Bill padded along the curved stone path until he reached the gate onto the road outside. Finding it locked and resistant to being unlatched with a well-aimed paw, he sat, waiting for his mistress to catch up. It was a Sunday in February and dawn had barely broken. A wet mist hung low across the valley in which the cottage nestled contentedly. Bill’s coat glistened with dew shaken from the over-sized ferns that spilled over the path. Excited plumes of short hot breath rose from Bill’s open mouth; his tail flip-flopped like a landed fish. The sound of stirring sheep in the field across the road rang like a bell to his pointed ears.

Bill emitted a soft growl of anticipation. He could hear his mistress making her way slowly but deliberately towards him through the cottage. She collected the keys from a bowl in the kitchen, lifted her walking stick from its iron stand then stopped to put on her old boots. Bill’s growl rose to a short, eager bark as she approached the front door. ‘Bill! Mind that. I’ll be right with you’, she said. ‘You know I’m not as quick as I was. Neither are you, come to think of it.’ Before the master had passed they had divided up the daily walking duties, although Sundays were always different. Every Sunday the three of them would walk the valley in a long arc, before returning home to a breakfast of fresh eggs. Now, only the two of them took the long morning walk. Finally ready, the mistress shook the chain lead as she came through the open door. ‘Right, old man, I’m ready for you’.  

Inspired by a story about the first female winner of One Man and His Dog sheepdog trials.

Sarah-Jane and me? We’re first best friends, yeah, and have been for like ever.  We were in Mrs Jackson’s class, then Ms Ellis’: been inseparable ever since.  She can be a bit funny, though.  Have you noticed that?  What’s she said to you?!  Anyways, you’ve got to watch her.  My Nan says it’s always the quiet ones, although I don’t really know what she means.  I reckon it’s the loud ones you’ve got the most to be afraid of.  Like that Natasha Brown in Mr Michaels’ class.  She stabbed that Wright boy in the arm by the canal last year and she has a right mouth on her!

Did I notice anything odd about Sarah-Jane last week…?  Well, she was late for registration every day, but that’s not unusual.  She floats into class at 9:15 every day, lost in her giant blazer.  And she never has any tights, even when it’s bare cold.  I asked her about it last Tuesday, yeah, but she just shrugged, said she hadn’t noticed.  It was snowing last week: you’d definitely notice.  Have you met her?  She’s really shy, so I doubt she’s said much to you.  What’s she like?  Kind.  Yeah, dead kind.  I once saw her with that old Indian man on Beaumont in his garden.  I asked her what she was doing (because X Factor was about to start): she said that the guy’s wife had left him, that he had no idea what to do with his garden, so she’d offered to help.  It was a nice thing to do, but I did wonder how come she knew so much about him.    

Her Mum’s alright.  Tiny, like a bird.  Quiet too.  I’ve been around for tea a couple of times after school.  (No one else has.)  They live in the next block over.  Their flat is so tidy; not like ours, but then she doesn’t have four lazy brothers leaving their shit everywhere.  Don’t tell my Mum I said shit: I’m in enough trouble as it is.  Do you have any kids, Miss?  Sorry, I’m always sticking my nose in where it’s not wanted.  Their place…  Their place is silent.  Gives me the creeps, if I’m honest.  Sarah-Jane and her Mum speak in hushed voices, as if they don’t want even the walls to hear.  Not like my house: you can’t hear yourself think for the noise.  Funny thing is Sarah-Jane loves it.  She’ll stand behind our sofa watching wide-eyed while my brothers fight, eat, play videogames, whatever.  I don’t know what she finds so fascinating; my family are so boring.

You heard about her Dad?  Well, people aren’t really supposed to know, but I overheard Janine telling Amanda on the 49 that he was arrested yesterday.  I reckon it’s drugs.  Looks the type; well, that’s what my Mum says.  Sarah-Jane doesn’t talk about him much. Actually, not at all.  I once saw him shovel a dead hedgehog off the road and carry it home.  Well weird.  What’s this about anyway?

Behind the tall metal doors, the hall was awash with ink. After the briefest hesitation, he strode into the room, feigning purpose, crossing the open concrete with long, swift strides. The air reverberated with the buzzing of needles and the noise of the trade. An emerald snake twined around a bleached skull; stars adorned wrists and temples; a black panther lay in wait, sleek beneath a crescent moon. The dead were displayed proudly on chests and arms, their likenesses speaking of memory without melancholy. He wove between the tables, scratching his head, pausing briefly to examine a tray of inks. Having lost himself sufficiently in the crowd, he raised his eyes. And so, as fate would have it, did she.    

Inspired by pictures of the Brighton Tattoo Convention 2013.