Category Archives: Stories

What if you woke up one morning and everyone you loved thought you were dead? (Part 3 of 4)

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A brief note: This is a horror story. It’s not supernatural horror, but rather entirely real and horrible horror. It contains a few profanities, and if you’ve been enjoying the Scarlet stories, please be warned, this is quite different. 

 

There was something strange about the train. She was going home, just as she’d done before, only not. She laid her head back against the train seat and took deep breaths. She felt worse this morning; her headache was constant, however still she remained, and she hadn’t managed to keep breakfast down. Buying the right ticket had been a task requiring supreme concentration, and even then she’d dropped the twenty three times before getting it into the slot.

She’d done the trip just enough for the familiar fields, and pylons, and rows of gardens, to bring up that nostalgic feeling really crappy, manipulative movies gave you. Only, in the movies, every garden didn’t have one of those outdoor trampolines in. She giggled, and felt warmth on her lip. She touched it, and her finger came away with blood on it. The woman opposite, who’d spent the first five minutes staring until Natasha glared at her, pulled a packet of tissues from her pocket and offered her one.

She took it, nodding and trying a smile. The lady smiled back, one of those ‘well, well, isn’t it a shame’ sort of looks that made Natasha want to pull the knife out of her bag and have at her. She bit her lip instead, and scrubbed the blood off, before holding it to her nose. She never got nosebleeds, and neither did Sally.

‘Are you alright, deary?’

Oh god, she actually wanted to talk. Apart from her momentary career as a non-hooker, she hadn’t spoken in over a week. She wasn’t sure she still knew how. ‘Uh, uh, fine, yes, fine, uh.’

Turned out she did, sort of. The woman narrowed her eyes, but nodded, and came again with the smile. Natasha slipped her free hand into her bag and felt the knife, stroking the thick handle, the roughness of the string she’d wound around it. They never used string in murder movies, but why not? Worried about finger prints? Easy, wrap it in string, then burn it off.

She shook her head, and giggled again. The tissue was soaked, and the lady offered her another one, but she should probably go to the loo and have a look. God, the train’s bloody wobbling all over the place. She bumped her way down the aisle, hips cushioning most of the blows, hand still cupped over her nose.

© Marc Johnson | Dreamstime Stock Photos

© Marc Johnson | Dreamstime Stock Photos

What was wrong with her eyes? The mirror was one of those tiny, thin things, you couldn’t see you whole face in, but she could see her eyes, sunken and bloodshot. She looked like a druggy, which wasn’t a bad idea, way she was feeling. She bowed her head, staring in wonder at the short tufts of hair. They wouldn’t recognise her now, even if she did show up. And hey, she’d got two hundred pounds and it was a snip at the price. Hah, that was good.

She looked at her nose, taking her hand away, and blood seeped down and dripped into the sink. Natasha hauled reams of loo roll out and smothered her nose, then dropped it into the toilet and grabbed more. She stood, head tipped back, leaning against the door, until a knock on the other side made her jump, and shriek in pain as her head pounded and thumped.

She opened the lock, grabbed more loo roll, then staggered back down the carriage. The woman opposite was gone. She slumped in her seat, and tipped her head back, smelling smoke and charred flesh, and screaming. No, she heard the charred flesh, surely, you don’t smell flesh.

They were here, wherever here was. Home, not home, just another place. Only dad was here. She fingered the knife as she stepped down from the train. The bleeding had stopped, but now the world was spinning, and she had to sit on a bench for a while.

It was night time, which was strange, because she’d caught the morning train. ‘Come on, love, out you go?’

She peered up at the man in the uniform, and nodded absently. She stood, and saw the sign, and went cold. She was in Stevenage, why was she in Stevenage, he was here, she had to get back to London, where were the bloody trains? She grabbed her bag, feeling the hardness within, and her heart slowed. Of course, that’s why she was here. Just a flying visit, to pay respects. Heh.

The guy was doing everything except shoving her, so she concentrated on walking a straight line out of the station, and onto the wet pavement. When had it rained? The taxis were waiting and she flagged one, dropping into the back like a sack of potatoes. She mumbled her postcode and watched the same old streets amble by. The driver could probably have gone slower, but only if he got out and pushed.

Where was her money? She needed to pay for the taxi. She shoved her hand into the bag and found the knife. Of course, she didn’t have to pay for anything now, she was dead. She giggled, making faces into the rear view mirror. He couldn’t see her, you can’t see ghosts, everyone knew that. She patted her jacket pocket and felt the wallet and opened her mouth as wide as it would go, moving it from side to side, staring at her reflection with wide eyes.

‘Sorry, love, any chance you stop doing that please, can’t see the road?’

Her mouth snapped shut, and she put her finger to her lips, shaking her head vigorously. She giggled, rocking back and forth.

‘Eer, love, you alright? You want me to drop you at the hospital?’

She felt her nose, and the blood that had just erupted from it. She shook her head, and he shrugged and kept going. He might have mumbled, ‘well, keep it off me bloody seats then,’ but probably not. He definitely did mumble. ‘Bloody ghosts, can’t trust em with nothing, these days.’

They entered her street and she piled out, shoving some money across the front seats. She almost left her bag, but he grabbed it and handed it to her. She snatched it from him, cradling it to her chest like a baby, and smiling. The blood was dripping from her lip, and she scrubbed it off with one hand, and stomped down the street.

Sunset

She could smell smoke again, and hear noises, the crash of the glass and the screams. The hedge in front of her old house was made of huge fir trees and she crawled beneath them and closed her eyes.

Next Instalment: Monday 27th January

What if you woke up one morning and everyone you loved thought you were dead? (Part 2 of 4)

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A brief note: This is a horror story. It’s not supernatural horror, but rather entirely real and horrible horror. It contains a few profanities, and if you’ve been enjoying the Scarlet stories, please be warned, this is quite different. 

It was dark, which wasn’t surprising because it was night, although she’d have been hard pressed to say when the day had ended. She was leaning against a wall, peering up and down Greek street and just deciding what to eat, when a man came up to her, baseball cap pulled down low over his face.

‘Ello love, how much for French?’

She stared at him for a moment, wondering what the hell french was, and where he got off calling her love, when she realised, and giggled. He scowled and she giggled harder. ‘Ain’t funny, just gimme the fucking price.’

Now her sides were hurting and she was bending over, sucking in breaths, and his panting was suddenly hot against her cheek. ‘Come on, love, don’t take the piss.’

She shook her head, gasping, and put a hand up, begging for the time to find her breath. He stepped back and she managed to blurt it out between heaves. ‘Sorry, I’m not a prostitute, sorry, really.’

He stared at her for a second, then scowled again and stomped away. She turned the other way and out onto Oxford street. What did she do? What could she do? She tried to remember what she’d come to London for, but there was a blank. Every time she went back, she felt the heat again, and the noise. God, her ears were still ringing. It had been like someone dumped a skip full of glass and crockery and bricks on the floor, from a thousand feet up, right next to her ear.

She hadn’t been able to hear the ambulance man when he spoke to her, just nodded as he led her over to the ambulance, and sat her on the back and checked her out, shaking his head in amazement. A stretcher had gone past, and the wind had lifted the sheet, and she so clearly remembered seeing the boy, maybe ten or twelve, but his chest was gone, just gone, and Oxford Street blurred suddenly and she wrapped her arms around herself until she stopped shaking.

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Where was her hair? She patted her head frantically, finding the short ends and groaning. The tears came again and she bent at the waist, hugging herself. Oh, she’d cut it off, yeah, two hundred pounds and a snip at the price. Hah, that was good. Dad would be pissed though, he liked to have something to hold when he…

She sniffed, and stomped, her feet grinding the pavement beneath them. She was dead. She’d died, blown apart in the worst terrorist attack the UK had ever seen, and dad could just whistle for it now. She’d slipped away from the ambulance when someone who needed it more than her arrived and the paramedic turned away to help with clear masks and injections and things that should have been fine, but instead made her need to be far away. So she’d dived around the side of the ambulance, and almost tripped over Lucy.

Lucy must have crawled there, leaving behind a horror-movie-smear of blood and how no one had spotted it yet escaped her, except the air was still so full of dust it was like walking through clouds. And she’d been cold, so she’d taken her jacket, and keys, and left behind an unidentifiable woman’s body, that could just as easily be called Sally Picket as Lucy Tenor, and slipped away, ears ringing.

She was in Leicester square, and the noise was worse than on Oxford Street, like someone hitting a drum next to her ear. She winced, glaring around at the people pushing past, but the noise got worse, and she scampered into the centre, sitting on the big concrete kerbs. She was too short down here, though, and people kept hitting her with bags, so she stood again. It was all so bright.

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She squeezed her eyes closed, rubbing them with the fleshy bit of her palm, trying to push away the thumping. It didn’t work. She opened her eyes and stared up at the nearest cinema. Some guy was glaring back at her, fifty feet tall and carrying a gun. She stared back at him, wondering why, in a world where something like Canary Wharf last week could happen, people still wanted to watch violence.

The tag line was ‘They went too far, they went for his family,’  which she could only assume meant he had a nicer family than she did. Or she had. She wasn’t alive anymore, so they weren’t her family. Natasha shook her head, wincing, but doing it anyway. It wasn’t working. However many times she said it, the truth was, he was still out there. She’d loved waking up with everyone thinking she was dead, but what she really wanted was for him to be dead.

She patted her pocket, feeling the wallet, fat with twenties and walked across the square and into the cinema. She got the next viewing of the latest Disney movie, another one-word retelling of something or other, then settled down with popcorn. She spent the entire move trying not to throw up. Why did her head hurt so bloody bad? As the credits rolled, and she leaned back with a sigh of relief, squeezing her eyes closed, the idea slipped in.

It was fully formed, like a baby delivered in the post, everything present and correct, and it made her shudder all over, so hard she gripped the arms of the seat until it stopped. She could do it, of course she could, she was dead now. No one would know it was her, no one would even suspect her. She giggled, and traipsed out the cinema, clutching absently to the empty popcorn tub.

Next Instalment: Friday 24th January

What if you woke up one morning and everyone you loved thought you were dead? (Part 1 of 4)

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A brief note: This is a horror story. It’s not supernatural horror, but rather entirely real and horrible horror. It contains a few profanities, and if you’ve been enjoying the Scarlet stories, please be warned, this is quite different. 

 

She giggled. She couldn’t help it. She’d been doing it a lot recently, and couldn’t decide whether it was down to the shock, or just the freedom. Sally scratched her head, just above her eyebrows, and winced. She wandered into the bathroom and stared into the cracked mirror that hung like a drunken executioner. The skin on her forehead was red, and flaky, and she poked at it, sniffing. She dug around in her wash kit and emerged triumphantly with a face cream sampler, the entire contents of which she splurged on to her hands and then slapped onto her forehead. Some vigorous rubbing later, and the redness looked at though it were buried beneath a mountain of oily snow.

With another sniff, she ambled from the bathroom and stared out the window. The place only had one, which was lucky, because she’d run out of clothes a couple of days ago, and had no intention of getting dressed. Unless, of course, it was absolutely essential, which, she realised as she peered out into the dirty London dusk, it was.

With a huge sigh, she cast about the room, finding jeans bearing no obvious stains, a bra and t-shirt. Suitably ready for the outside world, she grabbed her jacket off the chair, slipped the thick leather over herself, and stopped. Her head was spinning, and her stomach rebelling again, threatening to toss up the remains of last night’s chinese. Unless it was the night before’s? It had been on the table this morning, and smelled OK…

She staggered back to the bathroom and turning on the tap, received only a sound like a car farting, and she punched it. Swearing and sucking her bruised knuckle, she turned the other tap and was rewarded with a gush of water which she scooped into her mouth. She’d forgotten to remove her other hand, and the first lot went down her jacket and onto the floor, but she got the hang of it after that, and felt a little better.

The wind bit into her, finding the gaps in her jacket before she’d even managed to say, ‘sure, come on in, cop a feel.’ Just like dad, then, really. Her stomach turned again, and she leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths until it passed. Where was he? Was he sad, was he mourning? Was anyone?

Pigeon

© Alex Anstey | Dreamstime Stock Photos

She took slow, unsteady steps down the pavement, turning the corner into Greek street and the market. She received a couple of looks, but no more than usual. She’d have to lose her hair, it was the one thing people could use to identify her. The thought made her shudder, and put the back of her hand to her mouth. She hadn’t cut it since she was born, but now she’d died, it was, in a way, fitting.

She giggled again. She needed something to eat, something sensible, and ducked into the co-op. Emerging a few minutes later with sausage rolls and those little sherbet sticks that made her tongue go funny, she paused, shoving pastry and meat into her mouth until the spinning stopped. Opposite the co-op was a comic shop. It hadn’t been here last time she was in London, and she wandered in, spending a few blissful minutes forgetting everything.

But she couldn’t hide forever and the wind welcomed her back with a searching grope, grabbing chunks of hair and dragging it around. She hauled on it at the roots, pulling it close and over her shoulder. She tucked it into her jacket, shoving it in until it was like having a second layer on, a hair-lined fleece. Hadn’t old-time priests or vicars or someone worn hair-lined tops as penance. That was fitting, too.

She found a hair dressers, and went in, taking a deep breath as she released it from the jacket and it spilled all over the floor. Twenty seven years of growth, never trimmed, never touched. ‘How much?’

‘A trim is forty pounds, madam, though it depends how much you’d like off.’

Sally shook her head. ‘How much will you pay me for it?’

The stylist deferred to the lady behind the counter, who narrowed her eyes as they began bartering. Half an hour, and no few tears later, she emerged looking like Liza Minelli, her pockets heavier to the tune of two hundred pounds. She imagined the shampoo she must have got through. She could build a house with it, a house of beautifully coloured bottles, designed to the hilt, and live in there, away from everyone, and everything. But then, there was no everyone, not anymore.

She paused by the newsagents, staring in at the papers. The headlines were the same on all of them, still asking the same questions. What had happened? Why would anyone do this? Others just threw stats at her. ‘More people killed in this one terrorist attack than in every other ever.’ ‘More than a thousand innocent souls snuffed out, without cause, without mercy.’

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She sneered and caught sight of her reflection in the window. She could still feel the heat. That was the weirdest thing, like a wall that punched her, knocking her off her feet and stealing her oxygen, until she was puffing and panting and thinking she was going to suffocate, until it suddenly went, and the cold rushed in, and the screaming began. She was the one screaming, but there were so many more.

She looked down at her hands, turning them over and over, searching for the blood that was surely still there. She walked away, strolling toward Oxford Street, taking it in. She was free, free like she hadn’t imagined she could be. Just being allowed to come down to London for a day had been amazing, unbelievable, really. But it was nothing compared to this.

What was her name? She needed a name, one that worked, and sounded real, but not like the old one. She’d never felt like a Sally, not really. Sally’s didn’t get felt up by their dad on their sixth birthdays, or stab their little brothers with scissors when they got bored.

Natasha. It felt good, sexy, real. Natasha what? Romanov? Nah, already taken. Berry? That could work. Natasha Berry. She giggled, and put a hand out to steady herself. Where was she staying? She’d been sleeping somewhere since it happened, but where? And why couldn’t she remember? She put her hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet.

Without looking up, she leaned against the wall and slid down it, pulling her legs in so people could still walk past. There were keys in the pocket as well, keys to the flat. Of course, the flat, with the broken tap and the dodgy mirror. She leafed through the wallet. She’d done this as well, already, the familiar driver’s licence, with the pretty girl on. Lucy Tenor, resident of the UK, now a bloody corpse, probably buried by now, it’s been six days.

She stuffed the wallet back in, then took it out again. She pulled the licence out, doubled it over so the plastic went all white, bent forward and slipped it carefully down the drain. The other cards went the same way, til all she had was a costa reward card, and a bundle of carefully folded twenties. She had a flat, and two hundreds pounds, and now she had a name. And she had no father, or mother, or little brother, or overly-concerned friends, or social worker or any of that crap. She sniffed.

Next Instalment: Wednesday 22nd January

Scarlet’s Walk – Part Eighteen

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Part One can be found here

They hadn’t invited her back, but she knew how to find them. If Scarlet was desperate to join the Council, she could always head back down under the Gallery and bang on the door. She was fairly certain they’d remember her.

Mum had gone biccies, completely ballistic for a minute, or five, then hugged her and cried a bit, and made her some tea, and pizza, so that was alright. Martin had stayed, at least long enough for a shower and for mum to dig out some of dad’s old clothes, before sneaking out. He was remarkably good at that, for a big guy.

Now the computer screen was shining brightly in the dark of the room, her hands poised over the keys as she tried to find the words to describe what had turned out to be only twelve hours. She slept for another twelve, which made it the weekend. Tumblr time, yay.
Nothing. She couldn’t even think of where to start, let alone all the words that would come before the end. It was fine, maybe the world wasn’t supposed to know, but somehow, the Harry Potter pics and glorious poems felt just a little less important. How could something so amazing and frightening and crazy happen to her and she not tell everyone?
Martin had said she shouldn’t tell people about the magic. She’d seen enough to know he was right, completely right. Maybe, she could tell a story, like, pretend it wasn’t her. That would work.

It began when I got home from school and mum was missing…

That was as far as she got before her in-box pinged, and the little message appeared in the corner of the screen. She got maybe one email a year that didn’t come from Amazon, or a band mailing list, so she clicked on it, story forgotten.

“From: Martin
Subject: Why

Dear Scarlet
I am proud of you. We have spent little time together but already I see the makings of a powerful magician. Well done.”

God, he wrote even more awkwardly than he spoke. This must have been agony for him.

“I also need to thank you, properly. I thought perhaps I could begin to do that by telling you, truthfully, why I was down with the Council, and why they saw fit to torture me.”

She rubbed her hands together, eyes lighting up, then glanced guiltily around the room.

“I was married for seven years. We fell in love when we met, at the Council. Her name was Arpita, and she was everything.”

Scarlet took a deep breath, throat closing up.

“Three years ago, Arpita disappeared. I came home from my work at the Council, and she was gone. I searched. I talked to people, I did everything I could to find her, but there was nothing, no trace. After eighteen months, I gave up my main efforts. I hated myself for it, but it was destroying me. Instead, I dedicated myself to helping others. I left the Council and gave away everything, determined to strip away everything I had been, and focus only on what I could be.”

That explains the smelly homeless thing.

“But I couldn’t forget. I kept my ears and eyes open, and a few months ago, I heard a rumour that the Council had something to do with her disappearance. I broke in, and stole the minutes of their meetings, the information that would tell me. Within them, I found a discussion, in which Arpita was described as ‘dangerous’, and ‘potentially traitorous’.

At this point, I should say that I have no excuse for my actions. I entered the Council and accused them of killing her, and then attacked them. Luckily, their defences were far stronger than I had anticipated, and they stopped me hurting anyone too badly.
Once they had restrained me, they tried to explain that although they had indeed had that discussion, they had not acted upon it, for they valued her far too much. I left, embittered and disbelieving, and traveled, first to the Underworld and then on to the sisters, in my hopes of finding the truth.

I trust not the Underworld, nor those who dwell there, but they pointed me to the sisters, and for that I am grateful. The sisters told me that my answers would be found in the Council, that they have the truth. I returned there again, only for them to entrap me, and accuse me of stealing the minutes.

I refused to speak, which is when the torture began, followed blessedly soon, by you.
I would like to continue your lessons, but I must warn you that until I discover the truth of what happened to Arpita, I will continue to search.

I hope this message goes some way in satisfying your curiosity and explaining my behaviour. Should you wish to continue to learn with me, then please call whenever you wish.

Yours
Martin”

Scarlet leapt off the bed, dumping the computer to one side and grabbed her coat. She wasn’t ever going out without her coat, and wallet, and phone, and oyster, and maybe a knife of some sort, ever again. She scurried down stairs and pulled open the front door.
Two men were there, one broad and smiling, the other with a ratty face. She shrieked and slammed the door closed…

Scarlet’s Walk – Part seventeen

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Part One can be found here

There were no other rules, they had promised her. She could do nothing that would get her a fail mark. The spell didn’t matter, really, except if she made the fire big enough, she’d get the all-important seconds she needed.

She stepped close to the apprentices, giving them all her biggest smile. They sneered, one and all, so she stared long enough for them to drop their eyes, and fidget. This was going to be so much fun. If it worked. If it didn’t, she was going to regret it more than anything else, like, ever.

She waited the requisite ten minutes, checking through the spell, ensuring she knew it as well as she could. It was short, and simple, and she barely looked at the book as she recited, loud and clear and bold.

Flames sprung up from the floor. They flickered as a thought ran through her mind. What if they countered with water? What if they just dumped loads of water on it? She wouldn’t have time to do anything.

Sweat broke across her brow, and she blinked as it trickled into the corners of her eyes. This was stupid, this was just the sort of thing she thought of, and did, and realised afterward how utterly stupid it was.

Then she felt it. The wind, building slowly as it blew through the hall. Yes! It swept her hair from her face, and dried the sweat and she side stepped, looking past the fire. Two of the apprentices were stood slightly back, staring at the other, who stood, hands held before him, (bloody amateur), face creased in concentration.

She watched him, the wind whipping at her clothes, and the fire. The flames were guttering, struggling to stay alight and she shook her head, making herself move. This was it, now or never.

She stepped forward, unseen for the moment. Everyone’s eyes were on the fire. She focused on it for a moment, head throbbing worse, so bad her eyes twitched, and she blinked, hard. She had to hold it, just for a few more seconds. She pushed, sighing in relief as the flames jumped up again, stronger and surer.

The wind reacted, so strong she staggered, planting her foot to stay upright. The row opposite her were watching through slitted eyes, hands over their faces to block out some of the wind. Time was up.

She took another three steps, coming to stand directly before the apprentice. He finally saw her, his look of fierce concentration slipping, for just a moment, before he gave her the smallest of smiles. Smug. That made it so much easier.

She hated violence. Always had. Oh well. She took a step back, wound up, and kicked him between the legs, as hard as she knew how. Truth was, she struggled to kick a ball that wasn’t moving, but his legs was braced apart, and for one reason or another, she was bang on target.

Like a switch had been flicked, the wind vanished, and the flames roared up, lapping against the ceiling. There was a group gasp of astonishment, but all Scarlet could look at was the face of the man on the floor in front of her, twisted in pain and surprise. His hands was clutching his bits, probably checking they were all still there.

The cymbals clashed for the third and final time, and she let the flames die. The voice was no different. ‘Joanna Slater, you have been victorious in the third conflict.’ A pause followed this statement, though anything else he might have said was lost as she shouted ‘YES!’ and ran over to Martin.

He was leaning back against the wall, the broadest smile on his face she’d ever seen. She slouched onto one leg, putting her hand on her hip. ‘Not bad, huh?’
He chuckled, wincing. ‘Not bad at all, apprentice. We need to work a little on your finesse, I think, but all in all, a very satisfactory outcome.’
‘A satisfactory outcome? That was amazing. That was godlike, bow before me oh puny mortal.’

She turned back to the room. The audience were talking again, too loud for anyone to be heard over the din, so she walked back across the circle, carefully sidestepping the still-prone apprentice.

The masters were staring at her. One was smiling, and trying not to. The other two were storm-faced, like a teacher just before they exploded. She gave them a beaming smile, feeling, for the first time since she’d left home, in control of things. ‘So, any chance of a lift home, please?’

Final Installment Monday 30th December

Scarlet’s Walk – Part sixteen

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Part One can be found here

The apprentices got their ten minutes, heads bent together like little boys preparing to jump out on somebody. Scarlet had given up hating people quite a while ago, though with these three, it was sorely tempting. She would, if possible, settle for ignoring them. Once she’d kicked their butts.

She couldn’t ignore this lot though. As she opened the book, and held it in front of her, they were staring, one muttering to himself, the others leering at her. It really was like being back at school. She faltered, glancing over her shoulder at Martin, seeing the blood still dried on his face, the bruises showing through. Not so much like school.

She returned to the spell, trying to pick it up again, and continue the chanting. She was more aware now, and felt it in the back of her head, like someone was shoving their thumbs into the soft bits just above her neck. It made her want to be sick, then it suddenly flowed out, like water from a bottle, and the light burst into life before her.

It wasn’t as strong as the one she’d made in the Underworld, weak enough, in fact, that she could see past it, to the apprentice who had been chanting, and was now holding his hands before him, palms down. Martin had made it quite clear early on, that the use of hands was for showoffs and amateurs only.

Whichever they were, it didn’t matter, because in the air above her ball of light, what looked like a thick, dark blanket appeared, and descended over it. She felt it, a stinging in the front of her head, that made her blink and steady herself. It got worse as the blanket got lower, and she tried to ignore it, to focus on the light.

It worked, for a moment, the blanket stopping, the light growing more powerful, but the pain got worse, and she groaned, putting one hand to her head. The blanket resumed its sinking and she screamed, hands grabbing at her hair.

She’d lost the first one, if she lost this, everything was done, and finished. She couldn’t, she just couldn’t. She gritted her teeth, wincing, staring at the ball. She could do this, she could, she just had to…

She could see the apprentices grinning, the two who weren’t casting, high-fiving one another and shouting typically childish things. How could they be older than her? Weren’t older people supposed to be more mature, and nicer and stuff?

This wasn’t happening. She stared at the light and poured everything into it, all the crap that had happened in the last day and night, all her anger and frustration. It grew and grew, until she had to cover her eyes, peering between fingers as the blanket got smaller, until a more accurate description would have been flannel. Then it vanished.

The crash sounded, the apprentices staring at her with wide eyes. She flashed them a smile, taking a few steps back. Her head throbbed, and her legs were shaky. Her heel struck the steps and she managed to turn her fall into a quick sit down, sighing with relief as she relaxed.

‘Joanna Slater, you have been victorious in the second conflict. The count stands at one victory each. This final fight will decide your fate.’

He was enjoying this. They were all enjoying this. She’d always imagined wizards and stuff had some kind of higher civilisation, or at least, didn’t watch X-factor, or laugh at videos of people falling off things. This was no better than everyone crowded round a fight at school. Worse, actually, cos they were adults.

She shoved herself to her feet, clambering up the steps and over to Martin. She knelt, seeing the different look in his eyes, and liking it. ‘That was pretty good, huh?’
He smiled, nodding. ‘Yes, that was pretty good. You surprised them.’
‘But not you?’
He rocked his head from side to side. ‘You have the power. I wasn’t sure you could access it.’
‘I can’t do it again, I feel pants, completely rubbish.’

He nodded. ‘It is draining. The power surge will not work again, if they are smart. They will counter your final spell in some other way, even assuming you have enough energy to do it again.’
‘But how come they can have three of them? It means they’re fresh and I’m knackered.’
Martin nodded again. ‘That is but one reason this is so unfair. I’m sorry, Joanna, truly.’

She patted his shoulder, pulling her hand away quickly as she felt the heat pouring off him. ‘What did they do to you?’

He looked down, brows coming together, and shook his head. ‘Don’t think about that, think about what is before you, what you have to do.’
She nodded, grunted slightly as she pushed herself to her feet, and walked back down into the circle. The crowd hushed, and she waved her hand in the air. ‘Don’t mind me, please, talk amongst yourselves.’

She stood in front of the three masters, chin held up, trying to look casual, trying to not clasp her hands together and look down. ‘Are you enjoying the show so far? Is it what you wanted?’

She wasn’t sure where the words came from. Her lip was bleeding from where her teeth were worrying at it, but all she felt was anger now. She was probably still scared. Terrified would be closer, but it was buried, the image of Martin tied up and bleeding chasing it away with fire that could only escape through her words.

The master in the centre inclined his head slightly. ‘You are indeed impressive, Miss Slater.’ He hadn’t got the sarcasm, at all. Or maybe he had, and decided to ignore it. Which was actually more annoying.

‘So, are there any other rules you’ve forgotten to tell me? Anything at all?’
All three paused, then shook their heads. ‘There is nothing else.’
She nodded. ‘Good. Well then.’

She showed them her back and walked into the centre. She’d realised, just as she asked them, how she was going to win this. It was ridiculous, but why not? They were acting like children, so…

She stepped into the centre, and cleared her throat. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, really, you’re too kind. For my final performance, I shall be executing the simple, ‘for the creation of fire.’

Next Installment Friday 27th December