It was an evening in early spring and I was taking the slow bus home from my shift at the hospital. I gripped the metal rail in front with both hands and flexed each finger, noting a painful hangnail and resolving to trim it later. There were no other passengers and outside the sidewalks too were deserted. It seemed like the driver and I were the only two fools awake in the city. The bus pulled into each stop along the route, opening its doors to the swirling litter. Before continuing on our way, the driver would check his mirror to see whether I had decided at the last minute to get off. He looked faintly disappointed each time when I didn’t move from my seat. We paused at each empty stop for a few minutes and I imagined ranks of spectres filing on and off the bus, jostling for space and seats, and avoiding their warm blooded commuter. Then we were off again.

I was stifling a wide yawn (the long Sunday shift had taken its usual toll) when something red on the street outside danced in the corner of my eye. I looked over my shoulder and saw her, wearing the crimson coat she always wore. I wrenched frantically at the cord hanging above my seat and tore down the aisle to the front of the bus. The next stop was only fifty or so yards away, but the short distance seemed to stretch out like a cruel trick of perspective as we crawled to a stop. I gave the driver a dark look before leaping down the steps onto the sidewalk and I turned back up the street to see the tail of her long coat whip around a corner. She was heading for the abandoned house on Carrer Lleona, the place we’d imagined living, as a family, with our children. 

Inspired by Berta Vicente’s entry to the Sony World Photography Awards.

My poor Juliette, what have they done to you? Your day started with such cheer: presents exquisitely wrapped were torn open to beaming smiles and yelps of delight; Pierre the dog bounced with confused excitement around your perfect room as Mama and Papa doted and wished you a Happy Birthday. Then, you were off, a new emerald green scarf slung around your shoulders, running towards the rest of the day ahead, without a backwards glance, leaving me, as always, behind.

But now you’re back in front of me wet face held in tiny hands. You are too good for them, Juliette, they are not worthy of your shuddering tears. I long to comfort you, to rest a consoling hand on your tiny shoulders; I know that I could make your troubles fade, if I were only given the chance. But, no, this cold glass prison, my window into your life, keeps me from you, a doomed observer, forever. If only you could hear my voice I would offer such words of comfort that your fears would vanish in an instant. I will whisper them anyway, Juliette. I hope they reach you.

Inspired by an amazing blog post by Jenny Colgan on terrifying French children’s books! 

“You can’t go home again”. Who wrote that? I’m pretty sure it was an American, all cookie-cutter and picket fences. Whoever did, they were right; although I doubt they had nuclear disaster in mind. Today marks my return to Namie for the first time since the tsunami swept our town and lives away. But I am done with mourning. I am returning to Namie today with a single purpose: to find Noboru, my cat.

Until last week I had given up any hope of his survival, irrespective of how many lives he had going spare, but something my neighbour Mrs Nagata said gave me hope. Mrs Nagata and her four sons returned to Namie last week to collect the last of their belongings. Most of the town’s residents, including my family, have made similar journeys home, only to return shattered by the experience. I was there when Mrs Nagata returned to the temporary housing, head held high, clutching a bundle of belongings. ‘Our town is finished’ she said ‘Best leave it to the cats’.   

Inspired (with great respect) by the second anniversary of the 2011 Japanese tsunami. 

My love for him began life a year ago today. We met just once and then a painful nothing until this evening. I remember each minute of that night. Every recruit is required, as part of their training, to guard the Elder Caves which lie deep within the forest beyond the northern border of our village. Although the sacred Caves have always been protected by the Guardian sect, their numbers are supplemented each night from within the ranks of recruits. My time as a recruit was almost over then; the date of my testing had been finally set. Still, the path ahead was hidden from me, so I volunteered for duty that night to still my mind.

I arrived at the meeting point a little after dusk and was joined shortly afterwards by five other recruits. As spoken communication is forbidden after dusk, we waited in silence for one of the Guardians to arrive, exchanging nervous glances in the receding light and exercising our muscles on the spot. Two of the recruits were female novices (their rank marked by a single white band worn around the bicep); the others were male and of varying rank. One of them was, like me, an elder recruit, although from one of the outlying villages. Unusually for our kin, his eyes were green, rather than yellow or brown. After a short wait, a Guardian approached through the darkness and beckoned for us to follow. We crossed the barrier out of the village and took the forest trail that led to the Caves.

The darkness of the forest was complete; not even sunlight would have penetrated the densely woven canopy. To avoid losing one another during the march, we held the right shoulder of the recruit in front. As the most senior recruit that night, I took the back position, the darkness seeming to stretch on forever in our wake. The Caves sit like an island in the centre of the forest, over an hour’s walk from the village. Our small party made swift, uniform progress, breathing and moving in unison. The routine of the march ordinarily provided solace, but I was not myself: my hand on the shoulder of the other elder recruit felt clumsy and hot.

Upon reaching the Elder Caves, the group was separated: the 2 novices were to accompany the Guardian who’d brought us from the village; a second Guardian would be responsible for the 2 males of middling rank; and, given our experience, we two elders were expected to form an unsupervised guarding pair. Our task was uncomplicated: to attend one of the sentry posts which punctuated the perimeter of the clearing and protect the Caves at any cost.

Our post was on the opposite side of the clearing to the entrance to the Caves. The Elder Caves are sacrosanct. Whispers tell of a vast network of passageways and halls where our ancestors once lived, but entrance to the Caves is forbidden to all save the Ordained, who alone possess true knowledge. Reaching the post, we took stock of the equipment. The possession of weapons is strictly controlled within the villages, but a necessary part of Guardianship. We are taught that threats to the sanctity of the Caves come in many forms, including from within ourselves. The post, a hollowed tree trunk, was equipped with a store of long bows, quivers filled with arrows and stone-tipped spears. Food and water rations were also provided. We carried out the check in silence and then took our places side-by-side in the dark.

The assault came from the forest just before dawn. The first spear split the dry ground at my feet; the second spear pinned his shoulder to the post. He didn’t make a sound. In that moment the purpose which had been instilled in me since birth no longer mattered. Grasping the spear with my left hand and the trunk with my right, I eased the spear out of the splintered post and through his shoulder. Calm green eyes met and held mine before he sunk to the floor. I stooped to pick him up; he was light like a dream but tough as oak. I carried him a few yards before he was taken from me by a Guardian, to safety, down into the Caves. That was the last time I saw him until tonight. I don’t even know his name.

Inspired by the lines “You are light as dreams, Tough as oak” from the poem ‘Words’ by Edward Thomas.

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?