Age?”
[i]Sixteen.
“Eighteen.” He said.
“Very good.” nodded the officer, and handed him the papers. As Robson went to leave, the officer pulled him back, and tapped his nose conspiratorially. He knew, but what did it matter now? Robson was going to war…

“Name?” said the officer, and Robson stammered something unintelligible. “Name?”
“Robson. Anthony Robson.” He said again, clearer this time, and the officer nodded. Robson wrung his sweating hands and waited for the next question.
“Age?”
Sixteen.
“Eighteen.” He said.
“Very good.” nodded the officer, and handed him the papers. As Robson went to leave, the officer pulled him back, and tapped his nose conspiratorially. He knew, but what did it matter now? Robson was going to war…


Robson took one last look back at the three of them as he stepped on the train. Father, beaming and saluting, Jeanette’s face glowing with admiration for her very own soldier, and Mother, crying and making no effort to hide it. He wished she would, as it was spoiling the moment. At the very least, she could pretend to be a little proud. ‘Come back to us.” He heard her call as the train moved off. I will, he promised himself. I will…

His first view of France was a grey line on the horizon, unremarkable and plain. Closer, he saw a green tinge to the coast, and made out hills and trees and a place where a river met the sea. Closer still, his first real glimpse of what they were fighting for. A small postcard village, picturesque fields that rolled over hills, the smiling faces as they came ashore. A hundred other men saw what he saw, and he was certain every one of them was feeling the same thing; ‘It can’t be that bad.’

Robson stepped down into the trench, making sure to tread on the duckboards that were themselves sinking. Making his way along the muddy ravine, the world seemed to come apart, and everything he knew was wrong. This mud and squalor was not at all what he had been told to expect; nor had the constant sounds of distant guns and the screams from somewhere too far away to matter. But nor had he expected the cheerful smiles that greeted him from every face. There was something not right about those smiles, but it didn’t matter. Maybe here, he’d be one of them…

Another battlefield, and he was sitting in a different trench, German this time, smoking the last of the cigarettes he’d picked up on leave. His face was dirty but not bloody, and his rifle rested casually against the parapet. In his free hand was that faded photograph, a girl he could scarcely remember. She was just a name and a face now, but he still held on to that. A last token of home. What was home now? One day, when the war was over, he would find her again. He would find himself, too. When the war was over…

He burst from the trench, not yet daring to run, rifle in hand and cold. There was no clarity to the cacophonous sound and his vision was a blur, wave after wave of inexplicable sensations bombarding him, one after another after another. From somewhere there was a rat-tat-tat-tat-tat that was followed by screams, from somewhere else there was an explosion of blinding light that assaulted his eyes. And then there was that pain, that burning, searing pain as his chest was torn apart…

Robson was dying, he knew that. In the mud and the blood and the fire of the field so far from home. Killed in someone else’s war. He felt at cavity where the bullet had punched through his chest; he was no doctor, but he was certain there was no chance of survival. He had run across that muddy, ravaged field and it had hit him, and he had fallen and he had stayed down. His last thought as he lay there, dying in the foreign mud, was how it had come to this…

Crack. The sound of a gun firing. The sound of my ribs breaking. The sound of my kit breaking as I toppled back onto it. I lie there. Immoblie. Staring up at the grey buildings clawing their way into the sky. I was down. Wounded. Shot. I felt faint. Lost, almost.

‘Malvric’s hit!’, sergeant Vlors cried, ‘Cover me!’. Vlors ran to Malvric. Grabbed a handful of clothing and dragged him into cover. ‘Shrapnel, kid. You’ll be alright’, he said, reassuringly.

On the ground, unmoving, I could hear my men scrambling to protect me. But my mind was elsewhere. The Grakos Crusade. My first war. My first wound. I was just a private then. A lifetime ago. My eye’s rolled back and I lost consciousness.

Malvric looked down at his torso. Vlors was right. An ugly piece of shrapnel protruded from his stomach. It burned with fiery pain. He paniced and started breathing rapidly, shaking with adrenaline. ‘Take your sidearm out’ Vlors commanded, ‘You’re not dead yet’.

I jolted awake. Like the ground had dropped an inch or two lower. The light stung my eyes. I was bathed in sunlight and blood. ‘Sergeant, stay with me’. It was Jariq. A man in my unit. My secret favourite. ‘Medic!’ he called. I hand picked him from the recruits. Taught him everything I knew. He was the son I never had. My consciousness faded again.

Malvric unholsterd his sidearm. He weighed it in his hand. He didn’t feel quite so helpless now. Malvric ground his teeth and pushed himself up against the wall. He could shoot if necessary.

‘Stay with me, sarge’. Jariq slapped my face gently, ‘Medic’s coming’. I had drifted to the Grakos Crusade again. My first wound. I survived it. I survived three others , too. Shrapnel first. Shot twice. And stabbed. Now I’d been shot three times. I was promoted to sergeant the last time I was shot. I fought on with a rifle round in my shoulder. I tried to rise, empowered, but a wash of pain flooded my sense and I faded again.

‘Will I make it?’, Malvric asked. Vlors glanced around. ‘You’ll be alri-'