A visit to The Globe

The State Trumpeters were just fiddling with their music ready to herald the arrival of the King and a brand new show. It’s called ‘Hamlet,’ and some people say it’s so good that one person came all the way from Rome to see it. I have been so excited on this very beautiful evening, the distant sunset falling over the Thames. The actors muttering on the stage set the scene for an exciting evening.

But first it was time for people to cram their heads at the stage. Southwark was a great place for a theatre. Everywhere in the ‘actual’ city was so ugly. The city’s snobby officials appear to have no taste for the Arts, and I think that having the theatre in an area out of their control is a good idea.

I adored the reeds keeping watch over the theatre. It makes a huge change from the ugly tiled roofs of the rest of the area. The problem with plays in the winter is that this beautiful theatre is rightly outdoors and it gets so cold and wet that it is like a scene of an immersive battle experience, but at least the summer brings an oasis of arts and theatre to the greatest city in the world. I love the rousing sound of the State Trumpeters heralding the arrival of HM the King and HM the Queen, for the greatest entrance to the greatest stage on the planet

AngusHumphries

Nameless

I woke up to the face of the neighbourhood announcer, his wildly grinning face staring pointedly at me.

“Good morning, 400, time to get up and come to church!” The television screen across from my bed gleamed a sicky yellow. Yellow was supposed to be a ‘soothing colour to awake to’, but all the same I sprang out of bed almost immediately. Because it was what I had done yesterday.

And the day before.

And the day before that.

I cleaned my face and dressed myself, my eyes flitting to the grandfather clock in the centre of the room that was ticking slowly. It made a sound like a metallic belch every time the pendulum swung from side to side, then back again. I was momentarily mesmerised by the incredibly hypnotizing noise, until I noticed what time it was and shook myself. I sauntered to my cabinet and opened a small silver jar that rested purposefully on the top. I removed the lid and quickly ran the contents inside, namely a silver serum, into my brilliant white hair. Nice of them to give that to us, I thought. I laced up my boots and grabbed the small silver disc with my number on it. I pinned it to my front and set off towards the Church. Walking briskly, I nodded my head in greeting to the other fellow inhabitants of my city, Nameless.

“Salutations, 400. I trust that you slept efficiently?”

“Indeed, it was so, 688. Go forth with my compliments.”

“Accepted. Have an efficient day, 400.” And thus, went my greetings of that morning.

And yesterday morning.

And the morning before that.

Accepting the small can of spray paint given to me upon entering the Church, I stepped into the silent, cold, unadorned room of faith. I was always stunned by the silver, structured, shiny box of prayer, although today it looked even more marvellous. Powerful, even.

A sudden blast of cold wind ruffled my air, and the cool breeze echoed throughout the sacred hall. That’s rather strange, I thought. There wasn’t any wind yesterday.

Nor the day before.

Nor the day before that.

“Greetings, lowly occupants of Nameless. Today we have an exciting thing to show you before you all resume your daily worship to the Heads.” The priest grinned from ear to ear slightly eerily. For some reason that grin sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to ignore it as I followed her with my gaze just like all the others as she strutted down the silver hall in her latex bodysuit of the same shade, her stiletto heels echoing as their rather jarring click-clack resounded throughout the entire room.

“Today is special. Special, because we have a new edition to the Nameless family,” She announced. I heard more than one gasp from numerous members of the community.

The Heads of Nameless never allow anyone into their city. I mean, they hadn’t let anyone else in yesterday.

Nor the day before.

Nor even the day before that.

I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

“Here, we have our most distinguished guest, none other than one of our eminent Heads’ daughters!” My mouth dropped open.

“I sincerely hope that her efficiency will be unrivalled, and that she will fit right in with us into Nameless.” With that, she gestured to her left noiselessly with her lustrous silver glove, revealing the most intoxicatingly hideous creature I had ever seen.

Black, straggly hair covered her pale, rough skin. A dull, grey shirt with the words ‘Question Authority’ splayed on it covered her chest. What looked like her trousers were ripped at the knee, and huge, looming, dark boots with the laces untied stomped their way up to the podium. I gulped quietly. This thing was the Devil in person. I had once read about the Devil in a book, but it was snatched from my hands. I can’t remember why.

I snapped back to the present as the priest’s pristinely smooth voice cut the air around me like a knife.

“013, would you like to salute your fellow citygoers?” I realised with horror that she was speaking directly to the creature clad in black, who had her head hung so her fiery, yet dark hair shrouded her eyes. She waited a moment to acknowledge and process the question, then lifted her steady, unlit eyes. And for a second, just one second, and her eyes locked onto mine. I was overcome by the intensity of the stare; however short it was. But nothing was as peculiar and irregular as what she did next.

“My name,” she said coolly, “is Aurelia. Not 500, not 600, and certainly not 013.” The way she articulated those words made me shudder. Then, she swiftly spun around to face the priest, who looked both stupefied and horrified.

My head started spinning.

“I refuse to be known as some ridiculous number like everyone else.”

I covered my ears with my hands.

“I am more than just a number.”

My mind screamed in agony.

“And so is EVERY SINGLE OTHER PERSON here that you’ve brainwashed!” I fell to the floor clutching my head in torment. Her words were excruciatingly painful. I thought the torture would never subside, until Aurelia turned on her heels and stormed out of the Church. A single tear trickled down my face. Only I didn’t know why, as I couldn’t quite place my emotions in that moment.

We all just stood there, shocked by this outburst, until the priest laughed, or rather, growled

“Well, she sure is an…interesting one, is she not? Not to worry, Nameless, we will soon have her corrected…I-I mean-” the priest speedily tried to rectify her words – “I mean sorted out. As for today’s daily practice, uh…just continue as if nothing happened!” I had never seen the priest so flustered. It was extremely rare for anyone in Nameless to make a mistake of any kind. In fact, I was almost certain the mistake-making was against the law and was among one of the worst crimes one could commit. It just wasn’t the done thing. In any case, the priest smoothed out her suit and cleared her throat. “Have an efficient day, Nameless.” And then she left. Everyone turned around, seemingly reassured and convinced by this. I, on the other hand, wasn’t. Something wasn’t right. Something…something Aurelia had said about being brainwashed…a thousand burning questions fired up suddenly in the pit of my stomach, but I pushed them down firmly, instead reaching for my small can of spray paint I had safely stored in my purse and got to work.

I trudged to an open wall in the Church, followed by others with the same cans. A feeling of instant power rose up in me, a feeling I was new to. And all because I would be the first to spray the wall today. I hadn’t done that yesterday.

Nor the day before.

Nor the day before that.

Thatiskindofsad, a small voice in my head piped up. Youfeelpowerjustbecauseyou are the first to commence the practice. Aren’t there other ways of feeling joy? This quiet voice in my mind was deafening, and my head began to spin again. I shook myself in attempt to throw away those thoughts. What in the name of Nameless was up with me today?

I tried to occupy myself with the regular routine of Church mass. I shook my spray can vigorously and pointed it to the naked wall. A flash of colour shot out of the can and covered the wall as a sign of respect to the Church. It was said that by graffitiing the Church walls, we could let out all those loud thoughts that poisoned our minds and get rid of any thoughtful energy and creativity the Devil supplied us with that ruined our lives. Apparently.

Why be yourself when we could all be the same version of ourselves? That was Nameless’ motto. I muttered those words to myself in my head over and over and over until I had a sudden realisation that was so impactful and vivid that it knocked me offguard.

None of it made any sense.

Be the same version of ourselves? Is that truly all that life is about? Does my presence not count in the inherent permanence of the universe? What even is the universe? Am I myself in it? Could I only be living a half-life in which I was the same as everybody else? Why do I care? Should I care? My head was spinning rapidly now as I tried to compose my thoughts. Good God – my thoughts! Why did I care so much about my thoughts? Wasn’t I happy enough with just being 400? Wasn’t that good enough?

My head stopped revolving as I realised – no. No

It wasn’t good enough. A life where I was not really me was a life I wanted nothing to do with. It suddenly dawned on me that I wanted a name. A proper one. A beautiful one, like Aurelia. A name that meant something, not just a stupid number drawn out of a silver hat upon acceptance into the city.

A fiery, burning blast of hot wind ruffled my hair. The winds of change.

Only this time, I am ready for them

TéaSand

Margaret and Anne

When I first came to King’s, I was revolutionary. “A girl!”, they all said. “Here? At the King’s school? In 1580? Goodness, who does she think she is?” Even my brother, Kit, often wrinkled his nose when he saw me in my school uniform: crisp, white blouse with a grey petticoat and slender skirt, hat and ribbon, and penny-loafer shoes. Although, I suppose he acted so because he had his friends’ company around, who I expect didn’t want to spend time with his ‘odd little sister’ Margaret. But Kit was a kind soul, so I just brushed it off. All the same, though, I couldn’t help but feel frightfully nervous. Whatever would everyone think of me? Would I be accepted? I gasped loudly at the next thought. Would they even let me past the doors?

“You’ll love it here, Peggy,” Kit assured me a few weeks before, as if he could read my mind, “Even if it is only temporary.” Girls were denied an adequate education the majority of the time, that is until Kit entered the King’s School Canterbury. He was the brightest of his age, a literary genius and Latin whizz, with a sharp tongue and bright mind. And because of his extraordinary abilities, the school allowed, for a few days only, his sister to tag along. “If she even has half the mind of young Christopher,” the headmaster said, “then I see no reason to deny her an education.” And that is how I entered the school, as a temporary plus one to my elder brother. I swallowed my thoughts and forced myself to calm down as I reached the magnificent mahogany doors. This was it. This was my moment. This was-

“Mind out of the way! Oh, I say! You must be Margaret! Hallo!” My eyes widened as a flurry of white and grey, about the same age as me, flounced towards Kit and I, breaking ranks of the others. My eyes widened even more when I noticed a crucial detail.

“You- you are a girl!” The girl threw her head back and laughed, sending her golden curls tumbling over her back. I immediately took a liking to her.

“Well, jolly good observation, Margaret! You really are as bright as your brother! Oh, I say! You are a girl too!” Her last comment sent us both into laughter, until I regained my posture and steadied myself.

“I do apologise,” I began, “It is just that- I wasn’t aware of other girls being accepted! Or do you have a genius brother too?” I meant the last part as a joke, but at once her expression brightened. “My brother is a lyrical genius, and a poet. My situation is in fact the same as yours, Peggy dear! Oh, I seem to have forgotten all of my manners! Mother will have a fit. My name is Anne. I’m dreadfully pleased to meet you!” Her eyes sparkled. In an instant, all my previous worries disintegrated, and I really began to feel at home, even though I hadn’t even walked through the gates yet!

“So is my brother! Oh, how splendid! They can be great friends, just as we shall be.” At that, Anne linked her arm through mine and she strutted through the crowds of children, and I strutted alongside her, into my new life.

The gardens of the school were fresh and green, with nightingales perched on the rooftops. The sports courts looked beautiful, as did the river and its flowery bank. All the while, Anne and I conversed, and I was positive that our hearty laughs could be heard from the main school. On the opposite side of the glade I glimpsed my brother, Kit, and another boy walking together, just the same as Anne and me. I turned to my left to tell Anne so, but she had already broken off and sprinted towards them and began to embrace the friend. I ran towards them too, a little more ladylike, but still as excited as Anne, as I wished to introduce her to Kit and vice-versa.

“Oh, William! I must introduce you to Margaret! She is my best friend, and you are talking to her brother!” Anne explained matter-of-factly. At this, William chuckled. “I am aware of such, Anne dear, as I am the literary genius,” he winked at me and grinned. I blushed. Anne only rolled her eyes.

“You just wait and see, William! Margaret and I, will be the smartest women in all of Britain!” Her last remark sent all of us into uncontrollable laughter, and as the sun began to set in the west, I smiled to myself at the thought of my new friends. At last, Anne turned to me and smiled, her eyes shining, and the boys bid us good-night and walked off.

“Oh, my dear Peggy, I really meant what I said before!” Anne grew serious. “We simply mustprove ourselves smarter than our brothers, if we are ever to get anywhere in this life!” I laughed and once again we linked arms, a token of our friendship.

“Oh, Anne,” I said with a newfound confidence, “I assure you that you and I will be superior to our families and show the world our intelligent minds ”

“Why in fact, if I have anything to do with it, the very names of our brothers Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare shall be replaced with Margaret and Anne!”

Self

I darted across to the corner, sweat forming on my forehead. She was behind me. I could feel her penetrating stare burning the back of my head. A bead of sweat trickled down my face as thunder lashed out over my head. I yelped in pain and crashed down onto the pavement, utterly demolished. I screamed and screamed for help, but nobody answered. I was on my own. I could hear her voice screeching with laughter because I was hurt. Pain in others was what made her happy. She was only out to get me. A sharp pain seared up my hand and light danced in my eyes as darkness clouded over me and I lost track of my senses. The emotional rollercoaster I’d been riding for so many years went off track. The railings broke, the boundaries fell, and the world went black.

The first thing I thought when I awoke was - I am dead. I half expected a team of paramedics to be towering over me and numerous worried people around me, but no. I realised that I wasn’t dead, and that the many worried people were 2 pigeons and a rat. I jumped to my feet and prayed to God that she was gone. She was the one thing that had stopped me from being the innocent, optimistic girl that I once was. She kept me from sleeping. She even kept me from smiling. She was Fear itself. She was…

Lightning mutilated any vegetation in sight. Thunder tore apart the houses and rain drowned the pavements. All of the apartments and houses were destroyed bar one. The corner house. Painted an ugly, evil black, I wouldn’t blame anyone who thought that the Devil herself was keeping it safe. Tentatively, as quiet as a mouse, I took a step towards the house. I winced, for fear that something bad would happen. Nothing did. I kept taking slow steps forward. Before I knew it, I was at the entrance. I was standing in front of Hell’s gateway. Every cell in my brain was telling me to leave, to get out right now. Every bone in my body was itching to run away. But I stood my ground. The only way to overcome fear is to face it, or so I’d been told. Reluctantly, my shaking hand reached towards the doorknob and

I stepped into Hell.

The scariest part of walking into this house was being reminded of the memories that I had made here. The birthdays, the day-to-day moments, and the day that I had become detached from myself forever. I remembered the young girl doing her plaits in the mirror, smiling at herself and at the world, blissfully unaware. Or perhaps it was naïve ignorance. That was back when she loved herself. Not so much now.

So, this was what Hell looked like. Nameless faces on frameless walls. The infamous pit of doom which sucks poor souls into oblivion and crushes them. That’s the worst bit, because you’re aware, but helpless. Just like me.

I took further steps and spiralled deeper into the house. Darkness had shrouded this place for too long. Suddenly, I found myself face to face with a huge oak door. My stomach churned and I began to backpedal. You shouldn’t have come here. I could practically feel their broken souls feed on any positive emotions I had - if any were left after what she did to me. WhatIdidtome. I walked into the room, and caught a glimpse of my worst fear, for I had just walked into a Hall of Mirrors.

I felt as if somebody had filled my head up with cotton wool and then whacked it with a cricket bat. I felt like a person with arachnophobia who had just locked eyes with a giant tarantula. But I wasn’t arachnophobic. I couldn’t be put into a category. I couldn’t be deciphered. No one would ever get me. I don’t belong.

I was staring straight at the heartless person who had single-handedly ruined my life. She took away the only people who had ever accepted me. She was responsible for the lonely life I was forced to live. But, if I got the chance to start over, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t face them. Notafterwhatyou’vedone

I ran out of the Hall of Mirrors, breaking my reflection into a thousand shards, and into a room painted all in black. A curtain was draped over a painting on a crumbling wall. This was it. My shaking hand reached out towards the curtain and yanked it down. On the wall hung a painting of an aged, but beautiful woman. “I’m so sorry, Mother,” I sobbed into my hands. I couldn’t stand the pain any longer. I cried and cried into my blackened hands.

Next to the painting was a burned armchair. I cried some more. It was all my fault. The fire, the screams, the destruction that I caused. I remember her last words before she died.

Vivamus,moriendumest. Let us live, for we must die.

I didn’t understand it then, but now I understand the lesson that my mother was trying to teach me. I had spent my whole life being afraid of myself. I was afraid to try again. Now I’m being given this opportunity to go back to my life, to start over. I had been given this chance before, but I was utterly unable to live with myself. I was just too damn afraid.

I walked out of the room silently and down the corridor. Oh, how I hated her! Why can’t she just be normal? Instead, she lives to see me experience pain and fear, day after day. I was born to hate myself. She was only born to hate me. I’m the only one with this problem. No one else has her. Only I do. She is connected to me and she won’t rest until I am dead. Ironically, this is what she lives for. Toseeyougone

I kept walking down the dark corridor, my heart sinking a little more with each step. CRREEEAAAAAAAAKK. Something moved behind me. I whipped around and…

My candle blew out.

TéaSand

Gothic Nouveau

Fancy? Fancy. Pah! I will not live my life in fantasy. You might say that was my doctrine in life. In my mind, I knew fact from fairy-tale, dog from doctor; my world was concrete, solid and unwavering in the face of those irrational sceptics and spiritualist corruptors who would try to taint the honesty of reality with their unsubstantiated claims of the arcane and paranormal. No, I preferred to walk among men, not mogwai.

All this is to say I was quite perplexed by the events of that night. I had just driven up to visit my great uncle Harold. The old blight had stuck around for a little over a century at this point and had decided to host a celebratory dinner, as was the custom of his generation. Uncle Harold became the much-adored patriarch of our family and had the intimidating estate to prove it. Indeed, I recall its mighty exterior in great detail: its pristine battlements, unchallenged by all but the weather and how its seemingly freshly sharpened spires trespassed into the heavens themselves. The Gothic abode would have better fit Transylvania than the rural Pennsylvanian landscape in which it found itself. To many motoring down the driveway, it may have seemed like they were entering another world all together, yet my adamantly rational mind stayed firmly put.

As I parked up on the gravelly court before the castle’s entrance, I was greeted by my uncle’s wife Rose. Rose was Uncle Hal’s fourth wife after my aunt’s passing and one of dozens in his amorous encounters. A few lifetimes my uncle’s junior, Rose was glamorously clad in the fruits of my family’s long lineage: her fervent red hair was hoisted above her head, secured with an ivy hairclip while her locks dripped with other jewels of my family exploits. The rest of her was just as decadently decorated, her body draped in some family-significant dress, tailored for her more ‘modern’ tastes. “Petey!” she exclaimed with delight as she so loved to patronise me. She leapt towards me as I stepped out of my relatively humble car, hugging me slightly too tightly for one who was technically now my new great aunt. Nevertheless, Rose was more well-versed in the formalities of greeting than she was the last time I saw her, asking how my trip from California was and how my work was going. I replied in kind, answering her enquiries and asking some of my own, such as how my uncle was whether she enjoyed her new home. She replied cordially as expected, lapsing in only a small complaint in how unsurprisingly isolated the estate could feel at times.

“Outside of Hal, the company is outright dull!” I believe she said, somewhat indignantly. As we spoke, we strolled up to the door to be welcomed by my uncle’s equally old and rather decrepit porter who offered to assist me with my luggage. I was immediately reminded of the vast labyrinth-like corridors that spanned the castle, as I witnessed the seemingly endless rows of doors and stairs diverging from the main hall. The hall was a spectacle in itself; a testament to the engineering of the time even given its relatively young age. Like all the grandeur of New World, it was attempting to imitate the authentic design of Europe. The porter, deceptively strong for his bony figure, returned with my luggage and offered to lead me to my room. I agreed as I wanted to get settled in for the weekend and I promised to catch up with Rose later, though I confess I rather hoped not to. When I arrived at my room, I found it uninviting, much like the exterior of the once glamorous estate. This was, in fact, something that could be said for the entire interior: it seemed to be characterised by the same sharp, perpendicular angles that had been so distinctive of its outer appearance. It had the same dingy darkness too and mimicked the harsh elements of the outside with its cold, damp tiling. It always confused me how those who were so affluent would choose such an uncomfortable place to live. It was a foolish endeavour in ego and grandiosity in my opinion. Nevertheless, I could and would have to withstand it for a couple days. I unpacked my small, functional suitcase, for I was only meant to be here for the weekend, and began to charge my phone and laptop from the portable power-supply I had remembered to bring. The castle, for all its opulence, had forgotten the facilities of the modern age I so desperately relied on I bathed, groomed and dressed myself before departing down the corridor from my room.

I found the porter waiting for me. He explained he had been sent to see how I was settling in and to alert me that my other relatives had arrived. He led me back to the main entrance hall where I intended to greet my family in the main hall. Rose had beaten me to it, offering up her usual serviceable small talk. She had needed to be taught this from my uncle. The victim of her pleasantries was my scrawny cousin, Oliver, her new ‘grandson’. As children, Oliver (or ‘Oli’ as everyone called him) was one of few of my cousins I actually took an interest in. He was somewhat better adjusted and indefinitely kinder than my more dreamy relatives. Speaking at large, my family would typically rather exist in some contrived world of their historical importance than make something of themselves in the present. As much as I still disliked this about them, I had begun to regret my youthful intolerance a bit. It was the reason why I then found myself in a hall of around twenty strangers.

A flamboyant lot, the monochromatic hall was splattered with the colours of my family’s eccentric garb, each uniquely odd. It was a quality they undoubtedly all took from the man we were all awaiting, a conceited attempt at gaining his favour no doubt. Though I was hardly indistinct myself, what set me apart in my family was that which helped me blend into modern society. It was things like my contemporary outfit, my unexaggerated hair and most significantly my friendly demeanour. My relatives were hardly the most charismatic of people, brandishing an unnecessarily sharp tongue others would blunt. This was not to say they did not understand social expectations. Far from it, unlike the ignorant Rose, each of them had been drilled on proper manners, etiquette and small talk since birth, yet this seemed rarely to translate into genuine amiability. Oli was an exception; far more refined, he stood as a kind of ambassador for the family to the outside world.

Hence, gravitating once again to the man whom I could most easily tolerate, I approached Oli and Rose to relieve them of their mutually painful small talk. They both greeted me immediately; a kind smile ruled Oli’s face as he asked how I had been. I replied, giving him the abridgment of my latest news and reciprocated his question in kind. He explained that he had been looking after Aunt Liza (Uncle Hal’s ex-wife) since her unfortunate fall last spring. Niceties exchanged, I jumped to that which most heavily weighed on my mind, the question of where dear Uncle Hal was.

No sooner had I asked this than the bell rang to gain the hall’s attention. The porter, now general attendant, requested that everyone move hence into the dining room to be seated. Along we all scuttled, excited to savour what would doubtlessly be a very generous meal. And it was at this point things became strange: as we entered the dining room, I noticed the same paintings I found in the auditorium placed across the walls. They had dressed up for the occasion, wearing fabulous frames of silver and saffron gold. After some initial confoundment, I concluded they must have been copies and took my seat. Then came the whisper again, clear as crystal. It said my name, ‘Peter’. Before I had a chance to question it, a door opened next to the head of the table; it was my uncle. He had not tried to supress the room, yet it fell silent nevertheless. Uncle Hal appeared a little differently to the last I saw him, however: he unsuccessfully tried to conceal a mild limp as he darted for his chair; his hair was ungroomed and uncut; his beard and eyebrows had grown wild, concealing the majority of his face. He tiredly stood before his seat and stated “My family, I welcome you to my home – I appreciate it’s not very welcoming itself,” with the latter part said under his breath less loudly.

Ever a man of few words, Uncle Hal sat down and all at once the caterers brought out the food. Though the meal began with a more restrained starter of salmon, it soon descended into more peculiar cuisine as course followed course: crickets recaptured their noise as they crashed to the table, hot and seasoned on a still sizzling pan; the typical dinner prawns were substituted with more ‘niche’ crustations and the bread had taken on a muddily dense texture. Even seemingly normal items had seemingly uncanny properties inexplicably thrust upon them. The teapot flooded the table with a plentiful and persistent steam, veiling the horrid contents that lay on it. By the end of the meal, the scene had transformed from the civilised scene of polite society it was at the beginning to a misted-over mire, home to foul-eating beasts. To my surprise, few words than ‘beast’ could better describe my unphased relatives as they messily scarfed down their fill of the disgusting banquet.

Hence, I was as glad as I was surprised to be ushered away to my uncle’s study before the cheeseboard could arrive. I sat in a freshly cured leather chair and awaited my uncle’s presence. Unlike the dining room, the only paintings in this room were landscape, not a face to be seen. One particular painting did catch my eye, however. It was of the same dimensions as those in the dining room, yet it was entirely black and not hung, but resting at the bottom of the wall. As I redirected my gaze from the mysteriously bland painting, I noticed Uncle Hal sitting at his desk. How he silently snuck in is a matter that still puzzles me to this day. He greeted me and offered me a friendly greeting with a smile identical to that of Oli. Never one for small talk, Uncle Hal got down to ‘business’ right away.

“You’ve noticed them, have you not?” he asked, inquisitively raising one eyebrow Quite confounded as to his meaning, I could only ask what he meant. ‘The paintings. Their whispers. Their choice.” He clarified.

Rational as ever, I gazed simply puzzled, as I confined my reasoning to the perceived boundaries of ‘reality’. Uncle Hal did his best to explain, how the paintings were us, how I had been chosen to be one of them, and how his first choice was, of course, Oli. His direct descendent and groomed since birth, of course Oli should have been the one to take over. Nevertheless, the paintings, the patriarchs had chosen me, so me it was to be. Quite convinced my uncle had obviously been deprived of his medication, I called Rose from the dining room to the study to show her my uncle’s dire state. She remained uncharacteristically quiet while Hal expressed his empathy for my reaction.

Then came the horror, the shock, the confirmation that my oh so logical and coherent view of the world and reality was entirely wrong. Hal unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a fast increasing absence of flesh. As it disappeared, it did so layer-by-layer, revealing the many dreadful, bloody systems which I had thought were crucial to maintain our existence. A man’s entire being was decomposing before my eyes. And yet, his body was still outlined by his clothes, even those parts which had disappeared. He got up and took Rose’s hand, stating quietly, ‘It’s time’. Then came a display of far more genuine love than I ever expected from Rose: the gleeful girl picked up the plain black painting that lay across the skirting board and placed it on the wall. Posing parallel before the painting, the two kissed and were absorbed into the painting. Frozen in time, they became a picture. A familiar whisper ran over me, simply saying “It’syourturn”

And so that brings us to today. I have spent the last eighty years living in that world of fantasy I so vowed to avoid. Fancy and fiction have become my every day, just as it will yours. You see, it is your turn. You are their choice this time

FinnCleghorn-Brown