Ferdon

   The Lion snuggled up to the Chameleon on the sofa meant for four, needing neither something to lean against nor warmth…

   This was the best place she could be. Not a single fibre of her being said otherwise, and she was sure that every molecule of the Chameleon echoed that feeling, that bedrock certainty. People always debate and argue over ‘‘the best place on earth’’ and its whereabouts, but to the Lion, they were forever in the wrong, unseeing of the fact that the best place in the world could be different every day, every hour, every second. Right now, for her, the best place in the world was here, curled up on a sofa with the Chameleon. When they spoke, each word had the volume of the gentle summer breeze, as inconsistent as freedom and beauty and yet… Each syllable uttered by the other, once it had burst from their lips, became for an instant the greatest melody in the history of the earth. Greater than Mozart’s greatest compositions, than Lennon’s sweetest song, than Jim Morrison’s loveliest drumming of the chords… Every slight movement of the other was felt like one’s own, as if the other was connected, and a single smirk or smile brought a twin to their lips.

   There was a simple reason for this connection. The Lion and the Chameleon weren’t twins, they weren’t connected by blood…

   … They were in love.

   The Lion thought of that day, those hours that had flown by at times and seemed to freeze in place at others. Hours and moments that had etched themselves into her memory, carving out little by little an almost ideal day. One in particular floated to the surface…  

   … The sports class had been cancelled. Or, to put it another way: the actual sports part in sports class had been cancelled, the shouting and confusion had remained, loitering maliciously.

   The whole tenth grade was herded into the hall at Portland Place, milling like confused chickens. Everyone knew that a dance class would happen, but each kept a certain measure of hope. Would today bring a change in the usual schedule? Those questions were squashed when the dance teacher arrived. In the next hour, half of them would have a jolly good time, whilst the other half would say that the general boredom and annoyance were complete.

   Unlike most of the class, the Lion and the Chameleon knew exactly who they were going to dance with: each other. So whilst the others strode to and fro in varying states of panic, they talked calmly. They glanced around.

   There was Peter, idly standing by the wall, peering over the crowd. Whet they could not know was the sheer level of stress in his mind as he searched for a lady as yet uninvited by any boy. He had been looking forward to the slightest possibility of dancing with Dark Angel, but the Spy had been less timid before and had already invited her.

   The class began.

   The teacher based it on their previous dance class, with the same basic steps, and added more and more moves as the class went on. The Lion didn’t know for how long this went on, but at some point there was a lull in the dancing, at least for them there was, and they started talking. Whether by chance or the intervention of some higher being or purpose, the conversation topic turned to love.

   Right there, right then, each was completely focused on the other. All other sounds grew muffled, as if some hand had been placed over the mouth of the world.

   The Lion could only see the Chameleon, as if the rest of the class, room, everything had lost its solidity, slowly sliding out of focus. The whole world slowed and became hazy…

   And they kissed.

   At that moment, the Lion knew with and unshakeable certainty that this was no passing fancy or overgrown friendship. It was Love.

   It didn’t matter that they’d kissed before and had been going out for a while. It didn’t matter that people stopped and stared at them for a few moments. None of that mattered in that instant.

   What did matter was that they were in love and that each knew that it was mutual. Love made sense at that moment, and with that realisation came joy and true happiness…

   … Back on the sofa, the Chameleon leant over and gently, sweetly, softly, lovingly kissed her head. He got up and scanned the rows of dvds on the ledges. In the darkened room he picked one out at random, unable to see the title, the cover blurred in his eyes by the garish light of the black screen. He set it up to play and retreated back from a lonely world into the open arms of the Lion.

   On the television screen, Romeo + Juliette  began to play, the Shakespearean verses floating through the air like dust, the new mise en scène filling the screen as would water fill and aquarium. But though the Chameleon might have thought this, he did not. He even went so far as to close his eyes to the film. Every ounce of his attention was lethargically turned to the Lion at his side.

   The film soundtrack died away in his mind and was replaced with the silky sound of each slight movement of the Lion against him and the endless ocean of waves that each breath added to, slowly, calmly. With his am around her waist he felt each intake of breath fill her lungs, and each time she exhaled was like someone closing a good book, having the satisfaction of knowing that they had absorbed all they could from each word, each molecule. Her head lay on his shoulder like a hero laying themselves to rest at night, knowing that they’ve done something good that day. Occasionally she shifted a little and the Chameleon felt her golden hair caress his cheek, as his own head was ever so lightly leant against hers.

   Whether the Chameleon believed in it or not, paradise did exist. He was there now.

   Indulging in the sheer perfection of the moment, he allowed his mind to wander unfettered and pick the flowers of his imagination…

   … He was in the tube. The swaying train rocked him and the other travellers slightly, all together silently dancing like a bed of reeds in the warm, lazy spring wind.

   The Chameleon looked down at his hands and saw that he was holding a folded piece of paper. Opening it he found it was a photo of the Lion. He folded it once more and pocketed it.

   When he lifted his head once more, he got the nagging feeling that something was wrong, and it took him a few moments to realise what it was. 

   Nothing was moving. The train stood stock still at the station. The people had become statues of flesh and bone, the mirrors of their souls opaque. The Chameleon got up and walked down the wagon, looking for a way out. All the doors were inexplicably closed save one, right at the end of the carriage.

   The Chameleon stepped out onto the blind man’s trail, eager to understand not only what was going on, but where he was. The station was called Lover’s Quest, which wasn’t a station known to the Chameleon in any case. He made his way towards the Way Out sign, noticing on the way that each poster and sign bore a quote or picture of some sort, different each time. When he got to the exit, he had passed the smiling faces of his parents, White Russian, Sunshine, Bone and Spade, and read ‘‘The sun ain’t yellow. It’s chicken.’’, ‘‘Smurf’’ and ‘‘I B hungry’’ among others.

   For about ten minutes he walked down a bare, sterilized-white corridor, the end never seeming to get any closer and then springing up on him all of a sudden.

   At one point he came to a crossroads. He had the choice of left, right and straight ahead. He glanced around and saw that left was towards ‘‘Instinct’’ and right ‘‘Reason’’. He thought long and hard about it and took the straight route.

   The moment the Chameleon stepped onto the straight route, he heard no sound from behind him, but more of a change in the air. He turned to see that where there had been a crossroads there was now a wall, covered in barbed wire and riddled with little cracks and holes through which he heard the pleas, cries and sobs of those who had taken roads to Instinct or Reason. He walked away quickly, leaving the wretched spirits behind him, unable to help.

   Soon he found himself outside, taking deep and grateful breaths of the freshly polluted London air. The Chameleon saw that all was the same outside as in the train. Walkers took the last and longest step of their lives, cyclists were safe forever from the now unmoving cars and at the bus stop a huddled group began their eternal wait.

   He tried to take a step forwards, and found that he now had trouble with his own movement. He too was beginning the petrifaction. Forcing himself to move, he now realised that he only had one real choice left in his life: What he wanted to do in his last eternal moment. Without a moment’s hesitation he ran as fast as he could, fighting the gorgon’s gaze.

   It started to rain. The clouds began to rinse the world, flooding it a little, the drops falling like stony feathers or feathery stones. Eventually the rain would kill them all, drowning the world with God’s tears, his creation having escaped his control, but for now the rain meant life.

   Still the Chameleon ran. Each step was heavier than the last, each breath threatening to be the terminal one, but still he ran. He ran as fast as he could until he found what he was looking for. It was in St James’ park, exactly where he knew it would be, under the lilac tree. It was still waiting for him.

   SHE was still waiting for him.

   The rain ran down the branches and streamed through her hair, sparkling like shooting stars in a newborn’s eyes. She wasn’t beautiful. She was beauty incarnate.

   The Chameleon slowed as he reached her, both drenched in the joyful tears of the sky. He passed his hand through her molten gold hair, and immediately she moved slightly, the last of her strength fighting the immobility. They hugged, drew each other into a love-filled embrace, their tears of joy mingling with the pouring rain.

   Their kiss lasted forever.

   Centuries passed, races and empires rose and fell, but the statue beneath the lilac tree was always known as ‘‘The Lovers’ End’’. Millennia of couples gazed at the statue, the world having encased their kiss in the hardest stone, and dreamed of such a love in their own lifetime…

   … A gentle nudge from the Lion brought the Chameleon out of his dream, and a sweet smile from her brought a gentle one from him.

Posted in Stories

Sh st ’n th lbrry, th scnd hnd snlight illmntng hr, gvng hr th lght t rd hr bk, lghng nw n thn t sm lne r ’thr, clrly njyng ’t. T Ptr, sh ws so btfyl t tht mmnt, hr slndr lgs crssd, hr drk hair cascdng dwn lke th pths f fllng lvs ’n th wntr. Sh ws th bty f drknss, tht xcptnl bty tht ne my see ’n a crw, ’n tht dth t th nd f th bk, ’n th rse tht has dd n shrvlld, trnng gry ’n ’ts dmse. Hd sh bn bthed ’n th sn’s lght, tht bty wld nt hve bn hlf s grt s nw, ’n th lck f lght.

Thr wr dys whn Ptr wshd tht h knw wht th rght thngs t sy n do wr, s tht h wld mk no mr mstks n tht, ne dy, sh mght vn lk hm. H nvr knw wht sh thght f hm, n prbbly nvr wld, bt ’n hs mmnts f hpe, h hped tht sh thght f hm s a frnd. Tht’s ll h skd: hr frndshp.

H  wshd ’n tht mmnt tht h ws a gd rtst, a pntr f sme skll. ’F h cld cptre tht mgs f hr, s sh st thr ’n ll hr bty, h ws sre tht ’t wld b ne f th grtst wrks ’n th wrld. Hw cld ne vr ttst t th cntrry? Sh ws th shdw whthn th lght, th three mng th ones, eys brnng n sml flshng, sh ws bty. Bty ’s a thng frm th nsde out, bt smtms bsd n dffrncs. Hre, ths ws th cse.

Sh ws th thndrstrm ’n sprng, th wntr blzzrd, th tmn flds n th smmr blze. Sh ws th fll mn on th clr nght n th lghtnng thrgh th gp ’n th crtns. Sh ws th hro n sh ws hs nd.

Sh ws th ‘‘nknwn’’ ’n ‘‘bty’’.

Posted in Stories

   Peter looked at the reflection in the mirror.

   It wasn’t him.

-‘‘Tin Man.’’

   He went to the kitchen and grabbed a cup. When he got back to the mirror, Tin Man had scarpered. He put the cup in the basin and left, closing the door as he went.

   He walked towards the tube station. To his right was a newly-built building, all glass and metal. To his right was a window. To his right was Tin Man.

   He didn’t need to turn to know that Tin Man was grinning. Peter never had to look. As he got to the end of the building’s wall, Tin Man vanished once more.

   In the tube, Tin Man was everywhere. If Peter looked to his right, he would be there. If Peter looked to his left, he would be there. In front and behind him: Tin Man would be there. Grinning. Bereft of vocal cords and yet Peter heard him. Peter always heard him.

-‘‘All these people in this carriage hate you. Give them a few minutes and they’ll realise it for themselves. Face it, you’re too weird. Freak. Reject…’’

   Peter had learned long ago to ignore the smaller comments like these. Sometimes, Tin Man would say something or other that would disturb him, shake and destabilise him, but this was not the worst he could come up with. Oh no.

   Peter left the tube when his station arrived, running up the steps two by three. Tin Man was still speaking, but Peter reasoned that he had no reason to be polite to the boy. As the cars passed, so did Tin Man, running circles around Peter, grinning.

   As he approached the school, Peter saw the others, his friends. Tin Man spotted them too and seized the opportunity. Not willing to subject the others to Tin Man’s presence, Peter turned and fled, dragging Tin Man along for the ride.

   He turned to face Tin Man, and punched him. A fight ensued. Peter ran back to the school, escape on his mind, but he couldn’t outrun Tin Man. They fought. During a lull, a man passed, cutting up an apple. Peter grabbed the knife from surprised hands and turned to Tin Man. The latter tried for peace, but Peter didn’t listen. The knife dug through Tin Man’s ribs and shredded his heart.

   When the others came out, they found a body bag, the police, an ambulance, a crowd and one man talking.

-‘‘He just grabbed my knife and stuck it in his own chest… I don’t know why…’’

   In the bag, Peter grinned.

Posted in Stories

   Lemonade shielded his eyes with his arm, for fear of being blinded.

   He’d been standing outside the school doors, waiting for the others to come out. He and L’Oreal had been waiting for almost ten minutes when they finally came out. First came White Russian and Peter, laughing at some previously told joke. Then came Dark Angel, talking over her shoulder to…

   That’s when Lemonade had to throw up his arms to stop his retina from burning clean off.

   The Lion followed Dark Angel through the dark doorway into the bright light of the mid-afternoon sun. The sun’s light shone from her mane of hair like a beacon, a single lighthouse beam on a dark and stormy night.

   Above them a passing swallow, flying over London for no obvious reason, spotted this flood of light and what with the mysterious thought patterns of birds, immediately assumed it was a god. The swallow swooped down and, just before reaching the Lion, was hit by a bus.

   Thankfully, a small cloud passed in front of the sun long enough to prevent anyone else from being blinded, as they had the chance to get used to the beam that was the Lion. The latter stepped onto the pavement and spotted something shining on the ground. Whilst White Russian urgently phoned for an ambulance to take Lemonade to the hospital, the boy writhing in pain on the ground with his hands pressed against his eyes, the Lion crouched down and picked the little object up.

   It was a small four-legged animal, cast in gold. Upon closer inspection (otherwise known as squinting), it turned out to be a small figure of a golden lion, crudely but beautifully wrought. As she turned it over, she noticed that the figure’s jaw was hinged. With one finger she flipped open the lion’s mouth.

   At that exact moment, Dark Angel playfully pushed Peter, who had made a joke concerning her appearance in a photo. Peter’s foot, at that same moment, was only just touching the Lion’s own.

   For all three of them, everything went black.

   The Lion awoke on the ground. As she tried to get up, she felt her head spin wildly as if she was roaring drunk. To her right she heard Dark Angel and Peter groan and guessed (correctly) that they must have been feeling the same way.

   They all got up and asked each other how they felt before they noticed that they weren’t in London any more, or in any case not a part that they knew.

   They stood now in the middle of a huge empty street, about a hundred metres wide. The buildings looked nothing like that London buildings, being more like tall pringle packets with windows than houses. The road wasn’t tarmac, but strange oval cobbles. No cars were in sight, but there were the odd motorbike scattered here and there, chained to posts seemingly placed at random on the pavement.

   They decided to walk down the street and hopefully discover their whereabouts.

   The Lion noticed that everything had a certain abandoned feel to it. The parked bikes were coated in rust, and the rust was covered in dust. The street had not only the odd patch of weeds of moss sprouting between the cobbles, but the occasional fully-fledged tree pierced the ground. Most noticeable, however, was the fact that those houses that didn’t have their windows broken had them boarded up…

   Eventually the trio reached the end of the street and came face to face with a tall wooden wall blocking off the end of the road. It too showed signs of age and abandon, such as the warped boards and rot.

   As Peter and Dark Angel walked up to inspect the wall for ways of climbing over it, the Lion realised she was still holding on to the golden idol. She let it fall to the ground.

   Everything went black.

When the Lion opened her eyes this time, she was back in the crouching position she’d adopted to pick up the lion. The ambulance was just leaving and White Russian knelt beside her, asking where she’d disappeared off to.  Without a word, the Lion stood up and looked around for Dark Angle and Peter. Nowhere to be seen.

   She looked back at the ground and saw the golden lion lying there, mouth closed. She picked it up and opened its mouth.

   Again, everything went black.

   This time the Lion was on her feet in front of the wooden wall. She pocketed the figure and noticed that there was now a hole at the wall’s base, punched through. She scrambled through to the other side.

   On the other side was another world entirely. The street she now walked was shared by hundreds, thousands of people, walking to and fro like the tube during the peak of rush hour. But every single person wore a simple grey piece of clothing, rather like that of the acrobats at the circus. Just grey. The buildings, the ground, the people. Everything was grey and silent. Not a single word could be heard, nor a single footstep.

   However, the Lion started to hear raised voices further down the street, and walked down in their direction. She saw the people give her quick, furtive glances filled with either fear or hatred. Slowly, little by little, an empty circle began to form around her, a wall of nothing between her and the people, seemingly avoiding her. This pissed her off, and so she decided to let out a little anger. She stopped for a few moments and when she set off once more, three unlucky guys lay on the ground, groaning, each clutching either black eyes, bruises or maimed ‘‘masculine areas’’.

   Soon she arrived at the source of the noise and was not too surprised when it turned out to be Dark Angel having a blazing row with a trio of tall, armed men who each could have played the part of the Hulk with muscles to spare. Each one wore grey like the rest of the population, but each had a red sash slung over their shoulders and a pretty long and nasty-looking sword at their hips. Apparently, one of them had pushed Dark Angel aside in the street and now she demanded apologies.

   The armed men were talking amongst themselves, ignoring Dark Angel’s insults, occasionally pointing at Peter and her clothing, not being the ‘‘normal’’ grey, the Lion guessed. One of them got out a strange, walkie-talkie-looking device from god knows where and talked hurriedly into it.

   Peter was holding Dark Angle back from actually attacking the men and trying to drag her away from the confrontation. Finally, one of the guys stepped up and, in an obvious effort to shut Dark Angel up, slapped her with the back of his hand. Dark Angle, stunned, stood silent, but now it was Peter’s turn to shout, saying that the rules of gallantry and chivalry did not allow such crude actions.  

   This time, the largest of the lot stepped up and in barely an instant had his sword unsheathed. At this point, Peter had a change of heart, as did Dark Angel.

-‘Ok, time to go!’

   But he didn’t have time to put the plan into action because the swordsman swung his weapon…

-‘Oh, shi-’

   …And Peter’s head rolled into the crowd, kicked about like a soccer ball. Dark Angel just stood there, unbelieving, until the Lion stepped out of the crowd and grabbed her arm.

-‘As he said: time to go!’

   And they ran for the hole in the wall, the three Hulks close behind them. As they crawled through the hole, they relaxed, reasoning that their pursuers could never get through such a small hole. They didn’t need to.

   A huge section of the wall burst apart as the first one crashed straight through the feeble barrier. The others soon followed suit and the girls ran once more.

   In a sudden brainwave, as two brain cells collided within the Lion’s head, she pulled out the small golden lion and threw it at their pursuers.

   Everything went black.

   After about half an hour’s silent confusion at their prey’s sudden disappearance, the three Hulks thought to fiddle with the lion, unwillingly opening its mouth.

   The next thing they knew, an enormous red box on wheels came towards them at high speed, a horn blaring, something screeching.

   The Lion and Dark Angel heard the bus hit them from almost a hundred metres away.    

Posted in Stories

   A crack. That’s how it all started, with a crack.

   Dark Angel was examining a small, minute crack in the window nearest to her in the English class. Magwa was turned towards her poor, beaten computer, her back to the class ‘‘doing exercises’’…  Sleeping with their eyes open would be more accurate, thought Dark Angel. Hence, she stared at the crack.

   To Dark Angel, it wasn’t just a crack. It was a hole, a tear, a rip, a wound, a valley, an abyss of pure…

   …Boredom. You know you’re bored when you’re calling a crack in a window an ‘‘abyss’’.

   The sun, at such a perfect place on Thursdays, was sowing its rays straight thorugh the windows, right onto Peter’s sleeping face. He slept in such a comfortable pool of golden rays, snoring softly, enough to be heard by all save the teacher. His notebook fell off the table, pushed by some mischievous hand, right into the soft spot. Dark Angel saw consciousness, surprise and pain flash across his face, in that same order. Sniggers choked by innocent hands.

   Magwa barked orders to open the windows for a breath of air that didn’t smell like a new car with leather chairs that’s been left in the sun. Peter got up to open his and Dark Angel hers. With the cool breeze, laced with the promise of spring, came the urge to lean out of the window and feel its caress, its fingers in her hair, whispering sweet secrets.

   Dark Angel felt something pull her further and further out the window, a feeling of longing and anticipation.

   The window dislodged itself and fell, pushing her out into the open.

   She fell.

   The once sweet wind now lashed out at her flailing limbs.

   She shut her eyes, waiting.

   Nothing happened. She could feel the air move differently. She opened her eyes.

   She was rising, slowly but surely. She passed the window and saw Peter’s joyous and amazed expression. Once she’d topped the building, she started to hear the beating, swishing sound just behind her. She tentatively turned her head.

   Wings. Great black wings held her aloft, beating slowly but with such power. Occasionally a single, terror black feather dislodged itself from the sheer mass of whispering souls. It would be thrown upwards, soon overtaken by Dark Angel in her ascent. She caught one and pocketed it.

   She thought of turning around, in order to fully appreciate this gift from life. Immediately the wings swept her around to face the other way. She experimented a little more with this and soon couldn’t resist performing aerial acrobatics of all sorts to the amusement and astonishment of Peter, still watching from the window.

   Eventually, aware of a couple gaping at her from a nearby building, Dark Angel slowly lowered herself back down to the window, stepped in and peered once more behind her.

   Her wings were gone. In their stead there lay a dozen coal black feathers on the windowsill, scattering with the breeze.

   She sat down with a quick glance around the classroom and a smile, shared with Peter.

   He held up a single, shining black feather.  

Posted in Stories