Immediate Abundance

Posted on January 11, 2025 by Jordan Neves

Where has the seed gone?

As I sit and watch the birds having their morning feed, I struggle to understand how such small birds can have such a big appetite.

There’s a robin that regularly visits, and there’s some kind of finch. There are some sparrows, two crows, and a few other smaller birds, but nothing that could eat so much.

I can hear lots of other birds singing. Do they all come here in the night for a banquet?

Steam rises from my first coffee of the day; I can see my breath. I can see droplets of water on the grass. I can see life.

I can’t see a feeder full of seed.

The sun is low in the sky and it’s glancing at me through the trees. A breeze moves the branches and the light dances.

A chill blows through the air. Not a freezing chill like on a winter’s morning; a somewhat pleasant chill.

My coffee is too hot to drink; the irony forces a smile onto my face.

Everything is perfect. Almost perfect.

I first thought it might be a larger bird eating the seed, but I haven’t seen any larger birds. Even at night when I peek through my curtains, there are no signs of any larger birds.

I filled the feeder to the brim a few days ago; before that, it lasted weeks. Now, it’s nearing its end.

I thought it might be a fox, or even a family of foxes. I have seen several instances of bushes twitching; there’s always too much movement for it to be a bird hiding. Could a fox climb high enough to reach the feeder? It couldn’t, but I often see bits of seed on the ground underneath it.

I hear a train in the distance. The tracks are far away enough that the noisy trains aren’t a nuisance to me. Close enough that the station is only a few minutes to walk to.

I should cut the grass. I need to harvest my potatoes and carrots.

I look left to my next-door neighbours’. They’re away for the weekend, topping up their tans in a country far from here. Who’s looking after their cat?

At least there is a cat-flap in the door for it to explore the world.

I have a sip of coffee and take a deep breath of the morning’s air. I wonder what the day will bring.

I know where the seed has gone.

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Eden

Posted on September 1, 2024 by Jordan Neves

The fly flew close to the spider’s web. It missed it and landed on a branch next to it. The spider crawled to the middle of the web from the other side.

‘Good day, Fly.’

‘Good day, Spider.’

‘What brings you to this part of the garden today? You don’t come round here often.’

‘Second time, I think. I’m exploring, I’m on an adventure!’

As quickly as the words left the fly’s mouth, the spider ran across its web and reached out its front two legs to catch the fly.

What should have been an easy meal for the spider turned out to be unfulfilled expectations, as the fly pushed off with its feet and escaped by the skin of its wings.

It was a clear day, and the sun was shining bright. The fly, feeling a spell of tiredness from the spider escape, landed on the cool soil.

The coolness was from a slight damp. 

Strange, thought the fly, how could its surface be so damp on such a hot day?

More soil fell from the sky. Enough that it would have buried the fly if it didn’t fly away quickly enough.

Once it was a sufficiently safe distance from the ground, it looked back to see what was happening. A person was gardening, digging holes and burying new plants.

If the raining soil didn’t get me, thought the fly, the creatures living in the soil might have. 

The fly needed to calm down; nearly perishing twice was enough to fell any being, insect or human.

It flew to the gap it knew of in the shed’s wall. From the outside to the in; from daylight to darkness.

As though being short-sighted wasn’t bad enough for the fly, its eyesight could barely see anything not illuminated by the limited light.

The fly could hear a buzz. The fly could hear many buzzes. At first, the buzzing was coming from only one corner, before the buzzing got louder and louder. The strands of sunshine lit up wasps as they flew next to the window. 

The fly’s presence had angered them, and they wanted to ensure the fly knew that. They surrounded the fly from every angle and wasted no time in swiftly diving towards it.

There was little hope left for the fly; the wasps didn’t like intruders, however unintentional the intrusion was.

The fly didn’t have time to analyse the situation. It leapt forward and flew towards the gap, as fast as its wings could carry it.

It escaped and found itself in the light; the warm rays of the midday sun were enough to make it feel safe once again. As long as it avoided spider’s webs and dark sheds, it knew it would live to see tomorrow.

The greenhouse door was open and there was no sign of any humans near it.

I’ll relax in there for a bit, thought the fly. It’s warm, it’s quiet, and, most importantly, there is nothing in there that can kill me.

The fly flew into the greenhouse; it flew around the inside perimeter for a few minutes, before deciding to take some well-earned rest. It landed on one of the many leaves in the greenhouse. It stayed in the same position it landed for a short while, enjoying the silence and respite. It had been quite an eventful morning.

It started to walk round the leaf before suddenly remembering that the humans like to keep many unknown plants in the greenhouse; types that the fly does not encounter in the local wild.

Its legs’ instincts did not fail before, and they weren’t going to start failing now. As another part of the leaf snapped shut and tried to trap the fly, it jumped into the air; its wings took it back out into the open. As warm and quiet as the greenhouse was, the fly knew it wasn’t the safe place that it first thought it was.

It flew towards the house, following a sweet scent. The doorway was blocked; not by a door, but by a hanging fly-repellent. The fly found a gap as the suspended threads were lifted by the wind.

The fly landed on the wall in what it believed to be the kitchen; it observed its surroundings and contemplated its next move.

It became apparent that the sweet scent was coming from a cake; presumably warm and fresh, the cake lay on a plate on the sideboard.  

The fly’s eyes located it almost instantaneously. The fly knew that the humans had a ritual where they celebrate turning a year older, so that may be what the cake is for. That didn’t deter the fly; the fly saw and smelled a treat.

If the fly was quiet enough that it could land on the cake, it could eat to its heart’s content, then fly away home.

The time was now. It had to go for it; it had to reach the cake without being heard by the human sat at the table. The human was preoccupied with reading a newspaper.

As the fly sprung off the wall and flew towards the cake, it felt a sense of relief, like anything could be possible.

Unfortunately, the fly could not hear the buzzing sound its wings were making.

It was hit by a single shot from the human and died immediately.

‘Damn flies,’ said the human, as it unrolled the newspaper.

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Quiet And Peace

Posted on March 3, 2024 by Jordan Neves

The sound of water splashing echoed around the first floor of his home. It was a generously sized abode, one that he owned in its entirety.

He lived alone. 

He stepped out of the shower. It was a winter’s evening, and he was getting ready for a date with a woman he met a few weeks before. It was their second date. The first was more of a casual meeting than a date; they arranged to meet in the on the previous Sunday evening, and they went for a walk in a park near where she lived. They walked her dog; he felt he couldn’t commit enough to a pet, but he loved all animals, especially exotic ones.

He liked to look his best; he spent the better part of an hour dressing to more-than-impress.

*

He looked around for her. She waved to grab his attention. He saw her and walked to the table.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he said, as he pulled out the chair opposite.

‘You’re not late, I’m early.’

They had arranged to meet at seven. She was there two minutes before; he was three after.

A waiter approached the table with a pair of menus. He handed one to each.

‘Here is our menu. I’ll let you look over everything and I’ll be back soon. Can I get you drinks?’

‘I’ll have a glass of the house white, please,’ she said.

‘And red for me.’ 

Her eyes shifted to him. He could see her face in his peripherals. 

‘Both large glasses,’ he said.

‘I’ll be right back,’ said the waiter. 

As soon as the waiter’s back turned, they looked at each other, both wondering what the night had planned. It was a Saturday night, and neither of them had to be awake early for anything tomorrow.

She was wearing a black dress she bought a couple of days prior to their evening. Her hair was long and strong enough to hold the loose curls she permed into it. Her eyes were bright enough to light any room she was in.

The waiter returned with their glasses of wine before taking their order.

She had a steak with a salad, he had pasta arrabbiata. They shared a plate of onion rings.

He wore a pair of black slim trousers and a white fitted shirt, covered by a jacket with a collar and long tails. His pearly complexion complimented his defined facial structure, and he was topped with a head of thick slicked-back black hair.

She cut a piece of the steak and offered it to him.

‘No, thank you,’ he said.

‘Don’t you like steak?’

‘I do like steak, but I know that was cooked with garlic butter, so it won’t do my allergies any favours.’

He nodded down at his food.

‘Anyway, this pasta is delicious.’

She cut through a piece of steak on her plate. She smirked at him as she looked up; she forced her fork into the steak and lifted it into her mouth, all while maintaining eye contact.

‘What?’ he said, smiling back at her.

She held his gaze.

‘Do you fancy coming back to mine for another glass?’

‘What, now?!’

‘No, silly,’ she said, laughing playfully. ‘After this.’

They paid for the meal and ordered a taxi; before long, they were back at hers.

As they got out the cab, he looked around. The road was silent but filled with streetlight. The cab pulled away; he stood observing his surroundings whilst she walked towards the house.

She stopped and turned as she finished unlocking her door.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Fine, I’m just—‘

‘You’re just?’

‘I’m just, I’m okay.’ He looked at her and forced a smile. ‘It’s cold out here; are you going to invite me in?’

‘You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.’

‘No, I am fine. If you want me to come in, then it’d be rude not to.’

She looked down at the ground between them as she blushed.

‘I want you to come in.’

She turned to walk through the door; he followed her. They took their shoes off and hung their coats.

‘Make yourself at home,’ she said, gesturing towards front room’s door. ‘I’ve got all the wines; red for you, right?’

‘Please.’

The lights were dim and the music was soft. He looked around and admired her place; he thought about how it felt more homely than his, which was really just somewhere to sleep.

She placed the glasses on the table and sat next to him before pouring their wine.

He felt a sudden chill in his body.

‘I need to freshen up.’

‘The bathroom is at the top of stairs, the last door on the left.’

He walked up the stairs; he could feel sweat on his forehead.

He found his way to the bathroom and closed the door behind him as soon as he entered. He didn’t need to use anything in the bathroom; he wanted a minute with his thoughts.

Heavy breathing alone. His nerves had got the better of him, but he didn’t know if his nerves were excitement. 

He turned on the tap and had a drink from it; deep breathing and water would help.

He hung his head over the sink and held on to the sideboard to support himself. As he watched the water trickle away, he mentally checked in with the different parts of his body; he thought he might have a panic attack. He wondered why he felt that way; he had no reason to feel afraid.

‘Did you find it okay?’ came her voice from downstairs.

‘All good, thank you. Just washing my hands.’

He wasn’t sure if it was right him being there.

He dried his hands using a hand towel on the rail. He looked up into the mirror. He sometimes wished a reflection looked back at him.

‘On the way.’

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The Living Dead

Posted on November 20, 2017 by Jordan Neves

‘Yeah, it’s good to get out once in a while.’

She takes a mouthful from her glass of wine and gently nods her head in agreement.

‘Even if it’s just for a meal,’ I say, before taking a sip of my water.

‘Just?’

‘Well, no, not just. I’ve been looking forward to this for as long as I can remember.’

‘I’m starving. We should have got a starter.’ It’s like her fingers are independent of the rest of her body as they start to score a symphony of tapping on the table.

‘Perhaps. Do you think the kids are alright?’

‘They’ll be fine, you know they will.’

‘But it’s been….’

‘…Years since we’ve been away from them,’ she says, ‘and they’ll be fine.’

‘If you could be any animal in the world,’ I say, as I notice her eyes rolling, ‘what would you be and why?’

‘A dodo.’

‘Why?’

‘Deaf as a dodo,’ she says.

‘Dead. As dead as a dodo.’ I smile at her.

‘Dead, deaf, I’d rather be either than having this conversation.’

I feel my happiness instantly dissolve.

‘Come on, you know I’m only messing,’ she says. She looks over my shoulder and picks up her knife and fork.

‘I know.’ I find my smile. ‘I love you.’

‘Aw,’ she says, as she looks into my eyes, ‘me too.’

‘I’ve got one East Coast Burger with chips. A double burger,’ says the waitress.

‘That’ll be mine, please,’ I say.

She puts my meal on the table in front of me and recites the other half of our order, ‘For you, carbonara with extra chicken and extra garlic bread?’

‘Please.’

She asks us if he can get us anything else and I say, ‘No, thank you.’

‘Enjoy your meals.’

There’s nothing anybody could get us that could make right now better. My chest feels like it’ll burst with the burning that pierces it whenever we lock eyes.

I pick at my chips. I look up from my plate and watch, marvel, at the woman sitting opposite me.

She makes me feel like every second before now never mattered and every second that will follow won’t matter.

Tagliatelle, spaghetti, linguine. She’s never been able to twirl it around a fork, so she cuts it all up into pieces; it’s the cutest thing.

I appreciate that we get to be together like we used to, I like that I get to see a side of her that she rarely shows; I get to see the old her, even if the moments are fleeting.

I pick my burger up and sink my teeth into it.

‘For heaven’s sake; why do you insist on selecting the messiest meal on the menu?’

I put my burger down on my plate; she hands me her napkin, and I wipe the dripping yolk from my chin. I quickly chew and swallow the half-bite.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, as I wipe my hands.

‘It’s fine. What are you like, eh?’

‘I think I should wash my face’. I lift the napkin off my lap and lay it on the table next to my plate. ‘Why do they only give us one each? Optimistic.’

She gulps the remainder of her glass before starting to pour another. ‘Don’t be long,’ she says.

I push my chair away from the table and stand. ‘Or what, eh?’ I attempt to eradicate the tension by inviting her into a humorous exchange.

‘Or, if I finish mine before you’re back, I will make a start on yours.’ She looks at my meal. She’s not accepting my proposition. Or is she?

I take my phone out of my pocket to look at the time.

‘Leave that here if you want,’ she says.

She removes her eyes from the food and ours meet once again.

Without hesitation, I put my phone on the table. I head for the bathroom.

I love all food, but I’ve never had a favourite cuisine. I like it here; there’s a bar, there’s a restaurant, there’s a menu with a little piece of everything.

There aren’t a whole lot of people out tonight. I like it like that.

A man holds the door open for me as he leaves the toilet.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

He nods in acknowledgement.

There’s nobody else in the toilets. As I look at myself in the mirror and proceed to wash the rapidly drying remnants of food from my face, I feel that that’s for the best.

I can’t help the anxiety I feel for leaving the children with a babysitter.

I know they’ll be okay, and I’ll cherish the handful of hours we can be away from them for. Not just for me, though. I’m happy because of the time that she and the children can spend apart.

I look at my face in the mirror; I’ve done a stellar job on the clean-up.

I wipe the excess water away with paper towels and dispose of them. I pass my hands under the dryer.

As I finish and take a final look in the mirror, my mind’s attention is drawn to the pace with which she is glugging wine, and to the night that lies ahead.

‘She doesn’t mean it,’ I say, as I look through the face that stares back at me.

I open the door and make my way back to the table.

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Violets Are Blue

Posted on July 16, 2017 by Jordan Neves

He knocked back his double Scotch and pulled down his eye mask. He adjusted the inflatable pillow around his neck, put on his headphones, and his forty winks began.

The plane was flying over the Atlantic Ocean.

He didn’t mind flying over land because he knew that if something went wrong with the plane, there was an almost total certainty that everyone inside would perish as soon as they touched the ground. His rational mind told him that the survival rate was probably about the same were the plane to fly into the ocean; his emotional mind wouldn’t allow him to think about anything other than his fall being cushioned, how he’d be forced to tread water until dehydration and exhaustion took hold, and how he’d experience the most painful minutes any person could.

Whiskey and sleep were his only friends ten kilometres above sea level.

A haze started to fill his head as his mind distanced from the cabin. He bolstered his sanity with classical music. He flew to places beyond the world he was physically in. He flew to places higher than the plane could reach. He dreamed a dream of land.

He dreamed of the town centre a walk of three hours away. Greetings cards and glow-sticks; wearing the outfit of a broken superhero, he met a girl from the gardens.

His mind started to wake; his eyelids refused to follow.

He drifted to a world where the halls were abandoned, and communication transcended time.

The captain’s voice brought him back; he asked the passengers to put on their seatbelts to prepare for landing. He told them that they may experience some slight turbulence, but it was nothing to worry about.

He’d been on a short trip for work. He wasn’t ever overjoyed by his job, but he wouldn’t complain about his life. With air in his lungs and light in his eyes, he loved every second of what he acknowledged as a gift. He was in love with the world. His job permitted him to frequently traverse different parts of the globe; all bought and paid for.

The only thing that haunted him was the unstable romantic waters he had to navigate. His schedule didn’t permit many ties, and he was often tormented by the invasive demon of loneliness.

Abby was his present interest; he couldn’t wait to get home to her house. He craved being curled up and comfy with her, binge-watching mediocre films and drinking mulled wine. It was the early evening in mid-winter; it was the most perfect time of year to crawl into her bed and not leave until the blanket of darkness outside lifted.

He was a financially wealthy businessman living life at speed; she was an artist that had spent most of her adult years surviving.

She was everything he wasn’t; she was his dream and his reality.

He often forgot how to see physical beauty, but she could always jog his memory.

Like every woman he’d given a portion of his life to, she sent his head and his heart into battle with one another. His heart told him about how perfect she was, and that they’d live happily ever after if they could; his head reminded him that she isn’t the first and probably won’t be the last woman to awaken him in such a way.

He wanted her. He missed her. He needed her.

He got off the plane, left the airport, and got a taxi to Abby’s house.

The driver filled the void in his vehicle with mandatory chat. He asked what he did for a living, where he’d been, what for, and other seemingly obligatory questions for taxi drivers working on airport collections.

He played his part in the conversation with a mechanical charm, as if his responses weren’t pre-planned. His mind was elsewhere, allowing nothing but the thought of Abby and the physical connection they would soon be sharing to pass through it. The taxi pulled up outside her house.

After using the copy of her key that she had given to him, he closed the front door quietly after he entered. He crept along the hallway and to the kitchen. As soon as he saw her, he was powerless to oppose the inevitable burst of passion that commandeered his body.

Not much could change in a handful of days and not much did; familiarity was the comfort blanket he needed to warm him.

His lips pressed against hers, and he was reminded of the first time he kissed her; he was a firm believer in absence making the heart grow fonder. He lifted her in his arms and carried her upstairs.

His trip was only for one night, and he didn’t have much time for the pursuit of pleasure, so he was sure to show Abby just how much he missed her.

He couldn’t even wait long enough to take off his clothes. He laid her onto her bed and lowered himself onto and into her; he nestled into her neck and anchored his fingers in her hair.

He was in love with her wavy mane of red locks; he adored the way it caught the sunlight and radiated a glow that was somewhere between gold and bronze, but a thousand times more precious.

He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. With a reserved intensity, he squeezed her thighs and pushed himself further into her as an audible moan fell out of his mouth. His hands stroked upwards across her curves; his fingertips became re-acquainted with her skin.

He gripped her upper arms as if it was their first night with one another, and her head fell back like she was trying to throw it off her shoulders; the outline of her body and mass of hair caught the streetlight as it trickled through the thin opening of her curtains.

She rolled off him and into his arms.

Abby’s scent filled the room, and he felt like he couldn’t ever be happier than he was in that moment.

Her head rested on his chest; it was difficult for him to not form a bond with her when they could so effortlessly transition from such intensity to stillness and peace. She was his best of both worlds.

He knew he’d have to return to his grind in the morning, but he wanted to spend the rest of his life in her bed, exploring her physicality and whispering grandiose promises in her ear. He wanted to be lost in her sea, then be beached on her paradise.

He lifted her head and gave her his lips. He was on her again before long, almost with a determination to outdo the previous effort.

He drifted to a world where his ego was absent, and his love eclipsed the world. Elated higher than ecstasy, he remembered why the noise of life didn’t matter when he was with her.

She fell next to him and their limbs tangled together.

Near silence thickened the air around them. The only thing that hung in the darkness was the sound of his breathing.

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Two For Joy

Posted on October 8, 2016 by Jordan Neves

‘I think I prefer lasagne made with aubergines, it seems tastier than beef,’ said Josie.

‘Yeah,’ said David, ‘it’s healthier, too. Can’t be a bad thing, can it?’

‘It sure can’t. How was today, anyway? How did the meeting go?’

‘It was nothing I couldn’t handle; just another day at the office, really. What about your day?’

‘Same old,’ she said, cutting into her meal. ‘Always the same old. Tiring, but at least I’ve got you to look forward to coming home to.’ David looked across the table at her and smiled. ‘See, how could I not love that face?’ said Josie.

The candle between them painted the dining room walls with dark light. It was complimented by the wandering rays from the lamp in the living room.

‘Flattered, as always. I suppose while we’re on the subject, it’s only right for me to tell you that you look as wonderful as ever this evening. But what else is new?’

‘Shush you, eat your dinner whilst it’s still warm.’ She looked across at him with a face of playfulness and innocence, and an air of wonder. She was encircled by an aura beautifully invisible; her presence was angelic and her eyes were the southern Pacific Ocean. Her mouth refused to hide her happiness; she was beaming to be there with David, nearly as much as he was content to share his time with her.

David and Josie had spent their lives as close friends. He had been infatuated for as long as he could remember, he didn’t tell her and he didn’t tell anybody else. His love for her was his secret.

As they grew together, so too did her affection.

‘Speaking of meetings,’ said David, as he drank his wine, ‘how do you feel about yours with Mr. Starziak and the board next Thursday?’

‘I’m sure it’ll be a walk in the park.’ She sipped her wine, almost as if she was mimicking his movement. ‘Besides, I doubt it’ll be long before they move me up the chain. Who says a woman can’t bring home the bacon?’ She pushed the last piece of food onto her fork and lifted it to her mouth. ‘Or the aubergines?’ She looked up at David with her ‘aren’t I funny?’ smirk.

He responded with his ‘that was so bad that it was quite good’ grin.

She placed her knife and fork side-by-side on the edge of her plate and pushed it forward. ‘Dessert?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said, as he stood up and put her plate on his before taking them both to the kitchen. ‘How does a great big slice of chocolate cake with some vanilla ice cream sound?’

‘Like a dream,’ she said.

Clanging and clanking noises escaped the kitchen as David prepared their desserts. He brought them to the table and placed hers in front of her.

‘Looks as tasty as you do. Probably not as sweet,’ he said. He took his seat at the other end of the table and tucked in to his cake and ice cream.

‘Again, shush you! You’ll overwhelm me with your words and I’ll be putty. And then, who knows?’

David’s second-favourite thing was preparing food. Passion and creativity flowed freely from him just before mealtimes. Josie’s soul ignited whenever she saw him so alive.

Starters, mains, desserts, snacks, breakfast, lunch, brunch. His aptitude bloomed and his versatility shone.

As quickly as they commenced, they both cleared their bowls and shared a post-gluttony satisfaction.

He saw that she had nearly finished her glass. ‘Full?’ said David.

‘One hundred percent,’ she said, the smile still upon her face.

‘So, what now?’

‘I’m a bit sleepy, is it okay if we just relax in bed and watch a nature documentary? Such soothing sounds.’

‘Of course we can,’ said David, ‘that sounds pretty perfect.’ He swallowed his last drop of wine and she followed suit.

‘Love you,’ she said.

‘I’ll be up shortly. Just going to clear up down here first.’ He blew out the candle and the room dimmed. He took his empty bowl and glass to the kitchen and put them in the sink.

He returned to the table where he collected her things to take to the kitchen. He placed her glass and bowl next to her plate on the sideboard.

Solemnly and sombrely, he walked back towards the dining room.

The scents of lasagne, wine, cake, and ice cream filled the house. They enveloped him; the comfort he felt was peculiar, almost uncanny.

He stopped next to the mantle and picked up the framed picture of Josie. ‘It never gets easier,’ he said as he lifted the picture to kiss it. ‘Sweet dreams, Josie.’

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A New Year In Crawford

Posted on September 7, 2015 by Jordan Neves

Crawford was a small island a few miles off the north-west of the mainland. Its grounds were covered in lush green grasses; its borders were formed of the steepest cliff faces. The only place that Crawford’s surface met with the sea was at a small opening – less than half a mile wide – where the island’s sole beach and port could be found.

The opening was at the south-east of Crawford, which was fortunate because it meant that ferries and cargo from the mainland could access the island with ease. Located in a prime spot for initial contact with ships making the long haul across the ocean, Crawford served as the cornerstone of navigation in its country’s northern sea.

The island wasn’t wide; it couldn’t even boast a great deal of land. What distinguished Crawford from other nearby islands was how thin it was, and how far it stretched from end-to-end.

Towards the end of the eighteenth century, Crawford would gain two new residents. A pair of lighthouses – one on each end of the island – would be built to guide marine vessels to the mainland.

Most of Crawford’s residents lived in the town in the centre of the island. Approximately seven thousand people lived there, and every one of them welcomed the building of the lighthouses with open arms.

As time moved forward, the lighthouses became more entwined into Crawford’s identity and were adopted as its mascots; many said that they were the most recognisable lighthouses in the world.

For nearly a hundred and thirty years, they both lived without names. In 1927, a new mayor was elected. Mayor Oliver Greenson was given the island’s reigns and took the town to places that most were eager to follow him to. Charismatic, attractive, and in possession of a natural aptitude for leadership, Oliver was the youngest Mayor in Crawford’s history. One of his first non-political calls was to hold a vote in which names of the lighthouses would be decided.

The logistics of the operation were similar to that of any election; the town’s council compiled a shortlist of potential names, each resident was given two voting cards – one for the east lighthouse and one for the west – and the person would select which name they felt best suited for each.

The east dwelling tower was the smaller one. It was only slight by a short distance, but it was a magnificent structure, nonetheless. Coloured with seven alternating bands of white and cherry red, it was certainly the best-looking lighthouse in Crawford. It was decided that it would be known as Harley.

On the west side of the island lived what would come to be known as Rowan; the larger of the two. Standing at nearly 200 feet tall, Rowan could be seen from far out at sea. Its location meant that it was the first of the two to be seen by the ships travelling from the ocean to the west coast of the mainland. It also meant that it usually caught the last rays of daylight. When it was initially constructed and painted, it was given the brightest and cleanest of whites, so its visibility was maximised.

For the next twenty years, Harley and Rowan worked together to gift light to the surrounding seas. Much changed in Crawford during this time: its political structure, its revenue from tourism, even its population density fluctuated a noticeable amount. The two lighthouses remained constant, and there wasn’t a night that went by where they weren’t operational; a small, dedicated team ensured the lighthouses served their purpose.

The walk between the lighthouses could take less than an hour, and the route was frequented by both residents and tourists. Crawford’s terrain was mostly even, so the walk could be enjoyed by young and old, and everyone in-between.

Late Spring of 1949 brought an abundance of warm sunshine, and many of Crawford’s residents flocked to the mainland to enjoy the quiet countryside and lively beaches. Among these residents were all but one of the lighthouse keepers.

The night of the 23rd of May was the final night that Harley and Rowan would work together as a team. The keeper had checked on Rowan before making the walk to the east of Crawford. Less than a mile away from Harley, he could see smoke and flames. He tried his best to run Harley and call for Crawford’s only fire engine, but it was already too late.

Nobody knew what caused the fire that night. Some think it was a visitor, some think it was a resident, some think it was an unfortunate accident. Who caused it or why didn’t matter much, because irreversible damage was caused regardless.

Rowan was internally destroyed and immediately out of action.

Experiencing an economic valley, Crawford couldn’t justify spending any of their limited funds on what was deemed to be low priority. The world had begun to move forward at a pace incomparable to anything before, and new maritime navigational systems reduced the need for lighthouses.

The only silver lining was that the fire fighters reached the inferno before it completely engulfed the lighthouse. Its frame remained almost in its entirety, so the residents decided that they would clean the site as best they could; Rowan would remain standing on Crawford.

As the years continued to move forward, Harley would also struggle to find a place in the world. The light was kept shining, and the building was maintained, but it was for nostalgia more than function.

Even with a lively tourism industry, Crawford never did get its economy back on the up. A further collection of budget cuts were made, and the upkeep of Harley was one of them.

Just before the sunrise of January the 1st 1983, the last keeper made his way down Harley’s stairs. He had maintained the lighthouses for years and he had lived in Crawford even longer than that. Although he was long past the age of retirement, he chose to spend his twilight years looking after this part of the town’s heritage.

After shutting down the lighthouse for the final time, he made his way out of its door, locking it behind him.

‘Goodbye, old friend,’ said Mr. Greenson.

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Meet Bill

Posted on May 11, 2015 by Jordan Neves

Forty-seven years old, a little shorter than average, brown hair and balding, lived comfortably but not lavish; Bill was as plain as a white man could be.

By day, Bill was an interior decorator. He was skilled at his craft and he worked for himself; he valued the freedom it allowed him, and that he could command his own wage. He wasn’t extortionate, but he knew his own worth. Bill was passionate about his work, but he didn’t like to flaunt his flair.

Bill was single and had no children. He’d spent a considerable amount of time in and out of relationships, but life always found a way to dictate Bill’s direction. He knew that, at his age, most other people had a family or, at least, a significant other. Bill was not fazed and he acknowledged that nothing will ever be too late.

Throughout his twenties and marginally into his thirties, Bill unintentionally acquired the ability to choose partners that would leave damaging fingerprints.

The first of these wasn’t catastrophic; a woman that would spend two thirds of her time arguing with him, and the other third using her tears to convince him not to leave.

When they eventually parted, Bill moved on to what felt like the relationship of his dreams. Seemingly more perfect than perfect could be; after a less-than-stellar start to what was his first full decade as an adult, he had got something right. He suspected that he was punching above his weight, but that didn’t matter to him. He was happy, she was happy, they were happy together.

After the honeymoon period ended, it didn’t take long for the arguments to make their way into his life, before the arguments turned into violence. Not from Bill’s side of the aisle, for he simply accepted his new role as a mental, and sometimes physical, punch bag.

Finally, he decided he couldn’t take much more of her; one night after an argument, she threatened him with the sharpest knife in the kitchen. He felt he had to call for professional help. One restraining order and weeks of sleepless nights later, Bill knew he had to face life with nothing less than untouchable confidence.

His demeanour was detectable from far away, and it wasn’t long before Bill welcomed a new person into his life. Despite his better judgement and every intention that he had not to fall for her, he couldn’t help himself. She was what he needed, and he felt he could really build a life with her.

Everything was running more smoothly than he could have hoped for, until he awoke one morning to an empty bed and a silent house. He called out her name, but to no avail. As he walked into his kitchen, he found an envelope on the table with his name written on it. Inside it was a letter; in the letter, she detailed how head-over-heels she was for him and how it broke her heart to leave, but after spending the last several years falling deeper and deeper into credit card debt, she felt she had no choice but to flee the country. She gave no indication of where she was going, but she assured Bill he’d never find her; it destroyed her to leave, but she wrote that she’d do that a thousand times over than see any notion of heartbreak on his face.

With no close friends that he maintained regular contact with, Bill kept himself occupied with his work; he had found something he could devote his time to.

On his twenty-ninth birthday, he visited his parents, then went to his local pub. It was a Thursday, the atmosphere was relaxed and almost serene, just the way that Bill liked it most. Sat at the bar with nothing but his thoughts and a glass of whiskey, he reflected on his life, and how he liked the shape that it was becoming.

A woman entered the pub alone and she sat a few seats away from him. As she ordered herself a vodka and tonic, her eyes met his; his breath was taken away, and his heart tried to escape from his chest. She was younger than him, but not so young that it would seem strange if he spoke to her.

Before long, they were in Bill’s bed, and they spent the night together.

Their romance quickly blossomed, but after just over a year of sharing unrestricted laughter, carefree smiles, and an intense physicality with one another, Bill began to find signs of infidelity. He wasn’t an insecure man, but he would notice how reserved she would seem after a night out with friends. The final straw was the underwear he noticed in her handbag when she came home after she had been working late.

Bill was unhappy, she was unhappy, they were unhappy together, so they went their separate ways.

*

‘Hello?’ said Bill, as he answered his phone and sat up in his bed.

‘Hey, it’s Jason. I haven’t woke you, have I?’

‘No, of course not, I’m just lounging in bed. You alright?’ Bill rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window.

‘I’m good. Do you think you’ll still make it to start our kitchen today? We cleared everything out of it yesterday.’

‘Of course. Just got to get ready and tie a few things up first. I’ll be about an hour or two, is that okay?’ There wasn’t much that could keep Bill from working, not even a Saturday of Spring sunshine.

‘Brilliant. We’ve got to head out for a few hours, but we’ll leave the key in the usual place. Let yourself in, and we’ll see you a bit later.’

‘No worries, Jason, see you later.’ Bill ended the call, pulled off the duvet and sat on the edge of his bed. He let his lungs inflate as he reached for the sky, before vocalising the ecstasy of his morning stretch.

His morning routine was mundane: shower, shave, clothes, food, coffee. He would always inspect his paints and brushes before he left; there was nothing worse to Bill than turning up to a day’s work underequipped and unprepared. With a final count of his tools, he left his house and made his was to Jason’s and Barbara’s house.

Sure enough, their key was tucked away inside the lid of the light above their door. Bill let himself into the house, made a cup of coffee on the makeshift sideboard in the front room, and took his things into the kitchen.

Once he laid the first lick of paint onto a wall, he felt comforted. Being alone with a task that subtly contrasted simplicity and complexity was enough to take his mind away from the world, albeit temporarily. He relished in those few hours when he wouldn’t have to dedicate his thoughts to a single other thing.

*

‘Oh, wow,’ said a familiar voice from behind him. As he was finishing the final corner of the first coat on the last wall, he turned to see Jason and Barbara.

‘I absolutely love it,’ said Barbara.

‘It’s only the first coat, and the whole room it won’t be properly finished until next weekend.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘but the colour. It’s exactly what we wanted.’

‘Definitely the right colour,’ said Jason.

‘It just looks so much more stunning when it covers the whole room,’ said Barbara, unable to refrain from admiring every wall.

‘Well, thank you, I do appreciate your words,’ said Bill; he wore a slight smile on the outside, but was beaming inside. He was never able to agree with compliments, though he enjoyed receiving praise about his work.

‘And you said it was too risky having our kitchen red,’ said Barbara, as she nudged Jason. ‘What colour is it again, Bill?’

‘It’s somewhere between scarlet and firebrick,’ said Bill, who was always more than happy to showcase his knowledge of colour names.

*

After indulging in another cup of coffee and small talk with Jason and Barbara, he packed the remainder of his things and made his way back to his house under the late-afternoon rays. As he walked through his front door, he put down his equipment in the hallway and made his way to the kitchen. All he could think of on his walk home was what fresh fruit and vegetables he’d put in his evening smoothie. In the end, he decided he’d settle on an old favourite: banana, kiwi, cucumber and broccoli. He peeled and sliced his food, and blended it with a glass of water.

He gulped the last of his drink and walked to the door under the stairs. As he opened it and climbed down the steps to the basement, he could hear a faint whimper. He flicked the switch on the wall next to him and the room filled with dim light.

He looked up to see a naked woman nailed to the far wall by her limbs. Her body was covered in the dried blood. With what looked like last ounce of energy she had, she slowly raised her head and whimpered.

‘Well then,’ said Bill, ‘what are we going to do with you? I do think you’d make a wonderful claret red.’

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En Route

Posted on March 12, 2015 by Jordan Neves

Quarter to eight, fifteen minutes to go. I put my phone back in my pocket and step off the bus. My bus stops right outside my work, but I always get off at the stop before, just near the town. A few weeks ago, Kelly noticed this because she gets on the same bus most days. She asked me about it across the office, and everybody present went silent in anticipation of my response. They listened with such keen intent as they waited for me to explain why I get off at a certain bus stop in the morning; the monotony was painful. I told them that it depended on how I was feeling that particular day; they all looked slightly puzzled and almost dissatisfied with my answer.

I’m en route to work. Every time I hear the words ‘en route’, I can’t help but think of those that spell it ‘on route’.

What to listen to? Maybe something nostalgic to remind me of being younger. Much simpler times, really.

Better press the button on the traffic light and wait for the green man to grant me permission to cross. Actually, it doesn’t look like anything’s turning off onto this road, so I’ll live life on the edge and hurry across without waiting.

Almost there now. As I walk through the car park, I can’t help but think about how it looks now and how different it’ll look in about an hour.

Music off, earphones out and put away in my jacket pocket, the same pocket I keep my bus pass in. £103 for twenty-eight days? Crazy money. Through the main door and up the stairs before typing ’3 2 1 0’ into the office door. At least it’s easy to remember.

We had a party in here a few months ago. They were telling me that my resolution should be to not take everything too seriously, and to loosen up.

Variations of ‘good morning’ greet me from the handful of people that start at this time.

‘Morning, you alright?’ I say back, ambiguous in intended direction. I don’t really have any conversational intention, I’m just playing my part a daily small talk ritual.

‘Yeah, I’m good, thanks,’ says Graham.

‘Good,’ I say, as I walk over to my desk.

‘You?’ says Graham. His tone conveys indifference.

‘Not too bad, thank you.’ The first exchanges of the day are mostly the same.

‘Good,’ he says. Is everything actually always good? Is ‘good’ even a good word? The limited vocabulary is apparent.

I usually take my jacket off before I do anything else, but I’ll keep it on for a while. I open my laptop and turn it on; depending on the luck of the draw, it could take fifty seconds or fifty minutes for it to load the login screen. I look around and see Dianne, Stacey, and Stella tapping away on their keyboards. Maybe they’re working or maybe they’ve each developed a method of looking like they’re working whilst spending eight hours a day bashing random keys. Is there a difference?

I’ll put my lunch in the fridge and make a cup of tea whilst I’m waiting. As I walk to the kitchen, I pass Anne stood at the copying machine, preparing for the day ahead.

‘Morning! How are we today?’ she says, as though she sprinkled cocaine on her cereal.

‘Good thanks, yourself?’ It doesn’t matter who plays what role, the sequence of words will always be similar enough. I’m 99% sure it isn’t limited to this building, either.

‘Not too bad,’ she says, reminding me that there probably isn’t too much of that manufactured enthusiasm that any one human can deal with. ‘Cold?’

Confused, I remember that I’d decided to keep my jacket on. ‘Oh. Yeah, something like that,’ I say, as I hurry to the kitchen.

Walking down the corridor, I can see the human resources office at the end. Each one of them is glued to their monitor as they mindlessly hit their keyboards. What’s that theory about a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters and the complete works of Shakespeare?

There’s not too much room in the fridge, but I find enough space at the bottom. There’s not too much room in this kitchen at all, it’d probably be a struggle to fit anything more than three adults in here. There’s a contraption attached to the wall that dispenses hot water. Probably not the safest thing in the world, but at least I don’t have to wait for the kettle to boil.

Back to my desk. Anne’s gone, but the copier is still whirring away. I sit on my chair and see that my laptop is finally loading.

I can hear distinguished footsteps approaching as they echo down the corridor.

As she enters the office, I stand up, turn, and approach her with intent.

‘Alright?’ says Jane, as I stand in front of her. I reach for my pocket, the one that doesn’t hold my earphones and bus pass. I pull out a small gun and hold it up to her face. It’s finally enough to halt tapping heard from all corners of the room. Everyone freezes.

‘What date is it?’ I ask.

‘It’s…it’s…Thursday…I mean, Wednesday,’ she says, her face whiter than Winter’s first snowfall.

‘Date. Not day.’ I won’t take my eyes off her, but I don’t need to. I can comfortably see every person in here, in my peripherals.

‘It’s March the…no, it’s April the 1st,’ she says, almost unable to compose herself.

I give a sly grin as my finger pulls the trigger. A small jet of water hits her between the eyes.

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Where Are The White Woods?

Posted on February 12, 2015 by Jordan Neves

As though he was experiencing his birth once again, Steven woke into a world unknown to him. Overcome by confusion, fatigue, and an overwhelming ache at the front of his brain, he tried to comprehend his surroundings. He was in a medium-sized tent, perhaps big enough for six people. It was night, and he would have been able to see nothing were it not for a dim lantern rested next to him. Excluding that and the sleeping bag that he was loosely wrapped inside, there wasn’t another thing in sight.

With no recollection of where he was or why he was there, he filled himself with worry.

Is this the world’s worst prank? Did I party a little too hard? Am I the next victim in a chain of serial killings? Am I a cannibal’s supper? It didn’t take long for his thoughts to descend into bleakness. Before he became consumed by ideas of what this situation likely wasn’t, he knew he had to venture outside.

It was the middle of Autumn, at least that’s what the last time of year he remembered was.

He kicked off the sleeping bag, zipped up his jacket tight to his neck, picked up the lantern, and made his way out into the unknown; he immediately felt a chill. As he looked around, he could see the burning chars of a fire. He could see faint pillars of grey, and he could hear leaves blowing; he assumed he was in a forest. What am I doing in a forest? he thought. There were no forests near Steven’s house, and he had no reason to be in one, especially not by himself.

Unease became panic; his mind raced, filled only with a thousand and one thoughts about what could be occurring. He had no other choice but to walk.

After a few steps, he could see the outline of a figure. The poor source of light he carried didn’t do much to help, but he was sure the figure was turned away. Instead of running in the opposite direction, Steven crept forward cautiously, careful not to make the figure aware of his presence. He balled his fist.

He was within reach before his trepidation disappeared; even in the most unsociable hours of night, he could recognise his friend.

‘Ed!’ Ed’s back remained turned. ‘Hey, Ed, I’m so happy to see you. What the hell is going on?’ Still, there was no response. The fear returned. ‘Ed? Can you hear me?’

Steven saw that Ed’s body was still; only a gentle rocking of his head gave him any kind of movement. Steven held his arm out as he slowly approached him. He grabbed Ed’s shoulder.

‘Fuck!’ Ed quickly leapt around before removing one of his earphones. ‘Good grief, Steven, are you trying to kill me?’

‘Are you trying to kill me?’ said Steven. Mild laughter in his voice destroyed any residue of tension Ed felt.

‘Sorry, I was just out here having a smoke and listening to some music.’ Ed was a short man, rotund at the waist and lightweight in the mind; for what he lacked in looks and intellect, he was difficult to dislike.

Seeing Ed brought a sense of calm to Steven.

‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘Man, were you gone. Don’t you remember anything?’ Ed removed his other earphone.

‘Nothing. The last I remember is…’ Steven paused, ‘…I don’t even know.’

‘Not surprised at all, to be honest. Me, you, Dallas and Michaela bought these.’ Ed pulled a transparent bag from his pocket containing several small tablets. ‘They’re meant to be really trippy, so we came out here to the White Woods to take them, ring any bells?’ He returned the bag to his pocket.

‘Vaguely,’ said Steven, setting down the lantern on the ground. ‘Why the White Woods? What else happened?’ Steven looked above where he’d see the treetops if there were signs of daylight. Despite the void that inhabited his head, he could almost remember entering a forest as the sun was setting.

‘Because there’s nothing around for miles. We took them after we set the tent up and made a little fire. We were sitting on a log and passing a joint around, then you just fell backwards. It was funny at first, but we got worried, we thought you were dead.’ Ed took a drag of his cigarette before throwing the end into the darkness. ‘When we realised you were still breathing, we thought it’d be best to just lay you down and let you sleep it off.’

Ed lit another cigarette and passed it to Steven.

‘Fantastic,’ said Steven, with a hint of jovial sarcasm. ‘Always me who nearly dies, isn’t it?’ Steven inhaled the cigarette and wondered what the time was. ‘Where are they now, then?’

‘Well, I think they were hoping to get a bit of alone time in the tent, but that idea quickly went out of the window. They went off for a little privacy.’ Ed was familiar with being a spare part, but he was content with his own company.

‘In here? In the middle of the night?’ Steven said, as he looked up.

‘It’s about two, but yeah, what a strange pair they are. I’ll give them a call actually and get them back, it’s been a while, now.’ Ed took out his phone and called Dallas.

‘Guess who’s with me?…I know, right?…You are? That’s cool…yeah…alright…yeah, I’ll see you in a minute.’ Ed ended the call. ‘They’re on their way back, should be here shortly.’

‘What about you guys? How were those pills for you?’

‘So good,’ said Ed, as his eyes widened. ‘They hit all of us hard, I’m still flying a bit. We bought five, but we only needed one each. Good job that’s all we had or you might have actually died.’

Steven had another drag of the cigarette and gave it back to Ed.

Dallas appeared with Michaela by his side.

‘Sorry, apparently I went absent on you all,’ said Steven, making light of his inability to handle drugs.

‘It was hilarious,’ said Michaela.

‘And this is the grand return, it would seem. Glad you’re alive.’ Dallas was like the older brother of the group. He carried himself with a front of quiet confidence; they all knew there was nobody as genuinely caring as he.

‘Well, my head feels flat. Do you all mind if I grab some sleep?’ Steven felt his grasp on reality becoming looser.

‘Short and sweet,’ said Dallas.

‘I am sorry.’ Steven knew how impolite he seemed.

‘Not at all, honestly.’ Dallas placed his arm on Steven’s shoulder and nodded, ensuring his eyes met with Steven’s. ‘Do what you need to do.’

‘Yeah, off you go,’ said Ed.

‘Thanks, we’ll have a nice session in the morning.’ Steven may have struggled with consuming harder substances, but he enjoyed morning smokes with his friends. He lifted the lantern, turned, and walked towards the tent.

‘Take it easy, and don’t leave us in your sleep,’ said Michaela.

‘I’m not making any promises,’ said Steven as he stopped and turned his head. ‘Oh yeah, I only saw one sleeping bag in the tent, what are you three going to do?’

Dallas looked at Ed. ‘Somebody said they would go back to the car and get everyone else’s stuff once we set up but then somebody had a smoke and somebody lost their enthusiasm.’

‘Yeah, my bad,’ said Ed.

‘It’ll be okay.’ Dallas turned his head to look back at Steven. ‘We probably won’t sleep anyway.’

‘Fair,’ said Steven. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He entered the tent and wrapped himself up in the sleeping bag. The inside air wasn’t cold, but Steven couldn’t help but shiver.

The three stood around the remnants of where flames once burned. As soon as they heard Steven’s distinct snore, they quietly left the camp area. After walking for thirty seconds, they stopped.

‘Where are you?’ Dallas whispered.

A man emerged from the darkness. He was clothed in tatters; his long hair and beard were unkempt, and he carried an unbearable stench like he hadn’t washed in a decade. His health had visibly started to deteriorate a great time ago.

He hobbled towards Dallas.

‘Right, we left him in the tent, it’s just through there,’ said Dallas, as he pointed behind them. ‘Give us the money and we’ll leave. He’s all yours.’

The man handed Dallas a bag of cash.

Ed gave the man the remainder of his cigarette.

The man dragged himself towards the tent wearing a twisted grin and licking his blackened lips.

‘Let’s go,’ said Michaela.

As the three walked in the direction of Michaela’s car, they could hear Steven screaming for his life, but nobody else could; they were in the White Woods, and there was nothing around for miles.

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