The Walk

You should know that Anna and I spent a lot of time working out the perfect place for her to kill herself. I wouldn’t want you to think that we rushed it.

It had to be beautiful and poetic. We wanted birds and vast skies and a light breeze, not the sound of car horns or watery eyes from swirling dust.

It had to be poignant. It needed to be somewhere that meant something to Anna, a place that held the sort of memories you want with you when you die.

And it had to be practical. Anna always loved the idea of France and wanted to throw herself off the Eiffel Tower, until we realised we couldn’t afford the airfare.

Soon before we made our decision, we read in the newspaper that a man had killed himself in our local McDonalds’ bathroom. At first this seemed an appallingly sterile death, but after a while, we decided that maybe that particular fast food joint had been his one true place of happiness. Maybe that was the place he met his wife or reunited with his son. Maybe his best summer had always been that holiday job he had with friends when he was sixteen. Maybe the Big Mac was his favourite food, and his final burger was the best meal of his life.

It’s different for everyone, and we certainly weren’t in a position to judge. We were happy with our own final decision. It seemed sincere without being cheesy, and it had just the right amount of gravitas.

Behind Anna’s house was a forest, and through the forest lay a large lake, and at one particular point the ground had grown tired of its lowly vantage point and risen slowly upwards as it curled around the water’s edge. At its peak it was almost a cliff, soaring high above the gravelly beach below.

In simpler times, Anna had come here with her family, with her dog, even with me. We sat together right at the top and threw stones into the water, shielding our eyes from the sun as we searched for the ripples we had made.

On a clear day, you could just make out the other side of the lake, but often it would be shrouded in icy mist. I liked to imagine our ripples freezing as they spread, carving lines in the water like the circles of a tree stump, each one a year of our lives.

Look, I would think, there’s the ripple that marks the year we started school, and there’s the ripple that marks the year we became friends.

There’s the year we went on the field trip to the farm and got lost in the cornfield and held hands until we were found.

There’s the year she made me a birthday cake, which tasted mostly of almonds but faintly of fish.

There’s the year we started separate secondary schools and she started dating boys and we had our first fight.

There’s the year she was diagnosed.

And there’s the last year, right out on the water’s horizon. It’s the largest ripple, but it’s also the haziest in the mist. It’s the year we turned fifteen and the year she told me she was going to die. It was the first and last time I ever heard her swear.

“Fuck,” I said, when she told me the news.

“Fuck you, Tom,” she replied. “Don’t swear.”

*

“Have you packed everything?”

This was the first thing she asked me when I knocked on her door.

“Depends on what you mean by everything,” I replied.

“The picnic?”

“Yes.”

“Including strawberries?”

“Including all sorts of berries.”

“Did you pack a blanket?”

“Yes.”

“Ginger beer?”

“Tastes awful.”

“Tastes amazing. Did you pack it?”

“Yes.”

“What about a jacket? You don’t seem to be wearing a jacket.”

“Neither are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not going to have to walk back in the cold.”

I stared at her silently.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m only looking out for you. You’ll need a jacket.”

“It’s in my bag,” I said flatly.

“Then I guess we’ve got everything.”

I shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

She shoved me playfully and slammed the door behind her. We shuffled our way down the gloomy side of her house and out into the back garden, the rusting iron gate squeaking painfully as we slipped through.

“Do you remember - ?” she began, as I closed the gate behind us.

“When Rasta escaped?” I finished.

She giggled. “What was its full name? Rasta-something?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “But it was a stupid name for a dog.”

“It was a stupid name for anything. And Mr. Laurence had no idea how to look after it. My mum should never have let it out of the house, but– ”

“But it needed to pee, and Mr. Laurence was adamant it couldn’t jump over the gate– ”

“And my mum was adamant it could, and they spent ages arguing over it, until he agreed to take responsibility– ”

“And then it escaped because the gate wasn’t even shut!”

We both laughed as we walked across the unkempt grass.

“Whatever happened to that dog?” I asked.

“Oh, it died.”

“Jesus, because it got out?”

“No, Tom,” Anna said patiently. “Because it got old.”

At the back of the small garden was another small gate, this one even rustier and harsher on the ears. It lay nestled between two overgrown bushes that we had to push through just to get out. The garden was different years ago: the gates gleamed, the lawn smelt of fresh trimmings and the vegetation stood in immaculate lines.

Anna’s parents had once been meticulous, and the change in the garden was mirrored in their faces every time I now saw them. Her father’s designer stubble had become a scraggly beard, and her mother’s blushed cheeks were pale and creased.

“How are your parents doing?” I asked automatically as we left the garden behind.

Anna’s face was turned away from me as she surveyed the trees before us.

“You okay with the backpack?” she said eventually.

“Of course,” I said.

“It’s not too heavy?”

“I’ll tell you when it is.”

The garden sunlight fell behind us as we walked into the woods, each step bringing the trees closer together and enveloping us in shade.

“You going on holiday this summer?” she asked.

I picked my way through damp bark and moss, my shoes squelching underfoot.

“Sure,” I replied. “Parents will drag me to the beach like always.”

“Nothing wrong with the beach. There’s always mini-golf and candyfloss.”

“I hate candyfloss.”

“God, you’re a downer, Tom.”

“Sorry. I like mini-golf.”

“No you don’t.”

“That’s true. I don’t.”

“Would you rather go with me?”

“What?”

“Instead of your parents.”

I squinted up at the sky, pretending to study the canopy of leaves.

“Well?” Anna prompted.

“Of course I would,” I said.

“Good,” she said.

We walked in silence, and all I could hear was the soft crack of foliage and an even softer wind.

“We’ll do that in our next life,” she added.

“Sure,” I replied lamely. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Look forward to it now,” Anna said. “Tell me about it.”

I cleared my throat awkwardly. “Well we definitely wouldn’t eat candy floss.”

“Or play mini-golf.”

“Exactly.”

“What would we do then?”

“Donkey rides?”

Anna spluttered with laughter. “Oh that’s cool.”

“I never said any of it was cool,” I replied.

“Sorry,” Anna said, with mock-seriousness. “Keep going.”

“Okay, no donkeys. We’ll eat fish and chips… and go for a walk along the beach…”

“What will we hear?”

“We’ll hear… pebbles crunching… and seagulls squawking.”

“Will they try to steal our food?”

“Of course, but we’ll be too clever for them.”

“How will we manage that?”

“We’ll eat our food incredibly quickly. It’ll give us indigestion later but we won’t care because we out-foxed them.”

“Genius. What else will we hear?”

“Waves, I guess. And laughter.”

“Who will be laughing?”

“Children, I suppose. There are always children on the beach.”

“Maybe us too?”

“Yeah, us. Definitely us.”

“Who’s having more fun: the children or us?”

“Us. Definitely us.”

“Good,” Anna said. “I like having fun.”

We stepped our way through tangled roots and fallen trunks.

“What do you think it’s like not being here?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Well think, Tom.”

I thought. “There’s a lot of times you haven’t been here. I suppose it’s like that.”

“I suppose so,” Anna said. “Sometimes that’s good and sometimes that’s bad.”

“That sounds like most things,” I said.

We walked and we walked.

And all of a sudden, far too soon, we reached the lake. The trees cleared, and we found ourselves standing in a stiffening breeze, watching ripples cascade across the murky water. The sun peered out reluctantly from behind a curtain of clouds, its light fractured as if scattered by the wind.

The mere sight of our destination stopped me in my tracks and I stood quite frozen, staring blankly at an uncertain horizon.

“Come on, Tom,” Anna said gently, and she took me by the hand and led me up the gentle path that wound slowly up the lake’s overhang.

We had managed just half the ascent when a thought hit me for the very first time. And when it came, I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t think of anything else. And I didn’t think of anything else, not until the walk was over, and not really for some time after that.

At the top of the overhang, we stopped in silence again. I could hear Anna breathing hard.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Remember when we raced down your road?” she said, by way of reply.

“Sure,” I said. “It was like miles.”

“It was like ten metres.”

“Ten metres is like miles when you’re six.”

“Seven.”

“If you say so,” I agreed.

“You were so angry when you lost,” she laughed.

I pushed her playfully. “I didn’t lose!”

“Well you didn’t win,” she retorted.

I pushed her again, and she pushed me back, and just for a moment we were touching each other, somehow more than friends.

Just for a moment.

“What about that ginger beer?” she asked.

“Tastes awful,” I said quietly.

“Tastes amazing,” she said even more quietly.

Our walk had ended. I put the backpack on the grassy soil, took out the blanket and spread it wide. It billowed briefly in the wind, a defiant tartan flag. We pushed it down, squashed it firmly into the ground and sat cross-legged atop it.

We ate and drank and watched the sky until the sun began to sink, until the lengthening shadows slowed down time, until every moment was sharpened to frozen crystal, like ripples of ice on a lake.

The sunlight drew a razor-straight line across the water. Ducks floated through the air until they crossed the divide, one moment illuminated, then lost in the darkness.

My hand gripped a tuft of grass by my side so that each blade bent in an entirely different direction. An ant paused on the tip of my thumb.

Anna’s hair lay diagonally across her face, covering her freckles almost perfectly. Each strand swayed ever so gently, and lines of shadow danced across her eyes.

Our shadows grew ever so thin, then crossed, then merged.

“Well,” Anna said. “I guess it’s time.”

“I guess so.”

She stood up.

“Anna,” I said.

“Yes?”

“We’re not going to the beach this year. We’re going to Paris.”

She laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I stared at my hands, picked at my fingernails.

Now all shadows had merged and it was quite dark, and quite cold. We packed up the picnic and gazed out over the gloomy water.

Anna shivered. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s walk home.”

I handed her my jacket.

“You should have reminded me to bring one,” she said.

“My mistake,” I replied.

We walked ever so slowly down the slope towards the lake. The forest lay before us, dense with trees and memories of walks long gone.

“What are you thinking?” Anna said as we turned away from the sky and the rising moon.

I studied the trees and their endless criss-crossing branches.

“I wasn’t thinking it until we started climbing,” I said. “And now it won’t leave me alone.”

“What’s that?”

“I started thinking you might actually do it.”

Anna was silent. I thought of the walks we had taken and the walks that might still be to come. And I wondered which one would be our last, and how I would know.

She hugged me tight and pulled away quickly. “I’m still cold,” she said.

“Me too,” I agreed. “We better walk.”

To Die Complete

This world, the world of this story, is almost yours. Almost. Built into its physical laws lies an extra clause, seamlessly woven into the pattern of life. And this additional line, this one idea more, makes all the difference in the world.

*

I was a young girl when I stood before god with a gun in my mouth. The weapon I found in my brother's bedroom, wrapped in newspaper and tucked behind an elderly chest of drawers. Swaying lamp-light cast shadows that night, frayed shadows as I knelt in the dark and the dust.

“I want my soulmate,” I tremoured. “I need him now.”

God said nothing to this; still the shadows swept peaceably across my wet cheeks.

“You must understand. You made us this way.”

The steel cool against my lips.

Barely a whisper now: “Don't make me.”

The shadows swung left, then right, covering my eyes. I blinked in time, remembered a chant from skipping on the playground:

One, Two, Three, Four.

Hear your Lover at the door.

Five, Six, Seven, Eight.

Pray that this one's your soulmate.

Each shadow a skip.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I squeezed the trigger.

*

I heard a sad story that I was promised was true. It's hard to believe, but perhaps it happens every day.

Two soulmates lived together in a tall house by the sea. The outer walls stood corroded by salt; inside, drooping wallpaper hung damply through the rooms. They slept on the top floor of three, up a narrow staircase that creaked in the ocean winds. In that room, they stored all their happiness and love. I suppose they always expected it to be the place they would die.

The girl arrived home one day and closed the rotting door. Vague noises upstairs, falling through the floors. She climbed, and climbed, until the sounds crystallised into screaming. Her man, calling out in pain. She must have known that he was near death, but still she ran. Not down, not away, not to safety. Instead, in a moment of madness, she ran to his side.

The stress of his heart attack triggered her own, and they died in each others' arms near that bleak, chilly shore. Close to the deaths they would have chosen, no doubt, but so needlessly early, so wasteful. A pause, a turn, all that was required. She could have stopped on those stairs, and walked away, and preserved for them both a future.

When I first heard this tale, I wept with rage, for how could they not understand what they had been given, when all of us wait for it our lives entire, and some of us, scarred, wait impatiently still.

In a world where we cannot die alone, such stupidity to run to your lover's side. In a world where we are destined a soulmate, if only we wait, such selfishness to so easily let them go.

*

I sit, the carriage humming all around me, wheels spinning over rails beneath my feet. Opposite me a woman sleeps, her pale head resting against the vibrating window. Contentment is etched into her old, wrinkled face. I hate her half-smile, a smile so deep it follows her out of consciousness. I am glad when she leaves.

For a while, the seat is empty, then is taken by a man. He is youthful, handsome, alone. My heart lurches with the train; drunken hope rises like sweet bile. Well, he could be. He could be the one. My hand rests against my cheek. When I remove it, I will know.

“Hello,” he says.

I smile, my hand still pressed against my face. “Hello,” I reply.

“Are you alone?”

I nod. “And you?”

He smiles and my breath is shallow, my thoughts dizzy. I lift my head away from my hand.

He recoils and all hope is gone. Just like that it disappears, so swiftly that it leaves a hole. The emptiness settles inside me, sucking, sucking away.

He recovers his poise far too late. “What happened?” he asks.

I trace the long, gnarled line along my face. “I was ten,” I say. “I tried to die.”

*

Once you find your soulmate, only then does your countdown begin. But not for us, the knowledge of how far it may fall, how many seconds still cling to life. Only the comfort that you can never die alone. That your life may only end with your lover by your side.

When I was ten, my best friend announced that she had found her soulmate. They walked through the playground, hand-in-hand, convinced of their intertwined fates. Too young even for young love, of course, and she would be long out of school when she bumped into her doctor in a furniture sale and discovered finally what it meant to be sure. But I was a small girl, without clairvoyance or comprehension. I saw only that my friend was lost to me, and then – as I watched them skip traitorously across the crunchy, gravelly school yard – I came to see that it was I who was lost, and she who had been found.

I begged god until I could beg no more. Days had passed, an eternity in my tiny mind. I took my brother's gun, for I knew I could not die alone. A test for my gods, my guardian angels.

The bullet passed through my cheek and I survived. But luck, nothing more. For as I learned that day in the hospital bed, my mother shrieking at my side, suicide was not an impossibility, but rather a loophole. For those who lacked patience, an easy way out.

“You're so young,” my parents wept. “You have love already, don't you see? You have us!”

But it isn't love really. It doesn't really count.

*

For my friend, that day in the furniture shop, it was a smile. Just a smile, a gaze, a pinprick in time. Just a moment and she was sure.

I too know exactly how to be sure.

*

Some nights after I tried to die, my mother came to me past my bedtime. As I lay contentedly in my snug, dozy bed, she read to me a children's tale. The pages were creased and dusty, the typeface antiquated. I had never seen the book before.

In the story, a brave prince sets out on a quest to rescue a princess, held captive by an evil spell. He battles giants and dragons and witches and sorcerers, overcoming all obstacles to free the girl from her enchanted prison. When the two finally meet, they discover – to their surprise and joy - that they are soulmates, destined to die in each others' arms. The prince takes her back to his kingdom, and the two soon become king and queen.

At first they are happy, but soon it becomes apparent that the queen is having difficulty becoming pregnant. The king begins to worry: what if they die before giving birth to an heir? At first, he heightens security, ensuring that he and his wife are protected by guards at all times. But there are deaths that guards cannot see coming: illness and disease that lurk in the quiet dark. So he sends the queen away, sometimes for days at a time, for they cannot die apart. When they meet, they do so quickly and carefully, in the safest, warmest parts of the castle, where they attempt to conceive a child. But still the heir proves elusive, and the king's paranoia grows, until they meet only once a week. Once a month. Once a year.

The child never arrives, and at last he forgets about the wife he loves. One day, many years later, the ancient king finds himself walking through a forest. His hair is white, his skin grey, his back bent. He shuffles slowly through this cool, green corner of his realm, and suddenly he comes across a cottage. Leaving his guards to keep watch, he staggers up to the wooden door, leaning heavily against it to support his frail legs. Slowly, oh so very slowly, he steps inside.

A woman sits, watching, waiting, quite as old as he. Her face is almost hidden beneath the creases that tell her age, but her smile is bright, a sinking sun still visible through thick, gnarled clouds. She smiles with recognition; she has waited now so long. And in that pinprick of time, he remembers her too and falls sobbing at her feet. She sits beside him on that icy, flagstone floor, humming softly and stroking his tired hair. When the guards enter the house, her brittle, lifeless body is knelt prayerfully over his. Perhaps she is asking for more time.

She is still smiling.

*

I dream of this story as I doze on the train. When I awake, the man across from me has gone. The seat is empty once more.

I am reminded of a strange statistic: whenever there is an outbreak of a deadly disease, the death rate rises. Time after time, this fact is proven true. When a community finds itself in the throes of a lethal illness, many people die. I do not understand this statistic at all.

There are exceptions. A small country somewhere in Europe, where – in the grip of a terrible smallpox infection – the death-rate dropped almost to zero. Perhaps I shall move there someday, to that oasis of sanity and sense.

I am still trying to recall the name of the country when I realise I am flying. It's a strange sensation indeed, to be seated one minute, and airborne the next. All around me, other people are suspended in mid-air, an entire train frozen in time.

Then I am no longer flying, but falling. My head smashes into the seat in front of me, I feel my legs crumple and my arms come apart. I taste bitterness in my mouth and see red paint spray before my dimming eyes. There is an awful sound, a screeching, dying dragon, and then everywhere there is metal and pain. Even as I open my mouth to protest, my stomach punctures, and my speech rushes away with the awful, scarlet blood. In my last conscious moments, I marvel at my one brief moment of flight, of freedom from the awful physics of this world. Then my life falls apart with the train.

*

In the dark agony, I open my eyes once more. I am lying in a twisted steel cage, wires and shards protruding on all sides, crushed bodies in the distance, and everywhere, a silent, desperate blackness.

I hear the faintest of voices calling from another world: “Is anyone alive in here?”

I smile but I do not reply. Ahead of me, I see a shadowy form, lying before me, trapped beneath a gargantuan bulkhead of metal. The dying man faces me, his face contorted in pain.

“Hello,” I breathe, and the word comes choked with blood.

When he replies, his own speech is laboured, yet fills me with joy. “Hello,” he says. “Cool scar.”

We laugh, and I know that I too am slipping away. There is time perhaps for one final effort. I grimace and cry and I stretch my ruined arm forward, across the broken, shaking ground. With the last of my energy, I reach my hand towards him.

He smiles and his face is pure light. My heart soars as he places his hand in mine. I feel his warmth as he squeezes me tight. I close my eyes.

*

I no longer think the queen was praying for more time as she knelt beside her king. I think perhaps she was mourning the time they had already been given, yet failed to take. I see now why the death-rate rises against all odds, why soulmates run towards each other when they should be running away.

Our world is just like any other, I suspect. We cannot know our countdown; we cannot control our time. We seek each other out, for we cannot be alone.

And brief though that time may be, how dazzling that still we may swell with love. How perfect to die complete.

Humanity Behind

By night I woke, and thought I hark’d
My planet’s mournful cry:
A plea for help in thought and deed,
For else t’would surely die,

We scoffed, and fled, and fail’d to see
The flaw of all mankind:
We took the virus with us; Left
Humanity behind.

                                                            Anon. (Date Unknown)

 

*

 

In the days before she left Earth forever, Izzie went for one final walk across the dying planet.  It was barely light outside, but dim sparks of illumination seemed to float within the encroaching haze, fireflies in the mist, offering the promise of dawn.  If Izzie closed her eyes, she could imagine them, flitting in and out of the fog’s dark shadows, ever moving, fleeing from the oncoming storm.  Against all of knowledge and reason, and only when she closed her eyes, she could almost believe that they were really there, just hiding, and that they would find some way to escape the failing world.  When she opened her eyes again, the dim lights would remain, but the fireflies would be gone, vanished to extinction with all life. 

With all life, but for one, final, victorious species. 

Humanity would escape to the stars. 

Humanity would survive.

*

The huge military compound sat silently amidst the dust, its towering fences surrounding Izzie on all sides.  When she left the spaceship, the throngs of people were almost stifling, but as she moved slowly towards the edge of the compound, the crowds began to thin, and by the time she reached the huge iron gates that formed one of the entrances, there was almost enough room to walk normally.  With no-one left outside the gates, the border patrols were nowhere to be seen, and Izzie attracted only the vague curiosity of those nearby as she effortlessly scaled the iron bars, until she was perched atop the structure, a proud and noble eagle surveying her surroundings, watching, with wise eyes, the final preparations for The Final Judgement.  In the middle of the compound, the huge spacecraft loomed large in the ever-present mist, a testament to human ingenuity and invention, to the truth of Darwin’s promise that the fittest would survive.  A million tonnes of metal and lights that shone through the darkness, offering a safe haven for a million humans on their journey to the stars. 

It was one of ten thousand, it was one of the last to leave, and it was christened The Final Judgement, in honour of the End of Days. 

 

Izzie looked briefly towards the sky, thinking of all the colossal ships that had already reached the frontier of space, thinking of all the ten billion members of humanity who had been forced to leave the world.  She smiled grimly, with kind, resigned eyes, then descended the outside of the gates, her wiry arms gripping the bars tightly as she clambered down.  The military compound was technically International Land, officiated by the United Nations, owned by no-one, which meant that, as she jumped and landed in the dry, dead soil below, her feet instantly surrounded by clouds of dust, Izzie was now the sole occupant of the United States of America.  She staggered at the thought and dropped to her knees.

There she stayed for some time, kneeling on the aching ground below, gazing out towards the infinite horizon, an endlessly swirling sequence of smoke and smog, devoid of emotion, devoid of joy and pain and loss, devoid of life and breath.  The roaring sound of the multitudes behind her faded into insignificance, and in that single moment Izzie felt utterly alone, as if the crowds and constant claustrophobia had melted into extinction, and she was the last surviving member of the human race. 

The feeling passed: she rose to her feet, and, without looking back, walked away into the desert of sand and nothingness.

*

Dawn came some time later as Izzie approached the outskirts of a long-abandoned slum.  The sun was finally high enough for its rays to filter through the layers of thickened air that perpetually shrouded the ground.  Its light seeped through slowly, lethargically caressing the very tops of the dilapidated buildings, then dripping down the sides until the town was finally bathed in the green, sickly brightness of day.  She remembered, fondly, her grandmother’s stories of an age when dawn was a very different animal, before it too had been driven to extinction. 

Then she closed her eyes and remembered the sole time, more than two decades ago, when she had finally experienced her Grandmother’s Dawn. 

* 

She was eight years old as she stood on top of Mount Everest, one of the last places on Earth were snow still clung to survival, one of the last places on Earth where the sun could rise.  Thousands of tourists chattered excitedly, hugging themselves tightly in the cold, waiting impatiently on the darkened viewstation.  The young girl clutched at the remnants of melted snow in her pocket, disappointed that it was already fading away.  Her grandmother stood proudly to the side, a fraying scarf around her neck, her tired, wrinkled face staring defiantly towards the horizon.

            
And the sky was clear, 

And the sun appeared.

It shattered the darkness, gracefully, effortlessly, the mountains instantly drenched in nectar, the whole planet reaching majestically towards the heavens.           

The girl’s eyes opened wide, and for the first time, she saw the world.

*

She rubbed her eyes, desperate to memorise the scene, but when her vision cleared, the world she saw had vanished.  She grasped desperately in her pockets but the snow, like the life her grandmother once knew, had long since faded away. 

In the washed-out glare that enveloped the fading planet, she saw the remnants of that sunrise, fireflies in the mist.

Izzie trudged on, as if in a trance, through the poverty-stricken slum.  Most of the houses had been hastily constructed from recycled metals and plastics; many were missing walls, or even a roof.  She had lived in one, of course, as had most of the population of Earth.  Their planet had become too crowded, unable to sustain the ever-growing population, and with the loss of natural resources and vegetation, the strain on the world’s governments to provide food had been too great.  Humanity had struggled on for decades in this state of abject poverty, hurtling through space on an impotent rock.

She paused at the memorial in the middle of the town.  A huge, iron statue, twisted into a ghoulishly unfamiliar shape, casting its macabre shadow over the sand.  It was covered in dust but the plaque was still readable. 

“In Memory of a Real Tree,” murmured Izzie to herself.  She nodded, at once fascinated and repelled by the thought of such things filling the surface of the world so long ago.  Even the statue itself was from a different time, when the carbon dioxide levels could be controlled artificially and the loss of trees was still widely considered a matter of nostalgia, rather than concern.  In her mind’s eye, the trees filled the world once more, an army of living demons, determined to hold her accountable. 

In spite of the sticky humidity, Izzie shivered.

And then –

There was the sudden feeling of being watched, and out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something move.  A shadowy wraith, no more, no less. 

She stared, but saw nothing else.  The willowy, child-like shape had gone, if it had ever been there at all. 

 

Izzie turned and ran.

 

*

 

It was almost midday and the sun hovered brightly above, a shimmering mirage in the midst of the oily sky.  Izzie made her weary way across the surface of the Earth for the very last time, her feet sinking repeatedly into the gritty sand below.  Ahead, in the distance, the iron fences of the military compound were visible through the haze, a welcome oasis from the silent void.  She tried to walk faster, regretting her decision to venture out one last time, eager only for the security offered by the gates and the ship that would become her home.  The desert grasped at her feet, pulling her down, and for one fleeting instant, it was quicksand, and Izzie was swallowed whole by her despair.  She shook her head free of the vision and continued, always glancing behind her, watching, waiting, for the hidden child that never appeared.

The Final Judgement loomed ever closer, a stark reminder of the acute poverty into which humanity had slipped in its final days on Earth.  Izzie remembered the announcements vividly, broadcast on all channels, over all possible mediums.  The future of humanity was in doubt and there was only one way to secure it.  There was a suitable new world on the other side of the galaxy.  All the planet’s remaining resources would be harnessed to create the ships that would save them from impending extinction.  The first, Humanity’s Ark, was unveiled in all its splendour, with promises of ten thousand more to follow. 

Now they were built – and most had left – and soon Izzie would take her place, free of the flood, amongst the stars.

The clamour of the crowds rose up in front of her as she staggered towards the gates.  She gripped the iron bars tightly, the feeling of the cool metal flowing through her, calming her mind.  She had been foolish to believe that there was anything left for her in the world behind.  It was a desolate wasteland and she was glad to make good her escape.  She scaled the gates once more, climbing towards her future, looking ever forwards to the answers that lay beyond.

The desert lay empty once more.

 

*

 

In the days that followed, the crowds were forced to stay on the ship as it prepared for departure, while military personnel swept the surrounding area, checking that no-one had been left behind.  Not a soul was found outside of the compound. 

On the third day of the travellers’ confinement, the huge engines whirred into life without warning, rumbling loudly and sending disconcerting shockwaves through the living areas of the craft.  Departure was imminent.

Izzie had been to watch some of the other spaceships take flight, often sitting alone on a nearby hill, observing silently from a distance.  The surrounding land would suddenly spark into life, a searing light that far outstripped anything the sun could produce.  A huge sonic blast would ring out, visibly rippling over the evacuated flatlands, and the ship, for just a moment, would be engulfed by flames.  Then the all-consuming fire would shoot violently upwards, a terrifying tower from the heart of a star – and then it would implode, sucked into oblivion, and the massive craft would be gone.  If Izzie flicked her eyes skywards, she could sometimes catch the trailing smoke that the accelerating giant had already left far behind. 

Not this time though.  This time there would be no-one to wave goodbye.

The rumbling grew ever louder.  Izzie braced herself as she walked down one of the corridors on the forty-second level, following directions to one of its many viewstations.  When she reached the lounge, there were no free seats, so she sat, cross-legged on the floor, directly in front of the vast window.  Not a real window, of course, but a viewscreen, specifically designed to simulate the actual view through the wall of implacable metal.  She had heard reports from the ships that had already reached space –

They said:

When you broke clear into the vast expanse of the universe,

When you could see the spinning void mere metres from your eyes,

When you felt for all the broken world as if you were swimming through infinity,

Then you would cry.

*

Beside her, she felt a presence.  A young man, maybe of similar age to her, was now sitting next to her, cross-legged and watching her.

“Hi,” he said, holding out his hand.  “I’m Luke.”

“Hi,” said Izzie, shaking his hand firmly.  He felt cold to the touch.

“You going to tell me your name?” asked the man.

“Sorry,” said Izzie.  “I’m not used to this.  I’m Izzie.”

“Not used to talking?”

Izzie nodded.  “Nice to meet you,” she said, as an afterthought.

They sat, in silence, as their prison, their home, broke free of the ground and began a final orbit of the planet.  Beneath them, the Earth spun languidly on, doomed to orbit the sun for eons to come, long after it would cease to really be.

 

“I wrote a poem,” said Luke eventually, as they watched the sweeping land beneath them.  He handed a scrap of paper to Izzie and watched her while she read.

Izzie’s eyes caressed the words carefully, and she nodded when she had finished.

“Is that really how you feel?” she asked.

Luke smiled.   “You keep it,” he said, as she tried to hand the poem back to him.  He tapped his head.  “It’s all up here.”

Izzie thought of her grandmother, and she thought of her grandmother’s dawn,

And she tried to imagine that, one day, she could have her own grandchildren,

And she tried to imagine that, one day, there might be a new dawn for them to see.

“I don’t think it’s all bad,” she said softly.

But Luke seemed not to be listening.  His gaze was drawn, once more, to the viewscreen and the planet below.  So Izzie watched as the land continued to fall away, until it began to fall through her mind.

And now it was different.  Now they had left her desert behind and ventured to the less fortunate parts of the world.  Now the slums were so large that they were clearly visible, even from space.  Now the whole land was covered by pitiful houses, stretching out over the continents, swelling sores that seemed to swallow the ground whole.

And, just for a moment, Izzie allowed herself to imagine the truth.  And she saw, beneath her, with perfect clarity, the billions of humans living in those pitiful houses, still clinging desperately to life.  And then they were but one – a single, shadowy wraith, a child, crying out in an abandoned slum, in an abandoned desert, on an abandoned world.

And she embraced the truth that she had been so determined to ignore.

Ten billion humans had escaped.  Most had been left behind.

*

So Izzie did indeed cry as they broke through the atmosphere and hurtled into deepest space, and her final image of the broken world was blurred with tears.  

 

The Earth spun languidly on, and then it was gone. 

The spaceship, and Izzie, fled into the darkness.

Elijah, God of the Paradox

For as long as Patrick could remember, he had wanted to kill himself, just to see what happened.  As a result, he spent a good two decades of his life building a time machine.  Against all the odds, just as he was beginning to feel that his constant migraines might actually be the first symptoms of a mid-life crisis, he realised he had succeeded.  In the aftermath of this stunning achievement, he stood, in disbelief, surveying his handiwork. 
 

Well, he thought, that was unlikely. 

*

Patrick stared at the wonderful machine: a beautiful glowing door, floating in the middle of his basement, orbited by three, perfectly spherical balls, each infinitely blacker than the frequent thunderstorms that railed far above his house.  Every few minutes, a spark of lightning would flash from the golden door and be swallowed whole by one of the rotating spheres.  The device lit up the room, providing the only light in the grimy, windowless cellar.  Patrick grinned happily, wiping his oil-drenched hands on his equally filthy jeans, although only after he had accidentally pulled his fingers through his hair.

“Awesome,” he said to himself.

 

“Well, yes, actually,” said a voice behind him.  “It's certainly one of the prettier ones I've seen.”

  

Patrick jumped in fright and spun round, reaching for the spanner in his pocket.  There was a figure standing in the doorway, illuminated by a faint light that emanated from the stairs behind him.  The figure was dressed in a tired, grey suit and his head was covered in a wild tangle of pure white hair.  He looked old and haggard.

“Yes, that's my hair,” said the man, while Patrick was staring.  “And it's a damn sight better than yours.”
 

Patrick felt his own short crop of hair, which was firmly matted to his head with oil.

“Who on earth are you?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically high.  “What are you doing in my house?”

The older man fumbled in his suit pockets, eventually producing a small business card.

“I am the Universe's Paradox Guardian,” he said lightly.  He peered inside his pockets once more, this time emerging with a crumpled piece of paper.  “I've come to deliver you a Cease and Desist Order.”

“You must have the wrong person,” Patrick said.

“You are Patrick Hausenbeck, are you not?”

Patrick stared.  “Look, what did you say your name was?”

“I do not have a name,” replied the man.  “But you may call me the God of the Paradox.  I like that.”

“I'm not calling you that.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Look, whoever you are, I'm kind of busy right now and you're trespassing, so please go away, or I'll have to call the police.”

The man seemed not to hear him.  Instead he walked past Patrick and stood, admiring the time machine as it spun serenely on, oblivious to the intruder.

“Yes, yes, very clever,” he said, motioning to the orbs.  “How long did it take you to think of that?”

“What?” asked Patrick, utterly bemused.

The man turned back around to face him.  “You've built a time machine,” he stated simply.

“I...how did you...”

“It's my job to know,” the man replied curtly.  “Now, I'm very sorry, Mr. Hausenbeck, but as I've already stated, I'm here to order you to cease and desist.”

“Who are you?” Patrick shouted, raising his hands in frustration.

“Mr. Hausenbeck,” the man replied, with some irritation.  “I have already clearly stated that I am the Universe's Paradox Guardian.”

“Look...you.  You must have a name.  What am I supposed to call you?”

“I've already stated that --”

“I'm not calling you the God of the Whatsit.”

“Fine!  For goodness sake, this job gets worse every year!”  The man shook his head in resignation.  “Just call me Elijah,” he said unhappily.

“Elijah,” repeated Patrick.  “Why are you here?”

The man who was now called Elijah rubbed his thumbs against his temples.

“You've built a time machine,” he repeated.  “Now, tell me what you plan to do with it.”

Patrick shrugged.  “All right,” he agreed, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.  “I'm going to go back in time and kill myself!”  He grinned gleefully.  “Think about it!  If I kill myself in the past, I won't be alive in the future to go back in time and kill myself!”

Elijah nodded his head emphatically.  “You'll have created a paradox,” he 

sighed.

“Exactly!” said Patrick, his face animated and excited.  “Who knows what will happen?  I'm experimenting with something beyond the realms of the universe!”

“That's just great,” replied the old man sarcastically.  “Except I'm here to stop you.”

“What?  Why?”

“Well it's just fine for all you crazed inventors to wander the universe thinking up ways to confuse it!  You define paradoxes as things that seem like a contradiction but aren't.  Have you ever stopped to think why not?  Have you ever stopped to think about who's going to clean up your mess?”

“Well, I --”

“No!” shouted Elijah.  “Of course you haven't!  All of you, with your damn time machines, forever trying to glitch the universe!  Tell me, have you really considered what happens when the universe throws up an Illegal Error?”

“The universe can produce Illegal Errors?” Patrick asked, confused.

Elijah waved his hands in the air.  “It's a phrase!” he said, as he began pacing the floor with frustration.  “The point is that neither of us really wants the universe to crash.  I'm here to protect it against such eventualities.”

“You're employed by...the universe?” Patrick asked.  He could feel another migraine coming on as he wondered how exactly he was going to remove this lunatic from his house.

“I'm part of the universe,” corrected Elijah.  “In fact, I'm the universe's fail-safe.  I'm the God of the Paradox!”

“Oh, really,” sighed Patrick.  “While you're here then, can you tell me the meaning of life?”

The older man spluttered furiously.  “Good grief, no!” he began.  “That's way above my station!”

“Well you're not much use then, are you?” Patrick said.  “At least the God of the Bible --”

“Oh, don't get me started on him!” Elijah interrupted.  “That's the problem with these regional directors.  You give them one planet to control and it goes to their heads.  Now, can we please get back to the matter at hand?  I need you to sign this document.  It basically contractually obliges you to destroy this time machine and refrain from building any more in the future.  You will be compensated to the tune of five extra years of life, non-negotiable.”

“I don't want more life!” Patrick shouted.  “I want to kill myself!  I've been dreaming of this my whole life!”

“Sorry,” said Elijah simply.  “Never going to happen.”

“Well can I at least meet myself?”

“No!  Do you remember meeting yourself in the past?  Of course not.  Because you didn't!  That's another paradox!”

“What if I promise just to go into the future?”

“Look, Patrick,” Elijah sighed.  “There is no way anyone in the universe is ever allowed to use a time machine.  I'm sure you've seen countless films about time-travel in your life.  It doesn't take a genius to realise that none of them make sense!  Time-travel causes logical chaos with the laws of the universe.  You go to the future, let's say you meet yourself.  Then, when you come back to the present, you know where and when you'll meet yourself in the future, so you can change the meeting by not turning up.  Paradox!”

“But--”

“Paradox!”

“Yeah, but--”

“Paradox!”

“Stop saying paradox!”

“Look, Patrick.  The only reason that paradoxes don't cause contradictions is because they're entirely theoretical.  They never happen.  And you know why they never happen?”

Patrick exhaled slowly, mournfully.  “Because of you,” he said quietly.

“Exactly,” said Elijah triumphantly.  “I resolve all paradoxes.”

“Well isn't that handy,” said Patrick tartly.  “What a cop-out.  Here I thought the universe was a realm of infinite possibilities and now I find it employing a Deus Ex Machina.”

“I am not the Deus Ex Machina!” Elijah replied.  “Don't get me started on him...”

 

*

 

They stood, glaring at each other, as clouds gathered outside.  Shortly, the rain began to fall, pounding against the corrugated iron roof.  Patrick glanced upwards, listening to the dim sound of drumming on his house.  A loud crack rippled through the sky.  Elijah winced.

   

“Thunderstorm's brewing,” he muttered darkly.  “Can we please just get this done?”

Patrick narrowed his eyes.  “You're not taking this from me,” he whispered tightly.

“You don't have a choice!”

Patrick laughed.  “Oh yes I do!” he shouted happily, and jumped into the machine.

Elijah sighed tiredly and flicked his fingers, killing the inventor in mid-air.  Patrick's body cracked horribly into the cold, stone floor.  Elijah winced again while the time machine continued to spin.  He looked it over one last time, nodding approvingly, then waved his hands.  The golden door ceased to glow and fell harshly to the ground, splinters flying in all directions.  The black spheres gave one last shriek of annoyance before they too collapsed, bouncing away into the hidden corners of the room.

Elijah turned and headed for the stairs, but stopped in the doorway, surveying the cellar for the last time.  The wreckage of the time machine was strewn across the floor and, in the middle, Patrick lay, perfectly still, looking for all the world as if he was sleeping.

“There you go,” Elijah muttered without humour.  “You got to kill yourself.”

He turned away and began to climb the stairs.

“It's a shame,” he said to himself, ruffling his hair as he listened to the raging storm far above.  “It was certainly one of the prettier ones.”