'The Parcel', Chapter 2 by Steven Hardy

Here is the first draft of Chapter 2 from my novella ‘The Parcel’. Enjoy!

Read Chapter 1 here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-parcel-chapter-1-by-steven-hardy.html

Alan was sweating, as he leaned back in his seat, though he was in no immediate danger, he felt on edge. As he looked around the cabin, all those innocent smiling faces, carefree laughs, it only made him feel a condemned man, a dead man walking.

‘Water or juice?’

‘Huh?’ Alan was caught unawares by the seductively dressed air hostess, ‘Water, please.’

She handed him the water - it was warm - and walked on. Time slipped away with Alan in a state of needless transfixed paranoia; he did not even watch a film, or sleep a wink.

‘Tsk – okay we are approaching London Heathrow’ the Captain gurgled through the PA system ‘Please fasten your seatbelt, and cabin crew please go through your final checks.’

 Alan in a robotic fashion obliged, and before he knew it they had landed in Heathrow. Alan retrieved his hand luggage and expressed his gratitude to the cabin crew, without ever meaning a word. Alan followed the throng of people through immigration control, where the gentleman behind the desk said, ‘Welcome home again’ and to which Alan thought is it? Is it really? In a solemn state Alan went to collect his luggage from belt six, and suddenly it dawned on him all he had to do was find Mr A. Gost give him the package, and it would be over, he would be a thousand pound better off, and all this worry would have been for nothing. He smiled.

Returning to his Mr Bean impersonation, with his grey hand held, without wheels luggage, he walked out to the arrival lounge. Confidently, he scanned the taxi men’s boards for his name, his heart skipped a beat when he could not find it, but trying to remain positive he walked to the group of taxi drivers.

‘Huh- hmm, excuse me, do any of you know Mr A. Gost?’ Alan asked,

‘Who?’ came the reply from a burly taxi driver, who seemed the same width as he was tall. 

I am looking for A. Gost?’ Alan repeated, to which the taxi drivers began to laugh at him.

‘So let me get this straight’ a tall, lanky Indian driver was talking now, in a strong Indian accent, ‘you are looking for a ghost?’

‘Yes, that’s right’ said Alan glad to be getting somewhere, but they laughed even harder this time. 

‘Get a load of this’ the Indian man continued ‘he really is looking for a ghost’ the drivers were on the verge of tears from laughing so hard, so after being made to look like a fool Alan stormed off. Frustrated and beginning to panic again, Alan suddenly realised why the taxi drivers were laughing at him, he was looking for a ghost. Oh how could he be so stupid he thought to himself, stretching his memory Alan tried to remember if Laos mentioned a first name, but he had not. Beginning to feel he was on the end of a stupid prank to find a ghost, Alan headed for the taxi stand, to end this nonsense. Walking out the terminals glass doors, Alan was suddenly hit by the chill of an English February afternoon, shivering he walked down to the line of yellow taxis waiting to pick up passengers. As he walked up to the first one, a small Chinese man leaned out the window, calling;

‘Hey, you, you wanna ride, I give good price, huh, huh?

‘Um – no thanks, do you know Mr A. Ghost?’

‘No, I know no Ghost. You want ride?’ the Chinese man responded.

‘Um – no thanks, have a good day.’

Essentially, Alan experienced the same sort of response from the next five drivers, however by the sixth he had a different response, an interesting one.

‘Hello, do you know a Mr A. Gost?’

‘Alexander? Yes’ said the taxi driver in a husky Russian accent.

‘Alexander Gost?’ Alan checked again.

‘Yes, I told you already’ the man in the taxi literally filled his cab, his head seemed to crane sideways just so he could fit in the vehicle, he certainly was not your average taxi driver, with a small cut down the right side of his mouth, and a small tattoo of a globe on the nape of his neck. Naturally, Alan was unnerved.

‘Um – okay – sorry, but where is he?’

                ‘Gone,’ the Russian monotonously replied.

‘Pardon?’ Alan must have misheard him.

‘I said gone,’ he repeated.

‘Oh, it is just that I have something for him,’ this seemed to capture the taxi driver’s attention.

‘What is it? He asked.

‘Oh – err- well I don’t actually know,’ Alan was back peddling now, seriously regretting ever telling this stranger about the package.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Err – no,’ Alan whimpered. They both locked eyes for what seemed like a minute, before he snapped out of this trance.

‘Look, Alan, let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ he spoke with an authority, which Alan was only too willing to oblige.

‘Yes – well, thank you, that is what intend to do.’

‘Good, you want a ride? I offer good deal?’ he spoke.

‘Um – no thank you, I have already booked a taxi’ and with that Alan walked away blushing, booked a taxi, what a white lie that was. Alan quickly strode over to the first Chinese taxi driver.

‘Err – change of mind, I would like a lift please,’ he said, as he opened the passenger door. The Chinese man smiled back at him.

‘Where to?’

‘Take me towards the south coast, I will give directions nearer the time’ Alan spoke with a confidence previously unbeknown to him; perhaps it was this unusual situation that required unusual measures. The Chinese man smiled back and nodded, probably a little confused as he pulled away from the taxi bay. Alan sunk down in his seat, and patted the package that nestled in his jacket pocket, what was he going to do with it now? Laos, will probably never know it was undelivered…maybe he should just bin it and forgot this situation. Feeling a little more relaxed, Alan played over the conversation he had with the Russian taxi driver, over and over, remembering his strange advice, ‘Look, Alan let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ The more Alan thought about this the stranger the advice sounded; of course he would go home, right? Where else would he go? But that was not the least of it, as Alan replayed the conversation in his mind it dawned upon him, that he referred to Alan by his name, yet Alan never told him his name. This chilled Alan to the core, the Russian man knew him, and was expecting him; maybe he was the reason Mr A. Gost had ‘gone’ mysteriously, that short period of relaxation had evaporated in thin air now, as Alan was now scared again, nay he was petrified. He felt as if he was a puppet, in someone’s cruel game, and what did they do to Mr Gost, kill him? No, no he was over thinking, Alan needed to calm himself, he felt he was suffocating in his own thoughts, so automatically wound open the car window and inhaled deeply, the crisp air cleared his mind temporarily, and he fought with himself for control of his body. The Chinese taxi man looked at him with an expression of concern.

‘You okay, mister?’

‘Yes,’ Alan had broken out in a cold sweat, but slowly began to calm himself.

‘You sure, mister?’

‘Yes fine, just please keep driving,’ said Alan almost inaudibly.

They drove for roughly an hour toward the south coast in stony silence, before Alan broke it to give directions. He lead the taxi driver through a quaint town, it appeared out of sync with the world, antique shops lined the high street, as did a butcher, and grocer, but no Sainsbury’s. The place seemed old fashioned and unassuming, one could argue derelict considering it was a Saturday afternoon. They turned off down a back road, two rights, a left, than another right, before they pulled into the driveway of a small bungalow cottage, with a neat garden, which sadly lacked blossoming flowers, however its tidiness was pleasing, nonetheless. A white cottage, with black tarred timber struts supporting its shape, it was not terribly fancy, but rather something your grandmother might retire in, nevertheless to Alan it was home, and there on his drive was his pride and joy, his silver Audi TT. Alan paid the driver, and tipped him too, he even waved him off as he pulled away. He smiled falsely, picked up his luggage and turned to enter his house.   

'The Parcel', Chapter 1 by Steven Hardy

Firstly, my apologies for giving you different work – again. I am busy juggling stage, screen and improve acting (on top of a degree) that I have not had any time to write new follow on material. So let me introduce my first ever novella ‘The Parcel’ I will give you chapters from this book over the next few weeks, whilst I am doing all my acting roles to bide me some time and I promise that during December I will write new follow on material to ‘No Separation’ my dystopian novella and my other work so that it makes some chronological sense. Enjoy!’

Alan never really liked his name, especially when he handed over his passport and ticket to the masked girl behind the desk. Well actually she was not masked, however the unholy amount of foundation on her face lead him to believe she looked nothing like that first thing in the morning. She took his passport with her long, claw-like manicured nails and recited ‘Alan James Ingram’.

‘Uhm – yes, that is me’,  In retrospect there was nothing wrong with his name, or his life to be honest. Alan was an accountant for a minor banking firm; he did not earn a lot, but it was sufficient enough to send him on this holiday to Brazil. However, now it was over it seemed like a sad waste of money. For all the stress induced by a holiday - the packing, the leaving, the security checking - the relaxation was by comparison not all that worth it. To be fair though, the sunshine and tasty food was most welcome…also that day trip to the monastery was rather quaint and very informative.  The most disappointing element in Alan’s life was that he was not married; honestly he was never really close to getting a girlfriend. I mean which girl really wanted to date a thirty five year old accountant, five foot six, who can manage to boast a head full of grey hair? Although in his favour he did drive an Audi TT, the average man’s ‘‘I want to be a rich man’s’’ car, and he managed to fully pay of the mortgage on his house. Unfortunately, in reality those are not the two strongest pickup lines in the world.

‘London Heathrow?’ the check in lady inquired.

‘Uhm – yes that is right’, he really did not have a charm with the ladies. Airport, and other busy places tended to disagree with Alan, and the fact he works London probably attributed too much of his grey hair. The never-ending carousel of meetings and deadlines according to his Doctor had led to his premature greying and general aged disposition.

‘Okay Mr Ingram, you are gate 21, please head toward the departure lounge.’ She smiled at him, which resulted in Alan severely blushing and mumbling to himself as he left. He looked back outside the terminal; the skies were clear, people were smiling and he was heading back to England.  He pocketed his passport and ticket in his brown corduroy trousers, righted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and set off with his grey suitcase without wheels, in essence Alan looked about as out-dated and awkward as Mr Bean. His trousers swayed about his ankles, revealing white socks, which over time have become slightly yellowed by sweat and dirt. He wore a brown blazer (corduroy of course) and a brown belt. It was safe to say that he wore the colour palette of murky water.

The hustle and bustle of passengers did not help his unease at airports but that was unavoidable. Without speaking to anyone Alan swiftly made his was up two flights of stairs at the end of the check in room and emerged into the departures lounge. The departure lounge was lined with shops selling their wares. Anything from perfume to new suitcases was available, and speaking of new suitcases, Alan could have done with one; however, the old saying ‘do not fix what is not broken’ rang true with Alan. Walking along with his eyes fixed on all these shops was a recipe for disaster, as he accidentally swung his grey leather suitcase into a small child holding his mother’s hand.

‘I am so sorry…’ Alan began.

‘You careless man!’ the mother chided, her son had begun to cry, she smothered him in her arms.

‘Uh- I’m sorry, is there anything I could do-‘

It was about this time her husband came on over from the coffee shop after seeing the commotion.

‘What’s happened?’ he addressed his wife and a brief description of the events lead to this tank of a man squaring up to Alan. The man had muscles on his body that did not look as if they belonged there and his skin-tight t-shirt only served to exemplify this.

‘I did not mean to –‘, words were not forming in Alan’s mouth, as he blubbered nonsensically.

‘If I ever see you again, you are in big trouble’ he dug his finger into Alan’s chest. It hurt. The husband then swooped up his son and luggage and walked away; his wife glanced back disapprovingly.  

His boring, unassuming self normally never led him to much trouble (with the odd exception of clumsiness) however, without realising it, today he was being watched, followed and chosen by people that seamlessly blended into the background. Alan was shaken up by his encounter with that family, not so much the whole ‘finger in the chest’ thing, but mainly because he felt sorry for the young boy: it was honestly an accident. He concluded he would take that as a life lesson, learn from his mistakes and think about it no more. Alan was very methodical like that. His Doctor said he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but Alan just thought he was logical. Sure, he has to line up the television controls in a manner in which all were parallel, with an exact spacing of one centimetre between each controller and each controller was flush with the end of the table, but we all have our habits right? Promptly he made his way around the circular lounge and began to walk toward gate 44, his shoes rasping loudly on the floor as he did. He entered his gate, and displayed his ticket without ever saying a word and proceeded to sit down a full hour before the flight was due. The gate was virtually empty, except for a couple of families. One family had a young son who was crying, Alan swallowed hard, it was that same family and boy he had knocked over, secretly he made his way over to a seat at the end of the lounge without being seen by the boy’s father. There was also a tanned man, with a wild afro in a Hawaiian shirt, who perched himself like a vulture on his seat. He seemed tense, and the tension was tangible in the room. Alan began to read the newspaper that was left on the seat next to him, but there was nothing out of the ordinary: tax was being increased and somewhere in the world somebody had died, also another celebrity couple have filed for divorce, so as mentioned before, ‘nothing out of the ordinary’. As he was reading the newspaper, the Afro-man stood up. He looked a full six foot, yet was rather thin like a disproportionate stick insect. The stick insect – bird – man walked over to where Alan was sitting; Alan noticed he walked with a slight limp as he proceeded to sit next to him. Alan now felt uncomfortable and he began to finger the edge of his newspaper. The man smelt of barbeque and cigarettes, a sweet sickly aroma, as he leaned towards Alan and spoke;

‘Alan,’ he spoke with a heavy Jamaican accent, which to be honest typified his look ‘dawnt make a scene.’

‘How do you know me? Who are you?’ Alan's mind was racing as he began to breathe heavily.

‘Calm, Alan, calm’ the Jamaican man soothed, ‘I am Laos’

‘Okay – um – how do you know me? Please leave me alone, I have not done anything to you’ Alan was almost pleading now

‘It is nawt a question of what you haven’t done to me but what you could do for me, see Alan I have a favour to ask,’ Laos paused for a while, to let Alan absorb this new information, as he crossed his legs and sat back in his seat.

‘Talk to me Alan, can you help me?’ Laos inquired.

‘Look – err – Laos I don’t know you, and anyway how do you know me?’

‘Irrelevant’ Laos drawled, ‘Look Alan I have money.’

‘Okay - good - for - you, but please leave me alone,’ Alan insisted. He was actually quietly proud of himself, as this was probably the first time he ever tried to take authority.

‘I will go’ Laos said after some consideration, ‘If you deliver this package for me’

‘What? No I can’t trust you!’ Alan now began to feel uncomfortable again; this man wanted a favour.

‘Look, Alan, what are you afraid of? You deliver this simple package for me,’ as he spoke, Laos slid out of his cargo short a small brown envelop about four by two inches. It was padded, with bubble wrap Alan guessed, and was heavily sealed at the mouth of the envelope with masking tape.

‘Look, Alan, I ‘ave money’ Laos raised his eyebrows, sensing he might be getting his way.

‘Well – err – what if it is illegal, or dangerous, or gets me killed, or in prison or something’ Alan rambled, ‘this is an unusual request, I don’t even know you!’

‘Look Alan, you don’t need to know anything other than I am Laos and I have money. T’ink aboot it Alan, I have already got through security, pass dem sniffer dogs, through dem scanners, it is not illegal or dangerous,’ Laos spoke soothingly, and let his rhythmic Jamaican tones assure Alan.

‘Fine,’ Alan began to reason, ‘If I do this for you will you leave me alone?’

‘Yes,’ Laos monosyllabically responded

‘And I am I no danger?’ Alan asked, as he turned investigator.

‘No.’

‘How much will you pay me?’

‘One thousand pounds.’

Alan paused, and thought about this, the money would be useful; it practically pays for his airfare. Also, Laos is right he has been through security, so what he is carrying is not illegal. After much consideration;

‘Okay, I will do it,’ Alan confirmed in a confident tone.

‘Good’ Laos smiled, ‘At Heathrow, you will find a man at the taxi stand called Mr. A. Gost’ as he spoke Laos wrote the name on the package for him, and slipped it onto the newspaper sheet spread across Alan’s lap. Laos then reached inside another pocket and pulled out a small roll of bank notes.

‘One thousand pounds exactly, I counted it myself,’ he seemed proud.

Alan smiled weakly as he pocketed the cash, supposing that this was the proverbial signing of a contract, and from this point onwards there would be no backing out.

‘Now listen good Alan, do not lose this gift, guard it with your life, and finally, only give it to Mr. Gost, understood?’

‘Um – yes’ Alan felt nervous again, why did he call it a gift? Guard it with my life? That seems a bit extreme.

‘Okay goodbye Alan, stay safe’ Laos hissed the last words. Feeling uneasy, and already regretting this decision he looked down at the package, whilst mumbling something that sounded vaguely like goodbye. So many questions flew through Alan’s mind, primarily what is the package? Who is Mr Gost? Alan had to ask Laos now before he boarded the flight.

‘Laos?’ Alan said.

No reply, Alan looked up again, and turned his head left to where Laos sat, or used to sit, because now he had gone. Alan had almost jumped out of fright, how did this man vanish? Frantically, Alan began to look around the room, the two families were still there; the boy had stopped crying and was whimpering in his mother’s lap. Panicking, Alan involuntarily stood up and he began to pace around the waiting lounge, he stared down the corridor he had just walked down, but all he saw was a barrage of people heading toward him, probably about to get the same flight as him, but no sign of Laos. Conceding defeat, he sat back down in his chair, head buried in his hands, why on earth did he accept the deal? Stupid, stupid, stupid…. He repeated over and over in his mind.

‘Damn it!’ Alan unintentionally said out loud, attracting the attention of the mother cradling her whimpering child and her husband.

‘You!’ he said beginning to rise out of his seat, until his wife put a comforting hand on his arm, confining him to his seat. He made a motion with his hands, trying to communicate that either he will be watching me, or that he had something stuck in his eye.

‘Sorry,’ Alan mumbled, and he bore his vision into his lap again his heart missed a beat at the thought of being confronted by that human tank again. In all honesty Alan was not sorry, he was scared and annoyed with himself. Naturally, Alan began to reason with himself. Look, nothing bad has happened to me yet, I did not tell them where I live or anything. But then again he already knew my name, what if he has a whole file about me, overthinking the situation Alan concluded he would stop using Facebook or Twitter. All I have to do is give this package to Mr. A. Gost - instinctively he patted the packet that rested in his blazers pocket - and then that would be it, it would be over, he could return to being mundane Alan, the thought of which soothed him. His mind, entertained many ideas and thought each of which only lead to a chain of new thought, concerns and worries. Time slipped by as Alan thought deeply, and by the time he raised his head again, the waiting lounge was fully of passengers, and the stewardess was announcing rows twenty-seven to fifty-seven could board. That was Alan. In a sustained daze Alan stood up, gathered his things, and went to board the plane. 

'Untitled Novella - Chapter 1' by Steven Hardy

This is the unedited first draft of an opening chapter of a futuristic, politically intertwined novella I am beginning to write (and if I get any spare time hopefully finish!) I have experimented with a narrator who is involved within the text and story line, this is new to me so may lack fluency in areas; however, with time and editing I hope to iron it out. With this being a first draft the grammar and syntax is not great, try to look past that and divulge into the storyline. It is set in the Twenty-Third Century, so I had loads of fun trying to create my interpretation of the future (which unfortunately looks rather bleak) the ideas and premises are a ‘bit out there’ but that’s the joy of futuristic/sci-fi/dystopian writing. Enjoy!’

Chapter 1

   It was cold; Darren was cold, Miranda was colder. They were holding each other’s hands limply, as they sat inside the clinic’s waiting room, watching the downpour outside. Since they, the government, tried sending that rocket into the atmosphere to stabilise the weather, all it ever did was rain nowadays; ironic really. The twenty-third century does not really offer much by way of aesthetics. No more countryside – oh no, that was gone by the end of the twenty first. All we have is flats; grey, square apartments within a grey, square world. The world was now united under one federal government, called the ‘United Alliances for the People’ to be frank they were anything but, they were corrupt, greedy and powerful; a dire combination. Apart from oppressing the people and starting wars amongst themselves, they did contribute one thing to society. See, they were appalled by the amount of divorces in the twenty first century, it was shameful. Of course, those who lived in the twenty first century did not find it shameful – but it was. One day ‘Oh, I love you!’ the next day ‘Get out of my sight!’ two very different exclamations. Where was loyalty? They asked themselves this and concluded something ought to be done, so using the developments in science at the time, they did something. About the only thing of significance the government have done, they enforced the ‘Matrimonial law’. The Matrimonial law cites that all couples wishing to be married must undergo a MRC injection. An MRC injection is a Micro Robotic Cell injection. This is where Micro Robotic Cells are injected into each partner’s body and these cells are linked chemically; the low down essentially is if you hurt your partners feelings, you will hurt. If you are happy, your partner is happy. If you are sad, your partner is sad. If you stray more than fifty metres from your partner, you will die. So, these are the premises for getting married.

   A smart person might ask themselves, so why get married? Is not the life of a bachelor more desirable anyway? Well, if you have not tied the knot or ‘prepped the needle’ as they call it nowadays by twenty years of age, the government will do for you. Oh, yes they will hunt you down using your PID tag. A PID tag, by the way, is a Personal Identity tag the government bestow upon you at birth. Think of it as a christening gift – it allows them to track your every movement and store all of your data on a database. So anyway, they will find you and catch you and scan the database for a potential partner, insert the needle and the rest, as they say, is history. Voila! You have a new spouse! So your options are get married or get married? Well then, at least try to do it for love. That’s what Darren and Miranda did. For you information, Miranda prefers to be called Mira, personally I prefer Miranda, but my opinion is moot. So we re-join Darren and Mira inside the clinic waiting to get married… 

   ‘Do you remember how we met Darren?’ asked Miranda.

   ‘Yes, we were young and grew up together, your parents were killed in the Civil war over Ireland and my family took you in. We grew up together like brother and sister’

   ‘Darren?’

   ‘Yes’

   ‘Do you love me?’ Darren took her hands in his, they were trembling and looked her in the eyes, they were so deep and blue and he sighed. He knew the next words out his mouth would shape their future, but then again he did not want to lie. He paused for thought, for what seemed like a short lifetime before:

‘Mr and Mrs Turl, for the Matrimonial injection’ the doctor called.

   ‘Us’ Darren called with a vague wave of his hand. He stood up to follow the doctor and as he did he glimpsed the hurt and fear etched into Mira’s face, but she still held his hand.

The doctor was a small bald man, who smelt like he just swam through a sea of coffee; he led them down a long white corridor with doors lining both signs, these were small booths where matrimony is cemented. Number twenty three – the doctor stopped at number twenty three, he opened the door and ushered them in.

   ‘May you have a long and happy marriage’ he said hollowly, and closed the door behind him.

Mira’s hand had tightened its grip on Darren, as they looked into each other’s faces; their young nineteen year old faces, yet their minds betrayed an older age. Well I suppose that is what happens when the government takes away your childhood, here sit this exam; here pass this test and endless torrent of not living up to expectations. Well of course – we feel older than we are Godammit!

   ‘Hello, I am Dr Hugo, I will oversee your marriage ceremony; do you have any family members who wish to view the ceremony. If so please tell me their PID number and I can set up a video conference for you’

   ‘Err – we have nobody who wants to watch’ Darren spoke, as he exchanged nervous glances with his bride to be. Mira had no parents and Darren’s father in a fit of rage murdered Darren’s mother with a knife and therefore through the micro robotic cells killed himself. So Darren and Mira had nobody in the world – bar each other.

   ‘Well then’ Dr Hugo said, ‘I have entered your details into the system, you are ready to be married. Mr Darren, if you would kindly take your seat and you over there next to him Miss Miranda,’ he gestured with his hand towards two chairs that sat back to back in the centre of the room

   Darren sat down upon the hard plastic chair; it had an awful lot of restraints on it and on the right arm of the chair was mounted a small stainless steel gun shaped device with an almighty needle out the end of it. Darren swallowed hard, but found his throat was dry.

   ‘Do not worry Mr Darren and Miss Miranda, the procedure is not painful, the restraints are merely to ensure that you do not move and the injection occurs smoothly’ he loaded what appeared to be a small round into the gun, it had a clear exterior and a dark green liquid inside it; he did the same to Miranda’s gun and slowly began to work strapping them in. He started with their arm right arm and then their torso and then their legs, until they were strapped in, like a child on a rollercoaster with that horrible bittersweet, happy-scared oxymoron surging through their minds. Darren began to sweat, and he was sure Mira was too. Well this is it no turning back now; Darren looked at the ceiling, Mira bore her eyes into her knees.

   ‘Are you ready? Then let’s begin’ Dr Hugo recited like a sickly story, ‘we are gathered here today to witness the bondage of Mr Darren Turl to Mrs Miranda Turl. May you love each other through sickness, health, happiness and sorrow now and forever, Mrs Miranda do you take Mr Darren to be your Husband to love and cherish?’

   ‘I do’ she panted, almost before the words left the Doctors lips.

   ‘Mr Darren do you take Mrs Miranda as you wife, to love and hold forever?’

   Silence, a tenuously tangible moment passed. Time stood still for Darren, he began to lose focus and feel dizzy. He felt his world collapsing around him and the clinic closing in on him, he felt sick, sickeningly sick.

   ‘I – do’ he whispered, through clenched teeth.

   ‘By the power invested in me by the government of the United Alliance of the People, I now pronounce you man and wife, Mr and Mrs Turl’ and with that he pressed a small green button on the side of the chair and the needles began to move.

   Darren began to panic and fight the straps that held him captive, but the Doctor had fastened him down securely. He tried to scream but nothing escaped his lips, so this is what it felt like to be paralysed by fear. Meanwhile, Mira had given up resisted, she was slumped over, even though the straps made her look like she was sitting up, either way, she sat their awaiting the inevitable. The needle pierced their veins at the same time. This time Darren found his voice, he screamed and screamed until his lungs were sore. All the while Mira sat then in silence. The MRC felt like creatures inside Darren, he could feel them exploring his body and multiplying and dominating his every orifice. The initial burst of MRC’s into their forearms felt like a cool lubricant, which quickly burned up inside them.

   ‘No need to worry’ Dr Hugo was speaking, ‘It takes a while for the MRC’s to settle, this burning sensation you feel will go away’

   It was little comfort to them. If that earlier pause felt like eternity, this felt like two eternities the anguish went on and on. Darren’s cold sweat had covered the chair and the veins in his neck stuck out from straining against the pain so hard. But Mira remained perfectly still, her face still engraved with the stress of dealing with the pain. And just as soon as this angry fire began to consume the inside of this skin, it subsided, it was over, and they were married. The both sat there panting, completely exhausted, you would have thought from the noises they made that they had just consummated their marriage, but alas they only just got married. As if to confirm this fact, Dr Hugo announced: ‘Congratulations on your marriage’ and printed them off the certificate confirming this fact.

   Slowly, he began to unstrap them and as soon as they could they gathered their things and left the clinic. Dr Hugo quickly, pushed a manual into their hands before they left, ‘The Governments Guide to Marriage and the MRC’ without a backwards glance Darren and Miranda left the clinic, now a married couple.

Struggles - My Choice by Steven Hardy

‘I wrote this poem this morning as I felt I had to express some of these thoughts. I had recently download for free ‘Stop Motion Studio’ and thought it would be a fun way to share this simple poem. Enjoy!’

A Numinous Scene by Steven Hardy

I submitted this piece into a local literary competition run in my Sixth Form, it was a finalist worthy piece and published within my school. The task was to create a numinous scene – to this day I am still unsure that I fully comprehend what a numinous scene should be! I decided to use to characters that will occur in the high-fantasy novel I am beginning to work on, rather than fabricate completely new ones. For those of you who are visual readers, my characters are dwarfs and can be perceived in a similar light to Gimli from The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R Tolkien. This is a short extract so should not be too burdensome to read. Enjoy!  

   A cave, a sacred capsule of refuge for dwarfs, now seemed to detest their very presence. There was an ominous, tangible energy in the cavern, everything now seemed harrowing to Gremï and Gnârzl. The stalactites, with their jagged, serrated blades now hung sadistically from the ceiling of the rounded cavern, ready to fall and claim a life. Likewise, the stalagmites magically seemed to evolve and grow more large, daunting and imposing. Causing menacing shadows to dance frantically on the cavern walls, the eerie purple light seemed to have no source, as if it were seeping from every orifice of the cavern. Whilst not being harsh, the light was somewhat stunning, and caused the two dwarfs to stumble around the cavern like drunkards, as they in a semi-blind state struggled to find each other. The walls themselves appeared to close in on them, they were like meek mice, in the powerful paws of a cat, slowly, and full of malice, closing its paws in on them. Trapped. The dwarfs’ minds began to revolt against their very bodies, a whirl of coloured lights, and half muted sounds filled their minds. Their bodies seemed to pulsate to the rhythmic percussion, which the very cavern itself seemed to emanate. Boom, boom, boom… Swaying on their feet, mesmerised, in a semi-conscious trance, they knew they were experiencing something important, surreal, but important. Their own bodies now seemed beyond their control, as they were swathed in the essence, the very essence of life. The dwarfs' faces crinkled in hard concentration, for they were concentrating on what they did not know. The blurry images and muted noises in their minds began to torment them, as they twisted maliciously with the truth, and played clinically with their past memories. Both Gremï and Gnârzl were convinced they were not destined to see light again, and that their carcasses would lie in this cavern for ever to rot and decay. It seemed that time itself had almost become lethargic, and its new-found slowness only seemed to exemplify the clumsy, hallucinating staggering of Gremï and Gnârzl. Their wide clumsy feet kicked up small hurricanes of dust from the brown earth beneath them. Slowly, the two dwarfs, now thoroughly exhausted by the extraordinary circumstances they found themselves in, began to collapse almost elegantly to the floor, their small, squat but powerful bodies bundled tidily to the floor in a mass of rusty brown hair, brown cotton tunics and leather belts.

   As soon as it came the unnerving purple light left, and the cavern was plunged into darkness, no more pulsating beats, no more colours or sounds in the slumped over dwarfs’ minds, just pure and perfect silence. Silence. Gremï and Gnârzl lay soundlessly and peacefully on the cavern floor, their breasts rocking backwards and forwards, deliberately beating life into the two bodies. What had just happened? Are they dead? Will they wake to find the afterlife? Will they see the family and their Klan again? Will they even remember any of this? So many questions, so few answers; consciousness slowly crept back into their now empty minds. 

   Gremï forced an eye open, and rubbed it with a grimy, rough hand, propping himself painstakingly on his elbow.

‘Gnârzl?’ he inquired.