Written by Ben Kesp ©

In the midst of the forest, shadows cling to the gnarled trees like unseen enemies. But these do not deter her, for Rose is a mistress of the forest, who has lived under the guardianship of Elvin, an enigmatic sorcerer, holder of the sacred texts of Saville.   The trees whisper warnings to her of the beast that dwells within, but her mission is clear, for her master has been ensnared in its malevolent claws.

Rose, with her raven-black hair and eyes that mirror the depths of the midnight sky, feels the pulse of an otherworldly force urging her forward as she recalls the cryptic runes on her master’s sacred texts of Saville. The maps are old, but Rose has memorised the twisted meandering paths hidden throughout the dark forest until they reveal themselves to her, allowing her to navigate them towards the lair of the mystical beast.

The night is thick with an unnatural silence as Rose continues forward through the forest, her every step cautious, and her body ready for an impending attack.  Reaching the heart of the darkness, the air is filled with a palpable malevolence. The moon, obscured by thick clouds, offers only fleeting glimpses of the treacherous path ahead.

A soft hum emanates from the shadows, resonating with a mysterious melody that beckons Rose forward. In a clearing ahead, her eyes fall on the mystical beast, a creature of ethereal grace and horrifying beauty. Its scales shimmer in the dim light, and its eyes gleam of unknown wisdom.

The creature speaks, its voice a haunting echo that seems to reverberate from the depths of another existence.

"You seek your master, young sorceress. To free him, you must prove your worth."

Rose stands firm, undeterred by the creature's ominous aura, nods in agreement. The mystical beast sets forth a series of trials, each more harrowing than the last. Rose faces spectral illusions that mirror her deepest fears and illusions that twist time and space.

As the final trial approaches, the mystical beast looms over her, its eyes piercing into her soul.

"To rescue your master, you must sacrifice a part of yourself. What are you willing to give?"

Without hesitation, Rose whispers an incantation, offering a strand of her own life force. The mystical beast absorbs the sacrifice, its form shifting and swirling with newfound energy. In return, it gifts Rose a dark enchantment, a spell that would rend the barriers between realms.

Guided by this newfound power, Rose ventures into the depths of the mystical beast's lair. In the heart of the shadows, she finds her master, ensnared in mystical barrier. With an incantation, she unravels the magical bonds, freeing her master.

As they escape the lair, Rose feels the mystical beast's gaze lingering on her. The forest whispers its approval, and the shadows seem to dance in agreement. The young sorceress emerges from the forbidden depths, her journey transforming her into a wielder of shadows, a sorceress of the night.

Written by Ben Kesp ©

Placing his eyes on the old mansion, standing in defiance of the passing centuries, Zack knows of its history, its warnings, but his curiosity lures him in.  Its old grey walls loom like a malevolent spectre, painted against the midnight sky, with its ivy-clad walls whispering secrets of long-forgotten stories.

Stepping inside its darkened interior, time no longer is relevant, as Zack is trapped within its steely embrace, a young victim whose ill-fated curiosity has led him through the doors to another existence. The air within is heavy with the scent of decay, its space now illuminated by flickering candlelight, casting elongated shadows that danced to an unheard melody.

Zack stumbles through the labyrinth of corridors, their walls adorned with faded portraits whose eyes seem to follow him with silent accusation. The floorboards groan beneath him, as if the house recoils at the intrusion of the living. Cold drafts whisper through the halls, carrying with them the anguished moans of forgotten souls.

As if led by an unseen icy hand, Zack moves forward reaching a dimly lit chamber, and discovers a grand mirror, its ornate frame reflecting a distorted version of his terrified image. He tries to flee, but that unseen hand grips him tighter, forcing him to stand rooted to the spot, starting at his own reflection mocking him with a sinister grin.

A clock strikes midnight, sending a haunting melody throughout the manor. Zack, led by his invisible guide, traces the haunting melody to a grand ballroom, its grandeur faded to a ghostly echo of its former glory. The phantom sound intensifies, drawing him towards a cracked and mould infested piano that plays itself.

Before his eyes, spectres of a time long gone, materialise in the moonlit room, waltzing in a macabre dance that transcends time. Zack has become an unwilling participant in the phantom ball. The ethereal dancers guide him to the centre of the room, spinning and dancing.  Their hollow eyes lock onto his, demanding a partner for eternity.

Desperation grips Zack, as he struggles against the invisible force, but the dance continues, each step leading him deeper into the abyss. The ghostly waltz grows maddening, drowning out his anguished cries.

The room gently illuminates with the coming of the dawn and as it does, the phantom dancers retreat into the shadows, leaving Zack in the silent ballroom. The once-grand mansion seems to exhale a sigh of satisfaction, its hunger momentarily satisfied. Zack, now a mere shell of the young man who had entered, collapses to the cold floor, haunted by the echoes of a dance that transcended the boundaries between the living and the dead. The old house, having claimed another victim, settles back into its perpetual slumber, awaiting the next soul to cross its threshold.

Written by Ben Kesp ©

He enters slowly, unsure of his surroundings. Reaching for the chair in cuffed hands, he sits, the seat offering a sanctuary in the brightly lit room. His eyes rest on mine briefly before moving away quickly. They are blue. His hair is short and sandy brown. His glances dart around the room uneasily, that offers little comfort to him. White walls with a few paintings, a tall corner plant, a table and two chairs. A single arched window sits high on one wall. Natural light filters in but is overpowered by two long fluorescent tubes suspending low from the ceiling. 

I reach for his file, which I have studied many times. John Cotter. Twenty four years of age. I raise my eyes to his. 

“Please relax. My name is Dr. Philip Marsh,” I begin keeping my voice calm and welcoming. “Do you know why you are here?”

Few seconds of silence follows. 

“You want to talk about me.”

“Yes.”

A short pause follows. 

“You like violence?”

“I don’t know if I really like violence.”

“You have violent tendencies.” 

“I do!”

“Yes. You mentioned to my colleague earlier that you could kill someone with your bare hands.”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“Do you not think of it?” 

“What? Violence!”

“Killing someone?”

“Yes, I have thought of it.”

A short pause follows. 

“If it came to it,” the patient continues. 

“Would you choose?” 

“Between what!?” 

“Acting on violence or just thinking about acting on it.”

“There could be no choice. Once it triggers.” 

“There is no going back!” 

“I don’t know,” the patient answers fidgeting with his handcuffs, pausing momentarily.

It’s strange.”

“What is?”

“Violence. It’s such a strong, in your face word.”

“The results are evident. How would you know if you are having a violent tendency?”

“I guess I don’t know. I would not until it happened.”

“Then it is too late.”

“For what!?”

“To turn back. There is no going back once it’s triggered.”

“No going back,” the patient responds casting his eyes on the table in front of him. I lean forward resting my elbows on the table. 

“Tell me about your friends.”

“Friends! What a strange concept.”

“Why is it a strange concept?”

“I don’t know if I consider anyone a friend,” the patient answers placing his eyes on the wall behind me. 

“I would like a friend,” he continues. 

“When you were younger did you have any?”

“What? Friends!”

“Yes.”

A few but that was a long time ago.”

A pause follows.

“Do you have a lover?”

“Lover! That is also a strange word.”

“Why?” 

“Such a normal aspect of life and yet not for me.”

“Do you feel capable of love?”

A silent pause follows.

“Are you able to answer the question,” I ask gently. 

“I might. I don’t know,” he responds sitting into his chair lifting his cuffed hands onto the table. His fixes his eyes firmly on them. “I don’t know,” he continues raising his voice. 

“What has upset you?”

“I am not upset.”

“You raised your voice. Did my question anger you? Or are you angry with yourself?”

“I am not upset,” he replies lifting his eyes to meet mine. 

I close his file in front of me allowing a few seconds to pass. 

“If people ask you questions that you can’t answer or perhaps are afraid to answer does this upset you in some way?”

“Maybe a little. People should not upset me.”

“Tell me how you feel when they upset you? Do you feel angry or violent?”

“Sometimes.”

“You become violent.”

“It triggers inside me.”

“Do you feel good inside when acting on violence?”

“Feel good!”

“Yes. Pleasure or enjoyment, a thrill?”

“I would think control and maybe some pleasure.”

“Is it a good feeling to be in control?”

“Yes.”

“How does it make you feel?”

“Safe.”

“Safe?”

“Yes. Safe. Safe from feeling fear. They can’t hurt me.”

“You hurt them.”

“Do I hurt them?”

“Yes, you do.”

A short pause follows. 

“If I hurt them, they should not make me angry,” the patient continues placing his cuffed hands once more on his lap focussing his eyes on the small arched window. 

“Are you afraid of being hurt?”

“Hurt!”

“Yes. From the people you hurt?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, meaning, Yes? No?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does it frustrate you when you don’t know what people mean like now for example?”

The patient pauses returning his gaze to his hands. 

“Yes. When I don’t know what they mean.”

“Are you afraid of that?”

“Sometimes.”

“Because you have no control over the situation.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

I lean into my seat, holding my gaze on my patient. 

“Do you remember what you did last night?”

“Where?”

“At the hospital?”

“Yes. I was at the hospital. I had cut my finger,” the patient answers lifting his index finger showing me the bandage. 

“Do you remember anything else?” I ask with silence greeting my question. “Do you remember having a fight with anyone?”

“With who?”

“The doctor who attended you.”

“Yes. I remember. He was looking at me strangely.”

“Did he upset you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask him to stop looking at you?”

“Yes, and he laughed.”

“How do you mean he laughed?”

“Laughed!”

“As in he was looking at you strangely or he thought you were funny?”

Silence descends. 

“Do you know what he was laughing at?” I ask again. 

“He was laughing. Ok!”

“Did I upset you again?”

“I am not upset.”

“Do you regret hurting people?”

“I don’t really know. I sort of forget why I have done it.”

“The doctor at the hospital needed twenty-three stitches on his face and has three broken ribs. He may never see in his left eye again.”

The patient remains silent casting his eyes to the plant’s waxy leaves reflecting the brightness of the lights. 

“Many of your victims are left like that with serious injuries,” I continue. 

“Can I go now?”

“Go where?”

“I don’t really want to talk to you anymore.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Yes. In some sort of hospital.”

“Do you know why?”

“Why!”

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Can I go now?”

“Did I upset you when I mentioned the doctor? Did I trigger something in your thoughts?”

Silence follows.

“Urges to act out a violent tendency?”

Silence follows. 

“Would you like to talk to me about your upbringing?”

“No.”

“Your mother? Your father?”

“I want to go now.”

“Did they treat you well? Were you happy as a child?”

The patient remains silent sitting upright in his chair. Eyes resting on his lap. 

“Will you come and talk to me again soon?” I ask calmly. 

“I might.”

“I am here to help you.”

“Can you help me doctor?” he asks raising his eyes to meet mine. 

“I can try. You lack stability and control over the actions you take.”

“Can I go now?”

Placing my pen on the table, I nod in the direction of the security guard standing outside the door.

“Yes, you can go now.”

He stands and steps through the doorway. I know the same conversation will be repeated tomorrow. 

Written by Ben Kesp ©

The darkened grey rain clouds hang like a veil over the forest canopy.  The illuminated path cuts through the oak and ash, created from the intruding grey light from the silver hue overhead.  His silhouette appears, striking a figure into the visible light.  His is not of this world.  Oblivious to the barrage of rain drops falling hard and heavy, striking every patch of ground, he moves forward, determined and focused.  His mission, no one is sure.  Through the darkness of the thick trees, eyes monitor his every movement. They watch this new stranger in their land.  They fear the unknown, but curiosity drives them to watch, inquisitive of his purpose.  He strides the forest path before them, eyes focused ahead.  Upon reaching the end of his destination, he disappears as he appeared on the other side.  This is his third appearance in the cycle of the sun.

The wisest of the forest dwellers, a powerful sorceress, believes he is not a threat, but is showing himself to make first contact.  It fears the group to think he is as much aware of them as they are of him.  Powerful he may be, but the sorceress orders caution.  To break the barrier of invisibility is to open their world to something new.  An outspoken sorcerer challenges his mistress.  To greet now could prevent a different approach later. 

The forest returns to their presence, silent of the stranger, but not of the rain, dancing off the leaves overhead.  The chorus of birds echoes throughout the forest.  Once more, their senses relax, soaking up the odours of the earthen forest floor which has been reawakened in the deluge of rain.

On the fourth cycle of the sun, they gather, waiting once more for the stranger to appear.  The grey hue continues to linger, crouching over the canopy of green.  The path is silent.  The stranger of another world does not appear, nor for the many cycles of the sun following until eventually the forest dwellers no longer wait.  Less and less appear each day to observe the stranger in their land.  Curiosity urged them to discover, but fear surrounds them like an invisible barrier.  The world for now would remain theirs, but the wisest among them fears the moment of more arrivals.   A horrific vision befalls her, burying her hands into the rich soil of the grassy outcrop at the edge of the large forest.   A cry escapes her lips.  Her eyes burn with a vision set before her.  Fire cascades through their beloved forest.  Dark strangers pollute their very essence, purging their way of life.  

Awakening from the darkened thoughts, a warning has been passed to her from the tree spirits.  It’s her charge to protect the people of the forest and direct them from their impending doom and, in doing so, divert it.  For now she rests, silent in her home of trees.  That day has not yet come.

Written by Ben Kesp ©

Placing himself on the ledge overlooking the city sparkle in the summer sun, he opens the ice pop. Enveloping his lips around it, he bites.  The cold orange flavour swirls in his mouth awakening his senses. The clatter of the roof top door opening takes him away from the moment. He eyes a middle aged man exiting and moving towards the edge of the building.  Dressed in a navy pinstriped suit, the man is oblivious to him, focusing his attention on the ground below.

“Do you intend to jump?” he asks, taking another bite of his ice pop soaking up its flavours.

“What!?” the man jumps taken by surprise to face the unknown presence.

“Do you intend to jump?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m just asking.”

“What the hell are you doing up here on the roof?”

“Having an ice pop and getting some space.  You wouldn’t believe who I am after meeting.  To call her crazy would be mild; but she saw the light before I left.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sorry, where are my manners?  I’m Tom. As I was saying, I met this woman called Rotunda, a great big one she was. She had an ass that was like a stool when she stood up.  You could sit on it!”

“What are you even doing up here?”

“I told you, having a break.  Rotunda was a tough one.  Traffic warden by day, and lady of the night by night, or as I like to call her, the red harlot.  Life’s sordid pleasures I guess.”

“Lady of the night!?”

“A prostitute.”

“I know what a lady of the night is! Christ!”

“Have you been with Rotunda?”

“What!? No!  I haven’t been with any prostitute!” retorts the man as he casts his gaze around the roof and in the direction of the opposite building.

“Do you think that would be a better building to jump from?”

“Who are you? Are you crazy or something, sitting and dangling your legs over a twenty floor high building and eating a god damn ice pop?”

“It’s refreshing.  Orange flavour.  The simple pleasures you take for granted. Why call me crazy? I’m only sitting here.  I’m not the one who wants to jump off a twenty-two floor high building to be exact.”

“Shut the fuck up! Christ!  Have your ice pop and leave me alone!” the man snaps, moving to the other side of the building. 

Swallowing the last of the ice pop, he savours the tangy taste slowly slipping down his throat.  Casting his eyes over the haze of the city, he inhales and slowly exhales.  As he moves his glance in the direction of the man, he observes him silently for some minutes standing at the roof edge staring down below.  He rises to his feet and moves towards him. 

“Do you know you’re the third person today that has randomly been placed in my way?  First there was a social welfare worker; Beatrice was her name.  She says social welfare, but I would call her more of a fraudster, stealing much needed funds for her own benefit.  Then there was Rotunda.”

“You again! Will you leave me be?”

“Why? So you can end your life? You’re not going to jump Joel.”

“How do you know my name?!” he replies startled, placing his stare onto the man next to him surprised by the revelation of his name. 

“I know many things about you, maybe even more than you know yourself.  You have recently been diagnosed with an illness that will one day kill you, but not today.”

“Who are you?!”

“Well, normally I would call myself an angel, but today my wings have been clipped.  I have been placed on earth for a day to live through the eyes of humanity.  Wow, what a buzz! Tom is the name again.”

“An angel?” replies Joel half believingly.

“A lazy one too I might add, and I’m being punished for it by the almighty, all seeing,” Tom replies staring briefly upwards into the cloudless sky.

“Am I someone you’re here to help?”

“I help people, it’s what I do.  But today, in this human form, I guess you are.”

“I’m but human. You don’t know what it feels like to endure what I’m going through.”

“This is the problem with being human.  You don’t know how to experience life, savour its fullness, its essence; enjoy the moment.  Life isn’t always about the good times; there needs to be a balance.  Grief and agony are a part of this endurance.  You must experience both in order to grow as an individual.”

“What if I can’t endure it?”

“You will Joel; with the power of love by the people around you. Just let them in. Looking for easy get out options will only hurt your family and you in the next life.”

Joel steps back and sits on the roof top.

“What kind of name is Tom for an angel?”

“What’s wrong with it?  I don’t have one of those fancy archangel names.  Besides, Tom makes me feel more ordinary.”

Sitting next to Joel, he places his eyes onto the bustling city.

“While I have some time left in this body, can you help me experience something of this life? I wish to enjoy the simplicity of an ordinary moment and experience life as you do.”

“Did you do something with the other two people you helped today?”

“Oh yes!  You wouldn’t believe what I experienced with Rotunda, hence why I’m on this roof,” he chuckles. “Show me what it’s like to enjoy a life’s moment.”

He rises and departs the roof top with Joel.  The shadows lengthen behind them with the setting sun to the west.

Written by Ben Kesp ©

Gradual warmth spreads over his body.  Before, there was nothing.  Empty and dark.  Slowly lifting his eye lids, the red glow of the sun lights the sky around him.  Focusing his gaze, views of sand reach his eyes on all sides. Where is he?  The coolness of the desert evening becomes apparent sending goose bumps over his skin.  Peering down at his naked body only seeing his underwear, he ponders the moment.  Bright blue briefs.  They are unfamiliar to him.  He is startled by his appearance and tries in vain to recollect his memories.  Blank thoughts greet him. 

His toes play with the sand beneath his feet, still warm after the day’s burning sun.  He takes a few steps ahead and stops to survey the sight before him.  Mounds of sand stretch as far as he can see.  Not a tree in sight, no vegetation of any kind. He processes the current position as if waiting on instruction.

His stomach calls for food.  Not knowing which direction to walk in, he sits wishing he had a bacon roll at this very moment.  Juicy and succulent, mouth watering, he closes his eyes savouring the taste until it becomes too real; his teeth chewing into the bacon with swirling flavour of smoked sauce hitting his taste buds.  Damn!  It’s the best roll he’s ever had.  Startled by the reality, he opens his eyes staring at the large roll in his hand, inches from his mouth with sauce dripping from the edges.  Standing, he takes a bite.  It’s real!  Confused, he cannot make sense of the moment.  Are the possibilities endless?

Staring out into the expanse of the desert, the scene that rolls out before him is epic.  A scene for a battle, and he’s the commander in chief.  An invading army approaches, accompanied by the drums of battle.  Strength flows through his veins facing the approaching foe.  Replacing his briefs with a short leather loin skirt, he raises his right hand staring down the length of his silver edged sword.  His hair is longer with a silver band running around his forehead. 

He can feel the presence of his army behind, ready and waiting for his command.  The soldiers remain silent, and a quick glance to his right comforts him in its sheer size standing in formation.  Returning his gaze onto the advancing army, he does not fear them, but their leader.  He waits for the challenge of battling with him, using all the powers at his disposal.  His nemesis, Olgar by name, appears leading his army only a short distance away.  Dressed similarly in a leather loin skirt and with shoulder length brown hair, he spies Olgar’s lips parting in a challenging smile.

Setting his sights on the mountains of sand on either side, a wind howls across the desert lifting the loose grains upwards, swarming down onto the valley of soldiers.  He and Olgar are not like the others; their abilities are great.  He lifts his body upwards and challenges Olgar in the air overhead the ferocious battle that will take place down in the desert with the blowing sand grains an invading force of their own. 

Olgar follows, rising upwards.  Swords clash, creating sparks of silver floating downwards to the scene below.  Locking his arms with Olgar, their bodies entwine, his skin against his, they twirl.  Eyes lock, each refusing to back down.  Each believing the territory he fights for is his.  Momentum gathers and everything around them disappears and changes.  He no longer feels control, caught up in the swirling motion.  His body falls, losing sight of Olgar on the way down.  Darkness strikes.

Bird songs fill the vacuum of silence.  As he slowly opens his eyes, the sun light filters in through the open window.  Sitting up, he surveys his bedroom.  A dream!  His battle with Olgar will have to wait.  He will long for the night when he would battle once more on the desert sands and dictate his adventures in the world of dreams. 

Written by Ben Kesp ©

The fox’s bark echoes across the farm yard amplified by the silence of the night.  He wraps his blanket higher over his head fearing it might enter his bedroom.  His home is nestled between mature oak and ash trees towering like giants protecting it against the harshest of winter storms.  But their shapes silhouette in the full moon casting long shadows over his bedroom window.  Even through closed curtains, the movement of their long wooden arms is visible as if trying to claw their way into his bedroom.  The night is a scary time for seven-year-old Tommy and a different world from the brightness of the day where safety is all around.  The absence of light brings new sounds that conjure the most frightening of scenes.

The old sideboard in the hall creaks, the sound reaching the slightly ajar bedroom door, followed shortly by a sound from the kitchen.  Settling noises, his mother told him; the furniture cooling after the day.  Jumping on the sudden sound of the fox’s bark, he sits upright on his bed.  It is outside his window, and he now feels grateful for being on the first floor, giving some comfort to be out of reach and away from the creature below.  He visualises its red coat and long narrow snout full of sharp teeth waiting to bite into its prey. 

Lying down once more, he covers the blanket around his head, thinking of his class in school where he has learned about the local wildlife.  The fox is one he has particular interest in, mostly coming out by night stealing hens from the safety of their nests as they sleep.  The badger, a ferocious creature of the night, frightens him, not daring to meet it, fearing it would bite his ankle and hold its bite until hearing the bones of its victim crack before releasing.  A twig, Tommy was told to carry should it ever happen, and snap it, fooling the badger.  He wishes not to be in a position to fool a badger.

He loves learning, but at times, he wishes he didn’t know so much.  Squeezing his eyes, he forces his body to sleep, but it refuses with images of creatures walking around his home, rambling through the old trees, peering in through the windows.  A sound on the stairs reaches his ears.  His breathing quickens.  More settling noises, he reassures himself.  Nothing has entered his home, crawling its way upwards towards his bedroom door at the top of the landing.  The grandmother clock in the hall strikes two.  Many hours to go before morning when he will rise to the morning sun glowing bright, filtering in through his green curtains resting with a bright shape of the window in the centre of the room. 

A screech echoes, sending a shiver through his body.  It’s not a fox!  He hasn’t heard it before! He lifts his head over the blanket staring onto the curtains seeing the outline of the window through the silvery light of the moon.  The old oak tree nearest to his bedroom moves its leaf covered arms slightly under the gentle breeze of the night. Again the screech! His heartbeat quickens and his breathing deepens.  Is he brave enough to investigate?  Curiosity takes over as he wishes to know what this strange new sound is.  Removing the blankets, he sits upright contemplating the next move of stepping across the room towards the window, fearing what he might see. 

He counts to ten before placing his feet on the bedroom floor.  He moves slowly towards the window that will expose him to the mysteries of the night.  Reaching the curtains, he stops.  Listening.  Silence greets him.  Placing a finger between the curtains, he gently pulls them apart but hesitates to push his head between them towards the window pane.  He finds the courage and pushes forward, resting his face close to the pane.  The moon gently watches over his home, shining her silvery light on him.  A light scattering of cloud whisks across the sky.  Stars soon become visible to his staring eyes, twinkling down on him. 

It’s a new world by night and unknown to him.  Moving his eyes downwards, he places them onto the garden that is not covered by the dark shadows of his giant tree friends.  Peaceful by day and sinister by night, hiding the unknown in their dark shadows.  Who or what is staring upwards at him?  Light pierces the darkness of the trees, the eyes of long legged creatures rising upwards from the ground wrapping themselves around the mossy covered barks. 

Disappearing by daylight beneath the soft grassy floor.  Straining his eyes, there’s nothing to be seen.  His football rests where he left it, sitting next to the rhubarb patch.  A shadow catches his eye, and he spies a white bird emerge from the darkness of the trees moving silently towards the barn.  How wonderful it must be to explore the darkness of the night and its creatures if only he was brave enough to do so!  For now, the safety of his home and his bedroom on the first floor brings security. 

Retreating to the warmth of his bed, he pulls the blanket once more around his head.  Sleep creeps in through heavy eyes.  The morning will soon arrive sending the world of the night away for another day.  How different everything will look in the morning; but for now his dreams will carry him through the world of the night where he will no longer lie awake frightened of its foxes, its darkened mysteries and conjured images of strange creatures.

Written by Ben Kesp ©

Through the window pane, blurred it may be for my eyes, I watch her.  Tall, dressed elegantly in white from head to foot.  Her hood is pulled slightly back revealing blond hair.  Her fight was short, and her opponent left lying limp on the bars of steel supporting the bridge.  

The White Lady enters the room where I am.  I remain motionless, silent, observing everything.  She sits at a table, a man to her left and another one opposite, though I cannot see his face.  No speech between them.  She lowers her head, removing her white hood.  Powerful she is, but submissive to him.  Standing behind her, he places his hands on either side of her head, squeezing a red object with a yellow tip from her right eye.  The eye pops out, landing onto the table in front of her. The man continues by placing a small object into where her eye once was.  

Following this act, I observe him retrieving a fork from his comrade, placing it into his mouth and removing his own tongue. The aroma of new smells dances around the room.  I’m not sure what happens next due to the overwhelming of my senses, but whatever they are doing ends with the White Lady rising from her seat.  

Pulling the hood once more over her blond hair, she exits, retreating her steps onto the steel bridge.  The other has awakened, waiting for her.  Her green robe flows to the ground and a flash of fury lights her eyes. The White Lady, elegant and graceful, moves in her direction.  Raising her palm level with her full lips, she blows gently, lifting her opponent, cascading her out of my sight. I continue watching, motionless and in awe.  The White Lady, Itors by name, disappears before my eyes.  How do I know of this?  This world around me is strange, bewildering and wild.  They do not know of my existence.  In this form, I’m but a fly on a window pane, inhabiting a world of giants.

Written by Ben Kesp ©

Her heels pound on the tiles, striding across the airport departures floor with her suitcase rolling behind.  Her heart races giving the feeling of rising blood pressure setting on a severe headache.  She curses the taxi driver for almost making her late for check in.  She throws her bag onto the carrier belt, glaring at the desk attendant. Tapping her fingers on the desk, she waits for her luggage to be checked in.  She grabs her passport as it is handed back to her, stepping back from the desk.  Exhaling a deep breath, her eyes scan the view around London Heathrow Airport.  She hates the airport and the time she will lose waiting for her flight to depart. Strolling to a nearby book shop, she browses some of the latest titles.  Her mind will not settle.  There is too much to do and she needs to be in Dublin.  

##

George lifts the cup to his mouth, his lips feeling the hot liquid.  Closing his eyes, he savours the hot English tea swirling, awakening his senses.  He will miss its aroma; he enjoyed drinking many a hot cup after his three week holiday in Ireland.  It is the one thing he misses since he has moved to the tropical island of Vanuatu in the South Pacific.  Removing a book from his bag, he places it on the table next to his empty plate.  Time is on his side, waiting for his connecting flight to Port Vila, so he continues reading The Man in the Iron Mask he picked up at Cork International Airport.  

##

After quickly browsing through the books, Alice loses her patience. She grabs a daily newspaper and buys it.  Moving through the bustling airport floor to the nearby café, she orders a coffee.  Casting her eyes around the café for a table where she will not be disturbed, her eyes rest on him.  Her mind relaxes momentarily and her lips part forming a gentle smile.  It has been a long time since she saw him.  He still looks great as she muses the thought.  Strolling towards his table, she places her coffee on it.   He lifts his head to see the owner of the coffee and their eyes lock.  Smiling, they embrace with distant memories flowing through their thoughts.  They sit holding each other’s gaze in a momentary grasp.

“It’s been a long time; how are you?” George asks her delightedly giving his full attention.

“Twenty years or more.  You haven’t changed.”

“Maybe whiter,” George laughs pointing at his white hair. “What are you doing in London?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“You haven’t lost the sarcasm. It would be good to know what you’re up to these days.  I’m somewhat out of touch with the world of business.  Time Magazine isn’t on my reading list.”

“I saw your feature in it.  Well done on making it into Time. A successful business executive and leader of a portfolio of innovative companies. I always followed your career until you packed it all in. Why give it up?”

“Got out while things were still good.  I had enough.  I wanted time out, a change in my life.  Went to Vanuatu, a small tropical island in the South Pacific, and wait for it, you will laugh, took up painting.”

Alice places her cup of coffee on the table, laughing.

“You gave everything up to be an artist on a tropical island.”

“Yes, living in a log cabin one minute from a beach of white sands and water so clear you can see the fishes swimming.  I had a successful career and I’ve never looked back.  It was the best decision in my life.”

“Have you sold any works of art?”

“I donate to a local street art stall,” George replies laughingly. “Financially, I don’t need much where I live.  Painting is a hobby, and the freedom to enjoy life is more valuable to me than making money.  No restrictions.  I don’t have to be on demand seven days of the week, meeting clients, deadlines, boring board room meetings; I could go on and on.  I’m on my way to my beach cabin after three weeks in Ireland.”

“Lucky bastard,” Alice replies sinking deeper in her chair, exhaling a deep sigh. “I’ve made a complete mess of my life.  I’m in my mid fifties, single, broke and I have banks, creditors, investors and every other god damn person on the planet after me.”

“What happened? The last time I heard your career was taking off in a big way and you were climbing to the top.”

“I climbed to the top alright.  The thing is, I didn’t know where the top was and kept going.  George, I gave my life to my career, built up a business empire in the latest technologies and in distribution.  I made some crappy decisions and took risks that didn’t pay off.  Call it greed if you want.  I’m going back and forth between Dublin and London regularly.  I have holdings here and I’m trying to sell off assets.”

“Is it that bad?”

“I’m financially broke.  I have nothing left.  I’m doing my best to salvage and sell to pay off debts.  I took stupid risks.  Shareholders aren’t happy as you can imagine.  There are times when I sit in the airports waiting for my flights and I think about running away from it all.  Just take a flight to anywhere in the world to escape.  The last few years have been hell.”

“I’m sorry to hear this.  You need to find yourself a tropical island.”

“If I could, believe me, I’d be there,” Alice answers taking a sip of coffee, staring out at the mass of people going about their business.

“Airports are great gateways of the world.  They allow for freedom of movement,” Alice states, interrupted by the intercom, announcing that the gate for the flight to Dublin is closing.   Returning her focus on George, she smiles.

“I must go.  It’s been so good to meet you after all this time.  It really has been too long.  I’ve missed you and I’m sorry we lost contact over the years.”

“Likewise, and let me say, you still look truly amazing.”

Alice parts her lips in a smile unable to hide her blushing face.  Standing, they embrace.  George pulls a card from inside his jacket. 

“My contact details.  When you finish up with this mess, come to Vanuatu.  There’s always room in the log cabin by the beach with snow white sands.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“I’ll be waiting for the call; don’t leave it too long.”

Placing her hand on his shoulder, Alice leans forward, kissing his right cheek before turning and walking towards departures.  Seating, George allows his eyes to rest on her until she disappears from view.  He smiles and returns to his book, continuing to read while waiting for his connecting flight.

##

Her heels sound lightly on the airport floor, strolling leisurely to the departures gate.  Her headache has lifted and her body is calm.  A chance meeting with an old and special friend she was once very close to has given her for the first time in almost two years a sense of release and renewed energy to tackle her problems ahead.  Throwing the daily newspaper in a nearby bin, she steps forward to board her flight home.  

##

Written by Ben Kesp

Climbing the tree lined ditch, the briars cut through his lower legs, piercing his skin. Red lines soon mark his legs. The small woodland offers some relief from the heavy summer rain as Carlos continues to move inwards eyeing a clearing ahead.  Annoyed that he hasn’t waited at the bus stop for the next bus, but it won’t be due for another hour.  He feels confident that he can walk to the town where he is staying; but after some wrong turns, he gets lost.  He curses his stupidity.  He is nearing the end of his holidays and succeeds in creating an unwanted adventure. Upon reaching the clearing, he spies a large old house looming strong through the heavy rain.  It is grand with three floors and poorly maintained grounds.  His eyes rest for some time on the old building through the rain, until he spots her. How long has she been watching him?  Standing by a window on the first floor is an elderly lady.  She beckons to him.  Carlos continues to focus on her for a few seconds longer before exiting the trees and racing towards the house in the heavy rains.

As he arrives at the house, he finds the front door is slightly ajar.  Knocking gently, he pushes it open, entering a large and spacious hallway decorated with many portraits and tapestries.  The air is heavy and reeks of a musty smell, offering relief from the cold wet rain.  Closing the door behind him, his eyes are quickly drawn to the elderly lady standing on the bottom step of a grand stair case.  Surprised at her sudden appearance it unnerves him.  She is dressed in a full length blue and white night dress with her grey hair tied in a bun.  He stares unsurely at her. 

“Hello,” Carlos starts, wiping the rain water from his forehead and eyes. “I got lost and was trying to find shelter in the trees from the rain. I didn’t mean to trespass.”

“There is a bathroom at the bottom of the hall; go and dry yourself,” the lady replies emotionless, continuing to hold her gaze. 

Carlos nods, moving forward in the long hallway towards the bathroom.  Glancing behind, he sees the lady hasn’t moved.  Doubts form slowly in his thoughts whether he should have entered the house.  He notices the bathroom hasn’t been cleaned for some time and there is one towel hanging on a slightly rusty rail.  The smell of stale air is strong making it difficult to breathe.  He dries his hair and legs, but his t-shirt and shorts are soaked through.  Returning to the main hall, he finds the elderly lady seated by an elegant fireplace in a large room next to the hall.  She beckons for him to enter with long bony fingers.  He complies, sitting opposite her. Smiling politely, Carlos observes the room. More portraits and large canvas oil paintings decorate the walls.  His eyes fall on the very long dining table standing in the centre of the room that dust has laid many layers on.   

“This is a very big house you live in,” Carlos observes as he returns his gaze onto the elderly lady.

“Yes, it is my husband’s ancestral home, built in 1768.  I lived here with my husband and two sons.  Now it’s only me, I’m alone here.”

“Where are your sons, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My sons stopped visiting me many years ago.”

“You must find it very lonely?”

“My husband was an extensive landowner and merchant.  He employed many people.  An issue arose one summer when many of the warehouse workers demanded better conditions and higher pay.  They threatened Frederick, that’s my husband’s name, and he laid them off.  They rebelled and marched in numbers here to the estate.  They dragged him from the house, and all I could do was to keep my two sons safe as I was held back by some of the men.  The estate labourers did not stand to protect him but sided with the mob on condition they wouldn’t harm me.”

“What did they do?”

“I watched in horror as they dragged my husband along the ground into the back courtyard, stripped him and tied him to a wheel of an old cart.  I looked on helplessly as he begged and pleaded with them to stop.  They laughed and placed straw around him.  They drenched him in paraffin oil before setting him alight.”

A shiver runs up his spine as Carlos listens intently to the elderly lady’s shocking story.  

“That’s Fredrick there,” the elderly lady continues, pointing at the large portrait above the fireplace.  The lady falls silent.  An uncomfortable feeling descends.  She does not speak.

“Are you okay?” Carlos asks gently.

“I’m getting tired, I must rest.  If you continue straight by the trees, you will come across a little walled enclosure.  You must pass through it and you will meet the main road.”

Carlos stands acknowledging in a nod.  Reaching the hallway, his eyes rest on the lady sitting quietly in the chair.

“Thank you,” he states, but only silence answers him.  Exiting the house, the cool fresh air following the rains is welcoming to him.   He moves forward towards the trees, and along by the clearing he spies a low stone wall with an iron gate.  The enclosure Carlos assumes as he enters the small black gate tripping over a line of barbed wire coming face to face with a head stone.  A shout reaches his ears.  A middle aged man wearing a dark green rain coat, a hat and carrying a long black stick faces him.

“What you up to boy?” the man shouts, approaching him.

Carlos relates his story of getting lost and the elderly lady that gave him shelter from the rain.  The man's penetrating eyes pierce into Carlos.  

“You met poor old Abby Valee.  She’s a lonely soul and likes to tell the story of her husband to anyone who passes by that can hear,” the man replies relaxing his demeanour.

“It was tragic how her husband was killed and that she witnessed it all.”

“It sure was, and she was never the same after,” the man answers pointing forward.  Carlos follows the direction of his finger to the stone with the words Abby Valee etched into it. 

“It was tragic how she died too, hanging herself from a banister in the front hall of the house.  Her body rests here, but her soul will never leave the house.  Her two sons do not visit anymore.  I look after the place keeping away the vandals,” the man replies, wrapping his rain coat tighter around him, pointing ahead. “Continue down by the tree line and you will meet the main road.  The bus stop is another five-minute walk after that.  Hurry now, the next bus to town is in twenty minutes.”

Carlos maintains his focus on the looming house standing before him.  His head is light and the sound of the man’s voice drifts from him.  The tap on his shoulder snaps him back to a groggy reality facing the man.  

“Get walking boy, you look like you saw a ghost,” the man laughs moving from Carlos towards the house.  Carlos continues forward on unsteady legs with a rising sickening pang sitting in his stomach while his thoughts rest with Abby Valee.

Written by Ben Kesp ©

I sit alone in my room, watching with a slow breath the unstoppable rain falling from high above.  Fred and Alice keep me company. Two pigeons.  I’m not even sure if they are male or female, but I think the names Fred and Alice suit them.  They huddle together to gain shelter as much as the window ledge will allow. A flash of light cuts through the dark grey storm clouds.  The roll of thunder follows shortly afterwards.

I allow my stare to gaze on the tall statue of the female warrior standing strongly against the beating rain in gratitude, cooling herself from the blistering sun.  Her arms are outstretched, holding a sword in her right and a battle axe in her left.  She stands alone today, with no crowds of people sitting beneath, chatting, eating and having their photos taken with her.  I imagine she feels at peace in the rain.  Did she move?!  The tree branch outside my window battling against the wind obscures my view.  I think I saw her move!

The door of the room opens, interrupting my gaze.  Casting my eyes in the direction of the recent disturbance, I see Nurse Susie entering, pushing her squeaky wheeled trolley.  Susie smiles her usual polite smile.  Her stammer makes her self-conscious, so she doesn’t say much.  Dinner has arrived.  Nothing to get the senses excited about.  Lamb stew with potato, and to finish, tea with a custard bun. Susie smiles again and pushes the trolley out of the room. 

I take a mouthful of the lamb stew and potato.  As I turn my eyes once more to watch the rain washing down over the female warrior, I drop my knife from my hand, almost choking on the lamb.  She’s gone!  How could this be? My breath rises inside my chest.  All sorts of thoughts and imaginings fly around in my head.  I continue to stare for a long time at the empty space where she once stood proud. The rains eventually stop allowing Fred and Alice to fly away.  Susie returns to collect the dishes and I dare not speak a word to her.  She might instruct that my tablets are increased, but her more likely response would be a smile and not say anything. 

Darkness descends on another day. I’m unsure how many hours of sleep creep over me before I see the early morning sun filtering in through the curtains.  The cooing sounds of Fred and Alice reach my ears.  They have arrived for a new day.  What will people say about the beloved female warrior that disappeared during the storm? My room door opens and Susie enters with the squeaky trolley and her typical sweet smile.  Breakfast.  Hot cereal followed by tea and buttered toast smeared with marmalade.  Sliding open the curtains, Susie stands looking out the window. Fred and Alice flap to a nearby window ledge.  My eyes focus on Susie.  Does she notice the missing statue? Will she say anything?

I hold my eyes on her as she continues about her business.  She doesn’t speak.  As she prepares to wheel her trolley out of the room, she places the morning paper on my bedside locker. Not a word.  I sit in thought, finishing my cereal.  I pour myself a cup of tea and take a slice of toast. Reaching for the morning paper, the headline jumps out and stops me chewing on my toast.  “Warrior Queen fights once more for the city.”  With slightly trembling hands, I pick up the paper to read the events of the evening before.  The breakwater barriers holding back the mighty currents of the city river were showing signs of bursting.  Quick thinking by the fire department had the statue removed and placed to enforce the barriers from giving way to the river swells.  In the process, the female warrior lost both her arms, however saving hundreds of homes and lives that lie in the valley below.  

Placing my cup on the table top, I finish my mouthful of toast.  As I lean into my pillow, I exhale the relief that spreads through my body.  Throwing my look out the window past Fred and Alice who are oblivious to the empty space in the park opposite my room, I know the warrior queen will one day stand tall and strong again, gaining a new generation of respect.