Why me?: A short story.

Hey readers!  I hope you are having a better weekend than myself…I haven’t been very well, and neither has my little one, so it has sucked a bit to be honest.  Tonights short story reflects my current mood…you know when you are having one of those days, where everything seems to go wrong?  Well the main character certainly does.  For this latest edition of my collaborative series, ‘Inspired’, I got to work with the lovely Irem Sysmanturk.  Irem is an artist and photographer, currently studying art at university in Vancouver.  If you love her work as much as I do, you can check out more on her Instagram.  Happy reading!!

Why me?

Have you ever just had one of those days? One where a seemingly endless parade of disappointments and pieces of bad news fly at you from all directions, when every corner turned presents another reason to scream at the heavens in vein, ‘Why me?’ Well, today has been one of those days.

It started as soon as I awoke. My alarm didn’t go off, my phone having decided to simply give up the ghost and transform into a useless lump of plastic, a paperweight with no paper to weigh down, a piece of garbage. Finding myself frantically changing, my hair and makeup done in such a slap dash manner, I resembled a Picasso painting by the end, I somehow managed to end up wearing two completely different black boots. Worse still, it wasn’t even me who noticed this mistake, but my colleague, the perfect and constantly glowing Emily, who pointed it out, giggling. I have never wanted to disappear more than I did in that moment, pretending to laugh it off, all the while wishing with every fibre of my being that I would suddenly and inexplicably develop the ability to become invisible.

Work has been a nightmare, with one complaining customer after another, yelling at me, belittling me, treating me like dirt, and for what? Too much foam, getting almond milk instead of soy? If I didn’t have bills to pay, and require sustenance to survive, I would throw their over priced, over foamed coffees right in their stuck up faces! But I do have bills, and I do need to eat, and so I apologise through gritted teeth and smile and nod and pretend I’m not dying inside.

By closing time, I’m exhausted, a blister forming on my wrong shoed right foot, and what I suspect may be a third degree burn on my left forearm, the product of a wayward cup of green tea. I check my watch as I switch off the lights, and impatiently wait for the worlds slowest shutter to make it’s way down, realising, as it begins to rain, that I have missed the last bus. Why me?

why me? imageOf course, I forgot my umbrella in my rush this morning, so I trudge on, wet hair sticking to my face, right foot limping, left arm throbbing, trying to distract myself from the forty-five minute walk ahead. I’m about ten minutes away and soaked to the bone when I hear it, quiet at first, but more insistent the closer I get, a tiny whimper from a nearby skip. I think about ignoring it, but something in the tone, the panic of it, makes me look inside. There, in a cardboard box now limp and buckled with water, is a small puppy, scrambling with all it’s might to get up the side, unable to find footing on the smooth metal edge of the skip. I look around, futilely for an owner, never really expecting to find one.

As I contemplate what to do (should I call the RSPCA? The Pound?), it tilts it’s head to one side, brown eyes wide, tongue lolling, and wags it’s tail, as if it is making the decision for me. Before I have time to work out logistics, it’s inside my satchel, head poking out, it’s tiny, warm tongue lapping at my burning arm as I hold the bag steady.

Now, sitting in my living room, we are surveying each other, figuring each other out. He’s a he (I checked subtly, I didn’t want to embarrass him, or myself for that matter), and he is no breed I’ve ever seen before. He is covered in wiry, ginger hair, with two white front legs, like he’s wearing furry socks, and he stares at me, unblinking, head occasionally shifting from one side to the other.

I have no idea what to do. I have never owned a dog, and frankly, given my track record with gold fish I never considered getting one. They are harder to look after, and cannot be flushed when one forgets to feed them for a week. But here he is, this tiny, furry thing, suddenly dependant on me.

“Do you want something to eat?”

He stares at me, and I wonder if he speaks english. I mean, it’s rude of me to assume, in today’s multicultural society, isn’t it? So I mime eating, moving my hand to my mouth, biting the invisible food, chewing, swallowing, rubbing my tummy, each movement exaggerated and ridiculous. I even throw in a yummy noise for good measure, like I’m part of some absurd play, yet he continues to stare at me, bewildered. I give up, deciding communication isn’t possible, and search my cupboards for something I think a dog might be interested in. I settle on the packet of pre-cooked chicken I have to make my meagre packed lunches with, which seems to be the right choice, as it’s gone in seconds. After a bowl of water is also accepted gratefully, I begin to think I might be getting the hang of it, when it lifts a little leg and provides it’s own fluid, all over my living room rug. I had no idea something so small could produce so much liquid.

Exasperated, I put my head in my hands and say out loud, “Why me?” I hear a little bark, and peer through my hands. It’s closer now, it’s tail wagging emphatically. I’m confused as to why this exclamation of my general dissatisfaction with life would amuse the animal, so I repeat,

“Why me?’ Again, it barks, this time closing the distance completely, to climb onto my knee and lap at my face with it’s tiny velvety tongue. It’s breathe is warm and comforting on my face, and I can feel it’s tiny heart beating as I rub it’s little belly. I laugh, despite myself, “Why me? Why me?” speaking in that weird baby voice that all adults use with small children for no reason at all. I pick him up and hold him face height, his tiny body warm and soft in my hands, his tail still wagging between my fingers.

“It suits you, wymie, that’s what I’ll call you.”

He approves, his tail wagging faster.

“I guess I have a dog now.”

He nuzzles on to my lap, yawns widely, his tongue curling out, and immediately falls asleep, his head resting on my arm. But I’ve forgotten about the pain now, and the bitchy customers and my still wet hair, because I have a dog now. I have a dog and wymie has a human. I guess it wasn’t such a bad day after all.

 

Ghosts: A short story and the latest in the Inspired collaborative series.

Hello readers!  I hope you have all had a wonderful week.  Sunday nights can suck, because it means one more sleep until another full week of work, but I’m hoping my story will cheer you guys up and ease the pain of another weekend lost.

First I wanted to let you guys know what I have planned for the blog this month.  I adore autumn, and I love Halloween even more, so I have lots of awesome treats for you guys.  First of, if you are an Instgrammer, check out the photo challenge I am co-hosting on my page.  It is Halloween themed!  I will also be hosting a competition on there shortly, so keep an eye out!  Finally, I will be running a collaborative series with a very talented make up artist friend of mine, Rachel Henry.  Every week in October, we will be bringing you a blog tutorial on how to do the make up of your favourite literary horror characters, so no excuses for a bad costume this Halloween.  Now to the post…

For the latest collaborative piece, I have had the privilege of collaborating with the incredibly talented artist Lisa Reschefski.  Lisa is a visual journalist, artist and freelance illustrator who creates the most breathtaking images.  If you love the image as much as I do, you can check out more of her work on her Instagram.  Happy reading!

Ghosts

Ghosts are very real. They may not be literal phantasms, transparent spirits or ectoplasmic creatures who wail and float through walls, but they are, nonetheless, real. They are our past. They are our regrets and missed opportunities hanging heavy in the air. They are lost loves and forgotten friends. They are everything that we were and everything that we wish we could be. These are the ghosts which haunt our lives, and they can strike fear more easily than any spectre or ghoul.

Elise had such ghosts. They were always there, the apparitions of her past haunting her present. How could someone so young, be burdened with such regret? At just twenty years old, she should have been enjoying her life, but instead, she found herself looking past her family and friends, seeking a face in the crowd which she knew would never appear, a face long since gone from this world, the face of her beloved Richard.

ghosts imageThey had been childhood sweethearts. At just eight years old, he had told her, quite matter of fact, that she would be his, and from that day on, they had been inseparable. His hand had been the first hand she had held, the first lips she had kissed, the first and only man she had ever loved. They had made so many plans. They would travel, and see and do as many things as they could, and then they would marry and have a dozen children in a house built by his own hand. It was naive she supposed now, to plan a future which may never happen, to believe so strongly that love was stronger than any other power on earth. But love is not stronger than war.

There had already been a war, when she was a child. It had been called the war to end all wars, yet here they were, everyone she knew and loved, huddled around the wireless listening to the announcement. Hitler had invaded Poland. We were at war once again. Richard was of age, but he hadn’t waited for conscription. He said it was ‘his duty.’ Duty? What about her? Where was his obligation to her? They had fought for the first time, and amongst the screaming and the yelling and the tears, she had told him she would no longer be his if he left to join the fight. She swore, if he walked out that door, she would never speak to him again.

He had begged and pleaded for her to see reason, to marry him before he left, to believe in what he was doing and have faith he would return. But the idea of losing him blinded her with a terror she had never felt, and so she stood her ground, sure he would bend to her will. He left for training the next day.

She had cried every day for weeks, and every time she thought she would stop, she would receive a letter from him, telling her about his training and his new friends, and the tears would fall once more, spreading ink across the pages. He had asked her to write, but she refused. Her pride was wounded. He had chosen the army over her, he had put a uniform and a far off war ahead of their love, and she was too proud to see it from any other perspective but that of her own broken heart.

By the time she had realised her foolish arrogance, it was too late. One day, instead of a handwritten letter, she received a telegram. In a few typed words, her entire world had fallen apart. She had collapsed, unable to carry the weight of her own remorse, and for days, they could not bring her to eat or to speak. She had just lay there, awake, but asleep at the same time. The local physician was called, and he would check her pupils and pulse and place smelling salts under her nose, or shake her by the shoulders, even slapping her hard on the face. But she could not be stirred from the depths of her sorrow.

Only after her younger sister, through tear filled eyes, had pleaded with her to recover, for her family’s sake, had she come back from the brink. But she did not come back whole. Part of her had died that day, a part of her that would never heal.

Of course, the passage of time has its own healing properties. Over many years, the pain slowly lessened. She married a man. A nice man, with kind eyes and a good heart. A man she loved very much, but in a different way from Richard. It was no less worthy, no less beautiful, just different. They had three children, two girls and a boy, and a house with a white picket fence and hundreds of family photographs. They had a good marriage, and a happy life.

But Richard’s ghost never left her, not completely. She would feel his presence, when she smelled sweet pea, the first flowers he had ever brought her. She could hear his voice singing, low and melodic, when she heard certain songs. Sometimes, she thought she could feel a hand on hers or a kiss, soft as a spring breeze, caressing her cheek, appearing suddenly and disappearing just as fast. Sometimes, she even saw him, in her dreams. He would be wearing his overalls, grease stains from the cars he was helping his father fix, sweat on his brow or he would have his good suit on, the one which was handed down from his father, at least one size too big, which he wore on Sundays and special occasions. He would hold her tightly, the way he once had, and she would breathe him in deeply, savouring the mixture of oil and perspiration. Often, when she awoke, the smell would linger, that unmistakeable scent which once made her dizzy.

She was thankful, for the life she had had, for her children and her husband, all of whom she loved beyond words. She would never change the course of her life, but she couldn’t help but imagine how things may have been if he had outlived the war. She couldn’t help think, ‘what if?’ After a life filled with love and laughter, it was not a regret exactly, but her only unanswered question, her only ghost.

And so, almost fifty years to the day after Richard’s death, as she lay in the hospital bed, life slowly leaving her body, she thought of him. She was surrounded by her family, tears filling their eyes, her youngest daughter holding her hand, her husband stoic and strong for his children, wiping his eyes when they weren’t looking. She had said her I love yous, her goodbyes. She felt at peace. She felt ready. And as her pulse slowed and her breathing stopped, her final thought was of his smile, his eyes, and she hoped, that if there was another life beyond this one, if she was lucky enough to exist beyond this moment, that wherever she went, he would be there. Her Richard. Her ghost.

 

 

The Spirit of Music: A piece of Flash Fiction.

Hey guys, I hope you all had a lovely weekend! First, I would like to apologise!  I am quite neglectful of my blog these days.  The simple fact is, between a full time job and a small baby, I struggle to find the time to write and read.  I just want to thank you, for following me, for reading this, or for reading any of my work, because it means the world to me.  I haven’t forgotten about you guys, and I will keep producing pieces and collaborations when I can, so please be patient with me!  I have some amazing collaborations coming soon, with some fantastic artists, so keep an eye out for those, and in the mean time, enjoy this short piece!  Happy reading…

The Spirit of Music

music picShe dances on the breathe of tuneful voices, and moves to the rhythm of tapped feet and clicking fingers. She exists only in song and music, swaying and moving, a living embodiment of the notes. Whether it is an orchestra or a child humming a nursery rhyme, she is there. Whether it is a sweet symphony or the thumping bass of heavy metal, she is there. Whether it is loud and shouted, or quiet and whispered under breathe, she is there. Her hair is as long as she is tall, and it changes in colour to match the tone of the tune; many shade of blue for tear filled songs of loss and fiery reds and oranges for songs of joy. She is bright and loud and soft and sweet all at once and she is everywhere at once and nowhere at the same time. She is the spirit of music.

Once, all things had spirits and souls. There were river spirits, green toads with long legs and even longer tongues, and tree spirits, tiny glints of green light only visible in your peripheral vision. These were the beings of old. But over time, as religions grew and new Gods were declared the only Gods, the old ones were forgotten. Such beings, without worship of some kind, fade into nothing, disappearing into shadows and fogs. But not her. Music is still worshipped by so many. Even the church goers, with their new Gods, used music to celebrate him, and so she remains strong and defiant in the world without belief.

She exists as the raised hands at concerts or the strumming guitar in the corner of a pub. She exists within the bored fingers drumming on table tops and the high pitched voices of driver’s singing along to the radio. She thrives and grows stronger everyday. She is loved as every culture and country and religion in this world love music, and she is never lonely, as long as there is song. She dances still. She is beauty and celebration. She is the spirit of music.

 

Mother: A Poem and the latest edition of my collaborative series ‘Inspired.’

It’s officially Autumn.  The weather is beginning to turn, the days are shortening and the leaves will soon fall from the trees.  I hope, wherever you are, you are warm and cosy this Sunday evening!  For the latest edition of my collaborative series ‘Inspired’ I have collaborated with the incredibly talented Aurelya Raven, an artist and photographer from Berlin, Germany.  I was immediately drawn to Aurelya’s images, with their dream like quality and stunning content, every one painted a story.  For our collaboration, I was inspired by her beautiful photographs to write a poem, and Aurelya was in turn inspired to create the stunning images below.  If you love her work as much as I do, you can see more on her Instagram.  And if you are an artist or photographer, and would be interested in collaborating, please get in touch!

Mother 1

Mother

She is Mother,

formed in shadow and light,

lifeblood of the forest,

roots, twisting, veins of the earth.

Her song is carried on the wind,

                                                                                                              sometimes a whisper,

                                                                                                                                   often a cry.

 

Her tears fall with the rain,Mother2

nourishing, feeding, then

washing away, erasing, flooding.

She weakens,

earth replaced by concrete,

trees felled, soil leeched.

Pesticides, insecticides, poison.

She weeps for us,

                     our Mother,

                                            for we are killing,

we are destroying,

                                   we are dying.

                                                           She is Mother,

                                                                                                     soon she will be no more.

 

 

 

 

London 1889: A Short Story.

For the latest edition of my collaborative series ‘Inspired’, I have had the privilege of working with the amazingly talented Milo Lilja.  Milo is a 45 year old artist from a small city in Sweden, who also lives part of the time in Spain.  She works with individuals who are struggling, offering support and helping them get a better life.  When she isn’t working, she’s a dedicated cat lady, concert goer and artist, who loves working in mixed mediums.  She has been creating art as far back as she can remember but it was in 1995 that her passion for rubber stamps and collage awoke.  Now, she designs for several stores, and holds regular scrap booking work shops.  If you love her work as much as me, you can check out more on her Instagram.

In the mean time, happy reading!  Let me know what you think in the comments section, and if you are an artist or photographer, and would be interested in collaborating, get in touch!

London, 1889

London 5
I cough hard into my kerchief, the thick smog lingering about the cobbled streets reaching inside my lungs, infecting them with their black soot. I hate this city. Death hangs above it like a black cloud, casting it in a constant grey light. There is never sunshine here, only rain and soot. The gas lighter whistles as he walks from post to post, the dim flame only serving to shroud the city further, casting flickering black shadows into every corner.

 

Fear lives here now, I can smell it on the air. Fear of mischief, fear if blood. It was the London 1
Ripper that started it, and the newspapers which kept it alive even now, a year after his last victim was found. I shudder, despite the evening being warm. It’s dangerous on these streets, if you don’t remain vigilant. I smile as a man walks past, his cane creating a rhythm on the street as he walks. He ignores me, quickening the beat. I’m making my way to my usual spot, in the old town, where men only venture for two things: women and ale.

The noise increases the closer I get, the sound of rowdy drinkers and laughter. I see them, men stumbling from tavern to tavern, women flirting with clients, landlords throwing out the trouble makers. It smells of stale beer and sweat, it smells alive.

I take my usual corner, over by O’Sullivan’s bar. We all have our little territories here, invisible lines drawn on the stones, treaties made and wars waged. It took years for me to work my way to this prime location, and I protect it aggressively. The new ones, I forgive, they don’t know any better. But the old hands, like me, chancing their arms, they get the full force of my rage and fists. Many have come, and all have retreated again, licking their wounds, averting their gaze. She is Queen of this corner, and they should never forget it.

London 4I smile at them walking past, swaying my hips, pushing out my breasts. They slobber and pant like dogs on heat, easy marks. I would pity them if I didn’t find them so abhorrent. Soon enough, I have one in my sights. He’s unsteady, taking three steps to get somewhere it would take most one to reach, and he sways as he moves, as if dancing to some unheard song. I throw out the bait, winking at him, pouting my lips, and then I reel him in. One looks, one gesture, and he’s hooked. Pathetic.

We barely make it to the alleyway before he’s on me, wet lips and the stench of whiskey on his breath. His hands grab and paw at me, fighting a never ending battle with my skirts. I like to give them a taste first, it makes the spoils taste all the sweeter. After a moment or two I push him against the cold damp brick, his head hitting it with a thump. He looks wide eyed and bewildered for a moment, his brain trying to catch up with his body, before the rage appears on his face. He slaps me once, hard, across the right cheek, before pulling a knife.

I laugh, which only seems to incense him further. He lunges at me, the knife glinting at it moves towards my chest. With only a small movement, I hit him hard in the chest, sending him flying back whence he came, hitting the wall even harder than before. It’s winded him, he wheezes and gasps as he crumples to the ground, the knife no longer in his possession. He seems confused, dazed. Easy pickings.

I stare at the dark sky, the full moon only just visible behind cloud and smoke, a brilliant london 2glint of white in a black sea. I feel the blood lust swelling within me, my ribs separate first, one by one, spreading my chest wide, my skin growing paler as it stretches. My neck elongates, my jaw dislocates, my eyes turn from a warm and inviting hazel to shiny black marbles, and my teeth grow and sharpen to a point, my mouth wide and eager.

He looks terrified, his eyes wide with terror, his chest heaving, his hands shaking. I can taste his fear on my tongue. I find it intoxicating. With one bite, I enclose his entire throat, the skin and veins opening like wrapping paper, their sweet, red gifts flowing into my body like sweet wine. My heart pounds as his life force drains from his withering corpse into my body, which grows stronger with every drop. Within seconds, he is drained, a husk of a person, suddenly aged by fifty years.

I bask a moment on the high, my head buzzing, my body tingling, before I slowly return London 3to my human form. I cover him with a nearby sack. Tomorrow, the residents will find him, another elderly man succumbed to the cold, another homeless person without charity. How quickly they forget the terror which had so recently gripped these streets. But I do not fear the Ripper, not after I drank him dry. I can still taste him now, sweet with a hint or warm spice. I smile as I pass posters and bills glued to walls and windows, warning of the dangers of the city. I know better than anyone what lurks within these warrens. I know exactly what those who dwell within should fear. It’s dangerous on these streets, if you don’t remain vigilant.

 

Hell hath no Fury: Two Flash Fiction Pieces featuring ruthless women.

Hey guys!  I have a confession to make…I have been pretty neglectful of my writing of late.  A full time job and a baby make finding the time for such things difficult but I promise I haven’t forgotten about you.  In fact, I have some pretty exciting things in the works.  First, over on my Instagram, I have reached the 2000 follower mark and will be celebrating with a HUGE giveaway, in conjunction with several bookish shops, so head over and follow me so you don’t miss out.  I am also working on some great collaborations for the Inspired series.  I have just sent a poem and story away to a photographer and an artist and I have a story sitting inside my head, ready to be unleashed onto paper and sent to another artistic soul.  These guys are super talented, and trust me when I say you don’t want to miss out!  You can subscribe to my blog and receive updates every time I post, to make sure you don’t miss out.  In the mean time, here is a couple of flash fiction pieces, featuring some very nasty ladies!  Enjoy…

Flower pic

Queen

He wails, the sobbing muffled by edge of her cloak.  She can see wetness spread on the red velvet.  A guard goes to remove the crumpled figure, but she holds a hand to say no. She likes to watch them beg and squirm, it makes her feel alive.  Eventually, when she has had her fill, she kicks him, his body hitting the stone floor hard, the blow unexpected. With one gesture, she signals for his execution. He screams as he is dragged away, “MERCY…MERCY.” She smiles to herself.  She has no mercy for thieves. Nothing excuses someone taking what is hers, not even starvation.

Heartbreaker

The moment she saw him, she marked him her own. Stolen kisses, whispered words, empty and false. She twisted herself around him and settled herself into his life, coiled like a snake. Then, one day she was gone, taking all he had with her; his money, his car, his heart.

 

Dark Woods: A Short Story

In the latest edition of Inspired, my collaborative series, I have had the privilege of working with the incredibly talented Brian Easlon.  Brian is a tattoo artist from Cornelius, Oregon in the United States.  If you like his work as much as I do, you can see more on his Instagram.

Dark wood art

Dark Woods

Forests are notoriously dangerous places, especially for little children, and especially at night. So, if you were a young girl, you would be inclined to avoid such places. Unless, like Agatha, you call such places your home. Agatha’s kind are known as many things, fairies or wood nymphs or sprites, but what they all have in common, is the image that they conjure. When you hear these names, you picture beautiful children, tiny and perfect, with wings spun from gold and glitter on their faces. The kind of being made of magic and dreams, who grant the deepest wishes of poor downtrodden servant girls and lost boys alike. Except, fairies are none of those things. They are nasty, mischievous little creatures, who gain pleasure from the pain and misfortune of others.

They are also neither beautiful nor glittering. They have the wings of moths, not butterflies, and to the human eye, they appear as a normal insect, brown and mottled, distinct only by the large, black eyes staring from their wings and the distinct skull shaped spot on their large bodies. They are beautiful in their own way, but nothing like the watercolour illustrations of ‘fairy tale’ books we read as children.

Over time, they have grown to hate humans. We destroy their homes to build our own, we chop down trees and burn them, and the plants we call weeds, which we kill with chemicals, are some of their favourite food. And so, when a human is unfortunate enough to wonder into their lair, they waste no time in commencing a punishment which they see fit.

In the heart of Ireland there lies such a lair. A small wood on the edge of a village, filled with dark shadows and watching eyes. For centuries, people have entered those woods, having lost their way, or to seek shelter from a storm under it’s thick, leafy canopy, only to disappear without a trace, never to be seen or heard from again. It is said the trees within, move and walk, in order to confuse and trap you, and that the thorns can claw and grab at you like arms, ensnaring you within their jagged trap. The local people never go there anymore. After losing Grandparents and parents and siblings and friends over many generations, they learned the hard way that such places can never be tamed. After decades without foot steps or felling, the trees grew denser and darker, and the eyes within grew impatient for their prey.

This is the place Agatha calls home. For decades she has lived within those woods, watching the planes flying overhead and the cars driving by in the distance and she grew resentful. The humans had an entire world in which to exist and explore, yet they showed it no respect. They were ungrateful and spoiled. How could they not see how lucky they were? She had lived nearly a century in the same small forest, and now, she wanted out.

*********************

Lyndsey was a photographer, or at least, she dreamed of becoming one. She would carry her father’s old camera everywhere she went, snapping whatever caught her eye. She preferred the dark room to the modern digital prints, and every time she developed a picture, it was like giving birth, each picture a piece of her. Her forte was nature photography. Every weekend, she would drive to a part of the country she had never been, and snap the local wildlife. This weekend, she was travelling to a little village further south. It was so small it didn’t feature on her Sat Nav, and it took her longer to arrive than she thought. It would begin to get dark soon.

She passed a patch of woodland, a few minutes walk from the road. It looked wild and untouched, perfect for her project. She parked the car at the side of the road, and began walking through the fields. When she reached the edge, she could not find a path, and so had to create one, forcing down the plants with her feet, breaking tree branches. She would not be able to go too far in unfortunately. She stopped to take a picture of spider web, one of the largest she had ever seen, strung between two large oak trees. Little drops of water from that mornings rain, clung to it and sparkled as it danced slowly in the breeze. It was like a beautiful, delicate piece of jewellery.

Something moved in her peripheral vision. She started, and turned to see a large moth landing gracefully on a nearby log. It was far larger than the ones she had at home, which swooped and played around her light bulbs. It was at least four inches wide, with large brown mottled wings. On each wing, was a large black spot, with hints of red and burnt orange. They looked like angry eyes staring out at you. On the thick body, there was a white mark, distinct and terrible. A skull, watching her along with the eyes. It was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time. Lyndsey moved to photograph it, when it flew, suddenly, straight at her face. She fell backwards on reflex, trying to avoid it, but something was wrong. She fell, expecting to reach the ground quickly, but the impact never came. Instead she kept falling, down and down. Suddenly everything went dark, but she could feel she was still falling.

A small pin hole of light broke the darkness, moving towards her, increasing in size as it did until she was surrounded by the light. It took her a minute to focus her eyes. She was still in the forest, the same trees, the same dull beams of light just penetrating the darkness, now fading with the hour. Except, something was wrong. It was the same place, but from a different angle. She looked around, but she couldn’t feel her neck. She went to touch it, but she had no hands. She began to panic, a silent scream filling her head, as she realised she could not speak.

Then she saw it, or more accurately, she saw herself, walking towards her. Same hair, same face, same clothes, it was definitely her body, but it was huge and giant, towering above her now. It was as if she had shrunk, a twisted version of Alice’s adventures. But who was this copy? It smiled at her, and held up the large camera lens to her face, or at least where she thought her face was, and in it’s reflection, she saw the moth. It hit her. She hadn’t shrunk, she had swapped. How was this possible? This can’t be real. Horror filled her. She wanted to do something, say something, somehow stop it, change it back, but how, she did not know.

“Smile for the camera.”

It laughed, and snapped a picture.

“That’s a keeper.”

She started to try to ask what was happening, to beg for mercy, but no voice came out.

“I can imagine what’s going on in that little mind of yours, and so, as a courtesy, I’ll sum up. I have taken your body. It’s mine now. You are inside mine, and there you shall stay. I will explore the world, and you, can stay here, trapped in an immortal form, pondering and weeping over what happened for the rest of time. It’s nothing against you specifically, just your kind. I have a general disdain for human beings, but I require one as a vessel to leave this God forsaken place. You happened to be the first to venture here. Wrong place, wrong time, that’s all. There’s nothing you can do about it, and I can assure you, I will not change my mind. Goodbye human.”

She appeared satisfied with her explanation, and with that, she watched herself turn and walk towards the make shift path she had formed earlier, and disappear from her view. It was a nightmare, it had to be. But sadly, it was not.