300-Word Writing Challenge #37 (APRIL 2020) -- VICTORY TO CAT'S CRADLE!

[The Judge]

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The inspiration image for Challenge #37 is:

Image credit: ChrisG


THE CHALLENGE:

To write a story in 300 words or fewer
INSPIRED by the image provided above, in the genre of
Science Fiction, Fantasy, or other Speculative Fiction


THE RULES:

Only one entry per person

All stories Copyright 2020 by their respective authors,
who grant the Chronicles Network the non-exclusive right to publish them here


This thread will be CLOSED until April the 10th 2020
As soon as the thread is unlocked, you may post your story


Entries must be posted no later than April the 30th 2020,
at 11:59 pm GMT


Voting will close May the 15th, 2020 at 11:59 pm GMT
(unless moderators choose to make an extension based on the number of stories)


You do not have to enter a story to vote -- in fact, we encourage ALL Chronicles members
to read the stories and vote for their favourites

You may cast THREE votes


NO links, commentary or extraneous material in the posts, please --
the stories must stand on their own


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For a further explanation of the rules see Rules for the Writing Challenges


This thread to be used for entries only. Please keep all comments to the DISCUSSION THREAD



** Please do not use the "Like" button in this thread! **​

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[Astro Pen]

Retrospective


The technicians opened the crate and mounted the mirror in the apparatus.
Since the discovery that all glass captured everything that had happened before it, and that scanning with a specific angle of UV laser could play that memory, a new forensic world had opened up. The Institute of Archaeological Holography had solved many of the world’s greatest mysteries.

In the institute’s highest profile case, the windscreen of the Kennedy Lincoln had revealed the rifle flashes, and briefly the faces, of agents Renwick and Hopper in the window of the building next to the book depository.

And now, more glass of historic significance was about to face the laser. It had taken considerable diplomacy to get the loan, which would have been impossible back in the Soviet era: The Romanov’s mirrors.

Princess Anastasia’s mirror, in which, ironically, she had taken one of the worlds first selfies with her early Brownie camera, began to give up its secrets.
She was always a mischievous girl. As the laser swept, she could be seen donning disguises and posing before the glass. Sometimes as a chambermaid or, more daring, as a boy. In one scenario she was observed slipping under a pile of clothes, motionless, just before her angry father entered the room. He left again, completely fooled.

The second mirror came from the dressing table of the family’s last room before their fateful transfer to the basement in Yekaterinburg. Guards came and escorted the family on their final move. The room now empty, the tech moved to switch off the machine when the Professor, sensing something, raised his hand to wait.
After a couple of motionless minutes a pile of winter coats in the corner stirred and a young man emerged moving cautiously toward the open door.

 

[Rafellin]

New Us

You stretch, then tilt your head to one side, eyes whirring as you take in every detail: “A clock and a mirror.”
I shrug: “Two facets of man’s fascination with time.”
You shake your head: “Two manifestations of the fear of dying.”
“What of the ornate features?”
“Displays of wealth being supplied by artisans trapped in a materialistic society.”
“Artisans who answered my insistence upon perfection with your youthful form.”
You turn your head to look at me: “I’m undecided if that’s ostentatious wealth or untreated voyeurism.”
Ouch.
“Why do you stretch? Your musculature has no need of it.”
“I find it pleasing. I’m attempting to reconnect with the pleasure of purposeless activity, and I think I might be making progress.”
I point to the lamps: “Any thoughts on those?”
“Beyond their overly ornamental appearance fitting with my prior observation, I would term lights to be another ward against the fear of death.”
“How so?”
“Fear of the unknown is an extension of wishing to avoid pain and death. Fear of the dark is the oldest manifestation of that.”
“So human existence is largely dictated by avoiding upset and accruing comfort?”
Poor riposte: I aimed for trivialise, missed, and skewered summarise.
She looks at me. Her left eyebrow curves upwards.
“Even those who revel in discomforting others derive comfort from those acts, so, yes.”
“Any thoughts on the vintage wine I’m about to offer?”
“An attempt to achieve a noncommittal exit from this discussion,” she glances toward the table, “which, as it’s a Mongeard-Mugneret Grands Echezeaux, I am prepared to overlook your exploiting the knowledge of my heightened sense of taste.”
I bow, then grin up at her from it: “I hedged my bets and ordered Gruyère Premier Cru as well.”
You laugh.

 

[Guttersnipe]

"One Dark St. Agnes' Eve"

Young Makepeace had eagerly anticipated the day for quite some time. Since she had no friends to speak of, she mixed, baked, and ate the dumb cake all on her own. The ritual entailed complete silence, a rule she followed patiently and without any outside distraction.

Had her mother known of the rite being performed by her daughter, she would've given her a beating and a Bible verse. But the château she owned was so spacious that the two didn't encounter the other much. Hence, the witchcraft continued without a threat.

Makepeace ascended the winding staircase. She blew out each candle as she passed by, reveling in the darkness.

Finally, she reached her chambers. Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her. Moonlight crept through the window. She lit a few candles and closed the curtains. It was time.

"Saint Agnes, sweet and fair, whose eyes I share, grant me my desire: to see my future love by candle fire."

For what seemed like an eternity, all was silent. Then several things occurred at once: lightning cracked; thunder roared; the mirror cracked slightly; and her image blurried until it was gone--and a new reflection, one of a man, took its place.

"Hello, Makepeace," said the foppish reflection.

"Who are you?" she asked weakly; she felt as though her will were being slowly sapped. The man was quite handsome, but looked a bit older than she had expected.

"James Harris," he said, his tongue--forked--slithering in and out of his mouth. His eyes were two burning coals.

"You will serve me well," he hissed. His deep laughter echoed.

Makepeace staggered back, tripped, and fell to the ground. Her neck snapped. Hellfire consumed the château.

 

[BT Jones]

Haven

Trefor shared a nod with the musket-toting guard as he exited the castle. Drystan, his son, said nothing. The wooden gates closed behind the pair. At the footbridge, Trefor paused to look proudly at his new medal; an old souvenir coin sporting a triad of armoured legs, now with the words ‘For gallantry in defending our island’ etched around its perimeter.

Drystan was less enamoured. As the turned onto the Promenade, he stuffed his award in his pocket – and Trefor knew precisely why.

They’d both seen the gilded mirror, clock and candlestick ‘ensemble’ in the long room. That they could have fetched a fortune on the black market and bought the people a generator or twenty wasn’t even the worst of it. The candles were electric. Castle Rushen had power. Perhaps the luxury air-conditioned underground bunker wasn’t rumour after all.

The real question was why the young Queen had allowed them to see it. An oversight; a two-fingered salute at her impoverished subjects; or a deliberate swipe at her perpetually absent husband for leaving her the public duties yet again? It didn’t matter. Drystan would hold his tongue, as he’d been raised to. He literally owed his life to ‘King’ Koch.

Being amongst the handful granted safe haven on the island almost twenty years was what had persuaded Trefor to finally become a father at fifty. There was the Human species to think of now.

Drystan also knew there was also plenty to be thankful for; their health; a farm licence; and both a home and employment on Fort Island, where the three of them – Trefor’s wife was getting her medal tomorrow – shared lookout duties, keeping the Mainlanders – ‘Carriers’ or otherwise – at bay.

The Isle of Man was now a very different kind of haven.

 

[Bren G]

Vive la Révolution!

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

She pointed to the large mirror that hung above the faux fireplace’s mantle. “That.”

He collected his thoughts as he stared deeply into it. A Rococo island in a sea of Bauhaus, its carved gold-gilded frame blazed brightly amidst the stark and drab walls of the starcruiser, and so too did it ignite his memory - as it always did when he admired it.

Je me souviens!

Now, he had always known he was destined for great things – but this! Mother and her forbearers had hid the mirror and kept its secret until the first born son was ready to receive it, for what would the world do with the knowledge of its legacy? Seven generations ago, it was spirited out of Saint Helena by a young, pregnant scullery maid. But here it was. And so was he. The long awaited heir of - Napoleon Bonaparte.

Designed in exile, Napoleon encoded the principles of the revolution in its construction. The ornate crown of upturned leaves resembled arms held high in victory, the top mirrored portions, when taken together, symbolized the French Eagle in flight, and the main body was sectioned into quarters to represent his faithful motto - Liberté, égalité, fraternité, ou la mort.

A shiver ran through him at the thought of it all. He, the distant son would carry on the legacy, and it would start tomorrow on the Martian colony. He’d wrest it from the modern day aristocrats and establish into law that no corporation would own another’s genetic code to enslave him. For he, Charles Leon, would bring freedom, equality and brotherhood to Mars. Or he would die trying!

“General?”

He snapped from his reverie. She raised her eyebrows and waited.

“Oh… that old thing?” he said with a chuckle. “It’s nothing.”

 

[Ian Fortytwo]

Between Tick and Tock.

The ornamental clock sat on the mantelpiece,
The clock was golden with roman numerals,
The clock struck one and went tick.

Silence leapt upon the world,
It was not noticeable at first,
First I couldn't speak.

Then as I went outside,
There was no traffic noise,
I could see birds everywhere,
However there was no chirping,
As I walked there were silent sheep,
No mooing from cows.

Silence pervaded everywhere,
It was eerily frightening,
There were no children crying nor screaming.

There was no music or singing,
What had happened?

I continued walking towards a river,
Even here was a benevolent silence,
There was a breeze, yet it was silent.

Slowly I gathered my wits,
And walked back homewards,
Each step was an exaggeration,
The silence was unnerving.

People were standing still,
Cars were unmoving,
As I looked up to the sky,
Aircraft were motionless,
Now that was impossible,
It was as though it were a picture,
That someone had taken.

I then entered my front door,
Walked into where the clock was.

I sat and looked up at the clock,
The hand moved and went tock.

Sound once again murmured,
I could speak, birds chirped,
Movement regained momentum,
The world was normal again.

 

[Cat's Cradle]

Scenes From a Bucharest Museum​

The brushstrokes were remarkable – gobs of oil had been smeared onto the canvas and finessed downward in overlapping arcs.

The collective effect of the strokes was an impressionistic immediacy. The black, sweating workhorse walked a dirt road before thatch-roofed hovels; the landscape was a patchwork of withered, windblown fields of ochre-colored grains beneath a lowering grey sky. The horse’s face twisted grotesquely, its foreboding and terror unsettling.

I read the plaque on the painting’s gilded frame:

HORSE WALKING ALONG COUNTRY LANE
Nicolae Prevcú, 1878​

The brochure mentioned the piece had been recently discovered in a Bucharest attic, and hadn’t been displayed before today.

As this was the only known Prevcú work with no human figures, I knew it would enthrall his few devotees.

Footsteps broke my concentration. A shabby man hurried past the bench I rested on, and to the towering painting.

He regarded the work, then caressed the canvas’s oils, his fingers sweeping the subtle arcs.

I was outraged but didn’t protest – I wasn’t a person who confronted vagabonds. When his body pressed against the painting, I stood to go find a guard.

I exited the room to a burbling cry, and an odd SHLOOPing sound.

~

The guard hurried with me along echoing corridors to the gallery. The man was gone, the room seemed undisturbed.

He waggled a finger at me and left.

I went to examine the other Prevcús.

They depicted rural scenes overcrowded with men, women and children, all wearing despair brushed into their faces’ every feature. Prevcú’s had been a dark imagination, his oeuvre encompassing sorrow and oppression.

I returned to the horse painting; something seemed wrong.

I looked to the frame’s plaque:

MAN LEADING HORSE ALONG COUNTRY LANE​

I touched the canvas ... the man’s heart pulsed—

SHLOOP

MEN LEADING HORSE ALONG COUNTRY LANE​

 

[Karn's Return]

Late For Tea​

It was worth it. Definitely worth it.

“Why though?”

Because…it was hers.

“And why is that so special?”

You know.

“I do?”

Try it.

“It’s ludicrous. It doesn’t exist. It was a children’s story.”

But your mother knew better.

“She died of cancer! I was by her bedside when she passed!”

No. You know better. Your father altered you.

“WONDERLAND DOES NOT EXIST!”

ou’re late for tea.

Alice took in a deep breath, and stepped into the mirror.


She landed with a thud, standing up. Brushing off her blue dress, she looked around in awe. “Is…this…?”

“One more job,” a voice muttered. “Can’t ever just break that damn mirror.”

“Hello?” Alice called out.

A small white rabbit, dressed in the tattered rags of a red herald’s coat, approached, leaning on a cane.

“When will you stop visiting?” he asked sadly.

“Excuse me?” Alice blinked.

“You’re not the original, but you look just like her and share her name. Well, come on. I’ll show you the way.”

“The way to where?” Alice started running as the rabbit bounded down the path. She soon caught up and stopped herself for fear of trampling him, but he just let out a chuckle.

“You’d be doing me a favor if you had kept going,” the rabbit complained. “I’m cursed to deal forever with your line, Alice. I’m taking you to the Hatter. After that, I’m out. I can’t go the whole way anymore.”

“To where?” Alice demanded. “I don’t even know where I am!”

“Oh, yes you do, girl.” The rabbit cleared a hill with great effort, leading Alice up to a polluted, sludgy mire with nothing but industrial factories covered the landscape, with throngs of empty streets echoing with wind.

“Welcome to Wonderland.” .

 

[Victoria Silverwolf]

Spectra

In the Serenissima Museum of Decorative Arts stands a frame, cunningly wrought from ivory and gold. A placard explains that it once held a mirror belonging to Duke Rodolfo, the Wise. What became of the glass is lost in the mists of history.

#​

"This is sorcery." Duke Rodolfo stood before the mirror. Seven reflections stared back at him, each a different color.

"Not at all, sire." Leonardo smiled with the satisfaction of an artisan who surprises his patron. "Merely the careful application of certain principles regarding the properties of light. You see, the backing contains multiple layers of precious metals, each facing the viewer at a slightly different angle—"

"Yes, yes. Whether this be witchcraft is no concern of mine, as long as it serve my purpose."

"Indeed, sire."

#​

The Duke was fond of allegory, and Leonardo's creation served him well. There, in the strangely altered realm of the mirror, Rodolfo beheld the virtues necessary to statecraft. His image in scarlet, for courage against enemies; in gold, for generosity; in deepest violet, for deliberation. He ruled Serenissima for more than a quarter of a century, and the city prospered.

Upon his death at an advanced age, his eldest son, Bernardo, already a man more than halfway through his allotted time on Earth, inherited his office. With affairs of state to settle, a task to which Bernardo was not well suited, it was more than a year before he chanced to look upon the mirror. Disliking what he saw, he ordered his servants to smash it into shards and throw them into the sea. Serenissima went into decline. Some say it never fully recovered.

#​

Sometimes an oddly colored bit of glass and metal washes up on the shore. Fishermen swear it brings them good luck.

 

[Menolly]

Butterflies in the Attic

The old attic stairs creaked. She hated going up there. It was dusty, dark and full of cobwebs. And everyone knows, where there are cobwebs, there are spiders. She hated spiders. But when staying with Grandma, you did as you were told.

She looked around trying to find the exact box amongst a multitude of ancient memories of past times. Ah, there it was. Now if she could just squeeze past this frame wrapped in a faded butterfly print sheet… Aah!!! Her arm touched it! Eeew! The sheet fell revealing an enormous, golden framed mirror.

It was funny looking, quite ugly she thought. One of those objects one expected to see in an antique shop or in the hall of a rich old lady (not her Grandma, though, she was quite fond of modern decoration). Its frame was elaborate, and the mirror was split in four squares, like a window. Four panes through which one sees the outside world. Or, in this case, their own reflection. Behind her gridded reflection she saw the tiny attic window in the mirror, and outside it… butterflies? She turned back to the window. No butterflies out there, just a bleak winter sky. No sunshine either for that matter. And yet, when she looked back at the mirror, there they were, against a bright blue sky.

She lifted a tentative hand towards the mirror, towards the window reflection. No, that was silly, what was she thinking? That the mirror would take her to another dimension, a fairy realm of blue skies and happiness? Grow up girl, she scolded herself. She picked up the box and ran down the stairs.

In the quiet attic, a solitary butterfly entered the window in the mirror reflection and explored that strange repository of old forgotten things.

 

[johnnyjet]

The Man Who Promptly Forgot What He Looked Like the Moment He Walked Away from the Mirror

The King stared grimly at himself in the mirror.

"How can I call forth my armies? How can I lead my people when I can never look away from my image in the mirror?"

A plaintive whisper: "Come to bed. You're exhausted."

"I cannot look away."

"That wizard is dead now, beheaded. Those desperate last words were meant to drive you mad."

"I know, yet…"

He joined his wife in bed, pulled the covers to his throat. He fell asleep remembering the wizard's last words: "The day will come when you will not be able to turn away from your mirror of pride without forgetting who you are."

He awoke to the sound of mayhem.

His chief advisor informed him the rebels were disrupting public events again. He quickly dressed and hurried to council chamber. He spent the morning strategizing with his advisors and captains of the guard.

Later he went back to his room to meditate on his latest decisions. He used to consult with the court wizard as well, before he discovered the conspiracy. The wizard had been secretly influencing his decisions to protect the rebel movement.

He avoided the mirror he loved so much, a solid gold, beautifully crafted gift from a neighboring nation long ago. The most expensive object in his entire kingdom, it always reflected him in the best possible light. Until that reprehensible curse, he often spent time admiring himself in that mirror.

On his way out, he couldn't help himself. He had to look.

Ah, so magnificent, framed in gold!

He turned away.

Now where was he going? What was he going to do? It didn't matter. It was a beautiful day and he longed to be out in it, enjoying the sun on his back as he ran and ran.

 

[Peeling]

Timepiece

"Your clock is slow." Toby, who had been losing solidly for an hour, gestured irritably at the mantlepiece and closed his pocket-watch.

James raised an eyebrow. He turned and studied the gilded monstrosity.

“I think not,” he said. “Are you in? Fifty pounds is the wager.”

Toby ground his teeth, cheeks blotchy with port and humiliation.

“Blast your fifty pounds.” He shoved back his chair and stood, flinging down his cards. “And this bloody game!”

James looked at me. I demurred. Toby snorted, snatched up his coat and with the barest nod stalked from the room. I heard muffled voices and the bang of a door.

James shrugged.

“Shame.” He scraped together his winnings, wadding and tucking them into his waistcoat. “Another round?”

“Hardly,” I yawned. “I need this shirt for tomorrow.”

“Nightcap, then?”

I assented, and James moved to the cabinet. He tutted.

“Bawtry? Bawtry! Where is that imbecile? Honestly…” He strode out clutching an empty decanter.

As I waited, my gaze fell upon the mantlepiece. I checked my own watch, set exactly in the city that morning.

“Huh. Slow.”

I rose and wandered over to the fireplace. The mirror above, a creation as tasteless as the clock, proved to my surprise to be integral to it, although surprise was swiftly overtaken by the shock of seeing myself - not standing before the fire, but seated at the table. I watched myself rise and approach - I glanced in horror to confirm I was alone - and stand in the very spot I occupied. Trembling, I touched the clock’s hands - and the mirror-me froze.

“That bloody man.”

I let out a yelp, and wheeled to find James not a yard away.

“I never let it run slow,” he sighed, raising the heavy decanter. “But I do, on occasion, set it fast.”

 

[Jo Zebedee]

LUCY

The drawing room spills golden light into the darkened hall. From inside, a shadow song sounds in the clunk-clunk of old piano keys and the cry of a thin-stringed harp.

‘Courage, dear heart,’ I say to the frightened 10 year old within me, the one who wakes me each night. ‘Let’s put this to bed, once and for all.’

Before I sell this pile of bricks, my ancestral home, and leave myself with the unchallenged nightmares of a thin ghost-song turning to screams. Of hands creeping around the side of a gilded mirror.

Enough, I tell myself. I push the door and enter the room. The chairs are covered, as requested. The table is a shrouded monster, hunched in the corner.

But the mirror is still there, catching dropping sunlight from the bay window and casting it out in golden strands.

I face it. I’m tall enough to see my face, not just my eyes and hair. I’m a man now, not a frightened boy. Nothing changes. I heave a breath. Release my sweating hands from their fists and step forward.

‘Lucy...?’

There is nothing. She is not there. The last light falls from the window. The room moves into shadows. I turn to leave but the harp’s tone becomes a child’s scream.

I dive for the hall even as tight-gripping hands take my shoulders and drag me back. Beside my ear, a soft-lisped voice says, ‘Brother, you came.’

And then the mirror takes me and I will not dream again of running and leaving her. My little sister, who I betrayed. My sister, who has waited, held, for me to return. My sister, who laughs as I fade.

 

[AMB]

Shadows

The Shadows lived in the hallway mirror. There were three of them. Every time she looked they were there, but she never saw them when she turned around.

The mirror had hung in the hall for as long as she could remember. As a child it had fascinated her, but she had never liked the Shadows. Her mother said it was just the way the light fell on it. Grandma would tut when she heard that, told her she’d explain when the time came. But both were gone now, and Grandma never did get the chance to explain.

Testing her mother’s theory she’d tried swapping the mirror for the one in her bedroom, but quickly changed it back when the Shadows moved with it. Having them where she was most vulnerable frightened her in ways she didn’t quite understand. When the mirror was back in the hall the notion seemed foolish, but she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that she had made a grave error in trying to move it. Still, now she knew. The Shadows lived in the mirror.

She’d taken to avoiding the hallway when she could. Avoiding the mirror. When it wasn’t possible she crouched under it, as though denying them her reflection might keep the Shadows at bay. She’d tried covering it, but the cloth would not stay put. She was sure the Shadows were pushing it away.

She didn’t know when the crack appeared, but it seemed to be growing daily. She taped it up. Another formed overnight. They were trying to get out. They were coming for her…


The house had been abandoned for years. Eventually it was put up for sale, fully furnished. In the hall hung an old mirror, the play of the light across it casting four shadows.

 

[Daysman]

The Chartwell Experiment

Two bright mirrors face each other across the doorway, held in place by a metal spider anchored to the wooden floor, to the ceiling and adjacent fireplace.

Breathless from installing their contraption, Chartwell and Oliveira wait in the shadows and listen, as instructed, for a scuffle outside in the hotel corridor.

When it begins, it all happens quickly.

The door swings open and in falls Jacqueline.

She cries out, crawling away, visibly shaking.

She sells it well... enough to draw him in.

Aubergast, her immortal pursuer, plucks her from the floor, blood rage growing, fangs descending.

Timing is everything.

She spins out of his grasp, highkicks his face and breakfalls clear.

Left standing between the mirrors, Aubergast wipes his bloody nose and looks about.

A three hundred year old aristocrat, his wealth and influence have made him untouchable. But times change and Jaquelin's employer seeks to remove his stain from their modern Court and take back the night from the fiends that roam their city streets.

But they need more than a killer of monsters.

Chartwell offers them that.

Aubergast peers into one of the mirrors, then turns to the other and freezes in place. A puzzled look surplants his ghoulish smile. His jaw drops, his stature falters, and a crimson pawl of dust erupts from his mouth and fills the air between the glasses.

When the three emerge, they find a circle of the floor stained red.

At its centre, kneeling, his attention still caught in the mirror, Aubergast is ancient, fragile and very human.

He cries, "Where is it?"

Jacqueline looks to Chartwell. "It?"

"Standing here, possessing no natural reflection, he saw only the mirrors reflecting themselves… and gazed upon true infinity…"

Jacqueline, nodding: "And once seen, the infinite delved into him."

 

[Calliopenjo]

Grandmother's House

Grandmother died, I needed to take care of the house. The first thing that caught my attention was that the mantel didn’t change. The gold-leafed mirror still rested in the back with the clock at the heart, and candelabras on either side. They had been there since my initial holiday at around six years.

“You know, I found those in Europe in an antique store.”

I explored the bottom floor to search for the source of that voice. I made a small hole in the wall bigger and saw nothing. It had to be my imagination brought on by grief.

I should have left grandmother’s and returned in the morning.

“If you promise to leave your heart and mind open, I will read Anne of Green Gables to you.”

That was something she told me every night growing up. She died, yet her quiet voice still lingered. I went insane. There was no other logical explanation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the mirror and noticed a lady. I got closer to it and saw her standing next to me. The same slender, sculpted face with her hair in an elegant chignon. How could a deceased woman’s eyes sparkle and be sky blue?

“Cynthia, I may not exist in these walls, but I will live forever in your heart.” She smiled.

I turned around and screamed. “No. You passed away.” It couldn’t be. They always say that chilled air lingered in places where the dead once stood. It was cold, but maybe a slight breeze escaped through an open window. It had to be, but I closed them myself.

She disappeared. I touched the mirror, and it felt solid without any idea what to look for. Grandmother died, yet she still occupied this house.

“Grandmother? Hello?”

 

[Peter V]

A Tale of Two Sisters

Cassidy felt bad about taking her sisters room but it had been two years and John had insisted, wanting her room for his pal Jimmy. As her older brother always reminded her, it was his house now and he only let her live there because he was soft.

He'd told her to dump the old mirror but Cassidy could never do that; Evie loved it.

"You act like she's dead." She’d accused him.

He’d just rolled his eyes at her. "Might as well be. She's never coming out of it."

Cassidy didn’t think it would be possible to sleep in Evie’s bed and lay awake for hours, thinking about her sibling’s strange illness. She must have dropped off though because she was startled awake by a single chime from the clock.

Cassidy clicked the lamp on. Why would a clock that has never chimed, do so now?

She shivered and walked over to inspect the old timepiece, where it sat within the framework of the mirror. Instead of her reflection, Cassidy was startled to see Evie, lying in her bed at the sanatorium, where she had hovered for so long between life and death. It was daylight and John was with her.

Transfixed, Cassidy gasped as John withdrew a hypodermic from his pocket and injected its contents into Evie’s cannula. So much for a mystery illness!

Why? For the house? Was John keeping her alive because an autopsy might show foul play? Or was it simply guilt; so he needn’t label himself a murderer?

***
​

The two sisters sat drinking coffee. It warmed Cassidy’s heart to see Evie looking like her old self.

“Shall we visit John today?” Evie asked, looking forlorn.

“I think you’ve spent quite enough time in that place, dear sister.” Cassidy shook her head. “I’ll go later.”

 

[Danny McG]

You can’t always get....

“But it’s monstrous, taking an innocent young life like that”
Maeve ignored her fourth husband and continued chanting from the grimoire, alignment was approaching

A shimmering in the mirror and shadows moved, puzzled eyes momentarily looked into hers as she screeched the final words “Life given for life taken” and savagely thrust the ceramic black dagger into her own heart.
......................................
Little Becky felt herself tumbling incredibly fast and then she was trapped in pain and horror, her reflection showed an ancient woman with blood pouring from her, she slumped down and, as her life drained away , a trembling male voice spoke “So sorry, child, I couldn’t stop her doin-“
................

Maeve straightened in her young new body, it had worked. Now, with her knowledge of history, she’d soon amass a fortune and live a wealthy long life, perhaps even repeat this all over again in a few decades.

But wait, she was naked, emaciated and surrounded by other girls. All weeping and shaven headed.
A heap of filthy and stinking striped pyjamas lay on a concrete floor under a battered metal mirror, before she could ask one of the frightened girls they were herded into a shower room.

“Wait!” she called to the looming guards, “Please, I need to go back to that mirror, you don’t understand, wait! Please wait! Don’t close the door!”
Her last words were drowned out by hysterical screams all around as the gas hissed into the chamber.

 

[Phyrebrat]

You'll Find Me in the Tall Wheat

The raft is not the vessel I'd hoped for.

For a time I had company in the form of terns, a miniature armada of black-prowed yachts bobbing on the becalmed waters around me. But when the barnacle-encrusted flukes of a giant erupted lazily nearby, those feathered ketches became gliders, hanging like M’s from a child's mobile. I envied them as the languid waves of a shattered, glassy sea slapped at the bound logs; a harsh whisper with a tinge of mourning.

To me! To me!

Across the immeasurable seas and frozen time, with a wind weaker than an asphyx, she draws me back to my planted rows, the wheat that grew high, which sustained me, clad my roof, crafted in a hundred different ways.

A steamship like The Ceres passes close by, rusty, miserable and draped in withered kelp. No water moves in its wake, no V from its flanks, just the salty stink of dead men who tell no tales, and on its bow: Richmond, England.

Ah, Richmond! How I miss its collection of bridges spanning the Thames like arpeggios. Would that this raft could ferry me to its estuary!

Nine suns and eight moons have been my only constant company, and though I pray to the sky for wind, it's only the moon that replies, in song.

To me, to me, in the tall wheat, and even a hurricane couldn’t blow my raft away from that call. I sleep for peace but the beaching wakes me, and here I am.


I kneel before her plaited altar. She succours me with grass wine, her reedy hands caressing my hair.
The wheat is hungry we must feed it right, she says, and I walk with her down the rows, past all the bones of those who went before.